I spent a very disconsolate evening
back here at Nest Cottage. At that point I was still catering for myself – Mrs
Wibbsey hadn’t yet joined the household crew – and I made a gloomy supper of a
tin of spam and some ginger biscuits topped off with a schooner of some rather
sticky sherry. I pored over the local and national papers, clipping any
articles to do with animals. The minister for transport, visiting an elderly
aunt, had been mauled by wild dogs while in the corner shop buying almond
slices for tea.
I sat late into the night, in the
sitting room of my rented cottage, pondering on how to get my hands on a
specimen of one of these daemonically possessed fauna.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to
look very far.
The fire crackled right down to the
last hot cinders and the night came creeping in around me, stealing under the
doors and the ill-fitting windows of this ancient place.
With the night came the
night-beasts.
I held very still. I was alert at
the merest scrape of a claw on a cold window pane. The tiniest shriek of the
frame as something levered it open.
I was being visited. It was past
three a.m.
I didn’t even turn. I sat tensely
expectant. Listening for the tread of paws or claws. And, as I said before,
there was no hoarse breathing. No obvious signs of life. This was how the dead
came stealing in. Pad pad pad on stuffing-filled limbs. The true stuff of
nightmares, Brigadier.
Small enough to clamber through my
window. Large enough to cause a heavy thump on the carpet when it landed in my
room. I turned very very slowly to see. These stiff old joints of mine. I was
dreading they would crack and give away the fact that I was awake.
It was a badger. A snuffling ursine
brute, piebald and fanged, nudging its stealthy way towards me. Undoubtedly
with the idea of doing me in. It knew where I had been that day for I still had
the charnel house reek of that factory in my clothes. The badger flexed its
talons and its black eyes glittered with hatred…
In a flash I was up on my feet,
whirling around with the Times and all the other papers, flinging them over the
beast as it prepared to spring. I leapt backwards and – aha! – the poker was
glowing orange, smouldering in the remains of the fire. I grabbed it and
brandished it furiously as the beast ripped its way through the colour
supplements.
It snarled at me and came lumbering
around the armchair, thumping its limbs on the rucked up carpet. I waved my
burning poker in its face but the creature seemed to have lost its natural
instincts. It outfaced the heat bravely and came running at me on clattering
claws. I had no choice. I stabbed it hard through the muscular chest with my
makeshift weapon and winced at the flying sparks and the horrid smell of
burning fur.
Now the creature howled. A ghastly,
unearthly noise. I pressed my advantage, withdrawing and stabbing again, urging
the flames to catch. My assailant was nothing if not flammable, surely?
The badger twisted and thrashed.
Its glass eyes gleamed with torpid dismay. Acrid smoke started to fill the air.
And then there came a crash from the scullery kitchen. More of the creatures!
The badger had not come alone. With strength borne of desperation I hoisted up
the weakened form of my enemy and hauled him over to the coals.
In the kitchen was a scene of
chaos. The windows had been smashed and three more beasts were clattering
about. Crockery had been pushed off the draining board, smashing on the stone
tiles. And here they were, the invaders. Small, but no less deadly and
determined for that. Some awful rat thing, grabbing at my dressing gown cord. A
snuffling leathery mole attempting to sink its fangs into my ankle. An
amphibian monstrosity flinging itself off the Welsh Dresser. And everywhere
that nasty smell of chemical preservatives.
I fought that night, Brigadier. I
fought for my life. You know how I like to find a better way. A more peaceful
solution. But these animals were dead shells, brimming with endless energy. I
knew they would go on attacking me all night, with their tiny savage claws and
teeth.
Diving onto the floor, I flung open
the cupboard under the sink. I rummaged amongst the cleaning supplies which I
had up to that point never even looked at. I improvised a rather nifty flame
thrower using some kind of aerosol spray and a box of cook’s matches. Then I
had the bleach out and I dashed it at the wicked little monsters. That made
them squeal.
And then, during a lull in all the
action it struck me. I was under attack by the cast of a crazed version of The Wind in the Willows! As the night
air came whirling in through the broken kitchen windows, freezing the cottage
right through, the battle redoubled and I turned into some kind of savage
being, protecting home and hearth from the wild beasts. Really, Brigadier, you
would hardly have recognised me.
At last it was over. I had defeated
them, by fair means or foul. Whatever malign intelligence had animated these
cadavers fled all of a sudden, it seemed, and the damaged beings dropped where
they stood. Quite lifeless. And, battered, bruised and weirdly triumphant, I
stood surveying the wreckage of my home-from-home.
By then dawn was coming up. Luckily,
no one in the village had noticed the small war in my cottage. It’s one of
those places where the locals let you keep yourself to yourself, which is
rather a relief in my line of work.
Thoroughly enjoyed this series - thank you.
ReplyDeleteCan't wait to start the next series but I'm forcing myself to space them out so I don't burn through them.