The New Uncanny (5 page)

I crouched down on the approaching path and located a suitable vantage point. I made my way over to a dense row of bushes and knelt behind the leaves. The ground around me was littered with empty crisp packets and crushed tins. Nearby lay scattered the feathers of a dead bird. Sooner than I expected to I developed cramp, and, making as little movement as possible, shifted weight to my hands. Then I settled down to wait, keeping absolutely still.

When I finally heard someone approaching, I unzipped my bag. Possum’s face looked up at me as I drew back the black leather, his eyes twinkling beneath the overhead sun. I gave him some muddy leaves to eat and was in the process of extricating the rest of his body when I heard other sounds coming from behind. Someone else was approaching at speed and I barely had time to conceal Possum when a tall man appeared from within the trees. He wore walking shoes and a fashionable winter coat, and carried a school rucksack under one arm. His face was hostile and suspicious.

‘Good morning,’ I said. Without replying, he moved off swiftly in the direction of the approaching child, calling loudly. I stood up, finding myself unable to move due to the numbness in my legs, and grabbed the handle of my bag. I waited, suspecting that I might require the use of Possum’s limbs in order to effect a diversion worthy of pantomime. But no one else appeared, and the man did not return. As soon as I could, I walked home through a great many winding streets.

‘Tell me again about the fox,’ Christie said.

‘We were in the woods one day and saw a fox. It was panting at the mouth and its whole body was shaking. We thought it had swallowed something bad. When we came back later it was dead. So we played with it a while… stuck things in it. Then, as we left for home, the fox stood up. It had been playing with us.’

‘I mean the fox you dropped on my stairs,’ Christie replied, smugly. Another game won. And putting the dead animal in my bed and laying it out on the kitchen table before me as I ate my breakfast equalled three victories already that morning. ‘You shouldn’t have stolen from my bonfire,’ he said. ‘That was misbehaviour.’

I sipped my tea and ate a stale biscuit. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Not yet, it isn’t.’

Christie rose slowly from the table and put on the jacket he’d hung on the back of his chair.

‘Not staying?’ I said, examining the local paper spread out before me.

‘Drinks with friends. The house is your own.’

‘I know it is,’ I countered. ‘And don’t you forget it.’ One parlour game to me.

‘I’ll be back at six to start my bonfire.’

I followed him out into the hall, trying the handle of the locked lounge door as I passed, loudly enough for him to hear.

‘What happened to our decorations?’ I asked. ‘We used to have several boxes.’

The old man was struggling with his shoe-laces. I didn’t help him.

‘And what’s this with the old caravan site?’ I said, indicating the article I’d read.

‘Deconstruction,’ he replied, eyes focused on his feet.

‘It’s hideous. What are they putting in its place?’

He stood up, wheezing, and limped forward into mild sunshine.

‘Nothing.’

I followed, handing him his walking stick.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not if they start finding things.’ He unearthed a strange-looking plant, exposing a huddle of pink, swollen tubers.

‘These shouldn’t be ready this time of year.’

I walked back to the house.

‘I’ll have something else for you to burn later. My puppet.’

‘Not working any more?’ he said, over his shoulder.

‘Retired,’ I replied, and shut the door on him.

The bleak monotony of the muddy shoreline was lifted only by the distant dance of little red Wellingtons far behind. Echoes of light laughter overtook me on the breeze as someone closer, concealed on the far side of the approaching breaker, kicked pebbles repeatedly against the wooden barrier. I refrained from operating the bag in this exposed area, progressing instead along the coastal path toward the strange sunken mast that bordered the marshes. This tall concrete post stood out bleakly against the horizon, as it had done ever since I was young, a rusted sign nailed to its front stating ‘keep out’. I was still unsure what purpose it had once served, but thought perhaps it could have formed part of an electrical generator servicing the nearby caravan site. Unchanged, it stood grim and obsolete while I leaned against it and watched the trail behind me, cradling my bent cigarette from the wind.

Ahead, the path grew slippery as it rose toward the crest of a wide ridge overlooking a large, artificial crater. Formed by a jettisoned wartime bomb, this enclosed ravine was broken only by the slow progress of a shallow, man-made stream through its centre. The path, dipping sharply as I continued toward a low wooden bridge, crossed the green and stagnant water, disappearing again over the opposite rim.

The bridge itself retained most of its original slats, yet one or two had fallen away over the years, exposing foul silt gathered beneath. I stepped across, looking down at the clay bank rising from the water’s edge, noticing several holes in the mud that looked like the work of small animals. I considered planting Possum inside one so that my half-buried likeness could surprise the unwary children following behind, but then I thought of a better plan. Removing Possum from the bag, I left the bridge and stepped down with him into the stream, my feet sinking deep into the thick, oily mud. Using the roll of tape I always carried with me, I manoeuvred myself beneath the bridge and fastened Possum’s body securely to the rotting planks above, directing his face so that the eyes stared back up through the slats. Returning to the bridge, I was pleased to find that the effect was quite disarming, and would prove so, I hoped, to any of my approaching billy goats.

I left Possum to do his work and moved onward, out of the ravine and across an expanse of wet marsh towards the abandoned caravan site beyond. As I approached, cleansing the mud from my boots in deep puddles, I heard the resounding thud of electrical machinery. The approach to the site involved crossing a stile situated halfway along an elongated hedge, concealing the cabins beyond from view. I was surprised to find, however, that this had now disappeared, along with many of the caravans I had still expected to find on the other side. Some distance away, a slow mechanical digger was grouping piles of rubble into a large mound. Across what remained of the park stood a few of the older cabins, built decades before to capitalise on a short-lived tourist trade. Many were blackened by what must have been a recent fire on the site, their walls and doors plastered with offensive graffiti. On one, a small naked doll had been tied to the remains of its twisted television aerial.

As I walked around the site, away from the digger, I encountered a ‘no trespassing’ sign posted up by the local council. Rain began to fall in large, heavy drops, and the ground grew rapidly sodden. I sat down on an old tyre and watched as the man operating the digger closed it down and wandered off towards a small truck parked at the far edge of the site. The vehicle moved away into the main road and headed back towards the town, leaving the site deserted.

I felt around in my bag for my tool case. Opening it, I removed a small chisel I kept with me for repairs and began to sift through the mud around my feet, smelling the yellow earth gathered upon its metal blade. I carved a large smiling face into the muddy ground and watched as the rain slowly destroyed its features, then walked back to collect Possum.

At first I thought the tape must have worked loose in the rain, but then I saw how far the puppet had been moved from the vicinity of the bridge, and decided that something must have dragged it there. It could have been one of the children, but closer examination of the muddy bank behind Possum revealed the small paw marks of a dog, almost completely eroded by the sudden downfall. His head had been mauled at the ears, and one of the eyes was protruding slightly more prominently than usual. I kicked him around in the wet mud for a while and stamped hard on his face, wondering whether it was worth burying him permanently beneath the mud. Then I remembered the digger, packed him up in my bag and walked home.

‘I’d like a demonstration before I burn him,’ said Christie, opening two tins of cheap beer for us. ‘Nothing special, but I want to see how the legs work.’

‘Trade secret,’ I replied, lighting the candles. When this was done he finally removed our meals from the oven.

‘What other puppets do you use?’

‘Several, but I want this one burned.’

He served me the larger dish, which I realised was the dead fox.

‘I heard about your last performance,’ he said, popping an olive in Possum’s mouth, whom I’d sat on the spare chair between us. ‘One of my old teaching colleagues wrote to me about it. An unpredictable affair, by all accounts.’

I ignored the comment and jabbed at the sticky burnt carcass staring up at me from my plate.

‘I don’t like this,’ I said. ‘Care to swap?’

Grinning, my host tucked greedily into what looked like a small bird.

‘You forgot party crackers,’ I said, sipping my beer.

‘And grace,’ he replied, removing a small shred of bone from his upper lip.

‘They’ll have me back, once
he’s
gone.’ I poked my fork at Possum.

‘We’ll need gloves to get rid of it,’ Christie said. ‘It’s diseased.’

I examined my hands, which were peeling terribly and beginning to bleed, and felt my face. I was covered.

‘Eczema,’ I said, hiding my wrists beneath the table.

‘Remember,’ said Christie, his mouth full. ‘A demonstration.’

The front half of the cabin was severely smoke-damaged, although in places I could still make out graffiti beneath the charred remains. The place stank of urine and petrol, and I sat at the back with my black bag, near to where the bathroom had once been, and watched the remains of the site through the van opposite, which retained one unbroken, though heavily-stained, window.

I sat there for about an hour, thinking. It was about mid-day when I crouched down on my knees so that I could not see out and crawled across the cabin floor. I examined where the cupboard used to be and touched the far side of the rear wall with my hands, feeling for the faint words scratched somewhere on its surface. I leaned closer, sniffing at the floor, then withdrew. I stood up, returned to the seat, and unzipped my black bag.

I pulled Possum out and sat him on my lap. His body felt softer on one side. When I pressed my fingers against the fur, the insides gave a little, and I assumed they must be damaged in some way. His protruding eye, too, had broken open. A crack to the outer shell had caused a small leakage that ran down Possum’s face, looking like dried egg yoke and smelling vaguely of chemicals.

I pulled his tongue down and tucked stray hairs behind his mauled ears. The wiring mechanism now broken, I extended, manually, each of his legs, until he sat astride me. I lay back against the seat, stretching my body lengthways, pulling him on top of me so that his face rested inches from my own. I slung his two front paws over my shoulders, opened my own mouth to mirror his, and stared back into his contaminated eyes. Then, with my tongue, I removed one of the dead flies from his.

‘Don’t,’ I said, and swallowed it. One by one, I ate them all. When Possum’s mouth was clear, I lifted him from me, very gently, and sat myself up. I resisted the urge to retch and removed the tool case from my black bag. Having selected a blade, I picked up Possum, bit his ear without warning and threw him roughly to the floor. I knelt down on top of him and sawed at his nose, slowly and methodically, until I had sliced off its tip. I stuffed the severed segment inside his mouth and angled his limbs against the floor. With my boot I snapped each joint in turn and threw the broken legs out of the open window. I seized Possum’s torso and thrust my arm into its rear. Wincing as the razors bit deeply again into my wounds, I smashed the puppet against the wall, rocking the unstable cabin, before scraping the mutilated face against every sharp and jagged surface I could find. I removed my arm then, which was bleeding heavily, and took the scissors from my tool bag. I snipped off Possum’s hair and jammed the tattered clumps between his teeth. I stabbed his eyes repeatedly with both blades until the weak one gave way entirely, spurting a glob of liquid over my fingers and up the scissor blade. I spat back at him, attempting to gouge a channel from one eyehole to the other, across his nose. The wax proved too strong, and instead I cut my own fingers. Grabbing a blunt wooden pole from my bag, I struck his head several times before shoving the blunt end of the pole into his mouth. When I’d finished thrusting, his head pinned and useless against the cabin wall, I gathered what was left of him beneath my arm and threw him into the corner. I kicked his stomach repeatedly until it caved in, exposing the stained wooden handle inside. I stuffed the belly with junk and threw Possum through the broken doorway, out into the yard beyond. Then I sucked the blood from my fingers, picked up my bag and left the cabin.

I stood as close to the flames as I could bear, hoping that my clothes would retain the smell of smoke. Christie shovelled in another heap of rubbish, momentarily stifling the blaze. I opened my bag and pulled out Possum’s head, which I’d severed from his body with a spade while Christie had ransacked the last of my bedroom cupboards.

‘Season’s greetings,’ I said, tossing it across the grass towards him. ‘Too late for a demonstration.’

‘You should let me fix it,’ he said. ‘I like fixing things.’

I lifted up the headless body of the stuffed dog and threw it on the bonfire. Smoke curled around the bent, twisted nails wrenched incompletely from its neck as a sharp, sulphurous odour burned my nostrils. Flames snapped loudly against the coarse, brown fur as Christie held up the decapitated head and laughed.

‘A broken toy,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘Soon as I saw it I thought of you,’ I replied, which made him laugh even more. I lit us both cigarettes while Christie perched what remained of Possum on an old wooden stool. He placed his cigarette inside the mouth and begged another for himself. When we’d finished, he lifted up the head ceremoniously and dropped it on the bonfire, along with my watch, smiling to himself as he jammed them deep into the blazing compost with his pitchfork.