Puddlebrain

Chapter Thirteen

Under Puddlebrain's bed, where discarded items of clothing and half eaten sandwiches were normally kicked, the patch of darkness had spread. It oozed like oil across the floor, unfolding as if alive, making the floor and walls it touched almost seem to wilt. It was more focused now, less a vague blur as when it first appeared. It kept just within the confines of a normal shadow, barely able to contain itself, eager to stretch out as if it was just waking up.

Suddenly, it recoiled as if stung. It paused for a long moment, sensing, waiting, tasting, then it shrank back slowly, becoming a concentrated blot of nothing. The colours of the carpet and wallpaper were left bleached and anaemic as if they had died without ever having lived and were now pallid ghosts of their former selves.

On the outskirts of town, in the break between Hill and Wood, the grass around the Hole leaned inwards, as if the Hole was sucking the air in. The intake was brief and the grass quickly returned to its former pride as a pale green cloud, dense to the point of being almost solid, rose up out of the pit and dissipated off towards the village.

Lem Artthorpe, born with a slab of dried lard where his consideration should have been, was sneaking back to the Town Square. He was one of a group of five villagers, all of whom were eager for vengeance but none of whom really knew why. Petral Gringe, Lemon's on-but-mainly-off girlfriend was beside him. There was a wildness to her eyes as if she didn't care what they were doing as long as it was done. To be honest, Petral often had a wild look in her eyes, but this was different. This wasn't the expression of mild insanity that Lem had grown to love (if he was honest with himself, which very rarely happened). It was the look of one who couldn't have stopped themselves from jumping off a cliff even if they'd had a vision of their mangled body at the base before they'd taken the leap.

Lem looked around him. His companions, Grail Benniton, Berry Briant and Henry What's-His-Face (what was his second name?) all had the same rampage-a-go-go air about them. For all Lem knew, the same look was in his eyes.

Oh well.

The witches would pay for what they'd most probably done to Quentin, especially now they'd potentially turned their possible powers onto dear old Brenda Corrigan. Who'd give him leftover jam tarts now, eh? Answer me that! So what if this as all based on a supposition that was part of a conjecture mingled in with an assumption with a little guessing thrown in for good measure? It was a real witches' brew, and that was the point.

It was actually the only point. Lem realised suddenly that they had picked on the witches purely because nobody knew. The witches, whom Lem actually quite liked, were the most obvious suspects when someone disappeared in the middle of the day, just like that, without a by-your-leave or a 'Catch you on the flap, Jack!' Ignoring the fact that they weren't precisely suspects, more scapegoats than anything, it had to be magic, so it had to be them. Even though it was widely known that they had lost their powers decades ago. And most people thought they were pretty OK. And most people never got themselves worked up about anything more important than running out of toilet paper at just the wrong moment...

They had reached the corner of the Town Square and Merrybone Way, the crescent shaped street they'd fled to after Brenda had vanished. It was quite inconsiderate of her to do that, thought Lem. She spoiled a good burning, and there hadn't been one for centuries. Now they'd probably never get another chance – the moment had gone. They could have toasted teacakes, marshmallows and everything.

The group crouched against the front wall of the old Perryman place. It was unoccupied now – had been for a few years since old Perryman had passed away in his sleep. No one fancied undertaking the extensive renovations that needed to be done to make the house half liveable so the it was left to fade away on its own. There was no front garden as the house opened right onto the pavement. Buster Perryman had been less of a gardener than he was a handyman, so anything more than the odd potted plant on his windowsill was a waste of time.

Lem, Petral, Grail, Berry and Henry leaned close against the wall under the window with Lem in front. He waited. Each of them held their breath while they listened for any indication the witches might be wreaking their collective vengeance. There was no sound other than the whisper of a breeze titillating the leaves of the trees that lined the street. Lem took the immense risk to his personal safety of peeking around the corner. He eased his head out, ready to snatch it back at any second. He daren't breathe in case the witches could hear him from the stake. He daren't think in case they could read his thoughts, terrified though those thoughts might be, and discover his hiding place as easily as if he'd jumped out waving his arms, shouting "Over 'ere!"

The stake was empty. The witches were gone. Lemon could see the cut ropes draped across the wooden pieces around the base. It was fine wood, that. Good kindling wood. Flare up in a heartbeat, that wood would.

The witches were gone. Lem gasped and turned back to his companions.

They were gone too. Only Petral's false top palate, the front teeth that she'd had replaced after falling from a horse she'd been trying to steal before remembering she couldn't ride, lay on the path. Lem picked them up. They were still wet. He carefully brushed a few pieces of grit from the dentures, spat on them, and slipped them into his own mouth. He'd been with Petral when she'd tried to steal that horse. He couldn't ride either. The teeth were a little uncomfortable, but they'd do.

It suddenly dawned on Lemon Artthorpe that perhaps Petral and the others hadn't simply gotten scared and fled. It also dawned on him, like the sun rising gloriously in that empty nighttime between his ears, that Petral wouldn't leave her top palate behind.

Ah.

Lem took a deep breath, and then promptly fainted.