The Unexpected Occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble (10 page)

Miss Coombs was never mentioned now, and her body had never been found. At first, I had a few visits from various folks in the village expressing their concern regarding her departure; some even wished to speak to Agatha. Eventually they stopped asking, and seemed to see in me a rather pitiful figure whose luck had not been good. I rather enjoyed their pity, for it aided in my masking of the truth. I had never been a liar, but I could not afford to hang for Miss Coombs' benefit. Agatha needed me – she truly needed me – and now that child was soon upon us I was needed twice over. I thought about Miss Coombs often, of course, and how unfortunate her accidental demise had been. However, had she remained in the house I certainly wouldn't have been able to do as I had done with Agatha. I had free reign to do as I wished, and it was rather fulfilling.

As the hours got closer to the birth, Agatha got steadily more confused and withdrawn. When I did sleep, all that played in my mind was that dream where I had witnessed my own birth, and the ultimate death of my mother. The big upright box was in prominence, looming as a shadow over my life. Now I stood at the foot of a real bed, my love lying bound on it with her legs spread apart. I could see the child's head and froze still, the sudden realisation of what I had done to Agatha filling my conscience. She must have thought me monstrous to attempt suicide in the first place, and all I had done was continue to fuel that ill feeling by keeping her captive down here and trying to build a relationship. There was no going back now, and I rallied myself out of that wasteful mindset in order to deliver my child.

‘Push,' I called out to her as I bent down to support the head. Agatha was not responding. ‘Our child is coming, Agatha, you must make an effort.' She turned her head and looked up at me. I looked down at her and smiled. Her lips moved, but I heard no words. ‘Push!' I called again. Her lips moved some more, but still no words could be heard. I leant over and pressed my ear towards them. No more did they move, but she gave an almighty push and I swept in to secure the newborn in my arms. There was one final gasp from Agatha before she fell silent, and I looked at her still face. I knew she had died, and it was all Miss Coombs' fault. Damn her!

I untied Agatha's dead hands and placed our son in them.

* * *

The next few days were wrought with difficulties as I dealt with my son alone. I felt Adam was a good name, and that was that. There was nobody to disagree with me or suggest other potential names. Towards the end of that first week there came a terrible smell from the door leading into the cellar. I hadn't been down there since coming up with Adam in my arms that first time after his birth, and Agatha would not be looking herself at all by now. I remembered how her brother, who'd tossed himself under the cart, had looked just hours afterwards and, although Agatha had not been mangled facially, the smell was a clear indication of the unfortunate processes now going on. Still, the smell became that much more intense within mere hours and there needed to be something done to stop it. I placed Adam safely in the cot I had made him with my own hands upstairs whilst his mother carried him in the cellar, and gingerly opened the door to go down there.

I did not dare to think what would meet my eyes as I progressed slowly down each step, clutching nervously onto a flickering candle. There was some small part of me that wanted to see an empty bed, an indication that Agatha hadn't in fact died but had manufactured a false demise in order to escape my clutches. But, no, there her rotting remains lay; her legs still spread apart and her arms positioned as though cradling a newborn. My vile actions came crashing down on me, a self-opinion growing that I was clearly deranged on so many levels. But, things
had
truly just escalated with one event after another. Was I to blame Miss Coombs, Ffoulkes, Uncle Joe, my father? Perhaps it was time to take the blame myself. After all, I had allowed things to unfold in this increasingly ill manner. Nevertheless, the end product of my actions was the baby Adam, and I was certainly not going to allow him to turn into somebody as damaged as me. I would be the perfect father and do right by the boy. Once and for all, the cycle would be broken and he would grow up into a fine man. He and I had everything we needed to make this happen: a house, the newly rebuilt factory. Admittedly, there was no mother, but I was long overdue a new housemaid.

* * *

‘Please, call me Emily,' was the first thing the petite young thing had said to me upon responding to my call for a housemaid. She was so, so wondrously perfect that I quite forgot about Agatha within a matter of seconds and set my sights on her. To say I fell head over heels in love would be a crass understatement, for my deep feelings for her knew no limits. After a fortnight in the house I had asked her hand in marriage and she had, surprisingly, accepted. She was the daughter of a poor woman, and her father was dead. Her mother came to live with us, and all three of us reared dear Adam together. We were quickly married and in a flash added siblings for my firstborn. All had come good in my life in the end, and I had done well in spite of my early challenges.

Emily's mother did eventually prove rather difficult as she advanced in years, as was to be expected. I remembered the speed and ease with which Miss Coombs had been dispatched, and did contemplate a similar fate for her. Luckily, Nature proved to be her assassin and I was spared the onerous indecency of putting her out of her misery myself.

The one true devastation in my life was the loss of Troy. Though Emily followed suit and succeeded him in his loyalty, I was so attached after his decade of service that when the time came to say goodbye I was overcome with grief. He, with his contemplative stoicism as he sat looking out onto the vast countryside beyond the house, was the greatest mind I ever came across. He knew it all, and had life well laid out under his paws.

I thought of Agatha often, and how sadly it had ended for her; but I overcame those feelings of guilt. No longer did I blame myself, and Emily just did as I wished. She was not for challenging my whim, she just wanted to please me. This, even as the years passed, never did thin one bit. There was just one occasion when she tried to probe the origins of Adam, and I had warned her away from prying. She never did query again. She enabled me to continue unmolested by both the law and my conscience for the rest of my days.

And so, here I am at the end of my days reminiscing on a brief, and unfortunate, portion of my early life. Adam would have grown into a fine young man, though sadly he had inherited some of his mother's headstrong urge for independence and, of course, her sickly body. He had a fit one day and died at fourteen whilst trying to “find himself” out in the fields. Still, all eight of the children Emily and I had together survive to this day. Emily herself also lives, though she spends much of her time sitting very still and very quiet in the corner of the room. She will spend hours upon end just staring into space, occasionally mumbling about “profound difficulties” and the like.

After my brief flash of upset and mischief at the beginning of my life, I have been able to create an entirely new existence free from trouble. I have lived a good life, and reached a vast age. In the end there was no stopping me, for no matter what challenges occurred I was able to overcome them unscathed. I know I only have days, if not hours, left to live, but it does not trouble me. Death is the surest of all life experiences, and the illness that has taken me down is not the most fiendish. The result is the same no matter what gets you, and acceptance of your mortality is crucial. The one thing on my mind as I prepare for the end is if I ever truly felt love for anybody. Looking over at Emily, I think of what Agatha's opinion of her would have been. All Emily has wanted to do in life is be a wife to a man. Agatha would have seen her as a weak sort of woman, a non-entity with no mind of her own. With that laid out, there is a part of me that feels less connected to Emily because of this. I don't know why I was drawn to Agatha, other than her physical beauty. The same attributes also drew me to Emily. My brute force was able to crush Agatha's desire to stretch out beyond the confines of what was expected of her sex. That was her downfall. My downfall, as a man conditioned throughout life to command with strength and deviousness, is mere old age.

As I draw my final breaths, I have the arrogant impression that they are nowhere near my final ones at all. There is the overriding urge to say I can see the large upright box just up ahead of me. Emily has certainly made no fuss of it – not that she has made much of a fuss about anything of late – and I myself am inclined to put it to the back of my mind. Its sudden presence now makes no sense, even though I find myself not questioning the coming of the box. It seems right.

I remember Troy's last day on Earth all those years ago when I was still a young man as though it was yesterday. I had to carry him out for his daily study of Nature by then, and gently placed him down in his favourite spot atop an old barrel. That day, he did not want to look far out into the distance – perhaps he no longer
could
see that far. No, his attention was seized by something close by and on the ground. I, curious, trained my own sight and spotted a large dandelion weed growing rather healthily in the path. I had dug it out so many times before, but it just kept coming back. I went then and tried to pull it, but it would not come. The roots were strong, and the leaves a vibrant green. It would go on growing in spite of the war against it.

For me to have felt a part of something in life, I'd have had to have not been apart from things all my life. I always keep myself away, distanced. Goodness knows why. It's done me no good because here I am, carried off to war and thrust right into the action. Digging trenches sounds like a simple job. Let me tell you it is
not
. Nor is digging trenches an easy job. This is me being a part of something, something altogether bigger than anything else before it in the history of mankind. A war to end all wars they're calling it. It is hell on Earth.

They call me twitch – because I have a twitch. When I get excitable it gets worse, hence why it's going berserk right now. First my eye starts to spasm, followed by my cheek, then my entire face goes ballistic. It's a terrible nuisance, crippling even. I also cannot help but clear my throat all the time, even though it doesn't need clearing. I have to be careful however, as I end up clearing it or even coughing when those around me are doing the same. Mimicking the noises of those around me isn't going to do me any favours in the trenches. We're all so close, so very very close. Truth be told, this whole situation is downright dreadful. Sixteen of my ‘fellow men' died in a truly terrible manner yesterday – a heavy downpour quickly filled their section of trench with water and they drowned. So did the rats. The rats are good company.

I am apart from things because I do not belong – neither here in the trenches, nor to anywhere else. My part in the grand scheme of things is so minuscule and insignificant that I feel myself afforded nothing from anyone. My life story, if that is the correct phrase, just doesn't seem solid or interesting enough to relay to you. Young men like me are getting sent over the top of the trenches every single day and being instantly slaughtered. I will go soon, and I will not be sorry. There is absolutely no reasoning to it at all; not one that I understand anyway.

I feel so separate from life that I've begun to view things from outside my own body, looking down on myself as I go about my daily duties. I look foolish and clumsy, but that doesn't matter – there are many kinds a weakness on show if you know how to see it. There are cries for mother amidst the blizzard of bullets, and weeping over the simplest of issues that arise such as having to drink dirty water. I've also seen the strangest of strengths from the unlikeliest of people, but I simply cannot allow myself to accept it. If I do, I might have to try and emulate them. I'm not a very good performer. I've never been good at anything. Despite that, I have the very briefest moments of feeling great. Sometimes I just feel utterly great and superior to everyone else, but it is only a fleeting feeling that is soon replaced by my usual self-loathing.

It might sound like a cliché to say I don't belong here – in the trenches about to die for a cause I don't believe in – but I simply
do not
belong here. There is something else, something more to my life than this narrowness I am being presented with; my trouble is that I cannot put my finger on it. The only thing I
can
put my finger on is the trigger as I go over the top with my rifle. That is a certain. What if I freeze and cannot fire? No worries – even if I do fire I won't last long. It is a foolish endeavour.

Just that moment, as I am observing myself from above, a huge vertical slit appears in front of me in the trench. As it opens, emanating a dull purple glow, a scentless breath wheezes out and a hand emerges. I cannot tell whether it is male or female, but it outstretches itself towards me. If I am to take it, will I be pulled through the slit? I step back, folding my arms, and the hand and slit vanish as quickly as they have arrived.

Before I know it I have a rifle in my hand and am being pushed up a wooden ladder. Bullets don't kill me – men kill me. Men like me, pulled from their lives and sent here to play soldier.