Mr Mumbles (14 page)

‘It was your nan’s idea in the end. She thought that if your imagination was strong enough to make him so real to you – so vivid – then your imagination was strong enough to send him away.’

‘You kicked his backside!’ Nan grinned, triumphantly. ‘In your imagination,’ she added, after Mum frowned at her.

‘We don’t know exactly what happened,’ Mum continued. ‘But after Nan convinced you that you were the only one who could send him away, you asked me to help
you up into the attic, and to leave you there for half an hour. I wasn’t sure about it, but…well, we didn’t know what else to do. After that half hour you came back down. You never spoke about Mr Mumbles again.’

‘But all that was different,’ I argued. ‘I was a kid then. This isn’t like that!’

‘He was
real
to you, Kyle,’ answered Mum. ‘You saw him as clearly as you saw anyone else. But he wasn’t real. He was in your head. It was all just in your head.’

She stood up from the couch and joined me by the window. The backs of her fingers felt soft as she gently stroked my cheek. ‘Just like it is now.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words sprung immediately to mind. I glanced behind me at the CD player and the window. They were both still undamaged and intact.

Could she be right? It seemed impossible, but then it didn’t seem nearly as impossible as my childhood invisible friend coming to life. Besides, my visit to the Darkest Corners had seemed real, but that had been just some
bizarre nightmare. What if Mum
was
right? What if I was losing my mind?

What if I really
had
imagined the entire thing?

I
sat there on the couch, in front of the window that wasn’t broken, and which possibly never had been. My head was in my hands, my eyes fixed on the floor, as I tried to make sense of the world.

Was I going mad? Was that it? I’d seen Mr Mumbles – touched him – so if he wasn’t real then what explanation was there, other than a complete mental breakdown?

I’d checked the kitchen, but the table and chair were no longer wedged against the back door. Instead, they sat where they always sat, and showed no signs of having been moved.

Mum was through in the kitchen now, and I could hear her filling the kettle. She seemed to think a cup of tea and a
chat was all it was going to take to fix things, but I knew she was wrong. Whether Mr Mumbles was real or not, a cuppa wasn’t going to solve anything.

I raised my head and glanced out of the window. The storm still raged as violently as ever. Through the rain, I could just make out the outline of the Keller House. Was Ameena there? In fact, was she even
real?
She had seemed out of place – larger than life, somehow – but for some reason, the idea of her not actually existing frightened me as much as Mr Mumbles ever had.

‘Of course, she blamed your dad as well.’

I swivelled round and looked across at Nan. She was sitting in her usual armchair, working away on a crossword from yesterday’s newspaper and sucking frantically on a boiled sweet as if it was the only thing keeping her alive.

‘Fictional detective. Sherlock blank. Six letters,’ she muttered.

‘What did you say?’

‘Fictional detective. Sherlock blank…’ She grinned broadly and I could hear the sweet rattling against her
teeth. She began to write on the page. ‘Poirot. Sherlock Poirot, the little bald fella with the violin. Now,’ she mused, tilting her head back so she could see through the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, ‘six down.’

‘No, about my dad,’ I said, quietly so as not to let Mum hear. ‘What were you saying about my dad?’

‘Hmm? Oh, nothing, nothing. Forget it, sweetheart.’

‘Nan,’ I said, imploringly. ‘Please.’

She looked at me over the top of the glasses for a long time, not saying anything. At last, she folded the newspaper on to her lap, glanced across to the door, and began to speak.

‘It’s not important,’ she said. She was keeping her voice low, so as not to let Mum hear. Nan knew Dad was a forbidden topic when I was around. ‘I was just saying that your mum, she blamed your dad, too. For your…for the problems you were having. Thought maybe Mr Mumbles was a kind of replacement for him. A whatcha-ma-call-it. Father figure. What with him having run out on you both.’

I could hear Mum still busy in the kitchen, so I crept across
and sat on the seat next to Nan’s. A million questions raced through my head.

‘What was he like?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice level, despite my rising excitement. ‘My dad.’

‘Nice enough, I think,’ Nan shrugged. ‘He certainly made your mum a lot happier. Between you and me, she was a right miserable cow before he came along. No friends. Never went out. After she met him though…well, I’ve never really seen her smile like that before.’ Nan reached across and patted me on the arm. ‘Not until you came along, of course.’

I nodded. I’d always suspected Dad was a good guy, despite Mum’s reaction whenever I asked about him. Still, it was nice to have it confirmed, especially by someone who was fully entitled to hate him.

‘What did he look like?’ I pressed.

‘Oh, don’t ask me, sweetheart. I never met him.’

‘What?’
I frowned. ‘But you just said he was nice.’

‘I said I
thought
he was nice, from the way he brightened your mother’s face up. God knows she needed it.’ Nan put
down her pen and removed her glasses. ‘He was supposed to come round a few times, but there was always something came up and he couldn’t make it. As far as I know no one but your mum ever met him. No one I knew, anyway. I almost started to believe she was making him up at one point! But then
you
came along, and, well, you can’t argue with evidence like that.’

‘What about pictures?’ I urged, feeling my spirits start to sink. ‘You must have seen pictures of him?’

‘Don’t think so,’ replied Nan, shaking her head. ‘I’d have remembered if I had.’

‘Are you sure?’ I asked, as tactfully as I could. ‘You know with…with your memory playing tricks on you sometimes.’

She breathed on the lenses of her glasses and began cleaning them on her cardigan. ‘Some things I remember just fine,’ she said. ‘And I remember I never saw any photographs.’

Photographs. I suddenly remembered the ones from the attic. They were still in my pocket. My hands were shaking
as I pulled them out and flipped through them. Mum. Mum. Mum. They all showed Mum on her own, smiling and happy, just like Nan had said. Mum at the park. Outside the cinema. In a café.

In some of them she held her arm up in a strange way. It was raised up to shoulder level, and sticking out to the side, like she was doing “I’m a Little Teapot” but had forgotten to mime the handle. I’d half noticed it earlier, but was now seeing it properly for the first time. It almost looked like she was…

Hurriedly I flipped back through the pictures until I came to the shot in the café. Something about it had seemed wrong. Out of place. I studied it now, searching for the answer.

Like all the pictures, this one was a self-portrait, taken at arm’s length. You could see the arm that was holding the camera, and part of her head had been cut off. There was no mistaking it was Mum, though. There was also no mistaking the large glass of milkshake sitting on the table right in front of her.

One glass.

But two straws.

‘How many people do you see in this picture?’ I demanded, exploding into kitchen. Mum whipped round and reacted with horror at the sight of the café photo.

‘Where did you get that?’ she barked. ‘How did you find it?’

‘Just tell me how many you see!’

‘You shouldn’t be digging around in my private stuff, Kyle,’ she barked, her face contorted in shock and anger. She sprung forward and whipped the photo from my hand. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘Mum, please,’ I begged. ‘How many people?’

‘Two, of course!’ she yelled. ‘Now where did you get them?’

I heard nothing she said after that first word. The room spun and the floor turned to quicksand beneath me. No. It was impossible!

I held up another photo – Mum in the park this time. Alone.

‘And this one?’ I whispered. ‘I want you to look really hard. How many people?’

‘Two,’ she said again, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Why are you asking? Where did you get them?’

I turned the photo over and studied it. There was Mum doing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’. There wasn’t another soul in the picture. Not that I could see, at least.

‘You have your arm round him,’ I realised. ‘That’s what you’re doing. Only I can’t see him.’

‘What? Look, what’s this about?’ she asked. Her voice was softer now, like she was about to start crying again.

‘I have no idea,’ I mumbled. I felt a strange, tightness creep across my stomach. There was only one explanation for the photos. Only one way to explain why Mum could see another person in them, but I couldn’t. It was crazy, but it was the only solution.

I was looking at photographs of Mum and her invisible friend.

My dad.

But if that was the case, then that meant maybe I wasn’t
losing my mind. That meant that maybe —

Rat-a-tat-tat
.

‘Oh, who’s that at this time?’ called Nan from the living room. ‘I’ll get it!’

‘Wait, stop!’ I hurled myself out of the kitchen, suddenly realising that I recognised that knock. I knew exactly who was on the other side of the door, waiting to pounce. ‘Don’t open it! It’s him. It’s Mr Mumbles!’

Mum burst through from the kitchen behind me. Her eyes were still red and puffy from crying. She looked tired and sad and angry and disappointed and everything bad in between.

‘I thought we’d done this,’ she sighed, marching straight for the front door. I stood in her path, trying to block the way, but she simply pushed past. ‘I’m going to prove to you, Kyle, OK? I’m going to open this door and show you there’s no such thing as…’

Her voice trailed off as she flung open the front door. A dark figure in a long coat lurked in the doorway. The rain pushed the brim of his hat down over his eyes, concealing
them. The light of the house spilled out into the night, illuminating the crude, filthy stitches covering the monster’s mouth.

‘My God,’
Mum gasped. ‘But no. No, it can’t…’

I dragged her aside and slammed the door shut, only to find it blocked by Mr Mumbles’ outstretched arm. Again and again I tried to force it closed, tried to force him out, but the arm remained there, unflinching.

Desperately I raised my foot and kicked his hand, crushing it against the door frame. It didn’t move. I kicked out again, harder this time, and heard the wooden door frame give a crack. Still, he held on. As I fired a third kick at him, his fingers twisted and caught me by the ankle. Frantically, I began to hop, trying to keep my balance.

Mum screamed as the door was thrown open. Mr Mumbles yanked on my leg, sending me staggering sideways. I threw my hands out, clutching at anything I could as I tried to stay standing. My fingers found the curtains, but they weren’t enough. The curtain rail tore from the wall as I crashed to the floor.

Mr Mumbles gave my leg a sharp, sudden twist, and I felt a cry of pain escape my lips as something in my hip went pop. I kicked out with my free foot, exactly as I’d done during our first encounter tonight. Once again, my blows had no effect. His sunken eyes fixed on me, years of hatred burning behind them. How could I fight something like this? He was a monster. Relentless and unstoppable.

No, that wasn’t true, I realised. Something had stopped him once before! My eyes fell on the dusty old school bag that I’d left lying at the bottom of the stairs.
In case of emergunsy.
If I could just get free; just reach the bag…

Mum dived at Mr Mumbles, only to be sent sprawling by a vicious punch. I watched her spin round and round like a ballerina, before she crashed into the TV. It hit the ground at the same time as she did.

‘Mum!’ I cried. She wasn’t moving. I could see blood on the carpet. Blood, like Ameena’s blood, like the policeman’s blood, and she wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t she moving? ‘
Mum!
’

And then he was on me, pinning me down again, blocking Mum from my view. I struggled uselessly against his strength,
twisting and wriggling as I fought to be free. He was too strong. No matter how hard I fought, he was too strong.

CRASH!
Mr Mumbles hissed with rage as Mum’s best crystal vase smashed across the back of his head.

‘Get your damn hands off my grandson,’ Nan growled. Mr Mumbles looked up as she slammed our metal wastepaper bin down. It covered his head, blinding him. As he reached to remove it I dragged myself free and pulled myself to my feet.

‘Help Mum,’ I barked. She was still on the floor. Still bleeding. Still not moving. ‘Look after her until I get back.’

‘Where are you going, Kyle? What are you going to do?’ Nan fretted. I snatched up my childhood schoolbag then stepped in front of Nan, protectively. Mr Mumbles let the bin slip to the floor and drew himself up to his full height.

‘Years ago, you said that only I could stop him. I think you were right,’ I explained, not taking my eyes off the nightmare standing before me. ‘And I’ve finally figured out how to do it,’ I said, my face set in an expression of grim determination. ‘I finally know how to end this thing, once and for all!’

T
he grass at my feet had been churned into mud by the driving rain. I slipped and slid as I ran across it, limping, my imaginary friend somewhere close behind. Ducking past him and getting him to follow me out of the house had been the hard part. The
really
hard part – that was still to come.

Wild winds wailed at me, whipping at my clothes, slowing me down. I pushed through them, my eyes fixed straight ahead on my destination. As if on cue a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, and for a split second the Keller House lit up like a firework before me.