Mr Mumbles (17 page)

‘You will never beat meee,’ he sneered, ducking to avoid another flailing swing. ‘You think you can huuurt me, but really you have no idea.’

‘That arrow seemed to do the trick,’ I reminded him. To hammer the point home I leapt forward and managed to whack the exposed end of the arrow with the tip of the sword. He roared in pain and retreated back two or three paces.

‘A lucky ssshot,’ he growled.

We began circling each other, only the flimsy plastic blade of my weapon between us.

‘I beat you once before.’

‘And yet heeere I am.’

‘Not for long!’ I cried. With a roar I leapt at him, sword raised above my head. It whistled through the air as I swung
it down at him. A second before it connected, his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

‘You don’t get it, dooo yooou?’ he cackled. A blurred shape hit me in the face like a freight train and the world turned shades of grey. The fist came up again. I didn’t see it move; didn’t feel the sword slip from my fingers; didn’t notice the blood on my chin.

Mr Mumbles’ bloated lips were moving, but I could hear nothing over the sound of crashing water. It filled my head and the world around me, drowning out all other noise. Except that laugh. Throughout it all I could still hear that laugh.

The third punch caught me on the side of the head. I was flat on the roof before I felt it. The world flickered, then the pain in my jaw dragged me back from the brink of unconsciousness.

‘How do you think I came to exist in the firssst place?’ Mr Mumbles demanded. He was bending down, his face close to mine. Despite the torrent in my ears, it was impossible not to hear him from such a short distance. ‘You brought me into
the world. You and your slurred sssspeech and your crying and your need for a friend,
any
friend – you
made
meee.’

My chin touched against my chest as he hauled my head up.
Crack!
He slammed it back down on to the slate, and I felt my whole skull vibrate.

‘You maaade me and then, when you didn’t need me, you cast me out. You sent meee away and then you forgot me! Did you reeeally think I was going to let you dooo that?’

My lips moved of their own accord, but no sound emerged.

‘We were supposed to be friendsss,’ he shrieked. ‘And you sssend me away? You sssend me to
that place?
Have you any idea what I’ve been through? The thingsss they did to me?
Look
at me!
Look what they did!’

I didn’t respond. Nothing I could say could stop him doing whatever he was about to do. He was a madman, beyond reason. I felt a sudden weight on my chest as he pressed a knee against it.

‘Beg meee,’ he snarled. ‘Beg me for your life and I might keep you alive as my sssslave.’ His grotesque mouth
stretched into an unpleasant grin. ‘For old times’ sssake.’

‘P-please,’ I managed. The movement made something in my jaw grind painfully together. ‘Have a breath mint.’

His face fell before I’d even finished the sentence. Shrieking like a demon he hit me again.
Bang!
An ear exploded in pain. I stretched my arms out and flailed them around me, searching for the sword. Nowhere to be found.
Bang!
Another blow, across my cheek this time.

Nan’s words suddenly swam before my eyes. They burned, bold and bright, lighting up the night. My imagination was strong enough to create Mr Mumbles, so my imagination was strong enough to send him away. The arrow had worked because I’d believed it would work. No, not believed – because I had
known
without even the faintest shadow of doubt that it would work.

The light bulb. The axe. The shield. Even the exploding donkey. It really was me. All of it. It had all happened because I’d wanted it enough. No, not
wanted
it, because I’d
imagined
it.

Mr Mumbles was on me now, the weight of his body
pinning me down. His fingers crawled through my hair and I yelped as he took hold. Grinning in triumph, he lifted my head and slammed it hard against the slates once again. Something at the base of my skull felt as if it were about to shatter. If only I could reach the sword. If only I could find a weapon.

Suddenly I remembered something I’d slipped into my pocket at the police station. I wrenched my wrist around and fumbled for it, struggling against the weight of my imagined attacker.

As he hit me again I found what I was looking for and yanked it from my pocket, already feeling the electrical tingle across my scalp.

This had to work. It was
going
to work. I knew it. I knew it without the faintest shadow of a doubt.

I pressed the water pistol against Mr Mumbles’ stomach. He looked down at it, then back up at me. His laughter rang even louder in my ears. He was speaking to me, shouting something. I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t care.

My finger squeezed on the trigger. With a deafening roar
the water pistol spat flaming hot lead into Mr Mumbles’ belly.

The impact of the bullet lifted him off me. He flailed backwards, then hit the slates with a wet thud. Traces of smoke curled up from the water pistol as I watched him convulsing, his hands clutching at the wound in his gut. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t laughing any more.

Despite the hole in his stomach, it didn’t take him long to recover. He was back on his feet before I reached mine, but he was more cautious this time, and didn’t dive straight for me.

The water pistol was useless now. It was tiny, and even
my
imagination couldn’t picture it holding any more than one bullet. It dropped at my feet with a metallic clatter.

‘Impressssive,’ Mr Mumbles conceded. He threw out his arms and hurled himself at me. ‘But not impressssive enough!’

I rolled across the roof and caught the blade of the toy sword between two fingers. Still plastic. Good, I needed it light.

With a final effort I turned and hurled the sword. The effort sent me tumbling backwards to the tiles, but my aim was
good. End over end the sword went, and as it spun it began to change. The dull grey plastic took on the shiny sheen of steel. The safe, rounded point became sharp and deadly. In less than two seconds it had changed from a play thing to a lethal weapon, hurtling directly towards Mr Mumbles’ head.

He easily snatched the sword from the sky, somehow managing to catch it by the handle before the final spin could cut his head in half.

‘Stupid boy,’ he growled. He took a step towards me and raised the blade above his head. ‘You missssed me.’

‘Maybe,’ I shrugged. I felt an electric tingle creep across my entire body this time. The hairs on my arms stood up straight, as I imagined the most destructive weapon I possibly could. ‘But maybe not.’

I looked up – the storm was moving away from the village now, but I could see lightning sparking from the clouds on the horizon. Could I do it? Was it even possible?

That doubt again. I pushed it away.

I would
make it
possible.

With a fluorescent
crack,
a bolt of lightning stabbed down
from the sky. The jagged streak of blue struck the tip of the sword, and for a moment the world went a blinding white. I threw up my arms, shielding my eyes from the brilliant explosion of light.

When the flash had faded, I looked across to where Mr Mumbles had been. Now there was nothing, save for a small pile of ash and a plastic sword, warped and melted and black. As I watched, the wind swept up the dust, and carried it off to be swallowed by the swirling night.

He was gone. I’d done it. The nightmare was over.

I couldn’t get his words out of my head, though. He said there’d be more of them. Thousands of them. Maybe
millions.

I shuddered at the thought. If the Darkest Corners was real, then those things I’d seen in it had to be real, too, and if they somehow made it through…

But no. The Darkest Corners had been a dream. The most vivid, detailed dream I’d ever had, yes, but a dream all the same. It was done. Finished. Mr Mumbles was gone.

Finally!

‘Did I miss the excitement?’

I turned in time to see Ameena pulling herself up on to the roof. It was a struggle for her, but she made it.

‘Yeah,’ I winced. Pain pulsed through my head, down my spine, and on to any other part of my body it could find. ‘Some sidekick you turned out to be.’

Her face went pale as she saw the blood and bruising on mine. ‘Good grief,’ she gasped, ‘what did he do to you?’

‘It looks worse than it feels,’ I said. ‘No, wait, I got that the wrong way round.’

She gave me that Cheshire Cat grin and half guided, half dragged me back into a standing position.

‘What about you?’ I asked.

‘I’ll live,’ she replied. ‘It only hurts when I’m conscious.’

I decided there and then that it was time for the truth. We’d been through too much tonight to play games any longer.

‘Your family didn’t really buy the Keller House, did they?’ I asked. She opened her mouth to argue, then decided against it.

‘Don’t have much in the way of a family,’ she told me with a shrug. ‘Just me. Still thought I might crash here, though. For a little while, at least.’

I nodded, unsure what I should say. In the end I decided on: ‘The pool could do with a clean.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now come on. Let’s get you down.’

M
um was awake and lying on the couch when Ameena and I stumbled into the living room, each holding the other up. The side of Mum’s face was a dark purple. It bulged weirdly in places it shouldn’t be bulging at all, but she was alive, and that was all that mattered.

‘Kyle!’ Nan yelped, her frail hands flying to her mouth at the very sight of me.

‘It’s OK, Nan, I’m OK,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘It’s over.’

‘Did you…is he gone?’

‘He’s gone,’ I nodded. ‘He’s gone.’

Mum tried to sit up, but the movement must’ve hurt and she slipped back down again almost at once.

‘Mum,’ I said, the relief obvious in my voice. ‘You’re OK!’

‘Fine,’ she nodded, attempting a smile. ‘But you – look at you. Was he, I mean, did he…?’

‘I’m fine,’ I assured her. ‘A new head might be nice, but other than that I’m perfect.’

She smiled again – for real this time – then closed her eyes.

‘How is she?’ I whispered, turning to Nan. ‘Really?’

‘She’s fine,’ promised Nan, who was holding up surprisingly well, all things considered. ‘She just needs some rest, is all.’

I sagged down into an armchair and let my head roll backwards. ‘I know the feeling.’

Nan shuffled up behind the chair and loomed over me. From this position she looked like she was upside down. Upside down, and worried.

‘Kyle,’ she said, ‘we didn’t know. How could we know? We thought…we didn’t…’

‘It’s OK, Nan,’ I nodded. ‘I’d started to doubt it all myself, and I’d been the one it was happening to. You couldn’t know.’

She nodded, briefly, and glanced away. When she looked back, her eyes were wet with tears. ‘I’m just glad you’re all right,’ she said, her voice hoarse and raw. I felt her arm slip on to my shoulder. I took it in mine and gave it a squeeze.

‘You too,’ I replied. ‘Oh, and by the way, nice work with the vase.’

We laughed at that, and she gave my hair a playful ruffle. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was agonisingly painful.

‘Oh, I found this pinned to the door,’ she said. She held out a large white envelope, which I slowly took from her. The contents were rigid. A card? I looked at the writing on the front. My name, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. I glanced across at Ameena, who had taken a seat on one of the dining chairs. She gave a shrug.

‘I dunno. Open it.’

I wasn’t sure why, but my hands shook as I tore along the top of the envelope. Maybe I expected a trick of some kind – some fatal, final farewell from Mr Mumbles.

All I found was a Christmas card. It was silver and red
and covered with glitter all the colours of the rainbow. In bright, bold letters on the front were the words: ‘Season’s Greetings!’

Still half expecting danger, I carefully eased the card open. A rectangle of shiny paper slipped out on to my lap. I picked it up. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as I examined the photograph in my hand.

‘Is this…is this some kind of joke?’ I demanded. The question was addressed to no one in particular.

‘What is it?’ asked Mum, opening her eyes.

‘It just appeared on the door,’ Nan answered. ‘I don’t know, someone must have come in and left it there when I wasn’t looking.’

My heart thudded all the way up into my throat. The picture showed me in my bedroom – or an impression of it, at least. But half the room wasn’t my bedroom at all. A line cut the picture in half from top to bottom. On the right side was my room, with me standing in it.

The left-hand side was completely different. The peeling wallpaper was grey and shabby, the carpet threadbare and
worn. It looked exactly like the corridor the man in the Darkest Corners had led me down.

So that place
was
real. I’d been there. This proved it.

I frowned, looking down at the photograph. When was it taken? Why was the image split in two? It was almost as if…

Mum managed to stand up. She shuffled over to me and took the picture from my trembling hands. I heard her gasp, before she staggered and fell back on to the couch. Her eyes were wide, staring, and fixed on the picture.

‘Mum?’

‘This is your
room,
Kyle,’ she sobbed. ‘What…when was
he
here? When was he in your room?’

‘Who?’ I asked. But I knew. I already knew.

‘Him!’
she wailed, holding the photo up for me to see. She pointed at the empty space next to me. ‘Your father! When did you meet your father?’

I’d known the words were coming, but they still somehow came as a shock. My eyes flicked down to the Christmas card I held in my hands. There, inside, scrawled in handwriting even more untidy than mine, were four short
words. I breathed deeply as I read them over and over again:
It begins,
they said.
Love,
Dad.