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Friday 24 July 2015

A Short Story: Jack



   
 Caradoc sat with his head on the table, groaning. An empty wine bottle lay beside him, knocked over when his head hit the table last night. The bottle had been stopped from rolling off, with the dramatic smashing of glass appropriate to it, by the huge amount of clutter that covered the table. Caradoc groaned again. Then, with a whimper, he sat up.
He gazed bleary eyed around his kitchen, struggling to find something that was in focus. “Coff— Coff— Coffee!” he managed, as his head dropped back onto the table.
Why did he keep doing this? Why did he keep thinking the brief relief from the misery that was his life, was worth the crappy way he was going to feel the next day? With a grunt, he stood up, rocked a little and staggered over to the stove. He stayed there, swaying slightly, as he surveyed the piles of unwashed crockery, pots and pans, that littered what he laughingly called “the work surfaces.” There was a kettle here, somewhere wasn't there? Evicting most of the new life forms that had developed since its last use, he picked up a small saucepan from the top of a pile of unwashed plates, and tried to put some water in it.
The pump over the sink shrieked hideously at him as he pulled and pushed the handle. That must be enough for a cup of coffee, he hoped, as his head began to throb with even greater intensity. Did he feel sick? He wasn't sure. If he did, the coffee would resolve matters, one way or the other.
He couldn't find the coffee cannister. A howl of frustration tried to escape his lips, until his delicate brain told his mouth to shut up. He looked at the water currently simmering in the pan. The liquid had turned a dark brown colour. Coffee? he hoped. Coffee, he decided, found a cup that looked reasonably clean, and poured the hot liquid into it. Coffee, his brain sighed. Somewhere, the part of his brain that was still functioning laughed to itself.
Carrying the cup in a shaking hand, Caradoc began his journey back to the table. Focussed entirely on his destination, his eyes didn't notice the small creature running across his floor— but the super-enhanced, high-fidelity hearing that comes with an economy size hangover, heard it. He stopped, still swaying, his hand still shaking. “What's that?” he said, and flinched. It hurt his head to hear itself speak.
He listened again. Whatever it was had gone or stopped. He forced his head to tilt and look at the floor. He stared at his feet. There was nothing there— and even if there was, he wasn't going to be able to see it until his eyes came back into focus.
He continued his journey across the kitchen, still looking at his feet. It was too much effort to look back up. He crashed into the table and his hot drink slopped out of the cup, adding a dark brown stain to the myriad of other colours that had come together over the however many months he had been wearing this shirt. The scalding liquid burned him, but it was too much effort to take the shirt off, so he suffered instead.
His free hand managed to find the back of a chair, and he sat down gratefully. He spotted a space on the table and placed his cup on it. He heard the scurrying again. Could he be bothered to look for it? It was probably only a mouse, and, as he didn't feel like eating at the moment, it didn't need his attention yet.
He stared into his cup and then shut his eyes. Maybe, if he concentrated, he might be able to find his way through the fog in his brain, and locate at least which side of the room the creature was on.
He listened.
There was silence at first— evidently the creature was waiting to see what he did. And then, there it was again, the patter of tiny feet— tiny feet? He corrected himself. The patter of tiny-ish feet— heading towards..? His chest of drawers?
Caradoc frowned. What would a mouse want from his chest of drawers? All the food was in the kitchen— admittedly, some of it even a hungry mouse wouldn't touch— but there was some edible food there, somewhere. Wasn't there?
Then he heard a grunt. Caradoc frowned again. He'd had a lot of mice in his house over the years. He couldn't recall any of them grunting.
He took a long sip from his cup. The coffee was vile. He looked at the brown liquid. How had he managed to make something so simple, so badly? The conscious part of his brain coughed politely. It's not coffee, it reminded him. Oh yes, nodded Caradoc, remembering the stuff in the saucepan. He took another sip. He grimaced. “This coffee tastes horrible,” he said. The conscious part of his brain gave a tut and a deep sigh, and suggested to Caradoc, Just-put-the-cup-down! Caradoc put the cup down.
What to do now, he wondered. Eat something, suggested the conscious part of his brain. “Eat?” said Caradoc. His voice sounded very loud and rattled around in his head. Eat, he thought. Did he still feel sick? No, he didn't think so. Food, then. What to have?
He heard the scurrying again. Something fresh, perhaps, thought Caradoc. If he could catch it. He listened intently, and suddenly realised his headache had gone. Now, how had that happened? He looked accusingly at the cup of brown stuff. Had he inadvertently made a hang-over cure?
His stomach gave a rumble and urged him not to get distracted. Food, it reminded him. Ah, yes, thought Caradoc. Food. He heaved himself out of the chair and over to his kitchen cupboards. They were empty, except for a packet of out-of-date pasta and a jar of pickles. Pasta and pickles? He sighed and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. Was that creature still there?
He drew up a chair and sat down to wait, his arms folded over his chest. He felt a tickle on his forearm, and noticed a flea scurrying through his hair. He tutted to himself. He'd have to get the flea powder out again. He hated the stuff. It made him feel worse than the wine did, and without that brief period when all seemed right with the world.
Down by his feet, something swore. Caradoc frowned and looked down. There was something there, but it wasn't a mouse. It reached half way up Caradoc's shins. It was bipedal, clothed and had its arms wrapped around several of Caradoc's gold coins.
And who are you?” enquired Caradoc, bending down to get a better look at it.
Er,” offered the creature, its face a picture of terror.
Er?” repeated Caradoc. He nodded towards the gold coins. “I believe those are mine,” he said. “What are you doing with them... Er?”
Umm,” said the creature and gulped.
I hope,” continued Caradoc, “that you weren't intending to remove those from my premises without my permission— because that, my little friend, would be stealing, wouldn't it?” The creature nodded its agreement. “And stealing, I'm sure you know, is wrong, isn't it?” The creature nodded again. “You must realise,” said Caradoc, “that the penalty for stealing from me is— well, I expect you can guess what the penalty is for stealing anything from me. We don't want that now, do we?” The creature nodded with a whimper. “Perhaps you should put it back then, so I don't misconstrue your attempts to tidy up my cash box as theft!” The creature gave a weak smile and a nervous laugh. “Go on, then,” said Caradoc, “and come back here when you've finished. I need to have a word with you about a few things I've lost recently, and which you might be able to help me find.” He smiled at the creature.
Five minutes later, the creature's head appeared from behind the chest of drawers. “Ah,” said Caradoc. “There you are again. I thought I was going to have to come and find you. Now, Er—”
Jack,” interrupted the creature. “My name is Jack.”
Oh,” said Caradoc. “I do beg your pardon. Well, Jack, I wondered, in your travels around my home, whether you had come across either a golden harp or a large white goose?”
Er,” said Jack, looking up at the ceiling, “not a golden harp, no.”
Not the harp? But the goose?”
Yep, I've seen the goose. Well, a goose, anyway,” nodded Jack.
Where?” asked Caradoc.
In your oven, Sir,” replied Jack. “At least, I think it was a goose. It was a bit difficult to tell, without its feathers on.”
Feathers? Oven? Are you saying I ate it?”
I think so, Sir. How many of these geese have you got?”
Just the one.”
And no chickens, ducks or swans?”
No.”
Pigeons, pheasants or quails?”
No.”
Probably was the goose, Sir. Bad luck, Sir. Were you fond of it, Sir?”
You could say that, yes. When was it you saw me cooking it?”
A couple of weeks ago, Sir.”
You were here a couple of weeks ago?”
Yes, Sir.”
Do you visit this place often, then?”
Er, yes, Sir,” admitted Jack.
And why?”
Umm— tidying up, Sir. I just love tidying up!”
Do you, now? Well, you should have said. I mean, there's absolutely loads of tidying up to do here.”
Well, Sir, not wanting to offend you, Sir, but you're a bit scary, Sir. Didn't know how nice you were, Sir— so I only ever tidied up the chest of drawers.”
Well, Jack,” beamed Caradoc, “it looks like it's a lucky day for both of us. I'm a mess and you love tidying. A match made in heaven.” He handed Jack a dishcloth. “You can start with the washing up.”



Caradoc surveyed his kitchen and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He had to take his hat off to the boy— if he had a hat to take off. Jack had certainly been thorough in his cleaning. He became particularly diligent every time Caradoc wondered out loud what to have for dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. The kitchen gleamed. Indeed, the whole castle shone like a new pin. He had to admit to feeling a bit guilty, making the lad work so hard, especially when Jack mentioned his poor old mother being all alone— and then let it slip about the beanstalk. Well, Caradoc did what any good employer would do, and paid the old girl a visit. Down the beanstalk he'd climbed, and what a world it led him to! All those shops, all those... things! And now he had a computer, and could order anything he wanted. Of course, he couldn't get them to deliver to the top of the beanstalk, but now Jack and his mother had no need for their house, he had everything delivered there.
Yes, it had been a shame about Jack and his mother. Well, when Caradoc arrived at the cottage and found Jack's mother in possession of the harp and the goose, what else could he do? Receiving stolen goods— a capital offence. She had been rather tough, though. He'd been picking bits of her out of his teeth all day.
He heard a ping and got up to attend to the spanking new rotisserie that had arrived this morning. Yes, it had been a shame about Jack and his mum, especially after the month of unpaid work Jack had put in, tidying the place up.
He took the spit out of the rotisserie and observed the lean carcass it had just cooked to perfection. Perhaps he should have taken the opportunity over that month to fatten the boy up a bit. Caradoc ripped a piece of meat off with his teeth. “Perfect,” he muttered, wiping the grease from his face with his sleeve.


The End











© Tracey Meredith 2015
From Grimm Stories & Other Faery Tales


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