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Echoes
Laura Dockrill
‘The characters are funny, endearing and completely original. Laura has a wonderfully wild and exciting imagination…she defies boundaries.’ Kate NashLaura retells popular fairytales in her unique voice. The perfect gift for Christmas.
Echoes
Laura Dockrill
For my family…
I love you.
xxx
These stories are not all from my imagination; some have been retold and passed down from others and so…
With love and thanks to the following:
19:16. A special thank you to Daniel for this East London urban legend and for being an inspiration to me always.
Hibiki Jikiniki is for my friend and fellow poet, Tim Clare. Thank you for your time and exciting, revolting mind.
The Tongue Cut Sparrow A special thank you to my mother for the story and for your friendship…thanks for pretending not to notice when I steal your food.
That Shrewd Little Fox is for my especially talented friend and loyal editor Clare Hey, we’ve had lots of fun together creating these stories. Without you I would be in an awful pickle.
The Boy Who Cried Monster Thank you for the story, Ryan.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#uf3b453d4-fc2a-55df-b02b-c82eaf5b0423)
Title Page (#uf6a9f3dd-6532-5e36-ac35-6a16db822780)
The Boy Who Cried Monster. (#ubc564439-5dd4-5ac5-a9c6-7844a285b804)
Skin It Helps to Keep Your Insides in, Woah, My Skin, So Glad You Were Invented…) (#uf4cef7e4-16b3-5485-acc0-4bf0cf576ec1)
Banshel (#ub3c00546-f2e4-5924-8b55-884421ae81e5)
Isabella MocZareles Jezeballa Bumpington-Brown (#u46fd1f9d-e26f-5204-bd22-729fbece1455)
Cowboy (#u917a2df5-5474-5b82-bd23-cf33a8c36821)
Gutted (#uda42c53a-5600-5880-af8f-3c9d56e258f2)
Pandoras Box (#ub11560e6-f30c-527f-9d44-c686cff9183b)
That Shrewd Little Fox (#u10554498-027f-5082-8fa9-d4596b258025)
The Lady of The Snow (#u43b48f98-c949-544e-af5b-5936bc4156e6)
Cherkins (#uafa98695-7004-50f7-94e3-14d5561e65cd)
The Melting Lody (#u2b61cc35-aee1-5b3a-a3e6-32da5e41b55f)
Ebony Matters (#u83bc1aba-ab89-5043-9c05-0e4a86a871ce)
Siren (#uf9f1b6c6-f7b5-527b-8df8-4f938f7111ab)
Woolf (#u32cd8412-ca8c-55b9-9316-bc16b39aa7eb)
May, Fay and Rosemary or Three Sisters and a Sledgehammer (#uaae3d5a1-9a4d-503a-9136-bd94affa37c6)
Smugglers (#u7b295646-5349-5f45-a009-1bf3975179e2)
Oh, You’ll Never Get to Heaven…. (#u168b5768-f28d-5687-b8f1-5e1eca4dbe64)
Ella (#u1b5588a2-c625-5a25-beaf-883916b5ffd2)
The Dove (#u4c0395fe-2549-5a6e-832b-fbc1df0612be)
The 12th fairy (#u630327ff-5f2a-5e59-b27b-134813c3bc80)
Hibiki Jikininki (#u45d0549a-bb92-5dd2-8a4e-20546bae912d)
Onions (#ub1107f72-455c-54cb-a51e-33b8a6430b7e)
The Unmet (#ufdb79e61-cef6-52e3-8c7b-0b9fb9ea3e2e)
19:16 (#uc3e3941f-0cb1-583c-800e-7c1bc938d87e)
The Tongue-cut Sparrow (#ud1e1ea0b-2b19-50d1-bd38-cc1a2294a371)
Echoes (#u8189fff8-8dc3-5853-82e6-8b095193e83e)
Acknowledgments (#uecf234c2-b115-5ed7-8171-6bd82819e14f)
About the Author (#u75a58cfa-8db5-5e7c-b8c9-512ad0c991ea)
Also by Laura Dockrill (#u1cc8d89e-35ab-5c7d-b4e6-e40c210d814d)
Copyright (#u29c7ec34-a6d5-52ad-8ad2-baff39ab1c8b)
About the Publisher (#u025d9abe-2c02-552a-b5e8-a8b1fa92350d)
The Boy Who Cried Monster. (#ulink_80cc35e1-76ee-51aa-af2c-883ec6bc1f91)
BORED
Off an oily main road, where not even the pigeons could be bothered to visit, was an ugly mechanical building. The building was so violently ugly that visitors were advised to bring sunglasses to shield their eyes from the hideous view. Most of the building had been deserted, odd bits of furniture lay everywhere, haunting empty office spaces, broken technical equipment, all under a blanket of dust and old skin cells as though it were the residue of a ship under the sea. Forgotten.
But at the very top of the building was an office full of professional scapegoats. Inside, the cold walls were colourless, covered with empty corkboards and organized post-it notes. Everything was stiff and dated and static, so painfully unforgiving it forced you to wander through it as though you were colour-blind. It was as though somebody had ordered everything to be painted grey.
And the eight people who worked in this office were dry and flaky–not in a tasty almond croissant way, but in a sore skin sort of way. And these people were pessimistic. They believed that the world was crumbling in; they believed everything was a conspiracy against them, gruelling, grumbling, and continuing, even though every day consisted of boredom and dullness and paranoia. And this wiry stiff party (bad choice of word) wouldn’t communicate–they wouldn’t know how to, they never played the radio or treated themselves, they just sat and stared and tapped away like robots. All except for one.
Albert started off at Limps as a work experience, forced by his parents to do something, anything, other than write his silly stories. And three years later he was still there, filing, plonking out letters, photocopying, but always, in his head, writing stories. His father said he should read more than write, he said before you even pick up a pen you have to know the history behind what you are writing about. He said, ‘You can’t have a tree without roots.’ But Albert believed that history was created every day and roots were growing all the time, it was just a matter of where you planted the seeds.
Albert liked writing about what he already knew. He liked to write about what he saw and what he felt. He liked to write at about six o’clock when the sky was so pink and perfect he could almost see Marc Bolan rising out of it. He liked to write about the cute girl he saw on the train that day who had odd shoes on and had bent a fork around her wrist as a bracelet. He liked to write about when he was little and wanted to be a wrestler so badly he would wear a carrier bag over his body like a vest and tear it open like a raging Hulk Hogan. He liked to write about the homeless man that got on the bus and told all the passengers he had stolen ketchup, brown sauce, vinegar, salt and pepper from a café and had managed to get away with it, laughing to himself, muttering, ‘Condiments, that’s all you need.’ He liked to write about the fat little Mexican girl with the braces on her bottom teeth who walked past him every day and the way she was always so fascinated by the little box above his house that looked like a front door where a pigeon lived. He liked to write about the weird lady with the white boots who was always trying to commit suicide and asking people if they wanted to come round and see her cooker. Or the squatters who everybody used to hate until they made a theatre in the living room of the squat and everybody loved the shows so much that whenever the council came over, the neighbours lied and said the owners to the house were just on holiday, just so the shows would continue. That’s what Albert liked to write about.
Boredom. How could anybody ever be bored? But, he had to be careful because that’s exactly what everybody at Limps suffered from, boredom. And it was contagious.
Once upon a shitty day, Albert had just finished a story about a wolf when he decided he was a bit peckish. Rolling back on his chair across the grey gravel carpet, he was about to stand when he saw Norman sinking his milky teeth into a cardboard sandwich, inside was all rubbery cheese and browning lettuce. He saw Sue eyeballing the computer screen so intently her eyes were beginning to bleed. He saw John just sitting, his broomstick tash twitching. Albert felt sick, watching them, he felt as though he were watching the room though a television screen. So, out of nowhere, he began to run.
He ran through the desks, throwing the paper up in the air, over to the bookshelf, rattling the books, encouraging the files to slide out of the shelves, he picked up the plant, still in its pot, grey and droopy and he smashed it against the wall (and then he felt bad, because it was alive and had the potential to be something beautiful. He would tend to that later). Then he ran in circles, destroying anything in his path and his colleagues just watched him. Gormless.
Out came Mr Hurt. ‘What on earth is going on?’
Good point. Yes, what was going on? He had to say something…
‘It’s a tidal wave. Outside.’
‘A tidal wave?’
‘A tidal wave, a flood, a…a…monsoon! Water’s everywhere…We’re going to be drowned if we don’t move now, now, now. Allow yourself to be swallowed up or move, move, move!’ he yelled.
‘A monsoon? From where?’ Mr Hurt tried to understand, but he hadn’t communicated in so long it was as though he expected a feast of bats to come screeching out of his mouth.
Before he even had a chance to answer, the workers uprooted, their knees creaking out of their swivel chairs like rusty hinges, surprised almost that their bodies could do something other than sit and plonk. They ran too, they joined in with Albert, running, fast and fierce, panicking. They found their voices, realized they could scream, realized they didn’t want to lose their lives, realized that they did want to have barbeques and parties, and learn how to make Death by Chocolate, they had always wanted to go to the ballet after all and pack a suitcase and go shopping for toiletries, they did want to skive work, have a duvet day, sleep all day, and see the sea. They ran, falling, scratching their kneecaps, scraping their skin violently, the bleeding felt good, throbbing, a pulse of its own. Alive, they felt alive. They threw themselves down the concrete staircase, reckless. Some cackled, wild with hilarity, and poured out of the fire escape, grey jumpers, grey ties, grey socks in a pile only to see…
Nothing but an oily street.
‘Where’s the flood?’ Norman demanded.
‘The monsoon?’ Sue asked, teary-eyed.
‘The tidal wave?’ Mr Hurt quivered. Their pupils swelling from the sunlight. Flowering as though jasmine in hot water.
‘I…’ Albert began. His heart was still drumming, adrenaline soaring through his veins.
‘You mean to say you lied?’ Mr Hurt sneered. ‘You were bored and so you lied. You lied to me, you lied to your colleagues and you lied to yourself. You are a disgrace to Limps.’ He shuffled his tie, pulled it close to his neck. The cluster of people looked up at him, sourly; never had they felt so let down.
‘I’m sorry,’ Albert said. He wasn’t.
‘Hollow words,’ Mr Hurt muttered. ‘Hollow words.’
In the evening, Albert went out and got drunk by himself. He sketched a monster on a beer mat; he was a better artist than he thought.
‘Fancy a bit of colour?’ the barmaid asked him, suggestively.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He spluttered his shandy over the table, wiping it with his sleeve. Albert had never been any good with girls.
‘Whatever suits you.’ The girl strutted off.
He saw the crayons by the till, divided into little plastic beakers, obviously meant for children. Hopelessly aching to ask for them, as a bit of colour was all he wanted.
The electronic sound of paper going in and out of a printer was driving Albert up the fucking wall. He was stuck in this office, in this block, this box, this tiny fucking stone box, with no way out. He had been looking for jobs all morning. He would be sacked sooner or later, wouldn’t he? If he kept up this foul behaviour, they would just fire him. Good. He wanted to be fired. He would rather be happy and poor than get the same sarcastic pay packet, week in week out and be a prisoner to a photocopier. He saw it on television. People could have fun in offices. Ricky Gervais had fun in an office, didn’t he? And everybody in Ugly Betty? Their office was like a circus. Why couldn’t it be the same here? Why couldn’t they get hot people to work here? Not to go out with, just to look at. He would fancy the funny girl who sat in the corner with the bowl haircut who threw elastic bands at his head and wore kooky dolly shoes. There could be a bitch, a geek, and a prick that everyone hated…
Then, suddenly, Albert found himself doing the same thing as last week, the same thing again. Leaping up, plunging to the sky, he ran, he didn’t know where he was going or why he was doing it, but he did it and this time he let it rip, as though it were meant to happen, so none of the awkward talking happened again. He picked up an ancient fire extinguisher and let it blow, its hose spiralling in whipping motions on its own accord, gushing out its contents onto the drab workers. Then it seemed as though it was the right moment to let tumble out of his mouth that was open as wide as it could possibly go, ‘FIRE!!!’
Now, the office had practised this. They knew the drill, they followed the clear laminated instructions as carefully as they did the ‘In case of emergency…’ sheet on an aeroplane. They knew those little pictures of tiny men hopping out of windows better than they knew themselves. And they ran. Their imaginations, having not imagined something for so long, did the dirty work, their brains gallivanted, stirring up the formidable, imagining the fire tearing at the building, screaming, already chewing up the fire exit, clawing at the window. And then they began to hear it, the crackling noise of burning, the popping of the flames as it teased the workers, drew sweat beads on their foreheads. Panic. Their heartbeats deafening, they ran fast and they ran with reason, a fear so petrifying it caused some of the workers to stumble, tripping on each others’ grey limbs. They had always wanted to go horse riding, buy a scratch card, swim the Channel, they had wanted to make a jelly in the shape of a rabbit for their baby nephew, they had wanted to buy that canary in the pet shop window, they needed to call their mothers, they hadn’t watched all three Godfathers, they hadn’t found out what the most deadly spider was. They ran, pulling back each others’ hair. Survival. There was so much to do, wasn’t there? So much to see and hear and smell and here was Norman lying on the floor, he had slipped, clumsy, getting in the way, so they had to go over him, didn’t they? Squashed or not, not their problem, they had to get out, didn’t they? Crunching his body was just half of the battle, wasn’t it? Part of the adventure, trampling over him as though he were a little drawbridge. And Mr Hurt bouncing up and down telling everybody to remain calm; what did he know? What did he know when there was fire to play with? Linda twisted her ankle, the weight of her meat-and-two-veg body crashed down on it, pinging it to the side and it flopped loose like a runner bean, her howl sirened through the corridor. Hurrying everybody along until they pressed the release bar and out. Fresh air, alive, alive, alive…
‘Fire? What fire?’ Sue blurted.
‘I was trying to tell you…’ Mr Hurt shushed everybody. ‘The building is fireproof anyway and it has smoke signals. It was highly unlikely that there would have been a fire without us knowing about it.’ He twitched, taking his coat off from the imaginary heat his mind had created.
‘So where did this come from?’ Linda sobbed, cowering, her tights bloody from the scrapes. She needed an answer.
Everybody needed an answer.
They all looked to Albert. Like waiting for answers at a quiz.
‘Your silly fabrications have done you no favours, you have disrupted everybody’s mental stability one time too many. Besides, there is photocopying to be done, that is not doing itself, now get you…’ He was getting nervous about speaking out loud now that everybody was listening. ‘Now take your…now take your…Just get inside, will you?’ He slung his jacket over his shoulder, huffing, tutting, shaking his head in anger. The others slumped after him, the noise of the sirens already coming as some bonehead had taken the trouble of calling 999. Just in case. Just in case. Just in case.
Albert walked home that night. The last thing he wanted to do was cram himself on a tube with a bunch of grey nobodies, the odd whacky character trying to stand out with a crazy-coloured tie would depress him. He got himself three cans of Coke and drank them straight, one after the other. He had never done drugs; lifts like this made a world of difference.
‘Albert,’ his father opened a conversation. ‘Son, how’s work going? Sniffed out any news of a promotion yet?’
Albert put his fork down, ready to spill, he had stories to tell, to ignite, to fabricate, to embroider the truth, to spin, to say but a clear ‘Yes, I think they’ll promote me in the next few weeks’ would be easier to digest, especially around the dinner table, especially now. His mother clamped her hands onto her chest, a deep heavy puff of relief gushed out of her, her eyes rolled to the ceiling and then to her husband, who patted her on the knee in pride.
‘We always knew you had it in you, son. Now we can put those silly nonsense stories to bed.’
Yes and maybe they could. Albert was twenty-five and his room read as a child’s, a loner, a weirdo. He would never get the kooky girl with the funny shoes when he lived in a land of make-believe. He would be alone forever, always, wouldn’t he?
The next day at work he kept his head down. Plonked, stared, tapped, mumbled, shuffled, ate a cardboard chicken wrap. Felt sick, took a chalky dusty pill to make everything better.
The day after that, at work, he did the same. Plonked, stared, whistled, remembered whistling was barred so stopped, shuffled, awkward, went to the corner of the room to fart, ate a cardboard sandwich. Tap, tap, tap.
The day after that, he did the same, plonk, plonk, plonk, stare, stare, stare, thud, thud, thud, ate a cardboard salad, wasn’t enough, licked the air, thud, thud, thud, watered the plant in the gaffa-taped pot, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, fucking tap.
I’m going to get coffee.
It was a good-looking day, why didn’t they have a window? It was unbelievable, who decided that this was how the world worked? That you just missed the sunshine? That it was okay to ignore it? They needed fresh air, those pasty faces in that office, their skin like tracing paper could do with a splodge of daylight, could do with a…
A swarm of people came flooding through the streets, screaming. What was going on? Cars in upheaval, and then that noise, the road rippling, churning, cracking; cars and shops snapping like the body of a Coke can giving in to the swelling and the people turning into the air, scooping and falling like a scattering of confetti. It was unlike anything Albert had ever seen; different from his stories, his pictures, a…well, it was a monster. An actual monster. Oozing sticky, navy in patches, dark deep green in others, diabolical, sludgy, dripping after it was a transparent tar-like residue, like a globby snail trail. It had a tail too, this creature, sweeping the road as though the city were a calm lake and his tail the oar. It bat the buildings, knocked down street lamps, post boxes, people, animals, in long hard savage waves and it had these chunky arms covered in scales like a sea monster, that led on to mammoth hands and long spindly fingers and at the end of each spindle sat a stretched claw that was now blood-splattered and was doing the exact same job a spear would do, gutting anybody that came into its vicinity.
Albert, too afraid to even utter a word, scrambled, quick. He had noticed that although this thing was big and fucking scary, it seemed to be slightly…dim. Albert watched its drowsy, glittery eyes fazing over in long slow sleepy blinks and saw it seemed to be plodding, destroying with little sense of direction or care, it was though it didn’t really want to be here. Swaying, fumbling, lost, sort of. Albert knew if he began to run now he would be all right, he could get home, get his family, do what he needed to do but then what about Limps? They couldn’t even hear the carnival floats as they sailed by last year, they couldn’t hear a storm, they couldn’t hear a bird tweet, a fox cry. Why, they were trapped in their stone cube where they tapped and pushed buttons and waited for hundreds of copies of the same hundred copies to be copied. They wouldn’t have time to escape, time to leave, would they? Would they?
So Albert thought quickly, he typed his key code into the security pad and launched himself up the concrete staircase, his flat shoes tapping out his urgency.
