The Hairy Hand Read online

  The Hairy Hand

  By Robin Bennett

  Print version published by Monster Books

  The Old Smithy, Hart St, Henley-on-Thames, OXON RG92AR

  t. 07956 251 642

  [email protected]

  Digital version converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2019 Robin Bennett

  The right of Robin Bennett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Introducing Sept, the awful Plogs, the Village of Nowhere and the letter that changed everything

  When Septimus Plog was small he liked to play in puddles outside his house. Sometimes he would look up and see his mother watching him from the kitchen window. He would stop and wave at her with all his little might... then wait; but she never waved back. Not once.

  He always knew he was very different from everyone else in the village and Septimus often wondered if that was why his mother seemed not to like him very much.

  For starters, he had this name. Septimus (Sept, for short). Everyone else his age was called Garp, Darg or Dorgk or Blaarg. Good, honest names that sounded like you were sneezing into custard or you had swallowed something pointy.

  Secondly, he read books - by the sack, when he could get his hands on them. As far as he knew, no-one else in his village read anything except graffiti. And quite how Sept knew how to read was a mystery: there were no schools for a hundred miles, no teachers and, more to the point, Sept couldn’t remember ever not being able to read. Printed words in books just popped into his head, as if someone was telling the story out loud.

  Unfortunately, in the Plog household there were only two books: the one he kept secret from his parents; and the one they kept a secret from him. Sept had only ever glimpsed it when he’d come home once and caught his mother staring at the cover as if she dared not open it. It was a small book with a black cover, like dead bats’ wings, and no title. Something about the book scared Sept very much indeed. His mother kept the Black Book in her apron pocket.

  The other one - his secret book - he had read so many times he knew it almost by heart. It was called, How to be Happy, and it had twelve chapters, each with a simple idea for looking on the bright side of life. It was Sept’s most treasured possession, one that was just his. He hid it away in his room under a floorboard - because where he came from, possessions were just things other people hadn’t got around to stealing yet.

  Apart from him, everyone else in the village seemed to have some sort of point: There was Begre, next door, who made pig food for his dad’s pigs. He used rotten turnips, boiled acorns and mud; there was Flargh the Meat grinder (although, generally, if Flargh offered you one of his burgers, you checked where the cat was first, before you knew whether to eat or bury it); there was Stomp the Bully and, of course, Spew the Puker.

  ‘Is puking really a job?’ Sept asked his dad as they trudged along through the mud past one or two shops. His father, Plog the Sneaker, wiped a runny nose with the back of his hand before slapping Sept around the back of his head.

  ‘Don’t talk soft. Course it is. Donkey doo brain!’

  A Sneaker was a night thief and it was one of the most respected jobs to have, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about the village and everyone in it. Sept’s dad came from a long line of Sneakers. Dark-haired, black eyes and enormous eyebrows - like two very hairy caterpillars had been glued to his forehead. He was also short, stocky and incredibly strong. Ideal Sneaker. Plog pinched goats, chickens, sheep, any food left lying about and even the thatch from roofs. Sept’s dad would steal anything not nailed down. And if it was nailed down, he’d come back later with a claw hammer.

  They were at the end of the road; beyond them it was hundreds of miles of nothing and nobody. Their village didn’t even have a proper name. People just called it, Nowhere.

  Most of the time Sept tried to look on the bright side, just as his book kept reminding him to do: he was given food once a day, sometimes twice, and it wasn’t always turnip - once a month they got a bit of meat off Flargh and sometimes you could actually swallow it, if you chewed for long enough. The main problem with Nowhere was that nothing nice ever happened. People in it just went on being selfish and stupid, day after day, after day...

  He searched out his reflection in a dirty shop window. A small boy, with fair hair and narrow features gazed back unhappily. Who was he and why didn’t he fit in?

  Sept was out with his father that day because they were off to the market with a bad-tempered goat for sale. Right now, he was concentrating all his efforts on thinking himself warm. Unlike Plog, he didn’t have a proper coat or a thick covering of matted hair all over his face and body to keep out the worst of the weather.

  The reason they were selling a goat was not so much because it tried to eat everything, more that it was the wrong sort of goat: Plog had come back with it the night before from Sneaking. He had been very pleased with himself, thinking they would get lots of delicious milk-based goodies from the stolen ruminant. Sept, who had been reading everything he could about animals since the age of five, knew better. ‘It’s a Billy goat,’ he’d pointed out, happy to be helpful. ‘Um... a boy,’ he added, when he saw the mystified look on his parents’ faces. ‘Look, it’s got a pair...’ but he never got any further.

  Mistress Plog hadn’t taken it well... not well at all and Mr. Plog now had several new bruises where her huge, meaty hands had battered his already ugly head into several interesting shapes.

  ‘This is all your fault,’ muttered Plog, as they walked along, digging his fat hands deeper into his pockets.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ Sept said for the twentieth time, even though it really wasn’t his fault at all. It just seemed that whenever he tried to help his parents, things went horribly wrong.

  Deep down it made Sept unhappy to think his parents were angry. Ever since he’d been old enough to think for himself, Sept had decided that he just needed to make his mum happy, then everything would be better - always, from then on.

  This miserable, rainy morning would be the day, Sept promised himself, this time he was going to show them he could do something right. Finally. Just like in Chapter One, page 1, line 1 of How to be Happy,

  “Think positive!”

  Sept cleared his throat and tried his best winning smile on his dad, who was concentrating on his boots. He had recently read Chapter 4: it was called Selling yourself Happy, and it had given him plenty of tips on salesmanship. ‘I can sell the goat,’ he said to his dad, ‘and you can go to Flargh’s... where it’s warm... for some of his breakfast beer. I’ll come and get you as soon as I’m done. You’ll be proud of me, you’ll see!’

  Plog looked extremely doubtful about this but then the wind rose up to greet them as they rounded the corner of the empty marketplace. It cut through their wet clothes right to their rattling bones. ‘Awright,’ he said, ‘but make sure you get at least
20 shillings, that’s a good goat, that is - even if it’s...’ he shrugged, ‘called Billy or whatever.’

  Ten minutes later, Sept was hopping from one foot to the other to stop freezing to death and wondering who, in their right mind, would go to a market on a day like this. So he was quite surprised when a tall man in a brown overcoat wandered out of the shadows at the far end. He sidled over to Sept: a broad hat, jammed almost over his ears, an upturned collar hiding most of his face.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello, young man,’ said the man, ‘whose goat is this then?’

  Ah, thought Sept, Rule Number One, Chapter 4, “Be Honest - it gains trust for the buyer.”

  ‘No idea,’ he said brightly, ‘my dad stole it last night.’ The man looked as if he hadn’t been expecting that particular answer and his eyes went very wide, making his hat pop up in a funny way. He took out a notebook and licked the tip of his pencil. Good sign, thought Sept, “if they are interested they will often write down what you say.”

  ‘And where is your father now?’

  ‘He’s over at Flargh’s drinking beer for breakfast.’

  The police officer (as it turned out the man in the hat was, of course) hadn’t had such a successful morning for so little effort in his whole career. He didn’t even mind when the goat ate his shoelaces. He confiscated the animal, fined Plog 10 shillings (all the money he had) and recommended Sept for an Outstanding Citizen Badge, which, in Nowhere, was like walking around with a sign saying Kill Me Immediately.

  Throughout the long journey home, Plog contented himself with explaining what Mistress Plog would do to Sept when they got back, whilst Sept tried his very best not to listen. After about a mile, he was beginning to hope that Mrs. Plog wasn’t half as imaginative as Mr. Plog.

  ‘When she finds out this is all your fault, my lad, she’ll stretch your ears until they wrap around your face, she’ll frow you down a well and drop baby crocodiles in after you. She’ll ’ang you upside down for a week, gnaw your toes off, then she’ll give you a Chinese burn. And a dead leg. Then most prob’ly she’ll make you drink cold sick for breakfast, lunch and tea, sleep in a puddle, learn long division...’ and so on.

  By the time they got back home Sept’s teeth were chattering again, but it wasn’t from the cold.

  Someone was waiting at the gate of their hovel. Sept swallowed some bitter spit that rose up from his stomach and felt shaky: if he turned now and ran, Plog wouldn’t be able to catch him - but where would he go? ‘There she is... you just wait,’ said Plog nastily.

  Instead Sept stared, for Gertrude Plog had started to do something she hadn’t done for twenty years or more. She was actually running. It was like being charged by a small hippo in a dress. Sept screwed up his eyes and waited for her worst. Except she did something even more amazing - something she had never done. She kissed him - well slobbered all over him, actually... but the good intention was there.

  ‘Oooh my darlin’ precious boy, ’as Mr Plogsie been lookin’ aftir yir? Oooh, I ’ope so, I was worried ’arf to def, frettin away all morning, waiting for my little prince to come back safely to ’is mummy wummy!’ She gave Plog a baleful look. ‘I ’ope you didn’t let Mummy’s Little Soldier get too wet?’

  Plog looked like he’d just swallowed a mummified cat as his enormous eyebrows had a disagreement on his forehead: one trying to be surprised, the other frown. ‘I, er um...’ then he shut his mouth.

  Sept noticed a letter peeking out of his mother’s apron.

  No one in Nowhere had received a letter for years, unless it was a police summons. Gertrude Plog’s sharp eyes noticed him looking at it. Instantly, her expression changed from deep, theatrical love to deep theatrical sorrow and tragedy.

  ‘Oh, my poor boy, I ’as the most terrible news...’

  ‘What is it?’ Sept’s hand strayed towards the letter. He could see his name, half visible, at the top of the page. His mother slapped his hand away with the speed of a viper.

  ‘Oooh, don’t concern yourself with that now, preserve your grief until you get inside and I can get you a hot mug of cocoa!’

  Ten minutes later, Sept was sitting in the only chair by a roaring fire sipping hot chocolate he never knew they had.

  After a brief whispered conversation with his wife, Mr Plog was also now gazing at Sept with a ghastly grimace on his miserable features, all ideas of punishment and torture forgotten. His face, which wasn’t used to smiling, had gone on strike after a few minutes, so only his mouth grinned and the rest of it, including his eyes, just carried on looking as mean and horrible as ever.

  ‘Oooh I’s so sorry to be the one to break the sad news,’ wailed his mother, several chins wobbling, ‘... your dear uncle is dedded only last week. You must travel the Lost Woods and the Thorny Desert all the way to the Ravenous Sea where ’is ’ouse stands on the cliff.’

  ‘Um...’ said Sept. He sorted through the long list of questions he suddenly found he had and picked the most important. ‘...I’ve got an uncle?’

  ‘Of course you do!’ exclaimed Mistress Plog, as if Sept had said the funniest thing in the world. ‘Everyonesies got an Uncle, imagine not having one of them!... and, ooh, yer uncle... such a fine man and a great wizard. But a real gent, too - a Gentiman Warlock, whichesies a wizard wot doesn’t wear a hat. And a bootiful house he’s got by the sea, all tall ’n elegant, just like him, and it sits above the frothy waves and the wild winds.’

  Now Sept didn’t like the idea of anyone dying but he couldn’t, at that moment, see the point in going all that way. To visit what must now be an empty house. To see someone he’d never heard of until now. Who presumably (he hoped) wouldn’t be there anyway. He also didn’t like the sound of the Thorny Desert much, nor the Lost Woods, for that matter.

  ‘Sorry, mum, I don’t understand, why do I have to go?’ This was the second most important question as far as he was concerned. For the briefest of instances, Gertrude Plog looked furious, but then she seemed to rally and the smile came back as a leer.

  ‘Why, you must pay your respects to your dear, favourite unc, of course my darling boysie, woysie.’

  ‘Oooh yess, respects, very important,’ nodded Plog like a nodding dog.

  ‘Are you coming too?’ asked Sept. The pair of them shot a panicked glance at one another. His mother waved a fat hand.

  ‘No, no, you go. I’d love to come but me bunions and verrucas aren’t up to the walk and Mr. Plog ’as got too much on here, what wif Sneaking and building a brand new comfiest bedroom for his favourite son! Anyway, I’m sure the fresh air will do you good... growing lad like youz doesint wanna be cooped up ’ere all day long.’

  Sept looked out the window at the muddy track and pelting rain. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more the idea of getting away appealed to him - he had a feeling he should keep out of his dad’s way for a bit anyway, in spite of all the smiling he was trying to do right now. He cleared his throat.

  ‘When do I need to leave?’

  His mother laughed airily, then whipped back. ‘Yourbagsalreadypackedandbythefrontdoorbutyoucanfinishyourcoco... I supposes.’

  Chapter 2

  The long and dangerous road to Petunia Rise

  It seemed a shame to Sept that just when his parents were finally being nice to him, they were shoving him out the door as fast as they could. Still, he thought, they seemed keen for him to pay his respects to this dead uncle, so it must be important.

  He had just enough time to race to the bedroom and pull out How to be Happy from under the bed, stuffing the tatty book down his shirt as he went outside. He could not bear to leave it behind. Only moments later, Sept was being pushed out of the house with undue haste, whilst his father helped to hitch a suspiciously light rucksack onto his back.

  At the end of the garden, Mistress Plog turned her back on him abruptly and reached into her apron. />
  ‘’ere you gosey,’ she said, handing him what looked like a torn half page of the letter she hadn’t wanted him to see. ‘Read this and make sure you follow the instructions!’ In the pocket of her apron, Sept could see the other half of the letter along with the scary Black Book.

  She paused as she arranged the smile back on her face. ‘Now, remember ’ow good we’ve been to you over the years, my boy, an’ don’t forget your uncles was a richiest man - wizard or not - so, um, yes, you just remembers that when you get there!’ She then sort of puckered her lips and bent down and it almost looked like Sept was going to get slobbered on again. Luckily Plog intervened.

  ‘Now, youz don’t be molly coddlying the boy, ma, ’es got a long journey ahead ov ’im and no doubt he’ll be keen as mustard to sneak abou... I mean, pay ’is respects.’

  So Sept had to make do with a pat on the head and a sort of half-hearted wave as he left Nowhere for the very first time in his whole life and set out into the unknown. The incident with the goat made it clear he wasn’t any good at selling stolen goods, perhaps he’d become a famous explorer instead?

  As soon as he got around the corner, he took out and read the scrap of paper. Missing the top section, it started rather abruptly with the words:

  ...so thanks to the bloodie duck, that’s why I am dying.

  And then continued:

  When you enter you may explore the house freely and at your wille, but CARE NEPHEW! This is a wizardde’s house and all maye not be as it seemes...

  My lagacie to you, yonge, unregarded relative: From items of value you happene to find in my late dwelling, in the weirding house of mystery named Petunia Rise, you maye chuse ANY three things but no more! Once three treasures are chosen by you, you muste leave the house forthwithe, never to return!

  It is my wishe to leave the remainder of my estate to the Society of Retired Gentil Warlocks and Weary Witches.

  If the letter went on, Sept had no idea, as another jagged edge showed where the bottom half had been ripped off too. He turned the paper over in his hand, but it was quite blank. I wonder what it said, he thought. And I wonder why she didn’t let me see it.