The Hairy Hand Page 5

  ‘Is that meant to be Petunia Rise?’ He looked at the Hand, who bobbed up and down like an obedient puppy. ‘No way, I’m not going back there.’

  How old are you? The Hand now wrote in elegant writing.

  ‘I’m 11,’ said Sept.

  Then, go to your UNCLE. Before your next birthday! The Hand scribbled over the house drawing.

  ‘So, what. I don’t think there will be a present for me... I’m still not going,’ Sept blew the flour and the word and picture disappeared.

  The Hand wasn’t giving up that easily. It spilled some more flour and wrote. GO!

  ‘No.’

  YES!

  Sept went to blow on the flour a second time, but the Hand was far faster; It grabbed a handful and threw it in his face.

  Sept sneezed. The Hand froze. Both Plogs stopped snoring.

  ‘Seriously?’ Sept glared at the Hand who scurried up back onto his shoulder. His head felt dizzy and his mouth was dry with fear: if he was caught now, he suspected things would go badly for him. So far, he’d had the occasional clip around the ear or slap on the back of the head from his dad, but Sept had seen some of the things his mum had done to his dad when she was angry and it wasn’t pleasant. Seconds ticked by and turned into a full minute at least, before, at last, Plog started snoring again.

  Sept looked out at the dark clouds and took a deep breath. OK. He would have some of the warming stew then he’d leave quietly just before dawn. Hopefully the weather would have improved. He wasn’t going back across the desert to his Uncle’s, there was nothing for him there; he’d go the in the other direction, where there were larger towns and it was easier to blend in.

  Sept was just lifting a large spoonful of meat, carrots and gravy to his lips, with his back to the room, when a flash of lightning lit up the whole valley. The Hand clenched his shoulder painfully and a feeling like cold water running down Sept’s spine made him turn, right as another bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky. This time with thunder - for added effect.

  Standing there, in a too-short nightie - her spotty face, blotchy legs and hairy knees all lit up for a split second in perfect, horrid clarity - was Gertrude Plog.

  ‘THEEEF!’ she cried, ‘YOU WRETCHID, IKKLE THEEEEF SNEAKING OUT THE SHED, SLINKING UP THE GARDEN, WHEEDLIN’ IN MY OWSE, EATIN MY LUVELY STEW. I’LL MAKE YOU INTO STEW NOW MEESELF, I WILL.’

  Plog was awake by now and he turned a light on.

  ‘AAAGGHHHH!’ Gertrude pointed at Sept’s shoulder. ‘THE AIRY ‘AND IS BACK UN ALL! ORRIBLE BLACK PRUNY FING. I’LL PUT THAT IN THE STEWSIES TOO.’ She moved forward, but as she did so the Hand crouched and sprung.

  It landed on the highest shelf in the kitchen, just as Plog threw his shoe at It. He missed and hit Gertrude on the back of the head.

  “HEEEELP! IT’S ATTAKIN MEEE!’ she wailed.

  The Hand now scrabbled along the shelf. Plog threw his other shoe, smashing a window, just as It jumped again, gracefully landing on the edge of a light fitting in the middle of the room. The light swung like a pendulum, once, twice, three times and the Hand jumped, using the momentum to propel Itself to the top of a large wardrobe that had sat in the corner of their living room since Sept could remember.

  Gertrude Plog, showing more life and agility than she had in years, sprang as the Hand jumped and nearly caught it. Unfortunately, one of her giant big toes caught on a hole in the rug and she fell forward, revealing a truly enormous pair of greyish pink knickers as she went over.

  There was an ominous click behind Sept who turned around to see Plog with his ancient shotgun at his shoulder. ‘Let’s see ’ow it jumps full o’ lead.’

  ‘STOOOPPPP!’

  And both the Plogs did stop.

  Sept had never once shouted at them, ever. They stared at him open mouthed.

  ‘Er, sorry,’ said Sept, but now his fingers itched and burned again, and he wanted to ask his parents if they could hear the dry sound of whispering, too. Instead he murmured, ‘look at the Hand, It’s pointing at something.’

  Plog followed Sept’s gaze.

  ‘So what if it is!’

  ‘Shoot it!’ said Gertrude but her mouth was full of carpet, so it actually came out as ‘Shoomfut!’

  ‘I don’t think you should do that,’ said Sept very quietly and there was something in his voice that made Plog pause. ‘Perhaps you should just find out what it is pointing at? Then, if you don’t like it, you can shoot us both.’

  Ever so slowly, Plog lowered the rusty gun and stepped forward.

  Chapter 10

  The Hairy Hand shows the Plogs just one of the things It can do and thereby saves Sept’s skin. For now, at least

  Fifteen minutes later, Gertrude Plog was crying. Actually crying. Like a great big baby, with tears streaming down her cheeks that wobbled like two halves of a giant bottom.

  Plog caught Sept’s eye. He looked just as bewildered at Sept. No-one had seen Gertrude in tears in decades, if ever, and it was hard to work out why - so far, she had been too upset to utter a single intelligible word that either Sept or Plog could understand. In front of her, on the kitchen table, lay a cheap locket. When Plog had investigated what the Hand was pointing at, he’d pulled this from a hole in the wall behind the wardrobe, covered in crumbled plaster and matted cobwebs.

  Gertrude’s eyes had immediately gone sort of starey and she grabbed the locket from Plog. When she’d opened it, a lock of golden hair had fallen out and that’s when the waterworks had started.

  The Hand was back on Sept’s shoulder, looking as pleased with itself as any hand, without a body attached, can.

  Eventually, Mistress Plog’s sobs quietened and she looked about through red eyes. ‘Oooh, me lurvely Hairy Hand,’ she cooed, stretching out a pudgy arm. The Hand scampered around the back of Sept’s shoulder, away from her - not that she seemed to notice. ‘What a cleverest, sharpy eyes ikkle mouse, yous iz, finding that what was lost for so long. I nevir thunk I’d be see’in that lockety up agin. Oh so shiny and new it was when me dad gave it me, just like my shiny golden curls I put in it to keep ’um safe... and then my sister, who got green eyes like the cat, stoled it and hidded it, then she ran away and we nevir sawed her again, nor my lovely lockety up.’

  ‘I think it’s good at finding things,’ said Sept, the key to the outside toilet still in his pocket.

  ‘Oooh, you don’t say... ,’ Gertrude’s eyes screwed up as she gave the Hand a long look. ‘I wonder ’ow It does it? No eyes, no nose, just feelin’ about like a cleverdy ickle spidy.’

  ‘Must ’ave found that key to the door for you an’ all.’ Remarked Plog to Sept. ‘When you got outta that shed and inta the house, I said to meeself, ees got the makins of a Sneaker after all that boy. I guess it was the Hand, though wasn’t it?’

  ‘Um...’ said Sept who’d had a feeling all along that the Hand was just trying to protect him when it found the locket. Somehow It knew that Gertrude Plog would forget all about being angry if she found it again after all those years lost. ‘Yes, it was the Hand,’ he eventually admitted. ‘Uncle Xavier said it was remarkable when I chose it.’ Sept said, leaving out all the stuff about Sept himself. Small, piggy eyes continued their sharp staring at the Hand who had begun to look less sure of Itself and now crouched, rather nervously, as high upon Sept’s shoulder as it could go.

  ‘Remarky Ball, says you? Hmmm... well Pa,’ she turned to Plog, her features now back to their usual meanness, her voice quiet and dangerous. ‘I’z wonderin’ what else it can find - ain’t you?’

  Chapter 11

  Skrewskint, hidden treasures and creepy, burned dolls

  The storm had subsided to the occasional squall as three figures - Gertrude, Plog and Sept - struggled through the mud and debris in the pre-dawn gloom.

  Presently, they came to Skrewskint the
Miser’s plot. A toppling wooden house stood at the end of a narrow front yard strewn with rusting machinery, discarded toys and, for no good reason, several old prams. The house seemed to swallow up all surrounding light, as if it was as greedy and grasping as its bitter and bent owner.

  Skrewskint was known to be the richest inhabitant of Nowhere, partly because his family had once owned all the land around, but mainly because he never spent a penny of his fortune nor threw anything away.

  ‘Gives me the willies, ee does,’ said Plog, ‘always ’as.’

  ‘We’ll go round the back,’ said Gertrude shortly.

  A few stressful minutes later they were in, but not before they had pushed and pulled Gertrude Plog through a tight gap in the fence. It was like squashing an uncooked sausage through a keyhole and it didn’t improve her mood one bit.

  ‘Right,’ she hissed as loudly as she dared, ‘I’s wantin’ treasure, so you shows me where it’s at and these two thickies will get to diggin’

  Sept, with the Hand still perched on his shoulder, waited for a tingle and listened for a whisper. Nothing. He glanced at the Hand. It sat there unmoving - black and still, like a dead thing. Losing patience, Gertrude made a grab for the chain, but missed as It suddenly came to life and leapt in the air, landing in the branches of a crooked tree.

  Gertrude Plog started to jump up and down with rage like a fat Rumpelstiltskin. ‘Yous come down ’ere this minute or when I gets me mitts on you I’ll squeeze until there’s nothing left, I’ll snap your piggies one by one and throw thems in the fire!’ Gertrude Plog was within milliseconds of losing it completely. She drew herself up to her full height (four foot two) and looked like she was about to have an epileptic fit.

  Then she stopped.

  A cunning look came across her features and she lashed out at Sept.

  The side of Sept’s face went instantly numb with the force of the slap and his ear rang, as he staggered sideways and fell to the ground. Then a strange thing happened; for a moment Sept found he was looking at himself falling to the ground as he was hit - as if he was seeing it through the Hand’s eyes. If it had any.

  Little flecks of molten lava seemed to swim in the blacks of Gertrude’s eyes as her fat fist tightened on Sept’s hair until it felt like the top of his head was coming off. Plog stepped forward to say something, caught her look and stepped back quickly.

  ‘Show me,’ she rasped at the Hand in Its tree. ‘Use that pointy flinger like a nosey and shosey what ees got under all this mud an’ tat, or I hurts the ickle boysie.’

  The Hand began to bob up and down, in extreme agitation. Just for a second it came again, that sense of being out of his own body... and Sept got the feeling that It wasn’t helping him - because It was waiting for Sept to help himself. But he honestly didn’t know how he could stand up to Gertrude.

  She was grabbing a rusty hammer with only half a handle that was lying in the long grass. ‘I’ll bonk him on the head wiv this!’ The Hand, looking even more anxious than before, seemed to look this way and that, then back down at Sept as if making up Its mind.

  ‘One!’ she said raising the stump of hammer.

  The Hand raised a finger and made a circular motion.

  ‘Two!’ Gertrude Plog arched her back.

  The Hand stopped and seemed to hesitate.

  ‘THREE!’ The hammer came down. As Sept closed his eyes, waiting for the blinding pain, the Hand finally came to a decision and Sept felt Its disappointment in him - had he been waiting, hoping for him to do something for himself? With the speed of a puma, the Hand spun around, stuck a finger in the direction of what looked like a heap of old blankets and went rigid.

  The hammer stopped... millimetres from Sept’s head.

  ‘Plog.’

  ‘Yes, my gentle swan?’

  ‘Go looksee that pile of stinky stuffs over there.’

  Slowly, Plog went over and started picking through old items of clothing and bits of plastic. Someone had set fire to it at some stage but it must have started raining because most of it was only half burnt and soggy-looking.

  ‘I hopes you isn’t playin for time?’ There was real menace in her voice again. Sept had never seen her so scary.

  ... Plog picked up a half-melted doll’s head... Sept had closed his eyes again, so he didn’t see the Hand jumping up and down pointing at what was left of the old doll.

  Something rattled. It came from inside the head and it sounded loose, like a stone. Plog’s Sneaker senses moved up a gear. ‘’ang abowt... wossis?’

  ‘Givit ear!’ Gertrude snatched the head from Plog and tore it in half in one brutal motion. The rip was so violent that something shot out of the cavity in the head and into the air. Something that sparkled. Something red.

  Both his parents rushed over to the spot it had landed, next to Sept.

  ‘Coor,’ said Plog.

  ‘Well I nivvir!’ said Gertrude. ‘Crafty old beggar!’

  They were staring at the largest ruby any of them had ever clapped eyes on in their lives.

  Now, Skrewskint’s house had a broken porch at the back and under the rotten floorboards was a dark place.

  In this creepy cavity, hidden from sight, there lived a pair of creatures so mean and evil, even the rats and spiders under the house avoided them. They may once have been dogs, but any trace of dogginess - wagging tails, chasing sticks, enjoying being patted - had long since disappeared. Spending so long in the dark, thinking wicked thoughts, they were more like a sort of large rodent these days. A short snout (not a million miles away from Plog’s own nose) and a tangle of sharp teeth going in several directions (ditto), led down to a short, muscular body covered with greasy fur of no particular colour - call it muddy oil. Their hind legs were stumpy and very powerful and their tails were completely bald, just like those of a rat, and covered with flaky, scaly skin.

  Of course, they smelt awful - a cross between the worst toilet in the world and something already rather smelly that had been dead for a week. In a sewer. But, worse than all of the above, were their foul tempers.

  It was for this reason that Skrewskint kept them as guard dogs and occasionally fed them but not too often - for he liked them to be hungry.

  So when the Plogs had broken into the garden, the rat-dogs had opened their slitted, angry-pink eyes. Then they’d crept from their burrow underneath the house. For now, they watched in silence as Gertrude Plog ranted and raved. They stared at the Hand and sniffed the air - some primeval instinct told them that the strange black creature that climbed the tree was best left alone, but the woman’s giant legs looked soft and chewy. Uttering low growls, they rose on their haunches and slunk forward, needle-like teeth bared.

  The only one who heard them coming was the Hand. Silently It tapped the side of Sept’s head and pointed emphatically at the hole in the hedge. Before It jumped off his shoulder and ran towards this exit, beckoning at Sept to follow.

  The boy didn’t need asking twice. At the edge of the garden he turned to call his parents who were still celebrating their find.

  Too late.

  Jumping the last few feet, the lead rat-dog opened its jaws incredibly wide, like its entire head was splitting open and sank its teeth into Gertrude Plog’s huge, doughy backside. The second rat-dog did even better - jumping so high it was able to latch on to the biggest thing in range, Plog’s nose.

  Plog submitted to his fate with resigned howls of pain and anguish and waited for it to end. Gertrude Plog, however, wriggled and flapped her flabby arms about, which only made the rat-dog bite harder.

  ‘Aaargh! Elps me, I’m been eated by giants ratsies! Help! Help! save me Plog!’

  ‘I can’t, are you blind or somefing? I’m be’in attacked meeself you daft old halibut!’

  ‘Kills them, pull em off, tear em up, I’m dying!’


  Just at that moment the front door of Skrewskint’s house creaked open and a tall and craggy figure of a man stepped out. He was carrying a rusty shotgun. He raised it slowly and there was a distinctive click as it was cocked. The rat-dogs stopped snarling and went quiet, their terrible jaws still clamped around Plog’s nostrils and Gertrude’s behind.

  ‘I wouldn’t move a muscle if I were you,’ said a squeaky voice that both Plogs recognised at once.

  Chapter 12

  The Hairy Hand makes a deal

  ‘We can’t leave them there.’ Sept pulled up sharp in the middle of the muddy street, the Hand perched on his shoulder. The Hand crooked a slender finger in the perfect shape of a question mark. Why ever not, It seemed to be saying.

  ‘No-one deserves to be left to those things,’ Sept answered. The Hand splayed Its fingers

  ... really?

  ‘Yes, really. They are my parents,’ said Sept firmly and he turned back towards the dark house where there was now an eerie silence and a new, taller figure outlined in the gloom. That must be Skrewskint, he thought.

  Sept knew that if he paused even for a moment he would have second thoughts, so he marched up and pushed back through the hole in the fence. ‘I’d let them go, if I were you!’ he shouted. He did his best to sound confident, but his voice was a bit wobbly as Skrewskint loomed towards him like a ragged crow, his eyes narrowed. The two dogs spitting and snarling at their master’s heels, their own eyes fixed on various tender and cherished parts of the boy who was beginning to regret his decision to go back, especially as he didn’t have a plan.

  However, years of living with Gertrude’s rages and Plog’s bullying as well as several months avoiding death on his own had taught him one thing. Show fear and you’ve lost. He grabbed the only thing to hand - the Hand - and drew a deep breath.

  ‘One more step and I will unleash Its power!’ and he pointed the hairy Hand right between Skrewskint’s eyes. The miser paused and both dogs stopped in their tracks; not exactly scared, more curious.