‘Go on,’ said Norman.
‘It is my belief,’ said Uncle Brian, ‘well, it is more than just a belief, it is my utter conviction, that everything has a resonance, or frequency, everything. That’s matter and thought and good and evil and good luck and bad luck and everything. And my utter conviction is that metal is capable of absorbing good luck or bad luck, absorbing it and then discharging it.’
‘Like batteries, said Norman.
‘A bit like batteries,’ said Uncle Brian.
‘But good luck and bad luck? I don’t see how.’
‘Then allow me to explain. Think about what metal is used for. There are a lot of good things, but there are a lot of bad things, bullets and missiles, bayonets and bombs. Go back in history. Imagine, say, one thousand years ago. Some iron ore is mined and a blacksmith forges it into a sword. At this time the metal is quite healthy.’
‘Healthy?’ asked Norman.
‘Let’s say, uncontaminated.’
‘All right,’ said Norman. ‘Let’s say that.’
‘It’s uncontaminated.’
‘Well said,’ said Norman.
‘Be quiet,’ said my uncle.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘There is this iron sword. And a soldier gets hold of it and he goes into battle and it’s hack hack, stab, thrust, slice, stab, disembowel, decapitate, chop, mutilate, gouge—’
‘Steady on,’ said Norman. ‘I get the picture.’
‘Right, so now the iron of the sword is contaminated, it has absorbed this horror, this ill luck. It now resonates with it. It oozes with it.’
Norman shrugged. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but unlikely.’
Uncle Brian scowled through the gloom. ‘The iron has absorbed the unpleasantness. It is contaminated. Now, let’s say the sword is later broken. It’s melted down again, becomes a bit of a farmer’s plough.’
‘And they shall beat their swords into plough-shares,’ said Norman, almost quoting scripture.
‘So the farmer gets the plough, but what has he got? I’ll tell you what he’s got, he’s got an unlucky plough. He ploughs his fields and his crops fail. His crops fail, so he goes bust and he sells his plough.’
‘And the blacksmith makes another sword out of it.’
‘Wrong,’ said Uncle Brian.
‘Wrong?’ asked Norman.
‘Wrong. This time he makes an axe.
‘Are you just making this up as you go along, Brian?’
Uncle Brian shook his head, releasing a cloud of dust that whirled as golden motes within a shaft of light. ‘I’ve given this much thought. Our lump of contaminated metal travels on through history. Spearhead, cannonball, bit of a gun barrel, and when it’s not these it’s something else, passing on its badness to poor unsuspecting folk. The frying-pan that catches fire, that nail you stepped on that went right through your foot, that hammer you smashed your thumb with.’
‘That was your hammer,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve been meaning to give it back.’
‘What about the Second World War?’ asked Uncle Brian. ‘All those lovely cast-iron railings, melted down and made into tanks. And after the war, what industry uses more recycled metal than any other?’
‘The motor industry?’ said Norman.
‘The motor industry. And what have we got now?’
Norman shrugged. ‘Motor cars?’
‘Road rage!’ cried my uncle, with triumph in his voice. ‘Cars smashing into each other and people going off their nuts. The metal’s to blame. The contaminated metal. I’ll bet that if you traced back the history of any single car, at some time a bit of it was part of a weapon. Or something similar. And why is it that your watch only runs slow when you’ve got an important appointment?’
‘Because I forgot to wind it, I think.’
‘You think, but you don’t know. When I said that the metal became contaminated, that is exactly what I meant. I am convinced that bad luck is a virus. You can catch it.’
‘I thought you said it was frequencies and resonances.
‘I was just warming you up. It’s a virus, that’s what it is.’
‘And you catch it off metal?’
‘Off contaminated metal, yes. Let’s take gold, for instance. Not much gold has ever been used for making weapons. It’s mostly been used for jewellery. And jewellery makes people happy. Gold is associated with prosperity and good luck.’
‘It’s certainly considered good luck to own lots of gold.’
‘There you are then.’
Norman made a thoughtful, if poorly illuminated face. ‘So what exactly are you doing, cowering in the dark here, Brian?’
‘I’m not cowering. I am conducting a scientific experiment. And when I have conducted it and proved it conclusively, I have no doubt that I will be awarded the Nobel prize, for my services to mankind.’
‘I see,’ said Norman, who didn’t.
‘You don’t,’ said my uncle, who did.
‘All right, I don’t.’
‘Consider this,’ Uncle Brian gestured all-encompassingly, though Norman didn’t see him, ‘as an isolation ward, or a convalescence room. I am ridding myself of the bad luck virus by avoiding all contact with metal. Here in my DMZ I wear nothing that has ever come into contact with metal and I eat only hand-picked vegetables from my allotment which I eat raw.
‘Why only vegetables?’
‘Because cattle and chickens are slaughtered with metal instruments, you can imagine the intense contamination of those.’
‘Yeah,’ said Norman. ‘I can. But why raw veggies?’
‘Well, I could hardly cook them in a metal saucepan, could I?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And anyway I couldn’t spare the rain water.’
‘Rain water?’
‘That’s all that I drink or wash with. Tap water comes out of metal pipes.’
‘And metal taps.’
‘And metal taps, right. I’ve fashioned a crude wooden bowl that catches rain water. But it hasn’t rained much lately, so I’m a bit thirsty.’
‘And smelly,’ said Norman. ‘No offence meant, once again.’
‘None taken, once again. But it will all be worth it. I am crossing new frontiers of science. Imagine the human potential of a man who acts under his own volition, utterly unaffected by either good luck or bad.’
‘But surely such a man would have no luck at all, which would be the same as having only bad luck.’
‘To the unscientific mind all things are unscientific,’ said my uncle. ‘Now shove off, Norman, I’ve much that needs doing.’
And Norman shoved off once more.
The laws of nature.
Norman pondered greatly over what my uncle had said. Certainly the digestion of metal had never brought much luck to the Crombie clan. Norman wondered whether he should give up his own hobby, that of sword swallowing, or at least restrict himself to bicycle pumps for a while. But it was all a load of old totters, wasn’t it? Brian clearly had a screw loose somewhere.
‘A screw loose!’ Norman tittered foolishly. But there might be some truth to it. ‘No,’ Norman shook his head. The whole thing was ludicrous. Luck wasn’t a virus. Accidents simply happen because accidents simply happen. Why only yesterday he’d read in the paper about a newly retired police sergeant who was restoring some rare motorbike he’d found. This chap had the thing upon blocks and was underneath tinkering, when the bike rolled off and squashed his head. Accident, pure and simple.
Norman cut himself a slice of bread, then went in search of an bandage to dress the thumb he’d nearly severed.
Accident, pure and simple.
And painful.
Another month went by before Norman returned to my uncle’s DMZ. Norman would have liked to have returned sooner, but he was kept rather busy issuing high court injunctions against the publication of two books in the disaster series The Truth Behind... These books, The Truth Behind the R IOI Disaster and The Truth Behind the Destruction of Crystal
Palace, mentioned the names of certain past members of the Crombie family, in connection with the consumption of fire extinguishers.
It was a somewhat penniless Norman who eventually found himself once again knocking at the stockade door.
All seemed rather quiet within, and answer came there none.
‘Hello.’ Norman knocked again. ‘It’s me, Norman. Are you in there, Brian?’ Norman put his ear to the door. Nothing. Or? Norman’s ear pressed closer. What was that? It sounded a bit like a distant choir singing. It sounded exactly like a distant choir singing.
Norman drew his ear from the door and cocked his head on one side. Perhaps someone had a wireless on near by. He pushed upon the stockade door, which creaked open a few inches and then jammed. Norman put his shoulder to it and pushed again.
‘Go back, go back,’ called a voice. ‘You’re rucking up the carpet.’
The door went slam and Norman went, ‘What?’
There were scuffling sounds and then the door opened a crack and a wary eye peeped out. It was one of a pair of such eyes and both belonged to Uncle Brian. They blinked and then they stared a bit and then they sort of crossed.
‘What order of being are you?’ asked their owner.
‘Don’t lark about, Brian. It’s me, Norman.’
‘I dimly recall the name.’
He’s lost it completely, thought Norman, I wonder if I should call an ambulance.
‘No, don’t do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Call an ambulance.’
‘How did you—’
‘I just do. Are you all clear?’
‘Actually I am,’ said Norman. ‘I have absolutely no metal about my person whatsoever. I’m right off metal at the moment.’
‘Then you can come in. But first you’ll have to promise.’
‘Go on.’
‘Promise that you won’t speak a word to anyone, of anything I show you. Promise?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Norman made the appropriate motions with a bespittled finger.
‘Then enter, friend.’
Uncle Brian swung open the heavy door. A light welled from within. It was of that order we know as ‘ethereal’. A smell welled with it.
‘Lavender,’ said Norman, taking a sniff.
‘It might well be. Now hurry before something sees you.’
‘Some thing?’
‘Just hurry.’
And so Norman hurried.
Uncle Brian slammed shut the door and turned to grin at his bestest friend. His bestest friend had no grin to return, his face wore a foolish expression. The one called a gawp.
‘God’s gaiters,’ whispered Norman. ‘Whatever is it all?’
‘Isn’t it just the business?’ Uncle Brian rubbed his hands together. They were very clean hands, the nails were nicely manicured.
‘It’s—’ Norman turned to view his host. ‘Whoa!’ he continued. ‘What happened to you?’
Uncle Brian did a little twirl. The transformation was somewhat dramatic. Gone the matted hair, greasy aspect, ghastly dried-grass smock and unmentionable whiskers. He was now as clean as a baby’s post-bath bum and perky as a fan dancer’s nipple. On his head he wore a monstrous bejewelled turban, of a type once favoured by Eastern potentates as they rode upon magic carpets. And gathered about him, by a silken cummerbund, great robes of similar stuff. That stuff being decorative brocade and a good deal of it.
‘Dig the slippers.’ Uncle Brian raised the hem of his garment to expose a pair of those curly-toed numbers that the potentate lads always favoured. ‘Hip to trip and hot to trot, what say you?’
‘I’m somewhat stuck to say anything as it happens, this place it’s—’
‘Marvellous,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘It’s an exact re-creation of the harem of the Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, who ruled the Ottoman Empire from 1520 to 1566.’
‘Yes, of course,’ mumbled Norman. ‘Well I recognized it at once, naturally. But where did you get it from? I mean, Shiva’s sheep, Brian, you didn’t steal it, did you?’
‘Certainly not.’ Uncle Brian swept over to a low carved satin-wood couch and flung himself onto an abundance of cushions. ‘It’s all a present.’
‘A present? From who, or is it from whom, I can never remember.’
‘It’s from whom, I think. And that whom is–’ Uncle Brian paused for effect. ‘The fairies,’ he said.
Oh dear, thought Norman, he’s a basket case.
‘I never am. I did it, Norman, I did it. Cured myself of the good luck-bad luck virus, freed myself from the influence of iron. And lo and behold.’
‘Curiously I don’t understand,’ said Norman, who curiously didn’t.
‘Iron, dear boy. Don’t you know your folklore? It all makes sense to me now.’
‘It’s still got me baffled,’ Norman shuffled his feet on the deep-pile carpet that smothered the ground and tapped his toe on a Persian pouffe.
‘Iron repels fairies,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Surely everyone knows that. In the old days it was regular to hang a pair of scissors over the cradle of a new-born infant to protect it from being carried away by the fairies. There was a dual protection in that because open scissors form a cross.’
‘But what has that got to do with all this?’
Uncle Brian shrugged up from his cushions. ‘Get a grip, Norman. I freed myself from the influence of iron. The reason fairies are no longer to be seen is because there’s too much iron. It’s everywhere. And it’s bad for their health. So they’ve retreated. But my DMZ, the Demetalized Zone, attracted them, like,’ Uncle Brian gave a foolish titter, ‘like, dare I say, a magnet.’
‘Preposterous,’ said Norman. ‘Ludicrous, in fact.’
‘If you say so.’ My uncle plumped himself up and down on his cushions. ‘You’d know best, I suppose. Shall I bring on the dancing girls?’
‘What?’
‘Well, it is a harem after all.’
‘You’ve got dancing girls? You’re kidding, surely?’
Uncle Brian rose to clap his hands.
‘No no,’ Norman raised his and then slumped down onto the Persian pouffe. ‘This can’t be true,’ he said. ‘It just can’t.’
‘I knew I wasn’t wrong about the iron,’ said Uncle Brian, re-seating himself in a sumptuous manner. ‘Although I’ll admit that I wasn’t expecting all this. Things have worked out rather well really. How’s it all going for you, by the way?’
‘Not swimmingly,’ said Norman. ‘I’m virtually bankrupt. It seems that my ancestors have been responsible for almost every major disaster in the last one hundred years and thanks to this wonderful world of information technology and stuff that we’re presently living in, all their dirty deeds are now being brought to light and I’m knee-deep in doggy doo.’
‘I hope you didn’t bring any in on your shoes, that’s a very expensive carpet.’
‘Cheers,’ said Norman.
‘Still,’ said my uncle, ‘chin up, old friend, you’re here now and it would be uncharitable of me not to share some of my largesse with you. What would you say to a helping of untold worth?’
‘I’d say thank you very much indeed.’
‘Well, there’s treasure chests all over the place, why not fill your pockets?’
‘Can I?’ Norman’s mouth dropped open and his eyes grew rather wide.
‘Least I can do for you, old man. After all, if you’d never suggested that I eat my motorbike, I would never have formulated my theory about iron, been visited by the fairy folk and come to gain all this.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Norman. ‘You’re absolutely right. Where are the treasure chests?’
‘Well, there’s a big pouch of jewels over there,’ said my uncle, pointing. ‘The fairies only delivered it today, I haven’t got around to opening it yet. Help yourself, dig in.’
Now there are some among you, and you know who you are, who just know what’s coming next. And churlish of me it would be to deny you you
r triumph. I could simply leave a space at the bottom of the page for you to write it in yourself, but then that would be to deny the others, who hadn’t seen it coming a mile off, and who might cry, ‘Cop out ending!’
So here it comes.
‘This pouch here?’ asked Norman, spying out a large furry-looking purse-like thing with silver attachments.
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
And of course it was.
Norman opened up the opening bit and peered inside.
‘Emeralds,’ he cried. ‘Emeralds the size of tennis balls.’
And in he delved, most greedily.
And then he said, ‘Hey, these aren’t emeralds, these are spro–’ And snap went the sporran of the Devil, gobbling him up with a single gulp and concluding with a huge highland hogmanay of a belch.
‘Baaaaaaeeeeeuuuuugh!’ by the sound of it.
Uncle Brian reclined upon his couch, blew upon his fingernails and buffed them on his robe. ‘That will teach you, you b*^%*d,’ said he. ‘Revenge is sweet, oh yes indeed. Are my dancing girls there?’ And he clapped his hands.
Clap-clap.
And he brought on the dancing girls.
This is not, of course, the end of the story, but it’s all there is for now.
MURDER IN DISTANT LANDS
A captive tribesman told to me
How many ships that went to sea
Wound up on ancient coral reefs,
Their crews devoured by wild beasts.
I used to lie awake and wonder
If what he said was true.
A captive tribesman said he saw
A twenty-masted man-of-war
Sail out from fair Atlantis Isle.
He said he stood and waved a while.
I used to sit for hours and wonder
If what he said was true.
A captive tribesman told me when
He and his fellows dined on men
They found washed up upon the shore.
He said he’d eaten five or more.
I used to gasp, my mouth wide open,
If what he said was true.
My father said the man was mad