Testimonials
"I think it is emotive and the characterisation of the boy is good - it really represents the anxiety that we all feel from time to time." - Chloe Boulton
"A literary masterpiece that keeps you hooked until an ending that promises not to disappoint!" - Robin Hughes
"Hahaha. You are hilarious I really liked it." - Abby Kirk
"I wanted to read it all now but I really need to go and have a shower... Are you sure it is not about punching fannies?... Don't read this." - Leonie Arden
"Oh my gosh that was a very long roller coaster ride of emotion. Hats off to you, good sir." - Robert Jones
"Oh my gosh that was a very long roller coaster ride of emotion. Hats off to you, good sir." - Robert Jones
Part 1
What follows is a story heard by many but told by few, and it is rare that you will find one who can tell it with the eloquence and beauty that it truly deserves. This is because I am the only one that possesses the abilities to do it justice. This narrative begins with a boy, and that boy’s name is Craig. Not Timmy or Damien, but Craig. Meaning from the Crag; this name danced down from Gaelic tongues of Scotland to rest heavily in the hearts of his parents and, like many names, helped shape his personality so that his spirit seemed to really be from the Crag. Craig was a sweet and fair child. Having lived on this earth a total of 9 years, freckles still adorned his face without the taint of acne and his glorious blonde hair fell just below the ear. His fair and innocent features were reflected in his attitude. Never one to hurt another’s feelings, nor do anything purely for selfish reasons; there was not one harmful act that anyone would have wished on him. Unfortunately, this was all to change. We meet Craig on the ever-fateful 5th of December, as he wakes from a deep slumber, completely unaware of the life changing devastation that was to meet him on that day.
It had been a tempestuous night’s dreaming. Full of war, fire and inexplicably arousing images (such was the dilemma of the pre-teen), Craig found himself waking in a lake of sweat and hopefully nothing else. Night terrors lingered in the corners of his mind, threatening to unleash themselves onto the waking hours, till he rubbed his eyes clear of sleep and they retreated back into the abyss of the transient. Casting off his pyjamas and rushing to find school clothes, lest the imagined peeping toms were present, he was finally able to meander past his discarded toys and descend the stairs to breakfast. There he was to be greeted by his older brother, Thomas, who was gorging on a bowl of Cheerios which overflowed and dripped milk over the table like an ivory waterfall. Thomas did not share the fair complexion or manners of his sibling. Teenage years had already begun their brutal attack on his person, spots had left potholes across his cheeks and his sullenness could bring his entire family to despair. Where once he had been a guiding hand and confidant to Craig, he was now a disconnected savage, only seen at mealtimes or when he was in search of money, favours or someone to bully. However, and despite his young age, Craig could still remember the old habits of his dear companion and yearned to return to Thomas’s affections. With this in mind, Craig sat down next to his brother, chirping a “good morning!” at him. Alas, there was no likewise reply and the room returned to the monotonous crunch of cereal as Craig poured his own. It was another 10 minutes before another word was uttered and, much to Craig’s surprise, it was Thomas who softly mumbled “heh, that Purple Wombat, what on earth are you like?” Immediately, Craig was struck by intense curiosity. What was Thomas talking about? A part of him also felt like this was Thomas subtly suggesting a conversation for them both, a way to connect as brothers once again. To this end, Craig then articulated the immortal words;“What is the Purple Wombat?"
Thomas slowly put down his spoon, and turned his whole body to face his younger brother. “Are you joking?” he enquired. “No… what is it?” In response he just let out a single laugh, shook his head and clasping his bowl in his hands made his way to his room to finish his breakfast. Craig was left stunned at this reaction. But he reconciled himself with the realisation that his brother was not behaving as he once would, and this behaviour would be considered absurd by most and he should not worry. At the very least he was probably just joking. There was little time to dwell on such matters anyway, he was about to be late for school and hurriedly grabbing his lunch and bag, both prepared by his working mother hours earlier, he ran for the door, just as the school bus pulled up the stop at the end of his long, gravelled driveway.
This was Craig’s favourite time of the day, a chance to catch up with his friends as they made their way to school, especially on a Monday, such as that day, as there were many tales to be told of the weekend’s frivolities and to show off any new items of interest that each may have accumulated. As Craig climbed onto the bus, a familiar nod made in the direction of the delightful bus driver, he noticed that all his friends were huddled together in excited conversation in the back corner of the vehicle, with many other children not usually part of their group. Intrigued by this sight, Craig sauntered over expecting the usual happy greetings but every single person in the huddle seemed to ignore him, so engaged were they in the conversation they were having. As he got closer to the gathering, he could hear murmurs of the ‘Purple Wombat’ once again. So it was not only his peculiar brother that held this secret, others had joined him during the weekend and these would happily indulge his curiosity, as they always did. He reached the seat adjacent to his best friend and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey Quentin, how was your weekend?” “Fine thanks,” Quentin mumbled, brushing off Craig’s friendly introduction. Craig had been hoping for a more polite segway into the conversation, rather than an obvious admittance of eavesdropping, but this was clearly not on the cards. He tapped Quentin’s shoulder once again, and was met with a disgruntled raising of the eyebrows as his friend was forced to turn around once again. Disregarding this confusing agitation, Craig tried once again to learn this most mysterious of facts and asked “what is the Purple Wombat?”
Spittle erupted from Quentin’s mouth as laughter burst from him. Craig’s ignorance seemed ridiculous to him but he could see the hurt and sincerity in his eyes and that changed his mood. “How could you not know what the Purple Wombat is?! Everyone knows, please say you are joking because I can’t possibly be seen with you if you are being genuine.” Before Craig could answer, another voiced piped up from behind him. “Craig doesn’t know what the Purple Wombat is!? That is hilarious and massively pathetic at the same time”. The news sprinted through the bus till every single child was crying with laughter. Even the unpopular kids who Craig had once pitied for their loneliness were pointing and cackling. Craig could not believe the incredible reaction his simple question had provoked. He sat in silence and shock, all of his friend’s faces were contorted in loud mockery and it took all of his resolve not to cry in front of them and increase his humiliation a million times over. “What the devil are you kids making such a fuss over back there?” the bus driver shouted from the front, eager to know what caused the mirth which engulfed the vehicle like thunder crashing down from an overwhelming storm. “Craig doesn’t know what the Purple Wombat is!” was the unified response that echoed back at him. The next second saw the bus driver perform an emergency stop, with many children thrown into their seats and the unfortunate individual sat in the centre of the back seat left sprawled halfway down the aisle. The laughter stopped, every face turned to stare at the bus driver while his gaze was fixed firmly on Craig. “Get. Out.” The doors opened with a slap, followed by the slow clank of each step Craig took towards the exit as silence enveloped every shocked child on the bus. Eventually he reached the bottom of the steps and found the pavement beneath his feet, still expecting someone to shout out how it had all been a joke. That did not happen. As the bus pulled away and disappeared down the street, the heavens opened and Craig was left to walk the long, lonely road to school.
It took at least an hour for Craig to arrive at school, dripping with rain and complete rejection. The second lesson was about to start and this seemed the perfect time for Craig to slip in unnoticed. Entering the classroom he tried to ignore the continued giggling that greeted him, fixing his stare to the floor and watching the slow descent of water that cascaded from his forehead. He found his seat and sat down with a soft squelch. Reaching into his bag, Craig pulled out his school books which were soaked with precipitation and slapped them onto the desk, water squeezed out over the surface mixed with the ink of previous hard work. He sank back into his seat and closed his eyes hoping that his imagination could remove him from the humiliation and irritation before the teacher would arrive and force the inevitable return to reality. Once they had all settled in, she entered and began the English lesson. Seeing as Craig was only nine, he was not quite ready to develop crushes on teachers but instead felt a deep emotional connection with her that was more maternal than anything else. His mother was a nurse that worked extraordinary long hours and Mrs. Felicia Wanda Clemons became the object of his comforting fantasies. Her soft eyes and straw-like blonde hair made him feel safe and protected while her kind and confident voice called out to him, always reassuring. Sometimes Craig felt that it was only his father’s lessons on self restraint that stopped him rushing to hug her at the end of each lesson. It was no different on the day of our story and her soft utterances of literature calmed him against the strange and hurtful day that preceded the class. After the standard hour of teaching they all arrived at Craig’s favourite part of the lesson. At the end of each day’s English teachings, this particular teacher would always indulge her class by allowing them to ask questions on any subject they chose. This might seem odd to you but it was an essential part of her method, keeping the children attentive and entertained. Perhaps you can guess what happens next (I would be rather disappointed if you could not). Craig tentatively raised his hand, hoping that this beacon of soothing would be the one to satisfy his burning curiosity. He knew that the others would laugh again but he figured that his humiliation was already complete and all-encompassing so all that mattered now was the truth. Mrs. Clemons noticed his hand first of all and, smiling, she asked what he wanted to know about. Craig cleared his throat. “Thank you Miss. I was just wondering; what is the Purple Wombat?”
The chalk that was held gently in Mrs. Clemons hand was suddenly reduced to dust as shock and anger caused her fist to clench with startling strength. “How DARE you ask such a thing in my lesson!” She screamed, making every child gasp with surprise. “You are supposed to be my best student, what happened to make you ask THAT question?!” Craig could barely speak, he was so taken aback by her reaction but he tried to reason with her once he got his voice back. “I’m sorry Miss, it is just that everyone has been talking about it all day and I don’t know what it is. Is it rude? Is it a television show from the weekend? Please Miss I just want to know”. “You are not joking are you? I cannot believe that you do not know. I can barely look at you right now Craig.” As she said this, she contradicted her words with the coldest stare he had ever been examined by, her face was red and lips pursed tight. After a minute that, for Craig, stretched out so long he could hardly remember when it started she strode to his chair and, by picking him up by the back of his still drenched shirt, she forced him out of her classroom and into the corridor. Marching back into her classroom she created a hastily scribbled note describing events and came back to violently stuff it into Craig’s reluctant hand. “Take that, and your wretched self, straight to the headmaster’s office. I have not the authority to deal with you in the way I would see fit so I will have to leave judgement and your imminent punishment to his capable hands.” She spat these words out with a scorn that Craig could not have imagined in his nightmares and struck him with a tremendous sense of fear and foreboding. As he stood in the corridor and contemplated what had just happened and the terror that began to flood his mind she slammed the door, signalling her return to the classroom.
Craig sighed and turned down the corridor which now stretched out in front of him seeming to go on for miles before ending abruptly on the horizon; at the door of the headmaster’s office. Each locker that he passed in the hall seemed to be a towering spectator for his degradation. They jeered at him with sideways gaping mouths and a multitude of slit like eyes peered down on his sullen figure. It seemed to take an age for Craig to shuffle his dejected feet all the way to the office and slump himself onto one of the chairs left outside for waiting children who had misbehaved. He had no idea of how long it would take to get called in and this made the wait appear even longer as an indefinite eternity of anticipation. About an hour into the wait he could feel the chair hardening under him like a slow, unbearable torture and no squirming could cure it. Children filled the hallway intermittently as lunchtime came and went, cries of joy surged through the massive oak doors at the end of the corridor as people entered and exited the school. For a while Craig ached to be out there frolicking with his friends before he realised that he would just be alone out there as well, suffering the mysterious humiliation of his ignorance. Lessons began and ended as he watched children of all shapes and sizes paraded between rooms singing songs of love and adoration for the school treasurer, as was the tradition in this institution. It suddenly occurred to Craig that the endless waiting was probably down to the fact that he had forgotten to knock on the headmaster’s door, announcing his arrival. So that is what he did, eventually. “Come in” a voiced boomed from inside the office and Craig slowly opened the door, peering around to see the headmaster’s beaming smile. The headmaster was a tall, obese man with a voice that threatened to bring the walls down with simple utterances. The voice was somewhat of a misdirection, Mr. Octavio Blackburn was a jovial fellow with a multitude of friends and a reputation throughout the students of being kind and understanding. Craig’s fear of meeting him was not in the threat of a violent outburst or loud vocal showdown but rather in disappointing a man that sacrificed so much for his pupils and always did his best to ensure happiness throughout the school. However, the smile that greeted Craig as he entered the room and sat down in the comfortable chair facing the desk calmed him instantly and he began to hope that he had finally found someone with the capacity to understand and assist him in his perplexing dilemma. “What can I do for you, Craig?” Octavio asked once Craig had settled into the large lounge chair he had personally brought from his home to replace the uncomfortable interrogation seat used by his predecessor. “I was sent here by Mrs. Clemons, Sir.” “What on earth are you talking about young man? That does not sound like you at all, you are one of my favourites; always so well behaved and helpful!” “To be honest, Sir, I don’t really know what is going on, I only asked a question and she just got angry and sent me here.” “Well I’m sure we can figure this out, it is probably just a misunderstanding, I cannot imagine a question is enough to get you sent to my office. Unless of course you were swearing, but I doubt you even know any swear words yet, being such a good little boy,” Octavio exclaimed, momentarily reaching over the desk to ruffle Craig’s hair to show him his kind intentions. “What was it that you asked, Craig?” “Well, you see, Sir, there is this topic of conversation going around the school, and I just wanted to know what it was because no one would tell me. So all I asked was… What is the Purple Wombat?”
The silence that descended upon them both in the moment immediately following the statement brought with it an overwhelming sense of dread for Craig. He thought he had found the perfect confidant for his trouble but the look that overcame Octavio’s face in that instant, a look that had turned from a welcoming smile to a snarl that was void of every comforting and friendly facet of the headmaster that had made him such a good leader of the school, froze Craig to his chair in terror. He had not seen such a transformation between happiness and anger and at his young age had never seen anyone with such rage in their eyes. Craig felt as though a terrible blow was to be struck and he shut his eyes tight with anticipation. Octavio lifted himself from his chair, the only sound that could be heard in the office was still the harsh, heavy breathing through his flared nostrils, and he walked over to the window. In complete shock and offence he was lost for words and wanted to scream and swear but he was far too professional for that. Eventually he turned to face Craig, ready to calm down and rationally reprimand him, but the fury that was only lying dormant for a few brief seconds rushed back to the surface and it took all of Octavio’s restraint not to rush at Craig in a frenzy but he directed his anger at the headmaster’s chair which he flung at the wall with a crazed scream. Craig’s knuckles turned a ghostly white as he clung to his own chair in terror, causing his face to be unprotected as shards of wood from the shattered chair flew across the room. “GET OUT OF MY OFFICE YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Ocatavio yelled, his rage reaching his words. “You are expelled, I’m calling your Mother and if I ever see you near this building again I will not hesitate to call the police.” Grabbing Craig by the ear he pulled and thrusted him from the office, slamming the door behind the terrified child, leaving Craig to shuffle down the corridor and out of the cumbersome oak doors of the school’s entrance.
The rain that had antagonised Craig’s earlier journey to school had long subsided and the ground was awash with glorious sunshine. Usually this would have cheered up many a miserable child but the collection of children sat atop the hill of the school grounds that’s slopes surrounded the high school. Along the benches that Craig passed sat those too ill or injured to continue learning, slings and sniffles characterised the group being sent home early for the day. This was not Craig’s situation and the fear of being caught still on school grounds, as well as a worry over catching some dreadful disease, persuaded him to move outside the gates and rest his troubled self on a seat down the street. Passing through the rusty blue gates he paused for a moment to bid goodbye to a building that had previously been the location for many joyous moments and proud triumphs but which now stood for the complete destruction of his character and social life. Yet he still did not understand why. Setting himself down on the first bench he found Craig looked at his watch. It was going to take at least an hour for his Mother to get from working at the hospital outside the city and drive to the school to pick him up and she was not going to be happy after doing that. Craig began to think that all these bizarre events could not be real; it all had to be some vivid dream or hallucination. He thought that if he just closed his eyes it would all go away and he would wake up soaked in sweat but ultimately relieved at a return to normality. Although this did not happen, as he was not dreaming, the dark and quiet that descended upon the closing of his eyes calmed him somewhat and he sank in the bench bathed in his soft removal from the insanity that encompassed his day. It did not last long as suddenly the sound of trumpets blazing and hundreds of feet thundering on the road’s tarmac filled his ears and he snapped out of his trance. Turning to peer down the street Craig witnessed something that had never taken place in his small town full of quiet, unfriendly strangers. A full blown parade was snaking its way through the shops and houses. Immediately he strained to think whether it was a national day of celebration, or even a special event just for the locals, but he could not think of anything. As he struggled to fathom the reason for such extravagant festivity the crowd moved closer and he began to make out the words sprawled across hundreds of signs brandished by the jubilant carriers; ‘The Purple Wombat’. Craig stood up with a start, his eyes scanning each of the signs and every facet of the crowd hoping that somewhere would be some clue as to what it was. But there were no pictures or descriptions. The only things were the name painted on the boards and multitude of smiling partiers all wearing purple clothes. In the sea of strange faces he could make out some familiar individuals; the mayor, the butcher and the postman to name but a few. So it was not a craze limited to his school, it seemed that everyone nearby, at least, had heard of this mysterious character. There would be no refuge for his ignorance. For a brief minute he considered entering the crowd and listening for information or even asking one of the participants but on remembering the reactions he had received so far in the day he dared not expose himself to an adult crowd of mostly strangers so devoted to their celebration of the Purple Wombat. So instead Craig just sat back down and covered his face with his coat hood, hoping to turn invisible.
About an hour after the parade passed Craig’s mother eventually turned up. He could easily see it was her car as she rolled up the hill. The patchy red paintwork decorated with rust circles and the inclusion of one blue door made her car stand out against any others. It was not an indication of poverty or hard times in their family but rather her insistence that a car that drives without problem is as good as a car which looks like that is the case. The time that had elapsed and the sight of the car had filled Craig’s head with a forgetfulness born of time and the embarrassment that he always felt when that car came close to his friends. But with the realisation that he was not waiting at the end of a school day and his friends were nowhere near he was filled with fear once again at the thought of explaining his exclusion to his mother. She pulled up beside the bench and reached over inside the car to open the passenger side door for him. With all the trepidation in the world Craig picked up his school bag and slid onto the car seat. Staying his tongue for as long as he could muster he continued to put his seat belt on, all the while refraining from looking at his mother for fear that she would ask questions. As the car started to move his Mother, Greta, broke the silence with a slow, deliberate interrogation; “Come on Craig, tell me what happened.” Given the circumstances, Craig was expecting something more resembling a verbal explosion but Greta had decided, on the drive over which was at one stage filled with a burning fury, that she would begin by giving him the benefit of the doubt as he had rarely put a foot wrong in her eyes and never with malice. Despite this pleasant surprise, Craig still refused to talk, instead gazing out at the passing trees which filled the window. “I understand if you are upset but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You have to tell me what happened.” “I don’t want to, mother, I don’t know why this happened I didn’t do anything wrong.” “Well I can believe that, you never do anything wrong. If this is all some big misunderstanding then you have to tell me so I can fix it.” “I am not going to tell you! That is how I keep getting into trouble, or made fun of, so I refuse!” This sudden outburst from the mildest of children startled Greta enormously and with a little jump the wheel of the car slipped from her firm grasp for a brief second which saw one large van end up in a hedge as it swerved to avoid the out of control rust bucket. Instead of stopping Greta decided to return to dealing with her son as that was far more important. Craig’s face was dripping with sweat and his eyelids were stretched open in terror and fret over his mother’s reckless driving. His young mind concluded that a parent that was supposed to be flawless at most things was clearly using the journey as a means of scaring him into a confession and it had worked. “What on earth happened to you?! You never used to talk like that, look what you almost made me do” she exclaimed as the sight of injured builders climbing out of the back of a totalled van went ignored in the rear view mirror. “I’ll tell! I’ll tell!” squealed Craig, frightened at the prospect of more motorised interrogation. “You have to promise not yell” he begged. “I will try not to; if it truly is just a misunderstanding then you have got nothing to worry about, just explain it carefully”. “Well”, he began with a sign, collecting his thoughts, “I just didn’t know about the Purple Wombat okay!” The truth came in a burst, Craig unable to contain the anguish behind the simple statement.
Barely a second passed between Craig’s confession and the sudden hot pain that flashed across his face as his mother’s right left hand connected powerfully with his cheek. It was quite an impressive manoeuvre given as she was continuing to drive at the time and the bodily contortion it required. He was left in complete shock as his mother had never raised a hand to anyone before and was a strict disbeliever in any form of corporal punishment. Waiting for the onslaught of verbal abuse that was sure to follow he could feel the warm agony rest on his face the whole ride back while the words did not come to either of them. He wanted to cry but surprise had a stronger hold of him so instead he just sat there with his jaw gaping. They arrived home but Craig did not realise; he was lost in shock and emotional and physical pain. “Get out of the car”. The words that crept so despicably from Greta’s mouth woke him from his trance. “I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day, maybe even the week. Hell, at this moment I don’t think I ever want to see you again”. The hate that permeated each and every word she uttered made Craig feel sick. He felt impossibly guilty, depressed and scared at the same time. Overcome with these sensations he did not move or speak but sat in the car in a bubble of hopelessness. “I said get out! Go upstairs into your room and do nothing until your father gets home. He’ll deal with you”. Still Craig did not move, her words seemed distant, as if he was hearing a voice on someone else’s phone. With this inaction, Greta again lost her temper. She reached over his seat, opened the door, unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed him out onto the gravel driveway. This had its intended effect of forcing him into full awareness. Suddenly all that she had said and done rose to the front of his mind and he picked himself up and rushed upstairs to his room to sit in silence and despair to await the next stage of his unrelenting misery.
Sat on the chair facing the large window in his room Craig watched the remnants of the cold and short December day pass before him. The bare tree that stood as a lonely sentinel in his front garden swayed before the passage of the low Sun as the transition into night was complete. Darkness and a mysterious breeze chilled his bones; Craig had never experienced such bleak and abandoned times. The walls were thin and he could hear his mother move about the house, preparing her dinner and watching television. It was the beginning of Shark Week and they were showing ‘Air Jaws’, ‘Air Jaws 2: Even Higher’ and the new ‘Ultimate Air Jaws’ back-to-back. The splash of feeding frenzies was all too audible and Craig’s stomach let out a loud growl. His body new all too well that he had just missed out on his favourite dinner (cabbages) and it was not happy. Soon the hunger would turn to pain and there was nothing but the gentle movement of the tree to take his mind off it. Finally the hours reached 10pm which was the time when his father would return from his work at the local military base. Craig was always alerted to the arrival as his bedroom door would shudder as the front door was opened, followed by a loud thud. Without fail he would rush downstairs to greet his loving father with a warm embrace. But tonight was different. Within seconds he could hear his father calling up the stairs; curious as to why his son was not already at the foot of the stairs. Then came his mother’s hushed tones explaining that Craig was upstairs and needed to be dealt with. The heavy disdain was still notable in her voice although she neglected to describe the nature of his delinquency. Other than the fact that he was now expelled from school, the dubious honour of revealing his distressing ignorance was, once again, left to him. Purposeful heavy steps resounded in the corridor outside Craig’s room as his father climbed the stairs. An ex-service man and army consultant, Mr. Elwood Horn was never described as a strict or harsh father. He had suffered enough at the hands of his own to develop a softer attitude toward parenting. This knowledge did nothing to calm Craig’s fears. He had seen enough mild mannered adults succumb to anger in the past day and although he did not understand it, he could see the pattern and he did not trust his father to alter its course. The door creaked and his father entered with great trepidation. Craig did not turn round but continued to stare out of the window fighting tears of panic and confusion. Trying to refrain from speaking to make Craig more at ease, Elwood sat on the bed and gently put his hand on Craig’s shoulder. “I don’t want to talk, Dad.” “Well you are the one who started so I find that hard to believe… And you are going to have to talk about sometime. I’m sure your mother has told you how serious your expulsion is and I would have been happy to discuss the possibility that this is all a big misunderstanding but there was something in your mother’s voice that just persuaded me otherwise. Nonetheless, you have always been a good boy so I am not going to overreact. Let’s just talk about it.” Craig twisted his neck to look his father straight in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak but instead of words, sobbing erupted from his mouth and tears flooded his face. Elwood was caught off guard by this sudden collapse and cradled Craig in his arm. The sobbing was relentless for half an hour; every refrain was simply Craig breathing in only to start once again with renewed vigour. It had reached 10:45pm before he had finally calmed and was able to talk without anguished interruption. Elwood had spent the time stroking his back and reassuring him with promises of understanding and comfort. This led to Craig’s realisation that his father was not going to leave him alone until he confided in him. Also somewhat persuaded by the exhausting effects of continued bawling he sniffed and began his explanation, optimistic that he might have a father who would treat him better than everyone else. “I have done nothing wrong, at least not physically. All that has befallen me this day has been born from my ignorance in a topic that yesterday was alien to me and, aside from an awareness of its general existence, still is. My brother and my school mates have ridiculed me and adults who have discovered my lack of knowledge have reacted with escalating and surprising anger. With all this in mind, I hope that you realise how much trust I am placing in you when revealing my dilemma. This is especially true as the trend of reaction could lead me to believe that after suffering actual physical abuse from my own mother that a man of your stature and training could give me possibly life threatening injuries. And now we come the big reveal, the crux of all this fuss and the reason that you will probably, but hopefully not, be suddenly overcome with uncontrollable rage. I don’t know what the Purple Wombat is.”
Now you might be thinking that it is about time that Craig had a bit of luck and some respite from the horrendous bad luck and abuse that had become the staple of his day. Craig was also thinking this but it did not stop him rushing from his chair and cowering in the furthest corner of the room as soon as the words left his mouth. This was not a bad idea because you if you are thinking the above then you are about to be disappointed, although not nearly as disappointed as Craig was as he witnessed Elwood’s face change from the serene, concerned face of his father to a bright red canvas for violent resentment. He swung out with his fist, knocking over the chair his son had just been sitting in, the anger causing his reactions to slip. The embarrassment of this miss only exacerbated his mood and he quickly stood to view the terrified Craig huddled in the corner. Craig had never before seen the look that focused in on him. Murderous intent screamed from Elwood’s eyes as he stared down his only child. In a fluid motion he drew his army issue pistol from its holster, an action he had never performed before. No thoughts entered his mind at this time; blind instruction was being fed to his limbs from overwhelming instinct and a fire that tore his previous personality apart. The gun was now pointed directly at Craig and the young boy could feel the warmth of uncontrollable urination running down his legs. Was this it? Craig’s life ran through his mind like a single momentous memory. It was not his previous events that he saw but a glimpse of how his life might have been had this inexplicable creature not entered his vocabulary. Teenage years, university, marriage, children, the care of his elderly, loving parents and his unfortunate death at 57 from a wallpaper malfunction all grew into one bubble that passed out of possible existence, never to be experienced. The trigger clicked.
It was a good few minutes that transpired before Craig could muster the strength to open his eyes. When he did he found that he was left alone in the room and that there was a discarded pistol on the floor. Inspecting it he discovered that it was not loaded. This was because Elwood’s pistol was always left without ammunition; his peaceful philosophy dictated it in contradiction to his job and while this fact was forgotten by him in the fit of rage it still rendered the action less than lethal. Craig held the weapon in his moist hands still incredulous to what had just occurred in his bedroom. The complete destruction of his life seemed to have come to an end for now but he was not going to give it a chance to start again. He hurled himself onto his bed and immediately passed into unconsciousness, his energy squeezed out from him by the traumatic day.
Part 2
Tap. Scratch… Tap. Scratch… Tap. Scratch. Our protagonist’s eyes opened slowly. He looked about the dark room puzzled at his strange awakening. The digital clock that glared at him from the bedside table read 4am and there was no sign of light creeping over the horizon into the pitch black winter sky. Passing the rousing off to anxiety Craig lay back down and shut his eyes. Tap. Scratch. Craig sat up. He definitely heard something at the window yet there was nothing there. He thought that maybe he had imagined it as there was nothing that could get to the window, no tree near it nor creature high enough. It certainly was not the time of day for window cleaners and no lights were on to entice any nocturnal insects into the glass. As he turned to sleep on his side facing away from the window to prevent any visual hallucinations he again heard the ominous tap and scratch against the pane. Now fully awake, he jumped from his bed, storming over to the window and thrusting it open. An investigation of the exterior brought no revelation but the blowing of the wind and Craig turned back to bed to try once more to sleep. Stretching into a yawn he pulled on his pyjama shorts, removing his urine soaked garments of earlier mishaps. He had just managed this when a soft voice drifted in from the still open window. “Craig… Craig… It’s me Craig… It’s me… The Purple Wombat… I’m here to tell you what I am… Come meet me Craig.” The little boy stood in the dark, sticky piss covering his legs and misery heavy in his mind, could not believe his ears. Again he rushed to the window, pushing his head and shoulders out into the night air to peer down the outside wall and all along the garden, but there was no sign of anything. No creature or character was presented to him. Just as he was prepared accept the likelihood of insanity the voice returned. “I’m just here Craig, by your gate. Leave the house and come to me.” There was a minute’s hesitation as Craig thought of the ramifications of climbing down and leaving the grounds of his house. However, he soon came to the conclusion that there was nothing that his parents could do to punish him that would be much worse than attempted murder. With that thought he leapt from his window with one push and landed awkwardly on the gravel driveway, twisting his ankle. The greatest journey of his short life was about to begin. (Do not worry. The fact that he was so young had a great deal to do with this being his greatest journey).
Fighting against an intense shooting pain from his ankle Craig lifted himself from the thousands of stones that lay beneath him. Wiping the pebbles stuck to his face and clothes he staggered down the driveway to the gate where he expected to find the creature atop it. Unfortunately there was nothing there and Craig suddenly panicked at the thought of knocking on his parents’ door, with only an imagined voice as his excuse for jumping out of his window. But it was not over. Across the road outside his house, emanating from the field over the hedge came the voice once more. “Just over the road Craig, I’m in the field… follow me,” it beckoned. Craig rushed across the road and, not seeing a clear opening, crashed headfirst into the hedge to burst into the other field, his body strewn with bramble cuts and nettle rashes. The moon’s rays cascaded onto to the expanse in front of him which was bountiful with oil seed rape. Still there was no sign of a purple marsupial. Yet the voice continued. “Traverse the field, Craig. I’m on the other side.” So Craig did. By the time he reached the stile at the other side his shorts were wet with the moisture of the crops attracting the cobwebs and yellow flowers. Climbing the mossy wooden ladder over the fence he could, once again, hear the whispering temptation. “Look up Craig. Can you see the mountain? Climb it. And hurry, I won’t be here for long.” Craig’s eyes rose to meet the peak in front of him. Beyond the brassica napus was a summit that blocked the moon and taunted him with the incredible challenge of its gradient. This did nothing to deter him and he sped up the path. After about 5 minutes of a rushed ascent his breathing became heavy and his legs began to ache. The stress of the day returned to him and blacked out in exhaustion. Luckily for him, kind of, his intense determination had driven him up the mountain with such speed that 5 minutes was exactly what he needed to reach the apex of the 1955ft mound. Blacking out caused him to drop forward, crashing down the mountain’s other side over rocks and vegetation which did little to slow his descent. The fall ended sharply with head trauma which woke him with a start. Coming to his senses and realising the bizarre situation he still found himself in he suddenly started to panic. Had he missed the wombat at the top? Was it over? He was now lost on the wrong side of a mountain with innumerable injuries and freezing cold and had no redemption
left to seek.
Craig collapsed on the wet ground, cradling his head in his hands and watching the speeding cars along the motorway that lay at the foot of the mountain and thinking how easy it would be to plunge headfirst into the traffic and do what his father had so maliciously tried to do. “Cross the motorway, dodge the cars, come to me on the other side” the whisper said, mixed in with the rushing whoosh of cars. “But what about the cars? They might hit me,” Craig cried out, hoping to catch the ears of the animal. “I’ll protect you.” Trusting the mysterious voice, despite reservations on how a wombat could prevent speeding traffic, Craig ran into the road. Headlights blurred across his vision and blinded him to direction and obstacles. He jumped over the barrier in the centre thanking everything that he had made it that far before continuing his suicidal sprint. With eyes covered by arms and a crazed scream sounding from his mouth he crashed into the fence on the other side of the road. Out of breath and in complete disbelief at his survival he turned to face the road where the true result of his carelessness was displayed. Cars were on their roofs or crumpled together with some having plunged through the divide into oncoming drivers. The continued noise of crashing and beeping continued in both directions into the darkness and was only drowned out by sirens as police cars and ambulances arrived quickly to investigate the disaster. Desperately trying to avoid attention Craig quickly scaled the fence in front of him. It was almost in vain, however, as shots clearly directed at him were fired from distance. One bullet came so close it skimmed his cheek leaving a thin cut to bleed below his eye. Eventually the commotion stopped and it was clear no one had followed him any further. He turned his attention to the strange lights that adorned the sides of the tarmac he now found himself on. “This is odd,” he said aloud, “I can’t be back on a road; there are no cars”. A moment later Craig found himself lifted from the ground and somersaulting through the air, eventually landing on his face on the hard ground. The roar of the plane now filled his ears and he realised with panic where he was now lying. He scrambled off the runway on all fours hoping that he would not be obliterated by the next plane taking off or landing. He need not have worried as the turnover at that airport was not very quick and he had plenty of time to make it to the grass outlining the tarmac. Had it not been for the fact that Craig now had nothing to lose he may have given up at this point. Actually it is very probable that he would have turned back home long before this thundering encounter. But it remained that he felt there was nothing to turn back to and only the desire of discovery that gave him any reason to continue in any direction.
So he waited for further instruction and it did not take long before the voice returned. “Not long now,” it claimed, finally seeming to admit that it was not just at the end of his garden and the adventure was beginning to stretch out unnecessarily. “To the woods you must progress.” Trees stood ominously in front of Craig casting tall shadows against the bright moonlight and threatening nightmarish monsters and pitch black misery. Craig marched on into the darkness and clumpy undergrowth. He brushed aside fern after fern and branch after branch. There was no path and no certainty whether he was travelling towards the voice other than its unrelenting requests of progression. “Keep going, keep going. Soon we will meet.” Animals scurried to and fro across his path and on occasion he could feel the soft, wriggling bodies of frogs, hedgehogs and one badger under his stomping feet. This did not deter him but the promise of the wombat compelled him forward with ever increasing speed. “Onward, onward” he sped while the child that began the story had his nerves shredded by vixens’ cries and owlish hoots. The child that now overcame his body ignored the hellish omens; too determined to falter in his quest. After what must have been at least a mile of powerful strides the moon’s rays began to reappear at the edge of the forest and the way forward became more visible. As he approached the break in the trees the light cast upon the ground took on a strange quality. Instead of covering the mud, leaves and sticks in an unspoilt white glow there was a pattern across his trail. Chequered lines adorned the floor and when Craig’s head rose to meet what was directly in front of him he saw an impossibly tall fence blocking his way. Clearly designed to keep any potential trespasser from continuing this did not stop Craig. And anyway, trespassing is not a criminal offence so what hope would a potential litigator have of conducting a successful lawsuit against a child? Without thinking he began to scale the fence. His feet were still small enough in infanthood to fit in each hole and his fingers’ aching was ignored. At the top his hand stung with a pain that indicated the presence of barbed wire. But the determination of the land owner to keep out persons such as him could not compare with Craig’s desire to end his horrendous ordeal. Scratching his neck, torso and legs he clambered over the points. He thought he was completely clear of the danger until the sensation of a pulling on his leg caught his attention. At first he thought this could be the Purple Wombat demonstrating its presence before realising that he was now suspended by the seat of his shorts that were snagged on the wire. Swinging to reach the side of the fence he wished to climb down his shorts tore and Craig was send hurtling towards the floor.
The force of hitting the ground below spilt Craig’s cheekbone open but the adrenaline that now rushed into every inch of him left him feeling neither pain nor the inclination to pass out. Instead he picked himself up and saw stretched out in front of him a gigantic Purple Wombat (only kidding). What he actually saw was a huge lake lit up by a great floodlight. The side of the water that splashed close to his tattered feet was parallel to none other that he could witness and it crossed his mind that he had traversed so far away from home that he was now presented with ocean. This was not the case, however, it was just a really big lake and the fact he could not see the other side had more to do with it being night time than anything else. “You are so close now Craig. Just get in the boat and row out to see me. Your reward is almost upon you my faithful disciple.” He looked to his right and saw what the voice was referring to. An old rowing boat was moored just a few feet away from the floodlight and although it looked to have taken its fair amount of aquatic beatings in its time there was no sign of a leak or anything else that would suggest it was not seaworthy. So Craig hauled himself into the vessel and took up the oars. He had never rowed before but on holidays he had often sat in a few similar boats while Elwood paddled him around so felt competent in propelling himself along the calm waters. For the first time since his expedition started he was sure that the voice that beckoned him was increasing in volume. “Keep rowing Craig, nearly there” it repeated and, sure enough, it was definitely getting closer and closer. He rowed onwards until what was once a whisper positively bellowed at him. “STOP!” It commanded. Using the oars to position the dingy Craig’s head darted from side to side desperate to finally see what he had longed to witness all day. Yet there was nothing there. “Look up Craig. I am here.” So Craig lifted his eyes to the dark sky but still he could not see anything. “Reach up and grab me Craig.” Craig raised both his arms to clutch at the character but all he could feel was the cold breeze that crossed the lake. “Higher Craig, you are so close reach up and touch me and I shall reveal all my secrets.” Without thinking Craig lifted himself onto his feet and thrust his arms into the darkness above him.
Suddenly, with a strong breeze and Craig’s movements, the boat tipped over completely throwing Craig into the black water. Having never had a full swimming lesson in his entire life and now experiencing the strong current that ran under the boat he found himself completely unable to swim. In a few brief seconds Craig was sucked into the abyss to drown and never be discovered… and the moral of the story is; don’t stand up in boats. The end.
