Who's Da Dummy!

767 words

"I don' like dis place," Precious said, as Patrick dragged her around the junk shop. The narrow passage ways were bordered by huge piles of old furniture and nick-nacks. Dead animals stared down from the walls. "Der's not'in' here for us. Come on, Patrick, I wanna go." She pulled at his sleeve. But Patrick had something in his sights.

Sat in an old armchair at the back of the shop was a ventriloquist's dummy. It was dressed as a young boy, in blazer and short trousers. Its wooden grin gave it a menacing look. Precious gave one look and renewed her efforts to pull Patrick away.

"Wow! Dis look like good fun," Patrick said as he lifted the thing and inserted his hand. "Gottle o geer," he said as the dummies mouth moved. Precious shuddered. "And look at da price, only ten pound. I gotta get dis."

"Dat t'ing not comin' to MY house. It too creepy," Precious insisted.

"It MY house too. I wan' it and I gonna have da t'ing," he resisted.

Patrick shouted down the shop, "Hey man, da dummy, what's da deal?" An old man appeared, shuffling down the aisle, wrapping his cardigan around him like he had felt a sudden chill.

"You can have it for a fiver, mate," he told Patrick, "Okay, two... You drive a hard bargain; okay, one pound and take it away." Patrick hadn't said a word. He handed the man a pound coin and clutched his prize. Precious was already out of the shop. She watched Patrick exit; she also heard a sigh of relief from the old man.

*

The dummy took pride of place on the fireside chair. As Precious moved around the room, its eyes followed her progress. She sensed its gaze and rushed to the kitchen. Once there, she crossed herself and sent up a silent prayer. It was okay for Patrick, he was at work all day, she had to live with it 24/7.

"Good evenin', Padrick." The voice came from the living room. Precious shuddered. Then Patrick appeared in the doorway, the dummy in his arms. "What for dinna? Hugo hungry," the dummy appeared to say.

"So now it gotta name. I tell you, I don' like da t'ing. Der sometin' wrong wid it," Precious said. "Take it away." Patrick took the dummy back into the living room and sat it on a dining chair. Then he laid the table for three.

Precious brought in two plates of ackee and saltfish. "You not gonna feed da boy?" Patrick asked. Precious looked at him; was he serious?

"It's a lump of wood, Patrick." She got no answer. Instead, Patrick went to the kitchen for another plate, then shovelled a portion of his own meal onto it, and placed it in front of the dummy. The joke had gone too far. Precious took her plate back to the kitchen and ate there.

*

When Patrick brought the dummy into the bedroom, that was the last straw. "OUT!" Precious shouted. Reluctantly, Patrick returned the dummy to the armchair, then crawled back to bed. Precious turned off the light then rolled away from Patrick without even a 'goodnight'.

It was Precious who woke to a child's crying. It was strange, there were no kids in the block. She climbed out of bed and put on her dressing gown. The flat seemed particularly cold. As she moved into the living room the noise became louder. She looked over at the dummy. There were tears rolling down its cheeks.

As much as she detested the thing, something inside her - maybe her maternal instinct - sent her running to Hugo. She picked him up and sat him on her lap. "Don' you love Hugo, Mummy?"

The mouth was moving but surely ...

She looked up, expecting to see Patrick in the room. But he was still happily snoring. The dummy was staring into her eyes like a lost child. She pulled him to her, like she would a real child. Then she felt the wetness seeping into her lap. "Hugo sorry, Mummy."

"It's okay, son," she said gently. Then she removed the boys wet clothing to find that he was complete. "Can you walk to the bathroom?" she said. The boy wriggled to the ground, and, on tottering feet, headed to the bathroom. As Precious washed him, his skin softened and wrinkled.

Dried off, she carried him to the bedroom. "Move over, Patrick," she said, nudging her husband. But he wasn't moving. Nor was he snoring. She stroked his arm and got a splinter. His mouth hung open, just like a dummy ...