Charles Butler - The Fetch of Mardy Watt

“Of course they will!” protested Mardy. “Do you think they wouldn’t notice the difference between me and a Fitch?”

“That’s ‘Fetch’,” corrected Rachel. “Oh, I don’t say they won’t see any change at all. ‘Mardy’s in a strange mood today,’ they’ll say. ‘She’s just not herself. And hasn’t she gone off her food? I hope she’s not sickening for something.’”

Rachel did her impression in a high, adenoidal voice, which made Mardy furious. She’s not even taking it seriously! she thought.

“The copy’s never perfect – but it’ll probably be good enough while it’s needed.”

Mardy sensed some hope in this. “So the Fetch won’t take my place for ever?”

“How could it? It’s not a real person, you know. More like a very clever clockwork toy. And eventually it will run down. That’s the way it works. Everyone thinks you’re getting sick – and sicker. No one knows what’s wrong. The doctors are baffled – nothing seems to help. A few days, a few weeks maybe, and it’s all over. Your family thinks you’re dead – but you’re not. You’re really up here, a slave for the Mayor. All that they bury is a body. But of course, you mustn’t let it get to that stage.”

Rachel paused, apparently unwilling to broach some unpleasant detail. Mardy asked reluctantly: “What do you mean?”

“Once the Fetch is dead, that’s it. There’s no way back. As far as the world’s concerned, that’s the end of you. Your soul will be stuck here for ever, here with the Mayor as your master. So you’ve got to act fast.” Rachel thought for a moment. “Is this the first time you’ve seen Uraniborg?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely sure?”

“It’s not something I’d forget!” exclaimed Mardy.

“And you’d never seen your Fetch before? Till just now, I mean?”

“Not till just now – no.”

Rachel looked relieved. “Then the spell’s not too far advanced. With luck. The best thing you can do—”

Rachel was about to say more, but something behind Mardy’s back had caught her attention. Mardy turned – to see a large, cumbersome vehicle coming down the street towards them. It was still some distance away, but Mardy could already see that it ran on caterpillar tracks like a tank. There did not seem to be anyone driving it. It was wide too – wide enough to fill the entire street. Slowly as it came, there was no escaping it.

“It’s the street cleaner,” said Rachel and she sounded more nervous than she had since Mardy had entered Uraniborg. “The Mayor must have spotted us. Prepare to get wet.”

Mardy saw what Rachel meant. Fitted at intervals along the sides of this contraption were jets of water and big tumbling brushes like those in a car wash. Everything in the street was getting soaked. There was something so relentless about it that there seemed no point in even trying to run away. In fact, as the machine drew closer (and already it was surprisingly close), Mardy saw through the jets that the street itself was melting at the touch of water. Between her and the street cleaner lay Uraniborg, a smoky, yellow suburb of nowhere at all. Behind it, Bellevue Road itself was springing back into being: the school, snow-bound trees, Hal’s parents’ splash of colour. And now the machine was upon them. Rachel’s smokescreen dispersed instantly as a spurt of water crashed into it.

At the last moment Rachel took Mardy’s hand: “Just close your eyes and try not to make a noise,” she hissed.

Then Mardy felt the water burst on to her and through her. It was worse than she could have imagined. She had expected to get wet and had been gritting her teeth for the feeling of ice-cold water on her skin. But she had not expected the water to jet right through her body, melting her lungs and heart and bones and brain, or to leave behind it (the last thing she noticed before her nose too disintegrated) such an oily, chemical smell. There was no pain. But the atomising fear was worse than any pain. “I’m a ghost!” thought Mardy. Then there was no Mardy any more and nothing more to be thought.

At least, not in Uraniborg. In Bellevue Road Mardy was catching her breath. She found herself near the park, leaning shakily against a wall. She looked down at her own hand, which only a moment before had been pocked with holes where water from the street cleaner had begun to spray her. Her clothes were not even damp, though there was still a cold, metallic feeling where the water had struck her tongue, as if she had spent the last half hour sucking an icicle.

Rachel was gone. A white transit van was driving slowly down the street, probably looking for a house number. In the time she had been in Uraniborg the snow had decided to thaw again and was already slushing in the gutter. She hurried to her own house and let herself in, shedding her coat and shoes in the front hall.

“Mum? You home?”

From beyond two closed doors her mother shouted a reply, but the words were impossible to make out. Mardy didn’t mind. She had just wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone in the house. Her mother might be hard to handle, but she was not the sort of person who would easily be whisked off to Uraniborg. She was far too solid for that.

Mardy was surprised – even shocked – to discover that she was hungry. In the kitchen she made herself a honey sandwich, being careful not to spread the butter too thick. Then a mug of hot chocolate to sip at in front of the television. Style Squad was doing a special today on ‘Makeovers for your Pet’ which sounded just right. She would sink into the largest beanbag, watch and try to forget about Uraniborg.

Holding her mug in one hand and her plate in the other she backed into the living room door. For some reason the door failed to slam back into wainscoting. Mardy had to push quite hard to open it wide enough to enter. She peered in to see what was causing the obstruction.

The room was hardly recognisable. Cushions and blankets were scattered across the floor; plates and mugs (including Mum’s Jubilee mug that no one was allowed to touch) had been tipped over and hot chocolate was seeping into the new cream carpet. Next to the sofa lay discarded video boxes, tissues, magazines, half a dozen cushions from the sofa. The scene would not have looked particularly strange in Mardy’s own room. But Mrs Watt’s living room was always immaculate. It was one of her points of honour – and Mrs Watt was a very honourable woman. It had been tidy when Mardy had left for school that morning, she was sure of it.

So what – or who – had happened?

Mardy didn’t get a chance to wonder for long. Her mother was standing just behind her.

“That’s right,” said Mrs Watt softly. It was her gentle voice, the one Mardy dreaded most. “Take a good, long look.”

“It – it wasn’t me, Mum,” she began.

“Don’t talk. Look,” Mrs Watt suggested. She walked Mardy forward, not roughly but irresistibly. “Here – fifteen wrappers from your favourite sweets – that minty chewy concoction. And here (watch out for the orange peel, mind your feet) is where you’ve been writing on the back of Alan’s armchair. ‘Rachel Fludd stinks!’ – a charming sentiment…”

“But I never—”

“Mardy, if you can’t be bothered to hide the evidence, at least don’t make it worse by lying about it. Who exactly am I meant to think was responsible? Did a burglar come and slob in front of the TV half the afternoon? Has the house been visited by sweet-toothed aliens?”

“It’s not impossible…”

“Or has my daughter simply mistaken the living room for a doss-house? Well, Mardy? Well? Look at me !”

Mardy looked at her. The sequence was always the same with her mother. Quiet first, then sarcastic – and then there was a point where the sarcasm swelled like a toad’s throat and out came a flood of anger no one could control. Mardy could only wait and hope it would go no further. But even as she groped for the right, calming words, questions were burning in her own head: Who did this? And where are they now ?