Jugg
by Dave Ludford
Alan Jugg was
contemplating the latest in a series of incidents
that had recently befallen him when his mobile
phone began to vibrate and ring; a tinny version
of Ride of the Valkyries accompanied by
a jerky movement that made the implement look as
if it were trying to dance crazily to the tune.
He leaned over to where the phone sat on a small
wooden coffee table next to the armchair he
occupied and read the single word on the
illuminated display: Unknown. “I’m
not answering that,” he shouted out loud,
“it’s them again, the bastards who are
trying to get me.” He picked the phone up
between finger and thumb, a look of distaste on
his face, as if it were a dead spider, and flung
it across his living room. It landed with a soft
thump on the carpeted floor some six feet away.
Abruptly it fell silent, as if the impact had
broken the connection. Jugg tried to settle his
breathing. “Bastards,” he said again.
“Why can’t they leave me alone?”
After several fretful minutes he settled back
down to his former train of thought.
If questioned
on the matter Jugg would have struggled to define
exactly who ‘they’ were. Just people…those
strangers in the café, for example, muttering
together, giving him sideward glances and
chuckling as he sat at a corner table with his
ordinary coffee, feeling increasingly
uncomfortable. He was unaware that the cause of
the customers’ amusement was the fact that
he had shaving foam on his left ear which he’d
failed to notice and wipe off whilst performing
his morning ablutions. That had been the start of
it, and there had been several other occurrences
since, culminating the previous day when he’d
been attacked by a parrot.
Jugg was
convinced that his assailant had been no ordinary
African Grey, oh no. ‘They’ had sent it
to get him. It had appeared as if from nowhere as
he’d walked home from work, repeatedly
tearing at his hair with beak and claws as it
flapped madly about his head. It had even
screeched his name whilst doing so: “Jugg!
Jugg!” in a demented croak. Jugg had flapped
his arms wildly and eventually the escaped pet
had flown away in the direction of the park. Jugg
was never to learn that he bore an uncanny
resemblance to the parrot’s owner’s ex-partner,
who had taunted the bird mercilessly. The bird,
having gained its freedom, had spotted an
opportunity for revenge. The screaming of his
name had been entirely a figment of Jugg’s
overactive, paranoid imagination that was, by now,
reaching fever-pitch. He’d ran the rest of
the way home, reeking of sweat and parrot shit
and looking as if he’d been dragged through
the proverbial hedge, backwards, smothered as he
was in soft, grey feathers.
Afternoon gave
way to evening and still Jugg sat motionless.
Perhaps he should move away from the area? But no,
they’d only follow him…he wasn’t
safe anywhere. So, what to do? Sighing heavily,
he rose from the armchair and walked across the
room to draw the curtains. As he reached the
window his parrot assailant of the day before
flew at the glass, shattering it in several
places. The bird slid down the glass, leaving a
trail of blood as it sank slowly to the ground.
Shocked out of his wits, Jugg staggered backwards,
tripped over a heavy brass door stop and banged
his head on the floor, rendering him senseless…
He woke with a
sudden start. A dream; it had all been a
horrible dream…now the bastards had
penetrated his subconscious as part of their
nefarious plan. On reflection, he thought:
perhaps this has all been some horrific dream, a
product of my too-active imagination? I’ve
been under a lot of stress and strain recently,
what with my little antiques shop failing…sometimes
the mind can play funny tricks. He decided to
grab a beer from the fridge to help calm his
shattered nerves. As he moved towards the
door he glanced across at the window, but failed
to notice, in the semi-darkness, the words ‘Vengeance
Will Be Ours’ smeared in parrot blood on the
glass.
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