There was a tentacle in the toilet.
It was an absolutely massive, Hollywood-esque tentacle. Steven Spielberg would have loved to use it in a movie. The gnarled, sucker covered limb was the sort of thing that would have had Captain Nemo run screaming from the room, swearing off seafood for life. John, a short man of around sixty who seemed the type who let his wife buy zip-up cardigans for him, thought it was the stuff of nightmares. Silvery, with an iridescent sheen that reminded him of a trout he had once caught when a boy, it lay half-in, half-out of the water, its tip twitching back and forth lethargically. The rest of it disappeared into the pine-fresh depths and around the U-bend.
The tentacle was a most unwelcome visitor. John’s revulsion was partly due to his belief that there were only certain things that should be put down toilets. Giant monsters were not on his list.
Horrified by the sight, his first reaction was to just get rid of it. He pressed the flush and watched the green, foaming water swirl around the waving thing. The toilet backed up considerably until the surface of the water was level with the bowl’s rim, which caused John no end of angst as he hurried to put a towel around its base. Then the water rushed away, pulled by the force of the U-bend’s siphon, gurgling in that happy way that toilets do.
The tentacle remained, along with a hint of alpine forests. It slapped the lip of the toilet seat in an irritated manner, causing John to step back in surprise.
Damn, he thought to himself, what the hell am I going to do with this?
Several hours of argument then ensued with his wife, Shirley. John was of the belief that he could dispose of the tentacle with caustic soda and a broom handle. Shirley was of the opinion that her husband was a bloody fool who never read the instructions on electrical items and was too tight to spend money on getting professionals in to fix the things he’d worked on.
“If he’s just going to shove a stick down the toilet to get rid of it, I am going to be pretty hacked off,” he protested.
“Just get on the phone, John. I can’t face another disaster!”
By the early afternoon, John welcomed Mr R J Moffat, of R B Moffat and Sons, Astral Plumbers to the Public, into the house. A round-faced and large man in blue overalls that were more like waders, Mr R J Moffat seemed more like an overgrown toddler in a romper suit than a plumber. He had a cheery disposition and a confident, breezy manner that spoke of his certainty that only he, Mr R J Moffat, could plumb the arcana of pipe-work and heating systems.
The plumber was led upstairs to the bathroom and shown the intruder in the toilet.
“Wow, that’s a biggie!” he said eventually, sucking at his teeth with a sharp intake of breath. “How’d you get that in there, then?”
“I don’t know,” John replied morosely. “It wasn’t there this morning but it was when we came back from Sainsbury’s. Gave me quite a shock when I came up for a jimmy.”
The tentacle twisted toward them and the tip rested on the seat like a snake’s head watching two mice.
“I haven’t seen one like that in years!” Mr R J Moffat said. “Not since the last time there was a conjunction of Venus and Saturn. It’s going to be a bit of a tricky job.”
“What? What do you mean tricky? Surely you can just pull it out?”
“Pull it out, mate? Not a chance! Have you thought about what’s going to be on the other end? Do you want that in here?”
“Can’t you push it back down? You know, with a plunger?” John rifled through his limited knowledge of plumbing terms accumulated solely through watching daytime DIY television. Programmes like You’re too Poor to Live Here, and Rich Bastards Build Big Houses had fed him the lie that he could build, plumb, garden and rewire his house. The dreadful mistake at the bottom of the garden – that John called the Outdoor Office – showed his true worth as a handyman. Shirley had insisted it remained locked and locked it had remained – for five years. “Wouldn’t you rod it?” He tried to adopt a knowing look and failed completely by sticking his hands in his pockets.
“Use a plunger? Rod it? No!” Mr R J Moffat chuckled in the way of someone who knew that the bill was writing itself. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, mate. You’d just push it back into the sewers. It’ll probably just follow its slime trail back up the waste pipes. Do you want that making its grand entrance whilst you're sat on the lavvy reading the Sunday papers? Could get messy.”
John blanched. A vision of his wife running shrieking from the bathroom trailing damp pages from the Mail on Sunday flashed before him. He shuddered. There would be no living that down if he did not get this sorted out.
“You need to banish it with the Ritual of T’uul Khet. That’s why you’ve called an astral plumber isn’t it?” the plumber went on. “You weren’t thinking that this would be something fixable with a pipe wrench?”
Shoulders drooping, John accepted the possibility that his credit card was going to get a serious bruising. “How do I know you’re even qualified for this work? What other jobs like this have you done?”
“Qualified? It’s a good question. Well, mate, I’m the seventh son of an astral plumber, who was the seventh son of another astral plumber, who was the seventh son of a witch. I’m sure I don’t need to tell a man like you the significance of those numbers.” Mr R J Moffat grinned and then continued, “We’re the only plumbers in the South East with that sort of pedigree. I can provide references for you from all over the area. We’ve installed baths, toilets, showers, central heating systems, unblocked drains, laid pipe-work, removed crocodiles. You know, all the usual. Remember that fuss at the town hall when the gents had a mermaid trapped in a floating sphere of water?”
John nodded, “Wasn’t that last year?”
“Yeah. Well, it was us – me - that sorted that lot out. No-one would go in for a pee with her sat in the ball watching them. Got a bit inconvenient with all those councillors and staff having to nip across to the pub for the toilet.”
“How did you do it?”
Mr R J Moffat smiled. “That would be telling you some trade secrets. Suffice to say, she’s not there now and the lads of the Town Hall are a lot happier.”
The tentacle twitched at this and then slapped the toilet seat hard. It then curled on itself and rested against the cistern, giving every impression of a man leaning against a wall with his arms folded. So what? it seemed to say, I’m a giant tentacle! I’m not some fish lady you can scare into growing a pair of legs!
Mr R J Moffat turned to John and spoke sotto voce, “Are you sure that you want this done? It can get messy and it’ll cost you.”
“Of course we want this done! How are we going to use the loo if that’s down there? What else are we going to do?”
“To be honest, I know of people who’ve learned to live with things like it. I could always install a downstairs toilet that drains to a cesspit for you. You’d not have any worries about that.” He nodded at the tentacle. “It wouldn’t be on the same network.”
“Live with it? I’m not sure that we could live with it. I don’t think my wife would be able to take a bath with that thing looking at her.” John made his decision. It had to go. He grimaced and said, “How much? I don’t much mind about the mess so long as you don’t damage the suite or the paintwork. We’ve only just decorated!”
Mr R J Moffat looked askance at John. Solid, staid, dependable and naïve, he was good for a hefty bill. “Well, it won’t be cheap and it’ll take time. I’ll need to get some things from the van but I should have everything here.” He reached into a chest pocket and brought out a grubby notepad printed up with the company name. After licking a pencil, Mr R J Moffat set to work on his quote, his iPhone pressed to his ear. “Just need to call the office to sort this quote out,” he said to John.
“Hi Arial,” the plumber spoke into the phone, “Can you just get me some up to date prices on some items for a customer I’m with right now?” He quickly reeled off a short list to the person on the other end of the line. He nodded as the voice related information back to him. “Do I want fish and chips for my dinner? Nah, can’t we have something else for once? We’re always having fish and chips.”
In only a trice he had something to present to John.
“That much!” John was astonished but also despondent. He was past the point of no return with Mr R J Moffat. There was no going back now.
Mr R J Moffat gazed back impassively, a half smile on his face. “I’ll be needing to use a crystal sword and they’re pricey. You can only use them the once.”
John nodded once in mute and miserable agreement.
“If that’s OK then just sign on the bottom,” the plumber said, proffering his pencil. “It’s a binding magical contract. I have to complete the job and you have to allow me access until the job is finished, as well as provide a biscuit and cup of tea on demand to satisfy the spirits of the Astral Plane. They’re in charge of contracts and bargains, you see.” This latter request was a little white lie but Mr R J Moffat had been around long enough to know that many householders could be rather stingy with their hospitality. It was important to the plumber that he worked in something like comfort.
Scratching away with the pencil, John was surprised to see the graphite flash on the grubby quote, turning his signature from a dull grey to blood red in only a moment. He looked up at the plumber who took the pencil and quotation from his limp hands. Folding them, he slid them into his bib and announced his intention to fetch his tools from the van.
“You’re ready to work now?” John asked.
“No time like the present. That beastie’s a bit of a sticky one. Might want to get it sorted now rather than later.”
Mr R J Moffat clattered down the stairs. John prayed that his workboots weren’t anywhere near the skirting boards but then realised the futility of these thoughts. Resigned to what was coming next, he waited aimlessly for the plumber to return. He glanced at the tentacle which was busy exploring the toilet roll, slowly unravelling the peach coloured, quilted paper into an untidy drift. Shaking his head he left the bathroom and pulled the door shut.
John went down to the kitchen to break the news to his wife. She took it well, considering, and only screamed once when he mentioned that one of the options was to leave the tentacle there.
“And I suppose that you want me to make the tea and take Mr Moffat his biscuits, do you?” she said, her arms folded across her yellow Marks and Spencer’s sweater.
“They’re not for him, Shirl. They’re for the spirits of the Astral Plane. It’s contractual, you see.” John explained, wary of the look on her face.
“Contractual, my foot. They’re for him, you daft beggar!” she snorted. “You forget my mother was a medium! The spirits of the Astral Plane don’t eat custard creams!” She stepped forward and fixed her beady eyes on him in a piercing glare. “They consume the souls of gullible idiots! Or was it saucers of milk? I can never remember but you’d better hope it’s saucers of milk because if it’s the other, then I’ll see that the spirits are getting fed tonight!”
John hung his head. Why was it that since the menopause his wife had seen fit to challenge him on almost every decision he made? There had been a time when he thought that she had regarded him as something close to a knight on a white charger, fearlessly battling the perils of car repairs, flat-pack furniture assembly and grout. Lately, he’d begun to think that she only looked at him with disappointment.
“I suppose I could do with a cuppa,” she said suddenly. “You might as well take one up to your new friend. Remember to make sure he puts down sheets and doesn’t scratch the new paint. I’ll not have him wearing his dirty boots in the house either.”
***
About ten minutes later, Mr R J Moffat was firmly ensconced in the bathroom, a steaming cup of tea on the windowsill, which was also accompanied by a plate of slightly stale shortbread that a friend of Shirley’s had brought back from holiday as a present. He hummed happily to himself as he prepared the tools of his trade. He laid out an assortment of items: a tub of plumber’s mate, a drill-driver, a power plunger, a wax crayon, a small brass bell, a respirator, a sulphur candle and lastly, a miniature crystal sword.
At last he was ready to begin the Ritual of T’uul Khet. He sniggered a little as he thought about it. The Ritual was something of a joke name amongst astral plumbers. It was really just known as the Stinky Blade Banishment but that did not go down well on paperwork. Customers didn’t take it seriously. “Now then, you little monster, it’s time to take a walk,” he said to the creature in the toilet.
He put on the respirator, the black rubber sitting snugly against his skin. Though his vision was much reduced through the goggles, he could see well enough for the ritual. Using a cigarette lighter, he lit the sulphur candle and wafted it around the bathroom. The small space soon filled with the yellowish smoke.
It seemed that the smoke irritated the tentacle. It convulsed. A bulge appeared at the tip. Very slowly it expanded, swelling its membranous skin, chased about with blue blood vessels, stretching it, until it burst with a wet plop. From beneath the residual goo, a human-like eye blinked.
“Oh aye, like that is it?” The plumber said. “Don’t you give me the evils! You’re off you are!”
The tentacle reared up and stretched out. It slithered out of the toilet until it stood a head taller than the plumber. The single blue eye stared down at him and blinked.
“It’s no good protesting,” Mr R J Moffat said, his voice muffled by the respirator, “You’ve got to go. Things like you do not live in toilets. You should be at the bottom of some temperate sea, feasting on shrimp and lobster, my friend. Sitting around in people’s waste pipes, tickling their bottoms is just not dignified for a kraken.” He picked up the brass bell and rang it seven times so that its cheery chimes echoed around the tiled room. “Now stop being awkward and let me get on with it.”
The tentacle lunged. With lighting speed it swiped the bell from Mr R J Moffat’s hands. The bell tinkled across the floor, coming to rest under the towel rail. Mr R J Moffat jumped back to avoid the return backhand that smashed into his toolbox resting on the bath rim. The crash of the tools spooked the tentacle which returned to its starting position, weaving warily like a cobra.
Very carefully, the plumber reached for the crystal sword and at the same time removed his iPhone from his pocket. Navigating quickly to iBooks, he selected the text he was looking for and jumped to the correct page. The Ritual of T’uul Khet had begun.
“It it’s a fight you want, then it’s a fight you’ve got, you little…”
***
Basket in hand, halfway across the kitchen from the washing machine, Shirley stopped dead. Her eyes blazed at her husband as the sounds battle resounded through the ceiling. Every loud bang, or shake of the ceiling, made them both jump. Small flecks of painted plaster sprinkled on to the kitchen table like intermittent snow. John hung his head.
“What do you think he’s doing up there?” Shirley snapped. Her eyes brimmed with tears, which she sniffed back, determined not to show weakness in the face of her husband.
An enormous crash shook the room, causing them both to flinch.
“You get back here!” Mr R J Moffat’s voice roared through the ceiling. “I’ll count to ten and if you’re not within the pentagram, I’ll be having squid for tea”
“Oh, God! My new bathroom suite!” she cried.
John put out his hand and gently wrapped his fingers around hers. This one act unblocked years of repressed bitterness and it washed from her in a wave of misery. Tears coursed down her cheeks. In despair, Shirley rested her head against her husband’s shoulders and sobbed.
Perhaps the appalling noise from above only lasted for a few moments. Perhaps it was for minutes, or even hours. John and Shirley simply didn’t know. All they could do was to wait for it to end, their dreams of luxurious bathing disappearing down the plughole.
Abruptly the racket subsided. The silence that followed was ominous. They both looked up at the ceiling. A drop of water slowly formed in a crack in the ceiling. Finally, it shrugged itself loose, fell, and splattered into the plaster dust on the table. In short order, it was followed by a host of other similar droplets.
They left the dripping kitchen and began their reluctant ascent to the battlefield.
Shirley stopped halfway up the stairs. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t look. You go on.”
John continued. At the top of the stairs he was faced with the bathroom door. It was closed.
Gingerly, he rested his hand upon the handle. It surprised him that nothing happened but then he wasn’t sure what he expected. Electrocution? Turning the handle, he opened the door and looked into the bathroom.
Water, plumbing tools, screws, nuts and bolts covered the floor. The air stank of rotten eggs. Deep gouges cut through the plasterboard walls and the sink lay smashed like a pile of broken stones. The source of the water was soon obvious to John as he looked upon the shattered room with horror. The feed pipes for the sink were twisted together in a rather neat bow, which had split them, causing water to spray in a fine mist. A single work boot lay on its side in the middle of the floor.
Mr R J Moffat was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was the tentacle, or the toilet.
Or even the back wall.
John stepped between the rubble and looked down into the garden through the huge hole in the bathroom wall. The toilet sat upright in a flowerbed. It was as if it was just waiting for its next customer.
“Shirley!” he called back over his shoulder. He knew he should feel some concern for the missing plumber but he couldn’t help feeling relieved at the disappearance of the man. No plumber, no bill. “Have you got the number for Mr Evans?”
In the absence of Mr R J Moffat, John calculated that he still had the money to make good the repairs. Despite the surrounding ruins, he smiled. “I think we’re going to need a builder!”
He looked at where the toilet had stood, which was now marked by a gaping hole in the floor leading directly to the sewers. John shivered at the thought of what had been down there. Was it still down there? It seemed unlikely but they couldn't ignore the possibility that it was.
“We’d better call a plumber too. I think we’re going to need a septic tank.”
---
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