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The Stinker by Colin Harvey Let’s be honest. Tobias Knowlton was not the sort of person you’d want to get stuck in a lift with. It’s not how he looked that was the problem, though Tobias was no oil painting. Well, maybe a particularly avant-garde oil painting by a former enfant terrible approaching the end of an otherwise uninspired artistic career looking to shock the art establishment with one ill-thought through last-hurrah. Tobias was no more disagreeable to look at than most overweight, bespectacled men in their early sixties tend to be, the gingery hair protruding from his nostrils and the centimetre-wide mole on his left cheek not withstanding. No, the reason you wouldn’t want to get stuck in a lift with Tobias Knowlton was simple and unambiguous. Tobias Knowlton smelt to high heaven. Tobias was fully cognisant of his problem. You don’t get to the age of sixty-two without realising that your total lack of a social life might have something to do with that smell of sulphurous four-day herring that is constantly about your person. You don’t get to the age of sixty-two without attributing your enduring inability to attract a partner to anything other than the odour that is your single, faithful companion. Indeed, you don’t get to the age of sixty-two without thinking that the contorted expressions of disgust you elicit from total strangers who make the mistake of coming within three feet of your lumbering hulk, might in some way relate to that unvarying stink that greets you in the morning and bids you adieu in the evening. Which was why, if he could possibly avoid it, and despite the strain it must invariably place on his heart, Tobias would always take the stairs rather than risk the possibility of any excruciating encounter in an elevator. Tobias’s two-bedroom maisonette abounded with supposed cures, purgatives and remedies. Bathroom and kitchen cupboards bulged THE STINKER under the weight of manifold bottles and jars, while the second bedroom looked much like the abode of a medieval apothecary. The problem was one of diagnosis. Whereas the symptom was clear – fetid, unwavering – the cause of the stench proved utterly impossible to ascertain. The best efforts of numerous medical practitioners had been unable to isolate from which part of Tobias’s body the smell was emanating. The obvious candidates had been ruled out when Tobias was a young man. The smell didn’t seem to be associated with bad breath: Tobias had always benefi ted from very good teeth, and regularly attended dental appointments. His feet, too, were scrupulously well cared for. Flatulence was discounted early on: disparate nutritionists agreed that Tobias’s diet was well-balanced and healthy. Genital and rectal hygiene were both excellent. Under-arm bodily odour was no more a problem for Tobias than it is for most overweight men. The doctors removed samples of tissue, saliva, blood, sweat, semen, mucous, hair, urine and shit. Nothing came of any of it. Non-traditional treatments proved no better in their ability to assist Tobias. His own mother, a slim bird-like creature who smelled of nothing more offensive than lavender, had encouraged Tobias to try “alternative” treatments, since she herself believed devoutly in the power of the distaff over mortal creatures. Consequently, Tobias tried acupuncture, refl exology, light treatment, crystals, and even, on one occasion, went so far as to attend an evangelical ceremony at the local church. All to no avail. Sadly, Tobias’s mother died some twenty-fi ve years earlier, never seeing her only son without tears in her eyes, and seldom without a peg on her nose. Talking of death. The news of Aunt Mae’s expiration arrived, appropriately enough, on the fi rst of May. Since it was a bank holiday, Tobias was home alone, scanning the internet for the latest innovations in the world of stench amelioration, rather than marking the teetering pile of GCSE course work on the chair behind him. Suddenly the telephone rang and the machine beeped in response. THE STINKER The caller addressed Tobias’s answer-machine in the kind of crisp locution that would not disgrace a World Service announcer: “Tobias Knowlton, my name is Somerset Shaw. We have never met, but you may be aware of my existence, for I am your cousin. I have to inform you that your Aunt Mae, whom you may also be aware was my mother, has fi nally succumbed to the congenital heart defect that was the bane of her life. I wish I could say she died peacefully in her sleep, but alas she screamed the house down and caused several of the neighbours to complain to the local constabulary. Ring me back, if you would, to discuss disposal of the body.” Tobias sat and blinked, clasping his hands together ruminatively. It seemed the same congenital heart defect that had claimed the life of his middle-aged mother years previously had now taken the life of elderly Aunt Mae. Tobias refl ected with sadness on the curious fact that the two sides of the family had not communicated since around the time of his own birth; indeed he had never met either Mae or her son Somerset. Suddenly he realised that with the death of the last of that older generation his cousin had evidently seized the opportunity for rapprochement between the two sides of the family. In that moment Tobias decided that he, too, would do his part to close the rift. Aunt Mae’s funeral was a no-nonsense affair, although Tobias felt the vicar’s account of Mae’s life to be vague. He was considering the curiosity of this when he was aware of an imposing fi gure leaning over him, a handkerchief clutched tightly to his mouth. “I presume, from the stench, that you must be my cousin, Tobias. Good day to you, sir.” Tobias managed his composure effi ciently, and replied “Somerset, I presume. I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.” Somerset Shaw’s swirling grey eyes considered Tobias with disparaging, almost surgical disinterest. He replied: “At least the stench of death diminishes over time. I wish the same could be said for your olfactory disorder.” Tobias swallowed hard but nevertheless maintained eye contact. THE STINKER “I am most certainly aware of my problem, sir. I promise you I have taken every measure to try and counter it.” “Every measure? I doubt that. Come to my late mother’s abode on Sunday morn, and we will see if we cannot be of mutual benefi t to one another. I believe you know the location.” Tobias had indeed visited Aunt Mae’s residence once before in his life. He had been eleven years old and discovered Aunt Mae’s address in a pile of old letters. Despite the explicit warnings of his mother, he had bicycled to the house at the fi rst available opportunity. His mother, however, needn’t have worried: the wrought-iron gates, the leering gargoyles and the towering, twisting oaks had been enough to dissuade the youthful Tobias against making contact with his mysterious aunt and her equally mysterious son. When the curtain twitched, and an impassive, ashen-faced youth appeared at the window, Tobias had quickly bicycled home again, putting all thoughts of contact between him and his relatives to one side. Now, some fi fty-one years later, Tobias Knowlton found himself taking tea in the vast reception room of that same Gothic manor. During Tobias’s long trek up the overgrown path to the imposing front doors of the house, it had occurred to him that Aunt Mae’s death throes must have been vociferous indeed to offend the neighbours, since the house was so distant from all other habitation. Somerset proceeded to pour tea into china cups with cool deliberation, before cutting the delicately presented Battenberg into precise sections and passing Tobias a piece. Tobias ate distractedly, gazing at the multitude of Gothic objets d’art drawn from around the globe. The room contained numerous stuffed creatures, an array of scythes, swords and pikes, and what looked for all the world like the caged body of a lynched highwayman. “Your mother had unusual taste,” Tobias eventually observed, employing due tact. It was quickly becoming apparent, however, that diplomacy was not a regular feature of his cousin’s discourse. THE STINKER “This stink you emit,” said Somerset, periodically spraying some kind of perfumed scent in Tobias’s direction, “what causes it?” “As I said in the church, I have no idea. Nor does any individual or group of individuals I have consulted on the matter.” He attempted a nervous smile at this point, “You, however, seemed to indicate that you might have a solution.” “Your mother wasn’t overweight. Nor was mine. Nor am I.” “True, sir.” “Then why, dear cousin, do you suppose that you’re so very, very fat?” At this Somerset permitted himself a pencil-thin smile. “Are you eating for two?” “Diet is not the problem, I assure you, my dear cousin,” replied Tobias levelly. “Were that it was.” “What do you know of my mother’s relationship with yours?” “That as children they were thick as thieves. But that shortly around the time of my birth something occurred, and they never spoke again.” Tobias gazed at his interlocutor. “Your mother did not even come to my mother’s funeral. And neither did you.” “In their youth, our mothers were Wiccan. Do you know what that means?” “I…” At this Tobias’s voice trailed off. He felt a sudden twinge in his lower intestine. “Witches.” “Witches, that’s right, my cousin,” confi rmed Somerset. “Very good ones, in fact. They conjured all manner of visitations.” “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” Beads of sweat had formed upon Tobias’s upper lip. Somerset had stood now and was pacing about the room. “One such visitation was a creature of considerable majesty in the realm of darkness.” “I really don’t believe in – ” “Such beings need us humans, poor dear cousin. They need our…” For once, Somerset seemed bereft of language. “Our lust for life,” he announced fi nally. “Without it, their young cannot survive. They need hosts, Tobias. Like yourself.” THE STINKER “What’re you talking about?” spluttered Tobias, dropping his slice of Battenberg and clutching at the tie he had inadvisably worn for the occasion. “The creature of darkness conjured by our mothers needed somewhere to store his newborn until it was fully grown. A host that would nurture his own child until maturity. At fi rst, both of our mothers refused, of course. But the Prince – for he was of noble blood – was persistent.” “My mother would never – !” exclaimed Tobias. “No, indeed. Your mother wouldn’t. But mine, however… Well, her virtues were less impeachable. All it took was a lock of your mother’s hair, and hey presto! The Prince was able to plant a foetus within a foetus, if you take my meaning.” Tobias Knowlton felt something stirring in his stomach. “What’re you talking about?” he gasped. “In return, the Prince gave my mother this Gothic mansion house in which to raise me. The Prince doubled her life span, making sure the congenital heart defect that has cursed our family did not trouble her until she was an elderly personage. Meanwhile, you grew, and the creature within you grew.” Tobias could feel a great pressure on his abdomen. He clutched the sides of his armchair until the fabric began to rip. “Unfortunately, a satanic imp is a fl atulent creature to have curled around your intestine. The smell, as you know, is not pleasant. But you have done a great service to the Prince. And now my mother has gone, I must do my service to the Prince’s offspring.” By this stage Somerset was wielding the cake knife. “I had envisioned that this would need to be an assisted birth. But I see I was mistaken.” With that, Tobias looked down at his bulging chest and felt the crack of his own ribs. “I told you,” said Somerset reassuringly, as Tobias Knowlton began to split in twain. “The stench of death diminishes over time. Rejoice, dear cousin. You’re cured.”
CÂMARA MUNICIPAL DE SÃO JOÃO DA BARRA CONCURSO PÚBLICO PARA PROVIMENTO DE VAGAS NOS CARGOS PÚBLICOS DE NÍVEL MÉDIO E SUPERIOR EDITAL Nº 01/2010 A Câmara Municipal de São João da Barra, no uso de suas atribuições, torna público que fará realizar, por intermédio da FUNDAÇÃO EUCLIDES DA CUNHA ( FEC ), de Apoio Institucional à Universidade Federal Flumi
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