Dressed in a tattered green cagoule and oversized yellow boots, Mister Whistler cut a peculiar figure. His egg-shaped head gleamed in the pale sunlight, and his chestnut eyes clouded with disdain honed by centuries of observing the folly of humankind.
The chatter of bargain hunters filled the manure-scented air.
He winced as his seller yanked him from the boot sale box and stood him on the table between broken toys and foul-smelling shoes.
Today, someone will claim me, he thought. No more dark, dusty box.
The morning turned to afternoon, and his spirit waned as he watched people pass by, clutching the most trivial tat imaginable.
What is it with your relentless obsession with novelty? Your insatiable thirst for things that don’t last? I’ve seen oak giants reduced to dust to feed this hunger.
He drifted into a daydream about sunflowers swaying in the breeze.
A young man snatched him up. ‘Oi, your mam can’t stand these gnomes, can she?’ he said to a girl with oversized eyelashes. ‘Get it, and we’ll scare the life out of her.’
Gormless, greasy-fingered buffoon. At this rate, I’ll be back at the tip, buried under banana skins, broken toasters, and the rest of the rubbish churned out by human hands.
The girl leaned in for a closer look. Her breath, thick with the greasy scent of hot dogs and mustard, wafted across his face. ‘Ugly little thing. What’s it cost?’
Mister Whistler’s fingers twitched with the old, familiar thrill of revenge. I’ve killed your kind before. I’ll do it again.
‘Five quid.’
‘No, mate,’ she said, moving on.
The young man dropped him back onto the table and followed her.
Mister Whistler watched in disgust as the seller chomped on a greasy hamburger.
A feeble voice called, ‘How much for the garden gnome?’
The seller, mid-chew, shrugged. ‘Three quid.’
‘Two quid?’
Mister Whistler clenched his toes. Sell me, you cheapskate.
The seller tilted his head. ‘Aye, go on then.’
‘He’ll look splendid in my garden.’ The woman cradled him as she handed over the money. ‘My husband’s going to love him.’
Garden. There’s no sweeter word.
On the drive to his new home, Mister Whistler’s mind wandered to a lush lawn framed with vibrant flowers. He imagined rich, fresh soil and tall sunflowers casting gentle shadows over his new paradise. His mouth watered at the thought of beer-soaked slugs and crunchy snails.
A banquet of delights awaits me.
As the car rolled into the gravel-strewn drive, Mister Whistler’s heart raced with anticipation.
She set him down in the garden. A stiff, artificial lawn rustled beneath his boots, plastic daffodils stood like brash statues in the breeze, and garish ornaments cluttered every corner.
His glossy head throbbed.
What fresh hell is this?
That night, beneath the blue glow of a crescent moon, Mister Whistler checked the height of the fence.
Escape? Futile. Of all the things I despise, a plastic garden tops the list. This place is a hellscape of synthetic perfection, a façade, a charade that mocks the concept of growth.
Mister Whistler lifted the edge of the fake lawn. The earth’s musky aroma wafted up as he reached beneath it and seized a handful of soil.
Sweet aromas. Another chance to prune the diseased branches of humanity.
A sleek black cat emerged from the shadows. It crept across the garden, pawed at a plastic daffodil, and fixed its amber eyes on Mister Whistler.
I’m in no mood for your roguery.
The cat lifted its tail and sprayed a sharp, acrid jet of urine across his boots.
A fury ignited in his gut. He lunged forward. His calloused hands tightened around the feline’s throat.
How dare you mark me like I’m some cheap ornamental gnome?
In the morning, his owner stepped into the garden and dropped her cup of chamomile tea. She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth at the sight of the cat’s entrails scattered across the lawn.
‘Dennis, come quick. You need to see this.’ She tightened her dressing gown and pointed.
Mister Whistler’s eyes narrowed. Who the hell is she talking to?
‘Dear me,’ she muttered. ‘A fox, I reckon. What are we to do, Dennis?’
There’s nobody else here, you dotard.
She continued to talk to herself. ‘Bury it? No, I have a better idea.’ She scooped the mess into a plastic bag and dropped it into the recycling bin. After pouring disinfectant over the blood, she scrubbed the area clean, erasing all traces of the cat.
‘Cuppa, Dennis? Be rude not to, wouldn’t it?’
She brewed a pot of tea and settled on the faded patio furniture.
‘What, him?’ She pointed at Mister Whistler. ‘Found him at the boot sale… Two quid. Yes, a bargain.’ She noticed blood on his boots and hands. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, picking him up. ‘This won’t do.’
After scrubbing away the stains, she patted his smooth head. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ She fetched a child’s pink sunbonnet and jammed it onto his head.
The utter indignity, he thought, catching sight of himself in the mirror.
She placed him back in the garden and sank into the patio chair. She sipped her tea and glanced at the empty seat beside her.
‘Such a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Her lips curled into a faint smile as she fiddled with her tarnished wedding ring. Her tired eyes drifted into a distant gaze.
After a moment, she blinked herself back to the present. ‘How about a little breakfast, Dennis?’
She disappeared into the house and returned forty minutes later with two plates. Each held snotty fried eggs and charred sausages. Mister Whistler watched in disgust as she stuffed her face. Her noisy chewing grated on his nerves, a grim reminder of humanity’s insatiable greed.
‘I’m stuffed after that,’ she said, reclining in her chair.
Moments later, she let out a cavernous snore. Mister Whistler made his move, climbing onto the table. He peered into her gaping, toothless mouth, tossed a half-eaten sausage down her throat, and darted back to his spot. Her eyes shot open as she choked, a thick vein swelling on her forehead. She clutched her throat as her eyes streamed with tears.
Die and let me bring this garden to life.
She fell silent before the sausage rocketed out of her mouth and landed with a wet splat on the table.
‘Eurgh,’ she gasped and caught her breath. ‘What in the world?’
She staggered to her feet and steadied herself before wandering inside the house.
Why won’t you die? Nature will claim all your kind in the end. Why not get it over with?
An hour later, she returned to the garden and scraped the remnants of her breakfast into a plastic bag.
‘Oh, you’re always so quick to finish your breakfast.’ Her gaze grew distant. ‘By the way, I’ve got three bags of junk to take to the tip later. I’ll get rid of a few of these gnomes as well. What do you think, Dennis?’
Mister Whistler’s fury bubbled over. He tore off his pink bonnet and charged at her, knocking her into the fake flowers. With teeth bared in a snarl, he yanked the plastic bag over her face. Don’t fight it. Soon, this patch of earth will breathe again.
He glanced around the garden as her feeble fingers clawed at the bag. With some effort and a touch of magic, this place will thrive. His grip tightened.
Her body went limp, and he released her. Satisfied, he rolled up the edge of the fake lawn. But before he could make much progress, she sat up, tearing off the bag. She locked eyes with Mister Whistler and screamed. He stumbled back in shock.
Damn you, woman. You have more lives than a bag of cats.
Fury surged through him as he lunged at her, gripping a fist-sized rock. He struck her across the nose, the eye, the lips, and her forehead. Over and over, the rock came down with brute force.
Months later, Mister Whistler hummed a lilting tune as he surveyed his living Eden. Roses and foxgloves framed a lush lawn. Birds sang and flitted between fountains and feeders. The scent of lavender and herbs hung in the air, mingling with the whir of vivid blue dragonflies.
At the heart of the garden, the woman’s lifeless body lay, entwined with wildflowers. A willow tree sprouted from her chest, its roots claiming her as a sacrifice to the earth. Bees flitted through the hollow sockets of her eyes and gaping mouth, now locked in a silent scream. Butterflies, too, sipped nectar from the purple perennials that curled around her outstretched limbs. The earth swelled around her like a rising, dark tide, a testament to the inevitable return to the soil.
‘Perfection,’ he whispered. ‘Nature always reclaims what is hers in the end.’
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