Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths

“Walls have ears”, they say. What a load of rubbish. Walls can’t hear. It’s about whoever happens to lean against the wall … listening. And that could be me, eavesdropping. I snoop. I’m a meddler, if the mood takes me. I’m a Fly-on-the-Wall. I irritate. Buzz around. Get nasty.

I’m commonly known to my fellow flies as Fabian, or FBN: Fly-By-Night. That doesn’t mean I’m prone to flying at nighttime, although I can – and sometimes, necessarily do. In this instance, I’m FBN, because I’m a witchy sort of a fly, Wink-Wink-Nudge-Nudge. I hang around, overhearing, waiting. Hungry for titbits of interest from which I can do magic. Cast spells. Cast aspersions. Cause affrays.

I’m not all bad. Hence my true name, Fabian – fab one – often tracking those people I like. I keep an eye and an ear open. Try to make them safe and happy. It’s a hobby of sorts. 

My aim in life is to be a good fly. And to a greater extent, that’s what I am. But, in being a do-gooder, sometimes I can get offensive. Demonic even.

Today, I’m bored. I’m hanging around on Curly’s living room ceiling, passing the time before she goes to the hairdresser. I gave her the ‘Curly’ handle when Tulip began cutting her hair, realising there was natural curl in that blonde mop. And ever since, Curly’s been showing off her wavy, bouncy tresses.

Truth be told, I’m looking out for a new project. Curly doesn’t need my care and attention anymore. Doesn’t need my pep-talks. Doesn’t need me around to smite her enemies. Heart all better now. And no longer crazy-in-the-head. She can take care of herself. Although, I’ve heard that just because she says she’s not paranoid, it doesn’t mean there’s nobody gunning for her! 

I’m fed up. If I had thumbs, I’d be twiddling them by now. Maybe there’ll be some gossip down at Tulip’s hair salon. Something to get my teeth into! That’s just an expression. I don’t have teeth, just one hell of an annoying BUZZ, especially if my back’s against the wall.

So, it’s lovely when it’s time to set off. Curly pops her jacket on. I pop onto her jacket with nary a sound. She has no clue I’m there. Watching out. Just in case. She might fall. Her heart might falter. I’m no nurse but my fly-friends and the odd bluebottle are always there to lend a hand, buzzing, tickling and distracting her away from anymore heart attacks or strokes. 

Reckon I’ll have to be changing my allegiance though. During one of my eavesdrops, I heard that all is not well with Tulip and maybe I owe her for being so good with Curly. I don’t think she likes flies so much, but beggars can’t be choosers. I said exactly that to Curly when I took her on as a client – and look at her now. 

I’m rubbing my front feelers together with excitement as we make our way to Tulip’s Salon. Must remember to keep out of the way of scissors and curling tongs while I’m there.

It turns out to be an afternoon of the mad, sad, bad and glad, all rolled into one. Tulip had told Curly, months ago, that she was getting treatment for what she called “The Big Sea”. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, but I had a feeling it meant “An Ocean of Hard Times” for Tulip. Great that her very good friend and employee, Charmaine, was on her side. Managed the salon when Tulip was doing something called “Chemo”. Made life more bearable, to some extent. I’d caught a glimpse of a social media message between them, referring to the “Big C”. Ah, so nothing to do with drowning then? Good. Maybe things were better than I thought. My bulging eyes bugged like magnifying glasses as I’d buzzed for joy, flitting around the room at speed, when I found out.

Today, I overhear Tulip and Curly talking. Charmaine was a turncoat! She’d left the Salon to set herself up as a manager and stylist somewhere down the road. Not only that, but she’d also enticed and cajoled lots of Tulip’s clients to go with her.

What? She can’t do that! I think, whining like a mosquito ready to bite. This is war! In fact, this is war and pestilence! Charmaine isn’t the charming girl I thought she was. She’s a thief! Shoplifting customers from under Tulip’s nose. Stealing them away. Who does she think she is – the Pied Piper? I buzz angrily, whirring around like a blurry fairground ride. I beat my wings – again and again – in disgust.

‘What was that noise?’ says Tulip.

‘Dunno,’ Curly replies, ‘but whatever it is, it’s not a happy sound.’

Time for me to make a move, I think. I’ll teach that Charmaine person she’s way out of line. 

And I have a sneaking suspicion I know how to do it. May the Force be with Me.

***

I spit out various spells, regurgitating them until the mix is just right. I picture Charmaine’s hairdressing “gaff” and call up as many creepy crawlies as I can muster. Flies and flying gnats. Wasps and hoverflies. Ants and fruit flies. Moths and midges.

And my pièce de résistance – SCABIES!

Now, I’m ready to Rock n Roll. I’m hoping there will be sufficient little holes and cracks for my insect friends to crawl through and ‘do their thing’ – infesting Charmaine’s salon with a vengeance. My spell takes into consideration anything that Rentokil can throw at “we that creep and fly around”. I want to create mayhem. I want to reduce the property to little more than a wasteland. Suffice to say, I’m no longer bored. “Fed up” is right out the window. I’m geared up and raring to go.

We launch our infestation after dark, with only moonshine and starlight to guide us on our way. It’s important to ‘we creepy-crawlies’ to be stealthy and night-time is the stealthiest time to foray into underhand sojourns. After all, there are factions out there who’d love to slaughter us with their fly sprays, killer recipes and murderous intent. Suffice to say, they’ve never encountered the likes of me. My spells and incantations have a guaranteed failsafe. Nothing – and I mean, nothing – can destroy us. We are destined to beat even the holocaust; die of old age. And we are prolific in laying eggs, reproducing our kind, possibly forever and a day. Mind you, this is a project not without casualties. All in a good cause, say I.

So here goes.

We arrive at Charmaine’s salon a little after midnight. Perfect. The witching hour.

I’m in front, leading the way, fluttering my wings with sheer excitement. All the while, I’m reciting the words to my wizardly war cry, rousing the troops to let fly, crawl and creep – whatever takes their fancy. There are chinks and cracks, fractures and fissures in the old brick building. There’s even a space under the shopfront door to sneak in.

As I scoot through the entry point, I’m ready to wave my metaphorical baton, summon my loyal soldiers and buzz my invocation:

Ye who shall turn

Ye who shall spurn

Will be pestered

And infested

I be Fabian

Known as the “Fab One”

I “Fly by Night”

To put things right

Buzz Buzz Buzz

Beware of us

Then, with a big, deep breath, I murmur, humming in my biggest, loudest voice:

We intend to SEVER

Your salon FOREVER!

I flit about awhile, then choose to sit atop a shelving unit filled with cans of hairspray and mousse. I watch with glee at the hordes of flies and insects foraging among the equipment, the moths having a whale of a time, weaving in and out of towels and gowns.

In they come, my avaricious army, wielding tiny bits of fruit, bread, biscuits to snack on – or vomit on, if that’s their thing. Keep them going at this busy time of insidious warfare.

They ease their way through any nook or cranny they can find. Before too long, the ants are marching hither and thither. Wasps, dressed in rugby tops, yellow and brown striped, angrily bang into walls and lightshades. The air is awash with fruit flies, bluebottles and flying gnats, swirling and whirling like they’re riding the fairground Waltzer. Hoverflies twist and turn like spinning tops. And the scabies – well – they lay in wait, ready to pounce and dig, dig, dig beneath the skin. Anyone’s skin.

‘Alright, alright,’ I say, although to the people-public, it might sound like “Bzzzzzz”. ‘That’s about enough now. Have a nibble, spit your saliva, lay your eggs and have yourselves a kip till morning comes around.’

I sleep with one bulbous eye open, waiting for dawn. Waiting for the Dawn of Warfare.

***

Charmaine wanders down the road in pale morning sunlight, gazing at her phone and munching on a packet of crisps. She smiles and yawns, happily swinging a bottle of milk, singing the latest hip-hop sensation to hit the charts. It seems she hasn’t a care in the world. Her long blonde hair swishes in the light breeze. A perfect day, or so she probably thinks. Maybe she’s extolling her own virtues, being the best that she can be – the thief who abducted fifty percent of Tulip’s customers; the stealer of clients’ souls. She’s got a lot to answer for, that girl. And she’s about to answer for her sins, any minute now.

‘Here she comes,’ a lookout bluebottle buzzes, spying like a myopic James Bond from the half-open venetian blinds, ‘I can hear her jingling her keys. Bzzz.’

The key jangles in the lock. I flutter my wings in expectation, holler the call to arms – ‘hummm hummm’ and …

Charmaine is confronted by a flying, crawling, hopping picture of hell. Critters fill the air, the floor. They flit about on every surface. She yells an almost preternatural squeal as her mouth fills with insects. Trying to spit them out, she drops the milk bottle, white liquid spurting from the silver paper top. 

Excellent! Plenty of sustenance for the battle-worn soldiers, I think. Lap it up, insect boys and girls. Milk-O!

I watch Charmaine avidly, as she spits out fruit flies and gnats galore. She turns and runs, gagging on flies and moths as she goes, punching her mobile phone keyboard into emergency mode.

‘Emergency. Which service do you require?’

Too late. We won the battle. We won the war. I’m buzzing with joy. Dizzy with the demise of her desperate scheme to rob and plunder. We’re here till the end of time. Till we’re all dead and gone. Till our offspring decide to move on to pastures new.

I reinforce my spell. Want to make sure the magic has kept its bargain to maintain immunity from whatever Rentokil has to offer. Spot on, I’m convinced. I wait for the man to arrive with his fumigator. He’ll be here soon – sure as “apples is apples”.

When he arrives, we’re doing our party piece, flitting and zipping and having a ball. Ants crawl up his pants, shower his dark shock of wiry hair as he turns on his machine to wipe us out. No go! All it does is make us heady; drunk as monkeys or high as kites. We giggle, we laugh, we chuckle. Tulip would be pleased to know we’re chanting her name:

Tu-lip …Tu-lip …Tu-lip …

The air is thick with flying critters. Wasps stroll back from their foray into the street, after chasing and sticking their stingers into Charmaine the Terrible Turncoat. They don’t harm the man even though he’s trying his best to harm them. He’s only doing his job. No animosity from either side. Except for a couple of scabies. Without allegiance of any sort, they make their way quickly, underneath layers of skin, to nestle and breed. One has already done the deed to Charmaine on her hurried way out. She’ll be itchy as sin and burning like hell before long. 

Hip Hip Hooray. 

***

Epilogue

There were casualties and deaths. Of course there were. That’s war for you. But the magical outcome of the battle was such that our enchanted immunity saved the day. And not only that: the building was condemned. Nothing could be done to rid the place of the pestilence that was us. Proud as punch, we were.

And to add to our joy, the courts deemed Charmaine responsible and ordered her to pay costs and a healthy (or unhealthy for her) fine of thousands of pounds.

Bang Goes her Business. Serve her Right.