The Tale of Abigail Fig

BANG! BUZZZZZZZZZ!

  Percy Pudders wallowed in his pathetic, rusting apartment. His mind drowned by the deafening noise above, as well as his own self-pity. Big, fat Percy Pudders; too scared to approach the man, who lived above him, to ask him to stop drilling and playing music at 1am on a Monday. No. Percy would sit and take it. Reminiscent of every aspect of his entire life.

  It was Percy’s 40th birthday. No big celebrations, though. Not even any cards in the post. His mother was his only family and she was long gone. He missed her. He had no friends. It was possibly the saddest birthday anyone has ever had. All he wanted at the end of such a depressing day was a good night’s sleep. But the man upstairs did not care. At all hours would Percy’s ears be subdued to the buzzing, banging and humping.

  Percy’s flat was a tiny one bedroom, situated in East Lumpville, a poor forgotten about place in Yorkshire. It was his home town. He was born there and he knew, all too certainly, that he would die there. He did not stay because he liked Lumpville. Nor was it because he liked the people. He only stayed because he did not know where else to go. The only thing he had ever liked about this place had been his family farm. But his mother had lost that when he was young. Maybe if Percy had been more capable he could have helped his mother to run it and then Percy could have grown up to be a farmer, like his dad. He would have been happy if that was the way it had gone. But that’s not the way it had gone. Instead of becoming Farmer Percy, he became someone else. And it was all because of a nickname.

  When Percy was young, he received a name that stuck. ‘Mercy Percy’. It was given to him by a boy called Tom O’Falley, who was a mean, rough kid from his class. Tom had awarded some of Lumpville’s most infamous nicknames: Laura Sullivan had received ‘JAWra’, on account of a strong jawline; Cody Summers got Groady Cody; Matthew Sullivan became Scatty Matty. But none quite stuck like Mercy Percy.

  The real problem with having a nickname, is people knowing the story behind it. And the story behind Mercy Percy was the worst to know of all, as far as Percy was concerned.

  Precisely 33 years before his 40^th birthday, Percy celebrated his 7^th. When that day begun he had been considered, with no inclinations otherwise, to be a normal, happy young boy. By the end of it, he was an outcast. The party had been raucous, as intended. Almost every child, his age from the village, had been invited. There were four clowns roaming the grounds of The Pudders’s Family Farm, amidst the hoards of children that never stayed still. Their attention was caught by the clowns. The food. The bouncy castle.

  So much had been unveiled for Percy by his mother, who, whilst watching the party play out from her kitchen window, noticed a little girl sitting alone. Her slight form was perched on a boulder in the corner of the enormous garden. The girl was Abigail Fig. Percy’s mother knew exactly who she was. Everyone in town knew little Abigail Fig. The child was afflicted with a condition that kept her small. Really small. Whilst her friends and peers grew, Abigail remained the same size she had been when she was three.

  Percy heard his mother call his name. He ran to her immediately, being the complicitly well-behaved boy that he was.

 “Yes mummy”, he said, looking up at her adoringly. He was one of those children who trusted adults. He had had no experiences that taught him to feel otherwise.

 “My darling”, his gentle mother said, softly, “ why don’t you ask Abigail to join in with you and your friends?”

 “Ok.”

  And with that, Percy shot off towards Abigail. Not a natural runner, and heavy set even at that age, but an energetic child nonetheless. He believed his mother knew what was best, and he wanted to please her. He approached the little loner with his hand outstretched, and offered to share some of his sweets. She accepted his offer, so he joined her and the pair sat, silently chewing for a moment. His mother smiled at the picture she saw. She had been worried about that poor girl and all the big kids running around near her. Looking at her nestled next to big old Percy made her feel more at ease. He would protect her, she thought. Percy was a good boy. She turned away and retreated into the house, away from the window.

 “Do you like the red ones?”, Percy asked his new friend.

 “Yes”, Abigail said, sharply.

 “Oh. Reds are my favourite. What are your favourites?”

 “All of them.”

 “Oh”, Percy paused for a moment, thinking. “Which ones don’t you like?”

 “None of them.”

  “Oh. I lik-“

 “SSSHHH! You are really annoying”, Abigail almost squealed as she snapped at him.

  Percy was stunned to silence. He looked around for an adult because, in his world, you couldn’t be mean like that. This is the moment when Abigail should be told to ‘be nice’. But there were no grown-ups, so Percy took it upon himself.

 “You know”, he began, with the first notion of anxiety he was to experience in life, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

 “I can say whatever I like.”

 “Why?”

 “Because I’m small. No one ever tells me off.”

 “But… you should still be nice.”

 “Give me your sweets.”

Percy looked down at his remaining handful. Mostly red.

 “I can give you some.”

 “No. I want ALL of them.”

Percy closed up. His eyes started to tear. His face turned the colour of his favourite sweet.

 “I’m going to get my mum”, Percy said in a pitiful sulk, as he stood and walked away. Shoulders hunched; spirits punched.

 “No you’re not”, Abigail said, angrily. She lunged one of her tiny legs towards him and hooked Percy’s ankle with her foot, sending him tumbling to the floor. Before Percy could even lift his bloody nose from the concrete, the miniature menace was on him. She dug her narrow knees into his hefty neck.

  At that moment, Percy realized that he could lift himself up and throw her off, but he was worried he would hurt her if he did that. Too sweet for his own good, was the fuel that formed his nature. So he stayed, squashed, pleading with a pixie for his freedom. The other children’s attention was soon drawn by the scuffle. One by one, they wandered over, until nearly every one of the fifty children that attended had formed a circle which enveloped them. No body helped. Some of the children were confused by what they were seeing. The rest found it amusing.

  They started to tease him.

 “Come on Percy, can’t fight off a leprechaun?”, yelled Tom O’Falley, who had a scary look in his eyes.

 “Yeah”, joined in Archie Bould, “and a girl one, as well.”

  Laughter erupted. Even the girls got involved.

 “Do you give in Percy?”, asked Theresa Finnigan, as she patted her hand on Abigail’s insignificant shoulder.

 “Say ‘mercy’”, instructed Archie.

 “Yeah”, Tom O’Falley’s eyes dawned upon an idea, “say ‘mercy’ Percy.”

  Everyone laughed. They began to repeat it. Then, it turned into a chant. Mercy Percy. Mercy Percy. Mercy Percy….

  33 years on, it still hurt for him to be reminded of it. People still called him that. It had stuck. And when people asked how he got the nickname, someone always seemed to be on hand to tell the tale of Abigail Fig. On the surface of this tale, there was a boy, ridiculed for being good. For being sweet and patient. Everyone was blinded by the muddy surface and never noticed what lie at the heart of the tale: Who was Abigail Fig, really? A question that remained unanswered. Percy never heard anything about her after that day. He was glad. That had been the worst moment of his life.

 It didn’t get much better, either. He became the target for everyone in the village. ‘Hello Mercy’ or ‘There goes Mercy’, they’d say. Then laugh. Mercy retreated from the world. He shied away from experiences and did not live a fulfilling life thereafter.

BANG! BUZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

  Percy struggled to hear his thoughts. He imagined Abigail above him, destroying his self-belief. Like the man above, she did not heed to his complaints. They carried on, unconcerned with Percy’s feelings. He imagined the man upstairs to be a big, lumbering man with the same evil intentions as Abigail.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

  What if he had thrown her off? Would his life have turned out differently? He basked in the warm feeling it gave him to imagine standing up to the trifling little girl. The feeling was fleeting. He knew he’d missed his chance with her. But he could stand up for himself now.

BANG!

  He could ask the man upstairs to stop. If he refused, he would argue. If the man became threatening, then Percy planned to punch him in the face.

BANG!

  Enough was enough!

BANG!

  Percy got up, opened his door and marched up the stairs toward his destiny. He knocked loudly on the door that hid the source of the painful noise, which had tormented him most nights over the past year. He waited. There was no response. He knocked again, but louder. No response still. So, he banged the door three times with his fist. The music stopped. Suddenly, Percy remembered himself. His buzz from the idea of retribution had faded. His heart began to beat, as he heard the latch turn. He thought about running, but knew it was too late. He had to face this person. But he would give up at the first sight of resistance. He would not argue. He certainly would not punch them.

  The door opened tentatively to reveal…. No one. Percy looked around but there was no one visible. He heard a cough and looked down to where it came from. He could not believe his eyes. It was not a man who lived here. There stood the undeniable form of Abigail Fig. Taller than she had been when he last saw her. But herself nonetheless.

 “Hello”, she said in a voice that Percy was almost believed to be genuine, “can I help you?”.

 He stuttered and made a couple of noises, trying to speak. He had not prepared for this. His life flashed before his eyes. His regretful life. All of it. All because of this little devil. Standing there, pretending to be a good person. But Percy knew her game. He couldn’t give her a chance. He had engaged her in conversation once before, only to be blind-sided. Not this time Abigail Fig. He pulled his huge leg behind him, then, with everything he had, swung it forward until his foot collided with her little chest.

  Now, you would say, if you saw her, that she is probably as light as a feather. But it was clear, by how far she flew, that she was even lighter than she looked. Her mini body took off across her front room. Clear of the couch and the T.V. Straight through the window. SMASH!

  As she disappeared out of sight, Percy became calm and found his words.

 “Good bye Little Fig.”

  Retribution!