Rehabilitated: Episode Four
By Martin Smith
Previous Episodes
‘Two streets, pig’s arse,’ BB muttered as he finally saw the street sign for Woodland Drive ahead. He’d taken an hour to reach the first intersection after Trot Tower and then another hour to arrive at the second. ‘Who the hell designed this place?’ As he turned the corner, he came upon a pile of chopped wood; no, not a pile but twin mountains, as high and wide and far as his eyes could see along both sides of Woodland Drive.
Someone’s been busy, BB thought.
On the footpath before BB, there sat an old man: forlorn, thin, ragged and slumped-shouldered. In one hand he held a smouldering cigarette; in the other hand, a mighty axe. An upturned hat rested at his feet.
Best keep clear of him, BB thought.
BB attempted to avoid eye contact and tip-toed past the axeman, but the old man raised his head and looked at BB and with a hoarse voice said, ‘Firewood, sir?’
‘Ummm … no, thank you,’ BB said. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush.’
‘Oh, OK.’ And the man’s shoulders slumped further, and BB thought he heard a sniffle.
‘Hey, hey, buddy. Chin up. No need to let the world get you down.’
But the man burst into tears. BB stepped forward, took the sobbing man in his arms and gave him a consoling hug.
‘There, there. Believe me, pal, there are other fairy-tale characters worse off than you. What’s your name?’
The man released a loud sniffle and said, ‘I … I … I’m Woody.’ And a howl set off another round of sobbing.
BB pushed the old man away until he held him at arm’s length and said, ‘Not Woody Wood-Woodsman the Woods’ woodsman?’
‘Err, yes.’ The man wiped his nose with his sleeve.
‘By God, Woody, it’s me. BB Wolfe.’
The old man froze in BB’s arms and fear replaced the tears in his eyes. ‘W … W … What are you doing here?’
‘I’m recently out of prison. I’ve been rehabilitated, and I’m heading to 122 Woodland Drive to pay my respects.’
‘You’re not here to hurt me?’ The woodsman dropped to his knees.
‘No, no. I should though, given what you did to me, but, no, like I said, I’ve been rehabilitated. Look, I knew all about that little insurance scam you and Red’s grandmother cooked up. The whole setup: pretend the wolf ate the grandmother, frame him, incarcerate him and have the grandmother disappear, and then you join her discreetly a couple of months later with the moolah.’
‘I’m sorry. I needed the money.’
‘Where did you disappear to?’
‘Disappear? Me? Nowhere. As soon as Grannie got her wrinkly, liver-spotted hands on the loot, she shot through with the lot. I heard she worked her way through her bucket list. You know, like slaying dragons, kissing frogs, seducing fabulists and all that other clichéd end-of-life crisis crap those oldies do when they’re on their last legs and only one mediocre fairy tale (at best) away from canonical oblivion. Then I heard she underwent the knife—extensively—and bought herself a vanity mirror. Last I heard, she now spends her days pouting before it and asking it, “Mirror, mirror, who’s the most beautiful hexacentenarian in the land?”’
‘Tough break, Woods. Say, what’s with all the chopped wood?’
‘It’s mine. After Grannie deserted me, I needed to earn a living, so I tendered for the contract to clear the Woods for Piggy’s hyper-development. I chopped wood for a year, day and night. I barely ate or slept. Then I set up shop and, with a monopoly on home heating, waited for the big bucks to roll in.’
‘What happened?’
‘Climate Change.’
‘Climate what?’
‘Change. It’s just one of the many, many changes that have occurred while you were serving time in prison. It’s some bullshit phenomenon Piggy came up with when in political office to strike fear into the masses and enable him to flog off some range of eco-bricks he’d patented. He got the weather bureau to fudge the readings and the disc jockeys to enunciate “It sure is hot out there, today!” every five minutes. And the people swallowed it—hook, line and sinker. I’ve not sold a stick of wood since, despite freezing my nuts off every day as I await a customer. Hey, sure you don’t want to buy a cubic metre? It’s premium stuff.’
‘I’m sure. But can I purchase that axe of yours?’
‘My axe? Ummm … I’m not sure about that. We’ve been through a lot together, and it is a priceless relic in the Canon, after all. It’d take a lot of money to convince me to part with it. How much are you willing to offer?’
‘Best I can do is a tenner.’
‘Deal. And I’ll throw in a sackful of kindling for you for good measure.’
BB dropped the crumpled note into Woody’s upturned hat, and Woody passed over the axe.
‘Well, Woody, I best push on,’ BB said as he gripped and tested the axe handle.
Woody leant back and raised his arms to protect himself. ‘You sure you’re not still angry with me, BB? You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’
‘No, Woods. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m going to forgive you.’
‘Forgive me?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Forgiveness is integral to me if I’m to achieve full rehabilitation.’
‘Thanks, BB.’
‘No problem. Say, before I go, can I bum a cigarette off you? It’s been five hundred years since my last one, and I’ve craved one every day since.’
‘Sure.’ Woody offered his pack, and BB pulled a cigarette out and placed it in the corner of his mouth.
‘Gotta light?’
‘Sure, here.’
Woody struck a match and held it as BB leant forward and lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and savoured its calming effect until his eyes watered and his face reddened, and he released a spluttered cough.
‘No, best not. Filthy habit,’ BB said. And he threw his cigarette on the woodpile behind Woody.
A breeze stirred, and the pile smouldered.
Woody jumped to his feet. ‘Oh My God! What have you done?’ He scrambled up the woodpile towards what were now emerging flames. ‘Oh My God! BB! Do something!’
‘What do you suggest? A huff? A puff? Methinks not. Tat-ta, you duplicitous dolt. If you’ve an axe to grind—oh, sorry, that’s right, you no longer have one—might I suggest you take it up with the fabulist.’
***
