The Lower Strangling Chronicles
I could only dream of living in a place like this, Archie Adams thought to himself as he dragged his cart of useless tat into the quintessential village of Lower Strangling, admiring the ancient cottages on either side of him.
He hoped to flog some of the junk in his cart to the lucky people who lived here, although he knew it would be a miracle if anyone bought the castoffs he was trying to sell.
Archie spotted a man in a Harris Tweed suit lying face down on the tarmac road, with what appeared to be a pool of blood by his head.
The junk dealer ground to a halt and approached the stranger.
“Are you alright, son?” Archie said, crouching down close to the man’s head.
Archie scratched his own, not really sure what to do.
He gently nudged the body to ensure it was alive.
Sure enough, the body jolted into life, startling Archie, who took a step back or two.
The man eased himself off the ground and brushed the loose bits of tarmac off his clothes.
He scanned his surroundings, a frown on his face.
“You might need a plaster on that, son,” Archie said, wincing at the considerably nasty gash on the man’s left temple.
The man turned towards Archie and squinted at him. “I’m sorry, do you know where this is?”
Archie chuckled and gestured towards the cottages around him. “This would be Lower Strangling.”
The stranger stood with arms akimbo and examined the buildings. “I don’t actually know why I’ve come here.”
Archie guffawed. “Yeah, I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”
He offered the man a hand. “Archie Adams. Don’t live here, can’t afford to. I’m hoping to flog this old hogwash to the locals.”
The man shook Archie’s hand. “I see. I am- I’m not sure.”
“Not sure,” Archie said, cackling. “Some parents you’ve got if you’ve got this far in life without knowing your name.”
The junk dealer did a double-take and stared wide-eyed at the gash on the man’s head, his mouth agape.
The man grimaced at Archie. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, possibly,” Archie said, eyeing the stranger’s injury. “You really need to get that checked out.”
The man noticed Archie pointing to the side of his head and touched his temple.
It was wet and stung severely.
Archie winced once more as he witnessed the man touch his wound.
The man examined the wet liquid on his finger.
“Ah,” the man said. “That’s not so good.”
“I wouldn’t say so, no,” Archie said, grabbing the man’s arm and dragging him down the road. “Let’s go down the pub and call a doctor, shall we?”
Archie glanced at his clock. Only a minute had passed since he first saw the strange man, but somehow it was the longest minute of his life.
The man stumbled after Archie, rubbing his skin as he observed the scenery around him.
“In we go, son,” Archie said, pushing open the door to Lower Strangling’s pub, the Hangman’s Noose, and dragging the man in.
The inside of the pub was cosy and dark, with patrons cramped together on small wooden tables.
“Better than lying in the middle of the road outside, ain’t it?” Archie said.
The man nodded, observing his quaint surroundings.
Archie espied a table at the far end of the pub underneath a dartboard, and pulled his companion along as they inched towards it.
He glanced at an old portrait of a rotund man yawning on the wall and laughed.
“Whey hey! That brightens the place up a bit,” Archie said, pointing at the portrait. “Well, sort of.”
Eventually, they arrived at the table, and Archie squeezed into the seat closest to the wall.
“Perhaps I came here to have a drink and tripped outside,” the man said, observing the wooden beams above his head.
“Yeah. Very old-fashioned, innit? Rustic,” Archie said, examining the notepad and pencil that came with the menu. “You won’t find a QR code here.”
“No,” the man said, gawping at the menu.
“Choose whatever you want, son, I’ll pay for it,” Archie said, examining his menu. “So long as it’s not the Steak, mind.”
The man ran his finger down the menu, scrutinising the various options.
Archie lay back in his seat. “Any memories come flooding back, yet?”
“Unfortunately not,” the man said, still fixated on the menu. “The cod and chips seem delectable.”
Archie examined the clothes of the man before him. “You’re certainly well off. That outfit probably cost at least a grand, I’d say.”
The man gazed down at his smart attire. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”
“That watch looks pretty pricey and all,” Archie said, pointing at the Omega timepiece on the man’s wrist.
The man analysed the intricate miniature clock. “Indeed. Rather pretty, isn’t it?”
“I’d say you’re a pretty distinguished gentleman,” Archie said, jotting something down on the notepad. “So I think you probably have a similarly distinguished name, sort of like-“
“Hubert!” A woman called from the other side of the pub.
Archie smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Hubert,” the woman said again, arriving at Archie’s table. “There you are, I was wondering where you were.”
The man gawped at the woman. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s me, Sarah Peterson. I’m going to interview you about your career,” Sarah said, smiling at the man who could be called Hubert.
The man frowned and gazed at the carpet beneath his feet.
Sarah noticed the patch of blood on the side of his head, making her gasp and stumble backwards.
“Gosh, your head!” Sarah said, pointing at his injury. “Are you alright?”
The man leaned in closer to Archie. “Is she trustworthy?”
Sarah grimaced at the two men, unsure what was happening.
Archie took a glance at Sarah before returning to the man. “Yeah, I think so. She seems familiar. Possibly famous in some circles.”
The man gazed up at Sarah. “I’m fine, thank you. So you’re going to interview me about my career?”
Sarah smiled and nodded. “Correct. We arranged it a week ago.”
“So my career is important enough to be discussed on the news,” the man said.
Sarah tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “I would say so. Well, the Guardian specifically.”
The man stared at his menu. “The Guardian. Yes. I think I can remember that.”
Sarah touched the base of her neck as she squinted at Hubert. “Sorry, are you sure you’re ok?”
“He should be once we get his memories back, ma’am,” Archie said. “I found him by the side of the road. Seems that nasty cut of his has screwed up his noggin.”
Sarah’s eyes and mouth opened wider in unison. “Oh, so you’re an amnesiac?”
Hubert scratched his head. “Possibly, yes.”
“We’ll certainly need to get your memories back before you see Samuel,” Sarah said, sitting on a chair and bringing it closer to Hubert.
Hubert’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Samuel?”
Sarah sighed and rolled your eyes. “Samuel runs the B&B down the road. He was transferred to you after Scamander Trout was imprisoned.”
Hubert glanced up at the dartboard on the wall. “So Samuel is my… client?”
Archie decided to leave Hubert and Sarah to it, so he got up and took his order to the barman.
Sarah nodded at Hubert. “He is.”
Hubert stared into the middle distance. “And who is Scamander Trout?”
“Samuel’s previous psychiatrist before he was arrested for murder,” Sarah said. “All his clients were transferred to you.”
Hubert pointed to his chest. “So I’m a psychiatrist?”
“Sort of, yes,” Sarah said. “Technically, you’re a psychologist.”
Hubert’s eyes widened as the image of someone hitting him over the head with a blunt instrument flashed in his mind.
His face grew pale, his eyes bulged, and his mouth drew open.
Sarah’s eyebrows drew closer. “Are you ok, Hubert?”
Hubert slowly rose from his seat. “Sorry, I need to go.”
Before Sarah could stop him, the psychologist pushed through the various patrons and ran out of the pub.
“Hubert,” Sarah said, but it was no use.
Archie returned to the table clutching two pints of Throckmorton Ale.
He stopped and stared at the empty chair that Hubert had just vacated.
“Oh no,” Archie said, clocking Sarah. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said. “I was helping him jog his memory, and he ran out.”
Archie sighed, putting the two beer glasses onto the table. “We’d better find him then. Come on.”
The junk dealer beckoned Sarah to follow him, and they vacated the pub to find Hubert.
“Somehow, the idea of him being a psychologist visiting a client nearby terrified him, the poor man,” Sarah said.
Archie chuckled. “Yeah, I’d have the same reaction if I found out I was a psychologist, I’m just happy wandering around flogging off tat.”
Sarah nodded, not sure what else to do.
“Now then,” Archie said, scanning his surroundings, “where could he possibly be?”
Archie and Sarah strolled past the church wall, with St Gerald the Damned behind it.
“Perhaps he simply realised he was late and went to Samuel anyway,” Sarah said. “The Bates B&B is in the woods a few miles outside the village.”
Archie glanced at St Gerald’s churchyard and saw a familiar-looking man cowering beside a grave.
“Oh no,” Archie said, pointing at Hubert. “There he is.”
Hubert clocked his pursuers and gasped.
He became a small ball, tucked tightly behind a headstone, but it was useless.
“Now, come on,” Archie said as he finally approached Hubert. “You can’t run away from who you are forever.”
“I could,” Hubert said. “I’d simply assume a new identity and be none the wiser.”
He eyed a small wooden door embedded in the grass next to him.
Sarah sighed. “We can postpone the interview if you’d like, and take you to a hospital.”
Hubert shuffled backwards, his eyes almost popping out of his sockets. “No, I can’t. My memories might come back fully.”
He clutched the small circular knob attached to the door.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Sarah said, reaching an arm out to Hubert. “We just use that for storage. There’s nothing in there except junk and Spiders.”
A toothy grin appeared on Archie’s face as he rubbed his hands. “Anything you’re happy to get rid of?”
Sarah grimaced at Archie. “I’ll talk to Simon about it.”
Archie chuckled with glee. “Great.”
Hubert crawled backwards towards the wall. “I know what happened to me. This Samuel person hit me over the head with a stone.”
Sarah bent her torso and sighed. “I’m sorry that happened to you, but you can’t escape from who you are forever.”
Hubert stood up and tried to run away, but Archie grabbed his arms.
“Now, now, this is silly,” Archie said. “Once that’s healed, you’ll be fine.”
Hubert tried pushing the junk dealer before trying to punch him.
“Oh, you want it to be like that?” Archie said. “Ok, then.”
Archie went to punch Hubert in the face.
The two men got into a scrap, much to Sarah’s irritation.
“Whoa, whoa, break it up,” Sarah said, physically placing herself between the two men. “This isn’t helping.”
Archie landed one final punch right into Hubert’s wound, who buckled to the ground, groaning.
Sarah stood over him, arms akimbo. “Come on, Hubert, stand up and turn around slowly. You really need to get that wound treated.”
Hubert was silent for a moment before obeying Sarah’s orders.
“Fine,” Hubert said. “I suppose I handled the toils of being a psychologist before I lost my memories. I should be able to handle them afterwards.”
Sarah smiled at the psychologist. “That’s the spirit.”
Sarah noticed something glistening in Archie’s pockets as Hubert stumbled out of the churchyard with her and Archie.
“Are those my house keys?” Sarah said, glaring at Archie.
Archie removed the keys from his pocket and gawped at them. “What, these? Nah, they’re just some old cobblers I got from a bin earlier, but you can have ‘em for twenty quid if you want.”
Sarah snatched the keys from Archie’s hand and placed them in her pockets.
“Hey, that’s theft, that is!” Archie said, pointing at the keys.
Sarah’s nostrils flared as her eyes dug into the junk dealer’s soul, which made him give up and shrink into a ball.
The three strolled back to Sarah’s house, a 16th-century manor House known as No. 1 Economy Drive, from where Sarah could call an Ambulance.
A few weeks later, the strange man found by the side of the road’s wound fully healed, and Dr. Hubert Milton, renowned Oxford psychologist, returned to the world in all his glory.
As such, he returned to Lower Strangling to complete the interview with Sarah, which he had planned for the day of his accident.
“There was nothing wrong with Dr. Trout when we first met him,” Hubert said, sipping his Earl Grey tea with almond milk and two sugars. “He had an infectious personality, and we all succumbed to his charisma.”
“So, did you not suspect what he was doing with his clients?” Sarah asked, her hands gripping her notebook.
“No, it was a shock to everyone at the university when the police arrested him,” Hubert said. “Many of us were haunted by how little we really knew him.”
Sarah’s husband, Dave, entered the room with a steaming cup of tea and handed it to Sarah.
She gave him a kiss, and he silently slipped back through the door while she listened intently to Hubert’s story.
“How did you feel when the Police referred his clients to you following his arrest?” Sarah said, her pencil digging deeply into her notebook. “Scamander Trout was notorious for having the most serious mental health patients.”
Hubert leaned back into his armchair. “Yes, and the rumours were true,” Hubert said. “I didn’t initially want my memories to return, because I was still afraid of them.”
Sarah’s pencil broke as she wrote, making her grumble.
“Here,” Hubert said, handing her a pen. “Seeing you write with a pencil and paper is quite novel.”
“Yes, well, sometimes the old ways are the best,” Sarah said, sipping her tea. “But Lower Strangling isn’t entirely stuck in the past, my husband works for Britain’s leading technology company.”
Hubert smiled as he sipped his tea. “Anyway, I was afraid of Scamander’s former clients, and they were scared of me.”
“That’s why Samuel Bates hit you with a stone,” Sarah said. “He didn’t want to continue with his therapy.”
Hubert nodded. “Yes. I’m unsure what would have happened to me if that beggar hadn’t been wandering through the village when he did.”
Sarah grimaced at Hubert. “He wasn’t a beggar, was he?”
Hubert removed the final dregs of his tea from his cup. “Well, he made a living selling whatever he could find on the street.”
Sarah sat back in her seat. “I suppose he was planning to sell my house keys.”
Hubert laughed. “Yes, exactly.”
He glanced outside, at the mist slowly rolling through the Botanic Gardens next to the manor.
“Autumn’s fast approaching, isn’t it?” Hubert said.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “And I welcome it, autumn’s my favourite season.”
Hubert nodded before relaxing in his seat. “Is that all you needed from me?”
Sarah flicked through her notebook. “Pretty much. Although it would be interesting to hear about your experiences with Scamander’s clients.”
“Right, yes, ok,” Hubert said. “I suppose I’ve got some time before I give Samuel another go. I’m hoping he’ll enjoy my deck of cards.”
He patted the square lump in his left pocket.
Sarah laughed. “I’m glad we managed to get your memories back.”
Hubert sighed, gazing at a bouquet in a glass bottle on a wooden cabinet. “Yes. I’m glad they came back to.”
Sarah and Hubert flew through the rest of the interview, and finally, the psychologist was ready to face Samuel Bates once again.
He got out of his seat and bid farewell to Sarah.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” Sarah said, opening the door to Hubert.
“No, thank you,” Hubert said, a warm smile on his face. “Thank you for everything.”
Sarah watched as he descended the garden path and disappeared through the duck egg blue gate.
She then closed the door and eased herself into her armchair.
Yes, Sarah thought, sipping the rest of her tea, I did a good thing.
The Robinsonverse 