Booby Trap

Booby Trap

I had just turned sixteen when my first good deed took place – although I guess some folk won’t quite see it that way.

Anyway, I was in my customary attire of checked shirt and tight jeans dripping frayed hems over cowboy boots.

I was a very pretty girl as everyone considered it their duty to inform me, envying my glossy hair, big blue eyes, lovely skin, long legs – blah, blah, the compliments never stopped coming.

However, there was one part of me that no-one remarked on, as if it, or they, were unmentionable, like a secret.

I was developing fast, but my boobs were developing faster, blossoming in fact. The rest of me couldn’t keep up. Guys liked to look at my face but in a split second their eyes had lowered. They all did it. Most of them didn’t even bother speaking to my face and preferred to address my boobs.

On that fateful day, I hooked my thumbs in my jeans pockets and began to saunter along the leafy country lane. As always, I glanced back at the kitchen window and waved to my mother, who, as always, stabbed a finger at me: Be careful!

It was like being brainwashed: don’t talk to strangers; don’t accept lifts from strange men; don’t accept sweets (for goodness sake!), and if you think you are being followed come straight home.

This last piece of advice was really dumb. Of course, that wouldn’t work. If some psychopath followed you home then they’d know where you lived. Obviously, you’d go to a public place where there were lots of people so that you could get help.

Well, I didn’t need help; I could figure it out for myself.

The farmers were busy harvesting so I was on my guard for heavy machinery. I recognised some of the men who worked on the farm, and when one of them grinned at me as he boomed past in a red combine harvester, I grinned back cheekily. His eyes immediately locked on to my boobs as if they’d got magnets attached to them. Yeah, well, they were certainly eye-catching. Maybe I should enter them in one of the agricultural shows. They were bound to win something.

I blamed my mother. Well, I had to blame someone. I reckoned my boobs had been fattened up by all the fresh produce she brought home. She worked in a farm shop and everything we ate was produced locally, from the vegetables and fruit to the homemade chutneys, the conserves, the granary breads and rolls, the meat and dairy. I loved that shop. My life was pretty good all things considered.

There was just one problem.

The problem came in the form of a man called Eppy Dreadnought. Well, everyone said that he just kind of came out wrong; at least that’s what everyone politely intimated. You had to be so careful nowadays in case you said something that was politically incorrect. I mean… well, actually, he was the most revolting, obnoxious and lascivious piece of human excrement that you could ever have the misfortune to meet. I just about bumped into him every day, somewhere or other. He was always lurking around, a loner, no-hoper, good-for-nothing loser – and to be fair, that was pretty much what all the villagers thought. No-one knew how he survived, what he lived on, benefits and all that. There were stories going round, of course. Some of the locals had known him from school. In those days, he used to stand quietly on his own, aloof and watchful. He didn’t mix with the other kids, not even when they were all maturing and exploring alcohol, marijuana and each other.

I was told that he was regarded as being harmless yet it was best to keep out of his way. His mother was dead and no-one had a clue where his father had disappeared to.

A huge green tractor rumbled past, its massive wheels much higher than me. The driver was wearing earphones so I guessed it must be noisy in the cab.

As he passed me, he waved, and his eyes fell to my boobs.

I waved back, smiling.

I resumed my musings. Ah yes, Eppy Dreadnought. He was definitely a weirdo. He looked like one too. He was angular and moved awkwardly as if he’d landed badly after falling off a cliff. So he tended to look at you sideways, and he often sneered, showing rotten teeth.

He always wore the same faded black coat, the same filthy black trousers with the same tattered black shoes, the soles of which had separated from the top of the shoe. I really didn’t know why he bothered wearing them or how he even kept them on. He smelled of urine. His face was unshaven, his puce beard and long hair unkempt and matted. But his vivid blue eyes were alert and watched you like a predator in pursuit of prey. Mothers grabbed their kids when he walked past, cats and dogs ran back to the safety of their homes, while men sized him up and wondered if they could do something about him. People quietly said they wished he wasn’t around, and a few hinted at him disappearing… a stray bullet from a farmer’s gun perhaps. That would do the trick.

But nothing he did gave anyone ammunition, and although everyone wanted him out of the village, they couldn’t find a reason. And it was commonly observed that he’d never been caught harming anyone.

Yet, Mrs Humphries’ cat had gone missing and it wasn’t the only one. Dogs were reported missing too, and kids’ rabbits had disappeared from their garden hutches.

It was impossible to prove it was Eppy who was responsible for causing so much misery, yet somehow everyone just knew it was him. It wasn’t right that mothers were so afraid for their children that they had to keep them indoors when they should have been running free in the leafy country lanes.

If only there was a modicum of evidence they could report him to the police and hopefully get him removed from the neighbourhood, or preferably to another country.

I stepped onto the grass verge as another combine harvester rumbled past, a yellow one this time. The driver looked at my boobs and threw something to me which I failed to catch.

I picked up the shiny object from the side of the road. It was a sweet, a toffee. I waved at him and slid it in my pocket.

Black bulbous clouds were heavy overhead and I noticed that same driver lean forward in his cab and look up at the sky.

Today’s harvesting might soon be coming to a close.

And, as if by some osmotic signal, all the combine harvesters and tractors were no more. Everywhere fell silent and the sky began to darken.

I walked to the end of the lane and decided to take a shortcut back home through one of the wheat fields. I liked to walk through the long stalks, carefully of course, so that I didn’t trample them or part them unnecessarily. I also liked the feel of the wheat brushing against my thighs and the prickly tops of the ears stroking the palms of my hands.

I was aware that there was a busy combine harvester in front of me and that I was in its path. But that was okay; it was an acre or so away and I had plenty of time to move. It was the only one left working and no doubt the driver was keen to get to the end of the row and back to the farm.

But then, just a few yards in front of me, there he stood. Eppy Dreadnought. His stooped form was facing me, watching me intently in a way that spooked me. The combine harvester was behind him, churning on regardless. I had a feeling that Eppy didn’t know; he had other things on his mind, all of them to do with me.

He began his awkward amble towards me, his stupid clumping feet and flappy shoes flattening stalks of ripe yellow wheat. That annoyed me. There really was no need to be so thoughtless.

He stopped in front of me and sneered. He gazed at my boobs and couldn’t take his eyes off them.

Meanwhile, the combine harvester was coming towards us at some speed, the driver intent on finishing for the day, fully focused on the job. I was sure that he hadn’t seen us. Rain was threatening, he needed to get back to the farm – and I needed to get out of his way.

Suddenly, Eppy made a grab for me; well, those parts of me that were just below my neck.

I was ready.

“Here,” I said, and I opened my hand and offered the toffee to him.

He stared at the sweet and was puzzled, deflected from his purpose. He snatched it from my hand, turning it around in his grubby fingers and staring blankly at it.

I ran. I didn’t turn back when I heard him scream. I didn’t turn back to see him churn through the cutters of the combine harvester. I didn’t see his blood splatter over the ears of wheat or his body become a mangled mess of corn stalks, tattered clothes and sole-less shoes.

As I ran, my boobs seemed to bounce in glee. When I was pretty certain that no-one was watching, I patted them.

We were going to have a very interesting life together me and my boobs, and because of them, the village was at long last rid of Eppy Dreadnought.

That was my first good deed.