1644
DAY SIXTEEN: MONDAY
Now that was weird! What happened there? Last thing I remember, I was being led home by a beautiful woman, and then - I fell asleep? And - ow! Do stop shouting, whoever that is! My head -
Oh great! I missed most of yesterday! What am I supposed to do now? I bloody hope Flit collected the - oh wait, there’s a big pile of money bags on the dresser. Right, well - who was that woman by the way? I must know her, obviously. Otherwise it would’ve been weird, almost supernatural, one might say - but please don’t though. I’m already - discombobulated? What a big word that is. If only I knew what the bloody Hell it meant? Her name was Maggie? Maggie Trussed? Weird.
Right, well, I need to move that money to - oww! My finger! Where’s my sodding finger?! What bastard took my - oh right. I remember now. That’s why I got drunk. Shit. Shittery shit. In fact, shitsticks, shoved right up the Devil’s arse -
And it’s still bloody raining! Typical. Typical of what, I’m not entirely sure, but look, I woke up with a screaming hangover and a missing bloody finger! Wit, most certainly, has deserted me so far. Okay? Some might say so has dignity, my tempter and various small parts of my brain after that Restorative too. But if they do, can they please do it quietly?
Oww! Who turned up the brightness on the sun! And the glint off the waterlogged streets isn’t helping! How can the sun be so bright when - why am I shouting! Oh, right. Well, sod it. I need some treatment - and I don’t care even if it is raining. Might wash this bloody headache away. Or cure it.
Oh, but let me tell you, sometimes, just sometimes, the chips are down and the wind blows in the wrong direction - which summarily forces one to visit Augustus Winboll, an Apothecary with a reputation.
That reputation isn't flattering, however, so I won’t repeat it.
Look, I’ve got a finger turning green and starting to smell? That can’t be good, not unless I’m starting a new range of smelly fingers for the discerning cannibal - which I’m not, so it needs to be seen to by someone, and that someone, it seems, has to be Winboll.
Winboll’s shop is on Damping Street, just around the corner. You can spot his place - it has the mortar and pestle design adorning the sign outside his shop, with a curious prosthetic hanging from it. I won’t tell you what that prosthetic is, but both men and women have come to buy them - usually for entirely different reasons. That too I won’t go into. Because cock rot is nothing to joke about, I can tell you?
Ah, he’s in - unfortunately, “Augustus? Are you available? It’s Rector Posster?” Here he comes. Like a misshapen mushroom with serving dish shaped ears. Boy, though, you should see his wife? Personally I don’t get how someone as stunning as her goes for that tiny, hunched boulder, but, you know -
“Rector. How may I help?” You know, the way he wrings his hands like that makes my stomach turn? He never washes them you know.
“I have a problem. Someone took my finger.” Oh, the smell!
“Let me see - hmm. Yes. Definitely missing.”
Seriously -
“I know it’s missing, Augustus. In fact it’s blindingly obvious the bloody thing is missing, due to the rough stump that’s left there! Sorry. It’s just - you know?”
“Well, let me see what I can do for it, then. Do you have a preference for material?”
“Umm - for?”
“The new one, of course. I have a nice line in beech? Birch? Ash? Poplar? Oak? No, wait. Don’t think I have any oak left. Difficult to come by, see? It’s not like it grows on trees or anything! Ha!” Oh, God. I forgot his sense of humour. I’d say it’s akin to having your skin slowly peeled off your flesh while someone sings a soft lullaby in your ear, dressed as a hedgehog. Quite descriptive, don't you think? Well, I’m particularly proud of it, so I don't really care what you say anyhow. Look, you’d have to know the man, so - whatever.
“I hadn't though that far ahead, Augustus. I kind of just wanted the pain to stop and the throbbing to drop to the pounding of a mild brick, rather than a big, heavy boulder. And do you have anything for headaches - that doesn't involve drinking the piss of some wild creature, while putting my feet in hawk’s blood?”
“You sure? Robnett’s Hangover Cure is legendary around these parts -“
“Yes, mostly for the outbreak of cholera and dysentery back in the day, but let’s forget that for now? Look, whatever you can do for me, I would be forever grateful. Even drinking piss, if that’s what’s needed. But I draw the line at suppositories, as my bottom is sacred.” It most certainly is, I tell you.
“Hmm. In that case, I have a cataplasm for you - a poultice, if you like? It will help with the stench. Oh, and luckily, these poultices fit nicely into my prostheses -“ Hmm. How convenient. I know you would think I might jump at he chance for one of his false fingers, but there are always a few issues with them. The first is that they look nothing like the thing they’re replacing, and second is that he never varnishes any of them, so they’re rough as houses, and lastly, and most importantly - they’re bloody expensive! But, oh sod it, I’m going to have to aren't I?
“Alright, Augustus. Do your best. And by that I mean your absolutely most perfect. I don't want to walk around with a tiny willie on my hand.”
“Oh, well, okay. But you know phalli are my speciality?”
“I know, Augustus. If I’m paying for the bloody thing, try and get it right, eh?”
“Alright. I suppose so. Look, while I’m doing that, why don’t you try this new headache cure? I warn you, though - it is very fast acting. Oh, and ‘The Management Cannot Be Held Responsible For The Side Effects Of This Product’.”
“That sounded like a disclaimer, Augustus?” Oh, he’s gone. Ah well, in for a thingy, also in for a whatsit. Down the proverbial.
Hmm. Okay, I still have a headache. And there’s a sparrow sitting on that wizard’s wand. Ahh! Now there’s a big black hole! Help! I’m falling into it! It’s sucking me down to a deep dark pit! There are bodies walking around - on fire! There’s burning pitch everywhere! Help me! No! Don’t peck me there! I’m sinking into the rotten sea of despair and - ohh. Jesus, I’m back in the room. And my headaches gone! Wow. That was weird.
“Like it? That’s called ‘Markus Bringlestone’s Hell On Earth’. Instant cure.”
“Was that -“
“Hell? Probably. Never tried it myself, but people do talk about the burning people.” Such is the work of an Apothecary - half magic, half tepid water and one hundred percent bullshit, “Here, try this on, Rector.” Ah! That’s actually much better! Almost like I don't have a missing -
“Bloody Hell, Augustus! I said for it not to be shaped like a willie!”
“Sorry, Rector. You wouldn't ask a wolf not to be a wolf, would you?”
“But - I’m a Rector! I can’t go administering to the elderly with a willie on my hand!”
“I don’t know. Might give some of those old girls a thrill?”
“Right, well I’m only going to give you two thirds for that. Okay?”
“Suppose so.”
“Oh, sod off Augustus! Don’t give me that sob story crap! We both know you’re about to go back upstairs to your wife and get some.” Lucky bastard. Oh, but I’ve got so much to do. I’m going. Besides, I can’t take his toothless grin one more second!
The finger moves okay. It is about three inches long and shaped like a phallus, but it seems to be doing the trick. I can’t smell that God awful odour any more, at least. I need a drink. But then, I always need a drink.
Will this rain ever stop? I mean, it’s not heavy or anything, just irritating. If we’re not careful, the whole of Upper Vaxham’s going to be flooded. Still, as long as there’s a pint at the end of it all, everything will be just hunky dory. Right, and who’s this bloke, when he’s at home? Alright, mate! Ever heard of personal space?
“Hello Rector. You may not remember me? I was the one who bought the Milton? My name’s Sir Oxford Shaw. A collector of history, one might say?”
“Yes, well -“
“I wonder if I can have a word?”
“Okay, how about discombobulated? Don’t know what it means, but I think I heard it the other day -“
“No, I mean a proposition -“
“I’m flattered, but I don’t swing that way. Trish Treyne might give you a handie with a deep voice if you like -“
“I think we may be at cross purposes here.”
“I think you might be right. But a hair of the dog might do me some good?”
“Oh, right. A pint?”
“At least. It was a particularly large and hirsute bloody dog.” Maggie Trussed. Maggie Trussed. Maggie - nope, no matter how many times I repeat her name, I don’t remember anything about her. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a - soft towel of some sort. Look, I’m not quite myself yet. Give me five minutes and a measure of alcohol.
“That’s an - interesting finger you have there?” Forget the comments mate. Hand over the Beer. Ahh! So much better!
“It’s a long story.”
“One you would care to share?”
“Not really. Look, what is it you want, if it’s not bum stuff?” Oh, I’m done with the bloody niceties today! Sod them all! I lost my finger you know? Oh, sod you too.
“Right, well, to the point then. I am a collector. I collect things.”
“So far I understand.”
“And I know churches are always in desperate need of money. More often than not, the Rectors themselves are a bit strapped too.”
“I’m with you.”
“Well, we both know that churches have a secret store, a hidden vault of riches -“
“Look, I don’t know what you’re intimating, but if I had a shit load of stuff hidden, I’d have bloody sold it by now.”
“The church has many arms, does it not? And many factions, like the Catholics -“
“Look! I don’t know you, but you seem like a nice bloke, so I’ll ignore that insult! Thanks for the drink and all, but if you don’t mind, I’ll -“ That’s it! Down that pint! “Take my leave! Good day sir!”
Ah, what the Hell - I’m going to the Church. I’ve got a bottle stashed away from Flit in there somewhere. That’ll do me for today. Hey! I don’t know if you remember, but five days?! Yeah, imagine how you would feel, what with a missing finger, a wooden phallus and five days left to live? Yeah. Thought so. Just have to remember not to scratch my arse with that hand.
Wait, who’s that bloke over there, kneeling by the Church door lock? “Can I help you?” That shocked him. I’d say he looks odd all dressed in black, but every sodding person in this town is bloody well dressed in black. It’s the Puritan fashion, you know? It’s just that this particular individual looks about as suspicious as a - phallic prosthesis on a sodding Rector’s hand! Alright. I’ll get used to it soon. Maybe file it down to a respectable shape? Anyway, that weird bloke’s going now. Let me open this door and try to remember where - who are this lot? “Hey! Who are you lot!” Ah bugger! They’re getting away! Where’s a Clubman when - actually, you know, forget that? I think they must have been after something specific.
The bones! Of course! I was going to take them to the standing stones, before all of this debacle started. The philatory! No, it’s fine. Phew. Well, I better get them moved before anything else goes tits up. Ah, here’s a sack. Shove them in and - there we go! Shovel? Nah, sod it. I’ll dig with my good hand. Better lock the Church up again, though.
Look at those rivers running down the roads?! Bloody ridiculous! And I bet they’re full of - well, you know what. No need to bring down the tone now. But I think we know to what I refer. Oh, alright. Sewage. Happy? No, neither am I.
“Rector!” Oh Jesus Christ in Heaven with a Halo! That nearly scared me to death!
“Mr Cambridge, I think I said all I needed to say back at the -“
“It’s Sir Oxford - Sir Oxford Shaw,” Yeah, like I give two shits right now, “I think there were two or three things unsaid, now we are on our own.”
Great. Now tell me that doesn't sound like a veiled threat, “I can’t stop, Sir Thingy. I need to get these scraps of food out the the poor -“ Oww. If I wasn't such a coward, I’d tell you to get your damned hand off my arm, but, well -
“Really? Then off you go. Rector.” Oh God. That means I do have to go to the poor now. Well, he’ll get suspicious otherwise, I suppose. Maybe I’ll make a circuitous route through my greatest hits. That might lose him. He is following, isn't he?
First place, Rentall Road. See Mrs Threntol - bugger, she’s dead, apparently. Okay, Edias Circle and Mrs Gollvar. Dead as well? Crap. Richard Quanck. Blown up? Damn it. Frimpty Street - demolished in that New Model Army thing. Right, well, erm - Ribald Terrace. Ah! Here we are! Is he still there? Crap. Well, this’ll get him - Morning Marge! Out the back door, over the fence - that got him! Well, providing Marge doesn't blab, of course.
There’s the standing stones! Over there! That’s certainly convenient, isn't it? I see there’s still a mess in this field after those bloody Solstice lot left. Okay, over to the stones. Right now I want these - gnnph - bones buried in this - urghh - hole. There. Like it was always thus. A smart job if I do say so myself! And I am, of course, my greatest promoter! Okay, so it helped that the ground was soft after the rain, but meh, a good job is a good job. Right, I need to get back to the Church before this Sir Redditch ransacks the whole bloody place. A spot of narrative travel, and -
Wait. The Church door! It’s open! Okay, I’ve got two choices right now. One, I go in and confront them, and two, I run like the bloody coward I am! Ah, no, there’s a third option. The tunnel. Brings you right under the Church floor. Lucky that, eh? Listen! You can hear them inside.
“Have you looked in that box?”
“What makes you think I haven’t looked in that box?”
“I don’t know. You might’ve forgot?”
“What, you think I forgot to look in all boxes while we’re looking for that thing? How stupid do you think I am?”
“Quite?”
“You bastard! I’ll swing for you -“
“Hey! You two! Get back to work, before the Rector returns with the Clubmen!”
“Sorry Sir Oxford.”
“Yeah, sorry, Boss.”
“Batface. Have you checked this box?”
“Right on it, Sir Oxford!”
“Ridge? What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothin’ Boss!”
“Right, well, get on with it.”
“That told you.”
“Shut up. Oh, look? A bottle of wine?”
“What was that bang?”
Shit.
“It came from over here.”
No it didn’t. Besides, what kind of a name is Batface? Oh, right. I get it now. He’s got a bat-like face. Simple when you think about it -
“It’s a Priest.”
“I’m a Rector, I’ll have you know!”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, one is of the Puritan faith and the other is of the Catholic -“
“Not what I meant, Ridge.”
“Oh.”
Great. Now here comes Sir Tunbridge.
“Rector! On your own? Perhaps your last mistake. Where are the bones?”
“I don’t know. In the grave?”
“Come now. You know to what I refer.” So, all this crap is really real then? There are agents out to get them? I mean, I knew there was something in it, deep down. Yes I did! I always did! Oh, go boil your heads!
“I - and I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud, but - I cannot give you the bones of the Fairy King.”
“And pray tell why not?”
“You’re really going to make me say it aren't you? Because - I’m the Guardian. There. Now I feel dirty.”
“I could have given you so much money, riches beyond your imagination for those rotten old bones, but you have chosen the hard, painful route.” Wait, that doesn't sound like me? In fact that sounds like the complete opposite of me! Hey! Where is Me? Bloody Spirits!
“Although it goes against all my base instincts - you can offer me nothing, even my life for those bones!” Hey! Don’t go making promises I’m too cowardly to keep!
“Oh, we all know you Priests and the like! You all belong to that secret society, and you hoard your ill-gotten gains and pilfered jewels in your mass vaults, filled from top to bottom with gold, precious stones, and the Holy Relics - not to mention objects of myth - until they are fit for bursting! I should know! I have hunted people like you for decades, with your funny handshakes and mystical symbols, hiding the true treasures from the rest of the world! And those bones are just the tip of it!”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but all I have is a couple of onyx rocks in a wicker basket -“
“Don’t lie! You all lie! I was told by a man, dark of cloak, wise of heart and grey of head that you had the fabled bones of the Fairy King! Give them to me, and I shall spare your miserable life!”
He doesn't mince his words, does he? Luckily, I was prepared for a moment like this. Oh, yes. We crooks are always prepared, let me tell you. You know, I think this slightly creepy spirit inside me is actually helping?
“Okay, you got me. Yes, Of course I have a hidden vault, but you don’t think I’d have it around here, do you? I’m a member of a secret society full of hidden secrets and symbols after all. What of any of that makes me sound like a naive fool? Look, if it means that much to you, look in that hole in the wall over there. Third brick over, eight from the bottom. See, it’s loose? Well, inside there is -“
“A map!”
“Yes, a map. That tells you where it is. And the password is ‘Gullible’.” Right, first of all, if I did have a secret vault, why would I draw it down and hide it in a secret hole in the wall? I mean, if it was that important, wouldn't I just, I don't know, memorise it or something? Then there are those who are so blinded by desire they don’t see the logic right before their eyes.
“Oh, Rector! You have done the right thing! All the objects therein will find a place where they belong - in a Museum for all to see! Oh, what a glorious thing it is to see this day! Come, men! We must prepare for the trip to the Vault of Secrets! And you, Rector? You must live knowing how you were tricked by the great Sir Oxford Shaw, as so many have! Come! We go!” There he goes, the utter pillock. Dramatic, isn't he?
You know, it’s one of Flit’s best, that map is. Don’t know how he does it. Such intricate lines and beautiful designs. He uses ink, straw and old tea leaves - brings it up a treat, it does. I’ve no idea to where the map actually leads, to be honest. I’m not sure even Flit does, in fact. But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s right in the middle of a swamp somewhere. It’ll serve him right, serving the dark side - presuming that I’m actually serving the light side, that is. But at least now I know how far they’ll got to get their hands on the bones. Looks like I am the Guardian then, after all?
Bugger.
You know what this means, though, don’t you? I’m going to have to stop being a coward, aren't I? Bloody spirits! Why me, you bastards! Why me?
And another thing - oww! That God damned prosthetic finger! I just got a sodding splinter from it, didn't I?
I bet it goes septic -
Now that was weird! What happened there? Last thing I remember, I was being led home by a beautiful woman, and then - I fell asleep? And - ow! Do stop shouting, whoever that is! My head -
Oh great! I missed most of yesterday! What am I supposed to do now? I bloody hope Flit collected the - oh wait, there’s a big pile of money bags on the dresser. Right, well - who was that woman by the way? I must know her, obviously. Otherwise it would’ve been weird, almost supernatural, one might say - but please don’t though. I’m already - discombobulated? What a big word that is. If only I knew what the bloody Hell it meant? Her name was Maggie? Maggie Trussed? Weird.
Right, well, I need to move that money to - oww! My finger! Where’s my sodding finger?! What bastard took my - oh right. I remember now. That’s why I got drunk. Shit. Shittery shit. In fact, shitsticks, shoved right up the Devil’s arse -
And it’s still bloody raining! Typical. Typical of what, I’m not entirely sure, but look, I woke up with a screaming hangover and a missing bloody finger! Wit, most certainly, has deserted me so far. Okay? Some might say so has dignity, my tempter and various small parts of my brain after that Restorative too. But if they do, can they please do it quietly?
Oww! Who turned up the brightness on the sun! And the glint off the waterlogged streets isn’t helping! How can the sun be so bright when - why am I shouting! Oh, right. Well, sod it. I need some treatment - and I don’t care even if it is raining. Might wash this bloody headache away. Or cure it.
Oh, but let me tell you, sometimes, just sometimes, the chips are down and the wind blows in the wrong direction - which summarily forces one to visit Augustus Winboll, an Apothecary with a reputation.
That reputation isn't flattering, however, so I won’t repeat it.
Look, I’ve got a finger turning green and starting to smell? That can’t be good, not unless I’m starting a new range of smelly fingers for the discerning cannibal - which I’m not, so it needs to be seen to by someone, and that someone, it seems, has to be Winboll.
Winboll’s shop is on Damping Street, just around the corner. You can spot his place - it has the mortar and pestle design adorning the sign outside his shop, with a curious prosthetic hanging from it. I won’t tell you what that prosthetic is, but both men and women have come to buy them - usually for entirely different reasons. That too I won’t go into. Because cock rot is nothing to joke about, I can tell you?
Ah, he’s in - unfortunately, “Augustus? Are you available? It’s Rector Posster?” Here he comes. Like a misshapen mushroom with serving dish shaped ears. Boy, though, you should see his wife? Personally I don’t get how someone as stunning as her goes for that tiny, hunched boulder, but, you know -
“Rector. How may I help?” You know, the way he wrings his hands like that makes my stomach turn? He never washes them you know.
“I have a problem. Someone took my finger.” Oh, the smell!
“Let me see - hmm. Yes. Definitely missing.”
Seriously -
“I know it’s missing, Augustus. In fact it’s blindingly obvious the bloody thing is missing, due to the rough stump that’s left there! Sorry. It’s just - you know?”
“Well, let me see what I can do for it, then. Do you have a preference for material?”
“Umm - for?”
“The new one, of course. I have a nice line in beech? Birch? Ash? Poplar? Oak? No, wait. Don’t think I have any oak left. Difficult to come by, see? It’s not like it grows on trees or anything! Ha!” Oh, God. I forgot his sense of humour. I’d say it’s akin to having your skin slowly peeled off your flesh while someone sings a soft lullaby in your ear, dressed as a hedgehog. Quite descriptive, don't you think? Well, I’m particularly proud of it, so I don't really care what you say anyhow. Look, you’d have to know the man, so - whatever.
“I hadn't though that far ahead, Augustus. I kind of just wanted the pain to stop and the throbbing to drop to the pounding of a mild brick, rather than a big, heavy boulder. And do you have anything for headaches - that doesn't involve drinking the piss of some wild creature, while putting my feet in hawk’s blood?”
“You sure? Robnett’s Hangover Cure is legendary around these parts -“
“Yes, mostly for the outbreak of cholera and dysentery back in the day, but let’s forget that for now? Look, whatever you can do for me, I would be forever grateful. Even drinking piss, if that’s what’s needed. But I draw the line at suppositories, as my bottom is sacred.” It most certainly is, I tell you.
“Hmm. In that case, I have a cataplasm for you - a poultice, if you like? It will help with the stench. Oh, and luckily, these poultices fit nicely into my prostheses -“ Hmm. How convenient. I know you would think I might jump at he chance for one of his false fingers, but there are always a few issues with them. The first is that they look nothing like the thing they’re replacing, and second is that he never varnishes any of them, so they’re rough as houses, and lastly, and most importantly - they’re bloody expensive! But, oh sod it, I’m going to have to aren't I?
“Alright, Augustus. Do your best. And by that I mean your absolutely most perfect. I don't want to walk around with a tiny willie on my hand.”
“Oh, well, okay. But you know phalli are my speciality?”
“I know, Augustus. If I’m paying for the bloody thing, try and get it right, eh?”
“Alright. I suppose so. Look, while I’m doing that, why don’t you try this new headache cure? I warn you, though - it is very fast acting. Oh, and ‘The Management Cannot Be Held Responsible For The Side Effects Of This Product’.”
“That sounded like a disclaimer, Augustus?” Oh, he’s gone. Ah well, in for a thingy, also in for a whatsit. Down the proverbial.
Hmm. Okay, I still have a headache. And there’s a sparrow sitting on that wizard’s wand. Ahh! Now there’s a big black hole! Help! I’m falling into it! It’s sucking me down to a deep dark pit! There are bodies walking around - on fire! There’s burning pitch everywhere! Help me! No! Don’t peck me there! I’m sinking into the rotten sea of despair and - ohh. Jesus, I’m back in the room. And my headaches gone! Wow. That was weird.
“Like it? That’s called ‘Markus Bringlestone’s Hell On Earth’. Instant cure.”
“Was that -“
“Hell? Probably. Never tried it myself, but people do talk about the burning people.” Such is the work of an Apothecary - half magic, half tepid water and one hundred percent bullshit, “Here, try this on, Rector.” Ah! That’s actually much better! Almost like I don't have a missing -
“Bloody Hell, Augustus! I said for it not to be shaped like a willie!”
“Sorry, Rector. You wouldn't ask a wolf not to be a wolf, would you?”
“But - I’m a Rector! I can’t go administering to the elderly with a willie on my hand!”
“I don’t know. Might give some of those old girls a thrill?”
“Right, well I’m only going to give you two thirds for that. Okay?”
“Suppose so.”
“Oh, sod off Augustus! Don’t give me that sob story crap! We both know you’re about to go back upstairs to your wife and get some.” Lucky bastard. Oh, but I’ve got so much to do. I’m going. Besides, I can’t take his toothless grin one more second!
The finger moves okay. It is about three inches long and shaped like a phallus, but it seems to be doing the trick. I can’t smell that God awful odour any more, at least. I need a drink. But then, I always need a drink.
Will this rain ever stop? I mean, it’s not heavy or anything, just irritating. If we’re not careful, the whole of Upper Vaxham’s going to be flooded. Still, as long as there’s a pint at the end of it all, everything will be just hunky dory. Right, and who’s this bloke, when he’s at home? Alright, mate! Ever heard of personal space?
“Hello Rector. You may not remember me? I was the one who bought the Milton? My name’s Sir Oxford Shaw. A collector of history, one might say?”
“Yes, well -“
“I wonder if I can have a word?”
“Okay, how about discombobulated? Don’t know what it means, but I think I heard it the other day -“
“No, I mean a proposition -“
“I’m flattered, but I don’t swing that way. Trish Treyne might give you a handie with a deep voice if you like -“
“I think we may be at cross purposes here.”
“I think you might be right. But a hair of the dog might do me some good?”
“Oh, right. A pint?”
“At least. It was a particularly large and hirsute bloody dog.” Maggie Trussed. Maggie Trussed. Maggie - nope, no matter how many times I repeat her name, I don’t remember anything about her. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a - soft towel of some sort. Look, I’m not quite myself yet. Give me five minutes and a measure of alcohol.
“That’s an - interesting finger you have there?” Forget the comments mate. Hand over the Beer. Ahh! So much better!
“It’s a long story.”
“One you would care to share?”
“Not really. Look, what is it you want, if it’s not bum stuff?” Oh, I’m done with the bloody niceties today! Sod them all! I lost my finger you know? Oh, sod you too.
“Right, well, to the point then. I am a collector. I collect things.”
“So far I understand.”
“And I know churches are always in desperate need of money. More often than not, the Rectors themselves are a bit strapped too.”
“I’m with you.”
“Well, we both know that churches have a secret store, a hidden vault of riches -“
“Look, I don’t know what you’re intimating, but if I had a shit load of stuff hidden, I’d have bloody sold it by now.”
“The church has many arms, does it not? And many factions, like the Catholics -“
“Look! I don’t know you, but you seem like a nice bloke, so I’ll ignore that insult! Thanks for the drink and all, but if you don’t mind, I’ll -“ That’s it! Down that pint! “Take my leave! Good day sir!”
Ah, what the Hell - I’m going to the Church. I’ve got a bottle stashed away from Flit in there somewhere. That’ll do me for today. Hey! I don’t know if you remember, but five days?! Yeah, imagine how you would feel, what with a missing finger, a wooden phallus and five days left to live? Yeah. Thought so. Just have to remember not to scratch my arse with that hand.
Wait, who’s that bloke over there, kneeling by the Church door lock? “Can I help you?” That shocked him. I’d say he looks odd all dressed in black, but every sodding person in this town is bloody well dressed in black. It’s the Puritan fashion, you know? It’s just that this particular individual looks about as suspicious as a - phallic prosthesis on a sodding Rector’s hand! Alright. I’ll get used to it soon. Maybe file it down to a respectable shape? Anyway, that weird bloke’s going now. Let me open this door and try to remember where - who are this lot? “Hey! Who are you lot!” Ah bugger! They’re getting away! Where’s a Clubman when - actually, you know, forget that? I think they must have been after something specific.
The bones! Of course! I was going to take them to the standing stones, before all of this debacle started. The philatory! No, it’s fine. Phew. Well, I better get them moved before anything else goes tits up. Ah, here’s a sack. Shove them in and - there we go! Shovel? Nah, sod it. I’ll dig with my good hand. Better lock the Church up again, though.
Look at those rivers running down the roads?! Bloody ridiculous! And I bet they’re full of - well, you know what. No need to bring down the tone now. But I think we know to what I refer. Oh, alright. Sewage. Happy? No, neither am I.
“Rector!” Oh Jesus Christ in Heaven with a Halo! That nearly scared me to death!
“Mr Cambridge, I think I said all I needed to say back at the -“
“It’s Sir Oxford - Sir Oxford Shaw,” Yeah, like I give two shits right now, “I think there were two or three things unsaid, now we are on our own.”
Great. Now tell me that doesn't sound like a veiled threat, “I can’t stop, Sir Thingy. I need to get these scraps of food out the the poor -“ Oww. If I wasn't such a coward, I’d tell you to get your damned hand off my arm, but, well -
“Really? Then off you go. Rector.” Oh God. That means I do have to go to the poor now. Well, he’ll get suspicious otherwise, I suppose. Maybe I’ll make a circuitous route through my greatest hits. That might lose him. He is following, isn't he?
First place, Rentall Road. See Mrs Threntol - bugger, she’s dead, apparently. Okay, Edias Circle and Mrs Gollvar. Dead as well? Crap. Richard Quanck. Blown up? Damn it. Frimpty Street - demolished in that New Model Army thing. Right, well, erm - Ribald Terrace. Ah! Here we are! Is he still there? Crap. Well, this’ll get him - Morning Marge! Out the back door, over the fence - that got him! Well, providing Marge doesn't blab, of course.
There’s the standing stones! Over there! That’s certainly convenient, isn't it? I see there’s still a mess in this field after those bloody Solstice lot left. Okay, over to the stones. Right now I want these - gnnph - bones buried in this - urghh - hole. There. Like it was always thus. A smart job if I do say so myself! And I am, of course, my greatest promoter! Okay, so it helped that the ground was soft after the rain, but meh, a good job is a good job. Right, I need to get back to the Church before this Sir Redditch ransacks the whole bloody place. A spot of narrative travel, and -
Wait. The Church door! It’s open! Okay, I’ve got two choices right now. One, I go in and confront them, and two, I run like the bloody coward I am! Ah, no, there’s a third option. The tunnel. Brings you right under the Church floor. Lucky that, eh? Listen! You can hear them inside.
“Have you looked in that box?”
“What makes you think I haven’t looked in that box?”
“I don’t know. You might’ve forgot?”
“What, you think I forgot to look in all boxes while we’re looking for that thing? How stupid do you think I am?”
“Quite?”
“You bastard! I’ll swing for you -“
“Hey! You two! Get back to work, before the Rector returns with the Clubmen!”
“Sorry Sir Oxford.”
“Yeah, sorry, Boss.”
“Batface. Have you checked this box?”
“Right on it, Sir Oxford!”
“Ridge? What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothin’ Boss!”
“Right, well, get on with it.”
“That told you.”
“Shut up. Oh, look? A bottle of wine?”
“What was that bang?”
Shit.
“It came from over here.”
No it didn’t. Besides, what kind of a name is Batface? Oh, right. I get it now. He’s got a bat-like face. Simple when you think about it -
“It’s a Priest.”
“I’m a Rector, I’ll have you know!”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, one is of the Puritan faith and the other is of the Catholic -“
“Not what I meant, Ridge.”
“Oh.”
Great. Now here comes Sir Tunbridge.
“Rector! On your own? Perhaps your last mistake. Where are the bones?”
“I don’t know. In the grave?”
“Come now. You know to what I refer.” So, all this crap is really real then? There are agents out to get them? I mean, I knew there was something in it, deep down. Yes I did! I always did! Oh, go boil your heads!
“I - and I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud, but - I cannot give you the bones of the Fairy King.”
“And pray tell why not?”
“You’re really going to make me say it aren't you? Because - I’m the Guardian. There. Now I feel dirty.”
“I could have given you so much money, riches beyond your imagination for those rotten old bones, but you have chosen the hard, painful route.” Wait, that doesn't sound like me? In fact that sounds like the complete opposite of me! Hey! Where is Me? Bloody Spirits!
“Although it goes against all my base instincts - you can offer me nothing, even my life for those bones!” Hey! Don’t go making promises I’m too cowardly to keep!
“Oh, we all know you Priests and the like! You all belong to that secret society, and you hoard your ill-gotten gains and pilfered jewels in your mass vaults, filled from top to bottom with gold, precious stones, and the Holy Relics - not to mention objects of myth - until they are fit for bursting! I should know! I have hunted people like you for decades, with your funny handshakes and mystical symbols, hiding the true treasures from the rest of the world! And those bones are just the tip of it!”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but all I have is a couple of onyx rocks in a wicker basket -“
“Don’t lie! You all lie! I was told by a man, dark of cloak, wise of heart and grey of head that you had the fabled bones of the Fairy King! Give them to me, and I shall spare your miserable life!”
He doesn't mince his words, does he? Luckily, I was prepared for a moment like this. Oh, yes. We crooks are always prepared, let me tell you. You know, I think this slightly creepy spirit inside me is actually helping?
“Okay, you got me. Yes, Of course I have a hidden vault, but you don’t think I’d have it around here, do you? I’m a member of a secret society full of hidden secrets and symbols after all. What of any of that makes me sound like a naive fool? Look, if it means that much to you, look in that hole in the wall over there. Third brick over, eight from the bottom. See, it’s loose? Well, inside there is -“
“A map!”
“Yes, a map. That tells you where it is. And the password is ‘Gullible’.” Right, first of all, if I did have a secret vault, why would I draw it down and hide it in a secret hole in the wall? I mean, if it was that important, wouldn't I just, I don't know, memorise it or something? Then there are those who are so blinded by desire they don’t see the logic right before their eyes.
“Oh, Rector! You have done the right thing! All the objects therein will find a place where they belong - in a Museum for all to see! Oh, what a glorious thing it is to see this day! Come, men! We must prepare for the trip to the Vault of Secrets! And you, Rector? You must live knowing how you were tricked by the great Sir Oxford Shaw, as so many have! Come! We go!” There he goes, the utter pillock. Dramatic, isn't he?
You know, it’s one of Flit’s best, that map is. Don’t know how he does it. Such intricate lines and beautiful designs. He uses ink, straw and old tea leaves - brings it up a treat, it does. I’ve no idea to where the map actually leads, to be honest. I’m not sure even Flit does, in fact. But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s right in the middle of a swamp somewhere. It’ll serve him right, serving the dark side - presuming that I’m actually serving the light side, that is. But at least now I know how far they’ll got to get their hands on the bones. Looks like I am the Guardian then, after all?
Bugger.
You know what this means, though, don’t you? I’m going to have to stop being a coward, aren't I? Bloody spirits! Why me, you bastards! Why me?
And another thing - oww! That God damned prosthetic finger! I just got a sodding splinter from it, didn't I?
I bet it goes septic -
No comments:
Post a Comment