1644
DAY SEVEN: SATURDAY
Wow! That was a near miss yesterday, wasn’t it? Almost like it was planned -
Today, well, it’s going to be one of those lazy type days, you know? Plenty of time to plan what I do next, certainly. I do need some time, and some ideas, to pop up in front of me. Right now, the only thing popping up in front of me is the despicable visage of Flit. I’d kick him for waking me, but, you know, the whole saving my life thing? Boy was that Officer shocked, I can tell you! Almost like he -
“Bishop’s on his way.”
“What? Who the Hell is Bishop when he’s at home?”
“The Bishop. Gilbert Curle.”
“Bollocks.” There goes my quiet day. What a shitter.
The Right Reverend Gilbert Curle, Bishop of Vaxham, Upper and Lower. That’s his official title. I just call him Bish. Not to his face, of course. That would be career suicide. No, I’m not prepared for this, not yet. I think I need a stiff one. And a drink. There’s always time for humour.
Oh, shut your face. I thought it was funny.
Smell the air of a fresh new day! Yep! Smells of last night’s old one! Takes a while for that odour to burn off, and the sun doesn't shine over here until near midday. It’s certainly better than the Rectory for its smells, though, what with the cooking of cabbage, tripe, boiling bones and, I presume, Flit’s undying flatulence. At least it’s a short hop to The Frozen Arm from here. Seems like Ranker is still a bit - caked, shall we say? He hasn't told me to get out yet, and that’s usually a good sign.
“Posster.” Okay, so not all of the built up animosity is truly gone. But at least it wasn't followed or preceded by a swear word.
“Could I perhaps -“
“Listen. For now, as long as you act on your best behaviour, Posster, and not expose yourself to the Ladies of the Battle Friends again,” Oh! So that’s why he barred me! You know, I’ve always wondered? I must’ve blacked out that night. That’s right! It was the night Flit won back my Rectory from those hustlers! I actually didn't feel shame for knowing the little creature that night! Oh, those were the days? Those heady days of - erm - about six months ago, I want to say? Honestly I can’t remember. Hazy days, that’s for sure! “I will let you and your - pet - in to drink. Just, keep quiet and out of the way.” I was just going to ask how Hermione is then, but I think it’s too soon for conversational rapport. Besides, I am implicated in William Street, her husband’s - disappearance, aren't I? Best not open old wounds. Not until they're sure he’s definitely not coming back and I can make my moves on that Hermione. I’m only human, after all. Well, I can promise you that at least one Doctor has confirmed my humanosity. And that’s good enough for me.
“A pint of your finest, then, please!” I say finest. It’s all largely relative. The Frozen Arm’s finest could fell a strong horse, or so I’m told. Goes down pretty much in the same state as it comes out. But it’s alcoholic, and that’s what I need right now. And after? A good vomit, I’d imagine?
Just look. All the usual riff-raff. Some of them, I’m guessing, have become fused to their stools, they've been here so long. I’d guess that at least a half dozen or so are, in fact, deserters from the war. One day, I might use that to my advantage, but not now. Too many irons in the fire already. One more and the house might burn down. Oh God. Here comes that mini ball of shite, my never-changing nemesis.
“Yes Flit? What on Earth do you want now?”
“He’s here.”
“Where? He’s not - Damn it, Flit! Don’t scare me like that! I’ll come presently.”
“He said ‘he’s to come now, or I’ll tar and feather him’.”
“Just - don’t give me ideas, Flit. You’re already owed a pasting!” With love, you understand? A pasting, with love! Hey, I don’t tell you how to control your servants, now do I?
Time for the Bish bash. Ooh. Alliteration. And the Church does look pretty regal today! Like it’s got a fresh coat of stone paint on it. If there was such a thing, don’t think I wouldn’t get Flit to run over it now with a coat or two. The Church exterior has suffered slings and arrows of outrageous - outrageousness over the years, you know. I mean, look up there? See that dent? Apparently that was made by a flying cow. Not literally. Not unless cows had wings in the Middle Ages. No, it flew by catapult. They used to enjoy pelting Vaxham with dead carrion, apparently, back then. Simpler people. More boredom. Admittedly, in a pique of frustration, I might have thrown a dead chicken at a wall once or twice. Usually aiming for Flit’s head, when he’s either overcooked or undercooked the bloody thing. And on more than one occasion, I’ve thought of throwing Flit at a wall, but I don’t have the upper body strength for it. Besides, imagine the mess? I’d be cleaning up bits of Flit for decades! It’s not worth the hassle.
Oh, there he is! Down by the pulpit. Think I’ll just sneak into the vestry for a little Dutch Courage -
“Posster. Where are you going?” Damn it! That man has eyes in the back of his head! Wow, he’s filled out a little from the last time I saw him. Then, he could manage a door front-ways. Now he has to do it sideways. I’m not blaming him for it. Do you know how many meals a Bishop is forced to eat? And the presents? It’s where I’m hoping to end up, you know. If I survive the next fourteen days.
“I was - going to - erm - tidy the vestry?”
“Never mind that. Come. Sit?” I’m not sure that pew will fit the both of us. Never mind, “About these Pilgrims, Posster. Now, I know they can be - awkward - but, unfortunately, a necessary pain. They bring in so much revenue to the Church. The popularity of their trips are dependent mostly on word of mouth, Posster. One cannot simply go about threatening them. You see?”
“Well, yes, of course. But I promise you, it was largely a storm in a tea cup.”
“Talking of which -“
“Flit! Two teas! He’s a bit belligerent today for some reason.”
“Perhaps you don't beat him enough?”
“Could be. Could be.” Ah, it’s nice talking to someone of the same mindset as me sometimes.
“Now, the matter of Lord Anthony Cheetham-Hewe -“ Shit! Hurry up Flit, you bastard!
“Ah, here’s Flit with the tea! Bishop’s Shaft? Pardon the pun?”
“What? Oh. You don’t have any Vicious Tarts, do you?”
“No, sorry. But I do have Hopeful Pokers?” These are all still confectionary, you know. At least I think so. I might have got a bit confused there.
“Give me a Botham Anyday.” Yes. Still cakes. Look at how he eats it? My God! Just look at him - lust, gluttony, greed, sloth? All he needs now is to be angry about what someone else has, while admiring himself and he’ll have the whole set, “Posster. I have a confession -“
“Sorry? Isn't that the other lot?” Damned dirty Catholics!
“Not that kind of confession, you dolt. It seems, and quite by Heavenly Intervention perchance, that I have - mislaid - a certain necessary item of jewellery, that befits my Office -“
“I had noticed that bit of cloth tied around your ring finger.” It doesn't even look straight, for God’s sake.
“Quite. Well, it has been noticed. I have availed myself of the excuse that it is out being cleaned at present, but that can only hold for so long.”
“This is all - very interesting, but what’s it got to do with me?”
“You mean, apart from my being your superior, and having the power to send you away to some more appropriate town, say on a remote island somewhere, with just yourself and Flit for company -“ Oh dear God, no. That’s worse than being posted to the bloody war!
“But - and I ask with all humility, you understand - why me?”
“Come now, Posster! The corrupted see their own, you know? You and me, simpatico -“
“I don’t know what you mean - oh sod it. Right, I get you. Where did you see it last?”
“I visited a - lady with loose morals -“
“A whore?” Surely call a spade a spade. Unless it’s a whore, then call it a whore, obviously.
“Yes. I don’t remember her name. But I am sure she - took it from me while I recovered.”
“I see.” I do. I really do. I’ll tell you why in a bit. That’s a cliffhanger for you!
“So -“
“Oh, right! Well, I assume you know your way around the Church?” Apparently he does.
“I do, Posster.” See?
“Then give me a little time, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“See that you do, Posster.” Right. Out I go. Into the - bollocks.
“Rector!”
“How goes the - whatever it is you keep trying to tell me, young Letty?”
“See the colours, dancing! See them glide, like musical notes across the fields -“
“No, you’re alright. Not got the shoes for it -“
“You smile! You smile as they draw the hemp, slowly, murderously about your neck!”
“Now, this is going a bit far -“
“Don’t worry, however! Many more of them see your worth! They work through another!” Well - he’s off again. Like a rabbit after it’s noticed a particularly attentive hound sniffing around its hole, as it were. And I wasn't worrying. Not until he opened his gob, of course. Dare I say, he’s getting a little more coherent? For an inherently broken mind, I suppose he is starting to make a little more sense. You know what? Sod it. I’ve spent too long on that pillock now as it is. This was supposed to be a stroll, as quiet contemplation about an issue with and for the Bish, not a casual walk around the Mental Home.
I mean, of course I’ve got no choice, have I? What are my options? Limited, that’s what. See that bloody kid there playing up? Hey! I know your Father! Wait - no I don’t! And neither does your Mother! That told him, the little shit. God, I hate kids. Right. To the Pawn Shop, I suppose. It’s the one on Lender Street - I know, the town planners weren't that imaginative in their naming policy, were they? Do you know where the Tailor’s is? Actually, they’re on Finabore Crescent. Bad example. But you get the point. Kind of.
Slax Pawn. Number twelve. Owned by Benjamin Slax - for your information. And for those still tense from the cliffhanger several minutes ago, prepare yourself. It’s coming up for a resolution. Excited? Me neither. Look, even his bell has a price tag on it!
There he is! There. Between the - curly thing and the other - bendy thing. No, he’s not kneeling. He’s just - short.
“Can I help you?” Sounds like a reed instrument played through the arse, does his voice. Don't you think?
“Mr Slax. I don’t know whether you remember, a short while ago, when I brought in a large gold ring, with a ruby in it?” There’s the other shoe drop. Anticlimax, isn't it? I do know of the disappearance of the ring. For ’twas I who pilfered it. Well, technically a prostitute did the actual stealing from the Bish. I merely nicked it off the prossie. Far simpler. Boy was she angry! I had a good session that night, I can tell you.
“Ah, the Remembrance Of The Sea. Beautiful ruby, so it is. I have it in pride of place, in the case over there.” Yep, that’s the Bish’s ring alright.
“What are the chances of, you know, having it back? I could owe you the money?”
“It is on hold for another customer, I am afraid, even if I could let it go for nothing. I am truly sorry, Rector.” Shit. Buggery buggery bugger. Right.
“Well, okay. I suppose there’s nothing you can do. Thanks anyway.” Bastard. Would sell his Mother for gold. Probably. I’ve no idea, truthfully. He’s probably a really nice bloke. Ah, whatever. Plan B.
Right, down here, across - left turn, then across. Always forget that bit. Anyway, here we are, at a little known jewellers. Called - actually I don't even know what it’s called, but the name above the shop says it’s a Candle And Soap Emporium. I doubt it’s actually been that for at least the last decade. But inside is the most thriving, thrilling figure of a man, hands dextrous, like the gentle hands of a surgeon - bloody Hell! What happened to him? He looks like a bloated corpse pulled from the bloody river, after being dead for about a month.
“Trep?”
“Rector.” Scintillating conversation, isn't it?
“Trep, do you remember when I came in a while ago, with a ring I wanted you to copy?”
“The Remembrance Of The Sea? The inherited ring of the Bishop of Vaxham, Upper and Lower?”
“Yes, yes. No need to describe its entire provenance. Do you happen to have -“
“A copy knocking around? I might have. What’s in it for me?”
“My eternal gratitude? To be in my prayers? To know you’re doing good?” No. I wouldn't fall for that either. The man’s no fool. No one ever said ‘there goes Trep Dulligen, the man who is a fool’. Mainly, it has to be said, because practically no one knows who he is. But that’s really beside the point, I suppose.
“Tell you what, Rector. There will come a time when I may need a favour from you. When this day comes, I hope not to be left wanting?”
“- Sure?”
“Then wait right there.” Did that sound truly ominous, or was it just me? A chill just ran up the length of my spine. I’m not sure I like the feeling, you know? Ah. He’s back, “Here you go, Rector. And don’t forget -“ Don’t forget what? Don’t forget to tap your nose? Ah, right. Got it now.
Just look at that! Look at the craftsmanship on that little beauty! Almost looks better than the original! Wow! And look how it glisters? Yes, that is a word, I’ll have you know. A real one. Anyway, back to Bish. Before he looks too closely at the vestments.
Looks like rain, up there, in the clouds. Not down there, in that puddle, because I know for certain that’s not rain. It’s too yellow for a start. Rain’s usually a good thing. Washes the crap away. Well, it does its best, but it’s no miracle worker. If it was it would wash away virtually half this town, I’d bet? Smells like rain too - that damp smell? Or that could be Rancid Colin. There’s a small club, it seems, of these types of nutters around - Colin, Sticks, you know? And Vaxham seems to be a hub for them. Some might say I’m well suited to the town in that case, and those people who say that usually end up with a turd in their bed. Curtesy of Flit. And trust me, a Flit turd is the worst. In fact, I refuse to let him crap in the Rectory’s hole in the ground because of it. Does a bear shit in the woods? I have no idea, but I know a Flit does. Ah, here we are. Home sweet home.
“That was quick, Posster?”
“I work quickly, Bishop.” Sometimes too quickly, if you know what I mean? I’m implying I’m quick to the party - snatch and grab - quickie in the sticky - I’m saying I don't last long, you know, in bed? Why on Earth am I telling you this?
“Any news?” Any news? How’s this, your Bishness! That’s right. Indistinguishable from the real one.
“Hmm.” What do you mean, hmm? You cheeky piece of - “It wasn't as shiny as this, was it?” That’s your problem? It’s too sodding shiny?
“Oh, I’m sure whoever had it cleaned it?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Perhaps? Of course I’m right! Theoretically.
“It’s a little looser too -“
“Well, I wasn't going to say it, but I think you have lost some weight -“
“Alright, Posster. I get the point. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, but - well, it’s my ring, given certain - differences - that only I would notice. You’re lucky, Posster, that I’m such a generous soul, or -“
“I know, I know. Zoom, outa here. I get it.”
“See that you do. Remember it, Posster. Remember it.” What is it with everyone getting me to remember things? Chances are I’ll have forgotten it by, uhm - what was I saying? Oh, shut your face! Stop moaning! That was a good joke, and you know it! “Well, I have rounds to take care of in the town, do I not, Posster? I won’t come and see you when I’m done, however.” Yeah, well, good riddance then you plump old - ah, better see him out. Wouldn't look good would it, if the Rector didn't send him cheerily on his way with a smile and a wave?
“God watch over you, Bishop Curle!” And shove it up your arse. Right. Back to thinking about what to do with -
“Posster!”
“Jimmy.” Here we go again.
“I have to admire your guts, Posster, for attempting that trek up to our Encampment yesterday? There are many who wouldn’t even set foot on the battlefield, never mind traversing the blood, the offal, the dismembered limbs, the -“
“Okay, Jimmy, I get the point.” Any more of that and I’ll projectile vomit all over his pristine uniform. I had one of Flit’s stews last night, so there’s plenty to project, trust me.
“Excuse me?” Benjamin Slax? What’s he doing here?
“I - I did a little soul searching, Rector. I realised how unChristian I was being. Of course, with all humility, I would be honoured if you would take this ring as a humble Broker’s contribution to the Church? I hope I didn't insult you back there?”
“Oh, no, no. I wasn't - insulted -“ Look! The ring! And off he goes, the generous, naive, poor man! Now, if I could only find a Fence -
“Why, thank you, Posster! The Major General will be pleased! This should knock a bit off your debt, I’m sure! And here comes your diminutive Curate. I’ll leave you to your Godly work then, Posster? Cheerio!” What a bastard! And what’s worse, here’s Flit!
“Nice seein’ Uncle Gilbert again, I suppose.”
“What did you say? And get that stick out of your mouth, you disgusting rodent!”
“Uncle Gilbert. Mom’s Brother. My Uncle.”
“I know what an Uncle is! Why didn't you say?”
“Thought the family resemblance was obvious?”
There are no words for that. No, wait. There are six. A beating with a big stick. Come here, you little bastard!
Wow! That was a near miss yesterday, wasn’t it? Almost like it was planned -
Today, well, it’s going to be one of those lazy type days, you know? Plenty of time to plan what I do next, certainly. I do need some time, and some ideas, to pop up in front of me. Right now, the only thing popping up in front of me is the despicable visage of Flit. I’d kick him for waking me, but, you know, the whole saving my life thing? Boy was that Officer shocked, I can tell you! Almost like he -
“Bishop’s on his way.”
“What? Who the Hell is Bishop when he’s at home?”
“The Bishop. Gilbert Curle.”
“Bollocks.” There goes my quiet day. What a shitter.
The Right Reverend Gilbert Curle, Bishop of Vaxham, Upper and Lower. That’s his official title. I just call him Bish. Not to his face, of course. That would be career suicide. No, I’m not prepared for this, not yet. I think I need a stiff one. And a drink. There’s always time for humour.
Oh, shut your face. I thought it was funny.
Smell the air of a fresh new day! Yep! Smells of last night’s old one! Takes a while for that odour to burn off, and the sun doesn't shine over here until near midday. It’s certainly better than the Rectory for its smells, though, what with the cooking of cabbage, tripe, boiling bones and, I presume, Flit’s undying flatulence. At least it’s a short hop to The Frozen Arm from here. Seems like Ranker is still a bit - caked, shall we say? He hasn't told me to get out yet, and that’s usually a good sign.
“Posster.” Okay, so not all of the built up animosity is truly gone. But at least it wasn't followed or preceded by a swear word.
“Could I perhaps -“
“Listen. For now, as long as you act on your best behaviour, Posster, and not expose yourself to the Ladies of the Battle Friends again,” Oh! So that’s why he barred me! You know, I’ve always wondered? I must’ve blacked out that night. That’s right! It was the night Flit won back my Rectory from those hustlers! I actually didn't feel shame for knowing the little creature that night! Oh, those were the days? Those heady days of - erm - about six months ago, I want to say? Honestly I can’t remember. Hazy days, that’s for sure! “I will let you and your - pet - in to drink. Just, keep quiet and out of the way.” I was just going to ask how Hermione is then, but I think it’s too soon for conversational rapport. Besides, I am implicated in William Street, her husband’s - disappearance, aren't I? Best not open old wounds. Not until they're sure he’s definitely not coming back and I can make my moves on that Hermione. I’m only human, after all. Well, I can promise you that at least one Doctor has confirmed my humanosity. And that’s good enough for me.
“A pint of your finest, then, please!” I say finest. It’s all largely relative. The Frozen Arm’s finest could fell a strong horse, or so I’m told. Goes down pretty much in the same state as it comes out. But it’s alcoholic, and that’s what I need right now. And after? A good vomit, I’d imagine?
Just look. All the usual riff-raff. Some of them, I’m guessing, have become fused to their stools, they've been here so long. I’d guess that at least a half dozen or so are, in fact, deserters from the war. One day, I might use that to my advantage, but not now. Too many irons in the fire already. One more and the house might burn down. Oh God. Here comes that mini ball of shite, my never-changing nemesis.
“Yes Flit? What on Earth do you want now?”
“He’s here.”
“Where? He’s not - Damn it, Flit! Don’t scare me like that! I’ll come presently.”
“He said ‘he’s to come now, or I’ll tar and feather him’.”
“Just - don’t give me ideas, Flit. You’re already owed a pasting!” With love, you understand? A pasting, with love! Hey, I don’t tell you how to control your servants, now do I?
Time for the Bish bash. Ooh. Alliteration. And the Church does look pretty regal today! Like it’s got a fresh coat of stone paint on it. If there was such a thing, don’t think I wouldn’t get Flit to run over it now with a coat or two. The Church exterior has suffered slings and arrows of outrageous - outrageousness over the years, you know. I mean, look up there? See that dent? Apparently that was made by a flying cow. Not literally. Not unless cows had wings in the Middle Ages. No, it flew by catapult. They used to enjoy pelting Vaxham with dead carrion, apparently, back then. Simpler people. More boredom. Admittedly, in a pique of frustration, I might have thrown a dead chicken at a wall once or twice. Usually aiming for Flit’s head, when he’s either overcooked or undercooked the bloody thing. And on more than one occasion, I’ve thought of throwing Flit at a wall, but I don’t have the upper body strength for it. Besides, imagine the mess? I’d be cleaning up bits of Flit for decades! It’s not worth the hassle.
Oh, there he is! Down by the pulpit. Think I’ll just sneak into the vestry for a little Dutch Courage -
“Posster. Where are you going?” Damn it! That man has eyes in the back of his head! Wow, he’s filled out a little from the last time I saw him. Then, he could manage a door front-ways. Now he has to do it sideways. I’m not blaming him for it. Do you know how many meals a Bishop is forced to eat? And the presents? It’s where I’m hoping to end up, you know. If I survive the next fourteen days.
“I was - going to - erm - tidy the vestry?”
“Never mind that. Come. Sit?” I’m not sure that pew will fit the both of us. Never mind, “About these Pilgrims, Posster. Now, I know they can be - awkward - but, unfortunately, a necessary pain. They bring in so much revenue to the Church. The popularity of their trips are dependent mostly on word of mouth, Posster. One cannot simply go about threatening them. You see?”
“Well, yes, of course. But I promise you, it was largely a storm in a tea cup.”
“Talking of which -“
“Flit! Two teas! He’s a bit belligerent today for some reason.”
“Perhaps you don't beat him enough?”
“Could be. Could be.” Ah, it’s nice talking to someone of the same mindset as me sometimes.
“Now, the matter of Lord Anthony Cheetham-Hewe -“ Shit! Hurry up Flit, you bastard!
“Ah, here’s Flit with the tea! Bishop’s Shaft? Pardon the pun?”
“What? Oh. You don’t have any Vicious Tarts, do you?”
“No, sorry. But I do have Hopeful Pokers?” These are all still confectionary, you know. At least I think so. I might have got a bit confused there.
“Give me a Botham Anyday.” Yes. Still cakes. Look at how he eats it? My God! Just look at him - lust, gluttony, greed, sloth? All he needs now is to be angry about what someone else has, while admiring himself and he’ll have the whole set, “Posster. I have a confession -“
“Sorry? Isn't that the other lot?” Damned dirty Catholics!
“Not that kind of confession, you dolt. It seems, and quite by Heavenly Intervention perchance, that I have - mislaid - a certain necessary item of jewellery, that befits my Office -“
“I had noticed that bit of cloth tied around your ring finger.” It doesn't even look straight, for God’s sake.
“Quite. Well, it has been noticed. I have availed myself of the excuse that it is out being cleaned at present, but that can only hold for so long.”
“This is all - very interesting, but what’s it got to do with me?”
“You mean, apart from my being your superior, and having the power to send you away to some more appropriate town, say on a remote island somewhere, with just yourself and Flit for company -“ Oh dear God, no. That’s worse than being posted to the bloody war!
“But - and I ask with all humility, you understand - why me?”
“Come now, Posster! The corrupted see their own, you know? You and me, simpatico -“
“I don’t know what you mean - oh sod it. Right, I get you. Where did you see it last?”
“I visited a - lady with loose morals -“
“A whore?” Surely call a spade a spade. Unless it’s a whore, then call it a whore, obviously.
“Yes. I don’t remember her name. But I am sure she - took it from me while I recovered.”
“I see.” I do. I really do. I’ll tell you why in a bit. That’s a cliffhanger for you!
“So -“
“Oh, right! Well, I assume you know your way around the Church?” Apparently he does.
“I do, Posster.” See?
“Then give me a little time, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“See that you do, Posster.” Right. Out I go. Into the - bollocks.
“Rector!”
“How goes the - whatever it is you keep trying to tell me, young Letty?”
“See the colours, dancing! See them glide, like musical notes across the fields -“
“No, you’re alright. Not got the shoes for it -“
“You smile! You smile as they draw the hemp, slowly, murderously about your neck!”
“Now, this is going a bit far -“
“Don’t worry, however! Many more of them see your worth! They work through another!” Well - he’s off again. Like a rabbit after it’s noticed a particularly attentive hound sniffing around its hole, as it were. And I wasn't worrying. Not until he opened his gob, of course. Dare I say, he’s getting a little more coherent? For an inherently broken mind, I suppose he is starting to make a little more sense. You know what? Sod it. I’ve spent too long on that pillock now as it is. This was supposed to be a stroll, as quiet contemplation about an issue with and for the Bish, not a casual walk around the Mental Home.
I mean, of course I’ve got no choice, have I? What are my options? Limited, that’s what. See that bloody kid there playing up? Hey! I know your Father! Wait - no I don’t! And neither does your Mother! That told him, the little shit. God, I hate kids. Right. To the Pawn Shop, I suppose. It’s the one on Lender Street - I know, the town planners weren't that imaginative in their naming policy, were they? Do you know where the Tailor’s is? Actually, they’re on Finabore Crescent. Bad example. But you get the point. Kind of.
Slax Pawn. Number twelve. Owned by Benjamin Slax - for your information. And for those still tense from the cliffhanger several minutes ago, prepare yourself. It’s coming up for a resolution. Excited? Me neither. Look, even his bell has a price tag on it!
There he is! There. Between the - curly thing and the other - bendy thing. No, he’s not kneeling. He’s just - short.
“Can I help you?” Sounds like a reed instrument played through the arse, does his voice. Don't you think?
“Mr Slax. I don’t know whether you remember, a short while ago, when I brought in a large gold ring, with a ruby in it?” There’s the other shoe drop. Anticlimax, isn't it? I do know of the disappearance of the ring. For ’twas I who pilfered it. Well, technically a prostitute did the actual stealing from the Bish. I merely nicked it off the prossie. Far simpler. Boy was she angry! I had a good session that night, I can tell you.
“Ah, the Remembrance Of The Sea. Beautiful ruby, so it is. I have it in pride of place, in the case over there.” Yep, that’s the Bish’s ring alright.
“What are the chances of, you know, having it back? I could owe you the money?”
“It is on hold for another customer, I am afraid, even if I could let it go for nothing. I am truly sorry, Rector.” Shit. Buggery buggery bugger. Right.
“Well, okay. I suppose there’s nothing you can do. Thanks anyway.” Bastard. Would sell his Mother for gold. Probably. I’ve no idea, truthfully. He’s probably a really nice bloke. Ah, whatever. Plan B.
Right, down here, across - left turn, then across. Always forget that bit. Anyway, here we are, at a little known jewellers. Called - actually I don't even know what it’s called, but the name above the shop says it’s a Candle And Soap Emporium. I doubt it’s actually been that for at least the last decade. But inside is the most thriving, thrilling figure of a man, hands dextrous, like the gentle hands of a surgeon - bloody Hell! What happened to him? He looks like a bloated corpse pulled from the bloody river, after being dead for about a month.
“Trep?”
“Rector.” Scintillating conversation, isn't it?
“Trep, do you remember when I came in a while ago, with a ring I wanted you to copy?”
“The Remembrance Of The Sea? The inherited ring of the Bishop of Vaxham, Upper and Lower?”
“Yes, yes. No need to describe its entire provenance. Do you happen to have -“
“A copy knocking around? I might have. What’s in it for me?”
“My eternal gratitude? To be in my prayers? To know you’re doing good?” No. I wouldn't fall for that either. The man’s no fool. No one ever said ‘there goes Trep Dulligen, the man who is a fool’. Mainly, it has to be said, because practically no one knows who he is. But that’s really beside the point, I suppose.
“Tell you what, Rector. There will come a time when I may need a favour from you. When this day comes, I hope not to be left wanting?”
“- Sure?”
“Then wait right there.” Did that sound truly ominous, or was it just me? A chill just ran up the length of my spine. I’m not sure I like the feeling, you know? Ah. He’s back, “Here you go, Rector. And don’t forget -“ Don’t forget what? Don’t forget to tap your nose? Ah, right. Got it now.
Just look at that! Look at the craftsmanship on that little beauty! Almost looks better than the original! Wow! And look how it glisters? Yes, that is a word, I’ll have you know. A real one. Anyway, back to Bish. Before he looks too closely at the vestments.
Looks like rain, up there, in the clouds. Not down there, in that puddle, because I know for certain that’s not rain. It’s too yellow for a start. Rain’s usually a good thing. Washes the crap away. Well, it does its best, but it’s no miracle worker. If it was it would wash away virtually half this town, I’d bet? Smells like rain too - that damp smell? Or that could be Rancid Colin. There’s a small club, it seems, of these types of nutters around - Colin, Sticks, you know? And Vaxham seems to be a hub for them. Some might say I’m well suited to the town in that case, and those people who say that usually end up with a turd in their bed. Curtesy of Flit. And trust me, a Flit turd is the worst. In fact, I refuse to let him crap in the Rectory’s hole in the ground because of it. Does a bear shit in the woods? I have no idea, but I know a Flit does. Ah, here we are. Home sweet home.
“That was quick, Posster?”
“I work quickly, Bishop.” Sometimes too quickly, if you know what I mean? I’m implying I’m quick to the party - snatch and grab - quickie in the sticky - I’m saying I don't last long, you know, in bed? Why on Earth am I telling you this?
“Any news?” Any news? How’s this, your Bishness! That’s right. Indistinguishable from the real one.
“Hmm.” What do you mean, hmm? You cheeky piece of - “It wasn't as shiny as this, was it?” That’s your problem? It’s too sodding shiny?
“Oh, I’m sure whoever had it cleaned it?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Perhaps? Of course I’m right! Theoretically.
“It’s a little looser too -“
“Well, I wasn't going to say it, but I think you have lost some weight -“
“Alright, Posster. I get the point. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, but - well, it’s my ring, given certain - differences - that only I would notice. You’re lucky, Posster, that I’m such a generous soul, or -“
“I know, I know. Zoom, outa here. I get it.”
“See that you do. Remember it, Posster. Remember it.” What is it with everyone getting me to remember things? Chances are I’ll have forgotten it by, uhm - what was I saying? Oh, shut your face! Stop moaning! That was a good joke, and you know it! “Well, I have rounds to take care of in the town, do I not, Posster? I won’t come and see you when I’m done, however.” Yeah, well, good riddance then you plump old - ah, better see him out. Wouldn't look good would it, if the Rector didn't send him cheerily on his way with a smile and a wave?
“God watch over you, Bishop Curle!” And shove it up your arse. Right. Back to thinking about what to do with -
“Posster!”
“Jimmy.” Here we go again.
“I have to admire your guts, Posster, for attempting that trek up to our Encampment yesterday? There are many who wouldn’t even set foot on the battlefield, never mind traversing the blood, the offal, the dismembered limbs, the -“
“Okay, Jimmy, I get the point.” Any more of that and I’ll projectile vomit all over his pristine uniform. I had one of Flit’s stews last night, so there’s plenty to project, trust me.
“Excuse me?” Benjamin Slax? What’s he doing here?
“I - I did a little soul searching, Rector. I realised how unChristian I was being. Of course, with all humility, I would be honoured if you would take this ring as a humble Broker’s contribution to the Church? I hope I didn't insult you back there?”
“Oh, no, no. I wasn't - insulted -“ Look! The ring! And off he goes, the generous, naive, poor man! Now, if I could only find a Fence -
“Why, thank you, Posster! The Major General will be pleased! This should knock a bit off your debt, I’m sure! And here comes your diminutive Curate. I’ll leave you to your Godly work then, Posster? Cheerio!” What a bastard! And what’s worse, here’s Flit!
“Nice seein’ Uncle Gilbert again, I suppose.”
“What did you say? And get that stick out of your mouth, you disgusting rodent!”
“Uncle Gilbert. Mom’s Brother. My Uncle.”
“I know what an Uncle is! Why didn't you say?”
“Thought the family resemblance was obvious?”
There are no words for that. No, wait. There are six. A beating with a big stick. Come here, you little bastard!
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