Working retail
Fifteen years later
A peaceful retreat
Reunion of estranged lovers
Artist witnesses historic event
Empty world of artificial beings
Workplace argument
Wrongful conviction
Move from country to city
Charismatic leader
Unhappy childhood
Disassembled body
Shared library card
Alien performers
Mysterious infection
Modern cowboys
Prank phone call
Living zombie
Social anxiety horror
An accident with dinner
Crimes of a priest
Very missing person
Violent breakup
Boating adventure
Collecting teeth
Group trapped in a house
Two pucks and one plan
Deadly contest
Loss of a dream
Joining the family
Unusual product order
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On 26/05/26, you ordered x3 units of Strawberry-Scented Dish Soap and Bubble Bath 2-in-1. In the "extra instructions" field, you requested that our delivery agent be named 'Steven' and have male pattern baldness. You may not be aware of this, but the "extra instructions" field is actually part of our contractual and legal requirements, so we need to review them and provide them if at all possible.
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Jane sat at the table, back ramrod straight, elbows contained securely as she'd been taught. She cleared her throat, and said, "Martha, may I please have a glass of water?"
It was poured without comment, and she sipped it gratefully. She felt an encouraging pat on her bare thigh, and looked into Alicia's sparking forest-green eyes. Her heart melted, as it was wont to do these days.
It had been fully six months since they had struck up a conversation after the Derrida lecture. A conversation that had begun in the Steiner Lyceum, continued over decaf lattes in the coffee shop, and concluded with a kiss on the cheek and a proposal to meet in the week. That later meeting had taken them, without much fuss or surprise, into one another's arms. It had been a whirlwind of excitement, thrills, and new discoveries-yet it had led here. 42, Albany Terraces. Dinner. A meal she would likely never forget.
Now, Alicia's too-cheery, bubbly voice was drifting into the silence.
"Did you know Jane got top marks in an assignment? They say over eighty percent is publishable!"
"Really," said Arthur, "how fascinating. I didn't know that." He took a sip from his water-glass. "I suppose you're rather proud."
"Yes, she's a right clever-clogs! She's certainly taught me a few things this term."
Martha coughed heavily, and shot her daughter a glacial look. Alica's cheeks pinked, and Jane thought unhelpfully that she looked really pretty like that.
"Well done, Jane," Martha said, adding about as much emotion into the sentence as she had seasoning into dinner.
"It's nothing much," Jane said demurely. "I simply worked hard and applied myself."
"Jane always works hard," Alicia beamed. "She really gets her head down and puts in the effort." Jane's turn to flush this time.
There was no reply from Martha, and for about two minutes concentration returned to the mechanics of eating. Jane wielded her knife and fork with practised perfection, while Alicia made a bit more of an unwieldy job of it.
"These, er, these peas are superb," Jane offered. "Really quite, ah, buttery and moist."
"Thank you, Jane," Martha said in precisely the same tone she'd used before.
"So, then. We're to be seeing more of you, Jane?" Arthur said hollowly. "I do hope that you'll be able to talk some sense into Alicia. You seem like a sensible girl, Jane, and Alicia gets these odd fancies into her head sometimes."
"Pardon? What…what fancies do you mean?"
Arthur cleared his throat heavily, and his wife supplied for him, "Fancies about…women. Ideas that they can replace boyfriends."
"I…I see," Jane said gravely.
The silence which followed was as thick as the gravy, and twice as heavy. But Alicia's hand felt for hers, and squeezed gently, and Jane felt that so long as she could feel that, she could endure any indignity.
One hot night toward the end of May, Alice Magnusson was asleep. The windows were flung open, and a symphony of crickets and other beasts sang and chirruped in the grasses outside. A faint simoom stirred the edges of the covers, and as a distant prairie dog howled, the woman's eyes began to twitch and gyrate below her lids.
She was dreaming.
In the dream, she was looking for Angelique, her childhood friend, in the surrounds of an ancient, twisted manor house. It grew like a great, white mushroom amid the grasses of the mighty Pampas. The corridors of the house were made entirely of glass, skinny, flyblown panes held together by slender painted frames. Here and there, at intervals, great busts frowned up at her, perched on rickety, frail-looking wooden stools which she feared would smash to flinders if ahe collided with them, filling her with a feeling of great disapproval and shame.
She had not thought of Angelique for some time. In the dream's world, though, Angelique was to interview her for a major postition at the Major Concavity Board. (She was sure of that.) If she didn't find the meeting-place in time, the job would be lost, and how could she face Danny? How would she explain to him that she had lost the job because she was too frightened to search effectively in this place?
Ineviitably, one of the busts was knocked, and collapsed to the floor, its stool flying its legs upward like a living thing, and from behind her Angelique said, "Oh, there you are, then."
She spun round, and flushed. "Oh my god, I am so sorry."
"It's alright, it doesn't matter at all. Come on, we're going to be late."
"Late? What for?"
Angelique didn't reply, but she quickened her pace, and Alice remembered then that they were due to catch a connecting train to Harrogate from here soon. Why had she thought there was an interview?
"Where does the train leave from?"
"The pilar up on the West Lawn," Angelique replied. "You do have your ticket?"
Of course she didn't. Of course she'd forgotten. Just like Mum's birthday and Danny's shirts. She patted her pockets and found nothing.
"Where…?"
"You need to find it," Angelique said rudely. 'We can't leave without it."
Where was she supposed to look? She hurried away, down the baking-hot corridor and into a cloakroom. She began, frentically, to check the pockets of the clothes hanging there. There was a strange lump in one of them, and she pulled it free. It was a bronze figure, in the vague shape of a man, with fluid weeping in rivulets down its front. As she turned it over to look at it, it said, in a rich, gurgling voice, "The problem you have is that you leave everything to the last minute. Like DeGalle said: "One must take action as though it were medicine: though bitter,,it must be swallowed deciscively."
Startled, she dropped the thing, and it landed with a hollow boom like a clock-tower in a distant field, and she starts to run, dodging between furrows and ploughed ditches as birds fountain skyward from the pointed roof.
There could be no hope for her now, it had already chimed, it was already too late, and with a crazed effort the world of the dream bulged and split apart, the clocktower seeming to veer onto its side…
…the whole, ludicrious situation hung like a precarious soap-bubble in her brain before, in the blink of an eye, it popped. In the morning, she remembered none of it.
Flora, strolling along the tree-lined avenue with Edward and Andrew either side of her lithe, summer-frocked body, was the one who suggested it.
There had to be some way to resolve the whole mess of whom should be her beau going forward- the two of them had been oh so sweet in professing their devotion to her, their adoration of her charming smile and freckle-dappled thighs, their sinful desires to do what ought not be done in polite company.
She postiively could not decide whose devotion was stronger, or whom she was attracted to more; Edward so fair and boyish in form, with a perfect bit of padding to his behind, and Andrew so althetic and strong-shouldered, the envy of so many of the boys on the rowing team. And so the game was proposed.
Simple rules; each boy had to prove his devotion to her in a manner of her chosing. Both of them immediately aquiesed, and it fell to her to decide the means.
They began quite simply, with Flora demanding that each boy subject to pinches- upon the fore-arm, on the nape of the neck, daringly upon the thigh- but it was Edward who suggested that he could withstand more than a mere pinch, and accepted a hard smack across the backside. Not to be outdone (and not a little aggrieved that the act had seemed rather flirty) Andrew demanded Flora strike him in the face.
The impact resounded through the wood like a gunshot, and a trickle of blood ran from the edge of Andrew's face. He did not cry out, or even ask for mercy; he merely looked up at her, eyes shining wetly with the adoration of a dog looking upon its kindly master. Flora, too, did not react but to giggle, and ask what indignity Edward might endure.
Her nails scored down his cheek almost lovingly, and he watered the forest undergrowth with hot, salty fluid, that trickeled in rivulets down the smooth, unblemished flesh of his cheek. Andrew then permitted-demanded- a deeper, unkinder cut, in the meat of his calf, that stained his leg from knee to foot in gaudy red.
Next a nail was torn away, at Edward's urging. What would have been seen as torture to a prisoner of the Inquisition was, to him, mere discomfort at the hands of his beloved. He clasped his violated hand to his chest, and swore his undying love.
Andrew recognised the need to step up. There could be nothing too sacred for Flora to take. He declared himself an open book, hers to plunder, and she obligingly pulled hairs from his still-bleeding skin, not sropping until she had a generous pile and the flesh had begun to resemble uncooked chicken.
Edward surrendered his first tooth a few rounds later. Somehow, the effort and the agonies he endured seemed to pale in comparison to the girl's gleaming eyes, and her clear exhultation in performing so intimate an act upon him, her hands pressing against the plump flesh of his lips and fondling with tender care his sensitive, weeping palate. She swore to keep the bloody fleck of bone she extracted with her always.
Andrew thence was forced to offer more: he had to gift the girl something bigger than that sad, pulpy thing. Every good British schoolboy always carries his trusty pocket-knife with him, and soon Andrew's trembling, sticky fingers were pressing the hot, coppery steel into Flora's greedy fingers, and begging that she ought to take whatsoever she pleased. It was the ring finger she amputated, sawing inelegantly through the bone and twisting it painfully. Andrew masked his screams as orgasmic cries of extascy, extolling the virtue and lissom beauty of the girl's body. Once it was removed, and the ginger-beer poured over the ragged stump, Flora whispered that she might find a use for a digit such as this when alone in her bedroom.
On hearing that, Edward offered a whole hand, unbuttoning his shirt-cuff and presenting a lily-white wrist to Flora's view. So that the lady might be truly satisfied, he said. As the blade sunk in and his delicate blue-blooded veins began to burst, he bit down upon Flora's preoffered handkerchief, groaning at the taste of her.
It was not until Andrew, tearing his shirt to ribbons about his wonderfully strong shoulders, offered to bare his eternal heart to his lover that a winner was decided. Flora was extastic at his ingenuity, his creativity, his passion! All this she crooned to him as she plunged the blade between his stiff, pink nipples and exposed his pulsing, thrashing organ to the air. As the luckless swain fell onto his back, legs pushed stiffly into the air, Flora straddled him, keen to make her chosen suitor's last moments in this world truly marvellous.
Edward, alas, had already fainted, and would not be stirred by any force in this world. Truly, his passion had been the cooler. Thus the deadly contest did, at length, serve its purpose.
Jolyon Fennell exhaled through his long, aquiline nose, lips tightly pressed shut. He took a drag on the cigarette smouldering away between his fingers. Something was coming; a major revelation. It yearned to be given life. He concentrated, worked his neck, and focused, smacking his lips together a few times in preparation before he finally leaned forward and, in a rich timbre, proclaimed, to the world at large, "Bastards!"
His compatriot, Hector Asquith, nodded sympathetically, making his eclectic bird's-nest of hair wobble as though in some high wind.
"I know, Joly dear. I know."
"The nerve of him. Sitting there in his high-backed bloody chair, acting like the bloody Grand Sherriff of BBC Comedy…"
"You must try to breathe."
"I bloody am. What sort of stupid advice is that, Heckie?"
"I don't know, dear, I just thought it something to say."
"Well, kindly don't. It'll just irritate me." Jolyon scowled, and took up his glass of Cannikin Clinker. He swigged and sighed. "How exactly can situation comedy be passé?"
"I don't know, dear. I'm quite sure it's impossible."
"He was making things up, wasn't he? Just some damned peccedillo trying to come up with reasons to reject our idea."
"Quite so," Hector gabbled. An idea occured to him, and, as a drowning man will reach for the life preserver, so he reached for it. "I expect," he said heavily, "
that it was the Shakespeare of it all that put him off. You know these commissioning editors are all drama-school dropouts."
"But I told him it didn't need to be Shakespearian. I said that, over and over. And what did he say? He criticised the title. Said he thought it was something to do with hockey."
"Two Pucks and A Plan. Is there such a thing as a Puck outside of the Dream?"
"Well, of course. Anyone acting Puck-ish. That's what I said to him, that it would be about these two Puck-ish chaps, and it could be set anytime he wished-even now- and it would still work fine."
"Even though I thought it worked best with two Shakespearians?"
"Well of course! That's how you get what you want from these TV types. You have to let the cart-horse follow the water. Then, when they think they're in control, then you get back to what you wanted all along."
Hector nodded sagely. "Gosh, yes. I forgot that's how you persauded Grade to take a punt on Play's The Thing."
Jolyon smiled, a thin reedy thing with no humour whatsoever in it. "Well. That was the Eighties, anything went back then. Now it's all smartphones and app tie-ins, and no-one wants anything smart or witty anymore." He paused. "Did you know, he actually said he wanted a show where the characters narrate what they're doing out loud as they're doing it?"
His companion frowned. 'How's that?"
"No, really! He'd have our First Puck, played capably by Jacobi-"
"-or Stewart-"
"Don't bring up that Man to me again, Heckie, or so help me I'll walk."
"Alright, I'm sorry."
"So you ought to be. Dammit, I've lost my thead…"
"First Puck. Jacobi."
"Yes, he wanted him to enter stage left and utter something like, "I'm crossing the stage now, I can't find my pantalons anywhere, have you seen them on your travels, Puck dear?" And then Second Puck, Branagh-"
"On that we're agreed-"
"Second Puck to respond, "Dear me, no, but I'm too much caught up in winding this bobbin up to help, let me join you centre stage."
"Absurd."
"Ghastly."
"Effete."
"Positively Pinteresque. Or Beckettian."
"Ugh, Joly dear, my nerves!"
"I do apologise, Heckie. Heat of the moment."
"You do understand what that Man does to me, to my nerves."
"But of course." Jolyon stubbed his cigarette viciously out upon the table. "The upshot, however, the long, the short, and the curlies of it is, we've no series to produce, and Lady M's chances in a Covid deniers' convention of getting it sorted."
Hector sighed, and finished his own pint. "Another, Joly dear?"
"The wife will go mad, but go ahead, twist the arm. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb!"
"Well, quite."
Jolyon stared hopelessly at the bartop, at the puddle of alcohol boring its way into the scuffed wood. How had it come to this, he wondered, how on Earth had it come to this? He was someone, but only in the theatre, that moribund world of sagging queens and ancient lechers. To be anyone of substance these days, you had to get on the television. Well, had to get there and stay there. Not for the first time, he cursed that doe-eyed runner who'd caused all the fuss. It had been a simple friendly pat. Their damned fault if they misconstrued it.
This series had been his redemption arc, his sign that it was time to come in from the cold. And now it was all in tatters and ash, and all he had done was dare to believe in it. How had he and Heckie offended?
That was the point, wasn't it? He could still hear that damned editor's grating Northern accent now- "It don't push tha' envelope, not one bit."
Well, he was going to find a way. Even if it meant-
Of course.
Even if it meant going to Cousin Ferdie and pulling one hell of a fast one.
The Plan began to form in Jolyon's head faster than he could scribble it down, but fortunately Hector returned with the drinks, and was there to hear him babble away.
"Look, Heckie, we'll Trojan Horse it. We'll get that BBC contract back faster than you could launch a thousand ships. My Cousin Ferdie works for Radio 4. He's desperate for new ideas. We'll pitch the Pucks, not in their current form but as all manner of shows. As whatever he wants to hear. And when we've got the slot, we'll just slip them in, in the background- I don't know, to fill time on Gardener's Hour or something such. And once they're on the air, and a hoot,,mr Push the Envelope won't be able to stop us!"
"Genius, Joly dear!" Hector grinned, pleased beyond measure that his little scheme of talking his chum into hitting the pub hadworked.
At first, when the news had relayed the news about the coming Bank Holiday heatwave, it had seemed a time for rejoicing. "I can't remember the last time we had nice weather on the hols!" Pete said, folding his hands over his beer gut and sitting back so the old armchair creaked.
But as the day drew nigh, the papers produced bold headlines declaring a "HELLFIRE HEATWAVE", and the weather maps turned from orange to red to black, it became clear this wasn't going to be the kind of weather people could do anything with. It was, instead, the kind of nuclear fire that burns reason itself alive, the family took shelter inside their home.
At six am Pete was hoisting off-cuts of cardboard into the windows- he'd read online that it deflected the heat- whilst Pam was loading the freezer up with assorted ices and beers. The kids were struggling awake into a new world were the air felt like the blankets they had emerged from.
By nine am, the world beyond the front door had been sealed away. The pavement shimmered in the blasting heat, and the family sought solace in the family room, the curtains drawn and the fans ratcheted up to full.
It seemed as though time itself began to melt. A second became a minute became an hour. The world blurred into one long, endless Sunday afternoon.
To pass the time, they watched TV, shows under scorching skies moving like mirages over the walls. They talked about nothing in particular, and let the world wash over them. They scrolled through news reports and social media posts, and lived vicariously through that- adjusting, it seemed, to the new normal, the coldest summer they'd ever know for the rest of their lives.
Here is one of my favourites- a molar from a Tartar. The pun is utterly delicious, isn't it? And you know, it does have some tartar on it- back in the day dental hygene was in its infancy! I was lucky enough to pick this one up at an auction of antiquities, and for a steal, too.
But it is far from the rarest tooth in the collection. See this incisor? Long and sharp, like a dagger? I have here a sworn affadvit that affirms that this was plucked from the jaw of Edward Teach by Robert Maynard, after their bloody battle. Had to go down to the wire with the Dean of Bristol University for it, but it was worth it.
Not all my teeth are from such notaries; I have handfuls of teeth from various sources. A few from Victorians, donated to science to pay for a night off the streets: a set here from Boston, fashioned after George Washington's- I even have a broken handful that have been carbon-dated to the High Medieval period, and bear the particular wear and tear of biting upon the coarse cosset loaves that were popular with the peasant class at the time.
You, or your readers, may well ask- why teeth? Why of all things to collect do I collect those?
There is continuity in teeth. You may not know how a Saxon dressed or a Cossack thought or what, precisely, a Barbary Corsair believed in, but you can be certain that all of them were in posession of a set of teeth, something they treasured, utililised, and lost.
And they say that if you have a man's tooth, you have something of his soul. Or is it that you may control his actions though them? Either reality appeals. My collection will continue to grow unchecked.
There were three of us aboard the Rosie Lee; myself, Eliot Edmunson and James Ffarquar- three duffers, basically, or two duffers and one complete fool.
It was the end of the Spring term at Stoves, and we were all a tad bully- we knew the exams were around the corner, and none of us were going to do barnstormers, so we thought we'd do one last jolly celebration in style before we screwed our heads down to the task of revising.
It was James's idea that we commandeer the rowboat. He was hoping for a spot on the team, you see, so he knew what was what, and could supervise. It was Eliot's idea, moreover, that we sail upriver and aim for Greyfriars; apparently there was some tradition about this time where the girls dared one another to run about starkers on the private lawns. He still swears to this day it's a thing, some girl he messes about with confirmed it apparently, but I think he's full of rot, and I jolly well said so at the time.
But I went along with it anyway, because for goodness' sake, where else would we sail to? A man needs a goal in life, as Mr Squeers the house-master told us time and again. More fool him for not specifiying precisely what one's goal ought to be!
Anyway, we met up in the afternoon, very neatly cutting off the Spring Assembly we were all supposed to be attending- three hours in the Octagon, seating on squeaky bloody chairs and listening to the Head wanking on over the School Values and the Head Boys- cruel and unusual punishment, if you ask me! We weren't the only ones to sneak out.
We all piled into the boat, and very nearly upset it there and then, there was much hallooing and crying from all of us as we tried to right it. But once we'd settled down, stowed the picnic basket away and so forth, it became really jolly pleasant, for a time. I remember sprawling out on the floor of the boat, looking up languidly at the blue skies above, fringed by the branches of the oak-trees, and imagining lazily that it was a whole river-network to explore.
Things seemed like they'd work out alright for a bit. We took turns at the oar, and were in high spirits. The weather was wonderful, and the waters of the river ran blue and clear.
The only fly in the ointment, it seemed, was the conversation. James was going on about some girl he'd fallen for- Jane or Janet or Jada or some such collection of syllables- and that meant not only did we have to listen to his bloody woe-is-me nonsense even as the warblers sang in the bushes and the kingfishers darted to and fro, but I also had to deal with Eliot running his mouth about all the ladies he'd most definately had it away with, knowing it was total bollocks.
Eventually, I decided I'd had enough, and at a convenient moment I interjected, "God's sake, Ellie, don't run your bloody mouth so. Don't forget I saw you getting out for a duck with that blonde trollop the last time."
He coloured, the blush rather noticable on his pale skin. "I told you, she was frigid. It was the other blonde I had it off with, the one from Hertford-"
"Stow it and keep rowing. The last thing you need, James, is to take any advice whatsoever from this cretin."
We were rowing through a rather gorgeous stretch at this point, where there were a good number of willow-trees trailing their branches in the water.
"Well, what am I supposed to do, then?" James asked. "Because I really am starting to feel she might be the one. You know, the one and only…"
Eliot scoffed at that, and I glared daggers. "Just because you're desperate to play the cad about town doesn't mean you have to pour water on everyone's hopes."
"She has a boyfriend," he retorted, and James sighed as though he'd been shot in the chest with a barbed arrow.
'Well, that's as maybe- but women, ah, women are fickle,' he said. "Surely there must be a means to secure her heart away from this lusty cad!"
"Unlikely," Eliot said, "pretty sure he's going to propose next term."
"Well, then my heart is torn asunder," James said mournfully, "and there seems very little point in carrying on! Perhaps I ought to scupper us. No, better yet," he went on, "let's sail to the high seas, and pursue a career as privateers. None of us are getting the exam marks anyway!"
"Oh, now," I cautioned. "Don't start getting yourself down, man."
"I am not down!" he cried. "In fact I feel happier than I have for ages- I'm on open water, my friends are with me, and even though my heart's been ripped out of my chest, I have, at the very least, the freedom to embrace a different fate."
It struck me, at that moment, that it was true- that we had our whole lives before us, that nothing yet had been decided, and we could, as far as I was concerned, sail our little ship to anywhere we cared to.
It was the last time in my life I would be cogniscent of such freedom. As I recall, we never quite made it to the girls' college- we got rather lost, and ended up camping out overnight in an old ruin that had been sacked during Ethelred the Unready's day. But it mattered little- for one glorious afternoon, we three tasted freedom, pure and simple and untainted, no one to tell us what to do. We were firm friends for years after, too, until Eliot up and vanished entirely and James settled on a career in the States.
But I have the memory, and no-one can take it away from me.
The attendees filed out first, forming a respectable semi circle before the apparatus: the high lords arrived next, taking their allotted places on the hastily-constructed wooden benches, each wearing a fine ruff, hat, or feather. The groups chattered excitedly, about nothing much of importance.
Then a voice at the back of the green cried the King's approach, and the news filtered through the crowd like wind through a barley-field. One-by-one they rose and genuflected.
The King looked grave. He bid the company settle, and gestured to one of the assembled lords, one Percy of St Albans, to come to his side. The Lord arose, his midnight-black doublet and ruffled collar making him resemble an immense crow, and went to the King's side. The onlookers could not overhear them. The Lord turned back, his face an unreadable mask, and the King, a hand pressed to his forehead, then called, "Bring forth the accused!"
A tumbril-cart approached, and halted on the edge of the field. Two figures emerged, bearing a third between them. His hands were bound before him, and he stumbled unsteadily, as though unaccustomed to walking.
As he drew in sight of the crowd, two things became apparent very swiftly. The first was that, in spite of the bruises upon his face, and his unshaven jaw, this man had been, and in many respects still was, uncommonly handsome. His eyes were fair, bright, and blue, his hair long, blonde, and curled, and he posessed a trimness of countenance that should have made a sculptor weep. Indeed, several of the parties assembled found themselves wondering if such a statue had been made, and if so if it were possible to view it.
The second thing that became obvious was that this prisoner could not have cared in the least for his audience- he looked through them as though they were mere twists of paper, until he found one face in particular and fixated upon it. It was plain that for the rest of his time on Earth, he meant tk look at no other face, not even that of his King.
"We are here today to put to death the traitor, Thomas Partridge, before the eyes of Christ and the powers of justice that rule this land," proclaimed the King. "Hath the prisoner aught to say in his defence?"
"This man," Thomas hissed, "this vulture, squatting beside you, sire, is the truest of traitors in this land."
Sir Percy did not move. He barely even blinked. "How typical. Throwing accusations about wheresoever you can."
"Have you evidence?" the King said evenly. "Anything that may bolster thy claim before this court?"
"Sire!" Percy protested. "The man has already been tried. He has already confessed his crimes. I see no point in discussing it further."
Thomas hung his head. "A confession? A confession of what? That I did love unwisely? That I did store all my hopes and securities in one flighty fiend?"
The colour drained from Sir Percy's cheeks. "Don't you dare. You know as well as I your confession was to acts of treason against our good King-"
"Who I felt would understand the impossibility of my situation!" Thomas protested.
"Whom," Percy pressed, "you confessed to plotting to unseat."
"Which compelled me to act," the King agreed, "in the manner I have." He turned to Percy, and sighed, "Based upon your testimony and my faith in your judgement, I shall have this man beheaded…" He paused. "Unless, of course, you have new information to impart."
Thomas stared, shaking, at his tormentor. "Well, Percy? Have you anything to add?"
"That is Lord St Albans to you, filth. And I still say this man is a traitor-"
"A traitor! A look- a look- at another is not high treason!"
"Hah, you expect me to believe that all you did was look at that preeening whore?"
"Yes! Because it is true! Because I would not even lay a hand upon another, so long as I had your…"
"Careful!" The King broke out, and Thomas hastily ended, "admiration and awarness."
Percy fell silent. His hand tapped at the bench, as.though deep in thought.
Thomas stared up at him, a helpless, humble animal.
"Well," said the King, "how does my Lord St Albans find the accused?"
Percy considered his next words with great, grave care.
I seem to have become very missing almost overnight.
My name is __, but as you can see that gets us no-where- the ink vanishes as soon as I write it out. I can't speak it aloud, either; the syllables wither and die on my tongue.
At the moment, I am standing in the main booking-in terminal of Heathrow Airport, and none of the packed crowds here seem to have noticed that I'm here. The fact that I am shirtless and wearing a traffic-cone on my head also has not seemed to register.
I feel quite confident, therefore, in asserting that I am not going to be found, and that I can therefore do pretty much as I please. I am writing this M.S. largely as further proof that whatever I produce now does not register whatsoever with the world at large.
Therefore, I shall confess herein that the string of robberies in Mafeking Square in early May was my handiwork; the police said they were baffled, but I simply walked in and took whatsoever I pleased.
The same logic applies to the mysterious spate of undergarment theft among the eligible daughters of Bermondsey; just my little joke. I didn't do anything obscene, though I can confirm that Lady Emilia does indeed possess a perfectly scandalous tattoo on the lower left third of her capacious behind, as the papers have speculated and she has firmly denied.
I am also behind the unfortunate demises of several of the viler members of the political class: a good, hard shove in the right place seems to work wonders. I first tested this as a curiosity, but I suppose in theory, if one was patient enough, one could re-shape the world in a direction that one favoured; I am not patient enough, alas, and in my view they're all basically the same anyway.
The question I have is two-fold, really. Why did I become so heartily rejected by the universe, and what am I to do with this bizarre curse?
I have racked my brain, hoping to recall something I have done or said that might have brought this fate upon me. I do recall casting aspersions upon the existence and omnipotence of a few minor deities, but for the life of me I can't remember which. I was fairly confident some of them were made up.
Another possibility is that this is all some kind of social experiment, dreamed up for one of those odious content platforms which turn personal humilation into cold hard cash. I wish I could believe that this miracle was just that, but in the world we currently inhabit it seems rather likely that various systems could contort to carve out this illusion, this veil before my eyes.
That was why I stooped to murder. I wanted to see how far, realistically, I could push things, to test if they would deploy crisis actors or commit some obvious feint in order to prevent me from committing the crime.
The fact that I was able to does open up some very interesting possibilities. I cannot discount the idea that this world is some manner of simulation, and my situation is the result of some bug, glitch, or other mistake. I also cannot decisively rule out the idea that my mysteriously missing status has been assigned to me in order to fulfil some grander purpose, some feted role in someone's grand design.
I do not know what that role might be; but I intend to find out the truth, one way or another. I will use my status as outsider to search this world from top to bottom until I find out what has caused this catastrophic administrative cock-up, and resolve it.
Ah! A customer! Welcome, welcome, to my Emporium of the Abstract.
I can see your curiosity is piqued. Is it the candles? The stacks of rare and lofty tomes piled hereabouts? Or is it the name? I came up with it myself, you see.
Well, those earlier things are just set-dressing, really. You expect a shop such as this to feel vaguely arcane, and so it does. It may change as your ideas evolve.
What we sell here, you see, is highly unusual- items of mavellous rarity and supreme value, all at an entirely reasonable price. You will find no deal better, sir, not if you search the Spheres of Reality for one thousand and twenty lifetimes.
I see your brow furrow with scepticism, sir, so permit me to offer you the rarely offered privelage of a free sample.
See, here in this little bag? It contains the crimes of a priest. These are most useful in the crafting of incantations that evoke guilt, or of brewing unguents and ointments to relieve those of it. Go on, take it! Hold it.
Do you feel how heavy that bag is? So small, so seemingly light- and yet how very burdensome it is. That is because of the guilt that imbues every single atom of the things within that bag. The crimes of a priest weigh heavily upon the mind. You may feel the difference, sir, if you compare this bag, which contains the crimes of a police officer; see how feather-light it is?
You still are not convinced? Then behold the terrarium upon your left. See that thing that twitches and prowls within? That, my friend, is thwarted ambition. It's been in my collection for a while; I was told that it was originally sourced from the man- a clergyman from the days of the Byzantines- who would inspire the tale of Lucifer himself.
Do not touch the glass! For the sake of all that is pure and good in the world, do not anger it!
One must take extra care, here. My stock is rare, expensive, and lively. I keep the rarest of the rare in special containers in the back, immsersed fully three inches deep in the musings of the insane. This both preserves them from decay and prevents their easy detection. This is important. If it became widely known that I am in possession of certain items, they will stop at nothing to hunt them down. I fear the consequences if the dreams of the Witch House were ever to escape.
King Marco the White, Toque King of Smõrgasbörd for fully thirty years, expired peacefully in his bed, after a last supper of herring and peaches. The funeral was held, and as Smörgasbord's period of mourning drew to an end, the great city of San Frigo hummed with anticipation and gossip.
Stallholders brought out their finest, rarest prizes; there was a confirmed sighting of a perfectly ripe Mother Eden apple, and a rumoured sighting of an Eve's Blush from Maplewood Orchard. The scent from the cheese quarter grew so pungent that the nervous of disposition were advised to steer clear, and windows downwind were sealed. The town guards were on the alert. Eyes were everywhere, and hands were nervously planted upon weaponry.
For the newest of the Toque Kings, formerly Prince Rhodes, was preparing for his Grand Feast.
The invitations soared far and wide across the land, seeking the hands of the most senior dignitaries from each nation of Culinare. Purchasers were deployed to the newly paranoid marketplace, and through a network of agents, double-bluffs and fronts, supplies were gathered.
The Prince and his advisers gathered in the Kitchens, to discuss tactics, recipies, and plans.
"Sire," Lord Oregano oiled, teasing at the ends of his waxed mustaches, "I would suggest not to be overly ostentatious. Marco was well-loved, and you will not want to seem to overshadow or outdo his finesse…"
"My Lord!" gasped Viscountessa Juniper, "that is precisely why you must dazzle them. If you serve bland fare, you will have a queue of challengers for the throne before the last dish is washed!"
"Bland?" Oregano quavered. "I did not insinuate blandness!"
"There must be some spice, always," nodded Ginger, the Prince's personal butler.
"I believe Oregano means the Prince ought not over-reach his capabilities," Lord Sage said quietly.
"His capabilities? You dare question my Lord's capabilities?" Ginger snarled.
Rhodes pressed his hands to his head in anguish. "Please, all of you, pray be silent. I cannot think. I need to decide on a fitting menu. It must be something I can accomplish, and it must not be something too basic. I will repair to the library at once."
He spent a day and a night combing through the recipies that lay there, while his cabinet anxiously prepared, scrubbing pans, boiling tea-towels and sharpening knives. All this activity came with a frisson of nerves.
For the truth was Marco's nomination was a scant one. It had been made largely in jest, as his Lordship made ready to go to bed. It had just been happenstance that Rhodes had been on kitchen duty during that final meal.
Of course, he had been the favourite, there was no doubt about that. Of course, Marco had every intention of formalising his suggestion. But the suddenness of his passing had caused some upset. And Rhodes knew full well that whispers in the wings were against him.
He spent a full week preparing. Practising chopping. Making tester versions of the more complex dishes. The kitchen staff were well-fed that week- another vital step in preparation, for it got them on side.
As the day of the Grand Feast drew nigh, sleep quitted Rhodes. He passed his nights and days alike in solemn contemplation, practising every slice, preparing every ingredient, rehearsing and rehearsing until he had, he felt, attained perfection.
The day itself came, and the dignitaries were arriving. They had travelled from across Culinare, from Tandoor and Fricasssonne and the Cote Du Mer. In all, fully fifty-seven varieties of territory were represented that day.
Rhodes was in the kitchen, Ginger offering some final words of advice.
"My lord, you will be fine. You are practised. You are calm. You are more than capable."
"I only hope you're right, Ginger," Rhodes said grimly.
"Here, take a nip of this," Ginger said, offering a small hip-flask. "
"What is it?"
"Focustarian Ice Brandy. From the foothills of Pröv. Just a nip will help."
Rhodes took the flask. His tongue went alarmingly numb, even though he barely tilted it to his lips. A corresponding flush of wondrous heat emitted from his inner core, and at once he felt fortified and ready.
"Thanks, Ginger. I knew I could count on you."
"All should flow well. We're nearly at serving point…"
Rhodes began a last-minute inspection of the assortment of pots, pans and plates, and progressed down his mental checklist. The salads were prepared and dressed. The centrepiece was sauteed in its juices, as finely as Marco had ever managed. The accoutrements were prepared and ready for plating, the confit of cunard mixed and ready, and the shallots moulade were safely and securely caramelised. The coffee cream had set perfectly on the imitation mushrooms that had been so cleverly crafted for dessert, and the fine Tuakali coffee was slow-roasting in the cafetiere.
All that remained was to begin the plating. He reached for the dish of crudites…
…and realised, with the slow, dawning horror of the man sinking into a nightmare, that they were no-where to be found. He had forgotten them.
Ice flooding his veins and sweat searing his brow, he frantically called to a lickspittle, and stressed the urgency with which he required cucumber, carrot and mint: the lickspittle was well-trained and well-fed, and the ingredients were piled atop the chopping board at the same moment as the first dignitary was ushered within the walls of the Palace.
A suitable knife was thrust into Rhodes's hand, and he grasped the first cucumber grimly as the blade began to hack away in steady, shaky motions.
Lord Oregano entered, his face drawn.
"Sire, what means this delay? The guests are about to arrive, and the plating has not yet begun…"
"Unexpected delay," Rhodes snapped. "Look, either help out, or stall them, or something, but for goodness' sake don't just go on standing there…"
His Lordship sniffed. "Most irregular. But very well." His hands clapped. "Begin the plating at my direction!"
As Rhodes chopped feverishly, the kitchen became a frenzy of activity. Dishes were opened, spatulas and ladles deployed, and the garnishing began in earnest as Rhodes contiued his frenetic race against time.
He would have made it with time to spare. He would have been fine.
No-one was really quite sure how it happened- whether the table was jostled, whether the knife he was given was nicked or slightly imbalanced. It may even have been as simple as a minor blemish or imperfection in the ingredients, so hastily gathered.
Whatever the reason, the facts of the case were that as the last carrot yielded to the sharp, downward jerk of Rhodes's knife, his hand slipped, and the tip of his middle finger flew, quite unceremoniously, into the midst of the dishes that were mid-prep.
It was so very sudden, and so very unexpected, that for quite a while there was no pain to speak of; it was only the jetting of the blood, staining his chef's whites, smearing them through with deepest crimson, that gave him any pause.
Then there was a flurry of confusion. He remembered being surrounded by raised voices and concerned hands. He remembered Oregano calling to everyone to remain calm, feeling his maimed hand seized, bound, soothed with balm.
Then memory blurred, up until the moment he heard Ginger, loyal, faithful friend Ginger, saying that of course they would have to postpone the feast, that they could manufacture some excuse…and his own voice saying, clearly, "No."
A stunned silence fell.
"But my Lord- your hand- you're bleeding most appallingly-"
"It will be all right," he rasped. "It has to be. There is no time."
The look in the eyes of his compatriots startled him. They were regarding him as one would a starving animal loose in a meat cellar.
"At least let us send for the doctor-"
"There is no time!" he repeated. "I am delayed as it is." He gestured to the miraculously unbloodied crudites and barked to the nearest underling to deploy them at once. Then, he marched for the door, his hand carefully swaddled under layers and layers of bandages.
In all the confusion, the fingertip was never.found; it stands to reason that one of the dignitaries that night became an accidental cannibal, but this secret, like so many others, went to the grave with all who dined that night.
Between the bloodloss and the brandy, his Lordship made a strange dinner companion. He chatted aimiably and gaily, and yet his eyes ran wild, his cheek pale, and his gestures veered toward the manic.
It would be inaccurate to say that there were no complaints or concerns about the quality of the repast; it would be more fitting to say that the assembled company were too nervous to raise any objection.
As was feared, this event would set the tone for the reign of Toque King Rhodes the Paranoid: his short time upon the throne was filled with accusation, threat, and abjuration. He gave up food itself by the end, obsessed with the idea that there were poisoners lurking in the walls. His end, when it came, came by his own hand, with the very same chef's knife that began the descent into madness.
He put his headphones in, and after a moment, Mark Knopfler's amazing riff on 'Money for Nothing' hit, propelling the quiet murmuring of the carriage away.
He supposed it was weird, listening to this stuff in 2026. But he had a reason. His Dad had been a big fan. Charles had grown up with the Human League, Bonnie Tyler, Tears for Fears. His dad had always said the bassline was the key, and Charles didn't disagree.
Now it was just one of his guilty little secrets. One thing he had to keep hidden from the world. His eyes roamed the carriage nervously, briefly paranoid the headphones weren't connected, but everyone seemed calm. A guy with bleached blond spikes was in the aisle opposite, absorbed in his phone. A lady in a pinstripe suit was reading the paper: the headline read, "NANNY STATE! ONLINE SURVEILLANCE BILL PASSES THE LORDS"
The train sped through Orpingdon and Hexminster, and soon the green fields began to give way to the comfortable back-gardens of Greater London suburbia. Charles watched the city grow with his usual excitement- he'd loved these trips as a boy.
At Thenbury, the guy with the bleached blond spikes got up, his jeans slipping as he did so to reveal a half-moon of flesh and a tantalising sliver of red underwear. Charles' thighs shifted as he processed it. Thought about her hands greedily yanking those jeans away and admiring how that pair clung…
"You alright, mate?"
Oh god. The man was looking right at him.
"Fine!" Charles squeaked, a hot flash of shame burning his cheeks. The man gave a brief twitch of a smile, and then walked off.
Charles drew a breath, and didn't exhale again until the train had moved on.
That had been too close. He should know better. He shouldn't stare. People found it rude.
But just think, whispered the Bitch, deep down in the murky, sweaty recesses of his mind. If you had tits to fill that shirt, and nice long blonde hair, he'd have been pleased. He might have asked for your number. Might have dragged you off the train to get a closer look at what you were eyeing up. Whether you liked it or not.
Shut up, Charles thought. He rearrranged his thighs carefully- almost daintily- and tried, once again, to lose himself in the music.
Bowie was singing "Rebel Rebel", and the train was nearing Hopley Street, the first station in London proper. The brakes engaged, and the train dropped down to a slow, gentle glide, and as it did so, Charles noticed something odd.
The billboard he always saw at this point, as the train trundled over the Holborn & Carrington viaduct, had been swapped out. It had been an anodyne image of a forest for weeks and weeks.
Now, however, it depicted a gleaming, muscle-bound hunk, clad in nothing but a pair of tight figure-hugging red underwear. That would have been shocking enough, but right next to the man's backside, a phrase had been written in black, spikey graffiti.
"Charlie wanted this."
As he scanned it, Bowie sang, almost mockingly, "Got your mother in a whirl/she's not sure if you're a boy or a girl…"
On the train home he avoided looking. He sat on the opposite side of the carriage, and didn't so much as glance.
The day at the office had been more than usually fraught. He'd been unable to shake the feeling that his colleagues were watching him- more closely than usual.
Of course, it had just been a coincidence, but he'd spent the morning feeling like a fencer who had been decisively parried- struggling constantly to re-balance.
Jonas had been annoyed- Charles had mislaid some rather important documentation regarding implementation of the new core framework the company were developing. It was as important as it was incomprehensible.
"Look, I'm really sorry-" Charles had choked.
Jonas had frowned. "Don't snivel like that," he'd scolded. "Just fix the problem. Be a man about it."
Charles had gone terribly red, and stammered some apology. And in his head, the Bitch had spoken up. That's right. Be a man about it. Get sweaty and fuck things up.
But he had found the paperwork-eventually, after spending his lunchbreak turning the office upside down. It had been too late, of course, the meeting had had to go ahead without it, but at least he hadn't utterly fucked it all up. Not that Jonas had seemed the least bit grateful for that.
Still, he'd missed out on his usual trip to the loo, and he was starting to feel the effects. With a grimace, Charles got up, swaying, and began the lurching, shaky journey down the central aisle of the train. He stumbled over suitcases and dangling limbs, muttering the traditional British mantra, "Sorry-Sorry-Sorry".
The door was shut and sealed, and he worried at first that it was occupied. But thankfully, the handle gave in under his fingers, and he tripped over the lip of the door and shut it to.
It was pitch dark, and he fished for the cord and tugged. A light, and an extractor fan, roared to life.
He perched nervily on the lip of the seat and willed himself to go. Of course, he couldn't manage it at first, and he had to concentrate so much that at first he didn't notice the marks over the mirror.
He was actually mid-flow when he clocked it, and the shriek and jerk he produced were so loud, someone knocked outside and called, "You alright in there?"
"I'm fine!" Charles squeaked back, though he didn't feel it at all. For there, above and across the greasy mirror, in the same spikey, jagged hand, someone had written, Charlie's done with being a man about it.
Of course, a great flood of urine had escaped in the panic, and his good work trousers were undeniably splashed. Charles winced as he pulled them on, feeling the crotch rapidly cooling and leeching all the heat from his groin.
He staggered toward the sink and did what he could: of course there was no soap, so realistically all he could do was soak himself through. He made the most pathetic of efforts to rub at the tail end of the 'e' in the name, but nothing doing- it was almost as though the lettering was burned into the wall.
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