by Mark Gatiss
I looked down again at the Scouts and frowned. Playfair had said there would be twenty of them. I’d accounted for three in the car. So why were there eighteen remaining? I peered myopically at the youths but they remained little more than a multi-racial blur of shorts and woggles. Damn my failing eyes!
I was about to move forward on the gantry when I became horribly aware of a presence behind me.
‘Well, well, well,’ came a purring, contralto voice. ‘You’re like the proverbial bad penny, aren’t you, Mr Box? Now, I’d like you to turn round and face me very, very slowly.’
I did as I was instructed, and stared, not only into the face of the lethally lovely Melissa ffawthawte, but also the barrel of a .357 Magnum.
The girl was dressed in the deceptively conservative garb of the New Scout Movement, a yellow neckerchief around her pale throat, a buff skirt clinging to her shapely hips and thighs. I was once again reminded of that lovely young thing I’d met on Armistice Night. What was her name? I flashed ffawthawte my most disarming smile and said: ‘I must warn you that if you attempt to tickle me again, I shall be very cross.’
She cocked her head to one side. ‘I underestimated you. None of our victims has yet managed to survive the exquisite delights of Black Butterfly. I should be most interested to hear how you succeeded in regaining your sanity.’
‘And I’d love to tell you,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps over dinner. Do you have anything on tonight? It’s a lovely evening.’
A mocking smile curled at ffawthawte’s minutely scarred lip. ‘I’m afraid we both have an appointment, Mr Box. A most pressing appointment.’
She gestured ahead with the Magnum and, putting up my hands, I looked down, but the various occupants of the room were far too preoccupied to notice an elderly waiter and a Scout mistress making their way along a gantry thirty-odd feet above them.
We continued our vertiginous progress around the perimeter of the dome, until Miss ffawthawte ordered me to stop by another narrow door. Keeping the gun trained on me, she leaned over and pushed it open.
The high-ceilinged room beyond resembled some species of Modernist cathedral of the type city councils had been lately throwing up to replace the Gothic beauties flattened by the Luftwaffe. Huge arched windows looked down onto the hall below, and comfortable-looking black chairs were positioned alongside them. Against one wall stood a bank of television screens just like the ones in the main chamber. Otherwise the room appeared to be empty.
‘Take a seat, Mr Box,’ instructed the girl.
I did so, feigning an indifference I did not truly feel.
‘And now?’ I asked.
Miss ffawthawte adjusted her steel spectacles and chuckled. ‘Now it’s time for you to meet the leader of the New Scout Movement; the man who has revived A.C.R.O.N.I.M. and the genius who will be responsible for unleashing the power of Black Butterfly upon the world!’
A chill passed through my body. At last, the time had come.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a movement. The furthest chair in the row, some eleven or twelve along from the place I occupied, slowly revolved. I took a deep breath as I prepared once more, and after nearly fifty years, to behold my greatest foe.
But sitting on the shiny black leather was not Dr Fetch.
‘Christmas!’ I cried, astonished.
And there he was, my own son, resplendent in a brand new Scout uniform, his shoes almost as shiny as his glossy black hair, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
‘What the hell is this?’ I demanded of ffawthawte.
There was a sibilant giggle from close by. I whirled round. Then the voice came, slightly muffled as though passing through a loudspeaker. ‘You’ll forgive my little joke, I’m sure, Mr Box,’ said ffawthawte.
‘What the blazes do you think you’re doing? Using a child—’
‘Not just any child,’ she chuckled.
I turned to face Christmas. His little eyes were shining fever-bright. ‘Listen to me, son,’ I said. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll get you away from here, don’t you worry.’
Christmas turned to ffawthawte, his lip jutting. ‘But I’m needed here, aren’t I? I’m a very important young man.’
‘Of course you are, my darling,’ cooed the girl. ‘Why don’t you be a good boy, Christmas, and tell your daddy what you’ve learned, eh?’
My son’s dark eyes flashed and he grinned. Dimly, I became aware of an introductory speech beginning below us: ‘unique technical achievement’; ‘link up tonight’s proceedings with Scout huts all across the globe.’
‘On my honour…I will do my best’ intoned Christmas, sitting up straight on the padded chair. ‘To do my duty to the Akela and my fellows and to obey the new Scout law…’
Miss ffawthawte nodded encouragingly at him. ‘Go on! Go on!’
‘To harm the weak all the time,’ said Christmas, puffing out his little chest. ‘And to do my level best to destroy the pantomime of Western democracy.’
‘Excellent!’ said ffawthawte. ‘Excellent! A special badge for that, I think.’
Christmas laughed and pointed to the emblems embroidered on his sleeve. ‘I’ve done ever so well, Daddy,’ he said to me. ‘This one’s for arson, this one’s for strangling kittens and this one—’
My throat tightened with rage. ‘My God, you just wait until I get you home—’
‘But I’m not coming home. It’s much more fun here.’ ffawthawte placed her hand on my son’s shoulder, even as she kept her revolver trained on me. I looked into my only child’s eyes–and he returned my gaze with the impassivity of a stranger.
‘You see, Mr Box,’ purred the girl. ‘Christmas is our final triumph! Your son belongs to the Movement, body and soul!’
I started as a soft giggle sounded from behind the panelled walls. The hair on my neck rose, as though caressed by the touch of a tarantula. ‘Fetch!’ I snarled. ‘Is that you? Still skulking about in the shadows? Show yourself!’ I thumped the arm of the chair. ‘Or daren’t you face me?’
For answer, the wall glided back with a soft whirr and a figure stepped into the room.
I sat back in the chair, astonished. It still wasn’t Dr Fetch. It was another child–stumpy-legged, aspirin-white with hollow, burning, hate-filled eyes. Of course–I’d seen him before! It was the weird, sickly-looking creature I had glimpsed watching me through the window at the Scout camp!
But as I looked more closely, I realised that this was no boy. The shrivelled skin, the stunted, dwarfish demeanour–even the coiled curls of yellow hair more resembled the sparse tresses of an old man.
He minced over to where Melissa ffawthawte stood, covering me with the Magnum.
‘Mr Box,’ he said. ‘At last we meet.’
The voice! It was Fetch’s voice! I looked quickly around. What was this? A ventriloquist act? Was he some kind of doll?
‘Or should I say, we meet properly,’ he went on. ‘I had the pleasure of getting close to you in the Hagia Sophia.’
I frowned, baffled. ‘What?’
‘Of course, you were rather preoccupied at the time…’
Suddenly, recent memories screed through my mind like unspooling film. Istanbul…The balcony of the Hagia Sophia…The press of tourists behind me…The little blond boy in the red jumper…
I stared at the withered homunculus before me.
‘Imagine my delight,’ he continued in those all too familiar tones, ‘when I saw the great Lucifer Box leaning so precariously, so temptingly above the abyss! Actually, I’m rather glad you survived. You deserve a far more lingering and exquisite death.’
‘You pushed me? But why? Who–what the hell are you?’
Miss ffawthawte saw the confusion on my face and smiled. ‘Mr Lucifer Box,’ she said. ‘May I introduce you to Cassivelaunus Fetch.’
‘Eh?’ I cried.
She paused theatrically. ‘Junior.’
.18.
CHILDREN’S HOUR
I have to admit that, in sp
ite of the clear danger I found myself in, I burst out laughing. What a joke, to have been convinced that the most warped being ever to stalk the earth had been somehow resurrected…
‘Fetch actually managed to produce a sprog?’ I asked incredulously. ‘What a horrible thought. And you’ve been reviving the family business, have you? Good for you. Nice to see a bit of gumption amongst the young.’ I looked closer at the goblin-like creature. ‘But no, you’re not young, are you? You’ll forgive me for asking, I’m sure, but is there something wrong with you?’
Fetch Junior’s watery eyes flickered from side to side. ‘An accident of birth,’ he snarled.
‘Accident?’
My captor hissed, as though physically wounded. ‘You cannot begin to imagine the torments my father suffered after you handed him over to your superiors. Did they ever tell you? Did they ever reveal to you his ultimate punishment?’
‘Must’ve slipped their minds. But, you know, it can get very busy in the office—’
‘They treated him as a human guinea pig!’ growled the dwarf. ‘He was sent to a dismal asylum. There he became part of a scheme to determine the effects of a new drug that the British Government was developing as a weapon of war.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’
‘And when they had broken him,’ continued the etiolated midget, ‘when the Black Butterfly had ravaged him and he was no more than a shell of the great man he had once been, there was no one left to care. No one except—’
‘Your mummy?’ I needled. ‘What was she? A charlady? Or did she come to the loony bin to slop out the chamber-pots?’
He smacked a papery hand across my face.
I rubbed at my cheek and nodded slowly. ‘So that’s it. The drug caused birth defects as well! No wonder they broke off the testing. A drug like that in the wrong hands…’
A chilling giggle escaped from Fetch Junior’s flaky lips. He stretched his palms out towards me. ‘Do you know what these are?’
‘What?’
‘The wrong hands!’
He began to strut up and down before me. ‘But if my body is permanently stunted,’ he crowed, ‘my mind has grown exponentially! I have outdone my father in brilliance.’
‘Now, now,’ I tutted. ‘Nobody likes a show-off.’
‘The rediscovery of Black Butterfly–all my work! The systematic elimination of those invertebrates who developed it–all my work!’
I grimaced in disgust. ‘You killed them all?’
He nodded eagerly. ‘Gobetween, Meddler, Watchbell and, of course, that fine hypocrite, Sir Vyvyan Hooplah.’
Melissa ffawthawte managed to tear herself away from looking at Christmas and said: ‘He was the one who tipped us off as to the origins of the drug. A.C.R.O.N.I.M. had been trying for years to revive Black Butterfly. All the records were supposed to have been destroyed. Hooplah came to our rescue. It seems some public servants will do anything for a price. Unfortunately for him, passing on such top secret information does rather leave one open to blackmail…’
So that was how they had lured the old fool to the Blood Orange that night! And then I remembered that Boy Scout with the collecting tin. I’d been so convinced that Kingdom Kum had been behind the murder that I’d forgotten all about the wretched kid. And all it would take was a casually dropped pill in the old politician’s drink…
‘And what about Christopher Miracle?’ I yelled. ‘What had he done to hurt you?’
Fetch smiled. ‘Oh, Mr Box, you have been naïve. Don’t you see–even now? Oh, well.’ He crossed over to Christmas and patted the boy on the head. ‘It is rather fitting that you, my father’s greatest enemy, should be here to witness his final triumph.’
Fetch pulled himself up to his inconsiderable height and puffed out his spindly chest. ‘Because, you see, I am not merely my father’s son. I AM AKELA!’
I sighed, feigning boredom. ‘Really, boasting again. You’ll be sent to bed without any supper. Actually, I wanted to ask you about that. Taking over an entire youth movement–all those raffles and sack-races–seems a very roundabout way of getting to Lord Battenburg.’
Fetch Junior and Melissa ffawthawte turned to regard each other. The woman’s husky laugh joined with the high-pitched giggle of her colleague. ‘Oh Mr Box,’ she said. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Come on. As we’re being painfully honest with one another, you may as well admit it. There’s nothing I don’t know already, after all.’
The two continued to appraise me in silent amusement.
‘Your final target!’ I prompted. ‘The man whose discovery of the wretched papilio obscurus set all this in motion. Lord Battenburg!’
Still nothing.
‘It won’t work, you know,’ I insisted. ‘MI6 are watching him like hawks. Tasters check everything he is due to eat or drink. There’s no way you can slip the drug to him. Not today. Not ever.’
Fetch Junior shook his little head pityingly. Then Melissa ffawthawte bent down and gave him a long and passionate kiss, his cracked and angry mouth clamping over hers like the sucker of an octopus. It was quite the most revolting thing I’ve ever seen.
With Christmas between them, they stood there like some absurd parody of a family photograph. Then Fetch broke from the embrace and crept over to the windows, looking down onto the huge delegates’ chamber.
‘Now I fear I must leave you,’ he said, with mock regret. ‘I have an appointment of my own to attend to.’ He made his way to the far side of the room, and the twin doors of a lift, cleverly concealed within the room’s décor, hissed open. The dreadful little thing stepped inside. ‘Enjoy the show.’
And he was gone.
Melissa ffawthawte turned to me. ‘Dear me, Mr Box. You do look peaky. Has all this been a bit of a shock?’
‘What does he mean,’ I demanded, valiantly attempting to rally myself, ‘“enjoy the show”?’
‘Tell him, Christmas.’
The sole inheritor of my family name gazed at me calmly. ‘Lord Battenburg is going to make a speech,’ he began, ‘and Akela is going to present him with a special award from the New Scout Movement. Isn’t that right, Miss?’
Miss ffawthawte purred her approval. ‘That’s right, sweetheart. Akela is going to raise a toast to his Lordship: one that will be witnessed by millions of people all across the world. Millions of parents and children, all gathered together in the premises of the New Scout Movement, celebrating, eagerly watching, and ready to drink to the health of Lord Battenburg.’
Her green eyes glittered at me. I was obviously missing something. Something crucial.
‘Sharp as a tack, I see,’ said the girl. ‘Now, please be quiet whilst I switch on the television.’
She moved across to the bank of screens that duplicated the ones set up in the dome below and activated the nearest one.
A small dot appeared on the television. After a moment, it widened until a bluey image of the domed chamber appeared. I watched in fascination. What were A.C.R.O.N.I.M. up to?
I could hear my heart thumping in my ribs. On the screen, I saw the Jamaican delegate banging his gavel. The chattering fell silent. I gritted my teeth and watched helplessly as Lord Battenburg, benevolent and beaming, walked to the dais.
The applause was fulsome and sincere. Even the Russians managed a smile.
‘My friends, colleagues, distinguished guests,’ he began, gripping his lapels. ‘It is with great pride and humility that I welcome you here to Jamaica for this inaugural World Government Summit. It certainly hasn’t been easy assembling everybody…’
A ripple of polite laughter. I swivelled my gaze briefly towards Christmas and the girl.
‘…but now we’re all here, I do hope we can create a lasting framework for global peace. None of us wants to return to, nor create anew, the circumstances that led to the last war. Here, under the Caribbean sun, we can make a fresh start.’
A torrent of applause from the delegates. Miss ffawthawte was enraptured.
‘But you will forgive me, I hope, a little indulgence,’ Battenburg went on. He adjusted his position on the dais. One of the Scouts moved his arm and I tensed, but he was only scratching his nose.
‘For some time,’ continued his Lordship, ‘I have kept a project very close to my heart: the New Scouting Movement.’
Applause broke out once more.
Battenburg nodded his approval. ‘A Movement which has done so much to inspire our young people. To succour them. To give them a brighter tomorrow. They have even been so farsighted as to make me their Honorary President.’
Laughter from the delegates. Lord Battenburg grinned like a cat.
On the screen, Fetch Junior was suddenly standing close by, ready to join Battenburg on the platform. But what the hell was he planning to do? Battenburg, like some idiot choir-master, began to intone the Scout oath. ‘On my honour, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country…’
And then, the tiniest hint of deliverance! My hand brushed over my trouser leg and I felt a small, solid object, forgotten in the depths of my left-hand pocket…
‘To keep myself physically strong,’ continued Battenburg. ‘Mentally awake and morally straight…’
Now Melissa ffawthawte was joining in with the oath, standing beside me, her voice rising in fervour. ‘A Scout looks on the bright side of things,’ she cried. ‘He cheerfully does tasks that come his way…’
Jubilant in the midst of her ranting, she took her eyes off me for the first time and inadvertently lowered the nose of the revolver.
I took a deep breath. It seemed insane. Ridiculous. But it was the only weapon I had. Of course, it was all a question of angles. Miss ffawthawte had been quite right.
‘He does not hurt or kill harmless things without reason,’ she cried, then burst out laughing. Her lovely face split into a grin of horrid glee. ‘Well, two out of three isn’t bad!’
I moved like lightning, snatched the cube of snooker chalk from my pocket, desperately calculated the angle and flicked it as hard as I could towards ffawthawte’s face. With an instanat reflex, she fired the Magnum and I flung myself aside, the upholstery of the chair exploding. Time seemed to stand still as the blue chalk sailed through the air and disappeared between ffawthawte’s gaping lips, falling into her gullet with a satisfying plop.