by David Bishop
"You believe there is a life after this one?"
"I bloody hope so," Spatchcock grumbled. "I'd have made more of an effort otherwise."
Flintlock wept quietly, his bottom lip wobbling as tears spilled down his face. "I never believed in anything, except looking out for myself. Now I wish I'd paid attention in chapel Eton. I don't even know any prayers I can say."
"What happened to people from Britannia having a stiff upper lip?"
Flintlock managed a smile. "I prefer to save stiffness for another part of my anatomy."
"You dirty dog," Spatchcock said approvingly. Still the guards remained opposite them, keeping watch but making no attempt to carry out the execution. Eventually the foul-smelling thief lost patience with the situation. "Well, are you going to shoot us or not?" He demanded. But the guards gave no reply, continuing to stare resolutely at the prisoners. "Perhaps they think we'll die of starvation soon, save them the cost of a few bullets?"
"At least we got to feel the sun on our faces one last time," Flintlock replied wistfully, tilting his head up towards the blue, cloudless sky.
"Since we've got a few minutes to spare, your lordship, tell me what it was you did that got you deported. What could be so bad, so depraved, it got you kicked out of your own country?"
But Flintlock ignored his associate's question, preferring to keep his attention on the sky overhead. "I say, is that a skimmer coming in to land?"
Spatchcock followed his friend's gaze. "Looks like it. Quick, while we've still got time, tell me what you did. I'm dying to know!"
"Rather a poor choice of words in the circumstances, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Attention!" The scream of a military voice cut off Spatchcock. Another sentry marched into the courtyard, three strips on his epaulets indicating he held the rank of sergeant. A single bellow from him dismissed the line of men that had guarded the two prisoners. Three new sentries replaced them, two unreeling a fire hose while the third carried a toy bucket and spade.
"Now what?" Flintlock wondered. "Are we going to make a sand castle?"
"Strip!" the sergeant bellowed.
"Do you think he means us?" Spatchcock asked blithely. "But we hardly know you."
"I said strip!"
"Rather difficult in the circumstances," Flintlock said, twisting sideways to show his hands were bound behind his back. One of the guards hurried forward and undid the shackles.
"I won't ask again," the sergeant warned. The prisoners quickly stripped, creating two untidy piles of discarded clothes at their feet. "Kick those away from you!" Spatchcock and Flintlock did as they were told. "Commence hosing - now!" The two guards holding the hose unleashed a torrent of ice cold water over the prisoners, pinning both of them against the stone wall. "Cease hosing!" The deluge stopped abruptly, giving the captives a chance to gasp for air and dry their eyes. "Administer delousing powder - now!" The third guard marched across to Spatchcock and Flintlock, then used his plastic spade to coat them with grey powder from inside the bucket. It stung their skin and burned their eyes, the stench violating their nostrils. "Prisoners - turn around!"
The unhappy duo did as they were told, receiving another heavy dusting across their backs, buttocks and legs. Then the hosing resumed, blasting the powder off the bodies of the weeping, choking captives. By the time this scouring procedure was complete, both men were close to collapse. The sergeant dismissed his men, calling for replacement clothes to be brought out. Spatchcock and Flintlock were handed silver boiler suits and told to put them on. Once dressed, the prisoners were led to a ground floor room that faced out on the courtyard. Another guard passed them, wielding a lit flamethrower. They watched with bemusement as he burned their discarded clothes.
The sergeant noticed his prisoners dawdling and raced across the courtyard towards them. "Move, you worthless maggots! Her royal highness Princess Marie-Anne is due any minute!" He shoved both of them into the small, featureless room, his nostrils flaring like bellows. A metal ring was set into one wall, two manacles at either end of a chain suspended from the ring.
The sergeant locked Spatchcock and Flintlock into the manacles, then pocketed the key. "The princess has said she wants to meet you vile worms. But say one word out of turn, make one obscene remark to her royal highness, and I will make certain your few remaining days, hours and minutes on this earth are filled with pain, misery and anguish. Do I make myself clear?"
"Not quite," Flintlock replied, tipping his head over to one side and shaking it. "I think I've still got water in my ears. Could you shout a bit louder?"
"Silence!" the sergeant bellowed. "You will speak only when spoken to and maintain a respectful decorum at all times!"
"You mean brown nose her like you do?" Spatchcock smirked. "Talk about changing your tune - a few days ago she was your prisoner, now you're treating her like..."
"Royalty?" Flintlock chipped in.
"Oh yeah," Spatchcock conceded. "I guess it does make some sort of sense." He smirked. "Well, bring the prissy cow in here, I'll show her a good time."
"Why, you-" But the sergeant's response was cut short by the royal skimmer landing in the courtyard. Once its engine noise had died away, he leaned closer to Spatchcock. "You'll pay for what you've done, you little shit," he snarled before storming out of the room.
"I think you've made a friend there, Spatch," Flintlock observed dryly. The prisoners watched from their limited vantage point as a door appeared in the side of the skimmer and a set of stairs unfolded, disgorging a dozen security guards into the courtyard. Princess Marie-Anne emerged from inside the skimmer, sniffing the air disdainfully. "Oh good. The bitch is back."
"If you tell me what you're looking for, I'd be more than happy to help find it," Dante offered. He had regained his senses in the middle of a small, flat field, surrounded by tall grass baked yellow by the sun. The warm, pleasant smell of hay-making hung in the air. Penelope was crouched beside with her hand buried deep inside his sporran, groping and grasping at the small pouch's lining. Eventually her face lit up with a smile of triumph. Dante noticed she had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. He had always found freckles curiously attractive, so he leaned closer to kiss her sensuous mouth. Penelope responded by slapping him hard across the cheek. "Diavolo!" he protested. "What was that for?"
"Why were you trying to kiss me?"
"I thought you wanted me to! You were feeling around my groin and smiling, so I-"
"You thought I had finally fallen for your roguish charms?"
"Well... yes."
Penelope removed her hand from inside his sporran to reveal a tiny pistol. "I hid this earlier, in case of emergencies. I knew you'd never have the wit to look inside and I doubted anyone else would want to search the area near your genitals too closely."
"I'm famous as a great lover across most of the Empire," Dante replied.
A great liar, more like.
"Crest, keep quiet if you haven't got anything useful to add!"
I wanted to get your attention and uncomfortable truths usually have that effect. There's rather a large group of people coming this way.
"How many?" Dante asked, getting to his knees to peer over the tall grass.
More than thirty, approaching from the east. Most are on foot but a few seem to be mounted. They are being led by a pack of hounds. As the Crest finished speaking the distant barking of dogs became audible over the cries of black crows in nearby trees. I estimate you have three minutes before your hunters reach this location.
Penelope was already crawling away in the opposite direction, but the black handcuffs held her back. "Come on," she said, jerking her left arm to pull Dante after her. "We need to get under cover." The two fugitives got to their feet and ran towards a nearby thicket, crouching low to avoid being seen. They reached the trees, sweat already dripping down their faces. The sun was directly overhead, its scorching heat offering little respite, even in the shade.
Dante scanned the horizon for a
sight of their hunters. "I can't see them yet..."
"There they are!" Penelope whispered, pointing at the far side of the field. A crowd of nearly naked people was spilling through a wooden gate, their pale white skin almost aglow in the blazing sunshine. Black lines were visible across their bodies and many faces were hidden behind black masks. A few were clad in shiny PVC bodysuits fashioned in the style of hunting garb. Most bizarre in appearance were the horses several of the men were riding. "Those sick perverts," Penelope muttered. "They're using pony girls."
"Pony girls?" Dante asked, unfamiliar with this jargon. "Crest?"
One of the more unlikely sexual fetishes is the urge to be treated like a horse. Men and women are stripped naked, then strapped into custom-made replicas of a horse's bridle and riding tackle - buckled leather restraints around the head and body, a mouthpiece, even reins, so the beast can be controlled. For added verisimilitude the equine imitator will sometimes have a probe inserted so a horse-hair tail protrudes from between their buttocks. In extreme cases, these steeds are ridden as if they are real horses, with one rider mounted on two horses simultaneously. When younger women submit to this treatment, they are known as "pony girls". The things you humans do to get your thrills never ceases to amaze.
"And people do this willingly - for pleasure?"
They have done for centuries, particularly here in Britannia.
Dante shook his head. "Well, if we can't outrun them we deserve to be caught."
"Sunstroke and exhaustion will eventually eliminate most of our hunters," Penelope agreed. "But the hounds are bred to run for hours without tiring. They're our biggest problem. Come on!" She dragged Dante through a thicket and out into a neighbouring field of ploughed earth. He lost both his borrowed brogues within a few minutes, each shoe buried in a clump of glutinous, rapidly drying mud. The two fugitives were still crossing the open ground when the first hounds emerged from the thicket behind them, yelping excitedly.
"Diavolo, they've spotted us!" Dante said, putting on a burst of speed.
Princess Marie-Anne was enjoying her visit to the Tower of London. Having been held prisoner there for far too long, she was savouring the chance to torment her former captors, making the guards run ludicrous errands and perform endless drills in the courtyard beneath the blistering midday sun. For once the familiar aroma of raven droppings and brass polish did not turn her stomach as it had done every day she was kept incarcerated here. Eventually she tired of watching the sentries wilt and summoned their leader to her side. He was a big, blustering man with a bristling brown moustache and a knack for shouting. "Sergeant Barnes, isn't it?"
"Yes, Your Highness," he snapped, unable to keep the military training from his voice.
"I think I've seen enough of the guards' precision for now."
"Very good, ma'am," Barnes agreed. "It is quite hot, the men will be glad of a rest."
"You misunderstand me," she responded with a sadistic smile. "I merely said I had seen enough. Your men can keep at it until I am ready to depart."
"Oh, right. If you say so, ma'am."
"I do. In fact, why don't you go and join them in a few minutes? I always feel those in positions of power - however humble, like yours - should lead by example. Don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. Absolutely."
"Very good. But first I'd like to see the prisoners."
Barnes nodded his assent. "This way, ma'am, if you please." He led her to the room where Spatchcock and Flintlock were chained to the wall. The princess paled at the powerful body odours emanating from the two men. "My apologies for the smell, your royal highness. We did have both prisoners deloused before your arrival, but even that could not counteract their stench."
She nodded hurriedly, clutching a white linen handkerchief over her nose and mouth as a shield from the noxious vapours filing the room. "Stand to attention!" Barnes bellowed.
"Shove it up your arse," Spatchcock replied cheerfully.
"I can have them thrashed for that display of impudence," the sergeant offered, but the princess waved him away. She waited until he had left before approaching the prisoners.
"Enjoying the accommodation?" she asked icily.
"We've had worse," Flintlock replied lightly.
Spatchcock nodded. "After you've been held prisoner by the Imperial Black, a few days in the Tower of London is more like a holiday resort."
"How distressing," the princess agreed. "I'll ask the sergeant to institute a regime of hourly punishments for you, perhaps some extra torture sessions too. We don't want you thinking the people of Britannia are soft on crime, do we?"
"Heaven forefend," Flintlock said, rolling his eyes.
"Did you have a reason for asking to see us? Or was this purely a social call - a spot of gloating before returning to the palace?" Spatchcock asked.
"A little of both," she replied happily. "I have good news and bad news. Which would you prefer to hear first?"
"The good news," both men said simultaneously.
"Very well - although our definitions of good and bad may differ," she warned. "The good news is your troublesome friend Nikolai Dante remains stubbornly alive." Spatchcock began to give a small cheer but an icy glare from the princess made it die in his throat. "The bad news for you is that my father's condition is improving, however slightly."
"Why is that bad news?" Flintlock asked.
"If he survives, the king may decide to send her back here," Spatchcock said.
"Precisely," she agreed, "and I can't allow that to happen. Too much of my life has already been wasted in this hellhole. I do not intend to spend another day here! So, once the excitement from your execution has died down, my father will suffer a terrible relapse and pass away."
"Why tell us any of this?" Spatchcock asked.
"To see the reaction on your repellent, smug faces. Since my agent has failed to bring Dante to me as I wished, I've decided to use you two as bait for a trap. I've arranged for your executions to be brought forward to this Saturday."
"But that's only two days away," Flintlock protested. "I'm not ready to die yet!"
"That matters little to me," she said with a broad smile. "Dante will not be able to resist an attempt to rescue you from the executioner's blade or the hangman's noose - to be honest, I haven't yet decided which way you should die. Regardless of that, your foolhardy friend cannot turn down the chance to save his accomplices while humiliating me. That will cost his life."
"And ours," Spatchcock noted. "The agent you sent to catch Dante - male or female?"
"Her name is Penelope Goodnight, not that it's any of your business. Why?"
"Knowing Nikolai, he's probably making love to her right now," Flintlock replied.
"Shagging her senseless, you mean," Spatchcock corrected. "They'll be too busy having a good time to even notice we're being executed."
"You know how to show a girl a good time, don't you?" Penelope asked accusingly. She and Dante were crouched on the bank of a small lake, hiding from the hunting party of perverts. The hounds had temporarily lost the fugitives' scent after Dante and Penelope had run through a lavender field, but the dogs would soon be closing in on them again.
"It wasn't my idea to come here," he said. "We need to find a place to hide, you said, give ourselves a chance to think - we can lose ourselves here for the rest of the day."
"How I was to know the hover-bus would be full of sexual deviants?"
"I'd have thought you could spot them in seconds, considering your line of work," Dante said. "We should get going. The longer we stay in one spot, the more likely they are to find us. Trust me, I've spent most of my life on the run, one way or another."
"Then it's amazing you're still alive," Penelope observed. "Trapping you was one of the easiest assignments I've ever had."
"That's been bugging me," Dante admitted. "How did you know I'd go to that train station? I could have decided to hide anywhere in London."
"Fugitives run," she said. "There was a better t
han average chance you'd try to get out of the city. Once I knew the location of your Black Maria, I headed for the nearest major terminus. Luckily for me, the Flying Scotsman was the only train still running, so I put on my best damsel in distress act and let your rampant libido do the rest. It was child's play." An excited yelp from a nearby hound signalled the fugitives' scent had been sniffed out again.
"I don't understand how they keep finding us," Penelope muttered under her breath. "Unless..." She leaned closer to Dante and inhaled deeply from his body. "You stink of Bitch!"
"Charming! You're not exactly covered in rose petal aromas either, you know!"
"No, I meant Bitch - the perfume I sprayed over you last night to throw the Rippers off your scent. You obviously didn't wash it all off. The perfume must be attracting the hounds - they don't call it Bitch without good reason." She dived into the lake, pulling Dante in with her. Together they swam underwater as far as they could, before surfacing halfway across the lake. The duo took shelter beneath a selection of lily pads, watching the water's edge where they had been hiding. A stream of hunters appeared along the bank, searching the shallows for their quarry.
An obese pervert spotted the swimmers and pointed at them, his breasts wobbling above an obscenely large belly, his puny genitals dangling limply in the shadow of his massive stomach. "There they are!" he cried, the sun glinting off his bald, sunburnt scalp. "All you riders, take your pony girls round to the left! Everybody else, follow me!"
Dante and Penelope were already swimming towards the far side of the lake, their movements hampered by the handcuffs. "Our hunters don't seem to have any weapons except the dogs," Dante observed, between strokes. "How many shots have you got in that pistol?"
"Six - not nearly enough to deal with all of them," Penelope said between gasps as they reached the water's edge. "I'm saving those for F, if we make it back to the house." She scrambled up the muddy bank, dragging Dante out of the water. "Come on, move it!"
He stumbled after her, the sodden kilt slowing him down. "I'm doing my best!" he shouted.