“Arouse!” Joyce repeated. “Wait a minute. I’ve seen that voice before. You’re off the telly.”
Brownlow smirked, guilty as charged.
“Always gratifying to meet a fan.”
“I imagine it might be,” Joyce sniffed. “Well, the house is closed. Come back in the morning. At a reasonable hour.”
She let the light play on the sign advertising opening hours and then stiffened as a hand closed around her wrist.
“Madam, this is a matter of some urgency.” Joyce shivered as the American voice whispered hotly in her ear. “There is something in that garden that we must find. For if we don’t, it could mean the end of the world as we know it.”
He paused to let the full import of that sentence sink in.
“Bollocks,” said Joyce. “If you want a private viewing - by which I mean the garden and not a viewing of my privates - you have to book in advance. Now, piss off before I call the police.”
“Madam, you fail to grasp -”
She turned the torch directly into Brownlow’s eyes. He winced and backed off, with his hands raised in surrender.
“Grasp this, Yankee Doodle,” Joyce curled her lip in disdain. “The. House. Is. Closed!”
“Joyce, please...” Harry tried to draw her fire from the American. The torchlight hit him in the face.
“Harry!” she exclaimed. “You should know better, the number of groups you’ve brought here.”
“This is important, Joyce. You might end up on the telly kind of important.”
Joyce thought about this.
“Really? Or would they get some actor to play me? Because if they do, I want Meryl Streep.”
“I’ll do my best,” Brownlow tried to assure her.
Joyce thought about it. She seemed to be coming round to the idea when a triumphant screech from the other side of the wall caught everyone’s attention.
“What the bl -” Joyce hurried back through the gate. The men ran after her, hoping they could get to Caliban before she did.
But with her superior knowledge of the layout of the grounds, Joyce headed directly for the source of that bloodcurdling ululation.
A circle of light fell upon a monstrous creature squatting in a flowerbed, its misshapen head thrown backwards as it howled at the moon. All around him was destruction. Heads had been torn from flowers of all kinds. Stalks had been uprooted and strewn in every direction. The garden was a post-apocalyptic landscape, a battlefield that had staged a war between florists.
Joyce could not speak. She could only squeak in horrified intakes of breath. She hardly dared cast the torch around to take in the full extent of the devastation. She backed away from the beast, forcing herself to move as slowly as possible. The last thing she wanted was to attract its attention.
She backed into the approaching figures of the American, Harry and some other chap she didn’t know. She screamed and dropped the torch. The men were quick to hold her still but Joyce squirmed and strained against their clutches.
“Get off!” she grunted, directing sharp elbows at their ribs, chins and bellies. “And keep that fucking freak show away from me.”
She got free and ran back to her accommodation. Olly picked up the torch.
Caliban, howling in pleasure, held aloft the object he had dug up from under the cowslips. Harry and Brownlow exchanged delighted looks.
“The staff!” Brownlow gasped. He approached the wild man as one might an unfamiliar dog. Caliban crooned and rubbed his head against Brownlow’s palm. “There’s a good fella,” Brownlow stroked the creature, looking back at the others in astonishment.
“Um, I think we’d better get out of here,” Harry suggested, nodding back towards the gate. “You know: the police...”
“Is that what this is all about?” Olly played the torchlight on the object. “That knobbly bit of old stick?”
“We can tell you about the immense power of this knobbly bit of old stick later on,” Harry cupped his friend’s elbow. “Think Voldemort’s wand and Darth Vader’s light-sabre.”
The references were not lost on Olly, who whistled and looked at the artefact anew.
They hurried along to the exit. Brownlow coaxed Caliban along with soft words. The monkey-fish-man lumbered beside him like a tamed bear.
Harry led them to the footpath between the trees. They scurried under the cover of darkness, away from the streetlights and the glare of approaching sirens.
***
“Whither now, Master?” Ariel had difficulty calling Jeremy by that honorific. With Harry it had been from force of habit and, truth be told, Ariel wouldn’t have minded being in servitude to the young man with the detachable moustache. Harry would be an undemanding master and certainly a good deal more fun than this little despot.
Jeremy was caressing this three-quarter length staff in an inappropriately sensual manner. “Hmm?”
The spirit repeated the question.
“Oh. “ Jeremy seemed to rouse as though coming out from under hypnosis or anaesthetic. “Um. Home and to bed. Big day on the morrow.”
“Aye?” said Ariel. “Verily?”
“Verily verily. Verily verily indeed, old chum.”
“Right.” A ray of hope streaked through Ariel’s imagination. If his new master was going to wrap himself in the embrace of Morpheus for a few hours, perhaps Ariel could sneak out and seek out Harry, and try to explain his change of allegiance -
“You’ll be able to get some rest as well.” Jeremy unlocked his front door and ushered Ariel over the threshold. “ Conserve your energy. Recharge your batteries or whatever it is you do.”
“Um...”
Jeremy led the spirit up the stairs and to the master bedroom.
“Behold!” At the foot of Jeremy’s opulent four-poster bed was a chest. A wooden chest. A chest made from pine. He lifted the lid. “In you pop.”
“Master, must I?”
“Indeed you bloody well must. It’s not that I don’t trust you, spirit - well, it’s exactly because I don’t trust you. This was the nearest I could get to a cloven pine. You remember your arboreal prison, I suppose.”
“I do, Master.” Ariel hung his head.
Jeremy nodded towards the interior of the chest. Ariel lifted his foot and stepped inside. “Don’t worry. You won’t be in there for twelve years this time. I’ll want you up bright and early. Big day tomorrow.”
“I know, Master,” Ariel said sadly. He hunkered down in the box.
“Goodnight, spirit!” Jeremy wiggled his fingers toodle-oo and shut the box.
Ariel dissolved his human form, filling the box with his molecules. He didn’t know what it was about pine that restricted and confined him. He fretted about Harry - that was less distressing than the niggling panic he could sense rising within him. What if this magician died and left him stuck in the box? It had happened before with that witch Sycorax.
Ariel forced himself to focus on Harry and tried to think of a way he could make everything right.
***
“Come on, love,” Olly called through the letterbox. “Let us in.”
“Jeez, buddy,” said Brownlow at his shoulder. “Don’t you got a key to your own house?”
“She changed the locks,” Olly and Harry said in unison.
“I forgot to pick up the new one.” Olly felt sheepish. He took it out on the doorbell. The curtain in the front window twitched. Alicia surveyed the group of men at what she considered to be her front door. Behind Olly was a face she vaguely recognised. The face spoke with an American accent. Alicia wracked her brains trying to think where she had seen him. Behind the familiar American was Harry - of bloody course Harry. Well, if he thought he was setting foot over the threshold he could think again. And behind of bloody course Harry was - a - a -
Al
icia let the curtain fall back into place. That clinched it! It may well be another weirdo actor in a costume, but she was not letting that - that freak into the house. She crossed her arms.
The doorbell continued to ring. The knocker continued to knock. Olly continued to wheedle and plead through the letterbox. It was clear to Alicia the group was not going to leave her in peace any time soon. And what would the neighbours think?
She scuttled to the hall.
“Oliver Rock,” she said as though addressing the naughtiest boy in class. “You may enter, but your, um, associates may not.”
“Oh, come on!” Olly complained. “This is serious, Al.”
Alicia’s blood boiled. What had she told him about abbreviating her name?
“And I am serious too, Oliver. Tell your friends to clear off and then I’ll let you in.”
“Alicia! This is life-and-death, end-of-the-world stuff. Let us in!”
Alicia crossed her arms for a second time and jutted her chin. “Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Oliver. I mean it: you can come in on your own or you can go off with your friends and - well - face the consequences of that.”
Oliver pressed his forehead against the glass panel. “I can’t believe you’re being like this, Al,” he said. “Are you really asking me to choose between you and the end of the world?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Leave the drama at work for once, Oliver!”
“Right.” Olly slapped the door. “I’ve made my choice.”
“Then say goodnight to your friends and then -”
“Goodnight, Al,” Olly sneered through the letterbox. “And goodbye!”
He stormed off along the path. Harry’s eyes and mouth were wide. Olly realised he didn’t know where he was going. He came back to the garden gate.
“I know where we can go,” Harry clapped his hands together. “Come on - Where’s Caliban?”
They scouted around. They found him a couple of doors down, bathing in an ornamental fishpond.
***
Dickie pulled his silk dressing gown around him and padded to the front door in bunny slippers. He opened the door as far as the security chain would allow. The face of that nice young Harry appeared in the gap.
“Hello, Dickie. Sorry. Could we come in?”
Dickie arched an eyebrow. “Who’s we?”
He shut the door, slid the chain from its runner and opened the door a little wider. His face brightened when he saw behind Harry the smiling face of that nice young Olly.
“Oh!” Dickie pursed his lips. “Like that, is it?”
“Um, no...” Harry flushed with embarrassment. He pushed against the door a little. Dickie backed away. His jaw dropped when he saw there was a third man behind that nice young Olly - a man he recognised at once.
“Hank Brownlow!” Dickie fanned himself with his hand. “What brings you to my doorstep?”
“Good evening,” Brownlow flashed his perfect teeth. “Could we come in, buddy?”
“Why, yes; yes, of course!” Dickie pulled the door open as wide as it would go. He ushered the group into the hall. He almost shut the door on the fourth, unseen member of the party. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry -” Dickie faltered and backed against the coat rack “Um, Harry? I’m afraid we have a strict ‘no pets’ policy at Goosegog Cottage.”
Caliban sniffed the startled Dickie. He awarded him an affable smile and patted him on the face before following the others into the dining room.
Dickie composed himself and addressed the group who were already making themselves at home around the table.
“I’m afraid I’ve no vacancies at this present time,” he said. The famous American stood up and slipped a fifty-pound note into Dickie’s hand.
“Just here will do fine, buddy.” He sat down again.
“What’s it all about, Harry?” Dickie put the banknote into his pocket. “I can’t have you lot spend the night in here. There’s bylaws and all sorts. And, like I say,” he cast an anxious glance at the ceiling, “there’s no vacancies.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said a voice from the doorway. Every head turned but no one was more surprised than Harry to see the grinning face of Professor Auberon Cheese.
Nineteen.
“I suppose this is the point where I fill in the plot holes,” Cheese sat at the head of the table and rested his hands on his cane. He gestured to the others to resume their seats. Harry was still gaping. Olly touched him under the chin to close his mouth.
“But - but - you’re dead!” Harry kept repeating.
“Then I suppose I had better start with that,” the professor, clearly anything but dead, smiled. His eyes twinkled. “You will have read or at least heard of the Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.”
Brownlow nodded sagely. So did Olly. Harry was too stricken to respond. Caliban was eyeing Dickie’s aquarium with an expression that could have been either thirst or hunger - or both.
“In that inestimable work, Shakespeare makes use of a storytelling device, a magic potion which renders the young Juliet, to all extents and purposes, deceased. It wears off of course and the poor girl is restored to life - too late. I have taken my inspiration from that story in order to remove myself from the main action. I trust, gentleman, that my resurrection is not too late.”
“Magic potion?” frowned Brownlow. “You mean like herbs and shit.”
“Quite.” The professor sent the American a patronising smile.
“Okay, okay,” Harry struggled to keep his thoughts from colliding with each other, “let’s put that to one side for the moment. Are you telling me you faked your own murder? I saw the crime scene. There was blood everywhere. And the police! I was nearly arrested!”
Cheese waited for Harry to finish.
“Theatre, you see, Harry, is not restricted to that building by the river. You were in the profession yourself.” The ‘were’ stung Harry like a serpent’s tooth. “You may have come across a marvellous substance called Kensington Gore.”
“Stage blood,” Olly murmured.
“I know!” Harry snapped. “But the police? Are you telling me they were all actors? I don’t believe it!”
“Their credentials are impeccable, although they were in on it. I believe you’ve met Detective Inspector Fisk several times recently. My son, Montmorency. He took his mother’s last name for professional purposes. Although what’s wrong with Cheese, I’d like to know.” He harrumphed a little. Brownlow tapped the tabletop.
“So, you and little Monty -”
“Montmorency, please,” the professor was against over-familiarity.
“So you and your son cooked up this little scenario between you. But what about the mad bitch who tied me up in the frickin’ boathouse?”
Brownlow and Harry turned to Caliban who was crouching on a chair and humming softly to himself.
“We saw him - her! - transform in to that.” Brownlow waved a finger. “What’s her - his - involvement?”
Professor Cheese smiled fondly at the monkey-fish-man.
“This remarkable creature has unwittingly been my henchman, my assistant. When he was conjured up -not by me, you understand - he lacked corporeal form. Of course, he did. Prior to this, he was no more than an idea, a character in a play. But now, look at him! He’s here! In the flesh! A character from Shakespeare before our very eyes.”
“Er,” Olly raised his hand as though interrupting a lecture, “Professor? I’m understudying Caliban at the moment.”
“Congratulations,” said Cheese.
“What I mean is, this is not Caliban. Not as Shakespeare wrote him.”
The professor nodded. “Of course he isn’t. This is Caliban the tabula rasa version. This is Caliban before Prospero wound up on the island. This is Caliban in the raw, uncorrupted and free.”
“I don’t get it...” Harry spoke for them all.
Dickie came in with a tray of coffee mugs and a bowl of water for Caliban.
“When he was conjured,” the professor accepted a digestive biscuit and snapped it in two, “he was an idea, an entity in need of a body. And so he went from form to form, doing his master’s bidding. Unfortunately, the occupations led to the death of the host. He’s laid quite a trail up and down the country.”
“His master?” Brownlow again.
“The twat in the hood,” Harry reminded him. “He had a -” he gestured to his neck, “Some kind of pendant?”
The professor nodded. “That would be his scrying crystal. Or a piece of mirror or something. It is through this that he communicated with our hairy, fishy friend here, and was able to control him.”
“Scrying crystal? You keep throwing these words out there, professor.”
Cheese patted the American’s hand.
“A kind of supernatural Facebook, you might say. I’m sure if you conduct one of those googly searches, you will find out more about it.”
“So,” Olly counted on his fingers, “the bloke in the hood conjured up a character, controlled him with a magic necklace and sent him out to kill people and steal their bodies?”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Cheese. “I imagine your next question is ‘but why?’”
“Yes,” said Olly, amazed at the professor’s perspicacity.
“The item you retrieved from the garden; where is it?”
Brownlow removed a parcel from his jacket and placed it on the table. It was the piece of wood, wrapped in his handkerchief.
“This, and three others like it, is the reason behind all of this palaver.”
They all regarded the uninspiring object, more than a little nonplussed.
“I fear its three counterparts have fallen into the enemy’s hands. This single fragment might not be enough to countermand the power the other three will convey.”
Where The Bee Sucks Page 18