by Quig Shelby
The Russian stabbed his knife into the steak, pleased to see a trickle of blood. Through the comings and goings he caught a glimpse of a fellow gladiator with an eye patch. Felix saw his stare, and turned around curious, but the other party had just left.
With the plates gone but steins and glasses still full, Felix opened his case. He looked a little out of place between the Russian warriors, the devious Mr Li, and the German magnate with the full beard and striking wolf like features. But the others showed him the respect a husband of Dela’s deserved. It wasn’t that Felix didn’t do menace or indeed murder, but it was always underhand, and that’s how he looked - respectively sly.
‘Christmas presents Dela?’ asked Mr Li.
Vasily and the others were more patient, but hoped they weren’t about to be duped with gifts from the Christmas markets.
Dela checked the other tables, and began to speak in hushed conspiratorial tones.
‘First the atlas bone,’ said Dela.
Gunther’s eyes lit up, and Vasily nodded with approval to his colleague. They passed it around themselves under the table, before it returned to Dela.
‘Only one bid each gentleman. I don’t wish to be here all night,’ said Dela.
And they each wrote a sum on a serviette before returning it to Dela.
The atlas bone was the most powerful of all muti, synonymous with favour and fortune, and Dela had promised its owner a path to power. Gunther Strauss was running for Mayor, and Vasily the Federal Assembly; one of them was about to be disappointed.
Dela dabbed the wine from her lips with the winning serviette, and handed the prize to Vasily which was a winner for everyone; at least he wouldn’t have to kill Gunther on his way to the car.
Felix handed out the Santa Claus voodoo dolls like after dinner mints; there were two each.
‘On the house,’ said Dela lifting up her hand.
Mr Li wasn’t the only shrewd businessman in town tonight, and there was a sting in the tail.
‘Just fax me when you have a name, and I’ll do the rest from my end,’ said Dela.
For a price naturally, and putting the clause into Santa.
With the meeting over Dela decided to take Felix for a stroll. The waiter cleared the table. There was no tip but a solitary felt Santa Clause on the table. Still he would put it in the staff room; what harm could it do?
The stall holder wrapped the long red candle Dela had just bought. It was wide, and on the side was an image of Santa about to shoot off in his sleigh.
‘I know exactly where I can stick this Felix, when we get back home,’ said Dela.
But Felix was more interested in the atlas bone.
‘So go on, tell me. How much did you get?’ he asked.
Dela delved into her pocket with a smile, and held up a banker’s cheque for fifty thousand euros. Not a bad night’s work, all said and done.
Felix looked at his watch.
‘The flight leaves in four hours,’ he said.
‘Felix whatever would I do without you,’ said Dela.
And she meant it, but she couldn’t wait to see Plackcedes again, and then they could both give Felix the souvenir from Cologne.
They ate a full breakfast, and left their bags in the foyer. The receptionist recommended they visit the ice rink on Heumarkt. If last night was anything to go by, Joost and Bheki would try anything.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Themba as Joost sat on his backside on the cold ice for the umpteenth time.
‘I’m fine,’ said Joost.
Bheki loved it, and was laughing in fits. The strong hero couldn’t skate. Joost tried to blame his eye, but Bheki was having none of it.
‘Hold onto me,’ she said, as Eudy and Themba gracefully floated by.
He held her arm but it was no use. He stumbled, he fumbled, and he tumbled.
‘It’s just not me,’ he eventually said after getting back on his feet.
‘Throwing in the towel Joost?’ said Bheki smiling.
‘I don’t recall you being that brave last night,’ said Joost.
‘That’s strange because I remember you being just as useless,’ said Bheki with a gleam in her eye.
They kissed, and if their lips had locked any longer they just might have frozen together.
Joost decided to watch from the side-lines, and Eudy and Themba were even skating arm in arm. But Bheki didn’t mind, she had her man exactly where she wanted him; if she wanted him at all?
All good things come to an end, and they began their sojourn back to London. Joost had packed the dolls and their message, against Bheki’s advice, but she wasn’t complaining; he’d not shot off when she’d looked at the rings in the jewellers. It was worth knowing, that was if he was worth keeping?
Chapter Forty Five
In the corner of the room was a green glass paraffin lamp, lit and sitting on a small round oak table with a lace table cloth. It suited Frank Sleigh’s aesthetics, but was added for theatrical effect. Though he was no charlatan, Frank really could see the other side, and already his diary was full. Herman was his personal assistant but there was no camping it up for this audience, the ball gowns unlike Frank were in the closet.
In the gloom was a much more revered table, and at its helm sat Frank hunched over his scrying glass. It was just ordinary glass, and if truth were told it was a novelty crystal ball, but when Frank touched it an aura would surround; sometimes frosty white, sometimes gold, and on occasion when a disturbed Spirit was summoned, black or red.
‘Portia you’re first,’ said Frank.
‘Ask him if he’s alright,’ said Portia.
It was always the same question but she worried terribly. Montague, her deceased husband, had been a consultant surgeon. But his suicide followed a litany of private lawsuits; he’d played God for too long and had started to believe in his own infallibility, until a much braver soul stood up to him.
‘He’s fine,’ said Frank mildly entranced.
He held his hands over the scrying glass and trying to cover the deep black aura.
Portia smiled to herself.
‘And what does he want me to do with Benjamin?’ she asked.
Benjamin was their arthritic bull mastiff, and even from across the grave Montague’s opinion held sway; she’d been under his thumb too long.
‘It’s time to have him put down,’ said Frank solemnly.
‘Is he sure?’ asked Portia.
Frank nodded.
He connected with the dead, and could hear the voices no one else in the room could. Most who attended for the first time were a little sceptical, some even tried to catch him out, but Frank would soon provide indisputable proof.
‘Larry it’s your turn,’ said Frank.
It was Larry’s first time, and he could be a believer or an unbeliever in the afterlife and clairvoyants, depending on his mood. When he’d booked his place at the table he’d been a believer, now he was here he was an unbeliever. But he had ways of unmasking Frank, or so he thought.
‘So Larry, whom do you wish to contact?’ asked Frank.
‘My deceased,’ deceased sounded much better than dead, ‘partner, Olivia Reynolds.’
‘Olivia Reynolds are you there?’ asked Frank.
Again and again it appeared that Olivia was being a little coy.
‘Have you brought something along?’ asked Frank.
Larry who was sitting two chairs down and next to Portia slid a ring across the table. It was Olivia’s, though they had never actually married; it was something to which Larry was averse, but now he regretted it.
Frank held the ring, and eventually he said ‘she’s here.’
‘Ask her if I should sell the holiday flat in France?’ asked Larry.
‘Olivia says by all
means but don’t you mean the caravan in Cornwall.’
Larry smiled but felt a little uncomfortable, he had been undone. But still, Frank could have checked him out; he needed something more personal, and now he had laid his cards on the table he showed his hand.
‘Ask her what’s the first thing she remembers me saying.’
There was a pause, and Frank was actually enjoying this game.
‘Easy,’ he said ‘is this the train to Nottingham?’
‘What’s the first present she ever bought me?’
‘A teapot,’ said Frank.
‘Why didn’t she like my Mum?’ persisted Larry.
‘She made her get rid of the cat,’ replied Frank.
Larry was shocked, and would never doubt Frank again. There were both laughter and tears over the next five minutes, with Larry begging forgiveness for his numerous foibles.
Next were a couple of grieving old timers, and some crack head punter who wanted next week’s lottery numbers. Finally came Lycan, real name Kevin. It was with some hesitancy that Frank had let him return, and already he was wishing he hadn’t.
Lycan was a mid-twenties Goth with long brown hair, pork chop sideburns, and a werewolf fetish.
‘Yes Lycan’ asked Frank ‘what is it this time?’
‘I wish to speak to Winston Churchill.’
Lycan had this strange theory that certain historical figures had either been werewolves or were killed by them. Apparently Winston Churchill had been murdered by a German werewolf.
Fortunately Winston saw the funny side, but a séance was not meant to be light entertainment, and Frank, as well as some of his more sober and salubrious customers, was not amused. Frank cut the interview short, and before the usual genteel cup of tea, Lycan and the hapless gambler were shown the door.
‘You can’t throw me out,’ protested Lycan moving his long mac in an incongruous flurry.
‘I could always tell the police about the horses,’ retorted Frank.
‘I wouldn’t come back here anyway,’ was the last thing Frank heard from Lycan as Herman slammed the door shut on him.
In the street the bedraggled and desperate punter came up to Lycan.
‘So what do you know about horses?’ he asked.
‘Oh fuck off,’ said Lycan, and they went their separate ways.
‘Apologies for the kafuffle ladies and gentleman,’ said Frank, and he clapped his hands.
‘Time for a cup of tea,’ he added.
Five minutes later and Herman brought in the china cups and tea pot for a most congenial review.
They collected their assorted coats, hats, brollies, and walking sticks and one by one bade farewell. Herman brought the sealed envelopes to Frank in the drawing room. He didn’t like to set a fixed price because grief was immeasurable, and not everyone had deep pockets. But nonetheless he opened the sealed envelopes, collected before the séance, with interest.
Each envelope was named, and as usual the gracious Portia was the most generous. Larry had changed his mind at the last minute, and enclosed a fiver and not a fifty pound note. He regretted it on the way home but would more than make amends next time. Lycan had slipped a twenty inside, and the gambler an I O U. The others were predictably grateful, and Frank had the handsome sum of £700 pounds before him. He gave it to Herman to trouser, before sitting alone with the scrying glass, and Alison.
‘Don’t worry my dearest girl you’ll come back to us,’ said Frank into the orb.
He’d heard rumours on the other side from a couple called Bill and Barbara that Dela had something afoot. He listened to Abel too; but wasn’t all fair in grief and war?
Chapter Forty Six
Detective Inspector Dirk Sellars spun the mobile phone on his desk in the empty office; everyone else was at his leaving party. He was making a timely exit; there was a new wave of police joining the Met, politically correct and idealistic. He was part of the old guard, a dinosaur, chauvinistic, and willing to bend the rules when it suited. And it had suited him quite a lot, right down to his houses in Marbella.
Sellars had waited a long time for this moment, and yet now, on his very last day, he regretted wishing his life away. He’d swap it all to be a twenty something again, back on the beat. He took another sip of scotch, and braced himself for all the usual cliché’s awaiting in the boozer down the road. There was a knock at the door.
‘Aren’t you coming Sir?’ asked the pretty WPC through the glass.
In his heyday, when he’d cut a swagger in his uniform, he’d have had a ribald reply waiting on his lips. But now there was no sparkle in his eyes, only lines around them.
‘Five minutes Jackie, just clearing out my desk,’ he replied.
He was doing more than clearing out his desk. Corruption and pay offs were addictive, like gambling, and he wanted a royal flush one last time.
Inspector Sellars had been Dilwood Benson’s eyes and ears, but it looked like he’d retired too, without even a goodbye. His understudy, Din, wanted a meeting, to pick up where Dilwood had left off, but in this case Dirk was taking him a leaving present.
He put the notes in his briefcase, along with his bravery award, and memory stick porn collection. The police file on Tendai Mathebula was for Din. She was a hooker once booked for soliciting, and whose prints turned up at the most unfortunate places; the murdered drug dealer’s bedroom a couple of years ago, and more recently in the deceased pastor’s kitchen. He didn’t know where she was nor did he care, but Din wanted all trace of her to vanish. Naturally it would cost; enough to buy a couple of bar girls whilst he recuperated.
They were coming up the stairs dancing the conga. He took a handful of tablets with the last of his scotch, and pressed the key. Now Tendai was gone from the police national computer, just like Dilwood’s prints before her.
Susie Chang took one last swig of senna elixir from the bottle, and dashed to the bathroom. She looked sea sick but eventually the gristle digested at The Crossed Heart passed her by, and with it any thoughts she had for James Middlemass. But Pandy could be fiercely jealous, and her late obsession hadn’t gone unnoticed. Her constipation wouldn’t lead to her emancipation.
She looked at the bank statement, careful not to show her hand. She quickly flipped up the sheet a second time, but still had a poker face.
‘Well?’ asked Joost.
Her excitement finally boiled over, and she jumped into his arms.
‘It’s in I take it,’ and for once he wasn’t referring to his limitless passion.
‘Three hundred and eighty thousand pounds,’ she said, taking as long as she could to drool over the words.
‘Thanks grandma,’ she said, and Joost opened another bottle of champagne.
The handcuffs weren’t covered in pink fur, and the whip hand wasn’t forgiving. His head was in a sling beneath two sweet moons. Plackcedes was in the queening chair whilst Felix received another taste of African hospitality.
Dela was kneeling besides him, curiously watching his arousal push against the cage. Eventually she relented, and removed the padlock, and Felix sprang into life. But too much of a good thing could be a bad thing, and Dela wasn’t about to make his day.
She stroked until the very last moment, and timed her removal to perfection. Just as he jolted the stimulus was cruelly whisked away, and his enjoyment ruined.
‘Spitter spatter it doesn’t matter,’ said Dela nonchalantly before dabbing up the trickle, and locking him up once more.
Plackcedes had a bird’s eye view, and smiled to herself at the slave’s ruination. She could only imagine the look of loss and disappointment on his face as he continued his duty.
‘Poor baby,’ she purred ‘have you spilled some milk?’
Joost looked in the side mirror as Themba beckoned the van back a few more yards. He s
queezed in between the gate posts, and parked on the drive.
Joost and Themba lifted out the couch whilst their respective sweethearts decided what went where. The house was big enough for two sets of furniture. There were four bedrooms, more importantly two bathrooms, a front room, a lounge, a drawing room, and a kitchen to shame Dilwood. Joost and Bheki both had their flats up for sale.
‘It’s Miriam,’ said Bheki holding out the phone.
Joost put down the large cardboard box, not sure how to answer; pleased to hear her voice, or despondent over Abel?
‘Hi darling,’ said Miriam sweetly and setting the tone.
‘Just a quick word because you’ve probably got your hands full,’ she said.
She was right but it wasn’t Bheki in his strong arms just yet. And, although their bedroom was at the far end of the corridor, they would have to tone it down, for a while.
Joost sank into the newly arranged sofa, and nodded his thanks to Eudy who handed him a huge mug of rooibos.
‘Abel says don’t worry, but Dela is planning something big. He’s not sure what, but I’ll keep you posted,’ said Miriam.
Before Joost could ask how she was bearing up she was gone. He looked at the Russian dolls on the window sill, and wondered; he wouldn’t phone Lucy just yet, he wanted to hang onto his ace.
Chapter Forty Seven
Charles was making a fuss, as he had always did, but not even Dela noticed he was just going through the motions; she had something much more important on her mind - resurrecting the dead.
‘I’ll take your bags upstairs,’ said Charles.
Dela and Plackcedes were staying for a couple of days. Felix was back at the flat all tied up, besides he could do with losing some weight.
Charles placed the luggage on the duvet, plumped up the pillows, and rearranged the cushions on the spare double bed. His guests were staying overnight, and happy to share sleeping accommodation