Elsie’s precious reproduction Faberge eggs began dancing a jig on their mounts, keeping rhythm with the bone-shaking clatter of the table’s legs. But the vibrations of the spirits were becoming so unbearable, they were threatening to crack the huge glass panes in the windows behind the living room.
‘Always knew how to crash, old Croxford,’ said Mark Lockhart, under his breath, catching sight of two more racing veterans, immortalised in china, falling to earth.
The table took to the air once more, and began to oscillate more wildly. Elsie’s party were only seconds away from running for the safety of the foyer when the vibrations abruptly ceased and the table crashed to the floor. A wind which wasn’t a wind, but the sound of rushing ectoplasm collecting and carrying disembodied voices now came to the fore… then Elsie tipped forward in her stupor and began to vocalise, though one of her guests almost drowned her out.
‘ARGHHHHHH! YA C***S!’ yelled Isla Binnie, as one of the table legs split her toenail.
‘MURDERED-ME!’ cried a heavily accented male voice, from the throat of their host.’
‘That’s the bleedin’mayor!’ said Gareth Tonks, nearly breaking hands with a gurn of disgust, name-checking their seafood-loving former first citizen of the borough. ‘The fat turd.’
A gelatinous white lump shot from Elsie’s mouth and landed in the centre of the table with a wet slap, quivering on the gold satin embroidery of the regal antimacassar she used as a table runner. Several of the guests heaved, holding their hands over their mouths. Isla, already hovering on the edge of nausea, from the pain in her toe, threw up in her neighbour’s lap.
‘AWWWW! NOOOOO! You dirty bitch!’ cried one of her escorts, losing all her spiritual sisterliness.
‘What the f**k is that thing on the f**king table?’ cried Mr Tonks, screwing up his face.
‘It looks like a scallop…’
Isla threw up again. Over her own portion of the table…
‘GET THAT F**KING HISTORY TEACHER!’ yelled the spirit of the recently deceased Mayor, firing another gelatinous bullet of shellfish from the spirit realm, past Elsie’s burgundy lips.
‘Gate back tae hell, yer pot-bellied preck,’ moaned Isla, clutching her foot, wiping something that looked like Pot Noodle from her chin with one of Elsie’s brocade placemats.
‘IN ST MARY’S!’ cried the voice, which was suddenly replaced by the bullying shout of another male spirit voice.
‘OOT MA WAY, YA MUSSEL-GUZZLEN BASTARD…’
‘ANTHONY – EZ THAT YEW?’ called Isla desperately, still clutching her blackening toe which was throbbing so hard, she thought it might burst.
‘ETTS ME ISLA, AHM FIGHTEN FAE SPACE HERE HEN!… C**T!’
‘Are ya dayd Anthony? JEESHUSH! Ma fecken toe hutts!’
‘AYE, I’D SAY SO, RIGHT ‘ANUFF. MA HEED’S COMPOSTENN ENN THE WOODS. AN’ THE REST GORT EAT’N. BY A FECKEN WOLF – BACK OFF! YA PRECK! shouted the ghost of Tony Binnie, at another competing spirit, who was trying to break his hold on Elsie’s faculties.’
‘A wolf? Are yee right enn the hayd? ‘Who’s thaa ya fightenn?’
‘MA HEEDS ENN THE WOODS WOMAN! AHM DAYD FAY NUTHEN! FAY NUTHEN! WHAT THE HELL’S THART SHTUFF ORN YER CHENN?’
‘There’s nuthen orn ma chenn,’ replied his wife without much conviction before she recovered her dignity, ‘dedd yee find the gold?’
‘GOLD?.. What gold?’said Alan, suddenly alert.
‘Shut yer fecken ears– youze. Ahm talken tae ma fecken hushzband.’
‘How do you know it’s him..?’
‘Pess off. Ahh know mah Anthony. Steck ya friggen fengers in y’fecken ears. Ahv no gev yoo permeshen tae hear wa’ conversation.’
‘YER DREFTENN HEN! AH CANNAE HOLD ON HERE… THEY’RE PULLEN ME BACK. HE ATE MA PAGER! THE WOLF!’
‘Yer pager – yer kedden?’
‘AHM NO KEDDEN! THE LANDLAIRD O’ THE SHI… THE SHHHIRE…’
Suddenly, the door to the foyer flew open and a howling wind blew out the candle, plunging the table into darkness and agitating the folds of the heavy curtains. A tall, stocky figure stood in silhouette in front of the hall lights beyond.
‘Does anyone know how to change the Guinness ovver Else? We’re dying o’ bloody thirst out ‘ere.’
Derek Beautimann and Maureen Moment, the Grand Wizard and Deputy of the Black Hand Coven, sat close together on separate armchairs in a quiet corner of the Royal Hotel’s lounge bar, talking quietly, amongst themselves. They had met to discuss what to do with their share of half a fortune in gold and jewels which Derek had located and excavated several days before. Though no one who knew their true circumstances would describe them as blessed, one of them was at least hopeful of a better future, once the matter of a certain curse was neutralised. Unfortunately, it did not look as though their fraternity of wizards and witches would survive the spring, but the manner of the coven’s dissolution had to be faced.
‘I’ve come to a decision Maureen,’ announced her accomplice and employer.‘I’m going to resign as Grand Wizard and Master of Ceremonies. I’ve no desire to continue to entertain a troop of fools and delinquents. From now on, they can be the masters of their own destinies. I shall say they have my best wishes for the future, be magnanimous and gracious, but I’m afraid I’ve come to a crossroads with our society.’
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that Derek. Nobody expects you to “entertain” them. What on earth will they do if you go?’
‘They’ll have the pleasure of arguing amongst themselves I expect. Why should you care what happens to them?’
‘Why do you have to be so rude about them? They’re not bad people. Most of them look up to you, if only you’d bother to notice.’
‘Oh they’re polite enough on their own, granted. I’ve no wish to go on record as having made a blanket character assassination of my own coven. But when they’re all together, it’s a different story isn’t it? They’re impossible… I’m sorry, but they’ll just have to manage themselves from now on and that’s my final decision.’
‘Well, there’s nothing more to be said then. Are you going to do it in writing?’
‘Maureen – would you like to think about what you just said?’
‘No – why?’
‘May I suggest that you do?’
‘No – you can’t.’
‘Well… I’ll just implicate myself in my own hand shall I? And end up on the front page of the News of the World, with my head superimposed on top of a pantomime wizard’s cape – and a goat tucked under my arm. That’ll do wonders for my career in the law.’
‘Oh…I hadn’t thought about it that way.’
‘I think it’s best if I do the thinking. That’s the way it is at work, and that’s the way it’s going to stay outside.’
‘Are you giving it up then? The dark side…’
‘Not exactly… I’m going to see if I can find some kind of parallel satisfaction in golf. There must be some kind of supernatural force involved in putting a tiny ball into a tiny hole, with something that looks like a joke shop drain rod. Trevor and James are always arguing about their damned golf handicaps, so I’ve decided to take them up on their invitation to accompany them as an associate member and see if it stirs anything in me. I just hope they’ve got some other avenues of conversation. There’s no bigger bore than an over-keen amateur sportsman, except those poor unfortunates who think soap operas are the highest form of entertainment.’
‘Poor unfortunates? Am I a poor unfortunate? Sometimes, you can be a really nasty piece of work, do you know that? Let me tell you something, Derek Beautimann; Coronation Street is the best social drama on television. It’s real life, with real people, with real problems – well, hypothetical real people – it’s not cheap telly, like you seem to think it is. They’ve won awards… almost every
year since the 1960s. People don’t like having their tastes criticised – I don’t criticise your tastes do I?’
‘But don’t you find it bland?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Well… don’t you get enough real life– in real life?’
‘You go to the theatre don’t you? It’s the same thing…’
‘Television and theatre are very different mediums Maureen. And vastly different experiences. A play is a cleverly condensed construct, story – an experience told by the skill and dedication of actors in the midst of live performance, without the smothering dominance of huge production sets. At the end of a play, there is always a resolution, an outcome. A message. Soap operas drag on for decades… there’s no… no nourishment for the spirit. They’re monotonous and mundane to the point of… tedium.’
‘Have you ever been punched by a woman Derek? Because you’re getting very close.’
On the middle slopes of Oliver’s Mount, the BADCOW kidnap and rescue mission’s progress had stalled. Ian had parked his two donkeys, Sweetie and Pepper, beside the boundary hedge and gone forward to a break in the foliage at a stile, to try and find the source of some shouts and the noise of running boots beyond the hedge. He craned over the top plank and checked the road, which was swarming with teenage boys, wearing berets and camouflage jackets, grappling, shoving and wrestling each other. Two of the younger boys, at the edge off the melee, managed to break off and sprinted towards the stile, stumbling over the steps, panting like cross-country runners. They stopped momentarily and hesitated, looked at Ian for a second, then carried on running on the other side of the hedge, along the track towards the woods provisionally chosen by Mary for Operation Donkey.
Mary reached the stile just as the gang fight spilled over into the higher fields on the opposite side of the road, though there were at least two pairs of teenagers still wrestling on the verges in the gloom.
‘I can’t get the others to move, Ian. Something’s spooked them – what’s all that noise behind the hedge?’ she asked, sounding unusually calm and reasonable.’
‘The f**king Air Cadets are having a scrap; that’s what’s happening. A bloody night exercise.’ I didn’t think your luck was that bad Shipley, but you’ve picked a right pearler you have. Still, it’s not all bad. The two little shits who ran past me dropped a four-pack of Watneys Pale Ale in the nettles,’ he smirked, brandishing an open can. ‘We’re gonna have to take your nags back,’ said Ian.‘There’s probably about forty of the bastards tear-arsing around, kicking the living shit out of each other and they’ll all be getting picked up by their instructors in an hour. You’re stuffed…’
‘I’m not taking them back – not now.’
‘Mary, the whole of this side of Oliver’s Mount is full of crazy, belligerent little nut-job bastards – well only some of ‘em are little. One of me brothers is in 739 Squadron; they might only be teenagers but they drink and fight like bloody maniacs. We’ll have to go back.’
‘Stay here with these two, Ian. I’ll take the others back and we’ll go with Pepper and Sweetie.’
‘Mary… I’m telling you we can’t do this tonight… we’ll get spotted.’
‘Pull your hood up then. We go Ian. Wait here – I’ll be ten minutes.’
Chapter Thirteen
Bark at the Moon
Outside the door to Lindsay Boldwood’s rooms in the Shirestones, a small crowd had gathered. Two middle-aged Scottish ladies, in Hawaiian-style costumes, were trying to explain to Gemma and Bonnie Naylor– Lindsay’s holiday girls, what they had heard inside his rooms.
‘I hudd shomeone banging the furniture lassie. Theyn there wuz thess tayrabble groan. Och, ett sooounded like shomeone was having a fett. I thenk yer boss musht bee havenn a wee bushtup… it’s no nice tae heeeer. Wheyn yer jusht neyxt dooer, y’ken?’
‘Aye – thurr’s shome kind o’ ar-namal enn there. It did’nae sooound too weyll.’
‘Mr Boldwood? It’s Gemma, Mr Boldwood…Are you all right in there?’
‘GROWWL.’
‘Bonnie – go and get the boys. Tell them there’s a dog loose in Mr Boldwood’s rooms.’
‘How’d it get in there? We’re on the second floor.’
‘Maybe it’s Mr Cunncliffe’s Yorkie. When you see the boys, ask them to bring me his keys up.’
‘That’s never a Yorkie Gemma – get real…’
‘Well it needs to come out… it can’t stay in there and I’m not touching it. It smells of old wee.’
‘GROWWWWL.’
‘Are you sure we should open the door– what if it leaps out and bites someone? Lindsay might have locked it in there on purpose.’
‘It doesn’t sound like a Yorkie does it? Should we ring the police?’
‘They’ll jusht tell ye tae reng the dog warden peytull. Yon ar-namal’s gort a nasty growl eh?’
‘I’ll get Dale and Matthew,’ said Bonnie, striding off for the stairs. ‘They can deal with it.’
‘MR BOLDWOOD! ARE YOU THERE?’
‘GRRRRRRR…’
‘Och dear, ah thenk ye might need tae get ett orn a hayd collar.’
‘My name’s Gemma, Mrs Jensen.’
‘Och aye… I see yurr name tag now. Weyll, I see you’ve gort thengs enn order. I’ll take maself off doonstairs.’
Bonnie returned a few minutes later. ‘The lads are just getting Thomas to watch the bar, Gem.’
‘Lindsay’s still not answering. He must be somewhere else.’
‘He said he was coming up here for a bath. About fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Well he’s not in there now.’
‘Maybe that thing in there, is the thing that Ian saw in the cellar – from the zoo,’ said Bonnie. ‘The same thing that ate all the mince and broke the door to the scullery.’
The Bingley Beach Boys were the most accomplished and coveted Beach Boys tribute band in the British Isles. It had taken Boldwood nearly two years of consistent pleading, bribery and flattery to persuade them to play an early Easter Sunday set before their main gig at the Paul Murray Concert Hall in Whitborough later that same evening. They were certainly a big draw for his guests, and the crowning glory of the weekend’s entertainment.
Thomas Hibbard, Boldwood’s full-time chef had come out of the food prep area to watch the band and watch over the bar while Dale and Matthew went up to Boldwood’s rooms to see what the girls were complaining about.
‘What’s up?’ asked Matthew finally. When they reached the two sisters on the second landing, the girls were squatting down in front of Boldwood’s key hole.
‘My God… it’s HUGE!’
‘What is?’
‘The thing in there – I can’t tell…’
‘Let me see Bonnie…’
‘You can’t spy on the boss like that Bonnie!’ said Matthew sharply. ‘Why’d you call us up here anyway?’
‘What did you bring that surfboard all the way up here for?’ asked Gemma, frowning.
‘I don’t want anybody clowning around with it downstairs – that’s why,’ replied Matthew indignantly. ‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s a dog in Lindsay’s apartment, it’s been growling at us.’
‘It’s not a dog,’ said Bonnie.‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a dog – it’s enormous…’
‘How did it get up here anyway?’ said Dale.’
‘How should we know?’
‘All right – I’m only asking. Didn’t Lindsay just come up here? You shouldn’t be peering through his keyhole like some kind of perv.’
‘Don’t call me a perv – we’ve called him and knocked three times but he’s not answering the door.’
‘Well maybe he’s not in there anymore – has anyone checked downstairs?’
�
�He’s not in the hotel Matthew.’
‘Why do you want to open the door anyway?’
‘Two of the older ladies said they heard someone banging against the furniture and groaning. He could have passed out or something. If he’s in there at all.’
‘Or maybe that thing in there attacked him…’
‘GROWWWWL.’
‘Blimey – that dunt sound friendly…’ said Matthew, as the two girls flashed him their best told you so expressions.’
‘Let me have a peek’, said Dale, bending down to the keyhole.
‘What is it… can you see it?’ asked Matthew.
‘Nuthin’… can’t see owt.’
‘You must be able to see something!’ snapped Gemma. ‘Didn’t you just hear it?’
‘Gemma – don’t be an arse,’ replied Matthew.
‘Still nothing,’ mumbled Dale, standing up to rub his knees.‘You have a look Matt.’
‘Ta,’ said Matthew, taking his place by the door handle. The old keyhole on Boldwood’s door was almost five times as high, and over three as wide as the aperture in a modern lock plate. Designed for the much larger keys from the early Victorian period, it was a veritable wind tunnel compared to what was now considered the norm. It was the frame into which the glaring yellow eyeball of their employer now rose and shone with malignant luminosity, locking onto the left eye of Master Matthew Parker.
‘HOLY SHIT!’
Matthew fell backwards onto the carpet, just as the werewolf’s front paws slammed through the one-inch gap at the bottom of the old door, tearing the suede on the front of Bonnie’s shoe. Boldwood roared with anger, turning their blood to ice and began to tear out the carpet in front of the gripper below his door with his razor-sharp claws.
Even the Bingley Beach Boys, who were gliding down through the last few bars of ‘When I Grow Up (To Be a Man)’, heard the blood-curdling howl, but carried on regardless, like the professional musicians they were, subtly eyeballing each other.
The band’s leader and guitarist Bert Chadwick, ‘Chad’ to his band mates, decided to gloss over the noise upstairs by cutting out the last few chords and waved his hand to lead the band into the sunlit uplands of ‘Fun, Fun, Fun.’
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