by Ishbelle Bee
“Witches are feisty,” I say, biting into a custard tart.
“Indeed they are. One of them had hold of my leg, the saucy mare. I couldn’t shake her off. I had to boot her in the head, the minx! Now tell me, who are the other guests, Loveheart? Any beauties for me?”
“Mrs Charm. The retired actress.” I point over to the dear lady.
“I saw her as Titania many moons ago. Superb legs.” He sucks on his cigar.
“Lady Beetle and her young son, Horatio.” They are loitering by the champagne.
“Fine looking woman. Is she attached?”
“Husband dead. Buried near the compost heap at the back of her estate, so I understand.”
“Egads! A black widow spider, eh?” and his eye glitters.
“Mr Grubweed, retired undertaker.” He stands alone, spooning an enormous heap of green jelly into a bowl and splatting cream on top.
“Odd-looking fellow. And how do you know these people exactly?”
“It’s the first time I’ve met them, excluding Mrs Charm. They’re my neighbours. Aren’t they funny.”
“Your neighbours? Do you not have any other friends, dear boy?”
“They’re all dead or unavailable,” I say. “Detective White and Constable Walnut are busy on a case involving a cursed stolen Indian sapphire.”
“Sounds familiar,” Rufus chortles. “What’s the curse?”
“If you touch the jewel you are immediately transported to Aberystwyth.”
His cigar falls out of his lips and he shudders. “Jesus Christ!” and he whispers low in my ear. “I know a demonologist, a marvellous chap called Professor Toad, who claims that accursed shit hole is a portal to hell.”
“Custard tart?” I offer him the plate.
“No, I’m saving my appetite for that vixen, Lady Beetle, and possibly a scotch egg. Now, who is that strange creature?” and he points a finger in the direction of a spindly-looking priest wearing a green party hat and prodding one of the dangling severed heads.
Reverend Wormhole suddenly screams. “OH MY GOD. IT’S REAL. ITS EYEBALL JUST FELL OUT!”
I speak over his screaming. “Reverend Wormhole; he’s really very funny. He believes some sort of dark cult is out to assassinate him.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“I sneak onto the parish roof at night dressed up in black robes and a pair of horns, and wave through his window.”
“Ha ha! You strange banana!” And Rufus slaps me on the back, so my plate of custard tarts wobbles.
Sadly, I am missing a guest. Professor Hummingbird, the eminent collector of butterflies, failed to RSVP. A sure sign that he’s suspicious! I will have to pay a little visit to him after the party. Sneak into his gardens. Pluck a daisy or two.
I hand the plate of custard delights to Horatio Beetle, the ghastly spoiled teenage brat.
“I DON’T WANT ANY,” he wails.
“Would you mind holding the plate, young man?” I ask.
“NO, BUGGER OFF, YOU WEIRDO,” he replies.
“Do you know what happens to boys with bad manners?”
“NOTHING BECAUSE I’M RICH.”
“They explode.”
“WHAT?”
“That’s right. Suddenly and without warning.”
Horatio looks at me with a thick scowl and then takes the plate of tarts.
His mother, Lady Beetle saunters over, “Darling, you’re not a servant. Why are you holding that?”
“MR LOVEHEART SAID I WOULD EXPLODE IF I DIDN’T.”
I wander back inside Loveheart Manor, take Mr Fingers a piece of the birthday cake. Red and yellow sponge. Tastes like hearts.
“Hello, Mr Fingers, I brought you cake.”
He stares at me from his mirror prison like an octopus stuffed in a preservative jar. Eyes full of broken bits and pieces. Discarded. He says nothing, the pickled thing.
Death appears in a fizz-whiff of smoke, wearing a black party hat.
“Happy birthday, Mr Loveheart.”
“You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
“I brought you a present.” He tries to smile, it’s very unnerving. And he hands me a box with a big black bow on it.
“I love surprises.”
“Well you’ll like this then.” His expression reveals nothing.
I unwrap it and open the lid. It’s a black jewelled crown.
Mr Fingers is screaming, pounding his fists against the mirror.
“Put it on,” Death says.
I take off my red party hat. Put the spiked black crown on my head; it glitters of demon magic.
“Your rightful inheritance. You are of age.” He nods his head. “Mr Loveheart, Lord of the Underworld.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOO!” Mr Fingers is trying to smash the mirror open.
The crown is very heavy: it feels like the weight of a black star pushing me into the earth. “What does this mean?”
“It means,” says Death, helping himself to the birthday cake, “that things are going to get very interesting. There is also an important matter which I need to discuss with you, concerning another gift.”
“More presents? How thrilling!”
“Your powers as Lord of the Underworld will now start to manifest and they could come in any form.”
“How will I know what they are?”
“I am not sure of the specifics, no one bothers to keep me up to date on these formalities, but it should happen soon.”
“That is very exciting news, I wonder what curious powers I will acquire?”
“If you recall, your predecessor, Mr Fingers, had a skill for self-replication to produce heirs.”
“Oh yes, they were rather horrible as I recall.”
“Yes, well, let’s hope you acquire something more useful.”
“I can’t recall Bad Daddy having any other special powers.”
“Well, he had no sense of humour, which is more of a curse,” sighed Death wearily, “but he was proficient at manipulation; the gifts vary depending on the individual. And, you know, being Lord of the Underworld makes you exempt from being killed by standard methods.”
“Well, that is good news. You won’t be sneaking up behind me and hitting me over the head with a lampshade any time soon then? Ha ha.”
Death peered over my shoulder, “I would like some more cake please.”
“Of course, dear friend, let us go back to the party and cut a hefty slab for you. Oh, and I must tell you before I forget, I met someone rather nasty recently,” I say, touching the crown, feeling the zap and tingle.
“Really?” he looks curious.
“Yes, the prime minister.”
“VERY careful, Loveheart,” said Death, “He’s dangerous.”
“He rather upset me and I have a mind to have him stuffed and put in the hall.”
“Before you strategize your revenge why not enjoy your special day?” He patted me on the back and lead me gently outside the grounds of Loveheart Manor. The sun is sizzling, the fairies are sitting in the trees, laughing, drunk on the trifle. One falls off the branch head first into a rosebush. Splat!
All the roses in my kingdom are red. There’s no need for paint.
The crown on my head glints wickedly. Its weight seems impossible. Death follows me out, under the shadows, and starts chatting to Mr Hazard.
“Have we met?” says Rufus.
“Not yet.” His smile is concealed.
I wander deeper into my gardens. These lands stretch on for miles, deep in woods and fields. Cherry and apple trees dangle with fruits. Squashy orbs. See them wibble-wobble and hit the earth. I touch the crown; it zaps my finger. I never saw Mr Fingers wear it. Perhaps he kept it for special occasions. Kept under the sink with the pots of chutney. Well today is special. It is my birthday and I am no longer a mad prince. I am a mad king. But I have no queen to share my kingdom with. No queen
but
so
many
h
earts.
Who should I pick? The answer is simple:
SOMEONE
JUST
LIKE
ME
I sit under the cherry tree with my wicked crown. Perhaps I should advertise in the Times?
King of the Underworld seeks Queen.
Good sense of humour. Fond of cakes.
Mad as a kilt.
I eat a cherry, ponder the significance of them as a fruit. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me!
I fall asleep; dream of dark spaces. Untangle myself from a net of the god of sleep. Little fish, little fish. I am in my underworld; the clocks now all move backwards.
I wander inside the dining room of this dark palace; see a coil of intestinal sausage lying on a platter amongst a selection of cut meats. I know I’m dreaming: these are all rooms within my head. This is my kingdom, this is my kingdom. Underneath the world. Underneath the layers; under skin and bone. Curious thing, this crown. It’s itching my head. I scratch and look about me at this dream; my underworld. My horror world. Tastes like golden syrup; surprisingly sweet.
I am shaken awake.
“Mr Loveheart?” Mr Hazard grins, big teeth revealed through a fuzz of orange. “Wakey, wakey birthday boy. We’re all waiting for the party games.”
“Oh how fun!” and I leap to my feet and adjust my crown.
I walk with Rufus back across the garden lawn. The balloons are souls on a string. Someone let go.
I ring a little silver bell, ding-a-ling. The eyes of my guest are upon me. “Thank you everyone for coming to my birthday party. It is lovely to finally meet you all. And now I think we shall play a little game of pass the parcel. There’s a surprise for whoever wins.”
“Mamma,” squeals Horatio, “I want the surprise!”
“And if you’re lucky,” I say darkly, “you shall get it.”
(Five minutes later)
Observation by Mungo, the Groundsman of Beetle Manor
I’m leaning on a shovel, observing a suspicious chrysanthemum.
Suddenly I hear an explosion followed by a scream and see young Master Horatio Beetle flying through the air and into the pond. Well, bugger me if I don’t race down there as fast as I can and fish the little nipper out.
He’s not happy. He tells me to Sod Off. I’m tempted to hit him over the head with my shovel but my grandmother taught me good manners, so I help the spoilt rascal back to his mother, who’s waiting for him by an overgrown rhododendron bush, holding a heart-shaped balloon.
The Black Dog
It’s a mile walk along a woodland path to our Uncle’s house. The Reverend Plum whistles as he walks, gripping Boo Boo’s little hand. Her other hand is within the frog puppet, who looks about, googly-eyed in wonder at his surroundings.
“It’s simply a glorious day in God’s garden,” sighs Reverend Plum.
There’s a rummaging in the bushes and out steps a young gentleman wearing a purple waistcoat and jacket covered in red hearts. His hair is the colour of angels: a dazzling yellow. In his hands he carries a severed head, whose mutilated stump drips onto the path. He looks at us with his ink black eyes and smiles mischievously. “Good afternoon. I’m afraid if you’ve come for the party you’ve missed all the cake!”
Boo Boo is laughing. The reverend screams. The young gentleman keeps walking across the path and into the forest on the other side. The blood trail of the severed head is splattered on the path like rose petals.
“Why does the funny man have a head?” laughs Boo Boo.
“He’s a madman! We’re all to be murdered!” screams the hysterical Reverend Plum.
“I think we’re safe. He’s gone,” I say.
Reverend Plum makes us run the rest of the way.
My Uncle’s house is surrounded by a spiked iron fence and is gloomy looking and run-down. The house is a dirty grey colour with a small herb garden in the back which leads into a tumbling expanse of more woodland. Outside the gates sits an enormous black hound which growls at Reverend Plum.
“My heart can’t take much more of this,” he says, clutching his chest. Boo Boo lets go of his hand and strokes the dog, who seems very pleased and then rolls over and gets his tummy tickled. I unlock the latch on the gate, which creaks open rather theatrically. The Reverend Plum composes himself and knocks on the door, dizzy with relief.
(the same day)
Aberystwyth station
Detective White & Constable Walnut
Walnut and I are on a train pulling out of Aberystwyth station, for the third time. A solitary sheep, who I’m sure recognizes us, stares and bleats, while rain pounds the roof of the train carriage, splattering the windows. The sky is a dismal shade of purgatory-porridge.
Walnut waves at the sheep.
“What did I tell you, Walnut?” I say, exasperated.
“Um…” He stops waving and looks at me shamefacedly. “You said ‘Don’t touch it or we’ll end up in Wales again’.”
“SO WHY DID YOU DO IT?”
“I just thought I’d give it a little polish, make it look nice for Inspector Badger.”
The curse of this particular jewel transports not only the idiot who touches it but anyone standing within a few feet.
I sink back into my seat. I sigh, exhaling all the air from my lungs. Hopefully, I may pass out. We aren’t alone in this embarrassment. Constable Luck and the tea lady, Mrs Sultana, had both been stupid enough to fiddle with that accursed sapphire. Mrs Sultana, having made the most of her surprise day out, had visited her nephew. Apparently he’s a locksmith who lives up the road.
“What do you think Chief Inspector Badger will do with the sapphire?” Walnut takes a cheese and pickle sandwich out of his jacket and takes an enthusiastic bite.
“If he has any sense, he’ll throw it into the Thames.” I look out of the carriage window at the all too familiar swell and dip of vegetable green. The grey drizzle of skyline.
Walnut munches on his sandwich.
The ticket inspector appears with a wide grin. “Well, well,” he says, sliding the carriage door open. “You two again. You just can’t keep away from our beautiful land.” And he starts singing, his eyes glistening over with Welsh mists.
I take my pistol out and aim it at his head. “Stop that at once or I’ll shoot you.”
Heads on Trees
Mr Loveheart Decapitates his Wicked Neighbours
I’m hiding in a bush, observing Fangus Oil, the local drunk who exposes himself to women and random sheep. He’s urinating against a tree singing “Scarborough Fair”, which alone is an excellent reason for his imminent demise.
I stand behind him and cough politely. “Ahem.”
“What do you want?” He turns, peering at me, wobbling, strawberry nosed, smelling like a decomposing corpse.
“My name is John Loveheart and I would like your head. If you would place it in the bag please,” and I open the black velvet sack (with trademark love heart) that I’ve brought with me.
“Are you a little bit funny in the head?” he says, and breaks into song: “Parsleeeey, saaaaage, rosemary and thyme… la la la.”
I cut his head off immediately and sling it in the sack.
I creep further into the woods and find Daisy Dungbeetle picking poisonous mushrooms and placing them in her wicker basket. School mistress, avid reader of vampire novels – and part-time murderess.
“Madam,” I step out amidst the toadstool ring, “I am here to stop your wicked ways,” and I aim my sword at her.
She hisses at me. Bares her teeth, flickers her tongue. Holds a black mushroom up and thrusts it at me. “I curse you with this fungus of the Dark Master.”
“Are you threatening me with a mushroom?”
CHOP
I toss her head in the sack.
Lastly, after plucking some wild strawberries from the woodland path, I find Judge Thumpus Zop snoozing in his garden, a copy of the Times folded neatly on his lap. He has a reputation for cruelty. I ta
p his leg with my ancestral sword.
“WHAT THE DEVIL?” he shouts, awakening from his slumber.
“You have been a very bad boy, Judge.”
“What are you?”
“The Demon Lord of the Underworld… Ooh, now I’ve said it aloud it sounds rather impressive.”
“Oh crap.”
He tries to sprint across the lawn and trips up over a basket of courgettes. Picks one up and tries to stab me with it.
I hang their heads from red ribbons in my gardens. What pretty dingle dangly things. Poke them and they wobble about.
What fun. What fun!
Mr Loveheart sneaks into Professor Hummingbird’s Gardens
It’s a lovely night for a spot of mischief. The cosmos above the little world of Darkwound is soapy; bubbles of star-froth white. Galaxies wink underwater.
The woods around the Professor’s moated castle are very thorny. I have already tripped over a warty root and I have had words with it. Given it a good talking to.
His gardens need tending, always a sign of a demented mind. His violets are shrivelled (a sure sign of his unhinged brain) and his water lilies look depressed. Poor things.
I scale the side of his castle, climb up the ivy. Launch myself onto his rooftops and look over his domain. Yes, I think to myself. He’s clearly a villain, for I spy weeds sprouting out of his chimney pot. Mmmmm. I stroll across the roof and find a window open and hang down and peer in. And there he is in his study,
MY GOD!
The wallpaper is hideous. Some sort of floral obscenity!
And his butterflies, hundreds of them framed in glass. Pierced through their hearts.