“Now hold on just one minute,” Murphy cried, “haven’t you had enough of slaughtering every dead you come near. Allow the rest of us a pop, would you?”
When they left, I overheard Murphy telling Sheehan what a madman I was when it came to a fight and with me around the dead would soon be vanquished from Ireland altogether.
Of course, as we know, that didn’t exactly turn out to be the case and with the loss of the colours, the colonel was all too happy to parade me about to anyone who’d take notice, keen as he was to share in my glory, in the hope of keeping his diminishing regiment together. But for Mr Pumphrey, who’d wanted any excuse to merge the 8th with an English regiment, to save on the tin you see, well, even showing me off to the few remaining rich men, land owners, clan leaders and lords of Ireland had its limits. All Lord Fitzgibbon succeeded in doing was enhancing my fame, whilst bringing me a wealth of powerful admirers and if I were to be asked if, in private of course, I whispered in a few ears to have the regiment consolidated, well then, it would be a lie if I said I hadn’t. I’d even picked out a nice little regiment in my home county of Sussex, how convenient, and so, much to the colonel’s rage, we were soon put on a boat and sent across the Irish Sea.
The thing was that the dead, or zombies as they were to be known, had somehow managed to cross themselves, in a fishing boat that washed up on rocks near Bristol and so the government made the decision to abandon Ireland altogether, to save England. And why not?
It was all too much for the colonel who never altered his ways or feelings toward me, doubtless always suspecting I was a rogue, a coward and had played a part in the disappearance of the colours. My surviving was evidence enough to my shame, saving the twins be damned, but for that very reason, he couldn’t say as much publicly.
And the twins?
I believe they were named Jack and Strapper respectively.
“I THOUGHT you said he had no sexual prowess.” Melville demanded of me. “The man’s been going at it like a fiddler’s elbow on grease.”
“I can only go on what the hussy tells me and will you stop nudging me. I’ve had more than enough physical contact from you, my lad.”
At least thus far the table hadn’t imploded, because that would’ve been awkward.
Melville rubbed his knee. “I’m fairly certain I know the answer already, but I’ll die of curiosity if I don’t at least ask. But the babies…” he trailed off and I knew what he wanted to ask.
“…you’d like to know if I was about to rescue them or leave them to their fates to save myself?”
He nodded and much to his annoyance, I simply tapped my nose and winked.
“Oh, well, it’s hard for you to descend much further south to my mind anyway.” He yawned. “I would say the moral of the story is that the best things happen to the worst people.”
And I couldn’t disagree with him there - Although my present good fortunes had, for a large part, been the product of my conniving, it couldn’t be denied I’d been extraordinarily lucky and so far I’d only told the first part of my story. And the silly thing is, we were getting so well acquainted, squatting below the table, he could see it in my eye, what I was thinking.
“Oh, dear God, there’s more aint there?” He scratched his bald head and then wagged a finger. “That’s right…I remember you said Captain Dolan did something terrible to you, but you never said what.” He looked at me with expectation. “Well?”
“I didn’t tell you because you wanted to know why Fitzgibbon hates me, and I told you. But the Dolan fiasco is a whole nother story.”
His eyes flicked to the rattle still going on above our heads, to my commanding officer who’d kill me if he discovered my semi naked form below him. “It looks like we have time.”
Which would mean I’d have to dredge up by far the most horrifying experience of my life; about how the rat Dolan orchestrated his elaborate revenge plot, to tarnish me, to ruin me, to destroy my new found love and I’d have to spew it all out simply to entertain this rotten man.
I shrugged. What else was there to do?
BOOK 2
For my fellow cowards. The meek shan’t inherit the earth, we will.
Hero’s Welcome
The crowds emerged as we rolled through Eastbourne, hundreds who lined the roads to welcome me in the open topped carriage I’d hired for the journey from Portsmouth. Every town, every village, every hamlet had been similar, with every handsome maiden, toothless imbecile and everything ‘tween leaving their abodes to welcome me, the nation’s hero home. There were some, the real simpletons, who’d followed me all the way from the port, on foot no less, like I was the prodigal son returned. Those types I was mindful to stay well clear of whenever we stopped for ale, sustenance or for a tupping of which, I was not short of offers. Indeed, the journey from Portsmouth, that should have taken a day, took ten.
And now as the carriage approached the entrance to my father’s estate, there were more crowds gathered at the roadside, people I knew from school, from riding, some of the local likely lads or else girls who’d in the past turned me down, miraculously present now I was famous - Funny how that works.
The last time I arrived home the circumstances were entirely different and I reflected on how my fortunes had changed since being kicked out of Eton. Back then, only six short months ago, I was in fear for my future. Now everything was looking good for old Strappy.
After the incident at Fort Garrison, I’d taken all my time, and no chances, ensuring nobody called upon me to do my ‘duty,’ whatever that was. And whilst my old regiment, the 8th, slowly disbanded, I spent the entire duration in a hospital bed, being visited by Ireland’s most notables; lords, landowners, clansmen and no shortage of strumpets.
There were times I’d thought about selling my commission, and had received no shortage of offers considering my particular post was thought lucky - But sell - Why? It’d only mean having to discard my dashing uniform and hero persona the ladies went so wild for and it wasn’t like anyone could order me to fight anyway given my leg and various other injuries, which, as long as I remembered to limp when in the presence of others, I could hope to maintain this lifestyle indefinitely, and who would blame me? They’d do the same in my position.
Did I feel guilty? Not at all because I’d never asked for any of it. On the contrary, I’d tried absolutely everything to avoid it.
Those few people who knew me, rightfully, as the coward I am, well, they’re either all dead or know better than to talk for fear of not being believed. And as long as things stayed that way I could reasonably expect to live a long and happy life, forever dining out for free off my fame.
Though as always, every plan has its complications and in my case it was the small matter of zombies who even now were slowly taking over large swathes of Britannia. Indeed, it was the reason I’d disembarked in Portsmouth rather than Plymouth, which was infested with the vermin, zombies too. And with seventy percent of her forces scattered throughout a hundred garrisons the world over, the time was sure to arrive when those who remained behind were called upon to fight.
But they couldn’t order me, no sir, because I’d already done my duty and had a supposed crocked peg to attest for it, as well as the rest and I was always eager to subtly weave into conversations my various afflictions whenever a superior officer was about.
“Jack, welcome home, my lad, please call around for dinner any time you feel like it.” Cried the town squire.
“Please stop by for a shoe fitting…gratis for you of course, young Strapper.” Shouted the blacksmith and I had many similar such offers from merchants of every sort as they lined the approach to the estate, one man even offering me the pick of his five daughters’ hands.
I waved to the crowds and took it all with good grace - I was a well loved celebrity after all and would now have to act the part.
When we pulled up, I hobbled from the carriage, straining my face and gritting my teeth when descending the step. The driver rushed to
collect my luggage and hauled them to the door for me.
I offered to pay the man, but he’d have none of it.
“Captain, it’s been an honour and my privilege to bring you home and ten days I’ll never forget. God bless you.”
It was a life I could get used to and then I was stopped at the door by a fellow in tweed blazer and cap.
“Captain Strapper, my name’s Arnold Goth of The Times.” He flashed an identity card that meant nothing to me.
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“The Times, son…It’s only England’s most widely circulated newspaper.”
I waved my hand at the man. After such a long trip, all I wanted was to lie down before seeking out a local girl for later. “I don’t read newspapers, so if you’d excuse me.”
His hand moved to my arm. “Son, I’m here to offer you the sum of five thousand pounds, if you’d agree to grant us an exclusive interview.”
My hand stopped on the door handle. Five thousand pounds? That was enough to buy a full colonelcy, not that I ever would. No, I could use that money to live well for some considerable time and so I put my arm around the man. “Well come on in good sir.”
We entered and were immediately greeted by the sight of my father passed out drunk on the landing, too far from the steps for him to have taken a tumble - No, this was just a routine stupor. But no Mrs Clayton? Where was she?
I skirted around the old man. “What an abomination…Mr Goth, shall we proceed?”
He baulked and raised his monobrow, “don’t you first wish to attend to your father?”
I laughed, assuming it was a joke and prodded the man into the drawing room. “Now, before we start, I think it best you show me the colour of the Queen’s coin, don’t you?”
He straightened, hesitated then delved into a pocket within his blazer. “Captain, for transactions of this magnitude, we use promissory notes, which you may present to your bank.” He awaited my reaction. “You do possess a bank account, I presume?”
I did not and so before the interrogation could begin, he insisted on enlightening me as to the pros and cons, as well as the inner workings of having one. He brandished the notepad, promising that should I present the piece of paper to a bank manager, the funds would soon be ready for my disposal either as gold or yet more promissory notes, which were as good as gold anyway.
“Can’t you just give me the gold?” I asked, thinking it far easier since it was the currency used for almost all transactions.
He exhaled and checked his timepiece. “Son…no man…especially in these times of increasing lawlessness carries five thousand pounds around on his person. It’s asking…no, no…it’s begging for trouble. Suppose I was to be robbed on the way to where I was going and then what would be of it? The Times would be five thousand in the piss pan and my reputation would be shot to bits. No, no, it’s far safer in a vault.”
I saw the logic, sort of but I’d never before seen one of these notes and doubted their legitimacy. “You mean, people actually carry scraps of paper around with them, thinking it’s gold? How stupid can you get?”
He pursed his lips with increasing impatience. “Son, this is how it’s done, increasingly more so and one day we’ll be transacting only in paper and nothing else.”
I very much doubted that. You’d have to be an imbecile to think such things valuable. Who in their right mind would take their gold to a bank in exchange for a scrap of paper and then use the same for all their transactions? Oh, I’m sure it’d be lighter on the breeches and would save a few bills on pocket repairs but I just couldn’t see it happening, especially not with the English, who were far too shrewd to be conned like that. Intrigued and somewhat concerned for my promised five thousand, I had one question for the man.
“What happens to all the gold?”
He had the answer right away. “Weren’t you listening? The banks! They’ll have it in their vaults, nice and safe, but don’t worry, you’ll never even need to see it.”
“Then how will I know it’s there?”
He shook his head, wobbling his jowls. “You don’t need to know it’s there…look, are we doing this interview or not? I didn’t come here to discuss the banking system, Captain Strapper, I came to discuss your Ireland heroics.”
I stepped forward. “I know that, but if I’m not being paid then I’ll offer my exclusive to some other newspaper. You won’t be the last hack to come looking for me.”
His fist clenched and he finally took it upon himself to sit before pouring some of my father’s Scotch and spending the next twenty minutes taking me once more through the whole process. What it came down to, over everything else, was the convenience of paper over gold and it was for that one reason that people, particularly the intelligent ones, were increasingly giving over their life savings to strangers. Maybe it was my natural untrustworthiness when it came to other people and money, but I had more questions for my tutor, who was by now on his third glass of poison.
“When the banker lends out our money at interest, giving over a scrap of paper that says the gold’s in the vault, how do we know for sure it really is? Given it comes in but doesn’t go out and nobody ever gets to see it, who’s to say they ever really had the gold in the first place and even if they did, who’s to stop them stealing it?” It sounded like the perfect business model to me. How could they lose? But I’d be darned before they’d steal my money, by Jove.
He collapsed back in his seat, throwing up his arms. “Well, Captain, that’ll never happen, just like this interview if we don’t crack on.” He waved the pad of carbonated paper in front of me, a bundle of blank promissory notes with spaces to fill in with a quill, sort of like a template. It all looked very proper and legitimate which served to soothe my fears and so, finally, I relented, he breathed, signed his promissory piece of paper and the interview commenced.
He started by asking about my plans now I was back home and even took the assumption I was ‘champing at the bit’ to take a lead fighting the dead. After I asked for clarification as to the meaning of his expression and he explained whilst rubbing his forehead, I answered.
“Oh, Mr Goth, of course I’d love nothing more than to take a lead fighting zombies, but after six months away from home, I’m sure your readers will understand there are important family matters in which to attend, a business to run and after Fort Garrison fell on top of me and dicked my leg, bladder and various other vital internal organs, well, I’m sure you’d expect I have much recuperation to see myself through before I’ll be back on a horse, as much as it pains me, you understand. Doctor’s orders, you see. Oh, yes, and there’s the small matter of my former regiment no longer existing and all that business needs sorting first and you know how long the bureaucrats take, even in times such as these.” I sighed and tried to look sad. “If only there was another way.”
His hand scribed feverishly away in shorthand, the scratching noises quite comforting as I considered I’d answered the first and most obvious question reasonably well. Hardly surprising given I’d been asked by every wandering Dick since Portsmouth when I’d again be risking my life for the good of everyone else, and had become practiced at that one particular query. Well they could all go rot for all I cared and after Ireland they could whistle if they wanted any more heroics from me. And the best part of it - Not one person could call me a coward. No sir, so why not live the high life for a while, even as England crumbled from within?
He asked other tedious questions, mostly about my side of the story with regards the duelling affair with Captain Lynch, how we’d made friends before fighting valiantly together at the fort and what was running through my mind when I made the split second decision to throw away my life to save the twin boys - All stuff I was accustomed to, mainly by playing down my own role, which always served to further ingratiate myself to the listener, or in this case, the many thousands of readers and of course I never mentioned anything about rogering Lynch’s wife or various other bits of info that would
only serve me a bad turn.
I patted the promissory note that rested in my pocket and saw the man to the door, bypassing on the way my father, still asleep on the floorboards, now with the nice addition of vomit, of which his grey hair was crusted in.
I nudged him with my boot. “And I thought I left Ireland behind.”
He grunted and scratched his arse.
“You, sir, are a damned disgrace. No wonder the business is going down the pan.” I shoved the embarrassment harder with my steel toe cap and went to prepare some ham, eggs and bacon.
It was whilst tucking into my bounty when he staggered in, clutching the wall with one hand, a bottle in the other. “He took her, son…he took Polly.”
I’d been in the process of ingesting egg, which soon came back the other way. “Polly?” Who the bloody hell was he talking about? “Oh, you mean Mrs Clayton.” I surveyed the wreck of a former man, the burst blood vessels in his face, bloodshot eyes, whiskers with no care for style nor trim, puke matted hair, the stench and I considered taking the crop to the man, to thrash him out of this state if nothing else, but he was so far inebriated he probably wouldn’t feel it anyway. “How could you allow yourself to fall into this shape?”
He covered his mouth with a kerchief before commencing a long salvo of ghastly coughs. “She’s gone, son.”
I blanched as he staggered closer. “And she’ll not come back either whilst you’re in this state. Can’t you go and wipe yourself? Where are your clean clothes? Ah, to the blazes with it, why should I care.”
He’d not taught me much throughout life, but if there was one thing I did learn from my father it was that under no circumstances should you ever fall for your mistress, wench, whore or any other hired harlot. He’d visited this same misery upon my mother and now here he was experiencing the same and it was hard to feel sorry for the old bugger.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 16