Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  James’ trolley was pushed unceremoniously to the far wall and left, the two orderlies taking up positions in front of it.

  “Is it my turn for a massage and seaweed body wrap now?” Ronnie asked, trying to inject as much spite and venom into his words as possible.

  “Indeed it is,” replied Meredith. “I’ve got a wonderfully equipped laboratory downstairs that I’m sure you’re going to find fascinating.”

  Ronnie didn’t like the look that appeared on the scientist’s face. It reminded him of a ravenous lion that had just spotted a baby zebra out for a stroll.

  “In what way fascinating?” he asked, the sarcastic tone temporarily put on hold.

  Meredith smiled, and with a glance that could only be described as malevolent, approached the trolley.

  “Well, I don’t want to tell you too much, now do I? That would ruin the surprise. Gentlemen.”

  The two hefty porters, or henchmen as they were in reality, crossed the room and grabbed a respective side of the trolley each and began to manoeuvre it towards the door.

  “I hate surprises,” Ronnie commented. “Especially when I don’t know anything about them. Can’t you tell me where we’re going and what’s going to happen?”

  Meredith patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

  “No, but trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. I guarantee it. And look at it this way, at least one of us is going to have a good time.”

  “I don’t like those odds.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Terrific.”

  * * *

  Stitches stepped out of the office building and headed off towards the town square. It was getting on for five in the evening, so there was plenty of activity. Hector Lozenge was busy with his broom near the fountain, the closest he was ever likely to get to running water short of standing in the rain. Mrs. Ladle was getting ready for her nightly fly-bys, and old Mrs. Strudel was in the midst of clearing tables outside her café. The zombie reckoned that would be a good place to start. The café was one of busiest places in town so there wasn’t likely to be much that happened around here that Mrs. Strudel didn’t have at least some idea of. Now that he thought of it, he couldn’t recall the place ever being shut, which, when you thought of the eclectic population that she served, kind of made sense. The canteen in Star Wars had nothing on this place, which would explain why the meals were listed in book form and kept on a shelf. You didn’t choose a meal here by food category; you flipped to the appropriate species section instead. If you ever came for a meal here you needed two things, a strong stomach and a couple of hours to look at the menu. It was also rumoured that the old lady had helped Ollie’s father out with a couple of issues when he had been resident here, so if nothing else it proved that she was resourceful and wielded considerable influence and power if a vampire had employed her services. There was also the bonus that if she did have any information, Stitches could pass it off as it being the result of his diligent detective work. Everyone’s a winner.

  He entered the café and took in some of the aromas that were swirling round, each one identifiable by his still active sense of smell. Being a member of the zombie community obviously precluded him from ingesting food stuffs, but being here took him back to a time when he still could. He figured that it must be at least a hundred and sixty years since a morsel of food had passed his lips, but the memory still remained intact. In fact, for about three years after his original death and subsequent reanimation, Stitches had stubbornly maintained to himself that all was as it had been and that if he wanted to grab a bite to eat and drink, then he bloody well would. The problem was that after a few days shovelling provisions down his throat, he would start to notice a foetid stench emanating from his midriff and a copious amount of leakage, both liquid and gaseous, escaping from various parts of his anatomy. It wasn’t until the time that he was unfortunate enough to fall asleep in the great outdoors one evening after a particularly heavy binge, and woke up to find a fox merrily chewing on the rotting food lying dormant in his now defunct innards, that he finally accepted the reality of his situation. It had taken a lot of adjustment and a lot of counselling from a very kind and knowledgeable Caribbean lady to help him come to terms with his new state of being. It had been tough but he’d got there in the end, and it wasn’t long before he was able to pass by or enter any feeding or watering hole without getting an attack of the DT’s.

  He traversed the square and was just about to enter the café when a distinctive and overpowering fragrance assaulted his nasal passages, gave then a damn good thrashing, and left them bruised and bleeding on the floor, needing a paramedic. Imagine the smell of rotting fish, old sprouts and fermented cabbage all wrapped up in a marathon runners sock, and you’re into the realms of getting close to what Stitches was currently experiencing smell-wise. As Stitches turned round to greet the being that he knew was behind him, he pinched his nose in an attempt to ward off the incredible stench.

  “Hello, Sweaty,” he offered, sounding like he had a really heavy cold. “How are you?”

  The phantom hovering next to him shimmered in the early evening twilight. A wide grin spread across his semi-transparent face and in a broad Welsh accent he replied.

  “Oh, not so bad thanks, boyo. Yourself?”

  “Fine, fine thanks. All the better for seeing you, anyway. I thought Mrs. Strudel banned you from here. Something about making the customers vomit until their insides fell out.”

  Sweaty affected a hurt look and gazed at the ground.

  “Now there’s no need to be personal mun, you know I can’t help it. I’d have a bath if I could, and deodorant goes straight through me.”

  “Like those poor sods meals, huh.”

  “You’re a funny man, Stitches, regular Max Boyce you are. Fancy a sing song, then, bach. Calon Lan, Men of Harlech, what do you say?”

  Stitches smiled pleasantly at the apparition, not that he would have appreciated the gesture because the zombie still had his hand clamped over his face tighter than a limpet on a rock. That being said, Sweaty was used to this reaction in others and over the years had become very adept in deciphering the hidden expressions and muffled noises that people made when they were in his vicinity, in much the same way that a dentist has no trouble understanding a patient with a mouthful of cotton wool and a tongue that lolls like a dead fish because it’s pumped full of anaesthetic.

  “No thanks, not right now,” he said. “I haven’t really got the time, and besides, I’ve already met one racial stereotype recently. Any more and we could be in danger of turning into a Carry On film. All I need is a giggling blond wearing a top four sizes too small and a slightly effeminate doctor, and I can start shooting.”

  Sweaty chuckled, an action that produced a puff of green gas. It was a strange, hollow sound that reverberated through the air like someone laughing at the bottom of a deep well.

  “No problem bud. You do seem preoccupied though. Anything going on that I should know about?”

  The zombie thought about it for a moment. He could kill three birds with one stone here. Not only could he rescue the cafés patrons from the prospect of seeing their lunch for a second time and save his nostrils from permanent damage, he might be able to get this floating rubbish dump to help him out.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “whilst I’m in there talking to Mrs. Strudel, you could have a scout round and ask if anyone’s seen Ronnie since yesterday.”

  “Gone walkabout, has he?”

  “We’re not sure. That’s what we’re trying to find out. You up for it?”

  “Indeed I am, boyo. I’ll find out what I can and get back to you right.”

  “I’ll be busy myself actually. Tell you what, when you’re done, nip over to the office and see Ollie, yeah.” An evil grin hid behind his palm.

  “Righto. See you soon.”

  “Not if I smell you first,” he muttered under his breath.

  Finally free of the stinking spectre, Stitches entered the caf�
�, walked straight through the dining area and on into the kitchen at the rear, where he was welcomed by an assorted array of foody smells. What with the towns diverse population, both culturally and physically, Mrs. Strudel always had all sorts of weird and wonderful things in her pantry and cooking on the stove. Some of them didn’t bear thinking about to be fair. You really didn’t want to know what a ghoul had for tea when he was exceptionally hungry, for instance, and the diet of a mountain troll would make a Home Office Pathologist puke his ring piece up. Strangely, the odd aroma of all of the various ingredients taken together wasn’t all that bad. You just had to not think about it.

  “Hello there, young man. Haven’t seen you in here for a while.”

  Mrs. Strudel spoke with a soft West Country accent. Not enough to make you think of rosy cheeked bumpkins in smocks doing things to farm animals, but enough to give the impression of lazy days tilling the land and drinking cold cider. She was plump, silver haired, had bat wing arms that wobbled when she waved goodbye and one of the most pleasant demeanours you could ever wish a person to have. She pretty much reminded everyone she met of their favourite grandmother.

  She had appeared in Skullenia many, many years ago, but no one was quite sure how, or where from. One day the residents had awoken to find a new café slap bang in the middle of the town square, and that was that. The local populous were very accepting, and as far as unusual occurrences go it didn’t really rank as one of the oddest. A group of interdimensional stamp collectors from the future, stopping by to refuel and grab a sandwich on their way to a convention in Bucharest in 2027, was by far the strangest thing to happen in recent memory. That and Flug getting struck by a bolt of lightning a while back and thinking that he was a member of the Royal Ballet for about three hours. That was bizarre to say the least, and more than a little worrying, because he’d taken to it like a Scouser to car theft. You might think that an eight foot human jigsaw can’t really pull off the frilly pink skirt and dainty shoes, but he was remarkably light on his feet, and his bar work was exceptional.

  Stitches raised a hand in welcome.

  “I know I haven’t been in for a bit, but we’ve been busy settling the new guy in.” He leaned over and gave her a light peck on the cheek. “How’s things been?” he asked casually, straightening back up.

  Mrs Strudel took the lid off a pan that would have accommodated a fully grown sea lion, and threw in a dash of salt.

  “Wonderful. Always busy here, that’s why I never close. If there’s one thing you can rely on round here it’s people’s appetites. Everyone and everything is constantly hungry.”

  “I think that might have something to do with the fact that everyone and everything are busy terrorizing each other. I mean, your average modern day demon is probably too busy to grab a bite to eat during his busy schedule. And who wants to go to the shops after a long shift scaring and being scared. No wonder you’re run off your feet. Mind you, you must be turning a nice profit.”

  Mrs Strudel raised a grey eyebrow and replaced the man holed sized lid onto the vast pan.

  “Well, I was until the last one complained. He went moaning to the Food Safety Body and told them that the skewers that I was using were unclean. Still, I can’t complain. I don’t mind the hard work, but those poor fellows are shattered when they come in here. That union of theirs has got a lot to answer for.”

  The zombie nodded in agreement, dismissing the tiny misunderstanding. “Oh, don’t I know it. How can you possibly boil down what a ghost does for a living with a time and motion study? It’s all targets and performance figures now. How many hauntings per shift, customer satisfaction surveys, warnings if they under achieve. It’s a joke. Against their Inhuman Rights, I reckon.”

  Mrs Strudel opened a cave like oven, poured a splash of a thick, green gloop that looked suspiciously like Fairy Liquid, over a dubious looking roast, and slammed it shut again. “Ridiculous,” she spat, wiping her weather beaten hands on an apron that was a living menu.

  “Still, they can’t touch me in here. One, because I couldn’t possibly work any harder and two, the local Fed Rep for the Undead likes eating here.”

  “He’s got his feet nicely under the table, then.”

  “Indeed he has, but they’re not strictly speaking his feet. They belonged to the previous rep who had a mysterious accident at a conference last year.”

  “What happened?”

  “Seems he was unfortunate enough to impale himself on a wooden stake while he was asleep. Talk about unlucky.”

  Just as Stitches was about to offer a repost of the most sarcastic nature, a golem entered the kitchen and picked up a couple of plates of food which he silently and dutifully took out to some patrons in the dining area.

  “He’s a quiet one,” observed Stitches.

  “He is, isn’t he. Eugene’s a lovely lad and the great thing about having a golem for a waiter is that it doesn’t matter how hot the plates are, he can pick them up no problem. Even the ones with molten rock on for the trolls. Plus he’s not too familiar with the concept of money, so all his tips come my way.”

  “Shrewd.”

  Mrs Strudel smiled. “That’s the mark of a good business woman.”

  “What. Exploitation?”

  “Cheeky. I meant using all available resources to their full extent whilst maintaining a decent profit margin in today’s difficult financial climate.”

  “Exploitation.”

  “Fuelling the local economy and providing those less fortunate and those without viable workplace skills with the chance of gainful employment whilst maintaining a quality establishment that caters to the population in general.”

  “So still exploitation then really.”

  “Up yours, you disrespectful bag of dust.” She tried to look serious and hurt, but couldn’t help a small smirk travelling across her ruddy features. “What did you come in here for anyway?”

  Stitches put the lid back on a jar, the contents of which smelled wonderful. Not that he was desperate to know what it was, though. That was an illusion that he didn’t want to be shattered.

  “We seemed to have misplaced one of our colleagues, and I was wondering if you’d seen or heard anything.”

  “I take it that would be Ronnie.”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  Mrs. Strudel grinned as she got out a couple of gargantuan serving bowls and placed them onto her hectic work surface. “Well, let’s be honest, it’s not the first time, is it? Ronnie does this quite often, doesn’t he? Mind you, when he has gone off in the past he’s always left word with someone, hasn’t he?”

  The zombie nodded in agreement. “That’s what we thought. This time, though, the only person who seems to know anything about it is Flug.”

  “Tricky. What did he have to say?”

  He shrugged his shoulders “Oh, you know, some nonsense about the forest and witches and God knows what.”

  Mrs. Strudel stopped what she was doing and wiped her hands on the tea towel that was forever draped across her shoulder. “That’s odd,“ she mused, “because Hector came in earlier, and besides banging on about the rubbish as per usual, he was saying that on his way home the other night he saw some figures moving around at the edge of the wood.”

  “That’s fair enough, but Hector’s up there with Flug in the reliability stakes, isn’t he. I can’t go on the word of a chronic drunk and someone who needs subtitles for the hard of thinking.”

  “I know what you’re saying, but he wasn’t rambling on the way he usually does. He seemed pretty clear about the whole thing. It’s about the most lucid he’s ever been whilst explaining something.”

  Stitches wasn’t convinced but he tried not to let it show in his expression. He remembered the last time Hector had been ‘lucid’ about something, but where he’d gotten the notion that Elvis Presley had appeared to him in his morning pint of beer and told him to spread the word was anybody’s guess. The whole town had gone mad. Notwithstanding that the populac
e were mostly dead or undead, they still liked their rock and roll. An ogre in a gold lamee suit giving a rendition of Hound Dog at the top of his voice was still talked about to this very day. A vast pinch of salt was required when it came to the bin man’s stories. Still, all lines of enquiry and following all leads no matter how tenuous and all that. Who said watching The Bill was a waste of time? Every crime solved in an hour. Fantastic.

  “What was he saying, exactly?”

  The café owner stared at her inquisitive visitor.

  “He said he saw Ronnie in the town with young Flug. They spoke for a bit and then Hector got on with his cleaning. When he’d finished he decided to go for a walk in the forest, presumably to clear his head after another day’s alcohol intake. Well, he got about a couple of hundred yards in when he was stopped in his tracks by some men wearing strange clothes and carrying what he reckoned were guns.”

  “Guns! He really must be losing it.”

  “Just hear me out. The men, whoever they were, saw him and told him to get out and if he knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t come back and to not make the mistake of telling anyone what happened.”

  Stitches though for a moment. “I take it you believed him then?”

  She plonked her fists onto her vast hips and sighed.

  “Do you know what? I did. I know he’s come up with some right old tosh in the past, but there was something different about him this time. He just seemed so damn sure of himself.”

  Stitches mulled over what the old lady had told him. Hector did have a well-deserved reputation for getting through more alcohol than a meeting of the Oliver Reed Appreciation Society, and consequently telling some incredibly tall tales, ranging from being the first man in history to climb The Matterhorn on his hands, to claiming to have seen a decent programme on Channel 5, but it could be a lead nonetheless. Only time would tell.