Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  Henry logged on and noticed that he had an email from Ollie Splint, which he read at once. He showed it to Mandeep and told him about what the boys were up to, and his incident with the stranger.

  “Mandeep,” he said, looking up at the hovering Indian, “have we got any files on the Fibulan museum?”

  What a silly question that was. His little associate was a consummately professional retailer, a path that he had taken after spending three decades as a consummately professional hit man. For thirty years he had worked for the Indian Secret Service, disposing of any and all enemies of the state, human or otherwise. He had been at the top of his game when an unfortunate encounter with a rogue demon had left him deader than Gandhi’s sandals. Only the unnatural ministrations of a local priest, who had witnessed the assassins’ demise, had brought him back to life. Sadly though, he now hovered in a kind of semi live/dead state, neither one thing nor the other and, due to a clause in his government contract stating that he had to be human at least ninety percent of his working hours, he had been forced to resign. It made sense though, because every now and again, Singh died. It wasn’t a fugue state and he wasn’t narcoleptic, or anything else with a posh medical name that meant you had to pay more for the treatment, (it is common, if not very well known, medical practice to base doctors’ fees on the length of the name of the condition that the patient had. You tell him you’ve got flu and he’ll tell you to rest up for a couple of weeks and buy a box of paracetamol. You get all smart and tell him you’ve got Influenza brought on by contact with someone carrying the Orthomyxoviridae virus, then you better take out a bank loan, or failing that, buy a gun and simply take out the bank), he simply died. The trouble was, it took a couple of hours for the remains of the priest’s spells to rouse his system into life once more. It was no good being in the middle of something when all of your faculties packed up and left you a useless, brain dead heap on the floor, unless you were auditioning for the antagonist role in Rocky XII of course.

  So not being able to kill and maim anymore, he had done what any good, self-respecting Asian gentleman would do. He had opened a shop and, bearing in mind his experience with the supernatural world, he had concluded that it would be rather profitable to open up in Skullenia. It had all gone very well at first and he was amassing a tidy fortune. (He couldn’t have appeared on Dragon’s Den, but he would have fit right into the spin off series, ‘Yeah We Done Alright But We Don’t Sit And Lord It Over Other Aspiring Business People And Slag Off Their Life’s Work For The Sake Of Ratings And Shameless Self Promotion’. Mind you, the series only lasted for one episode. The entire budget went on the opening credits). The only problem was that with the advent of the darknet, his business had gradually tailed off. Sites like prey.com and evilbay were able to undercut him at every turn. So he had sold off the rest of his stock and was in the process of getting ready to head back to India, when a random meeting with the good Doctor had changed the course of his life.

  It transpired that a couple of Singh’s customers had neglected to pay off their accounts, and he had mentioned this in passing to Jekyll during the course of their drunken conversation at the Bolt and Jugular. Jekyll and his alter ego, who tended to put in an appearance when the Doctor was completely bladdered, had both assured the Indian that they could find the missing debtors. If Singh had the information then Jekyll/Hyde would do the legwork. After all he had four, so to speak.

  They had reached an agreement and the errant shoppers were located twelve hours later, and relieved of the majority of their assets. Their money was taken as well.

  So what with Singh’s talent for information gathering and Jekyll’s ability to act on it with the help of his not so silent partner, a relationship was formed, and Hyde and Sikh, Bounty Hunters of Repute, came into existence.

  Singh went over to the filing cabinet marked F and rummaged around in it.

  “Here we go,” he said. “Museum of Fibula. Open since 1621 and said to contain the largest collection of mythological and supernatural artefacts in the known world. Current curator is a Mr. Ignacious Starch, who is aided by his assistant Vortex. The only other employee is a caretaker by the name of Flange.”

  “Ah, Flange,” said Jekyll tapping his top lip thoughtfully. “He’s the one that’s disappeared, isn’t he?”

  “Yes indeed. It would seem that he is the miscreant who has stolen the pages from the book.”

  “Mmmm. What about the other two?”

  Singh flipped to the last quarter of the file.

  “Ignacious Starch. One hundred and forty nine years old, human but did have a talent for sorcery in his youth. Studied at Oxford University where he got a first class degree in Ancient History, and some very nice reviews for his performances in the Footlights. He was tipped to become Dean but an incident involving a fellow student being turned to wood put paid to that. He spent many years travelling abroad. In fact many of the exhibits in the museum are ones that he collected himself. It was during his travels that he visited the museum and stayed on as assistant to the previous curator, Fenton Bauble, who was on the verge of retiring. The two became great friends so it was natural for Starch to take over when the old boy left. That was about forty years ago, and he’s been there ever since.”

  “Okay, nice and comprehensive. What about the other one? Vortex wasn’t it?”

  Singh flicked through the pages until he came to the very last one. He took it out and studied it before speaking.

  “Haven’t got a lot on this fellow I’m afraid. For some reason he has been hard to research. No public records, birth, death or undeath certificates. Bit of a mystery, that chap, but based on the description you gave, it certainly does sound like he was the man you bumped into.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll try and find out what I can when I go there. Maybe Starch will be able to tell me a bit more.”

  “Very good,” said Singh, replacing the file. “When will you be going please?”

  “In a little while. I want to have a surf round the darknet for a bit, see what I can dig up before I go.”

  He logged onto Wickedpedia, which was always a good place to start.

  * * *

  A while later (it was a longish while rather than a shortish one. Flug was upset because his stuff was missing, and it took a fair bit of time to explain to him that it was in a suitcase and hadn’t been stolen by the little orange monsters that lived under his bed), Ollie was sitting at his desk with a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey and a packet of Itinerant Travelling Tinker Folk Creams. (They used to be called Gypsy Creams, but in these days of political correctness that wasn’t allowed anymore, in case someone got offended. What was next? Baa Baa any colour, creed, caste, religion, faith or belief sheep. Snow Could Be Any Colour In Our Diverse And Racially Tolerant Society and The Seven Little People Who Shouldn’t Be Judged Because Of Their Stature. Picture the scene outside the theatre:

  Mum. “Shall we see a pantomime?”

  Kids. “Yeah, which one?”

  Mum. “How about ‘Snow Could Be Any Colour In Our Diverse And Racially Tolerant Society and The Seven Little People Who Shouldn’t Be Judged Because Of Their Stature’?”

  Kids. “What on earth is that, Mum?”

  Mum. “You know. The one with the beautiful girl who falls asleep after eating a dodgy apple, and those little people who work in the diamond mine.”

  Kids. “Oh. The fit bird and the midgets.”

  Mum. “Yes.”

  Not only is political correctness rather silly, it makes no difference whatsoever as to how people think. A spade will always be a spade. Dig it?)

  He clicked onto his screen name, marmitesarnie@darknet.sk, and perused his emails.

  “My God. What a load of old rubbish.”

  A cape sale at Bela’s, buy one get one half price. Free blood guarding with every purchase.

  Delete.

  You have won the Hungarian Lottery. Send your details to General Scamov at uww.hungarianlottery.com (to explain, uww stan
ds for undeadworldweb).

  Delete.

  Grow your fangs an inch in two weeks with our miracle serum and special exercises. Impress the ladies.

  Big delete.

  Ollie sighed as he deleted a couple more pointless messages. He wasn’t a huge fan of computers, or the darknet for that matter, but he had finally conceded that in the modern business world it was practically indispensable, especially now that word of his agency was beginning to spread. He had heard that even Count Jocular had invested in one. It was in an office that had been decorated in a style reminiscent of the early Roman Empire and a rubbish tip.

  The last email in the list was from Dr. Jekyll. It was in reply to the one that he’d sent earlier and was only a couple of hours old, so at least it would seem that he had gotten out of his indelicate situation (News travelled fast in and around Skullenia, especially if it was bad. When Ollie had tripped on one of Flug’s shoes at the top of the stairs, he had been in the building by himself, but it didn’t take long for someone to knock on the door and ask if he was alright and offer to mend his trousers. Spooky).

  As he read it his brow furrowed in consternation. In it Jekyll outlined his encounter with the stranger in Fibula and the fact that he wasn’t going to mention it until he had spoken to his partner. Mr. Singh said the person that Jekyll had stumbled into sounded just like Vortex, although details of the man were scant.

  Ollie sat back in his chair and thought. Whilst not overtly strange for the museum assistant to be out at night, his furtive behaviour was a little odd, and the fact that he seemed to be carrying the pages from the book wasn’t particularly disturbing because he and Starch had been working on the translation. The discarded or dropped caretaker badge was somewhat mysterious, but only up to a point, and a very small point at that. Who was to say that it wasn’t already on the ground and just happened to be in the exact spot that the two men had had their encounter? On reflection, he didn’t think that it was overtly suspicious, but the fact that Jekyll had seen fit to mention it meant it warranted some consideration. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that he had been totally taken in by the late Obsidia and betrayed.

  Still, with all things considered, it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of digging on the parties involved. At the end of the day, someone was responsible for stealing the pages, so any information that Jekyll might be able to unearth about Starch, Vortex and Flange might prove useful either way. And what was the use of knowing a couple of bounty hunters if you didn’t make use of their services, though not in the way that Flug thought, he mused. He had assumed that Jekyll and Singh would be able to locate any chocolate bar you could care to mention. Ollie replied to Jekyll’s email confirming that he’d like him to investigate in Fibula further, before logging off and leaning back in his chair.

  His train of thought was derailed at that junction by the return of Ronnie and Ethan from the museum.

  “Hi, guys,” Ollie said enthusiastically, shutting the computer down and filing away the message to the back of his mind. “Have you got the sheets?”

  Ronnie placed a leather bound folder onto the desk.

  “It’s all in there,” he said.

  Ollie flipped it open. Each transcription was in a plastic sheath, and in the one next to it was the accompanying map.

  “If you look at the first map,” said Ethan, “it actually tells us where to start. The others are a bit more vague, but I reckon a bit of lateral thinking should help us out.”

  “Mmmm” muttered Ollie as he studied the first map. It was the first time that he had really looked at it, and he had to admit that they were frankly rubbish and about as much use as a pogo stick was to a kangaroo.

  All five of them seemed to be bland, featureless pages with one or two lines drawn on them that, depending on which one you were looking at, snaked across the page in seemingly random directions. The only other details were a few words and a small, badly drawn picture. For the entire world it looked like a four year old had been asked to draw a treasure map. The first one, as Ronnie had pointed out, seemed to be the most straightforward.

  “Do we know where this is?” Ollie asked hopefully, pointing at the place name on the map.

  “Yes we do, actually,” Ronnie said proudly. “It’s north east of here, about seventy miles away as the bat flies. It’s just over the border into Scapularis. The only thing we can’t figure out is the little drawing. I know where Tonboot is though. I went there once on a stag do.”

  Ollie picked up the map and studied it more closely, holding it a couple of inches from his nose. At first he thought one of the details was a small house, and then a church, but one tiny clue, that was really difficult to see initially, gave it away.

  “Oh, I see,” he announced triumphantly, placing the map back down onto the desk so that the others could see. “It’s a well”.

  Ronnie and Ethan each adopted the look of those missing something really simple but incredibly obvious.

  “So the well is where we need to start?” asked Ethan.

  “Seems so,” replied Ronnie.

  “Excellent,” said Ollie, pleased that they were about to begin and hoping that the rest of the quest would be as easy.

  “We’re off to the Well in Tonboot.”

  * * *

  “I think the fang belt’s gone,” said Ethan from under the bonnet. “It’s snapped clean in half. It looks older than me.” He straightened up and wiped his hand on a greasy rag that Ronnie handed to him. It was actually more of a flannel than a rag. A Gargle the Golem one to be precise. It was one of Flug’s, but they could get away with it being dirty by telling Flug that it was night time in the picture and that Gargle was going to bed.

  “Great,” Ollie complained in disappointment. “We get five miles down the road and wallop.”

  “Could be worse,” Ronnie added encouragingly. “It could have happened in the middle of the day in the town. At least this way no one has seen us.”

  “Hey there, boys. Need a lift?”

  A whoosh from above made them all look up. The figure flying over was shrouded in darkness, but the shower of blue sparks and the loud cackle accompanied by a large wad of mottled phlegm hitting the roof of the vehicle kind of gave it away.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ladle,” they all replied in perfect unison. Well, four of them bade the witch hello. Flug shouted out “Hi, Santa, can I have a sack of sweeties for Christmas?”

  “As long as he asks for a bucket as well,” said Stitches. “The sink will get clogged up otherwise.”

  “Don’t you start,” said Ollie, levelling his frustration at the zombie. “It’s your choice of vehicle that got us here in the first place.”

  “Well, I thought it would be ideal. Plenty of room, rugged, good mileage and excellent petrol consumption.”

  “Of course it’s good on petrol. The furthest it ever goes is a couple of hundred yards before it breaks down. And did you have to get a hearse? Could you have got anything more sombre?”

  “Well it was either this or an ice cream van,” Stitches explained, “and I thought this would be better than having to stop every five minutes to tell people that we don’t have Sticky Fingers or Yeti Balls.”

  “Looks like we are going to be stopping every five minutes.”

  “If I may, boys,” Mrs. Ladle cut in from ground level, loud enough to be heard over the slowly rising voices. “But I think I can help. I’m afraid my magical abilities don’t extend to mechanical devices such as this, I never took the course, but I think that I may have an ideal solution.”

  With that she alighted from her broom and hoisted up her skirts, and fumbled about in her waistband.

  Ollie looked on, the terror on his face plain for all to see.

  Stitches looked on in horror.

  Ronnie looked on in fear.

  Ethan looked on in dread.

  Flug looked on in wonderment at the glistening, gooey mess that he had just extracted from his nose.

  “Stitches,” the monster asked
, a worried lilt in his voice. “I fink I pulled my brain out.”

  Thankful that something had drawn his attention away from the spectacle of the senior striptease going on, he studied the end of Flug’s digit.

  “I don’t think it is, mate. That’s far too big. We’d need a police search unit and a forensic team to find your brain. There’s more chance of Stephen Hawking winning a game of Twister, to be honest.”

  “Tada,” exclaimed Mrs. Ladle triumphantly, flapping a long, black leather belt around her head. “This should do it.”

  The boys still had the horrified looks on their faces, but it was Stitches who broke the very uncomfortable silence that had descended like a steel blanket.

  “Christ Almighty. I hope that’s not holding anything up. I really don’t think I’m strong enough to handle that.”

  Ronnie, stunned, nodded in agreement.

  “Me either,” he said. “The thought of those lower portions being on display would be enough to make the Grim Reaper himself hand his notice in on the grounds of unreasonable working conditions.”

  “Too right. Still, on the bright side, he would have somewhere to keep his scythe,” said Stitches.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Ladle,” asked Ollie, trying but failing miserably to tear his eyes away. “What exactly are we supposed to do with that?”

  “Well isn’t it obvious, my dear boy?” she replied expectantly.

  Ollie scratched his head thoughtfully.

  “Not really, no. To be honest, if it was I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

  “Fair point, well presented,” the witch admitted.

  She took the belt and looped it around itself twice, making a circle roughly eight inches in diameter, which she took over to the car. She fiddled around under the bonnet for a couple of minutes before emerging slightly grubbier than before.

  “There we go, fellahs. Sorted.” She slammed the bonnet into place. “Start her up, Ethan love.”

  The lycanthrope did as he was told. He climbed in behind the wheel, turned the engine over and pumped the accelerator a little.

  “Sounds good in here,” he shouted through the hearse window. “How does it sound to you lot?”