Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  After a brief examination the problem was alleviated, when Zoltan had taken down the industrial sized wind chime that the vampire had put up outside his bedroom window.

  On the whole though, Zoltan didn't have cause to complain about his position. It wasn't as if he had to deal with drunken chavs and snotty kids with bits of Lego stuck up their noses (Flug had managed it seventeen times with a house brick, mind you). And when a golem came in because he'd chipped something off, it was surprising the fun you could have with a handful of quick dry cement and a rude thought or two.

  “So come on then,” the Doctor continued, “what was it this time?”

  “I don't know what you mean,” said Mandrake, propping himself up.

  “Why, the latest attempt at self-destruction of course.” The word attempt was laden with sarcastic emphasis. Mandrake's suicide attempts were notoriously lacklustre and displayed about as much effort and tenacity as someone turning up to assist at a major flood with a sponge, a plastic jug, and a pair of armbands.

  “I feel lonely, unloved and misunderstood,” said Mandrake.

  “But you have a loving wife and two wonderful children,” said Zoltan. “What more could you ask for?”

  “Noggin doesn't like me.”

  “Who's Noggin?”

  “Our cat.”

  Nurse Parsnip tried to stifle an unprofessional giggle.

  Dr. Zoltan took out a pen light and flicked it across Mandrake's eyes (on a side note, it is a well-known fact that, despite all claims to the contrary, this `procedure' is a total and utter nonsense. The only time that Doctors do it is when they have a patient who is a complete lollygagger that has nothing wrong with them at all. It makes them feel that they haven't entirely wasted their trip and that they've received some modicum of medical treatment. Still, in ninety percent of hospitals these days you can at least be safe in the knowledge that if you go in with a clean bill of health, you'll be walking out with an infection of some sort. Probably from being too close to a dirty pen light being shoved in your face).

  “Why should it be so important to you that your cat loves you?” asked Zoltan, popping his pen light away.

  “Because I look after him and feed him. I raised him from a kitten, you know.”

  “But you shouldn't worry too much. Pets will love you unconditionally. What makes you think otherwise?”

  “He chewed up my slippers.”

  “That's not so bad.”

  “Whilst I was wearing them.”

  “I see.”

  “I couldn't walk for a week. My feet looked like they'd been through a mincer.”

  Mandrake's cat, Noggin, was not your ordinary, everyday, friendly, domestic moggy. He was a psychotic black mass of seething fur that could scare the hyenas off a zebra carcass. Forget coming down in the morning to find a dead bird or a mouse on your back doorstep. The last present that Noggin had left was a cow!

  “Well, you've been thoroughly checked over, Mandrake, and apart from a bruised thigh there's nothing wrong with you (physically anyway, Zoltan thought to himself). Consequently, there's no real reason to keep you here.”

  “But I need to stay here,” Mandrake protested. “I'm a danger to myself and others.”

  Dr. Zoltan asked Nurse Parsnip to collect some pills from the pharmacy. Sugar pills, that is. If Mandrake tried overdosing on them the only side effect would be a sleepless night and a furry tongue.

  “Mandrake, you're no more a danger to anyone else than I am. I could cause more injuries by dropping a load of helium filled balloons on a school assembly.”

  “Who's going to look after me then?” asked Mandrake.

  “What about your family?”

  “The kids are away at school and my wife's away on business. There's only me and Noggin.” Mandrake had asked his wife what business she was going away for and had been told that the business that she was engaged in was none of his business.

  Dr. Zoltan thought for a moment. Whilst it was true that Mandrake was as liable to succeed in killing himself as the Rugby World Cup being won by a team of meerkats (still more chance than the Scots though) his attempts did cause a certain amount of disruption, like the time he had tried to end it all by sitting on the steps of the Bolt and Jugular, covering himself with water and trying to ignite himself (the matches had been in his pocket and wouldn't have ignited if he'd struck them on the sun!). He'd brought the whole town to a standstill and interrupted some serious drinking. If for no other reason than the preservation of peace and order, Dr. Zoltan thought that it might be reasonable for Mandrake to spend some time in good company. And he had just the fellows in mind.

  “How do you fancy spending a bit of time with Ollie Splint and his friends? There's always something or another going on over there, so you wouldn't be bored or lonely. You can even take Noggin with you. Flug loves animals.”

  Mandrake thought about it for a moment. He had to admit that the idea was quite appealing, and anyway it was preferable to spending the next few days on his own with a cat that Satan couldn't control.

  “Do you think they'll mind me hanging around?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” said Zoltan, moving away from the bed whilst surreptitiously crossing his fingers behind his back. “It'll be a nice change for them having a new face around. Leave it with me.”

  As Dr. Zoltan and Nurse Parsnip walked away, Mandrake rested his head on his pillow and smiled as he looked up at the ceiling, all thoughts of suicide very much in the forefront of his mind (Oh come on. This isn't a Disney story!)

  * * *

  Constable Gullett took a set of keys the size of a very large set of keys off his hip and clanged them along the bars of the cell. It was extremely loud and sounded like someone had dropped King Kong's cutlery onto a metal floor.

  “Come on, sunshine,” he shouted, leaning in toward the iron gate. “Up and at 'em. You've got some explaining to do.”

  “Alright, alright. I'm coming.”

  “Attaboy. Now, let's start off with an easy one. Who the hell are you?”

  “Golden Kilo.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Here, there and everywhere.”

  “So no fixed abode. Right then,” Gullett unlocked the cell. “Come with me, young man.”

  Gullett escorted Kilo to the interview room in an arm lock that was designed to convey authority whilst still allowing the blood to flow, albeit rather more slowly than usual.

  The room was a dark, dripping, moisture laden space that housed a battered wooden table and a couple of rickety chairs.

  “Sit yourself down then,” said the Constable. He opened a draw on his side of the table, took out a stack of lined paper and wrote his prisoners name onto the first sheet.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is a formal interview during which I'm going to ask you a series of questions that I want you to answer truthfully. And don't go thinking that you can pull the wool over my eyes. I've dealt with your type before.”

  “And what's `my type?' ” said Kilo.

  “Guilty. Look, I know you snuck into Grendle's and knocked the poor old boy out. I know you swiped a jar of sweets because we found the wrappers in the graves and in your lab, and I know it was you that stole all those body parts.”

  “Constable,” said Kilo.

  “Hang on. This is a legal procedure. Let me do my bit first.”

  “But…”

  “Wait for it. Now, I need to caution you. You do not have to say anything, however I advise that you do, but anything you do say will probably be a pack of lies. Do you want a solicitor?”

  “Nope,” said Kilo, looking strangely at ease. It was probably just as well that he didn't require legal representation. The last solicitor who had tried to practice in Skullenia was last seen entering Jocular's castle about fifteen years ago. There were rumours that bits of him had been seen since, but no one could be sure.

  “Why's that?” asked Gullett.

  “Don't need one.”

&n
bsp; “How do you figure that out?”

  “I haven't done anything wrong.”

  “Um, as I think I pointed out a few seconds ago, your secret lair was found to contain various, disconnected body parts. I'd class that as being a little on the naughty side, wouldn't you?”

  Kilo leaned back in his chair and smiled confidently.

  “I do admit that I surreptitiously went into Grendle's store and took the sweets. They're my favourites.”

  “So why not go and buy them like a normal person?” said Gullett, realising that his use of the word normal was wide of the mark by at least a couple of psychiatric disorders.

  “I find myself temporarily void in the pecuniary department.”

  “Which means?”

  “I haven't got any money, Constable.”

  “So why didn't you say so. Carry on.”

  “It was whilst I was in the back room that Grendle came in. I startled him and he jumped and fell over. I didn't hit him. I even checked on him before I left to make sure that he was alright. I'm not a monster. As for the other stuff, have you checked the statute books?”

  “Not lately no,” said Gullett.

  “I think you should.”

  Five minutes later Gullett was sitting in his office and Kilo was back in his cell. The Constable was going through the latest edition of Skullenia's laws and by-laws (circa 1682). They didn't get updated very often because four hundred year old justice seemed to work quite nicely thank you very much. Alright, so no one had been prosecuted for turnip rustling or assaulting a pig for a while, but it was still reasonably fit for purpose.

  It was a tricky read because the text was a trifle archaic, but about half way through the weighty tome he found a small section relating to reanimation.

  `The Raife the Dead Act 1564. Whofoever fhall be found in poffeffion of variouf partf of human anatomy for the purpofe of reanimation fhall not be guilty of a crime if he can prove beyond reafonable doubt that the faid partf of the body in hif poffeffion come from the dead and not of the living, and that being the cafe providing that the deceafed had been paffed from thif mortal coil for a peiod of time no leff the twelve monthf, the accufed fhall not be guilty of grave robbing. Ftated cafe Puddle vf Fkullenia 1536. Jebediah Puddle amaffed a collection of fome four and a half thoufand body partf, all of which proved to be from thofe departed for more than a year. He therefore fuccefffully argued that he had not committed any crimef. He waf of courfe locked up for the reft of his life for being a complete looney of the firft water.'

  “Bugger,” said Gullett, slamming the book shut and tossing it back onto the desk. He grabbed hold of his keys again and went back down to the cell thinking `what a load of old fhit!'

  * * *

  Ollie sat at his desk. His brow was furrowed and he was gazing about distractedly.

  “You alright there, Boss?” said Stitches, easing himself into the leather chair. “You seem to be miles away.”

  “I was just wondering where Flug was. It's time for my glass of blood and he's never late.”

  “Maybe he's still at Mrs. Ladle's,” offered Ronnie. “You know what he's like when he gets into her biscuits. He could be munching away for days.”

  Stitches suppressed a shudder. “I dread to think what goes into one of her biccies. Her recipes are a cross between a primordial swamp.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing else,” said the zombie.

  “So did Crumble have any other useful information about what we found under the fountain?” asked Ronnie.

  “Not really,” said Ollie. “He went straight back to his lab mumbling something about a shirt that he was working on.”

  “Oh, I know the one,” said Stitches. “He's designed the ultimate camouflage shirt. It can blend in with just about any background that you care to mention.”

  “Oh, right. How's it coming on?” asked Ollie.

  “Not sure really. He can't find it.”

  Just then Mrs. Ladle's head popped through the door; quickly followed by the rest of her (she did have a habit of occasionally sticking her head through a door whilst her body came in through a different entrance entirely. It was most disconcerting). She had Flug in tow. At least they thought it was Flug. He was smiling, standing up straight, had a distinct glint in his eye and wasn't dribbling like a teenage boy at the Playboy Mansion.

  “Hello, boys,” she said.

  They all greeted her at once.

  “Hello, everyone,” said Flug, “how are we all doing?”

  Ollie got up from his desk and went and stood next to the leather chair occupied by Stitches. Stitches stood up and stood next to Ollie. Ronnie stayed where he was. All three of them had odd looks on their faces.

  “I think I've got a bit of explaining to do,” said Mrs. Ladle. “Flug, love, why don't you toddle off and get Ollie's drink for him.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. L. One Bloody Mary coming right up. Incidentally did you know that some people think that the name of the drink refers to Queen Mary I of England, whose persecution of the Protestants in the sixteenth century earned her the nickname.” With that he left for the kitchen.

  Mrs. Ladle explained what had happened to three very gobsmacked beings.

  “So, based on what you've just told us,” said Ollie, “Flug is now as intelligent as the rest of us?” (To be fair that wasn't saying an awful lot. The average bath sponge was more capable of reasoned thought than most of the residents of Skullenia, had a nicer personality and a sunnier disposition).

  “Actually,” said the witch, “judging by the stuff that he's been coming out with since it happened I'd say that he's cleverer than the rest of us put together.”

  “My God,” said Stitches, running a hand down his face, inadvertently leaving an eyebrow on his cheek, “it's the end of everything I hold dear. I like things to have a certain order and consistency. I like routine. The moon rising every night. Ronnie rolling a fag every four and a half minutes (he was), and Flug being as dense as a neutron star. I'm pretty sure that the world isn't ready for a clever Flug, but I'm damned sure that I'm not.”

  “Come on now, mate be honest,” said Ronnie. “You're only annoyed because you won't be able to take the mick out of him until it wears off.”

  “Well, that as well,” said Stitches.

  “That's if it wears of at all don't forget,” said Mrs. Ladle. “But remember he doesn't know anything about this so not a word. He'd be really upset.”

  “Who'd be really upset?” said Flug, re-entering the office carrying Ollie's blood filled tankard.

  “Oh, Stitches,” said Ollie, accepting his liquid lunch.

  “What are you perturbed about Stitches, old fellow?” asked Flug, a look of concern on his face. Even his scars had taken on a softer more sympathetic look.

  “Um,” said the zombie, struggling to come up with a plausible answer and cursing Ollie for dropping him in it yet again. “Oh, it's nothing really, I… I lost a finger in a door this morning and I was saying to the guys that I'd be really upset if something fell off and I couldn't find it again. Give it a few months and I'd be nothing but an eyebrow in a pair of shoes.”

  “I tell you what might work,” said Flug. “Cat gut.”

  “Cat gut?” said Ollie.

  “Indeed. It's much stronger than cotton and far more versatile. If you repaired yourself with that then your various joints would last a lot longer.”

  “I can supply you with some,” said Mrs. Ladle helpfully. “I use it all the time when I'm cooking.”

  “Thanks,” said a dumbfounded Stitches.

  “On a side note,” continued Flug, “were you aware that cat gut doesn't actually come from cats. It's usually made from the fibres found in the intestines of sheep or goats. Sometimes though, cows were used which is where the term cat gut may come from. An abbreviation of cattle gut.”

  “Well,” said Stitches, “once you start inserting bits of animal into yourself it doesn't really matter where it comes from does it? Personally I
don't care whether it's cat, sheep, goat or Tyrannosaurus Rex. I think I'll stick with the cotton if it's all the same to you.”

  By now Ollie had finished his drink. It had gone down without too much trouble, but that was only because he found it marginally easier to digest that what had happened to Flug. As nice as it was for all concerned, he sort of understood where Stitches was coming from. Life in Skullenia, as weird as it was, wasn't all that bad, but like everything else it thrived on routine and Flug's extreme thickness was an ever present part of that. It was comforting, in a way, how he fled in terror every time he flushed the toilet, his abject wonder at the fridge lighting up whenever he opened the door, and his utter conviction that a creature called Michael McIntyre was a very funny comedian (None of them had heard the name before so they were convinced that he had made it up. We know though, don't we!)

  There was a knock at the door that disturbed Ollie's musings.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  Doctor Zoltan appeared, and trailing behind him like a lost puppy was Mandrake looking rather drier and considerably more conscious than the last time that they'd seen him. Mandrake was carrying a metal box in his right hand. He seemed to be having trouble keeping it still. Faint hisses seemed to be coming from inside it.