Chapter Nine
Things had changed in the village since the last time Harriet had visited. She was used to nervous glances, of course, but she had, over the years, maintained a sort of uneasy truce with the villagers. Now she found that the windows and doors of every shop were barred to her. Humiliatingly, the villagers had left all her usual groceries outside their shops on the pavement, so she walked along, stooping to collect packages with her uninjured arm, and dropping coins in their place. She supposed this was to be expected after first sending Eleanor back as a jabbering wreck, and then Hugo and his badly wounded sidekick. Still, she had personally never done the villagers any harm. As usual, the library would be her last stop. Here at least she could expect some human companionship, of a sort. But, to Harriet’s dismay, she found the library also shut up tight. Taped to the outside of the door was another letter addressed to Viktor. Her heart sank as she peeled it off. Their ordeal wasn’t over yet.
Once she’d returned to the castle, Viktor had taken the letter, read it, and called another meeting. Now he looked over the assembled group once more, and then began to read. The letter was terse and to the point.
Viktor,
As you are aware, I recently employed the London firm Dixon Realty to assess the value of my Mortavian property in which you currently reside. Hugo Dixon has since ceased trading, but before his surprisingly early retirement, informed me that the castle has no value whatsoever on the real estate market.
At this, there was a cheer from Skully, and Blake high-fived Norm, then ruefully rubbed his stinging hand. Viktor held up a finger, and continued.
However, my financial advisors have suggested that the castle should be demolished and the island developed into a golf course. As this will ultimately bring in a stream of revenue, I have decided to proceed. I am hereby giving you notice that demolition will commence….
The residents began to make noises of concern and dismay, and Viktor trailed off. He waited until he had their attention again, and then said, “He gives a date about three weeks from now.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Blake stood up. “Well, I say we fight them,” he announced. Skully was quick to agree, his skull bobbling up and down as he nodded. Callie cheered, Barbara cackled and Boo, Lou and Sue flew a few defiant loop-the-loops. Norm looked at them all, his brow knitted in confusion.
Meanwhile, Ankh frowned, and Harriet bit her lip, looking up at Viktor with shining eyes. “It’s your castle, Viktor,” she said. “So it’s your call. If you want to fight, we’ll stand with you.”
Viktor looked at Harriet’s intense expression of loyalty and trust. He regarded her arm in its sling, still heavily bandaged. Then he sighed. “No,” he said. “Fighting will be the last resort. This demolition crew – they will have bulldozers and wrecking balls, and who knows what else. We can’t fight them all. Callie, Barbara and Harriet, Blake, and even you, Norm – you’re all too vulnerable. I’m not losing any one of you.”
Again there was silence. It seemed to stretch out forever. Then Viktor noticed that Harriet was frowning, concentrating hard, her lips moving. “The last resort…” she murmured. “The last resort…”
“Sorry?” said Viktor.
Harriet looked up at him, eyes gleaming now with excitement. “It might just work,” she said. “It might just work…” And then she began to outline her idea.
#
Barbara Yaga used magic to dispatch the parchment containing the wording for Harriet’s advertisement, and so it arrived in somewhat less than perfect condition on the desk of the troll who ran the classified section. For a start the parchment was accompanied by a mass of chicken feathers. And secondly… The troll picked it up and sniffed cautiously at a smear on the corner. Yes, and secondly, it had a streak of chicken poo on it. However, the content met the requirements of the newspaper, and more importantly, the parchment had also been accompanied by the requisite number of gold coins, which had materialised on the desk in a pleasing fashion, with little clinks. It had also just met the deadline for this week’s issue of the Supernatural Supplement. So the troll squeezed the advertisement into the layout of the classified section, and then took the whole thing down to the typesetter.
The typesetter was a ghoul – tall and grey, long-faced and floaty. He gave the troll the creeps, but since the newspaper’s sole printing press was actually the ghostly remains of a press which had burned in the Great Fire of London, only a ghost could physically pick up and manipulate the spirits of the copperplate letters and operate the spectral remains of the press. The typesetter took the layout morosely, his spooky fingers brushing the troll’s hand. The troll shuddered. He was sure the ghoul did that on purpose. There was no use complaining, however. The editor was a ghoul too.
The typesetter set the type, and before long the presses were running. The next day, the Supernatural Supplement would be winging its ghostly way to subscribers all over Europe.
#
“You’re rubbish,” the fat birthday boy said, and threw his saveloy sausage. It bounced off Swizelsticks’ head, leaving a dollop of tomato sauce on his forehead in between his bushy grey eyebrows and his moon-and-star-encrusted blue velvet conical hat.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” the wizard said. “Erm… how about this then? He waved his red and black cape first one way, then the other, whipped it to one side, and revealed a pair of startled-looking white doves. One dove immediately keeled over sideways, stiff legs poking up in the air, stone cold dead of shock. The other took off into the air, flying over the buffet table, and dropping a large, wet, white poo precisely in the centre of the birthday cake. It would have been undetectable on top of the white icing, had thirty pairs of eyes, including those of the birthday boy’s mother, not seen it happen.
“I’m not paying you,” the fat boy’s fat mother assured him.
Swizelsticks sighed. People were so hard to please. Conjuring two living, breathing birds out of thin air (albeit one that didn’t live or breathe for very long) was difficult work. But did these people appreciate it? Not at all.
He sighed again, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “And now, for my last trick,” he said, which got a rousing cheer. Swizelsticks figured that this cheer was for all the wrong reasons, but performed a sweeping bow anyway. He took off his hat with a flourish, waved his wand over it, and then had a good rummage inside. Although he felt something furry, the floppy ears he had expected to encounter were strangely absent. Instead, something bit down on his finger. Hard.
“Yeee-ow!” Swizelsticks yelled, pulling his hand sharply out of his hat. Dangling from his index finger, clamped on with powerful jaws, was the biggest, meanest rat the wizard had ever seen, and he’d seen a few. He hopped around, howling and shaking his hand while the audience laughed. Finally he managed to disengage the ferocious rodent. With a final angry glare at Swizelsticks, it leapt away. He was gratified to hear the screams of the fat mother as it ran up her skirts. Pleased with the opportunity of escape this distraction afforded, he scooped up his equipment and scurried back to his VW van. This evening had not been the highlight of his career, but, he noted gloomily, it had not been the low point either. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine coughed, choked and died. His fuel reserve was at zero. Muttering, he got out of the cab, unscrewed the fuel cap, and waved his wand over it. He was rewarded with the sharp, tangy smell of petrol. At least I can do something right, he told himself. Suddenly, he was hit on the back of the head with something. “Ow!” he yelped, and whirled around. The Supernatural Supplement was lying at his feet. He picked it up, got into the VW, and drove home.
#
“Edgar, throw the switch!” the Professor commanded.
Edgar bowed, scraped, said, “Yeth, Mathster,” then threw the large copper switch. The points connected, and electricity surged through the system. Electrons raced each other through the wires, eager to be the first to power the mighty machine. The current flowing in the massive coil of copp
er wire induced a magnet field in the centre of the coil. The magnetic field deflected heavy irons plates which rammed into a second set of plates driving them up and down in a rhythmic pattern. These plates were contoured and moulded, dimpled like golf-balls, and covered in luxurious foam-padding. The professor lowered his feet onto the foam pads and sighed as his feet were pummelled by 1000 Watts of power. His electric foot massager was a success. “Edgar, more power,” he called out, reclining back in his seat and placing slices of cucumber over his eyes.
Grimacing, Edgar said “Yeth, Mathster,” again, and ratcheted a dial through several notches, increasing the power to the machine. The electrons, now beginning to feel the tyranny of the high voltage which compelled them to race through the wires, gave up their energy with little gasps of despair. The magnetic field strengthened, the iron plates spun faster and the massage plates pummelled with increasing speed against the soles of the Professor’s size 14 feet.
The Professor writhed with pleasure and cried out, “more!”
Edgar bit his lip. “I can’t give it any more,” he said, tentatively.
“More!” the Professor roared.
Wincing, Edgar dialled the machine up two more notches. The voltage surged. The electrons whimpered. The magnetic field intensified. The iron plates accelerated. The massage plates moved in a blur. The whole machine began to shudder and suddenly there was an alarming whine. This was enhanced by the acrid smell of burning foam rubber.
“My feet!” the Professor yelled, beating furiously at the sparks which were trying to ignite the hairs on his big toes.
“Itths going to blow!” Edgar lisped.
“Flee!” the Professor screamed.
As master and servant ran away from their latest conflagration, Edgar Gore rolled his eyes, and wondered if they would ever stop fleeing. Suddenly, the Supernatural Supplement materialised out of the air. Without missing a step, Edgar caught it up and kept running.
#
Reginald Osis patted the flank of the large black charger. “Easy Boy,” he murmured. The massive horse loved the free space of the open skies. It did not like lurking behind dumpsters in smelly, seedy alleyways behind pubs and off-licenses. Unfortunately, this was often where it found itself. It snorted hot ghostly breath from its nostrils, and clattered phantom hooves against the cobbles impatiently.
A truck pulled into the alleyway, the door to the cab swung open, and the delivery driver jumped out, whistling to herself. Reginald groaned. A woman. Worse still, a woman with pale skin and red hair. Reginald didn’t like women very much, and he especially didn’t like women with pale skin and red hair. Queen Elizabeth had had pale skin and red hair. Reginald had flirted shamelessly with Queen Liz, showing off daring displays of horsemanship, and it had paid off. He had become a favourite of the queen’s court, receiving special favours, up to and including his knighthood. And then newly knighted Sir Osis, Reggie to his friends, had become smug, and let his guard down. He had consumed far too much honey mead at a banquet one evening, and winked at a particularly cute lady-in-waiting right in front of the queen. Well, that had been the end of that, and the end of him too. The very next day he was executed for treason. Women!
He had been led onto a stage, requested to kneel, and then the next he knew, he was looking at the inside of a basket and hearing the cheers of the crowd. He had willed himself to stand up. The ghost of his body did stand up, leaving his actual body still slumped on the ground. The ghost of his body staggered around for a minute, and then came around to the front of the guillotine to collect the ghost of his head from out of the basket, leaving his actual head behind. And that was the start of his afterlife, not to mention that of his charger. Amazingly, the queen was so mad at him that she had his horse executed too.
Reginald the ghost shook his head, literally holding it between his hands and waggling it back and forth. This helped to clear his thoughts, focusing him back on the present, and tonight’s mission. The woman had rolled up the side of the truck and was unloading the first case. Reginald read the side: Rum. Ugh – too syrupy sweet for his liking. Too much like honey mead. She took the case through the back door of the pub, and then returned for the next case. Ah, here we go, Reginald thought. Irish whiskey. Excellent. He let go of the reins, flew off the horse and swooped right through the woman. The woman jumped, swore, and dropped the case onto the cobbles. Reginald was gratified to hear the smashing of glass bottles. Sighing, the woman dragged the remains of the case back to the truck, and hoisted it in, tea-brown liquid dripping on her uniform. Quickly, Reginald snatched the four phantom whiskey bottles out of the air before they could dissipate, binding them to the Earth, just as his ghostly form and that of his horse had been. Four bottles! Excellent.
The Supernatural Supplement appeared out of thin air at that moment and landed at the big horse’s feet. Reginald scooped it up. Something to drink, and something to read! Even better.
#
“Ciao, Bella,” the beautiful Italian youth said to Violetta, blowing her a kiss, before pulling away on his beautiful silver Vespa scooter, without signalling, into the maelstrom that was known as the traffic of Florence. Violetta sighed and shook her head to straighten out her helmet-flattened hair. As usual, the sleek black bob fell perfectly into place. She had decided on this hairstyle when it had achieved the height of fashion back in the nineteen twenties, and had stuck with it ever since. Why not? It suited her then, and it suited her now.
The spike heels of her calf-skin boots clacked against the cobbles as she made her way to her flat above one of the shops on the Ponte Vecchio. Expensive real estate certainly, but then, Violetta wasn’t paying for it. Violetta never paid for anything.
As she mounted the steps, she realised she was hungry. Why hadn’t she invited the youth in? She hadn’t fed in at least a week. As usual, she had been too busy, attending gallery openings and fashion shows. Remembering the latest of these she yawned. Life in Florence was becoming too, too dreary – just an endless blur of attending film premieres, restaurants, opera, ballet, and dances with youthful Vespa-driving boyfriends. Maybe it was time to move on. There were other cities, other experiences, other tastes. The blood of these Italian men who she feasted upon tasted too strongly of garlic anyway. She pushed open the door to her apartment, and found an envelope on the mat just inside. Surprisingly, it was addressed to her. She flipped it over and read the return address. One delicately tweezed eyebrow arched. Well, well. This was interesting.
Chapter Ten
Things were almost back to normal in the village. Apart from the four days around the full moon when she had been indisposed (that is, busy bounding on all fours after rabbits in the fields), Harriet had been making daily trips to the library to check for a reply to the letter they had sent Trevor. Seeing her every day without incident was beginning to make the villagers more relaxed in her presence. Not friendly, but certainly less hostile. The librarian had opened her doors again too, which Harriet appreciated. She needed to get lots of information if the new venture was to succeed.
Now, today, as she walked into the library, the librarian gave her a shy smile, from behind the toughened glass. “I got you that book you ordered,” she said, “and a letter has come for the castle.” She poked both through the slot in the glass, and it was all Harriet could do not to snatch them from her. She glanced briefly at the cover of the book – Inns and Outs: A guide to the hospitality industry – and then turned her attention to the letter. She yearned to rip it open and know the answer right then and there. Would they be given the go-ahead? Would her idea come to fruition? But of course the letter was addressed to Viktor, so instead she slid the envelope into the pocket of her tweed skirt, thanked the librarian, and hurried back to Blake and the dinghy.
Blake took one look at Harriet’s excited face, and knew the letter had come. “What did he say?” he asked excitedly.
“Now, now,” said Harriet, shaking a finger at him. “All in good time!”
Their r
eturn trip to the castle was made at record speed, with both Blake towing, and Harriet rowing, in order to exercise her almost healed arm. Both of them leapt onto the dock as soon as they arrived, and ran up to the side entrance of the castle. They burst through the door, and raced along the passageway, Blake leaving a trail of seawater behind him. They came skidding to a halt in the grand foyer, where Viktor was waiting, eyebrow raised, hand out, ready to receive the missive. Harriet placed it into his palm. Viktor made a smooth flicking motion and a fine silver letter opener appeared from out of his cuff. Deftly, he slit open the envelope and shook out the single sheet of paper. Face impassive, he read the contents, and then looked up at the others. Harriet held her breath, as Viktor began to read.
Viktor,
I read your most recent letter with interest. While I appreciate your offer to rent my castle from me, I feel that as you have been living there rent-free for most of your life, at the very least you owe me many years of back rent. However, my lawyer informs me that I have no legal recourse to this outstanding money.
Although constructing a golf course will lead to revenue in the long run, the costs associated with the demolition of the castle and preparation of the site will be high. Therefore, it is with reluctance that I agree to your proposal. However, the monthly rent you suggested is laughable. Make it twice that, and you have a deal.
My bank account details follow. Please transfer the funds monthly. If you miss a payment, you will be evicted – forcibly if necessary.
Regards,
Trevor Romanoff
Throughout the reading, Harriet and Blake’s expressions had changed from fear, to joy, to consternation. “What a greedy man,” Harriet said, finally.
“Well, you did argue that money was his motivating factor when you came up with the idea,” Blake said. “I guess you were right. Anyway – looks like we got a stay of execution!”