The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney

by Michael White

  Alice read about it in the paper, and although she did not contact anyone regarding the matter at all, those in the know (that is to say those who had had their foundations blessed by Alice) watched with an extremely keen interest.

  The first tower had collapsed as soon as it had reached one hundred feet. Fortunately, nobody was on site when it did, and so the construction firm started again, only this time the steam diggers and automaton driven digging devices went down even further, pouring tons of mortar into the foundations to shore the tower up. After this had set the building of the tower started again. This one sadly fell down too, only in a slightly more spectacular fashion than the first collapse. Oddly, people had gathered to watch. How they knew it was going to collapse was anyone’s guess of course, but most agreed that it had all in all been a good night out. There had even been baked potatoes and toffee apples. Someone had also started a raffle for a new pair of boots. It was pretty much the event of if not the decade then certainly the year.

  Despite even deeper foundations the third power fared just as badly. Despite almost record crowds the fourth practically spun on the spot, split in two and blocked the main carriageway that ran past the town thoroughfare for three days. Finally, Alice was called in and the ground was blessed. Six months later the zeppelin station was in full operation. The only words Alice had said to Ted Everington as he had more or less crawled up her path cap in hand were,

  “What kept you Ted?” To which the only reply he could give was a very quiet grunt.

  So Alice was content. She was busy enough in a lucrative way without having to do too much witching to cause her either inconvenience whilst at the same time fostering, or possibly nurturing, her already fearsome reputation. There were for example rumours that the ten little garden gnomes arranged under her front room window by the lawn with their fishing rods in hand and fixed grins on their faces were not in fact made of concrete but were the shrunken remains of those who had offended her. Alice knew however that the truth was much, much worse, fishing rods or not.

  ***

  The village of Ponty Bodkin lies at the edge of a small valley in the southern counties of Wales. It is a tiny village that is often overlooked by its slightly larger neighbour, Ponty Pushkin which at its furthermost edges reaches down past a set of sweeping high granite cliffs and down onto a wide sandy beach and then beyond that, the cold grey waters of Saint George’s channel.

  That Ponty Bodkin is often overlooked by almost everyone in favour of Ponty Pushkin is hardly surprising. For a start, Ponty Pushkin has a post box whilst Ponty Bodkin seems to only have several very small pigeon lofts.

  Yet Ponty Bodkin is a quaint, quiet little village, the population of which in the eighteen hundred and seventy-two census was set at sixty-four. It was unsurprisingly not much more than that now, industrial age or no. The innovations of Charles Babbage and the steam driven computational engines of the cities, the zeppelins and steam wagons of the new technological revolution were not for Ponty Bodkin. If it had been possible to test the waters with regard to how the village responded to the invention of the wheel, then the key words probably would have been “late” or perhaps “reluctant” with maybe “suspicion” added as well. Innovation was not something that happened in Ponty Bodkin, though the village had once won a “Best Leek in Wales” competition in fifteen thirty-six, but that was more by accident than anything, and is an entirely different story anyway.

  It is however where the current chief Exorcist and Demon Hunter (South Wales branch, and in particular Ponty Bodkin) resides, and has done for the last fifty years. It could be fair to say that with the discovery that the first few circles of hell demonic presences could be bound by steam and data and brass to give these devices life and intelligence, and with the licensing of séances in eighteen sixty-one the role of demon hunter was actually completely redundant. The Catholic church had thought so anyway, and though they had always had what could be thought of as a somewhat fraught relationship with exorcists and demon hunters (unless it was for mass popular entertainment of course, and then only because it helped swell the coffers), it would be a slight understatement to say that they were pleased and also secretly relieved to be able to despatch letters to the few remaining exorcists and demon hunters to stand down. Clwyd Evans, the head of the demon hunting branch of the Catholic church in the Empire of Great Britain, and in particular Ponty Bodkin and South Wales, sadly did not agree.

  “Fifty years I have been hunting demons.” he told anyone who would listen, “Man and boy. Now all of a sudden demons are useful. Blood bound they are I am told and helping as assistants, running data engines. Never heard the likes of it. A man such as myself cannot change his ways just like that. Oh no.”

  It could be said that Ponty Bodkin and Clwyd Evans were a match made in... well, heaven whilst also maintaining a very close eye on hell at the same time.

  “Now the holy chain of dismissal, Alwen.” said Jones, lowering his head a little so his diminutive housekeeper could place the heavy metal chain over his head. He stood back up, swaying slightly. Evans was not a young man, his hair grey and shoulder length. To the average person if you saw him for the first time there would almost certainly be an even split on just two words that you would use to describe him. The first was almost certainly “Puritanical” whilst the second was definitely without fail, “outraged”.

  “Careful now with the cufflinks of astral severing.” he said, holding up first his left arm for Anwel to place the first chunky red cufflink through the relevant holes in his sleeve. He sniffed slightly, holding his head back and gazing off into the distance through the small angled window before raising his arm for the second cufflink.

  “I am sure today I will send the shrivelling travesties of filth and blood and sin back to the fetid bowels of hell and scorch Satan’s putrid arse while I am about it. Long have I raised the banners of my blood against the rotting mass of hell spawn and evil doing pungent defilers of the massed rank of demonic hordes and their familiars and masters of filth and perversion. I shall smite them down, so I will. See if I don’t, and when I have smitten them with my holy armour I will lay them low and despatch their rotting corpses back to the pits from whence they came, their spirits broken and their voices fallen silent, their lies and temptations ashes blown on the winds of banishment and defeat.”

  “Would you like liver for tea?” said Anwel and Clwyd sniffed.

  “With onions?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. The housekeeper nodded as the second cufflink was put in place. Clwyd nodded in return, not noticing that he had licked his lips as she had confirmed this to be the case.

  The uniform that the demon hunter wore was considerable. First there were long leather boots that rose to above his thighs. Metal insulated soles covered their heels, the thick metal lined leather apron hanging knee high over his leather jacket, below which was a thick, starched fire resisting shirt. His holders bore epaulettes of spiked iron, three large, evil looking spikes running across each shoulder. About his neck he wore the long metal chain and on his head a brown coloured hat similar to that Quakers wore, though Evans sneered at any of such a religious person who crossed his path. Not that they would notice of course, for he did exactly the same to absolutely everyone that he met.

  “Now Anwel.” he said, trying to take a step forward and failing to do so completely, such was the weight of the uniform he wore, “Go and tell Jones the wheelbarrow that I am ready.” Anwel nodded in agreement, shuffling around Clwyd and heading for the door, checking on the liver boiling on the stove as she went past. It had been boiling for three hours already and only had another six to go. It wouldn’t do to have any taste or flavour left in it, oh no. Clwyd wouldn’t approve of that at all. Taste and flavour were tantamount to enjoyment he would say, and he was having none of that in Ponty Bodkin. Oh no. Not on his watch.

  ***

  Romney wandered around the basement and checking that Victoria was settled in the cradle made his way back upstai
rs. He felt a little lost without anyone to talk to and so made his way into the kitchen. He watched as Viktor stood over a boiling pan on the stove, muttering to himself quietly. Realising that although the butler could hear him nobody else could he concentrated and made himself corporeal, blinking into view in the centre of the kitchen floor.

  “Vot is vid all ze creeping about?” said Viktor, re-arranging the knife draw for what Romney thought was quite probably the fifth time that morning. “You vill give me the willies with all this sneaking.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.” said Romney, walking into the hall and gazing into the mirror. He was tall and broad shouldered, his face and features knowing almost, a slightly rakish air about him. His hair was thick and shoulder length. He walked into the living room and into a small sewing box from under the table. Pulling a small piece of blue ribbon from it he returned to the mirror and put his hair into a ponytail. He stood there slightly longer than was really necessary, turning this way and then that, finally dragging himself away.

  “You will go blind so you will, looking at yourself like that all the time.” said a wispy voice from the room behind him. Romney laughed and walked into the living room, where the spectral form of Fanelda stood hovering before the fireplace, her maids uniform crisp and white and completely ethereal.

  “Oh I think not.” said Romney. “How are you today Fanelda? Is Viktor still following you about like a love sick fawn?”

  The maid giggled slightly.

  “He means no harm.” she said.” Though I have to say he is more like a love-sick donkey than a fawn.” Romney burst out laughing. “Shhh!” she said, holding her ghostly fingers over her mouth, “He will hear.”

  “I don’t care.” said Romney.

  “So what exactly are you doing Sebastian?” she said, looking him up and down, paying particular attention to the ponytail.

  “Oh please.” he said, realising that she had called him by the name he preferred to use when he was corporeal. “Today I am Romney.” Fanelda looked at him in confusion. “It is the pony tail you see. Sebastian has no pony tail.” The maid giggled.

  “Miss Neaves has given me a day off and I am at a bit of a loss I have to say.” he said. “How about me and you take off somewhere for a picnic?”

  “A picnic?” she laughed, floating nearer to him. “I am a ghost you see.” she said, “I don’t eat.”

  “Well a trip out in the steam wagon?” he suggested. “I have the key.”

  “Well the problem there you see is I cannot leave the place where I died. Which is here really. I have tried. Many times, but every time I get more than a mile away I find myself back in the paddock outside where that bloody horse did for me.”

  “Ah.” said Romney. “What about if I told you that I could - for a limited time of course - make you corporeal again?” To Romney’s great surprise Fanelda took several steps backward. Well, she floated in the opposite direction anyway.

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Very serious.” said Romney, “One condition.”

  “What’s that then?” she said, her eyes wide.

  “That you come on a picnic with me.”

  “I don’t want to go on a picnic.” she said, her eyes starting to fill with tears.

  “Oh.” said Romney. “I’m sorry. I thought that it would be a nice drive out.”

  “I want to go and see my parents.” She blurted out finally. “I never got a chance to say goodbye and they are both still alive. Old, but living. I can feel it, you see. They are still in Ponty Pushkin. They would never leave. South Wales, you see. It’s in the blood.” Romney looked concerned.

  “They cannot know it is you.” he said, “Believe you me that would open more than just a can of worms.” He paused slightly, thinking about his somewhat unwise use of words. “If you pardon the pun.” Fanelda didn’t seem to actually notice at all.

  “I just want to see them.” she said, “To say goodbye. I won’t let on it’s me, like.”

  “Okay then.” smiled Romney. “Well if you are ready we will go and start up the steam wagon. It’s quite a drive and I think I may be having to do a fair bit of fast driving to get us to Ponty Pushkin.

  “Will you make me corporeal?” she asked and he smiled.

  “I already did.” he said as she bumped into the table and sent it flying across the floor.

  “Oh my.” she said, reaching out and touching the chair as if it was some fantastic exotic item.

  “Come on!” said Romney, taking her by the arm, “We only have twelve hours and the clock is ticking!”

  ***

  In the dark cellar that is illuminated only by the read outs of the cradle, Victoria lies secured to the device, her eyes closed. She is fast asleep but in the darkness of the room Victoria dreams.

  Her father sits at the head of the table, her mother on one side, her on the other. In front of them lie bowls of warm, steaming soup. The smell of onions fills the room.

  “You know I don’t like onion soup, father.” says Victoria, pushing the bowl away from her. Her mother raises an eyebrow at her behaviour but says nothing. Her father does not even give any sign of hearing her, seconds ticking out on the clock. It must be a minute or more before he speaks.

  “Victoria.” His voice bears almost a hint of disappointment rather than anger. “Times are against us now. The government have nationalised the weaving industry and the staff we are so used to be able to rely upon are being sent to state institutions.”

  “Herded more like.” said her mother and her father shot her a dark look.

  “Before too long I will not have a business to rely upon at this rate, and then onion soup may be all you are able to eat. In fact, one may consider one to be very lucky to be able to do so.”

  The voices fade in the dream and Victoria finds herself this time in the drive at the front of the house. There are boxes being packed away. Her mother is crying, and soldiers are walking all about the drive.

  “It is the only guild I could find that would take you.” her father says to her, kneeling down to look her in the eye. She is nine. “The assassins do not have the prestige or the power of the realm, but they will always be needed, and they were the only society willing to take you. This house is finished, Victoria. You must…”

  Her father is pushed away and an old, well-dressed man escorts her to his steam wagon. She looks through the rear window and sees her mother and father being pushed into the back of a large open truck with the rest of the servants, and the man beside her grabs her arm and forces to turn her head away. She never sees either of them again. The dream fades and Victoria is lost again as the cradle continues its work of repairing her.

  In the darkness of the cellar Victoria dreams...

  ***

  Alice pulled up a chair at the dining room table and adjusted the red checked tablecloth on it carefully, taking great care not to interfere with the ley lines. She checked the kitchen clock and found that her guest would not arrive for another fifteen minutes yet and so relaxed a little and rubbed the crystal ball, looking into it.

  It remained stubbornly empty of anything at all for a minute ago so, during which she continued to gaze into the glass orb as if she had all of the time in the world.

  “Hadn't yo' better put on the cloak and' hat n' What the hell have yo'?” said Cat the cat, lying in a small round basket beside the fire, or more accurately, right in front of the fire actually but Alice did not mind. After all, she reasoned, she wouldn’t be much of a witch if she couldn’t stand a little bit of cold now would she?”

  “I will get ready now yes, Cat.” she said.

  “Yo welcome.” said Cat, pausing to first lick itself and then to yawn before curling back into a small ginger ball.

  Alice went into the hall and took her cloak from the coat stand and put it on. On her head she perched the almost conical witches hat and made her way back into the dining room just as her crystal ball
made a small pinging sound and said, “You have mail.” She sat down and placed her hands on the ball.

  “Alice dear.” came a voice from the crystal ball. Alice paused slightly, recognising the voice of Dorothy the leader of the Ponty Pushkin coven.

  “Sorry to disturb you this early but the coven is picking up a lot of activity from Ponty Pushkin right now, so they are. I would best take care if I were you. Last time we got something like this is that year that bloody Panorama lot came around on Beltane. I am sure you will remember what a furore that made!”

  She certainly did remember. She was still finding jam in various nook and crannies of her house. Still, no use dwelling on it. Forget it and move on, she thought, though she had been kept extremely busy in revenge curses for quite a few weeks after that particular little incident, that was for sure.

  “How the shit load of' people that yo expecting' this morning?” asked Cat and Alice shook her head.

  “Just one.” She said, hearing a small knock on the door. “Best behaviour Cat.” she said, wagging a finger at the feline. “No talking.”

  “I gotta not say a word or disturb you' in any way” said the cat, giving what eerily looked like a wink to her. “Anyhows. Why the fuck does dat shit have ta be so early? N' therez Ain't nuthin' but neva mind for a cat like me? Crazy time yo ask me.”

  Alice sighed to herself and reached the front door to find Mrs Childer-Pottington standing on the doorstep, practical handbag at her side and what appeared to be quite possibly a cake under a tea towel in her other hand. She looked at Alice oddly for she had only just that second arrived at the door and had not had time to actually ring the doorbell yet. Alice wasn’t really the kind of person who needed doorbells however, and she just stood there looking at her visitor resisting the urge to give one of her more fearsome stage cackles.