“A damson Bakewell for you.” said the woman on the doorstep and Alice took the object off her and muttering, turned her back on her and walked up the hall. She was really hoping that Mrs Childer-Pottington would be satisfied with the most rudimentary of fortune telling today as it had been a long day and she was ready for bed.
“I have closed the door, dear.” she heard from up the hall and Alice grunted, turning the main dining room light off and leaving just the side lamp on, giving what she knew the average punter saw as just a little more authenticity to her witching.
“Sit down, lady.” said Alice and the woman did so, leaving her long coat on much to Alice’s satisfaction. At least she wasn’t making herself at home! Alice looked into the crystal ball, tuning everything out until she saw shapes moving slowly in the glass.
“Do you know anybody in a steam wagon dear?” she asked and the woman sitting on the opposite side of the table shook her head.
“I should say not.” she said, “Not many steam wagons in Ponty Pushkin now, are there?”
“A young man and a woman.” Alice paused, looking at the crystal ball with more concentration now. There was something very odd about the two of them. She looked closer.
“You had best slow down hadn’t you Romney?” said the woman in the crystal ball and Alice pulled back a little in the glass orb revealing that the people she could see in the glass were flying along in a steam wagon at quite an incredible speed. Yet that was not what was odd about them. Alice focused in again, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she did so.
“That girl is dead.” she said out loud. “The other’s a demon.”
“What’s that? Said Mrs Childer-Pottington, sniffing as she did so.
“I said damson. Not demon, and who is dead? It’s not Mister Childer-Pottington is it?”
“No.” muttered Alice and the woman looked relieved.
“Well that’s something at least.” she said, “What with the harvest not being in yet and all.”
“No.” repeated Alice. “You have to go.”
“I’m sorry?” said the woman, a frown appearing on her face. “You haven’t told me anything yet!”
“I am sorry but I have an emergency.” said Alice, rising from the table and disconnecting herself from the crystal.
“Well really…” began Mrs Childer-Pottington, but Cat had other ideas.
“Look Misses, biatch has told yo' dat biatch has ta stop naw just put on yo' goddamn coat n' git!” said the ginger cat at the fireside. Mrs Childer-Pottington’s eyebrows almost hit the ceiling and she scurried from the room down the hall.
“A talking cat!” she shouted as she disappeared through the front door, “How marvellous!
“For once well done for disobeying my instructions!” said Alice to the cat that was busy licking its various bits and pieces in earnest.
“Yo’ welcome.” said the cat, “Naw stop talkin' n' cut tha cake”
Alice went to get a knife. She had a few calls to make, but first it was going to have to be cake.
***
Romney was pleased with their progress so far. They were certainly making excellent time as they flew across the English countryside heading for south Wales. The steam wagon was a dream to drive he found, and it certainly a good turn of speed about it, a fact that was certainly reflected in Fanelda’s somewhat pale complexion as they hit yet another bend and scurried around it on more or less two wheels.
Across the fields a small spire of a church appeared in the distance and Romney took note of its position, increasing his speed to see how fast he could get past it.
“It really is a beautiful day, isn’t it?” said Fanelda, holding on to her hat with both of her hands and gritting her teeth in concentration.
“It is.” smiled Romney, turning to face her. Fanelda smiled for a few seconds, then slowly the smile began to fade as she began to realise that Romney was not even glancing at the road now.
“Churchyard!” she spluttered and Romney turned back to the road just as the steam wagon missed the bend of the lane completely and shot through the wide wooden vestibule of the churchyard gate and began to skid amongst the gravestones and flat slabs of stone that littered the ground, long forgotten crypts now being vigorously rattled as the steam wagon raced across them.
“Never fear!” shouted Romney, a grin upon his face that didn't quite meet his eyes, “Out of the back gate we go!”
Fanelda closed her eyes as another wooden entrance approached on the far side of the churchyard, the steam wagon racing through it and then back onto the road beyond. The wagon skidded slightly as the wheels gripped the road again and then Romney accelerated and they were off.
In the graveyard silence began to settle once again. The church was completely deserted. Nobody had witnessed the steam wagon making its way across the graves at all. One large flat slab however had taken the entire weight of the steam wagon as it had run over it and now the stone crypt was cracked and shattered. As the birds began to return to the trees about the churchyard and tentatively began to sing again, a small bony hand appeared in the hole in the slab and then pulling itself onto the surface a small skeleton rose into view. It looked around the churchyard, and then seeing the steam wagon disappearing over the hill in the distance waved one bony hand at it and then began to give chase.
Which was unfortunate for the priest of the parish, reverend Aloysius Evans, or as he was better known in the valleys, “Evans the Bible”. It was not every day that he came across one of the residents of the churchyard going for a wander he thought as the skeleton raced past him waving its fists angrily, as he was just returning from rather a large lunch with the local women’s guild he put it down to a somewhat spicily fruited jam concoction or the like, and so retired to bed for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Viktor put on his best black jacket and examined himself in the mirror.
“Very good!” he said, noting that he was as usual completely invisible in the looking glass. He brushed his hair back a little and returned to the living room. He had seen Romney leave before in corporeal form, along with Fanelda in exactly the same state. He felt curious as the steam wagon had trundled down the path, sniffing loudly and brushing a non-existent piece of dust off his sleeve as he wondered what they were up to and where they were going. Still. He was not overly concerned. He had important work to do today that Miss Neaves had left in his what he considered to be more than capable hands, and so he placed his clipboard with paper on it and uncapped his best ink pen and laid it on the table. He made to sit down in the guest's chair but just caught himself in time and moved around the table, sitting in Victoria’s seat instead.
“She won't know.” he said out loud, trying the chair out for size and finding that really it felt just the same as the other chair apart from the fact that because it was “her” chair it somehow managed to convey some vague sense of authority.
He was trying out various poses. First leg over one leg, then the other way, reclining, edge of seat, when the doorbell rang. Viktor looked at his watch. The first candidate was due! He stood, straightened his jacket and checking that his vaguely important frown was not showing in the mirror he went to answer the door.
***
“You had best slow down hadn’t you Romney?” said Fanelda as the steam wagon shot around another narrow country lane before skidding across the road and narrowly missing a farmer pushing a handcart by what must have been no more than a millimetre.
“Was that really a hand drawn cart?” asked Romney, completing ignoring her request to slow their speed a little.
“Oh there are a lot of those where I come from.” said Fanelda, holding onto her white bonnet as they raced along. “It’s not that we are reluctant to accept new ways you see. Just that sometimes we are a little slow to take them up.”
“Well I suppose it works really. That farmer seemed to be quite content to pull his cart along. Big as it was.”
“Well it’s in the ditch
now. He had to throw the cart into the other side of the road just so you and him didn’t collide.” she said, “You really should slow down.”
Romney consulted his internal gyroscope and saw that their destination was nor less than twenty miles away and so he eased off the pressure on the steam boiler, the wagon slowing as he did so.
It had been a relatively painless journey so far, and although the distance was just below one hundred and twenty miles to Ponty Pushkin they had covered the vast majority of it very quickly. This was almost entirely down to the fact that Romney drove like a total maniac, the roads and bends flashing by regardless of the safety of either the other road users or indeed himself and Fanelda. His reasoning was simple. She was dead and he was a demon, and although (technically at least) they were both corporeal, it did not really matter if they did crash for they could hardly expire if such an event was to occur.
“When I was a little girl father used to take us out in the handcart we used to play games to pass the time.” smiled Fanelda, seemingly pacified now that their speed had decreased.
“Your father used to take you out in the handcart?” said Romney, his eyebrow spiking a little.
“Oh yes.” said Fanelda. “Market days. Church days. Spoiled we were. We used to take turns to be the one to sit nearest to the handles.” She looked at Romney who was staring at her blankly, completely oblivious to the road ahead. He turned the wheel slightly without even looking as they shot round a bend, a loud curse coming from the south side of the road as a chicken suddenly appeared at their feet. It looked up at them, clucked wildly and then threw itself out of the steam wagon in a flurry of feathers. “The one nearest the handles had a better view you see.” she said.
“Got it.” said Romney, turning back to face the road and being surprised to find that there appeared to be a small round hat stuck on the silver figurehead on the bonnet of the steam wagon. Romney twisted the wheel first this way and then that way sharply and the hat fell off.
Both stared at where the hat had once been and said nothing.
“When I was a girl we used to play the collective noun game when we were in the handcart.” she said.
“How does that go?” asked Romney, eyes still on the road. He didn’t want to wipe out the entire Welsh agricultural system in one day.
“Well.” she said, “A swarm of bees is what you calls a lot of bees now, isn’t it? A flock of geese. Sometimes there are alternatives too. What’s the collective noun for chickens then, Romney?”
“It’s a flock.” he said, smiling at her as the car flew along the road. It was not going as fast as before, but it was not being driven slowly either. Romney did not seem to be able to drive at anything less than full pelt.
“Correct.” said Fanelda, smiling broadly. “But it can also be called a “peep” or a “brood”.”
“Really?” said Romney and she nodded. “I didn’t know that.”
“That’s not the game though.” she giggled, “You have to come up with your own name.”
“Give me an example.” said Romney, “I am struggling.”
“Well.” she said, staring off across the hedges and fields that were flashing past, “A made up collective noun for chickens could be a “cluck”. Or a “scramble”.” Romney laughed.
“As in eggs.” he said.
“Precisely.” she said. “Are you ready? I will start.”
“Okay.” he said.
“Geese.” she said
“A honk.” he replied. Fanelda laughed, one hand on her hat, “My go?”
“Yes.”
“Turkeys.”
“A gobble.”
“Cats.”
“A meow.”
“Slices of bread”
“A loafage.”
“Crumbs.”
“A scatter.”
“You are rather good at this, aren’t you?” said Romney and she laughed even louder.
“I always used to win.” she said, “I seem to have a talent for making up words.”
“Are you enjoying your trip so far?” he asked her, smiling. To his great surprise she placed her hand on top of his.
“I am having a wonderful time, Romney.” she said, “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” he said, amazed to find himself blushing furiously. On the steam wagon went, crossing the Welsh countryside and making steady progress towards the village of Ponty Pushkin.
***
In the darkness of the cellar Victoria dreams.
“My name is Romney.” says the voice in her head, and she feels the urge to giggle. It is so strange to hear someone speaking to her directly into her mind. “How old are you?”
“Eleven.” she says, “But I shall be twelve in just over six weeks.”
“Approaching puberty.” says Romney, and Victoria resists the urge to make a sound very close to “Ewww…” but she does blush furiously instead. “That’s why we are now blood bound. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” says Victoria, “You will be my companion as long as I live they said.”
“Yes. Until you are old and grey.” he said and she laughed at the ridiculous idea of such a thing. “What shall I call you?”
“My name is Victoria.” she said, “Use that.”
“Not, “Vic” or “Vicky”?” He chuckled.
“Dear me no!” said Victoria, “Victoria is good enough.”
“How about I just call you “Boss?” said Romney and she thought about it for a few seconds.
“That’s just as good, yes.”
“Okay boss.” he said and she laughed again, the laughter fading and the dream took her out into the night, drifting across rooftops, and into the attic bedroom of a middle aged man who was asleep in the bed in front of her.
She wore her tools of her trade about her waist in a light belt, a black armoured yet light bodysuit covering her from throat to foot. In her hand was a small brass coloured pulse pistol, aimed at the man’s head.
Why he was targeted or contracted to die she did not know. She would never know. It was irrelevant. The assassin’s society had no such compunction or reasons as to why. They were paid to do a job and it was done.
She watched the man breathe, and glanced away from him for a second to the skylight above her through which she had gained entrance. Above that she knew was a misted skimmer waiting to take her back to society headquarters, her first mission accomplished.
She looked back at the man. He was talking in his sleep. A woman’s name. Perhaps that was the reason she was standing over him now Victoria thought. There was sweat on his top lip and the room smelt of expensive cologne, his clothes crumpled on the floor at the bottom of the bed. He made another noise and Victoria steadied her grip on the gun in her hand and instinctively, pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded. Neither she nor Romney made a sound but she was already on the move, clambering back up the rope towards the skylight and then out onto the roof and into the night air, the breeze a relief on her face, drifting, drifting, pulling her away.
In the darkness of the cellar Victoria dreams...
***
Clwyd Evans waited patiently as Jones the wheelbarrow backed him out of his hallway and out into the street.
“Steady there, Jones.” said the Chief Exorcist and Demon Hunter, the wheelbarrow wobbling a little as Jones turned him to face the hill that would lead up to the village green. The old man pushing the wheelbarrow puffed slightly. The hill certainly never got less steep though he suspected that Evans definitely was a lot heavier than he used to be, though all his armour and what have you would still weigh the same as it always had. Grunting wearily, he began to push the wheelbarrow with Evans in it up the hill.
Clwyd Evans looked around the street as he they made slow progress up the hill, the sounds of Jones the Wheelbarrow’s suffering behind him increasing as they moved further up the incline. It was a shame really, he thought. Perhaps he needed to start looking for a younger man to push him up the hill
. He sighed deeply. When he was a young man the armour of his official position was heavy for sure. Of course it was. Yet he had managed to climb the hill all on his own. In fact, in his glory days he had made the five hundred yard trip up the hill in just over an hour once It had been a very long time ago, but he was sure he had!
“Morning Mrs Williams.” said Clwyd as a small woman drew nearer. She nodded to him as she went past.
“Evans.” she said and bustled away quickly. The demon hunter sniffed loudly. His was a serious job he knew. Not many could do it, for sure. Well. Not legally anyhow, not now that his arm of the church had been officially disbanded. Even so. Not many could do his job. It was a lifetime of dedication, he knew. You needed courage and faith, a strong sense of duty and devotion and uncompromising judgement. Being handy with the holy water and a hot poker was handy too.
“Evans.” said a tall thin man as behind him Jones the wheelbarrow was now reaching the groaning stage, which meant they were nearly at the top of the hill now. “Any exorcisms or demon slaying today then?”
“We shall see.” said Evans ominously as the village green slowly weaved into view, Jones the wheelbarrow behind him making extremely disturbing wheezing noises now. “When the sun reaches its zenith we shall see.”
“Well let us hope so.” said the man, “It’s been, well… how long? Twenty years, or was it…”
Evans did not let the man finish but flashed him a look that shut him up immediately.
“How long is not important.” said Evans, “What is important that when I am required to perform my duties I am here ready.”
Behind him Jones the wheelbarrow released what was very similar to a squeal of relief as finally they reached the village green, a large granite and slate cross standing in the centre of the round circle of grass, small granite cottages surrounding it as if huddling in closer to listen to someone whispering in the middle of the green.
Jones wheeled him across the grass and approaching the cross drew to a stop, his knees almost buckling as he raised the wheelbarrow upright, Evans sliding from it and unsteadily raised himself to his feet where he stood swaying in the breeze waiting for the bells of the church at the edge of the village to ring for midday.
The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney Page 27
