The Parliament of the Dead

by T. A. Donnelly

Iona stared at the Lord in disbelief. “Girls are not allowed?”

  Tiggy’s face darkened, horrified that Iona had spoken out of turn. She looked at the plump, middle-aged aristocrat, his substantial moustache moving as though he was chewing a wasp while he considered Iona with a disapproving eye.

  Having thought about his response, Garton chuckled in a condescending manner:“Good Lord no. It’s a gentlemen’s club for gentlemen. Of course we voted on whether to accept ladies...”

  Tiggy looked up hopefully; perhaps Lord Garton would be able to assure Iona that he was not the sexist prig he appeared to be.

  “I voted againstof course,”he said with a smug smile,“and I’m delighted to say wewon.”

  Iona was horrified,“You can’t be serious. Haven’t you ever heard of equal opportunities?”

  “Equal opportunities?” The Lord shook his head. “The cream does not need an equal opportunities policy to rise to the top of the milk.”

  “I think you’ll find that crap floats too,”replied Iona imitating his patronising plummy voice.

  Tiggy held up her hands apologetically. “I’m so sorry Lord Garton. She’s on work-experience; she doesn’t know how to behave in front of a man of your stature.”

  “You mean a man of his girth,”Iona murmured to herself looking at the floor.

  Garton grunted behind his expansive moustache. “In my day she’d be given six of the best with the cane.”

  Iona looked puzzled for a moment, then looked at the Lord with a horrified expression.

  “Yes caned! There’s nothing wrong with a good thrashing. Made me the man I am today.”

  “It made you a misogynistic-dinosaur-tit-face.”

  Garton looked from Iona to her mother and back again. “Never before have I been spoken to in such a way! Not in all my life!”He shouted, his face reddening with rage.

  “Then you obviously need to get out more!” Iona yelled as she stormed out of the shop.

  * * *

  That night, when Iona finally returned home, she had the telling-off of her life. For the rest of Iona’s suspension her mother left her at home.

  They lived in a small flat above a print shop on Fleet Street. Tiggy asked both the owner of the shop, and their neighbour, the Vicar of St. Dunstan’s Church, to keep a watchful eye on her daughter.

  Chapter Four

  Ghost Walk

  By the end of the first week Iona was struggling with being suspended. She had no friends (they were all at school), no money (her mother had frozen her allowance), no books she hadn’t read at least twice, and no inspiration for any meaningful activity.

  She decided to go for a stroll despite the fact that she knew walking past all the shops when she couldn’t buy anything would be depressing and tedious. She put on her favourite boots (black), jeans (black), T-shirt (black) and checked that her brown roots were not showing through her dyed hair (black).

  Leaving the doorway she found herself in the middle of a group of tourists. A long thin tour guide with a shock of tangled white hair was pointing out the church next door with enthusiasm.

  Iona’s first reaction to all the strangers blocking her way was annoyance. But there was something infectious about the tour guide’s passion, and when Iona heard what he was saying, she was instantly hooked.

  “…Once he slit their throats he flung their bodies into the basement, where he sliced them up. The best cuts were packed off to Mrs. Lovett’s bakery, where people would queue twenty yards down the street for her deliciousmeat pies.”

  The guide leaned forward and licked his lips with theatrical relish.

  “And then Mr. Todd dumped the remains in the tombs under St. Dunstan’s Church. And he would have got away with it, if it hadn’t been for the smell.”

  He held his nose as he continued.

  “The good people came to Church and couldn’t keep their minds on their prayers for the foul, deathly stench of rotten flesh.”

  The tour group moved on. Iona could see from the leaflets several of the tourists were carrying that this was a‘London Sightseeing Ghost Walk.’ She decided to follow the party, lurking at the back, for the rest of the way.

  They visited the back streets of the Inner Temple and heard the story of‘Hanging Judge’Henry Hawkins, whose ghost could be seen briskly striding through the cobbled streets after midnight, wearing his wig and robes and carrying a huge bundle of dusty legal papers.

  The group paused outside‘Ye Olde Cock Tavern’to hear about the ghostly appearance of the writer Oliver Goldsmith to a terrified barmaid.

  Nearby, Iona discovered, an overworked solicitor haunts the‘Wig and Pen’club; and a Cavalier called George regularly visits‘The George’pub.

  The tour ended outside a small establishment called‘The Cheshire Cheese.’ No ghosts were known to haunt this bar, but in the back room they keep a stuffed parrot called‘Polly.’ Polly the Parrot was internationally famous for being able to swear in nine different languages, five of which had been taught her by the legendary highwayman, Dick Turpin.

  Iona was impressed. She had been quite proud of herself for being able to describe some very rude things in French, German, Greek and Russian. She gained much playground kudos for this linguistic feat.

  As the walk finished a group of Japanese tourists gathered around the guide to have their photographs taken with him. Iona tried to walk off towards the bustle of Fleet Street, but the guide called her back,“Excuse me! Young lady, wait a moment!”

  Unsure of what the man could want with her, Iona waited, pushing a Mars wrapper round the floor with her foot while photos were taken and the guide gave out business cards.

  Eventually the guide turned to Iona,“So you are interested in ghosts?”

  “I guess,”replied Iona with a shrug.

  “Not interested enough to payfor my tour however?”

  “Sorry,”she mumbled, looking down to her black leather boots, flexing her legs to make ready to run for it if necessary.

  For a moment neither of them spoke, but when Iona looked at the guide’s face she saw he was smiling.

  He extended a thin pale hand:“Arthur Richards, pleased to make your acquaintance young lady.” His hand was cold and very dry to her touch. “And you are...?”

  “Iona. Iona Ward.”

  “Well Iona Ward, you can oweme one, but I shall take your interest as a compliment,”he coughed,“although too many compliments like that and I’ll be begging for a living.” His cough rumbled into a laugh and back again. For a brief moment Iona noticed a peculiar striped line around Arthur’s neck as he bent forward chuckling. It disappeared under his collar again as he composed himself.

  He handed her one of the brochures the tourists had been carrying.

  “Um,”Iona snapped her eyes away from Arthur’s neck as he looked into her face,“I was interested in what you said about Dick Turpin.”

  “Oh yes?”Arthur’s eyes lit up.

  “Yeah, my great-great-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats-great-grandfather was a highwayman. My grandmother tells me about it every time she sees me.”

  “Well really, that’s fascinating, do you know anything about him?”

  “His name was Tom King. I think he was supposed to be a friend of Dick Turpin.”

  Arthur looked a little awestruck for a moment, but he soon regained his composure. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. You must come on my next walk. Yes, come along for the whole kit-and-caboodle next time.”

  Iona promised that she would, and ran home wearing the first genuine smile that had crossed her face since being excluded from school.

  Chapter Five

  Grief at the Graveside

  Oh! Hey, Gibbs, someone just walked over my grave,”the Ghost of Higginswaite House said with a shudder.“When the living say that they simply have no idea!”

  “You think you've got problems?”retorted his gibbering companion (the ghost of a medieval lute player, known locally as the‘Mental Minstrel of Mimsgate-upon-Mudd’but‘Gibbs�
��to his few friends). “You've got yourself a nice quiet resting-place in a country churchyard. My grave was never marked, and they went and built Junction 33 of the M1 motorway on top of it.”

  “Well at least that explains the gibbering!”observed the Higginswaite Ghost, shaking his head, which suddenly felt like it was taking a ride on a roller-coaster without the rest of his body. He had several friends who could actually send their heads on fairground rides while their bodies pursued other interests, however, this was not one of Higginswaite’s tricks.

  As a ghost he was used to giving other people creepy feelings, but felt a deep injustice when on the receiving end. “I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight.”

  “I’vegot a bad feeling most n-nights.”Gibbs added, and let out a particularly violent gibber,“Hga, hga naaa wububub egh! I think another bus-load of French exchange students just drove across my grave. What’s going on over your resting-place has to be a picnic by comparison.”

  * * *

  Not far away four priests sat around a tombstone. They had just dug a deep hole, and were sweating from their labours.

  Their tall leader, Father Pious, placed the skull they had just exhumed on top of the gravestone. He squatted down eyeing the inscription, while he rubbed the three-pronged scar on his chin through his neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully.

  “Here lie the mortal remains of Archibald Higginswaite. May he rest in peace.” Father Pious snorted,“Rest in peace? Not without our help!”

  Father Thomas, one of his assistants, cleared his throat: he had joined Father Pious only three weeks before, and was finding his new post puzzling and difficult. Father Pious had grown tired of his questions after less than an hour. Thomas was aware of his leader’s impatience, but still he had to ask:

  “This ritual will really summon the ghost?”

  “Correct.”

  As they were speaking a third priest was pouring a line of holy water from an old plastic cider bottle in a large circle surrounding the group and the grave.

  “And when they are summoned they can’t vanish?”

  “Correct.”

  “And they can’t leave the circle?”

  “Correct.”

  “So we can exorcise them?”

  “Correct! Otherwise I could think of several thousand things I’d rather be doing at two in the morning than be stuck in a graveyard in the middle of nowhere with someone who keeps asking the most infuriating questions!”

  “But then why don’t we use this method more often?”

  His leader rolled his eyes impatiently:“Firstly, we do not always have the luxury of knowing where the ghost’s body is,” continuing with a sigh,“and secondly, the materials are costly. It is more economical to catch them in their haunting grounds.”

  “Alright you three, back to work.”The priest was now addressing the whole group. “Check your weapons. Safety-catches off. Prayer books out. Let’s go!”

  Shotguns in one hand, prayer books in the other, the four figures sat around the open grave.

  They began to chant slowly, their deep voices echoing off the wall of the small church, whose stone bulk hid them in shadow even from moonlight. The only light came from the small pen-lights they held in the same hand as their books, giving just enough light to read the well-rehearsed words.

  “Woe to you who strive with your Maker.

  Woe to you who ate the fruit of the forbidden tree.

  Woe to you whose souls refuse their promised rest.”

  The skull on the tombstone began to glow with a faint green light, and features started to materialise around it.

  * * *

  Half a mile away the Ghost of Higginswaite House felt his head dissolve.

  “Oh no!”cried Gibbs,“The headless look does not suit you at all. It’s soooseventeenth c-century!”

  * * *

  The priests watched as the ghost of Archibald Higginswaite appeared around his skull. First the head, followed by the rest of the body. The spirit realised just in time what was happening, and ducked behind his tombstone as it was shattered by the blasts from four shotguns.

  He tried to dematerialise, but found he could not. He tried to run into the night, but found he was unable to pass the invisible barrier created by the priests’ritual. In desperation he lunged at the youngest and most frightened-looking of his attackers from behind, pulling the young priest’s gun back against his neck so that he could act as a living shield against the weapons of the others.

  Father Pious did not hesitate. He pointed his gun at the two struggling figures and fired. The shot tore at the side of his comrade’s face, who fell to the ground howling in pain. The ghost disappeared. The priest found the spirit’s surprised expression as he vanished so irritating, that he spat into the open grave.

  Once he was certain that no visible trace of the ghost lingered in the night air, he knelt by the sobbing figure of Father Thomas, pulling the young man’s hands away from his face so that he could inspect the damage. It was only minor. Most of the shot had hit the ghost behind him.

  “The wounds speak of your commitment my son. Wear the scars with pride.”

  * * *

  The Mental Minstrel of Mimsgate-upon-Mudd arrived at the scene too late. From the psychic energy still buzzing in the air he could tell that his friend’s ghost had been exorcised. His form solidified in a tree overlooking the graveyard and he took in the scene. If these four black figures were powerful enough to destroy the Ghost of Higginswaite House he did not stand a chance on his own.

  “I will avenge you my dear friend,”he whispered into the night. “I will summon the Parliament of the Dead. I will have revenge.”

  Just then a convoy of cattle trucks turned off the M1 at Junction 33 and the minstrel was dislodged from his branch. With a cry he fell from the tree.

  The four priests turned to see a glowing transparent shape fall to the ground and disappear into the earth, vanishing in a swirl of leaves.

  * * *

  “Ess many mile to London Town, yes?”asked the Italian priest.

  Father Pious yawned. “Two hundred and fifty. But first we rest.”

  * * *

  Deep underground the minstrel was gibbering uncontrollably.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Don’t Trust Him’

  Iona asked her mother for money to go to the cinema:

  “No.”

  She asked for money to go ice-skating:

  “No.”

  She asked for money to get an‘eat-as-much-as-you-like’buffet in Chinatown:

  “No. You’ve been suspended from school Iona. It’s supposed to be a punishment.” Iona regretted asking, as her mother continued,“You are notgoing to enjoy yourself in town. You’re missing school, so go and do something educational. The National Gallery and the British Museum are free.”

  Iona decided to go on a tour of local tattoo artists. Her mission was to find one willing to give her a tattoo of a skull on her ankle (most said you had to be eighteen). She had no money and no desire for a tattoo but she wanted to feel she could have one if she wished.

  She would need to look older for this mission, so she made her face look paler with baby powder, and then hurriedly applied as much black eye-liner and mascara as she could, while her mother was in the bathroom. Grabbing her bag, she ran out of the house before Tiggy could see the results.

  “Don’t forget your mobile, and text me!” Her mother’s voice followed her through the door.

  Once outside, her first stop was Body Shop, where she applied the darkest lipstick she could find among the testers

  Then she found a bench where she sat and consulted the page she had torn from the Yellow Pages.

  However, after exploring several possibilities, she found the tattoo parlours smaller, less glamorous, and altogether creepier than she expected. She needed something new to do.

  Putting her hands into her pockets she discovered the leaflet Arthur had given her from‘London Sightseeing Ghost Walks.’ She co
uldn’t pay to go on a walk, but maybe she could help out; carry his bag or something.

  * * *

  Fortunately Arthur was in the small office on the South Bank when Iona arrived. He was talking to a fat, knobbly-nosed man with a Cockney accent who was sitting behind a tiny, untidy desk.

  They turned when they saw her at the door.

  “Ah, Miss Ward isn’t it?”Arthur extended a sallow hand.

  Iona was taken aback that he had remembered her name.

  Arthur could tell she was surprised. “I’ve never forgotten a name in all my years,”he explained with a wink.

  “Except for old what’shisname!”chuckled his friend,“and old thingymejig!”

  Arthur sighed. “Miss Ward, this is William. William, this is Miss Ward.”

  William looked at Iona’s pale face and dark eyes. “’Ere, Art, she’s not…”He leaned forward and continued in a whisper,“…she’s not one of themis she?”

  Arthur waved his arm as if to clean the suggestion from the air.

  “She’s my favourite gate-crasher of the week. Come to pay this time?”

  “Actually, I haven’t got any money,”Iona admitted, looking sheepish. “I wondered if I could help you on your next walk?”

  Arthur rolled his eyes.

  “No way if you don’t pay. Sorry darlin’,”sniffed William.

  Arthur gave his friend a quick glance, then turned to Iona. “Well,”he began thoughtfully,“I suppose I could do with an extra pair of hands on my next walk. It’s for a group of primary school children, and it starts in about 20 minutes. If you can stop the little darlings running into the traffic you can be my assistant.”

  * * *

  Iona could tell that Arthur’s experience of children was limited. He kept running his hands through his mop of white hair and tugging at his collar while he looked at his charges nervously.