The Last Days

by Andy Dickenson

  In the bar, Tucker, the knight’s apprentice, was fumbling with a bunch of cables under a DJ stand. He’d clipped a black tie around the neck of his T-shirt and was hoping Al hadn’t noticed him. What the hell’s Six doing up there, anyway? he thought.

  And in the kitchen of the bar, Giles the cook was dreaming of his past in Hong Kong as he rolled out slabs of pastry. His thoughts tried to focus on his wife the day before she died but they kept turning to another - the face of a grinning monkey.

  Neon saw all this just as in the castle’s grand hall she watched the councillors engaged in a secret meeting, their faces lit by flaming torches as they huddled around a circular table, her mother and father among them.

  “Without Lord Truth’s powers of replication we’re doomed,” Aldred the druid was wailing. “Think of it, soon we’ll run out of everything - medicines, metals, tea!”

  “Oh, is it time for tea?” another councillor uttered from his slumber.

  “No, George, go back to sleep,” the King said calmly.

  “Seriously, Sire,” the druid continued, “what about our crops? Without the Saviour among us, surely they are bound to fail?”

  “Now that’s just nonsense, the Seekers can harness the energies we need to protect ourselves and our crops,” the King replied.

  “Leaving us all in the hands of uncontrollable prepubescent freaks,” the bearded druid muttered, both enjoying his audacity and slightly alarmed by it. He glanced carefully over at Neon’s mother, Serena Way, for some appreciation of his argument.

  He didn’t get any.

  “Order, order!” Edwin Manifold, the City’s Clerk, cried as he stroked the council’s tabby cat, Missus Wiggins.

  “The children are not freaks, nor are they uncontrollable,” Jon Way’s temper was flaring. Even being in the same room as his wife was now difficult for him.

  Neon frowned.

  “Oh come off it, Jon,” the glamorous Duchess of Luton, chairing the meeting, reasoned. “While I won’t condone calling them names we all know the children’s abilities have long outshone even your own frightening talents.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find my son-in-law’s got a few more frightening talents tucked up his sleeves, eh Jon?” Jason King, as always, tried to use humour to lighten the mood, but Neon could sense the frustration within him too. In his younger days, as a television host, he could command the attention of millions. Now he could barely control an audience of eleven, three of whom were asleep.

  “Are we sure, your highness? Are we really sure Lord Truth’s dead?” Manifold asked.

  “I saw his bones, broken, among the wreckage of Parliament,” Neon’s mother began, her voice powerful, her thoughts ethereal, floating on the wind like the peregrine falcon never far from her side. “I saw his flesh, scattered, along The Mall.”

  The council sat, spellbound, as Jon Way fumed.

  “I saw his head, impaled, above Buckingham Palace,” Serena Way continued lyrically. “I saw his spirit, drowning, under the weight of the Thames.”

  Lastly, she tossed a golden cufflink printed with Albion’s royal crest onto the table, just like the one Lord Truth had worn the day he left. “He’s dead, Mister Manifold, I assure you.”

  “So that’s where you’ve been for these past two weeks?” Neon’s father could barely contain his anger, his mind burning with fury. “You abandon your husband, your daughter, to go to London?”

  “I, I sent her,” the King muttered apologetically. “I’m sorry, I should have told you, Jon, but...”

  “My father wanted to keep it a secret,” Serena began, flustered at the thought of abandoning her child. “He feared the people would panic if they knew,” she lied.

  “A lot of difference that made, we’re all panicking!” the Duchess of Luton laughed.

  “But I wasn’t alone,” Serena composed herself. “The visitor at the gates this morning, he’d been to the city too. It was his trail I followed home.”

  “Is that really such a coincidence,” the ancient Professor Chandler asked from his wheelchair. “Surely many of our refugees first sought shelter in the south?”

  “Well, he’s not going anywhere now,” the King smiled. “Now, where is Wilfred?”

  “The Sheriff’s not important,” Aldred the druid’s voice was rising, as was his guile. “What’s important is we now have proof that Lord Truth was murdered!”

  “It’s all that matters,” the Duchess of Luton agreed. “He was the people’s Saviour, our only hope of survival.”

  The moustached Duke of Luton glanced across at the Reverend Jackson, asleep in his chair. He shook his head. “So do we know for sure then, your majesty, that it was murder?”

  “No.” The King quietly sought the hand of Carol Lee, captain of his guards, under the table. “No, but we’re looking into it, of course.”

  “What about Knight Six and the boy?” Professor Chandler asked.

  “Tucker knows little beyond the explosion,” Carol Lee replied. “Six still says she can’t remember anything.”

  “She’s lying, of course,” the King assumed. “Jon, have you had any luck examining her?”

  Neon’s father was still smouldering. He attempted to swallow his anger and now his pride. “I tried to read her mind today, your majesty, but I’m afraid all my efforts were thwarted. Either she’s experiencing some kind of mental block or she is, indeed, hiding the information somehow.”

  “With red crystals, perhaps, Jon?” the Duchess smiled. “News of their powers has rather dented your abilities of late, hasn’t it?”

  “My abilities are already limited,” Jon Way countered, gritting his teeth. “I can only probe so far into people’s minds. Perhaps not as far as some people think?”

  But Neon felt suspicions whirling around the table. Each had their own ideas, it seemed, of what her father could do. As well as who was to blame for Lord Truth’s death.

  “So, where does that leave us?” the Duke of Luton asked, losing his patience. “What do we know?”

  Carol Lee took in the eyes of all around her. “Well, I think it’s safe to assume the most powerful man in the world doesn’t just die by accident.”

  “Lord Truth wasn’t just powerful, my dear,” the Duchess persisted. “He was our Saviour.”

  Carol Lee glared at the Duchess and pushed at her bobbed, blonde hair. She didn’t like being interrupted, especially on subjects as personal as her former lover. The Duchess stiffened.

  “So,” the Captain of the Kings Guards continued, “until we know otherwise, Six has to be our number one suspect. My men and myself are watching her every move. If you’ll excuse me, your majesty, I should probably check in with them now.”

  “Of course, Carol, thank you,” the King grinned, noticeably squeezing the young captain’s hand as she left.

  Again, Neon sensed the councillors’ gossip.

  What’s that old goat up to now?

  Father, surely not?

  Wasn’t she seeing Lord Truth before?

  And then their fear returned. “King Jason what are we going to do!” the Duchess repeated, her powdered wig slipping slightly.

  Can he really be dead? the Professor pondered. Surely that knight couldn’t have done it?

  “Oh, your majesty, who are we trying to fool? Without Lord Truth, we’re doomed!”

  It was a sentiment repeated throughout the city. Neon saw it echoed in peoples’ homes, in the bar, hotel, kitchens and meeting places. She stirred up the water with her left hand and their words rippled across the surface, screaming:

  “WHO KILLED LORD TRUTH?”

  Thoughts, fears, music, even laughter - through the circles of imagination Neon Way stared behind the curtains of waking memories.

  She floated above the collective consciousness of Albion, and there she sat, waiting for her Pirate Prince.

  Chapter Ten

  KNIGHT Six sat on her bed and waited for the signal. She had a simple plan: Tucker was going to create a diversion and with i
t she would slip into Al’s offices. It was there that Grandpa’s monkey belonged. If it was still there she’d know that the man who had raised her had not killed Lord Truth, she could tell the King what had happened at Parliament and get on with her life.

  If the monkey wasn’t there however…

  Nervously, Six pulled on a pair of evening gloves and regarded herself in a long mirror. She was wearing her favourite dress. Although, to be fair, it was her only dress. It was Chinese in design and originally belonged to her grandmother, made of red silk with gold braid and a mandarin-style neck. It also happened to go perfectly with her red basketball trainers. Six wasn’t so sure about the evening gloves though and grabbed a pair of scissors from her dresser. They’re just too… pretty, she thought, and began cutting off the hands.

  The red satin came away easily and Six smiled before pulling the resulting tubes up her arms. Shimmering in the light, the slips adequately covered the scar where the lion had cut her. For weeks now she had been wearing jumpers to hide it, but tonight she wanted to look good, not just because it suited the distraction Tucker had devised, but also to build her confidence. Six needed to feel special again.

  Much better, she thought.

  Now all she had to do was wait.

  Al’s Bar had been built to resemble an old fashioned saloon but with a Celtic twist. Six had a room off the landing from which a dark wooden staircase led into the open lounge, complete with pool tables and deep leather chairs congregating around a roaring fire. A wide counter filled almost the entire end of the room, behind which Al polished glasses. He was in his sixties and, together with her grandpa, ran almost all the scams that took place in the city. Al was the brains who poured drinks, Giles was the brawn who also happened to cook the best breakfasts in town. Together they brewed beer, cider and whisky on the premises - leaving the cabinet behind Al’s scrawny frame to house hundreds of empty bottles. Anything that wasn’t fermented in the city had been supped dry long ago but the barkeep insisted in leaving the dusty vessels in place.

  “Each of these bottles is a piece of history,” Al would say, his small spectacles resting on the end of his long nose as he cleaned out tumblers. “Unlike the rest of this junk,” he’d then add, pointing to the faux Scottish shields, broadswords and tartan drapes that furnished the walls above.

  Sure enough, if Al liked the look of a man, or if he thought he might prosper, he’d then take him aside, push his spectacles back up his long nose and with a nod and a wink enquire, “Of course, if you’re looking for some genuine black market artefacts –books, jewellery, chocolate and yes, even liquor, I’m sure myself or my good friend Giles the cook here, might point you in the right direction.”

  For which very reason, Knight Six was impatiently picking at the seems of her dress when a bang sounded from downstairs, followed by a crackle and then a series of short, repetitive thuds.

  Instantly anything that wasn’t nailed down in the room leapt into the air as a bass line ripped through the building, then a drum, a high-hat, and finally a booming voice:

  “I’LL SPIN A NEW RHYME, TRY TO FORGET YOU, BUT YOU STOLE THE BEAT I STEPPED TO...”

  Six smiled and crept out of the door, peering over the balcony just long enough to see Al storming over to the decrepit DJ stand where Tucker was playing records.

  “Tucker what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he fumed.

  “What?” Tucker smiled, a pair of headphones now cutting a groove into his afro, “I can’t hear you!”

  “I said what the hell do you think you’re doing!” Al bellowed.

  “What? Oh this?” Tucker shouted back, the volume of the music mounting ever higher as the tempo throbbed:

  “DANCE WITH MY DJ UNTIL RED I GO, THEN COVER YOUR EARS AND WATCH ME BLOW…”

  “We thought we’d have a party! Six has invited everybody,” Tucker lied, at which point he looked around at the empty bar. “It’s gonna be great!”

  “IT’S A FORCE TO BE HEARD, WITH A WORD YOU CONTROL…”

  “Are you crazy?” Al screamed, running back to the counter as his precious empty bottles rattled in their cabinets, his arms spreading wide to stop them falling out.

  “MY BODY, MY DANCE, YOU’VE GOT MY SOUL…”

  “Turn it down!”

  “YOU GOT IT, YOU GOT IT, YOU, YOU, YOU, YOU GOT IT...”

  By which time Six had tip-toed out onto the creaking landing and swung across to the other side using a ceiling fan. Quickly, she then pulled a key from her handbag and crept into the barkeep’s rooms, seemingly unnoticed.

  So far, so good, she thought, blowing a strand of ginger hair out of her eyes and spitting a crystal torch from her mouth.

  Six turned the contraption on and shone it around the room, the beam instantly fixing on diamonds, antiques and oddities. When it came to real luxury no one could compete with the treasure trove to be found in Al’s office. It was like an Aladdin’s cave stuffed with almighty trinkets: gold bangles hanging from alabaster jars, strange perfumes in glittering bottles, and mementos that once seemed cheap but were now considered priceless - wooden maracas from Brazil, a rude bottle opener from Spain, snow domes from across the world.

  Few would make the long, arduous journey to Albion without some gems with which to barter - a family heirloom, a musical instrument, even a bag of sugar. Like it as not they all ended up in either Al’s or Grandpa’s possession, sometimes legitimately but more often ransacked by wardens from the bodies of plague victims executed at the city gates.

  The knights and Sir Justice turned a blind eye to this business, though the sheriff kept himself acutely aware of the nefarious pensioners’ dealings, located as he was most nights on his stool at the bar. Six and Tucker had forged their own keys to the office, for use only when they were in need of the most exotic supplies.

  But tonight’s raid was different. It was here that Six had first seen her grandfather’s clockwork monkey. She remembered Giles’s tears as he brushed away the dust from its glass and bronze case, the hatred in his eyes as he stared at its razor sharp teeth.

  “It’s only in here that it’s safe,” the old man had said. “Only in here that we’re safe from it.”

  “Are there any more like it?” Six had asked.

  “No,” he’d frowned.

  “How do you know?”

  She could still feel his plump hand with its missing little finger on her shoulder as he answered. “Because the other one killed your grandma.”

  And yet Six had seen one just like it in London, just moments before Parliament exploded. Its gnashing teeth, its cartoon eyes, even its blue fur - all exactly the same. Could it have been Grandpa’s? And if it was, how did it get there?

  Best to start at the beginning, she thought and began scanning the room.

  Each trinket bounced in time to the bass line thudding up the stairs: a crystal chandelier rattled on the ceiling, embroidered cushions fell off chairs, an Oscar statuette jumped up and down on the mantelpiece, swinging silver bracelets like hula hoops.

  A plastic thermometer from Hawaii had broken, its mercury spilling out onto a cabinet top. Six stared at the liquid metal as it glittered, sometimes grey, sometimes white, sometimes silver. It reminded her of Lord Truth, how his skin shone so strangely in sunlight.

  But Six knew the room’s greatest secrets were never left out in the open. Hastily, she began rustling through drawers, taking time to place the pair of cracked sunglasses at the back of one - Lord Truth’s sunglasses, her own secret. The office was, she thought, the best place to hide something in all of Albion, albeit in a den of thieves.

  Then she turned her attention to Al’s desk.

  Six knelt delicately on the floor, trying hard not to crease her silk dress, and stared at the safe beneath it. It had taken Tucker months of late night visits to figure its combination. Safe cracking was a difficult business, even for an accomplished thief. He had eventually designed a small digital device and convinced Eddie, the knight’s technical wiza
rd, to construct it. The machine successfully calculated the code, which the trio had kept secret ever since.

  Not that it was helping Six now. Whether through diligence or miserly suspicion the old coots downstairs had changed the combination. Six became frustrated and, after a third attempt to unlock the box failed, peered around the room for inspiration. Short of a gold letter opener she found little to help as she heaved the safe out of its cupboard. It was a simple enough contraption - an aluminium case about three feet square with an electronic lock, its weight heaviest at the front. Simple, she thought, but effective. She considered going to get Tucker’s safe-cracking toy but then remembered - Eddie had left it in London.

  Six could feel the anxiety burning her cheeks as acid swilled in her stomach. No matter, she thought, she was a knight, she was going to solve this. Granted, thieving wasn’t her speciality, but she had other talents. Cautiously, she stepped back to the door and peeked outside. Tucker’s distraction, at least, was working. Giles himself had even rushed out from the kitchen, his portly frame crashing through the swinging doors.

  “What’s going on?” he shouted, as a new tune started up and a woman sang along to a stabbing piano:

  “SOME NIGHTS I FEEL LIKE BREAKING DOWN IT’S JUST NOT FAIR, BUT THEN I ALWAYS LOOK FOR YOU.”

  “Turn it off!” Al screamed again.

  “SOME NIGHTS I SLEEP AND DREAM UNTIL I AM NOWHERE, BUT YOU’VE GOT THE LIGHT I NEED TO WAKE UP TO.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Giles shouted, his feet shuffling under his chequered apron as he moon walked across the floor. “I kind of like it.”

  Six felt tears welling up inside her as he watched him dance. He was her only family. Six’s parents had both died in the plague and Giles had brought her up. He was a criminal and a jerk but he was also funny and he gave the best cuddles in the world. She loved him. Six forced down her tears and pulled two lumps of plastic explosives from her handbag.

  ………...

  Tucker really had no idea what he was doing. The basic technology of the turntables was simple enough, even by Albion’s standards, but the sliders and knobs surrounding them were like something from a history lesson.