Europalia

Prologue

Deep in the heart of the Vatican events are moving at a pace. The takeover is complete and as yet, there has been no mention on any of the planetary news-webs. The holy men, those of higher rank, have been replaced by more trustworthy agents. Proper subordinates who will follow orders no questions asked, and that is as it should be.

There can be no mistakes this time, not like six months previously when a lesser servant of the Lurking Peril failed. The plan was good but it lacked subtlety as most reality shows do.

The warlock, Garenthis, settles back in the Papal throne and observes through his reptilian yellow eyes, one he has spared. The highest no less and one who claims to have the ear of God. He hopes the human does otherwise sparing him would be pointless. Still, he knows God will come, or at least, one of his subordinates will, and then they can have a little chat.

Garenthis chuckles, his black, forked tongue poking between thin, scaly lips, and he wonders if Lucifer might show his absurd red face. Again, he hopes so as there is something waiting for them both.

He peers sideways at his little surprise, floating on the holy altar only a few yards from his throne. It’s truly beautiful, the way it swirls and changes through the colours of the rainbow. He even admires the miniature tornadoes racing throughout, hitting the red energy ropes holding the anomaly down, before bouncing back towards the bright emerald centre.

He knows the thing isn’t truly her as she is well under wraps with his master, the Lurking Peril. Her power though must be impressive, to be able to manifest a part of her being outside the prison at the planet’s core.

Garenthis waves a clawed hand for the genuflecting Pope to be returned to his cell. Only when alone will he marvel at the sight of the imprisoned Omni, Flora, in only a tiny fraction of her glory.

God and Lucifer will be truly impressed once they have finished soiling themselves.

It’s now a matter of time but the warlock isn’t concerned. He has been waiting thousands of years for his turn, so a few more days won’t be a problem.

Chapter One

V.I.P.E.R.

There is a very big house, the biggest in fact, that being the Houses of Parliament, in the splendid city of London. The wonderful city with its dirty streets, traffic problems, beggars, astronomical pollution levels, fat-cat bankers, more beggars, misspelt graffiti on the railway lines, dubious brown-tinted river, a few more beggars, and the occasional interesting bit of history. All hail London!

Inside the Commons House, the UQ Prime Minister, Davey Macaroon, is fending off the last few questions he will face for a while. Parliament is about to break for its usual mid-month two week holiday and all eyes are on the clock. Actually, they’re not on the clock as they’re waiting for a bell to chime, that of Big Benji.

It is dress-down Friday, so Davey stands in his moccasins, overlong Bermuda shorts, ‘I Love Maggie’ T-shirt, and a straw boater with ‘Kiss Me Quick’ written on the front, although some juvenile scallywag has scribbled out ‘Quick’ and written the word ‘Arse’ in black felt-tip.

Beside and behind Davey sits his faithful host and all are constantly peeking at their twenty-eight carat gold wristwatches.

Across the floor sit the opposition, them being the Belaboured Party led by man-of-the-people, installed by popular Union demand, Fred Shopfloor. Curiously, he’s dressed in a dirty boiler suit but he does have a knotted hanky on his head, so he’s making an effort.

Beside him are the newcomers to the political fold and joint leaders of the SNPP, the Scottish National Piscine Party. The big fish, Asslick Salmon isn’t exactly sitting, more like resting in a large, glass water tank, his damp, scaly head poking above the surface. Around him swims Sticky Sturgeon, a much smaller orange fish, which occasional jumps out of the water and squeals something nonsensical before flopping back in.

As Davey flicks through a thick folder, one containing his Posh-History homework, he attempts to answer the latest question relating to the National Heretic Service, the NHS, and its apparent downward spiral into oblivion. Sadly, for the questioner, Davey is interrupted by a distinct and welcome sound.

Bing-Bong-Ding-Dong, Bing-Bong-Ding-Dong!

There it is - home time. Chaos erupts but one and all are unceremoniously brought to an abrupt halt on hearing the resounding bash of a heavy, wooden hammer. A pack-up-and-run cacophony suddenly becomes a game of musical statues and all eyes turn to he who has the power, the Speaker, Johnny Berk-Oh. ‘Order, order, nobody leaves until I say. That bell is for me ladies and gentlemen and not you. Everyone sit back down,’ he demands, but then notices a limp-wristed hand raised on the opposition bench. ‘Yes Mr Shopfloor, what is it?’

‘Mister Speaker, Eric Piccalilly is eating in class,’ says the Belaboured leader, his words issuing forth from a mouth encompassed by a straggly, working-man’s beard.

All eyes turn to a large man, a few rows back from the PM.

Eric looks up and half a biscuit falls from his multi-chinned jowls. ‘Doh I’b dot.’

The Speaker raps his hammer hard. ‘We all know Sir Eric has a gland problem and his round appearance is nothing to do with him stuffing his face every waking minute,’ he says, his attention turning to the chubby MP. ‘However, I do hope you brought enough for everyone, Mr Piccalilly?’

‘No, it’s all mine! Fuck off, I’m not full up yet,’ growls Eric, wrapping his chunky arms around his tuck-stash.

As the laughter begins, the Speaker growls and fixes all present with a withering stare. ‘Right, I’ll take no more of this. When I next bang my hammer you’ll all stand quietly and file out in a dignified and orderly manner. If I hear any talking then the culprit will be locked in my office for three minutes with my wife, Dilly-Dally-Sally, and let me tell you, she’s an animal. Now then, don’t forget to do your homework while on your well-earned break and if any of you send me a selfie, I’ll beat you with the Ceremonial Mace on your return. Okay, you may …’ but he gets no further and groans at the ensuing unruly exodus.

So that’s it for the hard-working politicians. Two more weeks of lounging in the sun and not being able to bugger up everything they get their hands on, thus fulfilling the age old political mantra – ‘if it ain’t broke, sod around with it until it is.’ For a scant few though, that’s not quite it, as they have one more task to take care of before hitting the beaches and penny-arcades. A very important task and one that will require the greatest minds and might the UQ possesses; the politicians as well. The party leaders are off elsewhere, heading to a mega-secret location deep in the heart of London. They are heading to a convening of V.I.P.E.R. that which is an emergency response to evil, foul threats to the homeland.

Davey Macaroon, Fred Shopfloor, and the SNPP leaders, their tank on a trolley, exit the chamber but unlike the other ruffians, they turn left into a different corridor. Davey skips merrily across the parquet flooring, Fred smiles proudly at the rubbish strewn everywhere as the cleaners are still on strike, while the piscine twins are doing what fish always do - look gormless.

Minutes later they are outside the rear exit of the house and entering the Parliamentary minibus, with darkened windows, taser-slits, and roof-mounted water/ethanol cannon. The vehicle itself is unmarked so as not to draw attention but if a commoner were to get too close, the paintwork has an anti-peasant coating.

Davey gets the passenger seat with Fred sitting behind, as there’s more room for a working-class man. Sticky and Asslick are placed in the rear on a waterproof tarpaulin, their tank tied down. The minibus moves away, exits the gates, pulls onto the public highway, and picks up speed.

‘I say driver, could you slow down,’ asks Davey, nervously fiddling with his amusing hat, as he’s thrown sideways in his seat due to the erratic driving.

‘Sorry Guvnor but that’s a gibber, gibber, ginger hair no,’ says the curiously familiar red-haired driver.

‘Slow down,’ insists Davey, turning to the man. ‘Hold on, aren’t you that presenter chap, the one rising fast in the Best Presenter charts and tipped for an award next time round?’

‘No Guvnor, that’s not me,’ says the man, continually looking sideways at the PM.

Davey momentarily glances ahead and sees an old woman running for cover. ‘Dear God man, keep your eyes on the road! It is you. You’re Crispy Evans, the presenter and gazillionaire.’

‘Sorry Guvnor, never heard of him,’ says Crispy, turning back to the road, his eyes going wide. ‘Zebra crossing!’ he shouts and ripping the steering wheel round, skilfully manages to avoid the terrified pedestrians.

The minibus careens on accompanied by the sound of relieved gibbering and the tyres screech as the vehicle is driven through the city by a madman. Eventually the PM finds his voice again, although it’s somewhat stuttering. ‘Crispy Evans, I order you to slow …’

‘Okay Guvnor, braking!’ shouts Crispy, placing both feet on the brake pedal and the vehicle skids to a swift, swerving halt, narrowly avoiding some long abandoned roadwork cones.

Inertia is a wonderful thing and Fred Shopfloor gets a good soaking as a wave of water surges forward. He has his reinforced knotted hanky hard hat to thank for not be brained by a fast moving Sticky Sturgeon, who bounces back into the fish tank.

In the front, the Prime Minister is sat bolt upright, his face white. He slowly turns his head and sees they have stopped at a Kebabys™ Drive-Thru. He notes the signs which read: All Meals May Contain Piss or Phlegm, and at the far exit: We Hate You, Please Come Again.

‘I’ll order,’ says Crispy, reaching for a buzzer on a stainless steel post outside his window. ‘We’ll have five Kebabys™ Big Benji Bongers with Special Associated Sauce.’

‘Yummily infidelicious. Take the left lane,’ responds a tinny sounding, male voice.

‘Right you are,’ says Crispy, putting his full weight on the accelerator pedal. ‘We’re off!’

The minibus shoots forward, takes the left lane and enters a whole new world, through a cascading red-tinted wall of water, masquerading as a bloodied waterfall. The vehicle is now in a concrete tunnel, lit by blinking fluorescent tube lighting and it continues on, now with headlights blazing.

The concrete descent ramp continually switches back, and is a blur for those inside the vehicle. Though honestly, all the passengers have their eyes closed, except for the piscine twins who have no eyelids.

Crispy is laughing manically in between his bouts of gibbering and after the umpteenth turn the brake pedal is trodden on. The minibus squeals to a sliding halt leaving a trail of smoke and the terrible smell of burning rubber. He turns to the PM. ‘Right Guvnor, that’ll be a hundred quid for the fare, fifty for your fish friends soaking the seats and another twenty because your mate back there has stained the seats with elbow-grease.’

The PM slowly turns to Crispy. He’s in no fit state to argue but an instinct has kicked in and he raises an eyebrow, slyly. ‘So that’s fifty pounds in total.’

‘Nice try Guvnor, but even us ginger cabbies can add up. We both know that’s a hundred and forty,’ snorts Crispy.

Davey Macaroon nods, takes his wallet from his jacket pocket and opens it. Inside is a wad of coloured, paper notes which look suspiciously like toy money. ‘Ah yes, no problem, here’s a hundred, twenty, and twenty. Thank you Crispy, it’s almost been a pleasure.’

Crispy stares down at the notes in his hand. ‘Don’t forget the tip, Guvnor,’ he says, winking.

‘Of course, silly me, here’s your tip. Never drive like that again or I’ll set the Mayor, Porridge Johnson, on you. He’s not scary but he’ll babble you to death. Is that good enough?’

Crispy huffs and bangs the dashboard, ‘You tight bast…’

‘Uh, uh, Crispy,’ says a smiling Davey. ‘Remember that my Chancellor, Georgie Frogspawn, has seen your tax returns and how interested would your radio show listeners be on hearing you own the rights to every song you play. You make a fortune from them.’

‘Let’s call it a fiver then,’ says Crispy, grinning sheepishly at being found out.

‘I think we’ll call it quits.’

‘A pound then as transporting your mate Fred counts as a special-needs journey.’

‘Quits,’ insists the PM smiling smugly.

Crispy knows he’s beaten but with a touch of decency he helps his passengers alight the vehicle. As he roars away he drops the party leaders’ wallets, those he has lifted, onto the passenger seat. He winks at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘Suckers.’

Davey Macaroon adjusts his t-shirt and strolls to an impressive, solid-metal set of double doors. Beside the doors, one each side, stands an armed Kebaby™ chef. Both are sporting a pair of long, serrated kebab knifes and are sneering beautifully beneath their thick moustaches. Davey reaches for his red V.I.P.E.R. pass card, the one in his wallet. He rifles through his Bermuda shorts pockets but finds nothing and then turns to the guards and smiles, embarrassingly. Luckily, entry is gained when the guards inexplicably go on strike after a quick chat with the Belaboured Party leader.

The small group enters a metal-clad corridor, the fish twins on their trolley and being pushed by man-of-the-people, Fred. After a short walk they are inside a large room, with an oak, oval table, plush leather chairs and banks of screens covering every available inch of wall space. As the last of the chairs are filled by those just arrived, the PM addresses the group.

‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. We have a heinous, foul, and downright disgusting deed to discuss so we’ll get on. Yes?’ asks Davey, seeing a woman he doesn’t recognise who is waving a hand in the air. She has an unsettling smile and he feels a shiver run down his spine.

‘Good afternoon Prime Minister, I’m Dawn from HR. I’ll be facilitating today’s meeting as well as representing diversity, equality, respect, and other past reality show winners. I think it would be useful if we undertake a short bonding session,’ says the woman, sporting a punchable grin.

Davey peers at everyone in turn, wondering if he has slipped into an alternate universe, one straight from Hell. ‘Dawn, from HR? With all due respect, I think that’s unnecessary.’

‘Sorry, but we must stick to protocol. It’s only right we have a brief, getting to know you session, an icebreaker perhaps. In front of you all there is a blank piece of paper. Write your name on the top as well as three interesting facts about yourself, then pass it to the person on your left.’

Davey shakes his head. ‘Excuse me but the clock is ticking.’

Dawn, from HR, totally ignores the PM’s protests and smiles, irritatingly. ‘Now, when I point to you, read something from the piece of paper and we’ll find we respect each other, especially you disabled, transgender, smelly, or generally useless people. As the HR representative here today I must point out that any sniggering is unacceptable as that’s bullying and you’ll be frowned at. Okay everyone, get writing.’

As Dawn smiles, weirdly, Davey reaches a hand under the table, presses a button he never thought he’d have to use and a seated figure is forcefully catapulted upwards, through a newly opened hole in the ceiling. He titters in embarrassment and reaches for the next button, realising that having accidentally ejected Courtney, from Admin, there’ll be no minutes taken. With a seriously patronising frown aimed at the PM, Dawn from HR goes through the roof … the ceiling in fact.

The PM adjusts his comical hat and gets down to business. ‘Right then, there are no fire alarms expected but if it does sound, follow me out the door. For anybody needing the toilet, we’re all sat on Commode-Ready-Suction-Chairs, but please be discreet. Anybody wanting to smoke must stay exactly where they are as we’re far too important for smoking laws to apply so puff away. If you’re peckish there’s a Lazy-Susan in the middle of the table, she’ll prepare whatever you want and know that she’s earning a living wage, so leave her alone Fred. Okay, we’re done with the formalities so let’s get down to …’

Sadly for Davey, the chapter unexpectedly comes to an end.

Chapter Two

Death of a Hero

There is a home, a detached three-up and two-downer with a splendid front garden. Surrounding the property is a strong iron-railing fence with a padlocked gate to the fore. A sign is nailed to the gate: Beware of the Dog! As with many houses sporting such a sign, there isn’t a dog. However, putting up a sign saying: Beware of the Beast Capable of Biting you in Half, would most likely be frowned upon by the locals.

Within the garden sits a stocky creature, about the size of a bulldog. It appears docile enough, but looks can be deceiving. For those brave souls willing to take a closer look, they would see it appears more porcine than canine, bald except for a few tufts of red hair on its head, sharp protruding teeth and a curiously blue face. On very close inspection, by a particularly courageous person, one in the know, they’d recognise it as a Haggi, the extremely rare national animal of Scotland. This one appears to be thriving in its new homeland, the village of Royal Wellorf Wells in one of the few remaining rural parts of the county of Kent, in the south-east of the United Queendom. It is currently spitting out black feathers, those of a crow, which was far too inquisitive for its own good. Still, he was only playing.

The beast is sitting on a lush green lawn bordered by planted beds containing blooms of all shapes, sizes and colours. Attached to the lawn, the house in fact, there’s an expanse of decking with more flora but these are potted.

Upon the decking is a glass-top table surrounded by four metal-framed chairs. There’s an umbrella raised, above but that’s purely for shade purposes. The sun is out, the sky is blue, there’s not a cloud to spoil the view and it most certainly isn’t grit-coaling, or raining maybe.

Below the umbrella sits a tanned, tattooed man, who has taken time out of his busy schedule to visit an old friend. Fillipo appears not to have a care in the world as he whistles quietly to himself and flicks through the pages of the early morning newspaper. It’s The Stun and was delivered to the reinforced titanium gate-box a few minutes earlier by a fearful and reluctant papergirl who took off pretty sharpish on her bicycle.

Fillipo, dressed in a yellow t-shirt, pink shorts and green flip-flops, turns the newspaper’s front cover and his eyes go wide. He sees a massive pair of frontal lady-glands but also a nice story about an Australian shark, a big male one, which after months of counselling has recently turned vegetarian.

He swiftly turns the page and sees a story that makes him smile, it bringing back memories of a feted reality show, six months ago. A tiny woman who robs cash machines, armed only with a plastic ladder, has been caught on CCTV. Allegedly, she’s aided by a large, ginger tomcat, which leaves his calling card on the number pad, it being a wonderfully sculpted turd of a human hand with the middle finger extended.

Fillipo flicks through the pages and another story catches his eye. It relates to the enormous Gulag-type holding pens that sprang up after the fall of the reality shows. It tells of the wannabe Lower-Than-Z-List celebrities who have nowhere else to go and the headline reads ‘It’s A National Disgrace.’ The half-page picture shows a row of desperate, moronic faces, peering forlornly from the page. The chairperson of the After Reality Show Executive, the man in the middle, is quoted as saying, ‘they are working hard to find a solution.’

Again, the pages are turned and this time Fillipo’s expression switches from amusement to one of seriousness. He reads the story.

‘There is still no news on the ex-Spewsnight convict, Jeremiah Paxo-man, who has taken it upon himself to rid the UQ of the evil which besets it. The vigilante, middle-aged, of medium build, very poorly dressed and wielding a wickedly sharp Russell Canadian Belt Knife was last seen by his political victims and nobody else. The public are encouraged not to approach him, unless they’re extremely stupid and have nothing to lose.’

Fillipo flicks the page and the smile returns, though he’s unsure why. Curiously, the page is blank apart from a few words in the middle, which read ‘Move on quickly, there’s nothing to read here.’ He sees the number 13 in the top, right corner and obeys the instruction.

The tanned and tattooed man continues to flick, his boredom growing, but he stops and turns back a page. A picture has caught his eye, that of a recognisable man, under the main heading ‘World News.’ He starts to read and slivers of ice slide down his spine.

‘It was reported today that on the island of Thailand, Sir Devbo, former conjoined member of the multi-award winning pairing Anton Dev, fell to his death from a Buggerist Monk monastery built on a thousand-foot high volcanic stack. Sir Devbo is due to be buried …’

Fillipo drops the paper and his mouth falls open. He glances at it again, but no, he read it right the first time.

A glass patio door at the rear of the house slides open and Anton steps through. He’s carrying a laden breakfast tray and is wearing one of those really funny aprons, depicting a naked woman. A pair of jugs can be seen, one of milk and the other, orange juice.

‘What a lovely morning. I’ve made us breakfast and I know you’re vegetarian so I cooked yours in a different pan,’ says Anton, momentarily appearing thoughtful. ‘Why is it they make vegetarian food in the shape of meat products? It’s a bit weird if you ask … are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he says, peering with concern.

Fillipo’s eyes are fearful, staring directly at his friend, as a shaking finger points to the dropped newspaper on the table. ‘B-big Anton.’

‘What is it?’ asks Anton, placing the tray down.

‘Look at the paper.’

Anton glances down at the newspaper and gasps loudly. ‘Blimey, I can’t believe it. You were looking at the lass-melons page and all this time I thought you were … you know …’

The tanned man shakes his head, looks at the newspaper, and swiftly flips the pages, which had been turned by the early morning breeze. ‘What? No, I’m not like that. I’m just comfortable in other men’s company and not afraid to show my feelings,’ says Fillipo, his words becoming quieter. ‘I’m so sorry, but you need to read this.’

Anton sighs loudly. ‘Okay, but I’ve no idea why you read this rubbish. Devbo used to and I told him the same,’ he says, and a wistful smile brightens his face. ‘I know I shouldn’t say it, but even after six months, I miss him. He’s doing so great and I got another letter yesterday. Shall I read it to you?’

‘But big Anton, Devbo’s d-dead.’

‘I know, he’s dead chuffed. I’ll read you his latest letter,’ says Anton, removing it from his apron pocket. ‘It says, Hi Anton, my ex-conjoined brother. The last six months in Thailand has been fantastic. I’ve just finished building another school for the kiddies out of sticks, spit and hair, and that’s four in all now. There are five rooms in this one and I’ve made desks and chairs out of faeces from the locals. I’m even teaching them our language and yesterday we did the letters Y and I. They’ll be talking it proper in no time, like what I do. I also had a run in with a bunch of nasty bastards, but I showed them. I were only armed with … oh, hold on, there’s someone strange in the monastery courtyard, I’ll be back in a tic. Can I help you? What do you, aargh…!’

Fillipo sees the dreamy look on Anton’s face. He doesn’t want to burst his friend’s bubble but knows he must. ‘Don’t you think that letter’s a bit peculiar? It sounds to me like he may have been in trouble.’

‘Ah, shut up and eat your breakfast, man,’ says Anton, playfully. ‘If Devbo were in trouble he’d write and tell me,’ he says, but his expression turns thoughtful and he looks at the letter again. ‘Actually, now you mention it, that ending were a bit strange.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Fillipo, sniffing and wiping a hand under his nose.

‘He usually adds kisses but he’s not camp. He’s just in touch with himself but not actually touching himself. I don’t mean it like that. I mean …’

Fillipo places a hand on Anton’s wrist. ‘I understand, I truly do, and you’d better read the newspaper.’

‘I don’t want to look at lasses udders,’ says Anton, peering disgustedly at the paper. ‘Close that thing … you’re joking!’

Fillipo sees the torment on his friend’s face and can no longer contain his own pain. As the tears start to fall, running like little streams from a saturated incontinence pad, he reaches out to a friend in need. ‘I’m so sorry, big Anton.’

‘Newcastle lost again, and to the Sunderland third-eleven with disabilities. That’s bloody typical and their striker scored a hat-trick despite being in a coma,’ growls Anton, adding muttered curses under his breath.

Fillipo jolts, stares at the newspaper and turns the pages to the correct one. ‘No, read this.’

Anton tuts and reads aloud. ‘It was reported today that on the island of Thailand, Sir Devbo, former conjoined member of the multi-award winning pairing Anton Dev, fell to his death from a Buggerist Monk monastery built on a thousand-foot high volcanic stack. Sir Devbo is due to be buried …’

Anton pauses, blinks rapidly and rereads the article. He stops and slowly he turns to his friend. His hands are trembling and his mouth is making like a goldfish but he eventually finds his voice. ‘It’s a fucking lie!’ he shouts.

‘I really hope so, but this is The Stun and they’ve never printed falsehoods before, ever.’

‘It’s a lie,’ growls Anton, hearing a knocking by the garden gate. ‘There’s the post, go and get it.’

Fillipo dismisses the angry tone and heads to the front gate before Snuggly, Anton’s Haggi companion, gets a whiff of the postman and bites a hole through the fence. A letter is gratefully handed over and the deliverer returns to his van with all swiftness.

The Thai postmark is plain to see and Fillipo shudders. He takes the letter to Anton who tears it open. He watches his friend read it, though how, considering how much Anton’s hands are shaking. On finishing, Anton is deathly still and the letter is dropped. His eyes roll up, showing only whites, and it takes all Fillipo’s strength to prevent the man from crashing through the top of the glass table.

Fillipo has managed to settle Anton into one of the chairs, placing him in the shade. A glass of juice is sitting in front of him but his eyes are staring forward, blank and expressionless. Understandably, there are tears on his cheeks, though they’ve dried, leaving only streaks.

‘Big Anton, what does the letter say?’ asks Fillipo, his tone gentle.

Anton replies croakily. ‘Read it.’

‘I shouldn’t,’ says Fillipo. ‘You read it to me, however painful it will be. Have some juice and begin when you’re ready. I’m going nowhere old friend.’

Anton takes the glass and downs the contents, then begins. ‘Dear Anton, I have grave news to tell. I must inform you that Devbo passed away today. He was thrown from the monastery by an unknown assailant and our investigation is currently ongoing. I’d like to say he died peacefully, but he didn’t. He screamed the whole way down the thousand-foot drop and his body hit many crags and crevices. Three quarters of his limbs, that’s three in total, were torn from his body, as were his ears, nose, both eyebrows and an undetermined amount of skin. When we found his much abused body at the base of the volcanic stack we almost mistook him for a gibbon that had been tenderised by Moneekar. Devbo didn’t survive, I’m so sorry. My best guess is that evil is abroad once more. An old enemy is moving and I fear for us all. Regards, The Great Bellendi. P.S. Call in the team and get here fast!’

‘Anton?’ asks Fillipo.

‘Get me the fucking phone … please.’

Along the lane, a postman in a red van is watching the pair through binoculars. Having steamed open the letter, read it, then resealed it, he knows he must report to his superior, the warlock, Garenthis. Firstly he needs to ditch the van, consume the body of the real postman lying in the back, and then transport himself to the Vatican. A promotion is likely in the offing and with Devbo disposed of; plans made long ago can be sped up.

Chapter Three

Old Friends

There is a small terrace of cottages, four in fact, and curiously three have a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front garden. The only inhabited one is in the middle, just left of centre. This particular cottage is a splendid example of a chocolate-box country dwelling. There’s an unevenly tiled roof, whitewashed external walls with black painted timber frames and a quaint, low, warped front door with long riveted hinges. As picture-postcard looks go - it’s a doozy.

The inside is no less impressive and equally charming, with a cellar which is being utilised as a model workshop, with a long workbench, racks of plastic components and shelves full of manuals and magazines.

Sadly, there isn’t much of a garden as the married couple who live there have much more important hobbies to fill their time. The front is gravelled, acting as a parking space, and the rear is mostly lawn, although a large, plastic chicken coop can be seen.

Quite pleasant, one might think, though on closer inspection it would be hard to find more frightened fowl. It would also be difficult to discover chickens anywhere on the planet that lay more eggs than these. Allegedly, they have been known on occasion to lay two eggs at once, especially when being stared at by the lady of the house.

Moneekar, dressed in her assistant chef whites, is currently in the kitchen preparing breakfast, but only her own. She doesn’t appear happy as she rips off the fridge door, drops it on the lino floor, and searches for the streaky bacon. The pack has sensibly slunk to the back and is hiding behind an assortment of fine cheeses.

There is a constant knocking on the front door but she’s trying to ignore it. She knows who it is and considers shoving a baguette through the open letterbox the man is shouting through, knocking him senseless. She dismisses the idea as that would be wasting food which for her is a deadly sin.

‘Moneekar love, the door won’t open. I think a chair has accidently fallen beneath the handle. Moneekar!’ shouts Walshy Loo, ex-reality show judge, while constantly shoving against the timber door.

The woman tries to remain calm but fails and a faux-marble kitchen worktop receives a knife imbedded up to the handle. ‘Walshy, you bastard, you’ve been messing with that slag from down the road. I bloody hate you!’

‘That’s not true my snarling angel. I’ve only been talking to Delphine about a possible plastic and metal merger. Her talent with stainless steel and other strong alloys would complement my …’

Walshy gulps and slowly turns his head sideways. Barely an inch from his nose is the corner of a piece of wholemeal toast poking through the solid timber of the front door. It appears he has had a lucky escape but no. If his angel had meant him real harm, he’d now be brown bread. He reaches up, breaks off a piece, checks it for splinters and starts to eat. He notes it’s covered with his favourite spread, Blahmite™, and he manages a half-smile. It soon disappears.

‘I bloody hate you and I hate her! Go and sleep with the strumpet. I don’t want to see you again.’

Walshy frowns momentarily. ‘Moneekar my sweet little anvil, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only showed her my plastic bag,’ he says, suddenly squealing and ducking as half a croissant whistles through the letterbox, crosses the road, narrowly avoiding causing a road traffic collision, and disappears into the woods opposite. Moments later there is the sound of a tree branch falling and a surprised yelp from an unidentified mammal. He frowns again, wondering what he has said that was so bad.

‘You showed her your plastic bag! You said only I’d get to see your bag and that was in our marriage vows. You promised you bloody bastard. You said, I promise to love, honour, cherries, and show only my wife my special bag. You said …’ Moneekar pauses at an untimely, or perhaps timely, interruption. ‘Hold on, the phones ringing, I need to get it.’

Walshy bravely raises his head and again peeks through the open letterbox, ‘Moneekar love, plea…’

‘Shut up, the phones going,’ growls Moneekar, walking into the living room and lifting the receiver. ‘Hello … Yes, it’s Moneekar … Hi Anton, long time no … Bloody what?’

There is a prolonged pause followed by Moneekar rushing to the front door which she tears from its hinges, crushing the chair holding it shut. She lifts her husband by the front of his brown sweater and carries him inside. He’s unceremoniously