A whole week had passed since the disturbing incident with the creature that had emerged from the waste pipe of The Squid and Teapot’s flushing privy. A thankfully uneventful week it had been too, and the inn had once more settled into a familiar mode of life that rarely rose above the level of mild dread. The privy gurgled only occasionally, the phantom Jesuit, Father Stamage, was back to pontificating in solemn tones about the importance of roughage in the diet, and Lady Margaret once again drifted about theatrically, though she now regarded the porcelain throne with deep suspicion.
Drury, the skeletal hound, ever vigilant, maintained his post at the privy door, though whether out of duty or the faint hope of more chewable tentacle bits was anyone’s guess.
But elsewhere on the island, all was not well…
In his outwardly normal, many-roomed home, the sorcerer Durosimi O’Stoat was enjoying what he termed “an afternoon of delicate conjurations.” This, in practice, involved swanning about in a velvet dressing gown while making unsettling remarks to jars of preserved newts.
Unfortunately, after several hours of consuming delicacies that other islanders could only dream of, drinking several tumblers of single malt whisky and indulging in a certain amount of questionable spellcraft, nature called.
Pleasure bound, Durosimi, swept into his small, but surprisingly elegant privy, which was generously lined with books of dubious hygiene. A stained-glass window, depicting a slightly obscene interpretation of Venus rising from the waves, made a distinct change from the usual pane of plain frosted glass, or, more often than not on the island, no glass at all.
As he seated himself with a sigh and reached for an elderly and battered copy of Old Moore’s Almanac, Durosimi heard it…
Splorch.
A slow, sinuous slither. A faint gurgle.
He froze.
“…that was not the pipes settling,” he muttered.
It was a logical thought. Durosimi’s privy, like almost all on the island, had never known the luxury of plumbing.
Another wet scrape, and the temperature dropped. A faint sulphurous tang filled the air.
Then a pale, glistening shape pressed up through the bowl beneath him.
This was more than alarming, for to all intents and purposes, ornate though Durosimi’s lavatory was, it was still a glorified bucket with no obvious means of ingress, or indeed, egress.
With a shriek that shattered three nearby vials, Durosimi vaulted upwards, pulling his dressing gown about him like a shield. The creature surged, coiling around the pedestal and snapping at the air with its hideous, fanged mouths.
The door slammed shut of its own accord.
Durosimi was trapped.
Meanwhile, back at The Squid and Teapot, Tenzin was calmly brewing a pot of nettle tea, when a raven – one of the many who nested on Chapel Rock, not far from Chez Durosimi – landed on the windowsill, cawing frantically and dropping a scrap of parchment: Scribbled in an unsteady spidery hand was the following message:
“HELP. TRAPPED. MONSTER IN THE PRIVY. O’STOAT.”
(Don’t ask how he managed to get this note to the ravens. Everybody knows that it’s the sort of thing that sorcerers are good at.)
Philomena looked at the note and sighed.
“Of course it wasn’t going to stay away for long,” she said. “Things that are that flexible always have a nasty habit of returning.”
Rhys looked puzzled. “What’s it doing in Durosimi’s privy? There’s no plumbing in there. I know, because I used to have to empty it every few days.”
You will recall that Rhys had been the island’s Night-Soil Man for years, but gave up the prestige and glamour of the job for the love of Philomena Bucket .
“Are we really going to rescue him?” asked Tenzin. “He’s not exactly my favourite islander.”
Philomena picked up her mop and frowned. “You’re supposed to be a good Buddhist, my lad” she said sternly. “Besides, no one deserves to be eaten in their own privy. Not even Durosimi.”
Drury leapt up with a delighted rattle.
“Right then,” said Reggie, as memories of his old army glories came rushing back .
“Privy Squad… ATTENTION!”
Durosimi, meanwhile, was standing on a rickety wash-stand, wielding a gilded chamberpot like a mace, and shrieking increasingly creative curses at the advancing beast. The creature had now fully emerged, a slick, pallid coil of something ancient and wrong, studded with grasping feelers and blinking, lidless eyes.
“Back, foul sanitary demon!” he shouted. “I have defeated liches and lured star-things from beyond the void – I will not be devoured by some lavatorial eel!”
The thing hissed and lunged.
At that precise moment the privy door burst open with a crash, summoning in a storm of splintered wood, bones, a mop and plenty of righteous indignation.
Drury flew at the beast, clamping onto its flank with a victorious CLACK! Philomena strode in behind him, mop swinging, with Rhys and Reggie on her heels. Tenzin slipped in behind them, chanting an ancient, but only half-remembered, Tibetan warding spell that made the privy walls glow with faint disapproval.
“Hold still!” yelled Philomena.
“I AM TRYING!” screamed Durosimi, precariously perched on the wash-stand like an inebriated owl.
A chaotic melee ensued.
Mop struck slimy hide. Drury bit and shook. Rhys pinned a thrashing appendage under a fallen shelf. Tenzin’s incantations remained indifferent and inconsequential, and Reggie, mentally reliving his deeds in the Siege of Mafeking, managed to hit the beast on what was probably its snout with an old soap dish.
We will never know what was going on in the creature’s mind when he found himself suddenly confronted by his old foes. One can only surmise, but I imagine that it was something along the lines of: “Oh bugger! Not again?”
Finally, with a combined heave, Drury and Philomena drove the creature back into the pan. Tenzin slapped a magical seal over the bowl, having finally remembered the last few lines of the Tibetan spell (which was, incidentally, originally intended to dissuade the younger members of the local Yeti community from scrawling graffiti on the monastery walls).
The privy shuddered.
A great GLUUURRPP! echoed from the depths, and the beast was gone.
—
Durosimi, wild-eyed and dishevelled, adjusted his ruined dressing gown. “You… you saved me.”
Philomena arched a brow. “Saved you again, I would say. After all, who can forget the little matter of you being trapped in the pages of a grimoire not so long ago?”
Durosimi looked sheepish.
“Well, I am glad you were able to come to my rescue once again,” he said.
Philomena waited a moment or two for the footnote that would promise some form of pro quid quo, but to no one’s surprise it never materialised.
Drury, tailbone wagging, dropped a slimy bit of tentacle at Durosimi’s feet.
“I think it likes you,” said Reggie dryly.
“Marvellous,” groaned Durosimi, collapsing into the corner.
Back at The Squid and Teapot, as they recounted the tale over stiff drinks, Philomena made a grim pronouncement:
“This thing isn’t just a pipe-creature. It’s moving through the island now and finding it’s way into the simplest of privies. It doesn’t rely on plumbing to move around. The whole place is compromised.”
Tenzin looked perplexed. “We don’t even know what the creature is called,” he said.
“Whatever it is,” said Reggie, stifling a grin, “I must say, I almost felt sorry for O’Stoat. There are few things more distressing in life than a case of defacatio interrupta, as we used to call it in the officers’ mess. Believe me, you’ve not known true panic until you’re forced to choose between finishing your business and fleeing for your life… and that is unfinished business indeed.”
Philomena sighed, patting Drury’s bony skull. “Then we too have unseen business to attend to. We had better be prepared for more trouble. I’ve a feeling this isn’t over yet.”