“I know that it’s none of my business,” declared Father Ignatius Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit who haunts The Squid and Teapot. “ But Caitlin’s surname should ideally be Bucket-Middlestreet. Middlestreet-Bucket sounds too much like a municipal privy.”
Lady Margaret D’Avening lifted her disembodied head from under her arm and nodded in agreement.
“It makes sense,” she murmured, “but I fear that in common with all of the female line of that particular family, the girl will be known simply as Caitlin Bucket.”
“And will be unbaptised as well,” said Stamage with a shudder.
The subject of their discussion was blissfully unaware of the concerns raised by The Squid’s resident phantoms, and was currently enjoying a game of catch with Drury, the skeletal hound. From an onlookers point of view this was not a particularly successful pastime; on the rare occasions that Caitlin’s aim and Drury’s co-ordination synchronised, the ball would rattle around the dog’s ribcage and drop to the floor. Fortunately this seemed not to matter to either participant, given the fits of giggling and excited barks.
Prior to Caitlin’s arrival, mornings in The Squid and Teapot had traditionally marked a generally peaceful oasis of calm in the busy, and often chaotic, life of the inn. Not that anyone was complaining; Caitlin had won the hearts of all who met her, including the island’s most recent resident, the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, who was quietly sitting cross-legged in a corner of the bar.
“What’s he up to?” enquired Septimus Washwell. Trading on the fact that he had been responsible for bringing Tenzin to The Squid, Septimus felt it to be only right and proper that he should spend every free moment ensuring that his new-found friend was being suitably catered for, in exchange for no more than the occasional tankard of ‘Old Colonel’.
“He’s meditating,” replied Reggie Upton. “I’ve seen holy men in India doing it. Apparently the aim is to become one with the universe.”
“I’m surprised he can hear himself think, with all of the noise that Caitlin and Drury are making,” said Septimus.
“That’s the point,” said Reggie. “He isn’t thinking “
Regular readers will recall that Septimus and his wife, Mirielle (leader of the dance troupe ‘Les Demoiselles de Hopeless Maine’) had twin daughters, Germaine and Pauline, who had been born on the previous Christmas day. Named after two heroines of the French revolution, the girls were the apple of their father’s eye. At the moment, unfortunately, they were both teething, and life in the Washwell – D’Illlay household was currently far from placid. Being able to close his mind to all outside noise sounded idyllic to Septimus. He would have to ask Tenzin to show him how to meditate. How the fiery Mirielle would react to her husband attaining a state of bliss, while she looked after two fractious children, however, was another matter.
Just a mile or so away from The Squid and Teapot, Durosimi O’Stoat was also thinking of Tenzin. It occurred to him that he had been far too hasty in throwing the young man out of his home. Durosimi had done this in a fit of pique, having learned that, without enlisting the help of the Sasquatch, Mr Squash, or one of the Himalayan Yetis, the monk was incapable of getting back to Tibet. It was only now that the realisation dawned upon the sorcerer that the lad had spent the last ten or twelve years being taught by some of the finest practitioners of the occult arts that the world had ever known. Some of what they had told him must have rubbed off, Durosimi reasoned. He decided that he would have to find a way to lure Tenzin back, and out of the clutches of ‘That Bucket Woman’. Maybe he could persuade Doc Willoughby to help. After all, the Doc had been known to frequent The Squid from time to time. Yes, Durosimi was all too aware that he had given the Doc short shrift lately, on those occasions when the old quack had knocked on his door, but that was all in the past, and it was amazing what could be achieved when there was the promise of some well-aged single malt whisky in the offing.
Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, could not help but smile to himself as he watched a flickering light dance gracefully along the pathway towards The Squid and Teapot. Even if the church clock had not chimed the hour, he would have known that it was 3a.m. on a Tuesday morning, the time when Miss Calder, the ghostly matriarch of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, made it her business to call upon Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage. With her head tucked underneath her arm, Lady Margaret haunts the stonework of the inn’s flushing privy, and Father Stamage haunts his hat, which usually hangs on a hook nearby. As such, the pair are considered to be The Squid’s resident ghosts. Miss Calder, on the other hand, is free to wander wherever she wants, and feels it her duty to keep the island’s other, less mobile, ghosts up to date with the current gossip. Come Hell or high water (and this is meant literally when speaking of Hopeless, Maine), The Squid and Teapot’s allotted hour for her to visit is carefully diarised for 3a.m. on a Tuesday morning.
“Being a ghost takes some getting used to,” complained Father Stamage.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Miss Calder. “There are a lot of advantages. Being able to walk through walls, not needing to sleep, or eat… “
“But I enjoyed eating and sleeping,” replied the priest, testily. “I also enjoyed being with people and playing games.”
“You really played games?” broke in Lady Margaret, nearly dropping her head in surprise. “Football and tennis, and suchlike?”
“When I was younger,” Stamage admitted. “But I’m thinking of things a little more sedentary, like chess and Scrabble.”
“Whatever is Scrabble?” asked Miss Calder. “It sounds to be a very disorganised sort of game.”
“Not at all. Let me show you a Scrabble board,” he said, screwing his face up in concentration.
As you may be aware, ghosts have a natural gift of telepathy, and are able to project their thoughts to other ghosts.
Instantly the two ladies were seeing a rectangular board divided into a grid pattern. Miss Calder counted fifteen rows of fifteen squares. Although most squares were grey, for reasons as yet beyond her understanding, others were shaded pink, blue and red.
“Then we have little tiles with letters,” said the priest, “and we take turns to make words.”
“Well, this all sounds fairly simple,” said Miss Calder, reassuringly. “I am sure that we could arrange for someone to make you a set.”
“Which would be just fine, if I could only pick the tiles up,” said the priest irritably, passing his hand through the wash basin to prove his point.
“Then you need someone to do it for you, silly,” said Lady Margaret. “Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey.”
Ignatius Stamage and Miss Calder looked at each other in dismay. Where on earth did Lady Margaret pick up these irritating sayings?
It was just a few days later that Philomena Bucket presented Father Stamage with his Scrabble game. Following Miss Calder’s instructions, she had painted a very credible likeness of a board on to a folding card-table, and Seth Washwell, proprietor of Washwell & Sons Foundry and Sawmills, had been persuaded to make one hundred little square tiles, upon which Philomena had inscribed the letters of the alphabet, leaving two blank.
“That’s amazing,” said Father Stamage. “Why you’ve even got the letter values and distribution right; twelve As, 6 Ns, three Gs and so forth.”
“It’s written on the side of the board,” said Philomena. “You remembered it well.”
“So I should. I have played the game often enough,” he replied. “But who will be playing on my behalf?”
“Septimus said that he would place the tiles for you, if you tell him what letters to put down. I’ll play for Miss Calder, and Reggie Upton is intrigued by the whole thing, and said that he had never seen anything like it, and would like to take part.”
It is one of those interesting quirks of time that exists on Hopeless that, although Father Stamage came to the island some months before Reggie, his era was somewhat later. You may recall that Reggie – or Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, as he was then known, was waiting to board the RMS Titanic when he found himself whisked away to Hopeless, fortunately with a well-stocked travelling trunk to keep him company. That would have been in 1912, over twenty years before Scrabble was invented.
All was going well, until the inevitable disputes arose regarding the authenticity of various words. Miss Calder had instructed Philomena to put down the letters ‘NON’. Reggie immediately challenged the word saying that it was not valid and certainly not included in the only dictionary that was immediately available. Philomena pointed out that the book was ancient and intended for use in schools, but Reggie would have none of it. Then Septimus, surprisingly, came to Miss Calder’s defence.
“It is one of Mirielle’s favourite words,” he said, ruefully. “It is definitely something that is said a lot on Hopeless, especially in our house, so it ought to be included.”
After a certain amount of harrumphing from Reggie it was decided to allow NON. After all, he reflected, it only gave Miss Calder and Philomena a miserly three points, so where was the harm?
Reggie’s next move was to put the word IBEX in the top corner. The letter I was already in place, so the triple word score had gone. However, the X fell upon a double word score, giving him a moderately satisfying twenty points.
By now the game was almost over and, although the scores were close together, Reggie looked certain to romp home to victory.
“I think we’re just about done,” said Septimus. “Me and the Father have only got vowels left to play.”
The ghost of Father Stamage winced at Septimus’ bad grammar, then smiled, raised a finger and said,
“We are not finished yet, lad. Put these letters down…”
Following the Jesuit’s instructions, Septimus put an E between the X of IBEX and the word NON, which was immediately below.
“XENON. Very good,” conceded Reggie, with a twinkle in his eye, “but a score of twelve won’t be quite enough to beat me.”
“Hold on,” said Septimus, “there is more to come – and then we’ll be out.”
He proceeded to follow the first E with UOUAE.
“EUOUAE? What on earth is that supposed to be?” asked Reggie.
“You-wah-wee,” enunciated Father Stamage, “It is a perfectly legitimate word, old chap.”
“Absolute balderdash!” exclaimed Reggie. “You have just made it up.”
“How dare you,” said Father Stamage, angrily. “I am – or was- a man of the cloth. I would never…”
“Then what does it mean? Go on, tell me.” Reggie’s face was becoming flushed.
Philomena and Miss Calder wisely stayed out of the altercation.
“It is a musical mnemonic used in Latin psalters,” said Father Stamage, adding triumphantly, “and I should know!”
“But.. but..” spluttered Reggie, but before he could say another word, the door burst open and Drury raced in, dragging a sheet that he had found hanging a little too low on the washing line. As the skeletal hound charged by he knocked over the table and the Scrabble pieces flew across the room.
Strangely, no one seemed too upset that Drury had ruined their game. Indeed, his intervention had diffused the situation.
“Ah well, that can’t be helped,” said Reggie, his face going back to its natural pallor. “Shall we call it a draw?”
“A draw it is,” said Father Stamage, receding into his hat, and the quiet of the hallowed corridors of his old Alma Mater, Campion Hall.
“A draw? Definitely,” said Philomena, adding, under her breath, “Good old Drury!”
There had been no small amount of panic when it was discovered that Septimus Washwell had disappeared. No one had spotted hide nor hair of him for three days. The ever-resourceful Philomena Bucket had deduced that, by using the combined talents of Drury and Father Stamage, it should be possible to track the young man down and bring him safely home. And so, while Father Stamage haunted the depths of his Capello Romano (in which he was able to serenely wander the venerable corridors of his Oxford College, Campion Hall) Drury steadfastly followed Septimus’ trail to a cavern, its slender opening almost lost among a barren scattering of rocks. For every step of the way he had carried the priest’s hat firmly between his teeth. The plan, from then onwards, was that the ethereal wraith of Father Stamage would be able to find Septimus, bring news back of his whereabouts and alert a rescue party.
Bartholomew Middlestreet had never seen Drury looking quite so dejected. The skeletal hound slunk into the bar of The Squid and Teapot, where he dropped the slightly-chewed black hat that he had been carrying.
Bartholomew picked it up and hung it on the coat stand.
“I take it that there was no sign of Septimus” he said, doubt in his voice.
“Not at all,” the hat replied.
A second or two later the wispy figure of Father Stamage began to materialise from the depths of his beloved Capello Romano.
“I ventured into the cavern as far as I was able,” said the phantom priest, “But there was no sign of the lad – but I would bet my boots that he was in there somewhere. Drury is too good a tracker to have made a mistake.”
Hearing this compliment, the old hound cheered up visibly, and rattled off to his favourite corner, where he settled down on an equally favourite blanket, and immediately fell into a deep, and somewhat noisy, sleep.
Durosimi O’Stoat was sitting at his desk, deep in thought, his eyes closed and his mouth lightly resting upon his steepled fingers. He had no qualms about ensnaring those young men, now toiling far beneath the earth. If they were gullible enough to be taken in by his flattery and empty promises, then they deserved whatever fate befell them. It had been straightforward enough to dull their minds with drugged ale and a simple spell or two, but less easy had been the task of concealing their whereabouts. There would be a hue-and-cry when their absence was noticed, and doubtless that blasted abomination, Drury, would be enlisted to sniff them out. The cloaking spell that Durosimi had cast would only be effective for a dozen yards or so, but hopefully that would be enough to baffle the eyes and nose of Drury.
There was a flaw in Durosimi’s scheme which not even he could have foreseen. I have mentioned, in an earlier tale, that, with fatherhood on his horizon, Septimus had become unusually uxorious. His every thought and action had been with Mirielle and their unborn child in mind. It was inevitable, therefore, that when Mirielle reluctantly eschewed all alcoholic refreshment, for the sake of the baby’s wellbeing, Septimus felt duty-bound to follow suit. Since his capture this had been especially difficult, in the thirsty confines of Durosimi’s mine. It was hard to resist drinking from the barrel of ale which had been left for all to enjoy. But resist he did, and within a few days, clarity dawned in his addled mind once more, releasing him from the drugs and binding-spell with which Durosimi had hobbled him. There seemed to be no hope for his fellow captives, however, now reduced to little more than blank-faced automatons, toiling unceasingly in the greasy lamplight. Bidding them a silent farewell, Septimus staggered into the pale, foggy embrace of a Hopeless dawn, little knowing that Durosimi had one more trick up his sleeve; with each step, all memories of his captivity, and its causes, were erased from the young man’s mind.
If Septimus had expected to receive a hero’s unconditional welcome upon returning home, he was to be disappointed. While Mirielle was pleased, and not a little relieved, to see her husband, she made it more than clear that she could not accept his claim of temporary amnesia, and having absolutely no idea of his recent whereabouts. His parents were equally sceptical, and only Philomena Bucket regarded his story with any credibility. Whenever anything suspicious occurred on the island, she was inclined to attribute it to the devious deeds of Durosimi O’Stoat.
It was just a day or so later, when talking to Reggie Upton, that Philomena became even more convinced that the sorcerer was once more up to no good. Reggie had been out and about, on one of his flâneuring expeditions. He had wandered aimlessly, in the best tradition of what Philomena insisted on calling ‘flanneling’, until he eventually found himself sampling the ale on offer at ‘The Crow’. The talk in the inn that day had been of five young men, who had mysteriously gone missing a week earlier.
“Dashed rum affair, if you ask me,” said Reggie. “I know that it’s not unusual for chaps to go awol from Hopeless, but five at once from ‘The Crow’ is seriously out of order.”
Philomena nodded,
“If only Septimus could remember where he was for those few days, it might explain things,” she said, then added, “it’s a pity Father Stamage didn’t know where Drury had taken his hat.”
“Wouldn’t Drury remember?” asked Reggie.
They looked at what appeared to be a pile of bones snoring raucously in the corner.
“The trail would have gone cold by now,” said Philomena, “and if I know Drury, he’s forgotten all about it.”
The bones made a few soft whimpering noises, and an osseous leg emerged from the pile and began twitching furiously. Drury was busily dreaming of chasing spoonwalkers.
“Is there anything we can do,” asked Reggie.
“Those lads are somewhere on the island,” said Philomena, “and I’m fairly sure that Durosimi O’Stoat knows where.”
“Then that is where we will start to look, m’dear,” said Reggie, twirling his moustache. “The game is afoot!”
Reggie Upton pulled the collar of his Crombie overcoat up and shivered, watching his breath condense in the chill air of a Hopeless afternoon.
“Dashed parky for Midsummer, what?” he said to a somewhat bemused Seth Washwell, who, until now had been under the distinct impression that he and his eccentric English companion conversed in a something resembling a common language.
Despite there being no handy translation available, from the tone of Reggie’s voice, it seemed reasonably clear that a positive response was expected of him.
Hoping for the best, Seth nodded sagely.
“I used to think that British summers were a trifle poor, on the whole, but this weather is positively wintry,” complained Reggie.
Enlightened by this last remark, Seth felt fairly certain that he would be on safe ground by venturing a reply.
“I’ve never known it quite this bad in the middle of the year,” he admitted. “Even St. John’s warts have shrivelled up.”
Reggie looked about him, confused.
“St. John’s wort? I can’t say that I have seen any in bloom.”
He scanned the area in vain for the familiar, heart-warming yellow blaze of the midsummer flowers that had annually graced his Cotswold garden.
“Not St. John’s wort; St. John’s warts. They’re very common on the island,” said Seth irritably, pointing to a bedraggled plant that sported a small and withered cluster of scrotally unattractive nodules.
“The warts are usually puffed up and perky on Midsummer’s Day,” he said, adding, “but it’s too darned cold this year.”
It was, indeed, unseasonably chilly, even for Hopeless, Maine.
The wraith of Granny Bucket hovered in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot. Today she had decided to be visible only to her granddaughter, Philomena, who was busily making a batch of starry-grabby pies.
“it won’t be long now. Can’t you feel it, Philomena?” she said.
“I feel I’ve got a lot of work to do, and worrying about the Psychopomp isn’t going to help,” Philomena replied. “We have done all that we can for Father Stamage. It’s up to Drury now.”
Father Ignatius Stamage, the recently deceased Jesuit who now haunted The Squid and Teapot, had been warned of the impending arrival of the Psychopomp, a supernatural entity, sent to drag him to Purgatory. More than reluctant to go, Stamage had hidden in his hat, vowing to stay there until the following day. It was last seen being taken to the Underland by Drury, the skeletal hound (as related in the tale ‘Midsummer’s Eve’).
“The temperature has dropped already, that’s a sure sign,” said Granny, “but you mark my words, it’ll get colder.”
Granny paused for dramatic effect, then added, ominously,
“A hell of a lot colder.”
The passage from the Gydynaps, which led steeply down into the Underland, was tight, even for Drury.
The old dog’s skeletal form barely scraped through some of the narrower parts of the tunnels, and more than once he had to give himself a shake, in order to persuade a displaced rib to return to its usual position. It was not until he had reached the main pathway, far beneath the island’s surface, that the going became easier. To Drury’s great credit, not once did he let the priest’s hat fall from his mouth.
If I said that I knew anything of the workings of Drury’s mind, I would be lying. Often his actions are so typically canine that, if it was not for the fact that he appears to be no more than a collection of bones, it would be easy to regard him as being a fairly run-of-the mill, bog-standard dog. The fact that he is literally brainless, and has nothing in his skull other than the occasional fly, might lead the unwary to believe him to be dim, but this is definitely not so. Whatever force it is that animates Drury, it seems to have endowed him with greatly heightened dog senses and a depth of understanding beyond our knowing. Or, there again, he might just be lucky in his choices. Whatever the reason, it is sufficient to say that he reached the Crystal Cave without mishap.
As regular readers will recall, the Crystal Cave acts as a portal to a variety of random locations. Those who visit, however, have no control over what they find when they get there, not even Drury. His mission had been to get Father Stamage safely away from the Psychopomp, thereby avoiding condemning the priest to purgatory. Where better than the Crystal Cave? In this Drury had succeeded beyond all hopes. It was just unfortunate that the Crystal Cave was in a playful mood on that particular day, for when the dog bounded into its depths, the priest’s hat firmly clamped in his powerful jaws, he was greeted by a cheerless, grey landscape, peopled by the shadowy figures of equally cheerless and wailing grey wraiths. Unperturbed, the osseous hound wandered up the rough, cobbled street and raised a defiant, but ineffective, leg against the base of a rotting wooden boundary sign. It was weather-bleached, with flaking paint and faded lettering, declaring to any desolate soul unfortunate enough cross its path: “PURGATORY WELCOMES CARELESS SINNERS”.
It was too foggy for any to see the pallid, midsummer sun as it slipped silently into the turbulent ocean. Similarly, Gula, the dog-headed deity who drifted into the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, was completely invisible to human eyes.
“I haven’t seen you before,” said Lady Margaret D’Avening, resting her head on the washstand. “Are you new?”
The cynocephalous goddess regarded the ghostly White Lady with some curiosity, not sure whether to address the head or the body, which stood a few feet distant.
“I am not that new,” she said. “I was first worshipped in Sumeria over seven thousand years ago, so that makes me considerably senior, by several millennia, to all of those young upstarts who call themselves gods.”
“That is impressive,” said Lady Margaret with a ghastly smile, “but it has not stopped you from being landed with this job. You dog-headed deities seem to get lumbered with it every time.”
“We like the exercise,” said Gula, pleasantly. “Now, where is Father Stamage?”
“Far away and somewhere safe. You won’t find him,” said the White Lady.
Gula smiled a doggy smile. “We’ll see,” she said.
The ancient goddess drifted through the privy wall and out into the crowded bar, where only the shade of Granny Bucket noticed her passing.
“It might warm up a bit now,” she muttered to herself.
Father Stamage’s hat – the Capello Romano – lay on the floor of the cave, guarded by Drury, while the anguished wraiths of Purgatory milled around, keen to see who the new arrival might be.
Just when Drury was wondering if it was safe to return home, the awe-inspiring figure of Gula manifested before him. The wraiths immediately receded into the shadows, and Drury bowed his head, crouching down in reverence. Had any of the Hopeless islanders witnessed this, they would have rubbed their eyes and imagined that they were dreaming. Drury was famously subservient to none, and never had been, but here he was, bowing.
Gula knelt before Drury and held him to her. Despite himself, the bony old dog looked up in wonder.
“Most valiant hound. You have braved all of this for your friends,” she said. “You should be rewarded.”
Gula was famous in her time for her attachment to dogs; indeed, they were sacred to her. That is probably why she chose to be seen as dog-headed, occasionally.
Whatever passed next between the dog and the goddess, I do not know, but after a while she sighed, and rose to her feet.
“Very well,” she said kindly, “walk with me now… and yes, you can bring the priest. You obviously think a lot of him. I’ll release him of his obligation, on condition that you make sure that he does not have a totally comfortable time over the next hundred years.”
“I can do that,” thought Drury, happily.
The two walked through the mists of Purgatory together, until, to Drury’s surprise, he found himself in Creepy Hollow, the Capello Romano still clamped between his teeth. Night had fallen and a full moon was riding high in the sky.
“One day, people will realise that Purgatory is closer than they know. It is only ever just around the next corner,” said Gula.
She turned to leave, then paused.
“When the day comes that you are weary of this island, come and find me,” she said.
Indistinct as the mist that surrounded her, Gula disappeared into the darkness.
Drury wagged his tail, gave a joyful bark and cantered off towards the welcoming lights of The Squid and Teapot.
Rhys Cranham stirred in his sleep. The sound he was hearing was familiar, but he knew that it must be an auditory hallucination. An interesting case of paracusia, some may have said, but not Rhys. Nor, for that matter, Doc Willoughby, whose professed knowledge of medical terms fell somewhat short of the actual truth. Anyway, whatever label one chose to stick on the phenomenon, it was a sound that the Night-Soil Man had heard a thousand times before, and never expected to hear again. His old friend Drury was gone forever, and with him the familiar scrape of bony paws wreaking havoc on the front door.
It seemed logical to Rhys that, with the arrival of full wakefulness, the scratching noise would fade away. Instead it seemed to be growing stronger, more insistent.
He climbed out of bed and looked through the window. It was still daylight outside, and some hours before he was due to start his rounds. There would be no more sleep until the scratching stopped. With some trepidation he lifted the latch of the door and eased it slightly ajar.
The door burst violently open, admitting a panting explosion of bones, which hurled themselves joyously at the unsuspecting Night-Soil Man. From his new, and decidedly horizontal vantage point, Rhys gazed up in surprise at the adoring face of the recently resurrected Drury.
“That’s a relief!” exclaimed the Night-Soil Man, regaining his composure. “Obviously, reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.”
For the next week, Drury refused to leave the Night-Soil Man’s side. This surprised Rhys, as the dog usually liked to spend his days hanging around The Squid and Teapot, hoping for Philomena Bucket or Reggie Upton to take him for a walk. Rhys, of course, was unaware that the osseous hound had fallen out with Philomena, blaming her for sealing him into an ossuary-box.
During that week, daily life on Hopeless, Maine, appeared to trudge on as it always had. However, you could not fail to notice the metaphorical cloud now hanging over The Squid and Teapot (this is not to be confused with the collection of very real and heavy clouds that frequently shroud the island). Philomena was depressed and her dark mood seemed to contaminate everything around her. She was missing Drury.
“Why don’t you go for a walk,” suggested Reggie. “Put on your best clothes and hat. It always works for me when I’m feeling less than chipper.”
“It won’t be the same without Drury,” she said, sadly.
“He’ll come round eventually m’dear, don’t you worry,” Reggie assured her. “Why, if you get out and about a bit, you may even bump into the old rascal.”
Philomena was not convinced, but took Reggie’s advice anyway. She rooted through the clothing chests, stowed in one of The Squid’s attics, and found a colourful full-length frock, an old Easter bonnet, tastefully decorated with silk flowers, and a warm woollen cloak; after all, although it may have been springtime, the island of Hopeless has never regarded the seasons with very much respect.
The Gydynap Hills held too many memories for Philomena. They belonged to her and Drury. It would not feel right, any more, to be walking there alone. Instead she made her way along the headland, looking out across the angry ocean, which crashed and battered upon the rocks, far below.
Reggie had been correct; the walk had made her feel a little better, but it had not banished her sadness. Her mind kept going back to Drury. If only she had trusted her gut-feeling, and refused to believe that he was really not coming back from death this time. She would always remember his baleful, accusing look when she freed him from the ossuary-box (as described in the tale ‘Walking the Dog’). So wrapped up was she in her own thoughts that she failed to notice that the wind had pitched up to gale-force, until it snatched her hat from her head and threatened to toss it into the sea. Instinctively she reached forward to grab at it, when another, more powerful gust slammed into her, hurling her over the cliff, her cloak and skirts billowing like the sails of a galleon.
“This is it, girl,” she thought to herself, her feet desperately treading on thin air. “All that magic you were supposed to possess hasn’t done you any good at all today.”
It was true. The gloom she had been feeling had suppressed any magical ability that she might have used to save herself. Fortunately, on this occasion, the very clothing that had been instrumental in her being caught by the wind, served to halt her downward progress. Her cloak had snagged upon a jagged crag, leaving Philomena dangling precariously, not to say uncomfortably, over the churning ocean and unforgiving granite rocks.
By coincidence, this was the very day that Drury plucked up sufficient courage to venture into the wide world without the company of the Night-Soil Man (who, incidentally, was, at that very moment, recovering from his night’s labours and snoring happily in his bed). When Drury spotted Philomena wandering alone through the gathering gale, the sight of his erstwhile friend looking so forlorn caused his heart to soften (yes, yes, I can guess what you’re going to say, but you know very well what I mean!). He was about to go to her and bury the hatchet, so to speak, when Philomena was suddenly blown over the cliff edge. In panic, he raced to the spot where she had fallen, and saw her suspended, helpless and frightened, just a few feet beneath him.
Grabbing the cloak between his teeth and pulling Philomena back up on to the headland presented no difficulty for Drury. Despite being nothing but bone, he possesses an almost preternatural degree of strength – although, being a totally preternatural dog, I suppose this should not come as a surprise. Once safe, Philomena wrapped her arms around his skeletal form and sobbed uncontrollably. Her sorrow, regret, fear and happiness at their reunion flowed out of her in a great welter of emotion. Drury wagged his bony tail, and, with her eyes blinded by tears, Philomena could have sworn that she felt a warm, wet tongue caressing her cheeks.
The pair made their way back to The Squid and Teapot, where the landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet, smiled with pleasure to see the old hound slumped in front of the fire, where he belonged.
“I told you he’d come back,” said Reggie, putting an avuncular arm around Philomena’s shoulders.
“He saved my life,” said Philomena. “I don’t know how long I would have hung there before the cloak ripped.”
“Drury is your hero of the hour!” exclaimed Reggie.
“Oh, he’s more than that,” said Philomena, fondly. “Believe me, he is much, much more than that.”
“He is definitely dead,” announced Doc Willoughby, in matter-of-fact tones.
“Obviously!” snapped Philomena Bucket testily. “But other than that, what’s wrong with him?”
The Doc peered down at the pile of bones heaped before him on the floor.
“Miss Bucket, I am neither a veterinarian, nor an osteologist. I suggest you try and find someone who is. Otherwise, you would be well advised to deposit these remains in a suitable ossuary or, better still, throw them into the sea.”
“But Doc,” there was a hint of panic in Philomena’s voice, “this is Drury we’re talking about here.”
“Precisely,” replied the Doc. “I rest my case.”
The curmudgeonly physician stamped off into the foggy morning, leaving Philomena tearful and helpless as she stood over Drury’s motionless form.
“I’m afraid that I have nothing to suggest,” said Reggie Upton. “I have had plenty of experience with dogs in my time; you know, fox-hounds, beagles and the like, but as far as dogs who are already dead, m’dear… well, much as I liked the old chap, I fear he’s beyond help.”
“But this is ridiculous,” wailed Philomena. “Drury is probably the oldest creature on the island. Nobody knows much about him, but he seems to always have been here. He can’t be dead… well, not dead again, anyway.”
It was true. Drury was the dog who had refused to recognise the fact that he was no longer alive, and had been resident on Hopeless for an extremely long time. Grandparents told sleepy children bedtime stories that featured tales of Drury’s mischief – tales that they, themselves, had heard as infants. The awful possibility that the old rogue might not be around anymore was unthinkable (except, of course, to the cheerless few, like Doc Willoughby, who had no time for him).
A tear rolled down Rhys Cranham’s cheek; he could hardly believe the news. Was Drury, really properly dead? He had been the Night-Soil Man’s faithful companion, accompanying him on his rounds for over ten years, ever since Rhys took over from his late, lamented predecessor, Shenandoah Nailsworthy. Life would not be the same without the old, osseous hound, rattling along at his heels in the misty moonlight.
Philomena had been pondering Doc Willoughby’s words. If she had to come to terms with the fact that Drury was really gone forever, then she wanted to make sure that his bones were treated with respect. They certainly would not be tossed into the sea. What was the other thing the Doc had said? Deposit his remains in suitable ossuary. That was it. Unfortunately, she had no idea what he meant.
“Ossuary?” said Reggie. “Why, yes, as far as I’m aware it can be a room or container in which bones are stored. Are you thinking of something like that for our dear friend?”
“I am, now you’ve told me” said Philomena, sorrowfully. “I’ll ask Seth Washwell to make a suitable box for him. We’ll keep him somewhere in The Squid and Teapot. I’m sure that the Middlestreets won’t mind. Drury loved it there. I know that if he’s in The Squid, his bones will be safe.”
The old soldier had to turn from her and blink away his tears. He had only known Drury for the few weeks that he had been on Hopeless, but the dog had joined him every day for the past month for his morning walk (or flâneuring, as he called it). He would miss him dreadfully.
Seth was only too pleased to be able to do something to mark Drury’s passing. Being not only the proprietor of the island’s sawmills and foundry, but also a skilled carpenter and blacksmith, he had all of the resources necessary to make a splendid ossuary-box, fashioned from his finest timber and finished with ornate, wrought-iron cornices. Drury’s bones were laid upon his favourite blanket, and, amid tears of farewell, was placed reverently in a corner of one of the attics, immediately above Philomena’s bedroom.
Philomena’s walks seemed empty in the days that followed. She had lived on Hopeless for some years now, and nearly every afternoon and early evening, before the inn became busy, she and Drury had wandered deep into the mysterious Gydynap Hills, sharing adventures and enjoying each other’s company.
A week had slipped by since Drury’s bones had been laid to rest. Everyone was still coming to terms with his not being around, half-expecting him to come bounding in at any moment and causing havoc. To make things worse for Philomena, she had been sleeping badly. Any sleep she had managed to get was fitful and filled with unpleasant dreams. Tonight, however, was different; slipping easily into a deep slumber, she found herself back in Ireland, sitting in Granny Bucket’s cottage. Granny was in her rocking chair, smoking her clay pipe. Angus, her old mongrel-dog, lay stretched in front of the fire, snoring contentedly. Philomena had seen this scene a hundred times before, when Granny was alive. On this occasion, however, Reggie Upton, in the full regalia of a comic-opera general, and Rhys Cranham, looking very relaxed in a cream-coloured lounge suit and matching Panama hat, had joined them.
“Ah, you three must love Old Angus to death,” Granny mused, blowing smoke-rings up the chimney. “It’s nothing but walk, walk, walk, morning noon and night for the poor old fella. No wonder he’s dog-tired.”
Granny laughed at her own joke.
“Angus has been dead this past twenty years,” Philomena explained to Rhys and Reggie. “But don’t you think he’s looking well on it?”
“Oh yes, but we expect even dead dogs get tired,” replied the pair in unison. They were holding hands.
The words echoed in Philomena’s dream, dragging her to wakefulness.
“Even dead dogs get tired,” she repeated to herself, then suddenly things began to make sense.
For a month, or more, Drury had spent virtually every hour of the day and night being taken for a walk. Having all the instincts of a flesh-and-blood dog, it would never occur to him to refuse the chance of an amble out somewhere. Drury had just been tired. Dog-tired. Dead-tired.
Even dead dogs get tired!
In a sudden panic, Philomena dashed up to the attics. She could hear the scraping before she reached the top of the stairs. Grabbing a crowbar from a pile of tools stacked against a wall, she prised up the lid of the ossuary-box, expecting Drury to leap joyfully out. He did not do so, but stood looking balefully, and accusingly, at her.
“Oh Drury, thank goodness. I am so sorry. We thought you were dead… or, you know, properly dead and not coming back.”
She wrenched open the side of the box, allowing him to walk stiffly out.
When she made to put her arms around him, Drury growled and, moving out of her reach, made his way unsteadily down the stairs.
Philomena put her head in her hands and sobbed.
“What have I done,” she wailed. “Will he ever forgive me?”
It takes a lot to surprise a ghost, even one as young (at the time of her death) and impressionable as Lady Margaret D’Avening. The sight, however, of Hopeless, Maine’s most recent visitor, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, standing in the privy of The Squid and Teapot, almost caused her to drop her head.
“Uncle Henry,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
The brigadier, who preferred to be called simply Reggie, had always prided himself upon his good manners and nonchalance in every situation, and he was determined that this encounter would be no exception.
“My dear lady,” he said, with a slight bow of his head, “I am jolly delighted to make your acquaintance, but can promise you that I am definitely not your Uncle Henry.”
“Are you sure?” demanded Lady Margaret, imperiously. “You certainly look like Sir Henry Upton.”
“Ah… that would maybe explain things,” said Reggie. “I have Uptons lurking in my family tree, as it were. I can only imagine that you and I share a common ancestor.”
“How dare you?” screeched Lady Margaret. “I have never been so insulted. None of my ancestors were common.”
It was some home hours later, at breakfast on the following morning, that Reggie found himself relating the exchange to Philomena Bucket.
“That must have been tricky,” Philomena commiserated. “She can be a haughty one, and no mistake.”
“I made my peace with her, eventually,” chuckled Reggie. “I just turned on the old Hawkesbury-Upton charm; it seemed to do the trick.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Philomena. “Oh, here comes Drury. I don’t believe that you’ve met him…”
The aforementioned nonchalance that Reggie had always prided himself on slipped visibly when Drury came bounding in.
“What the deuce…?” he exclaimed, getting to his feet in alarm.
Drury wagged a bony tail and rattled down onto the floor, next to Philomena. Realising that this skeletal creature was just another facet of the island’s oddness, Reggie regained his composure and settled back down into his seat.
“There’s a good dog,” he said to a somewhat puzzled Drury. If it really was the case that he was thought to be a good dog, that was something that needed to be rectified at the earliest opportunity.
“So, have you any plans today?” asked Philomena, conversationally.
“I thought to wander about a bit and take in the sights. I’ve always been something of a flâneur.”
“A flannel?” Philomena was confused.
“A flâneur,” corrected Reggie. “Someone who just saunters, observing society generally. Since leaving the army I have flâneured in London, Paris, Berlin and Vienna. I fully intended taking my flâneuring to New York, but alas, it was not to be.”
“Well, just be careful, when you go flannelling around out there,” warned Philomena. “And is it wise wearing that lovely suit?” she added, eyeing his Harris Tweed three-piece. “Things tend to get a bit messy on the island.”
“My dear Philomena,” replied the brigadier, “part of the pleasure of being a flâneur is to dress in one’s finest clothes when exploring the world. I would not be seen dead going out and about in anything else.”
Philomena reflected that Reggie may not have picked the best choice of words, given the hazards of Hopeless, but said nothing.
It was late afternoon, and more than one islander marvelled at the spectacle of the dapper military man with the bristling moustache, who wandered, seemingly aimlessly, around the island. He wore his hat at a jaunty angle and swung his cane with all the carefree panache of one strolling down the Strand, on the way to his club.
Hopeless is not known for having any great degree of criminal activity, as no one on the island has anything much worth stealing. In any society, however, there is always an element who will take advantage of those whom they perceive as being weak.
Certainly, the dandy standing on the street corner looked like an easy target. He was in late middle-age and, with his watch-chain and silver-tipped cane, seemed to be begging to be robbed. At least, that was young Roscoe’s opinion, and he decided that it would be a pity to let such an opportunity pass by. After all, if he didn’t relieve the old fool of his valuables, someone else would.
“Hello, mister. Can you tell me what the time is, please?”
Roscoe added the ‘please’ to put the dandy at his ease. It was not a word that he was accustomed to using very often.
The brigadier pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and reported that it was precisely four twenty-three.
“Four twenty-three is it?” said Roscoe. “Then it must be time for you to hand over that watch and silver-topped cane. Come on now, or you’ll be sorry.”
Reggie smiled disarmingly at him, and said, “I don’t think so young man. The watch belonged to my father and I have owned this cane for over forty years. I am extremely attached to both.”
Roscoe raised a meaty fist and lunged towards the older man, who sidestepped neatly out of the way. Within an instant the innocuous looking walking cane had shed its sheath and become a swordstick.
“My turn, I believe,” said Reggie, and, for an instant, the swordstick seemed to flicker in his hand.
Roscoe looked down aghast, in the general direction of his stomach.
“Oh no,” he said, horrified. “Now look at what you’ve done…”
“I almost felt sorry for him,” Reggie said with a grin, holding court that evening in the snug of The Squid and Teapot.
“You see, after I cut through his belt, his trousers fell down. What made things worse for him was the appearance of a party of young ladies from the orphanage. Oh, how they laughed.”
“I’ll bet they did,” said Norbert Gannicox. “D’you have any idea who he was?”
“No, never set eyes on the chap before, though I seem to remember that one of the girls called him Roscoe.”
“Roscoe?” said Norbert, suddenly alarmed. “I reckon that was Roscoe Chevin. He’s trouble, that’s for sure. You’ve made a bad enemy there.”
“I have been surrounded by enemies throughout the whole of my army career. I’m not going to lose sleep over one scallywag who can’t keep his trousers up,” said Reggie.
“But he’s a Chevin,” broke in Seth Washwell.
“I don’t care who he is,” said Reggie. “Why, I pulled the same trick on Jan Smuts back in ninety-nine, and have lived to dine out on the tale on several occasions.”
“Maybe that Smuts guy didn’t have the back-up that Roscoe has,” said Seth.
“Only the entire Boer army,” replied Reggie, carelessly. “Anyway, enough of this fighting talk. Anyone for another drink?”
Despite his airy dismissal of their warnings, Reggie could not help but be a little concerned. He looked down at Drury, snoozing in front of the fire.
“All the same,” he thought to himself. “One doesn’t necessarily have to flâneur alone. Maybe I’ll take the dog with me, next time.”
Drury was not in the best of moods. He considered himself to be neglected, deserted and generally abandoned. A small confluence of circumstances had apparently conspired to leave the skeletal hound feeling suddenly alone, and deprived of the company of his two best friends, Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket. As faithful companion to Rhys, the Night-Soil Man, he had spent many a happy hour wandering over the island of Hopeless, while Rhys serviced the outside privies, cesspools and, occasionally, earth closets of its inhabitants. This week, however, Rhys had been too unwell to perform his duties. Struck down by influenza, the Night-Soil Man had taken to his bed in an effort to shake off the malaise. His illness had unfortunately coincided with Les Demoiselles dancing troupe moving into larger premises. While their move did not directly affect Rhys, Philomena felt it to be incumbent upon her to help both parties, as well as fulfilling her duties at The Squid and Teapot. In one stroke, therefore, Drury was deprived of both of his friends and main sources of entertainment.
Drury had not always been so dependent on others for company. For more years than anyone could remember he had been a presence on the island, minding his own business and invariably poking his bony nose into other people’s. True, he had frequently found companionship with several generations of Night-Soil Men, but he had formed a special bond with Rhys and, more recently, Philomena.
Doc Willoughby had refused to go within twenty yards of the House at Poo Corner, which surprised no one. Philomena was thankful, convinced that a visit from the Doc usually had the effect of prolonging an illness. She, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions. The peg adorning her nose was barely sufficient for the intended task, but it at least enabled her to bring Rhys the pots of soup, plates of starry-grabby pie and flasks of Gannicox Distillery’s finest spirit, that she considered essential for the completion of a full recovery.
“I wonder if I could go through married life wearing a peg on me nose?” she thought, idly remembering how close she had come to marrying Rhys. That was in the days, not so long ago, when it seemed as though the Night-Soil Man would give up his job for her. He would have done so, too, had his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill, not met an untimely end.
“Well, enough of this daydreaming,” said Philomena, aloud. “Dwelling on the past will achieve nothing.”
Drury watched forlornly as she pocketed the peg and bustled away, back to the inn.
With the absence of anything better to do, Drury resorted, that afternoon, to his old habits of removing washing from lines and terrorising the occasional spoonwalker. Usually these activities would leave him feeling fulfilled. Today, however, they held no pleasure for him at all. He wandered listlessly over to the establishment known for years as Madame Evadne’s, lately renamed the School of Dance, in the hope that Philomena would be there. Several of the Washwell brothers were shifting furniture in through the big front door, with Mirielle D’Illay barking orders at them in French and English, but there was no sign of Philomena. Nor was she in The Squid and Teapot. Drury was puzzled.
It must be remembered that, even allowing for the fact that he may appear to be nothing more than a collection of bones, Drury is no ordinary dog; he has been around for a very long time. So when Philomena failed to appear by nightfall, he knew that something was amiss. Had Rhys Cranham been in any fit state to search for Philomena, Drury would have tugged at his jacket, in the best Rin Tin Tin style, and made him understand that something was wrong. As it was, Rhys was huddled under a pile of blankets, running a temperature and feeling extremely sorry for himself.
It had been Philomena’s habit to wander into the Gydynap Hills whenever she felt the need to clear her head. The extra workload of helping Les Demoiselles to move into new premises, worrying about Rhys and wondering how to organise Granny Bucket’s forthcoming deathday party, was beginning to take its toll. Despite being horribly busy, she just had to get away for an hour or two. More often than not, Drury would appear from nowhere and accompany her. It was ironic that he had decided to feel particularly unloved that day, and chosen to wreck washing lines on the other side of the island, just when she needed him most. Unaware of this, and deciding that her old friend must have been nobly watching over Rhys, she set off alone.
Night falls quickly on Hopeless at the best of times. In the winter it slips in like a thief, and steals away the daylight before you realise what has happened. Almost uniquely among the islanders, being out in the dark had never particularly bothered Philomena, especially since learning that powerful witch-blood flowed in her veins. In the past this, and the fact that Rhys had been secretly keeping an eye on her, had kept the less pleasant denizens of Hopeless at bay. Tonight, however, was different. Rhys was fitfully sleeping in his sick-bed and, because of her preoccupation with those other things, Philomena’s defences were down. That is why she did not sense the presence of the figure following her. At least, not until it was too late.
Drury sniffed the air. Although he had just a gap where a dog’s nose would normally be, he was as adept as a bloodhound when it came to following a trail. That Philomena had gone to the Gydynaps was no surprise, but she might have taken any one of a dozen different footpaths. To Drury, however, her scent was as clear as if etched in luminous paint upon the grass. With the gap in his ribcage, where his heart used to be, brimming with hope, he raced through the night, confident of tracking down his friend. Then he came to an abrupt halt. The trail had stopped at an outcrop of rocks. Drury clawed frantically at the ground. There was no trace of Philomena. She had apparently disappeared into thin air.
Memory of a hand, swollen about the fingers. A hand that offered food, that patted.
The familiar smell of a body that meant home. Belonging. Comfort.
The way they both changed. He knows, and he doesn’t know because Drury thinks about things in his own way. Part of him is still a mud rolling puppy. All of him is still the dog he used to be. Sometimes he forgets about his bones. He recalls bodies as though they were still here, as though nothing has changed.
But also the wind whistles between his ribs sometimes and he knows this is not how it used to be.
A machine that does not smell of person. A voice that does not belong in a machine. Whispery and distant, caught in wax – not that Drury understands the process. A voice that would make his heart hurt, if he still had one of those. He doesn’t know where it went.
When I was a little child
I went into the sea
Down I went
And down I went
One, two three
And all the hungry fishes
Came to look at me
And ate me up
And ate me up
One, two, three.
Now I’m in the water
Calling, follow me
Tender little girls and boys
One, two, three.
It’s just a nursery rhyme. Something said to amuse babies as they fall asleep. There’s nothing substantial here. Just the remains of a dog, listening with total adoration to the uneasy whispering of his late master’s voice.
Drury, the skeletal hound, was curled up contentedly on an old blanket in the corner of the Night-Soil Man’s cottage, affectionately known to all as ‘The House at Poo Corner’.
As far as Drury was concerned, all was right with the world. To all intents and purposes Philomena Bucket had stopped wasting her time worrying about being a powerful witch, or getting married, and was once more ensconced behind the bar of The Squid and Teapot. Even better, Rhys Cranham was back in his rightful place, servicing the cess-pits and outdoor privies of the islanders of Hopeless Maine. All thoughts of marriage appeared to have left them both, at least for the time being. The status quo had been restored to Drury’s satisfaction.
Rhys looked down fondly at the bony old hound. It would soon be time to drag on his boots, strap on the lidded bucket and once more venture out into the darkness. Doubtless, Drury would accompany him, as he did on most nights. Rhys could not help wondering how things would have changed, had his and Philomena’s wedding plans come to fruition. The role of Night-Soil Man had taken up half of his life, first as apprentice to Shenandoah Nailsworthy, then, after Shenandoah’s death, as Night-Soil Man in his own right. Would he have coped with married life? He had no idea; it might have been a disaster. After leaving the Pallid Rock Orphanage, the night soil business was all that he had ever known. It was probably best not to dwell on the question. Happily, Philomena was still a good friend, leaving a couple of bottles of Old Colonel and a wedge of starry-grabby pie on his doorstep every evening.
Despite the all-pervading misery that seemed to seep into every nook and cranny of the island, The Squid and Teapot generally managed to maintain its reputation for good cheer. A visitor could always expect a warm welcome and, more often as not, entertainment, of a sort. Tonight the venerable Bell-Edison phonograph, which always added a frisson of excitement to proceedings, had been taken out to provide the music for Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine, the troupe of Moulin Rouge dancers who had been shipwrecked on the island a year or so earlier. To the strains of Offenbach’s Infernal Galop (or ‘The Can-Can’ to most of us) the aforementioned young ladies performed their ever-popular routine to an appreciative audience. By a strange coincidence, whenever Les Demoiselles performed in the inn, some of those who rarely patronised the establishment found themselves with a pressing need to pay it a visit.
“Reverend Davies, we don’t often see you in here,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet, with no surprise in his voice whatsoever.
“Quite so,” said the Reverend importantly. “I’ve come to see Miss Bucket, if that is convenient.”
He failed to mention that he had already seen Philomena; she had been walking in the opposite direction.
“Sorry Reverend, she’s out at the moment and won’t be back for a while. She said she needed an hour or so to herself.”
“That’s a shame,” replied Davies unconvincingly. “I can’t wait an hour, but as long as I’m here I may as well have a small drink and watch the… er… cabaret.”
Philomena walked purposefully towards the Gydynap Hills. She was troubled and needed to be far away from other people for a while. Despite the hazards of venturing out into the night on Hopeless, Philomena never felt herself to be in danger. It seemed that the ghost of Granny Bucket was right – or maybe she was just lucky.
Granny, and Philomena’s friend, Doctor John Dee, had both impressed upon her that she possessed great magical ability. Unfortunately, Granny was no longer haunting her and John Dee had returned to Elizabethan England. This was bad enough, but to make things worse, her marriage to Rhys Cranham had been called off, following the violent death of his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. Philomena felt horribly alone in the world and this feeling that her magic was growing more powerful by the day was not helping. She had never been comfortable having the dubious gift of ‘The Sight’, but now it was as if she had been given an even more burdensome gift, like that of some great wild animal, which she had no idea how to tame. If only Granny was here to help. Philomena sat down on the grass and wept in the misty darkness.
“Are you okay?”
Philomena had not heard the young woman approach.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just being silly,” said Philomena, wiping her eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it? I can sit with you for a while. I’m Marigold. Marigold Burleigh.”
“Ah. You’ll be the nurse I heard tell of. Sit, by all means, but I don’t need to talk, honestly” replied Philomena.
She had no idea why she was being so cautious, but somewhere, deep inside Philomena, alarm bells were ringing.
Trickster could feel subtle changes happening to the meat-suit already. That was a pity. He was enjoying being female and they usually lasted longer than this. The other one, the young man Linus, had given him months of wear. On reflection, Linus had resisted and done his best to get rid of Trickster. He had rarely been sober; that probably had some bearing on things. Anyway, all that was in the past, and this girl was not going to hold together for very much longer; he needed someone new to possess.
“That’s fine,” said Marigold, sweetly, “but I’d quite like us to be friends. How about you and I go for a quiet walk in the moonlight? I’m sure we’ll be safe enough if we’re careful.”
She offered the crook of her arm to Philomena, who took it warily.
