I’m going to be blunt here because as you will find from the content of this particular post that’s just how I am. Ever since I was a little girl I have always been made out to be some kind of freak because I tend not to go about things the ’normal’ way. The other kids were, I guess, expected. When you are growing up you don’t know much about the world and you are learning so I can see why I was seen as being somewhat unusual by my peers. That wasn’t just it though. Adults were much of the same opinion.
What made me so freakish? What did I dare to do that was so unconventional? Nothing really. It was a curiosity I had about the world around me that others wanted to curb. They said they were concerned about me. After all, curiosity brought about the demise of the proverbial cat. I wanted to visit museums rather than playing with the other children. I wanted to read books rather than take part in party games. For that I seemed off and weird.
As I grew up I continued on that trajectory, caring not one bit about what others thought. As an adult I was considered strange because I had no interest in having children or getting married. To me marriage is an outdated concept that has no real place in modern society. Sure, there are plenty of people who love being married, are excited to be married or can find happiness in that kind of partnership but it’s just not for me. As a thirty something woman with my own independent life I don’t see any way a marriage could improve my current existence. I’m especially close to my little 11yo niece and my 3yo nephew so they are all the children I need.
I guess the point of this rant is to urge you all to live your life the way you want to. Do the things that make you happy despite what society might think is appropriate. I’ve grown up people thinking I’m a freak. Embrace that freakishness because odd things, atypical hobbies or out of the ordinary life decisions don’t make you any less valid than the most conventional of people. What would the world be without that varied tapestry?
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It’s an age old question that seems to be important to a lot of people. You most likely would have been asked it in your life in some shape or form and that question is, ’if you were to invite anyone in the world (living or deceased) to a dinner party who would those guests be?’
I like this question because to me it highlights the human want to connect with others, no matter the barriers. It shows we like to connect in an intellectual way. The purpose of this exercise is to show who you would like have around your table for the purposes of hearing what they have to say. A dinner party, by nature, is a way of sharing discussion and opening up. Those you would chose to sit around your table says a lot about your personality. So for the purposes of this discussion, my pick of dinner party guests would be as follows:
Not only is he one of my most favourite authors and a huge inspiration of mine, he was also a critic of the moral evil that was present in Victorian London. He used satirical writing to bring attention to these injustices and he was effective in doing so. This undoubtedly influenced writers who came after him to approach their work with the same boldness. I know that certainly was the case for me. From what is told he was a kind hearted, intelligent man who paid close attention to what was going on around him and for that reason having a chat with him would be an opportunity I would hate to miss.
Escape artist, circus performer and spiritualist debunker. Houdini is already an admired figure of mine so he would naturally make for an exciting presence at my table. I would love to ask him all about his escape acts and his performances. His thrill seeking presence would keep things lively and I’m naturally engrossed by people who have a performance flare. He spent a lot of his later career debunking spiritualists. Discussing this could make for a lively debate. Also, after some wine has flowed and bellies were filled he could grace us with a demonstration of one of his tricks.
If there is ever a girl with a story to share at a dinner table it would be this one. She lived through great adversity and it was of no fault of her own. She was just a young girl who had no control over the devastation that was arising around her. She already had a fascinating story to tell as is evident in her famous diaries. Learning about this young girl’s remarkable experiences from her own mouth would have the discussions going on well into the small hours.
Those are just some examples of the fascinating figures I would invite to my dinner party. Given the opportunity to reach out to anyone, who would you choose? Funny? Inspirational? Intruiging? What would you look for in your dinner party guests.
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I have told the tale of many families in Coldford. I’ve discussed the dark, the dangerous and the ruthless. The Stoker Circus family encompass all three of things. I’ve never known such a group of people willing to stoop to the lowest levels to keep themselves riding high. Desperate times of recession had given them stiff competition but they never ceased to amaze. They would stop at nothing for the almighty coin. They were a big family so when it came to them against the world the world stood little chance. When it came to being pit against each other there would be a clown parade. Underneath the cotton candy, the organ music and the balloons there was a real heart beating. If only they could stop to hear it. I’m reporter Sam Crusow and this is what happens when a Stoker is offered loadsa bunce but they are asked to split it.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls! Step right up for an outrageous and sometimes dangerous show. I’m Adrien Stoker and welcome to Stoker circus!” The fan fare erupted around the Big Top as the audience in Luen were drawn into the circus as it passed through town. Adrien Stoker beamed a huge smile. His excitement for his act was palpable. The audience grinned right back at him as the clowns in blue and red face paint danced whimsically around him, tying him into a strait jacket. His brother, Hanz, in red tails, joined him in centre ring, playing the role of the villain who had captured him. Hanz made a show of yelling at the clowns to restrain him tighter. They turned him to show the audience four tightly fastened restraints. They even carried Adrien across to the audience for a member to pull on the buckles and confirm it was in fact fastened tightly. A heavily made up woman tugged on them and yes they were secure. When back in centre ring blue and red boards were pulled aside to reveal a tank of water, standing up right, not much larger than a coffin. “The water cell has been banned in the orient. They say once you are submerged there is no escaping. Don’t be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. I’m willing to give it a try and if I drown … that’s just show business.” Hanz gave a show of his character being desperate to hurry it along. Adrien was lifted, and he was dropped into the water head first. Hanz secured the lid and he stepped on top of his brother’s watery coffin. “Not so amazing now!” He cried theatrically. He accepted jeers from the audience with a wave of his arms. A timer started. The view of Adrien in the water cell was concealed with the boards. “The longest any one has ever held their breath was for eleven minutes. Let’s see how long the Amazing Adrien can last.” The fan fare erupted again. The clowns made another showy dance around the ring as the sands on the timer dropped. The boards were pulled aside briefly to show Adrien still in the cell and seemingly struggling with his binds. “Oh no!” Lady Margerite gasped, watching the show through a set of golden opera glasses. She hoped Adrien would be okay despite what Hanz was suggesting, doing a little jig on top of Adrien’s coffin before leaping back down into the ring. The sands in the timer continued to fall. It had now been minutes since Adrien was submerged. Son’s, Valdrick and Irvine, watched on from the sidelines. The two boys were naturally born showman. Sometimes as the timer ran out Uncle Hanz called upon them to help keep the audience going. It meant audience appreciation. It meant becoming the face of the circus. It meant some coins being thrown their way. “It’s my show, mucker,” Irvine had said. He strongly believed he was the one to follow papa. Val disagreed. “Get down with you,” Val replied with impatience. He had lifted his juggling pins and was waiting for the call. Meanwhile, outside Hanz was saying to the audience of Adrien, “I hope he took care of his affairs …” The timer ran out. “This is it! This is it!” Irvine was muttering to himself. BARAH BA BOOM! The music cut. The lights focused centre ring. Hanz took a peek behind the boards. He started calling to the other performers. Something appeared to have gone dreadfully wrong. Lady Margerite sat forward in her chair. “Oh no,” she gasped as she looked through the opera glasses. The performers appeared to be in a panic. They pulled the boards back to reveal the tank was now empty. Spotlights danced around the audience and landed on the seat beside Margerite. Imagine her surprise when there stood Adrien Stoker, dripping wet, free of his binds and smiling warmly despite his struggles. He raised a glass of what was presumably water from the tank. “To you and yours Madame,” he said. The audience erupted in cheers as Adrien gave a bow and the spotlight followed him back down to the centre ring. Lady Margerite was thrilled. Irvine and Val took a peek out the curtains but quickly retracted when Uncle Hanz came rushing in. He pulled off his tailed jacket and he threw it backstage. “One of you,” he barked at the boys. “Move.” That was when the baby started to cry. Both boys looked back. ‘Not now,’ seemed to be the collective thoughts of the brothers. “The baby is crying,” Irvine stated. “Yeah,” said Val. “I can hear that.” “Move!” Hanz barked again as he headed on back out. For Valdrick, concern over the infant won out. He had to check on his baby brother. Irvine was not so worried. “Sucka,” he cheered as he headed out to centre ring. The boards were pulled back again and to the audience’s amazement there was Hanz in the cell now wearing the strait jacket. As they removed Hanz from the tank Irvine charmed the audience. Lady Margerite gushed over the boy’s charisma. Valdrick was rocking the baby in his arms thinking of the bunce he had lost. “Damn it, Felix,” he groaned. “You choose now to cry?” The baby grinned a gumsy grin at his brother. “You know you lost me an earner, right?” Felix giggled. “Never mind,” said Val. “When we’re older we’ll run the show together. We’ll make loadsa bunce.” “It was a smashing show,” Lady Margarite told her driver on the way home. Adrien Stoker was so attractive with his dark curls and expressive eyes. He was slim and tall and when she found him stood next to her she could hear the breath in his words from the struggle of his escape. “To you and yours Madame!” He had said. Stoker Circus, passing through Luen, had left a lasting impression.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls! Step right up for a swinging, stinging and full in your face ringing show. I’m Irvine Stoker and these are the trapeezy easys.” The spotlight focused on centre ring as Ethel Easy – the female half the trapeze duo climbed a rope to the high wire. She was agile so she reached the top with ease. The music offered an encouraging beat. What audience there was watched her in awe. She gripped the high wire and spun herself round once, twice and three times before holding herself up in a handstand on the wire. She reached her legs out. She let herself drop and her brother Errol had come whizzing across from the high dale of the Big Top. The audience gasped as he caught her in his arms. The two swung across to the other side of the great tent. Ringmaster Irvine stepped off the ring to leave the Easys to do their thing. “We got some bad news, boss.” Irvine had scraped some powder from an old metal box he kept in his coat onto his finger nail. He sniffed and leaned his head back a little. “What bad news?” He naturally asked. Strongman Otto, who was delivering said news, looked concerned. “I’m afraid Aunt Margerite passed away,” said the muscle man. Irvine gasped. He removed his hat and bowed his head. “It’s always the good ones,” he said solemnly. “How did she go?” Otto shrugged his broad shoulders. “Dunno,” he said. “Age I suppose.” Irvine gasped again. “Time,” he said. “It’s cruel Otto. It’s fucking cruel …’ “Will you be alright, boss?” Otto asked sensitively. “I will be,” Irvine said. “I just need to collect myself. I just need to figure out who the fuck Aunt Margerite is. Which one is she?” “Dunno,” Otto answered. “But this letter said she left you a little something.” Irvine stood up straight. He snatched the letter from the strongman. “There’s a will? Why didn’t you tell me that?” “I figured you would want to grieve first.” Irvine’s eyes were already reading the statement to see just how long a mourning period he was going to need. They heard the audience react as the Easys swung across the tent and swapped trapezes. Ethel swung above the audience blowing a kiss to an older gentlemen there with his grandkids. Errol threw a rose to an adoring young woman who snatched it up excitedly. The two met in the middle again. Ethel leapt from her trapeze to clasp her brothers feet. As they soared across she flipped onto the dale and climbed onto the tight rope. “Yes!” Irvine cried out as he read the handsome amount dear Aunt Margerite had bequeathed to him. “Wait a minute,” he said as he read on. “This says I’m to split this with my damn brothers. I was Aunt Margerite’s favourite. She said so all the time … I think … this has to be wrong.” Otto looked at the paper. He read it slowly. “Looks pretty legit.” Irvine snatched the paper away. “Aunt Margerite was a sweet old dear and she sought to leave this money to her adoring and affectionate nephew. I will not have her wishes besmirched by those scoundrel brothers of mine trying to take what she wanted me to have.” “Says here you’ve to split it,” Otto reminded him, running a finger across the words that said as such. “Equal … share…” he said slowly and carefully. Irvine held the letter to his chest. “Who’s side are you even on?” He asked. “Yours boss,” Otto stated. “Then don’t breathe a word of this. Does anyone else know?” “Don’t think so,” said Otto. “Ooooh!” The audience cheered. The Trapeezy Easys were wowing them as Ethel danced foot to foot across the tight rope as Eroll climbed hand to hand underneath her. Ethel tucked her foot under the rope and let herself drop. She caught Errol’s feet, flipped herself onto the wire again and spread her arms for balance. “Whatever you do do not let Val hear about this.” To the heavens he said, “don’t you worry Aunt Margerite. I won’t let your memory be robbed.” Otto nodded solemnly. “RIP Aunt Margerite,” he said. “Was she the one with the mole?” Irvine asked. Otto could only shrug. Eroll swung on his trapeze by his feet. He had his sister’s hands and he launched her towards the dale. Ethel landed on the dale and immediately threw herself back off catching her brothers hands again. Irvine came skipping back to centre ring as the Easys came sliding down the rope as their act came to an finish. “Wasn’t that something?” He said as he slipped his inheritance letter inside his pocket. “We don’t give half measures here at Stoker Circus. The Trapeezy Easys took a bow. The audience applauded. It was a meagre audience but that didn’t matter. The whole time Irvine kept thinking of Aunt Margerite. Now If only he could remember who Aunt Margerite was. More importantly, he had to stop his deplorable brother finding out about it. Split it. Equal share. Yeah right!
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Step right up for a dashing, crashing, full in your face smashing show. I’m Val Stoker and welcome to Stoker Circus.” The audience for the matinee show in the blue tent wasn’t as filled as it used to be but Val let his voice boom to the rafters as if it were a full house. There were a few scattered guests coughing away and giving a half hearted applause. Val’s wife Gigi had felt it too. She tried to keep up enthusiasm as best she could but they were losing them. What little there were of them. The only one who was paying the real attention they would expect of a visitor to the Stoker Circus was a small baby who’s push chair had been pressed up to the front. A smile crossed its face as Val juggled three blue pins. His act was delightful. In bygone days it would have been well received but we live in an age of computer games and technology. The old school circus had stiff competition to work with. It was sad to see such old fashioned fun drip away. What was most despairing was the fact it meant the tents were making less bunce. “We better pull out the big guns, missus,” said Val to his wife. The tall, leggy blonde was already on it. She passed him a set of metal pins. Val flicked them and the ends sparked on fire. “Huh?” He put to his audience. “Impressed yet?” The little baby cried with delight as Val danced in front of him. The flaming torches spiralled in a truly exciting fashion. He spun them higher. He spun them faster. He even got a chuckle out of his audience when he made a show as though his hands were burning and he blew on his palms between the throws. “It’s just not the same these days,” Val commented to Gigi as they stepped out of their ring. “It’s the end of an era, sugar,” said Gigi solemnly, dusting bits of sand off of his jacket. “We’ll get by,” Val assured enough for the both of them. “We always do.” The Stokers were in fact a resilient bunch. They had travelled through the generations and they survived. They survived because they were willing to sink to depths that even the most hardened of people would consider questionable. They robbed houses, they picked pockets, they washed away crime scenes and the tragedy of it all was their show, the thing that was important to all of them, wouldn’t be failing if they were to put their own greed aside and focus on it. Val tried to focus on it. He had loved the tents when his father was around. It was the golden age of the circus and Adrien had made their show one people for miles around would come to see. Now they were lucky if they had half of an audience at matinees. It wasn’t that the quality had dwindled over the years, they were always inventing creative ways to entertain. It was just that they had been so preoccupied keeping themselves on top they forgot the Stokers were a huge family and if they came together they could relive those glory days. ‘Nah! It’s all about the bunce,’ Val thought to himself. ‘What good is anything if you don’t have the cash? The tents would fill again if there was money in the place.’ Val felt a another hand on his shoulder. It was a heavier hand than Gigi’s. It was the hand of Cyril, the Stoker sad clown. “Aunt Margerite died,” he said sensitively. The painted clown face complete with tears showing just how solemn and grief stricken he was. “No,” Val gasped. “What took her. Was it her heart?” “I don’t know,” said Cyril. “I heard Otto telling Irvine.” “Which one was Aunt Margerite?” Gigi sought to ask. Cyril shrugged. “I don’t know any Margerite but she left something. Irvine didn’t want you to know.” Val gave him an affirming pat on the shoulder. HEEHO! HEEHO! “You’re a good cousin for letting me know,” he told him. To Gigi he said conspiratorially. “That bastard thinks he can hide my inheritance. He thinks he can go against dear Aunt Margerite’s wishes? The scoundrel. The absolute …” He stopped to ask Cyril, “was she the one with the mole?” Cyril shrugged. “All I know is she left you some inheritance and Irvine doesn’t want to share.” “Damn that cheating bastard of a brother of mine,” Val exclaimed. To Cyril he asked, “how much was it?” “Don’t know,” Cyril stated. “But we’ll soon find out.” “I hope so,” Val said. “Because I need to know just how sad I am about Aunt Margerite’s passing… Did she have all the dogs?” “That was Angelique,” said Gigi. “And he’s still in Luen.”
When there was a scent of financial gain in the air a Stoker is like a blood hound. As sad clown Cyril informed Val of the deception another deception was taking place. Main clown Olga was sneaking into the back room of the Big Top whilst Irvine was giving his all to his meagre customers. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he was telling them. “But I’m afraid I’m mourning the loss of a beloved aunt who was as close to me as a mother. Dear Aunt Margerite, you will be sorely missed. But ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls she would have wanted the show to go on. She would also want you to put some extra tuppence in that bucket there to go to her favourite charity. It is what she wanted and what better way to remember such a generous woman.” The coast was clear which was just as well because Olga’s shoes squeaked, squeaked and squeaked across the boards. There it was. Sat on the desk was the letter detailing the inheritance left behind by Aunt Margerite. Olga smiled as she reached out to collect it, her face paint making that smile ever so big. But just as she collected the letter a claw like hand snatched hers. It was tattooed, bony and the sharp yellowish nails dug in. Gretel, the legless woman from their freak show, heaved herself onto the table. “Oh shit!” Olga cried. Gretel Stoker may have been born without legs but she could sure pull her way around a room faster than most people with both legs could run. Gretel leapt onto her and tried to snatch the letter. Olga, was a burly clown. She could throw her rounded body for an audience’s amusement so she had quite the heave on her. She grabbed Gretel by her arms and hammer threw the legless woman across the back room. Gretel bounced off the canopy and came rushing across the boards. “Give it back!” She warned. Olga tore out of there with Gretel hot on her heel. “Oh shit!” Olga cried out again as Gretel lashed out and tore a hole in her clown pants with her long, pointed nails. Olga didn’t feel good about it, at least that was what she said afterwards, but the only way she was going to get out of there with the letter was if she took Gretel out. She could give her a kick worthy of an rugby player of course but she saw the fire hose and the clown in her couldn’t resist. WOOOOOSH! She turned the hose on Gretel and sent the legless woman sailing down a small but powerful river back into the back room. She turned on her heel and she bounced out of there. Her shoes were now sounding extra squidgy. “Val?” She cried out when she returned to the blue tent. “I’ve got the letter.” “Well done Olga, girl,” said Val. Olga caught her breath. She leaned over, wheezing a little. “I had to skoosh Gretel back into her box.” Val had already started to read the letter. “Getting Gretel to guard are you, I’m onto you Irvine. Don’t forget I’m the older brother. I’ve been on this planet longer. You can’t outsmart a smartass. Ain’t that right, missus?” “It is, sugar,” agreed Gigi. “People say it all the time.” “We’re rich!” Val exclaimed as he read the letter. “Thank you, Aunt Margerite!” He kissed the letter with a firm mwah! They were celebrating. They still had to get the money though.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Step right up for a slicing, dicing, full in your face enticing show. I’m Felix Stoker and welcome to Stoker Circus!” Felix, the baby of the three brothers, didn’t mind the dwindling audiences so much. Whether it was five or five thousand watching he was thrilled to be entertaining. He didn’t want to think about the tents as a business. He believed in the magic that was bringing a smile to the masses just as his father had. The music rumbled and the two fire breathers, Gisel and Silke, danced around the ring of the blue tent. They blew on their torches and flames around the fence lit drawing an audible gasp from the evening crowd. Silke danced back to centre first. Her partner joined her. Gisel raised her torch. She turned the flames to her lips and she ate the fire. She turned to Silke, kissed her. They parted and it was Silke who blew out the flames like an angry dragon. The thrills were a plenty even if the money wasn’t rolling in. Felix was a knife thrower. He threw them around Silke as she spun on a red and blue wheel. He threw them whilst blindfolded. He threw them whilst balancing on a beam and blindfolded. He always hit the target with those knives. He had so many planted up his sleeves that it just looked like there was no end to them. He would flip and spin and always the knives would stick exactly where they were meant to. Even with the fire breathers throwing flames around him his aim was as accurate as could be. The audience applauded and he took a congenial bow. Behind the noise of the appreciation he could hear his brothers start to bicker. “Thank you everyone for coming,” Felix was telling his audience. “I’m going to ring your fat little neck,’ Irvine could be heard growling at Val. “You have been a wonderful audience and I do hope you come back and join us again soon,” said Felix. “You thieving bastard. You were going to cut me out,” was Val’s retort. “Have a safe journey home and remember …” “Ouch!” Irvine yelped as Val kicked his long shin. He lurched towards Val but Val had decided to run at him with his shoulder. What resulted was a grapple that was worthy of a couple of clowns. “Will you stop this?” Olga requested. “It looks ridiculous.” Gretel had leapt onto Val’s back leaving Cyril no choice but to pull her off. She turned on him and then there were two ridiculous grapples going on. They had been so busy with their petty feud it wasn’t until they both felt a knife at both of their throats they stopped. Both brothers took a step back and raised their hands. “Someone want to tell me what is going on?” Asked Felix. Cyril and Gretel both raised their hands too. Having no legs, Gretel just tumbled to the ground. “We’re just upset,” said Irvine. “I don’t know how to tell you this …” “You might want to sit down,” added Val. “It’s going to be hard one to take mucker,” said Irvine. “It’s really sad news,” said Val. Felix frowned at them both. “Aunt Margerite died,” said Irvine and Val together, both trying to be the first to break the news. Felix sighed. Then he thought about it. “We don’t have an Aunt Margerite,” he said. “Turns out we do. She left us a little something as inheritance,” Val told him. “Not much. Just a little token really,” Irvine explained further. “We don’t even know why we’re fighting over it it is so minuscule,” Val saw fit to add. “Feels silly now,” Irvine stated. In that moment it there was an unspoken agreement made between the two elder brothers as the baby scrutinised them. ‘We cannot let him know he’s named on there too,’ Irvine would no doubt be the first to remind. ‘He’ll probably want to give the whole lot to some charitable cause like pox riddled cats or something,’ Val would consider. This unspoken rule had formed and as untrustworthy as they could be they knew they both had to agree to this or they both would end up with nothing and most likely they both would end up with a sharp end of a knife making them really uncomfortable for causing upset to Felix’s act. “She left something for you too,” Val decided to be honest. “She left you these.” From his bag he removed a statue of two lions. He wasn’t being all that honest. The lions had been handed into his pawn shop. They didn’t look worth much and the word around the shop was they were cursed. The seller certainly seemed quite keen to get rid of them and Val’s little shop of costly curiosities seemed the perfect fit. Felix didn’t know any of this though. He took the lions and inspected them. “She left me these?” He asked. “She must have thought you the most special all,” said Irvine. ‘No need to ham it up. I got this. Then you and I get back to sorting our shit out,’ Val thought. “Huh,” Felix smiled with a nod. “They are unusual aren’t they?” He said of his lions. “It was very kind of Aunt Margerite to leave these to me. I’d better take good care of them.” “You do that,” Val urged. “In fact, you better put them somewhere safe before something happens to them.” Or before the curse gets out. “Will you stop fighting?” Felix asked. Val made the decision for them. “Since it’s just pittance we’ve been given it might be better just to leave it to a charitable cause,” he said. ‘What are you doing?’ Irvine wondered. ‘It needs to be fucking believable.’ Felix was busy inspecting his lions again. “Maybe pox riddled cats,” said Irvine. “I don’t think Aunt Margerite would want you to be fighting. She would be really upset that the good thing she did for us, remembering us on her death bed, would cause an argument,” Felix told them sincerely. “You are right,” Val nodded. He placed an arm around Felix’s shoulder and started to lead him away. “You know, Felix, you never cease to amaze me. Just when I think there are no good men left in this world you remind me of what a gem you are.” “Thank you,” Felix replied. Val stretched. “Well you have set us straight and I think it’s time to turn in.” “Mmmhmmm,” Felix muttered as he departed, still captivated by his lions. Made in Subala it said on the bottom. ‘I wonder when Aunt Margerite was in Subala.’ Gretel climbed up Irvine’s long legs and into his arms. He had Val looked at each other. “So we’re agreed on an equal share?” Val put to the ringmaster. “That sounds fair, mucker,” Irvine told the juggler. Irvine carried Gretel away. Val led Cyril away. They both looked back over their shoulders because when you are such a devious individual you can’t help but expect everyone you meet to be just as sneaky.
The Rumilaw of City Main was where Val’s pawn shop lay. It was also home to dentists who weren’t necessarily fully licensed and to lawyers who weren’t necessarily sober all the time. However, that was where such people like the Stokers conduct their legal business. Val and Gigi were making their way to the offices of Friggan and Moore. Moore was no longer part of that team for reasons that involved a suicide attempt with an axe but they kept the sign because Friggan and Moore sounded more of a legal powerhouse than just plain old Friggan. Stanley Friggan wouldn’t be tearing up the High Court of Coldford any time soon but for a moderate fee he could make sure Val got his inheritance. “What are we going to do with that money?” Gigi was enjoying thinking out loud. Maybe a trip to Luen? Maybe a nice meal at the Delphine restaurant? Val had been thinking of the lousy matinees they had been experiencing. Fixing that would be a good place to start. “I promised Felix when we were kids we would have the best show ever,” Val said to his wife. “We do have that,” Gigi retorted. “We just need people to come along and see it.” “I’ll fix that. I’d like to use some of the money to bring our show up to scratch. Make it something people around here really want to come and see.” “That’s nice,” Gigi agreed. “I thought so,” said Val. “Felix would like that. He’s a good kid.” “You could give him his share,” Gigi suggested. Val frowned. “I said he was a good kid not a fucking bank. Felix wouldn’t know what to do with that money. I’m the eldest brother so it’s best I make the decisions.” “You are a smart man, sugar,” said Gigi. There are wise men and there are smart ones. Often the two are not the same. Val was smart. He was very wiley but he was in competition with a creature just as smart and even more shameless. “Irvine, you bastard!” Just as they arrived at the office of Friggan and Moore they saw Irvine approaching too. A wise man would stop and have a civilised discussion with his brother as to the benefits all could have with such an inheritance. A smart one would dash in to be the first inside the office. Irvine’s long legs gave him an advantage but Valdrick’s stocky frame could be carried like a leaping gazelle when there was money involved. The result was the two caught in the doorway. “We agreed equal share,” Irvine growled. “I was just checking on it for us,” Val assured. “What are you doing here?” “The same. Just checking. I wanted to make sure we weren’t shaken by some huckster law man who can’t stay sober an afternoon,” said Irvine. The finally managed to squeeze inside. Friggan came from his office to meet them. “Come in. Come in!” He beckoned them in a drunken way that oozed relief that he had clients. “You’re brother is already here.” Irvine and Val looked at each other. Before they could question it too much the were ushered into Friggan’s office. Seated already was Felix. “Dear Margarite,” said Felix. “She was a splendid woman.” “She was,” Val said solemnly but with a little hesitation. “She was a one of a kind. You don’t meet women like that often,” said Irvine. “I’ll get the final paperwork,” offered Friggan. As he bounced into his desk and over to his files the three Stokers had a score to settle. “You rotten little cheat,” Val said to Felix. “To cheat you would to take something that isn’t yours. I’m just here for what’s mine,” Felix maintained. “You’re going to give it all away to poxy cats, aren’t you?” Irvine asked. “Don’t you realise what we could do, how much better off we would be if we worked together?” Suggested the knife thrower. “You’re too good a liar. I don’t like that,” said Val. “We just need a signature and we can get the funds released,” the lawyer returned with some documents. “Friggan did good didn’t he? I mean this is a good pay out. You’re gonna want to buy a drink for your old pal Friggan.” “You just need my signature don’t you, since I’m the eldest,” Val made a last ditch attempt. “I’ll need all three,” said Friggan leaning over the paper and looking like he was going to hurl. He looked up and pointed at them trying to count to make sure there were actually three. Gigi’s presence confused matters momentarily. When they finally departed with all the final details taken care of Val wrapped an arm around Felix. “You know some days I wonder where you came from but you are definitely a Stoker.” Felix chuckled. “I learned from the best and the worst.” “We’re going to be alright, baby brother,” Val assured them. “I do feel a little bad. Margarite left me the lion statue and nothing extra for you both,” Felix told them. “Because you’ve always been special,” Irvine said, rolling his eyes. He was still brooding about his payday being cut by two thirds.
The numbers flashed on the screen as the video played. 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 …
“You’re going to have the best day. We’re here to take all your troubles away. You’re going to dance and sing. You’ll smile at everything. Because Stoker Circus are on their way.”
The three brothers watched the old advert play out. The images burned away and were replaced by Adrien, who appeared to just be finishing adjusting his camera. “Valdrick, Irvine, Felix, if you are seeing this then the chances are something has gone wrong for me. Don’t worry though. It was bound to happen. You can’t outrun the Devil forever. You will be grown men now but if you will still take advice from your father I want you to take a look around yourselves. Our tents and our name has stood the test of time because we are able to brace for toughest times like a slug to the gut. It’s admirable and Irvine you are better at that than anyone I’ve ever known. Just remember not everyone wants to throw a punch. I hope you know the difference. Felix, you have such a kindly nature and I am always proud of you. Sometimes even the kindest need to be armed with knives but don’t let it make you forget who you are though. Valdrick, I know you have always been nervous of the future. You were always worrying about what was to come next. Don’t let that stop you enjoying what you already have. The beauty of what is now is when it’s then it’s no longer now and what seems so important now isn’t such a big deal then. You all have the chance to make people smile. No matter what goes on in the world what is the point of anything if you can’t make people smile? A Queen or a maid, a king or a pauper, it’s all same. They all need to smile. It’s worth taking those slugs in the gut for. I should probably tell you who Margerite was. She was a lady of the Luen Court. She was of noble birth and I captured her heart. She was your mother. That makes you royalty.” Val and Irvine’s eyes both widened. Val’s lips pursed in an expression that suggested he had that figured all along. Irvine began flicking his collar wishing he had starched it more. Fuck it. He would have a man servant to do that if he was going to be Royalty. “We’re the sons of a noble woman!?” Adrien seemed to savour their expression for a bit. Then he pouted. “Just kidding. Your mother was a trampolinist who drowned in a barrel of wine,” he told the camera. He smiled. “See? Tragic but you got to smile.” “Grinning ear to ear,” Groaned Irvine sarcastically. “My point is,” Adrien went on, “people like Lady Margarite need to smile and they are always appreciative of our own being able to make them. I hope you use her generosity wisely. Most importantly don’t forget to smile yourselves. There is only one rule in the Stoker tents and that is you cannot leave sad.”
There are many terrible deeds attributed to the Stoker family but I for one like to think of the true heart beneath it all. Adrien was an amazing man. Hanz was a war criminal. Felix was an honest hero always willing to help those in need. For Irvine everything had a price, even human lives. Where did that leave Valdrick? He seemed an explosive mix of all these things. His decisions would determine where the circus rolled to next and what kind of impression they would give. With his father’s voice ringing in his ears Valdrick used some of the money bequeathed by Lady Margerite to improve his show. Not all of it, he wasn’t a complete nonce, but it did breathe life into their dying show. Time would tell just how far this would go but for now I have some hope that Stoker Circus could fulfil Adrien’s wishes and be on hand to make people smile through tough times. Then again, the Circus had rode into Coldford where clowns were right at home.
When the daughter of an enemy comes to Val Stoker looking for a loan, the circus performer thinks his luck as rolled in! He has a conscience though. Not much but it is there and there is a bigger problem brewing.
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Gather round, ladies and gentlemen. Gather round, for a tale of desperate men on society’s ultimate time out.
You may find yourself feeling sorry for them. But don’t. They know why they’re here. They know what they did.
Here we have murderers, thieves and vagabonds of all descriptions. We are home to the worst of the worst in the Shady City. They will now pay for their crimes. They won’t be shown an ounce of pity.
This castle was once home to a glorious queen. You can’t imagine the battles and blood shed she had seen. Times may have moved on quite a bit since then but our dungeons are still filled with the cries of desperate men.
Bring me that one! And that one! Yes, and that one too!
That fat one cowering in the corner? I suppose he’ll have to do.
Bring me him! And him! That one appears to be at a loss.
You will all be reminded I AM THE BOSS!
Available April 15th
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From the family of circus performers who hailed from the country of Levinkrantz, Freddy is the grandson of the legendary escape artist Adrien Stoker. Of the three Stoker tents (the red, blue and striped BigTop) Freddy leads the freak show from the red. He is a natural performer, learning from his ringmaster father, Irvine. Drawn to the macabre, Freddy enjoys making his audience squirm as he presents the most freakish sights.
Like the rest of his large family he will always be willing to perform on demand if the right person throws some coin into his ring. On the off season he acts as a crime scene cleaner. He is incredibly thorough in his observations which means cleaning up your messes is no sweat. His gymnastic skills and performance flair also see him well equipped to carry out home invasion robberies. He is a despicable little monster among but hey that’s show business!
The Stoker family contain the good, the bad and the downright fiendish. Freddy is of the latter. So if you have the stomach and the morbid curiosity then come on down whilst the circus is in town.
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When I was younger the big screen was held as the epitome of the entertainment industry. There were popular television shows but if you really wanted your name in lights the cinema and the great red carpet premieres were the ultimate goal. Movie actors had a lot more credence than their small screen counter parts and the cinema was a treat for all the senses.
One of the first movies I remember going to see was Jurassic Park. (Yes the first one. Yes I am dino cups being sold in McDonalds years old). I’ll never forget the rumbling of those almighty notes as the park itself is first revealed. I still get goosebumps when I see it. I’ll also not forget being accidentally smacked in the jaw when the T-Rex burst out of its damn cage! (Too soon for spoilers?). It was a completely immersive experience you wouldn’t find in your living room with the television. Going to the cinema was an event. The smell of popcorn, the advertisements for the latest movies and the ridiculously expensive snacks all made for a great night out. The love of cinema continued for me with the release of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I was obsessed with the movies and Return of the King was one of the few I had went more than once to see. The only other exception to that was the Truman show which I saw five times. The quirky premise was unusual for the time. It was before reality TV became common place. Coupled with the beautiful Philip Glass soundtrack and the island setting, it was a cinematic experience I opted for again and again. But I digress. My point is cinema was an exciting place.
Television isn’t without its merit. What the cinema offered in experience the television made up for by giving families, companions and friends a place to gather round. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of my family gathered together to watch our favourite shows. When I first went to uni I was thrown into a hall with strangers but as soon as we put on the television and watched together we became friends. Where the cinema was an exciting out of town visitor the television was your constant companion. I often hear people talk of putting on their favourite shows for comfort as they fall asleep and I find that remarkable.
Which brings me to the modern day. Before the days of the disease which shall not be named, the cinema was already losing its grip on the collective imagination. Streaming services became common place and more and more people were opting to stay at home and watch their favourite shows. When cinemas closed for an extended time it seemed to be the final nail in the old girl’s coffin. The glorious cinematography of a Marvel movie is great but when there are shows and stories you can lose yourself in just as easily at home (the Loki series for instance) then it doesn’t seem the cinema is holding its worth any more. To me it seems that cinema is something of a bygone era now. The big movie releases are becoming a thing of the past and instead more focus and attention is being placed on the latest shows the streaming services have to offer. Maybe that’s just my experience. Maybe I’m just cynical. Maybe I should give our times of recovery more of a chance.
What are your thoughts? Do you think the cinema still has the same sway it used to? What are your favourite movies and shows? Let me know.
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Some lives are lived to excess. Some lives are lived well. Some lives are zapped right out of the good for nothing so and so which brings me back to the most shocking resident of this castle. Buzzkill is the end of the line for most of our inmates. His strap-like tentacles are one size fits all. When his three sister switches – past, present and future – are flicked, and Buzzkill begins to shake the life from his prey it causes the lights to flicker deep down here in the lowest depths right up to the dizzying heights.
They say Buzzkill is humane. I ask you, would you find it humane to park your rear in his grasp? As his long arms tighten around you I defy anyone to think to themselves, ‘what a delightful way to go.’
As guards lead in Buzzkill’s next meal, inmate 2000 (incidentally the amount of voltz he’s about have fired through him) we can see from the expression on his face he’s not feeling like it’s all very humane. .
His name was Elder McEery on the outside. He was raised on Hathfield Bay island. He spent his time frolicking in the sands, playing in the sea and bashing the heads of tourists in on behalf of the Church of St Wigan. They were vengeful types and not the hippy, loving, religious sorts they would seem. St Wigan was all about the righteousness and he had Elder believe he was just in dispatching heathens. The High Court of Coldford strongly disagreed. Death was his sentence and a seat on Buzzkill’s lap was the method.
“Do you have anything you wish to say before sentence is carried out?” Inmate 2000 was asked.
Elder sniffed. He would swear he could already feel the electricity firing through his body. The switches hadn’t been pulled yet. It was just the ice cold shards of nerves.
Looking upon Buzzkill’s layer is the viewing room separated by a thick glass partition which Christie and her grief counsellors gathered behind earlier in our tale. Some gather there to bear witness to the end of someone who did them wrong. Others might want to be the last thing the victim sees before that almighty bolt is thrown at them.
The viewing room is rather empty and somber for Elder. There is a woman dressed in modest clothes. She isn’t looking at him. She has her eyes closed. She is praying, clutching a purple ribbon in her hand. A filthy braid with more ribbons tangled in it flows down her back. There is another man there too. He’s a peculiar looking fellow who seems to have a mischievous grin about him even though he isn’t smiling. Mr Kutz has been tasked with assuring Elder is sent on his one-way trip to ask St Wigan himself it the dead tourists were necessary. They can all meet up in Hell and think, ‘well this is embarrassing.’
“For the heathens do not repent,” Wigan had said.
It is tough to repent when you have just watched your baby being crushed under rocks and know you’re going to be next.
“Do you have anything to say?” the inmate was asked again.
Elder could barely breathe. Buzzkill embraced him so tightly.
“Praise Wigan!” he gasped.
Praise him indeed.
The knowing grin of Kutz spread into an actual smile.
“Faithful to the end,” he said. “I suppose that is somewhat admirable.”
The first switch was pulled.
It began as a gentle tremor as Elder’s past caught up with him.
The second switch was pulled
Elder shook a little harder. He was locked in the present. He was locked in Buzzkill’s layer.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzz.
The future lit up as the third switch was pulled. The future for Elder was one of eternal torment which is ironic considering the all knowing Wigan had him believe that was what he was saving himself from. I’m sure he can take that up with the manager when the ferryman ushers him to his final destination.
Buzzkill gnashed and Elder shuddered violently in his jaws. The lights flickered. The Wigan girl had interrupted her prayer to observe.
“No need for alarm,” he said in a way that was pleasant but not all reassuring. “That’s to be expected.”
“Gentlemen, for your crimes you are now in servitude to The Boss.”
Available on Kindle April 15th 2022
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A chill was in the air as the funeral service for Mrs Margaret Williams filed out of Chamberlain Crematorium, located in the north section of Coldridge Park.
Margaret’s granddaughter, Marlene, pushed her mother’s wheelchair out.
“She had a good life,” said Marlene. Her mother, Moira, agreed. She had been ninety-three when she passed, comfortable in her bed, still cheering her beloved City football team, and surrounded by family. A goal from Andre Luis had won the game against Cardyne. She rested back with a smile and passed. She had seen so much in her life, too. She had been so many exciting places. What more could someone ask for?
Seth Bergman of the Bergman diamond dynasty, and cousin to the missing Kappa So brother Isaac, extinguished his cigarette underneath the sole of the black boots he wore. His father, Howard, had always warned him, “Try not to smoke when you’re greeting people. The smell of tobacco isn’t particularly pleasant for some and you’re representing yourself.”
Seth approached Marlene and Moira.
“Oh Seth,” Marlene gasped with joy. “Thank you for coming.”
Seth kissed Marlene’s cheek. He then leaned down and kissed that of Moira who clutched his hand and kept a hold of it.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Seth assured them.
He was glad he had blown warm air onto his hands before greeting. No one liked to hold a cold hand, especially whilst grieving. A gloved hand was too impersonal.
“A lovely boy is Seth,” said Moira from her chair. “A lovely boy.”
“If we can do anything for you, please just let me know,” he put to them. “I’ll let you get on and I’ll be in touch,” he said as the crowd from the crematorium began to spill towards them.
He waited aside respectfully for the mourners to clear before following the path round to the back of the building. The door was opened and Eugene Morris aka The Tailor emerged, accompanied by the Holy Brother of the Albans order.
“Seth, my dear boy,” said Eugene. “I pass this now into your care.”
To Seth he gave a ceramic urn containing the ashes of Mrs Williams.
“Thank you, sir,” Seth nodded. “I‘ll see her well.”
“How is your sister?” asked Eugene.
“Elsa? She’s keeping herself out of trouble.”
“Good, good,” nodded Eugene. “And your father? How is he?”
“He’s doing well, thank you,” was Seth’s reply. “This Article 22 situation is a little unnerving.”
Eugene nodded. “He’ll be especially upset at the loss of Reginald Penn.”
Seth agreed. “It was a sad loss but we have to carry on, don’t we?”
The Holy Brother dipped his hands into the opposing sleeves of his robes.
“My concern is with the young one – Reginald Junior. Through terrible circumstances he’s been left on his own. He really needs friends to keep him right,” he said.
Seth replied, “I did contact him online but there was no response, which is unusual for him. Elsa tried calling him too but he was just not to be reached. We both figured after Rita’s burial he wanted to be left alone for a while.”
Eugene lowered his voice. “It’s not for me to comment but I’m sure a visit from a friend would do him the world of good.”
“Yes sir,” agreed Seth.
And so the group parted with Seth Bergman carefully escorting Mrs Williams’ remains.
City Main was always a busy place. The noise of it was enough to cover the tick-booming of the City Face clock unless you caught it at a certain time of the morning. That being said, Seth Bergman was astounded to find such a commotion around the base of Faulds Park.
Admirers were gathered to seemingly show their support of the lone prince. Some had laid candles and wreaths for the king and queen. Rita in particular was a very active member of the community. She had the heart of the Baroness and the mind of the Broker. I learned that Rita – as sweet as she could be – was fearless when it came to protecting her people. Of course, Reginald carried out any violence required so his queen wouldn’t have to, but upon research I found that Rita was adept at getting among them.
At the doorway to Faulds Park was stood a man in Wigan robes. He was ringing his bell.
Ding ding. Ding ding.
“Repent before it’s too late!” he was yelling.
The Loyalists seemed to be leaving him be. They were more focused on an imminent clash that would occur when Billy Owen decided to send CPD.
It was a long ride up to the Penthouse but when Seth reached it the noise was worse than the floors below. Music boomed and people flooded everywhere. Seth stopped one of them. “I’m here to see Reggie,” he explained. “Where is he?”
“Reggie isn’t seeing anyone,” the greeter remarked.
Seth frowned. “It doesn’t seem that way now does it?” he passed comment on the gathering with a raised eyebrow. “Where is Reg Junior?”
That was when Seth noticed the purple ribbons of Wigan tied around wrists and necks. The Wigan cross was displayed on chests. The man he had stopped slipped away. Seth watched as he approached what appeared to be a superior. They both looked at him. He stood his ground.
“Seth?” Finally he had an audience with Reggie.
Seth had seen images of the triplet prince in the press. He looked worse for wear but he hadn’t expected to find him so dishevelled. He clutched his face and looked at him closely. His skin was warm, sweaty, feverish.
“You’re taking too many drugs,” Seth stated. “I know you went through a lot but you need to pull yourself together.”
Reggie shook him off dismissively. When he noticed Seth glare at him he laughed.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Top shape. I’m just relaxing, like. Got plenty of people around. It’s all good.”
That was when Seth took note of the young woman who accompanied him. She was holding his hand. She offered a polite smile to the Bergman boy. She was dressed as a true Wigan from the bay.
“This is Leona,” Reggie introduced.
“Nice to meet ye,” her accent confirmed her pedigree.
Reggie groaned. He was starting to feel pain in his leg and the stab wounds in his abdomen were stinging again. The dressings would be needing changed soon. He needed pills.
“Reggie, you need to be careful,” Seth warned. “You don’t know these people.”
Becoming a little frustrated with the pain, Reggie grunted. “I know Leona,” he explained. “She’s been looking out for me. Where the fuck have you been?”
“Now, Reggie,” said Leona softly. “That’s no way to speak to a friend.”
“I have been trying to get in touch,” said Seth.
Leona spoke for him. “Too much contact with the outside world with computers and telephones wasn’t doing him much good.”
“And who were you to decide that?” Seth asked angrily.
Leona was unmoved but her softness continued. “I care a lot about Reggie. I’ve been helping him get better.”
“By plying him with drugs?” Seth exclaimed.
This angered the triplet.
“I’m standing right here. Don’t talk to her like that,” he growled. “I’m not some fucking simpleton. I’m … Look, I’ll be fine.”
“I think you should leave,” said Leona.
“If Reggie wishes me to leave I will,” returned the diamond merchant.
Leona clenched Reggie’s hand tighter.
“Just fuck off Seth,” said the triplet. “I mean thanks for coming down and all that but I’m good.”
Seth nodded. “Glad to hear it. Just call me if you need anything.”
To Leona, Seth said, “If you truly care about him, you will make sure he talks to his brothers.”
Leona smiled. “Whatever is best for him,” she said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Bergman. Now Reggie has asked you to leave.”
“That’s shit,” Reggie was saying to Leona as the elevator doors closed and took Seth away. “I should have asked him to stay for a joint or something.”
Leona hushed him. She patted his hand gently. “I’m sorry Reggie,” she said. “It’s hard to know who’s good for you and who isn’t. I’m sure he’ll understand when you’re better. I just want what’s best for ye. You need to relax. You’re getting uptight again.”
Reggie agreed. “I can’t thank you enough for being here,” he said. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“I’m happy to be here, although it is really unnerving,” she said.
“I’ll not let anything happen to you,” Reggie assured.
“Wigan bless ye,” Leona replied.
Time for another trip. Transport provided by heether mushrooms.
“Bergman Memorial, because life is precious. Your loved one deserves to be remembered in the most shining way possible. No one knows your loved one better than you, so you will be given full support from one of our master cultivators throughout the heartfelt process.”
Seth could hear his father’s voice in the old advert as he took two scoops of Mrs Williams’ ashes to begin the blend.
“With a history of perfection that spans generations, our cutting and polishing is carried out to the highest quality; and because we know how important it is to your family, we take pain staking care that your diamond is worthy of remembrance.”
As Seth prepared to purify the ashes, that was when I arrived and knocked on the door of the lab where one of the merchants in the parade upstairs had told me I would find him.
“Take a seat, Sam,” he offered as he spun around in his stool.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said genuinely.
During my time in Coldford the Bergmans had managed to be everywhere but nowhere. They had ties to the Loyalists of Main as well as Kappa So and the Law Makers. Not an easy task to manage such varied groups. Seth’s father – Howard – was a well known and loved figure but what was astonishing to me was how cleanly he conducted business. Perhaps I had been in the Shady City a little too long and it was making me sceptical, but even as I passed the beautiful pieces of jewellery I kept searching for the shadows behind the shine. The family intrigued me and given Seth’s attempts to see Reggie I thought it would be good to get his views.
Amicable like his father, Seth was more welcoming than most to a reporter. His dark hair and wild blue eyes much like his Aunt Sophie’s.
He laughed heartily when I told of my discovery of Reggie and Tabitha in David Finn’s apartment.
“When The Tailor shows concern there must be something very wrong,” Seth spoke of Reggie. “When I went to Faulds Park it was strange. Reggie himself seems content for now.”
“The Auction House is being put up for sale again,” I said. “I heard your father made a bid.”
Seth replied, “As much as he loathes business with Chick Owen, he felt it was only right to try and help Reggie get it back whilst the boys are in prison.”
Finally, a break in the armour of the ever-friendly Howard Bergman.
“Bad history with the Owens then?” I asked.
“My father isn’t one to harbour grudges or bad blood but he finds the Owens arrogant, conceited, and too quick to throw their weight around. An Owen killed Reginald Penn. You can quote me on saying that if you like,” said Seth.
“So your family wouldn’t have been happy that your cousin pledged Kappa So?” I pressed.
“My aunt was furious at Isaac. My dad was too, but he’s his own man and has been making some positive changes from within the frat,” Seth explained. “They asked me to join too but I wouldn’t be caught dead inside that Chapter House.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Seth beckoned.
The door opened and a short man with wild grey hair bounded in. He was quite upset about something.
“I’m not having this. Is this some kind of joke? Where the fuck is Isaac? Fucking frat boys.”
“Woah!” warned Seth. “Language please, Abe. Can’t you see I have company?”
Abe looked to me. He still seemed worked up but he adapted his tone.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m leaving this with you. I’m not doing anything until I hear from Isaac.”
He dropped a bag into Seth’s lap and made his exit. Seth opened the bag. I watched his expression change to that of one of surprised amusement. He began to laugh.
“I hope you’re not prudish, Sam,” he said.
From the bag he removed a large penis carved in gold. Abe Rothenstein was one of the Bergman’s leading gold mongers. His family had carved some of the most beautiful golden pieces, some of which were worn by royalty.
Seth turned it over and looked at the stamp at the bottom.
“No!” he gasped. Then he began to laugh even harder. “1015. That’s the mark of Hen Owen. This is the captain’s telescope.”
That was when I first set eyes on the golden asset. With a warning from Ronnie, Buddy had turned to the best goldsmiths in the city for help correcting it. Seeing it as a frat boy prank – which, in fairness to Abe, it was – it had now fallen into Bergman hands. Howard Bergman loathed to do business with the Owens. Those were his son’s words. I could only imagine how Chick Owen would feel about Howard Bergman should he find his golden asset.
“I’m going to need you to sit on this, Sam, ” Seth said. He chuckled when he realised what he was waving at me. “I mean the story, not this.”
With an invitation in hand to Howard Bergman’s coming together gathering, I arrived at Bergman estate. The patriarch had been hoping to give the city a chance to heal. I was escorted through the estate in Kingsgate. It was a beautiful place with expansive lawns and a little patch of woodland surrounding it. When I arrived, the party had already begun. Seth himself wouldn’t be there until nine but he promised me some time with his father.
“Just as long as you know you’re probably going to learn a lot about the history of Levinkrantz,” Seth warned in jest.
I was prepared for that providing Howard was willing to share some insight into the bad blood between he and Chick Owen.
Some called it Castle Bergman because of how fortified it was. Inside was like any other family home. On the walls were photos of the Bergmans. There was one of a young Seth. There were others too, of his cousins Isaac and Eli who I still had to meet. Special placement had been given to Seth’s sister, Elsa. She was a rebellious looking girl who clutched her father affectionately in the photo kissing his cheek. A genuine moment of joy had been captured on Howard’s face.
“Sam!” the man himself called to me from across the hall. He politely dismissed himself from the group he was entertaining.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr Bergman,” I replied.
With an arm around my shoulder he led me to the main hall. I could see Sophie with the large man named Golem who acted as her interpreter. She was smiling, greeting some guests with a kiss on both cheeks. Golem stood obediently by her side.
“If you don’t mind, Sam, I need to get everyone settled. You have a drink and enjoy the party.”
I was seated at a delightful table with Abe Rothenstein and his brother Ike. They had hilarious stories to share, comments to pass on those at the other tables and a penchant for drinking booze by the gallon. Howard stopped by every now and again in between entertaining his other guests.
“You should write a story about my grandfather,” Ike was saying. “The Levinkrantz blitz destroyed his whole building but he still refused to move. He just hung sheets up where the walls had been blasted away.”
Abe put in, “Just swept all that dust and rubble right out.”
“They offered him a new house but he told them to stick that where the sun can’t get to,” added Ike.
“He was ninety-eight when he died,” said Abe.
Ike shook his head. “Still wouldn’t move. We had to bury him there.”
They both started laughing. Their merry chuckles were quite infectious. Abe filled my glass with more Waldens vintage.
By the time it reached 8 o’clock the band was very much in full swing. A pleasant night was being had by all. At around eight ten, that was when things began to turn sour.
“Uncle Howie?” Isaac arrived in a hurry, pulling Howard away from his party.
“Isaac? Where have you been? We’ve all been worried about you.”
“I need to talk to you,” said the nephew. “Right away.”
“Oh dear, Mr Bergman!” cried one of the ladies. “I’ve spilled some wine.”
“Not to worry,” said Howard. “We’ll get that cleaned up.” To his nephew he said, “Whatever is going on, now is neither the time nor the place. Breakfast tomorrow. You and I will sit and we’ll discuss what’s on your mind. We’ve missed you around the estate.”
Before he could explain further, Howard had waved to a new arrival.
“Karyn!” he called. “You look tremendous.”
“Shit!” Isaac grumbled.
The Judge herself was accompanied by his mother, Sophie, and the interpreter, Golem. As Howard fell into conversation with Karyn Doyle, Isaac made an attempt to sign ‘I need your help’ to his mother, but didn’t catch her eye.
A server bumped into him carrying a tray.
“Sorry, sugar,” said the soft voice.
The server passed the tray. Isaac had been too busy looking for an opportunity to get Golem or his mother on their own, he hadn’t noticed the server close in behind him. She pinched his backside.
“Woah!” Isaac jerked around but as he came face to face with her, she pushed him against the wall and locked her lips to his. Isaac could hear whistles from party-goers in the main area where the booze was flowing.
Isaac was led into a small room just off the main corridor. The server woman, not a woman at all. Freddy Stoker pulled off the platinum blonde wig. Irvine Stoker kicked the door closed.
“You want to talk to someone, Isaac? I’m listening. Freddy? Let the Easys in.”
There was already tapping at the window. Freddy crossed the room, opened the window and the two trapeze artists slipped in.
“I always said never trust a Bergman,” Irvine went on. “Now look where we are.”
The Easys pulled rope in with them.
Irvine reached into his pocket and produced a tobacco tin. He opened it and tapped a sample of powder onto a long finger nail and sniffed. Freddy’s hand reached up slowly to sample some but Irvine slapped it away. “Get your own,” he warned his son.
He slipped a metal pole down the sleeve of his patched coat.
“Isaac,” he said. “I’m going to have fun with this.”
“The blood splatter,” warned Freddy.
Irvine danced around Isaac as the Easys laid tarpaulin they had brought in backpacks. Irvine angled himself towards the window.
Karyn Doyle always attended the parties of Howard Bergman. She was almost as comfortable in the Bergman Estate as she was in her own home. One particular evening, when she was a freshly-appointed judge, she had wandered onto the balcony for some air. It was a pleasant night. The summer warmth and the closing of sunset cast an orange glow across Kingsgate. She embraced a little of the ambience when the door opened and she was joined by Van Holder. She turned. She smiled but her focus went back to the view. He approached her and wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed gently against her.
“You’ve been making me hungry all night,” he jested as he nibbled playfully on her neck.
Karyn giggled girlishly and stroked his thigh. The music and the party sounded behind them. They could hear laughter as one of the Rothensteins tried to get a sing-song started.
Van Holder ran his hands gently down her stomach and hitched her dress up slightly, and began to massage her through the black lace panties she wore until she gave a little gasp. That was the signal to tug the panties down. She turned her head and he leaned forward kissing her passionately. She turned to the view again as she felt his hardness discretely push inside her. Soft, rhythmic, but with a lustful grip around her waist, Van Holder grunted and there they came together as husband and wife.
“A bottle of Macks for the first person who can name all the streets of Main!” they could hear Howard drunkenly call.
“We had better go back inside,” said Karyn.
Van Holder, having righted himself, stepped aside. “After you, Your Honour.”
Van Holder – given the nature of his occupancy in Subala – was kept away from them. Karyn – an army brat herself – knew exactly what that was like. Van Holder made as much time for their son as he could when he was there.
“Bye dad,” said Cameron for what felt like the millionth time in his life. Van Holder clutched his head and kissed it.
“You be good,” he said. “Just need to nip out.”
Just nipping out. It was a phrase Van Holder used to calm the boy whenever he had to leave. Just nipping out could take several months or more but if he was just ‘nipping out’ Cameron knew he would be back eventually.
If Ruud Van Holder of the Subala Black Bands had known that that would be the last time he would see his son alive, he would have stayed that little bit longer.
“I can’t stay all evening, I’m afraid,” Judge Karyn Doyle informed her host.
“And how is Cameron? Haven’t seen the young man around. I was hoping to pick his brain about Kingsgate’s chances of winning the cup,” Howard was asking.
The Judge’s attention was snatched by her sister, Ashley, who had readied her table.
“You go ahead,” said Howard pleasantly. “We’ll catch up later.”
To his own sister he signed, “Where did Isaac go? He was upset about something.”
Sophie patted Golem’s shoulder.
“I’ll find him,” agreed the monstrously large man.
I looked over from my table to see Karyn take her seat with Ashley. She looked worried about something. At the time I thought it might have been upholding Article 22 taking its toll on her but I know now it was something much worse.
Without her interpreter Sophie took her brother’s arm, scanning the room keenly. As Golem went in search of the only Bergman to pledge Kappa So, Howard addressed his guests.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said. “It’s good to have you all here and despite the troubles in the city I am very pleased to say the new section of Harbour House, helping those displaced by the violence, will be open very soon. Thank you all for your generosity. There is still time to aid this wonderful cause and I’d like to make a special mention to Elizabeth Beckingridge for beginning this. Ironically, she can’t be here tonight because she’s…well we all know Liz. She’s a little overzealous. Anyway, if you still care to give to Harbour House I’ll happily match any donations made this evening. In the meantime, relax. There’s plenty of food and booze.”
“Wooo!” Abe Rothenstein cheered, filling his glass. “Have another one Sam.”
Indulging in the atmosphere I drank more. I would have refused it if I had known what was to happen next.
Isaac coughed up blood.
“Aren’t you going to fall out cold?“ asked Irvine, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Fuck you!” Isaac spat as he clambered onto his feet. He charged at Irvine managing to punch him, rattling free some false teeth.
Freddy picked them up. Errol easy wrapped a rope around Isaac’s neck and heaved him back, falling into a painting, sending it crashing to the floor.
Irvine addressed his trapeze artists.
“Get him out of here,” he instructed. “We’ve made too much noise now. That clay boy, Golem, is going to be looking for him. Freddy?” He turned. “Where’s Freddy? Ah there you are.”
Freddy was fixing the painting back to exactly how it was when they arrived.
“Make sure this place is spotless.”
“Hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
Errol wrapped his arms around Isaac and pulled him to the window. Isaac was losing consciousness. He tried to fight it. He thought he could when the crisp evening air hit him but the ground left his feet and he was pulled through the window. Errol’s grip remained tight until they hit the ground again. A white van was waiting to carry him to the centre ring of the Big Top.
Irvine wrapped his arm around Ethel’s waist as they stepped onto the ledge.
“After you, my dear,” the ring master grinned.
She leaned out and with one hand unclipped a rope, laid there by her Easy brother. Entwined, the two leapt into the night and down to the ground.
The door was opened.
A blonde server bumped into Golem.
“Sorry, sugar,” they giggled.
Golem scanned the room. There was no trace of Isaac. Nothing would be found amiss.
“So, Sam,” said Howard as he joined our table. “My son tells me that you’d like to talk. A story you’re writing?”
“I’d like to ask a few questions if you don’t mind,” I put to him. I was still enjoying the party atmosphere. My voice was a little loud as my head began to swim.
Howard had left an empty glass on the table beside his hand. Abe lifted the bottle to refill it but the Bergman patriarch rested his hand on the top.
“I’m fine for now, thank you Abe.”
Abe shrugged. He and Ike finished the bottle between them.
“I read Marble Mantel,” Howard admitted. “I’m afraid it had me a little lost. I’m more of a history buff. I prefer true stories.”
“I’m actually a journalist by trade,” I explained. “I used to write for the Daily.”
“I said true stories,” Howard jested. “I’ll tell you what though, my daughter loved Marble Mantel. I must get you to sign something for her. She cosplayed as one of the characters last Halloween, isn’t that so Ike?”
Ike Rothenstein looked up. “Was that that green thing she was wearing, with the tentacles?”
I assumed they meant the character Judith and it was extra arms not tentacles, but I was flattered all the same and still a little drunk so I tried to steer the course.
“This bad blood between you and The Cappy, where did that begin?”
“I don’t like to hold grudges,” Howard said. “Life is too short.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Ike. “He’s a spiteful old fart when he wants to be.”
“Yes, thank you Ike,” Howard laughed off the comment. “It isn’t so much Charles himself but what his family represent. You see the Stokers committed some terrible atrocities but rather than being held to account, the Owens protected them. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep themselves on top and that kind of ruthlessness is like a poison in society.”
If I didn’t know any better I would swear our conversation had been bugged because just as Howard was explaining this, CPD entered the room led by Billy Owen.
Howard craned his neck to check the commotion. Billy went straight to Doyle.
“Ma’am,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”
Doyle stood to be confronted with the information.
“A body has been discovered and we have reason to believe it might be Cameron. Can you tell me when you last heard from your son?”
Given the sensitive nature of Cameron’s parentage and the potential for terror groups to target him, the boy had never been officially declared missing.
Ashley Doyle covered her mouth in shock. Billy spoke sensitively.
“I’m going to need you to come down and make a positive I.D. as soon as you’re ready, Your Honour.”
“Oh, Karyn!” sobbed Ashley.
Howard had been distracted by the entry of the police to his party.
“Excuse me,” he still had the time to say as he left our table and crossed the room.
“What’s going on?” he put to Judge Doyle.
Billy grabbed Howard’s arm and pulled it behind his back.
“Howard Bergman, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Cameron Doyle. You have the right to say whatever you like but I advise you to shut the fuck up. You’ll be appointed a lawyer and all that shit.”
“Karyn!” Howard tried to appeal to his long time friend but The Judge was preparing to leave. Her sister was hurriedly helping her.
Billy spun Howard round to face his guests.
The image was caught by a press photographer. Sophie was frantically signing to her brother.
“Don’t fight it,” she was saying.
I began my visit to Bergman Estate in awe of how Howard and his family had lived cleanly and quietly with little alliances on all sides. Watching the diamond merchant being escorted from his home in cuffs under the shocked faces of his party guests, I realised being nice rarely bodes well. However, diamonds are not easy to cut and the Bergmans had some sharp tools.
Rumours spread across the news floor of the Coldford Daily that the maven herself was in house to take things over and get the newspaper back on track. Eric Waddle wasn’t cutting it anymore. He had been circling the drain for a long time as far as reporter Sandra Wake was concerned.
He circled the drain so much he made himself dizzy and stumbled from the window of the Coldford Daily editor’s office. Maybe it had been the news of Tabitha’s miraculous return that had him feeling a little woozy but I can only speculate on that point.
“Maybe we should arrange some pictures,” Sandra had put to Kathleen in anticipation of her arrival.
“I know what I look like,” was Kathleen’s response. “Why would I want pictures?”
Kathleen’s arrival at the Daily was preceded by three Kappa Si sisters, dressed neatly in their sorority colours. They said nothing to the reporters as they crossed the news floor. Sandra stood from the desk I had once occupied to get a better look but the chickadees offered no comment. They went straight to the editor’s office, closing the door behind them. Sandra had been at the point of knocking on the door to see if they needed anything when the sorority queen did make her arrival, accompanied by more sisters, higher ranking than the first from what could be determined.
“Kathleen!” Sandra cheered. “It’s so good to see you.”
They had met once, at an Owen Inc. Party.
“Everyone in the conference office,” Kathleen called across the news floor. “Drop whatever you’re doing. You can pick it up later.”
When the reporters had gathered around the table, hungry for their feed, Kathleen stood and addressed them. The chickadees she had brought with her stayed in the office to make the editor’s station more to Kathleen’s taste.
“We have the say in the city,” she began. “We still remain the most-viewed newsfeed in Coldford.”
Sandra smiled. She looked among her colleagues for their reaction to the praise.
“We still have a lot of work to do,” Kathleen stated. “We will be looked to first for the news on Knock Knock, Penn Auction House, Mack Distillery, the whole lot of them, so let’s give them that news before someone else does. It’s time the city learned just how much we are mending fences around here. In other words, we are the good guys. I don’t care how it is written just make it so. I want focus on charity work and community service. I want wherever anyone walks – from the Shanties to Bourton – they see another good news story courtesy of the Daily.”
Sandra had been hired by the Daily specifically for her controversial, combative approach to news casting. Some saw it as hard hitting journalism. What it really was, was trouble stirring for the sake of ratings. Her popularity only climbed because morbidly curious viewers tuned in to see what nonsense she was going to spout next. Having to write the news in a positive way was going to prove a challenge for her.
“Sandra,” Kathleen addressed her directly. “I want you to focus on the rift between CPD and the Wigan church.”
“I was following the story on Joshua Coby and the Freefall massacre,” Sandra replied.
Kathleen frowned. “Did I sound like I was asking? Get a statement from Coby, even if it’s ‘no comment’, close it and move on. I want you to calm the heat with the Wigan church.” The sorority queen went on, “Roger?”
The other reporter’s eyes widened at the call of his name.
“The Penn story. I want you to focus on the championships Simon Penn won, the medals he donated. Reginald is gone now so there’s no harm in a story on his tenure. Get some quotes from his supporters. Invite them in, let them lick his ass and print it. We’re changing the narrative people. We need as much positive spin as we can get. I want a piece too on Buddy Owen, Chad Perry and Dale Cooper. I want everyone to know what good rehab is doing them. I want the Daily to be putting smiles on everyone’s faces. I want our feed to be so sickly sweet people will become addicted to it. It’s the only way we’re going to strengthen our position and completely blindside the competition. Any questions?”
Sandra spoke up. “Just one,” she said. “Will you have tea or coffee?”
The history of Coldford was a bloody one as I’m sure you can imagine. It stretches back centuries but it really became what it is during the time of Henry ‘Hen’ Owen, who had been commissioned by Queen Eleanor of the Chamberlain family for his sailing and navigation prowess. Hen Owen fought against a knight known as the Greatest Northsider, he helped quash a rebellion from Eleanor’s granddaughter, Francesca Chamberlain, who sought to take the throne for herself. The Castle in Bournton now known as The Boss, was Francesca’s stronghold. From there she pushed her savage agendas. The queen’s grandson, Royce Chamberlain, Duke of Hathfield Bay, involved himself only where it was beneficial to him. Devious Royce held back on the island as long as he could before deciding which side of the family table he was going to take a seat at.
Throughout the ages, the Chamberlain family cemented their story into the very fabric of the Shady City. Chamberlain Docks – you’ll already be familiar with – fell from the hands of Julia Harvester as her stores in Bellfield and City Main caused her to cut her losses. Chamberlain Heights, the retirement community in Kingsgate had been part of the Chamberlain Trust for generations. There’s also Chamberlain library and Chamberlain pond in the heart of Coldridge park. All of these spots served as a reminder of the blue blood that once ran through Coldford’s veins. The Chamberlain Trust mediated the family’s interests as they remained at bay for many years. An invitation to Kingsgate Museum showed they hadn’t quite forgotten their roots.
The museum housed artefacts from the earliest parts of their dynasty. There you would find Eleanor’s crown jewels, Francesca’s gowns, paintings and torture devices. You would also find Royce’s weapons, goblets and opium pipes – giving clues as to the priorities of the man.
What particularly caught my attention was the armour of the Greatest Northsider. I imagined how heavy it must have felt to wear. I thought of the cold air that would have fallen onto it as he rushed into battle. I considered the blood splatter that would have been washed off afterwards.
“It really is something,” someone said behind me.
I recognised the distinctive droll of Chick Owen.
“I can only imagine what it must have seen,” I remarked in reply.
Chick was drinking in the armour worn into battle against his beloved ancestor. As a history enthusiast and especially engrossed by his own lineage, I had fully expected to find The Cappy at the museum exhibit. I wanted to ask him about his thoughts on Howard Bergman but I felt at that point it wouldn’t do much good.
“That battle lasted three days and nights,” Chick went on. “Hen gave them Hell.”
“He was defeated down in Northside,” I commented.
Chick laughed a little. “A tactical retreat.” He gasped with enthusiasm as he recounted the event.
Seeing Chick Owen, better known as The Cappy, in such a light was quite refreshing. In my whole time in knowing him, all the ups and downs we had had thus far, I believe it was the first time I had caught a glimpse of the true man he was.
“Got there eventually though, didn’t he?” I said.
The Cappy grinned. “An Owen never misses.”
“Indeed they do not,” I replied.
“Enjoy the exhibit,” Chick said before departing towards Kathleen who had set up a photo op of Chick with Hen Owen’s portrait.
The Harbour Master of Chamberlain Docks was an esteemed position, coveted since the Chamberlain days previously discussed. The title at this time belonged to Master Barnaby Brooke. Brooke was unassuming in appearance. He lived in a little town house on the dock edge, the top of which acted as a light beacon during the night, alerting passing ships to avoid the edge of Coldford.
Gateshead was the name of the little building and Master Brooke lived there with his two lovely daughters, Erica and Becky, their dalmatian dog Ruffus, and his wife Helen. The whole family, including Ruffus, took the early ferry every Sunday across to the bay for the Wigan service. Yes, Brooke was a devout man. He was devoted to his faith, devoted to his family and devoted to his station at Gateshead, Chamberlain Docks, Swantin.
Most of his time was spent overseeing the loading and departure of the Ferry Way liner. There was the occasional fishing vessel and Bergman freighters launched there but for the most part it was all routine. His chief operator, Anthony Runnetti, had been arrested along with Nan Harvester when the trafficking boats were raided. Good riddance to bad rubbish there. They were giving His Eminence, Dom Cole, a hard time when they really should be shutting down thieving vagabonds like the Macks, murderous middens like the Knock Knock girl, and animals like Billy Owen. Police commissioner? He should be behind bars himself. The church was cut off from its parishes in the mainland when that bully with a badge gets to throw his weight around. It’s just not right! They should be dealing with the whores on the docks instead of harassing, beating and murdering God-fearing folks.
Times were changing though. Wigan was going to cleanse the city. It was written and it was promised. In the meantime it was the job of Barnaby Brooke to watch the Ferry Way pass back and forth to the island.
But alas! There was an exciting change afoot and it occurred on the day of the Chamberlain Exhibit.
“Move the ferry liner,” was the Harbour Master’s instructions. “Make way!”
Back at the exhibition, museum curator Malcolm Wurst had taken to the stage of the Queen Eleanor auditorium. The screen behind him showed an open book with wave symbols on the pages – the Chamberlain crest.
CHAMBERLAIN – THE TORN DYNASTY the caption read.
“Thank you all for coming,” said Malcolm. “What I present to you is a unique history filled with success and loss, power and struggle, and dare I say it, the real Coldford City as it was formed many years ago. None of that is my story to tell though, so I’d like to introduce you to the living blood of all these fabulous relics we have around us. I believe we have Captain Charles Owen here this evening.”
The spotlight landed on The Cappy. Chick smiled graciously and gave a polite nod as the audience applauded.
“A pleasure, captain,” said Malcolm. “Henry ‘Hen’ Owen’s 10th– great-grandson ladies and gentlemen.”
The audience gave another appreciative applause. I looked along the aisle and that was when I spotted the Wigan priest, Peter Millicent. He was nodding and clapping his hands in a warm, receptive sort of way.
“Now without further ado, I would like to introduce Lord Francis and Lady Charlotte Chamberlain.”
Onto the stage wandered a girl of nine years old, holding the hand of her seven-year-old brother.
Lacking the shyness of a child, Lady Charlotte stepped up to the microphone. She curtseyed. Francis gave a congenial bow with one hand behind his back and the other across his stomach.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Thank you for being so welcoming.”
Chamberlain Docks was experiencing some upheaval at this point. The Ferry Way had already been preparing to collect its traffic when Barnaby Brooke had to call it back.
“We need to halt the crossing,” he announced.
As you can imagine dear readers, Barnaby was met by a lot of disgruntled passengers finding the crossing to Hathfield Bay quite essential. The Harbour Master instructed the ferry liner to remain along the coast. The 6:15 was experiencing some delays. There was a collective groan as the traffic set aside.
“Clear some space,” Brooke requested. “We’ve got incoming.”
“What we got?” Captain Farraway of the ferry liner asked. “A blue whale?”
“Remain off shore,” said Master Brooke in return. “I’ll bring you in as soon as I can.”
The beeping of horns, the creek of the ferry as it remained stationed and the cries of disapproval from the ferry passengers were all quashed when an ear-splitting horn sounded.
“We were told so much about Coldford,” Charlotte was telling the auditorium. “My brother and I always hoped to return here and see it for ourselves. It’s been everything we could hope for. We’d like to share with you some never before seen images from the family archives. Thanks to Coby Games we get to share the stage this evening with our ancestors.”
Behind Charlotte flashed a holographic image of Queen Eleanor sat upon her throne. She was dressed in full regalia, a chalk white face and a golden mitre in hand. She bore the Chamberlain coat of arms on her breast. Joshua and his team had done an excellent job with the display. The collective audience gaze widened in awe at the realism.
The next figure was Francesca Chamberlain. In the background loomed the shadow of The Boss. She was in the forefront, seated upon a horse. Her black hair blew wildly around her in a wind the artist had captured.
Taking a walk on stage then was Royce Chamberlain. Prince Royce was smiling a self-assured smile as though to the auditorium. He removed his sword and held it at his side. There was an absence in his eyes though, which I assumed the artist had made deliberate.
Another figure of Francesca emerged. This time she was stood in the Great Hall of her castle which was now where the electric chair, Buzzkill, sat. She raised her arms up and turned her focus towards the sky. Around her neck hung the weight of several Wigan beads. What was most astounding about this image though was the figure by her side, dressed in humble robes. He had a youthful, soft face. He was encouraging in his body language.
“You cannot be saved,” it would seem he was saying to her.
The Saint Noah Wigan’s presence spread to the walls as other pieces of symbology emerged behind them.
Royce returned next and I would be damned to Hell if I didn’t notice the purple ribbons he had tied around the sword he carried.
The two children turned to view the image of Royce. He was a drunken philanderer, a self-preserving narcissist if the history books are correct, but the children seemed to be enamoured by him.
I looked to Peter who was watching the presentation with great interest.
As large a craft as the Ferry Way liner was, Captain Farraway could feel it shake upon the waves caused by the approaching vessel. The staff gathered at the windows to catch sight of the monstrous craft as it made its way to the dock.
The horn blasted again as though its presence were easy to miss.
Chamberlain docks bid welcome to a sister of hers. Restored with some of the very boards that Royce Chamberlain himself had walked, was a regal ship flying the Chamberlain flag. The raven’s head – Royce’s personal sigil – ornamented the bow, leading the way as it ferociously tore through the water. On the side of the ship was the name HMS RAVENSEDGE. It was a historic enemy of Hen Owen’s Elgany, rearing its head and returning to port after all those years.
“Would you look at that!” gasped the ferry staff.
Back on stage at the auditorium Charlotte spoke of her ancestral connection to the Owen family.
“My brother and I would like to return Hen Owen’s rapier if Mr Owen will accept it. We feel it’s been in Royce’s hands long enough.”
There was an affectionate acknowledgement from The Cappy of the Chamberlain children’s generous offer. It would make a fine addition to his collection.
For a child so young, I had to admire Charlotte’s natural confidence. Her brother was a little more subdued. Francis gave a nervous, ‘thank you’ into the microphone, leaning over to speak. Together they knew the influence they held in their hands. They had been orphaned you see, the details of which aren’t important. What is important though is the city that now was in their control, the wealth and the name. As the exhibit came to a close, Charlotte looked to Peter Millicent who nodded assurance to her.
Aboard Ravensedge, their guardian awaited them. In a flurry of robes he rushed to the walkway where he could see the children alight from a town car down on the docks.
“Uncle Dom!” Charlotte cheered, rushing across to His Eminence to be collected into his arms.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“We did great. Didn’t we Peter?” Francis asked of the priest that accompanied them.
“They did splendid,” Peter assured.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Dominick encouraged.
“The ship looks beautiful. Do you like it Uncle Dom?”
Dominick admired the gift from the Chamberlain Trust to the church.
“She is a beauty,” Dominick responded with awe. “You should see how she tears through the water.”
Francis laughed. “We had better go back or you’re going to get into trouble.”
Dominick raised an eyebrow. He reached a foot out towards Coldford limits. “Illegal,” he called. “Legal,” he added drawing his foot back. “Illegal. Legal. Illegal. Legal.”
His whimsical tease caused the children to laugh.
“Let’s not hold the ferry up too much longer,” Peter suggested ushering the children onto the ship.
For the time being, the Wigan church left Coldford behind and returned to the bay.
ERROR 65. My screen read.
“This is really frustrating,” I exclaimed.
It had been some time by then since the Coby servers went down and I had been locked out of the blog I had been using to keep the city up to date with the real truth.
“Sorry,” Joshua replied sincerely. “We’re starting to get our processing back but we’re still blacked out in Bellfield, Northside and Hathfield Bay. I have to dedicate every bit of RAM we have to our gaming. The Scribble Post software isn’t a priority. I’ll do what I can though. I’ll keep you up to date.”
“Thanks Joshua,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
I was in a race against time with my old newspaper because the truth in the Shady City was quite often the story told first. The Filton Crier press, thanks to Elizabeth, had ensured my words were reaching as many people as possible in print but it was a slower process.
Something must have opened up at Coby games because a message came through.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?
It was an anonymous statement. Attached to it was a video file. I pushed play. The moment I did, I wished I hadn’t. My heart skipped to a race suddenly. What consumed me first was the noise of the screaming. Flames licked most of the image.
“It was written,” said a Wigan priest, “that the flames of St Michael’s retribution consumed the harlot’s body.”
“Harlot! Harlot!” screamed a gathering.
This was not taking place on Hathfield Bay where such activity was rumoured to occur. This was taking place on the streets of Northside. I was suspended in disbelief by what I was looking at. What aggrieved me the most was the woman being consumed by flames was none other than Agnes Wilde, the Knock Knock Broker.
Father Renfield was the name of the Wigan priest who was the overseer of the church’s Northside parish.
At The Knock Knock Club Tawny was viewing that very same footage. She hadn’t gotten as far into it as I had before she couldn’t bear to watch any more.
“Tabitha!” she shrieked. “I want Tabitha. Tabby! Tabitha!”
David tried to calm her but she would not stop screaming until she could hold her niece in her arms. David fell into a chair trying to wash the cries of Agnes’ pain from his mind.
“Harlot! Harlot!” he could still hear them chanting.
Over on Hathfield Bay, Peter came to Dominick in the church. He knelt before the altar. It was only he and Bart present so the church leader ushered his priest to stand.
“Alright, Peter,” Dominick said softly. He was a little taken aback by the formality. When they were alone they tended to behave with more of a familial bond.
“Your Eminence,” he said, maintaining a formal tone. “There’s something you should see.”
He passed a tablet to Dominick and pushed play. Bartholemew drew down his hood and looked over Dominick’s shoulder.
Peter watched the church leader’s expression as the video played. The flames reflected in his dark eyes.
“Who is this? Who is the harlot?” he asked.
“Agnes Wilde of The Knock Knock Club. It seemed Father Renfield discovered she was passing information to the Bellfield fleet. He punished her.”
Dominick stopped the footage. He knew well what burning looked like. He didn’t need to see any more.
“I don’t remember giving him permission to do that. Did I give him permission?”
Peter shook his head to the negatory. If permission had been granted for such an action on the streets of Northside he would be aware of it.
“I believe he sees himself as St Michael the Punisher.”
Dominick’s eyes blazed. “Does he? I would love to take a gander in whatever fucking mirror he’s using because he’s no St Michael. Does he look like the man in that painting?” Dominick asked pointing to the brooding, broad-shouldered knight who was the actual St Michael. “I don’t fucking think so.”
“My concern is that we’ve worked so hard to build our position in the city and this action could see all of it undone,” Peter’s own temper began to flare. “All of our progress wiped out in an instant.”
“Is he winning this fight against the fleet scum at least?” Dominick asked.
“Not exactly,” Peter explained. “Liam Tulloch is modelling himself on the Greatest Northsider.”
“What is it with the people of that God forsaken city? Kings of Main, Boss Ladies, dragon ladies and every other kind of ladies. Ye’ve got Captains and circus freaks. It’s not just me, is it? They’re all fucking mad.”
“The Law Makers will look to you to answer for what Renfield has done. That’s not the worst of it though. Agnes Wilde was a well-connected woman. This news could very well have us up against a huge part of the Shady City. The Shanties most definitely. Closely followed by Main,” explained Peter.
“Dom?” Bart interrupted with urgency. “Leona’s still over there. She’s right in the thick of it.”
Dominick raged. “Send word to her right away. I want a watch on the weans too. Charlotte and Francis go nowhere unless they have plenty of eyes on them. Tell Renfield to get his arse over here because he’s treading so close to blasphemy and he’ll learn how St Michael truly punishes.”
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