Ms Benn had gone. Where she had gone, Hank Brownlow didn’t give a fuck. All he cared about was making good his escape before she returned. His mind was racing - not with possible means to get free from his bonds and flee the boathouse - but with the exciting reconstruction, complete with pulsating suspenseful music. It would be a highlight of the TV show. Brownlow was looking forward to filming it already.
There was only the troublesome matter of being taped to a chair to overcome.
He glanced around; his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness but there was nothing much to see. Reflected light from the river played on the ceiling. Brownlow had already decided that would be his egress: via the water. It would look great on screen, with his shirt clinging to his pecs - he would take up residence in the gym before shooting began, natch.
The chair wasn’t heavy. Brownlow found he could bounce around the boathouse like a crab playing hopscotch. He investigated the corners. There was a boathook, a long pole with a curve of metal on its end. The hook didn’t look sharp enough to spread butter and the pole was too cumbersome and heavy for him to wield with any efficacy, given that his wrists were affixed to the armrests.
He hopped across to the opposite corner. There were oars and paddles on the wall and - fortuitious find! - a broken one! It had snapped to leave a sharp edge. It would be ideal for sawing through the sticky tape.
If only he could pick it up.
But what then?
Brownlow figured if he could somehow hitch the broken paddle under his armpit, he could rub the splintered end against the tape around his right wrist. When that hand was free, Bob would indeed be his mother’s brother.
But how to get the stick off the floor and under his arm?
It was a real head-scratcher - which was something else Brownlow couldn’t manage.
He swore; his words were muffled by the tape that gagged him. Sweat coursed down his face, stinging his eyes and - and - loosening the tape!
Brownlow laughed. The tape wasn’t waterproof!
He had a vision of sweating and crying his way out of captivity, like Alice, filling the place with moisture from his body.
Fuckwit, he scolded himself. You don’t need to sweat, cry or even piss.
He bounced across to the edge of the floor where the river was accessible from inside the boathouse.
I can tweak the details of my escape in the shooting script, he told himself. He imagined bursting out of the tape from brute strength alone and then diving, to Olympic standard, into the murky depths. These images inspired him as he leant over in the chair until gravity took hold of it and toppled the TV presenter, chair and all, into the water.
***
Kelly Benn hadn’t wanted to leave the human behind but a call to Mother had necessitated her departure. Now, making her way back to the river, she hoped the fool hadn’t done something stupid and hurt himself or attracted the attention of other humans - and there were plenty of them about - which would bring about harm to them as well.
Mother had annoyed her, more than anything. Why she couldn’t be trusted to get on and do what was necessary, Kelly couldn’t understand. You have given me this task, Mother, she’d wanted to say but had been unable to interject a word sideways, leave me to get it done.
Mother had done nothing but express her impatience. Things weren’t happening fast enough for her liking. Time was, apparently, of the essence. She didn’t say why. Planetary alignment or some shit, Kelly supposed. Mother was big on astrological significance. Kelly didn’t know about that - her human host had a publication in her handbag, a magazine in which the horoscopes of the entire population were encapsulated on half a page of brief edicts. Amazing! Unless of course, it was all a load of horseshit. What fools these mortals be!
Yes, Mother; I am listening!
As she walked back to the boathouse, Kelly went over Mother’s latest instructions, most of which were iterations of her original plan.
Everything centred around the staff. Two pieces were safe and secure; two were still unaccounted for. The old professor had shuffled off this mortal coil without revealing the whereabouts of his piece. Kelly had turned the house upside down but had only been able to use the human abilities of her host. Her access to Mother’s enhanced powers had been inhibited by the arcane symbols the wily old man had inscribed all over his house. She - and Mother, although she would never suggest as much - had underestimated the celebrated Mr Cheese. He must have known more about the staff than he had let on.
What in hell’s name had he done with it?
And where in hell’s name was the other piece?
Kelly began to reconsider her capture of the American idiot. Perhaps she should swap with him - it was a gamble but some of his specialist knowledge just might survive the exchange...
No; it was too big a risk. Mother would never forgive her.
As she neared the river, her gills swelled and opened, yearning for the water. There were too many people around; the theatre was just letting out its hordes. Damn it. The old sorcerer still had his disciples, even though they worshipped him for his scribbles rather than his occult power. The shining eyes and excited voices of the theatregoers, clutching souvenir programmes to their chests and babbling enthusiastically about what they had just seen, made Kelly reflect. Perhaps there was other magic in the sorcerer’s words. Perhaps you could form enchantment in other ways than with a magic staff.
Be that as it may - she could not dive into the Avon without giving rise to commentary or even intervention. She would have to enter the boathouse on foot. She would try another tack with the American, who must be hungry or thirsty or something by now. She would exchange food and drink for information. She must find out everything he knew about the pieces of the staff and then - and then, perhaps she would do the swap, or perhaps she would...do something else.
She unchained the boathouse door and went inside. She did not need time for her eyes to adjust to the dimness within. She could see right away the American was no longer there.
The dropsy drown this fool, she cursed him. And that made her cotton on to what had happened. It wouldn’t take the dropsy to drown him, she considered. The river could do that job for him well enough.
***
The Avon did not drown Hank Brownlow. Rather it aided him in his escape. The water loosened the sticky tape until it was sticky no more and Brownlow was able to wrest himself free and swim up to the surface, while the chair sank to the riverbed. The current was strong but, driven by thoughts of what a great sequence it would make for the TV show, Brownlow fought his way to a landing jetty downstream from the theatre. He was afraid that Benn woman would be after him. The streets were too quiet - there was the pub, the Filthy Fowl, but that was closing up for the night. Brownlow headed to the town centre. The streetlights gave him comfort - until they made him feel more exposed.
There was no one around. Stratford is such a quiet town after dark. Give me Manhattan any day, Brownlow pined for a city that never sleeps. He wove through the streets seeking out other people. Surely that Benn woman wouldn’t try anything with other people around?
There were lights on in an old chapel. Dim and flickering but lights all the same. Brownlow saw a couple of figures go inside. From a distance it looked like they were wearing hoodies. It was a youth club, he figured. He ran along, crouching low like he was on manoeuvres, and huddled in the shadows of the entrance. That Benn woman had called him ‘middle-aged’ - she would never think to look for him at a youth club meeting.
He slipped inside.
***
Over at the theatre, Jeremy was keen to get away but one of the understudies was making a nuisance of himself and asking the kind of awkward questions with which actors often bamboozle directors.
“In the drunk scene,” Olly hadn’t even removed his make-up, “When I take my first swig - should it be a swig? Or more of a sip? Like I don’t trust it? Or should I just knock it back, careless? And then, do I like it? I mean, I know I’ll feel the kick but do I like it? Does it make me sick? Or do I take to it right away - like a - like a fish to water? Yes! Because I’m half-fish, aren’t I? I should drink like a fish. Do you think?”
Jeremy smiled wanly. He tried to usher the enthusiastic actor to the door. Turning off his desk lamp had been too subtle a clue.
“And when I’m carrying the wood, should I exaggerate what a chore it is? Like a moody teenager forced to take the bins out when he’d rather play Grand Theft Whatsit or something. And when Miranda is there, perhaps I should straighten up, as though the logs don’t weigh much at all, and show her what a strong, heroic figure I can be - or is that more Ferdinand’s shtick? Do you think?”
Jeremy was holding the door open and yawning almost as widely himself. Olly seemed oblivious.
“Listen, Oliver,” Jeremy put a hand on the actor’s shoulder to stop him mid-flow. Olly nodded, keen to hear the pronouncement of the director. “It’s marvellous, darling, that you’re so thrilled and you’re taking it so seriously.”
“Oh, I am!” Olly cried, “And I do! I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“But still you try...” Jeremy sighed. “Look, please direct any further questions to the DSM. She’ll show you the Book and you’ll see how Nigel does it. You’ve seen Nigel do it dozens of times. Just do that.”
Olly took these enlightening words on board, nodding. His grin broadened.
“Gosh, thanks, Jeremy. That’s amazing.”
“Goodnight, Olly.”
“Um, yes, goodnight, Jeremy. And thanks.”
“Don’t mention it!” Jeremy snapped. “Seriously, please don’t. Goodnight.”
Olly breezed out of the office. Halfway along the corridor he stopped and turned, finger raised to herald another question.
But Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. He had locked his office in double-time and skedaddled down a fire escape while Olly’s back was turned.
***
Harry couldn’t sleep. Ariel didn’t sleep. The presence of the spirit in the bed alongside him unnerved Harry. It wasn’t the first time he had gone to bed with imaginary figures but the crucial difference with this one was that Harry hadn’t thought him up for the purpose of his own gratification.
He couldn’t get the image of old Cheese lying dead out of his head and tried to focus his mind’s eye on the unfinished message the professor had been in the process of writing as he kicked the bucket.
Where the b -
Where the boys are? - That was all Harry could come up with and he didn’t know where he got that from. He made a mental note to run a Google search when he woke up - if he ever got to sleep, of course.
He propped himself on his elbows. “I’m sorry; can’t you disappear or something? Or go somewhere else so I can get some kip?”
Ariel pouted. “I could put you to sleep if you like.”
“No, thanks. That makes you sound like a vet. Can’t you go and sit in the en suite or something?”
“Don’t you like being in bed with me?” Ariel looked disappointed. “I thought you liked this kind of thing.”
“Well, yes, yes, I do, but -”
“Am I not handsome enough for you, Harry?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s not that. You’re kind of cute, I suppose.”
“What then?”
“You’re not human enough. Sorry but there it is.”
“Oh.”
“Now, don’t get in a mood. Get in the toilet.”
“Master used to call me that.”
“What, toilet?”
“Moody.”
“He wasn’t wrong, was he?”
“What became of him? My master?”
“He went the way of all flesh. Now, please, let me get some sleep!”
“I should have stayed with him. I should have looked after him.”
“You can’t stop people dying - You can’t, can you? Can you stop people dying?”
“No. Alas.”
“Ariel...” Harry rolled onto his side to look at the spirit.
“Harry?”
“What have you been doing all this time? For the past four hundred years, I mean. Your master set you free - just like in the play - and then what? Where did you go? What did you do?”
Ariel lay in silent contemplation of the air below the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I remember flying away - the happiness, the joy, you can’t imagine! - but then the next thing I can think of is climbing out of the river and meeting you.”
“Odd,” said Harry.
“I get that a lot,” said Ariel sadly.
“Come on,” said Harry, bounding out of bed. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“At this hour?”
“It’ll help us get to sleep. Well, it’ll help me.” Harry stepped into his jeans and buttoned them up.
“Where will we go?”
Harry shrugged and pulled his shirt over his head.
“It doesn’t matter. Come on.”
***
“Look who it is!” One of the cowled figures who was dragging Brownlow towards the centre of a circle of chairs announced to the others.
“Who is it?” said a female voice. She brought a fat, dripping candle over and held it in the intruder’s face.
“It’s him off the telly. Does the quizzes!”
“I do not do the quizzes!” Brownlow protested.
Several gasps of recognition sounded all around him.
“It’s that American,” a long-sleeve pointed at him. “From the history programmes.”
From beneath the cowls came several coos of admiration.
“What’s he doing here?” asked the female with the candle. She leaned towards Brownlow. “What are you doing here?”
One of her fellow nut-jobs pulled her by the sleeve and whispered something.
“Oh...” said the woman. “Oh! Right! Oh, yes, of course!” She put the candle back where it belonged. Brownlow was lowered onto a chair.
“Who are you people? What the fuck is going on here? Listen; I’m no prude. Believe me on that score but what do you say, I just wander out of here and pretend like this never happened?”
“Be silent!” a hooded man stood up. “And await your punishment!”
The others whispered and murmured among themselves before deciding they liked the sound of that. “Await your punishment!” some of them repeated, not quite in unison.
“This is bullshit,” Brownlow stood up. Hands on his shoulders shoved him roughly back onto the seat.
“Then - um -” the hooded man was floundering. He took a few steps towards the American and, lowering his voice, said, “What say we break for coffee and you can give us some notes?”
Brownlow was baffled. Notes?
“This is your audition, is it not?” the hooded man whispered anxiously. “For your television series?”
“What the fuck?”
“He’s still in character!” cried one of the others. “We should be too!”
“Await your punishment!” one boomed out in a sonorous voice. Others took up the chant. Brownlow’s head sank to his hands. British eccentrics! The whole country was riddled with them.