Previously, on Kats PI - *jumbled montage of images, including various swoon inducing shots of the Gaylords* - our heroes were trapped inside a van (a Ford Transit if you must know) and being menaced by the Giant Lobster of Doom, after a narrow escape from Obadiah Sleaze, who’s looking more shifty by the second. Read on, gentlefolk, to learn their fate.
After trying unsuccessfully to locate the slightly annoying man doing the voiceover, I decided it was time for action. I delved into the toolbox which I conveniently found just underneath Tarquin’s seat. I nabbed the biggest pair of pliers I could find, which caused an inordinate amount of wincing from most of the boys (Jonathan seemed deceptively calm, though I later found out that was down to the secret hip flask). Taking a large can of hairspray and a lighter from my all-purpose detective satchel, I moved quietly towards the back door, or where it would have been, had it not been thrown into the middle of the road. The giant claw hung, motionless, as an all too familiar face suddenly appeared.
‘Angela Rippon?!’. I gasped, hardly daring to believe my eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
She chuckled throatily, whilst twirling an antique pistol on her right forefinger. ‘Oh, I’m part of the Sons of Thrower now. It’s the latest trend, you know.’
‘But… but… you’re an icon to millions! How could you?’
‘Pah!’ she scoffed. ‘Icon, you say? How much of an icon do you think I’ll be after 10 more years of Car Booty and Cash in the Attic? They just put me out to grass, not daring to get rid of me, because they knew it would cause an uproar. Well, I’ll show them. When we get our hands on-‘
‘QUIET!’ bellowed Obadiah Sleaze, who’d managed to change into what looked like a costume from Starlight Express, complete with roller skates. ‘We don’t want this troublesome creature guessing our entire plan, you foolish woman! Go and sort out the Lobster, he’ll need feeding.’
Angela scurried away, dragging the giant beast behind her. Sleaze then turned to me. ‘You, my dear, need to come with me.’
‘Of course. You’re going to make me do that, how, exactly?’
At a click of his fingers, the surrounding hedgerows turned dark with black jumpsuit wearing men, all of whom were holding very big guns.
‘Fair enough,’ I sighed. ‘What do you have in store for us, you… you… git!?’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere, lovely lady, but I have a special treat in store for you. Number One has indicated that I get to ‘deal’ with you however I see fit.’
‘So, does that make you a Number Two?’ I enquired.
The sound of gentle sniggering was silenced as Sleaze glared at us. ‘You’ll suffer for that. I don’t take kindly to mockery.’
'I find that hard to believe, wearing a costume like that!' I scoffed.
He grunted menacingly, grabbed my arm roughly and was about to drag me off to one of the many sinister black vans scattered liberally around the countryside, when he found himself stuck in front of a wall of Gaylord.
Tarquin prised his fingers from my arm and gently led me aside. There was nothing more that could be done, as a thousand safety catches suddenly clicked off. We allowed ourselves to be shepherded towards a van and shoved inside. The door was slammed shut, locked, bolted, padlocked and welded shut (which even I thought was a tad excessive) and off we sped into the evening.
We bounced along the narrow country lanes for what seemed like an eternity. None of us were particularly talkative, events having overtaken us somewhat. Tarquin was not particularly impressed with my show of bravado against the giant lobster, being unconvinced about my explanation of what I intended to do (singe it with the hairspray/lighter combo then threaten it with pliers whilst shouting 'Thermidor!' at the top of my voice).
'A brave plan, my dear girl,' said Jonathan. 'I have a feeling we'll all need your resourcefulness in the coming hours...'
At this ominous statement, we all again fell silent. Shortly afterwards, the van ground to a halt. Some time after that we were led out of the van (once the door had been cut open with the aid of an oxy-acetylene torch) and into the grounds of an old ruined castle.
Sleaze sauntered towards us, looking particularly smug. He'd changed his clothes since we'd last seen him and was now wearing full evening dress, with enough sequins to put Liberace to shame.
I could barely contain my glee, despite our current predicament, and snorted in a most unladylike manner.
'Something amuses you, my dear?' he hissed, menacingly.
'Not really, Sleaze. Though you might want to stop waving your arms about in such a theatrical fashion. You'll give people ideas.'
At this, he raised arm to beckon several of his goons, who escorted us towards a crude altar, fashioned from three large stones. Around the altar was a semicircle of people, all wearing sparkly green robes. I glanced at Jonathan, who appeared to be catatonic. 'What the hell is he doing?' I grunted at the nearest Gaylord, who just happened to be Godfrey.
'I really couldn't say, but he does appear to be emitting a low hum. Perhaps he's meditating?'
'Great timing, I must say. We're about to be the sacrifice de jour and he's meditating?! I had rather hoped that he might be working on a plan to get us out of here.'
'Oh but I am, m'dear,' muttered Jonathan. 'Just watch...'
He kept humming, louder and louder. To my astonishment, the Eye of Brize Norton began to glow with a reddish light. As Jonathan's humming grew still louder, it became almost incandescent. Suddenly Jonathan yanked it from its chain and threw it to the ground, where it smashed with a huge explosion. Our guards were momentarily stunned, which gave us just enough time to break free and head for the woods.
We took cover in some rather prickly brambles and watched whilst our erstwhile captors recovered their senses. As they stumbled around, disorientated from the explosion, Sleaze returned, dragging with him a large glass jar, clear plastic tubing, several branches (Tarquin assured me they were cuttings from the Evil Bunnyfoot) and a bunsen burner. What on earth was this man planning? Would we be able to stop this conspiracy? Would a green sparkly robe suit me? All these questions and more will be answered next time...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Episode After That (A Relatively Dangerous Situation)
Ever one to grasp the gravity of a situation, Tarquin grabbed me round the waist and threw me bodily into the van, which fortunately had come to a halt in front of us. I barely had time to remonstrate with him when I had to dodge out of the way to avoid Jonathan’s inert form which was hurtling towards me. Tarquin himself was next, though I did manage to dodge into his path, so it wasn’t all bad.
The side of the van was slammed shut and we sped away from the Jonathan’s house at a rate of knots, Sleaze’s impotent curses ringing in our ears.
As we careered along the narrow country lane, I became aware that there was something entirely too familiar about these large men. It could have been the sweaters, but I suspected something else. I looked from Tarquin to the man by the door to the driver and the man in the passenger seat and back again. By crikey, they were identical! I surmised that I’d suffered a severe head trauma and was daydreaming or Tarquin was one of quadruplets. Either way, it was rather a pleasant way to spend an afternoon in the back of a van. I must have looked a bit confused (or lustful) as Tarquin suddenly put his arm round my shoulder and declared, ‘Kats, these are my brothers. Yes, we are quadruplets, and no, you can’t find out if we’re all totally identical.’
He nodded his head at the one by the door. ‘That’s Godfrey, Quentin is driving and the reprobate in the passenger seat is Bob.’
‘Bob? That seems a remarkably pedestrian name for your family,’ mumbled Jonathan as he finally regained consciousness.
Bob turned and smiled. ‘It’s only a nickname, my real name is Peregrine St John Gaylord. Guaranteed to make life interesting when you’re a part-time stevedore.’
By this point my flabber was well and truly gasted and I sank immediately into a sullen silence. What more surprises would this day bring? And was I likely to be hit by any more poison darts, however pleasurable the remedy?
Tarquin, being the observant type, affectionately cuffed me on the chin and said, ‘It’s ok, I know what you’re thinking.’
‘No you damn well don’t. Not unless you’re thinking of crushed nuts and a large spanner.’
He wisely refrained from comment and moved sheepishly towards the front of the van, which at this point, was careering along a rather bumpy road, but came screeching to a halt as we rounded a rather tight bend to discover the road blocked by another sinister black van. It was beginning to look like the Sinister Black Van Owners Club AGM.
Quentin slammed the van into reverse, causing me to tumble over a carelessly discarded coil of rope. My head bounced neatly off the van floor, something guaranteed not to improve your day. I’d just managed to get myself upright, when we screeched to a halt yet again, and I found myself pitched into the arms of Tarquin and his brother Godfrey. I mumbled my thanks (it’s quite hard to speak when you have a mouthful of Gaylord) whilst struggling to break free of their vice-like grip.
‘Feisty little thing, isn’t she?’ yelled Godfrey.
I fixed him with the Librarian Death Stare, whereupon he promptly fell silent. Along with everyone else. Something was happening and my guess was that it wasn’t going to be good.
I saw Jonathan in the corner and crawled over to him. Just at that moment, there was a metallic clang from outside the van and then a very loud skittering noise.
‘Oh my god, it’s worse than I feared,’ whispered Jonathan hoarsely. ‘They’ve released the Giant Lobster of Doom. I have a suspicion that we’re all done for now.’
The back door to the van rattled, then was pulled off its hinges and flung into the road. We instinctively shuffled to the front of the van as a giant claw moved slowly inside the van.
What could we do? How would we escape? Tune in next time to find out!
The side of the van was slammed shut and we sped away from the Jonathan’s house at a rate of knots, Sleaze’s impotent curses ringing in our ears.
As we careered along the narrow country lane, I became aware that there was something entirely too familiar about these large men. It could have been the sweaters, but I suspected something else. I looked from Tarquin to the man by the door to the driver and the man in the passenger seat and back again. By crikey, they were identical! I surmised that I’d suffered a severe head trauma and was daydreaming or Tarquin was one of quadruplets. Either way, it was rather a pleasant way to spend an afternoon in the back of a van. I must have looked a bit confused (or lustful) as Tarquin suddenly put his arm round my shoulder and declared, ‘Kats, these are my brothers. Yes, we are quadruplets, and no, you can’t find out if we’re all totally identical.’
He nodded his head at the one by the door. ‘That’s Godfrey, Quentin is driving and the reprobate in the passenger seat is Bob.’
‘Bob? That seems a remarkably pedestrian name for your family,’ mumbled Jonathan as he finally regained consciousness.
Bob turned and smiled. ‘It’s only a nickname, my real name is Peregrine St John Gaylord. Guaranteed to make life interesting when you’re a part-time stevedore.’
By this point my flabber was well and truly gasted and I sank immediately into a sullen silence. What more surprises would this day bring? And was I likely to be hit by any more poison darts, however pleasurable the remedy?
Tarquin, being the observant type, affectionately cuffed me on the chin and said, ‘It’s ok, I know what you’re thinking.’
‘No you damn well don’t. Not unless you’re thinking of crushed nuts and a large spanner.’
He wisely refrained from comment and moved sheepishly towards the front of the van, which at this point, was careering along a rather bumpy road, but came screeching to a halt as we rounded a rather tight bend to discover the road blocked by another sinister black van. It was beginning to look like the Sinister Black Van Owners Club AGM.
Quentin slammed the van into reverse, causing me to tumble over a carelessly discarded coil of rope. My head bounced neatly off the van floor, something guaranteed not to improve your day. I’d just managed to get myself upright, when we screeched to a halt yet again, and I found myself pitched into the arms of Tarquin and his brother Godfrey. I mumbled my thanks (it’s quite hard to speak when you have a mouthful of Gaylord) whilst struggling to break free of their vice-like grip.
‘Feisty little thing, isn’t she?’ yelled Godfrey.
I fixed him with the Librarian Death Stare, whereupon he promptly fell silent. Along with everyone else. Something was happening and my guess was that it wasn’t going to be good.
I saw Jonathan in the corner and crawled over to him. Just at that moment, there was a metallic clang from outside the van and then a very loud skittering noise.
‘Oh my god, it’s worse than I feared,’ whispered Jonathan hoarsely. ‘They’ve released the Giant Lobster of Doom. I have a suspicion that we’re all done for now.’
The back door to the van rattled, then was pulled off its hinges and flung into the road. We instinctively shuffled to the front of the van as a giant claw moved slowly inside the van.
What could we do? How would we escape? Tune in next time to find out!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
The Episode After
Subtitle: A teatime to remember
I regained consciousness several minutes later, whereupon I discovered Tarquin’s lips firmly affixed to my neck.
‘Save that for later, ‘ I murmured blearily, ‘we’ve got work to do.’
‘I’m making sure that all the poison in the dart that struck you has been sucked out of your neck’ he replied.
‘Yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls. Besides, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’
‘Well, Tarquin, I think it’s safe to say that there will no lasting after-effects’ said Jonathan, as he returned bearing a large silver tray. ‘Time for a spot of tea, wouldn’t you say?’
Tarquin and I stared at him in thinly disguised amazement, whilst gesticulating wildly at the wreckage around us.
‘Are you sure that’s entirely wise Jonathan?’ I ventured. ‘Given the events of the past half hour, I’d say we had quite a bit of work to be getting on with.’
‘Oh, quite so dear thing’ beamed Jonathan affably, ‘but we’ll all work a lot faster with the aid of a nice cup of tea.’
‘Oh… err… yes, I suppose we will’ I said, fairly nonplussed by this point.
Lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he explained further. ‘The Cosa Nostradamus are still outside, so if we act naturally, they won’t suspect a thing. I sent for the police, they should arrive very shortly.’
Sure enough, as soon as we’d started tucking into the fruitcake and chocolate digestives, the local police screamed to a halt outside.
‘Sorry about that, I really do need a new bike,’ announced PC Roger Plimsoll, as he strode into the house.
Jonathan jumped up to greet him and apprise him of the situation, using rather extravagant hand gestures for one who’d spent most of the time unconscious underneath his desk. I strained to hear the conversation, but only managed to catch the odd word or two, as I was too far away. The words in question were conservatory, lead piping and Colonel Mustard, but I digress. Tarquin, meanwhile, had noticed the chanting (which was still going on) and was tapping on the walls, looking for all the world like a woodpecker with Parkinson’s disease. I wandered over and politely asked him just what the jeff he was doing.
‘Just checking for hollow spots,’ he replied eagerly. ‘I saw someone do it on an episode of Dempsey and Makepeace once and thought it might lead us to a secret passage or something.’
I made a mental note to myself to restrict his TV viewing (and consumption of Famous Five books – just in case) before joining in with gay abandon. In fact, we were so engrossed in our task that we completely failed to notice that PC Plimsoll had sneaked up behind us, after whipping out his truncheon and giving poor Jonathan a good going-over.
‘Ah, if I’m not mistaken, you’re looking for the entrance to the Chapel of Our Lady of Basingstoke,’ said a rather too-familiar voice.
Tarquin and I whirled round to find ourselves face to face with none other than Obadiah Sleaze, who was holding his policeman’s mask in his left hand.
Ever observant, I nudged Tarquin and murmured, ‘I think we might be in trouble here. Do you think we should resort to plan B?’
‘What’s that?’ replied Tarquin.
‘Usually, crying and begging for mercy, but if you notice, he’s left an unguarded area right between his…’
Before I could finish my sentence, Tarquin had given Mr Sleaze an almighty kick in his groin and whilst he was doubled over in agony, we made our escape.
‘I was going to say between his eyes, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Stop complaining, it got us out of here, didn’t it?’ yelled Tarquin, barely audible over Sleaze’s groaning.
Jonathan was just coming round as we reached the door, so I grabbed his hand and dragged him with us as we sped along the hall towards the kitchen. Unfortunately the kitchen door was locked, blocking our escape route. After screaming incoherently with rage (I mean, honestly, who on earth locks their kitchen door these days?) we had no option but to turn round and run the other way, back towards the front of the house.
As we did so, a large sinister black van hove into view. The side door opened and two extremely large men, holding extremely large guns beckoned us inside.
More of which next time.
I regained consciousness several minutes later, whereupon I discovered Tarquin’s lips firmly affixed to my neck.
‘Save that for later, ‘ I murmured blearily, ‘we’ve got work to do.’
‘I’m making sure that all the poison in the dart that struck you has been sucked out of your neck’ he replied.
‘Yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls. Besides, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’
‘Well, Tarquin, I think it’s safe to say that there will no lasting after-effects’ said Jonathan, as he returned bearing a large silver tray. ‘Time for a spot of tea, wouldn’t you say?’
Tarquin and I stared at him in thinly disguised amazement, whilst gesticulating wildly at the wreckage around us.
‘Are you sure that’s entirely wise Jonathan?’ I ventured. ‘Given the events of the past half hour, I’d say we had quite a bit of work to be getting on with.’
‘Oh, quite so dear thing’ beamed Jonathan affably, ‘but we’ll all work a lot faster with the aid of a nice cup of tea.’
‘Oh… err… yes, I suppose we will’ I said, fairly nonplussed by this point.
Lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he explained further. ‘The Cosa Nostradamus are still outside, so if we act naturally, they won’t suspect a thing. I sent for the police, they should arrive very shortly.’
Sure enough, as soon as we’d started tucking into the fruitcake and chocolate digestives, the local police screamed to a halt outside.
‘Sorry about that, I really do need a new bike,’ announced PC Roger Plimsoll, as he strode into the house.
Jonathan jumped up to greet him and apprise him of the situation, using rather extravagant hand gestures for one who’d spent most of the time unconscious underneath his desk. I strained to hear the conversation, but only managed to catch the odd word or two, as I was too far away. The words in question were conservatory, lead piping and Colonel Mustard, but I digress. Tarquin, meanwhile, had noticed the chanting (which was still going on) and was tapping on the walls, looking for all the world like a woodpecker with Parkinson’s disease. I wandered over and politely asked him just what the jeff he was doing.
‘Just checking for hollow spots,’ he replied eagerly. ‘I saw someone do it on an episode of Dempsey and Makepeace once and thought it might lead us to a secret passage or something.’
I made a mental note to myself to restrict his TV viewing (and consumption of Famous Five books – just in case) before joining in with gay abandon. In fact, we were so engrossed in our task that we completely failed to notice that PC Plimsoll had sneaked up behind us, after whipping out his truncheon and giving poor Jonathan a good going-over.
‘Ah, if I’m not mistaken, you’re looking for the entrance to the Chapel of Our Lady of Basingstoke,’ said a rather too-familiar voice.
Tarquin and I whirled round to find ourselves face to face with none other than Obadiah Sleaze, who was holding his policeman’s mask in his left hand.
Ever observant, I nudged Tarquin and murmured, ‘I think we might be in trouble here. Do you think we should resort to plan B?’
‘What’s that?’ replied Tarquin.
‘Usually, crying and begging for mercy, but if you notice, he’s left an unguarded area right between his…’
Before I could finish my sentence, Tarquin had given Mr Sleaze an almighty kick in his groin and whilst he was doubled over in agony, we made our escape.
‘I was going to say between his eyes, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Stop complaining, it got us out of here, didn’t it?’ yelled Tarquin, barely audible over Sleaze’s groaning.
Jonathan was just coming round as we reached the door, so I grabbed his hand and dragged him with us as we sped along the hall towards the kitchen. Unfortunately the kitchen door was locked, blocking our escape route. After screaming incoherently with rage (I mean, honestly, who on earth locks their kitchen door these days?) we had no option but to turn round and run the other way, back towards the front of the house.
As we did so, a large sinister black van hove into view. The side door opened and two extremely large men, holding extremely large guns beckoned us inside.
More of which next time.
Monday, October 31, 2005
A Nother Episode
Subtitle: No blowdarts please, we’re British
After my white-knuckle ride on the Tea-Tray Express, I found myself in a small, darkened room, filled with esoteric memorabilia. From shrunken heads (I’m sure one of them was Lorraine Kelly) to huge dusty tomes filled with mystical incantations, Jonathan covered the whole world of the occult.
As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I became aware of the faint sound of rhythmic chanting. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but as I moved further into the murky room, I discovered that it was coming from behind the panelled wall at the far end of the fireplace. I briefly wondered whether or not to investigate further, but a sharp pain in my thigh brought me back to my senses.
Jonathan was lying in the footwell of the antique desk into which I’d just walked. He appeared to be unharmed apart from a gash above his left eyebrow. He sat up, bashing his forehead on the underside of the desk, and collapsed back to the floor. As he came round, I manoeuvred him to a sitting position, propped against the drawers of the desk.
‘How long was I out?’ he asked blearily, gingerly rubbing the large bump on his forehead.
‘Oh, only a few seconds,’ I replied. ‘What on earth is happening? Dawkins is upstairs. He’s been shot in the leg. Tarquin is tending to him as I speak.’
Jonathan hesitated for a few seconds before answering, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he pondered his reply.
‘I suspect that the Cosa Nostradamus has tracked you from the moment you returned home after the atrocity at the carnival.’
‘But… but… how?’ I spluttered. ‘We were hidden in your car the whole way. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the smell of that travel rug out of my hair.’
Jonathan suddenly stretched out a hand and plucked a stray sequin out of my hair.
‘How about this?’ he murmured.
I was just about to point out that it would be fairly impossible to track anyone with the aid of one measly sequin when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. Fortunately it was Tarquin, who’d taken advantage of the unexpected ceasefire to creep downstairs.
He peered at the sequin and asked, ‘Is that a Track-o-matic 5000 Mk III? Where did you get it? They’re very difficult to obtain these days.’
‘I fear it was planted on young Kats during the confusion of the carnival. We’re dealing with extremely dangerous people.’
I gaped at Jonathan and Tarquin in open-mouthed astonishment.
‘But... but… I… I… ‘ I stammered, for the moment unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
Tarquin gulped nervously and revealed that he had been (some time ago) a member of the elite security wing of MFI, a crack unit dedicated to solving crimes involving flatpack furniture.
‘It’s more widespread than you might think. We worked closely with the Homebase Guard and on an international basis with Ikeapol.
‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say before something flew through what was left of the window and struck me on the side of the neck.
I shook my head as the room seemed to shift ever so slightly out of focus and I put my hand to my neck and plucked out a small feathered dart. I stared at in confusion for a moment before everything started to grow dim and I sank slowly to the floor…
After my white-knuckle ride on the Tea-Tray Express, I found myself in a small, darkened room, filled with esoteric memorabilia. From shrunken heads (I’m sure one of them was Lorraine Kelly) to huge dusty tomes filled with mystical incantations, Jonathan covered the whole world of the occult.
As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I became aware of the faint sound of rhythmic chanting. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but as I moved further into the murky room, I discovered that it was coming from behind the panelled wall at the far end of the fireplace. I briefly wondered whether or not to investigate further, but a sharp pain in my thigh brought me back to my senses.
Jonathan was lying in the footwell of the antique desk into which I’d just walked. He appeared to be unharmed apart from a gash above his left eyebrow. He sat up, bashing his forehead on the underside of the desk, and collapsed back to the floor. As he came round, I manoeuvred him to a sitting position, propped against the drawers of the desk.
‘How long was I out?’ he asked blearily, gingerly rubbing the large bump on his forehead.
‘Oh, only a few seconds,’ I replied. ‘What on earth is happening? Dawkins is upstairs. He’s been shot in the leg. Tarquin is tending to him as I speak.’
Jonathan hesitated for a few seconds before answering, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he pondered his reply.
‘I suspect that the Cosa Nostradamus has tracked you from the moment you returned home after the atrocity at the carnival.’
‘But… but… how?’ I spluttered. ‘We were hidden in your car the whole way. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the smell of that travel rug out of my hair.’
Jonathan suddenly stretched out a hand and plucked a stray sequin out of my hair.
‘How about this?’ he murmured.
I was just about to point out that it would be fairly impossible to track anyone with the aid of one measly sequin when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. Fortunately it was Tarquin, who’d taken advantage of the unexpected ceasefire to creep downstairs.
He peered at the sequin and asked, ‘Is that a Track-o-matic 5000 Mk III? Where did you get it? They’re very difficult to obtain these days.’
‘I fear it was planted on young Kats during the confusion of the carnival. We’re dealing with extremely dangerous people.’
I gaped at Jonathan and Tarquin in open-mouthed astonishment.
‘But... but… I… I… ‘ I stammered, for the moment unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
Tarquin gulped nervously and revealed that he had been (some time ago) a member of the elite security wing of MFI, a crack unit dedicated to solving crimes involving flatpack furniture.
‘It’s more widespread than you might think. We worked closely with the Homebase Guard and on an international basis with Ikeapol.
‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say before something flew through what was left of the window and struck me on the side of the neck.
I shook my head as the room seemed to shift ever so slightly out of focus and I put my hand to my neck and plucked out a small feathered dart. I stared at in confusion for a moment before everything started to grow dim and I sank slowly to the floor…
Monday, October 24, 2005
The Nextest Episode
Subtitle: A very big house in the country
I came to several minutes later, to find myself being carried by the lovely Tarquin out to Jonathan’s car, a vintage Toyota Previa in lime green and turquoise. Apparently, as I found out later, it’s camouflage for the terminally colourblind.
We set off shortly after I was bundled unceremoniously on the floor of the car, Tarquin flinging himself bodily atop my inert form. Jonathan then covered us with an old travel rug, that smelt distressingly of Dettol and bakewell tart.
‘Just a precaution,’ he told us cheerily.
I managed to stop myself from pointing out that he’d be a damn site less cheerful if he had some mangy rug stuck over his head when I saw how worried poor Tarquin looked, in the smelly gloom of the back seat footwell.
Fortunately, once we got out onto the open road, we pulled into a service station, where we were able to change out of our rather conspicuous taffeta and crimplene dancing outfits into the clothes that Tarquin had hastily packed whilst I’d been blissfully unaware, passed out on the sofa.
Once suitably attired, we jumped back into the car and sped off in the direction of Jonathan’s country seat. I’d have preferred a whole house myself, but needs must when the devils steals your muesli, as my (slightly mental) granny used to say.
Several hours later, I awoke with a stiff neck from where I’d nodded off in the car. The aroma from the travel rug had combined with Tarquin’s slightly overindulgent use of Brut to create a narcotic gas. Fortunately, Jonathan was impervious to this, as one of his little foibles is to drive in full face mask. We alighted from the car, and found ourselves in front of an imposing mansion house.
‘Impressive frontage Jonathan,’ I remarked.
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, young lady’, he replied with a wink at Tarquin, who reddened visibly.
We refrained from further banter, as it was getting dark. Dawkins, Jonathan’s butler was waiting by the front door to take our bags and show us to our rooms.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of releasing the hounds, sir, and have switched on all the fences.’
‘Thank you Dawkins, could you also see to Tarquin and Kats? They’ll be bunking in the Taupe Room. Dinner at 8 as usual.’
We followed Dawkins up the magnificent staircase to the first floor, where we were shown into a bedroom so huge we could have played touch snooker in it and still had room for a disco.
We unpacked our meagre belongings, then sat and digested the events of the last day or two. We were just coming up for air when suddenly the alarm sounded and metal grilles descended over all the windows.
Tarquin rushed out into the hallway, to find Dawkins slumped in a corner, with a bullet wound to the leg. We dragged him into our room, where I administered rudimentary first aid, though we had a spot of bother with the recovery position, and ended up just propping him up against the sideboard.
We had no idea if Jonathan had been injured, so one of us had to go and find out. We decided to draw straws, and as my picture was the more realistic of the two, I won. I like to think that my addition of a yokel and a couple of field mice swung things in my favour but I digress. I quickly fashioned some protective clothing from an occasional table and a silver tea tray and edged my way out into the corridor.
The scene was utterly chaotic – the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the vase at the top of the stairs had been smashed into a million pieces. (Though I can’t verify that, as I didn’t have time to sit and count them all.) A bullet whizzed past my right ear, and I huddled behind the table. Cunningly using the tea tray as a periscope type device, I was able to plot a fairly safe course to the top of the stairs, at which point I was stuck. Until I decided that speed was of the essence and jumped on the tray and slid down the stairs, in an insane parody of the Winter Olympics luge run.
I reached the ground in a matter of seconds, and, after pausing to catch my breath, ran headlong into what I assumed was Jonathan’s study…
You’ll find out what it really was in the next thrilling episode.
I came to several minutes later, to find myself being carried by the lovely Tarquin out to Jonathan’s car, a vintage Toyota Previa in lime green and turquoise. Apparently, as I found out later, it’s camouflage for the terminally colourblind.
We set off shortly after I was bundled unceremoniously on the floor of the car, Tarquin flinging himself bodily atop my inert form. Jonathan then covered us with an old travel rug, that smelt distressingly of Dettol and bakewell tart.
‘Just a precaution,’ he told us cheerily.
I managed to stop myself from pointing out that he’d be a damn site less cheerful if he had some mangy rug stuck over his head when I saw how worried poor Tarquin looked, in the smelly gloom of the back seat footwell.
Fortunately, once we got out onto the open road, we pulled into a service station, where we were able to change out of our rather conspicuous taffeta and crimplene dancing outfits into the clothes that Tarquin had hastily packed whilst I’d been blissfully unaware, passed out on the sofa.
Once suitably attired, we jumped back into the car and sped off in the direction of Jonathan’s country seat. I’d have preferred a whole house myself, but needs must when the devils steals your muesli, as my (slightly mental) granny used to say.
Several hours later, I awoke with a stiff neck from where I’d nodded off in the car. The aroma from the travel rug had combined with Tarquin’s slightly overindulgent use of Brut to create a narcotic gas. Fortunately, Jonathan was impervious to this, as one of his little foibles is to drive in full face mask. We alighted from the car, and found ourselves in front of an imposing mansion house.
‘Impressive frontage Jonathan,’ I remarked.
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, young lady’, he replied with a wink at Tarquin, who reddened visibly.
We refrained from further banter, as it was getting dark. Dawkins, Jonathan’s butler was waiting by the front door to take our bags and show us to our rooms.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of releasing the hounds, sir, and have switched on all the fences.’
‘Thank you Dawkins, could you also see to Tarquin and Kats? They’ll be bunking in the Taupe Room. Dinner at 8 as usual.’
We followed Dawkins up the magnificent staircase to the first floor, where we were shown into a bedroom so huge we could have played touch snooker in it and still had room for a disco.
We unpacked our meagre belongings, then sat and digested the events of the last day or two. We were just coming up for air when suddenly the alarm sounded and metal grilles descended over all the windows.
Tarquin rushed out into the hallway, to find Dawkins slumped in a corner, with a bullet wound to the leg. We dragged him into our room, where I administered rudimentary first aid, though we had a spot of bother with the recovery position, and ended up just propping him up against the sideboard.
We had no idea if Jonathan had been injured, so one of us had to go and find out. We decided to draw straws, and as my picture was the more realistic of the two, I won. I like to think that my addition of a yokel and a couple of field mice swung things in my favour but I digress. I quickly fashioned some protective clothing from an occasional table and a silver tea tray and edged my way out into the corridor.
The scene was utterly chaotic – the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the vase at the top of the stairs had been smashed into a million pieces. (Though I can’t verify that, as I didn’t have time to sit and count them all.) A bullet whizzed past my right ear, and I huddled behind the table. Cunningly using the tea tray as a periscope type device, I was able to plot a fairly safe course to the top of the stairs, at which point I was stuck. Until I decided that speed was of the essence and jumped on the tray and slid down the stairs, in an insane parody of the Winter Olympics luge run.
I reached the ground in a matter of seconds, and, after pausing to catch my breath, ran headlong into what I assumed was Jonathan’s study…
You’ll find out what it really was in the next thrilling episode.
Monday, October 10, 2005
The Next Episode
Subtitle: A bit of a shock
As you can imagine, after the outrage perpetrated by the Sons of Thrower, the gay carnival atmosphere had turned to one of fear, anguish and distrust. Tarquin and I were trying hard to remain upbeat in the face of such devastation (and the jam splodge on his cummerbund was really rather distracting). We did try to search for some clues, but in our dancing outfits we looked rather conspicuous. There was nothing for it but to head back home and see if we couldn’t piece together some more of this mystery.
However, fate had other plans in store. We trudged home, only to find the front door in splintered pieces. We ran through the door, only to find the place well and truly ransacked. We did a quick inventory (being the organised sort, I have a checklist and clipboard kept in the wall safe – which hadn’t been touched, luckily) and found that nothing was missing, apart from a set of computer discs that I’d carelessly left out on the table.
I knew at once who was behind the break-in and turned to Tarquin, who had by this time recovered from his initial shock.
‘It’s the Sons of Thrower! I know it is! We’re definitely onto something here.’
He just stood there, with a curious look on his face, holding a sheet of what looked to be fairly ordinary A4 sized paper.
‘I think you’d better read this, while I put the kettle on.’
My normal response of ‘It won’t suit you, darling’ seemed highly inappropriate, given that his pallor matched the startling white brilliance of the paper.
I started to read the note, which was as follows:
Kats PI, you were warned. Cease and desist your prying. What you find out will do you no good. Especially where you’re going.
In accordance with prophecy, you have now been marked. For Death.
I was hoping that either the words ‘by Chocolate’ or ‘Only joking’ would appear, but it was not to be.
Trembling with fear and not a little indignation, I walked into the kitchen to find Tarquin rattling the teacups slightly too loudly.
‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see’, I said, with an air of breeziness I wasn’t expecting.
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he replied, with a tremble in his voice that I found oddly touching. ‘I know someone who can help us. He’s on his way round now.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door, or more correctly, on the wall next to where the door had been. A cheery ‘Hello, anyone there?’ accompanied it.
Tarquin scurried to the door, and greeted our visitor warmly. He was a fairly stocky man, in his mid to late fifties, with a distinct air of Captain Birdseye about him. He advanced towards me, hand outstretched.
‘You must be the Kats I keep hearing so much about. Tarquin wasn’t exaggerating. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Ffolkes, though the F is silent.’
I was a little thrown by the man’s charm, and the fact that he had a glass eye. In a small bottle, hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Ahh, you’re admiring the eye. The eye of Brize Norton. A powerful tool for necromancy.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’, I asked.
‘No, you’re thinking of necrophilia. Quite a different kettle of monkeys that.’
I was momentarily lost for words, but fortunately Tarquin came to the rescue with a large pot of tea and a slightly damaged pear and walnut cake that he’d rescued from the carnage at the carnival.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea, and then the table was cleared, and the note we’d received was thrust at Jonathan, who read it, a frown appearing on his face as he did so.
‘Hmmm, this is worse than I feared. It appears you’ve attracted the attention of a particularly nasty cult.’
‘Please Mr Ffolkes, there are ladies present!’ I exclaimed.
He ignored my rather pathetic attempt at humour and pressed on. ‘You see this part here – ‘in accordance with prophecy’ – that’s a phrase used exclusively by one organisation. The Cosa Nostradamus.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘But… but…’ I started.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but you and Tarquin are going to have to go into hiding for a while. These people will stop at nothing to dispose of the pair of you. You’ve disturbed some pretty powerful people. The best place for you to hide will be at my country house. Go and pack, and we’ll set off straight away.’
My mind was reeling. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
It appeared, however, that he was. Not only that, but Tarquin had already packed our bags.
‘Don’t worry dear heart,’ said Jonathan, ‘we’ll have this all sorted out in no time.’
At this point, I did the only thing I could, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
And what transpired after that, will be revealed next time…
As you can imagine, after the outrage perpetrated by the Sons of Thrower, the gay carnival atmosphere had turned to one of fear, anguish and distrust. Tarquin and I were trying hard to remain upbeat in the face of such devastation (and the jam splodge on his cummerbund was really rather distracting). We did try to search for some clues, but in our dancing outfits we looked rather conspicuous. There was nothing for it but to head back home and see if we couldn’t piece together some more of this mystery.
However, fate had other plans in store. We trudged home, only to find the front door in splintered pieces. We ran through the door, only to find the place well and truly ransacked. We did a quick inventory (being the organised sort, I have a checklist and clipboard kept in the wall safe – which hadn’t been touched, luckily) and found that nothing was missing, apart from a set of computer discs that I’d carelessly left out on the table.
I knew at once who was behind the break-in and turned to Tarquin, who had by this time recovered from his initial shock.
‘It’s the Sons of Thrower! I know it is! We’re definitely onto something here.’
He just stood there, with a curious look on his face, holding a sheet of what looked to be fairly ordinary A4 sized paper.
‘I think you’d better read this, while I put the kettle on.’
My normal response of ‘It won’t suit you, darling’ seemed highly inappropriate, given that his pallor matched the startling white brilliance of the paper.
I started to read the note, which was as follows:
Kats PI, you were warned. Cease and desist your prying. What you find out will do you no good. Especially where you’re going.
In accordance with prophecy, you have now been marked. For Death.
I was hoping that either the words ‘by Chocolate’ or ‘Only joking’ would appear, but it was not to be.
Trembling with fear and not a little indignation, I walked into the kitchen to find Tarquin rattling the teacups slightly too loudly.
‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see’, I said, with an air of breeziness I wasn’t expecting.
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he replied, with a tremble in his voice that I found oddly touching. ‘I know someone who can help us. He’s on his way round now.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door, or more correctly, on the wall next to where the door had been. A cheery ‘Hello, anyone there?’ accompanied it.
Tarquin scurried to the door, and greeted our visitor warmly. He was a fairly stocky man, in his mid to late fifties, with a distinct air of Captain Birdseye about him. He advanced towards me, hand outstretched.
‘You must be the Kats I keep hearing so much about. Tarquin wasn’t exaggerating. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Ffolkes, though the F is silent.’
I was a little thrown by the man’s charm, and the fact that he had a glass eye. In a small bottle, hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Ahh, you’re admiring the eye. The eye of Brize Norton. A powerful tool for necromancy.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’, I asked.
‘No, you’re thinking of necrophilia. Quite a different kettle of monkeys that.’
I was momentarily lost for words, but fortunately Tarquin came to the rescue with a large pot of tea and a slightly damaged pear and walnut cake that he’d rescued from the carnage at the carnival.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea, and then the table was cleared, and the note we’d received was thrust at Jonathan, who read it, a frown appearing on his face as he did so.
‘Hmmm, this is worse than I feared. It appears you’ve attracted the attention of a particularly nasty cult.’
‘Please Mr Ffolkes, there are ladies present!’ I exclaimed.
He ignored my rather pathetic attempt at humour and pressed on. ‘You see this part here – ‘in accordance with prophecy’ – that’s a phrase used exclusively by one organisation. The Cosa Nostradamus.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘But… but…’ I started.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but you and Tarquin are going to have to go into hiding for a while. These people will stop at nothing to dispose of the pair of you. You’ve disturbed some pretty powerful people. The best place for you to hide will be at my country house. Go and pack, and we’ll set off straight away.’
My mind was reeling. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
It appeared, however, that he was. Not only that, but Tarquin had already packed our bags.
‘Don’t worry dear heart,’ said Jonathan, ‘we’ll have this all sorted out in no time.’
At this point, I did the only thing I could, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
And what transpired after that, will be revealed next time…
Friday, October 07, 2005
Yet another episode
Subtitle: Ballroom Bliss
I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.
The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.
Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.
We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.
I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.
We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!
Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.
Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.
We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.
We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….
I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.
The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.
Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.
We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.
I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.
We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!
Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.
Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.
We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.
We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….
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