Mr Evening-Star enters, his voice a quiver, “Good afternoon, Prime Minister. I have come to inform you all the arrangements are ready for this evening.”
“Excellent,” I sigh.
“I also have some rather bad news, I’m afraid. Ignatius and Gabriel Hummingbird are both dead.”
“Really?” Something interesting at last.
“Yes, a most unfortunate occurrence. Slaughtered at a wedding.”
“And who killed them?” I lean forward and a suspicion creeps into my thoughts. A symbol, a heart on as string, floats in my head.
“Well,” he replies nervously, “It appears Ignatius was shot in the head by a Detective Waxford of Scotland Yard for refusing to be arrested.”
“I like the sound of this plucky Detective Waxford.”
“And Gabriel was sliced in half by his sixteen year old bride-to-be. A girl named Boo Boo.”
I glance up at the Angel-Eater in the frame. “Ahhh, the little butterfly girl. I would like to meet her.”
“And another gentleman was also involved: a Mr Loveheart. Mr Cobweb informs me that this Mr Loveheart can bring the dead back to life with a kiss which is quite an unusual gift. Considering the astronomical murder statistics in London, power over death would be a formidable asset. Why only this morning I witnessed a man hit over the head with a privy door!”
My heart stops.
“WHAT… What did you say?” I gasp.
“Privy door. Apparently, according to an infamous and deranged linguist, of all the phrases in the English language, ‘Privy door’ is the most beautiful.”
I held him up in the air by the throat.
“Ah.” He squeezed the words out. “I see that’s not the information you required!”
“I’m waiting, Mr Evening-Star!”
“Mr Loveheart can kiss the dead and bring them back to life.”
I am shaking. “This is not possible,” and I drop him on the floor and grip the sides of the desk compressing it until it shatters.
“Sir? Do you know him?”
“I have had the curious pleasure of meeting him,” I spit out the words of boiled rage.
“Um, do you require anything from me, Prime Minister? A cup of tea or perhaps a nice, buttery egg?” He creeps towards the door.
“GET OUT BEFORE I WHIP THE SKIN OFF YOU!”
“Of course, Prime Minister,” a glassy smile on his lips; he delicately shuts the door
slipping out of existence.
The Angel-Eater is beating its wings in the frame behind me, pin through its heart, trying to break free.
I crush the Battenberg under my fist. Pound it into the remains of the desk.
LOVEHEART
BASH!
LOVEHEART
BOOM!
LOVEHEART
SPLAT!
Zedock visits the British Museum
After murdering the Battenberg I slip out into the streets of London; head towards the museum. I need a little fresh air; it will calm the bubbling under my skin, sooooothe the pressure. I think about pulling Mr Loveheart’s head off and sucking on his spinal cord. Little prince, little prince, you DARE step into my fairy tale, you DARE try to rearrange my story. I am the OGRE. The MAN -EATER.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST, MR LOVEHEART, AND I AM THE BIGGEST
I think about my women in cages, screaming, begging for their lives. MEAT. MEAT MEAT. That is all you are in my world. I think about the bottle of cherry wine I will sup tonight when I eat one of them. Savour the vintage; uncork and let it BREATHE.
I AM YOUR PRIME MINISTER AND YOU NEED TO FEED ME ENGLAND.
My mood is black.
I change the colour of the Thames to mirror my thoughts. I can shift London into whatever shape I choose. Ripple and sludge. Simmer and boil. I move across London, past the filth, past the flesh, past the stink of you all. My footsteps mark the city. I leave my imprint. Hell is, after all, only a few inches below. Can you feel the red? Can you feel the heat under your feet?
I walk into the bright box of space. I change the colour of the sky; a flash of green lightning strikes St Paul’s. Unexpected ! I move onwards. My mood as black as dungeons. Loveheart on my mind. LOVEHEART ALWAYS ON MY MIND.
The creatures of London are wobbly lines, something drawn from a sketchbook with charcoal. They can be smudged out. Top-hated rich gentlemen are deformed bird-men on the paper. Bright-eyed, pretty ladies in their rainbow dresses become screaming tropical birds, fanning themselves and twittering nervously. Black swirls of charcoal, nothing more.
And those lower, darker forms of London, the creatures of the underworld: the feeble, the half dead with their wretchedness, starvation and filth, the cheap scent of lavender on the gutter-piss girls, their black toothless mouths, the enormous emptiness.
A canvas. That is all you are London. A canvas for my artistry. HAND ME A PAINTBRUSH. Let me give you a lesson in creation.