Ting-a-ling! The bell above the tearoom door rings and a tall gentleman in a very stylish top hat and long coat steps in. MMMMmmmmmm, he looks like a demon to me.
The chef hides his meat cleaver, smiles politely at the gentleman and shouts, “Emma?”
Emma appears, short, grinning, face like a happy dumpling. “Yes?”
“Take the prime minister’s order.”
“Oh, hello, Mr Heap,” she curtsies.
“Coffee and a pot of cream,” he purrs.
“Very good, sir,” and she hurries off.
I approach his table. “If I may warn you, sir, against sampling the chocolate slab.”
Mr Heap raises his eyes. “And you are, sir?”
“Interested in what you are.”
He smiles. I’ve seen that sort of smile before. It’s power. It’s ancient. It’s trouble. It’s something from underneath.
I tap my sword against the table leg.
“Young man, don’t play games with me.” His voice suddenly changes tone, deadly serious. “Because you will regret it.” His eyes fizzle with tiny white explosions.
Oooh, he is a predator!
I twiddle my sword and bow. “My name is John Loveheart and I’m a prince of the Underworld. I also happen to know that this cake,” (my sword prods the chocolate slab), “is the most frightening thing I have ever happened across. It’s quite unsettled me.”
Mr Heap stands up, the chair creaking, and stares into me. Oooooohhhh! The walls of the Stuffed Fig are closing in; he’s putting pressure on the structure. What sort of demon is he?
Two customers eating scones and jam in the corner suddenly explode over the walls.
“BACK OFF!” he says and holds me by the throat. My legs dangle in the air. He looks into me, deep underneath the layers of frill and growls, “You’re quite mad,” and he seems pleased. The windows explode; the walls compress. His eyes hold pieces of an exploding star. And then he laughs, “Little mad prince, that is what you are. Hearts in your eyes. No match for me,” and flings me against the wall. I bounce off it and land gracefully on my feet, then unfortunately slip on a slice of lemon tart and slide along the floor into the cake stand.
“That’s just bad manners,” the remaining survivor of the clientele in the corner says, a slice of fig tart in his hand. “Flinging people against walls.”
The demon clicks his fingers and the gentleman explodes.
The chef appears with the cleaver, “Is everything satisfactory?” followed by “Oh fucking hell” and disappears with the speed of a rat up a drainpipe.
I take out my pistol and shoot the demon in the backside. He is not impressed and grabs hold of me by my waistcoat and holds me up in the air and screams, “I AM FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL, LITTLE PRINCE. I AM THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES.”
The building starts to collapse and he folds his furry coat over me and we disappear as the ceiling falls.
FIZZ-BANG WHOOOOOOOSH
We reappear inside a pagan temple of blood soaked walls. HOW THRILLING!
He’s sitting on a throne of skulls and I, I am rather unfortunately inside a cage that appears to be constructed of human bones with an intricate human-finger lock mechanism. I can smell fireworks and glitter and I can hear screaming and some sort of sinister gurgling. Perhaps the drains need unblocking?
“This isn’t very sporting,” I cry, and I shoot the lock. The bullet sadly bounces off and pings against the wall, followed by a series of pings as it ricochets in several directions and finally lodges itself in a pot plant.
“You are an infuriation, Mr Loveheart,” he sighs, staring at me with laser intensity from his throne, “and I will teach you a lesson in manners.”
“How did you get voted in?” I twiddle my sword
“I ATE the competition. Now you will learn humility and respect for your elders.”
The world around me turns into space. Stars wink, crash and tumble. I am surrounded by indigo night space, and my father’s body floats past me. Dead thing in space amongst asteroids and pieces of fizz and spin.
Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. I reach out and try to touch him, but he drifts past me, moves on. It is just an illusion and yet my heart is breaking. Tears wet my face.
Stars fade, the curtain drops.
“You’re all alone,” he says from his throne, his voice a hypnotism. “Everything you love is dead. It has disappeared. Turned into stardust. Little Prince, insignificant… insane,” and he chuckles.
Under the pain, under the breaking in me, there is something turning. Some change. A form of rage. It blooms gigantic petals, unfurls like a flower.
I stand up in the cage, grip my ancestral sword. “I am a prince of the Underworld and you will have to do better than that!”
He leans forward on his throne of skulls, “If you cross my path again, interfere again, I will EAT you.”
He clicks his fingers.
I am with the pigeon by the Thames. I am out of reach.
The next day
Kent, England, June 1889
Pedrock & Boo Boo on the train
It is four-thirty in the afternoon. A time for buttered teacakes with a splodge of jam.