I am the Lord of the Underworld and I will always be on the edge of the world. I will always be on the edges.
I peer through a telescope and laugh at the dead. I laugh because I see human souls; see them fly into space. See them burst. Turn into stars.
I lift beautiful Boo Boo onto my horse, kiss her. MAKE HER MINE.
I hold the head of Zedock Heap aloft.
Zedock Heap is a splatty mess. The temple is a heap of body parts.
Waxford is kicking the corpse.
“Detective Waxford. Are you alright?”
“I’m fucking marvellous,” and he kicks him again, staring mad-eyed down at the corpse, “Zedock Heap – I’m arresting you.”
Detective White thankfully intervenes and puts his arm round Waxford’s shoulder. “He’s dead, Waxford. It’s over.”
Oh dear, poor Waxford. I think he’s in shock.
I put my arms round Boo Boo. “My lady, I believe it’s time for us to ride off into the moonlight.”
“Have we got a happy ending, Mr Loveheart?” she says.
“Of course, I happen to be on very good terms with the authoress.”
August 1889
The Bag of Tripe Pub, Whitechapel
Detective White has organised a retirement party for Waxford. Isn’t that charming.
This pub is a curious hole. Smells of meat pie and something dead. A gloomy cavern of ragtag pickpockets, putrid corpse smugglers and Scotland Yard detectives.
I have, of course, got a card and a present for Waxford. I inspect my thoughtful, well-chosen card, which has an illustration of a decapitated head on a stick. Inside it reads in beautiful red ink:
Dear Waxford
Congratulations! You are not dead.
Love from ME & Boo Boo
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The present is a preserved stuffed foot I obtained from a student medical doctor. I’ve wrapped a pink ribbon round it with a heart-shaped gift tag. He will love it!
It’s 8pm when Boo Boo and I arrive in this quaint little part of Whitechapel. A corpse decomposes quietly in a back alley. The moon is a sky lantern; the stars a-fizzle.
A few turnip-faced locals lurk in the corners of this establishment. A bow-legged folk singer has been hired for the occasion, singing a song about fish and bearded men. He taps his spindly foot against the floor, beating out a rhythm. I throw a chair at him, knocking him out cold with a squeal.
Rufus Hazard, who’s leaning over the bar chatting up the barmaid, responds, rather inebriated: “Good shot, Loveheart! I was about to punch him in the face.”
“What do you think you’re playing at, Loveheart?” shouts White, who’s standing with Waxford and Walnut. Walnut’s holding a scotch egg the size of a head on a cocktail stick.
“What deviltry is that?” I point my sword at the scotch egg.
“Homemade,” smiles Walnut.
“By whom?”
Walnut points at the pub landlord who’s wiping a pint glass with a dirty rag. He smiles nervously at me. “Speciality of the pub. It’s perfectly normal, I swear!”
Boo Boo draws her blades.
Waxford shouts, happy on whisky, “You two stop mucking about. Come over here.”
A selection of finger foods lies across the bar. Is that another scotch egg I spy? Mmm, some curious potted-meat sandwiches and mini-quiches. I inspect them for bombs.
Boo Boo runs over to Pedrock and his fiancée, Miss Seashell, who have appeared. Gives her brother a big cuddle. He has a marvellous boat I hear, an insecty delight.
I sneak up on Waxford, who’s helping the concussed folk singer rise from the floor.
“Happy Retirement.” I hand him the gift.
He looks at it with suspicion. “Mm mm what is THIS I wonder?” and unwraps it. “A preserved foot! How considerate of you.”
Walnut peers over his shoulder. “Symbol of good luck, that is.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Waxford shouts.
“It’s well known,” Walnut continues with a remarkably serious expression, “that in some primitive cultures a foot would be hung outside the front door to encourage prosperity, a ripe old age and virility.”
Waxford slaps Walnut in the face. “STOP IT! I’m surrounded by insane people.”
“Come now, Waxford,” I smile my best smile, “You’ve had fun.”
Waxford puts the foot on the bar. The barman examines it with a concerned interested. “What are you bloody looking at?” he screams.
Detective White puts his arm on Waxford’s shoulder. “We shall miss you, Henry.”
The folk singer, whom I’ve kept my eye upon, has removed himself to the corner of the room and sheepishly sips his lime cordial. If he so much as hums, I will beat him to death with the giant scotch egg.
Rufus staggers over towards me and shouts “I’M WATCHING YOU!” to the folk singer, who squeaks in fear.
“You and I,” continues Rufus, pissed as a newt, “understand one another, dear boy. We both have a sensitive appreciation of the arts. I once saw a mime act in Paris. I strangled the fellow half to death with my bare hands. Slippery bugger got away through an invisible window, but he learnt a valuable lesson that day.”