“Your neighbours? Do you not have any other friends, dear boy?”
“They’re all dead or unavailable,” I say. “Detective White and Constable Walnut are busy on a case involving a cursed stolen Indian sapphire.”
“Sounds familiar,” Rufus chortles. “What’s the curse?”
“If you touch the jewel you are immediately transported to Aberystwyth.”
His cigar falls out of his lips and he shudders. “Jesus Christ!” and he whispers low in my ear. “I know a demonologist, a marvellous chap called Professor Toad, who claims that accursed shit hole is a portal to hell.”
“Custard tart?” I offer him the plate.
“No, I’m saving my appetite for that vixen, Lady Beetle, and possibly a scotch egg. Now, who is that strange creature?” and he points a finger in the direction of a spindly-looking priest wearing a green party hat and prodding one of the dangling severed heads.
Reverend Wormhole suddenly screams. “OH MY GOD. IT’S REAL. ITS EYEBALL JUST FELL OUT!”
I speak over his screaming. “Reverend Wormhole; he’s really very funny. He believes some sort of dark cult is out to assassinate him.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“I sneak onto the parish roof at night dressed up in black robes and a pair of horns, and wave through his window.”
“Ha ha! You strange banana!” And Rufus slaps me on the back, so my plate of custard tarts wobbles.
Sadly, I am missing a guest. Professor Hummingbird, the eminent collector of butterflies, failed to RSVP. A sure sign that he’s suspicious! I will have to pay a little visit to him after the party. Sneak into his gardens. Pluck a daisy or two.
I hand the plate of custard delights to Horatio Beetle, the ghastly spoiled teenage brat.
“I DON’T WANT ANY,” he wails.
“Would you mind holding the plate, young man?” I ask.
“NO, BUGGER OFF, YOU WEIRDO,” he replies.
“Do you know what happens to boys with bad manners?”
“NOTHING BECAUSE I’M RICH.”
“They explode.”
“WHAT?”
“That’s right. Suddenly and without warning.”
Horatio looks at me with a thick scowl and then takes the plate of tarts.
His mother, Lady Beetle saunters over, “Darling, you’re not a servant. Why are you holding that?”
“MR LOVEHEART SAID I WOULD EXPLODE IF I DIDN’T.”
I wander back inside Loveheart Manor, take Mr Fingers a piece of the birthday cake. Red and yellow sponge. Tastes like hearts.
“Hello, Mr Fingers, I brought you cake.”
He stares at me from his mirror prison like an octopus stuffed in a preservative jar. Eyes full of broken bits and pieces. Discarded. He says nothing, the pickled thing.
Death appears in a fizz-whiff of smoke, wearing a black party hat.
“Happy birthday, Mr Loveheart.”
“You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
“I brought you a present.” He tries to smile, it’s very unnerving. And he hands me a box with a big black bow on it.
“I love surprises.”
“Well you’ll like this then.” His expression reveals nothing.
I unwrap it and open the lid. It’s a black jewelled crown.
Mr Fingers is screaming, pounding his fists against the mirror.
“Put it on,” Death says.
I take off my red party hat. Put the spiked black crown on my head; it glitters of demon magic.
“Your rightful inheritance. You are of age.” He nods his head. “Mr Loveheart, Lord of the Underworld.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOO!” Mr Fingers is trying to smash the mirror open.
The crown is very heavy: it feels like the weight of a black star pushing me into the earth. “What does this mean?”
“It means,” says Death, helping himself to the birthday cake, “that things are going to get very interesting. There is also an important matter which I need to discuss with you, concerning another gift.”
“More presents? How thrilling!”
“Your powers as Lord of the Underworld will now start to manifest and they could come in any form.”
“How will I know what they are?”
“I am not sure of the specifics, no one bothers to keep me up to date on these formalities, but it should happen soon.”
“That is very exciting news, I wonder what curious powers I will acquire?”
“If you recall, your predecessor, Mr Fingers, had a skill for self-replication to produce heirs.”
“Oh yes, they were rather horrible as I recall.”
“Yes, well, let’s hope you acquire something more useful.”
“I can’t recall Bad Daddy having any other special powers.”
“Well, he had no sense of humour, which is more of a curse,” sighed Death wearily, “but he was proficient at manipulation; the gifts vary depending on the individual. And, you know, being Lord of the Underworld makes you exempt from being killed by standard methods.”
“Well, that is good news. You won’t be sneaking up behind me and hitting me over the head with a lampshade any time soon then? Ha ha.”