The Chronicles of Jonathon Postlethwaite: The Seed of Corruption (25 page)

                            Flax could remember the church bells of Dubh, it was not since his infant years that he had heard them. But now the churches and their  bells  had  been silenced, empty forgotten husks devoid of congregations, consumed by Dubh's physical expansion  and  drained by  its  spiritual degeneration.               The prospect of pleasure was the only thing which drew a congregation in Dubh now. The new Church of Hedonism, unshackled from any slavish morality, now the only religion.

                            The sound of the bells receded and the memories of his childhood in Dubh too. So long ago it seemed, but now he was close to his goal. What made Flax different from the rest of the hedonists of Dubh was that he made his own rules, no Tan or Mek council ruled him and it was not just pleasure he pursued. It was  that  which  made  pleasure  possible and  that  from  which  pleasure exuded - Power.

                            Flax had power, but craved more and nothing and no-one would prevent him from having all the power he wanted, although, in truth, he knew that he could never be satisfied. He stared at the floodlit church. The poor wretches here were still slaves to false moralities which  denied them their real essence, but their pain, fear and innocence would taste so sweet on the palate of evil beings such as him. Here he could be a god in his own paradise. He moaned  at  the  prospect  of   what   he   might   do   to the unsuspecting  here,  then  he  laughed  a  single single syllable laugh. Tonight he needed a little celebration and he had brought it along with him, in the form of Ivor Scoggins.

Chapter Seventeen

                            The Scholar was woken early the following morning by  a  loud  cursing  from  outside  in  the  yard  below.  He dressed quickly and looked down into the courtyard to  see an enormous, red faced man in a dirty red and

white apron who was hurling small, blackened objects violently against the gates.

“Fucking bollocks, fucking shit bollocks!" he howled in a highly agitated state. "They're ruined, fucking ruined" he almost sobbed as he examined the charcoaled remains of

yesterday's work.

                            With an unintelligible grunt, he turned his reddened face up to the window, where a puzzled spectator stood watching. The scholar looked into the visage of Victor the Mad Baker in full fury. His face was almost purple now, except for the red, bulbous, porey nose which contrasted with his wild shock of white hair.

                            The baker's bloodshot eyes narrowed when he saw the fat, bald man looking down at him. He held up a ruined pie at him and shouted.

"What d'you think y'staring at runt! Want a pie for y'fucking breakfast, eh!" he screamed, baring his brown teeth, and hurled the burned offering at the now frightened observer.

                            The  burnt  pie  rattled  off  the  window  frame and  the  scholar withdrew from the window taking in a deep breath. He  turned  and  saw Mrs.Lovenberry shuffling down the corridor from the direction of the stairs and in the process of tying on a pinafore.

“Ah " she said.” Good morning. Did you want breakfast, Mr. er, What was your name again." she inquired, unsure of whether they had been introduced the night before. “Scholar." said the pale faced little man who still had his eyes on the baker who had now begun to take out his frustration on the yard gates with his boot.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Scholar of course, Breakfast?" she inquired.

                            Mr.  Scholar,  as  he  had  been  newly  titled,  was tempted to explain that 'scholar' was not in fact his real name, just something that Flax called him. His real name  Pinky  Makepeace,  but  he  decided  that  he would keep the new title. It seemed to have a ring to it. “Yes, breakfast." Pinky replied, still watching the baker who  now  sat  down  by  the  gates  with  a  bottle  to   his  mouth." Breakfast" he repeated.

                            He followed Mrs. Lovenberry down the stairs and into a room behind the bar. Agnes apologised for forgetting her guest's names, even though they had never given them to her, and inquired of the names of her other two guests.

                            Even though she had not heard the names before, she repeated them after the Scholar with a  false familiarity. It was old age she said, it played tricks with her memory. Would his friends be down for breakfast soon? she asked.

Pinky the Scholar shook his head.              They had along journey and were very, very tired, he explained. No, he thought, definitely not, judging from the moaning and groaning that  had  come from  Scoggins's  room the night before. They would be completely exhausted.

                            At    breakfast,    Mr.    Scholar    wolfed     down the somewhat alien food with relish. It was good, despite its unfamiliarity he thought, and continued to extract as much information about the place he found himself in by asking the old woman subtle questions.

                            Mrs. Lovenberry was very obliging. Soon Mr. Scholar knew enough about the geography of the small town of Bramston to plan a trip to the local library. The old woman had mentioned it several times during his interrogation when stumped by some of his strange questions. It was “a place of books and knowledge, if you

needed to know anything, you should go there." she had suggested.

                            For her part Mrs. Lovenberry had many questions of her own to ask, but found them all adequately answered by the Scholar who had composed a cover story for thier sudden nocturnal appearance which he hoped  the  old  woman would find plausible.

                            They were travellers from a place far away. They were himself - Mr Scholar, Mr. Flax the man with the large nose and last but no means least  Mr. Scoggins.   Mrs.   Lovenberry   was   tempted   to   add her own thoughts  concerning the latter, but did not. She had been bought up in an age where one kept one's opinions to one's self, even  if  she  did  think that Mr. Scoggins was in fact a woman or at least a ‘Nancy boy'. But on this occasion she broke the rules.

“May I ask a question” she ventured. Pinky raised his eyebrows. “Is Mr Scoggins a Gay person?”

Pinky Makepeace shrugged.

“I guess he’s as happy as the rest of us Mrs Lovenberry.” He responded. Mrs Lovenberry sighed.

                            The three travellers had been caught in the rain and had sought shelter in her yard. Mrs Lovenberry did not ask how they got through locked gates and over the glass topped walls. Mr. Flax was here on business and the other two  were  here  to  assist  him.  No,  they  were  not undertakers, the Scholar explained. Mrs.Lovenberry had been dying to ask that question and Pinky  did  not know what an undertaker was. So he denied that they were in order to avoid further embarrassment if  he and his companions did not behave like undertakers should, and therefore compromise his story.

                            As  for  their  profession  the  friendly  little,  over friendly and definitely a bit odd, Mrs Lovenberry thought, man, said they were here to purchase some equipment. No, sorry he didn't know what sort of equipment. He was only an assistant. he only knew that they would buy  lots and lots of it.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Lovenberry, her eyes suddenly widening in comprehension. “Wholesalers!  My  nephew  Richard's  a  wholesaler.  He never  knows  much  about  what  he's  buying  or selling  either, just how much money he'll make."

                            The Scholar laughed, partly because he was surprised at the success of his story and partly to relieve his nerves. One final explanation was due to the old woman though, one detail Mr. Scholar seemed to have over-looked and which intrigued her.

“But what about these strange clothes you  wear, shouldn't people in your profession wear proper suits?" she ventured her curiosity overcoming her manners.

                              Pinky was lost for words. Strange clothes? Strange clothes! Of course! He had never looked upon them as strange clothes. His mouth opened in response.

"Well, er we, er, hum....yes....."

                            A loud knocking on the door saved him the effort from concocting some strange excuse for their clothing on the spot. The person knocking at the door had knocked impatiently twice again before the arthritic old woman had reached the door. She opened it and the huge, ruddy faced baker stepped a foot inside and towered over little woman.

                            His face gave the expression that his head would explode at any moment, but he presented an apologetic mood. He attempted a smile, but was unable to manage it, creating the impression he was about to throw up instead. “Ah, Mrs. Lovenberry my dear." he parted his pink lips to reveal enough of his teeth to mimic some form of a smile. "Thought you were still in bed m’duck. Here's the rent I owe you and a little extra, since it's slightly overdue." he laughed apologetically.

                            Agnes Lovenberry smiled smugly and stared at the baker as she took the small envelope from his huge hairy hand, then crossed her arms across her chest.

“Well Mr. Burns, let's not let it happen again shall we?" she said sternly. “Because I've got other income now” she warned, pointing to Pinky, who cringed immediately the baker   set   his   beady   eyes   upon   him.   “and   they're

wholesalers!" she proclaimed triumphantly. "I don't have to rely on you pittance of rent! " she added.

                            Victor Burns was slightly taken aback by his landlady's sudden and newly acquired financial independence of him. Yet he laughed and patted Mrs. Lovenberry on the shoulder.

“And I'm very pleased for you, my love." he slimed. “I know you have a good sense of humour! I was only telling the wife this morning what a good sport you are and not lost a spot of it over the many, many years we've been such good friends." he said as he strode over towards the table where ‘Mr. Scholar’ sat shaking.

                            Mr. Scholar involuntarily stood up as the wobbling mass of the mad baker approached. It was the Scholar's survival instinct that told him to flee by throwing him upright out of the chair. The baker stretched out a hand. The Scholar did the same, his face draining of all colour. The baker grasped it tightly.

“Didn’t quite catch the name - I'm Victor Burns, baker of extraordinary pies." he growled as he began to squeeze the Pinky's hand in his own gigantic, bear-like paw and pulling him closer as he did so.

                            Victor's breath stank of  beer and garlic, his tiny bloodshot eyes bore directly into the Pinky's own. “Wholesalers? Wholesale what? Coffins? 'cos that's what you and your mates will need if you fuck with me you little

tosser." he threatened and then laughed loudly sending a shower of spittle into the Scholar's face. “Don’t cross me  you little  twat! Some cunt  was  in my bakery last night" the low growling continued. "I don't like trespassers, here or in my bakery. If you've got plans for this place forget it. When the old dear pops her clogs, which  won't  be  long,  it'll  be  my  name  on  the

will.,  understand creep?" he finished giving Pinky's squashed fingers one final violent crush before releasing them.

“Yes “whispered the Scholar, wincing in pain as the blood

rushed back into his fingers to set the nerves on fire.

                            All this time Mrs. Lovenberry had been slowly counting the cash Victor had given her in the envelope. As she came back to the table, Victor smiled again, this time a self-satisfied grin.

“Ah, Agnes dear, I was just telling thingy here about the Wheatsheaf's excellent facilities, we're going to have a drink together sometime." He laughed jovially, then got up and slapped the Scholar hard between the shoulder blades.

"Cheerio then, and don't forget what we've said my friend" he said and gave the Scholar one final and threatening stare before making his way the door, humming himself out of the room through clenched teeth, pausing only briefly to peck Mrs Lovenberry on the cheek.

                            Pinky Makepeace, or Mr. Scholar, collapsed into his chair, relieved that the mad ox of a man had gone and resolved to do something about him.  He  was  a  High Hat and no-one would have spoken to him like that at home   without  losing  some  part  of  his  anatomy  in

punishment.

                            He soon forgot the baker and his threats however,  his  immediate  concern  was  to  brief   Flax with all the information he had gleaned from the withered old woman.  Pinky  excused  himself  to  his host and made  his  way  upstairs,  his  mind  boggling at the thought of what he would find in Scoggins's room. Outside the door  he  had  second  thoughts about disturbing Flax and his playmate. The sounds of heavy breathing and a renewed agonized  moaning from within told him that now was not the time to interrupt Flax and that freak with him. He ambled downstairs again and into the room behind the bar where he  found  Mrs  Lovenberry reading a newspaper which she lowered to peer over at him through her horn

rimmed spectacles.

“Oh, Mr. Scholar, I forgot to ask will your friends be coming down for breakfast, I forgot to ask. “she asked again, although she had already asked him once.

“No, er, I suspect they'll be very tired" he spluttered almost laughing.

“Very well" the old woman smiled. “I’d better think about lunch then. I'm sure they'll be very hungry when they wake up. Will one o'clock be alright?" looking at the Scholar over her reading glasses. Pinky smiled. She was so stupidly trusting. Then a thought drifted into his head which made him lick his lips, not of dinner of course, but a symptom of a more perverse appetite.

“Of course, of course, Agnes, my I call you Agnes? Lunch at your convenience." then he excused himself again and putting on his hat and coat telling her that he had some errands the run.

                            Pinky Makepeace the Scholar left by the side door and walked warily into the yard. The baker was at work in his rented  kitchen,  his  loud  singing  ravishing  the cold  air.  Pinky  Makepeace  spat  bravely  in  the direction  of  the  bakery  where  `Some  enchanted evening...'  was  being  destroyed by the grinding bass tones of Victor Burns.

                            This man disturbed him, but only because this was not Dubh. He would tell Flax about him, he was a threat to their mission here and no doubt Ivor Scoggins would be detailed to sort him out.

“Baker of Extraordinary pies.” scoffed the Scholar, they'd be extraordinary if Burns found himself to be an ingredient in them he thought and could not stifle his laughter. The singing stopped abruptly but, by the time a bemused Victor Burns had emerged from his bakery to investigate, Pinky had slipped out of the yard and into the narrow street beyond the gates.