The Quest for the Bone Idol E-Book

Tony Lewis

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Yo ho ho, shiver me timbers, and other pirate-related sayings.

After Stitches wins a competition at The Bolt and Jugular, Ollie and the boys take a well-deserved break from the detective agency. As they embark on a cruise, it seems like fate might be finally smiling down on them.

But what begins as a relaxing holiday turns into a voyage of intrigue and mayhem on the high seas, as the intrepid explorers get in a mystery involving a strange relic, a dangerous enemy, and a rather bawdy crew of pirates with interesting beards.

Will Flug ever stop being seasick - and can Ollie & the gang unravel the mystery of the Bone Idol?

Leseprobe

The Quest for the Bone Idol

Skullenia Book 4

Tony Lewis

Copyright (C) 2017 Tony Lewis

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This one is for I B. Thank you for your amazing artwork, your unwavering support, your enduring patience with my mad ramblings, and just about everything else

B B

X

The Quest for the Bone Idol

Monday, December 8th, 1715 (The time not the year. It was just after tea)

The sun pounded down onto the beach like a solar sledgehammer, searing the fine, golden sand to the point that a few degrees more could easily have transformed it into glass.

Palm trees wilted in the intense heat and nary a sea creature ventured from the cool, watery confines of its liquid lair for fear of being broiled alive. Even the coconuts looked shrivelled and withdrawn, but that would teach people for wearing swimming trunks that wouldn't have covered two peas and a baby carrot (usually men over fifty who think they've still got the chiselled physique of Bruce Willis in Die Hard rather than the sagging build of Bruce Forsyth who seems to be finding it hard to die).

The wooden prow of a small sea fairing craft hit the sand, and a leather booted foot stepped onto the shore, closely followed by another one which kind of made sense.

“By Googlethumps whiskers it's hot. Do you know what? Once, just once it'd be nice to travel somewhere normal to find some treasure, and not some place so hot that it melts the wax out of my ears.” The man shook his head and sighed. “And it makes me feel all woozy.” He kicked a stray shell away. “And obviously I'll be rinsing sand out of my pants for a fortnight. Mustn't forget that. It's like wearing a cheese grater. Look, I've heard Jersey is quite nice at this time of year. Surely there must be something there worth digging up?”

His companion wiped his brow with a black, silk hanky (his own that is, not the moaners, for that would be silly, a tad invasive, and not a little bit weird). He smiled.

“Arr, my boy. Tis no use complainin'. Tis the pirate way so it is. Tis 'ow things are always done, aye.”

“Well, I know that, but does it have to be every time?”

“Arr, tis tradition, laddie, like parrots, dead men's chests, pieces of eight, rum, doubloons, wooden legs…”

“I get it, Cap'n.”

“…the Jolly Roger, runnin' people through, an' sayin' ha har from sunrise to sunset, aye.”

“Fair enough,” said the boy, resigned to the fact that it would be easier to get through a concrete sandwich than his complete plank of a leader. “So what's the booty this time, Cap'n?”

“Arr, me lad. This time we're bein' after the ultimate treasure. One so fabled that it's passed into legend so it 'as. One so powerful that we can all retire to a life of luxury, good livin' and twenty four hours a day debauchery, drinkin' and eatin'.”

“Not the Multi-hued Flump of Wisbeech, Cap'n?” said the lad, wondering how they'd fit it all in.

“Better 'n' that, lad.”

“Surely not the Flaxen Cockle?”

“Does be palin' by comparison so it does.”

“Don't tell me we've found the last resting place of Orangebeard and his hoard of naughty lithographs?”

“Arr, ye'll never guess so ye won't. Me lad, we're after findin' the mythical an' revered Bone Idol.”

“Oh I see…Nope. Never heard of it.”

The pirate Captain let loose with a scathing tirade of ha hars, the likes of which hadn't been heard since Oxbeard the Flouncy got woodworm in his left calf (a state of affairs he found incredibly annoying seeing as how he didn't have a wooden leg on that side).

The Captain rounded off his verbal broadside with a ha har of disbelief.

(If I may, I'd like to clarify something before we go any further. In pirate speak, the phrase, 'ha har,' has many different meanings, almost as many as the Scots have for lard in fact. Being so numerous they're comprehensively listed in their own section of the Young Pirates Handbook, and the prospective Yo Ho Hoer's are expected to learn them off Pat, who didn't mind standing at the front of a classroom and repeating things over and over. Though not exhaustively listed here by any means it includes;

“Ha har!” To indicate surprise.“Ha har?” To ask a question.“H-ha h-har.” When frightened.“Ha har £$%£*.” When swearing.“Ha…har.” When confused (Very common).“Ha harrrrrrrr.” Used to express tiredness.“Ha hic ha-belch-rrr, I really be lovin' ye.” Usually expressed when heavily intoxicated. (More common than a pirate's cabin stinking like a dead halibut and three week old seaweed).“Ha har…splash.” Plank walking, giving or receiving. And so on.

Not included in the list, however, is laughter which is in fact, ho ho, although this is not to be confused with the jolly guffaws of the fat chap in the red suit who visits once a year and eats all the food that you've left out. (I do wish you'd pack it in and get a job, Uncle Dave, you're scaring the children).

The pirate Captain finished his ha hars with a spectacular flourish of his hat, an action that sent several ostrich feathers into the surf.

“But every pirate 'as been 'earin' of the Bone Idol, ye purple trousered, bilge swiller,” he said. “Where's yer 'ead bein' at lad?”

“Obviously not every pirate,” said his companion. “Mind you I'm still in my probation. I probably need to get through my six month appraisal first.”

“Arr, 'appens as maybe I is reckonin' ye be right, ye spotty arsed, parrot snatcher. Right then, laddie. Be listenin' in.”

The pirate probationer did as he was told and listened in.

“The Bone Idol be a powerful an' ancient relic forged from the thigh bone of The Lazy God himself, arr.”

“The Lazy God is called Arr?”

“No lad. That was bein' a normal arr. The Lazy God is just bein' called The Lazy God, aye.”

“Oh right. You'd think being a god he'd have a proper name wouldn't you. We could call him Brian, that's a good name for a god. Or Claire if it's a lady god. That's my mum's name you know. That could work actually. Claire, The Lazy, Lady God.”

“Laddie.”

“Yes, Cap'n.”

“Ye be bein' about thirty seconds from 'avin' the sharp end o' me sword thrust up ye keel. Stop ramblin' like a mad ramblin' thing.” (Pirates aren't very good at metaphors. In fact they're as much use as something not very useful, including this metaphor).

“Sorry, Cap'n. So what does the Idol do exactly?”

“Does be wieldin' a powerful spell so it does. Whosoever 'as control of it 'as dominion over all the landy blabbflubbers an' crews that 'e chooses. Turns 'em all into slaves ye see.”

“What's a landy blabbflubber, Cap'n?”

“Arr, so ye spotted me delibrut mistake I see, ye grovellin' an' slightly shrivelled whelks winkle,” said the pirate. He would have berated himself for making such an error, but seeing as he didn't know what berate meant he didn't. “I be meanin' flabby landlubbers as well ye be knowin'.”

“Indeed. And back in the real world if we could for just a mo, the benefit of enslaving people would be?”

“Are ye sure ye is bein' cut out for piratin', ye skulkin' poop deck pansy? If we 'as it we can be a boardin' ships an' raidin' coastal towns without any bother at all, arr. All the booty that we can lay our 'ands on will be ours for the plunderin', aye. Now do ye see, lad?”

“Indeed I do,” said the newbie, suddenly thinking that an early retirement from a life on the ocean sounded like a fantastic idea. He'd decided a couple of weeks ago that maybe being a pirate wasn't really for him. He didn't like grog, rock hard sea biscuits made his teeth ache, going up to the crow's nest made him feel faint, and he had a tendency to get a tad sea sick if the ship went over a swell of anything above an inch and a half. Not to mention the fact that his eyepatch gave him a rash. He didn't see why he had to wear it either; he had two perfectly good eyes. No doubt it had something to do with 'the pirate way.' Unbeknownst to the Captain and his shipmates he'd secretly cut a hole in his so that he could see where he was going and swapped it over every other day. No one had seemed to notice, and at least it had cured his depth perception issues; a very important matter when you're all at sea, which he was most of the time. “So,” he continued. “Whereabouts is it, Cap'n?”

The Captain pulled a battered, brown tinged roll of parchment from an inside pocket of his voluminous coat. He unfurled it and cast a beady eye over it.

“Well, me lad, accordin' to me map 'ere we be goin' three 'undred and forty two paces due up, then a 'undred and seventy one paces clockwise, be climbin' Willie's Big Rock, swimmin' across the Lake of Snappiness, enterin' the Cave of Noisy Bitey Things That Go Eek and Poo On Yer 'At, then be descendin' The Stony Steps of Oomph until we finally be reachin' the Tree of Bernard's Socks, buried beneath which be the Bone Idol, arr.”

“Or,” said the lad, also studying the map closely, “we could follow the beach for six hundred yards to the giant X there. Might save a bit of time.”

The Captain looked at the boy and then back at his map.

“Ha…har,” said the Captain. (Confused remember. Do try to learn them). “Um. To be 'onest, ye 'ead scratchin', seagull droppin', I did be seein' that for meself but the harder way is the pirate way, arr.”

“But, Cap'n,” protested the lad.

“ 'Owever, in the interests of gettin' to the treasure quick smart and seein' as 'ow me wooden leg is rubbin' me somethin' chronic, we'll go that way. Arr.”

Seven bells and a ding a ling later (about an hour and a half in the real world), the Captain and his protégé stood underneath the fragrant branches and foliage of the Tree of Bernard's Socks.

“I wouldn't like to meet this Bernard,” said the lad, holding his nose. “That smells worse than Smellybeard at his smelliest. So what next, Cap'n?”

“Well, me lovely 'ammock weevil, accordin' to me map 'ere we've to dig down six feet until we be findin' The Chest of Jordan. Open that and the treasure'll be ours for the takin', aye. Righto, me laddie. Be gettin' yerself a diggin', arr.”

The young pirate looked at his colleague as if he'd just been asked to explain the more complicated theories of quantum physics.

“What with?” he enquired, scratching his eye-patch.

“With a spade o' course, ye useless bucket o' shark guts.”

“Oh right.”

“Arr.”

“Cap'n.”

“Aye, lad.”

“We didn't bring one.”

“Ha har £$%£*,” shouted the Captain. (That's a swearing one. No more prompts). “Of all the useless, seagoin', barnacle brained cretins I've ever 'ad the displeasure o' meetin', you're the cretiniest. 'Ere lad use this, aye.”

The Captain sat down on the sand and slipped off his leg. The wooden one in case you were wondering. This left him, much to the youngster's confusion, with two very fleshy legs.

“Tis just a wooden cover, laddie. Ye see I've never been bein' fortunate enough to lose a leg for real no matter 'ow many battles I is bein' in, or 'ow many whales I be annoyin', white or otherwise. I got this one made by an old Chinese fellah in the Orient. Tradition ye understand.”

“Oh, of course. And don't you worry, Cap'n. I'll keep it a secret. I won't slip up and put your foot in my mouth.”

Taking hold of the wooden stocking, the young pirate got to work digging, using the hollow end to scoop out the sand.

Two hours and half a ton of assorted beach detritus later, the pirate Captain and his shipmate were staring at a large hole at the bottom of which was a lid. The young man also had some seriously itchy underwear. (As previously stated, sandy pants is an affliction common to all beach goers of whatever description. There is nothing that it can't get into. You could go the beach in an all in one wet suit that was tighter than an elephant's thong and still end up with sand coating your nether regions that'll still be there after three days of brushing and countless showers. Food is just as bad. Open a fresh packet of hermetically sealed sarnies the moment you get to the seaside and you'll find yourself chewing on a mouthful of ground pebbles. And don't go thinking that's salt on your chips either. And deckchairs! Don't get me started on them… Oops. Went on a bit there. Back to the story).

“Look, me laddie. At the bottom of that there large 'ole there be a lid.”

“Indeed there is, Cap'n. Although seeing as I'm standing on it that particular detail didn't really need pointing out.”

“Arr.”

“I guess it's…”

“Right ye are. Open 'er up, laddie.”

The youngster gave it a stamp.

“Doesn't sound hollow,” he said. “There must be something inside. Well, here goes nothing.”

Straddling the lid he reached down, took a firm hold of Jordan's Chest and gave it a wiggle. It loosened straight away and he had no problem opening it up. The contents glinted back at him, searingly white in the glaring sun.

“I think it's here, Cap'n. I'm sure this is it look… Cap'n?”

“Your Captain has taken a short break from which he will never return,” said a voice that definitely wasn't his captain's. Not unless he'd just this moment discovered a talent for ventriloquism anyway. “Hand that to me, boy.”

The young pirate looked up from the hole. He lifted his eyepatch just to be sure that what he was seeing was what he was really seeing.

“Orangebeard!” he exclaimed.

“The very same.”

“But I thought you were…”

“Dead?”

“And buried in a…”

“Cave?”

“On a remote…”

“Island?”

“With a load of…”

“Naughty lithographs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you can see nothing could be further from the truth. Apart from the lithographs that is. They're hilarious. Now, hand me the statue.”

The young lad did as he was told.

“So what now?” he asked, as if he didn't know. “Run me through and leave me for the crabs because that's the 'traditional pirate way so it is, arr?' ”

Orangebeard smiled at him. His teeth were dazzlingly white.

“Oh good lord no, lad. This isn't the 1700's. We're not all Blackbeard's these days. Some of my men are even learning to read. No, it's a pleasant life it has to be said, so if you want to join my crew and spend all your time plundering, pillaging, robbing, looting, and generally having a topping wheeze then you're very welcome. I'll even give you a good reference if you ever move on.”

“Mmm. Thanks for the offer and everything but I think I'll give it a miss,” said the lad, chucking his eyepatch into the hole. “It's not really the life for me I'm afraid.”

“Fair enough. We'll drop you off at the next port. Right, let's be off then. This sun plays havoc with my skin and I've got a mole I'm not too happy about. First-mate.”

“Yes, Sir, Cap'n Sir.”

“Get him out of there.”

“Right you are, Sir.”

Bone Idol safely secured, they left the island and returned to Orangebeard's ship.

* * *

“Now,” said Ronnie, “let's try again shall we? What's your name?”

“Flug,” said Flug.

“Perfectly correct. Okay, how do you spell it?”

“Um, Flug.”

“Yes and no. But more no if I'm being honest. You need to start with the beginning letter okay.”

“Kay.”

“Right. Go.”

“Uh, A, B, C…”

“No, no. That's the beginning of the alphabet isn't it. We've covered that already haven't we? But well done for remembering.”

Ronnie took out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a cigarette that he could have used to flatten pastry. He lit it and took a long drag then expelled a column of smoke that, if he'd been outside, could have been seen from outer space.

“Start with the first letter of your name got it?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Off you go then.”

“F for frog.”

“Excellent.”

“L for elephant.”

“Not quite,” said Ronnie, taking in enough toxic, tar filled fumes to fill up King Kong's lungs and have enough left over to gas a small village in India and tarmac a reasonably sized drive. “Elephant begins with an E.”

“Do it?”

“It do. I mean it does.”

“Okay, um. L for Ladle.”

“Very good. Nice local reference there as well. Next.”

“Um, not sure,” said Flug, a bemused look on his face. It was the sort of expression a teenager would exhibit when told that LOL and CUL8R aren't real words and that life doesn't come to a complete standstill because your Samsung Galaxy 8 has run out of charge. Kids today. OMG!

“U,” said Ronnie.

“Me wot?” said Flug.

“No. U is next.”

“Me is next to wot, Ronnie?”

“You're not next to anything. The next letter is U.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Right. Again then.”

“F for frog, L for Ladle, U for me…”

“What?”

“You said next is me.”

“No I didn't. I said next is U.”

“Dat what I said.”

“No it isn't.”

“Tis, Ronnie. You say you is next so when it time for next letter me said me because you said me was next not you, didn't you?”

Ronnie stubbed out his cigarette rather more vigorously than usual, burning the tip of his index finger in the process.

“I don't know,” he said. “Right now I'm so confused that I can't even remember how to spell my own name.”

“F for frog…”

“Alright, mate. That's enough for one lifetime. We'll pick it up once I've recovered my sanity. I'm sure it's lying around here somewhere. Battered and bruised and barely alive.”

“Okay, Ronnie. Me gonna go see Mrs. Ladle. She help me. She good at spelling.”

Ronnie didn't even bother to explain. He gave Flug a few pence for some sweets and sent him on his way. Lord alone knew what that way would turn out to be but he'd get there at some point.

Ronnie rinsed his tea mug out and went to Ollie's office. It was about two in the morning so the half vampire should be up and about. He knocked on the door and let himself in.

“Hi, Ollie. How's…oh my goodness what on earth are you up to?”

Ollie was sat on the floor in front of his desk. His legs were folded knee poppingly tight so that he could look at the bottom of his feet if he so desired, and his arms were wrapped around his neck like a pair of boas (the snakes that is, not the feathered variety. He wasn't auditioning for Rupaul's Drag Race, even though he sometimes did apply foundation if the sun was really strong, and wear lacy accessories normally worn by a chap named Tiffany who was top of the bill in a club called Madam's Apple).

His face was a very peculiar shade indeed as well. It was reminiscent of the time that he'd eaten one of Mrs. Ladle's fruit surprises. (There was fruit in it, but the dessert itself had an eight legged, furry, and very mobile base that kept wandering off and catching flies. Still that's Mrs. Ladle for you, never afraid to try something new. It was mango).

“Yoga,” said Ollie, his voice sounding like it was coming from a very constricted set of vocal cords. “Dr. Zoltan said it would be good for my posture. Sleeping in a coffin all the time has been playing hell with my joints.”

“So how's it working out for you?”

“My back's killing me, I've got a stiff neck, and my hamstrings feel like they're are about to snap. Other than that, terrific. I think I'd be better off with one of those memory foam coffin liners I saw for sale on evilbay. Give us a hand will you, please.”

Ronnie helped his friend untangle himself and got him back into his chair.

“I'd give up on that if I were you,” Ronnie said. “A few more sessions and you'll as floppy in the joints as Stitches.”

“You're not wrong,” said Ollie, mopping his brow with a hanky (a lacy one of course). “And besides, I don't fancy being so flexible that I can put my head between my legs and see what I had for breakfast.”

He flicked on his computer to check for emails, which, as it turned out, were a load of old rubbish.

“Be nice to get a decent email for a change,” he said. “I don't know how many times I've been asked if I've been injured in an accident or informed that I've got a friend request on Faceofevilbook.”

“That's why I don't bother with computers,” said Ronnie, rolling himself a smoke. “They're the electronic equivalent of an annoying gossip. The way I see it, if anyone's got anything important to tell me, I'll wait till they do it the old fashioned way, in person.”

At that point Stitches burst into the office.

“Ah, speaking of annoying gossips,” said Ollie.

“Guys,” he said, “I've got something important to tell you.”

“It must be,” said Ollie. “I haven't seen you move that quick since you fell out of the first floor window.”

“I thought we weren't going to mention that again,” said the zombie, settling into the leather chair. His left elbow popped causing his thumb to spasm. Strangely it was the right one.

“Sorry. My mistake. Couldn't help it,” said Ollie, whilst Ronnie tried to stifle a guffaw.

About two weeks before, Stitches had been walking along the first floor landing after having just woken up from one of his 'naps' (twenty minutes in a semi conscious state during which he went floppy and stared at nothing whilst the rest of the world passed him by. Excuse me while I try to get High Court judges and ordering a burger from a flaccid faced cretin out of my head). Unfortunately he hadn't quite regained all of his faculties at that particular moment and was shuffling across said landing like a wilted mattress (here comes the judge again, only this time he's eating a burger and walking hand in hand with a flaccid faced cretin).

About halfway along the landing Stitches had stood on one of Flug's toys, a squishy, green, multi limbed monstrosity called Major Bummitch. Now, you wouldn't think that that was so bad because there wasn't a day that went by without one of them stepping on something of Flug's, including on more than one occasion, the big guy's feet which had a tendency to suddenly appear in various parts of the building like a pair of itinerant settees. This was because Flug didn't have much of a clue what any part of his body below the bolt was doing at any given time, so it was arbitrary at best asking him where he was now, or where he was likely to be next in an attempt to avoid tripping over him.

Above the bolt was a different matter of course. He didn't need to have a clue what was going on up there because there was more activity occurring in the Pope's bedroom.

The problem with Major Bummitch, (apart from his name of course. Still, it could've been worse. Flug had another toy called Tyrannosaurarse Hex), was that he wasn't as innocent as his fluffy and cuddly countenance suggested. When Stitches' weight landed on it, the toy had clung to his foot like a startled kitten and let out a screech that could still be heard rattling around the town square three hours later. Then, stumbling like a new born giraffe that'd been on the ale, the zombie, drawn towards the landing window like a magnetic moth to a metal flame, had crashed through the glass and down onto the street below.

As it turned out he wasn't too badly damaged. Dr. Zoltan, who by lucky hap had been enjoying a warm beverage at Mrs. Strudel's, had managed to extricate the zombies foot from his nether regions (not his. Stitches'), and put his head back on the right way round (again, not his), once he'd retrieved it from a passing canine who'd been making a concerted effort to swallow it whole because it thought the detached cranium was a tasty snack. Obviously he did all that after he'd finished laughing (the doctor that is. Not the dog). You can't be a man of medicine without having a sense of humour after all. I mean, have you seen those old fashioned headphones they all wear?

Stitches waved a hand dismissing the mirth of his colleagues.

“If you've quite finished with this childish giggling, I did come in with something to tell you,” he said. “Although to be honest I'm not sure I want to now.” He tried to pout but all that did was make his face look like the back end of a cat.

“Aww, go on, mate,” said Ollie, slowly recovering. “I'm sorry.” He paused for a few seconds. “It's just that you looked so funny with your hips behind your shoulders.”

Five minutes later after Ollie and Ronnie had calmed down once more, Stitches, seething in righteous indignation, imparted the news that he'd been trying to get out for the last ten minutes.

“I've won a competition,” he announced.

“What competition?” said Ollie. “I didn't know you'd entered a competition. What was the competition about?”

“Oh, nothing really. Pizzle, the new landlord of The Bolt and Jugular held a competition; well it was more of a raffle really. I just happened to be in there at the time so I bought a ticket. And guess what?”

“You won the competition,” said Ronnie, thinking that he needed to get over to the pub as soon as possible. The Bolt and Jugular wasn't his usual watering hole but a new landlord offered up ample opportunities for ingratiation, general snivelling, and free drinks galore.

“I did win the competition,” said Stitches.

“So, don't keep us in suspense. What was the first prize in the competition? Not that I'm holding my breath,” said Ollie.

The last time anyone had won anything in the town was when Nile Throat, a local troll, had become the recipient of the Skullenian undertaker, Caractacus Coffin's, free funeral giveaway. He'd instigated the scheme as a form of advertising as business could be a bit on the slow side in a place where everyone lived for rather longer than was usual, and dying didn't always mean the end of an existence (you can't keep a ghost in a casket no matter how much sealant you put in the gaps). It had worked though. When a very pleased Mr. Throat turned up with his voucher twenty minutes later, the redoubtable Mr. Coffin had murdered him, and then invited everyone that he could fit into his shop to attend and watch him perform his craft, (those he felt he could unobtrusively measure up without them getting suspicious anyway), have a cup of tea, and pre-arrange their own internment.

(Authors note. Please accept my humble apologies for using the word competition nine times during the last few paragraphs. I want to enter the competition to see, 'how many times the word competition can be mentioned in a piece of writing,' competition. It's a yearly competition that can lead onto entry into other, more illustrious competitions. That's fourteen competitions now. Fifteen. If I keep this up I could actually win the competition this year. Sixteen. Mind you the competition, seventeen, does draw in some good stuff that could prove to be very stiff competition. Eighteen. Well, if that's not enough then I don't deserve to win the competition. Nineteen. Phew).

“A cruise,” said Stitches, triumphantly.

“Really!” said Ollie, in more than mild surprise. “Well, I must admit to being more than mildly surprised.”

“I'll say,” said Ronnie. “I've only ever heard of one other raffle being held round here.” (And don't go banging on about continuity errors with regard to Nile Throat. That was a giveaway, which is totally different to a raffle, so there).

“Oh, I remember,” said Stitches. “Humpback Harry won that weekend getaway in Paris didn't he?”

“Whatever happened to him?” asked Ronnie, “because he never did come back did he.”

“Nope. I heard that he fell in love with some Parisian girl and wrote a travel guide about French cathedrals. 'Bells, Belles and Why Can't I Tuck My Shirt In At The Back,' I think it was called,” said Stitches.

“So, go on then,” said Ollie. “Tell us about this cruise, although to be honest I'm not expecting much more than a short, and very wet jaunt, down the River Phlegm in a wooden crate.”

“Well that's where you're wrong,” said Stitches, retrieving a crumpled brochure from an inside pocket of his crumpled jacket. (I was going to add that said jacket covered his crumpled skin but that many crumples in one sentence is one crumple too many. Don't want to get into that competition nonsense again. Woo hoo, that's twenty! Anyway he wasn't so much crumpled as bendy and slightly crinkly, in a packet of crisps left open for too long sort of way).

“Jolly Roger Pleasure Trips has the happy task of being your hosts on your forthcoming trip,” he read off the ticket.

“Jolly Roger,” said Ronnie. “Hardly original. Still, it does conjure up images of sailing the high seas in search of treasure and adventure.”

“I suppose so,” said Stitches, reading further. “Except it's less treasure and adventure and more souvenirs and sightseeing.”

“Sounds okay,” said Ollie, trying to be encouraging. “So where do you set sail from?”

“Desolation Harbour. We leave in three days and the trip itself lasts ten. Can't complain though, it's free after all.”

“Yeah well, I suppose…hang on a minute. What do you mean we?” said Ronnie.

“The trip is for me and four friends,” said Stitches, “so I took the liberty of signing us all up.”

Ollie snorted. “Well I can't vouch for the others, mate,” he said, “but there's more chance of Mrs. Ladle winning Miss Skullenia than there is of getting me on a boat.” (Actually she did win once, but that was because the only other entrants that year were a barely functioning ghost, a passing vampire hunter, and a two hundred year old female troll who was about as feminine as a two hundred year old male troll. As it turned out it'd been quite a close run thing in the end until the vampire hunter, slightly ahead on points after the evening wear section, had been recognised as a vampire hunter and lynched by a mob of vampires who were out hunting vampire hunters. Disqualified for not being properly attired for the next round {he didn't have a head}, Mrs. Ladle won by default after the ghost got lost in a patch of fog, and the troll ate his shoes. It also helped that she'd promised to cause the head judge more pain than he could possibly imagine, endure an eternity of physical torment at the clawed hands of some very unfriendly goblins and, to sweeten the deal, offered him one of her Turquoise Ginger Badger Flans. After declaring her the winner, said judge went home and prayed for the arrival of the impish hellions, stating that having pointy bits of wood stuck up his bottom from then until the end of time was more preferable than having to ingest one of Mrs. Ladle's kitchen based abominations).

“Oh, mate you've got to come,” pleaded Stitches, tapping the brochure against the crumpled arm of the chair (Oops, crumpled again). “It's five passengers minimum and the list of names is final, so if you guys don't tag along I can't go. Come on. Please.” He then offered such an ingratiating smile that Ollie thought he could hear a faint ripping sound.

“Yeah, come on, Ollie,” said Ronnie. “Where's your sense of adventure. It could be fun indulging in a little bit of sun, sea, sand and swimming.”

“More like seasickness, scurvy and scabby sailors,” Ollie responded.

An hour of intense negotiation followed, at the conclusion of which Stitches, resorting to the tried and tested method of 'when all else fails, go and tell tales,' threatened to inform Count Jocular that Ollie was to vampiring what Eugene the golem was to rhythmic gymnastics. And so, after a ten minute verbal assault from the half vampire that questioned everything from the zombie's parentage to what he kept in his trousers, or lack thereof, Ollie 'decided' to go along.

The other two members of the group were delighted with the news and were more than happy to go. Ethan took to the idea like a dog to water and immediately went off to pack, whilst Flug got so excited about going 'on da holeeday' that he jumped into the air leaving a considerable rift in the floorboards and an interestingly concave, decorative addition in the ceiling.

Once the dust had settled, both figuratively and literally, Ollie sat at his desk on his own. He reckoned it wouldn't actually be that bad and, if the worse came to the worst and it did turn out to be as much fun as having Freddy Kruger check your prostate, he could spend the trip in his cabin catching up on some reading. He was currently halfway through a very interesting biography of Vlad the Impaler that he'd found at the bottom of an old wardrobe. He'd figured it had once belonged to his Uncle. Not only was, '101 Things To Do With A Wooden Pole', his deceased relatives sort of read, the human skin bookmark was a dead give-away. It wasn't Ollie's usual literary material of course because reading anything vaguely scary gave him daymares. He usually preferred stories of a more sedate and less blood soaked nature, such as the detective works of Ladyboy Partridge, or a nice fantasy epic like 'The Hoard of the Things' by R.J.J. Notlike.

Still, if nothing else, it gave him a bit of an insight into the mad old buggers psyche. Not that you had to be Sherlock Holmes to arrive at the earth shattering conclusion that a full blood vampire might just be a bit of a loon. Highlighted sections such as, 'push slowly to avoid rupturing', and, 'dealing with internal splinters', were ample testament to him being a deranged and dangerous psychopath who made Idi Amin look like a boy scout, albeit one with a penchant for killing and eating people.

It wasn't too bad a read though. He was currently midway through a section on, of all things, recycling. It stated that, for the sake of the environment, once the 'impaled corpses of your nefarious and infidel foes, bravely vanquished on the glorious field of battle' had rotted away to nothing more than dripping innards and memories, the remaining stakes could be used as garden fencing or low cost building materials for the local peasants. Then, handily, if the plebs decided that they'd had enough of living under such an oppressive regime and wanted to air their grievances, you had a ready supply of poles all set to be thrust up their ungrateful backsides. So, you can say what you like about the people of the twelfth century and the degraded horrors that they perpetrated, but you can't deny the fact that they were well up to speed on the green issues. You try to get someone to reuse a blood soaked piece of wood that's caked intestines in this day and age and you wouldn't half get some funny looks. It's political correctness gone mad.

Ollie mulled over what he'd need to take with him on the trip, but eventually decided that it didn't really matter because, hopefully, there would be plenty to do. He would, however, definitely need his sun protection equipment. Not only would he have the glowing orange orb to contend with, but the glare from the water would make it twice as bad, and the last thing he needed was a burnt chin. It would rub on his collar something awful.

The items had been languishing at the back of a drawer since their little jaunt last year, so he decided that it might be best to get Crumble to give them the once over to make sure that they were still functioning properly. The last thing he needed was to be stuck in some sun drenched paradise, reach for his balaclava and find that it was about as useful at protecting him from the solar rays as an ice cream hat.

He'd gotten caught out like that a few weeks ago coming back to the office from Grendle's. His watch had stopped and he'd still been outside just as the sun poked its fiery, yellow head over the horizon. He'd had an instant hot flush, spectacularly thrown up his lunch, and grown a massive blister on his nose that had enough fluid in it to put out a small house fire (a small fire in a house that is, not a fire in a small house. That's just one of those phrases that, due to the vagaries of the English language, needs further explanation. Other examples of daft sentences are, 'I'll do it now in a minute', 'It's too cold to snow', and any imposed by the British judicial system).

Ten minutes and a quick rummage through his undergarments later, (the ones in his chest of drawers, not the ones he was wearing. It's not that kind of book), Ollie was approaching the door to Crumbles lab, sun protection gear in hand.

As he got closer he detected a faint humming and could see a bright, white light shining through the gap between the door and its frame. What it signified he had no idea, but whatever it was it was probably going to be somewhat unusual, potentially of a vaguely scientific nature, and definitely madder than all hell.

Previous experience told him that there was absolutely no point whatsoever in knocking on the door, so he just opened it up and went straight in.

What's this? he thought to himself as he stepped into the lab. No strange smells, no explosions (yet), very little in the way of activity, and Professor Crumble sitting quietly at his workbench reading. It was either that or he was dead. Ollie was still cautious though because even deceased there was every chance that the eminent nutter could be the cause of more havoc than a sale at the Baghdad branch of 'Ruck Sacks A Go Go'.

The reading lamp next to Crumble was extremely bright and he was humming quietly to himself which explained the bright light and the humming noise. Funny that.

Still highly suspicious that something otherworldly was liable to leap out and assault him at any given moment, Ollie bade the scientist hello and joined him at his bench, all the while keeping a watchful eye on where he put his feet and, more importantly, on what.