The Last Resort Read online

  Blake grinned at Skully and Norm as he dealt out the first round of cards. “Sure makes a change playing without Viktor, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “Amen,” said Skully, and Norm nodded solemnly. Norm found the rules of poker difficult enough without having to factor in whether or not Viktor might be bluffing. It was absolutely impossible to tell whether or not Viktor had a good hand. His face remained impassive no matter what the deal. Of course Skully’s face did too, given that he had no skin to betray him, but it was easy to tell when Skully had a good hand, because he’d get the jitters, and his leg bones would start clinking together. Blake’s tell was his grin. If Blake was smiling, it meant he was bluffing, and actually had a lousy hand. As for Norm – well, the others could usually tell what fate had dealt him. He picked up his five cards now, and shook the water from their surface. The cards were made of waterproof plastic, of course, so that Blake could handle them. He looked them over. There was a card with two upside down black love-hearts on it. That meant…he thought hard…a two…of spades. There was a card with some red shapes on it…diamonds…eight of them…an eight of diamonds. And there were three cards with pictures of pretty ladies.

  “Look!” Norm said excitedly. “Three pretty ladies!”

  “I fold,” said Blake. It always took a few hands before Norm calmed down and remembered the object of the game, and the simple strategy of not announcing to the other players what was in your hand. Blake considered them warm-up rounds. The three friends and Viktor played about once a week, betting using a stack of coins from the castle coffers, with the winners choosing the loser’s punishment – usually something like doing the dishes, mustering the sheep, or milking the cow. Viktor never lost. It was unusual to be playing tonight without him. Blake had asked Ankh if he had wanted to join them instead, but the doctor had declined, saying once again that he was too busy. Blake wondered what he did, locked in his chamber for hours on end.

  #

  At that very moment, Ankh Ehl Bone was conducting experiments up in his room. Luckily for the ancient Egyptian physician, a mouse had perished a few months ago in the kitchen, and Ankh had eagerly snatched up the tiny corpse, along with a number of supplies, and carried it to his room. There, he had laid it out on a table, delicately cut it open, removed its organs and rubbed it all over with salt. He had repeated the salt rub for several days, then wrapped the small body in bandages, put it in a box, and left it inside an airless pyramid he had constructed out of stones. To date, this mouse was the seventh creature Ankh had mummified.

  Back when he was alive, Ankh had been the Pharaoh’s personal physician. It was an important role – so important, that when the Pharaoh had died, Ankh, along with the Pharaoh’s servants, had been executed and mummified in order to provide services to the Pharaoh in the afterlife. But there had been no afterlife for the Pharaoh and his servants, and Ankh’s afterlife was not at all what he had been expecting. Instead of being brought back to life in a heavenly paradise, he was awakened still on Earth, but three thousand years later. He didn’t know how or why he had been brought back while the other mummies trapped in the tomb alongside him remained lifeless husks. Curiosity led him to experiment with mummification, to see if he could replicate his resurrection.

  The first few years of his new life had been fun. Ankh had enjoyed hiding out in the hills of Cairo, scaring wave after wave of treasure hunters, moaning, groaning and placing fictitious curses on adventurers. From books and magazines dropped by fleeing tourists, Ankh had taught himself to read several languages, and he had gradually learned about the modern world. He wasn’t impressed. In his opinion, life in ancient Egypt was infinitely superior.

  Eventually, Ankh had tired of a life of secrecy and had tried to live in the human world, thinking he could make his way as a doctor. Ankh felt he had a lot to offer the medical profession. He was shocked that modern day health practitioners had abandoned tried and true remedies, such as ground-up scarab beetle. Unfortunately, every time he had gone near a hospital to try to apply for a job, the doctors and nurses had been horrified at the sight of his head-to-toe bandages, had injected him full of morphine and confined him to a bed in intensive care.

  Ankh knew that if he was to fit into human society, he would need to remove his mummy bandages, and this was where his troubles truly began. Every time he tried to peel back the bandages, great swathes of skin would peel off too, exposing greenish decayed flesh beneath. In frustration, Dr Ankh Ehl Bone had sought refuge away from society, and like so many other outcasts, he found that Viktor’s castle was the perfect hideaway. Or at least it had been perfect. Now this threatening letter had arrived, and Ankh had a bad feeling that his peaceful days spent in medical research might soon be at an end. He needed to find a cure for his condition – and fast.

  Gently, Ankh disassembled the pyramid and removed the small, stiff body of the rodent. With trembling fingers, he held it to his mouth and puffed air into the tiny nostrils. The bandaged tail twitched. The pointy nose wrinkled. There was a small, feeble squeak.

  #

  What little light there had been began to fade from the bedroom – or, as Eleanor was beginning to consider it, her prison. She had finished cataloguing the antiques some time ago, and was now lying on the bed, fuming. What was that strange hairy woman playing at, locking her into the room? How rude to treat a guest this way – albeit an unwelcome guest. As darkness settled into the room, Eleanor began to feel increasingly uneasy. A suit of armour propped up against one wall was looming menacingly. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw it move. Calm down, she told herself, looking away. Then she heard a creaking sound, and looked back sharply. Yes, even in the gloom she could see that the armour had definitely lowered its arm. Yes, well, things do get lower, she reasoned – its just gravity. There were no electric lights in the room, but on the mantelpiece were half a dozen candles. Lighting those would make the room cheerier, she decided. She got up from the bed and walked purposefully towards the mantle.

  Lou, who was residing invisibly inside the creaky suit of armour, winked at Boo, who lit the candles just as Eleanor was approaching them. The businesswoman froze, her hands halfway to the matchbook, staring at the flickering flames in astonishment. Involuntarily she took a step backwards, then shook her head, and forced herself to laugh out loud. “Trick candles,” she said, her voice ringing out into the silence of the room.

  The three sisters exchanged shrugs. Sue billowed out the blood red curtains, making the two silk ends reach out towards Eleanor, like beckoning arms. At the same time, Lou caused the armour to rattle and shake, and Boo snuffed out the candles, plunging the room into darkness. After a moment, Eleanor laughed again. “Smoke and mirrors, Uncle Viktor,” she said. “A nice try, but your special effects are not scary enough. I’m going to get my commission, you old coot, and you won’t stop me.” In the darkness, the ghostly sisters frowned at each other. What were special effects?

  #

  Callie hummed to herself as she skilfully applied her makeup. Rouge on her lips, bronze on her cheeks and kohl around her eyes. She examined herself critically for wrinkles in the large gold-framed mirror in her bedroom, and, finding none, smiled. Still beautiful after all these centuries. Her smile turned to a grimace as she reached up and pulled the towel off her hair, releasing a torrent of thin snakes, which bobbed about her chin, writhing and hissing. One of them stretched out and bit her milky white shoulder. She flicked the offender sharply on the head with a finger, reminding him who was boss. Yes, she knew they didn’t like to be cooped up inside headwear, but sometimes she just got so sick of their constant movement, not to mention their occasional fights, that she just had to shut them away. They were very restless tonight, as their weekly feed was overdue. Viktor had asked all the residents to remain hidden tonight, while he dealt with this interloper, but Callie figured if she snuck down one of the tower staircases and into the kitchen, she wouldn’t encounter the woman. Nevertheless, it would be best to take
anti-petrification precautions. The snakes could only turn a person to stone if Callie herself felt malice towards the person. Given that this woman was here to throw them all out of their home, Callie was already inclined to hate her. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a silk turban. There was a loud hiss like steam escaping a kettle, as the snakes recognized the turban and let out a collective sigh. “Oh hush!” Callie said, as she began twisting and tucking them up under the silk material.

  #

  Thrown from a wizened hand, the coarse mix of gravel, dirt and straw struck the stone floor of the old woman’s bedchamber, settling into a random pattern. Barbara Yaga cackled as she dragged her twisted body towards the chicken coop crammed to one side of the circular room. She had fashioned the cage herself, from sturdy sticks bound together with locks of her own long grey hair. As she neared the cage’s occupants, they clucked softly, hoping for a feed of poultry mash. Instead, Barbara unlatched the door, and gently scooped up Esmeralda, her fattest hen. She threw Esmeralda up into the air, and the bird fluttered and flapped, coming to an awkward landing on top of the mess Barbara had spread out. Esmeralda’s tiny brain began to reason that there might be worms under the dirt, and she started to scratch, while Barbara watched, clapping her hands and muttering. Finally, disappointed by the lack of tasty morsels, Esmeralda strutted away from the pile of dirt, head bobbing and comb waggling on her head. She made her way under Barbara’s bed, where, as chickens do, she went to the toilet. Barbara didn’t notice, but even if she had noticed, she wouldn’t have cared. Barbara was examining the stones, dirt and straw, reading the future as told by the chicken scratchings. There were three long parallel grooves in the dirt, and four pieces of straw had formed a star shape. Worst still, some of the gravel was arranged in a crescent pattern. Barbara Yaga was worried. These were not good signs. They meant change was coming, and Barbara did not like change. She sucked in a breath of musty air, full of the smell of chicken droppings, and the familiar scent calmed her. She glanced at the old clock on the mantle piece. It was time: nearly sunset. Viktor had asked Barbara to stay in her room tonight, but she was worried about the signs she had seen. Bending down, she called Esmeralda out from under the bed, stuffed the long-suffering chicken into an old carpet bag, and slipped out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  The sound of a key turning in the lock indicated to Eleanor the end of her imprisonment, and she sprang at once to her feet. Then she checked herself. She took a deep breath and sat down on the bed once more, picking up her notebook and pretending to examine it, despite the fact that her room remained in darkness. She didn’t want these people to know that they had managed to upset her. She didn’t want them to have the upper hand. The door opened, and the short hairy woman stood silhouetted against the light. “Oh, I am sorry,” said the woman. It appears I must have inadvertently locked you in!”

  Eleanor smiled vaguely. “Did you? Really, I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Why,” the woman went on, “it’s so dark in here! Let me light some candles for you.” She bustled to the dresser, struck a match and deftly illuminated the room. The candles stayed on. Eleanor could now see that the other woman had shaved off her beard, but tried not to react.

  “Oh,” said Eleanor. “I don’t mind the dark, really.”

  “Really,” Harriet echoed, face strained. “Well, dinner is served, and Viktor is anxious to greet you, so please follow me.”

  Eleanor trailed after Harriet as she led the way along a corridor and down the sweeping staircase. Harriet moved quickly and efficiently, and Eleanor, having changed into a tight sheath dress, had to trot to keep up. Harriet escorted her to a dining room. It had once been the great hall or ballroom, Eleanor was certain, as it was a vast, airy space which rose two storeys. The exterior wall contained three stained glass windows which had not been cleaned in some time, and the interior walls were hung with antique tapestries worth an absolute fortune.

  One end of a long table was set with two places. Harriet directed Eleanor to her seat, and excused herself again. Once she had departed, professional interest took over and Eleanor began to price the antique plates, silverware and candlesticks on the table, not to mention the table itself and the chairs and sideboards. It was all worth a lot of money, and the thought of a fat commission made her smile.

  The smile froze, fixed to her face, as a misshaped person shuffled into the dining hall, carrying a large, moving bag and muttering to itself. Eleanor tried not to stare, wondering what to make of this. Was it Uncle Viktor? Trevor had informed her that Viktor was exceptionally old, so it was a possibility. Soon, however, Eleanor realized that the person was female – a woman, to be charitable, although Eleanor thought that only the word ‘crone’ really fitted. “Hello,” Eleanor said brightly. The woman did not acknowledge Eleanor in anyway, not by speaking, nor by looking up. She pulled out a chair opposite Eleanor, plonked herself down and dragged the bag onto her lap. “Hello,” Eleanor said again, louder this time, in case the crone was deaf. The crone did not answer her, but the bag clucked. Eleanor shrugged.

  Harriet bustled back into the room, pushing a trolley on which were two domed silver platters, and stopped dead when she spotted the old woman. “Barbara, what are you doing here?” she said.

  The crone grinned at her, then suddenly locked gazes with Eleanor. Eleanor jumped. The old woman’s eyes were yellow. She obviously had a serious liver condition to be so jaundiced. Well, Eleanor thought, if she dies soon, it will be one less person to worry about evicting. Already the castle had more occupants than she had been expecting, and Harriet looked to be a tough nut to crack. Still, Eleanor knew she was tougher. Pasting on another fake smile, she extended her hand towards Barbara. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said.

  The old woman stared at Eleanor’s hand without shaking it, and Eleanor was about to draw it back, when, moving like lightning, the old woman pulled something out of her bag and smacked it down into Eleanor’s palm. It was warm and wet, and instinctively, Eleanor dropped it. It landed on the table, where it cracked open, spilling transparent goo and a bright yellow yolk. An egg. The old woman began to howl with glee, exposing a row of metal teeth. Eleanor looked at her hand. It was streaked with chicken poo.

  “Oh dear,” Harriet said, from the doorway. “Let me get you a cloth.” Eleanor sat in awkward silence while Barbara and the chicken in her bag clucked away. Eleanor wondered what her relationship to Viktor was. Could Barbara be his ancient and senile wife? Before she could ask, Harriet was back, handing Eleanor a cloth and then bustling Barbara out of the room.

  Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment, trying to release some of her pent up tension, and when she opened them again, the place at the head of the table was occupied. She yelped, and jumped once more. The spot had been empty and now a man was sitting there. How had he moved so quickly from the door to his seat? she wondered. And who was he?

  “Viktor,” he answered her, although she had not spoken aloud. His voice was as smooth as melted chocolate, and made her feel just as warm and cozy. She stared at him, open mouthed. His face was sculpted, like a statue, with a strong jaw-line, and a masculine chin. His lips were full, and red, almost as if he wore lipstick, and his eyes dark and unfathomably deep. His hair was thick and black and wavy. The only odd notes were his pencil-thin moustache, which seemed strangely old-fashioned, like something from a black and white movie, and his long, sharp upper canine teeth, the tips of which pushed into his bottom lip when his mouth was closed. He was dressed in an honest-to-goodness smoking jacket, of gold silk with black velvet lapels and cuffs. “Glup,” she said.

  Graciously, Viktor ignored this meaningless syllable, and spoke again. “It is lovely to meet you, my dear. Please enjoy our hospitality for the moment, and we will talk business later.”

  Eleanor was flabbergasted. Whoever this guy was, he couldn’t be the Viktor she was expecting. That guy was calculated to be well over a hundred. Was this man his grandson, or just someone takin
g advantage of a free room at the castle? In any case, it didn’t matter, Eleanor decided. Her client, Trevor Romanoff, legally owned this castle, and so it was her right to see everyone else off the property, handsome or otherwise. She found her voice. “Viktor, you say? Well, I appreciate your offer of hospitality, and I am hungry, but I think it would be most expedient if we talked over dinner, because…”

  “Wine?” Viktor asked, interrupting her train of thought. She stared, mesmerized, as he poured a measure of red wine into her glass, without waiting for her response. She saw that his own glass was already full. “To new friends,” he said.

  Feeling uneasy, Eleanor took a cautious sip. The wine was a merlot, warming and spicy. She relaxed.

  All at once, the huge stone fireplace in the dining hall crackled to life with bright orange flames. At the same time, Harriet returned to the room.

  “Ah,” said Viktor. “Will you do the honours, Harriet?”

  Harriet stood and moved to the trolley. As she passed, Eleanor could see stubble upon the woman’s chin – a five o’clock shadow that had not been there before. Harriet lifted an antique silver platter, placed it in front of Eleanor, and whisked away the lid. Underneath was a bowl containing some sort of stew. It smelt good. Viktor had a bowl of red liquid, which smelt tangy and salty. Tomato soup, Eleanor presumed.

  As Viktor began to eat, and Eleanor wondered what to do. Why were they given different meals? Could her food be poisoned? This was a weird group of people, and she had come to evict them after all. Maybe they were going to try to get rid of her. But then, she reasoned, lots of people knew she was here. The people of the village, the people from her firm, and of course Trevor Romanoff himself. Of course these people wouldn’t try to murder her! What an imagination, she chided herself. Shaking her head slightly, she dug into the meal. It was hot, and spicy, but also tasty.