The Last Resort Page 8

  “Yes, but he’s asking for double the rent we had budgeted,” Harriet mused. “Putting aside the money we need for food and groceries, we had expected our coin reserves to pay for about two years of rent. But now it looks like we can only pay rent for a year.”

  “Which is why phase two of your plan has to be a success,” Viktor said calmly. “As I am sure it will be.”

  “Actually, given the cost of everything we’ll need to buy to get the castle up to scratch, it will take our rent reserves down to six months at the most.”

  “Then,” said Viktor, ominously, “We’d better not fail.”

  Harriet shook herself in a particularly dog-like fashion, clapped her hands and rubbed them briskly together. “Well then, let’s get started. Operation Last Resort is going ahead.”

  And so, yet another meeting was called. The first stage in the plan was to draw up a list of staff and responsibilities. There was much discussion, but eventually everyone agreed with the roles they had been assigned. Harriet pinned the final list on a cork board:

  ViktorManager

  HarrietHead of Housekeeping, human resources manager

  Boo, Sue, Lou,Maids

  AnkhPhysician, first aid

  SkullyChef

  CallieBeautician

  BarbaraBabysitter

  NormGym instructor, health and fitness

  BlakeSwimming instructor

  Vacant positionReceptionist

  Vacant positionBartender

  Vacant positionCaretaker, maintenance

  Vacant positionBellhop

  Vacant position(s)Entertainment

  She looked over the list. “We’ll each need to take responsibility for our own areas, you understand? That includes everything from preparing for the guests, right down to disguising yourselves if need be.” She looked pointedly at Skully, Blake, Ankh and Norm. Then she looked back at the list. “That’s a lot of vacant positions. Any responses to our advertisement yet, Barbara?”

  Barbara pulled out three chicken eggs, and rolled them onto the table top. Their unorthodox geometry made them roll in a circle right back to her. Sighing she cracked each one open, pulling long streamers from the centre of the eggs. She passed them to Harriet.

  “Three responses, eh?” Harriet said, wiping yolk off the streamers with distaste. She hated Barbara’s unconventional methods of communicating with the rest of the supernatural community. What was wrong with a simple typed CV stapled in the corner?

  She read the first streamer and nodded, impressed. “This guy is a professor! He’s mechanically minded, and an inventor to boot! He’s on the run from an angry mob, and willing to work for room and board. I think we’ve found our maintenance man. Oh, wait a moment. He says he doesn’t work alone. He’ll be bringing his sidekick, a Mr. E. Gore, who apparently ‘lives only to serve’, according to the professor. And there’s a photo. Yikes! Well, maybe that hump would be good for toting bags upstairs? Maybe this Mr. Gore wouldn’t mind a job as a bellhop? Barbara, you want to send a reply, offering them the jobs, please?” Barbara nodded, and pulled a long chicken feather from her pocket. She scratched a note in the air with it, and then put it away. Harriet picked up the next streamer. “This is from someone with the unfortunate name of Swizelsticks. He says he’s a wizard. He’s good with magic tricks, conjuring, potions, that kind of thing. I guess we could get him in as a children’s entertainer?” At this, Barbara began to protest, howling that she was in charge of the children, and that a mere wizard’s powers were no match for hers. “Okay, okay,” Harriet relented. “We’ll tell him ‘no thanks,’ okay?”

  Barbara calmed down, but then Skully had an idea. “”If this guy is good with potions, he could probably make a mean cocktail, right?”

  “Brilliant!” Harriet said. “Bartender it is. Barbara, send a message, please.” Again, Barbara scribbled with the chicken feather in the air.

  “And the last scroll is from… a Sir Reginald Osis. Well! That would lend a bit of class to the place. What can he do? Oh… ride horses. Well, that’s not much good to us, is it?”

  “Hang on,” said Ankh. “What is he?”

  Harriet looked at the streamer again. “A ghost, class two. He can project a corporeal form, but not interact with the material world – the opposite of Boo, Sue and Lou, who are class ones – right ladies?” Their wispy forms nodded. Harriet continued. “And he comes with a horse, also class two.”

  “Well then,” said Ankh. “He won’t cost us anything to feed. I’ve read that horse riding is a popular hobby. We could offer treks around the island. Why not take him on?”

  Harriet considered. Horse trekking would be a draw-card, she realised. “Okay,” she agreed. “Barbara, do the honours. So providing everyone accepts the jobs, that just leaves us short a receptionist, and some entertainment.”

  “Actually,” said Skully, “I know where I can dig up a really jumping swing band. Just let me get a message to my buddy in New Orleans, and they’ll be here faster than you can say jambalaya, crawfish pie and file gumbo.”

  “Excellent,” said Harriet. “That leaves…”

  “Violetta,” said Viktor. “My cousin. I have already communicated with her via a letter, and she has agreed to return to the family home. I knew she would see sense one day. She’s clever that one, and would cope admirably with hospitality work.”

  “Well!” said Harriet. “That’s sorted then.” She smiled. Her plan looked like it just might work. She felt a tremendous weight lifting off her shoulders, but it thumped right down again when she remembered how much other work was left to do. Now it was time to begin planning the accommodation side of things. She pulled out the blueprints of the castle and the group began the long task of sorting out where their paying guests would sleep.

  Suddenly, Norm spoke up. “Mr. E. Gore?” he said slowly. “And the Professor?” He picked up the photo from the table where Harriet had dropped it, and looked at it intently.

  “What’s the matter, Norm?” Callie asked him. Norm looked at Callie, then at Harriet. Harriet’s sleeves were rolled up, and there was a pencil tucked behind one ear. She was working hard to give them all a future at the castle.

  “Uh… nothing,” said Norm. “Nothing’s the matter.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The heavyset woman wore white cotton gloves over her hands, a long, loose gown, and a broad sunhat swathed in scarves. Not an inch of her skin was visible. Behind the veils it was possible to make out that she wore large sunglasses. She had in her possession more than ten pieces of unwieldy baggage, which had made the journey across the Atlantic Ocean stowed in the luggage hold of the cruise liner. Now it was time to disembark, and the lady sweet-talked various porters into carrying her possessions to the small passenger ferry which was tied up about a hundred metres along the marina. They scrambled to do her bidding. She assured everyone in an official uniform that as she was not staying in Greece, there would be no need for her to pass through customs and immigration. She had such a honey-edged voice that the officials readily agreed that this would not be a problem, not at all.

  Once she was safely alone aboard the ferry, she checked that all the curtains were closed, then sang out a “yoo-hoo,” and at once, a skeleton came out of the closet. “Skully!” she cried, pulling him to her chest in an almost-bone-crushing hug.

  “Hella!” Skully said, voice muffled by her folds of flesh. There was a slapping sound out on the deck, the door opened, and Blake slipped into the cabin.

  He was spluttering, coughing up unpleasant detritus. “Not the cleanest harbour they’ve got here,” he said. “Oh, hello!”

  “Blake Lagoon, this is my very good friend and chanteuse, Hella. Hella Fitzgerald.” The two shook hands.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Blake said. “But where’s the band?”

  Hella took off her hat and unwound her scarf, revealing rubbery green skin which hung in droopy flaps. “They’ve come second class,” she said, nodding towar
ds the suitcases and steamer trunks. “Let’s get them out so you can meet them.” Blake turned towards the first case, but Hella stopped him. “That’s the drum-kit,” she said. “And this here’s a guitar, this is a saxophone. We were told you had a piano, so luckily we didn’t have to bring the Duke’s. He’s in here.”

  She unzipped a suitcase, and a dapper skeleton in evening tails bounded out. He had no skin, but somehow a toupee was attached to his head, and on his face there was a pencil-thin moustache, like Viktor’s. Hella introduced him as Duke Skellington. “Charmed,” he said.

  The next case contained a mostly skeletal man, who had retained a thin layer of yellowish skin. Unfortunately, pus oozed from various lesions on his body. Blake knew he was no picture postcard himself, but this guy made Blake look downright handsome. “Fester Young,” he mumbled, almost apologetically. “I play the sax.”

  Out of the final case, what appeared to be a mostly intact man emerged. His face had pale skin criss-crossed with scars, one bulgy eye, and an eye-patch presumably hiding an empty socket. He was dressed in a headscarf and tattered rags. Once he had climbed completely out, Blake realised that he was not in fact intact – far from it. One arm was replaced with a hook, and one leg with a peg. “Brineheart’s the name,” the man said. “Djangled Brineheart. I’m an old seadog, but I plays a bit of strings on the side.”

  The steamer trunk was beginning to thump alarmingly, as the final band member indicated his desire to join the others. Hella popped the latches, and the drummer climbed out. He was also a skeleton, but he had attached an extra set of limbs to his shoulders, so that he had four arms. As Blake stared, the man explained that it helped him to play his wild drum solos. He said his name was Chuck Webb, but that Blake could call him Spider, since everyone else did.

  The band then began to reminisce with Skully as they stretched what muscles they had left, and un-kinked their joints. They had been a long time in the cargo hold en route from New Orleans. Finally, Skully suggested that they push off. It would take a few hours yet to get from Greece to Mortavia. He took the helm, but Brineheart almost immediately pushed him out of the way. “I’ll handle this, landlubber,” he teased. As the ferry chugged from the Ionian Sea into the Adriatic, Fester took out his saxophone and began to play. Hella started to sing. Blake felt the itch of the ocean calling to him, so told the others he would swim back. As he dived into the water, he recognised the tune. “You’ve got me in between… the devil and the deep blue sea…”

  #

  The elderly VW van trundled over the cobblestones, coughing and spluttering great plumes of smoke from its exhaust. The driver patted the dashboard superstitiously. “Nearly there, old girl,” he said. It was hard to believe the van had survived the journey from England, across the channel and then across most of Europe and into Mortavia. Still, if Swizelsticks hadn’t been a wizard, it would most likely have died at Dover. He had conjured up a number of spare hoses, bands, cogs and coils. Unfortunately, conjured materials did not have a long life span. As the van rolled to a stop at the waterfront, it coughed once more, then died, the engine spewing out a spectacular shower of sparks, along with the hoses, bands, cogs and coils. Villagers raced to their windows to peer suspiciously out at the source of the commotion. Swizelsticks began to run his fingers through his long beard, as he did in times of stress, and then he realised that his beard was mostly gone. He had had it trimmed into a neat goatee. He also had his long hair tied back into a ponytail, and in his right earlobe, there winked a sparkling new diamond earring. His wizard’s robes were safely stored in a trunk in his mother’s attic, although he had brought his hat, just in case. Instead of the robes, he wore tight blue jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a leather vest. He made eye contact with himself in the rear-vision mirror. “Looking groovy,” he told his reflection, unconvincingly. Since receiving the extraordinary offer to become a bartender, Swizelsticks had felt the need for a makeover. He’d also rented a Hollywood movie about bartenders and had been practising his bottle juggling skills. He was going to wow this Harriet Fullmoon. What a lovely name that was, he mused. He hoped she was a fox.

  Swizelsticks looked at his new multi-function digital watch. He was about nine hours early for his connecting ride to the island. He could see the castle off in the distance however. What would this new life hold for him? It had to be better than doing children’s parties. He climbed into the back of the van, made room between the cases of alcohol and mixers he’d been asked to bring, and stretched out for a nap.

  #

  The sound of five Vespa motors purring over the cobblestones seven hours later brought many of the same villagers racing back to their windows. A tall figure dressed entirely in black leather was riding the lead scooter. The driver was flanked by two more on each side, riding in V-formation. The stylish, streamlined effect that this might have created was ruined by the excess baggage that each scooter carried. Three were loaded with small suitcases, one had a collection of hat boxes, and the scooter in front had a carry-cage strapped just behind the rider. The old lady in the fish shop caught a glimpse of evil green eyes staring out of the blackness of the cage, and she backed away, crossing herself.

  The scooters stopped alongside the pier, and as the riders in back unloaded the luggage, the figure in front removed her helmet, and shook out a perfect cascade of glossy black hair, which fell in two sheets either side of her porcelain face. She licked her lips and turned around, surveying the shops on the other side of the road. There was an audible collective intake of breath as the menfolk of the village watched her, and then an audible reproving sound, like the clucking of chickens, as their womenfolk called them away from the windows.

  Violetta collected her bags and lined them up neatly by the dock. Each rider removed his helmet and lined up to say his farewell. It was the turn of the womenfolk now to press their noses against the windowpanes and stare. “Ciao, Emilio,” Violetta said, kissing the first man. “Salve, Giovanni,” she said, kissing the second. “Arrivederci, Antonio,” she told the third, with another kiss. “And Allessandro,” she said, stopping at the last man. “I think I’ll miss you most of all. Addio amore mio.” Then a final smooch, before she turned her back on them dismissively. They got the message, climbed back on their scooters, and left the village. There was a collective sigh from the womenfolk, and a collective chuckling from the men. Violetta opened the carry cage and a sleek black shadow sprang out. It smelt fresh fish in the air, and yowled. Violetta clicked her fingers and the sinewy cat leapt to her shoulders and curled around the nape of her neck like a fur stole. Violetta pulled her black leather trenchcoat tighter around her body and stood, still as a statue, staring out to sea where the castle stood on its island, waiting for her to come home.

  Chapter Twelve

  Violetta was still standing and staring when the boat arrived. It was a small passenger ferry, able to carry twenty to thirty people. Although not new, it had been constructed in the last thirty or so years, and so it surprised Violetta. She would never have imagined Viktor would have approved of anything modern. Even a paddlesteamer would have been too cutting-edge for her cousin. Well, well, she thought. Viktor is having to make a few sacrifices. She whistled softly, and Ebony came to her out of the shadows where she had no doubt been tormenting the village rodents. The cat sat at the feet of her mistress, tail curled neatly around her paws, and began daintily to clean her face. As the boat chugged closer still, Violetta sensed movement from the garishly-painted broken-down hippy van which was also parked on the wharf. She already knew who was inside it – or at least she knew as much as she needed to know. She could smell his presence in the air. He was as broken-down as his van. His equivalent human age was somewhere near fifty, or sixty, but he himself wasn’t quite human. He was wearing aftershave, but this was not a regular habit, so she assumed he was intending to impress someone. Well, he didn’t impress her. As the door to the van opened and the man clambered out, Violetta and Ebony both lifted their noses and
scented the air. Then mistress and cat looked at each other, lips curled in disapprobation.

  Now the boat had lined up alongside the pier. A pale blue aquatic man, dressed only in the briefest Speedos, pulled himself out of the water and tied the boat to the railing. He waved at Violetta, and at the approaching man from the van, then slipped back into the water. Violetta frowned. Some welcoming committee this was. Still, she hadn’t expected anything more from Viktor.

  “Hi,” said a buoyant voice behind her. “Are you heading for the castle too?”

  “You can carry my bags to the boat,” Violetta said, without turning around.

  “Oh, um… righto,” said Swizelsticks. He gathered up as many of her bags as he could, casting a quick balancing spell to make sure they didn’t topple. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realise the castle was open to guests already. My name’s Swizelsticks, and I’ll be your bartender during your stay,” he said, with a touch of pride.

  Now Violetta did turn to face him, and he saw no twinkle in her dark eyes. “I am not a guest, Mr. Swizelsticks.”

  “No?” the wizard asked uncertainly.

  “No,” Violetta said, marching towards the pier. “I am the owner of the castle.”

  A woman appeared at the hatchway, extended a short gangplank and tottered across it. She strode purposefully towards Violetta and Swizelsticks, smiling fiercely, but before she was halfway to them, Ebony puffed up like a bottlebrush, and began to yowl and hiss and spit. The woman froze. Violetta saw her pupils dilate and then her body sort of… heaved, the edges blurring. Violetta immediately scooped up the cat, who struggled wildly, and finally managed to stuff the violent ball of fluff back in her carry cage. When she turned to face the woman again, she was back to normal, but was not advancing any further. Suddenly, Violetta was aware that Swizelsticks was muttering and waving his hands over the carry cage. “Hey!” she yelled, pushing him aside. Ebony looked serenely through the bars at Violetta and purred.

  Swizelsticks spread his hands and shrugged. “Just a calming spell,” he said. Violetta snorted. “Oh, hey,” he went on. “She’s scratched you to pieces.” Violetta looked at her hands, where blood was welling up from several long grooves. Her canine teeth lengthened at the sight and smell of the blood, and slowly, she licked each wound clean, the scratches healing themselves completely. Swizelsticks watched in fascination and shuddered. “Oh,” he said. “You’re a…”