Part 1 - A Ride on a Wire

Below the gondola, the street lamps of Sandrock Road shone brightly and the occasional car passed by. Helga hung her head out the window, cigarette dangling from her lips, enjoying the view. The night was cool but she didn't feel it, warmed as she was from the lovely brandy she'd drunk and the exhilaration of the moment. Across from her, Hedwig giggled as she passed the bottle of Remy Martin VSOP back to the handsome figure of Angus Blackhurst sitting next to her. Helga still couldn't believe she was actually riding in the Mechanical Skyway. After looking up and watching the cars travel along the cables overhead for so many years, it now seemed amazing that this was the first time she'd taken the plunge. It's not that the Skyway was reserved for wealthy people or anything, it's just that both Helga and Hedwig always had better things to do with their money than take a ride to places they didn't want to go anyway.

Helga, Hedwig and Angus Blackhurst at The Treehouse restaurant.

“Marion! He’s here!”, Dorcus shouted raucously from the tradesmen’s entrance. Marion, who had been chatting to Gustav in the kitchen, took her leave and went down the narrow corridor to meet the rat butcher, Amos Burroughs. She had been daydreaming all day about her date with Amos and had chosen a fetching rose-coloured dress. She’d even applied some eye makeup, but her watery squint was already making the mascara run. Amos was stood at the door, smoking a cigarette. Out of his blood-stained apron he looked even more attractive, Marion thought. They greeted formally, Amos caught hold of her childlike hand and together they made for The Cloven Skull, just a few doors down.

Peter Clutchworthy was out of control! He knew that it was true, but couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. A few hours ago he had been respectful and sophisticated. Now he was hunched over a surgical table, his trousers around his ankles with the still quivering form of Molly Fippersnitch panting beneath him. And he didn't quite know how he'd got here. The melting snake-like things that had been obscuring his vision for an eternity, seemed to be clearing, but he could still see the figure of Heinrich Himmler doing the charleston out of the corner of his eye. Just how much Seraphim had he taken? Even though he couldn't remember, there was no doubt that he had, because he always hallucinated high ranking Nazi officers when high on the stuff.

Lady Bumbridge wearily left the meeting with Solange d’Espere, the Masturbation Clinic’s director. She then hailed a kago (a Japanese-style sedan chair) to take her tired body up the hill to Summerhill House on London Road. She always enjoyed seeing Solange and talking of ways of improving the clinic’s reputation and raising awareness of masturbatory issues. She didn’t however look forward to seeing her son at the squat he shared with Helga and Hedwig. She felt that her son, Howard, at 34, had wasted his life and acted like a teenager. She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

Griffin slapped his glass down on the table and fought the urge to belch loudly. He was not used to drinking beer, but he'd felt inclined to drink the pint that Gustav, the chef, had ordered for him before he arrived. And after that it would have been rude not to have the second pint. Those, in combination with the Jack Daniels he'd consumed at the Opera House earlier were making him feel a bit tipsy. He was glad that Gustav had suggested The Grotto as a meeting place though. Griffin had only been here once before and that had been after hours of prior drinking with Rex and Todd, so the memory wasn't exactly clear. At this point he was now more interested in watching the flights of the beautiful Glowmoths at the top of The Grand Cavern than he was in listening to Gustav whinge on about his domestic life with the Bumbridges.

Helga and Hedwig were at the bins outside Steam Burger on Grosvenor Road tucking into the discarded contents of a Steam Burger Extraordinaire Meal. They had to be careful, the baton-wielding police seemed to be everywhere that late afternoon and although prostitution was legal, freeganing was not. Helga was just extracting a piece of gristle from between her crowded teeth when she caught sight of Mr Quack waddling over.

Doctor Keith Kuntz threw down his printout of The Subterranean, knocked back his last few drops of coffee and rose from the chair. He walked to the window of his Mount Pleasant office and stared across the road at The Opera House, thinking that he could barely make out the figure of Professor Niels Rauch moving about in his lab. Doctor Kuntz felt a great deal of animosity, and yes, even hatred towards Rauch, who somehow seemed to get all the breaks in life.

Lord Bumbridge tapped at the green door of the “Shop with No Name” and heard the familiar clippety clop sound of his daughter’s high-heeled mules. She opened the door and ushered him into what appeared to be a reception room, with cedar wood panelling on the walls and a cream marble floor. There was nothing much else of note in the spartan reception apart from a desk, a potted fern and a picture of a loved up couple in a gondola. Lord Bumbridge noted with pride how lovely his daughter looked, with her mane of thick hair, the colour of Tunbridge Wells brick and moss green eyes, just like his.

Lord Bumbridge put down his copy of The Times and took a long sip of whisky. He was seated on a red leather sofa at the Sandrock Road branch of The Institutional Club. Actually it was inaccurate to call it a “branch”, as it was the main and original location of the club for the wealthy Tunbridge Wells elite. One of the younger members had dubbed it “The Mothership” a few years ago and unfortunately the name had stuck. Now all members were expected to use that vile name, as well as calling the town centre branch “The Annex”, which was only marginally less unpleasant.