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    Where The Bee Sucks: A Novel of Magic and Shakespeare
    Where The Bee Sucks: A Novel of Magic and Shakespeare
    Where The Bee Sucks: A Novel of Magic and Shakespeare
    Ebook268 pages3 hours

    Where The Bee Sucks: A Novel of Magic and Shakespeare

    By William Stafford

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    About this ebook

    Controversial television historian Hank Brownlow comes to England to research his latest outlandish theory about Shakespeare but finds he is not alone in his quest. Someone else is following the same trail and people are ending up dead. Meaniwhile, in Stratford upon Avon, disgruntled tour guide Harry is visited by a stranger who claims to be a character from 'The Tempest'. Author of Leporello On The Lam and the Brough & Miller series, William Stafford has created a satirical contemporary fantasy with a lively sense of humour.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAUK Authors
    Release dateJan 7, 2014
    ISBN9781783335060
    Where The Bee Sucks: A Novel of Magic and Shakespeare

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      Book preview

      Where The Bee Sucks - William Stafford

      damages.

      Dedication

      For Stanley and Paul

      One

      Harry looked helplessly at the expectant American and Japanese faces peering at him from beneath their umbrellas. He had no such shelter; it was deemed out of keeping with his costume. One of these days, Harry promised himself, I’m going to research the history of the brolly and find out once and for all if they were widely available in Elizabethan England. For the time being, he had to make do with a tall felt hat, the brim of which was slightly less in diameter than the stiff, starched ruff around his neck. The upper garment was thus dripping a steady succession of raindrops onto the lower.

      Well... Harry clapped his hands together. I mean, ‘Aye, verily, the rain it raineth every day.

      He made an elegant gesture, smoothing his moustache with forefinger and thumb but really he was checking the glue was holding fast.

      The show - that is to say, the tour - must go on. If you are sure you have taken enough snaps of the church, we shall make our way back past the theatre and towards the barges at the water’s edge where we shall stop for a break of freshly made baguettes and carbonated beverages.

      He doffed his hat and bowed low with a flourish. Rain trickled down his back and squelching between his toes informed him his buckled shoes were leaking.

      Great.

      Verily.

      The tourists followed him willingly and blindly, a ragtag line of ducklings in bright plastic ponchos. They were not saying much but Harry had the distinct impression they were not best pleased with the tour so far. They would probably complain behind his back when they returned to base. Another bollocking would be coming his way. Another final chance - Harry had long since lost count of how many final chances he had been given; he was invariably able to charm Mary out of giving him the boot but there too, he had the feeling his ability to enchant was wearing thin.

      New clouds rolled overhead, darker and more menacing. The rain set on in earnest. Harry decided against cutting through the theatre building, passing from the Swan and through the gift shop. It pained him to be near the place but it was a crucial part of the tour. The party had already been up the tower although their view of the town was restricted due to the inclement weather and the pissing rain.

      He muttered something over his shoulder about not wanting to traipse their wet feet all through the shop, and ignored a response from one of the group about wishing to see again the novelty pencil sharpeners that would do as a gift for someone or other back home in Texas. With the theatre behind him, he could relax a little. The very sight of the place reminded him of his failure as an actor. Others from his drama school had graced those boards many times, as various Violas, a couple of Cordelias, the odd Banquo and even the Great Dane himself - Not Scooby Doo, the other one.

      And now here was Harry, marching group after group of tourists around Stratford-upon-Avon, haunting the town like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and dressed up like the nation’s greatest playwright. It was like a joke. A sick, cosmic joke.

      Shakespeare-san, one of the Japanese ladies tugged at Harry’s elbow. Baguette barge closed. Where we eat now, Shakespeare-san?

      It was true; the barge had closed early due to the weather. Harry turned to the group and grunted. He indicated the internationally recognised sign of the golden arches across the road. The suggestion was not met with enthusiasm. Somehow the famous clown’s fare seemed less authentic than a stick of French bread buttered and filled on a canal boat.

      Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled directly overhead. Almost instantly, a second fork struck the surface of the river. The tourists gasped. Several of them applauded. They pointed at the swelling waters of the Avon. At the spot where the lightning had struck, the pale figure of a man appeared.

      He drowning, Shakespeare-san!

      It’s just part of the show, ain’t it, son? said one of the Texans. A ruse to get us to buy tickets to the play. Mighty impressive, though.

      Harry couldn’t think. His eyes were on the figure in the river. The man was neither swimming nor drowning. Or waving, for that matter. He was just....there.

      Against all regulations, Harry reached into his doublet and took out his mobile phone. He summoned an ambulance and the police as well for good measure. The tourists did not witness this gross misconduct; they were all fixated on the man in the water. He was closer now although he had apparently made no effort to approach. His stance was at odds with the current; water was flowing past and, Harry would swear, through him. Harry stood, beguiled with his tourists, watching the man, and wasn’t even aware of the sirens’ blare heralding the arrival of the emergency services.

      The man was visible from the waist upwards. He was bare-chested and his skin was pearlescent, with a glow that was augmented by each successive flash of lightning. He seemed to be gliding towards the river’s edge, heading directly towards Harry and the group rather than the landing places for the rowboats. Harry had no idea how deep the water was at that point but it did not seem as though the glowing man was walking. He was somehow gliding towards them.

      But then, just feet away from the bank, the man’s glow faded and he faltered. He dropped in the water to chest height and then shoulders. The water closed over his head, swallowing him. Harry darted forward but a police officer pulled him back. Another was trying to herd the tourists and other bystanders away with arms outstretched like a gooseherd. A third officer and a couple of paramedics were preparing to dive into the water; they pulled off boots and jackets to make themselves lighter.

      The sky cracked and the scene was flooded with an instant of brilliant white. The man surged from the surface with his mouth wide in a gasp. His large eyes rolled until they fixed on Harry. A smile played on his thin lips as lightning flashed again, renewing his glow and accented his sharp cheekbones and high forehead.

      He recognises me! The wild thought appeared in Harry’s mind as vivid as the dramatic weather.

      Professional hands seized the man and pulled him from the river. Before he was wrapped in an institutional blanket it was clear to everyone present, and especially to the giggling Japanese ladies, that he was completely naked.

      The man resisted all efforts to care for him, shrugging off police and paramedics alike. He strode towards Harry, his feet making no impression on the puddles he traversed. His wide, blue eyes sought Harry’s. An uncertain smile played on his elfin features.

      He opened his mouth and forced out four words before he collapsed in a heap of bare limbs and rough blanket.

      All hail, great master!

      All heads turned to Harry.

      What the fuck... Harry muttered, out of character.

      Aye, verily, laughed a Texan. What the fuck, indeed.

      ***

      Darren Daley unlocked the disused chapel. The flapping of pigeons echoed around the empty hall. That roof will need patching up, he thought, if the Group is going to use this place on a regular basis.

      As instructed, he put out a circle of rickety wooden chairs in the centre and lit candles around the perimeter of the room. Not the best way to light a meeting, he observed. They’re all going to be backlit; they won’t be able to see each other’s faces. What little he knew of the Group informed him they weren’t troubled by shade and shadow - in fact, they sought out darkness and obfuscation.

      The list of instructions he had been given were a case in point. He took out the sheet of paper - or rather the four pieces of paper that he had Sellotaped together to make a single legible message. The pieces had arrived on different days by different means. The first by conventional post, the second was under the windscreen wiper of his Metro. The third had come through a (thankfully) open window, wrapped around half a house brick and he had almost choked on the fourth and final piece of the puzzling communication when it had appeared in his morning doughnut like the prophecy in a fortune cookie.

      His colleagues in the lettings office had been amused. Secret admirer, they joked, even though it was months after and before Valentine’s Day.

      And then the telephone calls had started, beginning with moments of silence like a cold call from a telemarketer on the Asian subcontinent; and then, after Darren’s third Hello? a low, barely audible voice asking him to confirm the message was received.

      The caller would never identify himself. He spoke only of the Group and the Group’s instructions.

      Darren was about to tell the weirdo to go and fuck himself with a spanner when an envelope, fat with five pound notes, appeared on the passenger seat. He had been on the phone at the time and didn’t see which of the many pedestrians milling along Bridge Street had tossed it in. The envelope was unaddressed and there was no note inside that wasn’t a banknote.

      But it could only be from the Group. Who else would operate in such a bizarre and clandestine way? This was Stratford upon Avon, damn it, not one of those films about the Mafia.

      Darren decided he wouldn’t put the cash payment through the books, guessing that was what the Group would prefer. It suited him down to the ground. He would also take care to conceal his dealings with the Group from his co-workers, and therefore he could keep this lucrative, if peculiar, business all to himself.

      He checked his watch. He had completed his appointed tasks ahead of time. He left the keys in an empty crisp packet by the rear entrance of the building. He was tempted to sit in the car and stake the place out. He was burning with curiosity to see exactly who this Group was but the last line of the letter couldn’t be clearer. He was to make himself scarce for two hours before returning to lock up the chapel and await further instructions.

      On the windscreen was another envelope, pinned by a wiper blade. More fivers!

      Darren pocketed it, glancing around. Whistling - as if that would make him seem less not more conspicuous - he got in his car and drove away in the pouring rain.

      ***

      Well, he seems to know you, the policewoman said. He’s got no i.d. Well, he hasn’t got any pockets. Won’t say a word, but he keeps looking at you like you’re an old friend.

      It was true; the pale stranger was sitting in the back of an ambulance with the blanket draped over his shoulders. He had refused every kind of medical attention and had answered no questions. His eyes, the largest and bluest Harry had ever seen, were fixed on Harry.

      The tourists were long gone. Mary, concerned they had not returned to base, had come to find them, armed with vouchers for free coffees back at the museum. She had sent Harry a meaningful look when she saw he was in conversation with the police but had said nothing to him. She was, he thought, probably writing his letter of dismissal right that very minute.

      I don’t know him, Harry repeated. Please write that down; I do not know him.

      If this is some kind of stunt, the WPC adopted a warning tone.

      It isn’t! Well, if it is, it’s nothing to do with me or the museum. We were walking along to get baguettes and there was a flash of thunder and -

      Thunder doesn’t flash, the WPC smirked.

      Lightning, then. And suddenly he was there. He just appeared in the water. It was Mrs Nagata that saw him first.

      "So, what do you expect me to believe? Your little friend just fell out of the sky? You must think I came down in the last shower."

      No! Perhaps he was swimming and he got hit by the lightning. That’s why he’s all - you know...

      No, we don’t know, Mr Troman; that’s what we’re trying to ascertain. You say your friend was swimming in the river. What, in a storm? And naked as the day that he was born?

      He is not my friend!

      We’re going around in circles, Mr Troman. Maybe it’s your outfit; making you think you can get away with a little dramatic licence.

      Harry put the palm of his hand to his face. He could feel his moustache was half-hanging off. Mary was always telling him to grow one of his own in order to avoid such an eventuality. It was too late now. He tugged off the other half, grimacing at the pain. Half of the glue had decided to be waterproof.

      Over the policewoman’s shoulder, the wide blue eyes widened even more. A look of amazement illuminated the pale man’s face. He clapped his long hands in rapid succession, causing his blanket to drop from his shoulders.

      Bravo, Master! he cried out with joy.

      No - Harry began, and then stopped; he didn’t know where to begin. I’m not your master.

      The WPC gave a slow nod of recognition. A penny had dropped in slow motion. I see, she said. Like that, is it?

      Like what? Harry comprehended and was appalled. No, it most certainly is not ‘like that’. Whatever ‘like that’ may mean to you.

      Are you going to smite her, Master?

      Oho! Threats against a police officer now, is it?

      Shall I pinch her, Master? Fit her with an ague?

      Stop calling me, Master, you daft prat. And put that blanket back on.

      The thin man did as he was told. He stepped down from the ambulance and came to Harry’s side. The policewoman’s eyes flitted from one man to the next. She seemed to come to a decision and put her notebook away.

      Medics say there’s not a mark on you. By which they mean you’re not hurt in any way nor are there distinguishing marks that might identify you. Tell you what: I cannot be arsed. It’s cold, it’s wet, and I’ve got a korma waiting for me in the microwave. Go on; piss off, the pair of you. I won’t be so unforgiving next time.

      She gave them one last withering look and went to join her colleagues in the squad car. Seconds later, they pulled away with a screech of the tyres and a blast from the siren.

      A paramedic closed the ambulance door. I’d get indoors, both of you, she advised. Storm looks like it’s getting worse.

      The ambulance drove away.

      You heard what the copper said, Harry scowled at the thin man. Go on; piss off.

      The thin man grinned. When I have put a girdle around the Earth to come and find you, Master?

      I wish you’d put a girdle or something around your waist, said Harry, And stop calling me Master.

      He walked away, heading up Sheep Street towards the museum. At least his civvies were waiting for him in his locker. They would be nice and dry.

      But he had the uneasy feeling the weird stranger was watching him. He turned to utter a stronger flow of invective but the stranger was no longer there. There was no sign of him or anyone.

      Well, I can’t stand here in the rain looking for weirdoes, Harry told himself. He turned to resume his path to the museum - probably already his former place of employment - and almost collided with the stranger, who was now directly in front of him.

      You should get out of the rain, Master, the narrow lips parted in a grin revealing even, sparkling teeth.

      Harry tried to sidestep but even though the weirdo didn’t seem to move, he always seemed to be directly in Harry’s way.

      Allow me, Master. The stranger waved his hand elegantly at the air above Harry’s hat. The grin broadened. Harry blinked. He held up his palm. The rain had stopped. Except it hadn’t. All around him it continued to fall and bounce in the street and on the cars parked in the gutters. Harry tilted his head back. The sky above him was clear, the bright blue of a summer’s day. Harry gaped. He stepped from under this anomaly - or tried to. The patch of blue sky came with him no matter how he dodged and swerved.

      You are funny, Master! the weirdo clapped. One would think you wanted to get wet.

      Harry was about to swear at the weirdo prancing along behind him but he stopped. He saw that the weirdo was dry too. He was glowing again and, Harry was fascinated to see, the rain was visible through him.

      What - what are you? Harry croaked.

      Oh, Master! Do not say you have forgotten me! Do not say you have forgotten your poor spirit! You have forgotten your poor Ariel.

      Oh Christ, Harry grumbled. That’s all I need. Some weirdo who thinks he’s the Little fucking Mermaid.

      Two.

      Do excuse me. Hank Brownlow flashed his perfect teeth and moved away from the dewy-eyed smiles of a gaggle of admirers. Turning his back on the drinks reception for his latest book release and television series launch, he nipped into the corridor and pulled out the mobile phone that was humming insistently and setting his heart racing in more ways than one. The incoming call was from a blocked number.

      Yes? Brownlow listened. His grin faded by the second as he took on board the news. When? ... And the cops?

      The voice at the other end garbled something. Brownlow had to interrupt and ask the caller to slow down and repeat. Forgive me; my American ears didn’t quite catch that. You have not alerted the police? But you must. Thanks for the tip-off; I’ll handle things from here. You just make the call, okay? And touch nothing! You must know not to touch anything.

      He hung up. In that respect, smart phones with their touch screens were unsatisfactory. Brownlow preferred the decisiveness of snapping a clamshell shut. Or even the slamming down of an old landline receiver. Somehow pushing a picture of a button on a smooth surface lacked drama.

      And Brownlow was one for drama. Spurned by academic peers and betters, he had forged a career in lurid non-fiction of the speculative variety. Was Scott of the Antarctic a Communist? With which hand did Julius Caesar masturbate? How many abortions did Elizabeth I undergo? That was Brownlow’s style: posit a theory, however outlandish, and then scour the world for material to support or deny the hypothesis. The mere act of posing the question somehow validated the supposition. People always thought there might be something in it, or else the handsome, telegenic historian would not be wasting his time on a wild goose chase.

      That evening’s launch had been to celebrate the publication of his latest work in which he explored the idea that Napoleon was a hermaphrodite able to change gender at will. Bone Apart had been his life’s work for the past six months, and now thanks to a tie-in deal with his publisher, the BBC and The History Channel, it was about to be unleashed on an eager world

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