although after a couple Cabal decided to
forego the water and so they went on and a little while later it
was much later and a little while after that it was later
still.
It was
in the natural silence after Parkin had finished a strange little
anecdote about a mad bull, a frightened constable and a weapon
usually intended to stop getaway cars by shattering the engine
block. They sat listening to the sonorous ticking of the
grandfather clock in the hall for a full two minutes. The whisky
had given out by this point and they were now enjoying a good
cognac. Cabal hadn’t even known he’d had the stuff but Parkin’s
honed detective instincts had sniffed it out, along with the
snifters to enjoy it in.
“ So,” he asked finally, “what’s it like being a necromancer
then?”
The
alcohol had pleasantly warmed Cabal, but he was still some way
short of drunk and that wasn’t a question he cared to answer.
Instead, he replied, “You’ve been kind enough to tell me some of
your old war stories. Would you like to hear one of
mine?”
Parkin
was policeman enough to know when a question was being evaded, but
he really hadn’t been that interested in the answer anyway. This
sounded far more engaging and he said as much.
“ Very well.” Cabal took a moment to recharge their glasses
while he marshalled the distant events into a narrative order.
“When I first decided to pursue this profession…”
“ Why exactly did you do that?” interrupted Parkin. “Why did you
decide you wanted to become a necromancer instead of, oh, I dunno,
a train driver?”
“ My reasons are personal,” growled Cabal, the unfamiliar sense
of bonhomie slipping slightly.
Parkin
wasn’t listening anyway. “I wanted to be a cricketer,” he said
wistfully as cigarette card dreams danced before his
eyes.
Cabal
decided to forge on regardless. “When I first decided on this
course, I had no plan. There are no career plans for necromancers.
One just has to guess. Extemporise. I decided to attack the problem
from one aspect. Not that of the morbidity of the body, but of the
longevity of the soul. I decided to become a ghost
hunter.”
Parkin
looked at him askance. “Is this a ghost story you’re winding up
for, Cabal?”
Cabal
shrugged slightly. “Why not? Christmas is a time for ghost stories,
and mine has the distinction of being true.
"Where
to begin? Perhaps with an observation. A word is a word is a word.
But words have power and in my own profession I have long since
learned to regard them with a cautious respect. Part of that power
is that of remembrance. A single word can draw one back to another
time and another place, as the scent of a flower can resurrect a
lost summer from the sepia depths of the past. Other words, though,
can chill the heart and take one straight back to an ugly time, a
fearful place. My story starts with such a word." He said it
slowly, a small effort of will apparent, each syllable forced over
his lips as if he was using his tongue to evict cockroaches.
"Pant-o-mime."
An adventurous production of Mother
Goose in a small provincial theatre was not
my first choice as a venue for spending my time a few days after
Christmas (said Cabal). This particular theatre, however, had its
interesting aspects. Specifically, it had a death toll.
Actors are a flowery mob, given to exaggeration and hyperbole,
but when they talked about dying on the stage in the context of the
Alhambra, they were being very literal. In twenty years, four
actors had died on stage in a variety of ways, all dramatic, some
messy. The most recent case had occurred just before Christmas. The
pantomime’s plot – to dignify the excuse for a collection of bad
puns, bad songs and low comedy – revolved around a Dame, played by
a man, who sells her magic goose in return for beauty. She realises
her mistake and spends the rest of the interminable performance
attempting to recover it. It is Faust for toddlers. The antagonist is
the Demon
forego the water and so they went on and a little while later it
was much later and a little while after that it was later
still.
It was
in the natural silence after Parkin had finished a strange little
anecdote about a mad bull, a frightened constable and a weapon
usually intended to stop getaway cars by shattering the engine
block. They sat listening to the sonorous ticking of the
grandfather clock in the hall for a full two minutes. The whisky
had given out by this point and they were now enjoying a good
cognac. Cabal hadn’t even known he’d had the stuff but Parkin’s
honed detective instincts had sniffed it out, along with the
snifters to enjoy it in.
“ So,” he asked finally, “what’s it like being a necromancer
then?”
The
alcohol had pleasantly warmed Cabal, but he was still some way
short of drunk and that wasn’t a question he cared to answer.
Instead, he replied, “You’ve been kind enough to tell me some of
your old war stories. Would you like to hear one of
mine?”
Parkin
was policeman enough to know when a question was being evaded, but
he really hadn’t been that interested in the answer anyway. This
sounded far more engaging and he said as much.
“ Very well.” Cabal took a moment to recharge their glasses
while he marshalled the distant events into a narrative order.
“When I first decided to pursue this profession…”
“ Why exactly did you do that?” interrupted Parkin. “Why did you
decide you wanted to become a necromancer instead of, oh, I dunno,
a train driver?”
“ My reasons are personal,” growled Cabal, the unfamiliar sense
of bonhomie slipping slightly.
Parkin
wasn’t listening anyway. “I wanted to be a cricketer,” he said
wistfully as cigarette card dreams danced before his
eyes.
Cabal
decided to forge on regardless. “When I first decided on this
course, I had no plan. There are no career plans for necromancers.
One just has to guess. Extemporise. I decided to attack the problem
from one aspect. Not that of the morbidity of the body, but of the
longevity of the soul. I decided to become a ghost
hunter.”
Parkin
looked at him askance. “Is this a ghost story you’re winding up
for, Cabal?”
Cabal
shrugged slightly. “Why not? Christmas is a time for ghost stories,
and mine has the distinction of being true.
"Where
to begin? Perhaps with an observation. A word is a word is a word.
But words have power and in my own profession I have long since
learned to regard them with a cautious respect. Part of that power
is that of remembrance. A single word can draw one back to another
time and another place, as the scent of a flower can resurrect a
lost summer from the sepia depths of the past. Other words, though,
can chill the heart and take one straight back to an ugly time, a
fearful place. My story starts with such a word." He said it
slowly, a small effort of will apparent, each syllable forced over
his lips as if he was using his tongue to evict cockroaches.
"Pant-o-mime."
An adventurous production of Mother
Goose in a small provincial theatre was not
my first choice as a venue for spending my time a few days after
Christmas (said Cabal). This particular theatre, however, had its
interesting aspects. Specifically, it had a death toll.
Actors are a flowery mob, given to exaggeration and hyperbole,
but when they talked about dying on the stage in the context of the
Alhambra, they were being very literal. In twenty years, four
actors had died on stage in a variety of ways, all dramatic, some
messy. The most recent case had occurred just before Christmas. The
pantomime’s plot – to dignify the excuse for a collection of bad
puns, bad songs and low comedy – revolved around a Dame, played by
a man, who sells her magic goose in return for beauty. She realises
her mistake and spends the rest of the interminable performance
attempting to recover it. It is Faust for toddlers. The antagonist is
the Demon
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