whisky. He scrutinised the contract he was holding, signed in his own blood. A pact with The Beast. Yet, mused Ricky, what cost his own soul, when weighed against the importance of the game; against Charades? The Brit-Cit team, with their marshalled ranks of twentieth century TV personality clones, had won the annual event seven years running. Something had to be done before they reached the Grand Slam. With the help of Celtic druids on the fourth floor of Billy Connelly Block, McFulton had evoked the twisted spirit of Sir Harry Lauder; one by one, he had destroyed the best of the opposing team, as Harry tore the living hearts from their bodies.
Ricky sipped his whisky and smiled.
Elsewhere, in Jon Pertwee Con-Apts, Una Stubbs (the only surviving member of the English team) did some Charades exercises. She had been placed under 24-hour security, for fear of an attempt on her life. Anderson watched as Una groaned with concentrated effort, stretching her finger muscles one by one, rapidly skipping between one, two, three syllables. Choosing numbers at random. ‘Concentration and a clear mind,’ she trilled. ‘That’s all it takes!’ At eleven twenty-four, all the glasses in the room began to chime.
The chiming grew intolerably louder as Una, Anderson and the Judges covered their ears, mouthing silent instructions at one another. The chiming grew in volume and pitch, reaching a frequency beyond the range of human hearing. Then everything exploded. Windows, glasses, cups, saucers; clocks, watches, strip-lights, vid-screen. Everything shattered, then froze in mid-air. Like a photograph. Then the apartment went dark...
Anderson held Una’s hand in the pitch-blackness. Both squinted as a bright light appeared, widening, and a man with a small, crooked stick stepped out of it. He was wearing a kilt.
‘Hey, Nonny Naw, like a BIRD by the STREAM,’ the newcomer intoned, as though his singing voice had not been used in hundreds of years, and hadn’t been particularly good to begin with. Anderson gritted her teeth against the pain. ‘Stop it!’ she entreated. ‘For drokk’s sake, STOP IT!’
Anderson and Una screamed, pressing their hands to their ears in a futile attempt to block the terrible noise. Sir Harry Lauder merely winked as he leaned back on his walking cane with a smirk, continuing to sing. The outsize kilt was set off by a musty-looking tweed jacket. An awful beret perched balefully on his head, made all the more ludicrous by the single grouse-feather protruding from it. He hobbled forward, withered lips smacking as he reached for Una’s chest. Harry was under contract from the Devil Himself, and only the agreed bounty would satisfy the Lord of Chaos. He had to bring back the heart. Far away in Billy Connolly Block, Ricky McFulton sat bolt upright in his comfy chair as he exploded into gales of laughter. He drained the whisky glass in a single jolt.
‘Noooo!’ Anderson wrestled in living shadows that shifted and changed with her struggles, screaming threats at the shrunken, smirking form of Harry Lauder as he dropped the still-beating heart into his sporran. ‘Aye,’ he said, grinning a toothless grin. ‘That’ll do the Big Man nicely.’
With a superhuman effort, Anderson struggled free of the enveloping shadows, leaping onto the departing entertainer. With a strangled cry, Lauder was knocked spiralling through the base of the spirit-realm directly into Purgatory, arms pinwheeling wildly. Lost souls huddled in corners, wailing piteously as a freezing mist roiled around them. Anderson plunged her hand deep into Lauder’s sporran, bringing forth the purple-red heart. It pulsated in her hands as she began to squeeze. ‘Hey Nonny nooooooo ...’ wailed Lauder, clawing at her as she slowly crushed the heart. It squelched as thick, black blood jetted out, running through her fingers.
Finally, his supernatural power spent, Harry Lauder disintegrated before her with a hollow scream. Out of breath,
Ricky sipped his whisky and smiled.
Elsewhere, in Jon Pertwee Con-Apts, Una Stubbs (the only surviving member of the English team) did some Charades exercises. She had been placed under 24-hour security, for fear of an attempt on her life. Anderson watched as Una groaned with concentrated effort, stretching her finger muscles one by one, rapidly skipping between one, two, three syllables. Choosing numbers at random. ‘Concentration and a clear mind,’ she trilled. ‘That’s all it takes!’ At eleven twenty-four, all the glasses in the room began to chime.
The chiming grew intolerably louder as Una, Anderson and the Judges covered their ears, mouthing silent instructions at one another. The chiming grew in volume and pitch, reaching a frequency beyond the range of human hearing. Then everything exploded. Windows, glasses, cups, saucers; clocks, watches, strip-lights, vid-screen. Everything shattered, then froze in mid-air. Like a photograph. Then the apartment went dark...
Anderson held Una’s hand in the pitch-blackness. Both squinted as a bright light appeared, widening, and a man with a small, crooked stick stepped out of it. He was wearing a kilt.
‘Hey, Nonny Naw, like a BIRD by the STREAM,’ the newcomer intoned, as though his singing voice had not been used in hundreds of years, and hadn’t been particularly good to begin with. Anderson gritted her teeth against the pain. ‘Stop it!’ she entreated. ‘For drokk’s sake, STOP IT!’
Anderson and Una screamed, pressing their hands to their ears in a futile attempt to block the terrible noise. Sir Harry Lauder merely winked as he leaned back on his walking cane with a smirk, continuing to sing. The outsize kilt was set off by a musty-looking tweed jacket. An awful beret perched balefully on his head, made all the more ludicrous by the single grouse-feather protruding from it. He hobbled forward, withered lips smacking as he reached for Una’s chest. Harry was under contract from the Devil Himself, and only the agreed bounty would satisfy the Lord of Chaos. He had to bring back the heart. Far away in Billy Connolly Block, Ricky McFulton sat bolt upright in his comfy chair as he exploded into gales of laughter. He drained the whisky glass in a single jolt.
‘Noooo!’ Anderson wrestled in living shadows that shifted and changed with her struggles, screaming threats at the shrunken, smirking form of Harry Lauder as he dropped the still-beating heart into his sporran. ‘Aye,’ he said, grinning a toothless grin. ‘That’ll do the Big Man nicely.’
With a superhuman effort, Anderson struggled free of the enveloping shadows, leaping onto the departing entertainer. With a strangled cry, Lauder was knocked spiralling through the base of the spirit-realm directly into Purgatory, arms pinwheeling wildly. Lost souls huddled in corners, wailing piteously as a freezing mist roiled around them. Anderson plunged her hand deep into Lauder’s sporran, bringing forth the purple-red heart. It pulsated in her hands as she began to squeeze. ‘Hey Nonny nooooooo ...’ wailed Lauder, clawing at her as she slowly crushed the heart. It squelched as thick, black blood jetted out, running through her fingers.
Finally, his supernatural power spent, Harry Lauder disintegrated before her with a hollow scream. Out of breath,
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