within.
A low
and dismal groan arose from Porrig’s throat and issued through his mouth.
‘I will
then,’ said the solicitor, approaching the door. A fetid mattress lay across
it. The smell of urine hung in the air. Mr Phart-Ebum prodded the mattress with
a polished toe-cap. ‘Best left alone, I think,’ he continued, as he eased the
old key into the lock. ‘I might need a hand here getting this open.’
Porrig
stood in the sunshine, shaking his head. ‘Not from me,’ he said slowly. ‘Not
from me.’
‘Oh
come on, Mr Naseby.’
‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘I think I’ll just stand here and bewail my lot, if that’s all
right with you.’
Mr
Phart-Ebum was shouldering the door. ‘It’s giving.’ he said. ‘I’ve got it open
a bit.’
‘Leave
it,’ said Porrig. ‘Forget it.’
‘But
aren’t you anxious to take a look inside?’
‘Are
you jesting? I know what will be inside. A lot of rotten, mouldy old rubbish
and no doubt the floorboards will collapse and plunge me to my death.’
‘Ah,’
said the solicitor, who now had the door half open. ‘You might well have a
point there.’ He tugged the key from the lock and presented it to Porrig. Well,
I have conducted you to the premises and given you the key. My duties are
therefore concluded. Do you wish me to send the bill for my services to your
home address, or will you be taking up residence here?’ Mr Phart-Ebum caught
the eye of Porrig. And a bitter eye it was.
‘Just
one thing,’ said the lad, ‘before you go.’
‘Oh
yes?’
‘I don’t
even know the name of this dead uncle of mine.’
‘You
are thinking perhaps of putting up a blue plaque?’ Mr Phart-Ebum had a real
smirk on.
‘Not
that.’ Porrig shook his head fiercely. ‘It is just that in order to curse the
soul of someone properly, you have to know their name.’
‘Indeed?
Well, in all truth I don’t know his original name. He had it changed by deed
poll when he first went on the stage. All I know is his professional name.’
Which
was?’
‘Apocalypso
The Miraculous.’
Porrig
choked. ‘The Miraculous?’
With a
capital T in the The. He was very famous in his day. You can look
him up in books.’
‘Not in
this shop,’ said Porrig bitterly.
Well,
in the one next door then.’ Mr Phart-Ebum made throat-clearing noises. ‘And
so, I must be off about my business and leave you to yours.’ He took Porrig’s
dangling hand between his own and shook it. And then, chuckling like a bad’n,
he went on his way.
Porrig
gave a deep and heart-felt sigh. He should never have got his hopes up really.
Good things never came in his direction. He was just one of life’s losers,
doomed ever to disappointment and blows to the skull.
Porrig
squinted in through the half-open door. It looked pretty grim in there. Dark
and dank and quite without a welcome.
Was it
worth a look inside, or should he just get back on the train and go home?
‘Home,’
said Porrig. ‘I don’t think I can take any more.’ He turned the old key on the
palm of his hand. He would lock the place up and go home. He could call Mr
Phart-Ebum later. Tell him to put the building on the market. Property was
always worth something, even if you just knocked it down and levelled the
ground for a car-park.’
Porrig
stepped nimbly over the mattress and tugged at the ancient door. It was all
jammed up with rubbish now and Porrig fought to close it. The door seemed
disinclined to close. ‘I am an open door now,’ it seemed to say, ‘and I will
stay that way.’
‘Oh no
you bloody won’t.’ Porrig struggled and strained and sweated and swore. And
then he slipped upon something unspeakable and plunged headlong through the
doorway.
Porrig
now found himself lying face down on the floor. A sad and sorry sight was he. A
glum and gloomy grizzler. Porrig thrashed his legs about and drummed his fists
on the floor. Only the previous night his mother had behaved in this same
fashion. She, however, had been all
A low
and dismal groan arose from Porrig’s throat and issued through his mouth.
‘I will
then,’ said the solicitor, approaching the door. A fetid mattress lay across
it. The smell of urine hung in the air. Mr Phart-Ebum prodded the mattress with
a polished toe-cap. ‘Best left alone, I think,’ he continued, as he eased the
old key into the lock. ‘I might need a hand here getting this open.’
Porrig
stood in the sunshine, shaking his head. ‘Not from me,’ he said slowly. ‘Not
from me.’
‘Oh
come on, Mr Naseby.’
‘No,’
said Porrig. ‘I think I’ll just stand here and bewail my lot, if that’s all
right with you.’
Mr
Phart-Ebum was shouldering the door. ‘It’s giving.’ he said. ‘I’ve got it open
a bit.’
‘Leave
it,’ said Porrig. ‘Forget it.’
‘But
aren’t you anxious to take a look inside?’
‘Are
you jesting? I know what will be inside. A lot of rotten, mouldy old rubbish
and no doubt the floorboards will collapse and plunge me to my death.’
‘Ah,’
said the solicitor, who now had the door half open. ‘You might well have a
point there.’ He tugged the key from the lock and presented it to Porrig. Well,
I have conducted you to the premises and given you the key. My duties are
therefore concluded. Do you wish me to send the bill for my services to your
home address, or will you be taking up residence here?’ Mr Phart-Ebum caught
the eye of Porrig. And a bitter eye it was.
‘Just
one thing,’ said the lad, ‘before you go.’
‘Oh
yes?’
‘I don’t
even know the name of this dead uncle of mine.’
‘You
are thinking perhaps of putting up a blue plaque?’ Mr Phart-Ebum had a real
smirk on.
‘Not
that.’ Porrig shook his head fiercely. ‘It is just that in order to curse the
soul of someone properly, you have to know their name.’
‘Indeed?
Well, in all truth I don’t know his original name. He had it changed by deed
poll when he first went on the stage. All I know is his professional name.’
Which
was?’
‘Apocalypso
The Miraculous.’
Porrig
choked. ‘The Miraculous?’
With a
capital T in the The. He was very famous in his day. You can look
him up in books.’
‘Not in
this shop,’ said Porrig bitterly.
Well,
in the one next door then.’ Mr Phart-Ebum made throat-clearing noises. ‘And
so, I must be off about my business and leave you to yours.’ He took Porrig’s
dangling hand between his own and shook it. And then, chuckling like a bad’n,
he went on his way.
Porrig
gave a deep and heart-felt sigh. He should never have got his hopes up really.
Good things never came in his direction. He was just one of life’s losers,
doomed ever to disappointment and blows to the skull.
Porrig
squinted in through the half-open door. It looked pretty grim in there. Dark
and dank and quite without a welcome.
Was it
worth a look inside, or should he just get back on the train and go home?
‘Home,’
said Porrig. ‘I don’t think I can take any more.’ He turned the old key on the
palm of his hand. He would lock the place up and go home. He could call Mr
Phart-Ebum later. Tell him to put the building on the market. Property was
always worth something, even if you just knocked it down and levelled the
ground for a car-park.’
Porrig
stepped nimbly over the mattress and tugged at the ancient door. It was all
jammed up with rubbish now and Porrig fought to close it. The door seemed
disinclined to close. ‘I am an open door now,’ it seemed to say, ‘and I will
stay that way.’
‘Oh no
you bloody won’t.’ Porrig struggled and strained and sweated and swore. And
then he slipped upon something unspeakable and plunged headlong through the
doorway.
Porrig
now found himself lying face down on the floor. A sad and sorry sight was he. A
glum and gloomy grizzler. Porrig thrashed his legs about and drummed his fists
on the floor. Only the previous night his mother had behaved in this same
fashion. She, however, had been all
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