And now ... a tale of horror and suspense from the mighty quill himself, Adonis Kebab.
The Terror of Fezhead Towers
It is midnight. A midnight so dark you would hardly know you are standing in the grounds of Fezhead towers. The lights from the heavenly bodies that should be outlining the noble silhouette of this great structure and gently picking out its' fine gothic details has been engulfed and snuffed out by the inky black cloud now hanging heavy above your head.
A distant roll of thunder confirms what the bristling hairs on the back of your neck have been trying to warn you of ... a storm is approaching!
You are drawn towards the house, through the carved Oak doors and into the cavernous hallway. There are no comforting lights burning here and in the isolation of utter darkness you begin to wonder if Fezhead Towers has been deserted.
You halt your breath and strain your ears to detect any sound of company.
Nothing
And still nothing, until the very moment in which you have convinced yourself you are dreadfully alone. When suddenly all the walls and windows, fabric and furnishings around you resonate and shake with the terrifying sound of a prolonged and agonised scream; emanating, you believe from the very bowels of the building itself, directly beneath your trembling feet. The scream fades and there is silence again ... but not for long. Another shriek errupts, as hideous as the first, followed you dimly hear, by sobs and desperate, pitiful pleas for mercy.
|
... despite repeated warnings,
Jheeem insisted on eating the Vindaloo curry and suffered the inevitable consequences ...
|
Through your panic you wonder as to the whereabouts of the famed and familiar occupants of this normally cheerful property; you become ever more fearful for their well being. You look to the left and to the right, where as you know lie the corridors that lead to the east and west wings.
You see only darkness where in the past you have seen the delights of packs of Fezheads gambolling about, playing leapfrog, practicing their knife throwing or setting fire to the Flying Cleggett.
Oh! you have stood on this same spot before and laughed until your ribs ached. But now - what has become of those poor fellows?
Another scream pierces the darkness. It shakes Fezhead Towers so hard that the huge portrait of Old Ned which you know hangs on the oak panelled staircase before you is sent crashing to the floor.
Your instinct is to turn and run, but instead you stumble into the west wing in a blind attempt to find and rescue the Fezheads.
All the doors are locked, so you head east and there, at last, you find ... light!
A faint orange glow is creeping out beneath the door of the drawing room; just enough to illuminate a section of the exquisite pattern on the Persian carpeting. You hold your breath, slowly turn the brass door knob and enter the room, becoming as you do so, by means of a miracle such as can only be performed in truly great literature, a totally silent, invisible witness to the events unfolding.
There, sat in an exact semi-circle before the huge stone fireplace and lit solely by the burning logs within it, you see a large group of Fezheads. They sit still and strangely quiet, even though further cries can be heard from the vaults below. Only careful examination of their faces can reveal a slight furrowing of the brows and trembling about the lips of the solemn gathering.
As your eyes become accustomed to the faint light you notice George Gaddaffi look down momentarily at the mug of Cocoa grasped firmly between his hands and then slowly see his gaze return to the faces of the other Fezheads. You see Fuzzy hold his quill above the huge leatherbound book on his lap that is the Fezhead diary, not daring to commit anything to the parchment lest any sudden noise startle him and make him blob.
This makes you wonder ever more about what is happening - certainly they can hear the sound of appalling suffering and you can see in their moistening eyes that every fibre of the great humanity they share is tugging at their hearts to ease the pain of the sufferer; yet they seem to do nothing. You reflect for a moment - you have indeed heard it said that sometimes individual hardships must be endured for the greater benefit of the many ... could this be such an occasion?
The sound of a chainsaw starting up proves too much for Gobby (ever the most sensitive of men) to bear on his own. He leaps from his chair, looking around nervously at the others for support. Father Ken slowly lowers the book he studies from and over the top of his half-moon spectacles fixes him with the iron gaze of his hard-won wisdom. A gaze that without words serves to remind Gobby of that which we all know so well - to be Fez is to be of firmest resolve.
Truly this was no time for a weak spirit.
Gobby sits down again. The chainsaw falls silent and the only sounds now are the slow ticking of the grandfather clock and a gentle buzzing noise coming from Scary who is of course fast asleep.
Cleggett enters the room, purposefully carrying a large pan of boiling water with a number of fresh white towels folded neatly over his forearms. He bustles over to the far corner of the room, stops, turns, bustles back again, then makes for the table, then the windows, then the clock, his movements becoming ever slower, more uncertain. Eventually he gives up, places the pan and towels on the floor and sits down in an empty chair.
"What was that all about, Cleggett?" enquires Dago, his crisp Oxbridge accent betraying his Spanish ancestry.
Cleggett looks up and faces Dago, every line on his face reflecting concern.
"It was the screams, you know" he replies, "I just thought ... well, you know ... I thought hot water and towels ... well ... I just ... " his words lapse into a silence that is eventually terminated from below by a sound very much like bone being severed by pliers, followed by the kind of dull thud that would be produced by dropping a significant body part onto a stone floor. The group winces visibly.
"But what if the experiment doesn't work?" asks Snakehips nervously.
Plong armed with the reflexes that make him the Glorious Leader, draws himself out of his chair, raises himself to his full height and looks severely down at the enquirer.
"Hush!", he says firmly, "there will be no talk of failure here tonight - there's too much at stake!" he turns his head and his gaze takes in the assembled Fezheads.
"We all know how brilliant a scientist Lawrence is ... after all, did he not invent the only perfectly clear wax and then go on to successfully devise a way to get people all over the world to buy the stuff?"
A murmer of consent circles the room as Plong continues, "the man's brilliant, a genius, a mind beyond compare. The experiment will work, it must work ... it MUST!" Plong falls back into his chair, his emotions
spent.
Downstairs, meanwhile, all has fallen silent and your disembodied gaze is being ushered into the cellars; the most secret area of Fezhead Towers which even you have never seen before. You pass through the hallowed rehearsal suite, the scene of hundreds of brainstorming sessions that have resulted in so many masterpieces of dance.
On you go through the changing room, you see the row of stripy leotards and leg-warmers the men must wear for practice, hanging in a neat row on their named pegs.
|
| ... meanwhile, Keith was having problems of his own ...
|
Finally, you pass through the door into the ante-chamber. This has recently and at no small expense, been converted into Lawrence's laboratory. The walls are barely visible behind shelves piled with scientific instruments, pickling jars and power tools. You notice movement in front of the gherkins. There are people in here - Lawrence himself, his white coat spattered with gore stands with Dickie, his hideous hunched assistant. Both are looking down at the unconcious figure of the subject; a slightly built young man, tell-tale stitch marks criss-crossing his whole body. He lies spread out on the operating table like a sunset etherised upon a one-night cheap hotel ... or at least something like that.
"Dickie ... " says Lawrence, with a sinister glint in his eye, " ... no, no, No need to flinch like that! I shan't beat you this night; for I am well satisfied. See ... the subject lives; he has survived the procedure! Tell me Dickie, how did you manage to capture such a fine specimen?"
"Ooh Master, thank you Master", splutters Dickie, "but if you please Master, let me say that it was only too easy, Master. You see, he approached me, yes! At Faversham last year it was, and he says to me, he says "I'd like to be a Fezhead, how can I join?" and so Master, I brung him 'ere, Master and I locks 'im up in your special cage", so saying Dickie turns and points with his stubby arm to the rusty cage occupying the the far corner next to the Swing Ball and Croquet set.
"Hah", exclaims Lawrence, "So the poor fool sealed his own fate: wants to be a Fezhead indeed. Well so he shall ... in a way!"
"Do you realise Dickie, that when he regains conciousness, we shall know if my surgically implanted training method works and if it does, we will soon be ... Free!?"
"Ooh Master, free, yes! free! free at last", exclaims Dickie a twisted smile spreading across his face.
"But look, Dickie" says lawrence in a hushed and urgent tone, "see ... he stirs; he wakes. Quick turn on the tape machine."
As Dickie scuttles across the laboratory his clumsy fingers fumble over the old cassette player, eventually locating the play button. Lawrence watches the subject intently as he lolls his head from side to side, slowly opening his eyes. Half groaning, half gasping he says, "wh - where am I? what's g-going on?"
In a carefully measured, doctorly tone Lawrence explains, "You are in Fezhead Towers, in the rehearsal suite; it is Wednesday night - practice night!"
At once the subject sits bolt upright, his eyes bright, clear and eager.
"Oh goody", he says, "is it my turn yet, I can't wait! what's that music playing?"
"That", says Lawrence, "is the tune for the Sand Dance, surely you know that one by now?"
"Oh yes", says the subject, "of course I do, that's one of my favourites, I love that one ... can I do it now, can I? ... please?"
"Well, we'll see", says Lawrence maintaining his sang froid, "But, you see all of a sudden I find I'm most terribly thirsty".
"You poor thing", exclaims the subject, with perfectly genuine sympathy and desire to please, "here, let me go to the bar and get you a nice big glass of beer ... I'll buy! I've got loads of money and if it's not enough, well, I'll just steal some more. Hey anyone else want one? Who wants a curry?"
At this, Lawrence erupts with a huge demonic, bellowing laugh, audible for miles around before calling up to the others above - "It works, it works! Ha, Ha, It works and soon we'll have a whole platoon of dancing slaves earning pots of money ... just for us! And while we sit in the bar doing what we do best - the rest of the world will still think we're wonderful ... We'll never have to perform again!!!"
As soon as they hear the news a great cheer arises from the Fezheads; The terrible weight of the nervous vigil is lifted from their spirits and once again they are seen leaping and cavorting around Fezhead Towers, its' brightly lit spaces festooned with bunting and streamers. George does a backflip (pausing only to ensure that his cocoa is placed on the coaster to stop a ring forming on the polished wood). Scary snores even louder, his delight plain to all. Cleggett hurtles past, disappearing into the east wing as fast as his legs can carry him; a hail of daggers and petrol bombs pursuing him. Clint scrambles up into the top tower and sets to, battering the dozens of bells with his head and any other available limb. Fuzzy scratches away frantically as his quill is once more in contact with the pages of the diary. Above all this, Father Ken smiles benevolently at his youthful charges.
As if in sympathy, the storm cloud above releases it's deluge of rain and electricity, sending down a bolt of lightning that splits in two the giant cedar on the South lawn. The tree groans, crumples and explodes into flames; the thunder is barely audible above the joyous sound of the Fezheads' revels which carry on deep into the night.
But ...
All is not well, it seems, in the surrounding villages which serve Fezhead Towers. On hearing such a tumult, the inabitants have disappeared into cellars and caves, gathering into tight huddles, for fear of their peculiar neighbours.
Muffled oaths are heard; dark thoughts expressed:
"What's they bin up to now, eh?"
"No good can come of it, I reckon"
"To be sure - 'an what's to become of us, eh, eh?"
"I say we be ready to protect ourselves by any means necessary"
A band of sour faced villagers murmer their assent and nod their heads, their blackened, caloused fingers gripping ever more firmly upon their burning torches as they turn towards Fezhead Towers, just as a foot soldier grasps his spear for dear life before the charge into battle ...
to be continued
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