Hariman offered what he considered to be the warmest of his cold smiles. From out of his thick, black wool suit jacket pocket, he produced a document of vellum. It looked very old, but the Doctor insisted that it had been drawn up that very morning:
“Look, the ink is still fresh.”
The Reverend was getting more uncomfortable with the situation with every passing second.
“Now, look here,” he stuttered, “When we began all this, you didn't mention anything about any legal documents... What difference does it make?”
“I've told you,” Hariman’s voice was quiet, oily-smooth and reassuring. “It's a mere formality. Just a quick flick of the pen and it will all be legal. This document merely releases the rights to the use of the flower, nothing more. A very simple, yet necessary legal requirement, to tie up all the loose ends, so we all know where we stand from this point on. So we all know what we're getting, and we all get what's coming to us. Now.....”
The Reverend didn't like the implications one bit.
“What do you mean, now? How soon is now? You better leave it with me, so I can have my own legal people go through it. Like you said, better safe than sorry, and if it is a mere formality, I'll gladly sign it, as soon as they give me the nod.”
Hariman wasn't happy. Barely able to conceal his frustration, he tried a different tack.
“Come on now, Vic, old pal. Old mate. We've no time for all of that ‘he said, we said, they said, what she said, party of the third part’ cobblers; all of that legal gobbledegook solicitors throw in just to stall and run up the bill for themselves. Our fête is tomorrow; we need to act now, to seal our pact and our fête. So, please, please, please, let me get what I want, this time. I know we had a couple of squabbles recently, but let's kiss and make up. We are, after all, on the very brink of history. Isn't that worth committing to paper? Just sign and I will be on my way.”
He leaned forward pushing the document into the Reverend's hands.
“Sign. And all our dreams may come true. Sign it. Do it so that you can look after your wife in the custom that she deserves. Do it, so that all the hard work on all sides is not for nothing. Do it! So we don't all have to stay in this God-awful, tedious, twee, chocolate-box English village forever! Just – Just do it!”
Hariman's patience was wearing thin, his badgering manner increasingly threatening.
At that moment Elise, the Reverend's wife, entered the room pushing a tea trolley, complete with teapot, cups, saucers, milk jug and a small plate of biscuits.
“I heard you both having a chin-wag and thought that you may appreciate some small refreshment?”
“How kind,” said Reverend Phullaposi, glad of the diversion and distraction of tea.
Before anybody could say, yea, nay or whatever was their preference, Elise had filled three delicate china cups full of the steaming beverage, neatly placed a biscuit on each of the respective saucers and handed a cup each to the Reverend and Hariman.
The Doctor tried to protest that he was neither thirsty, nor hungry, but Elise was having none of it.
“This is a toast to the fête!” she trilled.
She raised her own cup into the air with her delicate hand. “To the village fête.” She knocked back the tea in a single gulp, like a Russian drinking vodka.
The Reverend followed suit, and with much muttering and trepidation, so did Hariman.
He had just enough time for a single thought – “Not again!” – as he felt his throat rapidly constrict in response to the hot, milky, fragrant liquid.
And then he was on the floor, choking, hacking, retching. He could feel himself losing control.
‘Poof!’
There was a great explosion and a simultaneous puff of green smoke, and the Reverend and Elise were suddenly alone in their sitting room. Hariman was gone. The only evidence he was ever there were the parchment he was so insistent that the Reverend should sign, still sitting on the table where he had left it, a faint greenish tinge in the air, and a slightly sulphurous, rotten egg smell.
“Is he always so energetic on departure, dear?” asked Elise.
Reverend Phullaposi decided that life was far too energetic in general at the moment. He leaned back against the wall and slowly slid down the striped wallpapered in a mixture of relief and shock.
He needed to consult Ruby. He felt in great want of some reassurance that the situation was not spiralling completely out of his control.
Chapter 11
All That Glitters...
The Reverend arrived at Ruby's, flustered and more than a little jittery, the parchment clutched tightly in his hand.
As soon as Ruby opened the caravan door, he stumbled in and began to babble.
“Hariman... He... He... He...Do you know what he did? He did you know! Well, I'll tell you... That's not all... He... He... He... Well... You know what he did, don't you? Don't you!?”
“Calm!” ordered Ruby
“But, but, but, not only that... he...” stammered the Reverend.
“Calm!” Ruby repeated, sternly, and silenced him with a raised hand. “Shh!”
The panic-stricken Reverend didn't listen; he gabbled on:
“Ruby, I don't believe I am strong enough for all this Tarot card terror stuff!”
“You must keep calm, Reverend. Keep calm and keep the faith! But right now, I think maybe you'd benefit from a nice, calming cup of peppermint tea. And while it's brewing, let me take a look at that parchment document...”
The Reverend, his hands still shaking, passed it to her.
Ruby started to read, slowly and methodically. The intricately-engraved, heavily-illuminated, shiny black, gold and red letters seemed burned into the heavy vellum, and shimmered before her eyes, so that the words appeared to crawl and
