Bastian inched closer. There was a clearing at the two crossed footpaths and the night-trippers stopped dead in their tracks ahead of a large snake that hung from a tree with its U shape cradling the moon. The shadowy figures placed the lanterns on the ground in front of a hill.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Bastian shouted, before his whole body shivered and then froze as a thick heavy serpent slithered over his feet.
The lanterns were quickly snuffed out and he could hear running through the undergrowth. He followed the sound before tripping over a reptile wriggling in the mud. His head hit a tree and with the dark canopy spinning overhead, the suspects fled into the night.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Malthus.
‘Vicar, what are you doing here?’ replied Bastian, rubbing his sore head.
‘Fire drill,’ said Malthus, pointing at the hose sliding over the ground near Bastian’s feet.
‘Gone midnight?’
‘It’s allowed last time I checked the Leaflets, fires aren’t particular at which time they burn.’
‘I’m at the river,’ shouted June through the thick wall of trees.
‘Stay there, I’m going on the common,’ Malthus shouted back. ‘Are you coming, Bastian? You look like you need a pick-me-up.’
‘Here, drink this,’ he said after pouring a tot of wine from his hip flask.
Bastian knocked it back, watching the two choirmen wrestle with the hose as water gushed onto the common in preparation for tomorrow’s bowls match. Malthus was the captain and wanted a fast green.
‘Might as well make use of the water,’ he said.
‘Did you see anything unusual in the jungle tonight, vicar?’ Bastian asked.
‘No, but are you looking for poachers by any chance?’
‘I’m not sure, but you are the only person in the village with a licence to keep snake poison?’
Malthus laughed.
‘Of course, my dear boy. We don’t want another outbreak of dead spouses bitten by the garden snake, do we? I find the widows such a nuisance.’
His was a weary task; spiritual guide, fireman, and suicide aide with a host of vipers and serpents to choose from. Venom from the fast acting inland taipan was a popular choice when in stock, and everyone avoided the boomslang and slowly bleeding to death.
* * *
It was sunrise when Bastian joined the Tai Chi group on the common with the grass neatly trimmed for the inter-village bowls match. There was a disguised bump on the right side of the rink to benefit the home team and cannabis plants provided by the Women’s Institute were growing around the edges.
Bastian was sitting on a bench when the opposing team rolled into town, their waggon and horses kicking up the sand and scattering fallen palm leaves across the high street. He went to introduce himself before they headed for the pavilion and the traditional fried crickets with hot green tea.
Bastian disliked bowls but every sports event, rally or meeting above ten persons required a police presence once the appropriate licence had been obtained. Jambit was today’s referee.
Both teams wore yellow shorts, string vests, and kepis. They were all barefoot and Jambit flipped an old watch dial in the air. Malthus won the toss and fired the small white jack to the other end of the green. He placed down the mat and cradled a bowl of hard wood in his hands.
‘Game on,’ shouted Jambit before an excited crowd of forty plus.
Visiting supporters were barred and Malthus and his team, including June the only female bowler along the coast, raced ahead with home support willing them on. They knew the lay of the green and bowled without a follow through to avoid overshooting the usually short jacks. After twenty-one ends they had the game in the bag.
The losing team stayed behind for the day’s remaining entertainment as the sun blazed a trail in the sky.
The crowd had doubled in size and drifted towards the village guillotine with excited chatter, passing the fixed ping-pong tables. It was the first execution in over a month and a local man guilty of his brother’s murder was about to lose more than a drunken spider race. The guillotine stood on the old children’s play area, dismantled when considered too dangerous, and Holroyd, Nabulus, and a commissar were sat in the main stand.
Bastian and Jambit quickly marched the condemned man in handcuffs from the police station. His protests were muffled with a gag and when he refused to kneel, Jambit kicked the legs from underneath him before Bastian locked his neck over the chopping block. Nabulus got up and did the honours, releasing the bloody blade. There was a large cheer when the severed head hit the bottom of the basket and the landlord of the village pub took it for his collection. A cart was waiting to take the body to the University of Holistic Medicine to decompose in shallow ground beneath the prize winning rose bushes that needed the nitrogen, phosphorus, potash, and organic matter for their beautiful blooms.
The execution like the trial before it was perfunctory and too quick for some in the audience who were slow to leave their seats except the schoolchildren escorted back to class by their teacher.
As the crowd slowly drifted away, Nabulus and Holroyd followed the commissar to his covered waggon where the former was handed an ivory tusk for services rendered. Party officials and commissars often traded amongst themselves in ivory and furs, rare fossils and gems. And there were drunken whispers amongst the plebiscite that they exchanged prisoners too, like tokens on a board game.
Chapter Eight
It was early morning and the bags under Bastian’s eyes were as black as the coffee on Harriet’s desk.
‘Nabulus is expecting you,’ she said.
She didn’t use his name but dropped her pencil on the floor as he walked by, waiting for him to pick it up and discuss her work, home, and bedroom. She glanced into the window unwilling to look at him directly and angry he had not responded to her unspoken invitation.
‘Harriet, you dropped this,’ panted Holroyd who’d been running, worried he
