The Unhappy Medium: A Supernatural Comedy. Book 1 by T. J. Brown

Author:T. J. Brown
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2014-02-22T07:00:00+00:00

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Newton had some pleasurable difficulty extracting himself from The Two Crowns via several rounds, all of which he found himself happy to finance. They were a pleasant crowd and they waved Newton off as he finally left to begin the journey back to London. The early darkness of a winter evening was upon him as he finally parked up.

‘Deptford Arches, Unit 14’ read a badly painted sign on the rusted corrugated iron entrance. He knocked at the secure door, noticing a strong smell of burning and something uncomfortably reeking of incense.

‘You’re late,’ came a voice, as the door was unlocked. ‘We were expecting you three hours ago.’ A nondescript man with brown overalls and greased back hair held the door open to allow Newton into the enclosed space of the unit. Inside, what looked like a furnace was burning brightly, casting the overhanging arch with a deep orange light. By its side stood an ageing industrial grinding machine and a tall serious-looking chap who may or may not have been a priest.

‘Yes, sorry about that,’ Newton lied hopefully. ‘The traffic was bad.’ He hoped that the ale wasn’t too noticeable on his breath.

‘Been here sitting on our arses for three hours, haven’t we padre?’ the man said to the priest. ‘It’s not time we’re here to burn, mate.’

‘Well said,’ replied the priest. ‘You have the items Dr Barlow?’

‘I do,’ said Newton. He handed the case containing the pistols to the man in the overalls.

‘Nasty,’ he said as he ran his hands over the guns, his eyes closed, sensing. ‘Very nasty.’ He closed the box with a snap. ‘Padre, you wanna get started? I’ll get the flames up.’ He walked purposefully over to the furnace and with metal tongs opened the thick doors wide. A shock of intense heat scorched the room, making Newton retreat. Adjusting controls on the side of the furnace, the man focused the gas into clean blue jets, and with deliberation, placed the pistols, still in their case, onto a wheeled trolley, moving it closer to the furnace doors in readiness. Beside him, the priest had spread out what appeared to be a small altar. On a purple velvet blanket, he had laid out a mix of religious and other objects, a melange of creeds and chemistries, all piled together with no obvious pattern or doctrine.

‘Wanna kick off, padre?’ said the man in the overalls. With this signal, the priest began a low murmuring, his head bowed in concentrated contemplation as the furnace operator began to slide the box forward. Deep into the intense destroying flames it went, until finally the evil pistols and their box were utterly engulfed.

In Purgatory, the sinister cackling soul of Baron László Norbert von Kovordányi was hanging restrained inside his bonds like a vampire bat in a fishing net. Mad as a pewter spoon, and as malicious and self-interested as a hookworm, the one-time cannibal smiled to himself in a last moment of beastly ignorance. The moment was short. The wooden case,

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