Captain Rattlebone

by Cleveland W. Gibson

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

I was sitting on the park bench, my thoughts churning away with seven thousand pounds in my pocket. I shuddered when I thought of Rattlebone. A thought suddenly struck me. I remembered my blonde darling Linda. I phoned her.

I had scarcely put the mobile away when I felt the snap of handcuffs on my wrists. “Better come along with us,” Detective Inspector Tony Ripon said. “We’ve got you Hollywood-style on film. Let’s pop down to the station, shall we? Them BBC boys did some good filming yesterday, so we know you attended the show.”

I pulled a face. “What happened?” Three hours later, I’d had enough of the questions. I told the police I knew nothing. And it’s what I told them: nothing. I had a bit of a brain; I knew my rights.

“Look, on the video you can see yourself in the hall. So why not come clean and tell us what you’ve been up to,” the DI cajoled. “Make it easy for us all.”

The BBC had passed footage to the Thames Valley Police, which placed me in the audience of the Chipping Norton Antiques Roadshow. As I watched, a sudden testing thought struck me. What had I got to lose? I remembered what the man had said. “I stole two wallets,” I admitted.

The policeman laughed as he tapped the report he held. “Nonsense, nobody reported anything was stolen.” His tone changed to a more serious one. “Mind you, a staff member of the road show disappeared. Also, did you know the old woman Dorothy Kennedy died of a heart attack?”

“Now what about the man in the park? Is he connected to cocaine and your dealer friend Angelo? And, of course, how does the currency we found on you fit into all of this?”

I stared back at the detective. My confidence grew in knowing the strange man correctly predicted what might happen; the police confirmed the absence of any stolen wallets.

After a short break, the detective strutted back into the room. He waved photographs at me. He wore a supercilious smile. “Gary, look at these photos taken of your rendezvous in the park with Mr Big. Who is he? I know it’s not Angelo: lead poisoning finished him off in the Bristol docks. Do you know we recently had a sighting of your Mr Big?” The detective scanned my face for any trace of emotion, any reaction to give the game away.

But I wasn’t saying a word and deliberately kept my thoughts to myself. Mind, his information on good old Angelo interested me. Especially now that I knew for sure Angelo had taken a bullet. Yet it puzzled me how Mr Big might have known about Angelo and how he died. Poor chap. That kind of worried me.

The detective spread the photographs across the table. “Look at this one.” The detective stopped quite abruptly. “What the hell? It’s too strange. Get Dirk down here, and his brains. I want to know what’s gone wrong. Now!”

I watched in fascination and some amusement as the detective flicked through the pile of photographs. I saw I’d been caught by the camera but on my own. I recognised the park from the teak bench. I saw myself on the bench. SNAP. A packet of money hovered in mid air. SNAP. Money in my hand. SNAP. But no police photographic record existed of the strange Captain Rattlebone.

Then I noticed my shadow on the ground and — it beggars belief — to my horror, a second, larger shadow as if cast by a giant. The interview dragged on, but I knew if I kept my cool I might get to keep the money.

In fact the detective wanted to talk to me about it before letting me go home. He placed the packet of money on the desk in front of me and looked me in the face. “There’s the money we took off you.”

I couldn’t help grinning. Maybe now good luck might favour me for a change.

“However, to find out we had to check every note. Every single one. We found the notes all clean, except for a few notes used as part payment to Angelo for drugs. We think Angelo’s murderer stole the money after killing him without being aware we’d planted those same notes I mentioned in an undercover operation. Now, with Angelo dead, I can’t hold you on a charge that simply won’t stand up in court. All we are left with is you saying Mr Big did the shooting.”

* * *

My mind reeled with what the Detective Inspector told me. What could I answer. Then I remembered the copy of those words on paper I’d written down before I handed the original to Captain Rattlebone. I picked my moment and started to say the words. Again and again. Nothing happened. I tried many more times and then I went to bed.

During the night I experienced nightmares. Often I awoke sweating, thinking of Captain Rattlebone and wondering about the “End of The Earth.” Strange how he played a part in my nightmares.

Next morning, I started to say the mantra again. I felt better doing something than waiting to be convicted for something I couldn’t explain.

I thought nothing had happened, but outside the rain fell in torrents. The weathermen had given out the wrong forecast. Still the rain fell. It didn’t worry me, because I was safe inside the cell.

Only when the foundations to the building started to collapse did I understand exactly how much rain had fallen, and the extent of the damage. I moved to another building and started to watch the news.

Paris, then London had been flooded, followed by Helsinki, Rome and Cairo. The list of places covered by flooding increased. I watched television and wondered what might happen next. Lots did. But to sum it up and save time, the police released me. They admitted the rain had stopped them functioning properly.

The evidence, the drugs had all been ruined when a building collapsed and the sewage pipes broke. That started a chain of events increasing as much as the falling rain. Eventually the police freed me to a world I scarcely recognised.

The fields normally supplying crops to the public now stood covered in flood water. Few places around the globe escaped the downpour. By this time, I’d stopped saying the mantra, and it occurred to me the mantra and the heavy rain shared a tentative link.

Weeks passed and the floods disappeared. The soil showed through and a drying wind swept through the land. The fortune of Britain changed for the good.

I considered my position. In particular, I needed a job in order to eat. Any job might do. I settled in the end for grave digging. At first it was muddy, wet and often cold. But I kept at it and got to tolerate the conditions. Apart from all the rain, plenty of people died to keep me in work.

As my position changed, I started to think about how it all began. Whenever I did, my thoughts returned to Captain Rattlebone and Merlin’s Grimoire. I decided to find out who bought the Grimoire.

* * *

A year passed, and I’d not located the owner of the Grimoire. Then by luck I discovered the Detective Inspector was ill in hospital. I saw him and told him my intentions. Without the Book of Spells, f there was never hope for us at all. We needed to find Rattlebone and get him to turn off the rain.

In the hospital, the detective coughed up blood, but he listened to what I said. He promised to find the owner of the Grimoire.

Two days before he died, a parcel arrived for me. I opened it to find the Grimoire. I turned to the page dealing with the summing up of daemons. Then I read how to call out fabled beings.

I loaded a jug with clean sea-salt and drew a circle of power on the ground. I set a red candle burning at the centre surrounded by pieces of elder leaves. I entered the circle to say the designated words.

I waited. Minutes ticked by. People watched me and I scanned their faces. Then one woman in a nurse’s uniform approached. She didn’t look like Rattlebone; that is, until I saw the size of her feet. In seconds, the nurse changed into Captain Rattlebone.

“The rain.”

He shrugged.

“Take charge, take it away,” I said abruptly.

Rattlebone nodded and mumbled something. Immediately the rain stopped. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a loud cheer. The sun shone with a hint of normal life to follow.

I lit a fire. The book lay in my hand. Powerful stuff, but did I need it? I knew I missed my Linda, wherever she was. I fed the book into the flames. Sparks flew into the air. I heard harsh whispers and a fierce drumbeat. I ignored all sounds until the flames destroyed the book. Even as it happened, I realised Captain Rattlebone was gone.

I looked around, because something niggled away inside my brain. What? Then I saw it: a single pitch-black coffin. Why was it there? I prised the lid off. I gasped. I saw my Linda. Dead, lovely-looking with yellow flowers in her hair. I choked back all my emotions at the inexplicable. I turned up my face to God. I cried.

Then I remembered how I had called up Captain Rattlebone in the first place. I performed the spell again, pouring everything into the words. Nothing. A large shadow fell across the ground. It startled me enough to fall backwards against the coffin containing Linda. She opened her eyes, sitting up to look at me.

In the distance, Captain Rattlebone laughed a deep, terrifying laugh. At the 25th hour I decided, with Captain Rattlebone and the rain, I’d never, ever win. But at least I’d tried.