A Sting in the Tail
Galton Pubis watched the old woman draw a black-gloved finger across the top of the lectern.
‘Dusty,’ she said.
‘And at no extra cost,’ replied Galton, jamming his thumbs into the straps of his publican’s apron. But all joviality drained from his demeanour when his prospective client turned and fixed him with a gorgonian gaze.
‘It will have to be cleaned, and thoroughly.’ The old women rubbed the dust on her gloved finger against a bony, twisted thumb. ‘Twice. My members are sensitive to such things.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Galton.
The old woman turned towards the door, her heavy black dress trailing through yet more dust. ‘And these doors, Mr Pubis, they can be locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘From the inside?’
‘Oh yes, the privacy of our customers is guaranteed,’ said Galton.
‘Good,’ said the old woman, giving the room on last sweep. ‘My members do not like to be disturbed.’
‘Of course, mam,’ said Galton.
‘Very good. This will suffice. I shall return tomorrow night. And remember Mr Pubis, twice.’ She held up a finger and traced a perfect circle on the dust on the door. ‘I shall be checking.’
‘No problem, mam. I’ll have the girls get right to it.’ He took a battered notepad from his apron pocket. Like all good facilitators of suspicious goings on, Mr Pubis was a fastidious bookkeeper. ‘And can I have a name for me book, mam?’
The old woman’s eyes narrowed and under that gaze Galton felt the valves in his heart do the same. When she spoke it was one word, cold and creeping. ‘Missus.’
‘Ah, ha, yes,’ said Galton. Somehow he knew this was the wrong thing to ask but he couldn’t help it. The columns had to be filled. ‘And your other name, Mrs…’
‘Just Missus. My other name was taken from me.’
‘I, I am sorry, mam, Missus. Sorry. And, may I also have,’ he started, afraid his tongue was about to talk him off a cliff, ‘the name of your organisation? For the book, Missus.’
Missus reached her black-gloved hand into the folds of her black dress and Galton shivered. She retrieved from the heavy fabric a black purse and Galton gulped. She opened the purse’s clasp with the snicking sound of a guillotine release and Galton rubbed a sheen of sweat from his neck. Finally, she dipped her hand into the murky depths of the purse and pulled out a single, white rectangle of card. Turning it over slowly, she placed it on the quivering leaves of Galton’s open notebook.
On the card were written only two letters, each one in thick, black, bold, serif type. The letters were
W.I. and reading them, the large, fat publican gulped so hard he nearly swallowed his tongue.
Missus let the tinniest hint of a smile pass onto her lips. ‘Yes, Mr Pubis,’ she said, answering the question he dared not ask. ‘That
W.I.’
*
The moon hung over the city of Moot, fat and boiled white. In the backroom of the Drunken Drake, Missus surveyed her membership. Hobble-stepped old women shuffled along the rows of hard wooden chairs and, on reaching their predestined places, decanted all manner of quilts, rugs, cushions, blankets and coverlets from tightly clasped handbags. Accoutrements arranged, they each settled into their own miniature four-legged fiefdoms. A few men, all equally elderly, were speckled through the crowd, white-haired flecks in a sea of black bonnets. All in all, it looked something like a wake, and that of course was the point.
‘We have all lost,’ said Missus, taking her place behind the lectern.
‘What’s that?’ said a voice from the back.
‘She got lost,’ said one from the middle.
‘I’m not surprised,’ replied the one from the back. ‘Quite hard to find this place.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ chipped in another voice. ‘I don’t see why we have to go somewhere so out of the way.’
‘We have to meet somewhere out of the way, Bernice,’ said Missus. ‘Because this is a secret meeting. It is difficult to keep a secret meeting secret if it is held prominently. Now, if I may continue, we have bigger fish to fry.’
‘MaCallum’s!’
Missus swivelled her gaze to this new interruption. ‘You wish to intercede too, Doramin?
‘MaCallum’s,’ repeated Doramin. ‘They do a lovely bit of fish. It’s always MaCallum’s for me. That was my Terry’s favourite.’
A general mummer of agreement rippled across the room and Missus decided better to let sleeping dogs lie. ‘Quite.’ She reset and began again. ‘As I was saying, we have all lost, we have all of us here things taken from us, and we have all suffered, not just the loss, but the indignity…’
Another tremor of agreement ran front to back.
‘…The indignity that comes when the perpetrators of that loss, the thieves and murd-’ Missus stumbled on that word. Even now she still stumbled, because even now it still hurt. But she had sworn she would go on. ‘And murderers, who stole from us our most precious possessions, we see them lifted up, lauded, rewarded even, all in return for their crimes, for their violence!’
The members rumbled again as Missus’ black-gloved hands closed on the lectern, tight and firm. ‘And for that violence,’ she said. ‘They have the gall, the temerity, the brazen effrontery, to call themselves… heroes.’
The final word was sneered out, spat onto the floor, where the stamping feet of the assembled crowd ground it into the remnants of Mr Pubis’ attempts at cleanliness.
‘They took my Rodger!’ shouted the voice from the back.
‘They killed my boys,’ cried out the voice from the middle.
‘My Terry,’ said Doramin quietly, digging in her sleeve for a black handkerchief.
‘These warmongers and wizards.’ Missus came out from behind the lectern, and stalked in front of the ranks. ‘They think nothing of slaughtering whole castles full of guards - men with families and hopes and mouths to feed – they think nothing of destroying towns, caught in the crossfire of their sorcerous duels. They give not a thought to diplomacy, to reason, to the people who must pick up the pieces, and pieces of pieces, of their grand victories.’
The thumping and stomping of the crowd reached its zenith. Missus let the audience have their moment. Then, leaning forward she asked, ‘And so, do you want to know what we’re going to do about it?’
The cheers gave all the answer Missus needed. She had come to Moot – the great city of heroes – to start a fire. Here was the spark.
‘Members, we are going to rid this city of its heroes, every last one-’
‘GO, GO, GO!’ The shouts came from all around. With a crash, armed figures dropped on ropes through freshly kicked holes in the thatched roof. At the back, the doors of the function room were thrown open and a golden-haired warrior advanced on the now cowering crowd.
‘By the authority of the City of Moot and the Heroes Guild I am arresting this gathering.’
Missus’ eyes flared with rage at the intrusion. The hero’s fellow Guild members formed a line between her and her members.
‘What is the meaning of this,’ she sneered. ‘This is a private meeting of mourning. You have no right.’
But the lead hero stamped past Missus and stood at the lectern.
‘This organisation has been outlawed. We know all about your plans and they end now.’
‘And who are you,’ said Missus, ‘to tell us what we can and can’t do.’
‘I am Asstin Beam, Vanquisher of the Coldstream Keep,’ Asstin began, eyeing the crowd balefully, ‘And hero,’ he said, letting the word sink linger, ‘of the liberation of Cannonmouth.’
A shudder ran through the crowd. It moved front to back and then returned, ending with the small figure of Doramin rising from her seat. She glared at Asstin and said just two words. ‘My Terry.’
There was a loud thunk and a voice from the back called out, ‘It’s locked, Missus.’
‘What?’ Asstin looked around wildly as the crowd unburdened themselves of their throws and quilts and blankets and gloves and bonnets. Their eyes glowed in the shafts of moonlight falling through the holes in the roof.
Asstin went for his sword, but his hand was caught by Missus’ iron strong grip.
‘Terry. That was her husband’s name. A guard at Cannonmouth Castle. A simple man, doing a simple job, who you murdered.’
‘But, but, you can’t, you’re mad. You’re all mad.’
Asstin pushed Missus away. She stumbled, stopping herself under another of the shafts of moonlight. Under this shine, her body began to grow, to bristle with black fur. The gloves on her hands ripped as long claws punctured through each finger, and her smile grew long and white and sharp.
Missus advanced on Asstin, a shadow of fur and fear, as the rest of the
W.I. transformed around her. ‘Yes, hero,’ she hissed. ‘We are very mad indeed.’
