8. Political Contrasts and a Book

BOB SKELLINGTON’S REMAINS Part 8

“I’ve had enough of this!” growled Rosie as Sheila drove her Xtrail carefully down the lane leading from the beautiful Bethany’s Hell. “First a madman lanced to a door frame and then a mouldering corpse in what I must admit is the most beautiful cemetery I’ve ever been to. But still … I’m supposed to be on holiday and this isn’t exactly like the peaceful intermission I was looking forward to.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Sheila, “I’ll take it from here if you like and you can get on with your summer break free from two twins demanding your attention all the time.”

“They don’t,” Rosie told her, “they used to, but they’ve got their own things to occupy them now they’re a bit older. Mostly to do with phones, to tell the truth.”

“Well, I think the investigaion should be up to me while you continue on your leisure under the sun…” began her DC., “I feel mean denying you a proper chance to get a summer tan.”

“What’s that?” demanded Rosie suddenly, pointing to the windscreen, “and that, and that, and that?”

“Raindrops,” came the laconic reply.

“And you were talking about leisure under the sun? I’ve seen the way the sky is and this rain is more than half a dozen random spots just teasing us, there’s a proper downpour on its way. Or at least one soaking shower, so if you don’t mind I’ll stick with you. Have you any idea how boring it can get sitting on your own in a caravan when it’s raining outside and not even a friend close enough to talk to?”

“Well, do you think we should go back to the hospital and see if Selwyn has recovered his senses?” asked Sheila, “he wasn’t in any fit state to help us, but we might talk some sense into him if we mention some of things he might not want the world to know about, like illegal substances.”

“I think we should forget all about him, at least for the time being,” decided Rosie, “what we need to do is concentrate on tracing the bones back to before the flesh fell off them.”

“I tried that, Rosie. Our Mr Skerrington went to the High School in Brumpton where he struggled to get “A” levels and barely scraped enough qualifications for a place in County University on a vastly under-subscribed course. He wouldn’t have got in on any other course but he was accepted on an obscure degree course that was designed to teach him everything there is to know about intelligent life on Mars.”

“But there isn’t any!” protested Rosie.

“That’s probably why the course was under-subscribed,” grinned Sheila, “anyway, to continue with the story of his life, for what it’s worth, he dropped out of university when his lecturer suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead mid-stream, so to speak. So our Bob left Uni and played at attaching himself to an extreme right political movement. You know, whites only and no to immigration for everyone. They even had Adolf Hitler as their hero! They didn’t have so many followers, but those they had were, without exception, thugs.”

“So you’d say that our bones belonged to a thug?” asked Rosie, “I wonder what he’d have made of me and my Africo-Carribean tan?”

“I wish I had your colour, Rosie,” sighed Sheila, “you’re quite beautiful.”

“You’re too kind,” laughed Rosie, “but I’m not in a beauty parade! So he joined a far right group of thugs, and then what?”

“He disappeared under the radar until a few years later when he wrote a book condemning far right politics and espousing ultra-socialism, going several paces to the left of communism,” continued Sheila. “It received scant attention, published by a small time printer and its author was emblazoned as Bob Skellington, but it sold maybe half a dozen copies.”

“Bob being short for Robert and the same name that they used back there on the grave of his brother,” sighed Rosie, “that might get in the way of fact-finding as well. There’s nothing worse than following a trail and spending hours at it only to find that there are two people with the same name and you’re following the wrong one!”

“I think we might get on his trail and find out why and how he died or was killed if we tracked down that publisher. As far as my research suggested, it was a local bloke from Swanspottle.”

“Oh, that village,” muttered Rosie, shaking her head.

“Why? What’s wrong with it? It always looks sort of picturesque in a chocolate box sort of way. And there’s a lovely pub. Me and my fella popped in there one time and the locals made us very welcome.”

“It’s all right if you want to meet a genuine witch supposedly with magic in her finger tips. Do you, by any chance, remember when Griselda Entwhistle spent a few months as the actual Prime Minister of the entire country?”

Sheila nodded. “I seem to remember that she had some good ideas,” she said.

“And some bad ones too. Well, she was from Swanspottle, and she still lives there, which probably explains the chocolate box image of the place.”

“Well, the publisher of Bob’s book lives in Swanspottle. It’s a small business and its proprietor is Jolly Kingdom. And yes, that’s his real name before you ask. I checked with the council.”

“If he’s a of Swanspottle the council probably haven’t got the foggiest idea who he is, what he does and what his real name is, it’s that kind of place,” muttered Rosie. “Still, while we’re about it let’s go and have a word with him.”

“I phoned him yesterday and he’s still in business,” Sheila told her. “He sounded sort of amusing and willing to help. At least he remembers printing Twice Heaven’s Army, our friend’s book.”

“Good. Then let’s go,” said Rosie, more than a hint of regret in her voice. “And if you see anyone who looks remotely like a witch you steer well clear!”

© Peter Rogerson, 07.02.21