The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) (19 page)

I
t is
the most beautiful day, and I am sitting in my garden with my pipe and my notebook, writing a new fairy story. The papers are still full of tales of Jack the Ripper, how he might be dressing up as a sailor, a soldier, a doctor. Costumes, games, riddle-like letters to the police, missing livers, missing hearts. There’s a real fairy tale villain. There’s a real monster.

Horace and the Magic Foot
was, thank heavens, burnt on the fire. I feel I can write what I want now, whether the publisher wants it or not.

I’m not writing shit any more. I won’t do it.

I
’m in Brighton
, sitting on the beach, enjoying a cup of tea. Sitting about twenty yards from me is a jewel thief called Perkins, whom I’ve followed from London. It’s taken weeks to track him but it should soon all be worthwhile. Patience is a virtue. Constable Walnut brings over a couple of ice creams.

“Is he doing anything, Sir?”

“No, he’s waiting like us.”

“Chocolate or vanilla?” says Walnut.

“Vanilla please,” and he hands it to me, melting round my fingers.

“Well, it’s a lovely day for catching criminals,” says Walnut.

And then we see another figure walking across the sands. He’s wearing a purple velvet jacket covered in red love hearts.

“Here comes trouble,” sighs Walnut.

Mr Loveheart approaches Perkins, who’s sitting dipping his toes in the sea. He takes out a long silver sword and with one swoop Perkins’ head flies off into the ocean.

“Oh for God’s sake,” I cry.

Mr Loveheart comes running over, smiling, and hands me a bag full of stolen emeralds.

“Believe me, Detective Sergeant White, he deserved to die. Nasty piece of work that one. Strangled his grandmother.”

“Why are you here, Mr Loveheart?”

“Well, it’s about that little favour you said you would do for me.”

“Go on,” I say, and lick the remainder of my ice cream.

“You must let me kill Tumbletee. No police interference. He is mine to play with.”

I
am trapped
in an eight foot tall mirror. It may as well be a coffin. I scream, I lick my tongue up and down the glass, and my boy watches me and laughs.

It may as well be a coffin.

I
have been thinking again
about that boy who broke my heart when I was seventeen. I have been questioning myself, questioning whether my actions were fair. I murdered him and ate his heart as an act of vengeance. Why do I always end up thinking about him? Why do I go back to the same memories, interrogate myself?

Because I loved him. Because I loved him. Because I loved him.

I
am dressed
up as a doctor with my bag of knives.

_{Slice and dice.}

                        Slice and dice

                                                slice and dice

                                                                       
 slice and dice.

I’m afraid Daddy disowned me after the last girl. I was beginning to embarrass him. I made rather a lot of mess. But I saved him the heart.

I’m bored now of this game. Want to play another.

A gentleman strolls past me and looks at me oddly.

I scream, “I will see your head in a bucket!”

I think I have become madness. I have melted into it like cream into hot chocolate, far too easily. The man has disappeared. I walk back to my lodgings, the fog thick and soupy. I walk across London Bridge; I can hear the clinking of blades in my black bag. Shiny crocodile teeth.

There’s a man standing on the other side of the bridge. He’s wearing funny-looking clothing. He’s dressed in black like me, but with red love hearts all over him like a disease. He has a long blade in his hands, silver like the moon. I walk towards him, step closer to this strange creature until I can see his face. He has black eyes, like me, and he is grinning.

“Hello, brother,” he says.

“Loveheart, it’s been such a very long time. I have missed you, baby brother,” and I draw my long knife out of my black bag. It glints like a celebrity. “Every star has its counterpoint, every wormhole in space its twin. And you are mine.”

“I’m going to stick your head on a pole outside Loveheart Manor,” he replies.

“Oh, really! I shall slice you up like a Battenberg. It’s such a shame – we are so similar, Loveheart. Why kill me?”

“Because I have standards,” he says.

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T
ime for the ending
. I like the happy ones the best.

A
NGRY ROBOT

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ace Market House
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Lions & tigers & bears oh my

A
n Angry Robot
paperback original 2015

C
opyright © Ishbelle Bee 2015

I
shbelle Bee asserts
the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A
catalogue record
for this book is available from the British Library.

U
K ISBN 978
0 85766 441 9

US ISBN 978 0 85766 442 6

EBook ISBN 978 0 85766 443 3

S
et by Epub Services
.

A
ll rights reserved
. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

T
his book is sold
subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

T
his novel is entirely
a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

A
ngry Robot
and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

B
IG thank
you to Bryony Woods, Lee Harris, and Marc Gascoigne and the rest of the Angry Robot team. A special mention for Sean Bean (especially in medieval costume and wielding a massive sword) and for chocolate!

I
shbelle Bee writes
horror and loves fairy tales, the Victorian period (especially top hats!), and cake tents at village fêtes (she believes serial killers usually opt for the Victoria Sponge). She currently lives in Edinburgh. She doesn’t own a rescue cat, but if she did his name would be Mr Pickles. Her next book will be
The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl.