Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Lobsters and Liberties

‘Ah, Patience! Here is my little Princess of the Nile! How are you this fine morning?’

Mr Khaldun Userkaf sipped his coffee, his dark eyes studying his daughter through the mist rising from the brim of his Pharaoh-shaped coffee mug. His sharp, angular features still carried the ghost of his youth and his broad smile was infectious.

‘Morning, Poppa,’ Patience said as she tied her long, coal-dark hair into a ponytail. ‘Just a quick status update: I’m fifteen years old, we have no connection to royalty, and the Nile is filthy brown sludge that gives anyone who falls into it raging diarrhoea. You have plans today?’

‘Of course,’ her father said, laughing at his daughter’s diatribe. ‘It’s Saturday, and I plan to do nothing!’

‘That’ll be the day, Poppa.’

Mr Userkaf was renowned for his staunch work ethic. He had been running his travel agency from out of Dorsal Finn for over three decades, and in that time no one in the village could remember him ever taking a holiday for himself.

Patience Userkaf, purveyor of languages and fan of fashion, gave her father a big smile. Her braces had been removed only a few weeks before, and her new grin still felt as though it belonged to someone else.

‘So what are you doing?’ she asked watching as her father put his mug down on the table and hunched over last night’s edition of the Dorsal Finn Herald.

‘Planning a surprise for your Uncle Badru,’ Mr Userkaf said, his concentration momentarily lost as he began to scan pages of newsprint.

Patience pulled a face, ‘You mean a bigger surprise than the fact that he’s still here?’

Patience’s larger-than-life uncle had arrived in Dorsal Finn several months ago. A two week vacation had now become an extended break from his very successful Persian rug export business. He was a jolly man with a big, rotund belly that bobbed up and down each time he laughed—which was long and often. It appeared to Patience that her uncle had little intention of going back to his live-in offices in Cairo anytime soon. In fact, he’d only recently started renting a room at Tardebigge’s Bed and Breakfast.

‘Your uncle will soon be fifty years old,’ Mr Userkaf said, his finger resting on a line in the paper so that he wouldn’t lose his place. ‘I intend to make sure we celebrate in style.’

‘I’m not wearing any of that traditional stuff,’ Patience said, shuddering at the thought of gaudy ceremonial gowns and the concept of being fifty years old. ‘Aren't there mummies who were younger and better dressed?’ she asked herself.

‘You know how your uncle feels about Dorsal Finn. He considers it to be his second home,’ her father said with a smile.

‘More like his first home,’ Patience muttered. ‘Anyway, why are you looking in the paper?’

‘I’m trying to find caterers who can supply traditional food at short notice,’ Mr Userkaf said, resuming his search. ‘I fear that I may have left it a little late.’

‘Traditional Dorsal Finn catering? Not hedgehog stew?’ This made Patience shudder more than the thought of wearing traditional dress and being fifty years of age.

‘No,’ her father chuckled. ‘You know how much Uncle Badru is taken with seafood. I think it’s this that keeps him here.’ Mr Userkaf tutted impatiently as he exhausted yet another page. ‘But it would appear that I am rapidly running out of options. All of the local caterers are booked solid.’

‘Then maybe I will have to sort it out for you,’ Patience said cryptically, causing her father to look up from his paper.

‘What do you mean, Princess?’

‘Beatrice, of course,’ she said matter-of-fact.

‘The most obvious of choices,’ Mr Userkaf replied sitting back in his chair as though his prayers had been answered. ‘Will she do it?’ he asked. ‘When will you speak to her?’

The doorbell chipped in, filling the room with a bright, happy tune.

‘In about ten seconds,’ Patience grinned.

***

Beatrice Beecham was an inquisitive girl. It was part of her nature to know how things worked, how things went together but, most of all, why things went together so well. It may have been the very reason she enjoyed cooking so much. Her ability to cook was innate, a gift from some culinary god high in the gastronomic heavens. It didn’t bother Beatrice that many of her peers thought cooking was about as cool as the surface of the sun. All that mattered was that it made her happy.

Beatrice was short and wiry with long hair as red as embers, which contrasted starkly with her bright blue eyes and pale skin. She had a petite nose that turned up a little at the end, and this was garnished with a crop of freckles that ran from the bridge of her nose to under her lower eyelids. As well as being inquisitive Beatrice was also incredibly patient; a trait that was at odds to the stereotypical views concerning people with red hair. She did, like most people, have her limits and it was often Thomas Beecham—her ten year old, sci-fi and fantasy movie obsessed brother—that tended to push all the right buttons and send her easily into orbit. Other than this Beatrice was a happy and well-adjusted young girl who just happened to have a penchant for attracting trouble.

She had moved to Dorsal Finn three years ago, after her father was made redundant. It had been a turbulent time. George Beecham was a proud man and struggled to accept the loss of his job at Parkinson Paintbrush Incorporated. He had worked there for over twenty years before he was replaced by a piece of software. For over three months he tried to find another job only to realise that every other potential employer had bought the same piece of software.

It was Maureen, Beatrice’s mother, who finally came up with the novel idea of moving the family to Dorsal Finn. The premise was simple; Maureen’s aunt Maud ran the Postlethwaite News and Chocolate Emporium. The shop was very demanding and, despite her determination, Maud had asked Maureen to help her with its upkeep on several previous occasions. In return George and Maureen would get a stake in the business. After it was clear he was not going to find work locally, George reluctantly agreed and they relocated within a few weeks.

At first Beatrice was very unhappy about the move. A new town, a new school; new friends and the emotional upheaval—the sense of isolation—was almost too much for her to bear. Then she met Patience, Lucas and Elmo—collectively known as The Newshounds—and they made her feel as though she’d always known them. They never mocked nor teased her about her interests. They just simply made her feel welcome.

In her time in Dorsal Finn, Beatrice and The Newshounds had already been involved in many adventures. To some they were heroes. To people such as Mayor Gideon Codd they were mere mischief makers; ingrates who were always undermining his authority.

Not that such a thing bothered Beatrice and her friends. Their strength was in their bond with each other. Only broken could they be beaten.

‘It would be my pleasure to cook for your brother, Mr Userkaf,’ she said sedately when presented with the task in the Userkaf’s kitchen. ‘What kind of things does he like?’

‘Seafood,’ Patience said pre-emptively.

‘Anything specific?’

‘Lobster,’ Mr Userkaf said without hesitation.

‘Well I do believe that I have the ideal recipe!’ Beatrice grinned, amazed at the way fate was working its magic. Several months ago Beatrice had celebrated her fifteenth birthday. It had been a day made up of many surprises. First there had been the remarkable and fantastic present. Her kind and reasonable parents, had opted to buy her a twelve month, exclusive dining pass sponsored by Beatrice’s all-time favourite publication, Belchette’s Encyclopaedia Gastronomica. Her first meal occurred on the evening of her birthday in a small, almost timid place called The Sanctuary, a highly respected Mediterranean restaurant in the nearby town of Ashby-on-Sea. And in this restaurant, as well as having a great time, Beatrice also sampled the most delicious Lobster Stew she had ever experienced; enjoying it so much she had asked to speak with the chef afterwards.

Then she’d begged him for the recipe.

The chef agreed but made clear that he would only state the recipe once and she was not to write it down. This was of little issue to Beatrice. She was as likely to forget a recipe as the birds would forget to sing each morning.

‘Lobster is expensive at the best of times,’ Beatrice cautioned.

‘Money is not an issue when it comes to family,’ Mr Userkaf reassured her.

‘It isn’t just that, Mr Userkaf,’ Beatrice said sadly. ‘Lobster is getting difficult to catch in the waters around Dorsal Finn. I’ve heard several fishmongers saying the same thing. So even if you give me plenty of money, there’s no guarantee I’ll find one at market. And the dish I would like to prepare would take at least two of them.’

‘Well, do what you can, dear Beatrice,’ Mr Userkaf smiled disarmingly. ‘If anyone will find a way to create this dish, it will be you.’

‘I hope I don’t let you down,’ Beatrice said.

And she meant it.

***

Dorsal Finn fish market was vibrant with bustle, noise and the aroma of the sea. The noise came from the many fishmongers, yelling and selling their wares in the tightly packed courtyard, a cobblestone’s throw away from the harbour where each fishing boat disgorged its catch to the expectant traders each morning. Now these very traders stood on upturned buckets, surrounded by the Catch of the Day. Each prospective morsel was packed into plastic trays, filled with glittering ice.

And from the plastic trays came the smell. Every kind of sea creature you could ever imagine eating lay on their beds of ice, their skin still wet with brine. There were also plastic pails, slopping sea water onto the cobbles as shell fish pawed lazily at smooth, elliptical walls.

‘This place amazes me,’ Beatrice said scanning the stalls.

‘Me too,’ Patience said wrinkling her small nose. ‘How can stuff smell this bad and still be edible?’ She stopped a moment and shoved the sleeve of her cashmere sweater under Beatrice’s nose. ‘It doesn't smell does it?’ she said with concern. ‘You’d tell me if it did, wouldn’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t leave me minging all day and not let me know, right?’

‘It’s fine, Patience,’ Beatrice laughed patting her friend’s arm.

Patience had a reassuring sniff of her sleeve before allowing her arm to flop back to her side.

‘Do you think we’ll find what we’re looking for?’ she said to Beatrice as they made their way through the sizeable crowd.

‘We might get lucky,’ Beatrice replied, absently scanning the area before cutting left towards the harbour.

‘You know something that I don’t?’ Patience said with a dour air.

‘I know a very good fisherman,’ Beatrice winked.

‘Oh, God, Bea!’ Patience moaned. ‘You’re not talking about Crazy Colin?’

‘Don’t worry, Patience, I’ll do the talking.’ Beatrice smiled.

‘I’m warming to the idea already,’ Patience said.

‘I don’t know why you’re so against the idea.’

‘Because even the other fishermen think the guy’s mental?’ Patience offered.

‘Then they clearly don’t know him very well,’ said Beatrice.

“Crazy” Colin Creswell was not, of course, crazy at all. But, when the clouds above were burgeoning with rain, and waves below broiled in the wind, most fishermen remained moored in the harbour.

But not Colin.

Instead, he would be the one firing up his boat, The Albatross, and heading out to open water. As such Colin was branded reckless and maverick, although most of the town-folk admired his courage.

Beatrice and Patience turned a stone-slated corner and made their way to the small port where a flotilla of fishing boats was moored. Wheel housings and rigs, booms, fittings and hulls were sea-scarred and peeling. These were hardworking boats with hardworking owners; each as committed to the job of landing a huge catch as a cloud of sea birds swirled excitedly over their prows.

And it was this level of commitment, this level of passion for his work, which drew Beatrice to Creswell. She could see him, hauling trays of ice-packed fish from the hold and sliding them down the ramp linking The Albatross to the dock. Several market traders were below loading them onto a waiting gurney.

‘Well, hello, young Beatrice!’ Colin called down to them, his smile adding another line to his sea-weathered face. ‘What’s bringin’ you youngsters out this early on a Saturday mornin’?’

‘We’re after lobster,’ Beatrice shouted back in an attempt to be heard over the sounds of the screaming gulls.

Colin’s smile collapsed as his face scrunched up beneath his Homer Simpson baseball cap. Beatrice’s heart sank like an anchor beneath the waves.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she pre-empted, ‘no chance, right?’

Colin paused, palette clutched to his chest and his vivid blue eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight. ‘There’s always a chance. But I ain’t got me none,’ he admitted. ‘But I might be able to conjure somethin’ by lunchtime. Can you wait, young ’un?’

‘Can we wait?’ Patience quipped. ‘Do red and green clash?’

‘You young ’uns are in a world of yer own,’ Colin said as he shook his head in bemusement.

‘That reminds me,’ Beatrice sighed to Patience, ‘Now we’re done here, I have to go and collect Thomas from home.’

‘Why?’ Patience said watching the gulls.

‘He’s enrolling in the sea cadets,' Beatrice explained, her shoulders sagging with dejection. ‘There’s a small ceremony, or something. And Mum’s told me to go with him.’

‘Hash-tag sounds like a real drag,’ Patience said bluntly.

Beatrice nodded. ‘But it’s part of Mum’s “getting Thomas to join the rest of the human race” initiative. Seeing as everyone benefits from my brother getting a life, I guess I’ll have to show some support.’

‘What you mean is you can’t get out of it?’ Patience said.

‘Tried hard—failed harder.’

‘Well you get yourself back dockside at noon, young’un, and I’ll hopefully have yer lobster waitin’,’ Colin said alighting from the vessel, his ruddy cheeks twin beacons as he approached.

‘Can I ask where you’re getting the lobster from?’ Beatrice said.

‘Best not to,’ Colin winked. ‘Then I won’t have to tell you to mind your own, eh?’

‘A secret?’ Beatrice smiled.

‘A big, fat one,’ Colin grinned.

***

Postlethwaite and Beecham’s News and Chocolate Emporium was situated in Crab Mill Terrace, a row of cottages painted in delicate pastels of pink, yellow and blue. The store had a large frontage window with its name painted upon it in swirling white letters. Beyond the letters were shelves rammed with large jars of sweets, chocolates, candy canes, and multi-coloured jellies. A red and white awning provided shelter from the sun and the rain to anyone stopping by to look upon the confectionery.

There had always been the newsagents in Crab Mill Terrace. During the war, Maud had stayed with the previous owners—a Mrs and Mrs Jennings—who, because they’d never had time to raise children, had taken her in as their own. She had earned her keep serving behind the counter, and delivering newspapers on a battered bike with brakes that squealed like startled mice.

When Maud returned to Dorsal Finn years later, she had taken on the shop to support the Jennings’ for over twenty years and was just as surprised—and eternally grateful—when they told her that they had willed the shop to her. Since that time Maud had overseen the place, and the sight of her in a bright red cardigan sitting on her stool behind the small, oak counter was as much a familiar sight to the townsfolk of Dorsal Finn as the harbour and the lighthouse.

Aunt Maud was not Maureen Beecham’s real aunt at all. She was a very close friend of Beatrice’s grandmother, Betty. So close, they had often been mistaken for sisters. With the exception of her two year stint in Dorsal Finn during the war, Maud and Betty had spent most of their childhood living in a small village in Worcestershire in the UK. During their teenage years, Betty had met a handsome young man called Edward Frye and gotten married. Of course, Maud was a bridesmaid. When Beatrice’s mother was born Maud doted on her as an aunt would. Though she loved the idea of being with a family, Maud would never marry. She preferred being able to go off on travels around the country. Or sometimes further.

Maureen was six when Beatrice’s grandfather got a promotion in London, and the Beecham’s moved into a nice house in the suburbs. Aunt Maud travelled down to see them a few times but would never stay long.

By the time Maureen was seven, Aunt Maud had moved back to Dorsal Finn. With Maud busy running the store, she had only met up with Maureen during the funerals of both Betty and Edward since then. On both of those sad occasions, Maud and Maureen swore to remain in touch, and they had been in regular telephone contact prior to the Beecham’s migration to Dorsal Finn.

The shop interior was compact, a mixture of free-standing carousel racks and units, as well as wall-mounted shelving, where books, newspapers, and magazines awaited the eager readers from the town. At the back of the shop counter was a small parlour that was accessed via a doorway with a curtain of vertical threaded beads. Here ancient furniture, a side board from the19th Century and a dining table that appeared to be from a time where no one ever thought about making things with any sense of proportion, pretty much filled the entire space, but served as a place where afternoon tea could be taken whilst still keeping an eye of the shop.

Beyond the parlour was a fully fitted kitchen and it was in this kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar, that Maud messed with the hem of her cherry red cardigan. Her deep scarlet Doc Marten’s kicked out a tattoo against the leg of the kitchen table. She had shrewd yet kind grey eyes and her mouth was never far away from a warm and friendly smile. At that moment those kindly eyes were upon Maureen and Thomas, as mother did battle with son in an attempt to get him ready for his inauguration ceremony.

‘Hold still, Thomas!’ Maureen Beecham said as she dragged a comb through her son’s hair. ‘You have to make the right impression.’

‘He does a pretty good Dalek,’ Maud said from behind a copy of Chinwag Magazine. Her shoulders bobbed up and down as she chuckled heartily.

‘Maud,’ Maureen cautioned.

‘Alright, me dear,’ Maud said putting her magazine down on her lap and flashing a big smile. Her gold incisor flickered for a moment. ‘I’ll be mindin’ me own this mornin’.’

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Beecham said gratefully and resumed grooming her squirming son.

‘Will you please stop fidgeting, young man!’ Maureen said in frustration.

‘I can't see why I have to go and join the Blue Thunder Foundation,’ Thomas protested. ‘Or why Bea has to take me.’

‘Because The Blue Thunder Foundation is a great place for you to meet with other kids, and give you things to do other than watching DVD’s and catch up TV,’ Mrs Beecham explained. ‘And Beatrice is covering for me as I have some errands to run.’

Though the Blue Thunder Foundation first hit the headlines when the organisation announced their intention to open their first headquarters in Dorsal Finn, the charity had been in existence for ten years. The foundation believed that by keeping kids active and giving them a philosophy of looking after the local community, young people were less likely to get into trouble, and would become valued members of a future society. This notion was given further credence by the organisation’s charismatic founder, Logan Frobisher. As such the representatives of Blue Thunder Foundation thrived in young offender centres up and down the country, helping to rehabilitate young people who had strayed. Their successes had been great. Now the plan was to set up a local pilot site ahead of a national programme.

The aim was simple enough. To embrace and influence the youth younger; embedding the philosophy of their motto: Through Adversity Comes Hope. And in the weeks leading up to the inauguration day, Blue Thunder Foundation advertising had pretty much dominated the TV sets in the homes of Dorsal Finn residents. And it didn’t appear to show any signs of slowing down. Beatrice had stopped watching the documentaries and avoided the advertising in between her favourite shows. If she saw another smart blue uniform she thought she’d scream.

‘It’s exciting to meet new people,’ Mrs Beecham concluded.

‘Not as exciting as The Empire Strikes Back,’ Thomas grumbled.

‘Especially that fight scene on Bespin,’ Maud said. ‘That was some ruckus Luke had with Vader. When he found out the man in black was his old man I nearly bawled me eyes into me lap!’

Maureen Beecham sighed. ‘I need a little support here, Maud.’

From her armchair Maud Postlethwaite appeared pensive for a moment.

‘Sorry, m’dear,’ the old woman said, but her eyes glittered with a mischievous fire. ‘I’m as old as Mother Earth an’ me memory isn’t what it was.’

‘And why do I have to go with Bea?’ Thomas whined. ‘I mean, what have I done to deserve that?’

‘What’s wrong with you two spending some time together?’ Maureen said.

‘Bea thinks I’m weird and I think she’s quite possibly a covert agent for SPECTRE.’ Thomas moped over to the sofa and flopped into it. He folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘No good will come of it.’

‘Comments like that only prove to me how badly the two of you need to spend more time together, Thomas Beecham.’

‘It’s like asking the Empire to share the galaxy with the Rebel Alliance,’ Thomas said staring into space. ‘Mark my words: War is coming.’

‘Mark my words,’ his mother said, ‘you and Beatrice are to cease fire or you’ll find a new villain in the galaxy.’

Thomas muttered something under his breath. Maureen Beecham presumed it wasn’t complimentary and softened a little. ‘There’s the ceremony too, don’t forget,’ she coaxed. ‘The new activity hut has been donated to the town by the Blue Thunder Foundation. Mayor Codd will be there to open it.’

‘Giddy goodness, Maureen!’ Maud piped up, ‘I thought ye wanted the lad to go? Don’t be tellin’ him Gideon Codd’s goin’ to be slitherin’ around the promenade like the fat slug he is.’

‘You mean like Jabba?’ Thomas asked.

‘Aye,’ Maud confirmed. ‘’cept less likeable.’

The sound of Patience chattering excitedly drifted in through the open door to the living room and caused Maud to defer a return to her magazine.

Beatrice entered the living room and Patience followed.

‘I want people to answer honestly,’ Patience announced before anyone could speak, ‘do we smell of fish?’

‘It's yer question that's fishy, young Patience,’ Maud said.

‘You said “fishy”,’ Patience said and resumed her sleeve sniffing ritual. ‘That means we do smell, right?’

‘Calm down, young ’un,’ Maud giggled. ‘Ye’re reekin’ only of youth an’ I’m pretty green about it.’

‘Jabba was green,’ said Thomas.

‘Oh, God,’ Beatrice moaned. ‘Mum, do I have to take Thomas? I mean, can’t we just sit him in a corner with something soft to play with?’

‘Don’t be mean, Beatrice,’ Maureen said. ‘You’re going and I won’t hear another word said on the matter.’

Beatrice was quietly relieved by this. The only word she had left to say on the matter may have made even Gordon Ramsay blush.

***

Gliding through the streets of Dorsal Finn, a grand, black car sparkled under the vivid sunlight.

On the bonnet of the Rolls Royce, an ornament of a woman with a cloak fluttering behind her was frozen in pewter. She was flanked by two matching flags bearing the Dorsal Finn Mayoral Crest, which flapped wildly in the slipstream.

The car had a regal air to it. Its purring engine and shiny, black body added to the sense of occasion such a vehicle carried with it.

In the back seat, Mayor Gideon Codd rubbed at his neat, white goatee beard before adjusting the ruff on his ceremonial gown.

‘This is quite an honour,’ he said in a soft lilting voice to the man sitting next to him. ‘Your donation has been widely embraced by our community, Mr Frobisher.’

‘Please, Gideon,’ the man called Frobisher replied. ‘Call me Logan. We are colleagues, are we not?’ In contrast Logan Frobisher’s intonation had a deep, rich quality. It was the kind of voice that commanded and held the attention of people; the kind of voice that liked to be heard.

Gideon Codd smiled, but it was awkward, betraying his discomfort at shirking his shield of formality. ‘Of course, Logan. Though I have wondered why the Blue Thunder Foundation chose to grace our humble town with such an auspicious occasion, the first full blown pilot site for the programme. Very exciting.’

‘It is no mystery,’ Frobisher said returning Codd’s smile, his veneers glowing like a small sun. ‘I have roots in this wonderful town. It seems poignant that I should honour them.’

‘You never mentioned this in your proposal,’ Codd said warming slightly.

‘Are we both not men who appreciate heritage above all else, Gideon?’ Frobisher said as he played with a large gold sovereign ring on his thick index finger. ‘And I’m surprised at your uncertainty at such a gift from our organisation.’

‘Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,’ Codd said, suddenly flustered.

Frobisher merely grinned at his companion’s discomfort and adjusted the hem of his neat collar. ‘You’re an inquisitive fellow, I’ll say that for you,’ he said. ‘But I guess a man of prominence must always court caution. Comes with the turf, as we used to say.’

‘Indeed,’ the Mayor said relaxing a little. ‘I must say that the role your organisation offers the youth of today is quite an admirable concept.’

‘It has moved beyond a concept, beyond a philosophy, Gideon,’ Frobisher said stoically. ‘We, at the Blue Thunder Foundation, consider it our duty to uphold the values of a civilised society. Children are quite feral these days. And we, as adults, are to blame.’

‘How so?’ Codd asked with intrigue in his voice.

‘Adults no longer demonstrate a sense of purpose to the young. It’s all platitudes and easy living. Money is doled out like candy. There is little in terms of focus. The beast remains untamed, as you might say.’

‘I might well say such a thing,’ Codd nodded thinking of Beatrice and The Newshounds in particular. ‘When I consider some of the younger elements in our town your doctrine does strike a chord.’

‘Not everyone sees this, of course,’ Frobisher continued. ‘There are critics, existing organisations that have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. But we do not balk at the opinions of naysayers; we merely embrace the challenges and, as such, grow stronger. This is why we are so selective.’

‘Selective?’

‘Why, yes, selective,’ Frobisher confirmed, his big chest expanding to fill his blue blazer. ‘Our regimen isn’t to everyone’s taste. Some would even call it controversial. But there is no denying the results. Young upstarts are becoming honest citizens; the bedrock of a civilised nation. And all it takes is a sense of purpose.’

‘I see,’ said Codd.

‘At this moment, I doubt that,’ Frobisher laughed jovially. ‘But you will. In the end you will see it all with perfect clarity. The events of the past few months are but a token of what the Blue Thunder Foundation has to offer the people of Dorsal Finn. The blurb our new recruits will take from the ceremony today will reveal all.’

‘Really?’

‘There you go again,’ Frobisher laughed. ‘Suspicion is the devil’s pawn, Gideon. Don’t worry, I shall broadcast our good intentions and attribute it all to the man who had the vision and good sense to allow it to happen.’ Frobisher pierced Codd with his stare, the inference clear to all but Codd.

‘Me?’ Codd said with pride, though he wasn’t sure why. He really had no idea what Frobisher was talking about.

‘You, Gideon,’ Frobisher confirmed. ‘You will welcome the announcement, believe me. It’s the kind of thing that makes the humblest of souls immortal. Would you like that Gideon? Would you like to become immortal?’

‘I am intrigued,’ Codd said, appearing bewildered.

‘Over the coming days I will sate such intrigue, my friend,’ Frobisher said with a nod. ‘Soon you shall be remembered forever.’