A Plague of Hearts by Patrick Whittaker (best large ereader .TXT) 📖

© Patrick Whittaker 1986

The right of Patrick Whittaker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988


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A SILENT THUNDER PUBLICATION

1. At the Palace of Hearts

A sad fact: without his make-up the Knave of Hearts looked ordinary. Not even his sequined pyjama top and matching fishnet stockings could provide enough pizazz to lift his appearance above the mundane.
To be honest, he never looked his best first thing in the morning, but on this occasion his glamour level was at an all-time low.
The March Hare handed him a bathrobe. Accepting it with a grunt of thanks, the Knave carried it over to the large wall mirror which dominated one corner of his bedroom and stood in awe of his own reflection. It never ceased to amaze him that such a slight figure could survive life’s tribulations relatively unscathed. He searched his eyes for some clue to his continued existence, some hint of hidden strength. As always, it eluded him.
He flicked impulsively at his kiss curl. Dandruff erupted and fell like a flock of disgraced angels. He farted. ‘Behold the Wind God,’ he muttered. ‘Was ever a man so flatulent as I?’
The March Hare thought probably not, but refrained from saying so. Having been a valet all his adult life, he knew when to leave a question unanswered.
Lifting the lid off the breakfast trolley, he poured a cup of industrial strength coffee.
The Knave knocked it back in one.
His valet shuddered. ‘Your taste buds - ’
‘Are entirely my own affair. Don’t nag. I hate it when you nag.’ The Knave spoke in rich, saccharine tones which disguised his original accent - pure Black Marsh with its hard vowels and soft consonants. His acquired voice had served him well during the years he had lived and worked at the Palace of Hearts. It had protected him from the palace bullies - aristocrats who would think nothing of beating any other man - or woman - to a pulp.
He was effeminate. Almost everyone who knew him called him a poof. There was nothing to be gained from inflicting pain on such a person - no proof of virility, no evidence of manliness.
The Knave’s one official duty was to misbehave. His contract bound him to three practical jokes a week and as much wicked banter as the situation demanded. It was a job he did well and with flair. But he had to keep his eye on the thin line between witty repartee and coarse ridicule, satire and insult. It was a hard balance to achieve and the Knave had chosen his tools with care.
Beneath the fishnet stockings and silk gym slip which had become his trademark, lay a shrewd mind that knew few men would take offence at remarks made by someone who was wetter than an old maid’s hanky. Or appeared to be.
The Knave threw his cup on the bed and farted again. ‘What’s that noise?’
‘You,’ said the March Hare. ‘You botty-burped.’
‘I meant the noise outside. It sounds like a plebs’ convention.’
The March Hare went to the window, pulled aside the curtains. Three storeys below, a group of workmen in the palace gardens argued over what colour to paint the rose bushes.
It was the height of summer and the gardens were a model of controlled exuberance. Hedgerows cut across each other with geometric precision, their tops trimmed as severely as an army crew-cut. The lawns were held within strict boundaries by cobbled pathways and flamboyant flower beds; here and there, fountains captured rainbows in plumes of sparkling water.
‘They’re preparing the croquet lawn,’ said the March Hare. ‘Today sees the start of the Queen’s croquet tournament,’
‘Oh dear. How tedious. I shall spend the day at the races. There’s a filly I rather fancy for the 3.15.’
‘Would you like sandwiches made up?’
‘I think not. Champagne and chocolate should do it.’
‘Milk or plain?’
‘My dear March Hare, utter the word plain in front of me again, and I shall have you made into a pyjama case. I want my chocolate pink and steeped in cherry brandy. I want it encrusted with sherbet and laid upon a bed of Turkish delight. I want it oozing calories and potential heart disease. Just ask the Chef for my Race Day Special. He’ll know what you mean.’
Slipping on his bathrobe, the Knave stepped over to the breakfast trolley and examined its contents. Toast, grapefruit and marmalade. ‘You don’t honestly expect me to consume this crap, do you? Remove it and fetch me something less healthy. A bowl of liquorice perhaps. And see to it that my palate is never again threatened with such insipid blandness.’
At that moment, there was a knock on the door, as sharp and certain as a full stop. Before either of them could ask who it was, the door opened and a Penguin walked in. Despite the clemency of the weather, he wore a raincoat, buttoned from top to bottom and held in check by a leather belt. The formality of his manner made the jaunty angle of his trilby seem contrived.
He smelt of trouble.
‘Excuse me,’ said the March Hare, adopting a tone imbued with quiet indignation. ‘But you can’t come waltzing in here like that. This is a private apartment. The public aren’t allowed in this part of the palace.’
Ignoring this rebuke, the Penguin went straight to the window. He appeared to be studying the curtains, but occasionally his eyes would seek his reflection in the glass. His posture suggested quiet menace. He frowned constantly as if the whole world met with his disapproval. At last he spoke. ‘Which of you is the Knave of Hearts?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ said the March Hare.
‘Obvious?’ The Penguin turned, placed his hands behind his back. ‘In my game, you can never say that anything is obvious. All I know for sure is that I’m in a boudoir being addressed by a giant bunny rabbit while some gormless poof in fishnet stockings looks on.’
‘I’m not a bunny rabbit,’ said the March Hare.
‘And I’m not a poof,’ said the Knave of Hearts.
‘If you’re not a poof,’ said the Penguin, ‘I’m not a penguin.’
‘Never mind him,’ said the March Hare. ‘I object most strongly to being called a bunny rabbit.’
The Penguin shrugged. He glanced briefly in the direction of the window then looked directly at the March Hare. ‘They say you’re mad.’
‘Right now I’m livid.’
‘Then go home. You’re no longer needed here.’
‘Now hang on,’ said the Knave whose cheeks were markedly less pallid than they had been. ‘You can’t go around dismissing other people’s manservants as if they were your own.’
‘Yes I can.’
‘If you don’t leave at once, I shall call the police.’
‘I am the police.’
The Knave stepped backwards, stepped forwards, stepped back again. He puffed out his cheeks. ‘What?’
‘Do you need a diagram? It’s quite simple actually. I am a policeman. Your furry friend here is the March Hare. And you are the Knave of Hearts. Anything else confusing you?’
‘Everything,’ said the Knave. ‘If you’re a policeman, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you out chasing criminals?’
‘I am. Which leads me to my next point. You’re under arrest.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
‘I can’t be.’
‘You can! And I suggest you shut up; every time you open your gob, you say something stupid.’
The March Hare decided he had better take a hand. ‘You cannot arrest my employer,’ he announced in his most authoritative voice. ‘He is innocent.’
‘He’s wearing stockings,’ said the Penguin. ‘What’s so innocent about that?’
‘You still can’t arrest him.’
‘Want to bet?’ The Penguin produced a piece of paper bearing the State Emblem and lots of small letters.
He waved it in the March Hare’s face. ‘This is what we in law enforcement call an arrest warrant. If you’d care to examine the bottom right hand corner you will observe that it has been signed by none other than the President himself.
The Knave struck a defiant posture. ‘I’m going to call my lawyer.’
‘You can’t. He’s in prison. We arrested him for sheep-rustling and crimes against humanity.’
‘At least read me my rights.’
‘As of midnight just gone, you don’t have any.’
‘I am a citizen of Hearts and a true and loyal subject. Of course I have rights.’
‘You seem to have forgotten there’s a war on.’
It was true. The war against Spades held little interest for the Knave who preferred to pretend that no such conflict existed. Although tales of bloodshed and atrocity were common currency amongst the palace staff, they played no part in his thoughts. If a battalion died, it died. If a village was razed - so what? Alongside pink chocolate and champagne, senseless slaughter paled into insignificance.
War, for the Knave, was something that happened to someone else.
‘What,’ he demanded to know, ‘has the sodding war got to do with my rights?’
The Penguin looked pained. ‘Am I to take it then that you’ve not heard? That despite living in the lap of government, you are blissfully unaware of the State of Emergency that now exists? Are you that out of touch?’
‘My fault,’ said the March Hare. ‘I hadn’t gotten around to telling him. I thought it would be best to wait until after breakfast.’
‘I see,’ said the Knave. ‘Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me now? Just what is this State of Emergency?’
‘It means martial law,’ said the March Hare. ‘The army’s taken over.’
‘In other words,’ said the Penguin, ‘the army and police are free to do whatever they damn well like. Which means you can kiss your so-called rights on the buttocks and wish them a fond farewell.’
The Knave pondered the pattern on the carpet. Even before getting out of bed, he’d somehow known that today was not going to be his best ever. But he had not expected this.
He cleared his throat. ‘May I inquire as to what I am accused of?’
The Penguin glanced at the warrant. ‘According to this, you’ve been charged under section IV, paragraph V of the Official Secrets Act.’
‘The Official Secrets Act? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘That’s because it’s an official secret.’ The Penguin looked pleased with himself. He thrust the paper back into his pocket then opened the door. Just as it looked as if he might be leaving, he cried, ‘Constable!’, and a Badger appeared.
‘Reporting for duty, sir!’ said the Badger, saluting smartly. He wore the same coat and hat as the Penguin but lacked his style. Beneath heavy brows, his beady little eyes moved constantly.
‘Permission to beat up the suspect, sir?’
‘Permission denied. Doing people over in public is no longer police procedure. That’s what we have cells for.’
‘But I’m gasping for violence. You know what I’m like if I go without for more than a couple of hours.’
‘You should have had some before we came out. What happened