March: A Tale of Salmon and Swedes (The Glothic Tales Book 4) (8 page)

‘He is fine, and after the little fiasco at HMV, he has been very well behaved since we brought him in. But it is clear that he is quite an Abba fan,’ the policeman said, with a reassuring smile. ‘Now, if I could have your full name and address.’

Tryskolia gave her details to the policeman, and then answered quite a long list of questions. When he asked if March was suffering from any mental illness or disturbance, she was careful in her reply that he wasn’t as such, but that at times he wasn’t the brightest candle on the birthday cake. The officer seemed to understand, and gave her an agreeing half smile, and then proceeded to make a few more notes.

‘Will he have to go to court?’ she asked.

‘No charges have been laid by the store manager, and except for getting a little upset and carried away about Abba, he wasn’t violent or threatening, so he hasn’t committed any crime. He’s really only guilty of being a bit of a nuisance, so no, he won’t be charged; and in any case, he is carrying a diplomatic passport, so we would prefer not to get involved any further in the matter. He will be free to leave with you as soon as I have completed the paperwork. I will give him an official warning however, just for our own records.’

‘Thank you, officer, I will do my best to keep him out of trouble, and away from anything to do with Abba.’

‘Good idea. All right, if you can wait here for a little while, I will arrange for his release from custody.

Tryskolia was a little grumpy, and tired, when March finally appeared after more than an hour, giving him hardly a glance as she said, ‘I think we’ll take a taxi home. My feet are killing me.’

March went to apologise, but she raised her hand and stopped him mid-sentence. ‘Wait until we get home before we discuss this.’

‘Yes, very well,’ he replied, with a huffing sigh, which Tryskolia understood all too well. Gregorians do not accept being told what to do, by anyone, and he was only holding back his desire to speak his mind out of sufferance.

Luckily for her, he managed to remain calm and silent during their taxi ride home, and remained so until she had rested a little, made, and then had finished their cup of relaxing Earl Grey.

‘No cucumber sandwiches today?’

‘No March, not today.’

He didn’t reply, only hummed. Trys recognised the tune.

If you change your mind, I'm the first in line

Honey I'm still free

Take a chance on me…

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, March!’

*****

It wasn’t until later in the evening, over dinner of home delivered Indian that Tryskolia ended her surly silence.

‘Look, March. Abba are not around anymore, and the four of them are very old now. It is well over thirty-five or forty years now since they performed, so there is no point carrying on like this about them. You can’t buy them; they’re people, and old ones at that, so please forget about this silly fixation you have with them.’

‘But they are so fantastic! I’m sure if I could meet them, they would agree to come with me to Glo….’

‘March! No! You cannot even think of the notion of transporting anyone from here, not even Abba, to Gloth. It took millions of years to eradicate the Erdean gene from Gloth, and to purify the Glothic royal family, so get any ideas like that out of your head this instant.’

‘It was just a thought,’ he said sheepishly, as he played with his Chicken Korma and saffron rice.

‘A thought like that could get you into very serious trouble. Your father would kill you if you dared to try something so foolish.’

‘There’s never been Supreme Potentate called March. I would be the first, you know,’ he said, looking down, still toying with his food.

‘Well, agree to forget this whole Abba idea, and perhaps you’ll have a chance of becoming the first.’

‘Yes, you are right, I have to admit. It was silly of me to get so carried away, and I should be concentrating on how to afford entry ports and selling a million tonnes of salmon, and thousands of kilos of caviar.’

‘Don’t forget the oysters,’ she half smiled, which broke the ice a little.

‘Um, I have a question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are the police here some kind of charity organisation?’

‘No, not at all. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, well there was a kindly old man, who shared my little barred room with me at the police station, and he said that he loved them for their generosity. He told me that he didn’t have anywhere to live, so anytime he needed a nice warm place to sleep and to get a few free hearty meals, he could always count on the police to abide his needs.’

‘By getting arrested, I presume.’

‘Yes, but I felt a little sorry for him, because he told me he was getting too old to commit anything serious enough to get more than a day or two now, let alone a few years worth of free lodgings. Too old and tired to get porridge, he said, but I didn’t understand what he meant by that.’

‘Porridge in that sense means going to prison.’

‘Oh right, for murder or bank robbery or such like.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, poor fellow. I hope he gets up the energy to do something worth, um, getting porridge then.’

‘An odd way to look at life, but I think I understand what you mean. Oh, I forgot to tell you because of all the fuss today that I have arranged a meeting for you with the vice-president of the Camera Stellata.’

‘Not the president?’ he asked, but with a sarcastic raised eyebrow.

‘No. There are reasons why that will be very difficult, but I promise I will explain it all to you after we have met with the vice-president.’

‘Such secrecy. It’s all rather fascinating.’

‘No, it’s not secrecy, March. It’s only that you need to understand the geopolitical situation here much better before we move on, and the vice-president is far better informed than I am to explain some of the complexities that are involved.’

‘Very well, so when is the meeting?’

‘Friday evening, so in three days time. That will give you plenty of time to prepare yourself and do more detailed research on import and export potential and Earth geopolitics.’

‘Salmon, caviar, oysters, precious metals, but no music.’

‘Well done, March!’

To Market, To Market, Said The Fat Pig

It took a long taxi ride, followed by a short walk to wait at a dark intersection, then the arrival of a black car, which took them on a short trip to yet another intersection, and another wait for another black car before March and Tryskolia finally arrived at their destination. A door. So nondescript was the door, that it could only be described as a door, made of old wood. There was no door handle, no lock and no sign saying,
Please Ring Before Entering
. Either side of the dark door were windowless brick walls, with not a streetlight in sight.

‘Wait here,’ the driver said, before getting back into his black car and driving away.

‘I guess we wait then,’ March said, a little nervously, as he looked up and down the dark street as if expecting to be shot at from all angles any second.

‘Don’t worry, this is all perfectly normal, and necessary to ensure that we have not been followed.’

‘By who?’

‘Anyone,’ she replied, just as the door creaked open.

‘Please come in,’ an unsmiling mature woman with an austere short haircut and dressed in an unappealing dark business suit said. Tryskolia and March entered without exchanging a word, and followed the woman, after she had closed the door, down a long, dimly lit corridor until they reached a door on their right. The unsmiling woman opened it and invited them to descend the stairs, where she informed them that they would be attended to upon their arrival.

‘Is it always like this?’ March asked, as they made their way slowly down what appeared to be unending flights of stairs.

‘It’s necessary,’ was all Trys said, as she hobbled slowly, carefully taking one step at a time, and supporting herself on both her walking stick and March’s left arm.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they waited in front of a closed door.

‘Should I knock?’ March asked.

‘No, just wait a few moments,’ she replied.

The door opened abruptly, half startling March, as a very portly man in a three-piece suit, with a shining bald spot and a glowing smile greeted them.

‘Good evening, Madam Gregorian, so good to see you once again. And you must be Mr. March Gregorian. Welcome, sir. It’s indeed a pleasure to meet you. I’m Earl Prescott-Jones,’ he said, as he shook their hands. ‘Please come in.’

‘Thank you,’ March replied, but immediately noticed that Mr. Prescott-Jones’ wide, welcoming smile was not at all reflected in his eyes. They were as hard and cold as steel. He also inwardly congratulated himself on having done enough research over the previous three days to know that Earl Prescott-Jones was the British Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Prescott-Jones closed the door and invited them to follow him, leading them down yet another dim corridor, to another door, which opened into a grand meeting room, with a long table, lined with ornate chairs either side, and was lit from above by a line of golden candelabras. ‘A sherry perhaps?’ he asked, as they entered.

‘Thank you, that would be very nice,’ Trys replied, and March nodded, but without knowing what a sherry was.

‘Please take a seat. I’ll be with you in a jiffy,’ he said, and made his way to a cabinet against the wall, before returning to join them with three small glasses and a carafe in his hands. He poured a glass each, and then raised his own. ‘Well, to good fortune,’ he said.

‘Yes, to good fortune,’ Trys replied, raising her glass, and looked at March to follow her lead.

‘Um, yes, good fortune,’ March said, almost timidly, and looked at Trys, as she took a very small sip of her sherry, so he did the same. He was not too sure he liked it though, as his preference would have been for a nice cold Draft Sunk.

‘It has been a very long time since we had the pleasure to greet a member of the Glothic royal family. Indeed, it was my great-grandfather who had the honour last. So that is quite some time ago,’ Prescott-Jones said, after his sip of sherry.

‘Well, Earth is not such an easy place to visit. Quite awkward and uncomfortable in fact,’ March replied.

‘Yes, I understand full well, Mr. Gregorian. The damned force field is a proper nuisance, for us all. I wish there was a way to make things easier, but well, as Madam Gregorian knows from our many discussions, we would dearly like to have modern entry ports installed, or even better, the whole force field removed, but both are impossible at this time, due to many factors. So thank you so much for making such an effort to be here.’

‘My pleasure. But yes, it’s rather an unpleasant experience making one’s way here, so I must say that I share your desire to upgrade the force field.’

As Prescott-Jones and March exchanged agreeable and polite smiles, Trys decided it was time to get down to business. ‘I haven’t explained the history of the Camera Stellata to Mr. Gregorian, Mr. Prescott-Jones, as I thought it may be better coming from you. Perhaps you would like to give Mr. Gregorian a brief history before we make a start on current matters.’

‘Oh, certainly.’

March prepared himself to be bored to death, for some considerable amount of time, so he fortified himself with quite a large sip of his sherry. Prescott-Jones, to his credit in March’s mind, noticed, and immediately refilled his glass.

‘Well, to be as brief as possible, the first settlers here; that is, those who were brought here by Septimity, landed in an area between what is now Geneva in Switzerland and Lyon in France. Very quickly though, the settlers divided into those who carried Glothic blood; who were all exiled members of the Glothic royal family, including January and April of course, because they were tainted with the Erdean gene, and those who were either pure Erdean or of mixed race, such as some who were of mixed Erdean and Lacertilian extraction. Luckily for these half-castes however, the Lacertilian gene is regressive, so their distinctive characteristics have all but disappeared over the generations. Anyway, it was those of Glothic royal blood who deemed it as their responsibility to take control of the new settlement, and within a few hundred years, had established control and absolute authority over vast areas of what is now Europe, Russia, and then later into the sub-continent and Asia. As is the case in many countries, we in Britain have a royal and ruling class that is without exception, of Glothic royal blood.’

‘Including yourself?’ March asked.

‘Yes. My family dates back to the very first settlers, and in particular to January and her son, April, who was to have become the Supreme Potentate. As I understand, January remarried after arriving on Earth, and from her marriage, our family lineage began, which at some time later moved here to Britain. Other Glothic royals however moved in different directions, and within a few hundred years had established control over what is now greater mainland Europe, Russia, India and China. Most importantly though, were those who took control over an area in southern Italy, and in reverence to Pope Gregory, they established the city of Rome to honour both his memory and that of Rom, the city on Erde from which he came. At some later point in time though, after the population of Rome had flourished and problems within their society started to cause great concern, they established the very first secret meetings of those who came from the stars, meaning those of royal blood who came from Gloth. Over time, the name Camera Stellata, or sometimes the Star Chamber, became the common appellatives. But with the passing of the years, and the rapid increase in problems within society, these meetings began to take decisions, and act robustly, on matters which lords, kings and governments failed to address.’