The Lower Strangling Chronicles
The searing summer heat waves were ancient history when the clocks went back, darkness crept earlier into the day, and the trees began to shed their leaves.
Lower Strangling was wet and windy, with an overcast sky overhead.
Leaves blew across the sparse roads as Alex Ike, a successful interior designer, wandered through the village.
He hugged himself around his Harris tweed jacket, trying his best to keep out the cold; his cashmere scarf fluttered in the wind around his neck.
The only remedy, however, was a trip inside the village’s signature hostelry, the Hangman’s Noose.
Once he was inside, Alex fully relaxed as the pub’s warm atmosphere hit him hard upon his ingress.
A smile appeared on Alex’s face as he strolled towards the bar and eased himself onto the empty stool, unwrapping his scarf and draping it in front of him.
“Morning, sir,” John Granger, the gruff but friendly landlord of the Hangman’s Noose, said to Alex. “What can I get for you?”
“Ah, yes, let’s see,” Alex said, perusing the pumps on offer. “I’ll have the Throckmorton Ale, please.”
“Of course, our speciality,” John said, pouring a glass of the gold stuff and passing it over to Alex.
“Thanks,” Alex said, paying John and raising his glass.
He took a sip, letting the taste wash over him.
Next to Alex, Robert Sherman, the man who’d brewed the beer, glanced at him.
“What do you think?” He said.
“It’s very good,” Alex said. “The best beer I’ve tasted.”
“Excellent. Good to know what the people think of my produce,” Robert said, offering Alex a hand. “Robert Sherman, I brew Throckmorton Ale.”
Alex stared at Robert, smiled and nodded as he shook the brewer’s hand.
Then Alex pulled a blank sheet of paper from his satchel and held it up to the ceiling lights.
He squinted at it, but all he could see was the light shining through the parchment.
Alex sighed and placed it on the bar.
“Do any of you have a UV torch, by any chance?” Alex said, glancing at his companions.
His fellow barflies and John gawked at Alex and exchanged glances with each other.
“That’s not usually something I carry about on my person,” Robert said. “My apologies.”
Alex stared at the blank sheet in front of him and sighed.
“Drat,” he said under his breath.
As he drowned his sorrows in ale, the people next to him entered into conversation.
“So, what do you all think about the pedestrianisation of Oxenaforda Street?” Paul Stiller, the village’s affable wine merchant, said. “Frankly I think it’s a long time coming.”
“I might venture out and do my Christmas shopping,” Robert said. “The lack of traffic may soothe my anxieties about visiting inner city Londinium somewhat.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t give much credence to anything the government does,” Alex said, leaning back on his stool. “It’s been ruined by voodoo.”
The barflies turned their heads and squinted at Alex.
“Come again?” John said.
“ Dark magic has cursed the government benches of the Commons for the past decade,” Alex said, finishing the dregs of his ale. “I thought it was common knowledge.”
John shrugged. “Not really.”
Alex sighed and rolled his eyes. “You know how we’ve had seven Prime Ministers in ten years, don’t you?”
The people at the bar glanced at each other, then back to Alex.
“We have, yes,” Robert said. “But I assure you that is purely down to public dissatisfaction and consecutive scandals, nothing supernatural.”
“That’s what most people think, yes,” Alex said. “But in reality, they have fallen out of favour with the Witch Doctor, and so they have to leave.”
John stared blankly at Alex. “Did the Witch Doctor determine the election result two years ago?”
Alex sighed and gazed at his legs. “No, that was simply democracy in action. But the electorate did free the Traditional Party of the Witch Doctor’s influence, and trapped the Progressive Party in their place.”
“Sorry, mate, who’s this Witch Doctor you’re talking about?” Bruce Richardson, Lower Strangling’s nihilistic and carefree poacher, said. “It’s not Petrov, is it?”
“No, no, no,” Alex said, shaking his head. “He is not someone in the public eye. He lurks in the shadows, influencing this country’s politics invisibly.”
John turned pale and gulped down some ale. “Right,” he said after a while.
Bruce began to cackle, rocking in his stool. “What’re you guys taking this bloke seriously for? He’s a nutter, clearly.”
“I know I sound insane,” Alex said. “But once the truth gets out, you’ll realise that it is fact you that is insane.”
Bruce leaned closer to Alex, glaring at him. “There’s at least one person here that has a few Kangaroos loose in the top paddock, but it certainly ain’t me.”
“That’s enough, Bruce,” John said, scowling at the poacher. “Our friend here might be unusual, but he’s a guest. We must make him welcome.”
Bruce muttered something under his breath and took another swig of his Foster’s.
“Anyway, my thoughts on the government aside,” Alex said, picking up the sheet of paper in front of him. “Is anyone able to help me read this letter?”
The people around the bar shook their heads and shrugged.
“Sorry, mate, no can do,” Bruce said, grinning as he swigged his Foster’s. “Is there even anything on there? It looks blank.”
Alex scrutinised the letter. “It’s written with invisible ink. I need a UV light to read it. Do you know anyone who has access to one?”
“Not really, mate,” Bruce said. “You’re on your own.”
Alex gazed at the letter and groaned.
Just then, Janet Foster, Detective Sergeant for Glevumshire Constabulary, breezed into the pub.
“Ey up, lads!” She said, swaggering over to the bar with her arms outstretched.
John and everyone at the bar except Alex cheered as she paraded over to them.
Janet’s girlfriend, Jo Whitely, Lower Strangling’s horticultural polymath, shuffled into the pub behind her.
“There you are!” Janet said to Alex, swaggering over to him and hitting him on the back. “We were wondering when you were turning up.”
Alex turned round, and his eyes bulged at the sight of Janet.
“Miss Foster,” Alex said, jolting up right. “I was going to assess your cottage right away, after I’d have a pint.”
“That’s absolutely fine,” Janet said, placing an arm around Jo’s shoulders. “We’d just come in here to do the same.”
Robert glanced at Alex. “So you’re here on a prior engagement then?”
“‘Course he is!” Janet said. “He’s going to design us a new kitchen.”
“Yes,” Alex said, tightening his lips. “Exactly.”
“You seem cheerful today, Janet,” John said, leaning on the bar. “Something good happened, did it?”
“Not really,” Jo said. “She’s just excited about her new kitchen, and her leave period.”
“Right,” John said. “Two pints of Throckmorton Ale?”
“You know us too well,” Janet said.
“You work for the police, don’t you?” Alex said.
“Yeah,” Janet said. “Why?”
“You don’t have a UV light, by any chance?” Alex said, pushing the letter towards Janet. “I’ve got a message here written in invisible ink but am unable to read it.”
“I wouldn’t give much credence to anything he says if I were you,” Bruce said, narrowing his eyes at Alex. “I don’t know what he’s like as an interior designer, but as a general bloke he’s a fruitloop.”
Jo leaned over Janet’s shoulder as she sifted through her handbag.
“Lucky I’ve got one attached to my keys, isn’t it?” Janet said, whipping out a ring of useful trinkets.
“Ah, excellent,” Alex said as Janet picked out a small torch.
John pushed Janet and Jo’s pints towards them, which Jo silently paid for whilst Janet was preoccupied with the secret letter.
“Here we go,” Janet said, clicking on the torch and shining a light on the paper.
Luminous lettering appeared under the UV rays.
“Would you like to have a look at this?” Alex said to Bruce, who willfully ignored him. “So you can see there is actually invisible lettering on it?”
“It’s not so invisible now though, is it?” Janet said, perusing the letter.
Jo peered over Janet’s shoulder and read the letter as she sipped her pint.
The Witch Doctor is dissatisfied with the government. John Snow’s days are numbered.
Janet gazed at Alex and squinted at him.
Alex laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m part of a small but committed group of people who believe the government has been under voodoo control since 2016.”
Janet gawped at Alex, shrugged. “I suppose that’s as good an explanation for the shambles of the past decade as any.”
Bruce rolled his eyes and chugged the dregs of his Fosters.
“Indeed,” Alex said. “That’s certainly what we think, anyway.”
“But it’s a bit soon for John Snow to be ousted, though, isn’t it?” Janet said, taking the first taste of her drink. “He’s only been Prime Minister for a few months.”
“Yeah,” Jo said. “Give him a couple of years at least.”
“Unfortunately, it is not up to the public to decide,” Alex said, hanging his head low and frowning. “People believe the downfall of Prime Ministers is public favour, but really it is the whims of the Witch Doctor.”
“Sorry, who is this Witch Doctor?” Jo said. “Have I missed something?”
“You’ve missed nothing, love,” Bruce said. “Fruitloop, as I said.”
Janet examined the interior designer, squinting at him.
“Is the Witch Doctor an MP?” Janet said. “Someone prominent in the cabinet who is well known, perhaps?”
Alex gazed at the ceiling, tapping his chin. “No. No one knows who the Witch Doctor is. All we know is that he exists and has the government under an iron grip.”
“Is he God?” Jo asked. “Is God controlling the government?”
Janet glared at her girlfriend. “Obviously not, Jo. Just drink your ale.”
Jo glanced away from the bar and silently drank her beer.
“Is this Witch Doctor human or a supernatural entity?” Janet said, trying to gaze into Alex’s eyes even though he turned away from her. “What do you actually know about him?”
“Right, I’m off,” Bruce said, handing his glass back to John. “Enjoy making sense of this nutcase.”
As Bruce sauntered out of the pub, Alex slowly turned towards Janet.
“All I know- all we know- is that voodoo magic has the government for at least a decade,” Alex said. “I don’t know what ethnicity the Witch Doctor is, or gender.”
“So there’s a chance it might just be in your head then,” Janet said. “Who gave you the letter?”
“It was posted through my letter box this morning, by a member of the Voodoo collective, presumably,” Alex said, stuffing the letter back into his bag. “I didn’t have time to read it before I was due to assess your kitchen, so I thought I’d bring it with me and read it in the pub.”
Janet took a few steps back, swilling some of her ale. “Maybe you should take a break from this Voodoo thing, yeah? You might feel better then.”
Alex rose from his stool, hugging his bag, and gave Janet a curt nod.
“Ok, I think it’s time to design your dream kitchen, don’t you?” Alex said. “I’ll meet you at your cottage once you’ve had your drink.”
Janet did a double take, blinking rapidly. “Fine, just sit on the bench outside; we’ll join you in a bit. Six Death Row, the one with the Peonies in the front garden.”
“Noted,” Alex said, nodding. “Good day to you.”
Janet and her friends watched silently as the interior designer wandered out of the pub as if nothing had happened.
“Well,” Paul said, quaffing his wine. “This has been an interesting morning.”
“Yeah,” Janet said, staring blankly at the bar. “It has.”
Jo clocked a long strip of fabric draped in front of Alex’s stool.
“He’s left his scarf here,” Jo said, running over to the item and grabbing it. “His neck will freeze without it.”
She bolted out of the pub, the neckwear flowing behind her.
“Wait! Alex, you’ve left your scarf!” She said as she vanished.
Janet chuckled to herself and downed the rest of her ale.
“I better go and join them,” Janet said as she banged the empty glass on the bar and pushed it towards John. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
With that, Janet jogged out of the pub, hoping to catch up with her girlfriend and the interior designer they’d hired before they reached the cottage.
“We certainly get some eccentric people in this village, don’t we?” Robert said, observing the front door swinging on his hinges.
“Yeah,” John said. “It’s exactly how it should be.”
And so, more patrons flooded into the pub; John served them, and the working day began.
