A Plague of Hearts Read online

  A Plague of Hearts

  Patrick Whittaker

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): action adventure alice animal comedy duchess fantasy flamingoes funny hatter hearts humor humour mad mystery panda romance science sex surreal war weird wonderland

  Chapter 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 to that lawyer you were questioning?’

  ‘He died. I didn’t even get the chance to pull out his finger nails. One good poke with a hot iron and he has a heart attack! It just isn’t fair.’

  ‘That wouldn’t happen to be my lawyer?’ said the Knave of Hearts. ‘Would it?’

  The question went unanswered.

  ‘What about him then?’ said the Badger, pointing at the March Hare. ‘If I were to slit his throat before he could scream, nobody would ever know. I’ve always wanted a lucky rabbit’s foot.’

  The Penguin shook his head. ‘He’s a hare.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘He’s a protected species.’

  ‘But Martial Law - ’

  ‘Has nothing to do with it. He’s still protected.’

  The Badger looked peeved. ‘Sometimes this job’s no fun at all. It’s not even as if we’re well-paid. I tell you, if it wasn’t for protection money, I’d never be able to make ends meet.’

  ‘Just handcuff the suspect, Constable. We’ve a busy day ahead us and I’d like to get on.’

  The Knave of Hearts straightened the seams of his stockings before allowing the Badger to cuff his hands. ‘Ormus, he said, turning to the March Hare with a sad smile. ‘Go see Doctor Ormus. Maybe he can sort this out for me.’

  The March Hare watched helplessly as the two secret policemen led his employer away.

  The whole affair smacked of something sinister - something which was only just beginning to build its momentum. There was no doubt that other arrests would follow. Maybe he himself would be next.

  He closed the door and helped himself to a slice of toast. It tasted stale.

  Chapter 2

  A Mad Tea Party

  On his way to Castle Ormus, the March Hare took a detour to breakfast with his old friend, the Mad Hatter. It was the final day of the Hatter’s tea party and he felt he ought to put in an appearance - for old times’ sake if nothing else.

  The party was being held in the spacious garden that swept from the Hatter’s quaint little cottage down to a pond graced with purple and blue lilies. Because it was the height of summer and the skies this year had remained exceptionally clear, the table was set beneath the protective branches of a large oak.

  When the March Hare arrived, the only guest still in attendance was the Dormouse; he was fast asleep with his right cheek resting against a mound of jelly. The March Hare sat next to him and waited to be noticed by his host.

  Three cups of tea stood on the table in front of the Mad Hatter. He frowned at them with an intensity that bordered on psychotic. With careful sips, he tasted each in turn.

  Dressed in top hat and tails, he would have looked elegant but for the obvious fact that his outfit was long overdue for a visit to the cleaners. A large blob of marmalade had conquered most of his left elbow. His cuffs were frayed. There was jam on both his sleeves and what might have been gravy on his lapels.

  ‘Strange,’ muttered the Mad Hatter, regarding the three cups with graphic distaste. ‘Really bloody strange.’

  ‘What is?’ ventured the March Hare.

  ‘This tea,’ said the Hatter without looking up. ‘Quite unlike any tea I’ve ever encountered before. In fact, I’m not at all convinced that it really is tea. And that is plain bloody weird. It was definitely tea when I prepared it this morning.’

  ‘It looks like tea to me.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. To a certain extent it even tastes like tea. And yet it appears to have undergone some strange transformation. If I didn’t know better, I would say that this was something closely akin to ice cream.’

  ‘You mean it’s cold?’

  The Hatter snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! What we have here, dear boy, is cold tea. Did you ever hear of such a thing?’

  ‘Elementary physics. Hot tea cools down to the ambient temperature of its environment. Clever people like scientists call it entropy.’

  ‘Well, I call it disgraceful. I paid good money for what I thought was tea and it turns out to be entropy - and not even good entropy at that! You wait till I get my hands on that grocer.

  ‘You can’t blame your grocer. Entropy is a Law of Nature.’

  ‘Oh is it? Laws like that have no right existing. It’s a waste of milk and sugar.’

  ‘Sugar,’ said the Dormouse, stirring slightly. ‘Sugar and spice and body lice… ’

  The Hatter hit the sleeping rodent with a tea spoon then turned his attention back to the three cups of offending liquid. He prodded the first with his finger and ran a thoughtful hand across his chin. How could the Universe allow good tea to degrade into something so dreadful? A
nd to think there were still people who were convinced the world was created by a benign entity!

  Shaking his head ruefully, the Hatter swept his arm across the table, sending all three cups tumbling onto the lawn. ‘There! That’s the way to deal with entropy.’

  ‘We have no more tea then?’ The March Hare could barely conceal his disappointment as he looked around the table, a scale model of some alien war zone. Fragments of china lay half-buried beneath bread crumbs and old tea leaves. A reservoir of sour milk with banks of ruined fairy cake provided a backdrop to a panorama of fruit peel. In the middle of No-Man’s Land, an ant patrol negotiated a treacle slough.

  ‘Fresh out of tea,’ said the Mad Hatter, who was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t a wicked witch somewhere who spent her time magically transforming tea into entropy. ‘We’ll have to wait until the delivery man arrives. In the meantime, I’m sure I can find you some cake.’

  ‘I’m not in a cake mood.’

  ‘Oh come, come. Cake is the opinion of the people.’

  ‘Surely you mean opium?’

  ‘Not at all. Opium is something about which no two people have ever agreed, which is why nobody ever talks about a consensus of opium. Opinions, however, do occasionally match. Which is just as well otherwise democracy would never work.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ said the March Hare. ‘At least not any more.’

  ‘Any more than what?’

  ‘Any more than it used to.’

  ‘But I’m sure it did work. I distinctly remember voting for the Panda.’

  The March Hare was dismayed. ‘You voted for that tyrant? That bloodsucking vegetarian fur-ball?’

  ‘Me and three and a half million other people.’

  ‘That wasn’t a very good idea, was it?’

  ‘No use getting cross at me,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘I’m mad. Plenty of sane people voted for him. It’s them you ought to be having a go at.’

  Feeling his anger rise, the March Hare bit his lip and hoped that a few seconds of silence would be enough to kill the conversation. He had still not come to terms with the arrest of his employer, and right now he was liable to say something that he would regret for a very long time. Best to let the matter drop.