Civet Poo Coffee

At last the gang had their pints; best bitter, mild ale, or porter, Black Velvet for Augusta and warming Po Cha for Master Dorje, served from a copper teapot with a dragon spout into a delicate china bowl with only one small chip out of the rim.

“Impressed I am. Where in Limehouse, yak butter did you manage to acquire?”

“Under the counter at Jamrach’s Exotic Pet Emporium on Ratcliffe Highway,” replied Sam, looking over his shoulder as he sat at the piano, “They also do a side line in Kopi Luwak, a natural by-product from the feline department.”

“Civet poo coffee,” shouted Flo from behind the bar.

“No thanks!” sang out the entire company, in unison.

“Now, Master Dorje,” enquired Augusta, “what is your important news?”

“Ah, so. The Merovingian Lizard Kings my news concerns. The Dark Lords of Pandemonium are well displeased with this coup by Les Chats Souterrains. My companions and I…” There came renewed hammering on the cellar trapdoor. Flo jumped and then, baseball bat in hand, cautiously lifted the trap. Three more Tibetan worthies emerged. They were marginally less wizened than Dorje, identically clad in tall hats and yak skin coats, and similarly lacking in stature. They did not speak. “Aware were you that within your beer cellar a portal there is?”

“Do you think we’d have spent all that time wallowing around in the sewers if we’d known we had a portal of our own?” asked Phoebles.

“Ancient as time it is, referenced only in one single, rare, coded Sanskrit text, and known to no-one but the Lizard Lords. Also, fiendishly difficult to activate it has proved. But, to continue – my companions and I charged with bringing Les Chats to order are.”

Beryl was sitting alone in a dark corner of the room with a hubbly-bubbly pipe and a glass of Absinth. She stopped sucking. “Heavy, man. I hope you’re in time to save Aunty Stella. When we flew in it looked like a seriously bad trip was unfolding down the river.”

“Let us hope… Somewhat lacking in detail my instructions were. To improvise I am required.”

“Not again,” said Phoebles.

Outside clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight shone down, through the den’s bay window, to illuminate the back of master Dorje’s head. He rose, haloed in glowing gold:

“Have faith. Get me to Greenwich.”

Da da da dum. The long, final E-flat reverberated around the low ceilinged room, Sam hunched over the upright his fingers resting on the keys, the gang froze and Dark Flo looked up, stirred from the innocent act of tea-towelling a nonic beer glass. There was a pause, pregnant with dimly perceived significance.

“Right,” said Boz, “that will be ‘everyone back in the flying boat’ then.”

*

Ferdy butted the nose of the Do-X up against Greenwich Pier and Ginsbergbear tied the mooring line to a handy bubblegum dispenser. Overhead Les Chat’s foo-fighter ducked and wove about the sky, emitting a frenetic, wavering Wooh sound and mobbed by three corsair ‘Tsetse’ ornithopter ship-busters. The pursuers were blasting away, randomly and ceaselessly with their Molins six-pounders, pouring 57-mm round after 57-mm round into the vicinity of the flying saucer and giving it no chance to bring its death ray to bear. As Boz and the gang watched a stray round took out that woebegone relic of the golden age of sail, trade, and empire, the emasculated, land-bound Cutty Sark. They marched past the blazing hulk, strode up to the Chats’ guards on the West Gate of the Naval College, and pushed Master Dorje to the fore.

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Meanwhile Back at the Den…

Beryl followed the Thames down stream from Richmond half-tide lock, past Isleworth.

“You could never understand,” she told Ferdy, “Grass is such a bright green, rooftops such a gaudy grey. Everything glows like it’s made from neon tubing. The sunlight on the river is a firework display. And I am part of an eternal, infinite wholeness.”

“Good for you. Could we just concentrate on our driving?” During her enthusiastic praise of the beneficial effects of whatever concoction it was that she’d acquired from Rotskagg’s corsairs Beryl had veered away from the river and was heading for Greenford. “More black coffee up here please.”

Having got Beryl back on track Ferdy took a spell at the helm. He flew the Do-X over Hammersmith Bridge, past the Buddha in Battersea Park, and beyond the old Palace of Westminster, now a Steamroller factory. As they passed over Tower Bridge and the Lower Pool he was aware of thick smoke obscuring the southern tip of the Isle of Dogs.

“Looks like trouble down by Greenwich.”

As soon as they neared Bozzy’s Catnip Den Ferdy dumped the flying boat onto the river. He taxied up to a handy buoy and while the Do-X was being tethered the dinghy was launched.

“All aboard the Skylark!” And they headed for the shore. Sam was out on the den’s patio and as the gang scrambled up the ladder he organised a bosun’s chair for Lady Augusta. Once they were all inside Flo headed for the bar and Boz grabbed Sam’s arm.

“What’s going on?”

Sam took a breath, “Les Chats have been running rampage. They’ve occupied the Millwall Docks and Aunty Stella has rushed her troops to Greenwich to take them head on. It’s a reckless mission; my agents say Les Chats are well prepared and heavily armed.”

“Pints all round? Jugs or sleevers?” Dark Flo had a hand on the nearest in a row of beer engine handles, London porter, but before she could start to pump there came an urgent tapping on the trapdoor beneath her feet. “Who’ve you got in the cellar, Sam?”

“No one, I’ve been on my own all day.”

“Hmm.” She produced a baseball bat from under the counter and tossed it to Boz. “Cover me. Let’s see what’s going on.” With Boz poised by her side Flo grabbed the ring in the trapdoor and pulled it open. The black hole gaped. Then an orange plumed hat appeared, and an oriental face, and Master Dorje clambered out from the beer cellar.

Mrs King gave a gasp of surprise and clumped across the room on her crutches to greet him.

“Augusta my child, much important news for all of you I have.”

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Go Again, Mrs?

Kiki crawled over to Kitty Fisher and shook her.

“Not now Mam, I had a rough night.”

“What? Ow!” Scarlet DuBois was surfacing from under the freezer.

“Jump to it you two,” said Kiki as she retrieved her Bren from a heap of burst cornet cartons, “We’re missing all the action.”

“The van’s very buckled, isn’t the door jammed?” asked Kitty.

“Might well be, where ever it is. Flew off somewhere up the hill. We can get out, but keep your heads down.”

Outside the battle was at its height, the air thick with smoke and a cacophony of percussions, cries, whinnies and faltering mariachi filling their ears.

“Come on. We’re going to take out that eighty-eight.”

“Really?” They crawled on their bellies, snake like and unnoticed towards the far gun emplacement where a Krupp 8.8-cm Flugzeugabwehrkanone was pounding shell after shell into Aunty Stella’s cavalry. The Chat gun crew were too intent on loading and firing their artillery piece to notice the kittens creeping up. Until that is, Kitty, leaning provocatively against the stacked ammunition boxes, gave a whistle.

“Hello boys. Fancy a bit of fun?” They didn’t, it wasn’t, and they never knew who hit them from behind.

*

“Go again Mrs?”

Aunty Stella had staggered back to the observatory gates, leaving her mount, turban and pride in the melee below. She was looking around for Mad Jack when the Corporal of Horse addressed her. His uniform was torn, he had a nasty gash across his forehead and was leading a limping horse. His bedraggled comrades, clutching various wounds and supporting each other, tried unsuccessfully to match his enthusiasm.

“Not today lads. It was a brave, mad dash, but once was more than enough,” she replied. A two man Kronstadt machine gun crew was still firing their PM M1910 Maxim from the back of the tachanka as Snowdrop urged her team in retreat. Scattered survivors were making their way back as best they could. The exhausted troopers moved aside as Mad Jack trotted through their ranks looking like he had just stepped out from his tailor’s, unstained, uncrumpled and blissfully unconcerned. He was escorting Aunty Stella’s cob.

“What ho. Found this back there, wandering around on its own. One’s not sure, but them Chats may have something else up their sleeve.” On cue there was a glint of sunshine on polished aluminium out beyond the Naval College, and an eerie, pulsating, whirring sound. Les Chats’ ‘Feuerball’ flying saucer rose, hovered, and then advanced towards them, its death ray swivelling to point directly at the horrified remnants of the Hampshire Light Horse.

Seconds later there was a thundering crump from behind the observatory buildings and a large bore shell whooshed overhead. It hit the fuselage of the foo-fighter with a clang but did not explode. The Corsairs tended to buy their ammo on the cheap from a highly suspect black marketeer called Ali, on the Port Said quayside. The dark bulk of the Queen Anne’s Bounty lumbered into view, her mighty engines roaring and pennants straining in the cross wind. The haunting brass of Richard Strauss’ Sunrise from Also Sprach Zarathustra issuing from her speaker arrays was withering trees. Yet the overall sound quality was disappointingly tinny as the ship’s engineers had proven better at fixing motorjets than hifi.

“That tune’s quite soothing after the first noisy bit,” observed the Corporal of Horse.

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The Hampshire Light Horse

As Mad Jack Belvoir surveyed the scene, a small group, on foot, moved out in front of the barrier. One of their number waved a white flag.

“Time for a chat,” he said, handing the binoculars back to Aunty Stella and unfurling his own white pennant. She returned the bins to the case hanging from her saddle pommel and raised her right arm. The Hampshire Light Horse formed into three divisions, creating gaps for Snowdrop’s tachanka and the Vicecream van, topped with its gigantic jingle-horn, to move forward into view.

“Wait here,” she called back to her troops, and then to Mad Jack, “Lets get on with it.” They urged their mounts into a stately walk down the slope and halted some thirty yards short of the cluster of Chats Souterrains. After a brief pause the King Emperor Charles III, his Ronald McDonald costume faded and threadbare, face paint cracked and melting down his cheeks, Imperial State Crown perched precariously on top of his ginger wig, and a portly Mr Fluffy, in the Saville Row tailored uniform of a five star general, squeezed out from the group and walked towards them. A single Chat carrying the white flag of truce hurried to catch up.

The King Emperor was the first to speak. “You have a request? Could We be of assistance in any way?”

“You could surrender.”

“We think not.”

“You are cornered,” Aunty Stella lied. “Your forces on Jersey have collapsed without their CIA backers.” That was the truth, “It is all over for you. Defeat is inevitable.”

“Au contraire. We are at the heart of Our realm. What need We with the Channel Islands? Our Chats have possession of the Greenwich foot tunnel and command both banks of the river. The waterway is denied to you. Westminster Abbey is already booked for Our coronation.”

“They are not your Chats.” Mad Jack Belvoir had become uneasy with the way that Mr Fluffy was glowering at him and felt he should contribute. “You are their puppet. Do you really want to serve as a petty tyrant in a bankrupt client kingdom on the desolate outer fringes of their world empire?”

“Yes.”

“On your own head be it then.” Aunty Stella petulantly whirled her gipsy cob round and headed back up the hill. Just short of the ridge she stopped.

“Oh sod this.” She raised her right arm and with a dramatic twirl yelled, “Charge!”

The tachanka, with Snowdrop standing on the box seat, was first past Mad Jack and Aunty Stella. Then the Vicecream van, blaring out La Cucaracha, Consuella Starcluster, the tambourine virtuoso, on the roof lashed to the jingle-horn, waving both the Spanish republican tricolour and a black and red flag of the anarchist CNT.

The Hampshire Light Horse lurched forwards, in line abreast, knee to knee, and the ground trembling with the thundering of hooves. The SPZ mounted mariachi struck up, rabbits broke cover and scattered, crows took to the air in cawing clouds. The buildings below were silent for one of those moments that feel like an age and then a fusillade of small arms fire broke out. Muzzle flashes sparkled, flames belched, smoke billowed. Explosions sent clods of earth and sward flying, bullets whined like mosquitoes about the careering cavalry. A mighty roar went up from Chats and troopers alike.

Suddenly an RPG rocket grenade took out the Vicecream van’s offside front wheel. The vehicle skewed sideways and began to tip. Consuella dropped her flags, whipped out the Navaja folding knife from her waistband and cut herself free. As the van began to roll she leapt clear. She tumbled for several yards and lay winded. The battered Vicecream van bounced on, La Cucaracha still blaring, cleared a low hedge and came to rest close to the sandbag parapet. The crumpled horn fell off.

Within the wreckage three bruised kittens lay stunned. Kiki was the first to stir.

Observatory Ridge

“Buccaneer it is then,” said Flo. “Everyone pile in while I operate the donkey winch.” With the gang settled in the launch Flo, “Lowering away!” controlled the steady descent. There was a bump as the sea came up to meet the pinnace. The placid ocean was as smooth as glass, mirroring the sky; a long, slow swell rising and falling like the heaving breasts of a slumbering, Rubenesque, strumpet. The lines went slack.

“Unshackle the stern line, Boz. I’m coming down.” Flo began to shin down the for’ard tackle, Boz let go aft and the launch swung lazily round. At the same time a deep throb set up within the bowels of the Überkatzen and the water abaft of her twin bronze, 22ft diameter screws began to churn. Flo landed on the fore deck of Buccaneer as the gigantic drone carrier surged forward. The line went taught, dragging the bow of the launch clear of the water and tumbling it’s crew into the stern. Flo hung on.

“Duck!” she cried, drawing her wakizashi, slicing through the tackle and turning her hunched back in a single move. The severed rope whiplashed a cruel blow across Flo’s shoulders, knocking her to the deck.

Leaving Buccaneer bobbing in the water, the Überkatzen performed a tight 180-degree turn and accelerated towards the western horizon. The gang began to rise, checking themselves for damage; Flo was on her hands and knees breathing heavily.

While they were still sorting themselves out Ferdy splashed the DoX down as near as he dared, her Fiat A-22R V12 water-cooled engines droning loudly, and taxied towards the little craft. The hatch opened and Beryl stepped out onto the port float. “Redbush anyone? I’ve got the kettle on.”

*

Aunty Stella eased her backside in the saddle. It had been a long, hard ride and her chafed thighs stung horribly. She passed the field binoculars up to Mad Jack whose imposing grey towered above her sturdy skewbald cob. “There’s snipers on the first floor of the Queen’s House. They’ve knocked out some of the windows.”

Mad Jack panned the binoculars along the sandbag wall that fronted the arcades each side of the classical edifice and paused to study the gun emplacements at the outer ends.

He and Aunty Stella were perched atop of the ridge outside the Royal Observatory. Behind them, strung out in a line were the rough riders of the Hampshire Light Horse and further back still, the massed cavalry of the Snake Pass Zapatistas. They looked magnificent; the Light Horse in bush hats and khaki, the SPZ horde sporting multicoloured balaclavas, their black banners cracking and snapping as they fluttered in the stiff breeze. In front, at the bottom of a long slope, was the enemy. Les Chats Souterrains were dug well in, far too well. A frontal charge was going to be costly.

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