“What will you have to drink?” asked the young Reverend Mr. Riordan Nash.

 

“A glass of stout would be capital,” said Mr. Pettibone.

 

“Tea, coffee, or cocoa?”

 

“Come again?” asked Mr. Pettibone.

 

“We do not have alcohol in this house, I am afraid,” the vicar said without a trace of sententiousness.


“First class,” said Mr. Pettibone gloomily and then, “Cocoa.”

 

They settled in the study, and after a few pleasantries, fell into a complete silence, which was broken about 10 minutes later by the sound of nailed shoes clomping their way down the uncarpeted stairs.

“Oh,” said the vicar. “I may have forgotten to tell you that we have another graduate of the Scrubs with us. John Palindrome. Perhaps you know him?”

 

Mr. Pettibone shook his head.

 

“Ah, indeed, your paths probably did not cross. He would have been in a different wing of the prison.”

 

“Is that so?” commented Mr. Pettibone, whose interest in the weekend was fading fast. 

“And what was he in for?”

 

“Oh, er … Murder, I believe.” 

 

“You believe?” And Mr. Pettibone’s voice had become shrill and rather concerned. “And you have him here in this house? And why wasn’t he executed I want to know. Murder is a capital offense.”

 

 

 

From: A Bone To Pick: The Adventures of Mr. Pettibone Among Others.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Noise. That noise. Those noises. Everywhere. No escape. Resounding along the decks and down the gangways. As hard as he tried he could not escape them. Or escape… What? Could he put a form to it? Was it the sum of all fears in material form? His past? Or worse..his future? He laughed. A dry, croak crawled from his depths and mingled with the sounds. He put his hands down from around his ears; they had made no difference. The sounds didn’t come from outside. They came from within; from his depths; from his gut. From his soul. He croaked again. His soul? He didn’t have one. Besides, all of that was religious nonsense. There was no soul. There is no afterlife. Meaningless claptrap. He looked around him. It was dark on the deck of the great ocean liner. Dark, friendless and menacing. Shivering, he drew his coat around him and the buttons fell off and rolled along the teak of the deck. The wool fell apart at the seams and the coat left him as if lifted by unseen hands. Shivering, shivering, shivering. When would it ever stop. How had it started? How did he end up like this? On this ship, on this ocean liner, on this ocean? He couldn’t say. He tried to think. There was a voice, a sound, a letter. Yes it had started with that. It had all been due to that man. What was his name? He was damned if he could remember. Damned he thought, that would be the right word if he believed in hell. But he didn’t. He wished his schooling had been better. He had heard from someone, somewhere about Milton. Was it Milton, or Milfield? No Milton. Explains everything. If you have the patience to read it. Paradise.. something or other. Well there was no paradise either. 

 

He came to his senses, and pulled what was left of his clothes around him. The night is chilly he thought. Cold, with a hint of snow. And would there be icebergs? Nothing to be afraid of there he thought. Nothing. Not since the Titanic. Nothing to be afraid there. But here….. And he listened. The noises had abated and there was now a silence. He wasn’t sure what was worse. The sounds or the silence. All of a sudden he felt himself alone. Alone and friendless. On this great ship. On this vast ocean. A mere speck. And one about to be extinguished into nothingness. Oh, he was sure of that. It was all over. 

 

 

From: Mr. Pettibone’s Christmas