‘Dolphin! I say, nay say, beseech. What kind of a name is than then?’ Pesk was fuddled. It addressed him.
‘The very thing. Dolphin. Dolphin Phipps. Shoot Phipps is bad enough. Could be Godolphin, mind. Arab horsey typos. Own Dettori. Blue shirts. Abdul O’Himmler. That sorta thing…’
The dull surge of midday twaddle tutted. The too much oft and many times earwigged. The Captain’s Table. Pesk ate gray prawns and got out the book of tides. Pesk’s Quest’s companion volume pocket sized. Found the place anointed:
‘Greely Quay & the Giant Cray & Environs’, page thirty-two marked and read out loud.
“One is instantly struck by the sheer drab of the hillside graveyard as one descends the gradient to Greely Quay after the wily serpentine from Dead Dog Strand. Sitting as it does on the crest of the Daphne’s headland, it seems to mock to shame the bay below as it whispers to the sea “here’s a few poor beggars that your fishies did not gobble up you shite stream!” And, indeed the headstones did tales of souls retrieved from perilous, quirk bedevilled waters: Michael Murtagh, lost off the Vestal Hemispheric, found skulking like a bailiff in Dundown Cove February 14th 1962; Peter Teaser, mauled by the trawler Strawberry Flan, Regurge Sound 28th October, 1989…
‘Hold up! That was my cousin’s sweetheart, Peety.’ The Dolphin man broke in, ‘what’s that gnarly yoke your reading from, my friendio?’
‘My Uncle’s Diary’ said Peck slowly, not looking up.
‘Why are you telling it out loud?’ said the Dolphin man coming across.
‘To find you Mr. Mullins. To find you. My quarry.’
‘You had me going there, Dolphus.’ Perks sighed as they rowed out. ‘I thought you were Pinkerton’s sub-con knobbler…’
Loud came not the stern reply
The cove was mill pond smooth that callow eve. The two men laughed too loud for easy air. Water lapped hollow slurps in the inlet. How far out is safe to row, both mulled hard. Still meant ill, sounds carry gurgles, echoes travel light, stealthy, sock tread, slurred.
—Spruce your caboose with the neck of a goose! Said Mullins gone incongrous, brandishing his cutlass striking a now or never Fairbanks pose.
Music bathed the comely ether. Seagulls squawked of piteous deliverance . A sacrifice most Tuesdays if I feed the shumbunkin corn flakes daily, a hag cockled snagged by gin slings.
—Said seabass emerged its mammy’s lug, two full moons late, a guttersnipe once told us on the haunted promenade, left lug mind the right as if were grommet bunged. No exit, clearly posted so, neon flashes migrained, AC wired buttermilk…
—From sinister portals, indeed. Churned that one over down the years, and thus concluded, ‘Hi, tis I, chance of sip of your sup?’ Beggar off big brute, I’ll have yer goats fur…’
—Guts for gators, probed a scoop nose. Who he? One or tother so. Why it matters not. Time for the Klaxon hoot? Angelus
Klaxon Hooted. A bottle rocked up. The message read:
All their life was regulated not by lordly laws, crass statutes, or dry crust rules, but according to their free spirit will and pleasure. They rose from bed as they pleased, and how they drank, ate, worked, and slept when the fancy seized them. Nobody woke them mind; nobody compelled them either to eat or to drink, or to do anything else whatever. So it was that Gargantua Snood had established it. In their rules there was only one telltale clause:
DO WHAT YOU WILL
because people who are free, well-born, well-bred, and easy in honest company have a natural spur and instinct which drives them to virtuous deeds and deflects them from vice; and this they called honour. When these same men are depressed and enslaved by vile constraint and subjection, they use this noble quality which once impelled them freely towards virtue, to throw off and break this yoke of slavery. For we always strive after things forbidden and covet what is denied us.:159
—Book twenty! Blimey there’s a tome. Mullins was flummoxed. Perks lingered over it, identifying Rabelais, but why now of all times. It was, he concluded, for diplomatic purposes, a red herring.
—It’s nothing. Let’s go home.
Some sort of sick kick from it. Must be. Perverse. Inaudible mutters, more than a mere mime. Stop. Crank it again.
Whassat he said, marzipan muel. More bloody pop-ups, start of the day, the sec I go near it, starts pushing you round, near dare and down the stair. Magic pen. Screens are for tourists, juss look at ArseboK. Ulterior motives, but I diverge. Indian summer of the Tory Party. Dangerfield did it for the Libs. Farewell Georgiana, brief encounters with bliss in the grounds of a country pile. You know I met Lloyd George? Yes me father told me when I was knee high to. Stop.
Dint of it I ask you. that was eerily early the mist was. Turd stone from the sun. Judd blink & youd mishit. Bollox to Bognor. South of a bog. Stands it up for reason? Process of elimination, my weird Watson. Je never said that. I know. Know. Know. kNow. Comma. Odd the things that float. Waters off Clyne for egg proffers darn good stretch of the leggings.
Hit anything now. you could always put a light on blindfold. Break up this bliss when something’s amiss. Stay in touch. Of course or perhapsy.
Sure you’re a lang aukd time lone sun. Down tto the cardboard. In mere wheeze dan won. Get gone with you. juss being sillier. Look Ma no hands left! And various other bits to boot. Attstops inbetwean. Love comes in shirts. Buy one get one knee. Death on the High Street. Peepul turn wahey. Selfies with my new friend Dr. Dear-Dept.
Lokk wow it trndz. So now lingo bingo gets born. A gnu renascence occludes.
Broke through the ice. Just slipped out. Popped. Automatically. Reports dismissed on superficial coffe grounds. Wrong water fonts. Matter of dulce et decorum. Costume & Pack Ice Frobisher. Methodolology. Sjould be a Church of it upped. On. Ward. Armies argue over refs. Wrong type of earrings. Lackings of the daisical dEpartntt. Not future innit. Means mean ends. Conveyancing. Todays lesson a reading from the Book of Herman Two Sticks. Drumroll. Bugger Bognor. Famous lasts. Me or the wallpaper beyond my means sod under other sod. Blessems. Ashtrays to ashtrays. Divil first by a nose. Heaven’s Above put down. Fetlock snap. Juss bending down to pick up a pea. Pop! That’s your lot pal. Here’s some teeth to gnash while wailing.
A bum’s tear it was, a caskful of stares, cleaved, spigotted, deerstalkered, up for the rout, no soft feelings you understand, throbbing nasal duct, precursor of girly weeps, matinee idol what fell from Grace. & herself a married wannabe. Book of Life lies. Untouched on yonder coffee table. Walnut inlaid, caryatids. Lot of time input, hobbies. Tender acts of wooden love. Down memory lame. See who that is coming up. Bugger me the bishop. Late of Bath and Wells. Jaunty little mancub. Tells frequent tells of pewstuff. Ups and downs. Exercise really. Stiffs turn left on the way out. That’s you told, milad. Conscripted belligerent over traces kicks. Bit off more than is proven chewable. Gumshield orange peel. Never failed me yet. Charming ickle mancub. No sado of a doubt about it. dribbling desert wine in the naval cavity. Fortify the under fours. Whatever gets you through the night Kris. Mantle of moi dreams bladder wracked by marbles…