Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Ruby leaned towards Quaint and whispered in his ear. 'He just told me that some Irishman named "Hawkspear" paid him to give Prometheus the whisky.'

'Hawkspear, eh?' said Quaint. He brought his weight down hard on the table, and an electric stab of pain resonated once again between Peach's legs. The landlord yelped like a dog whose tail had been stepped on. 'My time is precious to me, Mr Peach, and if your scrotum is precious to you, then I suggest you hurry up and tell me what I want to know!'

Peach stared blankly at Quaint. 'Why don't you go an' get buggered!' he spat, his lips quivering as he fought against the pain. 'You'll get nothing from me.'

With a flash, Quaint's fist darted from within the folds of his dark cloak and punched the landlord square in the face. Tears formed in the landlord's eyes instantly, and a dab of dark blood trickled from his nose. 'Mind your language, Mr Peach, there's a lady present,' he scolded.

'You're dead meat,' Peach wheezed, trying to catch his breath. 'Any second now, one of my lads down there is going to see what you're up to. They won't stand for it. They'll be on you like a shot. You'll be picking up your teeth, and she'll wish she'd never been born, know what I mean?'

From the far end of The Black Sheep, whoops and cheers echoed around the tavern, followed by a wave of gut-wrenching laughter, as Jeremiah entertained the locals.

'By "your lads", I assume that you're referring to the patrons at the far end of the tavern?' said Quaint, cupping a hand to his ear. 'It sounds like your friends are otherwise engaged. I'm afraid that you, Mr Peach, are very much on your own.'

'I ain't scared of an old man like you,' Peach said defiantly, despite the quivering wreck of the rest of his body.

'My dear man, it is not I of whom you should be frightened,' said Quaint with a smile, relaxing his weight from the table. 'But my female companion here is another matter entirely.'

Peach slumped into his chair, clutching at his groin.

'Ruby, my dear, I wonder if you would mind showing Mr Peach what I mean?' Quaint grabbed Peach's right hand and thrust it down hard onto the table, splaying his fingers. Peach winced, but his attention was wisely on Ruby, not Quaint.

'Love to, Mr Q,' Ruby said, unbuttoning the fastenings on the front of her dress. Not removing her gaze from the landlord, she slid her nimble fingers down into the shadows, and produced a slender silver dagger from a hidden scabbard in her cleavage. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Ruby flipped the knife up into the air, catching it perfectly by its point on her fingertip. Then, holding her palm flat with the knife upon it, she gently flexed her fingers, and the knife rocked in a see-saw motion before rotating in a complete circle. Peach's eyes were mesmerised by the display, as the knife almost took on a life of its own. With a deft flick upwards, Ruby tossed the knife high into the air once again. It fell in slow motion; landing with a dull thud in between Peach's outstretched fingers, a fraction of an inch from his skin. That was the second time that night that Ruby had nearly caused Peach to swallow his tongue. The landlord watched the knife like a man entranced as it swayed like a metronome half an inch into the wooden table.

Quaint's booming voice snapped him back into the room. 'Miss Marstrand here was trained by a remarkably gifted German fellow named Viktor Dzierzanowski, arguably the best knife-smith in the modern world, and a favourite of Prince Albert himself, I understand,' Quaint said, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails. 'Ruby was Viktor's prize pupil, and she can skewer a bluebottle at twenty paces.'

Ruby shrugged, coyly pretending to hide her embarrassment. 'Well, that's awfully sweet of you to say, Mr Q, but I have to admit, I am a bit rusty. Perhaps Mr Peach would appreciate a more…practical demonstration. Tell me, what shall I aim for -his ears or his balls?' she asked innocently.

The nervous barman nearly fainted on the spot. His forehead was swamped with a sudden flurry of fresh, speckled perspiration and his lower lip quivered like a fish on an angler's line.

'W-W-What did she j-j-just say?' he stammered.

'Ears or balls, Mr Peach, ears or balls!' Quaint thundered. He pretended to mull over the question, closely inspecting the man's ears, before glancing briefly down at his already tenderised groin. 'Well, he's got two of each, so from where I'm sitting they're much of a much-ness, my dear. Perhaps Mr Peach has a preference.'

'Hmm,' Ruby said, as she plucked her knife from the table. She held it up and squinted, aiming at Peach's head. 'The earlobes look a bit more of a challenge, don't you think, Mr Q? Look at them tiny little things. Like little rat ears, aren't they? But I might miss them altogether and catch him straight in the eye, and you know how much mess that makes.'

Quaint enjoyed watching the colour drain from the landlord's face. 'Don't remind me! You remember that poor fellow who accosted you backstage in Belgium?'

'Gosh, yes,' giggled Ruby. 'I threw the knife so hard it embedded itself in the poor man's skull and no one could pull it out! The funeral was a nightmare. They had a devil of a time finding a coffin to fit him.'

'What?' squawked Peach, more of a bystander in this conversation.

'Perhaps the testicles would be a much safer bet then, my dear,' said Quaint. 'There'll be a lot less blood, and at least there's a one in three chance of hitting something painful.' Quaint tapped the landlord on his shoulder, and the man leapt in fear. 'I notice you aren't a married man, Mr Peach. Not planning on having children then? That's probably for the best.'

Peach's skin was now so pale that it was practically transparent.

'All right, all right, man!' he said, slamming his hands on the table, petrified to the point of collapse. 'I don't owe Hawkspear nothing. Just call her off, and I'll tell you anything you want to know, I swear!'

'Splendid,' smiled Quaint. 'You see how reasonable you can be with the correct level of motivation, Mr Peach?' He rocked back in his chair and linked his fingers together, delighted with his powers of persuasion. 'Do tell me all-and leave out not one scrap of detail.'

IT WAS CLOSE to midnight, and Westminster Abbey's annexe building was empty apart from a few priests and theology students scurrying about like minnows in a stream. Skirting from one place to the next, the students-known in the sanctum as 'alumno'-were electric with something akin to gossip. There was a murmur on the wind-Bishop Courtney was in residence. Staying within the lush, ornate apartment situated in the west wing of the church away from prying eyes and spying ears, the Bishop was virtually a celebrity, and every one of the students wished to meet the man, him being one of Her Majesty's most trusted advisors.

Behind the varnished oak doors on the top floor of the annexe building, Bishop Courtney scoured through the reams of paperwork upon his cluttered desk. He scooped up a golden goblet with chubby fingers, and poured the contents down his gullet. There was a gentle knock on the door and the golden knob turned slowly, as the door inched open. The Bishop checked the ornamental carriage clock on the vast fireplace and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A young student priest was stood pensively in the doorway.

'Yes, what is it, alumno?' snapped Bishop Courtney, turning his portly mass around to face the door. 'I thought I ordered not to be disturbed!'

'Sorry, your Grace, but a Reverend Fox is in the reception hall requesting an audience with you. Shall I permit him entrance?' the young priest asked, cowering as if he were pleading for his life.

'Reverend Fox?' asked the Bishop. He scowled into his goblet of wine curiously, and then his eyes suddenly sparked wide open, as if he had just been startled by gunfire. 'Ah! Reverend Fox, you say? Well, by all means, show him in, boy.'