Wednesday Was Very Odd

The next morning, John Doe was momentarily confused when he awoke in a strange room and bed that was certainly not his. The sheets were musty with age for a start, and he had never ever owned a piece of furniture that ended in four griffin heads. The clock whose chimes woke him was an old wind-up one on the neglected, dusty mantelpiece, a far cry from the white digital one with red numbers and an actual alarm that he had used back in London. He stared at the brass pendulum for a few moments, watching as it swung back and forth as his memory reconfigured.

A pretty woman bloomed in the forefront of his memory; black hair, Nordic eyes, an ankh tattoo in the small of her back. She had brought him a tray of breakfast and some pills for his horrid headache, and after that had told of wondrous things, like wizardry and his latent power. He was still pretty sure that Jane had been talking nonsense, but decided to humour her until he was allowed to go home. It then struck him, as he pushed the old blankets aside, that he needed to find a new job.

He eventually left his room at eight, according to the tall grandfather clock. He was cold from the icy water that had spewed out of the taps in the en-suite bathroom, which itself was more like a large cupboard. He was therefore shivering slightly and covered in goose-bumps as he pushed the door open, stuck his head out to see if the coast was clear; finding that it was, John followed the smell of bacon that wafting along the corridor. It was not long before he found a flight of stairs, at the bottom of which was the front door; on the right he saw a bare drawing room and the left, a featureless wall. The tantalising smell was coming from near it, and, on looking to his left again, he saw an open door.

‘In here!’ A familiar, lovely walled called out, and he walked through the door on left to be met with a room that very much like something he had seen in a school textbook as a boy.

He was strongly reminded of something out of a late Victorian house. The floors were made of neat tiles that were either a dark or pale blue-grey, whilst the work units, clearly rather new, were a boring brown chipboard. The table, which was pushed to one side of the kitchen, had four chairs and a white cloth thrown over it.

‘Sleep well?’ Jane asked brightly. ‘Sometimes the plumbing gurgles in the night and rattles-it can be very annoying.’

‘It was fine, thank you.’ He replied, sitting on the last free chair whilst failing to keep his off the white rooster sitting to his right. He looked rather exhausted and thin from stress, and John feared that the poor bird, which was leaning over dangerously, would drown in the bowl of cereal that someone had plonked before him.

‘This is Albert.’ The woman gestured. ‘He was normal like you until Dumberton though he could make a super-spy out him, but, as you can see…’

She looked somewhat pitying as she regarded the unlucky chicken, who
clucked wearily.

‘And this,’ Jane finally mustered herself to continue, ‘is Spike.’

John could only see a plate piled with bacon sandwiches and new copy of the Daily Telegraph that appeared to be propped against the table.

‘Well say “hello” then.’

‘Hullo.’

The paper in question rustled, and a peevish voice said, ‘Introduce the poultry before me, why don’t you?’ An affected sniff followed.

‘You always complain that I throw you into the limelight or disturb your reading if I don’t, so for once, I didn’t. Now be polite and introduce yourself.’

There was a loud, melodramatic sigh and the newspaper was flung down on the table, as a tiny, green and scaly hand was proffered towards him.

‘The name’s Spike, pleased to meet you, now sod off and leave me be!’

The ex-accountant gawped, and red eyes rolled in exasperation.

‘Another addition to the menagerie, I see. What’s this one? Your typical specimen of Homo sapiens, hmm?’

‘Spike, don’t be rude.’ Jane appeared unperturbed by the anti-social behaviour of the little green lizard who had escorted John to the library the night before.

‘Just look at him,’ the reptile in question waved his small hand at John, ‘like a gormless fish, he is. All you need is an aquarium and we could officially become a zoo-’

‘Spike!’

The woman had slammed the jam jar down on the tabletop, a few flecks of strawberry flicking from the knife she was holding.

‘What?’ The pot-bellied lizard said with an air of faked innocence.

‘You know full well what.’ Jane told him firmly, but with no real anger in her voice; to John, she sounded a bit like a mother.

‘Fine.’ And the Daily Telegraph blacked spike from view again.

The black-haired woman shook her head in mild disbelief, spread jam on some toasted squares and shoved them in front of John.

‘Just ignore him. He’s always been like that with strangers-and even with those he knows. It’s just his what, and as the last of his species you can hardly blame him-’

The former accountant leant across the table, and whispered, with his eyes fully on the latest political to-do at Downing Street, ‘What is he?’

The paper moved a little, and John knew that Spike had overheard him; Jane did not seem to notice, and answered in a normal voice, ‘Why, a dragon of course. Not sure what type though, to be honest. You see, he doesn’t breathe fire, and he’s a bit small-’

A wad of paper hit the desk with a soft whump, and glittering red eyes squinted accusatorily at the newcomer.

‘You sure we can trust him with that? It’s thanks to his lot that mine are extinct!’

‘But for you, of course.’ Jane interjected cheerfully.

A knee-high reptile jumped down from his seat with his plate of greasy, seeded sandwiches clutched in his stubby claws.

‘What, where are you going?’ The woman called, as the dragon waddled towards the door. ‘We’ve got to discuss Egyptian Hall today before go there this afternoon!’

Spike froze, and with a visible shudder, turned around and tramped back to the table, with a sullen look on his scaly, bent shovel of a face.

‘I’m not going into the lair of beast with a chicken and an idiot. We’ll be outnumbered-’

Jane was leaning over the table, pouring tea from a stripy blue pot into a cluster of chipped cups that were patterned with roses.

‘We can bring Claudia along if it makes you feel any safer-’

The diminutive dragon slapped his hand down, and hard.

‘No! We ask her to do everything-Claudia could you pick up this bloke we found, Claudia could you cook the bloke something to eat, Claudia could you clean a room for him, Claudia could you cook our breakfast- she does everything, and how d’yer ‘spect we’ll get her to Piccadilly? She’ll stand out a bloody mile.’

‘It’s either that or we let these two have a breath of fresh air and a bit of exercise-Merlin knows, I need some myself!’

She passed the four cups out and sat down looking unruffled by the stroppy lizard, who finally muttered, ‘Fine, but if I get harvested for my parts-’

‘You won’t.’ Jane said cheerily, sipping her tea. ‘You’re too small, for a start. They’re more likely to keep you-’

His red eyes positively boiled, as John watched in silent anticipation.

‘In all my fifty years, Artemisia Jane Smith, daughter of Tryphena Dumberton and the offspring of an Ungifted, I have never had a growth spurt since the day I hatched!’

He had not tipped his cup over, but he had broken the handle and sloshed a large amount of the hot brown liquid onto the white tablecloth, soaking and probably staining it irreversibly. The little dragon was standing up his chair, but he was only visible from the chest up to his sore-spot height.

‘I wasn’t attacking your height,’ Jane told him breezily, still drinking and with his discarded newspaper spread before her, ‘I was just pointing out a valid fact. Anyway, it’s a very nice height you got. You can live in a house; better one foot than forty-five.’

‘I’d rather be forty-five foot long and fifteen high any day.’ He sneered. ‘Least then I can be rid of you lot!’

Spike jumped down from his seat again, and disappeared from the silenced kitchen; John swallowed somewhat nervously, as the stories of maiden-eating, treasure-hoarding monsters loomed in the forefront of his brain.

‘Is he…normally…like that?’ He asked timidly.

The woman shrugged, and pulled the bowl of uneaten cereal out from under Albert, who looked positively dead.

‘He’s always been rather cantankerous, ever since I’ve known him. I think Dumberton’s increasing senility is probably upsetting beneath his scaly hide.’

She sipped her tea, and left the ex-accountant to reconsider his situation.

*

The train was horribly packed when Jane, John and two handheld animal-carriers covered in tea-towels pushed on at Camden Town station. The Northern Line appeared to be transporting a large gaggle of college students, who yammered loudly amongst the grumpy commuters who clutched their briefcases as if their lives depended on it.

Neither of them were offered or got the chance to sit down, and only after they had switched to the Piccadilly Line at Bank did they get some peace and a whole bench of paisley seats to themselves. Jane remained blithe throughout the whole journey, and even remained unruffled when a rather humiliated and thus cantankerous Spike grouched at her from inside his wicker basket. It did not deter her from making conversation with him, as John listened half heartedly, looking almost as bad as Albert the chicken felt inside his plastic box. The four of them enjoyed an uninterrupted journey until they reached Piccadilly Circus, where Jane marched them off and led the way away around harassed shoppers, many of whom were puffed out with colourful shoe bags that filled with crinkly tissue. The street outside was little better, and as they passed Waterstone’s, John spied a book that he thought he might like to read when his life was back to normal, although he doubted it ever would be.

The street that Jane led them down was rather empty and devoid of life compared to the riot of clothes for sale and toys alight in the other streets. If John had to guess a use, he would have said that every building in the street he was in now was an office, and the ugly sort built forty and thirty years ago to boot. However, there was a break in this concrete and glass roofless tunnel, for, squeezed between two particularly ugly blocks of business, was the most peculiar house that he had ever scene. He thought for a moment that Jane had transported him to Egypt, but he knew that that was impossible, even for her.

A pair of Doric pillars framed the pair of white front doors and held up the façade that was carved with equally Grecian friezes. He got the impression that it was an Egyptian influenced building from the pair of nubile woman, with their firm thighs, pert breasts and cobra crowns that supported was most likely an upper floor and hefty piece of square architecture. They were not unlike Jane, John thought, as tried to make out the inscription on the block of stone that they were placed on like a pedestal; all he could discern was the word “museum”. A little more interested, for museums had interested him as a boy, he admired the rest of the odd mansion, which was too big to be just a simple house. He spied the winged scarabs that hovered above the quadrangular windows, which were wider at the bottom than there were at the top. In a way, there were rather table-shaped, a little like the ground floor windows with their green glass fixed in patterns in lead. The former accountant squinted and craned his neck to peer towards the gloomy sky, beneath which was a border of Nile lotuses facing the street. A large inscription reading “museum” again sat under that pretty border. It was sitting on a ledge of Portland stone which bore another line of flowers atop a block with what might have been a ram’s head protruding from. The only thing that he could make out clearly was the paired, Pharaoh-faced sphinxes on whose backs the great announcement was place; they were in side profile, with one facing left and the other right. It gave John the first sense of appreciation that he had ever had in architecture, although his gormless admiration was interrupted by Jane and her cheery tinkle of keys that she had finally fished out of her uncouth backpack.

She slotted one of them into the brass lock and pushed one of the doors open. She held it so until John mounted the two marble steps and followed her in. He was still clutching the plastic carrier, in which Albert was safely contained. He put the mutated chicken down beside Spike, who was trying to wriggle out his wicker cage; Jane had bought one that was suitable for a large cat, because she needed to be able to carry him by hand. It was still a tight squeeze though for a knee-high lizard that had the appetite of a Labrador, but Spike nevertheless pulled himself out, minus a few green scales that fluttered to the floor. The former accountant saw that these were hurriedly picked up and put in a pot that would normally be used for camera film; Spike handed it to Jane, and then let Albert out.

“Well, this is it.” Jane said cheerily, holding her arms out wide as she did a full circle.
It was unassuming. The floor was made of rather wide and very long planks of green-grey coloured wood; John wondered if they were made of a whole tree that had merely been sliced like a cheese or cake. The walls were as bland. The one in front of him and the one behind were a pale olive colour, and other two, on his left and right, had been painted an apricot hue that had faded over the years. The stairs on the left, which led to the next floor, were the same grubby white as the doorframe a foot before the first step. A door was ajar, unlike the one ahead or the matching set on his right, through which Spike was asked to go by Jane; Albert was already pecking his way across the dusty floor to the open door.

“You go through there, John,” She told him, “And I’ll go and check upstairs.”

“What am I supposed to be looking for?” he asked Jane, nonplussed.

“See, this is why you shouldn’t have brought him-!”

“Spike, please. Not now.”

The dragon waddled off grumbling to himself about inadequate helpers and useless tag-alongs; his scales rasped a little on the floorboards as he stood on tiptoe and struggled to reach the tarnished brass doorknob.

Jane sighed fondly and looked back at John.

“You know, the usual. Fragments of eggs, skin samples, dust. Just bag whatever you find and-”

There was a deafening squawk from Albert and bone chilling yowl from what sounded like a very large cat. The chicken, which must have benefited from the tirade of spells that Dumberton had subjected him to, came hurtling out of the hidden; his stubby wings appeared to be tucked behind his feathered backside as in fear of a rear assault. The contortion he had to do in order to protect himself so meant that he gave himself a very upright appearance as he dived for the safety of his towel-clad carrier box.

The two humans jumped and Spike hid as a big black panther burst through the doors and landed sprightly on its four paws in the middle of the hall. It yowled at John, who took a hasty number of steps backwards to where Jane was standing, frozen in fright herself. The cat was wearing a gold necklace that was made in the way some watches were; that is, with flat links joined together with some sort of elastic. A large oval sapphire was the centrepiece in simplicity, John saw, as the cat put a paw forwards.

“JAY!”

If it was at all possible, John might have said that the panther paled a shade or two and looked fearful as the queenly but domineering voice echoed through the house; retracting his front foot quickly, he seemed to fold in the middle as he peered over his sleek shoulder to where the new sounds of skittering claws, padding feet and short breath mixed with bad words was coming from.

A second but smaller sand coloured cat appeared in the doorway; however, the ex-accountant stared at her done-up humanoid face. She had daubed her upper eyelids in bright blue paint and thickly outlined and pointed her lashes with black mascara; her lips were a sort of cerise colour. It did not take very much brainwork for John to realise that he was staring, albeit impossibly, at a rather angry sphinx.

She had reached the submissive looking panther on all fours, but stood up on two like a kangaroo when she latched eyes on her feline fellow and renewed human company.

“Who the Devil are you?” she asked none too amiably, her arms with their browned claws crossed haughtily. She wore an altered gold ring with a ruby on one toe and on the same limb a plain gold bracelet that was like a bit of piping.

“I’m Jane,” and John saw her take a step forward, a vague smile on her face, “and this is John; Spike’s here too, hiding behind that door,” she pointed to the far side of the room, “and Albert’s back in his carrier. Your friend scared him quite a lot, you know-”

“And if you were abandoned in an old house with no food and no key, I can assure you that you would feel the need to chase after even the scrawniest bird that came strutting by your room!”

The sphinx stamped her back paw like a child, and nodded succinctly to prove her point. The panther just yowled pathetically, and Jane pulled out a notebook and pen from her backpack, before flipping to a new page.

“Who abandoned you here?” Jane said in a business-like way.

“Who do you think?” Was the huffy reply. “Desdemona, of course.”

It was at that moment that Spike stuck his pointed snout out of his hidey-hole, with the strangled cry of “DESDEMONA?”

“Spike!” Jane cried, exasperated, but with a concerned frown on her face.

The sphinx sniffed snobbishly and was regarding her nails with an upturned but pretty human nose as the woman apologised by saying, “Sorry about that. He’s a bit a short on manners.” And she shot him a mild glare at that, the first real sign of distemper that John could ever recall seeing in her.

The dragon wisely disappeared behind the door again, and Jane resumed her questioning.

“What’s your name?”

“Cleopatra Tryphena Berenice Arsinoe.”

A derisive snort was audible from the right of the Hall, but it was ignored in favour of a slightly confused prompt. “No surname?”

“Arsinoe. Ars-sin-no-way.” Cleopatra pronounced her clearly improvised surname as if speaking to a particularly dim child, although Jane nevertheless scribbled its correct pronunciation down and asked the question.

“What about your friend here? Does he have a name?”

A nose that was aristocratic screwed itself up a little. “Jayant. Or, if you want his original name, Jaropelk. That is what they called him at the zoo in Poland where he came from. The Sultan, however, preferred to call him Jawdat.”

It was duly noted, albeit with a frown.

“He’s not from a privet zoo?”

“Hardly.” Cleopatra looked somewhat affronted, as she stroked and caressed what she could reach of the panther. “He was born in one in Arabia. He was the beloved pet of the Sultan there, but he was gifted to a zoo in Poland for breeding purposes; Desdemona stole him so she could have a real pet cat.” She paused. “I believe that the Sultan is rather annoyed at the zoo for having a useless security system.”

That too was jotted down.

“How long have you been here?” Jane asked politely.

“Three months all told.” The sphinx sneered a little. “But Desdemona cleared out two days ago. She took her clothes and jewellery but left us in the old theatre with nothing to eat and only tap-water to drink. Her selfishness is despicable!”

“Now that I agree with!” Spike chipped in from behind the door, which Jane looked at mildly as she put the notepad and pen back in bag and pulled out a brick-like mobile phone.

“This place is due for demolition tomorrow, so you’ll have to come with us, Miss Arsinoe. I’m afraid though that Jay will have to go someplace else; we just haven’t got the room or facilities for him at home.”

The look of pain on the humanoid face was blatant; Cleopatra looked as though she might cry, as she gripped the black fur that she had been paying silent homage too and made Jay yowl.

“Where will he go?” She demanded to know. “His is a healthy cat-he has needs, you know-”

Jane was already typing the number for the RSPCA into the keypad as she said kindly, “I’m sure that he’ll happy when he get’s back to Poland-”

“There are things that only I can give him-”

“-and I’m sure that there’ll bee a nice female him too.” Jane smiled with unswerving kindness and encouragement as the phone in her hand crackled and a voice flared to life on the other end. She proceeded to tell the disbelieving receptionist that she was an estate agent and that she had come across a large cat in the basement of the large house she was looking it. She added that she believed he was the cat that had been stolen from a zoo in Poland, and that her evidence was that the squatters who had been in the house were wanted criminals. The last thing she said after the address was that the cat was perfectly friendly but rather hungry, and that he would be waiting in the entrance hall from. She promptly hung up.
“They understood me in the end.” She said breezily, perfectly unaffected by the gormless look that John was giving her. “And we’d better be off now-Battersea’s not far away and the traffic’s good.”

The little green dragon had waddled out with crossed arms and a superior look.

“Just how do you expect to do that, pray tell?” he asked.

“What do you-? Oh.” Jane realised his point.

There were only two carrier-boxes, and the plastic one that Albert was asleep in was smaller than that which Spike had travelled. The latter was small for its occupant, and Cleopatra, although tiny compared to Jay, was a good twenty pounds of feline herself; to boot, she was too bizarre to not draw unwanted attention. She could not swap places with Albert because of this, and the conundrum made the witch tick over as he eyes fell on her rather empty rucksack.

“Well…”