I have received a couple of requests for another communication from this tedious place in the beyond to which I was summarily ejected, along with my man Arthur Williams by that Scoundrel Emile Dubois.
That scoundrel, a murderous ruffian who once lived organising the criminal activities of a group of cut throats in the gutters of Paris has despatched me to this place where I must stay if I wish to avoid leaving the surrounds of Earth altogether.
And the manner of that despatch – a knife whipped from a topboot and hurled at my chest in the course of a vulgar brawl. It seems that this was the party trick of a Gallic villain rejoicing under a name which roughly translates as ‘Marcel Sly Boots’.I cannot forgive that.
It could, I suppose, have been worse; I might have been killed by his brutish manservant, another savage ruffian. That honour was reserved for poor Arthur. To be killed by a lackey! That would be a disgrace indeed.
I refuse to subject myself to such an indignity as the one I understand will be required of me if I were to leave this place to venture into the beyond. As I first left my body I heard a whisper that I had nothing to fear; that I would be treated compassionately.
Goronwy Kenrick, the great experimenter, ‘treated compassionately’?
‘Damn your eyes!’ With Arthur Williams’ favoured vulgar oath, I fled to this place.
I am in a laboratory here, with sufficient resources to amuse myself;.
I work on strange beings, whom I cook up with from a noxious mix of green jelly; clumsy, misshapen, grotesque, they are the stuff of nightmares. But they move, they exist, they may yet talk…
I have Arhur help me sew up their skins. He objected to this as ‘women’s work’. I asked him what woman was to hand to do it? He sulked; he wishes to return himself. We do not exactly relish each other’s company. He is anxious to see the second Mrs Kenrick; I gather she is re-united with her baby. I have never been keen on nursery visits myself.
On the subject of human increase, I do have some access to life in the world of the flesh here; for instance, every time Gilles Long Legs’ former poor relative, now Madame Dubois prays for me, I know of it. I see the presumptuous chit.
What a ludicrous contrast that pair do make in their characters: – the one a complete villain, the other the sole of virtue. She is now increasing, but waddles purposefully to drop heavily on her knees by her bed every night and pray for her enemies. Sometimes the ruffian comes in, candle held aloft, to interrupt her. “I trust you pray for me, my angel? Keep on with the good work; if you keep at it for a hundred years, you might yet make me a good man.” They gaze on each other with stupid adoration; what fools humans are.
You may wonder about whether I have seen the first Mrs Kenrick, my only love? No; for she was another of these tediously good women, and I must undergo the humiliations I mentioned above before we can be re-united.
I hate that Dubois villain; I swear I will be revenged. All is not over yet.
I work out my future plans. These do not involve giving up my identity as Mr Kenrick of Plas Cyfeillgar quite yet.