Teacups & Tentacles | ONC 2022

17. The Nine Arms of Terror

Jonathan Butterhopper had agreed to meet Godwin the next afternoon at the Spike and Whistle public house across from the Underground station at Leicester Square, but from the dismissive grunt of greeting and the protective way he was holding his pint, Godwin surmised he'd only agreed after some considerable cajoling.

The moment he'd sat down, Butterhopper's gaze had shot to the steam-powered clock over the bar, then dropped to the tiled floor and dragged itself slowly back to the still-settling foam on the top of his pint.

He cleared his throat, but instead of saying anything he took a swig of ale and avoided Godwin's eyes.

Godwin coolly appraised the thick-shouldered, not unhandsome zoo keeper. He had yet to say a word himself, but he sighed inside.

It was as he'd surmised. Butterhopper clearly had no intention of blackening the name of his employer by talking about anything, however innocent, that could be interpreted as wrongdoing, or indeed negligence, by someone with a grudge, lest it collapse back on him and scribble his name in the already alarming unemployment statistics.

The next fifteen minutes were not going to be pleasant.

But that wasn't all.

Royston had sent a note only a few hours previously cancelling that night's performance.

They would now be opening only two nights a week, he'd written, not the usual five. Next performance to be in three nights. Very sorry, but current circumstances dictate... and so on and so forth.

Godwin had ripped the paper into small pieces, dropped them onto the cold coals in the living room hearth and gone to stare at the wallpaper for an hour. With that few performances, they would barely make rent for the next month and thus be forced to break open the iron strong box hidden under the floorboards and draw on their already much-drawn-upon savings.

Although Godwin had sympathy for Butterhopper's situation, after Royston's note, he was in no mood to act sympathetically.

That blasted squid needed to be found and contained post haste.

Just the night before, it had made its first appearance on the south bank of the Thames, demolishing rows of shops in Southwark and flattening the popular fish market at Lambeth Pier.

According to the papers, the looting had been unparalleled.

Cats had disappeared wholesale.

So had garden sheds, umbrella stands and, inexplicably, an entire tray of freshly baked cream buns from a window where they were cooling.

At the Old Bailey, solicitors were already hunching over their desks, filling their pens with ink in preparation for a veritable landslide of lawsuits once the thing was caught and someone – anyone - could be judicially blamed for the chaos.

It had been reported that the Prime Minister had gone to Buckingham Palace to speak to Her Majesty about the situation.

Run, whoever can.

The silence had finally become too much for Butterhopper. "I have no idea what you want to talk to me about," he said. One of his legs jigged up and down so hard, it made the small table between them visibly shake. "I have nothing to do with the special pavilion, so I can't tell you naught."

(here: 20,000 words)

"That's understandable. I am, however, interested in anything you might have overheard about the beast's owner or its behaviour," Godwin said, as pleasantly as he could muster. "When and how was it delivered to the Zoo? How often did the owner visit? Was there anything odd about the thing, aside from its size? You must have overheard gossip from your fellow keepers. What is their opinion?"