BOOK I
Prologue
Do you not think that the greatest tale is never told? That the stories of real heroes and villains are often kept bottled up inside the hearts of lonely men, woman and even children? Do you not think that when someone dies, that tales of intrigue and courage, they take away with them their experiences that never again would be retold.
I am an old man now. But the stories, I shall never forget. The horror of what I experienced I still relive in my dreams, and in my waking hours. I can still smell the burning flesh of people, as if it was yesterday. This was now forty years on.
I was sitting in my chair, in my house. I live alone, having lost any companionship that I have ever had. I am sitting beside the fire now, warming my aching limbs that feel the cold to easily. The clock is ticking on the mantelpiece above the fire. Five minutes to eight in the evening. Ticking away, as I start to drift off.
Two minutes to eight. My cat struts into the room, and curls up in front of the fire. A carriage passes the front window of my home, with the clinging of bells echoing in the street outside.
One minute to eight. The cat is sleeping soundly. It is another quiet night, where I shall enjoy the comforts of my retirement. I stretch my hands behind my back, cracking my knuckles in the process. I reach for my beer, and sip gently as the cold; sweetness of it rushes through my body.
Eight o’clock. The clock chimes, waking me from my slumber. Then suddenly - came loud knock at the door.
Cursing whoever could be so inconsiderate as to do this, I slowly raised myself from my armchair, and forced myself away from the warmth of the fire. And I made my way to the front door.
Opening the door slowly, I peeped round it, squatting my eyes to see who was there. It was a man, completely covered from head to toe in a black overcoat and a shabby looking bowler hat. I noticed it was drizzling in the background, the drizzle illuminated by the light coming from my house.
“Good day”, I managed to croak in my aging voice, “and how may I help you?”
“Can I come in good sir”, replied the man.
Opening the door a little wider, the man walked in.
When he got in, he took off his coat, and I saw his face for the first time.
The face was cracked with time. Scars went all the way down his left cheek. He took off his bowler hat and out fell some greying mousy hair.
He handed me his coat and hat, so I took it from him and hung them both on the hat stand.
With no cue whatsoever, he walked into my sitting room, and sat down in a vacant chair next to the window.
“It has been a long time, Matthew.” The voice had a French accent.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
“Do you not remember me?” he asked. “Do you not remember me from some forty years back? You may remember me as ‘Mr. Grim’.”
And I remembered.
“Mr. Grimaldi?” I stuttered. “But…but someone told me you had died!”
“Nonsense!” he said, but slightly more loudly. “Complete nonsense! I am the last Entertainer Matthew. That is the reason for my visit. The other Entertainers, Mr. Pole and Mr. Smith are dead.”
“Dead?” I said to myself, in a hazed voice. “How?”
“Please Matthew, it is a long story, prepare me something to eat, the journey has been long, I need something to eat and drink. Then I can tell you everything, and we can catch up on what has happened to us these last forty years!”
“Then make yourself at home” I said.
So I went to the larder, and poured out a beer for my honoured guest, and some simple meat for him to eat. I carried it through to the sitting room, where Mr. Grim had made himself much more comfortable in the chair beside the window. I left the meal on the table for him.
I could tell he was hungry. Knives and forks lay neglected as he gulped down the small meal I put before him. He looked over at me when he had finished after a few minutes.
“Where shall we begin?” he asked.
The clocks hands were at half past eight.
Prologue
Do you not think that the greatest tale is never told? That the stories of real heroes and villains are often kept bottled up inside the hearts of lonely men, woman and even children? Do you not think that when someone dies, that tales of intrigue and courage, they take away with them their experiences that never again would be retold.
I am an old man now. But the stories, I shall never forget. The horror of what I experienced I still relive in my dreams, and in my waking hours. I can still smell the burning flesh of people, as if it was yesterday. This was now forty years on.
I was sitting in my chair, in my house. I live alone, having lost any companionship that I have ever had. I am sitting beside the fire now, warming my aching limbs that feel the cold to easily. The clock is ticking on the mantelpiece above the fire. Five minutes to eight in the evening. Ticking away, as I start to drift off.
Two minutes to eight. My cat struts into the room, and curls up in front of the fire. A carriage passes the front window of my home, with the clinging of bells echoing in the street outside.
One minute to eight. The cat is sleeping soundly. It is another quiet night, where I shall enjoy the comforts of my retirement. I stretch my hands behind my back, cracking my knuckles in the process. I reach for my beer, and sip gently as the cold; sweetness of it rushes through my body.
Eight o’clock. The clock chimes, waking me from my slumber. Then suddenly - came loud knock at the door.
Cursing whoever could be so inconsiderate as to do this, I slowly raised myself from my armchair, and forced myself away from the warmth of the fire. And I made my way to the front door.
Opening the door slowly, I peeped round it, squatting my eyes to see who was there. It was a man, completely covered from head to toe in a black overcoat and a shabby looking bowler hat. I noticed it was drizzling in the background, the drizzle illuminated by the light coming from my house.
“Good day”, I managed to croak in my aging voice, “and how may I help you?”
“Can I come in good sir”, replied the man.
Opening the door a little wider, the man walked in.
When he got in, he took off his coat, and I saw his face for the first time.
The face was cracked with time. Scars went all the way down his left cheek. He took off his bowler hat and out fell some greying mousy hair.
He handed me his coat and hat, so I took it from him and hung them both on the hat stand.
With no cue whatsoever, he walked into my sitting room, and sat down in a vacant chair next to the window.
“It has been a long time, Matthew.” The voice had a French accent.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
“Do you not remember me?” he asked. “Do you not remember me from some forty years back? You may remember me as ‘Mr. Grim’.”
And I remembered.
“Mr. Grimaldi?” I stuttered. “But…but someone told me you had died!”
“Nonsense!” he said, but slightly more loudly. “Complete nonsense! I am the last Entertainer Matthew. That is the reason for my visit. The other Entertainers, Mr. Pole and Mr. Smith are dead.”
“Dead?” I said to myself, in a hazed voice. “How?”
“Please Matthew, it is a long story, prepare me something to eat, the journey has been long, I need something to eat and drink. Then I can tell you everything, and we can catch up on what has happened to us these last forty years!”
“Then make yourself at home” I said.
So I went to the larder, and poured out a beer for my honoured guest, and some simple meat for him to eat. I carried it through to the sitting room, where Mr. Grim had made himself much more comfortable in the chair beside the window. I left the meal on the table for him.
I could tell he was hungry. Knives and forks lay neglected as he gulped down the small meal I put before him. He looked over at me when he had finished after a few minutes.
“Where shall we begin?” he asked.
The clocks hands were at half past eight.
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