The Vampire’s Revenge. Eric Morecambe

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      ‘Thank you, Father. I don’t think putting him away or sending him to another country, well, is really enough. What I’m trying to say,’ he started to speak slowly, ‘what I’m trying to say, or what I think should be done … er, what I’d like to see happen … what I’m trying to say without hurting your feelings, is that I think, well, that maybe we … I think maybe …’

      Areta spoke for the first time. She was blunt and went straight to the point that Valentine was finding difficult.

      ‘He will have to be killed,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘That is what the President was trying to say. Vernon should be killed. We both know that Vernon is your son and you will naturally want to try and help him. I would do the same for my little boy, your grandson. That is understandable. But we all know that Vernon is a maniac and, if something isn’t done, will kill. He would have no compunction in killing you too, or me, or Valentine, or even your grandson … He can’t forgive and he will never forget. A stake must be put through his heart.’ She stopped talking and felt they must all be able to hear her heart beating. She was shaking with fear and anger. Valentine walked over to her.

      ‘Thank you, darling,’ he said. He then looked at the only parents he had ever had and said, ‘My wife is right. That’s what I was trying to say.’

      There was a long silence. No-one moved, even Victor had stopped scratching. It was Victor who broke the silence with a rather loud ‘Ahem’ which he followed with, ‘Ya, maybe you are right.’

      The ex-Queen looked more than sternly towards him. He saw the look and said, ‘Maybe not, I don’t know. Vot do you think, mine little crocus?’ He smiled at his wife and scratched the back of his hand. The ex-Queen was much more definite than her husband.

      ‘He is my son. Mine and Victor’s. For the past three years Victor and I have been very happy living in the country, but our son Vernon, he has suffered; not you, Valentine, nor you, Areta, nor Victor or I, but our own son, Vernon. He was inside that statue for three years. Can you imagine what that must have been like, not being able to move? Only to be able to look at what was going on around him? Never being able to blink, let alone speak?

      ‘Certainly he won’t forgive and definitely he won’t forget but I will not believe that he would harm, let alone kill, one member of his family. We are his family. We should be out there looking for the poor boy to help him, not just saying “let’s kill him.” That is the easy way. He is part of a dynasty. He comes from a thousand years of Vampires, pure Vampire stock. He is the last of the true Vampires; he should be helped. Have you forgotten what your father did for this country? Have you forgotten what your father did for Igon? He turned him from a twisted, horrible, bent thing into the most handsome of men. That was Vampire magic, great Vampire magic. Magic that took every ounce of strength your poor father had.’

      Victor nodded and scratched.

      ‘I know that both physically and mentally your father is no match for Vernon any more. He gave everything that he could for the benefit of you and this country. Vernon would do the same. I have to agree that something must be done, but I will fight to the end to see that our poor little son is not skewed.¹ Where is my poor little boy now? Probably huddled in some dirty old barn crying for his Mummy, me …’ She wiped her eyes, although there were no tears as Vampires can’t and don’t cry. But at that particular moment she was a little confused.

      ‘I am against the killing of my son Vernon and that is final. Come, Victor, we will try and find our confused and bewildered boy who wouldn’t harm a fly.’

      ‘Mine dear, I’m agreeink with all you sayink, but can’t ve haff one little drink before ve go, ya?’

      ‘No, you can’t. You have just started your diet.’

      * * *

      The confused and bewildered little boy was hiding in the doorway of an unlit shop writing in a notebook. He wrote: ‘Igon first, Valentine second, King Victor third and Queen Valeeta fourth. All to be removed, but tortured first. Not necessarily in that order.’

       CHAPTER 3

       The Inspector tries to clear up the case.

       Vernon soon puts him in his place.

      Special Prince Igon was on a business trip to Gertcha. Having concluded his business, which was getting Gertcha to buy nuts from Gotcha, he had booked his seat home on the new fancy stage-coach, the Gertcha-Gotcha Flyer. The coach, an eight-seater, pulled by the best six horses from both lands, was the very latest in style and had all the latest safety devices, including disc hooves on the back two horses.

      Although the driver and his co-driver sat outside on top of the coach, they shared one enormous hat. It had two skull caps covered with one long piece of material, rather like a plank of wood with two inverted soup bowls. The idea was that it would keep the rain off both of them at the same time.

      Inside the coach was a very pretty stewardess serving drinks and duty free tobacco. The trip itself was very quick considering the distance covered; over two hundred miles in just over ten and a half hours, twenty-four horses, a change of driver and co-driver, three stops and four different (but all very pretty) stewardesses, all of whom fell in love with Igon.

      Igon sat by the window looking out into the darkness. He had bought his duty free drinks and tobacco, although he didn’t smoke or drink. He had bought them for the old folks’ home on the outskirts of Katchem. He felt sorry for the old folks and had taken them under his wing. He stared into the night, but his thoughts were on the rumours about Vernon and a storm.

      ‘Have you heard?’ said one passenger to another.

      ‘Heard what?’ the other passenger asked.

      ‘What happened in Katchem.’

      ‘No, what?’

      ‘They had a storm last night and the statue was blown down.’

      Igon was only half listening to the conversation, as he was working out on his portable abacus how much money he had made for his country with his nut deal.

      ‘What statue?’ the second passenger asked.

      ‘Just a moment, are you a Gert or a Got?’ the first passenger asked.

      ‘I’m a Gert,’ the second passenger said with a certain pride.

      ‘Oh well, in that case you won’t understand,’ the first passenger said, as he continued to play with a multi-coloured cube, trying to get squares of the same colours on each side of the cube.

      ‘Why won’t I understand?’ asked the second passenger in a small hurt voice.

      ‘Because you are a Gert and not a Got. If you were a Got, you would understand about the statue.’

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