Chapter 10. Bunsen Island

Rupert Bunsen felt cursed by some witchcraft, voodoo or pagan god. His saviour and a gentleman of a quality he had grown to believe no longer existed had left his private island before he had chance to properly reward him. He was amongst the passengers who had bought tickets who he did not know socially. He struggled to place the accent and not being from his Old Etonion friends, indeed not even from Harrow but from Shrewsbury, a perfectly respectable school though it was rare their alumni amounted to much. Michael Heseltine had been a decent enough politician. John Peel had been one of the first DJ’s to pick up on the Tuberous Bellend when he’d first released the album being told that, having no single suitable for the popular music charts that it would not sell well well. How foolish they had been? Yet he’d felt a kinship develop between them before he had left. Bunsen had not had a freind since pushing his last from a treehouse to see what would happen. He may have foregone friendship as a consequence but at least he had learned not to jump from tall trees. Skreeblton intrigued him. The man was clearly of substantial financial means as he simply would not have been there had he been otherwise. Money therefore would be no reward. Could he arrange a knighthood perhaps? He didn’t seem the type to be impressed by that sort of honour. Order of the garter perhaps? He recalled that he had said that he had made his money in IT. Presumably he was some sort of Zuckerberg wizard. He

would plug his laptop in and search to discover more about the man. He would be dead now, this was a certainty, had he not have been pulled aboard the pallet and safely taken ashore following the terrorist attack. He still was struggling to understand how a bunch of new age pikies had ruined the greatest project of his life. What made it worse was that his saviour had left him alone with the only other person he knew well. Ginger Fortescue! The man was clearly mentally unstable. Whether this was due to the pagan terrorists, an amalgam of Witches, Druids and Shamans who were now either dead or being hunted down by the most secretive of MI5 departments or brain damage incurred prior to this. He had been of use during his successful campaign to reinstate the genius of Oldpastures and the various remixes of his masterpiece the Tuberous Bellends that was even now a streaming bestseller. It looked like he was stuck with Fortesque for the time being.

Bunsen felt his mobile ringing again and took the call.

“Father Bennett, Witchfynder General here. Is that Rupert Bunsen?”

“Yes! How may I be of help?”

“This chap who pulled you from the sea?”

“Ah! Indeed! I’ve been thinking of how best to reward him.”

“Was there anything about him that seemed….unusual?”

“Quite! He was a unique individual! Unfortunately I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know him well. Given his sea damage he said that he felt quite unwell and retired to the room I allocated him. Spent most of his time there, convalescing in bed. I caught the scent of insense as I passed by his door one time. The only time I saw him out on the island he was hunting for mushrooms! He said that he had an interest in fungi.”

“And where was he headed when he left you?”

“I put him on my private jet. He was heading back to Blighty. Said he had a few business loose ends to tie up.”

“So he’s in England! Any idea where ?”

“As far as I know he was headed to the south west . If you hear from him before I do, please tell him to get in touch. Never got the chance to reward him for saving my life. Any news on capturing the remaining Devils henchmen?”

“I’m hoping to bring you good news on that front shortly.”

“Toodle pip!”

Bennett cut the connection on his in car phone. Ginger Fortescue was ambling over toward him. Another bothersome conversation no doubt.

“What is it G string? Won’t your loved ones be wondering where you got to following the disaster?”

Through his many media connections he had managed to pass the explosion that a number of sea vessels had noticed as a secret nautical project though word had got out that there had been some sort of private shipping disaster.

“What up, nigga! Ma folks dun forsaken me brother. The streets is my only home and my brothers ma sole fam.”

What on earth was he talking about? Bunsen knew his family well and this…persona he had adopted was a complete delusion. Despite reality Fortescue was only communicable with through the artifice of self that a concoction of synthetic drugs and the downward mobility a certain character type had been complicit in creating.

“I knowd dat dread did whisk you outa da ocean. Him not what ya tink, bro. Him deep in wit dem duppy!”

Bunsen could make zero sense of the chap. He just wished Skreebleton was back. His mission to leave the planet on a privately funded spaceship alongside his peers, the planet’s financial elite his ticket paying passengers, had been sabotaged and now he needed a friend. For the first time in his life he needed a friend.

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