The Pirates! In an Adventure with Communists Read online

  The Pirate Captain found himself thinking back to an earlier adventure with Freemasons, and a little plan formed in his piratical brain.

  ‘Goodness me, a bit hot in here, isn’t it? Don’t mind if I loosen these clothes a little?’ he said, pulling open his coat and starting to unbutton his shirt. ‘Oh look, there’s my nipple,’ he added, licking his finger, winking conspiratorially at the policeman and rubbing his hairy chest a bit for good measure. The policeman just frowned, and the Pirate Captain suddenly remembered that he might have been confusing his adventure with Freemasons with his adventure with pole dancers. He sheepishly did his shirt back up.

  ‘If you’ve quite finished,’ said the policeman, starting to read from a list in front of him. ‘You’re to be charged with numerous breaches of the peace—’

  ‘Ah, now,’ the Pirate Captain cut in quickly. ‘That probably wasn’t me. I bet it was Gary, our ship’s parrot. We got him from a creature sanctuary, you see, and whoever his last owner was seems to have taught him all sorts of terrible words that you’d never hear me use. And he does tend to shout them out at inopportune moments. Possibly he has an avian version of that Tourette’s syndrome. Can parrots get that?’10

  The policeman didn’t seem to be listening. ‘. . . Then there’s activities that seek to shake the economic foundations of Great Britain and her Empire . . .’

  ‘Shaking the economic foundations of the country? Are you sure? It’s just stealing a few necklaces and jewels and that. And, if I’m being honest, we’re not even a particularly successful outfit. Most of the time we just end up with some nice-looking shells if we’re lucky. Is the economy really that fragile?’

  ‘. . . and further activities that seek to encourage unrest amongst the populace.’

  ‘You mean the way my glamorous piratical lifestyle makes regular folk question the direction of their humdrum lives? I don’t think I can really be blamed for that. Though I suppose I could try to tone down my raw sexuality.’

  ‘Do you have anything sensible to say for yourself?’ asked the policeman, folding his arms.

  ‘I certainly do,’ said the Pirate Captain, leaning forward. ‘Is it true you keep your sandwiches under your hats? I’ve always wanted to know that.’

  Before the policeman had a chance to reply, there was a scuffling sound from outside and then the door flew open and in bowled a serious-looking young man with a shock of blond hair.

  ‘This is an outrage, you brutes! This gentleman,’ he said, pointing at the Pirate Captain, ‘is both a respected philosopher and a pillar of the community!’

  The Pirate Captain winced. He could just imagine what the Pirate King would say if word got back that he was being described in terms like ‘pillar of the community’ instead of ‘black-hearted and briney master of the waves’.11

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said, feeling that he had to set the record straight. ‘I mean, I really am mischievous and roguish. I hardly ever pay taxes. And I don’t think a day goes by when I eat the recommended five portions of fruit and vegetables. Would a pillar of the community set that kind of example for the kids?’

  The young man looked at the Pirate Captain. He did a double take. Then he frowned. ‘You’re not Dr Marx!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Dr Marx? No,’ the Captain agreed. ‘I did nurse a puppy back to health that one time. But I don’t hold any formal medical training. Assuming you mean that kind of a doctor. If you mean the academic kind of doctor, I’m not that either, owing to some issues concerning unpaid library fines, which I’d rather not go into. And my name isn’t Marx. Actually, my name is a mystery that I’ve sworn not to reveal until my final adventure. So you’re right on both counts. I’m assuming you’re not Dr Marx either?’

  The young man turned back to the policeman and glowered. ‘I’d been told you’d arrested Karl Marx.’

  ‘Yes, we have. That’s to say, haven’t we?’ The policeman looked confused.

  ‘No, sir, you have not. Dr Marx does not avail himself of fripperies like gold-trimmed coats.’

  ‘It’s a tasteful Viking theme,’ said the Pirate Captain. ‘See, if I bump my arms together, it looks like Thor is fighting Odin. Or kissing him, depending on your mood.’

  ‘Also, Dr Marx does not normally sport an eye patch. I think you’ll find somebody has just disrespectfully doodled that on to your “wanted” poster. And whilst in many ways this man bears an uncanny resemblance to Marx, the good doctor doesn’t smell so much of the salty ocean. And he has a beard of even greater extent and luxuriousness.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said the Pirate Captain.

  There followed a great deal of squinting at the ‘wanted’ poster and then squinting at the Pirate Captain. The policeman tried to argue that if you shut one eye and turned your head on its side then you almost had a match, but eventually he had to admit that the young man with the blond hair was right and that the Pirate Captain really wasn’t the notorious Karl Marx, though it was an understandable mistake to make, especially in an era before electricity and proper lights.

  ‘Sorry. We’re always having these sorts of mix-ups,’ said the policeman, handing the Captain his hat and cutlass back. ‘The other day we thought we’d cornered a dangerous international terrorist, but it turned out to be a pillar box that somebody had forgetfully left their hat on top of. The envelope slot looks a bit like a mouth.’

  ‘So I’m free to go?’ said the Pirate Captain, feeling a little aggrieved despite himself. ‘What about all the living above the law and terrorising the shipping lanes business? I still do all that,’ he added with a pout.

  ‘Nautical matters,’ replied the policeman with a shrug. ‘That’s outside our jurisdiction, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What if I stole the Crown jewels but then used my boat to escape?’ the Captain suggested.

  ‘I suppose that might count. You’re not planning on doing that, are you?’ asked the policeman, looking a bit anxious.

  ‘Not really, no. Still, it’s good to check these things in advance, just in case the situation crops up.’

  The blond man and the Pirate Captain stood outside the police station, waiting for the rain to pass.

  ‘I’m the Pirate Captain,’ said the Pirate Captain, trying to be friendly.

  ‘Friedrich Engels,’ said the blond man, shaking the Captain’s hand.

  ‘Thanks for helping sort out the mix-up, though obviously I had a clever plan of escape worked out anyway. It would have involved building a replica of myself out of old vegetable scraps.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Engels, lighting a cigarette nervously. He looked again at the Captain and shook his head in wonder. ‘You really are quite his spitting image.’

  ‘Humph,’ said the Pirate Captain. ‘You’re honestly trying to tell me this Marx fellow has a beard to rival mine? You’re sure it wasn’t just the bad light in there? Now we’re outside, take a proper look at it. Do you see the way the daylight brings out the russet hues around the edges?’

  ‘No, you’re right, it’s not quite the same. I feel Dr Marx’s beard is perhaps that little bit more voluminous.’

  The Pirate Captain snorted indignantly. ‘I find that a little difficult to believe.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Engels. ‘I didn’t mean to offend.’

  There was an awkward silence. A hansom cab clattered by. Somewhere, a rat squeaked.

  ‘Ooohh . . . rain,’ said the Pirate Captain after a few moments. He rolled his eyes to emphasise the point.

  ‘Wait a moment!’ exclaimed Engels. ‘Are you the pirate captain who was all over the news­papers the other day? It mentioned that he rolled his eyes “like the furies of Hell were snapping at his heels”.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. But you know the newspapers, they exaggerate such a lot. Really I only decapitated five sailors with that cutlass stroke.’

  Engels paused, looked furtively about and then pulled a leaflet from his pocket. He pressed it into the Captain’s hand. ‘Dr Marx is giving a talk tonight. I’d
very much like you to come along. Listen, Pirate Captain, I may have . . . a business proposition for you.’

  And with that, and a brisk nod of his head, Engels disappeared down the alleyway.

  The Pirate Captain found the rest of the pirates shopping in Harrods. They were having a heated conversation with an exasperated clerk.

  ‘What about a puppy, but instead of a puppy’s head, with the head of an alligator?’ said the albino pirate.

  ‘No. We’ve not got that,’ said the clerk.

  ‘How about a zombie eagle?’

  ‘No. We’ve not got that either.’

  The pirates saw their captain and waved.

  ‘This is rubbish, Pirate Captain,’ said the pirate in green. ‘It says on the door that Harrods sells anything, but so far they haven’t had a single item we’ve asked for.’

  ‘Just buy a packet of crisps so we get a Harrods bag,’ said the Pirate Captain sensibly, ‘and then we’ll grab a coffee and you can hear the harrowing tale of mistaken identity and police brutality I have to tell. Though I should warn you in advance, it’s not for the faint-hearted.’

  Soon the Pirate Captain was strolling through Hyde Park telling his crew all about life on the inside.12

  ‘You have to survive on your wits, really. Especially a good-looking fellow like myself. There was a real risk I could have been traded around by my cell mate for a packet of cigarettes. And it’s important not to drop the soap. Though having said that, I’ll miss the camaraderie. Taking new prisoners under your wing, showing them the ropes, that kind of thing.’

  ‘We’re very glad you’re free again,’ said the pirate with a scarf.

  ‘Yes. Freedom. Difficult to adjust to that.’ The Captain furrowed his brow and did his best thousand-yard stare. ‘I hope I haven’t become institutionalised.’

  ‘I think it takes longer than half an hour to become institutionalised, Pirate Captain.’

  ‘You can be very harsh at times, number two. Anyhow, obviously ninety per cent of this attention we’ve been getting is as a result of my genuine and undoubted piratical fame. But it does appear that some of it may be a result of people mistaking me for this Karl Marx fellow.’

  The pirates all made reassuringly disbelieving ‘as if’ noises.

  ‘It says here that he’s a communist,’ said the Captain, reading from the flyer, ‘which I’m fairly sure is a circus thing, isn’t it? This Engels man, who seems to be the sidekick, invited us to hear him speak tonight. He mentioned a business proposition, which tends to mean they want me to sign something or press the flesh with potential clients. Endorse the show and so on.’

  ‘Oh, bother. I thought we could go to the opera,’ said the pirate with long legs. ‘I’m told this Wagner thing is brilliant.’

  ‘I’d rather stay on the boat and knock nails into my head,’ said the Pirate Captain sternly.

  He paused to watch some children sailing toy boats on the lake. Then he kicked at a stone and gave a little cheer when it hit and sank one of them.

  ‘I know that seemed a little harsh,’ the Captain said, catching the looks some of his men were giving him, ‘but think of it as maintaining my image. In today’s fickle media climate I can’t risk becoming yesterday’s notorious buccaneer. There are thousands of aspiring pirate captains out there.’

  ‘Like this Dr Marx?’ asked the pirate in green.

  ‘Do you know, that must be it! He’s probably trying to take my place as public enemy number one by copying my look and sticking up posters of himself everywhere. It’s sad really, to have to stoop to those sorts of levels. So let’s find out what he has to say for himself.’ The Captain did the flashing thing with his eyes again. ‘Besides everything else, I’m keen to see if this so-called beard of his is all it’s cracked up to be.’

  9 Nails grow at an average of 0.1 mm per day. This rate varies according to a number of factors including age, season, fitness and genetics, so it is actually a rubbish way of telling the time.

  10 A 105-year-old parrot called Charlie entertains visitors to a Surrey shopping centre with obscene anti-Nazi tirades. Claims that the parrot was once owned by Winston Churchill have not yet been verified.

  11 In cooking, brining is the practice of soaking meat in salt water prior to cooking. Brined meat is more moist when served, due to denatured proteins forming a matrix that traps water molecules.

  12 Hyde Park was laid out by the architect Decimus Burton, which is a brilliant name. He also designed the llama building at London Zoo.

  Four

  Death Can Be Squid-Shaped

  Soho wasn’t the most salubrious part of ­Victorian London, but what it lacked in top-hatted gentlemen and women in crinolines it more than made up for with cholera, hollow-eyed beggars and plenty of infant death. As they made their way towards the pub where Marx was holding his talk, the pirates were especially touched to hear so many of the ladies who were slouched in doorways ask if they were looking for a good time, which the Pirate Captain explained was down to a natural chirpy cockney friendliness. Eventually, they came upon a small queue of earnest-looking communists waving placards.

  ‘Very nice,’ said the pirate in green, trying to be polite. ‘I like the blood dripping from that dollar sign.’

  ‘Are you particularly into hammers and sickles, then?’ said the albino pirate, looking at the little flag pinned up above the entrance to the pub.

  ‘Oh, you know. All sorts of tools,’ said a communist. ‘It’s kind of our logo.’

  ‘Really? I’m sure you could do better than that,’ said the pirate in red. ‘The best logos tend to have skulls in them. Or how about some sort of anthropomorphic talking animal? They’re always popular. “Sparky the communist firefly” – something along those lines?’

  At the front of the queue, a man with a long, brown beard was doing his best to look furtive. ‘You cannot enter without a password,’ he said, holding up a hand and sounding stern.

  ‘Oh, right. This is fun! How many guesses do I get?’ said the Pirate Captain, doing his most conspiratorial face.

  ‘You get three.’

  ‘Is it “brine”? That’s a good password. It’s actually just salt water, but it sounds more enigmatic. Brine. Say it with a Scottish accent – that’s even more mysterious.’

  ‘It’s not “brine”.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . Is it “barnacle”?’

  ‘No. One guess left!’

  ‘“Barnacle” would be an excellent password. I’d say barnacles are the most mysterious fish in the whole sea. Nobody knows what they are. I’ve always thought they might be little eyes, but some of the men think they’re actually the ghosts of dead sailors. A bit far-fetched for me. What do you think?’13

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. Anyway, the password is “hello”. I was just mucking about with you, because it’s actually written on the back of your hand there, isn’t it?’

  The inside of the pub was dark and smoky, and its walls were covered in slightly moth-eaten stuffed animals and paintings of singing cats. The Pirate Captain winced a bit as he recalled an unsuccessful adventure where he’d taken up taxidermy to make the pirates individual stuffed Christmas presents. It had turned out that taxidermy was rather more technical than he’d expected, and to this day he’d never quite got the smell of bird innards out of some of the crew.

  They made their way upstairs and jostled to find seats. The place was already full to bursting, and they had to push past quite a few grumbling communists who didn’t seem to welcome French schoolchildren. Engels emerged from a door at the back of the room and stepped up to the podium. He motioned for quiet.

  ‘Hello, comrades,’ said Engels.

  ‘Hello, Engels,’ replied the communists.

  ‘Any capitalist spies in tonight?’

  A few men with stuck-on beards waved.

  ‘Would you mind leaving?’ asked Engels politely. ‘We’ve nothing to hide, it’s just that there aren’t
enough chairs and some real communists are having to stand at the back. Thanks.’

  The spies left cheerfully, and Engels pressed on.

  ‘Now, I know you’re all eager to hear Dr Marx speak, but this is a party meeting and I’m afraid I have to denounce a few comrades first. So . . . the following have behaved contrary to the interests of the international proletariat and are no longer considered party members: Tamsin Virgo, parlourmaid – expelled for wearing reactionary hats. Robert Adey, cabinetmaker – expelled for laughing at a postcard that Dr Marx has deemed to be inappropriately pro-bourgeois. And finally Fiona Hankey, dressmaker – expelled for not pulling her weight in the tea-making sphere.’

  The denounced communists stood and trudged miserably out of the room, while the rest of the audience tutted loudly to show their disapproval of such backsliders. Engels waited patiently and resumed in a slightly deeper, more portentous voice.

  ‘Sshhhh. Can you hear that sound? Listen very carefully. That’s the sound of the ruling classes trembling at the threat of communistic revolution. So please allow me to introduce the terror of the bourgeois, the hobgoblin stalking Europe, the nightmare of greedy capitalists everywhere . . . without further ado . . . it’s Dr Karl Marx!’

  Everybody clapped enthusiastically and Dr Marx popped up from behind the podium, where he had been hiding all along. He was the hairiest man the pirates had ever seen.14 Several of the crew were actually worried for a moment that the Seaweed That Walked Like a Man had returned from one of their previous adventures to ambush them. His nose was hairy. His forehead was hairy. Even his hands were hairy. And his beard was a great bushy black number, which looked like he had sellotaped a bunch of cats to the bottom of his face and then frightened them with a loud noise.