I

To begin, i must apologise for the tardiness with which this letter finds you, dear friend, but I am at a loss as to whom else I should turn.

Certain troubling peculiarities have lately come to my attention, which have led me to undertake my own enquiries into what I can only now describe as a truly macabre affair.

II

We were playing Seedie’s team The Sargent Men on that Sunday before these terrible events unfolded. Penthouse was in a withdrawn mood as we arrived and spent most of his time making long phone calls. Unusually, my joshing and charming wit had little effect on him or the team.

I have long wondered why my own skill as a batsman has not flourished to the level which many believe to be its true potential. It is however consistent, which cannot be said for the majority of my “team mates,” whose performances have fluctuated from near brilliance to total obscurity.

III

Against Seedie’s team we batted first and badly. All out for 83. Only Penthouse and Cus-Cus managed double figures, but only just. Something was surely amiss, but what, I could not tell.

After the innings, Penthouse was in a rage such as I’d never seen before. only silencing himself abruptly as the C*****l arrived.

We fielded adequately, with the only highlight coming as Clarence caught and bowled. But we were already well beaten, suffering the worst defeat that I have ever been part of.

If I had been honest with myself and followed my instincts some months previously, I would have to say that I had had suspicions that some of my team mates had appeared to be two different people at times. I had put this down as overindulgence the night before, now however, I am not entirely sure that this is correct and I fear that the secrets that I am now uncovering are both sinister and unholy.

IV

There had been growing talk over the continued absence of the C*****l. Tabard gossip has suggested that he had been away in foreign parts for some time and had only recently returned. In fact, during a chance meeting in an alleyway, Daisy had reported that the C*****l had ‘seemed agitated’ and ‘smelled mysterious’. I still wonder what he meant by that.

Uncertain as to why, I found myself, late one evening, knocking on the C*****l’s door. There was no answer. A faint sound of ethnic drums and chanting voices could be heard in the distance and I assumed that the C*****l was having a social gathering with music provided from some exotic place he had recently visited.

I knew I must speak with him, so I slipped down the side of his house trying to gain entry. The music came from the room leading out to the back garden. The curtains were pulled tightly closed, offering privacy to those within. An awful feeling of trespassing came over me and I turned to leave when the voices suddenly stopped. I crouched down and peered through a small gap in the curtains and nearly collapsed in terror.

V

In the room, dressed in white robes, stood the C*****l. Orange and pale red candle light danced around the room in an unsettling but strangely beautiful way. I made out ten or maybe fifteen other robed figures standing in a crescent, looking down at what I presumed to be a kneeling character. The C*****l slowly approached and I suddenly recognised it to be the dishevelled Hansie.

The voices erupted into a guttural jabber as the C*****l began to lather Hansie with a tar-like preparation as the accomplices rained a thick white dust on the subject. This seemed to induce high anxiety in the poor fellow as he violently thrashed about. As I continued to look on, I realised uncomfortably that the other robed figures were all staring intently at the floor... to where Hansie’s legs should have been!

Crash! Hansie spun into a wild frenzy as a pair of legs, brought out of a nearby casket were ceremoniously ‘tarred’ to his torso as he held the decayed head of Cronje himself! Then a demonic cackling went around the room as Hansie’s new legs started kicking!

VI

One by one each of the robed figures stepped into the candle light to receive, what appeared to be a blessing from the clearly mad C*****l. To my greater shock still, Penthouse glided into the light – bringing with him an armful of body parts and matted hair. This was repeated as each disciple received their blessings. Whippet had canine parts, Moggie had feline parts and the Kommander had female parts. Each was tarred and the procession continued. Xero, Cus-Cus and Clarence rolled on the floor, now thoroughly covered in the white dust. Taken by a madness, they frothed and babbled. To one side, bent over a single candle, I spotted another cleric who I had not noticed previously as he meticulously wrote in a leather-bound book. As the light caught his face I recognised the unmistakable head of Breally!

What devilment was this! What unholy luncheon had I stumbled across? I should have fled in terror then, but I can only say that I could not move a muscle – I was locked in fear.

I must have passed out, as when I awoke under the window much later, inside was all silence. My curiosity, however, took the better of me and I slipped into the sleeping house. I took a remaining lit candle and slowly entered the room. It was strewn with papers, letters and white dust. Long boxes lay at the edge of the room; some remained unopened but bore their senders’ post marks: one from a Doctor in Romania, another from Haiti. Gently pushing the lid off the latter I reeled backward in terror. It contained a corpse, long dead and badly decayed, which still had a frozen look of sheer fright on what remained of its face.

I took the letter from the top of the coffin and read...

VII

My dear C*****l J,

It was wonderful to finally make contact with you again after all these years. Haiti has proven a good haven for me though the locals begin to wax uneasy. I should perhaps consider removing again.

How long has it been olde friende? Not since the slavers sailed these waters if I recall correctly. It was easier for us to continue our work then.

The specimens I have sent to you are of mixed quality, some are incomplete, destroyed by decay, others are intact but are not as fresh. It has proved difficult to harvest all the parts you asked for. I am glad that you managed to procure enough of the ‘revitalizing Saltes’ from Eastern Europe, they have been in short supply of late.

Your friend,

Jumo.

IIX

I scrambled out of the house and returned home and slept. Could this be right? If so, the C*****l was over 200 years old and had been using means that should not be spoken of to retain his youth and increase the cricketing prowess of himself and his horrible acolytes!

Had he, as I now suspected, been importing harvested corpses and exotic spices from around the globe to aid him in this devilment? That would explain his absence for most of the cricketing season and perhaps explain the erratic form of most of the team.

And what of my other team mates, Petrol, Rocky and others? Are they to be trusted or are they in league with the C*****l? Am I alone in my detestation of these ungodly methods of improving my batting performance?

IX

I live now in constant fear of my life, dear friend, as I turn to you for help. I can’t go to the police. What proof do I have? It would take an extraordinary event to give any credibility to my story and save me from being committed to an asylum. It’s not as though there is any chance of seeing Brett McFly any time soon! As you may recall, he was killed and his body never recovered in a freak skiing accident late last year.

Please make haste and meet me at the nets,

Flymo.

Grazin’ with Daisy – or Daisy’s Teas

While batting for the opposition

I found myself in a strange position

A hundred scones with cream and jam

And coronation chicken sam

widges, with carrot-walnut cake

Had caused my scoring rate to brake.

(But happy the man with a modest innings

who takes his share of the final winnings!)