As you reach the Council Offices on the corner of Nile and Robe streets, you’re met by a rotund figure in a scrappy braided wig and billowy, black gown. A halo of pipe smoke wreaths his head and, as you draw near, he pokes the pipe in your direction and addresses you in a thick Irish accent.
“Well aren’t you getting yourself in all sorts of trouble,” he warns you abruptly.
“And you are?” you ask.
“Show a bit a gratitude. I am Judge Jervois and I run the Courthouse.” He pokes the pipe once more, back up Nile St, towards where the Old Courthouse used to be on Commercial Rd.
“You’d be wise to listen. If you’re not careful, you’re likely to fall foul of a particularly nasty gang called the Jongleurs.”
You look at him with alarm.
“They hide near the anchor on the corner of Robe Street and North Parade, creeping up on the living when the streets are deserted, taunting people for their amusement. Tickle their neck. Jab them in the ribs. Then they take things too far…”
Your ears prick up at the word ‘Anchor’. Just what you’re looking for! You follow Judge Jervois’s gesticulating pipe once again as he points across the carpark to your right. At the far corner you can just see the Anchor!
“I’ve sentenced these Jongleurs but they have resisted arrest for some time now. Theft. Armed robbery. Murder. I see in your eyes that you plan on heading that way so I won’t try and dissuade you…”
He reaches into his gown and draws out a bottle. “Take this concoction and… get them to drink it.”
You see ‘Black Sea’ scrawled down the side, but when you look back, the Judge has already trundled off.
You cautiously turn right onto Robe Street and head towards North Parade. At the corner the anchor lays amongst a small grove of London Plane trees.
There’s no sign of the Jongleurs. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
As you reach for the anchor you flinch as something hits your back, then your shoulder. Could it be seedpods dropping from the tree? Suddenly the Jongleurs drop from the trees in raptures of laughter.
Their outfits are like clowns, but the colour has been painted on their clothes. The most disturbing element is their painted faces, manic exaggerated grins and wild eyes. Their names are scrawled across their shirt pockets.
‘Jongleur Jack’ pins you to a tree, and going through your pockets, he come across John’s belongings and the bottle of Black Sea. He holds the bottle high.
“What is this then?”
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