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The Camden Cad
Aug 24, 2004
North London
Chapter Seven - A Mystery Wrapped In A Riddle And Clad In A Southend United Scarf

Ricey knocked once on the door of Osymandus' cottage. With a loud creak that seemed unnecessarily dramatic, it opened slowly to reveal a gloomy mess, lit only by a handful of candles scattered about the room. Loose papers carpeted the floor, piles of books sagged and swayed against the walls and there was a heavy musky scent in the air, like old gym socks found after a lengthy absence at the bottom of a sports bag.

"Come in, Ricey. I've been waiting for you." said a voice from inside the room.

"Osymandus?" asked Ricey, peering round the doorframe. A figure stood by the window, the same one he'd seen from the street. He was short, with swept back red hair and a face like old leather, wearing pale chinos and a sailor's blue and white hooped shirt.

"Come in, Ricey," he said. "I can help you with your questions."
"How did you know?" asked Ricey in wonder.

"We always know," said the figure, smiling. "Come in."

Ricey stepped through the door and looked around. It really was a state in there, as if someone had picked up an office and shaken it like a Magic 8 Ball. The papers on the floor were covered in random scribblings, some of which appeared to have been written backwards, some in different coloured ink and some were scrawled in what appeared to be different substances. Darker, richer substances. Ricey stopped looking. There were some things he didn't want to know and in that section he could include the smell that was currently charging up his nostrils with pitchforks and flaming torches.

"It's a bit messy, isn't it?" he said with a look of distaste.


"You don't live like this, do you?"

"We don't....live."

Ricey looked at the figure intently.

"Crikey, Osy. They were right. They said I'd never understand you. Anyway, have you got a toilet in here? I'm desperate for a slash"

The figure looked blank.

"You must have a toilet in here somewhere," said Ricey cheerfully, stomping through the papers and walking to a door on the far side of the room. "What about through here?"

Ricey threw the door open and there was a thump of something heavy on something fleshy, a high-pitched, muffled yelp and it bounced back shut in his face.

"Eh?" said Ricey and he opened the door slowly. In the shadows, laid out across the floor he saw a pair of bare feet trussed together.

"I'm never going to give you up, Ricey." said a voice behind him. "I'm never going to let you go. I'm going to run around....and hurt you!"

"Oh no!" yelled Ricey. "It's Rick Astley!" He wheeled around, but it was too late. Astley hit him with a shoulder charge, bouncing him off the doorframe and into a pile of papers.

"You're not supposed to be here," growled Astley. "You're ruining everything. You're a rogue variable and you're scheduled for deletion!"

"I'm just a bloody Southend fan!" wailed Ricey from the floor. "I don't even want to be here anyway!"

"I can solve that," Astley snarled and he leapt at Ricey like a dog, landing on top of him with a knee in his stomach and his hands round his throat.

"No..!" gurgled Ricey.

"Yes," smiled Astley, strengthening his grip. "Yes."


Ricey flushed red, then purple and then started to twitch. There was an agonised groaning and then he visibly relaxed.

"Have you...." gasped Astley looking down. "Have you?....You have! You dirty git, you've wet yourself!" He jumped off and started patting down his chinos desperately. "Oh no!" he wailed. "I'm covered! These are brand new! Brand new, you absolute ****!"

Ricey took a deep breath and lifted his leg up hard into Astley's exposed groin. The flame-haired crooner squealed in pain and dropped to his knees. Ricey hauled himself to his feet and looked around the room for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes fell on a heavy candle, burning on the mantlepiece. He reached out and grabbed it, sending a swirl of molten wax splattering against the wall.

"I always hated you," he grimaced as he lifted the candle above his head. "That song made you sound like a stalker, I'll never understand why people bought it. It wasn't romanatic at all....just creepy."

He gritted his teeth and brought the candle crashing down on the back of Astley's head. There was a sickening crack, like someone dropping a clog from a third storey window, and it was over. Blood spilled out across the floor, blotting slowly against the papers, and the candle went out.

Grabbing another from the windowsill, Ricey went to the door at the far side of the room and opened it gently. A pale man was stripped to his underwear, bound and gagged and slumped in the corner of the bathroom. His terrified eyes flared in the candle-light.

"It's ok," said Ricey. "I'm here to help you." He reached out and pulled down the gag down from the prisoner's mouth.

"Thank Gods for this," gasped the man. "Have been their for hors!"

"Erm....right," said Ricey looking puzzled. "Are you Osymandus?"

"Of coarse I am," smiled the man. "How can I helped you?"

Ricey grinned. This was Osymandus alright. Finally, things were going his way.

"Excuses me?" said Osymandus politely, as Ricey untied him. "Has you been sitting in puddles or did you puss yourself?