(///warming.pungent.peppery – near the Cape of Good Hope, South Atlantic Ocean)

Devil’s curry fuses Malaysian spices with flavours of Portugal and represents an example of Eurasian cuisine from the era when European powers were establishing links in Asia. It is traditionally eaten after Christmas, making use of whatever leftovers are to hand.

It had already been a long voyage, with many days and nights still to come, so she could understand the children. They had not requested this change, leaving their comfortable life in familiar surroundings, to travel to who knew where to do who knew what. But their father had said that continuing to establish Portuguese dominance in these distant Asian lands was vital for the country’s future prosperity, and they should enjoy the honour of the mission rather than bemoan the loss of the familiar.

But her tolerance had its limits. She spent her days unsuccessfully trying to control the four of them as they roamed the ship, exploring the decks and the bowels, the state rooms and the store rooms, persistently under people’s feet or stroking the rats. Their fine clothes were forever ragged, their bodies increasingly pungent from their misdemeanours. Her shouting made no difference. Their determination to avoid boredom overpowered all else.

The final straw was when she found them in the kitchen. It seemed the eldest had found an old crate, not cleared from the previous voyage back from the Indies, and had raided it for the strange roots and nuts contained therein. They had persuaded the kitchen staff to let them experiment with the weirdly shaped objects, slicing and dicing them and throwing them into a pot with whatever leftovers and staple ingredients were to hand, stirring and warming until there was a vat of brown something, though much had been transferred to surfaces and floors such was the gusto with which they had made it.

Enough, she shrieked. Enough. Off to their rooms. They would be locked down for a week. Look at all the mess. See all the carnage. Think about how it would disrupt the smooth operation of the ship.

They sloped off, disconsolate.

But she couldn’t help but salivate at the aroma from all around her, the salty, peppery, spicy sensations which tantalised her. She couldn’t help herself from trying a little, from sharing it with the cook, from urgently asking what they had put in it.

The little devils, she muttered to herself. They had created a masterpiece.

_________________________________________

Why this location?

(///romantics.punk.topmost – Beeston Hills Putting Green, Sheringham, UK)

“It’s the greatest win in the history of The Open!” the commentator gushed, as Harvey Marshall strode forward to receive golf’s most famous trophy.

There was sustained applause and cheers as the 65-year-old amateur hoisted the famous Claret Jug above his head.

“Simply qualifying on his first attempt was enough for the romantics,” the commentator continued. “But then to lead from first to last and win by seven strokes, well I don’t know what to say.”

“The topmost achievement in all of golf,” his co-commentator suggested.

At his press conference later, Harvey charmed the journalists.

“How did you do it?” someone asked

“I made a pact with the Devil,” he twinkled back. Guffaws of laughter.

“Will you defend the trophy next year?”

“If I live that long!” Whoops of delight.

Tired but happy, Harvey eventually returned to his hotel room, set the trophy on the desk and sat down on his bed to admire it.

“Time to collect payment,” a voice near him said.

Harvey looked round at the Devil, reclining in an armchair by the window.

“That didn’t take long,” he replied ruefully. “Can’t I just have a few more minutes to enjoy the moment?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve got a woman in a vegetable competition and a punk selling art waiting on me,” the Devil said standing up. “No rest and all that.”

Harvey nodded. His soul in exchange for immortality, albeit of the sporting kind.

On balance, it had been a deal worth making.

____________________________

Why this location?

(///lake.motel.bonus – Derby Railway Station, UK)

Lewis was shaking all over “What are we going to do with the body?” That’s what the tall man had been whispering into his phone as he’d squeezed past on the way to his seat.

His nerves about this trip had been justified. First time in the States. Overnight train from New York to Chicago. And danger everywhere!

Don’t panic, he told himself. Must have meant something else. Try to relax. Go to the dining car. Get some dinner.

But it got worse.

Everywhere, people talking urgently into phones. Every message, more damning than the last.

“Nobody will find it in the lake,” a blonde woman whispered furtively.

“There’s a bonus if we get it done by tomorrow,” mumbled a portly man moments later.

“The money will be in left in our motel room,” the tall man hissed, involved once more.

Lewis had to do something. Had to. But what? Ring 911? Maybe, but say what. Accost them himself? Definitely not, too risky. Find the conductor? Yes, that made sense.

He scurried up and down the train, forever seeing his suspects checking their phones and typing away. He was almost sprinting now, practically knocking people over, sweat perspiring. And then he slammed into the bulky figure of the conductor.

“Steady there sir, where’s the fire?”

“It’s them, it’s them,” Lewis gibbered.

“Sir, you’re not making any sense.”

Lewis panted, tried to get his breath. “Three people. On the train. They’re plotting something. A murder. I’ve heard them.”

“Oh those people,” the guard smiled, looking down the corridor. Lewis looked back. The tall man. The blonde woman. The portly man. He recoiled.

They came closer. And then the tall man extended a hand.

“Fazakarley James, drama student, at your service.”

“D-D-Drama student?”

“Yes, improv drama. Trying to find an audience for our new work. Involves snatched conversations on trains.”

“You mean..”

“Of course. A fiction! We’re not planning to murder anyone.”

Lewis breathed deeply, and smiled.

“Of course, I can’t speak for our friend here,” Fazakerley continued, as the conductor clubbed Lewis on the head.

“Thanks for the delivery,” the conductor nodded. “Your money will be in the usual place. See you next week.”

______________________________

Why this location?

(///flickered.oilier.measurements – Mount Sinai)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to Moses, I am. Things weren’t good in Egypt, what with the long days, random beatings and primitive housing. Getting out probably was the best thing for us.

Even so, a part of me misses it. A part of me misses being the go to guy for life’s little niceties, being the guy who knew how to get figs and dates for people, or the occasional slab of meat. I had a certain standing, a kind of importance in the community.

But then along came Moses with his speeches and his promises and his magical tricks, and everyone flocked to him. I guess he delivered freedom though, while I just delivered eggs.

It feels like it’s changing now. He’s been up that mountain for ages, and people have tired of the smoke and fire illusion. They want to know what’s happening next, whether this bright new future is real or merely a misdirection.

And so now they’re turning back to me, to see what I can do to lift their spirits a little. It’s true, I can’t get treats for them any more. But I can still give them something they want. A whisper in Aaron’s ear, an appeal for little bits of jewellery, they’ll give up trinkets because they’re getting something they want far more.

And so now as I sit and melt all that gold down, calculate the measurements, my fingers feeling oilier and oilier as I work. I can picture the golden calf I will soon fashion for them to worship. Then, what briefly flickered as a new type of life will disappear once again and we will revert to our old ways, and I will once more be a man of standing. This exodus of ours will be no more than a footnote in history.

After all, this new-fangled nonsense called monotheism will never catch on.

_________________________________

Why this location?

(///crumple.thundered.pickles – College Farm, Norfolk)

Toby hated camping. Hated it! But that didn’t stop his parents making him go. Every summer!

But this year would be different. This year, Toby would make it go away and never come back. Because this year, Toby had the book.

The teenager had found it during one of his regular rummages in the loft. A genuine book of spells. And he knew it worked. He’d already turned the cat red and made a saucepan crumple into a ball.

And so he found himself in the tent, as his parents snored away, filling a bowl with radishes, chopped walnuts and pickles and reciting an incantation in a strange language.

It started immediately. The sky flashed and thundered, rain arrowed everywhere, wind shook and battered all the tents except theirs. Surely the resultant carnage would close the campsite, forcing them to go home. He climbed into his sleeping bag, a job well done.

When he woke up, his parents seemed cheery. He heard them pottering around making breakfast, calling him to come and help with the eggs. Bleary-eyed he emerged and tottered outside.

Everything looked pristine. Undamaged. Dry. He rubbed his eyes. Had he dreamt it?

“OK dear?” his mother asked.

“Something wrong?” his father chimed in.

“No, it’s just, it’s just..”

“Not what you were expecting,” his father suggested.

“Never mind,” his mother smiled. “Weather will be good today. And I know. Because we’ve got a book too.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, time for breakfast. Pickle and radish sandwich anyone?”

_______________________________

Why this location?

(///admiral.pram.orchestra – The Sherlock Holmes Museum, London, UK)

“You are here about your recently missing grandfather, Admiral Morton. You rushed to get here before your next teaching assignment, but you were careful to protect your precious violin. And you wish you’d drunk your tea more carefully before leaving home.”

Elizabeth Montgomery paused in the act of lowering herself into a chair. “Mr Holmes,” she gasped. “I have not even sat down. And I have barely spoken. How could you know all of that?”

Watson chuckled.

“It’s perfectly obvious,” Holmes said. “You are flushed, but your natural complexion is not ruddy, so you hurried. You keep glancing at the splashes of tea on your stole, so you drained it on your way out. And you brought a pram, though no baby. I observed from the window that the shape inside resembled a violin case, so I surmised it is a valuable instrument you wanted to keep from view.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “But my grandfather?”

“The cameo brooch with his portrait which you are wearing prominently. It brings you comfort.”

“But how did you know him?”

Holmes’ eyes twinkled. “There I must admit, I had a little prior knowledge. I deciphered a message secreted in yesterday’s Times crossword – the words Admiral, Lime, Grapes and Ransom pointed to someone being held in the Grapes Tavern in Limehouse. My irregulars confirmed suspicious activity and police found your grandfather there, unharmed. As I expected, he was holding a letter addressed to me. It simply said ‘The Game’s Afoot’, and was signed by Moriarty. And so another joust with my old adversary awaits.”

“My word. And where is Grandpop now?”

“My dear,” a voice behind her boomed. Elizabeth almost knocked over her chair as she ran to embrace him.

“Mr Holmes was preparing to escort me home. You could join us.”

Elizabeth turned to face the detective, her face wreathed in smiles. “However can I thank you?” she asked.

“Why don’t you fetch that violin of yours,” Holmes said. “A duet from our own tiny orchestra before you leave.”

____________________________________

Why this location?

(///prosecuted.amplification.showings – Null Island (0 degrees lat, 0 degrees long), international waters)

The prisoners could scarcely believe their luck. Two weeks into the transportation, a card game between the captain and other senior crew members had escalated from a minor disagreement into open warfare, culminating in the deaths of those who had played.

The remaining seamen had no real quarrel with the prisoners they were taking to New South Wales. Feeling kinship with the deprivations which had motivated many of their crimes, they promptly freed them and declared that all those left on board now owned the ship.

“We are in the middle of everywhere!” declared Paddy, previously prosecuted and convicted for stealing a woollen jacket. “We can go where we please. The world is ours!”

They ate, they drank, they honed their cartography skills as they surveyed the surrounding seas and the stars at night.

And while they decided where next, they relaxed.

Molly, also a minor thief, indulged her passion for dancing and put on performances, two showings a day. Davey, condemned for political activism, experimented with the rudimentary machines on board to create different sounds, amplification or muffling. Thomas, admittedly a convicted murderer, was welcomed into the fold as people felt that disembowelling the former teacher who had flogged him mercilessly was simply justice and not a crime. And they liked the way he baked bread.

Two weeks passed in a haze as the ship sailed in circles and the food supplies started to dwindle. Two weeks to come up with a plan. Two weeks to take advantage of being in the middle of everywhere.

Until finally, a group of them sat down together. They ate a little. They drank a little. They shuffled the maps a lot. And then Paddy stood up.

“We are in the middle of everywhere,” he said. “But we are also in the middle of nowhere. And truth be told, we need to be in the middle of somewhere.” He stared ruefully at the map he held and then looked at the sailors. “Which of you knows how to get to Australia?” he asked.

____________________________

Why this location?

(///punt.calls.fell – Entrance to the old City of London School building)

Hector Tomkins surveyed his audience and cleared his throat.

“As headmaster, I have to tell this annual meeting that application numbers fell again last year. But the reason is clear. We are being systematically destroyed by Hogwarts!”

Nods of agreement.

“People no longer believe that the Webster Academy is a true school of magic. They have been seduced by the fictitious nonsense of Harry Potter and his friends. Real magic schools such as ours can no longer thrive!”

Jeers for Harry Potter.

“So what can we do? You have seen my proposal. It’s a punt, but a punt worth taking. Let’s have a show of hands!”

Unanimous support.

***

A year later the headmaster beamed at those in front of him.

“Calls have been flooding in for months! The future of the Webster Academy is assured!”

Huge cheers.

“We know some people viewed it as a little unethical. We know we had to get special dispensation from the Magic Council. But it was important to tinker with history to ensure that we didn’t become history!”

Prolonged applause.

“People out there don’t know any better now anyway. To them, Hogwarts has always been fact and not fiction. Harry Potter films have always been documentaries and not blockbusters. The Goblet of Fire has always been a staple of the sporting year. We’re now mainstream, no longer hidden, and so our numbers have risen again.”

A standing ovation. Hector smiled. Saving his school had been a true feat of magic.

____________________________

Why this location?