Live and Let Drood

“Really rubbish security here. They didn’t deserve to keep it.”
    She moved on through the games arcade, cuddling the stuffed pony to her chest and babbling cheerful nonsense to it. I followed behind. She wasn’t interested in holding my hand anymore. The pony was more important. I had to wonder if there was anything I wanted as much as Molly wanted that particular stuffed toy. I didn’t think so. My family gave us weapons to play with, not toys. And the only things I got to cuddle as a kid were the gryphons on the lawns. And they liked to roll in dead things. Childhoods; they really do mess you up. I hurried to catch up with the only thing I’d ever really wanted, and then we walked together through the arcade.
    We wandered from game to game, indulging ourselves occasionally, and I looked them all over with great interest, fascinated by the loud noises and flashing lights. Reminded me of the Armoury. Eventually we passed through the games arcade and out the other side. The fresh sea air came as a relief after so much compressed body odour, and we strolled on, all the way to the end of the Pier. Where I was somewhat surprised to find a slouching, two-story wooden edifice passing itself off as a haunted house. There were a slumping doorway, gloomily backlit windows, and a general ambience of cheap and cheerful. It looked like a stiff breeze would knock it over.
    “Okay,” I said. “That is never haunted. Not even a little bit.”
    “It’s not meant to be,” Molly said patiently. “It’s just another game, Eddie. For the children. Like a ghost train.”
    “Even the Scooby-Doo gang would turn up their noses at this,” Isaid firmly. “And no, Molly, we are not going in. I have my dignity. And I just know that if I walk through that door and someone in a sheet jumps out and shouts, Boo! at me, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
    “I suppose the Droods had the real thing!”
    “Not as such,” I said. “You met Jacob, the family ghost, awful old reprobate that he was.…And there’s the Headless Nun, of course. When I was a kid, they were usually more fun to hang around with than the rest of my family.”
    “It’s a wonder you grew up as normal as you did,” Molly said sweetly.
    “Well, quite,” I said.
    At the very end of the Pier, some distance from the beach and way out over the ocean, I leaned on the reinforced railings and breathed deeply. Seagulls keened loudly overhead but maintained a respectful distance. Molly hugged her stuffed pony one last time, opened an invisible pocket in her dress, stuffed the thing in and forgot about it. (If it looked to be turning up on our bed at any future time, I planned on being very firm about it.) I peered out across the ocean. Various ships were passing by, out on the horizon, going about the business apparently without a care in the world. Though it’s hard to be sure with ships.
    “I do like this pier,” I said. “Thanks for bringing me here, Molly. Even if your friend isn’t here. It does me good to be reminded that there are things in this world worth saving.”
    “We could always go on one of the rides,” said Molly. She indicated the various roller coasters and Tilt-A-Whirls, most of which swung too far out over the waters for my liking. I shook my head firmly.
    “I’ve never understood the appeal of those things. My world is dangerous enough as it is without putting myself at risk on purpose. I wouldn’t go on one of those things if you paid me. And I’ve got Drood armour.”
    “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Molly. “But you have no sense of adventure.”
    “That isn’t adventure,” I said. “That is one mechanical malfunctionaway from a major local news story just waiting to happen. Can we please go see this old friend of yours now? That is what we came here for, after all.”
    “I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
    “I was! I am. But part of being a Drood is knowing when to get down to business.”
    “Look to your right,” said Molly, “and there you will behold Madame O’s Palace of Mysteries. Look upon her wonders and marvel.”
    I looked. There, tucked away to one side, was an old-fashioned fortune-teller’s tent. A droopy-looking thing, presumably surrounding the stall within, its rough canvas covered with all the usual symbols that the general public has been conditioned to accept as representing the mystical and the occult: moons and stars, witches on broomsticks and black cats. It