Thatchenstein (Zomtastic Book 3)

Book summary

In "Thatchenstein," the final book of Jack Strange's distinctive horror-comedy trilogy, the Lazarus Engine's legacy continues with Wally Pratt, a relative of its creator. Inheriting the engine, Pratt ambitiously constructs a creature from recycled parts, eerily resembling Margaret Thatcher. Dubbed "Thatchenstein," this revived figure reimagines the famed leader in a bizarre, satirical twist. The trilogy concludes with a potent and unexpected climax, blending horror and parody in a unique finale.

Excerpt from Thatchenstein (Zomtastic Book 3)

Jonathan Badde, of Lowe, Petty and Badde Solicitors, examined the report he'd just received from Title Research and smiled. The report told him that the late Ted Forsyth, of 41 Acacia Avenue, who had died without leaving a valid will, had been survived by a distant relative.

This relative, who in all probability had never heard of Forsyth, was now going to inherit everything that Forsyth had owned in the way of money, assets and property. It amounted to a tidy sum. There was Forsyth's house at 41 Acacia Avenue, worth quite a lot in view of its proximity to London, and a healthy balance in a bank account.

What it all added up to was a decent payday for Lowe, Petty and Badde Solicitors, if Badde played his cards right.

He got on the telephone and called Wally Pratt, the distant relative of Forsyth who was about to come into an unexpected stroke of good fortune.

“Mr Pratt,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You don't know me; my name is Jonathan Badde, and I'm with Lowe, Petty and Badde Solicitors.”

“Solicitors? What is it? I haven't done anything wrong.”

“Relax, Mr. Pratt. This isn't bad news, it's good news. Well, there's some bad news, but it's mostly good news. You see, a relative of yours has died. That's the bad bit. The good bit is that you're going to inherit everything he owned, including a house and some money.”

“Really? That is rather good news. How much will I get?”

“We haven't had the house valued, but given that it's in the commuter belt, it'll fetch a fair amount. As for the money, I can't tell you exactly how much there is, because I haven't been in touch with the bank yet. But it's a tidy sum.”

“Approximately how tidy?”

“Approximately one hundred thousand pounds, possibly a smidgen more. It will go some way towards paying the legal fees in this difficult probate matter your relative has burdened you with.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Nothing, Mr. Pratt. Just leave it all in my capable hands and sign a few papers, that's all.”

“How soon will I get my money?”

“All in good time, Mr Pratt.”

“You don't understand. I'm up against it. I'm broke and on the verge of being evicted from my flat. I'm desperate to get my hands on some money.”

So am I, thought Badde.

“You're on the verge of being evicted?”

“That's right. I'm three months behind with the rent. The landlord has a court order against me. The bailiffs are gonna come around and chuck me out any day now.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that. Still, I'm glad you told me. I may be able to help. If you can meet with me at my office and bring with you some evidence of your identity, including, but not limited to: your passport, photo-card driving licence, a bank statement, council tax bill and a utility bill, all with your name and address on them to prove that you are indeed Wally Pratt, I can draw up a document to allow you to reside in the house belonging to your late relative Ted Forsyth. That should sort out your accommodation problems for the time being. While you're here, you can also sign a binding agreement to pay my fees.”

“All right, that's something, I suppose. When will I get my money?”

There probably won't be any by the time I've finished with you, Badde thought.

“That won't come through for some time, Mr. Pratt. Probate is an awfully complicated and slow process, I'm afraid.”

“All right, how soon can I see you?”

“This afternoon, if you can get here that quickly. It's Lowe, Petty and Badde Solicitors, and we're off the B272 just down the road from the sewage works.”

“I can get there for two o'clock this afternoon if that's convenient.”

“That's ideal, Mr. Pratt. I'll make sure I have the documents ready for you to sign and a key to the house for you to collect. Bye-bye for now.”

“Good-bye – and thank you so much.”

“Well, thank you so much, Mr. Pratt.”

Pratt met with Badde at the appointed hour, signed a contract to pay Badde's eye-watering fees, and left with the keys to 41 Acacia avenue.

In a house in Croydon, Richard Hoyle was packing a box with crockery. He stopped to wipe the sweat off his bald head.

“This moving malarkey is bloody hard work,” he said. “I can't wait till it's all over.”

“You and me both,” said his partner Darren. “Anyway, we don't have long to wait. It's all happening tomorrow, and we haven't got much left to pack. Let's go out to eat tonight, shall we? I don't think I can face eating in here. The place seems sad and bare now that we've taken our pictures down and packed everything away.”

“I was thinking that, myself. Let's go to Rodizio Petro. By the way, do yer know where the estate agent's brochure is? I want to 'ave another look at our new home.”

Darren took a coloured leaflet from the worktop and handed it to Richard, who opened it and scrutinised the pictures inside.

“We'll be able to do a lot with this place,” he said. “And I like the name of the road it's on. Acacia Avenue. It has a nice ring to it.”

“What number is it again?”

“It's 43; 43 Acacia Avenue.”