Bohemian Rhapsody

moment thirteen: sigils (July 1974)

Mr Pritchard habitually got off the Underground at precisely 6:45, and managed to walk quite smartly, briefcase in hand, towards his nicely terraced house: number 8, Evans Avenue, Shoreditch. He turned precisely from the street up the small garden path, admiring the clean lines of the lawn and neatly trimmed rose bushes, stopping for a moment to set the garden gnome on the correct angle so that it faced out towards the street, welcoming all and sundry.

Inserting his key into the door at 7:03pm, and turning it the precise quarter-turn the stiff lock needed, he could hear the burble of the television set from inside, and true to form, Mrs Pritchard was in the living room, laying out the table for dinner. She herself had gotten home a few hours previously from her position as librarian at the local primary school, and was always there to support him when he arrived from a busy day - he worked as the accountant for a boot manufacturing factory in the East End, and as previously, her dedication to simplicity and order reassured him. The same photos were on the mantle: the same familiar tablecloth laid out, the one with the lace trim, and the old dinnerware and cutlery that they had received as a present for their wedding, many years ago. The table was set for two: they had no children.

He took the coffee she offered him, and sank into his comfy chair, the crotchet cover a familiar sensation against his back, the coffee cup warm in his hands. Mr Pritchard bent down to take off his shoes and slipped on his slippers, comfortable in the glow of the technicolour news from BBC1.

"In our headlines news today, a local councillor in Cardiff has been found dead in his house. Police are treating the death as suspicious, and were summoned to the house after strange noises and a glowing green light were reporting to have emanated from the house that night. Upon arriving at the house, police reported a strange glowing skull in the air, which soon dissipated. The glowing skull has been associated with two other murders in recent months: that of Southwark pin-up girl Jennifer Dalby, and Soho celebrity David Tynes. Police are confirming they believe a link exists between the three murders, and the skull symbol is most likely a sign of gang warfare by the growing punk population against ordinary, respectable citizens."

A few minutes later, and Mr. Pritchard was at the dining table, digging into a pile of nicely-soggy peas with his fork. He swallowed the large mouthful down, masticating it between his lips, making noises that vaguely resembled a cow as it ate its cud. His wife was the opposite: small, distinct movements as if she intended to dissect her lamb chop rather than eat it. Mr Pritchard waved his now clean fork airily, and swallowed the peas, getting ready for one of his evening pronouncements.

"Kids these days," he said, huffing. "Punks and glowing skulls and whatnot. It's bad for Britain, Edith, you mark my words. Need to be taken out and given a good thrashing, eh?"

"Yes dear," she remarked absently, and swallowed a skerrick of chop.