Breaking the Lore

by Breaking the Lore (retail) (epub)

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said the inspector. ‘I wanted to get him here without any fuss. He wouldn’t be ordinary without the hat. Those ears are pretty noticeable. Course, they don’t mean he actually is a magical creature. For all we know he’s a regular human person with wacky plastic surgery.’

  ‘You’re not convinced?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to think, Maria. He might be for real. But he may be just a small bloke with Mr Spock envy. The rock troll could be someone in a very good costume.’

  Paris stopped speaking, unwilling to push the idea any further. The talking crow was hard enough to comprehend; the dead fairy proved impossible. A logical explanation seemed a long way off at the moment.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘whatever he is, he’s done military service. Look at him, practically sitting to attention. When he got to my place, he didn’t have a nose round, he “conducted reconnaissance”. Then when we arrived here, he eyed up everything, only not to admire the scenery. He wanted to check out the building’s defences. Tried to be casual about it, but I’ve dealt with soldiers before. I understand how they operate. Plus he waves his sword around as if he’s an expert. Problem is: he’s a bit short for our army. And how long is it since we taught fencing?’

  ‘Keep working on it,’ said Thorpe, looking back towards the window. ‘He isn’t tall enough to be one of our soldiers, you think? Strange, I’ve been struggling with the notion that he’s too tall. For an elf. From children’s stories, I mean. Big ears, yes. I remember something else though. They were always supposed to be, well…’

  ‘Small?’ said Paris. ‘Already had this conversation on the way here. Apparently elves are more or less our height. Dwarves are short and stocky, pixies are even smaller, then fairies are tiny. With wings.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Thorpe. She thought for a moment. ‘What about leprechauns?’

  ‘Give me a chance! I’ve done exactly one lesson of identi-creature. You know as much as me now.’

  Paris tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling. Being in the observation room felt, as always, like being in a grotty little cupboard. Barely two metres across, poorly lit, and in need of a fresh coat of paint. It did have windows on two walls; the first faced into IR1, the other into the equally unspectacular IR2. Not somewhere you wanted to spend a lot of time. It was, however, an excellent place for interviewing a couple of criminals separately when checking out their stories. He waited for the inevitable query regarding this particular twosome.

  ‘Genuine or not,’ said Thorpe, ‘you advised me there’s a troll as well. So where is it?’

  ‘Still in my house,’ replied Paris. ‘Wouldn’t fit in the car.’

  He pointed through the glass.

  ‘Tergil over there, he’d put it into some sort of trance. Woke it up again before we set off. Said he didn’t want it coming round without him there or it might panic. And if it did, I’d have no house left.’ He shook his head. ‘Told the neighbours I’ve got subsidence. Best I could come up with. Don’t know what I’m going to tell the insurance company.’

  ‘We’ll deal with them later. Did the rock thing complain when it got left behind?’

  ‘At first,’ said Paris. ‘Tergil calmed it down. Said he had to go but promised he’d be back soon. I gave it some biscuits and a drink of milk, then it was fine. Bonetti’s there with it. Left them both watching cartoons on the spare telly. Bit sad really, this hulking great body with the brain of a ten-year-old. And the troll’s nearly as bad.’

  ‘At least it shouldn’t cause any more trouble for a while,’ said Thorpe. ‘Did you ask our elven visitor about the fairy?’

  ‘Yeah. He says we’ve misunderstood the symbolism. Crucifixion may be a big deal in our religion, but it means nothing in theirs. It’s just the shape they arrange a body when they want to send a particular message.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘Would you believe: “Come back. We’ve found where you’re hiding”?’

  Thorpe pursed her lips. ‘It’s a touch heavy-handed.’

  ‘True. Then again, they probably haven’t got Post-it notes.’

  Paris scratched his ear.

  ‘I’ve told you what’s happened,’ he said, ‘with the crow, the troll, everything. I didn’t tell you what he told me: what’s allegedly going on in this alleged magic world, or why he wants asylum. Decided he should tell you himself, because it’s mind-blowing stuff. If it’s real, this guy needs help. And if it’s made up, he definitely needs help.’

  ‘Let’s find out,’ said Thorpe.

  They left the room and walked the few paces down the corridor. Paris opened the door to IR2. Tergil stood up as the superintendent entered.

  ‘No, please,’ said Thorpe. ‘Take a seat.’

  Paris followed her in, nudging the constable standing inside.

  ‘You can go now, Johnson,’ he whispered. ‘Has he said anything since you’ve been here?’

  ‘Not a word, sir. Is he foreign?’

  Paris considered the question. ‘Well, he’s not from round here.’

  Closing the door behind Johnson, he cast his eyes around the room. As white and plain as ever, but clean, tidy. In good condition. Plus it contained a table with four chairs. How come, he pondered, suspects got to sit in here while police officers stood up in the tatty observation room? Something was seriously wrong with the justice system.

  Thorpe had done her introductions and seated herself across the table from Tergil. Paris remained standing, leaning against the side wall so he could observe the discussion. Tergil looked up at him.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Paris. ‘She’s allowed to see them.’

  Tergil lifted a hand to pull off the woolly hat. The points of his ears sprang away from where they’d been flattened against his skull and wobbled.

  ‘Oh my!’ said Thorpe. ‘Those are very impressive ears.’

  ‘I am glad you approve,’ said Tergil. ‘They are the only ones I have.’

  Thorpe leant forward, folding her arms as she rested them on the table.

  ‘You won’t be surprised,’ she said, ‘to learn that I’ve never met a magical creature before. All I know is what I’ve heard in stories. Father Christmas, for instance, with the elves who make the toys.’

  Tergil was impassive.

  ‘We relate a similar tale,’ he replied. ‘It is called “Santa Claus and his slave workforce”.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Thorpe.

  ‘It is an ancient story,’ said the elf, ‘about the perils of trusting strangers. It does have a happy ending, though. The evil Claus is beaten to death with hunks of reindeer meat.’

  Paris grinned. Thorpe’s incisive mind had been rendered slightly blunt. As ice-breaking went, this conversation outdid the Titanic.

  He stepped away from the wall.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just tell her what you told me?’

  Tergil sat looking at him for a few seconds. Then he turned his head, fixing his eyes on Thorpe.

  ‘Your inspector has evidently recovered from the shock of our first meeting. This is good. I have no wish to upset any humans, although what I shall tell you is most upsetting.’

  He leant on the table, mirroring the superintendent.

  ‘There are,’ he said, ‘many kinds of what you call “magical creatures”. Over the years, humans occasionally came into contact with some of them. These meetings were treated as fantasy by other humans, then entered your fables. However, as you can see, we do exist.’

  Paris forced himself to keep quiet. He examined the so-called elf’s ears, searching for any giveaway signs of surgery. He found none.

  ‘In many ways,’ continued Tergil, ‘our society is comparable to yours. We war, we trade, we have families. There are different lands, and different peoples. Not all of them are good. For instance, the rulers of my home land.’

  ‘The elves?’ asked Thorpe.

  ‘Alas, no. Another race conquered our realm decades ago. A race which performs a comp
letely different role in your stories. We are not talking about industrious dwarves or beautiful fairies, or even scary trolls. We are talking about the stuff of nightmares.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they are what you would call demons.’

  Tergil paused, letting his last statement sink in.

  ‘And,’ he said, ‘like all of the mystical beings who are in your world, I fled. We are here in hiding. Or rather, we were. We have now been discovered.’

  ‘This is what the dead fairy means?’ asked Thorpe.

  ‘Yes, as I explained to your inspector. He described killing somebody to send a message as “over the top”. Possibly accurate, but such is the way of the Vanethria.’

  Paris’s ears pricked up, although his face remained fixed in neutral. When Tergil informed him earlier of the oppressive regime they’d escaped from, he’d said nothing in reply. He didn’t announce that Malbus used the same name. He didn’t even mention Malbus. Keep these details back, he reasoned. They might be useful later for verifying Tergil’s story – or for tripping him up if required. Genuine or not, this guy would have to get up early in the morning to beat Nick Paris.

  Tergil watched him with an unblinking gaze.

  ‘I perceived recognition in your eyes when I first told you,’ said the elf. ‘Though you chose not to speak. Do you know of them?’

  Paris stared back down at him. Genuine or not, this guy must get up at the crack of dawn.

  ‘Cards on the table,’ he said. ‘I’d already been told. By a crow.’

  Tergil smiled. ‘Malbus. How is he?’

  ‘Not so good,’ replied Paris. ‘He came to visit me last night. Heard a noise outside and said he’d got to go. That’s the last time we saw him alive.’

  Tergil’s smile faded. His impassive face reappeared.

  ‘I see,’ he said calmly. ‘An action typical of Malbus: sacrificing himself for another.’

  ‘For another? What do you mean?’

  ‘The Vanethria are only concerned with the magical creatures in your world. They have no interest in humans. Unless, of course, one of you became involved. If Malbus was in your house, he obviously took flight before he could be seen there. Otherwise, you would also be dead.’

  The inspector gaped. Because he hadn’t mentioned Malbus before, Tergil hadn’t said anything about sacrifice. Now he did, the realisation dawned on Paris that he owed his life to a kamikaze crow.

  Tergil turned his attention back to Thorpe.

  ‘Perhaps you understand why we do not want to return,’ he said. ‘Hence my request for asylum. Will you help us?’

  ‘We’ll need to discuss it,’ said the superintendent. ‘If you could wait here?’

  She stood up. The two cops walked out, shutting the door firmly behind them. They walked the few steps down the corridor and went back into the observation room.

  Paris looked through the one-way mirror. Tergil sat with his arms folded, staring at the wall in front of him. The red woolly hat lay discarded on the table and his ears stood proudly erect. Right at this moment, he seemed a very genuine elf.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Thorpe. ‘A mystical world overrun by demons? Creatures escaping to our world then being hunted down?’

  Paris didn’t respond. Thorpe peered at him.

  ‘Nick?’ she asked. ‘If it is all true, then it sounds as if you’ve had a lucky escape.’

  ‘Really? You reckon?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Paris pointed at the window. ‘He thinks Malbus got out of the house before any of these Vanethria spotted him. We’re not certain. So this demon army might still want to kill me!’

  6

  ‘This is the place?’ asked Tergil.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Paris. ‘We’ve got to ring the buzzer.’

  Tergil gave him a questioning look.

  ‘It’s the pathology lab,’ explained Paris. ‘Where they slice open corpses. You don’t just wander in.’

  ‘I am sure that I have witnessed much worse on the battlefield. The sight of blood causes me no distress.’

  ‘Maybe so. But you’re not the general public.’

  Paris couldn’t help grinning to himself. This little bloke with the big ears was a bit different to your average member of the community. He seemed normal enough at the moment, though; those distinctive auditory organs had been covered up again as the two men made their way through the building. Superintendent Thorpe wanted to limit the number of people who knew about magical beings, even within the station. Of course, the rumours were already rife. Somebody had started taking bets on what kind of creature would be reported next. Paris wondered the same thing and went over the options in his head. Possibly a banshee at 10-to-1. Perhaps a goblin at 15-to-2. Definitely not the 500-to-1 shot of Elvis riding a Womble.

  The inspector’s thoughts moved on to other, less cuddly creatures: the Vanethria. At least, he assumed demons weren’t huggable. Tergil had made no attempt to describe them. He’d simply let Paris think they may be after him, then the cop’s imagination had taken care of the rest. It required all his logical powers to reassure himself. He didn’t know for certain demons existed, therefore he didn’t have any reason to be nervous. Probably.

  He glanced down at this individual who might or might not be an elf, pulling his mind back to the task at hand. The fairy existed beyond any doubt, so Tergil had asked to see her before he left. A quick phone call to Doc Williams and they were on their way to his laboratory. The call was necessary to make sure they wouldn’t arrive in the middle of someone else being chopped up, the buzzer merely a formality. But the pathologist insisted on having things done the proper way in his personal domain, and Paris never argued. It kept his old friend happy. Sometimes, following protocol could be useful.

  Williams’s head appeared round the door, the fluorescent lights shining off his bald patch.

  ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘This must be the, ah, party who’s come to identify the body.’

  Paris rolled his eyes. ‘We’re in the bowels of the building, Jack. There’s no one else here. I reckon we’re safe calling a spade a spade.’

  Williams tutted. ‘Indeed. Is he next of kin?’

  ‘No,’ replied Paris. ‘Next of species.’

  For a second Williams seemed as if he was about to say something else. Paris puzzled over it, though he didn’t ask. Something, he guessed, which shouldn’t be said in front of a visitor, so he would have to wait. Rats. Sometimes, following protocol could be a right pain in the neck.

  The three of them went into the lab, shoes clicking on the metal floor. Tergil looked down at the noise, then raised his head to take stock of this new location. Paris watched the elf scan the rows of bizarre surgical instruments and sniff the recycled, slightly antiseptic air. Might that be the merest hint of anxiety on show? Perhaps Tergil suffered from claustrophobia, so the windowless room made him nervous. Or perhaps he was a genuine elf. According to Paris’s research, they lived in forests or beautiful, sunlit cities. This steel-walled cell must be alien to him. The policeman smiled tightly. Useful information, whatever the reason. He made a mental note and filed it away for future use.

  Williams walked past the autopsy table to the wall of metre-square doors beyond it. Paris knew each one opened to reveal a pull-out body space. For the umpteenth time, he resolved to find out the proper name of this storage unit. He always stuck to what he’d been told on his first visit, although he realised it wasn’t actually called “the filing cabinet”.

  The pathologist turned to face Tergil.

  ‘As you’re aware,’ he said, ‘we’re trying to keep things quiet. I presume you don’t exactly crave undue attention either. We didn’t want to put “crucified magical creature” on the name tag. So she’s here under a pseudonym.’

  He rested his fingers on one of the door handles. Paris read its label and saw no need for any further explanation. He understood the way Williams’s brain worked. Right at this moment, however, it wouldn’
t be appropriate to explain how “Gerry Pacemaker” meant “fairy – a cross – no mercy”.

  Williams opened the door and slid out the rack. A space big enough for an average-sized man was occupied by a forlorn, somewhat incongruous, red and white tea towel.

  ‘I removed her clothes to do the examination,’ said Williams. ‘Afterwards I tried to restore her dignity. Sheets are a bit too large.’

  He folded back the top of the small cotton square. The fairy’s head and shoulders emerged, long blonde hair surrounding a beautiful tiny face. Silver wings protruded out from beneath her. Tergil approached the body. Paris hung back, maintaining a practised respectful distance while ensuring he could still see the elf’s expression. His brow furrowed as he watched. Everyone displayed a reaction on seeing a corpse: shock, anger, sorrow, something. Tergil didn’t. His initial unease had been banished, and no emotion whatsoever was visible now. Obviously more accustomed to death than laboratories, thought Paris.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tergil, without taking his eyes off the fairy. ‘May I please have a few minutes alone?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Williams. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that. We don’t leave anyone on their own in here.’

  Tergil raised his head. ‘I will not harm the body or interfere with anything else in the room. I give you the word of a freeborn Bazonian.’

  Paris considered this pledge. Loopy as it sounded, something in Tergil’s voice made it convincing. Then again, lunatics often believed in their fantasy. He weighed up his options.

  ‘Right,’ he said, beckoning Williams to approach. ‘We’re going to leave you alone for a while. Promise you won’t touch anything?’

  Tergil nodded. ‘I swear by the sword of Helvar the Mighty.’

  ‘Even better.’

  Paris ushered Williams into the corridor, doing his best to shush the protests. As he shut the door, the pathologist’s finger wagged in his face.

  ‘I’m not happy about this,’ said Williams.