Bad Cow

by Andrew Hindle

  “Hey, Canon,” came a squawky American voice, just after he had introduced himself as Pierre. “Watcha doin’?”

  Two or three conversationalists choked quietly on their drinks. Canon sighed inwardly, and turned around with a bright smile.

  “Troy!” he said, raising his glass in salute. “What are you doing here?” he turned to the circle, who were observing the clash with great interest. “Young lad I’m tutoring,” he explained confidentially. “American. Obnoxious,” the last word of that sentence had not, of course, been said out loud, but rather placed into the group-mind with a twist of the lips and a roll of the eyes. Everybody relaxed, and not a few of them rolled their eyes sympathetically themselves.

  “What’s with the accent?”

  Canon laughed the sort of laugh people normally use when faced with the option of laughing or being seen beating a minor in public. He took Troy politely by the elbow and guided him away from the circle. None of the wedding guests watched them depart. Pierre was, in their firm belief, a suffering French tutor forced to deal with an over-privileged child, and better him than them. When Canon and Troy were safely off to one side of the gathering, the Vampire rounded on the Demon and stooped slightly to talk with him. He didn’t need to stoop – Troy Haussman was almost as tall as he was – but it changed the dynamic of the conversation in a small subconscious way.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen or heard from you since we arrived in Fremantle.”

  “Been busy. You gotta come see,” in case his enthusiasm hadn’t been enough to sway the Vampire, Troy added, “Right now.”

  Canon weighed his chances of getting young Haussman out of the hotel foyer without causing a scene, and shrugged to himself. It probably wasn’t worth it. “Where are we going?” he asked, following the red cardigan away from the reception.

  “Dwamps.”

  “Das Wampyr’s?”

  “The locals are calling it Dwamps.”

  “Yes, I know, but – you’ve been there, have you? I never saw you.”

  “You’ve been hanging around in your offices up the top, or sleeping in the basement, or cruising around the construction areas all week, that’s why,” Troy replied promptly. “Getting everything ready for your big special night,” he waved his hands about as if announcing the end of the world.

  “That’s why I thought it was strange you were at the club,” Canon remarked. “I assumed you were enjoying yourself elsewhere in town. You expressed an interest in meeting … young ladies,” the two mismatched figures stepped out into the street. “So did our kidnapping go well? Or have there been problems? I assume you would have contacted me sooner if there were. At least, I hope you would have,” he pulled a small electronic key chain from his pocket and pressed the button. In a nearby carpark, a sleek black car’s indicator lights flickered in recognition. It was an expensive automobile, sure enough, but not tastelessly so – not, for example, the sort of car that suggested a midlife crisis. Canon’s tastes were very well-matured, and the car was comfortable, attractive and efficient. That was all Canon required in a car. “There hasn’t been a problem?”

  “No problems,” Troy looked very pleased with himself. “I’ve just been taking care of business. Properly. You’ll see.”

  They headed along the waterfront and hooked back into the outskirts of downtown Fremantle, where the multi-storey Das Wampyr’s squatted like a neon ulcer. There was a nice exclusive carpark around the side of the building, where the little people weren’t allowed to go, and it was here Canon stowed his vehicle. He allowed Haussman to lead him to one of the club’s solid, triple-locked back doors.

  Troy Haussman stepped up to the door, put his hand on the reinforced wood, and pushed it open like it was a bead curtain.

  The Vampire followed the apparent young human being into the dimly-lit storeroom, letting the door thud closed behind him. There was an immediate staccato of bolts clicking home, and the door was suddenly as locked as it had been a microsecond before Haussman had touched it.

  The Demon had still not told Canon how he did that. Canon suspected he didn’t know.

  “He’s just down here,” Troy declared proudly, leading Canon downwards into a basement of bare concrete. Workman’s tools were still lying around, along with bags of cement and several rolls of bright orange safety-taping. The work on the nightclub was pretty much an ongoing process, since it changed its look and feel regularly, so the renovation infrastructure was already readily available. The suggestion of music filtered down even here – through the foundations, it was more a heartbeat than a tune, but it was still present. The DJs, musicians and technicians were already running system checks for the opening. Canon shuddered at the thought of how loud it must be out on the multiple dance floors. That was one of the things he disliked about nightclubs. Sadly, if you changed the music, you’d be left with something that wasn’t a nightclub. It would be a huge dark elevator that went nowhere.

  Expecting human beings to fall for members of the opposite sex in an environment where they could see and hear one another was, in the latter years of the Twentieth Century, an increasingly absurd fancy.

  There was a large wooden crate in the middle of the room, and it was towards this that Troy led him.

  “Wait,” the Demon said with glee, and pulled out a corner-piece of the crate. The four side panels fell aside on hinges, and with a deft flip, Troy removed the top panel. They clattered to the concrete floor with a sound that momentarily drowned out the music from above, and Canon’s quiet hiss of surprise.

  Within the crate there was a block of concrete, evidently mixed from the leftover bags of powder stacked in the basement, and poured into the crate some time previously. Or, Canon amended on second more clinical glance, another mould of slightly shorter length. The block had been poured, set, and transferred to the hinged crate, most likely by the phenomenal strength of the Demon. The whole transferral, in fact the whole arrangement, had been assembled by Troy out of, in Canon’s view, desperately cheap theatricality. Still, he had to admit that, sometimes, cheap theatricality could be the most effective.

  Sticking from one end of the block of concrete, where there had been a gap between cement and wood in the hinged display-crate, was the head of the Angel, Barry Dell.

  THE SHEEPBREEZERS MAKE THE SHEEPBREEZER EQUIVALENT OF A PLAN

  The boys had gathered together for their weekly cricket practice as usual, lazily ensuring that a proper inning was performed, the fielders all got a chance to bowl and the batters all got a chance to bat, before Little Phil ambled over to his panel van and unloaded the eski. He carried it, a good fifty cans of Emu Bitter and a couple of bags of half-melted ice inside, unassisted – a feat that never failed to impress the team. Because it was the simple things in life, really.

  Then they settled back.

  The main topic of discussion, of course, was Nails.

  “He wasn’t at the church when I went in there yesterday,” Seam reported grimly to those who were behind on the news, “and he wasn’t there today, either. No word from him,” of course, Seam had told all of this to the Sheepbreezers already, but they hadn’t been able to come up with any solutions.

  “What about the old God-botherer he lives with?” Tommo asked, cracking open his first well-earned can. He’d scored the most runs that evening, and by long-standing tradition that meant his beers were on the house.

  “He happens to be a man of God, Tommo,” Little Phil rumbled primly, “so respect the old cunt.”

  There was a round of laughter, and Tommo bowed and flourished in an artless but genuinely repentant way to their beloved Captain.

  “The vicar was there when I dropped by,” Seam reported, “but he didn’t know where Nails was. He was sort of worried, but I don’t think he really had much of a clue what was going on. Half the time I don’t think he even knows Nails is there.”

  Some of the other guys nodded at that. They’d seen the vicar, or the father, or whatever he
was, usually pottering around in the back rooms of Preston Point Anglican or shuffling around amiably with his dress on, and a lot of the time he seemed to treat his new resident like some sort of visiting relative. Other times, he treated him like a fellow clergyman, possibly one a bit higher on the food chain but still one close enough to converse with in a casual tone.

  “So did he go off flying somewhere?” Nutter wasn’t one of the regular inner circle of the Sheepbreezers, although he had attended practices and social gatherings far more regularly since the Angel showed up. “Maybe he went off on some mission for the other Angels.”

  “I don’t think so,” Seam disagreed. “From what Nails told me – told all of us – the rest of them don’t mix much with each other. I don’t think he’d’ve gone off with one of them without telling us.”

  “Maybe he’s gone in for some quiet time,” Tommo suggested, “with that hot little French Vampire chick.”

  The boys paused for a long, considering moment at that. The precise nature of Nails as an organic being was obviously something about which they’d pondered, individually and in groups, in recent weeks. It was only slightly less difficult than pondering the precise natures of one another as organic beings, but it was still uncomfortable. And the ability to process alcohol and attract members of the opposite sex while doing so were a large and highly-polished facet of the overall function of the biological organism, as far as the Sheepbreezers were concerned.

  As such, a certain amount of careful debate had gone into the question: could Nails, in fact, nail?

  The verdict was a delicate and largely unspoken one. Seam, for his part, believed that he could, but that he hadn’t, not since his return to the land of the living. His looks – another factor Seam and the other Sheepbreezers were uncomfortable thinking about – had improved dramatically, even though nothing much about him had measurably or quantifiably changed aside from the no-longer-missing tooth. He was noticeably inhuman.

  This may not have made him the sudden magnetic hit with the ladies one might have expected, though. People, male and female, tended to look at him more frequently, but they also seemed to disregard and forget him more easily as well, and Seam was fairly sure Barry made that happen. For one reason or another, there’d been no definite evidence in the case of the Angel’s sex life. Which more or less left it open for speculation.

  Seam suspected that Barry no longer thought about that sort of thing, because as far as he was concerned humans were a different species. Having sex with them probably counted as bestiality.

  “Jesus, Tommo,” Little Phil eventually said, in his designated role as moral guardian for the evening, “she was about twelve.”

  “She’s a Vampire,” Tommo said promptly, “that makes it okay. If she’s got fangs and can kill you, it’s okay. New rule.”

  There was general laughter at that, punctuated by groans. Tommo didn’t really mean three-quarters of what he said, and if Seam was certain of one thing, it was that none of the Sheepbreezers would have touched Laetitia the Vampire with a ten-foot pole. And that included Barry, bestiality or not.

  “You never actually saw her,” Seam overruled Tommo’s Vampires Don’t Count Amendment. “She was all wrapped up in a coat, and that was just for the ten minutes Nails managed to get her out of that coffin of hers.”

  “So? Didn’t Nails say she’d been kidnapped as some sort of plaything for that Vampire guy he killed?” Tommo finished his can and crumpled it decisively. “She was definitely hot. And French.”

  “Maybe he did go somewhere with her,” Nutter suggested. “She was turning into a Vampire, right? Maybe Nails could change her back, or help her somehow, and he’s taken her back to her family in France.”

  “Nails in France,” Little Phil said in a low voice, and everybody laughed.

  Seam finished his own beer in thoughtful silence. Then he allowed himself a thoughtful belch. “I didn’t actually think about her,” he admitted. “The coffin was right there the whole time, and Nails wasn’t, but maybe the coffin was empty. I didn’t look inside. To be honest, I don’t think I’d’ve had the balls to open it.”

  There was a general murmur of absolution over this admission, the consensus being that none of the other Sheepbreezers would have had the balls either.

  “Should we check?” Tommo suggested.

  “I’ll go by tomorrow and see if she’s in there,” Seam said.

  “No you won’t,” Tommo said. “Jesus, Seamster, I’m a dole bludger and even I know it’s only Friday tomorrow.”

  “After work.”

  “I’ve got nothing else to do all day,” Tommo said, “I can go whenever.”

  “Your boner can go whenever,” Nutter remarked. “Stick it in the esky.”

  “Don’t stick it there, you dirty bastard,” Little Phil objected.

  “Where would you like me to stick it, sailor?” Tommo shot back.

  Practice was adjourned at a quarter to nine. Seam switched off the field-lights, Tommo packed up the cricket gear in his duffel bag and Phil took the esky back to his car, and everybody made their way home in conditions of varying legality.

  UNDER THE NIGHTCLUB

  “Interesting.”

  “Interesting? That’s all?” Troy Haussman sounded outraged. “Did you see him?”

  They’d moved to the far side of the basement room where the Angel lay in its cement block like ludicrous mafia overkill. Canon sat on a folding chair that had been left by the builders, Troy Haussman paced back and forth in front of him, occasionally darting nervous, excited glances at their prisoner.

  Canon followed his gaze. He’d seen the Angel before, but had to admit it was more enjoyable to look at it – him – from this perspective. If nothing else, he had the luxury of time to study the creature.

  The Angel’s tumbling reddish-brown hair was lank and lifeless, the face moony and blank. The head turned back and forth, very slowly, and its mouth moved in a meaningless, fishlike gape-and-close. It resembled a particularly eerie carnival attraction, a lifelike automaton the mouth of which children had to hit with little bags of dried peas to win a prize.

  There was still something quietly threatening about the Angel, though. Something timeless, beautiful, and implacable.

  “Very impressive,” he said. “And it’s completely immobile?” he had grown quickly adept at appeasing Haussman’s sensitive pride and his shaky grasp of showmanship. Obviously, this display was meant to be astonishing, daunting, unnerving. It wouldn’t hurt to perform a little for the benefit of his Demonic benefactor. After all, he had faculties at his command that the millennial Vampire could only guess at.

  Troy sneered, and went on pacing. “If he wasn’t, he’d have broken out of that block already, instead of just rolling his eyes,” he said. “It’s long after sundown, as I’m sure you know.”

  “So,” Canon eyed the concrete-encased Angel, “he’s weakened, just as you predicted he would be by the breakdown of his sanctuary’s … holiness?”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty much a vegetable,” Troy grinned and stepped back towards the block. “Technically we didn’t really need to put him in concrete, but I thought it was a sensible precaution. It’ll stop him from accidentally crawling off or whatever, not that he could. And it’ll stop anyone else from moving him.”

  Short of another Angel, Canon thought. “And his full strength won’t return to him until he spends time back on holy ground?”

  “Maybe not even then,” Troy said. “He can’t really see or hear or understand anything right now, even though he’s sort of moving.”

  Fascinated, Canon rose back to his feet and approached the block once more. Encouraged by the continued aimless drifting-seaweed motion of the Angel’s head, he crouched down and reached out an elegant hand. He paused, and looked up at the grinning Demon. “Can I touch him?”

  “You can,” Haussman said, putting his hands in the magically-appearing pockets of his cardigan. “I can’t.”

  “Angel,” Canon
whispered, gazing at the too-beautiful face and extending his hand towards the hair, which was glossy and soft in spite of its strange emptiness. The eyes, lacking that dreadful bright power they’d burned with when Dell had torn Canon’s head off, were nevertheless the prettiest jewels he’d seen in all his years. He’d never suspected such a thing could exist – while it remained very much of this world, it was … glorified. No other word would suffice. A human being with all the monkey subtracted. “A real, solid, actual…” he paused, and blinked at Haussman. Another real live article of mythology, but nothing like this magnificent being. And yet somehow far more disturbing. “You can’t touch him?”

  “Nope.”

  The Demon was grinning again. Canon recognised the game that was about to ensue, and sighed internally. He lacked experience with teenagers, although he’d killed hundreds of them in his time. Some might argue that this was the best way of dealing with them. Troy Haussman, for all his indefinite supernatural qualities, was a quintessential teen.

  “Is that why you had my men bring him here,” he asked, “rather than carrying him yourself? Through the…” he waved a hand, “…shadows?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why can’t you touch him?”

  “Just can’t.”

  Canon collected himself, touching the Angel’s hair and forehead slowly while he did so. The slack mouth issued a quiet wheeze. He tugged on the hair gently, and prodded with thumb and forefinger at the nose, cheekbone, earlobe. As far as he could tell, the Angel was flesh and bone, no more solid than a human being. The creature moved sluggishly under his hands, as if attempting to escape the examination. Every movement was far too slow and dreamlike, however, and several beats too late even if the majority of the being weren’t encased in concrete.