Provender Gleed

by James Lovegrove

  'Merlin Milner.'

  'And you're here because...?'

  Milner didn't dare tell Scrase the truth: I'm here because I've found the person who kidnapped Provender Gleed - you. That would be nothing short of suicidal. He struggled to come up with some sort of cover story, and did. It wasn't much of one but it would have to do.

  'Authority,' he said. 'I'm from the Risen London Authority. We, er, we're following up on that rent business a while back. You know, the protest. We're canvassing residents' views. How are we going, have things improved, and so forth.'

  Scrase took the information on board and, with a nod, appeared to accept it as an explanation. The knife wavered in the air, then drew away from Milner's face. Milner allowed himself to relax. There. A nice piece of lying. A plausible tale plausibly told.

  Then, almost a sigh, he heard Scrase say, 'Rubbish.'

  There was a flash of metal, and a faint ripping sound, and a feeling like an icicle being drawn sideways across his cheek, and a moment later a sensation of warmth, of wetness, and then a sudden sharp sting of pain which opened up into something fiercer, fierier, more deep-seated.

  Milner moaned, and his hand flew to his cheek to clutch the wound. At the same time Scrase relinquished his grip on him and stepped back a couple of paces, like an artist wishing to observe his handiwork.

  'You're not RLA,' he said. 'The RLA doesn't do follow-ups. The RLA couldn't give a big fat hairy shit about this place. Authority officials come here once in a blue moon, and when they do it's always in groups, never alone. They're not stupid. You are, thinking I'd fall for that load of bollocks.'

  Milner wanted to say something indignant. Through the pain, through the sight of his blood on his fingers, he wanted to tell Scrase he had no right to do that - cut him like that. He felt violated. It was an outrage for this man to have slashed his face, split his skin, simply as punishment for not being honest. It was disproportionate and spiteful and unjust.

  Sensibly, however, Milner kept his opinion to himself. Instead, in humble, faltering tones, he said, 'Please, let me go. I won't tell anyone anything. I'll leave and not come back. You'll never see me again. Just ... don't hurt me.'

  Scrase studied him sidelong. 'Well now, that depends. I'm having a pretty shitty day, as you can probably tell. Things that were supposed to be ... working, haven't. I find out I've been lied to and cheated on in all sorts of ways. And then you come waltzing up to my door and I reckon you know something about what's going on here, you're involved in this somehow, and you won't give me any straight answers, so...' He shrugged. 'So you've paid the price for that. And I don't think you'd be so daft as to try it on with me a second time. Right?'

  Milner nodded eagerly.

  'Right. What I think would be best is if you come over and sit down and you and I have a nice little chat. Discuss a couple of things.'

  Scrase motioned to a chair, and Milner, on weak, wobbly legs, tottered over to it and sat down. Scrase pulled up another chair and seated himself opposite, laying the knife across his lap. The knife was angled towards Milner but not pointing directly at him. Milner chose to regard this as a positive sign, cause for optimism.

  'That's, erm, an impressive-looking utensil you've got there,' he said. Admiring the knife seemed a good way of defusing its dangerousness. A compliment about the knife was a compliment about its owner.

  'Bought it at an army-surplus shop,' Scrase said. 'See that?' He indicated the haft, which was gnarled and muddy brown for the most part, shading to white near the pommel, colours like an Irish coffee. '"Stag-handled" is the technical term for it, but it's deerhorn to you and me. Kind of ironic, since it's a knife designed specifically for gutting and skinning deer. Talk about adding insult to injury. See those serrations along the top edge of the blade? That's to prevent it slipping out too easily when you're using it. And now that we've established that my knife is a handsome, well-made piece of kit, let's get down to business, Mr Milner. Because I think we're past the pleasantries stage, and I think if you're trying to delay me for some reason, that would be very unwise of you.'

  Milner nodded to show he was in complete agreement with that last remark. 'It would be, and I'm not trying to delay you.'

  'Good the hear. So now you're going to come clean about everything. Who, when, what, why.'

  Honesty, Milner told himself. SAY TRUTH and STAY HURT - stay as in prevent.

  He started speaking, and what he said elicited head-shakes from Scrase, and a hardening grimace, and eventually a hiss of dismay. And when he was done - when he had explained who he was, what an Anagrammatic Detective did, who had employed him, and how he had found Scrase - there was a long silence from the other man. Scrase's eyes were narrowed, calculating. The silence stretched on, and Milner began to believe that he had won himself his life and liberty. Just as his lying had been punished, his candour would be rewarded.

  'You have no idea where Gleed is then?' Scrase said at last.

  'None whatsoever. He should have been here.'

  'Well, he isn't, is he. The fucker escaped. I don't know how but I know he had help. She helped him.'

  'She?'

  Scrase flicked a hand. 'Not important. You don't need to know. You mentioned you have a partner, another Anagrammatic Detective. You said he's pursuing a different line of enquiry. He thinks the kidnapping is an inside job.'

  'When it so obviously isn't.'

  'So obviously.'

  'Yes. Poor old Romeo.' Milner was keen to continue to be helpful. He had gained Scrase's trust, he was certain of that, but it wasn't a bad idea to ingratiate himself further if he could, so as to ensure his safety beyond all doubt. 'He's barking up totally the wrong tree. He's convinced one of the Gleeds is behind everything. Absurd, really. I mean, why?'

  'Which Gleed?'

  'Provender's cousin. The actor. What's his name... Arthur. Romeo bases that conclusion - he's a bit of a closet ClanFan, not like me, I'm not that way at all, if anything I'm anti-Familial - but Romeo, he says there's no love lost between the two of them, Provender and Arthur. If anyone had something to gain by Provender being out of the picture, it would be Arthur.' Milner spread out his hands and pulled a face to show what he thought of Family in-fighting. 'But there you have it. Romeo's down on New Aldwych, hanging around outside the Shortborn Theatre, and wasting his time there, all because he thinks this is a spat between cousins. Whereas I know, and you know, Mr Scrase, that this is a political act, isn't it? A show of strength. Us versus them. Right?'

  Scrase did not reply. He was thinking again - that calculating look.

  Then he took hold of the knife, and Milner knew he was going to sheathe it. Scrase stood up, and Milner knew he was going to put the knife away and was then going to thank the Anagrammatic Detective for being so co-operative and invite him to depart. Milner knew he had just talked his way out of the stickiest predicament he had ever been in (literally sticky, in that the blood from the gash in his cheek had started to congeal - he could feel the dribbles of it tightening the skin on his face and neck). Milner knew he had just been through one of those life-threatening, life-changing experiences which only ever seemed to happen to others. It was an anecdote he would be able to regale people with for years to come. The near-miss with the table was nothing. This - being held at knifepoint by a stone-eyed psycho and actively winning his freedom through words alone; you might almost call it playing CHARADES with a HARD-CASE - this was the stuff of heroism. A true adventure. And he was determined that he was going to be a better man for it. More patient, more tolerant, not as snooty as he knew he could sometimes be. What was the point in a brush with death if it didn't make you reassess your life and want to change?

  Milner's moment of epiphany lasted right up until the knife plunged into his stomach.

  He didn't understand.

  What was this?

  It felt as if he had been punched in the gut, but no mere fist-blow could go so deep and feel so wrong.

  Scrase tugged the knife out a
nd plunged it in again.

  The blade grated against the bottom of Milner's ribcage. Milner felt it glance off the bone, angling upwards into his chest cavity.

  He couldn't breathe. He wheezed for air. He choked, and there was liquid at the back of his throat and a taste like a nosebleed.

  Scrase was crying.

  Milner found that the oddest part of what was happening.

  A third stab of the knife, and tears were spilling from Scrase's eyes and he was sobbing.

  Dimly Milner thought, I should be the one who's sad, not him.

  Then came an inrush of darkness.

  An emptying-out.

  A seizing-up.

  And a final anagram, one last scattering and regathering.

  DEATH.

  HATED DEATH.

  49

  The baying of the ClanFans was a sad and distant sound and getting fainter by the minute. That, undeniably, was good. What was not so good was that Provender and Is had not reached an exit from Needle Grove. They didn't even seem to be near the edge of the estate. If anything, they were heading deeper into it. They moved from the shadow of one block to the shadow of another, hoping with every corner they turned that a way out would present itself. They were repeatedly disappointed. En route, they passed several payphones and, likewise, were repeatedly disappointed. Each had been wrecked beyond repair and the majority were nothing more than hollow shells, kiosk-shaped steel skeletons, glassless and scorch-marked.

  'This,' Provender commented at one point, as they were hurrying across a patch of hummocky grey wasteground, 'is like Hell. No one should have to live in a place like this.'

  'Welcome to the real world, Provender,' Is replied. 'There are dozens of estates like it, and that's just in London alone. This is the world you Family members never even get a glimpse of.'

  'Estate,' Provender said with a dry chuckle. 'Funny how my understanding of the word is so different.'

  'Hilarious. Now how about we do less of the talking and more of the getting us out of here?'

  'I thought that was what we were doing. Or rather, you were doing.'

  'I am. So shut up and let me concentrate.'

  'And you're making such a fine job of it too.'

  'Provender!'

  'All right. Sorry.'

  They roamed onward, and Is wondered whether Damien had returned to the flat yet and, if so, whether he had found her 'time-bomb'. How would he react to the discovery that his favourite book, his wellspring of inspiration, had been written by none other than Provender? Not calmly. If she knew Damien, it would cut the legs from under him. He would be livid. He deserved it, though. Perhaps she had overstepped the mark in accusing him of being misguided and gullible, perhaps it was an unnecessary twisting of the knife. But then he deserved that too. She was surprised, now, that she could once have been his girlfriend. It was strange to think she had loved him when she wasn't sure she had ever even liked him. It was stranger still to think that he had somehow been able to convince her that kidnapping Provender was a good idea. Six months after they had officially become Just Friends, his brooding charisma continued to be effective on her. She didn't know if that reflected well on him or badly on her. Probably a bit of both.

  Is permitted herself this brief, introspective lull while still maintaining a level of alertness and apprehension. Daytime down here on the ground in Needle Grove wasn't as dangerous as nighttime, but you nonetheless had to be careful. She and Provender had slowed to a walk now, both believing they had managed to give the ClanFans the slip. The ClanFans, however, had hardly been a threat. A nuisance, more than anything. On the ground, even in the early afternoon, genuine hazards lurked.

  Such as a group of Changelings.

  At first, Is had only a vague suspicion that she and Provender were being followed. She thought it might be the ClanFans again - somehow they had caught up - but she dismissed the notion immediately. The ClanFans would have been making plenty of noise; it would be impossible to miss them. Whereas, as far as she could see, there was nobody around. There was simply the feeling that someone was nearby, lurking, looking. This was a world of hiding places - doorways, the struts that held up overpasses, deep shadows everywhere. Eyes could be watching from any of them. From all of them.

  Is's pace quickened. Provender, catching her mood, followed suit.

  Somewhere over to their left, gravel crunched. No one there. Then, over to the right, what sounded like a cross between a giggle and a whisper. No one there either.

  'Are we --?' Provender began.

  'Look straight ahead,' Is said. 'Keep moving. If I give the word to run, run like fuck.'

  If it was a gang-tribe, and it must be, Is doubted she and Provender would be able to outrace them. But what else could you do? Stop and reason with them? Not likely, especially not if they were off their heads on Tinct.

  The first gang-member sauntered into view ahead. His Changeling garb consisted of a flock-pattern waistcoat, a denim shirt, a tartan kilt and sandals. He was grinning, and not in a friendly manner. A cudgel hung loosely from his hand.

  Is did not need to turn round to know that there were other Changelings behind her, but she turned round regardless. Sure enough, two more of the gang-tribe had emerged from concealment. One was rag-clad like a scarecrow, while the other was like two people put together, his top half clad in dinner jacket and bowtie, his bottom half in stripy leggings and, bizarrely, a tutu.

  Now four more Changelings came in from either side, and one of them, Is noted, had a cricket jersey on and was carrying a cricket bat, and another sported a jockey's cap and his weapon of choice, appropriately enough, was a riding crop.

  Her heart pulsed in her throat. No point in telling Provender to run. It was too late for that now.

  The Changelings closed in.

  And then Provender did something unbelievably foolhardy.

  50

  As far as Provender was concerned, of course, it was not unbelievably foolhardy. On the contrary, it was eminently sensible, even cunning.

  He raised his arms. Hands aloft, high enough to be pacificatory but not quite a gesture of surrender, he took a step towards the Changeling in front. With as winning a smile as he could muster, he said, 'Do you know who I am?'

  He knew they were not ClanFans. They were skinny, wiry youths, none older than nineteen, and they were armed and clearly out for trouble. They had the hunched, leering look of hyenas and the irises of their eyes swam in baths of blood-pinkened white. Anyone could tell they weren't the sort to be impressed by Family.

  Nonetheless...

  The Changeling in front gave Provender the once-over, head to toe, and something dawned in those feral eyes, a spark of recognition.

  Provender pivoted through 360º so that the others could get a clear look at him too. In the process he saw Is with a worried question in her eyes: what the hell are you up to? He tried, with a look, to reassure her that he knew what he was doing.

  'Gleed,' said the front Changeling. 'The son. Weird name. Property?'

  'It's Propeller,' another of the Changelings offered, and that triggered a bombardment of suggestions.

  'Probable.'

  'Providence.'

  'Pronto.'

  'Prostitute.'

  This last got all the gang-members laughing.

  Provender laughed along, complaisantly, then said: 'As a matter of fact it's Provender.'

  'As a matter of fact,' the Changeling in front replied, 'we couldn't give a toss. Family? What the fuck's Family ever done for us?'

  Murmurs of assent did the rounds.

  'You think you being Family means you can just wander through out turf, bold as you like, and get away with it? I don't think so. Actually, what are you doing here? The Grove isn't the sort of place your kind hang out in.'

  'Ah, thereby hangs a tale,' Provender said. 'Would you believe --'

  The Changeling cut him off with a wave of the hand. 'Not interested. I only asked 'cause I thought I should. What I reall
y want to know is how much of a fight are you going to put up.'

  'I was hoping it wouldn't have to come to that.' There was just the slightest of wavers in Provender's voice, a hint of a tremble. 'I was hoping, instead, that we could come to some sort of accommodation.'

  'Ooh, "accommodation",' the Changeling echoed. 'Hear that, everyone? Prompter here wants to come to an "accommodation". Whatever the fuck that is.'

  'All I meant was --'

  'You'd like to buy us off.'

  'Yes.'

  'With cold, hard cash.'

  'Absolutely. See, the thing is, I'm lost.' Provender tipped his head in Is's direction. 'We're lost. We've been wandering around searching for an exit and we've got turned about and back-to-front and completely confused.'

  'And you'd like us to escort you out maybe?'

  'God, would you? That would be fantastic.'

  The Changeling looked over at Is. 'And you're with this bloke? Yes? No? Bruise-face woman, I'm talking to you.'

  Is, in spite of herself, was doing all she could to distance herself from Provender. She was angled away from him, her body language proclaiming that she and he were nothing to do with each other, he was just someone she'd happened to be walking beside. In truth, she was wondering what had come over him. All of a sudden he was behaving like an upper-class nitwit and she couldn't decide if this was bluff or, possibly, the real Provender coming to the surface at last.

  Eventually, under the Changeling's continued scrutiny, she gave a cautious nod. 'Yes.'

  'You Family too?'

  'No.'

  'He your boyfriend?'

  With vehemence: 'No.'

  'But you want to get out of the Grove as much as he does?'

  'Yes, I suppose so. Yes.'

  The Changeling turned back to Provender, cocked his head and scratched the underside of his chin. 'How much money are we talking here?'

  'You tell me.'

  'A grand?'