The Mammoth Book of Awesome Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  “You think I have Labradors to burn?”

  Glancing around, Markham came back with, “Well . . . yes.”

  “How about a brace of woodcock a day?”

  “Done.” He raised his glass. “What’s the information you have on this bird’s whereabouts?”

  “I’m told it’s currently in the possession of Ray Blythe.”

  Markham choked on his drink.

  “I see you’ve heard the name,” Fairfax reasoned.

  “Who hasn’t? He’s one of the biggest crime bosses in town. Maybe the biggest. I can see why you’re paying so well.”

  “All you have to do is establish contact and negotiate the bird’s purchase.”

  “What if he ain’t selling?”

  “I’m prepared to go as high as a giraffe.”

  Markham let out an appreciative whistle. “You really want this bird, don’t you?”

  “Will you do it, Mister Markham? Will you achieve my ambition and bring me the Macclesfield Macaw?”

  Draining his glass, Markham shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Outside, he was approached by a beggar who told him he hadn’t got two shrews to rub together, and could he spare a marsupial for a cup of coffee? Feeling generous, Markham tossed him a budgie.

  Back in his shabby office, Markham had hardly started telling his secretary all about it when she had to take a phone call.

  “Markham Investigation Agency, Shirley Binch speaking. Oh, hello, Brenda.” My sister, Brenda, she mouthed at him.

  “I gathered,” he mouthed back, and set to on a long thumb-twiddling session.

  Eventually she hung up, and gushed, “It’s her and Osbert’s fourth wedding anniversary on Friday. I said I’d take care of the catering for their party. And I’ve been racking my brains for a suitable present. What’s a fourth wedding anniversary?”

  He was baffled; a not unfamiliar state in Shirley’s presence. “What do you mean, what is it?”

  “You know, diamond, gold, silver . . .”

  “Oh, right. Er, bubblewrap, isn’t it?”

  She gave him one of her blistering looks and changed the subject. “What were you saying about this new job?”

  “There’s big bucks in it, Shirley.”

  “You haven’t accepted those darn’ pests for payment again, have you?”

  “It was a figure of speech.”

  “Well, don’t give me turns like that.”

  He sighed. “Just do something for me, will you? Turn up everything you can on Ray Blythe.”

  “The Ray Blythe? The crook? You’re not getting into something deep, are you, Eddie?”

  “That’s why there’s big . . . that’s why the fee’s high, if I earn it. But it’s nothing dangerous.”

  She looked doubtful but held her tongue. “I’ll get onto it.”

  His attention was caught by the TV set silently flickering in a corner. It showed a race meeting from Kempton Park. He increased the volume.

  Shirley spun her swivel chair. “Do you have to have it so loud, Eddie?”

  “Sshhh. It’s the Jockey Handicap.”

  The jockeys were in line. Several pawed the turf, straining at their bits. The starting prices popped up, showing the number of horses wagered on each runner. If his bet came in he stood to win a very nice string.

  Then they were off. Legs pumping, elbows jabbing, the runners vied for lead position.

  “Who’s yours?” Shirley whispered.

  “Number five,” he replied absently. “Calls himself the Twelfth Primate.”

  The jockeys were using their riding crops on themselves now. Their breeches were getting mud-splattered and here and there caps flew off.

  “Come on, number five,” he muttered, clutching the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. “Come on, Twelfth Primate.”

  His jockey was in the middle of the bunch, fighting to reach the front, jostling with the other competitors.

  “Come on!” Markham yelled, waving a clenched fist. “You can do it, boy!”

  They rounded a bend and went into the home stretch.

  “Come on! Move it! Come on, Twelfth Primate!”

  The finishing line was in sight.

  “Come on . . . Twelfth . . . Pri . . . mate . . .”

  It came in twelfth.

  He turned his betting slip into confetti.

  “Lose much?” Shirley asked, unable to keep a note of disapproval out of her voice.

  “I had a pony on it,” he told her glumly.

  “I hope you’re doing better with your more conventional investments.”

  He punched Teletext on the remote. The Stock and Fowl Market prices came up. “Hmm. Down a bit, actually.” He flicked off the set and grumbled, “They should never have handed over the Exchange Rate Mechanism to the RSPCA.”

  “That reminds me,” she said, “I’m running short on petty cash.”

  Markham went to the wire strongbox and fiddled with the combination. Scooping a handful of white mice, he deposited them on her desk as he made for the door, calling, “Back later.”

  He left her dropping the squeaking currency into a drawer.

  The bar held the usual afternoon crowd of deadbeats and lounge lizards, although most of the latter were securely tethered.

  Under his overcoat, Markham wore his best suit. Outside in the guarded parking lot his cart was crammed with wherewithal supplied by Lonnie Fairfax. The Dog and Ducat seemed like a good place to wait until Ray Blythe’s casino opened.

  Unfortunately, Markham hadn’t reckoned on the attentions of a pub bore.

  His name was George. For some strange reason he occupied the only table with a vacant seat. George started by complaining about the cost of a pint, and how it had gone up from a canary to a seagull in all the local boozers. He grumbled that you could pay as much as a greyhound for a decent bottled draught, and went on to bemoan not having the kind of rare fauna needed to buy spirits. Then he hit his stride.

  “That bloody Penhaligon,” he lamented, quickly adding, “Pardon my French. But, I ask you, they call him an ’ero. Bleedin’ menace, I say.” He sat back, arms folded across a swelling chest, and adopted the pose of public-house oracle. Markham fought an urge to strike him. “The banks were taking the mickey, granted,” he continued portentously, “but can we really say we’re any ’appier now?”

  Markham shook his head in a vacant, noncommittal sort of way and daydreamed chainsaws.

  “Anybody could ’ave told the banks other people would copy that twerp Penhaligon. So you had ’em taking in cheques written on cows, horses, sheep, all sorts.” He began jabbing the air with an uncertain finger. “Where they went wrong, them banks, was in trying to discourage people by ’onouring ’em. Silly bleeders . . . ’scuse my—” He yawned cavernously. “Took the cheques and gave animals in exchange, didn’t they? A livestock cheque for twenty pounds equalled . . .” His forehead creased. “What was it? A pair of goats, I think.”

  Markham wanted to tell him that he knew his history as well as anybody. Or else bottle him. While he dithered, he was lost.

  “But it didn’t put ’em off, did it?” George ploughed on. “Soon, everybody was cashing hedgehogs, tortoises and Highland terriers. Pop stars were having their royalty cheques written on zebras. The banks had to do away with their vaults and build pens. Next thing you knew the shops were taking animals for goods.” He leaned in and confided indignantly, “My boss started paying me in chickens.”

  Markham wished he had a newspaper to hide behind.

  But relief was at hand. Someone turned on the television above the bar. It carried a newsflash. There had been a daring robbery, caught on CCTV. They ran grainy black-and-white footage of hooded men rustling a herd of cows. A grim-looking announcer gave a telephone number and promised a reward that ran to fourteen hands. Then a financial wildlife programme came on and the sound was killed.

  Fearing a further deluge of George, Markham avoided eye contact and reached for his glass. In the event,
the pregnant silence was broken again when the jukebox started up. It belted out an old hit by the once fashionable Space Gals, a record that caught the spirit of the monetary revolution.

  “Monkey can’t buy everything, it’s true

  But what it can’t get

  I’ll find at the zoo.

  Oh give me monkey,

  That’s what I want . . .”

  Markham checked his watch. It was time to go. But something had been troubling him. He bent George’s way and said, “What’s a fourth wedding anniversary?” Responding to the blank look he got, he elaborated. “You know, twenty-five years or something is diamond and—”

  “Oh, got yer. Me and me missus ’ad one of them. Let’s see . . . fourth . . . fourth . . . Isn’t that asbestos?”

  Finishing his drink, Markham headed for the door.

  At the bar, a young lad was paying for a round. Mindful of counterfeits, the landlord wouldn’t accept the ferret he was offered without biting it first.

  Ray Blythe’s casino, Big Game, had the smell of affluence about it. Which is to say the smell of big game.

  Having shown the doorman the colour of his magpies, Markham was ushered into the plush interior. After a cocktail at the bar, costing an arm and a claw, he sauntered into the playing hall. He stood for a moment to watch the action at a roulette table, where a suntanned punter was playing red continuously, slapping down guinea pigs and occasionally having a hedgehog slide back as winnings. Bigger rollers were leading away muzzled cheetahs.

  Wandering off, he passed a row of obsessives feeding slot machines with sparrows, and arrived at the blackjack table. He began playing, to establish his credentials, and managed to lose two salamanders and a gecko in twenty minutes. Then he figured it was time to see Ray Blythe.

  He approached one of the goons in ill-fitting dinner jackets who watched the hall. Employing one-syllable words and sign language, he conveyed that he wanted to see the boss, on a matter that could benefit him. The lout took it in without dribbling, then told him to wait. Markham leaned on the bar, watching the bustle and half-listening to the singer with the band.

  “I’d like to get you on a slow goat to China . . .”

  The goon returned, with a clone. They grunted for him to follow, and Markham wondered if they might be heading for a back alley. To his relief it proved to be a wood-panelled office big enough to have its own ecosystem, complete with the usual menagerie denoting conspicuous affluence.

  Behind a desk fit for helicopter landings sat Ray Blythe.

  That was a mistake; it only emphasized his titchy status. Three Blythes to one Fairfax, Markham estimated. And when he rose, his tiny frame was all the more apparent. Markham found himself bending his knees in an attempt not to appear to be looking down on him. It was a futile exercise. Blythe’s head barely reached the PI’s chest.

  There were no pleasantries. “I’m a busy man,” Blythe announced frostily. “State your business, Mister Markham.”

  “Fine by me. I only want a little . . . er, a few minutes of your time.” Blythe glared at him, ready to take offence. Markham took another step into the linguistic minefield. “I mean, it’s just a small . . . a trifling matter.”

  “Not too trifling, I hope,” Blythe responded with a hint of menace, “or I might think you were wasting my time.”

  “The long and the short of it—”

  Blythe’s eyes narrowed.

  Markham tried again. “The . . . gist is that I’m here to make you an offer for . . . an item I think you have.”

  “An item?”

  “A certain avian asset,” Markham replied, adopting a conspiratorial air.

  “A what?”

  “A bird.”

  “I’ve got flocks. What’s special about this one?”

  Markham suspected he was being toyed with, but carried on. “It’s a one-off. Very unusual markings. In size it’s said to dwarf—” Blythe winced. “—Uhm . . . it’s big.”

  “And would this . . . bird come from a northern nest?”

  “It would.”

  There was a tense moment while Blythe mulled things over. “Just suppose I did know this commodity’s whereabouts. What of it?”

  “I represent somebody who wants to trade.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m supposed to keep that under wraps.”

  “It’s Lonnie Fairfax, isn’t it?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “You’re a good bluffer, Markham, but it takes one to know one. It’s Fairfax, isn’t it?”

  “Does it matter? The offer’s genuine.”

  “It’s Fairfax. He’s got the hots for the damn’ thing.”

  “Whatever. Point is, my client wants to buy and he’ll pay top beast.”

  “If this bird’s as rare as you say, why would anybody want to sell it?”

  “It’s unique, not easily passed.”

  “Except by its lawful owner.”

  Markham realized he’d implied Blythe wasn’t. “True,” he said slowly. “But how much better for its owner, whoever that might be, to exchange it for less conspicuous stock.”

  “There might be some benefit in that,” Blythe conceded shiftily. “Leave your number and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Markham nodded, flipped a business card onto the aircraftcarrier desk and made to leave. He stopped at the door. “One last thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s a fourth wedding anniversary? You know, gold, ivory . . .”

  Blythe snapped his fingers at one of his aides.

  “I think it’s Latex, boss,” the goon opined.

  Markham closed the door quietly behind him.

  It was raining again as he stood in a telephone box.

  “. . . And I still can’t find a decent catering company,” Shirley reported. “As for a present—”

  She took a breath and he jumped in. “What did you find out about Blythe?”

  “Oh. Er, more or less what you’d expect. Claims to be legit these days but nobody believes it. The police reckon he uses that casino of his as a sheep dip.”

  “Money laundering, eh? Figures.”

  “And he was recently suspected of involvement in a scam where polecats used to pay for costly shop items turned out to be low-denomination squirrels in zipped suits.”

  “Still up to his old tricks, then.”

  “You know what they say, Eddie: a leopard never changes his socks.”

  “Do they?”

  “Well, cold hands, warm kippers. Something like that. Mind you, that client of yours, Fairfax, doesn’t seem much better.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I checked. He was once charged with druggling smugs.”

  “You mean smuggling drugs.”

  “I know what I mean, Eddie. Smugs are small South American rodents. But you don’t want to know what druggling is, take it from me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Point is, both of them look like the sort of people who’d put ants in charity collection boxes.”

  He glanced at the display on the phone. “I’ve gotta go now, Shirley, my mice are running out.”

  “Why don’t you get a mobile, skinflint?”

  “’Cos I’m not made of wildebeest.”

  He was cut off.

  Turning up his collar, he got into the reins and began the haul home with plenty to think about.

  Next morning his way to a meeting was blocked by a commotion on the streets. Riot squads were out trying to keep dogs and cats apart as bewildered older folk struggled to herd their income support. He’d forgotten it was pension day.

  Eventually Markham got to the café and found his contact waiting for him.

  He used to be known as Harry the Ferret. Since events made that superfluous, he was more often addressed as Erstwhile Harry. Or simply, if controversially, Harry.

  As far as Markham knew, Harry had never been a boxer. But he looked as though he had. His not-recently-shaven head was shaped like a rough
ly hewn granite block. He sported cauliflower ears and a nose badly reset after a break. His piglet eyes were never still, and there was always an air of furtive paranoia about him. He hunched.

  Nodding at his informant, Markham ordered a late breakfast. When it arrived he couldn’t help but wonder why he was eating it. Early in the new order, people cottoned on to the idea of breeding money, and speculators with large quantities of rabbits watched their investment multiply to a fortune. That was outlawed, and certain species excluded from the currency. A normal birth, of a calf or lamb, say, was regarded as honestly earned interest and tagged as such. Rabbits, having no trading value, filled another niche.

  God, Markham was sick of Bunnyburgers.

  After a bite he dropped it back on the plate and got down to business. “I want to know what the word is on the street about a certain bird,” he whispered.

  Harry’s gaze darted nervously. “What bird might that be?” he replied guardedly.

  “Some say it’s mythical. And it’s from the North.”

  “Would the thirteenth letter of the alphabet have some bearing on it?”

  Frowning, Markham swiftly counted with his fingers, lips moving silently. “Er . . . yes. Twice.”

  Harry gave him a plotter’s nod. “What about it?”

  “I believe it’s in the hands of . . . let’s say a prominent member of the alternative economy.”

  “And would this wrong-side-of-the-tracks entrepreneur be associated with the second and eighteenth letters of the alphabet?”

  “It’s Ray Blythe, for goodness’ sake!” Markham hissed.

  “If you know that, why ask me?”

  “I want to confirm that he really has it. And if he does, where.”

  “I might be able to help.” Harry’s eyes skimmed the café again. “For a consideration, of course.”

  “Of course.” Markham glanced around the room too, then pushed a slumbering tawny owl across the plastic table top.

  Harry quickly stuffed it inside his jacket. “The gentleman you’re referring to has a small farm just outside town.” He gave the location and added, “If you were looking for something, that’s probably where it would be. But don’t expect no chimpanzees’ tea party. The place is gonna be well guarded.”