by Tom Holt
‘Eeek!’ he said.
The woman at the ticket desk gave him an impatient, Not-you-as-well look, held up a slip of paper with a seat number on it, and said, ‘Two pounds, please.’ She was holding the piece of paper in what could only be described as a talon.
‘Er, you in the show?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘Costume startle you, did it?’
Mike nodded. ‘It’s very, um, realistic.’
‘How would you know?’
‘All-right, I don’t. Can I go in now, please?’
He found his seat (one of those bendy bucket-shaped plastic chairs which you’re convinced is going to break when you sit on it, though it never does) and took a long look at the stage. There was no curtain. The usual amateur dramatics set, all black-painted hardboard, silver paper and things borrowed from people’s homes. Mundane. Prosaic. Everyday. Like, in fact, the woman at the door had been, except that she was obviously a ...
Another look round, this time at the audience. There were fifteen or so people scattered about the hall, eating boiled sweets and reading the photocopied programme. Either they hadn’t noticed that they’d just been sold their tickets by a ... or else they didn’t care. Possible, Mike told himself; very tolerant people, Midlanders. But - my God, those fangs! - improbable.
He looked at the programme. Cast list, as follows:GEORGE (a saint) ..... Himself
CHARDONAY (a demon) ..... Himself
SLITGRIND (a demon) ..... Himself
PRODSNAP (a demon) ..... Himself
HOLDALL (a demon) ..... Himself
SNORKFROD (a demon) ..... Herself
THE DRAGON ..... Members of the cast
Ah well, Mike said to himself, leaning back as far as he dared and opening his bag of Maltesers, I expect I’ve been to worse. Most of them, he remembered, at the Barbican.
The lights went down. The chattering almost stopped.
Play time.
‘Found them!’ Chubby yelled.
The dragon looked up from the encyclopedia he’d been reading and grinned. ‘Splendid. Where?’
‘Wherever the hell this is.’ Chubby handed him a creased playbill and a map. ‘Ready to go?’
The dragon grinned.
Anybody ever wondered, Mike asked himself a quarter of the way through the first half, why so much of medieval literature is anonymous? Answer, easy. Who’d want to own up to having written this?
At least there hadn’t been Morris dancing. Not yet. That, he admitted to himself, was like saying that nuclear bombs are safe because the world’s still in one piece. That aside, it had set his mind at rest on one score. No question but that these people were in the everlasting torment business; the cream, in fact, of their profession. Solemnly and with the utmost sincerity, Mike resolved that from now on he was going to be very, very good, for ever and ever.
So deep was he in silent repentance that he didn’t notice that someone was now sitting in the seat next to him, until that person leaned across and whispered a request to look at his programme.
‘Sure,’ Mike whispered back. He passed over the sheet. As he did so, he became aware of an oppressive heat and a smell like petrol. He glanced out of the corner of his eye.
Perfectly ordinary bloke. All his imagination. Except—
The bloke had yellow eyes. Round, golden eyeballs, with a narrow black slit for a pupil. And no eyelids.
Midlanders (see above) are tolerant folk, and Mike was from Brierley Hill where they don’t care who you are or what you do so long as you leave the buildings still standing afterwards. Devils; no problem, after all, we’re all God’s creatures. But, as soon as he’d recovered the use of his momentarily paralysed limbs, he was out of his seat, through the door and running like a hare. Sensible chap.
Because, while he was still running, there was a horrible dull bang! followed by a whooshing noise, broken glass music and the very distinctive sound of fire. Instinct sent Mike sprawling on the ground, his head shielded by his elbows, as the first few bits of masonry and timber started to hit the ground all around him. And oh Christ, the smell ...
Late change to the cast as advertised. Whoever was playing the dragon tonight had just brought the house down.
The dragon opened his eyes.
There was, he observed, a large steel girder lying across his back. He shook himself like a wet dog, sending it spinning off into the rubble.
He appeared to have made rather a mess.
The drip-drip-dripping noise was still-molten steel; wire reinforcements in the concrete. The groaning sound was material contracting as it cooked, rather than an indication that there was still anything else even temporarily alive in the ruined building. No chance of that, whatsoever.
In the distance, the mechanical wailing noise the dragon had come to associate with impending public attention. He spread his wings, flapped them and rose in a cloud of dust and sparks. Job done, time to go home. Five wingbeats lifted him into the upper air; five more and he was cruising through the sound barrier, heading west.
As he flew, he couldn’t help reflecting that, in exacting his entirely justifiable revenge on George, he’d also killed five demons - well, so what? The worst that can happen to anything mortal is that it dies and goes to Hell; he’d saved them a bus fare - and fifteen or so innocent human beings who happened to be there. Hmm.
No, the hell with that, it was a matter of omelettes and eggs. They belonged to a different species altogether and were none of his concern. To feed those fifteen, and all the others like them in this city alone, a million chickens a day ride to their deaths on a conveyer belt. And, emotive reactions aside, there was nothing wrong with that either because of a hard but fair rule of Nature called Survival of the Fittest. It was a rule he’d never really had a problem with, even when he’d been hiding in the rocks watching all the rest of his kind being exterminated by these people’s great-to-the-power-of-twenty-grandfathers. Plenty more where those came from; and who’s the endangered species around here, anyway?
As he flew, feeling the almost infinite power of his body, acknowledging the potential of his lazy but undoubtedly superior intellect, he sensed that maybe the jury was still out on that one.
They brought the woman down from intensive care at about half past three that morning and put her in the bed next to Bianca. Superficial burns, light concussion, shock. She’d live. She’d been lucky, the ward sister explained. She’d only been passing outside the Sadley Grange Civic Centre when it blew up. Those poor souls inside never stood a chance.
What caused it? Nobody knew, as yet. They’d said on the news that the whole building suddenly burst into flames; not like an ordinary fire, which starts somewhere and gets steadily hotter, more like a firebomb attack, except who’d want to firebomb amateur dramatics?
‘Nurse,’ Bianca said, ‘I think I’m going to be—’
And she was right.
‘They’re saying it was the Libyans,’ Chubby reported, topping up the dragon’s cup with lighter fuel, ‘God only knows why. I s’pose they’ve got to blame somebody, or what are foreigners for?’
‘Don’t go on about it,’ the dragon said. The bread was stale. He breathed gently on it and had toast, instead.
‘Don’t see why not,’ Chubby replied. ‘You did good. Neat job, in and out, nobody saw you; or if they did, they’ve got too much common sense to stand in front of a microphone and say they’ve been seeing dragons. You could make a good living if you ... Sorry, I’ll shut up. Pass the marmalade, there’s a good fellow.’
‘Were there any survivors?’
Chubby laughed. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Just not within a two-hundred-yard radius. Actually, there’s an interesting side-light to the story, because that whole area’s up for redevelopment, except that there was that tatty old hall bang in the middle of it and absolutely no way of getting rid of it. Now, of course, bulldozers may safely graze. In fact, we could get seriously rich if ever you felt—’
‘Chubby,
’ said the dragon quietly, ‘I’d change the subject if I were you.’
‘Huh? Suit yourself.’ Chubby spread marmalade, drank coffee. ‘Sorry to harp on,’ he said, ‘but what exactly is bothering you? I thought you hated humans.’
‘Me?’ the dragon looked at him. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? As of nine twenty-seven pm yesterday, there’s nobody and nothing left alive in this world that I hate, or even strongly dislike, although,’ he added, with a slight twitch of his nostrils, ‘this may change if a certain topic of conversation doesn’t get shelved pretty damn quick.’
‘Sorry,’ Chubby replied meekly. ‘It’s just that, since it was us who killed all your people, stole your birthright—’
‘Not you,’ the dragon said. Inside his skull he could hear the faint chip-chip of a headache hatching from the egg. ‘When the last of the people who wiped out the dragons died, there were still wolves wandering around the forests of Islington. And besides,’ he added irritably, ‘the thing with George and me had nothing to do with the dragon clearances. It was purely personal.’
‘Because of the Big Fight, huh? Because he won, simple as that?’
The dragon shook his head. ‘He was supposed to win. It was killing me that I didn’t hold with. And now that’s all over and done with, so let’s drop it. All right?’
‘Right.’ Chubby folded his newspaper, drained his coffee cup and stood up. ‘So, as soon as you’ve done that little job—’
‘Who says I’m going to do the little job?’ the dragon interrupted dangerously. ‘Fuck you and your nasty bloody schemes. If you want to beat up on your own species, be my guest, it’s none of my business. But I’m off.’
Chubby shook his head. He didn’t say anything, but he patted the underside of his chin with the tips of his fingers. The bomb.
‘You bastard,’ the dragon said softly. ‘I ought to torch you right now.’
‘Inadvisable,’ Chubby replied. ‘With all that inflammable liquor inside you, they’d be picking up bits of you in Tokyo. And like I said, what’s it to you? Different species, right?’
The dragon said nothing. Not that he needed words, exactly. He’d have been sent home from a Gorgons’ children’s party for pulling faces.
‘Welcome to the Baddies,’ Chubby said, and left.
The fire brigade had gone home, the police were brewing up in their big blue-and-white portakabin and even the journalists had given up and gone to the pub. Under a pile of rubble, something stirred.
‘Have they gone?’
‘I think so.’
The pile of rubble avalanched, half-bricks and chunks of concrete scudding downslope, stirring up dust. A head and shoulders poked out. Eyes blinked in the starlight.
‘About bloody time, too. I’ve got a crick in my neck like a letter S.’
‘Keep your voice down, Slitgrind. And for pity’s sake, stop complaining.’
Gradually, and with much seismic activity, the demons emerged, all five of them. They were dusty and, after twelve hours under the rubble, stiff as all Shopfloor. Apart from that, no ill effects whatsoever.
A sixth pile shifted and turned into George. He wasn’t in quite the same immaculate condition - he had a black eye, and his hair was all singed off - but otherwise he was intact. He dusted himself off, just like Oliver Hardy used to do in the films, and climbed out of the mess.
‘Now you see why we had to wear costumes,’ he said.
Chardonay nodded. ‘Good stuff,’ he acknowledged. ‘What did you call it?’
‘Asbestos,’ George replied. ‘And the lining’s Kevlar, which is like old-fashioned steel armour, only lighter and a hell of a lot stronger. I used the same stuff for the scenery, too. Just as well,’ he admitted. ‘If we hadn’t all ducked behind the flats the moment he materialised, I don’t reckon the cozzies’d have been enough. Anyway, time we weren’t here. Come on, you lot. The Padre’ll be worried sick about us.’
Nobody had disturbed the rickety old Bedford van and soon they were on their way. Chardonay, sitting in the front with George, raised the obvious topic.
‘Well,’ George replied, ‘he took the bait all right, you’ve got to admit that much. Maybe we should have spent a little more time thinking through how we were actually going to scrag the bugger, but we’ll know better next time.’
‘Next time!’
George nodded. ‘Of course next time,’ he replied, faintly puzzled by the demon’s tone. ‘Okay, so the first two attempts, we bombed. I mean, we didn’t do so good. Third time lucky, eh? Think of Robert Bruce,’ he added, ‘and the spider.’
‘No, thanks,’ Chardonay replied, shuddering. ‘I’m scared of spiders. And now,’ he added, with as much unpleasant overtone as he could muster, ‘I’m also scared of dragons.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ George said, blithely overtaking on a blind corner, ‘because spiders have always terrified the shit out of me. But eventually I found a way to cope.’
‘Really?’
George nodded. ‘I squash ’em,’ he said. ‘Helps put things in perspective when your mortal foe’s looking like a raisin with hairs sticking in it. I think the same may hold true of dragons. Only one way to find out.’
Chardonay was about to say something, but wisely saved his breath. The way George was driving, he’d need it soon for horrified screaming.
‘Mind you,’ George went on - he was definitely getting the hang of driving, because this time he remembered to brake with a full thousandth of a second to spare. ‘It’s going to be harder decoying the creep a second time because he’s going to assume we’re dead. And we can’t exactly publicise the fact we aren’t, because of the low profile thing. Tricky one, that.’
‘Aaaaagh!’
‘What? Watch where you’re going, you senile old fool! Sorry, you were saying?’
Chardonay opened his eyes. ‘I think,’ he murmured, ‘in this country they drive on the left.’
‘Ah. That’d explain a lot. Well spotted. To be honest with you, I think from now on it’s going to be up to us to look for him, rather than the other way around. Don’t you? Of course, we could try this gig again, only next time we’d be a bit better prepared, maybe plant a bomb of our own in the auditorium so as to be sure of getting him first. What d’you reckon?’
A look of horrified disgust pitched camp on Chardonay’s face. ‘You couldn’t do that,’ he gasped. ‘The audience. Innocent people.’
George shrugged. ‘Not people, Char,’ he said mildly. ‘Potential customers, your lot’s and mine. One stone, very many birds, huh?’
It’s hard to stand on your dignity when you’re horrified, petrified and covered from head to foot with brick dust. In Chardonay’s case, he’d never had all that much dignity to start with; if he’d ever wanted to stand on it, he’d have had to master the knack of balancing on one foot. What little he had, however, he now used to good effect.
‘George,’ he said, ‘when you die, be sure to go to Heaven. We can do without your sort where I come from.’
In order to sell newspapers, you have to get your priorities right, and an unexplained explosion with fatalities is clearly rather more important than a spate of thefts from art galleries. The lead stories in the next day’s papers were, therefore, in order of headline size and column inches: ROYAL VET’S SEX ROMP WITH CHAUFFEUR
SOUTHENDERS STAR IN LOVE TRIANGLE WITH PLUMBER
BUZZA DECKS REF IN OFFSIDE RUMPUS
Bomb Kills Sixteen
Statues Stolen From Italian Museum
The statues - eight Berninis, three Donatellos, three Cellinis, a Canova and the Giambologna Mercury - all went missing from various locations in the space of about eight hours. No sign of forced entry, no arrests, no clues. No visible connection, either.
‘Okay, guys. Guys!’ Kurt banged on the floor with the butt of his rifle, but nobody took any notice. They were all talking at once, at the tops of their voices, in Italian. With a weary gesture of resignation, Kurt sat down on a packing-chest and waited
.
‘Finished?’ he demanded, ten minutes later. ‘Good. Now, listen up.’
Sixteen pairs of malevolent eyes fixed on him. I don’t need this, he reflected. I’ve got a nice cosy grave I could be in right now.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I guess you’re all wondering why—’
Marvellous language, Italian, for talking very fast in. They should insist all peace conferences should be in Italian; that way, nobody’d ever know what was going on long enough to start the war. ‘Shuttup!’ he cried. Not a blind bit of notice.
Scuse me.’
He turned. ‘Well?’
‘Looks to me,’ David said, ‘like they’re upset about something.’
Kurt scowled. ‘What the fuck’ve they got to be upset about, for Chrissakes? I’ve just sprung the suckers, they should be goddamn grateful.’
David made a small head gesture indicative of doubt. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘They’re all male figures, all of Italian origin. Maybe standing about all day being admired is what they like doing best.’
The proposition had merit, Kurt admitted, but that wasn’t his affair. He was only, as the expression goes, obeying orders. ‘HEY!’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ he went on. ‘All I can tell you is, my instructions said to get you out of those museums and galleries and bring you here. Which I’ve done. From now on, guys, you’re on your...’
He stopped, puzzled. Instead of jabbering at him, shaking fists and waving arms, they were standing about like a lot of shop-window dummies.
Maybe that was it; knock off priceless works of art and punt them out at twelve dollars a head to the leading New York department stores. Or maybe not.
‘Guys?’
Long silence. Then a statue put its hand up.
‘Excuse me,’ it said. And, Kurt noticed, in English.
‘Shoot,’ he said.
‘Excuse me,’ said the statue - shit, it was a female voice now - ‘but can you tell us what’s going on, please?’