Paint Your Dragon

by Tom Holt

  ‘It’s him!’ Bianca shrieked, pointing. ‘Let go my arm, I want to kill him!’

  So, apparently, did the witnesses Mike and Peter; and George, who majored in cheating at the University of Life, saw a tiny sliver of a chance. They rushed at him, heavy policemen dragging along behind them like slipped anchors. He accordingly dived towards them, taking the direction his captor least expected. Grabbing hands missed him on all sides. He vaulted onto a table; from the table to the bar top; skidded along the bar like a glass of whisky in a Western; braked sharply; kicked the barmaid neatly in the eye as she lunged for his ankles; hopped down and legged it through the kitchens. As it says in the director’s cut of the Sermon on the Mount: Blessed are those that fight dirty, for they shall be one jump ahead.

  ‘Stop him!’

  The cook, assuming that the fast-moving character who’d just burst into his kitchen was a fugitive from payment, upended a tray of chilli over his head, causing him to misnavigate and cannon into the dustbin. It was then just a matter of scooping up his feet, tucking them in after the rest of him, putting on the lid and sitting on it; job done. If cooks were generals, wars would last hours, not years.

  ‘He’s in here!’ the cook shouted. ‘And he owes for twelve portions of chilli.’

  Inside a dustbin, nose full of potato peelings and the nasty things people leave on their plates after they’ve finished eating, even someone as resourceful as George has to take an enforced rest. If he’s wise, he’ll put the time to good use, analysing his position, evaluating the merits of alternative strategies, trying at all costs not to breathe in.

  They emptied the bin on the floor - the cook joined the arrest roster; obstructing the police, assault with a wet colander—and fished George out. A policeman knelt down, handcuffs at the ready.

  ‘Hey, sarge!’ he screamed. ‘The bloke’s on fire!’

  If you’re not used to them, halos can look remarkably like burning petrol, worn externally. There was yelling, milling about, wrenching of fire extinguishers off walls. Some fool set off the fire alarm, adding deafening noise to the feast of sensory input. George wriggled and struck out. In close combat, a discarded Fairy bottle covered in pan scrapings can be as effective as an Ingrams gun.

  ‘Grab the bastard!’ somebody yelled, but you might as well have shouted ‘Fix the economy!’ to a gaggle of politicians. All that happened was that the barmaid got knocked into the sink and one policeman scored a direct hit on another policeman with the first exuberant jet from the fire extinguisher. After that it was sheer Brownian motion, Gorbals-style.

  Emerging from the scrum, George scrabbled across the floor, hauled himself up by the dishwasher and headed for the door. Like Napoleon’s at Waterloo, it was a sound strategy undermined by treacherous conditions. He stood on a second-hand fried egg, skated three yards and collided with Bianca, pushing her into the remains of the Black Forest gateau. As he looked about him, George saw he was surrounded.

  The saw never say die didn’t mean much to George. He frequently said Die, or more usually, Die, you bastard!, generally when standing over a fallen opponent. The principle behind it, however, was a dominant influence on his life. Without looking down he trawled the worktop, snatched up the first thing that came to hand, levelled it at his attackers and snapped ‘Freeze!’ Three quarters of a second later, they realised he was threatening them with a cheese-grater, but three quarters of a second was all he needed. There was a window. He jumped.

  Glass was still landing all around him when he opened his eyes. Scrambling to his feet, he launched himself forwards, aware that the window frame was full of swearing policemen cutting their fingers. He had the feeling that if they caught up with him, there’d be major sacrilege committed. He ran.

  The back yard wall of the pub was low enough to swarm over if you weren’t fussy about trifles such as broken glass. George dropped down the other side, turned over his ankle, sprawled headlong and banged his head against a car door in the act of opening.

  ‘Get in!’

  George lifted his head. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said get in. Come on!’

  He looked up to see a black Mercedes, back door ajar, on the rear seat a wry grin with a human being attached to its back. Close at hand, angry policemen had discovered the yard gate was locked.

  ‘Who’re you?’ George asked.

  ‘My name’s Stevenson,’ the grin replied. ‘And you’re George. Pull your finger out, old son.’

  ‘But—’

  Chubby Stevenson reached inside his jacket, produced a .45 Colt (like it says in the Book: blessed are the Peacemakers) and pointed it at George’s head. ‘Chop chop,’ he said, ‘there’s a good lad.’

  George realised that it would be discourteous to refuse and got in.

  ‘Have they gone?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Thwaites.’

  ‘Good.’ Wearily, the Great Goat picked up the Black Chalice, shook out the last dregs of cold tea and put it back in its straw-filled shoebox. Nobody had said anything, but they all knew that the handsome silver goblet was about to resume its career as the Swerford Golf Club President’s Cup. Having your nightmare come true is the final disillusionment.

  ‘Dr Thwaites.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘About next Thursday’ Miss Frobisher’s voice was heavy with the embarrassment of betrayal; the same tone of voice Judas Iscariot used when telling the Chief Priest he’d rather have cash, if it was all the same to him. ‘I’ve just remembered it’s the Red Cross whist drive, so I won’t be able to make it after all. I do hope—’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Frobisher, not at all.’ The Great Goat sighed. ‘As it happens, I think I’m busy that day, too. What about you, Barney?’

  The thurifer was. about to explain that coincidentally, he’d probably be working late next Thursday, when all five of them became aware of a richer darkness, as some great shape interposed itself between them and the fleeting moon.

  ‘Go away!’ snapped the Great Goat. ‘Can’t you see we’re closed?’

  They ducked. As non-verbal responses go, a fiery tsunami unleashed about three feet over one’s head is remarkably eloquent.

  ‘Won’t keep you a tick,’ said the dragon.

  About Good and Evil.

  Kurt twitched impatiently. Moral philosophy had never interested him much, having as much relevance to his profession as a pipe-cleaner to the Mersey tunnel; if he’d wanted a lecture on ethics, however, his first choice wouldn’t have been a word processor.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘save it for the customers, will you? I delivered the goods, just pay me and I’ll split.’

  You also have a dragon to kill, don’t forget.

  Kurt made an exaggerated show of looking round. ‘Nope,’ he said at last, ‘don’t see any dragon in here, unless he’s hiding in the drawer disguised as a pencil. Look, pal, you do your job and I’ll do mine, okay?’

  No. Look at me. This is relevant.

  With a sigh, Kurt perched on the edge of the desk and folded his arms.

  ‘Shoot,’ he said.

  With pleasure. Good and Evil, then. Define Goodfor me.

  ‘Huh?’ Kurt thought for a minute. ‘Good what?’

  Not good anything. Just Good.

  Kurt’s eyebrow lifted, Spock-like. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘All depends on where you’re at, I guess. Like,’ he went on, ‘it’s a good shot if you fire it and hit me, but from where I’m standing there ain’t much that’s good about it.’

  The screen filled with glowing green ticks. Very good, Mr Lundqvist, you’re way ahead of me. Nevertheless, I’ll explain further.

  ‘Why?’

  Indulge me. Good and Evil are, of course, two sides of the same coin. What’s good for me is bad for you. One man’s Mede is another man’s Persian. The current of morality is more often alternating than direct. That, I imagine, is scarcely news as far as you’re concerned. Am I right?

  ‘More right than Franco, buster. What’s this to do with—?’

&
nbsp; Please don’t interrupt. You’ve been hired to kill a dragon. Dragons are Evil, yes?

  ‘Guess so.’

  Saints, on the other hand, are Good. Agreed?

  ‘Yeah.’

  Wrong. It all depends on the individual concerned. And even then, it’s still very much a question of subjective interpretation. Take Saint George, for example.

  ‘Huh?’

  Saint George. Noted dragon-slayer. Come on, you must have heard of him. A legend in your profession, surely.

  Kurt nodded. ‘In his day,’ he replied absently. ‘Lotta blood flowed under the bridge since then.’

  Nevertheless. A killer, Kurt. Someone who destroyed other intelligent life forms for money.

  ‘A professional.’

  A saint. And not just any old saint, but the patron saint of peaceful, law-abiding, animal-loving Albion. You know why that is?

  ‘Never gave it any thought,’ Kurt replied honestly.

  Three thousand a year patronage allowance, that’s why. And because no other saint of adequate seniority was prepared to be associated with a cluster of wet, foggy islands on the very north-western edge of the known world. Nobody could believe it when he volunteered. It was like asking to be made Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.

  Kurt shrugged. ‘So?’

  So, with George as its patron, this poxy little cluster of islands built an empire, the biggest ever. Top nation for a time, this poxy little cluster; bigger than France or Italy or Germany, owned half of Africa, half of Asia. Remember Agincourt, Kurt? God for Harry, England and Saint George?

  ‘I missed that game. I was working. Saw the highlights, but—’

  Not bad for the last place God made, under the patronage of a hired killer. And God was an Englishman in those days. Results count for something, wouldn’t you say?

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Kurt protested. ‘All that time, the sucker was dead.’

  Doesn’t matter. When you’re a saint, it’s not what you do that really matters, it’s what you are. George was the dragon-slayer. He won the Big Fight. He inspired generations of Englishmen to go out and beat the crap out of all foreigners. Name me a European country England hasn’t beaten in a war. France? Twice. Germany? Twice. Italy, Spain, Russia, Norway, Austria ...

  ‘Greece,’ Kurt interrupted. ‘Switzerland. Monaco...’ He fell silent. ‘Okay, point taken,’ he continued, ‘but so what? That don’t prove nothing.’

  Wrong. The good guys are always the winners, aren’t they? I mean, the President doesn’t get up on the rostrum at the Victory Parade and say to all the world, ‘Okay, we admit it, we were in the wrong but fuck it, we won anyway.’ Who’s Good and who’s Evil is decided by trial by combat; it’s the only way. Or can you admit the possibility of a scenario where the good guys are all stomped on and the baddies are singing here-we-go, here-we-go, when the final credits are actually rolling? You can’t, not without your brain getting squeezed out your ears.

  ‘Get to the point,’ Kurt grunted awkwardly.

  Simple. England prevailed because she was in the right, because George killed the dragon. How or why he did it doesn’t matter a cold chip. Agreed?

  ‘If I agree, will you pay me the money you owe me?’

  But all that’s changed now. England’s finished. She’s a suburb of Europe, the USA’s poor relation, got about twenty-five per cent of the international stature of the Philippines. You could saw Europe off at Calais and it’d be a month before anybody noticed. So what happened?

  ‘I have this dreary feeling you’re gonna tell me.’

  The result must have been wrong, Kurt. There’s got to have been a foul-up. The wrong guy must have killed the dragon. And that’s why there has to be a rematch.

  ‘Kurt shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If I was the kind of weirdo who went along with that kinda crap, maybe I’d buy that too. But you want me to kill this goddamn dragon, so—’

  After the fight, Kurt, after the fight. The dragon wastes George, you waste the dragon. The United States conclusively defeats the personification of Evil, and under the patronage of Saint Kurt proceeds to manifest its destiny. Everybody lives happily ever after. The screen filled with little wavy lines; cybernetic laughter. That’s why I’ve just arranged for George to be rescued. Can’t very well go fighting dragons if he’s doing three years for assault and battery.

  Kurt thought it over for a while.

  ‘Once I’ve killed the dragon,’ he asked, ‘do I get paid?’

  Of course.

  Kurt nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s my definition of a happy ending.’

  You heard all that?

  Chubby nodded to his laptop and smiled. ‘You bet,’ he said. ‘I thought you handled that very, um, adequately.’

  He’ll do what he’s told. After all, what else are people for?

  ‘Indeed.’

  Talking of which ...

  Chubby sighed. Whenever the blasted box of tricks went all parenthetical on him and started ending sentences with three dots, he knew he was in for something more than usually shitty. ‘Hm?’

  After he’s dealt with the dragon, kill him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘With respect.’ Lin Kortright whitened his knuckles around the telephone, swivelled his chair, bit the end off a cigar and spat it into the ashtray. ‘With respect,’ he repeated, ‘you guys are obviously experts in the recycled Time business, but you don’t know the fight game from nothing. Otherwise ...’

  Traditionally, sudden explosions of devastating elemental power have to be heralded by fair warning. Civil wars and the deaths of princes, therefore, are announced by comets and portents. Cyclones and tempests are preceded by gathering clouds and torrential rain. And Lin Kortright says, ‘With respect.’

  And then something extremely peculiar happened.

  Mr Kortright listened.

  Which is a bit like opening your daily paper and seeing that because of hitherto undetected design faults God has just issued a recall notice on the human race. You don’t expect it. Large chunks of the fabric of reality start to come away from the joists.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, eventually. ‘Yeah, you’re right, we could do that. Say, that’s a pretty neat idea. Only wish I’d thought of that myself.’

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than six lifeboatloads of rats lowered themselves over the side of The Universe As We Know It and started to row like buggery. For Lin Kortright to say, ‘You’re right’ in a room containing no mirror was utterly, absolutely...

  ‘Brilliant,’ he added. ‘Hey, man, I’m beginning to wonder if you need me in on this at all. Seems to me you got it all sewn up already.’

  Distant thunder rumbled. Eagles towering in their pride of place beat a hasty retreat, while mousing owls exchanged evil glances, rubbed their talons together and said, ‘Right, let’s get the bastards.’ The air crackled with static.

  ‘No, really,’ Mr Kortright went on, ‘in the circumstances I couldn’t possibly accept ten per cent. The most I’d feel justified in taking would be five, and even then...’

  Normality flung a few things in a suitcase and emigrated.

  To hype a big fight, you have to follow set procedures. First, you must find a few toothless old duffers for the contenders to massacre, by way of setting the scene. Then you book the chat-show appearances so that the Boys can glower at each other over the presenter’s shoulder. Then you hire a hall and start printing tickets.

  In this case, however, the rules were there to be broken. For a start, there could be no warm-up fights for fear of irreparable damage to the Earth’s crust. No late-show appearances for the contestants; the whole point of finding George was to make sure he’d be safely out of the dragon’s way until the bell went for the first round. As for the venue, that couldn’t be rushed; it had to be the Gobi desert, or the whole fight was off. Above all, the fight couldn’t be advertised in case the two contestants found out that a fight was being organised.

  Nevertheless, it seemed u
nlikely they’d have any trouble getting rid of the tickets, seeing that on the same morning both Nostradamus and Mother Shipton called almost simultaneously to point out that they’d predicted the fight and booked seats four hundred years ago. That just left the venue; a bit like saying, We’ve made the sandwiches and filled the thermos, that just leaves turning the water into wine, plenty of time to do that after we’ve been to the supermarket.

  Cue Lin Kortright ...

  Furtively, guiltily, five shadowy figures crept along the wire perimeter fence, wirecutters in hand.

  They were about to commit burglary. That’s theft, and a sin.

  They were about to burgle the nuclear power station at Sellafield. That’s just plain stupid.

  One of the five demons was considerably more relaxed about the proceedings than his colleagues, it must be said. When Chardonay came round and Prodsnap explained to him that there’d been a mutiny and he was now talking to Captain Prodsnap, his abiding reaction had been amazed, delighted joy. No more decisions. No more responsibility to the other members of the team. No more getting the blame for such mistakes on his part as the weather, the alignment of the moon with Mercury or the battle of Salamis.

  The other four weren’t so cheerful.

  ‘Quit snivelling,’ Prodsnap muttered sharply. ‘Nothing to be afraid of. Home from home. Only danger I can foresee is, you’ll all like it so much you won’t want to leave.’

  His followers exchanged glances. The mood of the meeting was that if he’d just taken out a correspondence course in dynamic leadership techniques, he’d be justified in asking for his money back.

  ‘Run through it again,’ Slitgrind said. ‘Go on, one more time.’

  ‘I’ve explained five times already.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  Prodsnap sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘listen up, people.’ He’d heard the expression somewhere - the extremely nasty part of Hell reserved for Europeans who try to play American football, probably - and guessed it might be worth a try. Right now, anything was worth trying. ‘In order to get home we really need that uranium, right?’