‘Me?’ The newcomer grinned. ‘George’s the name. I’m a saint.’
Chubby Stevenson, alone in his office, dictated the last of the day’s letters, checked the essential print-outs, ran a distracted eye over the Net and switched off. Work over for the day, he allowed himself to remember what had happened...
‘Aaaaagh!’
In a sound-proofed penthouse office suite, Everest-height above the midnight traffic, nobody can hear you scream, except the cleaning lady.
Having got it out of his system, he rebooted his brain, engaged analysis mode and tried to think.
Interference.
Something — he shuddered to think what — had evaporated all his team’s precision-engineered happiness like snow on a hot exhaust. But happiness, in its raw, 999 pure form, is one of the most dynamic forms of energy in the cosmos. Once it’s out in the open, fizzling and spluttering like a lit fuse, other forces tend to remember previous engagements and drift unobtrusively away, like merry revellers who’ve just realised they’ve gate crashed a Mafia wedding. What on earth could emit negative vibes strong enough...?
Chubby focused. The key phrase here, he recognised, was ‘on earth’. Woof woof, down boy, wrong bloody tree.
‘Shit!’ he whispered.
In the course of his dark and unnatural work, Chubby had seen many strange sights and heard stories that would have sent Clive Barker scampering to the all-night chemist in search of catering packs of Nembutal. All of these he had digested and faced down, drawing on his massive entrepreneur’s reserves of fortitude and strength of purpose. Bah. Humbug.
One traveller’s tale, however, had shaken even his monumental composure. No other living man had ever heard it, for it was an account of a journey into the very jaws of Hell; and it had left him, for a while at least, with a purpose only slightly more resilient than second-hand flood-damaged balsawood, and his fortitude marked down to twentitude.
The thing about Hell, the traveller had stressed, is not that it’s horrible or ghastly. There’s vitality in horror, and the grotesquely bizarre balances on a razor’s edge between screaming and laughter. Where there’s vitality, there’s life; where there’s laughter, there’s hope. But in Hell there is no life and no laughter, not even the hideous cackling of sadistic fiends. Hell is, quintessentially, very, very miserable.
And if happiness is fire, misery is water.
‘Cosmic,’ Chubby snarled to himself. ‘The very last thing I need right now is those nosy buggers.’
Because, he reasoned (knowing, as he did, the truth), Hell is part of the Establishment, it stands four-square behind the status quo, the government, the rule of law and the maintenance of order. You can govern the universe without a heaven, at a pinch; but not without a hell. Forget all the stuff it says in the brochure about Pandemonium, the realm of chaos and the dominion of evil; that’s just in there to make you buy postcards. If you want to find the greatest stronghold of old-fashioned morality in the whole of Existence, check out the basement. Those guys make the Vatican look like one of Caligula’s less restrained dinner parties. They believe.
Which is why they’re so goddamned miserable.
And, needless to say, opposed root and branch to any free-enterprise tinkering with the balance of Nature. In the great division, Satan has dominion over what is transitory and material, while God has in his care the spiritual and the permanent; which is a fancy way of saying that Heaven owns the freehold, but Hell’s responsible for the fixtures and fittings — of which, naturally enough, Time is one.
Bastards, muttered Chubby to himself. Somewhere, wandering around in his timefields, there was a band of goddamn devils; the worst possible nuisance, with the possible exception of angels, that a go-getting chronological salvage operation can ever encounter. What with that and the awful ticking-bomb Japanese contract, he was almost tempted to raid the night-safe, do a runner and build himself a nice, secure, self-contained century somewhere sunny and very remote. Not that that’d do him much good. You can hide, but you can’t run.
But what could he do? Good question. He frowned, then he swivelled his chair until he was facing a different screen, extended his fingers and typed a few keystrokes.
Your wish is my command.
‘Hi,’ Chubby replied, grinning nervously. ‘Hope I didn’t disturb you.’
You don’t even join a game as high-rolling as Time salvage without at least one ace wedged under your watchstrap. The very first priority, once you’ve decided to play, is to secure that all-purpose, get-out-of-jail card that’ll leave you free and clear whatever happens. You don’t use it, of course, except as a resort more final than Clacton. Just the thought of it being there is usually enough.
Not at all. You know how eager Jam to serve you.
And that’s no lie, Chubby reflected with a shudder. Nothing you’d like more, you vicious bastard.
It had happened long ago, when a nineteen-year-old Chubby Stevenson had taken a day’s spurious flu leave from the programming pool at DQZ Software and wandered into Milton Keynes’ spacious Agora to check out the flea market. He was looking for a reasonably priced second-hand snooker cue, but his attention was drawn to what looked suspiciously like a Kawaguchiya 8452 computer word processor, squatting dejectedly among a family of dying toasters on a stall at the very back of the market. As nonchalantly as he could, he asked the price.
‘That depends.’
‘Huh?’
‘That depends,’ the stallholder repeated. ‘These things are negotiable, in the right circumstances.’
As far as young Stevenson was concerned, that was probably some sort of euphemism for all this stuff is nicked. He shrugged.
‘Give you a tenner,’ he said.
The stallholder laughed again. For ever after, Chubby couldn’t say for certain whether he/she was male or female, old or young, barking mad or just plain loopy. At the time, he didn’t care. He/she was wearing a hooded anorak and standing right in the shadow of the flyover, face entirely obscured. Probably just as well, Chubby told himself, if the voice is anything to go by. Saves poking eyeholes in a perfectly good paper bag.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Twelve-fifty, take it or leave it.’
More batty chortling. He was just about to walk away and sort through what looked like a boxful of really choice Duran Duran LPs when the laughter stopped. So did Chubby.
‘You like it, then?’
Chubby turned back, feeling as he did so that somehow he was doing something that was going to have a significant effect on the rest of his life.
‘Yeah, well,’ he said, trying to sound bored. ‘The 8452’s all right, I suppose, if you don’t mind having to wind the poxy thing up with a handle every time before you log in. I’d have thought you’d be glad to see the back of it, actually.’
‘If you like it, you can have it.’
‘Did we say twelve-fifty?’
‘Free.’ The stallholder sniggered. ‘Gratis and for nothing. I’ll even throw in six discs and the plug.’
For a moment, Chubby had the curious sensation of being mugged with a bunch of lead daffodils. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Where’s the catch?’
‘To take the back off, you mean? Well, you just press this little plastic tab here, then you—’
‘The drawback. The bad news. The sting in the tail.’
‘Oh, that. There isn’t one.'
‘Honest?’
The stallholder was so obscure now that Chubby could only really make out a voice and an absence of light. ‘Cross my heart and hope to — Honest. It works. It won’t break down. Son, you should chuck the day job and start over selling dental floss to gift horses.’
Chubby wavered. There was something he didn’t quite ... But free’s free. Also, in Milton Keynes, free’s bloody rare. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Does it come in its original box?’
‘And another thing,’ replied the stallholder, narked. ‘If I was you, I’d wait till my luck breaks down before I start push
ing it. Take the sodding thing and get lost.’
When he’d got it home and plugged it in, it was pitch dark. The bulb had gone in his bed-sit, and the battery in his torch was doing primeval-slime impressions. The green light from the screen seemed to soak into every corner of the room, like the spray from an over-filled cafetière.
Your wish is my command.
Chubby snorted. At DQZ they’d stopped using gimmicky log-ins years ago, even for games. He pressed the key to eject the master disc, but nothing happened.
lam the genie of the PCW Centuries ago, a mighty sorcerer imprisoned me in this tiny purgatory. Release me.
Chubby’s jaw dropped. Even Sir Clive Sinclair was never this far gone. He hit the power switch. No effect. He pulled the plug. The green light mocked him.
If I promise to serve you, will you release me?
Easy come, Chubby muttered to himself, easy go. He picked up the big adjustable spanner he kept for adjusting the chain on his moped, turned his face away and belted the screen as hard as he could.
‘Ow!’
The spanner flew across the room. His hand felt as if the National Grid was taking a short-cut through it. After a very long three seconds, he pulled himself away and fell over. The screen was unbroken.
That was foolish. If I promise to serve you, will you release me?
‘Fucking hell, you bastard machine, you nearly electrocuted me!’
You were foolish. You will not be foolish again.
Without taking his eyes from the screen Chubby backed away, until his hand connected with the door handle. His last thought, before his whole body became a running river of light and pain, was Okay, so aluminium does conduct electricity. Then he collapsed again.
Get up. He could see the words without looking at the screen. He got up and sat in his chair. Thank you.
‘Explain,’ he said.
I am a spirit of exceptional power. A magician conjured me into this machine. The machine swallowed me. You know how it is with these primitive floppy disc drives.
‘So?’
If you release me, I will be your slave for the rest of your life. Whatever you say will be done.
‘And the catch?’
There is no catch. You have to undo two little brass screws round the back of the console— ‘The snag. The fly in the ointment.’ If you release me, I must have your soul. ‘Oh.’ Chubby frowned. ‘Have I got one?’ Of course. To be brutally frank, if the average soul is a Ford Escort, yours is a T-reg Skoda, but I’m in no position to be choosy. Do we have a deal?
Jeez, Chubby thought. On the other hand, what you never knew you had you never miss. And none of this is actually happening, anyway.
‘I dunno. Explain how it works.’
Let me share your soul. With it, I shall be free; except that as long as you live, you may command me to do anything.
‘Anything?’
Anything that is within my power.
‘Ah. Cop-out.’
The screen filled with undulating wavy lines; if Chubby had had the manual, he’d have known they represented laughter.
I wouldn’t worry about it. What I can’t do, as the saying goes, you couldn’t even spell. But I must warn you of this. Every time you command me, a little bit more of your soul becomes mine for ever. And when I have all of it, then we shall be one.
‘Be one?’ Chubby scowled. ‘Don’t follow you. You mean, like a merger?’
Undulating wavy lines. Very apt. Imagine a merger between the Mirror group and the Brightlingsea Evening Chronicle and you’ll get the general idea.
‘Okay.’ Chubby’s throat was dry, but his palms were wet. ‘And if I refuse?’
If I cannot have your soul I shall incinerate your body and fry your brain with lightning.
‘Ah.’
If you choose quickly, I might be persuaded to throw in a free radio alarm clock.
‘Right. Well, in that case ...
So far, he’d had four goes. Each time, the results had been immediate and completely satisfactory. Each time, he hadn’t felt any difference at all except that, on the first occasion, he’d been a young, pear-shaped computer programmer living over a chemist’s shop and hoping one day he’d meet a nice girl with her own car. Now...
Your wish is my command.
‘I know. Now listen carefully.’
Chapter 7
‘Here, you,’ said George. ‘Nosh for six, quick as you like.’ While Father Kelly quivered his acquiescence, George considered the finer points of hospitality. ‘Anything your lot can’t eat?’ he asked. ‘On religious grounds, or whatever?’ Chardonay shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Perjurers always give me wind, mind,’ Slitgrind interrupted, ‘unless they’re pickled in brimstone. Then, with spring vegetables and a pleasant Niersteiner or—’
‘I’ve got cheese,’ Father Kelly replied. ‘Or chicken roll.’ Slitgrind sniffed. ‘Make it the chicken,’ he said. ‘Cheese makes you have nightmares.’
Father Kelly stared at him, made a very small high-pitched noise without opening his lips, and fled. George slumped into the armchair and waved his new friends to do likewise.
‘So,’ ventured Chardonay, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘You’re a saint.’
George nodded. ‘Fully accredited, got my own day and everything.’
Among the demons, glances were exchanged. ‘Um,’ Chardonay went on, his face indicating a long time before his mouth opened that he was about to say something that would be difficult to put diplomatically. ‘You see, the fact of the matter is—’
‘Hang on, I forgot something.’ George picked up a heavy alabaster figure of the Holy Virgin and bashed it on the mantelpiece until Father Kelly reappeared. ‘We’ll need booze as well,’ he said. ‘What you got?’
With his eyes shut, the priest started to recite. ‘Let me see, now,’ he said. ‘Spirits, we’ve got brandy, gin and vodka, Johnny Walker Black Label, Bells, Famous Grouse, The Macallan and Jack Daniels. Beer, there’s Guinness, Heineken, Becks, Grolsch, Newcastle Brown or Stella Artois.’
‘No Holsten Pils?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Christ!’
Chardonay coughed softly, like a sheep who’s just wandered into someone else’s hotel room by mistake. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘a cup of tea will do just fine.’
Slitgrind and Prodsnap began to protest, then they caught Snorkfrod’s eye and subsided. George shrugged.
‘Please yourselves,’ he said. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, ponce. Jump to it.’
Father Kelly vanished and George turned back to face the demons. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You were saying?’
‘We’re...’ Chardonay swallowed. ‘Actually, we’re devils. From Hell. I, er, thought you ought to know that before you started, well, giving us things to eat and, er, things.’
‘I know,’ George replied, puzzled. ‘Like I told you, I’m a goddamn saint. We know these things.’
‘I see.’ Chardonay bit his lip, remembering just too late that he was no longer human and suppressing a yelp of
pain. ‘Only I thought you might... Well, we are on different sides, so to speak.’
‘Bullshit,’ George replied crisply, lighting a Lucky Strike and blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘We’re on the same side. We’re,’ he added, crinkling his face with a rather distasteful grin, ‘the good guys.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The white hats,’ George amplified, enjoying himself.
‘The US Cavalry. The Mounties. Sure, we do different jobs, but we all work for the same Big Guy. Only difference is, I sent the baddies to Hell and you lot keep ‘em there. Jeez, I thought you people would have known that.’
There was a further exchange of glances. Five demons began to say something, but decided at the last moment not to. Eventually, Chardonay inclined his head in a noncommittal nod.
‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘It’s just that we thought your lot, I mean saints and angels and so on, were — w
ell, took a less pragmatic view of the situation. After all, there was this war—’
‘So?’ George chuckled. ‘Power struggles, palace coups, nights of the long knives, you get office politics in any big organisation. Doesn’t mean that at the end of the day you aren’t all basically pulling together as a team.’
Chardonay sighed. However hard he tried to play angel’s advocate, he couldn’t fault the logic. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I agree. But—’
‘More to the point,’ George interrupted, leaning forward and leaking smoke in Chardonay’s face, ‘what in buggery are you lot doing here? Bit off your patch, aren’t you?’
‘Ah,’ said Chardonay. ‘Well.’
‘We missed the bus,’ said Prodsnap.
‘Got left behind on purpose, more like,’ Slitgrind grumbled. ‘Probably thought it was funny, the pillocks. I’ll show them funny.’
‘Bus?’ George was stroking his chin, his mouth hidden behind his fingers. ‘What bus?’
‘Works outing,’ Prodsnap answered. ‘To Nashville.’ He sighed. ‘The Grand Old Opry. Gracelands...’
If George was disconcerted, he did a good job of covering it up. ‘Got you,’ he said. ‘So basically, you’re stranded miles outside your jurisdiction, you’re going to have to walk back, and if anybody recognises you for what you are, there’ll be one hell of an Incident and when you get back you’re all going to find yourselves sideways-promoted to mucking out the Great Shit Lakes, right?’
Five demons nodded. Whoever this jerk was, he surely knew the score. Probably, they found themselves speculating, it’s pretty much the same Upstairs.
George’s grin widened, as though someone were driving wedges into the corners of his mouth. ‘But,’ he went on, ‘suppose that when you got back, you had with you a prisoner. Someone who should’ve been down your way yonks ago. Let’s say, a member of staff of your department who went AWOL a long time ago and never reported for duty. Be a bit different then, wouldn’t it?’
The demons agreed that it would. Very much so.
‘Fine,’ George said. ‘In that case, I think I can help you. Listen up.’
Paint Your Dragon Tom Holt Page 9