His reminiscences were for a moment interrupted, however, by the arrival of his vehicle at a great doorway which was guarded by a great sweaty splodge of a being who stood swaying, arms akimbo, in their path. Toe Rag, who had been preserving an intense silence as he stalked along just ahead of the bed, hurried forward and had a quick word with the sweating creature, who had to bend, red-faced, to hear him. Then instantly the sweaty creature shrank back with glistening obsequiousness into its yellow lair, and the sacred trolley rolled forward into the great halls, chambers and corridors from which great gusty echoes roared and fetid odors blew.
“Let me give you an example, Hillow,” continued Odin. “Take this place, for example. Take Valhalla . . .”
19
TURNING NORTH WAS a maneuver which normally had the effect of restoring a sense of reason and sanity to things, but Dirk could not escape a sense of foreboding.
Furthermore, it came on to rain a little, which should have helped, but it was such mean and wretched rain to come from such a heavy sky that it only increased the sense of claustrophobia and frustration that gripped the night. Dirk turned on the car wipers, which grumbled because they didn’t have quite enough rain to wipe away, so he turned them off again. Rain quickly speckled the windscreen.
He turned on the wipers again, but they still refused to feel that the exercise was worthwhile, and scraped and squeaked in protest. The streets turned treacherously slippery.
Dirk shook his head. He was being quite absurd, he told himself, in the worst possible way. He had allowed himself to become fanciful in a manner that he quite despised. He astounded himself at the wild fantasies he had built on the flimsiest amount of, well he would hardly call it evidence, mere conjecture.
An accident at an airport. Probably a simple explanation.
A man with a hammer. So what?
A gray van which Kate Schechter had seen at the hospital. Nothing unusual about that. Dirk had nearly collided with it, but again, that was a perfectly commonplace occurrence.
A Coca-Cola machine: he hadn’t taken that into account.
Where did a Coca-Cola machine fit into these wild notions about ancient gods? The only idea he had about that was simply too ridiculous for words and he refused even to acknowledge it to himself.
At that point Dirk found himself driving past the house where, that very morning, he had encountered a client of his who had had his severed head placed on a revolving record turntable by a green-eyed devil-figure waving a scythe and a blood-signed contract, who had then vanished into thin air.
He peered at it as he passed, and when a large dark-blue BMW pulled out from the curb just ahead of him, he ran straight into the back of it, and for the second time that day he had to leap out of his car, already shouting.
“For God’s sake can’t you look where you’re going?” he exclaimed, in the hope of bagging his adversary’s best lines from the outset. “Stupid people!” he continued, without pausing for breath. “Careering all over the place. Driving without due care and attention! Reckless assault!” Confuse your enemy, he thought. It was a little like phoning somebody up, and saying “Yes? Hello?” in a testy voice when they answered, which was one of Dirk’s favorite methods of whiling away long, hot summer afternoons. He bent down and examined the palpable dent in the rear of the BMW, which was quite obviously, damn it, a brand-new one. Blast and bugger it, thought Dirk.
“Look what you’ve done to my bumper!” he cried. “I hope you have a good lawyer!”
“I am a good lawyer,” said a quiet voice, which was followed by a quiet click. Dirk looked up in momentary apprehension. The quiet click was only the sound of the car door closing.
The man was wearing an Italian suit, which was also quiet. He had quiet glasses, quietly cut hair, and though a bow tie is not, by its very nature, a quiet object, the particular bow tie he wore was, nevertheless, a very quietly spotted example of the genre. He drew a slim wallet from his pocket and also a slim silver pencil. He walked without fuss to the rear of Dirk’s Jaguar and made a note of the registration number.
“Do you have a card?” he inquired as he did so, without looking up. “Here’s mine,” he added, taking one from his wallet. He made a note on the back of it. “My registration number,” he said, “and the name of my insurance company. Perhaps you would be good enough to let me have the name of yours. If you don’t have it with you, I’ll get my girl to call you.”
Dirk sighed, and decided there was no point in putting up a fight on this one. He fished out his wallet and leafed through the various business cards that seemed to accumulate in it as if from nowhere. He toyed for a second with the idea of being Wesley Arlott, an oceangoing yacht navigation consultant from, apparently, Arkansas, but then thought better of it. The man had, after all, taken his registration number, and although Dirk had no particular recollection of paying an insurance premium of late, he also had no particular recollection of not paying one either, which was a reasonably promising sign. He handed over a bona fide card with a wince. The man looked at it.
“Mr. Gently,” he said. “Private investigator. I’m sorry, private holistic investigator. OK.”
He put the card away, taking no further interest.
Dirk had never felt so patronized in his life. At that moment there was another quiet click from the other side of the car. Dirk looked across to see a woman with red spectacles standing there giving him a frozen half-smile. She was the woman he had spoken with over Geoffrey Anstey’s garden wall this morning, and the man, Dirk therefore supposed, was probably her husband. He wondered for a second whether he should wrestle them to the ground and question them rigorously and violently, but he was suddenly feeling immensely tired and run-down.
He acknowledged the woman in red spectacles with a minute inclination of his head.
“All done, Cynthia,” said the man and flicked a smile on and off at her. “It’s all taken care of.”
She nodded faintly, and the two of them climbed back into their BMW and after a moment or two pulled away without fuss and disappeared away down the road. Dirk looked at the card in his hand. Clive Draycott. He was with a good firm of City solicitors. Dirk stuck the card away in his wallet, climbed despondently back into his car, and drove on back to his house, where he found a large golden eagle sitting patiently on his doorstep.
20
KATE ROUNDED ON her guest as soon as they were both inside her flat with the door closed and Kate could be reasonably certain that Neil wasn’t going to sneak back out of his flat and lurk disapprovingly halfway up the stairs. The continuing thumping of his bass was at least her guarantee of privacy.
“All right,” she said fiercely, “so what is the deal with the eagle then? What is the deal with all the streetlights? Huh?”
The Norse God of Thunder looked at her awkwardly. He had to remove his great horned helmet because it was banging against the ceiling and leaving scratch marks in the plaster. He tucked it under his arm.
“What is the deal,” continued Kate, “with the Coca-Cola machine? What is the deal with the hammer? What, in short, is the big deal? Huh?”
Thor said nothing. He frowned for a second in arrogant irritation, then frowned in something that looked somewhat like embarrassment, and then simply stood there and bled at her.
For a few seconds she resisted the impending internal collapse of her attitude, and then realized it was just going to go to hell anyway so she might as well go with it.
“OK,” she muttered, “let’s get all that cleaned up. I’ll find some antiseptic.”
She went to rummage in the kitchen cupboard and returned with a bottle to find Thor saying “No” at her.
“No what?” she said crossly, putting the bottle down on the table with a bit of a bang.
“That,” said Thor, and pushed the bottle back at her. “No.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
Thor just shrugged and stared moodily at a corner of the room. There was nothing that could be c
onsidered remotely interesting in that corner of the room, so he was clearly looking at it out of sheer bloody-mindedness.
“Look, buster,” said Kate, “if I can call you buster, what—”
“Thor,” said Thor, “God of—”
“Yes,” said Kate, “you’ve told me all the things you’re God of. I’m trying to clean up your arm.”
“Sedra,” said Thor, holding his bleeding arm out, but away from her. He peered at it anxiously.
“What?”
“Crushed leaves of sedra. Oil of the kernel of the apricot. Infusion of bitter orange blossom. Oil of almonds. Sage and comfrey. Not this.”
He pushed the bottle of antiseptic off the table and sank into a mood.
“Right!” said Kate, picked up the bottle and hurled it at him. It rebounded off his cheekbone leaving an instant red mark. Thor lunged forward in a rage, but Kate simply stood her ground with a finger pointed at him.
“You stay right there, buster!” she said, and he stopped. “Anything special you need for that?”
Thor looked puzzled for a moment.
“That!” said Kate, pointing at the blossoming bruise on his cheek.
“Vengeance,” said Thor.
“I’ll have to see what I can do,” said Kate. She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
After about two minutes of unseen activity Kate returned to the room, trailed by wisps of steam.
“All right,” she said, “come with me.”
She led him into her bathroom. He followed her with a great show of reluctance, but he followed her.
Kate had been trailed by wisps of steam because the bathroom was full of it. The bath itself was overflowing with bubbles and gunk.
There were some bottles and pots, mostly empty, lined up along a small shelf above the bath. Kate picked them up one by one and displayed them at him.
“Apricot kernel oil,” she said, and turned it upside down to emphasize its emptiness. “All in there,” she added, pointing at the foaming bath.
“Neroli oil,” she said, picking up the next one, “distilled from the blossom of bitter oranges. All in there.”
She picked up the next one. “Orange cream bath oil. Contains almond oil. All in there.”
She picked up the pots.
“Sage and comfrey,” she said of one, “and sedra oil. One of them’s a hand cream and the other’s hair conditioner, but they’re all in there, along with a tube of Aloe Lip Preserver, some Cucumber Cleansing Milk, Honeyed Beeswax and Jojoba Oil Cleanser, Rhassoul Mud, Seaweed and Birch Shampoo, Rich Night Cream with Vitamin E, and a very great deal of cod liver oil. I’m afraid I haven’t got anything called Vengeance, but here’s some Calvin Klein Obsession.”
She took the stopper from a bottle of perfume and threw the bottle in the bath.
“I’ll be in the next room when you’re done.”
With that she marched out, and slammed the door on him. She waited in the other room, firmly reading a book.
21
FOR ABOUT A minute Dirk remained sitting motionless in his car a few yards away from his front door. He wondered what his next move should be. A small, cautious one, he rather thought. The last thing he wanted to have to contend with at the moment was a startled eagle.
He watched it intently. It stood there with a pert magnificence about its bearing, its talons gripped tightly round the edge of the stone step. From time to time it preened itself and then peered sharply up the street and down the street, dragging one of its great talons across the stone in a deeply worrying manner. Dirk admired the creature greatly for its size and its plumage and its general sense of extreme airworthiness, but, asking himself if he liked the way that the light from the streetlamp glinted in its great glassy eye or on the huge hook of its beak, he had to admit that he did not.
The beak was a major piece of armory.
It was a beak that would frighten any animal on earth, even one that was already dead and in a tin. Its talons looked as if they could rip up a small Volvo. And it was sitting waiting on Dirk’s doorstep, looking up and down the street with a gaze that was at once meaningful and mean.
Dirk wondered if he should simply drive off and leave the country. Did he have his passport? No. It was at home. It was behind the door which was behind the eagle, in a drawer somewhere or, most likely, lost.
He could sell up. The ratio of estate agents to actual houses in the area was rapidly approaching parity. One of their lot could come and deal with the house. He’d had enough of it, with its fridges and its wildlife and its ineradicable position on the mailing lists of the American Express company.
Or he could, he supposed with a slight shiver, just go and see what it was the eagle wanted. There was a thought. Rats, probably, or a small whippet. All Dirk had, to his knowledge, was some Rice Krispies and an old muffin, and he didn’t see those appealing to this magisterial creature of the air. He rather fancied that he could make out fresh blood congealing on the bird’s talons, but he told himself firmly not to be so ridiculous.
He was just going to have to go and face up to the thing, explain that he was fresh out of rats, and take the consequences.
Quietly, infinitely quietly, he pushed open the door of his car and stole out of it, keeping his head down. He peered at the eagle from over the bonnet of the car. It hadn’t moved. That is to say, it hadn’t left the district. It was still looking this way and that around itself with, possibly, a heightened sense of alertness. Dirk didn’t know in what remote mountain eyrie the creature had learned to listen out for the sound of Jaguar car-door hinges revolving in their sockets, but the sound had clearly not escaped its attention.
Cautiously, Dirk bobbed along behind the line of cars that had prevented him from being able to park directly outside his own house. In a couple of seconds all that separated him from the extraordinary creature was a small blue Renault.
What next?
He could simply stand up and, as it were, declare himself. He would be saying, in effect, “Here I am, do what you will.” Whatever then transpired, the Renault could probably bear the brunt.
There was always the possibility, of course, that the eagle would be pleased to see him, that all this swooping it had been directing at him had been just its way of being matey. Assuming, of course, that it was the same eagle. That was not such an enormous assumption. The number of golden eagles at large in North London at any one time was, Dirk guessed, fairly small.
Or maybe it was just resting on his doorstep completely by chance, enjoying a quick breather prior to having another hurtle through the sky in pursuit of whatever it is that eagles hurtle through the sky after.
Whatever the explanation, now, Dirk realized, was the time that he had simply to take his chances. He steeled himself, took a deep breath and arose from behind the Renault like a spirit rising from the deep.
The eagle was looking in another direction at the time, and it was a second or so before it looked back to the front and saw him, at which point it reacted with a loud screech and stepped back an inch or two, a reaction which Dirk felt a little put out by. It then blinked rapidly a few times and adopted a sort of perky expression of which Dirk did not have the faintest idea what to make.
He waited for a second or two until he felt the situation had settled down again after all the foregoing excitement, and then stepped forward tentatively, around the front of the Renault. A number of quiet, interrogative cawing noises seemed to float uncertainly through the air, and then after a moment Dirk realized that he was making them himself, and made himself stop. This was an eagle he was dealing with, not a budgie.
It was at this point that he made his mistake.
With his mind entirely taken up with eagles, the possible intentions of eagles, and the many ways in which eagles might be considered to differ from small kittens, he did not concentrate enough on what he was doing as he stepped up out of the road and on to a pavement that was slick with the recent drizzle. As he brought his rear foot forwar
d it caught on the bumper of the car; he wobbled, slipped, and then did that thing which one should never do to a large eagle of uncertain temper, which was to fling himself headlong at it with his arms outstretched.
The eagle reacted instantly.
Without a second’s hesitation it hopped neatly aside and allowed Dirk the space he needed to collapse heavily onto his own doorstep. It then peered down at him with a scorn that would have withered a lesser man, or at least a man who had been looking up at that moment.
Dirk groaned.
He had sustained a blow to the temple from the edge of the step, and it was a blow, he felt, that this evening he could just as easily have done without. He lay there gasping for a second or two, then at last rolled over heavily, clasping one hand to his forehead, the other to his nose, and looked up at the great bird in apprehension, reflecting bitterly on the conditions under which he was expected to work.
When it became clear to him that he appeared for the moment to have nothing to fear from the eagle, who was merely regarding him with a kind of quizzical, blinking doubt, he sat up, and then slowly dragged himself back to his feet and wiped and smacked some of the dirt off his coat. Then he hunted through his pockets for his keys and unlocked the front door, which seemed a little loose. He waited to see what the eagle would do next.
With a slight rustle of its wings it hopped over the lintel and into his hall. It looked around itself and seemed to regard what it saw with a little distaste. Dirk didn’t know what it was that eagles expected of people’s hallways, but had to admit to himself that it wasn’t only the eagle which reacted like that. The disorder was not that great, but there was a grimness to it which tended to cast a pall over visitors, and the eagle was clearly not immune to this effect.
Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency Box Set Page 40