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by Jodi Taylor


  ‘It’s nice here,’ he said, looking out at the view over the castle. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  I got the message. Still here he might be, but the revelations of last night were not for further discussion.

  ‘About a year now. I was going to ask what you’d like for breakfast. I can do you egg and bacon or nip to the café if you fancy croissants or brioche.’

  He shook his head and said lightly, ‘You’re too kind, but I mustn’t outstay my welcome.’

  ‘You saved me from a troll. You have more welcome than a squirrel has nuts.’

  He laughed, which was good to hear, but I wasn’t convinced. I’d seen this before. People tell you their darkest secrets and then regret it and then all they want to do is get away so they can pretend it never happened. It’s not a good thing to do. I had an idea.

  ‘Stay for breakfast,’ I said. ‘I think I might be needing you later on.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I might be in trouble.’

  Finally he turned to face me. ‘Howso?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you about it over breakfast.’

  We had scrambled eggs on toast and two mugs of coffee each, and I told him all about Sorensen and his efforts to entice me into working for him.

  ‘And now I owe him,’ I said, collecting the dishes, ‘because of that kid in the tree and he’ll make very sure he collects on the debt.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘You have rather placed yourself in his power, haven’t you?’

  ‘It was the right thing to do,’ I said, defensively.

  ‘I never said it wasn’t. Anyway, don’t worry. You have me here to protect you.’

  I tried to feel good about that, because a volatile weirdo who lived rough in the woods and talked to trolls, and who had lost his killer sword and betrayed everything he stood for, couldn’t possibly be a double-edged weapon at all, could he?

  We spent a peaceful morning watching daytime TV, which fascinated him. Especially the soaps.

  ‘Well, bugger me,’ he said cheerfully, from where he was sprawled on the sofa. ‘Nothing changes, does it?’

  I looked up from my ironing. ‘What doesn’t change?’

  ‘Well, look at what we have here. This new soap everyone’s raving about. Olympian Heights. We’ve got this grey-haired patriarch, rich and devious, living in a fabulous mansion, shagging everything in sight, with his jealous wife, and his clever daughter, and his rebellious son with the dodgy friends, and his sinister brother from the underworld, to say nothing of the beautiful supermodel married to the ugly man who doesn’t trust her. I mean, doesn’t any of this ring any bells?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You don’t get it?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Well, thirty centuries ago and more, people worshipped Zeus, the grey-haired patriarch of Olympus – touchy old bugger I always thought - and his very extended and dysfunctional family. You know, Hera, the jealous wife, Athena, goddess of wisdom. And the goddess Aphrodite and her ugly husband, Hephaestus. And before you ask, yes, he really did have a face like a bull’s pizzle.’

  I stared at him, resisting the temptation to demand clarification on a bull’s pizzle because I had a horrible feeling I knew anyway. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s happening all over again, isn’t it? You call yourselves modern and rational and yet you’re still worshipping the old gods, following their every move, copying their actions, obsessing over their relationships, sending them presents in the hope they’ll notice you – only now you call them celebrities. I bet you good money that old Zeus …’ he made a sign of respect ‘… wherever he is, is laughing his head off and telling Hera he told her so. Just prior to descending on some unfortunate nymph in a shower of swans, of course.’

  ‘I think you mean either a shower of gold or a swan,’ I said, folding a T-shirt. ‘Not both.’

  ‘I know what I mean. The shower of swans was his practice swing. With unfortunate results. He calmed down a bit after that. Although not by much.’

  I wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t making all this up, but I never got the chance to discuss it any further because the phone rang again.

  I picked it up. ‘Jerry? Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Ah, Elizabeth. Philip Sorensen here.’

  Damn and blast.

  ‘It’s Mrs Cage, Sorensen, and I’m busy at the moment. Can you call back later?’

  ‘I shan’t keep you a moment … Mrs Cage.’

  ‘I’m putting you on speakerphone,’ I said, ‘while I … take something out of the oven. Go ahead.’

  His voice filled the room. ‘I was wondering if I could prevail upon you to call on me …’

  ‘Sorry, I’m busy at that time.’

  ‘I haven’t yet given you the time.’

  ‘Not necessary,’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Shall we say around two?’

  ‘Still busy.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Iblis mute the TV and sit up, swinging his bare feet to the floor.

  ‘I’m quite certain that when you arrive, you will agree the effort was worthwhile.’

  ‘I’m equally certain I won’t, Dr Sorensen. I’ve “visited” your clinic before and if you cast your mind back, you’ll remember it didn’t end well, did it? Please don’t call me again.’

  I went to disconnect the call and he said quickly, ‘I have Michael Jones.’

  My heart began to race. ‘I’m sure you do, but you might find that’s because he works for the same organisation as you.’

  ‘Not at the moment, Mrs Cage. Mr Jones is, I’m sorry to say, undergoing a period of restricted movement.’

  I took refuge in bluster while I pulled myself together. ‘Oh God, Sorensen, don’t tell me you’re indulging in that old cliché, the locked room in the basement.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a good cliché, Mrs Cage. Shall I expect you at two pm tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought there might be a certain amount of intransigence in your attitude. Allow me to make the decision much easier for you. I have Michael Jones. I have had him for some time now, and unless you present yourself at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, he will find himself facing criminal charges relating to Miss Clare Woods.’

  I started to say, ‘I don’t know who that is,’ but he’d put the phone down and I was talking to the dialling tone.

  Slowly, I replaced the handset and sat down.

  ‘The important thing,’ said Iblis, ‘is not to panic. Now, I shall make a pot of tea while you keep calm and carry on. Because that is what the British do. I’ve seen posters.’

  He bustled off into the kitchen while I tried to pull myself together and think.

  He called over his shoulder. ‘And you, Elizabeth Cage, will give some thought as to how to address this issue, bearing in mind you have access to Iblis, Man of Action and Infinite Resource.’ He filled the kettle. ‘You have only to choose between a fire-breathing chimera, the Minotaur …’ He began to rummage for the tea bags, ‘… a couple of Ice Giants, any number of animal-headed gods of destruction, or Iron Man.’ He poured boiling water into the tea pot. ‘Oh no, sorry, Iron Man’s not real, is he? I get confused.’ He placed a perfect cup of tea in front of me. ‘Drink.’

  I stared at the tea. I could see it sitting in front of me on the coffee table but at that moment it was beyond me to make the connection between cup, hands, and lips. I was paralysed. Nothing was working, including my brain.

  I was roused by Iblis gingerly picking up the phone and somewhat clumsily flicking through the menu. ‘Ah, here we are. Drink your tea, Elizabeth Cage. We shall need you in a moment.’

  We? Who was we?

  ‘Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? I’m not shouting but I’m not sure I’m speaking into the right end. Oh good. Is Mr Jerry there? Of course I will. … Mr Jerry – we have located Michael Jones
and there is a problem. Mrs Cage would very much like to speak to you. Can you call round? As soon as possible, please. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  He replaced the handset carefully and stepped back. ‘That wasn’t bad, was it? I’ve never been terribly good with those things but I thought I handled that quite well. Drink your tea, Elizabeth Cage.’

  I was bewildered. ‘Iblis, what are you doing?’

  ‘Repaying my debt. What else would I be doing?’

  I was never quite sure how much of the modern world he understood. Far more than he let on, I suspected, but how could I explain that the threat of Sorensen and everything he stood for always left me paralysed with fear, to someone whose first instinct in a crisis would always be to release the Kraken? Obediently, I drank my tea, an action which seemed to meet with his approval.

  Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

  Iblis got up to answer it and there was a great deal of muttered conversation, after which, he reported back to me.

  ‘He won’t come in.’

  That jolted me out of my paralysis. ‘What? Why not?’

  Jerry’s voice filtered through the half open door. ‘I’ll have half your stuff in me pockets before you even noticed and I don’t want to do it to a nice lady like you, but I can’t help meself.’

  I roused myself and went to the door. ‘You were in my old house last year. You packed my things for me.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember that. Nice place.’

  ‘While you were there, did you …?’

  ‘Course I did. He made me put it all back again.’

  ‘Jones made you put it all back?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, I would very much like you to come in.’

  He looked uneasy.

  ‘And then, when you leave, it’s up to you whether you give my stuff back or not. Just please don’t take my picture of Ted.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do that,’ he muttered, sidling in through the door.

  Iblis had replaced himself on the sofa, sprawling and barefooted. I guessed he was making himself deliberately disreputable.

  Jerry turned to me. ‘Stone the crows, missis. Every time I see you you’ve got some weird bloke attached.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ I said, brightly. ‘At least this one has clothes on.’

  He cast another disparaging glance at Iblis. ‘Barely.’

  I made the introductions. I could see neither was particularly impressed by the other.

  ‘So,’ said Jerry, ‘where is he this time?’ and I realised he was talking about Jones.

  ‘Sorensen has him under lock and key.’

  He looked startled. ‘What for? I mean, I thought they was on the same team.’

  I looked at Iblis who said succinctly, ‘Bait.’ Which wasn’t how I would have put it, but accurate enough.

  ‘It’s me Sorensen wants and I can’t see any alternative other than to present myself at two pm tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Jerry, apparently thinking deeply.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ said Iblis, and Jerry brightened up at once. I sensed the onset of a male bonding ritual. I started to say I didn’t have any beer but the next moment Iblis was reaching for what looked very much like a bottle of beer on my worktop, knocking the top off in one smooth moment. I suspected the Horn of Utgard-Loki was about to take another bashing.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jerry, in satisfaction. ‘I’ve always preferred it from the bottle. Never got on with them cans.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Iblis, and we both watched Jerry drink deeply.

  I sighed. ‘The only thing I can think of is that we turn things around. I won’t go and see Sorensen tomorrow unless he releases Jones first.’

  Iblis looked at me pityingly. I felt quite cross. ‘It’s a good plan.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Jerry, carefully putting his bottle down on a coaster – I speculated on the possible presence of a Mrs Jerry – ‘It’s not bad. But I have a better idea.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He grinned at us.

  Two hours later we’d thrashed out most of the details. Old Jerry was a bit of a whizz at this sort of thing. ‘Gotta go,’ he said, setting his still half full bottle on the table. I was no longer surprised at its capacity. ‘Things to do.’

  ‘Where will you take him?’ I said.

  ‘Abroad,’ he said. ‘Just for a little while. Out of sight. He’s going grey.’

  I thought of Jones’s head of thick blondish hair and said indignantly, ‘No, he’s not.’

  He sighed patiently. ‘No, that’s what we call it – going grey. Disappearing from view for a while. Going grey.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Nothing to concern yourself over.’

  I picked up my bag. ‘We’ll need his passport. I’ll get that. Do you have a key to his flat?’

  ‘I’ve already got it.’

  I was bewildered. ‘His key?’

  ‘His passport.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I made it for him.’

  ‘He has a fake passport?’

  ‘Course not.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘He’s got several. One’s no good.’

  ‘But … why?’

  He regarded me severely. ‘Well, he can’t go abroad on his real one, can he? Might as well ring them up and tell them where he is.’

  Iblis was grinning at me so I said sorry, I hadn’t been thinking.

  ‘Right,’ said Jerry. ‘That’s everything sorted. Everyone clear on what they’re doing and where and when they’re doing it?

  We nodded.

  I led him to the door, where he paused. Something was obviously required of me. Oh yes. I held out my hand.

  Sighing, he rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a silver pen knife belonging to a quite indignant Iblis, an old horse brass that my father had electro-plated for me, and a tea spoon. I thanked him gravely.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘One thirty down by the bridge. Remember, as soon as you set foot outside your door, act as if they’re watching you. ‘Cos they probly will be.’

  I swallowed and nodded.

  ‘And don’t worry. We’ll get him back.’

  Iblis was going with Jerry. I had no idea what their preparations would consist of and nor did I want to know. I was having enough difficulty with my own role in the proceedings.

  I closed and locked the door behind them and turned around to clear up but the beer bottle had disappeared.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next day I was ready by twelve o’clock, which was stupid because it left me with nothing to do but worry for an hour and a half. I surveyed myself in the mirror. Jerry’s instructions had been explicit. Wear something safe. Old fashioned. Mousy, if you’ve got it. Non-threatening. Quiet colours. Not trousers.

  I’d rummaged away at the back of my wardrobe and found the blue suit I used to wear to work. It was a little dated now, which was perfect, and when I put it with a prissy pink blouse with a pussy cat bow and donned shoes with just the wrong heel height for the length of skirt, I was amazed. And rather horrified, too. I looked a good ten years older than I actually was. I combed my hair behind my ears and applied a really nasty coral coloured lipstick that even your granny wouldn’t have looked at and peered at myself in the mirror. I looked dumpy, frumpy and lumpy. It would be only a short walk to the taxi, but I couldn’t help hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.

  The minutes inched by as I ran over everything in my mind for the umpteenth time. I’m really not cut out for this sort of thing and quite honestly, I was terrified. I could only hope Sorensen would put it down to fear of him and what I thought he could to me.

  I left the house at twenty past one, carefully locked the door behind me, hoisted my old-fashioned black handbag over my forearm like the queen, and set off. The mid-calf length skirt flapped around my legs. And yes, I was wearing American Tan tights. Michael Jones was going to owe me for the rest of his life. Always supposing any of us survived the events o
f this afternoon.

  The taxi was waiting for me down by the bridge. An old-fashioned saloon model in dark red with a large boot, it had once been a very good car – someone’s pride and joy, perhaps – but now that it’s walnut dashboard was scratched and dented, and the leather seats worn thin in places, it had come down in the world. On the other hand, if this afternoon went wrong it might be going out in a blaze of glory. I could just see it being Exhibit A at our trial.

  The very realistic sign on the door read ‘Jerry’s Taxis,’ with a neat JT logo and a telephone number underneath. I was willing to bet anyone ringing that number would be answered by a bored voice asking where they wanted to go and when. I was beginning to have a lot of faith in old Jerry.

  He was leaning against the bonnet with his arms folded, just an old cabbie enjoying the sun while he waited for his fare. He wore an ancient tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, baggy trousers and a pair of heavy spectacles. He straightened up when he saw me approach.

  ‘Mrs Cage?’

  I remembered what he’d said about assuming we were being watched. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where to, missis?’

  ‘The Sorensen clinic, please. On the Whittington road.’

  He held open the rear door for me and I climbed in, the stupid skirt skidding about on the leather seats.

  Climbing in himself, he started the engine. ‘Seatbelt.’

  I looked at his eyes in the rear-view mirror. Not a hint of humour. ‘Sorry.’

  I clicked my seat belt and sat back clutching my handbag which contained nothing more than a twenty-pound note slipped into the pocket, the awful coral lipstick and a small pack of tissues. Given what we had planned for that afternoon, it hardly seemed adequate.

  Mine, however, was the easy part. ‘Just play it by ear,’ Jerry had said. ‘Do just as you would if you were on your own. Don’t give us a thought. Your part is to meet this Sorensen bloke and keep him occupied. Just concentrate on that. Leave everything else to us.’

  I’d nodded and wondered what I’d got myself into.

  I watched the green hedges slip past. Jerry drove well with smooth gear changes and well below the speed limit. I had a sudden crazy picture of him wearing a Ronald Reagan face mask, waiting outside the local bank, gunning the engine, all ready to go the moment the alarms went off … and told myself not to be so silly.

 

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