by Kim Newman
What would Amazon Queen do in a situation like this? Nothing: she didn’t exist, not even in the comics. So, what would Sally Rhodes do in a situation like this? Turn into Jellyfish Girl, usually.
Why don’t you have two eyes like all the other Mummies!
The textbook first move - she’d used it 100 years ago in Sainsbury’s - was to stamp on the assailant’s foot. This hulk wore boots she probably couldn’t dent with her heel. She had to find somewhere soft and stick something hard into it.
‘Neil,’ she said, evenly, ‘there are some questions about your life I’d like you to answer...’
‘What are you saying?’ Balaclava asked. Neil could tell he was puzzled by Sally’s question.
The Nazi might have relaxed his grip. Sally bent forward from the waist, angling her right shoulder out, then jabbed back with her elbow. She caught Balaclava at the belt buckle, jamming a large tin eagle into his rubbery gut.
The screwdriver stabbed but her head wasn’t next to it.
She bent down and sprang up, sinking her shoulder into Balaclava’s crotch, lifting him off the step. He shouted, arms and legs flailing, and over-balanced, tumbling on his back. Balaclava’s head smacked concrete.
The screwdriver rolled between dustbins.
Neil was amazed. He hadn’t thought of Sally as the Emma Peel type.
Sally, face tight with pain, shoved Neil through the door and followed inside the house. Pel was standing, appalled, by the hall table. Zafir was on the phone, gabbling in a foreign language.
Sally slammed the door and the lock caught. There were painted-over bolts. She wrestled the bottom one home and shouted for help. Pel used his hands as hammer and chisel to thump the top bolt into place. The front door jarred as someone heavy rammed it. Through glass side-panels, Neil saw Balaclava’s Boyos streaming up the steps.
They were shouting wordlessly, emitting a tribal battle cry. ‘Oi oi oi...’
‘Where’s the back way out?’ Sally asked.
‘There isn’t one,’ Neil said.
The side-panels were smashed in. Hands twisted through, scrabbling for the lock. Sally thumped away any that got close, squashing flesh against the jagged edges of the broken panels. Battle cries mixed with pain cries.
‘Haven’t you heard of fire regulations?’ she asked.
Neil and Pel looked at their landlord’s son. Zafir, calmer now, was speaking a mix of Pakistani and English.
‘Yes, right, Dadiji,’ he said, and hung up.
‘Well?’ Pel asked.
‘Dadiji says we should throw them Neil.’
* * *
He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t lift his head. Half his field of vision was occupied by asphalt. Road grit bit his cheek. Painfully turning, he saw the bottom curve of the Rolls-Royce tyre, shining silver wheelspokes. A bottle-top near his face was a huge pop art object, detailed and clear; the noisy people by Neil’s house were blurry distant toys. His cap lay upturned in the gutter, faded lining exposed.
He shivered; not with cold but as if struck by an allergic reaction. Limbs he couldn’t feel twitched and kicked. Lack of sensation spread through his chest and head, tendrils of dead nothing reaching for his heart and brain. This wasn’t in the Deal. They wouldn’t die: it had been promised.
A shadow passed over his face and he heard the non-squeak of a metal door smoothly opening. If he could raise his head, it’d bump on the underside of the car door jibing across him. More cold cascaded from the Shadowshark’s interior and pooled like invisible mist. His sinuses clogged with soft ice, his chilled eyeballs shocked his eyelids. Getting out of the car, the driver stepped over him. A trailing curtain dragged, briefly covering his face, then whipping away. A cloak.
A polished boot was close by his face. In the black leather curve, his stricken face reflected. From this angle, his bald patch was disturbingly blatant. There was slush in his throat. He coughed it out. It was an effort to keep breathing. The driver stood by his car, watching. Mark tried to roll over to look up, but his body was useless. His mind prowled, trapped.
* * *
The Tottenham Fascisti battered Neil’s house with axe-handles, chanting ‘Oi oi of. Karl Garr provided counterpoint cacophony. Michael sat and watched with Ellen. Being a vagrant rendered you invisible to anyone of wage-earning age.
The stormtrooper Sally Rhodes had tossed off the steps was by the bus, feeling his back for broken bones. His comrades kept up the attack. People had come out of nearby houses to watch or join in. Michael was aware of more standees on the Gregory front lawn. Turning, he smiled at Jonathan Gregory, who didn’t notice him.
The glazier, wounded early, emerged from his van with a blowtorch. Its tiny blue flame was wind-whisped. He tapped the stormtrooper on the shoulder with Oliver Hardy daintiness. The rip on his cheek still oozed. The ELF man turned and the glazier stubbed the torch against his chest like a cigarette. The stormtrooper yelled, a smouldering circle on his sternum.
Michael wondered if Mark had retreated. He looked to check and saw only that freak Roller parked at the end of the street. Nearer was Dolar, stunned and dazed by the pace of events. The shop owner had been demoted to onlooker by the White Knights of Tottenham. He looked around, eyes sharp, and seemed to stare directly at Michael.
No, he was looking behind Michael. At Jonathan. The hippie’s placid expression shapeshifted. He became a snarling cossack werewolf, a mouthful of sharp teeth in a face-covering tangle that mixed eyebrow and beard.
‘You,’ he shouted, pointing at the Good Soldier, ‘earthling!’
* * *
‘Out of the question,’ Sally told the Asian, Zafir.
She could tell Neil was relieved she wouldn’t let them throw him to the Nazis.
‘It’s between him and them,’ Zafir said. ‘It’s not fair Dadiji’s property should suffer.’
From upstairs there was a crash as a window smashed.
‘Now their bloodlust is up, you reckon they’ll stop at doing Neil over? Think about it; if you were a white supremacist, whose face would stand out in this crowd?’
Zafir nodded, taking the point on board.
The door of Neil’s flat burst open. A couple of yobs - skinheads whose short jeans had Union Jack ankle extensions - jammed through. They’d got into the house through Neil’s broken windows.
Neil, moving fast for once, wrenched up the hall table - a wrought-iron stand - and ploughed it into the charging skins, knocking them back into his flat. He pulled the door to with one hand and dug out his keys, stabbing the lock with them.
Sally stepped in and held the door handle. There was a tugging from inside the flat. Neil’s key turned and broke. The door was locked forever. It was much easier to batter a door in than out, but if they had tools, they could pick at the hinges.
‘We have to go out the front,’ she said. No one looked happy.
* * *
‘...graphic violence is a part of art,’ he said, ‘and has been since Fred Flintstone bragged about spilling the brains of an endangered Mastodon.’
Leonard Scheuer tutted, thinking of snide comments, Mickey was sure.
‘I’m an enemy of censorship, I believe in pushing back barriers. The publishers wimped out over the panels in Choke Hold where the whore gets fucked with the pneumatic drill, but I say that’s life...’
‘Actually, isn’t that death?’
‘Fuckin’ red, raw and dripping. That’s how I draw things, that’s how I see things. And if anyone don’t like it, they can suck exhaust pipe and expire, all right?’
He darted a look at Heather, sure she’d step in and pinch Scheuer’s neck with a Personal Assistant’s Death Grip if it became necessary.
Beyond Heather, by the door where the waiters congregated, he saw a man-shaped shadow. Then he didn’t.
‘Mr Yeo?’ the interviewer asked, concerned. ‘Are you all right?’
He shook off the shadow feeling.
‘Yeah, sorry. Half my head is in London. Sorry. Anyway, so far
as critics are concerned, they’re just tossing off. Everyone loves a juicy car accident, let’s face it. Me, I love a juicy car accident involving a critic.’
* * *
‘I’ll open the door,’ Sally said, ‘and we make a run for it, scattering. The police must be on their way by now.’
Neil wasn’t sure the police weren’t part of it.
The door to his flat was shaking as Norwegian Neil Cullers battered. Theyd smash what was left of his stuff. For a second, he was grateful to Tanya; hed much rather his records went to good homes than got trampled by bovver boots.
‘Does anyone smell smoke?’ Pel asked.
Zafir shook his head.
‘I’ve got five grand’s-worth of top-of-the-line microwaves upstairs,’ Pel protested.
‘Five grand, Zafir shouted, ‘you said three!’
Pel shook his head, unwilling to give up the ship.
Someone opened the letterbox and piss-stream shot in, jetting onto the rucked carpet.
‘Pick up the table,’ Sally ordered.
Neil hefted the heavy table.
‘When I open up, you throw it,’ she said.
She eased bolts loose. The stream kept up, incredibly. This was a seven-pint piddle. She turned the latch and set it. The door was unlocked. Nodding and standing out of the way, she let the door swing open.
An unconcerned yob was on the doorstep, fly open, dick in his hands, whistling as he let spray. His face was an aghast picture as Neil hurled the table at him.
When the pisser was flat on his back on the steps, howling under the table, Sally grabbed Neil’s hand and ran out of the door. By instinct, he tried not to tread on the skinhead, though it would serve him right if he got stomped.
Cranley Gardens was a war zone.
* * *
He looked at his own distorted face in the boot-leather mirror. His mouth was slack and leaking. The rest of him wasn’t even cold now.
He could hear what was happening, but it was like a TV with the sound down as far as it would go. There were shouts and crashes and explosions and guitar chords, but they were faint and distant.
The shadowman shifted and unblocked light fell like fiery rain. Not for the first time, Mark wanted out of the Deal.
* * *
As Michael watched, Dolar slammed Jonathan against his BMX, snarling abuse at the startled kid. Ellen clapped as the funny man assaulted her brother.
‘Why, earthling, why?’ Dolar asked, big hands loose around Jonathan’s spotty neck.
Dolar grabbed a handful of Jonathan’s T-shirt and shook the terrified kid, roaring deathfire into his face.
The mob continued to attack Neil’s house. There was a break in the siege. The front door flew open and defenders rushed out, shoving through the ELF forces. Sally Rhodes was first, dragging Neil like a furious mother hauling a child away from playing in the traffic.
‘Look, pretty,’ Ellen said, pointing.
Licks of fire came from one of the broken upper storey windows. After years of mending, the glazier had finally succumbed to the lure of breaking and tossed his blowtorch like a grenade.
Sally and Neil ran past. For a moment, Neil looked at him. Really looked, not taking a vagrant for a dustbin or a bush. If there was recognition, it was ripped away at once.
* * *
There was no one between them and the end of the Gardens. She held Neil’s hand and ran. At the top of the road was the black car. Someone lay in the gutter by it. Over him stood a man-shaped shadow. The light was behind him, he was a spreading silhouette. A stitch shot through Sally’s chest as if the thug had jabbed her with his screwdriver.
* * *
Michael said goodbye to Ellen and began to walk away. Now was the time to go home and peel off the disguise, have a long bath, and spend quality time with Ginny and Melanie.
‘What’s up, man?’ asked someone.
He looked. On a porch was a very short black man, under four feet, with skinny arms and legs. He wore large shorts and a Michael Jackson T-shirt and had a guitar slung around his neck like a kid dressing up as a rock star. Michael was shocked: he had imagined a giant, determined against odds to make his music heard.
‘It’s a street party, Karl,’ he said.
Karl Garr grinned, enthusiastic in an instant.
‘I’ll get my amp,’ he said.
Michael walked off down a side road. He heard large crumping noises that might be explosions.
* * *
Broken glass and brick shards rained into the street. Neil realised the gas main must have blown.
He was homeless.
On a lawn, an enraged Dolar was piling into the kid who lived opposite.
He was jobless.
Sally had stopped pulling his hand. They stood, caught between dreadful past and unthinkable future.
The minibus lurched past, yobs leaning out of the open windows and thumping the side of the vehicle.
‘Oi oi oi...’
He was hopeless.
* * *
She watched as the bus swerved around the Shadowshark. She memorised its licence plate, for what it was worth. The ELF yobs were gone but people still fought. In a scuffle on a nearby lawn, she saw Dolar throttling a teenager: Pel and Zafir were making a punchbag of a child-sized black man.
Dark, thick curls of smoke crawled along the road. Another window blew out. Glass pattered on parked cars. The glazier stood in the shower, ignoring any hurt, a mad smile on his face.
Ahead was Dr Shade. Waiting.
‘That’s it,’ Neil said. ‘I give up.’
He gently extricated his hand from hers and sat down in the middle of the road, cross-legged, arms folded.
‘What?’ she shouted.
‘I give up. I’m dropping out of the human race. Go, stay, whatever. The road can swallow me.’
‘Neil?’
‘There is no Neil. Just a bump in the tarmac.’
‘We’ve got to get out of here.’
He smiled sadly, eyes shining with useless wisdom. ‘No, I don’t. I really don’t.’
She turned away for a moment, not to abandon him but to consider her options. Dr Shade stood in front of her; a real person, not an apparition. His mouth was expressionless.
Up close for the first time, she recognised him. She had been close to him once before, in a lift.
‘Derek Leech,’ she said, her place lost completely.
Individual fights coalesced into riot. Houses all along the road had broken windows. Flames rose from fires. Lawn sprinklers gushed ice water jets. Everyone shouted at once, a Ragnarok rattle. Overturned cars leaked petrol trails into the gutters, begging for the spark.
Dr Shade/Derek Leech stood there, solidified dark.
‘We must get him into the car’ he said.
She looked at Neil. He sat, looking down, an empty glove puppet. A snake of petrol slithered around his crossed legs, dabbing at his jeans.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
LEECH
CARDINAL WOLSEY, STREET, 1993
Crane-like iron limbs battered the walls and roof. Bursts of steam and belches of flame emitted irregularly, scalding and scorching. Each day, dislodged tiles and bricks had to be replaced. Those who tended the Device made sacrifice. The illusion of Cardinal Wolsey Street must be preserved a little longer.
‘Why are you letting us see this?’ Rhodes asked.
She was a sharp little spring, tinily buried in the workings of the Device. If snapped, she would be hard to replace.
‘You aren’t seeing it,’ he explained, ‘you are part of it.’
Leech had seen the Device grow from a cold stove in an abandoned kitchen. It was interesting to discover how it struck those who hadn’t lived with it for years. Through Rhodes, he saw the Device anew. A vivisected dinosaur: colossal, magnificent, dreadful.
Martin was disappointing. He had allowed himself to be brought here, but displayed no awareness, no recognition. Leech had thought he might throw himself into the grin
ding gears, each atom of his flesh spread and smeared throughout the mechanism.
Martin was the furnace at the heart of the Device.
Drache hovered, red robes matching his face-patch. Visitors excited the architect. He longed to conduct a tour of the Device, explaining its every nuance. Oddly, Drache believed he had built the Device. Truly, that honour belonged to Martin. If it was anything real, it was a model of his suffering.
‘This is pain,’ Drache told Rhodes. ‘Rendered from the abstract into the real.’
The Deal was struck over a fire. After the Quorum left, the fire dwindled to embers. He found a glowing lump in the ashes and, nourishing it in a fist, carried it from Sutton Mallet to Cardinal Wolsey Street. Fifteen years ago, there was only one derelict house in the terrace. He broke in and found the stove. Breathing on the ember, he rekindled the flame. He broke an abandoned chair to stickwood and fed the fire. Over years, the burning heart buried itself in metal and wood and oil and flesh. Walls and floors and ceilings were taken out to accommodate its spurts of growth. The street was eaten hollow.
The practicalities were enormous: he had to buy properties, remove residents, hire machinists, authorise expenses. The Device was as hard to conceal on the books as it was in the world. Drache supervised building and demolition, brilliantly meeting the challenge of preserving the skin of Cardinal Wolsey Street as the Device grew inside.
‘That’s a cow, isn’t it?’ Rhodes asked.
‘A steer actually,’ Drache corrected.
The animal was held by leather straps and canvas sleeves, nourished and drained through clear plastic tubes. It was trephined, electrodes fixed to its exposed brain. A perspex bowl protected cranial matter from the flies that buzzed around its eyes.
Leech understood the smell was as awesome as the noise.
‘It’s disgusting,’ she said.
Above, a transformation began. Mechanical limbs extended, hydraulic fluid dripping from joints, and claws fixed into crossbeams. A bulky component that was once a newspaper printing press extruded from the body of the Device and nestled among the arms, reshaping. Hot nuts and bolts sloughed like fragments of dead skin, hissing as they plopped into a muddy stretch near a coolant outlet. The press gnashed and squirted. Foil-thin sheets of metal were imprinted with filigree designs. Inside, neon pillars glowed and revolved, casting streaks of light all about, barring the walls with bright colours.