by Tom Holt
‘Because of the fighters,’ said the air-conditioning. ‘Look, they’re just coming back now.’
John Fingers frowned. ‘What fighters?’ he said.
‘Those ones there.’
‘What? Oh those
Sudden turns of speed, with or without heavy burdens slung over the right shoulder, ran in the Smith family. He was just able to make it down the coach steps and into the cover of a nearby pile of rocks when the nine fighter-bombers of the 3085th, squadron motto Not Tonight, Josephine, screamed back over the skyline, hurtled straight at the coach, let fly with their full complement of air-to-surface missiles and pulled steeply away. The shock of the blast hit John Fingers like a hammer, sending him rolling down the escarpment into a clump of gorse. From where he was, he could actually feel the heat from the explosion on the back of his neck. He had the common sense to stay where he was until it had stopped raining shrapnel and debris; then he hauled himself upright, pulled gorse out of his hands and knees and looked round for his hostage.
He found her sitting up, wiping blood out of her eyes from a cut on her forehead. She opened her mouth to scream, but he showed her the gun and made shushing noises.
‘On your feet,’ he said, wishing he’d paid better attention to his mother when she’d tried to teach him elementary kidnapping. ‘Shut up and do what you’re told or I’ll use this. Understand?’
‘Who’s this, the cat’s mother?’ muttered the gun, offended. He ignored it. Formal introductions would just have to wait until later.
Her eyes fixed on the gun, Michelle nodded. Something told her that it was going to take more than a steady nerve and a certain innate skill at board games to get her out of this one. Unlike her abduction by Akram, this all felt rather horribly real.
(Which was strange, bearing in mind where she was. Just over the brow of the hill, a cat was practising the violin, while the dish was sulking because the spoon had forgotten to bring the sandwiches. But she wasn’t to know that.)
‘All right,’ said John Fingers. ‘Now start walking. And no funny business.’
‘Spoilsport,’ the gun grumbled. ‘It’s been ages since I last saw a really good custard pie fight.’
‘Shut up, you.’
‘Who, me?’
‘Not you. It. Look, will everybody just shut up and get the hell out of here, before those bloody planes come back and blast us all to kingdom come?’
Had circumstances been different, Michelle would have liked to ask what planes, and how come he was talking to his gun? Actually, she had a strange feeling she knew the answer to the second question; and if the purpose of answers is to clear up mysteries, then it couldn’t be more counter-productive if it tried. Something told her, however, that her captor wasn’t in the mood. She started to walk.
Akram woke up. It was dark. He was in a confined space. Something wet was dripping down the back of his neck.
Oh shit, not again! He drew in breath to scream, then hesitated. He could smell oil, but it wasn’t the right sort. Not palm oil; something more in the SAE 20 super visco-static line, he fancied. Which was either a half-hearted attempt at updating the story and making it more accessible for modern audiences, or an indication that whatever he was in, at least it wasn’t the familiar old smelly brown stuff.
Cue past life? Apparently not. Things were looking up.
Well, then. The last thing he could remember was being bundled onto a coach by Faisal and Hakim, with whom he intended to have a word on that subject when he saw them next. And then the coach had sort of taken off, and something had hit him on the top of his head.
Talking of which; what was this stuff dripping down his neck? If he could only get his arms to work, maybe he could find out.
Cheap Taiwanese arms, no good, pity they’re not still under warranty. Legs? That’s more like it. He pushed, until the top of his head came up against something solid that didn’t want to get out of the way. Hmm. Interesting scenario, this.
Still no past life? No? Okay, fine. Let’s try bringing the knees up and pushing outwards with the feet. Bloody uncomfortable, but no worse than a Jane Fonda workout routine.
Hello, Akram said to himself, I’m in a box. How jolly. Now then, what sort of box? Well, there’s one obvious type, the kind with brass handles, satin lining and a flat lid. Now then, senses, best of order, please. Any satin? No, no satin. I think we can tentatively call that a good sign.
Maybe I’m still on the coach. There’s no real reason to assume that I am, but let’s pretend. If I’m still on the coach but I’m in a box … Cue schematic diagram of a typical coach. Ah yes, the bit under the windows where there’s doors on the outside, where they store the suitcases. The luggage compartment. I could very easily be in that.
Why, for fuck’s sake?
Yes, but just suppose I am. In that case, if I can wriggle round until my feet are touching the doors, and then give said doors a bloody hard kick, maybe I can open them. Anything’s possible. Houdini, for example, did this sort of thing for a living.
His heels made contact with what could conceivably have been doors; a flat surface that flexed ever so slightly when he pressed against it. Time, he muttered to himself, to put the theory to the test. After all, what else is scientific enquiry of any sort other than a controlled version of bashing one’s head against the Universe until something gives?
He drew his knees back and let fly. Something gave; he tried again, and the doors flew open. A few crab-like jerks and shuffles extricated him from the luggage compartment and landed him on the ground, where he lay for a moment, luxuriating in the rare, delicious sensation of having got something completely right for a change. Then he looked up.
Where the coach had been there was an untidy-looking jumble of tangled, fire-blackened metal. True, it had once been a coach, in the same way that homo sapiens was once a monkey or, more appropriately, Great Britain was once a leading exporter of manufactured goods. As far as he could see, all that was left of it was the luggage compartment he’d just wriggled out of, and a couple of skipfuls of twisted body panel. All in all, it had the same air of bewildered ruin that you’d expect from a short-sighted mugger who’s just tried to rob Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Wow, said Akram to himself, whatever happened to that coach, I survived it. Lucky.
Not lucky. There isn’t enough luck in the whole universe to save someone from destruction like that. Somebody must have saved me.
Shit. Somebody must like me.
Or else, more likely, somebody must hate me enough to believe that being blown to bits in an explosion would be tantamount to giving me a pardon and the freedom of the city. In any event, whoever they were, they don’t seem to be around any more. Surprise, surprise.
Having dealt with these and similar issues, Akram scrambled to his feet, yelped with pain as cramp and a wide variety of pulled muscles made their presence felt, and tried to get his bearings. Not that he had much to go on; the landscape was about as familiar as downtown Ursa Minor Beta and slightly less hospitable. As far as the eye could see, provided that it could be bothered, there was nothing but scrub, rock and parched earth. There were a few low, demoralised-looking hills, some clumps of tired and thirsty-looking gorse, and the occasional pile of boulders. The most creative travel brochure writer living could just about get away with totally unspoilt and well away from the normal tourist areas, and would be forced to leave it at that.
‘Gosh,’ said Akram aloud, ‘so this is where I end up when I’m being lucky. I can’t wait to see where I land when I’m going through a bad patch.’
“Scuse me?’
The voice had come from behind one of the piles of rocks. Instinctively, Akram held still and turned his head in that direction.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hello yourself. Who’re you, then?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Me,’ said the voice, ‘and actually I’m not really bothered about it, so if you don’t want to tell me, then fuck you.
Are you responsible for all this mess?’
‘No,’ Akram replied. ‘Are you?’
‘Do me a favour,’ the voice said. There was a shuffling movement behind the rocks, and a unicorn trotted into view. It was the size of a small Shetland pony, rice-pudding coloured and chewing something in a half-interested manner. If its voice was anything to go by, it had either been born in south London or spent a long time there. There was a whisky-bottle cork on the end of its horn.
Akram stared at it, and his jaw dropped to such an extent that a passing ant could have used it as a staircase to get to his moustache. ‘Oh hell,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m back, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t ask me, mate. All depends,’ it added, ‘on where you just been. So, if this isn’t your mess, whose is it?’
Akram shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘Last thing I knew, I was in a coach being carried by a huge bird, somewhere over Southampton. Then there’s a bit I seem to have missed, after which I was wedged into the luggage compartment of that wreck over there. I was starting to think that perhaps things were getting a bit weird, but if I’m back in some blasted story…’
Something caught his eye and he stopped speaking. Poking out from under the crumpled chassis were a pair of small, elegant ladies’ shoes, with brass buckles and buttons up the side. The unicorn was looking at them, too.
‘I got you,’ it said. ‘You were in this house in, where was it you said? Southampton?’
‘That’s right,’ Akram replied. ‘Actually, it wasn’t a house so much as a coach, but we’ll let that slide for the moment. The obvious question’s got to be, are there any tin men, lions, scarecrows, witches or yellow brick roads anywhere in these parts?’
‘No.’
‘Bright green cities? Munchkins? Insufferably cute nineyear-old girls from the American grain belt? Wizards?’
The unicorn shook its head. ‘Never seen any,’ it said. ‘You reckon you might have come down in the wrong place?’
‘Very possibly,’ Akram replied, taking another look at the immediate vicinity and shuddering a little. ‘Mind you, it’d take a pretty extreme set of circumstances for this to be the right place for anything. Has it got a name, by any chance?’
‘Home,’ the unicorn replied. ‘That’s what I call it, anyhow. And it may not be the garden of bloody Eden, but that still doesn’t mean it’s improved by having scrap metal scattered all over it. You planning to clear it up, or what?’
‘Not really,’ Akram said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know whose shoes those are poking out from under there, would you?’
‘Not got a clue, mate.’ The unicorn thought for a moment, rubbing behind its ear with a raised foreleg. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. Last few weeks or so, everything’s been up the pictures a bit. Things drifting in that don’t fit, if you get my meaning. Like, a few hours before all this lot turned up, we had a bloke come through here wanting to know if I’d come across a ninety-foot-high beanstalk. Day before yesterday there was this bird drooping around asking if I’d seen her sheep. Two days before that, we had the King of Spain’s daughter asking which way to the little nut tree. And now,’ it added reproachfully, ‘you. I think something’s cocked up somewhere and they haven’t yet sussed out how to fix it.’ The unicorn hesitated, shuffled its hooves, looked the other way and cleared its throat. ‘Talking of which,’ it continued, with a trace of embarrassment, ‘you haven’t noticed any stray virgins wandering about the place, have you? It’s not for me, you understand, it’s for my friend…’
Akram and the unicorn looked at each other for a moment.
‘The shoes,’ they said in chorus.
‘Not,’ the unicorn added, as it braced itself against the remains of the coach and pushed, ‘that they’re what you’d call your typical virgin’s footwear. Too much heel, for a start. Your typical virgin’s more into the sensible, hard-wearing, valuefor-money ranges. Those or slingbacks. Ready?’
‘Ready.’
They heaved, and the charred bulk shifted. At the last moment Akram, rather to his own surprise, looked away. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘Well,’ the unicorn replied, “tisn’t a virgin, at any rate.’
‘Oh,’ said Akram. ‘How on earth can you tell?’
‘Because,’ the unicorn answered, ‘I don’t think that sort of thing, you know, applies to suitcases. I mean, where little suitcases come from is either a department store or a mail order catalogue. Must be dead boring, being a suitcase.’
They examined the remains.
‘Pretty extreme way of getting it to shut,’ the unicorn said.
‘Usually, just sitting on ‘em does the trick.’
‘Quite,’ Akram replied, puzzled. What had a suitcase full of female clothing been doing on the coach, he asked himself. It wasn’t Michelle’s, as far as he could judge, and he reckoned he knew the thirty-nine thieves well enough by now to rule them out, too. Which left Ali Baba, the interloper he’d had the fight with, or somebody else he hadn’t noticed. Or…
An icicle of guilt stabbed his heart. He’d forgotten…
‘Fang!’ he shouted. The unicorn looked at him.
‘What?’
‘Fang,’ Akram repeated. ‘My tooth fairy. Where the hell has she got to?’
No sooner had the words passed through the luggage carousel of his larynx than there was a flash of lightning, a shower of silver sparkles and a clap of melodious thunder; and
Akram stared.
‘Fang?’
The tall, slender, gorgeous creature standing before him smiled and nodded. ‘You remembered,’ she said. ‘Eventually,’ she added. ‘I expect you’re a terror for forgetting birthdays, too.’
At this point the unicorn whistled, stepped forward, sniffed at her embarrassingly, shook its mane in disappointment and walked pointedly away, leaving Fang blushing furiously. Akram, meanwhile, managed to get his lower jaw back into place and made a vague gesture to suggest that Fang had grown a bit since he’d last seen her. ‘What happened to you, then?’ he said.
‘I crossed the Line, dumbo. Hey, I like it here, it’s got all sorts of possibilities. An elf can, you know, really walk tall on this side.’
Akram frowned. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘But before that. The last I saw of you was when we were…’
‘Why have you parked your bus on my suitcase?’
‘ Your suitcase?’ Akram quickly stooped down. Sure enough, the sponge bag was full of… He zipped it up again, quickly.
‘At last,’ Fang was saying, ‘I can cash that lot in. I got the address of a tooth broker over in the Emerald City who pays top dollar for quality stuff.’
‘The last time I saw you,’ Akram persevered, ‘you were with that loser Baba. He captured you, right? And I didn’t rescue you,’ he added.
Fang shrugged. ‘Actually, he’s not so bad. Professionally, of course, he’s a pretty useful contact. And anyway, it’s me owes you the apology, since I did sort of lead him straight to where you were hiding out.’
‘Ah.’
‘But,’ Fang went on, ‘that’s all right, too, because when the jet fighters from the family planning service blasted the coach to bits, I grabbed you and put you in the luggage compartment where I knew you’d be safe. That,’ she added meaningfully, ‘was before I knew you’d parked the damn thing on top of my suitcase.’
‘That was you?’
Fang nodded. ‘Talk about difficult,’ she said, with feeling. ‘Not you two; that blasted girl of yours. Must be because she’s half-human. She took a real crack on the head when the bus landed; for a minute there I thought she’d had her chips.’
‘Us two?’
‘In the end I had to clap my hands and yell, “I do believe in mortals,” at the top of my voice. You can’t begin to imagine how conspicuous that makes you feel.’
‘Us two?’
‘Um.’ Fang put her hands behind her back and looked away. ‘Yup. You and the, er, dentist.’
‘You mean to tell me you
saved that bastard?’
Fang nodded. ‘For you,’ she said quickly. ‘Last thing you’d want, I’d have thought, is for him to slip through your fingers by dying before you could…’
‘Oh, right,’ Akram interrupted, scowling. ‘I’m sure that’s exactly how it was. And no teeth changed hands at any stage, needless to say.’
‘No they didn’t,’ Fang replied angrily. ‘Wasn’t time, for one thing. You reckon it’s easy grabbing hold of two grown men and shoving them in luggage holds in the time it takes for a jet fighter to fire a rocket? Try it sometime and see.’
‘Luggage hold.’
‘The other one,’ Fang explained. ‘On the other side of the coach.’
Akram nodded, and a smile started to seep through onto his face. ‘So with any luck,’ he said, ‘the bugger might still be there. Unconscious.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
Akram whirled round, to see Ali Baba standing directly behind him. In one hand he had the gun, and in the other a galvanised iron bucket, from which steam was rising.
Cue past life.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Hello,’ Akram said.
A wry smile shuffled across Ali Baba’s face. ‘To put it mildly,’ he replied. ‘Now then, let’s get this over and done with before the water gets cold.’
Dragging his attention back from a particularly vivid reprise of a certain night at Farouk’s in Samarkand (he never could remember her name and the flashback always petered out round about the fourth veil; even so, it was probably his favourite bit), Akram raised his hands slowly into the air.
‘Where’s Michelle?’ he asked.
Ali Baba shrugged. ‘Safe, I hope. I think she must have made a run for it, because the thief chap seemed to be looking for her when I crept up and bashed him. I’ll go and look for her after I’ve dealt with you.’
‘You feel that’s necessary, do you?’
Ali Baba nodded. ‘Since we’re back on this side of the Line again, and since I have you defenceless and at my mercy, I think it might be a good idea. Now, are you going to hold still while I pour this lot over you, or do I have to kneecap you first?’