by Tom Holt
Not that he minded. Not one little bit.
As soon as he had thanked his old college chums, therefore, and caught the first available flight to his next port of call, he settled down and worked all the details out in his mind. Then . . .
The first intimation that the members of all the governments of all the nations of the earth had been turned overnight into farmyard animals came from the BBC radio news, with its crack-of-dawn summary of yesterday’s proceedings in Parliament. Being a radio broadcast, there was no visual confirmation; and at first the grunts, squeals, clucks, squeaks, miaows and moos were interpreted as the combined effect of atmospheric disturbance, a fault on the line somewhere and the full and free exchange of views in the most highly respected democratic forum in the world. It was only when the breakfast television pictures started to come through that anyone was able to bring himself to put a more logical interpretation on the data.
Toast-crunching news addicts were greeted with footage of the pleasant green lawn-cum-verge outside the House of Commons, where the House was dividing on the third reading of the Finance Bill. The doors opened, and what can only be described as a flock shambled out, led by an extremely old, indifferent-looking sheep dog in a full wig.
The flock divided; the goats wandering into one lobby, the sheep into the other. After the tellers had done their work with their customary speed and efficiency, the sheepdog sat up on its hind paws, waggled its tail, and proclaimed that the meeeehs had it.
Simultaneously, in Washington DC, an old grey mule opened the day’s proceedings of the Senate by eating the order papers and kicking the Barker of the House with his offside rear hoof. In the Knesset building the rows of seats were empty, and the elected representatives present wheeled and banked under the ceiling as the hawks tried to catch up with the swifter but less agile doves. This was at about the time when the German parliament adjourned for Swill, oblivious of the fact that across the border in France, the nation’s leaders had abandoned a crucial debate on the economy to chase a catnip mouse round the boiler room. The Japanese legislature twice narrowly missed complete annihilation; first when somebody spilt a kettle of boiling water down a crack in the floor, and second when the Peruvian foreign minister arrived in the building for a top-level meeting and nearly swept the whole lot of them up with one lick of his long, sticky tongue. The Belgian government buried the contents of the Exchequer under a tree, curled up in little nests of scraped-together leaves and went to sleep for the winter.
Perhaps the most startling manifestation of all was in Iraq, where the entire government were changed overnight into human beings.
‘I suppose we ought to, really,’ admitted the Marketing Director, wistfully. ‘Seems a shame, though.’
‘We’ve got to,’ replied the Production Director, stifling a giggle. On the TV screen in front of him were satellite pictures of the emergency debate in the European Parliament, meeting for the first time in that august body’s history on the summit of a steep cliff outside Ostend. ‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘fun’s fun, but . . .’ He broke off and stuffed his tie in his mouth as a cascade of small, scuttling, furry-bodied politicians streamed off the edge of the cliff into the waves below. Further out to sea, the Council of Ministers were leaving a sinking ship.
‘Not,’ commented the Finance Director, with more feeling than originality, ‘for the first time.’ He stopped, and forcibly returned his mind to the issue in hand. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this has got to stop. Get the tiresome little man on the phone, somebody, and tell him to turn them back this instant.’ He hesitated, turned his head back towards the screen, and caught a glimpse of the Parliament’s select committee on agriculture scurrying frantically backwards and forwards to avoid a flock of ecstatic gannets. ‘Well, pretty soon, anyway,’ he said, his eyes glued to a close-up of the President of the Council playing hide-and-seek with a cormorant. ‘By midday tomorrow at the very latest.’
‘That’s easy enough to say,’ grumbled the Marketing Director. ‘Got to find the blighter first. I don’t suppose it’s going to be all that easy . . .’
A telephone rang at his elbow and he picked it up.
‘Got someone called Van Appin on the line,’ he said a moment later, ‘claims to be George’s legal adviser. Anyone want to—’
The Finance Director grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello, Pete?’ he barked. ‘What the bloody he-heliotrope does he think he’s playing at? Tell him to get this mess sorted out immediately, or he’s going to be in real trouble.’
At his desk, Mr Van Appin smiled. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but I thought he was already. I mean, excuse my ignorance, but I thought everlastingly damned was about as in trouble as you could possibly get without actually working in advertising.’
The Finance Director waved his hand feebly. ‘You know what I mean, Pete,’ he replied. ‘For pity’s sake, this is going too far.’ As he spoke, the image on the television screen changed, and he found himself staring at a huge, distended anaconda which had apparently just imposed one-party rule in the small South American state of Necesidad by swallowing the Social Democrats. ‘All right,’ he muttered wearily. ‘Tell me what he wants and I’ll see what I can do.’
There was a pause, then Van Appin said, ‘You know what he wants, Norman. He wants to be left alone. Call off your people, leave the kid in peace.’
The Finance Director growled petulantly. ‘I already did that, Pete,’ he said. ‘All agents returned to base, no further action. You want me to swear an affidavit or something?’
‘Lundqvist.’
The Finance Director shuddered slightly. ‘Not our man,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘Nothing to do with us. Entirely freelance, you know that. I’ll withdraw the reward if you like but that’s the best I can—’
Van Appin shook his head. ‘Don’t act simple, Norman,’ he replied irritably. ‘After yesterday’s little performance, I don’t suppose the money’s really at the forefront of his mind.’
‘Not my fault. Serves your client right for teasing him. Anyway, nothing we can do about it, so if you’ll just—’
‘No.’ Van Appin took the phone away from his ear, covered up the earpiece with the palm of his hand, and counted to ten.
‘You still there, Norman?’ he asked.
‘Yes, still here.’
‘This,’ said Van Appin, ‘is the deal. You give me your formal undertaking to do everything you can to get Lundqvist off my client’s case, we’ll let you have your politicians back. And that’s our last offer.’
There was a long silence.
‘And now,’ burbled the television set, ‘we’re going over live to Danny Bennett at the United Nations building in New York, where . . .’
‘Switch that bloody thing off!’ shouted the Finance Director. ‘Hello, Pete? Look, I’m making no promises but we’ll do our very best. Now, tell your man to stop mucking about.’
‘And you’ll stop Lundqvist?’
‘I’ll put my best demons on it, Pete, right away.’
‘You’d better,’ Van Appin retorted. ‘Remember, germs are also animals, of a sort. You want the civilised nations of the world led into the twenty-first century by a bad cold, all you have to do is try and be clever.’
The line went dead. With a long, chilly sigh the Finance Director straightened his back and turned to his colleagues.
‘Get me the Captain of Spectral Warriors,’ he said.
‘What did you say it was called?’ asked Lucky George, looking round at the thronged piazza, the buzzing crowds of cosmopolitan citizens, the emerald blue of the bay and, in the background, the dazzling white masonry of the eighth wonder of the world.
‘Australia,’ replied Helen. ‘Have a crisp.’
‘No, thank you.’ Lucky George considered. ‘Don’t think we had it in my day,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s Progress.’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
Lucky George thought for a moment. ‘That or entropy,’ he decided. ‘
You know, the older I get, the harder I find it to tell ’em apart. I still say we managed perfectly well without it, but there we are, what’s done is done.’ He sat down on the steps and focused on the sails of the yachts in the distance.
‘This,’ Helen continued, crunching, ‘is Sydney.’
‘I thought you said it was—’
‘Sydney, Australia.’
‘Ah. Sydney’s its Christian name.’
‘Don’t be tiresome, George. You’ll like it here.’
‘Will I? Why?’
Helen sneezed. ‘Because nobody will ever think of looking for you here, that’s why.’
‘Figures,’ George said. ‘I wouldn’t, certainly. Wouldn’t be seen dead, in fact.’
‘Well, there you are, then.’
‘Yes,’ George replied thoughtfully, ‘here I am. Indeed. Do they have food in Australia?’
Helen nodded. ‘Absolutely. Tons of it.’
‘Ah. That’s something, I suppose. Let’s go and investigate.’
Over the coffee, George expanded on his proposed course of action.
‘The only real problem,’ he said, ‘is Lundqvist. The rest of them we can probably handle. By the way, did you know that this country you’re so fond of is governed entirely by warthogs?’
Helen frowned. ‘You’re going to have to change them all back sooner or later, George. I mean, you’ve made your point. There’s nothing to be gained by ramming it into the ground.’
‘If,’ George said, changing the subject, ‘we could find some way of getting rid of Lundqvist once and for all, then I’d be prepared to try and negotiate. A few concessions here and there, it oughtn’t to be a problem. But while that nutcase is on the loose, I really don’t fancy it. Pass the ashtray.’
‘I think you’ve got a complex about Lundqvist,’ Helen replied. ‘You saw how easy it was to deal with him in Amsterdam. We made him look a complete idiot. I expect he’ll go back to chivvying the undead and leave us in peace.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ George shook his head, accidentally turning the cash register into a bottomless purse. ‘In retrospect, I don’t think I handled that particular encounter quite right. All we’ve achieved so far is to get so far up his nose that we’re practically coming out of his ears. Not sensible.’
‘But surely,’ Helen said over the rim of her coffee cup, ‘once they withdraw the reward, surely he’ll just go away. I mean, he’s a professional bounty-hunter, he doesn’t do it for fun. If he’s not going to get paid . . .’
George gave her an indulgent look. ‘Bless the child,’ he said, ‘for her naivety and purity of spirit. If Lundqvist succeeds in delivering yours truly, I’ve little doubt they’ll come across with the money. He knows that perfectly well. Besides, he’d carry on regardless, money or not. He doesn’t like being made a fool of. Probably,’ he added, ‘an ingrained dislike of gilding the lily.’
‘So?’ Helen said. ‘Any bright ideas?’
George nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’re here. Although,’ he added, looking round, ‘when I said find me the most desolate, godforsaken place in the Universe, I didn’t actually mean the most desolate, godforsaken . . .’
‘Don’t be silly, George. There are far worse places than this.’
‘Name me one.’
‘Adelaide.’
‘Ah.’ George raised an eyebrow. ‘I take it she’s Sydney’s sister.’
‘No, that’s Victoria. You think we can just hide out, then, and wait for him to biodegrade or something?’
George shook his head. ‘No such luck. No, what I had in mind was something quite different.’
He leant back in his chair, waiting for her to ask him what he had in mind. She, however, folded her arms and started telling him all about the First Fleet, Ned Kelly and Aussie Rules football. ‘What I had in mind,’ said George, raising his hand for silence, ‘was going on the offensive. A pre-emptive strike, in fact.’
Helen picked up a crystal of coffee sugar and bit on it. ‘And how are we going to do that from here, may I ask?’
A grin spread across George’s face like a late-summer sunset; or, if you prefer, an oil slick. ‘We’re not,’ he replied. ‘However, there’s this bloke I know owes me a favour . . .’
Two seagulls, circling in the first light of dawn.
‘Maybe,’ screamed one above the hissing of the wind, ‘I should just call them, check they’ve delivered the canned tomatoes.’
‘Cool it, Mike,’ screeched Larry. ‘They’re perfectly capable of running the joint for a few weeks without any help from us. We’ve just gotta concentrate on the job in hand, okay?’
Mike stared down through the quickening light at a wet green landscape. In the distance there was a hill, curiously man-made in appearance, crowned by what looked like a church tower without the church. At its foot, like a spilt plate of seafood risotto, sprawled a small, untidy town, coagulated around the ruins of a monastery.
‘You’re sure he’s in?’
Larry turned his head and tried to endow his windlashed eyes with a look of contempt. ‘He’s been in his grave for a thousand years, Mike. Dead guys don’t just slip out for a pizza.’
They waited for a suitable downdraught, adjusted their wing angles and swooped.
It used to say:HIC IACET ARCTURUS
ANGLIE
REX QUONDAM REX FUTURUS
in rather wobbly capitals on a piece of broken millstone. In 1259, however, a passing blacksmith in need of a bit of something to sharpen scythes on removed the original memorial, and the spot remained unmarked until the middle of the twentieth century, when the appropriate government department replaced it with a large concrete slab bearing the suitable inscription: NO DOGS
which is, considered all in all, perhaps the finest obituary a man can ask for.
Two seagulls dropped awkwardly out of a thermal and flumped on to a concrete slab.
‘You do it,’ whispered Mike. ‘I’m sick of always having to be the one who gets landed with all the talking.’
‘All right,’ Larry said irritably. ‘What do I do now?’
The seagulls looked around, and then at each other. ‘Search me,’ said Mike. ‘Knock. Ring the bell.’
Larry thought about it for a moment, and then addressed the side of the slab with his beak. He rapped three times, and waited.
Piss off.We gave already.
The seagulls looked at each other again. The voice hadn’t come from anywhere; nor, strictly speaking, had it been a voice. If it resembled anything at all from the realms of conventional experience, it was a vague recollection of hearsay.
‘We aren’t collecting,’ Mike replied. ‘We’ve got a message. From George Faustus.’
Never heard of the schmuck. Go mug a buzzard, there’s people trying to sleep.
This time, however, the recollection was of a statement that had turned out, on closer inspection, not to have been true. A false rumour, perhaps, which proves impossible to pin down to any specific source.
‘Mr Faustus says,’ Larry went on, ‘that if you’ve never heard of him, then you can’t ever have lent him the fifty thousand marks, which means he doesn’t have to pay you back, and sorry to have—’
All right. All right.You wait there, I’m coming.
‘Really?’ said Helen, impressed in spite of herself. ‘He’s a friend of yours too?’
George made a slight face. ‘Friend is maybe an over-statement,’ he said. ‘We did some business together, I owe him money, he owes me a few favours. No, I guess friend is okay, on reflection, just so long as you leave out the affection side of things.’
‘Gosh.’ Helen dabbed powder on her nose and put the compact away. ‘And did he really have a round table full of knights and a magic sword and a Holy Grail and all that?’
George nodded. ‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘Brilliant camouflage,’ he added.
Helen looked up at him sharply. ‘Camouflage?’
‘Naturally. What else?’ An idea
struck him. ‘You didn’t think all that stuff was for real, did you?’
Helen nodded. ‘Insofar as I believed he existed,’ she added.
George laughed. ‘Strictly for the customers, all that,’ he said. ‘Sure, Arthur was the best king Albion ever had, absolutely marvellous administrator, had the rivers running on time, that sort of thing. But you don’t manage that just because you’ve got a few hundred idiots in steel long johns on the payroll.’
‘You don’t?’
‘’Course not.’ He turned his head and smiled. Immediately, the waiter brought him the bill, which shows just how unimaginably powerful George’s magical powers were. ‘Think about it. If you want to conquer inflation, revitalise the moribund standing stone circle industry, eliminate racial tension between the Wee Folk and the Nixies in the Inner Toadstools and stabilise the magic ring against the deutschmark, what you need is sound fiscal policies, not a bunch of brainless pillocks on horses and an overgrown letter-opener that glows in the dark. Dammit, you don’t drag a whole nation kicking and screaming into the Dark Ages without a firm grasp of the principles of revenue management, and that’s what Arthur had. That,’ he added, with an unwonted tang of respect in his voice, ‘is why they called him the Once and Future Accountant. A reputation like that, it’s something you’ve got to earn, believe me.’
‘Oh.’ There was just the tiniest hint of disappointment, disillusionment even, in Helen’s voice. ‘An accountant. How unspeakably romantic.’
‘Yes,’ George replied. ‘And that’s why he’s just the man we need.’
Say what you like about accountants . . .
Finished?
Good.
Say what you like about accountants, for clarity of thought and an ability to get to the heart of the matter, they have few rivals. Accordingly, it took the greatest accountant in history roughly the same amount of time to grasp the proposition and reach a decision as, say, the shutter of a Leica is open when taking a picture of a moving object on a very bright day.