Anything but Ordinary

by Nicola Rhodes

  The Tamar Black Saga - Book Six

  Anything But Ordinary

  By Nicola Rhodes

  © copyright 2010 Nicola Rhodes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  www.makerofmagic.co.uk

  In the same series

  Djinnx’d

  Reality Bites

  Tempus Fugitive

  The Day Before Tomorrow

  Faerie Tale

  Anything But Ordinary

  Rise of the Nephilim

  Pantheon

  ‘They’d be bound to notice,’ he said.

  ‘Ha!’ said Tamar. ‘Most humans wouldn’t notice if I turned into a hippopotamus right in front of them. They’d make up some explanation for it, or pretend it didn’t happen. People have some pretty sophisticated shielding in their heads to stop them from seeing what’s really going on around them. It’s to stop their tiny brains from imploding – no offence.’

  ‘Bound to notice,’ repeated Denny, ignoring this, ‘then we’d not only have the police after us, but we’d have reporters camping out on the doorstep twenty four hours a day and government types in big shiny cars with blacked out windows stalking us.’

  ‘It’ll never happen, I’m telling you. Never!’

  From Tamar Black – Djinnx’d.

  “Always consider the possibility that you might be dead wrong.”

  Source unknown.

  ~ Chapter One ~

  Denny peered round the curtain and sighed. ‘Tamar?’ he called.

  ‘I’m washing my hair,’

  ‘Washing her hair?’ thought Denny. ‘What next, taking out the rubbish bags?’ If this went on, she would be wanting to get a dog next. She might even take up gardening or get a job. He would not put anything past her. Ever since she had agreed to marry him, she had been on this “normality” kick. No more magic unless absolutely necessary. And everything Tamar did, she did thoroughly, even obsessively. It was really getting on his nerves.

  *

  She had discovered the delights of shopping, of taking three and a half hours to get ready to go out (Denny had timed her – it was always exactly this long to the minute) of long hot bubble baths. Denny blamed Cindy; she had started all this. But, as usual, Tamar had taken it to extremes. She was going to be a wife (fittings for the wedding dress were taking up several hours a week) and wives cooked (watching Tamar trying to boil an egg was one of the most painful things Denny had ever witnessed) wives hoovered and dusted and arranged flowers in pretty vases. Besides, Tamar had got the idea from somewhere that Denny wanted a normal lifestyle.

  There was just one problem with that.

  ‘They’ve found us again,’ Denny yelled. He banged on the bathroom door.

  ‘What already?’ Tamar came out of the bathroom towelling her head. ‘They’re getting better. It’s only taken them a week this time.’

  ‘All the usual suspects,’ said Denny. ‘News crews, reporters and that blacked out car that just sits there. I don’t like that one, could be the government.’

  ‘Don’t they park across the road in a telecommunications van disguised as a pizza delivery van or something?’ asked Tamar in all seriousness.

  ‘Not pizza,’ said Denny. ‘Even the densest suspect is going to wonder about a pizza delivery that takes all day. More likely plumbers or electricians or something like that … What am I saying? Who cares? We have to move house again, and I must say, I’m getting pretty sick of … Don’t do that without warning me first.’

  The house had moved suddenly, leaving Denny’s stomach behind it apparently.

  ‘I wonder how they keep finding us,’ he said.

  Tamar shrugged. ‘I’m going to do a face mask,’ she said. ‘For my skin,’ she added.

  ‘But you have perfect skin,’ said Denny in exasperation, ‘all the time. You don’t need a face mask. What’s a face mask?’

  ‘And then I might go shopping later,’ she said apparently not hearing him.

  Denny gave in. She was enjoying this, he realised; it was fun for her. And who was he to stand in her way. She would get fed up with it sooner or later anyway.

  He returned his attention to the blacked out car that was apparently stalking them. Perhaps Tamar was right to be acting like an ordinary person; it might allay suspicions. On the other hand … she was so bad at it, who did she think she was fooling?’

  * * *

  ‘Target is in The Body Shop,’ said the tinny voice over the Directors radio transmitter.

  The Director sighed. ‘Who does she think she’s fooling?’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’ came the voice.

  ‘Oh – nothing,’ said the Director hurriedly.

  Special Agent Dawber looked at his partner, puzzled. His partner Special Agent Rook shrugged. The Director was known for his eccentricities; it was a standing joke among veteran agents, but Dawber was new; new and keen. It was the reason he had been given this assignment. He would get used to the Director in time, Rook reasoned.

  This assignment, which had been given top priority, was puzzling them both though. What was so damn important about watching some girl going shopping and playing in the garden with what the agents assumed were her nephews. Twin boys aged about two or three – nice little kids, but not any apparent threat to national security.

  There were always reporters and TV people around the house too, but the agents had no idea why. Classified apparently, which was ridiculous when you thought about it, they obviously were being kept in the dark about something the whole world probably knew. The agents were not allowed to talk to them even though this might have been of some help in their investigation. Knowing exactly what they were investigating would have been a help to their investigation, if it came to that.

  There were other people in the house too. A young man, an older man – who came and went, and sometimes was not around for weeks, another two women, one of whom was apparently the mother of the twin boys, and another … man? He had to be a man; the children called him Daddy and he was assembled like a man, only… well, it was weird that was all. If it had not been an invitation to ridicule, Dawber would have said he was not human.

  Sometimes, he had the feeling that Rook knew a lot more about the occupants of the house than he did. But if he did, he was not saying anything.

  In any case, they both agreed that it was an odd set up; them all living together like that, like a commune or a cult (a highly select cult). But it did not seem sinister to Dawber. It all seemed completely pointless actually. He wondered if he was being taught something. And Rook? Perhaps he had been palmed off on this detail as a punishment for something.

  ‘She certainly is good looking,’ said Rook as Tamar appeared back on the street. He had said this at least a hundred times, and although Dawber agreed with him (it would be hard not to) he could not really summon up an enthusiastic answer.

  He said. ‘Mmm, yeah.’ And turned back to his notes. She may have been attractive, but, in Dawber’s opinion, she was the most boring woman who ever lived. All she ever did was shop and have facials or sit in the garden under an enormous sunshade. A “lady who lunched”, that was what she was, a member of a privileged class whose main aim in life was to look good and spend money. Only her eccentric living arrangements made her any different from a thousand others like her. Dawber would not have given her the time of day.

  ‘She’s headed for the bridal shop,’ said Rook. ‘Look sharp.’

  ‘What, again?’ moaned Dawber. ‘How many fittings does one wedding dress need for god’s sake?’r />
  ‘Ah, said Rook (a much married man) knowingly. ‘We are mere men you know. We don’t understand these things.’

  ‘I understand that if it doesn’t fit her by now, it never will,’ snapped Dawber.

  ‘She probably just likes trying it on,’ said Rook. ‘Women are like that you know?’

  ‘Have you seen the groom?’ said Dawber. They both laughed. ‘Nothing on earth will ever make him look well-groomed,’ said Dawber. ‘He looks like a scarecrow that lives in a dustbin.’ He glanced in the mirror at his own immaculate appearance and smiled smugly at himself.

  ‘She’ll tidy him up,’ said Rook tapping his nose calculatingly. ‘You’ve heard the old saying. “Aisle, altar, hymn”

  They both laughed again. They were not particularly nasty men normally, but they were bored beyond endurance and, in those circumstances, people will do anything for a laugh.

  They waited for an hour outside the bridal shop before they realised that somehow, again, they had missed her leaving. This was not good enough. The Director had been pretty understanding about this so far, but even his patience had limits. How was she doing it? They speculated that she was leaving the bridal shop (it was always here that they lost her) by a back entrance, but why? She couldn’t know they were there, could she? They were certain they had not been seen.

  Without a word, Rook swung the car around and drove at top speed back to the house, but it was too late, the house, gardens and all, was gone.

  Again!

  * * *

  The man known to his subordinates only as The Director (hence the capital letters) sat in his office. It was not a large office; it was not a plush office; it was a working office. Few people had ever seen it, and this was deliberate. He had a fancy office downtown, but he never did any work there.

  This office was furnished with a desk; it was made of cheap pine, as was the folding chair that sat behind it. It had five phones on the top and a large mat covered in coffee rings. Nothing else.

  Behind the desk was an old fashioned white board. There was a map pinned to it. The map was of an island in the pacific. The Director just liked it. He thought he might go there one day, if he ever had time.

  The Director swung the board around to reveal the back, there were names written on it in black. The Director gazed at them in perplexity as he often did when he had nothing else to do.

  1 Denis Sanger (Denny) age 28 born Hounslow. One brother, parents dead. Formerly employed “Disc Harmony” record store, currently unemployed.

  2 John Andrew Stiles (Jack) age 47 born London. No siblings. Widower. Formerly employed Scotland Yard. Currently – private detective based in London.

  3 Cynthia Pittencherry (Cindy) age (probably) 43, formerly self-employed as new age healer/ chiropractor. Currently unemployed.

  4 Hecaté. No last name. Age unknown. Background unknown???

  5 Finlay Varrens.Age 49? (Estimated) background unknown (possibly of Romany gypsy stock – unverified)

  A strange bunch, he often thought; not a man jack of them in a proper job. ‘Private detective my …’ {deleted expletive}* and hardly any authenticated background information on any of them.

  *[The Director had a problem with curse words in that he did not know any.]

  But all this was nothing when you looked at the last entry.

  6 Tamar Black. Estimated age – 5000 years.

  The Director spent hours at a time just staring at this last entry. There could be no doubt about it; it had been authenticated by… experts. Well one expert anyway. But he was … specially trained.

  No, there was no doubt about it but … Five thousand years? Five thousand? Five thousand???

  And she did not look a day over twenty.

  * * *

  Special Agent Dawber was trying to sleep. It was not easy. Even if he had been in a normal frame of mind, the motel beds seemed specially designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. He pondered about this for a while; it did not make sense, not if the place wanted any kind of repeat business. But then again, the proprietor had been the kind of hotelier who looks upon guests as a nuisance. Having stayed at a myriad of these places (he had forgotten what his own bed even looked like) he had met her type before.

  His mind, despite his best efforts, swung back to the events of the day.

  He remembered Rook driving like a maniac back to the house and … and … he remembered the debriefing in The Director’s office. He remembered telling The Director how they had followed her back and what she had done for the rest of the day. It was just that he could not remember any of it actually happening.

  He had a feeling that there was something he had forgotten, something that had happened, something that had happened before, and that, when it happened, he remembered that it had happened before. But then, afterwards, he did not.

  What’s more, he was now certain that Rook knew. Knew what exactly he could not be sure, he could not remember; but knew anyway, just knew … something in a general way that he did not know. Only he did know it, or he should, if he could only remember it.

  This sort of thing can make a man extremely paranoid, particularly when that man worked for “The Agency”.

  No wonder he could not sleep.

  Rook was on the radio to The Director’s office. ‘He’s getting suspicious sir,’ he was saying. ‘Perhaps we should let him in on it.’

  There was a muffled sound from the other end in a tone of denial.

  ‘Yes sir, but he’s a good man, I’m sure that … yes sir, but we can’t keep doing it to him is what I’m saying, it’s not right sir.

  Crackle, crackle, mumble, mumble.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Rook in a resigned tone. ‘I understand sir. But he’s a bright lad sir, he’ll figure it out eventually, he’s already… Sir? Sir? Damn!

  ‘And goodnight to you too sir … you bastard,’ he added once he was sure the connection had been broken.

  * * *

  Tamar was painting her toenails in the kitchen. Denny watched her in bemusement from behind a magazine about fishing. He was not remotely interested in fishing, but he had needed something to hide behind, and it had been left behind by Finvarra whose interests were wide and varied. In fact, the man seemed fascinated by everything. Denny had once caught him reading an enormous tome entitled “Famous Dogs in Brothels in the 19th Century” with every sign of enjoyment. Perhaps there were pictures.

  The hiding was to appear as if he was occupied in something other than watching Tamar. He suspected that he was not fooling her, but ever since she had decided to be “normal”, he had felt an inexplicable need to “keep an eye on her”. In case of what, he had no idea, after all, she was still the same underneath, that is, well able to take care of herself in practicality any situation you could possibly think of and many others that no one (at least no one in a normal frame of mind) would ever think of in a million years.

  She thrust a toe up under the magazine cover and nearly took his eye out. ‘What do you think?’ she said, ‘passion pink.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Denny cruelly, ‘too bright.’

  Tamar pouted. ‘Not like you then,’ she said acidly. ‘I mean who do you think you’re kidding? A fishing magazine? I don’t need a baby sitter you know.

  ‘Or a keeper,’ she added after a moment’s thought. ‘I’m not losing my mind you know.’

  ‘Depends on your point of view,’ muttered Denny. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding?’ he said louder.

  ‘Oh … shut up,’ snapped Tamar and flounced off leaving bright pink stains from her wet toenails on the kitchen floor.

  Denny sighed. It was already happening, he thought. No sex and lots more arguments and they were not even married yet.

  Stiles poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘You shouldn’t have criticised the nail polish mate,’ he advised.

  Denny raised an eyebrow. ‘You heard?’ he said.

  ‘Yep,’ affirmed Stiles.

  ‘God save us from policemen,’
said Denny. ‘There’s no damn privacy around here.’ But he did not sound angry, just weary.

  Stiles patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘It’s just cold feet,’ he said. ‘Best to let her get it out of her system. It’ll be all right after the wedding. They all act like this, you know, weird. Things’ll settle down, you’ll see.’

  ‘I haven’t got cold feet,’ said Denny. ‘Why has she? I mean we’ve lived together for five years …’

  ‘Yeah, but you … You’re more laid back than she is, you never let anything bother you much. And besides …’

  ‘That’s not true,’ objected Denny. ‘I get wound up too. This whole “being normal” thing is really pissing me off.’

  ‘Have you told her that?’

  ‘We-ell, no not exactly. I mean I thought, like you said, that she’d get over it. Anyway, what’s that got to do with her having cold feet?’

  ‘It’s just her way of dealing with it.’ said Stiles. ‘I wonder why it bothers you so much,’ he added.

  Denny shrugged. ‘She isn’t normal, why pretend?’

  ‘You’d have to ask her that,’ said Stiles, getting a beer for Denny from the fridge.

  ‘Do you think she’s changed her mind, you know, about getting married?’ said Denny hesitantly.

  ‘God no,’ said Stiles emphatically. ‘She wouldn’t be so damn nervous if she had. She’d just say so. You know Tamar.’

  ‘I thought I did,’ said Denny sadly.

  * * *

  Tamar was upset too. She did not cry when she was upset – she shouted. Cindy wished she had earplugs; it was not as if she would not still be able to hear her.

  ‘I mean, what’s the matter with him?’ ranted Tamar. ‘I thought he wanted a normal life, and there was no need for him to be so horrible to me, was there?’ she demanded, glaring at Cindy, who nodded sympathetically.