by Ian Jarvis
***
Watson splashed and struggled at the edge of the moat, coughing up water and digging in his heels to heave Quist’s shoulders onto the sloping grass bank. He looked up as the bright navigation lights of the helicopter passed overhead, the AgustaWestland thundering deafeningly as it headed for central London. Straining, he pulled again, dragging the limp detective half out of the lily pads.
‘I can’t get you any further up the bank,’ whimpered Watson. ‘You’re clothes are piss-wet through and you’re too heavy to...’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ croaked Quist, shivering and groaning. ‘Dig it out. The bullet, Watson. You have to get the bullet out of me.’
‘Dig it out?’ The youth was terrified. ‘How? With what?’
‘Oh, here’s an idea...’ Quist coughed blood. ‘How about that stupid SAS knife you’re constantly playing with? One bullet went clean through my shoulder, but the other is in my chest. Get it out, NOW.’
Watson pulled the knife from his sock, his trembling hand almost dropping it in the water. He managed to open the main blade.
‘Poison.’ Quist coughed again and groaned in agony. ‘You need to be quick; the silver is poisoning me. The flesh will heal around the cuts you make, but you have to work fast. Do it now.’
‘I once took a dog to the vet,’ stammered Watson, ripping open the detective’s shirt to expose the bullet hole. ‘I had to hold it for the examination, but he hurt it and it bit him. You won’t bite me if I hurt you and...’
‘Do it,’ snarled Quist, slipping into unconsciousness.
Taking a deep breath, Watson shoved the shaking knife into the hole, cringing as blood poured out to gush over Quist’s chest, glossy black in the moonlight. Gagging and retching, he twisted and dug deeper, then shoved his fingers into the hot gore and located the lump of silver. Trying his best not to vomit or faint, he pulled it out and tossed it in the water.
‘Ugh, there we go. As easy as...’ The words turned into a desperate moan as he realised the wound wasn’t closing. Even worse, Quist’s face had turned white, his glassy eyes stared at the night sky and he was no longer breathing. ‘Hey, no, come on, Guv.’ Shoving the knife in his jeans pocket, he pinched the detective’s nose, blew air into his mouth and slapped his face hard. He rechecked his amateur surgery, silently willing the lacerations to supernaturally vanish, but the gaping hole remained. ‘Jesus, Guv, no.’ The teenager’s eyes filled up. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re dead.’
‘Oh, I think he is,’ chuckled a mocking voice.
Watson twisted around, his stomach turning to ice to see Laurel and Hardy standing at the top of the bank.
Hardy tipped his bowler hat politely and pointed. ‘Look, Stanley, that’s what we call a corpse. See how the eyes are open and glazed.’ The fat man slid down the slope, grabbed the kneeling youth by the scruff of his collar and booted Quist’s shoulder, the kick slithering the body back into the water.
‘Gee, Ollie, so that’s a corpse?’ Laurel watched the detective vanish beneath the surface and pointed to Watson. ‘And what do we call that?’
‘This, Stanley, is a loose end.’ The titanium blade snapped out from the cuff of Hardy’s suit. ‘And the best way to deal with loose ends is to cut them off with a...’
Watson didn’t wait to find out. Shrugging himself out of his wet jacket and darting away, he left Hardy holding the collar.
‘Yes, run,’ shouted Laurel, excitedly watching him scurry along the edge of the moat and up the banking. ‘Get yourself hot and sweaty. I love it when young boys sweat.’
The petrified teenager raced through shrubbery with Laurel close on his tail and burst from the foliage into the funfair. The closest building was a Chinese pagoda and, dodging into the darkness inside, he looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. The place appeared to be a fairground hall of mirrors, but he didn’t get the chance to view his distorted reflection. Sinewy arms grabbed him from behind and locked tightly around his torso.
‘Got you,’ hissed Laurel, his tongue licking greedily at Watson’s neck. ‘Yes, your sweat tastes good.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ he moaned. The boss was dead and he was about to join him.
Hardy followed them in, panting heavily from the exertion, and switched on the lights. Mirrors were everywhere, but every one showed Watson something he didn’t want to see: a fat lunatic slowly approaching with a lengthy shining blade.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he repeated, absolute terror having limited his vocabulary.
With his right arm still gripping the struggling youth’s midriff, Laurel wrapped his left forearm around his throat and squeezed. Writhing and perspiring, Watson reached into his jeans pocket.
‘Well...’ Hardy moved in front of them, theatrically slashing the air in rapid swishes. ‘Here’s another nice mess you’ve got yourself into.’
‘You’re loving the part, aren’t you?’ whimpered the teenager. Sliding out his SAS knife, he blindly thumbed open one of the blades and silently prayed. Please don’t let it be the fucking bottle opener. ‘You were crackpot serial killers and now you’re budding actors.’
The obese man laughed cruelly and drew back his arm.
Watson stabbed upwards into Laurel’s elbow and, grunting, he released the youth’s neck. The spiked tool was for repairing sails, but it appeared to be just as efficient when disabling psychopaths. His head free, Watson ducked low and jerked his assailant forward. Hardy’s sweeping weapon missed its intended target and sliced instead across his partner’s throat. The wound opened in a wide scarlet smile, bubbling horrifically as Laurel attempted to cry out.
‘No,’ snarled Hardy. ‘What the hell did you...’
Free of the dying man’s grip and gibbering in fright, Watson pushed Hardy backwards, dodged a knife slash, and tore out of the exit. He raced into the ghost train building next door, his eyes bulging and heart pounding as he searched for a hiding place.
‘Oh God,’ he stammered, his voice choked. His spinning mind replayed the sweeping blade. Death had claimed the boss and it had almost taken him back there. ‘Oh, my God.’
He spotted the control lever with GHOST TRAIN ON and GHOST TRAIN OFF printed either side. Praying the mechanical noise would hide his movement and frantic panting, he threw the switch. Recorded screams and sinister laughter poured from concealed speakers and the empty carriage rattled away on its journey through the complex. There was a desk he could hide behind, but the best place would be in the dark tunnel.
It was too late to hide anywhere. Watson squealed as Hardy leapt on him from behind, knocking him from his feet.
‘Ligeia isn’t going to be pleased,’ hissed the overweight killer, pinning him down. ‘She wanted Laurel and Hardy, not just Hardy.’
Watson laughed like a maniac. ‘You’re the one who cut his throat, you mad bastard.’
‘But it was your fault.’ Hardy clamped a hand on the youth’s neck. ‘And you’re the one who’s going to pay for it.’
‘Your breath,’ gargled Watson.
‘What’s that?’ Hardy grinned. ‘Your windpipe appears to be restricted and I can’t understand you.’
‘I can see your breath.’
He blew, clouding the air. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Your breath is showing. Mine too. It means the temperature has fallen and do you know what that means?’
The fat man frowned slightly.
‘It means you’re screwed.’
The rumbling growl behind Hardy suggested Bernard Quist wasn’t quite as dead as everyone had believed. The wounded wolf yanked the killer from Watson and stumbled weakly to the floor with his weight. Leaping up, the teenager fled into the dark tunnel following the train carriage as Hardy slashed at Quist with his blade, tearing open his furry chest. Physically drained and in debilitating pain, the wolf writhed on i
ts back whining as the knife stabbed three times into its torso. Laughing as the creature shuddered and lay still, Hardy left it and ran along the train tracks after the teenager.
Watson had groped his way around two pitch-black corners, frantically freed himself from the cotton strands of a giant spider’s web, and now stood hiding in the dark behind a luminous dangling skeleton, the pocket knife clutched in a shivering fist. Elation at seeing Quist wrestled with the terror.
The boss wasn’t dead. Cyrano was still alive, but he looked to be in a bad way and where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he here helping?
Hearing footsteps, he peeped around the glowing skull hoping to see a wolf, but the fat shape approaching in the darkness wore a bowler hat.
Shit, shit, shit, shit. Watson gritted his teeth to prevent them chattering. He wouldn’t be seen in the blackness. Surely he couldn’t possibly be seen.
A burst of strobe lighting suddenly clicked on and Hardy’s face lit up too.
‘Look what we have here.’ The killer chuckled and tore down the skeleton to expose the youth. He drew back his blade arm as Watson raised his own shaking knife. ‘Ah, you still have your weapon and I have mine. We’ll have a duel and I think I know who the winner will...’
The injured wolf slammed into the fat man, knocking him onto his back.
‘You’re still weak, aren’t you?’ laughed Hardy, crouching on the train tracks. ‘There was no power in that attack. I don’t think you have the strength to...’
The ghost train carriage hit him hard from behind, trundling over his body as it continued on its never-ending circuit. Still waving the SAS knife, the teenager watched open-mouthed in the flickering strobe as the bowler hat appeared from beneath the car and rolled across the floor. Hardy’s legs twitched and Watson saw that his head had been completely crushed, the splatter of brains resembling steaming raspberry jam.
‘Well...’ croaked Watson. ‘That’s definitely a nice mess you’ve got yourself into.’
The werewolf collapsed gasping and he knelt beside it. ‘This is brilliant. You’re alive, Guv.’
‘Evidently,’ groaned Quist.
‘It was horrible. I thought you were dead.’
‘For a short while I was. The silver in my bloodstream poisoned me. I’m still very weak; look how slowly these cuts and stab wounds are taking to heal.’ Trembling, he gestured to Watson’s knife. ‘Speaking of which, I see you’re still playing about with that.’
‘Hey, it just saved my life back there.’ Watson shoved the knife in his pocket. ‘It saved yours at the moat too.’
‘Only just. You took your time digging the bullet out.’ The wolf shot him a sarcastic look. ‘Perhaps you should have used that tool for repairing sails.’
‘Funnily enough, that’s what I used to stab Stan Laurel.’ Watson grinned. ‘I thought I’d lost you. It’s really great to have you back.’
A second black wolf bounded along the ghost train track and rose on its rear legs, frowning to see Hardy’s crushed head. ‘Shit!’ growled Rex.
‘Absolutely,’ said Watson. ‘This place might have a real ghost now.’
‘Ah, the cavalry has arrived,’ said Quist, shivering. ‘Are any of Adler’s people still here?’
‘Only her Sergeant,’ said Rex. ‘But he’s in a worse state than Oliver Hardy.’
‘You didn’t kill in wolf form?’ Quist’s eyes widened. ‘Please tell me you didn’t bite or claw...’
‘No, but the tiger didn’t seem too concerned about biting and clawing.’
Watson grabbed Rex’s furry arm, pulling him off the track as the ghost train carriage trundled by again.
‘Rex and I need clothes,’ said Quist, climbing unsteadily to his feet and leaning against the wall. ‘Then we have to follow them to the London Docklands.’
‘Greenwich will be faster along the river,’ said Watson. ‘Less traffic. Hey, can I drive the boat?’
Chapter 34
The Thames curled in meandering loops as it flowed east towards the city, the black water reflecting streetlights and illuminated buildings along the banks. Quist sat at the wheel of the small motor launch with Rex and Watson beside him. They travelled as fast as the engine would allow, but the river was tidal here and luckily the tide was outbound and carrying them with it. London looked very different from the water, but certain locations were recognisable as they passed - the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew and the Craven Cottage football stadium - and the detective saw they were nearing Putney Bridge. All three wore black clothing, pieced together from the leftover uniforms of Adler’s defunct security squad. Quist had also found a wad of money on Stan Laurel’s corpse which might prove useful once they reached North Greenwich.
‘So Ligeia is a Siren?’ Watson shook his head in amazement. ‘A Siren from the ancient Greek legends? Cool.’
‘I find it mind-blowing,’ gasped Rex. ‘They’re using a mythological creature to make a shit load of money and it doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.’
‘Mate, I’m in a speedboat with two werewolves.’ The teenager let out a dry laugh. ‘It takes quite a bit to surprise me these days.’
‘Sirens go by many names,’ said Quist. ‘The correct term is Lamarai, a race of supernatural beings from ancient Mesopotamia.’
‘You claim it’s impossible to tell her age?’ said Rex. He normally only slept with good-looking girls under thirty, but fate appeared to have stepped in to break his sexist rule. ‘If she’s centuries old, you’d expect her to be wise and sophisticated, yet most of the time she acts like a child.’
‘She’s more a nature spirit than what we think of as a person,’ said Quist. ‘Apparently, she can sense other supernatural beings like us. I remember how she seemed interested in me on the Titanic and that’s why she was drawn to you in Edinburgh.’
‘Well, you say that...’ Rex considered this. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it was the sexy Rex Grant persona that attracted her, not the supernatural thing.’
‘So you can’t sense other creatures?’ asked Watson.
‘Evidently not.’ Quist massaged his tender chest. The bullet holes, Watson’s DIY surgery and Hardy’s attack had all healed, but he was still feeling weak from the silver poisoning. ‘I can’t even sense other werewolves. The Siren song doesn’t affect Rex or myself and that’s why we both view Ligeia as a mediocre performer. I also have certain suspicions about Elva. I’m not sure about her.’
‘You think she’s a Siren too?’ quizzed Watson. ‘If so, she’s a pretty quiet one.’
‘No, but she’s also childlike, extremely close to Ligeia and they look very similar. When we met Elva, she said I was like Rex, suggesting she could sense me, and her lack of voice intrigues me.’
‘Incredible,’ murmured Watson. ‘You say Adler and her men use some sort of ear implants to protect against the enchantment?’
‘Yes, and speaking of which, do you still have that wax?’
The youth reached into his pocket for the lump of black candle wax Quist had given him in Lafont’s voodoo temple.
‘Very good. Break it into two small pieces and look after them. I’m really hoping it won’t be necessary, but if I tell you to use them, you need to cram the wax into your ears immediately and without any questions.’
‘I’ve been listening to Ligeia for months,’ said Watson. ‘I hardly need protection from her songs.’
‘It isn’t her singing that concerns me,’ said Quist. ‘By the way, her name isn’t a marketing fabrication, as I assumed. You can find references to a Siren named Ligeia in mythology.’
‘You’re supposed to be clever,’ said Rex. ‘Why didn’t you realise that when you heard the name?’
‘Peculiar names are commonplace today.’ Quist shrugged and nodded to his assistant. ‘Watson has had girlfriends called Andromeda and Chlamydia.’
/> ‘True,’ conceded Watson. He opened a river map he’d found under the seat. ‘Although Chlamy’s mum was pretty thick and she was thinking of the flower Clematis.’
The boat sped beneath a railway bridge as they approached Battersea Park. A brightly-lit train passed overhead and Watson inspected the chart. He estimated the river to be over two-hundred metres across now and it was much wider in the city centre ahead. The floodlit chimneys of Battersea Power Station appeared on the right bank and the teenager followed the Thames with his finger to check their destination on the map.
The Isle of Dogs wasn’t an island, apparently, but an elliptical peninsula formed by the river looping around Limehouse and Greenwich. Here on the chart, it looked like an inflamed uvula dangling in the rear of a mouth and the neighbouring peninsula resembled a raised thumb with the dome for a thumbnail. Watson knew the docks and factories there were long gone, replaced by luxury hotels, chic apartment blocks and skyscrapers owned by banks. Where cockneys once ate jellied eels and sang of bulls and bushes, the gleaming towers of Canary Wharf now soar hundreds of feet above London’s East End.
The youth folded his map and turned to Rex. ‘Well, you’re off the hook for the Edinburgh murder,’ he said. ‘When the police hear about Charlington Hall, they’ll find the bodies of those two wanted killers and the weapon used on Charlotte Michie. They might look like Laurel and Hardy, but the DNA and fingerprints both belong to psychos.’
‘That’s right,’ said Quist. ‘You can tell them the truth to a point. Adler’s friend Alistair Ramson killed the girl and then kidnapped you from the Balmoral Hotel.’
Rex nodded. ‘We should have rung my friend McNulty back there at the house. His police brother would have spoken to the right people and I’d be in the clear by now.’
‘We can’t alert them yet,’ said Quist. ‘Now we know the truth about Ligeia, we can’t have the authorities descending upon the concert to arrest Adler’s people. If Ligeia feels threatened, it could be hazardous for everyone around her including the police. A Siren has two songs, remember. One that enchants and a harmful one for protection.’