Barking

by Tom Holt

  Duncan let it sink in. Very sad - Luke was right about that. Certainly no tragedy. But that wasn’t the important point. The crucial thing was - and maybe Luke hadn’t realised - it was only half a story, if that. There was more to it, Duncan was absolutely sure, but he had no idea—

  ‘What about her?’ he said.

  ‘What? Oh, you mean the unicorn.’ Luke shrugged. ‘Who knows? She’s been around since the year dot—’

  ‘How do you know that? And about her having killed all the natural wolves in Britain . . .’

  ‘Not all, obviously.’ Luke frowned. ‘I mean, some of them died of mange or getting run over by stagecoaches, or old age, whatever. But she finished them off, when there were just a handful left. Someone told me—’ He tailed off, looked blank for a moment, then went on: ‘Someone from another pack; the Epping Forest lads, I think, or the Hornchurch lot.’

  ‘And how did they know?’

  Clear from his face that Luke hadn’t stopped to consider. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Maybe it isn’t true, at that. But all the other packs I’ve talked to over the years know her. They’ve had bad experiences with her, too. Does it matter? She’s trouble, that’s all you need to know. Stay clear. Maybe next time you won’t be so lucky.’

  That bit of advice seemed hard to find fault with. Still, Duncan couldn’t help wondering—

  ‘All right,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve answered your question, now would you mind answering mine? Keeping us all out of your head. I rather fancy you’re about to tell me you don’t know how you do it.’

  Duncan nodded. ‘I didn’t even know that was what I was doing till you told me.’

  Luke yawned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s possible, of course. I’ve heard of cases, though they’re bloody rare. Sort of like a natural inbuilt ability. Probably you can also bend spoons. The thing is,’ Luke went on; he was trying to be quietly terrifying, but he wasn’t succeeding. ‘There’s a time and a place for bending spoons, right? On a prime-time TV chat show, excellent. Having dinner with the Duke of Westminster, not such a good idea. He may be impressed by your uncanny abilities, but he’s going to be really pissed off about all the buggered-up antique silverware.’

  Duncan looked at him. He seemed a little smaller than usual. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Tell me how to stop doing it, and I’ll stop. Right?’

  He’d watched dogs having this kind of staring match. They growled, too, but in this case there was no need of a soundtrack. It wasn’t that Duncan felt stronger. It was Luke who was being diminished. After a second or two Luke looked away.

  ‘You suit yourself,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, we’re supposed to be friends. Like, you know, on the same side and everything. But you go ahead and do what you want. Just don’t expect us to be there every time you wind up half-dead on the common.’

  He started to walk out of the room. ‘Luke,’ Duncan heard himself say, but obviously he’d said it too softly for Luke to hear. Odd, considering.

  The door closed, and Duncan flopped back into his chair as if he were a test pilot pulling twenty Gs. There had been a question in there at the end of the scene that he couldn’t answer, and it was bothering him like toothache—

  - Because, yes, they were supposed to be friends. That was the natural choice of word to use for the Ferris Gang, wasn’t it? Friends, mates, buddies, ever since Year Ten. If there was anybody he should feel comfortable with, it ought to be Luke and Pete and Clive and the others. They’d grown up together, done it all together, heard the car alarms at midnight together; and yes, people change when they grow up and go their pathetic little separate ways. But always, buried deep inside under the cave-in of experience, there’s the essential sixteen-year-old still alive, still keeping the faith, waiting for the others to come back and for things to be right again. So why hadn’t he told Luke about the unicorn? Properly told him: all the weird and unsettling stuff she’d said, including the very pertinent stuff about Lycus Grove and their joint origins? If anybody could shed some light on all that, surely it’d be Luke. Instead, he’d faced him down (his pack leader; a retrospective chill froze his blood for a moment) and sent him away with his tail between his legs. Why, for crying out loud? Didn’t make sense.

  It was me got you fired, actually. And then she’d gone on to say something even stranger. I fixed it so Luke Ferris came back into your life. But that was simply insane. According to Luke (and if the story of Wesley Loop was true, he was quite right) the unicorn was their mortal enemy, their greatest and only natural predator. Why the hell would she go to all that trouble—?

  More to the point, how had she done it? Solicitors are fairly broad-minded people, but he had difficulties with the mental picture of a white horse with a horn in its face prancing into Jenny Sidmouth’s office and saying I demand you sack Duncan Hughes immediately. What had she said about that? Something about blackmail, taking all her business away from the firm. Even more surreal: exactly what would a mythical deformed horse need solicitors for? And where (more pertinent still) would she get the huge sums of money needed to pay them?

  You know how it is with toothache. Unless you can take your mind off it, the pain grows until you can’t think about anything else. Duncan sighed, and picked up the phone.

  ‘Yes, hello. Jenny Sidmouth, please.’

  Reception didn’t seem to have recognised his voice. On the other hand, she hadn’t asked who was calling, either. That wasn’t standard operating procedure.

  ‘Duncan.’

  Who’d have thought so much spite could be packed into a name. ‘Jenny,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you—’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you really sorry? No offence, but I’m a bit sceptical about that. Bastard,’ she added, by way of clarification. Precision is everything in the legal profession.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he repeated quietly, ‘but I was wondering. Could you spare me a few minutes? Lunch, say.’

  (Get him; chatting so casually to Jenny Sidmouth, the five-foot-two-eyes-of-blue Darth Vader of Craven Ettins. He was almost proud of himself.) ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘There’s something I need to ask you about.’

  ‘You are serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ He was turning on the charm. Query: since when had he had any charm to turn on? ‘You’re the one who sacked me, not the other way around, and I’m not holding any grudges. I take it something’s happened that’s ticked you off a bit, since I left.’

  He’d forgotten the particular noise that only Jenny could make. A bit like a snort or a laugh; also a bit like a lion roaring, or a saw cutting bone. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Fine. Come to lunch and tell me about it.’

  ‘Like you don’t bloody well know. You bastard,’ she added (repetition is sometimes necessary in the interests of absolute clarity). ‘Talk about vindictive, treacherous, sneaky - How long did it take you? You were hardly out of the door five minutes, and you stole my best fucking client.’

  Puzzled. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘No explanations. Didn’t give me a chance. Just a one-line letter: kindly forward all files and documents to our new lawyers, Ferris and Loop, FAO Duncan Hughes. Wouldn’t take my calls. After all the years I spent on them. Gone, just like that.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Duncan said mildly. ‘Who are we talking about, please?’

  ‘Oh, don’t. Please don’t pretend that you don’t know. Oh, and while you’re at it, rot in hell. That’s after we sue your arse into the ground for seduction of trade and breach of restrictive covenant. I trust you’ve briefed your insurers, because by the time we’ve finished with you—’

  ‘Seduction of trade?’ Duncan asked, curious. ‘Don’t think I’ve heard of that one.’

  ‘Well, no, I just made it up. But we’ll have you for it, whether it exists or not. You know what you are, Duncan?’

  ‘A bastard?’ he hazarded.

  ‘You’re a disgrace to the profession,’ she snar
led, and slammed the phone down on him.

  He raised a stately eyebrow and put the receiver back. Threats aside (and putting aside a lawyer’s threats is like plucking a chicken; what you’re left with is scrawny-looking and much smaller than you’d expected) he wasn’t particularly bothered, but the implication that was left sticking up out of the mud after the flood-waters had rolled back was pretty bloody fascinating.

  Duncan tried to remember how you went about getting a cup of tea in this place. There was a protocol, he knew, but it had slipped his mind, so he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. He was still drying his fingernails on his tie when the door opened, and the little bald man scuttled in: tray, china teapot, cup, saucer, plate with two digestives, two Rich Tea and a Viennese whirl. He smiled; the little man cringed, dumped the tray on the desk and fled as though every wolf ever whelped was after him.

  He frowned. He wasn’t all that fond of Viennese whirls.

  Jenny Sidmouth was upset with him because he’d stolen a client. Hardly out of the door five minutes: straight away after he’d left, therefore. Duncan didn’t need to think long and hard about that. There was only one client who fitted the criteria: the file that had come swooping in after him like a homing pigeon, much to his disgust. His least favourite too-difficult file; the client who’d had enough clout to get him fired; the client who was also, apparently, a unicorn. Not to mention dead.

  Bowden Allshapes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The unicorn was saying his name.

  He stopped dead. Inertia hit him like a truck up the bum, jerking him forward so that his feet skidded. She’d stopped too. She was only a few feet away; less than that, even, mere inches. He tried to spring, but his feet were stuck in something. He looked down. Icing - he was ankle deep in white cake icing. Well, he’d never liked the stuff much at the best of times.

  He strained against the air, like a carthorse pushing against its collar. No chance; because it was one of those dreams, the sort where you can almost get there but not quite. He growled.

  ‘Duncan,’ she said. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  Not her usual style; and part of him was aware that it wasn’t really her talking. It was Pete, shaking him by the shoulder and telling him to wake up. But only part. The other part could almost feel the tickle of her fur on the tip of his nose, it was so close. It pushed—

  ‘Silly,’ said the unicorn. ‘I’m not the one you’re after, am I?’

  That didn’t sound like the sort of thing Pete would say. He strained a little more, until the pain in his ankles broke his concentration.

  ‘When she comes for you the second time,’ the unicorn said, ‘remember where you put the sausage roll. Got that?’

  ‘Sausage roll,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, got that.’

  ‘Then basically you’re ready,’ she said. ‘And I think your hairy friend is trying to attract your attention. You’d better wake up before he dislocates your shoulder. Oh, and by the way—’

  (‘Wake up, you dozy bastard,’ Pete was bawling in his ear. ‘There’s a client in reception for you.’)

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘The reason why the accounts won’t balance is that you’ve forgotten to add the—’

  He opened his eyes. His field of vision was full of Pete. No unicorns anywhere.

  ‘Forgotten what?’ he mumbled. ‘Fuck it, Pete, what’ve I forgotten? ’

  Pete scowled at him. ‘The client you’ve got coming in at three-fifteen, presumably,’ he said. ‘Which is why the poor git’s been sitting out in the front office for the last ten minutes.’

  ‘No.’ Duncan sat up sharply and nutted himself on Pete’s chin. ‘No, the accounts—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it.’ He sank back in his chair. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Twenty-five past three, and you’ve got a client—’

  ‘I must’ve fallen asleep.’ Not, Duncan realised, the most perceptive thing he’d ever said. ‘But hang on,’ he went on, ‘what about the pub trip? You know, lunchtime drinking except we don’t get—’

  ‘We didn’t go today. Luke said he didn’t feel in the mood. Look, what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Duncan yawned and stretched. His knee collided with the desk, jarring something off it onto his lap. A tape-measure: how had that got there? He scowled at it, as if everything was its fault, and shoved it in his inside jacket pocket.’Who did you say was in the front office?’

  ‘Client.’ Pete was sounding volcano-about-to-erupt patient. ‘It’s in your diary, you pillock. Look.’ He stabbed a chunky forefinger at the diary open on Duncan’s desk. ‘Three-fifteen, Mr Bois d’Arc. Pull yourself together, can’t you? You’re supposed to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m a disgrace to the profession,’ Duncan replied. ‘Still trying to work out if that’s a bad thing, in context.’ He yawned again. Ninety per cent of his body ached. Last night, presumably, catching up with him. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Must’ve dropped off. I hate sleeping in chairs, it always gives me a cricked neck.’ He glanced down at his diary. The entry was there all right, but not in his handwriting. He couldn’t remember anything about it, and the name itself rang no bells. ‘I suppose I’d better go and see this bloke,’ he yawned.

  ‘Yes,’ Pete snapped. ‘And get rid of him as quick as you can, will you? I saw him, he’s a fucking weirdo.’

  Coming from a werewolf, that was strong terminology. ‘All right,’ Duncan said mildly. ‘In what way a weirdo, though?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? I didn’t hang about. Gave me the creeps.’

  Intriguing. To someone who’d talked to the unicorn, the creeps didn’t come easily, but anybody who could freak Pete out must be interesting, to say the least. ‘Fine,’ Duncan said. ‘And thanks for—’ But Pete had withdrawn, slamming the door behind him.

  Weirdo, Duncan thought, quickly straightening his tie. His trouser legs, he noticed, were caked in mud. No idea how they’d got that way, but probably he ought to be grateful for small mercies. He sniffed, but he couldn’t detect a stranger.

  The little bald man in reception struck him as even more terrified than usual; he nodded in the direction of the waiting area, and fled into the back room, where the franking machine lived. Duncan shrugged, put on his being-polite-to-punters smile and looked round for his visitor.

  Weirdo, he thought. Yes.

  In appearance, the man was so utterly nondescript that he was scarcely there at all. He was medium and middle everything, his only remotely distinguishing feature being a rather pale complexion. Even his suit was impossible to describe - could’ve been grey, blue or black. His shoes were brightly polished, his hair neatly combed. But ‘weirdo’ was exactly the right word.

  It was the smell. Partly the smell he didn’t have, partly the smell he did. The scent that even a human couldn’t have helped noticing was embalming fluid. What was quite palpably lacking was anything human, or even remotely organic. No sweat, breath, methane; none of the myriad bacterial squatters that camp out in the digestive system; no blood.

  ‘Mr Bois D’Arc?’ He pronounced it Bwadark, the eternal hopelessness of the Englishman trying to get his tongue round French.

  ‘Boycedarch,’ the man said pleasantly. No accent.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  ‘’Salright.’

  Mr Bois D’Arc stood up and extended a medium-sized hand, for shaking purposes. Duncan really didn’t want to touch it, but what could you do? As he’d rather suspected, it was cold. Not refrigerated; more like last night’s pizza.

  ‘Follow me,’ Duncan said, but the man didn’t move.

  ‘’Salright,’ he said again. ‘I just got a message for you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Duncan said. ‘Fire away, then.’

  Mr Bois D’Arc nodded, and braced himself. A moment later, he opened his mouth. The voice that came out was quite different, and very familiar.

  ‘Duncan,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got much t
ime. If they find out I’m doing this - well, I got in so much trouble for the last time, you wouldn’t . . .’ Mr Bois D’Arc closed his eyes for a moment. Then she continued: ‘Look, you’ve got to help me. There’s nobody else, and I’m really scared. The instructions are on a bit of paper in his top pocket. For crying out loud, don’t be late; got that? Oh Christ, is that the time? See you. Bye.’

  The voice stopped. Mr Bois D’Arc stood quite still, looking at the far wall. Duncan realised he hadn’t drawn a breath for quite a while, and gulped some air. Either this strange man (weirdo; the perfect word exists, so why not use it?) was the world’s greatest impressionist - Rory Bremner and Mike Yarwood nowhere, Mr Bois D’Arc number one - or else the voice he’d just heard belonged to his estranged wife, Sally.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes? Hello? Who are you, please?’

  Oh, Duncan thought. ‘Can I have it, then?’

  ‘By all means. Have what?’