With a deep sigh, he selected a book from the library shelves – he was too worried to sleep – and then headed back to attend to his final task, the extinguishing of the sitting-room oil lamps.
‘’Ello, Burlesque, me ol’ mate. ’Ow’s you diddlin’?’
Burlesque very nearly dropped the lamp he was carrying. There, sprawled in an armchair, was Maurice Merriment, who looked to have grown even fatter since the last time Burlesque had seen him perform at the Prancing Pig.
Shit!
‘Maurice Merriment, as I live and breathe,’ Burlesque replied in what he hoped was a fair facsimile of a welcoming voice. ‘Wot the fuck you doin’ ’ere?’
Absent-mindedly, Maurice wiped a lump of wax he had extracted from his ear onto the cream velveteen of the chair he was sitting on. This done, he looked up at Burlesque and gave a disingenuous smile, displaying a mouthful of rotten teeth as he did so. ‘Now that’s not a very pleasant way to greet yer ol’ pal, now is it? Not when you led me such a song an’ dance through the backstreets ov gay Paree.’
‘’Ow the fuck d’you get in?’
Maurice held up a set of keys and jangled them. ‘Best set ov twirls in the ’ole of the Rookeries. I ’ad to take up ’ouse-breaking when me career as a comic went tits-up. An’ that wos all ’cos ov you.’
Burlesque cursed himself for leaving the front door unbolted. ‘Weren’t nuffink to do wiv me, Maurice. Yous always wos a shit comic. Yous couldn’t tell a joke iffn your life depended on it.’
‘I wos a fuckin’ good comic, I wos,’ protested Maurice Merriment.
‘Bollocks.’
Maurice shrugged, his shoulders moving powerfully under his lime-green gabardine jacket. Fat and funny-looking he might be, but there was no denying that he was a strong bugger. Burlesque eyed him carefully: if it came to a tussle, the outcome would be a close-run thing. He made to snake his hand around his back to his Webley and then cursed himself when he remembered he’d left it in the billiard room. It had dug into his arse every time he’d gone down for his shots.
‘Well, that wos then, an’ this is now.’ Maurice looked about the place, assessing it. ‘Nice gaff this. You’ve fell on your feet ’ere, Burlesque, an’ no mistake. You must be really comfy, tucked up ’ere wiv Rivets.’
‘Wot you want?’
‘My employer would like to know where the Lady IMmanual is.’ The soft voice came from behind Burlesque and his flesh ran cold at the sound of it: there was a certainty about the tone that told him that whoever was speaking was a killer. He turned and smiled, trying to exude a confidence he most certainly wasn’t feeling. ‘And ’oo might you be?’
A tall, elegant man oozed out of the darkness. ‘I am Count Andrei Sergeivich Zolotov and I have the honour of being in the service of the Vice-Leader of the ForthRight, Lavrentii Pavlovich Beria.’
Burlesque’s scrotum tightened. Zolotov looked a chilling cocktail of cool politeness, vaunting arrogance and crystal-cold cruelty. Trying to push his fear to one side, Burlesque did what he had always been best at, talking his way out of trouble. ‘So wot can I do for you, Mr Count?’
With a chuckle, Zolotov sauntered into the penumbra cast by the lamp Burlesque was holding. For a bloke Zolotov looked almost beautiful, but his Aryan perfection was marred by the sabre scar that decorated his right cheek. He was the most exquisitely dressed man Burlesque had ever seen: his steel-grey suit was made from a wonderful, shimmering silk and his matching top hat was worn at a jaunty angle. His boots were nice too, but the gun in his hand wasn’t.
‘The Lady IMmanual escaped from the Bastille less than an hour ago, and naturally Comrade Vice-Leader Beria is eager to recapture her. It occurs to me that you will have intelligence which might aid me in that endeavour, being, as you are, one of the girl’s confederates.’ Zolotov took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Your Checkya file says that, despite your boorish behaviour and penchant for gutter-snap, you possess a mind of some rare intelligence. Therefore you will have realised by now that I am not a man given to dalliance, so tell me, where is the Lady IMmanual?’
For a second Burlesque wondered whether to make a dash for it, but the click of the Russian’s pistol being cocked dissuaded him. ‘Don’t even consider it, Bandstand,’ Zolotov purred, as though reading his mind. ‘I am an excellent shot.’ He used his pistol to gesture Burlesque towards a seat on the couch. As he sat down, Burlesque placed the oil lamp on the low table next to him.
‘I don’t know where the Lady IMmanual is,’ answered Burlesque truthfully. ‘I didn’t know she’d even escaped from the Bastille until yous told me.’
‘I think you are lying, Bandstand. I will ask you just once more, and please appreciate that your ability to retain possession of various parts of your body will depend on the veracity of your answer. Do you understand?’
From the moment Zolotov materialised, Burlesque had known his one chance would be if he could rile Maurice Merriment into doing something stupid. If he remembered correctly, Maurice had a very short fuse.
‘Yus, I understand yous, Mr Count, but I’ll translate for the brainless tosser on my left. Wot Mr Count is saying, Maurice, is that iffn I tell porkies—’
Maurice Merriment’s temper erupted. ‘I know wot he’s a-saying, Burlesque-bleedin’-Bandstand. I don’t need some fat fuck like you tellin’ me wot’s wot.’
‘Just trying to ’elp, that’s all, Maurice,’ Burlesque crooned, in his most oleaginous tone. ‘It’s just that I remember ’ow fuckin’ stoopid you were.’
Maurice Merriment leapt to his feet. ‘Say that again, you fucker.’
‘Sit down,’ Zolotov snapped with real venom in his voice and, with studied reluctance, Maurice Merriment did as he was told. ‘Enough, Bandstand, no more nonsense. I want to know where the Lady IMmanual would have run to. You are her friend, so you must know where she is heading.’
Burlesque gave a shrug. ‘Dunno. Soon as I saw her taken by the Quizzies, I thought she wos dog meat.’ He turned to Maurice Merriment and smiled. ‘Talkin’ ov dog meat, ’ow is Mrs Merriment? She still workin’ the Lane?’
Maurice Merriment was out of his chair like a shot, to tower over the seated Burlesque. ‘Wot you’s sayin’? You sayin’ that my Bessie is a prossie or somethink?’
‘Sit down, Merriment,’ snarled Zolotov, but such was the man’s chagrin that he refused to be deterred.
‘I ain’t ’aving this bastard bad-mouthin’ my Bessie.’
‘Back off, you fool. Can’t you see he’s doing it deliberately? He’s trying to provoke you.’
As a scowling Maurice Merriment very reluctantly did as he was told, Zolotov turned to smile at Burlesque. ‘Very well, it would seem that you can be of no use to me, and therefore your life is forfeit. Comrade Vice-Leader Beria has asked that I make your death as protracted and as painful as possible.’ He glanced towards Maurice Merriment. ‘You may kill him now but, as we agreed, you are to proceed at a leisurely pace. I would begin by cutting out his eyes.’
Burlesque wiggled his arse. ‘Nah, you won’t wanna do that, will ya, Maurice? You’ll probably want to arse-fuck me first, won’tcha?’
Maurice Merriment’s face darkened. ‘You saying that I’m a zadnik or sumfink?’
‘Well, ain’t that wot you and Bessie have in common? You both like taking it up the jacksie.’
Face flushed with anger, Maurice Merriment advanced towards Burlesque, razor-knife in hand. In truth, Burlesque didn’t really have a plan, all he had been intent on was causing a kerfuffle. But the sight of the knife and the vengeful look in Maurice Merriment’s eye informed him that somehow he’d miscalculated.
Suddenly – amazingly – Maurice Merriment stopped in his tracks and stared towards the room’s entrance. When Burlesque turned to see what had surprised him, he saw Rivets standing gawping in the doorway, resplendent in an oversized striped nightshirt.
‘Gor blimey, Burlesque, wot the fuck—?’
They were the only words Rivets had a chance to ut
ter, but they were enough. Zolotov raised his pistol, but Burlesque was faster: quick as a flash, he grabbed the oil lamp from the side table and hurled it at the Russian. Zolotov ducked, the lamp shattered against a wall where it exploded in a ‘whoomph’, flames leaping up towards the ceiling, forcing Zolotov back. But the flames didn’t prevent the Russian firing his pistol in the general direction of Rivets. As a bullet whined past his ear, Rivets yelped in fright and leapt for safety behind the cover of the door jamb.
Knowing that he had to act whilst he had the advantage of surprise, Burlesque hurled himself at Maurice Merriment, employing all the dirty tactics he had learnt on the streets of the Rookeries. He gouged and scratched, spat and swore. He bit down savagely on an unprotected neck and pummelled his knee into Maurice Merriment’s groin. But it was no good: Maurice Merriment was heavier and stronger than him, and as the seconds passed the man’s extra weight and strength began to tell.
As he struggled, he caught a glimpse of Zolotov taking careful aim with his pistol. In that instant, Burlesque knew his number was up, but he gave one last desperate heave and, as the pistol cracked, shoved the squirming Maurice Merriment between himself and the bullet. He felt the impact through the man’s body, smelt his rancid breath as he gasped out his agony, and tasted Astral Ether as a second bullet tore off the side of the fat man’s head. Frantically, Burlesque rolled the flaccid body off him and leapt towards the doorway. As he scuttled out of the lounge and into the welcoming darkness of the hallway, he felt the door jamb shudder as a bullet smacked into the woodwork, showering him with splinters.
‘This way,’ he screamed as he grabbed the bemused Rivets by the shoulder and hauled him along after him. Desperately he twisted them this way and that, searching for an exit from the burning apartment and the murderous Zolotov. It was then he remembered the rotten window in the kitchen. Dragging Rivets behind him, he pounded down the service corridor, sobbing with fear that at any moment a bullet would blow his head off.
It was pitch black in the kitchen, and he tripped painfully over a bucket that sent him sprawling and cursing across the stone floor. But, energised by desperation, he was up in an instant, ignoring the protests of his skinned knees and palms, and like a blind man, with arms outstretched and whimpering in panic, he frantically searched the room. His fingers eventually touched the soft, rotten window frame and, with an acrobatic ability he never realised he possessed, he hoisted himself up onto the sill. As he shoved with his shoulder, the decayed wood gave easily under his weight.
‘Quick,’ he yelled at Rivets, ‘back-slang it!’ Grabbing Rivets by his hair, he pulled him up onto the sill and then shoved and kicked him, screaming and protesting, through the ruined window, thanking his stars that Rivets was so very small. As Rivets disappeared into the darkness of the garden beyond, Burlesque jumped after him, tumbling out into the cold, damp night.
A shot rang out behind him, and he felt searing pain as a bullet ripped into his body.
As he landed on the rain-sodden lawn, Burlesque’s mind was spinning. It was a racing certainty that Zolotov would have more confederates nearby, and with that in mind, he had to find somewhere to hide, pronto.
‘You’s all right, Burlesque?’ he heard Rivets whispering in the darkness, somewhere off to his left. ‘I’m over ’ere.’
Burlesque scuttled across the grass in the direction of the voice, and found Rivets cowering behind the protection of a privet bush. ‘Who the fuck was that?’ the boy asked, his voice reduced to a panicked croak.
‘That was Count Zolotov, assassin extraordinary in the empty of my friend Beria,’ murmured Burlesque, as his fingers tentatively examined the wound to his backside. ‘A real bastard, full of spite an’ spittle, who’s come lookin’ for me on account ov me playing Beria for a fool.’ There was shouting from inside the burning apartment and when Burlesque looked, he could see that the flames from the smashed oil lamp had really taken hold. Soon the entire block would be an inferno. They had to move and move quickly.
The trouble was, he was in a Sector where he barely spoke the lingo, was dressed in just his shirt, trousers and boots, had no money and, as best he could establish after some painful probing, had a bullet lodged in his arse. And to make matters worse, he had Rivets in tow, a Rivets dressed in just his nightshirt. The boy’s teeth were already chattering with cold. These harsh facts, coupled with the knowledge that he had a deranged and murderous bastard on his trail, meant that unless he could find a bolthole sharpish he had a life expectancy measured in minutes rather than in years. But then, as the pair of them were sneaking through the shrubbery bordering the garden, Burlesque had a moment of inspiration. Careful of his wounded arse, he pulled the bit of paper the Frog tart had given him out of his pocket and examined it by the light of the burning apartment. That was where they would go.
They exited the garden via a hole Burlesque booted through the fence, sneaked out onto the dirt road running at the back of the apartment block, then terrorised a pedestrian they met into giving them directions. Cursing Rivets’s continual complaining, he had them dipping in and out of the shadows for a mile or so, until they came to a cluster of small cottages crowded along a narrow alley. Odette’s place was the smallest house of the lot, the one with the white door.
Tired but exhilarated, Odette had got back to her uncle’s little house just before midnight, after following a convoluted route home from the Bastille in order to avoid prowling GrandHarms. And there had been a lot of the buggers about. Robespierre, taking fright that the storming of the Bastille was the precursor to a general rising against the Gang of Three, had called out the GrandHarms, the army and the Quizzies, and had immediately declared a curfew.
Fortunately for Odette, with the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts scheduled for tomorrow, the art students were out in force, and they didn’t give a fig for the Quizzies or their attempts to curtail their fun. So despite Robespierre’s curfew, the streets of Paris had been crowded, and Odette had been able to slip through the back alleys without being noticed.
But she knew it would be a different kettle of fish tomorrow. Then, no matter how tight-lipped everyone was, inevitably the Quizzies would hear the name Odette Aroca being bandied about and would come looking for her with a vengeance. Maybe now was a good time for her to head for the Coven: they were always pleased to welcome women refugees there. But, being an ImPuritan, Odette couldn’t really see herself being happy spending the rest of her life in a Sector where her only male company would be a NoN. Better to make for Venice.
After making sure that her Ordnance and her shotgun were loaded and ready to hand, she decided to get a couple of hours’ sleep and then hightail it to Venice, an hour or so before dawn. By then, with any luck, the Quizzies would be so fed up and tired that they wouldn’t be looking too hard for fugitive UnScreweds.
Burlesque sneaked up to the door and knocked quietly. He seemed to have been tapping for an age before he saw a light flicker behind the shuttered window, and heard the suspicious voice of Odette.
‘Qui est là?’
‘Odette, it’s me, Burlesque,’ he whispered, as loudly as he dared.
‘Burlesque? L’Anglo? Qu’est-ce que tu veux? Il fait très tard!’ (‘Burlesque? What do you want? It is very late.’)
Flummoxed by the girl’s French, and stimulated by the throbbing pain in his right buttock, Burlesque’s whispering became a little louder and more urgent. ‘Odette, let me in. I need help!’
He heard giggling from behind the door. ‘Oh, mon cher Burlesque, tu es un coquin!’ (‘Oh, my dear Burlesque: you are a wicked man!’)
‘Oh, bugger, just let me in, you daft Frog bint.’
There was more giggling. ‘Tu es venu ici pour coucher avec moi?’ (‘Have you come here to sleep with me?’)
‘Oh, fuck knows, Odette. Just stop playing silly sods and open the fucking door.’
It must have been the word ‘fuck’ that persuaded Odette to let him in. He heard bolts being shot, and a key being turne
d in the ancient lock. The door creaked open and there stood a beaming Odette, resplendent in a biliously yellow nightgown that enveloped her from her neck to her ankles. Not that he was given much opportunity to study this apparition of French womanhood; she reached out, grabbed Burlesque by the collar, and yanked him into a passionate embrace. Burlesque might have objected, but he found his protests muted by the substantial bosom his face was pressed into. When he did try to mouth his objections, it seemed that Odette – now murmuring entreaties about her grand Anglais – took the movement of his mouth as an attempt at amorous nuzzling, and simply squeezed him even harder. Desperate to get Rivets into the house, and the front door shut, before they were either spotted by the forces of Count Zolotov or he was suffocated by an excess of Frog breast, Burlesque twisted so that he could reach out a leg to slam the door shut behind him. He succeeded in getting the door closed, but the exertion aggravated the wound to his nether regions, and he let out a plaintive shriek.
Hearing the yelp, Odette’s maternal instincts seemed to come to the fore, and she released her death grip on Burlesque’s neck. Gasping for air, he staggered back a step.
‘Tu es blessé?’ (‘You are hurt?’) she asked with genuine concern and, reluctantly, Burlesque turned around and pointed to his backside. He wasn’t overpleased the silly girl started giggling again.
‘Un mari jaloux t’a tiré dessus, Burlesque? Tu n’as pas été sage, coquin anglais?’ (‘Have you been shot by a jealous husband, Burlesque? Have you been a naughty Englishman?’)
Although he didn’t have a clue what Odette was rabbiting on about, Burlesque could tell that she wasn’t taking his predicament at all seriously. It was then that Odette noticed Rivets standing sheepishly by the door, clad only in a nightshirt and blowing on his frozen hands. From the look on Odette’s face it was obvious that she was uncertain what Rivets was doing here, and what exactly his role might be with regards to her tryst with Burlesque.
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