by Heide Goody
“Indeed, Mrs Lee-Mammonson. I remember it clearly,” he said. “Unfortunately, I can now only make deliveries to your area this morning.”
“But that simply isn’t convenient. I have a helle’p kren ceremony to attend and cakes to prepare for the school fayre.”
“Ah, no. Sorry. Very well.” He paused deliberately. “I suppose I could deliver to the next customer on the list. The – let’s see – the Andrews-Mammonsons.”
He counted silently and got as far as three before the Mammonite caved in.
“Very well,” she said, “but you must get here as soon as possible.”
“And it will be cash on delivery,” said Ray smoothly.
“We already paid you a substantial deposit.”
Ray swore in his head. He’d forgotten that.
“Then it will be just the balance left to pay. Four hundred pounds.”
“Two hundred, Mr Ray,” she said instantly.
“Are you sure?”
“Are you accusing me of financial irregularities, Mr Ray?” she asked and he was instantly reminded that the Mammonites might be greedy but they were precise and, whilst not exactly litigious, they would exact retribution from anyone who tried to con them.
“Not at all, Mrs Lee-Mammonson,” he said. “I will be at your door shortly.”
He ended the conversation and searched for the number of a taxi cab company that would transport him and a couple of tubs of energetic lu’crik oyh to Dickens Heath.
Rod pulled up outside 27 Franklin Road and, diplomatically, said nothing.
The real Morag had taken the train into the city from the QE Hospital and asked Rod to drive her copy home before coming into work. The argument between the two women hadn’t reached any sort of conclusion but copy Morag had at least got in the car with Rod and had sat there sullenly while he drove the short distance to Bournville.
Copy Morag sat beside Rod. She didn’t get out, just sat there, arms crossed, fuming.
Rod wondered whether he should wait it out or whether this was a signal from her that she wanted him to say something. He decided on the former but he cracked after less than a minute.
“We’re here,” he said, gesturing to the house.
“It’s not fair!” said Morag.
Rod crumpled within. He was trapped in a car with an angry woman who expected him to engage in conversation which would no doubt require him to second-guess what she wanted him to say. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t like she was even his girlfriend or anything. Rod felt quite certain that if Morag was his girlfriend, he would be able to accept the situation with far more stoicism. A small part of him thought that perhaps he could make things better by kissing her but he instantly recognised it as the very stupid part of him and mentally told it to shut up.
“But it’s not fair!” said Morag.
Ah. She definitely expected some form of contribution from him.
“Not fair,” said Rod, making it neither a statement nor a question.
“Why should she be allowed to do this to me, huh?”
Rod nodded carefully.
“I wouldn’t do this to her,” said Morag.
Rod bit down on the powerful temptation to point out that recent history suggested this was exactly what she would do to a copy of herself.
“No,” he said.
“So, you agree with me?” she said.
Bugger, thought Rod. He’d been caught expressing an opinion. He could lamely agree with her and then get caught out in some moral trap (either now or even weeks down the line) or he could risk a gambit and deflect it.
“What do you think she should do?” he said.
That made Morag think for a while.
“She could at least share a bit more,” she said finally. “We alternate days at work.”
“Since when did you love work so much?”
“It’s about responsibility. About not treating me like a child.” She pointed an angry finger at her angry bruise. “I did this in the line of duty. I chased that pabbe drug dealer. I had his wallet and ID for a moment before I was forced to chuck it in the canal. I’m doing good work. But did she thank me?”
“Maybe she feels you’re treading on her toes.”
“So… what? Should I just fade away? Go off and become a shadow? A nobody?”
He gave a cautious shrug.
“Maybe one Morag Murray is enough.”
Unexpectedly, she laughed at that. “That’s what my Uncle Ramsay used to say.”
“And you know,” said Rod, “there are plenty of people who would love an excuse to leave their old life behind.”
“Like my Uncle Ramsay: run away to the rigs and live a life of near solitude doing crane work and deep-sea welding.”
Morag bowed her head and suddenly looked small and lost. The small bit of Rod’s brain that wanted him to reach out and kiss her reared its idiotic head again. He slapped it down hard.
“I’ve done stupid things,” said Morag.
“Like shooting a god in the face.”
“It was one of the August Handmaidens of Prein.”
“One of those enormous crab monsters with screaming baby faces on it? I didn’t think they could be killed.”
“I caught it by surprise. They swore to kill me. The last man I…” She looked at Rod and laughed. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because I care?” he suggested and then regretted it because, for a dangerous moment or two, it looked like she might be about to cry.
“You remember the week I started? The last guy I had sex with… he…”
“The Handmaidens murdered him in the cathedral. I know. Well, I worked it out. Just now. And if you’d had the weaponry you’d have taken them all down and kickstarted the apocalypse.”
“I would have,” she said honestly. “The Handmaidens still want me dead.”
“They will have their vengeance!” squeaked Steve from somewhere but they both ignored him.
“If I could just walk away from all that,” said Morag thoughtfully.
“Turn a challenge into an opportunity,” offered Rod.
The final look Morag gave him before she got out of the car was one of resignation.
“Maybe so,” she said. “Come on, Steve. Let’s go watch Pact or No Pact.”
When Nina came in, drinking her fourth energy drink of the morning, Lois the receptionist directed her to meeting room three. Vivian, Morag and Vaughn Sitterson were already there. Vaughn had placed himself at the head of the table and laid a protective semicircle of documents, folders and wallets around himself to keep everyone at a safe distance. He held his tablet up to read from and hide behind, just in case anyone broke through his outer shield.
“You’re late, Miss Seth,” said Vaughn without looking up.
Nina looked at the clock.
“Have you already started?” she said.
“Not yet.”
“But I’m late?” she said, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes. “Huh.”
“Poor punctuality is inexcusable,” commented Vivian, giving Nina a clear and unwavering look.
“It’s as bad as chemical warfare and punching kittens,” agreed Nina facetiously. “Anyway, Rod’s not here.”
Rod almost stumbled through the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, moving swiftly to a seat. “I had to drop… a package off in Bournville.”
“We haven’t started,” said Nina, looking to Vaughn and then to Vivian when it was clear Vaughn wasn’t going to meet her eye. “Aren’t you going to give Rod hell about his lateness?”
“He apologised,” said Vivian.
Nina noticed Morag’s face. Morag was wearing an ugly pendant necklace, a sort of Viennese swirl of frosted glass. Nina would have assumed Morag was wearing it to distract people from her bruises but she didn’t seem to have any.
“You’re looking a lot better.”
“Concealer,” said Morag.
“Also, she heals quick,” said Rod. “L
ike that superhero with claws.”
“The correct adverb is ‘quickly’,” said Vivian. “Poor grammar –”
“Up there with bad timekeeping and genocide,” said Nina. “Gotcha.”
“If I could start this meeting,” said Vaughn tetchily, “now that we’re all here.” He opened a folder on the table and slid out a letter printed on thick paper. “I tend to allow the response team to operate without much managerial involvement. I believe that teams of expertise should lead the way rather than be guided by a top-down management structure.” It was the kind of statement that was clearly going to be followed by a ‘but’. Vaughn left it hanging. He unfolded the letter and addressed himself to it rather than the people in the room. “I have received a formal complaint.”
“Who from?” said Rod.
“Mammon-Mammonson Investments,” said Vivian.
“Indeed, Mrs Grey,” said Vaughn. “You were aware they had grounds for complaint?”
“I know how the Mammonites think and behave, Mr Sitterson. I should imagine that letter contains a lot of bluster and empty business-speak but that their complaint amounts to our arguably unjustifiable intrusion into their legitimate business affairs, to wit: trading in human bodies and souls.”
“It does,” said Vaughn. “The complaints, which are listed, numbered and cross-referenced, include wasting of company time, disruption of the workings of their central office, obstruction of a retrievals officer in the execution of his duty, refusal to take action when the same retrievals officer was hurt by a human –”
“He was hurt while trying to stuff a woman in a cage,” said Rod fiercely.
“And the making of baseless accusations that Mammon-Mammonson Investments was either circumventing or ignoring the treaties that govern Venislarn action within the city.”
“They are slimy scumbags,” said Rod.
“Slime, I would have thought, Mr Campbell, was an aspect of the job you were well used to,” said Vaughn, allowing himself an indulgent smile.
“They are evil,” said Nina. “The kids too. They tied me to a tree and were going to livestream my murder.”
“Yes,” said Vaughn, “there is a reference here to you trespassing on Mammonite school property.”
Vaughn put the letter down and then gazed out of the window. Beyond the interlocking metal circles that covered the exterior of the Library of Birmingham, this room looked out over the Jewellery Quarter and Handsworth. It was hardly an inspiring view.
“I’ve never met the Mammonites,” said Morag.
“Whether you have or haven’t,” said Vaughn. “Whether there is a basis to the Mammonites’ complaints or not, this letter raises questions about what you have been doing with your time.”
“Do you think we’ve been skiving off, sir?” asked Rod.
Vaughn looked at a notepad. “There are reports of attacks on cyclists that haven’t been followed up and I’ve had numerous communications from British Telecom asking when they will be allowed to access the Anchor Exchange hardened facility again.”
“They won’t,” said Rod.
“Mr Sitterson,” said Vivian, placing her hands together on the table, fingers interlocked. “I tend to deal in precise matters. Facts. I don’t like vagaries, uncertainties or hunches.”
“No, you don’t,” said Vaughn.
“However,” she said in that clear glacial tone that Nina hoped to master one day and use on pretty much everybody, “I feel, with some conviction, that Xerxes Mammon-Mammonson is up to something.”
“Up to something?” said Vaughn, surprised at the words.
“Yes,” said Vivian.
“Up to what?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s buying up people,” said Rod.
“Legally,” said Vaughn.
“But not just holding soul cash certificates. He’s stockpiling live human beings.”
“Again, legally.”
“He’s working with one or more human occultists, probably unregistered.”
“Then you must pursue them, not him.”
“Which is what I’m trying to do,” said Nina. “He was selling activated Kal Frexo runes at the Rockerfellers night club last night. He attacked Morag.”
“He did,” said Morag with oddly emphatic insistence.
“Runes?” said Vaughn.
“Used as a psychotropic drug,” explained Vivian.
Nina tossed the bag of seized rune papers onto the table. Vaughn picked up the plastic bag and turned them over.
“Seventeen different runes,” said Nina, “each of them bringing about a trippy mindfuck.”
“Twelve,” said Vivian.
Nina shook her head. “Seventeen. I counted and I took pictures.”
“You must be mistaken,” said Vivian. “Of the original twenty summoning runes of Kal Frexo, eight are lost. The eight lost runes of Kal Frexo. Papers have been written about them by educated people who, one assumes, can count.”
“I’m educated,” said Nina. “I got a GCSE in Maths which means I can count too.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Vivian.
“I got a D.”
“That isn’t a pass, Miss Seth. It’s a little ribbon given out to the child who comes last to stop them crying.” Vivian gestured to Vaughn for the bag of runes. He passed them over automatically. “I will check these myself today. I’m sure there will be time during the selection process.”
“You do not need to be present during the interviews today, Mrs Grey,” said Vaughn.
“No,” she insisted. “I know you appreciate my input on these matters.”
Vaughn didn’t look particularly appreciative but said nothing more.
“We’ll find this occultist drug-dealer whatever,” said Nina. “Me and Wolverine here saw him at the Black Barge.”
“Wolverine!” said Morag with a sudden smile.
“With the claws!” said Rod.
“We couldn’t remember,” Morag explained to Nina. “It had been bugging us.” She looked at Rod. “Who did we think it was?”
“Asbestos?” said Rod.
“No one thought his name was Asbestos.”
“I think you did.”
“Enough,” said Vaughn. “Follow up this… rune avenue of investigation, yes, but remember the role is more than just firefighting each emergency as it arises. I require follow-up on the alleged attacks on cyclists, an account of any dealings with the Mammonite community in the past few days plus I regard it as vital that we bring all of these matters to the Venislarn court, as I am sure the Mammonites have done.”
“Mammon-Mammonson has lodged a complaint with Yo-Morgantus?” said Rod.
“If he hasn’t, I’m sure he will,” said Vivian.
“As our registrar and court liaison, Mrs Grey…” Vaughn began.
“I think I am busy enough for today,” said Vivian. “I am given to understand that Yo-Morgantus looks upon Miss Murray favourably…”
“Got a crap job? Give it to the ginger,” muttered Morag.
“I don’t wish to micro-manage this team,” said Vaughn. “Organise yourselves as you will. But I want to see a return to the thoroughness and unquestionable professionalism that this mission embodies.”
“In short, leave the Mammonites alone?” said Vivian.
Vaughn inclined his head a fraction, gathered his papers and left. Rod leapt up to follow him.
“Could you help me requisition a new firearm?” Rod asked. “Admin won’t authorise a new one unless I return the previous one.”
“And you haven’t returned the previous one because?” said Vaughn, halfway down the corridor already.
“First up, it’s inside a giant spider,” said Rod. “Secondly, the spider is…” The door swung closed on the meeting room and Nina didn’t hear the rest.
Nina looked at Vivian across the table.
“Did you just get all sarky with Vaughn then?”
“When?”
“‘Leave the Mammonites a
lone.’”
“Sarcasm is poor wit indeed,” said Vivian. “I was merely seeking clarification.”
“Ah, there might have been a smidge of sass in there,” said Morag, holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Not at all,” said Vivian, standing and straightening her jacket. “I don’t believe in any obfuscation in communication. I say what I think, openly, honestly and clearly. And I wish other people would do the same.”
“Careful what you wish for,” said Nina.
Vivian gave her a look as if she was an idiot child. Vivian gave Nina that look a lot.
“So, we going to catch ourselves a scumbag occultist?” said Morag.
“Sure,” said Nina and took out the vial of rehpat viarr truth potion she had confiscated from Mystic Trevor. “In a minute. I’m just going to offer the interview candidates refreshments.”
“In tea, truth. Eh?” said Morag.
Rod did not have a replacement firearm. He did now, however, have three multi-part forms provided by Lois: a 3BGG to request a new firearm from the quartermaster, a SWAT7D to report the loss of his original firearm, and a GAT3B to report an incident that might lead to the removal of his right to carry a firearm. It wasn’t what Rod had hoped for. Lois said it was almost as good as getting his gun back. Rod thought it was a poor substitute. You couldn’t take down a threat with paperwork, not unless you first fashioned it into a very sharp paper dart. (Some months ago, Rod had spent a full week watching YouTube videos on making offensive weapons out of paper. He had perfected the technique of embedding a thrown playing card into a watermelon but he doubted he’d have much cause or opportunity to use that skill.)
“There’s a woman in reception,” Lois said. “Do you have time to talk to her?”
“Who is it?”
“Kirsten Jones. She’s come about her son, Michael.”
Rod frowned. The name meant nothing.
“Pupfish,” said Lois.
“Oh.”
Rod couldn’t imagine that any conversation with Pupfish’s mum would be easy but that was part of the job, wasn’t it?
Rod went through to the reception area. The sallow-faced young woman in a stained tracksuit stood with a big samakha lad by her side. The samakha, wearing a Tupac T-shirt, had a hand on the woman’s shoulder: comforting, not possessive. Rod was sure he recognised the samakha but he didn’t think it racist that he struggled to tell one fish-man from another. Security Bob, who had brought them up to the seventh floor, inclined his chin at Rod.