by G R Jordan
Hangover Cures
Wednesday opening up was always a bit of a drag for Patrick Mahoney. This was due to the Tuesday night lock-in with the retired golfing community, which had become a permanent fixture during the last twelve months. Seamus Murphy was to blame. It was blasted Seamus who had cajoled him into shutting out the world until three a.m. that first time, thereby setting the standard for a normal early morning’s entertainment. Unfortunately last night’s had been a little more than normal.
Patrick grabbed a bottle of milk from the fridge and then poured himself a large glass, using the novelty rodent vessel his wife had brought him back from the family’s trip to that damnable theme park. Meandering to the door, checking on the ashes from the previous night’s fire, he opened it with a tepid push and forced his way out into the blinding sunlight. Being late December, there was a heavy chill in the air, although the nearby coast did help hold it just above freezing. There were two locals waiting by the door. These brothers, well known in this tiny village, miles from anywhere, were regular early morning fixtures, tied by invisible bonds to the liquor.
“Morning lads,” said Patrick, to little response. Although his eyes were squinting, Patrick swore he could see other figures just down the road. One, two, oh and a third. And the third was a woman; things were looking up!
“Hello there!” shouted Patrick to the oncoming group. “Lovely morning for a stroll.” As the group started to come into focus, he was able to see that they had had a rough night too. The woman was hobbling and the men looked like they had taken a severe beating. Indeed, there was even a whiff of something in the air. Like charcoal, a burnt burger smell. Hadn’t Murphy said old Fitzgerald was entertaining some foreigners up at the estate last night? Strange crowd for him though. “Was it rough at Fitzgerald’s last night?” he asked.
“Fitzgerald’s? What the hell are you on about?” The rebuttal came from the man in the centre of the group, who was obviously bruised about his face, with cuts plastering his forehead and cheeks. “Churchy, where are we?”
“Alive somewhere, that’s where! And if you ever run off ahead again I’ll break your legs and wheel you about in future.” The other gentleman, whose eyes, Patrick noticed, were constantly scanning all around, extended a hand towards the pub owner. “Bout ye! Where are we in Ireland?”
“That must have been some night, my friend. Thirtyacres. Near Galway. The village is basically the pub. Me name’s Patrick. Patrick Mahoney.”
“Kirkgordon, Patrick. Nice to meet you. These are my friends, Austerley and Cally. And yes, it was a bit of a night.”
“Good to meet you, Kirk. Anything I can get for you?”
“Sure. Paracetamol, full packet if possible. And a coffee, a Guinness and a jug of water.”
“The Guinness for you?”
“They’re all for me. You guys want something?”
Patrick listened to the orders: egg roll, vodka and orange juice for the lady, a large tumbler of rum, neat, for the other man and anything fried that could fill a plate. Oh well, it was business.
Returning some fifteen minutes later with a large tray, Patrick found his customers sitting on the wooden benches outside the pub in a state of undress. The woman was sat down minus her trousers with Kirk exercising her left leg, her face in a grimace. Patrick was careful not to be too overt in his appreciation of her looks as she appeared to be a woman who could handle herself. Kirk had his top off and it looked like he had washed in the nearby trough. Austerley was standing in just his underpants, inspecting the bottom of his backside, which had a deep cut. The rest of his body was heavily bruised and scarred and he had obviously partaken of the water in the trough too.
“There you go. We do have rooms with showers. You should’ve said.” Smiling broadly, Patrick left the tray on one of the wooden tables beside the benches. Oh well, it takes all sorts. “I’ll be inside if you need anything else.”
“Okay, cheers,” Kirkgordon replied, without looking up from Calandra’s leg. “There’s nothing broke, Cally. Might take a while to get that bruising down though.”
Calandra nodded and reached for her trousers. Jumping up onto her good leg, she pulled them over the other leg before sitting down again to place the good leg inside. Damn, she’s light on her feet, thought Kirkgordon. Looking across to Austerley, he was relieved to see that a relatively normal state of dress had been resumed. Kirkgordon pulled on his top and sat down to neck his Guinness before dropping some paracetamol with his coffee. He felt rough; but inside, he was relieved just to be alive. His brain, processing the image of a man turning into a dragon, attacked him with images of fire and great swishing tails.
“You know, burning it was pretty pointless. It’s just going to reappear, and in a fashion that’s a whole lot easier to find. There’s no way we can find it first!” grumbled Austerley.
“Well, I would have asked, if somebody hadn’t dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes!” snapped Kirkgordon in return. “I would have thought you’d have got used to stuff like this by now, after all, it’s what you keep seeking.”
“I was just a smidgeon woozy after the beating I took from Farthington.”
“Yeah, but all he did was turn into a dragon. Throwing fire around. I mean, it’s your sort of party!”
“No,” interrupted Calandra, “he didn’t turn into a dragon. He turned back from being a man.”
“What the hell are you on about?” asked Kirkgordon, his eyes widening in growing horror.
“She’s right,” confirmed Austerley. “Heck of a disguise though. That was Zmey Gorynych. Never thought I would meet him.”
“Grand! Now you can tick that one off in your big-scary-monsters-of-doom scrap book. You’re actually proud of it. Un-flipping-real!“
“Churchy, that was a good call,” Calandra interrupted, trying to calm the situation down. “Zmey is a mercenary. He wouldn’t want the manuscript for himself, but he has ways of obtaining things that are out of earthly reach. Now it’s no longer out of reach, so I doubt we will see him again.”
“A mercenary? How?” asked Kirkgordon in disbelief.
“What do dragons like? Gold, treasure. So, he’s a clever one with a talent for changing shape. Yes, he’s a mercenary. But he’s not our problem any more.”
“No, he’s not,” Austerley took up, “but the manuscript’s whereabouts is. They asked me about certain rituals. Well, actually, they used drugs and other devices to elicit certain facts and practices. They needed things from my head but I can’t remember the conversations. Just some of the pain. There is a sense of foreboding though.”
“A what? A sense of foreboding? Awesome, Indy! Top spy you are! Bond would be…”
“Shut up!” Calandra jumped in. “For what? My darling, for what?” she said, suddenly breaking into the Russian voice that Austerley loved. They stood looking at Austerley, who was motionless, but obviously searching deep into the recesses of his mind. Eventually he spoke, but his voice was quiet and trembling.
“A summoning. Something horrible. Destruction and death. Something not from here. Something… something… something… black!”
Kirkgordon looked at Calandra, shaking his head gently.
“Take a few of these, Indy,” he said, handing over the paracetamol.
“No! He needs a computer. Internet, now,” insisted Calandra, “while he has the sense. Let him find it!”
Internet Connections
It had taken negotiation and some upfront cash to persuade Patrick Mahoney to forgo his bedroom, kicking his wife out in the process. Actually, it was a credit card, for which Mr Mahoney had a reader. Kirkgordon was not too happy about this, fearing that their current whereabouts would be compromised, but Calandra was insistent. They had been ushered past the quite put-out wife and had heard the snide and snappy exchanges that had commenced once the bedroom door was shut. Having led Austerley, who was still in a state of trance, into the room, Calandra now sat him on the plain wooden chair in front of the outd
ated computer. A pair of knickers obscuring the screen were quickly cast aside, then all eyes turned to Austerley, who just sat there.
“So what’s he meant to do? Can you find his on switch?” urged Kirkgordon, mindful of the cost of this connection.
“Shush!” rebuked Calandra, before gently pushing Kirkgordon away until they had reached the back wall. “He needs to focus and he doesn’t need a smarmy idiot getting in the way,” she whispered.
Kirkgordon was taken aback by the force of her dismissal.
Calandra saw the hurt in Kirkgordon’s eyes. “Dammit, Churchy! It’s not about that. He just needs some space. He’s linked, you see. They put him under and connected him with the manuscript. He was tied into it, became part of its future. And now he’s retained some of that. It’s not unusual. At least, it wasn’t the last time I saw this. Four hundred years ago, give or take a decade. Just stay here and watch. Don’t be upset. There’s no one to save here. No big rescue, no one to protect. This is his world, let him walk in it. And he needs my help.”
Again she saw Kirkgordon’s eyes drop. Part of Calandra raged. She had offered herself and he had refused, no, not refused, merely done the right thing, held out hope for his lost love and protected her from her own insecurity. She felt the burning passion too, but he had no right to be like this. Still, she knew she would have been hurting the same. So she gently kissed him on the lips. He lifted his eyes to her and she swore she saw the hint of a tear before he waved her back to Austerley.
Meanwhile, Austerley was typing. This was not unusual, except that his eyes were closed and his head was turned almost one hundred and eighty degrees from the screen. His body was agitated. Constant involuntary reactions peppered his frame and he gave out a low drone as he typed. Kirkgordon raised his eyes as he watched Calandra stand behind Austerley and gently stroke the back of his neck. She whispered into his ear as dozens of different websites appeared on the screen. Then, suddenly, Austerley keeled over, fell off the chair and would have hit the floor if not for Calandra’s quick reactions.
“Is he all right?” asked Kirkgordon.
“Relatively… yes, relatively,” came Calandra’s cryptic response. Austerley was quickly awake, possibly from the jolt of Calandra’s catch, and he sat back up and stared at the screen.
“Sorry. Sorry… they blocked me. Someone blocked me.” Austerley’s head hung low.
“It’s okay, you did good. Didn’t he?” Calandra prompted Kirkgordon.
He knew what the answer should be, knew he needed to encourage Austerley, but his frustration and anger at the situation he had found himself in got the better of him.
“Is that it?” he said, looking at the screen. “Some bloody auction site? Guess you were on AM not FM, certainly not digital!”
“Nice! Cheers for that,” hissed Calandra. Men, she thought, always the same. Jealous when no reason exists. I’m not the one with a spouse!
“Sorry,” whimpered Austerley, “it’s where I got to.”
Kirkgordon stared at the screen. Sommerline Auction Houses. It was a page outlining an auction to be held in two days’ time near the village of Great Malvern in England, close to the Welsh border. It seemed quite small-scale, operating from a converted old chapel with only about a hundred items for sale. Marvellous, thought Kirkgordon. All his life, Indy’s been touched, and now that we need it, he’s lost the connection.
Part of him was relieved. This whole escapade was getting out of hand, certainly out of his depth. He had seen things recently that were not good for a man’s constitution or mental stability. There was a growing attraction to Calandra, built on their interdependence in this fiasco, and he knew he was enjoying it. He needed to get away, get clear, visit the kids and see Alana again. They say the ripples of life can move people apart. What about tsunamis?
“There!” Austerley was pointing directly at the screen at a most grotesque painting. The graphic was small but was obviously of a creature in the throes of consuming something else.
“Austerley, that’s disgusting. Get your sick mind off it and see if you can tune in to the vibe.” Kirkgordon was on the edge of tipping and didn’t need Austerley indulging himself in grotesque fantasy.
“I used to own that. It’s a classic!”
“What do you mean? And, anyway, do I care? Get back on the program and find that manuscript!” thundered Kirkgordon.
“But it’s a Pickman! Stunning, just stunning. You can’t beat live models.”
“I don’t care if it’s a damn Picasso! It’s not what we are looking for, so get on with the search before they track us through the credit card.” Kirkgordon shook his head furiously and walked to the back of the room to avoid lamping Austerley round the ears. It’s always a game to him, isn’t it? Oh, look at this monster, look at that spawn of evil, can I get a word with that undead thing? A whole big game to him. Then the horror of Austerley’s response hit him.
“Live? What do you mean, live?” Kirkgordon planted his face right in front of Austerley’s. “How do you do a live version of that? Invite them round for coffee and biscuits and casually ask them to stand over there a moment? Oh, by the way, there’s a little snack on the floor. Feel free to munch away while I paint this.”
“But it’s Pickman!” announced an exasperated Austerley. “You met him, in the alley in Moscow.”
“Sorry, what are you on about?”
“In the alley. Okay, so he’s not the handsome man he used to be, but it was Pickman. He gave us the time of the street’s arrival.”
“Handsome? He wasn’t even a man!”
“Well, no, he’s technically a ghoul of some sort, I guess.”
“Technically?”
“Pickman? The Pickman?” Calandra chirped in.
“Oh, I see, he’s one of the family. Not an Adams, is he?” fumed Kirkgordon.
“Don’t be a prick! This is important,” Calandra spat back. Then she took a hand to the back of Kirkgordon’s neck, rubbing it soothingly. “This could be it, Churchy. Pickman is a high interest person… sorry, thing… in the darker places. You don’t see this type of painting in an open auction.” The neck rub felt good despite the icy touch. Kirkgordon was disappointed at how easily she redirected him, but he loved the caress.
“Okay, okay. So what does this mean?” Her hand was still on his neck.
“I don’t know,” came the slow, ponderous answer from Austerley.
“No connection at all. Any hints?”
“Sorry Churchy, no. I got the information about the street from Pickman and now I am drawn to one of his paintings. That’s it. Pickman’s not a player. He didn’t even want to know about the manuscript. In life, he was an artist who was able to befriend the… creatures of the night, shall we say, and paint them. His work was shockingly real but no one back then realized they were real life portraits. And now he’s a ghoul, all this stuff means so little to him. Sad, really.”
“Not the word I would have chosen. I mean, that thing is eating something else in the picture. Sounds evil to me. Trust you to have held a picture of his.” Kirkgordon wondered what to do. All links except this one are gone, he thought. There’s an evil rising of some sort but who knows what? And she’s still rubbing my neck.
“Guess it’s time to see his work close up. Get the address and let’s go, we’re going to have to push it to make it in time.” Kirkgordon saw a smile on Austerley’s face and heard him say under his breath “a real Pickman again”.
He’s too close to it all, Kirkgordon thought. Indy is too steeped in it to see the evil, the wrongness. He stared intently as Austerley exited the room.
“Thank you,” said Calandra.
“For what?”
“For keeping going. You could have just walked,” she whispered. She tilted her head and kissed him gently on the lips. That bitter chill stung again but this time it ran down his tongue too. And now she pushed hard up against him before forcing his mouth open with her tongue. He tasted her crisp tongue before quickly d
rawing back.
“And they say I’m frosty!” she said.
“Was that for me, or for the… mission-thing we are on?” They were inches from each other. Kirkgordon fought every impulse coursing through him to take her in his arms right then. The thrill of the moment and the excitement of such a wondrous, albeit strange, woman overwhelmed his senses.
“I don’t prostitute myself for causes.” It was said firmly but deliberately, confirming Kirkgordon’s fears.
“Then please stop, Calandra. I’m not that strong.” Gently he broke away, seeing her pain as he headed for the door.
Girl Talk
“Isn’t she fantastic?”
Kirkgordon nodded gently without glancing at “her”. Austerley nudged him and pointed abruptly with his eyes. Flicking his head sharply in Calandra’s direction, Kirkgordon grunted, before restoring his attention to the in-flight magazine. It had been a rush to get to Dublin for the flight to Cardiff and Kirkgordon was trying to focus his mind on what was ahead by immersing himself in the minutiae of the free copy in his lap. Fortunately, there were no adjacent seats in which they could all sit and so Calandra was four rows forward, the emergency exit seat allowing her to stretch out her leg. Austerley was clear of his trance state and seemed keen to tell in much deeper detail his previous encounters with Calandra.
“That was something else in the restaurant, though. That voice of hers… oh, it drives me wild, that does. She was always so dark, mysterious and sensual. And the kinkiness of that touch. I tell you, when she’s flesh on flesh…”