Oddjobs Page 6

  “I’m not your type, I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t know if you can even tell who I’ve been with and how often. — In fact, there was some dispute over a knee-trembler in a bus stop in Inverness that I’d value your opinion on. — But I’m definitely not to your tastes.”

  A single flat tentacle, blood red and ragged like a badly cut steak, reached out slowly towards her. Morag swallowed hard.

  “But you’re not having him,” she said. “You will have to go through me first.”

  A second tentacle reached out parallel to the first, the pair making to encircle her head.

  “My card’s marked anyway, Kevin. Do you know what I did last night? Um, yesterday? I met one of the handmaidens of Prein. In Damnation Alley, Edinburgh. You know what I did?”

  Something moist – saliva? blood? – dripped from Kevin’s tentacle and onto the front pew.

  “Kevin, I put a double barrelled shotgun in her mouth and blew that gallus bitch’s head clean off. That’s right. Handmaiden of Prein. Boom. They sent me down here to get me away but it’s only a matter of time…” She stared him hard in the eyes. Not all of them. That would have been tricky.

  “I hope you understand what I’ve said. And I hope I give you bhuling indigestion.”

  The chapel door banged open. “Kerrphwign-Azhal!”

  Kevin reared and turned.

  “What’s happening?” said Biljit, eyes still covered.

  It was the silver-haired and hatched-faced woman Morag had seen in the office reception that morning. Grey. Mrs Vivian Grey. She had a clear plastic bag in her hand that held either the world’s worst packed lunch or a human heart.

  “Perisa ghorsri Yo-Azhal.”

  She emptied it out into her hand, bloody and wet.

  Kevin ran, staggered, flopped across the pew tops.

  “Vashan, vashan,” Vivian exhorted and then, at the last moment, threw the lump of meat into the Venislarn’s maw. The creature’s limbs folded up about the offering, overlapping and encircling as they all crowded in. It rolled to the ground, a giant leathery football.

  Vivian went down on her knees.

  “Uriye Inai’e. Uriye Inai’khi rhul’eh. Qa-qa urh lhau-ee Uriye Inai’e. Zhay te ayvh-ee shau.”

  Morag too knelt down and bowed her head and joined in the lengthy recitation of prayer. At some point, she fell asleep.

  “An encounter with the Venislarn can really take it out of you,” said Rod, passing a pint of something the colour of mud to Morag.

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “That’s exactly it. I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “I was just having a moment.”

  She sipped the drink. It smelled like an old lady’s wardrobe and tasted like creosote. She would hazard a guess that it was one those ‘real’ ales and, given that Rod also had a pint of the same, was part of a rich cultural heritage she ought not to insult.

  “What’s this?” she asked diplomatically.

  “Brew Eleven. A local classic.”

  “Liquid cobwebs,” said Nina unflinchingly.

  “Madam’s Red Bull and vodka,” said Rod and thrust a glass at her. “A load of chemical shite.”

  Nina and Rod had insisted they come to a place called The Old Contemptibles, a pleasingly old style pub to celebrate Morag surviving her first day on the job.

  “Won’t Vivian be joining us?” asked Morag.

  Rod winced. “Vivian isn’t exactly your social type.”

  “Crusty old sow,” said Nina. “We’d be lost without her but she’d rather be back at the office filing the paperwork on this one than…”

  “Celebrating our success?” suggested Morag.

  “Than anything,” said Nina.

  “Ingrid says she’ll be joining us later when we move on,” said Rod.

  “Move on?” said Morag. “I’m kind of jiggered. I need to get some food and crawl into bed. I’m starving.”

  “Ah.” Rod dug in his suit pocket. “Almost forgot.”

  He threw two foil packets on the table. Morag picked one of them up. “Perky Porker’s pork scratchings?”

  “There’s nothing better than a pint of brew and a packet of Perky Porkers,” said Rod.

  “He’s right,” said Nina. “Having literally nothing would be better than a pint of sock juice and a bag of hairy pig scrotums.”

  Morag resisted only a moment. Her brain had abdicated in favour of base desires. She opened the packet, stuffed a curl of roasted pig fat in her mouth and washed it down with the only alcohol to hand.

  Four pints later, Morag was in a cosier frame of mind and, by means she could not recall, their surroundings had transformed from the polished wooden panels of the pub to a curry house with neon-lit prints of Indian mythology and slippery leather seats.

  “Two poppadoms apiece, mate,” Rod was saying to the waiter.

  “Here comes Ingrid,” gestured Nina. “Be prepared to talk shop all evening.”

  Ingrid – technical support or Venislarn expert or something, Morag vaguely recalled – had swapped her cute cat and dog T-shirt for one that read ‘I am silently correcting your grammar as you speak’.

  “Is this me?” she said, gesturing to the empty seat.

  “We’re just ordering drinks,” said Rod.

  “Beer, please.”

  “They have a nice Long Horn IPA on draft.”

  “I’ll have something I’ve seen advertised on telly,” said Ingrid. “Proper beer.”

  “Proper! Morag, you’ll join me in a pint of the real stuff?”

  “I think I might also have a… a telly beer.”

  “Traitor,” he said, but was grinning as he said it.

  “How’s your first day?” Ingrid asked Morag.

  “Over,” said Nina firmly.

  “Looking forward to being presented at court?” said Ingrid.

  “We didn’t have a Venislarn court in Edinburgh,” said Morag.

  “Smaller city. Birmingham’s a kind of critical nexus point for the Venislarn. Big incursions back in the day which led to the setting up of the Dumping Ground, which now means we have more activity here. Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Fascinating,” said Nina coldly. “But back to important issues, if you had a hundred grand and only a day to spend it, what would you spend it on?”

  “Propping up our meagre mission budget,” said Ingrid.

  “No,” said Nina unhappily.

  “No?”

  “No. You’re spoiling the game.”

  “What game?”

  “The ‘what would you spend a hundred grand on’ game.”

  “It’s a game?”

  “It’s a conversation starter.”

  “I’m sorry, homey,” said Ingrid, taking a bottled beer from the waiter. “Am I harshing your buzz?”

  “Ladies, please,” said Rod.

  “But, Rod,” Nina moaned. “She’s talking shop. And she’s trying to be ‘street’ again.”

  “Word up, brethren,” said Ingrid, which made Morag snort with laughter in her beer.

  Ingrid chinked her bottle against Morag’s.

  “The court thing is a formality. Besides, Yo-Morgantus will definitely like you.”

  “Lois said that earlier,” said Morag. “Why will he like me?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “She said that too.” Morag looked at her menu and couldn’t remember if they’d already ordered. “Lois called me babs. Is that a Birmingham thing? I assume her accent is a Brummie one.”

  “She’s more Black Country,” said Rod. “Not quite the full yam yam mind. Nina’s a Brummie.”

  “Am not!” said Nina.

  Morag could see it was easy to get a rise out of Nina and her colleagues knew it.

  “Course you’re Brummie,” said Rod. “You were born and raised in Handsworth.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like I have the accent or anything.”

  “Really? What’s the number after eight?”

  “Nin
e,” said Nina.

  “Noine?” said Rod.

  “I say ‘nine’ not ‘noine,’” Nina protested.

  “Noine not noine?”

  “Why do you have to take the piss, Rod?”

  “Whoiy? No idea.”

  “I don’t make fun of your stupid accent.”

  “Nut’in’ wrong with it, that’s why.”

  “And the more you drink, the more ridiculously northern you sound.”

  “Bollocks,” he replied.

  “It’s true,” said Ingrid. “You sound like whatsisface when you’re drunk.”

  “Who?”

  “That actor who always gets killed in whatever movie he’s in.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. He died in Game of Thrones.”

  “Half of them die in Game of Thrones.”

  “Anyway,” said Ingrid, “you’re not the most northern member of the team now,” and pointed her bottle at Morag.

  “Edinburgh,” agreed Nina.

  “Actually, I’m from Fortrose,” said Morag. “It’s on the Moray Firth. That’s along from Inverness,” she explained to their uncomprehending faces.

  “Nice place?” said Ingrid.

  Morag shrugged.

  “We’ve got a cathedral which got demolished in the sixteenth century, an award-winning public toilet and, oh, a bit out of town is the Clootie Well.”

  “Clootie Well?” said Nina.

  “Mmmm. Mystical site thingy. You’re meant to wash an item of clothing in the well, hang it from the trees and it’ll cure whatever ails you.”

  “Does it work?”

  Morag thought about her parents for a moment.

  “Nope.”

  “Anyway, Scotland isn’t northern,” said Rod.

  “Rod,” said Nina kindly. “There’s these things called google maps and if you look toward the top of the screen –”

  “It’s a different country,” he said. “Doesn’t count.”

  “Sean Bean!” exclaimed Ingrid loudly.

  “Hmmm?” said Nina.

  “Head cut clean off in Game of Thrones. And he gets shot up in Lord of the Rings after he goes mad and tries to kill Frodo.”

  “He’s from Sheffield,” said Rod.

  “And?”

  “I’m clearly from Rotherham.”

  Morag picked up her beer and found it was already empty. “Are we getting another or shall we get the bill?” she said. This was met with laughter.

  “What?”

  “We haven’t ordered yet,” said Nina.

  “I’m sorry. So tired.”

  “And you’ve had a tough day,” said Ingrid.

  “So, let’s get some more in and order food and then get the bill.”

  “Aye,” said Rod and gestured to the waiter for more drink. “You know,” he said, “I’d be all right with going out like Sean Bean.”

  “In what way?” said Ingrid.

  “Dying nobly. Or for a cause. I don’t know, even if it’s a shitty death, to die for a reason. That’s more than most of us can expect.”

  A sudden sombreness descended on the table. Nina toyed with her glass silently as the waiter brought refills.

  “Your colleague…” said Morag. “Greg?”

  “In the line of duty,” said Nina.

  “How?”

  Rod stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head. “Couldn’t say. There wasn’t much of an autopsy.”

  “Some said that the Nadirian has taken up residence in the city,” said Nina.

  The name meant nothing to Morag.

  “That’s hearsay,” said Ingrid.

  “Point is,” said Rod, “he died.”

  He raised his pint.

  “I have no mouth,” he said.

  Morag almost smiled to see that some traditions were universal across the consular missions.

  “And I must scream,” they chorused in solemn reply, drinks held high.

  There was food. There must have been because Morag had smears of it down the front of her jacket.

  And there was a taxi. She might have called it with her uCab app but she certainly couldn’t remember telling him where she wanted to go. However, she was thoroughly inebriated for the second time in twenty-four hours and was heading towards forty hours without proper sleep, so the mistake was probably hers.

  The taxi pulled up in a dark street. “Thissit?” she asked.

  The taxi driver looked at her in the rear view mirror and said nothing.

  “My new home?” Still nothing. She tried hard to focus on the driver.

  “Didn’t you have a beard this morning? Or have you all taken a vow of silence?” Morag slid out of the taxi and just about kept her feet under her.

  Twenty-seven Franklin Road was directly in front of her.

  “Super. Better have a mahoosive feather bed, y’hear.”

  She got the outer front door key in on the sixth attempt, clawed her way hand-over-hand to the flat door. This one proved trickier. There were only three keys on the ring but she couldn’t get any of them to fit properly. She jammed the smallest one in, failed to get it to turn and whacked the door with her fist.

  “I just want to sleep, ya bastard.”

  She thumped the door again and this did the trick. The door popped open and she fell in. The open plan lounge — sofa, battered armchair, whopping great television on the wall — opened onto a kitchen-diner. Not only fully furnished, it had a lived-in look, a cosiness, ready for occupancy. The lights were on, the book shelves were fully stocked, even the fruit bowl on the coffee table was piled high with Terry’s Chocolate Oranges which were one of her favourite five-a-days.

  “Excuse me.”

  Startled, Morag whirled and connected the heel of her palm with the nose of the thickset man behind her. He cried and staggered back.

  “Who let you in, you twatting bawbag?”

  “That really hurt!”

  She shook her fists out angrily and adopted what she imagined was a threatening martial arts pose. Morag knew no martial arts, although she and her dad had watched a lot of Jackie Chan films when she was a child.

  “I’ve had the second worst fucking day of my life today and the worst fucking day of my life was fucking yesterday and I haven’t got any fucking time for creepy fucking housebreakers!”

  Before the weird burglar guy could even react, she grabbed him by the shoulder of his dressing gown, shoved him out the front door and slammed it shut.

  Morag threw the catch on the Yale lock and slid on the security chain.

  “Fucking cheeky fucker,” she said passionately to the closed door. “Fuck.”

  She staggered to the sofa. What she needed to settle her nerves was a glass of something strong or, failing that, a chocolate orange and a little nap. She sat down, contemplated the chocolate oranges and then decided that what she really needed to do was vomit and call it a night.

  She threw up in the nearest receptacle and then flopped on the sofa, her head finding a fat cushion by pure chance.

  Dressing gown, she thought as she slipped away. Weird.

  Tuesday

  Billy knew the power of names. He had many names himself.

  William was the name his mom – his human mother – had given him. She had wanted to have him baptised but the feds wouldn’t let her, but still, William was the name his mom had given him.

  He did not know who his father was, which of the samakha had sired him upon his mom, but Kari Trahald was the name whispered to him in the murky depths by Daganau-Pysh, the True Father of all the samakha.

  When he’d slit the head from Eazy Boy and become the leader of the Waters Crew, he''d taken the name B Shark and made sure people learned to fear it, because he knew the power of names.

  But behind his back and very rarely to his face, everyone called him Billy the Fish. He fucking hated that name but, in his heart, he knew it was the name that would follow him to his grave. He was Billy the Fish, as pale and silvery as the moon, except for two big
round yellow-black eyes.

  He had a coracle and he rowed quietly on the canal in the pre-dawn. To the humans it was the Warwick and Birmingham Canal, but this stretch was, in truth, the Daganau Vei, the home of Daganau-Pysh. It was known to local residents as The Waters. It was narrow but deeper than the earth and deadly cold. Billy paddled it with large feet dangling over the side, but never a ripple did he make.

  Billy moored up silently by the grimy towpath and went to an alley in the brick wall that you would not have seen if you had not known it was there. The alleyway was as narrow as the mortar between two bricks and simultaneously wide enough for anyone to walk through. Billy followed it through twists and turns, ignoring the broken gateways and padlocked doors that led off it and led to places both near and distant.

  At the alley’s end was a door. Billy stepped through and, when he closed it behind him, it was a clearly a doorway into the part-demolished shell of an old factory. The doorway was papered over with decades of posters for local nightclubs and had clearly not been opened in half a century.

  Billy was outside samakha territory, outside what they called Fish Town, and in the human city. B Shark or not, here he had to tread carefully. He pulled his cap down low and pulled the collar of his Dodgers jacket up to cover his gills and hurried to the arches of the railway bridge.

  In a seamless patch of black brick, he pulled out the one loose brick. There was a folded piece of paper inside.

  “There are enough mysteries in this world without us creating new ones.”

  Rod looked at Vaughn Sitterson across the consular chief’s desk. Vaughn didn’t look back. He never looked back, never made eye contact. If the eyes were the windows of the soul, then Vaughn’s soul had been shuttered and bricked up years ago.

  “I don’t like unanswered questions,” said Vaughn.

  “No,” agreed Rod.

  Vaughn also didn’t like unexpected visitors, employee expense claims, any form of genuine human interaction or, it would appear, any colour more daring than charcoal grey. Pale skinned, with mousey hair that looked thin enough to blow away in a strong breeze and a suit that was so ordinary it almost defied description, he seemed to aspire to invisibility. It was as though the man was in training to become a ghost and, until that day came, he would hide his gaze behind a tablet or computer screen or, in this case, behind a summary report on the previous day’s events.