Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  "What's that?"

  'Oh crap,' was Peter's first thought, followed swiftly by, 'what to do, what to do?' By now though, it was too late, as Richie's pale, slender hand had already dipped into the trunk and pulled out a much larger object, wrapped in a swathe of old rag. In a blur, Peter swept out his hand as fast as he could in an attempt to grab the object back from his friend. Of course she was too quick for him, moving whatever it was just out of his reach.

  "What is it?" she asked again.

  Shaking his head, knowing there was no way out now, he knew that he was going against pretty much everything he'd told the king.

  'Oh well... here goes.' Stretching out his palm upturned, he whispered,

  "Let me show you."

  Eyeing him suspiciously, eventually she passed over the object.

  "You have to promise not to tell another soul about this, Rich. Not anyone... really! He stood and waited, glaring 'daggers' (... you see what happened there!) at his friend.

  "You're serious?"

  "Deadly," he replied.

  "Okay."

  "Say it," he demanded.

  "IT!"

  Less than amused, he crossed his arms, the object securely hidden beneath them. After the shortest standoff in history, Richie eventually said,

  "I promise."

  Exhaling, not having realised he'd been holding his breath, part of him was disappointed that she'd said it, hoping that he'd get out of showing her what it was. With nothing else left to do, he laid the object flat on the bed, and started to carefully unwrap it. Having thought there could be nothing left to surprise her, the gasp of disbelief that passed her lips as she recognised what lay amidst the cloth, could almost have blown one of the three little pigs' houses down.

  "It... it... it... it... can't be! Can it? Aviva's dagger?"

  "It surely is," replied Peter, trying to sound nonchalant, despite the nerves he felt at revealing its existence.

  "Did your grandfather leave you this as well?"

  He just nodded.

  "Phewwww. Your grandfather must have been one hell of a dragon. I'd really like to have met him. Aleas, the Flaming Cross, and now this... I really don't know what to say."

  "Imagine how I feel," declared Peter. "The whole world's gone mad."

  "I can see how you'd think that. What's the glow surrounding it?" she asked, holding out her hand to touch it.

  Abruptly he pulled the dagger out of her reach, much to her disappointment.

  "What you can see is a mantra designed to contain the power the laminium radiates. It's soooo strong Rich. It makes you feel... invincible, all powerful, invigorated. It's hard to describe. Anyway, the mantra's there to stop all of that leaking into the surrounding environment. I think prolonged exposure would drive you mad."

  "I don't suppose..."

  "No!" he replied, before she even had a chance to finish.

  "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. It's not that easy to remove the mantra... even temporarily."

  "I understand," she replied softly, looking as though she probably didn't. "Anyhow, I don't know about you, but I've had enough adventure for one night. Shall we go and see what they're up to downstairs? Unless of course you've got some fully grown dinosaurs in your wardrobe that you were planning on showing me?"

  "No... that pretty much covers it!"

  "Thank heavens for that. I don't think even I could take much more. And there was me thinking that YOU would find my news shocking. Role reversal or what?" she laughed. "And don't worry, I'll do what I can to look into your parents for you... It might take a while though."

  "I know, and thanks. Are you going to tell Tank and Flash about ending things with Tim?"

  "Yes, I'll tell them when we go downstairs if that's okay. I just wanted to tell you first."

  "You do realise that it wasn't Tank that told the council about you both?"

  "Of course I know it wasn't him. I was just angry about being discovered, and lashed out. Don't worry... I'll apologise."

  "Brilliant," added Peter.

  By the time the two friends made their way back down into the living room, Tank and Flash had finished watching one programme and were now arguing over which of their favourite football teams would finish higher up the league, as they watched the sports news. It was a surprise to Peter that Flash even had a favourite football team. The ex-Crimson Guard announced that it was a recent development, since he'd become stuck in his human form, doing all he could to brush up on being human, he had discovered that he actually quite liked watching Premiership football, despite the fact that so many of the players were actually dragons. Plumping for a team to support that had fewer dragons than most and because he liked the idea of being called a GOONER, he'd chosen... ARSENAL!

  Managing to break up the argument with news of her own about the breakup from Tim, Flash told her he genuinely thought it was the best thing to do, while Tank gave her a great big hug as she apologised to him for the things she'd said after the laminium ball match. The three friends... now four... would have found it almost impossible to be much happier. Everything, it seemed, was back to normal, if the word 'normal' could ever be used to describe their lives.

  17 A Gremlin in the Kremlin

  Only having had a few hours of sleep after the vast amount of alcohol he'd consumed the previous night, his head felt it had been hit like a shovel. Nowadays it was very hard to find real Russian vodka, but those guys seemed to have had an endless supply of the very best stuff. The inside of his mouth and both the top and bottom of his tongue felt red raw, just as they should after what he'd imbibed.

  When he'd left his flat yesterday, the idea had been to try and drink away his worries. Well, that had been the plan on entering the usual bar that he drank in. Sitting there on the barstool, drinking watered down, cheap vodka, all alone, with only the barman for company in the early afternoon, he was deeply aware that most of the customers wouldn't arrive until much later on, one of the main reasons he frequented this particular bar. Deep down he knew that he was a very sorry drunk... an alcoholic in fact. It wasn't something he'd ever admit to, but somewhere locked inside his mind there was the tiniest voice in the darkest corner, afraid and alone, mouthing the word... alcoholic. Because he was a very sorry drunk, he liked to drink alone... to just sit on the barstool and knock back drink after drink after drink, all the time staring glassy eyed at the TV on the wall with the sound turned down. Occasionally the bartender would ask if he'd like the volume turned up. But he always refused, preferring his thoughts for company instead.

  The previous day had started no differently from countless others. Having drunk enough to make a normal man at least a little unsteady on his feet, he contemplated the future that lay in store for him. His gambling debts... oh his gambling debts. It had only started out as a bit of fun with some of his work mates. But how quickly it had spiralled out of control. First it was just as much as he could afford on a night out... the next month... half his salary... then... oh then! The offer to borrow from The Establishment... well, if you can call a hardcore, gunrunning drug lord's organisation The Establishment. It was just a little at first, enough to win back all he'd previously lost, and the interest on the loan. Or so he'd thought. It was easy really. He was a great gambler... or so he believed, but was just having some bad luck... which as any good gambler knows is bound to change sooner rather than later. At least, that's what he continued to tell himself. Not having been back to The Establishment for over a week now, he knew it was only a matter of time before he got a knock at the door. Having no savings, barely any possessions... save his desktop computer, his laptop and a few other pieces of hardware, there was certainly nothing that would even come close to covering the scale of the debt he owed to the very scary, and by now 'disappointed' men at The Establishment.

  As his feet crunched through the fresh snow, he batted fluttering snowflakes out of his eyes with one of his gloved hands, feeling the weight of his laden backpack through both his shoulders as he st
rolled past the awe inspiring Bolshoi theatre. Walking nearly two miles so far since leaving his flat, which although it doesn't sound much, in these temperatures it was a gruelling trek. With the weight of history from all the iconic landmarks around threatening to smother him, his mind returned to the previous night.

  Things changed dramatically when the other man walked through the door of the bar, and out of all the places he could have sat (don't forget the bar was empty), he sat down right next to me. I sat still, not acknowledging him at first, as he ordered a shot of vodka, and when it arrived he threw it straight down his throat. Immediately he spat it out, followed straight away by every curse I'd ever heard of, essentially telling the bartender exactly what he thought of his watered down excuse for vodka. I smiled at that. Of course it was watered down... name me one bar that doesn't do that? Catching my smile out of the corner of his eye, for a split second I thought his rage might turn on me... but it didn't. Asking me what was so funny... and I told him. He said he knew somewhere that sold the best original Russian vodka there was, and asked if I'd like to go there with him. I remember thinking about his question for an age. His face appeared friendly, if a little haggard. Dressed roughly, not dissimilar to me, his eyes... there was something about his eyes. Maybe he was wearing contact lenses, but the eyes themselves looked as though they'd seen so much... anguish, so much pain, so much... brutality. But still, at the time it seemed like an offer I couldn't refuse... and so I didn't.

  Looking back, the bartender's frightened face should have set alarm bells ringing. It didn't. Whether it was the cold or the watered down vodka that I'd already consumed, who knows... but on our journey, I really started to struggle. It was very unusual. My normally logical brain was having trouble functioning even on the most fundamental level, and it was only once we'd arrived at the building, and made our way down the slippery, cobbled steps, into the basement, that I realised I might be in trouble. By then, it was way too late.

  His friends, associates, call them what you will, welcomed me with open arms. It was surreal. There were scantily clad girls, champagne and of course exactly what he'd promised... vodka so smooth and strong that it would have been fit for any Russian king or queen. Time passed in a smoke filled haze. There were dice games, card games, drinking games... scantily clad girl games. I just sat and enjoyed the vodka. All track of time was lost, probably even before I'd arrived there. As quickly as I'd arrived and joined in the fun... everything just stopped. Like that, no warning... nothing! From out of the shadows a man appeared. It was dark, filled with cigarette smoke. The drink made me unsteady on my feet. I remember feeling sick and fighting the urge to puke. I can also recall feeling fear, genuine fear. I'd suddenly gone from being deliriously happy, to being afraid for my life. It didn't sober me up enough for what happened next. I sat down, not quite of my own free will, but it was a relief not to be swaying about. The man from the shadows limped over to our corner table. I say limped... I think it was limped. I'm sure he had a walking stick. The 'tap, tap, tap' on the wooden floor was the scariest thing in the world at the time. I was boxed in, crowded by so many large figures. They all seemed to know who I was, that I worked at the Kremlin, building computers. They had details about the construction, the guards, the other stuff, my bosses, the shifts we all worked... everything!

  Deep, heavy breaths crystallised in front of him as he continued his journey. Glancing over his shoulder at the Metropol hotel that he'd just passed on the other side of the street, its splendour jumped out at him and slapped him around the face, shouting, "You will never be able to afford me!" God he hated that place, with all its well dressed foreign visitors gliding in and out of the... now how did he overhear someone describe it the other day? Oh, that's right... 'amazing art nouveau masterpiece covered with multicoloured mosaics and sculpted stone'. At that very moment in time he hated it all. Despite the freezing cold, the snow and the wind, sweat positively poured off him... down his back, his neck, his legs, under his arms and he could feel his palms sweating like they belonged to an unfit, elderly squash player. By now he'd nearly reached Resurrection Gate; although it wasn't the original structure, it was an exact replica and usually inspired him each and every time he saw it. Not today.

  Another lungful of cold air forced him to splutter out a cough, jogging his memory back to thoughts of the previous night. The mysterious man had thrown something down onto the small, round, sticky table. Instantly he recognised it for what it was, despite things being a little... foggy. It was his marker. The marker for the loan that he had with The Establishment. His signature stood out like fireworks in the night sky, that and the amount... 1.5 million Russian Roubles, more than he could save and pay back in many, many years. Although he was scared, something deep down within him squeaked,

  'This is your chance; they want something.'

  How right that little voice had been, and thinking about things now, how tempting a swift death of his own choosing seemed, right at this very moment.

  Puffing away like he'd run a marathon, he was sure he could smell a tiny hint of vodka from the sweat dripping off his forehead and running down the side of his face. Thinking about cursing, nowhere within him could he find the extra effort or breath required to do so. As he wandered past Kazan Cathedral, he could see the mighty towers of the Kremlin, his eventual destination, dominating the skyline to the west.

  With his marker on the table in front of him, and very large, vicious men either side, he sat, waiting for whatever hand fate had dealt him. Death wouldn't have been too much of a surprise, having spent the last week or so contemplating just that, acknowledging that the gambling debt he'd racked up, along with the interest The Establishment were adding on, meant a lifetime of servitude and corruption, something that he'd gone to great lengths to avoid in the past. And now, all of that had been for nothing. As he sat, petrified, the man in the shadows explained how not only could he make his gambling debt disappear, but he could also potentially earn the same amount again, just for making one simple... 'delivery'. The word itself was innocent enough, but the way it was said was something straight out of a Godfather movie. They worded it like they were asking him, like he had a choice, but he was under no illusions. He WOULD be doing it. Nodding, he agreed to what they wanted, just hoping to leave and get away from that place. However... it wasn't that simple. He was to do it the following day, with only a few hours' notice... now, in fact. That's what he was on his way to do... on his way to work... to make the 'delivery'.

  He worked inside the Kremlin as a hardware technician, building computers from their base components. Hard drives, power supplies, graphics cards, cases, fans, monitors... these were all the tools of his trade; his machines were used by anyone and everyone in the top echelons of the Russian government. And here he was, caught up in God only knows what. The backpack he wore rubbed against his shoulders on the outside of his thick, dark jacket, as he approached the very ordinary looking door, an entrance that was deserted, mainly due to the ungodly early hour of the morning. Only a short time ago he'd been drinking that fine vodka and admiring scantily clad girls... now he was about to commit trea... He was too scared to even think it. Now, he was hoping to make a delivery, one that would, one way or another, shape his future.

  Tucked safely away inside his backpack were half a dozen hard drives and two external desktop drives, all shaped like books, one of which was not entirely as it seemed. This one was the delivery he'd been tasked to make. Taken back to his flat, given the hard drive and very specific instructions about what to do with it, he'd sobered up relatively quickly, and after showering had decided in the hour that he'd been left alone by the very scary men that he would, against their specific instructions... try and take a peek inside it. Using his highly crafted tools and knowhow, he'd managed to remove a tiny panel. What he'd glimpsed within left him in no doubt as to just how much trouble he was in. A digital display of red numbers counting down could just be viewed behind the circuit boards and wiring, with the
numbers not seeming to change according to any measurement of time that he was familiar with. Quickly, he put the panel back in place with the utmost care, loading it, with all the other items, carefully into his backpack. It wasn't unusual for him to take work home, and the backpack he wore had been specifically designed for the military elite to keep things dry and in particular... warm. As he passed through a very basic security scan (due to the delicate nature of the mechanical and electrical items that he carried) his mind sensed that he was almost the perfect delivery boy for whoever the shadowy man and his colleagues were. Unless anyone actually bothered to disassemble all his equipment, there wasn't a chance in hell that they'd know there was anything odd about it. That didn't stop him from feeling as nervous as a turkey in December.

  After mere moments, he'd passed through all the usual security checks and probably, knowing his employers, a few more unusual ones along the way. The guards had given him a nudge and a wink, smelling the potent vodka on his breath and from his perspiration. They joked at how much trouble he'd be in coming in still drunk and hung over. Just nodding, he played along... it didn't take much, as it was all true. But his focus remained solely on his delivery. Marching down the short corridor, all the time unzipping his black jacket, he was aware that he was sweating even more than before.

  'The heating in this building is ridiculous,' he thought to himself. It was always full on, even during the hottest part of summer. Having unzipped his jacket, he undid the top two buttons of his shirt and opted for the staircase instead of the lift as a means to get to his workshop, despite the fact that his body would rather not make the effort, his reasoning being that he was less likely to bump into anyone else in the staircase, although there were few people about at this time of day; because of the task before him, he felt safer not having contact with anyone at all.

  Strolling purposefully into the empty workshop, he quickly checked to make sure it was clear and that all the other technicians who he shared it with were nursing their hangovers somewhere else and would not be in for some time yet.