by Tony Moyle
“Any luck?” he asked the other two.
“Tongue my fart box…no…purple disease carrier…”
“Ok, Ian and I will have to fly up to the higher levels. John, you stay here and keep a lookout.”
The pigeons flew to the next row and started the process all over again, standing gingerly on each stone shelf. While John stood guard his attention was drawn to an area of level twelve that he had a personal experience of. The only metal box not suspended in the air above him was the one that had formerly been his. Its crumpled shell, beaten and broken, was sitting on the floor with its side open towards him.
As he approached it he saw the inscription burnt into the side. He visualised how the two remaining parts of his soul had combined to create it. How was the other part of him getting on? Was it busy? A wave of joy washed over him at the prospect that his neutral splinter was free from pain. The vengeful emotion took over. Was it fulfilling the tasks that he’d set for it in those dark moments trapped inside this metal tomb? Was it able to without the anger that sat here within him?
The rest of the metal boxes stood like pillars above him. He felt their pain like few people could. What had they done to deserve such a fate?
“I think I’ve found her,” announced Ian from the end of row three.
“Let me check,” said Sandy, flying up to join him. He whispered into the vase, “Who are you?”
“I am the shadow. Help me. I want my daddy,” came the distorted female voice from within.
“What’s your name?”
“Faith.”
“That’s her. Ian, help me get her down.”
“I love you…sexy hips…grrrr…naughty thoughts…we’re going to save you, Faith…” shouted John uncontrollably from a distance away.
John’s uncontrolled bellowing disturbed the only demon currently occupying level twelve. It wasn’t a surprise that the animals hadn’t spotted him. As demons go, he was the smallest of the lot, although this was a recent accolade. A thin line of sand dribbled from one of the thrones and made its way slowly towards them. As it closed in on them it rose from the ground to produce an action figure-sized version of Mr. Silica.
“Put that down,” he said in a voice so squeaky the pigeons were convinced he’d been sucking helium. “That used to be one of my kneecaps.”
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN -
THE FOLLOWERS
“Victor, I need you to bail me out,” came the repetitive message like a stuck record. “You can’t run from me.”
Victor hadn’t run any further than their Monaco bolt-hole. It was thinking not running that Victor was attempting through the constant interruptions provided by the Devil’s telepathy. The boat experience hadn’t been pleasant. Dodging bits of yacht swirling around a rough sea he could cope with. Avoiding a major police investigation that surrounded the events of the previous day was also not a problem. But being stuck between two omnipotent beings knocking six bells of shit out of each other was concerning even for him.
What if he was on the wrong side? Surely the right side was the one with the biggest pile of cash. Byron certainly had enough of that. Yet this Baltazaar character, who appeared to go by the name Donovan, was clearly not someone to be messed with. Would every assassination attempt involve this old man reading his mind before he had to dodge the aftermath of a storm that gathered above him? His health insurance definitely didn’t cover ‘Acts of God’ let alone ‘acts of Satan’.
“You know I can just melt my way out of this cell, don’t you? Of course that would require the death of a dozen innocent people and someone to scoop them off the floor afterwards. It’s your call.”
“Ok. I’ll come.”
“There’s a good lad. No point wasting more life, is there?”
“Where did Baltazaar go?”
“Who knows? He has the list. The only way he can protect them is by moving them around.”
“What do we do about it?”
“Until we can work out how to stop him we’ll have to go after someone that’s not on the list.”
“But they’re all on the list.”
“No, there’s one who isn’t.”
“Who?”
“Faith is out there somewhere. We just need to find out where. You found Violet and Fiona before. Can you find them again?”
“Does a casino always win?” said Victor confidently.
*****
Keeping up with Nash wasn’t as easy as it had first appeared. Following a car was easy enough. Following a ferry, not so much. They had travelled incognito in convoy almost the entire length of the United Kingdom until there was no land left. In Penzance, Nash dropped his hire car off and made for the ferry port. That’s where David lost him. The destination was the only thing he knew for certain. The Isles of Scilly.
It was too risky to board the same ferry, so he was forced to watch the ship sailing into the early autumn greyness from the safety of the pier. By the time he’d booked onto the next crossing, a day later, the trail was cold. It wasn’t the only thing that dropped in temperature. Over the course of twenty-four hours the climate had changed from grey and drizzly to black and tempestuous. As he boarded the shabby-looking ship, a relic built decades before he was born, his feet struggled to deal with the constant swaying. He descended the staircase to the bottom deck to find somewhere to hide or strap himself down.
David was accustomed to mountains, not oceans. At altitude there were few that would compete with his stamina or ability to breathe normally. Whilst most of the other passengers were content to drink coffee, chat amongst themselves or read their newspapers, David already felt sick and they’d not even left the quayside.
The two and a half-hour journey aboard the Scillonian was less comfortable than being transported inside a giant washing machine filled with boulders. The rain lashed the windows and the boat shook with no familiar pattern. Sometimes it would lurch forward, sometimes side to side, and occasionally up and down as well. This random discombobulation was being repeated tenfold inside David’s body, and he was convinced one of his vital organs might be forced to jump overboard.
Lacking emotions didn’t stop David feeling sick. That reaction was purely physical. Growing up in mountains didn’t really prepare you for seasickness. This was the first time he’d been at sea in his whole life and the algorithms in his head were busy building a new set of procedures. The result of which was to indicate, in future, that he wasn’t a fan.
The relief of reaching port at the other end distracted his attention from the yellow and grey colour that had taken up residency across his face. He stumbled onto the dockside as the land successfully convinced his legs that they were still being pushed up and down like the pattern of a cross-trainer. In an age of Health and Safety disclaimers he considered complaining to staff of a lack of signage describing the journey as ‘more uncomfortable than passing your organs through a sieve’.
“You ok there?” said a middle-aged, plump lady with thick-rimmed spectacles, who was standing at the top of the gangway in an official jacket.
“I’ll come back to you on that,” said David, wiping the sweat from his face with a napkin. “How do you deal with seasickness?”
“Probably take the plane,” she said with a chuckle.
David took this advice seriously and added it to the recently formed algorithm on the subject. “And if you already have it?”
“Depends who you talk to,” replied the woman. “Some promote eating ginger. There’s also a theory you can get rid of it if you roll the balls of your naked feet over a piece of wet fish. Personally I eat olives. Works for me.”
In response to this random local knowledge, David felt olives was the best call. Holding onto the stone wall that prevented all seasickness sufferers from plummeting into the water, he shuffled his way along the harbourside and into the bosom of the island of St Mary’s. The location for the island’s main harbour was Hugh Town and as he passed under a stone archway a pub was the first building in si
ght. The craving for olives briefly overtook the need to vomit.
Pubs never used to sell olives. They sold beer. Occasionally you could buy a pork scratching. You knew where you were in the old days. Petrol stations only sold petrol, florists only sold flowers, and gift shops only sold shit that nobody needed. In this modern world you can buy a lawnmower from a supermarket, coffee in a bookshop, and still nothing of any value whatsoever from a gift shop. Finding olives in a pub was as certain as finding a granny in a bingo hall.
David pushed the door open and swayed in, hoping his bodily tremors weren’t mistaken for someone who’d had ‘one too many’. As an eleven-year-old he didn’t frequent pubs very often and wasn’t versed in the age-old etiquette of pub membership. Camouflaged by the horse brasses, beer mats stapled to the wooden beams, seafaring memorabilia and weathered furniture, the scattering of people inside stopped to mentally criticise the young newcomer. That an unfamiliar person would have the gall to enter their pub! Their church. If the atmosphere was unfriendly, it was nothing compared to the landlord.
“What-you-wan?” he garbled, holding his barrel-shaped belly in order to stop it rolling away. Most of his features were dented by some presumably horrific dart-throwing incident and a smell ran around him like a perimeter fence. A sign on the wall extolling the ‘good local beer’ and ‘traditional food’ had been fixed hastily to the bar by Sellotape and the word ‘hospitable’ had been crossed out, seemingly because no one could spell it, and replaced by ‘friendly’ staff.
“A lemonade and a pot of olives please,” replied David, not in the slightest bit concerned by the undercurrent of hostility being aimed in his direction.
“Yo-takin-the-piss,” replied the barman, scratching his arse as if that was the normal procedure when someone placed their order. “This-a-pub, not-market.”
Evidently the Scilly Isles could not be placed in the bracket of places collectively known as the modern world. When most people still travelled by foot and you were cut off from the mainland by thirty miles of sea, evolution was always just a little bit slower. Everything here moved at a slower pace. Although in relative terms if you asked the islanders they’d say everything on the mainland moved too fast. Right or wrong was purely based on your preference.
“Ginger beer?” asked David tentatively, hoping his second choice of cures was available before he resorted to taking his shoes and socks off and heading to the nearest fishmonger.
“We-got-ging-beer,” replied the barman, leaning around to the fridge and presenting David with the full glory of his loosely attached trousers and overexposed buttocks.
David paid for the drink and sat as far away from the locals as possible. He was surprised to find that the ginger beer did have a calming effect on his motion sickness, and as he finished it his mind moved to other matters. Where was Nash? Did he live here? He clearly disliked being reminded of his past days of celebrity. Maybe this was the perfect place for him to remain unrecognised. It was a small community, it was possible someone in this pub might know who he was. Every move David made was analysed by the patrons as if they had nothing else in their lives to keep their attention. As he approached each one they shied away from him in case he was infected by some horrible foreign disease.
As he momentarily caught their eye he asked them a simple question, but no one admitted to knowing a Nash Stevens. That was until the proprietor overheard the conversation.
“Ya-looking fa Dr. Stevens?” he said gruffly over a swig of his pint, only some of which reached his mouth.
“Yes,” replied David. “I didn’t know he was a doctor, though.”
“Came-ear bout a year go. Not a proper doctor, I don’t fink. E’s a carer, looks-afta my-ol mum.”
“A carer. Right. Where will I find him?” asked David.
“Oo-nose-he travels round all-the islands dunn he. Fink he do Bryher on a Mondee.”
“Thank you for the information and the ginger beer. Did the trick for my seasickness. How do I get to Bryher?”
“Well ya nee to ger-a boat.”
“Can I get two more ginger beers as takeout please.”
*****
The journey to Bryher aboard the Firethorn was a lot calmer and more pleasant than the one he’d taken this morning. Sheltered by the islands that dotted the sea, the water had none of the anger and malice of the open ocean. The strategy of a bottle of ginger beer before and one on landing also seemed to work as intended. The smaller vessel glided above the surf as it sped from the harbour, where he’d arrived earlier, to a smaller isolated ‘off’ island, as they were referred to.
There was none of the engineering prowess to this quay. A short wall jutted out along the beach into the sea, only accessible when the tide gave permission. No town or pub welcomed him as he disembarked. The countryside and sandy beach, shimmering from the beams of sunlight, were the only welcoming party. In the distance, almost hidden from sight amongst the hedgerows, was a small, isolated chapel.
Normal people might be overcome by the warm feeling of tranquility presented by this beautiful simplicity. As a deeply rational person, all that David questioned was what exactly he was doing there.
As the handful of other passengers strode confidently into the island, David stood on the sandy, concrete pier staring at the island’s vista.
“Are you a pirate?” called a child’s voice from the water behind him.
A small boy, wearing a bandana and holding a wooden sword, sailed skilfully up to the concrete wall. His small boat paid little interest to what the sea demanded, instead moving obediently on the commands of its captain. The vessel barely shuddered as the boy stood up and brandished his blunt, wooden weapon in David’s direction and waited for a reply.
“No. I’m not a pirate. Not sure I could be with my seasickness. Looks to me that you are more dressed for the role?”
“I’m a pirate catcher,” said the boy without the slightest bit of irony in his voice.
“I see. Is that an official job or are you a vigilante?”
“It’s unofficial. But this is my island and I will protect it.”
“Well, it is a very lovely island from what I have seen of it so far. What are you protecting it from?”
“Danger. Pirates. Former Prime Ministers and uninvited guests,” replied the boy, reeling off a well-rehearsed list of undesirables. “Are you any of those?”
“Well, I’m uninvited, I suppose,” replied David, avoiding the fact that part of him had been associated with a former PM and that ‘dangerous’ was a rather ambiguous descriptor.
“In that case I will need to report you,” said the boy.
“If you must,” said David. “What’s your name?”
“Captain Scrumpy,” he replied, stretching his body up to his full four-and-a-half-foot height and saluting an invisible crew.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Captain Scrumpy. My name is David Gonzalez. Who are you going to report me to?”
“The boss, of course.”
“And who would that be?”
“One of my mothers.”
“You have more than one?”
“Oh yes. I’m very lucky I have two mums, an aunt and a sister,” he replied with more information than he’d intended to.
Scrumpy enjoyed his unofficial role as protector of the island. It wasn’t a particularly taxing one. It involved playing around the island by land or sea and interrogating anyone who landed who wasn’t on his list. Like a bouncer at the door of a nightclub anyone not pre-approved would be assessed for their suitability before being allowed entry. It wasn’t often that people weren’t on that list. Tourists tended to be interested in the bigger islands, where more exciting events occurred. There was the occasional bird spotter or walker that landed, but they didn’t look like David.
In Scrumpy’s opinion David didn’t look equipped to be here. He had no luggage, inappropriate footwear and no binoculars. A lack of binoculars was a sure-fire sign that someone was up to no good. Suspicions
set to maximum, only one factor kept him from running to the boss. This was an opportunity to speak to another boy. It was always women and girls that Scrumpy had for company. The girls in his life didn’t really understand adventure and expeditions. This young man looked like he was on one and that made him just a little curious.
“Why are you here?” he asked, simultaneously tying his boat to the pier.
“I’m not sure, really. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Nash Stevens. I hear he works on the islands.”
Scrumpy knew immediately who David was referring to, but his mothers had always trained him to gather information before he gave any away. “Why are you looking for him?”
“That’s a good question. I guess I’m on a quest,” replied David, sensing that this boy knew more than he was letting on and calculating that the best way to find out was to stoke his interest.
“I love quests. I’m always going on adventures. What sort of a quest is it?” replied the boy moving closer up the shoreline and sitting on a marbled rock that protruded from the beach.
“Revenge,” said David. “Discovery. Possibly even damsels in distress.”
“Oh, exciting! I’m not so bothered about the damsels, though. Revenge against who?”
“Lots of people. I have a list.”
“Can I help?”
“You might. Are you gallant enough?”
“Of course. I’ve fought pirates and rescued prisoners. I’ve stormed castles and solved mysteries. I’m very brave.”
“I’m sure you are,” replied David, as the boy brandished his sword against unknown foes. “Tell me, why did you say you were protecting the island from former Prime Ministers? That’s a very specific threat.”
“There’s one that might come here. My mothers have told me to keep a lookout for him. I knew you weren’t him, though. You’re not the right size. He’s a big, fat man with glasses, always smoking.”
David recognised the description immediately but not the motive. “Why might he come here?”
