“I just want to get out of here, clear?” I enunciate the words for my tricky audience, and to hide the tremble in my voice. The crowd breaks into a chorus of croaking, until the female restores order by thumping the ground with her hand. The air sacs on the giants’ necks immediately stop inflating, and disappear like slimy bubbles on the surface of a swamp, replacing the previous debate with a collective hum of breathing. The Oda takes a few steps closer to me, with no clear signs of hostile intentions. I stand still and gulp.
“You no scratch,” the head of the clan addresses me, surprising me with pretty decent language. Wonder why it interests her so much.
“No, no scratch.”
“You can go.” She delivers her sentence swiftly, expertly squashing the subsequent croaks of disagreement from my guide. ‘He killed my friends’, they must be saying in protest. After the umpteenth exchange of incomprehensible grunting, the guide lowers her head and invites me to follow her with her hulking great hand. Hesitantly I follow her in this surreal environment, with hundreds of black eyes boring into me, I’m in a cold sweat. We walk the length of the room keeping close to the wall, passing in front of the clan’s sharp, threatening teeth. Apart from my feet, the only other sounds I can here are the crackling flames of the bonfire and the chorus of gasping. Anybody would crap their pants in this situation, surrounded by dozens of telephone boxes with mouths as big as manhole covers. When we finally enter a new tunnel, I heave a sigh of relief and blaspheme. From here, the rest of the journey is very short, unless my guide has simply stopped making me go round in circles, hoping to find help.
We come out into an old abandoned cellar, there’s a manhole in the ceiling. Access to the underground complex is via a simple hole in the wall, barely big enough for an Oda to get through. Presumably, it would be mistaken for one of the City’s numerous examples of structural instability during a routine inspection.
The grey giant, on the other hand, slips through with surprising agility. Unlike myself, I clumsily look for stable bits to grab hold of, accompanied by the occasional gasp for the pain the Onirò still hasn’t blanked out completely. The creature even offers his hand to help me get out, but I respond by pointing my gun at him, making him retreat a few steps.
I leave the Oda at the foot of the manhole, and throw caution to the wind in a bid to get back to my old banger as soon as possible. There’s quite a lot going on in the square, which means that it must be morning. Some ragbags look interested when I walk past, intrigued by my face, all black-and-blue, but no one wants to get into trouble. It’s clear to all that I got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning. I hop into my car, lock the doors and finally allow myself to breathe. I got out alive this time too. I should go and make a donation at the Temple of Zadro, the God of luck. I pull out the package of dope and look at it with satisfaction.
Surely Zadro will still be happy enough if I snort a couple of nice fat lines off the back of my hand. I reckon.
So, what is it, Thursday or Friday? Right, Friday
Following the report, it takes twenty minutes for the immigration squad to arrive. ‘Lieutenant Arkham from the Guard has discovered a clandestine nest of Odas who kidnapped and consumed innocent citizens’, the newspaper article could have said, perhaps adding something about me not heeding the risk of the structure collapsing and my contempt for danger. Inevitably, I ended up doing my good deed of the month, it keeps the captain sweet, enhances my prospects of promotion and appeases what is left of my conscience. As a bonus, my stash was guaranteed for a good long while, I had a good excuse for skipping two days’ work, and, the icing on the cake, the same excuse was valid for not going in to work the following week. Well played Arkham. I was very pleased with myself indeed, this sensation was undoubtedly amplified by the generous snort I had only a few moments earlier. Not that I didn’t deserve that moment of relaxation, of course.
The nurse, who insisted on putting a blanket round my shoulders and making me comfortable inside the ambulance and took care of the cut above my eye, was full of admiration for my heroic refusal of an anaesthetic while she stitched me up. The only reason I said no was because I was already sedated, but she didn’t know that. The immigration officer was somewhat pessimistic about the possibility of catching the Odas, they had already blocked the exit I escaped through. The clandestines were probably already emptying the caves, and escaping through alternative tunnels to who knows where, it’ll be hours before they manage to unblock the entrance. They could have maybe caught some of them making their escape. Useless wankers.
I took advantage of this compulsory break and called Cohl, who surprised me with the unexpected news that MetroPo had managed to catch Betto; a patrol car parked on the ramp on Seventh caught him with false ID while he was trying to get out of the City and head south. Our hero was driving down the hard shoulder: for once the council’s constant thirst for driving offences had proved useful for the coffers. I let the boy go, and gave him permission to grill our dear friend, take him a new toothpick and if resources could stretch to it, a nice cup of coffee as well. I would have seen to the bad cop part soon enough.
The nurse’s insistence that I went home, at least have a shower and change my clothes highlighted the sorry state I was in. Crumpled clothes, blood-stained collar, a button ripped off my raincoat, all held together with sweat. Going home was out of the question, but new clothes were essential, so I made another call and went to wait in the car. A line and a couple of cigarettes.
There isn’t a lot to do while the council workers are still busy clearing the rubble. When she arrives, I’m messing about with the immigration lot, who are smoking, drinking coffee and discussing football while they wait. As usual, all eyes are on her.
Dark glasses, bright lipstick. The Brunette is walking quickly despite heels, she’s practically running towards me. Mini skirt, a mink jacket which hugs her hips and offers a good view of her cleavage underneath. I stop to ponder the mole on her cheek and her milky-white complexion. Just when they’ve all stopped drooling and started to wonder who the lucky bastard is, the Brunette throws her arms around my neck and kisses me. She doesn’t hold back. No doubt when our lips separate, she has already found out how happy I am to see her by copping a feel between my legs, so I only go as far as giving her a greedy look. She reciprocates with a worried expression, lightly touching the cut above my eye.
“Arky, baby, have you been fighting again?”
“For a good cause, honey,” I answer in a husky voice, pulling her close.
“That’s a nasty cut…” she purrs, brushing it with her lips. A shiver of excitement creeps up my spine. Quickly, we get the change of clothes from her car and put it into mine, then I pull her into a nearby alleyway and push her against the wall, lifting her skirt as high as I need to and bypassing the thong underneath. It’s a very satisfying quickie, perfect for putting a nightmare adventure in the company of slavering cannibalistic monsters behind me.
Clean and ironed, my new clothes have a rejuvenating effect. They’re a tad too elegant for work, even if they aren’t among the most expensive ones I keep at her house. The thing is, she’s a classy woman, refined tastes, and she likes wearing things which reflect that high level. So, as well as spending a bloody fortune on her clothes and jewellery, as well as always having a bit of Onirò with me to spice up the evenings, as well as paying her rent for a flat which is on a higher level than mine, I also have to fork out for designer suits which I only really wear when I go out with her. If I think about it objectively, I sometimes think that the Brunette costs me too much but, every time we meet, she reminds me that it’s money well spent. We’re not exactly a couple. Let’s say that that she’s my woman, in the sense that she doesn’t let anyone else fuck her and she’s always available, but she’s completely uninterested in my private behaviour. According to the way I see marriage, she’s the same as a wife but without the characteristic drawbacks, financial rights and kids. No ‘I want more respect’, ‘That’s
enough of your whores’, ‘Come and visit my mother’. Of course, despite the fact that we have grown fond of each other over the years, our relationship is predominantly business-based. All right, I admit, a few years back I did want it to get more romantic, then, with hindsight, I think it’s just as well it didn’t. Let’s be honest: I’m not the monogamy and slippers type. I’m more of a run-ins with murderous stripping elves type. I fill Eton’s baggie again and give her the packet of Onirò wrapped up in my dirty clothes. Better not go around with ten years’ jail time in the pocket of my raincoat. We say goodbye with another passionate kiss, and the Brunette slinks away with a hypnotic wiggle.
I sigh and light a cigarette. Break over. I haven’t been in a MetroPo station for at least six months, and I haven’t missed it. The usual hordes of sentients, with or without handcuffs, rhythmically crash into the officers, like waves pounding unstable cliffs. At least every two minutes someone starts screaming, every three minutes someone decides it’s the right time to resist arrest or attempt to escape, inevitably getting bogged down in the throng. In Nectropis there’s a crime reported every thirty seconds, even though, according to estimates made by a copper representative, a crime is committed every twenty seconds. As for me, I’m always amazed that there are still so many people who bother to report crimes, despite the authorities’ obvious inability to keep the peace. What’s more, many of these policemen have already thrown in the towel, consequently refraining from providing a regular and efficient service. By combining all these factors with the adverse weather conditions, which have condemned the City to another day of darkness swiftly turning worse just before the hours of daylight, the result is this muddy, noisy, foul-smelling enclosure.
I’m able to benefit from the relative quiet of the offices which are isolated from the general public after waiting a good five minutes for the end of an old man’s hysterical rant. He’d come to report his neighbouring half-ogres who’d killed his dog, and then as if that weren’t enough, they’d left the body to rot on the window-ledge. I bump into Cohl wandering up and down the hall, with a cigarette in his mouth, pressed so tightly between his lips that it’s perfectly parallel with the floor.
“How long have you been a smoker?” I go up to him and join him at the coffee machine.
“Lieutenant! How are you?” he asks, concerned, looking at the fresh dressing on my forehead.
“I’m tired, and I need a shower. Apart from that, the usual. That cigarette?” I insist.
“Oh, that, well,” he explains, holding it between his thumb and index finger and looking at it like it’s absurd and improbable. “I gave up at the academy, then, when I arrived in Nectropis, I started having one every now and then…”
“The City has that effect.”
“Which is?”
“It screws you hard and all over. Scientists say it’s because of the darkness. Did you get anything out of Betto?”
He shrugs his shoulders, indicating the vending machine.
“He’s the first person I’ve met who enjoys this swill. Personal preferences aside, he says he wants a lawyer.”
Nohl’s not happy, but he’s not surprised either. I mean, the kid’s been here a month and he hasn’t achieved a fucking thing. After only three days with me he starts to understand that there’s only one way to get results in this sewer. It’s no coincidence that it’s my result, not his. Although his mental slowness is plain to see, the kid’s grown on me, a little like a zit on your arse. It’s probably out of pity.
I enter the interrogation room, where I find the usual mirrored window, the usual bolted down table, the usual two chairs and the usual ugly, arrogant bastard sitting on one of them, whom I distract from his fascinating contemplation of his own dick-head face.
“Here’s the other one. Bet he’s come to ask me where the Spire is.”
I sit down slowly, trying to be friendly and polite. I feel like an Oda in a tutu.
“I’m here to give you some advice concerning your safety, Mr Siten. The wanted man is a mentally unstable murderer, and you could be in danger.”
Betto fakes a shocked expression, just to take the piss. He swivels his toothpick so it’s pointing upwards, just missing the tip of his nose. After hours of fruitless stalling and cops who are apparently incapable of organising a piss-up in a brewery, the owner of Cicisbeo starts to feel cocky, and suspects that underneath all this, we haven’t got anything substantial against him.
I go along with it and let out a resigned, well-acted sigh.
“We can’t keep you here any longer. But you need to know that if you choose not to collaborate, the metropolitan police cannot guarantee your safety.”
“I’ll take that risk, pal,” the pimp retorts with a cheeky smirk, right before standing up and heading for the door. While he can’t see me, I start rolling up my shirt sleeves. At the door, Betto tries the door handle without success.
“The door is still locked.”
I land a one-two right in his kidneys just when he’s about to turn round to complain more loudly. He falls to his knees, slides down the door and cracks his forehead on the door handle. His beloved toothpick makes a run for it, rolling dangerously across the floor. I grab him by the nostrils and drag him over to the table leg. While he’s writhing around, I finish rolling my sleeves up and take out another cigarette.
Betto finally gathers up enough strength to say something. How odd, just a moment ago he had the situation by the balls, and now it’s all turned to shit.
“Are you mad? You won’t get away with this, my lawyer…” He coughs. I wanted to let him finish but it sounds like he hasn’t got anything else to say.
“Your lawyer’ll have a problem. You see, you said you didn’t want any help from the police. Interrogation is over, and my colleague on the other side of the window has turned the video camera off. This means that you got the shit beaten out of you the minute you left the station, we really can’t do anything. Like you said Betto. You took that risk. It didn’t work out.”
Now, Siten’s eyes are like those of a deer caught in the headlights.
“I’m not going against the elves,” he slobbers, sat in a messy heap on the floor.
What’s needed here is a kick in the face. After the impact of my foot on his chin, Betto’s head exactly hits the point between the table top and the leg. Perfectly accurate. The ball goes back to being immobile, marking its position with a red stain.
I push the table away, so I can crouch down right in front of his agonised face.
“Elves. You’re such a dick-head, do you know that? Do you know at least why that pisshole for crack-heads you call ‘Cicisbeo’ is the only place in the city that boasts an elf stripper?”
The rusted up cogs inside Siten’s brain start to creak and turn. A drag on my cigarette and I flick the ash directly into his face.
“Because, as a rule, elves don’t take their clothes off, or at least not for money. But Gilder is a bit of a special elf. His family booted him out, and he hasn’t got a penny to his name. Gilder is a nobody in the City. And you’re worried about him? You shouldn’t. But you know what you ought to be focusing on?”
I force him to look at me by squeezing his cheek with my left hand. My gun is in the other.
“The trigger-happy crazy cop with an alibi.”
Rats taken by surprise by a lorry on the motorway always end up the same way. The same goes for low-level amateur bullies, it’s the same story, apart from the fact that before they are reduced to a pulp they generally get the chance to say what I want to hear. Invariably, they settle for the option which is unavailable to the rat: dodge the lorry.
“He was running away.” At last he gives in, gingerly dabbing at his split lip with the corner of his shirt.
“Go on.” I press him, blowing smoke in his face.
“I don’t know much. It all happened quickly, out of the blue. As soon as he finished his number, he came to me wanting his money for the night’s work, saying ‘I’ve finished
, Betto”. I told him to wait a minute, so we could talk about it properly, and I came over to your table.” He stopped for a minute to sniff. “But when I went back to the dressing-room, he was already dressed and he’d packed his stuff. He went on and on so I gave him his fucking money and I asked him to do the last two clients, at least that. Before he decided to smash up my club and get me into trouble with you cops, his plan was to tell you lot to fuck off and then disappear for good.”
“Did you see what was in the bag?”
“His things, I suppose. How should I know?!”
“Do you know where he lives?” I’ve asked this question too many times over the last few days. Investigating. What a waste of time.
“On the northern edge,” nods Siten, “I can give you the address.”
I doubt that Gilder is so stupid as to hide in his own house, so a new address isn’t much but it’s better than nothing. The other thing Betto remembers about him is that up until recently, an elf came to pick him up at closing time in a runabout car. Judging by the description, the elf—“quite a piece,” the pimp specifies with a knowledgable air—is most likely Inla, or one of the Lovl’Atherons anyway. He remembers her clearly because before he saw her he was positive Gilder was queer. He wasn’t sure about the name. The description of the car, decidedly less accurate, doesn’t narrow down the field of investigation by much. It’s a common model amongst the working classes in Nectropis, and without a registration number it can’t even be called a clue.
When I get fed up of hounding him (not that soon) I retrieve his chewed-up toothpick and ram it in his mouth, hoping that it hurts him.
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 10
