Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

  I leap out from behind the mattress and open fire on the giant. The first hit gets him right in the chest, but it’s not enough. Ignoring the wound, the beast lets out a deafening yell. I slightly adjust my aim, the Altra spits more lead. The yell is abruptly cut short when the nine millimetre calibre shatters three yellowed teeth and enters his skull through his mouth, spattering the ogre’s brain onto his companions who are stuck outside.

  The spurt of sticky liquid forces them to look for cover, downcast by the death of what must have been their leader. It’s always the biggest one in the group, if you think about it. That must be why Ugube is a hippo.

  One of those in the hallway is talking excitedly in their native language. Despite the dense slang I can work out that he’s calling for help. Ugly business, as Beron would say.

  I try to work out the exact position of Mr Chatterbox. Listening to his voice I reckon he’s right next to the door hinges, which are just hanging there now, completely useless. I make a rough guess and shoot at the wall dividing the room from the hallway. It’s just a thin partition wall.

  He yells, falls and we both fire off shots. His aim is obviously off, it hits the ceiling, way off-target. I’m not going to give him a second chance to redeem himself. I can hear running in the hallway and furious grunts.

  “These aren’t professionals, though…” I replace the magazine, nearly empty—one shot left—it slides into a position with a clack.

  Right, I’ve got to get out now. It’s not hard to come up with a plan, despite the unrealistic hammer of gunfire produced by the other pig, designed to hold me back while the back-up gets here. Options are thin on the ground anyway.

  There’s the door, which is obviously unusable.

  Then there’s a window which looks out onto the heart-wrenching balcony above the railway tracks.

  Two floors up. I’ll kill myself.

  During a break in the shooting I hear the recorded voice in the station announcing the main stops of the next departing train. I can see the roof through the bars of the railing. If I can manage to jump onto it I could reduce the fall by one story. The sliding glass door has already fallen victim to the ogres’ shaky aim… a leap and an acrobatic number worthy of a flying squirrel should do it. I’d better wait for the next hand grenade.

  Some random shots in the general direction of the door to hold them back, then I’m off.

  First a small leap to get my right foot onto the handrail. I push down as hard as I can to project myself off it. The time I spend flying through the air feels endless.

  I land hard, the carriage produces the noise you would expect from a huge tin tambourine filled with hysterical passengers, ready to scream at the slightest movement.

  May the Gods bless Onirò, their greatest gift. Bruised all over but free from injuries which hinder my movements, I jump again, this time off the train and over simple wire netting which separates the back of the hotel from the railway tracks. Some people waiting on the station platform, point in amazement, their eyes wide; but as vain as I am, I’d rather not stop to sign autographs. I land awkwardly, fall against the wall and accidentally bang my elbow, but I’m still standing.

  I find myself in a narrow channel, the ground is concrete, between the wire netting and the wall of the building. The heels of my shoes echo when I run. The braver occupants of the carriage watch my mishaps, intimidated by the gunfire. With my head down, I dodge the shower of death coming from the ogres who have followed in my footsteps as far as the balcony, but they seemingly daren’t go any further. Frustrated orders and swearing foretell my successful escape when I turn the corner into the main part of the courtyard, the car park for hotel guests.

  They left a guard at the entrance, the sap of the day. He heard the gunshots but hesitated at the wrong time. Maybe when he opened the car door with the revolver in his hand, he thought: ‘this is it, my big moment’. Then I burst out from behind the building and blasted his guts out without batting an eyelid. He rolls out of the SUV, a dead weight, dragged out by the lead inside his belly. I fire at one of the tyres on their car and jump into my vehicle.

  My banger is old, but she’s reliable. The mafia gang, who have thundered down the stairs in an attempt to cut me off, rattle off their last bullets against the side of my car.

  It’s clear that those hours of sleep could not go unpunished. But these here are six more legs of ham, added to the eight from yesterday.

  “Whatever happens,” I can feel the pain coming back with a vengeance, “I paid a high price for my skin.”

  What a consolation.

  Once I’m a safe distance away, I give myself time at the traffic lights to have a snort, to nip the pain in the bud. It’s green and a car overtakes me, honking its horn. The Altra jumps into my hand now at the least sudden noise. Underneath every wide-brimmed hat and hiding in the darkness, everywhere I look I see a bullet with my name on it falling to the ground. When it bounces off the tarmac it will play my requiem, the Banshees will weep their ecstasy. My mother will have an excuse to drink more and the Brunette will find herself some rich chump to keep her in the lap of luxury. Lonadir will split his sides laughing, but for centuries to come, filled with deferential brown-nosers, he will miss my style. Or maybe he’ll just laugh.

  That’s quite enough of that, it isn’t productive to think like this. It’s not over yet, it’s just the paranoia of an Onirò addict, whose brain has gone to mush. I’ve got myself out of situations worse than this.

  The defeatist side of me reminds me that no, that isn’t true.

  The café in front of the Lovl tower car park turns out to be a self-service place, designed for the employees working in the tower, clean and decent but devoid of eccentricity. There are also a couple of young elves with manes of red hair sitting at the head of two different assemblies. They’re most likely getting experience with the lower ranks of administration, and they’re trying to look friendly and polite towards the staff they’ve been assigned for training purposes. Soon they’ll learn that the terror provoked by asses is far more efficient for getting people to collaborate, but I do appreciate their efforts. Maybe I attribute such noble motives to them because they’re good-looking, and they are plotting who knows what wickedness while using humans like pawns. It’s not such a far-removed idea, seeing as how the world is going. Plus, it’s Sunday, people should be at home. They could be optimising their salaries by having meetings outside office hours. I wonder what it’s like during the week, all the suits rushing to get a plate of pasta, everything in a hurry, trying not to stain their shirts so as not to waste their lunch break. Then I surprise myself by imagining that those two elves and the others at the tables are simply two friends, an absurd idea. As if they could be friends with members of inferior races. For them, the world is a stage and humans are simple extras. At best, I believe they feel that level of affection for us that other people feel for a pet.

  I watch the queue of people move slowly forward past the chilled salad and thick-cut roast beef. Every now and then I check Cohl’s position, who spontaneously offered to get me a couple of sandwiches while I have breakfast. “Spontaneously” at my insistent request, sweetened by the promise of exciting revelations. So he joined the queue and announced that he had also found out something important. I thought to myself, why ruin the surprise for him? First I’ll let him happily tell me all about the progress he’s made, then I’ll blow him away.

  The Inspector comes back with a tray loaded up with food.

  “So, who’s going to go first?” asks Nohl, with the confidence of a hustler with an ace up his sleeve.

  “Go ahead.” I dig into the first sandwich. I’m famished. The physical activity required for flooring seven ogres calls for something more than a piece of coconut.

  “I squeezed the informers, and something came out.”

  “Uhm.”

  “Do you know Pupone from the Seventh?

  I shake my head to say no.

  “He hangs out in a bar n
ear Cicisbeo. Anyway, it turns out he knows Gilder by sight, and he remembers hearing that he belonged to a group of political activists Freedom and Justice, Equality and Freedom, or something like that.”

  “Go on.”

  “So then I made a few calls, thinking that the elf had maybe asked his family to conceal him. Within the anarchic circles there are rumours that the Freedom Front are hiding a fugitive elf, and that they are planning something big. A showstopper, do you know what I mean?” he explains, gesticulating excitedly.

  “That ties in with what I know.” I attack the other sandwich.

  “Unfortunately, nobody knows exactly what it’s about, but…” He smiles and pauses for dramatic effect. “… I’ve found out where to meet one of them. He’s a regular at another bar on the Eighth, in the north-east. He gets drunk a lot and talks too much.”

  He’s waiting for a round of applause which never comes, but I do give him an encouraging ‘good work’.

  “What did you find out?” he asks, intrigued by such benevolence, which is in fact designed to flatter.

  I devour the end of the sandwich and have a drink of water.

  “You’re absolutely right when you say it’s something big, even though I can’t say what it is exactly either. But it’s fucking big, I can guarantee it.”

  I leave him on tenterhooks a little longer while I sip my water.

  “Gilder knows a secret of vital importance to the elves, and I reckon Inla was aware of it too. The elders are prepared to do anything to protect it. They have already tried to kill me twice since I last saw you.”

  “The elves?!”

  “Not directly, of course. Hired assassins. Ogres.”

  “What, just like that, in the street?!”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you got away without so much as a scratch?”

  “Hardly. I almost died.”

  Cohl realises that there’s more to it than that. In fact, it’s not even the most important part. He can see it in my face, and I don’t try very hard to mask it. In the meantime I try to think of the best words to use to persuade him to follow me, without compromising the secrecy of my private habits.

  “You need to think very carefully kid. If you decide to go on, you’ll have to stay until the very end, and I can’t guarantee your survival.”

  “This is the most incredible thing I’ve heard so far!” He thinks this is funny, the bastard. “You mean, you’re trying to protect me? ‘Hardman’ Arkham?!”

  It’s embarrassing to be so good at faking it. At times you do some really humiliating stuff, and even if you know it’s just a deliberate act to manipulate the victim, you still feel like shit. I keep my expression grave, I watch him laugh his stupid head off. The hilarity culminates with an emphatic ‘how sweet’, and evaporates when he returns to being aware of the danger involved.

  Order is resumed, we stare at each other with serious faces.

  “This is no joke, Nohl.”

  “I’m touched, Lieutenant, I really I am. Your real feelings towards me are so sweet!”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “Okay, okay. So, you didn’t actually think that I would throw in the towel now, did you? What, did you want the TV cameras all to yourself then? You can forget it. Nothing will make me drop this case, as the Father is my witness!”

  I take a moment to assess his level of sincerity. There is anxiety in his eyes, intertwined with stubborn determination. When there is real need of this indomitable willpower, the determination to survive, that latent fear could triumph and sentence us both to death. But underneath all this, he’s just a kid. It’s only natural for him to be a bit scared of kicking the bucket, at the same time he also feels as though he has to show what he’s made of. This is his chance, the ship that will never sail again.

  “My car’s had it.” This is the made-up explanation I offer for the hotel ambush. “So we’ll have to take yours. It won’t exactly go unnoticed but at least it won’t get jumped by the mafia.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to get The Spire to sign our poster.”

  “You managed to track him down?!”

  “Yep.” I’m so cool, says my smile.

  We leave the self-service restaurant with an heroic spring in our step, galvanised by the prospect of a pyrotechnic death. I think that Cohl is harbouring the naive belief that we will come out on top. After all, this is his ship. It wasn’t difficult.

  “I’ll drive,” I suggest when we approach the Fiamma.

  “Very funny.”

  “Wait! He told me to go alone. You’ll have to hide.”

  “No one drives my car except me.”

  “Oh sorry, are you worried she’ll fall in love with someone with a driving licence?”

  He cackles.

  “Come on, give me the keys and lie down in the back.”

  She behaves very well, does this 1600. Smooth gears, holds the road well. The hybrid engine uses fuel to stimulate the elementals of fire. The harnessed spirits produce enough energy for constant driving at a moderate speed. The result is a great sports car, 300 on a straight stretch. She was the perfect candidate to replace my old banger, on the black market I could have got one for fifty or sixty thousand. But it won’t do now.

  Cohl’s got one.

  What kind of a man would I be if I copied a baby?

  “If we get a fine from the speed cameras, you’re paying, clear!” He nags at me from the back seat when I perform a harmless U-turn in the middle of the road and drive over the traffic island.

  I check we’re not being followed.

  “How does a crappy cop get his hands on one of these beauties?” I ask, gunning the car through a red light, shouting towards Cohl. The fire spirits make such a racket when they gallop. Flaming hooves on the tarmac, vroom! This is brilliant.

  I’m easily amused, I am.

  “It’s rather embarrassing actually.”

  “Did you nick it off your girlfriend?” I snigger.

  “Tell you what, I’ll tell you, if you tell me your name!”

  “All right then, tell me.”

  “My parishioners had a whip-round when they found out I was leaving for Nectropis,” he bellows, red in the face from trying to make himself heard over the engine, “a present to remember them by!”

  “Bitching mother!” I slam on the brakes.

  Cohl tumbles off the back seat and onto the floor.

  “Bitching mother…”

  “Right, now that we are not dead, you’ve got to tell me your name.” He sticks his face into the space between the two front seats, questioningly.

  “All right then,” I say once I’ve recovered from the shock. “I’ll tell you when we’re absolutely sure we’re not dead.”

  “Sounds like a good reason to stay alive to me.”

  Now that I’m “sure we’re not being tailed”, I adopt a softer driving style, underlined by the placid music which in turn is enhanced by the impeccable sound system. Rounded sounds of resignation of a new Monday seen many times before, and the programming for the agonising afternoon ahead. We keep moving nearly the whole time before the appointment. Neither of us feels much like making conversation. We let ourselves slide towards the void without any memorable remarks.

  “Fucking parish…” I grumble from time to time.

  Great car, though.

  The rain has intermittently survived last night, in the shape of sudden, violent showers. A wall of flying filth swathes the Edge. The headlights reflect off the wet film of, allowing for visibility of only a few metres. I’m forced to drive slowly and park too close to the house.

  “You stay here and keep an eye on the road, Cohl. Don’t let anyone see you.”

  “Try to be quick in there.” I pull out my gun.

  “If I get into trouble, I’ll fire a shot.”

  “Superb coded sign. How long should I wait before I start worrying, if you don’t come back?”

  “Let’s say fifteen m
inutes. If everything goes smoothly, we should be best friends by then.”

  I pull the collar of the biker jacket up round my ears as protection, and leap onto the step. The police tape is still intact, but I manage to wriggle between two lengths of tape without breaking them. I try the handle, the door is open. One last glance towards the car, the kid appears to be peeking out of the back window.

  I draw a long, deep breath and bend down when I go in. The light in the hall is switched off, but one of the wall lights in the living room creates distorted shadows. In the name of diplomacy I resist the temptation to take out my weapon and instead I make my way through the gloomy landscapes by the assassinated painter. Many of the canvases are crooked, left like that after Cohl’s domestic rape, he certainly didn’t waste any time tidying up after himself. A dead wife, the house vandalised… pieces of pizza on the floor… I mean, if it happened to me, I wouldn’t be in much of a good mood, that’s for sure. I’d better not go running in, waving a gun.

  Gilder is waiting for me, on his feet between two piles of books. Underneath his cape he’s wearing light, dark clothes. His belt immediately catches my eye. What at first glance looked like a flashy buckle is in actual fact the hilt of a silk blade. Too chunky for the purpose of simply holding his trousers up, the belt is in fact the sheath for the blade, which is wrapped round his waist, ready to strike. Unless the rabbit has developed a hump over the last few days, he is carrying a small rucksack under his cape.

  “Welcome to my humble abode, Lieutenant Arkham. I do apologise for the mess.”

  “Don’t worry, Goldilocks, I feel right at home.

  “Let’s try and get off to a good start. Please do not call me that.”

  “All right, Spire.”

  The fact that he still hasn’t stabbed me means that he doesn’t want to, so I can get some of my disapproval of him off my chest.

  “Enough of this annoying small talk. Let’s talk about us.”