The Sirens - 02

by William Meikle

  "The Fairy Queen took me to husband," he shouted, sitting bolt upright. "Let the festivities begin."

  Then he burst into tears.

  I used my blouse to bind the worst of the wounds, and wrapped him in the blanket.

  "Can you drive?" I asked my recent conquest.

  "Aye," he said, almost absently. He was looking at Patrick with a mixture of sorrow and horror.

  "There's a doctor in Portree," he said finally. "We'd better take him there."

  Even as we bundled Patrick into the beetle the crowd was drifting off, and over near the campfire the bongo drums started up again as the party kicked back into life.

  "And you'd better get a jumper or something," my new partner said, smiling. "You can't go through the town like that."

  I was bare-chested. In fact, I had thought little of it, but now I could feel myself blushing. I made a hasty trip to the tent and, as well as putting on a high-necked shirt, I bundled my small store of belongings into a shoulder bag and left, saying a last goodbye to the tent. My hippie experiment was officially over.

  During the ten-mile drive to Portree I discovered that my partner's name was Tommy Mason, that he was a fisherman, and that he was terrified.

  "It should have been me," he kept saying. "It should have been me."

  I didn't have time to quiz him. Patrick was shivering all over his body although it was a warm night. He kept screaming gibberish about the Fairy Queen and the sowing of the seed. By the time Tommy pulled the Beetle up outside the doctor's house he was lost in a fever dream, screaming and gesticulating at an unseen attacker.

  The doctor wasn't best pleased to see us, but one sight of Patrick and he became the medical professional. Patrick was whisked away to a back room while Tommy and I stood in the doorway, unsure what to do next.

  To my surprise he took my hand, and gripped it tight, as if afraid to let go. He led me into what was obviously the doctor's living room.

  "It should have been me," he said again. Then, as if in awe, "You saved me from it."

  I asked him what he meant, but he went quiet on me. But he didn't let go of my hand, not even when the doctor returned.

  "He'll be all right," the doctor said. "The cuts look worse than they are, and he went to sleep on his own. Just as well, really, for I wouldn't have been able to give him anything...not with the rubbish that's in his system already. What was it...mushrooms?"

  "I don't know," Tommy said. "I only had beer."

  The doctor looked in both our eyes for long seconds, then nodded.

  "Maybe," he said. "But I'll have to report this to the police. It looks like an assault to me...and a brutal one, at that. Or is there something you want to tell me, Tommy Mason?"

  Tommy shook his head. The 'lost boy' look was back in his eyes. Even then I think I realized that my job for the foreseeable future would be to keep that look at bay.

  The doctor picked up the telephone...and at the same time, across the night, the strange ethereal singing started again. Tommy's grip tightened until the pain was almost unbearable, then all sense went out of his eyes and he went limp. He started to walk out of the door.

  I pulled him back towards me and held him tight, but he was too strong for me, and started to pull me across the floor, dragging my weight behind him.

  "Help me," I said to the doctor. "Before it happens again."

  "Best to just let him go, lassie," the doctor said, shaking his head. "It should have been him earlier, instead of that poor wee boy in my treatment room. This is what Tommy was born for. She's come for him, and only he will satisfy her."

  I wasn't really listening. Tommy was getting closer to the door, and the singing was rising to a frenzy. Using all my strength I managed to pull him slightly off balance towards me, and once more I clasped him in a tight hug.

  The singing grew to a cacophonous wailing, and Tommy's struggles became frantic. Just at the point where he finally managed to struggle out of my grip there was a crash behind me.

  Something came into the room. At first I thought it was someone playing a joke...it looked initially like a man in a rubber suit, and the effect was completed when it spoke.

  "My Queen. I am coming," it said.

  And that is when I realized it was Patrick...but a changed, ruined, version of the man. Where he once had a beard he now had a forest of spines. And his skin looked like nothing more than dried up, cracked leather. Clear puss oozed from splits that grew longer with every move, and as he walked past me, starting to run, I saw small nubs grow on his back, nubs that grew and spread so that by the time he reached the door he sported a serviceable pair of leathery wings.

  "I'm coming," he called again, and jumped into the air.

  At first it was as if he might defy gravity, and he hung, three feet up, as the wings spread, casting a dark shadow over the garden to the front of the house. Then he gave an agonizing squeal, and fell.

  What came back down was no longer Patrick. In fact, it was no longer much of anything. It hit the ground with a wet thump.The legs buckled under it and melted...there's no better word for it. The torso seemed to fall in on itself, and the head followed, all in a heartbeat. Within a second there was only a heaving puddle of brown tissue that writhed, just once, then was still.

  It was suddenly quiet, and then Tommy went limp once more and fell into my arms.

  The doctor spoke first, and he seemed to be addressing Tommy.

  "She'll be back," he said.

  Tommy pulled himself together.

  "Aye. But I'll not be here."

  The lad turned to me.

  "Take me with you," he said.

  "I don't know about that," I said. "But I'm going back to Glasgow. You're welcome to join me for the ride...I've had enough. I'm off."

  "You can't go," the doctor said. "It's your fate."

  "Fuck fate," Tommy said. "Tell Gus it can be beat."

  He took my hand, and led me to the Beetle. I tried not to look at what lay just outside the door, but it seemed to draw the eye. It looked like the hide of a recently skinned animal, steaming lightly in the night air.

  "Remember to tell Gus what I said," Tommy said to the doctor as he got into the Beetle. "Tell Gus that fate can be beaten."

  And off we went, driving like the devil was chasing us, barely pausing for breath, all the way back to Glasgow.

  * * *

  She stopped talking, staring into space as she smoked the last puff from another of my cigarettes,

  "And?" I said.

  "And that's about it," she said. "We got back to Glasgow, got married, had John, and lived a miserable life for the rest of poor Tommy's days."

  "Why miserable?" I asked.

  "Tommy rang Skye one day, about three months after we left, when I found out I was pregnant. He was so proud of himself, so happy that he was going to be a father. They say that pride goes before a fall...well, Tommy fell all right. He fell a long way. He found out that his brother, Gus, had gone the same way as Patrick, two nights after we left. He never forgave himself. Gus left three bairns behind. Tommy and I offered to go back, but we were told to stay away. So we did. All those years we stayed away. But now it's happening again."

  Tears ran down her cheeks, and I left her in silence for a while, giving her another cigarette which she smoked all the way down before talking again.

  "We thought everything was all right with John...even forgot about it for a long time. Then, last year, he just upped and went...to Skye. I think you can guess the rest."

  "I can guess, and fill in with what John told me...although it's hard to believe...especially in the 'Sons of Loki' story."

  "Oh, he told you that..." she said. "I heard that one from Tommy. But I always preferred to consider it as some kind of genetic mutation...somehow it let me think about it without getting into anything supernatural."

  "I'm having a hard time thinking about that 'thing in the car park'," I said,

  "That thing is my son," she said. "And remember, I'm paying
you to get him back to Skye."

  "You can have your money back if you like," I said, only half joking.

  "You're a man that honors his deals," she said. And again, it wasn't a question.

  "Aye, maybe," I replied. "But I might need an elephant gun to do it."

  She took my arm and led me back into the bowels of the hospital, but all the way back, a germ of an idea was beginning to grow,

  "One question," I said as we emerged back into the A & E reception. "Have you heard mention of something called 'The Source' on Skye?"

  She looked at me blankly. The hippie-chick adventuress was gone, and the old lady with a reputation to maintain was back. In truth, I was pleased. Little old ladies I could handle, but when you have to think of them bare-breasted and sexually active it was like catching your parents during sex...theirs, not yours.

  "Let's see if your pal is ready to see us," she said. She stormed over to reception and demanded to see a doctor. To my amazement the blue-rinse receptionist gave in meekly, and two minutes later a tired-looking youth in a white coat came out to speak to us.

  "You can speak to him now," the doctor said. "But we'll be keeping him in for today...he lost a lot of blood and is very weak. He's been moved to the recovery room...it's..."

  "I know where it is," Jessie said, and once more the old lady led me through the warren.

  Doug was sitting up in bed, but he looked barely alive. His skin was alabaster white, almost as pale as the bandage that swathed the full length of his arm. He managed a thin smile.

  "Two hundred stitches," he said. "It's fun to get out of the office. Remind me not to protest so much the next time."

  I moved over to the bedside, and we had one of those awkward moments that happens between men when they have emotions but no way to let them show. I settled for holding his hand, trying not to let the tears come. He gripped my fingers tight.

  "I'm okay," he said. "And the drugs have kicked in, so I feel no pain."

  We both knew there would be plenty of that later, but now wasn't the time to talk about it. I just hoped the drugs would work for a while to come.

  He waited until the doctor left us alone, then asked in a whisper, "Did we get it?"

  I shook my head.

  "The Police are going to be in to talk to you, and..."

  He waved his good hand at me.

  "The bear has been in already. Junkie burglar?"

  It was the old lady who replied.

  "Best I could manage at the time, son," she said. She moved over to his bedside and gave him a hug. "I apologize for my boy John. He's not been himself recently."

  Doug was the first to giggle but once he'd started I couldn't help but join him. She looked at us in bemusement for a second, before she too joined in. We only stopped when Doug's eyelids started to flutter.

  "Shit. I think I've got to sleep now," he said, and off he went, as quick as that.

  I bent over to check him, and his eyes opened.

  "Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein to Tremors in three," he said, and fell fully asleep, chuckling to himself.

  * * *

  When we got back to reception I was surprised to see it was already daylight outside.

  "I'd better get you back to my place," I said to Ms. Malcolm. "It's not safe back in Govan."

  "Och, don't mind about me," she said. "Half my bingo pals are in here for one thing or another. There's plenty of bedsides for me to visit...and I know where to go if I need a kip. No. You get off and get some rest. I want you out looking for John as soon as you're able."

  She wasn't to be argued with. She left me with a wave and headed off back the way we had come.

  "I see you're still lucky with the women," someone said behind me.

  It was the old glass-eyed janitor.

  "I used to be a ladies man myself. But I gave up. Too many sons...not enough time to look after them."

  He went back to mopping the floor, but as I walked past he reached out and gripped my arm.

  "I hear things, son," he said. "Be careful. You don't know everything. Not yet."

  And before I could answer he bent and started mopping the floor, whistling a tune I took some time to place. I couldn't remember the title, but the composer was definitely Wagner.

  7

  The low morning sun slanted at a narrow angle into my brain and threatened to lift off the top of my head. As I headed for the Land Rover I realized I'd been living on adrenaline since the encounter outside the flats. I was a mass of aches and bruises, and it was a Herculean effort just to put one foot in front of the other. I was tempted to sleep in the car, but that was just inviting a policeman to start asking questions, and I didn't have the energy for that.

  I drove, slowly, through the morning rush-hour traffic and parked behind the office. I was heading for the front entrance when the advertising board for the morning paper caught my eye.

  Junkie Mayhem in Govan. Three Dead, it read.

  Even then I was almost tempted to walk on by, but Old Joe must have seen me. He came out of the shop at a rush.

  "Christ, Derek. What happened to you?"

  He almost dragged me into the shop, where he slapped a packet of cigarettes into my hand.

  "Free smokes for a story?"

  I was too tired to argue. I leaned on the counter, smoked a cigarette, and gave him the same story that the old lady had given to the police. As I was telling it I realized I was doing the right thing. Joe would spread the story far and wide, the police would hear it from different people, and maybe even believe it.

  "Is Doug okay?" Joe asked when I got to the end.

  "He'll live. Whether he'll ever leave the office again is a different matter. Now if you'll forgive me, I need some sleep."

  "You certainly do...you haven't even asked about this, yet," he said, tapping the paper. "You were lucky, son. It looks like the same bastard that got Doug got three other poor buggers."

  "Anybody we know?" I asked, as if that mattered.

  Joe shook his head. "Naw. But one of them was Police. I don't fancy the junkie's chances when they catch him."

  My brain started to connect the dots, but the pencil wasn't working. I took a newspaper, dragged myself up the endless staircase to the office, and locked myself in.

  Three minutes later I was asleep.

  I don't know what finally woke me, but by the time I opened my eyes again it was getting dark outside.

  My back complained when I sat up, but it wasn't as bad as I was expecting it to be. My nose felt like a new growth of my face, but it also was not as bad as expected. After a sandwich, a shower and a change of clothes I felt almost human.

  Which was just as well. It was time to start earning my fee. I took the gun with me...just in case.

  * * *

  In any big city there are places the 'cognoscenti' go when they want something out of the ordinary. The City Vaults in Glasgow is one of those places. It is a run-down bar on the edge of Maryhill, a dank, dingy, drinking hole with battered 1960's furniture, tattered linoleum flooring and a pervading smell of tobacco, stale beer and fresh urine. If you wandered in searching for a warm welcome and friendly discourse you'd be sorely disappointed...this place served a different purpose. Things that fall off the back of lorries ended up here, as did men who knew men that rigged horse races for big bookies. Anything was traded, from truckloads of booze and cigarettes to lion cubs. It was rumored that the Ministry of Defense were short of a Chieftain tank, and that it 'passed' through this pub. I didn't disbelieve it.

  I nodded to the barman, and he nodded back. I knew his name, and he knew mine, but it was an unwritten rule in here. No names...not if you wanted to do business. I ordered a beer and took it to a barstool at the end of the bar. Another unwritten rule. I was looking for something, and now everybody knew it. As I sipped my beer I was checked out by most of the people in the bar. Time would tell if anybody would be willing to get involved with me. I was a 'name' in this part of town, and that sometimes worked aga
inst me in situations like this. But my part, however small and unwitting, in getting Arthur Dunlop out of town during the Amulet case had won me a lot of brownie points in the black economy.

  For a while nobody seemed interested apart from a kid who wanted to sell me four hundred bottles of perfume.

  "It's guid stuff," he said in a broad accent. "None of your rubbish, by the way. It's French, and ye ken whit they're like we' the smelly stuff. Fair gets them goin' so it does. Only a hunner quid if I get rid of it tonight."

  I turned him down. He only shrugged and moved to the next table behind me.

  I drank my beer and waited. Eventually a man I knew by sight approached me. He nodded, I nodded, and we got down to business. I told him what I wanted, and he sucked his teeth.

  "Tricky," he said. "It might be tomorrow before I can get it."

  "Fine. How much?"

  He named a figure that seemed too cheap for what I was asking, we shook hands, and it was all done in less than a minute.

  "I'll be in touch," he said.

  "Do you want my number?" I asked, and from the look he gave me I immediately knew that I'd almost made a faux pas. He shook his head and walked away. I took my beer away to the other end of the bar. Within a minute someone had taken the seat I just vacated. I finished my beer, nodded to the barman and left.

  My next port of call was another bar. The Halt in Great Western Road had been a regular haunt for years. The manager Dave and I went back to the time when I dropped out of University and he gave me a job behind the bar. I had stayed there for two years, completing the journalism correspondence course by day and serving the punters by night. I knew from experience that Dave had many contacts in the underworld and wasn't above more than a bit of dodgy dealings. There was little that went on in Glasgow that Dave didn't get to know about, and he'd helped me out before... not least when telling me where to find the Johnson Amulet. I was hoping he'd be as much help this time.

  "The usual, Derek?" he said.

  I nodded.

  "But just the one. I'm working."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "I heard. How's Doug doing? I sent him some fruit."