Kill Fish Jones

by Caro King

  Fish couldn’t believe it when the curse demon fiddled with the oversized watch on its wrist and disappeared. Especially as it vanished right about the time that Jon was telling them about the cottage on the moors.

  ‘Nothing for miles but empty heath. If you can get lost anywhere, then it’s in Crow’s Cottage! Time itself would pass you by in that place. My parents liked to go there when they felt life was rushing by too fast. When my father died he left the place to me, but what with one thing and another, Emily …’ he paused for a moment, his face twisting briefly, ‘… and I haven’t been up there for a couple of years.’

  ‘And you think we might be safe there?’

  ‘If you can be safe anywhere. It’s been deserted for a while so it will be in a state, but we can clean it up and stay there for as long as we need to.’

  Susan glanced at Fish, who nodded. ‘It’s worth a try, Jon,’ she said. ‘Besides, what have we got to lose? If what you say is true, then every moment that passes, our lives are in danger here. We might be under this horrible threat wherever we go, but then again, we might outrun it.’

  ‘We can take Reg’s van,’ said Marsha. ‘Load it up with as much food, clothing and bedding as we can and off we go. Won’t take long. We can be on the road by this afternoon.’ She clasped her hands together and her cheeks looked flushed with determination. ‘Don’t worry, dears, we’ll manage somehow.’

  Susan smiled. ‘I have to say, Marsha, you are coping with this far better than I would have thought.’

  Marsha shrugged and sent a glance at Fish, the memory of his stern glance yesterday afternoon suddenly fresh in her mind. ‘I think I finally woke up, Susan. This is really happening. I’ve lost my beloved Reg, and the only family I have left in the world, the people I care about, are in danger. If living in a fallen-down cottage at the end of the world will save us, then my best china, my chandeliers and my upholstery can go hang!’

  Jon smiled at her, the first real smile Fish had seen from him. ‘That’s the spirit! Now, I’ll give you the address and the keys. Here, I’ve already drawn you a map.’

  Fish reached out, took the map from his hand and began to study it.

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ asked Marsha.

  ‘Not till I’ve seen Emily decently buried. If I survive that long, I’ll follow you, OK? And if I’m not there in a week … well, you’ll know it’s got me.’

  As they headed to the front door to wave Jon off, Fish noticed a loud whining noise that he hadn’t registered before, though he got the feeling that it had been going on for some time. When he opened the door he immediately saw what it was. Some men were high up in the tree outside Marsha’s house, busily shearing off branches.

  Jon shook hands and said goodbye, giving Fish a long look and a thoughtful smile. Fish knew that look; it was the one he got from people who had worked out that he knew things that they didn’t, and who felt that what he knew was somehow important.

  ‘Whatever happens to me, I wish the three of you well,’ he said. Then he turned and walked down the path and out of the gate.

  They watched him go. At least Fish did until he caught sight of a by now familiar shape lurking under a rhododendron bush. Horrified, he turned his eyes back to Jon and saw death gathering over his head in a silver cloud.

  It all happened very fast.

  In a nearby garden, the boy kicked his football for the last time. Instead of going over the hedge to land in next door’s flower bed, it hit a stone at exactly the right angle to bounce left, strike the gatepost, hurtle through the air and land smack in the face of a youth on a motorcycle coming down the road. The startled youth lost control and the motorcycle went into a short skid, crashing into the back end of the truck, which in turn shunted into the tree. Happily for the men from the council, they were attached to the tree by a safety harness, but unhappily for Jon Figg, both of them, simultaneously, lost hold of their electric saws.

  The ragged-toothed, shining blades swooped through the air, arcing over one another as Fish yelled, ‘GET DOWN, JON!’ at the top of his voice.

  He was just a fraction too late.

  8

  THE GREAT BOOM

  Fish sat quietly, watching while Susan answered the policeman’s questions. In between consoling Marsha, the policewoman checked on him once or twice to see if he was all right. He smiled at her and nodded, though he was not all right at all. Fish’s world had always been a strange and difficult place, alive with things that nobody else could see, but now it had become more than that. It had become full of death and the terrible fear of loss.

  And more. Since Jon’s death a faint shadow had begun to coil around his mother’s body like a misty scarf. He knew what it was. Despair, or at least an Avatar of despair. If it was allowed to grow, it would darken and thicken until it became a demon in its own right, a cold, grey shadow-snake twined so tightly around her that it would crush her soul. He had seen them before, woven around, and through, people in the street. The people with dead eyes and lonely faces.

  At least the creature didn’t have eyes yet. He hated it when the things he saw could see him right back. He worried that when it had grown enough to have eyes, it would have got such a firm grip on his mother that it would never let her go.

  On top of all this, Fish was keeping a careful eye out for the curse demon. He knew instinctively that it would always be there at the kill, so that meant they were safe as long as it stayed away. Even so, every unexpected movement made him twitch inside and whenever he had to do anything he kept bumping into the furniture because he was so busy trying to watch everywhere at once.

  When the police had gone and Marsha had come out of the bathroom, they all sat for a moment.

  ‘Right,’ said Marsha eventually. ‘You two had better get a move on if you are going to the shops.’

  ‘Why? Why, Marsha?’ cried Susan. ‘It’s too big, too far beyond our understanding. Wherever we go, it will find us. We could keep running and running until we die of exhaustion, but we will never escape. You can’t get away from fate, everybody knows that.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and gazed hopelessly at the table.

  Fish watched in agony. He knew what was tearing her up inside most. Because she had helped to disturb the bones of a dead man, her son was going to lose his life. She would see Fish die and know that by her actions, however innocent they had been, she had killed him. And that knowledge was just too much for her to bear.

  Twined about Susan, the shadow-snake thickened. Fish shuddered, wanting to stop it growing, but not knowing how. For a moment he thought he might tell his mother the truth about the things he could see, about the curse demon and the shadow-snake. But what good would it do?

  And then Marsha came to his aid.

  ‘That’s dying talk, dear,’ she said firmly, leaning forward to look Susan straight in the eyes. ‘You might as well tie a noose around our necks. I mean it! Maybe you’re right, but all we can do is try, and right now we haven’t got a moment to lose. What just happened to that dear man is proof of that, if nothing else! We must be on the road by the end of the day. It’s the only chance we’ve got!’

  Susan blinked and looked over at her son. The shadow-snake was still there, draped around her shoulders, but she gave him a crooked smile and as she smiled it seemed to fade a little.

  ‘Are you up to it, Fish?’

  Nodding, Fish stood up. He could have cried with relief. Marsha was right. If they were to survive, they had to swallow their horror and sadness, and act.

  While Fish and Susan were at the shops getting the things they would need, Marsha first gathered together enough clothes and bedding for them all. Then she went into the kitchen to pick up a kettle, some saucepans and a few odds and ends. As she worked she talked to Reg, sometimes in her head and sometimes out loud. If Fish could have seen her now he would have noticed that the silvery shine around her grew brighter as she worked.

  Sitting on the windowsill, his gently waving tail draped out
of the window that he had pushed open just a moment ago, Grimshaw watched patiently.

  Thinking that a hot meal before they set out might do them good, Marsha tried the gas again, but there was still nothing. As she turned the knob to full to see if anything came out, a gust of wind blew in through the window, ruffling the leaves of the lemon plant that lived on the kitchen windowsill. It was right on cue. Grimshaw considered it one of the great mysteries of human existence that they were never able to get the weather forecast right, even though the weather’s future was one of the easiest to predict. He twitched his tail back inside and tucked it safely round his paws.

  Feeling the draught, Marsha frowned. She didn’t remember opening the window, but maybe one of the others had. Distracted, she went over and shut it, wondering if she should go around the house and make sure everything was locked up and switched off, ready to be left until they could come home again.

  She made a mental note to do exactly that as soon as she had loaded up the van, then picked up the first armful of things to carry out. Unfortunately, she forgot all about the gas ring, still switched full on.

  It took a long time to load the van up with all the things she had gathered together. While she was doing it, the gas people finally sorted out the fault.

  In the kitchen Grimshaw sniffed, wrinkling his nose and flattening his ears. The gas was back on all right, just as he had anticipated. He could hear it hissing as it poured out of the gas jet that Marsha had left on. The horrible smell would reach Marsha’s nose eventually, but not until it was far too late.

  When she had finished with the van, Marsha remembered about checking the windows and lights. She started in Reg’s attic-room study, working her way down through the second-floor bedrooms, heading towards the stairs. The ground floor and the kitchen would be last.

  Grimshaw set his watch to the fourth branch up in the tree across the road, and pressed the send button.

  It was nearly five o’clock when Fish and Susan arrived back at the house and they were both worn out. Fish was looking forward to the time when they were on the road. Even though there was no certainty that running away would help, he hoped that the demon wouldn’t follow them. After all, the thing had disappeared before Jon had given them the cottage details, so it couldn’t know where they were going. But then it was a supernatural being, so perhaps it would know instinctively where its prey was.

  ‘Come on, Fish, let’s get this lot unloaded,’ called Susan, interrupting his thoughts. She smiled at her son, but her voice was weary and her eyes were dark.

  As Fish turned to help, his heart plunged. He felt rather than saw the demon in the tree nearby, and a glance up through the leaves revealed its hunched shape overhead, tail twisted around a branch. A ripple of fear scurried down his spine and he turned to run after Susan, who had just slammed the boot shut and was heading for the house, laden with bags. Suddenly, the upstairs window slammed open and Marsha appeared, her face deadly pale. Fish sprang at his mother.

  Susan dropped the bags. ‘Marsha!’ she cried, just as Fish’s arms closed around her. ‘Let go, Fish, LET GO! She’s in danger!’

  Marsha waved her arms wildly. The smell of gas had just that minute reached her and she knew what happened next. There was no time to stop it.

  ‘NO! Go back! Save yourselves! Farewell, my darlings!’

  In the kitchen the boiler clock clicked to 5.00 and the pilot light came on with a pop. Instantly, there was a tremendous boom and a brilliant light so huge that for a second Fish thought they had been struck by a thunderbolt. The world was lit up and a wave of heat sizzled around them. Susan screamed, but her voice was lost in a wall of sound that knocked them off their feet and sent dustbins careering down the road. Up in the tree, Grimshaw was blown off his branch. Only his coiled tail anchored him and kept him from being flung over the houses behind. Glass, dust and splintered wood showered everywhere.

  When it was over, Fish lay quivering against the trunk of the tree, his head ringing with the aftershock. Susan was motionless on the ground. When the world steadied enough, Fish crawled over to her, too faint to stand up properly. He felt as if his heart had stopped with fear for her, but she looked up and groaned just as he got there. There was blood on her forehead and cheek.

  Even though he felt numb with the weight of Marsha’s death, Fish knew that he could not pause to grieve. Any minute now the road would be swarming with police cars and ambulances, not to mention onlookers.

  The car was still upright and on its wheels – unlike a couple of others closer to the house, including Reg’s van. Grabbing Susan’s arm, Fish slammed the boot shut then pushed his mother towards the door of the car. She nearly fell as she scrambled in, but she turned the key in the ignition and the engine ticked over. As Fish ran around to the passenger side, he glanced up. The demon was dangling from a branch by its tail. It wasn’t paying them any attention.

  Fish threw himself into the car, buckling up the seat belt as Susan took off, swerving to avoid the scattered glass and rubble. Her breath was coming in short gasps and her hands were shaking, but her eyes were clear and fixed on the road.

  Fish stared at her, relief washing through him. The shadow-snake that had cast its length around her shoulders had gone, dissipated in a breath as her despair was shattered by something far stronger. Love for her son. Despair was something she couldn’t afford right now. The curse had come a step closer and her choice was clear. Act, or Fish was sure to die.

  ‘Sorry, Marsha,’ she whispered, ‘I have to go. I have to do the best I can for Fish.’

  They got to the turn into Park Avenue just as the wail of sirens split the air. Susan put her foot down until they reached the main road and joined the traffic heading north, out of the town.

  For better or for worse, they were on their way.

  Hanging from his branch, Grimshaw was experiencing exhilaration. He had felt a glow of satisfaction before, when some intricate arrangement had gone with the ease of clockwork, but never in his half-life had he felt such a rush of heart-stopping power as he felt now, after the explosion. It burned through him like white fire, making him tingle to his very core. It was amazing!

  He opened his eyes and the devastation around him brought back that wonderful moment of BOOM. The blast had been so … so … CATACLYSMIC!

  Grimshaw was certain in his heart of hearts that even Tun had never done anything quite like that, and he was the second most famous of all curse demons (the most famous being the awesome Mighty Curse). Yet he, Grimshaw, the third-rate demon of a curse thrown by an ordinary everyday non-magician, had created all that wonderful BOOM!

  Squinting down the road, which was currently the sky as he was still hanging upside down, Grimshaw watched the car drive off in a hurry. He didn’t need to guess who was inside. They had made a run for it, even while the ashes of Marsha’s funeral pyre were still burning. He had to admit he admired their guts. Some of his past Sufferers would have just given up and accepted their fate.

  Happily, Grimshaw rearranged all the hands on his watch to point to zero. Then he pressed send.

  It was time he reported back to his Architect.

  9

  AN EVENING IN LIMBO

  ‘Tell me about the knives again,’ said Lampwick.

  Grimshaw tried not to look bored.

  ‘It’s no good making that face. I know it means you’re trying not to look bored. It’s all very well for you. You can get out. I’m stuck forever in the same place.’ Lampwick’s voice took on a petulant note.

  ‘The crypt is better than the ground.’ Grimshaw closed his notebook with a snap. Any minute now he was going to start with the twitching. He could feel the charge building up inside him.

  ‘True. True.’

  Grimshaw’s Architect was of average height, with brown hair and a cadaverous face, the last being due to his having died over a century ago. In life Lampwick had been full-cheeked and irritatingly rosy, and it had always annoyed him that he didn’t look like the
magician he pretended to be. His only satisfaction in half-death was that he had finally achieved a suitably gaunt look. Unfortunately, no one but Grimshaw was there to see it.

  Lampwick folded his arms across the magician’s robe he had been buried in, as per the instructions in his Last Will and Testament, scribbled in haste on the back of an arrest warrant seconds before he died. The robe was made of the best deep blue velvet and embroidered all over with stars and moons. The half-dead were technically non-physical in a substantial sort of way, like solid ghosts, but the human view of how things ought to be had a large impact on the way they looked. This meant that over the decades the non-physical embroidery on Lampwick’s non-physical robe had begun to take on a frayed look. Most of the nap had worn off the velvet, leaving it threadbare in places.

  ‘But the point I was making,’ the Architect continued, ‘had you been bright enough to follow me, is that you can get back there whenever you want. I can’t. I have to stay in Grey Space!’

  ‘Not whenever I want. Only when I have a Litany. When they’re all done, I’ll have to stay here with you. Like before.’ The feeling of electricity under his skin was getting worse and worse and Grimshaw couldn’t stop it. He yelped, as an all-over-body twitch got him so badly that he dropped his notebook and had to scrabble to pick it up.

  Lampwick sighed. ‘Why I couldn’t have created a curse with more … more pizzazz, I don’t know.’

  ‘Because you aren’t a magician. You’re just a common thief who pretends to be a magician.’

  ‘Someone I could have had a discussion with …’

  ‘Curse demons don’t do discussions, they do curses.’

  ‘And that twitch is getting worse.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’

  ‘Something with intelligence …’

  ‘I’m as clever as you are,’ snapped Grimshaw, flattening his ears and flicking his tail indignantly. ‘Cleverer!’

  ‘… and style.’