DEATH & THE CITY
Book Two
of
TALES OF THE DEATHRUNNERS
L. Scullard
Death & The City: Book Two
(Tales Of The Deathrunners)
© Lisa Scullard 2008
Category: FICTION/GENERAL. Any similarity to real persons or events is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Cover design and artwork © Lisa Scullard
The moral right of the author/artist has been asserted.
Also by the author:
LIVING HELL
TALES OF THE DEATHRUNNERS series:
DEATH & THE CITY: Book One
THE ZOMBIE CHRONICLES OF OZ:
THE TERRIBLE ZOMBIE OF OZ (with L. Frank Baum)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Laura & Lana of the HarperCollins ‘authonomy’ team, for running their network site on which to gain so much insight and feedback, and for their live workshops in London. Also, thanks to Crime Fiction agent Camilla Wray, of the Darley Anderson Literary Agency, and film producer Sophie Neville, for sharing their insights.
In the same theme, I’d also like to thank Portsmouth Book Festival 2010 for running the speaker’s Q&A event, Crime And The City: CSI Portsmouth, and the opportunity to talk to the genre authors (Graham Hurley and Simon Brett), and the professional experts in person – much appreciated.
I would again like to thank all the other upcoming writers that I’ve got to know so far, for their intellect, wit and creative support - including (alphabetically) Shalini Boland, Peter S. Brooks, Elspeth Cooper, Dan Holloway, Gerald D. Johnston, Penny Legg, Adam Sifre, and Keith A. Smith, who have made a lot of sense (and nonsense!) during my inspirational delve into literary fiction. There’s so many more to name that I’ll need to write a few more of these books… Academic author-photo cardigans at the ready!
On another note, a BIG thanks to all my old SIA colleagues. I wouldn’t be here without you, and some of you wouldn’t be here without me ;)
…And my real-life family, and friends, for sharing their love, patience, and sense of humour.
Especially Caitlin.
BIOGRAPHY
L. Scullard spends her time when not writing, either working, parenting and commuting, or on trying to keep up with the gardening and housework. Occasionally things like reading, self-publishing, listening to music, artwork, knitting hoodies, customising shoes, reviewing other people’s creative genius, and re-designing one-of-a-kind fashion dolls get in the way of this mundane routine.
She does not sing, ballroom dance or ice-skate, and has no plans to attempt cookery on the television. No matter how well you balance it, the wok keeps slipping off the top of the plasma screen.
For even less intimate information:
voodoo-spice.blogspot.com
www.screenkiss.co.uk
lisascullard.wordpress.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 21: The Dark Dimensions
CHAPTER 22: Vanilla Blackmail
CHAPTER 23: Karmachanic
CHAPTER 24: Undercarriage Of Events
CHAPTER 25: Under The Influence
CHAPTER 26: The Hollywood Method
CHAPTER 27: A Plot Full Of Holes
CHAPTER 28: Heat Seeking Wolf
CHAPTER 29: Alice Is Wonderland
CHAPTER 30: Dressing To Kill
CHAPTER 31: A Rice By Any Other Name
CHAPTER 32: Spanish Fly On The Wall
CHAPTER 33: Early Christmas
CHAPTER 34: The Mogwai Diet
CHAPTER 35: Fish Out Of Water
CHAPTER 36: Encounters Of The Nth Kind
CHAPTER 37: Invisible Man Syndrome
CHAPTER 38: Quality Time
CHAPTER 39: Capital City Of Moonlighters
CHAPTER 40: Short Notice Cases
From where we left off, in Book One…
Chapter 21: The Dark Dimensions
“I am so having one of those,” Martha the pixie witchy Goth announces, as we perch on the Perspex and leather-cushioned bar-stools, in the very swanky Green Room restaurant.
We’re downstairs in the Allegra Sands Hotel, between reception and the spa, watching the barman mix up Midday Margaritas. N.E.R.D.‘s Don’t Worry About It plays on the surround speaker system, and the atmosphere is one of relaxed affluence.
“The cocktail, or the barman?” Elaine asks.
“Oh, I would, but he’s so gay,” Martha shrugs. “Check out those sideburn tramlines. And fake tan. Even from behind I know he thinks he’s the next Iglesias, only gay. No, I want a Cranberry Margarita. Or two. And then get detoxed in the spa. How about you?”
“I like your style,” Elaine enthuses. “That’s nearly a Rude Cosmopolitan, isn’t it? I want a Chocotini. Or a Gingertini. One of each. How about you, Lara?”
“I’m on Superflu,” I reveal, with suitable regret. “It’ll have to be a Virgin On The Beach for me.”
Elaine groans, and Martha rubs my back in sympathy, but they both know me well enough to understand when I’m not drinking, it means just that. Martha winks, and I guess from her expression that she’s indicating Elaine didn’t drive here on purpose. She wants to enjoy a day off from club management, getting wasted and eyeing up hotel staff.
“I can mix you up something more interesting,” the barman suggests. “You have to taste it before you ask what’s in it. Good if you’re under the weather as well.”
It’s sort of murky green in a half-pint hourglass cocktail flute with ice, but actually tastes rather nice. I let the girls take a sip. Martha likes it, especially the colour. Elaine gives it her professional approval.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“Orange juice, passion fruit juice, cola and Red Akuma,” he says, with a wink. “Vitamin C for your cold, and caffeine to perk you up.”
“Have you got a name for it?” asks Elaine. “I’ve been trying to think of some Virgin cocktails, for if we do another University Christian Society ball.”
“How about ‘Passion Devil’?” says Martha.
“You’ll find Christians shagging in the toilets if you call it that,” I chuckle.
“I was just calling it a Green Day,” the barman remarks. “Green Room - kind of green colour - can drink it during the day - plus I like the band. And it’s quite good for hangovers too.”
“Hmmm.” Elaine leans over to have another taste from my spare straw. “Don’t think I want Christians going all heavy metal, moshing in the club. Maybe, hmmm…”
“Call it a Green Angel,” Martha and I suggest simultaneously.
“Perfect.” Elaine nods, typing a note to herself into her phone. “Hope you don’t mind?”
“Good by me,” the barman grins. “I got the idea off a mate at Shotz anyway.”
Martha gets her two Cranberry Margaritas, and Elaine her Chocotini and Gingertini. While we all salute each other’s company with ‘Cheers’ I feel as though I’ve heard the name ‘Green Angel’ before, and wonder what it reminds me of. I have a momentary impression of being detached from my body, not quite in the room or in the conversation, but it passes quickly.
“Do you see many celebrities in here?” Elaine asks sociably, still determining in her own way if the barman is likely to be gay or not.
“A lot of footballer’s wives mostly,” he grins. “Especially just before home games.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Martha agrees. “Expecting a big flashy turn-out from the competition. And I don’t mean the other team players.”
I use their conversation to scan the Green Room myself, thoughtfully. A few businessmen of varying ages in either suits or gym clothes, enjoying a lunchtime beer or coffee. Two women who look like mother and dau
ghter, maybe out on a birthday treat.
A Japanese couple - no, make that a man and a woman travelling together - he’s on the phone, and she’s industriously working on a laptop. Looks like she’s his P.A, or secretary. He’s speaking French on the phone, but when he hangs up talks to her in Japanese. She nods. He approaches the bar right next to me, and orders another pot of Earl Grey tea in English, with a businesslike, confident London accent. The barmaid says she’ll bring it to their table and asks if it’s to pay or on their hotel bill, and he gives her his room card to scan. He gives me a little nod and smile before returning to his corner, and I just notice the peek of a tattoo above his shirt collar as he walks away. I wonder if it’s all over, Yakuza-style.
I gradually return my attention to Elaine and Martha catching up, and by the general tone and inflections, I’ve luckily just missed Elaine dropping a whopping hint to Martha about wanting her husband back, and if there was a magic wand that could be waved to do it. Martha is trying to introduce her to the concept of free will being a good and healthy thing.
“Take Lara,” she says, bringing me back into the conversation with a jolt. “She doesn’t chase men, does she? To her it’s all about free will making the world go around. Leaving life to chance and surprises. Meaning every relationship is like Christmas when it comes. You never know what might happen.”
“Not always a good thing,” Elaine points out, which is pretty much what I was thinking, although I like the sound of a relationship being like Christmas. It’s quite a good analogy, thinking about it. There might be surprises, there might be disasters, there might be regrets, there might even be happy memories and things worth celebrating…
“So who have you been on a date with recently, anyone interesting?” Martha asks me. Obviously wanting to shift the focus away from Elaine having only one idea of how relationships work, which is when she’s in charge of them - by any means and methods.
“Oh, just a police officer I know from work,” I say. I feel a blush creeping up on me, and hide it behind my cocktail glass, and my unruly but straightened blonde hair. “His name’s Connor. Seems to be going all right so far.”
Martha grabs my left hand, and has a good look at my palm before I pull it away indignantly.
“Ooh, intriguing,” is all she says though, with a grin. “You’ll have to keep me posted.”
“Can I go shopping for a hat yet?” Elaine asks her, jokingly, and Martha leans over and whispers something to her. Elaine’s attitude changes, and she looks at me with a new expression that seems almost inspired. “Will you find out if he’s got a brother for me?”
Martha laughs, as I give her a push.
“I want to know what you said,” I say, and turn to Elaine, who’s still looking, for want of a better word, star-struck. “You’re going to tell me what she said later.”
“I can’t hear you,” she jokes. “I’m just hearing the sound of bells ringing in my ears.”
“Warning bells?” I ask, warily. “Or wedding bells?”
“Jingle Bells,” Martha laughs.
“Probably fire bells, she’s chasing White Watch at the moment,” I say. “No, I know what it is. It’s your occupational tinnitus, from standing next to the speakers by the end of the main bar in Crypto.”
“I can’t help that, the foam earplugs make me itch,” she shrugs.
While we still tease each other, a familiar figure appears at the entrance to the Green Room, and glides in. Wearing a white v-neck t-shirt, and matching loose lounge pants with spa slippers, carrying an oversized white leather sports bag, it’s the blonde from upstairs in Casanegra the other night. She strolls straight past the bar, and heads directly to the adjoining door into the glass gangway leading to the spa, past Green’s Restaurant.
I disconnect my gaze from her receding back as she enters the spa reception at the far end, my eyes involuntarily meeting those of Yakuza Man as I turn back to the others. He’s just in receipt of his pot of tea from the waitress. He looks at me pointedly for a second, to the door leading to the spa, and back again at me again over his tray, before thanking the waitress and unfolding his newspaper. Before I look away, I see the front headline as he opens it.
LONDON FEARS RABIES OUTBREAK.
“Are we nearly ready for the spa?” I ask the girls. “We should head in before it gets busy later.”
“Bottle of water, please,” Martha and Elaine chorus in unison to the barman, and laugh, knowing that walking into the spa carrying a bottle of mineral water looks a lot better than rolling in, laughing like hyenas, reeking of Martinis. “Make that three.”
“So now you’re living it up in the material world, who’s looking after the dark dimensions?” Elaine asks Martha, in the saltwater steam-room. I notice the blonde on the opposite bench open her eyes with an involuntary flicker of interest. She gives a very faint, slightly arrogant smirk, and closes her eyes again.
“God, you have NO idea how complicated it all is now,” Martha sighs. “So many people are interested in Craft now, it has to be really strictly regulated. There’s the open market, the Halloween crowd. Then there’s the fans, who watch the shows, buy the merchandise, go to TV and film conventions, read the books and do the crosswords. Then the researchers, everyone from the curious layman to serious students, professional and religious sceptics. And critics - they have lots of separate divisions - who look up stuff to prove or disprove it. Then the dabblers, who try out stuff in the published material. Then the naturals and instinctives, who work for themselves but don’t think of it as Craft, or follow any affiliation. Then you have the affiliates - and depending on how it branches out from there, the divisions begin again - from curious to dabblers to serious prospects. Eventually you get to the top, and the guys who really know what’s going on - or their interpretation of what’s going on, depending on the affiliation. Hereditaries, like us, we’re like any old titles that get handed down by birthright. We get called up for casting votes or approval on things, like the moral content of new stuff that’s proposed, or land use rights, or ancient calendar information. The rest of the time we’re allowed to live how we please nowadays. We’re more of a courtesy call from the industry now than anything else.”
“Industry?” I repeat. “What happened to religion, or belief system, or call of nature - or whatever you’re meant to stand for?”
“Yeah, it does take the piss,” Martha chuckles. “What you said - that’s what WE stand for still. But the rest - it’s the material world that subsidises it nowadays, and it’s wrong to call it a charity, so it’s an industry. Selfless acts are few and far between.”
“So who is looking after the bad stuff?” Elaine says. “Accountants? Lawyers? Tax collectors?”
“It’s taken care of, as required,” Martha chuckles. “Never you mind.”
“I think one of our door staff might be into it – Ben Trovato,” Elaine muses. “I’ll ask him later.”
Through the steam, I’m trying to interpret how the blonde is currently feeling. So far all I’m getting is which of us she’s privately musing she would rather hit on. I’m guessing Martha is her kind of type - bold, confident, with a striking appearance - but only in a physical sense. From her flicker of interest when Elaine asked the original question, until now after Martha’s speech, I sense that she’s trying to distance herself from us in the room. Shield herself with a psychological defence, as if she’d suddenly been caught in there without a towel for modesty.
It’s strange. Her initial glance had looked amused, as if she was expecting to be entertained by something she was comfortable in her knowledge of, maybe considered she has more knowledge of than most. But now she looks uncomfortable, as if being in the same room as The Knowledge personified was more than she felt equipped to handle. Felt more as if she was potentially the entertainment, if she gave away anything telling of her own on the subject.
“You know what this steam could really use?” Martha says to me. “A bit of rosemary. That would get into you
r muscles all right.”
“Jasmine and ylang ylang,” says Elaine, and we both snigger, knowing she’s been warned about using that in the oil burners at work.
“Would have to be eucalyptus and grapefruit for me,” I remark. “Knock out this sinus headache.”
“You want peppermint with that,” Martha puts in. “Smells like Murray Mints.”
“Mmmm,” Elaine approves. “I know what I’m going to ask for in my aromatherapy massage now.”
“So, what are you doing these days to conserve energy use and the environment?” Martha asks me, while we’re having our pedicures, and Elaine is having her massage. I’m planning on asking for mandarin oil only in mine, knowing it’s the safest option when combined with other medication. Or combined with unstable mental states.
“Not wasting my life spending hours online throwing virtual chickens on Facebuddy,” I reply. “Not shopping more than I need to. Keeping enough houseplants and the garden alive, to offset having one motorbike and two petrol monsters as cars. Employing a cat instead of calling Pest Control. I even put tea tree oil on the ticks I find on hedgehogs. I’m very environmentally friendly. Plus I save the National Health tons in my job, by stopping idiots damaging themselves drunk. And by recycling, obviously.”
“Very good,” Martha approves. “Glad to hear you’ve still got good instinct. You always were a natural, though.”
“How about you?” I ask.
“I make a LOT of donations,” she grins. “Plus the house has in-built offsets. Solar panels etc. It works out neutral in the end. I just don’t have the guilt any more.”
Hmm, I think. Wicca without guilt. Wonder how long that can be maintained responsibly?
The blonde emerges from the Alaska Ice Scrub room, and approaches the spa’s main desk, which we can see through the tinted glass screen of Le Salon - I’m sure it’s wrongly named, being a beauty salon and not a Frenchman’s living-room. She leans over and speaks briefly to the booking receptionist. Years of door supervisor lip-reading in deafening music environments pays off, as I see her say: Electrolysis as usual, please - not laser.
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