Paint Your Dragon

by Tom Holt

Father Priscian Kelly was just about to lock up and go home when the west door opened and a man shuffled in, looked round for the confessionals and plonked himself down in one. A customer, sighed Father Kelly, just when I thought I’d be home in time for The Bill.

  Nevertheless, work’s work. He kitted himself out, drew the curtain and slid back the hatch. Silence.

  ‘Don’t want to hurry you, son,’ he said, ‘but—’

  A fist, large as a grapefruit and very hairy, punched through the wire grille and entwined its fingers in the vestments nearest Father Kelly’s throat. ‘Listen, mate,’ growled a voice, ‘you gotta help me, kapisch?’

  ‘Son-’

  ‘Don’t you flaming well son me,’ the voice interrupted, ‘or I’ll have you court-martialled for giving lip to a superior officer. Know who I am?’

  Father Kelly admitted his ignorance. At once the confessional began to glow with a deep amber light.

  ‘God!’

  ‘No,’ George replied, ‘but getting warmer. The fluorescent bobble-hat’s supposed to be a hint.’

  Nearly blinded by the radiance of the halo, Father Kelly turned his head away, until the pressure of the twisted cloth at his throat checked him. ‘You’re a saint,’ he gasped. ‘A real saint, here in my—’

  ‘Shut your row,’ replied George. ‘Now listen. I need a place to hide out for a few days, some grub and a few pieces of kit. Plus, you keep absolutely shtum, not a word to anybody. You got that?’ Father Kelly nodded. ‘And money,’ George added. ‘And later on, maybe a false passport and a good plastic surgeon. Okay?’

  ‘Thy will be ... What for, exactly?’

  ‘What for?’ George exploded. ‘What for? You questioning a direct order, sunshine? Well?’

  Father Kelly tried to shake his head, but there wasn’t enough room in his collar. ‘No, not at all, your Grace,’ he spluttered. ‘Just seemed a little bit—’

  ‘You,’ George snarled, tightening his grip, ‘can keep your bloody stupid opinions to yourself, got it? Never heard the like in all me born days. I, mean, when the Big Fella said Let there be light, He didn’t get pillocks like you asking Him what He wanted it for. Now stop pratting around and get on with it, or you’re gonna spend the next thousand years whitewashing stars. Do I make myself clear?’

  Father Kelly nodded, and the hand released him; the halo, too, went out. ‘Wait there,’ snarled the voice, and as the priest flopped back against the confessional wall, George slipped out, looked carefully up and down the nave and opened the main door a crack.

  ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Come on, move it. Nobody been round asking questions, I suppose?’

  Father Kelly tried to remember. There had been young Darren Flynn, who’d popped in with a query about the doctrine of transubstantiation, but he guessed the saint didn’t mean that sort of thing. ‘Not as I recall,’ he replied.

  ‘Nobody hanging round casing the gaff? Big green bastard, scales, wings, tail?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. Now then, we’re out of here.’

  An hour or so later, back at the priest’s lodgings, when the distinguished visitor had finished off the last of the stout and the whisky and sunk into a noisy sleep in the armchair, Father Kelly sat in profound thought, studying the list of requirements the guest had dictated earlier. Most of them, Father Kelly acknowledged, wouldn’t be a problem, and, as the Monsignor had quite rightly pointed out, what he wanted with them was nobody’s business but his own. True, also, that as a priest he was duty bound to assist a superior officer to the full extent of his abilities and resources.

  That said, however, where on earth was he going to lay his hands on fifteen kilos of cyanide and a Rapier surface-to-air missile?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Ron,’ shouted the joint proprietor of the Copper Kettle, peering through a gap in the net curtains. ‘There’s two coaches just come in.’

  ‘Hellfire,’ replied her husband, switching off the television and groping for his socks. ‘Two?’

  ‘That’s right. Did you remember to go to the cash and carry?’

  Coach parties were few and far between in Norton St Edgar, not because the ancient Cotswold stone village wasn’t everything an ancient Cotswold stone village should be; it had simpered away twelve centuries in tranquil loveliness. Rumour had it that Norton was where the villagers of Brigadoon went to escape from the relentless pressure of modern life. The only reason it didn’t have a permanent traffic jam of hundred-seater Mercedes buses lining its one immaculate street was that nothing wider than an anorexic Mini could get down the tangle of tiny lanes that connected Norton with the outside world.

  ‘Damn,’ Ron muttered, dragging on his shirt. ‘Knew I’d forgotten something.’

  ‘I’ll have to bake some biscuits,’ muttered his wife. ‘Make yourself useful for once and put the kettle on.’

  The two coaches had drawn up outside. One of them - an elderly contraption, the sort of vehicle that can still call itself a charabanc and get away with it - threw open its doors and disgorged a buzzing crowd of elderly ladies, all knitting bags and hats. The other coach, which had tinted black windows and a poster written in unfamiliar letters in its back window, just sat there like a constipated Jonah’s whale.

  ‘Jason,’ yelled Ron’s wife, ‘take my purse, run down to the shop, see if she’s got any of that jam left. Won’t keep you a moment, ladies,’ she warbled through the serving hatch. ‘Ron, you idle sod, why didn’t you say we’d run out of teabags?’

  Inside the second coach there was an atmosphere of great tension.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait till they’ve gone,’ muttered Chardonay helplessly. ‘They’ve probably only just nipped in for a quick cup of—’

  ‘All right for you saying Wait till they’ve gone,’ snarled a frog-headed demon by the name of Clawsnot. ‘There’s some of us in here can’t wait much longer, and that’s all there is to it. You want to explain to the charter company why there’s dirty great holes corroded through the floor of their nearly new coach...’

  Chardonay winced. The imperatives of their current situation were all too familiar to him. Nevertheless.

  ‘Please, all of you, just be patient a little longer,’ he pleaded, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his midriff. ‘Really, you must see that we can’t just go out there, where humans can see us. It’d cause a religious incident, and—’

  ‘There’ll be a bloody incident in here in a minute.’

  ‘Shut your face, Clawsnot,’ snarled a voice from the front row, ‘before I pull it off. The rest of you, just cross your legs and keep quiet.’

  That was something else the Demon Snorkfrod had: authority. When she told people things, they stayed told. Chardonay breathed a sigh of relief and crossed over to thank his unexpected ally.

  ‘That’s all right, pet,’ she replied, giving him a radiant smile, like sunrise over an ossuary. ‘Ignorant bleeders, got no idea.’

  At that moment, Chardonay had an uncomfortable feeling, as if he’d taken refuge from a ravening hyena in a tree that turned out to contain two hungry lions. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d getter be getting back to my...’

  He looked down. Six graceful, coral-painted claws were pressing meaningfully on his kneecap. ‘No hurry, is there?’ cooed Snorkfrod soothingly.

  Meanwhile, inside the Copper Kettle, the coffee was flowing and twelve plates of fancy biscuits had lasted about as long as a man’s life in the trenches of the Somme. Jason hadn’t returned with the jam yet, but a frenzied search had turned up fourteen jars of Army surplus bramble jelly, which Ron had once bought at an auction. He was having the time of his life (or rather his marriage) reminding his wife of the hard words spoken on that occasion, now thoroughly refuted; and although she wasn’t actually listening, being too busy making scones, that too was probably just as well.

  In the black transit, parked a little way up the street, Chubby Stevenson rubbed his hands together and chuckled before con
necting up the chronostator diodes. With a bit of luck, there was enough of the good stuff here to fill the Toronto order and the San Francisco contract ahead of schedule, which, in turn, meant he’d have more resources to throw at that nasty technical problem he still hadn’t managed to crack. A green light twinkled at him from the control panel and he threw the big switch.

  And aboard the second coach ...

  ‘It’s no good,’ yelped the Demon Slitgrind, springing from his seat as if a plateful of hot noodle soup had just been spilled in his lap. ‘I’ve gotta get to—’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Shopfloor-fire and buggery, Chardonay couldn’t help muttering to himself, but she’s a handsome ghoul when she’s angry. The way her hair stands on end and hisses is really quite bewitching. No, stop thinking like that!

  ‘But Snork-’

  ‘You heard me,’ growled the she-devil, her voice dangerously quiet. ‘Take it out before Mister Chardonay says it’s okay and I’ll snip it off. Understood?’

  A flash of light on her shapely claws reinforced the impression that this was no idle threat. Wide-eyed, Slitgrind apologised, sat down and squirmed convulsively.

  Fade out on the coach. Pan to the tea-room...

  ‘They can’t want more tea,’ Ron groaned. ‘They’ve had eight gallons of the stuff already.’

  Without dignifying the remark with a reply, his wife knelt down and started pulling things out of the cupboards onto the floor. ‘In here somewhere,’ she grunted, ‘there’s a tin of that horrible Lapsang stuff your sister gave us Christmas before last, the miserable cow. If only—’

  ‘You can’t give them that.’

  ‘It’s that or nothing. Ah, thought so, here it is.’ She stood up, blowing dust off a small Fortnum’s tin. ‘Don’t just stand there, you cretin, warm the teapot.’

  The tea thereby produced vanished down the old ladies’ throats like an eggcupful of water thrown onto a burning warehouse, and the proprietors’ embarrassed announcement that, until envoys sent to the village shop returned, there was no more tea was greeted with an explosion of good-natured banter. Odd, thought Ron’s wife, as she slammed in another twelve pounds of scone mix, that’s the happiest coach-party I’ve ever seen in all my born days; almost as if they’re determined to enjoy everything or die in the attempt. There was a sort of manic edge to their cheerfulness which was, on reflection, one of the most disturbing things she’d ever encountered in half a century, not excluding Ron’s cousin Sheila.

  Never mind. Their money’s as good as anyone’s. She wiped her hands on her apron and despatched the now exhausted Jason to the farm for three hundred eggs.

  No wonder the old ladies were winding it up a gear or two. The messages coming through on the miniature two-way radio from the transit van were starting to be somewhat intense. The gist of them was that, although the clinking of teacups and baying of merry laughter was plainly audible at the other end of the street, not so much as a nanosecond of recycled Time had yet dripped down the tube into the bottle. Likewise, the usual side-effects - mushrooming housing estates, factories out of hats, instant slip-roads - were conspicuous by their absence. It wasn’t working. And the only explanation for that, surely, was that the old bags weren’t really enjoying themselves.

  ‘Ethel!’ Chubby rasped down the intercom to the squad leader. ‘I need fun! Give me fun! Now!’

  ‘We’re doing our best, Mr S,’ came the reply, nearly drowned out by the background noise. ‘Really we are. I haven’t had such a good time since our Gerald’s funeral.’

  ‘But nothing’s coming through, you stupid old crone.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ethel hesitated, then giggled. ‘What a shame. Never mind. Why don’t you come down here, then? Winnie and Gertie have just dragged the man out from behind the counter, I think they’re going to—’

  Disgusted, Chubby cut the link. What the hell was going on out there? Must be some sort of interference field, he reasoned, as he ran diagnostic checks on the instrument panel. But what in God’s name could damp a pleasure field so strong that his own jaw muscles were nearly exhausted with the effort of not grinning? He kicked off his shoes, shoved a sock in his mouth and tried to pinpoint the source of the interference using the Peabody scanner.

  Beep. Found it! A huge sidewash of negative vibes, enough to fuel the complete dramatic works of Ibsen and Strindberg, was coming from a few yards down the street; to be precise, that big black bus, parked alongside the chara. Chubby frowned and keyed co-ordinates into the Peabody. Whatever it was, he’d never seen its like before. Now, if he could only tie in the spectroscopics ...

  The control panel exploded in a cloud of sparks and plastic shrapnel.

  At precisely that moment the Demon Chardonay, twisted almost treble in his discomfort, squeaked to the driver to get them out of there. ‘Anywhere there’s bushes,’ he added, ‘and for Shopfloor’s sake step on it!’

  Also precisely at that moment, the coach party in the Copper Kettle froze, as if they’d been switched off at the mains. Silence. Ron, who had been hiding under the tables fending off marauding hands with a stale French loaf, peered out. It was an extraordinary sight.

  Like a delegation from the retired robots’ home, the old ladies stood up, gathered bags and hats and marched stiffly out of the door. Their coach swallowed them and a few moments later they were gone, all in total, Armistice-day silence. Ron blinked, pulled himself together, wrapped the shreds of a teatowel round his waist and busied himself scooping up the piles of money left beside the few intact plates.

  ‘They’ve gone, then?’

  He nodded, too stunned even to notice how humiliatingly stupid his wife looked, peering out through the serving hatch with a colander rammed helmet-fashion onto her head. “Thank Gawd,’ he added.

  ‘If they come back, tell’em they’re banned.’

  ‘Too bloody right I will. They even caught our Jason, in the end.’

  ‘I know. He’s barricaded himself in the chest freezer. They drew things on him in lipstick.’

  Ron shrugged. ‘Do the little bleeder good,’ he replied, absently. ‘I dunno. Coach parties!’

  Outside on the village green a small corrugated iron tool shed, which had thrust its roof up through the ancient turf twenty minutes previously, wilted and died.

  That, Chardonay admitted to himself, was better. Much, much better. As far as he was concerned, anyway. The tree would never be the same again, but that couldn’t be helped.

  ‘All right,’ he called out. ‘Everybody back on the coach.’

  No reply. So thick were the clouds of foul-smelling steam that he could only see a yard or so in front of his face. Carefully, so as to avoid the many fallen trees and branches that now littered the floor of the small copse, he retraced his steps towards the coach.

  Towards where the coach had been.

  A moment later, he was joined by Snorkfrod, Slitgrind, Prodsnap and a small, furry demon from Accounts by the name of Holdall. They all had that look of slightly manic happiness that comes from a terrible ordeal suddenly ended, and were adjusting various bizarre and complex clothing systems.

  ‘It’s gone,’ said Chardonay.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The coach,’ repeated the demon. ‘It’s gone without us.’

  Slitgrind scowled, knitting his three eyebrows into an unbroken hedge. ‘Can’t have,’ he growled. ‘That’s—’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Prodsnap quietly. ‘Bastards have bunked off and left us here. Probably their idea of a joke.’

  The five devils looked at each other, lost for words. And, come to that, just plain lost.

  ‘The important thing,’ said Chardonay, managing to sound five times more confident than he felt, and even then twittering like a small bird, ‘is not to panic. All we have to do is find a call-box and Management’ll send a minibus along to pick us up.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Well...’

  Slitgrind shook his head grimly. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘the
y’ll just bloody well leave us here. You got yourselves into this mess, they’ll say. Don’t want to cause an incident, they’ll say. If I know Management ’

  A sharp blow to his solar plexus (which also doubled as his second forehead) interrupted his sentence - Snorkfrod showing solidarity again - but all five of them knew he was right. Management didn’t like its people wandering about outside the Nine Circles, and although it did grudgingly allow day trips and outings as a special concession, there was always the unspoken understanding that once a fiend was outside the Hope Bins of Gateway Three, he was on his own. Hell may have its embassies and consulates in every cranny of the world, but they have better things to do with their time than repatriating strayed tourists.

  ‘Well,’ Chardonay sighed, ‘looks like we’re going to have to walk, then. Anybody happen to know the way?’

  Silence.

  ‘Good intentions,’ said the small furry demon, Holdall.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Good intentions,’ he repeated. ‘The road to HQ is paved with them, apparently. All we need to do is find a lot of good intentions laid end to end, and we’re in ...’

  ‘Slitgrind,’ said Chardonay, quietly.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Put him down. We’re not at home now, you know.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Snorkfrod, sidling a step or so closer to the party’s nominal leader. ‘I’m sure Mr Chardonay’ll think of something. Won’t you, Mr C?’

  Chardonay closed his eyes. He did have the marginal advantage of having been in these parts before, long ago when he’d been a student, before he joined the Company. If that was north, then over there somewhere was Birmingham. Due south was Banbury. How you got to HQ from either of those places he hadn’t a clue, but it would be a start. Maybe they could buy a map, or ask someone.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s try hitching.’

  Three hours later, they were still there. It had seemed like a good idea - the four of them hiding in the bushes while Snorkfrod sat beside the road with her legs crossed - but in practice it had proved counterproductive. Even the HGV drivers had taken one look at Snorkfrod’s enticing flash of thigh and raced off in the opposite direction.