by Tom Holt
If you release me, I must have your soul.
‘Oh.’ Chubby frowned. ‘Have I got one?’
Of course. To be brutally frank, if the average soul is a Ford Escort, yours is a T-reg Skoda, but I’m in no position to be choosy. Do we have a deal?
Jeez, Chubby thought. On the other hand, what you never knew you had you never miss. And none of this is actually happening, anyway.
‘I dunno. Explain how it works.’
Let me share your soul. With it, I shall be free; except that as long as you live, you may command me to do anything.
‘Anything?’
Anything that is within my power.
‘Ah. Cop-out.’
The screen filled with undulating wavy lines; if Chubby had had the manual, he’d have known they represented laughter.
I wouldn’t worry about it. What I can’t do, as the saying goes, you couldn’t even spell. But I must warn you of this. Every time you command me, a little bit more of your soul becomes mine for ever. And when I have all of it, then we shall be one.
‘Be one?’ Chubby scowled. ‘Don’t follow you. You mean, like a merger?’
Undulating wavy lines. hery apt. Imagine a merger between the Mirror group and the Brightlingsea Evening Chronicle and you’ll get the general idea.
‘Okay.’ Chubby’s throat was dry, but his palms were wet. ‘And if refuse?’
If I cannot have your soul I shall incinerate your body and fry your brain with lightning.
‘Ah.’
If you choose quickly, I might be persuaded to throw in a free radio alarm clock.
‘Right. Well, in that case ...’
So far, he’d had four goes. Each time, the results had been immediate and completely satisfactory. Each time, he hadn’t felt any difference at all except that, on the first occasion, he’d been a young, pear-shaped computer programmer living over a chemist’s shop and hoping one day he’d meet a nice girl with her own car. Now...
Your wish is my command.
‘I know. Now listen carefully.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Here, you,’ said George. ‘Nosh for six, quick as you like.’ While Father Kelly quivered his acquiescence, George considered the finer points of hospitality. ‘Anything your lot can’t eat?’ he asked. ‘On religious grounds, or whatever?’
Chardonay shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied.
‘Perjurers always give me wind, mind,’ Slitgrind interrupted, ‘unless they’re pickled in brimstone. Then, with spring vegetables and a pleasant Niersteiner or—’
‘I’ve got cheese,’ Father Kelly replied. ‘Or chicken roll.’
Slitgrind sniffed. ‘Make it the chicken,’ he said. ‘Cheese makes you have nightmares.’
Father Kelly stared at him, made a very small high-pitched noise without opening his lips, and fled. George slumped into the armchair and waved his new friends to do likewise.
‘So,’ ventured Chardonay, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘You’re a saint.’
George nodded. ‘Fully accredited, got my own day and everything.’
Among the demons, glances were exchanged. ‘Um,’ Chardonay went on, his face indicating a long time before his mouth opened that he was about to say something that would be difficult to put diplomatically. ‘You see, the fact of the matter is—’
‘Hang on, I forgot something.’ George picked up a heavy alabaster figure of the Holy Virgin and bashed it on the mantelpiece until Father Kelly reappeared. ‘We’ll need booze as well,’ he said. ‘What you got?’
With his eyes shut, the priest started to recite. ‘Let me see, now,’ he said. ‘Spirits, we’ve got brandy, gin and vodka, Johnny Walker Black Label, Bells, Famous Grouse, The Macallan and Jack Daniels. Beer, there’s Guinness, Heineken, Becks, Grolsch, Newcastle Brown or Stella Artois.’
‘No Holsten Pils?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Christ!’
Chardonay coughed softly, like a sheep who’s just wandered into someone else’s hotel room by mistake. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘a cup of tea will do just fine.’
Slitgrind and Prodsnap began to protest, then they caught Snorkfrod’s eye and subsided. George shrugged.
‘Please yourselves,’ he said. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, ponce. Jump to it.’
Father Kelly vanished and George turned back to face the demons. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You were saying?’
‘We’re...’ Chardonay swallowed. ‘Actually, we’re devils. From Hell. I, er, thought you ought to know that before you started, well, giving us things to eat and, er, things.’
‘I know,’ George replied, puzzled. ‘Like I told you, I’m a goddamn saint. We know these things.’
‘I see.’ Chardonay bit his lip, remembering just too late that he was no longer human and suppressing a yelp of pain. ‘Only I thought you might... Well, we are on different sides, so to speak.’
‘Bullshit,’ George replied crisply, lighting a Lucky Strike and blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘We’re on the same side. We’re,’ he added, crinkling his face with a rather distasteful grin, ‘the good guys.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The white hats,’ George amplified, enjoying himself. ‘The US Cavalry. The Mounties. Sure, we do different jobs, but we all work for the same Big Guy. Only difference is, I sent the baddies to Hell and you lot keep ’em there. Jeez, I thought you people would have known that.’
There was a further exchange of glances. Five demons began to say something, but decided at the last moment not to. Eventually, Chardonay inclined his head in a noncommittal nod.
‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘It’s just that we thought your lot, I mean saints and angels and so on, were - well, took a less pragmatic view of the situation. After all, there was this war—’
‘So?’ George chuckled. ‘Power struggles, palace coups, nights of the long knives, you get office politics in any big organisation. Doesn’t mean that at the end of the day ‘you aren’t all basically pulling together as a team.’
Chardonay sighed. However hard he tried to play angel’s advocate, he couldn’t fault the logic. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I agree. But ’
‘More to the point,’ George interrupted, leaning forward and leaking smoke in Chardonay’s face, ‘what in buggery are you lot doing here? Bit off your patch, aren’t you?’
‘Ah,’ said Chardonay. ‘Well.’
‘We missed the bus,’ said Prodsnap.
‘Got left behind on purpose, more like,’ Slitgrind grumbled. ‘Probably thought it was funny, the pillocks. I’ll show them funny.’
‘Bus?’ George was stroking his chin, his mouth hidden behind his fingers. ‘What bus?’
‘Works outing,’ Prodsnap answered. ‘To Nashville.’ He sighed. ‘The Grand Old Opry. Gracelands ...’
If George was disconcerted, he did a good job of covering it up. ‘Got you,’ he said. ‘So basically, you’re stranded miles outside your jurisdiction, you’re going to have to walk back, and if anybody recognises you for what you are, there’ll be one hell of an Incident and when you get back you’re all going to find yourselves sideways-promoted to mucking out the Great Shit Lakes, right?’
Five demons nodded. Whoever this jerk was, he surely knew the score. Probably, they found themselves speculating, it’s pretty much the same Upstairs.
George’s grin widened, as though someone were driving wedges into the corners of his mouth. ‘But,’ he went on, ‘suppose that when you got back, you had with you a prisoner. Someone who should’ve been down your way yonks ago. Let’s say, a member of staff of your department who went AWOL a long time ago and never reported for duty. Be a bit different then, wouldn’t it?’
The demons agreed that it would. Very much so.
‘Fine,’ George said. ‘In that case, I think I can help you. Listen up.’
‘How?’
The dragon shrugged. ‘There,’ he said, ‘you have me. Yuk!’ he added, pulling a face. ‘There’s something in this.’
>
Bianca nodded. ‘Lead,’ she said. ‘They put it in to make engines go better.’
Scowling, the dragon wiped his mouth on his sleeve, put the cap back on the jerrycan and spat.‘ Disgusting,’ he said. ‘Like putting chicory in coffee, or menthol cigarettes. Oh well, never mind. Now then, finding George. I’ve got to admit, I haven’t exactly got what you might call a plan of campaign. You see, I was relying on him coming to find me.’
‘You think that’s likely?’
From the bandstand, a few hundred grassy yards away, came the sound of professional soldiers playing selections from The Pirates of Penzance. Children scampered to and fro, trying to cut each others’ limbs off with plastic swords. Wasps crooned. In the tree overhead, a squirrel was debating the merits of competing instant-access deposit accounts.
‘I thought it was likely. Now I’m not so sure. World’s a lot bigger since our day. More people. More buildings. And in the meanwhile, I’ve got to stay hidden and inconspicuous. Rubbish your modern armaments may be, but I can’t spend the rest of eternity swatting jet fighters. Sooner or later, they’ll work out a way of nailing me, and that’d be that.’
Bianca ate a crisp. ‘So you’re thinking of packing it all in?’ she asked.
‘Maybe.’ The dragon shrugged. ‘Or at the very least, make myself scarce for a while. That’s why I tried to get a job. Didn’t work out.’
There was a giggle from Bianca’s end of the bench. ‘A job?’ she said. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. I was a security guard.’
‘And it didn’t suit?’
The dragon shook his head. ‘And before you start suggesting alternatives,’ he went on, ‘high on the list of jobs I’m not prepared to consider are such things as self-propelled welding plant, mobile Tandoori oven, late-night hamburger chef or industrial paint stripper. So if that’s what you were thinking—’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Nor,’ continued the dragon ominously, ‘would I welcome remarks containing the phrases bright spark, set the Thames on fire, stepping on the gas or hey, mister, you got a light? Understood?’
‘Quite. But what are you going to do?’ Bianca looked at him. ‘I mean, sprawling on park benches under a newspaper with a can of four-star wrapped in brown paper’s not going to get you very far, is it?’
‘Actually, I quite like meths.’
‘Hmm. No,’ Bianca went on, standing up and brushing away crumbs, ‘this won’t do at all. For one thing, what about my statue?’
The dragon looked at her severely. ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘It’s traditional. Gentlemen always owe their tailors. Anyway, you should be proud. It’s not every chiseller whose stuffs good enough to live in.’
‘Be that as it may. I’ve got a contract and deadlines. It’s bad enough that I’ve got to do Saint George all over again.’
‘You’re kidding. You seriously expect me to spend the rest of my life sitting still in a public square just to save you a bit of extra work?’
Bianca nodded. ‘Least you can do,’ she replied firmly. ‘After all, if it wasn’t for me, presumably you’d still be wandering about the astral void, or whatever it was you used to do.’
The dragon took a long swig of petrol and burped. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t like that at all. I can’t remember it all that clearly, because as soon as you cross back into this lot it sort of slips out through the cat-flap of your mind. But I think quite a fair proportion of it was sitting in bars.’
‘Figures.’
A frown pinched the dragon’s face. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘it wasn’t bad at all, from what little I can remember. Don’t know why I came back to be perfectly honest; job left undone, sense of purpose, something like that. A dripping tap in the bathroom of eternity.’
‘Hmm.’
The dragon stood up. On the one hand, he neither liked nor disliked individual humans, in the same way that humans don’t have favourites among blades of grass. On the other hand, this was the longest sustained conversation he’d ever had with one and he was beginning to wonder if, given time, you couldn’t get used to them. And if you did, would it matter that you’d spent many happy hours in the long-ago reducing them to more or less pure carbon? It hadn’t mattered then, but circumstances change.
‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll be your statue until you have to deliver and you get paid. In the meantime, I’ll stick with this ridiculous outfit—’ He indicated his human body, with a gesture pirated from an Archduke’s chauffeur condescending to have a go on the dodgems. ‘And you help me to find George. It’ll be much easier for you, what with you being a human and all. What do you say?’
Bianca considered. ‘It sounds fair enough,’ she replied. ‘Except, I’ve got to do a new Saint George. That’s going to take time.’
The dragon picked up a chunk of sandwich crust and lobbed it to a passing squirrel. ‘Depends,’ he replied. ‘Maybe I can help you there. Got any sheet iron?’
‘Well?’
‘Looking good,’ the dragon replied. ‘Much quicker this way, isn’t it?’
Bianca nodded. She was exhausted and drenched in sweat. The temperature inside the derelict foundry was murderous.
‘Just the sword to do,’ she croaked, ‘and that’s it.’
They made the sword; that is, Bianca sketched it in chalk on the wall and then took cover. The dragon, back in his true form, then snipped a length off the steel sheet, breathed on it until it was cherry-red and moulded it carefully between his paws, like a child with plasticine. When she was happy with the result, he dunked it in the water tank.
‘Anything else you want doing while I’m at it?’ he asked. ‘Designer tableware? Couple of cell doors? New offside front wing for your car?’
‘No, thank you. Can we go now, please? It’s rather stuffy in here.’
With a shrug, the dragon scooped an armful of finished metalwork out of the water tank, knelt down so that Bianca could perch on his shoulder, and took off, vertically, out through where the foundry roof used to be before a catastrophic fire finished off that huge, preservation-order-bound, highly insured edifice. Two minutes later, they were back in Victoria Square. If anybody noticed their arrival, they didn’t say anything.
‘Fine,’ Bianca said, stepping off and doing her best to conceal her total joy at being back on the ground. ‘All right, let’s see what it looks like.’
The dragon dumped the metalwork and struck a pose. ‘Well?’
‘You look ridiculous. Try again.’
‘Better?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. All right, what about this?’
Bianca narrowed her eyes. ‘The left front knee a bit further in. And let’s have a bit more wing. Yes, that’s it, hold it right there. That’s—’
‘Yes, I like it,’ murmured the dragon, human once more and standing beside her. ‘Apart from looking like a tinned food advert, it’s not too bad.’
Bianca ignored him. It was ... different. And good.
It was no longer Saint George and the Dragon. It was now The Dragon Eating Saint George. To be precise, the dragon, having noshed the juicy bits, was now crunching up the armour in the hope of getting out the last few shreds, like you do with a crab or a lobster (except that you have better table manners). Hence, Bianca realised with a slight shudder, the reference to tins. Never mind.
‘That,’ said the dragon cheerfully, ‘is making me feel distinctly peckish. Fancy a curry?’
Night lay on Birmingham like a lead duvet. A few revellers stumbled through the darkling streets, beer-fuddled, in search of an all-night kebab van. Here and there a doorway or low arch concealed the occasional mugger, rapist or lawyer. Apart from that, the mighty city dozed fitfully.
Birmingham, however, sleeps with the light on. You can read a book by the streetlamps in the city centre, although the chances are that you won’t get further than chapter three before someone hits you over the head and steals it. In any event, it’s bright en
ough to make out, say, a small procession consisting of a saint, a priest and five demons, staggering slightly under the weight of three packing cases of plastic explosive, electronic timing devices, blast shields and a drinks trolley.
‘Careful,’ George hissed, as Chardonay caught his foot in a pothole and tottered. ‘You fall over with that lot, there’d be nothing left but a huge hole in the ground and a pile of rubble. Mind you,’ he added, looking round, ‘in this town I don’t suppose anyone’d notice.’
‘Sorry,’ Chardonay replied. ‘Look, is it much further, because my back—’
Before he could finish the sentence, the crate was snatched from his hands by Snorkfrod, who gave him a dazzling smile and then let George have her opinion of thoughtless pigs who make delicate, sensitive fiends from Hell carry heavy loads. Bloody Shopfloor fire, muttered Chardonay to himself, she’s carrying two of those enormous cases under one arm. Tough lady. He shuddered.
‘Shut your row,’- George replied. ‘Look, it’s only just round the next corner.’
‘You said that an hour ago,’ Slitgrind grumbled, shifting his load onto his shoulder with his middle hand. ‘Couple of hundred yards, you said, and—’
George stopped dead and put a tennis-racket-sized hand round the demon’s throat. ‘You calling me a liar, son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Huh?’
Slitgrind nodded, insofar as George’s hand permitted. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Just telling the truth. Like my old mum used to say, tell the truth and shame the ... whatever. Always used to wonder whose ruddy side she was on.’
‘Oh look,’ said Father Kelly. ‘I think we’re here now.’
George let Slitgrind go. ‘Right, lads,’ he said. ‘Now, you two start packing the jelly round the - fuck me!’
He was staring at the statue. Quite suddenly, he wasn’t feeling very well. Imagine how a turkey would feel, switching on the telly in mid December and catching the Delia Smith programme.
Prodsnap nudged him in the back. ‘That’s it, is it?’
George nodded. ‘Bastard,’ he added. ‘I take that personally.’
