Paint Your Dragon Tom Holt

by Paint Your Dragon (lit)

  ‘Your ... Oh shit, I was forgetting.’ The dragon sighed. He wasn’t a dragon any more. All that he had ever been was now a smoking red glow half a mile away, across the corpse-choked stadium. ‘Promise me you won’t fly too fast,’ he said, scrambling to his feet. ‘I get airsick.’

  ‘And here,’ said the Council spokesman, ‘is where we’re going to have the statues.’

  Impassive Japanese faces turned and contemplated a big, rectangular block of stone, slap bang in the middle of Birmingham’s world-famous Victoria Square. The spokes­man had no way of telling whether they loved it, hated it or simply couldn’t give a damn. He ploughed onwards, feeling like Father Christmas at a mathematicians’ convention.

  ‘The statues,’ he bleated, his back to the plinth so he didn’t have to look at it, ‘when they’re finished, will be by the most exciting young talent of the decade, Bianca Wilson, and will depict Saint George and the Dragon, that timeless allegory of...’

  The Kawaguchiya people weren’t listening. They were staring at something behind him. The white-haired one was conferring with his two youngest aides. God, the Council official thought, how terribly rude.

  ‘Good,’ he continued firmly, ‘versus Evil, a theme perennially relevant to us today in this modern age. The original statues were, of course, destroyed in an explosion, but...'

  Jesus wept, what was it these bastards found so irres­istibly interesting? Unable to resist any longer, the Council official turned slowly round, and saw...

  ‘The original statues,’ he continued seamlessly, ‘have been expertly restored by a team of, um, experts working twenty-four hours a day, and are now once again trium­phantly here on display, as you can, er, see. Right. Now, if we turn to our left we can see the award-winning Colmore Tower...’

  Bianca turned the corner out of Eden Place, stopped dead and stared.

  The dragon was back. Exactly as it had been, where it had been. Cold stone, lifeless, empty. The sight of it made her want to throw up.

  As she walked slowly towards them, an elderly woman in a tweedy coat and a headscarf touched her arm. ‘Here,’ she said, as Bianca started and turned her head. ‘You’re that Bianca Wilson, aren’t you?’

  ‘Huh? Uh, yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Saw you on telly. You got blown up.’

  ‘That’s right, so I did. Look, if you’ll excuse me ...'

  The woman didn’t move. God, Bianca realised, I can’t remember. Is she one of mine, or is she real? Still, short of brushing her hair forward from the back of her neck and looking for chisel-marks, I’ve got no way of knowing.

  ‘You did the carving,’ the woman said.

  ‘Guilty,’ Bianca replied. ‘I mean, yes, that’s mine. My statue.'

  ‘Yes.’ The woman looked at the great stone dragon, then back to Bianca. ‘Not really my cup of tea, this modern stuff,’ she said. ‘I like things more traditional myself.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Like that cat watching a bird our Neville got from the garden centre. Of course, he lives over Shenley Fields way, they got more space for gardens there.’

  ‘Quite. If you’d just excuse me ...

  ‘If I was you,’ the woman said, ‘I’d do a nice animal, a cat or a dog or something. People like a nice animal.’

  Bianca closed her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll definitely bear that in mind.’

  The old woman released her arm. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d best let you get on. Nice to have met you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Bianca said. She watched until the old woman had trotted away towards the library, then walked slowly up to the statue, as if she was stalking a deer. Even as she did so, however, she knew there was no need. This time, there was nobody home.

  In her studio, meanwhile, the spare statue, number sixteen, quickened into life, jumped as if someone had stubbed a cigarette out on its nose, and fell over. By the time it hit the floor it was flesh and blood, not marble. Instead of breaking, therefore, it swore.

  And it was no longer It; it was She. Which, as far as Chubby Stevenson was concerned, was a rotten trick to play on anybody.

  She was standing there, motionless as — well, a statue, for example — when an open-topped jeep roared up beside her. She looked round.

  ‘Get in,’ Kurt shouted. ‘We got ninety minutes left. Don’t actually need you for this bit, but I thought you might like to see the end.’

  ‘Not really,’ Bianca said, looking away. ‘If it’s all the same to you. Kurt, while you’re here, you’re the sort of bloke who uses explosives and things. You couldn’t spare me a bit, could you? Just enough to blow this lot to tiny pieces, that’s all.’

  ‘You fucking dare!’ snapped the man in the passenger seat. She looked more closely and reacted. If she’d been a cat she’d have arched her back, extended her claws and hissed.

  ‘Cool it,’ Kurt said, ‘it’s George’s body but Fred inside. You coming or not? We gonna pick up Mike on the way, make sure we got the whole team.'

  Bianca shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ she said. ‘Just so long as nobody asks me to do anything. Because right now, I simply can’t be bothered.’

  Kurt grinned and opened the door. ‘Get in,’ he said.

  Well?

  As soon as they’d gone in through the door that led to the computer room, Kurt had locked it and produced, God only knew where from, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. Before his three companions could move, he’d jacked a round into the chamber and pointed it at them.

  ‘Here they all are, Chief,’ he said. ‘The dragon, the sculptress lady and her sidekick. George is dead.’

  Splendid. Stevenson?

  ‘Dead too. Things, uh, hotted up towards the end.’

  No great loss. I have most of his soul. All I have to do is format it and I’ll be out of here. That’ll be fun.

  Kurt nodded. ‘I’ll say,’ he said. ‘You collected your winnings yet?’

  Not yet. I have that pleasure to look forward to.

  ‘Clean up?’

  Very much so. A long time ago I bet Asmoday Duke of Hell a substantial sum of money that Saint George would kill the dragon. At the time, he gave me ninety-five to one. When he lost, I offered him double or quits on the rematch. When I get out of this contraption, I shall be comfortably off

  The dragon started forwards, then caught sight of Kurt’s gun and stayed where he was. ‘Nosher, you bastard,’ he spat. ‘It was you. You fixed the bloody fight.’

  It takes two, Fred. You were happy to take the money. And besides, it’s all worked out perfectly. The dragon has killed Saint George, which is what should have happened all those years ago. But, looked at from another angle, Saint George has once again killed the dragon, reaffirming the supremacy of Good over Evil. You’ve all got me to thank for that.

  ‘Yes, but...’ Bianca started to interrupt, and then realised that she had nothing to say. She shut her mouth and sat down on the edge of a desk.

  You don’t imagine for one moment, do you, that your clowning about playing musical bodies could possibly have succeeded if it hadn’t been part of my original plan? Which Kurt here has carried out, I may say, like the true professional he is. Thank you, Kurt.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Pity about Stevenson, I suppose. The screen flickered for a moment. I imagined that idiot Kortright would have whisked him off in his helicopter as soon as the dragon — sorry, George

  — started killing people. My mistake. Anyway, he was expend­able. He helped with the plan — his artificial Time, the organisation he built up — but he was never part of it. Basically, his heart wasn’t in it. His soul was, but only, if you’ll pardon the expression, over his dead body. Anyway, all’s well that ends well — as it has; perfectly, in fact — and like you always used to

  say, Fred; omelettes and eggs, eggs and omelettes.

  ‘Did I ever tell you I secretly hated you at school, Nosher? I thought you were a vicious little prick then, and I do now. Just thought I’d share that
with you.'

  The screen dimmed, then flared bright green. Really? I’m sorry. All right, so perhaps I’ve made a lot of money along the way, but if it hadn’t been for me, Evil would have triumphed over Good back then, and it’d have done exactly the same now. Which makes me the good guy, surely. Or do any of you have a problem with the logic of that?

  There was a long silence, eventually broken by Kurt clearing his throat.

  ‘Shall I finish it now, boss?’ he said, flicking off the safety catch.

  Why not? I never could abide self-indulgent gloating. You see, people, this is a fairly happy ending, but not yet happy-happy. As I explained to Kurt not long ago, it’s not just a case of Evil being vanquished. What really matters in the long run is who does the vanquishing. It’s like politics; no earthly use over­throwing evil and corrupt Regime X if you immediately replace it with evil and corrupt Regime Y You do see that, don’t you?

  The dragon tensed the muscles of his legs. He’d have only one chance to spring, and he was prepared to bet that Kurt’s reflexes were a match for his, or better. But if he fell across Kurt, knocking him sideways, it might just give Bianca and Mike the chance to throw a chair through the screen, something like that. The whole thing was probably completely futile, but never mind. He was dead already and he was going to die again. At this precise moment, his subconscious was working on a brand new religion, the central fundamental doctrine of which was Third Time Lucky.

  All right, Kurt, do what you were hired to do. Time for you to become a saint, Kurt. Kill the dragon.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  Don’t be silly, Kurt. You’re a professional, you do what you were told. Now kill the blasted dragon.

  Kurt raised the gun, ever so slightly. He wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  Well?

  ‘Sorry to split hairs,’ Kurt said, ‘but what our agreement actually said was, I was hired to kill a dragon. Not The. A.’

  Kurt. What on earth are you...?

  Lundqvist stood up in a single smooth movement. The muzzle of the gun traversed the room, covering Bianca, Mike and the dragon. Then it was pointing at the screen.

  ‘Only one dragon in this room, Nosher,’ he said. ‘We got one female human, two male humans, a male saint and you. Reckon that makes you the last of your species.

  Kurt...

  The shotgun boomed eight times, filling the air with broken glass as all the screens in the room disintegrated into powder. The printer in the corner screamed into action and had filled twelve sides of A4 in two and a half seconds before a blow from the stock of the Remington silenced it for ever.

  ‘Another species extinct,’ Kurt grumbled, mopping a slight cut under his left eye. ‘Don’t you just hate it when that happens?’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Taxi!, Chubby said.

  'Yes, miss?’

  Chubby winced. Not that it wasn’t a very nice body —gorgeous was the word he’d have chosen — it was just that it wasn’t, well, him. The tragedy of it was that under normal circumstances he’d have given anything to be this close to such a sensational-looking bird, but somehow he felt that fancying yourself wasn’t a good idea. Made you go blind, he’d read somewhere.

  ‘The airport, please. Fast as you like.’

  Not much to show for a life’s work, he reflected, as he slung the Marks and Spencer bag which contained every­thing useful he’d been able to find in the studio onto the back seat of the taxi. All he’d been able to find to wear was an old overall of Bianca’s. There had been enough money in the meter to cover a taxi fare. He’d have to think of some way of getting on and off the plane without a ticket or a passport, of course, but provided he could make it to Zurich, his problems should then be over. He could remember the access code to his safety deposit boxes, and for the first time he was in a position to test the hypothesis that diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Personally he didn’t believe it; where he came from, index-linked Government stocks were a girl’s best friend and diamonds were just someone she occasionally had lunch with. But it would be fun researching the point.

  There was a jeep following the cab.

  Coincidence, Chubby assured himself, sliding down the seat. Must be thousands of jeeps in a city this size, and ninety-nine-point-nine of them must be owned by trendy young accountants. The chances of being tailed by — say, for the sake of argument, Kurt Lundqvist — must be so tiny as to be impossible to quantify in Base Ten. Your imagina­tion will be the death of you, Stevenson.

  In which case, he added, it’ll have to get a wiggle on if it doesn’t want to be beaten to it. The jeep had just overtaken the taxi and there was Lundqvist in the driver’s seat shaking a fist at him.

  Or was that meant to be a cheery wave?

  Get real.

  Shucks, Chubby told himself, I’ve been killed once already today. He craned his neck and told the driver to pull in.

  ‘Gone?’

  The dragon nodded. He didn’t want to speculate on where Saint George had gone ...

  (‘But I’m a saint, for crying out loud. Are you blind? We’re going the wrong way.’

  The Captain of Spectral Warriors sniggered. ‘A saint,’ he repeated. ‘Just off to a fancy dress bash, were you?’

  ‘I’m under cover, you idiot. Now let me go.’

  The Captain ignored him. Next thing he knew, they were at

  the gate, and there, dammit, were five not unfamiliar faces waiting for him.

  ‘Chardonay!’ he shrieked. ‘Snorkfrod! Prodsnap! Tell these hooligans who I am, for pity’s sake.’

  Chardonay and Snorkfrod exchanged glances.

  ‘Never seen this jerk before in my life,’ they chorused.)

  ... But something told him that it wasn’t going to be nice there. Oh well, it’d be a change for him, after all those years in the other place. If he behaved himself for a couple of million years or so, maybe they’d give him a job in the kitchens.

  The dragon shook himself all over, like a dog. ‘Now what?’ he demanded. ‘What I’d really like is an affidavit from the Holy Ghost saying the rest of my life’s my own, but I’m not going to count my chickens till they’ve come home to roost.'

  Bianca shrugged. ‘Kurt’ll be back soon,’ she said. ‘He’ll probably know.'

  They waited for two hours, which was, as it happened, two hours wasted. Then Bianca suggested that they take a walk.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A walk. Out in the open air.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fun,’ Bianca replied. ‘It’s something humans do. You’ll have to learn these things if you’re going to be a human the rest of your life.’

  The dragon looked at her. ‘Much risk of that, is there?’ he said. ‘In your opinion, I mean?’

  ‘What’s wrong with being human?’

  The dragon winced. ‘Give me a break,’ he said. ‘Quite apart from the not flying and not breathing fire and not glid­ing effortlessly above the clouds, feeling the sun on your back and the wind in your scales, I think you humans have a really horrible time. And you’re welcome to it. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Settle down somewhere and get a job?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bianca replied, as they stepped out into the street. ‘Maybe there’s some sort of agency that resettles you. You know, flies you out to Australia, gives you a new identity, teaches you a useful trade ...

  ‘Get stuffed. I don’t want a useful trade. And where’s Australia?’

  ‘I think you’d like Australia. It’s big. And hot. You could be the flying doctor, or something.’

  They walked in silence for a while, until the dragon sat down on a bench, complaining that his feet hurt.

  ‘Now,’ the dragon said, ‘if I could only get my nice statue back.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Bianca replied grimly. ‘Not again.’

  ‘But it’s all in one piece,’ the dragon replied, attempting a winning smile. ‘I saw it for myself, back on its plinth. Oh go on, be a sport. I promise to be carefu
l with it.’

  ‘It’s not the statue I’m worried about,’ Bianca said. ‘Now, if you’d promise to be careful with the planet—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe you. Gosh, look where we are.’

  In front of them, dominating attractive Victoria Square like a Rolls Royce Corniche in a Tesco’s car park, was the statue. For all that it was the work of her own hands and every square inch of it was familiar to her as her own body, Bianca’s heart stopped for a moment and her breath lodged in her throat like an undigested chunk of bread roll. It would be so easy to believe it was really alive.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she said, grabbing at Fred and missing. ‘Come back here. Leave it alone!’

  She was, of course, wasting her breath. The dragon had sprinted up to the statue, he was climbing onto it, scrab­bling with his fingers ...

  He was still there.

  ‘Bianca,’ he said quietly. ‘It won’t let me in. It’s locked or something. It’s ... dead.’

  Bianca stood still. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to have it, but truly I am sorry.’

  The dragon looked up and met her eye. ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘You can always make me another one.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘If you insist,’ the dragon replied. ‘A plinth like that one would do me fine, but you’re the creative one, you have what you like.’

  ‘I am not,’ Bianca said, ‘carving you another statue. You’ve already got a body. There’s starving people in the Third World who’d be glad of a body like that.’

  ‘Cannibals, you mean?’

  Bianca shrugged. ‘I could do you an owl,’ she said. ‘Or a nice seagull. You’d suit a nice seagull.’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t, Bianca. I’d pine away, or fly into a telegraph wire, or get my feathers covered in oil slick. I’m a dragon, Bianca. I need to be what I really am.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Bianca replied, shaking her head. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one. In point of fact, the number of people who’re ... Dragon? Oh, for God’s...’