Carpet Diem

by Justin Lee Anderson

  Simon had two completely different sinking feelings. One: he was being asked to perform some kind of Rambo rescue mission to the deepest jungle, killing guerillas with ad hoc weapons made from bamboo and chewing gum. Two: Faunt had said “I think”. The second was more terrifying than the first.

  “You ‘think’ she’s being held against her will? Why don’t you know?”

  “You really are much sharper than you give yourself credit for, Simon,” replied the deer.

  “Crap, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Lily added. “Why don’t you know?”

  Faunt turned to Daniel. “Would you like to explain it, since you’ve already figured it out?”

  Daniel sighed. He was being tossed a bone. But it also meant he knew where Faunt’s wife was.

  “She’s with Priest?”

  “Correct. As far as I know.”

  Lily’s face fell. She was definitely rattled. Simon’s sphincter hit DEFCON 1.

  If he was supposed to rescue Faunt’s wife from a priest who made Lily look like someone had just violently murdered her puppy, he’d rather stay home, all things considered.

  “Right, I’m leaving,” he said, standing up abruptly and making for the door.

  It was Faunt’s voice that stopped him.

  “No, Simon, you’re not. I’m really sorry, but you’re not. If you don’t get the Rug back and give it to one of these two, they can’t finish their jobs. If they can’t finish their jobs, they’ll both be punished. And the only way to avoid that would be for you to be dead, so that they can declare the contract null and void. If you leave, they pretty much have to kill you.”

  Simon could feel tears welling up.

  “Again, I’m truly sorry. But you should know, it’s not a jungle rescue mission and there will be no guerrillas. It’s actually a very nice island holiday resort, I understand.”

  The tears stopped.

  “It’s a what?”

  “Priest’s Island,” Daniel answered, “is a beautiful location. It is said to be the inspiration for most of man’s traditional images of Heaven.”

  “But it’s got a prison?”

  “Not that I know of,” Daniel answered. “But there could be one, I suppose.”

  Simon was getting that exasperated feeling again. There was information here to which he was the only one in the room who was not privy.

  “Would someone please just tell me why Mrs Faunt is being held against her will and why none of you seem to have much information about this priest and his bloody island?”

  “Good Simon; very good,” said Faunt. His hitherto encouraging words felt a lot more patronising than they had previously. Maybe supernatural types weren’t that much better than real people after all, pleasant aromas notwithstanding.

  Lily stood up and crossed the room to Simon.

  “The answer to both questions is because of Priest. If you sit down, I’ll explain.”

  “All of it? No stupid riddles or literal answers?”

  “All of it, I promise.”

  Simon retrieved his chair from behind Faunt and sat, but left it further away from the others than it had been previously. He hoped he was conveying the fact that he was prepared to walk out in a serious huff at any moment. Well, as well as he could in a room with one person who knew fine well that he wouldn’t and two others whose determination to kill him before he reached the door was the main reason why not.

  “Priest is The Exception,” Lily began.

  “To what?”

  “To everything. Laws. Physics. Everything. He did a deal with Mother and Father a long time ago. Rules don’t apply to him. Which is why Faunt doesn’t know for certain anything about what’s happening on his island. And why we can’t come with you.”

  “Right. Excellent. Well, that’s brilliant.”

  “There’s more.”

  Of course there was more. Every time Simon was absolutely sure things couldn’t get any worse, there was more.

  “Priest has an incredible effect on women. They can’t resist him. He’s like living chocolate. If he wants a woman, he gets her. For as long as he wants her.”

  “And Mrs Faunt is his latest woman?”

  Faunt half snorted and half laughed. It was an odd sound for a deer.

  “Latest?” he said, raising his eyebrows - well, the furry bits of his face above his eyes where he should have had eyebrows. “Not by a long way. By the best estimate I can make, there’s probably something like 300 women currently on Priest’s island. He picks them up as and when he fancies one and just keeps them all there so that he can have whichever one he wants when he wants her.

  “Oh, and my wife’s name is Cassandra, by the way. She would object quite strongly to being called Mrs Faunt. Best you know that before you meet her.”

  Simon had the feeling there were a lot more things he would need to know before he met Cassandra. Not least, how on Earth he, Simon Debovar, professional hider and accomplished bather, was supposed to go to an idyllic island and rescue a woman he’d never met from a man who, it seemed, was capable of doing pretty much anything.

  “We’re not going to send you alone,” Faunt assured him. “You can take someone with you, if you want to - just not one of us.”

  “Why not?” Simon asked. Although, right now, the last people Simon wanted anywhere near him were these three.

  “Because all angels and demons are barred from Priest’s Island,” Lily answered.

  “What about you?” Simon asked Faunt.

  “Well, my leaving here would attract a great deal of attention, unfortunately. However, even were that not so, Priest and I are not on the best of terms.”

  “Because he stole your wife?”

  “Actually, not really,” the deer answered. “But that hasn’t helped, I suppose. However, we do have an understanding. We leave each other alone.”

  Simon was starting to feel like a pawn about to be sacrificed to save the queen.

  “I understand that, Simon, and I am sorry,” said Faunt. If it helps, I’ve had a bath drawn for you upstairs. As it’s coming up for noon, I plan to retire to my room to change, so you could take some time to think about who you should take, if you like.”

  He definitely liked. Hopefully there would be more Rioja. He badly needed Rioja. And maybe some drugs.

  Prozac might be nice.

  ----

  Luke had awoken to the sound of birdsong and the smell of coffee. Despite living on the stuff for several days previously, it was a welcome aroma.

  “Morning gorgeous,” he heard Gabby say.

  Luke squinted against the sunlight streaming in through the window. There had been a time when he took such things for granted, but not now. Bathed in the warmth of the light, he took a moment to appreciate the delicious sensation before sitting up and lifting his cup.

  “Morning, gorgeous. What time is it?”

  “Nearly twelve.”

  It was unfortunate that the little hotel had chosen white bed linen, as it was really going to show the stains from the projectile coffee.

  “What?”

  He jumped from his position, vaguely aiming the cup at the bedside table.

  “Why didn’t you wake me? They could already be gone!”

  Gabby smiled calmly back at him, holding out a piece of paper.

  “I’ve been up since 8, sweetheart.”

  Luke took the piece of paper, wondering what on Earth could be on it that would make the fact they had risked losing Debovar not such a cause for concern.

  On it was written, in an archaic ink scrawl:

  Gabby,

  Pleased you’re feeling better for the rest. Stay here for now. I’ll let you know when you need to move.

  Best,

  F

  PS – I should let Luke sleep if I were you – he was exhausted last night.

  “It was slid under the door this morning just after I woke up. I looked outside, but there was nobody there.”

  Luke considered the possibilities. W
as Faunt genuinely helping them?

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Well, I see it like this. He knows everything. If he’s against us, we’re screwed. If he’s with us, he’s an incredible ally and we might as well take his advice.”

  It was a surprisingly clear piece of thinking. Luke smiled.

  “OK, then I guess we’re staying here.”

  “Well, ‘here-ish’. The hotel has a hot tub downstairs.” She smiled devilishly. “It’s not like he won’t know where to find us.”

  “Fair point,” Luke answered. “Did we pack swimming costumes?”

  “Nope…” she answered, giggling slightly.

  He had to save the world. This woman was just too good to die.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Simon sank down in the bath. Who did he want to come with him? He was fairly sure that Batman wouldn’t be allowed - though it did take him longer than it once would have to rule him out.

  Who else?

  Simon had always wanted to meet Tori Amos. He loved her music and had always found her rather intoxicating, as if there was something elemental about her. In fact, now he came to think about it, he wondered if she was altogether human. But having a kooky, sensuous singer/pianist with him seemed likely to be more of a distraction than an aid - though the idea was appealing.

  For a man who had no friends, choosing someone to help keep him alive was not an easy task.

  What would he need from his companion? They’d need to be wily, clever and cool under pressure. They’d need to be pretty much fearless, to compensate for Simon’s utter failing in that area, and also be at least a little familiar with violence. Most of all, Simon would have to trust them.

  Once he thought about it like that, he knew exactly who he wanted. She was the only possible choice. The only thing he had to do was figure out how to convince her to come.

  ----

  Simon was delighted to find an open bottle of Campo Viejo Gran Reserva on the kitchen table, waiting patiently for him.

  “Help yourself,” said the human-again Faunt. “It’s for you.”

  Simon did not need to be asked twice.

  “So, you’ve chosen a partner for your adventure.”

  Simon rankled at the description of what was being asked of him. Calling it an adventure seemed akin to calling D-Day a bit of a lark at the beach.

  “Em, yes,” he answered. “ but I don’t know if she’ll come.”

  Simon poured himself a glass and sat at the table.

  Faunt turned to the hall and called out, “Cherry!”

  Simon stared. Who the hell was Cherry? What the hell was Cherry?

  A woman in her twenties waltzed in (‘walked’ did not do justice to the casual disdain with which she regarded everything in the room). Her name matched the colour of her spiky hair, which clashed with her pink, tiger-print jeans. Or what was left of them. She had topped off the look with what seemed to have started life as a Stiff Little Fingers t-shirt, which she had industriously converted into something between a bra and a vest. It had the pleasant and distracting habit of falling open under her arms to reveal tantalising glimpses of her ludicrously pert breasts.

  Simon baulked. Lovely as she was, it was clear why she was here – to him, anyway. He stood and turned to address his host.

  “Faunt, you really have been an excellent host, but this is a step too far, even for me.”

  Faunt put a hand up as if to interrupt, but Simon was not for stopping, afraid that if he did, he wouldn’t get to start again.

  “I’m sure you’ve thought about my attraction to Lily affecting my decision, but I’m really not comfortable with you providing me with a prostitute.”

  The last word hung in the air a moment as Faunt visibly winced. Simon realised why when he felt the ‘thwack’ of the punk’s palm rattle against his left ear.

  “Owwww!” he howled. Why had she hit him? He’d been studiously careful not to call her a whore… Then another thought occurred to him: maybe she was a dominatrix. The thought excited and terrified him in roughly equal measures.

  It honestly didn’t cross his mind that perhaps Cherry was not the woman of the night he had assumed she must be. Only prostitutes and exotic dancers were called Cherry, and he was quite sure that Faunt would not have been cruel enough to book a lap dance for the horniest man in Europe.

  “Cherry, please help yourself to a drink,” said Faunt. The girl retrieved a bottle of beer and opened it with one of the contraptions hanging from her belt.

  “Simon, assuming a woman is a prostitute is even worse than assuming she’s pregnant,” Faunt said, smiling in a way that Simon thought clearly suggested he was suppressing a laugh.

  “Oh dear,” Simon mumbled, feeling a terrible cad. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t possibly feel any worse.”

  “So, you got a hard on for the demon, huh?” she asked.

  Incredibly, he felt worse.

  But at least he understood the name now - she was American.

  “Cherry is a teleporter, Simon. She works for me,” Faunt explained.

  The punk smiled and lifted the front of her vest, exposing her stomach.

  “And just so we’re clear,” she said, “not pregnant.”

  Simon wished very hard to die. Or to touch that stomach. Either one.

  “I asked her to collect your companion as soon as you made a decision,” Faunt continued.

  “Oh.” A teleporter. Because, why not? “Did she agree to come?”

  Before Faunt could answer, a voice of char-grilled gravel did so for him.

  “Has my fud of a nephew been making a flying prick of himself again, then?”

  Harriet was here.

  “Harriet,” said Faunt, extending a hand to greet the newcomer as she entered the kitchen, “it’s a pleasure to meet such an extraordinary woman.”

  Harriet took his hand and returned the pleasant smile.

  “No need to blow smoke up my backside hairy boy. I hear you’ve got an impressive stock of single malts here somewhere.”

  “It’s the only reason she came,” Cherry piped in, as if any explanation were needed. Simon knew Harriet, and Faunt knew everyone.

  “Hello Harriet,” Simon finally said. “It’s … nice to see you.”

  Harriet turned and grabbed Simon’s cheeks in one iron claw, lifting his face toward her for inspection. It shouldn’t have been physically possible for a woman of that age to have such a grip. Simon felt his teeth digging into his skin.

  “You’ve still been hiding in that bloody house haven’t you, you pasty bugger? What are you so afraid of?”

  Tears instantly welled in Simon’s eyes and his lip trembled - imperceptibly to anyone but Faunt. He felt like he’d just had his shorts removed and his bare arse skelped for the world to see.

  “Aunt Harriet,” his voice was trembling too, “I am not afraid of anything. I choose to stay at home because I find the human race to be selfish, rude, inconsiderate, stinking slobs whose purpose has always been making my life more difficult!”

  “I’ll drink to that, buddy,” said Cherry, as she did exactly that.

  Harriet roared like a Viking King at an orgy.

  “Good for you, boy. You might be a tubby little wuss, but at least you’ve got the Debovar stones in there somewhere! Now,” she turned to Faunt, “where’s the whisky?”

  “Cherry, would you please show our guest down to the cellar?”

  “You’re the boss,” said Cherry, saluting. She knocked back the last of her drink and led Harriet out to the hall. The octogenarian followed at a pace that was slightly indecent. But then, for Harriet, decent was rarely a useful adjective.

  “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Faunt asked, once she was out of earshot.

  “Yes,” Simon answered, “but she’s family, and if I have to rely on someone, I can’t think of anyone else. Unless you want to change your mind?”

  Faunt smiled wryly. “I’d love to Simon, but there are a lot of reasons why I
can’t. I’m touched you might have chosen me, though. Personally, I understand your choice. I might have gone for Tori Amos, though.”

  He laughed and, as much of a surprise to him as anyone else, so did Simon. A deep, hearty laugh. It had been a while, and it felt good. He poured another glass of wine for himself and topped up the glass Faunt offered. Simon was having a drink with a friend.

  It was Christmas.

  ----

  “What’s wrong with those books?” Harriet barked. “Am I drunk or are they fucking moving?”

  She sat in a luxurious, medieval armchair by the library fire, holding court as only she could, even in the company of an angel, a demon, an immortal and a teleporter. And Simon.

  “No, you’re right,” answered Faunt, “they are. They’re being written.”

  “You what?” she snapped.

  “Well, as I know the full contents of every book ever written, there are none I can read for pleasure. These, therefore, are books currently being written by their authors.”

  “Fantastic,” Simon heard himself say, in genuine wonder. “You get to read books before they’re even finished! How brilliant.”

  “Well, you’d be surprised by how some of the greatest books ever written started life. Hemingway’s first drafts were, in his own words, ‘shit’. The first draft of Wuthering Heights had a happy ending.”

  Simon hadn’t read Wuthering Heights. Now that he could assume it ended badly, he probably wouldn’t bother.

  “Now,” Faunt said, moving the conversation on, “since those of us who need to eat are at least peckish, I’ve asked Bob to bring in some tapas.” Faunt gestured to the door as it opened to indeed reveal Bob and a tray of stuff.

  Simon was delighted; he liked tapas. He also tried to remember, in passing, whether Faunt had a spyglass on his front door. If so, it must have been the only one in the world that saw less action than his own.

  “Not for me,” said Harriet, brandishing her glass in defence, “don’t want too much blood in my alcohol stream.” She laughed at her own joke, seemingly unaware it was older than her.