by Heide Goody
“Billy the Fish.”
“That’s the chappie.”
“They’re just kids, Rod.”
“The Library. They might have put that daft lass up to it.”
“The protest thing was just a ruse? Wouldn’t surprise me. That Izzy girl certainly isn’t all knitted scarves, falafels and lefty morals.”
“How come?” Rod swapped phone ears.
“Those cuffs. There’s a trick catch under the cuff. They’re not standard issue. They’re purely for… recreational use.”
“Marital aid, you mean?”
“If that’s a coy way of saying they’re a sex toy, then yes. Some of the sex shops in Brum sell them.”
“I don’t think I want to know how you know this kind of stuff.”
“Yes, you do,” said Nina, “you’re just too prudish to ask.”
“Oh, sweet hell,” whispered Morag.
“What?” said Rod.
Morag showed him the picture gallery on the phone. “I think this zahir business just got a whole lot worse,” she said.
After ending the call, Nina spun round in her chair, drawing her feet up and leaning back thoughtfully.
“Do you know why Thomas Jefferson invented the swivel chair?” said Vivian, without looking up from her work.
The response team office in the Library was open plan with a stunning view of the miserable maisonettes and tower blocks of Ladywood. It had four desks and, theoretically, operated a hot-desking policy. This tended to mean that every person’s crap didn’t just occupy one desk but any desk they had ever sat at. However, Vivian’s desk was Vivian’s desk and no one dared hot-desk it.
“Not a clue,” said Nina.
“Do you think he did it so he could move easily between two positions while drafting the Declaration of Independence or do you think he did it so he could spin on it like a demented toddler?”
Nina spun and thought. “He could do both.”
“Well, you are neither Thomas Jefferson nor a demented toddler. Stop it.” Vivian treated her to one of her cold hard stares. Most of Vivian’s stares were cold and hard but this one was deliberately so.
“Vivian? You know the Waters Crew, do you think they’re capable of murder?”
“Billy the Fish killed Eazy Boy. It’s common knowledge.”
“No, I meant kill a human.”
“Eazy Boy was half human. The Waters Crew are all mixed background, not a true samakha among them.”
“I know that and I’m not being racist – hashtag Fish Lives Matter, and all that – but do you think they’d kill someone, a non-participant, perhaps part of some gangland deal?”
Vivian stopped to give this some thought. “Billy is a slippery customer –”
“To be expected.”
“And he thinks life owes him more than it does. The boy loves his mother. He wants to get her out of Fish Town.”
“She made a rehousing application last month. Dickens Heath. The new builds.”
“That’s purely for the unholy offspring of Yoth Mammon.”
“I know. She won’t get in and, if she did, they’d eat her alive.”
Vivian held her pen in both hands, testing its strength, as though she was preparing to snap it.
“I have a scheduled visit to Fish Town on Thursday to check registration documentation. I could move it forward, knock on a few doors and ask a few direct questions.”
“That would be really helpful,” said Nina. “I was going to do that myself but you have a way with them.”
“A way?”
“Like a scary headmistress. I’ve seen it. All those wannabe gangstas, caps off, looking sheepish, calling you ‘Mrs Grey’.”
“It is my name.”
Nina contemplated her colleague. “You don’t normally change your schedule in order to be, you know, helpful.”
Vivian gave her a rare look of genuine human emotion.
“I need a break,” she said and cast her pen down on her paperwork. “Mr Hamilton, our virgin heart donor. Do you know how many funeral directors are willing to perform an open casket funeral for a man with no eyes?”
“Not many?”
“No.”
“Vivian. He’s dead. He won’t know.”
“I will,” said Vivian firmly, standing up.
Nina picked up the handcuffs on her desk.
“Well, in that case,” she said. “I’m going to visit some sex shops while you go tickle the trout.”
Vivian glared at her. “What?” she asked.
“What?” said Nina.
“Tickle the…? Is that some sort of sexual reference, Miss Seth? Please don’t discuss your filthy acts of self-abuse in the –”
“What?” said Nina, confused. “It’s a fishing thing, isn’t it?” She started to doubt herself. “When you put your hand under and rub its…” She attempted a hand action which probably didn’t help.
“Filthy,” said Vivian and left.
Rod and Morag had searched for and bagged up all potentially Venislarn items and left the crime scene to the police detectives. Morag flicked back and forth through the photos on the late Mr Shipston’s phone and googled on her own phone while Rod drove. There had been roundabouts and several tunnels and Morag had already lost all sense of what direction they were heading in.
“Okay,” said Rod. “So, Izzy Wu breaks into the Vault, possibly with the help of or under the instruction of Benjamin the boyfriend.”
“Correct,” said Morag.
“Who is – excuse me, was – making jewellery based on Venislarn designs, in particular the hypnotic zahirs.”
“Also correct.”
“Probably based on those images,” he gestured blindly at the phone.
“Probably.”
“Tattoos.”
“Indeed.”
The images on the phone were all close-ups of tattoos in black ink, lines, swirls and sigils that, even on the phone screen, seemed to writhe and strain against the confines of two dimensions. Tattoos on wrists, on thighs, larger designs between pale shoulder blades. The lighting in the pictures suggested they were nearly all taken in the same place.
“Occultists.”
“Gang tats?” replied Rod.
“Most of these look like women.”
“Branding of property?” said Rod, darkly.
“Or maybe they’re just idiots who don’t know what they’re getting tattooed with.”
“Like those people who think their tattoo is the Chinese symbol for ‘power’ or ‘peace’ but it actually says ‘chicken noodle soup’ or ‘dumb Western tit’.”
Morag grunted, a half-laugh.
“Zahirs are dangerous. They’re weapons. And someone’s strapping them to human flesh. I can’t help but think that will end spectacularly badly.”
She flicked back to a photo of a tattoo being applied. A hand in blue latex held the ink gun. Poking out of the cuff was a wristband tattoo: two orbs, one of them the earth, wrapped in a ribbon. There was writing but the image was too blurry to read.
“Seen anything like that before?” said Morag and held out the phone to Rod.
Rod took his eyes off the road for a second and smiled.
“Birmingham City Football Club,” he said.
“Oh, okay.”
“Our tattooist is an old school Blues fan.”
The taxi company office was at the end of Gibb Street, in a curve of street that was apparently inaccessible from both ends. It was unmarked, apart from the word ‘TAXI’ and a phone number painted above the closed metal grille door: ‘0121 427 20--’. The last two digits of the phone number had been violently scraped away. Vivian gave the sticky door a firm shove and stepped inside.
“Taxi?” said the figure sat in the gloom behind the counter.
Vivian showed him her ID.
“Taxi?” he said again.
“Let me in, Obie.”
Obie had less of the samakha look about him. His shiny skin, large and sad eyes, and wide, down
turned mouth could almost be mistaken for those of an unfortunate soul with a bad diet, worse genes, and a soul-crushing job (such as, say, managing a low-class taxi cab office).
He stubbed out his cigarette, slid off his stool and opened the bolts on the door behind the counter. Beyond was a narrow back alley between crowded terraces.
“I am going to Daganau Vei,” she said.
“Taxi, taxi,” said Obie subserviently. He closed the door, pulled a handle on the opposite side and opened the door again — this time onto a set of damp steps.
“Better,” said Vivian.
“Taxi,” said Obie, happy to oblige.
She took the steps carefully. They led directly onto the canal and it would be monstrous bad luck to fall in. Daganau-Pysh never turned down free food.
The samakha who had been accommodated in the converted warehouses and densely packed houses had set about building on and extending their homes with the zeal of the nouveau riche and the planning concerns of slum landlords. Roofs had become attic apartments. Apartments had sprouted balconies. Balconies had gained roofs of their own and rickety upper floors. Upper floors had merged to form bridges with their neighbours. Bridges had criss-crossed in networks and, even where the weight of the structure threatened to drag the whole down into The Waters, every open space was home to additional buildings or some sort of stall or structure. The whole conjoined mess of buildings would have burned down years ago if it hadn’t all been so damp.
As Vivian stepped onto the towpath she was aware that eyes watched her from behind shutters, that distant telescopes were trained on her. Humans were not unknown in Fish Town — there were registered service folk who were allowed access, and some foolish individuals who had sold themselves to the samakha — but government officials always drew attention. A human woman in a ragged shift pushed a pram along the towpath, her offspring wriggling in the tub of water it carried. People who were half-human, half-samakha solemnly propelled their punts and coracles along The Waters. A true samakha observed Vivian from a dark doorway, its webbed paw on the doorframe. Several more were just visible beneath the surface of The Waters, lidless eyes staring up, gill slits palpitating.
Vivian walked along the path, took one of the more reliable wooden bridges to the other side of the canal, and climbed up to a second floor address. The door opened as she approached. Courtney O’Keefe was all nervous smiles, running her bony fingers through her dirty, cotty hair.
“Mrs Grey. I saw you coming and I put the kettle on.”
“Good morning, Miss O’Keefe,” said Vivian.
She entered the mildewed front room. A pan of water was starting to heat on a primus stove. There were two mismatched cups on the table. Vivian saw the unpleasant stains inside them and imagined even boiling water wouldn’t kill those germs.
“You’ve come about my application,” said Courtney.
“No,” said Vivian. “I’ve come to speak to your son, William.”
Courtney didn’t look up from the cups. “Why?”
“I have questions to ask him.”
“What’s he done?”
“That would be one of the questions I have for him.”
She made for the inner door.
“My housing application…?” Courtney poured the hot water.
“Has not been processed,” said Vivian.
“But it’s been months.”
“Five weeks. And it has not been processed.”
“But when?”
Vivian gestured ahead. “Is he in?”
Courtney shook her head and then sniffed back a sob. “Why do you do this to us?”
“Do what?” asked Vivian honestly.
“This – living in this place – it’s hell.”
“No, Miss O’Keefe. I have seen hell. I have stood on its shores. This is not hell.”
“This miserable fucking place. I can’t imagine anywhere worse.”
“Then you have a surprising lack of imagination. Can you tell me where your son is?”
“Fuck you, you old cow.”
Vivian ignored the woman’s outburst and started down the short hallway.
“I might as well kill myself then,” yelled Courtney. “Living in this shithole. Suicide. What’s the difference?”
“Actually, Miss O’Keefe, apart from the obvious, there are some notable similarities. If you wanted to kill yourself, there are indeed places you can go, interviews you can go through, forms you can sign and, having made an informed choice, seek an end to it all.” She turned to address the shorter woman. “When the samakha laid claim to you, do you remember that we interceded on your behalf? We counselled you to reject their offer. We explained what would happen. And then you signed our forms to say you freely consented to this.”
“But I didn’t know. A person can change their mind, can’t they?”
Vivian nodded. “I should think that some people, in that Swiss clinic or wherever, moments after drinking down the bitter pentobarbital, think very much the same.” She opened the door to Billy’s bedroom. It was cramped, cluttered and untidy. The bed was unmade, the sheets grubby and crusty in places. There was an unsavoury organic stink to the place. In these matters, it was like any teenager’s bedroom.
There were cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes stacked along the wall. Translucent white DVD cases filled them to the brim.
“Did something fall off the back of a boat?” asked Vivian, but there was no reply from Billy’s mum.
Vivian opened a case. The disc inside was blank. A portable DVD player sat on top of the tallest pile of boxes. The case crackled as Vivian took out a DVD. She put it in the player. The player whirred. There was no menu, just the movie.
Vivian watched the detestable scene unfold in stoic silence.
“Give it to me, baby.”
“You’re gonna have to unwrap your present, honey. Use your tongue.”
“Is this a double knot?”
“What you up to, Mrs G? Ggh! Sneaking about a man’s crib, huh?” said a voice behind her.
It wasn’t Courtney; she had gone. It was her boy, Billy the Fish. Vivian noted the knife held casually in one hand. The giant samakha with huge drooping barbels behind him was unarmed. The ugly youth with mismatched eyes beside them, held a metal baseball bat. Vivian saw a smear of blood along its side.
“Sneaking?” said Vivian. “Sneaking? This is my jurisdiction, William. Where did you get these DVDs? From whom did you buy them?”
“Buy them?” said Billy and grinned.
“Oh, we’ve moved into manufacturing, have we?” She pointed a finger at the bat wielder. “You are Jamie Jones.”
The fish boy nearly caved in under her stare but managed to grip his bat tighter and say, “What of it?”
“You and I need to talk.”
“‘Bout what? Ggh!”
“Does your mum know you’re a killer now?”
Again, it was nearly enough to break him. “Mrs Grey…” he began to wheedle.
“You’re not taking Jay-Jay anywhere,” said Billy.
Vivian ignored him and looked at the giant behind them.
“Tyrone. I’ve got no argument with you. Go on home. These two, however, are in big trouble.”
Billy eyeballed his tall friend and the big lunk stayed put. “You’re nuttin but a toy cop, Mrs G,” said Billy. “You think you can push us around, toy cop? I’m a – ggh! – a playa now. Rolling in onion booty and dead presidents.”
“Dead presidents,” said Vivian.
Billy rubbed shiny fingertips together.
“William, this is the UK,” she said. “We don’t have dead presidents.”
“No, but…”
“We got the queen on ours,” said Tyrone deeply, speaking for the first time.
“That’s not the point,” said Billy.
“We should call ‘em dead queens, B,” said Jamie.
“She’s not dead,” said Tyrone.
“Course she’s dead, dog,” said Jamie. “S
he’s been on them, like – ggh! – forever.”
“She’s not dead,” said Tyrone.
“Call ‘em Elizabeths. Ggh! Got me a pocketful of Elizabeths. Sounds kinda —”
Billy shoved him hard.
“Shut it!” He turned his blade towards Vivian. “You shouldn’t have come here, Mrs G. Big mistake.”
She shook her head minimally. “The mistake is yours, William. You live here under my sufferance.”
He sneered. “I am the spawn of Daganau-Pysh. Ggh! I’m untouchable.”
“No, William. No one wants to touch you. That’s different. As far as Daganau-Pysh is concerned, you’re a filthy half-breed, a mulatto. You’re worth nothing to him.”
Billy the Fish trembled with rage.
“And you’re worth less,” he said.
Vivian nodded. “Maybe.”
She pulled out her phone and began to dial. Billy slapped it out of her hand.
Vivian rarely felt afraid. It wasn’t an emotion she had much use for. But Billy had overstepped a line that the samakha did not cross.
“Take her,” he said.
“Take her where?” said Jamie.
Billy hissed, deep in his throat.
“Give her a pair of concrete Converse. Then a – ggh! – long walk off a short pier.”
After a morning of driving round the city, Rod and Morag were parked up, waiting.
Rod was considering the survival paracord bracelet on his wrist and wondering if there was any mileage in weaving a length of monofilament wire into it to make a James Bond-style garrotte. Morag, following the conversation on the way over, was googling tattoo fails and had found a rich stream of misspelt and poorly punctuated tattoos.
“Too cool for shool,” she read.
“He didn’t need no education,” Rod agreed.
Morag flicked on.
“No regerts,” she read.
“That tattoo being one them.”
“No ledge is power.”
“Hard to argue with that.” Rod fiddled with the air blower to de-mist the windscreen from their breath.
“My mum is my angle.”
“You’re making these up.”
Morag showed him her phone.
