by Tom Holt
A strange light glowed in Akram’s eyes. ‘This is remarkable,’ he said. ‘We could really fix the bloody Story good and proper, you know? I mean, I could spend my share on famine relief or helping refugees or something.’
‘Or a free dental hospital,’ Ali Baba added. ‘Hey, wouldn’t that be something?’
‘You bet.’
Much more of this, Fang reckoned, and she’d need a paper bag, quickly. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘are you guys for real?’
‘No,’ Akram admitted, ‘but we’re working on it. Which reminds me; we’d have to find some way of getting the stuff back over the Line. If we stay here, it’ll make itself into a brand new Story, and we’ll be in just as much trouble as we are already. Any suggestions?’
‘What about the ring?’ Michelle put in. ‘It must be good for something other than passing the time of day with household appliances.’
‘Excuse me.’
‘Not now,’ replied Ali Baba, ‘we’re busy. I think she’s got a point there. If we could find a way of’
‘Excuse me.’
‘I said not now. All we’d have to do Why are you all staring at me?’
‘We were wondering,’ Fang said quietly, ‘who you keep saying Not now to.’
‘What? Oh.’
Ali Baba looked round. ‘Actually,’ he confessed, ‘I’m not entirely sure.’
‘Me.’
‘I think it’s coming from inside your pocket,’ Ali Baba said.
‘What, you mean the gun?’
‘Could be.’
‘No could be about it, you clown. Get me loaded quick, before ’
Before, it was just about to say, John Fingers and the thirty-nine thieves complete their classic encircling movement and have you completely surrounded. By then, however, it was too late, and so it didn’t bother.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Actually,’ said Scheherezade, ‘that wasn’t supposed to happen.’
The Godfather gave her a long, cold look. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘You amaze me.’
‘I do?’
‘I go to all the trouble,’ the Godfather continued, ‘of arranging for Baba and the big bad guy’
‘Akram.’
‘Akram to cross the Line. I make it so they can fight each other. I got everything ready so we can start easing our way in over there.’ He closed his eyes, and a look of great sadness crossed his face. ‘And now you come to me and say, Look, I goofed, they’ve all come back. Honey, I’m disappointed. I expected better of you.’
Scheherezade squirmed a little. Only once or twice before had she heard the Godfather express himself so forcibly. Disappointed; judges used to put on little black hats to say more comforting things than that.
‘I don’t know how it could have happened,’ she said awkwardly. ‘It’s like they’re making their own story. It’s weird, I’m telling you.’
The Godfather’s left eyebrow lifted a quarter of an inch. ‘You don’t say?’
‘It’s bizarre, it really is. Like, this realside thief John Fingers has sort of turned into Akram, Akram’s acting more like the hero than the hero is himself, and now I got this Michelle person and a goddamn tooth fairy to fit in somehow.’ She swallowed, aware that perhaps she wasn’t making life any easier, or longer, for herself by dwelling in too much detail on the problems. ‘But,’ she said, heaping three tablespoons of positive vibes into her voice and stirring frantically, ‘you just leave it with me and I know I’ll have it sorted before you can say Open…’
‘No.’ The Godfather lifted his head and blew a plume of cigar smoke at the ceiling. ‘I had it up to here with these guys. Going off on a story of their own, they show me no respect. What can you do with such people? So, I figure it’s time we cut our losses and move on.’
‘You mean,’ Scheherezade asked, ‘leave them to their own devices? Let them get on with it?’
‘No.’ The Godfather shook his head and looked away. ‘I mean kill them all.’
Scheherezade shuddered just a little. That’d be right, she muttered to herself. The Godfather didn’t so much cut losses as hack, slash, slit and hew them. Not that he was a bad loser or anything; he was just the sort of person who, having bought a single ticket for the National Lottery and failed to win the jackpot, would have all the winners systematically kneecapped as a matter of course. Still, she reflected, rather them than me; although the two options are by no means mutually exclusive. The Godfather, she knew from long experience, didn’t suffer fools gladly; with him it was more a case of being glad when fools suffered.
‘Good idea,’ she mumbled. ‘You want me to, er, put Rocco onto it?’
‘No.’ The Godfather shook his head. ‘He’s got better things to do. You deal with it, okay?’
Scheherezade swallowed hard, difficult when her throat was suddenly dry. ‘Me?’ she said. Immediately she realised that that wasn’t the most amazingly intelligent thing said in the history of the Universe by anybody ever. ‘Gosh, thanks, I’d love to,’ she added quickly, ‘it’s so kind of you to let me do it, that’ll be a real treat.’ But the damage was done; she had that extremely negative feeling you sometimes get when you’re climbing stairs with a huge stack of plates in your arms, and just as you’re at the top you put your foot on a place where a stair ought to be but isn’t. It was at that moment that an idea, totally wild, extreme and unthinkable but at the same time the one and only logical course of action now open to her, started to peck tentatively at the inside of its shell. As soon as she became aware of it, she had to use every last milligram of self-control she had left to prevent it showing in her face.
‘You got a problem with that?’ the Godfather demanded.
‘Absolutely not,’ she replied.
‘Skip.’
In a profession almost as ancient and even more honourable than his own, John Fingers reflected, they had a saying about never working with children and animals. Which category Aziz fell into, he wasn’t quite certain, although he had a shrewd idea it was both.
‘Well?’ he grunted.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
John Fingers raised his eyes to Heaven. Hey, God, he muttered to himself, I wish you existed so I could hate you. ‘How the hell would I know?’ he growled. ‘I keep telling you clowns, I’ve never been here before in my life. It’s your weird bloody country or dimension or whatever it is. Also,’ he remembered, ‘it’s your goddamn hideout. It’s where you idiots live, for crying out loud. Surely you know how to find it by now.’
‘No, Skip.’
Although he’d been convinced that his ability to be amazed by stupidity had already worn out through over-use, John Fingers was prepared to admit he was wrong. ‘You don’t!’ he said. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because we always follow you, Skip. Because you’re our leader.’
‘But…’ Some basic self-preservation instinct warned John Fingers that if he tried to argue the point, all that would happen would be that his top-joint-of-one-finger grip on reality would give way and his brain would probably implode, like a dying star. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Ask the prisoners. I expect they know.’
‘Okay, Skip. Skip.’
‘Now what?’
‘What’ll we do if they don’t?’
In moments of extreme stress, John Fingers found it helped to count up to ten. On this occasion, he got as far as two. ‘Easy,’ he replied. ‘We just sit down right here, build a factory and start manufacturing prosthetic brains for people like you who don’t have real ones. I have this feeling that we’d make an absolute bloody fortune in these parts.’
‘Okay, Skip. I’ll go and ask the prisoners.’
‘You do that.’
When they’d found him wandering about in the desert, no more than a long gob and dust-clogged spit from death by dehydration and trying to hide from his own shadow, he’d assumed, more fool him, that things were looking up. When they’d hailed him as their lost leader and mentioned in passing that now he’d come back they
could all go home to their secret cave in the mountains, which just happened to be crammed from floor to roof with gold, silver and precious stones, he’d been deluded enough to take this as a stroke of good luck. If he’d had the sense he’d been born with, he now realised, he should have jumped into the mirage and drowned himself.
‘Gift horses’ mouths,’ murmured his shadow under their mutual breath. John Fingers scowled.
‘Listen,’ he replied, ‘I may not have found a way of getting shot of you yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And when I do ’
‘Promises, promises. As far as I can see, this is just the start of a beautiful friendship.’
‘You’ll keep,’ John Fingers muttered darkly. ‘Here, do you know where this bloody cave is we’re supposed to be going to?’
‘Of course I do.’
This time, John Fingers only just managed to get as far as one. ‘Then why,’ he snarled, ‘don’t you just take me there, you bastard of an optical bloody illusion?’
‘Because,’ replied the shadow smugly, ‘the sun is in the west, and you’re riding towards it. This means your shadow falls behind you. Now, if you were going east, it’d be no problem for me to lead the way. I’d have no alternative.’
‘Fine.’ John Fingers closed his eyes, but that didn’t help much, either. ‘And what direction is the cave in?’
‘South.’
‘Thank you ever so much.’ With a petulant tug on the reins, John Fingers pulled his camel’s head through ninety degrees. ‘I’m terribly glad we’ve got that sorted out, aren’t you?’ By navigating a rather erratic route, he found he could drag his shadow along over some particularly jagged-looking rocks, but it didn’t seem to mind.
‘Skip.’
‘What?’
Aziz blinked. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I was just going to ask why we suddenly started going this way.’
‘Because that’s where the cave is, moron.’
‘Oh.’ From Aziz’s expression, you could tell that he honestly hadn’t thought of that. ‘That’s all right then. Oh, and Skip.’
‘Well?’
‘Why were you talking to yourself just then?’
‘Because it’s the only way I’m likely to get a sensible conversation in this godforsaken bloody wilderness. Satisfied?’
Aziz nodded. ‘Sure thing, Skip. I’ll just go and tell the others. Oh yes, one last thing.’
‘Speak just once more and it will be. Well?’
‘The prisoners say the cave’s due south, Skip.’
‘What an absolutely staggering coincidence.’
‘Yeah, I thought so too. Bye, Skip.’
‘Drop dead. No, forget I said that. After all, what harm have the vultures ever done me? Here, do something useful for once and fetch over the prisoners.’
A short while and an imaginative medley of camel-cursing later, Ali Baba and Akram were escorted up the line of the caravan. They were roped back to back aboard one of the most peculiar-looking creatures John Fingers had ever seen while sober; imagine a giraffe with a collapsed compost-heap on its back, and you’re halfway there. Given their circumstances, they had no right to be cheerful, as John Fingers lost no time in pointing out.
‘On the contrary,’ Akram replied. ‘Haven’t felt so optimistic in ages. Ask me why.’
‘Look’
‘Go on. Humour me.’
Why not, John Fingers demanded of the residue of his soul, I’ve humoured every other loon in this hemisphere. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why are you so bloody cheerful?’
Akram smiled; or at least, he tightened the muscles at the corners of his mouth, bringing about a half-moon-shaped contraction of his lips. John Fingers had the uneasy feeling it was a triumphant snarl in fancy dress.
‘Because,’ Akram said, ‘I know what’s going to happen next, and you don’t. Isn’t that right, Ali?’
Ali Baba nodded. At least he wasn’t smiling; he had his lips drawn in under his teeth in a thin, tight line, the way people do when they’re really trying for all their worth not to burst out laughing. ‘Mphm,’ he said.
‘All right.’ It had been John Fingers’ intention not to let them see he was afraid, but that was rather like trying to convince a tankful of piranhas that they’d really prefer a nice salad. ‘You tell me what’s going on here, and I might just decide to let you two go. Not,’ he added, as Akram beamed at him and Ali Baba failed completely to stifle a rather vulgar sniggering noise, ‘that I’m worried or anything. I just thought it’d be more sensible if we try it the easy way first, if you get my meaning.’
Akram nodded enthusiastically. ‘He wants to try it the easy way.’ he said.
‘Snngh!’
‘You’ve got to admire the bugger’s nerve, though,’ Akram said. ‘I mean, credit where it’s due, at least he’s consistent to the very last.’
‘Tsshh!’
This was just a tiny bit more than John Fingers could stand. He pulled out the gun
‘Hi,’ Ali Baba said.
‘Oh, fine, fine, thanks. Yes, I know. No, you mustn’t blame yourself. No, really, you’ve done everything you possibly can, it’s not your fault if…’
‘Shuttup!’ John Fingers yelled, letting the gun drop from his hand as if it was red hot. ‘Both of you,’ he added. ‘Aziz, pick up the gun. No, not like ’
There was a loud bang, followed by a rude word, then silence. Then Ali Baba cleared his throat.
‘The gun asked me to tell you,’ he said, ‘that that was the last shot in its, what did you say that bit’s called where you keep the spare bullets, its magazine, so if you don’t mind it’d like to be excused duty for the rest of - for now, I mean. Also, I think your friend’s just shot himself in the foot.’
‘He’s right, Skip. Hey, Skip, my foot hurts.’
‘Also,’ Ali Baba continued, ‘your watch says it needs a new battery and your Swiss Army knife’s quarrelled with your keys and would be grateful if it could go in your other pocket where it won’t be obliged, I quote, to rub shoulders with the riff raff. Finally ’
‘I don’t want to know!’ John Fingers shouted. Ali Baba shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you said you wanted to know what’s going on.’
For a moment John Fingers considered ordering Ali Baba to hand over the ring; then he thought, No, maybe not. ‘You know perfectly well what I want,’ he snapped. ‘Come on, out with it or I’ll have you buried up to your necks in sand and leave you here for the vultures.’
‘Ah,’ said Akram. ‘So you don’t need us to give you the password. Okay, anywhere here will do; maybe that dune over there…’
John Fingers gathered his right hand into a fist, took aim at the epicentre of Akram’s smile and swung hard; in consequence of which he fell off his camel.
‘A tip for you,’ Akram said, leaning over as far as he could. ‘When lashing out on camelback, it’s vitally important to be absolutely sure you can reach the target. If you don’t, you’ll overbalance and fall off. Sounds easy enough, I know, but actually it takes years and years of practice.’
‘A whole lifetime,’ Ali Baba agreed.
‘Or longer, in his case.’
‘True. Very true. I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but…’
With very much the same air of disgusted weariness with which Oliver Hardy used to wipe custard pie out of his face, John Fingers hauled himself to his feet, dusted himself off and spat out a mouthful of desert. Then he asked the nearest thief to take the prisoners to the other end of the caravan and keep them there until they arrived. ‘And then,’ he added, ‘bring me the other prisoners.’
‘Sure thing, Skip.’
‘My name,’ said John Fingers, using up the last dregs of his dignity, ‘is not Skip. Understood?’
‘Sure thing, Akram.’
I could try and explain, John Fingers said to himself. And while I’m at it, I could try putting the sun out by spitting at it, but it’d only come back on my face. ‘You,’ he sighed. ‘Tell me ho
w you get back up on this thing.’
‘Skip?’
‘Don’t worry, I could do with the walk. Just hurry up with those bloody prisoners.’
There were times when John Fingers was convinced that day would last for ever; but it’s a long road that has no turning (the M25 is a good example) and eventually
‘Is that it?’ he asked his shadow.
‘That’s it.’
He might well have hazarded a guess without the help of his two-dimensional guide. The bleak and barren landscape, the forbidding rampart of wind and frost-eroded stone rearing up out of the flat desert, the great cleft riven into the cliff face, even the vultures wheeling insolently in the clear, cruel sky; with such unambiguous dollops of symbolism as these you didn’t need signs saying THIS WAY TO THE SECRET CAVERN and LAST PETROL BEFORE THE BANDITS’ LAIR to know what was coming next. It was as if Nature and Narrative had met up in the bar beforehand to discuss the design and decided that subtlety is for wimps.
‘Skip.’
Sigh. ‘Yes?’
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
‘Not quite,’ John Fingers heard himself saying. ‘I mean, that’s it over there. Isn’t it?’
Even as he spoke, a sickening feeling of deja vu began to spread through him, making his flesh crawl. This place
‘You.’
‘Me, Skip?’
‘That big flat boulder over there. Can you see it?’
‘I can see lots of boulders, Skip. Any particular one?’
‘The black one,’ said John Fingers. ‘Nearest to us, with the thorn tree alongside. Isn’t that where we put out the empties for the milkman?’
Sure enough; when Aziz and Hanif managed to drag the boulder a few inches clear and drop into the large dome-shaped cavern underneath, what did they find but a huge cache of empty bottles and a note, scrawled on a piece of charred vellum and reading: ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX PINTS TODAY, PLEASE.
Fine, John Fingers muttered to himself, God only knows why I remember this horrible place so vividly, but I do. And, if my theory’s right, that crack in the rock there is the letterbox, and you open the secret sliding door by waiting till the guard’s back is turned and leaning on that small projecting rock there…
