Bad Blood

by David Bussell

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘At a guess, I’d say a brown leather briefcase.’

  Well, ask the obvious.

  ‘Someone handed it in at Baker Street,’ he said.

  The front of the briefcase was adorned with a brass plate featuring a name.

  Vizael.

  ‘Are you sure it’s okay to bring this here?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t the, you know, bomb squad have looked at it first?’

  To me, the name Vizael sounded—and please don’t judge me for saying this—a bit… Middle Eastern.

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ replied the delivery man, making no attempt to stifle a yawn. ‘Anyway, it’s your problem now.’

  He pushed through the exit, back into the downpour, and the door clicked shut behind him.

  Wonderful.

  I gingerly picked the basket up, carted it into the back office, and set it gently on my desk. With a click of my mouse, I booted up Sherlock and started logging the basket’s contents, picking around the mystery briefcase like a faddy eater dodging her greens, until eventually, the case was all that was left.

  Sighing, I swiped away some clutter on my desk, pushing aside unopened letters, a couple of half-empty drink cans, and the deer skull whose eye socket I used as a pen holder (someone left it on the Northern Line a while back, and since they didn’t claim it in the allotted ninety days, I made it my own. Like I say: morbid). Having cleared a space for the briefcase, I laid it flat on my desk, lid-side up. Its leather was well worn and faded, but continued to survive in the way that expensive things often do. A pair of brass clasps held the case together, each of which sported a three-digit combination lock.

  I began to enter the item into the computer system:

  Item #Misc205AG629. Vintage brown leather briefcase. Identifying markings: Brass plate with name, VIZAEL. Brand: Unknown. Contents: Unknown.

  What was in that thing? A nail bomb? A laptop containing Top Secret files? Military launch codes? I had to know.

  I took a quick glance over my shoulder to check no one was watching—despite the fact that I was the only mug still in the office—then spun the brass wheels of the combination locks with my thumbs.

  Click Click.

  I didn’t even look to see which numbers I’d randomly arrived at, I was too distracted by the clasps simultaneously standing to attention.

  ‘What are the chances…?’ I muttered, as I carefully lifted the lid.

  What I saw next came as a bit of a shocker.

  Inside the case, sat in a black velvet tray, was a weapon.

  Not a bomb, or a disassembled sniper’s rifle, but a knife. A dagger, like something you’d see in one of those Hobbit movies. The dagger’s blade was polished to a mirror finish, its handle wound with a length of purple leather, and its bottom bit—whatever that bit’s called—was a finely-cut gemstone the size of a baby’s fist.

  ‘Niiice,’ I gasped.

  It was a beautiful bit of craftsmanship, and I couldn’t help but pick it up and test its weight.

  Along with mouthing off at my supervisor, that was the second huge mistake I made that day.

  The moment I picked up the dagger, I knew something was wrong. The pain didn’t come right away, but only because it was so intense that it took a moment for my brain to register. When it did hit me, it almost knocked me out cold.

  A burning sensation lit up my palm, white-hot and raw. It felt like sulphuric acid had been poured onto my skin, stripping it down layer by layer, etching its way through fat, muscle and bone.

  I let go of the dagger and it tolled on the edge of my desk like a rung bell.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I screamed, and filled a speech bubble with some more choice blasphemies.

  Clutching my wrist, I turned my wounded hand over to review the damage. There, in the dead centre of my palm was a brand: a perfect circle containing a big letter Z.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ I noted.

  I shot an accusatory look at the dagger and crouched down to get a better look at the thing, lying innocently on the office floor. Wrapped around the weapon’s handle, I found an embossed metal circle containing a symbol that matched the one burned into my palm.

  ‘Bastard.’

  I was in agony, but thankfully for me, I was also the designated first-aider for my floor, and knew exactly where to find the little green case with the white cross on it.

  I made it to the staff kitchen, found the box, and rifled through tape, gauze, disinfectant, and hydrogen peroxide, until finally I laid my hands on the burn cream. I unscrewed the top of the tube with my teeth and was about to squeeze it dry, when I heard another buzz.

  The office intercom, again.

  I checked my watch. It was three in the morning now. I looked down again and saw the dagger lying on the office’s navy blue carpet, out of its case, and where it didn’t belong.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ I reiterated.

  End of Extract.

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