Austerley & Kirgordon Adventures Box Set

by G R Jordan

  “Indy, shut it. Please. Whatever sordid little games or deviant practices you got up to, I don’t want to know. She’s a fellow, eh… warrior, or squad member, team player… ah… yeah, whatever, so I don’t need to think of her like that. Keep the sordid details to yourself.”

  “All right, no need to be so abrupt. Probably surprised you that she went for someone like me, though. She can see through people, you see, bit of an inner judge. Knows a good egg.”

  “Yes, you’re lovely, okay! Focus on what’s ahead.”

  “Are you looking forward to it?”

  Kirkgordon turned his head with a start. His quizzical look failed to stop Austerley from launching into a speech like an acolyte talking of his master.

  “Think of it, Churchy. One of the big ones turning up. One of the Elder beings. Dreadfully impressive, something no one, or at least very few, have ever seen before. One of the earliest visitors to our planet coming back. Think of the power in those hands, the unrequited purpose of a thousand years, the…”

  “You sound like an American voice-over artist. Get a grip. If things are as bad as that book says… well, this might be it!” Help me God if it is, thought Kirkgordon. And this idiot beside me wants to charge right in and take a look. Probably bring his camera. And his spotter’s guide. Oh, look, it’s a Pickman! Maybe he’ll…

  Kirkgordon watched Austerley get up and force his way past him through the incredibly narrow gap so often described as leg room. Fortunately, the image of Austerley’s backside dissipated quickly, especially when replaced by the sight of Calandra walking towards him from her seat.

  “Hey. You okay?” she whispered gently. Kirkgordon nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. If I wasn’t a mentally unstable father of two with a wife, albeit an estranged one, your advances would have worked. But I can’t handle this now. Especially with Austerley wanting to brag about your past activities. We need to lay it to one side. Sorry.”

  “Okay,” came the whispered response and she kissed him gently on the forehead, allowing him a glance at her torso. Dammit, thought Kirkgordon, she can’t be in such close proximity.

  “Where the hell is this all leading, Cally? The Elder thing, I mean. Where will it take us?”

  “It’s very deep stuff. Things don’t leave that sort of resonance normally, even in someone as open to it as Austerley. I’m scared, Churchy. The last time I saw something like this, a whole town was obliterated by a single presence. Only a wise holy man could stop it. And this reaction of Austerley’s is far greater than what happened back then. I’m scared.” Calandra bowed her head in front of Kirkgordon and he could see the faintest tremble of her shoulders.

  “How much can Austerley help? He’s like a child in a sweet shop. He’s actually keen on meeting this whatever.”

  “You need to watch him, for he is a child. He craves the mystery, the power, the drama of it all. Remember none of what you see will be good. It is pure evil. It tempts and then destructs. Watch him closely. He is our expert, but he’s also theirs!”

  “Go sit down, Cally. We all need a little rest, while it’s not raining.” She looked at him, wondering at the expression. “Sorry. The flood doesn’t grow when the rain’s stopped,” Kirkgordon clarified.

  “You expect a flood?”

  Kirkgordon laughed. “Not of the water variety. But yes, there’s a dam about to break.”

  Bidding Frenzy

  Four countries in a day, thought Kirkgordon. Russia, Ireland, plane to Wales and now over the border to England. Stepping out of the taxi, Kirkgordon surveyed the greyish building in front of him. It was once a small English church but now housed auctions and other small functions. The arched windows, the grey slate, the sloping roof, all combined with the cross-shaped design that was typical of many churches Kirkgordon had stood in on this island. There was a distinct classical beauty to the parish church but he feared for the sanctity of the interior. While he was gazing at this former bastion of village life, Austerley roughly brushed past him, eager to see the articles available for sale. Or, rather, one particular article. Kirkgordon felt a touch of anger at Indy’s lack of respect for this sacred ground, but a gentle touch on his arm brought him to his senses. A smiling Calandra took his hand and led him from the fading winter’s afternoon into the glare of artificial light.

  An aged, white-haired, short but stout woman handed Kirkgordon a brochure at the door. He ignored it, preferring to scan the small crowd of people inside. Wielding a small gavel in his left hand was a small but efficient man with glasses, sporting a bright bow tie which sat at the jauntiest of angles. A drab audience failed to rise to the impassioned callings of the man, who was telling the history of a morose-looking statue of a duck. Kirkgordon watched Austerley flick rapidly through the brochure, eventually finding his prize.

  “Number one-four-five. Just made it, Churchy. That’s one-four-three being bid on at the moment.”

  “No phone bidders, anyway. That’s good,” said Calandra. Kirkgordon noted her arm in his and indicated his surprise with his eyes. “It’s for the look of the thing. Cheer up!” She pecked him on the cheek. Austerley’s glower was unnoticed by Calandra but not Kirkgordon. Bugger, he thought.

  The purchasing crowd was nondescript, with most people dressed casually. Warm winter coats and scarves lay across the seats of the half-empty room which was lit by an overcompensation of LED lights powered by a droning generator outside. So many of these old churches were without heating or electricity and the damp on the walls told a sorry tale. Kirkgordon thought of Jesus standing amongst the merchants in the temple courts, and he longed to turn over the tables. Somewhere deep inside, his almost-expired faith was rekindling, not least in reaction to his present troubles. He felt he needed someone “big” on his side. And almost immediately he apologized to the “big” one for such a flippant description of Him.

  “Look! Over there!” said Austerely.

  “Are you serious, Indy? It’s not exactly a wall-filler, is it?” remarked Kirkgordon.

  “Well no, Mr Picasso, it’s not. But it’s the genuine thing. One hundred percent Pickman. Perfect in every detail. Used to look divine over my mantelpiece. Had a set of lamps to make sure you got the full effect from it.”

  “Full effect? Bloody hell, Austerley. And divine? It’s gross, disgusting… repugnant… and evil.”

  “Little bit quick on the judgement, Churchy. Just because something’s not to your taste doesn’t make it evil!”

  “I’m calling it evil because that creature appears to be having a taste of something else. Pickman’s unreal! How is he so blind? Look at it. I mean look at it! It’s just damn disgusting and sick! Who would want to capture a creature like that, never mind paint it?” asked Kirkgordon.

  “Okay, if I can just get a word in past Picasso and Da Vinci for a moment, I guess you’re both right. It’s certainly perfect in every detail,” said Calandra.

  “There! See, Churchy, it’s a masterpiece.”

  “Cally? What do you mean, in every detail?” She didn’t flinch but Kirkgordon could see that her memories were reaching out from deep recesses.

  “Every detail. Every single scale and point on its flesh. The sinewy but lethally explosive legs with those sharp hooks at the end. The hands, deepest green. Oh, and they hit like a sledgehammer. That throat, seemingly weak but so very hard to strangle. And those eyes. Evil, like you said. The eyes, those windows to the soul. That’s Christian, ain’t it, Churchy? If I hadn’t got to the eyes… it would have had me! So yeah, trust me. He might have been a mad bastard, but Pickman could paint.”

  Austerley reached out a hand to her shoulder but Calandra brushed it aside. Both men watched her back disappear towards the ladies’ restroom.

  “Bit touchy!”

  “Dammit, Austerley! Not everyone enjoys the circus of freaks.”

  “Freaks, is it? Mental cases, nut jobs, cranky arses like myself?”

  “She’s been thrown into it. Don’
t judge her to be one of them by her looks.”

  “The expert on female freaks now, are you? Gonna redeem her, save her from my kind? I think you’re getting a taste for the freakish flesh, I think you… argh!” Suddenly, Austerley crumpled to the floor, clutching his knee. Despite the pain, he whipped his head round to glare at Kirkgordon with obvious anger. A few of the gathered bidders offered Austerley a helping hand but he waved them away, rising in a semi-manly fashion before turning and limping away.

  Oh hell, Kirkgordon thought. Circus of freaks. Bollocks!

  Suddenly the numbers one, four and five drew his attention. The auctioneer, with professional glee, was calling out the next exhibit. Bet he doesn’t describe it as perfect! Eyes and ears, Kirkgordon reminded himself. Scan. Scan hard. When the picture was shown to the audience there was an audible intake of breath and the occasional “disgusting” and “what’s that shite?” Undaunted, the auctioneer announced his intention to seek an opening bid of at least two hundred pounds.

  “He’ll be lucky.” The quiet female voice came from over Kirkgordon’s shoulder and was followed by arms encircling his waist. His body eased into the wrap with the greatest delight while his brain screamed at him to run for cover. Pulled back by years of routine, he continued his scan and spotted Austerley staring his way, incensed, his features forming a bullish rebuke. His friend spun round and instantly threw an arm into the air.

  “What’s he doing? Churchy, what’s he at?” Calandra asked.

  “Hell have no fury like a lunatic scorned. Bollocks!” replied Kirkgordon.

  I can’t tell her about the little tête-à-tête, he thought. She’s looking for comfort after the shock of that picture. But I can’t, dammit, she’ll take it as a come-on. She’ll think I’m okay with it. This sort of crap is why I used to work alone. It was easier to detach when they paid you the money.

  “Two hundred, on my right,” said the auctioneer.

  “What? Hey, what’s the big deal? Thought you would like a cuddle?” Calandra said.

  “Not now! We’re working. See if there’s a rival bidder.”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  “Where’s that, Cally?”

  “Two seventy-five.”

  “Tell Austerley to keep his flamin’ hand down for two seconds ’til I see where he’s pointing!”

  “Was only a cuddle?”

  “Three hundred!”

  “Not now! Black hat, is that him?”

  “Three twenty-five, sir?”

  “Okay, let’s see if we can’t get round him.”

  “Three twenty-five it is…”

  “Cane, black suit, short cropped hair. Got him!”

  “Against you, sir?”

  “Shadow him, but close.”

  “No bid, sir? It’s against you, three twenty-five.”

  “Why’s he not bidding, Churchy? Austerley’s going to win this!”

  “Arse!”

  “Four hundred pounds! New bidder! Four hundred pounds, thank you, sir.”

  “Where Cally, where?”

  “Five hundred!” The buzz amongst the audience was growing as the expected price range of one to three hundred pounds was being smashed to smithereens. Sweat was pouring down the face of the auctioneer now; he was elated, and he was driving every ounce of feeling into every call.

  “Six hundred! Ladies and gentlemen, six hundred pounds to the rugged warrior on my right. Very brave sir, very brave.”

  “He’s gonna be pleased with that description.”

  “Cally, friggin’ find the guy. Stop gawking and get working!”

  “Seven hundred! The lady with the rather fine large bangle earrings. Seven hundred.”

  “Got her! Have you got her? Beside the man in the blue jacket! Yes, him.”

  “One thousand! For Mr Pickman’s finest.”

  “Bloody hell, love, the guy’s insane. A grand for that abomination. It’s like a dog ripping a fox!” shouted an onlooker.

  “Cally, stay with her. I need to shut Indy up!”

  “Two thousand! To our bangled lady towards the back. Back on you sir! At two thousand pounds.”

  “Indy, bloody stop it, now. I don’t want to make a scene. We have her. Drop out! Let’s pick her up outside.”

  “Piss off! I’m a freak, you ain’t gonna stop me!”

  “Anything further, sir? At you at two thous… Three thousand pounds!”

  “Dammit, Austerley, I didn’t want to do this.”

  “Four thousand! Thank you, dear lady, four thousand pounds.”

  “Do whatever you…”

  “At you sir? My goodness, he’s dropped like a sack of potatoes. Are you okay, sir? He’s fine, you say. It’s all right everyone, our friend’s just got a little too excited. His friend says he’s okay. Wow! Four thousand pounds, I’m a little excited myself. Anyone else? At four thousand pounds… once… twice… and for the last time at four thousand pounds… sold!”

  Kirkgordon breathed a sigh of relief and crouched down on one knee, cradling Austerley. There were legs and well-wishing faces all around, so he was just going to have to go on trust that Calandra would tail the item winner. Damn Austerley, every time!

  Nerve pinching was something Kirkgordon had learned in his previous employment. It had come in handy on occasion, more often on a client who protested his chosen course of action than on an enemy. He wondered how Austerley would react on waking up, something he hoped would happen soon, as Indy was a heavy man. He rolled Indy’s arm around his own neck and, with significant effort, carried him from the room, feet dragging along the floor. Outside, he plonked him on a wooden bench and carefully held his neck until he had settled into an upright sleeping position.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Kindly refrain from moving, I’d hate to shoot you.”

  It was Farthington’s voice. What the hell did he want now? Damn, thought Kirkgordon, I hope he doesn’t need something from Austerley’s head. Calandra’s not even here to run cover.

  “That’s good. Very good of you to see sense. Really no need for any excitement here. I’m just here to talk. Just a few questions.”

  Kirkgordon slowly turned his head to try to look at Farthington and was surprised no one checked this tactic. And there he was, Farthington. No. Hang on. It was the man who had put in the initial bid on the painting. That hat. He does look somewhat like Farthington. Less stocky. But the same voice. Or at least, so very close.

  “Farthington? Is that you, Zmey Gorynych?”

  “Farthington is a name one is unacquainted with. But Zmey Gorynych? How do you know him? Paying over the odds for a Pickman and now keeping company with dragons? You would appear rather unconventional for the company you keep. Kindly turn and face me. That’s better. Just a quick picture for the boys back home. No smile, but it will do.”

  The gentleman holding Kirkgordon in check was pointing a gun, held in his left hand, at Kirkgordon’s forehead. The other hand was busy texting, or something similar, with the phone that had taken the picture. He’s too far back, Kirkgordon thought. I’ll never reach him before he plants a bullet in my skull. I’m not sure he would hesitate, either.

  “Ah! The boys back home are somewhat good at this kind of thing. Some days you do get delays but not today, Mr Kirkgordon. I assume that is Mr Austerley sat asleep beside you. Or is he slightly incapacitated? Trouble with the troops, eh? Is the lady with you?”

  Kirkgordon didn’t flinch at any of this information. Instead he chose to remain quiet, awaiting his enemy’s next move.

  “Oh, sorry! Forgive me,” said the man, dropping his gun in the process. “Major Arthur Lewis Siddlington-Havers, at your service. But you can call me Havers. From Her Majesty’s finest, if least known, department.”

  “Havers, you may well be telling the truth but someone conned me before so can I see some sort of ID?”

  “Well of course, sir, but exactly what type of ID would suit yourself? Paper, hologram, blood? Let’s see if we can find something.” He started
tapping on his phone again.

  “My deepest pardons but I have need of you,” he spoke into the phone. “Just a word please, he’ll have work to do. Thank you, Mrs Kirkgordon.” Havers held the phone out for Kirkgordon who stared at it like it was the finest of whiskies. He knew this was going to be good but what the consequences would be, who knew?

  “Als? That really you?”

  “Yes Mr C, it is. He found you, thank God.”

  “What’s up? Are you okay? The kids?”

  “We’re fine! Totally fine! In hiding, but fine.”

  “Hiding? Why? Who? Damn! What the hell’s happening?”

  “I don’t know exactly, C, but they got us out. Police at first, then these people. SETA.”

  “SETA? What the blazes is that?”

  “Let him tell you. Shit, I’m trembling, C. He got you, that’s all that counts.”

  “As long as you’re okay, Als! Stay safe!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Kirkgordon, but I can’t risk that location being traced.”

  “Gotta go, Als. Dammit, I miss you. I will get better for you.”

  “I know, C. I know. Don’t get killed.”

  “No. No, I won’t.” And he hung up.

  Kirkgordon held onto the phone for a moment, staring at it, before looking up at a small party arriving. Several men in suits were flanking Calandra, who looked relieved to see him.

  “Hey, the cavalry’s turned up then. Havers, long time. Churchy, are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yes… yes, fine,” Kirkgordon replied. Alana had sounded concerned. She wanted him, clearly, hopefully, maybe. Please God, all I needed was five minutes on the phone. Explain this one to me. Just typical. I can’t get to be with Alana, yet I can’t get away from the siren… no, that’s unfair… the woman who is turning all my sense dials to the max. It’s just crap! And Austerley’s going to be pissed at me when he wakes. Never mind the end of the world, I’m a social pariah on heat!

  “Are you okay, Mr Kirkgordon?” Havers ventured, watching him from a sombre, contemplative pose.