Lovely. They have stopped to have a gasper some thirty foot below Edie’s exact hiding place.
It seemed like such a good plan on paper.
For additional difficulty, a large, remarkably ugly centipede is now strolling insouciantly along the trunk towards her leg. In fact, it is hunting. The disgusting creature has no concept of relative scales; it apparently proposes to take her leg by surprise, paralyse it with a single venomous bite, and feast on it at leisure. In its tiny, skittering mind, it is perfectly concealed from Edie Banister’s leg.
Edie wonders briefly what Mrs. Sekuni would make of this single-minded ambition. It is open to question whether a Marxian analysis of Chilopoda economics would reveal pre-proletarian profiteering or proto-socialist communalism, and whether the insights gleaned would be transferable to human society. Suppose for a moment that the centipede successfully killed her leg (it hasn’t actually realised yet that its prey is part of a larger animal which is patiently waiting for it to make a move so that she can nail it silently with a kukri and continue her climb without being bitten); would it in fact share with the wider group of centipedes to which it is presumably related, and without whom it cannot fulfil the reproductive imperative, but also with whom it is in savage competition in a battle to secure territory, mates, and food? Or would it declare a temporary mini-state and try to patrol the border of her leg while consuming it?
The centipede—she has christened it Richard—is fifteen whole inches long and thick like a blood sausage. Revoltingly, it is also the approximate colour of blood sausage (pre-cooking). Bleugh. Everyone in Addeh Sikkim kills these things on sight because, revoltingly, they bite. Edie would very much like to smash Richard flat, but she can’t take the risk that the corpse might fall on a patrol, alert them to her presence, and cause what Songbird would call a “total goat-fucking.” Thus her bleugh is internal, and she observes Richard with watchful loathing. Bonk bonk bonk bonk BONK … BONKBONKBONKyoulittlebastard.
Richard is the second thing to have designs on her inside leg tonight, the first having been a mostly naked waitress with a plateful of baked cat. The Opium Khan likes to mix his pleasures; the feather-clad bimbos of his personal brothel went into rhapsodies and paroxysms of joy when he removed his jacket and revealed arms bare to the shoulder and beautifully tanned. Edie wasn’t entirely unmoved herself, the fire pears bubbling away in her gut like an erotic combustion engine, and when he began to dance a tango with one of the girls—a slow, lingering statement of absolute sexual abandon, ya ta TA TA TA, ya ta-ta taaaaah TA!—she began to sweat a little. Part of that was a concern that she might be required likewise to disrobe; by this time Shem Shem Tsien was entirely bare-chested (hence her concern; her own chest would have been cause for non-trivial comment and discussion) and giving off a scent like a mating fox. Then the whole thing became rather more immediate, as a young woman who refused to be known by any name other than “At Your Service” sat in Edie’s lap and insisted on feeding James Banister slices of swan and bits of veg doused liberally in precious metals.
Between mouthfuls, At Your Service allowed her hands to stray sharply downwards (and thank God, Edie thinks, that the Opium Khan’s houri has no interest in foreplay) and stroke at what she imagined was the Commander’s suitably heroic male organ through his uniform trousers. Indeed, on discovering the impressive proportions of the object in her grip, she became vehement and just a little demanding, pressing and cajoling and revealing by way of encouragement parts of herself not normally seen during the middle stages of a meal.
At Your Service would likely have been somewhat piqued to discover that she was practising her seductive arts on a large green banana which Edie had taken the precaution of stowing in the relevant area after Dotty Catty’s timely warning. But Edie was unable to be smug about this because the dratted thing was pressing directly against her skin in a most lewd way, fitted tight to the curve of her body and pressing with a pliant, rubbery accuracy against her most sensitive parts. While At Your Service’s ministrations were not directly effective, therefore, simple mechanics and the relative stiffness of the banana entailed a degree of … there was no other word for it … stimulation.
When At Your Service sat down on top of her and wriggled a slow, eager figure of eight, Edie bit down on a piece of Red Sikkim Tiger and managed not to make a noise like a woman being driven to the brink of sexual ecstasy by an intimately concealed Asian plantain. She was only marginally successful. Fortunately, the Opium Khan was otherwise engaged.
In the warm darkness, she peers at Richard the centipede. There is a distinct resemblance to a young Guards officer she met in Pimlico about the mouthparts. Right, that’s it. You’re definitely for it, laddie-buck. And bleugh again … The original Richard was clean-shaven, and proud of his monumental chin. This one has fine hairs on the lower half of its mouth. Possibly a sort of Puritan beard. Son-of-Richard. Edie shifts her weight slightly, and unsheaths the kukri. Son-of-Richard edges closer, as if finding something terribly interesting off to Edie’s immediate left. From the clock tower above, there comes a loud, convenient bonging. Edie brings her arm down hard in time with the next bell, and Son-of-Richard is pinned to the branch with a soft slee-utch.
Hah.
A moment later, the patrol has gone and Edie continues her climb. One foot up, and here’s a convenient ledge … she reels in the rope. Off to meet a fair lady, tra la la. Yes, indeed: Dotty Catty, not dotty at all but sharp as a tack. In Edie’s pocket, the note telling her where to go and how to get there, and when. Other foot, up. She stops, listening for the sound of a karabiner tinkling against a stone wall, giving her away. No. It’s fine. Someone moving glassware on the second floor. Up, up.
Sweat rolls down her back, between her shoulder blades, and her legs tremble. It’s a long way down. She grins to herself, and starts the traverse. Girls wishing to serve their country, indeed.
Ten minutes later, she hauls herself up through a narrow window, and finds herself looking into the saddest, most beautiful, most aged face she has ever seen.
Dotty Catty is waiting for her.
VIII
Unwanted;
the type to give a girl trouble;
on the river.
Mercer puts down the phone and glances at Polly, the Bold Receptionist, who shrugs. Mercer frowns.
“No arrest warrants,” he says moodily.
Joe Spork contemplates the changes in his life over the last twenty-four hours which make not being under warrant of arrest a piece of active good news, and tries to imagine a further twist in the world where it is for some reason worse rather than better.
“Does that mean I can go home?”
“It does not. Bees have been seen in the sky over Paris. And Berlin. An unseasonal swarm which baffles apiarists. There’s a quirky story about a mechanical hive in Florence, too. ‘An ornamental sculpture at Palazzo Lucrezia near Fiesole, believed to be a timepiece, has resumed its function after nearly thirty years …’ And a rumour from Mumbai. Apparently there’s been a distressing lapse in normal diplomatic practice. A deniable operation through Jammu into Gilgit-Baltistan to stir up trouble—which is normal, only this time everyone seems to know about it. Karachi isn’t taking it well at all. And remember, Joe, please, these are nuclear states. All right?
“This is still going on. In fact, it’s getting bigger.” Mercer shakes his head plaintively. “Who makes mechanical bees, for God’s sake? Who creates a superweapon or a superwhatever-it-is and makes it so bloody whimsical?”
When Joe makes no answer, Mercer picks up his cup and starts to wander. It is his habit, when he is thinking very hard, to pace and talk and sip at something which ought to be hot and is now cold. Occasionally he complains about it, as if someone should have done something. Then he fights off any attempt to remove it, and carries on. At least two of his assistants have quit after being growled at for cup theft when they were under orders to bring fresh beverages.
Joe waits for Mer
cer to explain. He doesn’t. He just wanders jaggedly, eyes fixed now on the middle distance, now on the surface of his gelid coffee.
“I need to go and see Joyce,” Joe says finally. “She needs to hear it from someone she knows. They won’t call her because she’s not officially family.”
Mercer sighs. “I will talk to Joyce.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“Even so. No, Joe,” Mercer adds sharply. “I said there were no arrest warrants. That does not mean that there is nothing fishy going on. It means only that the fishiness is fishier than that.”
“What fishiness?”
Mercer sighs. “I can’t find Tess.”
Joe stares at him. “What?”
“It’s perfectly simple. The barmaid who by your own admission had the hots for you is not available for comment. I cannot find her.”
“I don’t see—”
“I sent a man down to Wistithiel to retrace your steps. It seemed like a good idea. No one can find her, Joe. She’s missing.”
“What do you mean, ‘missing’?” Joe demands, but Mercer considers this question too ridiculous to deserve an answer. Joe shakes his head. “She’s probably gone off on a trip or something. Visiting an old boyfriend.”
“Almost certainly. Her credit card was used at the railway station. All perfectly normal. But then, as well, there has apparently been a fire at Hinde’s Reach House. An old wartime agricultural facility, you’ll be pleased to know, and presently mothballed. The place seems to have been completely immolated. Brother Theodore Sholt, a hermetic monk, was rescued by firemen and taken to a medical facility for the treatment of mild smoke-inhalation. Which medical installation is a matter of some confusion. The paperwork has been misfiled. Do you not smell the fish, Joe? Honestly? Because they seem pretty ripe to me.”
“All right, I smell them.”
Mercer hesitates. “In your own right, Joe, there are people you could call on regarding the extra-legal aspects of all this. People with their ears to the ground who have connections in shady places.”
“No.”
“I realise you’re not fond of being Mathew’s son, and that you might incur liabilities as a result, but at the same time—”
“No. I’m not going down that road. I’m me, not him. Not his shadow or his remnant. Not their bloody crown prince, to bring back the glory days. Me.”
Mercer raises his hands, palms up. “Well. If you will not exert yourself to your own advantage, can I at least take it that you will not work to your detriment?”
Joe shrugs. Mercer apparently takes this as a yes. “So as I say, if you will forgive the repetition, I will talk to Joyce.”
“I can do it.”
“Of course you can. But no one is looking for me with a view to arrest and interrogation.”
“Well, no one’s looking for me, either.”
“Yes, they are.”
“But—”
“It is a ruse.”
“But—”
“Joe, listen. Please. The fact that there is no paperwork means one of two things. It could theoretically mean that you are home free. It could mean that Rodney Titwhistle has looked more closely into the matter and realised that you are a cog in someone else’s machine, and not a very interesting one. Or it could mean that he has ascertained that you are absolutely dead centre of his bullseye, and he has vanished you from the official files so as to facilitate his next officially unofficial but unofficially official move.”
“And you think it’s the latter.”
“Did he give you any reason to think he was likely to go away? Do you honestly, cross your heart, look back on last night and think it could possibly all be okay this morning?”
“… No,” Joe Spork mutters at last.
“Then I will call Joyce.” Mercer pauses, as if reviewing the conversation. “When did you get so gung-ho?”
“I’m not. I don’t want this. I want to be left alone.”
“Then keep your head down.”
Joe scowls mulishly. “What about my VAT?”
Mercer stares at him. “What?”
“My VAT. I’ve got to get my papers in order for the shop. Otherwise it all comes down. I could lose the warehouse.”
“Joe, please—”
Joe Spork hunkers down upon himself. For all the world, he looks like a human tortoise, and might remain in his shell for another fifty years, until Mercer’s arguments have dried up and blown away. “It’s my home, Mercer.”
“I will send someone for your papers. We’ll get them done and delivered through the firm. But this is not the time to worry about VAT. All right?”
“I have obligations, Mercer.”
Mercer contemplates him for a moment with an odd expression.
“Obligations.”
“Yes.”
“To yourself? To Joyce? I need to know about these obligations.”
“Why?”
“Because your obligations are germane. I need to take them into account. I thought I was only protecting you. If there’s more to it than that, I need to know.”
“He was my friend!” Joe yells abruptly. “That’s all I mean. I suppose that doesn’t really matter very much now, does it? He was annoying and loud and he got me into trouble. But I never had to be alone if I didn’t want to. There was always Billy and he’s dead. All right?” He has risen to his feet, fingers curled and palms up, legs about a shoulder width apart. A pugilist, rooting himself for a fight. He stops, glances down, sees his hands and puts them away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I liked him, too. Infuriating little berk.” Mercer blows air through his teeth. “But that is all, isn’t it? You haven’t got some other stake in all this?”
“That’s all.”
The Bold Receptionist shifts in her chair. Something hosiery-related makes a shuddering sound which draws the eye. “What would you do if you were free to act, Mr. Spork?”
“I am free.”
“Well. Assume there is no threat. What would you do?”
“I’d get some sleep. And a shower. Go to Harticle’s and find out about my grandfather. Get his jazz recordings from the lock-up, and the bloody golden bee! I want to know what’s going on!”
Oh.
“All right,” Mercer says. “Thank you, Polly. Joe … There are rules to your situation. All right? And these are they: do not look for new faces in your life. Be paranoid. You have been shown the stick. At some point they will show you the carrot. It is a lie. There is no carrot. Polly and I are your only friends. We are all the carrot you have. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“For twelve hours or so, we are quite possibly in hiatus. Something big is going on and you are touched by it, but unless you are actively deceiving me, which would be very bad …”—Joe shakes his head vigorously—“then you have a chance of dealing yourself out. If you can be demonstrably dense and unexciting—if after your recent brush with the very wide and alarming world of power, you dive like a mole into your hill and do not emerge—then there is a vanishingly small but pleasing possibility that you may be bothered no further. I suspect that is greatly to be desired … But for it to happen … you need to be a small person.”
Joe ponders. Then, with a reluctance he himself finds very curious, he nods. He understands the argument, understands it in fact far better than meteoric Mercer, whose own life is strewn with moments of significance, public showmanship, and occasional catastrophe. It is the chosen path of Mathew’s son: be quiet, be compliant, let the world slip over you and around you unnoticed. Bend with the wind. Because the tall tree gets hit by lightning and the high corn breaks in a gale. A child’s promise: I will have a life, not a legend.
And yet here, today, it feels like cowardice instead of prudence. Billy is dead and Joe has been assailed by myrmidons from a sort of shadow Britain where the rules do not apply. Some unacknowledged part of him is angry and combative, wants answers and confrontations, wants to be judged and found ri
ghtful, and doesn’t want to look like a small person in front of the Bold Receptionist.
“You need a shower,” Polly says. “Mercer, he’s just lost a friend and he wants to do something about it. He needs to wash and have a cup of tea and he needs to sit there and let it settle a bit.”
“That’s right,” Joe says, because Polly says it, and then realises that it may also be true. His skin is twinging at the thought of hot water.
“Actually,” Polly puts in, “a bath would be better. With a duck. And possibly toast.”
“There’s a bathroom here,” Mercer says a bit doubtfully.
“What’s it like?”
“Eerie, to be honest.”
“Then I’d prefer a hotel,” Joe says firmly. Eerie, on top of everything else, he can do without.
Polly tuts. “He can stay with me.” She glances at Joe politely. “If you’d like. You shouldn’t have to be by yourself in some hotel. I’ve got plenty of space and Mercer will know where to get me if anything happens. It’s discreet and it has Cradle’s panic buttons for emergencies. There’s a nice bed in the spare room and lots of hot water. And a rubber duck you can borrow.”
Rubber duck has somehow become the most erotic expression in the English language. Joe Spork stares at her. He looks at her mouth and wonders whether she will say it again. She doesn’t.
“You really have a rubber duck?” he says hopefully.
“Actually I have two rubber ducks,” she confirms, “but one of them is no longer seaworthy and is, as you might say, retired. I like ducks.” He sees a flash of her tongue on the D.
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