Kill Fish Jones (18 page)

‘We will have to wait until they rebury me and you have a new Litany,' went on Lampwick, talking over
him. ‘Let's hope you can work on that without messing up.'

‘I'll do it!' snarled Grimshaw suddenly. The hatred and rage were too much to bear, and inside, something snapped. ‘I'll kill the boy one way or another, you see if I don't!'

‘What happened to Destiny trumps curses?' snorted Lampwick.

‘I DON'T CARE,' screamed Grimshaw, rearing up on his back paws as far as he could. A twitch was building up in his body, he could feel his muscles crackling with it. When it struck, he leapt with it, landing on the tomb next to Lampwick. He leaned forward and looked into his Architect's pale eyes.

‘I don't care about flaming Destiny,' he said, hissing the words, ‘I'll do it somehow. I'll kill Fish Jones, you'll see.'

‘Hmmn! I'll believe it when it happens.' Lampwick stalked erratically over to the coffin and picked up the chronometer. He threw it at Grimshaw.

‘Go on then! Get out of my sight!'

Sticking out a hand, Grimshaw caught the chronometer and slapped it on his wrist. Then he spun the dials as fast as possible and hit send.

He ended up back in Real Space on a tuft of grass in the middle of a field. A cow raised its head and looked at him. Avatars were hidden from human eyes, it took an effort of will to make themselves visible, but animals could see them all right.

The cow chewed thoughtfully, then looked for another mouthful. It took a step forward, interested in the succulent clump that Grimshaw was sitting on. Grimshaw snarled at it. It lowered its head and gripped a chunk of grass practically underneath Grimshaw, then pulled hard, forcing him to move.

With a scream of rage, Grimshaw flailed around, tearing up chunks of grass and throwing them at the cow. It ignored him. He bounced towards it and landed a kick on its solid flank, then bounced back, turning to face it with a howl. The cow began to eat the grass.

It was intolerable. Even cows treated him with disdain!

He stopped howling and stood, heaving in great, deep breaths of air. His corner-to-corner black eyes smouldered with an inky heat. He would show them. He had meant what he said, all right. A little thing like Destiny wasn't going to get in his way. If Hanhut had done it, so would he.

Persistence
, he thought,
that's the key. Determination. Hit the boy with everything I've got and leave Destiny standing
.

Grimshaw dug out his copy of Mrs Minchin, and his ruler, and got to work. Destiny or not, Fish Jones was as good as dead.

Later that same afternoon, in a small town some miles beyond Stoney Cross the sky was filled with leaden smoke that twisted and heaved in oily clouds. Sirens
wailed and from everywhere rose the clamour of screams, crying voices and running feet. Broken glass crunched underfoot and the stench of petrol and greasy flames hung in the air. Behind a barrage of fire engines, a row of firemen struggled to control the blaze consuming a petrol station. Paramedics ran all over the place and policemen shouted directions, organising people and vehicles to safety.

A short distance away at the corner of the street, an old man stood watching, his face covered in dust and soot and his hat clenched in one hand.

‘Excuse me,' said a voice at his elbow.

The old man looked round and then down. He cocked an eyebrow that looked like a shaggy grey caterpillar against the dark skin of his face.

‘Can you … um … tell me what's going on?' said the new arrival. ‘I just got off the train, see. I was meant to catch a bus from here, but everything's delayed.'

‘Been an accident,' said the old man. He looked bemused, like a man who was trying to work out something complicated, something possibly unbelievable. ‘Well, several, actually. Someone died too. See, there was this boy … Odd-looking kid. Fair hair, almost white, and eyes like hazelnuts. Wearing a T-shirt far too big for him. Had a drawing of a fish on the front.'

The girl stared at the old man with fixed attention.

‘Fish?'

‘Yes, like I said. And the word fish.'

The girl blinked at him. Then she cleared her throat
and dragged a battered notebook out of her pocket. ‘Tell me everything,' she said firmly. ‘The name's A. J. Craig and I'm a reporter …'

When the old man had finished his story of death and mayhem, A. J. Craig nodded. She had long since stopped writing it all down. She looked over to the houses with their broken glass and tattered curtains billowing in the air, hoping that no one had been in there, sitting in front of the TV or reading, when it happened.

‘So the boy was unharmed, right? Even after four near-fatal … accidents! But someone
did
die – the man in the truck, the one that ran into the petrol pump?'

The old man sighed heavily. ‘Yes. I wish I was not there then. I wish I had stayed at home, but I saw it all. A scarecrow of bones and ash, still burning inside the truck. Horrible it was. And …'

‘Yes?'

‘And I will tell you this – there was something else too. I will tell you because I must tell someone or go crazy. Just for one split second, when that young fellow went off his head and crashed into the pump, I saw
something in the truck with him
. Something that flicked into view and then disappeared again. Something …
horrible
! Like a skinned cat with extras.'

He looked down at the scrawny figure with the notebook, the carrier bags and the shocked expression. ‘You do not have to believe that. But it was there.'

‘Thanks,' said A. J. Craig, stuffing the notebook back into a tatty pocket. ‘Thanks very much, you've been ever so helpful, but I've got to go now. I've got to hurry. But I'll tell you something – about the thing you saw in the truck.'

The old man swivelled his gaze from the scene of chaos around him to the grubby-looking would-be reporter. ‘Mmm?'

‘I believe you. I really do.'

Fish was still running as evening began to draw near. He didn't care which direction he went, as long as it was away from the doomsday town and the demon. He could barely keep upright, and his foot was hurting so badly that every step was like treading on knives. His face was wet, though he couldn't remember crying, and his head was filled with the effort of keeping on the move. He wasn't even looking forward to arriving at Crow's Cottage, because all he would find there was an abandoned house full of the demons that came with dirt and decay.

The road was empty. He had just left the last small village behind and was facing a long walk up a hill to the rocky wilds ahead. After that would be a long walk downhill. And then he had moors to cross. Above him, the sky pressed down in a darkening bowl, filling his vision in all directions. Silence blocked his ears and cool air stirred around him in silky currents. It made him feel like he was at the bottom of a deep sea.

Although he had escaped alive, the barrage of attacks
had left his head full of chaotic images. Of these, the one that came back to him the most, more than all the damage and the fire and the frightened people, was that of the demon as it snapped into existence right in front of him on the High Street. It had reared up as tall as it could on its back paws and had looked at him, stared him in the eye, and the look it had given him was one of exultation. It had revelled in his terror, it was as simple as that. And it was Fish's terror that had stopped him in his tracks and sent him fleeing to the other side of the road, right where disaster was waiting to strike in the form of shattered glass, falling tiles, flying pottery and exploding pumps. Any one of those accidents could have killed him,
would
have killed him but for a series of freak events (the unravelled shoelace, for instance) that delayed him right at the crucial moment.

But if it was the demon that had sent him into the path of danger, then it was the thing that he had seen at the petrol station that had caused him to veer away just as the explosion happened. And that thing was death.

Death, in Fish's view of the world, arrived in the form of silvery light. Inside the silvery light was
something
. Fish had only once been close enough to see the something and it freaked him out far more than dirt demons, or even misery snakes.

Death could be quick or it could be slow. When it was quick, as in the case of Jon Figg, the light arrived fast and went as swiftly. Right over the petrol pump, Fish had seen the light appear and he had run away because
he was afraid it was meant for him. As it happened, the poor man in the truck … well, anyway, the death hadn't been there for Fish after all, but seeing it arrive had saved his life. Odd that.

Fish glanced at the sky again. By now, the sun was sinking fast and he knew he wouldn't make it before dark. He also knew that he could no more stop and sleep than he could fly. He would just keep walking until he couldn't walk any more and then he would fall down and if he was lucky he'd live until the morning. Then he'd have to hope that he could get up again.

A long way behind him a black dot appeared in the middle of the horizon. As it drew nearer it became a car. It was nearly on him before he heard it. Startled, Fish turned to look.

It was more than just a car. It was a taxicab. Right out here in the middle of nowhere. Fish stared at it, bewildered. It drew level with him and then it stopped.

The door opened and someone peered out.

‘God, Fish, you look like death! Seems I got here just in time.'

Fish smiled. It was hardly visible beneath all the dirt and blood on his face, but it was a big smile.

‘Come on then!' A small and grimy hand reached out to grab him. He stumbled with it, falling into the cab. The door slammed.

‘You can drive on now.'

The taxi driver, who had been staring at Fish, faced front again and put the cab back into motion.

‘Well,' said Alice J. Craig firmly, ‘I brought some money like you said. Hadn't you better tell me exactly what kind of thing is out to get you?'

Fish sank back against the well-worn leather of the taxi and thought that he had never known such comfort in all his life.

‘I suppose it's something weird,' said Alice. There were two large shopping bags at her feet, along with a smaller plastic bag from Sainsbury's. As usual when she wasn't at school, she was wearing a skirt with a torn hem, a corduroy jacket with frayed cuffs and a dirty top with a sequin butterfly on it. The butterfly was missing a lot of its sequins. Her shoes were scuffed on the toes and hadn't been polished since they were bought. She had smudges on her tanned face, grub under her fingernails and had forgotten to brush her hair, but she looked like heaven to Fish.

He nodded.

‘Why doesn't that surprise me! The moment Jed told me about your call I knew it was something to do with all that stuff. It's why I decided to bring the money myself instead of posting it like you said. What is it this time? Worse than the dirt devils, obviously. Worse than the death things? The ones that hang around old people and sick folk?'