Kill Fish Jones (26 page)

Fish laughed. One of the things he really liked about Alice was the way she always knew what he was thinking.

She sighed. ‘OK. I s'pose we can just eat on the way, right?'

It was a good thing that Fish's foot had improved a lot during the last day, because the walk to Knockton was a long one. As they trekked over the heathery moors they shared a breakfast of biscuits and chocolate washed down by what was left of the lemonade. The clouds had gone and it promised to be another fine day with a clear sky, a warm sun and a breeze smelling of heather and distant hills.

They went in silence for most of the way, which was normal for Fish, but not so normal for Alice. She was lost in her thoughts and Fish wasn't surprised. The day before yesterday her life had been normal, or at least as normal as it could be for anyone who knew Fish well. Now it was filled with a menace that she couldn't see, a threat of violent death, certainly to Fish and possibly to her too. She was far from home – her mother didn't even know where she was – living in a house with no gas or electricity and relying on the kindness of a stranger for food.

The town was just rising ahead of them when Alice's phone rang. Alice heaved a sigh and dug in her pocket.

‘Hi.'

Mumbling from the other end.

‘Fine. M'with Fish. Gonna have breakfast.'

More mumbling.

‘I dunno. Might be, might not.'

Even more mumbling.

Alice sighed. ‘Yeah, text you.'

Fish strained his ears but couldn't make out anything Alice's mum said.

‘What? Oh.' Alice sounded surprised. ‘You too, Mum, OK. Bye.'

She ended the call and gave the phone a puzzled look. ‘She said be careful! That's not like her.' Alice was silent for a moment. ‘You don't think she suspects anything, do you?'

Fish shrugged.

‘Anyway, she's off to work now, so that's OK. Look, we're here.'

Ahead of them the fields ended in a shallow ditch and then a road. They joined it and went on past a row of cottages and a pub to end up in a street of shops and people that reminded Fish of the town that he had left behind as a burnt-out wreck only a couple of days before. He shuddered and glanced around.

Alice gave him a sharp glance. ‘Is it there? No? Good thing too! Come on, let's find the Green bloke!'

A sign on the other side of the road told them that they were on Main Street. They wandered along until Alice said, ‘Fortune Hill! There it is, eh!' She changed direction and led the way across the road and up the
curve of the road. They didn't go far before they saw a pair of gates standing open on to a path. On the gates was a sign with one word on it: Seven.

Silently, Fish and Alice walked through the gates and down the path. There were trees and thickly growing shrubs all around them, and they had to walk a little way before they saw the house. It was a tall building in need of a coat of paint, but the garden around it, up to the trees, was neatly kept and full of flowers.

At the door, Fish stood for a moment, catching his breath, half not wanting to ring on the bell. He often got feelings about things, and right now he knew that inside this house was something so important that it could mean the difference between life and death. The knowledge terrified him and made his heart pump harder and harder, sending the life spinning frantically around his body as if it were trying to get away. But there was no getting away from fate.

Everything seemed very clear and sharp. He took a long look around at the world, almost as if it would be his last. It was nine o'clock in the morning and the day was still fresh. Overhead, and far in the distance, the silver dart of an aeroplane crossed the vivid blue sky. The air that washed around them was warm and soft as milk and gently rustled the trees.

Alice slipped her hand into his. Clutching it tight, Fish dismissed his terrors and stepped forward. It gave him a chill inside to think that he was really going to do this.

And he was going to do it now.

There was no constellation reference, so the unknown place had to be in Limbo, which meant that it would only lead Grimshaw to a clue of some sort, not directly to the Mighty Curse, as that was sleeping in Real Space. But it would do.

Unfortunately, it also meant that Grimshaw would have to face Lampwick, as there was no other way back into Limbo other than through his Architect. But if Lampwick wanted to know what his demon was planning and commanded him to tell, then Grimshaw would be compelled to answer. And once he knew, Lampwick would most likely command Grimshaw to drop the idea and again Grimshaw would be forced to obey. He worried the problem around and around in his head, looking for a way past it, until finally he gave up, turned the dials to zero and hit send. There was nothing he could do but risk it.

‘Oh, there you are! I've been wondering what you were up to, roaming around like a lost …'

‘Can't stop.' Grimshaw held up a hand. ‘Busy.'

‘I'll give you busy!' Lampwick sat up straight with indignation.

Grimshaw was hurriedly rearranging dials. Ring settings Red Hare and then Mirage. And at the intersection he would find what he was looking for – information on how to turn the Earth into a Burnt Offering! And Fish Jones along with it.

‘I Conjure Thee, Stay!' snarled Lampwick.

Grimshaw's finger froze over the send button.

‘You can't stop me!' he snarled. ‘I'm just getting there!'

‘Getting where!'

‘I don't know,' mumbled Grimshaw, ‘but I had an idea about how to kill Fish Jones and I want to do it.'

Lampwick settled back on his coffin.

‘Hmm, going to entertain me with another balls-up, eh?'

Seething, Grimshaw held his tongue.

‘So, what is today's fantastic idea?'

‘Not telling.' Grimshaw scrunched his eyes tight, wishing he had thought up another plan, an alternative plan convincing enough to put Lampwick off the trail.

Lampwick leaned forward, a slow grin tracing its way across his putty-coloured face. ‘I Conjure Thee, Tell.'

Grimshaw screamed, his face twisting horribly with the effort to disobey. It was no use.

‘I'm gonna blow up the World!' he yelled.

Lampwick paused for a moment, shocked. Then the grin got larger. It turned into a smirk and then a chuckle
and then a laugh. The magician shook with mirth until tears began to trickle from the corners of his eyes. ‘You? You couldn't blow up a rubber ring!' More screams of laughter, this time at his own wit, echoed around the crypt.

Grimshaw glared. Inside, behind the glare, he felt cautiously relieved. He had told Lampwick a shorthand version of the truth, but it had cost him every grain of his strength not to blurt out the whole plan. Happily, Lampwick had accepted it, which was a good thing, because Grimshaw didn't think he could hold back a second time.

Lampwick got control. ‘So, how are you planning that, then?' It was a conversational question, not a command, but it still took Grimshaw biting his tongue hard to stop him answering honestly. Twitches shook him so hard he bounced around like a rubber ball.

‘Um … I'm … gonna … OW … do something big … lots of fire and … death … like the biggest bomb ever only … OW … not a bomb …'

‘What are you blethering about? Do you mean one of these modern nookiller things?' sneered Lampwick. ‘I have heard of them, you know. And do keep still – you're making me dizzy.'

Grimshaw blinked. ‘Nuclear,' he said sniffily. ‘I think you'll find it's pronounced NEW-CLE-AR.' The twitches subsided a little.

Lampwick eyed his Avatar thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. Interesting. Which power station are you going to
use? And how do you intend to get the boy there? No!' He held up a hand. ‘Don't tell me. Either it will be an entertaining flop or it will work. And if it works it will be big, I can see that. Think of the Innocent Bystanders you could get with that one! It might even redeem you for the lost chronometer fiasco. A bit.'

Grimshaw stared at Lampwick sullenly, but inside he was laughing. He didn't know what fiasco meant, but frankly he didn't give a fig. He had got away with lying to his Architect.

‘Personally I'm betting on the flop outcome,' went on Lampwick, his usual sneer curling the corner of his mouth. He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Go on then, do your worst.'

Without another word, Grimshaw went.

Earth rings reference Red Hare and Mirage turned out to be a tall house at the end of a long drive. There was a stretch of empty ground that might have trees in it in Real Space, and then flower beds closer to the house. Even though there were no flowers in them in the Limbo version, Grimshaw could tell that they would be flower beds in Real Space because the sections of bare earth were neatly outlined with paving stones.

After the last update there had been a brief shower of plane parts, forcing Grimshaw to take cover in a nearby shed. Fortunately, most of the chunks had landed some metres away, and the only thing he had to worry about
was getting round the portion of wing dumped in the middle of the drive.

Deciding that the clue must be somewhere inside the building, Grimshaw headed through the door and down a long hallway that would probably be painted a pleasant green in Real Space, but was a kind of sicky grey in Limbo. It led to a living room, a study, a kitchen and a dining room. And one other room, the one next to the living room.

Grimshaw blinked. It had to be a library – one full of old and powerful books too. Nothing in Limbo gave off that air of pulsating power like a library of old books. He sighed. Typical. The clue would be in there; it had to be.

Pushing open the door gingerly, Grimshaw peered in. The library was seething. Everywhere he looked, the half-lives contained in the pages were fighting to get out. He could feel the barely controlled power struggling beneath their dull surfaces, begging somebody to open them. Carefully, he edged around the door, leaving it open, then inched into the room, hoping the books wouldn't notice he was there. This side of the door, the air was thick with unheard sound and unseen life and it made his ears pop.

Because fiction was a creation of humankind, stories written in Real Space didn't translate well to Limbo. Or maybe it was that they translated a little too well! They took on an extra substance, becoming almost as real as their authors. Grimshaw had investigated plenty of
fiction books in the Lock-Out Club in Limbo and knew how it went. They snagged the reader, dragged him in and went to work on him like a wraparound cinematic nightmare with a few stiff gins thrown in for good measure. Unlike Real Space TV adaptations and so on, Limbo books were never well balanced. They scooted through some parts of the story and exaggerated others, threw in a mix of ghostly background characters and larger-than-life personalities, changed viewpoint and setting at the drop of a hat and were coloured by the author's feelings at the time. It was like a vast roller-coaster ride with 3D pictures and no sick bag, and it usually left Grimshaw feeling woozy and gasping for breath. But sometimes it was fantastically wonderful too. It all depended on the book.

Non-fiction wasn't much better. All the knowledge and effort and desire to learn created a kind of hotbed of information just dying to shoehorn its way into the reader's head, often resulting in severe overload and (where encyclopaedias were concerned) brain explosion.

What's more, it was vital to go in concentrating on one book only. In a Limbo library, if you got dragged in unprepared, the books would take over, passing you from one to the next. It could be weeks before they let you out again – usually when you were comatose or brain damaged and so not paying proper attention.

Grimshaw studied the library thoughtfully. He didn't have a particular book in mind, but he did have
a subject and he hoped that would be enough. Trouble was, where to look? One tall bookcase held only non-fiction, and here works on medicine, history, law and geography fought for attention. As he scanned over the shelves he caught flashes of content – blood-wet flesh and gleaming steel in
Dissection and Anatomy
, the screaming heat of battle in
A History of Britain
, a dangling noose in
Execution: The Facts
.