Kill Fish Jones (4 page)

Susan took a deep breath. ‘Well, that's settled then,' she said soothingly. ‘Now, how about a drink? I don't suppose you've had anything all day. I'm sure Fish will make us some tea.' She smiled over at her son.

Fish was already on his feet and out of the door. It only took a minute to boil the kettle, get the milk from the fridge and set out the cups, and then he was back in the living room with the tray in time to hear his mother say, ‘But, Marsha, you still haven't told us how Reg … what happened to Reg.'

‘It was the most awful shock! One moment he was healthy and happy and going down the road to get a newspaper. Next he was dead! Just like that!'

Setting the tray down next to his mother, Fish studied Marsha carefully, his hazel eyes taking note. Once again she blinked and turned her head away as she spoke. It dawned on him that she didn't want to tell them how her husband had died.

‘Why is that boy staring at me?' said Marsha suddenly. Her voice took on a slight whine, but underneath it was sharp.

‘Fish, you know it upsets people,' said Susan without looking up from pouring the tea.

Fish sighed and concentrated on adding the milk – straight from the bottle instead of using the jug – which earned him a pursed-up-mouth look from his aunt.

‘That child needs help,' said Marsha. It was a funny thing, but people often talked about Fish as if he wasn't there. He didn't mind as he preferred it when they didn't notice him much.

‘He's fine,' snapped Susan.

‘He's too small for his age. And does he
ever
talk?'

‘Only when he needs to.'

‘If you ask me, it's not normal. And why do you call him Fish anyway?'

‘Look, he's bright and healthy and if he chooses not to say anything unless he thinks it's important, I for one am not worrying, OK?' said Susan, worriedly.

‘All right, dear!' Marsha shrugged.

‘He gets on fine at school and has a couple of nice friends …'

Fish nodded. It was true. He had Jed, who loved bright colours and refused to be parted from his favourite red jacket, and Alice, who wanted to be a news reporter. They talked to and around him and didn't expect it to be any other way. The fact that Jed wasn't very bright and Alice's mother often forgot to wash Alice's clothes was neither here nor there. They both helped Jed with his lessons and Alice usually remembered to wash herself, so she didn't smell too bad. Anyway, when she forgot, Fish let her know because he didn't like the dirt demons that hung tangled in her hair or perched on her shoulders, glaring at him with eyes the colour of sludge. And because Alice knew about the things that Fish could see, she always went straight home and had a shower. Usually looking a little sick.

Marsha sniffed disbelievingly, but she didn't say any more.

‘Now,' went on Susan, ‘since we can't even save any of our things, we need some clothes and toothbrushes and so on …'

‘Why ever didn't you pack a suitcase, dear?'

Although he didn't use them often, today was clearly an exception, so Fish gave his aunt one of his special looks. He was astonished that she could be so dense, even allowing for the death of her husband. The glare got through because Marsha twitched and sent him a nervous glance.

Susan winced. ‘I told you. Our house was demolished …'

And for the first time that day Marsha looked out of her own world long enough to hear what Susan was saying. Instantly there was a flash of the old Marsha, the Marsha underneath all the flounce, who knew how to care about her little sister.

‘Oh lord, Su! How on earth …?'

‘They got the wrong address, would you believe?' For a moment Susan's voice quivered.

‘Sue them,' said Marsha firmly. ‘I've got a good solicitor. And you can stay here as long as you need to.' She sent Fish a resigned look. He smiled at her, hoping it came over as reassuring. It must have worked, because she gave him a tiny smile back.

‘Thank you, Marsha. We've had a bad time between us, haven't we?' Susan smiled ruefully. ‘But what you must have gone through is terrible.' She put a hand out to touch Fish gently on the arm and he knew that she was glad she had only lost her home and not someone she cared about. ‘But you never said what happened?'

This time Marsha didn't blink and look away. She fell silent and looked down at her teacup, her face growing slowly redder.

‘A sheep fell on him,' she said at last.

‘Sorry?'

‘A sheep. It fell on him.' She struggled with herself for a moment, then burst out, ‘It's just so … so … RIDICULOUS!' Now that the truth was out, Marsha
hurried on, words tripping over themselves to get out of her mouth.

‘He went for the newspaper like he always does of a morning, and halfway down the avenue they're building a block of luxury apartments and there's scaffolding everywhere. And Reg must have cut across the building site. And it turns out someone left the gate open to Lockes Field and there was this one sheep got out, and somehow it got on to the platform thing and was hauled up the scaffolding! And it panicked, you know, and tried to get down again and … fell.'

There was silence. Marsha had gone from red to pale and was sitting very straight in her chair with her plump, ringed hands clasped in her lap.

‘I'm … so … sorry.'

‘It fell from several floors up. Reg was killed at once. And so was the sheep of course.'

‘Of course,' murmured Susan faintly. There was another silence.

Fish went and sat next to his aunt, put his hand in hers and squeezed it. By now her shine was much brighter.

‘Thank you, dear,' she said, and burst into tears.

That evening, when Fish was alone in his bedroom – Marsha had several spare ones – he took a careful look around for the demon, but pretending not to in case it realised what he was doing.

So, as he tracked down an old pair of Reg's pyjamas,
he looked in the wardrobe and searched through every cupboard. When he closed the window, he checked behind the curtains. Finally, he dropped his watch on the floor and bent down to pick it up, glancing under the bed in the kind of way that might be accidental, just to see if it was hiding there.

It wasn't, which was a relief.

At last, Fish was ready for bed. He climbed in, nervously turned out the light and lay staring up through the gloom at the ceiling. It wasn't totally dark in the bedroom because he always kept the curtains open to let in some light and keep out the whispers. Tonight, though, he was more worried about something else.

Although the demon wasn't around right now, he was sure that he hadn't seen the last of it. He wondered if it had been there when the lost sheep had stumbled off the edge of the scaffolding and ended the life of his uncle. And if the creature brought bad things with it, then where was it now and was some other poor person suffering while it looked on and took notes?

‘A sheep!' Lampwick said indignantly. ‘A
sheep
!'

It was early the next morning and Grimshaw had just finished giving his report. Lampwick always required a blow-by-blow account of every event, right down to the expression on their faces and with exact sound effects.

‘Take it or leave it, it's what you got,' Grimshaw muttered irritably, flicking his tail.

Lampwick sniffed. ‘Can't you take lessons from that friend of yours, Tin or whatever his name is?'

‘Tun,' muttered Grimshaw. ‘It's Tun. And I
know
you always get it wrong on purpose.'

‘I mean,' went on Lampwick, brushing the comment aside with a wave of his hand, ‘isn't he the one who took Sufferers' lives by ripping their still-beating hearts from their bodies? You wouldn't find a demon like
him
killing anybody with a
farm animal
!'

Grimshaw had to agree. It was legendary among curse demons that Tun's last-ever victim had been found huddled against a wall with a look of such terror on his
face that
no one dared to look at him
for fear his tortured gaze would haunt their dreams forever.

‘And then there's that one with the head like a dog, who visits such ghastly tortures on his victims …'

‘… jackal, and his name is Hanhut …' muttered Grimshaw.

‘… that their insides end up being their outsides!' Lampwick chuckled, shaking his head.

‘It's different for them,' snarled Grimshaw, clenching his paws.

Lampwick turned away from him and lurched stiffly up the crypt, hands clasped behind his back, tattered robes flapping around him. What with having been dead for so long, most of the feeling had gone in his legs.

‘They are
first-rate demons
,' went on Grimshaw, hoping that Lampwick would fall over. It always made him laugh to watch his Architect floundering about on the floor like an overturned beetle. ‘Hanhut was created by a powerful Egyptian queen with a
whole dynasty
at her command, and Tun's Architect is an actual,
real
magician, who also happens to be of ancient and noble blood. Me, I'm a
third-rate demon
created by a
pretend
magician with about as much nobility as a turnip!'

He glared at Lampwick, who had reached the far wall of the crypt. ‘And in case you hadn't noticed after over a century of half-life, there are
Rules
, and third-rate demons aren't allowed to
show
themselves to Sufferers, let alone visit Death upon them
personally
.'

The Rules applied to all types of Avatar – that is to
say creatures of spirit rather than flesh – whether they were demon or angel. Even the high-up ones like the Pomp. But it seemed to Grimshaw that the most unfair Rules of all were the ones that applied to third-rate curse demons.

‘Third-rate demons like
me
,' he went on sulkily, ‘created by third-rate humans like
you
, have to make use of
anything handy
to bring about Deaths by accident. For example a SHEEP!'

‘You're twitching again,' said Lampwick, wrinkling his nose disdainfully. ‘Do try to behave properly. It's very distracting having you bouncing about like a jumping bean when I'm trying to have my afternoon walk.'

Grimshaw screamed at him. ‘Don't you understand what I'm saying?' he howled. ‘It's ALL YOUR FAULT that I'm like this.' Another twitch shook him and he stopped and shut his eyes, then drew in a long, deep breath.

‘Well, anyway,' he said firmly, glancing at his chronometer, ‘time's running on. I can't sit here talking to you all day, I've got work to do.'

‘You'll sit there as long as I tell you to,' sneered Lampwick. ‘I want you to go through it all again right from the …'

Grimshaw just about managed to suppress a scream. ‘Let me go now,' he said through gritted teeth, ‘and I'll soon have something
new
to tell you.'

Demon and Architect stared at one another for a moment.

‘Go on then,' said Lampwick gleefully, ‘get on with it. And make sure there is plenty of blood.'

About the time Grimshaw was making promises to Lampwick, Fish got downstairs to find his mother making breakfast.

‘I was going to scramble some eggs,' she said, ‘but the gas isn't working, so it's just tea and toast, I'm afraid.'

Marsha, already at the table, gave him a warm, if wan, smile.

‘That was my Reg's favourite,' she said affectionately, nodding at the T-shirt Fish was wearing, even though it swamped him. It had a line drawing of a fish on the front and the word ‘fish' written underneath, which was why he had chosen it. ‘I'm glad you've got it now.'

Before Fish could smile a thank-you, the doorbell rang.

Everyone froze. After the traumatic events of yesterday, the doorbell ringing at half past eight in the morning didn't feel like good news.

Susan let out a slow breath. Marsha had gone pale.