Nothing But Blue Skies (35 page)

‘That's right.'

Mr Willis smiled. ‘No offence,' he said, ‘but you've made a right old mess of my building.'

‘Sorry,' Karen replied instinctively. ‘Actually,' she added, ‘it was—'

‘An accident. Yeah, I know. It really was an accident. No worries.' He reached out and patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Anyway,' he said, ‘it was good of you to come. Flight not too bad, I hope?'

‘What? I mean no, it was fine.'

‘Must've seemed a bit strange, flying
in
something,' Mr Willis said. ‘Surprised it didn't make you feel travel-sick, or claustrophobic, or whatever.'

Karen shook her head. ‘No, it was fine.' Feeling something more was needed, she added: ‘I think it may be because I've been human for so long, I'm starting to react like one. Some of the time, anyway.'

Mr Willis nodded. He was obviously very interested in her views on the matter. It was rather flattering, really, that someone as important as Mr Willis . . .

Stop it
, she told herself sharply.
You haven't come this far to be suckered by a bit of charm
. ‘So,' she said, rather more stuffily, ‘here I am, like you wanted. Now let my father and your son go.'

Mr Willis clicked his tongue. ‘Easier said than done, I'm afraid. Not,' he added, holding up a hand to forestall protests, ‘that I don't want to. I can't. You see, we seem to have lost your old man.'

‘Lost—'

‘As in can't find him anywhere.' He shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. He was
good
, this human. ‘I sent some blokes down to look in on him, make sure he was all right after all this bother—' The way he dismissed the destruction all around him was masterful. ‘And he wasn't there. Neither was the lady scientist who's been looking after him. Oh, I'm sure he's all right, big enough and ugly enough, no offence intended. But there's a couple of daft bloody hooligans running around - weather forecasters, of all people, can you believe it? Anyway, they're the ones who kidnapped him in the first place.'

‘Weathermen,' Karen said. ‘I see.'

‘Sorry? Oh, right, someone's already mentioned them. Anyway, they're nutters, both of 'em, and so long as they're on the rampage I'd rather keep everybody somewhere they'll be nice and safe - for your sake, not mine, you understand. I'd never forgive myself if those two goons actually managed to hurt someone, even though it's pretty unlikely. I'd feel responsible, somehow. You do see my point, don't you?'

Karen frowned. ‘Why would two weathermen want to hurt my father?'

Mr Willis shook his head. ‘Bloody fools, they've got it into their thick skulls that you lot - dragons in general, I mean - you lot are out to get them. You know, making it rain when they've said it's going to be sunny - they reckon you do it on purpose so they'll look bad. It's amazing what goes on inside some people's heads.'

Karen remembered Mr Harrison, and the man she'd fallen on. ‘Yes,' she replied. ‘You seem to collect them,' she added. ‘Lunatics, I mean.'

For a moment Mr Willis looked as if he didn't understand; then he grinned and nodded his head. ‘You mean the government blokes,' he said. ‘Yeah, they can be a bit of a pain sometimes. But they came as part of the deal; joint venture, you see, me and your, sorry, the British government. One of the conditions was, they had all these basket cases they couldn't fire - security of tenure, seniority, all civil service guff like that - and they wanted me to take 'em off their hands and hide 'em away somewhere they couldn't hurt anybody. Well, out here, isolated from the outside world, I said to myself, what mischief could they possibly get up to? Sorry if they startled you, but really they're quite harmless.' He came a step closer. It didn't seem a particularly intimidating movement. ‘So,' he went on, ‘best thing you can do is come with me and I'll make sure you're well out of harm's way till we've got everything back under control. Well,' he added with a mischievous grin, ‘as nearly under control as they ever are around here. After you.'

‘I—' Karen didn't move. ‘I'm not sure,' she said.

‘Ah, go on, be a sport. Besides,' he added, coyly (yes, coyly; in the middle of all this chaos and the aftermath of catastrophic shellfire, he was smirking) ‘there's someone who'll probably be quite glad to see you. And I don't just mean your dad.'

If she hadn't heard him on the telephone that day, she'd probably have believed it, every word. As it was, she felt as if she was trying to take two identical twins, one nice and one nasty, and squeeze both of them inside one skin. She gave up. After all, he wasn't armed; she could probably have broken his neck with one hand. He was just standing close to her and smiling. You couldn't fight someone who did that.

‘All right,' she said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

C
hained to a desk in the front office of Heaven (they can't be too careful these days) is
God's Big Book of Lists
, wherein everything is set out in categories, and everything within each category is listed in order, ‘Most' at the top, ‘Least' at the bottom, like the Top Twenty or the Deloittes ratings for cricketers. As a handy at-a-glance reference the
Big Book
isn't particularly helpful; since it has to include everything, regardless of how rare a particular phenomenon may be, you tend to find yourself wading through pages and pages of far-fetched nonsense before you get to the useful stuff. The Big List of Useless Stuff, for example, begins with a whole batch of improbable curiosities, things that a normal, sane person could never conceive of coming across except in proverbs and figures of speech - chocolate fireguards, one-armed paper-hangers, truthful lawyers, Vulcan pornography, and the like - which means that the most useless real-life contingencies only start at #12,485, giving a false impression of how useless they are. Microsoft manuals, for example, are listed at the 19,669th most useless thing in the world, which sounds like a boost for the boys from Seattle until you realise that #19,668 is a bottomless bucket and #19,670 is a one-lira coin.

The 21,407th most useless thing in the world, according to the
Big Book
, is a sleeping weatherman, followed (by some strange coincidence) by #21,408, a dragon in a goldfish bowl. Looked at that way, it must have been a really colossal coincidence to have examples of both #21,407 and #21,408 sharing the same cell.

Also in the cell was a thoroughly fed-up scientist, name of Zelda. Mostly, of course, she was fed up because of something that had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it didn't help that the cell was hot, stuffy, dark and scented with mildew and sundry human-derived fragrances, or that she was bored and had nothing to read and nobody to talk to except a sleeping idiot and a goldfish.

She paused and rewound. She'd missed seeing the dragon turning from a human into a fish; she'd been asleep at the time, thanks to some foul gas they'd pumped through the air-conditioning just after the automatic doors had locked behind them. Accordingly, she didn't know whether the dragon had gone fish-shaped on his own (presumably - cringe with shame - because the nasty men had threatened to hurt her or the idiot if he didn't) or whether they had some kind of gismo that transformed dragons whether the dragon liked it or not. Since her main motive in getting involved in all this had been to learn more about these utterly fascinating creatures, and that as of now all she'd learned was that they can be incredibly stubborn and enjoy watching black-and-white snooker with their eyes shut, the thought that someone else in this organisation might know enough about the critters to make them play musical bodies at the click of a mouse (but hadn't seen fit to share such data with her) served to tie a big velvet ribbon round her self-pity. And she didn't even have a mirror to despise herself in. A bad business, all round.

The fish was hanging in the water, opening and shutting its mouth, the way fish do. For all Zelda knew, it could be cussing her out for her part in the debacle (real or imaginary), or telling her about the panel in the wall that opened onto a secret passage if you prodded it exactly right, or maybe even just singing the blues. As a scientist trained in such matters, she knew she had no chance of hearing the little sucker so long as he stayed underwater. So that was that.

Which only left Neville as a potential source of companionship, solace, moral support and technical advice on escaping from small confined spaces. Viewed from that angle, it made her see the merits of solitary confinement.

And then there was Gordon - or rather, typically, there Gordon wasn't. Wonderful though the dragon's abilities to change shape undoubtedly were, they dwindled away into conjuring tricks compared with her ex-fiancé's ability to be somewhere else. Which was annoying; because if anybody deserved to be banged up in a small, smelly room it was Gordon. On general principles. So as to stop him roaming about the place being obnoxious and not turning up at churches. Best of all, she supposed, would be to lock him up in a small, smelly church somewhere, and have loads of girls in wedding dresses come and make faces at him through the windows. Not that she cared one way or the other, since not showing up at the church had been the only decent, generous, considerate thing he'd ever done in his life. In fact, if there was an award for the act of spineless cowardice that had saved the most heartbreak and given the most happiness in the history of the world, not only would she unhesitatingly give it to Gordon Smelt, she'd also be delighted to stand up on a podium in front of six hundred people in evening dress eating avocado vinaigrettes and pin it to his chest. Preferably with a six-inch nail. As for the idea that Gordon might, just for once in his useless life, actually manage to get his butt in gear and rescue her . . .

It was ridiculous; because, like 99.99999999999999% of the human race, Gordon wasn't a superb natural athlete with advanced ninja training and a flair for oxyacetylene. Even if he was stupid enough to try, he wouldn't be that stupid for very long, since dead people weren't anything much. She calmed down a little and stared at the floor, ignoring the goldfish, who was waggling his fins and blowing bubbles. When you were stuck in a cell and likely to be there for the duration, there was always a severe risk that you'd wear away the self-deception and end up sitting on the cold, hard truth. She couldn't really account for why she wished Gordon was there, but it wasn't malice; and though it'd be very nice indeed if he (or the SAS, or the fire brigade, or even Noel Edmonds) came and rescued her, on balance she'd rather he didn't try, because it was dangerous and probably pointless, too. She'd far rather that he got out of this silly building, went home, grew a beard and got a job in the post office.

‘Erg,' said Neville, without warning.

‘Hello,' she replied.

Neville sat up. The first thing he noticed was the goldfish.

‘All a dream,' he muttered. Then he took in the rest of his environment and groaned. ‘Not a dream,' he said. ‘Shit,' he added.

‘Yes.'

‘You're that scientist woman,' Neville said. ‘Gordon's bird. What're you doing in here?'

Zelda smiled, but only because in her mind's eye she could picture herself presenting an even longer, sharper award to Neville for most inappropriate use of a common English word. ‘I got caught,' she said. ‘Same as you.'

‘Oh. But you're on their side.'

‘Not any more, apparently. Now, seems like I'm with you guys. In here,' she added. ‘Lucky me.'

‘I see,' Neville said. ‘Do you know any access codes, passwords, stuff like that?' He nodded in the general direction of the goldfish.

‘There's my cash card PIN number,' Zelda replied. ‘Apart from that, no.'

‘Oh.' Neville slumped forward, chin muffled in hands. ‘Bummer,' he said. ‘And, of course, he's no bloody good stuck in there.'

A tiny glow, equivalent in power to one tenth of a Christmas-tree light, illuminated the shadows of Zelda's mind. ‘How about if we got him out of there?' she said. ‘Then he could turn himself back into a dragon.'

Neville looked up and down the cell. ‘It'd be a bit cramped in here with a twenty-foot lizard,' he pointed out.

‘Not if someone were to kick a great big hole in the wall, Zelda argued. ‘Or the ceiling, even. Come on, you know about this shit, you were the one who caught him in the first place.'

‘I wouldn't call myself an expert,' Neville said cautiously.

‘You know more about it than I do,' Zelda said bitterly. ‘Apparently, so do most people. But that's OK. You go right ahead, I'll get ready to run as soon as he's knocked through.'