Kill Fish Jones (15 page)

‘It's an interesting theory. But the Sisters are very lowly angels, so you don't have to believe everything they say. It's not like the Horsemen.' Tun leaned towards Grimshaw and whispered, ‘It is said among us first-rate demons that the Horsemen know …
everything
!'

‘Everything?'

‘They are in touch with the Highest Orders of Avatar, the ones we cannot even see!' Tun straightened up and raised his voice again. ‘So, just because the child is proving hard to kill, doesn't mean that the Sisters are right, that he has been chosen by fate for some higher
purpose. Although I'll agree that his extra-special vision may point to some great meaning in his existence. That certainly makes him a creature apart from the rest of his kind.'

‘Yes.' Grimshaw nodded agreement.

‘Tell me, is he one who is strange to the eye? Who does not behave as others of his age and position?'

Grimshaw thought of the boy's virtual silence. ‘Yes.'

‘Shunned by most, save for two trusted friends.'

‘Yes.'

‘Downright odd?'

‘YES!'

‘Hmm. In that case, small one, I fear you are stuffed.'

‘Stuffed?'

‘Stitched up like a kipper. The Sisters, lowly as they are, have spoken the truth. Your Sufferer has a destiny. There is some deed of significance assigned to him, that he must live to carry out.'

Grimshaw stopped his limping progress as the significance of all this sank in. All curse demons knew that Destiny trumped curses. And if Fish Jones had a destiny, then one of the mysterious Higher Orders would be looking after him to make sure that the destiny was fulfilled.

‘He has a guardian angel,' said Grimshaw slowly, twitching his ears. ‘That is who messed with the futures and planted the coin in the gutter.'

He stood for a moment, taking in the fact that his Sufferer was protected by powers so great, so far above a mere third-rate curse demon that they were out of his sight. Then he tipped back his head and howled with anguish and misery.

Killing Fish Jones had just become impossible.

‘You can't be the first curse demon to come up against this,' said Tun, when Grimshaw had finished howling. ‘Perhaps a little research will show you that it is not as uncommon as you think, small one. Why don't you trawl the Acts and Facts? Maybe there will be a solution. It'll be something for you to do on the long journey home.'

Grimshaw sighed. ‘Everything was going so well,' he said, ‘right up till I got to the boy. Horrible boy.'

‘Do not be cast down. You will not be the only demon in history with a Survivor …'

‘Wimble,' snapped Grimshaw. ‘He is the only one. And now me.'

‘But Wimble's Survivor is still alive because Wimble cannot read the futures properly. All the other humans just think the man is accident prone. In your case it's because the boy has a destiny, and you can't be blamed for that.'

It wasn't true and Grimshaw knew it. They'd sneer at him and look down on him. Well, they did that anyway,
but they'd do it
more
. Add a long-standing Survivor to the loss of his chronometer and Grimshaw would be bottom of the curse-demon pile for years and years. Possibly forever. There would be no redemption. Curse demons were an unforgiving lot.

It crept into Grimshaw's mind that maybe Tun had come to find him out of a desire to gloat rather than to be supportive.

‘Roll up, roll up,' he mumbled, ‘see the most useless demon in everlasting history!'

‘Sorry? Did you say something?'

Shaking his ears, Grimshaw asked grumpily, ‘So why did you finish off your last-ever Sufferer? Surely, if there is no one left from the House of Ombre, then your Architect's name will be forgotten, certainly not carved among those of his ancestors.'

Tun didn't flinch, even for a moment. If there was any stiffening of the tall dark form walking next to him, Grimshaw didn't pick it up.

‘Do you know what happens to a curse demon when the curse is complete?' Tun said, his voice cool. ‘We are all aware that the Architect, being a human soul, moves on to Whatever Comes Next. But what about the Avatar of the curse? Hmmm?'

Grimshaw turned it over in his mind. It was true that he had never really thought about it, but he knew from the web that spent curse demons vanished from Limbo.

‘They cease to exist, that's what,' went on Tun. ‘Gone.
Snuffed out like a candle. They have no everlasting soul, so they cannot live beyond their purpose. See?'

‘But not you?'

‘Not me. Because my curse will never end, I will live forever.'

In Limbo
, thought Grimshaw, but he didn't say it. He wondered briefly if Tun was wrong about the ceasing to exist thing too, as well as noble humans.

Tun stretched out his arms and shook himself, his night-black robes rippling on the still Limbo air. ‘I'll leave you to research possible ways to redeem yourself, hmmm? If such a thing can be done for one who has sunk so low.' There was an edge to his voice, a little stab. Revenge for Grimshaw's question, perhaps.

‘OK,' said Grimshaw humbly, hoping he hadn't annoyed Tun too much. He needed his friends.

‘I'll watch you through the Acts and Facts,' said Tun, sounding more like his usual self. ‘I can catch up with you later, when you have your chronometer back, and maybe we can put our heads together.'

‘Thank you,' said Grimshaw, but Tun had already disappeared.

In Real Space, Fish felt as if he had been on the run forever, even though he knew that it was only mid-morning, just under four hours since his near-death by space junk and since his mother had been taken to hospital. He had slept a little in the car the night before, but it had been
edgy sleep full of anxious dreams, so now he was feeling tired to his core. The memory of the demon's words and of its horrible, cruel eyes kept on coming back to him, making him feel cold and frightened inside and lonelier than he had ever been in his life.

He had long since left the town behind and was following the dark strip of the road as it headed north, bordered by fields, hills and woods. He struggled through hedges and barbed wire as cars whined past, sounding like giant wasps. Fish was ready to bet that none of the drivers, and hardly any of the passengers, even saw him. And if they did, what was he to them but a scrawny boy-shape trundling across the scenery?

And if anyone did stop to offer help, he had no story to give them that would make sense and there was nothing they could do for him, save to take him all the way to Crow's Cottage and leave him there, with no questions asked. And what person would do that?

When he ran out of breath or got a stitch in his side, he slowed down to a brisk walk, but mostly he kept at a steady jog, looking only ahead. By now he was hollow with hunger and dry with thirst. He still had a few pence left and he began keeping an eye open for a place to stop. Somewhere he would be able to use the bathroom, get something to eat, and rest for a while without anyone paying any attention – although he wouldn't stay for long in case the curse demon caught up with him. It was an age before he saw the large sign up ahead with its knife-and-fork symbol announcing
a place to eat, and even longer before he finally got there.

He began with the bathroom, then headed for the restaurant. The smells grabbed his attention as soon as he got in the door. It was only just gone ten and they were still serving late breakfast. Metal trays of sausage, bacon, mushrooms, eggs and beans stood waiting to be piled on plates by hungry travellers. The place rang with the clatter of serving spoons, the chink of plates and the busy hum of voices. From no people at all, suddenly Fish's world was full of them.

He looked around anxiously, assessing the life. There was a man on the other side of the room crawling with so many dirt demons that he must have smelt really bad. Funnily enough, the tables on either side of him were empty. Elsewhere, a thin man in a suit had bright red wasps darting around his head. Fish always stayed away from people like that, people ruled by their violence or anger.

A middle-aged couple to the left of Fish shared a misery-snake so strong that it had twisted itself into a complex knot around the pair of them. It had two heads and two bodies and would become two snakes when the couple weren't together, but for now it was one, locking them firmly into whatever hell their relationship had become.

Fish shuddered and looked away. Apart from that, the diner was full of normal, everyday people who washed, were reasonably OK with their lives, kept more
or less healthy and weren't guilty of anything too horrible. One or two of the children shone the way only the really innocent could.

He dug out his money and gazed at it ruefully. Then he turned his back on the hubbub and went to the newsagent instead. Keeping an eye on the prices he picked up a chocolate bar, because he had read somewhere that chocolate was good energy food, and a small carton of apple juice and took them to the till.

Where he froze.

The man behind the counter looked at Fish with eyes like chips of ice and smiled. Around his head dark lights flickered like splashes of night on the air, small black stars that sucked in light instead of giving it out.

‘You buying that, son?'

Fish nodded and put the chocolate and the carton on the counter. He could feel the blood draining from his face. Still smiling, the man rang the items up on the till.

Fish ignored the dark sparks and kept his eyes on the man. The sparks were frightening, but it was the man, their Architect, who was dangerous. Those anti-lights flickering around his head were a sign of the bad things he had done and that were now part of his soul. They told Fish that here was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain, wielding power over the helpless. Because dark sparks were made by cruelty.

Fish dropped his money on the counter without waiting to be asked.

The man scooped it up.

‘Quiet, aren't you? The silent type, eh?'

To Fish, the sparks looked like holes into some other place, a lightless universe in which there were things that could look out and
watch
. He held out his hand for the bag with his purchases in it. The man didn't hand it over. Instead, his eyes lingered on Fish's face. Inside the sparks, things began to stir.

‘On your own, are you?' The man leaned forward over the counter and lowered his voice. His face showed only concern. ‘Come a long way too, by the look of you.'

Fish went on holding out his hand, his eyes fogged with strands of fear, real fear, that he was weaving around himself in a net of shadows. No one else would be able to see it, but Fish could and, because he could, he understood that if anything trapped him, it would be his own fear. So he took a deep breath and a step back. If necessary he would leave without his purchases.

‘Look, son, you're worn out, I can tell. Why don't you come round the back here and sit quiet for a few minutes. If you're on your way somewhere, maybe I can help. Give you a lift or something. Won't ask you any questions. Just a helping hand and something to eat and drink, eh?'

The man smiled again. It was a reassuring smile that spoke of understanding and help. Fish didn't need to wonder how the man had worked out that the boy in front of him was a runaway. The things watching from that dark universe were waking up, and although the man didn't know they were there, he was still listening
to their whispers in his brain. The feel of their presence made Fish weak with fright.

‘No need to worry, son. I'm not gonna ring the police or anything. I know a boy in trouble when I see one …'

There was a sound at the entrance to the shop and the man's eyes darted up once and then down to Fish again. A woman in a blue dress had come in, bringing with her an air of sunlight and life. She went straight to the newspapers ranged on the shelves beside Fish. Her presence was enough to spark him into action.

‘Can I have my things, please?' said Fish as loudly as he could. He was trembling, but tried not to show it. The woman raised her head and glanced over.