Paint Your Dragon (14 page)

Five demons nodded. Whoever this jerk was, he surely knew the score. Probably, they found themselves speculating, it's pretty much the same Upstairs.

George's grin widened, as though someone were driving wedges into the corners of his mouth. ‘But,' he went on, ‘suppose that when you got back, you had with you a prisoner. Someone who should've been down your way yonks ago. Let's say, a member of staff of your department who went AWOL a long time ago and never reported for duty. Be a bit different then, wouldn't it?'

The demons agreed that it would. Very much so.

‘Fine,' George said. ‘In that case, I think I can help you. Listen up.'

 

‘How?'

The dragon shrugged. ‘There,' he said, ‘you have me. Yuk!' he added, pulling a face. ‘There's something in this.'

Bianca nodded. ‘Lead,' she said. ‘They put it in to make engines go better.'

Scowling, the dragon wiped his mouth on his sleeve, put the cap back on the jerrycan and spat.‘ Disgusting,' he said. ‘Like putting chicory in coffee, or menthol cigarettes. Oh well, never mind. Now then, finding George. I've got to admit, I haven't exactly got what you might call a plan of campaign. You see, I was relying on him coming to find me.'

‘You think that's likely?'

From the bandstand, a few hundred grassy yards away, came the sound of professional soldiers playing selections from
The Pirates of Penzance.
Children scampered to and fro, trying to cut each others' limbs off with plastic swords. Wasps crooned. In the tree overhead, a squirrel was debating the merits of competing instant-access deposit accounts.

‘I thought it was likely. Now I'm not so sure. World's a lot bigger since our day. More people. More buildings. And in the meanwhile, I've got to stay hidden and inconspicuous. Rubbish your modern armaments may be, but I can't spend the rest of eternity swatting jet fighters. Sooner or later, they'll work out a way of nailing me, and that'd be that.'

Bianca ate a crisp. ‘So you're thinking of packing it all in?' she asked.

‘Maybe.' The dragon shrugged. ‘Or at the very least, make myself scarce for a while. That's why I tried to get a job. Didn't work out.'

There was a giggle from Bianca's end of the bench. ‘A job?' she said. ‘Really?'

‘Yes, really. I was a security guard.'

‘And it didn't suit?'

The dragon shook his head. ‘And before you start suggesting alternatives,' he went on, ‘high on the list of jobs I'm not prepared to consider are such things as self-propelled welding plant, mobile Tandoori oven, late-night hamburger chef or industrial paint stripper. So if that's what you were thinking—'

‘Perish the thought.'

‘Nor,' continued the dragon ominously, ‘would I welcome remarks containing the phrases
bright spark, set the Thames on fire, stepping on the gas or hey, mister, you got a light?
Understood?'

‘Quite. But what are you going to do?' Bianca looked at him. ‘I mean, sprawling on park benches under a newspaper with a can of four-star wrapped in brown paper's not going to get you very far, is it?'

‘Actually, I quite like meths.'

‘Hmm. No,' Bianca went on, standing up and brushing away crumbs, ‘this won't do at all. For one thing, what about my statue?'

The dragon looked at her severely. ‘Oh come on,' he said. ‘It's traditional. Gentlemen always owe their tailors. Anyway, you should be proud. It's not every chiseller whose stuffs good enough to live in.'

‘Be that as it may. I've got a contract and deadlines. It's bad enough that I've got to do Saint George all over again.'

‘You're kidding. You seriously expect me to spend the rest of my life sitting still in a public square just to save you a bit of extra work?'

Bianca nodded. ‘Least you can do,' she replied firmly. ‘After all, if it wasn't for me, presumably you'd still be wandering about the astral void, or whatever it was you used to do.'

The dragon took a long swig of petrol and burped. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘it wasn't like that at all. I can't remember it all that clearly, because as soon as you cross back into this lot it sort of slips out through the cat-flap of your mind. But I think quite a fair proportion of it was sitting in bars.'

‘Figures.'

A frown pinched the dragon's face. ‘In fact,' he went on, ‘it wasn't bad at all, from what little I can remember. Don't know why I came back to be perfectly honest; job left undone, sense of purpose, something like that. A dripping tap in the bathroom of eternity.'

‘Hmm.'

The dragon stood up. On the one hand, he neither liked nor disliked individual humans, in the same way that humans don't have favourites among blades of grass. On the other hand, this was the longest sustained conversation he'd ever had with one and he was beginning to wonder if, given time, you couldn't get used to them. And if you did, would it matter that you'd spent many happy hours in the long-ago reducing them to more or less pure carbon? It hadn't mattered then, but circumstances change.

‘Tell you what I'll do,' he said. ‘I'll be your statue until you have to deliver and you get paid. In the meantime, I'll stick with this ridiculous outfit—' He indicated his human body, with a gesture pirated from an Archduke's chauffeur condescending to have a go on the dodgems. ‘And you help me to find George. It'll be much easier for you, what with you being a human and all. What do you say?'

Bianca considered. ‘It sounds fair enough,' she replied. ‘Except, I've got to do a new Saint George. That's going to take time.'

The dragon picked up a chunk of sandwich crust and lobbed it to a passing squirrel. ‘Depends,' he replied. ‘Maybe I can help you there. Got any sheet iron?'

 

‘Well?'

‘Looking good,' the dragon replied. ‘Much quicker this way, isn't it?'

Bianca nodded. She was exhausted and drenched in sweat. The temperature inside the derelict foundry was murderous.

‘Just the sword to do,' she croaked, ‘and that's it.'

They made the sword; that is, Bianca sketched it in chalk on the wall and then took cover. The dragon, back in his true form, then snipped a length off the steel sheet, breathed on it until it was cherry-red and moulded it carefully between his paws, like a child with plasticine. When she was happy with the result, he dunked it in the water tank.

‘Anything else you want doing while I'm at it?' he asked. ‘Designer tableware? Couple of cell doors? New offside front wing for your car?'

‘No, thank you. Can we go now, please? It's rather stuffy in here.'

With a shrug, the dragon scooped an armful of finished metalwork out of the water tank, knelt down so that Bianca could perch on his shoulder, and took off, vertically, out through where the foundry roof used to be before a catastrophic fire finished off that huge, preservation-order-bound, highly insured edifice. Two minutes later, they were back in Victoria Square. If anybody noticed their arrival, they didn't say anything.

‘Fine,' Bianca said, stepping off and doing her best to conceal her total joy at being back on the ground. ‘All right, let's see what it looks like.'

The dragon dumped the metalwork and struck a pose. ‘Well?'

‘You look ridiculous. Try again.'

‘Better?'

‘No.'

‘Oh. All right, what about this?'

Bianca narrowed her eyes. ‘The left front knee a bit further in. And let's have a bit more wing. Yes, that's it, hold it right there. That's—'

‘Yes, I like it,' murmured the dragon, human once more and standing beside her. ‘Apart from looking like a tinned food advert, it's not too bad.'

Bianca ignored him. It was ... different. And good.

It was no longer
Saint George and the Dragon.
It was now
The Dragon Eating Saint George.
To be precise, the dragon, having noshed the juicy bits, was now crunching up the armour in the hope of getting out the last few shreds, like you do with a crab or a lobster (except that you have better table manners). Hence, Bianca realised with a slight shudder, the reference to tins. Never mind.

‘That,' said the dragon cheerfully, ‘is making me feel distinctly peckish. Fancy a curry?'

 

Night lay on Birmingham like a lead duvet. A few revellers stumbled through the darkling streets, beer-fuddled, in search of an all-night kebab van. Here and there a doorway or low arch concealed the occasional mugger, rapist or lawyer. Apart from that, the mighty city dozed fitfully.

Birmingham, however, sleeps with the light on. You can read a book by the streetlamps in the city centre, although the chances are that you won't get further than chapter three before someone hits you over the head and steals it. In any event, it's bright enough to make out, say, a small procession consisting of a saint, a priest and five demons, staggering slightly under the weight of three packing cases of plastic explosive, electronic timing devices, blast shields and a drinks trolley.

‘Careful,' George hissed, as Chardonay caught his foot in a pothole and tottered. ‘You fall over with that lot, there'd be nothing left but a huge hole in the ground and a pile of rubble. Mind you,' he added, looking round, ‘in this town I don't suppose anyone'd notice.'

‘Sorry,' Chardonay replied. ‘Look, is it much further, because my back—'

Before he could finish the sentence, the crate was snatched from his hands by Snorkfrod, who gave him a dazzling smile and then let George have her opinion of thoughtless pigs who make delicate, sensitive fiends from Hell carry heavy loads. Bloody Shopfloor fire, muttered Chardonay to himself, she's carrying two of those enormous cases under one arm. Tough lady. He shuddered.

‘Shut your row,'- George replied. ‘Look, it's only just round the next corner.'

‘You said that an hour ago,' Slitgrind grumbled, shifting his load onto his shoulder with his middle hand. ‘Couple of hundred yards, you said, and—'

George stopped dead and put a tennis-racket-sized hand round the demon's throat. ‘You calling me a liar, son?'

‘Yes.'

‘Huh?'

Slitgrind nodded, insofar as George's hand permitted. ‘Yes,' he repeated. ‘Just telling the truth. Like my old mum used to say, tell the truth and shame the ... whatever. Always used to wonder whose ruddy side she was on.'

‘Oh look,' said Father Kelly. ‘I think we're here now.'

George let Slitgrind go. ‘Right, lads,' he said. ‘Now, you two start packing the jelly round the - fuck me!'

He was staring at the statue. Quite suddenly, he wasn't feeling very well. Imagine how a turkey would feel, switching on the telly in mid December and catching the Delia Smith programme.

Prodsnap nudged him in the back. ‘That's it, is it?'

George nodded. ‘Bastard,' he added. ‘I take that
personally.
'

‘And,' Prodsnap went on, ‘there's a fair old chance that at any minute that huge great statue could, um, wake up. Yes?'

‘Yeah.'

Prodsnap studied the dragon for a while. ‘I don't think he likes you very much,' he said, backing slowly away. ‘In fact, I get the feeling there's definitely a bit of the old needle there.'

‘Yeah. There's even more now.'

Prodsnap was now standing just behind George's back. ‘Looks to me,' he said, ‘like this is one of those private quarrels where outsiders butting in only makes things worse. Usually,' he added with a swallow, ‘for the outsiders. In fact, I have the feeling we'd all get on a lot better if we just put all this stuff down in a neat pile and went home.'

Fingers like roadside cafe sausages closed around his arm. ‘Not chickening out, are you?' George breathed quietly. ‘What've you got to be afraid of, you cretin? You're immortal. Thumpable,' he added, ‘but definitely immortal.'

‘Yes,' Prodsnap said, ‘well. I've always found that the best way to be immortal is not getting yourself killed, like the best way to avoid divorce is not getting married. I think I'd like to go now, please.'

George snarled. ‘Stop whimpering, the lot of you,' he said, his voice more gravelly than a long, posh driveway. ‘Anybody gives me any more lip, what's left of him's going to get reported to his CO for dereliction of duty. Understood?'

‘We'd better do what he says,' Chardonay said wretchedly. ‘After all, it's our duty. And our best chance of getting home.'

‘That's right,' said Snorkfrod. ‘You listen to Mr C, he's never wrong about these things.' Her knee, Chardonay realised with horror, was rubbing up and down the back of his leg. Scales like sandpaper.

‘All right,' Prodsnap grumbled, ‘you win. Just don't blame me, that's all.'

‘Excuse me.'

Saint George and four demons looked round, then down.

‘Excuse me,' said the small demon Holdall, ‘but don't you think a very loud bang and lots of bits of rock flying through the air's going to be a bit conspicuous? I thought we were meant to be keeping a low profile.'

Three streets away, a police car dopplered and faded. Someone began to sing
Heard It On The Grapevine,
but soon ran out of words. The stray sounds vanished into the night, like a wage cheque into a gambler's overdraft.

‘Shut up, you.'

‘Yes,' Holdall went on, ‘but surely there's a better way than just blowing the thing up. Safer, too.'

‘Safer?'