The Devil Delivered and Other Tales (23 page)

Both men ran forward.

Ten minutes later, Brandon, his face blotched red and hair dotted with stuffing, sat swiveling on an easy chair, watching as his guest took her seat opposite him. He smiled. “I understand, Lucy, you will be gracing this moment with a reading, selected from your most recent collection of poetry.” He smiled at the camera. “This collection, entitled
Mommy Mommy Mommy,
a collection of poems for and about mommies, is now available at choice outlets. Ladies and gentlemen, Lucy Mort will now read from her new work.”

Lucy—who to Max looked smaller than the last time he’d seen her, which, he recalled, was that dreadful night at Culture Quo—glanced up at the camera lens, offered a tight, shaky smile, then bent her gaze to the page on her lap. She took a deep breath, then, her voice thin and vibrating, she read,

Mum, mum mum-mum

jam in the cupboard, yum

Saturday mornings in the sun

cream and flatbread under thumb

and this is why, mum-yum,

I dreamed of locking you

in there—the cupboard.

She rattled the page, then sat back and smiled over at Brandon, who nodded with an expression of thoughtful appreciation. “Excellent, Lucy, well done. I understand that the collection has been reviewed extensively in the past month or so, since the book was launched.”

Scott scrambled at the manual focus, and Max blinked uncertainly as, for the briefest of moments, it seemed that, upon receipt of Brandon’s words, Lucy Mort’s head shrank, ever so slightly.

“Well,” she snapped. “What do they know? Critics are scum of the earth. They said the essays read like a thesis! Can you imagine that? The selection committee loved it! They hate women, even the women critics, they hate women, it’s as plain as that. All my friends loved it—some even paid for their own copy! I don’t have to take this, I’m not here to be criticized. No one has the right to criticize my work—it’s poetry! It’s personal! I’m very hurt!”

“Dear Lucy,” Brandon soothed, leaning close. “Lucy dear, dear Lucy, you well know my opinions on those critics who see nothing but negativity in everything they review. As you recall, my own review of
Mommy Mommy Mommy
was effusive in its praise—as I always am, no matter what you write.”

“No matter what I write? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott snatched at the manual focus again, and to Max, Lucy’s shoulders seemed huge below the poet’s head.

“Only, Lucy dear, that whatever you write is simply brilliant, as far as I’m concerned, and,” he added with a smile to the camera, “who is this city’s premier guru of the art scene? Upon whom does this entire city depend for their wise, cultured opinions on art and culture? I need not answer that immodestly, need I?”

“Of course you’re right,” Lucy said, sighing. “Thank you. I love you, Brandon. We all love you. We love you even more than we do your more famous brother, Brendan—it’s true, for all of us—”

Scott whimpered as he readjusted the focus on Brandon’s head, which had just gotten larger and was turning bright red, the old red blotches turning white at the same time. Brandon leaned dangerously close to Lucy, who shrank back in alarm. “My brother?” he rasped. “My brother? How dare you mention his name to me—”

“Hey!” Scott shouted. “I thought you were your brother! Oh! Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Shut up!” Brandon roared, surging to his feet.

“Cut!” Penny screamed. “Cut! Cut! Cut!” She rushed forward to soothe her husband, whose veins were pulsing madly on his thick neck and against his temples. “We’ll do an edit job! We’ll edit it right! Everyone calm down!”

Lucy was crying. “I’m sorry, Brandon! I’m so sorry!”

Max saw his moment, and stepped forward. “Excuse me, Mr. Safeword,” he said quietly, drawing everyone’s attention. Into the dangerous silence, Max said, “I’ve heard of you, of course. But I didn’t know you had a brother. Brendan, is it? I’ve never heard of him. Is he someone important? You know, I think I’d have heard of him if he was someone important, don’t you think?”

Brandon stared at Max for a long, tense moment; then his broad smile split his robust features. “You must be the new boy! Welcome aboard!”

5.

homo vegetabilis

Sool Koobie tracked the tweed-clad professor from Culture Quo, staying always a half-dozen silent steps behind the man as he wandered the dark, ill-lit streets of the city’s core. Don Palmister paused every few moments, his neck straining as he looked up at one dilapidated building after another. He mumbled under his breath and occasionally pulled out a small notepad and jotted down details, then resumed his peregrination.

This time, Sool Koobie knew, this one wouldn’t get away from him. The last time had been a real mess. He’d thought his target to be a girl, and after piercing its belly and dragging the flopping body away from the rest of the small herd, he’d begun the task of dressing down the carcass in a dark alley. Although the victim was still alive, twitching and moaning, Sool immediately set his chert knife to its chest. Upon cutting away the select morsels that were the breasts, Sool found in his hands two blood-smeared bags of liquid. At that moment the victim screamed and rolled to its feet. Sool was a moment too late in pursuing, as the creature emerged onto the street and nearly ran into a passing car, which screeched to a halt, and the hunt was up for Sool Koobie.

Tonight, driven by hunger, Sool chose not to wait in ambush, but to stalk his quarry, and tonight, he’d make sure of things.

A wind was blowing, whining along the alleys and streets. Restaurants were closing up as the hour was late, and Don Palmister was alone, unmindful, and as far as Sool could discern, unarmed. The smell of various vegetables emanating from the man left an olfactory trail that made Sool’s mouth water. He closed a step behind the man.

He’d made the proper propitiations, and the stars were kind in their glittering alignment overhead, the spirits at peace, the Mother casting down a benign eye on the natural process of things, to which Sool was intricately attuned. He’d danced the cycle of life and death, and a soothing calm had come over him, making him a part of all things, and each thing, and the thing to come.

As the quarry paused at the mouth of an alley and pulled out its notepad and pen, Sool Koobie leapt forward. The Neanderthal caught the professor entirely unawares, driving his spear into the man’s back hard enough to plunge its stone tip out through the chest. The professor grunted softly, then sagged, his notepad and pen falling to the pavement. Sool paused over the body and crowed silently at the night sky; then he grabbed the body’s ankles and quickly pulled it into the alley. A moment later he had the deadweight on one shoulder. Spear in hand, Sool Koobie jogged through the darkness. He would dress the kill far away—out beyond the city’s edges, where grass and trees and abandoned buildings would provide him certain privacy.

In Sool Koobie’s chest, his heart danced happily. He felt noble in his savagery, right down to the grime-rimmed curved nails on his wide, crooked toes.

6.

the late-night hate session

Minister of Art and Culture Paul Silverthump stood at the window of his office, looking down, with hands clasped behind him, at the city below. “No,” he said, “even lower than scum. Less than bacteria, more insidious than viruses, smellier than the crap stuck on my underwear after a minutes briefing. And what’s worse, there’s more and more of them, every day there’s more. They should all be shot, crushed underfoot, ground into the grit and dust of their miserable hovels. I’m a believer in survival of the fittest, Andy, you know that. Me and my kind, we know what it’s all about. I’m petitioning in my neighborhood for a high wall, Andy, the highest in the city. And private security guards. We’ll keep them out, remove them from our sight, destroy them with our contempt and ministerial indifference. We’re getting fewer, that’s the problem, the imbalance is getting problematic, no doubt about it. We need to start systematically culling numbers: make a list, Andy. There’s measures to continue: starvation, though that’s slow; institutionally encouraged suicide through bureaucratic immobility—that’s the other ministry’s sphere of activity, of course, and let’s face it, our SS boys and girls are doing a damned fine job, especially having added indirect support of substance abuse, malnutrition, bad education, and media-backed indifference. It’s good, Andy, what they’re doing is good work. We need to learn from them, we need to emulate their methods.” He paused. A pigeon slammed against the windowpane in front of him, but Paul didn’t even flinch. “Look at them down there—not that I can actually see them—who’d want to. The commonry. People. Suffering, miserable, deprived, poor, disadvantaged, disenfranchised, ineffectual people. The citizens—God, I hate them.”

He went on, but tonight Andy “Kit” Breech’s mind was on other things. He’d lost another non-staring contest with Kit earlier that evening, after Lucy had left and he’d changed the sheets. Kit’s refusal to meet his gaze was all the proof Andy needed to confirm that something serious was going on, and that, added to what he’d discovered in the dresser drawer in his bedroom, was more than enough to leave Andy … scared. That’s what I am. Damned scared. Someone rummaged through my box of condoms, someone leaving slime in his wake. Who could that be, I wonder? And it’s a big box, five thousand condoms, each slick with slime, as if Kit had been … counting them. Why count them? What’s he up to? What is it about my condoms? What do I do now? Where do I go from here? Take a memo. ASAP. My God, we’re in trouble aren’t we. Research the problem, pronto. I want contingency plans, I want scenarios, and I want them yesterday, dammit. Go to the library, go to the university, go to the fisheries branch, pet shops, diving enthusiasts, ministers, teachers, nuns—I don’t care who, but find for me the answers I need. What’s he thinking? What’s he planning? What’s he keep looking at out the balcony window? What’s in that closet? How did he pick all those new locks? And why was he examining, one by one, five thousand condoms? I need to know these things, before it’s too late, before I lose my mind. ASAP, hop to it, pronto …

“There’s no hell more frightening than the world down there,” Paul Silverthump was saying. “Normal people, my God, the sheer filth of their existence makes me want to throw up my veal cordon bleu, hah, that’ll give those damn pigeons something to munch on. Have you instructed the exterminator, Andy?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, Paul. He says it’s highly unlikely you are being individually pursued by the city’s pigeons—”

“I don’t care what the bastard says. I know what I know, Andy. They’re after me. I can’t step outside anymore. They kamikaze my windows, here and at home. In the car, in restaurants, in bars, in meetings. They chase me around, Andy. I want the city’s pigeons dead, all of them, and I want it done now, this instant.”

“Of course, Paul. I’ll make another call.”

“Malathion,” Paul said. “We’ll call it anticipatory spraying for mosquitoes. But I want pigeon-lethal concentrations—”

“Might prove human-lethal, Paul—”

“I don’t give a shit. Let them all drop like flies. We’re better off without all of them. Give us important figures gas masks or something, or open up those nuclear shelters down below—we can wait it out, no problem, and hey, only the fittest of the fittest will emerge from those shelters come the dawn. You and me, Andy, we’ll be on top, and that’s how it should be.”

“On top of what, sir?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Andy. I know your soul. You sold it to me years ago. I know your contempt, that icy chunk of nadir you call a heart, pumping to the blood let by others, so shove the smarmy remarks, Andy. One snap of my fingers and you’ll be pigeon feed—before they all kick off, of course.”

Andy smiled blandly at the minister. Asshole, that’s what you think. I’ve outlived every minister in this fucking office, and I’ll outlive you and your minuscule career, Paul. Count on it. You stumble, like all your kind, but I slide. You’ve got your tricks, your evasions, your denials, your bald-faced braving it out with lawyers point, flank, and taking up the rear. If you’re still clean, Paul, it’s because I’ve kept you that way. And I’ve got the secret files to prove it, so don’t fuck with me, Paul. Never fuck with me. Who the hell do you think trained all those pigeons?

“Get outa here,” Paul growled, turning back to the window. “Call that exterminator, set up the malathion program—”

“Could be difficult, Paul.”

“Why?”

“Well, why would the Ministry of Art and Culture issue a bug-spraying directive?”

“Find me an answer, Andy. That’s your job. Now, stop wasting my fucking time.”

Andy kept his smile as he rose to his feet. “I’m on it. Good night, Paul. Oh, by the way, the ’copter and limo and bodyguards have been arranged for the Awards Night.”

“Good,” Paul grunted. “Make sure those guards are armed to the teeth, Andy. Someone might want to … touch me.”

Just the pigeons, Paul. “See you tomorrow, then.” He headed out, leaving the minister alone with his rabid thoughts.

Not that he’s exceptional in his beliefs. Just look at the bloody premier. But you’re all making a mistake, fellas. That mob out there is getting all too hungry, all too pissed off with every fucking one of you. When they move, it’ll be to take off your heads and stick ’em on spears. And that’ll leave people like me, in the know, capable, sympathetic and righteous, victims of policy just like everyone else. We’ll put things in order, and the beast’s ugly head will subside once again into its comatose, vegetative state, and you and your cronies, Paul, will be fertilizer.

I could give Kit away. To the zoo or something. But I have to act quickly. Before he makes his move, whatever that is. ASAP. Pronto. Take a memo.

THREE

The Fruitful Church of Disobedience

1.

Thursday’s Lounge

Seeking comfort, and more than a little concerned about his burgeoning appearance, Arthur Revell sought the companionship of his few friends, who would at this time of night be found in the establishment called Chesterton’s, in the lounge next to the restaurant, known as Thursday’s.