Authors: William Meikle
I was down the corridor and out the door so fast that I was out on the steps, drinking in sunlight, before I noticed I still had almost a full pint of beer in my hand.
"Hey son, are ye going to drink that?"
It was the old guy who'd bummed the cigarettes from me earlier. I gave him the beer. His old companions all started moving towards him, but he raised the glass and downed the remainder of the beer in two gulps, laughing like a maniac as he showed them the empty glass. I moved away in case he threw up, while the rest of the old men hurled enough abuse to turn the air blue.
I turned back to the concert hall doors. They were locked...from the outside...with a huge padlock. I stepped over and peered through the smoked glass. All was dark and quiet.
"There's been naebody in there for a fortnight," the old man said. "The Police had it closed down after a drug raid."
"You didn't see me coming out?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.
"Round about here, son, naebody ever sees anything."
Five minutes later I was in a bar just off Argyll Street. Although it was barely ten o'clock in the morning, there were already four middle-aged men downing whiskies with beer chasers as if today was the last day of their lives. And with the rate they were going, it just might be.
The incident in the ballroom was already taking on a dream-like quality in my memory, and I might even have written the whole thing off as a stress reaction to recent events...but when I put my hand in my pocket for my cigarettes, I found the CD case. Right where he had put it. My hands shook as I lit the cigarette, but if the barman noticed he was too polite to comment...men with bruised faces and shaky hands were not uncommon in the pubs round these parts.
I took my beer to a quiet corner. If I'd stayed at the bar I would have got chatting to the others there, would have started on the whisky, and woken up in a pile of waste somewhere three days hence. Much as I was tempted, both Doug and wee Jim Morton deserved more from me than that. Hell, John Mason deserved more from me than that...if there was a spark of humanity left in him, I had five grand of his mother's money to spend to find it.
As I drank I studied the CD case. Val Kerie and the Shieldmaidens didn't seem to be signed to any record label. The sleeve art was crude, hand drawn in a runic script. There were five songs in total: 'Midgard', 'The Death of Baldur', 'Loki's Testicles', 'The Sea Wives' Lament', and 'Ragnarock'. When I opened the case, I found nothing about the band members or producers, just five long stories; background to the songs. 'The Sea Wives' Lament' told the story of the sea wives in much the same structure as I'd heard it from John Mason, but, seeing as my mind loved anything of a scatological nature, I was drawn to the notes for the third song, 'Loki's Testicles.'
It was a long tale of how a fisherwife lost her husband. Blaming the gods, she called down a curse on them. Odin and Loki visited her, and pleaded with her to lift the spell. She replied that she would...if the gods could raise a laugh in her, for she had not laughed since her husband had died.
So Odin took out his glass eye, and pulled faces, then made the eye appear to look out of his ear, his mouth, and even his belly button. And through it all the fisherwife remained stony-faced.
Then it was Loki's turn. Taking off his belt he looped it once around the horns of one of the woman's goats. The other end he looped around his testicles. Then he roared, scaring the goat so much that it took off at speed, dragging Loki along behind it by his balls. Loki screamed in pain. The fisherwife laughed for a week.
The curse was lifted. The woman had learned to laugh again, Loki had learned something of the ways of the female mind, and Odin had learned how far Loki was prepared to go to get his own way. None of the three would forget the lessons they learned that day.
I actually laughed out loud. The pub went suddenly quiet, and the four men at the bar turned as one and stared at me. Any chance I might have had of joining them in the pursuit of oblivion was now gone. I was now officially 'the nutter in the corner'.
I put the CD away in my pocket, finished my beer quickly, and left.
* * *
I bought a paper at the tube station and read it on the way back to the office. It gave the official line, about the deranged junkie. There was an old picture of Wee Jim, and one of Jock McCall glowering, but my name wasn't mentioned. And although the front page had the official line, there was plenty of speculation inside.
"It was an alien. A f*****g alien. Like in the films" said Willie Sands (34) of Southside Place, Govan. "It came oot of the drain," said Joan Gilbert (63), of Whitelettes Flats, Govan. "A big snake. Ah damn near wet ma knickers." There was more, from the cryptozoologist who compared the situation to a Chupacabra scare in Brazil, from a self-styled
'Fortean Investigator'
who said it was obviously an ABC...an Alien Big Cat that was probably a discarded pet. A local Catholic Priest said it might be a visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary...I hoped it wasn't her...she wouldn't last long in Govan. A fundamentalist Christian preacher blamed demons called up by heathen foreign asylum seekers, and a social worker was pleading for understanding for the perpetrator, citing the 'almost Third World' housing conditions in the area.
The police were getting it in the neck from everybody. Even though members of the force were being hurt and killed the paper stopped short of calling for the army to be called in...but not far short, and it hinted that another 'night of terror on the street' would mean heads rolling in high places.
By the time I got back to the office I was surer than ever that I had only the one chance at catching John Mason...and even then, it was probably a slim one.
I was mulling that over as I climbed the stairs to the office, and I was so pre-occupied I didn't hear the voices until I was nearly at the top. But even when I heard them, they seemed to be talking gibberish.
"William McClay 1775 to 1836, Ceres, Fife," I heard Doug say.
"Margaret McClay nee Small 1780 to 1855, christened in Crail, Fife 1781. Married 1798, Anstruther," a woman answered.
"I wonder if they had a reception in the Creel," Doug said.
"Bannocks, faroch and bedding."
"Sounds like a fine name for a firm of solicitors," Doug replied, and they both giggled like schoolchildren.
I walked into the office, and they jumped apart. They looked guilty, as if I'd caught them at something illegal.
"You're feeling better, then?" I said to Doug.
He blushed. "Derek, this is Joanna Marsh," he said. "Our latest client."
I raised an eyebrow. "Doug, I have a client," I said.
"Yes. But I don't."
He got the raised eyebrow treatment again.
"Joanna wants us to trace her ancestry in Scotland. She's American..."
The woman interrupted him.
"A wealthy American," she said. "And Doug here is the first person I've found who seems to know how to find what I'm looking for. I'm willing to pay whatever it takes."
Doug was standing behind her, so she didn't see his puppy dog pleading impression.
"Well, loathe as I am to reinforce a stereotype," I said. "If you've got the money, I've got the inclination."
"As the altar-boy said to the bishop," she said, then her and Doug burst out laughing, while I looked on bemused.
I sat by my desk and picked up the pile of paper Doug had printed out for me. But I didn't read any of it...I was too busy watching Doug with his
client
. They looked like they had known each other for years...bickering like a cozy couple, cheering in unison as they uncovered another piece of her family jigsaw. If Doug didn't know it, it looked like he'd made a conquest. If so, it would be his first in a long time. After his divorce he'd thrown himself into work, and up until the Johnson Amulet Case he'd always been too engrossed in his studies. After that, he'd been too afraid to say boo to a goose never, mind a woman. Until now, that is.
I thought about baiting him, but just seeing him relaxed was such a rarity these days that I let him be. I'd have to remind him that clients usually paid us, though...it would be just like him to work for her 'as a wee favor'.
And with that thought, I promptly fell asleep.
* * *
I woke to find a typed note lying on the desk in front of me.
Derek,
I've tracked down Joanna's family to 15th Century St. Andrews. We're off there now, and will stay over. I've taken the car, but don't worry, Joanna's paying all expenses.
Remember to read the research. There's some 'Sons of Loki' stuff that might be pertinent. Speaking of which, Val Kerie and the Shieldmaidens? Where did you dig that up? You might be on to something, though...the Runic title in the card inset translates as 'The Trickster', another name for Loki.
Don't forget to take your mobile.
Doug
I swore for a solid minute before I even thought about calming down. Doug's car had been a big part of the plan that had been forming in my head...mainly because it had a CD player. Now I'd have to take the pile of junk that passed as my car. It only had a cassette deck, but worse than that, it was uninsured, untaxed, and I wasn't sure whether it would get out of the garage, never mind across the river to Govan.
Even a shower, a coffee and a cigarette didn't really calm me down. I walked the floor for a while, then dressed in the old suit again. I even put on the trench coat over the top...it had a specially sewn-in deep pocket where I could hide the gun bag. Pausing only long enough to pick up the gun, the CD and my cigarettes, I went to see how much damage a winter in the damp garage had done to the rust-bucket.
It was both worse and better than I feared. Worse in that the car refused to even think about starting, better in that I had an excuse to never use it again. I felt a bit happier as I closed the garage door on my way out.
That just left the problem of a CD player. I walked down to the electrical goods warehouse in Partick and bought a small square box that advertised 'radio-CD-cassette interoperability', whatever that might mean. But it took batteries and was 'truly portable with integral carrying facility', i.e. it had a handle. I also brought two sets of batteries. While I was standing in the queue to pay, surrounded by special offers for phones and free call time posters, I remembered I'd left the mobile behind in the office.
Outside, in the store car park, I started to unpack the player when a car went past, music blaring. And then it struck me... just because my car didn't have a CD player, didn't mean that
all
other cars were similarly digitally deprived.
Ten minutes later I was at a car rental office on Kelvin Road.
"What car would you like, sir?" the youth behind the counter asked. "We have a full range from a 600cc town runabout up to a four litre BMW tourer.
"One with a CD player," I said.
I saw him look at the box I'd placed on the counter, then look at me, then back at the box.
"It's looking for a partner," I said.
He was suddenly defensive.
"We charge 50 pounds a day minimum..." he said.
"I don't want to buy a car...just rent one," I said.
He didn't smile, so I didn't press it...renting cars to men with two black eyes and a CD fetish was probably all in a day's work for him. Five minutes later I drove out of the forecourt in a three-door Ford.
* * *
My first stop was back once more to the hospital. Big Jock McCall was sitting up in bed, and he didn't look too displeased to see me, which I took as a good sign.
"What's the damage?" I asked.
"Stomach muscles cut to buggery, and six months of skin grafts and operations," he said. "I feel like I've had a caesarian section. I'd just like to get a good hold of that...that...whatever it was."
"That's the reason I'm here," I said. "I'm after some information."
"You're going after it?"
I nodded.
"And you're not going to try to capture it...or any other soft shit like rehabilitating it?"
He spat the words. I guessed his superiors might find a way to use his illness to pension him off...his views didn't chime with current policing methods. Despite that, he hadn't lost his copper's instincts...he'd noticed I'd hesitated on the answer.
"You know more than you're letting on," he said.
I placated him by showing him the gun bag.
"Shotgun?" he asked.
I didn't answer, and he took it as assent.
"Blow its head off. And spit on the bloody stump," he said.
"I need to find it first." I said. "Old Lady Malcolm's flat will be swarming with your boys. I need to know where else I can go."
His eyes narrowed. "Do you know the engineering entrance to the Underground? Down at the far end of Cathcart Road?"
I nodded. I'd done a security check for the Underground management some years ago.
"There were three sightings of something strange down there, night before last. I'd start there...that's where we were heading last night, before we got the call to go to the auld lady's flat."
I thanked him, and turned to leave. He called me back.
"Adams...Derek," he said. "If you get it, I'll owe you another favor."
"You don't have any photos of your partner in her birthday suit, do you?"
He laughed, and was about to reply, when I noticed his gaze shift to over my shoulder. I knew who was there before she spoke.
"If that's all you're after, then I'm sure we can come to an arrangement," Betty Mulholland said. She looked me up and down, and smiled sadly.
"Spade or Marlowe," she asked.
"Definitely Marlowe," I replied. "He got a better class of woman."
She let that one go past her.
"What are you doing here?" she said.
"Just came in to check on your man here," I replied. An unspoken agreement passed between Jock McCall and myself...our previous conversation was just between us.
I left them together. She'd looked like she wanted to offer me breakfast again, but neither of us wanted to have that conversation in front of the injured man. As I said, he'd lost some muscles, but none of his instincts.
Once out of the hospital I headed towards Govan. It was still only just after seven o'clock. Too early for any action yet...or so I hoped. I parked in the High Street and went looking for food. I was almost tempted by a couple of bars, but even I wasn't stupid enough for that.
I settled for a fast food outlet that advertised 'the best fried chicken in Scotland'. It lied. By the time I walked back to the car it felt like I had a brick perched inside my stomach. I had a take-away coffee with me, but I had no hope of it dissolving any of my meal.
I sat in the car for a while, listening to the news and trying to figure out how to get the batteries into the CD player. There was no new information on what they were calling 'The South Side Monster', and the police were still getting it in the neck, apart from Jock McCall, who seemed to be getting lauded as a 'have a go' hero who'd been injured trying to save wee Jim's life. Again, my part of it wasn't mentioned. Part of me wanted the limelight, but mostly I was glad to keep living in the shadows...life was generally more interesting that way.
The dashboard clock told me it was still too early to head for the Engineering depot, and I couldn't be bothered trying to figure out how to work the multitude of options I needed to pick to change the radio station. I took the CD out of my pocket, opened the case...and three folded sheets of paper fell in my lap. On the back, Doug had written in big letters.
"I know you won't have read the research. Here's a summary."
I smiled. He knew me too well.
I slipped the CD into the car's player. Val Kerie started chanting softly over a background of battle rhythms on drum and bass as I started to read.
"You know that Loki was one of the Norse Gods," he had written. "He was a son of Odin, like Thor, but where Thor was the big strong hero type, Loki was more of a quick-witted practical joker, with a malicious streak. He got up to all kinds of mischief, and for a while Odin tolerated him, as he provided great amusement. But Loki wasn't just malicious. He wanted power. To that end, as I told you earlier, he slept with a giantess, and their union produced three offspring, a hag, a huge serpent, and a large wolf.
"When Odin heard of this he feared the power in these 'children', for he had seen a future where the children of Loki would bring about the end of all things. With the help of the other gods, he imprisoned the offspring.
"The hag he sent to rule Hel, the Norse underworld. The serpent he sent to the depths of the ocean, where it grew so large it encircles the entire world. The wolf is chained and bound to two huge rocks, where it howls at a moon that it is one day destined to devour. So your 'Sons of Loki' could be followers of the wolf, or the serpent...or even both."
I put the papers down long enough to light a cigarette, and smoked.
"Useful as usual, Doug," I said to myself.
Val Kyrie segwayed seamlessly into track two...a riotous thrash of screeching voice and guitar that I had to turn down before the car shook apart. I moved onto Doug's next page.
"After that Loki started getting into more and more trouble, leading up to the tricking of the fisherfolk and the creation of the sea-wives. He was greatly chastised by Odin for that one. After that he seemed to settle down for a while. He even got married, and had two male children by his wife Sigyn, called Vali and Narvi. And things went well, for a while, but Loki couldn't contain his malice or his jealousy for long. And those two flaws, in turn, led him to cause the death of Baldur, the best and brightest of Asgard. (I'm sure you know this story, so I won't repeat it).
"After that, many of the gods were just looking for an excuse to teach Loki a lesson. They got their chance, when Loki got drunk, and started abusing all and sundry. The gods chased him out of Asgard. Using his shape-changing abilities he went to ground, but Thor finally tracked him down in a cave by a riverside. Loki turned himself into a salmon, and tried to leap away, but Thor caught him. (By the tail, splitting it in two, which, incidentally, is how the salmon's tail got forked).
"They took Loki back into the dank cave where they found his wife and sons hiding. One of the sons, Vali, became terrified and, overcome with terror and rage, turned into a wolf. His brother Narvi tried to calm the wolf...and was ripped apart for his pains by his brother, whose rage was so great that even the great Thor stood aside and let it escape from the cave.
"The gods bound Loki, using his son's entrails as rope, and, again, using entrails, lashed him to three long slabs of rock. And as soon as the gods stood back, the bloody guts of Narvi became as hard as iron, binding the trickster in place.
"And Loki cursed them, promising Ragnarok, the end of gods, if he should ever get free. But the gods were deaf to his curses. One of them brought a venomous snake, and by magic bound it to the roof high above Loki, so that its venom dripped for eternity into his face. And Loki could do nothing, could neither move left nor right. And there the gods left him. But his wife stayed.
"It is said that she holds a bowl over his face, catching the venom before it gets into her beloved's eyes. But sometimes the bowl needs to be emptied. Sigyn has to carry the bowl away to a nearby pool, and Loki is left unguarded...only for the space of a single drop. But when that drop hits his face, Loki screams and writhes in torment. And at that moment somewhere in the world, Vali, his lost son, howls in sympathy, and the earth trembles.
"So, to sum up, your 'Sons of Loki' could also be claiming descent from Vali, lost son of the bound god. (There's lots of obvious similarities between Loki and the bound Satan awaiting Armageddon, but I'm sure you spotted that)."
I put the papers down and snorted again. I
'm sure you spotted that.
That was one of Doug's methods for diverting attention away from the fact that he was the brightest person I'd ever met. It was designed to make me think that he thought I was smart. It didn't work. I was still in awe of his capacity to soak up information.
On the CD the thrashing stopped abruptly, and there was the sound of a goat braying. 'Loki's Testicles', I guessed. Maybe Doug didn't know that one...it might be worth a try, and might even win me a pint. As Val started to sing a jaunty, almost folksy, air, I turned to Doug's third, and last, sheet of paper.
"There's one more possibility that I turned up just before the lovely Joanna came in. I found one reference in a Masonic pamphlet of the 18th century to a group called the 'Sons of Loki'. They were a society of fishermen, and where Masons celebrated the history of builders, the Sons celebrated the origins of the fisherman, praising Loki...supposedly because he is seen in antiquity as the inventor of the fishing net. The pamphlet traced their origins to Orkney, to the time of the building of St. Magnus's cathedral. The local fishermen saw how strong the Guild of Masons were, and copied their structure and rituals in what the pamphlet called 'a debased form of the rituals of the great architect'. In the pamphlet, they say that the 'Sons of Loki' rituals have been practiced for a century, and that was in 1787. But you know what cults and new age groups are like. Maybe somebody has decided to revive the old ways. In which case I'd be ready for a mish-mash of hippiedom, paganism and sea-worship.
"The thing that worries me is what John Mason is becoming. There's bad juju involved, Derek. Take care. Doug."
At the bottom of the page he'd been doodling, some words inside think black circles. "The source = Loki Cave? Or St. Magnus? Or Fenris!"
* * *