Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (19 page)

Satisfaction is not always bound to answers, yet it is often found in the journey we take to ask the questions.

Enigmatisms

Zuri The Great

‘Don’t forget the bread,’ said Loopes into the drizzle.

‘Will you stop banging on about loaves?’ said Bronagh.

‘Look we don’t dock often, especially here at Kitchna’s Market, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget. That’s all.’

‘How could I forget when you keep bringing it up at every fart’s end?’

‘Yeah well, time up in the balloon can make a man mean, and you’re meaner than most, Bronagh, and you know it. I wouldn’t put it past you to deliberately forget just to wind me up, to give you some ammunition to fire at me when you are bored.’

‘Me?’ Bronagh placed his hand on his chest with a theatrically exaggerated indignation, ‘I’ve got all the ammunition in the world to fire at you, below decks, in our stores already, Loopes, and don’t worry, there’s a lengthy pike with your name on it.’ Loopes tried to interrupt, but Bronagh kept talking through a smirk, poking a finger at the space between them on his playful rant, ‘and before you ask: I don’t mean a fish.’

Loopes didn't get the joke.

'Now stop your yammering, maggot, and let me go get some bread. Who knows, if me and Beaugent are lucky, maybe we can find a loaf big enough to plug your yakking hole with.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It wasn’t a compliment.’

‘I know,’ Loopes said, then shaking his head annoyed with himself, took a step back towards the Orca.

‘Let’s go and collect our cargo and restock the hold. You go and keep watch and get ready for a quick take off, Loopes. I’m not sure what these Blackwings have got us involved in but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve baking a better crust.’

‘You’re not the Captain, you can’t order me,’ said Loopes.

‘No, but I can,’ growled Beaugent who had emerged from the balloon and was stuffing credits into his trousers, ‘now get back on deck and ready for launch, we're off to the Lowlands after this.’

‘Sir,’ said Loopes, who ran purposefully, with his head down, back into the dark belly of the large ship.

Bronagh and Beaugent looked at each other, shook their heads in unison and then set off towards the Edgelands market.

‘Ever think being hard on him like that is really fair? You know, with his parents gone and all?’

‘Not only fair, but essential, Bronagh. It denies him the chance to dwell on his cruel past and makes him get on with the present. Soon he’ll be able to face the future, one we all thought he would never have, and he’ll face it like a man.’

Bronagh, despite having lain awake for an hour last night listening to Loopes struggling to bury the sounds of his mournful sobs under his pillow, tried to believe that Beaugent was right.

They walked through the busy market, side by side, without speaking.

There were provisions, weapons, second-hand clothing, chemicals and prophylactics on offer; and that was just on the first stall. People jostled for position at the busier stalls and haggled noisily with vendors about the high prices of cooking oil or the low resale value of used bolts and cudgels. Kitchna’s Market was notorious for pickpockets and scam artists and Beaugent smiled as he watched two young boys run the usual ‘Distract and Tap’ manoeuvre on a fat man in a stubby hat and long tail coat. Bronagh’s hands were tightly wrapped around the stock of his snub-bow, a shorter, more portable bow that he kept secreted away in the lining of his aviation jacket. Beaugent walked along with his usual Captain’s swagger and Bronagh wondered if it was because or in spite of his nerves.

‘I hate this place. Too many unknowns and how’s your fathers,’ said Bronagh.

‘How’s your fathers? I haven’t heard that one since school.’

‘You know what I mean. I feel like I could have fly’s eyes and still miss something coming our way.’

Beaugent sighed. ‘I belong here. Kitchna’s is more about life and affirmation for me. You know, everything is in its right place. The foolish are being parted from their money, tourists will be leaving with a lot less than they arrived with and scoundrels…’ He nodded at the two young boys being dragged off by their scruffy collars by some burly man who was raspberry pink with anger, ‘…will meet their match.’

The creaks and gaseous floosh of a large balloon taking to the air made Beaugent and Bronagh spin around, startled, though they relaxed quickly when they had confirmed it was not the Orca.

‘You? Belong here? My foot,’ said Bronagh.

Beaugent shrugged, ‘I don’t know why, but there seems to be an edge to everyone today. It’s quieter than usual, both traders and mugs. It’s like a storm warning’s been issued and only the foolhardy have stepped out for provisions or ale.’

‘I know what you mean. We still don’t even know what we are picking up here or where we’ve got to drop it, Lowlands side. Makes me nervous,’ Bronagh said.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ said Beaugent, ‘and isn’t anything forcing us to take the job neither.’

Beaugent checked the credits were still in the sock-bag he had tied to the inside of his pocket. He removed a few credits and passed them to Bronagh, ‘We’ll get the bare essentials, find Marcus, get the cargo and go’.

‘Cargo and go.’

‘Cargo and go.’

*

Bronagh saw Marcus’ sign first, a purple flag emblazoned with a gold gilded ‘M’ that hung slightly limp in the rain. He was next to a tent where men were betting on an arm-wrestling game. The competitors could not be seen for the throng of men surrounding them jeering, waving credits in the air and vying for bets and refreshments.

‘There,’ he said pointing at a purple and gold tent.

Beaugent nodded, then leaned closer to Bronagh, ‘Keep ya snub handy and leave the talking to me.’

Bronagh nodded and they both walked over.

‘Marcus,’ said Beaugent.

Marcus looked around at the crowd, sifting passers-by until he saw Beaugent and Bronagh approaching.

‘Beaugent,’ said Marcus, ‘it’s been a while.’

They walked until they both stood facing Marcus, and Beaugent ignored Marcus’ outstretched hand.

‘What we carrying?’ said Beaugent.

‘Straight to the point as ever. As we discussed, Beaugent, that would...’

‘Fuck discussions. Tell me what it is, now, or you can piggy-back it down there yourself and we’ll be on our way.’

Beaugent caught sight of movement in the tent and then two very large men stepped out.

‘Problem?’ said the taller of the man mountains.

Marcus looked at Beaugent.

‘Yes,’ said Beaugent.

Bronagh tensed.

A big cheer went up from the adjacent tent as a competitor’s forearm smacked onto wood.

‘Either tell me what it is we are carrying, or we’ll be on our way and you’ll have the problem.’ Beaugent folded his arms. ‘So what’s it to be.’

Marcus gestured for them to go inside the tent with a faked casual wave.

Beaugent and Bronagh did not move a muscle.

‘Not out here, boys. OK?’ said Marcus.

Beaugent and Bronagh did not move.

‘You’ve asked the wrong question,’ Marcus whispered. Beaugent and Bronagh leaned slightly closer.

‘It’s not a “what”,’ said Marcus, ‘it’s a “who”.’

The two large men went back inside.

Bronagh shook his head almost indiscernibly, his eyes were wide and Beaugent noticed the muscles in his bow arm were bunched and shaking with tension. They followed them in, ‘Let’s get out of this depressing drizzle if nothing else. Eh Bronagh?’

*

‘Hello,’ said Leonora, ‘the Governor and I will be with you shortly.’

Beaugent, usually equanimous, looked disorientated. Bronagh’s eyes widened, he went to say something to Beaugent but the words lodged in his throat as if they were bricks bound in sandpaper.

Leonora smiled, used to the reaction, and withdrew to an inner chamber at the rear of the tent where low mutterings could be heard as bags were packed.

Marcus tried to hide his amusement, ‘You understand that now the nature of your ‘cargo’ has been revealed, you are obliged to accept the terms and conditions of service.’

‘I’m obliged to do shit.’

‘I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.’

‘Gravity, Marcus, is one of my areas of expertise. I understand exactly what’s happening here. And...’

‘Now you listen,’ said Leonora, emerging from the tent’s inner room, ‘I don’t care what kind of jumped up excuse for a Captain you are, or indeed what the weather is doing, you show some respect in your present company or you’ll be leaving here minus that tongue. Understand?’

Beaugent glared but said nothing.

Bronagh looked at the floor.

‘Now put your dicks away and let’s get on with packing.’ She picked up a small travel bag then gestured for her Security Chief, Cowlin, the tallest and quietest of the bodyguards to collect the rest of their things.

‘Marcus, thank you for brokering this trip. We’ll see you on the other side. You know how to contact us, should the need arise. Aahmeri will run things until we’re back.’

She turned to Bronagh. ‘You, take those.’

Bronagh looked at Beaugent who nodded. He then picked up two items of luggage and followed the bodyguard outside.

‘You’ll have to carry those.’ Leonora said to Beaugent pointing at two smaller holdalls, desperately trying to live up to their name.

‘As I have said, I don’t have to...’

‘They contain your credits,’ said Governor Rose, looking every inch like she was used to making an entrance.

‘Bring them or leave them, it’s up to you.’

She nodded, ‘Let’s go, Leonora, and see how fast they have to pedal to get this thing off the ground.’

They put up their hoods to conceal their identities and left the tent.

Beaugent was staring at the credits.

‘Problem?’ said the bodyguard.

He couldn’t hear Beaugent’s mumbled reply, but had a vague idea of its meaning.

He smiled as he watched him collect the bags and leave.

However smooth the surface, guilt will find a ledge.

Little Symphonies.

Baernard Getty.

I had no idea why I was standing outside her place. I had awoken late, ate an enormous breakfast at a greasy café that served awful food but a lot of it, washed down with a gallon of tea. I returned to my room, showered, careful not to disturb the setting scab on my head, changed clothes again and discarded my old ones in a side alley skip. I made a mental note to buy some more if I passed an outlet selling clothes.
 
I headed back to the interchange to check for signs of the taxi driver in the tunnel. There was no blood or evidence of a scuffle. Seemed like they may have let him go. Either way, don’t suppose I would ever know. Then, not really sure why I was heading there, I caught a taxi and found myself outside Pan’s apartment building. The front windows had been boarded up, but the building was already open for business. I could see another no-hope receptionist already installed, with massive dreads in his hair, and a stained vest visible beneath an ill-fitting blazer. I did not want to attract attention, but out of curiosity I checked in the alleyway up the side of the block and though most of the stained glass had been swept up, small square and triangular chunks winked daylight back at me as I peered into the relative darkness. One of the bin’s lids was squashed from breaking my fall. I craned my neck to see the wood filled hole that had been Pan's stained glass window I had fallen from. She was probably up there now cursing the lump on her jaw and her messy apartment.

I felt a pang of guilt and let it slip away. The stained glass reminding me that the night’s events, the betrayal, had happened. I knew she didn’t care about me.

Never did.

Anyway, she could handle herself.

I needed to concentrate on me.

I had been behaving like a Mudhead, not a former Slayer, and I needed to focus on unravelling the mess I was in and on working out who the puppets were and who was pulling the strings. I needed to check my flat, to see if the trip had been sprung. My head contained a dull roar of a headache that pulsed behind my eyes and at the base of my neck. It felt like a hangover without the pleasure preceding it. Too much sleep can do that to a man, though I felt like I could sleep for a hundred years more. I rubbed at my temples and decided to walk back to my flat. It was a good two hours away, but the air and exercise would do me, and my leg, good.

As I turned to leave, I jumped as a man on a bicycle used a loud haler to harshly announce that there was a menswear sale two streets away at Crazy Shirts. I ticked my mental note off for clothing, changed direction, resigned to call in on my way back home.

It ain’t lying. Or concealing. Make-up is a trick of the tricks trade, designed to hide the wear and tear put there by men.

The Wrong End of the Whip

Madame Ouzio