Harry Cavendish (7 page)

‘I shouldn’t think so. She gardens. There is a pond but no ducks.’

‘I suppose I could ask the Emperor for clarification.’

‘They both play polo. Perhaps it’s a technical term. Perhaps it is a piece of polo equipment.’

‘A duck? Perhaps. Who knows? In any case, ask her to take it. Gauge the response.’

‘Take it where?’

‘To Zargon 8 – do keep up. She’s been invited to a polo tournament. Personal invitation of the Emperor.’

The Arena when they arrived was half full, but they found a place to sit about four rows back on the benches that circled the tiny cockpit.

Bets were being taken. Touts were everywhere, standing up and screaming and waving wads of bank notes. It was all quite unintelligible to Cormack, and presumably to Proton too, because he leaned over to ask Stanton Bosch the correct form to place a wager.

‘Why, you does just stand up and holler it!’ said the Bosch. ‘Have you decided on a cock, skinny man?’

‘No. I don’t even know what to choose from.’

‘See that board over there. That lists the contenders.’

Cormack couldn’t quite make out all the names, but he could read Killing Machine for one and Mr Fantastic for another. He decided he would try Killing Machine and asked Stanton Bosch to place the bet for him.

‘Noes, skinny man. You heard the soothsayer. You have to place the bet yourself. Stand up and holler it!’ he said, and he gave him a little pat and a wink and added in a whisper, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got yer back.’

‘How much to wager?’ he asked Proton.

‘Enough to buy the chicken. Look.’

He handed Cormack a handful of coins, adding softly, ‘This is proving to be a very expensive day.’

Cormack stood up and waved the coins about as he had seen the others do and failed to attract any interest.

‘Holler out, man! Holler out!’ cried Stanton Bosch and Cormack cleared his throat and said, ‘Anyone for five sestertii on Killing Machine?’ in a tremulous voice that failed to carry much beyond the second row.

‘I’ll take you up on that one,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Five sestertii that Killing Machine don’t lose.’

‘Really, are you allowed?’ said Cormack.

‘Five to one that Killing Machine don’t lose,’ Stanton Bosch repeated carefully. ‘That’ll buy the chicken.’

‘You’re on,’ said Cormack and Stanton Bosch gave him a betting slip and signalled to the pit.

Killing Machine, when it arrived in the ring caged in its crate, was a disappointment. It was a small drab thing, brown and flustered, apparently named more in hope than in expectation. It sat on the bottom of its cage motionless, as though it were laying an egg.

‘Is it sick?’ asked Cormack.

‘No, no,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘The quiet ones is the most wicious. See me brother there?’

He pointed at a Bosch, perhaps Hilton, who was close to the pit with a cock in a crate.

‘He got Starburst. That is a real champion in the making. One wicious chicken. It’ll be in the Battle Royal too.’

‘Perhaps I should have bet on that instead?’

‘No, skinny man, you chose wisely. Don’t put no bets on Starburst. Now watch.’

The eight handlers came into the pit with the cocks in their cages and there was a final furious laying of wagers in the crowd, accompanied by much waving of betting slips and hollers and cat-calls, and then the referee, a gaucho in a checked shirt, raised a red handkerchief and flung it down furiously. Then the handlers grabbed their charges by their legs and threw them in the ring.

Cormack had his eye on Killing Machine, which alighted on the sawdust with a startled ruffle of feathers and then proceeded to strut about disconsolately, as indifferent to the opposition as they were to him, so he missed the first kill which was almost instantaneous. Starburst, living up to the Bosch’s billing, went straight at Mr Fantastic and had his head off with a bite to the neck. Mr Fantastic, being a chicken, wouldn’t fall at first and ran about headless, dribbling blood on the sawdust and confusing the spread-betters who were timing the kill.

Next to go was a fragile orange thing, another victim of Starburst, who this time had it with its clawed talons, ripping it all about until it lay in the sawdust, wrecked like a piece of road kill. Then there was an indecent amount of sparring, as the chickens considered their options, and they seemed for a moment settled on peaceful co-existence within the sawdust pit, until the referee, sensing the crowd’s anxiety, gave Starburst a swift kick, and he turned on the cock that he suspected of having done it. It was brutal and horrifying. Killing Machine, with a naivety that Cormack suspected came from never having been near a cockfight before in its entire life, lay quite still while it was pecked about the body and neck relentlessly as though it hoped, if it were quiet enough, Starburst might think it were dead already.

Soon another cock came by to join in the action, and Starburst turned on that.

Cormack could see the damage that had been done to his chosen chicken. It was dead, sure enough.

The wager was lost. Proton, who hadn’t clocked what had happened yet, being caught up in the action and from the looks of him as he snarled and dipped with the fighting, zoomorphised to a killer chicken, would be furious when he realized what had happened.

‘It’s dead,’ said Cormack. ‘Killing Machine is dead.’

‘It surely is,’ said Stanton Bosch.

‘I lost the bet.’

‘No you ain’t,’ said Stanton Bosch. He gave a signal to his brother, Hilton Bosch, who was near the pit.

Hilton at once got up and pulled at the referee inside the ring. He was whispering in his ear and the referee looked concerned. Then he leant into the pit and reached for the red handkerchief that was still on the ground, raising it above his head. Hilton Bosch grabbed at Starburst, who had just killed another cock, the last still standing save him, and showed him to the referee. There was a confusion in the crowd, and boos and jeers and heckles. The referee gave a final wave.

It was over and no one could understand what had happened.

‘What’s going on?’ said Cormack.

‘Technical infraction,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brother would have pointed it out to the referee.’

‘Ladies and Gentleman!’ shouted the referee. ‘The Battle Royal has been stopped. All bets are off!’

There were roars from the crowd. Betting slips were flying in the air. Small fights were breaking out.

‘I am so sorry. But I must have order. As I said, all bets are off. There has been a major technical infraction – Starburst is disqualified!’

‘Disqualified for what?’ said Cormack

‘Impersonating a cock,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘She’s not a cock at all. She’s a hen. She got teeth. Hens has got teeth on Foul Ball. Every damn fool knows that. They’re supposed to check for these things. Too late now she killed them all. But here’s your money, skinny man. You can see my brother for the chicken.

You’ll have to take Starburst cos it’s the only one left alive.’

‘I thought all bets were off.’

‘Bets through the tote. Not a little friendly side bet like we had. Killing Machine ain’t lost so you win the wager.’

Proton was all ears and wanted to be convinced.

‘Cormack, my boy, you see how divine providence works? You picked the sickest, weakest bird there and still it came through for you. I knew you were the one, Cormack! When I first laid my eyes on you, I knew you were the one!’

‘But I would have won whichever cock I bet on. Except perhaps Starburst, because she wasn’t a cock at all. But Stanton Bosch told me not to bet on her.’

‘True enough, skinny man. True enough,’ said Stanton Bosch, and he surveyed the Arena shiftily, as though he were hunting for someone in the crowd that might have been listening.

Geoffrey loomed large at the head of the table, gavel in hand, ready to bang them to order.

‘First point of order – approval of the minutes from our previous meeting.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Yes, Mrs. Bellingham. If we are to maintain proper records in council.’

She sat distractedly, staring through the French windows at the garden beyond.

‘Approval of the minutes from our previous meeting. Show of hands. And approved. Moving on…’

‘Can I have an agenda please, Geoffrey?’

‘You didn’t get one, Douglas?’

‘No.’

‘Mrs. Bellingham – Douglas, didn’t get an agenda.’

‘Oh!’

She rose to the pile that she had copied and pulled one off the top.

‘Here you are, Douglas.’

‘Thank you so much, Pamela.’

‘Item one again…’

‘Traction, Traction…’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘A little sherry, I think. Anybody for a little sherry?’

‘Yes please, Pamela.’

‘Item one… again… Report on the torture of the Juval Councillor.’

‘Shouldn’t Finance report first?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘It says the Juval Councillor is first on the agenda.’

‘But normally Finance reports first.’

‘Let’s go with the Juval Councillor seeing as that’s what it says on the agenda. Graham – your report please.’

‘We could go with Finance first if you want. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘No, I think, we’re agreed we want the Juval Councillor first.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely we’re sure.’

Silence, while Graham stared into space.

‘Go ahead, Graham.’

‘Oh! Well, I suppose I will come right out with it. Thing is the chaps got a little carried away. Not really used to this kind of thing. It requires a subtlety that they appreciably lack. I’m afraid they rather did her in.’

‘She’s dead?’ said Mrs Bellingham loudly.

‘Well, she wouldn’t be dead, would she, Graham?’ said Geoffrey.

‘Well, she is rather.’

‘Oh, my good God!’

‘Yes, so the rest of the agenda is probably going to have to change to suit. I see, item five for instance –

further methods of torturing the Juval Councillor – all that’s rather dependant on her coming out of item one alive, which she hasn’t.’

‘Did she contact the Pastry Chef before she died?’ asked Mrs. Bellingham.

‘Oh yes. That was all done. He was keen to cooperate in fact. And he’s asking for a certain poison. The balm from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree. He wants it sent. Apparently it’s his preferred methodology.’

‘The balm from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree? What in heaven’s name is a Fractious Jub-Jub tree?’ said Douglas.

‘Over there,’ said Mrs Bellingham, pointing through the French windows to a huge spreading tree with leaves of olive green and a boled trunk, twenty feet wide. It gave shade across most of the croquet lawn.

‘Nearest the hydrangeas.’

They hardly slept that night. The cow was bivouacked in the refrigerator and Cormack got up periodically to attend to the cold presses that Stanton Bosch had prescribed for her stumps.

The morning, when it came at last, was cold and clear. Proton was on the Tropico’s sun deck, performing his exercises in a canary yellow ski-suit, when Cormack came upon him with a mug of coffee.

‘Look at the SplatterHorn!’ said Proton, as he jumping-jacked. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Cormack looked beyond the balustrade and saw the mountain for the first time. It had lost its shroud of fog and was standing clear and stark against the pale blue sky. It did look magnificent - a classical conical volcano, lolling huge in the distance and unconcernedly steaming a pale flume of smoke into the cold mountain air as though it were the side-stream from its post-coital cigarette.

‘Are we really going to climb it, Proton?’ asked Cormack.

‘Sure are, mate! Don’t worry, it’ll be a breeze. You’re with a team of survival experts.’

‘Is the cow coming too?’

‘Cormack, the cow is an unnecessary burden. And remember, we have the chicken to worry about now as well. We can leave her in the fridge in the hotel. She’ll be fine until we get back.’

‘If wes get back,’ said Stanton Bosch, who had arrived on the terrace wearing tight lederhosen and a felt mountaineering hat sporting a tiny red feather.

‘Stanton Bosch! Top of the morning to you! How did you sleep?’ said Proton.

‘Not so good.’

‘You’ve finished the preparations?’

‘Aye, we have,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brothers are all here. They’ll be acting as your Sherpas.’

‘I’m not going without the cow,’ said Cormack peevishly.

‘You know the cow might come in useful to us, Captain,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘A little jerky in a blizzard…’

‘He wants to take the living cow.’

‘I’m not going without her.’

In the end, they acceded to Cormack’s request without telling him why, and the cow was tied to a stretcher that the Boschs had procured from a haberdashers they had found in town. She was to be raised like an Indian Princess on a howdah by a team of four and was enthralled at the prospect.

‘Ooooh, Cormack,’ she said quietly, feeling a little chirpier. ‘And me a little Zargonic cow what’s lost me legs. Why ever are they treating me so?’

By nine, breakfast having been consumed and bags packed and bills satisfied, they were all set. Proton was to lead off with Stanton Bosch as his guide. Then would come Cormack, walking, and the cow, lifted by the other Boschs, both surrounded by a phalanx of Guards to prevent escape.

The road from Bartislard was at first tarmaced and in good condition, but soon it deteriorated into a cobbled track and then, after they had marched for a couple of hours, it fell away completely and became a tightly wound footpath, lightly pebbled, that cut through the jungle vegetation wonkily and seemed at times to be leading them away from the mountain.

After a couple hours, Proton had them stop by a clear, cold stream to take on water and refill their canteens. He had the chicken in a little cage, tied to his backpack, and it was in constant flight, clucking and fussing and pecking at him like a bad conscience.

Cormack found Stanton Bosch standing barefoot in the stream, washing his feet.

‘Three days march, skinny man,’ he said. ‘We camp tonight a little way up from the foot of the mountain.