Johannes Cabal The Necromancer (20 page)

Bobbins was brought before Cabal like a spoil of victory and dumped at his feet. “What do you mean, they’ve gone?”

Bobbins painfully picked himself up and looked around. “There were two blokes. One was sort of ugly, and the other was sort of fat and ugly. They had a go on the bowls and won. That’s when they went bananas and started saying that they’d been cheated.”

“But they’d won?”

“Yes. I was trying to give them their prize when all these other blokes just popped up and smashed everything. I tried to stop them,” he implored brightly. “There were just too many.”

Horst was kicking around the wreckage. He knelt and picked out a dangerous-looking piece of wood. He showed it to Cabal. “It’s a pickaxe handle. Not the sort of thing people tend to carry around for self-defence.”

Cabal took it from him and hefted it. “You’re saying this was premeditated? Why? And by whom?”

“One of them was called Croal!” interrupted Bobbins, his brightness rekindling by the second. “That’s what the other one called him. He was called Andy. Or Anders. Or something.”

“But who are they? And why did they do it? And what are you grinning about?”

Horst was looking unpalatably smug. “You don’t know much about carny and travelling-fair folk, do you?”

“You know I …” Cabal noticed that the chastised brawlers were still standing around, showing a polite interest in the conversation. “Go on! Clear off! The show’s over!” Slowly they dispersed. Cabal turned back to Horst. “You know I don’t. So go on, have your moment of glory, and astound me with esoterica.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about it. What’s the primary function of a carnival? Not this carnival, obviously. I mean normal ones.”

“To let people have … fun,” replied Cabal as if he’d soiled his mouth with the word.

“Oddly enough, no. That’s how it fulfils its primary function. Try again.”

Cabal hated being patronised and was starting to seethe. “To make money. I’m not a fool. But we’re not interested in the money. I fail to see …” The truth of the matter slapped him in the face like a dead cod. “I am a fool. It’s so obvious.”

“Business competitors. They don’t know we’re not in it for the money. That’s between you, me, and the big ‘S.’” With some satisfaction, he watched Cabal shake his head in disgusted disbelief.

“I suppose this means we’ll have to kill them,” said Cabal finally.

“Think of the fuss. No, they’re businessmen. We’ll do a deal. Believe me, they’ll listen to reason.”

It didn’t take very much detective work to discover that there was a travelling fair in the next town: Butler’s Travelling Amusements. Cabal gave them a visit the next mid-morning to sort things out, taking along a thick wad of currency for if they wanted to be reasonable, and Joey Granite— “His Head’s Made of Stone!”—if they didn’t.

The fair site was quiet when they arrived. Over the entrance, a large, badly painted sign shouted, Billy Butler’s Travelling Amusements! The Best Rides! The Best Sideshows!

“It looks quite, quite appalling,” said Joey.

“Quite so,” replied Cabal. “Incidentally, Mr. Granite, I’d appreciate it if you could let me do the talking.”

“By all means, kemosabe.”

“I mean all the talking.”

“Certainly. You are, after all, the boss. Might one, however, enquire why?”

“To be quite frank, I’ve brought you along as muscle. People have some sort of psychological problem with believing a man can be quite mind-bogglingly strong and intelligent. It has to be one thing or the other.”

“Like pretty women and brains. I take your point. You don’t wish me to undermine my threatening aspect by being unexpectedly rather acute. Very well, mum’s the word.”

Having, he hoped, capped Joey’s notorious loquacity for the time being, Cabal led the way to the largest and least tasteful caravan. He rapped on the door and waited.

Eventually, it opened to reveal a short, dishevelled man in his underwear wearing an ostentatious red smoking jacket over the top. Remarkably, and despite every sign that he had just got out of bed, his synthetically black hair lay perfectly, as if varnished in place.

“Wot d’ya want?” he croaked, blinking in the daylight.

“You are the proprietor? William Butler?”

The man screwed up his eyes and considered Cabal. Then he considered Joey. Then he went back to considering Cabal, because it didn’t put such a crick in his neck. “Oo wants t’know?”

“My name is Johannes Cabal. I see you recognise it.” The man’s scrunched-up face had dilated a little. “I’ve come to return some of your property.” He nodded to Joey, who produced the pickaxe handle from within his coat and waggled it at the man between forefinger and thumb, like a blunt toothpick.

“Y’can’t prove a thing,” said the man. “I never seen that before in my life. I swear on me muvver’s grave, I din’t.”

Cabal was shaking his head. “Slow down, Mr. Butler. The transparent denials come later. Firstly, you are, are you not, Mr. William Butler of Butler’s Travelling Amusements, yes?” The man straightened himself up a little, and Cabal had a warning flash that this wasn’t going to go quite the way he’d planned.

“Only me muvver ever called me ‘William.’ Billy Butler, tha’s me. Showman and entra-pren-ooor. An’ you can’t come rahnd ’ere ’cuesing decen’, law-’bidin’ folk like me ov smashin’ up your carny wivout evidence, see?”

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Butler. I see no reason to accuse you of anything when we both know you’re as guilty as the day is long. No, please, spare me the melodramatics.” Butler’s red face was speeding towards a beetroot intensity. “If need be, Mr. Granite here would cheerfully tear your operation to pieces until he found Mr. Croal and his provocative friend. I’m sure they would only be too eager to admit their rôle in last night’s violence and your part as the instigator, faced with this evidence.” He tapped the pickaxe.

“Or I’ll make them eat it. Hurr-hurr-hurr!” grated Joey, showing an unexpected and unwelcome bent towards amateur dramatics. Cabal shot him a glance and he shut up.

“I’d like t’see ya try,” said Butler unwisely.

A little over seven minutes passed before Cabal pointed to Butler and said, “Is this the man who sent you to cause trouble at my carnival?” Croal and Anders could only nod in agreement. Talking was proving difficult with half a shattered pickaxe handle shoved in their respective mouths. The two men dangled from Joey’s great hands and wished they were somewhere else.

“Bloody grasses,” growled Butler.

“None of this is necessary, Mr. Butler. I just want us to come to an understanding. You and your people stay away from my carnival, and I, for my part, will not have every man jack of you murdered and your souls sent express to the lowest pit in Hell.”

“Ya couldn’t if ya tried,” muttered Butler unwisely.

Cabal barely prevented Joey from smashing Croal and Anders together to make something with too many limbs and not enough heads.

“Look, do you take some sort of pleasure in being contrary? Try to understand. This is out of your hands. You do as you’re told or things will go so badly wrong for you as to beggar belief. Stay away from my carnival.” Cabal turned to Joey. “Put those down and come with me.” Joey dropped Croal and Anders in a heap and followed Cabal back towards the road.

When they were out of earshot of Butler and his gang of glowering riggers, Cabal said, “‘Or I’ll make them eat it. Hurrr-hurrr-hurrr!’”

“I was merely extemporising on the part you’d given me,” replied Joey, unapologetically. “Strong and silent is so passé.”

“And ‘strong and stupid’ is at the thespian cutting edge? Oh, never mind. It sort of worked, if not the way I’d intended. And we saved ourselves this large sum of money.” He slapped the pocket containing the unused bribe. “Although, frankly, we’ve got more of the stuff than we know what to do with.”

Horst was not happy when the morning’s events were recounted to him. “You don’t understand these people. You haven’t put him in his place, you’ve just made him look stupid in front of his people. We haven’t heard the last of Billy Butler.”

Cabal was roused from his bunk just as dawn’s rosy fingers were smudging the clouds like the finger-painting of a hyperactive child. He saw the gaudy colours of light through the sleeping car’s window and groped for his dark glasses. The colours were too gaudy for comfort. “What…” He found his glasses and pulled them on. “What’s happening?”

“It’s bad, bossman,” said Bones. “Fire.”

Cabal dragged on his long coat and ran out into chaos. Everybody and everything was running around in a frenzy of indecision. Even the Things from the Ghost Train were out and about, running up to people and shrieking in their faces. “You! Things!” he roared. “Get back under cover before the sun comes up.” They dithered. “Immediately!” They went. Horst appeared at his elbow.

“Sorry, Johannes. I’m going to have to go, too. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

Cabal spun on his heel to glare at his brother. “Meaning what? That I’m incapable of dealing with this on my own?”

Horst, despite almost perfect poise, was taken aback. “No, not at all. I thought…” He looked towards the horizon. The sun could only be seconds away. “Look, I don’t have time to argue this. I’ve got to go.” There was a disturbance in the air and Cabal was alone.

The sun came up to find a scene of raging natural processes being fought to a standstill by unhesitating rationality and bullish common sense. The riggers and barkers had been formed into bucket lines, and finally a use had been found for Horatio the Human Hosepipe.

“Yo! Baby!” he crooned as he was wielded by Layla. “C’mon, light my fire!”

“Don’t get him excited or we’ll never put the bloody thing out,” barked Cabal, sooty and furious.

After an hour, there was nothing left of the fire. Nor of three sideshows, four concessions, and an “I Lie Diplomatically About Your Weight” machine. Cabal walked around and around the wreckage, hissing angrily if anybody tried to talk to him, around and around like a vulture over a zombie clambake. A Neanderthal sat naked in a large puddle of water, beside which was a charred sign reading The Ice Man! Entombed in the Siberian Ice for Ten Million Years! “What’s happenin’, man?” he asked anybody who came near him.

Abruptly Cabal stopped, sniffed the air, and turned over a piece of board with the toe of his ruined handmade shoes. Exposed was a small pool of liquid that rolled and glistered in a way that spoke of ultrahydrous viscosity. He knelt by it, ruining his trousers into the bargain, and inhaled the air above it. Bones came over and sniffed cautiously at it, too. Cabal stood up, his face an ugly pallor beneath the fire-fighter’s smudges. “Accelerant,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” Bones tried another sniff. “Smells like gasoline to me.”

“Arson.”

“Well, make your mind up.”

Billy Butler realised he had a visitor by the knock at his door. Actually, it was more the way the door was knocked down, torn out, and lobbed into the next county that was the clue.

“You again,” he said, lip curled, as Cabal walked in. Outside, there was a swatting sound as Joey dissuaded any of Butler’s riggers from coming to his assistance.

“I thought,” said Cabal, slowly and carefully, “that we had a deal, Butler.”

“I don’t rememer makin’ no—”

“I thought,” continued Cabal, “that we had an understanding. You stay away from my carnival and I let you live.”

“I’ve been in this business man an’ boy for comin’ on—”

“Yes, that’s the point, Mr. Butler. Mr. ‘I’ve been in this business man and boy since the dawn of time’ Butler. Past tense. You see? It is all over now, and all because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

Butler tried another tack. “This ’ere’s private property. If yew don’t—”

“Ach! I don’t believe it! I’m talking about your imminent death and you’re talking about civil action for trespass.”

Butler paused. Something seemed to be getting through. “Wot? You’re goin’ ta kill me?”

“Yes. Probably.” Never discuss murder plans with the victim, he reminded himself. It takes all the spontaneity out of it.

“Why?”

“Why? You tried to burn down my carnival!”

Butler crossed his arms and smiled smugly. “Prove it.”

“Butler, try to under— You don’t mind if I sit down, do you? Try to understand, I’m not the police. I don’t need evidence, real or fabricated. All I need is reasonable suspicion, and you, Butler, are very suspicious. If, at this very moment, they were testing a suspiciometer in the Antipodes, they would be saying, ‘Good heavens, what is this very suspicious object that we have detected? Why, it looks just like Billy Butler, the world-renowned arsonist and bad liar.’”

Butler considered Cabal’s words and found them reasonable. “Orl right,” he said. “What’s this deal, then?”

“History. You had your chance and you let it go by.” He gazed out of the flyspecked caravan window. “Look, I don’t really want to have your blood on my hands. It would be terribly inconvenient. Why don’t we try one more time, eh?”

Twenty-four hours later, Cabal and Joey Granite were back. Thin wisps of smoke could still be seen to rise from Cabal’s cuffs and collar, and there was soot on his face. He seemed unhappy about something.

The previous day’s fire had been galling quite apart from the physical damage it had caused. When Cabal had woken from a troubled sleep to find that person or persons unknown had not only poured petrol along the length of the track beneath the train, including the office in which he slept, but also padlocked his door shut, it seemed to be verging upon an insult. He had just been considering which window to break when there had been a splintering, wrenching sound and Horst had opened the door.

“Did you know that somebody’d locked this door?” he had asked with an air of concerned enquiry.

Cabal pushed past him and jumped down onto the gravel by the track. “You two!” he shouted at the cab. “Move the train! Quickly, damn you!”

Dennis and Denzil had looked at each other. They’d half suspected something was amiss when the train had been engulfed with flames but hadn’t wanted to cause a fuss by drawing attention to it. Denzil had been about to tell Dennis to get a head of steam up when he’d noticed Dennis’s hair was on fire. That had been good for a laugh, or at least the grisly hooting noises that Denzil used instead these days, ever since his lungs had dried out. Dennis had frowned, scratched his head, and set fire to his hand. Denzil had hooted some more.