Open Sesame (28 page)

It put its wings back, glided low, and accelerated, feet outstretched. There were eagles as well as pheasants in its ancestry, not to mention a whole host of large, featherless flying lizards with leather wings and huge pointed beaks. It was time to prove that it had inherited rather more from its forebears than a few sticks of old furniture and a broken clock.

Ali Baba woke up. ‘I wish …’he said.

Claws extended, the phoenix swooped. There was a merry tinkling of glass as its talons caved in the side windows of the coach, and a dizzying, terrifying moment when it seemed that even those huge wings couldn’t produce enough uplift to haul a Mercedes coach and forty-three human beings straight up into the air. That was, of course, perfectly natural. For a thousand generations, Mankind used to worry itself sick with the thought that come dawn tomorrow, the sun might not quite have the legs to rise and shine.

At ground level, the policeman with the megaphone stopped argle bargling in mid fargle and stood motionless for a while, his lower jaw nearly touching his bootlaces. Then, being a policeman and properly trained to deal with all possible contingencies, he ordered the coach to come back.

It didn’t work.

With infinite regret, and blaming it all on the pernicious respect-dissipating effects of so-called community policing, he gave the order to open fire.

Or at least, he tried to. He got as far as ‘Open’, but before he could complete the command a passing tooth fairy darted into his mouth, neatly yanked out his dental plate, shoved a silver sixpence in its place and flew away. A split second later it flew back, hovered for a moment in front of the megaphone, and completed the sentence for him.

‘Sesame,’ it said.

Whereupon the sky opened.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Wait for it,’ said the instructor. ‘Let it come, let it come, let it come. Steady. And … Now, plenty of forward allowance, and let him have it’

This is a birth control clinic on the far side of the Line.

‘Now let’s just try that again, only this time follow the line, swing through and keep it moving.”

Six men with shotguns and a clay pigeon trap are standing in a field in the rain. They’re learning the art of judging air speed and forward allowance, vital when shooting a moving target.

‘The average stork,’ the instructor continues, ‘can reach speeds of up to forty miles an hour, with the wind behind it. That means that, at thirty-five yards, you need to be something like ten feet in front to be sure of a clean kill. Okay, everybody, let’s try that one more time.’

This side of the Line, family planning means a Remington pump-action, a steady hand, a good eye and ten or twelve accurately placed stork decoys. In winter, when huge flocks of the dreaded birds turn south for the annual migration, the hills and valleys echo from dawn to dusk with the sound of aerial contraception.

The instructor beckons the next shooter to the stand, checks that the trap operator is ready, and shouts ‘Pull!’ The party gazes skywards, waiting for the next target to appear.

‘Right,’ mutters the instructor, ‘here it comes. Now, remember … Oh my God!’

Instead of a three-inch disc of baked pitch, they’re staring at a huge bird, with a wingspan of maybe fifty feet, wingtip to wingtip, holding in its claws what looks like a big red Mercedes bus. As the shadow of this monstrosity passes over them they stand rooted to the spot, unable to move.

‘What the hell was that?’

‘It’s finally happened,’ the instructor groans. ‘The bastards have out-evolved us.’

‘Did you see the size of that thing?’

‘And the armour-plated cargo hold,’ whispers an awestruck trainee. ‘Oh God, it doesn’t bear thinking about. What’re we going to do?’

‘Out of our hands now,’ the instructor mutters. ‘You boys stay here. I’m going to try and get a message through to Strategic Air Command.’

The phoenix, blissfully unaware that at that very moment nine F-lll’s of the 3085 Family Planning Squadron were on standby awaiting clearance to take off in search of it, lowered the coach to the ground as gently as it could, waggled its wingtips in salutation, and soared away. The sound of its giant wings faded into the distance. The cuckoo resumed its song. On the hillside opposite, a cow mooed.

Inside the coach, John Fingers levered himself up from behind the seats where he’d been cowering during the flight and rose unsteadily to his feet. His face was as white as a sheet in a soap-powder commercial and the hand with the gun in it shook disconcertingly.

‘Okay,’ he whimpered. ‘This is a hijack, I want you to fly this coach to Tripoli …’ He looked round, realised that there was nobody to hear him, and sat down heavily in the driver’s seat.

Where was everybody?

A brief inspection revealed that the rear door of the coach was open. The bastards had gone and left him there. He was all alone.

Almost alone. On the back row of seats he found three slumped figures; two men and the girl. In spite of the phoenix’s best endeavours there had been quite a sharp jolt on landing, and by the looks of it they’d been thrown forwards and knocked out cold by things falling off the luggage racks. John Fingers hesitated for a moment. On the one hand, he scarpers quickest who scarpers alone. On the other hand, when the going gets really tough, a boy’s best friend is his hostage.

One of the men he recognised as the big, evil-looking bugger who’d been on the point of coming after him with a big spanner when the police intervened. The other one was the tall, slim sod who’d shot at him when he first wandered into Unit 13. Those two, he decided, would keep. The girl, however, was a different matter. The word HOSTAGE was practically tattooed on her forehead.

‘You,’ he said, prodding Michelle with the gun. ‘On your feet.’

No good. She was out for the count. Damn, muttered John Fingers to himself, more heavy lifting. Having got her in a burglar’s lift (basically the same as a fireman’s lift, but not quite so humane) he staggered towards the open door and peered out, asking himself why his thirty-nine erstwhile henchmen had taken off so suddenly, without stopping to say goodbye or even steal his boots.

‘Because of the fighters,’ said the air-conditioning. ‘Look, they’re just coming back now.’

John Fingers frowned. ‘What fighters?’ he said.

‘Those ones there.’

‘What? Oh those

Sudden turns of speed, with or without heavy burdens slung over the right shoulder, ran in the Smith family. He was just able to make it down the coach steps and into the cover of a nearby pile of rocks when the nine fighter-bombers of the 3085th, squadron motto ‘Not Tonight, Josephine’, screamed back over the skyline, hurtled straight at the coach, let fly with their full complement of air-to-surface missiles and pulled steeply away. The shock of the blast hit John Fingers like a hammer, sending him rolling down the escarpment into a clump of gorse. From where he was, he could actually feel the heat from the explosion on the back of his neck. He had the common sense to stay where he was until it had stopped raining shrapnel and debris; then he hauled himself upright, pulled gorse out of his hands and knees and looked round for his hostage.

He found her sitting up, wiping blood out of her eyes from a cut on her forehead. She opened her mouth to scream, but he showed her the gun and made shushing noises.

‘On your feet,’ he said, wishing he’d paid better attention to his mother when she’d tried to teach him elementary kidnapping. ‘Shut up and do what you’re told or I’ll use this. Understand?’

‘Who’s this, the cat’s mother?’ muttered the gun, offended. He ignored it. Formal introductions would just have to wait until later.

Her eyes fixed on the gun, Michelle nodded. Something told her that it was going to take more than a steady nerve and a certain innate skill at board games to get her out of this one. Unlike her abduction by Akram, this all felt rather horribly real.

(Which was strange, bearing in mind where she was. Just over the brow of the hill, a cat was practising the violin, while the dish was sulking because the spoon had forgotten to bring the sandwiches. But she wasn’t to know that.)

‘All right,’ said John Fingers. ‘Now start walking. And no funny business.’

‘Spoilsport,’ the gun grumbled. ‘It’s been ages since I last saw a really good custard pie fight.’

‘Shut up, you.’

‘Who, me?’

‘Not you. It. Look, will everybody just shut up and get the hell out of here, before those bloody planes come back and blast us all to kingdom come?’

Had circumstances been different, Michelle would have liked to ask what planes, and how come he was talking to his gun? Actually, she had a strange feeling she knew the answer to the second question; and if the purpose of answers is to clear up mysteries, then it couldn’t be more counter-productive if it tried. Something told her, however, that her captor wasn’t in the mood. She started to walk.

Akram woke up. It was dark. He was in a confined space. Something wet was dripping down the back of his neck.

Oh shit, not again! He drew in breath to scream, then hesitated. He could smell oil, but it wasn’t the right sort. Not palm oil; something more in the SAE 20 super visco-static line, he fancied. Which was either a half-hearted attempt at updating the story and making it more accessible for modern audiences, or an indication that whatever he was in, at least it wasn’t the familiar old smelly brown stuff.

Cue past life? Apparently not. Things were looking up.

Well, then. The last thing he could remember was being bundled onto a coach by Faisal and Hakim, with whom he intended to have a word on that subject when he saw them next. And then the coach had sort of taken off, and something had hit him on the top of his head.

Talking of which; what was this stuff dripping down his neck? If he could only get his arms to work, maybe he could find out.

Cheap Taiwanese arms, no good, pity they’re not still under warranty. Legs? That’s more like it. He pushed, until the top of his head came up against something solid that didn’t want to get out of the way. Hmm. Interesting scenario, this.

Still no past life? No? Okay, fine. Let’s try bringing the knees up and pushing outwards with the feet. Bloody uncomfortable, but no worse than a Jane Fonda workout routine.

Hello, Akram said to himself, I’m in a box. How jolly. Now then, what sort of box? Well, there’s one obvious type, the kind with brass handles, satin lining and a flat lid. Now then, senses, best of order, please. Any satin? No, no satin. I think we can tentatively call that a good sign.

Maybe I’m still on the coach. There’s no real reason to assume that I am, but let’s pretend. If I’m still on the coach but I’m in a box … Cue schematic diagram of a typical coach. Ah yes, the bit under the windows where there’s doors on the outside, where they store the suitcases. The luggage compartment. I could very easily be in that.

Why, for fuck’s sake?

Yes, but just suppose I am. In that case, if I can wriggle round until my feet are touching the doors, and then give said doors a bloody hard kick, maybe I can open them. Anything’s possible. Houdini, for example, did this sort of thing for a living.

His heels made contact with what could conceivably have been doors; a flat surface that flexed ever so slightly when he pressed against it. Time, he muttered to himself, to put the theory to the test. After all, what else is scientific enquiry of any sort other than a controlled version of bashing one’s head against the Universe until something gives?

He drew his knees back and let fly. Something gave; he tried again, and the doors flew open. A few crab-like jerks and shuffles extricated him from the luggage compartment and landed him on the ground, where he lay for a moment, luxuriating in the rare, delicious sensation of having got something completely right for a change. Then he looked up.

Where the coach had been there was an untidy-looking jumble of tangled, fire-blackened metal. True, it had once been a coach, in the same way that homo sapiens was once a monkey or, more appropriately, Great Britain was once a leading exporter of manufactured goods. As far as he could see, all that was left of it was the luggage compartment he’d just wriggled out of, and a couple of skipfuls of twisted body panel. All in all, it had the same air of bewildered ruin that you’d expect from a short-sighted mugger who’s just tried to rob Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Wow, said Akram to himself, whatever happened to that coach, I survived it. Lucky.

Not lucky. There isn’t enough luck in the whole universe to save someone from destruction like that. Somebody must have saved me.

Shit. Somebody must like me.

Or else, more likely, somebody must hate me enough to believe that being blown to bits in an explosion would be tantamount to giving me a pardon and the freedom of the city. In any event, whoever they were, they don’t seem to be around any more. Surprise, surprise.

Having dealt with these and similar issues, Akram scrambled to his feet, yelped with pain as cramp and a wide variety of pulled muscles made their presence felt, and tried to get his bearings. Not that he had much to go on; the landscape was about as familiar as downtown Ursa Minor Beta and slightly less hospitable. As far as the eye could see, provided that it could be bothered, there was nothing but scrub, rock and parched earth. There were a few low, demoralised-looking hills, some clumps of tired and thirsty-looking gorse, and the occasional pile of boulders. The most creative travel brochure writer living could just about get away with totally unspoilt and well away from the normal tourist areas, and would be forced to leave it at that.

‘Gosh,’ said Akram aloud, ‘so this is where I end up when I’m being lucky. I can’t wait to see where I land when I’m going through a bad patch.’

“Scuse me?’

The voice had come from behind one of the piles of rocks. Instinctively, Akram held still and turned his head in that direction.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Hello yourself. Who’re you, then?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Me,’ said the voice, ‘and actually I’m not really bothered about it, so if you don’t want to tell me, then fuck you. Are you responsible for all this mess?’