Wish You Were Here (18 page)

The tallest and squattest of the advancing forms snarled at him, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. ‘Dieb,' he snarled, ‘we want a word with you.'

‘You do, huh? Well, that's great, guys, I value new clients over everything else, believe me. It's just that I'm a bit tied up right now, so if you could maybe call in at the office first thing Tuesday, maybe we could . . .'

‘Get him!'

Four of the short, squat creatures darted forwards, fast as big black rats running up the clock, and tied him to the sword. Four or five others came close behind and started stacking billets of firewood round his feet.

‘We took a vote on it,' explained their leader. ‘In the end it was forty-five per cent for lynching, fifty-five for burning at the stake. Calvin Dieb, prepare to fry!'

‘New clients,' murmured the girl, standing back with her arms folded. ‘Mr Dieb, I may have got this all wrong but I don't think they want to hire you. Fire, however, would definitely seem to be on the agenda. You upset these people or something?'

‘Hey!' Dieb tried to struggle, but the ropes were too tight. ‘The case was a big break for me. Here was this major pharmaceuticals company, with this multi-million product liability suit against them. Of course I gave it my best shot, that's what I do. If it had been these guys who'd hired me, I'd have done my best for them too. It's the rules of the game, right?'

‘Shut up, you,' snapped the leader. ‘You're gonna burn. Hey, guys, anybody got some matches? These goddamn Zippos are supposed to light in any weather, but this one keeps blowing out.'

‘Go on,' said the girl. ‘You'd got as far as product liability.'

‘Don't listen to him, lady,' one of the shapes interrupted. ‘Try hearing our side of the story for a change.'

‘Very well.' The girl nodded her head politely. ‘Fire away, oops, rephrase that. Go ahead. Shoot.'

‘What you say?'

‘Shoot.'

‘Hey!' The creature waved its hands in the air. ‘Don't you confuse the issue. We got it down to lynching or burning and now you're saying shoot the bum. We spent long enough deciding as it is.'

‘Tell the story,' said the girl.

‘Yeah, well,' the leader replied. ‘You see, we're all what you might call on the short side—'

‘Not short. Altitudinally challenged.'

‘Unfairly discriminated against as far as the y axis is concerned.'

The leader frowned. ‘Yeah,' he said, ‘whatever. Anyhow, along comes this big chemicals company, advertising this miracle enhance-your-height hormone treatment. Of course we go for it. We buy the filthy muck and smear it all over ourselves.'

‘Yeah,' shouted a creature at the back. ‘Like herrings to the slaughter.'

The girl raised an eyebrow. ‘Herrings?' she asked.

‘And then,' the leader went on, ‘a couple months later, we look in the mirror and hey, we ain't grown none, but we've all gone this funny green colour, and we're sprouting muscles like Arnie's big brother, and we're all starting to grow these teeth . . .'

‘You try eating an apple without laying your own face open. It's awful.'

‘I see,' the girl said. ‘So you sue the pharmaceuticals company, and Mr Dieb here defends them. Am I to understand that you lost?'

‘Too darned right we lost,' grunted the leader. ‘We end up having to pay this creep's costs, plus damages to the chemicals guys for defamation and God knows what-all else. Man, it was a
disaster
.'

‘All his fault,' agreed a spare creature. ‘Shoulda been an open and shut case. Instead, this scumbag shuts our mouths and opens our wallets.'

‘Cost us so much,' the leader went on, ‘we couldn't afford to go into hospital and have the goddamn treatment. We had to live with it.'

‘Ah.'

‘Which is why,' the leader concluded, ‘we're gonna torch you. Here, Jules, make with the kerosene. C'mon, guys, one of youse gotta have some matches. Hey, lady!'

‘Sorry.' The girl held up her hands. ‘You could always try rubbing sticks together.'

‘I've got matches,' Dieb said.

The leader rounded on him. ‘Oh yeah?' he said. ‘Well, you wasted your bread, pal, 'cos where you're headed you ain't gonna need them. Vernon, find me a couple of dry sticks, will ya?'

‘In my jacket pocket,' Dieb continued. ‘You're welcome to them, really.'

‘Sure.' The leader scowled until his fangs drew blood on his chin. ‘But to get to them, we've gotta untie you. And then you make a run for it, and we lose you. No way, buster. If we can't find any matches, then it's back to Plan A and we lynch you.'

‘Fair enough,' Dieb said. ‘Lucky you've got the rope.'

The creatures started to murmur among themselves. ‘He's right, Phil,' one of them said. ‘Burning or lynching, we've gotta untie the creep either way.'

‘Just a minute,' the leader growled. ‘Just a friggin' minute. Didn't somebody say something about shooting him?'

‘Nobody's got a gun, Phil.'

Dieb cleared his throat. ‘Actually,' he said.

The leader lost his temper. ‘Oh yeah,' he cried. ‘And it's in a shoulder holster inside your coat, all we gotta do is untie the rope. Gag the son of a bitch, someone, while I find a big rock. Nobody touches the rope, understood? This is a
lawyer
we're dealing with here, remember?'

‘Hey,' Dieb said, ‘I just thought of something.Why not use the sword?'

‘Sword? What sword?'

‘This sword I'm tied to,' Calvin said. ‘You could cut my head off, slice my guts out, all that kinda stuff.'

The creatures looked at each other. There were cries of ‘Neat!' and ‘Let's do it.' The leader, however, jumped up and down on the spot, screaming.

‘You guys really kill me,' he yelled. ‘To use the sword, we gotta untie the rope. When will you ever
learn
?'

It was at this moment that Dieb, who'd been rubbing the ropes up and down against the edges of the sword, finally felt the last strands give way. While the leader was hopping up and down and his companions were shouting at him to calm down, Dieb tugged the ropes free, fell to the ground, rolled to his feet and ran, leaping over the nearest creature like an Olympic hurdler running for a bus and making it to the edge of the clearing before any of them realised what was going on. The leader dropped to his knees, sobbing ‘Nooo!' while the others rounded on him, howling curses and kicking him, as if to imply that, in their opinion, he might not have handled the situation as well as he could have, all things being equal.

 

 

‘H
ey,you.'

Captain Hat froze, as if suddenly immersed in liquid nitrogen. He pushed aside the leaf directly above his head, and stared.

‘You,' the Big repeated. ‘I wonder if you could help me.'

Mother of God, there's a Big talking to me. They're not supposed to be able to see us, for Chrissakes!
‘Er,' said Captain Hat, surprising himself with the level of fluency he was able to muster. ‘Um,' he added.

‘I was wondering,' the Big went on, ‘have you seen any submarines around here lately?'

‘Submarines?' Hat repeated. ‘I mean, no. No, certainly not,' he said defiantly. ‘I don't know anything about any submarines. And besides, I was miles away at the time. I have witnesses.'

‘Oh.' The Big seemed disappointed, but not for long. ‘Australians?'

‘Uh?'

‘Australians. People from Australia.'

Hat's brow creased. ‘You mean, like guys in big hats with corks all round them?'

The Big nodded, her eyes aflame with excitement. ‘That's it,' she said. ‘Australians. You seen any?'

‘No.'

‘Oh. You're sure about that?'

Hat nodded. ‘Positive,' he said.

The Big bit her lip. ‘No disrespect,' she said, ‘but how can you be sure they
weren't
Australians? After all, they don't always wear the silly hats or the fluorescent beach shorts, you know. As often as not, they can look just like ordinary people. Especially when they're under cover.'

That one, Hat felt, was so far above his head that you could bounce TV signals off it. ‘You may be right,' he said carefully. ‘I hadn't thought of it like that. But I can't remember seeing any people who definitely
were
Australians. As in funny hats, psychedelic leisurewear or talking in Australian accents.'

The Big smiled patronisingly. ‘That doesn't mean anything, ' she said. ‘Australia's a culturally diverse country these days. Some of 'em don't sound like Australians at all.'

‘Gosh. That must be awfully confusing for the rest of them.'

The Big nodded. ‘You bet,' she said, and winked knowingly. ‘All right, then, what about high officials of the Vatican? You can always tell them, by their broad-brimmed hats.'

‘With corks round them?'

‘Don't be stupid. They're red. They call 'em birettas.'

‘I thought that was machine guns.'

The Big sighed. ‘You're thinking of Lambrettas,' she said patiently. ‘Have you seen any guys in red robes and big hats?'

‘Sorry,' said Hat. ‘Of course, they might have taken them off, if they were pretending to be Australians.'

‘Ah.' The Big frowned. Clearly, she hadn't thought of that. ‘All right then,' she said, ‘what about Australians or high-ranking Papal officers masquerading as perfectly ordinary people? Seen any round here lately?'

Hat considered how he should frame his reply. ‘Not to my knowledge,' he said, inadvertently echoing a thousand generations of lawyers. ‘But maybe
they
were pretending to be the CIA?'

‘Could be,' replied the Big, stroking her chin. ‘But that's just conjecture, surely?'

‘Maybe,' agreed Hat. ‘Maybe not.Things are often not what they seem.'

‘True. In fact,' the Big went on, ‘in my experience, the more they seem to be something, the more likely they are to be something else.'

‘You mean, like the Australians?'

‘A case in point.'

‘Or the CIA.'

‘Perhaps,' the Big said. ‘Though they tend to be the exception that proves the rule.'

‘Do they? Oh, right. Anyway,' Hat went on, feeling that maybe he'd got the hang of talking to Bigs now, ‘the way I see it, anybody I might have seen who was actually wearing a red hat with corks round it and carrying a Lambretta in a shoulder holster,
by that very token
, would probably turn out not to be Australian at all.You see what I mean?'

‘I do,' said the Big, her eyes shiny again, ‘I do indeed. Naturally, it'd be the CIA, deliberately trying
not
to look like
anybody
. Which'd make a whole lot of sense, of course.'

‘It would?'

‘Think about it,' said the Big. ‘It's all just common sense, really. Hey, you've been very helpful. Can I quote you on that?'

‘Well . . .'

The Big shrugged. ‘Yeah, OK, I understand. You've got your own back to watch, I can see that. I'll just describe you as “an authoritative source in the upper echelons of the administration”. That do you?'

‘That'll be fine,' Hat replied. ‘And meanwhile,' he added, ‘if I do see any submarines . . .' And, having the feeling the Big would like it, he winked conspiratorially.

‘You bet!' The Big winked back. Between them, they were beginning to look like a set of indicators. ‘And as far as I'm concerned,' the Big went on, ‘we never had this conversation, right?'

‘What conversation?'

‘You've got the idea. Well, stay loose. Be seeing you.'

‘Not if I see you first,' Hat replied, with heartfelt sincerity. Then he ducked down under the leaf and crawled like Hell into the undergrowth.

For a minute or so after he'd gone, Linda stood where she was, looking inconspicuous - a skill in which she surpassed several large lighthouses. Then, nonchalantly whistling, she started to walk. And carried on walking, until she suddenly stopped, said, ‘Ouch!' and fell over.

The reason being, she'd walked into a large sword in a stone and taken a nasty bump on the head.

She stood up. She waited till the world stopped spinning. She looked at the thing she'd just walked into, and recognised what it was.

And then, inspiration struck.

Linda got these sudden flashes, when things just seemed to appear out of nowhere and dance in front of her eyes, grinning and howling, ‘Scoop! Scoop!' It was in just such a flash, for example, that she'd formulated the award-winning theory that it was actually Santa Claus who shot John F. Kennedy - or otherwise, why was there this worldwide conspiracy to convince everybody that he didn't exist? And so, as she stood gawping at the sword in the stone, Linda
knew
.