Qualia Read online

  QUALIA

  Marie Browne

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

  ISBN 9781909520639

  Copyright © Marie Browne 2013

  The right of Marie Cook to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

  Cover design by Chris Mallyon

  Dedication

  For Finley.

  Acknowledgements

  The biggest thanks, of course, have to go to Geoff. Over the past two years he has been bombarded with bizarre questions, been talked at, read numerous drafts and has always given me the right amount of kick just when I needed it most. He is the best husband ever.

  The other person who also deserves far more than a mere thank you is Dr. Ian Kirk. He never stopped asking ‘why’ and took the time to discuss some of my odd theories. I can honestly say that, without him, this story would be a far more outlandish endeavour.

  Thanks as well to Helen, Arwen and Sarah who did the ‘big’ reads at various points and pointed out some serious holes in the story.

  Chris Mallyon for a wonderful cover, and Cam Field for her input.

  I’m sure there are others that I have forgotten. A big general thanks to all those who read bits, changed bits, argued bits and helped make this story what it is.

  Thank you all.

  Marie.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Interlude

  Afterwards

  Here endeth the gospels of Joe

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  CHAPTER 1

  THE OPEN DOOR ANNOYED me for two reasons. One, the enticing aromas of meat and spices drifting through the rain caused my stomach to growl and clench. Running a hand over my wet stubble I could feel the prominent jaw and cheek bones; I’d missed far too many meals lately. Two, the triangular shaft of light that flickered, steam filled and golden through the shabby doorway made it a lot harder to find a decent shadow in which to lurk.

  Hoping to spot any trouble before it spotted me I peered around the gloomy alley. A set of tall black bins, most of them overflowing, slovenly guarded the open door. Rainwater dripped from a broken gutter, slid down the greasy wall and splashed onto half-glimpsed rats that chittered and squeaked as they busied themselves in the wet shadows. I tensed as the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drifted toward me, but the tired kitchen staff were only relaxing, slowly shutting everything down after a long night.

  ‘Call this summer? Shut that bloody door, it’s freezing in here.’ At the sudden shout I pressed myself against the bricks and froze, holding my breath. A red-faced young woman, her apron smeared with the remnants of the evening’s menu, staggered out beneath a large box of vegetable peelings.

  ‘Hurry up, Kath, I want to go home.’ The man behind the door forced his words out around a huge yawn. Kath rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. Looking around at the bins for a moment she shrugged and then dropped the box carelessly to the ground, pushing it into the gloom with her foot. Humming tunelessly, she headed back into the warmth and, as the door closed, the laughter was cut short. I suddenly had a wealth of shadows in which to hide.

  Stamping my feet in an effort to bring feeling back into my numb toes, I shuddered as my skin cringed away from the cold, wet leather of my jacket. A drop of icy water fell from my hair and ran an oddly erotic finger down my spine.

  ‘Why don’t I just insist on having meetings in a nice warm pub?’ I demanded quietly of the heavy clouds. ‘Why am I always ankle deep in other people’s crap?’ I kicked a dented carton of orange juice across the alley, huffing with irritation as it split, spraying its fermented contents across the toes of my boots.

  A small black cat crept from the shadows and leapt to the top of one of the bins. It stared at me, I stared back. This silent exchange continued until I noticed that there were two tails wrapped tightly around its neat, white-tipped paws: Bakeneko demon.

  ‘Erm … Meow?’ A young man, of obviously oriental origin, laughed down at me from where the cat had been perched on the bin lid, his long legs elegantly crossed at the knee. ‘For a moment there I thought you were actually going to try and stroke me.’

  I smiled up at him. ‘I’d rather stick my hand in a blender.’ I shuddered again and pulled my collar a little higher. ‘Why the hell are we here? Did you actively seek out the most disreputable place in the city before or after you sent your insanely vague little message?’

  He leapt to the ground, landing with hardly a splash amid the food-filled puddles. ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ He looked around with a big smile, his sharp white teeth dimpling his lower lip. ‘However it’s the best place for very fat rats.’ He licked his lips then chuckled. ‘It’s a kind of slow-food takeaway.’

  There are rules to this sort of exchange and one of the major ones is: Do not enter into a dialogue. Keeping my expression neutral I took a long, slow look at my watch.

  The skinny cat demon sighed and scratched one ear before breaking into another wide smile. ‘You’re always in such a hurry, Collector.’ He tensed and fell silent, his eyes narrowing to follow a particularly well-fed rat as it wobbled bravely toward the recently discarded peelings.

  ‘Bakeneko!’ I stamped my foot, sending the rat scurrying back into the shadows.

  The diminutive demon twitched and blinked for a moment. Studying his fingernails he frowned at a small chip in the black nail polish. ‘It’s really not nice to treat friends that way,’ he grumbled.

  I hate dealing with “cats”. Enigmatic to the point of idiocy, they all tend to use twenty words where five would do. They also share an odd collection of Japanese idioms and quaint phrases that, even when translated, are almost impossible to understand. The whole race seems determined to irritate anyone they talk to. Well, tonight I didn’t have the time to play stupid word games. Shaking my head, more to dislodge the rain than to express any particular exasperation, I turned away. ‘We’re not friends.’ I stuffed my hands into the deep pockets of my coat, searching for the scruffy bit of paper that had my appointment details scrawled on it. ‘You’re just someone that owes me a favour.’ I ignored his petulant hiss at my nastiness.

  I looked up as he hissed again. His rain-slick hair had lifted in a wet Mohawk across his head. ‘I don’t know why I try to help you.’ He growled, the guttural sound was very much at odds with his slim and dapper appearance. ‘You have no respect either for yourself or anyone else. Quite frankly …’ he raised a lip into a sneer, ‘… you’re rude.’

  With a wave I began to walk away.

  ‘Wait!’ Leaping forward, he grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, piercing the wet leather with razor-sharp claws that had slid in an instant from his fingertips.

  I didn’t even bother to look up. Grabbing his wrist I gave it a twist. The demon screeched as I screwed his arm around in a circle, his claws retracted and he yelped as I dropped him roughl
y onto the ground. A heavy boot in the small of his back made sure he stayed there until I decided otherwise.

  ‘You’re supposed to pick up a package tonight.’ He struggled to keep his face out of the puddles.

  I pressed harder. ‘I pick up packages nearly every night; parcels, messages, things like you.’ I gave him a good prod with the toe of my boot and then moved away.

  He climbed to his feet and attempted to wipe the water from his black jeans. ‘Yeah, but this pickup’s special, isn’t it?’ He peered up at me, his green eyes giving off that animal glow as they reflected the dim lights from the windows. ‘This collection order has come from the top, right?’

  Folding my arms I stared at him until he dropped his gaze. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘You mustn’t pick this one up.’ Bakeneko busied himself muttering over his soaked trousers.

  I looked over my shoulder. ‘Why?’

  ‘It would have …’ he paused for a moment ‘… unfortunate repercussions for you. In fact, it would be in your best interest to take a very long holiday.’ He chewed on his lower lip. ‘Please, Joe, you of all people should understand. I’m trying to pay off my debts here. I could well find myself made into a fur collar for even talking to you.’

  ‘Just tell me why.’ I pushed myself away from the wall, a sudden and aggressive movement designed to make him nervous. I wasn’t disappointed. I really wanted this meeting over and done with. My hair was dripping down my neck again and I’d begun to shiver. ‘You worry about paying off your debts? Well, give me one straight answer and I’ll consider it cleared.’

  The small cat-man frowned, still chewing at his lip. I watched, fascinated, as a small bead of blood appeared. ‘Whatever’s in that package, the Host want it kept very quiet. They’ve gone to huge lengths to make sure no one knows it’s here.’ He licked the blood away and, for a moment, his stiletto teeth gained a red sheen. ‘But it’s more than that; the whole thing isn’t just what’s in the package – it seems to be about you and the package. The Host mustn’t get their hands on both together.’

  This wasn’t making any sense at all.

  ‘They already have me,’ I said. ‘What’s in the package?’

  He shrugged and scratched his ear. ‘The rumour is that if they get it the repercussions are going to be fairly biblical. There’s no way we can let them get that sort of advantage.’

  I snorted. ‘Yeah, very funny, it’s the “Host” – everything’s fairly bloody biblical.’

  So, this feeble attempt to prevent me doing my job was just to obstruct the angels. Well, it looked as though I’d got soaked for no reason at all. I’d heard all this before. The never-ending power struggle between Heaven and Hell had really reached the depths of petty tediousness.

  ‘As you say, we’re all trying to pay off debts.’ Checking my watch again I sighed; I was definitely going to be late. ‘I pay off mine by doing as I’m told. No questions asked and get things like you back to where you came from. The only reason you’re still here is that, as demons go, you’re pathetic but at least you stay out of my way.’ I was surprised at my depth of feeling and, keeping my hands fisted at my thighs, I studied the puddle beneath my feet. ‘I don’t care about you, or them, or your stupid war. I don’t care which side has the upper hand. I don’t care about the petty one-upmanship and the need to prove each other wrong.’ I took a deep breath and glared at him. ‘To me, you all seem pretty similar; you argue about the rules and change them to suit yourselves. So you just keep staying out of my way and we’ll get on fine.’ Irritated at having said so much I turned and walked away.

  Bakeneko silently attacked. Half transformed between cat and man he was a bizarre mix of the two. Claws outstretched, long teeth bared and slit eyes wide, he twisted himself around my side and leapt for my face. I reacted without thinking, pushing my arm into his gaping mouth. It was pitiful really. Hissing, yowling, biting and scratching, the demon used every trick he had. Bakeneko was a fair bit stronger than he looked in either of his forms, but he was only about the size of your average seven-year-old. I’m six foot-two. The contest really wasn’t equal, demon or not.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Forcing my forearm against his face, I used it to manoeuvre him toward the wall. Ignoring the searing pain as his teeth pierced my wrist, I pushed him hard into the bricks. I could feel a warm wetness running toward my elbow and, as he bit through the flexor tendons that ran across the back of my hand, my fingers began to deaden.

  I held him there, using my arm as both gag and restraint. Avoiding his kicking feet and scratching nails, I fumbled in my jacket pocket for a knuckle-duster. As I lifted my armoured hand Bakeneko caught sight of the weapon and, eyes widening, began to struggle and shriek. His movements became frantic as he sought to spit out my wrist.

  ‘No … no … wait …’ His voice was muffled. ‘I had to, you wouldn’t stop. You can’t pick up that box. I didn’t know what else to do … You never listen.’

  ‘You backstabbing little shit.’ I leant on his throat until his eyes bulged slightly. ‘It was a mistake to let you go last time. So tell me, “demon”, is this pickup so important that you feel you can just throw your life away?’ I raised my bone-clad fist and watched, emotionless, as his breathing hitched, stuttered and then ceased.

  Bakeneko’s eyes rolled up into his head, his teeth and claws retracting as he turned back into a small black cat that dangled in a dead faint. A little pink nose could just be seen over the arm of my jacket and both tails hung limp and lifeless.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Lowering the unconscious animal to the ground I nudged him lightly with the toe of my boot; he was completely out cold. ‘You great scaredy cat, you’re never going to earn that third tail if you carry on like this.’ The tingling in the back of my hand informed me that my tendons were healing; it also reminded me that the kipping kitty at my feet could still be a problem. Picking up the limp form, I carried him over to the bins. Lifting various lids I coughed at the acrid and carrion stink of rotting meat that corrupted the rain-washed night. Finally finding an emptyish one, I gently placed him in the shallow puddle of noxious fluid at the bottom. Pushing the bin over to the wall, I wedged the lid shut under a stone windowsill. At least he’d be safe from the rats while he came round. I didn’t think that he’d thank me though – especially as he was going to have to work to get himself out. It wouldn’t take him that long, but he’d emerge stinking of garbage and very dishevelled and that, more than any beating, would upset him for days.

  Pale cold light flooded the alley and I realised that the rain had stopped and the thinning clouds had revealed a huge summer moon. Running my hands through my wet hair, my fingers clinked with the sound of old dice. I still had one of my “’dusters” on and, as I wiggled my fingers, they glowed yellow-white in the moonlight. I could understand why they’d upset Bakeneko – I wasn’t that fond of them myself.

  I called them knuckle-dusters, but they were a long way from the metal thumping aids that bore the same name these days. An armoured half-glove would be a better description. Covering the back of my hands, the first two joints of each finger and the first joint of my thumbs, they had been skilfully crafted by some unknown artisan to fit my hands perfectly. Made from that ass’s jawbone, the ancient weapon had been remodelled to deal with the rigours of modern-day fighting. Samson probably could have faced twice as many Philistines with these. Each small plate was elegantly etched with sigils and designs – some of them I didn’t even recognise. All, however, revolved around “focus”. Even a gentle push while wearing these would send an assailant tumbling away, like those balls of weed you see in old westerns. I stared at them, mesmerised as the moonlight defined individual symbols, causing them to writhe and twist.

  They weren’t “alive” but they certainly had more sentience than I was comfortable with. I blinked and shuddered. Holding my hand above my pocket, I waited for the ’duster to release and flow back to its dark, warm sleeping quarters. Apart from my kni
fe, these were the only weapons I used; they’d saved me on a number of occasions. But, try as I might, I just couldn’t like them. The ancient, yellowed bone always came through for me, the ’dusters never faltered and were always there when I needed them. I just got the odd feeling that they humoured me, laughed at me and were just waiting for the right time to do their own thing. Warm and faintly slimy to the touch, it was as though you’d put your hand into someone else’s body. I shrugged my wet coat further onto my shoulders as I hurried back down the alley. No, I didn’t blame Bakeneko for freaking out at all.

  My echoing footsteps sounded intrusive as I walked along Worcester’s empty high street. I spend a lot of time in wet, dark and deserted cities and they always worry me. Their watchful silence played on every ancestral fear I could dredge up.

  Ghosts rustled discarded papers and spun empty bottles in my wake. The wet street reflected both the bright shop lights and the huge moon, becoming a fairytale path of silver and gold which would fade with the dawn, possibly leaving those that travelled it trapped for ever. The few dark windows reflected the city and captured the additional image of a walking man; I’d joined the ghosts and memories that haunted this place. Here and there were relics of the absent human race: bottles and empty fast-food cartons, receipts and tickets, a stolen shopping trolley and even a coat. I felt as if I was merely studying a post-apocalyptic scene and the city resented my interest. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck straining to stand upright. Unlike those that slept soundly in their warm beds, I knew what hid in the shadows.

  As I turned away from the bright lights of the high street, I began to breathe gently again. This part of town was much older and had its roots deeply anchored in history. It felt no need to bluster and threaten; passive and dreaming of days long gone, it allowed me to pass without comment. I stood for a moment, uneasy, at the bottom of Pump Street. A crossroads is always a dodgy thing. These are places of emptiness just waiting to be filled, crossing points, decision points – always best avoided if possible and especially so near sunrise. I rubbed a hand around my tense neck and took a moment to check that my “escape route” was still intact. Long years of doing the same thing over and over again had beaten at least that much sense into me and, satisfied that everything was still in place, I headed down Friar Street.