Qualia Page 8

  The smell as we opened the door immediately informed me that we were buried in paper. From the parquet floor to the vaulted ceiling, shelves lined the walls – walls to which there seemed no end.

  ‘Come on.’ Nessus walked quickly away down one of the stacks.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘This is what you needed to see, wasn’t it?’ The gatekeeper cast a wary eye over his shoulder and increased his pace slightly. ‘Any chance of you moving faster?’ His dark brows drew together with a slight look of consternation. ‘We’ve still a fair way to go and I don’t want those bloody companions of yours turning up back at the gate and finding you not there. The last thing we need is angry angels zipping through here in a flap.’ He broke into a trot.

  Jogging and talking don’t go well together so I just puffed along in his wake. Finally he couldn’t take it any more.

  ‘Come on, useless.’ He came to a halt and waited for me to catch up. ‘If anybody sees me doing this, I’ll never live it down.’ Reaching for my arm he threw me up on his back. ‘You can hold onto those ridges.’ He shook the long mane that flowed between his shoulder blades and then he took off. ‘Don’t pull my hair.’ He shouted over his shoulder. ‘That can really hurt.’

  I hate horses. They kick at one end, bite at the other and are bloody uncomfortable in the middle. As my buttocks made sharp contact with his back for about the fiftieth time, I realised that if it looks like a horse and moves like a horse, then quite frankly it may as well be a bloody horse and it didn’t matter how flaming mystical or mythical it was. After only two minutes, it was painfully obvious that I wasn’t going to be walking in a straight line for the next couple of days.

  Eventually the plunging, rocking, nausea-inducing ride stopped and Nessus slid to a halt.

  I had been gripping his spinal ridge so tightly that I found myself, either unwilling or unable, to swing my leg over his back. Using pure will power, I forced my fingers open one by one and then slithered from his back to lie groaning on the cold stone floor. My backside throbbed, my thighs felt as though someone had been rubbing them with low-grade sandpaper and my fingers, although now open, were white knuckled and stiff.

  Reaching down again, Nessus grabbed my jacket and hauled me to my feet. ‘Stop being such a big girl’s blouse.’ He pushed me toward an ancient-looking set of shelves, their contents imprisoned behind ornate, black steel gates. ‘Get what you need and be quick about it.’ He pulled a key from his bag and opened the lock as quietly as he could. At the final click, he looked over his shoulder, his long ears twitching. ‘Be really bloody quick about it.’

  Pulling the gate open I stared at the hundreds of files on the shelves. ‘What am I looking for?’ I think my brain must have been shaken about with all the bouncing.

  ‘Oh for the love of …’ Nessus gently poked a large file on the lower shelf with his foot. ‘It’s that one.’ Turning away, he muttered, ‘Metatron isn’t paying me nearly enough for this.’

  “LATIMER. G 1974”. The file was the last in a long line marked with similar names. Although “Latimer” had changed over the years, it really hadn’t changed that much: Latimarus, Latinier, Latonere, Latinarius and so on. ‘This is all the same family?’ I asked Nessus.

  He nodded. ‘These files don’t exist anywhere else … Shh … listen.’ His long ears swivelled backward and forward; a muscle twitched in his shoulder.

  After placing the large file carefully into my backpack, I was just about to ask exactly what I was supposed to be listening to when something large dropped from the stacks. Landing heavily on my back it pushed me to the floor with an odd laughing grunt.

  ‘Hello, Lickspittle.’ A horribly familiar voice hissed into my ear. ‘Having a déjà vu moment, are we?’

  Flat on the floor with the demon on top of me, I was trapped. All I could do was watch as two armed centaurs appeared. One was chestnut, his human parts young and blond. A long, heavy chain dangled from his fist. The other was older, a flea-bitten grey, his speckled white coat scarred and dull. His grey hair and beard were long and rough-trimmed. Tanned, weather-beaten and sporting an impressive amount of chest and back hair he held a huge hammer easily in his spade-like hands. He certainly looked the more dangerous of the two.

  The fight was short and brutal. As they approached Nessus reared, took a firm grip on his bardiche and screamed a challenge. The brazen roar, echoing around the huge hall of records caused the stacks to shake. Striking out at the nearest assailant he forced the shining silver shod spurs into the back of the scruffy grey. The points sank deep into its fleshy shoulder; blood welled and then ran in a vivid stream down its front leg.

  The older beast screamed and twisted, retreating in an effort to dislodge the painful spikes. The grey turned and looked set to run. I quickly found out that I wasn’t an expert in reading a horse’s body language. Bracing both front feet squarely below his chest, the grey glanced over his shoulder, took aim then lashed out with both back feet. Fast and hard, it was a smashing blow which caught Nessus squarely in the ribs and sent him staggering hard into one of the heavy bookcases. He dropped his weapon as the shelves splintered and cracked, dropping full files and loose sheets onto the floor.

  For a couple of moments I couldn’t see through the storm of swirling paper.

  Quick to seize the opportunity, the younger centaur raced forward, his chain swinging. Without hesitation, he gave a swift flick with the chain; lassoing the heavy links around Nessus’s back feet he gave a hefty tug. Discarding his hammer, the grey turned to help and both pulled mightily as they slowly stepped backward. With his back legs useless, Nessus fell to the floor, his arms desperately grabbing at the shattered shelves in an effort to keep upright. Handing the chain to the grinning youngster, the grey walked calmly forward and wrapped another chain around Nessus’s front legs. Giving the stricken centaur a judicious look, he swung his hammer and, with almost a gentle blow, brought the great metal head onto the back of my guide’s neck. Nessus’s eyes fluttered closed and he collapsed onto the pile of splintered wood and crumpled papers at the base of the great shelves.

  In the sudden silence the demon on my back laughed. ‘So, here we are again.’ I had been so caught up with the fight that I’d almost forgotten it was there. Grabbing my hair it banged my face into the floor. I heard the crack as my nose broke and felt the sudden wet warmth as blood flooded my lips and chin. The sudden, sharp agony made my eyes water and I spluttered as blood and tears ran into my mouth.

  ‘No use crying. Take a good look around.’ The Drekavak laughed. ‘You won’t find any dog shit here.’ Standing up, it hauled me to my feet. ‘They tell me you can’t die? I’m willing to test that theory. I’m sure even you would have trouble getting your shit back together if I ripped you limb from limb then put each organ into a locked box. Either you wouldn’t come back at all or each bit would grow a new you. That could be an interesting experiment.’ It pushed me onward by poking a razor-sharp claw into my shoulder.

  The Drekavak herded me through a small door at the side of the stacks. Then, keeping a fairly fast pace, it hustled me along down a small, dark corridor. Well, this was just great. Michael was going to kill me for embarrassing him and then Metatron was going to kill me because I didn’t return with his file. There wasn’t any way I could see myself getting out of this in one piece. Well, if that was the case, I may as well let my mouth of its leash and see exactly how much bedlam I could create.

  ‘Hey, Skippy!’ I glanced over my shoulder at the demon stalking along behind me. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Obviously this guy wasn’t much for small-talk.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ I pressed on. ‘Still got dog shit in your ears? Certainly smells that way.’ I shrugged and dragged my feet. ‘Any minute now you’re going to have a flock of angels through here, I take it you’re fine with that?’

  I ducked and yelped loudly as it stuck its claws deep into my shoulder. Tripping over my own fee
t I crashed to the floor. Without any emotion the demon kicked me, raking its long back claws down my thigh.

  That hurt! So I didn’t feel too bad about squealing loudly and crab-walking backward, trying my best to get away from the expressionless creature.

  ‘Damn!’ The beastie studied its paw – one claw dangled at an odd angle. Busy with its broken nail the demon ignored me.

  Scuttling into the shadows in a corner of the passage I pressed my back to the wall. I reckoned I had one small chance and, fumbling in my pockets, I waited, frustrated, for both ’dusters to grip my hands, then quickly reached over my head to grab my knife.

  Encumbered by bone-covered fingers, I fumbled the knife and yelped in irritation as it threatened to slip.

  The demon swivelled toward me. ‘Are you in pain?’ It hissed a laugh. ‘Good!’ It stepped toward me.

  Twisting to one side I swung a fist and made good contact with one of its knees. There was a satisfying snap as it screamed and toppled over.

  Concentrating on keeping a firm grip on my knife, I scrambled to my feet then faced the enraged creature. Favouring its leg only slightly, it came for me. As it lunged, claws out, I ducked and, stooping below its arm, brought up the knife intending to go for its throat. The knife slipped, I missed and, slashing wildly, only managed a deep graze to the flesh of its breast.

  The demon screamed. Smoke and black ichor erupted from the shallow wound. Eyes wide with surprise and pain it slid slowly down the wall, its breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

  I didn’t hang around to find out how it fared – I ran.

  Once out of sight of the demon I paused. Should I try to save Nessus? I dithered for a moment before self-preservation reasserted itself. He knew the dangers; I was sorry to lose him but there was nothing I could do.

  Over the last thousand years or so I’ve developed a fairly good sense of direction and it only took me about five minutes to get back to the market. I trotted carefully through the crowds. Head down, I tried to make myself as small and as insignificant as I could. Ahead was the exit to the passageways and, hoping I could remember all the turns Nessus had made, I lengthened my stride. I’d never wanted to see Michael so much in all my very, very long life.

  The two angels were standing with a small creature that looked to be the product of a fox and a human. Its big amber eyes and long ears twitched toward me as I ran over to them then stood, hands on knees, gasping and wheezing, trying to force air back into my lungs.

  ‘Are you all right, Joe?’ Raphael put his hand on my back. ‘What happened to you? Where’s Nessus?’

  I swear my mouth actually formed the shapes for a dozen different words but in the end I opted for silence.

  Michael stared over my shoulder with a frown. ‘What have you been up to?’ he asked.

  ‘What I was told.’ I glanced up at him and gulped as I saw his lips thin.

  ‘Come on, Michael.’ Raphael grasped his arm. ‘Metatron didn’t tell us what Joe was supposed to do – don’t force him into spilling the beans.’ He gave me a sly wink. ‘Is it time to go?’

  I nodded rapidly and suppressed the urge to check over my shoulder for pursuers.

  The little creature’s nostrils twitched. ‘It’s bleeding.’

  Raphael gently turned me around and studied the wet rip in the shoulder of my jacket then raised an eyebrow.

  I shrugged. ‘Must have caught it on something,’ I said. Come on, guys, I thought, we really have to go. I imagined that I could hear faint shouting on the wind.

  Raphael narrowed his eyes and stared at me, then, with a slight shake of his head he turned to smile at Michael and the other angels. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘All present and correct, let’s head for home, shall we?’

  Back in Metatron’s office I sighed and slumped onto the carpet, then, finding even that soft haven unstable, I collapsed onto my back and closed my eyes. I had entered the lift in Hell with everyone else but I’d turned up here alone. I wasn’t unhappy about it. Eventually, I hauled myself to my feet and wandered over to Metatron’s desk. Pulling the file from my backpack I was tempted to read it. Shaking my head, I kept it firmly closed. I could almost guarantee that, the moment I opened the first page, the boss would turn up and catch me with my hand in the cookie jar. Where was he anyway? This was something he wanted a great deal, so why wasn’t he here? I needed to talk to him. Fed up with waiting in the silence, I placed the file on his desk. As soon as I’d removed my hand the floor disappeared and I was back in my living room. It took me less than two minutes to get to bed.

  CHAPTER 4

  ARE SUNDAY MORNINGS SPECIAL because even God took the day off or did God take the day off because they were already special? That question, like the chicken and the egg, went around and around in my mind as I lay snuggled up in bed the next morning. I was desperately trying to put off that moment when I would have to put my feet on the cold floor. Rolling over, I stared at the clock. 10.30 a.m. … check. Sun shining … check. Still alive … oh definitely check.

  I ran my tongue over my teeth and grimaced. Was that sulphur? I was fairly sure a good scrubbing would take care of the disgusting taste in my mouth and, if that failed, a double-decker bacon sandwich with cheese and ketchup would do the job.

  Half an hour later I was back in bed with a tray that held the ultimate breakfast: a pot of tea, the aforementioned bacon sandwich, a bowl of Häagen-Dazs’ finest and a book of World War Two poetry. Pausing only to settle my pillows around me, I took a gulp of hot tea and opened the book at the first page. I fully intended to stay there till noon.

  Twenty minutes later, I slapped the book, unread, down onto the bed. My ice cream had melted and the sandwich, its melted cheese oozing from the one bite I’d managed to choke down, had coagulated into a greasy mass. The image of a centaur, chains wrapped tightly about his legs, arms twisted up behind his back and blood oozing from the back of his neck just sat in my mind, blocking out everything else. I went over it again and again looking for something I missed – some way I could have helped. I closed my eyes and deliberately remembered each and every second of that fight; there really was nothing I could have done.

  One little comment kept coming back to me. Something Nessus had said about Metatron not paying him enough. Having given myself a headache, I decided that ignoring the small voice of my conscience would probably be better for my health and that I’d leave it all to the big guns to sort out. It wasn’t my problem. I’d followed my orders and been successful – that was all that mattered. If Nessus was playing off both sides then that was his choice. I punched my pillows then. Pulling the quilt over my head to keep out the cheerful morning sunshine and any form of guilt-induced insomnia, I went back to sleep.

  The alarm went off for a second time at 12.30 p.m. and, after hitting the snooze button twice, I had only just enough time to get dressed before I was due next door. Throwing myself out of bed, I sent the forgotten tray and its contents flying. Dragging the quilt off the bed I threw it in the corner of the room. Damn it all, I’d clean that up later.

  After a quick shower and a rather perfunctory shave, I shot downstairs and, grabbing the bottle of wine that I’d bought at the shop yesterday (good God, was it really only yesterday?), I staggered toward the front door. Before leaving I did the usual checks: matching socks, flies done up, mobile and ’dusters in pocket and knife between the shoulder blades – check, check and check. I was as organised as I was ever going to get. Lying on the hall table was a small bunch of flowers; I’d forgotten to put them in water. I turned them upside down in an effort to make them look healthier. No chance. I shrugged and dashed back to the kitchen, searching feverishly for the chocolates I’d also bought. Even a girl you’ve known for years needs more than hidden knuckle-dusters and slightly dehydrated carnations.

  Shrugging my shoulders just to make sure my knife was settled, I gathered up the slightly embarrassing gifts and headed out into the sunshine.

  Hopping the fence, I wended my way through
Carly’s “garden art” and, pausing only to run my hands through my hair and rub a finger over my teeth, I knocked on her bright red front door.

  ‘Hey, Joe.’ My neighbour looked as gorgeous as ever. ‘Didn’t realise you’d be here so early.’ The green towel, desperately attempting to contain her mass of wet hair, failed at that moment; one end snaked free and made a bid for freedom.

  ‘Erm … Here.’ I pushed the wine, chocolates and flowers toward her. I could feel my face heating up.

  ‘Thanks.’ She couldn’t actually take them as her hands were busy tucking the towel back around her head. ‘Come on in.’ She grabbed at the flapping corner and tucked it into another fold, then deftly snagged the wine and chocolates with a grin. ‘I think I’ll take these before you decide you need them for Dutch courage.’ She turned and headed back into the house leaving me on the doorstep holding the bunch of wilting flowers. ‘Come on, gooseberry, don’t just stand there,’ she shouted from the kitchen. ‘I need your views on my latest creation.’

  Carly was a much better interior designer than I could ever hope to be. My house looked exactly what it was: a sleeping base for a bachelor book fanatic with a bad diet. Carly’s looked … cosy, lived in and, despite the shape of the rooms being a mirror image of my own, she had made this a home. It was obvious that she loved and cared for her property. I’d often considered paying her to decorate mine.

  For numbers, our book collections almost matched and her shelves had come from the same Swedish furniture store. That, however, was pretty much where the similarities ended. Carefully positioned between the contents of her library were little ornaments, each representing a cherished memory. No china poodles for Carly; everything was natural wood or stone. Figurines, bowls and boxes, every one lovingly carried back from far-off places by travelling friends, or found in little craft fairs. Some had even been created just for her by other artists. Each piece nestled happily in its perfect place between huge tomes of medicinal herbalism, feng shui, glass art and myriad other strange titles – each dedicated to enriching its owner’s life in some small way. To complete the feeling of warmth and homeliness, the whole room glowed. Multicoloured shadows moved with the sun over the walls; pastel ghosts of the stained-glass tree that spread deep green leaves across the top of her bay window. The solitary red apple that hung from its branches created a fuzzy sniper’s spot that slowly tracked across the books, sluggishly threatening each ornament in turn as the day progressed.