Live and Let Drood: A Secret Histories Novel (20 page)

“You’ve never been on a pier before. Have you, Eddie?”

“Never been to the seaside before,” I said. “It wasn’t allowed.”

“You’ve never done this before? Not even when you were a child?”

“Especially not then. The likes of this wasn’t for young Droods. We were never allowed out of the Hall’s grounds. You have to remember, Molly: Drood children out in the world, beyond the Hall’s protections, were seen as nothing more than kidnap victims waiting to happen. We would be targets for any number of people desperate to get their hands on a Drood torc and Drood secrets. And, of course, a kidnapped child could be used as leverage against us. Besides…the family has always
believed in keeping its children close; the better to indoctrinate and control them. So holidays were out. Except on television, and all those Enid Blyton books I read as a kid. This…all this, is good. This is fun. I like this!”

Molly laughed aloud, squeezed my hand and led me down the full length of the Pier, over the dark sea waters, making sure I saw everything there was to see. The gift shops were of course packed wall to wall with overpriced tat, loud and gaudy and tacky with it, the kind of thing tourists buy because they think it’s expected of them. And then when they get it home, they look at it and say,
What was I thinking?
Some nice watches, though. Along with a whole bunch of miniature clocks shoehorned into every kind of objet d’art and objet trouvé you could think of.

What really caught my eye was the line of cans containing Brighton air. Really. Large and colourful containers full of fresh air from the seaside, sealed shut.
Enjoy the breezy Brighton Air! Breathe in that ozone! And then take it home with you!
said the sign on the front of every can. Molly got the giggles.

“They’re actually selling
air
to the tourists!”

“Reminds me of something I once saw on eBay,” I said. “Genuine Transylvanian Grave Dirt! Each in its own sealed container, of course. For vampire fanatics who only think they’ve got absolutely everything…My first thought was that the Eastern Europeans had finally figured out a way to sell dirt to foreigners, but it turned out to be more complicated than that. An old vampire count was shipping his ancestral estate to England, one bit at a time. We soon put a stop to that. I tracked down the location in London, got a few friends together, we all drank a lot of holy water and then pissed all over the new earthen plot. And that took care of that.”

“You’ve lived, haven’t you, Eddie?” Molly said admiringly.

“You want me to buy you a can of air or not?”

“I’ll pass.” She frowned. “Am I remembering correctly—someone once tried to sell his soul on eBay?”

“Yeah, but they made him take it down. He couldn’t provide proof of ownership.”

We went through the games arcade next. All the usual noisy video stuff, of course, along with a surprising number of old-fashioned traditional games of no chance whatsoever. Clearly designed to painlessly separate a punter from whatever spare change he happened to have about his person. Whilst at the same time fooling said punter into believing he was having a good time.

“You miserable old scrote,” said Molly, when I explained my insights to her. “You don’t come here to win money. You come here to enjoy yourself! You really don’t understand being on holiday, do you?”

“Apparently not,” I said.

Molly squealed excitedly as she recognised an old favourite from her childhood, and then nothing would do except for her to drag me over to show it off to me. The game was a simple mechanical affair called The Claw. A tall plastic cylinder with toys piled up at its base and a claw that descended from the top. You paid your money, which gave you a measure of control over the claw and a limited amount of time for you to use the claw to grab the toy of your choice. Skill was apparently involved. What could be simpler? Except somehow the claw never did get a secure grip on any of the toys before the time ran out. Funny, that.

Molly jumped up and down excitedly before the clear plastic cylinder, regaling me with tall tales of the ones that got away…and then she went all quiet as she realised one of the toys she remembered was still on offer. She pointed it out to me: an overbearingly cute little stuffed pony in an unnatural shade of sky blue. With a purple mane. Molly slammed both hands against the cylinder, making it shiver, while growling, “I want it, I want it, I want it.” Several parents hustled their children away. I produced a handful of small change; Molly snatched it off my palm and the game was on. Molly took control of the claw, and several times got hold of her prey with it, but somehow it always came loose just as the time ran out. Funny, that.

I may not know much about holidays, but I know a con when I see one.

Molly scowled at the cylinder. I sensed trouble coming, and moved
forward to block people’s view of her. She ghosted her hand through the clear plastic, grabbed the stuffed pony, took it out and hugged it to her. The greasy-haired teenager in charge of the game started to say something. I gave him one of my looks, and he didn’t. Molly cradled the pony to her bosom and looked at me defiantly.

“I’ve always wanted one! It’s mine!”

“Of course it is,” I said. “Anyone can see you two belong together. Can we please move along now?”

“I thought there’d be alarms,” Molly said vaguely. “Really rubbish security here. They didn’t deserve to keep it.”

She moved on through the games arcade, cuddling the stuffed pony to her chest and babbling cheerful nonsense to it. I followed behind. She wasn’t interested in holding my hand anymore. The pony was more important. I had to wonder if there was anything I wanted as much as Molly wanted that particular stuffed toy. I didn’t think so. My family gave us weapons to play with, not toys. And the only things I got to cuddle as a kid were the gryphons on the lawns. And they liked to roll in dead things. Childhoods; they really do mess you up. I hurried to catch up with the only thing I’d ever really wanted, and then we walked together through the arcade.

We wandered from game to game, indulging ourselves occasionally, and I looked them all over with great interest, fascinated by the loud noises and flashing lights. Reminded me of the Armoury. Eventually we passed through the games arcade and out the other side. The fresh sea air came as a relief after so much compressed body odour, and we strolled on, all the way to the end of the Pier. Where I was somewhat surprised to find a slouching, two-story wooden edifice passing itself off as a haunted house. There were a slumping doorway, gloomily backlit windows, and a general ambience of cheap and cheerful. It looked like a stiff breeze would knock it over.

“Okay,” I said. “That is never haunted. Not even a little bit.”

“It’s not meant to be,” Molly said patiently. “It’s just another game, Eddie. For the children. Like a ghost train.”

“Even the Scooby-Doo gang would turn up their noses at this,” I
said firmly. “And no, Molly, we are not going in. I have my dignity. And I just know that if I walk through that door and someone in a sheet jumps out and shouts,
Boo!
at me, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“I suppose the Droods had the real thing!”

“Not as such,” I said. “You met Jacob, the family ghost, awful old reprobate that he was.…And there’s the Headless Nun, of course. When I was a kid, they were usually more fun to hang around with than the rest of my family.”

“It’s a wonder you grew up as normal as you did,” Molly said sweetly.

“Well, quite,” I said.

At the very end of the Pier, some distance from the beach and way out over the ocean, I leaned on the reinforced railings and breathed deeply. Seagulls keened loudly overhead but maintained a respectful distance. Molly hugged her stuffed pony one last time, opened an invisible pocket in her dress, stuffed the thing in and forgot about it. (If it looked to be turning up on our bed at any future time, I planned on being very firm about it.) I peered out across the ocean. Various ships were passing by, out on the horizon, going about the business apparently without a care in the world. Though it’s hard to be sure with ships.

“I do like this pier,” I said. “Thanks for bringing me here, Molly. Even if your friend isn’t here. It does me good to be reminded that there are things in this world worth saving.”

“We could always go on one of the rides,” said Molly. She indicated the various roller coasters and Tilt-A-Whirls, most of which swung too far out over the waters for my liking. I shook my head firmly.

“I’ve never understood the appeal of those things. My world is dangerous enough as it is without putting myself at risk on purpose. I wouldn’t go on one of those things if you paid me. And I’ve got Drood armour.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Molly. “But you have no sense of adventure.”

“That isn’t adventure,” I said. “That is one mechanical malfunction
away from a major local news story just waiting to happen. Can we please go see this old friend of yours now? That is what we came here for, after all.”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was! I am. But part of being a Drood is knowing when to get down to business.”

“Look to your right,” said Molly, “and there you will behold Madame O’s Palace of Mysteries. Look upon her wonders and marvel.”

I looked. There, tucked away to one side, was an old-fashioned fortune-teller’s tent. A droopy-looking thing, presumably surrounding the stall within, its rough canvas covered with all the usual symbols that the general public has been conditioned to accept as representing the mystical and the occult: moons and stars, witches on broomsticks and black cats. It couldn’t have looked more fake if it tried.

“That’s the point!” said Molly, when I expressed this view to her. “No one would ever think to find the real thing here, looking like that.…Would they?”

I looked the tent over carefully. “Who’s she hiding from?”

“Pretty much everybody,” said Molly. “Madame O has conned, double-crossed, and done dirt to practically everyone in our game you can think of at one time or another. And, yes, very definitely including your family. During her long, involved and decidedly underhanded career, Madame O has been run out of every major city you can name, and some that aren’t even there anymore. Her trouble is, she’s got no self-control. She sees something she wants and she goes for it. Just grabs it and runs, and to hell with the consequences. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Thought you were describing someone else for a moment,” I said smoothly. “Do carry on.”

“Madame O was my mentor, for a time,” said Molly. “Taught me everything I know about taking advantage of the world. Well, not everything, but you’d be surprised.…”

The hand-painted sign set up on an easel at the entrance to the tent read
MADAME OSIRIS. KNOWS ALL, SEES ALL, TELLS ALL.

“For the right price,” said Molly. “Madame O never gave away anything in her life.”

I looked at the sign. “Tell me that’s not her real name.”

“Of course not!” said Molly. “To start with, Osiris is a man’s name. One of the old male Egyptian gods. You see, you can learn things from watching old mummy movies. I don’t think anyone knows Madame O’s real name. According to old magical tradition, to know the true name of a person or an object is to have power over it. As long as I’ve known her, it’s always been Madame O-something. When I first met her in Vienna all those years ago, she was passing herself off as Madame Olivia, Daughter of the Night and Disciple of Darkness. She was a bit old for the badger game even then, but she still had a certain glamour.…She could make grown men give up their credit card details and pin numbers just by looking at them in a certain way. She taught me all I know about deviousness and debauchery. Including that thing I do with my fingertips that you really like…”

“Far too much information,” I said. “Can we trust her?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Because she knows things, sweetie.”

“Can we trust her to tell us the truth?”

“If we lean on her hard enough. We don’t have enough money to bribe her.”

I shrugged. “She’s your friend.”

“There are friends…and there are friends,” said Molly. “And Madame O is neither.”

She slapped aside the tent flap and strode in. I followed, carefully pulling the tent flaps closed behind me. I didn’t want us being interrupted. Inside there was hardly any room to move, the lighting was kept deliberately gloomy so you couldn’t tell how cheap the place was, and there was nothing in any way mystical about the atmosphere. The only light came from half a dozen candles in a cheap candelabra, illuminating the table and two chairs set up. The crystal ball on the table looked impressive enough at first glance; but I’ve spent enough time around the real thing to know a fake when I see one.

Madame Osiris sat on the far side of the table, carefully positioned to be half-hidden in the shadows. A lady of a certain age, solidly built and wrapped in traditional gypsy robes, she looked like she could punch her weight. Her bare muscular arms were covered in cheap and tacky multicoloured bangles that clattered loudly against one another with every movement, while her long-fingered hands caressed the crystal ball in a disturbingly sensuous way. She had a handsome enough face with a good bone structure, under industrial strength makeup, topped with a silk turban. She bestowed on Molly and me a wide professional smile and launched into what was clearly a well-practiced routine, addressing us both in a rich smoky voice.

“Enter, dear friends, into the Mysteries of the Hereafter! Learn what the future has in store for you! And together we shall—Oh, bloody hell. It’s you, Molly Metcalf.”

Madame Osiris pushed her chair back from the table, allowing the candlelight to illuminate her fully, the better to glower fiercely at Molly.

“Nice to see you again too, Madame O,” Molly said cheerfully. “Don’t get up. We’re not staying. And we’re definitely not tourists, so lay off the purple prose.”

Madame Osiris sniffed loudly. “All the stalls on all the piers and you had to come walking into mine. I should have seen this coming.” She looked me over in an impersonal sort of way. “So this is the new boyfriend, is it? You always did like them big and dumb, Molly. Whatever happened to…Oh, you know, Big and Blond and Ethereal? I always liked him.”