Paint Your Dragon (13 page)

 

It had happened long ago, when a nineteen-year-old Chubby Stevenson had taken a day's spurious flu leave from the programming pool at DQZ Software and wandered into Milton Keynes' spacious Agora to check out the flea market. He was looking for a reasonably priced second-hand snooker cue, but his attention was drawn to what looked suspiciously like a Kawaguchiya 8452 computer word processer, squatting dejectedly among a family of dying toasters on a stall at the very back of the market. As nonchalantly as he could, he asked the price.

‘That depends.'

‘Huh?'

‘That depends,' the stallholder repeated. ‘These things are negotiable, in the right circumstances.'

As far as young Stevenson was concerned, that was probably some sort of euphemism for
all this stuff is nicked.
He shrugged.

‘Give you a tenner,' he said.

The stallholder laughed again. For ever after, Chubby couldn't say for certain whether he/she was male or female, old or young, barking mad or just plain loopy. At the time, he didn't care. He/she was wearing a hooded anorak and standing right in the shadow of the flyover, face entirely obscured. Probably just as well, Chubby told himself, if the voice is anything to go by. Saves poking eyeholes in a perfectly good paper bag.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Twelve-fifty, take it or leave it.'

More batty chortling. He was just about to walk away and sort through what looked like a boxful of really choice Duran Duran LPs when the laughter stopped. So did Chubby.

‘You like it, then?'

Chubby turned back, feeling as he did so that somehow he was doing something that was going to have a significant effect on the rest of his life.

‘Yeah, well,' he said, trying to sound bored. ‘The 8452's all right, I suppose, if you don't mind having to wind the poxy thing up with a handle every time before you log in. I'd have thought you'd be glad to see the back of it, actually.'

‘If you like it, you can have it.'

‘Did we say twelve-fifty?'

‘Free.' The stallholder sniggered. ‘Gratis and for nothing. I'll even throw in six discs and the plug.'

For a moment, Chubby had the curious sensation of being mugged with a bunch of lead daffodils. ‘All right,' he said. ‘Where's the catch?'

‘To take the back off, you mean? Well, you just press this little plastic tab here, then you—'

‘The drawback. The bad news. The sting in the tail.'

‘Oh, that. There isn't one.'

‘Honest?'

The stallholder was so obscure now that Chubby could only really make out a voice and an absence of light. ‘Cross my heart and hope to - Honest. It works. It won't break down. Son, you should chuck the day job and start over selling dental floss to gift horses.'

Chubby wavered. There was something he didn't quite ... But free's free. Also, in Milton Keynes, free's bloody rare. ‘Done,' he said. ‘Does it come in its original box?'

‘And another thing,' replied the stallholder, narked. ‘If I was you, I'd wait till my luck breaks down before I start pushing it. Take the sodding thing and get lost.'

When he'd got it home and plugged it in, it was pitch dark. The bulb had gone in his bedsit, and the battery in his torch was doing primeval-slime impressions. The green light from the screen seemed to soak into every corner of the room, like the spray from an over-filled cafetiere.

Chubby snorted. At DQZ they'd stopped using gimmicky log-ins years ago, even for games. He pressed the key to eject the master disc, but nothing happened.

I am the genie of the PCW. Centuries ago, a mighty sorcerer imprisoned me in this tiny purgatory. Release me
.

Chubby's jaw dropped. Even Sir Clive Sinclair was never this far gone. He hit the power switch. No effect. He pulled the plug. The green light mocked him.

Easy come, Chubby muttered to himself, easy go. He picked up the big adjustable spanner he kept for adjusting the chain on his moped, turned his face away and belted the screen as hard as he could.

‘Ow
^!
'

The spanner flew across the room. His hand felt as if the National Grid was taking a short-cut through it. After a very long three seconds, he pulled himself away and fell over. The screen was unbroken.

‘Fucking hell, you bastard machine, you nearly electrocuted me!'

You were foolish. You will not be foolish again
.

Without taking his eyes from the screen Chubby backed away, until his hand connected with the door handle. His last thought, before his whole body became a running river of light and pain, was
Okay, so aluminium does conduct electricity.
Then he collapsed again.

Get up. He could see the words without looking at the screen. He got up and sat in his chair.
Thank you
.

‘Explain,' he said.

I am
a
spirit
o
f exceptional
power.
A magician conjured me into this machine. The machine swallowed me. You know how it is
with these primitive,fioppy disc drives
.

‘So?'

If you release me, I will be your slave for the rest of your life. Whatever you say will be done
.

‘And the catch?'

There is no catch. You have to undo two little brass screws round the back of the console
—

‘The snag. The fly in the ointment.'

If you release me, I must have your soul
.

‘Oh.' Chubby frowned. ‘Have I got one?'

Jeez, Chubby thought. On the other hand, what you never knew you had you never miss. And none of this is actually happening, anyway.

‘I dunno. Explain how it works.'

‘Anything?'

Anything that is within my power
.

‘Ah. Cop-out.'

The screen filled with undulating wavy lines; if Chubby had had the manual, he'd have known they represented laughter.

‘Be one?' Chubby scowled. ‘Don't follow you. You mean, like a merger?'

Undulating wavy lines.
hery apt. Imagine a merger between the Mirror group and the Brightlingsea
Evening Chronicle
and you'll get the general idea.

‘Okay.' Chubby's throat was dry, but his palms were wet. ‘And if refuse?'

If I cannot have your soul I shall incinerate your body and fry your brain with lightning
.

‘Ah.'

If you choose quickly, I might be persuaded to throw in a free radio alarm clock
.

‘Right. Well, in that case ...'

 

So far, he'd had four goes. Each time, the results had been immediate and completely satisfactory. Each time, he hadn't felt any difference at all except that, on the first occasion, he'd been a young, pear-shaped computer programmer living over a chemist's shop and hoping one day he'd meet a nice girl with her own car. Now...

Your wish is my command
.

‘I know. Now listen carefully.'

‘
H
ere, you,' said George. ‘Nosh for six, quick as you like.' While Father Kelly quivered his acquiescence, George considered the finer points of hospitality. ‘Anything your lot can't eat?' he asked. ‘On religious grounds, or whatever?'

Chardonay shook his head. ‘I don't think so,' he replied.

‘Perjurers always give me wind, mind,' Slitgrind interrupted, ‘unless they're pickled in brimstone. Then, with spring vegetables and a pleasant Niersteiner or—'

‘I've got cheese,' Father Kelly replied. ‘Or chicken roll.'

Slitgrind sniffed. ‘Make it the chicken,' he said. ‘Cheese makes you have nightmares.'

Father Kelly stared at him, made a very small high-pitched noise without opening his lips, and fled. George slumped into the armchair and waved his new friends to do likewise.

‘So,' ventured Chardonay, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘You're a saint.'

George nodded. ‘Fully accredited, got my own day and everything.'

Among the demons, glances were exchanged. ‘Um,' Chardonay went on, his face indicating a long time before his mouth opened that he was about to say something that would be difficult to put diplomatically. ‘You see, the fact of the matter is—'

‘Hang on, I forgot something.' George picked up a heavy alabaster figure of the Holy Virgin and bashed it on the mantelpiece until Father Kelly reappeared. ‘We'll need booze as well,' he said. ‘What you got?'

With his eyes shut, the priest started to recite. ‘Let me see, now,' he said. ‘Spirits, we've got brandy, gin and vodka, Johnny Walker Black Label, Bells, Famous Grouse, The Macallan and Jack Daniels. Beer, there's Guinness, Heineken, Becks, Grolsch, Newcastle Brown or Stella Artois.'

‘No Holsten Pils?'

‘Sorry.'

‘Christ!'

Chardonay coughed softly, like a sheep who's just wandered into someone else's hotel room by mistake. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘a cup of tea will do just fine.'

Slitgrind and Prodsnap began to protest, then they caught Snorkfrod's eye and subsided. George shrugged.

‘Please yourselves,' he said. ‘Well, don't just stand there, ponce. Jump to it.'

Father Kelly vanished and George turned back to face the demons. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘You were saying?'

‘We're...' Chardonay swallowed. ‘Actually, we're devils. From Hell. I, er, thought you ought to know that before you started, well, giving us things to eat and, er, things.'

‘I know,' George replied, puzzled. ‘Like I told you, I'm a goddamn saint. We know these things.'

‘I see.' Chardonay bit his lip, remembering just too late that he was no longer human and suppressing a yelp of pain. ‘Only I thought you might... Well, we are on different sides, so to speak.'

‘Bullshit,' George replied crisply, lighting a Lucky Strike and blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘We're on the same side. We're,' he added, crinkling his face with a rather distasteful grin, ‘the good guys.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The white hats,' George amplified, enjoying himself. ‘The US Cavalry. The Mounties. Sure, we do different jobs, but we all work for the same Big Guy. Only difference is, I sent the baddies to Hell and you lot keep 'em there. Jeez, I thought you people would have known that.'

There was a further exchange of glances. Five demons began to say something, but decided at the last moment not to. Eventually, Chardonay inclined his head in a noncommittal nod.

‘Point taken,' he said. ‘It's just that we thought your lot, I mean saints and angels and so on, were - well, took a less pragmatic view of the situation. After all, there was this war—'

‘So?' George chuckled. ‘Power struggles, palace coups, nights of the long knives, you get office politics in any big organisation. Doesn't mean that at the end of the day ‘you aren't all basically pulling together as a team.'

Chardonay sighed. However hard he tried to play angel's advocate, he couldn't fault the logic. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I agree. But '

‘More to the point,' George interrupted, leaning forward and leaking smoke in Chardonay's face, ‘what in buggery are you lot doing here? Bit off your patch, aren't you?'

‘Ah,' said Chardonay. ‘Well.'

‘We missed the bus,' said Prodsnap.

‘Got left behind on purpose, more like,' Slitgrind grumbled. ‘Probably thought it was funny, the pillocks. I'll show them funny.'

‘Bus?' George was stroking his chin, his mouth hidden behind his fingers. ‘What bus?'

‘Works outing,' Prodsnap answered. ‘To Nashville.' He sighed. ‘The Grand Old Opry. Gracelands ...'

If George was disconcerted, he did a good job of covering it up. ‘Got you,' he said. ‘So basically, you're stranded miles outside your jurisdiction, you're going to have to walk back, and if anybody recognises you for what you are, there'll be one hell of an Incident and when you get back you're all going to find yourselves sideways-promoted to mucking out the Great Shit Lakes, right?'