Paint Your Dragon (37 page)

‘Safe?'

Kurt nodded. ‘Because,' he went on, ‘if I've sussed that bastard George, he'll start off by zapping the audience, just to make sure there's nobody like me in there waiting to take a shot at him. That sound like the George you used to know?'

The dragon nodded. ‘I won't ask how you know who I am,' he said. ‘But we can't actually let the bloodthirsty lunatic kill fifty thousand people. What are we going to—?'

‘Why not?'

‘Why not?'
The dragon gawped, gobsmacked. ‘For Christ's sake, you idiot, that's
people
out there, it's your bloody species. And you stand there like a bloody traffic light saying Why not?'

Kurt nodded. ‘Sure,' he said. ‘Think about it. Nearly all these guys are playing hooky from their own time, right? And what sort of guys are they? You don't know? I'll tell you.'

The dragon grabbed his arm. The flying shape was getting closer. ‘Not now, you bastard.
Do
something!'

‘Those guys,' Kurt continued, calmly unhooking the dragon's hand from his arm, ‘are your aristocrats, your statesmen, your notable public figures, captains of industry and generally mega-rich citizens. Now then, think open spaces. Town squares. Piazzas. Pigeons sitting on ...'

Suddenly the dragon relaxed and began to laugh. ‘Statues,' he said.

‘Eventually the penny drops. Yeah, man, statues.' Kurt shook his head and sighed. ‘Jeez, for a superior intelligence, you must be just plain dumb,' he said. ‘Haven't you worked it out for yourself yet? You've been cruising around breathing fire, torching buildings, all that kind of crap, and
nobody's really died.
Even those -' Here Kurt shuddered, recalling his own sufferings. ‘Those
ladies,'
he spat, ‘in that hall in Birmingham didn't actually die. Nobody actually dies because of you, you moron. And you know why? Because you're the good guy.'

‘I am?'

Kurt indulged himself with a theatrical gesture of contemptuous despair. ‘Man,' he said witheringly, ‘you are
dumb.
Look,' he went on, ‘when you're the good guy, however hard you try to do Evil, you just can't hack it. Unfair, sure, but that's the way it goes. There's always someone trailing along behind you - in this case, me - sorting out the mess and bringing the dead back to life. Kinda goes with the territory.'

‘I see,' the dragon lied. ‘Just a second. This thing with the bodies; him getting mine, me getting his ...'

Kurt nodded. ‘I hired a witch-doctor to make the switch,' he said. ‘Even a dumbo like you should've been able to work that one out. I mean, how can Good triumph over Evil if the goddamn dragon kills Saint Fucking George?'

The dragon's reply was drowned out by screams. George was killing the audience.

When he'd finished doing that, he hovered for a moment above the centre of the arena, waiting for the smoke to clear so that he could see (time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted). When he was satisfied that everything was okay - nothing on the benches but charred bodies, smoking corpses, horribly twisted and distorted shapes that had once been people - he climbed, circled twice, put his wings back and came in on the glide, letting his own momentum carry him in.

Chubby Stevenson, who wasn't quite dead yet, watched him slipping gracefully through the sky, no sound except the whistling of the air, and reflected that he had never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life before. And, he concluded, since it was extremely unlikely that he was going to get a better offer in the few seconds that remained of his life, what better way to go than feasting his eyes on beauty? With luck, it might help take his mind off the agonising pain.

Beside him where it had fallen, his Kawaguchiya Personal Electronics LFZ6686 laptop computer, which had somehow not been melted into a shapeless plastic blob during the firestorm, switched itself on and cleared its screen.

Did you remember to get my bet on
?

‘What?' The effort of speaking racked Chubby's body with pain. ‘Oh, God, yes, your bet. No, I forgot, Sorry.'

What
?
You idiot! You stupid, careless, good-for-nothing
...

‘Only kidding,' Chubby said. ‘I got you twenty-five to one. The slip's in the asbestos wallet in my inside pocket. Hey, computer.'

Well
?

‘When I die, who gets my soul? I mean, I think I still own the majority of it, so surely—'

‘Bastard,' Chubby said and died.

The dragon watched as the shape grew. Seeing himself for the first time through mortal eyes, he realised just how enormous a dragon is. That's what makes the difference, he realised. Dragons are so much bigger than people, not to mention faster, stronger, tougher, more intelligent; only a complete idiot could expect them to live by the same rules. Sure, George, the psychopath, had just killed fifty thousand people. So what? Dragons are different from you and me. You have to make allowances.

‘Wake up, cretin,' Kurt hissed in his ear. ‘C'mon, you got work to do.'

‘Have I? Oh, sorry, yes. How do I work this thing?'

Kurt clicked his tongue. ‘You haven't been listening, have you? Look, all you gotta do is look through the little black tube. When the red dot's on the middle of the dragon's chest, press the button.'

‘Thanks.' The dragon studied the device in his hands; basically a big grey tube with a smaller black tube perched on top. There was a serial number and the words MADE IN HELL stencilled on the back end. He peered through the 'scope, lined up the sights, and ...

George exploded.

Kurt later explained that he'd missed the heart-lung area and hit the stomach instead, hence no instantaneous kill. Not that it mattered, because the rocket detonated inside the fuel reserves in the beast's intestines. This was why, for perhaps as long as two seconds, the poor bugger hung there in the sky, head and tail writhing sickeningly while the whole centre section became a huge orange fireball. Two seconds later, the whole lot went up with a heavy thump! noise, which made the ground shake and sent charred bits of dead spectator flying round like dried leaves in a sharp dust of wind. An enormous blob of fire hung on in the air for maybe a second and a half longer, and then the whole lot sank slowly, like a burning airship, to the ground. The smell was probably the nastiest thing ever to happen on the surface of the planet.

‘Gosh,' the dragon said, ‘I've always wondered what the triumph of Good over Evil looks like and now I know.' He hesitated, frowning. ‘On the whole,' he continued, ‘I think I can take it or leave it alone. I mean, it's all right for a change, but I wouldn't pay money to watch it.'

At his side, Kurt was impatient. ‘What is it with you goddamn heroes?' he demanded tetchily. ‘Never knew a hero but he bust out soliloquising when there's still work to be done. So when you've quite finished ...'

‘Sorry,' the dragon said, ‘I was miles away. Now what?'

‘Now,' said Kurt, ‘we gotta go to Birmingham, which is currently the most important place in the Universe. Probably just as well they don't know that, it'd really play hell with property prices. Usually,' he went on, unzipping a pocket of his fiendishly expensive Kustom Kombat survival jacket, ‘the journey takes nine hours, and that's if you include in-flight refuelling. Fortunately...' He held up a small bottle to the light. ‘Looks like we got a good nine hours left.' He unscrewed the cap. ‘C'mon, fella, let's move it. My jet's this way'

‘Your ... Oh shit, I was forgetting.' The dragon sighed. He wasn't a dragon any more. All that he had ever been was now a smoking red glow half a mile away, across the corpse : choked stadium. ‘Promise me you won't fly
too
fast,' he said, scrambling to his feet. ‘I get airsick.'

 

‘And here,' said the Council spokesman, ‘is where we're going to have the statues.'

Impassive Japanese faces turned and contemplated a big, rectangular block of stone, slap bang in the middle of Birmingham's world-famous Victoria Square. The spokesman had no way of telling whether they loved it, hated it or simply couldn't give a damn. He ploughed onwards, feeling like Father Christmas at a mathematicians' convention.

‘The statues,' he bleated, his back to the plinth so he didn't have to look at it, ‘when they're finished, will be by the most exciting young talent of the decade, Bianca Wilson, and will depict Saint George and the Dragon, that timeless allegory of...'

The Kawaguchiya people weren't listening. They were staring at something behind him. The white-haired one was conferring with his two youngest aides. God, the Council official thought, how terribly rude.

‘Good,' he continued firmly, ‘versus Evil, a theme perennially relevant to us today in this modern age. The original statues were, of course, destroyed in an explosion, but...'

Jesus wept, what was it these bastards found so irresistibly interesting? Unable to resist any longer, the Council official turned slowly round, and saw...

‘The original statues,' he continued seamlessly, ‘have been expertly restored by a team of, um, experts working twenty-four hours a day, and are now once again triumphantly here on display, as you can, er, see. Right. Now, if we turn to our left we can see the award-winning Colmore Tower ...'

 

Bianca turned the corner out of Eden Place, stopped dead and stared.

The dragon was back. Exactly as it had been, where it had been. Cold stone, lifeless, empty. The sight of it made her want to throw up.

As she walked slowly towards them, an elderly woman in a tweedy coat and a headscarf touched her arm. ‘Here,' she said, as Bianca started and turned her head. ‘You're that Bianca Wilson, aren't you?'

‘Huh? Uh, yes, that's me.'

‘Saw you-on telly. You got blown up.'

‘That's right, so I did. Look, if you'll excuse me ...'

The woman didn't move. God, Bianca realised, I can't remember. Is she one of mine, or is she real? Still, short of brushing her hair forward from the back of her neck and looking for chisel-marks, I've got no way of knowing.

‘You did the carving,' the woman said.

‘Guilty,' Bianca replied. ‘I mean, yes, that's mine. My statue.'

‘Yes.' The woman looked at the great stone dragon, then back to Bianca. ‘Not really my cup of tea, this modern stuff,' she said. ‘I like things more traditional myself.'

‘Well...'

‘Like that cat watching a bird our Neville got from the garden centre. Of course, he lives over Shenley Fields way, they got more space for gardens there.'

‘Quite. If you'd just excuse me ...'

‘If I was you,' the woman said, ‘I'd do a nice animal, a cat or a dog or something. People like a nice animal.'

Bianca closed her eyes. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I'll definitely bear that in mind.'

The old woman released her arm. ‘Well,' she-said, ‘I'd best let you get on. Nice to have met you.'

‘Likewise,' Bianca said. She watched until the old woman had trotted away towards the library, then walked slowly up to the statue, as if she was stalking a deer. Even as she did so, however, she knew there was no need. This time, there was nobody home.

 

In her studio, meanwhile, the spare statue, number sixteen, quickened into life, jumped as if someone had stubbed a cigarette out on its nose, and fell over. By the time it hit the floor it was flesh and blood, not marble. Instead of breaking, therefore, it swore.

And it was no longer It; it was She. Which, as far as Chubby Stevenson was concerned, was a rotten trick to play on anybody.

 

She was standing there, motionless as - well, a statue, for example - when an open-topped jeep roared up beside her. She looked round.

‘Get in,' Kurt shouted. ‘We got ninety minutes left. Don't actually need you for this bit, but I thought you might like to see the end.'

‘Not really,' Bianca said, looking away. ‘If it's all the same to you. Kurt, while you're here, you're the sort of bloke who uses explosives and things. You couldn't spare me a bit, could you? Just enough to blow this lot to tiny pieces, that's all.'

‘You fucking dare!' snapped the man in the passenger seat. She looked more closely and reacted. If she'd been a cat she'd have arched her back, extended her claws and hissed.

‘Cool it,' Kurt said, ‘it's George's body but Fred inside. You coming or not? We gonna pick up Mike on the way, make sure we got the whole team.'

Bianca shrugged. ‘Might as well,' she said. ‘Just so long as nobody asks me to do anything. Because right now, I simply can't be bothered.'

Kurt grinned and opened the door. ‘Get in,' he said.

 

As soon as they'd gone in through the door that led to the computer room, Kurt had locked it and produced, God only knew where from, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. Before his three companions could move, he'd jacked a round into the chamber and pointed it at them.

‘Here they all are, Chief,' he said. ‘The dragon, the sculptress lady and her sidekick. George is dead.'

‘Dead too. Things, uh, hotted up towards the end.'

Kurt nodded. ‘I'll say,' he said. ‘You collected your winnings yet?'