The Day Before Tomorrow (18 page)

They waited expectantly. It was at times like this, when Denny became masterful, that Cindy’s intermittent crush on Denny resurfaced.  Most of the time, she hardly registered him, which was the way Denny, who was naturally self-effacing and quiet, usually preferred it, and not just with regard to Cindy.  And then suddenly he would go all commanding on her, out of nowhere, and make her notice him again. Denny was well aware of the effect his authoritative behaviour had on Cindy, and was not above using it to get things done in an emergency, which was the only time he behaved this way in any case.    

Hecaté, being a goddess, was not affected in the same way, but she did see the sense in Denny being in charge.  She had, in any case, the utmost respect for Denny, which was not dependent on his being domineering.  He had, despite his comparatively tender years, as compared with her own millennia, seen a lot more danger than she herself had and survived with his sanity more or less intact.  She also had a deeper vision than Cindy and was always aware, as opposed to only on those rare occasions when he took command, of Denny’s inner strength.  The only person she respected more than Denny, apart from Stiles, whom she also loved, was Tamar.

‘Okay,’ said Denny. ‘First then, we need to see if we can’t find a definite way out of Hell, for Tamar and Jack, just in case.  Hecaté, I think you’d be best at that, okay?’

Hecaté nodded. 

‘Cindy.’

Cindy fluttered slightly, although she tried to suppress this. 

‘I want you to try and find Jamie.  God knows where he’s got to, or what he must be feeling. Can you manage a finding spell or something like that?’

‘I can try,’ said Cindy. 

‘Okay good.’ Denny winked at her, causing Hecaté to smile and mutter ‘Wicked boy,’ under her breath. 

 ‘I’m going to explore alternative explanations for the disappearance of Pandora’s Box,’ he told them, ‘just in case, Jack’s wrong.  Although I don’t think, he is.  But we can’t afford to assume anything.’ 

Denny had been on the computer for an hour, searching the Aethernet for “Box” (he doubted that it would be found under “Pandora’s Box” now, so what he was looking for was references to other mysterious boxes throughout history that might possibly be it) when Cindy timidly tapped him on the shoulder. 

He swung round. ‘Yep?’ then, he caught sight of her expression.  He frowned ‘What’s wrong?’ he snapped. 

Cindy blanched. 

‘It’s okay. I won’t bite.’

‘Well, I found Jamie.’

‘Well?’ asked Denny, knowing that this was not all of it. 

‘He’s – well the thing is he appears to be – well he’s coming up as …’

‘Dead?’ finished Denny flatly.

‘Yes, only, the thing is – he’s still moving about.’ 

Denny narrowed his eyes.  ‘Could somebody else be moving him?’

‘No,’ replied Cindy confidently. ‘Definitely not!  There’s nobody else with him.’  She paused.  ‘Look you’d better come and see.’

* * *

‘It’s a bit quiet down here,’ observed Stiles as they picked their way through the dark streets of Hell.  They had both been here before, and it
was
unusually quiet. 

‘Not that I’m complaining,’ he added.  Stiles had pounded the streets for years in uniform and never said fool things like: ‘I don’t like it, it’s too quiet.’  As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as
too
quiet.  Quiet was always better. It meant that the criminal element were somewhere else, hopefully not doing things that would lead to paperwork.  Tamar had made the same observations herself although on a rather different scale.  But now she was worried.  What Stiles had failed to realise, was that these were not the same streets that he was used to; the silence down here was decidedly ominous.  It reeked of unseen enemies just waiting to jump out on them. 

Up ahead, there was a torn banner above the palace bearing the legend “UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT” it did not flutter in the breeze as one might expect in this forlorn and desolate landscape, because there was no breeze.  There was no movement at all.  This was not the bustling metropolis that Tamar remembered, a fire in every window, a lava pit on every corner and hot and cold running devils everywhere.  This place was uniformly grey – even the shadows were grey and all the fires were out. 

They headed for the palace. It too, was deserted. ‘We couldn’t have got them
all
,’ said Stiles. 

‘We didn’t,’ said Tamar uncertainly.  ‘I wish I knew what was going on.’

‘They’re just lying low,’ Stiles assured her.  ‘It’s always like this when the Kingpin is taken down.  Secret power struggles going on behind closed doors and everybody else hiding in case they get caught in the crossfire when it all kicks off.  Let’s knock on a few doors.’

‘What for?’

‘Information. We want to know where Askphrit is, don’t we?’

They tried this, in the absence of any other ideas, but it seemed that no one was home although, in some dwellings, there was definitely some movement behind the doors which was roughly analogous to curtain twitching, except that these people did not have curtains. 

As they turned out of an alleyway, Stiles suddenly gave a shout; he had seen something. 

A shadow darted across the road and Stiles was after it in a second. ‘Hey you, STOP!’ 

Whatever it was, it did not obey this instruction, but instead redoubled its speed.  It was no match for Stiles, however, who caught it easily and slammed it up against a wall. 

‘All right, all right,’ said Stiles trying to hold his captive still.  ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you; we just want to ask you some questions.’

‘Don’ know nuthin’,’ said the squirming figure predictably, and Stiles dealt him a heavy blow across the face.

‘Why are you lying to me?’ he asked in a sorrowful tone. Then he paused. ‘I know that voice,’ he muttered.  He struck a match, which he cupped inside his hand out of sheer habit, despite the lack of breeze, and shone the light in his captive’s face.  Then he let out a yell of shock.  ‘
Porky
?’

Tamar had watched so far with equanimity.  Stiles was usually a calm, balanced and even a gentle sort of man and Tamar had seen him show considerable kindness to the victims of criminal behaviour.  But Tamar had seen him like this before; criminals themselves were a different matter.  Suspicious characters did not count as people in Stiles’s personal lexicon.  Thus, she had so far, watched his behaviour without surprise, but now she was inclined to raise an eyebrow. 

‘You know this – person?’ she asked.

Stiles ignored this question, while at the same time answering it.  ‘Well, well, well,’ he addressed the shivering individual.  ‘If it isn’t Paulie “Porkchop” Shinewell, I’d know those shifty, piggy little eyes anywhere. Though the horns are new, eh Porky?’

The putative Paulie “Porkchop” Shinewell now stopped struggling.  ‘Mr. Stiles?’ he said in a shocked tone.

‘That’s right,’ Stiles grinned evilly and, against all probability, his teeth glinted in the total absence of a light. 

“Porkchop” shied away from him.  ‘I ain’t dun nuthin’,’ he protested.’ 

‘Oh yes?’ said Stiles, like a cross examining attorney.  ‘How is it then, that you are in, fact, in Hell?’ 

‘Dunno,’ said “Porkchop” sulkily.  ‘Mix up, lawyer screwed me, ‘r summink.’

Tamar raised both eyebrows at this.  ‘He’s a criminal then I take it?’ she said. 

Stiles turned to her. ‘Who, Porky Shinewell?  No, he’s not a criminal, not really, he doesn’t have the guts.  He’s an informer I used to use.  Porky always knows whatever there is to know, don’t you Porky?’ 

‘Don’ know nuthin’,’ reiterated “Porkchop” automatically. 

‘For the right price, naturally,’ finished Stiles smoothly.

‘Ha,’ said “Porkchop”.  ‘There ain’t nuthin’ down ’ere worth ’avin’.  Even if yer was real, which you ain’t.  Every day I sees yer, all the time.  Well I ain’t believin’ it no more see?  I knows now. It ain’t real!  Cruel and unusual that’s what it is.  That’s all, but I knows now, if’n I ignores yer, yer can’t ’urt me.’

Stiles was quite naturally flabbergasted, not to mention nonplussed, by this extraordinary statement. 

Tamar, however, burst out laughing.  ‘How do you like that?’ she said.  ‘
You’re
his personal Hell.’

‘What?’

‘Isn’t it obvious,’ she said, still laughing.  ‘You have the dubious honour of being this man’s everlasting punishment.  Being interrogated by you, day after day for the rest of eternity, is his personal idea of Hell.  It’s quite flattering really, I suppose.’ 

Stiles groaned.  ‘Am I really that bad?’  Then he thought about it.  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ 

‘Only to a certain type of person,’ said Tamar.  ‘I, for example, quite like you really.’ 

Stiles cheered up at this.  ‘Yep,’ he said.  ‘I suppose I can live with being the bane of criminals’ lives.’ 

‘It does pose a problem here, though,’ said Tamar, thoughtfully.  ‘I mean, how are we ever going to convince your informant to inform, if he doesn’t believe that you’re real?’

‘Hmmm.’

In the intervening silence, Tamar posed a question that had been bugging her ever since she had been informally introduced to “Porkchop” Shinewell.  ‘Why is he called “Porkchop”?’ she wanted to know.  ‘I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s knife.’ 

This was a fact.  The purported “Porkchop” was a small skinny scrap of humanity, even in his demonic form.

‘I don’t know really,’ said Stiles.  ‘It could be ironic I suppose.  Or it could be because of his piggy eyes.’ 

Tamar took a closer look at the face of the trembling man – he did not seem to be having much success at pretending that none of this was happening – his eyes were indeed of an unusual type small and red rimmed, and with watery irises that seemed almost pink.  He blinked rapidly at her and rubbed his eyelids making them even redder.  If he had been wearing glasses, he would almost certainly have removed them at this point and started cleaning them.  He was, in fact, continually fidgeting and making nervous faces.  He tapped his feet and clicked his fingers, pulled at his nose and rubbed his hands up and down his trouser legs.  And his face seemed to go through series of anxious tics and grimaces.  Occasionally he would blow out a large putrid smelling breath right up his own nose.  Tamar found this behaviour extremely annoying and distracting.  Stiles did not seem to notice. 

‘Well Porky,’ said Stiles eventually.  ‘We seem to have a problem don’t we?’

Porky feigned deafness at this. 

Stiles sighed and looked helplessly at Tamar. 

‘Let me try,’ she said.  ‘Er, Mr. “Porkchop”?’ she began.  ‘You don’t know me, do you?’ she asked.  “Porkchop” gave her a hunted look and eventually conceded that this might perhaps be the case. 

‘Okay,’ she said carefully.  ‘My name is Tamar.’ 

This seemed a relatively un-inflammatory statement, but “Porkchop’s” reaction to it was spectacular.  He gibbered and stammered and pointed at her.  ‘You – you …  Tamar Black?’ 

‘You’ve heard of me?’ 

“Porkchop” did not answer right away; he seemed to be pondering whether to admit to what was patently obvious.  He seemed to treat everything everybody said to him as a possible trick question.  Eventually he decided it was safe enough to say: ‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Okay,’ interrupted Stiles, ‘I’ve had enough of this. Where’s Askphrit? If you tell us, maybe we can get you out of here.  Good enough?’ he looked at Tamar for confirmation.  She nodded.  

“Porkchop” swung his head round sharply toward Stiles, his eyes bright. ‘Out,’ he echoed, ‘of ’ere?’ he was incredulous.  Then he sank his head into his hunched shoulders so that he appeared to have no neck at all.  ‘No one gets out of ’ere,’ he said miserably. 

‘We did,’ Tamar told him.

‘Oh yes,
you
did. That’s different, you ain’t dead neither anyhow.  I know all about that.  But what about I?’  His eyes darted between them, filled with a strange mixture of suspicion and hope.  ‘’Ow am I to get out of ‘ere?’

 ‘We’ll take you with us, when we leave,’ she said.  ‘We just want Askphrit, that’s all.  You tell us where he is, and we’ll get you out of here I promise.’ 

‘Come on Porky,’ wheedled Stiles.  ‘You know me, I keep my word. Is it a deal?’

‘You ain’t given me yer word,’ “Porkchop” pointed out.  ‘Only
she
’as.  An’ I don’ know ’er from Adam.’

‘No flies on him then,’ said Tamar, more or less to herself. 

‘I’ll vouch for ’er, I mean her,’ said Stiles.  ‘But if it makes you happy, I give you my word too, okay?’

‘You always was a good fella Mr. Stiles,’ said “Porkchop” ruminatively.  ‘You always kep’ yer word to ole Porky, didn’ you eh?’  He appeared to deliberate for a while then he announced.  ‘Okay deal,’ and spat on his hand and held it out to Stiles who reluctantly took it.  He then did the same to Tamar, who shrank back.  ‘I think we’ll consider the deal sealed without the usual formalities,’ she said frigidly.

‘High and mighty,’ muttered “Porkchop”, but without rancour.  He scuttled off down the dark street.  ‘Come on then,’ he beckoned.  ‘It’s this way.’  He turned back suddenly toward them and narrowed his eyes ‘Remember,’ he said.  ‘You promised.’

* * *

Denny blinked once or twice, apart from the fact that the water in Cindy’s improvised scrying pool (an old washing up bowl) would not stop moving, he simply could not believe what he was seeing. 

Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘That’s never him,’ he averred in the face of the evidence. 

Make that the
apparent
evidence, Cindy’s spells did have a habit of going arse upwards at times, and this was clearly no time to be taking things at face value in any case. What with the Apocalypse and Clive and everything not being what it seemed to be, Denny’s paranoia was threatening to spiral out of control.  He even suspected Cindy’s vapid, vacant face of concealing dark designs. 

He got hold of himself.  If Cindy was plotting against them, then the entire universe as he knew it was turned upside down and inside out.  Not least because Cindy simply did not have the acumen for espionage. 

She looked affronted now.  ‘Of
course
it’s him,’ she protested.  ‘Look.’