Vengeance (25 page)

She held onto his arm when he tried to pull it away. “Someone say a cynic is a romantic who's been hurt bad,” she said. “Maybe they right. She most've hurt you really,
really
bad.” She stretched, touched his cheek.

They walked on in companionable silence.

"It'll probably freeze tonight,” he said. “Too cold to be sleeping alone."

She laughed. “Jew don’ give up, do you?"

He shook his head. “Nope."

"Why, if life so bad?"

"Dunno.”
Because you're beautiful,
he wanted to say,
and I'd risk everything all over again, if I wasn't too old for you and my ranting hadn't scared you off.
“Sorry about earlier."

"No need. You get rid of it, it make you better."

Curiously, it did. The pain was much easier now, an emotional boil that he had finally lanced.

On impulse, he fished in his coat pocket with his free hand. “I bought you something.” He felt suddenly awkward but gave her the brooch.

She held it up, light glinting on the butterfly's wings. Her eyes were huge. “Is beautiful.” She sounded awed. “But I can't take it. I very sorry, Jake."

"Why not?” he asked in despair—even his presents were rejected.

"I just can't,” she repeated. “Please understand, is very beautiful, and so is the thought, but—"

"You can't accept it,” he finished for her.

"I so sorry.” She looked devastated.

He shrugged. “Is okay.” Smiled thinly, trying, not quite succeeding, to make a joke of it.

She bit her lip.

They walked on, passing a cafe at the foot of another chine. He opened his mouth to ask if she wanted a coffee and shut it.

Big, silent tears were rolling down her cheeks.

With his free hand he felt for tissues and handed her some. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose noisily. “Thanks,” she whispered. “You a good man."

"But you're not interested in good men."

"Why you think that?” she asked.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one next October. Why?"

"I've never known a twenty-year-old interested in good men."

"I prefer my men a little dangerous.” She laughed. “You're nice, but too safe.” She asked mock-innocently: “And you're how old?"

"Thirty-one,” he quavered. “But it feels older.” He paused for a few moments. “When's it due?"

She stared and blushed. Finally she whispered, “July. How'd jew know?"

"I can't think of too many things that'd have you in tears. It was just a guess."

They walked in time to the breaking waves on the beach, and after a long silence she said, “In a month, I go home and will disgrace my family. Brazil is a Catholic country. My father is old-fashioned. If I say he kill me, okay, maybe not. But it be close.” They sat on stone steps separating the promenade from the beach.

"Do you want the baby? Or will you have an abortion?"

"No!” she almost shouted. “I won't kill it! Maybe I not a good girl, nor a good Catholic, but I can't do that."

"I was only asking,” he said.

"I know.” She breathed deeply, trying to calm down. “Is something I must face. But not with any pleasure."

"Alone?” he asked.

"Alone.” Her voice was desolate.

"He's married?"

She said finally, in a very small voice, “Yes."

"And let me see,” he said. “He has to stay with his wife for the sake of the children?"

"Yes,” she whispered.

It was a story he'd heard so many times before. She'd probably genuinely believed he loved her. Maybe he believed it himself, until the crunch came. Jake could guess his name. For a moment, if Peter Pan had stood there, not all the Wendys in the world would've saved him from a broken neck.

They resumed walking on the beach, then as the steps became a sheer wall, climbed back up onto the promenade.

He rummaged around in his pocket and produced the paper bag with the old man's potion. He laughed bitterly. “I got this on Monday. The guy reckoned it was a potion that would help my love life. But when I walked back to the office with it, I thought at the time that even if it existed, what a hollow triumph it'd be to use it. The fairytales got it all wrong you see: If you need a potion to make the princess love you, it'd be like winning the lottery with a stolen ticket.” He took a deep breath, blurted out, “You don't have to go back to Brazil, you know."

"Yes I do,” she answered. “No avoiding it. I only have three months left on my visa."

"Marry me,” he amazed himself by saying. “They'd have to extend the visa."

She shook her head. “Are you a Catholic?"

"No,” he admitted reluctantly.

"As far as Papa is concerned, I still be unmarried."

He took a deep breath. “What if I convert?"

She stared at him, then said, “You're joking. Yes?"

He stared back. It suddenly felt right. “No.” He couldn't believe what he was suggesting. “And before you ask, I'm not on the rebound. You're not a substitute."

"I never thought I was.” She hadn't taken her eyes from his all the time they'd been talking. “The baby is another man's."

"Doesn't matter,” he said. “My stepfather never had favourites in our family. He hated all of us. Only joking,” he added hastily.

She grabbed the hair at the base of his neck, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him hard, then said, “The answer's still no. What happens when the magic fades?"

She was right of course. “If you change your mind—"

"I let you know.” She smiled, the old Sylvie back for a moment to banish the one of the last few days.

"Well, well,” drawled a voice. “Lovebirds.” Buzzy stepped out of the shadows into the half-light cast by a nearby lamp.

He's brave tackling us on his own
, was Jake's first thought. The boy was a scrawny runt, pockmarked and acne-ridden, with glazed eyes that Jake suspected were the result of glue-sniffing or something worse. He was momentarily torn between fight or flight, but as he whispered, “Run!” to Sylvie, another boy strode out of the shadows behind them and another in front. There was even movement in the shadows on the beach; they were surrounded.

"Hey,” Jake began.

"Shut up! I never said you could speak! Shut up!” Buzzy screamed, confirming Jake's worst suspicions.
Drugs
, he thought,
or he's profoundly disturbed
. Either way, he was clearly very dangerous. Buzzy produced a knife, which he waved at Jake.

"Doggy,” Buzzy panted. “Teach our friend some manners.” He waved the blade again and said to Jake, “If you struggle, we'll cut you."

Doggy lumbered forward. He was as tall as Jake and probably a little heavier, though he was mostly fat. Jake swallowed; his mouth was dry, his palms damp with perspiration, and his heart was pounding, the blood roaring through his veins. He tried to relax as the big lad swung, but the boy's fist still drove the air from his lungs, and he doubled up gasping.

"Now,” Buzzy drawled. “You speak when you're spoken to. You understand?"

Jake nodded.

"Sorry.” Buzzy cupped his ear. “Can't hear you. You want me to repeat the question?"

"Understand,” Jake gasped.

"Good.” Buzzy smiled.

Something familiar woke the spellhound. It lifted its snout and sniffed the air, then rose, yawned and stretched with a cracking of joints. It loped toward the beach.

"Now,” Buzzy continued. “Money. Come on.” He snapped his fingers. “Money, watches, rings."

They obeyed, though Jake wouldn't give them the brooch and slipped it into a pocket. Buzzy seriously worried him. He was either deranged, letting them see their faces, or intended to leave no witnesses. He was clearly the dangerous one, the organizer, vicious, but with the viciousness of the second-rate, the bully. On his own he'd be nothing, but Jake didn't see how he could separate him from his tame muscle. He took the watch from his wrist, and Doggy noticed the bag in his hand.

"He's got something."

"Gimme.” Buzzy beckoned.

Jake saw his opportunity. He threw the bag high in the air, kneed Doggy in the groin and shouted, “Run!"

Sylvie took off like a startled rabbit, only to be tripped by Rebecca, who had sneaked around behind her. Sylvie sprawled on the concrete, and Jake grabbed her, tried to lift her, only to be stunned by a descending fist from Doggy, who was less affected by the blow to his groin than Jake had hoped. Jake staggered, and as he fell to his knees, a boot thumped into his ribs. The gang dragged them to their feet, Sylvie by a third boy, Doggy lifting Jake by his hair. Jake was close to fainting with pain, but he tried not to show how much it hurt.

Buzzy glared at them, his face a twisted mask of evil. “We're going to cut you,” he snarled, “then your slag when we've finished with you."

"You've got a foul mouth for a little—oof!” Doggy's fist drove the wind from Jake again, and he just managed not to throw up. Luckily the bag distracted Buzzy's butterfly mind, so he was spared any further beating.

Jake finally knew the true meaning of despair.
A dark beach in winter
, he thought,
miles from help
. “I love you,” he whispered on impulse, shaken by the thought he might never get another chance to tell Sylvie. She flashed frightened eyes toward Buzzy, worried Jake would provoke him further.

Buzzy opened the phial and tasted a little of the dust, clearly hoping it was a drug, but spat it out and pulled a face. He tossed the phial to Joe, who caught it, spilling dust on his hands.

"What's this shit?” Buzzy asked Jake.

"Just that,” Jake replied.

"What?” Buzzy took a step nearer to Jake.

"Just that.” Jake felt strangely calm, an acceptance of his fate. If he was doomed anyway, he might as well go down fighting. “It's shit,” Jake said, hoping to provoke him into losing control. “My grandmother's ashes. That's her blood and flesh and shit you've just tasted."

Buzzy shrieked, and his knife flashed.

Jake put his hand to his side, pulled it away wet with his blood.

"I'm gonna kill ya!” Buzzy screamed. His eyes and face were both red, and spittle dangled from one corner of his mouth.

There was growling from the direction of the huts, the distant rumble of thunder on a summer's day. Even Buzzy's fury was checked by the noise.

Out of the shadows it strode.

Jake saw something out of nightmare. Walking erect like a man, it had a muzzle instead of a face, and drool slobbered from the folds around its mouth. Eyes glowed, hot coals in the darkness. The creature wore a tunic with pockets, and robes that sported designs Jake thought looked Chinese.

"Madre de Dios,” Sylvie muttered.

The creature approached Joe and gently took the phial from him, sniffed his palm and licked it. Then it walked around, circling each of the gang, licking a palm from each in turn, including Jake's right hand. On impulse, he offered it his left hand as well.

The creature looked at Jake for what seemed forever but was probably no longer than seconds. It licked his left hand. He thought it nodded, but it might have been his imagination. It leaned toward him. Its breath was warm but didn't stink, as he expected it to. He barely reached its shoulder, and he was well over six feet tall.

Then it nipped his neck.

Jake yelled and jumped back. The others shrieked with laughter, though the tension never eased.

Jake's neck bled a little, but stopped unusually quickly. He swayed backwards, suddenly giddy.

It moved toward Sylvie, who stepped back. “Don't argue with it,” Jake urged her. “It didn't hurt.” He held her left hand out by the wrist, feeling her tremble against him, for the creature to lick. It leaned over her, and a moment later she shrieked. It paused. Seemed to be deciding. Nodded.
Those who handle my magic die
. Jake shook his head. His vision blurred.
Who the hell said that?
He called to Buzzy, “I'd have thought you'd have legged it while you could."

Buzzy puffed out his chest. “Stuff that man. We ain't afraid of no freak. Are we?” He looked at the others, who shook their heads dutifully.

But Jake was silent, gripped by visions of an old, tired world, grown grim and despairing.

The spellhound returned to Joe, and licked the traces of dust from his palm. Then, faster than anyone could react, its jaws opened wide, and it bit Joe's hand off at the wrist. Before the boy could draw breath to scream, there was a click, and it slashed his throat with talons released from their sheaths. Blood sprayed from the wound, and it slashed again, in time to the screams echoing around it.

Jake stood, paralysed, visions pulsing through him, of refugee camps and battles fought in the night sky. “The old man was a fugitive,” he whispered, ignoring Sylvie's look of panic. He drew her back into the shelter of the beach huts as the others scattered like starlings disturbed from their roost. The creature's quarrel was not with him or Sylvie, but he intended to get her away as soon as he could. She clutched at him.

"It's a weapon,” Jake said. “Designed to trace magic."

"What?” Sylvie whispered.

"The old man,” he said. “Magic. Science. It's all the same,” he said. “Clarke's Third Law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

"An that's what this is?” She pointed at the spellhound, who was gaining on the terrified Rebecca.

He nodded. “It's a cyborg. A biocomputer.” He held his aching head. “Or both. I don't have words to explain. Two spells stolen, one of them for time travel. The love potion for rewiring the brain, not just love, for any old brainwashing. But the tramp had to sell it as a love potion to get rid of it. I only held the paper bag, so it spared me. You never even touched the bag.” He cackled maniacally. “It doesn't know itself why it sampled us.” He turned to Sylvie, “Even its owner thinks it's just a glorified doggy, but this thing is as intelligent as us, and they use it to track stolen property?"

While the others ran around in circles in blind panic, Tanya was the only one to try to get help. She ran the hundred yards to the phone-box faster than she'd ever run in her life, kicking her shoes off when a heel broke, heart pounding, lungs bursting. Then she wept with despair when she found the phone hanging, broken from its cradle.