Wish You Were Here (25 page)

‘I am not,' the girl growled, ‘a fairy.'

Wesley nodded. ‘Whatever,' he said. ‘Hamburger. Fries. Shake. I shall count up to ten, and then I'm going back the way I came.'

‘You'll get lost in the forest and the coyotes will eat you.'

‘One. Two. Three. Four.'

‘This is
fatuous
. Here I am making your most deep-seated fantasies come true, fulfilling your secret desires, turning you from a snivelling feckless little runt into a fully rounded, self-confident, quasi-heroic man of action, master of your fate and captain of your soul, and you've got the nerve to go on strike.'

‘Five. Six. Seven. Looks like you succeeded with the self-confidence bit, doesn't it? Eight. Nine.'

‘Did you say large fries?'

‘Mphm.'

‘Corn relish and dill pickle on the burger?'

‘Sounds all right to me.'

‘Have a nice day,' snarled the girl, as a paper bag fell in Wesley's lap. ‘Enjoy your meal.'

‘You see,' said Wesley with his mouth full, some time later. ‘That wasn't too difficult, was it?'

‘Huh.' The girl glowered at him and stole a chip. ‘The sooner you start taking this thing seriously . . .'

Wesley sucked up the last inch of his milk shake; the solid lump of gritty ice cream that always makes your teeth ache. ‘That's better,' he said. ‘Now then, what's next?'

‘I told you, you've got to try and figure—'

‘One. Two. Three. Four.'

‘Aaagh!' The girl screamed furiously, grabbed the paper bag and screwed it up into a ball. ‘All right,' she said, ‘it's like this.You'd better listen good, because if you miss anything . . .'

‘I'm listening. Try and stay calm.'

‘Over there,' the girl said, pointing, ‘is a Cherokee village, some time in the last third of the nineteenth century. Your job is to rescue the prisoner . . .'

‘Oh come on,' Wesley groaned. ‘Not again.'

‘. . . before he's burned at the stake by Chief Talks To Squirrels' war party. They outnumber you thirty-five to one, but you do have your trusty Spencer rifle, capacity seven shots, maximum effective range two hundred yards, and your equally trusty forty-five six-shooter, and this stick of dynamite. All you have to do is crawl up to the fire, evading or silently killing the guards, throw the dynamite into the fire, untie the prisoner under cover of the explosion and ensuing confusion, steal a couple of horses and ride away. Now, do you think you can manage that?'

‘No.'

‘Rifle,' said the girl grimly. ‘Revolver. Dynamite. Pen-knife for cutting ropes with. Lump of sugar for the horse. Once you've escaped, ride up the other side of the valley and follow the big Dayglo orange signs saying
This Way
. Don't fall off the horse and don't rescue any Indians by mistake. You get bonus points for élan and flair, and an automatic fail if you get killed.
Ciao
.'

She vanished.

For nearly three minutes Wesley sat where he was, not moving and counting up to ten, over and over again. Then, slowly and with infinite misgivings, he picked up the rifle, making sure the end with the hole in it was pointing away from him, and tried to figure out how it worked.

There was a very loud noise.

‘That leaves you six shots,' said a disembodied voice. ‘You reload by cocking the hammer and pulling down the lever under the trigger. Shoot up any more of my trees and you'll be getting a bill. Oh, and by the way, the prisoner's a lawyer, but try and bring him back alive nonetheless.'

Wesley nodded. He'd just remembered something. ‘Excuse me,' he said. ‘What did you say that Indian was called?'

‘Talks To Squirrels,' the girl replied. ‘Why?'

Wesley grinned. ‘Oh, nothing,' he said. ‘Well, be seeing you.'

‘You sound cheerful. I don't like that. Why are you sounding cheerful?'

‘No reason. Cheerio, then.'

He stood up and began to saunter over towards the brow of the hill.

 

‘Ah
shit
,' Leonard groaned.

Calvin Dieb let go of the spear, and Leonard fell over with a crash. Everything had gone quiet, all of a sudden.

‘Sorry,' Calvin said.

‘Shit,' Leonard repeated. He tried to pull the spear out of his side, but it had gone in too far. He coughed up a little blood, and fell back. ‘This is
crazy
,' he said bitterly. ‘Ever since I left the firm, I been practising spear-fighting. Twelve, sometimes eighteen hours a day. I'm so good, there's nobody in the whole world as good as me.'

‘Sucks, doesn't it?' said Calvin, sympathetically.

‘You're goddamn right it does,' Leonard agreed. ‘And what happens? First pass, you trip over a tree-root, fall over and your spear goes right through me. It ain't fair, and that's the truth.'

He shook his head, pulled a wry face, and died. With a sigh, Calvin turned away; at which point he became aware of thirty-odd authentic warriors, all looking at him.

They thought it sucked, too.

‘Hey,' Calvin objected, as they grabbed him and dragged him back to the wooden stake, ‘I won, didn't I? It was a trial, and I won. OK, by rights he
should
have won, but he didn't, and I did. So what's the . . . ?'

‘We going to appeal,' grunted the Chief. ‘We implement ancient Cherokee appeal procedure. Four Calling Birds, where kerosene?'

‘Hey!' Calvin said again. ‘But that's not fair!'

‘All fair,' replied the Chief smugly, ‘in love and litigation. You lawyer, you figure it out for yourself. Five Gold Rings, you fetch matches.'

Calvin thought quickly, as the kerosene glugged over his head. ‘Can't I counter-appeal?' he said. ‘There must be some way . . .'

‘Easy.'The Chief nodded, and the feathers of his head-dress bobbed in the orange light. ‘You go before judge sitting in chambers, obtain writ of habeas corpus and injunction, we let you go. Simple as that.'

‘OK,' Calvin said eagerly. ‘Just untie me and I'll do just that.'

‘We no untie.' The Chief grinned. ‘Figure we got you on a technicality,' he said.

Before Calvin could object further, someone shoved a kerosene-soaked rag in his mouth and blindfolded him. He heard a match rasp on a matchbox.

‘Excuse me.'

The Chief turned round.

‘Remember me?' said Wesley. ‘We met earlier. You know, when we were chasing after that eagle?'

Talks To Squirrels' face melted into a grin. ‘Hello there,' he said. ‘How did you get on? Last time I saw you, you were falling to your death.'

Wesley shrugged. ‘Annoying, wasn't it? Anyway, I'm here now. Thought as I was passing I'd just call in, say thanks for all your help.'

‘Don't mention it,' Talks replied. ‘My pleasure. Anything to pass the time. Hey, take a seat, make yourself at home. I've just got a bit of legal business to see to, and—'

‘Actually,' Wesley interrupted, ‘something you said set me thinking. And I might be able to help.'

‘Really?'

Wesley nodded. ‘It was what you were saying about how you're forever shooting people with your bow and arrow and they never take a blind bit of notice. I was really, you know, moved. I felt for you.'

Talks shrugged. ‘You get used to it,' he said. ‘After a century or so, you learn to take it in your stride.'

‘Sure. But I was thinking, maybe if you stopped using a bow and tried something else instead. Say, a Spencer rifle, for instance.'

‘Maybe.' Talks To Squirrels shrugged. ‘Worth a try, I suppose. But I haven't got—'

‘I have. Look. Also this very fine forty-five six-shooter. Or, if all else fails, what about a stick of dynamite? Just light the fuse, stand well back, fizz,
boom
! It's got to be better than bows and arrows, surely.'

‘You bet,' Talks replied. ‘If only we'd had this kind of gear back in 1703, maybe I'd never have gotten into this mess in the first place.'

‘Quite possibly,'Wesley replied. ‘Anyway, I knew you'd be interested, so I thought I'd give you first refusal.'

‘That's mighty kind of you.'

‘You're welcome. Go on, then, make me an offer.'

The Indian's brow furrowed. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Trouble is, we don't use cash here. We got beaver skins. You want any beaver skins?'

Wesley shook his head. ‘Fur trade's gone to hell since your time, I'm afraid,' he said. ‘What about gold? You got any of that?'

‘You mean the soft yellow metal that comes out of rivers?'

‘That's the stuff.'

‘No. Used to have a whole load of it, but we slung it out. Pity.What about authentic Amerindian artefacts? We got heaps of them.'

Wesley considered, frowning. ‘Tempting,' he said, ‘but I think I'll pass on that one, thanks. I mean, if it was up to me I'd say yes, like a shot, but my accountant . . .'

Talks groaned sympathetically. ‘Say no more,' he replied. ‘Sometimes I ask myself, whose side are those guys on? Trouble is, I dunno what else we got that you might want.'

‘Tricky, isn't it?' Wesley rubbed his chin for a moment; and then, apparently, inspiration struck. ‘I know,' he said. ‘How about a lawyer? You got any of those?'

Talks To Squirrels grinned. ‘Mister,' he said, ‘this is your lucky day, because it just so happens that we do.'

‘Great! Can I see him?'

‘There.'

‘Where?'

‘There. Tied to the stake.'

‘Oh,
him
.You sure that's a lawyer? Doesn't look much like a lawyer to me.'

‘Just a second.' Talks To Squirrels turned, drew a knife and prodded Calvin in the ribs with it. ‘You. Talk some legal stuff, quick.'

‘Sure thing. Whereas by a conveyance dated the fifth February one thousand nine hundred and seventy-two and made between the Ideal Tool Corporation of Oskaloosa Iowa a corporation established under the laws of the state of Iowa and having its office at Oskaloosa in the said state of the first part and Henry Carter Zizbaum also of Oskaloosa aforesaid of the second part all that real estate comprising some forty-two acres known as . . .'

‘That'll do. Shuttup. Well, what d'you think?'

‘Sounds like a lawyer to me,' Wesley admitted. ‘Ask him his charges.'

‘You.' Prod. ‘Tell the man.'

‘You bet. Two thousand dollars an hour plus disbursements plus local and national taxes, plus twenty per cent care and control plus an additional seven hundred fifty dollars an hour for matters of unusual complexity by prior agreement with the client.'

‘Yup, he's a lawyer all right.' Wesley extended a hand. ‘Deal?'

‘Deal. Excuse me asking, but what the hell do you want him
for
? I mean, not trying to be funny or anything, but his best friends wouldn't call him ornamental, and as for useful . . .'

Wesley contorted his face into his best approximation at a knowing smile. ‘Well,' he said, ‘you'd be amazed.'

‘Yes. Quite frankly, I would. He's a
lawyer
, for God's sake. I suppose you could cut him up small and feed him to your pet rat, but rats can be fussy devils . . .'

‘You want the rifle? Or not?'

Talks To Squirrels shrugged. ‘Your business, I suppose. Here you go, and don't blame me. No refunds, no part exchanges, and absolutely no liability accepted for loss, damage or insolvency, whether directly or indirectly caused. Goddamnit, he's got me talking like one now. Get him out of my sight, before I go all frothy at the mouth.'

He gave Dieb a powerful shove. Quickly, Wesley collected him by the arm and started to walk away. They were almost at the edge of the firelight circle when Dieb stopped dead, like a mule.

‘Just a moment,' he said. ‘My car keys.'

‘
What?
'

‘My car keys,' Dieb repeated. ‘They're still back there, tied to one of those spears. I'm not leaving without them.'

‘Something up?' Talks To Squirrels called out behind them. ‘If he's stopped moving, I'm told a kick up the ass works wonders.'

‘Sounds good to me,' Wesley called back. ‘Look, you,' he whispered to the lawyer, who was still doing Gibraltar impressions, ‘keeping moving or I'll leave you here. Understood?'

‘I want my keys,' Dieb replied. ‘Without them, I'm stuck here for ever. I
need
them, OK?'

‘They were going to burn you alive, for God's sake,' Wesley hissed. As he spoke, he heard a noise in the background; not a grating noise exactly, because well-oiled metal components sliding smoothly together don't grate, unless you've been careless and got sand in the works. More a sort of metallic whisper. ‘I know these people, they're utter loons. So get moving, or . . .'

‘Not without my keys. I'd rather die now. Sorry.'

So Wesley just stood there, like a rabbit in oncoming headlights, thinking
Oh God!
Behind him, he could hear Talks To Squirrels saying, ‘I pulled the little lever thing, why doesn't it go bang?' and one of his cohorts suggesting that it would help if he cocked the hammer first. In the split second between Talks To Squirrels saying, ‘God, yes, I forgot,' and the very loud bang, he made a mental calculation of the distance separating them from the trees and the time it would take to cross it, even at a mad sprint, and came to the conclusion that it was too late to worry now. He spent the rest of the nanosecond relaxing his muscles and wondering what getting shot really feels like.