Once Upon a Time in Hell (18 page)

"Perhaps we shouldn't talk about that," the Devil said. "I wouldn't want to upset a man of God."

Father Martin was surprised at the lack of sarcasm in the man's voice. "You're a religious man?"

"My folks brought me up right," he replied. "Made me the man I am."

Father Martin wondered if that was intended as a criticism. It didn't seem to have been expressed as one.

"I like to think I've got more God in me than they have, anyways." The Devil said, pointing towards the camp below. Father Martin watched as a gang marched on the Land Carriage, guns in the air.

"They mean to attack my friends," he said, getting to his feet. "I must go to them."

"You ain't going to get there quick enough to do a spit's worth of use. They've been muscling up for a fight all night. I've been down there, in the shadows, listening to their talk. This has been all night coming and they'll boil over long before you're halfway down the mountain."

Father Martin accepted the truth of this, even though he couldn't abide the notion of standing by and doing nothing.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Rather than down there with the rest of us?"

"I prefer to keep myself to myself. I was travelling with a bunch of other folks and we got split up. They left me for dead. I try not to bear a grudge, father, I know that ain't the holy way, but I figured I'd best keep my distance nonetheless."

"They think you're the Devil, you know?"

The man laughed at that. "Ayuh! I heard that." He nodded towards the mob below them.

"You know what I think though? I think the Devil's right down there." 

"Y
OU FOLKS PLANNING
on buying anything or are you just cluttering my marina up?" The owner of the shack we'd been loitering next to shuffled out of his front door in a mood for a fight.

Which was brave of him considering he was all of three foot tall. I'd been here long enough to know that appearances could be deceptive (hadn't I recently seen a fish the size of your little finger eat a man in seconds flat?) but he really was frail looking. His head offered hair so sparse it looked like it had been spun by a dying spider. His face had the youthfulness of a rotting fruit.

When he walked he gave the impression that he could tumble at any minute, falling flat on his back, never to move again. Hell, if it came to it, I reckoned even I could take him.

"Some of us are trying to run a business here," he said, walking up to me and fixing me with a stare so wet and dazed I half-thought he might keel over and die right at my feet.

"I would like water," said Branches of Regret, stretching out his massive, stained limbs, "to refresh myself."

"Well now," said the little shopkeeper, "I guess that's a start. Throw in some food and general supplies and it might just have been worthwhile my opening the doors for the day. The Clearsight has usually docked by now, plenty of business there, dang-blasted thing seems to have vanished. Never trust a boat, that's my advice to you."

He turned to waddle back towards his store. "Water pump to the side, you can get your tree washed there. Mind you don't ride off without paying, mind, only an idiot makes an enemy of Mr Benjamin Abernathy. You run off owing me money and I'll hunt you down and take what I'm owed from your corpse."

"Charming," I said, looking at Meridiana. "You planning on screwing him for the bill too?"

"As meals go I reckon he'd be on a par with a dried biscuit and half a cup of rainwater."

"I will pay," said Branches of Regret. "I carry the memories of my entire forest, I am wealthy beyond your imagining."

"Now," I said, "I'm really beginning to like you."

Branches of Regret walked around to the side of the store.

"You know that guy?" asked Biter.

"No more than you," I admitted. "I played cards with him. He seems to have taken a shine to me though. If it weren't for him I'd be two legs short and floating face down in the lake."

"If it weren't for him we'd never have had to jump in a lifeboat." Meridiana reminded me.

"True enough," I admitted, "but I still like him."

I turned to the old man. "Why do you think he's decided to partner up with us?"

"Hasn't everyone?" he replied, walking off towards the store. "Ask the owner what he knows about Greaser."

We all followed him inside the store, my giving the dangling body parts wide birth as one fat hand made a grab for my hat. Inside it was so gloomy it took a moment or two for my eyes to settle. Once they had, I kind of wished they hadn't. It was so full of stock you barely knew where to stand, shelf after shelf of everything from tinned food to cured meats, clothing to weaponry. A large box filled with hair caught my eye.

"Best damn wigs you can buy," said Abernathy. "Made 'em myself."

I lifted one out of the box. It was a strange, mismatched looking thing like a racoon that had been hit by lightning. I tried to shake it into shape and was rewarded with a face full of dust.

"Are they popular?" I asked, dropping it back in the box and trying to brush the dust from my face.

"Never sold a damn one," he moaned, "you just don't get the quality custom in these parts."

"Or enough bald ones?" Meridiana suggested.

"You do a lot of business with Greaser?" I asked, "I see his place is just up the way."

"That piece of shit?" for the first time his confidence wavered, "I say he's a piece of shit...

I mean that in the nicest way of course, you folks work for him?"

"Never met him, don't know him," I admitted.

Abernathy got his confidence back. "In that case he is a piece of shit and I stand by it. His men come riding through here, kicking up a fuss and mussing up my displays. One of those sons of bitches keeps tipping up my postcard rack, takes me a good hour on the step ladders to set them all right again."

I looked at the rack, noting everything from genital close-ups to sketches of war wounds.

"Get much call for these?" I wondered.

"Nobody sends cards anymore. People just ain't as communicative as they used to be." "So you don't sell much to him?" I said, trying to get him back on track with regards Greaser.

"Now I didn't say that, he's a good customer if we're talking in terms of regularity and spend." I couldn't imagine what other terms you could judge a customer on. "He has me take up supplies most every day. Drink mostly. Smokes. I grow a good approximation of tobacco out back if I do say so myself. You should get yourself a pouch. It's almost as good as the real thing once you get over the taste and the bad dreams. Personally I think it all adds to the experience.

Want me to fetch you a fistful?"

"That would be great," I said, lying through my teeth, but I felt it was better to try and show willing.

"Good call," he replied. "You won't regret it. Just don't breathe through your nose when you're rolling it and you'll be fine. 'Course, you might like the smell. Old customer of mine swears it reminds him of a dog he used to have. Whether he means before or after it died I couldn't say..."

"Ask him if he's due to deliver anything today," said the old man.

I did so.

"Surely am: three crates of whisky, some jerky and a bale of the tobacco. Fair breaks my back hoisting that up the goddamned mountain and ain't that the truth."

"Maybe we could lend you a hand?" I suggest, catching the old man's eye. He nodded, I'd got the idea.

"And why would you be wanting to do a thing like that?' asked Abernathy. "I thought you said you didn't know the man."

"We don't, but we need to talk to a friend of his about some business." His screwed-up face screwed up even tighter. He looked like a sphincter after a spicy meal. "What sort of business would that be? You involved in that Buzz trade? I don't rightly hold with all that."

"Oh, no... That's a terrible thing, we wouldn't do anything like that."

He shrugged. "Couldn't give a rat's ass about the drug 'cept it cuts into my whisky and tobacco sales. Those Buzz Heads don't touch nothing else."

"No, it's nothing like that. Just a word with a woman that's visiting him."

"Agrat?" he smiled. "I saw her heading past. Now she's a fine woman and that's a fact.

She turns my head so she does, makes me feel like a young man again."

"She is charming."

"A real lady. A woman you'd want to talk to just right. Class. Oh yes... I'd fair drag my ball sack across a mile of broken glass just to throw pebbles at her shit, so I would."

"That's so romantic," said Meridiana.

He smiled at her. "I can't help it as far as she's concerned. She's just a plum."

"So what do you think?" I asked. "Our help any use to you? We could maybe call it part payment for our goods?"

That did the trick. He grinned. "I knew you didn't have deep pockets. Well, why not? I'm sure we could come to some kind of arrangement."

W
HILE THE OTHERS
helped themselves to a few supplies, I went out back to see how Branches of Regret was getting on. He was stood by the pump, arms outstretched, looking more like a tree than ever. The blood was now all washed off and all over his body there were small green shoots, wriggling as the water ran over them.

"That better?" I asked.

"Much," he nodded, the head moving in that slow, creaky way of his. "It has been too long since I bathed."

" Thanks for helping me out back there," I said. "You got me out of a tight spot."

"And endangered many others doing so," he replied, "because that is the way life works.

You choose a side. I have chosen yours."

"That's kind," I scratched my chin. "If you don't mind my asking, why?"

"Memory," he replied, "and sympathy. Are you going to climb the mountain now?"

"I guess we are," I replied, wondering what else to say.

"I will stay here," he replied. "You will find I draw too much attention up there."

"We might need a helping hand," I said, the idea of losing the strong arm of Branches of Regret was... well, kind of regretful.

"You probably will," he agreed, "but I would be little use to you for now anyway. I must recover. Gather my strength."

With that he turned towards the sun, stretched out his arms, closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

T
HE TRACK THAT
led up to Greaser's place began not a stone's throw from the back door of the general store. It was narrow and uneven and I had to wonder how any man could do a reasonable amount of business from it. If you're in the import and export trade doesn't it help if you have a place you can actually take deliveries?

"This is how you do it," said Biter, constantly impressed. "A front door so disinterested in guests, nobody manages to get to it. That's class."

"There must be another way," said Meridiana. "There's no way those coaches got up here."

"This is the tradesman's entrance," said Abernathy, "and we're tradesmen, what do you expect?"

Now it started to make sense.

Abernathy was riding an animal that seemed to be related to the possum. It had a broader back than our rakh but seemed even less enthusiastic for travel. If I'd been Greaser I might have gone into the horse importing business. Hell seemed very much in need of a beast of burden that didn't resent you at every step.

We'd split the provisions between us, Abernathy's delivery as well as the few things we'd bought of our own. He'd questioned what seemed like a spare rakh not being able to see its rider, but we had the distinct advantage that he couldn't give a shit about us and therefore asked no questions.

I'd been forced out of politeness to smoke some of Abernathy's foul tobacco, gagging with every breath and trying to keep a smile fixed in place. I imagine a similarly pleasant experience could have been found by setting light to a dead rat and inhaling the result. For the next ten minutes everything looked slightly green. I was in no rush to smoke more.

It took us about half an hour to scale the mountain path. By the time we were at the summit we had an excellent view of The Bristle in its entirety. If only it had been worth looking at. There was a large wooden gate ahead of us with a small hatchway in it. Abernathy kicked at the door and stood back so that he could be seen by the gatekeeper as they opened the hatch.

"Delivery for Mr Greaser," he said, "so open the goddamn door."

"I know you," said the gatekeeper, a skeletal man whose eyelids drooped onto his cheeks like thick, fatty tears. "But I don't know them."

"They're fine," he said. "Just helping me with the delivery because you bastards can never be bothered to collect."

"I'll have to check," he said, slamming the hatchway shut.

"Have to check," sighed Abernathy. "Like there aren't enough gun happy assholes on the other side of the gate to cut us all down in less time than it takes to fart."

"Brilliant," said Biter. "This guy's is the business."

After a moment there was the rattle of a heavy chain and a bolt was lifted on the other side. The gate swung slowly open.

I had expected the other side to match the fort exterior; a rough, functional place. The sort of peeling, run down place hordes of bandits live in. It wasn't that at all.

The gate opened onto a large garden filled with dense bushes, statues throttled by ivy and fat, surreal flowers of a sort I'd never seen before. The colours were all deep reds and purples, making the whole place feel like a floral wound. A wide track led from the gate, through the garden to a huge house at the rear. It was the sort of colonial pile you used to see more of before the Civil War blew so many of them up. The kind of place a rich governor or plantation owner would live in. It had wide balconies and verandahs, huge, glistening windows catching the light from the deep red sun. To the right of the house was another building that matched it for size; I assumed this to be the stables. A group of men of differing species loitered outside it, all of them armed, all of them pointing their guns in our direction.

"Bring it in then," said the gatekeeper, waving us through.