Paint Your Dragon (25 page)

The dragon nodded.

‘And if I'm alive now, I must have been alive six weeks ago. Well?'

‘Obviously.'

‘Okay.' The dragon grinned. ‘There you are, then.'

And there they weren't, either of them.

For ten minutes or so, Nkunzana sat, gazing at the empty stool. Then he stood up, threw another log on the fire.

‘Hambla gahle,'
he said quietly, go in peace. ‘I'm Logic, fly me.' He shook his head, picked up his catskin bag of medicines and walked to his hut.

It only occurred to him when he reached the doorway. He stopped dead, swore,
(‘Wangi hudela umtwana wami!')
and banged his head savagely against the lintel. Bloody old fool.

All that work, unsocial hours, and who the hell was he going to send the invoice to?

 

Bianca's arm ached, the newly mended bone resenting the heavy vibration of hammer on chisel on stone. She glanced up at the clock. No time to rest, she observed mournfully. Not even time for a quick brew and a garibaldi biscuit. She raised the chisel, positioned it carefully, tapped gently. Boy, was she
tired.

It was starting to take its toll. Already her hand had slipped, uncharacteristically, when she'd been doing the left side of the collar bone. Oh dear, what a shame, never mind. The old Mike had always had a chip on his shoulder. Now he had a chip out of it; same difference.

Do the head last, shrieked her common sense. Just in case the bloody thing comes alive before I've finished it. Last thing I need is Mike's head looking over my shoulder, telling me how I should do my job. Probably try and sweet-talk me into making improvements on the original. No prize for guessing what he'd want improved.

Furthermore, once this job was finished, no chance of taking a day off or putting her feet up. The moment she'd finished Mike, she had a dragon to find and reason with. And what if the wretched thing wouldn't listen to reason? Then what the hell was she supposed to do?

She paused, brushed away chippings and thought hard. Why me, anyway? Go on, then, if you're so damn clever.

The trouble was, she could feel reasons there under her skin, like the palmed coin hidden in the magician's handkerchief. It
had
to be her, because ... Well, because she believed in what was going on - not through choice, but because she knew it was all horribly true - and she knew full well that nobody else would believe her. If she tried to enlist the help of the proper authorities (Police? Army? Church? No idea), they'd have her inside a fruitcake repository and connected up to the mains before she got much further than, ‘Well, it's like this...' Because she owed it to the dragon for the wrongs her species had done to his species - No, the hell with that. Follow that line of argument and she'd be pouring petrol through delicatessens' letterboxes. Because it was her statues that started it all. That was the reason. Very silly reason; holding herself responsible for the acts of a bunch of semi-legendary joyriders. But it was the reason and she was stuck with it.

But what was she to do if the dragon wouldn't listen to her? An entrancing picture floated before her mind; the damsel fights the dragon to save the knight chained to the rock. Great feminist statement; bloody silly game plan. And how do you go about fighting dragons, anyway?

‘Reluctantly,' Bianca said aloud. ‘Copper mallet, copper mallet, come out wherever you are.'

Three hours later, there wasn't much left to do. The face - well, far be it from her to seek to amend Mother Nature's banjax. The small of the back and the bum; there is a destiny that shapes our ends, she muttered to herself laying in hard with the chisel, rough-hew them how we will. In this instance, it had shaped Mike's end rather like a very old, tired sofa. There were lots of untidy chisel-marks, but his trousers would hide those. Time Mike learnt to take the rough with the smooth.

Chip chip, tap tap. ‘All right,' she said. ‘It's ready. Phase One in an exciting new development of starter-homes for unfussy ghosts.'

She waited.

 

Slight miscalculation? Maybe. Or maybe a very precise calculation indeed.

Below him, the dragon saw the still-smoking embers of the hall. A gaggle of peculiar-shaped creatures, led by a human, were picking their way through the hot-rubble towards a beat-up old motor vehicle. They got in and drove away.

Banzai
! He'd come back in a day or so earlier than scheduled, just nicely in time to see George and his sidekicks clambering out of their incinerator and making a run for it. Maintaining his height, he tracked the van; wingbeats few and slow, a handy thermal buoying him up.

He was, he hoped, too high for the wretched creatures in the van to see or notice, although what could they do if they did? Drive faster than light? Try and defend themselves? Attack? Let them. The dragon was wearing under his metaphorical dinner jacket the bullet-proof vest of zombie-hood;
you can't get me 'cos I done dead already.
Looking ahead up the road, he picked his spot. Fire? Twelve good nosefuls before he was into reserve. He accelerated, put his wings back, fell into the glide ...

 

‘George.'

‘Now what?'

‘There's a dragon following us.'

 

The van had slewed to a sudden dramatic standstill and its contents were dispersing at top speed. Drat, the dragon thought. Never mind, he was locked on to George now; he didn't care about the others, as soon let them go as not, provided they didn't interfere. And they wouldn't. Not many demons are prepared to lay down their lives for a saint.

Nice to watch George run. For a short, fattish lad he had a pretty turn of speed. Slippery, too, as soap in a bath, so no time for mucking about. It's when the stage villain pauses to twirl his moustaches and cackle that the hero sees his chance and the underwriters of his life policies start to breathe again. Time to nail the sod.

He dived, breathed in. A smart sneeze, pinpoint accurate. A very loud,
very
short scream. Job done.

Home.

 

Oh.

So that was death, was it? Typical, I missed it.

George watched the dragon recede into the sky, then looked down; although he knew there'd be nothing to see. His body—gone. Which body? Didn't matter. The jet of fire that had wrapped round him like a cat round legs had been so hot it'd have evaporated marble as easily as flesh. An exemplary snuff; quick, sure and completely (as far as he could remember) painless.

George was suddenly aware of something -

- God knows what. The nearest he could get to it was an invisible lead, dragging him like an over-inquisitive dog. Balls, muttered George, I'm going to Heaven. Don't want to go yet. Haven't finished.

Don't have to go. As the unseen rope tugged him along, he was aware of a handhold, an escape hatch, rushing towards him. An anomaly! Saved!

There's many a slip, as the saying goes, between toilet bowl and sewage farm. George only saw it for the most fleeting sliver of a second, but it was long enough to judge his escape attempt and make it.

A statue, its back door wide open. In fact, so conveniently placed, handy for the stream of traffic, that you'd be forgiven for thinking it had been put there expressly for the purpose. A mousetrap? Or a getaway car?

Whatever; who gives a shit? As far as George was concerned, it was a case of any portrait in a storm. He threw himself at the anomaly and hit the mark.

 

‘Mike? You in there yet?'

Coming, coming. Being dead takes it out of you, makes you realise just how out of condition you can become in three days. Painfully, Mike dragged himself towards the nice welcoming statue. Dear, kind, clever Bianca, she'd done a good job. Almost there ...

What?
What?

Just as the door in the back of the statue opened and he'd been reaching out a frail and shaky arm to touch it, some evil git had bounced up from behind, swept past him, jumped into the statue and slammed the door. Was that face familiar? The ill-fated play where he'd been killed. Oh
no.
Saint George. The saint had stolen his body.

Even if he'd had the strength to hammer on the door and tug at the handle, it'd have done him no good. With statues it's strictly first come, first stored. He'd been gazumped, at the last minute.

He had no more strength left to hang on. He let go.

 

‘Mike? You in there yet?'

The statue's eyes flickered.

‘Mike!'

With an effortless smoothness that did her no end of credit, the eyelids lifted.

‘Mike?'

That's not him in there!
Odd, how you just know, simply by looking people in the eye. Just a coloured circle on a white background, a fried egg with a jewelled yolk. Perhaps we can actually see the retina, the way they do for ultrahigh-security identification routines, but too fast for our conscious minds to know what we've actually done.

‘Who?'

I know who! I'd recognise those beady, shifty little eyes anywhere
!

Bianca had quick reactions. Very few scientific instruments known to Man would be precise enough to measure the tiny instant it took her to grab the two-pound lump hammer and swing it at the head of her newly completed masterpiece. Compared to Saint George, though, she was a dinosaur in slow motion. Before her fingers had contacted the hickory handle, he was moving. As the hammerhead rushed towards him, he stuck out his newly acquired right arm, punched Bianca neatly in the eye, ducked the hammer blow and ran for it. Behind him, he heard a crash, suggesting that Bianca had sat down uncomfortably on the floor. He made a mental note to laugh triumphantly later, when he had the time.

He was through the door and out into the street faster than a jack-rabbit absconding with the Christmas club money.

 

Painfully, feeling like a Keystone Kop five seconds after the director's yelled ‘Cut!' Bianca hauled herself up off the floor and swore.

George, that bastard of a saint, had stolen another of her statues. Worse, he'd probably just killed her friend. Nice touch, that; poor old Mike had just had the rare privilege of being killed by both Good and Evil consecutively. Not that she had a clue any more which was which; nor did she care. If Mike still existed, anywhere in the cosmos, she guessed he was feeling the same way.

The hammer was still in her hand and she realised; Jesus, I just tried to
kill
him. A saint. My own statue. I tried to kill one of my own statues, just when it was on the point of coming to life.

It wasn't being the sort of day you look back on with pride.

‘W
hat the Shopfloor,' Chardonay quavered, ‘was
that?'

Slitgrind levered himself up out of a puddle with his forearms. His eyes were blind with saint-ash and his lungs were full of holy smoke. ‘Guess,' he grunted, and then started to cough.

‘The dragon again?'

Before Chardonay could say anything else, Snorkfrod was at his side, hauling him up like an adored sack of spuds. Was he all right? Any bones broken? Did it hurt if she prodded him there?

‘Yes,' he yelped. ‘Not that that means anything. That'd hurt under any circumstances.'

‘That dragon,' muttered Prodsnap, ‘doesn't like us very much. What did we
do?'

‘We tried to kill him,' Holdall replied. ‘First we wee'd all over him, then we blew him up with dynamite. Maybe he's paranoid or something.'

Having dislodged the proffered paramedical assistance, Chardonay sat down on a low wall and put on the one boot he'd been able to find. ‘Well,' he said, ‘one thing's for certain, that dragon isn't dead. Not as such. Where's George?'

The other demons looked at each other.

‘Look,' Prodsnap said, ‘let's put it this way. He's gone to a better place, and I don't mean Solihull.' He sneezed. ‘I suggest we do the same. In our case, of course, we want to go to a worse place, but the principle's the same.'

‘Where's that damn priest got to, come to that?' Slitgrind growled. ‘I'm trying to remember if he was with us in the van. Who saw the bugger last?'

Chardonay was staring at the abandoned van. Its engine was still running. ‘That dragon,' he said, in a strange flat voice, ‘just killed a saint.'

Slitgrind shrugged a few shoulders. ‘Plenty more where he came from. Look, can we get the Shopfloor out of here, before the sucker comes back?'

‘The dragon,' Chardonay repeated, ‘just killed Saint George. That's
wrong.'

The exasperated sound came from Slitgrind. ‘Look, love,' he stage-whispered to Snorkfrod, who was putting powder (powdered what, you don't want to know) on her face, using a puddle for a mirror. ‘Can you explain to that thick prat of a boyfriend of yours, any minute now that flying bastard's gonna come back and fry
us.
We gotta
go,
for Chrissakes.'