Sleepless Knights (4 page)

For twenty eight seconds, nothing happened.

At thirty five seconds, his lips and chin glistened with a faint gleam where some of the liquid had spilled.

After forty two seconds, Lance De Troyes coughed, spluttered, and took in a gasping lungful of air, like a half-drowned man breaking the surface of the sea. He opened his eyes and blinked hard. “That went rather well, don't you think Lucas?” he said.

“There were no technical hitches to speak of, Sir Lancelot,” I replied, somewhat relieved. Sir Lancelot flexed his muscles and stretched his arms. He picked up a suitcase from the floor of the car, opening it on the seat beside him.

“A pretty commonplace death. Slow-acting poison. Almost makes me nostalgic for all those arrows,” he said.

“I really am sorry about that —”

“Relax, Lucas, I'm pulling your leg. They can't all be showstoppers, especially these days. It had to be done. Lance De Troyes was getting a reputation as something of a Dorian Gray. Some of the old dears were asking awkward questions about where their investment money was going. Still, onwards and upwards. Scotland next. Been working on a character called Connor MacRitchie. A laird. Ginger.
You'll like him. Same plan as before. Set up a charity, under the guise of building a hedgehog sanctuary or some such rubbish. Charm dotty millionaires out of their cash and give it to the people who really need it.

“I take it I can rely on you to find a suitable house and get the staff up and running, Lucas? Once my funeral's over and the dust has settled.” Sir Lancelot pulled out a tie from the suitcase and held it against his collar.

“Excuse me for saying so, Sir Lancelot, but Scotland is…”

“Yes?”

“Scotland strikes me as…”

“Go on.”

“Somewhat removed from our base of operations.”

“So was France.”

“Indeed, but that was some time ago.”

“I follow the Eternal Quest how I choose, Lucas. You know that.
He
knows that.” The hoot of an owl broke a silence that was seconds away from becoming uncomfortable.

“Forgive me, Sir Lancelot. I shall assist in any way I can.”

“Good.” A second hoot followed, as if to clear the air. “Shame I can't bring old Crossley with me. How did he take it, at the end?”

“Stoically, but not without an appropriate measure of sorrow.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Good old Crossley.” Sir Lancelot seemed to be having great difficulty deciding which jacket to wear, for his eyes were downcast, as if mesmerised by the contents of the suitcase. I was about to suggest charcoal grey, when he made his choice and plumped for black. I started the car and returned to the road.

“Tell me, Lucas. And be honest. How was I tonight, performance-wise?”

“I have no notes to give, save your choice of day, Sir Lancelot.”

“Don't flap, I haven't forgotten what night it is. We have plenty of time. Besides, I thought it was rather fitting. Death and rebirth, the circle of life?”

“I appreciate the dramatic irony. But today has seen a more demanding timetable than usual.”

“Oh?”

“The Master is suffering from his recurring condition.”

We had reached the turning that led back to the Once & Future Inn. I stopped at the crossroads and regarded Sir Lancelot in the rear view mirror. The light cast by the full moon gave his face the appearance of being hewn from stone.

“Then he'll just have to drink it through a straw,” he said.

“He is also in the grip of a wandering variation,” I said. A deep sigh wafted over my shoulder.

“Grant me mercy… I suppose you want me to help search for him?”

“It is not that straightforward. There is also the matter of Sir Gawain. He has ventured unaccompanied into the metropolis.”

“God's teeth!” A fist struck leather upholstery.

“I am inclined to agree, Sir Lancelot,” I replied.

 

I confess I was unprepared for the panorama presenting itself as we entered the heart of Cardiff. The streets teemed with revellers in advanced states of inebriation. Females, dressed in the flimsiest of attire, staggered past lurid neon signs, or lurched on unsuitable shoes into the path of the taxis they were attempting to hail. Their male counterparts, though more sturdily shod, yielded nothing to the women when it came to intoxication. When not swaggering and preening for the attention of potential mates, they rutted with rivals in periodic bouts of violence. So territorial were these clashes that I half expected them to start marking their turf. Sure enough, I had scarcely formed the thought when one of them unzipped his flies and did exactly that. The ill tidings of the dashboard clock returned me to my senses.

“What manner of feast day is this?” I said, when we had located suitable parking down a side street.

“Saturday night. Perhaps you should stay with the car, Lucas. The capital on a weekend is no place for a butler.”

“Thank you for your concern, Sir Lancelot. But I think it would be better, given our tight schedule, that I accompany you in the retrieval of Sir Gawain.”

“Stay close to me, then. And watch your step. There are pitfalls aplenty for the unwary traveller.”

As indeed there were, even during our short journey to Jennifer's Nightclub, a favourite haunt of our companion according to Sir Lancelot. A man stumbled towards me, a bottle of lager slipping from each hand; these I caught before they could shatter on the pavement, placing the empty one in a litter bin and the full one in my trouser pocket. I pulled back a girl who was teetering on the edge of the kerb, so that she might find herself inside the bus she was waiting for, rather than spread across the front of it. The tramp intent on following her aboard found his hand clasping not the bag he had been grabbing for, but the full bottle of lager from my pocket, and was still thanking his lucky stars when the doors closed and the bus drove the girl safely away.

All the while, Sir Lancelot forged ahead with the kind of stride that informed anyone blocking his path of the folly of their ways. Including the stocky guardsmen stationed at the nightclub doorway, who simply nodded him through as if he owned the place. For all I knew of his numerous business interests, he probably did. Upon entering, a monstrous sound assailed my ears, as of the rumbling and growling of a cornered animal. This dreadful racket was interspersed with a female wailing, like a lady confronted by the desperate creature, screaming for her very life. But apparently I was the only one disturbed by the din, for the occupants of Jennifer's moved happily to its rhythm. At the centre of a sea of bodies I espied Sir Gawain, nimble of foot and brimful of ale, oblivious to Sir Lancelot wading steadily towards him. I hesitated at the edge of the dancing area, partly because I was still taking it all in, and partly because the young man entering the club behind me, assuming me for some kind of attendant, had just handed me his coat. I placed it around the shoulders of a scantily clad girl who was on her way out, and followed in Sir Lancelot's wake.

Sir Gawain was dancing at the centre of a group of women fitted out in a variety of costumes, including several in a style favoured by the French serving classes during the last century. Their approval of Sir Gawain's dancing was in inverse proportion to the disapproval of a gang of men surveying the scene from a table to our right with skirmish-hungry stares. Upon seeing Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain merely rolled his eyes and continued to dance. “What do you want, Lancey? Can't yer see I'm busy?” he shouted above the noise.

“No you're not, Gawain. You're coming with me.”

“I like your friend, Gawain,” said a girl in black, with plastic feline ears and smudged whiskers on her cheeks. “What's his name?”

“Buggering Off,” said Sir Gawain, moving between Sir Lancelot and the cat-woman.

“Aw come on, share it with the hen!” said one in a bridal veil, a red letter ‘
L
' pinned to her back. She draped her arm around Sir Lancelot's neck, her head lolling on his shoulder. He looked towards the table of observers, just as a collective jolt of anger spurred them up out of their seats. Sir Gawain noted it too, and smiled thinly.

“Ach, don't bother with him, Sandra,” said Sir Gawain, putting his arm around the bride. “I'm your last request, remember?”

“You've exceeded your limits, Gawain,” said Sir Lancelot.

“Oh I'm just getting warmed up,” replied Sir Gawain, taking a long swig at a champagne bottle.

“It's Ritual Night,” said Sir Lancelot through gritted teeth. From the corner of my eye, I marked our observers' swift approach. Sir Gawain released the bride.

“Then I'll get a taxi.”

“To the Inn? Talk sense, man!”

“You're not the only one with money, Lance DeWhatnot.”

“We're running out of time. We need to leave.”

“
This
is my Ritual Night, right here. So why don't you run back to your wee mansion?”

“You fool, Gawain! You'll die —”

“You're dead, you Scottish bastard.” Our observers, all six of them, now had us surrounded. Their leader pushed Sir Gawain in the shoulder. “You're old enough to be their dad,” he said.

“Granddad,” chimed a henchman. Physically, this was true, though inaccurate on a point of technicality by some years. Over one thousand, four hundred years, to be more precise.

“Barry? What the hell are you doing here? Just go, will you!” said Sandra.

“Shut up and stay out of this, I ain't even started on you yet,” replied this ‘Barry.'

Sir Lancelot inclined his head towards Barry, as if he were about to share an intimate secret. “One: You do not address a lady in that tone and manner. Ever. Two: Kindly remove your hand from my companion's shoulder. Now.”

Barry's hand stayed exactly where it was. At his side, the fingers of the other hand squeezed the neck of a beer bottle. His mouth twisted into in a grim sneer. Green eyes flashed fire. With a flick of his wrist he smashed the bottle on the side of a pillar.

“Or what?” he said.

“Or I promise you, you will not leave this place without suffering blows most dolorous.”

“You what?”

Sir Gawain took a step closer to Sir Lancelot and Barry. “He means
come an have a go if ye think yer hard enough, ya manky wee goat scrote
.”

Barry's jagged bottle swung for Sir Lancelot in a wide arc. Sir Lancelot stepped neatly to one side, upsetting Barry's balance, not to mention his pride, as he found himself
floored by his own momentum. The bottle flew out of his hand and towards the unflinching Sir Gawain, nicking his neck. Sir Gawain touched the skin, looked at the blood on his fingers, and smiled. “Been there, done that,” he said, and head-butted Barry's chief henchman, sending him sprawling back towards his fellows.

As if a stone had been dropped into the centre of an ant hill, the patrons surrounding us scattered in alarm. Furious now, Barry's gang attacked. One flew for Sir Lancelot's waist, only to meet the knight's foot, sending him into the path of another, who was charging for Sir Gawain with a chair raised above his head. The chair fell towards the cat-woman, who proved decidedly less nimble than her namesake; I caught the chair by the leg and threw it to Sir Gawain, who made good use of it to brain a man about to strangle him from behind.

From the farthest corners of the nightclub, a battalion of Barry clones flocked to his flag. The mere existence of the fight was enough to secure their allegiance to his cause; no sooner was one man dispatched to the heap of casualties on the dance floor, than another sprang up to take his place. Thus assailed from all directions, Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain found themselves marooned in the centre of an ever-growing Barry island. Retreating to a vantage point outside the sphere of conflict, I could see that chaos reigned within. Flying bottles filled the air, smashing against mirrored walls. Bystanders took advantage of the
mêlée
to settle old scores and create new ones especially for the occasion. Staff ran pell-mell in all directions, shouting for the authorities who would not be long in arriving.

And when they did, what then?

A pint glass hit the clock behind the bar. The clock face read a quarter to eleven. Panic seized my heart. But not, as you might think, at the realisation that we were running out
of time. It was more that, unless I was very much mistaken,
time itself
had suddenly ground to a standstill. The shards of the pint glass, far from exploding in every direction as one would expect, had frozen at the moment of impact. To my left, a man's fist rested in front of his victim's face, from which a line of blood hung suspended, as if he were pulling a red ribbon out of his nose. A chair sat serenely in the air to my right. A beer bottle hovered above my head, its contents arrested mid-spill in a long, globular arc. I flexed my fingers, and was highly relieved to find them functioning at normal speed. Whatever the explanation for this bizarre and alarming occurrence, I alone remained unaffected. I swallowed my fear as best I could, and did the only thing I could think of, under the circumstances.

I set to work.

I vaulted over the bar and took two carbon dioxide fire extinguishers from the wall. Jumping up onto the bar, I ran down its length, ducking a drinks tray and hopping over the sprawling body of a bouncer. At the end of the bar I leaped into the air and, using floating chairs as stepping stones, landed on the heads and shoulders of the men surrounding Sirs Lancelot and Gawain. By running the circumference of this circle, I came level with a fire alarm panel fixed at the top of a pillar, and broke the emergency glass with my elbow. I landed alongside my comrades and gave them an extinguisher each, removing the safety hooks and squeezing their hands around the trigger so that the first puff of gas oozed from the nozzle. Finally, I rearranged the poses of their immediate attackers, directing their blows away from the intended targets and back towards themselves.