The Black Tattoo (13 page)

"Bloody hot," said Charlie.
 
"Right."

"Then you take a big hammer and you beat it.
 
Hard.
 
And when it's the shape you want, you quench it."

"You
what
it?"

"You stick it in something to cool it down," muttered Jack.

"That's right," said Raymond, nodding to Jack.

"Next," he went on, "I
grind
it.
 
I keep grinding, till there's nothing left but filings.
 
Then I sweep the filings up, I mix 'em with seed, and I feed 'em to some pigeons."

"Why?" said Charlie.

Raymond's beard bristled as he grinned.
 
"Because the next day, when nature's, ah, 'taken its course,' as it were, I can collect what's under the pigeon coop, melt it down, and then start the whole thing again."

"What?"

"The Saxons were where I heard it first," said Raymond blithely.
 
"They used chickens.
 
But the Arabs, Toledo — most everyone was at it at some time or another.
 
Some Eastern swordsmiths even used ostriches, if you believe the stories."

"What are you talking about?" Charlie asked.

Raymond frowned.
 
"The droppings," he said, as if it were obvious.
 
"The feces.
 
The birds' mess — the poo."

The boys just stared at him.

Raymond sighed.

"Let me ask you something," he said.
 
"What does bird poo smell of?"

"Ammonia," said Jack, surprising himself.

"Right!" said Raymond.
 
"That's because it's full of nitrogen.
 
Well, feed the filings to your birds — with a nice bit of seed, of course, — and when they, ah, come out, the nitrogen will've reacted with the metal, hardening it.
 
Melt down the result, beat it into the shape you want, and you end up with a sword that's smaller, sure, but it'll be unbreakable, near enough.
 
Do the whole thing three or four times and it'll be stronger still.
 
Now..."

He paused.

"I make good swords, some of the strongest, hardest, toughest swords in the world.
 
I'm not one to boast.
 
Other people's swords may be nicer to look at.
 
But my swords, you can trust your life to 'em.
 
Which, after all, is what a sword is for."

"Good swords," said Charlie.
 
"Right.
 
What's your
point?
"

"By the time I'm done with a sword," said Raymond, looking hard at Charlie, "it's been heated red hot, smashed flat with hammers, ground down to nothing, crapped out by pigeons, heated red hot, smashed flat with hammers — et cetera, et cetera,
et cetera
.
 
Seven times is my record."

"Seven?" echoed Esme with sudden interest.

"Never mind that now," said Raymond.
 
"My point is," he went on, turning back to Charlie, "
you've
had your powers since... when?
 
The day before yesterday
."

Charlie frowned at him, not understanding.

"Why did you chase the demon, Charlie?" asked Raymond patiently.

"What?"

"Why did you chase the Scourge by yourself instead of waiting for backup?"

For another long moment Charlie just looked at him.

Then he scowled.

"All right," he said.
 
"Well, I don't know if Esme mentioned this to you, but it was going
quite quickly
.
 
If I'd waited, we'd've lost it."

"No," said Raymond quietly.
 
"If you'd waited, you could've helped get Jessica back here.
 
Instead of which, you took off, forcing Esme to follow you, and Jessica — and Jack — were left unprotected."

"I didn't
force
Esme to—" Charlie began.

"The day before yesterday, Charlie," Raymond repeated.
 
"Understand?
 
Esme's been training her whole life.
 
You're not qualified to make these decisions.
 
She is."

"But—"

"Plus, of course," Raymond went on, ignoring him, "you lost it anyway."

Charlie's scowl deepened.

"You lost it," said Raymond.
 
"Yes or no?"

"All right!" said Charlie.
 
"All right!
 
Yes, I lost it!"

He paused.

"I followed it across the rooftops," he said.
 
He turned to Jack.
 
"You should've seen me, mate, it was amazing!"

Jack looked at him.

"But then it... vanished suddenly," Charlie went on.
 
"It happened when we were back near the theater.
 
And that's where..."
 
He trailed off.

"That's where Esme caught up with you," said Raymond.

"That's right," said Charlie.

Raymond looked into the pigeon coop at its cooing, fluttering occupants for a whole minute.
 
Then, obviously satisfied by what he saw, he put down the bucket.

"Let me ask you another question," he said wearily.

Charlie just looked at him.

"If Esme hadn't decided—"

"Raymond," said Esme softly from the doorway.
 
"Don't you think—?"

"No, petal, this is important," said Raymond.
 
"He may be new to all this, but he's got to realize what's at stake."
 
The big man turned his gaze back onto Charlie.
 
"If Esme hadn't decided that the first priority was to get back to Jessica, what do you think would've happened?"

Charlie scowled but didn't answer.

"Shall I tell you?" Raymond asked.
 
"Your friend here" — he gestured at Jack without looking at him — "would be dead.
 
And it would be your fault, just like it's your fault that Jessica's dead."

Raymond kept looking at Charlie.

"What do you say to that?
 
Eh?"

Jack too looked at Charlie.
 
Charlie's mouth had turned into a hard white line.
 
When he spoke, it was quietly.

"Look," he said slowly.
 
"In case it slipped your mind, that demon of yours, the one that you've been making all this fuss over — is
gone
.
 
I killed it."
 
He paused.
 
"Now, I'm sorry about... what's-er-name, Jessica.
 
But we know now for sure that what happened to her isn't going to happen to anyone else, ever, because it's
over
.
 
And I won."

Raymond said nothing.

"I'm the boss," said Charlie, looking slowly around the room.
 
"I rule," he added, as if extra emphasis were needed.
 
"So..."
 
He shrugged.
 
"What's next?"

There was another long silence — broken only by the sudden sound of Charlie's phone, ringing again.

Charlie sucked his teeth, pulled out the phone, looked at the screen, and scowled.

"You'd best run along home to your mum, son," said Raymond quietly.
 
"It's late."

For a moment, Charlie just stared at him.
 
Then he stamped his foot.

"I don't
believe
this!" he shouted.
 
"What's wrong with you people?"

No one answered.

"Come on, Jack, we're going," said Charlie.
 
In another moment he was heading back for the door.
 
He waved a hand and it swung open for him:
 
it flew round on its hinges and smacked into the wall, hard.

Jack set off after him quickly, but before leaving the roof he cast one quick look back.
 
Both Esme and Raymond were standing perfectly still, apparently lost in thought, with the great wooden coop standing between them.
 
Then the door swung shut.

There was a pause.

"So," said Raymond.
 
"What do you think?"

"I'm going to get my paints," said Esme, and set off, not looking at Raymond.

Raymond followed her through the storeroom and then through the armory.
 
Then, when Esme turned left, heading for her room, he crossed the landing and opened the doors to the butterfly room.
 
He walked over to the long conference table and sat down.
 
Presently, Esme returned:
 
in one hand she was carrying a paint-spattered tray that held a small jug of water and a large palette spotted with a variety of colors — blues, mostly.
 
In the other, she held a clutch of fine, red-handled paintbrushed.
 
Raymond sat scratching his beard as, still not looking at him, Esme walked past the long table and off toward the shadowy far corner of the room, the place where the pattern ran out.
 
She stopped walking, closed her eyes—

—and lifted off the ground, floating smoothly up toward the high ceiling.

Her thick black curly hair was tied back in its customary tight bunch, and she was wearing a thin scarf of some dark material to catch any splashes.
 
Quickly, easily, she let the rest of her body swing upward until she was lying flat in the air, facing the ceiling, with the tray resting on her belly.
 
She chose a brush, dipped it in the water, and dabbed at the thick black poster paint she was using for the outline of tonight's butterfly.
 
When it was the consistency she wanted, she set to work.

All this while, Raymond said nothing.
 
Esme was concentrating on her butterfly.
 
Raymond waited.

Finally, Esme said, "I don't know."

Still, Raymond just waited.

"All my life..." said Esme, working the fine brush around the butterfly's outline with a rock-steady hand.
 
Only when it was roughed in to her satisfaction did she turn to look at the man at the table below her.
 
"You know?"

"Mm," said Raymond.

"I don't—" began Esme, then frowned.

"I
didn't
," she corrected herself, "think I'd feel like
that
when it was dead."

Raymond looked up at her.
 
"Like what?" he asked.

"Like nothing," said Esme.

Raymond waited.

Esme dropped the first brush into the water jug and chose another.
 
Frowning, she began filling in the butterfly's outline, laying the paint on thick.

"Maybe we've been wrong all this time to think the Scourge couldn't be killed," she said.
 
"Maybe Charlie really
is
that strong.
 
I mean, the Scourge
died
— or it certainly looked that way:
 
I watched it die:
 
it was screaming.
 
But I..."

She sighed and shook her head.

"I should have
felt something
.
 
Not... happy or anything.
 
You know I wasn't expecting that.
 
But there should have been something — shouldn't there?"

She looked down at Raymond.

"Mm," he said again.

She turned back to the butterfly — and blinked.
 
There was nothing there now but a great butterfly-shaped splat of darkness:
 
to a glimmer of the ceiling's original cream showed through.
 
The thing she was going to say was growing inside her, pushing to get out, so she gave up what she was doing and looked down at Raymond again.

"I just can't believe it's dead," she said.

She waited, holding her gaze on him until he looked up at her again.

"Not like that," she added.

"No," said Raymond finally.
 
"Me neither."

"I think you'd better find Felix," Esme said.

"Yeah," said Raymond.
 
"I think you're right."

THE CHANCE

Charlie and Jack were walking back across the park toward Charlie's house.
 
There were no lights in the park, and when Charlie left the path, his steps becoming suddenly inaudible on the grass, the silence settled around the boys like a cloak.
 
Charlie stopped by the lake that ran along the park's south side.
 
Jack caught up and stood beside him, and they looked out at the water:
 
it was as black as ink, and Jack could hear it whispering to itself.

"So," said Charlie suddenly, his voice sounding bright and crass in the quiet.
 
"That was a pretty classy bit of rescuing, eh?"

"Yep," said Jack.
 
"Just in the nick of time too.
 
I think this superhero business is starting to suit you."

"
So
," repeated Charlie, with sudden savagery, "why the Hell didn't you stick up for me back there?"

Jack stared at him, astonished.
 
"What?"

"For Christ's sake, Jack, I saved your life tonight!
 
You might at least've said something to back me up with Raymond — but instead you're all, 'Stick it something to cool it down.'"
 
Charlie's voice had gone high and singsong a he threw Jack's words back at him.
 
He sounded nothing like Jack whatsoever.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?" asked Jack, unable to fathom where all this was coming from.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Jack looked at Charlie.
 
Charlie's face was in darkness.
 
Jack thought for a moment, then said quietly, "Do you think it would've helped?"

"I mean," he went on, when Charlie didn't reply, "it's not like you or the others have ever really listened to me before.
 
Right?"