The Worm King (31 page)

‘Snow?’

‘Snow!’ Winston blurted, spitting partially-chewed
macaroni.

Murray was confused. ‘What? I dunno, she’s
probably cold enough now, but—’

‘No. Was the man’s
name
Snow?’

‘Oh. Not sure. Funny thing is, you couldn’t remember
his name either, could you Pete, after he left? Tall bloke with fair hair, and
wear’in a suit and tie. Kept lookin at his watch all the time. It was one of
them big Rolex things.’

Snow all right.

‘I know that mongrel,’ scowled Winston,
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then licking the hand.

The dwarf commenced to give a jumbled
account of his whereabouts over the last six weeks. It was a somewhat disturbing
story, leaving a conundrum. He seemed convinced a man with a harelip tried to
kill him. This Harelip was involved with Snow, and some trench out the back of
the hotel filled with bodies. The dwarf also knew the women Astrid, in the
locked room, and thought Snow would’ve been responsible for taking the missing
girls. On the other hand, it was obvious from his disclosures that through large
chunks of this time the little scamp hadn’t even been close to sober. In the
normal course of events, you’d heavily discount the lot of it, but an alarm
bell rang about his friend Harelip. Forsyth recalled the man who’d poked his
head out, when he was on the prowl for the sewing kit. That fellow with the
deformed face.

Yeth.

‘He’s drifted off,’ said Kate softly. She reached
out to shake his shoulder.

‘No, he’ll be okay after that meal.’ He
checked his watch, realizing he’d been outside over an hour . . . then
by reckoning, the hotel lights should be back on in ten minutes. That’s if what
Snow said about five hours on, five off, is correct. And there was no reason it
should be. In fact, the one time probably guaranteed they
won’t
come on,
is in ten minutes. ‘Let him sleep. I’m going to pop back to my room and grab
the rest of my kit. I’ll let this man’s friends know he’s out here with you. They
might want to—’

A shot rang out: rifle; light caliber;
dulled by the fog but perhaps a hundred meters distant. Forsyth cocked his head,
listening for another to ascertain direction, and didn’t have to wait long. A
second, then a third in quick succession. They were coming from around the back
of the hotel. The dwarf woke with a jerk, waving an arm in front of his face to
shield off the bullets before realizing where he was, and stopped. ‘Bastards were
shooting at me yesterday too!’ He gamely attempted to struggle to his feet,
little arms and legs flailing everywhere. ‘I’m going back there, see who’s doin
it!’

‘No. I’ll go.’ Forsyth placed a hand on Winston’s
shoulder, holding him down, and the little bloke collapsed back immediately.

‘They’ll just be shoot’in at . . . I
don’t know, whatever it is they hunt over here for tucker. Koalas or sum’it
won’t they?’ guessed Murray.

‘Yes, koalas. It’s bound to be that. Still,
I’ll take a quick look. Shouldn’t be a problem hopefully. Then I’ll go to my room,
get the others, and be back out and see you all in, say, twenty-five minutes or
thereabouts.’

‘Well, I ’spose. Tell you what, how ’bout I
come and take a look too, then I’ll come right back here.’ He smiled
reassuringly at the young couple and child. ‘I need a stretch anyway. We don’t
have big fancy rooms to stride round in, like you army fūllas there.’

Hopefully he didn’t get in the way. Another
shot rang out. Forsyth happened to be watching Murray’s weathered face at that exact
instant, and he didn’t flinch. Not even the most infinitesimal twitch. It occurred
to him the old farmer was probably a fairly tough old nut, and maybe he’d be
slowing
him
down.

The two men saw the glow of the bonfire and
heard the high-pitched laughter within seconds of exiting the shack. At the rear
corner of the hotel, they drew to a halt. The fog had grown patchy and there
seemed no point going any further because it was obvious what was happening. Five
individuals faced the flames, their backs to Forsyth and Murray. They didn’t need
to go to any great lengths to remain hidden. Unless one of those by the fire
turned, and glanced specifically in their direction, they weren’t going to see
anything amiss, and even then, being that close to the fire the glare would be
terrible so the chances of being spotted were virtually nil.

Murray touched Forsyth’s arm and pointed. ‘That’s
that Met bloke we told you about, at the front there. Not the one with the gun,
the other one.’

Snow was easy to pick out, and he suspected
the man beside him with the rifle was the same one who’d poked his head out the
door when the sewing issue came up.
BANG!
They were shooting at rats
running from the fire. The gunman turned his head to one side and Forsyth thought
there was something wrapped around his face, like a bandage, but couldn’t spot
the harelip from that distance.
BANG!
He was the one doing all the
laughing too.

The three other men stood directly behind
Snow and his buddy. They wore hotel uniforms, and whenever the gunman moved, they
moved as well, obviously keen on staying to the rear of the field of fire. Snow
pointed at a smaller pile of rubbish, thirty meters beyond the main blaze. His suit
looked different from the time they’d met in his office: the trouser
bottoms were tucked down into the top of boots. Previously he’d worn polished
leather brogues; Forsyth remembered taking note of them whilst trying to work
out that Aboriginal wine stain on the rug. Snow’s profile reminded him of a
London skinhead, but with more hair. Menacing, angry and unpredictable with a
smart hairdo. The gunman fired a shot in the direction of the smaller pile and
the hotel staff hurriedly rotated. A flurry of rodents dashed from the burning
pile to the non-burning smaller one.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The scream
of dying rats mingled with Harelip’s laughter and the crackle of flames.

‘Stop!’ shouted Snow.

He obligingly lowered the weapon.

‘Thank god for that,’ said Murray softly. ‘Could
you see his harelip? Thought I might’ve been able to make one out.’

‘No.’

Words were exchanged between Snow and his friend.
Forsyth guessed he was telling the idiot to stop wasting valuable ammo on vermin.

Yep, Harelip shouldered the rifle and began walking
back towards the hotel. Hang on, not quite. He picked up a jerry can and
returned to the small pile, pouring on a decent splash then going over to Snow.
Snow took the drum, gave it a shake and handed it back. Harelip returned to the
smaller pile, and tossed the whole thing on. The throw was good, and the can sat
perched precariously on top. Next he moved to main pile, and shielding his face
from the heat with his arm, grabbed a piece of partially burning garbage from
the fringe of the flames. He trotted to the small pile and chucked it on.

WOOOF!
He
backed away from the flames because the drum hadn’t gone up yet, then . . . 

WOOOMPfffh!!
A
lovely little fireball nearly fried the bastard but unfortunately he was quick
enough to duck out in time. Now at a safer distance, Harelip raised the rifle,
firing at wave upon wave of rats fleeing the freshly burning mound, laughing
hysterically between shots, while Snow punched the air with a clenched fist. The
three hotel staff cowered.

‘Sheeeee-it!’ exclaimed Murray.

A frigid shiver tore up the Forsyth’s spine,
chilling him to the core. How could these men be associated with the Prime
Minister? And how did the new legislation Snow’s trying to shove through fit
into the equation? Harelip circled the blaze, with the hotel men scurrying after.
Snow followed casually. Soon they’d be firing back in their direction, so
Forsyth touched Murray on the shoulder and sounded the retreat.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A long pause. ‘Who is it?’

‘Captain Forsyth here ma’am. Astrid?’

‘Yes!’ said a male voice instead, then
silence.

‘I just met a friend of yours, outside. Winston?
Do you—’

‘Oh God, I can’t believe he’s still here! Can
you take us out there, please?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ the deep-voiced male urged. The
dwarf had said Astrid would be with an Italian by the name of Francesco.

After warning them to stand back, he kicked open
the door, which popped like a blister, first go. The way the jambs overlapped made
it much easier to break inwards than outwards. The woman stood shorter than
she’d sounded; the man overweight, and swarthy, with a bull-neck and fists
that’d make Tyson think twice. A putrid waft rolled from the room and Forsyth couldn’t
help stepping back a half-pace.

‘It’s the toilet bucket,’ she explained. ‘They
only give us a bucket to go in. We keep it shut in the bathroom but the smell
still comes out. They used to empty it every day.’

‘This way.’ The pair followed without
further explanation.

They didn’t meet a soul on the walk to the restaurant,
which seemed odd, given it was supposedly now in the lights-on phase. Perhaps
everyone had their own individual light phases? Staggering it might make sense,
in terms of power drainage. Earlier, when gathering blankets for the Brigadier
and being allocated his room, he’d passed at least fifteen other . . . guests?
You’d struggle to call them that because most were male and several clearly intoxicated.
They sure didn’t
look
like regular Hyatt clientele, although there’d
definitely been one family: an Indian man, his wife and three children playing
in the foyer near the downstairs ballroom. Now they’d all disappeared without a
trace, like they’d fallen down a hole.

And how did the hotel even enforce the
lights curfew? Probably didn’t have to: people were so desperate for direction
they simply did what they were told and followed whatever orders thrown at them.
That kind of sullen lethargy was much prevalent at Duntroon too. This depressing
darkness had soaked into everyone like a cancerous rot.

The restaurant still appeared closed. The
lights inside were off and seating area empty, although a glow was visible around
the edge of a rear door which more than likely led to the kitchen. It might be
that they’re using the kitchen facilities, but getting people to eat in their
rooms. Forsyth stepped over the threshold and stopped, waiting for Astrid and
Francesco. ‘Hang on here for a moment, would you?’ As quietly as possible, he walked
across the restaurant and halted at the bar, turned, paused, then hiked his
backside up and legs over in one fluid movement. The bottle rack above the bar
had already been cleaned out. He began checking shelves down near the floor,
doing it by feel because the light in the hall didn’t penetrate this far. By
good fortune, the second bottle he touched was full, and . . . yes!
Just what the doctor ordered. So he stole it.

Stole?

No, of course it wasn’t stealing when one
had an Order of Darkness tucked in one’s breast pocket, which to his way of
understanding meant you could requisition whatever you liked, within reason. Bugger
it, even the unreasonable stuff’s fair game these days. Would Duntroon forgive
one more minor transgression? Sorry to mention it old boy, but you’re building
up rather a stack of them there.

Therefore he formally
requisitioned
the vodka, and hopped back over the bar. Halfway to the door, he froze mid-step.
Who was that!? A face peered at Francesco and Astrid, from alongside the pillar
at the entrance. The person would’ve been close enough to reach out and touch
one of them. Forsyth stepped around the pair and into the restaurant entrance, while
the stranger backed rapidly away. He wore black and white checked pantaloons
and a puffy chef’s hat.

‘Hello,’ rumbled Francesco, recovering immediately.
The chef stared at the incriminating bottle but didn’t say a word. The prospect
of confronting a thief in full army getup, plus a second robber the size of a tank,
was obviously not high on his chefy list. Not to mention the little redhead, and
redheads just always look angry, full stop. The chef sensibly shrunk into the
background with his mouth hanging open and didn’t move, so they left.

The lobby proved to be the busiest section
of the hotel. Two men reclined on the leather sofa opposite the reception desk
and another on a chair adjacent the sofa. All three wore heavy overcoats and
their faces were streaked with grime, like they’d been shoveling coal. On first
glance, Forsyth thought they might’ve been the ones assisting Snow at the fire,
but their profiles were all different. The same bellhop stood in attendance,
leaning against his empty trolley. A bookie would’ve taken odds he was superglued
onto the damn thing. The chap on the chair began coughing, then pulled out a
hanky and spat a phlegmy wad into it, triggering the sofa men into coughing fits
too. No sign of the concierge.

‘Hello,’ Francesco said to the bellhop. The
boy nodded, but didn’t offer a reply.

He checked his watch: precisely two-fifteen
in the afternoon. Through the glass front door, mist swirled with ill intent. Anyone
seeking a sign the sun was reappearing wouldn’t find it today. He pushed the
door wide and stepped onto the veranda, looking right, then left. Deserted. The
lantern that’d been there previously was gone. Astrid and Francesco followed close
behind.