Twisthorn Bellow Page 5

  “Yes, I couldn’t remember the name. He didn’t play them but he gave the impression he was a virtuoso.”

  “How did he manage that?”

  “He moved his mouth over the tops of the reeds without blowing down them. His lips were very fast!”

  “But he didn’t look like a devil, you said?”

  “More along the lines of a nature god from Ancient Greece, a sort of mega-satyr. That’s just a guess.”

  “Hmm, I wonder which god plays panpipes?”

  “Dashed if I know, boss.”

  * * * * *

  The days that followed turned out to be monotonous in the extreme. The Agency was slowly being converted into a less militaristic establishment and potential civilian employees had to be recruited to take over many of the duties that currently were discharged by the professor and his trio of monsters. In the long run this change would be highly beneficial, freeing Cherlomsky and his favourites to concentrate entirely on fieldwork, but making the change happen required considerable organisation, which in turn meant excessive paperwork.

  Twisthorn typed letters, sent e-mails and answered the telephone. Hapi was less useful but did psychically click for important documents to be stapled together without actually using a stapler.

  Abortia tidied up around the men and made the coffee and entertained doubts about how effectively the Agency’s equal opportunities policy was currently being implemented. As for the professor, he was responsible for conducting the actual interviews.

  “We have to be extremely cautious,” he confided to Twisthorn after a long session. “I’m sure our enemies won’t miss any chance to try to plant one of their own operatives.”

  “But can they grow without soil, boss?”

  “You misunderstand me, dear boy. No matter. What advice would you offer if I ordered you to do so?”

  “Ensure the quality of employee is high, boss!”

  “Yes, I will. Shame we can only recruit human beings. The chances of getting monsters to work for us are very limited. I don’t suppose Upside Downey Jr has had second thoughts? I didn’t think so! Not all monsters are effective anyway. Remember that ectoplasm guy we had a few years back? What was his name? Breath something? What a complete waste of slimy space he turned out to be!”

  The golem nodded but didn’t stop working. “Twice he tried to extrude his throbster right up my chickadee!”

  “Did he?” sighed Cherlomsky. “That’s one thing we can’t afford now. Perverted slacking on the job!”

  “He wasn’t French, though. I’ll say that for him.”

  “That’s a good point, Twisty!”

  While they chatted, neither was aware of the crafty face with a forked beard that peered at them through the window with wild yellow eyes. The creature it belonged to smirked and touched a set of music pipes dangling from its belt, maybe for good luck, then turned and trotted swiftly into the shadows, its cloven hooves on the concrete making the sound of coconut halves pretending to be hooves.

  How had it managed to enter the compound? The tungsten gates were indestructible and only some unimaginably freakish hybrid with a goat’s head for heights but the clenching hands of a human could ever scale the perimeter fence to gain access.

  No answer was forthcoming. Scary!

  * * * * *

  The professor planned to run a series of tests on Hapi Daze. In particular he was keen to conduct experiments that would determine the limit of the hand’s telekinetic powers.

  These tests provided much needed relief for the overworked team. At last Cherlomsky was satisfied he had pushed Hapi’s skill to the maximum and the experiments ended.

  “He’s able to stop three charging elephants at a hundred paces but his telekinesis can’t penetrate rock walls or titanium shielding more than six metres thick. My own belief is that he could tie a Chinese submarine in a knot if he really wanted to!”

  “Any specific kind of knot, boss?”

  “Reef, maybe granny.”

  “Can he stop my kpinga if I hurl it hard, boss?”

  “Certainly he can. How could he not? That’ll be easy for him, child’s play, less than that: the play of an amœba! He’ll simply divert the course of its flight through the air.”

  “I’m extremely impressed by this, boss!”

  The professor shook his head and puffed his cheeks. “Don’t just take my word for it. Let’s prove it.”

  “Proof’s the crust on the pie of science, boss!”

  “That’s right, Twisty. Come on, Hapi. We’re going to play a little game with Mr Bellow here. He’s going to throw a weird deadly piece of African ironmongery at you and your job is to defend yourself using the power of your mind channelled through your snapping fingers. Are you ready? Just stand here and we’ll begin.”

  “Richie!” squealed Hapi Daze.

  The professor snorted angrily. “This has got nothing to do with Richie, who probably doesn’t have valid security clearance anyway. It’s between you and the golem. Get set!”

  Twisthorn had retreated to the far side of the laboratory. Now his arm began wind-milling, the many-bladed sword a blur in his hand. Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, a squeak, a spurt of blood and Hapi was prone on the floor, little finger missing.

  “You were too fast!” growled the professor.

  “Sorry, boss! Hapi, Hapi, speak to me! Forgive me, won’t you? Shake my hand to be friends again!”

  “You unglazed clay twit!” hissed Cherlomsky.

  * * * * *

  Hapi’s stump was bandaged by Abortia. He regained consciousness later that day and seemed proud of the length of cotton that plugged his wound and prevented it from reopening.

  “I guess hands don’t get much of a chance to wear clothes, apart from gloves,” Abortia said to Twisthorn.

  The golem had just come in, bearing a bunch of flowers that he put in a vase next to Hapi’s sickbed.

  “That makes me think I should have got him a mitten as a gift instead of these foxgloves!” he fretted.

  Hapi stirred sluggishly. “Richie! Cool!”

  The golem gazed at his friend, looked at the flowers with a sneer and added, “He’s not even a fox . . . ”

  Abortia wrapped one of her synthetic waldo arms around Twisthorn’s neck and crooned gently to him.

  “Don’t worry, it’s the thought that counts!”

  “For Hapi that may be true—he’s telekinetic. I’m not! In fact right now I’m feeling completely useless.”

  “Come on, Mr Bellow. You’ve made as many assorted abominations feel regret for their demoniacal and unadvised presence on this plane as Hapi has. Maybe even more!”

  “I guess so. You’re one of the good guys!”

  “That’s better. Dry your eyes. Your tears are explosive, remember, and it’s very unwise to shed them.”

  “You’re right. I am overreacting a bit.”

  * * * * *

  Hapi was back to full strength within a week, though his gait was slightly less fluid than before, and with only four full digits he could be mistaken for the hand of a nonhuman.

  “A troublesome possibility,” Cherlomsky said.

  “Cool?” quavered Hapi.

  “Sorry, no. My estimate is un-cool . . . ”

  But soon enough there were more immediate concerns to worry about. Sabotage and assassination attempts resumed. The incoming mail proved to be the main source of attacks. The mechanical sniffer weeded out most of the more primitive devices, booby traps, letter bombs, concept albums recorded by amateur musicians in their own bedrooms, sacks of pythons and scorpions, sealed Thermos flasks full of hot French onion soup, boxes of matches, dynamite fuses.

  “We’re so unpopular!” remarked Abortia.

  One morning a small package arrived that contained a simple wooden box. The sniffer let it pass and the X-ray scan revealed nothing inside at all. It was judged safe to open.

  “The stamps are Danish,” said the professor.

  Twisthorn was less convince
d and stepped closer. “What’s our official position on Denmark, boss?”

  The professor spoke with difficulty. His smile was false. “They’re our allies now. Against Norway.”

  “These constantly shifting allegiances are making me dizzy,” admitted the golem. Then he retched.

  No sooner was the box open than a chill fog rose out it. The professor blinked. Then the fog condensed into the phantom of a man in antiquated clothes who bowed courteously.

  “I’m the ghost of Manderup Parsbjerg,” it announced, “and I’ve sought you for four and a half centuries.”

  “Not very pleased to meet you!” said Cherlomsky.

  “I have unfinished business!”

  “Do you really? Are you sure about that?”

  The phantom sighed. “Please don’t pretend not to know what I mean! You are Tycho Brahe—I recognise your nose. We fought a duel in the year 1566 and I fenced off your proboscis. It was impossible to continue our fight after that, so I’ve finally come to settle matters once and for all. Put up your guard, blackguard!”

  “But I’m not Tycho. You’ve made an error.”

  “Liar! I smell a nose—I mean a rat! The rat I smell is your nose, the nose that reveals who you are!”

  “Help me, Twisty!”

  Twisthorn stepped between the ghost and professor.

  “Try me for size, Sir Wispy!”

  The ghost laughed. “Call that a sword? It’s a solidified bolt of forked lightning. You clay buffoon!”

  Twisthorn aimed a slice at the ghost but it passed through him and the kpinga struck a jar of acid on a shelf. The jar broke and the acid splashed onto the nearest curved blade.

  “Dissolved the bloody metal!” cried Twisthorn.

  “Now you have only eleven blades on your stick of ridiculousness, not twelve,” sniggered the phantom.

  “Yes, yes, I can count, you paranormal patroniser!”

  “Wait!” ordered the professor.

  The duel came to a halt, as the antagonists turned to hear what point Cherlomsky wanted to make.

  “You’ll never kill him with a physical blade, Twisty, because there’s nothing to kill. He’s a spook.”

  “Right about that,” said Manderup Parsbjerg.

  “Furthermore,” the professor continued, “he’s old, maybe a phantom of intrinsic historical worth, so I think this must be a task for Hapi. Not only is it more in the hand’s line, but it will serve as a test to see if Hapi’s still a credible force after his accident.”

  “Suits me, boss,” shrugged Twisthorn.

  “That’s not fair!” wailed the ghost. “My argument is with Tycho Brahe and him alone. You can’t just . . . ”

  But Hapi had already clicked his fingers and shredded the apparition into a thousand streamers of astral fluff that drifted down like elongated snowflakes, settling on shoulders.

  “Still as sharp as ever,” remarked Twisthorn.

  * * * * *

  As a special gift for Hapi, to console him for the loss of his finger, plus as a reward for his destruction of the ghost, the professor laboured to make a wife for him. Finally he partly succeeded. Miss Abortia Stake was deeply upset by this development and fled in tears. The professor barely noticed her absence. He was too delighted with himself for what he had produced in a large jar of green glass.

  “Not bad from memory,” he said, referring to the burned magic books full of lost homunculi recipes.

  “But it’s a foot, not a hand!” objected Twisthorn.

  “Naturally. Hapi’s not gay.”

  “That statement sounds contradictory, boss!”

  “Maybe, but it’s not!”

  “What’s her name, boss?”

  “Let’s get them married first, Twisty, then we’ll decide.”

  “Righto, boss. I’ll fetch him.”

  The marriage ceremony was conducted that same afternoon. Hapi was less ecstatic about walking down the aisle to meet his new bride than the professor had ever expected.

  “Anybody would think he’s being forced!”

  The rings were exchanged. Hapi wore one of electrum, that pale alloy of gold and silver that’s almost never seen anymore. His wife’s ring was a modest loop of candied fruit.

  “Wonder where they’ll go on honeymoon, boss?”

  “Don’t be ludicrous, I don’t intend to give them time off. The Agency’s schedule is too hectic for that!”

  “Devised her name yet, boss?”

  The professor nodded. “She’s a foot. Dancin’ Daze seems the obvious choice. Maybe she can jive.”

  “And maybe she can do the hop!”

  * * * * *

  Maybe not. Dancin’ Daze escaped that same night, while Hapi was in the bathroom preparing for his reluctant nuptials. She leapt through an open window and bounded over the fence. Hapi roused the professor, who in turn roused Twisthorn. The golem set off in pursuit, tracking her through the streets as far as the river, where he lost her trail. On the way back he bumped into a gang of juvenile trolls who had gathered under a bridge to drink cider and play marbles.

  They mockingly challenged him to a round and he accepted, winning easily. An expert shogi player, he found British strategy games simple in comparison. He collected his winnings and then knocked the trolls’ heads together until they leaked.

  “Daring to compete against Twisthorn Bellow! Have you lost all your marbles?” he joked nastily.

  None of them laughed. They groaned.

  Twisthorn knew he’d been lucky. Juvenile trolls were feeble but fully grown adults also lived in the area, and he wasn’t at all sure he could get the better of those. Still, beating trolls of any age was satisfying. Pity he had failed to complete his main task, the finding of Dancin’ Daze! Not a good chase. Hapi’s wife was well and truly gone. Would she ever return? If justified by a pun, then yes!

  * * * * *

  Even worse things were fated to arrive in the post in future days. A tiny parcel no bigger than a matchbox was delivered and the professor ordered the golem to stand far back.

  “Maybe it is a matchbox. Suppose it doesn’t even contain orthodox matches but Bengal Lights, which burn longer and with extra brightness and heat? Mustn’t take the risk.”

  “What’s the sniffer’s verdict, boss?”

  “Says the package isn’t suspicious, Twisty. All the same I want to give it an X-ray scan, just to be sure.”

  He did so. Then he laughed and shouted:

  “It’s an ant! Just an ant!”

  Twisthorn peered over his shoulder. “But the stamps are Belgian, boss. That’s a very ominous sign!”

  Suddenly the matchbox burst. The ant grew bigger at a fantastic rate, expanding and swelling, its mandibles clacking, its antennae clashing like the antlers ants don’t have.

  “How’s it getting bigger, boss?”

  “Spontaneous mutation caused by radiation, Twisty! It’s another trick. The Belgians sent this in the post knowing we would X-ray it. Smash the devious Low Country deviant!”

  “Fist to the rescue, boss!”

  Twisthorn attempted to punch the ant in the mouth but the ant opened its jaws and the clay fist went down its throat, followed by the entire arm as far as the creased elbow.

  The golem knew his hand was bathed in formic acid down there, in the darkness of the insect’s stomach, but he didn’t stop to blubber like a sissy. Instead he gripped something deep in the guts, something wet and ridged, and with a monumental yank managed to turn the monster inside out. The ant twitched, gurgled, died.

  “Well done, my boy! Absolutely top notch!”

  “Thanks, boss. Are you ok?”

  “No, I’m ashamed. I fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book. The giant radioactive Belgian ant!”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, boss.”

  “Shall we get this mess cleaned up?” asked Abortia.

  “Wait, young lady! We don’t know what the name of this creature was. We have to give it a name first!”

  “Ho
w about ‘Billy’?” suggested Twisthorn.

  The professor nodded. “Excellent. But it needs a surname too. It’s not a pet, not a kitten or hamster!”

  “No ideas left, boss,” confessed Twisthorn.

  “Don’t worry, Twisty. The word ‘Them’ has just occurred to me as the best choice. We’re safe again . . . ”

  The golem giggled and capered around the bizarre corpse. “Goodbye, Billy Them, you stinking bug!”

  “Billy Them is dead!” crowed Cherlomsky.

  Abortia frowned. “Why are names always so important to all of you? They’re almost an obsession!”

  There was a sudden sharp intake of breath.

  “Sometimes, my dear,” began the professor, very coldly, “I have grave doubts about your dedication to the Applied Eschatology Agency. Names are what give things power!”

  “Know a name, know the soul,” said Twisthorn.

  Cherlomsky rolled his eyes.

  “Skip along to the kitchen now, young lady, and brew coffee for the men. Prepare dinner also!”

  Abortia trundled away.

  Something stirred above, a dark shape . . .

  The wild figure with the forked beard had watched everything through a skylight and now it grinned. It balanced easily on the roof and its flute was close at hand. The sensation of the spring breeze over its hairy back gave it exquisite pleasure. Everything that was natural was pleasurable to it, including the presence of fleas. It continued grinning. It was hatching a plan. Less painful than an egg.

  * * * * *

  Miss Abortia Stake remained in the kitchen, busily cooking a mushroom risotto for the evening meal. Pots and pans clattered and hot oil hissed but finally she lost patience and threw down her cleaver in disgust. The rice had become far too sloppy.

  “We need to employ a professional chef!”

  “I agree with you, young lady,” said Cherlomsky, “but our budget just won’t stretch to such luxuries.”

  Twisthorn looked up from the accounts. “According to these figures, we can easily afford one, boss.”

  The professor sighed. “Very well, I lied. Are you satisfied now? The government provides the Agency with enough ‘dinner money’ to hire the most expensive chefs in the land, but I prefer to secretly divert that cash into a private bank account while seeking cheaper methods of eating. It’s a straightforward swindle.”