His gran smiled again. “It’s a thought, isn’t it?”
Max shrugged. “It’s a nice thought, yes, but it doesn’t really help me at the moment – especially as the PTBs aren’t returning my messages.” He sighed. “Well, I’d better get back to it – keep the streets safe for decent folk and all that.”
“Don’t forget your new overcoat, dear.”
Feeling seriously cool, Max pulled on the coat. The soft leather with the silk interior felt comfortable on his skin. “It’s great,” he said. “Thanks, Gran.”
He hugged her, noticing how small and fragile she seemed to be these days.
As he turned and left the house, he saw her slight figure at the window, watching through the net curtains. He sketched a wave and mouthed the words he knew she was waiting for,
“Better safe than sorry!”
* * * *
When Max caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window, he wondered if the long, black, leather coat made him more like a drug dealer than a police officer. Whatever, he looked hard, so Max decided to go and shake down one of his informants. He didn’t really expect to learn much of use, but he didn’t have anything else to do, except paperwork: some demon passport renewals and registration documents – all that could wait.
Ralph was rare amongst Level One demons in that he actually managed to hold down a job in the human world. Max suspected that his father may have been a Level Two because Ralph was slightly smarter than your average Level One demon, and his skin had only a faint green hue. He could pass for a teenager who’d had a rough night out on the town and was now feeling – and looking – nauseous; not to mention his red-rimmed eyes – were it not for the faint, dirty green aura that clung to him.
Besides, Ralph worked for the same fast food chain that the Brood demons had visited. It might mean something. Or not.
Max detected the smell of old chip fat before he saw the familiar red and yellow sign above the filthy glass window. It was the second of Ralph’s jobs; the first was one was as a night security guard in one of the big houses over in Westminster – Max wasn’t sure where.
The café was also a useful exchange and mart for Ralph’s demon customers. Max suspected that Ralph did good business in under-the-counter entrails: provided they weren’t human – Max turned a blind eye in exchange for any useful information Ralph came across. If the information was good, or if he was in a hurry, Max sometimes passed Ralph a couple of used five pound notes as a bonus.
The place was quiet – just one elderly lady making her cold tea last a bit longer before she had to find somewhere else to spend the long hours of her featureless day. The only other customer was a bored-looking woman who kept glancing impatiently at her watch. She flicked her eyes up and down Max as she waited.
Ralph saw Max straight away. The demon’s pink eyes widened in surprise and he licked his lips with his forked tongue. Max was surprised, too. A visit from him didn’t usually make Ralph that nervous, merely eager to earn some extra cash. Maybe it was the coat.
“I’ll have a regular tea, please,” said Max pleasantly.
Ralph nodded, his head jerking like a puppet on a string. “T-t-two pounds, ten,” he stuttered.
Max sighed. “Now, Ralph, I said a regular tea and that’s one pound eighty-nine. A large tea is two pounds ten.”
Ralph threw him a filthy look and slammed the watery-looking tea down in front of him.
“I’ve got nothing to tell you,” he hissed. “Go away.”
“Don’t be so anti-social, Ralph,” said Max conversationally. “Tell me about the Brood. What’s the word on the street?”
“Murderer!” whispered Ralph. “You terminated Sophie. I liked her. She was hot. We had a thing.”
“I seriously doubt that,” said Max. “Sophie had better taste than to go out with you.”
“I’m not telling you nothing about the amulet, human!” said Ralph furiously. His lips drew back so Max could see his fangs.
Max’s ears pricked up, but his face betrayed none of his interest.
“Come on, Ralph,” said Max calmly. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
He laid a crisp ten pound note on the table. “There’s more where that came from if you’ve got anything worth hearing... like where the rest of the Brood are hanging out.”
Ralph licked his lips, his eyes flickering nervously between the door and the increasing pile of notes that Max was laying out on the counter.
Then he stuck out his chin stubbornly.
“I want more than money, Mr Darke,” he said. “This time I want my Demon Passport – a permanent one, not just a work visa.”
Max was intrigued. It wasn’t like Ralph to make such high demands – he must know something.
“Okay, Ralphie,” said Max thoughtfully, “if what you’ve got is that good, you could be in business. What do you know?”
“Not in here,” said Ralph nervously. “I can’t talk here. Meet me out the back. Give me a minute then follow me.”
“Okay,” said Max. He didn’t trust Ralph but he didn’t think he’d try and leg it either – Ralph was too fond of crisp ten pound notes.
Ralph disappeared into the kitchen and Max gathered up the money still lying on the counter. He sipped at his foul tea while he counted to forty and decided that was long enough to give Ralph time to pull himself together.
The kitchen was appallingly dirty and covered in a film of grey-green grease. His stomach gave an unhappy heave and Max made a mental note never to eat or drink in that place again. Like most Level Ones, Ralph wasn’t too hot on the home-making qualities like washing or cleaning. Not that it was entirely his fault: Level Ones tended to sweat grey-green grease when they were feeling stressed. Work definitely constituted as something that would stress out Ralph.
The door from the kitchen led outside to a small delivery area – and a nightmare waiting to happen for the environmental health inspector. Max figured that Ralph must have been using some low grade charm spell to stay in business this long. The yard was filled with black rubbish sacks that oozed rotting food. Max guessed that the stench would be pretty powerful during a hot summer. At least the place wasn’t rat infested: rats wouldn’t go near a Level One. A big, juicy rat was a favourite snack-attack for a creature such as Ralph.
Max glanced around. He couldn’t see Ralph anywhere.
“Come on, Ralph. I’m not in the mood to play games.”
There was no answer. Max was annoyed. Perhaps he was wrong and Ralph was halfway to Stepney by now.
“Come on, Ralphie! Talk to me! If what you’ve got is good, it’s worth another twenty – I’m feeling generous today.”
Max took a step forward and felt something squish under his shoe.
“Oh, what?!”
It was a tongue. A forked tongue. More particularly, it was Ralph’s tongue.
Messages
Max stared at the slightly flattened remains of Ralph.
“Someone’s trying to send me a message,” thought Max. “I wish they’d just text me.”
He felt sorry for Ralph. As there weren’t any other body parts around, Max assumed that whoever had ripped out Ralph’s tongue had decided to take the rest of him for other similarly painful dismemberments – in a more private setting.
One by one, Max’s connections to the demon world were being severed – in Ralph’s case, literally.
Max tried to figure it out.
“If someone, or something, wanted to get me off the case, why take it out on poor Ralphie? What does – did – he know? What was that about an amulet? And why are the demons in London so twitchy? Could be Gran was right about this Big Evil.”
The thought didn’t cheer him.
He’d just decided to head back to his office when sunshine glinting off metal caught his eye. Max knelt down, carefully avoiding the filth that surrounded him. It was a single link from a gold chain – a broken gold chain. It was cold to the touch – often the sign of a mystical object.
It looked like Ralph really had had information for Max – and maybe the amulet he’d mentioned was part of it. Someone – probably another demon – had decided that Ralph should be kept quiet. Permanently.
Max wandered back to Scotland Yard. He felt depressed. Ralph had been a snitch since Kennet’s days and certainly as long as Max had been on the job. He’d been harmless most of the time. It was strange to think he wouldn’t see him again.
As he entered his office, Max’s attention was caught by a piece of paper in the fax machine. At last! A message! Only the PTBs had that number. Only the PTBs still used a fax machine. It was kind of weird that the Powers That Be hadn’t caught up with modern technology.
The message was short:
“We will contact you.”
A shiver went down Max’s spine. The PTBs had never sent him a message like that before. Usually their communications were about some standard demon business that needed sorting out; they’d never used any other methods to contact him. Did this mean he was finally going to meet them and find out who – and what – they were?
Max decided he’d had enough of the office for one day. If he was going to have an early start on hunting Brood, he may as well get an early night.
He locked his office door and said the usual protection spell. An attractive WPC winked at him as she sashayed past.
“Talking to yourself, Max? It’s one of the first signs of madness.”
“Too late,” said Max, smiling.
The WPC sighed as her eyes followed Max down the corridor.
Max walked home whistling: that all too brief moment of connection with another human being had cheered him up. He paused on Lambeth Bridge, enjoying the cool breeze that sprang up from the Thames.
His tiny flat backed onto Lambeth Palace, the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The flat had come with the job: it was sort of an inside joke. Kennet had smiled when he said that it never hurt to have a bit of extra holy power, “Better safe than sorry,” he’d said. Max wasn’t sure if he’d been serious.
Max’s flat looked out on to the remains of the Lollard’s Tower. Much of it had been destroyed during the Second World War but some had been saved and was now surrounded by a red brick wall.
He sometimes thought about the men who had been imprisoned there – the Lollards – or followers of John Wycliffe. They’d said that priests should be pious, devout men. Max didn’t think there was much to argue about there, but instead the Lollards had been thrown in prison for those opinions. Kennet had said this was because the demons in charge of public relations during the Middle Ages had thought that too much religious zeal would expose them in new and dangerous ways.
Max didn’t know if the story were true or whether it was another of Kennet’s little jokes.
Apparently demons had invented public relations during the Roman invasions; a more recent innovation was the X Factor: they were always thinking up new ways to torture humans.
Max was trying to decide whether or not I’m a Celebrity: get me out of here was demon-inspired or just about human stupidity and vanity, when a brick came flying through his window, showering him with shards of glass.
Max cursed, using a few words he wouldn’t want his gran to know he knew, and looked out of his broken window, searching for the culprit. Unsurprisingly, no-one was in view, demon or human.
In actual fact it wasn’t a brick but a large pebble – the kind of gnarled piece of quartz that you find on a beach: then try and decide whether it looks more like a scone or a loaf of bread or a fossilised dinosaur’s brain. This one had a piece of paper tied round it:
“Temple Lodge, Kensington Gardens, 4am. PTBs.”
It was impossible to tell whether it was an invitation or a warning, but it was from the PTBs, or so it said. Max decided he’d have to go to the park in the small hours to find out.
He tossed the note into his wastepaper basket and brushed up the broken glass. He’d have to phone a glazier in the morning. In the meantime a supermarket carrier bag, some cellotape and the cardboard from a cereal packet would have to make do to patch up the window.
Feeling depressed again, he headed for his bedroom and lay fully clothed on the bed. He’d feel better if he could get three or four hours rest before the meeting. Or encounter. Whatever.
Max dumped his coat, kicked off his boots and sprawled out on his narrow bed. He was soon fast asleep.
He moaned slightly. He was dreaming that it was his eighth birthday party and a parade of green jellies was marching through his bedroom, up the bed and across the covers. Now one was trying to smother him but every time he tried to fight it off, it slipped through his fingers.
Max woke up with a start, struggling to breathe. Something was trying to suffocate him.
Bad Dreams
Max fought for air. He felt something cool and clammy clamp itself over his nose and mouth. His fingers sank into the moist, sponge like thing. He managed to scrape it away from his face before it attacked him again. He dug his fingers in and threw it hard at the wall. It hit the plasterboard with a faint splat, then slithered down the wall to the floor.
Shaking, Max turned on his bedroom light. Cautiously, he peered over the end of the bed. Still and solid-seeming, the pebble that had been used to break his window earlier, was now resting. Max poked it gingerly. It was cool and firm – just a pebble.
“What an idiot,” he said under his breath. “How come I didn’t recognise a Latvian Rock Monster when I saw one? I must be losing it.”
Max flung a few heavy-duty protection spells around the innocent-looking pebble, then checked his theory in his home copy of A Concordance of Common Demons.
“The Latvian Rock Monster was first tagged and catalogued during the Pre-Cambrian period. Harmless in stasis, this primitive demonic form seeks to smother any living creature during its nocturnal ramblings, draining the life force and taking up residence in the host’s now vacant brain cavity. It is believed that the Latvian Rock Monster is the basis for humankind’s earliest zombie folk tales.”
Max knew it was no coincidence that someone had thrown a Latvian Rock Monster through his window. The trouble was, there were too many possible enemies stacking up: friends of Ralph, friends of Sophie, and anyone who had an interest in seeing the Brood take over London.
He knew he’d better get to the bottom of what was going on – and fast.
“No pressure then,” sighed Max.
Max didn’t bother trying to get to sleep again that night. He lay on the bed with his eyes wide open, his mind whirring.
Finally, he gave up the fight and sat up, rubbing his eyes. They felt gritty and dry from lack of sleep. Something he was used to in his job. That didn’t make it any easier.
He collected his weapons and stowed them in the capacious pockets of his new leather overcoat. He smiled when he saw that his gran had embroidered a small protection symbol into the lining: the Eye of Horus. It was supposed to ward off the Evil Eye but Max couldn’t see it being much use against a Level Two demon attack. Still, it was nice to know she cared.
The air was cool and crisp and a welcome change from the rather clammy daytime heat of early summer. Max strolled back across Lambeth Bridge, sauntering past an empty and near-silent Victoria station. A few drunken party-goers wove their way around Belgrave Square and toasted Max with extravagant happiness. One of the girls planted a huge kiss on his cheek and wobbled away giggling. He was glad to see that there was a group of them. Not even a Level Two demon liked to attack groups of humans – not unless they were particularly hungry. The Brood were more sophisticated and chose their victims carefully: they wouldn’t be interested in a bunch of happy drunks – he hoped. Max shrugged his shoulders and tried to rub the lipstick off his cheek: if he worried about all the late-night party-goers in London, he might as well resign now – or be driven mad.
Knightsbridge was quiet: only a few taxis zoomed up and down the deserted streets. Max saw his tired face reflected in the highly polis
hed windows of one of London’s exclusive shops. He looked even worse than he felt, which was saying something.
He entered the dark and silent park through the Prince of Wales gate. It was kept locked at night but Max had a special pass key that opened every park gate. In fact it opened every door that had a mystical lock, which included all the royal parks of London.
Few humans dared to visit the park after dark and certainly not alone. A wise decision, bearing in mind that demons weren’t the only things that lurked in the shadows, cloaked by the night.
“Ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties,” whispered Max to himself. It was surprising how many children’s poems and nursery rhymes involved ghastly goings-on. It was surprising how many of them were based on long-hidden truths.
He walked quietly along Rotten Row, the gravel crunching under his boots. Rotten Row was actually a rather beautiful pathway, running as straight as an arrow from Hyde Park Corner to the Albert Memorial. The name was a corruption of the French: Route de Roi – the years had turned it into Rotten Row. It seemed appropriate for his present appointment.
He sensed rather than saw that he was being watched. That peculiar prickling down the back of the neck didn’t bother him. He’d had it ever since he was a kid: it was normal for him. It was only later, during his police career that it had come in handy.
At first it had alerted him to the presence of ‘bad men’: his colleagues and he agreed that this was his ‘policeman’s nose’ and a useful tool of the job. Kennet had taught him that it was instinct – highly developed, it’s true – but something that all humans possessed, should they dare to listen to it. Some people called it a ‘Sixth Sense’, but Max tended to think of it as a highly refined amalgamation of the first five.
Whoever – or whatever – was watching Max, he ignored them, sensing no harm would come his way from them tonight. He left them in peace: he had other business to attend to this night.
Max walked past the Serpentine Gallery, a place where odd-looking sculptures that were described as ‘contemporary art’ were displayed.