Kill Fish Jones Read online

  ‘Tell me, Marsha, has something bad happened to you?’

  Marsha’s face trembled as she struggled to speak. Fish watched her, fear growing in his middle. He was about to find out what it meant when people shone like that and he knew it wouldn’t be good. He leaned forward, his eyes on her face, waiting.

  His aunt passed a hand over her forehead. ‘Only the worst thing! My darling Reginald is dead!’

  As she said the words, Marsha’s pale blue eyes dimmed and a look of shock and loss swept over her face. The shine around her grew stronger as she spoke and, suddenly, Fish understood. All those people he had seen who glistened with silver light had lost someone they loved.

  Then, delicate tears filled her eyes and she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief, just at the corners and doing no good at all. The tears tracked gracefully down her plump cheeks.

  Susan was staring at her, aghast. ‘Reg is dead! Oh, Marsha.’ Her own blue eyes filled with tears too, real proper ones that made her lids go pink and her nose run.

  Fish drew in a slow breath, full of fear and grief. Reginald Power had been one of the few people that he felt completely at ease with, who could sit in companionable silence without expecting any conversation. But now was not the time to break down. He had a bad feeling that there was something else going on here, something hidden behind the visible tragedy. He found himself glancing anxiously about the room and realised that he was looking for the demon. Although there was no obvious reason to think it had anything to do with Reg’s death as well as the demolition of their home, Fish thought there must be a connection. He shivered, remembering other terrible things that had happened recently to people they knew. Things like the death of the vicar.

  ‘It was this morning,’ Marsha went on. She blinked at them and looked away. ‘Out of the blue. It’s terrible how a single second can alter the course of your life forever!’

  ‘But what …’

  ‘I was going to telephone you at once, dear, but I was so distraught! I couldn’t stop crying! And then when I was able to speak, I rang and rang and there was no reply …’ She gave Susan a reproachful look.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we were out and the house was being knocked down anyway …’ Susan dried her eyes on a tissue and gave Marsha a warm if watery smile.

  ‘So I just waited here alone, little knowing that you would sense my pain and come to me!’ Marsha clasped her hands together ecstatically.

  Susan winced. ‘Look Marsha, I want to help you and I’m glad we came, but it wasn’t because I had a premonition or anything. We’re here because the house was demolished by mistake and we’ve nowhere to live.’

  Marsha looked at her blankly.

  ‘We have to stay with you,’ said Susan firmly.

  ‘Oh my dear! That is so noble of you! I could certainly do with the company if you’re prepared to put up with a poor, weeping widow.’

  Susan took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s settled then,’ she said soothingly. ‘Now, how about a drink? I don’t suppose you’ve had anything all day. I’m sure Fish will make us some tea.’ She smiled over at her son.

  Fish was already on his feet and out of the door. It only took a minute to boil the kettle, get the milk from the fridge and set out the cups, and then he was back in the living room with the tray in time to hear his mother say, ‘But, Marsha, you still haven’t told us how Reg … what happened to Reg.’

  ‘It was the most awful shock! One moment he was healthy and happy and going down the road to get a newspaper. Next he was dead! Just like that!’

  Setting the tray down next to his mother, Fish studied Marsha carefully, his hazel eyes taking note. Once again she blinked and turned her head away as she spoke. It dawned on him that she didn’t want to tell them how her husband had died.

  ‘Why is that boy staring at me?’ said Marsha suddenly. Her voice took on a slight whine, but underneath it was sharp.

  ‘Fish, you know it upsets people,’ said Susan without looking up from pouring the tea.

  Fish sighed and concentrated on adding the milk – straight from the bottle instead of using the jug – which earned him a pursed-up-mouth look from his aunt.

  ‘That child needs help,’ said Marsha. It was a funny thing, but people often talked about Fish as if he wasn’t there. He didn’t mind as he preferred it when they didn’t notice him much.

  ‘He’s fine,’ snapped Susan.

  ‘He’s too small for his age. And does he ever talk?’

  ‘Only when he needs to.’

  ‘If you ask me, it’s not normal. And why do you call him Fish anyway?’

  ‘Look, he’s bright and healthy and if he chooses not to say anything unless he thinks it’s important, I for one am not worrying, OK?’ said Susan, worriedly.

  ‘All right, dear!’ Marsha shrugged.

  ‘He gets on fine at school and has a couple of nice friends …’

  Fish nodded. It was true. He had Jed, who loved bright colours and refused to be parted from his favourite red jacket, and Alice, who wanted to be a news reporter. They talked to and around him and didn’t expect it to be any other way. The fact that Jed wasn’t very bright and Alice’s mother often forgot to wash Alice’s clothes was neither here nor there. They both helped Jed with his lessons and Alice usually remembered to wash herself, so she didn’t smell too bad. Anyway, when she forgot, Fish let her know because he didn’t like the dirt demons that hung tangled in her hair or perched on her shoulders, glaring at him with eyes the colour of sludge. And because Alice knew about the things that Fish could see, she always went straight home and had a shower. Usually looking a little sick.

  Marsha sniffed disbelievingly, but she didn’t say any more.

  ‘Now,’ went on Susan, ‘since we can’t even save any of our things, we need some clothes and toothbrushes and so on …’

  ‘Why ever didn’t you pack a suitcase, dear?’

  Although he didn’t use them often, today was clearly an exception, so Fish gave his aunt one of his special looks. He was astonished that she could be so dense, even allowing for the death of her husband. The glare got through because Marsha twitched and sent him a nervous glance.

  Susan winced. ‘I told you. Our house was demolished …’

  And for the first time that day Marsha looked out of her own world long enough to hear what Susan was saying. Instantly there was a flash of the old Marsha, the Marsha underneath all the flounce, who knew how to care about her little sister.

  ‘Oh lord, Su! How on earth …?’

  ‘They got the wrong address, would you believe?’ For a moment Susan’s voice quivered.

  ‘Sue them,’ said Marsha firmly. ‘I’ve got a good solicitor. And you can stay here as long as you need to.’ She sent Fish a resigned look. He smiled at her, hoping it came over as reassuring. It must have worked, because she gave him a tiny smile back.

  ‘Thank you, Marsha. We’ve had a bad time between us, haven’t we?’ Susan smiled ruefully. ‘But what you must have gone through is terrible.’ She put a hand out to touch Fish gently on the arm and he knew that she was glad she had only lost her home and not someone she cared about. ‘But you never said what happened?’

  This time Marsha didn’t blink and look away. She fell silent and looked down at her teacup, her face growing slowly redder.

  ‘A sheep fell on him,’ she said at last.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A sheep. It fell on him.’ She struggled with herself for a moment, then burst out, ‘It’s just so … so … RIDICULOUS!’ Now that the truth was out, Marsha hurried on, words tripping over themselves to get out of her mouth.

  ‘He went for the newspaper like he always does of a morning, and halfway down the avenue they’re building a block of luxury apartments and there’s scaffolding everywhere. And Reg must have cut across the building site. And it turns out someone left the gate open to Lockes Field and there was this one sheep got out, and somehow it got on to the platform thing and was hauled up the scaffolding!
And it panicked, you know, and tried to get down again and … fell.’

  There was silence. Marsha had gone from red to pale and was sitting very straight in her chair with her plump, ringed hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘I’m … so … sorry.’

  ‘It fell from several floors up. Reg was killed at once. And so was the sheep of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Susan faintly. There was another silence.

  Fish went and sat next to his aunt, put his hand in hers and squeezed it. By now her shine was much brighter.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, and burst into tears.

  That evening, when Fish was alone in his bedroom – Marsha had several spare ones – he took a careful look around for the demon, but pretending not to in case it realised what he was doing.

  So, as he tracked down an old pair of Reg’s pyjamas, he looked in the wardrobe and searched through every cupboard. When he closed the window, he checked behind the curtains. Finally, he dropped his watch on the floor and bent down to pick it up, glancing under the bed in the kind of way that might be accidental, just to see if it was hiding there.

  It wasn’t, which was a relief.

  At last, Fish was ready for bed. He climbed in, nervously turned out the light and lay staring up through the gloom at the ceiling. It wasn’t totally dark in the bedroom because he always kept the curtains open to let in some light and keep out the whispers. Tonight, though, he was more worried about something else.

  Although the demon wasn’t around right now, he was sure that he hadn’t seen the last of it. He wondered if it had been there when the lost sheep had stumbled off the edge of the scaffolding and ended the life of his uncle. And if the creature brought bad things with it, then where was it now and was some other poor person suffering while it looked on and took notes?

  5

  THE MAN WHO HELPED

  ‘A sheep!’ Lampwick said indignantly. ‘A sheep!’

  It was early the next morning and Grimshaw had just finished giving his report. Lampwick always required a blow-by-blow account of every event, right down to the expression on their faces and with exact sound effects.

  ‘Take it or leave it, it’s what you got,’ Grimshaw muttered irritably, flicking his tail.

  Lampwick sniffed. ‘Can’t you take lessons from that friend of yours, Tin or whatever his name is?’

  ‘Tun,’ muttered Grimshaw. ‘It’s Tun. And I know you always get it wrong on purpose.’

  ‘I mean,’ went on Lampwick, brushing the comment aside with a wave of his hand, ‘isn’t he the one who took Sufferers’ lives by ripping their still-beating hearts from their bodies? You wouldn’t find a demon like him killing anybody with a farm animal!’

  Grimshaw had to agree. It was legendary among curse demons that Tun’s last-ever victim had been found huddled against a wall with a look of such terror on his face that no one dared to look at him for fear his tortured gaze would haunt their dreams forever.

  ‘And then there’s that one with the head like a dog, who visits such ghastly tortures on his victims …’

  ‘… jackal, and his name is Hanhut …’ muttered Grimshaw.

  ‘… that their insides end up being their outsides!’ Lampwick chuckled, shaking his head.

  ‘It’s different for them,’ snarled Grimshaw, clenching his paws.

  Lampwick turned away from him and lurched stiffly up the crypt, hands clasped behind his back, tattered robes flapping around him. What with having been dead for so long, most of the feeling had gone in his legs.

  ‘They are first-rate demons,’ went on Grimshaw, hoping that Lampwick would fall over. It always made him laugh to watch his Architect floundering about on the floor like an overturned beetle. ‘Hanhut was created by a powerful Egyptian queen with a whole dynasty at her command, and Tun’s Architect is an actual, real magician, who also happens to be of ancient and noble blood. Me, I’m a third-rate demon created by a pretend magician with about as much nobility as a turnip!’

  He glared at Lampwick, who had reached the far wall of the crypt. ‘And in case you hadn’t noticed after over a century of half-life, there are Rules, and third-rate demons aren’t allowed to show themselves to Sufferers, let alone visit Death upon them personally.’

  The Rules applied to all types of Avatar – that is to say creatures of spirit rather than flesh – whether they were demon or angel. Even the high-up ones like the Pomp. But it seemed to Grimshaw that the most unfair Rules of all were the ones that applied to third-rate curse demons.

  ‘Third-rate demons like me,’ he went on sulkily, ‘created by third-rate humans like you, have to make use of anything handy to bring about Deaths by accident. For example a SHEEP!’

  ‘You’re twitching again,’ said Lampwick, wrinkling his nose disdainfully. ‘Do try to behave properly. It’s very distracting having you bouncing about like a jumping bean when I’m trying to have my afternoon walk.’

  Grimshaw screamed at him. ‘Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’ he howled. ‘It’s ALL YOUR FAULT that I’m like this.’ Another twitch shook him and he stopped and shut his eyes, then drew in a long, deep breath.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ he said firmly, glancing at his chronometer, ‘time’s running on. I can’t sit here talking to you all day, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘You’ll sit there as long as I tell you to,’ sneered Lampwick. ‘I want you to go through it all again right from the …’

  Grimshaw just about managed to suppress a scream. ‘Let me go now,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘and I’ll soon have something new to tell you.’

  Demon and Architect stared at one another for a moment.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Lampwick gleefully, ‘get on with it. And make sure there is plenty of blood.’

  About the time Grimshaw was making promises to Lampwick, Fish got downstairs to find his mother making breakfast.

  ‘I was going to scramble some eggs,’ she said, ‘but the gas isn’t working, so it’s just tea and toast, I’m afraid.’

  Marsha, already at the table, gave him a warm, if wan, smile.

  ‘That was my Reg’s favourite,’ she said affectionately, nodding at the T-shirt Fish was wearing, even though it swamped him. It had a line drawing of a fish on the front and the word ‘fish’ written underneath, which was why he had chosen it. ‘I’m glad you’ve got it now.’

  Before Fish could smile a thank-you, the doorbell rang.

  Everyone froze. After the traumatic events of yesterday, the doorbell ringing at half past eight in the morning didn’t feel like good news.

  Susan let out a slow breath. Marsha had gone pale.

  ‘It’s too soon for someone from the gas company,’ said Susan, doubtfully. ‘I only just rang them.’

  Fish got to his feet and hurried out of the kitchen and up the hall, leaving his mother and his aunt staring after him anxiously.

  The front door opened on a well-built man in jeans and a crumpled shirt. He looked as if he had been up all night, and he also looked familiar, but the first thing that Fish noticed about him was that he glowed all over with a silvery shine. Fish’s heart went cold. This man too had lost someone dear to him. Bad things were stacking up all around them and it didn’t bode well.

  The man smiled at him gravely. ‘Fish Jones?’ he said.

  Fish nodded.

  ‘If your mother is here I need to speak to her. It’s important.’

  The man’s blue eyes met Fish’s hazel ones and a look passed between them. It was a look that sent Fish’s heart plunging to his boots. Whatever it was that the man had to say, it wasn’t just important, it was life or death. And in that moment, Fish recognised the man as Jon Figg.

  He put out a hand. Startled, Jon Figg took it. Fish clasped it for a moment, his face grave.

  Jon Figg swallowed hard. ‘Thank you,’ he said, understanding the look in Fish’s eyes, ‘but how did you know? About Emily dying last night …’ He stopped, emotion twisting across his face. />
  Fish stood back to let Jon into the house, the man’s huge bulk filling the hall. With Fish in the lead they went back to the kitchen, where the only sound was the ping of the toaster as it popped up four golden slices.

  ‘I know you!’ cried Susan at once. Her voice had taken on an odd edge. ‘Of course, it’s Mr Figg! I didn’t recognise you without the yellow hat and overalls.’

  He stepped forward and offered her his hand. ‘I am deeply sorry, ma’am, for all that happened yesterday. I had my troubles, it’s true, but I should have paid full attention to my work or stayed at home. I am responsible for your current situation and I want to help you if I can.’

  Susan smiled and put her hand in his. They shook solemnly.

  ‘Apology accepted, and don’t worry, my sister is looking after us. Won’t you sit down, Mr Figg …’

  ‘Call me Jon, please.’

  ‘… Jon, and have some breakfast?’

  ‘I’d like that, for I have some other things to tell you as well, and a cup of tea would be most welcome.’

  He settled at the table in between Fish and Marsha, and Susan poured tea for all of them. She set the toast on to a plate in the middle of the table, then put some more bread in to do. Jon took a long gulp of his tea. He drank it like a man in the desert would drink water, and when he had finished he drew a long breath.

  ‘Thing is, Mrs Jones …’

  ‘Susan, please!’

  ‘… Susan, we’ve met before. I mean before I knocked down your house, though you might not remember. When I saw you yesterday, I thought there was something about your face that I recognised and suddenly, last night, the penny dropped.’

  Fish had turned to look at Jon as he spoke, which meant that his range of vision moved to take in the corner of the kitchen and the space next to the sink. His heart turned over as he realised that the demon was there, sitting on the floor, with its notebook in front of it and its pencil clutched in its paw. It was watching them carefully, so Fish turned his head away, hoping it hadn’t noticed him looking startled or horrified.

  Susan was nodding. ‘I felt the same!’