The Cockatrice Boys, Page 2

  “You’d get plenty. People are fed up with living underground.”

  “Very well,” said the defence minister. “I’ll set up an operations room at once.”

  And that was how the Cockatrice Corps came into being.

  * * *

  While the engine of the Cockatrice Belle was being lovingly assembled by skilled volunteers in London, the food shortage in some northern towns was becoming more and more severe.

  “It’s not a case of tightening belts,” said the Provost of Manchester. “It’s got down to eating them.”

  One November day the Hempfields District Emergency Warden took a look at his afternoon’s agenda, and saw that he was due to pay a call on a Mrs. Florence Monsoon at number fifteen, Brylcreme Court. This was a melancholy, rundown council block, and number fifteen was on the fifth floor, up five flights of battered concrete stairs. Dashed over the staircase walls were various dramatic portrayals of monsters executed in spray paint, but these had been done several years before, when the monsters were still a novelty; now the pictures had faded, as had the enthusiasm for doing them, and the supply of spray paint had long since run out, and the artists had, many of them, been swallowed by the monsters so the walls beyond the third and fourth storeys were mostly undecorated. And there were no pictures at all on the corridor walls leading to Mrs. Monsoon’s front door. But an inscription very low down (as if it had been done by a dwarf or a four-year-old child) read: “Mrs. F——Monsoon is an old witch.”

  The warden, whose name was Mr. Mossready, shook his head at this as he lifted the metal knocker on the door and gave it a couple of sharp raps. (Electric bells in Manchester had long since ceased to function.)

  After his knock there followed a long suspicious silence inside the flat, though Mr. Mossready felt fairly certain that he could hear someone moving around inside, and a woman talking in a low voice.

  He rapped again.

  By and by, he became aware that he was being observed through the tiny glass spy-hole by a hostile pale-grey eye.

  “’Oo’s that?” snapped a voice.

  “The warden.”

  “How do I know you’re what you say? There’s all sorts about these days.”

  For answer he held his warden’s badge up to the spy-hole and, after another extended unfriendly pause, the door was very slowly drawn open. Inside stood a thin scraggy woman with a long pale face, grey hair done in a bun on top, and a grey apron, which had once been white, tied over a lot of cardigans worn in layers, like onion skins.

  “Mrs. Florence Monsoon?”

  “’Oo else’d be living here?” she demanded.

  “Who else is living here? That’s what I want to know. You applied for an extra ration of carrots for your niece Sauna Blow. Where did she come from? There was no niece mentioned before, when the ration cards for meat and bread were issued.”

  “She don’t eat no meat nor bread. Only carrots.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s her business, ain’t it? Oh well, s’pose you best come in, don’t need to have the whole building sticking their noses into my affairs,” grumbled the woman, giving a sharp glance up and down the empty corridor, as if elephants’ ears extended, quivering, from every closed door.

  The warden followed her through a lobby about the size of a chair seat into a very small living room. In the middle of the room was a card-table covered with a hairy brown cloth, and on top of that one of yellowed lace; round the table were crammed four chairs with red velour seats; the walls were covered by display shelves, and in each corner but one there were triangular chiffonieres; the fourth corner held a dead television set, and the rest of the space was taken up by small coffee-tables with spindly legs. On all of these stood a multitude of tiny china mugs and jugs, each with an inscription from some seaside resort: “A Present from Margate,” “A Present from Blackpool,” “A Present from Ryde.” There must have been thousands of them. It seemed that Mrs. Monsoon had been busy dusting them, for she held a piece of rag, which she now tucked into her waistband in a martyred manner. A brown-tile fireplace held a paper fan in a jam jar, and a small potted palm stood on the window-sill, blocking off any light.

  Dusting all those little things must take a tremendously long time, thought Mr. Mossready, tired at the very thought. All day, most likely every day.

  “Well?” snapped Mrs. Monsoon. “What nosy-parkering set of Paul Prys sent you along here?”

  “Food Rationing and Public Security.”

  “Public Security, huh! Not much of that these days.”

  Mr. Mossready displayed his badge again, and drew out a long form like a scroll, which he had wrapped round a dead ballpoint pen.

  But while he did so his eyes were fixed in fascinated disapproval on the girl who sat motionless at the opposite side of the card-table, with her back to the window.

  The reason she couldn’t move was that her hands were tied tightly with strips of rag to the back of her chair, one on each side.

  Her cheeks were extremely pale. Her red hair was done neatly in two plaits. She gave Mr. Mossready a weary glance, but said nothing. She did sniff a little, though, as if she would have liked to blow her nose. The warden wondered if she had been crying, or if she had a cold.

  “Are you Sauna Aslauga Blow?” he asked, consulting his form. “Daughter of Ted and Emily Blow of Newcastle-upon-Tyne?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your parents are dead, and Mrs. Florence Monsoon is your guardian?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said again sadly. “That’s right.”

  “What relation is she to you?”

  “Father’s cousin,” put in Mrs. Monsoon.

  “Why, might I ask, do you keep the child tied up?”

  At this the girl’s eyes flew nervously to the woman.

  “Well! What a question!” said Mrs. Monsoon acidly. “I should have thought any fool could see the reason for that. The child’s so active and restless, the very first day she was here she smashed eleven of my precious souvenirs. Naturally I wasn’t having any more of that; so, since then, except at mealtimes—which she takes in the kitchen—she has to have her hands tied.”

  Mr. Mossready glanced at the kitchen, which he could see from where he stood. (He had not been invited to sit down. In fact there would scarcely have been room.) The kitchen was the same size as the front hall, with sink, stove, and cupboard arranged round the sides of a standing space.

  “Mrs. Monsoon, how long has the child been living with you?”

  “Five years. Ever since her mum and dad was killed in an air crash in Spain. Just before the Troubles, that was.”

  Sauna was heard to sniff again.

  “Why does she not eat meat and bread? (If available.) Is she on a special diet? A vegetarian?”

  “Meat an’ bread’d make her too active, wouldn’t they?” demanded Mrs. Monsoon. “There’d be no holding her, once she’d gobbled a lot of stuff like that. So that’s why I put in for extra carrots.”

  “Do you like carrots?” the warden asked Sauna. She nodded, resignedly.

  “Oh, very well. In the circumstances I am prepared to allow the application.” He made a tick on his form. “Does the child ever get out?”

  “I don’t see as that’s any of your business,” said Mrs. Monsoon coldly. “But, yes, she does, when there ain’t too many Snarks about.”

  “And how long do you expect to have her residing with you? Does she have any other friends … relatives … people to care for her? If something should happen to you?” the warden said delicately.

  Mr. Mossready was not one for rushing in where angels fear to tread. But he did feel this arrangement was highly unsatisfactory.

  The child looked so very pale and glum.

  When he said “other friends” something slightly odd appeared to happen to Mrs. Florence Monsoon.

  The pupils of her pale-grey eyes dilated and began to shine, as if they were made from small blobs of mercury.

  She stared at the warde
n for a few minutes, without answering.

  He looked into her eyes, lulled into a kind of waking trance by the bright points of light in their pupils. It seemed to him that he could hear a shrill, tiny voice, like that of a gnat or mosquito, which whined plaintively somewhere up above him near the curtain rail:

  “I don’t like it here! How much longer do I have to stay in this airless ugliness? When can I rejoin my friends? Abiron, Asmodeus, Belial, Chamoth—when can we play together again? In air? In air and darkness? I was not told that I would have to hover here in a trap—in a trap, in a trap, in a horrible trap—”

  The voice ended in a batlike squeak.

  “I beg your pardon? What did you say?”

  Mr. Mossready was exceedingly startled, and more than a little scared. The child had not spoken, he’d be prepared to swear; her lips were pressed tightly together, and she had been looking down at the yellow lace cover on the brown hairy tablecloth.

  But the voice had not seemed to come from the woman either; could he possibly have imagined it? A voice up there above his head? Near the dead electric light bulb in its fringed lampshade?

  Mrs. Monsoon was still gazing at the warden in a strange sightless manner, her eyes like two silver nail-heads fastening something down in her blank face.

  Now the girl spoke.

  “It’s just Aunt Floss’s hearing-aid, sir; it does go like that sometimes. So does the kettle. It’s—it’s just the airwaves round here. Aunt doesn’t hear ordinary sounds so well when it’s like that. But—but, I don’t mind it so much here, you see, I’m waiting—I’m hoping—”

  “Hoping for what, child?”

  “Hoping for my cousin Dakin to come along,” explained the girl. “He’s way off still, but I’m pretty sure he will come, by and by—” She was talking very fast and softly, with a wary eye on her aunt.

  Mrs. Monsoon suddenly gave her head a quick, angry shake.

  “Cousin? Whatever are you talking about, you silly girl?” she snapped. “Hoping for your cousin Dakin, indeed! I’d like to know what use he’d be! He’s only a bit of a lad, somewhere down there in London, probably et up long ago by a Terrapod. Don’t take notice of the child, Mr. Mossy, she talks a right lot of nonsense at times. Gets silly notions in her head. It’s all I can do to keep my patience with her.”

  The woman’s eyes were normal again now, her pupils dark, the same as anybody else’s might be. And the bat-like squeaking voice—from a radio speaker, could it have been, except who had a radio these days?—was silent.

  Quickly, uneasily, Mr. Mossready rolled up the public health form again, nodded at the two inmates of the flat and stepped back towards the entrance door.

  “… When can my friends come and play?” whined the tiny voice.

  Hurriedly—not far from panic—Mr. Mossready stepped out of the front door and slammed it behind him. Standing in the passage, he thought he heard Mrs. Monsoon’s angry exclamation, “Hush! Not yet! I’ve told you over and over!”

  There’s something downright peculiar, not at all what it should be, about the set-up in that place, ruminated Mr. Mossready, making for the staircase. But what can I do? Nothing’s as it should be, these days. I’m sorry for that poor child, though.

  As he reached the stairhead, a fat woman was struggling slowly up. He could hear her puffing and wheezing while she climbed the last flight, so he waited politely on the top step.

  “You just been visiting Mrs. Monsoon?” asked the woman as she came level with the warden and paused to get her breath. “She’s at home then, is she?”

  “Yes, she is,” said the warden, hoping to get a little more information about that forlorn child. “Er—are you a friend of Mrs. Monsoon?”

  “Ow, no, no, Mister—not to say a friend,” declared the fat woman hastily. “More of an acquaintance, like. A neighbour. She gives readings, you know, Mrs. M does—cards, dreams, tea-leaves. She’s from up north, in Scotland, see, where the nights are so long they can all see in the dark. Clear-seeing, they calls it. Mrs. Monsoon can scry, like.” Then growing nervous, wondering if she had been indiscreet, she added, “Not in a crystal ball, don’t get me wrong, Mister, nothink of that gipsyish sort, no funny business, and never for money—she reads hands, see, gives advice. It’s all ever so ladylike and refined. Nothink nasty, nothink nasty at all, money never changes hands—”

  Wouldn’t be much good if it did, reflected the Warden. Money had long since ceased to be of any importance or use.

  The woman pushed hurriedly past him, leaving a strong aroma of garlic behind her.

  “Does the child help her?” asked Mr. Mossready.

  The disapproval in his voice made the fat woman even more nervous.

  “No, not to say help, Mister—not to say help. Oh dear me, no, that wouldn’t be legal, would it? But, of course, she’s there, in the room; can’t help that, can she, if she sometimes lets fall a word or two. She gotta speak sometimes, don’t she? Truth to tell, she can see through walls, at times, that kid can. Useful gift, ain’t it? Wouldn’t mind having the knack myself, right handy it’d be when the rent collector comes a-calling for his ten pairs of hand-knitted socks!” She laughed wheezily, then gave Mr. Mossready a cautious glance, trying to guess his reason for being there. “Well, we all got to do the best we can for each other, these awful times, don’t we?” she added vaguely.

  She waddled off along the passage towards Mrs. Monsoon’s door. Staring after her uneasily, Mr. Mossready noticed for the first time that she had a dog with her. Or had it been there, lurking outside in the passage, all the time? Or—was it a dog? Something smallish, about the size of an Aberdeen terrier, scuttled along the corridor, keeping close to the angle of the wall.

  Maybe I’m coming down with the flu, thought Mr. Mossready, rubbing his brow; they say there’s a real nasty virus going about, affects your hearing, makes you think you hear bird calls and cats mewling, makes you think you see peculiar things that aren’t properly there. For I could have sworn that what I saw scurrying along the passage was not a dog but a face, running on six legs and looking up at me with a nasty grin as it went.

  What I need’s a nice cup of hot turnip tea to go with my mint and parsley sandwich.

  Reassuring himself Mr. Mossready patted his jacket pocket, and for a second time wiped his brow, which was covered with a shimmer of sweat. I’ll be right glad to get out of Brylcreme Court. The ventilation in this building is very poor, and that’s a fact. Nasty odours about, something like rotten eggs with a dash of hot melted metal in there as well.

  So Mr. Mossready was decidedly put out at being waylaid again, down in the lobby, by yet another stranger. You’d think, from its look, that this building was mostly deserted, he thought, rubbish scattered all over the floor, no proper maintenance, peeling paint everywhere, so quiet you could hear an ant hiccup, yet there seem to be a lot of odd bods about.

  The man who now intercepted the warden at the foot of the stairs could certainly be described as an odd bod. He was extremely thin and pale, so thin that his face looked like a skull. A cowlick of lank hair hung down over his white bony brow, and two doleful mud-coloured eyes peered about as if they had never seen anything to interest or please them, and never expected to.

  The man wore a kind of grey canvas uniform and carried a nasty-looking tool, part spade, part bill-hook, part cleaver.

  “Afternoon, sir,” he addressed Mr. Mossready politely enough. “I reckon it’s just about afternoon, n’now, eh? Sun’s climbed as high as it’s going to, would you say?” He gave a sniff at his own flight of fancy.

  “Noon to ye,” mumbled Mr. Mossready, wishing the man would step out of the way and let him go by, into the fresh air.

  “Now I wonder, sir,” said the man without budging. “I see you are an emergency warden, sir, I see it by your badge—I wonder if by any chance you would have been calling on Mrs. Florence Monsoon?”

  “Now why should you think that?” snapped Mr. Mossready, not at all pleased at being inte
rrogated about his professional pursuits by this scruffy stranger.

  “It’s just, sir, that, to the best of my knowledge, Mrs. Monsoon is the only resident of this building, these days. Unless, of course, you were inspecting the block so as to condemn it as unfit for human habitation?”

  The mud-coloured eyes were fixed searchingly on Mr. Mossready’s face.

  “No; that is not my function,” said the warden. “Anyhow, compared with some, this building’s not too bad. Who are you, may I ask?” he added, still wishing the man would move out of his way.

  “Tom Flint, sir, dog operative. Under the latest regulations, section Twenty-two-B of clause seventy-nine, Functions of local government officials, fifteen August last year, I am empowered to search out and destroy any unclaimed domestic canines—”

  “Oh, is that so, yes, yes, I see—” interrupted Mr. Mossready, still trying to get past. “Excellent, very proper, can’t have unclaimed mongrels roaming all over the city—”

  “And you tell me that you have recently made a professional call on Mrs. Florence Monsoon, sir, and that you would say she had no resident canine pet in her apartment?”

  “I didn’t say that I had called on Mrs. Monsoon,” contended Mr. Mossready peevishly. “But, as it happens, I was in her place—and not greatly impressed by the state of affairs there. I may say—” he went on, more to himself than to the other man, “the child seemed very much in the dumps; don’t care to see a young ’un kept under restraint like that.”

  “A child? The occupant of number fifteen has a child residing with her?” inquired Tom Flint. His tone, which had been rather vague, now turned quite sharp.

  “What concern is that of yours, pray?” snapped Mr. Mossready, still trying to edge past the dog operative, who had a dank, musty, sweaty odour about him, which combined most unpleasantly with the stuffy atmosphere of Brylcreme Court.

  “Why—kiddies and dogs go together—don’t they? You get a kiddy in a flat, nine times out o’ ten you get a puppy too—or a kitten, or a hamster, or one o’ they canary birds. And pets breed, you know, one thing leads to another, before you know where you are, there’s a whole drawerful of white mice, a kennel full of tykes, or half a dozen moggies; something that’s clean against present-day regulations. Now—to save me trouble, sir—would you declare as you had seen nothing of that nature in Mrs. Monsoon’s place?”