Dave Hutchinson: Sleeps With Angels

“I heard that Rex killed the pig.”

“Everyone else knows about it. Why shouldn’t you?”

“It’s an interesting situation, don’t you think?”

“It’s a fascinating situation, but I really need to get some sleep so I’d appreciate it if you’d come to the point.” Modem had been visiting me, on and off, for a couple of years now. The first time, I had tried to run away screaming, but these days I was almost blasé about it, as if I wasn’t sitting in the same room with one of the most dangerous predators on the planet. I could even do small-talk with it.

On the other hand, I had never found out why Modem visited. It usually spent the time taking the piss out of us, telling me how pathetic we were and how brilliant the elves were. I had a feeling — and this was nothing more than a feeling — that, somewhere in the black hole of memory between St Ursula and Belton, I had done something for the elves, or been forced to do something for them. It was a prospect that brought me out in a cold sweat.

Modem looked at me and tipped its head to one side. The moonlight made it look ethereally beautiful. “We were wondering if you’d like us to intervene.”

“No. Can I get some sleep now?”

Modem looked hurt. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The elves hated mankind, of course. They had been masters of the world for uncountable centuries. And then we had come along with our technologies and we had cut down the forests that were their natural habitats, driving them back and back until all they could do was watch as our cities were built and wait until we were vulnerable.

“We’re quite interested in Rex Preston,” Modem said.

I felt ice touch my heart. “Oh?”

The elf uncrossed its legs, recrossed them, brushed a piece of lint off the thigh of its jeans. “Actually, I’m interested in what you think of Rex Preston.”

I looked at it. “Why?”

Modem thought about it for a moment. “Professional curiosity?”

“He’s a newspaper editor. How on Earth can you be professionally curious about a newspaper editor?” The first rule about the elves was: you didn’t annoy the elves. That was the only rule, really, but I’d learned that there was some latitude. You could annoy some of them more than others; it was just impossible to tell which ones. You had to wing it.

“His paper is on its knees. His wife works for his competitor. He just killed his last animal. But he won’t give up.” Modem tipped its head to one side. “Personally, I find that kind of…devotion interesting. I’ve noticed something similar in the Resistance.”

I burst out laughing. The Resistance was a largely theoretical thing, armed with whatever weapons they could scrounge from the days when the Alliance was based in Southern England. They killed elves here and there — on the orders, legend said, of an ex-New Zealand Special Forces Colonel who had found himself stuck here just after the War. For every Resistance success, the elves destroyed a village or a town. Popular opinion had it that the Resistance had caused more loss of life than the elves themselves.

“Rex isn’t with the Resistance,” I said. “It would get in the way of putting the paper out.”

56K Modem looked at me and pursed its lips. “All the same,” it said, “perhaps he would bear watching.”

The elves had something roughly analogous to MI5. They called it the Library, and among other things it was charged with dealing with the Resistance. They hunted down ham radio operators and ham TV operators, they hunted down people who put together kit-cars in their garages or played guitars and sang to each other late at night. I thought this must be a pretty thankless task, but Modem seemed to find it fulfilling.

“Rex isn’t with the Resistance,” I said again.

“Harry Burns is.”

More ice around my heart. “Harry’s not with the Resistance either.”

“He’s at a meeting right now,” Modem told me. “Over on the outskirts of Sheffield. There are five of them in a house in Dore. They’re planning an assassination. We disapprove of assassinations.”

I shook my head. “Not Harry.”

“Harry’s ex-SAS. Good with munitions.” Modem blew gently on the burning coal at the end of the spliff. “An absolute star. No end to the things Harry can do with a few ounces of plastic explosive.”

“What do you want?” I shouted.

Modem looked taken aback. “It’s just this situation with Rex and Liam…”

“Yes!” I yelled. “Intervene! Do whatever you fucking well want!” We sat looking at each other from either end of the bed. “Are you happy now?”

Modem stood up. “I’m never what you’d call happy ,” it told me.

Every village has a character. Sometimes, if the village is big enough or unfortunate enough, it might have more than one. Ernie Hazlewright was ours, a big, permanently-annoyed old man who lived just down the road from me. He was a legendary drinker and a brawler of some note, and he’d been barred from all three of the pubs in the area more times than anyone could remember.

By rights, he should have gone down fighting in a punch-up in the street, but he’d actually fallen into the river while walking home pissed out of his mind one night and drowned. I supposed it was a rather sad way for a Falklands veteran to go, but I wasn’t going to miss him.

Still, it was rather a good turnout in the little cemetery down by the river. About thirty people turned up, mostly Ernie’s old drinking buddies. I managed to get a few words from each of them.

The mourners had all gone off to the pub and I was chatting to the vicar when I saw Rex coming down the gravel path from the church. He stopped by Ernie’s grave and stood looking down at the coffin. I went over to him.

“He wasn’t a bad old lad really,” he said. “Just drank too much.”

“He was an absolute nightmare,” I said. “Coming home legless at all hours of the day and night, beating up his wife. You didn’t have to live near him.”

Rex nodded. “That’s true.”

“He smashed all my front windows once.”

“You haven’t been in to the office yet, have you,” he said.

I shook my head. “I came straight here.”

“So you won’t have seen what we found in the yard when we came to work this morning.”

“No, of course not.”

“So the animals didn’t have anything to do with you, then.”

I frowned and felt my stomach start to contract. “What animals?”

Rex shrugged. “Well, I left Harry counting them, but it looked like fifteen or so chickens, half a dozen goats and four pigs. Three sows and a boar.”

I stared at him.

“Anything to do with your source, do you think?”

I had never kept anything from Rex. I had told him everything about myself, at least everything I could remember. He was the only person I had told about 56K Modem and its visits, and I thought it was probably the bravest thing I had ever done. Rex, of course, was an old-fashioned sort of newspaperman. A contact with the elves was literally beyond price, even if it might be morally suspect, and a good journalist always protects his sources.

“Modem came to see me last night,” I said. “It asked me if I wanted them to do something about this thing with you and Liam.”

Rex frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s a game with them, Rex. They think we’re funny. They watch us like we’re some kind of soap opera or something.”

He scratched his head. “Well.” He turned and started to walk up the gravel path towards the entrance to the churchyard. I followed. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or not.”

“Best not.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right.”

“Someone had better mention to Harry that the elves are on to him as well,” I said.