Mike Carey - Vicious Circle

‘Did he pick a fight with someone and lose?’ I asked, trying to pin down that echo.

‘He picked a fight with Stig Matthews. They both lost. Both ended up in hospital.’

Yeah, that was what I’d heard. Two men trading punches until they both fell down, with broken noses and half-pulped faces: the sort of thing that gives even machismo a bad name.

‘I thought he was trying to be good just lately, though,’ Bourbon said reflectively. ‘Starting to quiet down a bit. That’s what people tell me, anyway. He come back from America a changed man, they say. But I can’t help you anyway, Fix. He’s not here.’

‘You sound pretty sure.’

‘Well, I saw him walk out about half an hour back. Looking a bit rough, I have to say – like he hadn’t slept in a while. He bought some FFs from Carla, and popped a couple right there. Then he was off again. Didn’t even stay for a drink.’

Damn. I’d been that close. But a miss is as good as a mile. ‘Is Carla still here?’ I asked. Bourbon looked around the room for a few seconds, then pointed to a formidable-looking redhead sitting close to the bar, in intense conversation with a bare-armed bald guy so heavily tattooed that it was hard to make out his facial expression. In other company, he might have made you feel a little nervous: next to Carla he sort of faded into the background.

‘Thanks, Bourbon. So Peace used to be a regular at the old place. You know anything else about him?’

‘There’s a difference between what I hear and what I know, Fix. Peace is the sort of man that people like to tell stories about – but you know how it is. A lot of those stories used to be told about other people before and they’ll be told about someone else after. All I know – know for sure – is that he used to be a rubber duck a while back. He was part of the collective. Not any more, though: he got fed up with all the arguments. And I think he told me he’s a friend of Rosie Crucis, although as far as I know he wasn’t part of the team that raised her.’

‘You’re right. He wasn’t.’

‘Oh yeah, that was you and Jenna-Jane Mulbridge, wasn’t it? The Sussex Gardens Resurrectionists. That’s all I can think of. Never saw him in anyone’s company except his own. He’s almost as antisocial as you.’

‘Tell me some of the stories, then.’

He grimaced. ‘I’d just as soon not, Fix, if it’s all the same to you. Not my style.’

‘Sorry I asked, then. Thanks, Bourbon. I owe you one.’

‘You bought me one. Just don’t go in half-cocked, okay? Peace is a nasty piece of work, in some respects, but in my experience he plays straight with people who play straight with him. On the other hand, if you piss him off he can be a right bastard.’

‘Shit, he really is like me. Have a good one, Bourbon.’

‘You too, Fix.’

I strolled over towards Carla’s end of the bar, watching her out of the corner of my eye while I ordered another drink. I don’t like hitting people up if I don’t already know them: the law of unintended consequences applies, with big spiky knobs on. I could have asked Bourbon to make an introduction, but why the hell should I drag him into my shit when he’d got shit enough of his own?

Biding my time, I ordered another drink. By the time it came, Carla had finished her conversation with the illustrated man. Money had changed hands, and so had a little brown-paper bag which had been folded many times and taped shut. The guy took off for the street door looking happy and excited – at least, as far as I could tell under all the paintwork.

FFs, Bourbon had said: by which I presumed he meant fast-forwards rather than, say, back issues of the Fantastic Four comic book. So Peace had an amphetamine habit. Well, he wouldn’t be the first exorcist to keep his pencils sharp with chemical assistance – or the last. Interesting that he’d looked so wiped, though: could be that was an after-effect of fielding all my various attempts to raise Abbie’s spirit, as well as hitting that screamer back my way earlier in the day. Maybe if I kept up the pressure there, I’d get through his guard.

Or maybe the next ricochet I caught would mulch my brains until they leaked out of my ears.

I crossed to Carla’s table and sat down in the just-vacated chair. She was just getting up: she looked at me with a certain amount of surprise and not much pleasure. Close up, she was an even more impressive lady than she had been from across the bar. Not tall, but very solid: at a distance you could tell yourself that some of her bulk was fat, but from this range I could see that she was made of something harder and less yielding. She looked to be about forty, and her slab-like face under its layers of foundation make-up looked like a red-brick wall. Her incongruously soft brown eyes were cordoned off like a crime scene with lines of mascara: the rest of her features had disowned them. She was altogether the wrong shape for a belly-shirt, but that was what she was wearing nonetheless: the pixie skirt was another red herring, but I felt that the wrestler’s boots were an honest statement of intent.

‘I’m closed,’ was all she said.

I shrugged as if I was easy either way. ‘I’m not buying,’ I said.

‘Then fuck off.’ No rancour; nothing personal. But no give, either.

‘I’m just looking for someone you know. Dennis—’

‘I said fuck off.’ She put a warning finger in my face. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Well, that’s true. My name’s Castor. Felix Castor. My friends call me Fix.’ I held out a hand, which she didn’t even look at. Instead she just got up and made to walk around the table, past me towards the bar. Having a good deal more tenacity than sense, I jumped up too and stepped into her way. She really wasn’t tall: her head was only on a level with my fourth rib.

She stopped. There was a silence, which started with her and then moved on out across the bar. Without turning around, I knew we’d just become a local centre of attention.

‘Sport,’ she said, in the same cold tone, ‘you really don’t want to do that.’

‘Maybe not,’ I conceded. ‘I really do want to meet Dennis Peace, though. Maybe you could tell him I’m looking for him. Felix Castor. He can get my number from Bourbon Bryant, or leave a message for me here.’

‘You’d better move aside now,’ was all Carla said.

I moved aside. She glanced up at me once: a hard, unreadable look. Then she went on past me to the bar, and there was a collective breathing out in a number of different keys.

Okay, so my intended charm offensive had fallen a little flat. Well, in terms of charm, anyway: I’d managed the offensive part well enough. Never mind. Bourbon had given me some food for thought, and some leads to follow: enough to be going on with for now.

The rain was coming down again heavily, and the slick black asphalt of Soho Square reflected the fragmented glitter of a few car headlights like shooting stars in a clear sky. It wasn’t cold, though: in fact it felt good after the canned air of the crypt-like bar. I didn’t even turn my coat collar up as I walked.

It was well after midnight now, and there weren’t many people around. Two heavy-set guys – one of them very, very tall – were talking in murmurs at the edge of the pavement: they stepped to either side to let me pass in between them, one of them flicking a cigarette away over his shoulder.

I’d left the car on the other side of the square, so the quickest way was right through the cramped little park area in the middle. I rounded the Tudor folly that used to be an ice-cream stand and the further gate came into view: it was closed, which wasn’t a good sign. A few more steps brought me level with it, and I gave it a tug. Nothing doing: they’d locked it for the night.