Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“Always wanted a chance to show what I could do against a Drood,” the Dancing Fool said finally.

“Always wanted a chance to stick it to a Drood, the way they’ve always stuck it to me,” said Strange Chloe.

“I thought you were my friend, Shaman,” said Coffin Jobe. “Friends are all I’ve got left . . .”

I could see the confidence growing in them as they talked themselves into it. The Dancing Fool was actually smiling.

“When word gets out I’ve taken down a Drood . . . I’ll be able to double my fees,” he said.

“And have my family come after you?” I said. “You never were the brightest button in the box, Nigel.”

Coffin Jobe and Strange Chloe turned their heads to look at the Dancing Fool.

“Nigel?” said Coffin Jobe.

“That’s your name?” said Strange Chloe. “You real name? Bloody Nigel?”

The Dancing Fool glared at me, so angry he could barely speak. “You bastard,” he said finally. “You promised you’d never tell.”

“Sorry, Nigel,” I said. “But needs must when the Devil’s in the driving seat. And it’s not as if you’re a genuine martial arts master, either. Hell, you’re not even Scottish! You just added a minor talent for precognition to some moves you picked up watching Bruce Lee movies. Whereas I . . . really am a Drood. I’m here to kill the Independent Agent, for good reason. If you knew half the things he’s done, you’d help me do it. Don’t let him screw you over like he did me. I will walk right through you to get to him.”

“Typical Drood,” said Strange Chloe. “Think you can talk your way out of anything. Well, Nigel here may not be the real deal, but I bloody well am. I’m going to hate you right out of the world, Drood; I’m going to stare you down until there’s not one little bit of you left to remind me how much I hate you.”

“Friends of yours?” murmured Walker. I’d forgotten he was there.

“Sometimes,” I said. “More like colleagues. People I work with on occasion. You know how it is . . .”

“Only too well,” said Walker.

“Do you know who everyone is?” I said. “I could introduce you . . .”

“No need,” said Walker. “I know them all by name or deed or reputation.” He studied them with his calm, cold gaze, and they all shifted uneasily. “Small-time operatives with minor talents. Their kind are always turning up in the Nightside, looking to make a reputation for themselves. They don’t usually last long. Most of them end up like this, crying into their beer because the big boys play too roughly.”

“You bastard,” said Strange Chloe. “I’ll show you who’s small-time!”

“You stay out of this, Walker,” said the Dancing Fool, stabbing a finger at him. “Our business is with the Drood. Don’t get involved, if you know what’s good for you.”

“And if I do choose to get involved?” said Walker, smiling just a little.

Strange Chloe sneered at him. “You don’t have your Voice anymore. Everyone knows that.”

“And without the Voice, you’re just another killjoy in a suit,” said the Dancing Fool. “So stay out of it.”

“Whatever you say, Nigel,” murmured Walker.

“Guys, please, don’t do this,” I said. “Don’t make me do this. I’ve already lost three colleagues to Alexander King; I don’t want to lose any more.”

“See, we were never friends,” said the Dancing Fool. “Just colleagues.”

“Then why are you so upset over the thought of being betrayed?” said Walker.

“Shut up! Shut up, Walker! You don’t scare me anymore!” The Dancing Fool’s face was dangerously red with rage. “Without your Voice you’re no better than us . . .”

“I don’t have my Voice,” said Walker. “But I do have other things.”

“Oh, please,” said Strange Chloe. “I could put you through a wall with my eyelashes.”

“Chloe,” I said. “You don’t want to do this. I’m the one who persuaded you out of that grubby one-room flat, found you work, found you friends.”

“You didn’t do it for me,” she said. Her voice was flat, cold, emotionless. “It’s all shit. Everything. Just like I always said. Why should you have been any different? Everyone lies.”

“That’s the Goth talking,” I said. “I liked you better when you were a punk. You had more energy. And the pink mohawk suited you.”

“Bastard,” said Strange Chloe.

“You were a punk?” said Coffin Jobe.

“Shut up, Jobe.”

“We all have our secrets,” I said. “Get over yourself, Chloe. This is more important than your hurt feelings.”

“Nothing is more important than my feelings,” said Strange Chloe.

She stepped forward and glared at me. I could feel power building around her. I hastily subvocalised my activating Words and armoured up. Coffin Jobe and the Dancing Fool gaped at me; they’d never seen a Drood take on his armour before. Not many have and lived to tell of it. Strange Chloe didn’t care. Her rage seethed and crackled on the air between us as she took another step forward. The impact of her gaze hit me like a fist. That was her gift and her power and her curse: to make anything disappear that dared not to love her. Strange Chloe’s stare slammed against my armour, terrible energies filling the space between us as she concentrated, the unyielding power of her fury straining to find some hold, some purchase, against the impenetrable, more than normal certainty of my strange matter armour. I took a step forward, towards her, and her face became almost inhuman in its concentrated rage.

Things close to us began to disappear, driven out of reality by the overspilling energies of Strange Chloe’s stare. Objects and trophies and pieces of furniture just vanished, one after the other, air rushing in to fill the gaps left behind. Rich deep carpet faded away and was gone, leaving a slowly widening swath of bare boards between us. Strange Chloe glared at me, scowling so hard it must have hurt her face, but all I had to show her in return was my featureless gold mask. I was almost close enough to reach out and touch her when her power broke against my armour and blasted back at her. The full force of her gaze was reflected by my unyielding armour, and Strange Chloe screamed silently as she faded away and was gone.

I armoured down.

“Sorry, Chloe,” I said to the empty air where she’d been. “I hope you’re happy now, wherever you are.”

“You killed her,” said the Dancing Fool.

“Her own power turned against her,” I said. “And don’t you dare sound so outraged, Nigel. You know damn well you never liked her. Not really. Don’t you dare pretend she was ever your friend. You just let her hang around because she was useful: a big gun you could pull on people who weren’t impressed by your fighting skills. She was always more my friend than yours.”

“You were never her friend,” said the Dancing Fool.

“Sometimes . . . you just don’t have the time,” I said.

The Dancing Fool laughed briefly. There wasn’t any humour in the sound. “You’ve robbed me of one of my colleagues. Seems only fair I should rob you of one of yours. Never did like you, Walker.”

His long lean body snapped into a martial arts stance as he turned on Walker, clearly expecting to take him by surprise, but Walker was already waiting, gun in hand. He smiled briefly and kneecapped the Dancing Fool, shattering his left kneecap with a single bullet. The Dancing Fool made a shocked, surprised sound as the impact punched his leg out from under him, and he fell to the floor. Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his bloody knee with both hands as though he thought he could hold it together by sheer force. His breathing came short and hurried as the pain hit him in waves, each one worse than the one before.