Djinn Rummy (17 page)

‘Could be a problem with that,' the fish mumbled. ‘The sheilas are, like, compulsory. Chicks with everything.'

‘How depressingly chauvinistic.'

‘Yeah, well.' The fish waggled its tail-fin. ‘Sort of goes with the territory, mate. You don't have to treat 'em like dirt if you don't want to,' it added hopefully. ‘I mean, if you want to, you can buy 'em flowers.'

Asaf sighed. ‘Gosh,' he said, ‘how heavy this flask is. If I have to stand here negotiating for very much longer, my arm might get all weak and . . .'

‘All
right
, you flamin' mortal bastard!' the fish screeched. ‘Just watch what you're doing with that thing.'

‘Well?'

‘I'm thinking.' The fish swam in slow circles, occasionally nibbling at the sides of the flask. ‘OK,' it said. ‘But this is the best I can do.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘Just the one sheila,' said the fish persuasively. ‘And she's stinking rich -'

‘Beyond the dreams of avarice?'

‘Too right, mate, too right. Richest chick this side of the black stump. And all you've got to do is rescue her, right?'

Asaf scowled. ‘You haven't been listening,' he said. ‘All I'm interested in is the money. Climbing up rope ladders and sword-fights with guards simply aren't my style. I get vertigo.'

‘No worries,' the fish reassured him. ‘I'll handle all that side of things, just you see.'

‘Sure,' Asaf growled. ‘In case you hadn't noticed, you're a two-inch-long fish. Don't you think that'd prove rather a handicap when it comes to rescuing wealthy females?'

‘Huh!' The fish sneered. ‘Now who's the bigot?'

‘But . . .'

‘Just 'cos I'm small and I've got fins . . .'

‘Be reasonable,' Asaf said. ‘You can't escape your way
out of a thermos flask. How are you going to cope with heavily guarded castles?'

‘I'll have no worries swimming the moat,' the fish replied. ‘Anyway, I'm only a fish right
now
. As soon as I can get home and out of this flamin' fish outfit, I can go back to being a dragon. Dragons can rescue anybody, right?'

‘I suppose so.' Asaf rubbed his chin. On the one hand, the Dragon King hardly inspired confidence. On the other hand . . . He looked down at the boat, the empty nets, the threadbare sail. ‘Very well, then. So long as it's guaranteed success.'

‘Trust me.'

‘I was afraid you'd say that.'

‘Look . . .'

‘All right,' Asaf said. ‘So what do I do now?'

The fish darted up the meniscus of the flask. ‘Just chuck me back in,' he said, ‘and then row to the shore. I'll be there waiting.'

‘Straight up?'

‘On me honour as an Australian,' the fish replied solemnly. ‘No bludging, honest.'

‘Oh, all right then.' Asaf jerked the flask sharply sideways, emptying its contents into the sea. There was a soft splash.

‘Waste of bloody time,' he muttered to himself. Then he rowed to the shore.

He was just pulling his boat up on to the beach when there was a sharp WHOOSH! immediately behind his back, and sand everywhere. He turned slowly around and saw a very old, very battered Volkswagen dormobile, with lots of stickers inside the windscreen. He frowned; and suddenly realised that instead of his comfortable old fishing
smock, he was wearing strange new clothes: a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, shorts, trainers and no socks. There was also some sort of sticky white stuff all over his nose and lips.

Hey!' he said angrily.

WHAM!

Hovering over his head was a huge, green scaly lizard.

‘G'day,' it said. ‘Jeez, mate, you don't know how good it feels to get me proper duds back on again after being squashed inside that poxy little fish skin. Ready to go?'

Asaf stepped back. He had to retreat quite some way before he could see the whole of the dragon. He began to wish he hadn't started this.

‘Hey,' he said, ‘what's going on? Who are you, anyway, the local area franchisee for the Klingon Empire?'

The dragon chuckled. ‘I'm a dragon, mate,' he replied. ‘What did you expect, a little skinny bloke with glasses? Now, are you ready for off?'

‘Off where?'

‘Off to see this incredibly rich sheila,' the dragon replied. ‘Now I'd better warn you, she's not exactly a real hot looker, but so what? Like we say in Oz, you don't care what's on the mantelpiece when you're poking the fire.'

‘All right,' Asaf muttered. ‘But what's with the broken-down old van? Why the stupid clothes?'

The dragon looked offended. ‘We're going on our travels, right?'

‘I suppose so, yes.'

The dragon's lips parted in a huge smile. ‘Well,' he said, ‘if we're going walkabout, we might as well do it properly.'

Asaf was on the point of objecting vehemently when it occurred to him that the Dragon King was perfectly right. Wherever you go, he remembered his brothers telling him,
whichever inhospitable corner of the globe you wind up in, you can always be sure of finding three tall, bronzed Aussies in beach clothes and a beat-up old camper. And you can bet your life that when the chips are down, they're not the ones whose fan-belt breaks three hundred miles from the nearest garage.

The Dragon King waved a giant forepaw and vanished. A moment or so later, when he'd recovered, Asaf noticed that the dormobile now had a chrome dragon mascot on the bonnet where the VW insignia ought to have been.

‘This is silly,' he told himself. Then he climbed into the van and turned the key.

 

Love, according to all the best poets, works wonders. Under the influence of love, men and women scale impossible mountains, brave tempestuous seas, face down dangers that any rational human being would run a mile from; love does for the heart and the soul what a five-year course of anabolic steroids does for the muscles. Mankind will do virtually anything for love.

Blind terror, however, knocks love into a cocked hat.

It wasn't love, for example, that brought Vince, white as a sheet and jumping like a kitten at loud noises, round to Jane's front door at nine o'clock sharp, clutching a huge bunch of flowers and wearing the tie she'd given him at the office Christmas party (hastily unwound from a dripping tap and ironed).

The door opened.

‘Hello, Vince,' Jane said. ‘What lovely flowers! Goodbye, Vince.'

The door started to close. Love at this point would have given it up as a bad job and gone home.

‘Jane,' Vince said. ‘Hi there. It's been a long time.'

‘Not nearly long enough. Get lost.'

Through the quarter-open door, Vince could see strange things: miles of plush carpet, acres of richly patterned wallpaper, stacks and rows of colour-supplement furniture. Somewhere in his subconscious, the change in Jane's environment registered. He smiled, trying as he did so to keep his teeth from chattering.

‘I think we ought to talk,' he said.

‘Do you? Why?'

‘Um.' Vince dredged his mind for something to say and, in the silt at the bottom of his memory, came across a phrase. It had lodged there, muddy and forgotten, ever since he'd idled away a day's flu watching one of the afternoon soaps.

‘We've got to sit down and talk this thing through,' he said solemnly. ‘Otherwise we might regret it for the rest of our lives.'

Jane considered. ‘You might,' she said. ‘Depends on how thick-skinned you are. If being called a heartless, two-timing little scumbag is likely to scar you for life, I'd suggest you leave now. Mind you,' she added, ‘I expect you're well used to it by now. Must happen to you all the time.'

‘Does that mean I can come in?'

Jane sighed. ‘I suppose so. It'd make shouting at you easier.'

Weak-kneed, Vince crept into the living-room . . .

AAAAGH!

There, sitting on the sofa, apparently putting a plug on an electric hair-dryer, was the Monster. For a fraction of a second it raised its eyes and looked straight at him; during which time he did his level best to swallow his own Adam's apple.

‘Vince,' Jane said in a bored voice, ‘this is Kiss. Kiss, this is Vince. I didn't ask him to come here,' she added.

The Monster was on his feet. ‘That's all right,' he said, ‘I was just going. I expect,' he added, ‘you two have a lot to talk about.'

‘No, we don't,' Jane said. ‘It doesn't take long to call somebody a bastard.'

‘See you later,' said Kiss, and walked out through the wall.

Vince sat down heavily in an armchair. ‘Your friend -' he said.

‘Fiancé,' Jane interrupted.

‘Ah.'

‘Bastard.'

‘Yes.'

‘What do you mean, yes?'

Vince tried to think what he did mean, but his brain wasn't working too well. ‘Um,' he said.

It isn't actually possible to jump out of one's skin, but Vince did his best. The voice seemed to be coming from two inches inside his left ear.

‘Do you mind not squirming about?' Jane asked wearily. ‘You'll damage the furniture.'

‘Sorry.'

‘I admit,' Vince said, staring straight ahead, ‘I behaved like a bastard . . .'

‘Good.'

‘But I promise,' Vince gasped, ‘that I'll make it up to you. Somehow,' he added.

‘Sorry.'

‘What?'

Sorry for all the pain my heartless and misguided behaviour must have caused you. Now, however
. . .

‘Hang on,' Vince said. ‘Sorry for all the pain my heartless and misguided behaviour . . .'

‘Oh, for crying out loud!' Jane exploded. ‘Look, buster, whoever writes your scripts for you, tell him not to pack in the day job.'

The part of Vince's subconscious currently under enemy occupation smirked.

‘Listen, Jane, I can explain everything.'

‘So can I. You're a bastard. Explanation complete.'

‘Jane,' Vince enunciated, ‘when two people feel the way about each other that we do, it's never too late to start again.'

‘Would you like,' Jane asked, ‘a cup of tea?'

A whoop of triumph rocked Vince's inner brain, playing havoc with his centre of balance. Yo, buddy, we're in! Go for it!

‘Yes, please,' Vince said.

‘Won't be a tick.'

Jane retreated into the kitchen. As soon as the door had closed, Vince felt a tremendous rushing in his ears, and -

WHOOSH!

‘Hi,' he mumbled. ‘How'm I doing?'

The genie gave him a cold, hard look. ‘If I couldn't read your mind,' he growled, ‘I'd swear you were deliberately trying to bugger this up. Fortunately for you, I can see you're shit-scared and you wouldn't dare. So just do exactly what I say and everything'll be just fine.'

‘Sure,' Vince muttered. ‘Er, excuse me saying this, but what exactly do you want me to
do
to her?'

The genie raised an eyebrow. ‘Marry her, of course. What do you think?'

‘Ah.' Vince cowered slightly. ‘In that case,' he said, ‘I'd rather have the violent and painful death, if it's all the same to you.'

For a moment, there was sympathy in the genie's eyes. ‘Look, chum,' he said, ‘it's you or me, right? And I'm bigger than you, which means it's you. Sorry, but that's the way it goes. At the moment,' he went on, deleting the sympathy and replacing it with a glare of heart-stopping ferocity, ‘we're doing this the easy way.'

‘But she's so damn
sloppy
.'

Kiss winced. ‘Do you mean sloppy as in over-sentimental, or sloppy as in extremely untidy?'

‘Both.'

‘Agreed. Believe me,' he added, ‘I'm really grateful to you for doing this. It's not just the fact that I can't stand the woman, I assure you. It's just that unless I can get her to let me off the hook, I'm going to have to become a mortal in fourteen days' time. Hence,' he added meaningfully, ‘the sense of urgency. I'll make it up to you one day, genie's honour. Unlimited wealth, all that sort of thing. In the meantime, however . . .'

The door started to open. With a stifled
Oh shit!
the genie vanished, and Vince once again became aware of a
dull presence against his inner ear, as if he'd just been under water.

‘Tea,' said Jane.

‘Thanks.'

‘Drink it while it's hot.'

Vince smiled broadly and drank. A fraction of a second later most of the tea had turned into a fine mist, sprayed all over the room.

‘Oh dear,' said Jane. ‘Something go down the wrong way?'

By way of response Vince choked, gasped and made a peculiar gurgling noise in the back of his throat. He was still smiling, but only because some paranormal force had grabbed control of his jaw muscles and frozen them.