The Night Mayor (29 page)

She found an ear nailed to one door and was duly warned away from what lay beyond. The thing was normal-sized and still warm. The place was quiet, except for the running water and occasional gunshots in different wings. She oughtn’t to run into any other parties. This was a private session and she and Robin were supposed to be on one of the many sealed-off zones.

In one room, she found a remain. It was one of the indigenes, gone for good. The head had been taken but the zaroff had left a trampled tiara. The remain wore a billowing, mildewed dress with an array of medal-like brooches on the shoulders and across the breast. Pamela didn’t think it had been a woman, judging from the feet. There were plants growing out of the thing, so it had obviously been remaindered some time ago.

She stepped into a corridor and found a spoor. Wet footprints on a ragged pile carpet. Robin was either being careless or setting a trap. He couldn’t see the prints without lenses, so perhaps he hadn’t been aware he was making them. But he ought to know if he’d got his feet wet. She didn’t want to underestimate him. It was the kind of thing he was always doing to her. She left the corridor and took a parallel course to the tracks, expecting him in each successive room.

She was excited, but in control. She knew she had an edge there. He would be nervy by now, probably irritated. In situations like this, he usually struck up a dopesmoke. Here he’d be afraid to show a glow. That would scrunch him inside, ruffle his tentacles. That gave her a definite, and growing, edge.

In the next room, a swatch of plaster fell from the ceiling into an open piano, twanging impossible chords. Pamela swivelled from the waist, went down on one knee, extended her roscoe arm and squeezed at the door. Chest height. She squeezed again, lower this time. The door swung both ways on its remaining hinge and fell away. There was a cloud of dust in the room, but no Robin.

Mistake.

She should have taken natural decay into account. The Palace was obviously falling apart. She had given Robin an unmistakable aural bearing. She tried to get up, but her knee was wobbly. Finally, she made it. Her mouth was dry and her eyes stung with water that had built up behind the contacts. Her tunic felt too tight, chafing her. She split the pectoral seam, enjoying the chilly rush, then sealed herself to the choker. Swanny cleavage would be too tempting a target.

She looked around for cover and decided on the next-but-one room. Robin would know her general location but have to out-check each room in turn. She hoped he’d come to her soon. He’d expect a trap, of course, but she would know what he was up to. It would get all this foreplay over with. She ejected the slug clip and checked it. It was fine. The roscoe had worked perfectly. There had been no kick to jolt her elbow out of joint. It still felt like something for potting hummingbirds, but a few holes in the right places would do as much serious hurt as a total fleshblast.

From her room, she could hear him coming. He had two choices. There were only two doors. She had a clear shot at each, and, in her position, was shielded by a pair of high-backed chairs. They might not stop a slug, but they’d squidge his aim. He was making a noise. Too much noise. It had to be a blind.

‘Pamela,’ he shouted.

He was doing something skulky, she knew that much.

‘Darling, come out. Let’s climax this.’

She stopped breathing and extruded claws. They shone in the minimal light.

She sighted on the left door, but was ready to switch to the right. Her arm ached after thirty seconds. The roscoe didn’t feel light now. There were drops of condensation on the barrel. Pamela’s mud was running in rivulets down her neckline. She could have done with that frag now.

Robin stopped cajoling. ‘Get ready to be remaindered, squitch!’

His voice was behind the right door. She took aim at it.

There was a pause.

Left door. Right door. Left door. Right door.

He came through the wall, to the extreme left. There was almost no lath and plaster left, all he had to do was tear through a sheet of flowered paper. He had IR shades on. She recognised the kind with a homing facility.

He had been tracking her somehow. There had been a third concealment, one she’d not found. Rats. He had the edge now.

Robin smiled, ‘Wedding ring, dear.’

The squidge.

He shot her in the hip and she fell over, sprawling rather than crouching. The impact hit like a mailed fist and waves of warmth ran through her. It was a sensation. Her back arched and her mouth hung open. Her stifled cry dislodged the blackcaps. She had enough control to spit them out, to prevent herself choking. Her altered nerve endings mistranslated the signals from her wound. Caught up in the rush of feelings, she was nevertheless able to exaggerate her helplessness. She floundered, twitching helplessly. Robin came closer and shot her through the lung, missing her heart because she twisted under him. He was too close. The quickill slug went through her and fragmented somewhere in the floor, porcupining her back with splinters.

‘Sweetheart,’ she gasped, squeezing in her first shot. She was hurting now, for real. The confusion of pain and pleasure didn’t affect her body control. He took the slugs in his lower belly and thighs and bent double. She knew where his alterations were. He spasmed, and squeezed his grip too much. Slugs sprayed the room in a figure eight. Light flashes gave his dance of death a disco strobe. He stitched her a few times, but she kept her roscoe arm whole.

She got him several times. Knees, for balance. Belly again, for pain. Heart, for the remainder. He went down. The stink made the air thick. His clothes caught fire where the slugs had gone in. The little flames, light-amplified, burned into her lensed eyes. She slithered over to him on her elbows, face down. He was still drawing coughy breaths, and slobbering strawberry spittle.

Before she finished, she stroked his face and neck, leaving her marks, opening his pipes. The last she heard was his final crackle of exhalation. She fell, relaxing, over his remain, and blanked.

Later, the Resurrection Men brought them back. They revived together in their own bed, fast-fading milky scars where their holes had been. The Game Official told them she had won, on points.

After everyone had left, Robin was ungracious. They hadn’t been able to get all the slugs out and had had to promise to return and finish the recovery work for a further fee. He had an unwanted alteration, an extra testicle made of lead. She cuddled close to him under their duvet, feeling the odd weighting of his asymmetrical scrotum.

He was still being a skulk. She squeezed him gently.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘how was it for you?’

K
im Newman is a novelist, critic and broadcaster. His fiction includes
The Night Mayor
,
Bad Dreams
,
Jago
, the
Anno Dracula
novels and stories,
The Quorum
and
Life’s Lottery
, all currently being reissued by Titan Books,
Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D’Urbervilles
published by Titan Books and
The Vampire Genevieve
and
Orgy of the Blood Parasites
as Jack Yeovil. His non-fiction books include the seminal
Nightmare Movies
(recently reissued by Bloomsbury in an updated edition),
Ghastly Beyond Belief
(with Neil Gaiman),
Horror: 100 Best Books
(with Stephen Jones),
Wild West Movies
,
The BFI Companion to Horror
,
Millennium Movies
and BFI Classics studies of
Cat People
and
Doctor Who
.

He is a contributing editor to
Sight & Sound
and
Empire
magazines (writing
Empire
’s popular Video Dungeon column), has written and broadcast widely on a range of topics, and scripted radio and television documentaries. His stories ‘Week Woman’ and ‘Ubermensch’ have been adapted into an episode of the TV series
The Hunger
and an Australian short film; he has directed and written a tiny film
Missing Girl
. Following his Radio 4 play ‘Cry Babies’, he wrote an episode (‘Phish Phood’) for Radio 7’s series
The Man in Black
.

His official website can be found at
www.johnnyalucard.com

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