The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (39 page)

But it looks like any
opportunity of mine to play fast and loose with zombie anatomy, risky
though that may be, is a long way off yet. Particularly with Ace and
Carvery still hanging around, knocking ideas into my libido like a
Newton
'
s Cradle
of live machismo. Gaahh. Damn them.

I need a King Solomon to
slice me in two, so there's enough to go around. Or maybe three, with
room for the zombie experiments as well…

As if reading my mind,
Sandy draws his scimitar, approaching the high wooden gateway of the
citadel.

"Stay close behind
me," he warns. "These predators will separate the old and
the weak, and before you know it, you will buy much furniture, and
more camels than your armies can handle!"

"I'm not lifting
anything with more than two legs," Carvery remarks.

"Two legs or less,"
Ace adds, meaningfully.

"Dude, you did one
with three earlier," Carvery reminds him. "Lady Glandula de
Bathtub."

"That was no leg,"
says Ace. "That was a big alien sucker tentacle."

"Maybe it was a
squidling up her," muses Carvery. "You did a zombie queen
with one up the spout already."

"Nothing new about
that," Ace shrugs. "Your mum, for example."

"No, the Squidmorph
tentacles were different," I interrupt, before I can stop
myself. "They've got hooks, not suckers…"

They both stare at me.

"I'm watching you,
Sarah Bellum," Carvery says, sharply. "If you so much as
fart a tiny tentacle, or burp black ink, you're going home in a tin
pail."

We stick close together,
aware of the eyes of all stallholders and storekeepers on us as we
navigate our way through the baked-clay streets. It feels like
vultures are watching our passage, waiting for one of us to fall
back, or take a wrong turn…

"Here," Sandy
announces, leaping from his camel, outside an arch in the narrow
passageway. It is curtained by an ornate rug. He taps the tip of his
scimitar lightly on a bell attached to the outside wall. "We
will see if the Doctor is in."

Momentarily, the rug is
tweaked aside, and a pair of shrewd black eyes assesses us from
inside a clean white linen yashmak.

"Amiira!" Sandy
bows. "Is our brother the Doctor at home? Poor Homer has had a
nasty turn, in the Well of Our Souls."

The lady in white nods
and steps back, gesturing for him to enter. He beckons to Ace and
Carvery, who help to lift Homer down off the camel, and carry him
inside.

I'm left outside the
surgery with Crispin, holding the camels.

"How do you like it
so far, Miss
Bellummm
?" he asks presently, after
fidgeting for a while, and clearing his throat.

"What?" I ask,
obtusely. "The Eight a.m. Lounge? Um – it's very hot…"

The Naval uniform I'm
still dressed in feels as though it's been felted onto me, in the
heat after the depths of the well.

"I meant more…"
He pauses and scratches his head. "The thought of being my new
secretary."

"Oh – that…"
I recall our half-finished conversation awkwardly. "I think my
housemate Whatserface really had her heart set on the job, to be
honest. I'm quite happy delivering pizzas for a living."

"Really?" he
asks, surprised.

"Why?" I snap.
"What's weird about that?"

He shrugs.

"Everything?"
he suggests, helplessly.

How could I expect him to
understand… the freedom. The open road. The looks on
customers' faces, when their food arrives… especially Ace's,
when I've been waiting for him outside
Bumgang & Sons
'
Breaker
'
s Yard
unannounced, with a Chinese Meat Feast
and Garlicky Dough Balls… the exhilaration of chasing him down
the road when he leaves by the other gate!

"You wouldn't
understand, Crispin," I sigh. "You're rich. And
privileged…"

"And dead?" he
suggests.

"No!" I cry,
horrified by his dejected expression. "No, no! Some of the best
people I know of are dead. At the Body Farm. Mr. Wheelie-Bin, for
example – such a good listener…"

"I see."
Crispin sounds a little colder, and his back goes stiffer, as he
stares at me.

"But not such a good
talker," I finish, wretchedly.

But the damage is done.
Crispin says no more to me, as we wait with the camels outside the
surgery. Not even when Carvery's camel decides to sit down heavily on
my foot, parping all the way, like a bean-fed brass section.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn…

CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
:

CASABLADDER

Presently, Sandy emerges
from the surgery, and his face is as grave as a four-by-eight hole in
the ground.

"Homer has had quite
a booboo on the old noggin!" he announces. "My brother
A'Bandaiid is doing his best, but he needs stronger medicine, to
reduce the risk of water-on-the-brain. I will have to go to the
Caruncula, in the Spice Market. Miss Bellum – you will do me
the honour of accompanying me there!"

"I will?" I
ask, nonplussed.

"Your companions Mr.
Bumgang and Mr. Slaughter will guard the camels, and my fine cousin
Crispin will stay with his brother," Sandy explains. "It
may be necessary – Crispin has been researching a cure, you
know," he adds, confidentially.

Yes – that I most
certainly know…

I look at Crispin, who
turns his face away from me, and stalks inside the surgery without a
word.

My heart sinks,
bootwards. Still not talking to me, then… only the welcome
emergence of Ace and Carvery in turn halts my dejectedly
blood-pumping organ on its descent.

"You heard the
gossip in the surgery?" Sandy asks them, and they nod. "Good
men. Keep those eyes peeled! Come, Miss Bellum!"

Oh – the gossip…

"What is happening
here?" I ask, scampering to keep up with Asum al Dj'eBraah –
I mean, Sandy's longer stride. "You haven't told me what this
gossip is – only something about thieves…"

"Treason, Miss
Bellum!" Sandy hisses, in a stage whisper. He takes an
impossibly unpredictable route through the dusty labyrinth of
streets, as if following an inner compass, twisting and turning until
I feel like a
Whirling Dervish
. "But we cannot talk here.
The walls have earwigs, as you say!"

I nod. I've seen enough
wildlife already today not to doubt that in the slightest. Any
'earwigs' being casually (or mistakenly) referred to, most probably
occupy that context with maximum presence and ferocity.

"The Caruncula is a
safe meeting-place," he continues. "Here, people from all
over come to buy and barter goods, in exchange for a quiet corner and
a bar tab."

We cross a square to a
white pillared façade, above which – out-of-place, it
seems – is a neon sign, reading
Casabladder
.

Sandy points at the
signwriting. "My brother, the owner, also calls it
The Wee
House
. From the Scots, you understand. Be careful, though!
Mercenaries visit, and sometimes have scores to settle."

We go through the arched
doorway. The layout is open-plan, the bar in the centre and potted
plants all around, with a pianist and woodwind players on a podium to
our right. But what could easily be an elegant corner of
The Ritz
or
Savoy Hotel
is rendered seedy by the buzz of the eclectic
clientele – arguing, bartering, dealing and partaking in every
corner.

"I am sick of
diamonds!" I hear a rotund man grumble, as he tosses something
bright and shiny back across the table at his unfortunate zombie
companion – who looks starved, wearing only rags with his
lopsided turban. "Everybody brings diamonds. Nothing but cheap
mistress-magnets. Show me something new…"

Distracted by the
impromptu sideshow, I walk straight into a wall of scented linen
robes.

"Of all the
elbow-joints in all of the dive bars in the world, you have to walk
into mine?" a voice exclaims.

"Sarah Bellum,"
Sandy says, catching my arm as the man turns, drawing himself up to
an impressive six foot six height, examining the damage done to his
robe by the spilled Champagne. "This is my brother, the owner of
Casabladder
. May I present to you B'Dah B'Dim al Dj'eBraah –
but the customers know him as Cottoneye Joe."

B'Dah B'Dim – or
Cottoneye Joe – looks down at me, his eyes glittering like
polished granite.

"So this is Sarah
Bellummm
," he rumbles, and I feel it right down to my
curling toes. He beckons to the bartender. "A Sloe Gin Sling for
the lady! And another bottle of Champagne."

"My brother, we need
medicine," Sandy tells him – although a Sloe Gin Sling is
more like something I've definitely felt was missing in the last
three hours. "Homer has had an accident in the Well of Our
Souls."

"That Well of Our
Souls is a liability," grunts Cottoneye Joe. He nods to an armed
attendant, who hurries away. "Remind me again why we do not
dynamite it?"

"Someone did,
remember?" Sandy hisses, in a low voice. "And someone else
was not pleased!"

I wonder if that was what
caused the underwater rock-fall we had to negotiate our way through…
and who might not be pleased…? But before I can expand on
those thoughts, the largest, frostiest, most delicious-looking Sloe
Gin Sling is placed on the bar in front of me.

Oh, my – never mind
the Well of Our Souls, I'd walk across broken glass, hot coals and
any number of even hotter corpses to get to one of those…

"Miss
Bellummm
,"
Cottoneye Joe says courteously, passing it into my eager hands. He
gives Sandy a filled Champagne glass, before raising his own, in
salute. "To my many guests."

"Here is looking at
your kids!" Sandy toasts me effervescently, before drinking.

"Er…" I
cough slightly, my mouth desert-dry – but a gulp from the Gin
Sling is wonderful. "Thank you."

"Play something
special for my brothers!" Cottoneye Joe hails the band. "Play
'Sign O'The Times'
…"

Strange choice, I think,
as the band strikes up anew, with the eponymous hit by sex-thimble
Prince
. Rather melancholy… but the clientele seem to
indulge their host, and merely nod and smile benevolently at him,
raising glasses in turn, or adopting distantly introspective
expressions of empathy.

How very curious…

Cottoneye Joe's attendant
returns, with a case. He opens it upon the bar. Sandy and his taller
brother inspect the contents.

I peer over Sandy's
shoulder. It contains many small brown glass bottles and vials.

"Gizzard of
Vulture?" Cottoneye Joe suggests. "Sweetbreads of
Mongoose?"

"Something a little
stronger, I fear!" Sandy concedes. "It is the water on the
brain we need to divert. And a tonic for the kidneys, perhaps…"

"Hmmm."
Cottoneye Joe's deep rumble curls my toes again, and I knock back
another huge slug of Gin Sling to try and unwind. "A dose of
Tree-Frog Venom? Mixed with Tongue of Vampire Bat, perhaps…?"

They are discussing
medicines, I guess. The drink seems to be bypassing my brain and
heading straight for my lower limbs, and I find myself sinking into a
seat at a small table.

My thoughts return
reluctantly to Crispin, waiting for the medicines with Homer at the
surgery.
Damn
. How did I upset him? I mentioned Mr.
Wheelie-Bin at the Body Farm, that was all – and he acted as
though he was jealous! All we were doing was discussing his job offer
to me – and he thought I was turning it down on the grounds of
his being dead – and I tried to give him a compliment…
He took it completely the wrong way…

The band plays on.

Some say a man ain't
happy truly, until a man truly dies, oh why?

But if he believes he has
so much to offer – how can he be threatened by the thought of
my talking to a rapidly-liquefying cadaver in a plastic wheelie-bin?
Crispin can't have any real insecurities, surely?