'Why's that?'
'Took out the three Goddamn amigos back there. They been causing trouble few weeks now. Coming in off the water, we figured.'
'Happy to oblige.'
She smirked unconvincingly.
Malice wore the same black threads as all the other guards (though it would be unfair not to mention how the baggier parts of the ensemble crinkled as she moved, hinting at what was going on underneath) and the same red bandana – in her case folded into a bright sweat-band around her crown. Her hair was shaven away to that not-quite-stubble length – like the velvety patch on the tip of a horse's nose – which so few women can pull off, but makes the ones who can look so ball-rupturingly sensational.
Malice looked like she had a hunch on her back. A big one.
Once in a while the hunch – hidden away beneath black veils – gurgled to itself.
The kid, she told me, was a fraction over a year old. Malice never mentioned the father, so I figured he was long gone or dead. It (I never found out a name, or a gender) stayed quieter than any baby I've ever known, and seemed perfectly untroubled by its mother lugging about a high-powered air-rifle and a sweet assortment of other popguns. Once in a while Malice jiggled in a strange sort of way, rocking the wicker harness the baby was huddled inside, as if she knew when the sleepy sprog was on the verge of waking up without even having to look.
Every time she jiggled like that it looked like she was giving me the come-on.
'Who are you?' She blurted, just as the silence was getting uncomfortable.
I shrugged. 'Just a customer. Just passing through.'
She shook her head. 'Uh-uh. I saw the way you took out them rats. You're ex-mil, pal. Showed in every move. Special forces, maybe. SEALs. Whatever it is you Brits got…'
Not even close, honey.
'Does it matter if I am?'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Yeah, it fuckin' matters. Some psycho stalking 'bout in my Mart.'
'I didn't start th…'
'And the only ex-mils round these parts're with the Choirboys.'
Aha…
I frowned. 'Clergy, right?'
She spat on the floor, as if disgusted by the very name. I started to like her even more, and wondered just how highly the universally loved Neo-Clergy were actually regarded…
I held my palms out – like showing her I had nothing to hide – and pointed to the distinct lack of scarlet tattoos on my eye.
'I'm not with the Clergy.'
Her eyes darted to Nate. In the cover of the tent he'd flipped-up the pirate eye patch like a pedal-bin lid, making him look like a astonished panda. 'But your pet here?'
Nate 'tsk'd through his teeth and waggled a finger. 'Ex.' He said. 'Ex, sugar.'
She just glared.
'He's officially retired,' I said, flipping Nate's eye patch back down with a quiet slap.
Malice spat again. 'No such thing.'
The silence stretched out. Malice started pacing a little, left then right, keeping her eyes fixed on us all the time.
I drummed my fingers on the arms of the chair, creating every impression of disdainful boredom, and whistled quietly. My neck felt tight, like Nate had stuck a monstrous plaster across it, and I hadn't had a chance to find out what had caused the wound yet. I was sort of glad I couldn't see.
Outside, the fast-talking MB sold a battered BMW to a man with three piglets of his very own, who'd outbid a guy with a portable power drill and a book of jokes.
Mostly the vehicles were cheap, in 'who-gives-a-shit' money terms, but I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. When 93% of the world shuffles off the mortal slinky there are a lot of jalopies left rusting in empty driveways. The way they saw it, the black-clad personnel of the Wheels-Mart were just agents. Middlemen to cut out the tedious business of finding, breaking into, hot-wiring and maintaining vehicles. The klans sent their scavs along to buy the best of the pick, and as long as everyone kept themselves polite, self-serving, and oh-so-very- neutral, the whole system worked.
Until someone who stands out shows up. No one likes a guy who rocks the boat.
I got the impression Malice and the other guards were mighty twitchy. Ready to snap. Ready to kill.
And they didn't like the Clergy.
Hmm.
After long, boring minutes had passed, I cracked my knuckles nastily and said:
'So. You going to let us get on with it, or what?'
Malice made a show of ignoring me, pulling off that same weird rolling motion, hip-twitching as she soothed the baby.
I stood up.
'Or do you guys make a habit of pulling this shit on anyone who does your job for you?'
She smiled, and this time I think there was at least a glimmer of genuine humour in there, no matter how guarded it was.
'You want a job, limey? That it?'
'Fuck no.'
'What, then?'
'Want a set of wheels.'
'Going somewhere?'
'Yep.'
'Want to tell me where?'
'Not really.' I shrugged my tattered coat back on over the top of Nate's bandage, and threw Malice an impatient stare. 'We able to do business here or not? 'Cos if it's less of a timewaster I'm quite happy to go stand in the crowd and shout at the wanker on the wire.'
Her nose wrinkled thoughtfully. 'You got currency?'
'Apprehending known villains not good enough?'
'Covers fuel costs, maybe. World don't turn on good deeds, pal.'
'Too fucking right.'
I picked up the pack the thieves had been after and brandished it for Malice's inspection, oozing all the business-like cool in the world.
'Ten cans Pedigree Chum,' I said, letting the bag spin on its straps. 'Six packs of cigarettes. Two bottles Jack Daniels, one bottle supermarket-brand vodka. One tin powdered milk. Three cashmere blankets, only the best will doodle-do. Two packs condoms.' (Malice's eye met mine, lightning-speed) 'Three vials amphetamine, six sachets barbiturate tablets, eyedropper full of acid, an eighth of Moroccan woodbine – if you believe the dealer – and five hypos of some weird mil-shit called 'Bliss'.' I smiled sweetly. 'Take your pick.'
Nate coughed, awkwardly. Malice was staring at me with an ironic eyebrow, like she was trying not to laugh. I became distantly aware of a quiet noise, like:
Spitaspataspitaspata
The pack was leaking. A few jagged shards of glass – half a vodka bottle and the angular rim of a JD litre – had torn their way through the fabric in several places, and their wasted contents were puddling on the floor. It looked like a lot of other shit had fallen out too. Somewhere outside, in the thick of the crowd.
'Ah,' I said. 'Bugger.'
This minor calamity seemed to adjust the atmosphere somehow, as if by demonstrating that I wasn't quite as cool as I'd made out, I'd taken the sting out of Malice's suspicion. I'd like to say I'd planned it that way. The woman even smiled openly once or twice – her posture relaxing for a beat – as we rescued what we could from the doomed offerings.
The alcohol was all gone and the cigarettes reduced to a soggy mess, stinking of whisky. Nate (self-elected expert) declared them to be utterly worthless, then pocketed them quietly when he thought I wasn't watching. The
