Читать книгу The Gold Thief - Justin Fisher, Justin Fisher - Страница 10

hen Ned woke up, the awful dream and the voice that lurked in its shadow hung over him like a great dark blanket. He was used to the feeling by now and had worked out a series of tricks to get away from its greedy clutches. But today was different: by the time he’d brushed his teeth and made his way downstairs, help was already on offer in the guise of two lovebirds and a Christmassy jingle on the radio. Terry and Olivia Armstrong were dancing very slowly together under a sprig of mistletoe in their kitchen.

“Err, guys, do you have to do that? It’s going to put me off my toast.”

Terry Armstrong continued without flinching. It was his mum who answered.

“Ned, your father and I have waited twelve years to celebrate Christmas together and this is only our second. No amount of teenage grumpiness is going to stop us dancing, cooing, hugging or anything else for the rest of our days.”

And as Ned smiled in blissful defeat, his dad finally spoke without taking his chin from the top of his mum’s shoulder.

“You know what they say, son? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

“Don’t be daft!” wailed Ned.

But his dad’s ring finger crackled wildly and Ned found himself being pushed by its invisible power to the arms of his mum and dad.

Ned’s hair was ruffled, his cheeks pinched and what followed was the most clumsy six-legged waltz the small suburb of Clucton had ever seen, except of course that they couldn’t actually see it. In that moment Ned forgot that he was fourteen years old, and a teenager who from time to time tried to let the rest of the world think he might be cool – because he wasn’t, but mostly because, just like his parents, he’d waited and hoped and dreamed for twelve long years that he could celebrate Christmas with his mum and dad. Now that he actually could, a six-legged waltz in the family kitchen felt like just the right thing to do.

***

Hours later, Carrion Slight sat in his Silver Shadow Rolls-Royce and tended to his bag of tricks, a bag containing two special items. This job had been awkward even for a thief with his unique set of skills. His targets had covered their tracks well and their scent had eluded him for an unusually long time.

“I really don’t get the point of children. They always smell rather off to me, especially the boys. Still, a contract is a contract and my nose never lies, does it, Mange?” said Carrion.

There was no answer.

“It reminds me of that job in Prague, her perfume was so sickly sweet – yet another aroma I wish I could forget. I don’t expect you’ve ever been to Prague, have you?” continued Carrion.

From the outside of the car it looked very much as though he was talking to himself.

“Nothing smells worse than bad perfume – nothing, that is, except for boys. Her necklace, on the other hand: so shiny, and such perfectly cut diamonds.” For a moment Carrion shut his eyes, lost now in the shimmer of “jobs” gone by. “It broke my greedy heart to sell it.” Still no answer. Carrion started to fume. “You’re never actually going to talk, are you, Mange? What I wouldn’t do for some intelligent conversation. Instead I have a bargeist; a demon-hearted, Darkling mutt with only one impulse.”

Carrion unwrapped a full leg of lamb and threw it into the back of his car. The invisible creature behind him snarled loudly, before opening its gullet wide. The car shook just once and the lamb was gone.

“Ungrateful hound.”

Yesterday Carrion had pretended to be a health inspector from the school board; today he’d be a door-to-door salesman. One way or another he always found a way in. His little box took care of the rest and if that didn’t work, he always had Mange.

“Come, we’ve work to do. Do not make yourself known unless they resist. You’re not allowed to kill these ones; though, to be fair, they said nothing about the causing of pain.”

Sliding from the car, Carrion opened its rear door and the invisible creature stepped on to the pavement, with its heavy padded feet. A grinning Carrion approached the house and rang the doorbell. He did so love his job.

Olivia Armstrong opened the door, her expression one of mild irritation at being disturbed by a cold-caller.

“Good morning, madam,” said Carrion. “Is the family at home; I do hope so? I’m selling trinkets, music boxes to be precise, and this one is almost free.”