NaNoWriMo sjjh 2007

Banter unknown chapter number eighteen

[Immediately after uc04.]

 

 

The cat began to purr. Chris shifted his hand to the top of its head. The cat twisted, its jaws wide open. Chris moved but too slow.

The cat’s teeth touched his finger and released.

Just playing, thought Chris. Maybe these men are just playing with me, like their cat?

He ducked and looked under the table.

Counting Horse and Guiding Dog were squatting under the table, their hands moving, making shapes. They froze.

“Do you mind?” said Guiding Dog. “We need to confer in secret.”

“Oh right,” said Chris. “Deaf and dumb signing. Sorry.”

Chris straightened and returned his attention to the cat.

“Plains Indian sign language, thank you very much,” said a voice from under the table.

Whatever, thought Chris. These guys are crazy but can they help me? Maybe I should just tell them that I’m looking for a clue about my parents? How would that play?

Hi, you know that secret organisation you’re in? That’s the one. Well, I think my birth parents may have been in it too and I’m looking for my dad so I need you to tell me all about it so that I can find him.

Maybe I should threaten to kill their cat if they don’t give me some information? Or I could offer them something. What though? I wonder if they’d be interested in the metal number three.

Then again, what kind of information can they give me? What do I want to know? I mean, I’m not really interested in their Masonic order or whatever it is. Hmm.

“We have conferred.” Guiding Dog popped up.

“We recognise you.” Counting Horse rose from under the table. “But only for the purposes of trade.”

“We do not recognise you as head of faction,” Guiding Dog said.

“Accepted?” said Counting Horse.

“What kind of thing would I be able to trade if I accepted?” said Chris. “Information?”

“Information. Invitation. Prisoners. Property.” Guiding Dog and Counting Horse recited and counted off on their fingers.

“So, just to check I understand this warped craziness,” said Chris, “I want some information, and I could give you some property, like, I don’t know, a big metal number, right?”

“The number?” said Guiding Dog.

“You can’t trade the number,” laughed Counting Horse.

“For infor-, for infor-, for -” Guiding Dog’s laughter got the better of him.

Chris felt his cheeks warming.

“What’s so funny? How can two men in cheap suits with feathers in their hair laugh at me?” said Chris.

“These suits were not cheap, Shotokan,” said Counting Horse, still smiling.

“You sit in here with a cat in fancy dress and you think I’m stupid for wanting to trade some hunk of metal that fell of the wall by a lift for information that might help me find my parents?”

Guiding Dog stopped laughing.

“Did you say parents?” He looked Chris straight in the eye.

“Yes, why?” Chris said. “Where are yours? In a tepee with the Cherokee Nation of West Kensington, I suppose.”

“We are not Cherokee,” said Guiding Dog.

“We are Cheyenne,” said Counting Horse. “Of the cat totem.”

“Ooh, thanks for clearing that up,” sad Chris. “’Course if I’d known you were Cheyenne and not Cherokee I’d never have suggested that your suits were cheap or that you were utterly and completely bonkers.”

Chris put his hand in the handle of the briefcase. Wait, he told himself. Control your temper. If you walk out now, you’ll have lost your best lead.

“The thing is, Shotokan, if it’s your parents that you’re looking for information on, we almost certainly can’t help you,” said Counting Horse.

“Sorry,” said Guiding Dog.

“Why not?” said Chris.

“Secret,” said Guiding Dog.

“Couldn’t possibly divulge,” said Counting Horse.

Damn, thought Chris. Have to think of something else. Think, think. Something that will lead me back to the phocomeliacs, Bandit, Centipede. Got it. What was it they said the number didn’t make me?

“Okay lads, card on the table time,” said Chris. “I don’t know anything about your society. I’ll be quite happy to get out of your hair. All I need to know is where to return this number. Does it go back to the head of faction?”

The two Cheyenne looked at one another.

The buzzer on Chris’s wrist went off again. I might need back-up in a minute, he thought. I won’t respond.

“We recognised you for trade only,” said Guiding Dog.

“We can’t talk about locations,” said Counting Horse. “Unless you trade?”

Oh well, plan B, thought Chris.

He picked up the cat.

“I’ll strangle her if you don’t tell me where the phocomeliac head of faction is,” he said.

“You wouldn’t,” said Guiding Dog.

“Not our Elizabethan Cat,” said Counting Horse. “It’s our totem animal.”

“We have a devil of a job finding suitable totem cats.”

“Surely your British, you couldn’t harm one of our dumb chums?”

“Oh wouldn’t I?” said Chris. “It’d be a kindness. Poor thing’s cooped up with you lunatics all day, with a ruff round its neck so it can’t lick its sheriff’s badge and a ring stuck through its nose.”

“But it’s not cooped up all the time-” said Guiding Dog.

“Shh,” said Counting Horse. “Don’t tell him anything.”

“I’m not bluffing,” said Chris. Actually I am, sorry Tibbles. He slid his hand up to the base of the ruff.

The cat uttered a pitiable mew and started pawing at him.

“Cadiz,” blurted Guiding Dog.

“Quiet,” hissed Counting Horse.

Looks like that’s all I’m getting, thought Chris. Now for plan C. These stupid numbers are so valuable, well, let’s see what else I can get out of this.

“I can feel her little feline neck,” said Chris. “One flick of the wrist and, snap, it’s totem-shopping time.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Counting Horse edged around the table half a step. “You don’t have the strength.”

“You know what? You’re right.” Chris threw the cat at the Cheyenne.

His hands free, he reached over his briefcase to the far edge of the table. I hope it’s not nailed down, thought Chris. He lifted and found that it wasn’t. Neither was it very heavy.

With the briefcase and the upholstered table wrapped in his arms he backed through the door by which he had entered.

“Stop,” shouted Guiding Dog.

“Agh.” The cat leapt up from Counting Horse’s arms.

After a few backward steps, Chris found himself in the packed barroom of the Seven Stars. There was general shouting as he backed into a group of robed lawmen.

“Sorry.” He turned, bringing the table round. “Excuse me.”

The legs caught a small barrister, which toppled.

“Now see here,” said a pale, fat man in a suit. “You can’t just bleargh.”

The man vomited on his own and Chris’s feet. Chris watched, nauseated by the smell, as the man doubled over, retching. Emily was standing behind him, wielding a truncheon.

“Coo-wul,” she said. “Who else wants a taste of puke-stick?”

The lawyers backed away, wrinkling noses and tutting.

“Get the Cheyenne.” Chris bustled past Emily to the door.

“Whatty what?” said Emily.

Outside, Chris found Linda.

“Help me get this in the back of the car,” he said.

“Why?” Linda still seemed to be in a dream.

“It’s valuable.”

“There’s no room. The boot’s full of Robert’s gear.”

“Well chuck it out,” said Chris. “This is more important. There’s another number in this table.”

Linda opened the boot and stared at the black bin liners for a moment. Chris heard the pub door opening and dropped the table and briefcase. He turned to see Emily backing out, truncheon held in front of her.

“Did you get the Cheyenne?” Chris said.

“Who?”

“The Indians. In suits but with teeth on a string and feathers and war paint.”

Emily turned to pull a face at him.

“What?” she said.

Something hit the side of the car and bounced. A tomahawk landed at Chris’s feet.

“See,” he said. “Indians. Native Americans. Cheyenne.”

“Too weird,” said Emily. “I’ll drive.”

There was a metallic shattering as Linda heaved an armful of gear out of the back of the estate car and onto the road.

Robert won’t be pleased, thought Chris.

“Hey, areen’t we forgetting about something?” he said. “What about Bob?”

The pub door opened a crack. A wigged head emerged, looked straight at Chris and returned. They’re going to come out any second, thought Chris. But what about Bob?

There was another crash from the back of the car. Linda had made room. Chris gathered the case and table and half-threw them into the back of the car.

“Truncheon anybody who comes out,” he said to Linda.

The woman lifted the metal rod over her head and advanced on the pub door. She flicked the truncheon and knocked another tomahawk out of the air. No time to see where they’re throwing from, thought Chris. He got in the back seat of the car and slammed the door.

Emily had started the engine.

“Where’s Bob,” she said.

“I think he may have pulled.” Chris leaned over the passenger seat and pushed the front passenger door open.

A man emerged from the pub. Linda raised the truncheon and he ducked back in.

“Linda,” Chris called. “Get in.”

Counting Horse dropped next to Linda. Chris saw a flash. A knife, he thought.

“Use the truncheon, Linda,” he called.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Emily. “I never thought I’d say that other than ironically, you know.”

Lind dodged the slashing blade and caught Counting Horse’s foot with a sweeping kick. The Cheyenne wobbled and retreated.

A blur dropped on Linda. The Guiding Dog has landed, thought Chris.

Linda crumpled under the Cheyenne’s impact. Chris reached for the back door handle.

Before he could open the door, Linda had rolled to her feet. Guiding Dog was on all fours, puking over his hands.

Linda slid into the front passenger seat, pulled the door shut and reached for her seatbelt.

“Leave Bob,” said Chris.

He was thrown back into the seat as the car leapt away from the curb.

The window next to Chris’s head thumped. He jerked away. When he turned back, he saw Counting Horse’s shirt, tie and string of teeth pressed against the glass.

“What was that?” screamed Emily.

“It’s just a Cat Totem Cheyenne who’s thrown himself at the car and is clinging on because we’ve got his Masonic faction’s staff of office in the back of the car,” said Chris. “You weren’t thinking of stopping anytime soon were you?”