By Alan Morgan

Episode Twelve - ''Bring Me the Head of Mary Pawpins '

The Concluding Part of All Things To Those Who Wait

“Go on,” I said, “I am inclined to accept the story of your capture. You might not believe it but I cautioned Albert against the plan. He had changed in little ways… I was doubtful as to his motivations then, he had seemed to lose the studied removal from death that had once so fascinated me. You know about the superheroes now of course but it was never a vindictive thing, the torture – even the death.”

He nodded slowly, and I could tell that he was not convinced but I did not want to cause further trouble between us. I wondered then at his own morality, his own views on murder, killing and the passing on of what our religious community so quaintly called ‘the immortal soul’. He was the Lazarus after all.

“So you were shot, placed in the vault with the meta that we had taken for ourselves.” I poured myself another glass of wine. It was only pub-quality but despite the gracious airs I had adopted over the years I had never (truly) become the snob I so portrayed. “What then?”

“Then?” Billy said. “Yer wanna know what happened next? It’s a bit confusing Mr. Smiles. Teeth, terror and fire’s what I remember.”

“You seem to have, well, changed?” I pointed out. Normally I would avoid making personal observations but there was a new confidence to Billy. He had always had that about him (of course) ever since he had been in his teens, but there was something else there now. He didn’t fidget; his eyes didn’t flick about the room continually. Before today I had always seen young Billy Chandler as a rat, a furtive, admittedly crudely charismatic rat – but a rat nonetheless. Now? I didn’t like uncertainty at the best of times and with Albert the Horse dead the super powered would emerge from the wainscoting once more. Not that such people worried me so much as the gangland violence that would already be taking place. Billy laughed then and it was as unexpected as it was freely given. It was not the sniggering laugh of the boy who previous had always seemed to know something that I did not. This was a heartier thing. I didn’t like that either.

“I know what I am now, Mr. Smiles. I’ve even fought a fuckin’ super-villain. Fuck me, I’ll be wearing a costume next.”

“Will you?” I offered him another cigarette.

“No.” He accepted it. Billy raised his head and stared at the nicotine-flavoured walls of the pub. “So there I was with Smiler…”

Laphappy. Bermondsey, South London. Then.

“We’re going to die aren’t we?” The young prisoner scratched his crooked nose. “I never thought it would be like this.”

Billy flicked his lighter in irritation but the flint had decided that if all was going to be doom and gloom then the very least it could do was to join in. It had come to the point where it no longer wanted to continue its life as merely one part of a cheap tool and had gone looking for its next incarnation. Barely noticing the gaze that now lay upon him, Billy idly pushed the spikes of his hair a little straighter as he patted down the hanging torso’s of London’s most recently departed superheroes. Albert the Horse had been steadily killing off the cream of Eton as they had come to the streets. It made sense, Albert was pretty much the undisputed crimelord of the capitol and he would hardly want clutches of youthful, spandex clad metas getting in the way of his ever increasing empire. The bodies (pierced upon meat hooks as they were) should have disturbed Billy more but ever since dying at the hands of the Brood nearly four years ago his sensibilities towards death had become eroded. Besides, his own stomach was only now recovering from the twin blasts from Five Bob’s shooter that had laid him flat long enough to be placed in the cold storage vault in the first place. The knife that the Lazarus had used to carve heroic flesh from the nearest cadavar and replace that which he himself had lost was still stuck in the thigh of another body.

Smiler pointed to it. “Can’t we fight our way out?”

“Hm?” Billy looked up. Irritated that the cigarette hanging from his mouth was remaining stubbornly unlit he had managed to push away their impending doom for a few moments. “It’s just a blade. They’ll ‘ave shooters, yeah?”

“Hm.” He had been in custody since his arrest by the very man with whom he now shared captivity. Smiler belonged to a group, Black Flagg, and on their very first foray into the realm of heroism half their number had been caught and incarcerated. He didn’t know it but the fact that Orbital (the British Security Service) had held on to him and not passed him over to the ‘Rasa had probably resulted in better treatment than he would otherwise have enjoyed. The ‘Rasa didn’t like super villains and Smiler had to admit that as far as they were concerned that was precisely what he was.

Super villain.

But Black Flagg weren’t villains! They were the good guys, they had come together to fight for the people against the oppressions of the state. Mab for instance was primarily a healer but at this moment she was no doubt suffering the same interrogations and humiliations that he had but recently been treated to. The media though held up Bulldog Drummond as the epitome of righteous heroism. Bulldog Drummond – a neo-nazi thug. Smiler had known of Drummond back when he had been just another grunt in Sumatra. Drummond was a hero, Mab was a villain. It just confirmed everything that Clara had said to him way back when she had helped him escape from Boscombe Down. Smiler gazed hard at the short man who was his only companion in captivity.

Expensive suit, sharp shoes, short, spiky gelled hair and sunglasses all served to set off the narrow face that seemed to be more concerned with nicotine intake than the problems at hand. His shirt and waistcoat were torn about what had but recently been a nasty wound but now had healed over. That didn’t concern Smiler, Clara regenerated just as swiftly. The man looked back at him.

“Can yer control the elements?”

Smiler shook his head. “No. You mean that maybe I could freeze the door till it became brittle or increase its density till it burst its mountings?”

The Lazarus took off his sunglasses and shook his head. “Nah, I just wondered if you could give me a light?” Billy held up the single, crooked cigarette he had found within the depths of his coat.

“Even if I could,” Smiler kept his voice steady, “it wouldn’t do no good. This collar suppresses my power.”

Crossing the room, picking his way between the discarded limbs and the odd crate of cod steaks, Chandler tugged Smiler towards him by the collar under discussion. It was a serious piece of hardware, manufactured to ‘Rasa specifications it acted to dampen super powers from eighty-percent of established sources. Smiler squeaked as Billy flipped open a side panel and tugged a leather wallet from deep within his coat pockets.

“Careful.” He hissed. “It’s got three ounces of explosive inside. You meddle too much it’ll take me bloody head off!”

Billy nodded and handed him the explosive.

“Right. But there’s also a failsafe. They explained it to me and in about thirty seconds…”

Billy fiddled with a selection of plastic tools he had just produced. With a grin he began to lay small chips and sealed circuits into the now outstretched hands of his fellow prisoner.

“Yeah,” Smiler said, keeping his head perfectly still now, “that’s them. But it’s not just electronic, there’s a series of gyro-balances that’ll throttle me if…” He paused when the collar came free with an audible click. Stepping backwards the Black Flagg member rubbed his throat as Chandler completed the disassembly and stuffed the parts into his coat. “You some sort of toolboy?”

“Nah. I’m a thief.”

“That’s an odd super power.”

“I’m the Lazarus pal. Before that I was a thief.”

“I thought all you secret police types were ex-army, assassins, that sort of thing?” Smiler’s guarded assumptions were taking a bad knock. Billy Chandler placed the cigarette in his mouth again, remembered he still didn’t have a light, and pushed it back into its crumpled pack with a sigh.

“Well I was a thief. Me boss was a murdering outlaw.”

“Yes, but you’re the exception. Surely?”

Chandler thought about this. “Most of the department just went to the right schools. There are exceptions I s’pose. Amber 9 just seemed to have evolved from Malt Whisky. Now, can you use yer powers to give me a fuckin’ light?”

Smiler leant against the vault door. “Sorry, like I said that’s not warra do. The military used me and the rest of me platoon in a series of experiments. Something to do with N-Space, the overlapping of alternative dimensions. I can let matter pass through me. Everything’s made up of holes I was told.”

Chandler tapped the vault door. “Solid matter?”

“Yup.”

“Like two foot thick vault doors?”

“Ah.” Smiler caught up and looked at the exit with new understanding.

The door was heavy. It was meant to keep out the drunk and unwelcome, it was designed to delay an unexpected raid for at least a minute. It was not capable of keeping out Clara Dunn when she had the scent of her boyfriend’s fear in her nostrils. Stepping through the ruin, her head now that of a tangle-maned wolf, Clara picked apart the varied scents that lay within. One in particular set her fangs to itching as entering the narrow corridor from its furthest end, Five Bob stepped into view. He was an immense man and seeing the werewolf framed in the last of the evening’s light he raised the sawn-off he carried only to find himself flung to the ceiling, held in place by a cage of sparkling starlight.

“Fuck!”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Scott Reeves stepped past the girl. “But he was going to shoot you.”

“I can take it, Marty.”

“Yes, ma’am. But if we can avoid tangling with the empowered then that has surely got to be a heap better than your way.”

Clara sniffed Five Bob as he glared down them both from his lofty prison. “He don’t smell right.”

“No ma’am, he’s not human. He’s not all from this planet.”

Clara would have pushed the point further but her mind was concerned with other matters. Smiler was inside, Smiler was in trouble, Smiler needed her. With the entrance to the club now open she ducked low and entered at a soft blur. Several people were within and as she rose by the nearest and broke his arm with a negligent slap her instincts told her that two more were raising weapons whilst a third was being bustled out by a further pair. There were children here too and Clara tried to orientate on them even as she slashed the throat of the nearest heavy and sent his partner back over the tables with a backhand from the same blow.

“Clara!” Scott’s voice filled the space between her blow and the impact her last victim made upon the empty stage. Scott wove a glittering, protective shield about the two youthful twins who looked on with something approaching boredom. The werewolf though was already moving towards the rear of the large room, in pursuit of those who had just escaped. The barrier lasted no longer than the first and Scott was left alone with the twins.

“C’mon kids, we’ve got to get you out of here.”

The two were indeed twins, a boy and a girl of not more than eighteen and each boasted identical, side parted blonde hair above sharp faces and dark suits. They had a dead look about them that Scott put down to shock since it was plain they were nothing to do with the groaning bodies that were now his only other company in the club room.

“You’re an American superhero.” The boy said in a languid voice.

“You have great power.” The girl continued in an identical tone.

Scott took them both by the hands and lifted them all into the air.

“What would happen…” the boy began.

“…if you were parted from that power..?” The girl agreed.

Scott Reeves screamed as he felt himself separated from the celestial power. Scott Reeves felt the force that sustained him cut lose, drift away, frantically reach for a man who was seemingly now unseen. Landing on his knees Scott vomited as the pain of loss grew stronger, his mind shutting down, a switch flipped.

The twins stood over him, hand in hand.

“I thought they were better than that?”

“I think he should have been.”

“Shall we have ice-cream or cola?” The boy asked his sister but he didn’t need an answer as they skipped towards the food counter. It was always ice-cream.

Albert the Horse clutched the attaché case to his chest as he was bundled through the corridors and passageways of Laphappy. The building was vast. Long ago Albert had bought up the entire street and apart from the shop fronts the buildings all now formed one continuous structure that acted as storage, safe house and effective maze all at once. The big man, Rhys the Leek, had a bulky gun in his hand that resembled a hair dryer more than a weapon whilst his partner, Charlie Bittersweet, had a machine pistol and a grenade made of two badly linked together tubes.

Albert was having trouble thinking. He remembered tracking down someone in West London. He remembered teaching him a lesson, showing him who was daddy, just like in the nick. He remembered that the man hadn’t tried to fight him off and that had made him angry because sodomy wasn’t meant to be enjoyed. It was a lesson. Albert the Horse didn’t feel himself.

“H’were d’you h’want the case, Mr. ‘Orse?” Rhys asked as Charlie swiftly scanned the room beyond.

“Office.” Albert snarled back, angry that he seemed to be having trouble walking. He knew he had to get it to the office, his office. “Super’eroes. Summink abaht super’eroes.”

“Thas right.” Charlie agreed as he lead the way to the centre of Albert’s power. “Yah said as ‘ow we was to be tooled up fer the fuckers.”

“Y’gotta kill some fackin’ super’eroes fer me.”

Rhys waved the gun in the crimelords face even as he bore most of his weight onwards. “Flicker gun, h’reach right h’into their brains. H’epileptic shock Mr. ‘Orse. Charlie’s got the gas h’and the flash. H’they may well be bloody h’invulverable but they’ve still h’gotta breath h’and see, right?” Rhys nodded happily. Seeing Albert looking at Charlie’s weapon he explained further. “H’explosive load Mr. ‘Orse. Some of them tend to h’wear goggles h’or face masks. First you blow shite h’outa the mask and such like then h’you hit them h’with the gas. Flicker gun h’slows them up, see?”

Charlie slid through the next door and flicked on the light. Photographs of a young Albert hung about the walls, boxing-gloved fists raised in triumph. Newspaper cuttings filled the gaps, all of Albert and all with a celebrity of one level of another. Bulldog Drummond, Tony Deighton, Margaret Thatcher – even King Edward during one of his frequent garden parties! It was not the framed history that drew Charlie’s eye most however for seated in the chair was the decomposing corpse of a naked man.

“One a’ yours, Mr. ‘Orse?” Charlie asked. His gun never wavered. Head-shot, always take a zombie with a head shot and the Strumpistole had a full magazine of explosive tipped rounds that would do that quite happily.

Albert leant upon the desk, one arm still cradling the attaché case that Rhys and Charlie had taken from The Mole that very afternoon. “I fink,” he said slowly, “I fink that it was me.”

Rhys looked at Charlie who looked back at Rhys.

Walking about the table, Albert stared at the corpse before tipping it off the chair. It was a very fine desk, one that Albert had seen whilst on a tour of Clarence House and had later had brought to him. Touching a recessed button a drawer slid out from beneath and after looking confused, the crimelord punched up a number of screens that emerged from the wall.

One showed a werewolf. She (and the creature was blatantly, incredibly, female) stalked the corridors that lead to the large back rooms. There was a fluidity and grace in her movements that proclaimed a total efficiency of movement.

A second displayed two figures entering one of the rear rooms. One was large, fat even and dressed in the flayed hides of seals. Following in his wake came a woman garbed from blonde scalp lock to eight-inch heels in shifting, liquid black latex. A single yellow stripe down her front was the only thing to give solidity to the vision.

A third revealed a man with pale brown hair lying on the floor of the clubroom whilst the twins sat contentedly nearby, each eating a bowl of pink ice cream in perfect synchronisation.

A fourth presented the image of the open vault door. Beyond it could be seen the hanging remains of London’s newest superhero contingent.

“You wanting to send fer ‘elp, Mr. ‘Orse?” Charlie licked his lips. Albert stared at the assassin for a moment before pressing another button that slid back a panel above and behind his head.

“Never get ‘ere in time.” The crimelord yelled in anger. Turning about in his chair he pulled two large, expensive looking marvels of modern ballistic art from their hiding places within the hidden cupboard. There was a post-it note attached to the first. “We’ll do the wolf-bitch furst.”

It was Charlie who spoke for both of them. “See, thing is Mr. ‘Orse – you said as ‘ow we should come kitted up fer super’eroes. Werewolves is different. We got the kit to do ‘em, but not ‘ere.”

Albert didn’t answer - he was staring at the small, sticky yellow post-it note that had been mounted on the weaponry.

‘YOU ARE JEDEKIAH.’ It said.

The Lazarus stood over the unconscious body of the man he had just jumped. Smiler had phased through the vault door and danced about whilst the three men beyond had fired through him until Billy had been able to get close enough to beat nine bells out off the trio.

“Put some clothes on, son.” Billy tried not to stare. Smiler (bringing himself back into the same reality) laughed as he peeled off the heavy, old garments of the thug who was his nearest approximation in size. Jumping in the air a few times the Black Flagg member picked up one of the pump-action shotguns each of the men had been using and reloaded it with shells taken from his newly liberated pockets. Satisfied he picked up a second weapon and offered it to Chandler. Lazarus only shook his head in response.

“Part of the superhero code?” Smiler queried, confused.

Billy seemed to ignore him, completing his own check of the battered heavies. “I don’t fuckin’ believe that none of ‘em smoke.” He said in reply. “Not a single light between ‘em.” Seeing Smiler’s enquiring face he recalled what had been said. “Eh? Nah, I’m just a crap shot.”

“It’s a shotgun, man. A fish could hit a target at close range.”

“Not me.” Billy clashed his teeth together in irritation. “These are south London badboys. It’s fuckin’ compulsory to smoke. What is this? ‘New ‘ealthy thuggery’. These lags get shot at, ‘it by pickaxe handles – what they worrying about cancer for?”

“Take the gun.” Smiler pushed but Billy raised his hands in refusal.

“Really, I could never get the ‘ang of shooters. When I joined Orbital they put through me this course, right? Targets at ten feet, twenty then thirty. Out of fifty goes I managed to ‘it the first one twice. I’m meant to pack one for the job but either I lose it, miss everything or it gets fried by your toolboy mate. Can’t be asked with ‘em.”

“Fair fucks.” Smiler slung the second weapon on his back and retrieved as many shells as he could find from the remainder of the bodies.

“What ‘bout you, son? Not strictly in keeping for you to carry is it?”

Smiler propped the first gun against a nearby pillar and tied his hair back with a strip of ripped up shirt before retrieving his top-hat from where it had fallen in the vault. Returning, the young man picked up the weapon again and raising it swiftly to his shoulder fired a single round that took out a naked light bulb far within the cathedral of the ceiling above.

“I joined up when I was fifteen. Boy soldier, man. Either that or the work-house, yeah? I done a tour in Glasgow before I hit eighteen, been to Sumatra and did a few weeks with the UN in South America. Me and my platoon got sent to this place in Wiltshire – ‘special duties’ it was called. Promotion at end, choice of duty on completion. I just wanted outta combat duty – there was this psycho sergeant I was stuck with for four months and he got his kicks out’ve torture. Only thing is, Wiltshire’s full of military experimentation and of all my programme, only I survived this fucked up process. I would’ve gone too if Clara hadn’t busted me out when she was raiding the place. She thought it was animal experimentation they was doing – didn’t find no puppies, only found me.”

“Wiltshire, yeah? Small world, that’s where I was when I got done over.” Billy began to walk across the warehouse floor, intent on the far door. Smiler ran a few paces to catch up.

“So what now, man?”

“We get the fuck outa here. I need a phone and I need some matches.”

“No.” Smiler ducked in front of Lazarus, placing a open palm on the shorter man’s chest. “What happens now? You nicked me in the first place remember. I’m not going back inside.” Billy knocked Smiler’s hand away, caught him under one armpit and swung him against the wall. Smiler tried to move but two fingers pressed painfully against his eyeballs.

“I don’t give a shit about you, son. I never found you, we were never ‘ere together. You got me out of that vault and I think that makes us quits.”

“Y’want to let me go?”

“Shit.” Billy let his hands drop to his sides. “Sorry.”

“What are you? Some raving loony? What was all that about!” Smiler shouted at Chandler and his words amplified in the empty space. Chandler though scratched his head, finally shaking it to shift the clarity he felt inside.

“I dunno. Ever since I died I ‘ave these moments. Look, really, this ain’t me. I’m not like that, just that when I feel threatened I get all macho, all snarly. I just miss it all y’know?”

“What’s that, man?”

“All of it.” Billy took out a fag and looked at it before crushing the useless tube. “Getting drunk, ‘aving a wank even. It’s shit being dead.”

Then the Fury hit Billy and they both tumbled across the floor. Flesh parted, ribs separated and the stone that was the Lazarus’s heart flew back in the direction they had come. No blood made the arc complete, which was a shame since it would have been poetic in its suddenness.

They came from the corners of the mind. They came from the sunken places and the pools of belief, the halls of hell and the nether realms that came between. They came because pacts had to be honoured because for the demons there were rules that even they had to obey. They didn’t come reluctantly for the Paracelcian Society had owned the compacts for long years and had guarded them well. They used up the promises a piece at a time, extending their duration, as magi will. But to be called into physicality? But to be commanded to interfere directly? That would set them free. That would drain the old contracts dry. They came because a foolish mage could see no further than his own needs. They came because Richard Cantrell was proving himself unworthy of his position within the Inner Cabal of the Paracelsus.

“Everything’s free and easy!” Jedekiah sang. “Do as you damn well pleasy!”

The super villain had lain dormant within Albert for a month of more now. It had been hard and it had been risky but it seemed that, in part, the gamble had been successful. The Lazarus was in the building and it wouldn’t take much for him to be subdued, mentally worn down, to the point where transference could be made. A body that wouldn’t decay, a body that wouldn’t slough away in a few brief days. He had only once before let his host maintain control and then it had been a struggle to reassert his own will. This had been easier, fortunately. Cradled in each of his arms was a weapon developed for the ‘Rasa years ago and snatched from the secret depot some time before. Billy Chandler had been the fingers in that little job Jedekiah now saw in Albert’s memory. How fitting.

Now with Jedekiah in prominence Albert’s body would rot and decay as all the others but it didn’t matter. All was in place. Behind him Rhys and Charlie nervously followed. They were wise enough to be scared of Albert the Horse and the little matter of him now being possessed by some sort of supernatural entity did nothing to lessen that caution. Charlie Bittersweet was once more in possession of the attaché case that he suspected was at the root of all the current turmoil and he was not in the least looking forward to taking on a werewolf without the correct equipment for doing it.

When the roof was taken apart by a hundred claws Charlie realised that not only had they not brought along their werewolf killing kit, all their demon killing equipment lay similarly at rest within the cupboards of his shop.

Jedekiah turned one of the weapons upwards and a lance of light played over the first creatures to emerge, catching them squarely such that they detonated in a profusion of dark blood and ichors that vanished to steam before it touched the floor. Shouting loudly Charlie dropped the case and triggered a long stream of rounds above his head in a broad figure of eight. Rhys discarded the flicker gun and instead brained the nearest creature to him with an iron bar that fell into his hand from one long sleeve. Laughing, Jedekiah turned his weapon upon yet more but they seemed relentless and Charlie was forced to pull two from Rhys’ back with only his bare hands. Kicking them viciously in what passed for mouths the two assassins bundled themselves into the nearest room, dragging Jedekiah in after them.

“H’what the fuck?”

“Bugger that.”

“Heh.”

The three men expressed their aftershock in the manner of their individual character. Jedekiah was torn down one arm, the flesh hanging about his elbow like a shirt ripped in a late night brawl. It seemed to bother him not at all. It was Rhys who made the leap.

“H’it all seemed to h’work, though.” The Welshman pointed out as he and Charlie heaved crates in front of the doorway. Without paying too much heed to his friends conversation Bittersweet bashed in the boxes side hopefully, only to pull out a selection of rubber dollies. Satisfied with the improvised barricade he tried to remember what his partner had said.

“What worked, Rhysy-boy?”

“H’everything. ‘Ow often as you ‘it a demon h’only to find it needs to be done h’with a bloody magic stick or something, eh?”

Charlie thought about this. “You’ve got a point. What you carryin’ then?”

The two emptied their pockets, pouches and harnesses to form a pile of small firearms, irons bars, knives, garrottes, a machete, a vial of acid, a gold chain, two chewing-gum sized sticks of semtex and (oddly) a plastic sandwich box. “Me lunch.” Rhyrs explained the latter and broke it open in order that the pair could enjoy a round of cold sausage sandwiches to aid the thinking processes. A second pile formed their more specific anti-meta gear, the former being only what they commonly (and probably subconsciously) carried on them anyway.

Jedekiah licked his lips. He looked nothing like Albert now – rather, he looked like Albert the Horse but his stance, his body language were all wrong. That and his flesh in which cracks were appearing like old parchment held too tight. “What happened to the attaché case?” he finally asked. Rhys and Charlie looked at the door through which they had so recently passed. It lay beyond where Bittersweet had dropped it.

Clara snarled into the still face of Billy Chandler and sprung backwards to where Smiler still stood. It had all taken less than three seconds and the young man had frozen, shotgun held to his shoulder, when he had seen who the attacker was. The werewolf shook herself into a more normal state and hugged her boyfriend with more energy than he might have liked.

“Yer okay?” She demanded. Smiler saw there was a tear falling down her mostly transformed face. “They didn’t do owt to yer?”

“No, look, he was on our side…”

Though mostly human Clara caught the sudden scent of danger and turned, her head thrusting forward once again into the wolf. Lazarus punched her full on the nose and when she opened her mouth to reply, grabbed the long tongue within and pulled it beyond the open jaws. Clara yelped in pain and raked a blaze of claws across a chest that she had already opened only to have her tongue yanked down towards the floor and a heavy kick take her on the side of the head. The blow knocked her jaws shut and her own teeth severed the tongue cleanly. Billy, staggering, kicked her again to give himself room and almost reached his discarded heart when the werewolf slammed into him again.

Two enormous booms filled the warehouse and each of the combatants fell apart as a shot took each of them in the head.

Smiler pumped another round into the chamber and walked towards them both. “Stop it, the pair of yer!” He shouted. Clara growled but stayed where she was. The Lazarus looked back through the side of his face that still remained. “This is stupid. Clara – this is Billy, Billy this is Clara. You can’t kill each other and we’ve got better things to do.”

The Lazarus waved a finger to indicate that they should wait and crawled off to the unconscious thugs he’d subdued earlier. Clara watched with interest as the shattered, suited man clicked open a knife and began to peel apart the bodies for what he needed.

“It’s a bit grim.” Smiler warned her and the two hugged tearfully as Chandler fashioned himself a new chest and head. Neither looked in his direction as he walked (a little unsteadily) back.

“Tell me you smoke.”

“Oh baby, I thought they’d done fer yer.” Clara whispered into her lover’s ear once she’d grown back her tongue.

“They told me you’d been killed but I knew it couldn’t be true. Shit girl, how’d you find me? Sid track me down through the files or something?”

Clara ruffled the young man’s hair and kissed him with quick, stabbing motions. “Sid’s gone, fucked off after the riots.”

“Excuse me, yer gotta light?”

“Just us then, we’re going to have to find Mab and-“

“DO” Billy yelled. “YOU HAVE A FUCKIN’ LIGHT!”

Clara separated herself from Smiler and pulled an old zippo out from her trouser pocket. Billy caught it and dragged in the first fag for hours. His lungs were only half formed and wisps of grey-blue smoke trickled from his hastily repaired chest. “Oh god, that’s better.” Billy allowed and refused to say anything more till he’d finished the first and started a second from the butt. “Two choices kids, we find a set of cloaks from the cold store and act the bleedin’ hero or… we get the fuck outa ‘ere.”

Smiler smiled and pumped the stock of his stolen weapon. An unexpended shell ejected from the side and struck the floor nearby. He looked determined and a little angry. “They capture us, plan to kill us, muck us about and ruin your suit.”

“Yeah.” Billy agreed, his flesh nearly complete.

“I say we run away.” Smiler completed.

“Got me vote.” Clara agreed.

“Let’s fuck off.” Chander nodded. “Pub’s’re open.”

Terazaen was a Lower Knight of the Third Circle of Damnation. In life he had been an evil man, a merchant in the 13th Century in what was now modern Bosnia. He had tortured the innocent, betrayed his own sister to the Demon-Prince to whom he now owed absolute allegiance and had been trapped in 1874 to a pact formed by a magi now long dead. The Paracelsus owned him and piece-by-piece they had used what little power he possessed. Now though that compact was nearly exhausted. Like the rest of the first wave he occupied the purely physical domain but he had also had the wit to recognise the attaché case for what Cantrell wanted and the sense to run when he had scooped it from the floor whilst his fellow attackers still gathered to assault the three men who had escaped them.

With the case and the contents within he could bargain well with the Paracelsus.

For the first time in three centuries, Terazaen’s existence was on the up. He had great plans for the power he would take from Cantrell, great desires and yet more fulsome vengeances to be taken. It was a fine thought and it was only spoilt when a fat man in seal-skin fell upon his head and crushed him to the floor.

“Darling!” Jocasta spun on the spot and took the case from the softly dissolving claw. “How simply splendid!”

The Mole wiped the remains of Terazaen from his reinforced and expansive bottom, smiling widely at the happiness he had brought to his girlfriend - to the Dark Argent. They had approached cautiously and entered via a skylight after miles of tunnel travelling. Now they only needed to find a way out for although The Mole was adept at falling from above he was never one to manage the athletic leap required to go back the same way.

“Demon spawn whom case have stole, need fear the fire of Uncle Mole!” The big man chattered and Jocasta patted him playfully on one round shoulder before dancing onwards, turning sharply on the sharp points of her heel, scraping sparks from the walls with her other foot as she did so. “Snee snee.” The Mole rubbed his gloved hands together as he followed.

Smiler, Clara and Chandler moved quickly down the corridors. Following the route that Billy vaguely remembered from when Five Bob had brought him inwards they only paused when the way ahead seemed barred by a mass of teeth, claws and malformed animal parts. A lunatic with a saw and a bucket of superglue might have made a similar scene had he been allowed within the Natural History Museum after dark.

“Oh, what the fuck.” The Lazarus muttered as Clara changed form in mid leap and Smiler advanced, firing into the mass with accurate blasts from the shotgun. The demons were at a disadvantage. More normally they were used to being beyond the touch of humanity’s weapons but for once the positions were reversed. None of their weapons could pierce the were-wolf’s hide, each blast from Smiler took one or even two of them back to the lower realms and if there was one thing that being (normally) immune to material weapons didn’t teach you, it was how to actually fight.

The Lazarus cornered the last of the infernal attackers in a corner and kicked him to ruin as the creature tried to hide its face behind mottled, fungus-covered wings. The sound of moving furniture broke the emerging silence, sending it hiding as Rhys and Charlie came into the corridor.

“Fuck.” Chandler hissed and hefted the leg he had been using as a club.

“Drop it!” Smiler shouted as he pointed his gun at Rhys.

“Easy lad…” Charlie twitched his revolver to a point of aim below the young mans waist.

Clara spat a tasteless lump of demon flesh before her and bunched her muscles.

“H’easy does it, boyo.” Rhys pointed his iron pipe at Billy, a gun at Clara.

“Leave it.” Albert the Horse called out in a voice completely bereft of a London accent. His eyes came to rest on Chandler and a crocodile grin lit up the features. He still had the two, heavy-duty ‘Rasa weapons but these were at rest on his shoulder. “Where’s the attaché case?”

Richard Cantrell alighted from the Aeroflot and stepped through the splinters of Laphappy’s public entrance. Glancing upwards he saw Five Bob still captive in a green bubble of power and instantly put it from his mind. He had come for one thing. The case. Within it lay the heart of Andreas Jakkal – the Prince of London, first of the Thirteen Cotorie who guarded the capitols ancient power. He hated Jakkal, had been humiliated by the vampire on two occasions and if the Paracelsus’s guarded power was being expended to gain his revenge then, he thought, so what?

About him stood the true power that he had called for. The lesser compacts were for the assault but the Lords that were arrayed near by were the real heavy-weights. Each looked nothing more than a man, or in two cases, a woman. All but one were expensively dressed and the loner, garbed in the wino-body it favoured, played with fire as it coughed along in Richard’s wake. The main floor of Laphappy showed only an unconscious man and two youths, a boy and a girl. The latter he allowed Wormwood to devour and the filthy vesseled Demon-Lord gleefully snatched at them, holding them down with one long arm whilst it pissed flame on their bodies and breathed in the dense, clogging smoke that it produced.

The Mole and Jocasta came through the far door and Richard saw the case in the woman’s hand. “It’s Argent isn’t it?” He asked politely. “Love the outfit. Give me that.”

Jocasta tugged at the tubes that held her liquid mask in place until her face could be seen. “Richard? It’s me, Jocasta?”

The Mockered Duck. Now.

“Argent is called ‘Jocasta’?” I interrupted the tale.

“No.” Billy shook his head. “Surprised me an’ all. But see, the bint with Moley weren’t Argent. You can imagine how I felt when I saw ‘er ‘cause me and ‘er have crossed before. First time was when she lead those fuckers; those Chelsea Hunt wankers. Me and Slater thought we’d sorted ‘er out but she got away from where we’d left ‘er.”

“I see.” I didn’t.

“Came back during the Anti-‘Rasa riots and Moley took ‘er away, seems she convinced the poor bloke that she was this Argent. See, Moley’s fucked up, he’s got this thing about costumes and women superheroes. Likes to be beaten up and punished I think.”

I chuckled. “Wouldn’t he have been better off being a villain then? I mean, if he wanted to be treated like a bad little boy?” Billy smiled in reply and left for the bar. Returning with another pint he sat in the seat that still bore his impression before he answered me. “Nah, didn’t have the choice. I looked ‘im up back at the office, League of Gentleman stuff. Moley used to work for the Tabula Rasa as an inventor and when he first ‘it the streets to nick some stuff for his latest gadgets he stumbled upon another first-time villain called Corporal Punishment. I suspect,” Billy leaned forward and winked slowly, “that they ‘ad quite a lot in common. They had a bit of a rumble, it got caught on camera – went on from there. For some reason Drummond liked ‘im – felt sorry or something I suppose.”

I knew most of this already of course but there was too much in what Billy was telling me to start putting obstacles in his way. It was obvious he wanted to talk to someone about all that had happened and I was only too happy to have it be me. “So, you were facing down Albert, Charlie and Rhys?”

Across the table young Billy seemed to think about what had happened before letting me join in such reminiscences. I wondered then how much he was leaving out?

“…Not Albert. If it ‘ad been Albert we’d have been well fucked. I could see it then, see the body for what it was. Dead. I’m not sure exactly what was behind it all, but this geezer, this Jedekiah, took over Albert’s body and he seemed shocked to see me, pleased an’ a little frightened. Now, if it ‘ad been Albert he’d ‘ave never thought about the fact that there was me and two other superheroes there – he’d have done for us all anyway. But this Jedekiah? He didn’t ‘ave the balls.”

I sipped my drink and a sharp pain brought the demise of my cigarette to my attention. It had burnt down unnoticed during Billy’s tale and I was forced to suck my fingers as the young man opposite looked at the small burn with something less than surprise.

“I knew that was going to ‘appen.” Billy said. I believed him - yet still he had failed to alert me to the impending accident. Like I said before, there was something different about him now. “I see a lot of things.” He continued. “Things that’re going to ‘appen. You want my advice, Mr. Smiles?”

“I want to hear the rest of your story.” I confessed.

Billy shook his head. “In a minute. My advice, you want it?”

I heard the juke-box start up behind me. The endless loop of the Chieftans was giving way to something more light and frothy. It seemed that someone could hardly stand to stay ‘here one second longer’. I knew how he felt. I tried a smile but Billy only took my hand in his own, holding up the two slightly burnt fingertips before my eyes. To say his grip was like steel would be to overtire an already ineffective metaphor.

“Leave London.” Billy explained. “You’re lyin’ in a gutter down Woolworth Road and the flesh ‘as been burnt from bones made black by flame. Of all the people I see in this pub only one escapes the death of that future and she gets ‘it by a truck carrying twelve ton of porcelain toilets in three weeks time. Leave London, Smiles.”

I tried to pull my hand back but Billy instead turned it over and pressed it down on the table between us. He patted me on the cheek then and I never saw his hand move in the motion. “Laphappy?” I managed.

Billy Chandler pushed the short spikes of his hair a little further upwards before turning his glass about before him. I had never noticed before how his middle fingers were of the same length. ‘Dips’ such hands had been known as in the era of Queen Victoria.

“I had not one fifth of the power that I ‘ave now. There were three of them facing us but one had not the bottle of ‘is vessel and the other two were just assassins. They didn’t like a straight up barney, least of all against a fucking werewolf, a zombie and an incorporeal meta. Besides, we all wanted out. Didn’t take too long till we all came into the main room of Laphappy, no one trusting any other.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t all open up on one another anyway.” I admitted.

“Shit, you seen Reservoir Dogs?”

“It’s a film isn’t it? No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well we all had!”

Laphappy, Bermondsey. Then.

With his arm about Jocasta’s shoulder, Richard Cantrel took the attaché case from her unresisting hand and held it up to the reflected light of the mirror ball that turned slothfully about upon its axis. Across the room the collected demons of the Paracelsus passed between them, one to the other, the morsels that remained of the twins so recently torn apart by Wormwood. The scraps dripped upon their dark suits but not a stain was left to show their passage. Richard smiled yet wider when his gaze fell upon The Mole.

“Really, I’ve know you to slum it but don’t you think that is a little lower down the scale of evolution than even your delicious tastes should raise a glass to?”

The Mole was confused. Before him stood what was patently a criminal mastermind. The handsome good looks, expensive clothing and self-assurance were all present and The Mole was enough of a student of superhero tradition to know what was to come next. He was about to put up a brave fight but ultimately be overwhelmed. The Dark Argent however would avoid most of the damage, sufficient only to have her costume torn in a provocative manner that almost (but not quite) crossed the line from suggestion to soft-pornography. He presumed therefore that the long kiss the criminal mastermind and Argent were enjoying was either a cunning ruse on her part or the effect of some sort of mind-control ray.

But The Mole knew full well that such a ray was not easy to make. Lord knows, he’d tried hard enough to make one in the past few years. His whiskers twitched then. If (he reasoned) Argent was subject to such a ray then it was about time for the cavalry to arrive and together they would trounce the forces of evil together.

It was therefore gratifying that at that point the doorway leading further into the building opened with a sharp bang and a bundle of new arrivals tumbled into the main room. Most of them looked like superheroes and one of them The Mole recognised.

“Friend spy! Fine meeting – together shall we administer the beating!”

Lazarus had not expected to see anything like the small outing he now had arrayed about him. A collection of demons, Richard Cantrell, Jocasta and The Mole looked at him with a varied mixture of interest and surprise. Albert was the most shocked and his frozen form only prevented Clara and Smiler seeing the scene in its entirety. As time slowed Billy became aware of the rapidly diminishing sound of footsteps as Rhys and Charlie sped back the way they had come – their instincts for such things being far too sharp to allow them any interest in what was to happen next. They had a pretty shrewd idea in any case.

It was Jocasta who broke the moment.

“It must be my birthday.” She tilted her head slightly to one side. Her gaze had alighted on the Lazarus then passed lightly over the calmly waiting demonlords about the room. “Richard, darling, would it be an awful imposition if I was to ask you to have one of your demons tear that person apart for me?”

Cantrell shrugged in a very gallic manner. “If you like.” He idly traced his hand about the glittering breast of his petitioner. The Mole though walked over until he was able to stand between Chandler and Jocasta.

“Fight it! Be free! Argent, Argent my love come to me! Snee snee.”

“Um, Moley.” Billy coughed. Smiler raised his shotgun and fired twice at Cantrell who leaned forward to the buckshot that now spun about him. It was only a little spell.

“Time to go.” Clara nudged Billy from behind.

“In a minute, wolfy.”

Jocasta swayed forward in an exaggerated sway, seemingly fighting off an evil influence. It was convincing, but only in the manner of student theatre. Finally slumping before The Mole she placed both her hands on his heaving chest, let them trail down his seal-skin shorts and then twisted with her suits claws. The Mole howled and fell forwards as the woman continued to spiral his testicles into a knot of Gordian proportion. As The Mole squealed and choked she danced to her feet once again and spat at his writhing form. She would have finished him then, her steel spiked heel was already raised for the finishing shot to the top of his skull when a fist caught her in the face and sent her stumbling backwards.

Suddenly prone, hissing, Jocasta stared upwards at Cantrell who had observed her actions with only the mildest of interest. The Lazarus hauled The Mole backwards and into Clara’s strong arms, his punch having gained him the time he needed.

“Get him the fuck out’ve ‘ere.” Billy shouted at Clara.

“Piss off.” The wolfgirl protested, her arms already adapting to the weight. “We can have this lot!”

“C’mon.” Smiler tugged Clara further away and with her arms full she was unable to put up much of a fight. “Look, you’ll be alright, yeah?”

Lazarus patted his pockets for his cigarettes before remembering that he was out. The demons and Cantrell seemed to watch the scene like an audience at one of the smaller theatre venues. “Dunno.” Chandler finally admitted.

Cantrell nodded as Black Flagg hurried away. He liked the idea of witnesses, he liked the idea of there being survivors around to let the little people know exactly what happened to those who meddled in things that didn’t concern them. Slightly behind Lazarus, Jedekiah/Albert found himself able to move a little and used his newly recovered motive powers to huddle within the closest corner.

Billy Chandler buttoned his coat up over his newly healed stomach and touched the side of his head to reassure himself that he was at least in one piece again. The more he had to lose the longer he would last.

“Thing is,” Billy looked at the hostility he was gathering, “I don’t really give a shit what you do.”

“Kill you?” Jocasta touched her broken nose in anger and staggered to her feet until she stood a little behind Cantrell.

“Been tried.” Lazarus allowed. “But like I say – I don’t give a shit. Thing is, you had to come ‘ere. You had to come south of the river – you had to come onto my manor.”

“Oh do stop with the melodrama.” Cantrell sighed. “Now be a nice little fellow and put up a feeble fight before Wormwood here tears you to a hundred pieces.”

The tramp-like demon snuffled at the sound of his name and looked up from what little remained of the twins. They had been delicious, innocent souls despite their conditioning. Leeches able to remove the powers of those who possessed such they would never again be able to indulge themselves in such simple pleasures as Mars Bars or Strawberry Jelly.

“He has to fight us.” Jocasta whispered to Cantrel. “He’s one of those Orbital shits.” Her brown tones were a little squashed in sympathy with her once expensively crafted nose.

Billy crossed his arms before shaking his head. “Bollocks.” He replied.

“Oh, so you’re not a member of Amber 3?” Cantrell let his knowledge have a little rein. “You see, I do know who you are – William Chandler. I make it my business to keep up to date with such things. It was the Paracelsus who ensured that your rancid little Department got such a lift up in the world. You did beat the Chelsea Hunt after all – we considered that with a little false-flagging you might be manipulated into any manner of helpful tasks for us. Alas, it seems that it is not so. No doubt your sense of duty prevents you from leaving. So then, Mr. Secret Agent of the Tabula Rasa – are you going to arrest me?”

The Lazarus brushed himself down. He had always tried to look smart, tried to fit in with the successful and the bold. He picked a scrap of plaster from one sleeve, ignoring the blood that had dried beneath. “I don’t give a shit.” He said again and blew the white flake from his long fingers. “I never wanted to join Orbital in the first place. I don’t give a shit about the law, I don’t give a shit about arrestin’ you, and I don’t give three shits about your plan for takin’ over the country.”

Cantrell had the good grace to look shocked.

“Lucky guess.” Billy said before he was interrupted. “Text book, innit? See, that’s not Albert over in the corner, ‘cause if it was he’d ‘ave knackered the lot’ve you by now. No, I’m just shootin’ the piss with you all ‘cause of what you did to them kids.”

Jocasta stepped around Richard and pointed to where Wormwood readied himself for the launch. “Oh I see, ‘do not touch the women and kiddies’? How very quaint.”

Lazarus breathed out then when he saw what he had been hoping for. “There is that.” He admitted. “But you see, you’re right about one thing. I do work for Amber 3. We get all the shitty little jobs and one of them is watchin’ airports and the like. We ‘ave to watch them in case known villains or ‘Rasa’s come across the pond. See, thing is, as you know I’m dead. I don’t get distracted, I remember shit. Total fuckin’ clarity. One of the faces I’ve had to watch for on those cold winter mornings is this yank called Scott Reeves. Meant to be dead but you’ll understand that I don’t set much store by that. Those twins that your pet demon ‘as killed were able to rob people of their powers. Read about them an’ all. See, now they’re dead they ain’t got no hold over no one. Ain’t that right?” Lazarus spoke to the man who was rising to his feet. “Mr. Starlight.”

The Mockered Duck. Now.

I hadn’t even wondered about Billy’s eating habits. He had munched his way through two packets of Pork Scratchings and a collection of other revolting bar-snacks before I remembered that since dying Chandler was no longer in the habit of taking food. This I pointed out to him.

“Told you, I’ve changed.” Billy said and that (it seemed) was all the explanation I was going to get. I had drunk too much already. I was feeling a little tipsy but Billy seemed so intent on me matching him glass for glass that I didn’t have the nerve to slow down. Having just learnt that a big hitter like Starlight had been present I made the logical conclusion to the story.

“I suppose that with a flash of universal power all your woes became absent?”

Billy though shook his head. “That was me plan. Good one you ‘ave to admit but I ‘adn’t reckoned on that Paracelsus mob being so fuckin’ powerful. Shit, if I’d known you think I would’ve waited about? See, I thought that they was all piss and wind but this Cantrell lad ‘ad taken it to the limit. Me and this Starlight lad hammered a few of ‘em and to tell the truth I was little more than a fart in a thunderstorm. At some point that slag Jocasta fucked off about the same time as Jedekiah.”

“The thing in Albert?”

“That’s ‘im. Nice to see you’re paying attention, Mr. S. The wanker grabbed the attaché case as he went out. No, we was doin’ the best we could to sort ‘em all out but it was going badly. Then it really got scary. You know about Vampires?”

I knew then that young Billy was making things up. Naturally I knew about the vampires in London. They were sad little creatures – some quite powerful it had to be admitted and every few years they increased their numbers when a few of the more recent or younger got above themselves.

Laphappy, Bermondsey. Then.

There was little left of Laphappy to give an observer clues as to such a location. Torn by celestial energy and the collected power of hell it was only the efforts of Scott Reeves that had prevented it from spreading across the entirety of the district. Across the sea the super-powered threw tower-blocks at one another and the power gathered here was the same but encapsulated in one, formally small, room. The power Scott had channelled was one of the fundamentals of the universe but the Demon Princes lived in the spaces in-between. That which they had to call upon was equal to the task. The Lazarus was ultimately outclassed and even though he had managed to reduce the physical nature of Wormwood to a shuddering pile he knew that should he leave the protective shell woven by Starlight he would last less time that it would take him to complete the first step. Of course he would recover, but Billy suspected that having his very being spread to the seven corners of reality would mean it might take him a little time to do so.

Scott Reeves meanwhile was confused as to what was happening. He had fought back when the first of the demons had struck at him but his thoughts were on containment rather than (ultimately) retaliation. He knew full well the disaster that would befall London if he were unable to restrain the forces being given their head within this room.

Then, suddenly, there was a lull. As if the eye of this storm had been reached the powers that tore at one another subsided as a single old man entered the conflict. His suit Saville Row, his tie regimental, liver spotted hands held a paper bag and a copy of the previous days London Times. He stepped between the cage of sparkling, shifting lights, the tendrils of smoke and at his passing each curled back upon itself.

“Excuse me.” The gentleman coughed politely. “But I wonder if any of you might, perchance, have seen an attaché case lying about here?”

Richard Cantrell screamed in fury and wove his power together as he recognised the new arrival. “Please stop that.” The old man said in the voice of the easy upper-classes and about him the demons erupted into savage flame as he passed by each one. In the glow of their banishment the newcomer seemed straighter of stance and his eyes shone brightly amongst the oily wreaths of spreading black smoke. With a light wave of his hand the fires died down leaving only himself, Cantrell, Chandler and Scott Reeves to stand amongst the ashes that fell like cherry blossom about them.

“Good evening.” The old man smiled faintly at Scott. “My name is Mr. Jakkal. I am the Guardian of London and I really feel that the city has quite enough to attend to without the all-conquering power of the universe nudging at our fair cities door.”

“Ah yes, sir.” Scott Reeves let his power retreat.

“Charming.” Jakkal looked at the fading light. “Splendid. Now would it be too much to ask of you for you and your dead companion to leave? Frightfully rude I know but you see there’s this tiresome little magus that is positively itching to try and remove me. I suspect it will be short and a little,” Jakkal let small fangs show, “crude. I do so hate crudeness.”

The Mockered Duck. Now.

“I’ve heard of Jakkal.” I admitted. “So all this was to do with the attaché case?”

“Seems it contained his ‘eart.” Billy yawned and that was something else I hadn’t seen his do for years. “Anyway, like you can imagine we fucked off outa there before things got really nasty. I only went in there on the way to somewhere else. This place near Birmingham, Kinver. See, all of this was bugger all to do with me – I just wanted to get hold of the fuck who killed me in the first place.”

I couldn’t believe this. Chandler had left the place before the end? “But what happened? Jakkal, the attaché case, this Jedekiah? I was waiting to find out what happened!”

Billy snorted. “Fuck knows. Like I say, I ‘ad other things to do.”

This was too much. “You little bastard!” I hissed. “You string me along and don’t know the end?” ***

“Not that end, Mr. S. I’d missed me train but I got to Kinver next day anyhow. Clara and Smiler were naffing out’ve London in any case. You ever gone anywhere in a bus? Fuckin’ tragic. Smiler was all pumped by then, I’m not sure if he was takin’ the piss but he tried to fire me up for this fight I was ‘aving. See, it seems that when two superheroes fight you ‘ave to act all Macho. Shit, I just Lazarus do the talkin’.

Kinver National Park, The Black Country, England.

“Heh, you sure want to do this, boy?”

“Looks like it, old man.”

“Last chance?”

“Nah. Really, it’s just something that I’ve gotta do, y’know?

“Hmm. Maybe.”

Billy Chandler stubbed out the cigarette on the stone that lay near to his feet. A couple of metres further on the hill dropped a good distance until the hillside caught up with it and swept down into the trees in a pool of bracken. It was peaceful now, the eye in the centre of the conflict and though neither of the men present could see them the hillside was scattered with the empty cases of both their guns. The pistol in Chandler’s hand was a bulky affair, resembling a nail-gun more than a firearm. Dull black it was packed with expensive electronic acquisition devices and a variety of variable-setting options. It even had a little display above the grip (which gave him a read out on the ammunition status). Currently it rested on zero.

Billy’s companion was older, closer to forty than thirty though to all indications he could have drawn a pension. At least, the lines on his face and fish-dead eyes gave such an impression; the body though was long, lean and fit. Billy’s companion dressed like a tramp in ill-matched boots, filthy jeans and a somewhat torn old army greatcoat. Pushed back on his head was a frayed bowler hat. Sat at the entrance to the nearby cave was a rifle made from the collected remains of many others, unique and oddly dangerous looking in a Heath-Robinson way. It was plain that it stored its rounds in a conventional magazine since this lay near to it, empty and impotent.

Between where the two men sat were a crushed can of lager, a little cheese and a vast, rusted syringe that would have been more in place in the experimental dens of discovery of Victorian London.

“Your choice, son.” Woland’s follower shrugged and turned the gesture into a lunge that fractured Billy’s collar-bone and knocked him to the edge of the ridge.

Billy rolled further back and snapped the bone back into place. “You’re a bit of wanker on the sly aren’t you?”

“Shit, least I can, boy!” Mr. Shroom stamped the rock where Chandler’s knee had been but The Lazarus had seen it coming and had moved accordingly, reaching his feet in time for the next kick and the fight started in earnest.

The Mockered Duck. Now.

“Hang on!” I interrupted. “So you found him?”

“Yup, ‘e wasn’t ‘iding. Think he was expecting me, yeah? Do you wanna know what ‘appened then or what?” Billy looked annoyed at my interruption. “I made Clara and Smiler stay out’ve it and went ‘unting ‘im down. We talked for a bit about this and that. Larkhill – stuff. To be honest it was just your normal self-justifying twaddle. Oh they ‘ad an ‘ard life then went on the rampage until Amber 9 and Argent caught up with ‘em. Mr. Shroom (as he was called) never fitted in anyway – needed to keep jabbin’ ‘imself with drugs to keep up his abilities – never ‘eld like with the others. Woland always thought ‘im crazy, even by Brood standards, so the poor bastard fucked off one night before the others decided to make a game out’ve ‘unting ‘im down.”

“Poor bloke.” I tried to sympathise. Billy sneered.

“Fuckin’ serial killer like the rest’ve ‘em.”

Kinver National Park, The Black Country, England.

After two tours of Glasgow and one each in Sumatra and Sierra Leone, Peter ‘Fred’ Cussler had emerged as a sergeant with a Military Cross and two mentions in the regular despatches sent back to the pen-pushers of Aldershot. He’d served his seven-year contract in the Royal Green Jackets and could have taken the generous pension offered by the Ministry of Overseas Development (as the Ministry of Defence had been renamed three years previously) to all its time-served veterans. But Fred had signed on for another seven and made Staff-Sergeant on the back of it. The horror he had seen had not given him the nightmares of others and if he sometimes suffered flashbacks amongst the still green hills of Salisbury Plain he kept such to himself.

An orphan, Fred had entered the army after leaving the small orphanage attached to the Wolverhampton workhouse. The wasteland of Birmingham had not been so far away that he and three other lads had run away from the establishment on three occasions to explore the dangers therein. It had been when Fred was only a lad of fourteen that he had discovered his secret thrill. Amongst the rubble of a shopping centre Fred (then still Peter) and his followers had found an old grubhunter woman and what had started out as a dare had ended with her death. The horror of discovery and guilt in the others had only fanned a glow in the teenager’s loins such that he had never before felt. Despite his hormonal years the lad had never felt an attraction to girls (nor boys for that matter). When the lights in the long dormitory had been extinguished at night and the others had gleefully tugged themselves off in rebellion to the stern rules that governed such things, the youth had never felt the urging to follow suit.

It was not until years later, in the ‘Secured’ town of Glasgow when his patrol had come under fire from a cell of still rebellious Scots, that the heat had returned to him. The weapons firing upon them were old (but still lethal) and the first chattering burst had taken both the young second-lieutenant and the section sergeant down in the flurry of blood. Recently made lance-corporal, ‘Fred’ Cussler had managed to organise the remains of the platoon for a counter attack that had resulted in he and three others breaking down the door of the terraced house and finding not a hoard of tartan-clad, red-haired terrors but only three washed out looking women with an old Bren gun taken (no doubt) from a museum years before.

As the junior NCO, Fred had been the one to carry the sections rapid-firing Armstrong-Siddley Carbine. The short ranged weapon did not offer the use of a bayonet and finding the magazine agonisingly empty he had dived aside even as the others that followed him fell to the Bren’s return fire. His foolhardy entrance with an empty gun having warned the women sufficiently for them to turn it upon the door that he had so recently vacated. Alone he had managed to wrest the overly heavy claymore from one after it stabbed a shallow wound in his thigh and killed the user with a wide sweep. The second he clubbed across the forehead, leaving her senseless before him.

She had not been pretty, the scars of the toxin bombs used on the rebellious Scots years before had left their mark but Fred felt the almost forgotten thrill return to him then as he had sliced her clothes apart with a bayonet taken form one of his still dying fellow squadies. The fact that he might have saved his comrade had hardly occurred to him then and for an hour he lost himself in his own private revelry. It was not until he had finished that Fred had discovered that there had been another survivor from his section – the youngest of them all. With the sound of reinforcements in his ears Fred was forced to threaten the young soldier into silence at the point of his but lately claimed sword.

As the senior-ranking survivor of the patrol Fred later received glowing praise from the regiments Colonel. The young soldier said nothing of what he saw and merely hid behind a wide, shit-eating grin. They were transferred apart and that was the last either saw of one another.

Sumatra had only given Fred more opportunities to light the thrill and it was thus that, finding himself as a second term senior NCO (sent home at the end of his seven-year hitch) he had almost no chance of being posted once more abroad. For such experience was deemed more useful in the training of others. He considered applying to the SAS or the Pathfinder Cadre but given that the former was mostly involved in home territory work and the latter was almost entirely made up of the soldiers found to have some limited psychic ability he had filled in the forms for Selection with the SAS’s lesser known sister service – the Special Boat Squadron. Typically the Squadron was made up of Marine’s but Fred had completed the training for the commando’s green beret after Sierra Leone and thus was accepted for the years training and weeding out process. Fred had a special desire to join the SBS, for it was they who now took up most of the duties of advance reconnaissance and ‘behind-the-lines’ work and in such a placement he knew the thrill would be well served.

Fred had easily gotten through the process but before his final passing out the now aging soldier had been approached by a suited man from Whitehall. Would he, Fred as asked, consider transferring to a special programme? The pay rise was phenomenal and there were hints given of a certain type of operation that would be given to the successful trainees.

For unknown to Fred, his thrill was not completely secret There had been whispers and hints throughout the years and these (and his superb record) had drawn the attention of a group of men from a place in Wiltshire. A place called Larkhill.

He had been given training that had added to his ability to kill. Hand-to-hand work at which he had excelled and then had come Muscle.

They had been few and they had been given Muscle 7. Then had come the Wakening, then had come Woland (then the thrill had never left him alone ever again).

“We know about you, kidder.” Mr. ‘Shroom turned a reverse punch into a circular thrust that caught the young man under the chin and snapped a few bones. “You think Woland doesn’t know about you? That was just a teaser by the way.”

The Lazarus couldn’t see his foe to fight. The man moved too fast – not even a blur before he felt the impact and he was losing. Badly losing. He felt his knee give and he knew that he couldn’t heal the damage as fast as it came. Mr. ‘Shroom laughed, braking into a fit of coughing that caught up a lump of phlegm. Billy kicked out at the point below the kneecap but the adversary knocked his foot aside with a casual movement of his own boot.

Then Lazarus relaxed. Whatever he tried he wasn’t going to hit.

The second kick caught him below the ribs, the third two inches higher and Billy realised then that the Brood member was going through the forms. It was Tae Kwon Do and then Billy rocked back as a punch caught him under the shoulder and closed his wrist at a point below the ear.

Mr. ‘Shroom looked surprised.

The Lazarus smiled. Keeping hold of the wrist he twisted the hand a full ninety-degrees and ignored the sweeping of the body as it turned in the air to catch him about the face with both boots. Skull broken The Lazarus held on regardless and both of them hit the forest floor, turned over the nearby ledge and fell twenty foot to the slope below. Tumbling in bracken Mr. ‘Shroom blurred again but The Lazarus kept tight hold of his enemy and struck back with a clawed hand that found a sensitive throat. The Brood members own speed increased the blow and he gasped as his windpipe collapsed.

The Lazarus rolled to his feet and…

…savage glass fell from a sky of shattered darkness. They were on a great long shore of black, chipped stone amongst which the wraith’s of the lost tore themselves in tatters against the agonising gale of the sharpened wind. Lazarus stared at the figure above him and breathed heavily.

Breathed heavily.

“This is my special place.” Mr. ‘Shroom sighed. “Here I can bring the innocent and no one will notice them gone, no one will tell me to stop and no one can escape. Here is my thrill.” He seemed more relaxed now and Billy saw that the skin was smooth, the clothing perfect of the creature who crouched nearby. “Time is what we make it and We of the Arcadium move in worlds of our desire. It is why I will always be faster than you, it is why you will be what I decide. I have a dark and lonely shore of the Arcadium where the seagulls of my art fly only on the winds of the pleading of my desire. I will unclothe you and wrap you anew in garments made of your guilt.”

Lazarus came to his feet and Mr. ‘Shroom watched him unconcerned. He made the faintest of gestures that finished with a frown. “You… seem to be… never mind.”

Chandler was dressed in the sharpest suit never made by man. There was not a wound upon him and he found that that the cigarette between his fingers glowed as they spoke but never burnt down.

“I see.” Mr. ‘Shroom nodded. “I see.” He muttered again but more slowly. “It’s your morphic field isn’t it?”

The Lazarus flicked his face into an uncommitted shape.

“The way you heal in the failing lands. You don’t have a body at all, do you? It’s just your Will, you have a body because you feel that that is what you should have. I did not expect this.”

Billy took a drag of his cigarette and for the first time since he had died he tasted it.

“The Muscle that was injected into your recently dead body – it just gave you a route back from the Arcadium, didn’t it? You unbelievably arrogant little shit. Your ego was so massive that your own sense of self-worth moulds the flesh you wear into your own self-image.”

Billy put his hands behind his back and breathed the air of the shore. It didn’t taste of anything. “I came to kill you. Shall we get on with it?”

Mr. ‘Shroom moved forward then but his speed was nothing to what it had been. Rather, it was but The Lazarus was in the same place now. All things were equal.

Billy easily blocked the first three lunges and laughed as he caught a snap kick and moved inside the blow to spin an elbow into the older man’s forehead.

“That was good.” Billy laughed. “Karate yeah?”

Mr. ‘Shroom grunted and tried a Ki strike followed by a complex series of punches to a chest that had long moved aside. A knee blossomed inside the stance that sent the attackers bollocks nearly through his ears. As the Brood member tried to stand up, Chandler leaned down.

“That was straight boxing. You’re a really good martial artist.”

“You’ve trained.” Mr. ‘Shroom retched a little blood.

“In martial arts? Nah.” He took a drag of his cigarette then, he hadn’t felt the need to drop it throughout the first exchange.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well you fucker, time to start. I’ve fought against the best I could find. Some fuckin’ use to having Orbital clearance you see. I grew up in the roughest shithole you’ll find in London. I’m a dirty little fucker.”

Beyond them a whirlpool cast the scent of fear in the air that moved upwards to join the storm that was gathering. The rain of glass had turned to one of blood.

“Dirty fighting won’t help against a trained… fighter.” Mr. ‘Shroom found his feet but backed off a few paces.

“Nah,” Billy waved his cigarette to emphasise his words, “maybe. But you see fucker, I can take anything that the pros could throw at me. You lot all use forms, you all follow programmed patterns and movement. Every martial art depends upon dedicated training till it becomes instinctive. But, I know what those forms are. I’ve spent nigh on four years fightin’ fuckers like you in the Rumpus Room. I’ve spent nearly four years picking fights with anyone I could find. I can’t be hurt and I know what you’re going to do and I tell you – the best martial artist in the world’ll go down to me – s’long as they rely on attack. Now, I grant you, the Aikido wankers got a chance – all holds and throws see but I know them an’ all. I don’t practise martial arts – I fight fuckin’ ‘ard ‘cause I can take what’s coming, know what’s goin’ to happen and smack the shit out’ve ‘em in answer.”

“You’re making this up!”

“Straight up!” Chandler shook his head, spreading his arms wide towards the by now boiling sea. “I get one good punch and you’re goin’ down. If you ‘it the floor then I’ll finish you, fucker.”

Mr. ‘Shroom jumped Billy then and caught the younger man’s arm high up his back. The other hand to the back of the spiky-gelled head he kicked Chandler’s legs out and sat heavily upon the now prone back. “You shouldn’t have told me about holds, kidder.”

Billy though just laughed. Twisting against the force he let his arm break and turned his head sharply enough to spread his attackers nose clear across his face. “See?” Chandler giggled. Elbowing Mr. ‘Shroom in the same place three times with his good arm, The Lazarus twisted his head, grabbed the shattered appendage in his teeth and with a grunt bit down hard. The Brood member howled and punched out hard but Billy was impervious and just tore his own head twice, sharply, from side to side. Pushing the bigger man off Billy stood and spat out the severed nose. Mr. ‘Shroom clutched his torn face and felt his own dirty hair yanked back and his eyes pushed into his skull by a pair of stiff fingers (from an arm already whole once more). Bent backwards, Mr. ‘Shroom tried to kick over his own body but Billy knew what was coming and had already moved to one side, caught up the leg, slammed his attacker about and downwards and still holding both leg and hair stood up and broke Mr. ‘Shroom’s spine with the heel of his shoe.

Paralysed the Brood member stared through darkened eyes as Chandler brushed himself down.

“Now I now what your thinkin’.” Billy continued speaking, his back once more to his former assailant. “This is your place in the Arcadium, right? You make the fuckin’ rules? But deep down you know that ain’t the case no more. See, you can change anythin’ but me. Like you said, I’m an arrogant little shit.”

“Kill me.” Mr. ‘Shroom gurgled.

“Oh right, sorry.”

“I will get you deadfuck.”

“Nah – nah you won’t. See, I know how this works. I’m the good guy right? You’re all defeated and I wander off to leave you in your pain? But mysteriously you’ll be all right. Then you’ll plan some fuckin’ grandiose revenge. Now, ‘cause you’ve begged me to kill you I ‘ave to let you live. But I won’t. I ain’t gonna take you back ‘ome, turn you over to the docs so they can ‘condition’ you and ‘rehabilitate’ you. I know that this is what’s supposed to ‘appen. I’m a good guy, we ‘old the moral ‘igh ground, right?”

The sea and the storm had broken upon one another and alone on only a circle of black sharded beach The Lazarus and Mr. ‘Shroom stood alone, the only Real in an unreal land. From his limited view, Mr. ‘Shroom saw a pair of gleaming, Italian shoes pace their way back to him. Knees came into view, then finally a youthful, unconcerned face.

“But y’see old man, I’m not a fuckin’ spandex clad super-wanker. I don’t live for the press, or the ‘Rasa, or fuckin’ ‘igh ideals. I’m like you, a tosser from the gutter who just got screwed. You were right you know – I’m a little shit and that Mr. Fuckin’ ‘Shroom – that is why I’m going to kill you. Right here. Right now.”

Placing his fingers at the base of Mr. ‘Shrooms skull, The Lazarus whispered the last words Woland’s disciple would ever hear. “What was it you told me back in Larkhill? ‘Wake up, time to die’!”

Smiler had watched the fight through a pair of battered binoculars and only when the two combatants had vanished had he and Clara dashed over to where the fight had happened. It was as they reached the spot that the man Chandler had been hunting swirled back into existence. Clara was half wolf and Smiler had his gun out again when each saw that the body was totally, undeniably, dead. “Shit.” The boy from Black Flagg recognised the corporal from long ago Glasgow.

“Where’s yer man gone, lover?” Clara whispered to her boyfriend. Smiler just licked his lips and kept the shotgun levelled at the head of the dangerous creature before them. It shifted then, the features flowed and pushed outwards then settled swiftly into those of Lazarus. His clothing, also, changed into the finest suit never made by man.

To the horror of Black Flagg, Billy stood up and laughed like a madman. Arms spread to the sky The Lazarus saw all the life about him and breathed in the pine-scented smell of Kinver to lungs that hadn’t moved since his death.

“What a tasty fuckin’ world!”

The Mockered Duck. Now.

Billy stood then and apologised as he headed to the toilets. I don’t believe he needed to piss (he never had in the past) but now I think he has the choice. It is said that at some point we all have to grow up but in his case I don’t think this will ever be the case. Not unless Billy chooses that to be the case. He frightens me and given the nature of the company I have myself kept in recent years that is truly something to say.

What is it about the modern world that takes a thief and turns him into a hero?

Not a hero, that’s societies thinking. Oh I doubt whether I’ll see much of our Mr. Chandler in the newspapers. I doubt if he will ever leap a tall building or sing the Tabula song. I would be surprised to hear of him taking hostages or plan to rule the world. That’s not our Billy. But still I think that there is something he’s not telling me, beyond that smile that moves only one side of his thin face there’s a bitterness amongst all the cocky charm. He’s powerful now, something the late Albert or even His Majesty’s Government could never have foreseen. I do not even wish to consider the limit of what he can do and I suspect that is the reason for his hidden annoyance.

For Billy never asked for what he has. We screwed him over and set him up in Larkhill. The powers-that-be took his corpse and wouldn’t let it rest and now… now he has an ocean of choices. A great, wide, horizon spread of possibility that excludes the only thing I fear he truly ever wished to be.

A lad. Just a sharp face on the manor with money to burn and a ‘fit bird’ on his arm. Jack-the-lad, lightest fingers in London – out for a laugh, a pint and a punch-up of a Saturday night.

But news will spread and there will be those who will wish a piece of the pie.

God forgive them for I fear Lazarus will not.