me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will it make me happy?’
‘No.’
Sam made an expansive gesture. ‘Fire away.’
‘Two days ago a man with red hair, a glare and a very large axe knocked on my door and asked if I’d seen you recently. I told him no. He said that if you did turn up I should phone him and he’d make it worth my while.’
‘And what was your reaction to this?’ Sam was suddenly tense, and conscious of his sword.
‘I told him I’d consider what he said. But then he isn’t established clientele, is he? Unlike you.’
‘Did this mysterious stranger give a name?’
Franz watched Sam squirm, relishing the moment for all it was worth. ‘Well,’ he said coyly, ‘if I didn’t know better I’d say it was brother Thor.’
‘But you know better?’ said Sam hopefully.
‘A figure of speech. It
was
Thor. He’s looking for you.’ Franz was really enjoying himself, and Sam couldn’t resist saying as much.
Franz was unrepentant. ‘I just get such a kick, watching the Children of Time go pale.’
‘Only because you envy us,’ declared Sam. ‘Why did you wait before telling me about this?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to sell you out.’
Sam sighed, and held out his hand. ‘Franz, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, as always.’
‘You still owe me three hundred.’
‘I know, I know.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ll deliver it as soon as things settle down.’
Departing, Sam grinned, waved, and felt slightly queasy. Of course, Franz might have thrown Thor’s name into the conversation to try and scare him. But Sam was a good enough customer to merit Franz looking out for his survival. Therefore…
Is Thor trying to get his loutish hands on my hide? I really, really do hope not.
Engel Strasse was a long, wide road full of contradictions. What few houses survived had long ago been boarded up and sprayed with graffiti imploring the return of either fascists or communists. Grungy greengrocers competed for space with dark doors that led into who knew what basement, while cafés with pinball machines and snooker tables competed against newer, mass-market bars complete with dance floors and a stylised decor that was supposed to remind the drinker of summer and flowers. Between these were the dimly lit doorways of the night clubs. A bus stopped a few metres off and deposited an old lady, but other than that, the street was almost dead.
Der Engelpalast was just another entrance, if anything even darker than the rest, at the quieter end of the street. The door was open; from beyond it a purplish-blue light shone out. No one was about, so Sam went in.
There was a short corridor, barely illuminated, with pictures of famous people who’d never been to der Engelpalast but had still felt the overwhelming urge to sign a picture to ‘my good friends at the Angel Palace’. There was a small reception area, with no one manning it. Sam pushed open a double glass door and stepped into a large, square room whose low ceiling was strung with lights of every colour, most of them off. A long bar displayed more drinks, of more variety and maybe more toxicity, than Sam had ever seen. Behind it was a rather dumpy woman, wearing an apron and cleaning glasses.
There was a small bandstand, tucked away in the corner, and an empty stage. The floor was strewn with bits of paper – discarded telephone numbers, torn up beer mats, empty packets that could have contained anything from peanuts to ecstasy pills.
‘We’re shut.’ A young man moved towards Sam with the determination of an avalanche. He wore a T-shirt and shorts and looked completely out of place.
‘I’m looking for the manager.’
‘He’s out.’
‘My name is Luke. I’ve come from London.’ Sam pulled out his letter and showed the envelope, carefully inscribed in Tinkerbell’s handwriting.
The young man frowned. ‘Hunter sent you?’
Hunter? Tinkerbell’s name is Hunter? Bloody
‘Yes.’
‘Will it make me happy?’
‘No.’
Sam made an expansive gesture. ‘Fire away.’
‘Two days ago a man with red hair, a glare and a very large axe knocked on my door and asked if I’d seen you recently. I told him no. He said that if you did turn up I should phone him and he’d make it worth my while.’
‘And what was your reaction to this?’ Sam was suddenly tense, and conscious of his sword.
‘I told him I’d consider what he said. But then he isn’t established clientele, is he? Unlike you.’
‘Did this mysterious stranger give a name?’
Franz watched Sam squirm, relishing the moment for all it was worth. ‘Well,’ he said coyly, ‘if I didn’t know better I’d say it was brother Thor.’
‘But you know better?’ said Sam hopefully.
‘A figure of speech. It
was
Thor. He’s looking for you.’ Franz was really enjoying himself, and Sam couldn’t resist saying as much.
Franz was unrepentant. ‘I just get such a kick, watching the Children of Time go pale.’
‘Only because you envy us,’ declared Sam. ‘Why did you wait before telling me about this?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to sell you out.’
Sam sighed, and held out his hand. ‘Franz, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, as always.’
‘You still owe me three hundred.’
‘I know, I know.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ll deliver it as soon as things settle down.’
Departing, Sam grinned, waved, and felt slightly queasy. Of course, Franz might have thrown Thor’s name into the conversation to try and scare him. But Sam was a good enough customer to merit Franz looking out for his survival. Therefore…
Is Thor trying to get his loutish hands on my hide? I really, really do hope not.
Engel Strasse was a long, wide road full of contradictions. What few houses survived had long ago been boarded up and sprayed with graffiti imploring the return of either fascists or communists. Grungy greengrocers competed for space with dark doors that led into who knew what basement, while cafés with pinball machines and snooker tables competed against newer, mass-market bars complete with dance floors and a stylised decor that was supposed to remind the drinker of summer and flowers. Between these were the dimly lit doorways of the night clubs. A bus stopped a few metres off and deposited an old lady, but other than that, the street was almost dead.
Der Engelpalast was just another entrance, if anything even darker than the rest, at the quieter end of the street. The door was open; from beyond it a purplish-blue light shone out. No one was about, so Sam went in.
There was a short corridor, barely illuminated, with pictures of famous people who’d never been to der Engelpalast but had still felt the overwhelming urge to sign a picture to ‘my good friends at the Angel Palace’. There was a small reception area, with no one manning it. Sam pushed open a double glass door and stepped into a large, square room whose low ceiling was strung with lights of every colour, most of them off. A long bar displayed more drinks, of more variety and maybe more toxicity, than Sam had ever seen. Behind it was a rather dumpy woman, wearing an apron and cleaning glasses.
There was a small bandstand, tucked away in the corner, and an empty stage. The floor was strewn with bits of paper – discarded telephone numbers, torn up beer mats, empty packets that could have contained anything from peanuts to ecstasy pills.
‘We’re shut.’ A young man moved towards Sam with the determination of an avalanche. He wore a T-shirt and shorts and looked completely out of place.
‘I’m looking for the manager.’
‘He’s out.’
‘My name is Luke. I’ve come from London.’ Sam pulled out his letter and showed the envelope, carefully inscribed in Tinkerbell’s handwriting.
The young man frowned. ‘Hunter sent you?’
Hunter? Tinkerbell’s name is Hunter? Bloody
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