Dark forest, p.6
Underworld (Mousebane & Red Mist Book 3), page 6
“The Green Herself?” Twig puts down his half-eaten acorn. “What you saying? She don’t call.” He strokes his nose with both paws and glances at Nutcup.
“You have spent too much time thinking you are human,” I say. “You have forgotten how to listen. Her cry for help is clear.” I gaze around the interior of the cafe. The plastic, the glass, the dead stone of the brick. It is a barrier to what is real. “You are too cut off here. You have become disconnected, you cannot hear her voice.”
Twig and Nutcup share a look. Twig laughs. “You think we is cut off? You be living in with them like they are your betters. Lettin’ them feed you from the packet. Lettin’ them stroke your fur for their comfort. Lettin’ them treat you as pet. What happened to the great Orange Death. You been softened, cat.”
Fury rises. My lip curls at the remark. Is he trying to get a rise out of me? My passenger suggests I disembowel the fool. I refrain, it would only cause the others to become gibbering voids, and then where would I be. If I have learnt anything from Dan, it is that violence is not always the only resolution.
“You have grown bold, squirrel.” He eyes my extended claws as I lick my forepaw and clean my ears. “Why are you working with these humans?” I ask. “Surely, your ends are not the same as theirs?”
“The Sternanator, the greatest rapper of all time, came to us for aid,” says Twig. “He has a place for us in the scheme. We follow him for the cause of justice. We’s here to take down the big bad big bois that plan for death.”
“Plus he gives us the Brown Hotness.” Nutcup holds praising paws towards the gently steaming mug of coffee.
“Adoration get on the Brown Hotness,” says one of the other squirrels, before dunking their head into the mug and coming out smiling and soaked.
“Praiiiise,” wail the others.
“That is human poison.”
“You be wrong, cat,” says Nutcup, eyeing me with a grandeur unbefitting any squirrel. He puffs out his tiny grey chest. I should have clawed one of them. They have grown impudent. With a grey paw scrunched in front of his closed eyes, he continues. “You ain’t never felt the increase of focus that the Brown Hotness provides, bruv.”
“You ain’t never felt the increase of power,” adds Twig.
“So what does the Law Keeper have you doing for this paltry offering?”
“I don’t even know what paltry means, cuz,” says Twig.
“It’s like a chicken, innit,” says Nutcup, chewing on a nut.
“What you sayin’ chicken?” Twig spreads his paws as if it is I who is the fool.
They share a smirk. I knew this would be hard work. I hold my tongue.
“There is a two-pronged attack, bruv,” says Nutcup. “Hand over the package and—”
Twig pats a paw on Nutcup’s shoulder and he stops speaking. He points at the man dressed in white still snoring beneath the table. “We get this bozo into the place what the Sternanator takes us to,” he says. “All the other lads waiting ready in our pockets, then unleash grey carnage upon all his big bad big boi mates. Everyone be safe.” He holds up two clawed thumbs, then turns them and jabs them downwards. “We get our thumbs in the pies of the underworld and chow down on its tasty berries.”
“Tasty berries FTW,” says Nutcup.
“Adoration get on the tasty berries!” say the others.
I take a steadying breath. “Is that what the Law Keeper told you?”
“Him and the Puncher man.”
“When is this assault?”
“Tomorrow night.” Twig grins confidently. “All will be well. We is the loudest.”
“Brup! Brup! Brup!” shout the others.
I shake my head. The follies of men are not ours to fix. “And in this quest you have forgotten your Goddess. She needs you.”
“We left the forest as it has been since she gave us the boon. There is no call. We would have heard it. We will not return to the Green Herself until this deed is done. Two days, cat, then we will be going home.” Twig raises his paws and his squeaky little voice to the other squirrels. “With all the Brown Hotness we can drink.”
“Brup! Brup! Brup!” They punch their little grey paws in the air.
Squirrels.
Fuck me.
The Allotment Plot
“So this’ll be yer plot,” said Norman, the allotment man. He wore muddy wellies and muddier shorts despite the cold and leant one hand on a garden fork embedded in the soil. He was about as old as the moon, and permanently bent at the middle, but with strong legs and clear blue eyes. “It’s ten rods. Last person who had it let it get a bit overgrown.”
The grass and bramble hell came nearly up to Dan’s shoulders.
“I’ll get it rotavated for ye if ye can cut it back for me.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” said Amy. “Dan’ll do it.”
Norman’s squinting eye travelled from Dan’s head to his toe. “It’ll be best if I do it.”
Probably best. What was rotavating?
“I’ve got the forty-five pounds in cash. Is that OK?” said Amy, taking an envelope from her coat pocket.
“Oh aye, that’ll keep you for the year.”
“The year!” Dan surveyed the plot. “We get all this for a year? I thought that was for the month.”
“Well, wouldn’t be much good to have an allotment plot for just the month would it?” said Norman. He gave Amy a glance.
Dan had seen that glance before. It was the “You picked this guy as your husband?” glance. The “Look at him. Are you insane? Just look at him. Blink twice if you’re being held against your will” glance.
Dan gave Norman the “Yes she did, mwaahahahahahaaaahaa! She did indeed. And she knows, and likes it” eyebrow wiggle. Then followed up with the “Well actually, Norman, my wife has a superpower which means she can make plants grow in seconds so me questioning the whole year thing isn’t that stupid. I’m not an idiot, you know” tightening of the lip.
“Sorry about him,” said Amy. “He’s a musician. He doesn’t get out much.”
“Oh, right. Stevie’s girl’s a singer.” Norman jabbed a thumb to the plot next door. It was neatly kept. Each bed was covered over with tarpaulin held in place by bricks. Wind chimes and home-made dreamcatchers dangled from a small, leafless apple tree that hung over a nice little bench. They tinkled softly with the breeze. “She comes down here sometimes with her guitar.”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” said Amy.
“Indeed. Stevie’s our resident herbalist. Knows her stuff. You have any questions, she’s your girl.” Norman looked them both over. “You starting now?”
“Yep, we’ll cut this back. I’ll email you about borrowing the rotavator. Might not be today.”
“Should think not. This’ll probably take you a couple of days without a good strimmer.”
“Oh, I’ve got one in the car,” said Dan. I’m a manly man, you know, I have a strimmer. It had been in the shed back in Walton although he couldn’t remember buying it.
“I’ll be here until just before lunch. Any questions, my plot’s just up there.” Norman pointed with a finger that didn’t quite straighten, then threw his fork over his shoulder and clomped away.
Dan put his hands on his hips and surveyed the tangle of vegetation they’d just acquired. He waved a hand over the mess. “So, how much of this do you reckon you can talk into submission?”
“Oh no,” said Amy. “We’re doing everything by the book here.”
“But …?” Work, he thought. It looks like real work. “I have musician’s fingers.” He wiggled them at her. “These fingers are worth their weight in gold.”
“What, like fifty quid?”
“No. I looked it up. It’s about ten grand.”
She pulled a set of gloves from the front pocket of her dungarees and threw them at him. “Wear these, golden boy. Don’t want anyone getting suspicious of us not doing things properly.” Her chin fell and she gazed up at him. A villain with a dastardly plan. “And then, when darkness falls across the land and the allotment dwellers have dwindled …” She gripped him conspiratorially by the lapels of his rain mac. “We’re gonna come down here and grow all the food for the best roadside grocery store anyone’s ever seen.”
“Diabolical.”
“People will come from miles around to try our ill-gotten wares.” She threw her head back and cackled to the clouded sky.
“So fiendish, mistress.”
It was her idea. They could grow some food at home, but if they wanted to make some serious money they needed quantity, and where better to find vegetable plants than an allotment.
He did have a worry.
“You’re sure it won’t hurt all these people’s plants or anything?”
His other worry he didn’t mention now.
“I’ve checked at home, if anything it should leave these plants stronger, plus I’ll only be speaking happy words so any veggies that sprout naturally afterwards are going to make these people feel great. Some cash for us. A good time for them. It’s a win-win.” She cleared her throat, then clapped her hands. “Go on then, minion. Chop-chop. Get the stuff.” She turned away and began strolling around the plot, hands clasped behind her back.
He jogged to the van. They say if you’ve seen one allotment plot, then you’ve seen one allotment plot. The place was a chaos of compost bins made out of splintering old pallets, old bits of netting suspended by old bits of tubing to keep the bugs out, and mouldy old sheds held together by old rusted nails, older spider webs, and a love of fresh produce. People sank real time and effort into this. It wasn’t just grey-haired garden guerrillas surviving solely to win the war against bindweed. Here, like the open mic night, was a community, an ecosystem, that he never knew existed.
As he returned to Amy between the unique plots and the polytunnels, pushing their dump-bought, flat-tyred wheelbarrow filled with an assortment of tools and the old strimmer balanced precariously on top, he passed several more bent-backed welly wearers. They all waved, all offered a cheery hello. He smiled in return, but kept walking, all the while piecing together new scripts to prepare for future small talk.
Oh, what have you got growing there? Point at plant that looks most like it’s supposed to be there. Try to avoid weeds.
How long have you had your plot? It’s looking lovely.
That weather, hey? would always prevail if he got stuck. There was lots of garden-based chit-chat to be mined in the sun and the rain.
And perhaps once he’d learnt what some plants looked like, Oh, your—insert plant that looks good—looks good. Default to carrots. Everyone grew carrots, didn’t they? Probably.
Nearing their plot, he overheard Amy talking to someone. As she came into view through the maze, he recognised the mother of Kat the teenage girl from the open mic night. She was in her late forties and wore a flowing dress. He did not want to refer to the woman as Sex Pot in his mind, but thanks to Dizz and his song, there was no helping it. Best to introduce himself and get a name quick.
“… Norman will fill your butt up for you,” the woman said.
Dan choked.
“Oh, he’s very kind,” said Amy. She turned to him with eyes alight. “Did you hear that, Dan? Norman’s got a hose and he’ll fill our butts with it.” Her eyebrows bounced.
“Oh, wonderful, that sounds like exactly the sort of thing I want to happen to my butt.”
Was this everyday allotment conversation?
Amy gave him a knowing grin. A grin that knew he wasn’t in on the knowing.
He dumped the wheelbarrow. “Hey,” he said to the woman. “You were at the open mic night the other day. I’m Dan, and you are …” He held out a hand. A very definite “I intend to shake your hand and get a name” hand.
Amy gave him a frown. “Dan this is Stevie. She has the plot next to us. Remember, Norman said she had a musical daughter.”
Had he been present during that conversation?
Stevie smiled and shook Dan’s hand. The bangles on her wrists jingled.
“You were doing the speakers,” she said. “Thank you for your help. Kat was very happy with how it went.” She frowned. “You left suddenly. Was everything well?”
Dan shook his head. “Oh, yeah. Just had to get home.”
“That’s funny that you already know each other,” said Amy. “We don’t really know anyone. What a coincidence that you have the plot next to ours.”
“Oh, it’s no coincidence,” Stevie said. “Ain’t no such thing.”
Her hand went to the crystal around her neck. Her eyes lingered on Dan’s. He tried to look away, but couldn’t.
“Beg pardon if I’m wrong,” she continued, “but I sense you’ve lost something. I think I might be able to help you find it again.”
Dan glanced at Amy, then patted himself down. Keys. Wallet. Phone. All present.
“I think I’ve got everything,” he said.
“No, something here.” She reached forward and touched his chest, then withdrew her hand. “I know this is a bit forward, and please don’t think I’m touting for business, but I run a hypnotherapy and holistic healing centre in town. I wonder if you would like to come along and have a session with me.” She tucked her hand inside a fold of the many-layered material that made up her dress and presented a card to him. “The first is free as a way of saying thanks for looking after Kat, but I think you’ll find just one very useful. I would like to help you find what it is you are missing. I have a space tomorrow.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it Dan?” said Amy. She took the card from Stevie’s hand. “He’ll be there.”
He would not be there.
Stevie glanced down at Amy’s stomach and her face lit up. “Oh, you’ve been blessed. How wonderful.”
“You can tell?” Amy smiled. Her hand went to her tummy. “We found out at Christmas.”
“I also offer doula services. I have a ninety-six per cent rate of successfully predicting the due date and ninety-nine of the sex, if you’d like to know. And the one per cent was a cat and I don’t usually do cats.”
“We want it to be a surprise,” said Amy.
Stevie bowed her head slightly. “Of course you do. Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” She turned away, then glanced back. “There’s something different about you,” she said. “Both of you. Be sure to call me, Daniel.”
“Oh, it’s just Dan.”
She smiled as if she knew better, then returned to her plot.
Dan watched her go.
“Come on, you,” said Amy, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Get strimming before Norman comes back with his hose.”
“Is that a threat?”
Dan unloaded the strimmer from the wheelbarrow. The scent of petrol and cut grass always reminded him pleasantly of his dad out in the garden on the ride-on lawnmower and unpleasantly of somehow being hit in the face by a chopped-up slug sent flying by the blades.
“What do you think she thinks I’ve lost?”
“What?” Amy had already moved on.
“That woman, she was looking at me oddly at the open mic night. She thinks I’ve lost something.”
Could she be talking about his songwriting mojo?
Amy opened her mouth as if to say something before thinking better of it. She took a breath.
He knew what she was thinking but there was no way Stevie had meant recently gained and subsequently cured superpowers. Although the thought had crossed his mind, not even someone who had a ninety-six per cent success rate of predicting a baby’s due date could see that. Even if she did, he was back to normal now. And this was how he was going to stay for better, or for worse. He did miss being able to talk to the Flash, but there was nothing else about the Reptile’s gift he wanted back. In a way he was thankful to Martin for giving him the opportunity to live a normal life. With mediocre power came mediocre responsibilities. He was about to be a dad. That was a great responsibility, and despite his past history of failure, despite all evidence to the contrary, being a dad was something he was going to do right. Somehow he was sure of it.
The Reptile made him do things. That night, sat around Gatsby’s table, it had spoken through his lips, it had forced him to recruit the old man with no thought as to the consequences, as if it wanted to spread. It had never been within his control.
Although the things it had made him do had been the right thing to do at the time, the Reptile had put him in harm’s way. He was better off without it. They were better without that risk. Safer. The Reptile, or at least his because Amy seemed to have such a good grasp on hers, was too much of an unknown to have in the house with a child.
He’d told her this. She’d agreed.
He would always make sure they were protected. He would keep making preparations. Hiding that axe in the hall and the shotgun the Baliks had acquired for him in his van. And every night without fail, after Amy went to bed, he put himself through hell with kettlebells and a punching bag out in the cobweb-ridden falling-apart ruin of a workshop that stood at the far end of their garden. Keeping himself ready for something he hoped would never happen. Praying with every punch thrown and every press-up performed that it would all be a waste of time.
He kept every worry within. Now, more so than ever. It was a part of him to do so. He didn’t want her to see how worried he was, because in every moment, every time he looked at her, he worried that she would be taken from him again. He knew now why he’d kept things from her. He’d not had the language to explain it before, but now he knew. If he had a problem, and he told her, he became the problem. Better to deal with things alone.
“What do you think Andrew and the others are up to right now?” she said.
“Don’t care,” he said quickly, and also rather forcefully. He didn’t. He definitely didn’t. “I don’t even want to know.” He absolutely did not have FOMOOVWF. Fear of missing out on vigilantism with friends.
“I was thinking of trying to talk them out of it,” she said, taking a set of shears from the wheelbarrow. The sight put him on edge but he chose not to mention it. “But I got the impression nothing would. Why do you think they bothered coming all the way down here just to get Andrew? And so late? They could have just called you and got his number and he could have driven himself.”
