Blend
If I was a color, I'd be beige
On the outside, what lay beneath, ah ...
Whole different animal
Seething, uncoiling, longing, resentful and oh, so much smarter than any of those dickheads who'd dismissed me as a geek
Beware of geeks bearing stolen cash
Come lunch time, I did the same thing I'd done for years, put on my tan raincoat, and headed for Joe's Diner
There is no Joe
There is certainly a Sandy
Oh sweet Jesus
A wet dream in a waitress outfit, she ran that diner like clockwork and always, over her top lip, a tiny line of perspiration, I was fascinated by that, dreamt of licking it off, and her body
Lush
One of her eyes had a slight defect and did that put me off
Duh
It only accentuated her whole radiance, for three years I'd been trying to work up the courage to ask her out, she called me Mr. D ... I'd asked
"Call me Danny."
Licking her tongue along her top gorgeous white teeth, she'd said
"I only call guys I'm banging by their first names."
Yeah, a mouth on her
Like a fishwife
Made me love her all the more
One of the tellers, Joan, fifty, bitter, single, and ugly as fuck, said to me one time
"That Sandy, she ain't nothing but trailer trash."
Part of the attraction
During that four days, when I got back to my home, I'd smell ... cordite? ... a heavy acrid stench ... like brimstone and would chide myself
"Get real buddy."
The third day, the remains of a meal left in a mess on my kitchen table and I laughed, shouted
"You might at least wash up yah red bastard."
If he heard, he didn't answer
The day I finally took the money, the omens were not good, first my boss had told me to
"Snap to it."
When I looked at him, he said
"You're daydreaming all the time, and don't tell me it's the robbery, look at Jason, more alert than ever so get over it"
And yes, did shout that last bit
I saw the smile of sheer malice on Jason's face
Lunch time, Sandy served everyone else before me and then Jason sauntered in just as I was about to finally get my order and she literally rushed to hand him a menu and oh fuck Jason.
Any reservations about taking the money evaporated in a cloud of hatred
I'd brought my gym bag to work, not that I ever worked out, not that we even had a gym ... and come closing, it was a tight fit but I got the money sack in there, put my bag on my shoulder and near fell under the weight
My body was covered in sweat and just as I'd cleared the front door, a voice asked
"What's in the bag dude?"
Jason
Hand on his holstered gun, his hip stuck out like a hooker
I said
"All the rubbish that has accumulated over too long."
He moved toward me, said
"Lemme give you a hand there."
And I said too quickly
"No, I mean, thanks and all but I can manage."
He watched me for a moment, said
"Pretty damn jumpy there fellah, hope you're not robbing us, you know how I deal with scum like that."
Then he took a long intense size up of me, said
"I thought you Micks were like, party animals, loved to get down but you Danny, you're like some uptight Mormon."
I had no reply to that and started to move toward the street He ... I swear to God ... he made a gun of his right hand and as I walked away, he dropped the hammer
I got home, my clothes drenched in sweat, and made a large bourbon rocks, I'd been buying more of the stuff in the last few days, it kind of sneaks up on you
I drank off a lethal bourbon, emptied the bag onto the kitchen floor and muttered
"Sweet fuck."
As a cashier, I could almost tell how much was there in the hundred-dollar bands, and oh bliss, so many of them
I sat down and began to count
One to count cadence
Took my time and I punctuated the count with frequent trips to the bourbon bottle, my heart was pounding and the plans, getting out of this shithole, moving to Mexico, and best of all, bringing Sandy with me. She'd come, not for me but for the money. I was under no illusion about my appeal but I'd watched her eyes whenever a guy flashed a roll. I was money-dazzled, and bourbon-saturated, I never heard the porch door and nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice said
"Oh Danny Boy."
Jason
With a smirk as wide as the Grand Canyon
He had his new Ruger in his right hand, not pointing, just dangling casually by his right leg
He lifted the bourbon bottle, asked
"Mind if I join the party."
Took a large swig, then wiping his lips, said
"Everyone knows you've been depressed since the robbery, all that macho gunplay too much for your delicate sensibility and it's already known you're hitting the sauce so how surprising is it you shot yourself?"
He produced another gun, a .22, said
"Mickey Mouse gun for a Mickey Mouse guy."
A booming voice said
"You don't want to do that kid."
There was Hellboy, his gun pointed at Jason
Jason asked
"The fuck are you, Halloween isn't for another three months."
Hellboy said
"Drop the guns."
He did
As if pleading, dropped to one knee and I knew, the ankle weapon, and before I could shout, he had it out and Hellboy fired, blew off his gun hand
Hellboy looked at me, said over the screaming "Oh Danny boy, them pipes are calling."
Sure enough, the sound of sirens could be heard
I pleaded
"Get me out of this."
And he smiled, almost a tender one if such a grotesque face could achieve that, said
"Now wouldn't that be a hell of a thing."
* * *
Strange Fishing in the Western Highlands
Garth Nix
* * *
It is forty years and more since I first went fishing with Hellboy. I was a young man then, with a fresh-minted medical degree from St. Andrews and what I thought was a wholly rational view of the world. Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery I was, with Mb ChB after my name, and a head stuffed full of scientific knowledge and a bare modicum of practical surgery from the hospital in Dundee.
The last few years of my medical studies had been extraordinarily busy, and in that time I'd seen very little of my father, my sole living relative. He hadn't made it any easier, choosing when he retired to live not in our comfortable former family home in Edinburgh, instead moving to the house he had inherited from his uncle, a remote place on the shore of Loch Torridon in the Western Highlands. It was four miles from where the road terminated, had no telephone, only occasional electricity from a diesel generator, and for the most part, could only be easily reached by boat from Lower Diabaig or Shieldaig, across the loch.
So, having unexpectedly been given four days off duty from the hospital due to what I supposed was a rostering error but may have in fact been a direction from on high that I was working too hard, I decided to visit my father. I sent a telegram to advise him, but as it was February, and the winter storms busy on the west coast, I thought it unlikely it would reach him before I did. Though I had no doubts about his filial affection, we did not enjoy the closest of father-son relationships. So I took the precaution of purchasing a ham, a dozen bottles of his favorite burgundy, and a few other odds and ends to offer as gifts, all of which went into a hamper that I could only just jam into the very slim boot of my senior colleague Dr. Teague's Austin-Healey 3000, which he had reluctantly lent me for my journey.
The road trip was uneventful, save that I drove toward bad weather rather than away from it, and regretted borrowing a convertible rather than something more sensible from one of my other friends, as while the car looked very fine and was quite fast, it also leaked and the heater was either too hot or completely ineffective.
I arrived at Lower Diabaig around four o'clock and parked near the pier, which marked the terminus of the road. It was already quite dark, and the latest in a steady series of heavy showers was coming down, with the promise of more to follow. There were two fishing boats tied up at the pier, so I walked up to see if anyone was aboard who might take me to my fathers. If not, I would have to knock on some doors to see who might be at home in the village, as there was no pub or hotel where I might otherwise find a fisherman.
I thought I was in luck as I saw someone aboard the first vessel, as I even knew the man slightly. His name was Toller, though I didn't know if this was his Christian or surname. He had taken me to my father's on several previous occasions, so I was rather surprised when he answered my cheerful greeting with a grunt and immediately returned his attention to coiling a rope that he had, in fact, just perfectly coiled, only to unroll it at my approach.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mister Toller," I called. "I was hoping you might be able to take me over to Owtwauch House."
Toller turned away from me, ignoring me completely, as I stood stupidly in the rain looking at his broad, oilskin-clad back. I was surprised, for Toller had never shown me any animosity before. True, he was a Highland Scot, and I a Lowlander born and bred, and an anglified one at that, but I'd never felt that this was a problem before, though I'd heard of such prejudices.
I was momentarily tempted to step aboard his boat and give him a piece of my mind, but fortunately was prevented from doing so by a hail from the other fishing boat. A fisherman I hadn't met before waved at me, so I left Toller and walked along the pier.
"Old Toller's having a Presbyterian sulk today," said the man, who was not much older than myself, though considerably more weathered. His accent was unusual. He spoke excellent English, and sounded Scottish most of the time, but he placed a different emphasis on the syllables of some words. "Did ye say you wanted to go over to the Owtwauch?"
"Aye," I answered. "It's my father's house, Colonel MacAndrew. I'm his son, Malcolm."
"Pleased to meet you, then," said the fisherman. "I'm Erik Haakon. I'll take you over."
"That's very kind," I said, leaning down to shake hands as he reached up from the deck. "I'll just nip back and get my things. You don't think the weather's too tough to cross, then?"
Erik looked startled, following this by a glance at the sky.
"Ach, no! There's plenty of rain, but the wind's dying already. Full moon tonight, and all."
I'd forgotten it was a full moon. If it cleared, it would be a beautiful night. The view from my father's house was particularly spectacular on a moonlit night, with its panoramic vista of the loch and the western sea toward Skye. I supposed that was why it had been called Owtwauch House, "Owtwauch" being Gaelic for something like a sentry post. My father was very keen on the Gaelic and spoke it fluently, and it had been drummed into me as a small boy, but like any rarely used language it had faded from my mind. Mostly to be replaced by medical Latin, of which I had been required to memorize far more than was really sensible in the modern age.
Erik and I chatted a little as we chugged away across the Loch. He was Norwegian, but had married a local girl, and was older than I thought, in his mid-thirties at least. We discussed the parlous state of the fisheries, and the recent purchase by the National Trust of most of the land around Loch Torridon from one of the old estates. In fact, my father's property was one of the few remaining pockets of freehold not to go to the National Trust. It had been held by our family for a very long time, apparently all the way back to Somerled, King of the Isles, and perhaps before.
We were bumping up against the rough wooden jetty that served as a landing stage for Owtwauch House before I noticed, through the curtain of rain, that there was a helicopter sitting on the front lawn, a broad expanse which ran down almost to the stony beach, ending in a retaining wall that was as green with tidal weed as the grass of the lawn. There were also many more lights than usual burning in the house, far more than the one generator could support.
"Remember me to your father," said Erik, and he made a curious gesture, a fist hammering the air, as I gaped at the helicopter. "I'd best make for home."
Absently, my mind awhirl, I tried to pay him for the short voyage, but he would have none of it, instead helping me get my hamper onto the jetty, and helping me out as well as I continued to try and press a five-pound note into his hand.
I had hardly taken four steps when I saw two men emerge out of the rain-hazed lights and block the end of the jetty. They were dressed in the typical style of country gentlemen, as I was myself, in Harris tweed, corduroy, and Wellingtons, and it would not have been too out of place if they had shotguns under their arms. But it was definitely out of place for them to be carrying Sten submachine guns, relics of the past war, instantly recognizable to me not only from hundreds of comic books of commando adventures, but also from many visits to the various bases where my father had served the latter part of his thirty-five years under the colors.
Fortunately, I half-recognized one of the two men, and perhaps even more fortunately he knew me.
"Malcolm MacAndrew! What are you doing here?"
"I've come to see my father," I stammered. "What's going on?"
"You'd better come inside," replied the man. He was a major, or had been when I had last met him, though I'd forgotten his name. He was one of my father's former subordinates from his last posting before retirement, when he commanded the King's Own Scottish Borderers.
Cradling the Sten in the crook of his left elbow, he shook hands with me. I almost dropped the hamper in the process, and felt a clumsy fool in the presence of these soldiers.
"Colonel Strahan," said the man, reminding me. "Call me Neil. This is Bob Mumfort."
The other man nodded, but it couldn't be described as an overly friendly gesture. Reluctant acceptance at best.
Strahan led us across the lawn, past the helicopter. It wasn't a type I recognized, and the only marking on its dark gray hull was a small acronym in darker gray on the door.
"B.P.R.D.? What's that?"
"Your father will explain," said Strahan. We continued past the helicopter, further into the light. There were portable floodlights like those used in filmmaking rigged up around the house, encircling it with harsh white illumination, and I could hear the deep thrum of several diesel generators out the back.
