Two Women and Some Books
If you have a snotty nose
Pour some brandy on your toes
Rub some olbas on your knees
Fill a foot bath with some cheese
If you have a coughing chest
Put bananas in your vest
Rub some chutney in your hair
And run round the garden bare
In short, if you have the flu
Do the stuff you ought to do
Follow this stuff to the letter
Soon you will be feeling better
Everybody’s favourite private eye, the creation of Jane Jago, is live on Tall Tale TV right now. Why not listen in as Chris brings Sam, Sugar and their weird world to life?
The name’s Nero, Sam Nero. Private eye and augmented android. Me and my holographic sidekick, Sugar, operate out of an office on the fifty-fifth level of The Last City. We do okay. But some days are a bit bumpier than others…
When a dame whose everyday walk is as smooth and studiedly sexy as a big jungle cat, and whose make-up is as immaculate as a well-pressed designer suit, arrives in your office at a shambling run with her face all over tears and snot it’s a safe bet that something pretty bad is wrong.
I was lost in thought, with my feet propped on my desk and my hat tipped way down over my eyes, when my office door was thrown open in a dramatic fashion. I barely had long enough to wonder why in the hell my holographic door was now making an eldritch shriek, when Katie Scarlett O’Halleran and her exceptional bosom landed almost in my lap. She was crying, and her face was a mess.
She grabbed me by the lapels and tried to shake me.
“Sam. Sam. You have to come. Somebody has taken Daddy.”
I sat bolt upright and squared my shoulders. Anybody brave enough to mess with Mister Aitch was certainly a big fish, and I guessed I was about to go shark fishing. I grasped the sobbing girl by her slender shoulders.
“Calm down Katie Scarlett, and tell me what happened.”
“I already told you,” she all but screamed, “somebody has taken Daddy.”
“Details Katie, details.”
I gently compelled her to sit down, and held onto her until her chest stopped heaving and she took two steadying breaths. Then I got the bottle out of my drawer and poured her a stiff one. Her teeth chattered against the side of the glass, but the act of drinking calmed her almost as much as the bourbon.
“Daddy’s personal alarm sounded about an hour back. Me and the twins ran, but his office door was locked. When we broke the door down he was gone, and there was blood all over.”
“Okay,” I said, although I didn’t think anything was okay. “Where are the twins now?”
“Flirting with your holographic floozie. We set droids to watch on the office and came straight here.”
I decided now was not the time to react to the slur on Sugar’s character. Instead, I reached into the locked drawer of my desk and pulled out two extra weapons, a mini blaster that I stuck in my sock, and a weighted sap that slipped into my pocket.
“Let’s go then.”
The twins and Sugar were in animated sign language conversation.
“Sugar,” I said, “if anybody comes looking…”
“I don’t know where you are, and I certainly never saw these folks.” She flashed me that empty-headed smile that I knew hid a mind like a steel trap and wiggled her assets. I gave her the raised eyebrow and we left.
The trip down the glides was tense and silent. Katie had herself together but she was only holding by a thread, while the twins obviously looked to me for a lead. I’ll admit it. I was worried. So much so that I didn’t even bother to exchange words with the young chancer who thought it would be a good idea to put his hands on Katie Scarlett; I just broke his wrist before I threw him off the glide. Myk gave me the thumb, and Zig grinned a tight grin.
Listen in now on Tall Tale TV and you can find the entire story in six episodes here if you want to read along.
The wizard who guarded the coach was old, wizened and crabby looking. He resembled nothing so much as a tortoise. But he was what he was, so people generally gave him a wide berth, which made it all the more surprising when the band of outlaws came screaming out of the woods.
“Stand and deliver!”
The coachman pulled up his team and sighed at the predictability.
“Magic wielder. If you please.”
The wizard waved a negligent hand and the sky filled with snapping dragon wings. The horses bolted.
Once the road cleared, the wizard fed each dragon a chocolate button.
When the last thing you remember is something that feels like a bee sting on the side of your neck, and you open your eyes to see a skeleton sitting in a wing-backed chair, apparently reading what looks like a very dog-eared copy of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ by the light of a hissing Tilley lamp, the temptation has to be to close your eyes and wait for it to go away. So I tried that. But it was no manner of use. All that happened was that I heard a dry bone-ish sort of chuckle inside my head.
I opened my eyes again and regarded the ossified one with some dissatisfaction. Then I noticed the spectacles – and that was the moment when hysteria almost overtook me. In order to wear spectacles the frames have to rest on your nose and your ears. Of course, a skeleton has neither but, nevertheless, these horn-rimmed spectacles hovered in approximately the correct position and hideously magnified a pair of bloodshot eyeballs, which seemed to be studying me in much the way a schoolboy studies a bug on a pin.
In an effort at nonchalance I snorted indelicately and sat up.
Bones averted its gaze, which alerted me to the fact I was completely naked.
“Can you cover yourself please?” The voice in my head was almost plaintive. “Normally I wouldn’t care, but I’ve been reading this…”
I laughed and pulled the bedclothes up to my armpits.
Bedclothes? At this point, my hair all but stood on end and it was only iron self-control, and the discipline of years, that enabled me to pull myself together.
I looked around me to discover I was in an enormous barrel-vaulted chamber – windowless except for one narrow slit high on the ceiling which threw a line of light on a clock face equally high on the opposite wall. This would seem to be suggesting that it was three o’clock in the afternoon. I registered that piece of information and filed it in my brain for future reference, before carrying on with the catalogue of my situation. I was sitting on what was possibly a tomb or, more likely, some sort of an altar, on a thick soft mattress and I had a downy coverlet pulled over me. At the side of my ‘bed’ there was a small pile of clothing: not mine. There was also a leather satchel – which was mine, and which I was very pleased to behold.
A deep, cool voice from behind me all but had me snapping my head around in surprise.
“Is there aught you require, lady?”
I turned around with calculated slowness to find myself looking into the eyes of an obviously female stone sphinx.
“My own clothes” I said coolly “and food”.
The creature met my stare head on for a moment before inclining her cranium ironically. She whistled shrilly, and a troupe of fauns clattered into view, bearing various items of clothing and a basket from which the scent of new bread oozed its enchantment. I inclined my own head as the little males disposed their burdens on the coverlet at my feet.
“Right boys” I said briskly “everyone turn away so I can dress in peace.”
They all turned, except the sphinx.
“You too sister. I have no desire to wring your little marble heart with my beauty.”
She snarled, but turned to face outward.
Once I was dressed in leather trousers and a form-fitting multi-pocketed weskit I opened the basket to find bread, bacon, honey, and a flask of wine.
“You can turn back now thank you” I remarked “and can somebody please take the bacon. I don’t eat flesh.”
One of the fauns trotted over and showed me its sharp little teeth in a feral grin as it took the lump of fat bacon out of the basket….
This is an extract from ‘The Nature of the Beast’. Just one of the stories in ‘Pulling the Rug 2’ by Jane Jago.
Rosita lit cigarette from the stub of the last and scrubbed a yellow sock.
“Me and Manuel don’t get jiggy no more. He’s so fat I can’t find his cojones. Last night he’s begging for it, so I go looking. What’d I find under his great belly? I’ll tell ya. I find the biro pen he lost last month. I find a half-eaten sucking candy. I find cannoli from the ristorante we went for his last birthday. What don’t I find? His pênis. I’m shouting out the list and he laughs so much the bed collapses. Hombres. Who knew…”
This, Carla realised, was what was meant by ‘tea and sympathy’. Only, in this case, it was coffee and sympathy – well latte to be exact – and some comfort-eating chocolate cake.
“So it’s over this time?” Her cup, broad and deep, clicked back on its saucer. “Really? Truly?”
Emmy gave a sad smile. Over the last hour and the chocolate cake, she had burdened Carla’s soul with a gory, forensic dissection of the breakdown of her relationship. Cut by painful cut, from the first misconstrued comment to the final brutal insult.
“Oh it’s over. Dead. Buried. Jake knows it, I know it.”
“You’re sure? Last time – ”
“Last time I was still half in love.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
“So what about Chris?”
Emmy’s blue eyes blinked once, stating clearly that the name was not relevant in her love life and never would be. “I heard from Miranda the other day. Sienna is starting school. Isn’t that incredible? It only seems like last week the three of us were sitting in these very chairs discussing baby names.”
“Emmy – you can’t pretend forever.”
The blue eyes clouded. Emmy grabbed her coffee cup from its brightly coloured saucer and hid behind it. The words ‘I Love Cappuccino’ danced around the rim in bold, red letters.
“Chris won’t just go away,” Carla spoke to the cup.
Emmy lowered the coffee, her face tightly resentful.
“Chris is not involved with this.” Then, suddenly appealing: “Let’s not go there today, Carla hun, please.”
Not for the first time, Carla felt herself being torn between loyalties. Emmy’s baby-blue eyes, pleading, and Chris – dependable Chris – bleeding from a dozen wounds he had never known were being inflicted. Carla shook her head slowly, as the waters of the Rubicon flowed away beneath her feet.
“He’s your husband, not a meal ticket. You have to – ”
Instantly Emmy was by the door, the cup still in her hand.
“I don’t ‘have to’ anything! Don’t you understand? I don’t care!”
The coffee cup arced across the room heading for shattering impact and landed at the moment the door slammed. It bounced on the carpet, with a little spray of coffee and rolled, until it stopped on its handle by Carla’s feet, still safe and in one piece.
Carla bent to pick it up, the words facing her read: ‘I Love…’. For a moment she clutched it close, then she placed it with extra care on its own saucer, where it belonged.
When your mates are hammered by the time you arrive, there’s only one solution. Tequila. Much tequila.
I woke up to brilliant sunshine, a mouth like a crocodile’s armpit, and a sense of unease. There seemed to be something trapping me to the bed. It was an arm. A very hairy obviously masculine arm. I managed to lever myself into a sitting position, and barely repressed a shriek.
Either I was in bed with grizzly bear, or…
The hairy thing rolled over.
“Morning wife,” it said.
“Wife?” I heard the panic in my own voice.
I never drunk tequila again.
She went to find her mother to tell her she was going back to Thuringen the next day. Instead, she froze in the doorway at the image on the vidcast screen they had been sharing before she had left the room. The face filled the air. It was some documentary her mother had been viewing to do with criminal justice. She moved into the room paused the image and stood staring, feeling her mouth dry a little and aware that her mother was looking at her with real concern.
“Charis? Are you alright? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Uh — maybe I have. Who is that?”
Her mother looked at the screen and then back to Charis.
“That’s Avilon Revid. The man who was an academic genius then murdered his wife and child and went off to become a terrorist. Sad story: brilliant mind goes mad and falls into an orgy of destruction — until they caught him. So happy ending.”
Charis felt sick. She had to be wrong.
“He’s still alive?”
“I would doubt so. It was a big case at the time. If I recall the trial was held behind closed doors for security reasons and he was sentenced to serve in the Special Legion. The judge ruled that the death penalty would be too lenient. Which led to a lot of debate at the time and set a precedent for subsequent sentencing — before the general view had been that the death penalty was the more extreme, but once the —” she broke off with a small smile, no doubt realising she was letting her legal enthusiasm run away with her.
“When was this?”
“It must have been, hmm…” Her mother clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth as she thought. “Must be seven or eight years ago now. Why? Charis, you’re looking as though you recognise him.”
The Specials. A cold frost had started somewhere in her chest and spread out along her limbs. Charis shivered.
“No. Well, yes — it’s just he bears a creepy resemblance to someone I met on Thuringen. But no. It’s not him. It couldn’t be. Just — those eyes.” She shivered again.
Her mother nodded understanding. Then, probably because she was so understanding she turned off the vidcast and took Charis out for the evening. But the image wasn’t so easily dismissed from Charis’ mind and when she got back into the ‘City a couple of days later it was still haunting her. She had just landed when her mother was linking her, very concerned.
“Darling, the man you told me about, the one who looked like that terrorist?”
“What about him?”
“He’s not someone you know well, or have many dealings with is he?”
Charis could hear the tightness in her mother’s voice, see her anxiety.
“No. Not at all. I’ve not seen him for ages. Why?”
“I checked with some friends of mine in the Legal department of CRD. Avilon Revid was released a year ago having served five years exemplary. It was low key and kept unpublicised because of his notoriety. He will have been given a new identity — but they wouldn’t tell me where he was released. That is privileged information.”
The frost was forming again.
“Oh I’m sure this wasn’t the same man,” she said quickly, to reassure both of them. “And even if it was I don’t think I’d be seeing him again anyway.”
“I’m sure it’s not too. I mean, the chances are ridiculously small — but please, take care anyway.”
From Edge of Doom, a Fortune’s Fools book and the second volume of the Haruspex trilogy.
Nobody wanted Blue because he wasn’t pretty. But he had a big heart, and the girls at the shelter refused to give up on him.
On the day when a decision on the unwanted dog’s future had to be faced, a family came along looking for a companion for a lonely, bullied child. The boy walked among the cages with a closed expression until he saw Blue. His eyes lit up, and a smile lifted the sorrow from his face.
Blue thumped his tail and the boy beamed.
“Mum,” he said. “That’s my dog. He understands because he’s ugly too…”
Fatswhistle and Buchtooth by Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV is seminal work of science fantasy sets the benchmark by which all others are judged. Where quest meets tragedy, and comedy meets despair. Critics are calling it 'the best ever cure for insomnia' and 'the book that finally persuaded me I hate science fantasy'.
A tiny weeny extract in which we explore the tender relationship between our hero and his trusty female companion.
They came out of the desert into the fertile valley of the big river, just as the sun was dropping. Buchtooth kicked her camel until it knelt and leapt off the saddle throwing her clothing off as she ran towards the water.
“Come on Fatswhistle you ugly bastard, get off your frigging camel and get into this water. You smell worse than him.”
Fatswhistle followed his companion in a much more leisurely fashion. He was just removing his cracked leather boots when she threw herself into the water. Her back was broad and freckled and as she dived, the white globes of her arse were displayed to Fatswhistle’s suddenly interested gaze. He removed his clothing at a rather accelerated pace and hurried after her into the brown water.
She was singing tunelessly and washing her long carrot-orange curls when he waded over to her and sat down. The river mud felt like silk under his buttocks and he picked up one of his own feet and looked between his toes. He watched his companion from under his eyelids finding her heavy breasts surprisingly exciting as they dipped in and out of the water. He scooted closer and put out a tentative hand. She snorted and wrung the water out of her hair. Emboldened, he touched the freckled skin on her shoulder. She jumped and swore, dunking him under the water until he saw stars…
“Gerrof.”
Fatswhistle and Buchtooth is currently out of print as one engages in secret talks pertaining to the future of that piece of one’s very soul. Instead, here is a smidgin of impeccable verse
Hibiscus bloom of palest pink
I have not words, I have not ink
To speak of love’s bepetalled face
Watch from afar who walks in grace
Who walks in beauty as the dawn
Who in my breast true love doth spawn
Who shines like effervescent gold
Who shall not wither, nor grow old
Hibiscus bloom thy petals ope
And face the sun and dash my hopes
Hibiscus bloom of palest hue
Who murders hope with lies untrue
Hibiscus bloom of stainless steel
Who stamps my love beneath her heel
A bite of... Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
Dame Barbara Cartland is in one’s humble opinion a writer in the presence of whose excellence we should all bow our heads. And if you cannot see why then one washes one’s hands of you forthwith
One must confess to a partiality for that very out-of-fashion but delectable cocktail the snowball. And to being wholly unable to resist white chocolate in any form.
On first glance one could only say hero. But closer thought made one discern that one’s hero is always heading for heartbreak whilst one’s villain had no such feelings to injure. Ergo one would be a hero with the moral compass of a villain.
About Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
The only offspring of a doomed union between the daughter of an English Country Gentleman and the unsatisfactory son of an American stomach pills magnate, Moonbeam resides with his maternal parent in leafy suburbia. His ruling passion is writing, and as he is fortunate enough to be in possession of a small private income he is able to write with only literary excellence in mind, being able to ignore the demands of mammon that may force his lesser colleagues into prostituting their art for a few pieces of silver.
Fatswhistle and Buchtooth was a whole decade in its gestation, and you may expect the next magnum opus to take even longer as Moonbeam hones his craft to ever more delicate points.
In the meantime, one’s his fans may catch more of one’s his highly distinctive wit and wisdom in a slim volume facilitated by the rather boring women who run this blog assisted by one’s his maternal parent – How to Start Writing a Book: The Wit and Wisdom of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
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