Breaking the Lore

going

1

Discovering fairies at the bottom of the garden is supposed to be good luck. Except when the fairy has been crucified. Two pieces of wood shoved into the ground, one tiny form fastened on to them. Sometimes, thought Inspector Nick Paris, being a cop could be the worst job in the world. And sometimes it was bloody amazing.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you reckon?’

Williams the pathologist lay on the grass, examining the scene. He shuffled round and peered up at the detective.

‘I’m not sure what to make of it,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’

‘You think I have?’

‘Maybe, Boss,’ said a voice over Paris’s shoulder. ‘We do get to see some mighty weird stuff. Remember I told you about those talking fish?’

‘Bonetti,’ said Paris. ‘That was Finding Nemo.’

For the umpteenth time, Paris cursed the process of allocating sergeants, and wondered how the hell he’d been assigned this one. Life could be a right pain. Still, considering the grisly sight in front of him, it had to be better than the alternative.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘we’re not in Hollywood. This is Manchester, for God’s sake! The leafy suburbs, granted, but your archetypal northern industrial city. Things like this just don’t happen here. Mind you, things like this probably don’t happen anywhere. Help me out, Jack. Is it even real?’

Williams pushed his glasses back on his nose, then pointed at the grass.

‘We’ve got what appears to be blood,’ he said. ‘There’s also bruising around the wounds. Hence the answer is: yes and no.’ He clambered to his feet, brushing the soil from his trousers. ‘Real – yes. It – no. Most definitely a she.’

Paris crouched down to survey the scene once more. The two sticks were in the ground in an X shape, with one wrist and the opposite ankle attached to each. The petite head drooped forward, golden hair obscuring the face. Over the shoulders rose silver wings, glistening in the early morning sun. Below the head he could see a body covered by a pale blue dress. A body that was clearly female, with a sensational, albeit minute, figure.

‘Can’t argue with you,’ he said. ‘Living doll. Well, a dead one. But she can’t be a fairy, because they don’t exist. So what are we dealing with? Freak of nature? Genetic mutation?’

‘Maybe,’ said Bonetti, ‘she really is a fairy. Or a woman who got stuck in a washing machine.’

Paris looked up into his assistant’s permanently vacant face, sitting on top of the solid, rugby player’s torso. He had to admit, a good person to have around if they ever got into a fight. Plus a reasonable enough chauffeur. Apart from that, though, about as much use as the Gobi Desert white-water rafting team.

‘A washing machine?’

‘Happened to me, Boss. One of my shirts shrunk when we put it in extra hot.’

‘I see,’ said Paris, as patiently as he could manage. ‘And did it grow wings at the same time?’

‘No, Boss. Our machine’s too old for any of them fancy settings.’

Paris contemplated life with Bonetti as his sergeant. The alternative didn’t seem so bad after all.

‘Right,’ he said, turning back towards Williams. ‘Any suggestions which actually come from Planet Earth? Or anything else you want to tell me?’

‘I can’t give you a definitive cause of death until we get back to the lab,’ replied the pathologist. ‘I can tell you I don’t appreciate working in a circus.’

Paris raised his head. Shouting voices rumbled down from the house, hidden from view by a thick privet hedge.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I’ve always wondered why these people with great big gardens split them into different sections. Now I know. It’s to stop the media from seeing the bodies.’

He looked back at Williams, who frowned at him.

‘Bound to happen,’ said Paris. ‘You know how fast the papers pick up on the slightest hint of a story. Then someone reports finding a murdered fairy? Just be glad my guys are holding them back. Besides, we’ve kept it down to three camera crews and half a dozen reporters; I think we’ve done pretty well.’

Williams tutted. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘I never enjoy finding the victims. Even when they’re fifteen centimetres tall. But I do like interesting cases.’

‘Indeed. You’ve certainly got one here.’

‘Boss,’ said Bonetti. ‘Do we tell the press anything?’

‘Do we hell!’ replied Paris. ‘Say it’s a hoax. I’m sure Jack can whip up whatever you need.’

‘Of course,’ said Williams. ‘Give you time to whip up the killer, I suppose.’

‘Yeah. Only that won’t even be the hard part. That’ll be dealing with the lawyers.’

‘What do you mean?’

Paris stared up at him. ‘How do you kill somebody who doesn’t exist?’

2

Paris plonked his empty glass on the coffee table as he let out a long, slow sigh.

‘Needed that,’ he said.

His living room’s only reply was the ticking of the clock. Quarter past eight, fourteen hours since he’d been called out this morning. Doesn’t time fly, he thought. And it hasn’t even got wings.

He poured himself a refill and considered it for a moment. A cop on his own with a bottle of whisky was hardly an unusual occurrence. Some of them drank due to stress, or depression, or failed marriages. Paris drank because he got paid to. Years ago he’d hit upon a novel way of cracking cases. He would go home, gather his thoughts, study the evidence, analyse the problem – then lubricate his renowned logical brain to work everything out. This method had helped him to solve numerous complicated investigations successfully. So successfully, in fact, that these days his superiors not only knew his technique, they also supplied the alcohol. Of course, the more confusing the assignment, the more working out it required. Paris mulled over the current case. He reflected on the peculiar crime scene, the astonishing corpse. He sighed once more.

‘Looks like I’m going to need another bottle.’

The current one stood on the coffee table in front of him, half empty from previous nights. It occupied pride of place between the ashtray and the screwed-up takeaway wrappings. When she came to clean tomorrow, Mrs Doherty would tell him off. Again.

He plucked his cigarette from the edge of the ashtray. One deep inhale, one slow breath out, then sit back on the sofa. All day long, through mountains of paperwork plus interminable meetings, the mystery had gnawed away at him like a hyperactive beaver. Now, finally, some quiet time. Time to think.

A tapping sound interrupted the tranquillity. Paris turned his head towards the French windows. Long evening shadows of trees spilled in from the garden, with no sign of a person. The inspector got up and walked to the back of the room. He leant against the window to examine the gathering darkness. Nothing.

The tapping came again, down by his feet. Paris peered at the ground outside. He could just about make out something moving in the gloom. Crouching down, he pressed his face to the glass.

Two black eyes squinted back at him.

‘What the hell?’ said Paris. ‘A bloody crow?’

He banged on the window.

‘Shoo! Clear off!’

The crow remained in exactly the same place, indifferent to the protests. Paris stood up to unlock the door. He opened it and waved his foot at the feathered nuisance. ‘Get out of here!’

The bird glared up at him. ‘That’s not very friendly, is it?’

Paris lowered his leg and stared at the creature. Had it really talked to him? In a broad cockney accent?

‘Did – did you just speak?’

‘Course I spoke,’ replied the crow. ‘Do I look like a ventriloquist?’

It tilted its head to one side, peeking around him.

‘You letting me in then?’

Paris moved out of the way, holding onto the window handle to stop himself from falling over. The crow hopped past him, then jumped up and flew onto the coffee table. It appraised the lounge from its new position.

‘Not bad,’ it said, as it strutted around. ‘Even if the place does stink of curry. Bit boring, though. Bit functional. No cushions or photos or stuff. Never settled down, eh? Too busy with your career, I suppose. Know the feeling.’

It circled to face Paris, nodding its head towards his left hand.

‘Gizza fag.’

‘What?’

‘One of them you’re holding. Fag. Tab. Stick of death. Go on. Pretty please.’

Paris let go of the handle and stepped slowly across the room. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for another cigarette. Lighting it with his own one, he bent down, extending his arm so the bird could reach. It closed its beak over the filter tip and began to smoke.

It winked at him.

‘Cheers.’

Paris moved round the table to his seat. He lowered himself onto the chair carefully, not taking his gaze off the strange entity in front of him. It appeared the same as every crow he’d ever seen; maybe half a metre long, with glossy black plumage and intense beady eyes. It smelt the way he imagined they would too; of grass and trees and eating from bins. But it sounded like an East End gangster.

At least the damn thing had stopped talking, presumably while it concentrated on getting the cigarette going. Whatever the reason, Paris wasn’t about to complain.

They studied each other warily for a few moments, neither of them speaking. Eventually the visitor broke the silence.

‘You seem kinda shocked.’

Paris blinked and shook his head. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I’m talking to a crow who’s smoking a fag. So yeah, I’m a little surprised. This isn’t a conversation I ever planned on having.’

‘Me neither. But you know how it is. Times change. Someone gets killed. You’re Inspector Nick Paris, right?’

‘Think so. Unless I’ve become Doctor Dolittle.’

‘Nah,’ replied the bird. ‘You’re still you. I’m Malbus. Saw you this morning, from up in the trees. Heard one of the uniform bods say Inspector Paris is in charge. Course, he didn’t say which detective he’s on about. I had to work it out. Your scientist man hadn’t turned up yet, so there’s a choice between two of you. And there’s a younger bloke, like mid-thirties, big and strong but dopey-looking. I figure it can’t be him. You gotta be the other guy.’

‘The one who isn’t dopey-looking?’

‘The one who’s starting to go grey and getting a bit podgy. Couldn’t talk to you there, though, not with all those other folks around. And it took a while to find you afterwards. Had to do a bit of detective work myself.’

Malbus puffed away, blowing out smoke rings. Paris shook his head again, trying to take everything in. A talking bird. Smoking a cigarette. While criticising his appearance. Gradually his policeman’s logic overcame his confusion. And his indignation.

‘Someone gets killed,’ he repeated. ‘You said someone.’

‘I’m using your language. What do you want me to call her? Anyhow, what do you think she is?’

‘We’re still investigating.’

The crow leant towards him. ‘Yeah, yeah. What do you reckon? You personally.’

Paris evaluated the question. He knew how he was supposed to respond, even if he couldn’t accept it himself. In the current circumstances, however, the answer didn’t sound quite so mad.

‘I reckon,’ he said, ‘she’s a fairy.’

Malbus stood up straight. ‘You’d be right. Well done. Her name’s Daffodil.’

‘You knew her?’

The bird ruffled his feathers in what looked like an approximation of a shrug. ‘Friend of a friend.’

Paris frowned. ‘I see. You acquainted with many fairies?’

‘A few. They keep themselves to themselves. Now me, I’ll talk to anyone. Only not normally humans.’

‘So why are you talking to one now?’

The crow hopped closer to him.

‘Because you need my help,’ said Malbus. ‘And we need yours.’

‘We?’

‘Yup. See, young Daffodil being put there on them two chunks of wood: it’s a warning.’

‘A warning?’ said Paris. ‘You mean like a reprisal for being an informant?’

‘Not exactly. If they wanted her for talking, they would’ve stuck her head on a pole. This is much worse. It’s sending a message.’

‘A message to the fairies?’ asked Paris, still struggling to believe this discussion was happening.

‘Not only them. To the goblins, the trolls – to all magic creatures.’

‘How do you know this?’

Malbus looked at him.

‘I’m a talking crow,’ he said. ‘How magical do you want?’

Paris didn’t reply. The bird moved the cigarette round in his beak.

‘Your scientist bloke did brilliant this morning,’ he said. ‘Swiping a doll from the next garden, sticking some tissue paper on the back. Weird enough to make it worth calling you in, rubbish enough to be clearly bogus. Very clever way of keeping things under wraps. Course, me and you understand she ain’t a fake. So who do you think killed her?’

Paris hesitated. Discussing an active case was absolutely not part of normal procedure. This, however, was not a normal case.

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘we’re investigating. I presume we’re after one of those perverts who torture small animals.’

The crow nodded his head. Flakes of ash dropped onto the table.

‘Knew you would. This is why I’m here. You can stop hunting for anybody like that. Matter of fact, you can stop looking for anyone. Well, anyone human.’

Paris almost felt his eyes growing wider. ‘Not human?’

‘This is what the message means. They’re called the Vanethria. And they’ve come to get us.’

Malbus paused. Whether for dramatic effect or simply to have another suck on the stick of death, Paris had no idea. Then again, he had no idea about a lot of things right now. His famously rational mind battled to cope with the current irrational situation. Questions flashed around his head, fighting to come out.

‘Y’see,’ said Malbus, before Paris managed to ask any of them, ‘we’ve been hearing rumours for a couple of weeks now. Things going on which got us a bit concerned, but you lot wouldn’t ever notice. Course, we wanted to check ’em out before we said anything. We were trying to keep things under wraps too. All out in the open now, though, innit? So this is where you come in.’

‘Me?’ asked Paris. ‘What do you mean?’

The crow said nothing, and seemed distracted. He swivelled his head towards the French windows. Paris followed his gaze, peering out into the garden. He could see nothing except darkness.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Heard something,’ replied Malbus, without moving.

Paris faced the bird again. ‘Never mind hearing things. You’re supposed to be telling me what’s going on.’

The crow turned back towards him. He took a long, deep drag on the cigarette. Then he exhaled slowly, as if savouring the taste.

‘’Fraid not,’ he said. ‘Didn’t have as long as I thought. Bugger.’

He leant forward, dropping the fag into the ashtray.

‘You better do some more detective work,’ Malbus said quietly. ‘Get on your interweb thingy. Find out about magical creatures. Everything you can.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you’re telling me?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got to go out there.’ He glanced through the open doorway into the garden.

‘Right,’ said Paris, not fully comprehending what he was agreeing to. ‘Are you okay flying in the dark?’

Malbus cawed. ‘I’m magic, remember? Night-time’s the least of my problems.’

He jumped off the table and flew out the way he had entered. Paris tried to watch him go, but the crow vanished into the blackness as soon as he left the room.

Paris walked over and closed the door. He shook his head.

‘I am definitely going to need another bottle.’

3

‘Bloody hell!’ said Bonetti. ‘What do you look like?’

Paris said nothing as he held open the front door, although he had a reasonable idea what the answer was. He’d just woken up after sleeping on the couch, wearing yesterday’s clothes plus a night’s worth of stubble. His left eye resolutely refused to open and the inside of his mouth felt like a gorilla’s armpit.

‘Honest, Boss,’ continued the sergeant, ‘if I blew the house up right now, you wouldn’t look out of place.’

‘Thank you,’ said Paris. ‘I suppose you’re always perfect after hardly any sleep?’

‘Certainly am, Boss. Got a new baby, remember? Only managing three hours a night.’

Paris grunted. ‘Good for you,’ he said.

He didn’t have a clue how much sleep he’d managed, but it must have been a lot less than that. Not enough to cope with this great gormless lump arriving on his doorstep anyway. Maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. With any luck it might simply be a bad dream.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘It’s half past nine,’ came the reply. ‘This is the time I usually pick you up when you’re thinking about a case.’

‘And?’

‘And you’re usually ready.’

This was true. Last night, however, had been a very unusual night.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Paris.

He moved out of the way. Bonetti lumbered into the house, his muscles threatening to burst his jacket apart. The customary image appeared in Paris’s head: the Incredible Hulk standing up in court.

‘I don’t mind coming to get you, Boss,’ said Bonetti. ‘I really don’t. We need your giant brain to help us crack the cases. That’s how we solved the Gorton kidnapping, the Fallowfield Arsonist, all the rest of them. We need your – what do you call it? Your contemplating.’

‘But?’ asked Paris.

‘But don’t you ever worry this much contemplating is going to knacker your liver?’

Paris tutted. ‘I don’t have to worry, I’ve got you to do it for me. You worry; I think. Then we’re both doing what we’re good at.’

He headed off down the hallway. Bonetti clumped along behind in a distinctly unworried manner.

Paris opened the living room door. The smell of stale tobacco mixed with curry assaulted his nostrils. He grimaced as he went in. Over his shoulder came a low whistle.

‘You’ve knocked through,’ said Bonetti. ‘Makes a big room, doesn’t it?’

Paris rolled his eyes. Or at least the one eye which currently worked.

‘It was like this when I moved in,’ he replied. ‘You haven’t noticed?’

‘I’ve never been in here before, Boss. I only come into the hall normally, don’t I? And I wouldn’t snoop through the windows. Not your windows, anyhow.’

Paris considered the statement. Although his assistant’s powers of observation might be slightly lacking, for once you couldn’t argue with the logic. When the previous owners took down the wall between the living and dining rooms they had made a very large space, even if he did keep it as two distinct areas. To the right, heading towards the French windows, lay the lounge, occupied by his TV, stereo and sofa, with the coffee table in front of it. An armchair, placed at ninety degrees to the sofa, formed a partial border separating the lounge from the front part of the house. This now served as his study. It still contained a dining table, albeit one put there purely to support a computer, printer, assorted notepads and piles of paper. The arrangement might be boringly functional, he decided, but it worked for him.

Paris moved between the two seats, flopping down into his regular spot on the sofa. Yesterday’s bottle of whisky stood on the table before him. Empty now, it had been joined by a three-quarters-full companion. The ashtray between them overflowed with fag ends. Bonetti sat down on the armchair, pulling a face as he sniffed the air.

‘Thought you were giving up the ciggies?’

‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘Looks like I picked the wrong week to find a dead fairy.’

Bonetti shook his head. ‘We’re not supposed to use the F-word. You said we’ve got to find a logical explanation, remember?’

‘I know,’ replied Paris.

He pondered for a moment. Did he actually want to admit to receiving advice from a talking crow?

‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ he said.

He sat blinking as his left eye finally opted to take part in the day. Bonetti shifted his attention away from Paris to examine the coffee table instead.

‘What time does your cleaning lady get here, Boss?’

‘Eleven o’clock. Why?’

‘I guessed she couldn’t have come yet. Otherwise she might’ve thrown you out with the rubbish.’

Paris glared at him. He pointed beyond Bonetti, towards the study.

‘For your information,’ he said, ‘I’ve been doing research. All night, practically. Trying to find out about fairies and related things.’

‘I see. Must be catching.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘A load of funny reports came into the station last night, Boss. Most of them from the same part of Didsbury where we found the body.’

‘Like what?’ asked Paris.

‘Well, a woman rang in, around midnight. Told the desk she’d seen a group of dwarves walking across her garden, carrying shovels. Then two separate people said they’d spotted a unicorn. A unicorn!’

Bonetti grinned, obviously enjoying himself. He shuffled forwards on his seat.

‘We found something else weird, too. Just down the road from here. Not as weird as yesterday, but still pretty good. You know by the park, where the spiky metal fence is? Some guy found a crow’s head on one of the spikes. How loony is that?’

Paris didn’t answer. His stare burned into the sergeant as Bonetti’s grin slowly evaporated.

‘Boss?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘He was right,’ replied Paris. ‘This is what he said would happen.’

‘Who was right?’

‘Malbus the crow. Came to see me last night. Started telling me there’s all this stuff going on, then flew away. Said if you talked they put your head on a pole. And now they have.’

Bonetti gave Paris a very puzzled look.

‘A talking crow?’ he said. ‘No offence, Boss – how much did you have to drink?’

Paris jumped up from the sofa, suddenly wide awake. He leapt across the room to the dining table. ‘Come here!’ he ordered.

He delved through the piles of paper as Bonetti struggled to keep up, in every possible sense. Pages of text and pictures of mythological beings tumbled onto the floor around him.

‘Told me to find out about magical creatures,’ said Paris. ‘So that’s what I did. Printed this lot last night. Found everything I wanted except – ah.’

He grabbed one of the sheets, holding it out in front of him. It was blank apart from a single word written in large blue capitals.

‘Malbus said these were who killed the fairy. The Vanethria. I’ve been searching for info on them for hours and I haven’t found anything. Dragons, mermaids, Loch Ness bloody monster, but nothing on this bunch. Now they’ve killed him as well.’

Bonetti peered down at the paper, then back up at Paris. ‘They’ve killed the Loch Ness monster?’

‘No! They’ve killed the crow!’

‘Right,’ said the junior officer slowly. ‘You’re sure it’s not the booze?’

‘Give me some credit, for God’s sake! You saw the body yesterday. Do you think a talking bird is any crazier?’

Paris paused.

‘I can’t believe I said that.’

He sat down in front of the computer, dumping the paper next to the keyboard. Bonetti hovered beside him, evidently confused.

‘You okay, Boss?’

‘I wish I knew. Apparently there’s a gang of killers on the loose, only they’re not killing people. I don’t know who they are, what they are, or even what they look like.’

Bonetti sidled around Paris’s chair to reach the abandoned note. He picked it up, resting his backside against the table.

‘Vanethria?’ he said. ‘Never heard of them. Is this how you spell it?’

‘Not a clue,’ replied Paris. ‘I just wrote down how it sounded. I’ve tried every variation I could come up with, though. Can’t find anything.’ He stared up at his sergeant’s bemused expression. ‘I hate to say this. I really do. But I might need you to come up with a theory.’

Bonetti scratched his chin while he focused on the piece of paper. Then he raised his head and his jaw dropped.

‘Got something?’ asked Paris.

Bonetti nodded.

‘Boss,’ he whispered. ‘You reckon they might look like giant walking piles of rock?’

‘No idea,’ replied Paris. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because there’s one coming up your garden.’

4

It was nearly a person. The right height. The right number of limbs. But completely the wrong design. A grey patchwork of chipped, broken stones made up its skin. The head included black holes for eyes and a gaping crack for a mouth. The massive torso supported shoulders over two metres wide. Enormous craggy arms hung down almost to the ground, swinging for balance as the creature walked. And it was walking towards the house.

The policemen gaped in amazement as it stomped across the grass.

‘Size of that thing!’ said Bonetti. ‘How can something so big not make any sound?’

‘Easy,’ mumbled Paris. ‘Double glazing.’

‘Great, Boss. Keeps out the noise. Does it keep out monsters?’

Paris didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. A huge hand smashed through the French windows. Glass and wood exploded into the lounge. Paris leapt up from his chair.

‘Run!’ he shouted.

They dived for the door. It swung open before they could reach it. The cops skidded to a halt in front of a silver sword blade.

‘Do not move!’ ordered a voice.

Paris looked from the rapier to its owner. Shorter than himself, wearing some kind of medieval tunic above brown trousers. His piercing eyes were bright blue beneath his neat blonde hair. This intruder seemed to be flesh and blood, at least. He might even be an ordinary person. Apart from the extraordinary pointed ears reaching up to the top of his head.

The newcomer stepped into the room, flicking a glance towards the sounds of breaking furniture. Paris kept his attention fixed on the weapon. Hearing his belongings being trashed was bad enough without watching it happen.

The noise grew louder as the rock thing moved closer.

‘That will do,’ said the swordsman. ‘Stay there now.’

Heavy footsteps thudded to a stop behind Paris. He felt cold, clammy breath on the back of his head and a very large presence looming over him. He forced himself to look straight ahead.

The short man with the tall ears shifted his gaze between the two policemen.

‘Is one of you Paris?’ he asked.

The inspector swallowed. ‘I am.’

The swordsman smiled.

‘We have been searching for you,’ he said.

‘What do you want?’

‘In due course. First, there is something I must say.’ He lowered his sword. ‘Sorry.’

Paris stared at him blankly. ‘Come again?’

‘This is not how I had planned to meet. However, it is done now.’

‘You’re apologising before you kill us?’

‘No, I am not here to kill you. I am apologising for the mess.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Slight communication problem. You know how it is. I am terribly sorry.’

Open-mouthed, Paris turned his head slowly. He leant forward, peering around Bonetti. What used to be French windows was now a yawning hole in the wall, with splinters of wood hanging uselessly from its edges. The TV screen had been smashed into pieces. Books and broken CD cases lay strewn across the floor. He stood up straight again, anger rising as he did so.

‘You moron!’ he snapped. ‘Your