13
THE BUNGHOLE
Osric
airhrim occupied an annoying portion of Osric’s thoughts. He spent tooF much time that afternoon continuing their discussion in his head, resulting in an imaginary argument in which he featured prominently with sharp and witty rebuttals. He considered sending his deofol to Fairhrim with a script, so that she knew what he was capable of.
He managed to switch gears as he entered the Bunghole. He needed to be alert and not preoccupied by Fairhrim and her tongue.
Osric was an occasional patron of the Bunghole, one of those grotty little dens of sin, so useful in his line of work, where if no one was actively on fire, it was a quiet night. The pub was small, with a distinct odour and charm. The yellowing tiles lining the wall evoked something between the back room of an abattoir and a men’s toilet. The bar was wide enough for perhaps one and a half patrons to stand at. There were pornographic images plastered behind it, in case, Osric supposed, patrons fancied a cheeky wank while waiting for their pints.
Off the bar hung a sign that said NO CANNIBALISM.
Osric, his hood up, his cowl raised, and smoked spectacles covering his face, fit right into the crowd; most of the clientele was hooded and sinister.
He ordered a pint and retreated to a corner table, from whence he commanded an excellent view of the two dozen turds squeezed into the Bunghole.
He watched the come and go of the local fauna. This was the kind of pub where every regular had a name, which Osric learned as they greeted one another with varying degrees of friendliness: Pissbag Perry, Dandruff, Steve the Builder, Scratch and Sniff, the Artful Todger.
Sharing a table with Osric was the delightful One-Tooth, who wheezed into his whiskers and sipped something that he mysteriously called “long juice,” which smelled like pure camphor, before he chased it down with turpentine. Osric suspected that he was a walker of one of the Dusken Paths —because of his gloves—and particularly an Agannor, given the surfeit of purple in his ensemble.
Osric’s source had advised him to find a man with a wolf tattoo upon his neck. Osric spotted his mark hunched over a table, chatting with two others who looked as unsavoury as he did. The man was smoking a particularly foul cigar. He leaned back in a stretch that revealed his stomach, upon which he had tattooed Caution: Choking Hazard, with an arrow pointing towards his
cock.
Charming.
Osric’s plan was simple: follow Choking Hazard out, shadow-walk him up a roof, interrogate him about the Swanstone thing, and, if he was of no further use, kill him.
The simplicity of the plan was shattered by the entrance of two women, one in red and one in blue. The red one’s dress consisted largely of scarlet fishnet; in a nod to decency, she had covered her nipples in heart-shaped pasties. The blue one was tall, smaller about the bust, but rounder about the hips, wearing boots to the thigh and the shortest of skirts, at the back of which was the lettering: Make It Bounce. The women stopped to chat with Madam Miffle, who was ensconced in her wheelchair near the door.
“Ooh.” One-Tooth elbowed Osric. “Red girl’s Cerys. Isn’t she a beauty?
Seen a couple of her films at the Sinema.” One-Tooth’s potent breath exfoliated Osric’s face. “Miffle usually has her working at the fancy place up the road. Wonder what she’s doing here tonight.”
One-Tooth gazed lovingly at the woman in red and updated Osric on her filmography (Death by a Thousand Sluts and Big Tits 4) and further informed him that her breasts were insured, and also that they had names (from left to right, Thoughts and Prayers).
“Don’t recognise the other one,” wheezed One-Tooth. “I s’pose she’s new. Pretty girl, though.”
The new girl stood behind Cerys. She had a gauzy scarf partly covering her hair and lacy gloves over her hands. But yes, thought Osric as she turned towards him and he saw the curve of a cheek and the shape of her mouth, she was a pretty girl. His eye roved up the boots to the edge of the skirt. A pretty girl with the precise kind of thighs of interest to him—until the scarf, the gloves, and the glimpse of her face clicked into place, and he realised who he
was looking at.
He clutched at his pint.
“S’matter?” asked One-Tooth.
“That’s fucking—that’s—never mind,” gurgled Osric.
Blessed distraction came. For no discernible reason, the Artful Todger tore off his shirt and challenged Scratch and Sniff to a fight. Dandruff launched himself onto both of them. Choking Hazard and his entourage threw their drinks over the combatants and were dragged into the fray.
Osric joined Cerys, Madam Miffle, and bloody fucking Fairhrim in the corner they’d retreated to.
“Hiya,” he said to Fairhrim, by which he meant I’m going to kill you.
Cerys wedged herself between Osric and Fairhrim. Thoughts and Prayers made, frankly, an impressive sort of barricade. “What do you want?”
Osric was about to tell Cerys to fuck off, when he noticed that Madam Miffle might not have had legs but she did have an ancient sabre, which was presently pointed at his groin.
“What museum did you pilfer that from?” asked Osric.
Cerys loomed. The dual threat of suffocation by tit and tetanus of the bollocks made Osric change tacks.
“Your new girl caught my eye,” said Osric.
“She isn’t having anyone tonight,” said Madam Miffle. “She’s only learning.”
“I just wanted to speak with her. See if we—er—connect.”
Madam Miffle and Cerys turned to Fairhrim, who had fixed Osric with a glare of her own. However, she gave them a nod.
“Fine,” said Madam Miffle. “Our fee for half an hour of conversation is three hundred thrymsas.”
“That’s highway fucking robbery,” said Osric.
“Pay up or leave,” said Madam Miffle, with an ominous sabre rattle.
Osric paid up.
Cerys and her nipple pasties moved aside. “Stay within our sight. And no touching her.”
As if Osric would dream of touching the most irritating, meddlesome little Haelan who had ever walked the earth. Other than to murder her, obviously.
Also: Fairhrim had no business having Thighs of Interest.
Osric spat out a proposition to go to the bar. Fairhrim snapped out a tight- necked nod.
They slid along the wall to avoid the brawl and squeezed up to the bar.
Their backs were to the room, which was ideal, as their conversation was bound to look anything but friendly.
Osric ordered a Scotch. Fairhrim asked for water.
Gods.
“You didn’t tell me you’d moved on to a new career,” said Osric.
“A temporary arrangement,” said Fairhrim.
“How can you walk in those ridiculous boots?”
“How can you see in those ridiculous spectacles?”
“They’re for privacy.”
“You look like a bee.”
The bartender returned with their drinks, and then, for reasons known best to himself, flung himself headlong into the brawl.
“You shouldn’t have spoken to me,” said Fairhrim through clenched teeth. “I thought you were meant to be good at subterfuge.”
“Your presence has thrown a bit of a wrench in the works, since I now have to make sure you don’t get carried off and fucked senseless in the back of a carriage. What a stupid decision to come here. Those women will sell you off to the highest bidder.”
“They absolutely will not. I know them. We work together. I asked them to help me come here undercover tonight. Who’s our informant?”
“He’s my informant, found through my sources, and I’ll be talking to him.”
“You’re here at my request, for the safety of my Order, and you’re doing it in exchange for my healing of your little embolus.”
Osric sought a rebuttal, but his clever scripts from earlier had evaporated.
He wished to stare daggers at Fairhrim, perhaps amplified with a literal dagger, but he didn’t want Madam Miffle to trundle over with her castration device. He glared at the pornography behind the bar instead. Fairhrim did the same.
“Why so many vulvas?” asked Fairhrim, with fresh annoyance. “You’d think there’d be more anuses, given the place’s name.”
“I can’t believe I paid three hundred thrymsas to hear you complain about a lack of anuses.”
Fairhrim looked grim. They stared at the Wall of Vulvas in silence. The brawl raged on behind them. Someone, bleeding from both eyes, was carried out. A posse entered, snatched up Steve the Builder, and dragged him into a back room. He defended himself with a trowel. The bartender picked up Pissbag Perry and threw him at the dartboard; he did not get a bull’s-eye, but he did break Pissbag’s neck. Pint glasses arced over the scene like foamy
fireworks.
“So, now what?” asked Fairhrim.
“We’ve reached an impasse,” said Osric.
“Since your plan was threats of murder—and, I suppose, actual murder— let me have a go at the informant first, and see what I discover. If he’s not cooperative, we can do it your way.”
This was, admittedly, a logical proposal. If they did the opposite, Fairhrim wouldn’t get much of a go, due to the death and everything. Odds
were strong that Osric would be getting his way in the end, too.
“Fine,” said Osric.
Fairhrim looked suspicious. Osric did not, apparently, often agree with her.
“Which one is the informant?” she asked.
Osric pointed at Choking Hazard, who was presently pressing Dandruff’s face into a heap of broken glass. Choking Hazard moved on to waterboarding Dandruff with a bottle of ale.
Fairhrim observed him as one might observe urinal scum. “I see.”
Dandruff fainted. Choking Hazard extinguished his cigar in Dandruff’s eye and made his way to the bar. Osric and Fairhrim ceased their conversation as the man approached. He muscled his way between them and slapped his hand on the counter.
“Thirsty work,” he declared. “Double whiskey.”
Choking Hazard glanced at Fairhrim with mild interest, looked away, and then, with bulging eyes, turned to her again. Osric witnessed the man grow immediately and desperately enamoured with Fairhrim: he went soft eyed, his mouth hung open, and he sighed out a breathy “Wow.”
Fairhrim directed a small, shy smile towards Choking Hazard. (She had never managed a small, shy smile towards Osric. Simply a note for the record.) The barkeep materialised with the whiskey, which he slammed into Choking Hazard’s palm before returning to his game of darts.
Choking Hazard, jarred from his stupor, said, “Phwoar. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Where’d you come from? Haven’t seen you round here before.”
He attempted to throw back his whiskey and missed most of his mouth because he was staring at Fairhrim, dazed and slack-jawed.
“I’m new,” said Fairhrim. She looked demurely downwards and tucked a
stray curl of hair behind her ear. (Since when was Fairhrim demure?) “You’re fucking beautiful,” said Choking Hazard. “Who do you work for?”
(Was she beautiful? No. Osric was a great connoisseur of beauty. She was not beautiful. All there was to see here was an annoyingly unafraid gaze and a maddening mouth that alternately spouted nonsense and overly sharp sense at random intervals. She was pretty at best. Just pretty.) “I’ve just started working with Madam Miffle,” said Fairhrim.
“Where’d she dig you up?” asked Choking Hazard.
“I needed help and she was kind enough to take me in,” said Fairhrim.
Cerys, bolstered by Thoughts and Prayers, plunged through the brawl towards them to keep abreast of the situation. Osric jumped when he discovered that Madam Miffle was beside him. He asked her, in a startled whisper, how in Hel’s name she had got there, and she answered, “Tunnels.”
Fairhrim gestured her two guardians away with a low wave of her hand.
Cerys and Madam Miffle backed off, and, incidentally, did not charge Choking Hazard their outrageous fee for conversation with Fairhrim, which was distinctly unjust.
Choking Hazard did not notice any of these subtleties because he was staring at Make It Bounce on Fairhrim’s arse.
“What are you drinking?” asked Choking Hazard.
“Oh, nothing tonight,” said Fairhrim. “It’s my first night out. I’m not to drink or take any clients.”
“Madam Miffle’ll forgive me for getting you a drink. I’ve given her enough custom over the years.” Choking Hazard gestured to the barkeep and ordered Fairhrim a double whiskey, too.
He snatched the drinks in one hand, and Fairhrim’s arm in the other, and brought both to his table.
Osric gave them a few minutes, then joined a game of cards at the next table. He noted that Fairhrim was being watched by a great many eyes; every woman in the place found excuses to pass her table and assess her well-being.
Cerys was particularly watchful, to the extent that Choking Hazard raised his hands and said, “I’m not fucking doing anything.” Cerys patted him on the head and moved along.
Osric did not think of Making It Bounce.
Fairhrim did not appear to like the whiskey, but sipped at it gamely as Choking Hazard described his favourites of Madam Miffle’s girls, and what he liked to do with them, and then, in vulgar detail, what he wished to do with Fairhrim.
“You got a dress?” he asked. “A big, poufy dress?”
“Erm—I’d have to have a look—”
“Right. You check. I want you to dress like a princess. You look like you just stepped out of a fucking fairy-tale castle.” (What an idiot. Fairhrim lived in a fortress.) Choking Hazard shouted towards the bar for a plate of something to eat.
The barkeep shouted at him to go fuck himself.
“Speaking of castles,” said Fairhrim, shuffling a bit closer to Choking Hazard, “did you hear that someone attacked Swanstone?” (Subtle, Fairhrim. Very subtle.) “Where did you hear that?” asked Choking Hazard.
“Some men were discussing it in here earlier,” said Fairhrim, with the
vaguest of gestures around the pub.
“Which men?”
“Erm—I’m not sure. I think they’ve left.”
Fairhrim wasn’t good at playing stupid, but this performance was, apparently, passable enough for Choking Hazard. “No,” he said. “I hadn’t heard that.”
The topic should have come to a natural close at that juncture, of course, but Fairhrim hadn’t got what she wanted. She allowed none of her frustration to show on her face; Osric saw it in the twist of a lace glove under the table.
Choking Hazard dragged Fairhrim’s chair closer to him, so close that her thigh rode up against his. He stopped her from pulling away with a hand on her knee.
There was a sudden stillness among the ladies in the room. Osric noticed it only because he had, himself, gone still, as he decided where to amputate Choking Hazard’s arm because he had touched his Haelan.
A woman passing behind Choking Hazard raised a tray over the back of his head, ready to bludgeon him with it.
Choking Hazard, oblivious to all, said, “You’re shy. I like that. We’re going to have fun, soon as your minders let you off the lead.”
Fairhrim removed Choking Hazard’s hand from her person; he grabbed her again. She squirmed off her chair; he snatched her thigh and held her to him.
Osric should have enjoyed her discomfort—he did like to see her suffer.
Instead, he found himself seething with a low churn of rage. His blaecblade itched to draw a deep line across Choking Hazard’s oily neck.
Fairhrim reached for Choking Hazard’s empty glass. “Can I get you another drink, Mr.—erm, I don’t even know your name—”
“Scrope,” said Choking Hazard.
Fairhrim’s fingers around the glass twitched. Osric choked on his drink.
“S-Scrope?” said Fairhrim.
“Yeah. You’ve heard of me?” asked Scrope, né Choking Hazard, with a grin that was meant to be roguish, probably. (Insufficient teeth. Osric did a much better roguish grin.) “I think I might’ve,” said Fairhrim. “People say you’re in the know about —well, everything. But I must be getting you confused with someone else.
You hadn’t heard the Swanstone rumour, after all. I’ll be right back. It was whiskey, wasn’t it?”
Having pricked Scrope with this needle, Fairhrim tottered off to the bar.
She asked for another whiskey, then excused herself to the toilet.
Osric rose from his card game. “Flash diarrhoea,” he said, and the group asked for no further explanations.
Osric didn’t need to ask for directions to the privies; he needed merely to follow the whiff of stale urine. He pushed open the door to the toilet to find Fairhrim undertaking some sort of deep breathing exercise at the sink, and washing her arm where Scrope had touched her.
“What’s the next step in your master plan?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Fairhrim. “I’m improvising.”
“You might’ve told me you were going to try to seduce him.”
“That wasn’t the plan. But, well—if I’m his type—”
“This is appalling to watch.”
“To watch? What about me? I’m living it.” Fairhrim shuddered. “That man is a vaginal desiccant.”
“Get another whiskey down him and try the castle line again. And if it doesn’t work, get back to the safety of your friends, and I’ll do it my way— just as we should’ve done from the beginning.”
“Fine,” said Fairhrim.
“I can’t believe I paid three hundred thrymsas to watch you be groped by Scrope.”
“Is he that Scrope? The ejaculate-in-the-baths Scrope?”
“Ask him. I’m sure he’d be delighted to tell you about his wanking
habits.”
There was a thump at the door.
Osric and Fairhrim opened the door to find Cerys, Madam Miffle, and two other women waiting outside. They all glared at Osric as though he were the troublemaker here, and not Fairhrim. In their fists were knives, the sabre, and two broken bottles. They were ready to maul him.
“Everything all right?” asked Cerys.
“Everything is fine,” said Fairhrim. “Thank you. I’ve almost got what I need.”
Osric lingered in the corridor a bit to give Fairhrim the chance to return to her conversation. The ladies left him behind with suspicious glares over their shoulders.
He rejoined the card game and fielded a few witty enquiries about his bunghole at the Bunghole. Scrope and Fairhrim got to chatting again. One- Tooth won a suspicious number of rounds. Osric found it difficult to focus on his cards, other than how frequently the ace of hearts popped up in his hands.
Scrope was—gods, was he really?—yes, he was asking Fairhrim to feel his muscles. (Osric never indulged in such ridiculous showing off.) “You’re built like one of the Wardens,” said Fairhrim.
“Pah,” spat Scrope. “Those fucks.”
“Don’t you like them?”
“Self-righteous cunts. Just like the Haelan, and any of those so-called Bright Path walkers. Think they’re better than everyone else.”
What a surprise for Osric, to find himself agreeing with Scrope.
Fairhrim’s impassivity served her well; she did not react to his insult, except for the barest thinning of her smile.
“Bloody good at their jobs, though, those Wardens.” Scrope sucked down
the dregs of his whiskey.
“Oh?”
Scrope seemed torn between discretion and wishing to impress Fairhrim.
The wishing to impress won out. He leaned close to her and whispered
something in her ear.
“Really?” gasped Fairhrim.
Scrope whispered again.
Fairhrim gave him a wide-eyed look. “But who would do such a thing?”
Scrope whispered something else.
Fairhrim looked—well, she looked like she was going for coquettish. “I knew you were that Scrope—the one who knows everything.”
Scrope pulled Fairhrim in sloppily and muttered something else that Osric didn’t catch.
“I’ve never heard of him,” said Fairhrim, pushing her fingers to Scrope’s mouth, which was presently attempting to attach itself to her ear. “Is he important?”
“Aye, but not enough to matter to you. You just focus on perfecting your suck jobs, eh?”
Scrope’s meal arrived. He spaded it into his mouth. Now that she had the information she needed, Fairhrim’s patience wore as thin as her smile. Osric watched her shy-debutante veneer fade. Her jaw found its usual set. Her shoulders dropped and resumed their square. Her bearing grew cold, authoritative, severe.
Scrope, busy at the trough, did not notice these changes. He scratched at his belly. His shirt rode up. Fairhrim caught sight of the Choking Hazard tattoo and looked, if it was possible, even grimmer than she had at the Twat Wall. Scrope smacked at his potatoes.
“Must you masticate so loudly?” asked Fairhrim.
“M’what?” was the sparkling response.
Fairhrim made a sound of impatience and rose.
“Where’re you going?” asked Scrope in a gurgle of potato.
“Leaving,” said Fairhrim.
“Nah. You’re not going anywhere. I’m going to have you tonight.
Madam Miffle’ll make an exception.” Scrope swung a heavy hand to Fairhrim’s waist—then it slipped lower, and disappeared under her skirt to grip her arse. “Here, Madam Miffle, you’re opening this one’s legs up for business tonight, you hear?”
Fairhrim peeled Scrope’s hand away. Osric thought of twenty-six ways to kill him using only the potato. Madam Miffle materialised at the table with inexplicable rapidity. Her sabre rested on Scrope’s forearm.
“I decide, and I said no,” said Madam Miffle.
“Come on, Mags. We’ll do twice the going rate—how’s that?”
“No.”
“Three times.”
“No.”
Scrope, who had obviously considered this an irresistible offer, said, “No? No? What’s so bloody special about this girl?”
“I’m training her how I see fit,” said Madam Miffle.
“You’re a dozy fucking cow with no business sense.”
“Watch your tongue, or I’ll have you blacklisted. You’ll have no more girls in the whole of London. You can dig up your dead mum and shag her bones.”
Scrope raised his hands. “Fine. Fine. There’s always tomorrow. Will you be here tomorrow, girl?”
Fairhrim, squeezing past Scrope’s chair, her eyes on the exit, made no answer. Scrope groped at her thigh as she passed. It would be one of his last acts on this earth.
Scrope speared the end of a sausage and held it up to her. “Have a little suck of my sausage at least.”
“That,” said Fairhrim, “looks exactly like a torn-off nipple.”
Having delivered this eight-word horror story, she left the pub.
Scrope stared after her; then he, too, made for the door.
He was wrong, by the way. There wasn’t always tomorrow. There wouldn’t, for instance, be one for him.
