Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy
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back on,” Vex ordered. “Caius, put the handcuffs back on right now. Do it.”
“Caius doesn’t take orders from you,” said Grim. “Caius Caviler doesn’t take orders from anyone. Look at him. Look how strong he is. He’s going to teach me a lesson and no mistake. When the cuffs were on, I could hit because I knew he couldn’t hit me back, but now … now I’m scared. Look at how scared I am.” Grim’s smile broadened. “What was that you were saying, Caius? Big, tough man, wasn’t it? Well, your hands are free. Time to show me what a big, tough man really is.”
Grim took another step towards him. Caviler backed up.
“Teach me a lesson,” said Grim. “Come on.” He reached out, poked Caviler’s chest. “Let’s go.” He poked again, and again.
Caviler swung a punch that slapped uselessly off Grim’s jaw.
“Good boy,” whispered Grim, and replied with a punch to the ribs that lifted Caviler off his feet.
Caviler fell back, wheezing, and Grim struck him in the face so hard he cracked his skull off the iron bars. Caviler threw himself forward and Grim laughed, shot a knee into Caviler’s gut and tripped him as he staggered.
“That’s enough,” said Vex.
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” said Grim, and he clapped his hands as Caviler got up. “See this? Heart of a lion, this guy! You can hit him, you can kick him, but he keeps on tickin’!”
Caviler went to swing another punch, but Grim stepped in and headbutted him.
“My turn,” said Vex. “Come on, Grim. He’s had enough. You want to beat up someone, beat me up. You’re going to kill him.”
“He should’ve thought of that before he provoked me,” said Grim, twisting Caviler’s arm behind his back. “Say uncle. Come on, tough guy. Say uncle.”
“Uncle!” Caviler cried.
Grim cocked his head. “Sorry, what was that? Didn’t quite hear you.”
“Uncle!”
“Still not hearing right,” said Grim, and he wrenched Caviler’s arm back and Vex heard the snap of bone, and Caviler shrieked and thrashed, but Grim still wouldn’t let him go. “Next time you find yourself arrested,” he said, “keep your bloody mouth shut, you understand me? This here is you getting off lightly.”
Grim released him and Caviler swung blindly, his elbow crunching into Grim’s nose. Grim bellowed, grabbed Caviler again and wrapped his arm round his throat, hauled him back in a vicious sleeper hold.
“Let him go!” Vex shouted. “He didn’t mean it, Grim! Look at him! He’s beaten! Let him go!”
Caviler’s face was already turning purple. His ruined arm flapped uselessly by his side, while his legs kicked and his good hand scraped at Grim’s arm. Grim tightened the hold even more, walking backwards the whole time. Caviler’s legs stopped kicking. The heels of his feet dragged across the floor. Both arms hung limply.
“Let him go,” said Vex. “You’re killing him. Grim, let him go. Release him. Grim!”
Grim’s eyes widened, and he opened his arms and Caviler fell. The colour drained from Grim’s face.
Footsteps approached and Swain walked back in, two Cleavers in tow. When he saw Caviler, he ran forward, yanked open the cell door and dropped to his side, checked for a pulse.
“Get a doctor,” he told one of the Cleavers, and then he stared up at Grim, disbelief etched into his face. “What the hell have you done?”
“I don’t get it,” said Patrick Slattery, scratching his beard in that way he did. “You’re saying that all of these guys are Skulduggery Pleasant? How does he manage that?”
Kenny Dunne collapsed into his tattered old armchair. “I don’t know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Slattery looked sceptical. It had become his default look over these past few months. “Really? The only thing that makes sense is that all of these men we’ve been photographing are the same person? That makes sense to you? They look nothing alike.”
“They’re all tall, thin and have the same taste in well-tailored clothes. And look at their faces. The skin and hair might be different, but the bone structure’s the same.”
“He wears disguises, then,” said Slattery. “For no reason, every day he wears a different disguise.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Who knows with these people?”
Slattery shook his head, more to himself than to Kenny. “So why is he called the Skeleton Detective?”
“For the last time, I don’t know, all right? Probably because he’s so thin. I don’t have all the answers.”
“You don’t have any of the answers.”
Kenny didn’t have a violent bone in his body, but there was nothing he would have liked to do more at that moment than jump up and smack Slattery right in the face. “I’m making educated guesses. It’s the only thing we can do with the information we have.”
Slattery hesitated, then turned from the wall and looked straight at Kenny. “We need to have a talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“We need to have a serious talk about what we’re doing here.”
Kenny’s hand fluttered an invitation. “Go right ahead.”
Slattery sat in the tattered old couch that had come with the tattered old armchair. “It might be time to rethink things,” he said. “When you came to me with this, I thought you’d cracked. I honestly thought you’d gone mad. Magic people and possession and super-powers. I thought to myself, Kenny’s gone round the bend. He’s lost it. All those years chasing stories have led him into the nuthouse. I thought you’d want me and my camera down the bottom of some garden, ready to photograph fairies or something.”
Kenny nodded. “Happy to know you had so much faith in me as a journalist.”
“But then when you showed me what you had and, when I saw it for myself, I thought, holy cow, we’re going to change the world. Politics, religion, society – it’s all going to be turned on its head. And we’re the ones who are going to do it.”
“Nothing’s changed since then.”
“Well, that’s it exactly,” said Slattery. “Nothing has changed. We had a few good months of following Valkyrie around, a few good months of collecting information and names and linking stuff up … and then it all slowed down to a crawl.”
“A crawl? Have you been reading the papers?