Chapter Two

"Welcome to Tarraleah, Fields." Exhaling a steaming breath, Peregrine rubbed her hands together with every appearance of actual appreciation. "Beautiful, huh? One of the coldest places in Tasmania."

Still a little unsteady after their hair-raising, mountain-skimming helicopter trip from Launceston, Fields turned up his collar, pulled down the Tasmanian devil beanie (with matching ears and tail) that was the best the airport gift shop could offer by way of cold weather gear, shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced up at the pale grey sky high, high above them. A few intermittent flakes of snow fluttered down.

"You don't say?"

"Oh, yeah. Australia might be all beaches and bikinis for the tourists but it's definitely got its fair share of places where you can freeze your bits off."

"Good to know, Peregrine. The thing is, I'm quite partial to my bits. Do you think we could maybe find somewhere warm where they can defrost?"

"Bet you're glad you burgered up now, huh?"

Given he'd almost lost said burger more than once on the flight here, Fields wasn't so sure, but decided to keep the information to himself. "I guess so. Now, somewhere warm?"

"Don't sweat it, partner—not that there's much chance of that. Ha! But don't worry. I know the perfect place. We'll have your bits sorted in no time. Come on."

Not at all sure Peregrine's idea of a perfect place would align with his own views on the matter, their destination, perched atop a rise just a short walk away, came as a pleasant surprise for Fields. Boasting a blazing fireplace casting a cheerful glow on its wood-panelled walls, rustic décor and well-stocked bar, the Highlander Arms was a warm and welcome oasis from the biting cold. Even better, gleaming in quiet splendour behind the bar was the incongruous yet unmistakable form of a La Marzocco espresso machine. Pausing only to de-beanie himself, Fields marched up to the grizzled barman and ordered two long blacks.

"Hey, none for me, Fields. You know I don't do coffee." She gave him a playful jab to the kidneys. "I mean, can you imagine me on caffeine?"

Fields could and, despite his best attempts not to, had. He'd learned to imagine all kinds of stuff since joining Section F. He gave his latest bruise a rueful rub. "They're both for me, Peregrine. One to warm up each hand."

"Gotcha, good thinking. And apparently this place does a mean chicken parmi, so we can warm up our insides with a couple or three of those shortly. But first, to business." She turned to the barman. "My friend, we've come to see the Archduke."

****

"Ross, it sounds like those wretched possums are into the bins again. Go and sort them out, would you? I'm watching Shortland Street."

"Well, I'm trying to watch Motorway Patrol, aren't I? Besides, it's only rubbish. If the possums want it, they're welcome to it."

"But they make such a mess, sweetie. Go on, pop out and see to it. It won't take you a minute and I'm sure the drunk drivers of New Zealand can manage without you for that long."

"It's not just drunk drivers, you know. Tonight they had this bloke who crashed into a tree. He reckons he had to swerve to miss a troll crossing the road."

"A what, honey?"

"A troll."

"I see. So, they have drugged drivers as well. Lovely. Now, the bins? It seems to have gone quiet out there, but I still think you better take a look. Just to make sure they've gone."

"Fine, fine, anything for a bloody moment's peace. Right, let's see what we've got here. Okay you little so-and-sos, you can just bugger right...er, hmm. Wow. Hey, Emily!"

"Yes, hon?"

"You haven't moved the bins, have you?"

"Of course not. They're right by the back door, same as always. Why?"

"Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is there are no possums."

"That's great, sweetie. And what's the bad news?"

"The bad news is there are no bins, either. Well, not hardly."

"Ross, what on Earth are you talking about?"

"It seems whatever was eating our rubbish didn't stop there. They've only gone and eaten the bins, too. Everything but the wheels. And even they've got some pretty decent teeth-marks."

"Really? How extraordinary."

"Yep, pretty weird alright."

"Hmm. Uh, Ross?"

"Yes, Emily?"

"I think perhaps you'd better come back inside. And lock the door behind you."

****

"We're here to sign up a dead guy?"

"Allegedly dead, Fields. Allegedly."

Fields gazed at their first 'recruit'. While Agency training advocated taking nothing for granted (and subsequent Section F experience had reinforced the view), he felt there should be a limit. And accepting that mutton-chopped, tweed-suited, old-timey guys, encased in what appeared to be the world's biggest ice-cube, might be alive, gave even his now quite-elastic standards a serious stretch.

Although sealed behind what must be a metre of solid ice, the indistinct and frozen features seemed to radiate a palpable sense of amused superiority. And even though he knew better, Fields couldn't shake the feeling that, Mona Lisa-style, the unblinking eyes were looking right at him. He shook his head.

"Okay, what's his story?"

Seemingly impervious to the cold, Peregrine gave the block of ice a proprietary pat with her ungloved hand. "Allow me to present Mr Basil Rawlinson-Thomas. Third son of some British baron or earl or whatever. Good old Baz had too many big brothers for an inheritance, so he came out here during the gold rush back in the 1860s, but turned out to be handier with a still than a pick. Rechristened himself the Archduke and made a fortune selling illicit booze before the suffering the little accident that landed him in his current predicament."

"Accident?" asked Fields. "What kind of accident freezes you solid for over 150 years?"

"Oh, it weren't no accident." Having shown them out through the rear of the pub to the dilapidated wooden shed containing their frozen quarry, the barman seemed in no hurry to return to his otherwise deserted establishment. "Nah, a good old fashioned smiting, it was. Or at least that's how the story goes. He was struck down by the wrath of God. You know, for leading all them olden days miner blokes astray with the demon drink."

"Right." The irony of this sentiment coming from a publican was not lost on Fields. "Okay. Good. So, we're in Old Testament territory here? Fire and brimstone? Or, well, I guess...ice and brimstone?"

Peregrine gave him a hearty whack on the back. "Could be, Fields. Could be. It pays to never rule too much out. Or in. Or to rule stuff generally. Except for the carbs rule, of course. That goes without saying. But the leading theory on our frozen friend here, from our new boss' top science peeps—and Reggie tells me they've got some serious science peeps—is that the good old Archduke's distillery got hit by a meteorite. With him inside, in the middle of brewing up a big ol' batch of overproof moonshine. Some sort of superpowered endothermic sublimation shenanigans went down and et voilà, we wound up with Archduke on ice. And there's enough left of whatever powered the initial snap-freeze to have kept him crispy-fresh ever since. That sound about right, Reggie?"

The AI's muffled voice emerged from somewhere within Peregrine's jacket. "Well, broadly speaking, in the most general terms. However—"

"Yeah, yeah, that all sounds great," Fields interrupted, "but it still leaves us with nothing but a stiff. A stiff with an interesting backstory, but still a stiff."

Ignoring the stuff he didn't understand and cherry-picking the key points was a skill Fields had honed to a fine art since joining Section F. And given the sheer quantity of stuff he didn't understand, it was skill he'd had plenty of opportunities to practice. He often had to remind himself this was not because he was unintelligent—the Agency had no truck with anybody below the very top levels of academic achievement—but was more a reflection of the fundamental, gobsmacking complexity and weirdness of the stuff Section F tended to hit him with.

"As per my original point," he went on, "why are we wasting our time with a corpse? What are we going to do, chuck him at the bad guys?"

Peregrine shook her head. "Oh, ye of little faith. As per my original point, Bazza is only allegedly a corpse. Given he's practically a celebrity down this way, research crews have come to check him out over the years and the latest one from the University of Tasmania reckon they detected signs of life. Faint traces of CO2 emanating from the ice, occasional and barely detectable tremors that might suggest a heartbeat, stuff like that."

"But that's imposs...!" Fields paused. "But that's highly implausible! And even if it is possible, why on Earth hasn't someone cracked out an ice-pick and rescued the poor bastard?"

The barman cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in the floorboards by his feet.

"Unfortunately," said Regina, "further research into the physiological status of Mr Rawlinson-Thomas was stymied by those in whose legal possession he found himself. Namely, the proprietors of the Highland Arms."

Fields and Peregrine turned to look at their host.

"Well," blurted the barman, shifting his weight uneasily, "it wouldn't have been right, would it? I mean sensors and stuff on the outside are one thing, but drilling down to the the old bloke himself? Or even defrosting him? It ain't respectful. There's a real person in there, and he deserves his dignity. The Archduke has stood here inside my keg-house since I were a tacker and he stood here when my old man was a tacker and his old man before him. That frozen old fart is a crucial component of our local culture and folkways, he is. Not to mention, he keeps the beer cold. How could I, in all good conscience, allow a bunch of strangers to start messing with him? Or serve up warm beer to my customers? Answer me that."

There was a pause before Regina spoke again. "How does two million dollars sound?"

The barman blinked. His mouth fell open.

"Oh, and a brand new, state-of-the-art, refrigerated cold-room."

Slowly, the mouth closed. And then formed into a smile. "I'll just pop off and fetch my blowtorch from the shed, shall I?"

Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: AzTruyen.Top