Fic: Urban Wildlife Blues (Part 6 of 9)

[unbelievable2]

 

 

Title: URBAN WILDLIFE BLUES

Or, maybe not the tail you thought it was.

Part 6 of 9

 

Pairing: Howard/Vince

Author: Unbelievable2

Rating: PG13, probably.

Word Count: 2,815

 

Summary:  What starts as a new departure for Howard and a surprise for Vince swiftly turns into a [nail-bitingly terrifying/ridiculously overblown*] race against time to thwart an old enemy.
*delete as applicable  

 

Warnings: For story as a whole, some nastiness, violence, drug refs and swears, talking animals, character death (oh, and some s/ash ;) here and there)

 

Disclaimer: Sadly I own neither the creators nor their characters, and I will not, nor would I ever wish to, profit from either.

Notes:
A little light relief before... (* laughs evilly Do you trust me?*)

My thanks again to the wonderful themogwai for her supportive and encouraging beta-ing. :)

 

Part 1 here:

Part 2 here:

Part 3 here:

Part 4 here:

Part 5 here:

 

 

Part 6

 

Down under the road bridge, it was cool and surprisingly quiet. But no-one ventured there much. Too remote for most drug-dealers and vagrants, too creepy and unattractive for anyone else. The whole area around the dump seemed the same. An uncomfortable atmosphere hung around the place, turning even simple, honest things like waste-ground wildflowers into plants with a latent malevolence about them. The water in the canal alongside was the same. Calm, but not peaceful; just dark and deep. And under the bridge, these dark depths were most menacing of all.

 

But all this made it a prime location for some people to do business – particularly those on the edge between the worlds of magic and reality. The extravagantly-dressed man with the golden skin and silver teeth fitted into that category. This was his turf. This was where he did his business and where he was in control.

 

Except, right now, he felt a bit wrong-footed.

 

He eyed the man standing in front of him, trying to match up the details of the text message he’d received with the individual that had shown up. It wasn’t just the fact that the red turban on the long black hair was clearly several sizes too small for that outsized head. Nor even that the satiny cloak barely came down to his knees. No, there was something vaguely familiar about this man’s face, and it unsettled him. He narrowed his eyes and asked his most searching question.

 

“Wot iz you?”

 

The other man shifted his silver boots uncomfortably.

“Told you, I’m a shaman.”

“You izn’t Na-boo!”

“No. No, I’m his… brother. Ummm… Agadoo?”

The golden man cocked his head on one side.

“You don’t look like him, man.”

“Yeah,” said the other vaguely, adjusting his turban. “It’s like that in our family. You’d never know…”
“And you iz sha-man?”

“Ummm… trainee, like?”

 

The golden man took a look round the area again, ducking his head at all angles. Finally he seemed satisfied that they were still alone.

“Sha-man joose ain’ the sorta thin’ you just give out, ‘know? I gotta be sure you iz the real thing, man.”

Finally he seemed convinced.

“Okay, I got sha-man joose. Seven hundred euro.”

“What?” The turban almost fell off. “Seven hundred? That’s way more than you charged Naboo before!”

The golden man looked askance.

“This dodgy shit now, man. Risk requires reward, ‘know what am sayin’?”

“Do you take cards?”

The dealer in magics huffed , and turned his back.

“No, wait! Please, wait!”

He turned back again.

“You serious, or what? Don’ be jerkin’ me ‘round, man!”

“Look, I don’t have the readies, right now.” The look in the unsettlingly large blue eyes was pleading. “But I got this ring. It’s worth at least twelve hundred.” The man held out his hand to show a large piece of amber on his finger. “It’s got an insect in it and everything!”

 

The golden man narrowed his eyes further.

“You know you can’t work this joose? You need to be shay-man for that.”

“Or someone else, right? Maybe someone else magic? Like, say, a Crack Fox?”

The dealer ducked and weaved again, alarm clearly written on his face.

“Crack Fox? You know about Crack Fox? He better not be here, tha’s one evil mothafucka, man.”

“Oh yes, he’s here” said the other man, bleakly. “He came back a few days ago.”
“Ah. I been at me mum’s for da weekend..”
“Anyway,” the other was twitchy with impatience again. “I need it for Naboo, okay? So, you want the ring?”

The dealer’s eyes slid around the scenery again, and came back to rest on the red turban.

“Crack Fox is wantin’ da joose, you thinkin’?”

“I have no idea. I need it for Naboo. So, do we have a deal?”

The dealer nodded to himself, and with exaggerated care drew a flask from inside his coat.

“Ring.”

The turban man handed it over, and took the flask.

“Hang on, this is yellow! It was green last time!”

The dealer was inspecting the ring in the last glow of light penetrating under the bridge.

“Oh yeah. New formu-lay-sun. Is the tip-top…”

His eyes flicked over to where the other was gawping at the liquid, holding it up to the bright sky outside.

 

“But there’s bubbles in it already! It’s been activated!”

“What you sayin’? That I sell you some dodgy shit? To Na –boo’s brother?”

The dealer’s voice was indignant. “Tha’s the new formu-lay-shun. Partial acti-vay-shun. All part of the improvements….”

“Well, let’s try it, shall we?” The turban man started to uncork the flask.

The dealer threw up his hand.

“You crazy? You know only shay-mans can do that, man! Leave it for Na-boo!”

A pause.

“We done here.”

The turban man still eyed the flask with suspicion.

“Look, I’m not too sure…”

The golden dealer was already gone.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

It was late evening by now; a long summer evening, quite fine after the mad storms of the previous night. A few clouds were high in a pinkish sky. From somewhere around the eastern horizon some haphazard and very amateur rapping indicated that the Moon had switched musical genres and was preparing for his night’s journey through the darkness.

 

Vince sat on a mound of earth amongst the brambles and nettles of the waste ground, near to the oil drum. It was the only place he could think to go, that might logically lead him to where the Crack Fox was now. Or at least would be at midnight. He had the flask of yellow, slightly gassy, liquid in his hands, still staring at it intently, and dubiously.

 

The dusk gradually surrounded him. One moment the jagged horizon with its outline of old factories and tower blocks was sharp and clear, the next everything was obscure. Even the bushes and ragbag rubbish around him were becoming indistinct.

 

The turban and cape (Naboo’s second best) had been dumped back in the carrier bag which now lay at his feet. He blended almost perfectly into the gathering darkness. From the faint gleam of the silver boots and the glow of his pale skin you might have thought he was the moon made human for the night. He was motionless, waiting.

 

The euphoria from having scored the shaman juice had worn off quickly. He was far from convinced that the liquid was what the golden dealer had claimed it to be. To his eye, only the flask looked anything like kosher. He worried his bottom lip. Inactivity rarely suited him, and the relentless approach of midnight and the possibility of failure weighed heavily, and forced his mind to stay fixed on that subject, for a whole twenty minutes even.

 

On edge as he was, it still took him a moment or two to register movement in his peripheral vision. Dark shapes were slinking casually through the landscape, pausing here and there, by rubbish or by vegetation, but not paying much attention to the seated figure. He watched more closely.

 

Foxes! Real foxes. Jack Cooper foxes, not a perverted mess of a wild animal. He saw them amble about their evening business. There were three as far as he could make out…

 

“Might I ask, are you waiting for someone?”

Four! Vince almost dropped the flask. A big dog fox was sitting less than five yards away, near a patch of brambles. In the low moonlight his eyes gleamed, his ears were sharp and mobile and his fur rippled on his sides as he breathed, slow and easy.

 

“Whoa, you startled me there! All right?” The cheeky chappie routine was a good default setting whilst he recovered his wits. Vince’s confidence in his rapport with animals had taken a bit of a beating since the Crack Fox had returned.

 

“Very well, thank you. And are you waiting for someone? I hope I don’t seem forward, but it isn’t a particularly nice area for a young woman to be wandering around alone.”

Vince frowned. The fox did a double-take.

 

“Oh, I do apologise, my dear chap. Thought you were a lovely lady…. the moonlight on your hair, and so on and so forth.… quite the fashion, I take it?”

 “Yeah, well, I am waiting, as it happens. I have to deliver something.”

“To whom, may I ask?”

“Look, mate, nice to pass the time of night with you but I have a lot on my mind, all right…?”

“So sorry to appear rude, but there are some unsavoury characters around here. You really should keep out of their way.”

The fox rose to go, giving a little shake that rippled all down his back. Vince watched thoughtfully.

“Here, mate, you know the Crack Fox?”

The dog fox looked back over his shoulder, disgust on his face.

“That lowlife! You’re waiting for him?”

“Do you know him?”

 “I know everyone around here, but that’s not to say I would wish to associate with them.” The fox sniffed loudly.

“And we certainly have nothing to do with him. He’s ruined the reputation of the urban fox, and we’ve fought hard to establish ourselves in cute’n’cuddly territory . We were in talks about film contracts, the lot. He’s set our PR back ten years. It’s time somebody did something about him….”

 

The fox examined his claws for a moment and then idly scratched behind one ear.

“You don’t look the type to have business with something like the Crack Fox. What’s your name?”

“Vince. Vince Noir? Rock and roll…”

“Ah yes, we’ve seen the posters. Very droll. I’m Terence. That’s Alistair over there by the oil drum. And Edward, and the one bringing back the takeway is Jonathan. Vince nodded in turn to the other foxes, who flicked their ears back at him. Terence retraced his steps and sat down again.

“You live here?” asked Vince.

“Not here, dear boy. Wouldn’t be seen dead. We just commute in. We’re more towards Hackney. Much better area, though can’t say its market potential has ever lived up to what everyone was predicting when we all moved in during the nineties. Still, it’s engagingly multicultural, and convenient for the City.”

 

The dog fox’s eyes never left Vince, who was back to staring blankly out into the darkness.

“So, why are you after the Crack Fox?”

“Mate, thanks an’ all, but I don’t really….” Vince stopped short. Oh, what the hell.

 

“Okay, since you’re not gonna give up. Basically, it’s like this. The Crack Fox hates us. That’s me and my mate, Howard. And he’s kidnapped Howard and the ransom is shaman juice. So that’s what I got here. He wants to use it to take over the world.”

 

“Yes, of course he does, megalomaniac little wanker. Someone should do something about him, they really should. That’s what a life of drugs does to one, you know. Addles the brain.”

 

“He can do what he likes, as far as I care. I just want Howard back. And safe.” Vince surreptitiously crossed his fingers. He went back to staring at the flask.

 

“Well, you won’t get far with that.”

The fox rose languidly and stretched.

“Right ho, must be off.”

It took a moment for Vince to register the remark.

“What do you mean ‘Won’t get far’?”

“That’s not shaman juice, is it? It’s Lucozade. Pretty obvious, I’d have thought, considering it’s yellow and fizzy.”

Vince was on his feet in a second.

“What?” Vince stared at the flask in horror “Lucozade?”

“Don’t believe me then,” drawled the fox. “Just taste it.”
“I’m not supposed to open it…” Vince began, then recklessly pulled out the stopper and sniffed. A wholly familiar scent hit his nostrils. He really didn’t have to sample the liquid to be sure but even so he sipped, and was convinced.

 

“That ballbag! Wait till I…” He looked at the sky, the full moon drifting into place. His heart dropped like a stone.

“Oh Christy, it’s almost midnight! What am I gonna do?”

“My dear child, calm down. The gold man is long gone. He’s been flogging that dodgy stuff quite a lot recently. I thought most people would have been wary by now.”

“But I need it! It’s my only way in! My only way to get Howard back!”

Vince kicked at the carrier bag in frustration.

 

“That’s why you’re waiting here? In case he comes to you?”

The tone of the questioning was just this side of taunting. Vince started to bridle.

“You got a better idea?”

The dog fox flicked his tail and gave Vince a sly glance.

“Why don’t you go to him?”

“And how is that possible?”

“Well, we could show you the way into his den….”

 

Vince froze.

“You know the way? To get in?”

“Naturally, dear boy. We know the whole area intimately.”

Hope started beating again.

“So, will you show me? Please?”

The fox considered.

“What are you going to do when you meet the Crack Fox?”

Vince frowned at the question.

“I’m going to get Howard. I don’t care if I never meet the Crack Fox again. But if I do, I want… I want to make sure he never harms anyone else…”

 

Terence started to trot down the bank towards the perimeter wire of the dump.

“Good answer. Come on then. I’ll show you the way. It’s about time someone took action.”

Vince still didn’t move.

“So why don’t you?”

Terence stopped short and looked over his shoulder.

 “Us? My dear chap, what could we do?”

“Plenty! You’re foxes too, you live and work around here. You keep whingeing on about ‘oh, someone should do something.’ Why don’t you? Don’t you want to make this area safe?”

The fox looked peeved.

“Good heavens! Community action? Simply not our bag. Now, chop chop! We haven’t got all night….”

Vince picked up his bag with a sigh of exasperation and followed him down the slope.

 

Terence led him across the waste ground right up to the bank of earth that backed onto the wire netting surrounding the dump. He shouldered aside some nettles. There in the sandy earth was a hole, about two feet across, its edges worn smooth and the ground around it scuffed and bare. Vince peered cautiously in. Only darkness.

“In there”, said Terence. “Go on.”

“In there!” squeaked Vince. “I’m gonna get filthy! And anyway, where does it even go?”

“Through the bank, under the wire and then down into the rubbish dump, near the bottom. It’s quite a slide.”

“You’ve been in?”

“Once or twice. But for us it’s not really worth the effort of climbing out again. You get a better class of rubbish just hanging around the kebab shop on the High Street. Why make life difficult for yourself…”

He flicked his claws again.

“Besides, now he’s back, we wouldn’t choose to go in there.”

“Oh right, but it’s okay for me to?”
The fox looked at him disdainfully.

“I thought you wanted to find something in there. Or someone, was it? This is the best way in.”

Vince screwed up his face “I’m gonna regret this…”

The fox had already slipped away.

Vince tipped himself up and slid into the hole. The first few feet he pulled himself along by the fingertips and pushed with his toes, trying to restrain the growing claustrophobia and panic rising in his chest. Then, just as he was about to find an excuse for not going any further, the words “there must be a better way than this” forming on his lips, the ground suddenly gave way and he was hurtling through smooth tunnels of earth like he was on the Cresta Run.

 

Down and down, his ears popping, until suddenly the tunnel swooped upwards and widened out. And Vince found himself propelled out into darkness, rolling over and over with the momentum of his fall.

 

He took a few moments to catch his breath. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of rotting garbage. He was in some kind of room, with a partly open roof high above. As he lay on his back, winded, he could see stars and pale moonlight. The structure became clear. Bin-bags everywhere, stuffed and squashed.

 

He got up and dusted himself down, only to drop to his knees again immediately behind some loose bags. He heard movement; a swishing, scratching sound. And the weak light revealed he was not alone. The Crack Fox was dragging himself through the open space, bin-bags surrounding him as he moved. His face looked set and menacing.

 

He stopped in the centre of the room and stared at the place where Vince had dropped to the ground.

“Come to Crack Fox, all ma bin-bag bitches!”

And the bin-bags that had concealed Vince started to move….

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~