Where The Bee Sucks Page 3

  At four a.m. he risked a whisper. “Ariel?”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  ***

  A rosy-fingered dawn was creeping over the town. Harry abandoned all hope of sleep and sat up. In the grey shadows, there was no sign of the weirdo.

  “Ariel?”

  “Good morrow, Master.”

  “Where are you?” Harry couldn’t place the voice. The weirdo could be in the wardrobe or under the bed.

  “You said you didn’t want to see me again, Master, so I rendered myself invisible.”

  “Well, show yourself, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want to be talking to thin air.”

  The air at the foot of the bed shimmered with a glow the strength of candlelight and the outline of the thin man appeared and filled in with features.

  “Oh, put some clothes on!” Harry hurled a pillow at the naked figure. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  By which he meant, What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I imagining naked men that are not part of my sexual fantasies?

  Ariel examined the pillow from every angle but could not fathom how it might serve as a garment.

  “I’ve been looking at your books, Master,” Ariel gestured to the small, overcrowded bookcase in the corner. “Your tastes have changed considerably. Boy wizards, indeed! An unlikely history if ever I encountered one. I was much more interested in a volume I found under your bed. A book of few words but, oh my, the illustrations! Such healthy young men! Would you prefer to see me shaped like one of those, Master? I can alter to suit your taste.”

  He shimmered and his outline altered, shifting from one pose to another. Harry blushed to recognise the models from his mucky magazine.

  Ah, this is it: the onset of the sexual fantasy! Not a hallucination after all; just a prelude to a wank.

  Ariel returned to his customary shape. “I was gratified to find, Master, the story of our time together.” He beckoned to the bookcase and a battered paperback rose from the shelf, dislodging a few of the others. The chosen book sailed through the air and hovered before Harry’s face. The pages turned rapidly; Harry flinched from the draught.

  “The Tempest?” It was his old copy from school, dog-eared and crammed with puerile marginalia.

  “I would have called it Ariel the Magnificent,” the glowing face contorted with a sneer. “For was it not I who raised the storm, this ‘tempest’? Yea; and more besides.”

  Harry squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s a play, you fool! It’s made up. It’s fiction. It never happened.”

  Ariel laughed; it was like a breeze swatting at wind chimes. “Oh, Master; you are funny! I understand you changed some of the names. For legal reasons, I expect. I know you were never really the Duke of Milan.”

  “Of course I bloody wasn’t! And you can cut the Master shit. Cut the Ariel shit. Cut all the shit! And leave me alone.” He lay back and pulled the duvet over his head. As soon as he could, he would phone the doctor, make an appointment, call in sick - whatever it took to rid himself of this persistent and annoying vision.

  Ariel watched. His master certainly had changed since last they had met. The whole world had, it seemed. Ariel began to wonder whether he had made a mistake. He had been so sure and not to mention overjoyed to see his master’s face again and, while the fashion of the world had changed (in Ariel’s opinion for the worse, with all those garish colours) his master still wore the same clothes.

  But there had been the business of the removable moustache. Master had always been full of little tricks - none to rival Ariel’s own, of course - so perhaps this was just another of them...

  Ariel watched the lump under the bedclothes with patience and affection. Master was now a younger man - how did that work? More sorcery!

  It was clear, Ariel thought glumly, that Master’s powers had increased considerably. He no longer had need of a spirit slave to achieve his ends.

  But if that were so, what is he doing living in such - such - poverty? Where were the master’s palace and his untold riches? Surely a man of such power would own half the county - at least!

  Ariel resolved to ask the master all these questions and more, when the master emerged from under the blanket. They had centuries of catching up to do. Ariel could not see into the future but he suspected this younger version of his master would have need of his services before long.

  ***

  Callie, air-dried by the air conditioning, lay on her back. Her eyes were open but their sense was shut. She felt her surroundings fall away; the bland kitsch of the hotel room dissolved and oblivion claimed her. In the nothingness, her mother’s voice faded in and Callie became aware of her presence, in the way that you get the sensation that someone is watching you when you walk down a street in darkness. Callie felt like shivering but she did not shiver. Letting her mother in blocked the brain’s access to her own motor functions and nervous system. For the duration of their conversation, Callie was paralysed.

  Thou hast done exceeding well, my child, but there is still much to be done.

  Aye, mother; and I shall do it.

  The fragment is secured?

  Aye, mother, and the next fragment shall soon be in my grasp.

  Thou wert always a diligent slave and a worthy and a valiant. Thou shalt thy reward have afore long.

  Thank you, mother.

  Thou shalt stand beside me when thy work is done and together we shall have dominion over all the world. When I return unto your realm, all shall tremble at my feet. The seas shall rise and the mountains topple, and all men shall cower as I bend them to my will.

  Yes, mother.

  There followed a silence. Callie could imagine her mother gloating in anticipation of world domination. Even though she had never seen her mother’s face or heard her mother’s voice, Callie could imagine it well, and the laughter, harsh and shrll. Yes; her mother’s laughter would be harsh and shrill.

  As befits a witch.

  The hotel room solidified around her. Callie blinked. Her eyes were painfully dry. She rose from the bed, feeling like she’d done ten rounds with a steamroller. A shower was called for, she reckoned. Foggy-headed, she made her way back to the en suite.

  Mother’s visits always resulted in a headache. And bloody hell; she didn’t half talk funny.

  Four.

  Ariel watched Harry sleep. As a spirit of the air, Ariel didn’t need the season of all natures but he had developed a sort of semi-conscious state in which he zoned out of his surroundings and allowed his mind to wander. It was a technique he had perfected centuries ago, when he had been imprisoned in a pine tree for twelve years until his master - his glorious, kind and generous master! - had arrived on the island and released him. True, his master had freed him only to enslave him right away and make him do his master’s bidding, but he had, when all was said and done, freed him again. Ariel had been a free spirit for four hundred years and, if he was truthful would have to admit he had spent most of those centuries in that zoned out state, somewhat at a loss. He had idled away the time, as far as he could recall. It was all a blur, a fog devoid of detail and definition. With no one to serve, Ariel felt he had no purpose. But now, at last, he was reunited with his master - a rejuvenated, puzzling incarnation of his master with a disagreeable temperament and detachable facial hair, but his master all the same.

  A flat oblong object beside the master’s bed burst into light and a cacophony of sound. Invisible minstrels drummed and squawked - an unholy choir, to Ariel’s ears. His master’s hand appeared from beneath the blankets and reached for the object. At once the terrible din ceased. Ariel was both amazed and gratified. Master had retained his command over the unseen entities that pervade the human world undetected by common mortals.

  Clearing his throat with a grunt, Harry poked his head out f
rom under the duvet, rubbed his eyes and checked his smart phone.

  “Good morrow, Master!”

  Harry froze. There was a strange, faintly glowing man standing at the foot of his bed. Harry shook the phone, thinking perhaps he might have activated the snooze function instead of switching off the alarm, and he had fallen back into a dream.

  “I said, Good mor-”

  “I heard you!” Harry snapped. He pushed back the duvet and sat up, registering mild surprise to see he was still in his clothes from the night before. He rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t remember drinking. There were no symptoms of a hangover but Harry had been fooled like that before only to be ambushed mid-afternoon by a raging headache and throat-scratching dehydration.

  “Here, Master.” Ariel held out a glass of orange juice. Harry stared at it. “I took it from the cold cabinet in your kitchen. I took the liberty of having a tidy-round while I was there. I hope this was not too presumptuous.”

  Harry reached for the glass. It was tangible enough and felt familiar in his hand. It was definitely one of the glasses from downstairs.

  “When?”

  “When what, Master?”

  “When did you fetch the orange juice and clean the kitchen?”

  “Just now.”

  “When?”

  “While you were in the processing of sitting up in bed, Master. You may recall I am a fast worker.”

  “Oh.” Harry risked a sip. It was orange juice, all right.

  “Is it not good, Master?”

  “It is very good and just what I needed but I’m afraid it’s my housemate’s orange juice and he will not be best pleased.”

  “I can enchant him, Master, and sew up his mouth with cobwebs. He won’t say a word!”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll just buy him another carton later. What am I saying? I’m planning to pop to the shops as if there isn’t a weirdo in my bedroom, claiming to be my supernatural servant and looking like he’s overdosed on Ready Brek.”

  Ariel glanced around. “There is an intruder, Master?”

  “Yes, and it’s you, you berk. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get a wash and changed and -“

  Ariel grinned. Harry became aware his hair was damp and he smelled of soap and antiperspirant. His clothes had changed to a fresh shirt and trousers and, he didn’t check but he strongly suspected was the case, his underwear and socks were clean on too.

  “What did you -“

  “You’re welcome, Master; see how much time and effort I can save you.”

  Harry reddened. “You washed and dressed me? You saw my -”

  He clasped his hands over his crotch.

  Ariel’s grin broadened. “I have altered my own appearance based on your own.” He indicated his own naked groin. “I only wish to fit in.”

  “Oh, no! Oh, no! You’re not fitting that in anywhere! How about altering your appearance by putting some bloody clothes on? Or how about altering your appearance by vanishing out of sight and out of my life?”

  “You would prefer me to be invisible, Master? Does my appearance displease you so very much?”

  Ariel faded away with a disconsolate pout. His lips were the last to go, like the Cheshire Cat in its teenage years. Harry felt terrible.

  “All right, all right; you can come back. But please, if you’re going to be seen with me in public - what the fuck am I saying? - you’re going to have to put something on. I can do without another little talk with the police. Last night was more than enough, thank you.”

  “Fear not, Master; I can render myself invisible to all eyes but yours.” Ariel popped back into sight.

  “And have people thinking I’m talking to myself? Not bloody likely.”

  “Very well, Master.” The doors of Harry’s wardrobe swung open. Ariel searched through the hangers - manually, to Harry’s surprise.

  “What’s the matter? You can dress me in the twinkling of an eye but you take more time and care to pick out your own outfit?”

  Ariel held up a yellow shirt to his chest. He wrinkled his nose. The shirt turned blue. “That’s better. What do you think, Master?”

  “Do you know, I wanted that shirt in blue but they hadn’t got my size.”

  “There you are then. And I like to do things the way normal mortals do sometimes. It’s funny.” He struggled to put his arms into the sleeves both at once. Harry had to step forward to help him.

  “You’ll tear it like that!” he wailed. Ariel’s long fingers fumbled with the buttons. Harry intervened and fastened them.

  “You’ve changed, Master,” Ariel looked into his eyes. “And I do not mean your garments. I thought you would enjoy my naked form; you seem to appreciate those in the publication under your bed.”

  Harry opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  “And what became of your daughter, Master? You were once a doting father.”

  “Eh?” Harry was puzzled.

  “Your daughter!” Ariel laughed. “You cannot have forgotten your daughter, Miranda. She married that prince.”

  “Do I look old enough to have a married daughter?”

  “No, Master, you don’t. It is miraculous how you have kept yourself so well-preserved for all this while.” Ariel took Harry by the chin and turned his face from left to right. Harry knocked Ariel’s hand away. Something occurred to him. He snatched up the dog-eared copy of The Tempest from the floor.

  “Listen, mate; I don’t know who or what you are but you seem to think I’m old Whojimmyflop from this play.”

  “The Duke of Milan!”

  “Listen; the only Duke of Milan I know is a pub, and it’s not even called that, if I’m honest. We’ll go back to the river. Perhaps someone who knows you is looking for you there, or you’ll come to your senses, or I’ll come to mine and this - this - craziness will be done with.”

  Ariel raised an arm, dramatically. “To the river!”

  Harry grabbed it quickly. “We’ll walk, if you don’t mind. Like normal mortals do, okay?”

  “Very well, Master.”

  “Good,” Harry opened the bedroom door but stopped as he remembered something. “But please put some trousers on first.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  ***

  In the kitchen, Harry’s housemate Olly was bending and stretching, cooling down after his morning run. Olly was a working actor and obsessed with keeping his body as finely tuned as possible. Twisting at the waist and sweating profusely, he asked Harry what had happened to the orange juice.

  “I’m going to do a big shop,” was Harry’s unsatisfactory response.

  Olly nodded; he’d heard that one before. “Lot of noise coming from your room last night,” he raised his eyebrows. “Lot of shouting. What were you up to in there? No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”

  “Um..” Harry flushed with embarrassment.

  Olly came to a standstill. “I know that look! What have I told you a million times? If you get a sniff, we share!”

  “No, it’s not like that.” Harry stopped; it occurred to him he didn’t know what ‘it’ was like exactly.

  “You rotter! You were preparing all bloody night. Come on! Where is it? What is it? A telly? An advert?”

  “No! Olly, listen; it’s not an audition. You know I don’t even get to the audition stage these days.”

  “Then what was making you shout so much?” Olly’s expression changed when he caught sight of a pale, thin man in a fetching blue shirt in the doorway. “Ah!” he grinned. “All becomes clear!” He gave his housemate a lascivious wink. Harry nearly flew into a panic.

  “Nothing like that! This is ah - um...”

  “Oh dear. Didn’t even get the poor twink’s name. Disgraceful.” He grinned at Arie
l in a friendly manner and opened the fridge. “I suppose water will have to do. It’s better for the old gnashers anyhoo. Oh.”

  To his surprise, Olly found his carton of orange juice exactly as it had been the night before, that is: considerably fuller than it had been when he had checked only ten minutes ago.

  “Well, fuck me gently,” he laughed. “Head’s like a busted sieve. I’m sorry.”

  “Lines not going in?” Harry pretended to take an interest in Olly’s professional life, although it pained him that his friend was working in an actual acting job rather than pulling pints and carrying plates in one of the town’s many, many eateries.

  “Oh, they’re in all right,” Olly tapped the side of his head. “I just never get the bloody chance to get them out again.”

  “Olly’s an understudy,” Harry explained to Ariel, motivated by politeness more than anything else. “Who is it you’re shadowing this time?”

  Olly rolled his eyes. “It’s a waste of time. You should see the guy I’m covering. Nigel... Thingy. You know; he did the... with the ... This guy’s never going to go off sick. Brick shithouse on legs. I’ve been thinking of phoning him up and pretending to be his agent and call him down to London for an audition. That might at least give me a shot at a matinee.”

  “What’s the part?”

  “Does he always stare like that?” Olly jerked his head towards the thin guy in the doorway.

  “Ignore him; he won’t be here long.”

  “A one-night stand!” Olly marvelled. “You sly dog; things are looking up! They’ve given me the savage, love. I shall try my best to ennoble him while making him as creepy as possible. If I get the bastard chance to go on, that is. I could be the best damned Caliban that never trod the boards.”

  “M- master?” Ariel gripped the door jamb. “What was that name again?”

  “Nigel,” Olly said. “Do you know him?”

  “Caliban,” said Harry.

  “Master!” Ariel gasped and fainted.

  “Oh dear,” Olly tutted, highly amused. “Getting him to call you Master. Didn’t think you were into all that. Lovely shirt, though. Haven’t you got one like that in yellow? And, I know what it can be like, getting dressed in a hurry and all that, but do you think he knows he’s got his trousers on back to front?”