Read Online New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird by Kim Newman, Neil Gaiman, China Miéville, Charles Stross, Cherie Priest, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Sarah Monette, Michael Marshall Smith, Paula Guran - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kim Newman, Neil Gaiman, China Miéville, Charles Stross, Cherie Priest, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Sarah Monette, Michael Marshall Smith, Paula Guran
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Short Stories, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Genre Fiction, Short-Story, Anthologies, Anthology, Anthologies & Short Stories, Metaphysical & Visionary, cthulhu, weird
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that add up to?”
“Minimum of seven fifty each, that’s three grand seven fifty,” I said. “But from that fucker’s face; I’m thinking he got five, six grand at least. And if he got that off some bloke who knows it’s nicked, then in the shops you got to double or treble it. Probably more.”
“Sheesh. Still, good for him. He didn’t have to see us right.”
“Yeah,” I said, because he wasn’t completely wrong. The Pole could have kept quiet about his windfall. His deal with us was done. “But you know what that cash is really about?”
Baz looked at me, shook his head. He’s a lovely bloke, don’t get me wrong. He’s my best mate. But the stuff in his head is mainly just padding to stop his eyeballs falling in. “What it means is,” I said, “is he’s very fucking keen to get some more. In fact, probably says he was lying about the seven fifty for the cheapest. He got more. Maybe much more. He got so much dosh for them, in fact, it was worth admitting he did well, and paying us a bonus so we go to him if we find any more.”
“Better keep our eyes open, then,” Baz said, cheerfully. “More beer?”
“Cheers,” I said.
I watched him lurch off to the bar. My hand slipped into my pocket, and I found my cold little friend. The bit of polished stone, coral, glass, whatever. I knew then that Clive had been right. My little piece was probably worth a lot of money. The bits of jewelry had been all right, but nowhere near as pretty as my stone.
I wasn’t selling it though, no way. I had got too used to the feel of it in my hand. Twenty, thirty times a day I’d hold it. I liked the way it fitted between my fingers. Longer I had it, better it seemed to fit. Sometimes, if I held it up to my face, I thought I could smell it too. Couldn’t put my finger on what it smelled of, but it was nice, comforting. The Pole wasn’t getting hold of it. Not Jackie neither.
It was mine.
On the Sunday Baz goes on holiday. He’s off to Tenerife for the week. This is fine by me, because I need time to plan.
Now Baz, he thinks we’ve just got to keep an eye out for this stuff, that it’s something like a particular DVD player or whatever. I know different. If it’s this fucking valuable, then it’s not something we’re just going to find in some gaff in Kentish Town, mixed in with all the shit from Ratners or Argos or wherever. This isn’t just common-or-garden thieving we’re looking at. This is nicking to order, which is a different kind of skill. Happens all the time, of course: you pass the word to the right bloke in the right pub, that you want some particular BMW, or a new Mini in cream, and they’ll go do the business for you. There’s big money in it. Not my area, normally, but this is different. We do all right with the usual gear, but if me and Baz can take some more of this silver to the Pole, we can do very nicely indeed. It’s worth making an effort.
So on the Monday night, I’m out on the streets by myself. It’s about ten thirty. I park the van around the corner, and I take a stroll down the street where the house is, the house where we found the stuff. Couldn’t remember which one it was at first, but in the end I worked it out. All the other houses in this street, they’ve been done up. Window sills painted, bricks re-pointed, new tiles on the path, that kind of thing. Scaffolding on a couple others. Lot of people have moved in recently, the area’s coming up. But this particular house, it looks a bit more knackered. I’m thinking the people have been there a while, which makes sense, what with it being so untidy inside. Could be they’re foreign. You get that, sometimes. People moved in just after the war or whatever, when it was dirt cheap. House gets passed on to the children, and then bingo, suddenly they’re sitting on a gold mine. Could be they’re Yanks, even—which would explain the old silver being from the US originally.
I walk past the house and see the curtains
“Minimum of seven fifty each, that’s three grand seven fifty,” I said. “But from that fucker’s face; I’m thinking he got five, six grand at least. And if he got that off some bloke who knows it’s nicked, then in the shops you got to double or treble it. Probably more.”
“Sheesh. Still, good for him. He didn’t have to see us right.”
“Yeah,” I said, because he wasn’t completely wrong. The Pole could have kept quiet about his windfall. His deal with us was done. “But you know what that cash is really about?”
Baz looked at me, shook his head. He’s a lovely bloke, don’t get me wrong. He’s my best mate. But the stuff in his head is mainly just padding to stop his eyeballs falling in. “What it means is,” I said, “is he’s very fucking keen to get some more. In fact, probably says he was lying about the seven fifty for the cheapest. He got more. Maybe much more. He got so much dosh for them, in fact, it was worth admitting he did well, and paying us a bonus so we go to him if we find any more.”
“Better keep our eyes open, then,” Baz said, cheerfully. “More beer?”
“Cheers,” I said.
I watched him lurch off to the bar. My hand slipped into my pocket, and I found my cold little friend. The bit of polished stone, coral, glass, whatever. I knew then that Clive had been right. My little piece was probably worth a lot of money. The bits of jewelry had been all right, but nowhere near as pretty as my stone.
I wasn’t selling it though, no way. I had got too used to the feel of it in my hand. Twenty, thirty times a day I’d hold it. I liked the way it fitted between my fingers. Longer I had it, better it seemed to fit. Sometimes, if I held it up to my face, I thought I could smell it too. Couldn’t put my finger on what it smelled of, but it was nice, comforting. The Pole wasn’t getting hold of it. Not Jackie neither.
It was mine.
On the Sunday Baz goes on holiday. He’s off to Tenerife for the week. This is fine by me, because I need time to plan.
Now Baz, he thinks we’ve just got to keep an eye out for this stuff, that it’s something like a particular DVD player or whatever. I know different. If it’s this fucking valuable, then it’s not something we’re just going to find in some gaff in Kentish Town, mixed in with all the shit from Ratners or Argos or wherever. This isn’t just common-or-garden thieving we’re looking at. This is nicking to order, which is a different kind of skill. Happens all the time, of course: you pass the word to the right bloke in the right pub, that you want some particular BMW, or a new Mini in cream, and they’ll go do the business for you. There’s big money in it. Not my area, normally, but this is different. We do all right with the usual gear, but if me and Baz can take some more of this silver to the Pole, we can do very nicely indeed. It’s worth making an effort.
So on the Monday night, I’m out on the streets by myself. It’s about ten thirty. I park the van around the corner, and I take a stroll down the street where the house is, the house where we found the stuff. Couldn’t remember which one it was at first, but in the end I worked it out. All the other houses in this street, they’ve been done up. Window sills painted, bricks re-pointed, new tiles on the path, that kind of thing. Scaffolding on a couple others. Lot of people have moved in recently, the area’s coming up. But this particular house, it looks a bit more knackered. I’m thinking the people have been there a while, which makes sense, what with it being so untidy inside. Could be they’re foreign. You get that, sometimes. People moved in just after the war or whatever, when it was dirt cheap. House gets passed on to the children, and then bingo, suddenly they’re sitting on a gold mine. Could be they’re Yanks, even—which would explain the old silver being from the US originally.
I walk past the house and see the curtains
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