Pure Dead Magic Page 6

Serenely unaware of the squalor surrounding her, Signora Strega-Borgia stirred her coffee with the end of a pencil, licked it dry, and circled something in the paper.

  Signor Strega-Borgia sat down at the breakfast table. Damp hurled her cup at him by way of welcome. Marie Bain placed a plate of blackened eggs in front of him.

  “Dad, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” said Titus.

  “That’s a major understatement,” said Pandora, scattering sugar over her cereal, the surrounding tablecloth and, ultimately, the floor.

  “Dad,” said Titus, ignoring his sister, “you know you let me load Death & Destruction II onto your computer?”

  “Titus, you are terminally boring, d’you know that?” interrupted Pandora. “All you ever do is talk about computers from the moment you open your eyes in the morning until—”

  “Shut up, Pan,” said Titus. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

  “It’s even ruder to bore the pants off everyone,” mumbled Pandora, through a mouthful of Ricey Krispettes. Several Ricey Krispettes were launched floorward with each word.

  Damp, her baby barometer sensing an impending storm, began to wail.

  “Well, the problem is … Dad? Dad? Are you listening?”

  “AAAARGH!” yelled Signor Strega-Borgia.

  “Something wrong, darling?” said Signora Strega-Borgia, dropping her paper in the communal milk pool.

  “TOO RIGHT, SOMETHING’S WRONG!” yelled Signor Strega-Borgia illogically.

  Damp began to cry in earnest.

  “Dad, look, I’m really sorry I crashed your computer, but it wasn’t my fault,” blurted Titus.

  Signor Strega-Borgia leapt to his feet, causing his chair to crash backward onto the floor. “I’ve had it!” he shouted at his family. “I’m sick of living in a pigsty!” He waved at the table. “I’m sick of eating pig swill!” He hurled his plate at the wall. “And above all, I’m fed up to the back teeth with the lot of you!”

  His family looked at him in dismay. In the background, Marie Bain curled up on the floor with the broken crockery and tried to make herself invisible. Above her head, scrambled eggs tracked slowly down the wall.

  “Well …,” said Signora Strega-Borgia icily, “you know what you can do about that, don’t you?”

  “Mum …,” warned Pandora.

  “Dad?” pleaded Titus. “Dad …”

  “Mummy and Daddy need to have a little talk, darlings,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, in an icy voice. “Why don’t you all go upstairs while we sort ourselves out?” She fixed her children with a wide smile. Unfortunately, noted Titus, it wasn’t the kind of smile that reached her eyes.

  “Please don’t argue?” he begged.

  “Please go upstairs. Now. And take the baby,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, standing up and opening the kitchen door.

  In a hush full of unanswered questions, the children trooped out of the kitchen, followed by Marie Bain, who dabbed at her eyes with her apron and sniffed disapprovingly. The sound of their footsteps died away, leaving Signor Strega-Borgia and his wife in silence.

  A faraway clock chimed the hour.

  “Well …,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, sitting down and examining her fingernails.

  “I’d best be off, then,” said her husband, hoping that he didn’t have to go.

  “As you wish,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, retrieving her newspaper from the milk pool. Her hands trembled and her eyes filled with tears, but she hid herself behind the soggy newsprint. It was this apparent lack of concern and frosty dismissal that made Signor Strega-Borgia’s mind up.

  “Don’t expect me back for supper,” he said, glaring at her bent head. His words failed to penetrate her chilly armor. “Or tomorrow,” he added, from the door.

  “Bye,” said his wife, from behind the paper where her face was wet with tears. “Lock the gate after you.…”

  With a massive attempt at injured dignity, Signor Strega-Borgia walked out on his life, his wife, and his family. And from there on, it had all been downhill.

  Somewhere along the road, he’d taken a wrong turn and he hardly recognized his surroundings. Moreover, by then it was way past lunchtime and he was starving. The shoulders of his jacket were soaked, his trousers were splattered with mud, and his stomach growled incessantly.

  When the sleek black Mercedes pulled up beside him, his hair was plastered to his skull and he felt he’d sunk as low as it was possible to go. As the passenger door opened, he’d had no idea just how much farther he still had to fall.…

  The sound of voices from outside the window dragged him back to the present. In the early morning Italian sunlight, Signor Strega-Borgia saw Pronto loading a violin case into the trunk of a large black car.

  “Don’t worry, Maestro,” Pronto called to someone out of the field of Signor Strega-Borgia’s vision. “It’s time for them to face the music. When I finish, there won’t be a single one left standing.”

  Signor Strega-Borgia puzzled over this statement as he helped himself to another cup of coffee. Was Pronto such a talented musician that his performances literally brought the house down? Or was it that his skill with a violin was such that his concert audiences knelt before him in adoration?

  Drawing a finger slowly across his throat, Pronto climbed into the rear seat, and the car drew away, its tires crunching gravel and its black windows throwing back a reflection of the blank face of the palazzo. In one of those moments where something clicks and realization dawns, Signor Strega-Borgia suddenly understood. Maybe it had nothing to do with music, he thought as his legs turned to water and his heart leapt free of its moorings and flew into his mouth. Maybe Pronto was on a deadly mission? To StregaSchloss!

  Hearing the front door slam and the heavy tread of approaching footsteps, Signor Strega-Borgia drained his coffee cup and picked up the document that lay beside his untouched breakfast. It appeared to be a will. In fact, it appeared to be his will. Hardly believing the evidence before his eyes, Signor Strega-Borgia read that as the trustee for his son, Titus, he had decided to make a few changes.… Clutching his throat, Signor Strega-Borgia scanned the document:

  After much thought … due to the corrupting influence of vast sums of money … Titus too young to inherit … I, Luciano Strega-Borgia, being of sound Mind … hereby decree … in the event of my death … going to leave everything I possess to …

  “NEVER!” he shouted, just as Don Lucifer’s hairy nostrils appeared, as was their habit, three seconds before the rest of his half brother.

  “Never?” queried Don Lucifer, idly tapping the business end of a rather wicked-looking handgun.

  “Um, yes, um, I was just saying I’ve never drunk a finer cup of … um, ah …” Luciano’s words trailed off into silence.

  The brothers’ eyes met over the handgun. “When you’ve signed that thing,” Don Lucifer remarked in a very matter-of-fact way, “I need you to have a look at my computer. It’s got some kind of virus playing havoc with the mainframe.”

  “Lucifer, d’you think I’m a complete pushover? A total jelly that you can just shove around?”

  Don Lucifer gazed impassively at his sibling. “Yup,” he said, clicking the gun’s safety catch to the off position, struck by the happy thought that the inhabitants of StregaSchloss would soon be dead, no matter what his jelly of a half brother did. “Don’t be a fool, Luciano. Sign on the dotted line and then get downstairs and sort out my computer problem or, later on today, your precious son will have an unfortunate accident, resulting in his untimely demise. Guaranteed. So do as you’re told, and don’t waste any more of my time.”

  It’s only money, Signor Strega-Borgia told himself as he signed away his stamp collection, his bank balance, Titus’s inheritance, and most importantly, StregaSchloss, his home. The thought of its acute vulnerability to invasion by Mafia thugs caused him to wish he’d installed a slightly more high-tech security system than a dungeonful of mythical beasts.

  A vision of his beloved family under threat from a violin-
bearing menace caused him to burst into tears. “Don’t hurt them, Lucifer … PLEASE? I’ll do anything, but just leave my family out of this, I beg you, pleeeeease.…” He fell sobbing to the carpet, in the knowledge that he was, indeed, a jelly.

  E-rats Redux

  Luciano Strega-Borgia hobbled along the deserted corridors of the palazzo, held at gunpoint by his brother, dimly aware that the floor had been newly polished with something that smelled vaguely of gasoline. Indeed the marble floors shone so much that they were slightly slippery underfoot. Don Lucifer stopped at a little door marked TUG and pushed. Not surprisingly, nothing happened. Don Lucifer clapped himself on the forehead, tugged, and entered.

  Despite a total lack of human presence, the room seemed alive. Screens flickered, modems hummed and shrieked their strange peacock call, and the noise of spinning disks and coolant fans merged with excited squeakings and scrapings coming from one corner of the room.

  “It’s all yours.” The Don indicated the room at large, and then grabbed Signor Strega-Borgia by the lapels. “And don’t be so stupid as to try and get help. You e-mail the Carabinieri, the FBI, the CIA, the Gendarmes, any form of police you like, and all the computers will crash instantly. It’s been programmed to alert me if anyone so much as keys in 999. So don’t even think about it. No calling for help, or you’re fish food.” He released his quaking half brother and smiled encouragingly. “The virus. The rats. That’s what you’re here for. Get it sorted, Luciano, there’s a good boy.” With this, Don Lucifer turned on his heels and walked out of the room, pushing the door shut behind him.

  In a dazed state of obedience, Signor Strega-Borgia sought the source of the squeaking. Pulling up a chair, he sat in front of one screen that appeared to be running a most unusual screen saver. He looked more closely. That wasn’t a screen saver. That was an infestation. Thirteen rat babies looked back at him through the glass. Beside them, a modem lit up and quietly exploded. The screen turned black and smoke began to leak apologetically from its rear.

  “We have a problem,” muttered Signor Strega-Borgia, turning to a fresh screen and keying in a set of commands.

  >YOU…RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT, LAMEBRAIN< agreed the computer.

  /QUERY SOURCE/ typed Signor Strega-Borgia, ignoring the insult.

  >>THAT…S FOR ME TO KNOW, AND YOU TO FIND OUT< said the computer, aggravating things further by adding ten rows of asterisks, this being a computer’s equivalent of sticking its tongue out and yelling Nya Nya, nah NYA NYA.

  “So you don’t wish to reveal your source, do you?” muttered Signor Strega-Borgia, and pressed five keys simultaneously.

  Immediately the screen went black, and almost immediately lit back up again. >NO NEED TO BE QUITE SO BRUTAL complained the computer, >VIOLENCE NEVER SOLVED ANYTHING<

  “No,” agreed Signor Strega-Borgia, “but a quick crash and reboot might bring you to your senses.”

  He typed /QUERY SOURCE/ again.

  The computer replied with the equivalent of “Wild Horses Wouldn’t Drag That Information from Me”: >MMMMMMMMMM< it said.

  Signor Strega-Borgia typed /REBOOT? QUERY?/

  >MMMMNYA POO< replied the computer, adding, >I…LL NEVER REVEAL MY SOURCES, NO MATTER WHAT. MMMMMMM<

  Signor Strega-Borgia resorted to desperate measures. Opening a bottle of brown fizzy liquid abandoned by a previous operator, he held it over the air vents on the computer.

  /RIGHT/ he typed. /COKE IN THE VENTS OR—SOURCE. QUERY?/

  >YOU NASTY BIG LAMEBRAIN BRUTE< complained the computer. >MAY YOUR HARD DISK CEASE TO SPIN, AND ALL YOUR FILES RASP. MAY ALL YOUR CRASHES BE FATAL AND YOUR REBOOTS BE DOC MARTENS …<

  /SOURCE. QUERY? OR ELSE/ typed Signor Strega-Borgia.

  >OH VERY WELL, BRAWN OVER BRAIN. STREGA-SCHLOSS.CO.UK. HAPPY NOW?<

  “WHAT?” screamed Signor Strega-Borgia.

  The computer, not possessing a pair of ears, didn’t respond.

  /QUERY. ERROR, SURELY?/ typed Signor Strega-Borgia, his hands suddenly clammy on the keyboard.

  >NOPE NEGATIVE NIX NOT! STREGASCHLOSS.CO.UK IT IS. MMMMMMMM< replied the computer, adding two rows of ampersands by way of salt in the wound.

  “Titus,” groaned Signor Strega-Borgia, slumping onto the keyboard. “What have you done?”

  How had his only son sent an infestation of rats across the Internet and straight into his half brother’s unbelievably complex computer system? And never mind how or even why, judging by Don Lucifer’s threats, Titus could be in extreme danger. Feverishly, his fingers flying over the keys, Signor Strega-Borgia typed out a message.

  titus@stregaschloss.co.uk Titus

  Something very wicked is about to arrive on your doorstep. Don’t ask. just do what i say. Try and get your mum and your sisters down into the dungeon with the beasts, and stay there until …

  What? Until what? Until he got home? That was becoming more unlikely by the minute. Signor Strega-Borgia wasn’t coming home, not if his evil half brother had anything to do with it. He began again.

  titus@stregaschloss.co.uk

  Titus

  i’ve been kidnapped by a psychopathic relative. don’t worry.

  On reflection, he removed the last bit.

  Titus

  I’ve been kidnapped and can’t get home. i think you’re all in grave danger as well. The best thing to do is panic.

  This wasn’t going at all well. He considered getting Titus to phone the police, but he knew that a twelve-year-old trying to tell the local Highland constabulary that he’d just had an e-mail from his estranged father saying that there was an unspecified threat on its way from somewhere unknown was not going to bring several officers in blue to the door of StregaSchloss. Plus, as his half brother had been at such pains to point out, if he so much as typed 999, or “police,” the computer would alert Lucifer before it crashed.… Think, man, he beseeched himself. Ah, there it was, the kind of message that would convey the gravity of the situation in a fashion that his son might understand.

  Titus

  Aliens abducted me on my way to auchenlochtermuchty and are about to launch an attack on stregaschloss. i would have come home sooner, but you know how uncool these beings with green antennae coming out of their foreheads can be.

  Take the beasts and your sisters and your mum and get as far away from stregaschloss as possible. please. please? and be warned. the aliens will probably be armed and are definitely dangerous. be careful.

  i love you,

  dad

  p.s. did you send thirteen rats down the modem?

  Signor Strega-Borgia keyed in a row of X’s and sat back, trembling. Onscreen a dialogue box appeared: SEND?

  Signor Strega-Borgia hit the ENTER key with such force that the plastic cracked and it divided in two, becoming the ENT and ER keys. Onscreen the dialogue box read: MESSAGE SENT >BUT YOU DIDN … T HAVE TO BE QUITE SO NEANDERTHAL<

  Signor Strega-Borgia ignored this and began to chew his fingernails. On a nearby screen, twenty-six rat eyes glared pinkly out at him. They were assessing his food value (minimal), his general value to ratkind (zilch), and his intelligence (nonexistent since he hadn’t brought any bacon rinds). Bored, the rats turned away and began to gnaw pixels by the dozen.

  Damp on the Web

  Mrs. McLachlan’s raspberry muffins were good, thought Titus, rather too good, in fact. After eating more than his fair share (eight out of twelve), he headed upstairs to his computer. When the screen flickered into life, a dialogue box appeared with YOU HAVE MAIL on it.

  “Spam,” muttered Titus, under his breath, ignoring the announcement and loading Death & Destruction II into the CD-ROM.

  The dialogue box politely made itself scarce, waiting until Titus had assembled his armies onscreen, equipped them with a bristling array of weaponry, and was just about to begin the assault on the peaceful kingdom of computer-generated Nettlefold. Titus paused, fingers hovering above the keyboard. There was that annoying dialogue box getting in the way again. All unknowing, the innocen
t citizens of the kingdom of Nettlefold slept on into oblivion. They remained unaware that the agent of their destruction was a large box hanging in the sky that bore the legend:

  YOU STILL HAVE MAIL. THE KIND OF MAIL THAT DOESN … T LIE MEEKLY ON THE MAT WAITING TO BE OPENED. THIS IS MAIL WITH MENACES. IT DEMANDS TO BE READ, OR ELSE.…

  Titus groaned. Not again. Death & Destruction II was always pulling this kind of stunt. The trouble was that it was such an aggressive game. Every time he loaded it, it tried to pick a fight with everything in its way—first the CD-ROM, then the RAM, then the processor. Maybe he’d try it again, later. In the meantime, out with Death & Destruction II and check the mailbox.

  Titus sat back and waited. The dialogue box disappeared again, muttering darkly to itself. After a lot of whirring fans and little clicky noises from deep within the computer, a message appeared onscreen.

  UNLESS YOU OPEN YOUR MAIL NOW, THIS COMPUTER WILL TURN INTO A LARGE WHITE BOX THAT HAS NO MEMORY OF BEING ANYTHING OTHER THAN A LARGE WHITE BOX.

  “OK, OK. Chill out, would you?” groaned Titus, pressing ENTER. His eyes grew wide. “WHAT?” he yelled. “Dad? What is this rubbish?”

  His fingers a blur on the keyboard, Titus replied:

  dad@mafia.org.ital

  For signor strega-borgia, missing father of Titus, abandoner of family, etc.

  Dear Sir,

  the rats belong to your daughter. perhaps you’d like to ask HER how they got there? anyway, aliens don’t have antennae coming out of their heads. That’s SAD, dad. Think of a better excuse. And none of this is my fault.

  hope you’re well,

  Your Son,

  Titus

  He pressed ENTER, wiped a tear off the keyboard, and reloaded Death & Destruction II. Nettlefold didn’t stand a chance.

  Signor Strega-Borgia burst into dramatic tears when Titus’s message arrived onscreen. Immediately he responded:

  titus@stregaschloss.co.uk

  For Titus Strega-Borgia’s eyes only. Master of the mouse, genius of the joystick, beloved only son of Luciano the low, dad the sad.