Chapter 6

VI
Last Will and Testament

Zzrh and Zzg stand either side of the small door in the side of the beeswax tunnel. The only source of light is a fluorescent bulb a short distance back the way they came.

Zzrh thumps on the door. “Zruz, this is the police, we just want to ask you a few questions.”

They wait a few seconds, and then Zzg beats the door with her fist. “Open up Zruz. You weren’t in any trouble five seconds ago, but you’re getting there!”

After a few more seconds, Zzg asks, “Can we kick the door down now?”

Zzrh shakes his head. “Do you hear someone crying for help inside?”

“Now that you mention it, yeah.”

“Really? Okay, one, two…”

The door flings open under their simultaneous kick, careening back into the wall and bouncing closed again. There is now a big jagged hole where the lock was torn out, and it swings open again uselessly. The two of them walk in, hands on their holsters. It’s a pretty typical apian apartment: curved walls, wooden mock-human furniture, dull natural light creeping in through a small window.

“Oh,” Zzrh says, looking around. “What an unfortunate mistake, there’s no-one in here. But while we’re inside, what’s this in plain view?”

Zzg wanders over to the bookcase. “It looks like the complete works of Zez to me. On the Inferiority of Mammals, not to mention Flight: A Manifesto. Also stocking Humans, Trade Unionism and Discrimination against Winged Apians by Zorzrr and, oh, this is too rich, Taking Back the Hive by Zzrrrzzzr.”

“The bigot’s cookbook.” Zzrh says, stepping over to see for himself. “You might expect him to be a fan of Ogive’s.”

Zzg pulls out Flight: A Manifesto and reads the back cover blurb. “Fan or enemy,” she says. “It’s a bit of coincidence that he’s gone walkabout isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I think I hear someone crying for help under the bed and in the closet.”

Zzg grins and get on all sixes, peering under the cheap plastic bed. “Hang on a second, you’ve gotta have a look at this…”

She pulls out a shallow box, full of folded papers and fabrics. The item on top seems to be a large banner or flag.

Zzrh looks at it and sighs. “Hidden under the bed. Not the brightest spark, our Zruz, is he?”

Zzrh and Zzg both look sharply down at their belts as their pagers go off at the same time.

*

“Hello Cubi,” Mec says, grey-haired and bright-eyed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He chuckles. “Obviously, it’s hard for me to feel much grief for my own passing while I sit here in front of a video camera, very much alive. It’s also hard to imagine that anyone could care too much about losing an old spoilsport like me. I shouldn’t make light of your feelings, though. I’m sure you’re very sad. You always seemed to like me a lot. You were like a little puppy, Cubi, loyal and impossible not to love. Still, you’ll manage without me, I know it.

“Cubi, now that I’m dead, I obviously have little need for material possessions. Most of my stuff has been divvied up between my relatives and various charitable organisations. But that doesn’t mean that I forgot about you, my friend. No, you get, what are in my opinion the crowning pearls of my worldly possessions. Least excitingly, you get the manuscript of my next book, whatever it might be - it might not be the one that I’m writing now, I mean. Keep it, read it, sell it, just make sure that of all the people who’ll want it, it goes to someone who’ll really publish it. There’ll be a few copies. Keep some for yourself.”

He shifts in his seat, leans forward a little. “Now, for the real excitement, the real prize. I know that you share my distaste for religion and superstition, Cubi. I have in my possession a painting that I think you’ll like. It’s called The Skeleton God in Oil Paint. It’s a good four centuries old, a fantastically detailed, passionate piece. Lots of energy, brilliant ideas, boldly presented. Right up your alley. Author unknown, possibly burned at the stake, you know what it’s like.

“It’s yours Cubi. I keep it at home, someone should show it to you. It’s worth a good hundred million. I don’t expect you not to sell it. Just don’t sell it at auction Cubi. Make sure it goes to a gallery. A proper, godless, blasphemous gallery, Cubi, where it will be looked after and protected.

“You get this painting, because I know that you’ll appreciate it for its brilliance and honesty. But also, I must admit, because I know that you are the one person I can trust to turn down superior offers of cash from someone who you wouldn’t trust to look after it.”

He laughs, his friendly old smile rising to his face. “I can’t even imagine what you’d do with a hundred million rupees, Cubi. You’ll probably spend it all building an orphanage or something. An orphanage for nematodes! Ha! Whatever, the money’s yours. You’ve earned it my friend. And, well, goodbye. I’m sorry that I’m dead.”

Mec is replaced with a flickering darkness, and then a snowfall of static.

Cubi sits across a desk from Estrade Apocope, a smartly dressed woman with a friendly face. She offers Cubi a box of tissues. He takes one and puts it in his coat pocket.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says.

“Yeah,” Cubi says slowly. “Mec said that already.”

“I expect you’ll want to see the painting.”

“Um, yeah. I’m not exactly much of an art dealer.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll make sure that everything works out okay for you. There’s still a lot to wrap up, as regards his affairs. Mec really had his fingers in a lot of pies didn’t he?”

Cubi nods.

Apocope opens a drawer in her desk. “Would you like to see a photo of the painting?”

“Sure.”

She passes it over to him.

He tries looking at the small, badly lit Polaroid from a few different angles. “That’s Slink, the Skeleton God, I can see that much. But what’s he doing to that donkey?”

Apocope just smiles diffidently. “I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.”