Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [168]
She was pinioned, and dragged effortlessly before Motley. He leered at her. When he spoke again his voice was thick with threat.
“Your bugfucking lover has tried to screw me, hasn’t he, Ms. Lin? Buying up great swathes of my dreamshit, keeping his own moths, so Gazid tells me, and then stealing mine.” He roared the last words, trembling.
Lin could hardly think over the pain in her arms but she desperately tried to sign from her hip: No no no it’s not like that it’s not like that . . .
Motley slapped her hands down.
“Don’t fucking try it, you bug-head bitch, you cross-whore, you slut. Your scum-sucking man’s been trying to squeeze me out of my own fucking market. Well, that’s a very, very dangerous game.” He backed away a little and regarded her as she writhed.
“We are going to bring Mr. der Grimnebulin in to account for his theft. D’you think he’ll come if we offer him you?”
Blood was stiffening the arms of Lin’s shirt. She tried again to sign.
“You’ll get a chance to explain yourself, Ms. Lin,” said Motley, calm again. “Maybe you’re a partner in crime, maybe you have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s bad luck for you, I must say. I will not be letting this go.” He watched her try desperately to tell him, to explain, to squirm her way free.
Her arms were seizing up. The cactus was rendering her dumb. As she felt her head dull with the constricting pain, she heard Mr. Motley’s whisper.
“I am not a forgiving man.”
Outside the University Science Faculty, the quad thronged with students. Many were wearing the regulation black gowns: a few rebellious souls slung them over their arms as they left the building.
Among the tide of figures were two motionless men. They stood leaning against the tree, ignoring the sap that stuck to them. It was humid, and one man was dressed incongruously in a long coat and dark hat.
They stood without moving for a long time. One class ended, and then another. The men saw two cycles of students come and go. Occasionally one or the other would rub his eyes, stretch his face a little. Always he would return his apparently casual attention to the main entrance.
Finally, as the afternoon shadows began to stretch out, the men moved. Their target appeared. Montague Vermishank stepped from the building and sniffed the air gingerly, as if he knew he should enjoy it. He began to remove his jacket, then stopped and pulled it back around him. He set off into Ludmead.
The men below the tree stepped out from under the leaves and sauntered after their prey.
It was a busy day. Vermishank headed north, looking around him for a cab. He wound up Tench Way, Ludmead’s most bohemian thoroughfare, where progressive academics held court in cafés and bookshops. The buildings of Ludmead were old and well preserved, their façades scrubbed and freshly painted. Vermishank ignored them. He had walked this way for years. He was oblivious to his surroundings, and to his pursuers.
A four-wheel cab appeared through the crowd, pulled by some uncomfortable shaggy biped from the northern tundra that paced its way through the rubbish on back-bent legs like a bird’s. Vermishank raised his arm. The cabdriver attempted to manoeuvre his vehicle towards him. Vermishank’s pursuers sped up.
“Monty,” boomed the larger man and slapped his shoulder. Vermishank turned in alarm.
“Isaac,” he faltered. His eyes darted around him, sought the cab, which was still approaching.
“How are you, old son?” yelled Isaac in his left ear, and underneath it, Vermishank heard another voice hissing in his right.
“The thing poking your stomach is a knife and I will gut you like a fucking fish if you even breathe in a way I don’t like.”
“So glad to bump into you,” howled Isaac jocularly, waving the cab over. The driver muttered and approached.
“Try to run and I will cut you and if you get out of my hands I will shoot a bullet into your