Part V: Hancock Park

It was four hours at least before the guy rang back, by which time they'd all but finished the remaining half-bottle. Admittedly Padgett had done most of the real drinking, in between long and wholly unintelligible bursts of rhetoric regarding the origins of ancient Asiatic languages, and then later, the Hittites and Sumerians. Despite his blood-alcohol level however, he managed to sound reasonably lucid on the phone. Outlined the story in around twenty-five words, described the more intriguing features of his find with some obscure historical references, and then smiled broadly and put the receiver down.

"He's on his way."

Something about Padgett's smug demeanour told him that the relationship between these two men was something more than just a simple friendship, but he resisted the impulse to ask him directly about it. For all of fifteen seconds at least.

"So this friend of yours, he'll be able to tell us some more about this? Professor is he?"

Frowning slightly, the other man leant forward over his desk, adjusting the angle of the magnifying lens he'd trained over the amulet. Staring through it, he cleared his throat.

"He's...ah...somewhat of a specialist in obscure and extinct languages, yes."

Took his eye away and gave him a unconvincingly indifferent smile.

"He's authored a number of papers on the use of Proto-Bantu in relation to totemistic and fetishistic artefacts specifically. Proposing a few fairly radical theories." a sigh, "Most of which were complete bunkum of course, but well...."

He returned to the glass,

"Interesting none the less."

"Smart bloke then?"

Padgett frowned again, although this time his indifference was a little less studied. A little more petulant.

"Yes. A very smart man."

"Expert you think?"

"In his field, yes."

Baiting him was fun, but the novelty soon wore off. Besides which, the expectation of receiving answers to at least some of his questions was making him a little jumpy. Scanning the interior of the shop again he got to his feet, began a slow circuitous ramble around the interior. Most of the display cabinets housed trinkets, obvious reproductions of rare objects priced accordingly, but nearer the back a large, heavily reinforced case held a number of more authentic-looking items. Tossing a look back over his shoulder, he tried the lock surreptitiously.

"Don't touch that please."

Padgett's hand reached out for another small implement and, without raising his head, he adjusted the light next to him.

"That case is locked for a reason. Most of those pieces are unique and extremely fragile."

Unique. Right.

Cupping his hands against the glass, he gave a small snort, tried to read the tiny hand-written label under one that looked an awful lot like a plain old wooden soup ladle.

"'Mayan cranial spoon'?"

Charming.

"So you collect this kind of stuff then? You an archaeologist?"

Tiny buzzing sounds from the desk and he glanced round to see the man busily employed with another tool, brow furrowed in concentration. He grimaced, blowing on the surface of the metal disc before putting it down.

"I was. Many years ago."

The next object on display looked a little like a many pronged fork, deep glossy red-brown - the colour of treacle. Tilting his head to one side he fancied he could still see some blood stains on the tines.

"So what happened?"

Padgett sighed, a small irritable sound.

"I gave it up."

"What, got sick of it?"

"Something like that."

A wide cavernous bowl, broken and blackened with age and fire. Could have been metal, but then what were the two short horns sticking out from the base. The curve on the front, oddly reminiscent of a human brow. Looking around for the label he realised it had fallen down, was lying in dust on the shelf below. Twisted his neck and tried to read it from underneath.

::Mesopotamian Resurrection Urn : unknown animal skull, purportedly demon::

Righto.

"Something like what?"

This time the man's sigh was longer, more weary, and after a second or two he leant back in his chair, snapped off the light he'd been working under.

"Something like an accident. I was in Northern Africa, the sort of dig you wait a lifetime for. There was a team of five of us - fresh out of Oxford - and one night we were jumped by some locals. Religious types, objected to us desecrating their sacred ground. They had some kind of animal with them and it was completely crazed. Attacked us and killed every one of my friends. I got off easy I suppose."

His eyes narrowed slightly and he smiled, reached down and rolled up the left cuff of his pants. Below the ankle his leg ended in a twisted darkened stump, livid purple teeth marks showing clearly just above where the shattered limb joined the prosthesis.

"I lay there for four days before anyone found me."

"Jesus."

Padgett nodded, pulled down the leg again and covered himself.

"Worst thing was, the following year another team went out there, finished up what we'd started. Published a paper that challenged everything that had ever been known about that region. Sparked all kinds of debate. Chap who wrote it ended up an honorary Dean and wrote another four books on the subject before he finally went off the rails."

"Off the rails?"

"Intellectual supernova. Theories based on established fact that were just...insanity. Tied the whole culture into demon worship and hypothesised that the whole site was some enormous magnet for dark energy. Intended to bring about the final apocalypse."

"Final apocalypse? What, as opposed to the three or four practice runs?"

The other man grinned ruefully, lifting his now half-empty brandy glass to swirl the contents.

"According to Mr Rupert Giles, there have been no less than twenty-three."

"Twenty-three. Really?"

"Hm."

"And that brings us right up to date does it? None planned for the next few weeks?"

"Not as far as we know."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was eight o'clock when the sound of a car drawing up outside, finally signalling the arrival of the eagerly awaited Mr Wyndham-Pryce. Lounging comfortably in an armchair in the back room, Padgett was instantly in motion. Dusting digestive biscuit crumbs off his jacket with one hand he checked his reflection briefly in a mirror and straightened his tie, before shooting a flustered glance at his companion. Staring back at him, it seemed as if his reassurance was needed so he offered it.

"You look...very nice."

Flushing, the other mans hand arrested in the smoothing of his hair and he cleared his throat nervously.

"Haven't seen him for a while. We used to be..."

he smiled awkwardly,

"Let's just say there was some professional rivalry."

A sharp knock sounded on the window and the back door opened to reveal a tall, good-looking man in his early thirties, so far from the stereotype of an Oxford-educated Professor as to be ridiculous. Stepping over the threshold, he smiled warmly and easily at his old friend, clasping his hand.

"Peter. So good to see you."

His eyes drifted even as he spoke, sliding over to where Padgett had been sitting, and then a brief movement of the eyebrows as he acknowledged another's presence.

"It can't believe it's been over a year. You've haven't been into the city at all?"

"Not since December. I tried to reach you."

A small frown,

"December? Ah...yes...that was quite a busy month I seem to remember. I must have missed your call."

Another warm, rather vague smile, but this time he noticed a strange paradox in the man's eyes. A cool, sharpness that suggested a great deal more going on beneath the exterior. Clearing his throat again, Padgett took a step back letting Wesley enter the room. His own expression, by complete contrast, was excitable, and with a nervous gesture he indicated his companion.

"This is the young man I was telling you about. Peter...ah..."

The sentence hung in the air, and after a moment he realised it was him they were both waiting for. His surname. Shit.

Tea cup?

Brandy?

Screwdriver?

"Ah...Phillips. Peter Phillips. Pete. Nice to meet you."

The hand that grasped his own was also cool, although accompanied by a slight curious smile.

"You're English?"

"Last time I checked."

The kind of dry laugh that let him know what he'd just said was neither funny or clever.

"London?"

"How'd you guess?

It seemed like a fair assumption, and Pryce sounded satisfied with the answer. Losing interest in him, he turned back to Padgett.

"So where's this impossible talisman of yours, Peter? You say it was found locally?"

"By Mr Phillips here, yes."

"In the Mojave you said?"

A slight sideways glance to confirm and they were both gone, back into the main body of the shop to inspect the treasure.

Watching them it was almost as if he had ceased to exist suddenly, such was the power of their passion. Pryce had produced a pair of wire-framed glasses and with them on suddenly looked far more the part, like a slightly less-macho version of Indiana Jones. Standing beside him, the shorter and less distinguished Padgett had assumed an equally intense expression, handing his friend one tool after another as he requested them, all sense of rivalry forgotten.

"You see the strike there? Downward stroke? I'm thinking 'ro-ho', yes?"

"Could be. Do you have anything more abrasive than this?"

Another minute of silence and more heavy breathing. The two men seemed engrossed in some infinitesimal detail and, lingering near the back of the shop, his curiosity started to overcome him.

"Roho. That a word is it? Mean anything to you?"

Lifting his head Wyndham-Pryce studied him for a moment, before dropping his eyes again.

"Usually 'breath'. Some of the earliest uses of it translate as meaning 'soul' or 'life-force'."

A step or two more, and he could almost see the mark he was referring to, cleaned and defined as it had been by Padjett's work. Tilted his head and leant forward.

"What's the one next to it?"

"Nish'ma."

"And that means...?"

"...the same thing. Different language. Entirely separate civilisation. Where was it you said you were from?"

Meeting his eyes he saw that the man's gaze had narrowed on him, his hands suddenly stilled in their work. Padjett's nervous laugh interrupted,

"Mr. Phillips drove up from Barstow this morning. A friend of a friend."

But it was almost as if he hadn't spoken at all, so little notice had been taken. Straightening up, Pryce's voice became softer.

"And just how did you come across this piece, Mr Phillips? If you don't mind my asking?"

The suggestion in his tone was unmistakable, but never the less, he risked a casual shrug.

"Like the man says. Just found it."

"Found it on the ground? Or in someone else's private collection perhaps?"

"Hey!"

Raising an eyebrow, the other man bowed his head back to the lens.

"I've never seen anything quite like this before, but I have documents that refer to something similar. An talisman thought to have been lost in the early fifteenth century by its keepers, purported to have great power and significance in relation to the apocalypse."

"Which one?"

"Who can say."

Leaning forward he blew a few more fragments of sand and metal from the surface of the disc, and then gave a small disappointed sigh.

"The last part is burned away completely I'm afraid. It could be anything."

"It could be 's'daka' though. Don't you think?"

"S'daka? Where are you getting that?"

"This part...here. The Aramaic is deb'akh."

"Yes, I'm quite aware of that."

"So then this half echoes it...see...here. Roho-Nish'ma: Soul. Deb'akh-S'daka: Sacrifice. Cha'y-H'ai: Life."

"Like a Rosetta you mean?"

"Exactly!"

Leaning in closer, Padgett's back blocked the amulet from his view again, and he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't mind me. Just belongs to me is all."

"You know, I very much doubt that."

Straightening up again, Wyndham-Pryce regarded him steadily for a moment before removing his glasses. Reaching into his pocket he brought out a clean handkerchief and carefully polished them.

"In fact, I very much doubt anything you'd told my friend Peter here is the truth. Am I right, Mr. Screwdriver?"

It was the sound of his bluff finally being called and, he had to admit it, to let go was actually a bit of a relief. Held the other man's gaze for a good long while though before he let his own eyes drop, just to let him know that he wasn't a fellow to be trifled with.

"All right, you've got me there. Name's not Phillips,"

He gave short, dry laugh.

"Or 'Pete' either, thank god."

"And the amulet?"

"It's mine. That part's true. Found it in the dirt underneath me, right after I woke up."

Wesley's expression wavered into confusion.

"Woke up? You were...asleep in the middle of a desert?"

"Not asleep exactly," he frowned, "Unconscious perhaps."

"You don't remember?"

"Not a thing. Not even my own name as it happens."

He smiled at them widely, genuinely happy to be able to admit it out loud at last, and watched as the two other men exchanged looks of total disbelief.

"So let me get this straight. You woke up in the desert with no memory of who you are or how you got there and what...this is the only lead you have?"

"That's about it , yeah."

It did sound ridiculous of course, even to his own ears, but suddenly he didn't care any more. Felt good to just say it. Rested his palms on Padgett's nice leather desk and hopped up to sit on the lid. Grinned.

"I'm a poor little lost boy, with no Mummy or Daddy."

"Quite."

Shaking his head, Wesley turned back to the talisman for a moment, frowning deeply.

"And you have no memory of what this is or how you came by it?"

A small hand filled with chain, looping, dropping heavy into his palm. His closing over. Hope. Joy. Love. Everything he knows he hasn't the right to feel.

"Not a bloody clue."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Blanche DuBois said it.

He doesn't know how he knows that, but some part of him is certain. Can even hear the actresses' voice as she says the line. Prissy little fake Southern accent, all fanning hands and fluttering eyelashes;

"'I always rely...on the kindness of strangers'."

"What?"

Grinned as he realised he'd said it out loud.

"Sorry. Just...stuff. Remember weird things sometimes. Never anything useful."

He shrugged,

" I just meant thanks. For offering to help me out I mean. Didn't really know what I was going to do next."

"Don't mention it."

Darkness in the speeding silent car and he was grateful his expression was hidden, because he had an inkling it was probably cow-eyed and quite unmanly right now. Beside him, illuminated by the glow from the dash, Wyndham-Pryce eyed him suspiciously for a moment before his expression softened into curiosity.

"Do you dream at all?"

He considered the question, and then shook his head.

"Don't think so. Not yet anyway."

"You said something about a sister though."

"Yeah. Can't remember what she looks like. Just...can hear her voice. Feel her hand..." he touched his face,"...here."

Closing his eyes he looked for her again, but without Rissa the pictures were fading, almost as if he'd needed her there to hold onto the memory. Reached around in his pocket for her little note instead, his tiny scrap of reality, and held it tight inside his hand, like a pressed flower.

"And you reckon this mate of yours can help me?"

Pryce nodded, a little grimly he thought.

"He has what you might call a gift for it."

"Like a mind-reader?"

"A bit."

"He a detective too?"

"Not in the strictest sense."

"And you?"

"Not entirely."

"But you both work for one."

"Not exclusively."

"Right."

He bent, flicked the car stereo on and turned up the volume. Some country bollocks about hearts and loneliness.

"He any more likely to give me a straight answer?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll do his best."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Snapping on the light, Pryce's living quarters were revealed as somewhat of a disappointment. From the exterior, the beautiful well-situated Art Deco building looked opulent, almost grandiose, but inside the one bedroomed apartment was quite the opposite. Spartan and stone-coloured it cried out lonely bachelor with every inch of empty wall space. A complete absence of personality, almost as if it had been deliberately erased. The furniture, although utilitarian, was fairly comfortable though and after the briefest possible tour the two men dropped into the matching armchairs with equally weary sighs.

A brief pause, and then Wesley spoke.

"Will be you be all right here on the sofa tonight?"

"It a fold out?"

"Ah...no."

"Then I'll be fine."

Another long pause, and somewhere a large old-fashioned clock began to chime softly. Unable to stop himself he smiled.

"What is it?"

"That sound."

"The clock?"

"Yeah. Don't know why, makes me think of home."

"Home?"

"England."

"Ah. Yes."

Another long pause and this time they were both listening, waiting and counting the chimes till it wound itself to a stop. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Midnight.

"Night-cap?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"Whisky all right?"

"Single malt."

"Of course."

The soft clink of a well-stocked drinks cabinet, also strangely evocative of home. Maybe he'd come from a family of alcoholic clock makers.

Straight and warm, no ice, and companionably they sipped their drinks in silence, listened to the wail of police sirens through the open window, the street sounds below.

"You don't have a T.V."

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"Not at present."

Bit of a chill there. Interesting.

"You prefer Wes or Wesley?"

"My friends use either."

A pause,

"And how would you like to be addressed? Shall we stay with 'Pete', or would you prefer something else now you've had time think about it?"

A withering stare,

"Fuck Pete. Don't know how I came up with that. Sounds like a bloody dog's name. Call me anything, just not that."

Thought for a moment,

"Not Duane though."

Another long silence, only this time it was broken by their almost simultaneous yawns. Shaking himself alert the other man stood, pinched at the bridge of his nose, and nodded politely.

"Well, I'll say good night then."

"Yeah. 'Night."

A pause.

"Thanks. Again."

Another slight nod and he started to move away, stopped as he reached the bedroom door and half-turned.

"You said you thought your sister lived in Sunnydale?"

"Yeah."

"Roughly how old do you think?"

"Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Why?"

He blinked wearily, frowned.

"I was just thinking. I have a friend who lived there until...very recently. Her younger sister's about that age. There's a chance they might know each other."

"Yeah?"

"Perhaps. It isn't...wasn't a very big town. Just the one high school if I remember."

"She nearby?"

"Staying locally, yes. A few blocks from here."

"Maybe give her a call then? After we see the mind-reader?"

A smile.

"Lorne. Yes."

"And your detective mate. The one with all the answers."

"Angel."

"Angel, right. He Italian?"

"No, Irish I think. Originally."

A small snort of derision as he turned on his side, made himself comfortable. Grunted,

"Angel? That's a girl's name isn't it?"

"I don't know. Maybe that's something you can ask him yourself in the morning"