The Collector Book One: Mana Leak

by Daniel I. Russell

  It’s Friday, she thought, everything will be fine. He’s finished for the weekend. I can go and finish making the food and-

  The front door opened and hit the wall behind it with a crash. Anne stopped at the head of the stairs.

  Oh no.

  Gripping the banister, she rushed down, slippers pattering on each step. As she reached halfway, her husband stepped over the threshold.

  He wore his long coat, despite the pleasant warmth of the day. His briefcase hung by his side, gripped in a hand that shook in small, random movements. Raising this quivering hand, he flung the case down in the hallway. The catch popped and sprang open, spilling pens and sheets of paper all over the carpet. He looked up at Anne, who still stood on the stairs in shock, and without a word, he stormed through the hallway and into the kitchen.

  Anne descended the remaining stairs and closed the front door. She examined the deep dent in the wallpaper.

  “Mummy?”

  Bronwyn emerged from the living room, eyes darting in her sockets. She bit her lip.

  “It’s okay, honey.” Anne swallowed. “Charlie?”

  He appeared in the doorway, holding Betsy by the collar. Her tongue, as always, hung out the side of her mouth.

  “Charlie, take Betsy and your sister upstairs…”

  “Can’t we go outside?” whined Bronwyn. “I want to play in the garden and so does Betsy.”

  “You can’t. The Dean twins are outside, and I’d prefer it if you went upstairs.”

  “But Mummy-”

  “Upstairs!”

  Both children flinched. Bronwyn’s chin trembled, and she stared up at her mother.

  “Charlie,” Anne said, quieter, “take her upstairs.”

  Charlie nodded and with a small tug of his sister’s golden hair, led the way.

  Hearing them step onto the landing, Anne sighed and ventured into the kitchen. She walked straight in, fighting the urge to peek around the doorframe first, acting as natural as possible. Something had pissed him off.

  No need to rile him further.

  She discovered him hunched over the sink, shoulders trembling. Beside him, the kettle boiled, and coffee granules lay in and around a large mug. Frank stared out the window at the garden beyond.

  Anne feared to ask him. His fuse had been lit…but she needed to know.

  “Frank?” She cleared her sandy throat. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  He snarled at his own reflection. Anne stepped back.

  “That place. The kids, the…” His fists clenched. “…the staff! Nothing is going my way. Nothing.”

  “Sit down, we can talk about it.”

  “You giving me orders now?”

  He spun away from the sink and faced her. His eyes were pink and swollen.

  “Talking! Everyone today wants to talk. That fat prick Quackenbush had plenty to say earlier. They want me out, Anne, they want me out!”

  He gripped the back of a dining chair, appearing weakened, as if revealing this shame had sapped his strength.

  “Did th-they fire you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well then,” said Anne. “It’s not that bad. If they really wanted you out, they’d have fired you, wouldn’t they?”

  His fingers clamped tighter on the back of the chair, knuckles paling.

  “Are you so stupid?” he spat. “They’re wearing me down. They want me to quit, the final insult.”

  He shoved the chair away, and it hit the dining table with a heavy thud. Anne worried about what the kids could hear.

  Frank returned to the window. The kettle had only just clicked off. He picked it up and poured the steaming water into the mug.

  “Frank, please. You need to calm down…”

  “Stop telling me what to do!”

  Anne froze, recognising the danger zone of Frank’s temper, the place where fists did the talking.

  “Okay, just tell me what happened,” she said quietly.

  He closed his eyes and billowed out a lungful of air through his nostrils.

  “Quackenbush wants me to take some time off. Thinks I’m losing it, basically.”

  “He said that?”

  “I can read between the lines, Anne.”

  He lifted the mug to his lips and swigged of the hot coffee.

  “Maybe he’s right, dear,” said Anne. “You have been under a lot of pressure recently and you could spend more time with the kids and-”

  The mug hurtled through the air towards her. She dove to one side, and it hit the wall and smashed. The coffee exploded onto the cream wall, dyeing it a light brown.

  “Don’t you dare side with them,” Frank screamed. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

  Anne’s tears pooled along her eyelids. The kids wailed upstairs.

  Frank barged past, pushing her out of his way. Her back thumped the wall beside the coffee stain.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  Not upstairs, please, not upstairs.

  “Out.”

  “But where?”

  “Out!”

  He stomped from the kitchen and seconds later, the front door smashed open again.

  She followed him outside. The Dean twins still sat on the wall across the road, both smoking and gulping from cans of lager.

  “You go, Frank,” shouted one.

  “Give the bitch a slap from me,” called the other.

  Anne ignored them and Frank didn’t seem to acknowledge their presence. He struggled with shaking hands to open the car door. Eventually the key found the small hole and slid home. He opened the door, climbed inside and started the engine. With a squeal of the tyres, he reversed off the short driveway and onto the tarmac of Penny Crescent.

  The Dean twins whooped and cheered, saluting Frank with raised cans.

  With another horse-powered growl, Frank sped off, leaving Anne shaking in the doorway to watch him go.

  The McGuires

  1.

  “…and police are looking into the cause of death. Now the weather, and it’s been a gorgeous day today with plenty of sunshine, temperatures in the eighteens and nineteens, and it looks like we can expect the same tomorrow. There’s been a warning from the meteorological centre that electrical storms are on the way, so batten down the hatches tonight, folks! That was your weather, here’s the latest one from—”

  Joe reached down and switched off the car stereo. The DJs’ voices really grated on his nerves, and the choice in music was appalling. It seemed the same on every station. The same song had been played five times while Joe had made the three hour journey from London. Some stupid pop song called Oh Baby Baby I Love You. He chuckled the first couple of times. The lyrics were as deep as a puddle in a heat wave, and the music consisted of one note over and over again. Thump thump thump. He only listened for the regular traffic reports, and he found it marginally better than silence.

  He checked his side mirror and manoeuvred the car around a bus.

  Joe loved the way the car moved and how it powered out of turns. The wind buffeted his hair and chilled his teeth as he smiled.

  I should have bought this a lot sooner. I never knew that driving could be so much fun!

  Joe had never been one for big, extravagant purchases, but when he saw the Porsche convertible in the showroom window, he had to have it. Destiny. You don’t make thousands of pounds near enough overnight, see this car and not buy it. Joe had lived the modest life for long enough.

  Even if it was all from a fluke…

  He slowed the car and hung a right, finally turning onto Penny Crescent. His grandmother lived in the last house, the third on the street, at the dead end.

  Joe hoped this time, she’d see sense. On every visit, he’d ask her, pretty much beg her, to return to London with him. An elderly woman shouldn’t live here alone.

  She just hasn’t been the same, not since Granddad died…

  And after the events of the past few months, he was determined t
o bring her back this time.

  …and that’s why. Bastards…

  He turned his head as he drove past the two youths sitting on a low wall on the right. The Dean twins. He knew all about them, ever since the Magistrate’s Court case. Jake Dean was dressed in black. His greasy, dark hair hung down past his ears. Like a negative image of his brother, Adam Dean sat beside him in a white tracksuit. A matching baseball cap sat atop his shaven head. Both held a can of lager and smoked.

  Joe stared at the pair of them with burning intensity.

  How dare you get away with what you did. One of these days…

  He studied Adam’s tracksuit closer and growled. The damned thing was Carter Sportswear, baseball cap too. The Carter logo dotted the whole outfit. The emblem burned in Joe’s mind: a collection of interlocking circles. Known in the Carter executive offices as the New World Design, to Joe, it was his design.

  How dare that thieving sack of shit wear my design. He can only afford it through stealing from old women…

  Adam Dean, as if hearing Joe’s angry thoughts, smirked and took another drag of his cigarette.

  “Bastards…” Joe said, not caring if the scumbags could lip-read.

  He broke his stare as a car shot past, heading in the opposite direction. Joe caught a brief glimpse of the driver, a balding man in his forties, hunched over the steering wheel, teeth clenched.

  “Betsy!” came a woman’s cry from the left.

  Joe turned back, and a black and white dog ran into the road ahead.

  “Oh shit…”

  He slammed his foot down hard on the brake. The car lurched forward, and his seatbelt pulled tightly across his chest. Tyres whining, the car ground to a sudden halt.

  The dog cowered a few feet away from the front bumper.

  Joe pursed his lips and released a long blow. His pulse throbbed in his neck.

  “Betsy! Betsy, you stupid dog!”

  A slim, petite woman with long dark hair ran down the driveway of the house on the left. She dashed into the road and swept the dog up in her arms. Whispering comforts to the mutt, she rubbed its chest with shaking hands.

  Joe glanced down. His own hands shook too. He unclipped his seat belt and pulled himself up above the windscreen.

  The Dean twins laughed. “Aw!” called Adam. “I was about to get the shovel then.”

  “Imagine the mess…” said Jake.

  “Is he okay?” Joe asked the woman, peering over the glass.

  She looked up.

  “It’s a she.” The woman gave the dog another quick rub. “She looks okay, thank Christ.”

  “Mum!” A small boy emerged from the house and dashed across the lawn. “Is Betsy all right?”

  “I told you to keep her upstairs! She came out after your father. Here, grab the collar and take her back inside. And close the door!”

  The boy nodded and gently tugged the dog away. “Come on, Betsy, dumb dog…”

  The dog howled once in protest, then allowed herself to be led away.

  The woman straightened and approached the car.

  “I’m sorry. My husband left in a hurry, and the kids were meant to keep the dog with them and…”

  “Really,” Joe interrupted, holding up a hand. “It’s fine. No harm done, eh?”

  Her lips parted in a weak smile. Joe expected her to burst into tears. Or maybe she’d already been crying. She wiped a red eye with the back of her hand.

  “I suppose,” she said. “You’re Mrs. McGuire’s son, aren’t you?”

  “Grandson, actually. I don’t look that old, do I?”

  She laughed, a feeble sound. The woman seemed exhausted. Drained, even. “I’m sorry. Tell her Anne says hello. We hardly see her around anymore, and it’s hard to pop over, what with the kids and everything.”

  Joe nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Thank you, and sorry again.”

  “No problem.”

  She turned and headed back to the house.

  Joe watched her, and only when the front door had closed did he continue on his way.

  He glared at the Dean twins.

  Don’t they have anything better to do then sit on a wall and drink?

  He pulled the car into the empty driveway of his grandmother’s house at the end of Penny Crescent.

  2.

  Joe had a key to his grandmother’s house and let himself in through the front door. He stood on an oriental rug in the dim hallway, small suitcase in his hand.

  “Grandma?”

  No reply.

  Something else seemed wrong. The air hung heavy with a strange odour; floral, yet with the underlying smell of burning wood.

  “Grandma? Are you okay?”

  He walked down the hallway, deeper into the house. The narrow corridor led to the kitchen at the rear. The lounge lay on his right.

  He swept the beaded curtain hanging from the doorframe aside and poked his head inside the room.

  The fragrant smell thickened. A large wooden orb on a table appeared to be responsible. Several sticks of incense poked out of the sides, light smoke drifting from the glowing tips. He entered the room, ducking beneath the various dream catchers attached to the ceiling. They lazily span on the slightest of air currents. He stepped around clay pots lying about the floor among hundreds of battered paperbacks and dusty old tomes.

  Oh Grandma, he thought, not all this again.

  “Ah, Joseph, you’ve come in.”

  Joe turned.

  His grandmother Eleanor stood in the doorway. She held a tray containing a steaming teapot, a couple of cups and a plate piled high with biscuits. Joe noticed the concentration on her face, as if the weight of the tray could topple her at any moment, should she take her attention from it.

  “Here, let me get that,” Joe offered, letting his suitcase drop to the floor.

  “Thank you, Joseph.”

  He gingerly reached for the tray, the cups clinking against each other as the exchange was made.

  “Anywhere on the table will do,” she said.

  He slowly turned, holding the tray out, then placed it on a coffee table in the middle of the room. A few books fell to the floor as he slid the tray on.

  “Don’t mind them,” she said. “Sit yourself down.”

  Joe, leaving his suitcase on the floor, approached the sofa against the wall. He shifted various shawls and cushions to make room.

  Eleanor walked to the window, stepping around the objects scattered on the floor with surprising grace and agility. Her bare feet silently moved across the carpet. She pulled back a flimsy lace curtain and peered out into the bright street.

  “They’re still there,” she said.

  “The Deans? Oh yeah, they’re out there all right. They haven’t been bothering you again, have they?”

  “They broke some of the fence posts out the front,” she replied, not moving her gaze from the window. “I watched them do it. Blind drunk, the pair of them. Kicking it, they were. Kicking and shouting.”

  “Didn’t anyone do anything about it?” Joe asked, outrage clear in his voice. “I thought their mother was meant to be keeping them in check?”

  “I think Jenny’s as afraid of the boys as the rest of us.”

  She let the curtain fall, but still remained by the window. The sunlight illuminated half her face, highlighting every crack and crevice in her skin. It added ten years to her appearance.

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with them!” Joe said, voice rising. “Not after what they put you through.”

  “That’s all over with, Joseph. Well, once this money business is finished with. I don’t know why you insisted I went through with the court. All more bother. I don’t need any more money. What am I going to spend it on? I just want all this behind me.”

  “Grandma, you can’t just let them get away with what they did! Just because the police were lenient with them, it doesn’t mean we have to be. We’ll take them for every penny they have!”

  “Look at the hous
e, Joseph. They don’t have much. And it’ll be Jenny that has to pay it, not them. I feel sorry for that woman, having to raise two hooligans like that on her own.”

  Eleanor wandered away from the window. She sat in a high backed armchair that faced the television.

  “They broke into your house,” said Joe. “Your home! They should have been punished, but look at them. Sat outside drinking, happy as Larry.”

  “Always been a handful, them two. Even as kids. Did you know that they thought I was a witch?”

  Joe looked around the large living room. With all the books, exotic ornaments and rich tapestries that adorned every wall, he wasn’t surprised she was considered a mystic.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “let’s hear no more about it. I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to have a debate with your old grandmother!”

  “You were a wreck last time I came. I mean, getting up in the middle of the night and hearing them two rummaging around downstairs? Even I would have shit myself-”

  “Joseph!”

  “Sorry.”

  Her frown lightened and she smiled. “Have some tea. Maybe that will give your foul mouth something better to do.”

  He sat in silence, watching her pour two small cups of tea from the pot.

  “How was your journey? Not much traffic, I hope.”

  “It was fine,” he replied, receiving a saucer from his grandmother’s shaking grasp. “Made good time.”

  “I watched you pull up from the window. That’s a new car, isn’t it?”

  Joe nodded.

  “It’s a bit…flash.”

  Joe drank some tea. “I thought it was time I treated myself. It’s been a while.”

  “I didn’t know drawing paid so much.” She took a quick sip from her cup.

  “It’s not as simple as drawing, grandma. It’s called ‘graphic design’.”

  “The whole New World Design thing paid that much then?”

  “Yeah. Carter use it on all their products, and now that the American royalties are coming through, I’m on a good thing.”

  Eleanor picked up a jammie dodger from the plate of biscuits, but then reconsidered, choosing a more sensible custard cream instead. “Have you forgiven yourself yet?”

  He paused.

  “What do you mean?”