Crow Shine

by Alan Baxter

  Nothing moves, except the rain streaking past the lights, getting heavier again. I blink water from my eyes and wait. There’s an occasional ring as a piece of glass drops, the hiss of the downpour. Then movement inside, one person strolling through the carnage. I can’t see any detail, but the size is unmistakable.

  The blond man with the strange hand emerges and looks towards the alley. Towards me. A smile splits his face and he nods, crosses the street. He extends that gloved hand and I take it. His fingers feel like hinged metal.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “I didn’t deliver your message, I’m afraid.”

  “You delivered it perfectly.” He points to the door at the end of the alley, still standing ajar. “They came from there?”

  I nod, unsure what the hell is going on. For a young man who lives in a box under the freeway, this is one strange evening. I expect this would be strange for pretty much anyone.

  “You can go.”

  I swallow, still trembling. “Who are you?” I ask the question before I realise I’m going to speak.

  The man is massive, and seems gentle, but I can see past him, to the bodies on the pavement, to the man with no face still bleeding down the wall. “My name is Montecristo,” he says. “You?”

  “People call me Skinny,” I say. “On account of - ”

  “You being so skinny.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I hope you use some of that money to buy a meal.”

  “Oh yeah, I will. Rosie usually spares me some scraps, which is why I was there earlier . . . ” A thought flits across my mind. “Is Rosie . . . ?”

  “She’s fine,” Montecristo says. He steps past me, walks casually through the door at the end of the alley.

  Sirens howl in the distance. I really want to check on Rosie, and Dan and the others, they’re always so nice to me. But I don’t want to be found in there when the cops show up. My mind is yelling at my legs to make like pistons again, but something is holding me. The door is still open. I should run away. I should take my fifty bucks, enough to eat for days, and just run the fuck away, but I can’t. This is all too weird and part of me needs to know what’s happening.

  I sense an opportunity.

  It’s very dark beyond the door and smells of cigars and booze. My heart hammers in my throat as I step into the dry warmth.

  Muffled conversation makes me freeze. Soft light escapes around a closed door ahead and to the right of me. I shuffle forward, straining to hear.

  “ . . . all of them?”

  “They came at me with guns.” That’s Montecristo.

  “You killed all of them?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Kill every other one and hope the rest ran away?”

  The sirens outside are getting louder, can’t be more than a block away. Makes it hard to hear. I shift closer.

  “Armitage, just give it to me.” Montecristo again.

  “No.”

  “Come on then, let’s do this.”

  Armitage laughs, a deep booming sound.

  The sirens outside wail right up behind me, like they’re driving into the building. Red and blue light ripples along the hallway through the half-open door. Shouts and radio crackle flicker through the pulses of sound and I can’t hear a thing from the room.

  I move closer and the door bursts into the hallway in a shower of splinters. Montecristo slams backwards into the opposite wall, his chest a ragged, open wound. I stagger backwards. Montecristo’s head tips towards me, his face twisted in pain. His eyes widen when he sees me and he thrusts something out.

  “Take it,” he rasps. “Quickly!”

  I can’t see what it is. I take a step forward.

  “Quickly!” The urgency in his voice is unbearable.

  I snatch the thing from his hand and run down the hallway as Armitage’s rumbling laugh pours through the ruined doorway. Before I duck out to the alley I catch a glimpse of him leaning forward over Montecristo. He’s just as big, but all I see is silhouette.

  “You tried to take mine, but I’ll get yours,” he says. “Where are they?”

  Standing in the cold rain just outside the door, I’m paralysed with indecision. The police are swarming the street outside Rosie’s. Armitage is going to come blundering out any minute. The thing I took from Montecristo is a small leather bag. A couple of hard objects are inside, I can feel their corners and edges.

  “Where are they?” Armitage roars.

  It spurs me into action. I stuff Montecristo’s bag into my pocket and take a running leap at a fire escape hanging over the fetid alleyway. The cold iron is slick with rain and I slip, about to crash down onto the hard ground, but one hand closes and I’m up. I swing one leg over the railing, and scurry to the second floor. The door at the end of the alley slams open, bouncing against the dirty bricks. Armitage stands there, glaring into the wet night.

  I melt back against the wall and hold my breath. Armitage walks along the alley toward the police. He stands with his back to me, and I creep up to the third floor. With a sound of absolute disgust he wheels and goes back inside. I let out a breath, clamber up and run for blocks across the rooftops.

  *

  I sit in the shadows of a roof corner. A gargoyle spits into the indifferent street below. I’m hot despite the wet and cold, gasping for breath, dizzy. I need something to eat. A smile flickers across my lips at the thought of Montecristo’s fifty in my pocket. But the smile dies at the image of him, chest blown open from throat to navel. Who could survive that? How could he even have the strength to give me this . . . whatever it is.

  A shiver passes through me. Why did I follow him? I know why, really. It’s the law of the street; never pass up an opportunity. I thought there was something in it for me. Money maybe, or information that might lead to cash. I’ll get out of my box one day, I won’t be on the streets forever. At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself, though sometimes I wonder.

  I’m partly sheltered by the low wall around the rooftop, but the rain still needles across my legs and feet. Scrunching up tighter into the space, I open the drawstrings of the bag and tip out the contents. Two dice rattle free. They look carved from bone, smooth and ancient. The one spot on each is an intricately carved skull. The other spots are different designs; tiger’s heads, curled dragons, stars and moons, clover leaves and eyes. Every one beautiful in style, exquisite in execution.

  Why was Montecristo so desperate to give them to me? It seems the only thing that mattered to him was making sure Armitage didn’t get them.

  You tried to take mine, but I’ll get yours.

  How had Montecristo managed to draw out Armitage’s men and deal with them so ruthlessly, yet fall so easily to Armitage himself? And what the hell is my next move? All I want is a chance to make a dollar, get a proper place to live, enough to eat. It’s not so much to ask. These dice, antiques, beautiful and ornate, must be worth a fortune.

  Instantly a deep longing drags at my chest, a sense of loss so palpable I gasp. The thought of giving these up is heartbreaking. I don’t like the feeling.

  “I wish I knew what to do,” I say aloud to the rain, and roll the dice on the pressed lead roof. They land on a seven, five and two, and a rush streaks through me, like every adrenalized moment of my life compressed into a single second. I shudder violently. The entire universe is mine for the taking, there’s nothing I can’t do. The dice sit next to the leather bag and there’s writing on it I hadn’t seen before, gently pressed into the surface, worn shiny and smooth with use and age. It’s hard to make out in the dark. I make my way down to street level and stand in the persistent rain under a street lamp. The writing is clearer.

  Toymaker. Argyll.

  There’s an Argyll Street in town, could it be that simple? The other side of the bag has a strange sigil pressed into it, swirling and intersecting designs that confuse the eye and confound the mind. As I try to see it in more detail my eyes slip and slide away. It makes me nauseated.
r />   I tip the dice out again, rolling them on my palm. They feel alive, warm and aware. They scare and enthral me. I hunker down in the entrance alcove of a closed dry cleaners, away from the rain. “Any chance I could know what the hell is going on?” I say aloud, and roll them.

  They come up seven once more, four and three, and my head slams back as the rush hits me and images flood my mind. History swirls by in an instant. I see Montecristo and Armitage, fighting through the ages. I see a small woman, shaking her head in disappointment. I see peoples’ lives saved and ruined, a thousand thousand lives and more, turning on the tiny pinpoints of luck and chance. I cry out, my mind stretching beyond its ability to cope with the information pouring through it and the images cease. I collapse onto my hands and knees and dry heave, nothing in my stomach to throw up.

  *

  The fluorescent glare of the fast food joint burns my eyes, but I’m past caring. The burger and fries taste good, the giant cup of coke is sweet and cold and delicious. There comes a point when nothing is more important than filling your belly. Once I’m full and my brain is working again I can try to figure out what to do.

  Sated, my stomach pressed against the tatty belt that holds up my oversized jeans, I sit back with a sigh. The night outside is still dark and wet, the streets empty at this hour. Even the burger joint is populated by more staff than customers.

  My eyes widen as I realise what I’m looking at, across the street. A large shop window displays rocking horses and puppets, board games and costumes. Above the glass, in curling script, is Argyll Toys. Something stirs deep inside, a knowledge that I’m beyond some veil. Things are moving and I’m being carried by the current.

  The shop doorway is set back in shadow. I push against it, not expecting anything to move, and let out a small sound as it swings open and I stumble in. Catching myself against the jamb I look out to the street. This feels like a turning point. The world out there is cold and wet and hard. Inside it’s warm and dry. But will it be any less unforgiving?

  I let the door swing silently closed behind me and stand still. Details slowly emerge as my pupils dilate. All manner of toys are crammed into the small shop, stacked on shelves and strewn across the floor; kids’ bicycles and rocking horses, water pistols and boxed games, every conceivable kind of ball. A bead curtain behind a desk at the back draws my attention. My ears feel like they’re standing off my head, I’m listening so hard, but everything is heavy silence.

  Through the beads, a flight of stairs leads up into darkness and I’m tentatively climbing before I’ve really thought it through. The steps open onto a long corridor, doors along each side.

  The corridor is far longer than it should be, the scale completely wrong. I take a couple of steps and stop at a clicking, hissing sound. I can’t see anything clearly, but something is moving, some small machine firing up. A series of clicks accompanied by random xylophone notes, ringing loud in the stillness. A shape spreads out of the darkness ahead, glinting with dull gold and copper tones.

  With a burst of movement it surges forward, clattering along the hallway. On all fours, dog-like and bounding, dozens of pistons, clacking up and down, hundreds of cogs spinning and grinding, the skittering of brass claws on the parquet floor. And over it all the cacophony of disjointed xylophone notes.

  I cry out and stagger backwards, frightened of falling down the stairs, though that’s preferable to being eviscerated by the slavering machine bearing down on me. Its jaws spread wide, metal teeth shining. It hisses and wheezes and clatters and clonks, twisting and writhing as it rushes at me.

  I stumble down the first couple of steps, lifting my arms for protection. Those dice have led me to a violent death. All I ever wanted was one lucky break.

  A voice yells out. “Finbar! Down!”

  The machine skids to a halt right before my trembling knees, panting, hissing steam from myriad pistons. It wiggles as its several-jointed brass tail wags vigorously. A figure emerges from a doorway, a tiny woman, barely four and half feet tall, thin and old.

  “Give him a pat,” she says. “He’s a bit over-enthusiastic. We don’t get many visitors.”

  I reach out a trembling hand and gently pat the creature’s head and it presses up into my palm, eyes clicking shut.

  “He’s a good dog, really,” the woman says.

  My pulse and breathing start to settle. “A toy dog?”

  “A clockwork dog. Not a toy. A companion. Like any other dog.”

  “He’s so . . . lifelike,” I say, still stroking the smooth brass skull of the thing.

  “Well, of course,” she says. “He may be clockwork, but he’s alive. What’s your name?”

  “Skinny. Well, that’s what people call me. My real name - ”

  “Your real name is what people call you,” she says. “Be careful uttering your true name if you don’t have to.” She taps the side of her head.

  I nod, unsure what she’s talking about. “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m the Toymaker. You’d better come in. Finbar, here, boy!”

  *

  We enter a huge room. There’s a comfortable-looking lounge area taking up one far corner, a log fire crackling, but the rest is a workshop unlike anything I’ve ever seen. All kinds of benches and tools scattered around. Furnaces and lathes, pulley rigs and anvils, a thousand other things I can’t recognise.

  The Toymaker watches me, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Finbar nudges under my hand for another pat. Fear washes through me as I see Montecristo and Armitage get up from chairs in the lounge area and wander over.

  Armitage is huge and smug, sneering. He flips a coin casually as he walks. Montecristo isn’t dead, his chest shows no signs of being recently blown open, but he doesn’t look well. He’s just as big as ever, but withered, deflated. Pale and drawn, eyes desperate.

  They stand on either side of the Toymaker and stare at me. I feel tiny. Insignificant.

  Montecristo reaches out a shaking hand. “Can I have them, please?” His voice is weak.

  I pull the small bag from my pocket, feeling the warmth of it, the reassuring weight. I don’t want to give it back.

  “Just a bloody minute!” Armitage booms. He pulls out a crazy mad gun, twenty times bigger than anything that should fit in the pocket it came from, the barrel a foot in diameter. He moves it threateningly between me and Montecristo.

  “What is that thing?” Montecristo asks.

  Armitage grins. “Mischief made it for me. He owed me a favour.”

  The Toymaker shakes her head and gestures with one hand. An ornate wrench appears in her gnarled fingers and she taps the cartoon gun. It falls to pieces, clattering at Armitage’s feet.

  Montecristo laughs despite his weakness and Armitage scowls. “Fucking hell!”

  “You should know better than to pull a weapon in here,” the Toymaker says. “Or raise a hand anywhere near me.”

  Montecristo absently flexes his mechanical gloved fingers. I wish I’d run away while the gunshots rang through Rosie’s Diner.

  I turn to the fading man. “Montecristo, please. Tell me what’s happening.”

  The Toymaker raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling yourself now?”

  “It’s a good, strong name. I like the feel of it.” He turns back to me. “Please, just give me my dice.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Armitage says in a low voice.

  “Ignore their names, and their entreaties,” the Toymaker says. “This is Luck.” She points to Montecristo. “And this is Chance.” Armitage winks, flips his coin.

  “Luck and Chance,” I whisper. “They’re not the same thing?” The two men scowl.

  The Toymaker smiles. “Everything is duality, one thing can never exist alone. Luck is the force of good or bad in a person’s life, shaping events, opportunities, circumstances. Chance is the absence of any cause of events, the unpredictable, uncontrolled. They’re similar and different. But,” she adds with a sigh, “they’re forever intertwined.”<
br />
  Armitage, Chance, leans forward. “Give me the dice, Skinny. I’ll have ’em and this’ll all be over.”

  How does he know my name?

  “No!” Montecristo, Luck, barks. He staggers with the effort, clearly unwell.

  I look from one to the next, out of my depth. “What do I do?” I ask the Toymaker and she shrugs. But there’s something in her eyes, some testing look. She’s waiting for me to ask a different question. The right question.

  “What happens if I give the dice to Monte . . . to Luck,” I ask.

  The Toymaker smiles. “Then it will all be back to normal, Luck and Chance back out in the world, squabbling like children.”

  Both of them laugh softly, in spite of the tension.

  “Getting people killed!” the Toymaker says, clearly displeased.

  “Only our own,” Chance says. “They know the risks when they sign up.”

  “And if I give them to Chance?” I ask.

  “Then a fundamental balance shifts. Dangerously so, perhaps. Chaos. Who knows, it’s never happened before.”

  “You two are always fighting.” I put a finger to my temple. “I saw it. You’ve been fighting for . . . well, forever.”

  They both shrug.

  “It’s our nature,” Luck says. “I thought I’d screw with him again today, but he pulled out that stupid Mischief gun.” He turns to Chance. “Seriously, dude, what the hell?”

  Chance rumbles a deep laugh. “You should have seen your face. And I nearly had them! If Skinny here hadn’t followed you inside . . . ”

  The real question I’ve been leading up to hovers on my lips. I’m almost too scared to ask it. “And if I keep the dice?” I whisper.

  Luck and Chance freeze, watch me with avid eyes.

  “That’s the real test, isn’t it?” the Toymaker says. She gestures at Luck. “He’s waning. Before long he’ll be gone, nothing without his dice.”

  “And if he fades away?”

  “You’ll be the one with the dice.”

  “I’ll be Luck.” Somewhere, deep down, I knew all along it was the case, but hearing her say it is intoxicating. I’ve felt the power I could have. I try to imagine the possibilities that might open to me.