Crow Shine

by Alan Baxter

  Her accusation still rang in his ears, two years on: you ruined this family with your occult hoodoo shit! He probably should move away. Only the dog had ever shown an affinity for him. He was jealous as hell of that hound’s stupidity. He imagined selling up what little stuff he had, kidnapping the dog and hitting the road. He could wander the country like Dr David Banner, except he wouldn’t turn green and solve crimes. He’d turn corners and avoid everybody.

  “Johanssen, you listening to me?”

  David looked up with a start. Terry, his editor, hung off the doorframe like a well fed, balding gorilla. He watched aura colours swim around the big man, various shades and translucency, dark blue as usual. Grumpy, bitter. “Sorry, what?”

  “I said stop daydreaming and get that story wrapped up. Ever heard of deadlines?”

  “Right.”

  He picked up the phone and dialled. A rough voice answered. “Yeah?”

  “Amir?”

  “No. Who’s this.”

  “David Johanssen.”

  There was silence and some scuffling for a second.

  “David Johanssen, fucken!”

  David smiled at the strong Lebanese accent. “Hey, Amir.”

  “What is it now?”

  “Young hooker, teenager, killed last night near William Street. You know anything about it?”

  “You calling me a murderer, fucken?”

  David laughed. “Don’t be a tit. You know you’re my go-to guy. Any details for my story?”

  Amir made a sucking noise over his teeth. “Nah. I heard about it, but no details, brother. Somebody else’s business. Small time shit.”

  “Okay. Thanks mate.”

  “You come and see us sometime, ya fucken. Not always about business, eh?”

  “Sure man. I will. Thanks.” He hung up and wrote a story about a teenager who got her throat cut for a pineapple-deal of smack. He wrote how she cried silently, her lips mouthing ‘Mother’ as her life flooded through her fingers. He could attribute the details to old Curtis if he had to. Who would ever check? It jazzed up the story. Besides, it was true. He emailed the piece to Terry and sat back in his chair, staring at post-it notes and coffee stains. The minutiae of his life.

  After a couple of minutes of nothing he got up, went to Terry’s office. He knocked on the door and strode in without waiting for an answer. His editor glanced up, annoyed. David revelled in the tiny victory and hated himself for it immediately.

  “What’s this?” Terry asked, one tiny white speck of spittle flying from a fat, livery lip.

  David scowled. “What’s what?”

  “This article you’ve just sent me. This the best you can do?”

  David raised his hands, palms up. “It’s the best I can do given what there is to work with.”

  They stared at each for a moment. David watched nervous colours float through Terry’s aura. He could tell he had the upper hand. “I’m happy to make any changes you recommend.” That is your fucking job, after all.

  Terry shook his head and leaned back in his overworked swivel chair. A part of David wished fervently for a loud crack and Terry’s legs to fly backwards over his fat arse, his sweaty bald head to bounce into the plate glass behind him, shattering it, sending him like an air whale to explode on the pavement below in a modern artwork of blood, guts, and bone splinters. He sucked in a quick breath, dragging himself back to reality. “So that all right then?”

  “It’ll have to be. Nice bit of blood for page three, I suppose.”

  “Cool. See you tomorrow.”

  David was heading back to his desk when Mandy’s shrill voice pulled him up short. “You can’t come in here! Sir! Errr, sir, please, can I help you?”

  He took a step back. His heart did the panic two-step again and the thought of running away screaming like a little girl crossed his mind at the sight of those hazel eyes. The hobo stood motionless but for his mumbling lips. Mandy, Madonna mic held in one hand, wrinkled her nose in disgust. She saw David, her eyes pleading. He cursed under his breath.

  Steeling himself he said, “Listen, mate, what’s the story, eh?”

  “You can tell my story.”

  David stopped dead, surprised at the sudden clear statement from the muttering man. “What?”

  “You can tell my story.”

  “What story?”

  The hobo, the stink of piss, shit, vomit, and alcohol rising off him like a cloud, stepped forward. Involuntarily David took a pace backwards. “I’m watching,” the hobo said. “And I’m waiting.”

  David’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Is that the story?”

  “I don’t know the story, but I know there must be one. You can see things and you write stories. You can help me find it.”

  David turned to Mandy. “This guy is obviously off his rocker. Call security, eh?”

  Mandy nodded, her face horrified. She slipped on the headset mic and jabbed at buttons on her switchboard.

  “No, no. Don’t do that. Please, you can tell the story.”

  David held up both hands. “Listen, mate, I don’t really know what you’re trying to say, but you’ll have to leave, okay? You can’t stay here. I can’t help you.”

  The hobo looked from David to Mandy, then pushed open the fire exit door. David watched him disappear down the stairs.

  “Friend of yours?” Terry’s voice was mocking.

  David shot him a look of disdain. “Yeah. He wanted to tell me all about his date with your wife last night.”

  Terry laughed and flipped the bird, disappearing back into his office. David grabbed his jacket. Those afternoon bourbons had long since worn off, and he planned to rectify that forthwith.

  *

  It took three more bourbons and a beer to level off the weirdness of the afternoon. After another three shots the melancholy set in. David couldn’t remove the image of the hooker’s pool of blood from his mind. He was supposed to be the rough, tough, take no shit reporter, getting to the bottom of everything. All he ever got to the bottom of lately was a bottle, and then he started right over at the top of the next one. Perhaps, if he was honest, he had never been a tough guy at all. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass. He thought he used to be a lot tougher and a lot less of an arsehole. Before the hoodoo shit. Before that dinner party with Bradley and Aileen.

  Bradley and Aileen’s fifth wedding anniversary, with the added celebration of a new pregnancy. “We have to go, David. We never go out any more and Aileen’s finally pregnant. Let’s get a babysitter.”

  He was fine with it. He loved his wife, he loved his boys, they all still loved him. “Sure,” he said. “Bradley can be a funny bastard.”

  They laughed and joked and talked about all kinds of stuff. They shared opinions and could disagree without rancour. Just like real grown-ups. They all drank wine, except Aileen. “Have to consider the little one now!”

  After the meal Stella pulled out a parcel wrapped in silver and white paper. “Congratulations, you two!”

  The happy couple oohed and aahed and unwrapped a little towelling jumpsuit with a bear embroidered on the front. “Yellow, so it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl,” Stella enthused.

  “You don’t get presents for yourself any more.” David raised his wine glass in a toast. “Your lives are now over. It’s all about the kids!”

  Stella punched his arm, and everybody laughed.

  “Hey, check this out.” Bradley retrieved a wooden board and a little velvet covered box.

  “Oh, Bradley, don’t be ridiculous.” Aileen’s face twisted in mock disapproval.

  Bradley laughed. “Come on, let’s give it a go.”

  The board was light wood with darker wood inlaid. The inlays were the alphabet in an arc, numbers underneath, a circle in each bottom corner, one with Yes, the other No.

  “A Ouija board?” David asked.

  “The boys at the office got it for me. They said I could use it to figure out if it was going to be a boy or a girl. And when th
ey’re a teenager, to try to understand what the hell the kid is doing!”

  Aileen shook her head. “It’s bloody silly really.”

  “I’ve never done this before,” David said, intrigued. “How does it work?”

  Bradley opened the box, took out a carved wooden arrow head. It had a semi-circle dome on top and another underneath. “It’s simple. We all sit around the table, put one finger each on here and ask questions.”

  “Then what?” Stella looked uncertain.

  “Then the spirits answer us!”

  David laughed. “Excellent! Come on then, let’s have a go.”

  That was the point. That was the very moment his life had turned to shit. He stood on a precipice and Bradley’s Ouija board was the edge. He could have turned around and walked away, but he didn’t. He threw himself over.

  They cleared the table and turned down the lights. Each of them put a finger on the domed arrow. “Will my baby be a boy or a girl?” Bradley asked suddenly.

  “Brad!” Aileen’s voice was hushed and annoyed. “I don’t want to know!”

  “I really don’t think it can tell us, love.”

  There was a moment of silence. David looked around the room. The other three were jolly and happy but he suddenly felt heavy, burdened with a weight of some kind, a sense of expectation. Like something had focussed on him. “Is anybody there?” he asked.

  The wooden arrow trembled and skidded across the board. All four people gasped in surprise. “Did you do that?” Bradley asked.

  David shook his head. “Look.” The arrow rested in the yes circle.

  Stella took her hand away, her face angry. “David, stop it. What are you doing?”

  “Really, I didn’t do that. Put your finger back on.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Stella, this is exciting!” Aileen’s eyes held a dare. Slowly Stella reached out her hand and put one finger back on the arrow.

  “Ask something else,” Bradley said quietly.

  David took a slow breath. “Who’s there?”

  The arrow trembled then began sliding back and forth across the board. The four of them stiffened.The arrow moved smoothly, unnaturally. David read aloud. “l-a-m-a-s-h-t-u. Lamashtu?” The lights blinked, everything black for half a second. Both women screamed. In the blackness David saw a darker silhouette, a human shape.

  Stella, Aileen, and Bradley all whipped their hands away, looking accusingly at David. “Fuck, mate, how did you do that?”

  “It’s not me, Bradley, I promise.” David still had his finger on the arrow.

  Bradley pushed his chair back a fraction. “David, don’t.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Dude, seriously, do not ask a question like that. Have you never seen a horror film?”

  David was still looking at the board, the silhouette in his mind. “Where are you?”

  The arrow slid quickly around the board again. i-n-t-h-e-s-e-c-o-n-d-c-i-r-c-l-e-a-n-d-i-t-b-u-r-n-s.

  Bradley jumped up, grabbing the board out from under David’s hand. “Fuck this, what are you doing?” He snatched the arrow away, stuffed it back into its box.

  David felt different, enlivened, exhilarated, opened somehow. Something inside him had changed, static coursed through his veins. Everyone else looked terrified. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m throwing it away. It’s a bloody stupid thing to have around.”

  “Let me have it then. I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

  “You shouldn’t muck about with this stuff,” Stella said. “Just let him throw it away.”

  “I’ll keep it in my study, don’t worry about it. I’m just fascinated by it, that’s all.” He was scared, but his curiousity burned.

  That was the night his life had turned to shit, sure enough. David stared at his empty shot glass. He should have listened to Stella, to Bradley. He held up his glass. “Give me another.”

  The barman nodded once. “With a beer?”

  “Fuck it, why not?”

  *

  David staggered from the bar a little after midnight. “Responsible service of alcohol my arse,” he grumbled. The summer night was hot and humid after the air conditioned comfort of the pub. He felt like he’d taken a deep breath of wet sponge. He stood, gathering himself, taking a few more breaths until the sponge was just a hot mist in his lungs. At least the rain had stopped.

  He walked, thinking about nothing, staring at the pavement sliding under his feet, not caring where he was going. He ended up walking through a park, down sandstone steps, and eventually looked up. The chattering of fruit bats in the fig trees of Hyde Park surrounded him. William Street stretched away in front of him, a scallop of tarmac and traffic lights, rising up to the red and white flashing neon of the Cross at the other end. Do I really wanna be here again? He considered a titty bar. He could barely stand up straight, so it was unlikely he’d be let in anywhere.

  “You can see, so you can find the story.”

  David barked a shout of surprise and anger. The stench of the man floated into his nostrils as he focussed on hazel eyes and a grimy beard. “Why won’t the world just fuck off!” he yelled.

  The hobo’s aroma wafted in a rank breeze. “The world goes on regardless.” He began muttering again, frantic whispers.

  David tried to hold his breath. “You a philosopher all of a sudden?”

  “You look differently, you can see. And you tell stories for people. I’m sure I have a story.” The muttering resumed, his eyes wet and glittering.

  “Mate, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are following me? How do you keep finding me?”

  “I watch. I see you. Where you are, I go.” Mutter mutter.

  David shook his head. “Listen, buddy, I’m really sorry, okay, but I have problems of my own. It must be shit to live like you do, but I can’t help you. Here, you want some money?” He dug in his pocket, pulled out his wallet. “Fuck knows I have precious little myself, but if it’ll help I can give you a few bucks.”

  The man shook his head, pushing David’s wallet away. “We’re not all the same. Some are like you, only worse, but some are like me.”

  David’s head spun, the booze soaking his brain. His eyes were heavy and he needed to switch it all off. An image of waking up in a shop doorway somewhere swam across his mind and he turned, swaying and stepping randomly. Among the cars sailing along William Street he could see a yellow light, a beacon of safety. He half fell to the edge of the road and waved a hand. He looked back at the homeless man. “I’m sorry, mate. I can’t help you.”

  The taxi pulled up to the kerb. The hobo stepped forward, taking hold of David’s shoulder. He was repulsed by the touch and brushed at the filthy hand.

  “You have to help. You will. I’m watching.” Mutter mutter mutter.

  David held his breath, trapped in the cloud of the man’s putrid fug. Unable to help himself, he leaned closer, watching those undulating lips. The words were so fast and whispered they were incoherent at first, but after a moment it became clear. “ . . . thine is the kingdom the power and the glory forever and ever amen our father which art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven . . . ”

  David pulled away, eyes wide. “Sorry.” He turned and pulled open the taxi door, falling onto the back seat.

  “You better not puke in here, mate.” The taxi driver’s tanned face was hard, angry.

  “S’alright. I’m drunk, but I’m fine. Get me outta here.”

  “That guy hitting you up for money, was he? Fucking junkie.”

  Through the window David met intense hazel eyes. A cold breeze drifted through his guts, down into his balls.

  2

  David woke, fully clothed, demons beating out a syncopated funeral march on his frontal lobes. He groaned, his mouth a festering, greasy trap, and took uneven steps to the bathroom. The need to drink and the need to piss battled until the
piss threatened to start without him. He stood, flooding the porcelain, smacking foul lips together in an effort to find saliva. When he was finally done he put his head under the tap and gulped for a long time before digging in the cupboard for aspirin. He showered, dressed, and headed for the door of the single room pit he called home. The Ouija board leant against the wall at the end of his bed. He scowled at it. Why couldn’t he chuck the fucking thing away? Maybe it was an anti-trophy, testament to his biggest fuck-up ever. His downfall.

  He had used it again and again since that fateful night, communicating with Lamashtu. She would hover at the edges of his mind, coaxing him. He was sure she was female. Every time he felt her near him he craved her knowledge, the things she could give him. The things she promised him. He had tried to explain it to Stella, but she was sceptical at first, then jealous, then angry. When he told Stella about the auras he could see around people, one of Lamashtu’s gifts to him, she became scared. It was Lamashtu who had convinced him that Stella was holding him back. Lamashtu who drove wedges into the family. Then it was her who had sent him nightmares and visions. She had driven him to drink. Only when he drank was her voice less powerful in his mind. But the damage was done. The nightmares and the drinking turned him into a monster in his family’s eyes. In the two years since Stella had left with the boys he had refused to touch the Ouija board, refused to talk to Lamashtu. Although he suspected she wasn’t interested in talking to him any more. Under her spell he had been blind. Now he was ruined, her work done and that was that. He had been played. All he had left was a drinking problem and the ability to see things no one else could. Things, more often than not, that he wished he couldn’t see.

  By the time he got to work, carrying the biggest coffee he could find, he felt mildly less hellish. As he walked into the building his phone rang, singing electronically from his trouser pocket. He pulled it out, his hand brushing over the bruise flowering across his hip, making him wince. It said THE BITCH across the screen. With a sigh he tapped the answer button. “Yeah.”