by Al K. Line
I gave Vicky a hug and said, "I'm proud of you."
"Why?" she asked, perplexed.
"Because you finally stood up to the fakers. Look at them, they're all jealous."
We glanced over at the mothers preening themselves and gossiping while their children tugged at their arms, pining for attention.
"They don't look it," said Vicky.
"Well, they are," I said. Vicky had finally realized they didn't care about her, that she had nothing to try to live up to, and was happier for it. Her and the girls were settled in a nice but modest house on the edge of the city, and she'd got her act together and calmed down, the past finally put behind her. They visited often, and I was more involved in the girls' lives than ever. We were like an extended, if dysfunctional, family. I liked it. Sometimes. Other times it drove me nuts. Vicky was hard work and young children are loud. And messy.
"Is anyone going to give their mum a hug?" asked Vicky, pouting.
The girls hurriedly stuffed cheap chocolate bars into their mouths, gave me the wrappers, then allowed Vicky to hug and kiss them as they glanced around to see if their friends were looking.
We then drove home as the girls babbled and the adults tried not to scream. I was so tired, but one cure for sleepiness, no matter how extreme, is young children regaling you with tales of the playground at maximum volume.
Back at Vicky's, George was standing at the front door to the modest but still substantial Georgian pile, like a scaled down version of Vicky's previous home. We said our hellos, promised to return soon, then I hightailed it out of there, kicking up gravel from the neat drive as we went to make our drop off.
"You could have stayed with the girls, made their dinner," I offered for the tenth time.
"No chance," said Vicky, glaring at me as she liked to do. She'd become an outright virtuoso at it after so long, had it down pat.
"It's just the drop off. The hard bit's done," I said without mustering much enthusiasm.
"Liar! Some of the best stuff happens when we try to get paid. There's always something exciting happening."
I glanced at Vicky as I crawled forward through the rush hour traffic. "Damn, I thought you'd calmed down. What is wrong with you?"
"Arthur, I have spent the entire week picking up and dropping the girls off at school. They've had two play dates I had to take and collect them from, each of them has had a karate and a ballet lesson, which they both still love, and I'm wishing they never started, and the rest of the time I've either been cooking, or cleaning up the house. If you think for one minute I'm going to miss out on the chance for some adventure while George babysits then you're more stupid than you look."
"Fine. Just asking."
We spent the next forty minutes bickering, or talking about the job just completed, the insanity and downright weirdness of it all only just filtering through, until we pulled up near a very unobtrusive house in a nice residential street in the suburbs.
And this was how we met Juice for the second time.
Why Do I Bother?
"Behave," I warned Vicky as we got out of the car a few houses down from Juice's. There were always parking spaces as apparently his guys had had a quiet word with the neighbors and since then they always parked in their drives, never on the curbside. Some went to the extremes of digging up their front gardens, but Juice, kind soul that he was, had paid for the work.
"I don't know what you mean," said Vicky, tugging at the tight red sweater she'd changed into, showing off fine curves that had got curvier as she got her eating disorders under control.
"You know." I sighed and took a moment to take in the street. All was quiet, all was still, even the two goons stationed outside Juice's mother's house. We'd been here once before, to be given this job, and it had left a sour taste in my mouth. Juice was odd, the whole arrangement peculiar, but he had plenty of money, wanted something from a character I'd been trying to deal with for years, and to be quite honest I just didn't give a fuck.
I was in a funk and walking through life like it was a dream. Hope was lost, and I could not pull myself out from the dark place. All that kept me going was the new place we'd moved into, my family and friends, and magic. Always magic.
So when Juice's people had got in touch and we'd gone to meet him and been told what the job was, I'd agreed on the spot, and so here we were.
"You know this guy's nuts, right?" said Wand from my pocket.
"Shut up," I ordered, not in the mood.
"Hey, I'm just looking out for you. And me."
"Just keep quiet," I hissed. "This guy is an oddball and I don't know what he can do. Do you want to risk him finding out you're a sentient wand carved by yours truly?" I didn't wait for an answer. "No, so be quiet."
I knew I was being harsh, but Wand had been driving me to distraction ever since he'd come to life, and with my mood low and my thoughts constantly turning to Candy's betrayal and the fact I was an old fool who'd done something despicable to her, I found it hard to cope with his chipper, upbeat demeanor most of the time. Why couldn't he be as miserable as me? He should have been, he was an extension of me, but without the lines and the bad attitude.
Wand wriggled in the special pocket on the thigh of my combats, then jabbed into a testicle before settling. Guess I deserved it.
"Are you coming or not?" asked Vicky from between two slightly bemused looking goons. She stood there, hands on hips, giving it attitude, when two guys twice her size shuffled awkwardly as she elbowed them in their flat, and I presumed very hard, stomachs.
"Coming," I said, glaring at the goons as I caught up. I eyed the pair until they stopped smiling, then said, "Well?"
"Well, what?" asked one bright spark.
"Open the fucking door, numnuts."
He was about to smack me, but the other guy put a hand to his arm and said, "It's The Hat."
The guy paused, stared at me in confusion, then back to his partner, and asked me, "You're The Hat?"
"Yeah. What, not ugly enough for you?"
"No, that's not it, you're plenty ugly."
Damn, I hate it when the muscle uses a better line than me.
"Just open the door."
The goon knocked and a few seconds later a high-pitched female voice screeched, "Coming."
Vicky and I exchanged a glance as we knew what to expect.
The door was yanked open dramatically as the goons stepped back, obviously used to it and well prepared.
"Arthur! Vicky! My, don't you two look lovely. Come in, come in. Don't forget to take your shoes off. Do you want a cup of tea? A piece of cake? I've just made one. Alan's in the basement, what he likes to call his lab, silly boy. Well, come on, he's waiting."
"Hi, Mrs. Peters," I said quickly, getting the greeting in before she disappeared down the dated hallway into the kitchen at the rear.
"Hello, Mrs. Peters, your hair looks nice," said Vicky.
"Creep," I whispered, very quietly. Vicky poked her tongue out at me.
"You silly things, I've told you already, call me Martha. A friend of Alan's is a friend of mine," she shouted. Then she popped her head around the door, adding, "I just had it done." Martha ran a hand over her sprayed-to-death silver hair. "Wait there, you can take the tea down. I've got things to do. Busy, busy, busy. And no funny business," she warned.
"Funny business?" I asked.
"Yes, no funny business." She wagged a finger at us then disappeared to clatter about in the kitchen.
Vicky and I exchanged glances, but it seemed like this was just the way Alan's mum was. I didn't let her looks or attitude deceive me though. I knew all about her, and Alan, had heard the rumors for years. She was hardcore, ruthless, cared nothing for anyone but her boy, and you had better get out of her way, and fast, if she was on a mad one.
Martha had ruled a lot of the criminal activity in the city for several years, strictly a business she entered to make money for her future. She wasn't involved in magic, but magic and crime always mix so she kn
ew enough about the supernatural to remain on good terms with most of the wizards and assorted practitioners. She gave it all up the moment she got pregnant, sold the business to Ivan's old boss's father not long before he inherited it. Everyone breathed easier then.
She was a businesswoman through and through, and got what she wanted by basically killing anyone she took a dislike to. She then dedicated her life to her son, the father only on the scene for a few years before he died. She taught him all she knew, and Alan grew into the man-child he was today.
A psychopath of the highest order.
He was dominated by Martha for years, but he thrived on it, and wouldn't have it any other way. They had a close, some would say cloying, relationship but as he grew he became the man of the house and Martha was happy to take orders from him. She doted on him and was immensely proud of the way he'd turned out. Which was just as ruthless as his mum. Made her proud to her core.
Martha was a throwback to a different time, and still had her home and her fashion sense locked in a time warp from when she was at her peak. The house was all swirling carpets and Bakelite, and she wore her hair in a beehive, heavy green eye makeup, bright red lips, pearl necklace, and often bright orange short dresses. She had slim legs, a trim figure, but a heaviness to her. Solid, she was solid, and wrinkled, very wrinkled. Not surprising, because she was seventy if she was a day.
I don't think anyone thought for a moment she would ever die, she was just too indomitable to do such a pedestrian thing. And I figured Death would give her a pass as she'd probably terrify him as much as she did everyone else.
She was too nice, too mumsy, and you could see it was all a veneer. That she was telling you you'd better behave, or she'd get one of the boys to do nasty things to you in the kitchen with a knife while she baked cakes and poured tea.
"Here you go," said Martha as she winked a green eyelid at me and handed me a tray with three teas, milk and sugar, and a plate piled high with brightly colored sliced cake.
"Thanks, Mrs... er, Martha."
Martha beamed. "Battenberg."
"Sorry?"
"The cake, it's battenberg. Alan's favorite."
"Oh, mine too," I said nervously.
"And mine," squeaked Vicky.
Martha just stared at us until the vibe got weird.
"Well, off you go then. Alan doesn't like to be kept waiting."
We went.
Into the Lab
I opened the small door under the stairs and said, "Ladies first."
"Since when did you become a gentleman?" whispered Vicky.
"I always open the door for you. It's just you usually get hit in the nose or jump out the car and ruin my paintwork," I protested.
"Liar. You go first." Vicky leaned in close to my ear, her warm breath making the hairs in my ears tickle. I should get that sorted. "He's creepy," she whispered.
"Ssh," I said, panicked. Juice could have the place bugged, in fact I was sure he did. With a scowl, I descended the wooden steps into the lair, the sound of electronics buzzing, TVs blaring, and endless digital devices making me worried for my few remaining marbles. Surely all this tech would scramble your brain.
Vicky came close behind, almost tripping me up, so I focused on the tray and tried not to spill the tea. The cake smelled horrible. I'd eat it anyway.
"Yo, chuck it over there," came a very average sounding voice from the far end of the room. All I could see of the man was a hand raised up over the back of a leather office chair, pointing to one of many desks.
"You don't want to check it?" I asked.
"Nah, mate, I trust you. You wouldn't cross me, would you?" There was a threat there, and I didn't like it. But I bit my tongue.
"Course not." I gave Vicky the tray and put the artifact down on a table amongst pieces of electrical equipment and several other items I knew to be of immense power.
Vicky placed the tray on a polished glass table between two small, tatty sofas then stood there, looking indecisive.
"Sit down, won't be a mo." Alan continued to type furiously on a keyboard while information scrolled down several monitors he had set up in his large work area. Cables trailed everywhere, banks of servers blinked with green lights, and the racking thrummed as equipment vibrated or sometimes juddered, weird stuff going on in their digital brains I didn't even try to understand.
Alan put Vicky's hacking to shame, he was a top guy, but it didn't even interest him. He had one obsession above all others, one not shared by his mother.
Magic.
We sat on the brown corduroy sofa, one of his mum's cast-offs, and waited. This was what you did with Alan, you waited. He wasn't my usual client, but then they were always a bit odd, had to be in this game. But Alan took it to a whole other level. I decided this would be my last dealing with him. I didn't mind eccentric but I had my limits and this family were well over them.
Finally, Alan was satisfied with whatever he was doing and spun in his chair, beamed at us, then jumped to his feet. For the second time, I tried not to look shocked by his appearance as he shuffled over and slumped down onto the sofa opposite us.
Alan, or Juice as he insisted on being called, was scrawny, lanky, pale as a vampire, with a pot belly. He had limp, dirty blond hair, and weirdly long fingers. His gaze was disturbing, as he never seemed to blink, and his red-rimmed eyes were sore, almost weeping, but that didn't stop his blue eyes making you squirm, like he was waiting to pounce.
He wore a sparkling white Adidas t-shirt, dirty jeans, and had bare feet. He was the epitome, just like the room itself, of the constantly raging battle between him and his mother. She made his clothes sparkle, he refused to change his jeans. She polished the glass table every day, he refused to let her touch the rest of his den.
"Care to do the honors?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk as he nodded at the tray then Vicky.
"Um, okay," said Vicky, nonplussed. She lifted the teas from the tray then placed them on the table, then did the same with the plate of battenberg. "Pretty pointless though."
"Watch you don't spill it," warned Alan. "Mum doesn't like tea on the glass."
He picked up his mug and sipped it noisily, smiling at the taste. I took a quick sip of mine and tried not to pull a face.
"Battenberg?" asked Alan.
"No thanks, I'm watching my weight." Alan frowned. "Maybe just a little piece." I picked up the foul thing, took a nibble, and smiled even though I wanted to puke.
"Vicky?"
"Yum," she said as she took a bite then washed it down with soapy tea.
"That's better. Now, business." Alan pulled a phone and did a few finger taps. Vicky checked her own phone and nodded to me; the payment was made.
"How'd it go? Any problems?"
"Yeah, loads," I said, knowing my desire to get out of here was the only reason I wasn't asleep.
"Lucky buggers, you get to have all the fun."
"Sure do," I said.
Juice was lost to thought and the atmosphere grew stranger than usual. He was prone to this, losing himself for minutes at a time, and I guess I drifted off too sometimes. But this was different, unsettling somehow. With a start, he was back. He leaned forward, rubbing his hands on the knees of his filthy jeans, unexpectedly animated.
"Before you ask, I'm going on vacation. No more jobs for a while."
"Good for you, you deserve it. No, I wanted to show you something. Just came in. Bloke said he didn't want to sell, but some of the guys made him a nice offer and he changed his mind. Actually, haha, his mind, or rather his brain, is over there." Juice pointed into a dark corner where a large black cat sat licking its nether regions. Beside it was a tray of cat litter, and a bowl, with something gray in it.
"Nice treat for the little guy," I said, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Our host may have seemed harmless, if a little peculiar, but he took after his mum and had the manpower to back up his madness. I got the feeling, and many had con
firmed it over the years, that the only reason he didn't run the city was because he wasn't interested. He had other more esoteric interests that ran way beyond the crap that went on in the gutter. Alan, oops, Juice, worked globally, could have probably bought the city if he wanted to, but preferred it right where he was. Guess he enjoyed his home comforts.
"Haha, yes, he does love his brains. Anyway, let me show you."
Juice jumped up and hurried excitedly over to a rack of equipment. He pulled down a briefcase from behind an old monitor and practically bounced back over.
"This isn't going to be one of those scenes where you open it and a snake springs out and bites me and Vicky and you cackle as we die, is it?" I asked, only half joking.
"Nah, if I wanted you dead mum would have spiked your tea."
Vicky almost choked and put her mug back on the table.
"Haha, gotcha," laughed Alan. He placed the briefcase on the table, blood-spattered leather telling me plenty about his methods of retrieval, as if the brain in the bowl wasn't enough. He spun it to face us, released the clasps, then with a "Ta-da," he opened the lid as Vicky and I leaned forward and peered inside.
"Oh, fuck. You didn't?" I groaned.
"I did," he said with a smug smile as he relaxed back into the sofa and linked his hands behind his head.
"What? It's just a bit of rope," said Vicky, reaching out.
I slapped her hand hard and screamed, "Don't touch it," then was up from the sofa and dragging her away.
"Too late," cackled Juice. "He's already coming. I invited him."
It was only then I noticed the piece of paper underneath the rope. It was a list of names. I knew how this worked, hadn't dreamed anyone would do it in this day and age.
"You're insane." And that was an understatement.
Mommy's Boy
The room darkened like dusk on a particularly depressing day. A heaviness to the air and a sense of foreboding so strong I felt tears form in the corners of my eyes. Vicky's usually light body felt like a thousand pounds as I waded through the fast-approaching night, dragging her like an overfed pet until we reached the stairs that led to salvation. The light of day, noise of human chatter, and smiles from deranged old ladies.
