by Al K. Line
"Yes." George coughed and put a shaky hand to her mouth then said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
And with that I went and killed a man.
No Remorse
There are things I have done in my life I regret, kind of. Life is full of the wrong decisions, it's what we learn from them that makes the difference between them being regrets or learning experiences. Sure, if I could go back I'd do things different, maybe, but killing this man is not one of them.
Have you ever found yourself switching from anger to rage? From a stillness inside where you're holding it together and acting calm and rationally and then you lose the plot and go nuts on someone? Probably not. I did.
I knocked on the guy's door. He answered with a "What you want?" and I nutted him, dragged him into his filthy hallway, and slammed the door shut.
I'm sure he cried, especially after the fifth punch straight at his nose. It split on punch number one and by the fifth it was as flat as my sympathy. His confusion and fear turned to absolute terror once I told him who I was and why I was there. He denied it at first, of course, and I wondered if his drug-addled brain genuinely had no memory of George. But I saw the look in his eyes, the panic and the sly sideways glance of the lying addict, and I knew he remembered. He just didn't care about what he did, only about trying to save himself. I was deaf to his pleas for mercy, to his bribes, to his tears and sniveling.
There was no magic involved, no calling forth of terrible forces or summoning of beasties to do despicable things to him once they sucked him into the dark recesses of the Nolands. No, it was all on me. All done with my hands, to sear this violence into my very being. So I wouldn't forget and so I was witness to the extremes of my violent nature.
He got up and ran as I stepped back to wipe away the blood from my hand on a discarded t-shirt. He didn't get far. His left eye was bulging badly from the socket, useless, the retina detached, and he slammed straight into the open door, splitting his head open and rebounding across the room. He crashed into a pile of crap, empty takeaway cartons and beer cans cushioning his fall.
He screamed and cried some more.
I beat him to death with an ashtray.
All I remember about that, so it must have been me that did it, was the pulpy mess that was his head, the cigarette butts scattered over his face, and the ash dissolving as the blood soaked in.
For a while I sat in a rickety wooden chair in a typical addict's living room. Curtains closed, hanging off the rail, ancient furniture, filthy and stained, and a long coffee table piled high with assorted drug paraphernalia.
Careful of the needles and the packets of alien substances, I picked up a pack of Marlboro Red, fished one out, and lit up. It was against the rules, George let me have a hand rolled ciggie after dinner if I came home and that was it, but I needed it, so I sucked the nicotine down deep, trying to burn my insides in a pathetic attempt at awakening any emotion that may have lurked deep down in the depths.
For the longest time I'd been broken, I knew it. What kind of man felt nothing after he killed another human being? I sucked on the cancer stick and held the smoke until my lungs were on fire, but still I had nothing.
No joy, no regret, just a sadness and a sense of responsibility for George's past. I should have known I had a daughter. Weren't you supposed to get a sixth sense about these things or something? But nobody had known, only her mother. She'd told nobody who the father was and nobody even knew the kid's age for a long time. She'd constantly changed cities, schools, homes, and lovers, searching for something she never found until they ended up back in the city and settled into a life I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.
Apart from this guy. He deserved worse than he got but it would have to do.
Smoke finished, I stubbed it out then pocketed it. I emptied a plastic bag used for takeaway and collected up the pack of Marlboro and the lighter, the t-shirt, and the ashtray, and stepped over the corpse. I wiped down anything I'd touched and checked the carpet for footprints but knew that was overkill. Still, I got a dirty shirt from the back of the sofa and spent a few minutes rubbing at the stinking, threadbare carpet to hide any evidence of my passing. Finally, I was done.
At the threshold, I turned back and looked into the house. The last sight I had was of a skeletal man with greasy hair and a cruel knife in his hand, face pulverized, bone splintered through skin. Dead on a dirty carpet in a stinking house in a city long ago forgotten about.
What a waste of just about everything there is to life.
A Trip Back Home
"It's done," I said as I got back into the car. A cheap Ford I drove in the city, got it swapped out by my guy as I hated people recognizing me. No patterns meant no footprints to follow.
"Thank you," said George.
"You did the right thing," said Vicky.
I knew damn well that I hadn't, but I'd done it anyway.
I promised myself we'd never once speak of it again. Ever. But as with so many promises, it got broken all too soon.
"Well, the morning's been shit, let's hope the afternoon's better," I said.
"You mean the note from the elf?" asked Vicky, eyes sparkling with excitement. Dreaming of danger and the gangster life. She was something else, I just wasn't sure what. Apart from nuts. A nutty, mini-mom with a wild side and her own long list of issues. Can't for the life of me think why we were drawn to each other.
"Damn, I forgot," I said, and I had. I was exhausted, and before I could say anything sarcastic to my new and reluctantly accepted sidekick, I fell asleep.
I got about half a second before Vicky was screaming in my ear.
"Tell me you aren't dozing outside the house of a man you just offed while your daughter is in the car?"
"Okay. I'm definitely not dozing while—"
"Shut up, Arthur," Vicky ordered. "Out. I'll drive."
I must have agreed as the next thing I remembered was being shaken awake again.
This time we were at my front door. Not to my house you understand, to the place that houses the portal that leads to the barn that houses one car or another that allows me to drive to the farm. Yeah, I know it's complicated but welcome to my world. Often I lost track of what car I was driving, where I left it, or even where I was or what door I was going through, but until last week this convoluted way of living had kept us safe. No wonder I was sleeping less.
After the usual magical shenanigins we were back in the barn and memories of a week ago crowded in. I looked at the fresh straw where blood had been spilled and cleaned up, recalled Ivan, the man I'd known as Brains, as he morphed from man to wolf, a therianthropic creature of incredible strength and animal ferocity. Not as ferocious or cruel as humans though; I'd just proved we win hands down every single fucking time. I felt sick, my belly gnawing at me, but I still found it hard to stay awake.
More sleep, awoken at my house. Stumbling inside, having my boots pulled off by someone. Hardly noticing the new door and hearing Sasha, my faery godmother's voice from the kitchen saying hello to George and Vicky. Then a lot of crying. I stumbled into the den and fell face first into the sofa and slept the sleep of the damned.
At least it was peaceful. Oblivion took me and I welcomed it with open arms.
I should've taken up golf or something, but the only thing I'd ever been good at swinging was my wand. And ashtrays.
To Business
My face felt more wrinkled than usual as I dragged myself from the sofa and the patch of drool I'd left there. I put my hat on to tame my hair and rubbed at rough stubble as I yawned and wandered into the kitchen.
This was all I needed. Not one woman, not two, but three, all there to gang up on me and beat me down with their stares and their secrets and their superiority. I'm sure it was a conspiracy, a behavioral test designed in a lab by boffins to see how far you could push a poor, struggling wizard named Arthur before he caved and let them rule every aspect of his life.
"How could you sleep?" squealed Vicky, hoppin
g from one leg to the other then running over and pushing me from behind toward the kitchen table.
I managed a "Huh?" before being manhandled into a chair where a coffee was shoved under my nose.
Panic rose as I realized Vicky had been left in my kitchen without my supervision. She was great and all, a fantastic mother, and she kept her house in superficial order, but her standards were not mine. When it came to the kitchen I got upset if someone left a spoon on the counter, and if they left dirty cups, well, I began to sweat. And shout. I shouted a lot at Vicky in my kitchen.
George must have seen my nervous glances and my stress reaction as I ran my hand repeatedly around my hat's brim and said, "Don't worry, I cleaned up after her." She smiled and my spirits soared.
Comes to something when your daughter looks like a new woman after you go kill someone for her, but that's exactly how she looked. She practically radiated happiness.
How could something with so much history and pain, a tarnish on her soul, or more likely a bloody huge ulcer, be replaced with a lightness of body and spirit because of a man's death? Because he could never hurt her again. Ever. That was why.
I understood then, or thought I did. The corrupter of my little girl could never find her and do her harm. She might dream of him, but she would know it was a dream, that she was safe, or safer. No more fear of the bad man.
Vicky came over and said, "Cleaned up after who? You mean me, don't you?" she said, astonished. "I'm clean and tidy. I spend half my life picking up after my kids and husband."
"Yeah, but you shove everything in cupboards, you don't actually tidy up."
"That's what cupboards are for." Vicky turned to Sasha who was still motionless in the middle of the room and asked, "Right?"
Sasha shrugged her perfect shoulders and faery dust fell to the black tiles where it glittered and sparkled like summer rain before spreading out and slowly fading. "I wouldn't know, I don't do that kind of thing."
"Oh, don't faeries have houses?" asked Vicky, knowing as much about Sasha's life as I did.
"Of course we do, but we also have servants."
"I'd love servants," said Vicky wistfully. She turned back to me and said, "Well?"
I sipped my coffee. "Well? What do you mean, well?"
"The note!" she screeched, making my ears hurt and rattling something in my chest I was sure, even in my sleepy state, wasn't meant to rattle.
"Oh, that." I glanced at it then took another mouthful of coffee and said, "Nice," to George. "You okay?"
"Great. Sorry, I know I should feel bad but I feel great."
"Don't worry," I said morosely, "It won't last, it never does."
The room fell silent and after a while it dawned on me it wasn't a nice, we're all friends and family and what a lovely bit of peace and quiet so Arthur can drink in silence, kind of quiet, but a, you're a dick and soon you'll realize that and probably say something stupid again, kind of silence.
So I said, "Shut up, it's true."
Sasha smacked me over the head, which was quite a feat as she didn't move from her central position.
"Ow! Hey, how'd you do that? Can you teach me?"
"Arthur Salzman, you should be more positive. You did a good thing today, acted in a way you should be proud of, and you should never tell your daughter that feeling great is something that is transient."
"Who said that? I just said it won't last. She needs to understand these things have consequences. I don't regret it, and I'd do it a million times over for you, George, but what you're feeling right now is euphoria and you are gonna crash. Hard."
The room was silent again.
This time it was because the older women knew I was right. You reach a certain age and you understand that when you get too happy, too high on the endorphins, the only way is down. It can lay you up hard for days. Some people never climb back out of it. I knew George. I knew she was a fighter, but the sooner she understood what had happened, accepted the reality of it, and she leveled off her emotions, then the quicker she'd get on with her life.
That, or it was just me, and she would be fine.
Looking at her I understood. She was already fine. She was glad he was dead. End of story.
She was stronger than me, even at such a young age. I'd never been prouder, or more worried for her future, than at that moment.
Sasha came over and placed a gentle kiss on my frown. "Hi," she said sweetly.
"Hi. Sorry for being grumpy, it's been a long morning."
"I know. Now it's done."
"Yes, it is. Nice to see you, where have you been? We haven't seen you since last week."
"Since you allowed the vampires to resurrect Mikalus and brought on a new age?" she asked innocently, a perfect eyebrow rising like a sleepy caterpillar waking and ready to turn into a beautiful butterfly.
"Yeah, since then," I said, the grumpiness returning. Don't know why everyone kept blaming me, I wasn't the one who'd been manipulating things to get Mikalus for themselves. If Cerberus had been straight with me, rather than using and abusing me for years without my knowledge, then none of it would have happened.
"My date went very well," Sasha said with a wink.
"Must have, if you were away this long." I got a funny feeling spreading down from my belly and knew exactly where it was headed. Visions of a naked Sasha all sweaty and hair bouncing, along with other things, faery dust glittering on her perfect flesh, crowded my mind. I pushed them away, feeling like a dirty old man for having such thoughts with my daughter in the room. Not to mention it weirded me out as Sasha was like family.
"You okay?" asked George. "You look a little flushed."
"Just the coffee, it's hot," I said, raising it to cover my shame. "Sasha, can you please beef up the wards? I'll do what I can, but I need them to be so damn strong no creature that has ever existed, or ever will, can get into my house again unless expressly invited by me."
"Of course. I'm sorry the vampires broke through. It's not usually something they would consider."
"In case there are ever any special circumstances again I want this place locked down tighter than Vicky's stupid sweater." I poked my tongue out at Vicky but she didn't seem to find it amusing. Weird.
"Consider it done," said Sasha.
"Cool. And while we're on the subject of clothes, has anyone seen that brown shirt with the black buttons I bought a while ago? I swear I put it in my wardrobe but—"
"Open the note!" Vicky screeched, looking like she was gonna pee on my floor.
"Fine," I said with a sigh, knowing it would be nothing I wanted to read.
With three pairs of eyes peering over my shoulder, I reached across the table, picked up the note, and unfolded the parchment.
The Note
"Ræth Næg. One million dollars," I read, then folded the note up and put it back on the table.
I turned and saw Sasha's eyes gleaming. She tilted her head back and licked her lips, wet, pink tongue gliding across the plump red beauties like they were coated in honey. Maybe they were.
"Why's it in dollars?" asked George from where they'd all gathered so they could look over my shoulder and annoy me properly.
"What's a Ræth Næg?" asked Vicky, reaching to pick up the note.
I slapped her hand away fast, and she yelped. "Sorry, but you don't touch notes written by elves unless it's specifically for you. Nasty things can, and will, happen."
"Oh, like what?" asked Vicky, mind already imagining some despicable thing or other judging by the excited look in her eyes.
"Like the ink crawling off the page and slipping down your throat and burning you from the inside out. That kind of nasty."
"Er, right," she said, pulling back her hand that had crept forward again.
I leaned back in the chair and put my hands behind my head, elbows bumping into firm breasts. I panicked and pulled them forward and turned, but thankfully none of the boob cushions were my daughter's. "Can I have some space here, please? Will everyone sit down.
"
With three women sat across the table from me, I tried again, this time managing to get my hands laced behind my head without knocking any knockers. I needed male friends, ones with no female relations.
"Okay, Sasha knows what this is, but I'll try to explain so everyone knows what'll be happening. First, Elion is an elf and a man, er, elf of the world. So he thinks in dollars as that's the world currency. And that's no bad thing as our pound is for shit right now so that still works out as a very tidy sum."
"How much do I get?" asked Vicky, leaning forward and rubbing her hands together.
"What? How'd you mean?"
"I'm the sidekick. How much do I get?"
"Two percent," I said, starting low just to see how much she thought she was worth.
"Fifty," countered Vicky.
"Are you out of your tiny vacuous mind? I'm the wizard, you're the light relief. The fall guy. The numpty. The one who does daft stuff and hasn't got a clue what's going on. The pain in the posterior I keep around so I can have a good laugh when things get dangerous. You know, the inept wannabe that I have to keep saving and—"
"No, I'm the charming woman who stops you doing stupid stuff and one of the best hackers in the world. The wily female who hides her numerous skills behind this adorable, petite exterior so she can help The Hat steal things without getting killed. Forty-sixty."
"For who?" I asked suspiciously.
Vicky thought about it for a moment, then said, "Sixty for you."
"No, I'll do you five. That's still fifty thousand dollars, about thirty-five thousand sterling."
"No way. Exchange rates change every day, that's not even enough to buy a new car," protested Vicky.
"It bloody well is, unless you want it gold-plated. Okay, look, this is your first job as a sidekick, if this works out I'll bump you up to seven next time."
Vicky crossed her arms and scowled. "I'll take thirty, nothing less."
"Ten," I blurted, panicking as Vicky stared at me hard, resolute. Much as I hated the idea of her being involved in the dangerous world I played in, I knew it was useless to argue and that she wanted this more than just about anything apart from her kids to go to the best universities and for her husband to get a fast-acting and lethal disease. She was playing hard to get but I knew she wouldn't give up and would weasel the money out of me somehow.
