Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

  “Them’s the rules,” he agreed, sitting down. “Well, this is cozy, ain’t it? Can’t say I’ve had much occasion to sit with...” He seemed to lose his words.

  “So this is your first assignment, then?”

  “Yep.” His face clouded nostalgically. “Reminds me of the Cold War years, you know. Just two fellows shootin’ the breeze, a momentary truce where KGB and CIA meet at the same little East Berlin pub to discuss…” He waved his hand vaguely, missing Azrael or maybe Michael, “…I don’t know, women, life, the price of oil. You name it.”

  “But never shop.”

  “Nah. Well…sometimes…especially if you were ‘running’ an agent, you know.”

  “A turncoat.”

  “I suppose.” Both of them turned to stare at the couple. “You think they’ll–?” he began.

  “Unlikely.” Her answer was sharp enough to cut him, and he lifted a smooth fingertip to his mouth and sucked on it.

  Her face filled with surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean... Please let me–” she reached forward, and suddenly the buzzing of the flies became so loud in her ears that she fell back in her seat, her skin paling, her hands clutching her ears.

  “Down, boys!” Buster chided, but he wore a sly smile on his tanned face. “I wouldn’t come any closer…you’ve obviously upset them.” He pulled his finger away from his lips, and examine the near-invisible slash of blood near the fingernail. “Paper cuts, so tiny…you know there is a form of torture in hell involving paper cuts?”

  “Again, I apologise–” she began. “If there is anything I can do.”

  “Nothing a Band-Aid won’t take care of.”

  What happened next made Marleen forget all about the old man and the woman at table six. Each of the flies landed on the man’s finger tip, as he held it up, like a tiny landing strip, and she watched as the flies went about their business of hoovering the blood, each proboscis working hard. Green abdomens flashed emerald in the afternoon light; blue abdomens like the blue eyes of a lost lover. The man smiled lovingly at them. “There,” he said, after an eternity of silence. “All better now.”

  The table of businessmen exploded into confident, testosterone-filled laughter. One of them – the man in the blue silk suit sans jacket – stood up, his white shirt stained with liquor and sauce, red in the face. Marleen watched Buster untie one of the flies from his lapel, and hold onto the fine thread as he brought the fly towards his mouth. He whispered something, and the fly took off, trailing its thread like an afterthought.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” he said innocently, as they both watched the fat businessman weave his way towards the men’s toilet. He paused for a moment, taking in an eyeful of the beautiful brunette’s breasts, whilst the fly tagged itself onto his shirt collar. Then both man and fly disappeared through the door.

  “Well, it was good meeting you,” Buster said, standing up. “I’m sure you’ll agree that sitting in close proximity to one another doesn’t really help pass the time quickly. Just thought I’d be polite and pay my respects.” He walked back towards his table by the window, one fly short of an archangel set.

  Marleen frowned for a moment, and then looked down at her arm. A few blisters were forming on the back of her hand.

  3.

  “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

  “And you shouldn’t preach so much,” she said, draining her glass and holding it up, summoning the waiter. “You worried I’m going to drive home drunk? I don’t have to drive – there’s a perfectly good hotel nearby…”

  The old man sighed.

  “Ah, Kenneth. Could you get me another? Looks like we won’t be lasting till dessert at this rate.” Her eyes held the old man’s. “Jeff is such a bore.”

  Kenny’s face was pale, with an unhealthy sheen. As he turned from the table, the old man touched his elbow. The waiter’s face was a study in misery. The old man knew too that the misery would eventually turn itself into a dirty hatred. Some of the tension drained from his face, like colour from a painting.

  “Don’t be angry, Kenneth. Your boss will never take from you again. Let it go.” He said this all with the warm reassurance of a grandfather. Tears of gratitude sprung into the young man’s eyes.

  “Promise?” his voice croaked.

  “I never lie,” the old man said.

  The waiter walked away, this time a little slower, as if in a dream.

  “So much for following the rules.” Miranda’s hand touched his, and he felt that electrical charge. “You see how easy it is? No harm, no foul. A little guidance here, a little nudge there.” Her fingertips continued to trace the back of his hand. “The best intentions…”

  4.

  Marleen took out an ancient-looking cell phone and began to play Snake. The whiskey in her glass was all but finished, and as her eyes kept roaming over to table six, she felt a slight twinge of annoyance. Unlike the young man with the flies behind her, this was not her first time. This wasn’t even her tenth assignment. Her outward plainness and other-worldly wisdom drew little attention, which was what was required for the job. The fact that there was a man with flies tied to his lapels told her all she needed to know of how amateurish an outfit They had become.

  With a sinking heart she watched her charge soften and fall into the honey trap set for him. Yes, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if these two were heading down the path they seemed to be heading towards. And Lord knows, it will do him a whole lot of good, she thought to herself. Clear out some of the fuzziness that had set in over the last few centuries. The world itself was a reflection of this.

  But it still irked her no end to watch Her reel him in. Kind of like watching your father end up drunk at your prom night, kissing a cheerleader.

  She drew the plain shawl around her shoulders. The businessmen were well into their cups – none would be going back to the office today. The young man who called himself Buster in that drawling American accent was sitting reading a magazine, every now and then allowing one or two of his pets to feed on his paper cut. On my cut, I gave him that. Damn near crossed a line, she thought, shuddering. But that was over.

  So that left one more customer.

  She allowed herself to turn her head, and to try and look askance at him. Unlike the rest of Scission’s customers, he had positioned himself in a corner, away from the light. He had chosen for himself an assassin’s chair. Had it been her imagination or had she felt a ripple from that corner the moment she had lashed out unintentionally at Buster Leebs? No. No accident. He was here for that reason – to observe the chaperones. To make sure no interference happened. No paper cuts were inflicted.

  She reached 196 points before succumbing to the game.

  5.

  “Where’s Riaan?”

  “I r’know! He was taking a leak.”

  “Jirre, he’s been gone for ten minutes. How much did he drink?”

  “I’ll go check. Maybe he’s catching forty winks.”

  This brought laughter to the table. Marten got up and weaved his enormous bulk through the restaurant towards the men’s room. He caught a glimpse of the pretty stukkie that sat provocatively talking to the darkie. Why a looker like that would prefer chocolate over good boere steak, was beyond Marten. It didn’t necessarily upset him, as he was looking forward to his own rendezvous later in room 235 with a certain lady with whom he had a long-standing arrangement. He felt himself harden in happy anticipation: the really funny thing was, she was a darkie too. What would his wife think if she ever–?

  “Riaan? Are you dead?” he asked, stepping into the yellow light with the air-con blasting away overhead. The oval basins stood in a row to his right, the mirrors showing open stalls except for one right at the end. Marten made his way towards the urinals. May as well make his own pit stop whilst he checked his buddy was cool. “Hey, Riaan. The boys are waiting! It’s your round! Hope you haven’t passed out or anything?” He felt sweet relief as he emptied his bladder
over the strange pink cubes in the urinal. “Hey Riaan! Word wakker! Catch a wake-up! You okay?”

  A toilet flushed from behind the door of the last stall.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, zipping up. He heard footsteps behind him. Some alarm – a vague sense of unease – pinged in his alcohol-fuzzed brain, but mostly he was still filled with the prospect of Thandi later tonight. “So, ready–” But at that moment, Marten Van Wyk lost all ability to speak – in fact, he would never speak again. And Thandi would be a lonely woman come seven o’clock that evening.

  The mirrors on the wall bisected the image of the thing that had once been Riaan Van der Vyver. Insect legs, with serrated black edges like barbed wire, had sprouted from bleeding holes in Riaan’s body. They carried him along, tottering beneath his enormous head, which had blown up, purple and swollen, with tumourous lumps all over what had once been his smooth, bald pate. His one human eye peered bleakly at Marten with pain and suffering. The other eye, stretched outwards, with bubbles of more eyes growing beneath it – looked on him with cold indifference. Riaan’s human legs hung like useless growths, not even touching the tiled floor.

  “Mhaaaarrrten–” Riaan’s mouth – his normal mouth – tried to say, when suddenly a gaping hole below his chin, where his Adam’s apple would have been, stretched open, revealing a red maw, and an entirely different voice filled the men’s toilet. “Your time is at hand!” it hissed. “Don’t you know that in God’s great plan, slugs, bottom feeders and worms hold open the doors to hell?”

  Marten opened his own mouth to scream before his face was sprayed across the mirrors in an angry Jackson Pollock canvas.

  6.

  The Graham Beck stood half empty as Jeff drained another glass.

  “I see you’re getting into the spirit of the occasion.”

  “Well, neither of us is going anywhere…” he hiccupped. “Excuse me.”

  She giggled like a little girl. “I love it! You are so…so human!”

  “Quiet.”

  “Don’t blush, it’s true! Hiccupping!”

  “I sometimes forget, okay?”

  “Well…it’s endearing. Makes you less of a stuffed shirt…”

  It was her turn to observe how this comment had pleased him. Such little things matter, she found herself thinking, as she watched the way his neck moved above his clean, white-collared shirt. Not bad looking, all things considered. She thought that maybe he’d made an effort this time around.

  “What are you smiling at now?” he asked. “I seem to amuse you to no end.”

  “Just remembering some of the old times…”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

  “Like when you showed up as a street vagrant in Rome–”

  “And you showed up as the wife of a Prefect.”

  “Hardly a way to keep ourselves from being noticed. You gave me fleas.”

  He rubbed a long-fingered hand over his bald head. “That was before Pompeii–”

  Her hand reached out and lifted his chin.

  Their eyes locked, and in hers he found his will deteriorating. “It was one of my favourite times…we made love all day, and when you climaxed–”

  “Miranda – you can’t say these things–”

  “But why not? What else do we have to get us through the next twenty-four hours?”

  “Well, Vesuvius was reason enough not to…to do anything,” he finished, feeling his shirt stick to his back. “We killed innocents.”

  “We kill innocent people every day,” came her response. “You know this. It has always been.”

  He dropped his head away from her hand, breaking the spell. “This universe is like a wind-up toy, Miranda. Once it’s wound up…it just goes and goes, and there is no telling where it will end.”

  “Like people,” she said, her eyes skipping past the businessmen (who seemed to be a few short in number), towards the pious-looking woman beyond them. “Let’s ditch the chaperones. What do you say?”

  He shook his head, but it was a weak response – more a reflex action. “I’m tired, Miranda.”

  “I can keep you safe. Your shoulders are broad – but even broad shoulders grow weary.” She felt the desire building in him – it happened every time. Why he insisted on playing it straight when sooner or later their attraction alone was enough to light up a city...

  She decided to seize her moment, and stood up. Immediately, all chatter around the restaurant ceased. Waiters, chaperones, businessmen, even the cleaner near the TV, had all paused in what they were doing or saying.

  She held out her hand, knowing he knew it was there without lifting his head.

  The restaurant waited. The clockworks of the universe slowed for a moment.

  He put his mahogany hand in hers, and stood up. They walked out of the restaurant together, and no one said or did anything.

  Not until a scream came from the men’s room.

  7

  “This is nice.”

  “Nice? That’s not very complimentary.”

  “If you’re talking about what we just did – that was phenomenal – but lying here, feeling safe…it’s nice.”

  8

  Two waiters disappeared into the men’s bathroom, answering the siren wail of one of their own. The woman Marleen paid them little attention. She turned around, feeling all the hairs standing up on her neck and arms as she looked at the man who called himself Buster Leebs.

  His eyes found hers, and his smile was as flat and humourless as light on a blade.

  He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked his paper cut. His three remaining flies were orbiting his head like planets.

  A strong sense of foreboding sank into her heart as she stood and said, “What have you done?”

  He continued to smile at her, saying nothing. She had thought him an amateur, but now it seemed she had been wrong. Was it his spy skill to appear harmless coming through? Who had put him up to this? Her eyes flicked to the darkest corner in the restaurant. Surely–

  But the corner was empty.

  Her foreboding shifted to fear for the first time. “What have you done?” she repeated.

  Behind her a waiter was running, calling out to another, “Phone the police, for fuck’s sake, call the cops, quickly! And an ambulance!”

  He finally stood up and said; “The doors of hell are held open by the scum-sucking, the bottom feeders and the corrupt. What better place…” He raised his arms to encompass the view of Johannesburg behind him, taking in Sandton City and the Michaelangelo hotel. “What better place to go knocking?” And then one of the businessmen who had had followed the throng into the toilet came stumbling out, vomiting fresh crayfish and vodka all over the smooth tiles of the restaurant. It looked like pink detergent. One of the waiters went slipping in it, and ended up winded by a table in his midriff.

  “This is against the rules,” she said, and now she felt the anger – white, righteous anger – building up, finally filling the hole left by the fear. She felt her skin itch with fire, and her eyes prickle madly with the blaze. Mr Leebs took a hesitant step backwards towards the open vista of glass.

  “The blood sacrifice has been made. You can’t–”

  “No I can’t,” she agreed. “But you’ve already opened that door.”

  She took a step towards him as he continued his backward progression. She felt her hands heating with white fire. She did not hear the screams and the panic from the other customers around her, the chairs overturning, the glass breaking. They were all scrambling. Buster Leebs’ eyes widened to two round windows of blue.

  “Wait! Please! Don’t do this!”

  “It is done,” she said, in a voice that was her own. Not the glove of the human shell she wore. “By the power of the first Power. I order you to stand!” she said, moving over the cowering cleaner who had dropped where he was, knocking over his SLIPPERY WHEN WET sign. The TV bolted against the wall imploded like a popped eyeball. Then the art deco light fixtures exploded, addi
ng to the chaos. “Stand!” Her voice rose, and now he had his hands up and she saw, stark in the relief of the bright day behind him, the crisscross markings of scars on his palms. Saw how the flies tied to his shirt circled him as if to protect him. She smelt the burning in her nostrils, the electrical charge. His back fetched up against the glass wall, and he stood.

  She raised her hands, palms blazing white, arms shaking. Pieces of her clothes were burning. She was beautiful and terrible. Her eyes were a gold colour. She moved to touch him. He began to scream an inhuman scream.

  And then she saw…

  She saw in Buster Leebs’ eyes all she needed to know about what was behind her, as it approached, throwing its long shadow against the wall to her right.

  “My Lord–” he began, his fear sliding off his face like a mask. Beneath was that same flat, sly regard. “You’ve come.”

  Reflected in the glass, superimposed over the city of Johannesburg like a portent, the black, shambling form came, pushing chairs and tables out of its way, its large furry legs and bulbous head…at its centre, Marleen could see the unfortunate soul it had chosen to come through. She finally turned around, and saw that the man was still alive.

  “Kill…me,” he managed, before the second mouth at his throat interrupted.

  “Who dares?” it asked in a wet voice, as fangs jutted from the businessman’s throat. His loose tie flapped like a long, purple tongue. “Who dares?”

  “I dare,” she said, but now there was more than fear. She was terrified. She swallowed hard as she watched the approaching monstrosity. “And I know you.”

  9

  “You are insatiable! Who knew?”