by M. V. Stott
‘Oi, pisshead, it’s home time,’ said Steve. ‘D’you fancy a couple to sort yourself out?’
Ben turned to look at Steve, who seemed... well, wrong. It was like Ben was looking at him through a weird prism.
‘What?’ said Ben.
‘Christ, maybe you need to go right to bed, mate.’
Ben wanted to answer, but Steve wasn’t there anymore, nobody was. He wondered how long he’d been sat there, slack-jawed. How long it had been since Steve had spoken. He squinted up at the clock on the wall. An hour had already passed since clocking-off time.
He stood, then yelled out in pain as his guts twisted inside his belly, folding him in two. He fell to his knees. ‘Help. Somebody help.’
The words snuck out weakly, but even if he’d screamed them, it wouldn’t have done him any good – the building was empty apart from himself and Alan at the front desk, three floors down.
Ben wondered if he was dying. Was this a heart attack? The pain had been in his stomach, but now it was in his chest, too. It burned. Worse than burned. More than burned. It every-kind-of-pained.
His dad had died of a heart attack only a few years older than the age Ben was now. Was it his turn? Was it—?
He threw his head back and screamed as he felt his bones crack.
Not a heart attack. Not a heart attack.
Oh Fuck. Oh Christ.
It felt like his whole body was being torn apart. Body hot, skin burning, Ben tore off his sweat-drenched shirt, just in time to see the flesh on his chest pull apart.
Alan Crowther had worked security at Briers & Travers for going on eleven years now. It suited him. He liked the uniform, the little bit of power, of authority. Plus, he was a people person, and everyone had to come past him on their way in or out; lots of opportunity for connections and interesting conversations.
His current conversation topics all had to do with space. The universe. The cosmos! He was binge-watching all sorts of interesting space docs on YouTube while he sat at his desk. It was good to learn new things. Never stop learning, that was his motto. The longer you learn, the longer you live, that was another of them. He loved a good motto. He’d often thought about putting together a coffee table book of all the mottos he’d collected or thought up over his life. He had a notepad full of them.
Alan Crowther wandered over to the locked doors of Briers & Travers and looked up at the night sky.
‘Full moon again,’ he said to himself. ‘Last full moon of the cycle. Four days and done. Sea’ll be getting a good old tug tonight.’ He blew his nose, checked the contents of his handkerchief, pocketed it, then made his way back to his chair whistling Space Oddity by David Bowie.
Alan’s wife had left him three years previously for her pilates instructor. He’d paid for that instructor, too. Linda had always been moaning about how much weight she was putting on, so he’d forked out the cash for a bit of one-on-one training.
Well, she certainly got the one-on-one.
He’d seen her just the other week, walking down London Road with him. Alan had been on the top deck of the bus, but to him it didn’t look like Linda had lost any weight. Put a bit on, if anything. She looked happy though.
He didn’t hold grudges, not Alan. What’s meant to be was meant to be, as far as he was concerned, and the universe had called time on his and Linda’s marriage.
‘C'est la vie,’ he said to himself, then checked his watch. Yup, it was about time to do his first walkaround of the building.
‘No rest for the wicked, laddo,’ he said, and set off for the stairs. Sure, he could have taken the lift, but he liked the exercise. Linda might have put on a few pounds, but he was determined to stay trim. Security was a physical job, and besides, he couldn’t afford to outgrow his uniform, not with his ex taking half of his earnings.
The first floor was clear, though it smelled badly of fish and chips. Someone had been eating at their desk again by the stink of it. Dirty bastards.
Alan remembered his and Linda’s first date. They’d both been twenty-six and they’d sat on the beach sharing a cardboard cone stuffed full of fat chips, doused in salt, vinegar, and ketchup. He’d let her use the little wooden fork the bloke in the chip shop had given him. She’d done her nails all nice and Alan didn’t want her to get grease on them. He was a gentleman like that.
The second floor was clear, too. They were always clear. In all his years there, he’d never actually found someone where they shouldn’t be after lock up.
‘Tell a lie,’ Alan said to himself, stopping as he was about to make his way back to the stairs. He had found a couple in the building once. On the same floor he was on now, in fact. First month on the job he’d found them, in a corner office; bloke and a bird going at it, hammer and tongs, her with her skirt hitched up and her blouse on the floor.
Alan grinned in the dark.
Ellen, that’s what she was called. She’d left a few weeks later. Wouldn’t look Alan in the eye on her way in or out in those final few weeks. Bloke still worked there. Top floor now, though. Brian Meeks. Vice president. Always nice to Alan, Brian was. Alan could’ve caused a bit of a stink, as it had been Brian’s boss’s daughter Alan had found him ploughing over the desk.
Soul of discretion, that’s what Alan was. Plus, Brian had bought him that nice case of whiskey. Good stuff, too. Single malt, aged eleven years. No rubbish.
Alan was halfway up the stairs to the third floor when he heard a noise. He paused and looked up towards the door that lead on to the floor, cocking his head to one side to hear better.
There it was again. A sort of low growl or something.
Blimey, had someone brought a dog in and forgotten to take it home with them? Daft bastards. You weren’t allowed to bring animals into the building. Alan hadn’t seen anyone bring a dog in, but then he’d only been on shift since four. Jeff had been in during the day, and Alan wouldn’t have put it past Jeff to let stuff like that slide. Soft, he was. Sometimes he didn’t even wear his tie.
Alan huffed to himself, took out his little hand baton, and headed to the third floor. He wasn’t supposed to be armed—in fact, he’d been expressly told not to bring weapons into the office after the knuckle duster he bought off eBay fell out of his jacket pocket and went clanging across the lobby—but Alan wasn’t having any of that. Security could be a dangerous game, and danger needed to be met with extreme prejudice.
‘Here, doggy, doggy, come to Uncle Alan.’
Alan flexed his fingers around the baton. He didn’t want to hit a dog, but the thing sounded jumpy, mewling and growling. Probably scared, being left behind like that. Alan knew that a scared animal could be a hostile animal. Even the most placid of doggies could bite if they felt cornered.
‘Well, blimey,’ Alan said as he looked around the open plan area of the office.
There were a few monitors smashed on the carpet, the desks they’d stood on completely wrecked. Alan shuffled forward and prodded at a little pile of torn clothes on the floor. Trousers, shoes, a shirt. It looked like whoever they belonged to had exploded inside of them. Alan frowned and scratched at his head with the baton. What on Earth was going on here?
A low growl behind him.
Alan spun around to find out exactly what kind of dog could have caused such destruction. Only it wasn’t a dog. It wasn’t a dog at all.
As it rushed howling towards him, all claws and teeth and fury, Alan Crowther, security guard and amateur astronomer, felt strangely calm. He pictured Linda on Blackpool beach one last time, smiling over the cone of hot chips, steam coiling up, her blonde hair almost glowing.
And that was the end of Alan.
12
If there was anyone in the Uncanny world with a larger, more well-tended ego than Carlisle, it was Giles L’Merrier.
L’Merrier was a wizard, and by far the most powerful of his ilk in the Uncanny Kingdom – a fact that he would make known with some regularity. L’Merrier’s Antiques was located on a side street off Portobe
llo Road, London, not far from the market. Outside, a wooden sign bearing the shop’s name in hand-painted cursive squeaked in the wind.
Carlisle had travelled to London to ask the great L’Merrier how he might go about killing an Angel. If anyone knew, Carlisle was sure it would be him. L’Merrier had the reputation of a know-it-all. A dangerous and extremely vengeful know-it-all.
Carlisle straightened out his coat and pushed open the door, setting the shop bell tinkling as he stepped into the establishment’s mote-laden interior. The shop had an atmosphere all of its own, a stillness, a sense of knowing and of secrecy. Carlisle wandered the shop floor, swatting aside the thick dust that swirled before him. The shop was dark, hushed, and bulged with all sorts of strange antiquities. Some were of the very ordinary variety. A chipped cabinet that had once belonged to British Royalty. Faded oil paintings depicting tranquil countryside scenes. A complete collection of promotional tea mugs for Tetley Tea from the 1970s.
And then there were the other things.
On a shelf next to the counter, Carlisle spotted a glass eye, perched next to a set of ivory dominos. The eye was as big as a tennis ball, its iris bright red. As he peered, the eye twitched, ever so slightly, to look at him. Carlisle turned away. The last thing you wanted was to make prolonged eye contact with a Seer Stone; it might drain you of every memory you’ve ever had before you had a chance to blink.
In one corner, draped in shadow, was a set of quite unusual armour. In many ways it appeared to be Roman, but it was not. Not quite. No Roman ever wore this set of armour. The armour was small, standing only as high as Carlisle’s thigh and missing its helmet. Carlisle knew the creature that had once worn it: a small, fox-like creature, brave and loyal, hunkered down in another reality. A warrior, waiting for battle in the Dark Lakes, ready to join an undead army, ready to obey the command of the Magic Eater.
Giles L’Merrier had lived a long life, striding across this earth and others, this reality and more besides, and had taken tokens from each, and here, within his shop, these strange things had come to rest.
‘Are you going to hide in the shadows for my entire visit, tubby?’ asked Carlisle.
A velvet chuckle rolled out of the dark, followed by the corpulent but gliding frame of the shop’s proprietor. He had a giant, entirely bald head and eyes that danced with mirth, with confidence. His huge barrel of a body was entirely hidden by luxuriant, scarlet robes, upon which had been embroidered all manner of magical shapes, words, and names. The mighty Giles L’Merrier, the most powerful wizard still to draw breath.
‘Carlisle, little one, what an entirely expected pleasure to host you within my humble house of wonders.’
Carlisle continued his slow perusal of the shop, making a show of not turning to properly greet L’Merrier. He hoped the momentary tensing of his jaw muscles caused by L’Merrier’s “little one” crack had not been noticeable in the murk of the shop. ‘Oh, so you were aware I might be paying you a visit?’ he asked.
‘I hear things, you know. I am a spider and all manner of stories and movements are fed to me, twitching the fine silken threads of my web.’
As a rule, L’Merrier was not a fan of people paying him a visit. He had been known to become quite violent upon that point, so Carlisle was relieved to see that he seemed to be in a good mood for once. ‘I suppose you heard about my reasons for leaving London recently.’
L’Merrier grinned and rested his fat hands upon the steep hill of his stomach. ‘Ah yes, I believe there were two reasons, were there not? Firstly, fear.’
Carlisle spun on his heel, his eyes narrowed. ‘Fear?’
‘I do believe you had been running a rather naughty, and ultimately lethal to your customers, business. A business that the London Coven had heard tales of. No doubt that put you on Stella Familiar’s list of people to punch.’
Carlisle snorted. ‘Please, I am not frightened of a familiar, regardless of her affiliation. I am Carlisle, I am the one who is feared. Generally.’
L’Merrier chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose some do fear you. It takes all sorts, does it not?’
Carlisle frowned and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, rubbing a thumb along an enchanted knife hidden within one and momentarily wondering what sort of sound L’Merrier might make if he were to shove it into his neck. ‘Two reasons?’ said Carlisle.
‘The artefact.’
Carlisle nodded.
‘You know, I actually had the artefact here for a short while, oh, many decades ago now.’
‘Impossible,’ Carlisle shot back. ‘I would have known.’
The darkness around L’Merrier seemed to thicken for a moment. ‘You think I could not hide it from one such as you? I am Giles L’Merrier. I walk this hunk of rock a titan. A wonder. I have more magic in my piss than you do in your entire body. I could turn your flesh to dust with a single thought should I wish to. Would you care for a demonstration, little one?’
There followed a heavy, strained silence as the two men glared at one another, each daring the other to make a move. Carlisle was the one who finally broke, turning to continue his perusal of the shop’s antiques. Firstly, as he had come to see L’Merrier for reasons other than a fight, and secondly, because Giles L’Merrier was quite right, Carlisle was no match for him. Not that he would admit that to his face.
‘I have a question,’ said Carlisle.
‘I, no doubt, have the answer,’ replied L’Merrier. ‘I have all of the answers. All that is required of you is to ask the correct question.’
‘The Angel of Blackpool.’
If L’Merrier had any eyebrows, they would have risen at this point. ‘Repeat yourself.’
‘The Angel of Blackpool. You know of It?’
‘Of course,’ huffed L’Merrier. ‘What beast, fair or foul, of this Uncanny land is there that I, the mighty L’Merrier, do not know of? That I have not met, have not shaken hands with, or sunk my sword up to the hilt in?’
‘So you know It?’
L’Merrier smiled.
‘It is real,’ said Carlisle. ‘I assumed it was nothing but a tale, a child’s spook story, but It is real. I have spoken to It.’
‘Have you indeed?’ L’Merrier replied.
‘I have walked through the vaulted halls and stood before the glass cage It is trapped within.’
‘And you still live.’
Carlisle twirled, his purple coat fanning out, revealing the lining, flashing with light, with stars, with wonder. ‘I live.’
‘I am… impressed.’
Carlisle smiled and bowed slightly. ‘It is not such a simple job as you may believe to put a full stop to my life, L’Merrier.’
L’Merrier returned the slight bow. ‘Noted, little one.’
‘The Angel of Blackpool is real and It rages. I fought against It, now I wish to destroy It.’
L’Merrier frowned. ‘So you come to me and ask how one might go about killing an Angel of the first order?’
Carlisle smiled, ‘Aren’t I a wicked one?’
L’Merrier burst out in huge, concussive laughter. The shop itself seemed to tremble, and the Seer Stone rolled from its shelf and shattered on the wooden floor.
‘I do hope that wasn’t expensive,’ said Carlisle.
‘You come asking questions about how to kill an Angel? Well, well, is this not a coincidence?’
‘It is?’
‘Why do you wish the Angel dead?’ asked L’Merrier.
‘To complete an obligation and reclaim my artefact.’
‘You know, there are other artefacts of Heaven, I have some here inside this very shop.’
‘No!’ Carlisle realised he’d taken several steps towards L’Merrier before he had regained control. He stopped and scrubbed the feral expression from his chalk-white face.
‘Tetchy, aren’t we, Carlisle?’
‘I… apologise.’ He turned and walked away, creating an illusion of safety, as though L’Merrier couldn’t reach across the shop with his thoughts and pl
uck him from where he stood if he so chose.
‘Apology accepted,’ said L’Merrier. ‘This once.’
Carlisle shoved his hands into his pockets again and frowned. The hold his artefact had over him. The need. The craving. The all-consuming desire to hold it in his hand and wield its power once more. He knew it was an addiction. That it affected who he was, his thoughts, his actions. That he was almost a slave to it. But he did not care. Because when he had that axe, he was really, truly, who he was meant to be. And when he had it again, he would never have to apologise to anyone.
‘You will help me?’ asked Carlisle, quietly. Imploringly.
L’Merrier studied Carlisle, his eyes roaming over him, into him, through him. Carlisle could feel the interrogation, it was as though he were being jabbed all at once with a million blades and it hurt. Finally, the blades stopped their stabbing and Carlisle took a step back, gasping slightly.
‘I have heard whispers, of late,’ said L’Merrier.
‘Whispers? Of what?’
L’Merrier clicked his fingers and the shards of the Seer Stone leapt into the air, reformed into the sphere with its blood red iris, and took its place back upon the shelf.
‘There is talk of a man. Perhaps he is a man. He certainly has the form of one, at least.’
‘This man,’ said Carlisle, ‘he knows how to kill the likes of The Angel of Blackpool?’
‘So the chitter-chatter goes.’
‘Where can he be found?’
L’Merrier smiled. ‘Tell me, Carlisle, what do you know of the City of the Dead?’
13
Ben Turner tasted blood in his mouth.
His eyes opened, just enough to be pierced by daggers of morning light.
‘Jesus…’
That taste in his mouth. He reached out to grab his glass of water but pawed at thin air. No glass? He always put water there before going to sleep, even if he got home blind drunk.
Ben threw the covers back. He would have screamed at what he saw, but his throat tightened and cut the sound down to a thin squeak.
