Hexed Detective

by Matthew Stott

  ‘Hm? No, that’s a language much older than Latin. Much, much older, from a people you will not find mention of in any of your history books. A lost people who knew the power of words and sounds.’

  ‘Why aren’t they remembered?’

  ‘Their island was lost beneath the waves millennia ago.’

  ‘Wait… are you talking about Atlantis? Are these Atlantis words!’

  ‘It’s always Atlantis with you people. No, it’s not Atlantis.’

  ‘Aw.’ Rita slumped back, sulking. It was then that she noticed the man stood in the doorway.

  ‘Bastards!’ said Mister Nolan.

  ‘We’d like a word with you, magician,’ said Carlisle. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was stopped by the purple lightning that burst from Mister Nolan’s fingers and struck him in the chest, sending him crashing into one of the bookcases.

  ‘Shit!’ Rita ran to him, but Carlisle was already back on his feet and running for the door after the fleeing Nolan. ‘Wait up!’ she yelled, giving chase.

  As she made it up the stone steps and out of the cupboard under the stairs, she was just in time to see Nolan pull a dagger out of thin air and toss it at Carlisle, who swept his hands to the side, somehow pushing the knife off course so that it embedded itself up to the hilt in the wooden door, two inches from Rita’s face.

  ‘Shitting hell!’ she said, almost dropping the axe.

  ‘You cannot run from me, magician,’ said Carlisle, his long coat billowing out dramatically, even though Rita was pretty sure there was no wind coming from anywhere.

  ‘Wrong,’ replied Nolan, clapping his hands together, making the air behind him ripple and warp.

  ‘Quick!’ said Carlisle, grabbing Rita’s arm and yanking her forward as Nolan leapt through the warping air and disappeared.

  ‘Where’d he go?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Let’s see,’ replied Carlisle, pulling her into the strange, rippling air just as it collapsed.

  It turned out that where Mister Nolan had gone was Blackpool Pier. Rita stumbled as the pier appeared around her, and she fell to her knees, the axe skittering across the ground as she dropped to her knees.

  ‘I feel sick,’ she said.

  ‘Transportation magic. It can do that if you’re not used to it,’ replied Carlisle, who had stepped from the portal and on to the pier as elegantly as if he had stepped from one room to another.

  Rita pushed herself up on to shaky legs and retrieved the axe. They were on the North Pier, the longest of the town’s three piers, the one with a theatre crouched at its far end. Over the decades it had played host to any number of pantomimes, novelty acts, and mostly forgotten comedians. Rita had vague memories of being taken to see Cannon & Ball there once as a child, a comic duo briefly and inexplicably popular in the 1980s, who clung on to work in places like Blackpool.

  ‘I think it’s safe to say that our Mister Nolan has something to hide,’ said Rita, gulping down a burp that tasted like the previous day’s dinner.

  ‘Reasonably safe, yes. If you are going to vomit, please do it over the side of the pier and into the sea.’

  ‘I’m not going to vom—’ Rita ran to the side of the pier and hung over the railings, loudly emptying her stomach.

  ‘Are you quite finished?’

  Rita straightened up, wiping the sleeve of her coat across her mouth. ‘Better out than in.’

  ‘You disgust me.’

  Rita burped. ‘So where’s Mister Nolan?’

  ‘He’s here. I can feel him.’

  Rita looked up and down the deserted pier. ‘Actually, where is anyone? At all? There’s always people on the pier.’

  Carlisle walked towards the theatre, and Rita hustled to catch up.

  ‘Well? Where is everyone? Actually, why can’t I hear any birds? Normally you can barely think around here for all the seagull squawking.’

  ‘It seems Mister Nolan has taken us to a moment between moments.’

  ‘Yeah, what’s that mean then?’

  ‘He has made a jump into a pocket of stationary time where he believes he could hide until he was safe. Sadly for him, I was able to follow the path before it degraded.’

  Rita patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good work, partner.’

  Carlisle stopped walking. ‘Never pat me again.’

  ‘You got it, creepy.’

  Carlisle continued walking.

  Inside, the theatre was not just silent; it was almost as though the entire place was holding its breath to avoid drawing attention to itself. The place was oppressively, noisily silent.

  Rita looked at the dirty carpet with its cigarette burns and worn-in dirt. Carlisle sniffed at the air.

  ‘This way.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Rita, saluting and almost chopping herself in the face with the axe.

  ‘Cretin.’

  They made their way through to the theatre itself, with row upon row of empty seats facing the stage.

  ‘Really?’ said Carlisle, his voice projecting effortlessly around the large room. ‘A little dramatic to stage a last stand on a literal stage, is it not?’

  ‘Leave me alone, Carlisle,’ came a reply.

  ‘Mister Nolan?’ said Rita. ‘Why so nervy? We just want to ask you a few friendly questions.’

  They moved down the aisle towards the stage, its red velvet curtain down.

  ‘You broke into my home, and then into my inner sanctum.’

  ‘Sanctum?’ said Carlisle, snorting, ‘a true magician’s sanctum would not be stepped into so easily. But you’re no true magician, are you?’

  ‘He seems to know his stuff, to me,’ said Rita.

  ‘Yes, but you are a clueless buffoon.’

  ‘Point to you, carry on.’

  ‘Stop!’ said Mister Nolan. ‘No closer, Carlisle, or you’ll regret it!’

  ‘I see my reputation precedes me again.’

  ‘I’ve heard the stories. The whispers. The accusations.’

  ‘And we’ve heard accusations about you,’ said Rita.

  The curtain ruffled and Mister Nolan stepped out. Both of his hands appeared to be on fire.

  ‘Holy shit!’ said Rita.

  Nolan raised a hand, then punched it forward, the flames rushing towards her and forcing Rita to dive out of the way, landing painfully on a row of seats.

  ‘Bastard, ow.’

  She scrambled up to see Carlisle rushing the stage as Nolan clapped his hands together and a multi-coloured glow formed around his fists, which then shot towards Carlisle.

  ‘Watch out!’

  Carlisle crouched and lifted his coat to cover his face, the magic-whatever-it-was struck the coat and deflected away, straight for Rita. No time to move out the way, Rita swung out at the ball of crackling, coloured light and struck it sweetly with the axe head and—

  Rita blinked and was happy to see she was neither dead nor harmed. But something had happened. Something new.

  She could feel it.

  Feel what Mister Nolan had attacked Carlisle with, and what he’d deflected into her path.

  Magic.

  Rita could hear it talking to her. Could feel it prickling like static across her skin. Could taste it in her mouth.

  ‘What spell are you?’ she said or thought or felt or maybe screamed. The colours of the universe strobed across her vision and she could see the very fabric of the spell cast. Could see the stitches that bound it into the shape and purpose Mister Nolan had commanded of it. It wasn’t a spell meant to kill, meant to destroy, rather it was a concussive blast meant to render Rita and Carlisle unconscious.

  ‘You’re mine, now,’ said Rita to the spell, and she could almost sense it wag its non-existent tail in obedience.

  ‘Rita?’ said Carlisle, his voice distant, muffled, as the magic rolled and rushed inside of her, then rushed into the axe.

  ‘Heads up, dickless!’ said Rita, which wasn’t exactly a standard wizard incantation, but it did the trick.

  The spell now h
ad a new master and a new destination. Rita swung the axe, its metal head molten for the blink of an eye, and the magic, a rippling spear of blues and oranges and colours that no ordinary person had ever seen, burst forth and shot towards Mister Nolan, whose face was wide with shock. The spell struck him in the chest, and Mister Nolan flew through the air, slid backwards across the wooden stage of the theatre then came to a stop, quite unconscious.

  There was a silent pause as Rita looked from the prone Mister Nolan to the axe in her hands, and then to Carlisle. ‘Well...bloody, bastarding, hell! That was amazing!’

  Carlisle snorted and headed over to the out cold Mister Nolan, hopping up on to the stage like a cat.

  ‘Oh come on! Did you see that shit? I totally caught his magic and twatted him with it! Somehow. Just like at the arcade! Only this time I really felt it. Really saw it!’

  ‘The artefact. My artefact,’ said Carlisle. ‘I told you, it gives each wielder a different gift. It appears in your case that it allows you to take another’s ability and use it against them.’

  Rita grinned wildly, passing the axe from hand to hand, throwing in a few swings for good measure. ‘Brilliant! Awesome! Ooh, so, if, like, someone is really good at piano, could I tap them with this axe and I’d suddenly shit all over Jerry Lee Lewis?’

  ‘Is Jerry Lee Lewis magic?’

  ‘He can play piano with his feet, so yeah, sort of.’

  ‘Then perhaps.’

  Rita scampered down the aisle and clambered on to the stage to join Carlisle, who was standing over the unconscious Mister Nolan.

  ‘So what now?’ she asked.

  ‘Now we bind him, we wake him, and we interrogate him.’

  ‘Right, good, on board with all that.’

  ‘And then we shall kill him.’

  ‘Slightly less on board.’

  18

  It had been thirty years since the Magician’s mother had died, slowly and painfully, in hospital. Thirty years since he had watched as Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike had stood over the new-born babies and infected them with darkness.

  Thirty long, awful years.

  ‘Our long wait is over, friend,’ said the Angel of Blackpool, and the Magician hastily wiped a tear from his eye before it had chance to fall and draw anyone’s attention.

  ‘At last, at last,’ he said under his breath, fingers stroking his calendar, the day circled in red.

  ‘Revenge,’ said the Angel.

  ‘Revenge,’ said the Magician.

  He left work early, said his goodbyes as normal, and drove home.

  Jane Bowan. She was going to be the first. The start. Step one to gaining the power to free the Angel and shatter the doors to Heaven.

  Revenge.

  The Magician realised he was actually whistling as he collected his bags and placed them in the boot of his car. One contained his robes, his mask, the other contained the axe. The axe he’d discovered on the beach so very long ago. The axe that would soon, oh so very soon, break them into Heaven.

  He drove to the arcade, retrieved his bags from the back of his car, and wandered through, past the hordes of kids, tourists, and locals who were rushing around, moving from game to game, full of noise and flashing lights and chaos.

  No one paid any attention to him as he slipped through into the stockroom. The staff at the arcade were so wishy-washy that a perception magic was probably not even necessary; he could’ve walked through, bold as brass. But now was not the time to risk arousing suspicion. The work was too important. Too longed for.

  He made his way past the giant bags full of stuffed toys and opened the door that only he could see, stepping through into the coolness of the stone corridor beyond. The stone corridor lead to a chamber. A point of power. Two times pressed together like the pages of a book. This point was a weak spot in reality, a tangling of mystical nerves, where the sacrifice to come would be impregnated with even more meaning, more power, more wonder.

  Jane Bowan was waiting for him.

  She was unconscious, laid out on top of a large, grey stone, her ankles and wrists manacled tightly to it so she could not leave, could not even move her arms or legs. Trapped. Pinned like a butterfly.

  He moved to the back of the chamber and unzipped the first bag, retrieving the axe and placing it gently on the small altar.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ asked the Angel.

  ‘I feel it.’ And he did. The power in that room. The hushed, awed expectation of the journey they were finally undertaking. He’d had to wait so long. So long for the touch of Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike, imbued with the Angel’s magic, to fully bloom within each person chosen. It had wormed its way through their bones. Their muscles. Their souls. Infected even their dreams so that they had nightmares of the two that infected them. Fear was important. It might seem cruel, but fear leavens the sacrifice. It had all been explained to him.

  Fear was important.

  He remembered how scared he’d been when he’d heard his mother’s anguished, animal cries when his dad’s body had been discovered.

  Fear was important.

  The Magician opened the second bag and pulled out his scarlet robes. He marvelled at how the material seemed to shine beneath the flames that flickered at the torch heads.

  He slipped the robe over his head, his arms, and let it fall into place over him. The soft material caressed his skin and almost seemed to sigh as he stroked his palms over it.

  ‘This is the first,’ he said. ‘This is the first. There will be six. The axe will come down. And then we shall take what’s His.’

  ‘I almost wish God knew what was coming for Him. The fury. The anger. The power,’ said the Angel, and it made the Magician smile. ‘Knew the righteous anger that will lay waste to His kingdom of absence and scorch him from existence.’

  The Magician pulled out the mask and looked into its empty eyes. He touched the goat skin that was stretched over it. Stroked the curled horns.

  ‘I hide my face from God as I do this, not out of fear, but out of contempt.’

  He placed the goat mask over his head and reached for the axe.

  He felt the weight of it in his hand.

  Felt the right and the might in his heart.

  Revenge.

  ‘Where… where am I…?’ asked Jane Bowan, her voice groggy as she awoke.

  The Magician didn’t answer at first as he did not hear her. All he heard was the rasp of his heavy breath against the inside of the mask, and his own heartbeat thumping against his chest. A tattoo of anxiety.

  He flexed his fingers around the handle of the axe. His hands were sweaty, he realised they were trembling.

  ‘Fear is natural, fear is right,’ said the Angel. ‘Do not let it sway you.’

  ‘Where am I?’ repeated Jane Bowan, her voice now a scream of panic.

  The Magician walked forward until he was within her sight. She shook and wriggled and fought against the chains, her eyes wide and rolling with panic. Terror. Disbelief.

  Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike had delivered her to him. Now it was his turn.

  ‘Please! Please don’t, please don’t,’ she begged.

  The Magician felt his knees wobble.

  ‘Do not falter. Do not weaken.’

  ‘Is this… is this right?’ asked the Magician.

  ‘Let me go! Help! Somebody help, please!’

  The Magician lowered the axe and walked away. Wanted to pull off the mask, needed to breathe a little freer. Didn’t want his own hot breath bouncing back into his face.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said the Angel.

  ‘I can’t,’ he replied, ‘I’m sorry. I thought I could. I wanted to. This is… it’s too difficult.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ said Jane Bowan. ‘Please. I’ll do anything. You don’t… you don’t have to do this, I won’t tell anyone, I won’t, I promise, please.’

  ‘This is not murder,’ said the Angel.

  The Magician felt the heft of the axe.

  ‘This is not murder. T
his is a blessing. Her life will mean something. Something wonderful. Think of all the other people who perish because of God’s neglect. Think of the other children who lose their parents in the face of His monstrous indifference.’

  The Magician turned to Jane Bowan, his face a hidden grimace, teeth clenched, a high-pitched whine escaping from between them.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said, ‘just, please don’t.’

  ‘It has to stop,’ said the Angel. ‘It has to. You know that.’

  ‘I know that. I know.’

  ‘This, in the end, is a kindness. A kindness to all of those that we will save. If she knew the truth of it, if it could be explained properly, she would thank you.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  The Magician straightened up, his teeth unclenched, his palms no longer sweating.

  He saw the millions starving around the world.

  ‘Please.’

  He saw an earthquake that shook bridges and buildings and roads to dust, killing hundreds. Thousands.

  ‘Don’t.’

  He saw his mother, laid out in a hospital bed, her face unrecognisable.

  ‘We’re going to make Him pay,’ said the Angel. ‘It’s time to go to work.’

  The Magician smiled. He’d faltered, but that was only because he was good and true.

  He swung the axe above his head and brought it down in one swift, efficient move. The deed was done.

  Jane Bowan was dead.

  The Magician laughed. Just once. That hadn’t been so bad.

  Jane Bowan’s spirit, her soul, sat up out of her body. It sparkled as though made of fairy dust.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she looked down at her own dead body and screamed, fell from the stone, and scrambled backwards along the ground.

  ‘One more swing,’ said the Magician.

  He stepped towards the soul of Jane Bowan and swung the axe at her. As the head met her insubstantial body, Jane Bowan twisted and rippled and shook, and was then absorbed into the axe itself.

  And then it was all over.

  He placed the axe on the altar and pulled off the goat head mask. The cool air felt good against his skin as he hung his head back and took deep, cold breaths of sharp air.

  ‘I am proud,’ said the Angel.