“Donnie Taylor.”
“I’m impressed. You managed to walk and talk at the same time. What’s your next trick?”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Not really.” I straighten the stack of cards by the till. With characteristic charm, Marcus swings a meaty fist at them and sends them flying.
“He wants to see you.”
“Does he? Well, I want a yacht. We don’t all get what we want in life, do we?” He turns this over in his mind. His eyes narrow while he’s thinking about it, and his lips move as he tries out appropriate responses. Finally, the gorilla speaks. It’s worth the wait.
“He wants to see you. Tonight.”
“I got that. Tell him I’m washing my hair.”
“Taylor...”
“Alright, alright.” I hold up my hands in submission. This seems to make him happy. He nods, grunts and heads back towards the door. He pauses to stare down the dummy, which tips its head on one side and blinks at him. I’m half-tempted to make it blow him a kiss, but there’s some lines even I won’t cross.
Come closing time, he’s waiting for me outside the shop, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. He’s been there all afternoon, scaring off passing trade – which was probably half the point. Not that he managed to keep the bloody kids away, mind, so that’s another tenner Simon’ll have off me at the end of the month.
“You ready, Taylor?”
“No, Marcus. I’m standing here for the good of my health.”
He considers my answer longer than should really be necessary – I swear, Rudge’s boys are getting thicker – and then he makes a sound which could be a laugh. It starts somewhere low down in his chest and gurgles its way up until it sticks in his throat. It’s with no small satisfaction that I snap my fingers and seal his mouth shut. It’s still there, more’s the pity: he just can’t get it open. And there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. It’s a petty move on my part, and I can feel the magic scratching away at the inside of my skin, but at least I won’t have to listen to him mouth-breathing all the way across town.
I beam at him. “So. After you, sunshine.”
I HATE RUDGE’S place. I’ve been there before, a couple of times. He lives up at the top of a tower block in the middle of town, looking down on the rest of us like he’s king of the city. I guess in many ways he is. He’s not subtle about it, either: he’s had some hocus-pocus worked on the balcony so it’s lit up like a rainbow. Wherever you are in the city, come night-time, you look up and you see Rudge.
He’s not a magician himself, Rudge. We make him nervous:;it’s one of the reasons he likes to have a few of us on a leash. “On retainer”, he calls it, but we all know what it means. The Vegas lights on the outside of the building? They’re just to remind the rest of us of the firepower he’s got at his disposal should we step out of line. I don’t trust him; worse, I don’t trust myself around him. I was burning through magic so hard and fast while I worked for him that I damn near killed myself... and the worst part was that I liked it. So it’s with some trepidation that I step into the lift with a still-mute Marcus and press the button for the top floor.
It smells just like I remember it: of money and magic. Paper and ink and fire and forgetting. Already I’m wondering if this was a mistake, but before I have a chance to change my mind, the door at the end of the hall opens. It’s not Rudge, of course. He wouldn’t dream of opening his own door, and most certainly not to the likes of me. But I recognise the face: how could I not? The last time I saw it, it was yelling at me from the wrong side of a one-way window. It’s our Belzoni, and he doesn’t look especially happy to see me. He’s even bigger than I remember him being: I’d guess his biceps are wider than my neck. He scowls at me, raises an eyebrow at Zippy behind me and steps away from the door.
Rudge is out on his balcony, perched on the edge of a plastic sun-lounger, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses. Yes, it’s dark, and yes, it’s the middle of winter outside... but Rudge isn’t going to let a little thing like the weather get in the way of his relaxation. I look round the room, and sure enough, there’s a pasty-faced kid slumped on the sofa; his eyes aren’t quite focused and he’s wearing a vacant expression I’ve seen too many times in the mirror. Tripping on the magic and keeping Rudge’s balcony at a pleasant seventy-eight degrees.
“Donnie!” Rudge is coming through the sliding door, opening his arms like I’m his long-lost brother. “You’re a hard man to find!”
“Not exactly, Mr Rudge.” It slips out before I can stop it, and I don’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Get you a drink?”
“No, thanks. It’s hardly a social call, is it?”
“That’s what I always liked about you, Donnie. You’re all business.”
“Speaking of which...?” Being so close to that kid is making me nervous.
“Speaking of which. Yes.” Rudge holds out his hand, and someone puts a glass into it. Where do all these flunkies come from? It’s not that big a flat.
He takes a swig, and wipes his mouth with the back of the other hand. “To business. When was the last time...?”
“I think we both know you remember when the last time was.”
“Ha. Yes. Shame about that.”
“About what? The fact your Marvey walked off with the money, or the fact you felt the need to take it out on me?”
“Water under the bridge, my boy. Under the bridge.” He waves his arms around, and narrowly avoids pouring the rest of his drink over the floor in his enthusiasm. I catch a waft of vodka and my stomach turns. To be fair, my stomach’s turning already. It’s not just the smell of the booze, or being stuck in this box of a flat with a man I ratted out breathing down my neck... it’s not even Rudge. It’s the kid. It’s the kid and his goddamn magic. I can feel it crawling all over my skin, looking for a way in. It’s distracting, to say the least, but that’s what Rudge is counting on. By the time I’ve cleared my head enough to actually listen to him, he’s in full flow.
“...getting the band back together, as it were. The way I look at it, you can finish the job, and we can all move on. No hard feelings.”
No hard feelings? He’s a piece of work, alright, and if I had any sense I’d walk out that door right now. But I don’t.
Something cold and hard presses against the back of my head. I can’t see Marcus, but I’ll wager it’s his finger on the trigger. Rudge is smiling at me.
“You know I could deal with that,” I say, jerking my thumb back at the gun. Rudge is still smiling.
“Could you?” He finishes his drink and hurls the empty glass out of the open window, over the edge of the balcony. “I need a Ledru.”
“I’m retired.”
“Then consider it a favour for an old friend.”
He pulls something out of his pocket; tosses it at me. It’s a photograph. It spirals down to the floor between us, landing face-down on the carpet.
“There’s a man who has something that belongs to me. I want you to get it back. Simple job, in and out.”
“If it’s simple, you don’t need a Ledru, do you? Send the Belzoni.”
“And if I thought that would get the job done, my son, I would. But I need a magic man. This one, he knows me, knows my crew.”
“Forgive me if I’m reading too much into this, but it sounds pretty personal to me. You know I don’t do personal.”
“You will this time.”
“Is that so?”
“Like I said, consider it a favour for an old friend.” And he slides his toe underneath the edge of the photo and flips it over.
Even though it’s been three years, I recognise her. I’d know her anywhere – no matter how long it had been. It’s my daughter, Grace. The unutterable bastard has just thrown me a photo of my seven-year-old daughter. He’s proud of himself too: you can smell it, rolling off him in sweaty waves.
He’s also absolutely right. I will do the job, and not because
he’s trying to use Grace as leverage.
I’ll do it because I can’t help myself.
The moment I walked into that room, I was lost.
It’s not the lingering smell of the vodka, and it’s not the stale cigarette smoke hanging around in the corners – I gave up the cancer sticks years ago. It’s the raw spark of the magic in here. It’s painted into the walls, stitched into the carpets. It’s heavy enough in the air that even breathing makes me ache inside from sheer need: that unspeakable, overwhelming vertigo of wanting something so badly you’d break your own mother’s neck to get it. Or your daughter’s.
I won’t be that man again.
I know what Rudge wants. The job’s a set-up, just like bringing me here was a set-up. The man he’s talking about? It’s the Marvey – I can see it in his eyes. And I know how the job’ll go. There’s only so many ways it can end: with me in a breezeblock box, or a wooden one... or me taking over from the kid in the corner then ending up in the wooden box. If it’s not me, it’ll be the Marvey. That’s why he wants a magic-man.
Who am I kidding? I’m standing here staring Rudge down like I have a choice. Of course I don’t have a choice: I never did. If I honestly believed that, I would have given up the magic altogether, not pissed around with parlour tricks. No doubling-up on cigarettes, no free coffees... none of it. But I didn’t.
This is it: that moment of clarity they talk about. The one where you step outside yourself and you see exactly where you’re headed. The moment I never had until now. Still, no time like the present, is there?
The magic makes the room feel sharper. I need to let it out, need to take the edge off. It cuts and it burns and I can’t breathe, and still Rudge is eyeing me and there’s a gun to my head and my daughter’s face smiles up from the floor. And somewhere far below, people are coming and going and doing whatever it is that they do.
I think of Grace. She won’t miss me; she barely knows me. What am I to her, anyway? A stranger she met once or twice; a man in a cold-lit room where the chairs are bolted to the floor and the air smells of boiled cabbage and bleach.
Marcus nudges me with the barrel again, and I remember his mouth. I snap my fingers and hear the gasp of breath as his lips spring open. The rush is almost enough to knock me off my feet, making me see stars. The kid on the sofa groans as magic calls to magic.
Rudge is grinning now: a great big grin plastered right across his face. It almost makes him look friendly. Almost. He thinks he’s got me, and I suppose he has. He’s got me. But this is going to happen on my terms, not his, and if I’m going down he’s coming with me.
Tomorrow morning, Grace will look out of her window and she’ll find a tree hung with silver bells that sing in the wind. It won’t – can’t – last, but it’s the best I can do for her.
Tonight, I’m going to light up the sky.
Rudge wants magic?
Magic he’ll get.
MAILERDAEMON
SOPHIA MCDOUGALL
Sophia’s first words to me were, “I’m magic.” This was many years ago, long before I worked in genre, at a fancy dress party in Oxford. It was only after I commissioned her story, that I realised that this was the same Sophia I’d met all those years ago. A lovely bit of serendipity then and never were truer words spoken.
LadyJinglyJones on November 28th, 2012, 12:08 am (GMT):
This, I know how to fix. I only wish I was as good with C# or nightmares. If it happens again tonight, then get up. Go into a different room and do something. Nothing too interesting. Don’t get on the internet. If you touch your laptop it had better be to clear out your cache or run a de-frag. Then read a page or two of something boring – I’ve got Wray’s Guide to Electromagnetics, though my old professors would weep bitter tears if they knew I was using it that way. Then try going to bed again. Repeat as necessary: if you’re going to be awake through the night anyway it’s always better to be awake and upright. There’s more opportunity for awful things to get into your head when you’re horizontal.
Seven_Magpies on November 29th, 2012, 12:27 am (GMT):
understand about 60% of what you say as per usual but will give it a go. don’t have other room to go into or know what defragging is but suppose can tidy sock drawer.
Seven_Magpies on November 29th, 2012, 10:00 am (GMT):
hey thanks actually got six hours or so sleep and have very tidy sock drawer. bonus. not seen you around for a bit. RL still poking you? stamp on its toes and say i sent you, i am fighty when nightmares harass my friends.
LadyJinglyJones: on November 29th, 2012, 19:14 pm (GMT):
Oh, well. You saw my last post-of-angst, things haven’t advanced much yet. Efforts remain in vain, etc. Presumably it can’t stay like this forever. In the meantime, I sing “Recession---Recession!” to the tune of Tradition from Fiddler on the Roof, and, yes, have nightmares.
Seven_Magpies: on November 30th, 2012, 12:12 am (GMT):
do you want to try LEVANTER-SLEET? one good turn deserves another.
LadyJinglyJones: on November 30th, 2012, 12:38 am (GMT):
What’s LEVANTER-SLEET?
GRACE WAITS A few minutes for her friend’s reply – she is a little intrigued by Seven Magpies’ sudden discovery of the shift key – but it’s almost one now, and she is exhausted; she’s always exhausted. She closes the laptop, leans over to slip it under the bed, and lies down.
She is very confident in the advice she gave Seven Magpies. Knowing what she can expect, sleep ought to be almost impossible for her, and yet she’s trained her body so well, or is so desperate, that consciousness spills out of her almost at once.
Then it returns, altered.
Her house is on fire. It’s her fault, she left a candle burning. Now she won’t be able to claim on the insurance – is the insurance still even up to date?
Grace wakes and frowns in the dark. That was pretty mild, barely even worth waking up over. She thinks her dream-self ought to have been grateful for actually having a house to burn in the first place. She turns over onto her side, draws her knees up close to her chin, and shuts her eyes again.
She slips straight back into the dream.
Everyone was wrong about the fire. It wasn’t an accident, nothing to do with a candle. Something is following her. She’s in a tiny room, lying on a mattress surrounded by boxes and cases. She tries to move, but she can’t. She can’t see it yet, but she knows the building is burning. The boxes on every side of her begin to smoulder. She scrambles upright at last as the wall of burning boxes falls in and she knows that all the doors are locked...
She thrashes and wakes. She flings herself over to lie spreadeagled, trying to stifle the uproar of her heartbeat against the mattress.
The burning thing pursues her, starting fires wherever she stops to rest. She could camp out beside the Thames, where perhaps it wouldn’t find her, if she could only get there. The streets veer and spiral away from the way she wants to go, and break into flames when she tries to turn back. There were people in the house she left burning. There was a baby she was supposed to look after. Somehow she is there again, back where she started but outside, looking up at the fire pouring from the windows, hearing the screams.
By morning she’s had almost eight hours of sleep, with only brief interruptions of wakefulness, and she’s limp and shattered under the duvet, as if she’s been dropped from a great height. She lies, like an upturned woodlouse, trying weakly to remember how to work her limbs. Nothing comes of it. Tears prick at her eyes. She drags the covers over her face and thinks that being awake is unbearable and being asleep is no better, and this is so far from the first time she’s thought that that she can’t remember what anything else felt like.
She beseeches herself at length to get up, and loathes herself for her failure to comply. Eventually, reaching under the bed for the laptop feels more or less achievable, a halfway house towards entering the day. Even that requires her to spend a good ten minutes gathering the will-power, luring herself ou
t from under the covers with the remote possibility someone will have emailed her good news.
There’s no message about anything she’s already applied for. Her in-box is full of job vacancies that will all turn out to have a hundred applicants already.
There is, however, a notification of a new reply from Seven Magpies:
Seven_Magpies: on November 30th, 2012, 01:13 am (GMT):
Mr LEVANTER-SLEET is a nine-foot skeleton-demon with a body made of the shadows of plague-pit bones and corpse-candles for eyes and teeth like someone’s playing pick-up sticks with meat saws and steel sabres.
“Oh,” says Grace, aloud.
She flexes her fingers on the keyboard, and sucks her teeth, rehearsing ways of replying, before acknowledging herself flummoxed. If nothing else, Seven Magpies has surprised her out of paralysis. She gets out of bed and ponders while she makes tea.
Most of the time, Grace finds it easy to overlook this particular aspect of her eccentric friend’s eccentricity. She met Seven Magpies three years ago on a fan forum for a series of post-apocalyptic games called Angels of the Embers. When the forum split into squabbling factions, they retreated to LiveJournal, where Seven Magpies usually posts Angels of the Embers fanart of superior quality, pictures of the tiny Victorian mourning dresses for dolls she occasionally sells on Etsy, and dispatches from the ongoing catastrophe of her personal life. Occasionally, however, she also posts about the spells she has conducted using bones and seaglass and rowan roots; the spirits she has spoken with on the muddy tideline of the Thames. Grace quietly avoids commenting on those posts, (she doubts it speaks very well of her that she always reads them, fascinated) except when Seven Magpies mentions eating holly berries and cutting herself to get blood to draw on mirrors, then Grace jumps in to post worried comments about the risk of infection and the number of the Samaritans and how she’ll come straight over if Seven Magpies wants, whether just to talk or to walk her to the doctors.
The Future of Horror Page 57
