Bad Blood

by David Bussell

  Lana put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close until our heads touched. ‘You’ll find out what happened to James one day, I know you will, and God help anyone who gets in your way.’

  ‘Amen to that, cuz,’ I replied. I looked up to James’ old bedroom window and saw the spirit of the old woman, Ruby, standing behind the netting and smiling down on me.

  I raised my bottle to her and smiled.

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  1

  Look, I’ll be the first to admit it, I have my flaws. Flaws and imperfections so tiny, so absolutely miniscule, that I’m sure they’re barely even noticeable to most people. For example, I pick the skin around my fingernails habitually. Honest to god, the tips of my fingers look like they’ve been sucked on by a zombie. Half of the reason my hands are always in fists is because I’m hiding my knackered nails. The other half is because I like punching people, which is definitely not a flaw.

  Then there’s my love of Jason Statham movies. Say what you like, but I love that bald, grunting, high-kicking man. I once smacked a bloke in the crotch for bad-mouthing Transporter 3, and that one’s not even all that good.

  What else do you need to know about me…?

  Oh, right, I murder people.

  A lot.

  Like, a lot-a lot.

  Since getting into the Uncanny world I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve put in pine boxes. I’d say I’m not proud of that, but that would be a big fat lie. Each of those coffins represents a job successfully completed, and each completion means I get to charge more for my services. And I love me some filthy lucre. Love it. Disney could make a movie about my relationship with money, a real fairy tale. Let it be known that I, Erin Banks, get wet for money.

  Wait, that makes me sound like a prostitute. I’m not a prostitute, I just kill for cash, which is, uh, better? Worse? Where was I going with this whole imperfections thing anyway…?

  Oh!

  That was it.

  I’m totally shit with money. Love it to bits but can’t keep hold of it. It’s only a matter of weeks since the whole Galoffi kidnapping thing and I’ve already burned through that pay day. To be fair, a lot of that has been spent paying off debts that I’d built up before I was sent to prison. I also fixed up the Porsche a little that I’d, well, liberated from that hot bastarding bastard, Kirklander.

  He did send a few texts enquiring about the whereabouts of his car, to which I’d replied that it was now mine in return for what he’d done to me (the whole prison thing). I also explained that if he attempted to reclaim the vehicle I would tear off his balls and stuff them so far down his throat that he’d get a following on Porn Hub.

  The Porsche remained mine.

  He never actually brought up the fact I’d recently kicked the snot out of him, then knocked him unconscious with his own magical staff. I think he took the car thing much more personally. He might be a complete prick, but even he knows he didn’t get anything he wasn’t begging for. Even if he’d managed to get the soul before me, he’d have known it was only a matter of time before I knocked him unconscious, or worse. A price he was willing to pay for a job he saw as fair game. To him, every bounty is fair game, no matter what. We weren’t in the business of honour, we were in the business of getting paid.

  So, money was too tight to mention, and I was back at Parker’s—my tattoo guy, friend, and kinda agent—trying to hustle up a new gig. Booze doesn’t pay or itself, you know? Well, except for that time I accepted a spell by way of payment; one that fooled the barman over at Baker’s Pub that I’d already paid each time I ordered a drink. Unfortunately, that wore off after one blissful, fairly hazy week, and he barred me for the rest of the month. Bit of an overreaction if you ask me, especially considering all the money I’d shovelled into the place over the years. Sure, the spell had the side effect of making him lose all of his hair, but I fail to see how he could blame me for that, it’s not like I created the bloody thing.

  Anyway. Back to Parker’s tattoo joint, where I was experiencing the familiar agony of the needle.

  ‘Christ,’ I grunted through clenched teeth as the tattoo gun in Parker’s hand stabbed my skin over and over, turning me into a blood-streaked pin cushion.

  ‘Welcome back, girl,’ he chirped. ‘You were out of it for a while there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You blacked out. Dead to the world.’

  ‘No I did not,’ I replied all cotton-mouthed and woozy.

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ Parker replied, a pure white light seeping from his sightless eyes, coiling in ribbons down his arm and into the needle that impregnated my flesh.

  The pain was incredible, but it was worth it. Once Parker was done and the ink had bedded in, I’d be back to my old self, leaching magic from the air around me and doing all kinds of superpowered shit.

  My whole body was a clenched talon, but I couldn’t have Parker seeing the pain I was in. I breathed deep and slow, straining to keep my muscles relaxed, desperate not to show him how much I was hurting, determined not to pass out again.

  ‘There, all done.’

  I sagged in relief as Parker lifted his foot off the pedal and the tattoo needle ceased its assault.

  ‘How was the pain today?’ he asked, the ribbons of light recoiling up his arm and seeping back into his milk-white eyes.

  ‘Barely even noticed it,’ I lied, expertly.

  ‘You’re obviously lying, girl, unless you suddenly turned narcoleptic.’

  Parker might be blind on paper, but nothing gets past him. Somehow. I’ve never been all that clear on the details; he was frustratingly vague about just how it was he could see despite having no eyesight.

  ‘I can handle it,’ I said, wincing as I used shaky arms to push myself up into a sitting position, swallowing down a little sick that lurched its way up my throat. Parker tossed me a towel and I dabbed tenderly at my blood-slicked arms and shoulders, my skin feeling like I’d just taken a nap on a barbecue grill.

  The tattoos he gave me were the reason I was able to operate in the Uncanny world and do the dangerous job that I do. Unfortunately for me I was born a “normal”: a word used to describe those of us born without a connection to magic. It’s also a word that will get you kicked in the nuts if you ever aim it my direction.

  I take no pride in being a muggle. Because I wasn’t born to the Uncanny, the powers Parker gives me weaken over time before my body finally rejects them entirely. That compatibility problem is why I spend half of my life lying in his tattoo chair getting my ink refreshed, biting my tongue and lapsing into unconsciousness. That pain, the byproduct of painting my body with arcane symbols, of meddling with occult forces I should be no part of, follows me out of the tattoo parlour too. It’s a pain that’s ever-present, stinging my flesh, burning like hot daggers. My bones ache constantly and I get migraines so bad I think my head’s going to split in half. As a result of all that, I’ve taken to self-medicating with alcohol and painkillers. Look out for me in a future AA meeting, coming your way soon!

  Anyway, what’s life without a little (or in my case, a shit-tonne) of pain? What do you mean, ‘It’s wonderful’? Shut your face.

  ‘You could always give up this line of work and go back to what you should be,’ said Parker, shrugging and making his pineapple sprout of dreadlocks bob to and fro.

  ‘It’s very rude of you to make assumptions about what I’m brooding over,’ I replied, wincing as I put my bra and t-shirt ba
ck on. ‘Anyway, these things on my arms were your idea in the first place, or has that slipped your mind?’

  ‘I’m just saying, girl, there are plenty of jobs out there that don’t ask you to damage yourself. That don’t include murder and mayhem and blood and guts.’

  ‘Christ, that sounds boring.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ll live longer.’

  ‘Has Lana been bending your ear?’

  ‘Your cousin is wiser than you.’

  ‘My cousin is a Transformer that got stuck as a family hatchback.’

  Parker grinned. ‘Makes great lemon drizzle cake, though. I go through that shit like crack.’

  Although that was true, I wouldn’t take Lana’s life over mine if Jason Statham offered it to me on a silver platter. Not even if he was naked and greased up like his is that fight scene from the first Transporter movie. Oh man, I’m going to be thinking about that all day now.

  I stepped down from the tattoo chair and slumped on the couch. ‘I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Parks, but I basically, work for you. You’re my agent in chaos. If I don’t kill people, you don’t get paid.’

  He snorted and shook his head. ‘I’ve got others on the books, I’ll be fine. You might not be. Who knows what long-term damage I’m doing to you here.’

  ‘Damage? I’ve never felt better,’ I replied, feeling about eighty.

  ‘Okay, you’re the boss, but don’t come running to me when you’re dead at thirty.’

  ‘I promise I won’t do that.’

  I crossed my arms in a huff. Parker was my friend, but he was also the guy I relied on for work. What I needed from him was a new contract, not the fatherly concern act. I already had one shitty dad, I didn’t need another.

  ‘So, what have you got for me?’ I asked.

  ‘What makes you think I got anything?’

  ‘Don’t fuck about, Parks. I’ve been living on baked beans and porridge for the last week. Get me some money, momma needs a fat stack, pronto.’

  Parker frowned. ‘Well, I might have something.’

  ‘Ooh!’ I replied, sitting forward, a fresh tingle of excitement momentarily pushing down the pain of my freshly-carved tattoos.

  ‘Just cool it, I said I might have something.’

  I failed to cool it.

  ‘What is it? An assassination job? I could really go for a bit of murder right now. Something really icky. Something where I’ll still be finding dried blood under my nails a week later.’

  Parker laughed and shook his head. ‘Yeah, you ain’t gonna be able to leave this world behind, are you.’

  ‘I’m a sick puppy, dude. Now gimme the details so I can put on my best murder trousers.’

  Parker chuckled and shook his head. ‘The job’s not ready.’

  ‘Aw, come on, just give me a sniff.’

  ‘I have to go through official channels on this one. Can’t say any more until the ink’s dry, you get me?’

  I flopped back again. ‘Well, that ink had better dry quick, I’m bored shitless. I’ve actually started to miss prison. At least in there the constant threat of extreme violence keeps you on your toes.’

  ‘You need help.’

  ‘I need work.’

  My phone rang, I reached into the pocket of my jeans to find a familiar name beaming from the screen.

  ‘Parker, have you and Lana been conspiring to double-up the pressure or what?’

  He lifted both hands in an ‘I’m innocent’ gesture.

  I raised an eyebrow in his direction and hit Answer. ‘What’s up, cuz? You can save the concern, I’m beyond help.’

  ‘Erin… I’m at the hospital. You need to come, now.’

  My whole body turned cold. I was out of the door a second later.

  2

  I stood at the far end of the Royal Sussex County Hospital car park, nervously passing my phone from one hand to the other like it was burning my palms.

  I hadn’t brought it up with Parker while he was busy riding my hump, but there was another reason I stayed in the Uncanny world beyond the sheer thrill of it. A reason I had no choice but to stay for. A reason he knew all too well.

  My brother.

  James Banks had been taken from me when he was just a baby. Taken by something out of the ordinary. Something Uncanny. I know because I saw it happen. James’ disappearance was what opened my eyes to the magic and monsters around me. To the secret world that lived right next to mine, sight unseen. A world I made myself a part of to escape the real world, and for a more important reason: to discover what had happened to my little brother. To find out who took him and why.

  To get revenge.

  James’ disappearance turned the world upside down. Ruined everything. Pulled my family inside-out. The way my mum and dad have treated me since James was taken has been… well, let’s just say it hasn’t been nice. Some—such as my cousin Lana—might say the more-than-frosty relationship I have with my parents is at least partially, partially, down to how off the rails I went after James was taken. Deep down I knew there was some truth to that, but I was never going to admit it, least of all to my parents. Far as I was concerned, they’d had their chance. Lana was all the family I needed now.

  The automatic doors at the front of the hospital swished open and Lana stepped out, scanning the car park, one hand over her eyes like a sailor scanning for icebergs. I waved to catch her attention. She flapped a hand back and made a beeline in my direction.

  Lana.

  The only member of my sad little clan that I still had any sort of contact with. The only one I trusted and could admit that I loved. Lana knew everything about me, about what I did. Well, more or less everything. I mean, she didn’t know that I once broke a guy’s neck because he told me I should smile more. Lana’s understanding enough, but I was sure to get the whole Judge Judy routine over that one.

  ‘Erin,’ said Lana, her eyes red from crying. She always was overly-emotional.

  ‘Jesus, you look fucking awful,’ I said, rarely the overly-supportive sort.

  Lana laugh-snorted and reached into a pocket for a tissue to wipe her nose with. She smoothed down her long, blonde hair, tidying herself up a bit. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ she said, pocketing the gooey tissue.

  I’d surprised myself at how quickly I left Parker’s to get to the hospital, considering the circumstances.

  ‘Well, how is the wicked witch?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s still unconscious,’ replied Lana.

  I nodded and frowned, perching on the low wall behind me and kicking the heels of my battered boots against it.

  ‘She’s your mother,’ said Lana, hopping up on the wall beside me, ‘you should go in and see her.’

  ‘No, I really, really shouldn’t.’

  ‘Your dad just nipped home to get some things for her, no one will know.’

  ‘I’ll know,’ I replied.

  ‘Your mum’s been in a car crash. She’s really bad, Erin.’

  That’s what Lana had told me over the phone that got me out of Parker’s so fast. Still, I’d almost pulled the car over three times on the way over. Almost turned around to go, well, anywhere else. So mum was in hospital? So what? She wasn’t dead. And even if she was…

  I bit my lip as all sorts of conflicting emotions fought a battle royale inside me.

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, Erin,’ said Lana, ‘go in and see her.’

  ‘The right thing? When has that ever had anything to do with me? I once killed a man with his own tongue, did I ever tell you that? Tore it out at the root and stuffed it down his throat so he choked to death. You should have seen the look on his face.’

  ‘Have you finished? Erin, you know you want to see her, so just see her.’

  I gazed towards the hospital. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘You’ll feel better knowing you did.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Erin—’

  I turned on her, a snarl upon my lips. ‘You know better than any
one how that bitch treated me. So she crashed her car and broke a few bones, big whoop, who gives a shit? I’m supposed to just push everything that’s happened aside and act like nothing’s wrong? Like she didn’t… like she didn’t…’

  I wanted to say, ‘Like she didn’t turn me into this,’ but I had too much pride.

  I scratched at the tattoos parker had given me, causing my skin to sting sharply. We sat in silence for a while while I pushed down the guilt I felt for yelling at Lana. Lana who was kindness incarnate. Lana who’d do anything for me, and had done on many occasions.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled quietly.

  Lana laid her head on my shoulder. ‘That’s okay, cuz. I’ll always be here for you to shout at.’

  That didn’t make me feel any better.

  I was sat brooding in Baker’s Pub, slouched on a bar stool among a minefield of empty pint glasses. I’d been there a couple of hours already, and so far the alcohol was doing a terrible job of calming me down. A couple more and I’d be back in the zone though, I was sure of it.

  ‘Another one here, mate,’ I said, waggling my empty glass in the barman’s direction.

  Looked like his hair was starting to come back. Only took three years.

  I pulled out my phone and sent Parker yet another message, asking about the new job he was supposed to be putting together. I needed it desperately. For the money. For the distraction. What better way to bury the stupid emotions trying to claw their way out my brain grave than by hurling myself into peril?

  ‘Hey, there,’ said a voice I didn’t recognise.

  I turned to see a man, mid-thirties, with shaggy dark hair and the misplaced confidence of a bloke five drinks deep.