SUMMARY: Giles and Ethan, the electric Kool-Aid funky Satan
groove year, in the early seventies.
SPOILERS: Band Candy.
RATING: M. Drug use, sexual situations, coarse language,
nudity, violence, political insurrection and black magic.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The title is from a track on Yoshimi
Battles the Pink Robots by The Flaming Lips, and also refers to
the 1960 book on occultism Le Matin des magiciens by Louis
Pauwels and Jacques Bergier. Section titles and two lines of dialogue
are from "The Dark Age" by Dean Batali and Rob Des Hotel. Spoilery
further
acknowledgements are given after the story.
DISCLAIMER: The young Ethan Rayne and Rupert Giles are
extrapolations of characters created by Joss Whedon and Mutant
Enemy. Randall, Diedre and Philip are briefly introduced in "The Dark
Age" by Dean Batali and Rob Des Hotel. All other characters are my
works of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is
purely coincidental. They especially do not resemble any of my former
housemates, my housemates' former housemates, or anyone I ever
attended a house party with.
WRITTEN: Begun November 2009, completed September 2010. Edited
and published in installments from October 2010 to October 2011.
PLEASE NOTE: This is probably best read after Halfway There.
PART 1: The Worst Crowd That Would Have Me - 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 /11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 /
PART 2: Pleasure or Gain - 22/ 23/ 24/ 25/ 26/ 27/ 28/ 29/ 30/ 31/ 32/ 33/ 34/ 35/ 36/ 37/ 38/ 39/ 40/ 41/
PART 3: An Extraordinary High - 42/ 43/ 44/ 45/ 46/ 47/ 48/ 49/ 50/ 51/ 52/ 53/ 54/ 55/ 56/ 57/ 58/ 59/ 60/ 61/ 62/ 63/ 64/ 65/ 66/ 67/ 68/
PART 4: Fools - 69/ 70/ 71/ 72/ 73/ 74/ 75/ 76/ 77/ 78/ 79/ 80/ 81/ 82/ 83/ 84/ 85/
PART 5: Way Back - 86/ 87/ 88/ 89/ 90/ 91/ 92/ 93/ 94/ 95/ 96/ 97/ 98/ 99/ 100/ 101/ 102/ 103/ 104/ 105/ 106/ 107/ 108/ 109/ 110/ 111/ 112/ 113/ 114/ 115/ 116/ 117/ 118/ 119/ 120/ 121/
The note was in Evelyn's clear, if untutored, handwriting. It read, simply: "Ethan, I'm at the canal." She'd left it propped up on the kitchen table, next to an empty vodka bottle and Diedre's unwashed lunch dishes. He wrote on the back of it, "I'm going out," and left it there for the others. He washed himself up a little, changed into clean clothes, and headed out of the house.
It wasn't a long walk to the canal, and the weather was very pleasant, clear and sunny and unseasonably warm for spring. Couples were out promenading on the towpath, and dogwalkers dawdled under the willow trees as their pets sniffed around.
He didn't have any trouble finding her barge, which was moored perhaps a quarter-mile from the lock. A previous owner had painted it red and black in a mock-gypsy style which appealed to Evelyn's sense of humour. She wasn't gypsy, of course, but the daughter of a Manchester schoolteacher, a fact he wasn't supposed to know; Evelyn would have preferred to have sprung fully-formed.
She'd set the door wards to let him straight in, but he paused at the threshold anyway. He always had to brace himself for the reek of the magic inside.
The interior was long and narrow, cluttered with lipped bookshelves and hanging baskets piled with miscellanies. There was a small kitchen at one end and a large bed at the other. Evelyn was at the stove, putting butter in a frying pan. She was in her early thirties, some ten years older than he was. She was fat and fond of long, low-cut velvet dresses; today's was coloured a deep crimson. "Ethan," she said, "what good timing! Would you like some supper with me?"
"Love some," he said. "How's tricks?"
It had been quite some time since Evelyn had last come his way, so they had plenty to catch up on. She told him what she'd been up to and where she had been. She was often circumspect, of course, "a West Indian in Brentford", or "this fabulous dolmen", for serious information rarely came free. As she spoke, she cracked eggs into a bowl and sliced up bread. Ethan, meanwhile, stepped along the cabin, picking up the latest books and gewgaws, trying to work out which were worthless and which were worth more than the barge. He sifted through dog-eared packs of Tarot cards, carved wooden boxes, and figurines made of wire and semi-precious stones. Evening light rippled over the water outside.
Over a spinach and cheese omelette and a bottle of wine, he told her the expurgated version of what he'd been getting up to. All minor magics, but executed with some flair, he liked to think. She laughed with him and poured him more wine.
"But my real find," she said, once the sun had set and the lamps were lit, "is a conjuration tome of Dargoth's."
Ah, now they were getting to the meat of the conversation. "Is that a demon name or a human one?" he asked.
"Neither," she said, leaning in close and speaking more quietly. "A demi-god, mainly worshipped by demons. Not as well known in this dimension, but sometimes his work slips through."
"How did you get the book?" he asked.
"Oh, come on," she said, "you know I can't tell you that."
He tapped his fingers over the tabletop. "Can you tell me what's in it?"
"It's supposed to be filled with useful titbits on summoning and binding essences. Tasty spells, Ethan. Nutritious and delicious."
"'Supposed to be'?" queried Ethan. "Haven't you looked?"
"Only worshippers of Dargoth may read his words," she said.
"You need to find a demon to read it?" he asked.
"No," she said, "I need to worship Dargoth."
The penny dropped then. Really, he must be a little drunk not to have seen this coming sooner. "So, this is a business trip?"
"Business and pleasure, Ethan."
He looked out at the street lights reflected in the waters of the canal, feeling his good mood drain away. "What do you want me for?"
"Well, now," she said, getting up from the table to search through a pile of cookbooks and a copy of the Kalevala, "I found this rite." She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him.
"Ah," he said, as he glanced over it, "I can see why you've asked me, then. This takes three. And," he said, after flicking over another page, "you need some of my blood."
"Only a little," she said.
He looked up at her sourly.
"I'd owe you a big favour," she said. "My favours are good currency, Ethan."
"I'll also need some time to sober up," he said. "Some of this takes a great deal of coordination."
"Oh, Ethan," she said, "I knew I could count on you."
"Don't get used to it," he said.
The last note of the encore hung in the air. It had been a good
gig. The lead guitarist had been nothing to write home about, but the
bass player had put on a show. Ripper could feel the chords flex
through his fingers as he downed the last of his beer.
"You like music then?" asked a girl who appeared at his elbow. "I
was watching you from back there. You were really getting into it."
"It's all right," he said.
"I like that," she said. "It's means you're not just here on the
pull."
Ripper took a proper look at her then: sandals, jeans, a tight
top, and a halo of curly hair. She was on the tall side. It was
impossible in the light to tell her precise age or hair colour, but
she looked good enough to him.
"I'm in a band," he offered. "I helped found Pink Floyd."
"You are funny," she said.
"Cigarette?"
He put a cigarette between her lips and lit it for her, then lit
one for himself. The crowd was clearing out of the cellar,
heading to the bar upstairs. Pub staff were picking up glasses.
"Fancy a drink?"
The narrow stairs were well-worn and sticky with beer. He bought
her a spritzer that she dipped her tongue into before grimacing. There
was a loud group of lads in the next booth, making it difficult to
talk.
"I thought the bass player was pretty good," the girl shouted.
"I should ask him to join my band," said Ripper. "Our one's crap."
"What do you play?"
"Guitar," he said. "And I sing."
She had another go at the spritzer and then put it to one
side. "Want to go out?" she asked.
Ripper thought that was a little fast, even for a lucky
night. He took a drag at his cigarette and glanced down at a chunky
ring on his finger that had a chip of mirror in it. If he moved his
hand right---
She had a reflection. Well, that ruled out one of the more likely
possibilities.
"Well?" she said.
"All right."
Outside it was mercifully quiet. Ripper looked around, but
couldn't see anyone following them.
Around the block was a shopping street, with a bank and a
bakery and an Indian grocer's. It was deserted at this hour. On
the pavement next to a postbox, she stepped up on her tiptoes to kiss
him. Her tongue went in his mouth and her arms wrapped around his
waist. She started to grind her jeans against his.
They got as far as a doorway alcove before the unbuttoning and
unzipping began. He pushed up and she pushed down, bracing herself
against the shop window. It was pretty quick but pretty satisfying.
Her face was sweaty, and orange-coloured from the street
lamps. The back of her head pressed against glass. Behind her were
newsagent cards about rooms to let, furniture wanted, and local lost
dogs.
"Want to come back to my place?" she asked, which made him feel
like he'd passed an audition. "It's not far."
"All right," he said.
The house was an end terrace, with dead pot-plants in the front
courtyard and a boarded-up porch. She took him in the back way, through a
gate and past long grass to an unlocked door into a kitchen. None of
the lights were on.
It was the smell that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Of
course, the place smelt like every other cheap digs he'd been to, of
toast and tea and mildew, but there were other scents too: candlewax
and incense and herbs.
The girl lit a candle on the kitchen table and then opened a
nearby door. The room she walked into was in total darkness; Ripper
couldn't see what was in there. He strained to hear, but the only
sounds were from outside, his own breathing, and a slight rustle from
where the girl had gone.
Suddenly wary, he grabbed the candleholder in his left hand and
took a stout wooden stool in his right. With a martial stance, he
stepped into the room.
There was a mattress, piles of books and papers, and a curtain rod
hung between walls as a makeshift wardrobe. The girl was pulling off
her top, her skin and hair made yellow by the candlelight.
"Are you OK?" she asked.
He hoped his smile didn't look too forced as he put the stool down
with the candle on top of it. "Yeah," he said.
She came towards him, raising her arms.
Evelyn's bed was more comfortable than Ethan's own. He lay there
for a while, enjoying it, but feeling weak and weary. He thought he
might stay there with his eyes closed for as long as he could, but he
could smell coffee and his face was growing warm from sunlight. So he
pulled himself up on his elbows to look around. Their third was long
gone, but Evelyn was at her desk, with her glasses on, already working
her way through her tome. Ethan's clothes were piled at the bottom of
the bed. The pentacle was still chalked onto the floor in a
hastily-cleared space between the bed and her desk, but its lines had
been deliberately smudged to remove its power.
"Breakfast!" Evelyn said, when she noticed him awake. "And
stout. Nutrients to help with the blood loss." She brought him some
peanuts, a pint of flat Guinness and some toast, quite the oddest
breakfast he'd had in a while. "The book's gorgeous," she said,
pressing his hand affectionately. "Thank you."
"A large favour," he said.
"Of course!"
He finished eating and she went back to her book. After he dressed
he had a further look through her things. He picked up a Baedeker's
guide to West Germany, a coffee tin encrusted with seashells, and a
tiny jade cat.
"Don't take anything home now," Evelyn said, without looking up.
There was a scrap of paper tucked into the coffee tin. In Evelyn's
handwriting, it read, "Ciccarello, 131 Esplanade". Ethan looked at it
and wondered why the name was familiar. Of course, it could just be a
restaurant or a dentist's...
"Midsummer should be good," Evelyn said. "You should come this
year."
"Waste of time," he muttered, putting down the tin.
"Depends who you know, sweetie," she said, "and I know people."
He buttoned up his shirt. "Randall and Diedre might go."
"Oh!" she said. "And how are the rest of the Bash Street Kids?"
"We're all quite well. You should come over. They'd love to see
you."
"How about the day after tomorrow, in the evening? I'll bring the
usual. And do a party trick."
"If you would," Ethan said.
The air outside felt thin after the magical miasma of
the barge. The lunchtime crowds were coming out and the weather was
still holding, so it was probably a good time to busk. He wasn't in
the mood though; he'd rather just go home and sit with his eyes closed
for a while. And he had enough cash for a couple of days at least.
The house was quiet when he got back. Adrienne had her door
shut. Stan would be downstairs. Diedre and Tom were nowhere to be
seen. Randall was up on the second landing, finishing off a Boschian
tableau he was painting on the wall. It was better not to talk with
him when he was working.
Perhaps he should spend the afternoon on some minor conjurations,
the magical equivalent of playing scales. He felt calm but not up to
anything strenuous. He fetched himself a cup of tea and a biscuit and
then settled into the old drawing room with his wishing-stones and
candles.
Water first, he thought, closing his eyes and extending his
hand. He imagined the taste of it in his mouth and its flow over his
skin. Water, the fluid in every living thing, the substance of mist
and the strength of the oceans. Water, bring it to me.
He turned his face upwards to the small shower of indoor rain.
Then he reset the stones in a different pattern. Earth, he
thought, from dust to dust, the ground beneath our feet. Pebble and
stone and soil and wormcast.
A grind of fine rocks appeared outside the circle.
Wind next, and as it pulled at his hair and breathed over his
neck, he thought that perhaps he was in better condition than he'd
expected. The power was there, singing just underneath his skin.
He started to set up the circle for the fourth time. As he did so,
he heard someone come up the stairs and then pause on the
landing. Ethan was intent on the pattern when the man came into the
room. He didn't look up; it was probably Stan.
Then a bare foot extended into the circle and nudged the last
stone into place with a heel. The foot wasn't Stan's. It belonged to a
tall young man clad only in jeans who blinked rather sleepily down at
Ethan. The man had thick wavy hair and an ugly ring on his finger.
"Ripper!" came a shout from below, from Adrienne. "Ripper!" Or
that's what it sounded like, but no-one calling themselves "Ripper"
would have much success picking up women in London, surely?
"He's up here," Ethan shouted back down. He considered. The man
was better-looking than most of her catch. "Are you a communist?"
Ethan asked him.
The man blinked at him in surprise, which Ethan took to be a
"no".
"He's in a band," Adrienne said, as she came into the
room. "Aren't you, Ripper?"
The man nodded.
"You were out late too," Adrienne said to Ethan.
"I was visiting Evelyn. She's around for a few days. She'd like to
come over tomorrow night."
"A party," said Adrienne. "Ripper could come to that. He
could play guitar."
Ethan made a gesture with his hand of not caring very much,
although he was looking thoughtfully at the completed circle. "If you
want."
"You'll come to that, won't you, Ripper?"
"Yes," said Ripper, in a surprisingly crisp accent, "I think I
will."
She led Ripper back downstairs, promising him that the cafe around
the corner made good egg and bacon rolls.
Ethan tried to settle back down to his conjurations, but his
concentration had gone. He packed up his kit and then mopped up the
water and earth.
Then he went upstairs to watch Randall paint. Randall was just
putting on the final touches to a Bacchannal. Tiny painted figures held
tiny painted goblets and danced over tiny painted dogs. Ethan watched
him until Randall finally put down his paints and reached for the
brush-cleaner.
"What was that ruckus downstairs, then?" Randall asked.
"Fresh blood," said Ethan.
They were waiting for him when he got home. He should have
expected it: they'd been talking behind his back for a week. And now
here were Jim and Alison standing in the flat's doorway, blocking his
way through. Alison had her arms folded over her pregnant belly and
she had her serious expression on. Jim had his hands in his pockets
and his shoulder had nudged the print of Skegness askew.
"It's been three weeks, Ripper," Jim said. "You said you'd only be
here a couple of days."
"I'm looking for my own place," Ripper said.
"And how's that going?" asked Alison.
"It's been hard..."
Alison reached behind her to grab something from the telephone
table. It was a newspaper. "I've called around," she said. "I've
circled the ones still free."
"And we know you've got money," Jim said, "from the gigs last
week."
"I'm just sleeping on the sofa," Ripper protested. "I'm barely
here at all."
"Well, you can be barely there somewhere else then," said Alison.
He gave her a stare.
Jim said, "Please, Ripper."
He realised then that they were afraid of him. They were expecting
him not to go without a fight, or without breaking up some of the
furniture. They'd both been there the night he clobbered a pickpocket
outside the pub.
"You'd better give me my stuff then," he said.
Jim helped him carry everything he owned down the three flights of
stairs to Ripper's car. It all fit in the boot. Alison watched from an
open window upstairs.
"Look," said Jim, "no hard feelings, right? It's Alison, you know
what preggers women are like. Let me know where you end up."
"You traitorous prick," said Ripper.
Jim backed off towards the dubious safety of the flat's
stairwell. "Right, well, we'll see you Thursday, at The Cap. We're on
at eight, Ripper. Setup at seven?"
Ripper took a step forward and Jim fled. Ripper didn't follow --
he did still want to play with the band -- but he settled for kicking
the gate.
He went back to the car, wishing he'd at least been given the
chance to wash. He was aware that he smelt of egg and bacon roll, and
of himself and Adrienne. He drove around the corner to get out of
Alison's gaze.
He crumpled up the newspaper page they'd given him. He didn't have
enough money left for a week's rent, not after petrol, a few LPs, a
couple of t-shirts, a carton of cigarettes, food, drink, and the cover
charge for last night's gig. He practically only had pocket change
left.
It was Sunday afternoon. The streets were quiet but there were kids
out on the children's playground. Ripper wondered what to do. He could
stay in his car one night, he thought, then go back to
Adrienne's. Maybe he could talk her into staying at her place for a
few nights, until he had the money from the next gig.
Strange bloody house, though. He'd had a bit of a look that
morning. Candles everywhere, stairwells painted obscenely, that bloke
casting the fire spell. But everything looked human, no signs of
anything demonic. New age hippies, worried about their chakras? But
no, that conjuration had looked real enough. Ripper had cast that one
himself once, on a very wet training trip in Epping Forest. Dabblers,
then, or dilettantes.
But the odd thing was that the smells which had put him on edge
when he first arrived had had a different effect on him in the
morning. Waking to them, they were familiar and almost
reassuring. Part of him thought that all buildings should smell
that way.
That night he slept in the car. It wasn't too bad, on an
unseasonably warm night, curled up in the back under his
jacket. Except that his legs were too long and he got a crick in his
neck and the old jumper he'd rolled up as a pillow kept slipping out
on to the floor.
"Ciccarello," said Randall, frowning. He was sitting on the attic's
window seat next to Diedre; they were eating ice cream together with
little wooden spoons from a paper cup. "Sounds familiar, but I can't
place it."
"I've heard of her," said Diedre. "I mean, enough that I know that
she's a she. But I don't even remember why I know that."
The attic had been a nursery once. Shreds of carousel
wallpaper still clung in places. Ethan was sitting on one of the
beanbags next to a wall.
"Do you think it's important?" Diedre asked.
Ethan shrugged. "It caught my eye," he said. For a moment, that
scrap of paper had been the clearest object on Evelyn's boat.
"Your instincts are good," Randall said. "I'll get out my
scrapbooks so we can go look."
Adrienne came up the stairs then. "Does anyone know when the
electricity will be back?"
"I paid the bill," said Diedre. "Maybe Tuesday? It always seems
to take a couple of days."
"We won't need power for the party tomorrow," said Randall. "Cold
food and cold drinks will be fine."
"Ethan said you brought home a cute guy last night," Diedre said, a
question in her voice.
"She's paraphrasing," said Ethan.
"He's OK," Adrienne said. "I've invited him back."
Diedre tried hard to hide her surprise, but didn't manage it well
enough for Ethan not to notice. It had been a long time since Adrienne
had invited home the same man twice.
"Well," Diedre said. "Must be a bit of all right then."
"He might know some magic," said Randall. "We're going to have to
check him out."
"Then I shouldn't have let him meet you," Adrienne said. "I should
have kept him tied up downstairs."
"That's new," said Ethan, a little surprised himself now.
"Metaphorically speaking."
Randall had finished his icecream. "I'll go get those scrapbooks,"
he said.
Randall had been compiling his scrapbooks for years now. He
scoured the popular press for odd little items that might be of
magical interest. They were thick books, heavy and brittle with old
newspaper and advertising flyers. He had dozens of them now. It took a
a couple of trips to bring them all upstairs.
They took a volume each at first, apart from Adrienne, who was
heading out for one of her meetings. Diedre got bored halfway through
hers. Randall worked through two, then decided it was time to go out
and fetch dinner. Ethan kept going, lighting candles when it got dark
and then casting a light spell when he started to find the candlelight
annoying. The others brought him something to eat.
He found what he was looking for some time after midnight. It was
an article about the New Egyptian Hall, shortly before it was to be
demolished. "In its heyday, the building saw many famed performers,"
Ethan read, "including Harry Houdini, Long Tack Sam, Nevil Maskelyne
and Eusapia Ciccarello."
Ethan rocked back on his heels. Ciccarello was a stage magician?
How disappointing: he was not remotely interested in legerdemain
and trick boxes. It was all superficial, mechanistic frippery; it
taught you nothing about the inner workings of the world.
Why would Evelyn be interested in her? Most stage magicians knew very
little of true magic. Still, some did, and a few true practitioners
made a living out of performance, as Ethan himself well knew.
He could hear Randall's record player, turned low, and people
talking downstairs in the drawing room. He realised he was cold and
stiff from sitting on the floor.
He still wasn't sure whether this was worth following up, but it
might be worth a go. He should go and see Terry as soon as he could.
Ripper arrived deliberately late to the party, not wanting to look
too keen. He'd half-hoped that Adrienne would be looking out for him,
but there was no sign of her from outside, just some flickering lights
from an upstairs window.
The stairwell up was lined with candles, which made the paintings
even more disturbing than they'd been in daylight: now they merged
together into a writhing mass. He could hear music from upstairs.
The party was being held in the same room where he'd seen the
spellcaster, only it had been transformed. The bare floorboards were
still there underneath, but they were now covered with throw-rugs,
beanbags, and what were probably gingham tablecloths. There were very
few chairs. A record-player in a corner was playing The Grateful
Dead. The room was lit by more of the ubiquitous candles and some
paraffin lamps. Trays of food and alcohol lined one wall.
It didn't seem to be much of a party yet. There were only a dozen
people or so, and only one couple dancing. Perhaps it would liven up
later.
Adrienne was over by the drinks, pouring herself something. She
waved him over.
"Vodka?" she asked, handing him a glass. "I'm glad you brought
your guitar." She nodded at the rest of the room. "It's not jumping
yet, but this way you'll get to meet people."
He put his guitar down, being careful to keep it in his line of
sight. Adrienne took his arm, swaying in time to the music. Ripper
wondered if she was always like this or if she was drunk.
"So," she said. "I should point out my housemates to you." She
pointed at one of the dancers, a gamine girl with waist-length dark
hair who was wearing an orange dress. "That's Diedre. I went to school
with her. The man she's dancing with is her boyfriend, Tom." She
pointed next to a long-haired, moustachioed blond man in a purple
military-style coat. "That's Randall, he's American. His brother was
engaged to Diedre. And that's Ethan, you've already met him. He went
to school with one of Diedre's cousins--"
"So you all know this Diedre."
"Not everyone." She motioned then to a skinny, freckled man in a
cheap safari suit. "Stan lives in the basement flat. He's our
bartender, I mean, he was, but then he got fired, so now he lives with
us. And I should probably tell you that Diedre wants to be called
Dee. She thinks 'Diedre' sounds too old."
"She's right," said Ripper. He looked at the sparsely-populated
room. There were a few knots of people having stilted conversation, plus
the dancers. It didn't look any fun yet.
"Can we go back to your room for a bit?" he asked her.
She tightened her grip on his arm. "OK," she said.
When they came back up an hour later, the party had livened up a
bit. The music was louder and the party more thronged. Even the air
was thicker, going smoky from cigarettes, pipes and joints. Ripper
felt much less conspicuous. He went to fetch himself another drink and
watch the crowd.
The moustachioed, purple-coated man came up to pour himself a drink
too. "I'm Randall," he said, extending his hand. "I hear you know
something about magic."
"A little," Ripper said, warily. "Why?"
"A few of us here have a deep interest in the topic," he said,
"and we're always happy to meet someone new."
"I play the guitar now mostly," Ripper said. "I'm supposed to be
playing something now."
The LP on the record player was drawing to a close. Ripper lifted
off the needle but couldn't find a way to turn off the turntable. He
unplugged it, but it kept going. Battery-operated, he supposed. He
gave up, and turned to face the crowd.
He thought he'd start with something by The Byrds.
Evelyn always brought the best hashish. Ethan pocketed most of
what she gave him, but took a little in a pipe. Small amounts made him
feel mellow and expansive, two things he seldom felt without
pharmaceutical assistance.
The party seemed to be going well. Stan had brought a crowd of
people and Evelyn had invited a few of her local friends. Adrienne's
new boy had sung a few songs quite probably in tune.
"Not bad at all," he said, as Adrienne walked past, "as far as I
can tell."
"You have a beautiful voice," said a girl sitting on the carpet
scrap next to him. Ethan had no idea who she was. "Are you on the
radio? You sound like you should be."
Ethan decided to kiss her, but Evelyn pulled him off. "Just make
sure you save some for me," she said mildly. "I don't often visit."
Randall came over. He'd been trying to sound out the new boy about
his knowledge of magic, without much success.
"We're strangers to him," Ethan said. "What did you expect?"
His head started to clear again around one a.m., which was when
Evelyn decided it was time for her party trick. She cleared the middle
of the room and laid out her circle, chanting. Ethan strained hard to
hear the words, but she was deliberately speaking too quietly to be
heard above the music.
She did a sort of
party-streamer-firework-light-show. Multi-coloured, and bright enough
to leave one flinching. Stan's friends, who knew fuck-all about magic,
stood there with their mouths open, thinking it was all a trick. Which
it was, in a way.
An hour later, someone tripped the wards on the second floor
landing. Diedre, Randall, and Ethan all felt it and looked at each
other across the room. Ethan happened to be closest to the door, so he
motioned that he'd be the one to investigate.
At the top of the stairs he found Ripper coming out of one of the
spare rooms. He was hardly trying to be stealthy: he was tipping
cigarette ash onto the floor and was carrying his guitar.
"Not light-fingered, are we?" asked Ethan.
"Just looking for Adrienne."
"She's asleep on one of the beanbags downstairs," Ethan
told him. "I'll show you." He gestured that Ripper should walk in front
of him, back down the stairs.
"You've got a few spare rooms," said Ripper. "It's a good house."
"Adrienne found it," Ethan said. "She's resourceful."
"Your girl looks like a handful."
"She's not my girl," said Ethan, "but you're right. She does sex
magic and pagan tantra."
"Pagan tantra?" said Ripper. "She's making that one up."
They reached the lower landing. Ethan pointedly opened the
drawing room door for him.
That was when Stan shouted, "Oi! He's taking my stash!" and one of
the male party-goers dashed for the door, bag in hand.
Ripper didn't even move from where he was standing. He just
extended a fist and then a foot and the thief fell sprawling onto the
ground. Pills and joints and chunks of resin scattered across the
floor.
It was practised and highly efficient: Ethan really ought to have
been alarmed. But then Ripper swept his hair back with one hand, and
took a drag of his cigarette from the other. He lifted an eyebrow at
Ethan, and turned on his heel before anyone else had made it as
far as the doorway. It was the faux nonchalance that Ethan found
hilarious. Ethan thought, I'm going to fuck him.
The party didn't wrap up until almost light. Randall took on his
usual task of shepherding out the last of the guests while Ethan went
upstairs.
Evelyn had changed into a Japanese silk dressing-gown and was
doing the last of her stretches. "Nice party," she said.
"Complete with drama and acts of of derring-do."
She laughed. "That Ripper guy was trying hard to chat me up later
on."
"Well, I may have strongly implied you were very good in bed." He opened
the curtains a little because he wanted the light to fall over them as
the sun rose.
"That's sweet, Ethan," Evelyn said, "but if I wanted him, I'd take
him."
He sat down next to her and took off his sandals.
She pulled her hand through his hair. "Tie it up, this time? It
gets ticklish."
Adrienne still wasn't quite asleep when dawn came. She stirred
against Ripper, looking sleepy and sated.
"You got on OK, tonight," she asked, "with my friends?"
"They're all right," said Ripper.
"They've got me through a lot," she said.
He got up to piss, and when he came back she seemed to be
asleep. He thought he'd look at some of the piles of papers she kept
around, but when he picked one up it was all small print and he didn't
have his glasses. The light was still too thin for him to read without
them.
"Oh no," said Adrienne, from the bed. "Don't read those, not yet."
He put them down, thinking of what he'd seen that night. The
record player, which he'd taken a good look at, which wasn't
battery-operated at all, and which still ran when unplugged. The fat
woman who'd cast the light-show spell. The occult symbols on the
walls. He had a feeling that if he'd stood there reciting demon lore,
her friends wouldn't have found that odd at all.
"Do you think they'd mind if I stayed a few days?" he asked
her. "I've a gig nearby on Thursday and I think my flatmates need
some space."
"I could ask. I think so. In fact, I think they'd be rather keen."
He settled back next to her. "Did you say that Dee was going with
Tom?" He was sure she'd said so, but then he'd seen Dee tongue-kiss
Randall in front of half the crowd.
"Yes," she said. "Look, Ripper, some of my friends have known each
other a long time. You'll find it easier if you just assume that
everyone's slept with everyone else by now. And if that's not OK with
you, then you probably shouldn't stay here."
"You and Dee?" he asked, elbowing her.
"Go to sleep," she said.
Ethan needed money before he could go and see Terry, but he didn't
have much left, so he went out busking. It was not a good day for it:
squally, grey and cool. He laid down his mat outside the Tube station
in the partial protection of an overhanging roof. He started, as
always, with the sort of common-or-garden sleight-of-hand that he was
contemptuous of, just to gauge the crowd: vanishing coins, joined
hoops, some juggling. He reached the point where he normally shifted
into actual conjuration and transmogrification, but looking at the
audience, it just wasn't going to be worth the effort. There were only
a few people willing to stand under the rather limited shelter, with
every second gust of wind dowsing them with horizontal rain. He packed
it in after half an hour.
He took the change to one shop and swapped it for a one pound
note. Then he went to the supermarket, picked up some groceries and
paid for them with something that now looked more like a five pound
note, if you didn't look too carefully or too long. He pocketed the
change.
Ethan didn't like using the five pound note trick because he
rather liked living where he did, and it was something he could only do
at the local shops every so often without arousing suspicion. Still,
it was a very useful technique when he travelled.
He dropped the groceries at home and made himself some lunch
before heading off to see Terry. He tried to time the walk to avoid
the worst of the rain.
The windows of The Crescent Book Exchange were grubby with
dust. Faded paperbacks in plastic bags were sellotaped to the
windows. From the outside, the shop very nearly resembled a
respectable second-hand bookshop, but inside its stock consisted
mostly of pornographic magazines and the racier sort of
paperback.
There was a curtained-off doorway at the back, next to a magazine
rack marked "Swedish!" As Ethan approached, a hooded man came out,
holding a book. The book stank of magic the way Evelyn's demon tome
had. Ethan couldn't take his eyes off it.
"Afternoon," said a voice behind him, as the hooded man left the
shop. "How can I help you today then?"
Terry was reputed to be a demon of some sort. He outwardly looked
human, in an ill-proportioned way: gangly, long-limbed and tall. He
had dark hair and a drooping moustache that partly covered his thin
lips. Ethan could sense a hum of other-worldliness around him, but that
might have been the shop. Ethan had never been impolite enough
to ask.
"Do you sell books like that one?" Ethan asked. He'd never seen
one in stock before.
"Only to special customers," Terry said.
"Special how?"
"The kind with money."
A dishevelled middle-aged man came into the store and started to
look over the magazines.
"You better go in the back," Terry said to Ethan. To the other
customer, he said, "Just browsing? I'll be back in a couple of
minutes."
Ethan stepped through into the back room. It was windowless and
lined with wooden cupboards and drawers, all of them locked. There was
a counter and a cash register to one side.
"What are you after this week?" Terry asked.
Ethan ordered his usual: candles, herbs, and rarer pieces of kit,
like robin eggs and badger teeth, things he was unlikely to find
roaming central London. "And do you have," he asked, "anything by or
on Ciccarello?"
Terry didn't blink any more or less than he usually did. Instead
he stepped behind the counter and unlocked a drawer, rummaging through
at some length and frustratingly out of Ethan's sight. Finally, he
pulled out an aged paperback. "Here," he said.
Living Magicians! the book was called. It was badly printed
on poor stock by some obscure small press that Ethan hadn't heard
of. Some of its pages had come away from the binding.
"How much?" he asked.
The total came to almost exactly the amount that he had left. He
was going to have to borrow pub money from Randall again.
Terry handed him the bag.
Ethan asked,"Seriously, that book before, how much would something
like that cost?"
"They start," said Terry, "at fifty quid."
Ethan tried not to blanch. That was not really a
busking-for-beer-money kind of sum.
The rain had got worse. Ethan sacrificed one of his new candles
for a spell to keep himself dry on the walk home.
Stan helped Ripper move in. "That's me," he said, "Stan the
man. Least I could do after last night, yeah?" He looked in the boot of
Ripper's car. "Is this all you've got?"
"It's what I've got with me," Ripper said. "I'm only staying a few
days."
He let Stan carry his clothes, but Ripper insisted on carrying all
his LPs and music gear. He'd had the choice of dumping his stuff in
Adrienne's room or in the spare room on the second floor.
"This is why I live in the basement," Stan said, as they
climbed the last sets of stairs. "Fewer steps and I get a bit of
privacy. That, and these walls are creepy. What bird's going to come
up here past that?"
"A creepy one?" suggested Ripper.
"Yeah," said Stan, "but Dee's already taken, yeah?" He nudged open a
door with his shoulder. "Here you go."
Ripper stepped in and looked around at the high ceiling, the
peeling paint and curtainless windows. "Looks OK."
"Right then," said Stan, putting Ripper's things down on the
floor. "Now, I've got to run, but if you need anything, just let me
know. Anything. I'm often out, but you can just slip a note under my
door. All right?"
"Yeah," said Ripper.
Too late, he realised there wasn't a lock on the door. He thought
of his small fund of money and the cost of buying a padlock for the
sake of a two night stay. He'd have to cast a spell instead when he
left the house. He didn't have a mattress either, but he'd probably be
sleeping with Adrienne.
He sorted out his stuff a bit and then settled down to practice
his guitar.
Ethan heard music when he got home. At first he thought it was one
of Randall or Adrienne's records, but the music stopped and restarted
at unpredictable intervals. Ripper must have moved in then.
He went downstairs for a cup of tea and found Adrienne in the
kitchen, sitting on a stool and eating a sandwich.
She looked over at him. "Diedre said
you're going to invite Ripper to a casting tonight."
"If that's all right with you. Or would you rather we left him
alone?"
She shrugged. "He's just a guy," she said, "even if he is in a
band."
Ethan smiled. "How long do you want to keep him tonight?"
"Not past one," she said. "I'm on early shift tomorrow."
"One it is then," Ethan said. He paused. "We're just testing him
out."
"I know," she said.
"If you get fond of him--"
"Don't," she said. "Don't be worried about me, Ethan."
He nodded and went up to his room to unpack his shopping.
Ripper left Adrienne sleeping and went upstairs a little before
one a.m. He found Dee and Randall just finishing the clean up from
last night's party: Dee was sweeping and Randall was shaking crumbs
from a rug out of the window. Everything was still candlelit and
lamp-lit.
Ethan was sitting on one of cleaner parts of the floor, laying out
a circle. This was one Ripper didn't recognise. It all looked pretty
ad-hoc: cheap kit and no permanent pentacle. Wax candles and a chipped
ceramic bowl sat on top of a sheet of black felt, and the
wishing-stones were nothing fancier than sandstone. Hedge magic by
amateurs.
Ethan didn't look up as Ripper approached, but he did wave a
little with the hand that wasn't laying out the stones. "So how much
magic do you know?" Ethan asked him.
"Some," Ripper said.
"Any particular kind?"
"Not really."
"And where did you learn it?"
"Here and there."
"Well," said Ethan, "I'm glad to know that you feel so comfortable
and effusive."
Ripper had half a mind to kick the stones at him. "Look, I don't
know you and you don't know me. All right?"
"Randall first learnt magic in the Haight-Ashbury," Ethan
said. "I'm home-grown. Diedre learnt from both of us. We all know
people who know a little bit more than we do. If at any time you'd
like to say where you fit in, please do."
Ripper didn't think he could tell them, not while he still
felt he was on the run. "What about Adrienne?"
"She doesn't do this. She's not interested."
Ripper blinked in surprise. "Why not?"
"You'll have to ask her," Ethan said.
Dee and Randall were finishing up. The overhead lights suddenly
came on.
"Bloody hell," said Dee, who went to switch off the electric lights in
the drawing room and the hall.
"It could be worse," Randall called out to her. "They could have
come on in the middle of the spell."
"We should have checked the switches first," Ethan said.
"No harm's been done," said Randall.
Dee came back into the room and sat down next to Ripper. "We're
doing an illusion spell tonight," she said. "It's quite simple, but
pretty."
Randall sat down on Ripper's left. "No Tom tonight?" he asked
Dee.
"He's too tired," Dee said. "He has lectures in the morning."
Ripper noticed how Ethan rolled his eyes and how Dee shot him a
look.
Randall passed a fat bottle around, from which each of them took a
generous swig.
"What is it?" asked Ripper, sniffing it first.
"Polish fig vodka," said Randall.
It was foul but very alcoholic. It burned down his throat.
By now Ethan had the circle ready and was lighting the central
candle. He took a needle and held the tip in the flame.
"We're going to conjure the illusion of an animal," Dee
said. "We'll all support the illusion, but only one of us will control
it at a time. We usually start small, then work our way up."
Ethan took the needle and pricked himself in the thumb, squeezing
a single drop of blood into the bowl. He put the needle back into
the flame for a few seconds, then passed it on to Dee.
"We all need to do this," Dee told Ripper.
"Is there a chant?" he asked as his drop of blood fell into the bowl.
"Yes," said Ethan. "Bugger, I almost forgot." He rummaged around
in his bag for a piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote the words down
and then passed them to Ripper. "See if you can say that."
Ripper read it out. It was in Latin.
Ethan seemed amused for some reason. "Perfect prononciation," he
said. "We can close the circle now. There's no need to hold hands,
touching a knee or elbow is fine." He sat cross-legged so that his
feet touched Dee and Randall's legs. Ripper followed suit. "Are we
ready?"
Ripper nodded as the others murmured assent. He was curious to
learn how this would go.
They began the chant. The room seemed to darken, except in one
spot, just above the bowl, where a vague blurry glow grew over time.
After a few minutes, Dee stopped chanting. "OK, I'm going to start
with something small and innocuous now. Maybe a guinea pig."
The blurry glow shrank and darkened, taking shape into a
fur-covered oval. It stretched a little, growing appendages that
looked recognisably like a snout and four legs, but there was
something oddly flat-looking about it, like a cartoon sketch. Dee
frowned and it filled out a little. It lowered to the floor, seemingly
near Dee's feet. It scuttled hesistantly, still glowing a little.
"Behold," said Randall, deadpan. "The guinea pig ghost of Camden."
Dee stuck her tongue out at him.
"May I?" asked Randall, and the guinea pig squashed back into a
furry ball. Then it elongated, grew and stretched into what Ripper
first thought was a large, slavering dog, its features a bit misty and
ill-defined. Randall grinned and the apparition coalesced more firmly
into what was definitely a wolf. It stalked behind Randall, its snout
coming to rest near Randall's ear, to stare malevolently at the
others.
"Your turn," said Randall to Ripper.
Ripper tried to grip the apparition with his mind. The wolf shape
became distorted, twisting and stretching like squeezed plasticine. He
concentrated, restoring the wolf's proportions and then fleshing them
out, making it larger. Its fur turned golden and its face cat-like. It
gave a low purr.
"Excellent," said Ethan. "Guinea pig, wolf, lion."
"It's a good lion," Randall said. "That's good work for a first
time with this spell."
"Rock, paper, scissors," said Ethan.
"Ethan--" said Dee, with a warning note in her voice.
"Your turn then," said Ripper to Ethan.
"Randall, he's going to--"
Suddenly, Dee and Randall, who had only loosely touched Ripper
before, seized his wrists tightly. "What are you--" he shouted, but
then the world exploded.
The lion ripped itself apart. Its fragments flapped and soared,
became a hundred birds: ravens, doves, robins, hummingbirds,
parrots. Ripper tried to lift his arms up to protect his face, tried
to scramble backwards away from the flock, but Dee and Randall held
him as tightly as they could, and his panic subsided long enough for
him to remember it was an illusion.
The birds slammed back into one another, reshaping. Its body
returned to that of a lion, but its head changed to that of an eagle
as its wings extended.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Ripper said.
Then it vanished and the lights came up, and Dee and Randall let
go of his wrists. The three of them sat upright while Ethan lay on his
back with his eyes closed. The room was filled with his strange,
barking laugh.
"You ever seen anything like that?" Randall asked Ripper, a note of
admiration in his voice.
Actually, Ripper had, but only under controlled conditions by
senior practitioners using superior equipment.
"How, how did you learn that?"
Ethan opened his eyes and sat up on his elbows. He raised an
eyebrow. "I think we need a two-way exchange of information here..."
"I, I learnt magic from my grandmother," said Ripper, which was
true in part, if very far from the whole truth.
"I've practised a long time," said Ethan. "It's really just
practice. And picking up tricks from others."
Ethan must be one of those natural mages he'd heard
of. Really, dear God.
"You said you weren't going to do that," said Dee, getting up to
stand over Ethan. "What if he'd injured himself or banged his head? Do
I need to remind you that Stan pissed himself the last time you tried
that sort of stunt?"
"Stan should know better," said Ethan. "And Ripper did just fine,
didn't you, Ripper?"
"That was remarkable," said Ripper, "and entirely unexpected."
"Yes, it was," said Ethan. "Let's drink to that."
Randall and Diedre were dancing in the candlelight to the music
from the demonic record-player. Randall was in his shirt-sleeves,
swaying in time to the music with his eyes closed. Diedre danced
actual steps, her long hair swaying behind her.
The fig vodka was long gone, so Ethan had moved on to Diedre's
stash of gin. He poured some more for Ripper as they sat together on
the floor. Ripper was still enthusing about the spell. It was almost
endearing.
"I mean, I know how to do basic castings by hand," Ripper was
saying. "Simple wards and chants and so on. And I can do ritual magic
if there are clear instructions. But the instantaneous transcendence
of a routine form is, is something I've simply never attempted."
Ethan badly wanted to kiss Ripper, but he didn't think this was
the right time. So he savoured the sensation of wanting, but did not
act on it.
"That was much better than the party's light show," said Ripper.
"Evelyn didn't have three other adepts to draw from," Ethan
said. "And she didn't want to cause a stampede."
They watched Diedre and Randall dance. Ethan poured more gin.
"You're very odd," Ethan said, after a while.
"What?"
"Most people use words of fewer syllables when they get drunk."
The comment seemed to annoy Ripper.
"Maybe I prefer you when you're drunk," Ethan said.
"I'm going downstairs now," said Ripper, "to Adrienne."
"Don't wake her," Ethan said. "She hates that."
With Ripper gone, Ethan got up to check that he was still capable
of walking upstairs. It seemed so, so he waved goodnight to Diedre and
Randall.
Up in his room, he pulled out the copy of Living Magicians!
and turned to the section he'd read that afternoon: "Eusapia
Ciccarello, born near Rome in 1898, has long been regarded as the
world's greatest exponent of ectoplasmic conjuration..."
"Hm," said Ethan, and fell asleep.
Ripper went for a walk around the neighbourhood the next day as it
wasn't an area he knew well. Most of the streets were like Adrienne's,
lined with terraces two or three stories high, each with steps down to
a basement and steps up to the main door, with everything behind black
metal railings. Other streets had newer blocks of flats. There was a
busy main street running northish to southish and a canal running
east-west to the north. He passed two or three tube stations and saw
plenty of buses. He also passed by pubs and clubs with good reps for
music. And he could walk to the park if he really wanted.
He found a spot near the busiest Tube station which looked good
for busking, so he went home to fetch his guitar. That way he could
get some practice in and maybe raise a couple of quid. He needed a bit
of cash for that night, as he'd invited Adrienne out for a pub meal
after work.
The weather wasn't too bad and he had a good collection of coins
in his guitar case after a couple of hours. Things started to pick up
as the rush hour came on, but he had to pack up then so he wouldn't be
late to meet Adrienne at the pub.
She'd gone there straight after work and was still in her shop
clothes when he met her. Her shop clothes turned out to be exactly the
same as her weekend clothes.
"What sort of shop is it?" he asked, as they settled into a
booth. The pub was fairly quiet this early on a week night.
"A bookshop," she said. "A radical political bookshop."
"Ethan said you were a communist."
Her nose wrinkled. "Ethan is sometimes wilfully ignorant. I'm a
dialectal materialist." She sipped a beer. "Will that worry you?"
"No," he said, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure what that
meant.
"How'd you get into music anyway?" she asked him.
Ripper recalled his room back at Oxford, with its cluttered desk
and heavy curtains. He remembered staring at the pages of a tome on
well-documented sub-species of werewolf, which sat on top of other
books on Byzantine despots and the politics of eighteenth century East
Asia. After three fruitless hours, at five a.m., he'd packed his bags.
He said to Adrienne, "I thought it was something I might be good
at."
"I don't play," she said, "but I really love it. I used to feel
guilty about how much I loved it. I used to think that I had to spend
every minute of the day working for a better world: at the bookshop,
handing out leaflets, writing letters and, I don't know, arguing with
random people on the street. Going on marches." She sighed. "But you
can't live like that. There's got to be something outside of that
which you love, to keep you going. For me, it's music.
"It's worthwhile," she said, "playing music. It's a good thing for
you to do."
"Thanks," he said, but it wasn't heartfelt.
"Is there a band playing here tonight?" she asked.
"Don't think so."
"Then I'm going to put something on that jukebox over there. Be
back in a sec."
Night had fallen and the pub was beginning to fill up. Ripper
moved his hand so that the mirrored ring scanned across the room, and
he immediately wished he hadn't. Sitting over on one of the other
tables was a woman without a reflection. She was deep in conversation
with a man in a suede jacket.
Ripper drank from his beer. What was he supposed to do? Confront
her? Go up to the man and say, "Sir, I believe you may be drinking
with a demon?" Go around behind her and hack at her head with a
dinner knife?
Adrienne stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the other
table. "Dance?" she said. She'd picked a song by The Who.
Dinner arrived as the song was ending. "How did things go last
night?" she asked.
He told her and she seemed faintly interested. He asked, "But you
don't do any magic?"
She shook her head.
"Why not?"
"I think it's a waste of time. You can't change the world with
magic, can you? I mean, not the world's real problems, like poverty or
prejudice. If you could, there'd be someone standing in Africa right
now making loaves and fishes. It's small-scale. It doesn't change the
system."
"It can be fun," Ripper said, thinking of the night before.
"Then it's like music. It's there to distract people long enough
that they can hope. But some people think it's an end in itself."
Ripper wanted to say that some of the world's ills could only be
fought with magic, but he didn't want to reveal quite how much he
knew. He glanced over at the vampire woman, who was still deep in
conversation.
"Could you excuse me a moment?" he asked Adrienne. "I think I see
someone I know."
He got up and walked over to the vampire's table. She and the man
she was talking to looked up as he approached.
Ripper looked at the vampire and swallowed. She would have
superhuman speed and superhuman strength. She said, "Can I help you?"
and Ripper heard the threat in it, the predator tone. Dear God, why
did no-one else hear that?
She had only to casually reach out her hand to crush his
windpipe. He had no stake, no holy water, and, he thought bitterly, no
courage at all.
"I'm sorry," he stammered, "I thought you were somebody else."
The vampire resumed her conversation and Ripper went back to his
seat, where he held his head in his hands.
"Not feeling well?" asked Adrienne.
"Tired," he said. "I really was up very late last night."
She touched his hand. "Then we'll go home soon, get an early
night."
By the the time they left, there was no sign of either the vampire
or her prey.
Diedre had made them all something she called vegetable
stew. Diedre was the least worst cook of all of them, but that wasn't
saying much. Supposedly she excelled at jam. Ethan wondered if he
ought to learn how to cook: it couldn't be that difficult.
They were all in the kitchen, sitting on chairs and eating from
bowls in their laps. Tom was wolfing his down so that he could get
back to his studies. Randall, Diedre, Stan and Ethan were chewing a
little more slowly. It wasn't that it tasted bad, it was that it
didn't taste of anything much at all. Ethan got up to find something
to put through it.
"What's the best way for me to make some money?" Ethan asked. "I
need about fifty quid."
Stan opened his mouth, so Ethan said, "I'm not working for you,
Stan."
"I wasn't going to say that," Stan said. "I was going to suggest
stealing cars. They're easy to nick and you can sell them off for
spare parts if you know the right people."
"Then why don't people do that more often?"
Stan shrugged. "Beats me," he said.
"What do you want fifty pounds for?" asked Diedre. "Do you want
to buy a car?"
"No," he said, finding some curry powder and spooning it through
his stew. "It's Terry. He's selling proper magic books now."
"I could lend it to you, if you need it," said Diedre.
"No!" spluttered Tom. "Dee--"
"I don't want to borrow money, I want to make money," said
Ethan. "In the longer term, I would like to buy more than one book."
"Expensive hobby, sounds like," said Stan.
"Couldn't you do, you know, something magic?" asked Diedre.
"Light shows at festivals," said Randall.
"You know how to unlock doors, don't you?" said Stan. "I've seen
you do it. Cat burglar."
"Don't be silly," said Randall, "only demons buy cats."
"Demons buy cats?" asked Stan.
"They eat kittens," Ethan said. "Or some of them do."
Stan looked quite ill. "Kittens?"
"Yes," said Ethan, "little ickle kittens."
"Why don't they breed them then?" asked Diedre. "Why aren't there
giant kitten farms run by demons?"
"I heard," said Randall, "it's because cats don't like
demons. They don't breed anywhere near them."
"Then the demons should spend all their time at the Cat and Dog
Home," said Diedre.
"Or hanging out by the canal looking for little mewling bags."
"Look," said Stan, "I can't eat while we're talking about this."
"I'm done," said Tom, standing. "I'll see you later, Dee."
"Don't work too hard," she said, leaning her head up so he could
kiss her.
Adrienne and Ripper came back then. Adrienne said, "Ripper's not
feeling well," and it was true, he did look a little green around the
gills. "I'm going to make us some tea and then we're going straight to
bed. Does anyone else want something while I'm boiling the kettle?"
"I'll have some tea," said Ethan. Ripper was pulling himself up to
sit on the kitchen countertop, resting the back of his head against a
cupboard and keeping his eyes closed.
"Ethan wants to know where he should steal fifty pounds from,"
said Diedre.
"The rich, obviously," said Adrienne.
"That's from whom, not from where," said Randall.
"Banks, then, and other usurers and parasites in the City."
"Ethan wants to steal what?" asked Ripper.
"Diedre, you are the opposite of helpful," Ethan said.
"Help-less?"
"Help-free. You are the Anti-Help."
"No, seriously," said Adrienne, as she came over with cups of tea
for Ethan and Ripper, "do you need money, Ethan?"
"'Need' is too strong a term at the moment."
"Well, I know someone who might want your help. Shall I ask him?"
"What kind of help?" asked Ethan, warily.
"To unlock a few doors and thereby take up arms against tyranny,"
Adrienne said.
Ethan saw that Ripper laughed weakly around his tea-mug. That
would be because he thought Adrienne was joking.
But Ethan knew her better than that.
The next day, Dee and Randall took Ripper out for a meal. They
caught the Tube down to Leicester Square and walked to a small
ratty-looking coffee house near Covent Garden which nevertheless served
a decent high tea. They sat at an outdoor table, watching the tourists
watching them.
Randall insisted on paying for everything, which made Ripper feel
as if he were being courted. Perhaps also, it was the odd formality of
his companions' clothing: they were in full regalia, Dee in a long
pink cardigan and white dress with a boa draped around her, and
Randall in another of his long antique military-style coats. Ripper
felt defiantly scruffy next to them in his jeans and leather
jacket. He ate his cucumber sandwiches in a deliberately uncouth
manner and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"We just wanted to thank you," Dee said, "for joining our game the
other night."
"Fact is," said Randall, "we were impressed." He looked to Dee,
who nodded emphatically. "And Adrienne told us you might be looking for
a permanent place to stay."
"So we just wanted to let you know," said Dee, "that you're
welcome to stay on as long as you like."
Ripper bit into Victoria sponge. "What's the rent?"
Dee and Randall laughed, but quietly and fairly politely. "Oh,
none of us pay rent," said Dee.
"But we do ask," said Randall, "that we each put cash into the
household kitty sometimes, for bills and liquor and to keep us in
good cheer. But it's... What's the phrase?"
"From each according to his ability, to each according to his
need," said Dee.
"So while you're looking for your big break, we'll take it easy."
"But when you make it, it'll be your round," Dee said.
Ripper leant back on his chair, stretching his legs out over the
pavement. Pigeons pecked around his feet. Across the street, an old
lady was having trouble with the door of a hairdresser's. There was a
man standing nearby at the bus-stop, but he didn't move to help.
"You've only known me a week," Ripper said. "Are you sure?"
"We're confident of our judgement of character," Randall
said.
The man at the bus-stop had been on the Tube with them from
Camden. He must have followed them for streets. Ripper wondered when
the surveillance had returned. Why couldn't they just leave him alone?
Randall said, "What do you say?"
"I'm in," said Ripper.
Randall reached out to give him a vigourous handshake. "Welcome
aboard."
Ethan spent the day practising spells to lock and unlock doors. He
could do the household locks easily -- indeed, he seldom used his keys
any more -- so instead he wandered around the neighbourhood, looking
for things he could surreptitiously tamper with. Car doors and
postboxes weren't any problem. A back door to a Post Office opened at
his touch. Standing on the a railway platform, he managed to unlock
the briefcase of the besuited man standing next to him. But he was not
made sanguine by these small triumphs: if this was all that was
needed, wouldn't a standard locksmith do? What would Adrienne's friend
want?
He headed home a little after the time when she'd usually be back
from dinner, but she wasn't there. He wanted to know whether she had a
job for him at all. He checked the kitchen and her room, the drawing
room and the attic.
"If you're looking for Adrienne," said Diedre, who was sitting
reading in the attic, "she's gone out. Her man in a band is playing
tonight."
"I thought that was Thursday," Ethan said.
"It is Thursday," she said. "And Ethan? He's agreed to stay
here. We'll have an extra for spellcasting now."
"Well," he said, "that's good. And where is he playing tonight?"
Ethan knew The Cap, if only by reputation. It was only a few
streets away, but it wasn't their local, so he seldom had any
reason to be there. There was a poster up outside: "Tonight - Wave
Two". The pub looked pretty busy inside and, bugger it, there was a
cover charge. He did a trick with some coins and came away with more
than he started with. He looked through the crowd, found Adrienne at a
table near the front, and went to buy both of them beer. She smiled in
thanks as he sat down next to her.
"How are they?" he asked when the band paused for the
interval. "Any good?"
"The drummer's good, Ripper's good and the bass guitarist is
OK. Their covers are great. But their original songs?" She shook her
head. "They need some better song-writing."
"So the verdict is?"
"Good for weddings and pubs," she said.
"Ah," he said.
"You'll want to know about the job," she said. She slipped him a
piece of paper with a telephone number on it.
"What do they want me to do?"
"Open a few doors. It's not top-security or anything. Just a
government building."
"Should I know what it's for?"
"They want some documents on money that may have been transferred
between the Home Office and a local firm that we think is a front for
the South African government. You unlock the doors and then you get
out."
"And if I decide not to call them?"
"Then they don't know your name or how to contact you, except
through me. And I trust these people, Ethan. They're doing the right
thing."
"I'll try to feel reassured," he said.
"Fifty pounds up front and fifty pounds if they get the
documents."
"Right," he said. That was more than he'd hoped for.
The band came back on stage, holding half-drunk glasses of
beer. Adrienne waved at Ripper, who waved back.
"You should stay for the rest of the show," she said.
"No, I'll get going. I haven't had anything to eat."
"Oh, Ethan? These people don't believe in magic, so take a
screwdriver with you or something."
"Fantastic," he said. "So I'll be carrying around my bag of beads
and candles for the hell of it?"
She made some sort of reply, but a guitar chord drowned it
out. Ethan glanced up at Ripper, shook his head, and went home.
Ripper glanced over at Gary, who gave a nod. One, two, three,
four-- and then Ripper went into the final chorus. Jim was going
strong on the drums behind him, and Gary wasn't yet so tired that he
was dropping notes, which he sometimes did. Ripper didn't have to
think about the chords or the words any more, he just played and
sang.
"Goodnight everyone," he said finally. "We're Wave Two."
He could see Adrienne clapping wildly from near the front. He gave
a quick bow and then went offstage with Gary and Jim. There wasn't a
backstage to go into, just a back corridor that led through to the
kitchen and then back out to the bar.
"God, I'm parched," Ripper said.
"I thought that went all right," said Gary. "I got a little fumbly
in Waterloo Sunset but I came good later."
"Do we have to keep that one in the set?" asked Ripper.
"Crowd pleaser," Gary said. "Audience loves it. It's Cygnet
Committee we should drop. Makes no sense and too long by half."
Jim was oddly silent. When Ripper first arrived, hours ago, for
the setup, Jim had been visibly nervous and it had taken Ripper a
while to remember why -- that stupid fight on Sunday and Jim asking
him to leave the flat. Ripper had said to reassure him, "Found a
great new place near here," and Jim had nodded and looked a
little more comfortable.
Ripper went to pick up some beers from the bar and then took Gary and
Jim to meet Adrienne. She'd dressed for the part tonight, in a low top
and a short skirt that showed off her thighs. Ripper hadn't even known
she owned a skirt. But he couldn't help thinking that she was also
taking the mickey slightly.
She extended her hand to Jim. "I'm Ripper's new girl," she
said.
"Fast work," said Gary, under his breath.
They all pulled up seats next to Adrienne, who crossed her legs
and smiled.
"How was it from the front stalls?" Jim asked her.
"Very loud," she said.
"Good crowd," said Gary. He rubbed his fingers together to
indicate money.
"Flat fee," said Jim. "No share of the takings tonight."
Gary grumbled.
"You're a good drummer," Adrienne said.
"Thanks," said Jim.
"So when and where next, then?" asked Ripper.
"Jesus, Ripper," said Gary. "We only just finished this one."
"Have to know where my next drink's coming from."
Jim put his beer down. "It might be a while," he said.
Adrienne glanced around the table and then stood up. "I'm going to
powder my nose," she said.
That left Gary and Ripper sitting there, staring at Jim.
"I've got to take a break," said Jim. "Alison's going to need help
with the baby."
Ripper put his beer down too. "You can't do this," he said.
"Put an ad in the paper for a temporary drummer, that's all."
"What sort of tosh are we going to get out of that?" He could feel
the anger rising in him. He had to close his eyes and breathe slowly.
"A temporary drummer," Jim said. "I'm taking a few months off
because I can't work my day job, be in the band and have a new baby in
the house all the same time. I'm not going to be doing anyone any
good that tired."
"Get your mother-in-law to come and help," said Ripper.
"No, I want to help Alison, I want to be home for my
kid, I want to take a break from the band."
Ripper stood up.
"What are you going to do, Ripper?" Jim said evenly.
Ripper forced himself to breathe. In-and-out, in-and-out. He could
hear Gary saying, "You're giving up, Jim."
"Not giving up," said Jim, "growing up. I've got a perfectly good
job at the post office. What kind of job is a drummer?"
"So what do you think the rest of us are doing?" Ripper asked,
in a voice that was very low and quiet. "Do you think we're just
playing games?"
"I think," said Jim, "that we have different priorities right
now."
Adrienne came back then. She saw Ripper standing and came and took
his arm.
"I'll call you in a few months," said Jim.
"I don't have a phone."
Adrienne found a napkin and wrote her address on it. She handed it
to Jim.
"Let's go home now," she said to Ripper.
"Yes," said Ripper, "let's."
Ethan didn't go straight home from the gig at the pub. Instead he
walked down to Euston Station and found a telephone. He stood there
for a minute, trying to calm himself down and hoping that he wouldn't
be spotted by anyone he knew. Then he dialled the number Adrienne had
given him.
The phone on the other end rang out five times and Ethan began to
wonder if anyone would answer. Then someone picked up and said,
"Hello?" in a South African accent.
"I was given your number," said Ethan, as evenly as he could. "I'm
a friend of--"
"We know who you're a friend of," said the voice. "Are you willing
to help?"
"Yes," he said, "for the terms offered."
"Good. Can you meet me tomorrow at eleven thirty? Opposite the
shop?"
"Yes," he said, thinking crazily for a moment that the speaker
meant Terry's magic shop. He must mean Adrienne's work.
"Then I'll see you there. Dress for the office." The speaker hung
up.
Ethan put down the phone and found that his hands were
sweating. He felt slightly faint and also a little ridiculous. He
really should get something to eat, but he was too nauseous to look
for anything close to the station.
He went home and cooked some sausages on the grill, cutting them
up to put through the remains of Diedre's stew. Then he went upstairs
to see Randall.
Randall was in the drawing room. He was drawing, appropriately
enough. Large expansive curves on butcher's paper, quite unlike his
usual style at all.
Ethan sat down nearby and ate his stew. Eventually, Randall
sniffed the air and turned around.
"Are those sausages?" He came over to pick a chunk out of Ethan's
bowl.
"There's more downstairs," said Ethan, "on the griller. But I want
to ask you a question first."
"What's that?"
"Do you have a suit I could borrow?"
Adrienne held his arm on the walk home. She didn't say anything
for streets. Then, just as they reached the last corner before the
house, she turned to face him.
She said, "You're angry now, Ripper, but tomorrow you'll see this
was a good thing. You've got a good voice and you'll do better on your
own. They weren't the right band for you."
"You're right," he said, "I am angry."
She let go of his arm and walked ahead of him after that.
They got to the back of the house and as Adrienne opened the back
door, he heard a sudden scream. He dashed forward, but all he found
was Dee waving excitedly at Adrienne. The kitchen smelt of
sausages.
"Rock chick!" Dee was screaming. Adrienne did a twirl in her
outfit and then the girls collapsed with laughter.
"What?" said Ripper. He was not sure that this improved his mood.
"Rock chick!" Dee said again, pointing at Adrienne. She seemed
incapable of saying anything else.
Adrienne tried to regain her composure. "Sorry, old joke. Back at
school, Diedre was going to grow up to the Lady, and I was going to
be the--"
"Rock chick!" said Dee.
Ripper felt as he were perhaps the butt of someone else's joke. He
made his expression as surly as possible and went to carry his guitar
upstairs.
"Your man in a band," said Dee.
And then Ripper could just make out, from behind him, Adrienne
saying, "Well, actually, I think they just broke up."
"How rock and roll!" Dee said.
Randall was on the first floor landing, smoking a cigarette,
standing next to the (closed) bathroom door. He nodded as Ripper
passed by.
Ripper dropped his guitar in his room without turning on the
lights. It was colder up here than it had been outside. He kicked the
wall of the room a few times, until he started to feel it through his
boots.
When he went back downstairs, he found that Ethan had joined
Randall on the landing. He was wearing a dark suit that was a
little too loose around the shoulders and far too short in the legs.
"Doesn't fit you," Ripper said.
"Thank you," said Ethan, "I'm aware." He looked Ripper up and
down. "I don't suppose you have a pair of dark trousers you could lend
me?"
Rising up from below came twin soprano voices singing "With a
Little Help from My Friends".
The Action Now bookshop was one street west of the high street and
opposite a fishmongers. At eleven-thirty a.m. precisely, Ethan stood
outside the fish shop, as if considering the relative merits of lemon
sole versus cod. He was wearing Randall's jacket, Ripper's trousers,
and his own shirt and shoes. He had decided against a tie. He was
fairly certain that some people in offices no longer wore ties.
A man in a suit came up next to him, to look over the kippers and
smoked trout. He said, "You're on time, good," and it was the same
South African voice that Ethan had spoken to last night on the
phone. The man was coarse-featured, shorter than Ethan, and quite
thin. The man said, "Go east around the corner and find the blue
sedan. The passenger door is unlocked. I'll be there in two minutes."
Ethan nodded and then did as he was bid. He walked past a barber's
and the chemist's on the corner. He found a dark blue car and got
in. Then he sat there, breathing shallowly, wondering why Adrienne
hadn't mentioned a car.
The man appeared and got in on the driver's side. He shook Ethan's
hand. "Thank you for helping our cause," he said.
Ethan wanted to nod and look sincere, but he knew his face didn't
do "sincere" very well. Diedre had pointed this out to him not long
after they had met, dragging him to a mirror so that he could see
first-hand how he looked when he thought he was the very soul of
sincerity. Whether it was the face he was born with, or what he had
done with it since, he didn't know. But he aimed instead at an
expression he thought he could manage, which was "mildly bored".
He wetted his lips. "There was money up front," he said.
"Of course," said the man. From his wallet he drew out a fifty
pound note and handed it to Ethan. Ethan suddenly felt foolish. What
was he going to do with it now? There was nowhere for him to keep it
except with himself. If they were caught, he'd be found with it, a huge and
obviously criminal sum.
He saw the South African giving him a sidelong look. "What?" Ethan
asked.
The man shook his head. "You're just younger than I expected."
He started the car then and took them through a u-turn back
towards the high street. Ethan wasn't sure whether he was supposed to
know where they were going, or whether he should ask. At least no-one
had tried to blindfold him.
The man said, "All these precautions are probably not needed
here," he said. "But I learnt to be careful, back home."
Ethan nodded, as if he knew what the man meant. Then he saw the
man's fingers on his left hand. Two of them ended with
knuckle-joints. A third seemed permanently twisted and without a nail.
"In the glove compartment," the man said, "there's a map."
The map was nothing more than a few pencilled lines on the back of
an envelope. Ethan studied it as the man said, "We go in a
side door and up the emergency stairs. On the second floor, we take
the corridor on our right. They'll be a door marked 'Storage' and we
go in there."
"How many locked doors?" asked Ethan, glad to have something to
talk about.
"Three."
"Do we know what kind of locks?"
"Nothing unusual. It's not top security, but we've had trouble
finding someone in the department to pass us the documents."
Ethan wondered what "nothing unusual" meant as the South African
took them in the rough direction of Whitehall. Then he took a sudden
right and parked outside a lawyer's office.
"Put the map back in the glove compartment and take everything you
brought with you," the man said. "You won't be coming back to this
car."
They walked the final mile to an anonymous-looking brown office
block. The South African was carrying a clipboard. On the clipboard was
a piece of paper with a government department stamp and a series of
illegible, inked lines.
They followed a gravel path around a corner to an unmarked door in
the wall. "First door," said the man, as he adopted a scowl and an air
of impatience, as if he were wondering why Ethan was fumbling the
keys. Instead Ethan was reaching into his pocket for a birthday
candle, a lump of quartz and a cigarette lighter. He angled himself so
that the man couldn't see the tools he was using. Then he blanked out
for a terrifying couple of seconds until he remembered the truncated
chant.
The door unlocked. Ethan pinched the candleflame out and put his
toy kit back in his pocket.
Inside was a dingy concrete stairwell. They stopped two stories
up. There was no-one else in the stairwell with them to accidentally
see.
"I'm faster when you don't watch me," Ethan said, and the South
African helpfully took the hint by looking back down the
stairwell. Ethan had the door unlocked almost instantly.
"Two down," he said.
The corridor was wood-panelled. Many doors opened from it, each with
a pane of frosted glass and a black name label. There were many people
walking around, carrying lunchboxes, purses or wallets. There was office
chatter and the sound of a few persistent typewriters.
They reached the door marked "Storage". The South African stood
behind Ethan, pantomiming impatience again, as Ethan attended to the
door. Flame, candle, chant -- in.
The room was full of steel filing cabinets. There was a woman at
the other end, squatting in sensible shoes next to an open drawer. She
wasn't paying them any attention yet.
The South African motioned towards a filing cabinet marked
"D". Ethan looked at him blankly; wasn't his job done? But no, the man
wanted him to open the filing cabinet. Of course he did, that's what
offices have, filing cabinets, and this would surely have been obvious
to Ethan if he'd ever set foot in an office in the past five
years. They were there to steal documents and documents were stored in
filing cabinets.
Ethan had never unlocked one. He couldn't visualise their locking
mechanism. Was it more like a door or a briefcase or was it something
else instead? Seconds were passing, it was getting awkward, surely the
woman was going to notice them?
He made himself pause and close his eyes. He reached inwards and
outwards of himself for the long, low note, for the music which was
always there. The sensation of connection, of unity, of the awareness
that made everything transparent and malleable.
The filing cabinet unlocked.
Ethan went to look through the frosted glass window as the South
African looked through the drawer. Ethan could see all the dim
silhouettes of office workers going out for their lunch.
They went out the way they came in. The South African was now
clutching several thick manila folders to his clipboard. When they
reached the street, they went in a direction away from the car.
When they reached a Tube station, the man passed him a plain
envelope and then dashed ahead, down the stairs into the station,
without looking behind. Ethan looked in the envelope and there was the
second fifty pound note.
He walked down to a platform and sat on a bench with his eyes
closed for half an hour, hardly able to believe that it was done. The
clocks had said when he arrived that it was one o'clock. Ninety
minutes, he thought, and a hundred pounds. The two fifties weren't the
crisp, clean, virgin notes that he'd imagined, but seemed to be good
currency. And they were more money than he'd seen in one place in
years.
Trains and crowds of people came and went. Eventually he realised
that he was on the wrong platform and got up to go to another. He
changed trains at Holborn and soon he was walking his home streets.
He went to Terry's. In the curtained back room, he drew out the
two fifties and placed them on the counter. Terry's face registered no
surprise, but Ethan thought he moved with an extra note of
respect. Terry nodded once and then opened a cupboard door, drawing
out three books for Ethan's inspection.
Ethan looked at each of them in turn, as if he were considering
their relative merits. But in truth, there was only one he really
wanted. "I'll take this one," he said.
It was sixty pounds, a fantastic sum of money. But he left the
shop clutching his book and with forty quid still in pocket.
They took Ripper to their local that night. He supposed they
wanted to make him feel better after the band's temporary breakup. On
the other hand, maybe they did this every Friday night.
Ethan shouted them the first couple of rounds. Adrienne left soon
after that, to go to some political meeting or other. Then it was
Randall's round, then Dee's, and finally Ripper decided it was
probably his turn. By then Stan had gone, and Tom, so it was just four
of them staring at the empty pint and gin glasses on the table: Ethan,
Randall, Dee and Ripper.
Randall was telling some story about California when Ripper came
back with the drinks. Ripper only caught the end of it, something
about stampeding bison in Golden Gate Park.
"So how come you're in London?" Ripper asked him.
Randall took his pint. "Well, my parents moved here. They weren't
happy with the crowd I was with back home and they hoped a year in a
good school far away would straighten me out. So my dad took a job
here."
"Randall's father's a top surgeon," Dee said.
"But my friends back in the Haight knew some people in London and
put me in touch. So I fell in with the same kind of crowd here. It
doesn't matter where you are, so long as you're with your people, you
know? And I know when I meet my people."
"I met Randall shortly after I moved here," said Ethan. "We shared
this terrible bedsit in Cricklewood. Bloody miles from anywhere."
"Oh, it was horrible. I couldn't believe it when I first went to
visit," said Dee. "Mold everywhere and you had to go down a corridor
and then down some stairs for the bathroom and you had to share that
with total strangers. I said there was no way I was moving into that."
"You couldn't have moved into it anyway," said Ethan. "It was the
size of a postage stamp."
"More the size of this booth," said Randall, to Ripper.
"So I asked Adrienne," said Dee, "who was my friend from school--"
"I know," said Ripper, tiredly.
"Where would there be a good place for us to live. And she found
us our house."
"Terrific, isn't it?" said Randall.
"Who owns it?" Ripper asked.
"Absentee landlord," said Dee. "Lives in Qatar. It's completely
legal for us to squat. Adrienne checked it all."
"English law," said Randall, appreciatively.
"Whose round is it now?" Ethan asked. "Mine again?"
"You're flush tonight," said Dee. "Helped Adrienne's friend out,
did you?"
Ethan grinned. He was still in his cobbled-together suit. If he
got any drunker he'd be spilling best bitter over Ripper's only good
pair of trousers. Ripper watched him carefully as he brought back
another tray from the bar.
"So tell us about your grandmother then," said Ethan, as he passed
Ripper his beer.
"Well," said Ripper, considering. "She was a very brave and very
kind woman. She--"
"Tell us about her magic, I mean," Ethan said. "How did she learn
it?"
"Well, it runs in my family, I suppose," said Ripper. He was
trying to be careful, despite the volume of alcohol he'd now
consumed. "She taught me -- the basics of ritual magic, some wards,
that kind of thing."
"Did she teach you directly, or did she have books?"
"Both," said Ripper. "We did have quite a lot of books."
"Do you still have them?"
Ripper looked at Ethan warily. "No. They were, ah, passed on to
some other members of the family."
"How disappointing for you," Ethan said, "to have lost that."
"No," said Ripper, "no. I have a good memory. I still remember
most of it."
"Then I look forward," said Ethan, "to getting it all out of your
head."
"Or as much as you feel comfortable with," said Dee.
Randall laughed. "It hardly hurts at all."
Ripper took the bus back from the hotel, carrying his guitar
case. The bus wasn't busy: it was too late for people going home from
lunch and too early for the schoolkids. He found a double seat, sat
across it, and had a cigarette.
Dee had found him the job. Dee, of all people, whose sole
conception of music since Beethoven was "can dance to it" or "can't
dance to it", which was the only way she could distinguish between
"Helter Skelter" and "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun". But
someone in Dee's family knew someone who owned a hotel whose lunchtime
pianist had run off with the wife of the maître d'. Would an acoustic
guitarist be considered as a replacement? So now Ripper was playing
anodyne hits of the Fifties and Sixties from Wednesday to Saturday,
with a set list that the hotel manager routinely scrubbed of anything
interesting. But it was an all right job: it would tide him over.
He stepped off the bus into misting rain, a block from the
house. He thought the squat would tide him over too.
It was not clean and it was not warm. He'd mopped his room's
floor, but the dirt did not seem to shift and splashes left grey streaks
on the walls. The electricity ran some days and not others, and the
hot water frequently wasn't. He could sit at the bottom of the
stairwell, smoking a cigarette, watching the ceiling paint drift like
dandruff to the floor as mice ran through the hallway.
But he could do anything he wanted. He could get up at any hour of
the day. He could read or not read, he could play guitar or stare at
the wall. He could spend the whole day drunk if he wanted. He could do
anything or go anywhere he liked, if he had enough cash in hand, and
wasn't going to be late for work.
His housemates though had surprised him by being
stick-in-the-muds. He'd thought a squat would be chaotic, with people
coming and going, parties and noise, and girls passed out on sofas,
but no. Weekday afternoons, for example, were always the same: Stan
out, Adrienne at work, and Tom at university. Dee would be up in the
attic, asleep with an opened book on her chest. Randall would be
painting the upstairs landing and Ethan would be casting spells in the
drawing room. Thoroughly predictable, the lot of them.
He'd go out this afternoon, he thought. He'd live it up. No reason
for him not to. He'd had enough quiet days and he was through with
them. He had the whole of London before him.
But first he went to see what the others were doing.
He found Ethan in the drawing room, sitting in the exactly same
spot he'd been in when they'd first met, and wearing the same sandals
and jeans. He had the same intent expression as he laid out the spell
components, and he was just as oblivious to the movements of others.
Randall was there too, sitting inside his own circle of sorts, with
a scrapbook and copies of The News of the World surrounding
him. He had scissors and a pot of glue. He asked Ripper, "How was
work?"
"All right," Ripper said.
So there was nothing happening here, again. He should head
out. Only there was something wrong with Ethan's set-up, even if
Ripper wasn't sure what.
Today Ethan was working with Spivak's Compendium, a volume
Ripper knew only by reputation, but which was probably suitable for
someone at Ethan's level. The spell involved cards laid out three by
three within a rectangle with corners marked out by small
stones. Ethan scattered a pinch of sand over their backs and muttered
a chant.
Ethan suddenly looked up. "Pick a card, any card," he said.
Ripper pointed at one.
"Turn it over."
Ripper did so. It was an ace of spades.
"Now pick another card."
This one was also the ace of spades. So was a third. And a fourth.
"Is that what the spell's supposed to do?" asked Ripper.
"Now pick one up and remove it from the circle."
Ripper took the first of his upturned cards. As soon as it left
the marked-out space, it flickered into a two of diamonds.
"Dammit," said Ethan. "I can't get the bastards to hold their
shape." He rubbed at his forehead, looking tired.
Could be the chant, Ripper thought. Or the kind of sand or the
alignment of the cards.
"Doesn't sound much like a useful spell," Randall said. "Or a
fun one. Can't you skip it?"
"It's an exercise," said Ethan. "It's not supposed to be either
useful or fun."
It could be due to a lack of concentration of Ethan's part, Ripper
thought, although, in all honesty, that seemed unlikely. The kind of
stones?
"Then skip it," said Randall. He turned a page of his newspaper
and laughed. "Poltergeist of Brighton Pier! Part-time model June
Guthrie was..."
"Put it in the scrapbook," said Ethan.
"That's what I'm doing. Say, did you ever find out more about that
woman you were looking for in the scrapbooks?"
"Turned out to be a dead end," Ethan said. "She died twenty years
ago." He glanced over at Ripper. "Do you see anything wrong?"
"Well," Ripper said, but Dee came in then, saying, "Oh for
God's sake, Ethan, are you still playing with those bloody cards?"
"It's not playing, it's practice."
"Can't you do something fun? Can't we? It's been ages since we did
some fun magic."
"I whole-heartedly endorse her sentiment," Randall said.
"All right, all right," Ethan said. "I'll try and think of
something."
"Good," she said. "And now Randall and I are going out to see a
film."
"A film?" asked Ripper. So they might actually be doing something
different this afternoon.
"Theatre of Blood. It has Vincent Price and Diana Rigg in
drag. Want to come?"
"Er, no," said Ripper.
"No," said Ethan.
"Suit yourselves." She kissed the top of Randall's head. "Let's
go, dear."
"So what's wrong with the spell?" Ethan asked again, as soon as
Dee and Randall were out of the room.
"It's the stones," said Ripper. "The sandstone won't project the
spell outside the rectangle. You should use quartz."
"Quartz," said Ethan.
"Or something else highly crystalline. Gypsum or halite, even."
"You know this, or you're guessing?"
"I know this," Ripper said.
Downstairs, the kitchen door slammed shut. Ripper could hear
Randall and Dee heading out the back gate. The rest of the house was
quiet. There were just the sound of Ethan's jeans sliding over the
floor as he stretched his legs out, and the small cracklings of the
cards as they were picked up and shuffled. Ripper realised that they
were the only people left in the house: that was unprecedented. Tom
and Adrienne wouldn't be back for a couple of hours.
He watched Ethan's hair swing over a shoulder as he lent over to
sweep sand into an envelope, and thought that he looked a very little
bit like David Gilmour. Any moment now, Ethan might turn around to say
something mildly suggestive and Ripper would have to think of a
reply. Ripper reminded himself that he was neither naive nor, as it
happened, completely inexperienced, but that he had to think of
Adrienne.
So Ripper said, "We could find you some quartz."
"Yes," said Ethan, suddenly cheerful. "There must be some sort of
mineral tat shop somewhere."
"I know a place," said Ripper. "It's south of the river, near
where I used to live. It's rather 'Age of Aquarius', but it would have
what you need."
"Well, excellent," said Ethan. "We'll go now, unless you have
something more pressing?"
Ripper fetched his jacket.
On the Tube he had a sidelong look at his fellow passengers,
trying to memorise their faces so that he could recognise them again
later on in case he was still being followed. Perhaps he should have
taken the car instead.
"So, what were the main books you learnt from?" asked Ethan.
"Oh, this little primer my... grandmother put together," said
Ripper. "And then Kreyszig's Introduction. And I had access to
Stegun and Abramowitz's Handbook of Applied Magic for a while
but I didn't really understand much of it at the time. You?"
"I had this old handwritten thing," said Ethan, "and I worked out
some of it myself. Randall brought over a copy of Morse and this
translated Ogata. And I've traded here and there for individual spells
and techniques."
"Traded?" asked Ripper.
"Yes," said Ethan.
"I thought sorcerers were, well, apprenticed."
"Oh, Evelyn asked me, but I turned her down. I'm not very
interested in her speciality."
"Which is sex magic."
"Yes," said Ethan.
"Right."
"It's just hard to imagine it being useful in an emergency."
New Dawn Bookshop and Gifts wasn't far from where Jim and Alison
lived. It was a long and narrow little store sandwiched between an
antiques dealer and an Oxfam shop. Ripper had checked it out a couple
of times to see what it had, but this wasn't his game anymore. It had
the usual incense, candles, bongs, and dragon statuettes. There were
fake Celtic bangles and posters of Hawkwind. None of this seemed to
perturb Ethan, who looked keen-eyed around the room, with his head
slightly tilted as if he were listening for a sound. Then he ambled
along the aisle, picking up all sorts of complete rubbish.
The only other customer was a middle-aged woman in a long floral
skirt. Ethan looked her over too but then shook his head. "No-one I
know," he said. "And I don't recognise our proprietress either."
They reached the table that was laid out with crystals of various
sorts. "What do you think?" Ethan asked him.
Ripper picked out some unassuming but effective looking pieces of
quartz, feeling rather self-conscious about it. Ethan looked like he
belonged in the shop, with his collar-length hair and second-hand
clothing, but Ripper didn't. Ripper thought he must look like the sort
of person who would only go into a place like this in order to
shoplift. He vaguely considered doing so. Ethan though, had moved on
and was inspecting a moon-shaped candelabra.
Ripper caught up with him at the bargain bin. "Look at that
candle-holder," said Ethan. "It's the only genuinely magical thing in
this shop."
"You can just tell, can you?" asked Ripper.
"Yes," said Ethan, very matter-of-factly. "I haven't the faintest
idea what it is though."
Ripper did. In fact, it rather astonished him that one of his old
exam questions was turning out to be actually useful. "It's for
warding off scryers," he said. It was slightly chipped and was going
for fifty pence. Ripper wondered if the chip would make any difference
to its efficacy.
"Well now," said Ethan, "aren't you full of interesting
information? I'm not sure if I need it though."
"I'll buy it," said Ripper. "You take these," and handed him the
quartz.
Ethan wanted to go to the pub after that, so they could avoid the
worst of the rush-hour crush on the Tube. He found them a booth in The
Saracen's Head and they sat opposite each other with their beers.
"This can't be where you're from originally," said Ethan, meaning
south London. "You don't have the accent."
"Right," said Ripper, warily.
"So where are you from then?"
"Here and there."
"So we're back to that again, are we?"
"Where're you from then?" asked Ripper.
"There and here," said Ethan.
They lapsed into a pointed silence.
Ripper fished around for a less charged topic. "What about Dee?"
"Oh, she's pure Home Counties," said Ethan. "You can call her
Diedre, by the way. It's her actual name." He reflected. "Not that
you use yours, I suppose."
Ripper was quite keen to steer him off that topic too. "How'd she
come to stay with you?"
"Paul," said Ethan, "one of Randall's older brothers. He and
Diedre got engaged and Randall went home for the engagement party,
because this is about the time when he and his family were almost
reconciled. But what you have to know is that Diedre's family are
mostly solicitors, and Randall's family are mostly doctors. They have
their eccentricities, but you can imagine the party was quite staid--"
"You've met them?" asked Ripper. "Their famillies?" wondering what
they'd made of Ethan.
"Oh yes," Ethan said, "several times. But then Randall shows up,
dressed as he does as if he's from another world. And Diedre takes
one look and decides that Randall's world is much more interesting
than hers. So she runs off with Randall. The first I know of it is
when this woman in an A-line skirt and pearls shows up at our flat,
which wasn't big enough to swing a rat in."
"She's not still with Randall though," said Ripper.
"No," said Ethan, "well."
The conversation shut off again, like a tap.
After a while, Ethan managed, "How are you going then, looking for
a new band?"
"I'm going to meet some people on Sunday," said Ripper.
"Right," said Ethan. After that they decided it was probably time
to head home.
Outside the pub, though, Ripper bumped into Jim. There was a wary
moment when Ripper considered punching him out for breaking up the
band. But it didn't look fair: Jim looked exhausted.
"Alison's had the kid then?" Ripper asked.
Jim nodded. A boy, it turned out, seven pounds, here's the photo
(it looked ugly and pink-faced). Ripper remembered to ask after its
name. Jim said, they'd thought Donald at first, but that hadn't seemed
right for him, so they'd gone for Stephen. Stephen Donald Cox. And how
was Ripper these days? So Ripper told him about the hotel gig and how
terrible it was. He didn't say, and it's your fault I have to be
there.
Ripper looked around, thinking he'd have to introduce Jim to Ethan,
but Ethan had wasn't there. Jim said he had to get home to Alison and
little Stevie now, stay in touch. He looked a little relieved.
Ripper ducked back into the pub, but couldn't see Ethan there
either. Maybe he'd gone on to the Tube station and was already on his
way home.
In fact, Ethan was still in the station. He'd laid out some cards
and the quartz pieces on a countertop. A small group of people had
gathered around him.
"I'll bet you a pound," Ethan said to the man at the front, "that
you'll pick the two of spades. You can shuffle and you can lay out the
cards if you like. Check and see that they're an ordinary pack first."
Ripper loitered in a nearby doorway as five people lost a pound
each. The spellcasting was faultless, even when people threw their two
of spades angrily onto the floor or tore them up.
The first man came back. "This is a trick!" he said.
"Of course it's a trick," said Ethan. He just stood there,
smiling slightly, as the mood got uglier. Couldn't he tell, or did he
not care?
Ripper moved forward to pick up and the cards and quartz
pieces. "Time to go," he said.
Someone tapped him on the back. "So, are you his accomplice? Are
you how he does it?"
Ripper turned around to face someone who was considerably stockier
than he was but not as tall. "Piss off," he said. "You've lost your
bet, that's it."
"I think you'll be giving me my pound back," said the man.
This seemed doubtful, as Ethan was somehow halfway to the
stairs. So Ripper said, very quietly, "I think you'll get out of my
way."
The stocky man raised a fist but never got to use it. Ripper kneed
him in the groin, then punched his jaw. The man keeled over. Ripper
kicked him, then kicked him again.
Passerby stared as Ripper tried to walk away casually. Someone
shouted, "Police!"
But there was no police officer nearby and no-one else seemed
willing to accost him. He reached the stairs, and then he went down
them, and at the bottom, coming into the platform, was a
perfectly-timed train.
Ripper got on board, wondering if, at any moment, he'd hear the
toot of a policeman's whistle. But all that happened was that the train
moved off, and Ethan came through from another carriage.
"Good work," said Ethan. "I have to thank you for that."
"I'm not doing that again," Ripper said.
Ethan laughed. He laughed in these loud bursts that had everyone
in the carriage turn and look at them. And Ripper found himself
laughing too, partly because it had been a bit of a rush, but also a
little hysterically. He'd never beaten anyone up in full public view
before.
When Ethan finally got a grip on himself again, he said, "Those
quartz pieces really did help."
"You are bloody insane," said Ripper. "I'm telling you that next
time you are on your own."
Ethan didn't say anything, but he grinned. It made Ripper want to
punch him too.
Ripper was grumpy that evening. He refused to go out to the pub
with the rest of them, and instead declared that he was taking
Adrienne out to see a film. So he missed entirely Ethan's excellent
rendition of their day's escapades, and the attentive way in which it
was received. Stan, Diedre, and Randall thought it was hilarious. Tom
had looked rather aghast but then, he usually did.
Ethan wanted to go back to working on the Spivak as soon as they
got back from the pub, but he knew he should pace himself. He killed a
few hours with some of the hoarded hashish and some minor illusion
spells. Then he started to crave a cheese sandwich, and went down to
the kitchen to grill one. He could clearly hear Ripper and Adrienne
having sex, not because either of them were screamers, but Adrienne
did vocalise and the door to her room, which opened onto the kitchen,
had been damaged at some point. The usual household practice when
Adrienne was at it was to switch on the radio, but they were later
than usual tonight and Ethan couldn't even find the shipping forecast
on the dial. Instead, he sat on the back porch, looking out at the
garden, while he waited for the cheese to melt. The garden had gone
wild, its lawn uncut and its plants unpruned in the years since they
had moved in there. He wondered what there was in the way of
wildlife. Foxes, badgers, shrews? What crawled, what ran, and what
flew past? Then he smelt a faint burning smell and went back in to
rescue his toast.
Ripper was avoiding him the next day. He didn't come home straight
from his lunchtime gig at the hotel, but stayed out until dinnertime,
saying curtly that he'd gone for a walk. Adrienne was out at one of
her Friday night meetings and Ripper disappeared upstairs to play on
his guitar. This sort of behaviour was just of no use to Ethan,
especially if it carried on to tomorrow night, when Ethan had
scheduled the fun spellcasting that Diedre had asked for, so Ethan
decided to go up and apologise.
"I'm sorry about what happened. Everything got out of hand very
quickly. I really didn't mean to put you in any danger. It won't
happen again."
Ripper was sitting a wooden chair, with his guitar in his lap. He
looked as if he didn't believe Ethan.
"Don't worry about my expression," Ethan said. "My face just does
that, I can't help it."
Ethan hadn't actually been inside Ripper's room since Ripper had
moved in, even though it was on the same floor as his own. No-one had
picked it before because it was up all those stairs and rather draughty,
particularly in winter. Ethan supposed they should really come up
there and help Ripper stuff rags into the cracks. It had a nice window
though. He looked around saw that the chair was pretty much all the
furniture that Ripper had. He had his musical gear and his clothes and
that seemed to be about it. The man had a record player but didn't
have a mattress.
Ethan also noticed that the anti-scrying candleholder had been set
up. He wondered who Ripper was trying to avoid. On the Tube yesterday,
he'd been looking over his shoulder the whole time too. Maybe he'd
stolen something? He'd have to ask Ripper at a better time: it was
almost interesting.
"So, I'm sorry," said Ethan.
"All right," said Ripper. And after that the guitar music was a
little happier.
Ethan went down to see Stan next. Stan's basement flat was quite
separate from the rest of the house. Ethan had to go out the back door
as the front was kept permanently locked and walk around to the front,
opening the gate and walking down the half-set of stairs to Stan's
sunken front yard and front door.
For a miracle, Stan was in. He let Ethan into his front
room. Stan's place had actual furniture, much more than the rest of
the house. It had intact wallpaper and looked like a proper flat. It
had a new bar, Ethan noted.
He waved some money at Stan. "Can you get me some hash? I'm
getting low."
"No problem," said Stan.
"And can you get Ripper a mattress? He doesn't seem to have
anything at all."
"Sure."
"And tell him it fell off the back of a lorry."
Ripper came home on Saturday to find an entire team of renovators
ready and waiting for him. Randall had Polyfilla and a ladder, Dee had
sandpaper and a broom, Tom had a wood-plane and a pot of varnish. Even
Stan made it all the way to the top of the stairs, carrying a a
still-wrapped mattress that he'd "found". Ripper cleared his stuff out
into the hallway and then helped where he could. Together they filled
the worst of the cracks in the wall, smoothed out the floor and
windowsills where the wood was splintering, and cleaned out the more
aggressive spiders. Ripper turned down an offer from Randall to paint
the room and thanked Diedre but told her he probably wouldn't get any
curtains until the winter.
Adrienne came home just as they were doing the final sweep and
clean. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded as Randall
mopped. Dee went downstairs and came back with a sheet and pillow set
as a housewarming gift.
"Isn't this wonderful?" said Ripper quietly to Adrienne. He was
deeply moved and very grateful. "They just showed up and started
work."
Adrienne nodded and looked around the room. "Where's Ethan?" she
asked him.
"What? Oh, I think he's in the drawing room, setting up for
tonight. He certainly hasn't been helping out here."
"No," she said. There was something a little odd about her
expression.
"What is it?" he asked, suddenly concerned.
"Nothing," she said. She kissed his forehead. "Will you be much
longer?"
Ripper shook his head. "Dinner's at the pub tonight, once we've
all washed up."
"OK."
"I think I've found a dead pigeon," said Tom, who was leaning out
of the window.
Adrienne went downstairs as Ripper went to look.
Ethan was trying out different combinations of herbs, burning
small quantities over the altarcloth to see what worked best. He could
hear a constant clatter from upstairs, but it took considerably more
than that to distract him.
"Hello, Ethan," said Adrienne as she came into the room. She
fetched herself a chair and moved it next to where he sat on the
floor. He smothered the flame and looked up at her.
"I heard about your escapade on Thursday," she said. "And I didn't
hear it from you and I didn't hear it from Ripper."
"Well, you should have come to the pub on Thursday night then."
"Was he in any actual danger? Were either of you?"
"Maybe," Ethan admitted. "Ripper's pretty good with his fists,
though."
"I don't want to ever have to pick you up from hospital again."
"No," he said, "of course not."
"And what's all that going on upstairs?"
"Ah," he said, airily. "I just thought it was time to have his
room fixed up."
"And Stan just happened to find him a bed?"
"Merry Christmas?" Ethan offered. "Actually, what month is this?"
"May."
"Happy May Day then. More appropriate for you, anyway."
"Are you going to go after him?"
"Why, would you mind if I did?" He studied her expression
carefully.
Adrienne thought for a moment. "I like him," she said. "And he's a
lot smarter than he looks." She paused. "But I could do with some more
time to myself. I don't think he's got enough to occupy him at the
moment."
"Well then," said Ethan, smiling.
"I'm not sure he'd be interested though."
"Oh, I'm fairly sure," said Ethan.
"And there was one other thing I wanted to talk with you about. I
might have a job for you again soon. I was going to ask Stan, but I'm
not sure now that it's something he could handle. It's something you
might want to take Ripper for too."
"More work with your South African?"
"No, something else this time."
"And what was that earlier about wanting me to stay out of
trouble?" Ethan asked.
"It's for the greater good," said Adrienne.
He laughed. "If you say so," Ethan said.
Almost the entire household turned up that night for the
casting. Ripper turned up a little before the nominal midnight start
time, to find Dee, Tom, and Randall sitting on the floor around a
large square cloth decorated with pentagrams. Ethan and Stan were
having a heated discussion in a corner. A very pretty woman whom
Ripper didn't know was standing next to the window, looking rather
uncomfortable.
"Stan's brought an extra," Dee said.
"Anyone know who she is?" Ripper asked.
No-one did.
Ripper looked at her. "I'll go and ask."
She was petite even in heels, with floppy dark hair that half-hid
her face. She was wearing a lot of make-up, but she looked very young
underneath.
"Hello," said Ripper. "I'm-- Would you like something to drink?"
"We brought some," said the girl. Her accent was from south of the
river. She pointed towards a box that turned out to be full of
discounted vodka. A large brown envelope was tucked into the
box. Ripper could smell what was inside it without opening it.
"I'm running tabs tonight, Ripper," Stan said cheerily,
interrupting his own conversation with Ethan. "Go ahead."
Ripper found them some glasses. "Have you been to a casting
before?"
She shook her head. "Only ouija boards."
They could both hear Ethan saying, "...complete newcomer... not
safe..."
"I think the spell's new to almost everyone here," said
Ripper. "That's why he's concerned. It's potentially dangerous."
"Pour me a drink?" she said.
He passed her a glass.
"My name's Mandy," she said.
"That's a lovely name," he said. Then he found himself saying,
"I'm Giles. Ah, but that is, people here call me Ripper."
"That's a funny name," she said. "How'd you get that?"
Ethan stalked up. "Are you likely to panic at loud noises and
bright lights?" he asked her.
"No," she said, scoffing slightly. "I work in a nightclub."
"Will you do exactly as I ask, without interruption or deviation?"
"Sure," she said.
Stan came up now and slapped Ethan on the shoulder. "She'll be
fine."
"We'll see," said Ethan, tightly, and he went back to the altar
cloth.
Stan topped up their drinks. Then he waved the envelope in Ethan's
direction. "What's good for tonight, then?"
"Alcohol and cannabis," said Ethan, without looking up. "I don't
recommend LSD, at least not on the first casting."
"Poppers?" asked Stan. Ethan shrugged.
"Why don't we take a seat?" Ripper said to Mandy. "We all need to
sit in a circle."
She nodded. "I've seen it on TV."
"Right, everyone, it's almost time," said Ethan.
"Does it have to be at exactly midnight?" Dee asked, "because it's
already five past."
"It doesn't have to be exact, no," said Ethan. "Otherwise no-one
would have been able to cast spells in the Middle Ages."
"Maybe no-one cast these spells in the Middle Ages," said
Randall. "Maybe magical technology has progressed."
"Do they always talk like that?" Mandy asked Ripper.
"I think so," said Ripper. "I haven't really been here all that
long myself."
Mandy smiled at him. Ripper hoped that neither she nor Stan thought
he was chatting her up.
They formed a circle, with Ethan taking the position closest to
the window. Stan passed around the vodka bottles and the
envelope. Ripper paused when the envelope reached him.
Mandy reached her hand in, taking out a joint. "He'll give me one
of these for free," she said. "We could share."
"Are we all ready?" Ethan asked. "I need everyone to be quiet."
Everyone was looking at Ethan now, Ripper included. He watched as
Ethan lit the candle and then went to turn out the electric lights.
"All right," said Ethan. "I have to cast a conjuration first and
then we'll throw to the main spell. I need complete silence."
He went to the window then and pushed it open. The candles
fluttered and Ripper felt the cooler air over his skin. Ethan stood to
one side of the window, looking out.
Ethan started a soft, repetitive chant, just a few syllables
long. Ripper found himself mouthing the words, trying to remember what
they were for.
When Ethan stopped speaking, the silence seemed absolute, as if
no-one fidgeted or breathed. As if London had stopped and the wind had
fallen still.
Something large and soft came in through the window. It seemed too
large to fit, but through it came. It passed Ethan, glided over the
floor, and came to rest in the centre of the altar cloth. It was an owl.
Ethan came back to sit down and close the circle. He picked up a
needle, held it in the candle flame, then pricked his thumb so that a
spot of his blood fell onto the bird.
"Onto the owl?" asked Tom.
"Yes," said Ethan.
The needle was passed around. The owl sat unpeturbed.
"Now," said Ethan, "tonight we will be sharing senses with this
bird. We'll share sight, and hearing, touch and smell--"
"Taste?" asked Mandy.
"I thought I'd skip that one," Ethan said. "Unless someone wants to
know what a live mouse tastes like."
Ripper decided against speaking up.
"Randall, Diedre and I will start the chant as I burn the
herbs. The rest of you need only recite the last syllable of each
phrase. But keep the circle tight or we'll lose it."
The spell began.
The bird lifted its wings and beat them -- once, twice -- and it
was a miracle that the circle held, that not one of them lifted their
arms in sympathy, to stretch and reach for themselves. Ethan held on
firmly to Randall and Diedre's wrists.
How strange they all looked to the owl, as pale and shimmering
surfaces in the candlelight. Their every sigh and fidget was was a
roll of sound. Their smell was both musky and unnatural.
The wings beat again and the owl left them behind.
But oh! the sensation of falling, followed by the beat of the
wings and the impossible fact of failing to die. Out in the
night air, gliding over the back garden, then the beat and beat as
they -- it -- rose higher into the air. The land below was bright and
clear, their gaze held by the movement of grass in the wind, the
skitter of a rat, or the drifting of wind-blown litter.
They rose and fell and ate with the owl. They saw the canal as the
owl saw it, a braiding of light. They felt the air currents on their
arms and cheeks, and grimaced as they scented other birds. Branches
curled under their feet, mice tore in their hands. Warm meat slid into
their mouths and gullets.
When the spell broke, Ethan didn't see who caused it. He had his
eyes closed, and he was leaning forward over his knees. Opening his
eyes, he saw only that the candles had gone out and that everyone was
sitting quite still in the dark. His limbs felt long and heavy. The
room was cold and his back felt stiff.
Slowly, people stirred. Diedre and Randall re-lit the
candles. Tom got up to close the window. Stan reached over for a fresh
bottle of vodka. Only Stan's girl and Ripper stayed as still as
Ethan. Ripper seemed to be watching Ethan carefully. The girl still
had her eyes shut, a small smile playing over her lips.
"Is that in Spivak?" Ripper asked.
"No," said Ethan. "I made that one up."
"How?" asked Ripper.
"I have a spell for summoning small rodents. I have a second for
seeing through another's eyes. And a third requests small favours from
birds."
"I've only ever used cookbook magic," Ripper said. "Do you think
you could show me how to do that?"
"Maybe," said Ethan, "if you have an ounce of talent in you." He
rather hoped there was.
Randall was at his record player now, picking out a disc. Diedre
was fetching some snacks. But Ethan stayed motionless a precious few
seconds longer, still savouring the sensations of having been an owl.
Ripper still felt pretty trippy at noon the next day. He'd stayed
up too late, drank too much, had too strong a joint, and underneath
all that he was still half-convinced he could fly like a bird.
He was deeply unconvinced that this would improve his chances at
the audition.
Plus, at some point in the wee hours he had actually considered
leaning over and kissing Ethan, which, well, should he count the
reasons why not? One: In front of other people. Two: Adrienne. Three:
He wasn't even sure yet if he liked the man.
All this was very distracting, as was Adrienne, who had mercifully
agreed to drive him to the audition. She was in her rock-chick drag,
which this time consisted of a pair of tight jeans and a low-cut
top. A very low-cut top. Ripper eyed her from the passenger
seat.
"Are you still drunk?" she asked him.
"Or stoned," he said, "I'm really not sure."
"Are you going to be able to hold it together?"
"I suppose we'll find out." He peered at her. "You're very
chirpy."
"I had a fantastic night's sleep," she said. "You were all very
considerate and quiet after midnight."
"We were being owls," he said.
The audition was being held in a Working Men's Institute near
Ladbroke Grove. It had been advertised in the paper. The Grins were
still unsigned as a band, but they had a good reputation on the pub
circuit: Ripper had been to one of their shows and had come away
impressed. But rumour had it that their lead singer and guitarist was
now on permanent holiday in Spain after an incident involving half a
pound of TNT and an Islington hotel. Why an Islington hotel,
Ripper didn't know.
There was a small crowd outside the Institute, if eight people
could be considered a small crowd, which Ripper thought they
could. One of them was Gary. Gary! He could barely play bass, let
alone lead guitar. What was he doing here?
Gary came up to talk with them. "He's looking a little under the
weather," he said to Adrienne.
"Who's 'he'?" demanded Ripper. "The cat's mother?"
The audition was supposed to start at twelve-thirty, but the doors
were still locked. People started to mill around, looking for another
entrance. Gary went back to his car to check the time in the paper.
At quarter to one, a van pulled up in a sidestreet. Out stepped the
four remaining UK-resident members of The Grins. They were
long-haired, skinny, and lanky. It was perhaps his imagination, but he
thought they looked rather hungover too. They unlocked the front door
and waved people in.
Ripper was very interested to see what kinds of guitars his
competition had brought. There seemed to be quite a
mix. Unfortunately, a few had ones much more expensive than
his. "Don't you worry," he said to his guitar.
Adrienne whispered, "You know that you're saying that quite
loudly?"
The Grins asked everyone to take turns playing a favourite
song. Everyone's favourite song seemed to include a solo by Eric
Clapton, except that, well, Eric Clapton was not in the room. Indeed,
Eric Clapton did not appear to be sharing the same continent with many
of these people.
Now it was Ripper's turn. Adrienne gave him an encouraging pat on
the thigh. He went to the front of the hall, hung his guitar over his
shoulder, and took a seat on a wooden stool. He decided to play a song
that he used to practice quite a bit back in Oxford. He felt relaxed
and peaceable, and as if he were back in his rooms during a term
break, when his room-mate was on holiday, and only the porters were
likely to complain about the sound.
When he stopped, there was a scattering of applause. Ripper
couldn't remember if the earlier entrants' music had been applauded.
Then it was someone else's turn. While the next entrant sang,
Ripper went to sit back with Adrienne. The Grins' drummer came up and
handed him a beer.
"Can you play bass?" asked the drummer, "even a little?"
"Why?" asked Ripper.
"Because our bass guitarist wants to play lead sometimes."
The Grins' bass guitarist waved at Ripper from across the hall.
"Ah, yes, I can," said Ripper. "I can play bass."
"Can you play it when you're drunk?"
"Drunk or sober," said Ripper.
"Good, 'cos Tim can play when he's sober, but he's shit when he's
drunk." Then the drummer got distracted by Adrienne's breasts.
"So?" prompted Ripper.
"We've got to pack up here, but we'll see you in the pub over the
road in fifteen, yeah? Three gig trial, to see if we can stand you
when you're not playing guitar."
"Great," said Ripper.
The drummer went back to sit with the rest of The Grins.
"Well, congrats," said Adrienne.
"Yes," said Ripper, wondering when it would sink in.
"I can't stay for the pub though," said Adrienne. "I've got things
to do. If I take the car back, will you be OK to get home?"
Gary said, in a loud stage whisper, "Shhhh!"
Adrienne took Ripper's arm and took him outside to sit on the
steps. She gave him a cigarette and lit up one for herself. Ripper took
a swig of his beer.
"That went all right," he said. "I wonder when our first gig is."
"Not next weekend, I hope," said Adrienne. "I'm going to be away."
"Away?"
"It's my mum's birthday. I'm going to go home for the party."
"Oh," said Ripper. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"No," she said.
Ripper looked at her, thinking she was going to say, "No, not
yet," or "No, it's too soon," or even "No, my parents hate all my
boyfriends." But she didn't, she just said, "No," without modifier or
explanation. No, Ripper was not going to meet her parents, now or
anytime soon.
"All right," he said. He stared into the bottleneck of his beer
for a while. When he next dared to glance over, she was looking cool
and unconcerned. She stubbed out her cigarette onto a concrete step.
"I'll see you at home," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
He could hear the auditions finishing inside. He swallowed the
last of his drink and then walked over the road to the pub. He spent
the afternoon celebrating with his new bandmates and getting very,
very drunk.
Randall was lying on his back on the stairs, blocking the way
down. Because of the angle and the dim hallway light Ethan couldn't
see his eyes, couldn't tell whether Randall was awake or asleep. It
was late at night, so he ought to have been asleep. His position
looked uncomfortable, but Randall could sleep anywhere, on chairs,
under tables, curled up on pebbled beaches, even on one occasion
standing up against the fridge. Ethan would probably be able to just
roll him to one side of the stairs without waking him at all.
"What do you think," Randall then said, at once making it clear
that he was awake and had heard Ethan, "I should paint next?"
"Not the ceiling," said Ethan. "You won't sell your work that
way."
"I don't paint for money," Randall said.
"What about recognition?"
"Not that either," said Randall.
"The joy of sharing your art with others?"
"I think," said Randall, "I do it because I like to paint."
"Then paint the bloody ceiling," Ethan said, mildly, "but let me
get downstairs."
Randall shifted himself to one side, but as Ethan walked past,
he seized one of Ethan's ankles. "I want to paint something about
magic, about what it means to us, how it links us together and to
everything else in the world. I want to paint that."
"It's good to have an ambition," Ethan said.
Randall starting stroking his ankle, in that same sexless way he
had with Diedre. Ethan really rather Randall didn't, and pulled his
foot free.
"If I paint it with magical symbols, in some kind of pattern, like
the warding sigils, only, I don't know, more powerful..."
Against his better judgement, Ethan sat down on a stair next to
Randall. He looked up at the smooth, white-washed boards that Randall
had cleaned up more than a year ago. "You want to paint a painting
about magic that's also magic in itself."
"Yeah," said Randall.
"Do you think that's technically possible, Ripper?" Ethan
asked. Ripper had appeared on the lower landing and was now stepping
very carefully onto the first stair. He was carrying his guitar and
looked very, very drunk.
"Hm?" asked Ripper.
"Hey, congratulations," said Randall. "I heard you got into the
band."
Ripper tottered visibly on the step. Ethan and Randall stood up
and went to help him, supporting him on either side until they got him
upstairs and into his room. Randall took his guitar from him and helped
him off with his jacket. Then they got him to lie down onto the
mattress. Randall went downstairs to fetch water while Ethan untied
Ripper's boots.
"However did you get home on the Tube in this condition?" Ethan
asked him.
"Didn't," Ripper said. "Had a few more drinks with Stan when I got
home."
Ethan pulled off Ripper's socks. He liked Ripper's feet,
actually. He started to idly massage the ball of one foot with his
thumb. When he looked up, Ripper either hadn't noticed or was
pretending not to. Then Ripper made a sudden lunge over towards his
jacket, groping in the pockets. Ethan leant over to help, brushing
against him. In the pocket was a packet of cigarettes, so Ethan lit
one up for him. Ripper lay back on the mattress with the cigarette
between his lips.
He was just in his jeans and t-shirt now, stretched out long in
front of Ethan. Ethan ran his hand along the inside of one leg, up to
the thigh, and Ripper kept on pretending not to notice, just looking
up at the ceiling and smoking his cigarette. The pretence at once
amused and annoyed Ethan.
What a pity Ripper was too drunk to be of any real use right now.
Randall came back into the room with a tray. He'd brought a jug of
water, a glass, four painkillers, and a tiny bottle of vodka. Randall
could be a very thoughtful man.
"We'll leave you to it," said Ethan.
Randall went back to lying on the stairs. Ethan had intended to
spend the evening working through the next spell in Spivak, but he
doubted he'd be able to concentrate now. He decided to go out instead.
"Hey, Ripper!" shouted Stan. "Hey, Randall! You gotta come and
look at this."
Ripper wished that Stan wouldn't shout. He was feeling much better
than he had this morning, but he was still a little under the
weather. He was fetching himself another glass of water from the
kitchen tap. He wondered what on earth would get Stan so excited. It
seemed to be out the back.
Adrienne was already there, sitting calmly on a kitchen chair,
reading a book. Randall and Stan were standing on the back steps,
looking into the garden. It took Ripper a moment to realise what they
were looking at.
It was Diedre, gardening. She had waded deep into the undergrowth
with a pair of secateurs in one hand and a bucket in the other. It was
unclear to Ripper what she intended to do with either.
Her bicycle was leaning against the garden wall. It was something
she rode about in to go shopping or to visit the library. Today its
saddle bags were stuffed full of small gardening implements and some
freshly-battered pot plants.
"It's time," Diedre intoned, waving her secateurs. She was
wearing an old hat and a denim jumpsuit, which made her look like a
mad apiarist. "The weeds must be weeded! The wild must be tamed!"
"Did you know she was doing this?" Stan asked Randall. Randall
shook his head.
"Why are you starting there?" asked Randall, but Diedre shook her
head, then leant over and vanished into the brush.
"Do you think someone should go in after her?" asked Ripper.
"I'm getting a beer," said Stan. "I'm settling in to watch this."
Ethan turned up then, walking through the back gate and looking
rather chipper. Ripper wasn't a hundred percent sure, but he seemed to
be wearing the same shirt he had on yesterday. Did he never go to the
laundrette?
"What's going on?" asked Ethan.
Diedre stood up again and became suddenly visible. "I'm clearing
a clearing," she said.
"Why?"
"I want a garden I can sit out in during the summer."
"I rather like it wild," said Ethan.
Stan came back with a crateful of beer. Ripper forced himself to
decline.
Then Stan said, "Don't look, but we're being watched," so of
course everyone turned to look. There was a black BMW parked on
the other side of the road and someone was sitting in the driver's
seat. "That's been there before."
"Could be the neighbours," said Randall.
"Our neighbours across the road have a light green Morris saloon,"
said Adrienne, finally deigning to look up from her book.
"It's the police," said Stan, "it's got to be. I won't be able to
go out. I'm done for."
"It might not be for you," said Ethan.
"It's more likely to be for me, though, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily," said Adrienne.
"Well," said Ethan, "why don't we go and ask him?"
"Yeah," said Randall, "let's do that."
"No," said Ripper, suddenly and firmly. "I'll go." He stood
up. "He'll be less likely to drive off if just one of us goes up."
"OK," said Randall, "but we're right behind you."
Ripper walked out of the garden and across the road to the car. It
was Jeremy Stockton behind the wheel. Stockton was only a few years
older than Ripper. Ripper had very briefly dated his sister.
"Why are you here?" asked Ripper. "I'm not coming back."
"Nice friends you've got," said Stockton.
Ripper looked back over his shoulder. Stan and Randall were
standing on the back steps, early afternoon beers in hand. Ethan stood
next to Adrienne. Diedre was still in her clearing, holding her
secateurs as if they were a defensive weapon.
"They don't have anything to do with this," said Ripper. "You'll
leave them alone."
"Oh, don't worry," said Stockton, "I'm here unofficially
today. There are some people back home who'd just like to know how you
are."
"I'm fine," said Ripper. "In fact, I'm in a much better band now."
Stockton made a sound of abject disbelief. "Do you have any idea
how moronic you sound? That's what you've given up your calling for?
A band?"
"My life, my choice," said Ripper.
"If you say so," said Stockton. "We'll be waiting for you when you
come back."
He drove off, leaving Ripper standing on the roadside, trying to
swallow his own anger.
Adrienne and Ethan watched the car drive off. "It's Ripper they're
after," she said, quietly enough that only Ethan could hear.
"Yes," he said, "but we don't know why."
Ripper walked back towards them, looking as if he'd been kicked in
the stomach. Adrienne sighed and put down her book. "I'm not going to
get any work done this afternoon," she said, and got up to console
Ripper.
Ripper was saying, "It's nothing to do with this house at all..."
Ethan went inside and ran himself a bath. The bathroom was like
the rest of the house, run-down but patched together with some
care. He shaved at the chipped sink as the water ran into the tub.
The water was just a little too hot as he lay down in it. He
looked up at the small window, high up above the door, that let in
fresh air and spiders as it saw fit. The room was an odd shape, almost
certainly a retrofit of a dressing room for the bedroom next
door. Randall had whitewashed it. Ethan was a little concerned that it
might be his next project after the stairwell ceiling.
Much earlier that day, Ethan had showered in the very modern
bathroom of the man he'd gone to bed with last night, just before the
man had decided that he might ring in sick after all. It had been all
smoked glass and avocado formica. The whole flat had been like that,
routinely flash. He thought the man was perhaps someone with a
minor job in the City, but he hadn't asked. He'd been thirtyish, keen
and competent enough.
Ethan lay in the bath until Diedre starting banging on the door,
saying she was very grubby from gardening and she desperately needed a
wash. Ethan wondered exactly how much she'd achieved out there.
He walked upstairs in his towel to look for clean clothes, then
went back down to the drawing room. Ripper and Randall were sitting on
the floor. Adrienne was lying on her back, with her head resting on
Ripper's leg, still reading her book.
"A magic painting?" Ripper was saying. "I suppose that could be
done. I have heard of such things, although they tend to be malevolent
in nature."
"I want it to be a good thing," said Randall, "I want people to be
able to bask in it, I guess."
"Ah well," said Ripper, "I could try and think of some suitable
glyphs. Glyphs of good fortune."
"And friendship," said Randall.
"And friendship," echoed Ripper.
"What kind of paintings have you heard of?" Ethan asked, joining
them.
"Um, well the Egyptians, of course, curses at tombs and so on. And
China where it's more equivocal, for good and ill, but spells may be
instantiated through fine calligraphy alone. It's less common in
European contexts, I think."
Ethan rather enjoyed these mini discourses from Ripper.
"So maybe I could incorporate Chinese elements into my work?"
Randall asked.
"Or I could try and think of something more universal."
"Thank you," said Randall. "Thank you, that would be great."
Ripper smiled. Ethan extended his foot to tap Ripper on the knee
and get his attention.
"So, are you still wanting to learn how to mix spells?"
"Oh definitely!" said Ripper. "And I think my head's clear enough
now."
"So what are you going to trade?"
"Trade?" asked Ripper.
"Well, magic isn't free," said Ethan."
"Ah, but, I just promised to help Randall."
"That's between you and Randall," said Ethan. "Although, now you
come to mention it, we are letting you live in our house."
"Yes," said Ripper, "all right. Trade, then. What sort of trade?"
"An interesting spell. Or many interesting spells, since I'm
about to teach you something very useful."
Ripper said, "I know a lot of spells for warding off demons."
Adrienne put her book down on her chest and looked up at
Ripper. "Is that something you have to do often?"
"It's just what my grandmother taught me," Ripper said. "Ah,
spells for minor telekenesis?"
"Now, that sounds like something we can trade," said Ethan.
Ripper couldn't work out how Ethan sat. Ethan always looked
entirely comfortable sitting on the floor, whereas Ripper found it
drove him to distraction after just a few minutes. He would have
blamed it on his long legs, but Ethan was only a fraction shorter than
he was. He studied how Ethan was sitting, one leg stretched out, one
leg underneath him. Ripper tried surreptitiously to copy him, and
ended up folding onto the floor.
"Hey," said Adrienne, who had been briefly disturbed from her
book.
Ripper had decided that he'd over-reacted the day
before. Adrienne's avowal that she did not want him to meet her
parents next weekend meant nothing more and nothing less than that. He
had been reading far too much into it. After all, here she was, just
the next day, companionable and comfortable next to him. He really had
nothing to worry about there at all.
Ethan was leaning forwards now, drawing out figures in chalk on
the wooden floor. "Now, the owl spell on Saturday was three spells in
conjunction with each other, which is a little hard for a beginner. We
should really start you with just combining two. And it's easiest to
start with two spells you're already very comfortable with. Can you
think of a couple?"
Adrienne sniggered, which was not a sound Ripper had heard from
her before. "Just something in my book," she said, which was odd for a
work of political economy.
"A door-locking spell," said Ripper, considering. "And one for
conjuring fire."
"The door is set on fire when you lock it," said Adrienne.
"Aren't you reading?" Ripper asked her.
"Can you think of something else?" Ethan asked.
"A spell for remembering where you put something," said Ripper.
"It's behind the burning door," said Adrienne.
"You said you knew some spells for telekenesis," Ethan prompted.
"Yes," said Ripper.
"How about a spell for moving small objects that you've lost?"
"Isn't that going to be hard to test?" asked Adrienne. "You'll
have to deliberately forget where you've put things."
"Repelling small insects?" Ripper said. He heard a note of
desperation creeping into his voice.
"Right!" said Ethan. "We can create a spell for repelling small
fires."
Adrienne looked up at Ripper. "Are you often menaced by candles?"
she asked him.
Ethan said, "Could you possibly go for a walk?"
Adrienne closed her book. "Actually, I have a meeting I might go
to tonight. It's a bit of a trek so I'll probably be back late." She
sat up and kissed Ripper quite fully. He found himself blinking at her
in pleasant surprise. "Have fun," she said.
Ripper watched her backside as she walked out the door.
"So," said Ethan, "we need to start with detailed descriptions of
both those spells..."
Ethan and Ripper worked late into the night on Monday, Tuesday and
Wednesday, working together on Ripper's improvised spell, and with
Ripper showing Ethan a couple of telekenesis ones. Adrienne would go
out in the evening, come back late, and still find them working. Ethan
wondered why she was going to so many meetings lately: it suggested
that things would shortly be going wrong for someone.
It was fun working with Ripper. He was less pedestrian than
Randall, less clumsy than Diedre, and Stan and Tom did not compare at
all. (Evelyn was quite different again, she was so far ahead of the
rest of them.) He knew enough about magic to be properly appreciative
of Ethan's skills, and displayed an admirable concentration and
attention to detail. It was a delight, really.
On Thursday morning, Adrienne packed a suitcase and headed off to
her parents' for the weekend. Ethan had been asleep when she left, but
he'd found Ripper moping around the kitchen, having a desultory piece
of toast before heading off to his job at the hotel. Ripper had a
rehearsal that afternoon and evening with the his band, from which he
would no doubt return dead drunk, so Ethan had a long and quiet day
ahead of him.
He decided to spend his afternoon in the park. It was good busking
weather and he wanted to try out the spells he'd just learnt from
Ripper. Plus, it was just a nice day for a walk.
At first he looked for a quiet spot where he could lay out his
gear and practice the spells. He veered away from the zoo and the
football fields, looking for somewhere a little out of the way but not
so private that it invited propositions. He found a grove of trees
with lawn underneath and decided that was good enough. He sat against
a tree and laid out his cloth and candles.
The first spell Ripper had taught him assisted the movement of
something that was already moving. Ethan gathered up a few twigs and
stones and then threw them one by one into the air. The first stone he
threw without the needed chant and it didn't get far. He pitched the
others, chanting, and watched them glide in ever greater distances.
The second spell was the genuine levitation of a light object. If
he could get this one right outdoors, he could use it as the finale of
his busking routine. He started with a leaf, but it proved to be
surprisingly difficult, hard to get off the ground and wavering around
everywhere. A spare candle didn't prove to be any easier. It was
remarkable in the way that it completely defied all known laws of
physics but it wasn't very impressive from a theatrical point of
view. He'd have to stick with his usual routine a while longer.
Speaking of which, it was probably time to get moving. It was
school closing time and he might get a bit of custom from parents and
au pairs shepherding their kids to the children's playgrounds and the
zoo. He set up shop out on one of the main paths and soon had a good
little crowd going. No-one was being particularly generous but the
coins added up. And then, towards closing time, he got a couple with
kids who paused for a while. The man seemed to want to impress the
woman with his generosity and threw Ethan something that folded.
It was a good afternoon's work. He packed the money away and then
followed the busiest paths out of the park to dissuade anyone who
might consider robbing him. He cast his eye over the parts of the park
that he walked through, sizing them up, as he was looking for an
outdoor venue for spellcasting on warmer summer nights. The park
was locked overnight, but he didn't think that would present much of a
problem.
The house was quiet when he got back. Stan's light was on but
other than that the house was empty. Ethan found himself something to
eat that he could heat up in a pot and took it upstairs. He paused on
the first floor landing, which was where people piled old books in
huge piles under the window. The paperbacks changed frequently, as
Diedre, who was an indiscriminate and omnivorous reader, swapped
them in and out of book exchanges. Ethan sometimes brought a box home
too, if Terry was giving away excess stock. Ethan fished out a few
titles that he hadn't read and which didn't sound completely
mindless. Then he spent a quiet evening reading in bed. He heard
Diedre, Randall and Tom come home around ten, and Ripper wobbled in
about midnight.
Ethan spent a last hour or two practising the telekenesis trick in
his room. At home, he could levitate small objects perfectly. Why then
was it so hard outdoors? Was it because of the outdoor air currents, or
because part of his concentration had to monitor what else was going
on around him in the park? He didn't know. Perhaps Ripper would.
He got a good night's sleep. He wanted to be fully rested for
tomorrow.
Ripper woke up in Adrienne's bed the next morning. It smelt of
her, but when he rolled over he didn't find her warm and smooth skin,
because of course she wasn't there. She was somewhere in Wiltshire,
apparently, rather than, say, pulling him on top while reminding him
to be quick because she had to be at the bookshop by ten. This didn't
seem fair, especially when he rolled over onto his stomach and found
himself sleepily nuzzling a pillow rather than her hair.
He was hungover again, but not badly. He thought he felt able for
bacon and eggs. He pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt and set to
restoring enough order in the kitchen to make breakfast possible, all
the while cursing inconsiderate and anonymous housemates who left
unwashed pots on the stove and dirty dishes in the sink. Then he found
himself praising all equally anonymous housemates who left edible food
in the fridge and bought loaves of fresh bread.
He sat down to his breakfast, thinking about yesterday's
rehearsal. It had gone all right, although not as well as he might
have liked. He was now fifth junior band member, despite being
expected to do most of the singing. Two of the band members were
called Dave: Dave the Drums and Dave the Bass. Alan, a Scot, was
another guitarist. Andy played keyboards and gizmos, grey-and-black
boxes with their electrical innards hanging out. He was studying
electrical engineering and the band's schedule was currently
constrained by his looming exams.
Ripper felt he'd played OK, but not nearly as well or as
confidently as Dave the Bass or Alan. A lot of it was new material for
him but was played-so-often-we-could-be-asleep for the others. He was
going to have to work bloody hard.
Diedre came down then, wrapped in a long pink
dressing-gown. Ripper felt a sudden fear that maybe the food in the
fridge had been hers, but she just made herself a bite of toast and
jam and a pot of tea. She waved at him but made no conversation before
taking her breakfast upstairs.
He timed his trip to the bathroom badly and had to wait for
Randall to finish shaving, which seemed to take an inordinately long
time given that he had a beard. Perhaps it was tricky to do the
corners. When he finally got into the bathroom, he shaved himself and
had a basin-wash because the bath took so bloody long. Even trying to
be quick, he soon had Ethan banging on the door saying it was his
turn.
He brushed his teeth downstairs at the kitchen sink instead while
Randall looked on in mild distaste. Randall spent so much time looking
through the fridge that Ripper's conscience got a hold of him and he
wrote a note that he pinned to the front: "I owe someone bacon and
eggs".
"Well, if you're going out shopping," Diedre said, reappearing in
a yellow frock and black scarf, "I have a list." As Ripper looked at
it, she said, almost apologetically, "I think it's technically your
turn."
Ripper checked the time. He should be easily able to get to the
supermarket and back before he had to leave for his job. Dee fetched
him a couple of string bags and then asked him if he could also pop
into the off-license on the way back for some gin.
It was overcast but not quite raining as Ripper walked to the
shops. He went to the bigger supermarket on the high street, which was
further away but had more of a selection. This was fine as far as it went,
except that Ripper went far more often the local corner shop and
didn't really yet know his way around the supermarket. The shopping
list was maddeningly vague in some places ("meat") and over-specific in
others ("muesli with fruit and nuts but absolutely no dried banana or
raisins") or both ("that light blue shampoo"). It was written in a
variety of hands and Ripper wondered why he hadn't known of its
existence to add to it. The list included an enormous variety of
requested packets of crisps.
He had four separate bags by the time he left the
supermarket. Then he got halfway back to the house before he
remembered he'd promised Diedre her gin, so he had to walk back a
block and then found that the off-license wasn't open until the
afternoon anyway.
He half-ran back to the house. Ethan was finally having his
breakfast now, tea and toast, with his bare feet up on the kitchen
table as he read the newspaper. He in no way offered to help as Ripper
unpacked the shopping and fought to make room for it in the fridge and
kitchen cupboards.
Ripper ran all the way up to the second floor to fetch his guitar
and pull on a button-up shirt. He realised he'd have to go to the
laundrette soon. Then he was back down the stairs and out the back
door to make it to the bus stop. He reminded himself he could always
drive if he missed it, even though finding parking was hellish near
the hotel.
But he made it, the bus rounding the corner as he dashed across
the road, and then he was suddenly at a standstill, with nothing to do
but sit and smoke for the twenty minute journey. It started to rain as
he looked out the window at the passing streets. He played through a
couple of Grins songs on his fingers in minimal air guitar but he
wasn't convinced he was getting one of the bridges right.
It was raining steadily when got off the bus a block from the
hotel. He pulled his jacket over his head and headed for the awning of
a jeweller's, then walked-dashed between covered and uncovered
sections of pavement to the front door.
He had five minutes before he was scheduled to start, so he went
into the gents. His hair was only a bit wet and he shook his head to
get the worst of the raindrops off. Then he went out to take his seat
and found that there wasn't one. He checked with the head waiter, who
said it might have been taken for the large birthday booking over near
the window. He promised to fetch Ripper another.
So he took his jacket off and started playing the set standing
up. Today's list began with a selection of songs from Rogers and
Hammerstein. Fridays were always the busier days, with business
lunches and early weekend tourists. Halfway through "Oklahoma", Ripper
started to wonder how quickly he'd be fired if he slipped in a Grins
song.
Then the requests started. The birthday group wanted "Happy
Birthday" of course, followed by "For He's a Jolly Good
Fellow". Ripper was still standing and his signalling to the head
waiter had so far resulted only in hand signals of "Look, I'm busy,
it's Friday."
Then the requests started to get more baroque. Now, Ripper didn't
strictly have to agree to guests' requests, but he did when what they
asked for was more interesting than what the manager had asked him to
play. He didn't have to sing the lyrics if he thought the manager
might object.
So, the acoustic version of "Paint It Black" it was. Then "Rocket
Man" and "She's So Heavy". Then some card requested "Walk on the Wild
Side".
"I don't think so, mate," said Ripper, but played "Perfect Day"
instead.
The manager came out to look at him and he went back to playing
"Edelweiss" for a bit.
Mind you, it was good day for tips.
The rain had eased by the time he caught the bus home. As always,
he was starving by the time he got back. But there was food in the
fridge that he had put there himself. A ham, cheese and tomato
sandwich it was.
He took his sandwich up to the drawing room. Ethan was back
practising the levitate-objects spell, so the room smelt as always of
candlewax and chalk. Today he was doing something complicated with
flying formations of playing cards. It was frightening how fast he
picked things up and then turned them into something else.
Randall and Diedre were leaning over the gig guide in the
newspaper. "We're thinking of going to a show tonight," said Randall.
"It's meant to have really good lights," said Diedre.
"Lights?" said Ripper, doubtfully.
"In time with the music," said Randall. "A light show."
"The music's supposed to be good too," said Dee, but when
Ripper looked at the paper himself he didn't recognise the name of the
band.
"Wanna come?"
"Maybe."
"Dinner at the pub tonight, then out to the show," said Diedre.
He finished his sandwich. "Well, I'm out for a bit," said
Ripper. "Be back in an hour or so."
"Where are you going?" asked Ethan, although he didn't move his
eyes from the flying cards.
"The laundrette."
"I'll go with you," Ethan said, and the cards all landed neatly,
one by one onto the top of a pack. "I need to go and I want to talk to
you about something."
Ripper didn't actually want to go to the laundrette with Ethan but
he couldn't think of any reason why which he could say out loud.
He went through the reasons why as they walked the two streets to
the laundrette. Firstly, there was the whole Adrienne-away but
Ethan-here thing, which was continuing to disturb him. Secondly, Ethan
had been pulling far more information out of him than Ripper had any
desire to reveal, particularly about magic. Thirdly, it was remarkably
difficult to have a conversation with Ethan on any other topic than
magic. Ethan could manage only three sentences worth of conversation
on any of the following topics: football, music, food or cars. It was
sometimes possible to provoke a short discussion on cinema or current
affairs, but Ethan's opinions always turned about to be at right
angles to any of Ripper's in ways that Ripper felt he often failed to
grasp.
"Well, I don't know," said Ripper, a little tiredly, "it could
have been the air currents. Was it windy?"
"Not perfectly still, but hardly gusty," said Ethan. The
laundrette was otherwise empty as they loaded their respective washing
machines.
"Or was your concentration divided in some way?"
Ripper tried to think of positive things about Ethan. He was
hard-working. While it was often hard to tell, given the hours he
kept, Ethan must be regularly spending seven to ten hours a day
practising magic, with a determination that was either admirable or
medically unsound, and perhaps both. And there was every indication
that he had been doing this for years, without pay or much else in the
way of external motivation.
Other good things about Ethan included: he got along well with
Adrienne, and Adrienne seemed to trust him, which seemed to indicate
that Ethan was in some way trustworthy, although clearly not in a way
that would preclude him flirting with Adrienne's actual boyfriend.
Also: creative, highly intelligent, and limber. In fact, he was
sitting now cross-legged on top of a dormant washing machine, staring
pensively out of the window. His cheap sandals hung from his
feet. Ripper wondered if he wore them all through the winter too.
A girl in her late teens came into the laundrette just then. She
looked in their direction and gave them a hesitant smile that Ethan
returned with a perhaps over-welcoming grin.
"How is your girlfriend?" Ripper asked Ethan loudly.
"Girlfriend?" Ethan appeared genuinely confused. "Do you mean
Evelyn?"
Ripper nodded.
"I haven't the faintest idea," said Ethan. "It's not like she
writes to me. And she only visits when she wants something."
Ripper couldn't think of anything to say to that. Instead he
thought about his own girlfriend. "Have you met Adrienne's parents?"
he asked.
"Yes," said Ethan. "They came around to the house to help her move
out."
"Move out?" asked Ripper. "When was that?"
"Last year," said Ethan, "but she moved back." An odd tone came
into his voice. "Don't ask her about that, please."
"What are they like, then, her parents?"
Ethan shrugged. "Tweedy. Her father's in banking and I think her
mother was a nurse."
"Are they fire-breathing or anything?"
"Not on any occasion that I have observed," Ethan said, "but they
don't come down here very often. They don't approve of the life of
squalor she has chosen. What are yours like?"
"They're very nice people," said Ripper, "but they're disappointed
that I decided to go into music. I, I call them sometimes but I
haven't seen them for quite a while. Yours?"
As if by magic, Ethan's washing machine went "ping". "Time for the
dryer then," said Ethan.
Ripper searched for a more neutral topic. "Know anything about
this gig Randall and Dee are going to?"
"I may have mentioned it to them," Ethan said. "It sounded like
the sort of thing they would like."
"But you're not going?"
"No. Are you?"
"Yes," said Ripper.
"Then I hope you enjoy it," Ethan said.
Back at the house, Ripper spent a couple of hours in his room
practising on his guitar. The next rehearsal was Sunday and the Daves
were hoping to soon fix the date of their first comeback gig. Ripper
was going to have to practice until his fingers bled.
Then it was time to head down to the pub. He could tell this
because Diedre ran up and down the stairs shouting, "Pub time!" until
the entire household assembled at the back doorstep. He watched as
Randall, Ethan and Diedre renewed the wards on the door, as well as
locking it. Then they were off down the road to the local.
"Everyone has to buy Tom a drink tonight," said Diedre. "He has
his exams soon and needs to get very drunk."
Ripper had a bit of a conversation with Tom about his studies,
which were in economics. Tom explained the difference between
macroeconomics and microeconomics while Diedre hung her arm around
him as she chatted with Stan. Then she turned and stage-whispered to
Tom, "Oh, don't bore Ripper." To Ripper she said, "It's very dull when
he talks like this, isn't it?"
"Actually..." said Ripper, although she was, in fact, quite
correct.
Tom gave an uneasy smile and Diedre kissed the top of his head.
Stan was saying, "So there I was, at the back of the club..."
Ripper went to the bar for half a dozen pints of bitter. "And one
for yourself," he told the barman. When he got back to the table,
Diedre had taken his seat, and Ripper found himself sitting between
Stan and Randall.
"Do you like cricket?" Randall asked him.
"A bit," said Ripper. "Do you want to know the rules?"
"Oh, I know the rules," said Randall. "I'm looking for someone to
go with me. Diedre will go, but she won't watch it, she'll sit and
read instead. I'd like to go with someone who I can talk to about the
match."
"I'm not sure I can spare the time at the moment," Ripper told
him. "I have my job and the band. I've spent my whole day running
around and it still doesn't feel like I've done anything."
Randall shook his head. "See, that's the problem. You have a
job. I hated working."
"What did you do?"
"I sold shoes," said Randall. "I was good at it but it's not what
I would call a vocation."
"Shoes," said Ripper, with some surprise. He hesitated over a
potential faux-pax. "Would you mind if I possibly asked what you do
for money now?"
"I came into some money when I was twenty-one," said Randall. "Not
much, but sufficient to keep me in the style to which I have become
accustomed." He laughed. "My needs are few."
The food arrived then. Then there was beer, followed by more beer,
followed by a round of gin "Generously provided by Diedre Page," as
she herself declared. It was the first time Ripper had ever heard her
surname.
"To Diedre Page!" he said, raising his glass.
"To Diedre!" the others echoed.
They went home to change before going out. Dee and Randall dressed
up in their most theatrical clothes while Tom and Stan went for a more
standard jeans-and-t-shirt look. Everyone was drinking vodka from a
bottle. Then Dee and Randall took half an hour to paint each other's
faces up like clowns.
"You two look dead creepy," said Stan.
That just left Ethan, sitting up in the drawing room, working
through the next spell from Spivak. Ripper poked his head through the
doorway.
"We're off now then," he said.
"Have fun," said Ethan. "Don't stay out too late." There was
something about his tone that made Ripper flush.
Back downstairs, they all tumbled out of the house. Ripper was
feeling a bit discombobulated, but everyone else seemed tipsily
happy.
"Stan has some LSD," said Diedre, suddenly seizing his arm. "I
think we should all take some."
They all stood together in the train carriage, talking too loudly
and laughing so hard that the other passengers looked everywhere
except at them. Then they reached their station and climbed the stairs
up to the stale London air.
There was a long queue to get into the gig and it was a bit
cold. They took nips of whiskey from Randall's hip flasks as they
waited. Stan hadn't brought a jacket, so he was moving on the spot a
bit to get warm.
Ripper asked him, "Are you still seeing that girl you brought to
the party last week?"
"Mandy?" asked Stan. "No. To tell you the truth, I think she's a
little younger than she was letting on. She enjoyed that spell
though. Tu-whit-a-woo!"
They paid some money and stepped through a door. On the other side
was a cavernous room lit up with red lights. It wasn't busy once they
were inside, and the room seemed too big for the number of people in
it. Stan and Randall went to fetch everyone drinks from the
bar. Diedre handed out some pieces of blotting paper but Ripper
didn't feel up to it right now and pocketed his. Randall came back and
passed him a beer.
The show began. Ripper didn't know if this was the support act or
the main gig. He didn't know if there was a support act. The
band had three separate keyboard players and only one guitarist.
Dee said, "I'm not sure this stuff is working," and Stan replied,
"Give it time."
Ripper went up to the stage to give their gear his professional
appraisal. Much to his surprise, he found his new bandmate Andy at his
elbow.
Andy pointed out a few of the black boxes. "That's what I want to
make, man," Andy said.
"What are they?" Ripper asked.
Andy tried to tell him, but the quiet opening few chords suddenly
went forte. Ripper tried to lip-read and make out Andy's
enthusiastic gestures, but could make no sense of them.
"I can't hear you," Ripper mouthed.
Andy nodded vigourously, gave him the thumbs up sign, and then
turned back to watch the band.
The hall was slowly starting to fill up. The light show had
begun with the very first note, but Ripper had barely
noticed. Coloured lights swirled in sometimes geometrical patterns,
but it all looked pretty pedestrian compared to the sort of things
he'd seen Evelyn and Ethan conjure. The lights made it harder for him
to find his way back through the crowd. Dee, Randall and the others
weren't back where he'd left them. Ripper scanned the faces of the
swaying, dancing crowd, trying to find their familiar faces. He
spotted Randall on the other side of the room -- the clown makeup
certainly helped there.
When he got there, Tom was doubled over. "Whoa," Tom said, "whoa,"
but nobody was helping him. "I'm all right," he said, when Ripper
tried to touch him. "I'm all right."
Diedre was standing nearby with her back against a concrete
pillar. She was staring at the ceiling. Stan and Randall were tripping
too.
The music was OK. Ripper stood and listened to it for a
while. They did some interesting things with the output from the
guitar, although the chord progressions were pretty standard.
A girl came up and tried to dance with him. He gestured towards
Diedre and the girl danced away.
He fingered the drug-infused piece of paper in his pocket. That
would be one way to spend the evening.
He went up to Diedre. Her clown face swivelled towards him.
"I'm off," he said. "Not my scene tonight."
Diedre nodded as if he had said something very wise. She planted
a kiss on his lips, leaving thick red and white face paint.
On the train back he felt very tired and very sober. The ride
seemed to take forever. Parties of people would get on board, shout
drunkenly at one another, then get off two stops later.
He was really going to have to tell Adrienne about Ethan, he
thought. She deserved to know what sort of a friend he really
was. She'd be unhappy to hear this, but then she would laugh at
Ethan's obvious stupidity. Maybe she'd say it was just a joke, Ethan's
odd sense of humour, what had he been so worried about? Why had he
been worried at all? There wasn't anything to be worried about,
was there?
So perhaps he couldn't tell Adrienne at all.
He could keep on ignoring the man. He was bound to get bored
eventually. Yes, Ethan, who could spend five hours in a bare room with
a pentagram and count it a fine evening's entertainment.
Or, well, he could just give in. Ripper's previous experiences
suggested that this wouldn't take long and would effectively end the
whole thing. Get it over and done with, move on, back to normal, back
to Adrienne and practising his guitar.
He was aware he was talking himself into something, but he
couldn't find the flaw in his logic. He was clenching and unclenching
his hands as the train pulled into Camden Town station.
The house looked much the same as when he'd first seen it. All of
the lights were off, and the only sign of life was the candlelight
from the first floor. Ripper came in through the kitchen and made his
way up the stairs.
"There you are," said Ethan. "I was beginning to think you'd
missed the last train. How long until the others are back?"
Ripper found he had lost the ability to speak. He gave a small
shrug.
"Never mind," said Ethan. "It'd be more polite to go upstairs
anyway."
Ripper stood there, feeling slightly sick and not at all sure of
what he was doing, as Ethan packed away his spellbook and casting
gear.
Then Ripper was suddenly in a panic. If he was going to do this, he
was going to do this now, what was Ethan doing wasting time and
fucking around with his stuff? So he crossed the room in three strides
and shoved Ethan up against the wall, pushing his hand up Ethan's
shirt and his tongue into Ethan's mouth.
"Upstairs," said Ethan, slightly hoarsely.
They went up to Ripper's room.
Five minutes later, Ethan walked out.
Well, thought Ethan, what a crashing disappointment that had been.
He was in his room, crouched down, looking through a box for his
hashish and homemade pipe. God knows, but he needed something to take
the edge off that disaster.
Inept, inhibited, and unwilling to take instruction was not a
combination he could do much with. And yet, Ripper couldn't be that
bad with Adrienne, or she'd never have kept him. It wasn't as if he
were being asked to do something difficult.
There were footsteps along the corridor and Ethan thought, for
fuck's sake, Ripper, please just go away, but no, he tapped on the
door and tentatively opened it.
"Erm," Ripper said, standing in the doorway and staring at his
shoe. "I didn't quite finish you off."
"Please don't worry about it," said Ethan.
"But, but I am worried about it," said Ripper. He stepped further
into the room, and still without looking at Ethan, took off his
leather jacket and laid it on the floor, perhaps to indicate that this
time he might be willing to get even partially undressed. Then he sat
on the floor and started taking off his boots.
And Ethan looked at him, wondering how Round Two could possibly be
worth it. He should really just throw him out and forget about it,
apologise to Adrienne that he wouldn't be able to take Ripper off her
hands after all.
Ripper took his socks off and finally managed to look at Ethan. He
was looking to see whether Ethan would say yes.
And Ethan considered whether to cut this dead or give it another
chance. He rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. At least,
he thought, this was unlikely to be a world-ending decision.
"All right," Ethan said.
Much later, Ethan woke to the sounds of the others coming home. It
was already light, so they must have taken one of the morning
trains. He thought he could hear laughter from the kitchen, and a
while later he heard Randall's heavy tread up to the drawing room
below.
Ripper was sprawled on his stomach next to Ethan, still quite
asleep, his bare right shoulder protruding from the blankets. Ethan
considered running his hand along it and across Ripper's back, but he
decided not to wake him up quite yet.
Instead he sat up and reached for Ripper's jacket. He went through
the pockets, one by one, to see what was there. Most of it was what
he'd expected: car keys, cigarettes, a guitar pick and a wallet. More
surprising was, oh dear, an ornate and heavy cross on a chain. There
was also a rather fetching pair of glasses that Ethan would love to
see Ripper wear.
The wallet contained a little money and several hard-to-get
reader's cards from academic libraries. There was a driver's license
that Ethan unfolded onto his knee. Ripper's name was Rupert Giles. The
out-of-date address was for an Oxford college. He was two years
younger than Ethan, twenty-one and quite legal.
Ethan packed it all away carefully, as he had found it, and put
the jacket back on the floor. He looked at Ripper. He was a Rupert,
then, like the investigative teddy bear in the red top and yellow
check trousers.
Ethan leant over to wake him up.
Ripper woke a second time to find Ethan sitting on the mattress
next to him, reading the paper. He looked freshly-washed and had a cup
of tea next to him. It felt like the late morning.
"Oh God, what time is it?" Ripper whispered.
"Around eleven, I think."
Ripper groped for his watch. "Oh God, oh God," he said, when he
saw the time. "The bus is in five minutes and I've got to get washed
and dressed and, and..."
"Why don't you drive?"
"It's impossible to get a park on a Saturday," Ripper said. "I'm
going to be late! I'll be fired."
"I'll drive you," said Ethan. "I'll drop you off and you can catch
the bus home."
"All right," said Ripper. He pulled on his jeans and hesitated at
the door.
"They're all downstairs," said Ethan, so Ripper left for a wash
and some clean clothes. Everyone else seemed to be in the drawing
room. He bumped into Randall on the first floor landing.
"Dee's still tripping," Randall explained, looking very
tired. Most, but not all, of his facepaint had been washed off. "We're
looking after her."
"Right," said Ripper. "I have to go to work."
Ethan was waiting for him downstairs, next to where Ripper's car
was parked out front. Ethan sat in the driver's seat, took the keys,
and then stared at the dashboard for a long moment.
"You do know how to drive, don't you?" asked Ripper.
"Why would I not know how to drive?"
"I haven't seen you driving."
"I don't have a car."
"When did you last drive then?"
"1968," said Ethan. "No, wait, I'm wrong. 1970."
"I could call in sick," said Ripper.
Ethan put the key in the ignition and turned. "There we go," he
said. "But you'll need to give me directions. I don't know where this
place is."
Ripper couldn't think of anything to talk about on the drive, so
it was Ethan who kept up the conversation, sometimes breaking off
mid-sentence as he changed lanes or turned a corner.
"She's all right," Ethan was saying, "but maybe the dosage was a
little wrong. She's only winding down now."
"That's one of the reasons why I didn't stay at the gig," Ripper
said. "I had terrible nightmares the last time I took that stuff."
"She seems to have enjoyed it," Ethan said. "It just went on a
little long. They had a hard time keeping her from shouting in the
train station."
"Is shouting a normal side effect?"
"I'm not sure that I would know."
"It's the second on the right from here," Ripper said.
He stuck to the set list through lunchtime, playing by rote, but
no-one seemed to much care. Once he'd finished, the manager gave him
his week's wages. As always, Ripper took the cash and then wondered
how he'd managed to spend all of last week's.
He deliberately missed his usual bus home and went for a walk
through the city streets. There were a couple of decent record shops a
twenty minute walk away. Still carrying his guitar, he edged his way
down the narrow aisles, taking his time to pick something out. He
bought a Nick Drake LP just as his stomach started to remind him that
he hadn't eaten anything since the pub meal the night before.
He found a bakery near the Tube station and bought a pie and a
bun. He ate them as he waited for his train, then read the record's
liner notes as headed towards the nearest Northern Line station. But
he had run out of things to distract him by the time he changed
trains. Last night had not been entirely what he had envisaged, but it
was over with and no-one seemed to have noticed. He was pretty sure
that Ethan wouldn't say anything to anyone else. Pretty sure, yes.
Back at the house, he found Ethan heating up several cans' worth
of chicken soup on the stove. "Make us some toast?" Ethan asked
him. "They're all feeling poorly and don't feel well enough to cook."
Up in the drawing room, everyone looked trashed. Pillows and
cushions had been piled up for people to rest on. Tom was fast asleep
on a rug, but Dee, Randall and Stan were at least nominally
conscious.
Dee was explaining what she'd seen and felt. "And all the way
through," she said, after swallowing a mouthful of soup, "was this
sense of extension, of being a continuous piece of a world-spanning
whole." She looked uncertainly at Ethan. "Do you know the kind of
thing I mean?"
"Every time I'm in the magic," Ethan said.
Everyone went to bed very early, even Ethan. Ripper stayed awake
for a while, trying to read a book. He could hear Randall snoring in
the room next to him.
After a while, he put down his book, left his room, and crept
along the corridor to Ethan's. He tapped very quietly on the
door. Ethan opened it, looking at Ripper inquiringly.
"Um," said Ripper.
Adrienne was due to come back Tuesday morning. Ethan woke at some
unusually early hour to find Ripper dressing. "I'm going to go and
meet her at the station," Ripper said.
"That's really not necessary," Ethan told him, but away Ripper
went, depriving Ethan of a mid-morning encore.
Still, they had been fucking pretty much non-stop since Saturday
night, apart from Sunday evening, when Ripper had dutifully gone to his
rehearsal. Ethan had decided he very much liked Ripper's rather gangly
body, and Ripper was certainly getting the hang of things. Ethan had to
congratulate himself on making the right decision in giving him a
second chance.
It had kept Ethan away from his magic, of course, but he was
probably overdue for a holiday of some sort. He had a hard time
remembering the last time he'd taken a proper break. It would probably
improve his concentration in the longer term.
But he'd have to see now what decision Ripper would make, whether
he'd go back to Adrienne or keep up with them both. That might be the
holiday over already.
Before he left his room that morning, he wrote down Ripper's real
name and former address on a piece of paper and put it in his pocket,
in case Adrienne didn't already have it. He thought it well past time
to find out more about Rupert and whether he posed any threat to the
household. Adrienne knew someone who could do basic background checks,
for a fee. He'd ask her when there was a quiet moment.
He worked in the back garden for a while, still trying to get the
hang of the telekenesis trick outdoors. Diedre was gardening again,
and from time to time she gave him a heckle.
Ripper came back from Waterloo around one. "She wasn't there!" he
said. "I waited for the eleven o'clock and there was no sign of her,
so I thought I'd wait for the next one, but it came and she still
wasn't there. She did say Tuesday, didn't she?"
"Yes," said Diedre.
"Yes," said Ethan.
"Then where could she be?"
Diedre took Ripper down the road to the phone box then, so they
could call Adrienne's parents, but when they returned they said no-one
had picked up.
"She'll be fine," said Ethan, but Ripper was visibly upset.
"How can you be so calm?" Ripper demanded.
A Range Rover pulled up outside the house then and Adrienne
stepped out. She had that expression she usually had after a trip to
her parents, tense and short-tempered but putting her best face on
it. And then her parents got out of the vehicle too.
"Ethan. Ripper." said Adrienne, coming up to them both and giving
them a kiss on the cheek each. She deadpanned, "I'm looking for two
burly men, but you'll just have to do."
They followed her back to the Range Rover, where her father was
unlocking the back. Her mother had gone to talk with Diedre. Ethan
could hear Diedre shouting, "Randall! The Wrights are here!"
Mr Wright gave him a nod. "Ethan," he said. He looked then
at Ripper.
"I'm, ah," said Ripper, extending his hand, "very pleased to meet
you, sir."
"Well, give us a hand, then," he said. "It'll need both of you to
carry it."
Ethan didn't know what "it" was.
"It" turned out to be a television.
Ripper felt that he hadn't acquitted himself as well as he would
have preferred. He was, at least, in clean jeans and one of his better
button-up shirts. But he had forgotten to say his name, had realised
there were reasons why he might not want to, and at no point had it
been clear to him whether her parents knew he was sleeping with their
daughter.
He and Ethan had carried the television into Adrienne's room and
the Wrights had followed. Their eyes had darted about and Ripper was
suddenly very aware of how it must look: no real furniture, dusty
boxes, clothes on the floor that were mostly hers but which had a
couple of his things mixed in. Half-melted candles sat on saucers,
left over from the last time Dee had forgotten to pay the electricity
bill: he and Adrienne had been using them as ashtrays. And Adrienne's
diaphragm box was clearly visible next to the bed.
It was only slightly better out in the kitchen, where Diedre was
hurrying to find enough clean teacups and a fresh packet of
biscuits. Everything that needed to be kept clean generally was, but
anything that wasn't essential was never cleaned at all. The floor was
filthy, there were spiderwebs in the corners, and the cabinets were
spattered with cooking fat and coffee.
Adrienne had herded her parents upstairs, where Randall had done
his best to ready the drawing room. He'd even found a few chairs.
Ripper sat uncomfortably on a floor cushion while Mrs Wright
discussed gardening with Diedre and asked after Randall's health and
family. Neither Adrienne nor Mr Wright said a word and Ethan had
buggered off somewhere. Tetley's and Penguins were passed out on a
tray.
The Wrights looked prosperous and middle-aged, tending a little to
fat. Adrienne's mother had the same long face and her father had her
dark blonde hair, although in his case, he kept it cut short. They
wore day-in-the-country type clothes and practical shoes.
Then Adrienne took them back downstairs and to the Range
Rover. Some sort of argument broke out then between her and her
parents, all heated sotto voce. There were gestures, but Ripper
couldn't hear any of the words. He saw Diedre take a deep breath next
to him.
"I'm going in!" she said. She walked over to Adrienne, took her
elbow and waved farewell to the Wrights. The argument ended as Dee
came into earshot, the Wrights smiled tightly, and were off.
Dee steered Adrienne back into the kitchen and onto a
stool. "Don't just stand there!" Dee said to Ripper. "Fetch a pint
glass."
Ripper did as he was bid while Diedre fetched a bottle of red
wine. She poured most of it into the glass and passed it to Adrienne.
"Oh, thank God," said Adrienne, and sculled a good portion of the
wine. "Oh, thank God." She looked at Diedre. "You know I love you,
don't you?"
"Now and for always," said Dee.
Ripper still hadn't had a chance to properly say hello to
Adrienne. He came up and kissed her. She tasted very strongly of cheap
Bordeaux.
"Oh, Ripper," she said, "I missed you too."
Randall and Ethan came downstairs then. "Have they gone?" Ethan
asked.
"Yes," said Adrienne, "no thanks to you."
"What do you imagine I could have done?"
"Suffered with the rest of us," said Diedre. "Kept misery
company."
"What was the argument about?" asked Ripper.
"How can you live in that filthy squat?" said Randall.
"Why don't you ever ring?" said Ethan.
"You should meet a nice boy and get married," said Diedre.
Adrienne sculled some more wine.
"We could have cleaned up the house if you'd warned us they were
coming," Randall said.
"I didn't know," said Adrienne. "They were only supposed to be
giving me a lift to the station. And then they said they'd just let me
pick a television. And then it became, 'We might as well buy the
television and drive you home.'"
"Why did you get a television?"
"I liked watching the news on theirs at home," she said, "and
Panorama."
"I thought television was the opiate of the masses," said Ethan.
"Opium is the opiate of the masses," said Randall.
"God!" said Diedre. "That's a joke too, by the way. It's very
succinct."
They went to look at the television. After some messing around to
find a spot near a plug, and then fiddling with the antennae, they got
a picture.
They heard an actress's sonorous voice: "...a solitary stroll by
the sea. She saw the moon rise and start his lonesome journey through
the night."
"It's Jackanory," said Ripper.
Randall looked at him inquiringly.
"A children's television show. Actors read aloud from books."
"The moon and the night and all the sadness there is..." said the
television.
They all sat in Adrienne's room, watching children's TV. Shortly
before the grownup news started, Tom came home and joined
them. Someone went to fetch fish and chips during a light
entertainment show. Stan wandered in and then out again during a
Tuesday's Documentary on Belfast.
All the while, Adrienne leant against Ripper, propped up with
pillows against the wall. Ripper watched the television but couldn't
seem to take anything in. He felt sick with guilt. He had no idea what
he would say to her, if he would say anything, or what he was going to
do. Surely if anyone found out, they would throw Ripper out of the
house. He imagined Adrienne looking hurt, Diedre's accusing stare,
the unforgiving frowns of Randall. He had to get up, go upstairs, and
throw up all his fish and chips.
He must have been rather pale when he came back downstairs,
because Ethan said, "You don't look very well, Ripper."
Everyone turned towards him, so Ripper said, "I don't feel
particularly well."
"You'd better sleep in your room then," said Adrienne. "I have
work in the morning."
So Ripper spent the night awake upstairs, and no-one came to
bother him at all.
There was somebody already in the telephone booth, so Ethan had to
wait. It was drizzling slightly and Ethan hadn't bothered to bring an
umbrella. He stood underneath the awning of a nearby greengrocer's
until the booth was free.
He rang the number Adrienne had given him. "Adrienne Wright," he
said. "Do you need the money up front? How long will it take?" Then he
gave out Rupert's details.
Diedre and Randall were in Adrienne's room, half-watching the
television, while working on a series of costume sketches. Ethan
peered over Randall's shoulder.
"New outfits for Midsummer," said Diedre. "We have to be
spectacular."
Ethan eyed the drawings. "You'll look like George Clinton."
"Good," said Randall. "He's who I want to be when I grow up."
"That's going to be difficult," said Ethan.
"The George Clinton of Art," said Randall.
"That's a little easier to achieve," Ethan allowed.
They watched the lunchtime news and an animated programme called
Mr Ben. Mr Ben dressed up as a wizard in a costume shop and
then stepped through a side-door into wizardly adventures.
"We didn't see you much over the weekend," Diedre said.
"No," said Ethan
"Or of Ripper."
"No," said Ethan.
"Are you shagging him?"
"Yes," said Ethan.
"Does Adrienne know?"
"Yes," said Ethan.
"And she's OK with it?"
"Yes," said Ethan.
"Well, that's all right then," Diedre said, and she went back to
work on her costumes designs with Randall.
Ethan stayed to watch Pebble Mill at One and then decided
that he really should get to work.
But he dawdled, and he dawdled, and then Ripper came home from
work. Ethan met him in the kitchen.
"You're looking much better," Ethan said, hopefully.
"I'm not really feeling better," Ripper said. "Look, could we go
for a walk?"
"It would be much more comfortable upstairs," said Ethan.
"A walk," Ripper said.
Ripper took them along Regent's Park Road. It had stopped
drizzling, and the weather now looked more like scattered showers:
clumps of cloud sliding across the sky, threatening rain one minute
but letting the sun through in the next. Fortunately, Ethan didn't
believe in those sorts of portents.
They reached Primrose Hill and Ripper found one of the drier park
benches.
"Look," he said, "I can't do this. It isn't fair on Adrienne. She
deserves better than this."
Ethan looked at him, trying to work out what he meant. Rupert
looked very distressed, sitting all hunched up with his hands between
his knees.
"Do what?" asked Ethan. "What are you doing to Adrienne?"
Ripper turned and gave him a horrified look that suggested Ethan
ought to know.
"You mean sleeping with me? That's really not a problem."
"I think it is," said Ripper.
"It really isn't. I spoke to her about it."
"You spoke to her?" said Ripper, his voice rising half an octave.
"Well, of course I did," said Ethan. "Did you think I'd make a
pass at you otherwise? I've known her a lot longer than I've known
you."
Ripper looked in every direction except Ethan's. He looked up at
the sky, down at the grass, and over towards the path home.
"You mean you haven't talked to her about this?"
"No!" squeaked Ripper. He looked rather green.
"Are you going to throw up?" asked Ethan.
Ripper shook his head. Ethan tried to work out whether putting his
hand on Rupert's arm would be a good thing or a bad thing.
"And what about the others? Do they know too?"
"Some of them," said Ethan. "They're not stupid."
"And do they care?"
"No," said Ethan, finally annoyed. "If they were the sort of
people who cared, they wouldn't be my friends, would they?"
Rupert didn't say anything for a long time. Then he said, "Would
you mind going home? I'd really rather be by myself for a while."
So Ethan went home.
Ripper walked up to the top of Primrose Hill. He looked out over
London, not really seeing any of it. He walked back down. He sat on a
park bench for a while and then went walking through Regent's Park. He
walked past the zoo, through the lawns, to the boating pond and
back. He hadn't eaten all day but he didn't want anything to eat or
drink. He went to a pub anyway, and bought a beer that he stared at
for hours, long after the sun set. Then he went back to the house.
Randall, Diedre, Tom and Stan were all in the kitchen. Ripper
tried to tell if they were looking at him any differently, but he
couldn't see any change. That made him feel worse: they must have
thought he was that sort of person all along.
Adrienne was sitting on her mattress, watching The News at
Ten. She'd tidied up and swept the floor. The ash-filled saucers
were gone and she'd bought herself a proper ash tray. She patted the
spot next to her on the bed.
He sat down in his usual spot and took his boots off. She passed
him a cigarette and then put her arm around him as they watched a
segment on a plane crash. Ripper couldn't see the screen very well, so
he pulled his glasses out of his pocket.
"I spoke to Ethan," Adrienne said, her eyes still mainly on the
television. "It really is all right." But that just made Ripper feel
sick again.
"You never said anything," he said.
She said, "Neither did you."
Once the news was over, she got up to turn the television off. She
crouched over him when she came back to bed. "I'm going to be very
busy in the next few weeks," she told him. "I'm going to be out a lot
in the evenings and on weekends. You can do what you want." And then
she leant over to start kissing along his jawline while she undid the
buttons of his shirt.
"Would it have been any different," Rupert asked her, "if you'd
been in love with me?"
"I don't know," said Adrienne. "I've never been in love."
Ethan caught the train to Oxford late on Saturday
morning. Adrienne's contact had required cash on delivery, and she had
to go to work. She'd said to him first, "I think he's one of your lot,
actually. I think he's a wizard." And then she'd given him her share
of the money. Ethan taken a bit extra out of the household kitty
because this was a household concern, to see whether Ripper or his
surveillants might constitute a threat.
He spent a little while looking around Oxford first. His Latin
Master and his mother had been very keen for him to go there. He
supposed that if he had, he might have met Ripper a couple of years
ago instead. But it was with a sense of disinterest that he walked the
town streets, taking in the spiny architecture, the manicured lawns,
and the other tourists gawping about. This was a possibility he'd
turned his back on without regret.
The contact went by the name Mr Grey and he had a shopfront not
far from Blackwell's. It sold tourist tat: mugs and spoons and
placemats with "Oxford" printed on them in blue.
Mr Grey was of average height and hair-colour. He had an
unmemorable face. There was nothing about Ethan's sense of the man
that suggested he might be a wizard. In fact, Mr Grey didn't feel
human at all.
Ethan handed him a wodge of cash and Mr Grey gave him an
envelope. "You'll want to read it before you go back to London," Grey
said. Ethan thought that if Grey looked like anyone at all, it was
Eric Morecambe.
Ethan found a nearby pub and ordered a pint and a ploughman's. He
read through the document, section by section. It had Rupert's
birthplace and the names of his parents and siblings. His father
worked for a council and his mother was an archivist. He'd had an
excellent education and an interest in martial sports, particularly
fencing. School prizes, and a mention of a second family home in
Devon. At university he'd studied history with a focus on the
mediaeval period and he'd joined a band. There was a list of known
lovers (all women, Ethan noted), and the comment, "No serious vices."
Blah blah blah blah blah.
And then there was a single sentence at the end that made Ethan
eat his lunch rather faster than might have been wise.
He went back to see Mr Grey, who had of course been expecting him.
"What's a Watcher?" Ethan asked.
On the train back to London, Ethan read and reread the second
document he'd bought. It had cost all of the cash he'd had left on
him, plus half a pint of blood. But it had been worth it.
So Rupert belonged to a family of Watchers, an organisation
dedicated to the control and eradication of demons, particularly
vampires. They trained and supervised a line of mystical beings called
Slayers, who resembled teenage girls but had supernatural strength and
speed. Watchers were raised from birth to learn demon-lore, magic and
combat skills. Watchers were intelligent, highly-trained,
well-organised and ruthless. "Do not fuck with them!" someone had
written in pencil on the bottom. Ethan wondered if that had been Mr
Grey.
Ethan found himself considering Rupert anew. Rupert, with his
obvious magical ability, his depth of knowledge, and his fighting
prowess. Rupert, who had been brought up and brainwashed by a
quasi-military sect, and yet had been courageous and clear-sighted
enough to leave them. And he'd stayed away, though even now they
hounded him on Tube stations and in unmarked black cars.
Rupert, who turned out to be someone quite different from what
Ethan had first assumed. Not just an amiable guitarist.
Ethan thought about this all the way home, on the train, in the
Tube, and walking along the streets. Standing outside the house, he
could hear Ripper practising his guitar.
Adrienne came home soon after and found him sitting on the back
step with his eyes closed, leaning against the door.
"So what did we find out?" she asked, "about our housemate."
"He has over-protective parents," Ethan said, not looking at her.
Adrienne snorted and went inside. And Ethan was left wondering why
he had just lied to her.
There were five people in Ripper's car and that was at least one
person too many, but Ripper wasn't certain who that one person was. It
could be Randall, who had shown up for a twenty-four hour trip with a
trunk almost larger than the car's boot; it could be Stan, whose
luggage was much more compact but which was probably of considerably
more interest to the police. Perhaps it was Diedre, who was repeatedly
singing all the lines she knew of "Magic Bus" and "Magical Mystery
Tour" (three lines each, it turned out) in her admittedly flawless
soprano. Or it could well be Ethan, who had spent the trip so far
telling them about all the things they would hate about the
festival. And it wasn't as if Ripper didn't see enough of them all
already, back at the house.
It had all seemed like such a good idea when Randall had described
it: music, like-minded people, the mystical experience of dawn at
Stonehenge. But it had rained solidly for the previous three days and
while the weather had improved today, the site was surely going to a
mudbath. Plus, there was the not inconsiderable fact that he was
losing half a week's pay from the hotel restaurant, and while Ethan
seemed to be able to live off cheese sandwiches, Ripper would
certainly prefer a more varied diet.
"Too much, the Magic Bus!"
Now they were crawling through traffic near Andover, flat green
fields on either side of them. Many of the vehicles heading in the
same direction were elderly rustbuckets, covered with bright paint, or
both.
Ethan waved out the window. "Seven hundred combi vans in a field,"
he said. "That's what this will be."
But, when they finally got a view towards Stonehenge, it looked
more like two hundred combi vans and five hundred tents.
"Going to take you away," sang Diedre. "Going to take you
away-ay!" She gave the whole thing an operatic trill.
"Where should we park?" Ripper asked.
"Wherever we want," said Ethan. "It's a field."
"The bands usually set up on the left there," said Randall, rather
more helpfully. "So it depends on how much talk and sleep we want."
Ripper opted for a middling distance. He parked. Stan and Diedre,
who'd sat through the trip with his guitar on their laps, passed it
carefully to him. Randall went straight to the boot.
Ripper stood and looked at Stonehenge, which was perhaps half a
mile away. He'd never been there before. "Well," he said, "that's
really rather remarkable."
"Wait until you see it up close," said Ethan, which was the first
positive thing he'd said all day.
Randall had pulled an assortment of bright fabrics out of his
trunk. He and Diedre shucked off their travelling clothes down to
their knickers (and, no, Diedre, was not wearing a bra) before
pulling on their midsummer outfits. Randall wore a patterned purple
tunic over white trousers, with a long, sleeveless yellow jacket of a
light, fringed material. He had a white leather hat, sort of cowboy
style, with a bandana tied around it. Diedre peeled on a skintight
top in an eye-watering jade-and-purple harlequin pattern, with a
feathered flowing white skirt that was surely going to be covered in
mud in about fifteen minutes. She had thigh-high boots and
half-a-dozen yellow boas.
Once dressed to their satisfaction, they took a few more things
out of the trunk. Diedre picked up a tarpaulin. Randall started with
five glasses and a bottle of not-quite-warm champagne.
Stan peered into the trunk. "That's a TARDIS you've got there, is
it? Very handy!"
Randall poured everyone a glass. "To midsummer solstice!" he said.
"And a fine waning of the year!" said Diedre.
Everyone took a sip.
"We should pay our respects to the stones next," said Randall.
They walked in that general direction, but it was slow going,
as they were stopped at every other teepee, tent and caravan by
someone keen to see Randall. Men clad only in jeans came to shake his
hand and reminisce about that gig three years ago; women in peasant
dresses embraced him and buried their heads in his hair. Roaming packs
of naked toddlers were enjoined to remember Uncle Randall and Auntie
Dee. His hat accumulated flowers, feathers and peace buttons.
"Why's Randall so popular here?" Ripper asked Ethan.
"He remembers people's names. He's been here every midsummer since
he moved to England. And people always remember meeting him."
Stan did a brisk trade. Ethan looked around, pointing out caravans
and tents belonging to people he knew. He explained how he'd
met each of them, their magical interests and their utility as
contacts, plus which of them wasn't speaking to whom for reasons known
or unknown. Ripper tried to take it all in.
"So it all boils down to who slept with whom, who lent money to
someone else, and who accidentally snubbed someone twenty years ago?"
"Pretty much," said Ethan. "Or who stole someone else's demon."
"That happens a lot, does it, demon-stealing?"
"More than I had once imagined," Ethan said.
At the next caravan, the others were invited in to see a new baby
and a dog. Ripper didn't know the couple, so he circled around a few
tents, whereupon he almost walked into a girl he thought he knew.
It took him a few moments to place her. She wasn't wearing any
make-up this time, her dark hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, and
she had a throw-rug draped around her shoulders like a cape. It was
Mandy, the girl Stan had brought to the owl spell.
"Oh, it's you again!" she said, and she threw her arms around his
waist. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" She appeared to be part of a
pack of other similarly-dressed girls who now surrounded him.
She had turned up at the squat one day, asking for "the wizard",
quite desperate to take part in another casting. Ripper had fobbed her
off, saying that Ethan didn't live there any more, but her crestfallen look
had made him tell her of the upcoming gathering at
Stonehenge. Clearly, she had managed to get here.
"This is fantastic!" she said, looking up at him. "This is
everything I ever wanted. Magic, it's all real."
She let him go then, and he watched as she was reabsorbed into the
pack, who ran away through the crowds.
Ethan and the others emerged from the caravan as Ripper stood
there.
"Come on now," said Ethan. "It's time to visit Evelyn." He pointed
towards a sturdy two-chambered tent in chocolate and red.
Ripper tried to refocus. "Is it going to be awkward, seeing her here?"
"No," said Ethan, "but let me do the talking." And he touched
Ripper's chest in a gesture just intimate enough to make Ripper
uncomfortable in public, even if the public was a field full of
hippies.
"Randall!" came yet another shout from behind them. "Dee!" But
this time it was a voice Ripper thought he recognised. It was Evelyn.
She was in a long green dress, with the hem pinned up to avoid the
worst of the mud. She had a necklace of beaten gold leaves. Randall
took his hat off and gave her a deep bow. Diedre curtsied and
laughed.
"And Ethan, sweetie! I thought you weren't coming."
Ethan consented to be kissed theatrically on the cheek. "I changed
my mind," he said.
"Really, that's wonderful. Now I see that all your glasses need to
be refilled. Come with me."
The tent was large enough to have two rooms. They stood in the
front one, which had a small fold-out table and chair. Ripper noticed
as they went in that she said a chant as she unfolded the tent flap,
to shut down some fairly substantial wards. The back room was sealed
off from the first by a flap of plastic.
She poured them all glasses of a very strong syrah, the kind that
would kick you in the head afterwards. And she tossed Ethan a brownish
cube.
Ethan held it into the light. "Stan," he said, "how come Evelyn's
hash is always so much better than yours?"
Stan shrugged. "Either she's got a better supplier," he said, "or,
it's magic. Take your pick."
There was some chit-chat about the household, Adrienne and Tom,
plus Evelyn asking Ripper what his name was again.
"How's your magic coming along then, Ethan?"
Ethan was dabbing a piece of the cube into a pipe. "I'll have to
come around and show you later."
"We're on our way to the Henge," said Randall. "We haven't paid
our respects yet."
"Well, I won't keep you. But pop by later, won't you?"
Outside, they started to near the stages. A few people were
jamming on bongos but there didn't seem to be any actual bands playing
yet. Ripper adjusted the weight of the guitar case on his back and
wondered if he'd have the courage to play.
Randall waved at a few of the people nearby who had instruments
with them. He said to Ripper, "If we come back in the next hour, I can
introduce you to the people you should know."
It was barely perceptible, but Ethan had started to weave a little
as he walked. Ripper wasn't happy to admit it, even to himself, but he
actually found Ethan rather more likeable when he was just slightly
stoned. He was more relaxed and more normal somehow. The downside was
that the drug made him stupid.
They passed the last of the cars, then the last of the teepees,
and were at last in the section of clear grassland that surrounded
Stonehenge.
Ripper had seen photographs of it, of course, many times, but
seeing it in person was not the same thing at all. Nothing had
prepared him for the massiveness of the stones, their height, their
gravity, the way they towered over him, Randall, Ethan, Diedre, Stan
and the hundreds of other people here. He stretched his hand out to
touch the nearest one, craned his neck back to see its top high
above. And each stone, through its form and posture, seemed to possess
a personality distinct from every other. Not even the Watchers knew
how the circle had come to be.
Randall and Diedre bowed and curtsied low before entering the
circle. Stan gave the stones a respectful nod and Ripper followed him
in. Diedre found a spot to lay the tarpaulin over the mud, gesturing
for Stan and Ripper to sit with her. Ethan had paused at the edge of
the circle, as if bracing himself.
Randall called out, "Ethan," and Ethan at last strode in.
He shouldn't have taken the hash. It had dampened his ability to
shut down his sense of magic. Even from far outside the circle, the
Henge roared like the sea scouring a cliff. Standing at the edge of
the circle felt like teetering on a ledge above the smashing waves.
He heard Randall call out his name, very distantly. He clamped
down on the noise as much as he could and stepped into the circle.
The sound, the sense, smashed up against him. He was underwater
and his mouth and ears were choked with magic. He felt himself stagger
as the currents buffeted his body.
He felt Diedre and then Randall seize his arms. He was able to
use them to balance himself a little and the noise retreated
somewhat. He reached for their wrists, because the skin contact
helped.
He could see now that a plastic square had been laid out on the
ground. Rupert and Stan were waiting for them there. Ethan sat down
and held on to Stan and Randall while Diedre and Rupert set up the
spell. Everyone lit a candle and gave a small offering of blood.
"I'll run the spell," said Diedre to him, "if you're not feeling
well."
Ethan still didn't feel quite able to speak, so he just
nodded. The sound was still there, more of a pressure now, at the back
of his head.
They formed a human circle within the stone one. Some people
gathered to watch.
"We thank the stones for allowing us to visit here and be among
them on this solstice day and solstice night. We thank them for the
year past and ask their blessings for the year to come. We ask that
our lives be put to their best use."
A song was required then, Latin words in a Gregorian-style
chant. Ethan felt himself mouth the words but could not hear his own
voice. He heard Diedre's chorister fluting, Randall's uncertain tenor,
then a voice he belatedly recognised as Rupert's. He was confused for
a moment by other voices singing around him, until he realised that a
few members of their ad hoc audience were joining in.
But then the roaring sound began to come back and Ethan tightened
his grip until Stan and Randall gave him looks. Ethan hoped the spell
would finish soon, because he wasn't sure how much longer he could
hold on. He wondered what to do. But then he realised that there was
no need for him to hold on, he could just let go and be washed away by
the metaphorical tide. His physical body was safe, and he could pull
back the rest of him once the spell was done.
Fucking trip, though.
He let himself go, and then he didn't know where he was. Eyes open
or closed, it didn't matter. Adrift, floating, then slammed this way
and that. He sensed the stones, not as stones, but as beings,
shallow-rooted in the earth, but deep-rooted in magic. Old but still
wanting, but who could understand what a stone would want? For a
microsecond, he thought they were aware of him, and just as aware of
Randall, Rupert, Diedre and Stan. What did the stones see and think of
them? He slammed back into himself. The human circle had broken.
"What the hell was that?" Randall was laughing.
"Did, did everyone feel that?" Rupert asked.
"That was really trippy," said Stan.
Ethan managed to stand up. The sound was still almost overpowering
and he had to get away. He staggered out of the stone circle, managed
ten or twenty yards more, then sat down heavily in the mud. The sound
was only a whisper now. He remembered how to breathe.
He felt hands pulling him up, wiping him down, sitting him
back. He started to see and hear things properly again.
"What was that?" Randall asked him.
"That's how it sounds to me always," Ethan said, gesturing back
towards Stonehenge.
"Some sort of transference of extrasensory recognisance of the
magical field," said Rupert. He looked particularly adorable when
making pronouncements of this kind. "I take it that doesn't usually
happen with this spell?"
"That was wild!" Randall said.
Ethan grabbed on to Randall's arm to pull himself upright. He
didn't feel too wobbly. "I think I need a walk," he said.
Randall said, "I'm going to take Ripper to meet a few musicians,
if you want to come."
"No, I'll catch up with you later. I should probably go and see
Evelyn."
"If you're sure you'll be OK," said Rupert.
Ethan walked around the camp for about twenty minutes, until the
dizziness subsided. Then he set off for Evelyn's tent, which wasn't
very far away.
"You got a good spot this year," he said when he arrived.
"I've been here a couple of weeks already," she said, as she
ushered him in. "It's a good place for appointments."
She took him through to the back room, where he sat on an
inflatable mattress as she poured them both more wine.
"You look a bit peaky," she said.
"It got a bit intense up at the Henge," he said.
"And you could do with a wash." She had a large plastic container
full of water and she poured a little into a basin. She fetched a
cloth and started to wash the last of the mud from his hands and the
knees of his jeans. She leant over to kiss him and he kissed back,
feeling himself start to respond.
"I'm not having sex with you today," he said.
"No?"
"No."
"Would you mind telling me why?" She was leaning across him and he
could feel her breath on his face. He had to move his leg.
"Because I brought someone and you've got plenty of others."
"True," she said. "We would have had to have been quick. Carrie's
coming round in half an hour." She kept fondling his leg though. "So,
who'd you bring?" He watched as she went through the possibilities in
her head. "Ripper," she said.
"Yes."
"Any good?"
"He is now."
"Are you smitten?"
"A little."
"Is he?"
"No," he said slowly, and he pulled himself away from her to sit
up straighter on the bed. "So I'm not really enjoying this as much as
I might."
"Oh, poor Ethan," she said. "Don't worry, these things never last
very long. You'll get through it and then you'll ask yourself what all
the fuss was about."
Ethan was not exactly reassured.
"You were going to show me how your magic was going?"
Ethan set up for his magic card trick and soon had flocks of them
flying around the tent. He watched Evelyn's face intently and thought
he caught a hint of surprise or even envy. He felt a stab of pride.
"Who taught you that trick?"
"He's good at quite a number of things, actually."
Evelyn gave him a sharp glance. "He's not just a tourist, then,
hanging out with us wizards?"
"Not at all. The magic's in his bones and he was brought up in it
as well. He'd have found us one way or another. He's one of us,
Evelyn."
"If you're sure."
He brought the cards in for a landing and pressed the packs back
into her hand. "Your other friend will be visiting soon."
"Ethan," she said, just as he was leaving, "There might be
something on tonight. If there is, I'll see if I can get you in."
"Do you want me to meet you somewhere?"
"I'll find you," she said. "After all, I am a witch."
They sat together in the endless twilight, leaning against one
another, forced close by the limited size of the tarpaulin and the
press of other bodies. A psychedelic folk group were up on stage,
playing a set that had seemed interminable to Ripper, if only because
their guitars were ever-so-slightly off-key. And his arm was starting
to go numb where Stan's back pressed against it.
He'd spent the afternoon meeting Randall's more musical
acquaintances. Ripper had to admit that Randall knew quite a few
interesting people. He'd spent two or three hours talking and jamming
with a folk rock couple from Kent, a German synthesiser enthusiast who
he should really put in touch with his bandmate Andy, and a
cute girl guitarist from Yorkshire who played possibly very
slightly better than he did. Her name was Carol, but unfortunately she
was determined to return to Yorkshire and already spoken for.
Ethan had popped by at one point to say that he'd recovered
sufficiently to do the rounds of catching up with the various people
he knew at the festival, and did Ripper want to come with him? Ripper
had been deep in conversation with the folk rock couple and waved
Ethan away, and Ethan had been pissed off with him ever since.
And the downside of Randall knowing quite a few interesting people
was that Randall knew huge numbers of very uninteresting people as
well. The very bad bongo troupe, for example, or the man who knew the
name of every song ever written but couldn't accurately hum any of
them. Many of these friends of Randall might actually be interesting
under other circumstances, but after a tab of acid or a couple of hot
knives they had lost the ability to string together a coherent
sentence, which had made meaningful conversation a sadly unattainable
goal.
Then there had been dinner with the Wallys, a diverse group of
people who had all taken the surname "Wally" in order to confuse the
police. They had an entrenched encampment not far from the stage,
where they intended to stay for good. They had actual toilets and a
kind of shower where you filled a bag with hot water. They'd had some
trouble with their firewood though after the torrential rain of the
past couple of days, and when Ripper got there, Ethan had been
relighting their kitchen fires using magic to a very appreciate
audience.
The psychedelic folk group finished their last song. Ripper
wondered who was next up. Diedre tried to pass him a bottle of gin
and Randall tried to pass him a joint. The air was taking on a chill.
"Does anyone have the time?" Ripper asked. "Do we know how long it
is until sunset?"
"Where's your watch?" asked Diedre.
"I think someone stole it."
"The sun will set," said Randall, "when it falls behind the curve
of the earth, in its own good time."
"Actually, I am perfectly well aware of elementary astronomy. I
understand it will, in fact, set in the west."
"What's got into you?" Diedre asked.
"The last band gave me a headache," he said. "And I think the food
disagreed with me."
"Think about something else then," said Diedre. "Think about the
coming year and what you want to do in it, your aims and ambitions."
He thought for a moment. "I want to be a better guitarist." And he
wanted to stop feeling so bloody guilty.
"I want to be a better painter," said Randall.
"Yes," said Diedre. "And do you know what I want? I want to have
a fucking ambition."
"Diedre--" said Randall.
"It's all very easy for the rest of you, isn't it? Randall's got
art, Ripper got music, Adrienne's got... the overthrow of the
government. That's why she didn't come, you know, she's plotting the
overthrow of the entire bloody government. We'll get back to London and
Westminster will be on bloody fire.
"I don't think--" said Randall.
"Oh, shut the hell up," she said to him. "You don't know what it's
like, not knowing what you want to do."
"You'd be a pretty good witch if you ever practised," said Ethan.
"And thank you for yet another characteristically unsupportive
comment."
"That was a supportive comment," said Ethan.
"So you're an ordinary person," said Stan. "Why's that a problem?
You and me both. We're only outnumbered because we share a house with
freaks."
"I'm in a field full of fucking freaks," said Diedre, waving her
arms wide.
"Well, exactly," said Stan.
"I'm not exactly a freak," Ripper said.
"Sometimes," said Diedre, ignoring him, "I think should go back
to university."
"You dropped out? I did too," Ripper found himself saying.
"I studied modern European languages for three
months. Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir? What did you
study?"
"History."
"Really?" said Stan. "That's what I'd do if I ever went. I like
reading about battles and stuff. I've got books on them."
"I know some people really into that," said Randall. "I
could introduce you. They do battle games."
"Toy soldiers?" said Stan. "I reckon I could get into that."
"But what should I do?" pressed Diedre.
"You like reading," said Ethan. "English literature? Journalism?
Jackanory?"
"They all sound like work," said Diedre. "Maybe I'm just
monumentally lazy. Maybe I should just get married after all."
The next band was finally set up on stage. This one had a warbling
female vocalist and a man on a harp. They were rather eerie, actually.
"I think the sun's set," said Ethan.
"I might have to make some changes this year," said Stan. "I can't
keep doing what I'm doing. Well, I mean, some people can, but I don't
think I'm one of them. If I got any better at it, I'd have to get
nasty, and I don't want to do that." He laughed. "I only got into this
line of work as a favour to friends, really."
"Very civic-minded of you," said Ethan.
"What would you do instead?" Diedre asked.
"I don't know. I've been thinking about that a lot, lately."
"Community service?" suggested Ethan.
Stan gave him the bird.
Patchy cloud was moving slowly over the sky, giving glimpses of
the waning moon, Venus and a few early stars. Ripper felt cramped and
cold. His foot had gone numb. "I think I'm going for a walk," he said.
"Try heading southeast," said Ethan.
"Why there?"
"That's the way the wizards are headed."
Ethan couldn't see all that well, what with the scant moonlight
and the jumble of people, but he spotted Old May. She was seventy if
she was a day, had a hip operation a few years ago, and walked with a very
distinctive gait. So when he saw her heading away from the Henge and
the stages, he turned to see where she was going. And when he saw Bob
Mac and Singh the Younger headed in that direction too, he became very
interested. Was this the mysterious event Evelyn had hinted at?
He and Rupert picked their way through the tarpaulins, rush mats,
and old coats that people had out to sit on, stepping carefully over
sleeping children, picnic baskets, and shawl-wrapped festival
goers. Ethan pointed out the three wizards to Rupert. "They're all
fairly powerful and fairly sociable for their kind. They might even
come to the festival for the music. I heard Bob Mac sang in music
halls back in the 1890s or something."
"That can't be right," said Rupert. "Can it?"
"Old May's with a coven in Devon, if I remember right. The other
two come up from London. They're here every year, as far as I know."
The three had reached the edge of the tents and parked
cars. "We'll lose sight of them if we don't hurry." But they seemed to
be fairly clearly headed towards the intersection of two nearby
roads.
There was a large campervan coming up the A303. It was moving
slowly and its lights were dimmed. Old May stood out in front of it
and pointed it in the direction of a plausible park. Ethan couldn't
see where the other two had got to.
The campervan pulled up obediently. Its interior lights were on,
but you couldn't see what was inside because of tinted plastic stuck
to the windows. A party of six people stepped out: four men and two
women. They wore jeans, t-shirts and wooden beads. One of the men wore
a bandana. They'd freeze their tits off in this weather.
"I think I know what this is," said Rupert, without taking his
eyes from the distant group. Ethan watched, fascinated, as Rupert
slipped into a sort of fighting stance. He was reaching for something
in his pocket.
Then Bob Mac stepped out from behind the campervan. He had a
bucket and a garden sprayer. He squeezed the trigger and sprayed the
new arrivals. They screamed. They smoked. They clawed at their wet
arms and faces. What the hell was going on? Was that acid? One of the
men fell to the ground and Bob Mac poured the bucket over him. There
was more screaming.
The other five ran towards the cover and safety of the rows of
tents and caravans. Straight towards Ethan and Rupert, in fact.
"Get back," Rupert told Ethan, "for God's sake." He was holding
his cross in one hand and his lighter in the other.
As the five running figures came closer, Ethan could see that there
was something very strange about their faces. He finally realised:
they must be demons.
Bloody hell.
He wanted to run. He wanted to see them up close. He wanted to
hide. He wanted to find out what Rupert would do. He wanted to know if
he could tell their nature through senses other than sight.
He stepped behind a tent, pulling out one of its poles to grip in
his hand. When he peered around the corner, the demons were almost
upon them, and Ripper was still in their way.
Singh and Old May appeared then, Ethan could not say from
where. Between them sprang a wall of fire.
Ethan heard two shouts. The wall of flame disappeared and now
there were only three runners. Two headed west and one northeast.
The wizards followed the two demons, Singh fleet of foot, while
Old May took slow steps while muttering a chant. The two demons
tripped and fell.
And meanwhile, dear Ripper was running after the third demon.
Ethan hefted the pole, which had not turned out be as solid as he
might have hoped. He had to think of something. What could he do?
Well, he was a wizard.
He pulled his kit out of his pocket and made a circle of stones
and candles. But he needed to be calm and he didn't feel calm at all.
He glanced up and saw Ripper catching up with the demon. There was
a flurry of movement.
Calm. He had to be so fucking calm. An animal. He could conjure
the image of an animal. Something large enough and strong enough to
worry a demon. And it had better be fucking fast.
An amorphous blob of a creature materialised just outside the
circle. Ethan made it large and sleek and cat-like. It wasn't any
particular species. It was the size of a tiger and jet black. It ran
at the demon.
Rupert fell.
The demon lent over him, but looked up as another flash of fire
came from the direction its two comrades had run in. Then it saw the
big cat, running for it.
The demon started to back away.
And then it practically tripped backwards over Bob Mac. There
was a final burst of flame and the demon disappeared.
Ethan grabbed his kit and ran towards Rupert. The big cat vanished
like the Sussex Puma. He could hear Rupert speaking with Bob Mac, so
thank God, he was alive.
"I'm sorry," Rupert was saying.
"That was very dangerous and very stupid," Bob Mac said. "We know
what we're doing but I don't think you do. A cross and a lighter, lad?"
"It's all I had on me."
Ethan reached them. He asked Bob Mac, "Did you know what they were
from the start?"
"Aye," said Bob Mac.
"Can't you toast them while they're still in the van then? Start
the flame wall from the back door so they can't use it for escape?"
Bob Mac walked off without answering him. Ethan couldn't tell if
it was because he'd asked a stupid question or a smart one.
He knelt then to look at Ripper, who was half-sitting and
half-lying on the drying mud of the ground, propped up on an elbow. He
was still gasping for breath.
"Your shoulder's bleeding," Ethan said. There was thin cut near
Ripper's collarbone.
Ripper looked down. "I suppose it is. I have a first aid kit back
in the car."
"I'll help you there."
Rupert made a waving gesture. "Give me a minute?"
The bleeding didn't look too bad, so Ethan didn't insist. Instead
he went to pick up Rupert's cross. He looked about for the lighter,
which turned out to be twenty yards away. On his way back he paused at
the scattering of grey dust. He scooped some up in his hands and ran
it through his fingers. It was much finer than sand but not as fine as
talc, like some sort of dry clay. He wondered if vampire dust had any
magical properties or uses.
"I'm ready," said Ripper. Ethan came over and helped him to stand.
"Thank you for the cat," Rupert said.
"Don't mention it," said Ethan.
They had some trouble navigating back to the car, because of the
poor light and the many rows of vehicles and tents which had
accumulated since they first arrived. Ripper was still very shaky; it
might be shock. Ethan supposed that if he'd ever been a boy scout he
would know what to do.
They found the car eventually and Ethan sat Rupert in the back
seat, taking the car keys to unlock the glove compartment. The first
aid kit was there, along with a number of other things, including a
sheathed knife and a wooden stake. Returning to Ripper, he unzipped
Ripper's jacket and unbuttoned his shirt to get a better look at his
shoulder. He wiped away the blood, applied antiseptic, and taped
gauze over the wound. That part, at least, he knew. Then he went out
to the boot to rummage through Randall's trunk. He found a packet of
Jacobs Club biscuits, a bottle of whiskey, and a bottle of what might
even be water.
Rupert was crying. He had his head turned away and his hand over
his face, as if that would hide it.
Ethan said, "You weren't properly equipped, that's all." He passed
Rupert a box of tissues, the bottle of water, and a couple of
biscuits. Ethan sat on the back seat next to him, with the door
open to let in some air. He had a swig of water and a biscuit
himself.
"Do you have my lighter?" Rupert asked after a while. He was still
puffy-eyed but at least he'd stopped shaking. He lit himself a
cigarette and Ethan decided it was time to start sharing the
whiskey. Then he unzipped Ripper and gave him a blowjob: there was
no-one around to watch them anyway.
By the time he'd finished, Rupert looked a lot closer to normal.
Rupert said, "I suppose I should tell you what that was."
"A vampire?"
"Yes," said Rupert, sounding a little surprised. "Had you seen one
before?"
"Never," said Ethan, " but... crosses. Although they didn't look
as I expected."
"They don't always look like that," said Ripper. "That's their
true appearance, their battle-face. They can easily disguise
themselves to look like ordinary people."
"Is there any way to tell?" asked Ethan.
Ripper waved his ugly ring. "Mirrors," he said, "they don't show
up in mirrors. They're injured only by crosses, holy water, sunlight,
fire, a stake through the heart or decapitation."
"Are there many things that stand up well to having their heads cut
off?"
Rupert smiled. "Only a few."
Ethan leant over and kissed him on the mouth.
"You're a very strange man," Rupert told him. Ethan smiled
uncertainly, hoping that might be meant as a compliment for once. It
probably was, as Rupert kissed him back for quite a while.
During a pause, Ethan saw something glint under the driver's
seat. "Here's your watch," he said. "Look, the strap's broken."
Rupert took it from him and groaned. "It's really quite late," he
said. "I suppose we should get back to the others. They'll be
wondering where we are."
"I think they'll have made a few assumptions," Ethan said. But he
pulled back anyway, because he was getting a bit cramped in the
awkward space.
They had no difficulty in finding the rest. Randall and Diedre
were visible even from across the crowd. The current band on stage was
starting a singalong for "House of the Rising Sun".
Stan moved over to let them sit down and this time Ripper didn't
shuffle over when Ethan leant against him. After a couple more songs,
Ethan started to feel very sleepy. He closed his eyes.
He woke to the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find
Evelyn standing behind him.
"Hello, Randall. Hello, Diedre. I'm here to borrow Ethan for a
while." She looked down toward him. "Bring your friend if you like,"
she said.
Evelyn led them through the cars, tents, caravans and doused
campfires. They crossed the empty edge of the field, heading towards a
line of trees: the wood of Salisbury Plain. Ripper had seen people
hunting there for firewood earlier.
Ripper had no idea where they were going, or why. Given Evelyn's
alleged preference for sex magic, he wondered if they were being taken
to an orgy. What would he do if they were?
The canopy obscured the moon, and after the first few yards, he
could no longer see the stagelights. He couldn't see anything at all,
in fact.
Evelyn recited a chant he knew, and a stretch of light sprang up
around them, no more than a few yards wide. She moved on. They stepped
over tree roots and through spiderwebs. The air smelt damp and green.
They walked for a long time. Surely the wood couldn't be that
large? It was hard to tell if they were headed in the same direction,
always, because of the darkness and the constant need to turn this way
and that around the yews and oaks. He could still hear the festival
music, very faintly, below the sound of the wind in the leaves and,
just possibly, the waters of a nearby stream.
Ripper hadn't looked at his watch before they left. He didn't know
how long they'd been walking. He glanced at it now and saw that dawn
was not too far off. How were they going to get back to the Henge in
time for sunrise?
At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but as
they got closer, he became more certain that he saw pinpricks of light
ahead.
Evelyn abruptly cancelled her spell. She turned to face them,
becoming a silhouette in front of the lights.
"Don't embarrass me, OK? Do as you're asked, chant when you're
asked to chant, don't say anything else otherwise. And for God's sake,
don't try and change or distort the spell in any way. This is
dangerous. If we get this wrong, not only will I never invite you to
any other event, but we'll probably be dead. Ethan? This is absolutely
not the time for you to start playing around."
"OK," said Ethan, a bodiless voice a couple of yards to Ripper's
left.
"And you, Ripper," she said. "I don't know you, so if you do
anything untoward, I'll just flatten you. Completely. OK?"
"OK," Ripper said.
"Be good boys," said Evelyn.
Ripper's eyes adapted just enough that he didn't trip too much
on the final couple of minutes of walk. They reached a clearing
where many white sheets had been laid out on the ground. These were
covered in a complicated series of pentagrams and circles at least ten
yards wide. The pattern was laid out with candles, chunks of volcanic
rock, and small animal skulls. Ripper had never seen anything like it.
There were maybe fifty people there, of varying ages and modes of
dress. Ripper tried to spot the three wizards who had killed the
vampires earlier, but couldn't see them.
There was a bald man, fortyish maybe, built like a wrestler and
wearing a robe. "It's time now," he boomed. "Form the circle."
Evelyn sat down cross-legged, just outside the painted
pattern. She motioned for them to sit down. Then she produced a small
knife.
"Make a small cut in the centre of both your palms."
"What?" said Ripper.
"Make a--"
"I, I heard, yes, ah--"
"Or you can leave," said Evelyn, smiling. She sliced into her
left palm with a grimace. "The blood has to mingle all the way around
the circle."
She passed the knife to Ethan. "Can you do my other hand? I'm very
right-handed."
Ethan did so. The knife looked very sharp. Then he cut into his
own hands, with only a flicker of hesitation. He wiped the knife on
his trouserleg before passing it to Ripper.
Ripper didn't feel that he had fully informed consent. "What is
the spell exactly?"
"Rupert..." said Ethan.
"Flatten you completely," said Evelyn. "Are you in or out? We're
summoning a presence."
"A demon?"
"A genius loci. We're summoning the spirit of Salisbury
Plain."
Ripper cut into his hands, with rather more difficulty for the
second one. It hurt quite a bit. He found a clean handkerchief to
wipe the blade with before passing it back.
"At least I'm not stoned this time," said Ethan.
The circle was almost formed. A few people were hurrying to their
places. Ripper sat between Evelyn and Ethan, who held his hands palm
pressed against palm, sticky and wet and warm in the cool pre-dawn
air.
The wrestler-wizard had yet to sit down. He paced around the
circle with a torch, checking that every pair of hands was held in the
proper grip. Then he went back to his place in the circle and took out
a large curved knife to cut his own. He started to recite something in
a language that Ripper not only didn't know, but didn't
recognise. That was surprising.
He glanced over at Evelyn. She looked nervous. Ripper suddenly
felt very scared. He could feel Ethan's blood -- or was it his own? --
dripping down his wrist.
The head wizard picked up a wide, flat bowl of some metallic-smelling
substance and flung its contents into the centre of the circle. It was
a dark liquid that splashed widely, hitting Ripper's face and
clothes. He felt Evelyn grip his hand even tighter.
The wizard finally sat down and reached out to those on either
side. Perhaps it was Ripper's imagination, but he thought he felt
something like an electrical jolt run through him as the circle
closed.
The main part of the spell began then. This part was familar: a
call-and-response between the leading wizard and the rest of the
circle. The words were now in cod-Latin, clearly of no antiquity,
although possibly translated from an older language, or modified from a
related loci spell of---
Bloody hell.
It was well past sunrise but Ethan couldn't remember having seen
the dawn. In truth, he was having trouble remembering all sorts of
things, such as his name. He thought he might be lying on his back. He
kept having to blink; everything looked like a series of still
photographs. None of it really seemed to connect.
Evelyn: "You two look trashed."
Tree branches, dark cloud.
Evelyn, looking very pale.
A mouse skull sitting on blood-brown splashed paper.
Rupert: "Geologically old."
Fat drops of rain falling on his upturned face.
Two men walking past, carrying a dead goat.
Ethan (himself): "Mox ubi ridendas inclusit pagina partes,
vera redit facies, assimulata perit."
A woman, picking up pumice.
Scabs in the centre of both his hands.
Rupert, lying on his back with his knees bent, looking muddy and
yet somehow very attractive. He should try to crawl towards him.
"It's starting to rain. I'm walking back."
Ethan felt the return of cause and effect: it slammed him in the
back of the head. He stood up and tottered over to Rupert.
"Rupert," he said, shaking him. "Rupert. Evelyn's leaving. We
should go." Rupert looked up at him. He was wearing his glasses. "We
have to go."
"Yes, right," said Rupert. "So we should."
The walk back seemed much quicker than the walk they'd had last
night. They mostly walked in silence, although Evelyn asked him, "What
did you say back there?"
"What did I say back there?" asked Ethan, struggling to
recall.
"The farce ends, the smiles come off, revealing the true face
below," said Rupert.
"All right then," said Evelyn.
The rain suddenly became very heavy and they sheltered under an
oak.
"It's ten o'clock," said Rupert. "Why is it ten o'clock already?"
The rain died down, then stopped altogether. They tromped through
the mud. Evelyn paused at the edge of the wood. "Well, don't thank me
or anything."
"Thank you," said Ethan.
"Thank you," said Rupert.
"I'm going that way now," she said, pointing, "back to my
tent. You guys should go back to your friends."
"OK," said Rupert.
"OK," said Ethan.
"You two take care," she said.
Ethan and Rupert walked towards Stonehenge and towards the
stage. Yet another band was playing now, but the crowds of last night
were starting to disperse. There was a lot of frustrated traffic,
trying to find its way out past clumps of standing and sitting people.
"You called me Rupert back there," said Rupert.
"I looked at your driver's license," said Ethan. "Why wouldn't I
want to know your name?"
The others weren't back where they'd left them and Randall was,
surprisingly, not immediately visible. Ethan thought they should go
and ask the Wallys if they'd seen him.
His hunch was good, and they found Diedre and Randall curled up
together in a corner of a Wally tent.
"The sunrise was awesome," said Randall. "Clear sky just long
enough, the dawn light reflected on the gathering
cloud and ancient stone... Mind-blowing."
"Mmm," said Ethan.
Rupert polished his glasses, looked surprised to be holding them,
then put them in his jacket pocket.
"When do you want me to drive you back?" Rupert asked.
"We're not going yet," said Diedre. "We're staying on."
"The Wallys have kindly offered us a place to stay for a few
days. We've got more people we want to catch up on."
"How will you get home?" asked Ethan.
"Hitch," said Diedre.
"And where's Stan?"
"He made a new friend," said Diedre, "and has gone back to her
tent."
"Teepee," said Randall. "She said teepee."
"Well, how long is he expecting us to wait for him?" Ethan asked.
Diedre shrugged.
"We could kip here for an hour or two before the drive back, see
if he turns up," Ethan suggested to Rupert.
There was just enough room in the tent for the four of them to lie
down. Ethan found he couldn't sleep, his mind still struggling to cope
with the aftermath of the spell. The khaki ceiling of the tent was too
close and he was uncomfortably aware that the rough ground underneath
him was a continuous part of Salisbury Plain. When he glanced over,
Rupert had his eyes closed but his breathing was in his waking-tempo,
not his sleeping one.
"Maybe we should just go," said Ethan.
"Avoid the rain," said Rupert. "It looks like it's going to
bucket again."
"Stan will be fine," said Diedre. "He can hitch-hike back like
the rest of us. He might not even realise you're waiting on him."
"We should get some things from the trunk before you go," said
Randall. "And I've got Ripper's guitar."
It took an age for them to get back on to the main road, as Rupert
took excruciating care to avoid running over dogs, small children and
people's worldly goods. The clouds grew darker the whole time.
"Are you sure you're all right to drive?" Ethan asked, a little
tardily.
"I haven't had anything to drink for hours," said Rupert.
"I was thinking more of the vampire attack, the communing with a
genius loci and the fact that you haven't slept for thirty-six
hours."
"I'll be fine," said Rupert. "My hands hurt a little on the wheel,
but it's only a two hour drive or so."
"I could drive some of it."
"No," said Rupert, firmly. "But if you want to do something, then
just talk. Keep me awake that way."
Ethan thought. "All right then," he said. "I'll tell you a story."
Ripper finally got the car onto the A344. It wasn't a mass exodus
yet from the festival, as many people were staying on for the longest
day of the year, but it was still pretty crowded. Plus, there were
some more standard sorts of tourist arriving in buses and family
cars. Who knew what they'd make of the site right now.
Ethan was looking out of the passenger window. "Right," he said,
"I've got it."
"Your story."
"Yes," he said. "This is my version of the story of the seven
intelligent species to arise on Earth."
"Can I make the obvious joke?" asked Ripper.
"No," Ethan told him. "We'll presume that there have been
some. May I start?"
"By all means," Rupert said.
Ethan began: "The first of the seven intelligent species to arise
on Earth were the Ethereals. They had no physical form at all but
existed only as pure mental energy. They couldn't eat or smoke or have
sex or play music. Nor did they have any stories, as they didn't have
anything really to tell stories about. So they spent all their hours
devising ever more abstruse mathematics until they'd discovered and
created every last possible theorem. Then there was nothing left to
distract them from the indifference of the universe, so they killed
themselves.
"To date, no-one has worked out how.
"The second of the seven intelligent species to arise on Earth
were the Hyperboreans. They lived in the Arctic in the days when the
Arctic was as warm as the tropics. They were asexual and reproduced by
budding. Their lives were very dull, but not as dull as the
Ethereals'. On wet Sunday afternoons, they could eat cycads and bud as
much as they wanted. But they budded and budded and budded until the
entire land was covered with them: they ate every last cycad and then
they took to eating each other.
"So the last of the Hyperboreans awoke on a pile of cannibal
bones, in a landscape denuded of edible plants, and with nothing to
eat except its own newborn offspring. It decided to swim south in
search of a land it had not yet eaten, but it drowned upon the way.
"Although another legend has it that the Hyperborean was met and
befriended by dolphins, who taught it to eat fish. But when the
dolphins saw how vociferously it budded, and how much its offspring
ate, they caught and killed every last one of them."
"Wait," said Ripper, "that would make dolphins the second
intelligent species."
"Yes," said Ethan. "That's why that part of the story is usually
considered apocryphal."
"The third of the seven intelligent species to arise on Earth were
the Lemurians. These were huge creatures, sixteen foot high, with feet
that extended both forward and backward so they could never tell if
they were coming or going. They were hermaphroditic and so were seldom
bored at all. But they were not very bright, and they were plagued by
the dreams of the species which had come before. They wanted, like the
Hyperboreans, to travel south, and they wanted to dance the
complicated geometrical patterns of the Ethereals. So they danced and
danced, always southwards, through the forests and marshes of Lemuria,
through the grasslands to the deserts, where they died of exhaustion
and thirst. The winds of the desert wore their bones into dust.
"Even now, when the sunlight is at the right angle, you can see
their motes still dancing in the air.
"The fourth of the seven species of intelligent life on Earth were
the Atlanteans, who looked very like us. They had two sexes and
reproduced in much the same way we do. They had music; they had art;
they had magic. They built great cities and ran machines through the
power of their will. They were, in short, fantastic. But they were too
powerful in some ways and they were even more distracted by sex than
we are. They devised whole new species of animals and animal-Atlantean
hybrids to have sex with. Eventually everyone was too busy fucking
their own metamorphosed animals to reproduce and the species died
out. But they did die happy.
"This is where the story of Titania and her donkey-headed lover
comes from. Titania was an Atlantean."
"Ah," said Ripper, "an apposite touch for midsummer's day."
"Exactly. Now, the fifth species of intelligent life on Earth are
the humans. Humans remember that it's not good to stay all in the
mind, so they smoke and drink and eat and have sex. They don't usually
eat each other, or cycads, and they don't completely trust
dolphins. They dance, but they know not to dance all the time. They
mostly pretend that they can't remember magic and they prefer to have
sex with each other, generally speaking.
"They are quite dull."
"Hey," said Ripper, "that's us you're talking about."
"Not necessarily," said Ethan. "It is said that the sixth
intelligent species will arise from the fifth, and that some members
of the sixth may be alive even now. Homo novus, if you
will. Don't tell Randall, but they're supposed to mainly arise in
California."
"What about the seventh species?"
"Nothing is yet known," said Ethan. "But it gives us something to
aspire to."
Ripper laughed. "That's amazing rubbish, Ethan."
"Your turn."
"Me? No."
"What then?"
Ripper thought about it. This might be a good time. "Can I ask
some embarrassing questions that I should know the answer to but
don't?"
"Is this Truth or Dare or Latin declensions?"
"What's your surname?"
"You're kidding me," said Ethan. "You've been living with us for
months now. And you could have looked at my driver's license."
"I'm still not convinced that you have one."
Ethan snorted. "It's Rayne. R-A-Y-N-E."
"How old's Diedre?"
"The same age as Adrienne," said Ethan, "give or take a couple of
months."
"Don't make me hit you," Ripper warned.
"Twenty-two. But I think they're both coming up to twenty-three
soon. Diedre's family always have a garden party around this time of
year."
"What's Tom's surname?"
"Sutcliff."
"Is 'Randall' his first name or surname?"
Ethan laughed. "Neither. He's an American -- it's his middle
name."
"Did his parents really move all the way to London to keep him
away from magic?"
"I imagine they were at least as concerned with his eligibility for
the draft," said Ethan, "but he doesn't really like to mention that
part."
"Is he sleeping with Diedre?"
"Randall doesn't sleep with anyone."
"That's why she's got Tom as well?"
"Yes," said Ethan. "Got any difficult questions?"
"Where did you grow up?"
"That's dull," said Ethan. "Ask me something else."
"How did you first get into magic?"
"I found a book, or, really, it found me. I was in a bookshop, and
I could hear it from across the room. I'd never heard anything like
it. So I stole it."
"What does a magic book sound like?"
Ethan took some time to think about this before he replied. "Like
that scene in 2001 when they find the monolith on the moon."
"That's quite disturbing," said Ripper. "How old were you then?"
"Ten or eleven."
Ripper was surprised. "But you didn't start practising magic until
much later, yes?"
"No," said Ethan.
"Did you have anyone to show you how to do it?"
"No," said Ethan.
"Bloody hell," said Ripper. "Do you have any idea how incredibly
dangerous that was?"
"No," said Ethan, "and I don't recall having any difficulty."
"At that age you'd have no control whatsoever of the entities
working through you."
"If that's what your grandmother taught you," said Ethan, "she was
a timid old fishwife."
"I just mean," said Ripper, "that you're lucky to have got through
that at all. It's fantastically dangerous."
There was a long silence.
"I think there's a Little Chef coming up," said Ethan. "Maybe you
should get a cup of coffee."
As Ripper parked the car, he became acutely aware that he looked
like he'd slept in a muddy field. However, that turned out not to be a
problem, as almost all of the other customers looked
that way too. There was a lone family of conventional neatness
hunkering down at one of the back tables, but otherwise it was
wall-to-wall tunics, head-bands and really wide coats.
They picked out a table and Ripper went to the counter. He was
very hungry now, so he ordered a coffee and a large breakfast. Then he
found he had less money than he thought he had. Enough, but not much.
"I forgot to ask Randall for the petrol money," he told Ethan when
he came back to the table. "And I won't get paid again until
Saturday."
Ethan looked mildly sympathetic.
"Aren't you having anything?" Ripper asked him.
"I have fifty pence left in the entire world," said Ethan. "And
it's not going to be a good afternoon for busking."
"Can't you borrow money from the household kitty until you can
make some?"
"I suppose so." He came back with a cup of tea and a plate of
gammon and eggs.
"I have to give you an apology," said Ripper, around a mouthful of
bacon and toast. "All this time I've been thinking you dress like a
common or garden hippy."
"Oh?"
Ripper waved in the direction of man wearing a buckskin shirt and
a hat sporting a small pair of antlers. "Now I see that in fact that
you dress like a conservative hippy."
"And who are you supposed to be?" asked Ethan. "Marlon Brando?"
"I'm aiming more for Mick Jagger."
"Then you're bit wide of the mark."
Ripper looked down at the mud and blood on his jacket. "Do you
think we could do something similar?" The loci spell, I mean."
Ethan raised both his eyebrows and looked out the window.
"Well?"
"Sorry, I was just trying to imagine what the genius loci
of Camden Town would be like."
"Of course, we wouldn't want to do something that large, given
that one took fifty people and rather more goat blood than I'm
comfortable with."
"I don't know. There's nothing in Spivak even vaguely like
that. That owl's about the largest entity I've ever summoned."
"Would be good though."
"Yes," said Ethan.
They finished their meals. Back in the car, Ripper asked, "Why
don't you normally go to midsummers?"
Ethan grimaced. "The complex web of obligation. I have to work out
who's there, who's not there, who's not speaking to whom, who expects
me to drop by, who would rather I didn't, and who's going to be
mortally offended if I don't. I mean, it's interesting hanging out
with the more powerful wizards, but why would they want you there with
them? You're either irritating them or treated like a pet. You spend
the whole time wondering what their hidden motives are. It's just
easier to stay at home."
"You wouldn't go for the music?"
"No," said Ethan, smiling.
"But last night's spell--"
"I've never been invited to something like that before. And I
don't think Evelyn has either. She looked almost as bad as you did
this morning. I think she told the others we were her apprentices to
get us in."
"We're not, though. I mean, not remotely."
"She does play things fast and loose."
"Who was the man leading the spell?"
"Never seen him before," said Ethan. "You?"
"No. That was really something though, wasn't it? You know, I've
really enjoyed this trip."
"Well then," said Ethan, "we'll go again next year."
They got back to the house around two, after half an hour of
steady rain.
Ripper went upstairs to get washed while Ethan made himself a pot
of tea. He drank it in the kitchen, listening to the rain and the
sounds the pipes made as Ripper filled the bath. The rest of the house
was empty. He checked the kitty and found exactly five pence. He
wondered what bastard had taken the rest.
When it was his turn, he had a long bath, washing mud and blood
and who knew what else from his skin and hair. He took particular care
cleaning the palms of his hands. His clothes were stained, probably
permanently, which was rather a pity for the coat. Maybe he could pick
up another cheap one, or dye this one a colour that didn't show up the
blood.
He went upstairs in his dressing gown, and found Rupert in his
room, kneeling on the edge of the mattress. He had a piece of chalk in
his hand and was drawing on the floorboards, sketching out the
complicated pattern used for that morning's spell. He was wearing a
clean pair of jeans and an unbuttoned shirt.
Ethan fetched another colour of chalk and went to sit next to
Rupert. "That isn't quite right," he said, pointing to one
section. "Not all of the circles were concentric. Two interlinked."
He reached over to correct this.
"Can you remember what happened over here?" Rupert asked.
"No, I don't think we could see it from where we were sitting."
"Perhaps we could work it out from analogy?" He drew a smaller
pattern on a separate section of the floor. "I've seen this one
before, I think." He frowned. "I'm afraid I didn't bring any of my
books with me. I'm having to do this all from memory."
"Why didn't you bring them?"
"They didn't really belong to me," Rupert said. "On loan."
"Your family's?"
"They didn't really approve of me going into music."
Rupert's expression was of happy intellectual engagement, tinged
with wistful regret. The combination so moved Ethan that he had to
turn away in case Rupert saw his expression too clearly. He
went to the locked steel box where he kept the items he most
valued. He pulled out a copy of Ogata and passed it to Rupert. "There
might be something in that."
Rupert fetched his glasses from his room and then Ethan looked
over his shoulder as they flicked through it. "That's the one," said
Ethan, pointing.
Rupert rotated the book upside down, to better match the pattern
in front of them. "Standard invocation to a major power, modified to
indicate that no material manifestation is requested."
"Did you recognise the language our lead caster began in?"
"Absolutely no idea. And you know, I can actually recognise quite
a few. Did you?"
"Not at all. I did memorise most of the Latin though." He reached
over for a pad of paper and pencil and started to write.
Rupert watched as Ethan wrote as far as the bottom of the
page. "That's rather impressive," he said.
"Well, it was my best subject at school."
"What else was there?" Rupert pondered. "The skulls were all from
species native to Britain. No rabbits, for example."
"Yes," said Ethan. " I hadn't noticed that. I wonder if
that's due to conservatism among the spellcasters though. You'd think
Salisbury Plain would have got the hang of rabbits by now."
"Did it have to be goat blood?"
"I understand that it depends on the invoked entity. Some are
rather traditionalist while others will settle for any kind of
ruminant or any kind of blood at all. I even heard a story where a
trickster god settled for Heinz tomato sauce, but I don't know that I
believe it."
Rupert laughed. He looked down at their hour's work. "I do think
we're rather good at this."
Ethan had thought he was both too tired and too wired for sex, but
he was beginning to change his mind, especially when Rupert lay back
on the bed.
"But what entity would we summon?" Rupert asked.
Ethan leant over him. "We don't have to decide that right now, do
we?"
"I suppose not," said Rupert.
Ethan thought he agreed with Rupert's Watcher family on at least
one thing: music was not really Ripper's vocation.
Ripper woke when he heard the back
gate open. He pulled himself as far as the window ledge and saw an
umbrella below. "I'd better go and see who it is," he said, yawning.
He found his jeans and shirt; Ethan scrambled for his clothes too and
followed him downstairs.
They found Tom in the kitchen, standing near the fridge with a
bottle of cheapish champagne and a raw chicken on the table next to him.
"How was the festival?" Tom asked, as he pulled off his wet coat
and boots. "Did the rain hold off?"
"Like magic," said Ethan. "But it started to pour on the way back."
"Dee's still up there," Rupert said.
"What?"
"Only Ethan and I came back this afternoon. Everyone else has
stayed on at the festival. We don't know when they'll be back."
"Well," said Tom. "I was going to celebrate. I got the job I
wanted."
"We'll help you celebrate," said Ethan, looking at the chicken.
They cooked it with some difficulty. Tom had to go down the street
to call his mother for advice. It was still a bit raw when they took
it out of the oven the first time, but after another twenty minutes it
looked edible. By the time it was ready, the
champagne was well and truly gone and they were on to Diedre's stash
of white wine. There was no sign of Adrienne at any point: she'd been
going straight from work to her political meetings in the past couple
of weeks. Ripper had barely seen her.
"What's the job?" Ripper asked.
"Graduate trainee," said Tom. "Royal Bank of Scotland. I still
have to complete my degree, but if I get the marks I should, the
job's mine."
"Congratulations!" Ripper said. "I didn't realise they had many
staff down here."
"They don't," said Tom. "The job's in Edinburgh. My mum's not been
so well, so I'd like to move back."
"I thought your parents were here."
"That's my dad and my stepmother. I am the unholy product of an
Englishman and a guid Scots lass, as my mum likes to remind me every
time I call. Now I've got the job back home, she may now forgive me
for going to England to study."
"These mixed marriages never work," said Ethan, sufficiently
deadpan that Tom looked at him askance.
"What does she think of Diedre?"
"She hasn't met her yet," said Tom. "But how could anyone not like
Dee?"
Ripper wanted to ask him if Diedre intended to move to Edinburgh
with him, but could think of no polite way to ask. He looked at Ethan,
willing him to ask the question, but Ethan did not oblige. Perhaps he
already knew the answer.
Ripper finally started to fall asleep again when they were eating
icecream. He made his excuses and staggered upstairs. As he reached
the second floor, he paused to look up at the final section of
staircase ceiling, which Randall had only recently finished
painting. He'd included many of the symbols that Ripper had suggested
and he'd used glow-in-the-dark paint. Symbols of friendship, long life
and goodwill glowed faintly above Ripper's head.
He went to Ethan's room. As always his eyes were drawn to the
nearest pile of books. Ethan always had a very odd collection next to
his bedside and Ripper wondered if he ever actually read them. The
current miscellany included a history of the Hapsburgs, a travel guide
to Madagascar, three paperback novels (one of dubious sort), and an
encyclopaedia of snails: Ripper tried to imagine a spell that might
combine any two of the titles. And then, at the very bottom, and
looking rather dusty, was a copy of Living Magicians. Ripper
prised it out. There was a piece of paper in it being used as a
bookmark.
So when Ethan came back upstairs, Ripper was asleep with the book
open on his chest to the life of Eusapia Ciccarello. He woke up as
Ethan took it from him and pulled up the bedcovers.
"Why have you got a bookmark with 'Ciccarello, 131 Esplanade'
written on it?" Ripper asked him sleepily. "Is that her address?"
"Might have been once," said Ethan, as he went to turn out the
lights, "but she's been dead twenty years."
"She's not," said Ripper. "She faked it. She's living somewhere or
other."
"Well then," said Ethan, "that might be her address after all."
They looked at each other.
"Let's get some sleep," said Ethan. "And we'll think about this
tomorrow."
Ethan got up at the unheard-of hour of nine a.m. and went
downstairs. He made tea and toast and then sat on a kitchen stool,
yawning, until Adrienne came out of her room. She was dressed for work
and was putting on her watch. He passed her the toast.
"You're up very early," she said, before taking an appreciative
large bite.
"God, yes," said Ethan, "but I wanted to see you and I fell asleep
too early last night to catch you."
"How was the festival?"
"Unexpectedly excellent." He was unable to stifle a magnificent
series of yawns. "I might tell you about it when I've recovered. But
how have you been? We've barely seen you."
She looked very tired herself. "It turns out that I've been
working with people who are very good at talking but who couldn't
organise to get out of a telephone box."
"So you're doing all the work then?"
"Let's just say that any time you'd like to volunteer for the
revolution, I'd be glad of your help."
"Actually, that's why I'm here. I'm flat broke. I've been
wondering about that job you mentioned."
"It's been delayed," she said, "because some other people have
been very stupid. I can't tell you when it will happen yet."
He looked out of the window, where it was still pouring with
rain. "It's not really good June weather at all, is it?"
"The English winter," said Adrienne, "ending in July--"
"To recommence in August. How am I to earn my honest living?"
"I'll ask around and see if anyone's got any odd jobs."
"I'm not handing out leaflets again," Ethan said.
"Any odd jobs that might require your specialist
expertise. They'll pay a lot better, for a start."
"Thanks," said Ethan, meaning it.
"I'm going burgling," said Ethan. "There's no need for you to
become an accessory."
Ripper had just got back from work. He'd put his guitar case down
next to the bottom of the stairwell and was peeling off his jacket
when he found Ethan in the rarely-used front hallway, pulling on a
pair of boots. He already looked soaked through.
"No luck busking then?"
"I walked," said Ethan, "all the way to Covent Garden, entertained
punters for two hours and made exactly enough for lunch. Then I walked
home." He wrapped a large scarf around his face and picked up an
umbrella. "So now I'm going burgling." He stepped out of the front
door.
Rupert felt compelled to follow him at least as far as the
porch. "There's enough food in the house for dinner," he told
Ethan. "I looked. Baked potatoes, beans, that sort of thing."
"I want to go the pub," said Ethan, walking into the pouring rain.
Ripper went back into the kitchen to pick up his own umbrella and
to lock the back door. He had to run to catch up with Ethan, who had
marched as far as the postbox before pausing.
"Which way do you think I should go?" Ethan asked.
"Well, you probably want somewhere fairly prosperous," said
Ripper.
"But not too prosperous. No nannies or maids who may still be in
the house." Ethan made a decisive turn left and continued
marching. "You shouldn't have brought that jacket," he said. "It's the
most conspicuous thing about you after your height. Hunker down under
your umbrella."
"You've done this before, have you?"
"Never."
"Surely you've been this broke before."
"Not really. My expenses have recently gone up."
They walked another few streets as the rain continued without
let-up or weakening. There were very few people out on the streets. A
few cars went past, making a slooshing sound through the water.
"What do you think of that basement flat?" Ethan asked.
Ripper appraised it. "No car out the front," he said, "but there
are children's toys on the windowsill. There's too high a chance of
finding a housewife at home."
"But the ground-floor one, that looks better? Model ship in the
window, no other sign of life. Let's go around the back."
"There's a sign saying 'Beware of the dog'."
"Even better," said Ethan. "It may not have any other defences."
"You're not worried about the dog?"
"We took on a vampire the other night. I am not worried about the
dog."
"That vampire almost killed me."
"Then stay out in the street and give me a yell if the pigs come."
Ripper followed him as far as the laneway that led around the back
of the terraces. He watched as Ethan approached the gate and stepped
through. He crossed a small lawn and went up the few steps to the back
door. Then he paused. Ripper wondered if he was having trouble with
the door.
Rupert quickly crossed the laneway and garden to stand next to
him. Ethan had an unlit candle in his hand. "Hold this, will you?"
Ethan asked him. "It's hard to light this in this weather." Then he
fished in his coat pocket for a lighter. Once the candle was lit,
Ethan said a few words and there was an audible click from the door.
"That's quite a good trick," Rupert said.
They stepped into a small kitchen. It was generally tidy but
showed clear signs of recent occupation: breakfast dishes sat in the
sink and there was a basket on unfolded laundry on top of the washing
machine. Ethan went straight to a row of storage tins on the
countertop next to the stove. "There'll be some cash in here, surely?"
"Wouldn't you get more for a television?"
"I'm not carrying a television around in the pouring rain," said
Ethan, "and who would I sell it too? I want pub money, not a
retirement fund." He shook his head. "Nothing but Nescafe and sugar in
these. Maybe the cutlery drawer?"
There was a snuffling from the doorway then: the dog appeared. It
was a large and elderly Pekinese. It shuffled into the kitchen. Ethan
bent down and scratched it behind the head.
"No luck here," he said. "The hall?"
The hallway had brown wall-to-wall carpet and walls painted a
faint blue. Ethan started with the cupboard, which turned out to be
full of old coats, boots, and a vacuum cleaner. He fished around in
the pockets and was rewarded with a single pound note. The dog sniffed
at the boots while Ethan headed to the telephone table.
"Aha!" said Ethan, opening the drawer. He held up a roll of
notes, secured together by a rubber band. He peeled off a few. "He
might not even know we've been in here," he said.
They had a bit of a look at the rest of the flat. The living room
had red patterned carpet, dark wooden furniture, and more model
ships. Ripper looked in the drinks cabinet and found some very good
bottles of scotch. He put one of the fuller ones inside his jacket.
Ethan took his coat off and sat down on the sofa. "What sort of a
man do you think he is? Divorced, do you think? Or never married?
Older, obviously."
"He doesn't seem to have many hobbies," Rupert noted.
"And no books," said Ethan. "I always find that very strange."
"He likes scotch," said Rupert.
"Does that count as a hobby, though?" Ethan asked. He reached down
to pet the peke, who had followed them into the room. "Maybe we could
take the dog with us. I always wanted one as a child. My grandmother
had a black and white collie."
"I thought you were worried about your expenses," Ripper
said. "Having a dog wouldn't help with that."
Ethan sighed. "Yes, I suppose. Did you have a one, growing up?"
"A black lab," Rupert told him. "She used to chase the horses."
Back in the kitchen, Ethan looked out of the window. "Coast looks
clear."
The kitchen linoleum was covered in their muddy footprints. That
bothered Rupert more than the actual burglary. "Wait a moment," he
said, grabbing a mop from next to the fridge and giving the floor a
quick wipe. Then they were back on the back porch and Ethan was
relocking the door.
They walked out across the garden and down the laneway.
"Far too easy," Ethan said.
Diedre and Randall arrived back in the early evening, having
hitch-hiked their way to Reading and then caught a train. No-one had
seen Stan since Thursday morning, but everyone seemed convinced that
there was nothing to worry about. Rupert thought of the vampires
they'd seen at the festival and was rather less sure, but couldn't
think of anything to be done.
Diedre evinced excitement at Tom's news. "But it's not for a
year, though, isn't it?" she said. They all went to celebrate in the
usual way, by going to the pub. Ethan paid his rounds with somebody
else's money and an ostentatious flourish; Rupert paid for his with
the petrol money Randall had just handed to him. It was difficult not
to feel a little resentful that night of Randall's small inheritance
and Diedre's allowance. It was what he'd chosen, though.
Adrienne joined them an hour before closing time. She looked
exhausted. Rupert wanted to ask her what going on, and whether he
could help, but he wasn't really sure how to talk with her any
more. He still felt mortified by their misunderstanding.
"Eleven," Adrienne said, waving an envelope at Diedre. "In the
post this morning."
"Eleven what?" Tom asked.
"Babies born to our classmates," Adrienne said.
Diedre asked, "Is there a photograph? Is it Gollum or
non-Gollum?"
"Gollum," said Adrienne with finality.
Diedre was sitting next to Rupert, so he got a good look at the
photograph. It was, in fact, rather an ugly baby.
"Do you think they grow out of that?" Diedre asked.
"Must do," said Ethan, "or half the people in this pub would still
look like that." He looked around. "On the other hand..."
After last orders they made a series of toasts.
"To Tom's victory," said Adrienne.
"To harmony," said Randall.
"To success," Ethan said.
And after that, they had to go home.
The Saturday post brought an envelope addressed to Ethan the next
day. This was almost unprecedented, at least since his mother had
given up writing to him. He found it on the kitchen table, next to a
letter from one of Stan's sisters, and an electricity bill that
someone had already marked up with "Diedre - please pay." He did not
recognise the handwriting, which was elegant and old-fashioned, and
when he flipped it over, it had no return address.
Inside was a letter from Mr Grey in Oxford with a rather strange offer of
work. There were errands that Mr Grey needed done, it read, that he
was unwilling to explain via Her Majesty's post. If Mr Rayne was
interested, he need only walk to a specific telephone booth near the
British Museum where he would find a pound note and another
request. If Mr Rayne was not interested, then he need do nothing at
all: Mr Grey would presume this if the pound note was still there in a
week's time. He thanked Mr Rayne for his time.
It all sounded highly suspect, but Ethan hadn't expected anything
different from one of Adrienne's contacts, and it was good of her to
find something for him so quickly. He'd probably follow it up
tomorrow.
In the meantime, he had housework to do now that the rain had
stopped. He renewed the various wards and anti-scrying spells on the
building. He also embedded some new protection and warning spells that
he'd only recently learnt from the Spivak, adapting them as
needed. Then he saw that one of the Watcher cars was skulking around
again, so he went to the telephone box and called the police with an
anonymous tip-off about a drug-dealer pestering people on the street,
hoping that Stan didn't choose this precise moment to return. Later,
as he was making himself some lunch, he was rewarded by the sight of
uniformed officers making enquiries of the besuited young man in the
car. He was having quite a good day so far.
He turned the radio on and nodded his head along with the music as
he made himself some tea.
He went upstairs then and paused on the first floor landing to
pick a fresh book from the volumes piled high under the
window. Narrative of the Expedition to the China Seas and
Japan? Agatha Christie's At Bertram's Hotel or Official
Rules of Cards Games? Lessing's In Pursuit of the English?
Kenneth Clark's Civilisation? Bachelor Summer. Mog
the Forgetful Cat. There were several hundred others he hadn't yet
read and a hundred more he already had.
What he really wanted was a book that would tell him what to do
next about Rupert. Maybe one of them could, but he was hard pressed to
tell which one.
He was aware that there were certain social conventions that one
could ordinarily employ to indicate an increasing level of serious
interest, but these did not seem to apply to their situation. They
were already sleeping together, going on holiday together and living
in the same house. And yet Ethan was still far from certain that
Rupert viewed this as anything more than a temporary liaison, despite
the late-night conversations and enthusiastic sex. Perhaps there were
useful conventions among homosexual men, but there wasn't anyone Ethan
knew well enough to ask, and Rupert wouldn't know those conventions
anyway.
Ethan would just have to figure it out for himself, as he always
had.
He wondered why he didn't have many friends to ask. Why, in
fact, did he have virtually no friends outside the immediate
household? He'd had such early, easy successes meeting Randall and
Evelyn, but since then, perhaps, he'd been coasting, content with
whoever happened to turn up at the house, given that the people Evelyn
introduced him to were contacts rather than potential friends. And why
hadn't he realised that before?
He picked up a copy of Love-starved Hellcat, flicked
through a few pages, and then threw it down the stairs. It ricocheted
off the stairwell wall in a pleasing fashion. He sat on the floor and
had a sip of his tea. He looked through a few more paperbacks and then
Nurse Turner Runs Away followed its sister publication into the
air. Lost Horizons made it all the way around the stairwell
corner.
Diedre came out of her room. "What are you doing?"
"I'm throwing books down the stairs," said Ethan.
She sat next to him and started to weed through the stacks,
picking out only the most mildewed and dog-eared volumes. A copy of
Kipps sailed into the air, hit a step and could be heard
sliding down all the way to the ground floor. Ethan gave her an
appreciative nod for her artistry. He picked up an extremely well-read
and tattered copy of The Price of Salt. This proved so fragile
that its cover came off on landing.
"What was it like when you first met Randall?" he asked her.
"Why are you asking that?"
"I'm just asking it. Pass me the Rohmer?"
She shrugged and handed him the book. "He was the most magnificent
man in the room. I knew I had to talk with him. So I went and asked
him about books, and what life was like in America, and we just talked
and talked and talked and talked until Paul dragged me away from
him. But I had already decided that we had to run away together."
"Had he decided that too?"
"No. I had to persuade him over lunch the next day." She threw an
elderly The Way We Live Now after the Rohmer.
"Does it have to be a crowded room, do you think?"
"No," said Diedre, decisively. "But it is statistically more
likely." She looked at him shrewdly. "After you after stories of true
romance, today?"
"We don't seem to have any of those here," he said, waving at the
piles of books.
"But surely your mother told you glorious stories of how she met
your father."
Ethan grimaced. "He was a human paragon the like of which shall
never walk this earth again. But it still took her six months to get
over his accent."
"You don't have an accent."
"Not any more, no. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain."
"Can you still do your old one?"
He shook his head. "It sounds like a parody now, even to me."
"Say something anyway in it."
"No," he said. He threw a Ladybird book on Birds and Their
Nests rather harder than he'd meant to.
"Is this about Ripper, then? Has he got a nice arse?"
Ethan looked at her. "What's got into you?"
She wriggled her shoulders. "Randall's talking about leaving
here. He wants to go on a trip around the country, staying with all
the people he knows from the festival and so on."
"But he'd come back, surely?"
"He's talking about months, Ethan. Months! I'd have to go with
him. Sleeping in other people's back bedrooms on air mattresses."
"You'd have to break up with Tom," said Ethan. "He won't like that."
Diedre looked away. "His mother's sick. I can't break up with him
now."
"If you leave it much longer, he'll propose."
"Oh God," said Diedre.
"Just make sure that the rest of us are in the house when you tell
him. Then we can throw him out if we have to."
"Oh God," she said, again, burying her face in her hands.
The back door opened downstairs. Ethan could tell who it was from
the tread in the kitchen. "That'll be Rupert now."
The footsteps came closer and then a sort of spluttering started,
loudly enough that Diedre looked up and wiped her eyes.
"What, what has happened here?" demanded Rupert, as he came
around the stairwell corner. He was clutching the books to his bosom
and looked very angry.
"We've been throwing books down the stairs," said Diedre, rather
less helpfully than Ethan might have liked.
Rupert looked speechless.
"It's all right, Rupert," said Diedre. "None of them are any good."
"Actually, some of them are," said Ethan. "And some of them
aren't."
Ripper looked rather menacing now. "And where do you think this
will end? Will you be throwing people down the stairs next?" He
grabbed the other injured tomes and took them upstairs.
"That's not a fair argument," Diedre shouted after him.
Ethan sighed. He threw another few books down the stairwell, just
for the sake of it. One of them chipped Randall's paint.
Ripper locked his bedroom door with a ward. He put the books down
on the windowsill and inspected the damage. Most of the volumes seemed
to be all right, although there was a bent Trollope and a Nurse
Turner Runs Away which had lost its back cover. He might have to
admit that no great crimes against literature had been committed, but
it was the principle of the thing.
Besides, he had to get some decent guitar time in anyway. He had a
full day rehearsal with The Grins tomorrow and he hadn't been
practising as much as he should. Their first gig together was
Tuesday. He'd been far too distracted lately and the time off for the
midsummer festival had not helped.
He started with a couple of songs he'd mastered some time ago,
just to get his fingers warmed up. Then it was on to The Grins songs,
which weren't technically all that complex, but did have some rather
rapid stretches. He was determined to get the pieces right and thus
vindicate their decision to hire him. He played for a couple of hours,
taking short breaks here and here but without leaving the room.
Late in the afternoon, he heard Ethan come upstairs and pause
outside the door, going away without knocking. Ripper fumbled the
fingering and had to restart.
After a couple more numbers, Ethan's footsteps returned. A piece
of paper slid under the door. It was too far away for Rupert to
read. "I'm rehearsing," Ripper shouted.
A minute later, a second piece of paper was slid under the
door. Rupert paused his playing and pulled out his glasses. In large
letters, the second paper read, "I can tell."
The first piece of paper was headed, "Some English towns with
Esplanades". Underneath was a long list of seaside towns. Rupert
was surprised to see how many of them were on the Isle of Wight.
He wrote on the back of the paper, "What about Scotland and
Wales?" and slid it back.
Soon after came the written response: "Won't know until
Monday. Library now shut."
Rupert put down his guitar and put away his glasses. It was
probably time for dinner anyway. He came out into the hall, clutching
the pieces of paper.
"How are we going to narrow this down, exactly? Call up every
town on the list and say we're hunting witches?"
"A witch-hunt?" said Ethan. "I suppose it is. But it's your turn
to contribute. You think of something."
Rupert heard a noise from upstairs that rather distracted
him. "Was that a scream?"
"Tom's watching Doctor Who," said Ethan. The television had
been moved into the attic to prevent people wandering in and out of
Adrienne's room at all hours. "Pub later?"
Rupert had a bit of time before the household set out for Saturday
night at the pub. He decided it was time to call his parents.
The phone box was empty, apart from an empty beer bottle and a
container of sherbet that had powdered the handset, making it
sticky. He rang the number and fed in some change when he heard the
pips.
They were at home, of course. His mother picked up the phone, but
he could hear his father in the background, fussing with the
dog. Every time Rupert said a sentence, his mother repeated it so his
father could hear.
"Everything's going well," he said. "I was up at Stonehenge for
midsummer." This started a maternal anecdote that he was loathe to
interrupt, despite his dwindling change. "I've got my first gig with
the new band on Tuesday. What? Ah, well, I mean that would be very
lovely, but not this time, if that's all right, I'd be twice as
nervous. But another time, of course. How are you both doing?" He put
some more coins in. "Of course I'll be back for Christmas. That's
months off though." Then, as an afterthought, he asked, "I don't
suppose, I heard that, well, Eusapia Ciccarello was possibly in London,
and-- No? A hermit. Really? Where? Well, the rumour I heard must be
wrong then." He put his last coin into the machine. "And how's
everything else? Right. No, really, I am sure, this is the right
decision for me. I'm sure. I will. I do. You take care too."
Ethan sat in the remarkably ugly cafe of the Victoria and Albert
Museum. Tan-and-white Corinthian columns stretched up to gilt arches
and a painted ceiling. Ethan tried to concentrate on his piece of cake
and the letter in his hand.
He'd started out at the British Museum around noon, following Mr
Grey's instructions regarding a message left in a telephone booth. Of
course, with the Museum being the size it was, there was more than one
booth next to it. Ethan had annoyed quite a few tourists as he'd
examined the one closest to the Great Russell Street entrance. Then
he'd methodically walked the museum's perimeter, checking every
telephone until he'd found one on Montague Street. The envelope was
there, smelling of fresh magic, tucked into the back of the
phonebook. It contained, as promised, a pound note and a second
letter. It didn't make sense that no-one had found it before him,
unless some sort of illusion had been used. What an odd thing for Mr
Grey to do.
This letter was in a different hand. It read, "Clapham Junction,
Platform 4. Chalk a cross on the right spot." There was no information
about what "the right spot" meant or whether he'd be paid.
The weather hadn't been too bad. He could have decided to go back
to Russell Street and busk. But his curiosity had compelled him.
He'd bought a ticket to Clapham Junction and made his way to the
specified platform. He'd walked up and down it twice before he picked
up a faint aura of magic in one of the further stretches. Feeling
around, he found a loose tile on the floor that he was able to wedge
up. And there had been the third letter, telling him to go to the
V&A. There were two pound notes inside. After replacing the tile, he
chalked the spot.
In the V&A cafe there had been an envelope taped to the underside
of a table. Unfortunately, the table had been occupied when he'd
arrived. It was only once it had become vacant that he'd been able to
find the fourth and final letter, complete with a ten pound note. The
next instruction was simply to call Mr Grey.
What this charade told him was that Mr Grey was looking for a
London errand boy, with some magical abilities, who was able to take
instructions without inquiring into the meaning of the whole. This was
not the most glamorous self-portrait that Ethan could imagine, but it
beat busking.
He finished his cake and found a phone outside. The phone rang out
four or five times before it was picked up. "Grey's Gift Shop is
closed on Sundays," Ethan heard.
"You'd didn't say that there was a particular day you wanted me to
ring," said Ethan.
"Mr Rayne," said Mr Grey, with a note of pleasure in his
voice. "How good of you to call. There'll be more work for you, Mr
Rayne. I'll send you a letter." Then Mr Grey hung up.
Ethan got home around dinner time. Rupert was out at his
rehearsal, so Ethan spent his evening finishing off the spells in
Spivak and then starting to read The Glass Bead Game. Sometimes
he could hear the television playing upstairs: the theme music from
the news, or a rousing ditty from The Good Old Days.
Rupert got home very late and very drunk. He crashed into the
room and had to be reminded to put down his guitar before he got into
bed. Rupert cringed. "I'll have woken everyone up!" he said, with a
cringe.
"Don't worry about it," said Ethan. "Randall sleeps like the
dead."
The train took them past Maidstone and Ashford. Rupert looked out
of the window, his fingers twitching slightly through some air guitar
chords. He really should be at home practising for tonight's
gig. Instead he was reading the graffiti written on the wall:
"Jenny and Joe" inscribed inside a heart, plus some scrawled initials
in another hand. He wished he'd brought a book. It was the late
morning, and he and Ethan were very nearly the only passengers in the
carriage.
"All I meant," he said, "was that we could have waited until
Sunday. I have an entirely free day then. What if we run into
trouble? I really have to be back in Chelsea by seven o'clock."
"We can't go on Sunday, we'll be in Hampshire," Ethan
said. "Diedre's birthday? And this is just a reconnaissance trip. If
she's there we won't approach her. We'll wait until we're more sure of
our ground. Don't you want to see one of the country's most powerful
witches in her native habitat?"
Rupert reflected that he had, in fact, already seen a couple of
Britain's greatest practitioners, albeit not in their "native
habitat", and at something of a distance in the Watcher's Council
Headquarters: a glimpse in a corridor during the Unfound Slayer Crisis
of '69. From what little he'd been able to see, they'd looked old and
somewhat eccentrically dressed but otherwise quite ordinary. They'd
stand out in a queue in a bank and not at all in a folk band.
Still, he was rather interested, especially if they could see her
up-close. "Of course I am," he said.
"She's supposed to have mastered ectoplasm in her early teens,"
said Ethan. "Able to extrude immense quantities of the stuff and form
it into living beings."
Rupert vaguely remembered reading about this. "Sounds rather
revolting, although obviously, a remarkable, ah, technical
achievement."
"Do you think it was more akin to matter transmogrification or a
demonic conjuration in an unusual substance?"
"More the latter," said Ripper. "Evelyn gave you the address?"
"Not 'gave', exactly," said Ethan. "She doesn't like to give me
information for free. Or when she does, I have to look like I've been
given a treat. She's a patronising bitch, really."
"If we're just looking things over," Rupert said, "could you
manage to follow my lead for a while? I have a good idea of what to
do." He could employ Standard Investigation Pattern #4 for low urgency
and mild risk situations.
He'd need a clipboard.
The train pulled up and they stepped out into a station painted a
dispiriting shade of grey-green.
"Folkestone," he heard Ethan mutter. "Who'd retire to Folkestone?"
"It was a bustling seaside town in its hey-day," said
Rupert. "It's probably quite nice when you get to know it. Railway
stations aren't usually the most attractive parts of a town."
They walked past suburban houses in the direction of the
sea. "Doesn't look like much, does it?" said Ethan. "All that power
and she decides to move here."
The houses closer to the sea were older. Some streets were mildly
picturesque but everything had a rundown look. There were a few
obvious holidaymakers, but most of the other people they passed had a
weary, local look to them.
By the time they reached the seashore, the town looked like every
other late Victorian or early Edwardian seaside town that Rupert had
ever been to. Rows of tall and grey-white terraced houses lined the
street, looking out over the sea. It was exactly as he remembered
Llandudno.
A little further down the road they found their way down to a
derelict amusement park on the foreshore. There were boarded-up
domed buildings and an entire abandoned rollercoaster.
"Dear God, but this is bleak," said Ethan.
Rupert was thinking the same thing himself, but he was also a
little annoyed that Ethan's pessimism had proved to be
well-founded. "Can't you say anything nice about the place?" he asked.
Ethan paused and looked around. "I like the colour of the sea," he
said.
It was rather lovely: a pale, sometimes glittering blue. They
stood and watched the waves roll in for a while. They could hear the
cries of gulls and of distant, playing children. There was the sea
smell and the wafting scent of fish and chips.
"Let's get something to eat before we go and investigate," Ethan
suggested.
Back up on the main road they bought cod and chips and then sat on
a park bench, eating from a newspaper. A young family walked past, the
children carrying buckets and spades. Then an elderly woman shuffled
by. Rupert and Ethan both looked at her intently.
"Doesn't look old enough," Ethan said, finally.
"Doesn't look Italian," said Rupert.
"Still, perhaps we're eating fish and chips from the same shop
Eusapia Ciccarello gets hers from. If she eats fish and chips."
They bought a map and a few stationery items from a newsagent. 131
Esplanade was a short walk to the east.
Ripper lit himself a cigarette as they walked. He offered to
Ethan, who declined, as always.
"Why don't you smoke?" Rupert asked.
"I don't want to need a fag break in the middle of an hours-long
ritual," said Ethan.
"You take magic pretty seriously, don't you?" said Ripper.
"There were years when it was the only thing stopping me from
trying to kill everyone I'd ever met."
"I can't always tell when you're joking, you know."
"Good," said Ethan.
131 The Esplanade was part of yet another dilapidated Edwardian
terrace. This one had been turned into flats. There was an unlocked
door that led to a stairwell.
"She can't live here," said Ethan. "Why would she live here?"
"I'm going to try the ground floor flat first," Rupert said. "Wait
outside? If I need you, I'll, um--"
"Scream?" said Ethan. "Good enough."
Rupert held the clipboard in front of him as he waited for Ethan
to walk a bit down the street. He tried to look bored and uninterested
as he knocked.
A woman in late middle age answered the door.
Ripper switched to his North London accent. "I'm from the Gas
Board," he said, tilting the clipboard a fraction. "I'm looking for
Mrs Ciccarello. Is that you?"
"Show us your I.D. then," said the woman.
"I don't have it with me," he said.
"Then I'm not letting you in. For all I know, you're a burglar."
She shut the door in his face.
Ripper walked back to where Ethan was standing. "That didn't go
very well. She thought I was casing the joint."
"I told you, it's the jacket," Ethan said. "My turn for the first
floor flat?"
"OK."
"Come with me anyway," Ethan said, "but let me do the talking."
A woman in her late twenties opened the door this time. Ethan
evinced surprise, very nearly convincingly.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I must be in the wrong place. Is this
Flat Two?"
"Yes," she said. "Who are you looking for? I might be able to
help."
"Mrs Ciccarello? She's my great-grandmother."
The woman looked at them solemnly. "I think you'd better come in."
The living room was freshly painted in light beige. Two small
children -- possibly twins -- were playing on carpet tiles. They had a
toy train that was chasing a toy car under the sofa.
"I'm Ethan," said Ethan. "And this is my cousin, Rupert. We've
been trying to find out about the Italian side of our family. Our gran
was estranged from them a long time ago. Around the time of the First
World War, of course. We were given this address."
Rupert perched on the sofa, trying to look like Ethan's cousin,
and also part-Italian.
"You never met her then?" the woman asked. "Oh, where's my
manners, would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?"
"I'd love one," said Ethan, with a particularly winning smile.
She went to fuss around in the kitchen.
"I think I'm doing better than you did," Ethan said, sotto
voce.
"You got lucky," Rupert whispered hotly. "The woman downstairs is
a paranoid."
"My name's Sarah," said the first floor woman, returning with a
pot of tea and a plate of gingersnaps.
Ethan took a cup. "She's moved, hasn't she?" he said. "We were
given the right address."
Sarah sat down. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think your
great-grandmother is dead."
Ethan looked genuinely crestfallen.
"We bought the place in an estate sale. It had belonged to a -- it
was a funny name -- it began with an E? Looked foreign."
Ethan didn't seem capable of speech, so Rupert said, "Eusapia
Ciccarello. That would be her. Is there anything you could tell us?"
Sarah thought. "I don't think there's much. The place was gutted
when we moved in -- I think there'd been a fire. There was a bit of
smoke damage to the walls. Everything had been stripped out. I'm so
sorry."
"A fire?" said Ethan. "But it didn't spread to the other flats?"
"Or just some smoke, maybe, I don't know."
"Have the neighbours said anything to you about her?" Rupert
asked.
"They didn't see very much of her," Sarah said. "She kept to
herself and got her groceries delivered. Didn't get many visitors,
they said. They were always a bit worried she wasn't looking after
herself. That's all I can tell you, I think." She shook her head. "I
have to go and pick up my eldest from school now."
"Of course," said Rupert. "Thank you, thank you very much for
helping us."
"I'm just sorry I haven't got happier news," she said.
They left the flat and took the stairs to the ground floor. Sarah
called out from above, "You could ask at the Catholic Church," she
said.
"She won't be buried there," said Ethan, not loudly enough for
Sarah to hear.
"Thank you," shouted Rupert. "Goodbye."
Outside and across the road, Ethan stood with his hands in his
pockets, apparently looking at his shoes.
"She was old," said Rupert. "We knew that."
"A fire?" said Ethan. "Smoke?"
"Maybe she dropped her cigarette in bed."
"A witch of her calibre?"
"Well, what do you think it was? Something demonic?"
"Perhaps. Smoke wouldn't be unusual for any sort of demonic
summoning I've heard of. But who stripped out the house? Where are her
books? Her artefacts? Her notebooks?"
"Where were her friends and family?" asked Rupert.
Sarah came out of the front door then, struggling with a large
pushchair. It wasn't clear to Rupert whether she'd seen them standing
there. He didn't think so.
Ethan waited until she was around the corner before marching back
to the house. Rupert sighed and followed.
Back up the stairs they went, and Ethan unlocked the door. Then
they were back in the toy-strewn living room.
"Sarah seemed quite nice," said Rupert, as he stood there in her
living room.
"I thought so too," said Ethan, his hand held in the air as if he
were straining to hear distant music. "There must be something left
here of her."
"Sarah?"
"Ciccarello."
Ripper started to tap on the walls and floors, to see if anything
sounded hollow. Nothing doing, though.
The kitchen was harder to check, because of all the
built-ins. Rupert looked in at tins of tuna and Tommee Tippee sipper
mugs. "What if she comes back?"
"Ciccarello?" asked Ethan, looking startled to consider it.
"Sarah," Rupert said.
"She has three children," said Ethan. "We'll hear her coming."
There was nothing in the bathroom or the main bedroom. But in the
twins' bedroom, Ethan pointed inside the airing cupboard. "Look in
there," he said.
Rupert perched next to the boiler and reached around to the back.
"It'll be near the front," said Ethan. "She was a small Italian
woman. She didn't have long arms like you do."
Ripper tapped around until he heard the right sound. "There's a
loose board." He wedged his fingers under and pulled.
"There," said Ethan.
It was just a few bookshelves. They were empty.
"There's still something there," said Ethan. "Keep looking."
Rupert groped around a bit and found a small gap in the woodwork,
a crack below the bottom shelf. He could feel the edge of a hardback
book but couldn't get a good enough grip.
Ethan was peering over his shoulder. "Stand back," said Rupert,
and he kicked the bottom shelf in with his heel. Underneath, he
found... the front cover of a book, with a few pages still clinging to
it. There was nothing else.
"A Book of Dargoth," Ripper read.
"Give it to me," said Ethan.
Rupert didn't.
"I'm serious. You can't read it."
Rupert didn't let go of the book.
Then they heard from outside, the wailing-in-unison of two
toddlers, followed by an exasperated cry from Sarah.
"Bugger," said Ethan.
"There's no fire escape," said Rupert, as he replaced the airing
cupboard panel. "I already looked."
"It's all right," said Ethan. "We go out the front."
"She'll see us."
"We go out the front now."
They stepped into the stairwell just as Sarah reached the outside
door. Ethan muttered a chant and then headed further up the stairs.
"Oh," said Rupert.
They paused on the staircase as Sarah struggled to get her
pushchair into the vestibule. "Hello again!" said Ethan
cheerily. "Rupert," he said. "Go and help her then."
Rupert had to hand him the fragment of book. Then he went down and
helped Sarah carried the pushchair up to her flat while she cajoled
the children. From upstairs, they could hear Ethan knock on the
second-floor door, and then say, "I'm looking for anyone who might
have known my great-grandmother, Mrs Eusapia Ciccarello."
Rupert declined a second offer of tea from Sarah and went outside
to sit on a park bench. He waited until Ethan came out of the house to
come and join him.
"There was a fire," said Ethan. "A small one, electrical, very
contained, but by the time the fire brigade got there, she was
dead. An eccentric assortment of relatives turned up within hours and
took away boxes of stuff the same night."
"I didn't enjoy that," said Rupert. "In fact, I didn't like that
all."
"What?" said Ethan.
"She invited us in for tea and then we broke into her house."
"We got what we came for and we didn't disturb anyone."
"We looked in her underwear drawer," said Rupert. "And I don't
understand why you won't let me look at the book."
"Only worshippers of Dargoth can read his works," said Ethan. "I'd
be very surprised if you were one of those."
"And you are?"
"Technically, yes. It's Evelyn's fault. Please don't ask." Then
his face took on a funny look and he said, "Oh God."
"What?"
"Evelyn. She obtained her Dargoth book three months ago."
"Not long after Eusapia Ciccarello died," said Rupert. "Do you
think she had something to do with this?"
"I don't know," said Ethan. "She might have bought it in a fire
sale."
"Nice friends you've got," said Rupert.
Ethan flicked through the few pages. "It's just the
introduction. A reminder of basic principles from the first volume,
that kind of thing. Easy demons for conjuration."
"No genius loci?"
"No."
Rupert checked his watch. "I really need to get back to the train
station," he said.
Ethan read aloud passages as they sat on the train. "At one with
the darkness, Dargoth is master of many. In world after world he is
called to. He is lord, not of the waking mind, but of the dream mind,
the nightmare mind, and the mind under trance or wine. Legion are his
servants--"
"Do you mind," said the man sitting next to them, waving his copy
of The London Mercury at them.
"Not at all," said Ethan. "Legion are his servants--" and the man
got up and left for a different seat. "Eyghon the Sleepwalker,
Neremsis the Bringer of Bad Dreams, and Leremtip or is that Lemsip, or
Pitmerel backwards, Addler of--" Ethan put the book down for a
moment. "I can't say much for the prose style," he said.
"Do you think she died alone?" asked Rupert.
"I expect so," said Ethan.
Rupert closed his eyes and tried to remove the vision he had in
head, of a frail old woman gasping for air and breathing in only
smoke.
Grotesque. Ebullient. Animated. Ethan wasn't quite sure what they
were, but they looked like they were enjoying themselves. Against a
blasted landscape, they twisted around each other, reaching up towards
a gibbous moon.
"Is this the concert poster or the record sleeve?"
"Look at the shape," said Randall. "It has to be the poster."
They were about forty other charcoal sketches scattered over the
drawing room floor. The one Randall held in front of him probably was
the best.
"What do you do next?"
"I'm thinking screen print. I want to make some mockups, test out
the inks. This one should be good for t-shirts too."
"Shouldn't you run it past the band first?"
Randall looked up at him. "Bobbie has complete faith in my artistic
judgement." He started to gather up the rejected versions. "Besides, I
drew him a sketch up at Stonehenge."
"Well," said Ethan, "congratulations on the commission."
"Thank you," said Randall. "I think I'll start experimenting
with the colour now."
"You're not coming out to Ripper's gig?"
He shook his head. "I want to keep going while I have it clear in
my head."
Ethan went to find Diedre. She was in her room, surrounded by a
circle of stones and candles.
"I'm practising."
"Diedre," he said, searching for the right phrase, "what I said
at Stonehenge--"
"I know you think I'm lazy," she said.
He didn't deny it. "You might have talent," he said.
"Well, I'm going to find out."
"You're not going out to the concert either?"
"I'm busy," she said. "And Stan's not back yet, if that's who
you'll be looking for next."
"I'll go myself then," said Ethan.
He seemed to spending a small fortune on Tube tickets and trains
these days, at least compared to what he used to. Fortunately, Mr
Grey had backed up his words on the telephone by sending another
letter. This one detailed how Ethan should plant some small stones
unobtrusively around a warehouse in Hackney. They'd be material
components for a spell cast at a distance, but he hadn't yet worked
out what sort of spell. He'd see to it tomorrow.
The pub Rupert was playing at was not as small as Ethan had
feared. He'd aimed to turn up half an hour late, and succeeded, but
some sort of electrical fault had meant that the band hadn't quite
started. He found a seat in one of the darker spots and got himself a
beer as they started.
He'd only just sat down when Adrienne appeared. She looked
haggard.
"You look haggard," he said.
"Only because I am." She had a long swallow of red wine.
"Tough day at the office?"
She gave a small, slightly hysterical laugh. She said, "You know,
I hold our group together. I do the planning. I make sure people know
when and where the meetings are. When we have something that needs to
be done, I organise the right people to do it. I keep the peace, I
make sure everyone is heard, I work my arse off. And tonight some
major people, major people, Ethan, big names, men of great
reputation, came to see us. And you know what they ask me to do?"
"They ask you to make the tea."
"They ask me to make the bloody tea." She sipped her wine. "The
revolution cannot come fast enough."
Someone on the next table over leant towards them. "Can you shut
up? We're trying to listen to the band."
They turned their attention to the stage. Rupert was up there,
playing guitar and frowning.
"He's fucking this one up," said Adrienne into Ethan's ear.
The song ended, Rupert looking a bit flustered as he swapped
places with someone else to sing into the main microphone. He seemed a
bit shaky at first, but then he got into it, losing himself in the
music. Ethan found it unexpectedly affecting.
"How are you two going, anyway?" Adrienne asked.
"Quite well. We went to the seaside together today."
She looked at him as if she didn't believe him.
The Grins turned out to be one of those bands that do banter
between songs. One of the other guitarists kept coming up to the
microphone to explain why they wrote the next song, what it was about,
and which people in the audience had helped with it. Ethan swivelled
around in his seat, trying to work out if there was anyone at the gig
who wasn't friends or family of a band member. He thought he spotted a
face he recognised.
"That's the drummer from his last band," said Adrienne. "I met him
a couple of times."
"I met him once too, I think."
Ethan thought he would have been bored if it hadn't been Rupert up
there. But it was good to watch him hard at work, his face full of
concentration.
When they announced the last song, Ethan got up to go. Adrienne
put her hand on his arm to stop him. "They'll do an encore," she
said. "Aren't you going to stay and be introduced to the band?"
"No," he said. "Why would I want to do that? But could you see if
you can persuade Ripper not to get paralytically drunk tonight?"
"I can try," Adrienne said.
Ripper was coming home from work when he saw the car. He'd just
turned the corner onto the street and it wasn't clear whether the
occupant had seen him. He could have just walked back, taken a train
somewhere else, and ventured back late at night. Or he could have
walked straight past, gone into the house, and barricaded the door:
the others would have helped him.
But what he did was walk up to the driver's side door and knock
politely. When the window wound down, he said, "I presume you're
looking for me."
"Giles," said Dr Chalmers of the Council of Watchers, "is there
somewhere we could go for a discreet discussion?"
So Rupert took him to the pub.
It was the mid-afternoon and not very busy. Dr Chalmers bought
them a pint each. Rupert hadn't had any lunch yet, but the kitchen was
closed. Dr Chalmers persuaded the publican to procure something like a
ploughman's lunch.
Dr Chalmers was always very persuasive. He was in his forties,
with black hair receding into his hairline and a drooping moustache to
make up for it. He always wore rather good suits.
"Now, Giles," said Dr Chalmers, as they took their seats in a booth
near the back, "you know why I'm here. What you don't know is why I'm
here now.
"The Council's given up on you, Giles. There won't be any more
cars dropping by to see how you're doing. They won't be guilt-tripping
your parents, as least not officially. Your case will be
closed. You're not the first of us to leave precipitously and, if
you'll forgive the cliché, you won't be the last. You're a loss in
terms of talent and resources but they're ready to write you off."
Chalmers gestured towards Rupert's guitar. "How is your new career
going?"
"I'm not sure that you are actually interested," said Rupert.
Chalmers gave a small shrug and a smile. "I expect you're good at
it. I can't imagine that you'd deceive yourself about that. If you
think you can carve yourself a career in music, I've no doubt that you
actually can.
"And music's a great thing. All art is. I have to say I prefer
chamber music myself, but there have to be some similarities. I don't
know, the connection between the audience and the musician, the
wellspring of emotion, and the deep satisfaction of seeing technical
prowess transformed into artistry. It's one of the glories of the
world.
"But you and I, we know how fragile this world of ours is
underneath. We know it's threatened on an almost daily basis. We've
seen some of the things which want to bring an end to
what we value in life, whether that's chamber music or a pub gig. And,
knowing all that, we have to decide how we're going to use our courage
and talents."
"I couldn't do it," said Rupert. "I just couldn't."
"You pushed yourself too hard. It's all right to coast
sometimes. One of the things every man needs to learn is his own
limits, and then how to work around them to achieve what you wouldn't
think was possible."
Rupert said faintly, "I'm not going back."
"Well," said Chalmers, "it's still the holidays. You have a bit of
time to think. If you do come back, I'll make sure there's a place for
you. We can't afford to lose someone of your calibre if we can help
it. But if you do choose not to come back, this is likely to be the
last time we ever meet."
Chalmers stood up and extended his hand. Rupert felt he had to
stand too and shake hands.
"I hope to see you again, Giles" said Chalmers. "And if not, I
wish you luck with everything else." He stepped out of the booth and
paused. "And you should wish us luck then too."
Rupert sat there, staring at the remains of his lunch. He wanted a
drink, except that he also felt rather sick. He wanted to be somewhere
else; no, he wanted to be someone else. He supposed that's what
he'd liked so much about the genius loci spell: for the
duration, he hadn't been himself at all.
It took him a moment to notice that Ethan was sitting opposite him
now.
"Who was that?" Ethan asking. "The man with the moustache."
They're going to leave me alone now," said Rupert.
"The Council of Watchers?"
There was no point in wondering how or why Ethan knew that, or
anything else. "Yes. That was their last attempt to win me back."
"Well, that's wonderful," said Ethan. "I'll buy you a drink. I'll
buy you ten drinks."
Rupert looked over at him. Ethan reached out to grasp his
shoulder.
"Don't you see? You've escaped."
Rupert was in a funny mood that night. He'd got fairly plastered
at the pub, having taken up Ethan's offer of a drink
or two. Then they'd gone home and Rupert had cleared the drawing room
of Randall's latest sketches so that he could cover the floor with
large chalk circles. He wanted the genius loci spell and Ethan
couldn't give it to him.
"Look," said Ethan, "I'll see Terry when I've got some money
again. I'll ask him if he's got anything we can use."
"How much busking is that going to take? You had all of five pence
a week ago."
It wasn't as if they were alone in the room, either. Randall was
listening to his records, leaning against the wall with his eyes
closed. Diedre started out leaning against him, but then came over to
look at Ripper's chalk sketches.
And then Stan had come home, after more than a week's absence, in
a swingeing good mood.
"We were worried," Diedre said.
"You should have written," Randall said, in a rarely-used tone of
voice that meant he was actually angry, but Stan was blasé.
"I had a fantastic time in High Wycombe," he said, a statement
which cried out for refutation. He poured champagne out into plastic
beakers for everyone. "I'm finally with the girl of my dreams."
"Well, that's lovely," said Diedre, because nobody else would
tonight. "What's her name?"
"Julie. I knew her years ago, but back then she was dating this
complete wanker. And then there she was at Stonehenge, with no bloke
in tow. And we get on just as well as I remembered." He went around
the room, topping up everyone's cups. "She's smart, she's funny, she's
hot, she has three books on the Napoleonic Wars..."
"Surely she must have some faults?" Ethan said.
"Well," said Stan, "she didn't come right out and say it, but I
think she has a degree. She's going to expect a lot of me."
"What did you tell her you did for a living?"
"Bartending. I mean, I used to." This latter half of this
explanation seemed to be aimed at Rupert, who was, however, ignoring
the conversation entirely; he was frowning over a piece of pentagram.
"So when do we get to meet her?" Diedre asked. "She could come
along to my party on the weekend, if you like."
"Um," said Stan. "Maybe, maybe a bit later? Little steps, yeah?"
Randall opened his eyes. "You think we're too weird for her," he
said.
"No, no," said Stan. "I'm sure she's broad-minded. But you're a
lot to take on all at once, yeah?"
In the pause that followed, Grace Slick's voice filled the room.
Then Diedre said, "Of course we are! We're the weirdest of the
weird. We're all freaks here. Have we run out of champagne? I'll fetch
something else."
"It's going to be a long trip to and from High Wycombe," Ethan
said, "if that's where she's living."
"It's not that bad," said Stan. "But I think I might get a
car."
"And another job?" said Ethan. "Somewhere to live that's a little
closer to her place?"
"Ethan," said Randall, "he's met the right one. Congratulate him."
"Congratulations," Ethan said.
The first thing that Rupert thought of when he woke was the
time. It was a Saturday, which meant he had work over lunchtime and
the buses weren't very good. He was confused by the light, which
looked nineish, but Ethan was awake and reading a book, which would be
tenish. Where had he put his watch?
The second thing that Rupert thought of was Ethan's back. Ethan
was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, so the covers had
slipped down as far as his fourth vertebrae. He had nice skin and Rupert
sometimes liked to press down heel of his hand and run along it to
feel the bones and muscle underneath. Ethan hardly objected to this
either.
The third thing he thought of that morning was about having sex,
but then Ethan, without taking his eyes from the book, passed him his
watch.
Nine-fifteen.
"You're awake early," Rupert said.
"It's a good book."
"I've got forty-five minutes before I need to get up," Rupert
said, but then Ethan made him wait until he'd finished the chapter.
Afterwards, Rupert still had a little time. It was one of those
mornings when it felt absolutely right that he should be waking up
next to Ethan every day, lying on an old but clean mattress, amid
piles of all sorts of odd books, looking up out the window at blue
skies and waving green trees. As opposed to those other sorts of
mornings, when he wondered what the hell he was doing, and worried
whether Ethan might not be taking this rather more seriously than he
was, and, really, wasn't there something actually quite wrong with
Ethan when you thought about it, and what a waste of time this was
when the entire world was in absolute and daily deadly peril.
So suddenly it became one of those other, less pleasant sorts of
mornings, and Rupert decided he really had to get up.
"Have you packed?" Ethan asked him, waving his paperback. "You'll
need to take your bag with you if you're going straight to the station
after work."
"It's in my room," said Rupert. "Are you sure Diedre's parents
won't mind me arriving so late?"
"If you've got to work, you've got to work," said Ethan. "And
it'll go until late. They always pack us onto the last train home."
So Rupert washed and shaved and went to to work and did all the
usual Saturday things. And then he took his bag of party clothes and
his guitar to the train. He changed clothes in the carriage's
lavatory. It had been difficult to decide what to wear for an
afternoon garden party that was going to stretch to and past
dinner. Randall and Diedre had said they were opting for over-the-top
again, but that wasn't a style Rupert was in any hurry to
attempt. Instead he'd chosen trousers and a shirt with a smart
corduroy jacket.
He regretted this as soon as he arrived at the station, where
Diedre's brother was waiting for him in a suit and tie.
"I'm Matthew," Diedre's brother said, shaking hands. "You must be
Rupert. She said you'd have a guitar. Pop in the car and we'll get you
there."
Matthew was not quite as tall as Rupert, and somewhat broader in
the shoulders. He didn't look much like Diedre at all, expect perhaps
something in the chin. His BMW smelt of cigarettes and cologne,
and there was a bag of fudge on the dashboard.
"I don't think you've been here before," said Matthew, "so I'll
show you the sights on the way. We're really just a cluster of farms
and small villages here but I think it's just as nice as anything
you'd get in the city. We've a fine Norman church, a couple of
Victorian monstrosities, and a couple of excellent places for looking
for owls. And I'm joking by the way, I know it's nothing like the
city. But--" and here he turned a corner "--it has its compensations."
Because then they turned onto the top of a hill and could see the
fields and roads sloping away from them, a green patchwork
dotted with nearby sheep and more distant buildings. Matthew took his
eyes off the road long enough to meet Rupert's gaze. "Not bad, is it?"
"Not bad at all," Rupert said, appreciatively.
"So where are you from, then?"
"A few places. Devon, at one point."
"Lovely countryside there too," said Matthew. He pointed
downhill. "We're that way, past the village hall and a very good
pub. Do you do much walking?"
"Used to," said Rupert. "Near home on weekends or on holidays. We
did most of the Pennine Way in bits and bobs."
Matthew nodded appreciatively, then said, "If you don't mind me
saying so, you don't seem as weird as the others."
"'The others'?"
"You know, the rest of the crowd Diedre's taken to. All a bit
queer."
"She's proud of that."
"I know. But how's she, how's she actually doing? It's very hard
for us to tell."
Rupert tried to think of the most positive thing he could
say. "She's where she wants to be," he said.
"But why does it have to be that place? It always looks to me like
it's about to collapse. Every time I pick up the phone I'm afraid that
she's died in it."
"She wants to feel free," said Rupert, realising. "We all do."
"Surely you don't have to live in a squat for that," said
Matthew. "Now watch this, we're about to pass into one of our famous
sunken lanes."
It took another ten minutes to get to the house, which was a
good-sized place near the top of a hill. Matthew drove through the
gateway, past a tennis court and a large vegetable garden. "This is the
back way in," he said. "The party's on in the south gardens."
He took them down a path along the edge of a potato patch, around
a tall hedge and through an archway covered in climbing roses. Then
they were on a sloping lawn shaded by pear trees and
edged with brimming flowerbeds. The view was as magnificent as
before. When he squinted, Rupert thought he could see as far as the
Channel.
There were several dozen people standing around the gardens or
sitting on lawn chairs. Most of the men were in suit and tie; most of
the women were in light summer dresses. But then there was a mob of
less conventionally dressed people down near a clutch of apple trees:
that would be his lot, Rupert thought.
Matthew led him in the direction of a short, older man who shook
Rupert's hand vigourously, said something largely incomprehensible, and
then moved on. Rupert wasn't sure if he was Diedre's father or an
uncle. Matthew had turned to say something to a waitress, so Rupert
headed over to the group of fellow iconoclasts.
Randall was the most conspicuous, as always, resplendent today in
royal blue and orange, lying on a picnic rug with his eyes closed
against the sun. Stan and Tom sat next to him on the grass while
Adrienne and Ethan sat in chairs. Adrienne was wearing some very large
and ridiculous sunglasses; Ethan was finishing off a plate of
food. And there was another girl, whom Rupert didn't recognise, a
petite, fair-haired girl in her early twenties. She was very obviously
pregnant.
"Louise, this is Ripper," said Adrienne.
"Pleased to meet you," said Louise. Rupert noticed she wasn't
wearing a wedding ring.
"Louise has to sit with us now."
"I've sat with you before," said Louise.
"Yes, you have," said Adrienne, "but now you are able to give us
your undivided attention."
Rupert put his guitar and his travel bag down on the lawn next to
Randall.
"Get yourself some food," said Ethan, waving his fork. "It's
fantastic."
Back over near the house were some tables, where pretty waitresses
were pouring out wine and refilling platters. Rupert helped himself to
a thick slice of roast chicken, a piece of ham, some potato salad,
some green salad, and some shrimp. He couldn't remember the last time
he'd eaten shrimp. And then one of the waitresses poured him a glass
of white wine. She was showing just a little too much décolletage.
Adrienne looked at his plate when he returned. "They are serving
dinner as well, you know."
Rupert sat next to Ethan, because that's where the empty chair
was. Louise gave him a little wave.
Ethan said, low enough for only Rupert to hear, "I've been
thinking about the genius loci spell again." (Rupert nodded,
his mouth full of shrimp.) "I think we should start with something
simpler, maybe one of the minor demons in the Ciccarello book. I think
we can probably piece together one of those."
"Sounds reasonable," said Rupert, in between mouthfuls. More
loudly, he asked, "Where's Diedre?"
"Off talking to everyone but us," said Randall. "This is the only
time of year she gets to see most of the others."
"Who are they all?"
"Relatives," said Adrienne. "Girls we went to school with and
their husbands. A couple of people she met at
university. Neighbours. Friends from church."
"Doctors, solicitors, bankers, businessmen and I think there's a
psychotherapist," said Randall.
"And their wives," said Adrienne.
"Janine's studying physics and poetry," said Louise. She pointed
this girl out and they all stared in her direction.
"Maybe we should wave her over," said Randall, but she steadfastly
refused to turn in their direction.
"The wine's very good," said Ethan, as he finished off his
glass. "Why do we drink that noxious stuff at home?"
"I think because this kind's ten times as expensive," said Randall.
Ethan stared into his glass. "Maybe we could take a few bottles
home?"
Diedre came over then, accompanied by a tall woman and a small
child. There was no doubt at all who the older woman was: she and
Diedre had the same hair and the same cast of face. The child looked
about three and had fluffy blonde hair.
"Rupert!" Diedre said. Rupert stood to greet her; she proffered a
cheek for him to kiss. "So glad you could make it. This is my mother,
and this is my niece, Valerie."
Mrs Page looked like her daughter but she didn't move like
her. There was a stiffness to her that her daughter lacked. She gave
Rupert a very formal smile.
"Rupert Giles," he said, automatically, because anything else
would have been impolite. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
"How are you enjoying it so far?" Diedre asked.
"Ah, well the food's fantastic. And I've met Louise. And the view
here is very beautiful."
"Isn't it?" Diedre said.
Rupert wanted to ask her what Matthew had asked him: how could she
go from this back to their slum of a house? How could any of them?
(Well, Stan was probably a different case.) He thought suddenly and
longingly of the old family home back in Devon, which he hadn't
visited in years.
Mrs Page said, "Diedre tells me you play the guitar."
"Ah, yes, yes," said Rupert. "Acoustic and electronic but not, I'm
afraid, classical."
"I wonder if you wouldn't mind entertaining our guests after
dinner," said Mrs Page.
"Please do," said Diedre. "I've told her you're very good."
Rupert didn't explain that he'd only brought the guitar because
he'd come straight from work. Instead, he smiled and said he'd love
to.
"Any requests?" asked Ethan.
Mrs Page tilted her head but did not entirely turn to face
him. "Ethan, how are you this year?"
"I'm very well."
"Are you working?"
"On a number of enterprises."
"And have you found a young woman yet?"
"Alas," said Ethan, "Adrienne and I have had to call it a day. We
realised that while we greatly respect each other's capabilities, we
hold a deep contempt for each other's life goals."
Mrs Page glanced at Adrienne, but Adrienne was fast asleep with
her head flung back, and in imminent danger of falling from her
chair.
"We'd better get back to the rest of the guests," Diedre said,
taking her mother's hand.
"I should come with you," Tom said.
"There's really no need."
"I insist," Tom said.
"All right," said Diedre, but there was a noticeable reluctance
to her voice.
Much of the next half hour was taken up in helpful and unhelpful
suggestions from the remainder of the group as to what he might
actually sing.
"What do you think of the waitresses?" Ethan asked Rupert during a
lull in conversation.
"Mmm," said Rupert, unsure of what to say.
"I like the one with the curly hair. Not sure why. She's not the
prettiest but she looks like she'd go for it."
Rupert turned to look at her. "It's the hips," he said, very
quietly. "The hips and the décolletage."
"Yes," said Ethan. Then he started a little as he looked back
towards the house. "Bugger."
"What is it?"
"Just someone I'd like to avoid."
"Who?"
"Diedre's cousin. I went to school with him. Well, if he comes
over here I'll tell him to fuck off."
Rupert couldn't see very much from this distance, just a young man
of average height in a dark suit and red tie. He was clean-shaven and
his hair was unfashionably short.
A brown-haired woman came over then. It was the
physicist-poet-to-be. "Diedre said I should talk with you?"
So she did.
Dinner was over and Ethan was feeling full and somewhat
sleepy. The sun hadn't quite set yet but was getting there and Venus
had come out. The lights inside the house looked bright now whenever
he glanced over. Rupert was sitting just outside the back door,
singing some song or other with an adoring audience starting to
form. Ethan decided to go for a walk instead.
It had been a good party, all in all. Good food, good wine, good
weather. Last year it had started to rain during dinner, sending
thirty mud-footed people inside over the axminster carpets. The year
before that it had been windy enough in the afternoon that everyone
had had to hold tight to their plates and glasses. Plus, there had
been the wasps. The year before that-- well, Ethan hadn't known
Diedre then. So this was definitely the best party so far of the ones
he'd been to.
Louise had been all right, even if she had told gory stories of
hospital casualty patients throughout dinner. Stan and Tom hadn't been
too annoying. And he'd been glad to see Adrienne getting some
much-needed sleep.
There had been that incident in the early afternoon when a group
of encroaching suits had enquired of each other loudly what the cause
of homosexuality was and whether it could be stamped out; Ethan had
ignored them but Adrienne had not, which led to fifteen minutes of
entirely irrelevant dyke jokes. Fortunately, Randall had managed to
summon Diedre over to defuse it before Adrienne became homicidal.
Which was almost a pity, because his money would have been on
Adrienne.
But then there had been the joy of watching Rupert get all
enthusiastic about two topics he didn't seem to know much about, as he
struggled to talk with Janine about physics and poetry. A schoolboy
knowledge of Wordsworth and a recitation of verses from Beowulf
was as much as he'd managed to muster. And he'd floundered very
fetchingly over the philosophical implications of quantum mechanics.
There was a bench in the vegetable garden next to where the peas
were planted. Ethan took the seat, watching the last gleams of
twilight on the hills. On another side of the house, Rupert was
singing a song that Ethan thought he should probably know the name of;
Randall had a recording of it, he was sure.
He heard footsteps approach but didn't look up: it would be
someone searching for the loo. But then the footsteps turned
definitively in his direction. And, of course, it was the second last
person on earth he wanted to see.
"Rayne," said Gibson. He looked a little less gawky than when
Ethan had seen him last. "I have a message for you."
Ethan should have punched his lights out there and then.
Rupert really enjoyed the applause. He'd played through a set not
too dissimilar to what he played at the hotel restaurant. He'd started
off with an audience of just a couple of people, but a crowd had
gathered round since then: not just his friends and Diedre's family,
but most of the other guests too. Mrs Page kept having to explain to
people that he wasn't paid entertainment.
Mrs Page thanked him. Some random guest brought him some
beer. Randall bowed.
"It was a pleasure," Rupert said, beaming. He packed away his
guitar and started on his beer. It seemed to be the beer part of the
evening. Or perhaps they'd run out of wine.
"Of course, that was carefully selected for your audience," said
Randall. "I would like to see what you could do when unrestrained."
"Um," said Rupert, because he didn't think he rocked out much
harder than that under any circumstances.
"Is Diedre coming back with us, or is she staying over?" Tom
wanted to know.
Randall glanced over to where Diedre was saying farewell to
departing guests. "She looks tired, so I think she'll be coming with
us."
"If she's tired, would she not be better off staying here?" said
Tom.
Randall shook his head. "She finds this place tiring. You should
get her bag."
"When do we leave?" asked Rupert.
"Half an hour. We'll get a ride to the station."
"I've got a car," said Stan. "I drove."
"That was quick," said Adrienne.
"What was quick?" asked Louise.
"Him buying a car."
Rupert decided to look for Janine. He'd rather hit it off with her
that afternoon and she'd stood nearby throughout his impromptu
concert. She was talking with Diedre's brother though, so he had to
hover for a bit before he caught her eye.
"I was wondering," he said, "if you had a phone number," which
came out a little blunter than he'd wanted, but she didn't seem to
mind.
"You sing well," she said, as she rummaged in her pocket book for
a pen and piece of paper. Rupert liked the fact that she had pen and
paper with her at all times. She wrote out her number.
"We don't have a phone," he said, "but of course you must know
where I live as I'm in the same house as Diedre, just on the floor
above."
"It must be hard starting out as a musician," she said. "You must
be very dedicated."
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I suppose I am."
He put the piece of paper in his wallet and waved her
goodbye. Then he wondered whether her comment about his dedication was
meant as a compliment, or as a warning that he might not be financially
stable enough for her to properly consider.
Diedre came up to him then. "Well done," she said. "My mother
approves of you. I think that means we're allowed to get married."
Rupert looked at her.
Diedre said, "Randall's looking for Ethan and then we'll be ready
to go. You haven't seen him, have you?"
"Not for a while, actually."
He saw Diedre's cousin though, the one who'd gone to school with
Ethan: he was just shaking hands in goodbye with Diedre's father. On
a sudden impulse, Rupert strode over, catching up with him just before
the front gate.
"Hello," said Rupert, extending his hand. "I'm Rupert Giles."
"The singer," said the man, giving a curt nod. "Gerard Gibson."
"Look, I heard that you went to school with Ethan, and I
wondered--"
"Stay away from him," said Gerard. "He's evil." And then he headed
out the gate without saying another word.
Rupert stood there, astonished, for a moment, but then he heard
his name shouted across the lawn. It was Diedre.
"We've found Ethan," she said. "Come quickly."
He was lying near the back door. Louise was bent over him --
remarkable given her condition -- checking his pulse and rolling him
onto his side in a businesslike fashion. "I think he's just drunk,"
she said.
"We've got to go in ten minutes," said Tom. "Are we going to be
able to get him on the train?"
"He's not going in my car," said Stan.
"I'll drive him," said Louise, "if I can have two strong blokes to
carry him."
"Rupert and I will go with you," said Randall.
Rupert was not entirely happy with this, but said nothing, now
that he'd been volunteered. Louise went to bring her car around to the
back, so they didn't have to carry Ethan past the remaining guests.
"I'll tell my parents that he's fallen ill," said Diedre. "I'll
pass on your thanks for the party."
"Thank you, Dee," Rupert said.
He and Randall sat on the ground next to Ethan. Rupert leant over
to check the position of his head and whether he was in danger in
swallowing his tongue. He was breathing OK but smelt strongly of
something rather stronger than wine or beer. Rupert looked in the
nearby bushes and found a bottle of spirits.
He sat back down, giving Ethan a long look. He didn't look evil,
just rather ill.
Rupert said, "I spoke to Gerard Gibson tonight."
"Gerard Gibson is an asshole," said Randall, which rather seemed
to preclude other conversation.
Louise came back at last and they carried Ethan to her car, which
unhelpfully was a mini. She pulled a tarp out of the tiny boot and
spread it over the backseat. "He's going to throw up or piss himself
at some point," she said. "So, who else wants to sit in the back?"
Randall and Rupert took turns. At intervals, Louise stopped the
car so they could haul Ethan out onto the roadside to throw up or
relieve himself. He was semiconscious by then but either unable or
unwilling to talk. The whole trip took hours longer than it should
have. It was one of the most wretched car journeys Rupert had made in
his life.
When they got home, at two or three a.m., Louise went to run a
bath while Randall and Rupert carried Ethan up the stairs. Once they
got him into the bathroom, Randall said, "I can take it from here."
Rupert was very grateful.
Downstairs, he and Louise found Adrienne and Diedre in the
kitchen. Adrienne was lighting them cigarettes on the gas ring. "I've
made toast and tea," she said.
"Louise, you should stay here tonight," said Diedre. "It's very
late already."
"Can she have your room tonight, Ripper?" Adrienne asked
him. "You've got the new mattress. You can sleep with me if you like
or on the couch in the attic."
"Ah, OK, yes," said Rupert.
"Thanks very much for helping," Diedre said to Louise. "Beyond the
call of duty."
"It was your birthday party," said Louise, shrugging. "And I deal
with worse every day at work."
"Has he done that before?" asked Rupert.
"Once," said Diedre. "Randall won't tell me why."
"Randall's good to look after him like that," said Louise.
"They've known each other for years," said Diedre. "And Ethan's a
good person to know when you're in a tight spot."
Adrienne flicked her ash into a saucer. "I moved out of here
once--"
"You don't have to say anything," said Diedre.
"--and my flatmate's boyfriend tried to attack me. I knew the
police would be useless, so I came back here. Ethan knows some excellent
hexes." She looked at Diedre, "And you all cast them very well."
"Hexes?" Louise asked.
"I'd better go and get my room sorted out for you," Rupert said to
Louise.
It didn't take much to get his room into shape, as he wasn't
really using it that much, except as a music practice room. He changed
the sheets and gave the floor a quick sweep. Then he helped Randall
carry Ethan up to Ethan's room.
The lights were off downstairs when he returned. Diedre must have
gone back to bed. Adrienne had her lamp on, but was fast asleep when
he came in; she stirred only a little as he sat down on the
mattress. He took his jeans and shirt off but kept his underwear on
because he wasn't really sure where he was with her.
She made the situation rather clearer the next day, when she woke
him before helping him off with the rest of his clothes. They had sex
a couple of times and Rupert reminded himself that Ethan was a
diversion from Adrienne and not the other way around, besides which
neither was a proper relationship so it would be quite all right for
him to ring Janine in the afternoon. And then he fell asleep again
until it was time for him to get ready to go to his Grins rehearsal.
He headed up to his room for clean clothes. Louise was long gone
and the used sheets had been folded up neatly and left on the chair.
On the way past, he knocked quietly on Ethan's door. Hearing no
reply, he opened it slightly. Ethan was asleep on his side on the
mattress and Randall was dozing nearby on a beanbag. Rupert let them
sleep.
The long shadows in the room suggested it was late evening. Ethan
still wasn't feeling well.
Randall was sitting in one of the shadows. He was in a different
set of clothes from when Ethan had last been awake and it looked like
he had shaved. He passed Ethan a glass of water and some more
painkillers.
"I'd offer to kill him for you," said Randall, "but he's Diedre's
blood kin. We could hex him for you though."
"I don't really think that would help," said Ethan, "or I'd have
done it myself years ago." And he swallowed the aspirin.
Rupert thought he should try sleeping alone for once. Besides,
Adrienne had said she just wanted sleep tonight and Ethan was still
hungover. Really, this was an excellent opportunity to take a break
and to work out what he should do.
He put his sheets back on the mattress. He realised he didn't have
a lamp, so he lit a candle before lying down. He was tired but a lot
less drunk than he usually was after a Grins rehearsal. Seeing Ethan
paralytic had rather put him off his beer.
There was a faint sway of spidersilk from the ceiling, he
noticed. He stood up, found he wasn't able to reach it himself, and so
picked up a chair to bring it down. Then he lay back down on the bed.
He was going to have to talk with Ethan, he thought, just to make
sure they were both on the same page. They had certainly started on
the same page, but Rupert was now a little worried, from certain looks
Ethan had given him, that Ethan might well have turned a page or two,
or, God forbid, thought he was nearing the end of a chapter. And yet
in other ways Ethan had given no sign. He was quite prone, for
example, to wandering off whenever he felt like it, sometimes without
waiting to finish a conversation. And he wasn't exchanging the sort of
personal information that usually suggested a deepening friendship or
romantic interest; in some ways, Ethan was one of the least confiding
people Rupert had ever met. There were shopkeepers in Oxford whom
Rupert felt he knew rather better.
So, there would have to be a talk.
The mattress was quite comfy, really, better than Ethan's or
Adrienne's and certainly better than the sofa back at Jim and
Alison's. He wondered how Jim and Alison were doing. He should really
give them a ring.
There were a lot of people he should ring: his family, his friends
back at Oxford, other Watchers. He missed many of them, but he was too
embarrassed to ring most. He wanted to know how they were but he didn't
want to know what they thought of him, for dropping his studies and
for abandoning his training. He'd run away. He was a failure and a
coward and all those people he cared for knew it.
He got out of bed and took a sip from his gin bottle. Then he
checked that his sheet music and LPs were all arranged alphabetically,
as filing and sorting always calmed him down. The whole world could be
going to hell, but he should still be able to find his Disraeli
Gears.
He went downstairs for a glass, because it was uncouth to drink
straight from the bottle.
In the kitchen he paused outside Adrienne's door, wondering
whether he should just walk in on her anyway. Then he remembered her
story from last night and felt such a bloody heel.
Back in his room, he leant against the wall, alternately drinking
and playing air guitar. He was learning a new song for The
Grins. Eventually, he fell asleep.
He woke once in the night, thinking that he heard a scream. But
when he staggered to the window, it was only the sound of cats
fighting.
This time he managed to fall asleep on the actual bed.
Ethan still felt rubbish the next morning but he no longer felt as
if he were going to die. He managed some sort of breakfast and was
rewarded with the sight of Ripper looking as bad as he felt. Which
meant that it must be a Monday morning after a rehearsal.
After he'd eaten, he cast a couple of small spells just to
reassure himself that he could. This was clearly not a day for doing
anything complicated. Instead he should do all the things that were
annoying on other days, like laundry and shopping. And he should pick
out whatever paperback looked least demanding. He'd tried reading the
next chapter of a Le Carre over breakfast and it hadn't made any sense
at all.
So he was reading a Wodehouse when Ripper arrived at the
laundrette. It had possibly been a poor choice.
"Feeling better?" asked Rupert.
"Ambulatory," said Ethan. "Look, would you mind looking after my
lot while I go to the shops? I'll be back in ten. Anything you want?"
"Something to eat," said Rupert. "A pie or a sausage roll?"
Ethan also had to stop by the post office for a package from Mr
Grey. It was something he was supposed to scatter around a
churchyard. He wedged open a corner while he was in the queue at the
supermarket and found it to be full of dried beetles.
It was closer to twenty minutes than ten by the time he got back
but if Rupert had noticed, he didn't say anything. He'd picked up the
Wodehouse since Ethan had left and was now frowning at it.
"What happened to you at Diedre's party?" Rupert asked him.
"Could this wait until after I'm no longer hungover?"
Rupert shrugged, then asked him for some chalk. Ethan put his
clothes into a dryer and came back to find Rupert drawing
circles on top of the washing machine.
"Not today," said Ethan. "But we could get together to look at it
tomorrow if you like."
The woman who ran the laundrette came over to see what they were
doing, so Rupert quickly erased it with a wet sock.
After they got home, Ethan went out again, this time to Terry's
for some supplies. Since meeting Mr Grey, Ethan had become certain
that Terry was a demon, if somehow less demonish. Part demon? A
different kind? He wondered if he'd ever know Terry well enough to
ask.
He didn't have enough money yet for another book, but he would do
soon, what with all the odd jobs for Mr Grey.
Back at the house, he bought a couple of joints from Stan as a
present for Randall. Most of the household had gone out to watch the
cricket, so Ethan sat and read in his room all afternoon and into the
early evening. When he heard Randall going into the room next door, he
got up.
He found Randall sitting on his favourite beanbag, looking through
a gorgeous library book of art deco stained glass. He looked a little
sunburnt. "I need some background details for a poster I'm doing,"
Randall said.
Ethan held out the joints. "Thank you for helping the other
night," he said. "It was very, very much appreciated."
"You should thank Louise and Ripper too," Randall said. He took
the joints. "Want to share one?"
It wasn't Ethan's preferred method to get high, but it seemed
churlish to refuse under the circumstances. "Sure."
"And the next time you feel like that," said Randall, lighting up,
"you come to me first, OK? Because that wasn't fun for anyone."
"All right," said Ethan.
There was a lot of laughter coming from Randall's room that
evening, as well as a strong scent of marijuana. Rupert thought they
were being quite antisocial, shutting themselves off like that.
Not that he was any better. He was back in his room, pretending to
himself that he was trying to go to sleep. Tonight he'd put the
bottle of gin downstairs so he couldn't get to it without
deliberate effort.
He still hadn't had the talk with Ethan. He'd considered it at
breakfast, but he'd been too tired. He'd thought about it a great deal
at the laundrette, but that wasn't really a good venue for a private
chat. And then, on the walk home, he'd become suddenly certain that
the absolutely right thing to do was to kiss Ethan there and then. But
it was a public street and there were other people nearby and it was
clearly impossible. And when they got back, Tom was in the kitchen and
Ethan had dropped off his stuff and then headed out straight
away. Besides, what sort of thought was that, when Rupert was wanting
to shut this whole thing down?
Perhaps there was no need for an actual talk though. He could just
turn Ethan down the next time he came by. After a few refusals, Ethan
would understand and go back to Evelyn or whatever other arrangements
he'd had before Ripper had moved in.
He was still thinking this through when Ethan knocked on the door
and then opened it. He was looking particularly rakish, if that was
the word, unshaved and with his shirt buttoned wrong, as it had been
all day. He smelt strongly of weed. Dishevelled, perhaps that was a
better word. He looked dishevelled.
"You look a sight," said Rupert, more affectionately than he'd
intended.
"I'm quite stoned," said Ethan. "I came to see if you wanted
some." He held out the stub of a joint. "As a thank you-- As a partial
thank you for--" He waved his hand.
Rupert took a toke. He did deserve it, after that bloody car
ride. It was stronger than he'd expected and very quickly went to his
head. So five minutes later he was taking Ethan's clothes off and,
half an hour after that, he realised that they'd forgotten to shut the
door, which Ethan thought was very, very funny.
In the morning Rupert woke at-- well, it was a Tuesday, so it
didn't really matter what time he woke at. He woke in the morning, of
that he was pretty sure.
He got up and washed, went down to the kitchen and was happy to
find a pint of milk and some sausage rolls he could take up to his
room for breakfast. Upstairs, he sat barefoot on the mattress and
leant over the wooden floor, with a cigarette between his lips, and a
piece of chalk in his hand. He started again to sketch the pentagram
he thought they needed.
Ethan woke then and watched him sleepily for a while before
reaching out to grab a different colour of chalk from his own trouser
pocket. He wiped away some of Rupert's work with his hand to make some
corrections.
"I don't think we're going to go ahead with this though," said
Ethan. "I've found the catch." He sketched a symbol out on the
floor. "A tattoo. We'd all have to have these tattoos."
"Draw that here?" Rupert said, handing him a piece of paper. Then
he went to look for Randall, hoping he hadn't yet left for the
cricket.
Randall was in the drawing room, going through The News of the
World with a pair of scissors. "Flying saucers over Newcastle," he
said, conversationally.
Rupert waved the piece of paper in front of Randall. "Do you know
how to do tattoos? Could you do this?"
"I've seen it being done," said Randall. "But you'd really be
better off going to a professional. I could find out who--"
"It's a magical symbol," said Rupert. "We'd need it for a spell."
"I could do it," Randall said. "Sure."
Rupert ran back upstairs to his room, where he found Ethan
finishing off the milk and the sausage rolls. He'd managed to streak
blue chalk dust all up one side of his face. This struck Rupert as
enticingly, unknowingly cute. He kissed him, hard. Ethan looked up at
him in some surprise and confusion.
"We can do it," said Rupert, still clutching the piece of
paper. "We should do it."
Ethan looked a little forlornly at his own arm. "If you really
want to," he said.
"How soon could we do it?"
"You're always in such a hurry," said Ethan.
"When?"
"As soon as we have at least three tattooed people."
"Right. Right then," said Rupert. "I'll round them up." He paused
at the doorway. "What's this thing called?"
"The Mark of Eyghon," Ethan said.
Ethan took Mr Grey's box to a churchyard south of the river. It
was quite a picturesque place, with overgrown and leaning headstones
gathered under trees. He scattered the beetles around with a quick
underhand motion and, whenever the church warden approached, he
pretended to be terribly interested in the worn
inscriptions on the graves. Some of the inscriptions were even
worth reading: Here lies the Love family, Jane, James, William and
Montgomery. He could think of too many bad jokes from that stone all
on its own.
As he worked, he wondered about Rupert. What was it that so
fascinated him about the Eyghon spell? The experience at Stonehenge?
But the whole tattoo thing was absurd.
He also wondered about the spell which required the churchyard
beetles. Some of the other spells Ethan had assisted Mr Grey with had
been easy to work out, such as a protection spell for a building, or a
tracking spell for a car. Other times he'd been sent to collect soil
or fragments of stone and post them to Mr Grey, and he hadn't yet
worked out what those were for. And the beetles? Who knew? It wasn't
covered in any of the books Ethan had.
He got home at pretty much the same time Adrienne did. She waved
him over near the gate.
She said, "The job's on. Next month. You can decide whether to
bring Ripper into it or not."
"What do you need?"
"I need you to distract some people at a ferry terminal. There's a
hundred pounds up front and another two hundred if it all goes well."
"Bloody hell," said Ethan. "Why is it so much money?"
"We have some generous donors."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Not if it works."
"And can you tell me what you're smuggling in?"
"Of course not," she said.
He thought about what three hundred pounds would feel like in his
hands. Did Terry even have any books that cost that much? "Can you get
me a plan of the terminal?"
"Of course," she said. "I'll bring you one as soon as I can."
He got as far as the half-landing before he found Rupert, stinking
drunk and leaning against one of Randall's more grandiose paintings of
hell.
"You do know," said Ethan, "that it's only the middle of the
afternoon?"
Rupert held out his arm, exposing puckered and coloured flesh. "It
bloody hurts," said Rupert.
Ethan sat down next to him to get a better look. Rupert's hand
clutched him rather painfully. "Well, you're dedicated to magic now,"
said Ethan, "in a couple of senses." He found himself moved that
Rupert was willing to go through all that for the sake of a single
spell.
He heard a noise from the landing: Randall and Diedre were both
looking down the stairwell from the first floor.
"Can you come and watch me tattoo Diedre?" Randall asked
Ethan. "I want you to do mine next."
"Because Rupert's too drunk?"
"Because he can't draw," said Randall.
"All right. I'll be up in a minute. I'm just going to fetch some
of Stan's painkillers."
Stan kept a stash of prescription meds inside a biscuit tin in the
kitchen. Some of them were even things he'd been prescribed, so Ethan
sorted out the anti-depressants and the anti-epilepsy medication
before hunting through for the extra-strength analgesics. Then he went
back to Rupert, half-carrying him upstairs to the drawing room, to
keep an eye on him in case he passed out or threw up. He got Rupert to
take a couple of the pills and then took two to Diedre. Randall was
drawing the symbol on her upper arm with a felt-tip.
"I can't go back to my old life after this," she said. Her
expression was defiant, and perhps a little plucky. "A tattoo isn't
going to go well at a white wedding."
"I like it," said Randall. "It'll be a permanent symbol of our
group."
"Of our little coven," said Diedre. Then the needle went in and
she couldn't repress a short squeal.
Ethan watched. After a while he realised, with some misgivings,
that he really was going to go through this himself.
At midnight, Rupert sat down next to a makeshift altar of patterned cloth
placed over a cardboard box. It was just the four of them, as Ethan had
chased Tom and Stan out of the room as he didn't want bystanders for
the first casting. Randall and Diedre had dressed specially, in what
Rupert thought of as their mock-Renaissance clothes, plus Randall was
wearing a headband. Ethan was just in his usual trousers and patterned
shirt. He looked calm in the candlelight, but Rupert could spot just a
few small flickers of nervousness as he set up the altar and lit the
candles.
"Open your shirt," Ethan told him. "We need skin contact for the
spell."
Rupert did so, but he had a t-shirt on underneath, so in the end
he just pulled off everything above the waist, sitting there
cross-legged in just his jeans. He had to lie back, still with
his legs crossed, so that Ethan could draw a chalk circle around
him. Rupert watched, to check that the circle was correct. It was a
cool night and his back felt cold against the bare wood. Plus his arm
still hurt like the blazes and he was terribly hungover.
Randall and Diedre were triple- and quadruple- checking the
circle. They nodded their heads in approval.
"Sit up again," said Ethan. "I think we're ready to start."
Diedre lit the candles. Ethan drummed his fingers on the floor
and then reached over to kiss Rupert inside the circle, resting his
hands on Rupert's knees so as not to smudge the chalk. "Ready?"
"Yes," Rupert said.
They stretched their hands over the altar and began the
incantations. Ethan, Diedre and Randall gave themselves tiny cuts on
each palm as Rupert laid himself once more on his back. Their hands
felt very warm on his chest.
"One," said Ethan, "two, three..."
And then Rupert must have fallen asleep. They told him afterwards
that he'd lain there for twenty minutes as they'd repeated the chant
until they got it absolutely right. The four of them formed a circle,
left-hand palms pressed to each other's right-arm tattoos. ("Rather
painful," Diedre admitted.)
And then he woke up and it was the most fantastic thing he had
ever felt. Eyghon was within him, through him, permeating,
diffused. He felt strong and unbounded, one for whom rules were
irrelevant and unknown. Unleashed, untamed, unrepentant.
And best of all, just as he'd hoped and wanted, during the whole
spell and for several hours afterwards, he felt no guilt at all.
It was a Saturday night and the church was burning. Or, more
accurately, it was very early Sunday morning. There were two fire
engines, a bevy of police cars, and a small crowd of neighbours and
passerby. Ethan walked past them all, towards the graveyard.
He'd heard the news on his shiny new radio as he'd been in his
room, working on the second chapter of the Badescu tome. It had become
quiet downstairs, so he'd known that the Eyghon spell was over for the
week, but it was his bad luck that Ripper had heard him as he was
heading down the stairs. "Going out?" Ripper had said. "Then I'm going
out too." Ethan had shrugged, because what did it matter, really?
And Ripper might be a help if he got in a tight spot.
On the walk over (it was best not to let Ripper drive now on
Saturday nights), Ethan had explained about the spell components he'd
laid in the cemetery on behalf of Mr Grey. "Doesn't sound like a fire
spell," Ripper said.
The graveyard was choked with smoke. Ethan could barely see
Ripper, who was only a few feet ahead of him, but he could hear him
coughing. It was stupid of them to be here; he should grab Rupert and
go. He ran over, beetles sometimes crunching beneath his feet, to
seize Ripper by the sleeve of his jacket. But Ripper wouldn't
budge. He pointed instead at a patch of disturbed earth under a
headstone marked, "Alice Tevis".
They really, truly, had to go. Necromancy was far out of their
league, and they had to get out of the smoke. Ethan tried one last
time to pull Ripper away, but the damn fool was leaning over the
gravesite, examining the soil, even as he started another round of
coughing. Ethan left him there, ran to a path that was out of the main
plume of smoke. Then he sat on the pavement, pulling out his candles
and wishing stones. Wind. He needed just a little breeze to alter the
direction of the smoke. Either that, or he could let the blasted
stupid bloody idiot die of smoke inhalation. Perhaps he should.
It was a Sunday, he reminded himself. Rupert was always stupidest
on Sundays, made reckless from the after-effects of the Eyghon
spell. He'd be a bit better on Monday, pretty much perfect on Tuesday
and Wednesday, but from Thursday he'd be increasingly maudlin and
remorseful until the spell was cast again on Saturday night. The death
of Sunday Rupert would necessarily entail the death of Tuesday and
Wednesday Rupert, which Ethan would regret, so he summoned the wind
after all.
He could see Ripper now that the wind was blowing from a very
slightly different direction. Ripper was crouched down away from the
grave, running his fingers over the ground like some long-haired,
leather-jacketed Sherlock Holmes. He was following a trail.
Leave it the hell alone, Ethan thought. Whatever it is, leave it
the hell alone. But no, Rupert stood up and headed determinedly in the
direction of a side gate. Against his better judgement, Ethan pocketed
his gear and followed.
The side gate led to a perfectly ordinary street of Victorian
houses and small blocks of flats. Parked cars lined the road. Up
ahead, Ethan could see Ripper. And beyond him, perhaps twenty yards
in the lead, was a stumbling figure.
Ripper coughed, very loudly and for quite some time. The shambling
figure turned around to look and Ethan caught a glimpse of a skeletal
face under the rags of what might have been a bonnet. Marvellous:
zombie Elizabeth Bennett. It decided that Ripper didn't present much
of a threat and shambled on in the direction of the main road.
Ripper paused on the street for a swig from his hip flask, which
helped him stop coughing. Then the moron lit up a cigarette. Ethan
hung back, because he thought he could guess what was going to happen
next. He watched as Ripper finished his cigarette, ground the stub
under his boot, then sprinted towards the zombie as fast as he could.
Ripper rugby-tackled it. It fell, most of its desiccated clothing
tearing as it did so. It twisted around, seized Ripper by the
shoulders, and flung him against the side of a Volkswagen
van. Ripper laughed, got up, and ran after the zombie again.
Ethan didn't know any zombie-dissipation spells. Nor did he know
any spells that would increase strength or, more pertinently, increase
common-sense and the desire for self-preservation. He could unlock filing
cabinets, levitate small objects, and hypnotise rodents. At this
moment, none of those talents seemed very useful.
He summoned an owl. More exactly, he summoned any and every owl in
the neighbourhood. Two arrived almost immediately; he could feel that
others were coming. He asked them to fly at the head of the zombie.
The zombie didn't like it. It paused in its beating-up of Rupert
to thrash at the flying birds. Ripper got away, picked up a rubbish
bin, strewing its contents over the street, then swung it at the
zombie's head. The owls dodged but the zombie didn't. The head tore
away and rolled under an elderly Mini.
Ethan thanked the owls then watched as Ripper pulled apart the
flailing, headless body. He threw the limbs separately over the
cemetery wall. Ethan peered under the mini to find the head still
chattering angrily under its bonnet.
Ripper finally seized the last hopping leg, smashed it against a
lamp-post to break its knee. The limb went still. He flung it away,
then stood exhausted, taking in heavy breaths and wiping sweat from
his brow.
Ethan walked up to him, slapped him hard, and then went home.
Ripper's cheek ached. His back hurt. His lungs complained every time
he breathed. And he felt fucking fantastic.
It was still early, barely two o'clock, plenty of time to do
whatever he wanted. Start a bar fight. Hot-wire a car. Pick up
something new for the house.
The record shop was still boarded-up from the last time he'd
broken in. He could grab a few more LPs, but they were a pain to carry
and he didn't want to go home yet.
He wandered down in the direction of the canal. There were a few
barges about, almost touching each other. He climbed on board the
first, walked around to the other side, tripping over a rope as he did
so. He picked himself up and looked to see if he could step over onto
the next barge along. It was a bit of a gap, but he made it. The next
one along was impossible to jump to. Instead he stepped over the edge
and into the canal.
The waters closed over him. Fuck, they were cold! He swam around
long enough to get himself warm, then pulled himself out onto the
shore. He walked along the tow-path, soaked to the skin.
There were some couples about having knee-tremblers against the
canalside wall. As he walked past, he told them their marks out of ten.
Eventually he found he found a couple with a man about his own size.
"Oi, you," he said, grabbing the man by the shoulder and swinging
him around.
The man reached for his wallet before he reached for his fly. The
girl pulled down her skirt. "Here," said the man, offering the
wallet, "take it."
Rupert took the cash. "Strip," he said. "I want your clothes too."
The clothes weren't that a good a fit, but they'd do for the
evening. He left his sodden clothes on the canalside, but carried his
jacket. His boots were still wet.
He went down to Leicester Square next, for the peepshows and the
bars. He got blown in a toilet stall, had too much to drink, and
napped on a bench. In the morning, after dawn, he sat next to a girl
at a bus stop. She looked all right.
She took him back to her flat.
On Tuesday Ethan waited until the rest of the household had finished their
morning routines and then he went to wake Rupert. He paused at the
side of the bed, looking down at Rupert's tousled head until his lover
smiled sleepily up at him. Then he helped him to the bathroom, where
he'd already run a bath.
He went downstairs to fetch a coffee from the kitchen which he
brought up for Rupert. Ethan sat on the toilet lid, watching Rupert
while pretending to read a paperback novel. Rupert would shampoo his
hair, dunking under the water to rinse it off, his knees poking into
the air. Then he'd get out, towel himself off, and shave at the
sink. Meanwhile, Ethan would have to steel himself from having sex
there and then, if only because past experience had shown that they
then wouldn't leave the bathroom until one of their housemates started
banging on the door, desperate for the loo.
Once Rupert was clean and dressed, they went down to the local
cafe to extravagantly order the full breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausage,
beans, toast, even black pudding on occasion. Ethan had discovered he
quite liked coffee when it wasn't made with Diedre's preferred brand of
instant, so he ordered one of those. While they ate, they checked how
much money they'd acquired over the past week. Ethan had another ten
pounds from Mr Grey, and Rupert had a wad of singles and fives. Not
enough for a visit to Terry's yet, but they'd only bought the Badescu
last week, and it looked like they'd have enough for another book
soon. They had a little spending money.
So Ethan then endured a half-hour in the local record shop, where
the owner bemoaned to Ethan about the string of recent break-ins the
shop had suffered, while Rupert sifted through the LPs looking for
something he might have missed in his most recent theft.
"I'll tell you," the shop owner told Ethan, "he's got a taste for
long guitar solos," as Rupert came up to the counter with his Hendrix
and Clapton.
The weather was good, so they decided to go the park. Ethan told
him about what he'd learnt from the Badescu, and Rupert lay back in
the warm August grass and told him how that fitted in with what he
knew from his Watcher lessons. He had a fantastic memory; Ethan would
fuck it if he could. Rupert had a first-class mind all round, really.
He told Ethan all sorts of things that Evelyn wouldn't or couldn't.
They had dinner at the pub with Diedre and Randall, with Adrienne
turning up late again. Stan and Julie were there for a while too,
before Julie had to catch her train home. She was a sweet girl but she
didn't seem to have worked out yet that Ethan and Rupert were sleeping
with each other; Ethan still found that faintly amusing. After four
or five rounds, they headed home, Adrienne and Diedre singing as they
went. Up in the drawing room they stopped to look at Randall's most
recent painting. He was painting directly onto the walls now, up for
forty-eight hours or more in the wake of each Eyghon spell. It was
quite different from his previous style, much more abstract, tactile
and visceral, with criss-crossing lines that you wanted to reach in
between and floral shapes that looked rough to the touch. He was using
all sorts of tools to press the paint on, shaving-brushes, old shoes,
even his own body. But the smell of the paint drove Ethan out. He
wouldn't work in the drawing room these days if he could help it.
So he took Rupert back upstairs to his room. They laid out the
working for the first spell, a small and temporary transmogrification
of stone into glass and back. Ethan had managed this sort of thing
before, but the method was new to him, far more elegant and
potentially much more powerful. Rupert leant over the set-up, pointing
out the underlying principles, and asking questions about the
specifics he didn't yet understand. He looked up at Ethan with that
trusting, enquiring gaze he had and then they'd cast the spell. As
always, Rupert would look a little startled at the surge of power
Ethan was able to draw in, and Ethan would feel the familiar
sensations of connection and control. But now there was also a sense
of acceleration, of increasing mastery and cognisance.
It was joyous.
They had sex on Rupert's mattress afterwards and then Ethan laid
out another spell. And then it was rinse and repeat until three or
four or five o'clock in the morning, when they at last fell asleep,
Ethan's arm stretched out over the chalk-strewn floor.
He was fooling himself, Ripper realised, as he stood in the corner
of the hotel restaurant, playing "I'll Be Seeing You." There were
perhaps twenty diners, mostly businessmen out for their Friday
"meeting", plus a few ladies-who-lunch who had come out for lunch. He
watched them eating their steaks and drinking their martinis, talking
loudly, slapping each others' backs, and laughing drunkenly. Not a
single one even glanced in his direction. He might as well be a tape
machine.
And this, surely, was what his life was going to be like. He
wasn't going to be a rock star or even much of a session musician. He
was going to spend his life playing anodyne background music for
uninterested patrons, and teaching ill-disciplined schoolboys to play
"Aqualung." It would be enough of a living for himself,
probably, but how was he going to raise a family on that?
There was something Randall had said to him once that now preyed on
his mind: Randall was waiting to hear him cut loose. But when he tried
to do that, to reach his inner self and convey that in his music,
nothing seemed to be there. There was a void. He couldn't do it. He
could fall back upon a mild melancholy and his small amount of
technical proficiency. He had nothing else to give.
He had been sure once that he'd find that spark within himself if
he only looked; now he was sure it wasn't there.
He packed up his guitar to a very small scattering of applause and
headed off to the bus.
The squat was the same as always. The kitchen floor was sticky and
filthy. Dishes were piled up in the sink and he could see six spiders
on one wall alone. There was the hall to the front door, blocked off
by boxes of rubbish and broken furniture that no-one wanted to sort
through. Up the stairs past those really disturbing paintings, was the
unpleasantly-smelling bathroom, the second flight of stairs, and then
his own room. He had a mattress, some records and a single chair. This
was his life now.
He had had every opportunity life could afford. Caring and
prosperous parents, a very fine education, worthwhile friends. He had
good health, better than average looks, a modicum of athleticism, and
an able mind. And yet somehow he was here, in this squat, with these
freakish housemates, with career prospects that were slim to none and
no sign of any sort of sensible relationship at all.
He lay face down on the bed. He wanted to just lie there for the
whole afternoon, but it smelt too strongly of chalk and candlewax and
sex with Ethan, so he bundled all the sheets together with his washing
and took them down to the laundrette. As he filled the machine, he saw
the clothes he had stolen from a complete stranger on Saturday
night. That's the sort of man he was now, a drunken, fornicating,
thieving yob.
He thought of all the people who had supported and encouraged him
in his life. There were his parents, of course, who had always
expected of him the very the best he could do, and no more. There were
the teachers who had given him a little extra time, who had lent him
extra books or spoken kindly to him. There was his fencing
master. Doctor Chalmers, with his off-hand compliments and his
detailed comments on Rupert's work. His fellow young Watchers had
almost always said that the was the best of them and that he would go
far. How had he deceived them, and himself, for so long? He had turned
out to be a different kind of person altogether.
He didn't want anything for dinner and he didn't want to see
anyone. Diedre knocked on the door, but he didn't answer. When she
opened it, she said, "Are you pretending not to be in?" and then left
him alone.
He tried practising his guitar but he was useless at it, all
thumbs or possibly toes. He played "I'll Be Seeing You" over and
over until Ethan thumped on the door and asked him to play anything
else. He looked at the records he'd stolen a fortnight ago and thought
he should take them back to Arthur's shop and confess. He'd be
arrested, handcuffed, and sent to prison. He'd get out and then never
be able to get another job again.
Suddenly his room felt too small. He ran out into the corridor. He
smelt pot then and realised that Randall must be having a joint. He
went into Randall's room.
Here the walls were covered in layer after layer of dark
paint. Howling wolves were half-covered by arabesques of vines which
were in turn partly covered by writhing abstractions of lines, circles
and squares. Randall sat on a beanbag, his eyes closed, his hands
hovering near his demonic record player, which was turned down so low
that Rupert couldn't recognise the band. Randall's extravagant
wardrobe was piled in a corner; here and there a puffed sleeve or the
angle of a hat gave an unsettling impression of life.
Randall opened his eyes and gestured that Rupert should sit on a
second beanbag. He lit a joint with a minor fire spell and passed it
to Rupert.
Randall closed his eyes again, but after a while, he spoke. He
talked about his paintings, how much they meant to him, how he felt
the Eyghon spell was improving his work. He talked about the war in
Vietnam, that it wasn't really over, and how it intersected with and
blurred the lines of duty, beauty and love. He talked about Diedre,
his love for her and his knowledge that he'd placed her in a bad
position and yet didn't want to ever let her go. He talked about his
childhood, his teenage years in San Francisco, and the weird month
when he'd first shared a flat with Ethan and they hadn't really known
what to make of each other. Rupert knew that Randall was trying to
tell him profound things about Randall's life and being, but all the
details just slipped out of Rupert's head.
It was almost midnight when he went back to his room. He lay on
his bed for a while but couldn't get to sleep. The light from the
streetlamps lit the room too brightly. After an hour he got up and
went to Ethan's door, but it sounded like he was working. Ethan was
never happy to have stoned people visit when he was casting his
spells.
So Rupert went downstairs for a glass of water and maybe a
gin. While in the kitchen he saw that Adrienne's light was still on,
and he went to her room. She was sitting on her
mattress, brushing her hair, wearing a short night dress that had
rucked up and showed, well, everything.
"Ripper," she said, "I'm too tired tonight, but maybe in the
morning?"
"I just want someone to lie next to," he said.
So she nodded and he got under the covers as she leant over to
switch off the light. Then he lay next to her for hours, without once
falling asleep.
It was Randall who interrupted Ethan as he worked. Ethan had been
really enjoying working through the early sections of the Badescu. It
was an intricate work, the kind of book that would have been beyond
him only six months before. Even now, reviewing the introduction, he
knew there were subtleties that he might not fully understand for
years. It was a graceful work, and the elegance of its spells was in
marked contrast with the pedestrian utilitarianism of something like
Stegun and Abramowitz. He felt as if were glimpsing part of a great
whole, and Badescu's amused asides left him with the hope that the
great sorcerer's mind was similar to his own.
He'd been so enthralled by the second chapter that he hadn't
really taken in that everything was too quiet below. Until, that was,
he heard Randall's heavy tread on the stairs and Randall's knock on
the door.
"The spell's not working," Randall said. He looked rather
haggard. Ethan knew he'd been working long hours on his art.
"Take a week off," Ethan said.
Randall considered. This was one of the things Ethan had come to
like about him most, that he always considered Ethan's
suggestions. Even when Ethan's suggestions were deliberately
ridiculous, Randall would consider them with mock gravitas and reply
in kind.
"I think it's good for my art," Randall said.
That was good enough for Ethan. They went downstairs. "Couldn't
Rupert work it out?" asked Ethan. "He worked on the spell as well."
But when they got to the drawing room, Rupert looked like shit,
unshaven and very tired. Diedre was poking at the circle. Stan and
Tom were there, wincing over freshly-applied tattoos.
"Is it because we've increased the number of people?" Randall
asked.
Ethan looked over the altar, the candles and the chalked-up
circle. He honestly considered lying then as he didn't fancy having
almost the entire household delirious from channelling Eyghon. But he
didn't like lying to Randall. Instead he said, "There's a mistake
here in the circle. And you'll need to rearrange the altar a little."
It worried him that this wasn't obvious to Rupert. "Who's the lead
caster?"
"I am," said Rupert.
"Let Diedre do it tonight."
"Don't want to," said Diedre.
Four somewhat pleading faces looked up at him: Randall and
Diedre, plus Stan and Tom, who would want the pain of their tattoos
to prove worth it. Rupert wasn't looking at him, though, but was
lighting himself a cigarette.
"I'll do it then," said Ethan. "Just this once." He thought with
regret of the Badescu.
He set things up and they got into a circle. "Ten minutes each and
no more," he said. When Diedre protested, he told her wasn't sure if
his concentration would hold out long enough for the expanded
group. They took it in turns.
Rupert looked instantly better, which Ethan was pleased to see, as
the demon possessed him. Stan and Tom both reacted with a lot of
shouting, with Stan's language being considerably colourful and
inventive. Diedre was ecstatic; Randall seemed to fill out and
glow. Then it was Ethan's turn and he ceased watching the others.
When he was himself again, with the circle broken and everyone
running around the room, he started laughing. How funny and stupid
everyone looked. How funny and stupid the whole world was. He laughed
and laughed and laughed until Diedre came up and slapped him. Then he
laughed again, because the thought of Diedre slapping anyone was just
hilarious.
Eventually he had to stop because his throat and head and ribs
ached from it. He held his head in his hands. Ripper came up to him
them, all booted and dressed to go out.
"Let's go," Rupert said.
It was a humid night. Out on the pavement, Ripper lit up another
cigarette. Ethan put on his sunglasses. Ripper took the sunglasses
from him and slipped them into a shirt pocket.
"It's dead around here," Ripper said. "Let's go where it's busy."
Ethan didn't really keep track of where they were walking. They
seemed to be walking a long time. Cars went past. He caught glimpses
of the moon, high above. There were more people on the streets.
Ripper flexed his hands. "What'll we do?"
"I have an idea," Ethan said. "Can you find me a place overlooking
a crowd?"
"It's two a.m.," said Ripper. He considered. "All right."
After more walking, Ripper brought them to a street where there
was a long and impatient queue waiting to get in somewhere -- perhaps
a club. He pointed Ethan up a fire escape. They paused on the first
landing.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to test out a spell I'm making for Adrienne. You'll
have to help me."
"What?"
"You'll recognise it in a minute. But I'll need a few drops of
your blood."
Ethan sat cross-legged on the fire escape floor. It was very far
from perfect as a location: Ripper had to
stand a few steps down, as there wasn't room enough for the both of
them, and the slatted surface wasn't suitable for a circle. Ethan had
to pull off his jacket and draw on the back on that.
"It's the animal illusion spell," said Ripper.
"Blood," said Ethan. "Three drops here, please," he said, pointing.
"Is this going to be fun?"
"Very."
Ethan calmed himself, concentrated, then cast the spell.
Down on the pavement stood a gryphon.
"Fuck me," said Ripper.
Ethan put it through its paces. It shook its eagle head. Its beak
opened and its wings spread. He got it to pace up and down.
Ripper said, still sounding startled, "I thought you had to have
help to do that."
Ethan shrugged. "I've been practising." He got the gryphon to walk
up and down again. "Bugger," he said. Now he was sure of it.
"What?"
"It's not walking right. The gait should be more lionish. It's not
right at all." He slammed his palm into the floor. "Let's go to the
zoo. We'll wake up the lions and I'll watch them walk."
"No," said Ripper.
"No?"
"The zoo's bloody miles back. It looks fine."
"It looks unnatural."
"It's a gryphon!" Ripper said. "They're not in this dimension
any more! No-one can tell!"
"I can tell," said Ethan, hotly.
"It's good enough," said Ripper. "Now what do you want me to do?"
"Take her for a walk," said Ethan.
Ripper glanced over his shoulder towards the nightclub queue.
"Thank you," he said.
They were all up in the attic, watching television and eating fish
and chips, when the doorbell rang.
"Ignore it," said Diedre.
"It could be important," said Randall.
"Let Ripper get it," said Ethan. "He likes bounding up and down
stairs."
Rupert had to clear boxes out of the way to get to the front
door. Adrienne shouted down, "We have every legal right to be here."
The empty house next door had a "For Sale" sign on it now, and
everyone was worried that the squat might be next. Ripper roughed up
his hair and assumed a menacing expression, just in case.
The man standing on the front porch was about Ripper's age. He had
a long moustache and sideburns and was wearing a band t-shirt, but his
jeans were pressed and he was wearing office shoes.
"Who are you?" snarled Ripper.
"Philip," the man squeaked. "Philip Henry. I've just moved
in across the road."
"So you're not here about the squat then?"
"No! No. I mean, I heard it was a squat, but I just wanted to get
to know the neighbours." Philip extended his hand, and Rupert's years
of proper upbringing meant that he found himself shaking it.
"I suppose you can come in then," he said. "We're all upstairs."
Rupert led him through the box-maze of the hallway and up to the
attic. Whenever he looked back, the man was looking about himself
wildly, at the paintings on the ceiling and at the dirt on the
floor. As they got close to the attic, they could hear the buzz of the
TV, and Rupert could hear Diedre saying, "What I love about it is
that I feel so free, as if I could do anything," and Ethan's reply,
"But you always can do anything, what difference could Eyghon make to
that?" As they stepped into the room, the others were all piled
together on the sofa or on beanbags at its feet, as if they were a
single organism.
"This is a new neighbour," Ripper said. "This is Phil."
Everyone waved. "Hello, Phil!"
"I prefer Philip actually." He had a touch of a Sussex accent
underneath, Ripper thought.
Diedre offered a bottle of clear liquid and Randall somehow found a
clean glass on the floor, so Ripper poured Phil a drink.
"We're watching Panorama," Diedre said. "Do you watch it?"
He did tonight. Randall moved over a little so there was room on a
beanbag for him. Rupert took his seat next to Ethan on the sofa and
draped a hand over his thigh. As the programme played, Phil looked
around the room, at its remnants of merry-go-round wallpaper, its
carpetless floor and curtainless windows. He grimaced at every
mouthful of his drink.
"I've just moved to London," he said, to no-one's great surprise,
after Panorama had ended. "I've got a job nearby. I've always
wanted to live in London." He kept looking at Diedre, probably because
she wasn't wearing a bra. She didn't have all that much there, but her
nipples were pressed up against the cloth of her sleeveless
shirt. "You've got a tattoo." Maybe he'd never seen a woman with one
before.
"Yes," said Diedre. "We all do. It's for a spell."
"Shut up," said Ethan.
Diedre leant low towards Philip. There was a good chance he
could see all the way down her top now. "I'm a witch."
"Well, this has been charming, Philip," said Ethan, "but I think
it's time you went home."
"I'll show you out," Diedre said. Tom was away at his mother's for
the week.
When they were out of the room, Randall said, "I should be
painting," and left too. The front door shut downstairs but there was
no sign of Diedre's return.
Adrienne stood up. "She's still off her face, isn't she? I should
stop her."
"She can't be that bad," Ripper told her. "It's not like it's a
Saturday night." A couple of weekends ago, Diedre had tried to get
Adrienne to go to bed with her: Ripper had had heard Adrienne saying,
"We've been through this before, Dee, I'm Kinsey zero."
"She needs to break up with Tom anyway," Ethan said. "This might
be a good way to do it." He twisted around on the sofa, and suddenly
Ripper's legs were squashed into the seat as Ethan sat on his lap,
facing him. Ripper reached up to brush at his lips.
"I need to talk to you both," said Adrienne, "about work."
They turned to look at her. "The job's on Thursday."
"No, no," said Ethan. "It can't be Thursday. Change it to a
Tuesday."
"I can't change the date. Can you still do it?"
"Yes," Ethan said. "We tried the spell out on Saturday. It worked
a treat."
"Good," she said. "This has to go perfectly." And then she left
the room before Ethan had even undone one of his buttons.
Ethan looked into the Lion House, wishing he hadn't come. He'd had
a headache all morning, the weather was oppressively hot, and there
seemed to be an endless succession of screaming small children being
dragged around the zoo. Then there was the Victorian horror of the big
cat exhibit, cage after cage of apathetic animals lying half-asleep on
raised floors. None of the lions stirred more than an eyelid. He
wasn't going to be able to improve the way his gryphon walked if none
of them moved.
Rupert checked his watch. "It'll be feeding time in half an hour,"
he said. "Let's come back then."
They bought ice cream at a kiosk and found a bench to sit
on. "Have you ever seen a real one?" Ethan asked him.
"Real what?"
"Gryphon. Do Watchers get to see that sort of thing?"
"Not really," said Rupert. "Not often. I think I saw a faun
once. We were out camping in Epping and there was supposed to be one
around. I went out at dawn and I saw this shape in the distance, a sort
of silhouette, and then it ran. Someone tried to tell me later that
I'd seen a deer, but it was definitely a faun." He bit thoughtfully
into his cone. "I think they caught it later."
"But not a gryphon?"
"No. You know, I'm not supposed to talk about it at all."
"They must have loved you, though."
"What makes you say that?"
"Just that you seem to be good at all the sorts of thing I'd
expect a Watcher to be good at. You must have been a real star."
"I did all right," said Rupert. "It was a lot of work."
"It must have taken a lot of courage to walk away from it all."
"No," said Rupert. "None at all." He looked uncomfortable, but
Ethan couldn't work out why. Rupert said, "I think it's time to go
back to the lions now."
There were two parties of school children lined up outside the
lion cage when they got back. Ethan elbowed his way through, ignoring
the angry looks of the schoolmarms. The lions were up and pacing
already, in anticipation of their lunch. Ethan realised his folly
almost straight away. He fought his way back out of the crowd and
toward Rupert.
"A gryphon's not going to walk like a lion," he said. "It's got
bird claws at the front for self-defence and to cling to perches. The
motion's got to be entirely different. I'm going to have to make it up
entirely. I've sorry I've wasted your time -- you rang in sick and
everything."
"It's all right," said Rupert. "I hate my job anyway. It's the
only honest thing I do all week and I still hate it."
There weren't many cars out on the motorway at this hour, a little
before dawn. Outside the illumination of the motorway
lights, shapes were starting to become visible but were still
indistinct. Rupert was following the signs towards the ferry
terminal. Ethan was in the seat next to him, looking out of the
passenger window. There was a bag of magical gear in the boot.
"Adrienne?" Rupert asked.
"Of course," Ethan said. "Like bunnies for a couple of weeks."
"What about Diedre?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I've never fancied her and she's never fancied me."
"Randall?"
"Not really."
Rupert decided to let that pass, because it was Randall after
all. "Anyone else in our happy household?"
"No, just you and Adrienne. What does it matter?"
"I just think you should have said something."
Ethan shrugged, then said, "Are you going to be able to
concentrate on the spell?"
"I think so."
"Fantastic."
The terminal was opening when they got there. Cleaners were still
mopping the floors. The only other people there were security staff and
backpackers. There was no sign of Adrienne, which was part of the
plan. She was somewhere behind the scenes and they weren't to meet up
with her until they all got back to the house. It was probably just as
well.
They took seats in one of the waiting areas. They had packed bags
and bought foot passenger tickets to Amsterdam, in case anyone wanted
to know why they were there. He supposed that if things went horribly
wrong, they'd have to use them.
"Do you speak Dutch?" he asked Ethan.
"No, but I don't think you have to in Amsterdam. Why, do you want
to go? We could, after the job's done."
"We'd be sleeping on park benches."
"Adrienne gave me a hundred pounds up front." Ethan considered his
ticket. "We'd be back in a week. We wouldn't have to hostel it, we
could be in a proper hotel or rent a flat."
The idea seemed absurd but it was undeniably possible -- nothing
about it violated Adrienne's plan, as far as he knew. He might lose
his job, but only if he failed to convince the hotel manager that he'd
had a bad flu. He supposed that by this evening they could be staring
down at their reflections in Dutch canals and buying postcards of
windmills. Or, more likely, he'd be following Ethan around to every
magic shop in Amsterdam.
But he could see that it would change things. It would make it
impossible for him not to admit to himself that he was running off for
an overseas holiday with a boyfriend. That would not lead to the sort
of future he wanted, in which he repaired his relationship with his
parents, got a sensible job, and started a family. He could not and
should not pretend otherwise.
"No," he said.
"Suit yourself," said Ethan, who appeared unconcerned. "I'll get
more work done that way. I've done bugger-all this week." He put the
ticket away. "The Badescu's getting dusty."
They still had ten minutes to wait before they needed to start the
spell. Rupert spent it all looking at the hall clock. He had an
uncomfortable knot in his stomach as if, against all common sense and
reason, he'd just made a bad mistake.
Five minutes before the arrival of the first ferry, they walked up
to the deserted counter of a hire car company that wouldn't open until
nine a.m. Ethan sat behind it and started to pull out his magic gear
while Rupert took a nonchalant slouching position to keep
watch. Glancing over, he could just about see Ethan chalking up the
circle and setting up his stones and candles.
"Ready?" Ethan asked.
"One more minute," Rupert said. He had started to hear the
voices of a crowd from the ferry, coming up to the hall.
"Ten," he said, then, "five, four..."
The gryphon took shape. And oddly, for almost a minute and a half,
nobody noticed.
Then Rupert ran forward, shouting and waving his arms in the air
wildly. "Aaaah!" he shouted. "Lion!" and the gryphon
followed him forward as he ran in the direction of the arriving crowd.
Of the ensuing chaos, he would remember only glimpses of things,
plus a few sounds and two smells. There was the scent of the gryphon
itself, its lion-sweat and the dust it swept up every time it spread
its wings wide. There were tableaux of people running, and of parents
snatching up children. People shouted, but there weren't many
screams. Then there was a soldier, in army fatigues, his arm extended,
about to fire a gun in his direction.
Rupert dropped to the floor. He was pretty sure afterwards that he
heard the shot fired through the incorporeal gryphon and the scream of
the woman who was hit on the far side. He saw the grubby vinyl tiles
of the floor and smelt his own vomit as he threw up.
When he was able to look up, the gryphon had gone and the woman
was surrounded by people, including one in a uniform. He staggered
forward, meaning to offer help, but the WPC seemed to be doing a good
enough job with first aid. The woman had been shot in the thigh; she had
lost a lot of blood. He looked around but could not see the soldier
anywhere.
He willed himself to breathe more normally and walked back to the
car hire counter, towards his luggage. Ethan was just standing there,
chalk-dust on his knees as usual. He looked so calm and unperturbed
that Ripper punched him, very hard. And then he punched him again.
Ethan retreated, holding his jaw and side. "What the hell was that
for?"
"Someone was almost killed!" Rupert shouted. "She might still
die."
"We have to go," Ethan said.
There wasn't anything else to do. They walked out into the
carpark. There were knots of shocked people standing everywhere. One
of the knots was Adrienne, who was standing next to two tall,
dark-haired men. Rupert knew they should pretend not to recognise her
and walk on, but then she ran up.
"Ripper," she said, grabbing him by his shoulders. "Do you have
your car?"
There were five of them in the car: Ethan sat next to Rupert in the
front, with Adrienne and the two strangers in the back. Neither of the
strangers had yet said a word.
"Pull up over there," Adrienne said. "I need to use the phone."
They were in the outskirts of some small town that Ethan hadn't
taken in the name of, parked outside a shopping plaza of damp concrete
and long shadows. It was still too early for any of the shops to be
open. He watched Adrienne get out of the car and step towards a
telephone box.
It was so quiet in the car that Ethan started to count the seconds
ticked out by Rupert's watch. When he reached sixty, he got out of the
car, shutting the door behind him with a slam.
The door to the telephone box wasn't quite closed. He caught
snatches of Adrienne's side of the conversation. "You yellow-bellied
cowardly prick," she shouted down the phone. After hanging up, she
visibly made an effort to breathe deeply before she turned and caught
sight of Ethan.
"And what the fuck did you think were doing?" she said to
him. "That was your diversion? You couldn't have picked
something a little more low key? You couldn't manage a swarm of bees
or a rubbish bin fire? Something that wouldn't get us onto the front
page of News of the World? You vain, selfish, self-aggrandising
git." She started to shove at him, so he moved out of the way.
Ethan didn't say anything as she stalked back to the car. His
jaw and ribs ached and he didn't actually feel capable of speech. He briefly
considered walking into town and getting a bus back to London, but it
was starting to rain, so he got back into the car.
The rest of the drive back was punctuated by Adrienne's bouts of
vociferous swearing. When they got closer to London, she said,
"They'll have to stay in the attic until I can sort something out."
She seemed to expect someone to argue, but nobody did. The two
strangers turned to look at her silently. Ethan didn't see if Rupert
reacted because he was refusing to look at him.
Traffic slowed to a crawl as they reached the edges of the morning
rush hour. Rain slid over the car windows. Ethan got angrier and
angrier with every passing minute. When they paused near a zebra
crossing he got out of the car. A Royal Mail van almost ran him over.
A few streets away, he found himself near a school. Mothers with
pushchairs guided their damp older offspring towards the gates. A
parcel of less supervised children thronged outside a nearby
sweetshop.
He'd done everything that he'd been asked to do. He'd done a good
job of it. He'd been so fucking pleased that the gryphon had walked
exactly as it should. He'd done everything right.
He found a block of flats overlooking the school playing
fields. He unlocked a door that led onto a balcony and summoned the
gryphon. He got it to clamber over the grass, its eagle claws and
lion's feet in an awkward rhythm, and then he beat its wings. How
much more graceful it was in flight than on the ground. It soared and
circled. He lost track of the time and he did not really hear the
shouts and screams of the people below and those who looked out from
the windows of the flats.
The rain had drenched him by the time he ended the spell; he was
soaked to his underwear and with his socks squelching inside his old
leather shoes. He felt calmer, but not very well. He hadn't slept
since the night before last and his reflection in the window now
sported a darkening bruise. He should go home.
He found a flat that looked empty and cast the spell to unlock its
door. Inside he found some dry clothes that fit him very badly and a
pair of boots that fit him rather better. There was an old raincoat
but no umbrella. He also grabbed a plastic M&S bag to carry his wet
clothes.
When he got home, there were muddy footprints all over the kitchen
floor and arguing voices coming from the attic. Randall's door was
ajar but he wasn't in. Ethan decided he might as well wait there. He
sat on a beanbag and instantly fell asleep.
When he woke, it was evening and Randall was just placing the
needle of his demonic record player onto a copy of
Pearl. Randall had this ghastly interest in the last records of
famous musicians who'd died. He'd play them sometimes for days, over
and over: The Cry of Love, L.A. Woman, King and
Queen, and arguably Europe '72. Ethan had started
out liking all of those albums but now he hated each and every one. He
wondered sometimes if sharing a flat and then a house with Randall had
forever killed his mild interest in music.
Randall looked awful. "I've had a bad day too," he said.
After Ethan left the car, Rupert drove Adrienne and the two
strangers towards Camden. He glanced at them in the mirror. They
looked pale, foreign and thirtyish. One was cleanshaven and one had a
beard. Their eyes flickered but their faces were closed down and
almost expressionless.
"What went wrong?" he asked Adrienne, who had taken the seat next
to him.
"Two fuckwits," she said. "One fuckwit didn't turn up in the
carpark with the van. The other fuckwit summoned a fucking gryphon."
"It was the illusion of a gryphon, strictly speaking."
"You couldn't have talked him out of it?"
"I didn't know what you'd asked him to do."
"God," she said.
Rupert kept thinking of the woman who'd been shot. She'd looked
older, maybe forty, and had a thick plait of pale hair to her
waist. She'd been wearing a seagreen dress. The inside of her mouth
had been very pink and her blood very red. The WPC's arms had been
soaked. Perhaps the bullet had hit the femoral artery?
"They can stay in the attic until I can sort something out," she
said. "Thank you for not asking who they are."
No-one was in the house when they got back. They took the two men
up to the attic and Adrienne gestured for them to sit on the elderly
sofa. It was only then that Rupert realised that the men did not have
any luggage.
"Can you get them something to eat?" she asked him. "I have to
make some more phone calls."
He didn't like leaving them in the house alone, for Diedre or
Randall to stumble upon, but he didn't seem to have much choice. So
instead he ran to the nearest open shop, a bakery, where he bought hot
pork pies, and a pair of iced buns. He took them up to the attic,
where the men ate them, albeit without much enthusiasm. He had the
distinct impression that he shouldn't speak with them at all. He
wondered if they even spoke English.
He fell asleep sitting on the attic floor. He woke when one of the
strangers started tapping him on the shoulder and, through a series of
rather obvious gestures, indicated that he needed to be shown the
loo. It was lunchtime, well past the hour when he should have rung in
sick; he wondered if he would lose his job. Adrienne still wasn't back
and there was no sign of anyone else. He wondered where they all
were. It was pouring with rain, so it wasn't as if they'd be out at
the cricket.
Diedre and Randall came home first. You could always tell when it
was Diedre as she was the only person in the house who ever wore
heels. Her footsteps made an unmistakable clack-clack sound on the
wooden floor and stairs. Rupert endured twenty minutes of listening
to her move around the house, from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom to
kitchen again and then to the drawing room. Randall had his record
player on and Diedre was talking. All the while the strangers did
nothing and said nothing. Their expressions were without curiosity.
Where was Adrienne? Why wasn't she back?
Diedre came upstairs to the attic. She had a glass of gin and a
paperback novel with her. She took one look at the sofa and
recoiled. "Who are these people?" she asked.
"I don't know," Rupert said, truthfully. "Adrienne brought them
home." As Diedre's expression was somewhat disbelieving, he added,
"Ah, not like that."
"Are you friends of hers from the shop?" Diedre asked them. Her
smile evaporated when they did not reply.
Adrienne arrived home then. She was sopping wet from the rain, her
normally curly hair flat and straggling. "They're going to have to
stay here for a couple of nights," she said.
"What?" said Diedre. "Adrienne, who are these people?"
Adrienne looked at Rupert. "I haven't said anything," he assured
her.
"Sind Sie aus Deutschland?" Diedre asked. "Ich kenne ein paar
Worte."
The two men looked at each other.
Adrienne grabbed Diedre and Rupert and pulled them out of the
attic and onto the stairs.
"I can't tell you who they are," she said. "It's safer if I
don't. None of you are supposed to have met them."
"Safer?" said Diedre, sagging down onto a stair.
"They have to stay here a couple of nights, but after that they'll
be gone, I promise."
"Just what have you got yourself into?" Diedre demanded. "What
exactly are you doing?"
"Only a couple of nights," Adrienne repeated. "Dee, how could you
tell they were German? Had they said anything?"
"They look German," said Diedre. "It's the face, particularly the
chin, and the way they're dressed. When we went on holiday in Trieste,
we'd always play Spot the German, or Spot the Italian or whatever."
"If anyone asks, say they're hitch-hikers from Alsace. Tell Tom
that and Stan. Randall-- I'm not going to ask you to lie to him."
"Randall's not going to care today," said Diedre. "Randall's not
going to even notice that they're here."
"He's not well?" Rupert asked.
"He got some bad news. It's old news, but he only just heard. A
couple of his friends died last year."
"That's terrible," said Rupert, sincerely. "How did it happen?"
She shrugged. "'In the line of duty'," she said.
Randall turned the record over.
"But it's not your fault," said Ethan. "You didn't draft them or
send them away. You weren't one of the people who killed them. You had
nothing to do with it."
He was floundering, and he did not understand why. He knew of
these friends of Randall's, of course, albeit second-hand; back when
neither he nor Randall had any money at all, there had often been
little to do but sit up and talk all night. He had a hazy idea of what
the two dead men had looked like. He knew the name of the school
they'd dropped out of, and an anecdote about them running amok in
Golden Gate Park. He thought that one of them might have slept with an
ex-girlfriend of Jerry Garcia, but perhaps he was confusing him with
someone else. He knew these people as if they were characters in a
novel he'd reread. And he understood about bereavement, how it could
floor you. But Randall's reaction was different.
"I should have gone with them," Randall said, nonsensically. His
head was turned away and his face was half-hid by his long hair. "I
should have been with them."
"So you could have died too?" Ethan said. "For fuck's sake."
Randall ran his hands through his hair. "You should go now," he
said, with an edge to his voice that Ethan had never heard before.
Ethan left. He went back to his room. One of Rupert's books and a
t-shirt of his were lying on the floor, so Ethan threw them out into
the hallway. He locked the door by means both prosaic and mystical.
What a shit day.
He thought about having a drink or a little hash but his eyes kept
been drawn back to the Badescu. He'd got no work done at all this
week, for the sake of all these selfish people. He might as well make
up for that.
He started with the simple but highly satisfactory spells at the
beginning. A vanishing coin, two interlocking hoops, then a small
stone passing between three cups. Next up were spells for summoning
elements, different versions from
the ones Ethan had known before. After those were a series of
increasingly complicated transformations of substances -- that was the
chapter he'd worked through last week. Those were good: he'd been a
bit shaky with them he first time he'd tried, but tonight he was
executing each and every one with brevity and precision. When those
were done, he decided to plunge on into the next chapter. This one was
on the manipulation of the senses: heat and cold, touch and taste. He
worked through those with an ever-growing sense of surety.
When he finally stopped for the night, he realised that it was, in
fact, morning. Dawn had been and gone. He yawned and stretched.
It was only when he was washing up in the bathroom that the events
of the day before came back to him. There were purple-black bruises on
him and he was still wearing the clothes he'd taken yesterday
afternoon.
He had to go down to the kitchen then, because he was hungry. It
didn't sound as if anyone was there, but when he went in he found
Adrienne, Rupert and Diedre sitting around the kitchen table, which
was covered with newspapers. They all looked as if they hadn't slept.
Ethan stepped around them to make himself some toast.
"The woman's not dead," said Rupert, and it took Ethan a few
moments to work out who he meant. "She's in a stable condition in
hospital. She's a mother of three and works in a post office."
Adrienne said, "But you did make the front page of The News of
the World. Also, pages two and page four, thanks to your stunt at
the primary school."
"There's a blurry photo of something that made it into the
London Mercury," said Rupert.
"Ethan," said Diedre, "what happened to your face?"
Ethan decided not to wait until the kettle boiled. He smeared some
marmalade over his toast and poured a glass of milk.
He went up to Rupert's room then. He put his breakfast down in one
corner and then picked out all of his own stuff. There wasn't much, as
he wasn't an untidy person: his dressing-gown, a pair of sandals and a
record he'd lent, one that Randall had bought for Ethan's birthday
last year, of pieces by Ligetti, including the moon-monolith one from
2001. Then he went through the pages of Rupert's notebooks on
magic, tearing out any pages in his own handwriting. Finally, he
rubbed out a sketch chalked on the floor with the heel of his foot.
He longer felt like eating when he went back to his room. He
smoked some hash which, firstly made him hungry enough to eat, and
then let him sleep. When he woke he was disoriented because it was
dark, not morning at all, with a moon near to full that made
monochrome sketches of all the objects in the room. He looked at how
it limned his trousercuffs and the backs of his hands. The lights
didn't go on when he flicked the switch -- Diedre must have forgotten
to pay the bill again. He was thirsty and unwashed.
He went out and knocked on Randall's door but all he got was a "Go
away" and the strains of The Cry of Love in reply, so he
fetched his dressing-gown and a candle and went downstairs for a
bath. The water was cold, as their heater was electric, but Ethan had
long ago worked out a spell for that. In the tub he listed off all the
people he was angry with, which was everyone. Adrienne still hadn't
paid him. Didn't she know how much time he'd spent getting the spell
right? He was very nearly behind on his work for the
transparently-named Mr Grey, who was someone Ethan was anxious not to
disappoint. Randall was being uncharacteristically useless. Rupert--
well, Ethan had honestly considered pissing on all of Rupert's
records, but he expected that Randall would be angry with him if he
did.
There were flickers of candlelight from the drawing room as he
went past, so he glanced in the open door. Diedre, Tom, Stan, and --
what was his name, the neighbour? -- Philip were sitting on the
floor, eating and drinking. Ethan recognised it as a powercut picnic,
a hasty meal of whatever would otherwise go off in the fridge. There
was bacon, sausage and a jug of the noxiously sweet cocktail that
Diedre always made out of the milk. He'd better join them and get
something to eat now, because there would be nothing but beans in the
house by tomorrow. There was no sign of Rupert or Adrienne.
"Before you say anything," Diedre said, spotting him, "I did pay
the bill. I have the receipt! I'm going to call them first thing
Monday morning."
Ethan went to the window, to see whether the lights were on
elsewhere in the street. They were; it was just their house without
electricity. "It's very quiet out there," he said.
"Well, it is four a.m."
"Have a drink," said Stan. "We're celebrating!" He poured Ethan a
glass of the milk cocktail.
"You're getting married?"
"Yeah."
"Married and moving out and getting a proper job?"
"Yeah," said Stan. He frowned up at Ethan in the
candlelight. "Hey, who clocked you?"
Ethan swallowed down the cocktail and then poured himself
another. Philip seemed to be eating all of the bacon. Diedre looked
trashed. Tom was possibly asleep.
"Living the dream then?"
"Yeah. Can't stay here forever."
"I suppose not. What's the job?"
"I'll be working for Julie's uncle in real estate."
"Bit of a step down then for you, isn't it?"
"Ethan," warned Diedre.
"I'll find you another supplier, if that's what you're worried
about."
That wasn't what Ethan was worried about at all. He drank down
another cocktail. "Dear God, what's in this? Creme de menthe?"
"And a lot of vodka," Diedre said.
He snatched the bacon away from Philip and made a
sandwich. Philip had his sleeve rolled up, exposing a freshly-made
tattoo.
"Why does Philip have the Mark of Eyghon on his arm?"
"It's spell night," said Tom.
"Did anyone ask me if he could join in?"
"It's not up to you," said Diedre. "There's others here who can cast
spells."
"No-one else bloody could last week."
"Ethan," said Diedre. "We're celebrating tonight. We're
celebrating for Stan."
Ethan stood there, feeling unwell. He wanted them to throw Rupert
out of the house, but what if most of them decided they liked Rupert
better? Rupert was a likeable sort of person. What if they threw Ethan
out instead?
"Diedre," he said decisively, "we're going upstairs. We need to
talk to Randall."
"Randall doesn't want to be disturbed."
Ethan went upstairs anyway and he could hear Diedre's more
hesitant footsteps behind him. He slammed his arms against the
door. "Randall! Randall, open up!" When the door didn't open, he
opened it himself and walked in. A Janis Joplin record was singing
"Get It While You Can." Randall was sitting on a beanbag, looking as
drunk and forlorn as Ethan felt. Diedre stepped into the room.
"We have to leave here," Ethan said. "You and Diedre and I have
to go on that trip you've been talking about. We'll travel around and
visit your friends. You can keep painting and I'll keep learning about
magic and we can all see the country."
Randall continued to stare bleakly. Ethan wasn't sure he'd even
heard, but Ethan tethered his impatience and waited out the standard
length of time for one of Randall's more considered replies.
"OK," Randall said.
"What about Rupert?" Diedre asked.
"It hasn't worked out," Ethan said. He realised he might not have
mentioned this to Randall, so he added, "I was hoping it might, but it
hasn't." He turned then to Diedre. "Are you coming?"
"Of course."
"Then it's your turn. You have to break up with Tom."
She squirmed. "Can't we wait a little bit longer? At least until
the Germans are out of the house?"
Ethan said, "What Germans?"
Adrienne was washing her hair in the bathroom sink. This was quite
a production, given the sheer volume of her hair and the frothiness of
the shampoo. She cursed every time another dollop of suds fell to the
floor.
Rupert leant against the doorjamb. "If they're going to be staying
here, then people have to know who they are."
"Hitch-hikers from Alsace," Adrienne muttered as she rinsed her
hair.
"Are they from East Germany? No-one could object to escapees
from behind the Iron Curtain."
Adrienne stood up suddenly, her wet hair swinging back. She
wrapped it up in a faded towel. She was wearing blue jeans and a
yellow bra, and her red top was draped over the edge of the bath. "If
you like."
"They're not from East Germany then?"
"No."
"Austria? Or the, um, German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia?"
"No."
She plugged her hairdryer into an extension cord. Over the white
noise of the dryer, she mouthed, "West."
Then why did they need to be smuggled in? He didn't want to shout
it, so he tried to convey the question with his hands.
She turned the dryer off briefly. "We'll go for a walk in a few
minutes. Could you fetch Diedre?"
Diedre was downstairs, slouching around in her dressing gown,
looking seedy. By the time he persuaded her upstairs, Adrienne was
fully dressed and looked ready to go out.
"Could you ask our guests what they might like to eat and drink?"
Diedre sighed. "Essen und Trinken. Naturlich."
On the way to the supermarket, Adrienne said, "You do know that
West Germany is still run by Nazis?"
Rupert considered this. "I think it's fair to say that, no,
actually, I didn't."
Adrienne said, "The entire political and administrative
infrastructure served the Reich. There was no-one who was not
implicated by it. During the reconstruction it was impossible to find
enough untainted people to run the government, especially given how
the Reich dealt with its internal opposition. Many of those in the new
German hierarchy are genuinely committed to national reform, and there
are many others who know which side their bread is buttered on, but
there remain Nazi ideologues, both covert and overt, with power within
the government. Their influence should not be underestimated."
"What exactly did your German friends do?" he asked. They were
walking down the main street, past a newsagent and a shoe
shop. Ordinary English people were out posting letters and walking
their dogs. The whole conversation felt surreal.
Adrienne said, "They did what had to be done. No-one innocent was
harmed -- I wouldn't condone that. Well, not in most circumstances. I
wouldn't tell you any of this except that it was hinted to me that you
were once involved in another organisation."
"What?" It took him a few moments to work out what she meant. Then
he said, "Ah, well, we're dedicated to fighting literal demons rather than
metaphorical ones. I don't think it's at all comparable."
"Demons?" Adrienne asked. "Like Terry at the magic shop?"
"Terry's a demon?"
"So Ethan says." They were just outside the supermarket now and
she showed him the shopping list. "We're not going to able to find all
this. I don't think Hovis make pumpernickel."
He helped her pick out bread, cheese, tinned fish and fruit. She
said, "I wouldn't have agreed to help if it hadn't been so clear-cut."
Rupert wasn't sure that it was.
Back at the house, she gave him a wodge of cash. "That's the two
hundred pounds for you and Ethan."
He was very tired now, so he went to his room. As soon as he
entered, he saw that someone had been through his things, but he
couldn't see anything obviously missing. He lay down and slept.
Ethan lay in the grass of the back garden, looking up at the
sky. The grass smelt warm and it made him sleepy. He had a headache
again, his bruises still ached, and his body clock had no idea any
more of the time, but he felt remarkably content. A decision had been
made and his friends were sticking by him. He supposed he should be
paying special attention now to the house and to Camden, savouring
these last few memories before the big trip. He should cast into his
memory the squat's peeling paint, its crumbling chimney-pots, and the
shapes and pattern of its windows. He should learn to recall the routes
of the half-buried garden paths and the types of weeds and wild-run
garden plants that he lay near. And he should remember the sounds
too, of traffic and neighbourhood televisions and even birdsong from
among the trees.
The house had done him well. It had been a lot of work at first,
clearing out the rubbish left by less scrupulous tenants, and washing
down the worst of it with bleach and water. They'd started with the
kitchen and bathroom, then cleaned up the other rooms as they'd needed
them. Back then, Randall was still practising magic fairly regularly
and Diedre was just starting to learn, so some of the cleanup could be
done by magic, much to Adrienne's scepticism and subsequent
consternation. There was a spell to repel rodents and another to
flash-fry spiders (Randall was a little phobic). Adrienne was still
arguing with the power company, so it was more like camping indoors
than anything else. It was just the four of them then, trying to get
everything half-sorted before winter properly started. Diedre would
heat tinned food on her portable stove, Randall would pick out records
by candlelight, and Ethan would show off cheap magic tricks to try and
impress Adrienne, who in turn tried to convert him to her kind of
politics. He had very vivid and tactile memories of sex with her
on top of her campbed. That was back
before they got bored with each other and Ethan moved into the second
floor. Then Diedre gave up on sleeping with Randall and
brought Tom home. Adrienne moved out, then moved back in. Stan was
invited into the basement, Rupert took the last proper room, and now
they had two Germans living, however temporarily, in the attic. The
place was crowded: it was time to move out.
He heard the back door open and saw that it was Rupert. He decided
to feign sleep but that didn't prevent the footsteps from getting
closer. There was an ant crawling on Ethan's ankle and the red glow
behind his eyelids darkened as Rupert's shadow fell over him, but he
still didn't move.
"I've got the money Adrienne owes you," Rupert said, which meant
that Ethan had to open his eyes after all. "It's two hundred pounds
between us but you did most of the work, so here's a hundred and
fifty."
"I still have the first hundred pounds," said Ethan,
stupidly. "Just give me another hundred." He had to sit up then, brush
the ant from him and take the money.
Rupert said, "The woman who was shot is still in hospital,"
as if that was Ethan's fault.
"Go and find the person then who shot her then," Ethan said, and
laid back down on the grass as if to go back to sleep. Rupert hovered
for a while, then went mercifully away.
When the kitchen door opened again, it was Adrienne. He wondered
what she was going to berate him for now, but she was carrying a
basket of washing on her hip. The house had a small washing line that
was only ever used for the sort of delicate clothing that wasn't safe
in the laundrette, usually Randall or Diedre's homemade
pieces. Adrienne's handwashing only ever consisted of bras. She hung
about six up on the line.
"Did Ripper give you your money?" she asked. When he nodded, she
came over. "You know, there's been nothing in the papers about two
missing passengers or anyone smuggled in, so your chimera trick did
its job. I shouldn't have shouted at you but I was just scared
shitless when nobody turned up to meet us in the carpark."
"I'm glad it worked," said Ethan, "but when are they leaving?"
"Tomorrow or the day after," Adrienne said. "Ripper and I are
going to meet someone this afternoon."
As she walked back into the house, Ethan realised he might miss
her a little after all. He could send her postcards, he supposed.
He thought he fell asleep for a while. He woke to the sound of the
back gate opening. This time it was Randall who walked over. He was
looking much better than he had last night, although he still looked
very tired. He'd bathed and shaved, trimmed his moustache and washed
his hair. He was dressed formally, according to his own principles, in
his favourite purple tunic, a pair of wide trousers and a cavalier
hat. He sat down next to Ethan, cross-legged, with his hands on his
knees.
"Went for a walk?" Ethan asked.
"I decided I wanted to buy something," said Randall. "So I went to
get some money." He passed Ethan a fat manila envelope.
Ethan wondered why people were suddenly all handing him large sums
of cash. "What's it for?"
"A van," said Randall. "I think we'll do better travelling in a
van. We'll have our own space and we won't have to travel as
light. And Diedre won't have to sleep on people's sofas."
"Where'd you get the money?" Ethan asked, riffling his thumb over
it.
"I sold my record player," Randall said, "to Terry."
Ethan handed him back the envelope. "Go and buy it back. I've got
some money. Don't be stupid. I'd rather hitch-hike."
"That part of my life's done," said Randall. "I'm moving on to the
next part." He stood up. "We'll go and look at vans tomorrow, or
Tuesday maybe."
"They have four wheels and move," said Ethan. "I'll be happy with
whatever you pick."
"And tonight, can we do the Eyghon spell? I think Diedre will
need it to talk with Tom."
"If you like," Ethan said.
"This isn't a good neighbourhood," Ripper said to Adrienne, as he
pulled the car over. "In fact, it's a very bad neighbourhood." It was
the late afternoon, but here tall buildings shadowed narrow streets
and it felt much later. There was a main street lined with peep show
establishments and headshops, but since then they'd turned down a
series of streets, each one of which had looked less savoury than the
last. They were now in an alleyway off an alleyway off an alleyway.
"This is definitely the right place," she said, consulting the map
on her knees.
Ripper didn't like leaving his car parked on the street, but he
liked even less the thought of letting Adrienne wander through the
place alone. He muttered some locking wards as he shut the doors. The
back of his neck prickled.
There was a burly tattooed man standing outside the door to
181a. "I can't let you in unless I search you," he said.
"I'm here to see Marty," Adrienne said. "Is he here?"
The man shrugged. "I still have to search you. No weapons are
allowed inside."
Adrienne held her arms out and gave a brief twirl, letting Ripper
and the bouncer see exactly how skin-tight her clothing was. "Where am
I going to be hiding anything?"
The bouncer searched Ripper though. He confiscated his wooden
stake. "You'll get this back when you leave."
Through the door was a concrete corridor which led to a staircase
going down. There were no windows or doors and the place was lit only
by low-level red bulbs. An unwell-looking man passed them in the
opposite direction. His complexion looked poor in the dim light,
although perhaps that was because of his unpleasant high-collared
mauve shirt.
The stairs led down to a sort of cellar hung with red and purple
draperies. Low velvet couches lined the walls and there was a
three-piece band playing, who weren't any good. A short woman with a
face much older than her hair approached them.
"Have you any money?" she asked them.
Ripper showed her a flicker of the cash he was carrying for
Adrienne.
"Please come this way," she said. She led them down another
corridor, this one lined with doorways. There didn't seem to be any
doors, as such, just more of the thick velvet hung as curtains.
The first two doorways had their curtains shut. The woman paused
at the third doorway, asking, "Separately or together?"
The curtains were drawn back at the third doorway. Behind it was a
small room, which held a mattress, an old sofa, and a woman of about
forty years of age. The light in the room was even dimmer than in the
corridor, but Ripper could see that she looked very unwell. She had a
deathly pale complexion and he could tell from the way the folds of
her skirt fell that she was missing most of her right leg.
"Together," he heard Adrienne say, but he was already racing up to
the next room. There was a young man in that one, with wild curly
hair. He also looked ill and was missing half a leg. He was also,
Ripper noted, chained to the floor.
"What is this place?" Ripper demanded, pulling wide the curtain at
the door opposite. Here also was a pale, ill-looking amputee -- but
this one had her fangs in the arm of a well-to-do middle-aged man. She
looked up as he disturbed them, pulling out her fangs and staring up
at him in game face. She licked her teeth.
The man turned to look at him as well. "Fuck off," he said, with a
City sort of voice. Rupert pulled the curtain back and stood there
shaking.
"We're here to see Marty," Adrienne said.
"Oh," said the short woman. "Along to the end here then." She
pulled Ripper away from the doorway as she passed.
At the end of the corridor was an office. It had better furniture
than the other rooms and a window to a lightwell. The woman asked
Adrienne and Ripper to please take a seat. The guest chairs were
rather modish-looking and covered in orange velour. They could
still hear the band playing from the other end of the corridor: they
were playing a Beatles medley now and were struggling with their
rendition of "Strawberry Fields Forever".
Marty, when he arrived, was a dapper businessman in his late
forties with a thick moustache and collar-length brown hair, now going
a bit grey. Rupert checked with his mirrored ring, but both Marty and
the woman had reflections. They looked quite human.
"Sorry about the mixup," said Marty. "You're Adrienne, yeah? I've
been expecting you but forgot to tell Mrs Aimes. It's the passports
you're after?"
"Yes," said Adrienne. "We have the money."
Marty pulled at a gold chain he wore around his neck, which turned
out to have a key on the end of it. He leant over to unlock a desk
drawer. "Two British passports, excellent forgeries, for two West
German born naturalised citizens." He pulled them out of the drawer,
relocked it, and then moved around to lean against the front of his
desk. Mrs Aimes had long since gone back down the corridor.
"They told me to expect a looker," Marty said, handing her the
passports and eyeing her up and down. He nodded towards Ripper. "You
could do better than him for a boyfriend."
Ripper bristled, whether he was her boyfriend or not, and Adrienne
said, "I'm not here for your advice." She handed over a wodge of cash.
"Plus ten percent," said Marty, "for making me work on a Sunday."
"That's all the cash we have," she said.
"A kiss then," Marty said.
Ripper stood up, wearing his best snarling grimace. He was ready
to step in between them, even though he wasn't sure to expect from
this man, who might have maimed and chained up a dozen or more
vampires. Adrienne got up too: she turned towards the door and walked out
back along the corridor. Ripper followed her. She looked calm, but
when he touched her back, he could feel she was trembling.
"Is he following?" she asked, facing straight ahead as she walked.
"No," Ripper said.
"What are those people doing in the cells?"
"They're just vampires," he said. "Look, we need to get out of
here."
Back in the underground lounge, Mrs Aimes was talking with a
couple of young men in tie-dye t-shirts. The three piece band lurched
into a rendition of "Baby, It's Cold Outside". This time Ripper
checked and found they had no reflections; what's more, they seemed to
be chained to the floor. The grey-haired, bearded old drummer looked
up at them as they passed and there was a baleful yellow tinge as he
blinked.
"Up the bloody stairs," whispered Ripper.
It was almost night now, up in the alley. The burly tattooed man had been
replaced by a wiry young West Indian; Ripper was a full head taller
than him. He gave Ripper his wooden stake back, without ceremony or
comment.
His car was still there. No-one had got past the magical locks,
but someone had thrown up on the bonnet. Rupert almost didn't care.
"Got what you wanted?" he asked Adrienne, after twenty minutes of
silence during the drive home.
"Yes," she said. "Thank you for coming."
"You're absolutely, completely insane," he said.
She started to cry.
Ethan unlocked the gates to the park with a wave of a candle. He
thought there might be a good site near the zoo. He wanted a place
where they wouldn't be disturbed but which was close to an exit, where
they could lie flat and still be comfortable. It was good weather for
a night's outing, warm but not too humid. There was a thin layer of
cloud that the moon shone through and occasionally escaped.
The site he'd thought of was indeed as he remembered, but tonight
it was downwind of the zoo. It would do, but he still had half an hour
to find a better one. He headed south, roughly parallel with the
fence, crossing cricket lawns and walking paths as he went.
He found what he was looking for near a children's playground: a
grassy expanse in a slight dip of the ground. He tested it out by
lying on his back, and it proved neither too damp nor too stony.
He'd spent the evening packing for the trip, not that he had many
belongings to pack: just clothes and magical gear stuffed into his
duffle. Half of the time it took was spent on the first floor landing,
picking out an M&S bag's worth of paperbacks. Then he'd stood in the
last of the evening light, looking at what was left in his room. He'd
decided to leave his trunk behind as too cumbersome, and he'd have to
work out with Randall and Diedre which mattress they should take, or
whether they should take more than one. That was pretty much it,
really.
Then he'd sat and drafted a letter to Mr Grey, carefully thanking him
for the opportunity for work, but explaining that he was setting off
travelling and would be difficult to reach for some months at
least. He wished Mr Grey luck in finding another London associate.
He didn't post it, of course: despite his enthusiasm, he was aware
that before they left Diedre would have to deal with Tom, a task she'd
been putting off for a long time now. He really hoped it would only be
a day or two. If she really couldn't face it, she could leave him a
note and they could just leave when he was out of the house.
Randall had said they'd be going to Cambridgeshire first, where he
had quite a large number of friends, followed by a trip in the
direction of Ely and the fens. Ethan had seen a copy of The AA
Touring Guide to England somewhere in the house, if only he could
remember where. If he could find it, he could start to read about the places
they were likely to visit.
Evelyn would know of interesting places. He should send a couple
of letters to the post offices where she sometimes picked up mail.
So it was "Farewell, London" tonight. He wanted to do something a
bit special and he'd be damned if was going to cast any major spells
in the house while the unwelcome visitors were still up in the
attic. They would start as they meant to go on, with just Randall and
Diedre and himself tonight. It was time for him to go and meet them
at the gate.
When he did step out of the park, he did not like what he saw.
Rupert got Adrienne home and into her bed. He lit candles in
her room as the electricity was still off, and made her a cup of tea
and some toast and jam. He couldn't run her a bath because one of the
Germans was using the bathroom, so he went instead to Diedre to ask her
advice. She came downstairs with him, bringing a large coffee-table
book which she placed in Adrienne's lap. It seemed to be a book of
trees.
"Breathe deeply and look at the trees," Diedre said, as she took
a seat next to the bed. "Look, a Japanese Red Maple. A Japanese Red
Maple in the autumn, scarlet leaves against a blue sky. Breathe,
Adrienne."
Adrienne rubbed at her face and managed a ragged breath. "I've
just been so tired."
"I don't think anyone's got much sleep lately," Rupert said,
standing in the doorway.
Diedre turned a page. "Cypress trees. Cypress trees in an Italian
garden. With a fishpond!"
Adrienne took another breath. "I have the passports now. Someone
will be around to take them tomorrow. It will all be over tomorrow. I'm
so sorry I--" and then the rest was unintelligible as she wept into
her sleeve.
Diedre leant over to hold her and Rupert suddenly felt that he
was surplus to requirements. He stepped out into the kitchen and made
himself a bite to eat on the gas stove. It was awkward, with the
lights off, having to hunt around the cupboards with a candle for tins
of edible food. And there was something not quite right about the
house -- it was the sounds. He could hear his footsteps, the screech
and thump of the waterpipes, and Diedre's soft tones from the next
room. He almost fancied he could hear the restless Germans, all the
way up in the attic, pacing their room. But the kitchen radio wasn't
playing and there was no music from Randall's room and no voices from
the television in the attic. He was so used to these sounds that the
silence felt eerie.
He took some of the heated pork and beans through to Diedre and
Adrienne. Adrienne was sleeping now, so they left the bowl next to her
and shut the door behind them. Rupert and Diedre sat together in the
kitchen, eating their dinners in near-silence.
"She'll be all right in the morning," Diedre said. "And then the
Germans will go and she'll be able to have a proper holiday and rest
up."
"It'll be good to get the bathroom and the attic back."
"I'll say," said Diedre. "Good thing we'll be distracted tonight."
Rupert looked at her inquiringly.
"Spellcasting," she said. "But outside, because Ethan doesn't want
to be casting that sort of thing in the house while they're
here."
"Where outside?"
"In the park," said Randall, as he came into the room. He went to
the stove and poked the remains of the pork and beans with a
spoon. "Want to come?"
"Sure," Rupert said.
"We should invite Stan too," said Diedre. "Would you mind going to
ask him?"
So Rupert walked out of the house, around to the front and to the
entrance to Stan's basement flat. Stan was in, sitting on an armchair,
with a paraffin lamp on the table next to him. He was reading a book.
"Tell Ethan that I don't want any fucking thing to do with him
while he's having a fucking snit."
"I might paraphrase," said Rupert. "What's he done now?"
"I've just had enough of him," said Stan. "He's a mean-spirited
tit. I don't know why any of the rest of you put up with him. Also,
I'm getting married."
"Oh! Congratulations! You both must be very happy."
"See?" said Stan. "You know the right thing to say because you are
not a mean-spirited tit. You really need to find someone else, mate."
"Um," said Rupert.
"You should go and ask Philip if he wants to join the spell,"
said Stan. "He was looking forward to it last night. He got the tatt
and everything."
"All right," said Rupert. "Which flat is his again?"
Philip had the basement flat in the house across the road. He
answered the door in his pyjamas, and Rupert realised that it was
quite possibly after eleven, which was rather late for the sort of
people who worked in offices and had ordinary kinds of day jobs.
Philip looked a bit disturbed to find him on his doorstep, until
Rupert explained about the spell.
"I would absolutely love to join you," Philip said. "Just let me
get dressed."
Rupert sat in the living room and waited. The room had actual
carpet. There wasn't much furniture, all cheap stuff and brand new: a
sofa, a coffee table and a television. The olive-coloured walls had
crushed and cut white tissue paper hung from the wall as a decoration.
"Ready," said Philip, after five minutes of the sounds of
cupboards and drawers opening and closing. He was in jeans and a
fringed denim jacket. "Will it go late?"
"Very," said Rupert.
"I might have to ring in sick then," said Philip, which reminded
Rupert that he'd missed his rehearsal with The Grins. At his rate, he
was going to lose both his jobs.
"Will the spell hurt at all?" was Philip's next question, as he
locked the front door behind them.
"No," said Rupert, slightly baffled, but then he said, "Ah, apart
from the bit where you cut your hand."
"Diedre said there wasn't anything, you know, dirty about it."
Again, Rupert had to think for a bit before he worked out what
Philip meant. "No, it's not that sort of spell at all." In case Philip
was interested, he said, "But I think Ethan knows some people into
that sort of thing."
There was a small group waiting for them in the squat's back
garden: Diedre, Tom and Randall. Rupert and Philip joined them, and
then they set off to look for Ethan.
"We're meeting him at a park gate," Randall said. "I'll show you
which one."
"Did anyone remember to feed the Germans?" Tom asked.
No-one had.
"They'll have leftovers from last night," Diedre said.
"They'll be gone tomorrow," said Rupert. "Everything will be all
right then."
Ethan laid out the spell, but he was very, very
unhappy. Why wasn't it just Randall, Diedre and himself? Tom he could
understand, perhaps, but who the hell had invited Ripper? And he
couldn't even remember the name of the chap from next door.
"I should cancel this," he said to Diedre.
"No! Don't!" said Diedre. "Randall's really been looking forward
to it."
Randall was sitting next to her, looking very, very
tired. Everyone looked tired.
"You look trashed," Ethan told Randall, as he laid out the altar
cloth.
"Time to go to sleep," said Randall.
"Not yet," said Rupert. "I go first in this, remember?"
Why was Rupert here? Had Ethan not made it perfectly clear that he
wanted nothing more to do with that man? Actually, it was possible
that he hadn't; he was not unaware that sometimes he thought things
very loudly in his head but forgot to say them. If he'd actually said
that out loud in front of Randall, then Randall would have made sure
that Rupert wasn't there. That was the sort of man Randall was.
Ethan tried to focus on the thought of the van trip. They could
take turns driving. Or perhaps Randall and Diedre could drive while
Ethan sat in the back, practising smaller magics. Or if Randall was
driving, then Diedre would be a very welcome captive audience and
trainee. It was really about time he took control of her training, as
she lacked the willpower to stick to anything herself. He laid out the
candles.
The next-door-neighbour was clearly trying to manoeuvre his way
next to Diedre. That was a laugh - was he going to squeeze in between
her and Tom, or her and Randall? And he didn't seem very keen on
sitting next to Ethan.
"Does anyone have something to drink?" the next-door-neighbour
asked. There was a bit of an embarrassed murmur, as no-one had
remembered to bring any drink at all. Rupert had his hip flask, which
he passed around, but everyone was stone-cold sober.
Diedre was in some sort of dress tonight with lace
sleeves. Randall had changed into one of his lower-key outfits. Rupert
was in his stupid fucking jacket although it was warm enough for
shirtsleeves.
Outdoors, he couldn't mark out the circle in chalk, so he used
sand, pouring a thin stream from a bag around them all. He asked
Randall to finish off the circle around Rupert as he didn't want to
get that close, especially when Rupert opened his jacket and shirt in
readiness for the spell.
"No," said Ethan, suddenly. "Randall first." Rupert last. He
didn't want to lay his hand on him. In fact, he'd end the spell before
it was Rupert's turn.
Diedre poured the sand around Randall. Ethan turned his attention
to the new boy. "You can't play if you don't know the chant."
"Dee taught it to me yesterday," New Boy said. He repeated it
passably enough.
"You do realise we're summoning a demon?" Ethan said. "Make a
mistake and we'll all be fucked over."
He looked around the circle then and saw that everyone looked
about ready. They were all sitting on the grass, looking pale and
washed-out in the moonlight, with trees silhouetted
behind. Randall still looked like he was falling asleep.
"Wake up," said Ethan, poking him with a foot, and Randall smiled.
They cast the spell. And then everything went horribly wrong.
The demon had made it as far as the chemist's, a few streets from
the park. It didn't match anything he could precisely remember from
the bestiaries and almanacs of the Watcher's Council. It was clearly
superhuman in strength, and possibly in speed, although it had yet to
demonstrate that clearly. No sign as yet of other magical
abilities, but so far, it hadn't needed them.
It had burst through the locked gate of the park, rather than say,
leaping over the fence. It had paced down the street, pausing here and
there to take in deep breaths and to stare at itself in
windows. Possibly it wasn't innately humanoid, or its shape depended
strongly on the seized host. Was that something they could use against
it? Would it be clumsy in its new body? Did it have any senses that it
was unused to and that they could trick?
There was some kind of vibration, some kind of hum in the air,
that followed the demon around.
At least it was late, with few civilians wandering the
streets. The demon had spent a couple of hours inside the park before
realising it was walled in.
Philip was across the street, also watching the demon. He'd turned
out to be quite fleet of foot. Diedre had had to stop half an hour
ago, her feet bleeding from from unsuitable shoes; she and Tom had
gone back to the house to fetch her walking boots, but hadn't yet
caught up. Rupert didn't know where Ethan was.
He needed a weapon but there was nothing obvious that he could
see. It was a shopping street at night, with everything locked up or
put away. Somehow he didn't think that throwing empty milk bottles at
it would suffice. Perhaps he could break into one of the shops? But to
steal what? And what if the demon heard the breaking glass and came
after him?
A car turned down the street, swerved around the demon, and drove
on. Its horn tooted belatedly, as if in disbelief.
Ethan grabbed a bag and shoved in a handful of books. The
Stegun and Abramowitz, the Ogata and the Badescu. Fistfuls of candles
and matches and chalk followed. A bag of sand. Herbs. Then he broke
into Rupert's room and added what he could find there. The bag weighed
a ton.
Diedre was downstairs, tying the last of her laces. "We'll take my
bicycle," she said. "It'll be faster."
Outside, Ethan put the bag of magical gear in the front
basket, which visibly bent. "We can't both ride on this," he
said. "You get the magic books to Rupert. I'll follow as fast as I
can."
He looked around but Stan's car was gone, and he didn't have the
keys for Rupert's. He'd just have to run.
He noticed, as he ran to the main street, that Tom hadn't followed
them out of the house.
He lost sight of Diedre near the laundrette. Where would Randall
be headed? How much control did Eyghon have? Could he access
Randall's thoughts? Would he know that the others would try to quell
him using magic? He tried to work out what Eyghon might want -- a bit
of a stroll after a thousand years of incorporeality? Would he try to
keep Randall permanently possessed, or could they trade Randall for
another body? Could they buy it off -- with money, with magic, with
blood, with anything else Ethan might possibly possess or be able to
acquire?
He paused at the crossroads near the supermarket. There was no
sign of Diedre or of anyone else at all. He paused to listen and
closed his eyes. He could hear distant traffic and voices coming from
the south, then a faint sound that might have been a car horn from the
north-east. He ran towards it.
The demon had started to break things. It began with a motorbike
that it picked up and dropped, listening to the sound with a cocked
ear. It punched through the door of a barbershop, then examined its
hand. It pushed over a streetlamp.
That woke the neighbourhood up. A man in the flat above the
barber's opened the window and shouted down. "What the hell are you
doing, mate?" Other people opened their windows too.
Eyghon looked up at the man.
"We have to draw it away from here," Rupert told Philip. "We need
to get it away from people."
Before he could make a suggestion as to how, Philip darted
forward. "Hey," Philip shouted. "Come and get me!"
The demon had already started to climb towards its heckler, but it
paused now to look at Philip.
Rupert's heart sank. Philip was going to die.
"Hey!" shouted Philip again, running along the street, not at the
demon, but certainly not away from it. "Hey!"
The demon climbed back down. With a puzzled look, it walked
towards Philip.
Philip ran ahead, paused briefly, then ran ahead. Again, the demon
followed.
Rupert then heard a squeaking behind him. He turned and found
himself almost crashed into by Diedre on her bike. "I've got the magic
books!" she said. "Ethan's coming." She gestured towards a large bag
that threatened to topple the bike. "There must be a spell we can use
in there." Then she said, "What's Philip doing?"
Ethan caught up with Diedre and Rupert a couple of streets away
from the towpath. As he stood to catch his breath, he saw the
possessed Randall chasing Philip.
"Dock leaves," Ethan said. "I've just remembered a spell that
might work. We need the dock leaves in the bag. He gestured towards
Diedre. "Can you fetch them?"
"The Canterbury exorcism spell?" Rupert asked. "You need a human
fingernail for that."
Ethan had already pulled out his knife. He placed the tip under
the nail of his left pinkie and gave it a sharp twist.
The pain was indescribable. When he was able to see again, Philip
and Randall and Rupert were a block further along. Diedre was standing
next to him, with her hand on his shoulder.
"Come on," she said, softly.
They ran to catch up with Rupert.
Then, just before they reached the canal, a car turned the corner,
very fast. Diedre grabbed Ethan by the shoulder and pushed him out of
the way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rupert leap backwards
too. But Randall-Eyghon just stood there, looking at the car without
comprehension.
The car hit Randall and he fell. The car reversed, turned and
retreated.
"Randall!" Diedre shouted and raced towards him. Her bike fell
over.
They gathered around. The demon's head was at an odd angle, but it
was still breathing.
"He'll regenerate, won't he?" Ethan said. Diedre was weeping. "He
should be able to do that in demon form." He hoped it was true.
"Pick it up," said Rupert. "We should get it off the road. There's
an empty yard over there."
Ethan grabbed Randall's feet while Rupert took the head and
shoulders. Diedre opened the gate. They carried Randall into the yard,
a concrete slab stained with engine oil and smelling strongly of
petrol. Philip went to fetch Deirdre's bike.
"Now for the spell," said Ethan.
"Not yet," said Diedre. "Not until his neck's healed."
She sat next to Randall. Ethan sat next to her and took her
hand. They looked at Randall, at his elongated features and mottled
skin. They watched his chest rise and fall and the small movement of
his lips.
Rupert didn't join them. Instead, he paced and paced until it
started to drive Ethan to distraction. So Ethan grabbed the bag of
books and went through them with Diedre. They found three exorcism
spells, but the Canterbury one was definitely the most powerful. They
rehearsed it, sotto voce.
"If we wait until its neck has healed, it will awaken and destroy
us," Rupert said.
"Then have a Plan B ready," Ethan said.
Randall was dead. Randall had been dead for hours, but none
of the others wanted to know that. Rupert wasn't sure why he was
playing along. He was going to let them cast their spell and then they
were going to have to kill Eyghon anyway.
He searched the yard and the abandoned garage behind it, but
couldn't find much that he could turn into a weapon, apart from a small
and rusty screwdriver. He went back outside and spotted the
bicycle. He took it out of the others' line of sight and used the
screwdriver to remove the handlebar. It was an old bike and heavily
built. The handlebar felt like a proper weapon in his hands.
He heard Ethan and Diedre starting their chant.
When the spell failed, he came around the corner with the
handlebar.
"We could bargain with it," said Ethan. "We could trade something
to get Randall back." In fact, he wondered where Philip had got to.
"You don't bargain with demons," said Rupert. "They only agree
when you've made the situation worse than when you started."
"And you're the expert?" asked Diedre.
"Actually," Ethan had to admit, "he is."
"Call Evelyn," said Diedre.
"She's on a boat," Ethan snapped. He turned back to Rupert. "Call
the Watchers," he said.
Rupert said, "I need to stay here, in case it wakes. One of you
should go."
"I'm not leaving him," Diedre said.
So Ethan wrote down the number. "There's a phone box near the
bridge," he said. "I'll be right back."
Someone had thrown up recently in the phone booth, but Ethan barely
noticed. He put in his coins and dialled the number.
It was picked up on the first ring. "Yes?" asked an elderly female
voice.
"I'm calling on behalf of Rupert Giles," Ethan said. "We have an
unconscious man possessed by Eyghon the Sleepwalker. We want to know
what to do."
"One moment," said the voice. It was quite without any trace of
emotion.
He waited, looking at the graffiti and not really taking it in.
The voice returned. "We cannot give you a specific recommendation
at this time. It would take us a couple of days to ascertain the
information."
"Then what should we do?" Ethan heard himself shout.
"Kill it," said the voice.
Ethan hung up. He waited there for a moment, thinking, then he
called Mr Grey. The phone rang out eight, ten, then fifteen times. He
gave up and went back to the yard.
He should make something up, he realised, but by then Rupert and
Diedre had read his expression.
"I thought so," Rupert said.
"No, wait, I think we should--"
But then Eyghon started to move. Just the fingers, a little
twitch. Diedre shouted and pointed.
Rupert swung the handlebar. It made a kind of a thick cracking
sound as it hit Randall's head.
Ethan held Diedre as Rupert swung. She had her face buried against
Ethan's shoulder, so she couldn't see, but Ethan watched. He saw
Randall's face -- already unlike him -- cave in piece by piece, then
steadily become more pulpy. It seemed to take a very long time. The
twitching stopped and so did Randall's breathing.
Then Rupert stood there, panting, with his hands on his knees to
hold himself up. His shirt and jacket were still open to the chest, as
they had been since the start of the spell.
The sky had that first faint lightness of dawn in it. Ethan felt
that his shoulder was wet where Diedre was crying onto it. He saw that
one of the shoulder straps of her dress was torn, exposing most of a
breast. He reached over to tie up the strap and realised that his
hands hurt. The wound was still oozing from where he'd ripped out the
nail and he'd burnt his palms putting out the candle flames when the
spell had started to go wrong. He left a bloodstain on Diedre's
shoulder as he tied the strap.
He was suddenly very thirsty and very tired.
Rupert had got enough of his breath back to say, "We need to take
its head off so it doesn't re-form. The spinal cord's going to be difficult."
Diedre let go of Ethan then. She turned and marched towards
Rupert, and started to hit him. It was just slaps, nothing with much
force behind it, but Rupert was off-balance.
"How could you do that?" she shouted. "How could you kill
Randall?"
Rupert seized her shoulders and held her away from him with his
long arms. "That wasn't Randall anymore," he said.
"Not Randall?" she gestured towards the corpse, which was still
unmistakably wearing Randall's clothes. "You're not really like the
rest of us, are you?" she said. "You're inhuman."
She turned and left the yard.
"It's not Randall any more," Rupert told Ethan, looking almost
bewildered. Ethan felt a stab of pity.
"Does it have to be the head?" Ethan asked. "What if I deliquesced
the whole body?"
"Well, that would stop it regenerating. You can do that?"
"Yes," said Ethan. "Go home. I'll see you there."
Up until now, Ethan had only tried this spell on dead mice, the
ones brought to him incidentally by summoned owls.
It took a lot longer to decompose a human-sized body than a mouse.
All that time, he had this niggling idea in his head that he
should rescue Randall's clothes, as if Randall were waiting at home or
somewhere else, and would miss his stolen shirt and trousers.
Ethan couldn't really be doing this, of course. He couldn't be
sitting there, casting a spell to rot Randall's body in a yard near
the canal, with the sky turning blue overhead and the dawn birds
singing. He couldn't be watching skin sink into flesh and then into
bone as he waited there.
He was never up that early, for a start.
Once the body had been reduced to a thick stain on the concrete he
went to look at the bicycle handlebars. The stain on that didn't look
human either; it was the wrong colour and too thick. Demon blood, he
thought. He'd just throw it in the canal to be sure.
He watched the waters close over it.
Rupert walked home. It had ceased to be night some time ago and
was now becoming properly morning. He passed postmen and milkmen on
early rounds. He walked past a frowning woman at a bus-stop and
realised he hadn't done up his shirt. His arm ached with the force of
the blows he'd given. He was so tired that at one point, he just sat
on a park bench and watched the sky lighten until he realised he was
in danger of falling asleep.
Back at the house, Diedre was pouring herself a very large gin and
tonic with shaking hands. Her makeup had run halfway down her face and
dried there, blue and black. She cleared enough room on a kitchen
counter for her to sit.
Rupert poured himself a drink and sat on a stool. Neither of them
said anything. After a while, Ethan came back. He also had a gin and
sat there silently. Tom came to the hall doorway at one point, looked at
them all, then went back upstairs.
Ethan made toast that nobody ate. Deirdre poured them all more
gin.
At nine o'clock, the Germans came down the stairs. Adrienne came
out of her room to greet them. "We're away," she said. "We're meeting
someone at the train station and then they'll be gone. Say auf
Weidersehn."
Nobody did, although one the Germans gave a small wave and
said, "Danke." Rupert could not tell if he was being sincere.
By ten o'clock, Diedre was weeping silently. Ethan looked as if he
was about to pass out. Rupert's arm had ceased to be an ache and was
turning into a searing pain.
He was going through Stan's kitchen cupboard, looking for
painkillers, when Adrienne came back.
"Well, that's them away," she said. "Now tell me what the hell
happened to all of you."
"Randall's dead," said Ethan.
"Rupert smashed his head in," said Diedre.
"The demon Eyghon possessed him and we were unable to get the
demon out," said Rupert.
Adrienne stared at them all. Eventually, she said, "Who else knows
this?"
"Philip next door," said Rupert. "Tom."
"Where's the body?"
"Deliquesced," said Ethan. "I dealt with it."
"Stay here," said Adrienne, as if anyone were moving.
They watched and listened as she went upstairs to fetch Tom. He
came back down, carrying a bag.
"I've packed for us," he said to Diedre. "We can go and stay with
my father for a week or two, if we have to."
Meanwhile, Adrienne had stepped outside. They could faintly
hear her knocking on Philip's door. When she came back with him, he
was wearing dark blue pyjamas and a dressing gown. His hair was wet.
"Do we call the police and tell them the truth?" asked Adrienne.
"Demons are little recognised under modern English law," said
Ethan.
"That it was an accident?"
"It's culpable homicide," said Tom.
"We should just report him missing," Rupert heard himself say.
"Then they'll want to find him," said Tom.
Rupert said, "People go missing all the time. They're rarely
found. It happens much more often than most people think, especially
here in London."
"He just walked out and never came back?" said Adrienne.
The back door opened again. This time it was Stan. It was getting
quite crowded there in the kitchen.
"So," he said, "is that the Krauts gone? Hooray. Now everything
can get back to normal." He took in everyone's expressions. "What's
happened?"
For a moment, no-one said anything. Then Diedre stood.
"Randall and I had an argument," she said, very calmly and firmly,
"about Tom. He hasn't come back to the house since."
"Oh," said Stan. "Should we look for him?"
"We'll give him a day," she said. "If he isn't back by then, I
will call his family and see if he is with them." Her voice wavered a
little. "I'll call Paul."
"OK then," said Stan. "I'm sure he's all right."
With that, the compulsion to stay in the kitchen finally
evaporated. Rupert took some more painkillers and went to bed.
He woke in the dark, unknown hours later, to the sound of
screaming. He ran downstairs and found it was Diedre. She was throwing
everything in the house that belonged to Tom out of the first-floor
window.
Ethan felt unwell but also restless. His mind wouldn't let him go
to sleep. He wanted to see Randall, get a few words of reassurance
from him, feel calmer and then get some sleep. Instead he was tense,
awake and weepy.
There was shouting and screaming from below: Diedre throwing Tom
out of the house. Ethan thought it was a little too late for that.
The electricity was still off, so he sat in the dark, trying to
work out what had gone wrong. The spell had been fine; he was sure of
it. It had been just like all the other times they'd cast it, apart
from being outdoors, and having the new boy there, and starting with
someone other than Rupert. The chant was the same, the pentacle was
the same. Being outdoors shouldn't have made a difference. Philip had
been surprisingly competent. And what difference should it have
made, who got to be possessed first?
Ethan tried to think of something he could do to relax. He didn't
feel like sex at all, or hash, so he pulled out a pack of cards. He did the
simplest, calmest spell, a pick-the-card illusion. There was nothing
to it, except the small, low link to the magic, that sense of warmth
and connection. He drew a card and got the two of diamonds. He drew
another card, cast the spell, and again got a two of diamonds. He kept
drawing cards and kept casting the small spell until he was able to
sleep.
Rupert wandered around the house, a little before dawn. It
was quiet now, apart from him. Adrienne would be fast asleep at that
hour and Ethan, who might not be, wasn't answering his door.
In the drawing room were the remains of the
night-before-last's party. All the food had been cleared, but there
were still a few empty and half-empty bottles. Rupert felt ill just
looking at them.
From the window he could see the moonlit garden and the scudding
clouds above. And he could see the long, black car parked opposite the
house.
He pulled on his boots and his jacket and went across the
road. It was Stockton.
"We got a call last night," said Stockton, through the wound-down
window. "We wondered if you needed any help."
"It's done," said Rupert. "We, we took care of it."
"We have a file here, if you need it." Stockton poked a manila
folder through the wound-down window. "Looks like quite a
monster. We're on standby." When Rupert didn't take the folder,
Stockton put it back down. "I'm on standby."
"It's gone," said Rupert. "We didn't need your help at all."
"Well, good for you," said Stockton, although his expression was
one of surprise. "Are you sure--"
"Quite sure," said Rupert.
When he got back to his room, he found Diedre trying to open his
locked door. She backed away from him a little.
"I want you gone too," she said. "I want you out of here."
"No," he said.
She looked afraid. She looked afraid of him. She went back
down the stairs.
It was probably day, but it was hard to tell in Randall's room
when the curtains were drawn. Ethan stood there, looking at all of
Randall's things. Randall's paintings, Randall's clothes, Randall's
records: Ethan could tell you which items had been brought over from
San Francisco, which had been acquired while they were in Cricklewood,
and which had been bought since. There were a couple of books and a
few photographs older than the rest, from when Randall had lived on
the east coast of America.
There was a beanbag lying between the mattress and the wall,
because Randall liked to smoke sitting up in bed. A brass Mexican
ashtray sat on top of a Moroccan cushion. Next to the bed was a small
pile of books -- a beat poet anthology, a coffee-table art book, and
an introductory guide to cricket that an old boyfriend of Ethan's had
given to Randall. The pile of records were next, too many titles to
think about, but there was a space on the floor where the record
player used to be, encroached upon already by the slow avalanche of
his clothes. His weed and gear were in a biscuit tin under the window,
and his long-neglected magical paraphernalia was dusty next to it. Then
there was an easel, paints, and various art-type tools that Ethan had
never bothered learning the names of.
There had been nothing wrong with the spell.
Down on the first-floor landing, Diedre was packing. Adrienne
stood next to the window.
Adrienne said to him, "Tell her not to go back to her parents."
"Don't go back to your parents," Ethan said, automatically. Then he
thought about what he'd said. "Of course you don't want to do
that. Why would you do that?"
"I don't want to be here any more," Diedre said.
"What about us?" he said. "Do you want to leave us alone?"
"What went wrong with the spell?" she asked him.
"Nothing," he said.
Rupert put on his second-best set of clothes and picked up his
guitar. He was going to go and beg for his job back, at the hotel. He
was going to say that he had been very ill, hospitalised even, and he
had been unable to call. He was better now and able to work and it
would never happen again.
He rehearsed the speech in his head as he sat on the bus. He
really wanted to keep the job. He had some money now from the ferry
terminal fiasco, but a lump sum wouldn't last. He needed a regular
income and it would be best if he could say on at the squat, so that
he didn't have to pay rent. He hoped very much that Diedre would feel
better soon, although he would quite understand if she didn't.
He found the hotel manager in the corridor leading to the
kitchens. He straightened his jacket and assumed his most trustworthy
expression.
"Feeling better?" asked the manager. "That's good. We had people
asking after you last week. Go on in."
"Right," said Rupert, his speech unspoken, and feeling a little
flustered.
He didn't play particularly well that afternoon.
Nothing had been wrong with the spell. Ethan went through the steps
in his head as he spent the afternoon running errands for Mr Grey.
He came home along the canal path but there was no sign of
Evelyn. He stood at the water's edge, looking along the line of moored
boats. It was a warm day but there weren't that many people out. He
struggled to remember what day of the week it was.
Had it been that they weren't drunk? The spell book indicated that
Eyghon was to be summoned at bacchanals, but it hadn't explicitly said
inebriation was required.
Maybe it was because they'd changed the order of
possession. Rupert should have gone first. He always went first. If it
had been Rupert rather than Randall who'd gone first, then things
wouldn't have been so bad. Everyone would have been a bit sorry, but
really he was a newcomer to the household, without close ties. Ethan,
Randall and Deirdre might have found a way to stop Eyghon, or if not
-- did it have to be their problem? A demon, rampaging around Camden
Town, someone would have stopped it eventually, perhaps the police or
the Watchers. Then Randall would still be alive and Deirdre wouldn't
be upset and everything would have been fine. So it was Rupert who
should have been turned into a demon.
The stain was still there on the concrete in the yard. It looked a
different colour under full daylight, but it didn't look human at all.
So that was Randall now. What a pig's arse that was. That's what
the universe did, though; it killed off perfectly good people and left
the ones you didn't like behind.
He was there for a while, and when he next looked up, he realised
it was getting dark. He didn't really want to go back to the
house. Instead he went for a walk, over to a pub near the Tube station
where he'd used to go with Randall, years ago. He hoped to get dinner
there, but the kitchen was closed, so he had to settle for a packet of
crisps and a beer.
The pub was a block away from where he and Randall had first
met. Back then, Randall had worked in a head shop where Ethan would
sometimes stop by to get candles, on his way to busk in the park. On
Saturday afternoons, Randall was the only sales assistant and, if it
was raining, Ethan was often the only customer. That's what Ethan
remembered most clearly, those rainy afternoons, water bucketing down
and the bright colours of the shop walls muted by the grey light, as
he stood talking with Randall at the counter. It was the first time
Ethan had really had the chance to talk properly with someone about
magic, in a conversation in which he didn't feel patronised. And
Randall had real contacts, people who were in touch with the scene in
San Francisco that Randall had been part of. He knew people.
Ethan counted the number of empties in front of him and realised
he might not be able to walk. He needed to sit there a while longer.
He wondered what had gone wrong.
So Rupert still had a job and he still had somewhere to live. He
rang the drummer of The Grins, who told him he was still in the band
but wasn't to miss any more rehearsals. All good.
What he didn't have was the full use of his right arm. The muscles
in it, and in his shoulder, neck and back, only got worse over
time. He could play the guitar with difficulty, and drive not at
all. Stan gave him some industrial-strength painkillers that made him
space out.
He'd promised Stan that he'd help look for Randall, so he
did. What he mainly did was sit in the passenger seat of Stan's car
while Stan drove in ever larger circles around Camden. Rupert looked
out at the evening streets, then night streets, as if he might somehow
spot Randall.
Stan got more and more worried. "He'd have let us know if he'd
gone to a friend's." Then he got angry. "You think he'd have left us a
fucking note."
That night, well after midnight, Adrienne came to Rupert's
room. "Ssh," she said. "I don't want Deirdre to know." She lit a
candle, then pulled off her nightgown. The candlelight over her body
reminded him of the night she'd first taken him home.
She was a bit too rough that night and it took him longer than
usual to come. As she pulled her nightgown back on, he asked her how
Diedre was.
"Terrible," said Adrienne. "She had to call his family today. She
spoke with Paul, who's her ex-fiance, if you remember. She lied
convincingly, but she's been drunk since she got back home. She keeps
saying you killed him and she wants you out of the house."
"Eyghon killed him," Rupert said. He was shirtless and sitting
against the wall. He searched himself for any trace of doubt, and
found none.
"It'll take her some time to believe that."
"I can leave," he offered.
Adrienne shook her head. "Just give her another couple of days."
Ethan was tired but he couldn't fall back to sleep. He was hungry
and thirsty but didn't want to get out of bed. He felt quite sick. It
was the middle of the day, probably.
Randall would have checked on him, if Randall had been
there. Randall would have knocked quietly on the bedroom door and
offered Ethan some tea, or an aspirin. Ethan wondered if anyone would
check on him now. Maybe, in a week's time, one of the others would
say, "Has anyone seen Ethan?" Or maybe someone would complain it was
his turn to do the shopping.
Actually, Diedre would remember him, eventually. She was just a
little distracted right now. And Adrienne wasn't stupid.
The thought comforted him, and he decided he felt well enough to
sit up. He found that he'd left a glass of water next to his bed. He
drank from it and felt a little better.
He was still in the same clothes he'd worn yesterday. The skin of
his palms was peeling where they had been burnt. The skin under his
missing fingernail ached.
He really needed to work out what had gone wrong with the
spell. Firstly, he would have to rule out obvious things. He'd start
by checking his memory.
He cleared a large section of floor by piling up his clothes and
pushing the mattress towards the wall, leaving a broad expanse of
wooden floorboard. He pulled out some chalk and drew the pentagram and
subsidiary circles on the floor. He was pleased by his lack of
hesitation -- there would be nothing wrong there. Then, next to it, he
wrote the words of the chant, again from memory, and with confidence.
So what more was there? Now he wrote out the order of the casting
and its components. That was all of it then.
He felt better just looking at it all written down. He went
downstairs and washed, then breakfasted, or possibly lunched. He put
on some clean clothes and noted that he'd need to go to the laundrette
soon. The thought was so normal that it surprised him, then filled him
with pain. Things weren't normal -- Randall was dead.
He sat back down with the fucking Dargoth spellbook that he now
wished he'd never owned. He wished Ripper hadn't known where to find
Eusapia Ciccarello. He wished he hadn't found the article about her in
the newspaper clippings. He wished he'd never gone snooping around
Evelyn's things and had never heard of Ciccarello.
He opened the book and went through the spell. The pentagram he'd
sketched was correct. So were the circles. So were the lines of the
chant. He checked the order of the spell and the list of
components. All correct.
Then what the hell was it? What had killed Randall?
He read through the text of the spell again, and worked it out.
The police arrived just as Rupert came home from work. They rang
the doorbell at the front door just as Rupert came in the back. He and
Adrienne cleared a path through the hallway and let them in. Adrienne
took them up to the drawing room while Rupert went to warn Stan.
Stan was blase though. "They need a warrant," he said. "And I've
not got much around the house any more. I'm shutting up shop and
moving to High Wycombe, yeah?"
Up in the drawing room, the police sat on the only two chairs
while everyone else stood around. Diedre looked miserable. Ethan
looked sick.
"Did he seem agitated?" the police asked. Then,"What's his means
of employment?"
"He's an artist," Deirdre said.
"What's his main source of income though, love?"
"He has a small inheritance," said Deirdre, "and he made some
money painting."
"Does he have any unsavoury friends?"
Only us, thought Rupert. Stan said, "He has a lot of friends. He's
a very popular guy."
"Is there anyone you can think of who might want to harm him?"
"No," said Ethan, with some vehemence. "No-one would ever want to
harm him."
"And, apart from the argument you mentioned, had he shown any
other signs of distress or agitation?"
"A couple of his friends in America died recently," said
Deirdre. "I mean, two of his friends from when he lived in America,
but they didn't die there, and it wasn't recently, but he only just
found out."
"Oh?" said an officer, looking genuinely interested for the first
time.
"In service in the army," she said, and then police officer looked
almost disappointed.
"Where did you get that bruise?" an officer asked Ethan.
"Outside a pub," Ethan said.
"Can we look in his room?" they asked.
Rupert stood in the doorway of Randall's bedroom while they looked
around. They picked up clothing and opened boxes. They found his pot
but didn't say anything.
"Did he take his wallet?"
"Yes," said Diedre.
"What about clothes?"
"A suitcase," lied Diedre. "He just left his fancy dress."
They spoke to Diedre some more after that, asking about their
relationship and the whereabouts of Tom. Then they were gone.
Rupert went up to the attic. He wasn't worried about the police
looking for Randall, for they would find no living trace of him. He
was a little worried though about the illegal Germans and whether any
sign of them could be found in the house.
He searched the attic, but found nothing obviously
incriminating. He went to look out the window, at the summer sky and
the garden far below.
He could see the police car pulling away. He could see Ethan,
Diedre, and Adrienne standing near the gate. He saw Ethan say
something to Diedre. And then she scratched him in the face.
"You hobgoblin!" shouted Deirdre, as Adrienne pulled her away. "We
should never have trusted you. You--" she was clearly at a loss for
words. He watched her search through her memory for terms foul
enough. "Putain de merde! Vas faire foutre a la vache! Arschgeige!"
"Get out of here," Adrienne told him, as she struggled to hold
Diedre. "Get Ripper."
Ethan did one of those things.
By the time Rupert reached the garden, Ethan had
disappeared. Adrienne was holding Deirdre, who was sitting on the
grass, sobbing.
"Ripper," said Adrienne, "can we borrow your car? Just for a
couple of days. I want to take her to Louise's for a while, until she
feels better. Louise would like help with the baby."
"So she had it, then?" Rupert asked.
Adrienne rolled her eyes. "Of course."
Rupert went to fetch his car keys. When he came back to the
garden, Deirdre and Adrienne were taking bags to his car. Deirdre was
still weeping.
"Have a good trip," he said.
Diedre spat at him.
There was quite a good shop on the other side of town. You had to
catch a train at Euston, then change at Waterloo. From there
you took a train out for half an hour into the London suburbs,
watching out of the window as office blocks and factory buildings gave
way to terraces and then to houses with gardens. It was one of Ethan's
favourite places to go when he felt like an expedition. By the time he
stepped from the train, he was among icecream vans singing to
schoolchildren and comfortable semi-detached homes.
The shop looked like a run-down bric-a-brac shop, mostly because
it was. Four years ago, when he was still getting to know London, he'd
worked his way through a guide to shops selling magical
paraphernalia. But the guide had been old and out-of-date, and by the
time Ethan had first come here, it had changed hands.
It sat between a shop selling second-hand furniture and a
women's clothing boutique. There was a bow window at the front, through
which you could see books piled on the windowsill, and perhaps the
dark grey hair of the proprietor as he sat at his desk.
Inside, the walls were lined with mismatched shelves. Tables
stretched from one end of the room to the other. A dog sat on a rug in
front of a heater that the owner kept on year-round. There were a
couple of cats too; you could smell them but it usually took some time
to catch sight of one.
And everywhere: books. On the shelves, on the floor, in boxes
perched on top of other boxes, in piles on top of the boxes. Ethan
stopped at one pile to read through the titles: Kipling's Actions
and Reactions, Donnelly's Atlantis: The Antediluvian World,
Gardner's Fads and Fallacies in the Name of Science, the
Autobiography of John Stuart Mill, a desiccated Things Seen
in Northern India, and Hereward Carrington's Psychic
Oddities. He picked up a copy of Heyday of a Wizard with a
foreword by Harry Price.
There were signs up here and there purporting to indicate thematic
contents, but in practice you were as likely to find a guide to
Japanese etiquette filed under "Military History" or "Poetry" as
"Travel". One had to have a strong sense of serendipity to appreciate
the place. On one shelf, he skimmed his hand over 1930s children's
books -- cloth-bound and rough to the touch, next to crumbling copies
of farmers' almanacs and a notebook of tidal gauge observations from
Semaphore, South Australia.
Then, down a steep and narrow flight of wooden stairs, was the basement,
which had grubby whitewashed walls lit by naked tungsten bulbs. Here
were boxes of knick-knacks and gewgaws, unlabelled and without
pricetags. There were no tables here, so he had to sit on the
rug-strewn concrete floor to rummage through broken china, old dolls,
and plastic jewellery. On past visits he'd found the odd useful thing
down there, like an antique scarf for Deirdre or half-decent shoes or
cheap eggcups. Perhaps once a year he'd find something genuinely
magical as well, such as a cursed Matchbox car or an ensorcelled string
of amber beads.
Really, the shop wasn't much like the one where he'd found his
first magic book (or where it had found him). That shop had been heady
with fresh new-book smell and crisp minted pages. There had just been
a single box of tattered used books, perhaps not for sale at all,
being used to hold open a door at the back. His mother had stood near
the counter, looking through the children's books to pick one out for
him. He can't remember now what she chose -- something by W.E. Johns?
-- but he could recite from memory everything he found in that
hand-written journal.
He left the shop only when the proprietor called out that it was
closing, and the cats came downstairs to roust him out. He bought a
few books, one of which was slightly magical, and a box of Victorian
photographs he thought he could use in a spell.
He had fish and chips for dinner, sitting at a table outside a
pub. It was a warm night and there were many families out walking
their dogs. A small girl rode past on her red tricycle.
On the train back, he watched the others passengers: the ones in
the carriage, the ones who crowded in, and the ones who crowded out.
He felt light-headed and expansive. He felt like a hot-air
balloon, with everything falling away.
Outside the station, he paused to watch the hundreds of others who
stepped out into the grey streets, under the purple evening sky and
the bright streetlights. He watched their faces -- pale or dark, male
or female, smooth or weathered. He took in their expressions, of
fatigue or happiness or worry. How different he was from them all.
Not one in a thousand men was capable of killing his own best friend.
Early the next morning, Randall's brother came to the
house. Rupert opened the front door and brought him in, just as he had
the police officers the day before.
Paul was a few inches taller than Randall, clean-shaven and some
years older, in his mid-twenties at least. He had the same colour of
hair. He was slightly better-looking than his brother, Rupert thought.
"I can't stay long," Paul said. "I'm needed back at the hospital."
His accent was the same as Randall's. Mid-American? Transatlantic?
He looked incongruous, standing there in his suit and tie amongst the
piled-up rubbish of the hallway. Who owned the stuff in those boxes
anyway?
Rupert took him through to the kitchen to make him a coffee. He
had to find a mug to wash first, as the housework had rather fallen to
the wayside in the last week. As the water boiled, he looked for a
spoon. And then for the coffee. There wouldn't be any milk, as the power
was still out and the fridge was empty.
"I hope you take it black," he said. "Sugar?" He watched Paul tip
in half a cup and stir.
As he sipped, Paul's eyes flickered over filth of the kitchen
floor and the unwashed dishes, but he didn't say anything about
it. Instead he asked about his brother, Randall's recent moods and
preoccupations. What drugs he was taking and whom he might have been
sleeping with.
On the way upstairs, Paul paused on the stairwell to look at the
paintings. He didn't ask whose they were. He spent some time staring
at a copulating threesome of gibbons before giving a light shake of
the head.
Up in Randall's room, he poked at his brother's things with a
foot: his books, his records, his tubes of paint.
"He wastes his life," said Paul. He wasn't talking to Rupert, but
to himself.
Rupert wanted to defend Randall. He wanted to say that Randall was
generous and very probably talented and that his brother would be
proud of him in time, but he couldn't.
"And how's Dee?" Paul asked. His expression then and his tone of
voice were so horribly, horribly like Randall's that Rupert's skin
crawled. He couldn't look Paul in the eye.
"She's desperately unhappy," Rupert said. "She's afraid he's gone
for good."
"She's not here?"
"She's at Louise's," he said, then wondered if he should
have. Paul nodded as if he knew who Louise was.
"He's done this before," said Paul. "Wandered off, gone AWOL. Back
when he was in high school, I had to go look for him. He'd be
passed out, pot-smoking somewhere. Out in the Park, or in someone's
basement."
On the way back down to the kitchen, Paul asked, "So what do you
do?"
Rupert found himself unwilling to admit to a doctor that he was a
guitarist. He heard himself say, "I study history at Oxford."
Paul nodded, with a faint indication of approval. "Could you talk
to him then, if you see him? Maybe he'd listen to you more than us. He
needs an education and a vocation. Can you tell him his life's going
nowhere right now?"
Rupert saw Paul to the front door. Then he spent the evening
getting drunk.
Ethan came home to a silent house. He stood in the kitchen for a
moment, trying to listen for any signs of life, but there were
none. No shuffled feet from upstairs, nor chink of mug, nor refrigerator
groaning, not even a gurgle of pipes.
He went into Adrienne's room first, as this was the one which
opened onto the kitchen. Her leaflets were still there, and her
mattress, but her clothes and her personal things were gone. She'd
left the curtains almost closed. Their thin green cloth let in enough
sunlight for the room to glow as if underwater. Dust motes swam in the
air.
He went up the painted stairs, his footsteps sounding out on the
bare wood. He paused on the landing to note the holes in the teetering
piles of paperbacks, where someone had seized fistfuls while hurrying
away. Tom and Deirdre's room was empty, little left in it now except
the mattress and the torn bits of newspaper that Deirdre liked to use
as bookmarks.
Up in the attic, no-one was there either, apart from the blind
blank eye of the television set. Only Ripper's room looked recently
occupied, with cigarette ash in a saucer and his clothes piled on the
floor.
Ethan's hand shook as he turned the handle to the drawing room but
it wasn't until he was inside that he realised he'd somehow expected
to find Diedre there anyway, sitting on a chair next to the fireplace,
the way his mother used to (and no doubt, still did). No, the drawing
room was empty too, of everything bar beanbags and rugs. He went to
the window and saw that neither Ripper's car nor Stan's was in the
street.
It was just him, then. It was only to be expected.
It had been a long time since everything had felt so simple and
clear. But how normal and right and real it felt: the stars had
snapped back into their true alignment.
He took all the magical books and gear from the dead man's
room. He prised open the couple that Randall had kept nailed shut,
works of chaos magic that Randall had been given but had never wanted
to use.
Ethan sat in his room then, surrounding himself with a circle of
bought and scavenged tomes. He was happy to be there.
Then the clarity left him and his head and joints were filled
instead with a thick, black mud of a feeling he could neither
recognise nor name. He could not think of a way to make it go away.
Rupert felt a little better by Sunday morning. He lurched his way
downstairs to wash and then have breakfast. The sight of the kitchen
sickened him though and he started work on the washing-up. But once
the dish drainer was full, he had nowhere to put the clean dishes, so
he set to work on cleaning the countertops. Half an hour later, he had
a teatowel out and was eyeing the horrible, ghastly floor, trying to
remember where he'd seen the mop. Was it one of the things piled in
the hallway?
He paused for some toast, then hunted out the mop and a bottle of
bleach. At first all he managed was to detach the larger pieces of
dropped, dried food from the linoleum and send them skidding around
his feet. It was only after many, many rinses of water he succeeded in
turning the blacker bits of the floor a smeared dark grey.
It was almost time for him to head out to his rehearsal. He went
to fetch his guitar, and on the way back down, he saw Ethan standing
in the bathroom, in front of the mirror. Rupert wondered if anyone
else was at home. Adrienne had yet to return his car, there had been
no sign of Diedre or of Tom, and Stan had driven off to High Wycombe
on Friday night.
The Grins rehearsal went well. He played his part accurately and
was complimented for it. He showed great restraint and only got
slightly drunk. He got to try out some gear that Andy had
brought, some new guitar pedals.
He got home around midnight. No lights were on in the house's
lower floors. He stumbled upstairs and saw a flicker of candlelight
from under Ethan's door and heard some light chanting, so there was
nothing unusual there, then.
He had a strange dream that night, an Arabian nightmare, in which
he woke and opened his bedroom door. There, on the landing, were
Randall's dancing clothes, doing a kind of waltz with each other, to
no music other than the rustle of their cloth. He closed the door and
dreamt that he went back to bed.
Ethan walked to Terry's shop to buy some supplies. He stood on the
customer's side of the wooden counter, listing off materials that
Terry wrote down on a pad. The counter was of old wood, scuffed and
scarred, and quite possibly hundreds of years old. He wondered how
long the shop had been there; he supposed he could look it up
in a library somewhere. He stared at Terry's hands, thinking that both
the shop and Terry could have been here for centuries.
Ethan found it surprising now that he'd ever mistaken Terry for
human. He had that unwashable, inky scent of magic about him, and his
skin had a very slight greyish hue. And his fingers! Now that Ethan
looked at them properly, he could see that the nails started to curve
sharply under at their tips. Besides, Terry's walrus-brown moustache
was surely stuck on with glue.
"Is that the lot?" Terry asked him, before stepping into the back
storeroom to fetch the goods. He came back with a multitude of small
paper-wrapped parcels in his large hands. He did some sums on his pad
and told Ethan a total that would have caused panic six months ago. Now
Ethan could just peel pound notes from his shirt pocket and smile.
"I heard there was a ruckus," said Terry, fixing Ethan with a
stare, "in Regent's Park the other night."
"Yes," said Ethan, gathering together his purchases into his
canvas knapsack. "That was me. I've been learning a few things
lately."
"I see," said Terry, with a flat inflection. "You're coming along
then."
It was the only conversation Ethan had had in days. A perfectly
ordinary lunchtime conversation with a demon of indeterminate age.
He spent the afternoon and evening running errands for Mr
Grey. He'd got rather behind lately, what with one thing and
another. He had fetishes to bury in people's gardens and dust to
sprinkle over schoolyards, but he didn't know what any of it was
for. He supposed that if he had been born a different sort of person,
he would have cared.
Mr Grey, a demon of Oxfordshire, will send him money for the work,
which he will then add to the notes in his shirt pocket. He will spend
the money on the necessities of life, and on candles, chalk and small
paper parcels bought from Terry, a demon of Camden Town.
Monday really should have been a day of rest for Rupert. He had
no rehearsals and no tedious lunchtime hours at the hotel. He wasn't
even particularly hungover. He should have been able to spend the day
in bed, catching up on his sleep, or lying with his eyes closed,
listening to Tangerine Dream.
The first person to show up was Tom, some time in the
mid-morning. Rupert heard a scuffling downstairs and found Tom in his
old room, poking at the mattress as if he might find something under
it. He had a large bunch of flowers with him and a box of chocolates.
"Is Diedre gone, then?" he asked.
He was dressed as he usually was for his summer job in the City,
in a dark suit and tie. He looked like he hadn't slept well
either. Rupert told him that Diedre was with Adrienne, but did not
mention that they were with Louise.
Tom left his father's address and telephone number pinned to the
fridge. "Please tell her I want to see her," he said. "I just want to
know what it is that I've done. I know she's upset but she needs me
now."
Adrienne came by in the early afternoon; Rupert could distinguish
the sound of his own car from streets away.
"How are you?" she asked. Then: "Oh my God, it's so quiet in
here. Thank God. Back at Louise's it's either the baby or Diedre
wailing."
"She's not good, then?"
Adrienne shook her head. "Look, is Stan here, or Ethan? I was
hoping to get something to calm her."
"I haven't seen Stan in days," Rupert said, "and I think Ethan's
avoiding me."
They went up to Ethan's door anyway. Adrienne knocked loudly,
saying, "It's me, it's Adrienne, are you OK?" but there was no answer.
"Randall had some pot," said Rupert. "You could take that."
"I want to borrow your car again," she said, once they had ducked
in and out of the dead man's room. "I'd like to take my television to
Louise's."
"You think you'll be there for a while, then?" Rupert asked,
rather alarmed.
"At least a couple of weeks," Adrienne said. "She still wants to
kill both of you."
"Both of us?" asked Rupert.
Up in the attic, Adrienne sat on the sofa and rolled herself a
joint, which was something he'd never seen her do before.
"You can't drive my car if you're stoned," he said.
She spent the afternoon up there, either asleep or watching
children's television. She sang along with both Play School and
Blue Peter. Rupert sat on a nearby beanbag, often dozing
himself. He wasn't sure if he wanted to have sex with her or not.
"Did you find university hard?" she asked him.
"What?"
"Well, you dropped out, didn't you? But you're pretty smart."
"I was doing the equivalent of studying for two degrees at once,"
he said. "There weren't any hours left for me."
"But was the work particularly difficult? If you were just doing
one degree at a time, I mean."
"Some of it, but by no means all. And if it's something you're
genuinely interested in, that makes it easier." He looked at her. "Are
you thinking of going?"
She sighed. "The thing with the Germans -- I'm not sure any more
that was the right thing to do, or the best use of my will, you
know. I think there's three overlapping strands to
reform. There's the front-line fix-it-now soup-kitchen-and-first-aid
strand, there's the strand which changes the viewpoints of others
through persuasion, and there's deep systemic change. The first strand
is necessary and yields the most immediate results, but it's the third
we need to reach." A note of bewilderment had crept into her voice. "I
don't know how to get there from here."
"I don't know that you'll learn how at university," Rupert said,
"Besides, there are some things that can't be changed. And then all
you have is the front line."
"Like what?"
"The sun always rises," he said, waving his hand vaguely. "And the
sun always sets." One girl in all the world, he thought. The Slayer.
Adrienne pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed him one. They
smoked together in silence until the news came on.
It was an old theatre, closed for repairs, its outside face pinned
in place with scaffolding. The side door had been unlocked, just as Mr
Grey had said it would be, and soon Ethan had found himself in a hall,
the main foyer, with marble underfoot and a grand stairway that led up
to blocked-off doors. Afternoon sunlight shafted downwards from high
windows. The air was thick with dust but his footsteps fell loud and
distinct. The walls were hung with mirrored tile and purplish-red
damask wallpaper. Innumerable Ethans moved when he turned his head.
He was not alone there. There was a girl, of about thirteen,
sitting on the bottom step, dripping blood from a thumb-wound into a
saucer. She had greasy dark hair that hung like thin leaves over pale
skin. In the poor light, Ethan couldn't make out the whites of her
eyes. She held out the saucer and Ethan pulled out a knife to add a
few drops of blood of his own. She had an envelope with her, from
which she poured a pale blue powder, mixing it in with the kind of
wooden stick you found inside ice lollies. She daubed the paste onto
his cheeks and hers, and then they went into the main theatre, to
touch every seat in the stalls whilst reciting a chant in a language
Ethan did not know.
They finished near the edge of the stage, almost overlooking the
orchestra pit. The girl passed him another envelope, which held twenty
pounds and a final instruction from Mr Grey. He took a pen out of his
pocket and wrote down a ritual for making dancing lights. She took it
back from him greedily: that was her payment.
As a parting gift, she held aloft a Hessian bag. "I found it
myself," she said, her tone proud. "I came through." It contained a
single hedgehog, wrapped around itself into a ball.
A memory came back to Ethan, unbidden and unwanted: a bucolic day
under a warm sky, spent running around the fields and woods near his
grandmother's house. He'd disturbed a hedgehog in its nest and followed
it around the underbrush until it had circled home. He must have been
quite small then, if his grandmother had still been alive. He pushed
the memory away.
He went back to the house first, to fetch a few things, then
walked through the streets to the concrete yard where Randall had
died. It was the late afternoon now. The weather was restless: clouds
scudding over the sky, sunlight alternating with brief showers.
The yard was just as abandoned in daylight as it was at night. The
garage was unused and empty. The only signs of habitation were
mouse droppings and spiderwebs.
But the floor was an unbroken concrete slab, a perfect surface for
chalk, blood and salt. He set to it with a broom, sweeping away brick
dust and iron filings. As he worked, he thought to himself there was
no reason to hold back any more, and there never had been. It seemed
unreasonable to him now that he had ever done so. What had he ever
cared of other people's opinions? Everyone had always known what he
was.
The dust made him cough; he had to go outside for some air. He
ventured in a second time, and managed to finish clearing a large
area, if not the whole garage. He could do the rest of it later, but
now he had a place to start.
He'd brought with him his satchel, heavy now from his books and a
selection of magical supplies. The concrete was cold to sit on, even
on such a mild day, so he pulled off his shirt and sat on that
too. Then he considered the books he'd brought with him.
The evening light was starting to fade, so he lit a lamp. He
thought he might as well start with the spell that required a live
hedgehog.
Stan came by after dinner. "How's everyone, then, yeah?" He looked
around the kitchen. "Someone's cleaned up the place."
So Rupert had to explain that there was no-one else currently in
the house. Tom was at his father's, Diedre and Adrienne were at
Louise's, and he hadn't spoken to Ethan in days.
"And Randall?" asked Stan. "No sign of him yet?"
When Rupert shook his head, unable to meet Stan's eyes, Stan said,
"That's not like him. I'm really starting to get worried there, yeah."
So Rupert endured another couple of hours as Stan's offsider as he
drove around Camden, popping into pubs and clubs. Some of the places
were behind unmarked doors on residential streets, behind which were
purple and orange walls and flashing lights. Stan would walk into the
middle of a party, where wasted-looking girls and young men sat on low
sofas next to improbably large loudspeakers. He'd shake his head at
would-be customers and then ask about Randall. No-one ever asked who
Randall was; they all seemed to know.
Rupert would watch this for a little bit and then go outside. Each
time he was amazed at the silence outside and the fresher air. He'd
have a cigarette and wonder why he wasn't supposed to tell Stan what
had happened. He felt a fool, and a duplicitous fool at that. He hung
around in the doorway, looking up at the sky. There wasn't much moon
visible through the clouds, but there seemed to be a few
bats about.
Stan drove him back to the house about one a.m. "I can't keep
doing this," said Stan, "I've got work tomorrow. I should be moving
out of here for good."
When he parked the car, he opened the glovebox and handed Rupert
an envelope. "Can you pass this on to Diedre? It's a wedding
invitation. I know I should invite you as well, but it's only a small
wedding, close friends only."
"How are things up in High Wycombe?" Rupert asked.
"Good, yeah," said Stan. "We've found a flat. I'm starting this
job. There's a wargamers club that meets at the church hall, and that
looks like a good way for me to meet people. And Julie's just great."
"You're a lucky man," Rupert said, feeling genuinely envious.
"Yeah," said Stan. "Look, I'll be round later in the week to pick
up my stuff. See you then."
After Stan left, Rupert poured himself a glass from the dwindling
stock of gin. He sat on the back steps of the house, looking out over
the thicket of garden that Diedre had rather failed to tame. Only a
portion of the garden was lit by the streetlamps, as the rest was
shadowed by the rest of the terraces. When the light started to
flicker, Rupert looked up.
There was nothing wrong with the streetlamps, which shone on
steadily. Rather, their light was occluded by a stream of bats.
Rupert stepped out onto the street. He thought at once of the
animal-illusion spell, but it was soon clear that these bats were real
-- one fallen specimen crunched underfoot. He started back to the
house, thinking he should wake Ethan, who would surely want to see
this, when he remembered that they weren't on speaking terms now. So
he headed off alone, following the direction of the bats, which was
roughly north-west. Perhaps there was something going on at Primrose
Hill.
The density of the bats increased as he walked on. There weren't
many people about in the small hours of a weekday night, and what few
there were seemed keen to head inside. But a car pulled up beside him
as he passed a pub. It was Stockton.
"Any idea?" asked Stockton, as he stepped out of his car.
"None," said Rupert. "What do we know?"
"No unusual vampire activity," said Stockton. "There's a demonic
coven on Jamestown Road, but according to our sources, they've gone to
a convention in Brighton. We're still investigating other local demons
and sorcerers."
Rupert said, "Why would anyone want to summon thousands of bats?"
In truth, it looked more like hundreds of thousands of bats: every
bat in London seemed to be on the move. There were so many of them now
that the sound of their massed wings was quite audible, a rustling of
leather leaves. The air was starting to reek of ammonia.
"Numerous species," noted Rupert. "It's a broad-range summoning
spell, not terribly specific."
They were not far now from the canal. They paused on the bridge,
which afforded them an excellent view of the massed bats, who were now
following some intricate circular flight pattern, like the start of a
whirlpool.
Stockton had a bulky camera with him. He raised it and took photo
after photo of the whirling bats. With each flash, Rupert saw a
black-and-white tableaux of wings, frozen for a moment in the glare.
Then, without warning, the bats dropped put of formation, started
to thin and disperse.
"Where do you think was the epicentre?" asked Stockton.
Rupert shook his head. "Difficult to say. We should see if there's
any radar information."
"And you should let us know, too," said Stockton, "if you hear
anything." They walked back in direction of Stockton's car. "You know,
I think this could work out. You, out in the field, gathering
information. It could be useful."
Rupert said, "If you want something to do, try looking into
this place--" and he gave him Marty's address. "There's a nest of vampires
there and an unsavoury owner to clear out."
"Thanks," said Stockton, shaking his hand. "I'll look into it."
Then he said, "Did you really kill Eyghon?"
"No," said Rupert, "but he'll be gone for a while."
Stockton dropped him back at the house.
Ethan woke on the cold concrete. He was chilled and sore, having
slept on his back, partly over a candleholder. He had to start with
some stretching before he felt able to try standing up. He was
unsteady on his feet as he gathered his gear together. His head felt
full of cottonwool and his eyes didn't want to open properly.
It had been a long time since he'd left the brakes off like that.
The sun was high in the sky when he stepped out of the garage, but
he was too giddy to take in whether it was before noon or after
noon. In the yard he paused for a moment next to Randall, before
heading back towards home.
He got most of the way there before he decided that what he really
wanted first was a meal. He changed course slightly to head to the
cafe where he used to have breakfast with Ripper. They made a decent
coffee. He thought coffee might help.
Of course, the bloody bastard had to show up just as Ethan was
starting on his egg and chips. He was carrying his guitar, so perhaps
he couldn't stay long.
"We have to tell Stan," said Rupert, for no apparent reason, as he
pulled up a chair. "I know you're avoiding me, but we have to talk
about this. It's unfair and it's simply untenable. I was out with him
for hours last night, simply hours, and I couldn't say a word to
him. He's very concerned, Ethan."
Ethan chewed a bit of egg.
"You look terrible," Rupert said. "Are you drunk?" He peered at
Ethan's pupils. "Or something else?"
"I'm hungry," Ethan said, pointedly.
Rupert let him eat for a moment, but then said, "So should we tell
him?"
"Tell him what?"
Rupert stared at Ethan and then shook his head. "You're
unbelievable," he said. "You are simply unbelievable." He stood, then
leant over the table. "Your friend, your
supposedly good friend Randall, has been dead for what? Ten days? And
you're sitting there, eating lunch, and asking me what I could be
talking about. What else would I be talking about?"
"Tell Stan," said Ethan. "Why should I care what he thinks of me?"
Rupert got up then, gave him a look of disgust, and went out the
door. He'd left an untouched coffee on the table that Ethan drank.
Back at the house, he slept for a while, feeling almost numb with
exhaustion when he woke. It would be some days before he could stand
to cast anything that strong again.
It was late evening. He wouldn't mind watching some television,
but someone had taken the TV out of the attic in the last couple of
days. He lit a couple of candles and flicked, rather listlessly,
through a paperback novel.
He wondered how Diedre was. He wanted her back in the house. He
was perfectly sure that Adrienne would be fine, but not Diedre. She
should come home.
When he heard a car up outside the house, he looked out of the
window, in case it was her. He was disappointed to see that it was, in
fact, someone he didn't know. He went back to bed and to his book.
Rupert left Ethan back at the cafe and headed into work. There was
a rowdier than usual crowd for a Wednesday at the hotel restaurant as
there were two separate tables farewelling colleagues quite drunkenly and
at great length. They were ordering another round of cocktails even as
he packed up.
He spent the afternoon on quotidian tasks: grocery shopping,
picking up a pair of boots that been resoled, and returning a library
book. He had dinner at the pub, where the barman asked after Randall,
Diedre and Ethan. Rupert gave a reply that was much less honest than,
"Dead, crazed with grief, and psychopathic, respectively." He'd
taken his usual seat in a booth that was much too large for a single
man eating alone. It had always been very crowded and rather
uncomfortable when the entire household had been there.
When Rupert got back to the house, he found Stockton in the
kitchen with a cup of tea.
"Hope you don't mind," said Stockton. "It gets a bit dull just
sitting in the car."
"There's supposed to be a ward on the door," Rupert pointed out.
"Well, yes," said Stockton, "but it's a pretty trivial one." He
took a sip of tea.
"Have you been assigned to Camden Town now?"
"Just for a few weeks. The raising of Eyghon rather worried
people, so I'm on temporary patrol. I've been wondering if you know
how that came about."
"A local coven," said Rupert, "since disbanded."
Stockton said, "I brought some biscuits."
Rupert brought over a couple of stools and made himself some
instant coffee.
"That tip of yours paid off," said Stockton. "The 'suck joint'. We
cleaned it out this morning. Very easy job, in fact. The vampires
were actually chained in place."
"What about Marty," asked Rupert, "the man who runs the place?"
Stockton shrugged. "I think he got away."
"Any news on the bats?"
"Not unless you have some. I spoke to a couple of wizards around
Kentish Town, but they both disavowed all knowledge. And we have Penelope
Jones and Archie Walters knee-deep in cards going through the prophecy
and portent index." He passed Rupert a chocolate digestive. "Could it
be the same coven who summoned Eyghon?"
"They've disbanded," Rupert said firmly. "And their lead caster
hasn't enough power on his own; he's still doing card tricks. Pretty
good card tricks, but not the sort of thing we saw last night."
"Hm," said Stockton. "Look, Giles, there's something else I wanted
to talk with you about. It's just an idea, and I haven't mentioned it
yet to anyone else, but... I happen to know that Dr Chalmers has a
small pot of money for special projects. I know you don't want to come
back to us, but you could still be part of the fight. You could be
pretty useful here, keeping an eye out, letting us know what's going
on outside HQ. Your guitar business, that would be an excellent
front. I could talk to Dr Chalmers about getting you a stipend. You
could be one of our fellows on the outside."
"I'll think about it," Rupert said.
Diedre came by on Friday afternoon. Ethan had been half-asleep,
curled up on his mattress, when he heard someone at the back door. He
padded down to the first floor landing and caught a glimpse of her
dark hair in the stairwell below. He wished now that he'd washed and
shaved.
She was dressed tightly in black, with a long skirt and a short
jacket, and her hair was tied back. Her face was clear of makeup,
monochrome and indistinct in the hallway light. She didn't respond to
Ethan's approach at all. Instead she reached into a large leather bag
and pulled out a Polaroid camera. Ethan sat on the landing,
watching as she loaded it with film.
At the bottom of the stairs she raised her arms as high as she
could and pointed the camera at the wall. The flash went off and Ethan
blinked, and there was a whirring sound as the photograph came out of
the camera. Diedre put it carefully on the hallway floor, then raised
the camera for another photograph.
Ethan stepped behind her, to better see the developing
picture. From a yellow gloom appeared a pair of crows who gazed
towards a red and swollen moon. It was a piece of Randall's
stairwell-spanning painting.
"If you're planning to photograph the whole thing, it's going to
take a long time," Ethan commented. He found that the leather bag was
full of Polaroid film and hinged photo albums.
Diedre kept on saying nothing. She would not look at him at
all. She carried on taking photographs. When he sat on a step
immediately in her way, she just stepped around him and photographed a
different part of the stairwell.
"Diedre," he said, "Diedre, it's me, Ethan. I'm the one who killed
Randall. I'm right here." He saw her hands waver a little, but she
carried on. "Sand and not salt for the pentagram. It was me."
She still didn't respond, so he went to make her a cup of coffee
that grew cold on a windowsill. After a while, she sat down on a
step to rest, rolling her shoulders and stretching her arms as if they
ached.
Ethan sat down next to her. "I killed Randall," he said. His face
was a few inches from hers. "I'm the reason he's dead."
She leant over and pressed her face to her knees. When she lifted
her face up, her skirt was wet with tears.
He followed her in her slow progress up the stairs for
hours. Polaroid after polaroid was taken, placed on the steps to
develop, then put away in the albums. The batteries died in the
camera, so she put in more. She spoke not a word and she gave him not
a glance.
Sometime after four, the back door opened again and Ethan realised
he was running out of time. He stood next to her and shouted, "It's
me! It's Ethan!" and a few seconds later, something like a freight
train slammed into him.
Rupert Giles slammed him up against a wall, with enough force to
make Ethan's head rebound. Rupert's face was tight and cold with
anger.
"Leave her alone," Rupert said.
And Ethan knew then what he had to do.
The set list was sellotaped to the floor between Rupert and The
Grin's lead singer. The band was set up next to the pub windows and
near the door. Rupert was distracted every time someone came in, in
case they tripped over the amplifier cables.
They were doing mostly covers tonight. They had an audience of
about five who stood a yard away, alternately nodding their heads and
sipping their beer. The rest of the packed room were just there for a
drink and a chat: sometimes they looked up, but mostly they talked
very loudly and kept their heads down. In quieter moments Rupert could
catch snatches of conversation about football, someone's tight snatch,
and a train trip to Blackpool.
"Right now," said the lead singer, "Cherry Red." After a couple of
bars, he launched into the vocals. This was definitely one of the
harder ones for Rupert, even if he was sometimes playing simplified
licks.
But he still couldn't help but notice that there was a girl
stalking through the crowd in a very familiar way. She wore a long
dress in a patterned brown and her dark hair swung almost to her
waist. Rupert watched her inviting herself to take a seat next to a
lone drinker.
He had to concentrate hard for a solo or two, and when he next
caught sight of the couple, the man had his hand on her thigh. He was
not a good-looking man and Rupert doubted that women approached him often.
As the song came to end, the couple rose from their booth.
Rupert was pouring with sweat from his effort. He put down his
guitar and shouted, "Give me five minutes?" He made a motion with his
hands to indicate a beer glass.
"We're having a short break now," said the lead singer, sounding a
bit pissed.
Rupert picked up his jacket from against the wall. He ducked down
a corridor as he groped in his jacket pocket. The girl was leading the
ugly man into a disused back kitchen. Rupert's mirrored ring showed
what he'd already guessed: that she was a vampire.
"Do you mind?" said the girl when she saw him.
He pulled out a stake.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she said.
She showed her true face then and her erstwhile paramour backed
off. Rupert thrust at her but missed, and with a casual backhand she
slammed him into a counter. He dropped his stake and fell to the
floor.
"Look, I'll just kill the both of you," she said, shutting the
kitchen door and pushing a refrigerator in front of it.
Rupert rolled over and grabbed his stake. The other man was trying
the rusted lock on the windows.
"I think I have to kill you first," the vampire said to
Rupert. "You're going to be a bit harder than Frankie here."
Rupert pulled out a crucifix and held it in front of him.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," the vampire said, rolling her eyes. She
ripped a cupboard door from its hinges and threw it at Rupert. It
slammed into his midriff and he doubled over in pain. The vampire
shook her head in bewilderment. "So what would you do if your bacon
tried to bite back?"
Rupert scrambled around the room, as she bared her teeth and
followed him. He ended up next to the ripped-open cupboard. He grabbed a
container of Ajax cleaner and threw as much of it at her face as he could.
When she shrieked and rubbed at her eyes, Frankie launched himself
at her, knocking her to the ground. He kept her there just long enough
for Rupert to slam the stake home.
"Thanks," said Frankie. "Hey, aren't you in the band?"
He got back to his guitar. He was panting, even more
sweat-slicked, and was smeared with dust from the kitchen floor and
the dying vampire. There was a fine white powder of Ajax on his shirt
sleeve.
The Grins' lead singer gave him a look. "The Other Side of This
Life," he said, tapping his foot on the set list.
After the gig, Rupert grabbed himself a beer and then went to
stand outside in the cool night air, his back pressed against the pub
wall. His shirt was soaked and he needed a cigarette. He looked down
the night street, thinking.
This is what his life could be, he thought: day rehearsals,
evening gigs, night kills. He could get his own digs with a stipend
from Chalmers and call up Stockton whenever he was in over his head. He
ought to be able to manage that for a couple of years, until something
killed him.
But what was the alternative? Living his own life, playing at pub
shows, and staying on in the squat until he could find better-paid
work as a session musician? Forever getting glimpses of the demonic
world in the corner of his eye, and drinking himself under every
night because wasn't doing a damn thing about it?
A group of girls came out of the pub then. Most of them waved
goodbye and tottered in the general direction of a bus-stop, but a
red-headed girl spotted him and hung back.
"Hey," she said. "You're in the band."
"Yeah," he said, stubbing out his cigarette with his foot.
A few minutes later, he led her through the pub to its unused
kitchen.
Ethan was already largely packed, of course. He had meant to join
Randall for the trip in the van, some terribly long time ago. He still
meant to join Randall, in a way.
He took his notebooks, tomes, and clothes to that yard of the
abandoned garage. The afternoon had turned sunny and Randall's remains
were quite clear in the sunlight. He took a seat next to them, pulling
some notebooks out to read. Poor Randall, the hippie fool.
In an old manila folder were the hexes he wrote in his
schooldays. How crude they looked to him now: cobbled together with
teenage clumsiness. Key concepts had been misunderstood, unnecessary
features over-elaborated; they were convoluted where they should have
been simple and were showy in ways that diminished their overall
power. There were sections that he could only wince at now. Yet here
and there was a well-executed flourish or a genuine touch of
originality.
He'd told Randall that he'd only used these spells in
self-defence; perhaps he had. But as he'd grown in skill, his
retribution had grown in strength, until it was only the new boys,
friendless and seeking to impress, who'd knocked him down. No-one had
ever actually died.
The loathing he'd inspired must have had a cause. He'd always been
unliked and unlikeable. Only the doting and the hopelessly naive had
ever thought otherwise.
One of the hexes looked salvageable. It had a solid central idea
and he thought he could combine it with part of an Ogata spell to
increase its potency. It needed only an accomplice and an
incontrovertible clue for Rupert, and Ethan thought he knew what to do
for both.
An hour later, he made a telephone call from a booth near the
zoo. It proceeded satisfactorily.
An hour after that, he knocked on Philip's door. Philip looked
like he'd just got home from work: he was shoeless but still wearing a
shirt and tie. "Ethan?" he said.
There was a note of fear in Philip's voice. Ethan thought that
would make everything a little easier.
"The real problem," said Stockton, "is that there's no reward for
initiative. I think they actually try and stamp down on it. You've got
your paper pushers, who've played it safe all their lives -- and live
a long time because of it -- but do they listen to those on the
ground? No, they act like old women. Now, men like us, who've seen a
thing or two, and who can recognise a vampire without
a list of plate illustrations, we've a great deal to tell
them. It's not as clear-cut as they like to think... Oh, is it my
round?"
"I'm afraid so," said Rupert.
It was eight o'clock in the evening, at Stockton's favourite
pub. Apart from Stockton, most of the other clientele appeared to be
students. Stockton said he went there to look at the girls, some of
whom were definitely worth looking at. So were a couple of the boys,
although Rupert thought he might try to ignore that from now on.
"Now, what was I on about?" Stockton asked as he returned with a
third pair of pints.
"Old women of the Council."
"Oh, yes. They're too stuck in their ways. They fail to take a
proper look at the world around them. It's changed, Giles. They need
to give that some serious thought."
Rupert sipped his beer. "So what would you do differently?"
Stockton leant back in the booth. "Demons aren't our worst enemy
anymore. We should be turning our sights on Russia and the Chinese."
A man stumbled into the pub just then. He was weeping. When he got
to the bar, he tipped out the contents of his wallet and pointed at a
bottle of gin.
Rupert tapped Stockton on the arm and pointed.
The man said, "I didn't mean it. I hit him harder than I meant
to. He was only a little boy."
From outside there was a scream. Rupert bolted out the door.
An older woman stood there. She said, "The bombs were raining down and I
said, no, you can't come into our shelter. There wasn't room and she
looked that common. First thing I saw when I came out in the morning
was half her arm."
A car had slewed to a halt and now blocked traffic along the
street. Rupert and Stockton walked up to the car. The man inside said,
"Every night, before I went to bed, I prayed not to have a baby
sister. I prayed and prayed until she caught measles and died."
"What the hell is going on?" asked Stockton.
Ethan had come to London in 1968. He had a bag of clothes and a
bag of books and his birthday money to tide him over. He hadn't really
known anyone in London, at least, no-one he'd wanted to see again, but
it was the best place he could think of for finding out more about
magic.
He'd spent his first nights in a youth hostel dormitory, saving
money when it was warm by sleeping in a park. Some of the people in
the hostel had been like him, newly arrived and looking for somewhere
to stay, so he was invited to sleep on a living room floor, which he
did for a month until the landlord found twelve teenagers in his
one-bedroom flat and threw them all out. By then, Ethan had met a
queer in his fifties who claimed to have brought back spellbooks from
Europe, so Ethan lived with him for a while, copying the spells out
into his notebooks while the man slept, until they were all copied out
and Ethan realised the man wasn't otherwise all that interesting. He'd
dossed then on another living room floor -- or had that been later? --
and there had been the couple of months with a drug-addled would-be
coven in Battersea. After them, it had been a relief to follow the
scent of real magic back to Evelyn's; she was living in a borrowed
flat off Ladbroke Grove at the time, so he had three weeks fucking her
there before she'd swanned off back to her barge. He spent that
December in an overcrowded squat where five of his housemates were
in a Heinleinesque group marriage, but in January he met Randall,
so then there had been the Cricklewood flat and the Camden
squat. There'd been Adrienne, then biddable Pete the electronics and
cricket enthusiast who'd eventually left to marry his fiance. After
that, Ethan spent six months celibate to see if it helped him
concentrate on his magic; as it didn't, he amused himself the
following year with casual arrangements and infrequent pick-ups, which
had suited him very well until the arrival of the magician-guitarist.
And all the while, Ethan had been learning about magic. When he'd
first arrived, he'd thought his best bets were the major institutions
like the British Library, where all the knowledge ought to be stored;
perhaps it was, but if so, it was out of the reach of people such as
himself with ordinary Reader's Tickets. He had had to look for magic
elsewhere, in old bookshops and in boxes stored in the back of
wardrobes. He picked up tricks from watching street performers and
self-proclaimed psychics. He consumed all the magic he could find and
then he would search for more.
There were footsteps outside from the concrete yard. Ethan braced
himself, but it was only Philip.
Philip looked unhappy, which was hardly surprising, given the
circumstances. He was pink-faced and sweating. "I did what you asked,"
he said. He hovered next to the garage doorway, as if reluctant to get
any closer.
"I could tell," said Ethan. He sat in a chalked circle, surrounded
by lit candles. "The connection lets me sense whenever someone becomes
ensorcelled."
"You'll remove the spell from me now, then?"
Ethan looked at him, wondering what sort of flashy trick he could
cast to reassure Philip without endangering the main spell. He
couldn't think of one, so he said, "It'll wear off tomorrow, unless I
renew it. Run along, now."
Philip ran.
Sometimes Ethan bumped into people from his old, pre-London life,
and not just at Diedre's parties. It was usually on public
transport. Most of them pretended not to recognise him, but Barton had
been a couple of years ahead of Ethan at school and hadn't apparently
heard of Ethan's later reputation. He recalled a rather surreal
conversation on the train between Brighton and London where Barton, a
banker, had quizzed him on his life choices, as if Ethan would ever
have chosen the life Barton had.
But you found those sort of people in the cold-water flats too:
intoxicated by their own supposed daring, shocked at even minor
deviations from the norm, as if the norms were anything more than a
historical quirk. Ethan frankly blamed it on the unimaginative way
history was taught in schools.
No, there was only ever one path Ethan had ever desired or
considered. He closed his eyes now to immerse himself more fully in
the magic, feeling it warm him down to his bones. Magic: his hymn, his
science, his dance, his joy. It was his life.
He sat on the concrete and waited.
Rupert looked around. There were other people coming out of the
pub and from the tube station who looked as bemused as Stockton. "Not
everyone's affected," Rupert said.
"Are they coming from any particular direction?"
"The shouting does seem to be coming more from the west."
"I'll take a look," said Stockton. "Can you call HQ?"
"First bats, now this," said Rupert. "Got any change?"
It was Mrs Edwards on the phones tonight. That threw him a little,
as she'd once taught him Document Preservation. Still, he stumbled his
way through a description of the situation.
She cut him off halfway through. "Giles," she snapped. "Go and
speak to your friend. I've been through the likely magical mechanisms
and remedies with him already."
"Friend? Has Stockton called tonight?"
"Not Stockton, no, and it was this afternoon. Giles, has the
security of this number been compromised?"
"What? No! No, I should just go and speak with this... friend of
mine. I'll call you back when we're done."
Rupert closed his eyes. There was only one person that could
possibly be. He'd given the number to no-one else.
When he left the telephone booth, he could see Stockton down the
end of the street. Rupert took care not to be seen by him as he jogged
away.
He went first to the house. Ethan's door was locked both magically
and physically. Rupert chanted a likely counter-spell and then slammed
his shoulder into the door. The wood around the lock gave way.
Inside, the room was almost bare. There was a mattress and a chair
but everything else was gone. The place had been stripped.
So where else could he be?
Downstairs, on the kitchen table, someone had left a note: "Come
to the canal? Evelyn." Perhaps he was working with her.
He had to run back then, parallel to the high street and towards the
moorings to the north of the park. As he ran, he wondered: did anyone
else have the Watcher telephone number? Could someone have taken it
from Ethan? Rupert simply hadn't thought Ethan had this level of
power. If he was working on his own, why would he be doing it?
But there had been the card-tricks in the railway station and the
gryphon in the schoolyard. Sometimes Ethan just liked to play tricks
on people. And he could be a cruel man; Rupert grimaced at the thought
of how Ethan had recently behaved with Deirdre. And after all, how
well, in fact, did Rupert know him? He still did not know Ethan's
age, his place of birth, or whether he had any family. Rupert would be
the first to admit that he'd been far from clear-headed in the last
few months and he could well have missed many clues. He should focus
instead on the feeling in his gut, that there was something very wrong
with the man.
Rupert realised he had helped to bring this about. He'd taught
Ethan some magic, provided constructive criticism on spells Ethan
already knew, aided and abetted him in money-making schemes, and had
even trusted him with the Council contact number. Rupert felt
revulsion at his own complicity and blindness.
Ethan could have been playing these sorts of tricks the whole
time, growing in arrogance all the while. Now he had made a
mistake and Rupert was going to catch him.
He reached the moorings. He ran past a dozen barges and realised
he had no idea which one was Evelyn's. He slowed to a walk, turned
back, and peered in the windows as he passed. In the three which had
any lights on, Evelyn was not to be seen.
Of course, if Ethan had gone to Evelyn's, wouldn't he have picked
up the note?
Where then? He tried to think as he walked back along the
towpath. As he turned off onto a side street, he realised he was near
the abandoned garage where he'd killed Eyghon. Ethan might just be
callous enough to use that as a base.
As he stepped into the garage's yard, he saw a flickering light
within.
It was cold now in the garage. Ethan's legs were going a little
numb on the concrete floor and his finger was aching where the nail
had yet to grow back. The warmth from the candles was quite distinct.
Was that a sound, outside? He tensed and waited. When it did not
repeat, he remembered to breath.
Rupert would be here soon, though, he was sure of it. Rupert was a
smart man when he was sober.
It was the waiting that was tedious. He couldn't immerse himself
properly in the magic now that he was trying so hard to listen for
footsteps. Perhaps he should have brought a book.
How long had he been waiting? It was night, of course, he could
see that through the open door. But was it ten or midnight or two a.m.?
Another sound: footsteps with a recognisable cadence. Rupert, now,
standing in the doorway, silhouetted by streetlamps. He said
something, but Ethan couldn't take in what. He didn't have to. The
question would be: How do I cancel the spell? Or: Why did you do this?
Or: Did you think I wouldn't find you? Did you think I couldn't tell?
It didn't really matter what the question was, of course.
"No," Ethan said.
There was a narrow sink along one wall of the garage; the tap was
rusty but Rupert got it to turn. He sluiced the blood from his hands
and rinsed the sweat from his face. He put his glasses back on.
Ethan lay on the floor on the other side of the room, breathing
heavily. It had taken longer than Rupert had expected and he'd had to
break several bones. It had felt good to do the right thing.
Now he would have to go and find Stockton and tell him what he'd
learnt: the spell was inflicted with a tiny spot of paint applied to
the skin. All one had to do was find the spot and remove it. The
caster had been an estranged housemate, one Ethan Rayne. The Council
should open a file on him, if they hadn't already. Their contact
number would need to be changed.
Rupert dried his hands on a corner of his shirt and walked over to
Ethan. "I could call you an ambulance."
"No," said Ethan, weakly. He'd said that a lot in the last
quarter-hour.
"Your friend's moored along the canal," Rupert told him. "You
might be able to make it there."
Outside, he paused briefly at the spot where Eyghon had been
killed. It seemed strange now, that he had ever been there or done
that. He could still feel in his hands how the bicycle handlebar had
felt when it crushed into the demon's skull. The memory made him
uneasy and queasy.
He should hurry on. There were people that he had to rescue.
Ethan waited for the worst of the pain to subside. Eventually, he
knew, it would dull to a throb, though he would still have to be
careful of his ribs. But already he felt clearer in his mind and
heart.
He should be able to walk to Evelyn's, he thinks, if he takes it
slowly. She'll take him in for a little while.
She owes him a favour, after all.
Giles got his old room back, on the first floor, overlooking a small
lawn. The furniture was as worn and solid as he remembered. Doctor
Chalmers had made the arrangements: Oxford could be more forgiving
when the Council intervened. They were both old institutions, long
intertwined.
It was still a week before term started, but Giles had been there
a fortnight already. With the last year lost to London, he'd wanted to
review and reconsider his studies so far. His ostensible work -- the
degree in history -- still interested him, much as it had done
before. It was his other, Watcher, studies that he found himself
reinterpreting. He sifted through his old notes, seeing now which ones
were of obvious immediate utility, which were theoretical
underpinnings, and which were of dubious application. He was motivated
for the first time by the class on spellcraft nomenclature, which now
seemed to him essential for understanding the deconstruction and
adaptation of spells. He saw now how demon taxonomy, with its
insistence on the importance of minute variations by fingernail shape
and eye colour, was a remarkably practical course of study. But his
most surprising enthusiasm was for library cataloguing: how else could
one research, at inevitably short notice, which particular malevolent
entity one needed to control or destroy?
The calm and clarity of his last days in London, his refound
purpose, was with him still. He worked long hours, into the early
morning, dining in college three times a day. In the last hour of the
evening, before bed, he'd allow himself a beer, a couple of
cigarettes, and some time on his guitar.
As he sat there then in the lamplight, London seemed like a
mirage. He'd wonder sometimes how Adrienne and Diedre were, and maybe
Tom and Stan. He tried to not think too much about Randall, because
that made him want to get drunk. And Ethan? Clearly just as bad as
Diedre's cousin had once warned, and not nearly as intelligent as Giles
had once thought. Anyone clever wouldn't have got caught.
It was autumn, and he felt autumnal. He decided to play a
selection from the works of Nick Drake.
FURTHER ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The Jackanory story is Tove
Jansson's Moominsummer Madness. Diedre sings lyrics from The
Who's "Magic Bus" and The Beatles' "Magical Mystery Tour." Ethan's
Latin quotation is from Petronius's Satyricon and Giles's
translation is that of William Arrowsmith (1959). The stories Ethan
tells on the drive back from Stonehenge are very loosely based on
Theosophical writings. All of the books mentioned except
Love-starved Hellcat and Nurse Turner Runs Away are in
my personal collection, although some of the magic tomes are not
magical in this dimension. My thanks to D for answering my guitar band
101 questions, although I have no doubt I made errors there
anyway. This novel was partially inspired by Doyle's short story about
Ethan and Tara in the Wishverse, The
Same Rainbow's End.
FACTUAL NOTES: The magical practices are based on Buffyverse
examples rather than on those used in our universe. I have played
around with the timelines of the Stonehenge festivals
somewhat. Folkestone is actually quite nice.
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Part 2:
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Epilogue
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