Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (4 page)

Dangling upside down, Sally the banshee removed the whiteboard from its resting place in the crook of her arm, unpopped the marker pen with a flick of her thumb and carefully wrote:

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

The four greatest killers the world has ever seen have come to town.

Sharon Li doesn’t realise this and, frankly, why should she? There’s a lot of stuff out there for one girl to know, especially a shaman who’s expected to know so much stuff it’s a miracle she can remember any one thing at a given moment. And would she really want to know about this? Because Derek doesn’t.

Derek, high social secretary, and quite possibly high priest, of the Friendlies, servant of the Lonely Lady, watchman of 4 a.m. and, as if that wasn’t enough, moderately successful owner of a tool hire business operating out of Balham (third off the price if all items are returned on the same working day) says, “Who’s there?”

And then he sees.

“How’d you get here?” he asks, already knowing the answer but feeling he ought to keep the conversation going just in case. “What do you want?”

These are redundant questions, as he knows perfectly well what they want and, more to the point, that he’ll be unable to give it to them. Not through lack of trying, but because truly he does not know the answer to the question, the inevitable question:

“Where is she?”

He hopes the honesty shows in his face as he answers, backing towards the furthest wall. “I don’t know.”

The four greatest killers in the world didn’t knock, didn’t jingle, didn’t rattle, didn’t crash, didn’t jar, didn’t crunch on their way in, and now, as they move, they make no sound except the quiet mantra that is their murderous chant.

“Come on, pal…”

“Mate…”

“Mucker…”

“Where’s the lady hiding?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Derek asks, or rather, the part of him that desperately wants to live and which, regardless of everything that common sense predicts for the next five minutes, still hopes to explore this receding option.

“Kill you?” one asks.

“Us?” one exclaims.

“Wanker,” offers a third.

“Tosser,” agrees the fourth.

“Why’d we do that, mate? You think we’re that kinda guys?”

“Gotta look out for that, mate.”

“Just give us what we want…”

“Tits!”

Derek’s eyes dance to the one who makes this rather incongruous contribution to the conversation and see him smile. His smile is lecherous, his smile is the ogling grin of a man who’s spent too much time in high places observing the things that pass below, his smile is the smile God would have worn when enjoying a dirty joke with Satan, just you and me, hate the attitude, love the wit. Then his eyes move to the other three in the room. How they entered he does not know, but how they will leave he can fairly guess, and he sees that they too are smiling.

Four faces…

… but all the same smile.

A whimper escapes him before he can prevent it; his fingers scratch into the brick wall at his back. “Please…” he whines. “Please, I don’t know. She’s just vanished, that’s all, she just disappeared!”

“How’d she do that then?” asks one.

“Magic!” suggests another.

“Poof–farts–poof!” cackles a third.

“Right stinker,” concurs the fourth.

“If you can’t help us…”

“… then we’ll have to find someone else…”

“… because our guvnor…”

“… he wants her so bad…”

“… so bad I mean it’s like he’s got this massive thing…”

“Wanker!”

“Arse.”

“Lovely pair of knockers.”

“So you see…”

Four faces fill his world, four faces and they are all the same face, the same smile, the same eyes, the same voice, whispering their words as the floor cracks beneath his feet and the walls grow fingers of mortar and dust to wrap around his throat and dig into his skin.

“… we ain’t never gonna stop…”

“Overtime, yeah.”

“Payday!”

“… until you give us Greydawn.”

He tries to scream, but the concrete is already giving way beneath him, sucking him down, and the walls have curled their ragged fingers around his face, stopping his mouth with mortar and dirt, filling his throat, his lungs, with thick grey sludge, and still he tries, and no sound can emerge until he is bursting from the inside out with the weight of it and his eyes dribble tar and his face is red, then scarlet, then purple, then the orange-brown of sandstone and clay, and at the very, very last a tiny puff of air escapes his lips, the very last puff that he shall ever breathe, and if you listen closely, if you crane your ear right up next to his face, before it is pulled down into the foundations at his feet, you might hear this one word:

Howl.

Before he is sucked down beneath the street.

She said, “I get so lonely sometimes.”

She said it so softly, so gently, that for a moment the gathered members of Magicals Anonymous exchanged glances, just to check that they’d heard it aright; but yes, that was the sentiment, that was the word.

“It’s not something I can really explain,” she sighed. “But these last few years I’ve just known that I don’t belong, and people won’t understand.”

The room lapsed into silence. The speaker was Mrs Rafaat (Hello, Mrs Rafaat).

“And I’m not really magical at all, you know. I mean, I’ve been tested because I was having these experiences, but they weren’t so much experiences as things that happened around me but actually I don’t know any wizarding or witching or anything and apparently if I tried to cast a spell it would probably just go
puft,
but the thing is I do seem to know things, and really things do seem to happen and I suppose I’m actually a bit of an intruder here so I really hope you don’t mind, but you all seem like lovely people and I am very interested and really yes–but yes, really actually quite worried. I’ve been feeling that way for a while, something I can’t quite put my finger on but I’m rambling. I’m rambling aren’t I? So yes, that’s me. Would anyone mind if I had another cup of tea?”

In her mid-fifties, she spoke with the faintest remnant of an Indian accent, softened by many years of life in Wembley. Her orange sari, threaded with blue and purchased in Bethnal Green some ten years ago, was getting a bit tatty round the hem.

“But I don’t mind, I mean some people say it’s silly to wear a sari in Wembley, but actually I think it’s very comfortable, and modest, and allows you to have some strong colour in your life without making a fool of yourself because it’s so easy with fashion these days to make a fool of yourself, I’d say it’s a safety thing, isn’t it, wearing what you’re comfortable with not to make a point. I’m rambling again, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I do that.

“Um, excuse me?” The bone-white, wrinkle-ridden, spot-stained hand of Mr Roding (Necromancy is such a misunderstood discipline) was raised in polite enquiry. “I don’t mean to complain, and I’m sure you’re a very lovely woman, Mrs Rafaat, but feeling ‘quite worried’ isn’t what we’re here for. I mean, we all feel worried, don’t we?”

A chorus of consent.

“But our worries stem from very specific causes. I, for one, can halt the passage of degrading time upon my body through the use of ancient lore studied over many a sagely lifetime, but I still haven’t found a solution for the skin-sloughing issue. The books recommend aloe vera, fat lot of use that was. But, the thing is, Mrs Rafaat, I’m not sure your problems really compare.”

Mrs Rafaat’s face sank. Seemingly each muscle contracted one at a time until only a pair of wide, sorrowful eyes protruded. “I’m very sorry,” she mumbled, unable to meet Mr Roding’s watery-green gaze flecked with shattered capillaries. “I just didn’t know where else to go and when I saw that this group was organising I thought… it seemed so right. I can’t explain it, but I know… I don’t know what I know I just know… there’s something terribly important I’ve forgotten. But I don’t know what it is.”

One or two dirty looks were shot at Mr Roding, who had the good manners to stare in shame at his shiny black shoes.

Sharon cleared her throat. “It’s okay, Mrs Rafaat. We’re completely on board with where you’re coming from. In fact, I’ve personally experienced something similar to what you describe. I uh… I know things. I don’t know how, but… there was this moment. A moment
when I knew I knew everything about the city, everything that was, and has been, and will be again and then… then I didn’t. So I guess I’m saying that’s cool, you know?”

Was that a helpful response, she wondered? Did senior citizens appreciate the multi-faceted aspects of that well-worn “That’s cool, you know?” “We’re all glad to have you in this group, aren’t we?” she added, shooting a glare around at any possible dissenters.

A mumble of assent arose from the gathering, and Mrs Rafaat’s head lifted in cautious optimism.

“That’s very nice of you, but if you really don’t—”

“We do,” insisted Sharon. “We absolutely all do.” She had a very stubborn chin when she needed one. Somewhere in the lineage of the Li family several generations of well-bred Manchurian ladies had each married a well-educated young man, only to discover that while a charming smile went a long way, a sharp heel and well-kept nails might get you further.

“They say,” stammered Mrs Rafaat, “they say… something is missing. Places where there should have been noise are… Is this something people are worried about because I find it very worrying? They say that the spirits of things, I mean, not the spirits, not the fairies or anything fluffy, but the… the heart of things, the soul behind the walls the… the things with the ears, if that makes sense to you, they say they’re vanishing. One night they’re there–you walk alone but you are not alone–and then the next they’re… they’re gone.”

Someone coughed. The cough belonged to Rhys I’m-a-druid-well-sort-of-well-I-tried-but-you-know-how-it-is (Hello, Rhys). It was followed by a shuffling of feet, a twitching of elbow, a shivering of one shoulder and a slow look round the room just to make sure that no one really, really minded that he was about to speak.

No one seemed to mind.

“Uh, what do you mean ‘gone’?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs Rafaat. “That’s the trouble with just knowing things; it never really comes with all the details.”

“When you say ‘spirits’,” interjected Mr Roding, “are we talking benevolent small essences or the malign unleashed power of a blue electric angel?”

“I’m very sorry,” Mrs Rafaat said, “it’s terribly vague.”

Ms Somchit (It’s not about the black, it’s about how you wear it) cleared her throat. At five foot two, with curly black hair falling to her shoulders and skin the colour of fresh almonds, she had the cheerful look of someone who had seen the worst that the world could offer and had actually expected it to be much, much worse. Her black clothes had a priest-like aura, and a small white badge in the shape of a shield bearing a red cross through the centre and a red sword in the top left-hand corner added to the ecclesiastical vibe.

“So… you’re experiencing hollowness, emptiness, doubt, despair and a great sense of wrongness,” she clarified, “but you can’t exactly say what it is. Have you tried acupuncture?”

“Oh God, acupuncture is like the most amazing thing ever,” agreed Kevin, brightening at the mention of medical intervention. “I had like, this utterly amazing craving for the blood of the innocent babe and then two sessions, acupuncture, me, and I was like, wow totally yuck with that virginal blood.”

“Can you get it on the NHS?” asked Mr Roding. “Acupuncture, I mean.”

“You’d probably need a referral,” offered Ms Somchit.

“How about counselling?” suggested Chris Hi-I’m-an-exorcist-but-you-know-I-don’t-think-a-confrontational-approach-is-helping-anyone. “It’s great that you’ve taken this first step, love, but actually talking things through with a professional can be so liberating.”

“Are there counsellors who understand the… the um… the magical thing?” asked Mrs Rafaat.

All eyes turned to Sharon. “I’ll look it up,” she promised.

The meeting melted away.

After, Sharon couldn’t remember the details of what happened at the end. It could have been the excitement of the moment. Or it could have been all the glamours and concealment spells clashing in bursts of steel-silver and emergency-blue light as their owners drew too near each other.

Someone had suggested that they all join hands and give thanks for the spirit of companionship. Someone else–probably Mr Roding–said that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Then someone else suggested that if they were going to link hands in a circle they should sing “Auld Lang Syne”–until Mrs Rafaat pointed out that singing in the presence of Sally might be considered crass.

I don’t mind,
replied Sally.
I enjoy the vocal range of humans.

Eventually, they’d just shaken hands and promised to contribute to the Facebook page and come back next week. Sally had detached herself from the ceiling in a single flop that somehow landed her without a sound and nervously offered a three-clawed talon from beneath her robe for Sharon to shake. The skin was arctic cold and, as Sally carefully wound her claws round Sharon’s hand, struggling not to break anything as she did, Sharon heard the rustle of wings, heard a crunching just behind her ears and tasted a thing that could only be the
feather-coated splat of raw pigeon bursting in her mouth. She turned green and locked her smile into place before Sally could notice. There was a hint of a smile behind Sally’s mask and, having succeeded with what was quite possibly the first handshake of her adult life, she spun brightly on the spot and, once she’d stabilised and got her wings back under control, carefully wrote:

Thank you for your understanding and support.

Then she was in the alley round the side of the building, there was an impression of blackness against the night and the beating of wings, and she was gone.