Vengeance (24 page)

She never heard the dull pop behind the beach hut, then the edge of a hut rippling, wavering like a mirage in the desert heat. Then lights, forming a sparkling net in absolute blackness. For a moment it was if unseen hands tore the fabric of the world apart, and there was absolute nothingness. Then where there had been
nothing
, something stepped through that walked upright but resembled a huge Great Dane.

The spellhound studied its surroundings. The prosaic little beach huts seemed infinitely exotic to it. It lifted its head, tasting the air. Then, following a trail invisible to anyone else, it loped away, drinking deep from a puddle to slake its thirst.

"I'll see you later, Carol,” Jake said to the receptionist, pulling on his coat.

"Going to the shops?” She smiled, and Jake nodded.

"Walk down that road in a suit? He's begging to be mugged,” someone muttered, still resentful of their enforced relocation, even after six months. Jake thought it spectacularly tactless as Carol was a local, but he ignored it and took deep a breath of air. He liked it down here on the coast. It was nice not to inhale a lungful of London's hydrocarbons.

Jake had only noticed the arcade because of the secondhand bookshop crammed with old fantasies and crime novels. Unlike the busy main road lined with chic apartments, the shops on the side road needed a lick of paint and clean windows. The run-down flats above housed many of the town's benefit claimants.

He'd since spent many happy lunch hours avoiding the reality of his divorce in the company of Rex Stout and Jack Vance. The little row of shops, the record shop, butchers and greengrocers seemed an evocation of an earlier, gentler time.

The six months since his move and accompanying divorce had passed with his emotional life in limbo and his finances haemorrhaging. A few of the women at work had hinted at interest—he was tall enough, lean enough, and cute enough—or “lush,” as one local temp had put it—but he'd retreated as if he were a wounded animal.

Then Sylvie blew into the office like a hurricane.

One of the women compared Sylvie's voice to ‘Donald Duck on speed,’ but the men muttered that she was just bitching because she was no longer the centre of attention.

Sylvia Maria de la Pena Baricanos was a foreign student on a work experience program. A deal had been done between a company director and one of his contacts in Brazil; Sylvie came to them, and in return the director's son would get work experience the next year in Brazil.

They'd seen nothing to compare with the five-foot dynamo from Manaus before. To the disgust of most of the women, men toppled like falling lumber in her path. Dark-eyed and dark-haired, she moved voluptuous hips to some inner samba beat. So what if she had a laugh like a bullfrog?

Jake was as bad as the others. From the moment she shouted, “Ay Caramba!” when she dropped some files and he almost fell off his seat laughing, he was doomed.

"Brazilians don't really say that, do they?” he gasped, when he got his voice back.

"No, Jake.” She had a truly evil grin, he thought, and an eccentric use of the English language. “But jew all think we do. An I don’ wanna disappoint by not keeping up my stereotypes."

Three months passed with Jake half-jokingly asking her out, without success. He guessed she'd heard through the grapevine what a mess he was, for her refusals were always equally gentle and mocking. They did lunch together occasionally, but only as friends, and when she made other arrangements, he visited ‘his’ arcade.

One day a junk shop he'd not noticed before caught his eye. It had clearly seen better days, with its filthy cluttered windows full of miniature cars, old annuals, and cheap jewellery. In the middle sat a three-foot-high statue of a black elephant missing a tusk and with a crack running down one side.

A bell rang when he opened the door. A wizened little man sat on a stool, peering through an eyeglass at the innards of a watch. He had a face like a crumpled paper bag and more hair growing out of his ears than on his head. He looked up at Jake, smiled and nodded.

Jake returned the nod. He saw a huge Poole Pottery serving salver with Sunderland flying boat, cracked from top to bottom. The original was unique and priceless; he didn't think they'd made copies.

"You look unhappy, sir,” the owner said, in a broad Dorset accent. “Young man, you shouldn't look so careworn."

Jake laughed, embarrassed. “Unrequited lust, mate.” He hesitated to unburden himself to a stranger.

The man looked interested. “Lust or love?” He smiled. “You look more the lover than luster, young man, in which case I've got the very thing for you."

Jake shook his head. “No, thanks. Got enough videos. They only make you go blind.” He continued browsing, whilst the old man dived under the counter. When he resurfaced, he watched Jake as a hawk watches its prey, unwavering, unblinking.

Jake asked about a couple of things, but the prices made him flinch, so he nodded politely and left.

Back in the office, time dragged. Even the silliest claims failed to amuse him. Sylvie flirted desultorily, but her heart wasn't in it. Distant and preoccupied, she seemed constantly to be on the verge of saying something, then changing her mind.

On the way home, he bought the
Evening Echo
. The front page was devoted to the horrific, apparently pointless slaying of a derelict in an alleyway. It carried lurid claims of mutilation and hints of even worse, and asked outraged questions about why the police were letting a monster roam loose. The alleyway was very near the arcade. He shivered involuntarily.

The weather worsened again, and so did Buzzy's temper. When the phone box was repaired, he took it as an insult, kicking it every time they went past.

Adam was still in hospital, and the others were worried he'd grass them up. It was rumoured that he might lose an eye.

Buzzy blamed Tanya. She should have expected little else. Buzzy never took responsibility for his own actions when there was someone else to blame.

"Friggin’ tart,” he sneered. “Maybe I should put you on the game. Not that I'd get sod all for an ugly cow like you. But if you're so desperate for it, maybe we should make some money out of youse."

That night they set fire to the gorse on the cliff and watched the fire brigade scream along Overcliff Road, lights flashing and sirens wailing. They hugged each other, but Buzzy just muttered that it was kids’ stuff.

"I'm going to find meself some real men to hang out wit,” he muttered. “Shoot some pool. Score some coke,” he added darkly. “And some decent skirt, not ugly slags."

The following night they caught a cat, and he set fire to it, laughing at its screams. Tanya stole off, his laughter ringing in her ears. She was no angel, but he was starting to scare her.

The spellhound left the old man's remains in the alley. The Spell of Yesterday recovered; one part done. It had identified the anomaly: Right spells, wrong man. O'Malley had sold two of the spells to him, leaving the spellhound to chase a decoy.

Getting him to admit what he'd done with the copy of the second spell and the powder that filled the empty canister had been hard. Several times the spellhound stopped when it thought they might be disturbed or when it thought the torture might kill the old man. But he had told, though afterwards he'd died mouthing curses. “Dez warned me there was something about,” he'd spat. “You'm just a killer thing, stamping on our faces. Well, fuck you to hell!” The words died bubbling in his throat.

It thought enviously of O'Malley and wished it could return to their future now; the effects of the double jaunt had left it weary and worn down. But first it had to recover the second spell.

Two days running, Sylvie turned Jake down when he asked her out. She was uncharacteristically blunt, and he was a bit hurt. Maybe she noticed, because she apologised afterwards, something she'd never done before.

He haunted the arcade again, ending up in the junk shop, and bought an expensive brass butterfly brooch encrusted with emeralds. When he handed Jake the brooch, the owner pressed a paper bag into his hand.

"For your unrequited love.” The old man smiled. “At my age, if my love were requited I'd probably have a heart attack. Better you have it than me.” When Jake tried to give it back, he opened the packet and showed it to him, a glass jar with a wooden stopper containing a silvery-grey powder.

"What is it?” Jake asked, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer.

"It's a love potion. You put some in the drink of the one you desire and ensure they're looking at you when they drink it,” the old man replied.

"How much is it?"

The old man shook his head. “I bought it from an old tramp. It cost me very little, so I won't lose much. I'm closing this weekend and moving to Cornwall to be nearer my daughter. It's a farewell present."

Jake thanked him, wished him well, and left. He put the bag in his pocket and forgot all about it for the next two days.

Buzzy's gang cornered a pensioner by the beach huts at sundown on Friday. Her face contorted, and they thought the old fart would have a heart attack. She tottered to the phone box, but Buzzy got there first.

"Naughty, naughty girl,” Buzzy tutted. He ripped the phone out, and to scare her some more, smashed the glass. “Hey!” he cried to the others. “Ain't we been here before?” He laughed a wild cackle. “It's Friday, so let's have a smashing time."

They laughed dutifully. Adam was home now, but would need further visits to the plastic surgeon.

"Look out!” Doggy called. “Van coming!"

They scattered. The council van probably saved the woman's life. She tottered into its path, forcing the driver to stop. He climbed out of the van to help her, putting his arm around the old woman and helping her into the van. Then he stopped, his face mottled with rage, and shouted at the gang. He climbed back in and sped off with the old woman.

The spellhound, watching from gorse brushes where it had slept, dozed again. It was reasonably full and content, having completed another part of Duff's vengeance. The shopkeeper was dead. Now all it had to do was find the stolen spell and punish the guilty, and it could go home. Soon darkness would fall, and it could resume the hunt.

Jake switched off his terminal and called, “Good-night,” to the departing group, declining Dave Melvin's offer to join them in the pub.

The invitations were less frequent now, but he didn't mind. A few beers on a Friday evening always led to a curry house and ended in a club. Even if Jake could afford it—and he couldn't—he had little heart for the drunken attempts to pull some shallow teenager at the end of the night. He was unsure what was worse, rejection—or success and waking up next day to a total stranger trying to slink away with as little loss to her dignity as possible.

He could cope with Dave and his youngsters calling him an old misery. Dave was a decade older than he was but determined to maintain his Peter Pan image. Jake wondered how Dave's wife coped with being cast as Wendy.

Sylvie wandered through with a long face and a pile of photocopying, which she dropped onto her desk.

"I'm surprised you didn't go for a drink with the others,” he said.

"No.” She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “Don't feel up to it."

Jake remembered that the manager whose family she stayed with was away that day. “How are you getting home?” It was none of his business, of course. He just wanted to know she'd be safe.

"I should get a boss.” Sylvie meant a bus. Her pronunciation was as extreme as ever. “But I think I walk along the beach. Is cold but dry."

"Do you vant company, or do you vant to be alone?” He did his best Garbo parody.

She smiled dutifully. “Thank you.” The smile faded. “But I not good company at the moment."

"That's okay.” He pulled his coat on. “I not good company either. There's a maniac out there, and I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

She laid a hand on his arm. “That's sweet."

The chine was only a hundred yards from the office, and they walked in companionable silence. Jake took her arm in the dark, as the path was slippery, and she didn't seem to mind. When they reached the beach, the lights from the nearby pier were bright enough to light the promenade, and he started to remove his arm from hers, but she pinned it against her. “Is cold,” she said.

He said nothing. His pulse raced, though he warned himself not to read too much into the gesture.

The night was clear, their breath streaming in the cold, the stars hidden by the lights of the town and the promenade. There were streetlamps on the walkway about every hundred yards, though nearly half were broken, so the waterfront was only lit intermittently. On the other side of the bay, occasional lights from farmhouses glinted in the dark bulk of the peninsula.

"Is magic,” she whispered hoarsely, staring at the lamplight. “We have nottin’ like this in Manaus. Cold, magic fairy lights. You believe in magic?"

"No. Nor fairy stories nor romances.” He didn't believe in anything any longer.

"She most've hurt jew a lot,” Sylvie said.

He'd never admitted how badly, even to himself. “No,” he laughed bitterly. “I hurt myself. I believed Julia and I had something special once."

"Before someone stole her?"

"No one stole her,” he said wearily. “The magic just faded away. Leached away by all the mundane crap in the world.” The bubble of pain in his chest that had been there for months was threatening to burst and rip his body apart. “You ever wonder what would've happened to Romeo and Juliet if they'd lived?"

"They live happily ever after?"

"No. They'd have had nine kids; she'd have got fat and ugly and nagged him half to death, and he'd have hit her every time he drank too much vino."

"Oh,” she said in a stunned voice.

"You meet the right woman, you think it will last forever.” He couldn't stop himself. “But no one has to steal it. No matter how good at first, the magic will disappear, water spiralling round a badly fitted plug.” He halted, appalled at his outburst.
What are you thinking of? She's just a kid, she doesn't need to hear such crap.
“Sorry,” he added lamely.