A Three-Book Collection Page 14

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ said Jane Bowan. ‘Please. I’ll do anything. You don’t… you don’t have to do this, I won’t tell anyone, I won’t, I promise, please.’

  ‘This is not murder,’ said the Angel.

  The Magician felt the heft of the axe.

  ‘This is not murder. This is a blessing. Her life will mean something. Something wonderful. Think of all the other people who perish because of God’s neglect. Think of the other children who lose their parents in the face of His monstrous indifference.’

  The Magician turned to Jane Bowan, his face a hidden grimace, teeth clenched, a high-pitched whine escaping from between them.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said, ‘just, please don’t.’

  ‘It has to stop,’ said the Angel. ‘It has to. You know that.’

  ‘I know that. I know.’

  ‘This, in the end, is a kindness. A kindness to all of those that we will save. If she knew the truth of it, if it could be explained properly, she would thank you.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  The Magician straightened up, his teeth unclenched, his palms no longer sweating.

  He saw the millions starving around the world.

  ‘Please.’

  He saw an earthquake that shook bridges and buildings and roads to dust, killing hundreds. Thousands.

  ‘Don’t.’

  He saw his mother, laid out in a hospital bed, her face unrecognisable.

  ‘We’re going to make Him pay,’ said the Angel. ‘It’s time to go to work.’

  The Magician smiled. He’d faltered, but that was only because he was good and true.

  He swung the axe above his head and brought it down in one swift, efficient move. The deed was done.

  Jane Bowan was dead.

  The Magician laughed. Just once. That hadn’t been so bad.

  Jane Bowan’s spirit, her soul, sat up out of her body. It sparkled as though made of fairy dust.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she looked down at her own dead body and screamed, fell from the stone, and scrambled backwards along the ground.

  ‘One more swing,’ said the Magician.

  He stepped towards the soul of Jane Bowan and swung the axe at her. As the head met her insubstantial body, Jane Bowan twisted and rippled and shook, and was then absorbed into the axe itself.

  And then it was all over.

  He placed the axe on the altar and pulled off the goat head mask. The cool air felt good against his skin as he hung his head back and took deep, cold breaths of sharp air.

  ‘I am proud,’ said the Angel.

  ‘For my dad. For my mother. I do this for you.’

  ‘We do this for all. For every child who’s ever wept in the dark because of Him.’

  The Magician felt a tear running down his cheek, but it wasn’t a tear of sadness or fear. No. It was joy.

  At last, at last.

  ‘We are so close,’ said the Angel of Blackpool.

  Revenge.

  19

  Mister Nolan’s eyes snapped open as the cold water punched him in the face.

  ‘Wakey wakey, Mister Gropey,’ said Rita.

  Nolan tried to stand, then realised he was tied to a chair in the front row of the theatre.

  ‘Let me go!’ he yelled, water spraying comically from his thick, greying moustache.

  ‘Hush, or I will crack your skull beneath my boot,’ said Carlisle, sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling.

  Rita pulled out her badge and waggled it in front of Mister Nolan’s face. ‘That’s right, Magic Mike, you’re nicked.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, you threw all that magic stuff at me, a police officer. So that’s assault.’

  ‘You broke into my home!’

  ‘Okay, true, but it was all in a good cause.’

  Carlisle hopped off the stage and walked towards Mister Nolan, who attempted to push himself back through the solid chair at his approach.

  ‘Women are being murdered in this dreadful town of yours, Nolan. Murdered by a magician.’

  ‘What’s that gotta do with me?’

  ‘Jane Bowan,’ said Rita. ‘Ellie Mason. Gemma Wheeler. Any of those names sound, ooh, I dunno, a little familiar?’ Rita mimed groping in front of Mister Nolan’s widening eyes.

  ‘I… okay, yes, I know them, they were pupils of mine.’

  ‘Pupils who assisted in your firing,’ said Carlisle, ‘and now a magician appears to be picking them off one by one, and would you look at this, a man who would have spent years blowing on the embers of his grudge to keep it nice and hot turns out to have developed into a rather basic but effective magician.’

  ‘Quite the coincidence, that,’ replied Rita.

  ‘Oh, the word coincidence is written in ten-foot, flashing neon letters above his head, Detective.’

  Mister Nolan glanced above his head, as if the neon letters might actually be there.

  ‘Then again…’ said Carlisle, who noticed the rather stupid glance upwards.

  ‘Look, I’m innocent, honest! Yeah, I can’t say any of them are my favourite people, but I don’t want them dead or anything! I’ve moved on. I’ve got my hobby.’

  ‘Magic is your hobby?’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Yeah. Turns out my great, great, great, great grandfather had a touch of the Uncanny. It took years of practice and effort, but I’ve finally been able to tap into it myself. Gives me something to do, you know?’

  ‘It’s not him, is it?’ said Rita, dropping into one of the other chairs in the front row.

  ‘It’s definitely not him,’ replied Carlisle, ‘the man’s a buffoon.’

  ‘I told you! Wait, what did you call me?’

  Rita sat up straight as her skin began to crawl. ‘What’s that? What’s happening?’

  Carlisle sighed as the air around them began to ripple and haze.

  ‘Looks like our friend here sent out a distress call.’

  ‘So he’s what, called the police on us?’

  ‘In a way.’

  The theatre melted away, to be replaced by the inside of a cave. There were no windows, no tunnels in or out, no entrances or exits of any kind.

  Stood around the edge were around twenty figures. Some wore robes with magical runes and incantations stitched into the fabric with silver thread that seemed to glow white-hot, others wore smart, anachronistic suits, others sported chinos and casual shirts. All in all, it was quite an odd collection of people.

  Mister Nolan stood, no longer tied to a chair, as the chair didn’t exist in this space.

  ‘You could brighten the place up a little,’ said Carlisle. ‘A few pictures for the walls, a sofa or two, make it a bit more homely.’

  ‘You attacked one of our own,’ said one of the gathered circle of men, and they were all men, Rita noticed. Clearly this was a bit of a boys’ club.

  ‘Actually, he attacked us, and by the way...’ she pulled out her badge again and showed it around the circle, ‘you just abducted a police officer.’

  ‘A hexed police officer,’ replied a second member of the circle, who had a piece of gold cloth covering his face.

  ‘So what are you lot?’ asked Rita. ‘Some sort of magical police?’

  ‘Pfft,’ replied Carlisle. ‘This is nothing more than a wizard social club. No doubt they get together, drink, tell tales, and attempt to impress each other with their latest tricks.’

  ‘We also have karaoke nights,’ said Mister Nolan.

  ‘My apologies,’ replied Carlisle, bowing slightly.

  ‘She has the axe!’ said one member of the circle, pointing to the handle poking out of Rita’s coat. A burble went up as they all pointed and whispered to each other.

  ‘She has my axe,’ Carlisle corrected, ‘and if any one of you party entertainers continues to make eyes at it, you may well find them plucked out and fed to a rat.’

  ‘Look, can I just ask if we’re in any danger?’ asked Rita. ‘I’d like to know if I can
unclench or not.’

  ‘You can… unclench,’ replied Carlisle with a look of distaste washing over his pale face.

  ‘Great. You know all this being in constant and surprising danger is doing wonders for my glutes.’

  ‘Question,’ said Carlisle, turning to the circle, ‘a magician is murdering women in this area and you have done nothing to prevent it. Why?’

  The circle shuffled their feet and avoided looking at Carlisle.

  ‘Boys’ club, isn’t it? Freemasons. Illuminati. Protecting their own, right?’ said Rita.

  Carlisle approached one of the magicians and peered into his eyes. ‘You don’t know, do you? None of you?’

  ‘He’s not one of us,’ replied a man with a long, pointed beard that reached down to his navel. ‘All local wizards and magicians are known to us.’

  ‘We reached out to the rest of the Uncanny Kingdom’s magicians,’ continued another, whose idea of ‘magician’ seemed to be ‘guest at a yacht party in the 1930s’. ‘ We reached out to L’Merrier even, but no one knows who it is. Who it could be. It’s a stranger.’

  ‘Is there not some sort of magic you can do to spot him?’ asked Rita. ‘Izzy, wizzy, show me who he izzy. That sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Long Beard, ‘but it doesn’t work. Not on this magician. He’s either beyond anything we’ve ever encountered, or he’s being protected by something with immense power.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is, you’re all no help at all,’ said Carlisle.

  More foot shuffling.

  ‘Well, we tried our best. Not our fault,’ said Yacht Party.

  ‘Goodbye.’ Carlisle clapped his hands together and the cave and its occupants folded back and back until the three of them, Carlisle, Rita and Mister Nolan, were back on Blackpool’s North Pier, stood outside the theatre as people bustled by, seeming not to notice the trio who had just appeared from nowhere.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Um, can I go home, please?’ asked Mister Nolan.

  Carlisle dismissed him with a wave of the hand and the former teacher scurried away down the pier.

  ‘Damn,’ said Carlisle, walking to the edge of the pier and leaning against the barrier, his jet-black hair whipping in the sea breeze.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong now?’ asked Rita, joining him.

  ‘It seems our options have narrowed and I shall have to do something I really have no wish to do.’

  Rita watched a pair of seagulls whirling in the sky above them.

  ‘Sometimes I envy birds,’ said Rita.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They can go wherever they want. Just flap off, no responsibility, no murder cases to weigh on their conscience. Just fish, the air, and a good old flap.’

  ‘You are a very stupid person,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘I like you too, creepy. So what is this crap thing you’re going to have to do?’

  Carlisle turned his back on the sea and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his dark purple coat, his face creased with concern. Rita hadn’t seen him look so worried, and it made her feel uneasy.

  ‘What? Tell me!’

  ‘I believe I will pay a visit to Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike and ask them a question.’

  ‘What? Are you insane?’

  ‘Yes, often.’

  ‘Won’t they try to kill you?’

  ‘Very likely, which is why I’m not trembling with giddy excitement at the prospect of knocking upon their door. But alas, I see no other move to make. Nobody seems to know anything about the person we are chasing, but we know that frightful pair do.’

  Carlisle reached inside his coat and pulled out a small, terracotta-coloured rectangle. It was the size and shape of a domino, and had swirling symbols scratched on to its surface.

  ‘Here,’ he said offering it to Rita.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Insurance,’ he replied.

  Rita took the small tablet. It was rough to the touch, and was much weightier than its small, thin size would suggest.

  ‘What do you mean by “insurance” exactly?’

  ‘If things go badly, if I need pulling out, it will let you know, and it will take you to me. Do not lose it. My life, quite literally, depends upon it.’

  Carlisle turned, his coat sweeping, and strode away along the pier.

  ‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  Carlisle did not reply.

  ‘Oh, nice, okay, well if this thing does start glowing maybe I’ll just ignore it, how do you like them, you know, bananas?... Apples! Shit.’

  Rita watched Carlisle step off the pier and disappear into the hustle of the street as she rolled the terracotta domino over and over in her fingers.

  Carlisle was wandering the streets of Blackpool with a destination in mind, but no direction to follow. But that was okay. He knew that sooner or later he’d end up stood in front of the door to their house.

  It was fair to say that Carlisle was annoyed. Annoyed that his efforts to reclaim what was his had so far been frustrated. Annoyed that he couldn’t just brush the detective aside and take his axe. Reclaim his throne. Annoyed that—of course—the case that could lead him to reclaim it had to be so complex and have such heavy hitters on the opposing side.

  Heavy hitters like Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike, and whoever this mysterious magician was. A magician whose power seemed to outreach his own. But then Carlisle was rarely more dangerous than when on the back foot.

  But still. He was annoyed. Here he was, voluntarily walking into guaranteed harm’s way, having to trust that when the worst happened, a woman who knew barely a sniff of the Uncanny world would come to his aid. It made him not just annoyed, but nervous. Carlisle was never nervous, and the sensation made his stomach hurt.

  He pulled an apple from his coat pocket and took a bite.

  He’d had no direct altercations with Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike, but knew well of their work. Of their abilities. Of the terror they could arouse in a person’s mind. They could kill you, if you were lucky, or they could set up home in your head, forever. An endless nightmare.

  After he had wandered aimlessly for long enough, Carlisle began to leave threads around him. Mental threads, from street to street.

  ‘It’s true, they were brothers, despite their obvious differences,’ said Carlisle, imbuing each word with a call, a thread to follow, a lure to catch the eye.

  ‘Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike.’

  He turned into a blind alley that hid a row of shops that had existed unseen by normal society for hundreds of years. A butcher’s, whose window was full of meat that came from animals that were long since extinct. A shop that sold bottles of wine so intoxicating that they could slow time and warp reality around you. An antique establishment where, if you were to venture into one darkened corner and push aside a centuries old rug, and fight through the cloud of dust that erupted from it, you’d find the now blunt head of the spear of destiny.

  ‘They lived in a house that did not exist.’

  Carlisle exited the hidden street and entered a fish and chip shop, the smell of fried cod and batter swirling around him. He walked through and to the back, pushing open the fire escape and stepping into the alley beyond.

  ‘And if you were to take a wrong turn one strange day,’ said Carlisle, the words sparking and throbbing as they drifted around him, ‘only to find yourself knocking upon this impossible home’s door…’

  Carlisle paused and closed his eyes. He was trembling slightly. He took a deep breath, then two, and brought himself under control. They would not see him shake. He was Carlisle, he was the one others feared. Life was a game and he was always three moves ahead.

  He smiled.

  ‘You would soon discover that there are many worse things in this world than being lost.’

  He opened his eyes to see that Blackpool was no more. Behind him was a dusty road, rolling hills covered in sparse grasses, the sky a sepia wash. He turned back to the large, lon
e, dilapidated house before him. The brickwork crumbled and cracked, the glass in the windows impossible to see through, with jagged shatter-lines twisting this way and that. Vegetation hugged the building tightly, as if it intended to pull the entire dwelling below ground.

  He had arrived.

  Wherever this was. Wherever they lived. He had arrived.

  He didn’t bother knocking, or trying to sneak in to take them by surprise. He’d called to them and they’d let him in. They were expecting him.

  Carlisle turned the door’s handle and pushed it open, the hinges emitting a horror movie scream.

  ‘Nice touch,’ he said, loudly. His voice sounded even, strong, threaded with just a tinge of mockery. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t outmatched. He was Carlisle, and he was here for a friendly chat.

  It was dark inside the house. The sort of dark that seemed alive. That seemed to press and squeeze Carlisle as he made his way, step by step, across the faded carpet, each footfall greeted by a cloud of dust.

  ‘I like what you haven’t done with the place,’ said Carlisle. ‘Shabby chic taken to the extreme.’

  Mould crept across every surface. Carlisle wondered if the house itself was more of a vile, sprouting fungus than a real bricks and mortar dwelling.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Mr. Cotton, stepping into view. He did not walk from a room, or down the stairs, it was more like he simply stepped into reality from wherever he had been lurking.

  Carlisle bowed slightly. ‘We meet at last,’ he said, and began to wander as nonchalantly as he could around the entrance hall, peering at the age-encrusted oil paintings that adorned the walls. ‘Big fan of your work, by the way. Always nice to see someone at the top of their game.’

  ‘You flatter my brother and I, Carlisle.’

  ‘Oh, piffle, what’s true is true.’

  ‘Mr. Spike, brother of mine, has had a particular fondness for your antics over the centuries. I’ve wondered often when our paths would cross.’

  ‘And here we are at last. Face-to-face, or face-to-mask, at least.’

  The rabbit mask Mr. Cotton wore grinned at that, though of course it did not, as it was just a mask.

  ‘By the way, where is that brother of yours?’

  Mr. Spike stepped out of the dark and struck Carlisle across the back of the head with the fireplace poker gripped in his white-gloved hands. Mr. Spike, his breath noisy and excited against the inside of his hedgehog mask, stood over Carlisle’s unconscious body. He raised the poker a second time and looked to his brother.