"You know it is true," Aiyeda said, bumping his arm with her nose. "It is sad, but it is true, no?"
Morgan nodded. A tear plopped from his nose to hit the pad he'd been writing on, making a big, rugged blot on the paper.
"Enough of this. We can watch cartoons now, yes?"
Morgan set up the iPad and propped it on the bed for Aiyeda to watch while he set about clearing up his things.
The door to Dr Rosero's waiting area was open, as usual. Clients were welcome to let themselves in, make a drink in the kitchenette and peruse the bookshelves while they waited. For the first time, Morgan didn't have an appointment. Michaela hadn't answered her phone - she wouldn't, if she had a client - so he hadn't been able to make one. But technically it was an emergency, as he'd lost control, never mind that it was for the second time in less than a week. The waiting room was empty. When the next client arrived he could beg for a quick five minute chat. People had done that with him before, when they were desperate, and he'd let them cut in. Karma had to be good for something.
He sat on the sofa opposite the door and prepared to wait. He rehearsed his opening line in his head: 'This isn't easy'… No, that was crap. 'I have a question…' Better. 'There's something I need to know'. Yes. And then-
Morgan's gaze sharpened on the door to Dr Rosero's room.
It wasn't shut. It was ajar. He listened carefully. No sound. Yet the door to the building had been open; that only happened when she was with a client, or was expecting one. Maybe the person before hadn't turned up. That must be it.
Okay. Morgan should have been pleased, but his hand shook as he knocked on the door. There was no answer. He opened it.
The first thing he saw was the office chair, which belonged at the back of the room, by her desk. But there it was, right in front of the door, lying forlornly on its side. So out of place, so wrong. Then the rest of the scene crashed in on him all at once: cushions pulled off sofas; a smashed vase; the filing cabinet with the bottom drawer open, spilling its contents across the floor.
Morgan pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts frantically, but the names were a blur. He sat down suddenly on the floor, his phone shaking so much he could barely keep hold of it. He was shaking. He was…
He closed his eyes and breathed. Not now. No. No, no, no.
He let the phone fall to the carpet in front of him and let his breath out slowly, focusing on the screen. He saw 'Sahil', and jabbed dial.
The police were kind to him. He guessed they assumed any client at their therapist's office was likely to be vulnerable and treated them accordingly. It wasn't Sahil who'd come, of course. He'd patiently listened to Morgan stammering at him down the phone, and he'd told Morgan to try and relax, and he'd take care of things. So Morgan had breathed, and waited, until eventually the local constabulary arrived to find him shaking in the waiting room. Once he'd given a statement they let him leave. He kept the statement simple: he turned up to see her, she wasn't there, the room was in a state. They presumed he'd come by for an appointment and he let them.
He didn't know where to go after that, so he stood on the doorstep and called Michaela one more time, just in case. She didn't answer.
But from the bins in the alley by her office, a phone rang.
For a split second Morgan considered grabbing it himself and taking it to Hunter or Sahil and getting them to use it to find her. He didn't like the idea of this one, clear piece of evidence being in someone else's hands. But he'd made enough mistakes lately to last him a lifetime, so he did the right thing. He trailed back into her office and told the constable who was grappling with a roll of incident tape about the phone.
He was standing in the alley, watching the police swarming around the bin like wasps round a cider bottle, when his own phone went off, the alert so loud it made him jump. Not a call, though, and not Michaela. A text.
>My office. 6pm. Pearl
Chapter Nineteen
Morgan went home, showered, put on clean clothes, drank a lot of water and forced down a banana. He sorted out the post that had come that morning and added another envelope to the pile of unopened ones for Caleb on the hall table. He hadn't asked yet, but he guessed they were from Caleb's mother.
Caleb wasn't the only person avoiding things. Morgan hadn't told anyone except the police about Michaela. Nobody else knew her personally, not even Caleb. Morgan had known her nearly all his life, and he couldn't believe she'd do something like that without a good reason. Until he'd asked her about it, face to face, and God, he hoped he'd get that chance, he'd keep it to himself. She'd kept his secrets for nearly two decades. This was the least he could do in return. She was out there, somewhere, he was certain of it. He'd find her, talk to her, and she'd give him a perfectly rational explanation.
When Caleb got home from work, Morgan was staring out of the window at the pigeons squabbling on their tiny rooftop patio. He couldn't have said how long he'd been there. Time had gone a bit weird. Everything had gone a bit weird.
"Hey," said Caleb. "Have we got any of those energy bar things? I'm starving and I have to go straight out."
Morgan checked the time on his phone. "Me too."
"Pearl's called me in for 6."
"Oh. Me too."
They looked at each other.
"Shit," said Caleb.
Pearl wasn't angry. She was disappointed. Or so she claimed.
"You're my boys," she told them, pacing back and forth behind her desk. "I didn't just sign you up to my agency. I took you under my wing. I trained you. I bent over backwards to find the right positions for you. I protect you, I nurture you, I rely on you. And how do you repay me?"
She smacked the newspaper down on her desk with such a thwap that Morgan and Caleb both flinched. Morgan didn't want to look at the picture on the cover of the paper, but he forced himself to. Then he couldn't stop looking, even though the longer his looked, the more sick he felt. It was a photo of him, Caleb and Darius. Naked, their key body parts blacked out with thick black lines. Darius and Caleb had their masks on, but Morgan had lost his completely; he was totally naked apart from his necklace.
He was grateful it was only local. If his mother saw it she would never forgive him.
"I know what you're thinking," Pearl said. "'Ignore it, Pearl. It was just a bit of fun.' Never mind that pesky clause in your contracts about not bringing Oyster into disrepute. 'Boys will be boys. It'll blow over in a day or two.' Well, you better hope none of them online sites picks it up. Or the tabloids. Always out for a bit of scandal, aren't they? Did you think of that, when you were taking your clothes off in a public place?"
Morgan hoped that was a rhetorical question, because he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't just make things worse.
"It wasn't a public place," Caleb said. "We weren't working."
Pearl leaned across the desk, her eyes narrowed. Caleb squirmed under her attention. "Did you read what it says here, child?"
Caleb snatched up the paper - Morgan had to say, he was being extremely brave - and read. 'Local nightclub Bubble was raided by police last night after they received reports of wealthy executives indulging in decadent, drug-fuelled orgies in what is normally a quiet residential area-' Honestly, that's bullshit, it's right next to Morrisons, there's maybe one bungalow. '-a quiet residential area. Exotic dancers Morgan and Caleb, moonlighting from the…' Oh. 'The Oyster temp agency.' Shit."
"Yes, Caleb. That is exactly what you are in right now. Deep." Her devastating gaze darted to Morgan. "Up to your pretty little necks."
"How the hell did they find that out? All it says is 'a source'. Who was it? Anyway, we weren't working there," Caleb said. "We went to have fun, and our drinks were spiked."
"Denise from the front office said you'd been there before," Pearl said. "You were bragging about it by the photocopier. And on that occasion you went with Jennifer Cotterall."
Caleb swallowed and said, "So what? Are there restrictions now on what we can do in o
ur own time?"
Morgan groaned. "Caleb, stop."
But Caleb seemed determined to keep the train wreck going. "C'mon, Pearl, you can see they lied. I've never danced for money in my life and you know Morgan can't."
"Wouldn't," Morgan murmured. He wasn't that bad at dancing. Just chose not to. "That's not the point, Caleb. It's us. There. At a known sex club. With no clothes on."
"Jennifer Cotterall," Pearl repeated. "From Slytho and Fitch, Solicitors. Where you have worked on several occasions."
All the fight went out of Caleb. All he could muster was a helpless stare.
"And you." Pearl turned her sights on Morgan. "I found you a long term contract with a very well-paying local business, who asked for you by name. But you not only walked out with no notice, without bothering to talk it through with me first - and not for the first time, either - you didn't even pay me the courtesy of a visit to explain. You saw fit to tell me in a text. So I rang Mr Hunter. Do you know what he said?"
Morgan shook his head, hoping it wasn't what he was imagining.
"He told me if you hadn't resigned, he would have fired you for being unable to control your temper."
Okay. That could have been a lot worse, in the circumstances. Hunter could easily have said 'majos' instead of 'temper' and then Morgan would probably never have worked again.
"And now this." Pearl snatched the paper back from Caleb and slammed it on the desk. "Nobody plays me for a fool, and nobody taints my reputation with this filth," said Pearl. "Get out of my sight. And don't expect a phone call any time soon, either of you. You're off my books."
They went to Starbucks, where Caleb got a caramel latte and Morgan got a peppermint tea. They didn't say much, just sat together at a table and sipped at their drinks in shared misery. Morgan felt kind of numb. Things had piled up so fast he didn't know where to start. And Caleb always went quiet when he was truly angry, until the edge wore off and he started throwing things.
Morgan hoped he wasn't around when that happened. His magic was already pushing at his skin. He needed to keep calm.
His phone pinged. Sahil's personal number.
>DrMR left the country. Safe and well. Sxx
"Oh," Morgan murmured. He had a hundred questions: why had Michaela gone? Where? Why hadn't she said anything? But he knew the police wouldn't say. With a dull sick, feeling, he realised he might never know. Michaela was his mentor, his therapist. A professional. He had no right to know anything.
"What?" Caleb said.
"Nothing. Nothing, just… nothing."
Caleb grunted.
Morgan noticed the day on his phone as he was putting it away. Thursday. Right.
Coven night.
Just as well, really.
The Leeds District Coven meetings took place in the local medical centre, in an area which was a waiting room during the day. Three nights a week the chairs were switched from rows to a big circle, the medical doctors went home and the majos 'mentors' took over. Morgan was a few minutes late but there were still a couple of seats left. He tucked himself into the one nearest the door and exchanged a polite smile with Galatia. She had been coming to this group nearly as long as Morgan. Her power wasn't huge, but she was every bit as terrified of letting it loose as Morgan was. He wondered if she'd heard about Michaela yet.
The group was led by Rick, an earnest, middle aged man with lightly spiked hair. A runic tattoo ran down the side of his neck, which looked exotic and out of place next to his smart shirt and financial-advisor suit. He wasn't a financial advisor, though, he just dressed like one. Brooke, the mentor who ran the Monday sessions, was in the staff kitchen, clinking around the cups for after-meeting refreshments. Like most mentors, she and Rick always worked in a pair, unlike Michaela, who used to run Sunday groups all on her own, until she gave them up to free up more time for her university research. Morgan liked Rick and Brooke well enough: Rick was almost painfully understanding, and Brooke had a dry sense of humour that was a good foil to Rick's earnest approach.
"Good evening, everyone," Rick said. "Quick intros as usual, please: name and in one sentence anything you'd like to bring to the meeting tonight, along with your estimated risk factor on the one to five-star scale, and then we'll have a chat. Okay?"
Everyone murmured assent, and they started to go around the circle.
Eddie, nothing special, risk one.
Debra, apologetic smile, still having trouble sustaining control of light manipulation - risk three.
(She was never really a three. She just saw shadows and panicked.)
A murmur that was a roughly equal blend of 'God, not again' and 'poor Debra' went around the room.
Cliff, nothing special, risk one.
Jamil, got into a fight at school, risk two.
"Morgan. I had a major episode, no, wait, two major episodes this week. So. Um, risk five. I guess."
There were a few swift intakes of breath, a lot of eyes on him, and Rick leaned forward. "Are you okay, Morgan? Is your primary advisor aware of these episodes?"
"It's Dr Rosero. She's, um, left. Suddenly."
Galatia gasped.
Brooke appeared in the doorway, tea towel draped over one shoulder and gave Rick a questioning look.
"Oh yes. I had a call," said Rick. "We can talk after the session and make sure you're properly supported, Morgan. You too, Galatia. Any other clients of Dr Rosero here this evening?"
A buzz of interest went around the room, but nobody else came forward. The fact that Rick and Brooke seemed to have it all under control was a lick of comfort which Morgan welcomed so much he could have sobbed. He knew, theoretically, that someone would be assigned to him. But he also knew it could take time. It felt weird, like he was somehow keen to cheat on Michaela. Who may or may not be a manufacturer of illegal drugs. No. Who was a manufacturer of illegal drugs.
"I only saw her last week," said Galatia. She was as white as a sheet. "What happened?"
Brooke appeared at Galatia's side and whispered something to her. Galatia nodded and got up. She followed Brooke out of the room.
Rick smiled at Morgan, and said, "Okay?"
Morgan nodded, and the rounds of the room continued. People spoke quickly now, more interested in Morgan's 'episodes' than their own concerns - all apart from Tim, who tended to be oblivious to any problems other than his own. He'd fought in the Falklands and some of the things he'd seen (and done) had really fucked with his sense of empathy and compassion. He wasn't a bad sort, and Morgan was happy enough to shrink back and listen to the small speech Tim gave in place of the sentence he'd been asked for. It kept Morgan's brain busy, and stopped him from thinking too hard about Pearl or Hunter or Michaela.
"Let's come to Morgan first," Rick said. "If you could tell us what–"
The door clicked open behind Morgan. Someone rushed to the empty seat next to Tim and sat down, apologising for her lateness. Morgan was preoccupied planning out what he could and couldn't share of recent events with the group, so it was only when he was about to get to his feet to speak that he looked the late arrival in the eye.
His legs felt like noodles and magic churned in his gut.
It was Jess Shaw.
"Hi, I'm Jess, majophobia incident, risk one. Again, really sorry I'm late, everyone. I'm not from this Coven, just visiting. So. Hi."
Everyone chorused 'Hi, Jess', including Morgan. She darted him a few glances, shoving her hair behind her ear. It was as if all her police attitude had been peeled off with her uniform and revealed a flustered, somewhat shy young woman in her place. She looked so vulnerable.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Rick said. "As always, we will invite everyone who wishes to share in order of stated risk. Today Morgan had the highest risk, at five. So, Morgan?"
Morgan got to his feet. He kept his eyes on Rick, because otherwise he'd just have stared at Jess and not been able to say a thing. "I've encountered some very emotional situations this week, and someone had to ground me both times. I got through
it, but I'm really scared and then Michaela…" His throat closed up; he was trying very hard not to cry, not to look at Jess, not to think about Hunter, and he was failing. He sat down. "Sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Rick, gently.
Rick asked him a few general questions - they never talked about circumstances in the group unless the speaker wanted to, and Morgan very much did not want to tell everyone he'd taken Essence (even unwittingly) and got involved in an orgy. Neither did he want to tell them he'd broken up with his boyfriend who couldn't stand magic and, oh yeah, was Jess's brother. But he did talk about how scary it was to be that out of control, and how he felt stupid for not being able to deal with it on his own. He snuck a glance at Jess to gauge her reaction, but she was staring at the floor, head down.
"You've done all the right things, especially coming here," said Rick. We'll get you some ongoing one to one help sorted out after the session, yeah?"
Most of the group chipped in with sympathy for Morgan and shared a few things Morgan already knew about meditating and control exercises. It felt good to be heard, and nobody seemed afraid of him, which was reassuring. Caleb and his friends were great, but nobody could really know what it felt like to be consumed by your own magic unless they'd experienced it. Nearly flooding a building wasn't quite the same as Debra's tendency to leave non-existent lights on when she left the room, but fear was fear and all majos had felt it at one time or another. Morgan thanked everyone and leaned back to listen to the others. Galatia returned, just after Debra had shared her latest accidental illumination of a dark spot in the stacks of the library where she worked. Galatia and Morgan shared a little smile. She looked like she'd been crying.
As Jess was only a risk one and she'd arrived late, she went last.
"I have quite a responsible job dealing with the general public," she told the group. "Frankly, I'm used to getting all sorts of abuse. But this time it was personal."
Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher Page 19