On top of the dresser was a pile of cash. He'd been paid, then. Which meant he'd been to see Marco. No memory of that either.
John had never been much of a drinker. Even in the weeks after Sarah's death, he had avoided the numbing effects of alcohol, preferring to confront the pain head-on. His grief rolled itself into a razor-spined ball that waited for him everywhere. He sliced his hand on it as he opened the curtains, it slid its sharp points into his lower back when he sat down to work. At night, it unfurled itself inside his skull. While he slept, it was awake, thinking of new methods of torture.
Only once had he attempted to subdue it with a bottle of vodka. He had blacked out, and, rolling on his side to vomit onto the kitchen tiles at five in the morning, he'd found the sharpest kitchen knife in his hand with no memory of how it had got there. After that, he'd stopped drinking for a few months, and he and the spiky ball of grief had come to an accommodation. He acknowledged its constant presence, and it occasionally withdrew its poisonous spines.
But last night, he'd blacked out again. This time, there had been no alcohol involved.
Then there had been the dream. It had begun when the small woman had thrown dust into his face and ended when he woke up at home.
John pushed himself upright, remembering the sights, sounds, and smells of the dream.
He was underwater. No, he was standing upright, but his senses were distorted. He could see the long table in the Bloomsbury Suite, the black candles, the untouched food and the four figures watching him. All sound was muffled, and ripples passed across his field of vision.
He couldn't turn his head, couldn't move his eyes, couldn't even blink. His vision faded.
Soon there was only darkness, and silence.
His thoughts slowed and became confused. He remembered the monstrous creatures that had moved across the room towards him. He knew they must have reached him by now. John was helpless, but he felt no fear. His energy had been sapped, leaving him on the brink of unconsciousness.
Then, at that moment between wakefulness and sleep, balanced perfectly on the tightrope between the two, John found a third option.
He stepped out of his body, seeing himself from outside.
The candles had been extinguished, but he saw the whole room clearly.
The creatures from the shadows moved around him, examining him. Some exuded the threat of violence, others were fearful. None were able to get closer than three feet away from John. If they tried, they gasped or howled with pain.
The nearest beast was the snake-like shape he had seen slide under the table. John couldn't comprehend what he was looking at; if he focused on it, he found himself staring at an old stain on the carpet instead.
There was no such problem with the towering origami creature whose protruding black eyes stared down at him from the ceiling. Its limbs were no thicker than pipe cleaners, its carapace dull metal. A dark, jagged mouth dribbled thick mucus, which hung from its twitching face in long strands, before detaching and dropping.
The creature with too many teeth had stopped short of John and was straining towards him as if held back by an invisible lead. It stood as tall as John's waist and wore old-fashioned blue-striped pyjamas, but this was no child. It was muscled like a pit bull terrier with a similarly truncated neck. The eyes staring from its stubbled face were so red they appeared to be full of blood. The thick head kept jerking forward, and John couldn't take his eyes away from the sight of that mouth opening, widening until it reached the sides of the thing's face, the two layers of teeth within biting and jabbering, grinding and clacking.
John saw bare-breasted women, coarse hair covering muscular legs that ended in cloven hooves. There were obese twins, naked and hairless, laughing and pointing. An old woman sat in one corner, looking incongruous in a tartan skirt, white blouse and pastel pink cardigan, until John looked at her knitting, which glistened as the needles moved. The bag at her feet said WOOL on it in a cartoon font. It was full of entrails.
A man in a brown suit was moving in slow motion, using a stick. His features were hidden under a wide-brimmed hat and, now that John looked closer, the face beneath was in motion, every pore of his skin wriggling and spasming. Closer still, and John saw it wasn't a man at all, but a colony of ants, millions of them working together to produce this person-shaped illusion, the face always unclear as insects scuttled across it, forming part of an ear, then a cheek, the nose, the corner of a mouth, and the neck before disappearing under the shirt collar.
With an effort, John wrenched his attention away from the bizarre set of creatures examining his body and moved closer to his audience. They were arguing.
"She might be right," said the giant, his massive chest lending his voice a commanding resonance. "He might have power of sorts."
"Impossible. But he is well-protected," said the man opposite. He was tall and broad but looked like a child up against the giant. "Surely she cannot believe a human male could ever—"
He was interrupted by one of the giant's enormous fists banging the table in front of him. Every glass smashed, and the untouched food flew off the plates. John caught movement out of the corner of his eye as the snake-like creature slid under the table in search of scraps.
The tiny woman spoke. "What Astarte believes is no concern of yours. I would advise against questioning her wishes."
The red-haired woman shook her head at that. "Our concern is that Astarte has been too long in the cage. Her powers are waning. She failed once. What has changed?"
The giant was on his feet in an instant, his features purple with rage. "SILENCE!" The sound was an express train roar that filled the Bloomsbury Suite. The creatures around John yelped and scurried back to the shadows, the man opposite pushed his chair back from the table. The woman who had provoked the outburst stayed where she was, facing the fury with no outward show of fear. John saw the woman's leg tremble under the table.
The huge man spoke into the silence. "If you speak of Astarte, you will speak of her with respect, or I will—"
"You will what, dear?" His tiny, dark-haired companion was looking up at him coolly. "We all seek the same prize. Sit down."
To John's surprise, the giant looked at the diminutive woman, nodded, and sat down.
None of what they said made any sense. John lost track of the conversation although he was sometimes the subject of their discussion. Reality had become slippery, and he was finding it hard to remain focused on what was happening.
The smaller woman looked at him. For a moment, John was certain she could see his second body, his astral body. Even as he remembered the word astral, John dismissed it. For a man who made his living creating the illusion of magic, he had no time for crystals, tarot cards and spirit animals. Even in a dream, any hint of new age mumbo jumbo irritated him.
The woman was still looking at the place where his astral body eavesdropped on the four of them. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, then she turned to the rest of her party.
"He carries the blood. She has found a way of using him."
The giant nodded, his massive fingers combing through his beard. "The Warden spoke of this. As did his father."
The man in the silk shirt seemed bored. "Don't tell me we are to give credence to the Wardens? They are so corrupted, they might as well be human themselves. Their theory is laughable."
"Perhaps," said the dark-haired woman. "But Astarte wants him, so perhaps not."
"The line continues," said the woman opposite her. "His son has a daughter."
The giant sighed, a long, low sound like an autumn wind through a pile of dead leaves.
"Enough talk," he said. "We must make sure he enters the Blurred Lands again."
The other man shrugged. "Very well. I hope she is right this time. Our hand might be seen in this if the Adept or the Warden look for it."
The giant shook his head. John could have sworn he saw living creatures scurry about in that scraggly beard and thick hair.
The small woman resp
onded. "Don't forget the curse: proof, if you needed it, of Astarte's power. And the Warden is distracted by the imminent death of his Adept. I will ensure the human reaches the Lands."
If there was more discussion among this bizarre group, John didn't hear it. His vision was dimming, and the surrounding sounds were becoming muffled and indistinct.
Finally, there was only silence, darkness and a sensation of floating.
John realised his eyes were tightly shut. With an effort, he opened them and saw a familiar ceiling, the lampshade over his head one that he and Sarah had found in an antique market in Camden Lock a decade earlier.
Hallucinations, paranoia. Oh God, was it happening again?
Five
Room 38
Fir Trees Care Home
Elstree, London
Evie, my darling great-granddaughter,
If you're reading this, then I am dead. I can't tell you what a thrill it is to write those words. I feel like a character in a Victorian bodice ripper. You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? This is the most important letter of my life, but I'm already straying from the point. Sorry.
As I'm writing this, you're twelve years old. Twelve-and-a-half as I'm sure you'd insist on pointing out. Depending on when, precisely, I breathe my last, you might read this while you're still a child.
So I need to get your attention. Set out my stall.
I know your dreams.
Before you think your great-granny has lost her mind, read on…
When you were small, I planted a dream in your sweet little head. I gave it enough charm (and I don't mean that in the sense you imagine) to make it adhere, and enough power to ensure it would recur. In fact, I may have gone a little over the top. I wouldn't be surprised if you still dream it now.
You're walking in a forest. (You might have thought of it as a fairytale forest, growing up as you did in Los Angeles, which is not renowned for its wooded groves.) You don't know the names of the trees, but there are oak, ash, elm, poplar, plane, horse chestnut, and pine among them. You are surprised, perhaps a little frightened, by the size of the leaves and twigs around you. They are so large that you struggle to fight your way through them. Then you discover you can fly, rise above them, and head for the sky. But you don't fly like most people do in dreams, you fly with pulsing beats of your tiny wings, brown blurs at the edges of your vision. You know you are a bird now, and you rejoice in your freedom, seeking your sisters in the treetops. You see many birds on branches, singing out to you as you pass, and you answer them with your happiest song.
You keep flying up because you can hear the most beautiful birdsong imaginable. Clear, trilling notes full of the sheer joy of being alive reach you from somewhere in the uppermost branches of the forest. When you get to the top branch of the tallest tree, you see a single bird waiting for you; a tiny, insignificant brown bird, its beak wide open, singing. You land alongside her and listen to that wonderful song, which tells you many secrets. Then, too quickly, the song is over. The bird looks right at you, and you know this wise little creature loves you. She opens her beak one last time and, quite distinctly, says your name. Evie.
Right. I imagine the above has, as the young people probably don't say any more, freaked you out. How was it possible for me to create a dream?
I will answer that question, and many others. I have arranged to have these letters sent on to you when I die. Read them carefully.
I do not have the luxury of time. I no longer believe there is much chance of my being alive when you need me. We were supposed to meet again, you and I, next year. No power on Earth could have prevented that meeting. Unfortunately, the virus eating my mind did not originate on Earth. And so, you may learn of our family secret before you are mature. This, let me be perfectly clear, is very dangerous. But it is far less dangerous than the alternative.
Doubtless, you will find it odd being addressed thus by a dead woman you have probably forgotten. You will have to become accustomed to the odd, the weird, and the unbelievable.
I shall have a nap, then resume. Naps are something else I need to tell you about. They are important, and they're not just for old ladies.
Oh, just in case you didn't realise, I was the bird who sang your name, Evie.
Mae.
Six
John walked the mile from Waterloo to Bonneville's, expecting the fresh air to diminish the effect of the Bloomsbury Suite show and the dream. He navigated the London streets as if he still hadn't quite woken up, his mind going over the previous night.
He called Marco on the way.
"Ciao John, great job last night. They were very happy with you. Very drunk, too. I hope they didn't give you too much of a hard time."
John stopped in an alleyway and put his hand on the brick wall as he spoke. "Marco, did you see me before I left?"
"Yes, to pick up your fee. You weren't drinking too, were you? Did they share the champagne? They got through a case and a half. More money than sense, mm?"
"But what about what you said in the office? About them being odd. What did you mean?"
Marco didn't answer immediately and, when he did, his tone was concerned. "I just told you they were a bunch of rich, drunk brokers. Nothing odd about that. Listen, John, are you okay?"
John leaned up against the wall. He said something about his hearing giving him problems, made an excuse and ended the call.
At the door of the magic shop, he stood outside, his thoughts straying to the dark-haired woman who had thrown dust into his face.
When had he blacked out? When did the evening at the Charleston Hotel stop and the dream begin? Marco had no reason to lie to him. Was it all in his head?
"Dreaming your life away, my boy?"
"Augustus," said John, and stepped forward to embrace the old man.
"Come on in, John," said Augustus Bonneville, "and tell me all about it."
Bonneville's had stood in the same small side street just off The Strand since the golden days of magic, when David Devant and Nevil Maskelyne ran their own theatre dedicated to the art.
The ten-year-old John Aviemore had purchased his first set of cups and balls from Augustus. The old man had demonstrated the ancient trick with such grace and beauty that John had decided, there and then, to become a magician. In a rare moment where he overcame his natural shyness, he had announced his intention. His father had smiled and said nothing, but the old man—and he had seemed just as old back then to John—had given a tiny nod of approval.
"I am going through what I can only describe as a Lapsang Souchong obsession," said Augustus, as he waved John through to the rear of the shop. As always, John slowed down as he passed through the Aladdin's cave of Bonneville's, its shelves stacked high with mysterious boxes, floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets full of playing cards, coins, linking rings, floating balls, appearing canes, dove pans, and faded old boxes.
"Anything new?" said John as he followed Augustus. The older man laughed dutifully. Amateur and professional magicians alike were magpies in disposition, ignoring the hundreds, or thousands of tricks they already owned in favour of pursuing the newest, shiniest effect on the market.
"Perhaps, perhaps. Have I shown you the one when you pick a card at random, and I divine its identity?"
John shook his head, chuckling. Just being around Augustus made him feel better.
This morning, John wasn't there to discuss tricks or gossip about the latest attempt to get magic back on television. He wanted Augustus to help him make sense of the previous evening.
Stravinsky's Rite Of Spring, one of the old man's favourites, was playing in the small back room. Augustus limped over to turn it down. One night, very late, after a few cognacs, Augustus had said something strikingly odd about Stravinsky. "I miss real music, but Stravinsky gets closer than most. He must have visited the Lands or lived close by." When John had asked what he meant, the only reply had been a soft snore. There was a beautiful hand-carved recorder on a shelf, but John had never heard Au
gustus play it.
Augustus poured the tea and sat opposite John.
Augustus Bonneville was five-foot-five in his platform shoes. If he were to flatten the white hair that surrounded his skull like a cloud, that would be reduced to five-foot-two. His thin face was heavily lined, and his eyebrows were magnificent. He looked like a man who knew things ordinary people didn't. He looked like a real magician.
And yet, when he stepped outside the shop, his hair pulled under a cloth cap, he could be as anonymous as the next person hurrying along the pavement.
"You're not here to talk business, are you?" Augustus put a china cup full of dark, pungent liquid in front of John. If Augustus was currently drinking Lapsang Souchong, everyone who visited Bonneville's would be expected to do the same. John took an experimental sip, and concluded that, if it were an acquired taste, he didn't plan acquiring it.
Augustus brought his own cup over and sat down. He made two trips because his right arm was withered and useless, a result of the same explosion that caused his limp. Augustus had no memory of the accident.
"No, Augustus, I'm not. I'm—" John was unsure where to start his description of last night. Marco's odd behaviour? The strange audience, who neither ate nor drank? The shadowy creatures at the back of the room?
He would tell Augustus everything and see what he made of it. He sipped some tea, regretted it, and cleared his throat. Perhaps he'd start with the easy stuff.
"Marco booked me for a corporate gig at the Charleston. Really well paid. I wasn't going to do it, because, well..."
"Three years since Sarah died," said Augustus. He didn't follow up with an expression of sympathy. He didn't have to. John had been thirteen when his father had died, and the old magic shop proprietor had been the only steady male presence in his life ever since.
"Yes."
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