Kill Baxter

by Human, Charlie

  He reaches out a hand and grabs me by the throat. ‘Well that’s how it works. The world doesn’t want your nerd opinions.’

  I force myself to nod.

  He raises a fist as if to punch me. ‘You better watch your hero-hating, Zevcenko,’ he says, then drops his hand, shoves me against the wall one last time and jerks his head for his crony to follow him.

  I stand with my fists still clenched, staring at their backs.

  CrowBax: DESTROY!

  SienerBax: OK, I know you’re upset, but—

  CrowBax: That was humiliating. Have you never heard of self-defence? This wouldn’t be being bad; it’d just be defending ourselves.

  SienerBax: We can’t. We’re on the wagon. Thirty-five days clean. Manipulation-free.

  CrowBax: Please, just the one. One gambit, one act of psychological terrorism. Just give me Hekka. Please, I just need one. Pleassssse.

  Pangs of loneliness burrow through my chest. My fingers are itching, my head is pounding. I don’t know what to do.

  I quickly retrieve the phone from my boxers and dial a number that I never thought I’d dial.

  ‘Harold Emly,’ says the slightly slurry voice on the other end.

  ‘Harold, hi, it’s, um, Baxter Zevcenko. From Pornography Anonymous?’

  ‘Baxter! It’s so great to hear your voice. How’s your new school going?’

  ‘Not so good. Um, I think I’m going to relapse.’ I don’t tell him that I mean relapsing into manipulating people, rather than porn.

  ‘It’s OK, Baxter,’ he says soothingly. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘OK. But this is going to sound really, really weird to you.’

  I tell him about Hexpoort and about not being magical enough. I tell him about the seventies funk band that is teaching me to Dreamwalk. I tell him about my giant tabby-cat teacher and the Chosen One who is bullying me.

  Harold is quiet for a long moment. Eventually he speaks. ‘I have to tell you that that’s not even in the top ten weirdest things someone from Pornography Anonymous has told me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s all confidential with me,’ he says. ‘You need to hang in there, Baxter. These times of stress are when relapses happen. You need to reaffirm your intention to stay clean. Don’t throw away all the progress you’ve made.’

  I take another deep breath. ‘Thanks, Harold. I feel better already.’

  ‘Of course. And Baxter, if you ever need any other help, the Fallen and I would be happy to assist.’

  ‘Thanks, Harold,’ I say.

  ‘Any time. I’ve got to run now. I’ve got a PA meeting starting.’

  I hang up the phone and stand in the corridor. I think of Esmé and I think of my mom. ‘Be strong, Baxter,’ I whisper to myself. ‘Just be strong.’

  I sit through my next class with stoic aloofness. Hekka tries to get under my skin but I let wads of paper and insults bounce off me like I’m bulletproof.

  ‘Baxter,’ King says when the class ends. ‘Can I speak to you in my office?’

  I sigh and follow him in, coughing at the strong smell of incense as I sit down.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll put that out.’ He takes an incense stick from a holder and stubs it out.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry about Hekka. It won’t happen again.’

  He stares at me with his large yellow eyes, and one of his pointy ears twitches. ‘I know you weren’t harassing Hekka Jones in the corridor,’ he says. ‘That kid is an asshole. But it’s easier to keep him happy.’

  I laugh. ‘Well we agree on that. But why? Why does everyone tiptoe around that motherfucker?’

  ‘You’ve heard the rumour?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a little more than a rumour,’ I say. ‘He basically walks around with a trucker cap that says “Chosen One” on it.’

  King laughs, a sharp hacking and snorting like he’s coughing up a hairball. ‘He’s not the most humble student we have. Unfortunately we have reason to believe that the prophecy is very real.’

  ‘What is this prophecy?’ I say. ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘It’s an old Siener one,’ he says. ‘Your ancestry is the reason why I want to share it with you.’ He adjusts his spectacles, clears his throat and starts to read.

  He will be branded with the crescent moon

  An orphan bred in fear and chaos

  The Muti Man

  Half angel, half devil

  He will erase the line

  Between the Known and the Hidden.

  He finishes reading, slides his spectacles on to the tip of his nose and looks at me.

  ‘That’s it?’ I say.

  He nods.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding me. You’re giving Hekka special treatment because of that bullshit?’

  He reaches into his desk and takes out a file. ‘Since you’ve arrived at Hexpoort, several more agents have been killed and their teeth taken.’ He pulls photos from the files and hands them to me. Crime scenes. People sprawled at awkward angles with bloody mouths and no teeth.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say with a grimace. ‘Goblins tried to rip my teeth out for the Muti Man. I believe he’s real.’ I hand back the photos. ‘But I certainly don’t believe this bullshit prophecy. It’s what they do in horoscopes: make it vague enough to apply to anyone. I mean, come on. Half angel and half devil? Doesn’t that basically describe human nature? I mean, don’t you ever wonder why prophecies don’t just say “The Chosen One’s name is Bob, here is his telephone number and GPS coordinates”?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ King says, raising a bushy feline eyebrow.

  ‘No, because it’s bullshit. Kids here can create fire out of nothing and they’re only learning. If the power of prophecy actually existed, it would be more accurate.’

  ‘MK6 agents are dying and that’s becoming an increasing concern.’

  ‘You wanted my official half-Siener opinion on that prophecy?’ I say.

  King nods.

  ‘Well I’ve just given it to you.’

  King sighs. ‘Well thank you, Baxter.’ He puts the file back in his desk drawer. ‘I think we’re done here.’

  I get up and walk to the door.

  ‘Baxter?’

  I turn around to look at him.

  ‘How is your magical progress going?’

  ‘Badly,’ I say.

  ‘Well I suggest you try and make some progress before your next lesson with the Witch. She’s a big fan of results.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and slam the door behind me.

  I use my lunch break to put in some quality time with Gigli. He uses it to lie in his pen and glare at me with that piggy eye. I squat down next to the cage with my palms showing. I come in peace, you Draken psycho.

  ‘Come on,’ I say in a soft, cooing voice. ‘We can do this.’

  He pricks his ears up and cocks his head to the side.

  ‘That’s it.’ I stick my hand through the bars. ‘Come on over and say hello. There’s no need to fight about this.’

  He gets up and starts to walk towards me. He looks curious, sniffing the ground and pricking his ears up.

  ‘That’s it, boy,’ I say. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  He smiles lopsidedly, letting his long tongue hang out of his mouth. Hell yeah. I’m the goddamn Draken-whisperer.

  In an instant he’s across the cage with a snarling hiss. I jerk my hand back just before his teeth snap shut on the space it occupied. I tumble backwards on to my ass and scrabble through the dirt away from the cage.

  Gigli presses his nose against the bars and gives a long, wheezing chuckle. I stare at him with hatred. What a fucking asshole.

  The rest of the day happens around me like time-lapse photography. I’m a complete magical failure, a single, solitary point that exists outside of everything else. I have one thing, and only one thing, going for me in this place. I wait until early evening and then slip away and find a quiet spot in one of the
corridors; an alcove that houses a small stone gargoyle. I give it the middle finger as I sit down with my back to the wall.

  The Witch’s next lesson is scheduled for tomorrow morning and I seriously need to make some progress. I take a deep breath and weave the beads between my fingers. The world shimmers and I dive into unconsciousness.

  ‘You’re getting the hang of the beads, daddio,’ Tyrone says. ‘Nice going.’

  ‘Still got a long way to go,’ Richard drawls, pushing back his Stetson. ‘Best we get started.’

  ‘Long way to go to where?’ I look around. The dreamsaver this time is a peaceful meadow.

  ‘To there, honey,’ Junebug says, gesturing with her ever-present cigarette.

  I look to where she’s pointing. There are mountains in the distance, with a city in front of them. From the middle of the city a pagoda rises like something out of a samurai movie. ‘What’s that?’ I say, shading my eyes.

  ‘That’s where you go to meet your True Self, honey,’ Junebug says. ‘He’s the one that sent us here to help you.’

  ‘My True Self? Aren’t I my True Self?’

  ‘You’re the Conscious Self,’ Tyrone says, and Cabales grunts in agreement.

  ‘So I’m like the king around here?’

  Richard lifts the collar of his rhinestone jumpsuit and shakes his pelvis a little. ‘Ain’t nobody but the king is the king, baby.’

  ‘The king?’ Tyrone says. ‘Get a load of this kid. No, you’re not the king. You’re the poster boy, the figurehead. You have very little executive power. I mean, technically we’re ALL Baxter, you’re just the one that tells yourself that in the mirror in the morning. The only way to unlock your magical potential is for you, the Conscious Self, to meet your True Self.’

  ‘So let’s get going,’ Richard says. ‘We’re wasting time. We have to cross the underworld of your unconscious to get there.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘That’s not going to be too much of a problem, is it? I mean, it is my mind.’

  Tyrone chuckles. ‘If only it were that simple. Think of your unconscious as the browser history of your psyche. All your secret desires, taboo images and unhealthy intentions exist here.’

  ‘Shit,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tyrone agrees. ‘Exactly.’

  We follow a winding gravel path through the meadow, me in the centre of the group of funksters and Chester, my Freudian latency-phase chihuahua, trotting along behind.

  After a long time we reach the edge of the city. The path becomes pavement and we follow it along a winding street. As we walk, the neighbourhood grows increasingly dilapidated. ‘This is where your prejudices hang out,’ Tyrone whispers to me. ‘Play it cool.’

  ‘I’m not prejudiced,’ I say defensively.

  Tyrone raises an eyebrow. ‘Of course you’re not.’

  The neighbourhood becomes a sprawling slum. Groups of people hang in doorways and look at us as we pass. ‘Hey, toots,’ a big skinhead guy shouts to Junebug. ‘Quit hanging out with those homos and come and hang out with us.’

  She gives him a friendly wave and we carry on walking.

  ‘It’s your mind, remember?’ Tyrone says. ‘They won’t be a problem unless you make them a problem.’

  We pass an old house with a fat guy sitting on a couch on the porch drinking beer. The stench of Cheetos, sweat and farts wafts from him.

  ‘That’s your toxic masculinity,’ Junebug says.

  ‘Fuck you, bitch,’ the fat man shouts. ‘Why don’t you come over and have a ride.’ He gestures towards his sweat-stained crotch.

  ‘No thanks!’ she calls back. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘Nice guy,’ I say, as we hurry past.

  She laughs. ‘He’s not so bad once you look past the impotent animal rage.’

  I focus on staying calm. It’s my mind. It’s my mind. It’s my mind. I keep repeating that until we exit the slum.

  Tyrone pats me on the shoulder. ‘You did well. They could have torn us apart.’

  ‘What?’ I say.

  He smiles. ‘Like I said, you did well.’

  The slum opens up on to a big park. It looks like an outdoor music festival has been happening here. There are empty beer cans scattered everywhere. People are wandering around aimlessly, depressed, make-up smeared, perpetually trying to piece together what happened the night before. They’ve run out of cigarettes, but they keep searching for packets that never appear. They look at each other with disgust.

  ‘The Asphodel Meadows,’ Richard says, and he puts a hand on the huge revolver at his hip. ‘Dangerous place.’

  We walk through the dismal end of the party. I feel I’m coming down from a drug I didn’t take. The further we go, the more the world is drained of colour.

  ‘Fight it, honey,’ Junebug says, stroking my cheek. ‘Just keep going.’

  I feel like the air has become molasses. I fight against it, every step a struggle. Esmé is going to leave me for Troy. I can see that now. The rest of my life is going to be this terrifying battle against my need to manipulate. I may eventually succeed at acting like I’m good, but I’m never going to feel good. The self-loathing is always going to be there.

  I stumble and sit down in what looks like a chill tent at the end of a party. Dirty beanbags and empty plastic bank bags are scattered everywhere. It smells of incense, sex and stale beer. I grab a beanbag and lie down.

  ‘You’ve got to get through this,’ Junebug says, sitting down next to me.

  ‘Nooo,’ I whisper, burying my face in the beanbag ‘I can’t go on.’

  Cabales, my surrogate anal-phase shaman, squats down and stares at me.

  ‘What does he want?’ I murmur into my beanbag.

  He starts talking in Spanish, punctuating each point by prodding me in the arm with a hard finger.

  ‘He says the great feathered serpent god will eventually destroy the world in a hail of cosmic fire. All your problems are nothing. Until the end comes we should all just do what we can.’

  I turn my head and look at him. His dark eyes bore into me.

  ‘OK,’ I say with a sniff ‘Let’s go.’

  I let the shaman help me up and he puts an arm around my shoulder. He utters a couple more words of Spanish.

  ‘He says you smell like shit,’ Junebug says with a smile. ‘He’s right: that beanbag was really dirty, honey.’

  I wipe the side of my face with my sleeve and follow them out of the chill tent.

  ‘Almost there,’ Tyrone says, pointing to the pagoda that juts up a few blocks away from us. ‘You’re doing really, really well.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I murmur, and I let them lead me the rest of the way out of the park. As soon as we are out on the streets again, I feel better. Much, much better.

  ‘That was horrible,’ I say. ‘I never want to go back there.’

  ‘You don’t have to, honey,’ Junebug says with a smile.

  The streets are clean and wide here and there’s a refreshing breeze blowing. Up ahead a fire hydrant has burst and the street has flooded. We splash through the water. ‘The shallows,’ Tyrone says. ‘Try not to look at it too long.’

  I glance down as I walk, and I can see thousands of online articles: Wikipedia entries on Marxism, pieces about Syrian politics, radical feminism, nutrition; half-articles that I didn’t finish, things I skimmed. I stare into them, the colourful ideas, ideologies and opinions streaming past. I’m mesmerised. ‘Whoa there,’ Tyrone says, grabbing my shoulder. ‘I said don’t look too long. You can still drown in the shallows.’

  I force myself to look ahead as we walk. ‘Almost there.’ Tyrone points to the pagoda. ‘We’re really almost—’

  ‘Hey! Bax. Wake up!’

  I open my eyes. ‘What? What’s going on?’ I look up groggily to see Nom standing over me, shaking my shoulders.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ he says. ‘Why are you lurking in an empty corridor?’

  ‘Just getting some peace and quiet,’ I say, trying to massage the
kinks out of my neck. ‘I was kinda busy, man. What’s up?’

  ‘I want you to come check something out.’ He hauls me from the alcove and up the stairs to Malpit.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’ I need to visit Esmé’s dreams. Or at least give her another call.

  He drags me to the window and points out into the night. At first my eyes find it difficult to focus, but gradually they adjust and I see the unmistakable form of Gigli slipping from his cage.

  ‘What is that slithery bastard doing?’ I whisper.

  Nom shrugs. ‘Maybe we should follow him.’

  ‘What the hell for? He almost took my hand off earlier.’

  ‘Find out where he’s going. Maybe it’ll help you to figure him out. You need to do something, Bax.’

  I rub my eyes. ‘You think so?’

  He shrugs. ‘Beasties of any kind, humans included, just want to be understood.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Come on,’ he says, throwing me my hoodie. ‘We’ll just check it out and then you can come back and do whatever you have to do. What do you have to lose?’

  ‘Sleep,’ I mumble as I follow him down the Malpit staircase.

  The night is cool. I pull my hoodie up as we slip across the courtyard and past the gallows, which is even creepier at night-time. We trek up through the canyon, following the vague pink shape of Gigli against the purple, dark blue and black of the night. The moon is full and bright and I can see the landscape stretching out down below us as we climb. An English teacher once tried to tell our class about the tradition of describing the landscape in South African literature. Man, was that a boring lesson. I guess the Sieners saw this landscape as their spiritual homeland. The rugged hills and rasping scrubland chipped and filed away at the European to form the Afrikaner. The fact that that is all part of me is as strange as having the oil-spill of Crow blood in my veins.

  ‘What was it like growing up with the bok-people? I mean really,’ I ask as we walk.

  ‘The Ndiru is what we call ourselves,’ he says. ‘It was good. Bit weird for me now, though, because I have to consciously shift between the human world and that world; it’s like having two parts of myself.’