Chaos Magic

by John Luxton

  He had been here at Vernon Reach the previous day, and by working back down the time-line from the place where the victim was left, out on the mud bank, then there ought to be, at some point, evidence implicating a perpetrator of these crimes, a real person - for Detective Z only believed in real people committing real crimes, despite having to buy into Professor Sprawl’s wilder theories, just enough to move forward with his investigation. He was sailing under a flag of convenience, AKA the crazy flag.

  He had stood for several moments in the foyer of the Babadrome staring at the poster. Maybe now was the time to discover the worst. Fear and hope: hope and fear – a combination of sensation that had eluded him for so very many years as he had shuffled through a numbing fog of despair since Lorna’s disappearance.

  Yes, it was Lorna.

  He methodically removed the thumbtacks, folded the shiny paper and put it in the pocket of his coat, feeling strange doing so. Then he turned around and went back outside; here he found Darren to be gone. I’m here to do a job, and this might be my only chance – better get with the program, Detective, he thought, and set off to find a way down to the riverfront and the mud bank where the dead woman had been found.

  Detective Z had in fact entered the Loa. He was no longer sitting alongside Professor Darren Sprawl back in the basement of the Institute, for he had turned sideways to the cavalcade of the senses that comprise everyday reality. Besides, he was following a trail; his detective’s sensibility now utterly attuned to identifying the progenitor of darkness, the Baron Samedi and his minions, the murdering bastards who were dumping their handiwork on his west London patch, the fuckers who had taken Lorna, taken her and turned her into some circus act performing in a cage. He would find her, and bring her back. And bring back the sack of shit responsible; either that or dispense some kind of ‘on the spot’ retribution. Exactly how - he had yet to figure out.

  The same gravel path led down to Thames, on one side the Babadrome, on the other the same sewage facility only this time the prevailing breeze took the stink out over the river. The light was failing, or maybe it was always twilight in this place, and the detective saw, to his disappointment, that the tide was up and the shingle and mud where he had stood yesterday was beneath swirling brown water. He did however notice something new – a narrow track snaking off around the headland. It was a windswept and isolated place but nevertheless Detective Z felt compelled to follow the track through the long grass and samphire. A seabird screeched close by.

  ‘Vernon Creek’ said an old wooden sign nailed to a post, apropos of nothing. A little further along, the hillside fell away and then down below was the creek, the outflow of some long forgotten river merging with the incoming tide. Moving gently on its moorings was a boat, blue in color, an old tub with an element of congruency in its appearance that neither surprised nor troubled him – a ghost vessel emerging from the mist, the name painted on the hull the key to the encrypted realities in which he was stranded, supplying an entry point to the sideways realm. Just the shape and feel of the vowels and consonants forming spontaneously on his tongue and in his mind, applying a balm to all previous ambivalence – the Alembic Valise, he said out loud.

  Smoke was drifting from the stovepipe; he quickened his steps until he was alongside. Then he called out. After a few moments someone appeared in the wheelhouse and slid open a window.

  “Detective Z - its déjà vu all over again,” said the man.

  “Indeed it is, Mister Barlow. It’s a bit of a surprise to find you out here – and so close to a crime scene.”

  “The whole world is a crime scene if you wait around long enough, Detective Z.”

  “That is too deep for me – do you mind if I come aboard.”

  The man nodded and steadied the gangplank with his foot whilst the detective boarded the Alembic Valise. They solemnly shook hands and then went below deck.

  “Fancy finding you here in Vernon Creek,” said the detective ducking down to avoid cracking his head on a beam.

  “We live in a multiverse, some of us only access one world, others several or many, and some all worlds,” replied his host

  “That would be God.”

  “Possibly.”

  ”And you’re still messing around in boats,” said the detective.

  “Clearly,” said Joel, his hand inscribing a pattern in the empty space, indicating and acknowledging the surroundings. “The way I see it is if you are adrift in the multiverse then you need a trusty vessel - mine is the Alembic Valise,” he continued.

  The Detective appeared skeptical.

  “Look, what are the minimum requirements? You need an anchor – if you want to stay put. You need and engine – when you need to move on. And you need a stove, unless you want to freeze and never drink tea.”

  On cue the blackened kettle began to rattle its lid and Joel lifted it from the stove and filled a large brown teapot.

  “What do you say, Detective Z, how do you manage without those things?”

  “I only just found out I am in a multiverse – give me time.”

  “That is one thing that we do not have, Detective.”

  “It’s true, I should probably be back at that cage fighting place collecting evidence – checking the CCTV or something.”

  Then the detective stood up suddenly and cracked his head soundly on a beam. He sat down rubbing his head whilst placing the poster on the table between them.

  “Take a look,” he said.

  “Live at the Babadrome,” Joel read. “I never visited the place, named after the late Baba Zum, not my favorite human being...” He trailed off. “Good grief, that’s Lorna!”

  “Yes, I don’t understand it either. I came here to investigate a murder scene and the first clue I find is my daughter; I’m trapped in a nightmare, Mr. Barlow.”

  “You entered through the spiral gateway, detective; here you will find that nothing is what it seems.”

  Joel poured the tea into two white mugs, adding sugar to his own, and then sat down opposite the detective.

  “Time waits for no man, detective, tell me your story?”

  Detective Z cradled the mug of steaming tea, and over the next ten minutes began to tell Joel Barlow of the events that had led him there. His host listened intently and then there were a few moments of silence between the old friends before Joel replied.

  “They are closing all the portals except one – the Vertical Abyss. These places of abandonment and dereliction where the victims are showing up are not just chosen at random, they are where the entropy of beta world is breaking through into our world. The corpses mark the points of ingress, and afterwards nothing more will pass through those spiral gateways.”

  “But won’t that be a good thing?” the detective interrupted.

  “Demons and angels, detective, angels and demons; the portals balance these energies, and from them all life, good as well as bad, extends.”

  “So what’s the point, if it just creates a stalemate?” asked Detective Z.

  “All Quiphoth will stream into the Vertical Abyss in a final Armageddon and Alpha world will blink out and be gone forever. And we will all be slaves of the Serpent Noire.”

  “The Vertical Abyss – what’s that?”

  “Let’s take a trip and I will show you, Detective. I’ve been waiting for a new crew member to show up.”

  “Will I find Lorna there?”

  No answer was returned.

  Joel went up on deck to make ready for their journey whilst the detective sat grim-faced at the galley table. After a minute Detective Z stood up carefully, removed his overcoat and climbed up to join Joel who was coiling a length of rope. He handed a windlass to the detective.

  “Crank the handle to raise the anchor. On a rising tide we sail for the Abyss.”

  Detective Z took his orders and set to his task.

  Later as the Alembic Valise slipped out of the creek and into the Thames, Detective Z returned to the cabin to find a waterproof jacket,
as it had started to drizzle. There he heard a soft beeping sound coming from his coat. It was his cell phone, the alarm indicating that the battery was about to expire. Great, he thought, adrift in the multiverse with no charger. There were some messages and he began to check them quickly. One was from SC4, the Forensic Division. It was a photograph of the face of the dead girl found on the foreshore. He only saw it for a second before the screen went blank. He knew her face. It was Lorna’s opponent, seen on the poster still lying on the galley table: Chloe ‘Cold Fury’ Andretti.

  Back on deck Detective Z saw that the fog and drizzle had combined to produce a metrological pea-souper, making it impossible to get one’s bearings. He supposed that they were now out in midstream as neither bank was visible and the boat was making slow progress against the run of the tide. The only sound the rumble of the twin diesel engines laboring at their task.

  He climbed the steps to the wheelhouse, fully expecting to find Joel; there was no sign of him. In alarm the detective quickly scanned the deck; his alarm turned to panic and he grabbed the freely spinning wheel, holding it tight, looking around desperately, navigating blindly.

  He slid the window open and called but could discern no sound above the rumble of the engines, just a muffled silence broken by the cry of a seabird. He tightened the brass damper in the centre of the wheel, in order to keep a steady course, and went back out onto the deck and looked into the fast running water. After a while he figured out he was alone. Maybe the he fell overboard or took off in an unseen dingy, he thought.

  Back in the wheelhouse he noticed a torn piece of paper tacked to the wall; it was a map of the Thames as it ran through the centre of London – someone had drawn a cross with a red marker pen. He looked more closely; it indicated a spot on the northern bank – Vertical Abyss was written faintly next to the cross. He turned it over to see a diagram; it was a ground plan showing the layout of a building. Entrances and exits were marked, as was a pathway right from the bank of the Thames. He then reapplied himself to his newly acquired role of navigating safely down the river to places unknown.

  Chapter 17

  CALYPSO COLLAPSO

  Finally Alan heard the rattle of keys. He readied himself to fly at his gaoler. The door opened but this time it was Simon Magus who entered the room; dark circles under his eyes and the smell of brimstone on his clothes. Alan saw that he carried a small shiny device in his left hand.

  “It’s a high voltage pain dispenser,” he said following Alan’s gaze. “Want to try it? In fact, please do. It’s been a long night and I haven’t time for this bullshit.”

  Eddie Brocade had entered the room behind him. Alan slumped back on the bunk, holding his wrists together as if they were still bound.

  “Where is the detective? Talk to me now, it will be cleaner and simpler. After me,” he nodded towards Eddie Brocade, “nothing will be clean or simple.”

  Alan elected to say nothing – instead deciding to play the part of a weak and confused old man with a dodgy heart; some of which was true. Eddie came closer and stood over him, getting in his face to deliver some sadistic threat. Alan prepared to launch himself but as he did so he saw in his peripheral vision Simon Magus raise his arm...then there was only unbelievable pain, followed by darkness.

  Chapter 18

  TRANSDIMENSIONAL PORPOISE OF LOVE

  I found myself without any playmates; this made Darren a glum boy. In order to ameliorate this new feeling of abandonment, a sensation compounded for the worse as I was forced to remember and confront all the carefully catalogued remembrances of similar past desertions, I sought to console myself by climbing to the top of my lonesome tower and there to lose myself in some new tangent to my paranormal and insular studies. Detective Z and Alan having both elected to go ‘off grid’ and therefore, I sulkily reasoned – I would do the same.

  To make the most of the occasion I had armed myself with several items – the most unusual and potent amongst them a vial of a herbal alkaloid extract possessing hallucinogenic properties and reputed to imbue the imbiber with the ability to walk through walls and other similar shamanic and oracular faculties. Maybe, I reasoned, this cocktail would give me access to the sideways world – the realm that had eluded me ever since my one successful sojourn to its shores, where I was able to retrieve the message from Lorna Z that had set the current phase of my engagement in the battle between light and darkness in motion. The other key components to my retreat were a ham sandwich and a flask of tea – there being no catering facilities extant in the ancient watch-tower I had prepared to repair to. Who knew what kind of sustenance I might require after the probable travails of my planned astral journey. I thought I had anticipated all eventualities – I was wrong.

  Foolish cove! I hear you say: climbing a blamey tower with a pocket full of trip oil; has he never heard of those sixties acid causalities who, in addition frying their brain pans and becoming trapped in a meta-psychosis of flashback and catatonia for the rest of their lives, thought they could fly, and whose numbers include some who found out the hard way that they could not? My response would be: whilst it may be true that those early pioneers of sensory derangement may have produced numerous jam-fests for the unhappy council workmen to attend and scrape after unsuccessful inaugural flights, I would counter with the point – they simply failed to read the instruction manual.

  I, by contrast, had; should I choose to sally forth thus. Neither had I any intention in falling for the Icarus deception and becoming unglued from my means of propulsion in the afterglow of my aviatory soarings – not I.

  I planned to reach my destination courtesy of the 419 from Hammersmith bus garage, but as we crossed the Thames, our vehicle lurching over the lumpy tarmac, I began to feel that I was being watched; that someone’s eyes were boring into me; my previous mood of fluffy anticipation evaporating, to be replaced by one of edgy paranoia.

  At the first bus stop I stood up, slung my man-bag casually over my shoulder, rang the bell and made to get off, trying not to catch the eye of any of my fellow travelers. I was, however, able to scan their faces anonymously from behind my Raybans, trying as I did so to detect any sign of inappropriate interest – to my untrained eye there seemed to be no takers for such a passenger profile. I got off the bus – just me, and then watched as my ride trundled off and was then just part of the weekday traffic – all going someplace - but without me. Fuck-a-dog! I said out loud to no one in particular, turned up my collar and began to tramp back towards the river, considering my navigational options as I did so. Don’t be such a sorry spoon, I told myself – let’s extract something positive from adversity.

  A path led down to the southern bank of the Thames, and I took it, quickening my pace with each stride in anticipation of some hidden outcome that may wait just around the next bend in the river.

  After I was confident that no one was following I relaxed and began to enjoy my surroundings as I took the longer but more scenic route to my original destination of Mortlake; every-so-often there was a break in the tree-lined embankment affording me views onto and across the river. The tide was up but not high enough yet to spill over on to the towpath. But it was only a matter of time before a tidal overflow would hamper my progress. This was because today was the day of Wesak – the first full moon of the month of May. The fluvial flow would achieve slack tide in an hour or two and it would be notable because the lunar apogee would produce a ‘spring tide’. Not a term that refers to the season but to any high tide, although, of course in this particular case – it was spring too. I sat on a bench and poured myself some tea. I ate my sandwich. Nobody came by and said, Darren-boy, please wait. So I drank my potion. Nothing happened.

  Wesak is a time of great importance in the Buddhist world. Apparently, according to the theosophist Alice Bailey, the ageless spirit of the Lord Gautama and the Maitreya join together to preside over a ceremony that takes place in a lost valley somewhere in the Himalayas. Spiritual enlightenment awaits those chelas and disciple
s invited to the event, where the participants enact a magical ritual of transformation that modifies the reflected solar light of the full moon in order to both heal our planet and effect an evolutionary change in the consciousness of the inhabitants – that’s us.

  All well and good you may say. But as I sat there watching the waters of the Thames rising ever higher it occurred to me that if anyone was to systematically disrupt this occasion, on which the trans-dimensional energies were being balanced and released, then the consequences would be grave.

  The thought that I may have stumbled upon the Modus Operandi of the Brotherhood of the Serpent filled me with fear and excitement. However there was another encroaching realization that too was gaining traction in my mind: it was Lorna Z. I was lovesick. We had never met but I knew she was somewhere out there. I had over the last few weeks developed the habit of saying her name over and over to myself. And so despite the knowledge that we were entering a time of heavy reckoning when all alignments and faiths were to be stress tested by the approaching vernal currents, all I could manage to do was to sit there on my bench watching the waters rise and saying her name. Lorna Z, Lorna Z, Lorna Z.

  I was powerless to move and after a while water began to encroach onto the path. I looked out over the widening expanse and saw that the slick surface was clothed with pale mist that seemed to hang there, gradually becoming miasmic. I could see pulsations of orgone energy flickering across the sky and through the atmosphere; the breeze in the trees behind me fell silent. Into my field of vision I saw a black fin, gliding through the water out in midstream. It began to inscribe an elliptical arc towards me and my bench. By now water was sloshing around my feet and I had to climb up onto the back part of the bench. Holy fuck! I remember thinking - off my face, marooned in the floodtide, in the grip of an approaching planetary singularity, with the avatar of some trans-dimensional being disguised as a shark about to make contact. How did it come to this?