by Al K. Line
Mud and boots stayed outside. Inside was a hodge-podge of crammed bookcases and organized chaos that gave way to spaces almost Shaker-like in their simplicity. I cooked, I cleaned, I relaxed, and I shut out the city for a few blissful hours each and every day.
But sometimes I did what I did best, and that was steal other people's stuff for money. But don't feel bad for them, they deserved it, and I saw this as a life of retirement. I didn't work because I had to, I worked because it was the right thing to do. Okay, you got me. Sometimes it was the right thing, sometimes it was, shall we say, rather debatable.
You wouldn't believe the number of items this world contained that it shouldn't, and you certainly wouldn't believe the badasses that would do anything to get their hands on them. Me included.
Anyway, I was home. Standing with my back to the door, I called out, "You'll never guess what Pepper did. He actually killed me, like, with a knife."
"I told you not to trust him. It's his eyes, too close together," came a voice from the den.
I wandered in and said, "Yes, thank you for that insight, George. Remind me to buy a notepad and pen just so I can write down what is undoubtedly one of the greatest sentences ever uttered."
"Dick," said George, back to scanning her magazine from her position on the sofa.
I loved her to bits, she was my daughter after all, but kids, they drive you nuts.
"Oh, did you get it?" I asked, knowing it would cheer me up and her likewise.
The magazine was put down with a rustle of advert-laden pages and she smiled as she caught my eye. "Yup. Postie came early and I even left the wrapping on." George nodded over at a tightly wrapped cartridge on the coffee table and we shared a moment. Nothing bonds like blasting the hell out of each other, and we'd both become rather addicted to the violent world of two-player shoot-em-ups.
"You wanna unwrap it?" I asked, offering because it was one of her favorite things to do.
George sat up and leaned forward, eyeing the game greedily. "You sure? You love taking off the wrapper."
"Be my guest. As long," I said, a warning in my tone, "as you haven't messed up the kitchen."
"Like I'd dare," she said, knowing it was the one thing she was never to do. She could pile her stuff anywhere, leave her strange, esoteric hair and makeup devices that looked more like torture implements than beauty products, anywhere she liked, but the kitchen had rules. Rules to be obeyed.
"Do I need to check?"
"No!"
"All right then, go for it."
I watched, delighted, as George sprang from the sofa and snatched up the game. She concentrated, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, as she attacked the wrapping. With expertise that only came from much practice, she teased a corner of the cellophane that had left many mere mortals so frustrated they cried, and in one fluid motion she pulled the end off and slid the game out in a quick stroke.
"Ta-da," she said, smiling.
"Good job," I said, such a simple act making me feel happier than maybe it should. It's the little things in life, and seeing my own flesh and blood happy made me feel like maybe there was some good left in the world. "Set it up and I'll make coffee."
"Roger that."
I left George to it while I went into the kitchen.
The Call
I set things up for coffee, then fished my phone out of a pocket and pulled it from its protective case. I'd learned from too much experience that the damn things broke way too easy so always carried it in what amounted to a miniature safe. Rugged steel housing that could withstand the rigorous life of a wizard in peril.
With a sigh, I tapped in a number I'd called plenty of times before. It was answered on the first ring.
"You weren't there," said Nigel. He did like to state the obvious.
"I know, I was somewhere else instead. I was getting tied up, escaping, running away as cars exploded, then getting tied up again. Oh, and almost murdered, and beaten, and Pepper is dead." I left out the betrayal bit, I couldn't think of that now or I'd never see this day through with the focus I knew it warranted.
"My dear boy, I'm so sorry. This life of intrigue we lead is fraught with hidden dangers. You should be more careful." Nigel always managed to discuss even the most important of topics with a cool detachment that had often made me wonder if he was even capable of emotion.
Maybe it was the upper class, clipped tones, or the fact he had but one position—back ramrod straight, face emotionless, and eyes somehow always distant—or maybe it was his training. Either way, it was creepy. But he was good at his job, and that job was paying me for doing things nobody else could.
"I was trying to be careful. A heads-up about every lowlife knowing about the item and wanting it would have been nice, and could have saved lives."
There was silence for a moment. Nigel was thinking, and when he paused to think I knew he would say nothing good. "Ah, so the word is out. This is unforeseen, most inconvenient."
"Duh! You could've warned me about this beforehand." I scratched at my face in frustration, chin rasping. I needed a shave. It was beyond stylish, verging on wild wizard territory.
"Didn't want to worry you unnecessarily. Now, all this kerfuffle aside, I assume you still have the item?"
Nigel was utterly exasperating at times, but paid well, and his intel was usually spot on, so this wasn't good news. If he hadn't realized word was out then things were very serious. Or, and this may well have been the case, he was lying as usual. I didn't trust him; he was too calm. Never trust somebody that doesn't get emotional, they're hiding something nasty in their closet.
"Yes, I still have it. And what I would like is to not. You ready to go again? Next rendezvous point?" I hated it when I caught myself talking like this. Rendezvous point? Why didn't I just say, meeting place? See the effect he had on me?
"I shall await the pleasure of your company with bated breath." He hung up.
I put my phone back in its case and dropped it into a pocket. The kitchen was full of the beautiful aroma of coffee, so I grabbed the milk, steamed it, sprinkled chocolate dust carefully, and savored a cheeky sip before I took them into the den.
Aah, nothing like it in this world.
Smiling as I drank, I admired a view I could never grow tired of. The sheep nibbled contentedly in the lush, green fields, the trees swayed gently in the wind, and the gray skies were crowded with fat clouds clamoring for position. No matter the weather, it was still beautiful, and how the world should be. Even if for most it couldn't be farther from their reality.
Thoughts of Pepper pushed aside my moment of clarity and it turned everything sour. How could he?
"Lesson learned, Arthur. This is what happens when you let unsavory characters get too close. They hurt you." I should have known by now, but friendship was hard to find let alone hold on to, and I genuinely thought the piece of shit was a buddy.
"Ugh. It's done, you've got new problems to worry about."
Most of the house might be cluttered and in good need of a dust and maybe several skips could be filled with unwanted items, but the kitchen was a different matter entirely.
I liked to cook, and I required order when it counted, and in the kitchen it definitely counted. Everything had its place, and everything was neat and organized. The space was cramped when I bought the farm, even had an old Rayburn stove. But after the first month's bill for the oil it consumed like a hungry beast I got the monster ripped out. It's one thing living in the romantic idyll of a farmhouse, it's another when you realize your stove costs more to run than a car.
In its place I had a snazzy, high-end oven, supposedly self-cleaning although that was a downright lie—it got dirty and cleaning it was one of those jobs I hated with a vengeance. Still, it got scrubbed anyway, same as the rest of the kitchen, and I always left it as I found it. Sparkling, shiny, and smelling of lemon.
This was my real home, the kitchen. And the den. Other downstairs rooms hardly got used. Starting with the old guzzler
, I got rather carried away with plumbing and contractors and ended up removing the wall between the kitchen and dining room and knocking the entire back wall of the house down. Steel was inserted where necessary so I didn't end up with just a pile of old rock, and I had floor to ceiling glass doors fitted that looked out onto the fields at the rear. Plus a nice deck for sitting, with a new overhang to allow me to have the space open to the elements without getting soaked.
Instead of the old flagstones that remained everywhere else, I got expensive black porcelain tiles fitted, a modern and sleek kitchen installed with more gadgets than in a Star Trek fan's wet dream, and cupboards, cupboards, everywhere. Although, why you always run out of room however many you have is just one of those kitchen mysteries never to be solved, not even by the most adept of detectives.
A large country table and mismatched chairs with cushions softened the feel of the otherwise clinical room, and the end result was utter, blissful, tranquil, ordered perfection.
With another quick sip of coffee, I wandered back into the den, low-ceilinged and overflowing with stuff, and was greeted with a wall of noise.
I handed George her coffee and with a grunt she clacked a button. I snatched up my controller and battle commenced.
Half an hour later, eyes glazed and mind full of zombie mayhem, I sank the dregs of my cold coffee, said, "Next time I'll whoop your ass," and then ruffled George's hair because I knew she loved it really. "Time to recharge the batteries." As an afterthought, I reminded her, "Don't forget to clean the cups and—"
"I know, and put them back where they belong." George batted my hand away as I went to ruffle her hair again, then smiled at me as I poked my tongue out at her.
"See you soon."
I headed off to the magic room.
The Quiet Place
Most refused to believe in magic, which is understandable considering it was about as common as the Queen playing pool and downing pints of ale at the local on a Friday night.
And yet, anyone could learn a little about this art, could get that incredible buzz of excitement, feel the anticipation build as you get the tingle all over your body and channel unimaginable powers in ways even the most adept cannot explain.
But, as with everything worth having, it came at a price. One most would never be willing to pay even if you sat them down in a comfy chair, gave them irrefutable proof that magic existed, then told them exactly how they too could wield the mystical arts.
It all boiled down to hard work and the ability to stay very still for a very long time.
Think of it like this. A lizard is pretty useless, slow and lethargic, unenergized and good for nothing until it has basked in the sun, soaked up warmth and energy. The longer it exposes itself to the warming and power-giving rays of the sun, the faster it can run, the better its reflexes, and the more likely it is to feed successfully and thus do the same thing all over again the next day.
Or here's another example. Batteries. We all know what they are. They have to be charged. Say a big ole battery, those you use to go camping with, is dead, expunged. You connect your solar panel and wait patiently for it to charge up. If the sun is weak because it's cloudy, then it takes longer to charge, same as the lizard. But if the sky is clear, blue and beautiful—which didn't happen often in the UK so good job I wasn't a lizard—then that means the connection to the power source is better and before you know it, whoopee, you've plugged in your power-hungry link to the online world and away you go.
Magic's like that.
When you are still, when you can calm your mind and let it rest in the Quiet Place, the emptiness that is both within and without—which I know sounds all spiritual and a little like I'm trying to get you to take up meditation or become the Buddha, but what can I tell you, it's a big universe out there and this stuff is important—then you can maybe, just maybe, search and eventually find the connection. The power source, the unknowable, impossible to describe, mighty, all-encompassing energy source of the entire universe.
It's what powers your mind, what makes the planets rotate and stops everything imploding, or never existing in the first place. The driving force behind the whole shebang, existence itself. God to some, nirvana to billions, some science thing to do with atomic particles to others. It doesn't matter what you call it as you will never even come close to the truth of the nature of this thing, but what you can call it, and what we did, those of us who went to the Quiet Place, is magic.
That's what everyone calls stuff they don't understand, right? Magic.
Spend time there, silent, mind empty of everything but the desire, the need, the will to open yourself to such primordial forces, and you get a tiny taste of it inside of you.
And just like batteries, and lizards, you top yourself up when you run down to almost empty.
What I'm trying to tell you, what this all equates to, is it's damn hard to even get to this place. I mean, who is ever still, alone, mindful of their thoughts, and focused on nothing? Right. And if you want to direct these forces then you need hours to make the connection, more if you are really low on your levels, and it may take you years to find the Quiet Place, let alone understand how to take what it offers.
And that, my friend, was why nobody believed in magic and why there weren't that many people in the world who could use it.
It took too much damn hard work for anyone to bother looking, let alone find out what they could do with it. Plus, there was TV. Oh, and the Internet, that was good, too.
And let's not forget gaming.
Back at It
After the morning I'd had, I could have done with more than half an hour in the magic room but it would have to do. I wasn't exactly topped up to the max but at least I wasn't just a mere mortal either.
I call it the magic room when really it was just an empty room at the top of the house up a narrow set of stairs. Yeah, the attic. It had a single, small, north-facing window, stripped floorboards, bare plastered walls and nothing else.
No distractions, no furniture, nothing but a light bulb and me when I was in it.
Stripped down, ignoring the cold, I sat or sometimes lay and allowed the impossible to happen.
My internal buzzers went off after thirty minutes, so I rose and went into my bedroom to dress. I'd already showered as feeling clean before entering the room had become part of the ritual, not that it made a difference but there you go.
With new black combats on, a fresh brown shirt, Grace on my head, and boots downstairs, I was almost ready to go.
George was still hard at the game as I entered the living room, getting practice in so she could continue to beat me. "Gotta go see a man about a dog," I said.
"Why don't you just say you have to go see Nigel to unload your cursed bag?" she said, not taking her eyes off the screen.
"Because that makes it sound scary, and I don't want you to worry about me."
George paused the game and turned. "I worry more when you don't tell me what's happening. One of these days you know you're going to have to take me with you, right?"
"Never," I said, and I meant it. "You're my responsibility and this life isn't for you. You're safe here, it's off limits and protected, but out there, it's a different matter entirely."
"Come on, Arthur, I mean, Dad, you know I'm ready." It was only recently she'd started calling me Dad and she was still getting used to it, me too, so slipped sometimes. Still, it was nice to hear when she remembered. It made my heart sing like nothing else, even better than magic.
"You'll be ready when I'm dead and cremated, and not before."
"Spoilsport." George resumed her game. Guess the conversation was over.
"Bye, then," I said, hoping for a hug and a kiss goodbye but knowing she wasn't ready for anything like that yet.
"Laters," was all I got, and the back of her hand before it slammed onto the controller and she hissed, "Yes!" as pixelated blood splattered the screen.
I put my boots on at the front door and wandered through t
he courtyard. Footsteps pounded behind me and I turned.
"Thought maybe you'd want to take this?" George held out the bag and tutted as I took it.
"Thanks. Oh, and thanks for sorting the animals out this morning. Any problems?"
"Nope, just don't make a habit of it. I'm a teenager, we aren't supposed to get up before eleven."
"I won't. And thanks again for the bag."
George smiled and I took a moment to study my daughter. She was a pretty girl, rich auburn hair down her back she played with constantly. Subtle makeup when she could be bothered, but always smartly dressed. She went against everything I thought I knew about teenagers. She didn't rebel with her wardrobe, liked tight pastel skirts and frilly, button down blouses, so maybe she was like an anti-rebel rebel or something. Not sure, it got confusing. But, she rebelled in other ways, magical ways, and however much I tried to talk her out of it, she carried on regardless.
"Stop staring at me," she said, blushing a little.
"Sorry, just thinking how pretty you are."
"Dad!"
"What?
"Ugh, you're so weird. How the hell you're a good criminal is beyond me," she said, then ran back inside.
"I'll have you know I'm the best there is," I shouted. She just slammed the door and made the chickens squawk. I glared at them and mumbled, "Can't help it if I forget things now and then. I've got stuff on my mind."
I opened the gate and got in my car, no point using a "borrow" now. The job was done and besides, I needed a ride I was familiar with in case things got hairy now word was apparently out about the item.
Mindful of wayward magic and the fact the item clearly didn't like being manhandled and had a penchant for causing cars to explode, I activated the wards now we were out the house—I knew George was nosy and didn't want her arm melting off; I'd never hear the end of it—then topped them up and placed the bag carefully on the back seat.