The Collector Book One: Mana Leak

by Daniel I. Russell

  “You know, if you weren’t my brother, I’d fuckin’ kill you for what you said!”

  “Look on the bright side, bro. He let you keep the porno mag. Here…”

  Jake reached into his long coat and pulled out the glossy magazine, which Adam took with some enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, I suppose. Let’s get this inside quick and sample the purchase, shall we?”

  Jake agreed and held open the door to the garage at the back of the Dean house. The wind had grown stronger still, and the first drops of rain fell on the boys. No stars emerged through the thick formation of cloud in the dark sky. Jake paused, hearing the possible rumble of approaching thunder.

  Adam pulled the bike by the handlebars and wheeled it inside. He propped it up in its usual spot just inside the garage.

  “You two! Wait right there.”

  The twins turned from the sound of the shrill voice and shared a small groan as their mother came trotting out of the house. She wore a faded blue dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, and worn out furry slippers that slapped the paving stones of the yard. Her hair had been crudely tied back. She fidgeted with the ring hanging from her necklace, which she usually did in times of stress.

  “You two, in here, right now.”

  Adam snorted. “Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to you, that’s why.”

  “What about?” chipped in Jake.

  “Look, it’s too late and too cold to stand arguing out here. Come in the house.” She turned to head back in the kitchen but stopped and wheeled round. The boys inched towards the open door of the garage.

  “Either you come in here, or I’ll go in there after you. It’s your choice.” She rubbed the ring again and vanished back into the house.

  Adam cast his brother a worried look.

  “She can’t,” he said.

  Jake agreed. Their mother couldn’t go into the garage, not with some of the items lying around. Besides, it was theirs, the only place they escaped from their nagging, overbearing mother.

  “Come on,” said Jake, heading towards the back door of the house. He bowed his head against the wind that threw raindrops against his face.

  Adam followed close behind. “Wonder what she wants this time?”

  They found Jenny in front of the fireplace in the lounge. The room hadn’t been cleaned up, which was a bad sign. When their mother let things slip in the house, she was either very angry, very upset or both. The brothers collapsed in front of her onto the messy sofa.

  “Thank you,” said Jenny, a hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Jake grunted while Adam watched the television.

  Jenny reached over and turned off the set.

  “Oi! What did you do that for?”

  “We’re here to talk, Adam, not watch TV.”

  “Well, what is it? This is so fucking lame; we’re not kids you know.”

  “Don’t use that kind of language, Adam. You say you’re not a child, but you still act like one, don’t you?”

  Jake sniggered. “A classic, Mum, really.”

  “Shut up, Jake.”

  He fell silent but shared a cheeky sideways smile with Adam.

  Taking a deep breath and clutching the ring tightly in the middle of her fist, Jenny began her lecture.

  “Right, you two. We need to sort out a few things. First off-”

  “Forget this, I’m going to the garage,” said Adam, rising from the sofa.

  “Sit down,” said Jenny. Her voice wavered. “I’m not finished.”

  “Well, I am. Jay, you coming?”

  Jake nodded and also stood.

  “I’ve held back and put up with your shit for far too long,” Jenny blurted. “You’re not going to get away with everything again. You have responsibilities! Look at these.”

  She spun around, grabbed a handful of letters from the mantelpiece and threw them at the twins, who had crossed half way to the door. The papers drifted down and fluttered around them, as though they walked through a giant snow globe.

  “They’re bills! You can read them if you like. Then maybe you can get it through your thick skulls how much trouble we’re in.”

  The boys stood rooted to the spot. They’d never seen their mother fly off the handle like this before.

  “Why can’t you get jobs?” ranted Jenny. “Are you that lazy? Are you that fucking useless?”

  Jake flinched from his mother’s use of the f-word.

  This is weird.

  “I work every hour,” she continued. “Every goddamn hour just to put food on the table, and keep the bailiffs off our backs. And for what? This?”

  She kicked the coffee table, sending empty crisp packets and cola cans spilling over onto the floor. She showed no sign of pain in her slippered foot.

  “You could at least clean up after yourselves!”

  Jenny sucked in a deep lungful of air. She seemed to be struggling to catch her breath.

  Adam and Jake lingered in the doorway, shell-shocked at their mother’s sudden outburst.

  Jenny’s hand returned to the ring.

  “Well? Haven’t you got anything to say for yourselves?”

  The boys stared at the carpet.

  “This is it. I can’t afford to keep this house, feed the pair of you and fork out for court fees and fines! I mean, robbing Mrs McGuire, what were you thinking?”

  Jake swallowed. “You’ve already had a go over that.”

  “Yes, Jake. Yes I have. And I will keep having a go at you until you learn.”

  She dragged in another long, shaky breath. Glistening drops of sweat gathered at her hairline.

  “First thing tomorrow, you two are going down to the job centre.”

  Adam sniggered. “No way.”

  “What was that, Adam? Finally got something to say?” Jenny shrieked.

  “No way am I going to the job centre.”

  “Well you’d better…or else.”

  “Or else what?” He sneered.

  “Or else you’re on your own. I’ve had it.”

  Jake laughed. “You’ll kick us out? Do me a favour…”

  “You don’t think I will?” she demanded. “Try me.”

  “Come on, Ad,” Jake said to his brother, “this is stupid. There’s no way she’d turf us out.”

  “And what makes you so sure?” Jenny growled.

  Jake turned from the door and confidently strode towards his mother. He appreciated that she’d caught him off guard. The shouting, the swearing, kicking the table: just shock tactics. He knew he had her on the back foot now. The threat of being kicked out of the house meant nothing. He stopped in front of her and leaned in, his face inches away from hers.

  “You,” he spat, “will never make us leave because you’re too pathetic to cope on your own.”

  Her hand cut through the air with amazing speed. Jake heard the slap before he felt it. He rubbed his throbbing cheek, eyes still locked with his mother. Her tears had started to swell.

  With both hands, he pushed her in the chest, and she sprawled backwards towards the fireplace. She reached for the mantelpiece as she fell, knocking most its contents to the floor.

  Adam stayed in the doorway, watching.

  Jenny’s ample behind hit the floor hard, knocking the air out of her with a gasp. She lay slumped on the floor looking up at her son.

  Jake towered over her.

  Tears poured down Jenny’s cheeks and dripped off her jaw.

  “If your father was still here…” she sniffed.

  “But he’s not,” Jake shouted down at her. “He’s fucking dead. Get over it, you sad bitch.”

  His words brought a fresh bout of tears. She hung her head, staring down towards her chest.

  On its chain, the golden wedding ring nestled in the valley of dressing gown between her mountainous breasts.

  “Jay, come on,” said Adam, almost whispering. “Leave it.”

  Jake, panting with adrenaline, st
epped away from Jenny before turning his back on her. Adam silently walked out of the room and towards the kitchen.

  Before Jake joined his brother, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

  Huddled on the floor, Jenny had propped her back against the side of the fireplace, her face twisted in grief. She peered up at the sound of Jake’s voice.

  “You’re on your own now,” he said. “Remember that.”

  The Storm

  1.

  Betsy failed to sleep. The sides of her basket seemed to close in with every passing minute of the night. Beside her, the refrigerator hummed quietly. She lifted her head from her paws and peered around the dark room. The outline of the dining table was barely visible in the poor light seeping in through the window. Shadows held the majority of the kitchen.

  She whined and walked from her basket. If the man ever caught her wandering around his house at night…

  But the dog knew he hadn’t returned home yet.

  She padded over the kitchen tiles towards the door. Her feeling of unease deepened with the scents of coffee and fear hanging in the room: remnants from the man and woman’s last conflict. Betsy wanted to get upstairs, into the boy’s room. She’d be safe in there.

  The fur along her back shot up in a wave, and she whined louder.

  The static fuzzed her hair and tickled. A growl rumbled at the back of her throat.

  Betsy approached the door. It had been left open a crack. She shoved her nose against the doorframe and shook her head from side to side. The door swung inwards, and the dog slipped through.

  The first crash of thunder erupted over the house.

  2.

  Anne lay awake and flinched as the thunder hit. She listened to the explosion echo and roll around the sky until it gradually faded and the night returned to silence.

  Frank will be loving this, she thought. The static interaction, the build up of electrical charge, the ionising effect of the lightning, blah, blah, blah.

  She strained to hear any noise from downstairs, sure Betsy had cried out just before the thunder.

  Probably knew it was coming - dogs are meant to be psychic.

  Anne lay under the bed covers, facing away from the door. It was her tried and tested position when Frank was away. If he walked in, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, hoping he’d leave her alone. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The luminous green dial showed a few minutes from 3am. She closed her eyes again, listening for the dog and more thunder.

  Three times now Frank had stormed out of the house and stayed away all night. Anne had no idea where he went on these occasions, and to her surprise, didn’t really care. His return concerned her more.

  She thought of her lost daughter. Would things be different if Katie was still here? Their relationship had plummeted after that, and his temper had risen.

  A single tear rolled from her eye and fell onto the white pillow.

  If only she was still here. If I only I still had my little girl…

  3.

  Betsy cowered under the dining table. The thunder ebbed away. The atmosphere inside the house seemed charged, the static stroking her fur like an invisible hand. Minutes passed in silence, and Betsy gathered the courage to finally emerge from under her wooden shelter.

  Her legs shook, and her claws clicked on the tiles. The door leading into the hall stood wide open. She slowly trotted out of the kitchen, sweeping her head from side to side, her ears pricked. The house no longer felt like her home; smells had distorted to bitter mockeries, and the dark had swept through the kitchen in a cancer of shadows. The moonlight through the window appeared feeble, struggling to cut through the gloom.

  She stopped in the doorway and sniffed. She smelled the family, minus the man, in the house. Instinct ordered her to bolt up the stairs and jump onto the boy’s bed. He’d wrap his arms tight around her and make everything okay again. But first, the living room had to be checked. She had to be sure the house was safe to protect her masters.

  4.

  The roll of thunder snapped Eleanor out of her sleep and she clutched her sheets, which were already wrapped tightly around her thin body, close to her chest.

  Thunder. She hated it. God banging his drum in Heaven, her mother used to say. She never believed it then and certainly didn’t believe it now. Arthur would have stayed up with her through such a turbulent night, brewing her tea to calm her down, at least before the triple heart bypass that eventually killed him. Eleanor considered climbing out of bed and knocking on Joseph’s door.

  She wondered if the whole thing was due to a trainee witch, probably a hormonal fifteen year old, trying to harness powers of nature that she couldn’t possibly control.

  You’ve read too many books.

  She closed her eyes and lay perfectly still. The thunder faded, and the old house stood quiet again. She heard Joseph snoring in the next room. Obviously the loud clap of thunder wasn’t enough to wake him.

  Probably sneaked in a couple of beers while I was in the study, she thought.

  Eleanor sucked in deep breaths and tried to relax. She’d read of a method to calm oneself by opening the chakras, spiritual points of energy that ran the length of her body. If she was lucky, and opened her energy centres successfully, she might be able to open her third eye and see what had caused such a storm.

  The rain began anew and tapped out a chaotic rhythm on her window.

  She opened her eyes again.

  Forget the chakras and the third eye. The window will be much quicker to see what’s going on outside.

  She pulled her bed sheets aside, swung her legs out and gingerly stood up. Just like getting out of a chair, standing out of bed played havoc on her joints. She scooped up her dark red dressing gown, an old Christmas present from Arthur, from a nearby chair and quickly pulled it over her nightshirt. She walked to the window and peeled back the curtain.

  A network of tiny streams ran down the glass as drops of rain swelled and converged. The night appeared thick as tar, with only the meagre glow of streetlights to fight off the totality of darkness.

  There had been no thunder for the last few minutes, and Eleanor hoped it had burned out in the first loud clap. The hypnotic lull of the rain and low howl of the wind would be enough to ease her back to sleep.

  The sky lit up, revealing the streets and properties beyond the house. For an instant, Eleanor glimpsed three forks of lightning combine and descend together over the horizon. The natural firework show flashed out in an instant.

  The thunder struck.

  Eleanor jumped back from the window and closed her eyes tight, mentally shutting out the boom that shook the house. She saw the triangle of lightning, which had dazzled her retinas, flashing different colours in the blackness of her mind.

  “Arthur,” she cried.

  5.

  The flash of lightning lit up the window of the living room, and long shadows of the furniture streaked across the carpet and up the walls.

  Betsy whimpered, her tail hanging between her hind legs.

  At the second roll of thunder, she backed into the hall crying in short bursts. The urge to retreat to the boy’s room swelled, and she reached the bottom of the stairs. The thunder faded, leaving her standing in a quiet dark.

  “Mummy!” sounded a cry from upstairs. The girl.

  Sampling the odd scents in the air, Betsy walked back into the living room. Better for her to stay down here, keep things safe.

  Head bowed, Betsy padded across the carpet and up to the large window.

  Knowing the man still wasn’t home, she broke a major house rule and leapt onto one of the armchairs. She poked her nose between the curtains and stared through the glass at the house opposite.

  The flashes and noise had stopped. The family fumbled around upstairs.

  Betsy stood guard, perched on the armchair looking out onto the street.

  6.

  Jenny had been awake all through the storm, sitting up in bed, watchi
ng the television with the subtitles on. The bad atmospheric conditions warped the picture. It flickered, and the caption at the bottom of the screen showed complete gibberish. A row of threes had appeared a few seconds earlier, and Jenny knew the actors on screen hadn’t said that.

  In the garage, just below her bedroom window, the boys’ stereo blared out, keeping her awake. They had vanished into the building immediately after the argument. Jenny had eventually picked herself off the floor and dragged herself up to bed. The music had started straight away, and far too loud. Jenny, embarrassed and frightened, tried to ignore it. Should she confront the twins, they’d either slam the door in her face, turn the music up louder just to spite her or, the alternative she feared the most, give her another smack.

  The music, all fast drums and thumping bass lines, almost drowned out the thunder. The bright flash of lightning had alerted her to the intensity of the storm. Not wanting another argument at three in the morning, she hoped the neighbours couldn’t hear the music.

  She fingered the wedding band hanging from her necklace and stared at the photograph on her bedside table. From behind the thin glass, Harold stood smiling next to a smoking barbecue.

  Oh Harold. Everything would be different if you were here, everything…

  The music outside stepped up another notch.

  She guessed the twins were trying to block out the noise of the storm entirely, probably both drunk and stoned by now.

  The tears emerged again, and not from the slushy film on screen. The bills, the twins, her obese body, her life…

  “God knows how much I miss you, Harold,” she whispered.

  On the television, a row of threes appeared on the subtitles for the third time.

  7.

  The rain lashed the street and beat against the three houses, carried by the gales that howled and screamed. Another clap of thunder rolled around the thick clouds, and bolts of cobalt blue flickered in the heavens.

  Through the triangle formed by the three households, Penny Crescent stood like a frozen black river. Water ran down the sides of the road in fast moving streams, splashing against the curbs and gurgling down the drains in frothy whirlpools.