May Contain Traces of Magic

by Tom Holt

  I’m very sorry it’s ended like this. I’ve loved you—really loved you a lot—ever since we were in year twelve. I even loved you when you got that terrible acne, and your face looked like the Bible and Shakespeare in Braille. I sail love you, but not enough to carry on like this. And I know you stopped caring a long time ago.

  Take care,

  Karen

  Oh, Chris thought. He put the letter back in the envelope, and put it away in the drawer where bills and stuff went to hibernate. Then he spent ten minutes looking for the bottle of ouzo they’d brought back from Corfu, until he remembered that Karen had chucked it out six months ago. So he made himself a cup of tea instead.

  Well, he thought. After all, she was a demon, for crying out loud; lucky escape you had there. Blood runs cold when I think of it. But that wasn’t true, and he didn’t feel particularly lucky; in fact he didn’t feel anything very much, just a sense of emotional anaesthesia, as though pain was going on somewhere but he couldn’t actually feel it. Mostly, he just felt empty. If there’d been a deposit on him, he’d have taken himself back to the shop.

  She can’t just have upped and left, Chris thought; there should have been rows and scenes and tears and slammed doors and long, grim silences, any or all of which would’ve been better than this solid, uncompromising absence, this lack of her that filled the whole flat. Funny, that; most of the time lately she hadn’t been here, and he’d hardly noticed. Now that it was official, though, in writing, like a contract or a bill of sale, her absence was omnipresent, and wherever he looked, there she wasn’t.

  He let his tea go cold, then poured it down the sink, washed and dried the cup and put it away. Karen hated him leaving dirty cups and plates lying around the place; he wasn’t too keen on mess either, but at some point it had become a political issue between them. No point now, though. He wiped down all the work surfaces and sorted the cutlery drawer. It was something to do.

  Well, he thought. Jill’s taken care of the demons, Karen’s left me, I guess the rest of my life’s my own. I can do whatever I want. I can chuck in my job. I can go to Switzerland. I’m free, just like someone else I could mention. He looked round at the kitchen—familiar, mundane, all the things he’d been so vaguely dissatisfied with for so long, but something had changed; it was home and not home, the same place but in a different dimension, with one of the governing constants removed. Of course, he thought, it’ll have to be sold, I can’t afford to buy out her share and pay the mortgage all by myself. Silly, really, that loss of people usually entails loss of places as well. You’d have thought we’d have got ourselves better organised as a species by now.

  Chris went back into the living room, sat down and tried to think about something else: demons, the Fey, interdimensional conduits, all the stuff he’d learned today, so relevant to the desperate, life-threatening nightmare he’d found himself trapped in. But he couldn’t make himself concentrate on any of those things. It all seemed remote, improbable, silly. So she was a demon; so what? And all that business about the one who was to come and civil war among demonkind; it was all a bit like politics in Chile, his business insofar as no man is an island, but something about which he knew little and cared less.

  He’d have welcomed a demon attack, because it’d have taken his mind off things, but nothing happened. Around half past one in the morning he fell asleep in his chair. No dreams. Nothing.

  Chris called the office before setting out the next morning.

  “Oh,” Julie said. “I thought you were supposed to be at death’s door.”

  “I was,” he replied. “I got better. The doctor said it was the most amazing thing he’d seen in forty years in the profession. He’s going to write it up for the British Medical Journal.”

  Julie sighed. “Well, I rearranged all your calls, like you told me to, so there’s nobody expecting you today.”

  “Not to worry,” he replied. “I’ll go round same as usual, and if they say anything I’ll tell them you got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick and it’s all your fault. You don’t mind, do you? For the good of the firm.”

  “You sound odd this morning. You sure you’re not still feeling ill?”

  “Never better.”

  “I assume you got a sick note from the doctor.”

  “Drat.” Chris smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand, loud enough so she could hear. “Knew I’d forgotten something. Never mind. You’ll just have to take my word for it. After all, when have I ever lied to you?”

  He put the phone down on her reply and went to Shrewsbury, where he sold Sorcery Source nine dozen BB27Ks without even realising, not to mention a full container-load of desiccated water—

  “While we’re on the subject,” he asked, “you wouldn’t happen to know what people use it for, do you?”

  The young man behind the desk shook his head. “Not a clue,” he replied.

  “Fuck,” Chris said. “Oh well, not to worry.”

  “You could try looking it up in the Book,” the young man suggested.

  “What book?”

  “The Book of All Human Knowledge. You know,” he added, as Chris stared blankly at him, “the one you’ve just sold us fifty copies of.”

  “Oh, that” Chris shook his head. “Waste of time. Completely useless, that thing.”

  Though Chris wasn’t aware of it at the time, that was the turning-point, the start of a selling blitz that would be talked about in hushed voices at every JWW Retail sales conference for the next ten years. Honesty, the best policy: the more he told them what rubbish the stuff was, the more they ordered, though (interviewed later for the trade paper) some of the buyers apportioned equal weight to his aggressively brisk manner. Just couldn’t say no to him in that mood, they said. For two weeks, he raged across the Midlands like a lava flow, piling up orders in his wake like strewn boulders. Mr Burnoz—Mr Burnoz kept trying to ring him, but he was too busy selling to take the call, he said he’d ring back but forgot to; Mr Burnoz didn’t seem to mind at all—Mr Burnoz had to get onto the shippers to double the quantities of four or five lines, since Chris had single-handedly emptied the warehouse shelves. Unable to reach him by phone, Mr Burnoz sent him an e-mail to let him know he’d been nominated for Salesman of the Year. He couldn’t be bothered to reply.

  Two weeks. No demons, no Karen. Jill had left a couple of messages on his machine, but he didn’t bother returning them. He found his way around using signposts and a map, and never once got lost. On Sundays, when the shops were shut and he couldn’t call, he sat in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. The little hummingbird charm had disappeared from his rear-view mirror, though he might have chucked it out himself—he couldn’t remember.

  He asked everybody he could think of, but nobody had any ideas about what people used dried water for.

  Chris came home one evening to find Jill waiting on the doorstep.

  “I phoned,” she said, as he opened the door, “but you never called back. I was worried.”

  “No need,” he replied. “I take it you’ve heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  Up the stairs to the flat. Still not there. “Karen left me. Funny, I’d have thought you’d have known by now. You know everything.”

  “She left you.”

  “Mmhm.” He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. “She reckons we’re through. Nothing left to say to each other.” Tea bags in cups, one sugar for him, none for her. “I don’t know, maybe she’s right. Biscuit?”

  Jill shook her head; and he remembered. She can’t eat biscuits unless they’re steeped in human misery. Well, she’d come to the right place for that. He took the lid off the jar—he kept his biscuits in a special jar nowadays, he’d bought it a couple of days ago, of his own free will and everything—and helped himself to two chocolate digestives. At the end of all things, when the sky folds up and the walls close in and all the lights go out, there is still chocolate.

  “That’s—” she hesitated, the
n said, “dreadful.” Wasn’t the first word to come into her head, though. “I’m so sorry. I always thought you two—”

  “Really?” Chris shrugged. “Never could understand it myself. Two people less suited to each other would be rather hard to find. I mean, take Karen: beautiful, intelligent, dynamic, forceful, ambitious, motivated—” He paused, then grinned. “A demon,” he added. “And then look at me. Might as well be a different species. Well,” he added, “I am a different species, as a matter of fact, but I really don’t think that was anything at all to do with it.”

  He poured the tea, adding her minute dash of milk. The colour of old walnut furniture, was how she’d once described her perfect tea colour. “Can you actually metabolise this stuff?” he asked curiously. “Or does it just go right through you?”

  “I like it,” Jill replied. “It’s one of the few human foodstuffs that carries a built-in emotional charge. You know, tea and sympathy. Coffee, on the other hand, gives me heartburn.” She took the cup from him and said, “She really did love you.”

  Shrug. “Maybe,” he said. “I’m not sure I ever loved her, particularly—not while we were together, at any rate.” He sat down, took a deep swig of tea, and closed his eyes. “I take it this is going to be your dinner,” he said.

  “Yes. But I’m genuinely concerned too.” Shrug. “You can believe that or not as you wish.”

  “You’ve never lied to me,” Chris replied. “Anyway, where was I— Oh yes. Karen and me. Looking back analytically, it’s hard to say. When we got together, it was the classic rebound thing on my part. I couldn’t have the one I really wanted—” He looked at her and lifted his cup in a mock toast. “And there was Karen, who seemed to want me for some reason best known to herself, so I thought: well, she’ll have to do, if we go off together then at least that’ll be that sorted, and I won’t have to bother with it any more. Oh, I’m not saying I was that cold-blooded about it, not consciously. I just couldn’t face that whole wretched being-in-love thing, ever again. I guess,” he added, “it was a case of better the devil you know.”

  Jill gave him a cold look. “And then?”

  “Well, we got on with it, the way you do,” Chris said wearily. “And being in love’s a subjective thing in any case. I mean, you can’t go into a chemist’s and get a love-testing kit: if the little bit of litmus paper turns blue it’s the real deal, if it’s red you’re just kidding yourself. Actually,” he added, “Zauberwerke do something of the sort now, attractively packaged and retailing at just £19.99, but they’re not having much luck with it. I guess, when it comes right down to it, most people just don’t want to know. Much easier just to blunder along in the dark, especially once you’ve got mortgage payments to consider, or—God help us—kids. After all, even true love composts down into force of habit eventually. I guess, deep down, I was hanging on waiting to reach that stage, when it wouldn’t really matter any more whether I’d ever really loved her in the first place. Oh well,” he said, opening his eyes and sitting up. “Anyway, that’s my news. What about you?”

  Jill was looking very sad. “That’s the other reason I came to see you,” she said. “I’m going away.”

  Chris nodded slowly. “Work? Sabbatical?”

  She shook her head. “Permanently,” she said. “I’m going home.”

  It took about five seconds for it to sink in. “Home home?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “But you can’t, can you?” he objected. “I thought you were in exile, all that kind of stuff.”

  “Not any more.” She was looking past him rather than meeting his gaze. “There’s been developments,” she said. “Actually, it’s been quite an exciting couple of weeks. Basically, the civil war’s over. We’ve reached an agreement. Which means,” she said quietly, “I can go home.”

  Chris realised he’d been holding his breath. “That’s great,” he said, voice as flat as a snooker table. “I’m really pleased.”

  Jill grinned at him; at least, her face muscles pretended she was grinning. “Well, I did say I’d sort out the mess for you,” she said. “And this is the only really sure way. Now the war’s over, they won’t have any reason to come after you. That wasn’t the only reason, of course. But it was a reason.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied gravely. “Anyway, that’s what I wanted to tell you. And don’t say I never do anything for you.”

  He nodded. “So,” he said, “the war’s over, you’re going home, Karen’s left me, Angela’s dead. I can look forward to a genuinely demon-free existence. That’s—” He frowned. “That’s good, I suppose.”

  “You don’t sound particularly pleased.”

  “That’s me, never satisfied.”

  Jill drank her tea. “How’s work?”

  “What? Oh, that. Not so bad. They’ve made me Salesman of the Year.”

  “Really?”

  Chris nodded again. “I’ve sold more stuff in two weeks than anybody else did in the whole of last year, so it wasn’t exactly a close-run thing. Mr Burnoz is recommending me for area sales manager, which is nice of him. And to think,” he added with a ghastly smile, “Karen always said that I’d never amount to anything.” He stopped, as a thought hit him. “I suppose she’ll be going home too,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Jill replied. “To be honest with you, I never did find out exactly what she was doing over here in the first place.”

  It wasn’t quite a wire-stretched-across-the-road moment, but it was pretty close. “Oh,” he said. “I assumed she was here for the same reason—”

  “Not at all,” Jill replied. “Nothing to do with the war, as far as I know. I did ask her, several times.”

  “And?”

  “Told me to mind my own business,” Jill said, flushing slightly. “So I did.”

  “Oh.” Chris frowned. “So you don’t think this peace thing could have anything to do with her leaving me.”

  The look on her face more or less summed up all the reasons why he’d always liked her. “I don’t know,” she said gently. “It could have, I suppose.”

  “But you don’t think so. Fine, it was just a thought.” He stood up and gathered the empty cups. “Well,” he said, “it’s going to be rather quiet around here, with only us humans. And just think, all this emotion going to waste.” He grinned bleakly. “If you like, I could fix you up a doggy bag.”

  He got the impression that Jill didn’t think that was funny, so he put back the solemn face and asked, “So when are you off, then?”

  “As soon as possible,” she replied. “Which means as soon as they decide who gets my job at work.”

  “My God, you’re conscientious. How are you going?”

  “Haven’t decided yet,” she said. “An overdose, probably. If possible, I’d like to make it look like an accident, to save them any awkward questions at the department. Trouble is, though, most human poisons don’t work on me, so it may have to be hanging or a fall from a tall building. Why, do you want to come and see me off?”

  “When will you know?”

  “Soon,” she replied. “I’m helping the board interview the three likeliest candidates tomorrow morning. They’ll make their decision, and then—well, off I’ll go. Maybe tomorrow evening, maybe early the next day.”

  “I see. So—” So this is goodbye for ever, Chris thought: melodrama. Fucking melodrama, when he thought he was clear of all that at last. “I was about to say, have a safe journey, but that’d be defeating the point of the exercise.”

  Jill smiled bleakly. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

  He turned away. “Be sure to send me a postcard.”

  Movement, at the edge of his vision. She’d got up. “Thanks for the tea,” she said. “I hope everything works out for you. The new job and everything.”

  “Fuck the new job,” he replied levelly. “Goodbye, Jill. Thanks for being my friend.”

  “My pleasure.”

  C
hris didn’t turn round until he’d heard the front door click shut. Then and only then, he lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. No tears, he noticed; not the slightest inclination to weep. You had to be alive for that, and he was fairly sure he was dead inside, like an old tree.

  Anyway, it was over. No more demons. Hooray.

  He was closing in. He had her just where he wanted her.

  “Here you go,” he said briskly, “the new BB27Ks. I think they’d do really well for you. Ever since we brought them out, it’s been phenomenal.”

  Was she going to resist? He rather hoped she would. It was more fun when they struggled.

  Sure enough, “I don’t know,” she said nervously. “We already stock the Zauberwerke E-Z-Park, and I can’t see how your version’s sufficiently different—”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, grinning wolfishly. “You can’t seriously compare that kid’s toy to our product—it’s simply not in the same league. I mean, just look at the features. Built-in environmental controls. Temporal stasis field—you can leave a cup of tea on your dash when you park, come back an hour later and it’s still hot. Automatic wash-and-wax as standard. And what do you get with the E-Z-Park? A chance to enter their free grand prize draw and win a CD player.” He edged a little closer, crowding her: limit their personal space and they can’t slip away. “Your business needs the BB27K,” he said, his voice soft and slightly hoarse. “It’s going to be the next big thing, and if your regulars can’t get it here they’re going to go somewhere else. And once they’ve gone, what makes you think they’ll ever come back?”

  Hardly original; his success rate implied that it was something about the way he said it A certain quality, compelling, driven, almost menacing. Demonic, you could say.