Vicious Rumer

by Joshua Winning

  ‘Curse.’ Peng’s sweating and I tremble, eyeing the paste.

  How does he know?

  ‘Take.’ He pushes the leaf up to my mouth. ‘Cleanse. Good for you. Very good.’

  Unable to refuse him, I scrape the paste into my mouth. It tastes like he fished it out of the sewer and I fight the urge to spit it out.

  ‘Finish,’ Peng urges.

  Eyes burning, I swallow. It oozes down my throat and I retch, but it stays down. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and the aftertaste is almost worse than the paste itself.

  Bolt wanders back into the lounge, sits at the window. I stand in the door and Peng sits on the floor in the middle of the living room, his legs crossed. He closes his eyes. He’s meditating? Now?

  Bolt looks at me but doesn’t say anything. We have a sort of unspoken agreement that we don’t talk about our pasts. When he found me, I was seventeen and living rough, barely eating, not speaking. The last person I wanted to speak to was a police officer, so we didn’t talk. We’d play poker and sometimes I’d let him win.

  I have no idea what Bolt made of the whole shen thing, but there’s a flicker of something when he turns to face me. Concern maybe. Confusion definitely. He must have no idea what to think of Reverend Mara suddenly tailing me, or my crazy behaviour in the van when he saved me from… her.

  Even if he wants to ask me about it, he doesn’t.

  I remain in the doorway and my gaze slides to Peng.

  ‘Do you know anything about the Crook Spear?’ I ask. Bolt said it’s a mythical object, and Peng seems to move in those circles. It’s a stab in the dark, but it’s still a stab.

  Peng’s eyes open slowly and he considers the table before him for a moment.

  ‘Never heard of spear,’ he says, and I wish he’d drop the medicine man act, but maybe he thinks Bolt likes it. Maybe he’s been pretending around Bolt for so long, he forgets how to stop pretending. I sort of get that.

  ‘I told you, it doesn’t exist,’ Bolt grunts, staring out the window. Paper lanterns bob on wires.

  Peng gets up from the floor. ‘You stay. Meditate. Make better.’

  ‘If I stay any longer–’ We’ve been here for at least an hour; I need to move on.

  ‘You should rest,’ Bolt says. ‘Sleep.’

  ‘Come,’ Peng says, going to the room with the white bed. Hesitating, I follow. The need for sleep is almost overpowering. My eyelids feel heavy and just the thought of curling up somewhere eats away at my resistance. If Peng’s done something to me, maybe it’ll last a while. I can sleep for a few hours then leave. Figure out my next move.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask Bolt.

  ‘Floor,’ he says. ‘Looks comfy enough.’

  ‘You’re not going back to yours?’

  ‘Can’t.’ Bolt avoids my gaze.

  ‘Why?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Why can’t you go back?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not there any more.’

  ‘What do you mean? Bolt?’

  ‘After you left, somebody torched the place. I couldn’t stop it.’

  My chest tightens. It can’t be true. The shop was all Bolt had in the world. His father left it to him. It can’t be gone. Bolt’s body language tells me otherwise.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  We both know that’s not true. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be my fault. Somebody wants me to know I can’t hide. And whoever tries to help me will receive the same treatment.

  ‘Night,’ he says, turning to peer out the window again.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I go into the room.

  ‘You sleep, replenish,’ Peng says. He smiles at me and shuts the door.

  curse

  [kurs]

  noun

  1. the desire for a calamity, misadventure or evil to occur to the detriment of an individual or group.

  2. a vulgar vow or curse word.

  3. an evil that has been conjured against an individual or group.

  4. an object that is accursed.

  I read the article on Dominic Waters, The Curse of CeleneCross, when I was fourteen. It tipped me into an obsessive free fall. I killed hours in the school library tearing apart old books, hunting for anything on curses and how to break them.

  Most of the stuff I read was bogus. You’d have to be cracked to believe it. The internet was no better. Everybody thinks curses are a joke.

  Are you cursed? Top 10 signs to look out for!

  A beginner’s guide to breaking a curse!

  How to hex your frenemies !

  People are morons. Try living a curse, that’ll sober you up. That’s the weirdest thing. Cursed objects outnumber cursed people a thousand to one. There was a guy called Rasputin who did something really fucked up to the Russian imperial family, but the ‘cursed’ objects I found online looked like things from a scrapheap. The Dybbuk box, the Basano vase, a ’70s painting called ‘The Hands Resist Him’.

  There was also something called the Superman curse, which is where I drew the line.

  Whatever Dominic Waters did to my mother as she pushed me out, it was so dark you couldn’t find a How to… online. It was some occult shit that only he can undo. And he won’t be undoing it in a hurry. I couldn’t find him anywhere. He’d either changed his name, moved or died. Probably all three. Either way, he was a guy who didn’t want to be found and he did a great job of burrowing deep enough that people forgot he ever existed.

  Nobody’s going to save me.

  It’s just me, myself and Rumer.

  I stopped researching curses.

  Words lashed me in my sleep.

  ‘ Rumer ! Tumour! Rumer ! Tumour!’

  And I dreamed the curse was a thing buried under my skin, growing skeletal fingers, hauling itself up my throat and out of my mouth.

  And when it was out, its black eyes were my mother’s, its hair was her black hair and it hissed and came for me, but there was no way of escaping because this thing is me and I’m it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE DAY OF THE HAMMER

  I wake up surrounded by plants. They fill the floor around the bed, leaves everywhere, all different shapes and sizes. Peng must have brought them in while I slept. Weird, I usually wake up at the slightest sound. What was in that brew he gave me? Stretching and unsettled, I ease myself up, every muscle twanging, and scrutinise the plants. The ones closest to the bed have all withered into brown husks, but those against the wall are green and thriving.

  Whatever Peng did, it seems to have bought me some time.

  Time. I have no idea what time it is. Faint light’s nudging through the blinds but it can’t be morning already. That’d mean I slept all night. Fear thuds in my chest and I slide off the bed, gritting my teeth at the pain in my calf, which is even worse than the pain in my broken tooth. Hobbling between the pots, I open the door, scared of what I’ll find.

  Bolt jerks upright on the floor. When he sees it’s me, he relaxes and rubs his eyes.

  ‘Sleeping beauty,’ he grunts, pushing his hand through his hair, briefly exposing the burns along the right-hand side of his face.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  He looks at his watch. ‘Seven.’

  ‘Are you… okay?’

  ‘Never.’

  I release a breath. ‘Can’t argue with that. Where’s Peng?’

  ‘Shop. He starts early. Left you some of that stuff from last night, though. In the kitchen.’ I can tell he wants to ask me about it. Maybe unzip me and see what’s inside. If I really am carrying a curse, like an unborn child. Or a parasite.

  I’m not in the mood to talk about it. There’s a little orange pot on the kitchen table. I lift the lid and the stench of the paste forces my throat closed. Why does it have to taste so awful?

  ‘He said it’ll help.’ Bolt’s behind me and I jump. My nerves are frayed from the past few days. If he noticed my skittishness, he doesn’t say anythin
g, and I’m grateful. I feel like enough of an idiot as it is.

  I scoop the paste out with my fingers and force it into my mouth, glad Bolt can’t see my face. My eyes water and my nostrils burn, but I manage to swallow. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be as bad the second time. It’s worse. I can feel it stripping layers off my insides and my stomach’s on fire. I cough and grip the table.

  Bolt lights the gas hob and slams a tin kettle onto it.

  ‘You done?’

  I nod, don’t look at him. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Gee, you’re welcome.’

  I flash him a look. I don’t have time for his ego. I feel rested after the sleep, but I’ve stayed still too long. I need to figure all of this out. Reverend Mara’s still after me, and so is my mother. If they’re working together…

  ‘I didn’t ask for your help,’ I tell Bolt.

  ‘Except when you did. And then my place got set on fire.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘And then there were a load of people who seemed to be enjoying using you as target practice. Pretty sure I rescued you but, even if I hadn’t, you’d have been fine, right? You’ve got it all covered.’

  My bad tooth throbs and the kettle whistles. Bolt stands staring at me, steam filling the kitchen. I won’t blink. I won’t let him intimidate me. The kettle shrieks. When Bolt doesn’t back down, I drag a chair out and slump into it.

  ‘Fine. You want in? You asked for it.’

  A flicker of a smile crosses his face and Bolt turns and lifts the kettle from the hob. The shrieking subsides. Why does he want to help me? Paranoia pricks me again, a thorn in my palm. Bolt could be working with the Reverend or my mother. What do they all want from me? It seems everybody wants a piece. I went almost twenty years without anybody caring either way. Apart from Frances. Why now?

  Bolt sets a steaming cup in front of me. He seems to notice my distrustful look and sets his own cup down, randomly switching them on the tabletop until I can’t tell which is which.

  ‘Better?’ he asks, raising one of them to his lips. I can’t tell if he’s pleased when I sip my own. The tea settles the burning in my gut left by the paste and my temper cools.

  ‘It’s probably time you told me what made you flip your lid in the van yesterday,’ he says. ‘The way you grabbed the wheel… You almost tipped the whole thing.’

  I peer into my mug, knowing he’s right, but not wanting to face it. Face her. If I tell him, that makes it real. Everything I’ve ever heard about my mother crams into my mind, a sea of howling voices, all screaming something worse than the one beside it. She’s a merciless killer. An occultist. A witch. If I mention her name, she’ll come bursting into Peng’s home, blade drawn, ready to make sure I really am dead this time.

  ‘Rumer–’

  ‘It was my mother.’

  ‘Celene?’

  My head snaps up. ‘How did you–’

  ‘It used to be my job to know these things.’ Of course he knows about Celene Cross. What policeman wouldn’t? She’s like one of the Kray twins. Bolt probably profiled her. Tried to figure out what made her tick.

  He’s looking at me in a way I don’t like.

  ‘But… she’s not… since the nineties…’ he ventures. ‘Rumer, she’s dead.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘I read about this. They pulled her out of the Thames.’ Bolt’s voice is softer than usual and I realise this is Bolt being kind. It’s an odd thing to witness.

  ‘It was her,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe somebody who looked like her or–’

  ‘IT WAS HER, OKAY? I saw her. You don’t think I know what she looks like for Christ’s sake?’ I want to scream at him. Don’t you think I’ve studied that face like I was going for a frickin’ PhD in CeleneCross? Like I haven’t held her photo up to the mirror and searched every inch of my face for the bit of me that’s her?

  ‘Okay, okay…’ He must see something in my expression because the look he’d been wearing is gone, replaced with a blank sort of acceptance. ‘Shit,’ he breathes.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So. You think your mother’s working with the Rev?’

  Hearing him say it somehow makes it worse. I nod.

  ‘Makes sense. They’re both evil bitches.’

  If he was talking about Frances, I’d have thrown myself at him, crushed his neck with my bare hands. But he’s talking about my mother, a woman whose only claim to that title is that she pushed me out nineteen years ago. Besides, he’s speaking the truth.

  ‘You think you can stop her? Whatever she’s planning?’ he asks.

  I can’t look at him. Whenever anybody talks about my mother, I’m filled with shame, as if I’m responsible for all the things she did. Mostly I’m ashamed that we’re forever linked. She gave birth to me. I can never escape that.

  ‘She’s nothing to me,’ I say.

  ‘But if you had to kill her, could you do it?’

  I don’t answer. Would it change anything? She’s been dead to me my whole life.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘You hang around me, you might as well have a bullseye tattooed on your forehead.’

  ‘Funny, I was thinking about getting–’

  I slam the mug down. ‘This isn’t a joke. You stick with me, you’re dead. Just the way it goes.’

  ‘You can’t know–’

  ‘I can.’

  He looks confused, touches his scarred cheek. ‘Is that what Peng’s whole thing was? The shen stuff?’

  ‘You survived once,’ I say. ‘Don’t count on getting lucky twice.’

  ‘The garage? You think some kind of bad mojo caused the explosion?’

  ‘That’s the way it is with me. Bad things happen. And if you keep giving me the pity look I’m going to break you over this table.’

  Bolt shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe in curses.’

  ‘That’s your choice.’

  ‘And it’s my choice to stick with you if you insist on going after that psycho.’

  ‘Which psycho?’ I ask.

  Bolt stares me down. ‘Both of them! So what’s your plan?’

  I’ve been thinking about this. The next move. We’re on a chessboard and we’ve got to move a piece. Choose the wrong one, you lose. Game over, man. Choose the right one, you can play the other team into a corner. Force them to do something stupid. And the stupider they act, the smarter you become.

  Bolt wants to play the game, that’s up to him.

  ‘Julian,’ I say.

  ‘Your boss?’

  ‘Pretty safe to say ex-boss now. He claimed he didn’t know anything, but he’s lying. Rose, his assistant, followed me. She was there when I left yours, and she was there again when I checked into the hotel.’

  ‘My place was torched by somebody called Rose. Great.’

  ‘We need to scare him. Julian likes being in control. He was cool as a frickin’ cucumber when I saw him yesterday. We need to break him. Make him talk.’

  I contemplate the screaming masks on the wall and I know exactly how to get under Julian’s skin.

  *

  We’re back in Bolt’s van in less than an hour. He’s driving and seems deep in thought. I wonder what he’s been doing the past year. Running the shop, most likely. What’ll he do now it’s gone?

  He’s an idiot getting involved in this. Without him, though, I’m outnumbered roughly ten to one. Probably more. Ten to two doesn’t exactly tip the odds, but it’s an improvement. Plus Bolt has the van, and he’s bigger than he was a few years ago. The rope-like muscles in his arms stand out even when he’s not flexing.

  I keep searching him for the telltale signs. Nosebleeds. Headaches. Cramping pain. But there’s nothing. Peng’s paste is doing the trick. For a moment, I sense what it must be like to be free. To not have to worry about who you’re with and for how long. It’s bittersweet. It won’t last, but I can’t help the shiver that travels up my spine.

  I shake it off and concentrate on where we’re he
aded. I’m aware I’ve not showered in days and I’m still caked in the muck of the pit. I must stink, but Bolt doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘Julian will be at the office now,’ I say, thinking out loud. ‘If we get there at 8.30, Rose will be out getting coffee. He’ll be alone.’

  Bolt grunts a reply.

  We travel the rest of the way in silence. When we reach the street where Julian’s office is, Bolt pulls the van over a few shops away. My nerves jangle together and I grip the mask in my lap. I took it from Peng’s wall.

  ‘You first,’ Bolt says.

  I scramble over the seat into the back. For a second, I remember the van Nicotine Man bundled me into and irritation plucks my insides. Then I shrug out of my jacket and pull the grey bodysuit on over my torn jeans and bloody T-shirt. The suit reeks of petrol.

  I catch Bolt’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. Then, without a word, he climbs into the back with me. He hesitates, and it looks like he wants to say something, then he grabs the second bodysuit and puts it on. He slips a mask over his head. A screaming dragon. Then he’s back in the driver’s seat and I’m beside him, shoving my own mask on. It’s identical to his. My hot breath steams up my face and I realise this is it. We’re actually doing this.

  ‘Ready,’ Bolt says.

  I nod.

  He eases the van along the kerb, crawling until we’re outside Julian’s office.

  Bolt’s dragon mask faces me and his eyes shine. Then he grabs the door and gets out. I jump after him and together we crash into the office.

  Julian’s exactly where I expect him to be, leaning back in his chair reading. He startles when he sees us, dropping the file.

  ‘What the–’ he begins, but Bolt’s already on him, shoving him back. Julian crashes to the floor and Bolt flips him, pushing his face into the carpet.

  ‘Quiet.’ Bolt’s growl is every bit as menacing as I’d hoped it would be.

  Julian struggles but I grab his legs and Bolt zip-ties his hands behind his back.

  ‘Whatever you’re–’ Julian starts.

  ‘QUIET!’ Bolt yells. He drags Julian onto his back and I pull the duct tape from my pocket, ripping off a piece and clamping it over Julian’s mouth. His eyes are wide with fear.