Lost Hope

by Al K. Line

  “You’re insane.” And that was an understatement.

  Mommy’s Boy

  The room darkened like dusk on a particularly depressing day. A heaviness to the air and a sense of foreboding so strong I felt tears form in the corners of my eyes. Vicky’s usually light body felt like a thousand pounds as I waded through the fast-approaching night, dragging her like an overfed pet until we reached the stairs that led to salvation. The light of day, noise of human chatter, and smiles from deranged old ladies.

  “Wait for me,” sang out Juice, full of glee, his excitement obvious.

  “No chance. This is your fucking mess, you deal with it,” I snapped, and as Vicky protested then began to sob, I wiped my own eyes, put one leaden foot in front of the other, and hauled her up.

  Each step felt like torture. My thighs burned, the muscles sluggish and stiff. Sweat replaced tears and the saltiness stung my eyes, blurring my vision. I rubbed them with my sleeve, forcing my body to keep on moving and reach for the light.

  “Do not stop,” I warned Vicky as I glanced back. She nodded and gritted her teeth in grim determination. “Good girl.”

  “Arthur, I am not your bloody pet.” Vicky redoubled her efforts. I knew she’d hate that, and would keep moving if only to stick it to me. I smiled at her fortitude; she was gonna need it.

  “Nearly there, don’t slow now.” With a final grunt, and my legs feeling like the muscle was ripping from bone, I pushed off with my toes and made it to the top step as the basement turned to night and the walls began to close in. Not literally, or maybe they did, but the air was too heavy to suck into my lungs and strange things began to chatter in the dark.

  I could hear heavy breathing, and not just Vicky’s or Juice’s. It was as if the room itself was taking deep lungfuls of air then reluctantly exhaling. Like this was the first time oxygen had been available and it was savoring every molecule.

  But it wasn’t the room, it was something else, and Juice, that fucker, had known exactly what he was doing by showing us the rope. He knew what was coming. He’d welcomed it, wanted it, invited it.

  Goddamn!

  I grabbed the door handle and shoved it open to the cloying scent of too much air freshener, enough hair spray to burn a new hole in the ozone layer, and traces of battenberg and weak tea. It was the best thing I’d ever smelled in my life.

  Light flooded my senses and I reeled backward at the onslaught as the demons faded and normality returned. I rushed out onto the swirling carpet, lightheaded and dizzy as my eyes locked on the fuzzy patterns, then my head snapped up and I got my act together.

  I turned to Vicky and pulled her through, moved down the hall, then released her as I rubbed at my face. Suddenly furious with my hair for getting in my eyes, I removed my hat and ran my hands through the soaked strands, brushing them away from my eyes and cheeks. With my chest heaving, my heart beating faster than a drum and bass DJ on speed trying out 190 bpm, I doubled over with my hands on my knees and tried not to scream.

  “How cool was that?” panted Juice as he launched through the door and slammed it behind him.

  “Not cool, dude. Not cool at all.”

  “What happened? Did I do something wrong?” asked Vicky from her position prone on the floor.

  “Why are you lying on my carpet?” screeched Martha as she appeared from the kitchen. “I’ve just hoovered.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Peters. Um, Martha,” I corrected as she glared at me. “We just had a bit of an incident and Vicky needed a rest.”

  “Well, it’s not right,” she pouted, hands on hips. “What would the neighbors say?”

  “Mum, why would the neighbors see? And anyway, it’s our house,” said Juice.

  “Alan Peters, don’t you get smart with me. You’re not too old to be bent over my knee for a good smack,” she lectured, waggling a bejeweled finger at him.

  “Sorry, Mum.” Alan hung his head and looked suitably chastised.

  “Right, we’ll leave you to it. Nice doing business with you, Juice. Don’t call me, cause I sure as, er…” I glanced at Martha, a deep frown forming at the swear potential. “Um, sure as sausages won’t be calling you. Our business is done.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re part of this now. It’s gonna be awesome.”

  Juice’s demeanor was worrying in the extreme. He was practically glowing. His normally ashen features were flushed and his eyes sparkled. His arms were waving about and his legs were dancing like he was standing on hot coals.

  “No, this is on you. What is wrong with you?”

  “Don’t you talk to my Alan like that. This is my house and I won’t have you being rude.”

  “It’s okay, Mum,” said Juice as he cuddled Martha and kissed the top of her head. “Arthur’s just messing, aren’t you, Arthur? He’s had a busy day, stealing artifacts, fighting beasties, all that fun stuff wizards get up to.”

  “Well, it isn’t right. He’s a guest,” said Martha, mollified by her son.

  “Yes, well, sorry for the outburst, Martha, but we’ll be going now.” I reached down and hauled a bewildered Vicky to her feet, then headed down the hall to the front door.

  Juice followed behind. I could hear his breath, but I didn’t turn. At the door, we put on our shoes without a word being spoken by anyone, but I could feel eyes burning into the back of my head.

  I opened the door, glanced back to see Martha scowling at us, and Juice struggling with a battered pair of white Pumas. Definitely time to leave.

  I shoved Vicky forward, stepped out behind her, and as she screamed I felt the door tugged from my grip as Juice joined us on the pavement.

  Vicky stared at the streetlight, then buried her head in my chest. I glanced up and down the street only to be confronted with more of the same.

  Hanging from the lampposts were the bodies of Juice and Martha’s goons. They hung from nooses, the necks broken, their tongues swollen and protruding. Their faces were a mess of flesh and bone. Eyes had been pecked from their sockets, liquid shit and piss was still streaming from the corpses, staining the pavement below.

  “The Hangman,” whispered Juice in my ear, awe tinged with glee.

  “Bollocks,” I said, knowing it was going to be one of those days. Again.

  Didn’t See That Coming

  “Alan, what’s the meaning of this?” shouted a very put upon Martha as she came to the door and peered outside.

  “Oh, just a little adventure I’m having with The Hat and Vicky.”

  “You get back in here right this minute. It’s chilly, and you’ll let the heat out. And it’s almost tea time. Oh.” Martha’s jaw went slack as she noticed the bodies, then she frowned, then she scrunched up her face in a rictus of pure anger and slapped Juice about the side of the head.

  “Ow! What was that for?” he squealed, rubbing his head as he took a step away from the threshold.

  Martha ignored him, hurriedly put her shoes on, then carefully stepped out into the street. She lifted a hand to slap him again, but Juice squared his shoulders and stepped up to this most formidable of women.

  “Do not raise your hand to me. I’m a grown man. I won’t be treated like a child.”

  I said nothing, but he sure sounded like a petulant child to me. All I could think was that we had to leave, so I whispered to Vicky and we snuck away as silently as ghosts.

  “Arthur Salzman,” shouted Martha, “what have you done to my sweet boy? He’s disobeying his mother. Me, who gave him everything, who has always looked after him.”

  “That’s enough, Mum, this is over. I want to have some fun with Arthur. Don’t be such a spoilsport.”

  “Nothing to do with me,” I said, backing up into the road with Vicky’s hand held tight. I glanced nervously up and down the street. He’d be here somewhere.

  Suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks and watched the scene before me unfold, unable to take my eyes off it, not daring to say a word.

  Juice was standing facing his mother, who was just outside
the front door, seemingly more concerned with her son’s disrespect than the corpses lining the street. The front door that she’d pulled closed began to open slowly, revealing the interior little by little. As it did, Juice turned to me and smiled knowingly. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “We really need to go,” I said to Vicky, who was standing there confused, unsure what was happening, just freaked by the corpses.

  “Who did this?” she asked.

  “The Hangman. And we need to go.”

  Juice turned again and said, “We’re a team now, wait for me.”

  As I looked up, I saw what I really didn’t want to see. The door was open now, and Juice beamed then turned back to his mother, who was oblivious to the presence behind her.

  Standing there, was a dusty man wearing a battered, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, an ancient leather trench coat, fingerless woolen gloves, and pale jeans. But what I found most perplexing was his footwear. A very expensive pair of bright red, boxfresh Adidas. His long, greasy hair hung past his shoulders, his thick beard hid the many lines on his cracked face, but you could make out the sharp cut of his square jaw, his thin lips, and aquiline nose. Dark eyes were in shadow beneath a heavy brow.

  He smiled, and raised his right arm, from which dangled a short noose made from the rope in the briefcase.

  “Awesome, eh?” said Juice, grinning as he turned from the man to me then back again.

  “So not awesome,” I muttered.

  Vicky squeezed my hand tight, and Martha, sensing something was amiss, turned to see what had her son so interested.

  She screamed, and as she moved to run, Juice grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her on the forehead, then shoved her back into the arms of the Hangman.

  “Sorry, Mum, but I need some space.”

  “Alan, what are you doing? Get off me you horrible man.” Martha struggled against the iron grip of the Hangman but he just held her easily in his left hand as he stared at us.

  With a sigh, I marched back to Juice and said, “Are you nuts? That’s your mother, dude.”

  “I know, and I’m breaking free.”

  “It’s your mum,” I tried again. Juice shrugged, eyes cold.

  “Who wished for these deaths?” asked the Hangman, pointing at the goons and then resting the rope loosely on top of Martha’s’ head as she struggled and screamed.

  “I wished for them,” said Juice solemnly.

  “So be it. For my freedom, I grant you this. But I am the Hangman, and my justice bears no loyalty.”

  Juice just grinned and shrugged again. He was truly insane.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what the Hangman meant by his words, but to me it sounded like, “Watch out, dickheads, you’re next.”

  With a nod from Juice, the Hangman slipped the noose over Martha’s neck and stepped out into the street. Martha struggled, clutching at the rope as it tightened, and we all took several steps back.

  The Hangman raised his arm, and kept on raising it, until it seemed like it was as high as the lampposts. I knew it couldn’t be, but it was, and that’s the best way I can describe it. Martha hung there, feet high above the ground, kicking and gasping as she turned bright red, hands clawing at her throat.

  Urine dripped between her legs in a large puddle and the Hangman frowned at his damp feet, never lowering his arm. Then he grinned and moved to the wall, slapped down a hanging basket, and in one deft move the rope was tied to the bracket. Martha swung lazily on a balmy summer’s afternoon as her bowels released and she fertilized the plants hugging the wall.

  “Right, let’s go,” said Juice, looking ten years younger, with a spring in his step as he walked rapidly away from the house.

  I knew it was pointless arguing, and I had to keep him close as he was the one who’d summoned this freak and had the information to get rid of him.

  So we ran for the car as the Hangman cackled and Martha swung like a particularly garish hanging basket outside her ticky-tacky home.

  A Moment

  “Excuse me,” I said calmly as I turned and pulled into the front of an abandoned biscuit factory. I stepped out onto cracked concrete, kicked brittle weeds drying in the sun, and marched over to a pile of scrap metal. I bent slowly, picked up a length of pipe, then screamed with a guttural roar as I proceeded to whack the shit out of anything inanimate for the next ten minutes.

  Spent, I collapsed onto the ground and lay there in a starfish position staring up at the clear blue sky, panting heavily and drenched with sweat.

  This had been the worst year of my life. Ever since last summer I’d been depressed and then some, and I’d purposely avoided doing much work with Vicky because I knew I was on the edge and didn’t want her harmed.

  Some things had gone extraordinarily well, like George with her new equestrian business, Vicky and the kids getting settled somewhere nice, and spending more time with everyone. But I knew I was bad company. Even my faery godmother had abandoned me. I’d hardly seen her, and she hadn’t been spending time with George either.

  I felt alone despite the closeness of my family, felt isolated and sick of the world, had taken increasingly risky operations, slowly allowing Vicky to follow along as I got my act at least partially together.

  And then Juice had got in touch, and I’d agreed to the job mostly out of curiosity about the man and his mother, and now I was seriously regretting it.

  Yet, despite all that, as I lay there outside the ruined factory, trash blowing past slowly on a languid, warm breeze, my body screaming at me for the punishment I’d just put it through, I smiled the first genuine smile I’d had for a very long time.

  Sure, I’d been betrayed by a woman I think maybe I would have grown to love, had killed her because of it, had helped destroy the genuine vampire First, which caused a stream of nastiness still being felt, and had gone head-to-head with Cerberus, and actually found a way to get them off my back, at least for a while, but I was down in the dumps and dangerous because of it.

  But now I felt a glimmer of something stirring. A true sense of being alive and wanting to continue. Much as I hated to admit it, having a psychopath summon an entity every wizard dreaded had set something alight inside.

  I was back in the game.

  The Hat was resurrected, and he felt kinda jiggy.

  “Better?” asked Vicky as I got into the car and closed the door, reveling in the cool interior as the air con blasted me.

  “Better,” I agreed with a nod.

  Then, just to keep my good mood intact, I turned to the back seat, smiled at an eager looking Juice, and punched him in the face.

  “Now I feel perfect,” I said grinning.

  Time to Go

  With Juice out cold on the backseat, I said, “Give me a hand?” and got out of the car again, the heat feeling all the worse after the cool interior.

  Vicky got out and asked, “A hand with what?”

  “With the numpty in the back. Hell, what was that all about? He got the Hangman to kill his mother, that’s nuts. Although, she was a bit of a nightmare. But still.”

  “Arthur, this is going too fast. What’s happening? Who’s the Hangman? Why did he call him? How did he?”

  “It’s kinda hard to explain, but, er, he sort of got you to do it, act as the intermediary, but as he was the one running it, he gets to decide.”

  “Decide what?” Vicky squinted then shielded her eyes against the sun as she tried her mom voice on me.

  “Later, okay? Let’s just dump him. I really need to have a rest. I’m beat, almost gone.” I wasn’t exaggerating, and was surprised Vicky could move. We’d had no down time since the day before, had been fighting monsters a few hours ago. This was beyond what any wizard and tiny sidekick should have to endure just to put bread on the table.

  I opened the back door and Juice began to stir so I leaned in and punched him again. Then I dragged him partially out of the car by his feet and scowled at the oil slick he left behind where his head slid across the leather.
>
  “Grab his legs. I’ll take his shoulders.”

  Vicky did as I asked without more questions, a mini miracle and meaning it was definitely time to rest as normally she didn’t even shut up when asleep. We manhandled him out of the car and dropped him on the ground.

  “Right, let’s go.”

  “You’re leaving him?”

  “Damn right I am. He deserves worse, but I get the feeling now isn’t the time. Not until we know the Hangman is back where he belongs.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” I said, my brief moment of happiness ruined as I thought about what Juice had set me up for.

  “See you soon, dickhead,” I growled as I kicked Juice in the ribs. He made a satisfying “Oomf,” and then I got back in the car.

  Vicky scampered to catch up and got in the passenger side.

  “Buckle up, time to go.”

  I skidded off before she had chance to ask any more questions.

  Maybe thirty seconds later, I was being slapped in the face. I jumped a mile, glared at Vicky, who was screaming for some reason, eyes forward, and when I turned to look, I understood why.

  I slammed on the brakes, gripped the steering wheel, cursed my inopportune nap, and swerved.

  We still hit the bollards, concrete posts installed at the entrance to an old factory to stop people fly-tipping. Metal screeched as the undercarriage hit first one then several more bollards, until we came to a stop wedged with the front of the car several feet off the ground.

  “Oops,” I said sheepishly.

  Vicky slapped me again.

  Wagging Fingers

  “You’ve got to stop doing this,” admonished Vicky as I helped her down from the car.

  “I know, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I’m sleepy.” I staggered under her weight as she hopped into my arms and let her down as gently as I could. It was then I knew exhaustion had truly settled deep inside The Hat. Vicky weighed less than a bag of potatoes, a small bag, and had to weigh herself down with ankle weights if it was windy outside, so it was worse than I’d imagined.

  “You’ve blown it now. We’ll have to walk.” Vicky glanced up and down the empty street. No one came here, there would be no passing cars. It was just us, the scorched concrete, and the empty buildings.