A Three-Book Collection

by M. V. Stott

  ‘No, no,’ said Mr. Cotton to his disappointed brother, ‘we have things to discuss.’

  Mr. Spike threw the poker aside petulantly.

  ‘Do not despair, brother of mine, when all is said and done, you will show him your true face, and all shall be screams.’

  Mr. Spike clapped his gloved hands together gleefully.

  20

  It had been hours since Carlisle had left her behind on the pier, and Rita was starting to get worried.

  She removed the terracotta domino from her pocket for the millionth time and rolled it around in her hand, traced the shape etched into it with her fingers, even held the thing to her ear in case it was supposed to make a sound, a magical alarm sound. But no. She hoped that, at least, was a good thing. She also wished the lanky, pasty git had told her exactly what his plan of action was, and what she was meant to do with the thing he’d given her.

  Rita huffed, shoved the piece back into her pocket, and looked towards the main entrance to Blackpool Hospital. With nothing else to do, she’d decided to pay a visit to Gemma Wheeler, the cousin of Rita’s sometimes night-time partner, and prospective victim number three of the magician.

  She stepped into the reception area and waved at the woman manning the desk, ‘Hey there, you! It’s me again, Miss Invisible, don’t mind me, I’m just gonna go and check on Gemma, is that all right? Completely ignore me if that’s all right.’

  The receptionist continued to chew on the end of her pen as she read from her gossip magazine.

  ‘Brilliant, thanks,’ said Rita, and headed, unseen, behind the desk, put Gemma’s name into the system, found which room she was in, and went to find her.

  It was weird how quickly she’d got used to being a ghost. To being neither seen, nor heard. To not even being noticed if she physically shoved someone. She hadn’t felt a thing when she’d been hexed. As she’d found herself stumbling into that secret room where Gemma Wheeler was being held, about to be sacrificed using the very axe that now swung from her belt, tapping against her right thigh as she prowled the harshly lit corridors, avoiding oncoming orderlies.

  Rita had taken it all in her stride, or at least pretended to. If she could just stay focused on the case, she wouldn’t have to think about the craziness she’d fallen into. That had stolen her life from her. That had robbed her of her one chance to escape Blackpool, and her past. Concentrating on her job had always been Rita’s way of ignoring her feelings. That and alcohol. When she needed to push down the tears and the loneliness of her childhood years, especially. That feeling of being unloved. A thing that nobody wanted to call their own.

  Rita shivered and shook it off. Just think about the case, she told herself. That’s all that matters. Find the killer, stop the killer.

  Carlisle had assured her that Gemma would be safe. That the magician required the axe to carry out his sacrifice, and would not kill her without it, but still, Rita felt that they were being a little free and easy with the poor woman’s life.

  She found the room Gemma Wheeler was in. A uniformed officer was sat on a chair outside, scrolling through Twitter on his phone. Rita recognised him as Geoff Kinney, an officer she’d once seen drink whiskey out of his own shoe.

  ‘Just popping in to say hey and how’d you do to the the almost-victim, Kinney,’ said Rita.

  The officer ignored her as she opened the door and stepped inside to find Gemma sat up in bed. Her erstwhile partner, Waterson, poured her a glass of water from a fat-bottomed jug.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ said Gemma, looking at Rita.

  Waterson turned to see who Gemma was greeting, only, of course, to see that it was still just the two of them in the room. ‘Yeah, hi,’ he replied to Gemma, a little confused.

  Rita waved her hands at Gemma then placed a finger to her lips. ‘Shh! He can’t see me,’ she said.

  Gemma pulled a face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, well, “hi”, just that,’ replied Waterson.

  ‘Are you having a laugh or something? Can you not—’

  Gemma’s sentence was cut off as Rita placed a hand over her mouth. Waterson saw the woman pulling the strangest of faces, her lips all mushed.

  ‘Um, here you go,’ he said, handing her the glass of water. ‘I’m just going to pop out and make a call, then I’ll be back just to go over things one more time, is that okay?’

  ‘Just say yeah,’ said Rita, then removed her hand from Gemma’s mouth.

  ‘Just say yeah,’ repeated Gemma.

  ‘Right. Good.’ Waterson took another curious look at Gemma, shook his head, then left the room.

  ‘Okay, what the bloody hell is going on?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘You can see me?’ asked Rita. ‘Like, actually see me?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, I can see you.’

  ‘And hear me!’

  ‘Yeah, I have ears. Why couldn’t he seem to tell you were in here?’

  Rita sat on the chair that Waterson had vacated and began toying with the terracotta domino in her pocket. ‘Bit hard to explain. It’s also complete nonsense. If you tried to tell me similar this time last week I’d have said you were a bloody lunatic, but you saw it. Or rather, you just saw him not seeing me, right?’

  Gemma nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. And?’

  ‘How much do you remember about what happened to you? About how you got here?’

  Gemma shrank. ‘There was… two men. In masks.’

  ‘From your nightmares, right?’

  Gemma nodded. ‘And then it’s all, sort of, wispy. Not sure. I remember the arcade down on the front. I think I was taken somewhere in the back.’

  ‘I found you, rescued you, and brought you here.’

  ‘Oh. Cheers for that.’

  ‘You were going to be murdered. Sacrificed. For reasons that, well, aren’t entirely clear, but we’re working on it.’

  Gemma sipped her water. ‘Okay, but that doesn’t explain why he couldn’t see or hear you.’

  Rita wrestled with a way to explain things, then realised there was no best way, so just launched into it.

  ‘Okay, so it turns out that when I found you I was hexed.’

  ‘Hexed?’

  ‘Hexed.’

  ‘You’ve been hexed?’

  ‘Completely hexed, yeah.’

  ‘Right.’ Gemma nodded as she mulled the information over. ‘So what’s that exactly then?’

  ‘Hexed?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s a hexed when it’s at home?’

  ‘Magic. A sort of magic curse thing.’

  Rita noticed the oh-Christ-I’m-talking-to-a-loony look spreading across Gemma’s face. ‘I know, I know, it’s mental, but it’s true, I mean how else do you explain me being invisible to people?’

  ‘That maybe I’m suffering from some sort of trauma and I’m seeing things that aren’t there?’

  ‘Okay, fair answer, but I’m telling you the truth, honestly.’ Rita reached out and pinched Gemma’s arm.

  ‘Oi, you bitch!’ Gemma rubbed at the red mark on her arm.

  ‘See? That hurt. If I wasn’t really here then I wouldn’t be able to pinch you, and you wouldn’t be feeling pain right now. You see my point?’

  Gemma scowled as she continued to rub at her arm. ‘Fine. Okay. You’re really here. But magic? Like, David Blaine?’

  ‘No, real, actual magic. I’ve seen it, and not just what’s happened to me. I’ve seen some crazy stuff. Ooh, even a vampire in a bowling alley.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Swear to God.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Well, how come can I see you and no one else can?’

  Rita shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know. Maybe because you’re part of all this too? Touched with the Uncanny stuff. Oh, did you know your old teacher, Mister Nolan, can do magic now?’

  ‘Pervy Nolan is a magician? No way!’

  ‘It’s true. We thought he might have been behind it, like he had a grudge against you all for getting him fired, but he’s innocent.’

  Gemma bi
t her lip and toyed with the edge of her blanket.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m scared still, you know? What if they come back for me? Rabbit Mask and his brother?’

  Rita reached over and took her hand. ‘It’s gonna be okay. Promise.’

  ‘How do you know, though?’

  Rita opened her coat to show Gemma the axe. ‘For whatever reason, they need this to carry out the sacrifice, otherwise it’s pointless. And guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re getting this back over my dead body.’

  Rita touched the terracotta domino in her pocket and wondered how much longer Carlisle would be.

  Carlisle was in a lot of trouble.

  He’d regained consciousness several minutes before but had kept his eyes closed and remained motionless. He needed to think. He needed to assess the situation before Cotton and Spike realised the game was back on.

  He was tied to something. Tightly. He could feel rope cutting into his wrists, his ankles, his throat. The rope around his throat made it difficult to breathe—constricting his windpipe to half its usual diameter—but he did not panic. He continued to breathe slow and steady. All would be fine. He just needed to find the right things to say. He’d talked his way out of worse. Far worse.

  Actually, that wasn’t true, but he lied to others successfully on such a regular basis that he hoped to be able to fool himself, too.

  He could not.

  ‘How much longer will you go on pretending?’ came a voice. Mr. Cotton.

  ‘I take it the jig is up,’ replied Carlisle, opening one eye to see Mr. Cotton sat in a brown leather chair, legs crossed, a couple of metres in front of him.

  ‘You cannot fool us here, Carlisle. Nobody can, not even as adept a liar as yourself.’

  ‘Well that seems hardly fair.’

  ‘Oh, life isn’t fair. Never has been. And nightmares? Nightmares are made from unfair. And fear. And pain. They are delicious.’

  Mr. Cotton’s mouth opened and a velvet tongue wormed out to lick his lips. Only of course it did not, as the mask was just a mask and that was impossible.

  Carlisle opened both eyes and swallowed, painfully. He was roped to a chair. He began to test the ropes, hoping to slowly create some wiggle room. Some give. Some hope of escape. The ropes offered no hope at all.

  ‘Why am I restrained?’ asked Carlisle. ‘Surely you have no need to incapacitate me? No need to fear?’

  ‘We do not fear, my brother and I.’ Mr. Cotton stood and held out a gloved hand. A second gloved hand reached out of the dark, out of the nothing, and took hold; Mr. Spike stepping out of the shadows to join them.

  ‘You know, hitting a man from behind is not very gentlemanly behaviour, Mr. Spike,’ said Carlisle.

  Mr. Spike’s shoulders shook and he made a wet, wheezing noise that might have been laughter. ‘Why have you paid us a visit, Carlisle?’

  ‘I have a question for you.’

  ‘Oh? A question worth dying for?’

  ‘Nothing is worth dying for.’

  Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike began to waltz together around the room.

  ‘You do not usually help others, Carlisle,’ said Mr. Cotton.

  ‘I don’t care about the detective,’ he replied. ‘I care only for what is mine.’

  ‘Not yours. Not anymore. It is needed.’

  Carlisle strained at the ropes, sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. Just a little give. That’s all he needed.

  Mr. Cotton and his brother stopped dancing and turned to face Carlisle.

  ‘See how he strains and struggles, brother?’

  Mr. Spike nodded, shoulders shaking, as a giant centipede crawled from one of his mask’s eyeholes.

  ‘He has lived for so very long, and yet he demands more, regardless of the hopelessness of his situation. Tell me, Carlisle, do you ever have nightmares?’

  ‘I do not sleep, nor do I dream.’

  ‘Oh, you will find that you do not require sleep, to experience nightmares,’ said Mr. Cotton, and his long ears twitched, but of course they did not. ‘You had a question for us?’

  Carlisle paused in his pointless struggle against the ropes, which seemed only to wind tighter the more he fought. He blinked his eyes clear. ‘Who is your employer?’

  ‘Ah. Now that is the question, isn’t it? Who is the great and powerful Oz?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Mr. Cotton stepped towards him, taking Carlisle’s chin in his gloved hand and tilting his head up.

  ‘Pray, have you heard tell of the Angel of Blackpool?’

  Carlisle knew the story. He’d heard it whispered once, centuries before. ‘It is a fantasy. A fairy tale.’

  Mr. Cotton wagged a gloved finger in front of Carlisle’s face. ‘No, no, no, it has always been true.’

  ‘Okay. So the Magician is this Angel?’

  Mr. Spike wheezed his horrid laugh again.

  ‘So the Magician is just working for the Angel, like the two of you? Thanks for the information.’

  ‘Oh, is he not a blabbermouth, my brother?’ said Mr. Cotton, patting Mr. Spike on the shoulder and dislodging a whorl of brown dust.

  ‘Well, what is the harm?’ asked Carlisle. ‘I shall never leave here alive.’

  ‘Never has a truer statement been uttered, your majesty.’

  ‘So?’

  Mr. Cotton looked at him with his blank, stationary face for several seconds.

  The only sound in the room came from Mr. Spike’s heavy, rasping breath. He nodded his head slightly. ‘The Angel of Blackpool will rise, with our assistance.’

  ‘And the Magician’s,’ replied Carlisle.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No, no. Too much.’

  ‘Okay, then why do you help? What is your price?’

  ‘We enjoy our work, my brother and I, but we are restrained from reaching our true, beautiful potential. We have been promised that these restraints will be removed. The world shall become one endless nightmare, and we shall feast, and we shall dance, and we shall frolic until our hearts burst with glee.’

  Mr. Spike clapped his hands together excitedly.

  A clock bonged in the distance and Mr. Cotton pulled out a pocket watch to check the time.

  ‘Well, well, it seems that time has rather run away with us, and your visit is at an end.’

  ‘But I have more questions,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Brother, mine.’

  Mr. Spike nodded and began to step towards Carlisle. He did not walk, he swayed, hands behind his back, each footstep a delicate, dancer’s sweep.

  ‘Maybe we can help each other out, form a beneficial understanding’ said Carlisle. ‘All I want, at the end of this, is what’s mine.’

  ‘Hear how he attempts to curry favour, to cut deals, to stab associates who trust him so, directly in the back. Tut tut, Sir, very bad form.’

  ‘I can help you. Ask your Angel.’

  ‘Thank you for paying our humble home a visit, we get so few willing visitors,’ said Mr. Cotton. ‘This has been a rare treat, especially to play host to such a distinguished, cruel, nefarious guest as your good self.’

  Carlisle struggled and strained, rocking the chair back and forth until it tumbled to one side. His head bounced off the carpeted floor.

  ‘Wriggle, please do,’ said Mr. Cotton. ‘It makes this all the more delicious.’

  Carlisle was beyond pretence now. Beyond saving face. Beyond dignity. He screamed and he shouted and he tried to close his eyes, even though they refused to do as he wished. It was no use. He was lost.

  Mr. Spike crouched before him, cocking his head to one side, rancid air wheezing from behind the mask, dampening Carlisle’s face with his putrid breath.

  ‘Shall he show you true horror?’ asked Mr Cotton. ‘The face of every nightmare that ever brought a shiver?’

  Carlisle did not answer. His body relaxed. He accepted his fate. To struggle any more was poin
tless.

  ‘Brother, mine,’ said Mr. Cotton.

  And then Mr. Spike removed his mask, and Carlisle saw the face beneath.

  And the world became screams and terror.

  21

  Rita pulled her coat tight as she looked up at the darkening sky, her breath forming like dragon smoke in the frigid air.

  She had spent another hour talking with Gemma Wheeler, but eventually left her to it with promises made that the case would soon be done, and that she’d be able to return home, safe.

  Rita even mostly believed it.

  ‘Carlisle, where the shit are you?’ she muttered. He’d been gone close to four hours, and she was starting to wonder if she was ever going to see him again. Maybe he’d decided to bail on the case. Forget about the axe he claimed was his. It’s not as though she had any good reason to trust him. Formby, that moley looking old man, had said as much to her. Carlisle was a liar. A dangerous cheat. And yet she was relying on him to help save Gemma Wheeler’s life. To save her own life too, from the stupid hex that had erased her from everyday life. Okay, her everyday life might have been slowly suffocating her, but it was a heck of a lot better than her current situation, living in limbo land, a human ghost.

  Before Rita had left the hospital, Waterson had briefly re-entered Gemma Wheeler’s room to give her assurances that he was on the case. Rita would have given just about anything for him to have turned to her at that point, to have seen her, and delivered one of his usual withering remarks. Her partner—her best friend of years—and he didn’t even remember her, let alone see her.

  That stung.

  She hadn’t just been made to disappear, her very existence, her history, had been scrubbed out. She wasn’t even a memory anymore.

  Rita swore and rubbed at her eyes as she felt them growing damp and heavy. ‘Pull yourself together, you daft tart.’

  Detective.

  Rita winced and clutched her temples as the voice, with that single word, seemed to burn inside her head.