by M. V. Stott
‘It is. Partly my fault. I may have, inadvertently, brought Cotton and Spike back from where they were held, after which they were able to leech the Angel’s magic.’
‘You what?’ said Waterson.
‘Yeah, that doesn’t seem like a smart move on your part,’ said Rita.
‘I was… tricked.’
‘Oof, that’s gotta sting that mountain-sized ego of yours, hey?’ said Rita. Carlisle did not respond. ‘Ben Turner is dead,’ she continued. ‘They killed him.’
Carlisle nodded slowly. ‘One question.’
‘What?’
‘Who is Ben Turner?’
‘Who is he?’ Rita began, blood boiling, rising up off the bench.
‘Easy there,’ said Waterson. ‘He was one of the people turned into a werewolf.’
‘Ah yes, the wolf business, it had quite slipped my mind.’
‘He was a friend,’ said Rita. ‘He was one of us, and Cotton and Spike murdered him.’
‘I feel your fury, Detective,’ said Carlisle, ‘and I share in it. The indignities I suffered at their hands. Well, I would very much enjoy hearing what it sounds like when they scream.’
‘Can you stop them?’ asked Rita.
Carlisle shook his head. ‘I do not believe so. Not with the Angel’s power at their disposal.’
Rita flopped back on the bench and sighed. ‘Yeah, I was afraid you were going to say that. I was able to knock them back on my own the first time we faced off, but now… I mean, you can feel it in the air. Feel it all around us.’
‘Power upon power,’ replied Carlisle as the nightmare magic caressed his skin.
‘In that case,’ said Rita, ‘I think I have a plan.’
‘Detective,’ said Carlisle, looking at how shifty her eyes had become, ‘I have a sneaking suspicion that you are about to do something extremely stupid. I wish I could say this surprised me.’
‘Okay, I’m just going to come out with it, so get ready to mock me, you lanky twat.’
‘Consider me cocked and ready to fire.’
‘I’m going to release Jenner from the dreamscape prison.’
Carlisle nodded, ‘As usual, I am correct. That is a plan of pure insanity that will almost certainly spiral towards disaster—’
‘—yes, but—’
‘—and I absolutely agree that it is what we must do.’
Waterson, while surprised that Carlisle was on board for suicide, did enjoy the look of astonishment on Rita’s face.
‘You… I’m sorry, what?’
‘I take it the Angel reached out to you, too?’ asked Carlisle.
‘Yeah.’
‘And me,’ said Waterson raising a hand.
‘Hm. It seems as though It will mix with anyone.’
That was definitely a dig, so Waterson did his best not to react.
‘I believed the Angel was trying to trick me,’ said Carlisle.
‘Me too,’ said Rita.
‘And in truth, It is.’
‘It is?’
‘Oh, absolutely, Detective, but it is also the only next step if we wish to bring an end to Cotton and Spike’s reign of terror.’
‘With the awesome side-effect of the Angel taking control of Jenner again,’ added Waterson. ‘The reason I’m dead, in case anyone’s counting.’
‘People die every second of every day,’ said Carlisle.
‘If Jenner is released,’ said Rita, ‘then, according to the Angel, the magic Cotton and Spike are controlling—the magic we can see above us—will automatically move over to Jenner, leaving those masked turds with only their own magic to throw at us.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Carlisle.
‘And we know that, do we?’ asked Waterson. ‘I mean, we know for a fact that with Jenner out, all the magic will go to him and we can get rid of the other two. It won’t just split between them and we have three super-powered arseholes to deal with?’
‘There’s no knowing for a fact,’ said Carlisle, grimly.
‘Well, super,’ said Waterson. ‘All I can say, and this is definitely a first, I’m glad I’m already dead.’
Rita had all of the same doubts as Waterson. There was no knowing how things would play out. And even if they did go like they hoped, and Cotton and Spike were pushed aside, they still had Jenner to deal with.
‘A Jenner who will be much more powerful than when you last faced him,’ said Carlisle, reading her expression. ‘There are many more fissures in the Angel’s prison than there were. The compromised structure has been deteriorating at an increased rate. Forcing Jenner back into the Night Fair you fashioned may prove difficult.’
‘I imagine “difficult” is a big, fat understatement, yes?’ said Waterson.
‘Oh, the biggest,’ replied Carlisle.
‘Tell me you see another way, Casper,’ said Rita. ‘Really, anything you’ve got, I’m open to it.’
Carlisle stood and spun so that his coat fanned out like a cloak, the sparkling lining, like a galaxy of shining stars. ‘I do not. The choice is yours, Detective.’
Rita took a look out at the sea as the waves lapped against the shore. She thought about Ben Turner’s body, curled up on the basement floor.
‘Let’s end those fuckers.’
20
The twisted iron gates of the Night Fair appeared before them, and Rita, Carlisle, and Waterson paused, watching the flames that burned atop each gate post flicker in the cool night breeze.
‘We’re totally, totally all in on this suicide mission, then?’ said Waterson.
‘Feel free to run and hide, ghost,’ said Carlisle.
‘I’m not a coward,’ he replied.
‘You’re also dead, so have a little less skin in the game,’ said Carlisle. ‘And I mean that both figuratively and literally.’
‘Okay ladies, enough bickering, time to put on our shit-proof trousers.’
‘I do believe you missed your calling as a poet, Detective.’
Rita grinned and flexed her fingers around the handle of the axe. What they were stood before was not one gate, but two. One lead to the Night Fair itself. The actual Night Fair. The other, the one only Rita could see, lead to the dreamscape Night Fair. The one she had fashioned using Cotton and Spike’s magic and tricked Jenner into stepping inside of, severing his connection to the Angel.
‘So here’s the plan,’ said Rita.
‘Oh, do tell,’ said Carlisle.
‘Let’s say all goes as smoothly as Waters’ chin...’
‘A crack about my inability to grow a beard. Nice,’ he replied.
‘...Jenner emerges, takes on the Angel’s power again and no doubt twats the living shit out of Cotton and Spike for fucking It around, leaving us with the extra-extra-extra-powered Jenner to deal with.’
‘Not good,’ said Carlisle.
‘He might be strong, but we have the prison I built all ready and waiting, we just need to push him back inside.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to be pushed?’ said Waterson. ‘What if he legs it away from the entrance?’
‘It’s not fixed. It doesn’t exist in the same way the actual gate we’re looking at now does. I can use the magic, with the axe, to position the door anywhere. All we need to do is place the gate to the dreamscape directly behind Jenner and throw everything we can at him so that he takes a single step back.’
‘One step,’ asked Waterson.
‘One step. That’s all we need to do. Easy, right?’
Carlisle raised an eyebrow. ‘Delusion is a most comforting disorder, Detective.’
‘Shut up, it’ll work. It’ll probably work. It has to work.’
Carlisle looked at the axe Rita was wielding. His artefact. A thing he had longed to possess again for so very long. He felt the urge to reach out and snatch it from her, as pointless as he knew that idea to be. It would not accept him, not unless she willingly gave it. This was something Carlisle was doubtful, at this point, would ever occur. Not without killing the Angel of Blackpoo
l, and it seemed as thought that was impossible.
He wanted the artefact. Craved it.
‘Oi, stretched-out Johnny Depp,’ said Rita, clicking her fingers.
Carlisle grimaced and turned his attention back to the gate. ‘Get on with it then, I am eager to toss myself with reckless abandon towards certain death.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ replied Rita and lifted up the axe, ready.
‘Well, look what we have here, brother,’ said an all-too-familiar voice.
The group turned to find themselves flanked by Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike.
‘Hello, you two,’ said Carlisle. ‘Apologies for taking my leave without a goodbye, but I was desperate to stretch my legs.’
‘Never fear, Carlisle, perhaps my brother will stretch them and stretch them until they are torn from your body altogether. What say you, Mr. Spike?’
Spike gurgled and grunted and nodded his hedgehog mask.
Rita swung at the air. ‘Stay back unless you want an axe to the neck, you murderous pieces of shit.’
‘Poor, poor doggy. I do believe he whimpered and begged as my brother showed him his true face. Such delicious fear, such ripe torment. Yummy.’
Rita nodded to Carlisle.
Carlisle nodded back.
They moved as one. Rita sprinted forward, axe raised, ready to strike a point in reality and open the dream realm wide, while Carlisle pulled charms from his coat and threw them in the direction of Cotton and Spike.
There was an explosion of light as each charm struck home, causing Cotton and Spike to warp like images in a funhouse mirror.
Rita swung the axe, only for a tree to burst from the ground and seize it in one of its limbs. Rita whirled around to find she was no longer in front of the Night Fair’s gate, but in a forest. She could see movement between the trees in the distance. Wolves stalking.
‘Fuck-shit,’ cried Rita, yanking the axe from the tree. ‘Carlisle?’ she yelled as she warily looked at the wolves in the dreamscape she’d been swallowed by. No reply.
She gripped the axe and willed the dreamscape’s magic into it, then swung again and created an exit. She stepped through the opening and found herself on top of a building this time. Another dreamscape.
She turned as something thudded down behind her. It was Ben Turner.
‘Why?’ he asked, blood streaming from his eyes. ‘Why did you let me die, Rita?’
‘Oh shut it,’ she snarled, magic erupting from the axe-head and turning the pretend Ben to ash. She swung the weapon again and stepped through the opening into a third dreamscape.
‘Carlisle! A little help here!’
She was in an abandoned factory, rats the size of dogs scampering across the grimy concrete floor.
Mr. Cotton sprouted up from the floor, the ears of his rabbit mask waggling. ‘Why do you struggle so?’ he asked. ‘Fear is natural. Death inevitable. And both are so very, very delicious.
‘You’re going to lose, you know that?’ said Rita, brandishing the axe. ‘Fear never wins. Not ever. It might seem overwhelming for a time, but in the end it’s beaten.’
Mr. Cotton clapped. ‘Did you get that from a greeting card?’
A wheezing sound from behind. Rita turned to see Mr. Spike, his shoulders shaking from laughter. She began to back off, trying to keep both brothers in her eye-line as they watched her retreat.
‘You know, Rita, I do believe it might be time for you to finally leave the game. What say you, brother?’
Mr. Spike clapped his hands together.
‘We were holding something of a grudge. Childish, I know.’
‘Well, I didn’t want to be the first to say it,’ replied Rita, heart hammering.
‘You bested us once and we wished to draw out your pain. We did not want to shoot you in the head, we wanted you to bleed out, ever so slowly. We wanted the same for your wicked friend, Carlisle, but it is a fool who allows danger to remain while there is work to be done.’
Mr. Spike grunted and ran at Rita. She swung the axe but missed, slicing the air and tearing open a fresh hole. Meanwhile, Spike crashed into Rita and brought her to the ground.
‘Carlisle!’
Mr. Spike sat on her chest and Rita swung her fists, trying to dislodge him, but her blows had no effect. He grabbed her face with one filthy glove, a centipede squirming from the sleeve of his jacket and skittering across her wild-eyed face.
‘You called?’ Rita looked up to see Carlisle poking his head through the door the axe had created. He peeled the hole open further, stepped through, and clapped his hands together, unleashing an explosion of light and a deafening boom. The dreamscape, and Cotton and Spike, melted away, and Rita found herself back before the gates of the Night Fair.
‘Rita!’ cried Waterson, rushing over to her as she grabbed the axe and climbed shakily to her feet. ‘Is that it? Did you stop them?’
‘No,’ replied Carlisle. ‘That is beyond either of us at this point.’
‘Well,’ said Waterson, ‘hurry up and open the bloody prison thing!’
Rita didn’t need telling twice. Axe in hand, she stood and turned to the gate.
Mr. Cotton stepped out of nothing to block her way. ‘So that is your plan, is it? A calculated risk? I applaud you, really I do.’
Rita swung the axe, burying the head in Cotton’s rabbit mask as Spike bundled into her side, knocking her from her feet and the axe from her grip.
‘The power is ours,’ said Cotton, pulling the axe from his mask and tossing it aside.
Carlisle darted towards it. Mr. Cotton swept a hand across the ground beneath Carlisle’s feet, causing it to jut out and propel him through the air. Carlisle’s journey was soon halted by a wall that sent fists of white static blooming into his vision.
Rita struggled as Mr. Spike planted himself atop her chest again and giggled.
‘Get the fuck off me!’
‘Such bad language. Have you ever heard the like, brother mine?’
The mouth of Mr. Spike’s hedgehog mask opened wider and wider and wider still, though of course it did not as it was just a mask. Great strings of thick drool seeped from within, making Rita recoil with revulsion as they struck her face.
‘This magic, the Angel’s magic, belongs to us now,’ said Mr. Cotton, hands clasped behind his back as he danced towards Carlisle. ‘It will not be taken away. We will use it in Blackpool. When this small place is drained of fear, of terror, of life itself, we shall move on. We shall wander this Earth bringing the gift of anguish with us.’
Carlisle stumbled up, blood dripping down his face, into his eyes. He wiped the sleeve of his coat across his face and staggered towards the axe, only to find himself spinning wildly through the air again, the Night Fair’s wrought iron gate stopping his journey this time.
Waterson edged his way towards the fallen axe, a forgotten man. It seemed Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike were so concerned with Rita and Carlisle that they saw no threat from him. Which was fair, he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do to threaten them. But his best friend needed him, so he was going to try.
He knelt before the axe and reached for the handle.
His hand passed through.
‘Can you feel our power now, Carlisle?’ said Mr. Cotton, as a groggy Carlisle used the bars of the gate to haul himself to his feet.
‘You really do… enjoy the sound of your own voice,’ replied Carlisle, spitting a glob of blood on the dirt.
Mr. Cotton laughed and clicked his fingers. Vines sprouted from the ground and wrapped around Carlisle’s arms, his legs, his neck, strapping him to the metal gate.
‘Come on, concentrate,’ hissed Waterson, reached for the axe. The handle shifted, ever so slightly, before his hand passed through it once again.
Rita kicked out, bucked, fought, as Mr. Spike giggled, a tongue snaking out of the mask and licking her cheek.
‘Oh, you dirty prick,’ she yelled, twisting her head away.
Waterson tried again. The axe did not budge.<
br />
‘Hm,’ said Mr. Cotton, rubbing at the chin of his rabbit mask with one hand, ‘I wonder how to make this worse.’
‘You could just keep on talking, that’s torture enough,’ replied Carlisle, straining to push his right hand into his coat pocket.
Mr. Cotton clicked his fingers. ‘Aha! Thorns! Of course.’
Carlisle grunted as vicious thorns grew from the vines that pinned him, sinking into his flesh and causing crimson to leak from his chalk-white skin. All the same, he carried on straining for his pocket, trying to ignore how moving his arm only caused the thorns to drag and tear at his flesh.
Cotton and Spike were beyond powerful now, their dreamscape magic a thought away, able to do as they pleased. Able to make the ground shake and vines sprout at a moment’s notice, all built from the stuff of dreams, the substance of nightmares.
Waterson’s hand passed through the axe handle again and he almost cried out in frustration.
‘Do you know,’ said Mr. Cotton, turning his attention to Rita, ‘I do believe it is finally time for my brother to show you his true face.’
‘That’s okay,’ replied Rita, ‘let’s do it another time.’
Mr. Spike raised his hands up to his hedgehog mask and Rita writhed and kicked and struggled, terror overwhelming her.
‘There it is,’ said Mr. Cotton, delighting in her fear, ‘delicious anguish, fresh from the oven.’
Carlisle’s hand reached the object he was after. A fire charm.
‘Oh, this is going to hurt,’ he said to himself.
Mr. Spike’s mask edged up—slowly, slowly—he and his brother delighting in the anticipation. Rita tried to close her eyes but found that she couldn’t. Tried to turn her head away, but Spike’s hand locked it in place.
She didn’t want to see.
Didn’t want to see.
Rita realised she was screaming.
And she wasn’t the only one. Waterson yelled in anger, in frustration, in hopelessness at how useless he was, and swiped with one, last, futile attempt at the axe. He almost fell back in surprise. He could feel the axe handle. He looked down, wide-eyed, as he lifted the weapon.
‘I did it… I fucking did it!’ he screamed.
Mr. Cotton turned to see Waterson standing, axe in hand. ‘Oh, naughty, naughty ghost. Ours, I think.’