by CW Lynch
TAYLOR'S LITTLE HELL
"Did you know that it's impossible to lie to me, Mr. King? I discovered that when I was eight years old."
Taylor remembered speaking the words in the back of Cane King's limo. It was the night that they had hatched the plan to wipe the clean squad cops from the face of the Earth. The same night he had watched the remains of Lee Grice spill out of the bag he'd put him in. The looks on their faces, those so called “hard men”, when they saw what he had done. That was what clarity really meant to Taylor. He lived, had lived, his life without boundaries. He was what a person could be if you turned everything up to eleven.
Around him, the memory of that night vanished and was replaced by another.
He knew the place instantly. It was one of the orphanages he had spent time in as a child. He knew exactly which one. This was the one with the doctors. The place where they had tried to fix him.
Jack Taylor, eight years old, was about to have his first course of electro-shock therapy.
In this memory he was already strapped down to a gurney, thick leather belts holding his ankles and wrists, wearing nothing but a surgical gown. They hadn't put the cap on yet, hadn't shoved the bit in between his teeth to stop him from swallowing his own tongue or biting through his lips. Taylor had been so proud of his perfect memory, but now it would betray him and recreate these moments in perfect detail. It didn't matter. Like the shocks from the machines themselves, it was temporary.
Everything was temporary.
The gurney rattled down the hallway, and all Taylor could see where cracked tiles in the ceiling. He counted them, calculating how far down the hallway he was, and listened to the doctors talking. And that was when he realised that there was something wrong. Somehow, this wasn't his memory, not entirely. There should have been two doctors and two nurses. There should have been the priest as well, the one who was always preoccupied with the boys who had to have the “special treatments”. Taylor remembered what he had done to that priest, but found he couldn't escape into that memory. No, he was stuck here. Taylor was strapped to the gurney and there was only voice talking.
It was a voice he knew. It was the voice of Yossarian Nutt.
“Hello fucker.”
“This is my memory, what the hell are you doing here?” asked Taylor. There was no pretence of calm in his voice. Although he had all of his memories, all of his precious clarity, a little bit of eight year old Jack Taylor couldn't help but bleed through. Eight year old Jack Taylor still got scared, from time to time.
“Able's locked you up,” continued Nutt. “Your memories aren't like anyone else’s, so you were easy to keep apart from the rest of us. You're dead, you're inside Able's head just like you wanted to be, but you're not going anywhere other than your own memories. The bird wants you all to itself.”
“The bird? You mean the demon, the Magpye? Is it here?”
The gurney bumped over a cracked tile. Taylor remembered that tile. They were close to the treatment room now. So close.
“Oh yes,” said Nutt. “She's here.”
The end of the gurney shuddered as it hit the doors to the treatment room. Taylor saw the familiar strip lights, heard the hum of the machinery and smelt the old familiar air, thick with the smell of shit and cheap disinfectant. It was all exactly as he remembered it.
Except for Nutt. And except for Magpye.
The creature leaned in over Taylor. It had the face of a small girl, framed in jet black hair. Its face was human, yet inhuman at the same time. It was a face created by something from a place where faces had a different purpose, or no purpose at all. It was the face of something that didn't really understand faces, but needed to wear one. A face like a mask of a face.
“Hello Jack,” the creature said. “I'm the Magpye.”
Nutt's rough hands shoved the skull cap down onto Taylor's small head and forced the well-chewed bit in between his teeth. Taylor heard the turning of a dial, heard the whiny build up of an electrical charge.
Nutt's face appeared alongside Magpye's, and Taylor couldn't decide whose smile was more terrifying.
“You see, fucker, the deal is this. The bird wants you, but Able doesn't. I want you, but Able doesn't. So, me and my weird little friend here get to keep you, as long as you don't disturb the other children.”
Taylor tried to spit out the bit, but Nutt had fixed it fast.
“We found this place in your memories, and it seemed as good a place as any to start. The bird wants to know what makes you tick and I want to make you bleed and bleed for what you did to my partner. So, we're going to shock you, then we're going to drug you, and then we're going to cut your head open and take a look inside. Personally, I hope we don't find what we're looking for because, well, you've got far worse memories than this, don't you Jack?”
Nutt threw the switch on the electro-shock machine before Taylor could even grunt an answer, and started Jack Taylor's second lifetime in hell. It would not be temporary in the least.
CANE AND ABLE
Cane hurled Marv through the doors into the casino control room. The old magician fell, slamming into the buffet table and sending food across the floor.
“Phone's over there,” said Cane, pointing to a telephone handset embedded into a wide control panel beneath a bank of screens. “Get it done.”
Beneath them, through the floor to ceiling glass, Cane watched as his last remaining loyal Kingsmen kept watch over the hostages. None of them looked up at him. Their eyes were glued to the television screens that dotted the walls. The news was still rolling, and Cane was the only story.
“Some of these people don't exactly have telephones,” said Marv, staggering over to the control panel. “They're a little... old school.”
“Just make it happen,” said Cane, “I've got transportation on the way.”
His tone was grim. Marv had heard the tone before, it was the tone of voice that men get when they realise that they don't have anything left to lose. He'd heard it more times than he cared to remember, and the results were always messy. Thankfully for Marv, he normally wasn't around for consequences, but right now his magic was stubbornly refusing to do anything other than let him be Cane's punch bag.
Marv picked up the phone and dialled.
“Laurence? It's Marv. Yeah, yeah, I know, you told me only to call in emergency...”
Cane appeared next to Marv and started flicking switches on the control panel. The bank of screens above them switched from showing video of the casino floor to showing video from the hotel corridors up above. Cane flicked from channel to channel until he found Magpye. Marv stole a glimpse at the screen. Best guess, Able was only a floor above them, and heading for the elevator.
“Damn,” said Cane, looking at his watch. “He's close.”
Marv pretended that he hadn't heard anything.
“I've got a client for you, Laurence. Yes, he can definitely pay. No, he's not in serious trouble...”
Cane flicked more switches, until every screen was showing an image of the control room.
Marv placed his hand over the receiver. “What are you doing?”
“Just a little backup,” said Cane, “In case you can't deliver.”
Marv took a step away from Cane, stretching the phone cord with him. There weren't any mirrors here, but Marv was sure that Cane must know that his face was covered in The Ink again.
***
One floor above, Able reached the elevator. He could still taste Taylor in his mouth but there was no trace of him in his head. There had been no resistance since Taylor, the floors cleared of Kingsmen. Maybe that was how Taylor had wanted it, or maybe Cane's forces were finally getting depleted. Either way, all that was left for Able to do now was find Marv and find Cane King before the hotel burned down around him.
“Simple,” he said to himself, looking up a wall-mounted map of the casino. “If I just knew where the hell you where...”
Without warning, a screen next to the map sprung into life. In
place of the usual information or advertising that Able expected it was intended for, it showed a picture that seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the casino. Able watched as Cane King moved from side to side in front of some kind of control panel. To his left, almost out of shot was Marv. Marv, on the phone.
“What the hell are you playing at you old bastard?” said Able.
***
Marv put the phone down.
“It's done.”
“Just like that?” asked King incredulously. “One phone call?”
“One phone call to the right person,” said Marv. “Laurence will put everything in place. This time tomorrow you'll be in a whole new life and nobody will ever be able to find you.”
Cane looked down onto the gaming floor of the casino. Sweat was running down his face and back as The Ink boiled inside of him. This wasn't how things were supposed to go and this wasn't the story that The Ink wanted to tell. It was taking every ounce of Cane's will to go against the will of the thing that lived under his skin, and he didn't know how much longer he would be able to hold out.
“And they'll be able to get this thing out of me?”
“That's the very first step,” said Marv reassuringly.
Cane heaved and vomited up a handful of blood.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Cane. “Why are you helping me?”
Marv put his hand on King's shoulder. He could feel the heat coming off Cane's skin.
“Because I know what it's like to have something inside you that you can't control,” answered Marv. In the glass, he caught sight of his own reflection and realised that, somewhere along the line, what had been a line of bullshit to keep Cane talking had become something else, something real.
“We're not so different,” he said. “All my life, Cane, I've...”
The elevator pinged outside and Marv felt Cane's shoulders tense. The Ink swirled onto his face and contorted it into an animal's snarl. Turning, Cane pushed Marv backwards with a force that lifted the magician off his feet and sent him hurtling across the room. He hit one of the glass walls hard, hard enough to crack the glass and hard enough to finally get the attention of the people down on the casino floor.
Winded, struggling to get back to his feet, Marv watched as Able walked into the room.
Cane was waiting for him.
“Adam,” said Cane. Except the voice wasn't Cane's. It was guttural and frothy, like words spoken underwater and bursting in bubbles on the surface. It was the voice of The Ink.
Able reached up and pulled off his mask. In the screens across the room he saw his own face, his white flesh and milky eyes, the blood caked around his mouth from his meal of flesh just minutes before. It was the face of a monster.
“I'm not Adam,” he replied, and shot Cane King in the face.
Cane staggered back, clutching and clawing at a wound that should have been fatal. The bubbling, watery voice of The Ink howled as tendrils of thick black go burst out from between Cane's fingers as he covered his face. Able watched as, between Cane's fingers, he saw glimpses of Cane's face was rebuilt piece by piece, layer by layer. He watched as thick black ooze replacing bone and flesh before fading to a perfect match for the surrounding skin. It took only moments for the howls to give way to softer pants and gasps until, finally, Cane took his hands fully away from his face. Cane's face, whole and restored.
“Where,” he asked, “Is my brother?”
“Check your little hidey hole,” said Able, a note of cruelty in his voice. “That's where I left him.”
“He's... alive?” said Cane, astonishment in his voice.
“That's a matter of definition.”
“And so you must be Able,” said Cane, looking him up and down. “My brother's bastard.”
“Your brother's nothing,” snapped Able. “My name is Able Quirk. You killed my family.”
“I killed mine too, if it makes any difference.”
“Not really,” replied Able.
The two men flew at each other, each possessed of superhuman strength and speed. Able unleashed a ferocious series of punches and kicks, matched blow for blow by Cane. Neither one of them dodged, neither one of the blocked. No quarter was asked or given until both men found themselves free of the other.
Able was unsteady on his feet. He could feel Dorothy's mind hard at work, sealing up cuts, repairing cracked ribs. Cane's strength was phenomenal, every punch and kick a hammer blow. A few yards away, Cane rolled his head left and right as The Ink healed him. Able tried to take a tally of how many patches of darkness he could see on Cane's clothes, a track of how many wounds he had inflicted.
Across the room, Marv realised that he had a clear path to the open door. He felt his magic tingling in his fingers, racing up his arms and down to his bare, bloodied feet. It wanted him to run.
“Cane,” called Marv, his voice uncertain. “It doesn't have to be this way. You can still get out, you can still be free.”
Cane's shoulders slumped.
“You stupid old man,” he said. “You really think I'd walk away from this?”
“I don't understand,” said Marv, “You said...”
“I said what you wanted me to say,” replied Cane. “When you said you could get me out, I knew you had to have a way to take The Ink out of me, and I couldn't let that happen. Ever. So I got you to phone your special little magic friends and now, when this is over, I'm going to take that phone number, find out who it belongs to, and kill them. Then I'm going to kill everyone they know. I'm going to kill and kill and kill until there's not a witch, magician, conjurer, or mystic left on the face of this planet. I will kill them, eat them, and then all the magic will belong to me.”
“You son of a bitch, you...”
“Don't take it personally, Marv,” said Cane sarcastically. “It's just business.”
“And so this this!” shouted Able, launching himself for a second time at Cane. This time, the exchange between the men was even more brutal than before. Every blow was intended to kill or maim. Bones broke, flesh was torn. Blood splattered against the glass walls of the room, painting the scene outside in streaks of red. It was Cane who landed the final blow, a punch into Able's windpipe that left him gasping on the floor. Dead or not, even Able needed to breath, it would seem.
Crossing the room, Cane picked up a table and hefted it over his head. It should have required three or four men to lift, but Cane picked it up as if it were nothing. Standing over Able, Cane held the thing above his head.
“You're a lot like him, your father,” said Cane. “You're weak.”
He brought the table down into Able's back with a sickening crack and Able realised immediately that he couldn't move his legs.
Across the room, Able watched as Marv looked from him to the door and back again.
Able closed his eyes and nodded. “Get out,” he mouthed and, by the time he opened his eyes, Marv had vanished, as if by magic.
Leaving Able prone under the table, Cane strode across to the control panel.
Able watched as he rolled up his tattered shirt sleeve and dug a finger into a protruding vein in his arm. A pool of black welled up and ran down Cane's arm. He placed his hand on the control panel, fingers splayed, and Able watched as the black ooze ran down into the console.
“What are you doing?”
“Rewriting history,” said Cane with a smile.
On the screens, the video of Cane and Able's battle spun backwards, then began again. This time, Cane didn't lift a finger. There was no gunshot, no miraculous healing. There was no fight. There was just Able, pulling of his mask and pointing his gun at Cane. Able putting a bullet into the floor at Cane's feet, making him get down on his knees. Able standing over Cane with a gun.
Cane had spent a lifetime learning how to manipulate the media and now, with the power of The Ink, he could reach in and change the story as it was happening.
“You see, after what happened at the paper-mill, I needed to convince everyone that I was
n't some grandiose criminal mastermind. I needed a scapegoat for all the things that have been happening. My brother would have been perfect, the “wayward sibling” with his strange obsession with the occult. It would be a classic tale of one brother against another. The All-America Hero vs. the Twisted Terrorist Madman. America loves that sort of thing.”
“Except it isn't true.”
“No, it isn't true, but since when has that actually mattered?” continued Cane. “Of course, there's your cop friend to deal with but, with a little creativity, I'm sure we can find some link between Owen White and all the corruption there is in this city. The president will be terribly embarrassed of course but, I rather think its time for him to go anyway. We'll have a clean slate, fresh start.”
Able could feel his legs again, a pins and needles sensation running down from the small of his back to his knees.
“ It will never work.”
“Of course it will. What would everyone prefer to believe? That I've really been here all this time, hiding in plain sight? That my father and grandfather before me were just the same? That every institution they believe in is rotten to the core? My truth is much better than that. My world is a happier world for everyone.”
Able slowly got to this feet. Cane smiled.
“And what about people who get in the way?” he asked. “What about people like us?”
Able knew that he had started to speak in the plural again, but it didn't matter. He was speaking for more than just the ghosts that were in his head now, more than for just himself, he was speaking for all of the people who had died at the hands of Cane King or his forebears. He was speaking for a great unquiet mass that lingered in places like The Pit, that festered under the very foundations of this city. He was speaking for every person who had every stood in the way of the Kings and paid the price.
In Able's head the Magpye rose like a black phoenix.