‘But then that last trick,’ he said. ‘That’s when I knew for sure. That was impossible.’
Spike tried to laugh it off. ‘It’s just practice, mate, that’s all.’
Amaze Me shook his head. ‘No. There’s no misdirection in the world could have pulled that off. You never came anywhere near me. You fucked up. That was actual magic.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Spike said, trying to laugh it off, ‘but it’s time for me to go home.’
He started backing away but he was too drunk and the men had missed out on what they’d believed was a trio of easy shags, and had no intention of going home without a fight as recompense.
Suddenly all three were in fast movement.
Just before he passed out, his head in the road, gasping from another kick in the stomach, Spike saw a black cat sitting in the shadows on the other side of the street. For a moment its eyes looked a sharp grey, and then something stranger seemed to happen. It raised one of its paws off the ground and dropped it, raised it once more and dropped it again, in a chopping motion.
Spike lost consciousness a split second later, however, so this could just have been his imagination.
He made it to the alleyway. The door was locked, of course. He knelt down in front of it, resting his bruised cheek against the coldness of its battered surface. It was soothing. For a moment he thought he could smell something through the keyhole, the scent of fresh new grass warming in Spring sunlight.
He fumbled in his pocket, wincing against the pain in his fingers, and found the ten pence he’d picked up earlier. He wedged it into a crack in the old brickwork.
‘I found a penny,’ he whispered, ‘and picked it up. All I want is a little luck. I’m sorry. I messed up. Don’t leave me here. Let me come home. Please.’
Nothing happened. Eventually he hauled himself laboriously to his feet and went home.
He couldn’t work the next day, or the one after that. He spent the weekend in bed, staring at the wall. He didn’t eat. Late on Sunday afternoon he walked far enough to get a coffee. It made him feel sick. He returned to his room and went back to bed. He dreamed of forest clearings and hills covered in clover. He dreamed of mountains sparkling in harsh moonlight. He woke in the middle of the night to find his face wet with tears.
When he woke on Monday morning, however, and experimentally waggled his fingers, he found that — while painful — they moved well enough. Probably he should take another day off, but he didn’t want to. It wasn’t even about the money. It was about a dumb and stupid plan that had grown in his mind over the weekend. Unlike most of his mistakes, he acknowledged this one was dumb and stupid right from the start. He didn’t care.
He got dressed. He went out onto the streets. He walked to the nearest café and ate what he could. He’d long ago found that most things here disagreed with him, and so he did not order eggs or bacon or sausage, though all smelled good. He had a piece of toast, no butter — which also made him feel nauseous — and a stewed tomato. The tomato tasted like hot water. The bread like old leaves.
He walked into Soho, not thinking much. He walked past the newsagents and noticed that the box of firewood outside was much fuller now. The new logs looked fatter than the first lot he’d seen, as if chopped from a different tree.
Spike’s arms and legs felt stiff, but he kept walking, and walking, focusing his thoughts, until the light began to fade and the night rolled into the streets like a thick, dark fog coming up off the river.
Then he changed direction and headed down toward the little nest of pubs down by Charring Cross.
It was a long-shot, he knew that. Not a total one — people tend to be habitual, when it comes to pubs — but the kind of men who go to the pub after work on Friday won’t necessarily be there on a Monday too. He had no other lead, however, and he’d come to understand the culture of London workers well enough (and seen the beginnings of a beer gut on each of the men) for it to be worth a try.
He didn’t go to that particular pub first. He’d be too early. It was only five o’clock. He went to the last one, the pub where he’d been drinking at the end by himself. It was fuller than it had been then, and the same man was behind the bar. Spike walked up to the counter and waited his turn. When the barman got to him he paused a moment, looking at the bruises on Spike’s face.
‘That coin didn’t bring much luck, by the look of it.’
‘Not yet,’ Spike said. ‘Did you know what was happening to me? On the street outside your pub?’
The barman shook his head.
‘Really? Didn’t hear raised voices?’
‘No mate,’ he said, and turned away. He was lying, and Spike knew it, and for a moment wanted to reach out and touch him. But he did not. He’d spent the day charging up. He wasn’t going to waste it.
He knew four drinks were too many, but they went down so quickly. It didn’t matter. He felt totally in control as he left the pub and walked up the street.
Long-shot or not, when he glanced in through the window of the next pub he saw two of the men inside. They were at a table in the corner, deep in conversation. Reliving the glories of their Friday night, perhaps.
Spike smoked a cigarette as he watched. Beer and cigarettes and coffee. Maybe he was adapting to this environment after all. Perhaps the only thing holding him back was a feeling of control. He’d been very good, never once stepped out of line. Never broken any of the rules except for the way in which he earned a living.
Maybe that was a mistake.
It was too cold to stay out there. Spike went in the pub, keeping out of the men’s line of sight. It was easy, as this pub was very full. People moved out of his way, unconsciously, aware of something passing by them that they wanted to avoid, without having the least idea what it might be.
He stood to one side of a pillar, watching. Both men had only a couple of swallows left in their pints. Hopefully they’d stand to leave and he could follow them outside. If not, he’d wait. They’d waited for him on Friday. He’d do the same for them tonight.
That’s what he’d thought, anyway, but when the ‘Amaze Me’ man knocked back the rest of his beer and got up and came over toward the bar, Spike felt his resolve disappear.
He stepped back out of sight, monitoring the man’s progress at the counter, trying to keep his breathing even. His hands were trembling so much that he had to keep them down by his side. When the man turned from the bar with a pint in each hand, Spike altered position so that he couldn’t see his face as he passed by. The man moved quickly, in his element, keen to get back to his table and whatever bullshit he and his friend were merrily spouting back and forth, but he left a trail nonetheless, a stench that Spike had grown weary — so incredibly weary — of trying to ignore. These horrific creatures, their skins so sallow and without sparkle, none of them even touched with The Thing, pieces of perambulating meat, endlessly procreating as if in a futile spell against the stinking death coming toward each and every one of them. It was as if Spike had trapped himself in a vast abattoir.
He waited for the man to get seated and then walked over. He stood to one side of the table, saying nothing. Just waiting.
The men jabbered on to each other, voices raised against the hubbub, their eyes glittering not with magic but superficial cheer. Spike noticed both had scrapes on their knuckles, marks of contact with his face and body. They were in a much better state than Spike’s hands, however: Amaze Me had made a point of stamping on both. Only the man’s haste had allowed Spike to escape without fists full of broken bones — that and the fact that Spike’s limbs were made of strong stuff, firm trunks and twigs that were too vital and subtle to be snapped so easily.
At that moment the man glanced up. He saw Spike standing there looking down at him, head cocked a little to one side like a bird of prey.
There was a flicker in the man’s eyes.
The other man caught the frisson, and looked up too. ‘Fuck you doing here?’ he said. Spik
e didn’t say anything. ‘Seriously — did you not get the fucking message?’
‘I’m sure he did,’ Amaze Me said, in a more judicious tone. Either he was smarter than his friend or just more cautious. He evidently realized that if you and your friends beat the shit out of a man, and he then makes the effort to come track you down a couple of nights later, you’ve got a situation on your hands.
‘Probably just working this pub again, right? Earning a few quid to keep him in beer money.’
Spike said nothing.
‘Thing is, like I told you,’ the man went on. ‘I don’t like magic. So here.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. He held it toward Spike. ‘Let’s just take the silly tricks as read, and you can fuck off, eh?
Spike took the note and altered his position so he had his back to the rest of the pub, which was becoming yet more crowded. ‘Five quid,’ he said. ‘That’s very generous. But I’ve got to do a trick for you, okay? Magician’s code — where I come from, anyway. If you’re paid, you play.’
‘Look mate, just fuck off,’ said the other guy.
Amaze Me kept looking up at Spike. It seemed as though he realized this was an encounter that was going to need diffusing in a measured way. He and his colleague were both still seated, for a start, with Spike looming over them. If the pretty-boy with the magic tricks decided to start a fight, he had a clear advantage.
‘Go on then,’ he said, magnanimous and tough at the same time. ‘But remember — I’ve got good eyes.’
‘You do,’ Spike said. ‘So watch carefully.’
He held out his right hand. His fingers ached, but they were fluent enough to roll the five-pound note into a perfect tube. He took his time over it, getting it tight.
‘So?’ the other man said.
‘So,’ Spike said. He squatted by the table and held his hands up so he was gripping the two-inch tube of rolled bank note horizontally between the thumb and index fingers of both hands, other fingers held out high.
‘I want you both to be able to see this very clearly,’ Spike said. ‘I want there to be no doubt. You’ve got to watch the note very carefully now, okay? You’ve got to be eagle-eyed.’
Amaze Me was intent on being just that. His gaze was locked on the note.
‘That’s it,’ Spike said. ‘Perfect.’
He left a long, long beat... and then made the note disappear. Both men were in a position to clearly see that neither of his hands moved at all. The note simply vanished into thin air.
‘Fuck,’ one of them said, despite himself.
‘Did you see that?’ Spike asked. ‘Did you really, really see it?’
‘We saw it, you freak,’ Amaze Me said.
‘Good,’ Spike said, and then, with sudden grace, he turned both his hands palm out and wiped one gently down across the eyes of each man, at the same time, as if closing the eyes of sitting corpses.
Amaze Me’s mouth dropped open, as he realized that he couldn’t see. That, though his eyes were open and staring, he was wholly blind.
The other man lurched to his feet, flailing around with his fists. ‘What have you done?’ he shouted. ‘I can’t fucking see. I can’t fucking see anything!’
Amaze Men was blinking frantically now, rubbing his eyes with his fists, craning his head around, trying to do anything that might make a difference.
‘Stop it,’ he said, to Spike. ‘Turn it off. Look, I’m sorry, all right? But turn it off.’
‘Can’t,’ Spike said. ‘The big problem with life, I’ve come to see, is there’s never any going back.’
‘Please,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry.’
He looked afraid but not afraid enough, and Spike decided he might as well go for broke. A lot of people were watching now.
He held both his hands to chest height, and then quickly snapped them into fists.
There were four quiet but irrevocable little popping sounds as two pairs of eyeballs burst, spurting glops of viscous liquid, and blood, out onto the table.
Spike turned and walked quickly out of the pub, to the sound of a lot of people screaming.
He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the black cat sitting waiting on the opposite side of the street. This time, when it ran off, he was in a position to follow.
He lost sight of the cat at the bottom end of Soho, but it didn’t matter. He knew where he was going next, and he hoped he knew what the appearance of the cat had meant. It hadn’t crossed his path, after all.
As he ran into the alley he held up his hand and un-vanished the five-pound note. Found money was always an appropriate offering, and now he’d finally shown he wasn’t safe to be left languishing here. Maybe that’d been his error all along, he hoped. Maybe he’d been trying too hard to fit in, to keep his head down, to pretend to be like everyone else in this hellhole. What better way to punish him for leaving his own land than to strand him here? Surely what he’d just done proved that they had to do something else instead, to let him come home?
His heart was beating hard as he approached the end of the alleyway, money held out.
Then it gave a harsh double-thud.
The door was gone.
He blinked at the space in the wall where it had been for night after night after night, utterly confused, wondering if he’d somehow come down the wrong street.
But no, there was the old, ragged poster for a gay dance night at a venue that he knew had recently been torn down. And there, where he’d left it wedged into a crack in the brickwork, was the ten-pence coin from Friday night. And there was a faint smear of what he knew to be his own dried blood, from when he’d rested his face against the door. No door there now, though. Just wall.
Was there still a handle on the other side? Over where the air was sweet and fresh and the blades of grass sang songs every morning? Where the food did not make you feel sick, but whole? Where his kind went about their business and lived their endless lives, only slipping over into this hollow world when the King or Queen commanded it, to make little interventions into people’s lives, keeping the universe spinning and the spheres aligned?
‘There are other doors,’ a voice said.
Spike turned to see that a figure now stood at the entrance of the alleyway. Tall but stooped, with long, shaggy hair and beard and a big, hooked nose.
The man from the newsagents.
He held up his hand. Dangling off one huge finger, Spike saw, was a large bunch of keys. The edges of the big, silver keys glinted in cold moonlight.
‘Come,’ the man said. ‘It’s time.’
Believing that at last his fate had been reversed, and not realizing that — in his other hand, the one behind his back — the tall man held an axe — Spike hesitated, but then walked up the alley toward him.
That was his final mistake.
The big man with the grey, sad eyes waited until Spike was within a couple of yards. Then he was in sudden, terrible motion, raising the old, notched axe high above his head — and then with a chop, chop, chop, the magician was dead.
Dead and afterward meticulously dismembered, his limbs severed one from another in the quiet of the newsagents, and then left out in the tiny yard behind it — a scrap of space lost and invisible in the shadowed depths of high, old buildings around — so that cold moonlight might fall on them, after the old methods, turning Spike’s body into lengths of dry wood which the woodcutter tied into neat bundles and added to the pile in the box out in front of his shop the following morning.
If you ever see such wood for sale, do not buy it. The bundles look pretty, but do not burn well. They look a lot like short sections of silver birch.
The Last Barbecue
ARCHIVAL RECORD: CA/6857F
MEDIUM: digitized CCTV
DATE: [Labor Day, 2017]
Contextualizing statement:
Following is a transcript of CCTV footage recovered from the LakeView Resort & Spa, 3534 Lake Tahoe Boulevard, South Lake Tahoe, CA 96150, United States (hereinafter d
esignated “LVRS”). LVRS was a popular hotel and condominium resort on the shore of this key vacation and recreation destination until its desertion. Founded in 1962 and regularly upgraded, in its final form LVRS consisted of twenty-two blocks each holding four small wooden townhouses, arranged around paths in pine woods leading down to the lake. Six additional one-story beach houses flanked a facility at the shore consisting of a pool, children’s paddling pool, and hot tub, formerly serviced by a small café and surrounded by a terraced area. From this a wooden jetty reaches eighty feet out into the lake. On either side of the foot of the jetty were arranged a number of informal barbequing facilities, along with picnic tables on a small grassy area leading to a narrow sandy beach.
LVRS remained sparsely inhabited for several months after The Death, primarily by former staff members, people either aware that their homes elsewhere in the state had already been over-run, or those who believed that the resort would provide an easily defensible location. This hope proved unfounded. The second major wave of No Longer Living Individuals exiting the Bay Area over-ran LVRS during the weekend of October 13-15. All remaining inhabitants of the resort perished during that two-day period.
Since this time the LakeView Resort & Spa, along with all other previous habitations and businesses along the South shore of Lake Tahoe, has remained deserted. A few generator-supported functions such as motion-sensitive lights and low voltage digital CCTV security imaging remain active; otherwise the resort is a dead facility.
TRANSCRIPT:
Footage is in black and white, with sound. Camera shows a fixed viewpoint of the edge of the terraced area associated with the spa café, a portion of the grassed area on the other side, and the beach, which is approximately twenty feet in depth. A basic cinderblock barbeque facility stands on the grass. The beginning of the jetty is also visible, stretching out into darkness. Initial sound consists of lapping sounds of water against the jetty supports. Visibility is limited.
Everything You Need: Short Stories Page 4