by M. V. Stott
Not knowing what else to do, I stood and made my way down the gallows steps. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the hill. She asked me t’come get you, so here I am, and there we’ll go.’
I glanced back at the woman, twisting sadly in the light breeze, then turned back and followed the fox into the forest.
‘Is it much further?’ I asked. The fox licked its paw and held it up above his head.
‘Naw, seems like it’s pretty close. Always is this time of day, so it’s lucky you dropped in now.’
‘And where exactly is it I’ve dropped into?’
‘Well, here. This place.’
‘A less vague answer would be nice.’
‘The dark lakes. The land of dread. The veil of anguish. Prison of the restless army of the dead.’
I nodded slowly. ‘Right. That place. Got you.’
After what seemed like hours, we finally broke from the forest, and there it was, rising steeply before us; the hill.
‘Come on then,’ said the fox, ‘Top’s where you’re supposed t’be.’
The hill was so steep I had to bend right over and crawl up the thing, its long, wild, red grasses leaving fresh ruby smears on my coat and trouser legs.
‘Who would it be best to send my dry cleaning bill to?’ I asked.
Finally, the hill levelled out as we reached the summit. On top of the hill was a chair. Well, more of a throne to be honest. A gleaming, white, very uncomfortable-looking throne made entirely of skulls. Which was creepy.
‘Well?’ I said, ‘what now?’
‘Now you take your throne,’ came a new voice. She stepped out from behind the chair, a tall, lithe woman, with alabaster skin and the reddest of red hair. Her eyes were piercing green, the smile on her face vicious in its beauty.
Something told me I should be very, very scared.
‘I have brought him to you at last, Red Woman,’ said the fox, falling to his knees. ‘As I were asked to, as I said I would. Now, shall I get my reward?’
The Red Woman approached the fox and removed his helmet.
‘You have done well,’ she said, stroking the fur on top of his head.
‘Thank you.’
And then she tore his head from his neck and the body toppled aside.
‘Jesus!’ I cried. ‘Why? Why did you just do that?’
She tipped her head back, mouth wide, as she raised the foxes head high and allowed the blood to pour into her mouth, over her face, and to splash down the dark green leather she wore from shoulder to toe.
She tossed the head aside, smiling at me, her perfect, white teeth stained blood-red.
‘I’d very much like to wake up now,’ I said.
‘Wake up?’
I began to back away. ‘This has to be a dream and I just want to wake up.’
‘Oh, but you are waking up, don’t you see? You are here again, before the throne, Magic Eater.’
The words made me pause. That name. That title. It meant something.
Magic Eater.
I looked down at my hands and bright red fire burst from them as the Red Woman laughed and the sky roared in anger.
‘No.’ I took a step back and the ground beneath my feet dipped suddenly and the world twisted away.
12
Sometimes, when you’re dreaming, you feel like you’re falling.
You can’t remember how or why, but down, down, down you go, your stomach taking up residence in your mouth as you plummet to your doom. You don’t know how this came to be, this endless fall, but you do know one thing with a crystal certainty: if the fall isn’t endless, if there is a bottom for you to hit, then you will never wake up. You’ll strike down and your bones will shatter, your organs pop, your meat splat. And that’s when your eyes spring open and your whole body jerks, a sudden spasm, as though the mattress has broken your fall and saved you from a fate worse than death.
This was one of those times.
I looked around to see the familiar sight of a hospital room. No chairs made of bones or any of that jazz, just four magnolia walls, a weathered bedside cabinet topped with an empty vase, and an old TV set perched on a swing bracket. I took a wary peek at my hands to find that fire no longer seemed to be erupting from them.
Of course there wasn’t.
I slumped back, my head now resuming its dull throb from the accident, and let out a sigh of relief as the door squeaked open and Doctor Neil, the epic wanker, stepped inside.
Never had I been more delighted to see the sod.
‘Doctor Neil!’
‘Doctor Smith, you prick,’ he spat back.
I almost got up and hugged the man.
‘Seems like someone gave you a right going over,’ he said, grinning.
‘Well, I’m glad my misfortune brings a little light into your horrific, empty life, Doctor Neil.’
‘I’ll tell you one last time, it’s Doctor Smith, you piece of shit.’
‘Don’t think much of your bedside manner much there, Doctor Neil. Real four out of ten stuff, that.’
The door swung open again and Chloe stepped in. ‘You two boys aren’t fighting again, are you?’ she asked with a smile that dulled the throb in my head.
‘Doctor Neil here was just telling me how relieved he was that I am fine and dandy and what a testament it is to my remarkable powers of recuperation.’
‘Yup, that sounds like something he’d say.’
Doctor Neil looked at us in turn, malice in his eyes, then turned on his heel and stomped out.
‘You know,’ said Chloe, ‘one of these days he’s going to twat you one.’
‘Oh, he loves me really.’
Chloe pulled up a chair and took my hand. A little shiver ran through me as flesh met flesh.
‘What happened?’
A monster with octopus limbs attacked me, then a homeless woman punched its brains out, I took a detour through a hellscape accompanied by a talking fox, and then I went a bit on fire.
‘Um. Accident. How did I get here, by the way?’
‘Big Marge came back from the toilet to find you slumped across three chairs, unconscious and pissing blood out of your head. What sort of accident?’
I was found in reception? Huh. Well there is no way I made my own way there. My car was wrecked and my head almost caved in. Could the homeless woman have brought me here somehow? Carried me here then done a runner? There seemed to be no other explanation, which meant I owed her twice now.
But why on earth was she looking out for me? What did I mean to her? Perhaps she did know me after all, from before I awoke next to Derwentwater ten years ago. I felt my heart flutter a little and sat up straight.
‘A woman... did anyone see a woman drop me off?’
‘No one saw anything; just there you were. Joe, what happened? Tell me.’
‘Just, you know, I was driving back from your place, and… a cat. A cat ran out, and you know me, animal lover, so I swerved, had a bit of a crash, and bopped my head. Stupid, really.’
She looked at me, brow knitted, obviously not buying what I was selling.
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Of course.’
I hated lying to her, especially post-kissy, but what other option did I have? The truth made me sound like a lunatic, and very few smart, funny, successful, beautiful woman are up for kissing lunatics.
She softened. ‘Please be more careful next time,’ she said, then leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on my lips. ‘You twat.’
I grinned like a fool, cheeks flushing. ‘You know, I could get very used to you kissing me.’
‘Me too.’
Too agitated, too wired, too just plain ol’ freaked out to sit still in a hospital bed when I felt fine enough, I dressed and, against Chloe’s orders, checked myself out. Now true, I’d had a fierce bang on the noggin, so should stay in for observation, plus I’d been informed that the police would be coming by to ask me some questions, but off I went anyway. Telling the boys and gir
ls in blue the truth about what had happened to me wasn’t an option, so I’d only be wasting their time anyway.
Plus, I felt fine. Energised even. I was in the middle of a bunch of clashing, bizarre mysteries and I didn’t want to lose time lying on my back eating hospital food and watching daytime TV. Even if there was an episode of Quincy on that I’d somehow never seen before.
I felt sure that my past was involved in this somehow. Or at the very least the homeless woman knew who I was. I left the hospital assuming I was due a rest from any shocks, at least for a few hours, but found that not to be the case as soon as I stepped outside to find the Uncanny Wagon in the car park with no visible evidence of ever having been in a crash. The front end wasn’t crumpled and the windscreen was perfectly intact.
‘What in the crap of all craps…?’
It was impossible. The crash happened. It actually, actually happened. My car had been wrecked.
I climbed behind the wheel, confused. The pain in my head where it had connected with the steering wheel was evidence enough that the crash really had happened. Not to mention the dried smear of blood from my head that was still on the steering wheel itself. So, well, what the hell had happened next? And why was my car not a squashed mess? I turned the key, which sat waiting for me in the ignition. The engine turned over and caught first time.
She’s alive!
As I placed my hands on the wheel, I saw a flash of them engulfed in red fire, like they had been in… what had that poor fox called the place? The dark lakes? But that was a delusion, surely? My unconscious mind having a merry old time.
Then why had it seemed so real? So familiar, even. And why had the fox, who I’d encountered twice in the real world, also been there?
I pulled out of the car park and headed home, to Keswick, making very sure that there was no beast with suckered arms lurking low in the back seat.
After a hot shower and a change of clothes, I grabbed my laptop to check my who-the-heck-am-I website, more out of habit than expectation, only to find I’d been left a message. I sat up sharply and clicked:
Next time I might not be around to pull your arse out of the fire, you wanker.
The user name was just a string of random numbers and letters, but I knew who it was. The homeless woman. My fire-fisted saviour.
Who are you? I typed, hitting send, then stared at the screen for almost half an hour, hoping for a reply.
Yeah, no reply.
The woman’s hand had been on fire, as had mine in my, well, vision, or delusion, or whatever you want to call it. Was that because I’d seen her hand on fire, or because we were connected in our… hot-hand abilities?
I closed my laptop and set it aside to focus on my hands.
‘Um… flame on?’
Nothing.
I tried concentrating on them and thinking ‘hot thoughts’. After that I hopped around the room, throwing dramatic shapes as though I were under attack and needed to unleash a fireball from the palm of my hand.
Nothing, obviously.
I sat back down feeling like a bit of a tit.
A lot of very strange stuff was going on, but I did not have superhero powers, and neither did the homeless woman, beyond one hell of a right hook. I’d barely been clinging to consciousness, deluded, my mind playing tricks, surely?
I mean, no one can really conjure flames from their fists, right?
13
It was just creeping into the late afternoon as I stepped out of my car and cast my eyes around Oldstone once more.
There it was, that strange, uncomfortable sensation I’d felt on my last visit to the village. It was worse this time if anything. It crawled and itched; a persistent static that prickled my skin. That wasn’t the only thing there was more of, either, every available surface was plastered with missing cat posters now.
‘Missing: Old Tom, ginger tabby, last seen on Friday.’
‘Missing: Blackie, last seen Tuesday morning.’
On and on they went. Oldstone had been quite the cat haven before they’d all upped sticks and buggered off.
Actually, that might not be strictly true. I had, after all, spotted one of the elusive buggers on my last visit. Maybe they were all hunkered down some place safe, put off by the strange atmosphere of the place.
But how do you find a cat that doesn’t want to be found?
I opened the back of the Uncanny Wagon and pulled out one of those boxes with a little cage door on the front that you force an unhappy mog into when it’s time to go to the vets, plus some other bits and pieces. It was time to lay a trap and see what came a-sniffing.
Twenty minutes later I was sat on a park bench, the cat box resting on the ground several metres away, with a trail of cat biscuits leading inside. No, it wasn’t much of a plan, but at least I was working for Mrs Coates’ money.
I retrieved my buzzing mobile from my pocket and saw a message from Chloe: Are you okay?
I smiled, the little butterflies in my stomach swirling anew, and set my thumbs to work: I’m fine. Send.
Perfect. Enigmatic. Too enigmatic?
Another buzz:
C: I was thinking… (emoji of a light bulb)
J: Ooh, dangerous, never leads anywhere good, thinking.
C: Shut up. We should have a date.
A bit of a pause in replying there as I jerked forward, throwing my phone to the ground. I fell to my knees and scooped the thing up.
J: Oh?
C: A meal. A meal out. (emoji of a chilli)
J: Yes. Me and you. Out. Eating. Sounds good.
C: Maybe try some more of that kissing. (lips emoji)
It was very difficult not to just type back with a pathetic Thank you, thank you, thank you.
J: It’s a date.
C: xxx (heart emoji)
(Man alive, that girl is partial to an emoji).
And that was that. A date. An honest to goodness date. We definitely weren’t just friends now. I mean, the whole kissing bit was one thing, but a date? A date was girlfriend territory. A date was the sort of thing an honest to goodness couple did. Now, it was true that we hadn’t nailed down specifics. Time, day, place. Still, no point rocking the boat at this stage. Get out while the going’s good. The fact was, Chloe was into me, and I had the emojis to prove it. She was digging me. Digging the vibe that I was… secreting? That doesn’t sound right. Well, whatever it was, she had the hots for me. The kissing and eating food in a restaurant kinda hots.
The look on my face at that moment was insufferable, I can tell you. It was just as well there was no foot traffic passing by as they’d have been compelled to slap me silly.
So caught up was I in my new bubble of warm-heart-swelling-loveliness, that I almost failed to see the cat that was creeping towards my trap, munching up one carefully placed kitty biscuit at a time.
I stood, nonchalantly pretending that I had no interest in what the cat was doing as it edged ever closer to the cat box.
‘Go on, there’s a good kitty,’ I muttered under my breath.
The cat poked its head into the box and took a step back. I’d filled that box with enough food to test any cat’s willpower. The cat glanced back once, then finally stepped into the box.
Victory!
I darted forward while the cat chowed down inside and fell to my knees, throwing the cage door shut and securing it.
The poor thing twisted, startled, and began to claw against the secured door of the cat box, against the sides, against the roof. Eventually, it stopped fighting as it resigned itself to its situation. I peered in at the thing, making friendly noises, willing the poor sod to calm down.
‘Hey there, little guy, don’t worry, I’m nice, me,’ I said, then squinted at the thing I’d caught. ‘Wait a sec…’ I reached into my coat and pulled out the Missing posters Mrs Coates had given me. Sure enough, one black ear, the other white.
‘Well, if it isn’t Boris the cat,’ I said. ‘I know your owner. Small world, eh?’
A few
minutes later I was rat-a-tat-tatting at her front door, feeling rather pleased with myself. When Mrs Coates opened up and saw me holding Boris aloft in my cat box, she was so overcome with joy I thought she might faint.
‘Boris! Boris, my Boris!’
‘As promised’ I said, proudly.
I stepped into her home and placed the cat box down on a sideboard in the entrance hall.
‘How did you find him?’
‘We private detective sorts have our ways, Mrs Coates, but what it truly comes down to is dedication. Dedication and a supreme attention to detail. Nothing gets past these eyes, Mrs Coates. Nothing.’
I opened the cat box to allow Boris the cat to emerge and hop over to his owner. It was then that Boris saw his chance and bolted from the box, out of the house, and off into the distance.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Probably should have closed the front door before I did that.’
The look Mrs Coates gave me almost broke the skin.
14
I tried the same cat-catching trick at various locations around Oldstone before finally admitting defeat.
I was annoyed, but as I made my way back to Keswick and home, I at least knew that the one cat I’d seen previously was no fluke. No random stray left behind as the rats fled the ship. The cats were somewhere, either in or close to the town. It was just a case of locating their hideaway now. And, perhaps more to the point, understanding just why it was that they’d all felt the need to make themselves scarce, and whether it was connected to the sense of prickling dread the place gave me.
I’d attempted to raise the matter with Mrs Coates, but she wasn’t too keen on chatting after I’d allowed Boris to leg it again.
Back home, I made myself a strong cup of tea, grabbed a packet of Rich Tea biscuits that I was delighted to find behind a rapidly decaying loaf of bread, and flopped wearily onto the couch.
Biscuit in one hand and another in my mouth, I reached for my laptop to see if any further messages had been left for me. There was nothing new. I polished off my tea and headed to the bathroom, parking myself on the toilet for a sit-down wee and a good old ponder.