Strange Ways

by Gray Williams

  She plucked the spray from her bra, adjusting and readjusting it in her hand, trying to ignore how sweaty her palm was. And how close she was to literally shitting herself.

  The lock snapped, making her jump. The door jerked open and there was nothing but light, threatening to blind her, with a monolith of shadow in the middle.

  The guy was big, well-built, hair cut close, a real bouncer’s bouncer. Aziz, she presumed.

  She barely had time to register his expression of stern concentration, which had only a moment to turn to confusion before Coleman brought up the aerosol and sprayed. He gasped as it caught him full in the face – big mistake – taking in even more through the nose and mouth.

  She only had enough for a few seconds, but fear kept her index finger squeezing the trigger, emptying the tiny canister.

  Aziz staggered away and she followed as he spluttered and tripped over himself, falling with a hard thud onto his back.

  The pair of event staffers behind him, a boy and girl, jumped back with a cry. Their shock turned to dumbfoundment as they took her in. The bag was working. Coleman had cut her teeth on glamour magic and this was a simple but effective little trick she’d perfected.

  Later, when they were sat with the police, all they would each be able to describe of her would be, ‘It was, well… me.’ It was the perfect disguise, a mirror glamour that reflected their own faces back at them, something so confusing, so strange, that they wouldn’t take in a single other detail. Not what she was wearing, the bag she was carrying, her height, skin tone, nothing.

  It bought her a couple of seconds, too. The element of surprise in action.

  Aziz had blocked their view of the spray, but they saw it now as she brought the near-empty capsule up and prayed there was enough. The boy took a half-hearted puff that made him cough, the girl got even less than that.

  The bouncer was already sobbing on the floor, oblivious to what was happening above him, tears streaming as he tried to curl up.

  The boy let out a bark of laughter, his grin widening as he started to convulse with mirth.

  The girl shook her head at her feeble spritz, gasped and pushed herself back against the wall. The colour drained from her face.

  ‘Get in the fucking cupboard,’ Coleman snarled and the girl tripped over Aziz to comply, slamming the door behind her.

  Astounded that it had worked, Coleman hurried down the corridor. The girl’s fear would only keep her in the cupboard a few seconds, but that was all Coleman needed. The spray was a little bit of everything, a mix of all the emotions she’d collected when she’d been experimenting with the apparatus. There was anger in there, depression, sadness, glee, boredom. It never struck someone the same way twice, the spray simply colliding with their psyche. For some, the flurry of so many emotions at once was so overwhelming it knocked them out.

  Leaving the bouncer crying and the boy laughing, Coleman was through the door.

  Knox and the band had rallied, launching into their most popular track, the music hitting her full in the face.

  People barely looked as she started to push her way through the crowd. The music thumping, the air thick with the heat of two hundred bodies, she headed for the exit at the back.

  Removing the paper bag, she crunched it into her fist. The filter mask that had protected her from any back spray went into her pocket.

  The rucksack now was the giveaway. It was big enough to hold many flasks and looked out of place on the dance floor.

  It was slow-going: the crowd were wild, desperate to hold onto their good time. The room was packed, the gig sold out. Why she’d picked it in the first place. What would they have made of their excitement sloshing around in the dozen flasks squeezing past them in her bag?

  She had no idea how long it took for her to cross the room, panic making time elastic. It wouldn’t be long before the alarm was raised. Aziz was probably down for the night; the boy, who knew; the girl less than that. Could be she was shouting for help right now.

  Coleman didn’t turn around, she didn’t dare, her eyes fixed on the green glow of the exit light.

  There were stairs beyond the door, narrow stairs and she had to apologise her way down them, past a couple arguing and another guy cradling four beers in his massive hands. She kept her head down, tried not to draw attention.

  There was the bar downstairs, the queues long, every table packed.

  More bouncers at the door, radios clipped to their jackets, waiting to spark to life with the message to hold her. Slipping her phone from her front pocket, she held it to her ear.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘I can’t hear you. I’m just stepping out.’

  The bouncers stepped aside to let her pass, too busy in their conversation to pay much attention beyond thumbing the clicker.

  Heading out into the night, hands in pockets, she strode, determined on the route she’d chosen the night before. She could swear she heard an excited burst of radio chatter as she turned the nearest corner, and picked up her pace.

  She pounded the pavement, every turn felt like another step away from them finding her.

  Saturday night was in full swing, men and women wrapped in their good times against the chill, spring air. A dealer or two offered them help: cocaine, ex, emo. She thrilled at the thought that the stuff in her backpack was no doubt a hundred times better than what was being offered. Cars thumped past, songs competing through opened windows. Buses growled behind, their windows bright, ads declaring that the new TV show Rune Watch would give people exactly the excitement they were looking for – a crack team taking down illegal magicians wherever they hid, and looking good while they did it, naturally.

  It was bollocks of course, old propaganda given a new sheen.

  Magic had been around as long as humans, available for anyone to use provided they had the opportunity to study it. To most of the world, magic was a simple fact of life, as essential and instinctive as breathing.

  But for Europe and the US, the war had seen an end to that, the uses magic had been put to in those dark years leading to its prohibition and a generation that shuddered at the mere mention of cantrips and spells.

  She passed dark alleys where magic crackled, the homeless straining the old magic-infused foundations of the buildings until the wards glowed, using the runes for warmth. Nearby police turned a blind eye.

  So many of the buildings here were from before the war. As much as people hated magic now, there was little they could do about the charms that held up the ancient buildings of London’s older quarters. Even Big Ben relied on them, its bell amplified by old spells that needed constant renewal from licensed caretakers. The House of Lords chamber was the same, a huge room that would crumble back to its proper dimensions if the enchantments that kept the space expanded collapsed – an ancient feat of Empirical magic that couldn’t be done without, despite the fervent wishes of the anti-magic establishment. Magic still had a toehold in places like this, too ingrained to be rousted by technology just yet.

  But technology, having spent so long in the back seat, there for those who would not or could not withstand the physical repercussions of its use without the proper tattoos inked onto their bodies, was causing problems of its own.

  Having accelerated to fill the gap of its more powerful cousin, science was now inadvertently aiding what it had tried so hard to replace. Smart phones and the internet were becoming as seismic as the printing press. A new generation were waking to the power hidden beneath their fingertips, hexes, spells and wards available at the touch of a button, the flow of eldritch information as undeniable as the tide, despite the efforts of law enforcement.

  Now as chat rooms and social media filled with rhetoric, the streets churned with protests and the television with vitriol as the debate on prohibition found new life. And while the pro- and anti-magic groups debated, the pubs and clubs rediscovered new old highs to make their nights burn brighter.

  And that’s where she came in.

  Michaela was
just heading up Redchurch Street, the pubs making way for trendy design shops and graffitied shutters, when her phone began to buzz in her pocket. It was Jared, her contact with the dealers. Coleman didn’t mind making the product but preferred to keep the real criminals at arm’s length.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  ‘You got it? I swear, Davey’s called three times already. He says if he doesn’t get it soon, he’s going somewhere else.’

  ‘Then tell your boss he’ll get it and it’ll be worth the wait. I’ve got twelve bottles of it right now. Just got to get it distilled. We can meet tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. Cool. I know this great little place—’

  ‘No. This isn’t a date. Just bring the money.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever. Look, he’s asking again about meeting you.’

  ‘Then disappoint him. I don’t want to get any deeper than I already am. You tell him the product’s enough to be worth a bit of mystery.’

  ‘He’s starting to think you’re a cop. The purity—’

  ‘If he wants to complain about the purity being too good, then that’s definitely a first-world problem. And if I was a cop, then surely that means he shouldn’t want to meet me. It’s not happening. Tell him and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She hung up and sighed, the high of the adrenalin wearing off.

  A half-hour she walked, past Bethnal Green, past Mile End. She walked until her shins ached.

  Figuring she was far enough away to avoid any net the cops might throw out, she called herself an Uber. Waiting outside the tube, she tried her best to look like a backpacker on the final stretch of a long journey.

  The driver wasn’t the talkative type and that suited her just fine. The hard part was not bursting with relief as she sank back into her seat, watching the city slide by beyond the glass.

  It was starting to look like she’d got away with it.

  There was no telling, of course. No way of knowing what the police would unearth, what kind of evidence they’d find that Coleman hadn’t thought to look for, but she knew well enough that it wasn’t like in Rune Watch. The police would have a look, but, odds were, they’d conclude she’d just been some crazy groupie waiting to jump Gavin Knox.

  The comedown for the adrenalin was really kicking in now, her limbs growing heavy and a tension headache approaching under her knitted brow. The terror came back to ambush her. What had she been thinking? She could have been caught. She could have been in cuffs right now, heading for the gallows in the morning.

  She put her hands up to her face, hiding from the memory. She’d got away, hadn’t she? And the money was going to be good. The leak had been a setback, but she could fix that.

  But all it would take was one bad day. One thing she didn’t see coming. If anyone should know that, it was her.

  Next thing she knew, she was out of the car and into an off-licence, buying a bottle of wine. She didn’t remember thanking the driver. But the memories and grief were setting in. The things that had happened to her family and the fallout that had come after it. The fallout that was still coming from it. She wouldn’t sleep tonight without the booze, she knew that much. Between the dark memories and her brain still grasping at what had happened at the gig, having her relive it over and over, she needed something to numb her, if only for a little while.

  Getting back to the flat wasn’t the relief she’d been hoping for. The lock snapped shut and the chain was secured against the outside world that was out to get her. But the flat was empty, leaving her alone with herself.

  Well, she had the cure for that now.

  She’d planned on spending another hour or two studying wards on the dark web. The more she knew about them, the better, especially if she wanted to expand the business. But after all the excitement, that certainly wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  Throwing the keys on the kitchen counter, she avoided her reflection in the wine glass as it filled dark red. Raising it with a one-fingered salute towards the window, she took a sip.

  ‘Michaela.’

  Liquid sprayed the glass as she first inhaled then coughed the wine across the silhouette of the figure standing in the doorway behind her.

  In an instant she knew he’d been waiting for her, lurking in the dark living room.

  He was tall, white, bald, middle-aged. Chinos and rumpled shirt, the collar crooked, gut spilling over his belt.

  Just seeing him there struck like a blow that sent her reeling, so much so that she had to lean against the wall, her ears ringing and sparks eating at the edges of her vision.

  ‘You need to see this,’ he said and disappeared into her living room.

  A lamp switched on, casting his shadow across the wall. She could see him sitting down in her armchair.

  She stood frozen, only jerking back to herself when wine dribbled from the glass tilting in her hand.

  ‘If I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it,’ he called, impatient. ‘And if I’d wanted to call the police, they’d have been waiting for you instead of me. Those can still happen, but if you would prefer neither, then you need to come in here.’

  Her blood felt like it had turned to ice water. Her hands and face were cold as she set the glass down, snatching up the corkscrew and fixing it between her fingers.

  Stepping into the hallway, her weapon held out in front of her, she eyed the door, wondering how quickly she could escape.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ he spat. He’d turned the armchair to face her.

  At his feet, he’d laid out all of her glamour ingredients, everything she needed to make passports, driver’s licences, ID cards. Her emotion experiments were spread on the battered coffee table like a shop display, bottles in rows, old home-made plates stacked in columns. And all across the walls there were photos. She didn’t need to look at them for more than a moment to know what they were. There were pictures of her dealing the fake IDs, shaking hands with Jared. There were even pictures of her performing a couple of robberies from her early days when she’d started to need the cash and decided to follow the family business.

  ‘Starting to understand?’ the man asked as she turned back for the door. ‘I could have the police on you in minutes. Anything you have in that bag in the hall you’ll be selling at bottom dollar because I’ll have contacted your buyer to tell him the predicament you’re in. You’ll be in prison by the end of the week. Stop crying.’

  Tears were already streaming down her face. If she had been trembling before, she was shaking now from head to toe, like she’d stepped out of an ice bath.

  ‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not some… Just sit down. Sit down now.’

  She inched into the living room, keeping the corkscrew between them, fuck how it made him huff like he was the one with the right to be offended. Unable to trust her legs, she settled on the armrest of her sofa.

  His eyes never left her. ‘Good. Now,’ he leaned forward, ‘Michaela, I want you to put me in touch with your mother.’

  Chapter Two

  The women of Blue Meadow Women’s Correctional could smell trouble a mile off.

  They smelled it now.

  ‘All going to end in tears, isn’t it,’ said Anderson, popping her knuckles one by one. ‘Just a waste of everyone’s time, and Rainbow or Fairy, or whatever this one’s name is, won’t tell you. She’s just here to keep you all quiet. Keep you busy doing this shit so you don’t realise the truth.’

  The chair creaked as she sat back, arms crossed over her broad chest, daring the room to ask her the obvious question.

  The other women around the table kept their heads down, eyes fixed on the papier-mâché crafts in front of them.

  The volunteer, whose name wasn’t Rainbow or Fairy but in fact Miriam, was lining up a diplomatic response, but before she could get past the second word she was already cut off.

  ‘This is all just a fucking scam,’ Anderson smiled, conspiratorially, as though the secret was just for the residents. ‘Like playgroup,
isn’t it? Little pointless things to keep you quiet. So Judy here forgets about her man knocking her teeth out, and Ida lays off the buskies. You won’t say it, but this is all a fucking disaster. The Drama Club is going to hate these. And they can’t fucking act or sing, and everyone’s going to hate whatever fucking thing you’ve written.’ She dismissed Miriam with a wave of a hand. ‘Complete fucking disaster. And what the fuck you smiling at?’ She jabbed a finger at the woman opposite her, the only one with the nerve to look her in the eye. ‘You’re the worst fucking one. Walking around like you own the fucking place. Like no one hears you crying in your fucking cell like a little bitch. You act like you’re tough, and they might be scared of you, but I could wipe that smirk off your fucking face in a flat second.’

  The quiet at the table clenched into a raised fist – the women collectively holding their breath. They’d all known it was coming the moment that Amanda and Anderson had been put in the room together.

  Amanda set the papier-mâché hand she’d been making down on the table as Miriam began to babble, pointing to the decorated card on the noticeboard. ‘Ladies, I have to remind you of the Behaviour Charter. Amanda, you remember, don’t you? You’ve been doing so well the past couple of months. Let’s not break your clean streak.’

  She could see the guard, Peterson, out of the corner of her eye, watching through the long, reinforced window along one wall. He’d stayed to watch after he’d dropped Anderson off. Catching Amanda’s eye as he’d left, he’d given her a smirk with all the malice of a boy who’d just thrown a firecracker into the room and was waiting for the bang.

  For all the guard’s petty hatreds, it was a shrewd move, Amanda supposed. Put his two biggest problems in a room together and let them sort each other out.

  ‘Fuck you worried about her for?’ demanded Anderson. ‘You think she could take me? Know what I’m in for, bitch? Not half of what I’m going to do to you, you don’t look away. Everywhere I look, there’s you giving me the fucking stink eye.’

  Their gazes locked, Amanda smiling and crossing her arms, showing she wasn’t scared, though her heart was thudding in her ears.