Strange Ways

by Gray Williams

  Cancer had been eating her from the inside out for a while now. Doctors were hopeful. She was always being taken away for chemo, but Jonsey herself seemed resigned to the fact that she had finally found out what was going to kill her, and to her surprise it hadn’t been her husband. A year had gone by, she told everyone who would listen, and all medical science had managed was fighting it to a near stalemate. ‘Near’ because, every once in a while, she’d return quiet and grey and report that the cancer had found somewhere new to nest inside her.

  But, she’d declare happily to the canteen, it came with certain perks. There was her cellmate, Marnie, who had volunteered to help look after her when she was going through the increasingly common rough patches.

  The pair were sitting when Amanda reached the doorway. They started at her sudden appearance, Jonsey thrusting out her wrinkled jaw in defiance.

  ‘Expected you yesterday,’ said Marnie in her heavy Yorkshire accent.

  ‘You had best start fucking talking because once I start hitting you, I am not going to stop.’

  ‘I’ll get the door, shall I?’ Marnie folded her magazine. Beckoning Amanda in, she closed the door, peering out the window for the guards.

  ‘Bad news was it?’ asked Jonsey. ‘I know what that’s like.’

  ‘Don’t think that because you’re ill, I won’t—’

  ‘I’m just the messenger,’ Jonsey lifted her hands. ‘I don’t know what was in that package and I didn’t want to know. We were told to deliver it and to expect a visit from you. Then I was to put you in touch with the sender, that’s all.’

  ‘That what was in the package?’ asked Marnie, eyeing Bear in Amanda’s fist.

  The sight of the stuffed toy, neck crooked in the tight noose of Amanda’s thumb and forefinger, served to knock her anger back, sorrow and anxiety pushing their way to the front again. All of a sudden she was tired. So tired.

  ‘Have a sit-down, love.’ Amanda only half felt Marnie’s hand as she was nudged to a chair, still warm from the woman’s backside.

  The cell was nicer than most. Jonsey took the cream off the top for her smuggling business. There were magazines and books on the bedside table, an old MP3 player on top of that with good-quality headphones. The small metal sink was awash in moisturisers and soaps. The room smelled of vanilla, a much more pleasant scent than the disinfectant and musk of hundreds of women crammed together that everywhere else had.

  ‘You had better explain yourself,’ Amanda demanded. ‘Right fucking now.’ She held up Bear in her fist.

  ‘I’m sorry it was bad news,’ said Jonsey, looking and sounding like she meant it. ‘We had a bad feeling, didn’t we? But we’re not responsible. A package was given, we delivered it and the message that came with it. Whoever sent it wants to talk to you. Now, I don’t know who is on the other end. And I don’t care, either. I make it clear to everyone: we provide a service, but that doesn’t mean we have to take shit from anyone. So, you give us any, you’ll be back out there with your teddy bear wondering what you would have learned if you’d just kept your temper. And you’ll have a lot of time to do that. Not like there’s all that much to do round here. Understand?’

  Amanda swallowed, hard, grief a bitter ball stuck in her throat. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Quite all right. Now, do you want to talk to them?’

  ‘I don’t have a choice. How did they contact you?’

  ‘A magician never reveals her secrets.’

  ‘Please—’

  A hand grabbed her shoulder and eased her back into her chair. ‘Easy now,’ said Marnie.

  ‘I just want to know what this is. No one who knows me would contact me like this.’

  Reaching under her pillow, Marnie took out a small henna kit.

  Jonsey, meanwhile, was unzipping her hoodie. Twisting in her seat to expose her back, she began to roll up the tank top she wore underneath.

  Amanda was taken aback. Though she’d been prepared for it, she was surprised at how skinny the woman was. She could count the ribs. Jonsey’s vertebrae looked like they were pushing their way through her skin, which was mottled with chemo rashes.

  But what made Amanda’s skin crawl was the henna tattoo that covered the woman’s back, an intricate pattern of symbols and forms. Marnie began to add to it, a detail here, a swirl there. Small changes that turned a collection of shapes into a magical symbol.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Jonsey explained. ‘We get it mostly done ahead of time so I don’t have to walk around with the whole thing on my back. Then, when someone’s ready, we just finish it.’

  ‘We offer an impeccable service,’ said Marnie, distantly.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Jonsey, catching Amanda’s expression.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Amanda, folding her arms. ‘I just… don’t like magic.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know it, looking at you,’ said Marnie. ‘I’ve seen the scars.’

  It was hard to keep secrets in a place like this. No doubt everyone had seen the scars up and down Amanda’s body. They were a souvenir of her past, when her father had used Amanda and her mother as mobile blood banks to sate his blood addiction, fuelling his powerful spells. Until Amanda had put a stop to it by killing him.

  ‘I thought it needed to be an actual tattoo to work,’ said Amanda, her curiosity getting the better of her. Tattoos were important to magic users, or Abras as they were called on the street, not only did tattoos help stave off the immediate, physical consequences of performing a spell but they protected from the long-term effects of magic use too.

  ‘Tattoos are for people who have something to lose,’ said Jonsey. ‘These do the trick but not quite so well. More importantly, they wipe off. Can you imagine if one of the guards caught me with this bloody great thing in the shower? I don’t think I have what it takes to be sent to Coldwater, they’d just take me round the back and hang me. Not that that doesn’t hold some appeal at this point.’

  She mentioned execution casually, a woman unafraid of death. Mentioning it in the same sentence as Coldwater, though…

  An island prison for Abras, Coldwater had been open for barely a year and was already notorious. It might as well have been a black hole. No one who went there was heard from again. Not that many were given the opportunity to go there in the first place.

  It had been agreed upon as a compromise between the government and those lobbying for looser restrictions on magic use. Magic had been illegal since the 1940s, its use punishable by death, but now, in the age of the internet, anyone could get instruction on hexes, runes and charms beamed straight to their phones. Despite the reservations of the older generations, magic use was on the increase and the tide was starting to turn. Now, after years of protests, marches, and loud politicians on the television and social media railing against the barbarity and unsustainability of the death sentence, Coldwater had been opened.

  For the Pro-Magics, it was a victory (though not the bold steps they had called for); for the conservatives, a magnanimous gesture (that had the staunch Anti-Magics frothing at the mouth). The prison was an experiment, they had been keen to point out, to see whether dangerous Abras could be incarcerated, safely, securely and be of no danger to others or themselves.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Marnie, her voice thick with black humour, ‘none of us are going to be getting into that place. Unless one of you is hiding a fortune in your trakkies?’

  Only a few caught practising unlicensed magic were sent to Coldwater instead of the noose, the selection process a new battleground in legislation. Many of those sent so far were political prisoners, those the government were happy to see disappear rather than be made martyrs for the Pro-Magic movement: the high-profile, the wealthy, the powerful. The rest were the dangerous, or the unstable. The kind that the Pro-Magics pointed to and decried that it was almost like the government wanted the prison to fail.

  As much as it was a step away from the death sentence, Coldwater had been turned by the gover
nment into just another tool of suppression – a cage for their enemies and a Petri dish to prove to the country just how dangerous Abras in incarceration could be. The government had snuck around any major accountability by turning the running of the prison over to a private enterprise. Coldwater Justice Services were not obliged to share publicly any information they didn’t want to about the running of the prison, or the status of their inmates.

  ‘And you know whoever wants to speak to me is waiting on the other side?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘They said they’d wait twenty-four hours,’ replied Jonsey.

  ‘Why didn’t they just call? Who else comes to you for this?’

  ‘Would you have answered? Word is you don’t get visits from anyone and you don’t make hardly any calls. And there are plenty reasons people come to me over trying to trade for time on a call phone. Some of the older prisoners don’t trust the technology over good old traditional magic, and some of the foreign nationals here prefer it because it’s what they’re used to. Half of them didn’t even know about mobile phones until they came here.’

  That was true. Since Europe and the US had turned away from magic after the Second World War, they had invested heavily in technology, making strides so as to almost have replaced the art entirely with science. It was something that both awed and shocked the rest of the world in equal measure. Technology had always been there, a helping hand for those who couldn’t or wouldn’t use magic, but the leap in its sophistication had been impressive.

  ‘Then there are the younger ones who want the novelty and the sense of rebellion. Good to know that there’s a growing market and the art won’t die out when my old customers do. Not that I’ll live to see it, of course. Right, are we ready?’

  Marnie nodded, stepping away.

  Jonsey swivelled back around to face Amanda, who had stiffened in her seat, fists resting on her knees.

  Jonsey laughed at her discomfort. ‘Not done this before, have you, pet?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t like magic.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t dangerous… for you. All the risk is mine.’

  ‘And I don’t need…’

  ‘No. No tattoos or anything. All you need to do is hold the other end of this.’ Marnie held out a rod of glass. It was maybe an inch thick, a foot long.

  Amanda took it, holding it like a club.

  ‘And I,’ Jonsey winced as she stood so that she was looking down at Amanda, ‘take the other end.’ She took hold, stepping out of her slippers and working her toes on the cheap linoleum. Planting her feet, she twisted her neck from side to side, the left turn rewarding her with a very audible click. She nodded to Marnie, renewed her grip on the glass rod. It was already growing weighty in Amanda’s hand, the muscles in her upper arm beginning to ache.

  ‘This can’t last long,’ warned Marnie. ‘A minute or two only, otherwise the strain gets too much.’

  Producing a small tuning fork, she gave it a quick tap against the bed frame, filling the room with a soft ring. Stepping forward, the fork held delicately, her hand under it like the note might drip, she placed the tip to a spot on Jonsey’s back.

  The very air changed. It was as though the fork touching Jonsey’s bare flesh didn’t quieten it but sent its vibrations into her. The room filled with the scent of magic, a crisp, apple-like smell, champagne and oil, like a battery on the tongue. It was a feeling that Amanda despised. It made her stomach roll over, made the scars up and down her arms itch, her breath come in small sips. The air around her was ringing, a wine-glass hum that she felt in her bones. It made her blink, open her mouth and try to make her ears pop.

  The cup on the sink was shivering, the water in it casting staticky reflections across the wall. The glass of the strip lighting above seemed to throb. The window hummed in its frame. Amanda could almost see it undulating, as though it was growing, flexing, melting.

  ‘Don’t fight it,’ advised Marnie. ‘Just let it happen. It won’t last long and it doesn’t travel far. Guards won’t know.’

  She was right, a few more moments and the feeling began to fade, until Amanda’s flesh was ringing with the absence of the vibrations. With senses or a combination of senses she couldn’t define, she was aware of the tremors being sucked up by Jonsey’s body until the woman herself was humming like a tuning fork. The woman’s knuckles were blanched around the rod, her eyes rolling up into her head, revealing bloodshot whites. Her teeth were gritted and she held herself rigid, her neck straining and her bare toes splayed, every tendon taut to the point of snapping.

  ‘…you hear me?’

  Amanda knew what to expect, but the voice still took her by surprise. It was as though the voice was speaking inside her head, like she was hearing it through headphones.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Did you receive the package?’

  ‘Would I be here if I hadn’t? Where is my daughter?’

  ‘She’s safe, but if you don’t do what I say, then I can’t guarantee—’

  ‘Put her on.’

  ‘That’s not how this works, sweetie,’ said Marnie.

  ‘That’s not how this works,’ the person echoed. The voice was too strange in her head for her to identify the accent, even the gender, but she could hear the frustration. ‘Am I going to have to explain everything to everyone? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Just understand this: I have enough evidence of the crimes your daughter’s been committing to see her swinging at the end of a rope if you don’t do exactly as I say.’

  ‘Bullshit. Michaela wouldn’t—’

  ‘Glamoured IDs. Emotion theft. I have her equipment, fingerprints, photos with a known dealer. Just the files on her phone and laptop would be enough to make sure she never saw the sky again. The only thing keeping me from sending all this to the police is you, so shut the fuck up and listen. Is that clear?’

  Amanda didn’t know how to respond, a hundred thoughts and feelings colliding. Her daughter doing magic wasn’t a shock. She’d caught her and her younger brother trying to glamour IDs before. But emotion theft? Doing it was bad enough, but the fact that she’d been caught was even worse.

  ‘If you so much as touch her—’

  ‘Touch her? Who said anything about…? I’m not…’ he sounded flustered. ‘Do as I say, or she goes to the hangman. Am I being clear?’

  ‘Sweetie,’ said Marnie from the doorway. ‘You’re going to want to hurry up. She’s not got much left in her.’

  Jonsey, sick-looking before, now was even more pale and drawn. Her eyes were still rolled back, but the skin around them was darker. Her head lolled back, mouth open. Amanda could see inside her mouth; her gums were bleeding.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, quickly. ‘What do you want?’

  There was a long pause that made Amanda grind her teeth. She looked to Marnie to tell her the connection was dead, when…

  ‘Get yourself sent to Coldwater Prison. Once you are there, you will kill one of the other prisoners.’

  ‘If you want a murderer then you’ve—’

  ‘Stop. Just stop. I know who you are. You killed the most powerful Abra the UK has ever known. They call you an Abra killer. You’re going to do that for me.’

  Amanda was mashing her hand against her knee now, trying to work out the anger while keeping hold of the glass rod. Her reputation wasn’t just a matter of pride, it was a matter of protection. There were Abras out there who wanted to take revenge for the things she had done to them. A few wanted to get back at her for killing her father. For some, the only thing keeping them back was her reputation as a powerful magic user. That wasn’t going to last long if she told the truth. But this was her daughter’s life on the line.

  Jonsey was looking worse than ever. The thrum in the air was starting to pick up again. Blood was starting to show around the woman’s fingernails, the vibrations shaking her whole body apart. There was even blood beginning to seep from the corners of her eyes. What the spell was doing to her insides…
>
  ‘I’m stopping this,’ said Marnie.

  ‘OK,’ burst Amanda. ‘Fine. I’ll do it. All right? I’ll do it. Who is it? Who do I… Just tell me who it is.’

  ‘Her name is Karina Khurana. Do it by the end of the month.’

  The hum was building in the room again. Jonsey was beginning to convulse, blood sweating down her face, collecting in the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  Marnie reached for the glass rod.

  ‘No, please,’ said Amanda, holding out a hand. ‘This is important.’

  Marnie cringed. She’d heard enough from Amanda’s side of the conversation to understand what was going on, but the concern for her friend was growing by the second.

  ‘I’ll hear about you getting transferred,’ her blackmailer continued. ‘I had better hear about it soon.’

  ‘And if I need to get in touch?’

  ‘Inside the bear, you’ll find a ball bearing. It’s a Techne. Soak it in your blood and put it in your mouth. A glamour will help keep it hidden from anyone but yourself unless they’re looking for it. How you get it through Coldwater processing, I’ll leave to you. A secondary glamour will make sure that you can’t lose it. Once you’re on the island, I will contact you each sunset. Make sure you’re available.’

  ‘I’m stopping this,’ said Marnie, gripping the glass rod. Screwing up her eyes, she said, ‘This conversation’s gone on too long. It’s done.’ She pulled the instrument out from both women’s grips.

  The voice shut off mid-sentence in Amanda’s head, leaving her whole body tingling.

  Without a pause, Marnie had the henna again and in three, five, seven practised moves, she had negated the runes on Jonsey’s back.

  The hum cut off as the sick woman slumped.

  Marnie had her by the collar, a quick sidestep later had Jonsey in her arms and then onto the bed, the carer making gentle soothing noises all the way.

  ‘Is she OK?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘That conversation went on far too long,’ Marnie repeated, her tone accusatory. There was a bowl of water and a cloth ready by the bed, which she began to wring out. ‘That could have finished her.’