Kill Baxter (6 page)

I know where we’re going before we get there; I can feel the tug of the canal way before I see it. I’ve tried to avoid it as much as possible lately. There’s a strange power in it that pulls at the eye in my forehead, the only part of suburbia that does that, and I’d rather not have anything further exacerbating my mental issues. I can teeter unsteadily on the brink of reality quite fine by myself, thank you very much.

We reach the damp grass surrounding the canal and Rafe throws his bike down. I do the same and follow him into a little hollow of warped and twisted trees. A bed of cardboard boxes has been made up next to a rock and an old rusting chain-link fence.

‘You bring me to the nicest places,’ I murmur as Rafe sits down in the dank hollow.

I grab a seat next to him and wait for a couple of moments in silence.

‘I’m really surprised this didn’t make it on to the “Twenty Things You Have to Do in Cape Town”,’ I say as I catch a whiff of urine from somewhere downriver.

Shut up.

The voice rings clearly in my head like I’m wearing invisible DJ-level, noise-cancelling headphones. I’m so startled that I sort of half stand up, get my foot caught underneath me and topple over into some reeds.

Now who’s the retard?

‘Rafe?’ I say, pushing myself quickly on to my haunches. ‘Who the fuck was that?’

He looks at me with a tiny flicker of amusement twitching at his lips.

Who do you think it was, dum-dum?

OK. I know crazy stuff is possible, but I’d sorta drawn a line under it. Creatures? Fine. Ritual magic? OK, I can manage that. Far sight? Not cool, but I guess I’m just going to have to find a way to deal with it. But this far and no further. Telepathy? Come on!

I thought you’d be a little more adult about this.

‘Fuck,’ I say, running my hands through my hair and then readjusting my glasses and breathing deeply. ‘OK, OK. You’re telepathic. Please explain this little quirk.’

It’s just something I’ve learnt to do. You can probably do it too.

‘I doubt it.’

Try.

He stares at me like he’s asking me to tie my shoelaces.

‘OK,’ I say.

I concentrate really hard on saying something to his mind with mine. Nothing.

This is a Crow thing, not a Siener thing. So you have to open up that part of yourself. It helps if you use your fingers, too.

He twines his fingers together in a weird configuration and I copy him. My mind begins to throb and twist. Shapes swirl in front of my eyes. I gape as a tiny glowing bridge unfolds from my third eye. It stretches across the gap between us and locks on to Rafe’s forehead.

My mind explodes with a rush of foreign memories and sensations. I recognise a lot of them because I have a corresponding set. They’re Rafe’s memories. I watch a rapid-fire tour of what a dick I’ve been to him since we were kids. There’s me blaming him for stealing from my dad’s booze cabinet. There’s me almost drowning him in the pool. Yep, there’s me taking credit for a picture he drew when he was five.

You really are an asshole.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

He shakes his head.
Try to speak to me with your mind.

I concentrate really hard. I picture the words marching across that little bridge like toy soldiers.

Ummmerggaaaa.

‘How was that?’ I ask.

You sound like that time when you fell and landed with your groin on the crossbar of your bike.

‘Thanks.’

You’ll get there. Keep your chin up, kiddo.

‘Screw you,’ I say with a laugh.

There are different parts of all of us.

‘Oh, I know all about that.’

He snorts.

You’ve only just scratched the surface. There’s a whole geography in your head that you’ll have to explore.

‘I can’t wait,’ I say, and wonder yet again how I could have underestimated my brother for all these years.

The next day Kyle comes round to help me pack for Hexpoort. Kyle is having a tough time of it all. The end of the Spider has resulted in a kind of crisis for him. He really doesn’t know what to do with himself and I’m at a loss as to how to help him. He’s been researching supernatural stuff non-stop since he found out it was real. It has become really annoying.

‘It just seems strange that the Hidden STAY hidden,’ he says, sitting in front of my laptop. ‘I mean, it’s a fairly major thing. Other creatures live among us. Magic exists. Keeping it secret is undemocratic.’

‘All those conspiracy websites and fringe magazines are actually creating a layer of noise,’ I tell him. ‘The Hidden stay hidden because they’re hidden in plain view. That’s what Ronin says, at least.’

‘This Bone Kraal you were telling me about,’ he says. ‘I found a video on their YouTube account.’

‘THE REVENGE OF THE DOWNTRODDEN,’ intones one of those robotic computer voices. ‘WE CANNOT STAND BY WHILE THE HIDDEN ARE OPPRESSED …’

I hit the space bar. ‘OK, I think we get it.’

‘A secret revolutionary organisation fighting against the system,’ Kyle says. ‘You think they’d let you join?’

‘Goblins tried to pull the teeth from my skull and then decapitate me for them. So no, I don’t think they’d let me join. You’re forgetting I’m going to Hexpoort and training to
be
the system.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Kyle says. ‘That kinda sucks.’

I’ve started packing my stuff into a pair of battered borrowed suitcases. I consider taking some of my book collection but then realise that it’s no longer really appropriate to my new life path. Ayn Rand, Niccolò Machiavelli, Sun Tzu. None of them have much to say about the value of listening to your inner good guy.

I put the books back on to the shelf. I take my school books. This is what I need to be reading now. I look through them.
The Essence of Magic.
Some of it makes sense in an abstract sort of way. Some of it is complete gibberish.

‘You’re going to tell me what you learn at this Poort place, though, right?’ Kyle says.

‘I’m going to do even better. I’m going to write you regular emails describing the stuff I find out.’

Harold is right: maybe focusing on writing about this magical stuff will be a new hobby for me. It’ll help me purge my urge to tickle the strings of strategy and caress the keys of corruption. It’s like I’ve been involved in a major car accident and I’m learning to walk again.

Kyle nods. ‘That’s good. Because I’m probably magic too. I mean, I’ve always been a late developer; my voice only broke like six months ago. I’m probably heir to this incredible magical lineage too.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, and try to sound as neutral as possible.

He looks up from the laptop. ‘You don’t believe that?’

‘I do, I do,’ I say. ‘I just … you know … I don’t really know how this stuff works and I don’t want you getting your hopes up …’

He stands up. ‘It’s always like this, Bax. You never believe I can do anything.’ He has that hurt expression he gets that makes him look like an oversized puppy.

‘It’s not always like that.’

I know what to say but it would be manipulative, so it’s the wrong thing to do.

‘I’ll speak to them about getting you into Hexpoort,’ I say. ‘I’m pretty sure all you need is a little bump and your magical ability will sprout like your late-forming pubes.’

‘Really?’ His face brightens so much that I just nod and smile. ‘Thanks, Bax,’ he says.

When he leaves two hours later, I sit in my room and feel guilty. I’ve lied to my best friend. I have no intention of speaking to anyone at Hexpoort about him. It’s the old keep-on-putting-it-off-and-get-him-to-focus-on-something-else strategy. I’ve used it a thousand times. This is the only time I’ve ever felt bad about it.

I’ve fallen off the wagon already. I’ve manipulated Kyle and I hate myself for it. I realise it’s not just the big manipulations I have to stop. It’s the small ones too. I have to go completely cold turkey. I have to end this bullshit.

The depression leech is sucking all the happy juices out of my brain so I shove some more clothes into a bag and then stomp downstairs to get a coffee.

My mother is in the kitchen, playing a game on her phone. She swears and paws viciously at the screen. ‘Fucking cocksucking aliens,’ she shouts. My mom can swear like a sailor when she gets riled up.

‘Hey, Mom,’ I say and turn the kettle on. ‘I thought games turned you into a psycho?’ It’s one of her theories. My mother is convinced that me dealing porn is either down to a vaccination I had as a kid, the gluten in my food, or video games. She’s not sure which, but definitely one of those.

‘Baxter! Sorry, was just replying to an email.’ She places her phone face down on the counter.

‘Right,’ I say.

‘What you been doing?’ she asks, patting the stool next to her. ‘Spending time with Rafe, I hope. He’s been really anti-social lately. I wish he wouldn’t spend so much time reading his history book and living in his head.’

‘Getting school books,’ I say, dutifully sitting down. ‘And yeah, I’ve spent some time with Rafe.’

‘Good. This is a second chance for you. You don’t have to do things like you did at Westridge, you know? There’s no shame in trying to change, trying to be good.’ She’s right, I guess. Unfortunately there’s no money, power or prestige either.

My inner change is not the only shifting of paradigms that has happened in our house. My mother used to think I was a normal teenager. But the kind of things she’s seen and heard since I was busted have convinced her otherwise. Unfortunately there is nothing in glossy magazines entitled ‘So your son is a maimed porn dealer with mental issues? Our experts weigh in.’

‘I know things haven’t always been easy for you,’ she starts.

‘Wait, Mom,’ I say. I know she wants to understand, to probe the depths of my dysfunction to understand where she went wrong, but I just can’t handle it today. ‘Our family household income means we’re in the top two per cent of the world’s population. I was enrolled in one of the top schools in South Africa, which offered an education on a par with the best in the world. I’ve never wanted for anything. I didn’t deal porn because I was repressing some deep psychological issues to do with Rafe. I didn’t do it because there was anything wrong. I did it because I wanted to do it, because I chose to do it. And it may have been ethically unsound, antisocial and bordering on the sociopathic, but it was mine, OK? It was mine.’

It’s not what my mom wants to hear. Her face crinkles into a mixture of disgust, fear and disappointment. Disfearpointment is an ugly beast that latches on and tugs at her eyebrows and lips. Having your parents experience an overwhelming feeling of disappointment and revulsion at the monster you’ve become is a really unpleasant thing, no matter how cool you think you are. Trust me.

‘And now?’ is all she manages to croak.

‘Now I’m trying to be better,’ I say.

She nods. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’

I shrug.

‘Oh Baxter,’ she says, pulling me into a hug that squashes my face against her cheek. ‘You really are a strange child. I suppose I always knew that.’

‘Thanks, Mom,’ I murmur into her neck. ‘I think.’

My dad is no longer unemployed. He has recently landed a job as a viral brand activation specialist at an agency, so when he pops his head into my room later, he has swapped his dressing gown for chinos and a loud shirt.

‘How’s work?’ I say.

‘Don’t ask.’ He sighs and sits down on my bed. ‘I organised a synchronised twerking flash mob for a car insurance company. But only four of the twerkers showed up and I had to fill in so that I didn’t look like an idiot in front of the client.’

I laugh. ‘And how’d that work out?’

He sighs again. ‘Well, it went viral. But not the way we wanted.’

I laugh and he takes this as his cue to start on why he’s really in my room.

‘Listen, Bax,’ he says.

My dad has never been the most communicative. He hasn’t really hit any of the major teenage milestones, so now he tries to get the sex talk, the drug talk, and the you-shouldn’t-deal-porn-and-do-whatever-you-did-to-lose-a-finger talk all done in one go.

‘When you reach a certain age, you want to experiment; that’s natural.’ I know I’m going to have to stop him, but part of me is kinda interested to see where he’s going to go with this. ‘You kids are bombarded with so many images these days, it’s understandable that you’d have some strange ideas about the way the world works.’ That’s right, Dad, all that inter-dimensional mantis reality TV has really screwed me up.

‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I say. ‘Now that Grandpa Zev is gone, it’s up to me to be the lizard-tongued, devil-horned black sheep of the family.’