Poison City (3 page)

I walk through the atrium, past pillars covered with tags and stencilled graffiti. There’s an alcove in the wall up ahead, a statue of a child with its arms broken off kneeling on green marble.

Through more doors into what must have once been the reception area. Paintings on the wall, faded and chipped: Li’l Devil, a cartoon character I remember from when I was a kid. A ghost wearing a top hat. A badly drawn Daffy Duck knock-off.

A corridor beyond. The afternoon sun smearing through dirty windows, like walking through a hazy dream. The roof panels are mostly gone, gaping holes showing second-storey rooms. The paint is peeling from the walls like sunburned skin, sloughing off in ugly damp patches.

My heart beats erratically in my chest. I don’t know if it’s the after-effects of the shinecraft, fear, or anticipation. My shirt sticks to my back. Sweat dripping into my eyes. There’s no sound except my breathing and my boots crunching across the detritus of the past.

We follow the corridor deeper into the ruined building. We turn left and it’s as if the light has been turned off. No windows here. I pause as my eyes adjust. Wooden floors. Badly painted pictures on the yellow walls: a rasta girl with ‘HAIR’ painted beneath her. A little girl in a purple dress and high heels that are too big for her. Strip lights hanging from a high ceiling.

-Where to
?- says the dog.

It takes a moment for me to notice he’s talking mind to mind. He only does that when he’s worried. When there’s danger around.

I shrug. I have no idea. I peer into each room we pass: old, cast-iron cots, a wall chart of a skeleton that someone has drawn a moustache onto, broken sinks, a room filled with patient records in creased brown folders, rotting in the damp.

We find the stairs and climb to the next floor. The first room is huge, easily double the size of my flat. Somebody has ripped a load of doors from their hinges and piled them up on the floor. There are no paintings in here. Just two words written high up on the wall.

I thirst.

-Could do with a drink myself,
- says the dog.

I don’t answer. We move through the room to another corridor. This one is pitch black, all the doors closed. Something feels . . . funky here. Just . . . not right. Hard to explain. It’s something you get taught in Delphic Division, how to pick up on the presence of an orisha, or even just magic in general. It feels like bugs are crawling under your skin, sliding along your nerves trying to get out.

A moment later the dog drops to the floor, his gums pulled back in a snarl. His ears flatten against his head and he squirms on the ground.

-
Jesus fucking Christ!
- he moans. -
How are you standing there? Can’t you
hear
that?-

I move my head around. I think I might be able to hear something . . . high-pitched, just on the edge of my hearing. But I’m not sure.

‘What is it?’ I clutch the sawn-off nervously, looking over my shoulder.

The dog doesn’t answer. I stand protectively over him as he writhes, waiting for an attack I’m sure is going to come.

He finally pushes himself back to his feet, panting heavily. ‘Fuck, man. That was
not
pleasant.’ He squints up at me. ‘You seriously didn’t hear that?’

I shake my head.

‘Lucky bastard. It was like every ultrasonic whistle ever made was being blown at the same time. Except it wasn’t a whistle. It was screaming.’

‘Screaming?’

‘Yeah, man. Screaming.’

I peer into the darkness. ‘What did it sound like?’

‘The fuck you mean, what did it sound like? I just
told
you. Screaming.’

‘I mean did it sound animal? Human?’

‘London, it doesn’t matter what it sounded like. If whatever made that noise is in here, we should be out there. End of.’

‘We can’t just leave.’

‘We can. It’s what our legs are for. And our brains.’

‘You go. Wait in the car or something. I’ll be out soon.’

The dog shakes himself in irritation. ‘Yeah. Right. If I leave you, ain’t no way you’re coming out again.’

‘Then shut up your whining and let’s get this finished,’ I snap.

The dog stares at me for a long moment before turning and walking into the corridor. I’m sure I hear him mutter ‘cock weasel’ beneath his breath. His favourite insult for me when I really annoy him.

The corridor branches into a second passage that has been ravaged by fire. The ceiling and floor are soot-black. The paint on the walls has bubbled and peeled. The little flakes of paint look like leaves, white on one side, black on the other. They’re moving silently, shivering slowly back and forth as if someone was breathing gently on them.

There’s an open door at the far end of the corridor. I approach it slowly. That’s where Babalu-Aye is. I can feel it.

I pat my pockets. Shells close at hand. Two in the gun. Glock in the back of my pants. Tattoos ready and waiting. Shit. I’m not prepared for this. The dog was right. I shouldn’t be doing this. At least, not alone. If this was officially sanctioned I’d have two teams of five backing me up.

I curl my hands around the grip of the sawn-off. I take a deep breath, then swing around the door, gun levelled, watching for the slightest movement.

Images and impressions flash through my mind. Large room, the largest so far. Green paint. Wall paintings faded by time. A swept concrete floor. Windows painted black. The smell of piss and vinegar.

Movement from the shadows to my left. I swing the gun. Something heaves through the darkness. Way too big to be the missing kid. The shape makes a growling sound and I pull the trigger. An explosion of noise. A flash of white that burns my retinas. Something drops heavily to the floor.

I squint, trying to readjust to the darkness. I move forward. The shape on the ground isn’t moving. It’s big. The size of a lion. A hairless, pink-grey face, all muzzle and yellow teeth.

‘That was my dog, you piece of shit,’ says a voice, and something slams into my back and sends me flying twenty feet through the air to smash up against the wall with enough force to actually break the concrete.

Thank fuck I’m Warded, that’s all I can say.

Chapter 2

Iland on shattered stone and grunt in pain. If it wasn’t for the wards I’d have more than a few broken bones right about now.

I’m yanked off the ground. I feel fingers tighten on my arms and legs, then a rush of air. A moment of lightness, then another sickening collision and I bounce off the wall again and hit the floor. My gun skitters away into the darkness.

I groan and try to push myself up.
Stay down
! shouts a voice in my head.
Pretend you’re dead
.

But here’s the thing. I was never very good at listening to advice. Even from myself.

‘Why have you not burst?’ says the voice, and I hear a sliver of interest in the tone.

I shake my head, trying to chase away the blackness. Once again I’m lifted up, weightless. But I don’t feel fingers this time. I force my eyes open.

I’m hanging in the air in the centre of the room. An old man walks towards me. He has a wrinkled face, a neatly trimmed white beard. He’s wearing . . .

I frown. For a moment I wonder if I’m hallucinating. He’s wearing one of those pastel blue suits that Don Johnson used to wear in
Miami Vice
. Beneath that a pink T-shirt with ocean waves printed on it.

And cheap plastic sunglasses, the kind you get for five rand at the stalls along the beachfront.

‘Hey,’ I murmur. ‘The 1980s called. They want their clothes back.’

He doesn’t smile. I don’t blame him. That joke was already
old
in the 80s.

‘You are one of them, I think. Yes?’ Babalu-Aye pushes the plastic glasses up so they’re perched on his head. He leans forward and sniffs me. ‘Yes. I can smell the first breath of the world on you. The power. Like a baby trying to perform heart surgery. That is what you all are.’

Babalu-Aye sucks air through his teeth and stares at me thoughtfully. I don’t like that look.

‘You know what I have not done in such a long time?’ he asks.

‘Felt the loving touch of a woman?’ I say, as I glance around the room searching for the dog. I can’t see him anywhere. ‘No – dance naked in the rain. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Eat a softskin,’ he says.

Nope. Really didn’t need to know that.

‘I used to do it quite often. This was . . . oh – seventeenth century? Eighteenth? Time starts to lose meaning after a while. But it was one of my favourite treats. Children were the best. Such soft flesh. Succulent. Moist.’

He shivers with delight. His words bring the world sharply back into focus, bring the memories rushing back. Why I’m here. What I’m seeking.

‘Is that what you did?’ I whisper, fearing the answer. It would explain everything. The lack of bodies. All the blood. ‘With the kids you took?’

Babalu-Aye frowns. He reaches up and slaps me hard. ‘Do you not listen? I just said I have not eaten a child in a long time.’

I struggle in vain, trying to get out of his invisible grip. ‘Three years ago,’ I snarl. ‘A house in the mountains. That was your doing, wasn’t it? You told those guys to snatch the kids. Just like now.’

Babalu-Aye frowns, thinking back. He finally shakes his head. ‘Not me.’

‘Don’t lie!’ I shout. ‘Five kids. All under eight. There were three men there. Two got away. They know where the bodies are!’

Babalu-Aye floats up so that he is hovering in front of me, face to face. ‘You are not listening, human. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You’re lying! It was you! It had to be.’

‘Listen to me, my child. I was part of the creation of this land. I
am
this land. A hundred thousand years ago, your ancestors prayed to me when they barely understood the concept. Forty thousand years ago, they drew paintings of me in caves. I do not lie. What need have I for untruths?’

I shake my head in despair. I’d thought this would be it. That I was finally going to get the truth.

‘Then why?’ I whisper, my voice broken. Hoarse. ‘Why are you taking those kids now? Why are you here?’

‘Why am I here?’ He spreads his arms out and smiles. ‘This hospital feeds me – can you not feel the essence? How many diseased children died here? How many prayers were sent to me from this place?’ He lowers his arms and smiles. ‘But do not waste your thoughts on these children you seek. They are already dead.’

I stare at him blankly as his words sink into my soul, cutting fresh wounds across old scars. I want to reach out and rip his smug face to shreds. To gouge his eyes from his head and burst them in my hands.

‘The boy? The one you took yesterday?’

‘You did not see him while you were searching for me? No, of course not. You’re still alive, how could you?’

‘Show me. Take me to him.’

‘No,’ says Babalu-Aye. ‘I am bored now.’

He twists his hands in the air. I feel my head being pushed to the side, my neck pulled in the opposite direction. I scream as bright, flashing agony surges through my body. No matter how strong my wards they’re not going to prevent this orisha from eventually breaking my neck.

I feel vertebrae starting to pop. I’m looking sideways now, staring into rheumy yellow eyes, white teeth parted in a grin.

Fuck. No choice. Time to call in the big guns.

I close my eyes and repeat the words of awakening.

I feel them instantly on my skin as they stir to life. It tickles and repulses at the same time, a spider-walk sensation that crawls up my spine.

Light explodes in the room as my tattoos come alive. Twin dragons, green and red, bursting out through the gap at my collar to coil up in the air over my shoulders.

Babalu-Aye’s eyes widen in surprise. The glowing dragons – still attached to my spine – lunge over my shoulders and wrap around him. They lift him off his feet and flick him away. He spins through the air, hits the wall and falls to the rubble.

I hit the ground too, landing on my knees.

The dragons are hissing and spitting, dragging me forwards along the dirt. I grit my teeth and bring them to heel, forcing them back behind me with sheer force of will. I can feel their hatred, their desire to devour me, to devour everything.

Goddammit but I regret getting them. They were the first piece of magic I ever picked up.
Sak yat
, a Chinese tattoo magic that’s over two thousand years old.

Buddhist monks originally engraved the tattoos into warriors for strength and protection before they went into battle. I thought that sounded pretty cool. So I travelled to the Wat Bang Phra Temple in Thailand and asked them to ink me up. I had to do a few favours for the monks before they finally agreed. After that they took me below ground and left me to fast for two weeks. Then, when I was delirious and raving like a madman, they inked me the old-fashioned way, using a piece of bamboo tapped repeatedly against the skin.