Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (32 page)

“Do you know how many germs imps have?” he quavered.

“What disappoints me,” offered Chris (“Exorcism doesn’t have to be exciting!”), “is how low the turnout of the living dead is.”

Before long all the chairs were occupied, albeit with Gretel taking two, and those members of Magicals Anonymous with limbs best suited to the floor were folding themselves up inside the circle.

In the true spirit of the occasion, Sharon had bought biscuits. Gretel had clearly consulted on the purchase for, to the standard fare of
Jammie Dodgers and custard creams someone had added a Deluxe Mixed Family Pack and an Authentic Shortbread.

The time came for Sharon to climb onto one of the chairs and bring the meeting to order.

“Hello!” she called out, and was ignored. “Hello!” she tried again, a little louder. From his corner by the neglected dusty piano, Sammy slurped toothpaste; plastic seats creaked beneath Gretel; and a couple of witches wearing T-shirts proclaiming
FREE SANITARY TOWELS FOR ALL!
furtively leaned away from Mr Roding’s body odour.

“Oi, you lot!” yelled Sharon, and the meeting turned to look. “Um, hello,” she added. Dozens of pairs of eyes, only some of which were in the usual blue–brown spectrum, flickered, blinked or bulged at her. “So, my name’s Sharon…”

“Hello, Sharon!” chorused the room.

“… and I’d like to talk to you tonight about the fate of the city.”

It started when I was nineteen.

I was at college studying Gothic literature–which was awesome–but then my sister, she got ill and needed a donor and I was a perfect match. And that was all cool, you know. I mean, it’s not like you get to save your sister’s life every day, is it? So that went fine and she’s okay now and I had the surgery and I was fine too. But they’d put me on these meds for my blood pressure and then these blood thinners too. And so, two weeks after we’d both come out of hospital I was writing my dissertation when I stood up and was all like, “Whoa,” and my dad said, “Are you okay?” and I was going to say “I feel kinda odd” and then it just… happened.

As polymorphic instabilities go, it’s kind of awesome. Though I do know these guys who turn into rats or squirrels, and then bits of them get eaten by the local cats and they turn back and they’re missing toes or… other bits, which is just not cool. Or guys who don’t even turn all the way, but just become bits of other things, like the head of a dog and the claw of a cat and the fur of a fox and all that. At least I’m not doing any of that. And pigeons are actually okay, once you get used to them.

The problem, I guess, is the fact that it is
pigeons,
plural. Lots of them. It’s a mass-energy thing–if I weigh sixty kilograms and all we’re
really doing is rearranging the weight, then either I need to turn into sixty pigeons or we are talking one mother-scary bird, and no one wants that. And I think I’ve got better at keeping it together. I mean, even when the flock divides and there are bits of me flying off all over the place, it’s still all me, but like I’m thin, stretched out, if you know what I mean?

My husband–Jeff–he’s really understanding.

He even puts down breadcrumbs now, to help guide me home.

There was a babble of voices. Sharon, still on her chair, shouted, “Oi! Oi, you lot!” but it had little effect. The assembled members of Magicals Anonymous just gossiped and flustered and gave indignant cries of “But why must
we
save the city?” mixed with such as “I’ve got this terrible cramp in my talon.”

“Oi!” yelled Sharon again, stamping her foot. “You lot bloody, shut up!”

There was the crunch of metal on wood–the sound of a chair leg gouging floorboards. All eyes turned. Gretel had pushed back both her seats hard enough almost to destroy part of the floor.

There’s something about seven foot of belligerent troll–it catches even the most occupied of attentions.

“Ms Li,” grumbled Gretel in a voice like an ancient engine winding up, “has something to say.”

Silence fell. Trolls have that effect.

Sharon beamed. “Thank you, Gretel. Now, I know that not everyone here is pleased by the notion that we are the defenders of the city against unstoppable evils. Rhys over there, for example, got torn up by a wendigo, while Edna over
there
has had her shop smashed into lots of bits. And I guess that doesn’t encourage the team. But–” she clapped her hands together to show her enthusiasm “–the fact is that this same wendigo has declared war on the Friendlies, who I think we can all
agree are really positive people with a really good mental attitude. So, by association, the wendigo and his creatures have declared war on all of us, who they blame for standing between them and Greydawn, which I know sounds like a problem, but I think is more of an issue… or maybe an opportunity… or like, one of those.

“Anyway…” She took a deep breath, aware of the words struggling to escape her. “I really think that if we like, work together as a team, we can kick that wendigo arse and find Greydawn and restore the city wall and send Dog packing and shut down Burns and Stoke and all that, without like, missing any TV or major social events.

“And since we can’t exactly go to the police on this, I think that, as a community, we should really try and take the situation in hand and give something back to, you know, people. Because that’s what we’d like people to do for us. Whatcha say?”

In the silence a hand went up at the back of the room. The hand belonged to Jess I-turn-into-pigeons. “Excuse me? Can I ask a stupid question?”

“Of course.”

“Is there going to be death happening? Only, I’ve just got a mortgage and I don’t think I can be doing death at the moment. I know it’s really selfish. Sorry.”

“Speaking of death, you can’t be killing wendigos anyway,” said Mr Roding. “They’re like Dog–they just come crawling back out of the shadows, spun together from dust and shed skin. Best thing you can do with a wendigo is slow it down.”

“What if we seal the breach in the city wall?” asked Mrs Rafaat I’m-sure-it’ll-be-okay. “Won’t that keep him out?”

“He’s already inside, isn’t he!” Mr Roding exclaimed. “Besides, there’s no sealing the wall without finding Greydawn.”

“Which is what Burns and Stoke want to do,” added Rhys. “And I don’t know much about Greydawn and that, but it seems like if a wendigo is killing people to find her, then he’s probably not going to be very nice.”

“We cannot,” agreed Edna, “let that…
individual
find Our Lady of 4 a.m., wherever she is! Greydawn has…
inclinations
that must never be exploited.”

“Inclinations?” echoed Sharon. “Is this like… when you have an
inclination for fried bread even though you know it’s wrong? Or is this more like an inclination to inflict a magical doom?”

Edna writhed beneath the gaze of the room. “I told you,” she breathed. “I told you Greydawn came originally from blood. In the time of the Temple of Mithras there were… sacrifices to her in this city. Some accounts suggest she could grant your deepest desires, but there had to be… blood. Obviously we’re not into that now,” she added, her voice rising against the sound of general disapproval, “but that isn’t to say that others, less ethically inclined, might not be interested in exploiting the legend.”

“Oh God,” moaned Kevin. “More arseholes wanting to shed blood without proper surgical protection. Have you ever once, ever, seen someone sterilise a sacrificial knife before use? I don’t think so!”

“Maybe we could talk to them?” suggested Chris the psychoanalytical exorcist. “Maybe if we just explained the situation patiently…”

“What about the claws?” wailed Rhys.

“ ’S all bollocks, innit?” hollered Sammy. “Who cares why the wendigo wants Greydawn? He wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t gone and vanished; neither would Dog. And things are gonna keep on going all to shit until we get Greydawn back. So you–” a finger stabbed towards Jess “–stop thinking about your mortgage, and you–” pointing at Mr Roding “–get some deodorant, and you–” swerving round towards Edna “–cut out the soppy spirit-hugging shite, okay!”

If Gretel’s sheer size had commanded silence, now there was something in the sight of a goblin in a green hoodie bouncing up and down like a deranged jack-in-the-box that required, if not respect, then intense consideration. The room considered.

Sharon cleared her throat, and in a calmer voice concluded, “The thing is, we’re all in the shit if the city wall doesn’t get sealed again. So it seems we need to find Greydawn, get her back doing her stuff, whatever that is, release all the spirits what have been stolen by Burns and Stoke, however they did that, and get this wendigo dude to leave town, however we’re gonna do that.”

“Don’t forget the builders,” Rhys put in. “I don’t think they’re very nice either.”

“And if they’re coming for the Friendlies,” added Edna, “they’ll probably come for us.”

“Yeah, and we’ve got a Facebook group!” offered Jess. “I mean, they could look at that and find us! What if they damage the upholstery?”

“It’s a private Facebook group though,” said Rhys. “I’m sure there’s nothing to be alarmed about.”

All eyes turned to Sharon, just to make sure of that.

“Well… thing is… when you say
private…”

Rhys felt his heart sink.

This time the silence was absolute as her words settled over the room like a glacier. Then Sharon beamed. It was a surprising accompaniment, Rhys felt, to an announcement that should properly have come from a qualified undertaker.

“Now,” she went on, “before everyone gets worked up, I just gotta say that we’re probably okay! I mean, I know there’s these four killer builders what have been murdering their way across London and that. But they’ve still got a job to do, and that job is all about finding Greydawn. And, let’s face it, they’re gonna need a shaman, and maybe the Friendlies, to do it, because they’re not getting nowhere by themselves. So, really, killing us seems dead thick.

“Also, it seems to me that the whole thing with these killer builders and that is that people don’t notice them because they’re dressed in these yellow fluorescent jackets and that, and let’s face it, no one ever notices
anyone
what’s wearing a yellow fluorescent jacket. And–” she took a deep breath as she reached the pinnacle of her argument “–if I was like, a killer builder and I didn’t want to be seen, the last place I’d want to be is in a meeting full of vampires, trolls, goblins, witches, wizards and shamans.”

She finished speaking.

Eyes flickered, but otherwise the meeting was motionless. It was as if the assembled members were afraid that the slightest motion might attracted attention from unseen sources.

Then:

“Arseholes,” exclaimed a voice.

“Wank,” offered another.

“Total…”

“… balls,” concluded the fourth.

It occurred to Rhys, as he turned to see the four men who’d spoken, that they’d been there all along, but somehow he’d failed to notice.

The Midnight Mayor is hunting.

This is something he’s got quite good at, learning to read the signs in the streets. A smear of paint on the wall, a single mitten left on the spike of a fence, a cigarette butt stubbed out on the side of a bus shelter, a plastic bag shoved into the paper slot of a recycling bin. Sometimes it’s just people mucking about; sometimes it’s a sign of something truer, hidden just beneath the surface.

Tonight he hunts a hunter.

His phone rings.

“Help me!” the voice wails. “For God’s sake, help me!”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I know you’re scared, and quite right too, but you’re doing fine. Don’t look back–he wants you to look back. Come to Exmouth Market.”

“He’s going to kill me!”

“Don’t look–he wants you to look. Come to me.”

He hangs up and waits. This too is something he’s got very good at–mastering the art of being a grey silence in the moving night.

“Come on,” he whispers to the empty air. “Walkies.”

Rhys wanted to say that they “shimmered into existence”. But, thinking about it, the four killer builders in their fluorescent jackets had been so much a part of the room’s furniture that not only he, but everyone else, had failed to notice them.

Except perhaps the goblin shaman and his apprentice, who were, after all, seers of the hidden truths and thus should probably get these things right?

One said, “Uh…”

One said, “Bloody hell!”

One said, “Tits.”

One said, “Here to fix your radiator!”

Sharon said, “Hi there! Welcome to Magicals Anonymous! I’m Sharon…”

“Hello, Sharon,” offered Jess instinctively. Eyes turned to her in disbelief. She shrugged. “What?”

“… and I’m wondering if you gentlemen have any issues you wish to discuss?”

A stumped silence. Then:

“Issues?”

“What…”

“… fucking…”

“… issues?”

“Tits!”

“Balls!”

“Pigs!”

“Wank?”

“We’re the…”

“… greatest killers…”

“… the world has ever known!”

“Why the fuck would we…”

“… have fucking issues?”

“Babe.”

“Chick.”

“Darlin’.”

“Sweetheart.”

Magicals Anonymous was now in the nearest thing to chaos that a well-mannered self-help group could achieve. People were trying to scurry out of the way, their chairs knocked back, or they were staring with the frozen fear of a hedgehog considering a cement truck heading its way. It was also a remarkably quiet chaos, as no one wanted to draw too much attention to themself.

This left Sharon clear to face the builders. And to tell them, “Well, I’m just saying that sometimes it’s about offering redemption as well as retribution, and that, I mean, like, being open-minded and saying, you guys may be total psychopaths and that may be what you do, but perhaps you had a difficult upbringing? Then again, you did kill Derek, high priest of the Friendlies, and bury him alive in concrete, which some people would say is kind of beyond the realms of counselling.”