The Magpye: Circus (35 page)

"There's a safety catch," said
Taylor. "In the small of my back. I'd reach for it, but you broke
both my arms. It short circuits the detonator if it opens."

Keeping one hand around
Taylor's throat, Able reached behind him and released the catch.
The explosive harness fell slack and Able quickly stripped it off
Taylor and tossed it over the balcony. Seconds later it vanished
into the maelstrom of flames that was the remnant of the airship
and exploded.

"I'd prefer a bullet," said
Taylor. "Between the eyes."

Able adjusted his grip on
Taylor's neck and wrapped his other hand around the back of his
head. Dorothy had taught him how to do this, and it was remarkably
simple.

"Wait, I
…"

Able twisted Taylor's head
around and, with a resounding snap, his neck broke.

Able wondered what it was
Taylor had been about to say.

Hooking a finger into the gash
above Taylor's eye, Able peeled back a fold of flesh until it tore
away. Closing his eyes, he pulled his mask up and shoved the bloody
strip of flesh into his mouth.

"Shut it down!" Cane screamed
into his mobile phone. "No, not the story, the network! Shut down
the god-damned network!"

Cane hurled the phone across the room, smashing the mirror
on the wall and shattering the phone. His reflection, twisted in
the broken mirror, was once again alive with the shifting patterns
of The Ink. The damned thing, this was what it had wanted from the
minute it got inside of him. It wanted to be out. It wanted to be
seen. It was a
story
, what purpose
did it have if it wasn't being
told
?

"Cat out of the bag?" asked
Marv.

Cane back handed the magician
and stalked to the other side of the room.

"What would you know about
it?"

"I'm a magician," said Marv. "Secrets? Secrets are what we
do. So, I kind of have a sixth sense for when they get out.
Actually, it
is
my sixth sense. Maybe my eighth.
It's hard to keep count."

"Fucking magic," said Cane,
staring at himself in an unbroken section of mirror. "I should have
known better."

"We all should," replied Marv.
"But that's magic for you. You only know its fucking you once
you're already fucked. Take it from me."

Cane didn't answer.

Marv shifted in his seat. The
bolts through his hands and feet were still tight and he was still
numb from whatever the drip was pumping into him. None of which
should have been a problem, which left him wondering when his own
magic would be done screwing with him. Until it was, he'd have to
make his own magic, and maybe work his own way out of here.

"The Ink is more than you can
handle," he said, dropping the confrontational tone from his voice.
"I hated Grace to her bones, in the end, but she was always one
hell of a magician and even she had trouble with it. It's powerful,
Cane, primal even. Someone once told me that it went all the way
back to the beginning, back to when we were just monkeys with
straight backs and paintings on our walls. Something that old? It's
devious, Cane. Devious and deadly."

Cane rubbed a hand down his
face, as if the Ink was a dirty streak of mud that he could smudge
away. "Damn thing," he muttered.

"There's a way out of this,"
continued Marv. "Cane King can die here tonight, and you can start
over. I know the kind of people who can give you a new life."

Cane's expression soured. "A
new identity? I've got the most recognisable face in America.
Besides, you think I can't order up some fake fucking ID?"

"I didn't say a new
identity
, I said a
new life. Literally, a new life."

"More magic," sneered Cane.

"The only kind of magic that
counts," replied Marv. "The kind that lets you walk away."

He looked at Cane. Whilst he
couldn't read the symbols and patterns in The Ink, there was a
story there that Marv recognised. It was the story of a little
brother, always in big brother's shadow. It was the story of a man
growing up in a family that expected so much of him, but gave so
little. It was a story of duty, of legacy, and of the cruelty of
tradition and expectations. No King had been born free, not for a
long while, thought Marv. They were all prisoners, prisoners of The
Magpye and The Ink, playthings of ancient creatures.

“
Walk away...” said
Cane. For a moment, it sounded like he might just be considering
it. Marv felt magic tickle at his fingertips once again. It
was
his
magic, that wild and uncontrolled talent of his,
the only kind of magic that counted.

White stopped to catch his
breath. He had no idea the layout of the casino, but he'd figured
that there would be a control room, or rooms, somewhere above the
gaming floor. Two flights up the stairwell his bum ankle was
already slowing him down.

When his phone rang, the sound
filled the whole stairwell.

He fumbled inside his jacket
for the thing. He'd forgotten all about it.

Snapping it open, he recognised
the number on the caller ID.

"Shit," he muttered, pressing
the green button to accept the call.

"Sir."

"Not exactly."

"Who is this? How did you get this number?" asked White.
"I've said all I've got to say if you're trying to get an interview
then
…"

"I'm not trying to get an
interview, Detective White. I'm the man who gives the man the
orders that are given to another man before they are given to the
man who gives them to you. Approximately."

"Well if you're calling me in
then you can have my badge in the morning, if I'm still alive."

"Oh, I'm counting on you still
being alive, Detective."

"Thanks."

White's mind was racing. He'd
expected a response to his outing of Cane King, of course, but not
one like this. The voice on the other end of the phone was calm,
reassuring. It was even, if White wasn't mistaken, slightly
congratulatory. He felt as if he'd passed a test he didn't even
know that he was taking.

"Turn around and leave the
building the way you came in," said the voice. "Walk to the rear as
quickly as you can. No one will stop you, but it would be best if
you could avoid any more media attention."

"And then?" asked White,
reasonably sure now that his immediate future involved a van, a
black bag over his head, and the sharp end of a .22.

"You'll find a unmarked blue
sedan waiting for you. There is no driver but in the trunk is
money, plenty of it, and new papers. A passport, driving license,
everything you need to disappear for a little while. Go wherever
you would like. We will find you, when we need you."

"And if I don't want to
disappear?"

"Then there's a very good
chance that you will die in that building and everything you think
you've accomplished will be airbrushed out of history by King and
his associates. The man you've outed tonight is the central card in
a very, very high stack Detective White. The whole thing might just
tumble down, and we'd like to make sure that it does."

"Sounds like a trap," said
White.

"And you'd know all about
that," replied the voice sardonically. "Detective White, make no
mistake that this is a time limited offer. Wheels are in motion now
that will grind to a halt if they are allowed to. We need you, we
can and will protect you, we just need you to trust us in return.
You've made yourself our White Knight, Detective. If you're ready,
things are going to get very interesting."

The phone went dead, leaving
Owen White with a decision to make.

A decision that would
undoubtedly either cost him, or give him back, his life.

It was the ache in his ankle
that decided it. Walking down was easier than climbing up.
Detective White turned around and headed down the stairs towards
wherever it was that the blue sedan would take him.

"Did you know that it's
impossible to lie to me, Mr. King? I discovered that when I was
eight years old."

Taylor remembered speaking the words in the back of Cane
King's limo. It was the night that they had hatched the plan to
wipe the clean squad cops from the face of the Earth. The same
night he had watched the remains of Lee Grice spill out of the bag
he'd put him in. The looks on their faces, those so called “hard
men”, when they saw what he had done. That was what clarity really
meant to Taylor. He lived,
had lived
, his life
without boundaries. He was what a person could be if you turned
everything up to eleven.

Around him, the memory of that
night vanished and was replaced by another.

He knew the place instantly. It was one of the orphanages
he had spent time in as a child. He knew exactly which one. This
was the one with the doctors. The place where they had tried
to
fix
him.

Jack Taylor, eight years old,
was about to have his first course of electro-shock therapy.

In this memory he was already
strapped down to a gurney, thick leather belts holding his ankles
and wrists, wearing nothing but a surgical gown. They hadn't put
the cap on yet, hadn't shoved the bit in between his teeth to stop
him from swallowing his own tongue or biting through his lips.
Taylor had been so proud of his perfect memory, but now it would
betray him and recreate these moments in perfect detail. It didn't
matter. Like the shocks from the machines themselves, it was
temporary.

Everything was temporary.

The gurney rattled down the
hallway, and all Taylor could see where cracked tiles in the
ceiling. He counted them, calculating how far down the hallway he
was, and listened to the doctors talking. And that was when he
realised that there was something wrong. Somehow, this wasn't his
memory, not entirely. There should have been two doctors and two
nurses. There should have been the priest as well, the one who was
always preoccupied with the boys who had to have the “special
treatments”. Taylor remembered what he had done to that priest, but
found he couldn't escape into that memory. No, he was stuck here.
Taylor was strapped to the gurney and there was only voice
talking.

It was a voice he knew. It was
the voice of Yossarian Nutt.

“
Hello
fucker.”

“
This is my memory,
what the hell are you doing here?” asked Taylor. There was no
pretence of calm in his voice. Although he had all of his memories,
all of his precious clarity, a little bit of eight year old Jack
Taylor couldn't help but bleed through. Eight year old Jack Taylor
still got scared, from time to time.

“
Able's locked you up,”
continued Nutt. “Your memories aren't like anyone else’s, so you
were easy to keep apart from the rest of us. You're dead, you're
inside Able's head just like you wanted to be, but you're not going
anywhere other than your own memories. The bird wants you all to
itself.”

“
The bird? You mean the
demon, the Magpye? Is it here?”

The gurney bumped over a
cracked tile. Taylor remembered that tile. They were close to the
treatment room now. So close.

“
Oh
yes,” said Nutt. “She's here.”

The end of the gurney shuddered
as it hit the doors to the treatment room. Taylor saw the familiar
strip lights, heard the hum of the machinery and smelt the old
familiar air, thick with the smell of shit and cheap disinfectant.
It was all exactly as he remembered it.

Except for Nutt. And except for
Magpye.

The creature leaned in over
Taylor. It had the face of a small girl, framed in jet black hair.
Its face was human, yet inhuman at the same time. It was a face
created by something from a place where faces had a different
purpose, or no purpose at all. It was the face of something that
didn't really understand faces, but needed to wear one. A face like
a mask of a face.

“
Hello Jack,” the
creature said. “I'm the Magpye.”

Nutt's rough hands shoved the
skull cap down onto Taylor's small head and forced the well-chewed
bit in between his teeth. Taylor heard the turning of a dial, heard
the whiny build up of an electrical charge.

Nutt's face appeared alongside
Magpye's, and Taylor couldn't decide whose smile was more
terrifying.

“
You see, fucker, the
deal is this. The bird wants you, but Able doesn't.
I
want you, but Able doesn't. So, me and my weird little
friend here get to keep you, as long as you don't disturb the other
children.”

Taylor tried to spit out the
bit, but Nutt had fixed it fast.

“
We found this place in
your memories, and it seemed as good a place as any to start. The
bird wants to know what makes you tick and I want to make you bleed
and bleed for what you did to my partner. So, we're going to shock
you, then we're going to drug you, and then we're going to cut your
head open and take a look inside. Personally, I hope we don't find
what we're looking for because, well, you've got
far
worse memories than this, don't you Jack?”

Nutt threw the switch on the
electro-shock machine before Taylor could even grunt an answer, and
started Jack Taylor's second lifetime in hell. It would not be
temporary in the least.