Chaos Magic

CHAOS MAGIC

By

John Luxton

Copyright: John Luxton 2014 - All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction and the characters therein are fictional creations and not based in any way upon real people, living or dead, any resemblance is purely coincidental. This book contains adult content.

Published by Dystopia Now!

“He sees enough who doth his darkness see”

Lord Herbert of Cherbury

Chapter 1

THE PHENOMENOLOGIST

One day, several years ago now, I realised that I have been in the grip of a life-long delusion: I had up until that point thought my past was my future. I was wrong. Does not matter of course, maybe I would have laid out any retirement plans a little differently, lowered my expectations and, of course, tempered my arrogance. Note I have not bothered to type the word insufferable before the previous adjective, because there has been no one to bear this flaw except myself. And although it would be fair to say that I posses a quality that makes others uncomfortable I have always attributed this to an altogether darker strand within my character that other people are reacting to on an unconscious level.

Every morning on the way to work I walk by the seventeen-foot Jesus, arms outspread as if to embrace, the whole of humanity, the passing public, and me; a slightly creepy come-hither smile on his big old ‘boat race’, he looms oppressively behind the glass portico of some financially over-endowed church. Reaching out misguidedly towards any lost souls looking for his brand of redemption, or maybe just some comfort – and we could, I guess, all use some comfort.

He looks like a hippy, he is unapologetically European in the mien of his features, he is dressed like someone’s grandmother, he looks built to last. The overwhelming question in my mind is: moulded or carved? If moulded, are there others? I am slightly troubled by this, on some days more than others.

Nevertheless, he plainly posses no specification or benefit likely to snare a passer-by into thinking –
Jesus, he’s the guy for me.

I personally am much more enamoured with the iconography on display just around the corner at the Russian Orthodox Church. The light of a thousand candles brings the muted mysteries to life. And then there are the people, Russian, yes probably, but normal folk, not bent out of shape with happy-clappy fakeness. They have no need for a seventeen-foot Jesus; that much is apparent.

To return to my original point – I had always thought that I was somehow better than my humble origins might suggest. And that at some point in the future all would be revealed and admiration and riches would rain down upon me. Just how this correction might occur I have never been sure. That’s the thing with delusion; you build an imaginary world and then act as if it is real, when it is not.

By profession I am an expert in the study of what is referred to as phenomenology, with a special interest in neurotheology. It keeps me busy. I always considered myself a pure academic and could never really say that the subject of my studies reached out touched me on an inner level, but several years ago that changed.

It was at a time in my life when I was most definitely not ‘in a good place’ and although not actually considering pitching myself into the grey waters of the Thames, or suiciding myself as my Polish landlady rather quaintly referred to the process of self immolation, I had travelled beyond the low point of all previous low points.

The sequence of events on this particular day were - that I had that morning picked up a book borrowed from the library of the esoteric society of which I was a member; it had lain unread on my desk until it was almost time to return it. It dealt reconditely with the topic of the Cabbala, a subject that I believed I had already more than thoroughly researched. But I was wrong because it was only when I flicked through the volume that I realised it contained a chapter on the influence of the Moon’s Nodes on our individual earthly fortunes. This concept is well known in Asia. The
Caput Draconis
and the
Cauda Draconis
is less well known in the West although the Hermetic Occultists of the Middle Ages were familiar with this process and more recently it has been adopted by the Jungian and Assiglionian astrologers of the Huber School, in order to mine the inner workings of our unconscious motivations. So the ground covered, even by the hidden chapters, was not unfamiliar to me. What was unfamiliar, and the dynamic propulsion that provided a stinging blow to my unturning cheek, was the interpretation of the placement of these Nodes within my own Natal Chart.

Do not get me wrong here, I am not making a drama out of a disappointment – the shitty stick and me were already old friends. No this was more like realising that I was on the wrong train, an express train with no stops, hurtling in the wrong direction. The train was my life.

Nor was there any emergency cord to stop this runaway behemoth, besides, who would dare pull it? Inconvenience everybody else? All those people who adjudged themselves to be on the right train, travelling on the right track, to the correct destination? Not I. That is for sure.

‘Not complaining’ is, of course, in the DNA around here. As my Mother used to say -
worse things happen at sea
, a phrase that at the time elicited no retort, although now I have retort aplenty. Such as: but it’s my life happening here and now and if perhaps I were to speak up then some of the damage, waste and pain might be minimised and what’s more it is often a positive and therapeutic act to voice one’s concerns; besides, utilising the insights produced by the collective skill-sets of those around can often produce some interesting and surprising remedies to life’s vicissitudes and may, at the very least, prevent others falling prey to similar errors in their own lives, or the lives of those yet to come.

I do fear that I have strayed from the track of what may constitute an engaging narrative in explaining the nature of my past folly, and the reason for my vague wish to ‘end it all’ on that evening to which I am referring. Let me correct this. My task in life, as laid out by the interpretation of my personal Moon’s Node placement, is that in this current lifetime I need to ‘get over’ myself and adopt a modest, humble and tolerant attitude to the world and those occupying it
.

Fine advice, you may say – now get on with it. And I would have to agree with you.

I ended the day roaming the byways of Old Mortlake when I happened upon a public house that I had never seen before. It was down an alley, set back from the river and here I fell into conversation with an old boy in the corner who was drinking halves of dark stout by a log fire. Something in my demeanour may have hinted at the depth of my inner desperation that evening, and without having to ask – What ails thee? My companion began slowly and concisely to outline a task that he was looking for someone to expedite. And to convince me that this was more than a load of pub blarney he dove into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a very large and ancient looking key, and put it on the table between us.

That night, after my day of despair, I left that Mortlake Pub with the old man’s key in my pocket not knowing whether angels or demons had come to my rescue, but knowing that some infinitely heavy part of fate’s jigsaw had clunked into place and intuiting that I was about to be shaken to my Prada boots.

The old man had wrapped the key in a ragged piece of chamois leather before handing it over but it still felt cold and heavy against my side as I hurried along the rain-swept streets in order to catch the last bus home. The bus’s windows were steamed up so I cleared a patch with my hand in order to peer out and in a moment of pure synchronicity, I was clearly able to read some graffiti sprayed onto the side of a railway bridge.
Don’t let the dark past eat you up
– were the words and the message burnt itself into my soul. I recollect thinking at the time: yes, with the past behind me I can now walk into a shining tomorrow.

However it never occurred to me that one should be just as wary of being consumed by the dark future, as suffering the same fate courtesy of a dark past.

As I travelled home through the bleak and deserted streets with that cold iron key in my possession I should have listened carefully to that inner prescient voice; the very same one that is often lost behind the static of everyday life. For I would have realised that I was in fact in the key’s possession, and that I should indeed fear my own dark future.

Chapter 2

THE DETECTIVE

Detective Z was crouched down, rocking on his heels as he watched the forensic technician working a yard away. The asphalt path was covered in wet birch leaves, serrated edges creating darkening geometry that Vaughn gently teased apart. Both men were enclosed by a cat's cradle of fluorescent orange tape.

“Where is the proper crime-scene tape?” asked Detective Z. “Where did you get this - the pound shop?”

Vaughn did not answer, or even look up. He was working his way around a corpse; one covered by a plastic sheet to be sure, but nevertheless a corpse. It was a woman; evidenced by the auburn hair that was fanned out and not entirely covered by the white plastic.

The photographer was late and he was only a forensic assistant and was not qualified to check the body. It was the centre of London but close by in the churchyard, sparrows were mingling in the laurel bushes and their hurried exchanges of tweets drowned out the traffic noise from nearby Brompton Road. Two uniformed officers were blocking the footpath, one at either end; turning away the dog walkers and nannies that used it as a cut-through to the recreation area in one direction or the coffee shops and pharmacies in the other. There were of course plenty of other shops down on the Brompton Road - scads of them. But Detective Z had the theory that it was these two outposts of cranial stimulation and physical soothing that did the most business.

The detective stood up suddenly; to be simultaneous dead-legged, both pins cramping up together, was not a good look. And he stretched, and then went over to speak again to the grounds-man or whatever it was he did - an old fellow who had been press-ganged into assisting with the blockade.

"What time do you start?"

"But you didn’t find her?"

"Who unlocks the other gate?"

"Who locked the gates last night?"

It was Sunday morning and therefore the police response to the incident was patchy; Detective Z’s boss was on his way across town, the boozy residue of the previous evening’s dinner party still probably fresh in his bloodstream, and the senior forensic guy only now appearing.

Detective Z thanked his interviewee, closed his notebook and rejoined the corpse, now uncovered; there was a lot of pure white skin as well as some black underwear on show; she looked well fed and pretty with no obvious signs of violence. If she was not dead it could have been a photo shoot for a fashion magazine.

He watched the forensic team going about its business and wrote the prescribed metrics that were gathered in his notebook.

“How’s the wife?” Detective Z asked as he and the Forensic Manager stood and stepped away thus allowing the photographer to circle the corpse taking his montage, prior to the lifting and turning.

“She’s worse actually, much worse. But thanks for asking, Clive,” answered the best forensics man in the London area.

“Sorry to hear, give her my best,” said Detective Z.

He knew the couple professionally and socially; Polly’s cancer, although now on the retreat from the chemo, still persisted.

The photographer gave the all clear and the team reconvened, Detective Z standing back, giving them room to work. A siren sounded and then cut off a second or so later and he looked up to see the flicker of blue police beacons bouncing off the white facades of the cottages in the adjacent mews; reinforcements had at last arrived.

His boss came striding down the path – Detective Inspector Joe Slocombe, full of piss and vinegar, and two detective constables struggling to keep up with him. He nodded at Detective Z, glanced for a few seconds at the corpse, and then gave the female detective constable her primary instructions.

“Starbucks, down there,” he pointed down the path that led past the concrete flank of the Oratory. “Triple espresso with cream and sugar and a pretzel, unseeded.”

He handed her a twenty pound note.

“Sergeant?” he called over to Detective Z.

“Spring water,” he answered.

DI Slocombe joined Detective Z.

“WTF!” he said, looking sideways towards the tableau of the white jump-suited forensic team gathered around the dead woman.

It was time for Detective Z to download gathered information to his boss.

“Found at 06.47AM by Edmund Watmough, works for the council. He was here to unlock the top gate up by the mews that gives access to the recreation area. He was on his bicycle, saw something down here by the path and came to investigate then called the local station. Patrol car here at 07.04AM and I was here fifteen minutes after that. Victim approximately twenty-five years old, wearing bra and pants, lying on her back to the side of the path, no signs of violence so far but as you can see they are about to flip her; dead less than two hours and no indication as to how she got here.”

“Well, she didn’t fall out of the flaming sky,” said DI Slocombe, edging away, jamming his hands into coat pockets and stamping his feet to stay warm. Unconcerned about buggering up the crime-scene, the part of his brain capable of any professional analysis of the situation still on strike until the coffee and pretzels arrived.

Forensic Services, referred to as SCD4, were part of the Specialist Crime Directorate and generally dealt with the day to day work, but in cases of homicide the Forensic Investigation Section swung into action and Detective Z saw that the rest of the Specialist Crime foot-soldiers were now arriving; ready to build a tented structure around the crime-scene and provide lighting and equipment as required.

“No sign of injury,” called out the Senior Forensic Manager.

“Well that’s bloody weird,” said DI Slocombe. “Must be drugs,” he added as an afterthought whilst taking his coffee, flipping off the lid and taking a swig – burning his lip in the process.

“Let’s get the door-to-door going and see if there were any raves or noisy parties going on last night and the early hours,” he said.

He gestured Detective Z over and they stood apart from the activity that was by now considerable. He began to amble slowly down the path towards Brompton Road and Detective Z followed.

“I’ll leave it to you, Clive; we won’t have any toxicity reports until god-knows-when. So I’ll head back to the office and begin the admin. And let’s stay coordinated to the max.”

He took a bite out of his pretzel and then stalked off.

“She looks Russian,” Detective Z called to the departing Slocombe.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Yeah?”

“The Russian Orthodox Church is just up road,” he gestured back the way they came. “And it’s the Russian Easter this weekend; there will have been an all-night vigil there. Maybe someone saw something or we can get an identity. I’ll go up there now with Morton and Statham and make discreet inquiries before they all go home. That OK, boss?”

“Good thinking, Clive. Keep me in the picture.”

Detective Z turned and then hurried back past the vast concrete flank of the Oratory to expedite his plan.

By noon the body had gone to the autopsy lab and a tent the size of a small marquee straddled the spot where she had lain. Detective Z had had enough by then so he took the sandwich and bottle of mineral water that the detective constable had fetched for him over four hours ago and walked north, past the uniformed constables who were still providing the blockade, along the mews and then turned left into Ennismore Gardens.

The overblown escarpments of the mansion flats were dark and forbidding even in the midday sunshine as he passed by, the gardens lush and manicured. Old money he supposed, or new money more like judging by the Bentleys lined up outside the Russian Church.
Whatever
, he thought. Crossing Kensington Road he entered the park, found a bench, sat down and unwrapped his sandwich. There had been no progress with the inquiry; meaning that no one was able to identify the woman and there were no clues as to where she had come from or how she had got to her final resting place. It had also proved frustratingly difficult to interview the churchgoers – it was after all a place of worship – but the police’s questions had been met with a mixture of hostility and fear from the Russians leaving the church that morning.

A trail of Chinese tourists passed by on Boris Bikes, named after the Capital’s redoubtable Mayor, all of them wearing wooly hats and scarves. Before he could take his first bite someone sat down on the same bench. Detective Z glanced across at a man who was also unwrapping a sandwich, homemade by the look of it. He caught Detective Z’s eye and spoke.

“What have you got?” the man asked.

“Pastrami and coleslaw,” answered the detective, reasonably happy with his choice. “What about you?”

“Mozzarella and pesto with some rocket,” said the man.

Detective Z nodded his approval. They both started munching.