Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (39 page)

Words failed her, and she stood up. Dog rolled onto his feet and followed her as she turned away and hurried towards the door.

Swift moved to go after her, but Sharon got there first.

“You’re still an arsehole. I’ll do this.”

Outside, the old woman stood leaning against an iron bollard. Dog sat by her side, the street scorching lightly beneath his feet. The evening’s drizzle had turned into night-time rain, thick cold splats falling with a busy static buzz.

“You okay?” asked Sharon.

“I remember… I remember everything,” Mrs Rafaat insisted. “My whole life. Where I was born, where I grew up, my husband, my work–I remember being me! That is who I am.”

Sharon said nothing, but waited as Mrs Rafaat turned on the spot, looking this way and that like a startled cat.

“Even if I am… even if there is any truth to this,” she declared, “I don’t know how not to be me! I don’t know what they did to… to me.”

“It’s okay.” Sharon shuffled closer, soaking up the worst of Dog’s glare as she did so. “We’ll work that bit out.”

“I don’t think I want to be Greydawn,” snuffled Mrs Rafaat, dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t know what it means.”

Sharon hesitated. Then, “Mrs Rafaat? Can I tell you something I haven’t really told anyone? I mean, seeing as how you’re probably the living essence of an immortal spirit, I figure… Can I tell you?”

“Of course, dear–I mean, if you don’t mind that I might
not
be a living essence.”

“That’s cool,” said Sharon. “That’s fine. Only, the thing is…” She took a slow, deep breath. “The thing is… five days ago I had a job, kind of crappy but still a job, and a flatshare I could just about afford as long as we didn’t leave the central heating running, and I was gonna try and apply for this temping agency, and life wasn’t great, but it was okay.

“But now…
now…
I’m on the wrong side of a wendigo; I’ve got this howling monster thing sat here, by the wreck of a community hall I might be responsible for, along with a bleeding druid, a wailing vampire, a toothpaste-addicted goblin, a gourmet troll and a socially inhibited banshee, not to mention there’s this confused sorcerer who’s not as much use as he should be, plus there’s a hundred pigeons to round up. And as if that wasn’t enough, my social life is a mess, my job prospects are nil, and I haven’t got a boyfriend.”

Mrs Rafaat’s face was a picture of trying-to-help-despite-herself.

“And I know,” insisted Sharon, “that not having a boyfriend is, compared to finding you’re probably not who you think you are but maybe the walking essence of an ancient power, pretty low on the ‘Oh, shit’ scale of things. But it matters to me, because it’s not like you can just go up to your friends and say ‘Everything’s crap. Please hold me unconditionally.’

“So, basically–” Sharon gestured in frustration as she tried to seize control of what she was saying “–what I mean is… I think my life might not be going where I thought it was gonna go. And I’m not sure what the hell I’m meant to do about it, but…” She was breathless with the force of her own oratorical conclusions. “But! If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that a shaman’s gotta have a tribe. And that lot in there,” indicating the remnants of the hall, “are
my
tribe. It’s like that thing they told us about in school–social identity and that. We’re all brought together by a shared-identity thing, and it’s not black, or
white, or Christian, or atheist, or good at knitting or anything like that, it’s…”

She considered, then declared with sudden relish, “It’s totally screwed up! We are the tribe of guys who are screwed up, each in our own different screwed-up way. And the best bit about it is, that’s kind of what makes us human. That’s what makes us ourselves. So yeah.” Suddenly grinning at Mrs Rafaat. “You’re screwed up, basically. And, more than any other crap, that’s what makes you human. So come inside and have a cup of tea, and we’ll work something out, yeah?”

Mrs Rafaat smiled despite herself and blew her nose. “You’re very nice, dear,” she said “even if you are a little strange.”

“Come inside,” repeated Sharon. “We’re here to help, aren’t we?”

Lonely.

I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I mean, it’s not like I sit down with total strangers and go, “Hi, I’m Sharon, I’m lonely.” It’s just that… this is about being honest, saying the things that are true. And the things that are true underneath. I didn’t use to know what that meant, but now I think I start to get it–I mean like, true is true, yeah? There are the true things on the surface, and on the surface it’s true that I’m okay. I really am. My parents aren’t like, tyrants or divorced or dead or anything, and my friends are all okay. I’ve got a roof over my head and stuff–although I did kind of get sacked from my job two days ago, seeing as how I just didn’t turn up to work, what with this saving-of-the-city thing–but it was a crap job anyway, so that’s not so bad. You know, if we’re just looking at big-picture stuff, then I’m fine.

And I’m lonely. That’s true too. It’s the truth that’s underneath all the other stuff that’s true. It’s what is but what no one, not even me, wants to perceive. That’s what being a shaman means–it’s not about knowing the truth, it’s about seeing all the other truths underneath.

There was a moment–this great big terrifying moment–when I looked up and I knew… everything. I was still me, but I was everything else: I was the paving stones and the wind and the water in the pipes and the words in the wires and the lights fizzing above garden
doors and the grass growing and the iron rusting and the fences cracking. And I was… I was the city, and I was still me, and I was everywhere and everything and knew all that there was to know and then…

I lost it. I mean, not all of it. That was the day I started walking through walls, turning invisible. But even “invisible” is wrong; it’s not “invisible” that I become, it’s… part of the furniture. It’s something everyone sees but no one notices, kinda like parking meters, only more glamorous than that, if you see what I’m saying.

I was the city.

The city was me.

And now–now that I’m a shaman, wanderer of the hidden path and all that–I’m lonely.

Time to get myself a tribe.

It was five minutes later.

Rhys was boiling another kettle for yet more tea. Tea for everyone, he realised, was an ongoing project. But he didn’t mind; it was something he felt comfortable with.

Mrs Rafaat sat between Chris and Gretel, explaining to the fascinated exorcist that the only way to handle dogs was to show them that you were firm because you cared.

Eddie Parks, comforted perhaps by the sight of a troll eating custard creams, was on the verge of almost relaxing when–

“Oi oi, slime-shitter,”

–a goblin, a sorcerer and the girl-shaman were standing right behind him.

He’d never realised how threatening a pencil could be. But the way the goblin held it–perfectly upright, tip pointing at the ceiling, combined with a maniacal grin–invoked in Eddie’s imagination all sorts of unwelcome things.

“You’ve screwed up the city big time and you’re gonna pay, shrivel-brains,” added the goblin. “Back in my tribe, if shits like you stepped out of line, we’d get two buses and a length of chain, and drive
really
slowly while—”

“Tell us how to break the spell,” interrupted Sharon.

“Really?” said the sorcerer. “I was interested in hearing how Sammy’s story ended.”

Eddie’s eyes flashed from one to the other, in search of the Good Cop among this wall of unimpressed features. Failing, he looked instead for the Least Bad Cop and, in a moment of naive desperation, focused on Sharon.

“Y-y-y-y-you need blood!” he stuttered. “I don’t know how it was done before, but I know you need blood!”

“Can we see if he has any?” asked the goblin. “I hear that if you nick the femoral artery just right—”

“Let’s say we haven’t got blood,” interrupted Sharon again. “How else do we fix it?”

“Uh… you need the sacrifices.”

“What sacrifices?”

“The s-s-sacrifices we used to summon and compel. They’re part of the spell.”

“Okay, how do we get them?”

“Burns and Stoke kept them,” he said hurriedly. “They’re in the office vault.”

“Your office has a vault?” demanded Swift. “My office doesn’t have a vault–why do you get a vault?”

“We could hang ’im upside down,” suggested the goblin, “and collect the blood in a really big bucket! Though I s’pose we’d need a lid for it, to get it across the city. And maybe ice. People never think about the temperature of bodily fluids when casting magics like this. Incompetent bastards.”

“What about the spell?” demanded Sharon. “How do we get Greydawn back?”

“There’s a c-counter spell,” he stammered, “to release all bindings! You need the sacrifices to perform—”

“Any special preparations? Ritual baths, ceremonial massages, that kind of crap?”

Eddie shook his head. Moisture clung to his skin as his body suffered a sweaty, adrenaline-fuelled overdrive.

“Excellent!” Swift slapped his hands together, business-like and brisk. “Get sacrifices. Say spell. Job done. Early night. I’m on board with this.”

“You… need a shaman!”

The way Eddie said it seemed to suggest that this would be the final straw which broke the camel’s back. But Swift grinned, patting the quaking wizard on the knee. “Way ahead of you there, sunshine.”

“Blood. You still need blood.”

Sammy looked at Swift; Swift looked at Sharon; Sharon shrugged. “I got nothing,” she said. “Can it be from the donor banks?”

“Uh, babes,” Kevin chimed in from across the room, “I don’t want to be the voice of civic responsibility here or anything, but there is like, a serious stock crisis going on right now across all major blood groups.”

A glare from the assembled room induced some polite cowering. “Then again,” Kevin grumbled, “maybe saving the city is an okay use of limited NHS resources.”

“But it’s not about haemoglobins!” exclaimed Sammy. “Else we’d all be using rump bloody steak and chips in our magics! It’s about life–blood as life. What peanut-balls is saying–” here, a firm kick connected with Eddie’s shins “–is not ‘You need some sticky red stuff’ but ‘You need life and death.’ ”

“Whoa!” Sharon gestured defensively. “When I signed up for this, I had this big thing about no feathers, no dancing and no blood.”

“Dancing?” queried Swift.

“And no blood! My mum would have a fit if I got piercings, especially if it was feathers. And can I just add, cos I think it’s important, no blood!”

There was a embarrassed pause while Swift patted her on the shoulder with the lightness of a man toying with nitroglycerine.

“Well,” he said at last, “maybe we could try three sheep and a—”

He was interrupted by a ringing sound.

Ringing wasn’t quite the word; ringing implied a bell. This was an electronic pumping sound, an eight-beat intro followed by a little tinny chant. The chant proclaimed:

“I’m so cool, I’m so cool, I’m so cool,
yeah!”

All eyes turned to the source of the sound, and Eddie Parks cringed. Through the material of his trousers, the bright white screen of a mobile phone was visible. Mr Roding said, “Will someone please stop that ghastly noise?”

Eddie levered the phone out of his pocket, handling it like lit matches in a sea of oil. He passed it to Sharon without a word. She looked down and saw that the number was “Unavailable”.

The phone kept ringing.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your mum, calling at 2 a.m., to check up on whether you’re going to the dentist?” she hazarded. At the ripple of surprised expressions she added, “Come on, like I’m the only one that happens to.”

“I-I-I-I-I-I-I…” Eddie’s attempt at responding dissolved into a wheeze of despair.

“Fine,” grumbled Sharon and, before anyone could stop her, she thumbed the phone on and put it to her ear. “Hello, Magicals Anonymous, self-help for the mystically traumatised. Sharon speaking, can I help you?”

A stunned silence on the end of the line. Then, “Please hold.”

A pre-recorded assault on a Chopin theme began. Sharon put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered loudly at the room, “I think it might be a sales pitch.”

Then, “Is Eddie Parks dead?”

The voice was soft, cold and smooth, male inasmuch as it wasn’t overtly female. It sounded detached, and was entirely recognisable. It was the voice of Mr Ruislip, the wendigo.

“Uh…” The sound just came out, a default filler in the empty air.

“What is ‘Uh’?” asked the voice on the other end of the line, keen and curious. “I’ve heard people make these noises as though they have meaning–uh and ah and um and aaaggh–and I did investigate them in the dictionary but found it unsatisfactory. Do they imply an emotional state? Or have they a meaning in the human mind that language does not have the capacity to fulfil?”

Sharon hesitated. The entire room was staring at her, dozens of faces contorted with the doubt and fear of people who knew, who just
knew,
who and, perhaps more importantly, what, was on the end of the line, but really didn’t want that knowledge confirmed. In the silence, Sharon took in the upside-down face of Sally, dangling from the rafters, the puckered frown of Kevin, the disgruntled query of Mr Roding, the hopeful, open eyes of Rhys as he seemed to say, without twitching a muscle in his flushed face,
Go on, go on, go on…

And it occurred to Sharon, with an almost physical shock, that someone in this room, for reasons beyond her comprehension, believed in her. She tried to remember if anyone had believed in her
before. Certainly the careers officer hadn’t, nor had her boss Mike Pentlace. Indeed, throughout her whole life…

“Kind of both, actually.” She was amazed to hear the words pass her lips, amazed at how confident they sounded. “Uh is a kinda filler sound, sorta like going ‘Fuck me, I don’t know what to say to that, but shit, I’d better make this kinda noise to make it clear that I’m still paying attention.’ So I guess you could say it’s rude, because it’s like going ‘Please hold’ only without saying it. But I think it’s actually okay, because it’s like saying ‘Please hold while I come up with a sensible and groovy response to you.’ And we’re always told, aren’t we, that you should stop and think about your replies, and I guess life would be better if more people did that, you know?”