The Magic Cottage (44 page)

‘The power contained within this place can be controlled in any way its receiver chooses,’ Mycroft replied. ‘The old woman could no longer direct its force, she was too weak, made too infirm by her years.’

‘
You killed her!
’

Now he grinned, apparently keen on the idea. ‘Yes, yes, I believe I did. I tempted her with the other side, you see, what you and your like might call the dark side of Magic. Her ending was very sudden—’ he seemed surprised, then snapped his fingers ‘ – like
that
! One moment alive, the next, dead. She couldn’t cope with the revelation, you see, she couldn’t accept the blackness inside her own soul. How else could I have revealed such darkness to her if it didn’t lurk within herself. Strange how her body corrupted so fast, as if that badness inside swept through her physical being, shrivelled her up like an old prune.’ He chuckled at that, unconcerned at the disgust on Midge’s face.

The light faded and rose as though somebody had just been electrocuted next door, and Mycroft’s poise momentarily wavered. He peered around at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Then his grin returned.

‘Can you feel the surge of kinetic force?’ he asked his followers. ‘Be receptive, blend your thoughts and absorb its strength.
Fill yourself with its vitality!
’

Most of them closed their eyes, faces strained in concentration. I saw Gillie, standing close to the wall, sway and almost fall backwards. Another woman on the other side of the room moaned aloud. Kinsella continued to watch Midge and me.

Strangely, such was the power of suggestion as Mycroft encouraged the Synergists further, that I also felt a tingling starting in my own spread fingers. The sensation emanated from the floor itself, passing up into my arms and across my shoulders and chest. I suddenly remembered the bugs that had been set to crawl up my leg, yet when I checked, they’d gone, disappeared completely. The sofa contained nothing more than a couple of cushions. The bugs had been another of Mycroft’s illusory games.

‘
I can stop this!
’ shouted Midge. ‘
That’s why I’m here, why I was chosen!
’

‘Ah yes,
you
,’ said the Magician slyly. He pointed the cane and Midge toppled backwards. She didn’t go down though. She regained her balance and glowered at Mycroft, shoulders bunched forward and fists clenched.

‘
I can!
’ she yelled, and I loved her for her defiance. I scrambled to my feet.

She stood with her legs apart, rooting herself to the carpet, and slowly raised her hands to her face, unwinding her fingers and bringing them together almost in a praying gesture. Then she twisted her wrists so that her fingers were levelled at Mycroft, and his expression turned anxious. That, at least, was heartening.

Midge was shivering and it looked as if every muscle in her body was tensed, every ounce of strength she possessed directed at Mycroft. I wanted to cry out, to goad her on. She could do it, I knew she could do it! But my cry was only a whisper.

‘Zap the fucker, Midge.’

Her teeth were gritted so tight that her face had become a grimacing mask, and her figure was taut, her body like a divining rod into which energy coursed.

‘You can do it, Midge!’ I called out, still in a strained whisper.

And I was certain she could. She
was
Flora Chaldean’s successor, the natural heir to those weird powers whose source was Gramarye and the ground the cottage stood upon. Everything that had happened over these last few months had been directing her towards this critical point. Whatever governs these mystical laws of sorcery and all that entailed had decided she was the one to carry on old Flora’s good work, she was the guardian, the keeper of the power, the one who would prevent it from being perverted. In a funny way, I felt proud (although I could have done without the trauma).

‘Get the bastard, Midge!’

Her arms were fully extended, palms and fingers flat together. It was as if she were aiming an invisible gun at Mycroft’s head and I revelled in his growing discomfort. The tension constricted my throat and I could cheer her on no more. Instead my fists trembled in the air before me. Now she had him, now she’d put an end to his lousy bloody tricks! Her arms were ramrod straight and I could almost see the energy pouring through.

Mycroft’s eyes had widened so that the pupils were surrounded by white.

Kinsella was trying to move in and I got ready to tackle him. But he’d stopped dead, unable to move.

Mounting pressure was drumming in my ears.

Midge’s fingers opened.

She exhaled squealing air.

And nothing happened.

‘Shit!’ I shouted, and stamped the floor.

Mycroft was perplexed. Then very happy. He raised his cane and suddenly Midge’s feet left the carpet. She floated upwards.

Her body tilted and she screamed my name. She rose, four feet, five feet, rigid as a board and becoming horizontal. She put her arms over her face as the ceiling came closer, and I could only look on in shock, unable to do a thing.

Her body was only inches from the ceiling when he laughed and let her go. She plummeted down and I moved fast to get underneath her, catching her in my arms, both of us crashing to the floor.

We lay there battered and gasping and all I could hear was Mycroft’s laughter – his
cackle
. Kinsella and the others were also amused. Except for Gillie; she’d fainted.

We were finished. He’d kill us and probably make it look like a lover’s tiff gone wrong. Or maybe the conclusion would be that someone had broken in, burglars on the make, and had launched a frenzied attack on us when they’d been discovered (just look at the state of the place). He’d find a reasonably rational way, of that I was sure, but why should I worry what that would be? That was his problem.

I raised myself on one elbow, ready for the worst, but determined to make a match of it.

When the doorbell downstairs clanged.

Flora

It was a ludicrous situation: Midge and me sprawled on the floor, the Synergists spread around the room, edging in for the kill – and now the Avon Lady was calling.

Only it wasn’t someone selling perfume out there. And we hadn’t heard door chimes: the ‘bring out your dead’ sound had come from the old bell hanging outside the kitchen door. The urgency in its tone told us the caller wasn’t going to go away (and all the cars out front indicated that somebody had to be home).

Mycroft gave a barely perceptible nod of his head towards Kinsella, and before I could move the American had dashed forward to slip an arm beneath Midge’s throat. Her feet kicked air as he lifted.

Mycroft came closer to me. ‘You’ll get rid of whoever’s out there. I’m not concerned with how, but you’ll do it. Your sweet little loved one will suffer if you fail. A sharp pull of his arm and her windpipe will be crushed instantly. He can do it, believe me he can easily do that . . .’

I looked up at Kinsella and didn’t doubt for a moment that he could and would. Taking in that wide, handsome face I wondered whatever had happened to Mom’s Apple Pie and the American Way.

I rose unsteadily and considered rushing him, grabbing his arm or knocking him flat before he could do any damage, but I soon dismissed the idea: the bastard was too strong and too quick and I’d be too slow and not strong enough.

‘If you hurt her . . .’ I said unconvincingly, and he loved the threat. He squeezed one of her breasts with his free hand just to show me how scared he was, and the craziness in his smile made me shudder.

Midge squirmed against him, unable to cry out because of the bar against her throat.

I took a step towards them and he increased the pressure on her neck so that Midge’s eyes rolled upwards with the pain.

‘I’ll finish her and then you’ll be next,’ he warned amiably.

I backed off, hands raised. There was nothing I could do. The bell downstairs rang more insistently.

‘Don’t be foolish in any way,’ Mycroft advised.

I shrugged and brushed by him, going into the hallway. Madness, I kept telling myself as I stomped down the stairs. The whole bloody thing is total, unbelievable madness. And if these lunatics were going to get us anyway, why not make a break for it when I opened the door? At least I’d get to the police. But the car keys were still upstairs, dropped in the mêlée. The caller would have come by car, though. Grab whoever it was and run for it, drive into the village and bring back help; that was the thing to do. But leave Midge alone in the hands of these freaks? That question didn’t even need a conscious answer.

A stairboard gave beneath me and I abruptly found myself sitting down, one foot sunk deep into the carpet. Movement from behind and I knew one, or maybe two, of the Synergists lurked at the bend of the stairs, waiting to pass the word back should I misbehave when I answered the door.

The bell stopped clanging.

I felt a terrible despair.

Then the door was being pounded.

I picked myself up and hurried down the last few steps, crossing the kitchen and reaching the door without further deliberation. The wood was straining against the frame as though the person outside was angry and impatient, and
desperate
to be let in. My fingers touched the top bolt and froze on the cold metal; I was suddenly aware of who it was out there. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. My arm slowly lowered as if of its own accord and I stared at the door.

She’d been trying to reach us for a long time now.

My fear had reached a new zenith, rising from the slushy morass of dread like a dripping creature from a swamp.

Did I really want to face that figure who’d watched us from a distance? Did I want to come face to face with that ravaged countenance, to stand within feet of her? Did I want to smell her putridness so close, the stink of corrupting death that had already fouled the air inside the cottage? Did I finally want to meet my own nightmare?

Did I have a choice?

The banging had stopped as if she knew I was on the other side and that it was only a matter of time before the door opened. I reached up for the bolt once more and slammed it back, compelled by a will other than my own.

My fingers slid down the painted wood, sinking to the metal bar at the foot of the door. I snapped the lever horizontal, then began to slide the bar open.

‘
No
’

Still crouched, I turned to find Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs; something had made him follow me down. The hint of panic in his command told me he knew who was out there, too.

‘Don’t open that door!’

My grin may have been nervous, but it
was
a grin. I shot the bolt all the way back, stood and twisted the key in the lock. Then I opened the door.

I stared at the figure on the step, stunned speechless.

Because, of course, I was wrong again.

She marched by me, grousey as ever. ‘I thought you’d never open up,’ Val complained, well into the kitchen before turning to face me. ‘I saw the cars parked outside and assumed you were entertaining, but I’ve been ringing that bell and thumping on that door for ages. I was just about to come around to the other side.’

Big, bristling Val; tweed two-piece suit, heavy brogues and thick stockings. Gorgeous, mustachioed Val.

‘Val,’ I croaked. I wasn’t angry like last time.

The breeze from the open doorway cooled the back of my clammy neck.

‘Good Lord, you’d think I was a ghost the way you’re standing there. Are you all right, Mike? I drove down because I was anxious over what we discussed earlier today. You know there’s something very odd—’

‘
Get rid of her!
’ shrieked Mycroft.

Val had obviously noticed him immediately she’d stepped into the cottage, but now she gave the Synergist her full attention. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, and I’d withered under that tone and that glare myself a few times in the past.

‘
Make her leave
.’

Mycroft spoke in a low, even voice, but I could tell his rag was going. Me, I was glad to see her, although I realized her presence didn’t help the situation any; formidable though Val was, we were up against something more than mere numbers.

‘Mike, I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted anything, but will you kindly inform this ill-mannered cretin . . .’

She’d spun towards me again and indignation trailed off with the sentence as she looked beyond me at the doorway.

The breeze wafting in was even more chilly, bringing with it a faint and peculiarly sour-sweet fragrance.

And hand touched my shoulder from behind.

Afraid to look all at once, I twisted my head and saw the shadow. Her breath touched my cheek.

I turned all the way.

She was small, much smaller than I’d expected. Tiny. And frail. And she had the oldest and sweetest face I’d ever seen.

Her eyes were pale, paler even than Midge’s, and it seemed as though clouds drifted in them. Her lips were ancient-thin, the edges curled under; but all the same, it was a kind mouth, the lines at each end not spoiling her expression. And although her nose was sharp, it portrayed no arrogance, only a determination of will. Wrinkles splayed around her features in whorls and ridges, yet it was a clear, unsullied face, full of vibrancy and compassion, a Mother Teresa vision that had seen so much and felt so much, the experience etched in with those age-lines as explicitly as words in a book. Around her head she wore a shawl, many colours woven into its coarse material with no distinctive pattern formed; white hair, strands seeping over her shoulders, peeked from beneath the shawl. Her dress was long, high-necked, and dark grey in colour, of a vogue in favour with Whistler’s Mother.