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indriSUMMARY: Giles and Ethan, the electric Kool-Aid funky Satan groove year, in the early seventies. Rated M. Spoilers to Band Candy. Acknowledgements and disclaimers.
Part 4:
69.
It was a Saturday night and the church was burning. Or, more accurately, it was very early Sunday morning. There were two fire engines, a bevy of police cars, and a small crowd of neighbours and passerby. Ethan walked past them all, towards the graveyard.
He'd heard the news on his shiny new radio as he'd been in his room, working on the second chapter of the Badescu tome. It had become quiet downstairs, so he'd known that the Eyghon spell was over for the week, but it was his bad luck that Ripper had heard him as he was heading down the stairs. "Going out?" Ripper had said. "Then I'm going out too." Ethan had shrugged, because what did it matter, really? And Ripper might be a help if he got in a tight spot.
On the walk over (it was best not to let Ripper drive now on Saturday nights), Ethan had explained about the spell components he'd laid in the cemetery on behalf of Mr Grey. "Doesn't sound like a fire spell," Ripper said.
The graveyard was choked with smoke. Ethan could barely see Ripper, who was only a few feet ahead of him, but he could hear him coughing. It was stupid of them to be here; he should grab Rupert and go. He ran over, beetles sometimes crunching beneath his feet, to seize Ripper by the sleeve of his jacket. But Ripper wouldn't budge. He pointed instead at a patch of disturbed earth under a headstone marked, "Alice Tevis".
They really, truly, had to go. Necromancy was far out of their league, and they had to get out of the smoke. Ethan tried one last time to pull Ripper away, but the damn fool was leaning over the gravesite, examining the soil, even as he started another round of coughing. Ethan left him there, ran to a path that was out of the main plume of smoke. Then he sat on the pavement, pulling out his candles and wishing stones. Wind. He needed just a little breeze to alter the direction of the smoke. Either that, or he could let the blasted stupid bloody idiot die of smoke inhalation. Perhaps he should.
It was a Sunday, he reminded himself. Rupert was always stupidest on Sundays, made reckless from the after-effects of the Eyghon spell. He'd be a bit better on Monday, pretty much perfect on Tuesday and Wednesday, but from Thursday he'd be increasingly maudlin and remorseful until the spell was cast again on Saturday night. The death of Sunday Rupert would necessarily entail the death of Tuesday and Wednesday Rupert, which Ethan would regret, so he summoned the wind after all.
He could see Ripper now that the wind was blowing from a very slightly different direction. Ripper was crouched down away from the grave, running his fingers over the ground like some long-haired, leather-jacketed Sherlock Holmes. He was following a trail.
Leave it the hell alone, Ethan thought. Whatever it is, leave it the hell alone. But no, Rupert stood up and headed determinedly in the direction of a side gate. Against his better judgement, Ethan pocketed his gear and followed.
The side gate led to a perfectly ordinary street of Victorian houses and small blocks of flats. Parked cars lined the road. Up ahead, Ethan could see Ripper. And beyond him, perhaps twenty yards in the lead, was a stumbling figure.
Ripper coughed, very loudly and for quite some time. The shambling figure turned around to look and Ethan caught a glimpse of a skeletal face under the rags of what might have been a bonnet. Marvellous: zombie Elizabeth Bennett. It decided that Ripper didn't present much of a threat and shambled on in the direction of the main road.
Ripper paused on the street for a swig from his hip flask, which helped him stop coughing. Then the moron lit up a cigarette. Ethan hung back, because he thought he could guess what was going to happen next. He watched as Ripper finished his cigarette, ground the stub under his boot, then sprinted towards the zombie as fast as he could.
Ripper rugby-tackled it. It fell, most of its desiccated clothing tearing as it did so. It twisted around, seized Ripper by the shoulders, and flung him against the side of a Volkswagen van. Ripper laughed, got up, and ran after the zombie again.
Ethan didn't know any zombie-dissipation spells. Nor did he know any spells that would increase strength or, more pertinently, increase common-sense and the desire for self-preservation. He could unlock filing cabinets, levitate small objects, and hypnotise rodents. At this moment, none of those talents seemed very useful.
He summoned an owl. More exactly, he summoned any and every owl in the neighbourhood. Two arrived almost immediately; he could feel that others were coming. He asked them to fly at the head of the zombie.
The zombie didn't like it. It paused in its beating-up of Rupert to thrash at the flying birds. Ripper got away, picked up a rubbish bin, strewing its contents over the street, then swung it at the zombie's head. The owls dodged but the zombie didn't. The head tore away and rolled under an elderly Mini.
Ethan thanked the owls then watched as Ripper pulled apart the flailing, headless body. He threw the limbs separately over the cemetery wall. Ethan peered under the mini to find the head still chattering angrily under its bonnet.
Ripper finally seized the last hopping leg, smashed it against a lamp-post to break its knee. The limb went still. He flung it away, then stood exhausted, taking in heavy breaths and wiping sweat from his brow.
Ethan walked up to him, slapped him hard, and then went home.
70.
Ripper's cheek ached. His back hurt. His lungs complained every time he breathed. And he felt fucking fantastic.
It was still early, barely two o'clock, plenty of time to do whatever he wanted. Start a bar fight. Hot-wire a car. Pick up something new for the house.
The record shop was still boarded-up from the last time he'd broken in. He could grab a few more LPs, but they were a pain to carry and he didn't want to go home yet.
He wandered down in the direction of the canal. There were a few barges about, almost touching each other. He climbed on board the first, walked around to the other side, tripping over a rope as he did so. He picked himself up and looked to see if he could step over onto the next barge along. It was a bit of a gap, but he made it. The next one along was impossible to jump to. Instead he stepped over the edge and into the canal.
The waters closed over him. Fuck, they were cold! He swam around long enough to get himself warm, then pulled himself out onto the shore. He walked along the tow-path, soaked to the skin.
There were some couples about having knee-tremblers against the canalside wall. As he walked past, he told them their marks out of ten. Eventually he found he found a couple with a man about his own size.
"Oi, you," he said, grabbing the man by the shoulder and swinging him around.
The man reached for his wallet before he reached for his fly. The girl pulled down her skirt. "Here," said the man, offering the wallet, "take it."
Rupert took the cash. "Strip," he said. "I want your clothes too."
The clothes weren't that a good a fit, but they'd do for the evening. He left his sodden clothes on the canalside, but carried his jacket. His boots were still wet.
He went down to Leicester Square next, for the peepshows and the bars. He got blown in a toilet stall, had too much to drink, and napped on a bench. In the morning, after dawn, he sat next to a girl at a bus stop. She looked all right.
She took him back to her flat.
Part 4:
Fools
69.
It was a Saturday night and the church was burning. Or, more accurately, it was very early Sunday morning. There were two fire engines, a bevy of police cars, and a small crowd of neighbours and passerby. Ethan walked past them all, towards the graveyard.
He'd heard the news on his shiny new radio as he'd been in his room, working on the second chapter of the Badescu tome. It had become quiet downstairs, so he'd known that the Eyghon spell was over for the week, but it was his bad luck that Ripper had heard him as he was heading down the stairs. "Going out?" Ripper had said. "Then I'm going out too." Ethan had shrugged, because what did it matter, really? And Ripper might be a help if he got in a tight spot.
On the walk over (it was best not to let Ripper drive now on Saturday nights), Ethan had explained about the spell components he'd laid in the cemetery on behalf of Mr Grey. "Doesn't sound like a fire spell," Ripper said.
The graveyard was choked with smoke. Ethan could barely see Ripper, who was only a few feet ahead of him, but he could hear him coughing. It was stupid of them to be here; he should grab Rupert and go. He ran over, beetles sometimes crunching beneath his feet, to seize Ripper by the sleeve of his jacket. But Ripper wouldn't budge. He pointed instead at a patch of disturbed earth under a headstone marked, "Alice Tevis".
They really, truly, had to go. Necromancy was far out of their league, and they had to get out of the smoke. Ethan tried one last time to pull Ripper away, but the damn fool was leaning over the gravesite, examining the soil, even as he started another round of coughing. Ethan left him there, ran to a path that was out of the main plume of smoke. Then he sat on the pavement, pulling out his candles and wishing stones. Wind. He needed just a little breeze to alter the direction of the smoke. Either that, or he could let the blasted stupid bloody idiot die of smoke inhalation. Perhaps he should.
It was a Sunday, he reminded himself. Rupert was always stupidest on Sundays, made reckless from the after-effects of the Eyghon spell. He'd be a bit better on Monday, pretty much perfect on Tuesday and Wednesday, but from Thursday he'd be increasingly maudlin and remorseful until the spell was cast again on Saturday night. The death of Sunday Rupert would necessarily entail the death of Tuesday and Wednesday Rupert, which Ethan would regret, so he summoned the wind after all.
He could see Ripper now that the wind was blowing from a very slightly different direction. Ripper was crouched down away from the grave, running his fingers over the ground like some long-haired, leather-jacketed Sherlock Holmes. He was following a trail.
Leave it the hell alone, Ethan thought. Whatever it is, leave it the hell alone. But no, Rupert stood up and headed determinedly in the direction of a side gate. Against his better judgement, Ethan pocketed his gear and followed.
The side gate led to a perfectly ordinary street of Victorian houses and small blocks of flats. Parked cars lined the road. Up ahead, Ethan could see Ripper. And beyond him, perhaps twenty yards in the lead, was a stumbling figure.
Ripper coughed, very loudly and for quite some time. The shambling figure turned around to look and Ethan caught a glimpse of a skeletal face under the rags of what might have been a bonnet. Marvellous: zombie Elizabeth Bennett. It decided that Ripper didn't present much of a threat and shambled on in the direction of the main road.
Ripper paused on the street for a swig from his hip flask, which helped him stop coughing. Then the moron lit up a cigarette. Ethan hung back, because he thought he could guess what was going to happen next. He watched as Ripper finished his cigarette, ground the stub under his boot, then sprinted towards the zombie as fast as he could.
Ripper rugby-tackled it. It fell, most of its desiccated clothing tearing as it did so. It twisted around, seized Ripper by the shoulders, and flung him against the side of a Volkswagen van. Ripper laughed, got up, and ran after the zombie again.
Ethan didn't know any zombie-dissipation spells. Nor did he know any spells that would increase strength or, more pertinently, increase common-sense and the desire for self-preservation. He could unlock filing cabinets, levitate small objects, and hypnotise rodents. At this moment, none of those talents seemed very useful.
He summoned an owl. More exactly, he summoned any and every owl in the neighbourhood. Two arrived almost immediately; he could feel that others were coming. He asked them to fly at the head of the zombie.
The zombie didn't like it. It paused in its beating-up of Rupert to thrash at the flying birds. Ripper got away, picked up a rubbish bin, strewing its contents over the street, then swung it at the zombie's head. The owls dodged but the zombie didn't. The head tore away and rolled under an elderly Mini.
Ethan thanked the owls then watched as Ripper pulled apart the flailing, headless body. He threw the limbs separately over the cemetery wall. Ethan peered under the mini to find the head still chattering angrily under its bonnet.
Ripper finally seized the last hopping leg, smashed it against a lamp-post to break its knee. The limb went still. He flung it away, then stood exhausted, taking in heavy breaths and wiping sweat from his brow.
Ethan walked up to him, slapped him hard, and then went home.
70.
Ripper's cheek ached. His back hurt. His lungs complained every time he breathed. And he felt fucking fantastic.
It was still early, barely two o'clock, plenty of time to do whatever he wanted. Start a bar fight. Hot-wire a car. Pick up something new for the house.
The record shop was still boarded-up from the last time he'd broken in. He could grab a few more LPs, but they were a pain to carry and he didn't want to go home yet.
He wandered down in the direction of the canal. There were a few barges about, almost touching each other. He climbed on board the first, walked around to the other side, tripping over a rope as he did so. He picked himself up and looked to see if he could step over onto the next barge along. It was a bit of a gap, but he made it. The next one along was impossible to jump to. Instead he stepped over the edge and into the canal.
The waters closed over him. Fuck, they were cold! He swam around long enough to get himself warm, then pulled himself out onto the shore. He walked along the tow-path, soaked to the skin.
There were some couples about having knee-tremblers against the canalside wall. As he walked past, he told them their marks out of ten. Eventually he found he found a couple with a man about his own size.
"Oi, you," he said, grabbing the man by the shoulder and swinging him around.
The man reached for his wallet before he reached for his fly. The girl pulled down her skirt. "Here," said the man, offering the wallet, "take it."
Rupert took the cash. "Strip," he said. "I want your clothes too."
The clothes weren't that a good a fit, but they'd do for the evening. He left his sodden clothes on the canalside, but carried his jacket. His boots were still wet.
He went down to Leicester Square next, for the peepshows and the bars. He got blown in a toilet stall, had too much to drink, and napped on a bench. In the morning, after dawn, he sat next to a girl at a bus stop. She looked all right.
She took him back to her flat.
