[FIC] OC: Nowen Jones and the Spirit of Justice
More Nowen Jones!
This one's centred around two pieces of inspiration: I did actually spot someone looking sad on the train while looking at a missing-persons flyer, but I'm pretty sure this wasn't their story. Still, I thought it was neat enough to turn into a short story. The finale is taken almost directly from a dream I had.
I've cut the introductory paragraph for this story, but it can be read in either of the first two stories:
Nowen Jones and The Case of Mr Haas
Nowen Jones and Ruth's Case
Let me know what you think!
Rating: M-ish
Characters: Nowen Jones (Original Character)
Read it below the cut.
Nowen Jones and the Spirit of Justice
The train lurches, and I'm woken up by my head bouncing off the window I'd been resting it against. I grimace and blink away the sleep from my pleasant nap. Cretan yawns, I guess woken up by the same jolt. I take the opportunity to pat myself down and glance at my backpack, make sure nobody's pinched my stuff while I was out. Nothing's missing, so the next thing to do is actually pay attention to the world around me. I look up and down the carriage, taking in my fellow commuters and the dark windows. I hazard a guess that it's about eight or nine, since nobody looks drunk and there's still at least one person wearing a suit.
“See that, Cretan?” I ask quietly, leaning forward to scratch my lazy travelling companion. “Productive members of society, coming home from a hard day's work. How come you're not like them, huh?” Cretan glares at me through half-closed eyes, and pushes into my hand to guide me behind his ears. “Yeah, I know mate. You just can't be arsed.” He purrs.
An automated voice announces the next station. As we pull up I see that it's wrong and I'll admit I'm not particularly surprised. The man in the suit gets up and tries to open the sliding door only to find that the driver hasn't unlocked them yet. I count under my breath, reaching seventeen before the door-release bell chimes and he swears, angrily sweeping the handle aside and storming off the train. I watch him stride away, and catch sight of a slightly-overweight, bedraggled woman racing for the doors.
Flouncing is an unkind word to apply to a person, but I have to use it for this woman. Several parts which I'm sure shouldn't be bouncing are bouncing as she races down the ramp and ignores the ticket machines in her sprint to get on the train. I do some quick guesswork and come down on the side of disappointment, but luckily for her she's able to jam an arm between the doors just as the chime starts going again. With a very familiar set of sounds, she forces her way between the doors and onto the train. She's puffed, and doubles over trying to catch her breath. She looks tired and worried and I throw her a sympathetic look. Cretan throws her a dismissive look, which is pretty high on the sympathy meter for a cat.
The woman takes quite a while catching her breath. Clearly she's pretty put out by the run. She doesn't just double over, but holds a few positions while doing so; bent backwards clutching the handrail, face up against the glass door, and so on. It's like watching a completely unsexy striptease. I watch in hypnotised fascination, while Cretan watches me with what I swear is disgust. While she's holding a particularly unflattering pose, I spot a folded-up piece of paper in her back pocket. I see about a quarter of a face on a photocopied page, along with the blue-and-white checks of the Victoria Police. My guess is that it's a missing-person flyer.
When she's finally done showing off her complete and utter lack of attractive attributes, the woman waddles over to one of the reserved-for-disabled seats and parks her butt in it. Still a little puffed, she looks around and I catch a glance at sad, baggy eyes. I try to dodge her gaze, but our eyes meet for a moment. Ouch. She could reduce a Blackwater mercenary to tears. I can feel the depth of woe and loss radiating from her in palpable waves and it's all I can to not to throw up from despair. Even Cretan looks like he might cry just looking at me.
While I'm bent down and retching, I see her out the corner of her eye reach under her backside and fish out the flyer. She looks at it for a long moment and I can feel her sadness become an almost physical thing. I gag audibly and she turns, hangdog eyes staring at me, the weird sick man in the corner. Her attention returns to the flyer then I see her scan the carriage. It's just me, her, and a couple of bored-looking people reading newspapers they've picked up off the seats.
I think I have to speak to this woman. It's not going to be fun though. I steel myself and stand up, holding onto the seat for balance as the train goes over a rough spot of track. I walk over to the woman and sit down opposite her, Cretan swiftly following me with the grace that he manages without effort. He stands in front of me for a moment, then contorts around to lick his own butt. I quietly congratulate him on his talent for making a good impression, then look up to find the woman staring at me. I flinch, but the sadness isn't quite powerful enough to make me nauseous this time.
I ask her if she likes cats and she nods, looking unnervingly like an unhappy basset hound. She's holding the flyer with both hands. I ask if I can see it, and she nods again so I stand up and lean over to take it. The picture is of a man a bit younger than myself, scruffy and unshaven. His name is Stephen Gold, green eyes, brown hair, average height and build, missing. Mrs Gold looks at me hopefully, but I shake my head and hand the flyer back.
“I'm afraid I haven't seen him, Mrs Gold.” She cocks her head and asks how I knew she was Mrs Gold. I tell her it was a lucky guess. She explains that he's her son and he's been missing for about eight months. She says he was on the train one night and never came home. She says he got on this train, at the same station she got on, and that every week she takes the same train and looks, just in case she sees him. The way she says it, voice quavering and high, almost brings a tear to my eye. While she's talking Cretan walks over and rubs against her leg. She ignores him, just looking at the flyer as she speaks.
When she's done I'm quiet for a while. We arrive at another station, which the automated voice announces wrong, and the other people on the carriage get off. I figure we must be close to the end of the line.
“Mrs Gold, what if I told you I might be able to help?” The obvious look is accompanied by the obvious question, and my unbelievably lame answer is “Well, you could call it magic.” Her expression would have stunned a rubbish truck, its crew and probably the rubbish. “Mrs Gold, you've tried everything else, am I right? If you weren't desperate then you wouldn't be riding the same train nine months later, would you?” As I wait for a reply I have to fight down the memory that the train timetables changed about fifteen weeks ago. I extend a hand. “Just hand back the flyer and I'll see what I can do.”
I look into Stephen's photocopied eyes for a second, then unzip my backpack. I have a feel around. It's not like I keep some sort of wizard's laboratory with me at all times, but I do have a little bag of basics; salt, string, lighter, that sort of thing: stuff I'm always going to need. For posterity, the rest of the bag is filled with a jumper, umbrella and water bottle. Not very exciting, but worth having around.
Mrs Gold watches with interest as I open the velvet bag and pull out the salt shaker and lighter. I hand her the salt shaker. “Take a pinch of it,” I say, “And put it on your open palm.” She gives me a look that says she'll need more than a pinch to take me seriously. I return it with a look that says she's gotten this far so she may as well do as I say. Cretan bats at a dangling drawstring from the bag and Mrs Gold gives the salt a shake. I sigh as far more than we need spills out onto her hand, then shrug and flick the lighter. She asks what I'm going to do with it, a note of concern coming into her voice.
Another stop goes by, mis-announced yet again. I roll my eyes in embarrassment as I begin to explain, “Magic, if you want to call it that, relies on symbolism. The salt is a kind of... well, conductor, I guess you could call it. Mainly I'm making this up as I go.” She expresses disbelief, maybe expecting something deeper or more complicated. Then she expresses concern and even anger as I set fire to the flyer.
Cretan bolts under a nearby seat to get away from the fire. I put out a hand to stop her as the flame rapidly ignites the copy-paper and singes Stephen's face. “Mrs Gold, I told you this is about symbolism, right? Well, this is symbolic of Stephen's loss. You've been associating this flyer with him for nine months, right? So you've been pouring the energy of your sadness into it, making it a focus of your feelings and emblematic of your search for him - ow!” The fire singes my hand and I drop the paper. It hits the ground and I suck my fingers as the flyer burns itself out.
“What happens now?” She asks, visibly upset but still holding the pile of salt in her open palm. “We wait,” I say, “And see what the answer is.”
We wait. Nothing happens. Shit, I think. I've just set fire to her son for nothing. Then the automated voice comes on again as we start to pull into another station. It's wrong, but I smile. The voice doesn't name a station. I have an address, and Mrs Gold looks at me like an astonished goldfish.
*****
Almost an hour later, I have absolutely gotten sick of Mrs Gold thanking me and asking how I did what I did. Even Cretan is giving me a look which asks when she'll shut up. I rub my temples and look about, then head over to a drink machine and tap the button to get myself a soft drink. I get the message telling me to pay first and almost laugh. I put an ear to the machine, mostly for Mrs Gold, and tap the side in a few places. When I think she's been suitably impressed, I take twelve deliberate steps to one side of the machine, then use the run-up to deliver a solid kick. It rocks on its base and spits out my selection of drink.
I look at the bottle, obviously shaken up and decide not to open it straight away. I slip it into by backpack and zip it up, pretending not to notice Mrs Gold's expression. “Shall we, Mrs Gold?”
We leave the station and cross the road, then head downhill through a dingy industrial park to an abandoned office building. The chain-link fence outside is high, rusted and graffiti'd. I wonder why anybody would bother tagging this type of fence. I mean, it's mostly air, so what's the point? I look up at the barbed wire at the top and let my shoulders sag. I hate barbed wire. I think back to a particularly bad night in Dandenong and take the jumper out of my bag, then pass the bag to Mrs Gold.
“Hold this for me, will you?” I ask, then climb the fence. Carefully, I lay the jumper over the barbed wire at the top and use it to protect myself from getting stabbed in the crotch. It doesn't work completely, but it's much better than the alternative. I drop down to the other side, leaving the jumper in place. Cretan swiftly joins me, having found a way in on his own; no doubt he squeezed through a hole small enough that he had to break the laws of physics to fit. I tell Mrs Gold to stay put, then wander off to explore, Cretan trotting ahead.
I don't find much outside or on the bottom floor. The building is gutted, windows smashed in and grass growing wild. The walls are crumbling concrete and I guess that any plaster or fittings have been taken away with the last occupants. There's some rubbish scattered around, but not enough to suggest squatters. Cretan sniffs around, finding little of interest, and disappears out of sight behind a pillar. I wander around and look for a safe way upstairs. There's a few gaps which might have been stairwells, but they're all missing stairs.
Cretan pops his head over the edge of one of the gaps and meows at me. “Bastard” I mutter. How'd you get up, huh? He disappears again, and I can hear him meowing as he moves. I follow the sound and find a very wide column hiding behind a wall I'd missed. I circle round and sure enough, there's a big steel door on one side. Fire door too heavy to bother with, I guess. I give it a tug, but the hinges are rusted shut. I brace one foot against the decaying concrete and put my weight into the pull. The door comes off and I manage to drop it to one side rather than go over backwards with it on top of me. The noise is loud and echoes in the dim light leaking in from the street outside. Cretan is sitting in very dignified fashion at the top of the stairs, looking quite pleased with himself. I glare at him and head up the stairs, looking around at the first floor.
This level is much clearer than the ground floor, with no grass and less rubble. I walk along the hall, checking empty doorways for Stephen. Cretan hovers around me, sniffing and pawing at small piles of stuff I can't identify. There's some graffiti, but not much. I'm beginning to become disheartened when Cretan looks up, flattens his ears and dashes off into the darkness. I shout after him, then follow. My footfalls are loud in my ears. I see Cretan go round a corner and come around close behind, only to come face-to-face with Stephen Gold.
He's sitting on a pile of blankets under a mostly-intact window. He's unwashed and unshaven, but it's definitely Stephen. A pile of rubbish is nearby, and a ripped rucksack sits at the end of his makeshift bed. His eyes are closed and I can see a used needle by his hand. His breathing is very slow and laboured, but doesn't sound painful. Cretan is sniffing at his fingers, gingerly avoiding the needle.
“Good cat.” I whisper, quietly approaching Stephen and squatting down beside him. Cretan gets out of my way and sits to his right. He looks from me to Stephen with apparent concern, and meows once or twice before going quiet. I reach out to grasp his shoulder and give him a gentle shake. He doesn't react, so I call his name softly, trying to wake him.
His eyes crack open a sliver and he looks at me from beneath his eyelids as if staring into the sun. His brows tighten and his lips part to take in a breath. I say his name again, dipping my head to get a closer look into his eyes. Suddenly, Cretan opens his mouth wide and hisses, then he bolts. I twist to look where he's gone, and almost lose my balance, but Stephen's hand steadies me. I turn back to Stephen and see that his eyes are wide open and milky white.
“Nowen Jones!” He shouts, and my own eyes open wide in shock. His other hand shoots out and grabs me by the throat. Between gasping breaths I voice my astonishment at him knowing my name.
“I have felt you, Mister Jones,” he croaks, his voice like bat wings and hospital respirators. “I have felt your presence coming to take Stephen Gold away from me. I have felt you coming and I have felt your intent. You cannot take this boy from me,” the grip around my throat tightens, “He has purpose now, Mister Jones. He has purpose!” Whatever controls Stephen makes his body stand up, taking me with it, then flings me like an unwanted drink across the room. I hit the wall and fall to the floor, counting ribs and feeling my brain rattle around in my skull. I roll over and try to lie still as Stephen walks jerkily towards me.
“He has order now, Mister Jones, and you cannot take that away from him.” Shit. It's a Spirit of Justice. These things are insane. Their idea of order is utterly perverse. Meeting them is like getting a scolding from an alcoholic parent who thinks you should make something of your life. They look at us and wonder how we can live such disordered, chaotic lives. Never mind that from our perspective, doing more than one thing in a day is generally considered healthy. I quickly figure that this spirit came across Stephen, was disgusted that he was living a normal, happy life, and took him over with the intent of getting him hooked on some horrible drug. That way, it thought, he wouldn't have to bear the burden of unpredictable diary entries.
I sigh and try getting to my feet. Stephen picks up speed and reaches me before I finish getting to my feet. I take a fist like a sledgehammer to the side of my chest and go sideways, stumbling down the corridor. I spot Cretan crouching at the end, tail and ears low and eyes wide and scared. I can't blame him.
Stephen is coming after me, so I turn and run. Cretan gets to the stairs before me and takes them in two bounds. I try to take them three at a time, but trip on the last one and sprawl out on a pile of concrete rubble. I can feel the skin come off the tops my knees but I don't stop; I struggle to my feet, see Stephen reach the top of the stairs and leap down, moving unnervingly like a marionette as he does. I'm moving before he hits the ground, limping because of the pain in my knees. Cretan runs on ahead and I follow.
I take several turns in the maze of bare and broken concrete, and I can hear the Justice Spirit screeching behind me. It sounds like an angry parrot, I think, except for the part where it's probably capable of reducing my mind to the consistency of a Slurpee. I keep running, and I can hear Mrs Gold's concerned shouting. I turn a corner and spot Cretan. He's on the other side of the fence.
“Oh, you little shit.” I say between harsh breaths. “You little bastard, you've led me to the wrong place.” I turn around and spot Stephen about twenty metres away, shambling towards me. I shout for Mrs Gold and spot her, looking concerned on the other side of the fence. “Mrs Gold! Run!” I yell, starting towards her. She begins to go, but spots Stephen beside me. I realise she's not going to flee for her life because she doesn't realise that I'm fleeing from something mind-breakingly terrible. “Shit. Shit. Shit!”
From behind me, the parrot-screech comes again, screaming something incoherent about drinking from the well of command. Then it comes to me and I realise I might be able to save Stephen after all. “Mrs Gold!” I shout, breaking her rapturous attention away from her son. “Throw me the drink!” I have to repeat the order forcefully, before she unzips my bag and flings the bottle over the fence to me. With an outstretched arm, I catch it and give it a solid shake. I watch Stephen grow closer and hope that I can time this right. I'll only get one chance.
With Mrs Gold shouting her joy and excitement at seeing her son again, the spirit reaches towards me with Stephen's arms and curling fingers going for my throat. I hold up the stolen drink and unscrew the lid, hoping to spray his face with a symbol of disorder and evict the spirit. I certainly get wet, but as the lid comes away and a splash of water spills onto my hands, I realise that Mrs Gold has thrown me the wrong drink. Stephen's fingers close around my throat and I feel my airways close. Shit. Figures.
Mrs Gold springs into action, shouting at her son from behind the fence. She tries to reach through the fence to pry her son's fingers from around my neck but her efforts are futile. Even if she could get a proper grip between the wires she wouldn't be strong enough. She cries at him to stop, that I'm the one who found him and isn't he happy she's here? I struggle weakly as my air starts running out and I can see stars. I hear Cretan hissing and yowling his concern but even he can't get through the fence to help. I'm about to pass out when I feel a foamy spray on my face.
In her desperation, Mrs Gold shakes up the remaining drink and tears off the cap, spraying Stephen and me with soft drink. Either she's somehow figured out the symbolism of dowsing a Justice Spirit with stolen drink, or she has a strange way of disciplining her son. Either way, his fingers loosen and the parrot-screech of the Justice Spirit cries out in agony, burned by the very idea of theft. I shout for her to keep spraying and she does. Most people would baulk at the idea that they were somehow searing their son with soda, but Mrs Gold is definitely a trooper.
I can see the outline of the Justice Spirit beyond Stephen's body, like the sun's corona revealed in an eclipse. I punch him in the face, solidly, and he falls away, leaving the spirit standing over me. It grows and expands, looming as a bright white cloud with shifting features. I try not to look but my eyes are drawn to it. Two points of red light emerge just above my eye level, pulling me in and moving closer. They are a few centimetres away when I hear Mrs Gold yelling again.
“Get away from him!” She cries out, “Get away from my son!” With commendable force of will, she meets its gaze. It begins to move towards her, but she's clearly figured out its weakness. With a thumb over the neck of the bottle, she shakes it hard and points it at the spirit. She releases the pressure and hoses it down. It screeches in agony, but she keeps going. The spirit begins to break up, its foothold in reality shifting and slipping. When the pressure is gone she starts just shaking out the liquid, until only droplets are left. The spirit's screams rise to a crescendo and a wind picks up, rising like a storm over the bay. I hold onto the fence and so does Mrs Gold. I keep my eyes on the spirit as the wind twirls it and whips it about. Finally, its grip is broken, and it breaks up, cries like diamond on glass tearing at the air and my ears until it is gone. Only the sounds of our breathing and Cretan's unhappy meowing break the silence.
I limp over to Stephen and lift his head. I quietly call his name and his eyes open a sliver. The milky white is gone, and his green eyes are dull but definitely his.
Once I've gotten Stephen back over the fence and into his mother's arms, Mrs Gold thanks me and promises me a reward; she tells me she'll never forget what I've done. I know otherwise. We walk back to the station, but by the time we get there, she and her son are in conversation and I'm about twenty steps behind them. They don't even stop to look behind them when they get on the train.
I walk to a bench and sit, Cretan seated by my feet. My pants are ripped, my hands are bloody, and I'm sticky from the soft drink. Even so, I smile. “I reckon I've done a good deed for tonight, Cretan. What do you think?”
He just curls his tail under his bum, spares me a glance and goes back to watching the night.
This one's centred around two pieces of inspiration: I did actually spot someone looking sad on the train while looking at a missing-persons flyer, but I'm pretty sure this wasn't their story. Still, I thought it was neat enough to turn into a short story. The finale is taken almost directly from a dream I had.
I've cut the introductory paragraph for this story, but it can be read in either of the first two stories:
Nowen Jones and The Case of Mr Haas
Nowen Jones and Ruth's Case
Let me know what you think!
Rating: M-ish
Characters: Nowen Jones (Original Character)
Read it below the cut.
Nowen Jones and the Spirit of Justice
The train lurches, and I'm woken up by my head bouncing off the window I'd been resting it against. I grimace and blink away the sleep from my pleasant nap. Cretan yawns, I guess woken up by the same jolt. I take the opportunity to pat myself down and glance at my backpack, make sure nobody's pinched my stuff while I was out. Nothing's missing, so the next thing to do is actually pay attention to the world around me. I look up and down the carriage, taking in my fellow commuters and the dark windows. I hazard a guess that it's about eight or nine, since nobody looks drunk and there's still at least one person wearing a suit.
“See that, Cretan?” I ask quietly, leaning forward to scratch my lazy travelling companion. “Productive members of society, coming home from a hard day's work. How come you're not like them, huh?” Cretan glares at me through half-closed eyes, and pushes into my hand to guide me behind his ears. “Yeah, I know mate. You just can't be arsed.” He purrs.
An automated voice announces the next station. As we pull up I see that it's wrong and I'll admit I'm not particularly surprised. The man in the suit gets up and tries to open the sliding door only to find that the driver hasn't unlocked them yet. I count under my breath, reaching seventeen before the door-release bell chimes and he swears, angrily sweeping the handle aside and storming off the train. I watch him stride away, and catch sight of a slightly-overweight, bedraggled woman racing for the doors.
Flouncing is an unkind word to apply to a person, but I have to use it for this woman. Several parts which I'm sure shouldn't be bouncing are bouncing as she races down the ramp and ignores the ticket machines in her sprint to get on the train. I do some quick guesswork and come down on the side of disappointment, but luckily for her she's able to jam an arm between the doors just as the chime starts going again. With a very familiar set of sounds, she forces her way between the doors and onto the train. She's puffed, and doubles over trying to catch her breath. She looks tired and worried and I throw her a sympathetic look. Cretan throws her a dismissive look, which is pretty high on the sympathy meter for a cat.
The woman takes quite a while catching her breath. Clearly she's pretty put out by the run. She doesn't just double over, but holds a few positions while doing so; bent backwards clutching the handrail, face up against the glass door, and so on. It's like watching a completely unsexy striptease. I watch in hypnotised fascination, while Cretan watches me with what I swear is disgust. While she's holding a particularly unflattering pose, I spot a folded-up piece of paper in her back pocket. I see about a quarter of a face on a photocopied page, along with the blue-and-white checks of the Victoria Police. My guess is that it's a missing-person flyer.
When she's finally done showing off her complete and utter lack of attractive attributes, the woman waddles over to one of the reserved-for-disabled seats and parks her butt in it. Still a little puffed, she looks around and I catch a glance at sad, baggy eyes. I try to dodge her gaze, but our eyes meet for a moment. Ouch. She could reduce a Blackwater mercenary to tears. I can feel the depth of woe and loss radiating from her in palpable waves and it's all I can to not to throw up from despair. Even Cretan looks like he might cry just looking at me.
While I'm bent down and retching, I see her out the corner of her eye reach under her backside and fish out the flyer. She looks at it for a long moment and I can feel her sadness become an almost physical thing. I gag audibly and she turns, hangdog eyes staring at me, the weird sick man in the corner. Her attention returns to the flyer then I see her scan the carriage. It's just me, her, and a couple of bored-looking people reading newspapers they've picked up off the seats.
I think I have to speak to this woman. It's not going to be fun though. I steel myself and stand up, holding onto the seat for balance as the train goes over a rough spot of track. I walk over to the woman and sit down opposite her, Cretan swiftly following me with the grace that he manages without effort. He stands in front of me for a moment, then contorts around to lick his own butt. I quietly congratulate him on his talent for making a good impression, then look up to find the woman staring at me. I flinch, but the sadness isn't quite powerful enough to make me nauseous this time.
I ask her if she likes cats and she nods, looking unnervingly like an unhappy basset hound. She's holding the flyer with both hands. I ask if I can see it, and she nods again so I stand up and lean over to take it. The picture is of a man a bit younger than myself, scruffy and unshaven. His name is Stephen Gold, green eyes, brown hair, average height and build, missing. Mrs Gold looks at me hopefully, but I shake my head and hand the flyer back.
“I'm afraid I haven't seen him, Mrs Gold.” She cocks her head and asks how I knew she was Mrs Gold. I tell her it was a lucky guess. She explains that he's her son and he's been missing for about eight months. She says he was on the train one night and never came home. She says he got on this train, at the same station she got on, and that every week she takes the same train and looks, just in case she sees him. The way she says it, voice quavering and high, almost brings a tear to my eye. While she's talking Cretan walks over and rubs against her leg. She ignores him, just looking at the flyer as she speaks.
When she's done I'm quiet for a while. We arrive at another station, which the automated voice announces wrong, and the other people on the carriage get off. I figure we must be close to the end of the line.
“Mrs Gold, what if I told you I might be able to help?” The obvious look is accompanied by the obvious question, and my unbelievably lame answer is “Well, you could call it magic.” Her expression would have stunned a rubbish truck, its crew and probably the rubbish. “Mrs Gold, you've tried everything else, am I right? If you weren't desperate then you wouldn't be riding the same train nine months later, would you?” As I wait for a reply I have to fight down the memory that the train timetables changed about fifteen weeks ago. I extend a hand. “Just hand back the flyer and I'll see what I can do.”
I look into Stephen's photocopied eyes for a second, then unzip my backpack. I have a feel around. It's not like I keep some sort of wizard's laboratory with me at all times, but I do have a little bag of basics; salt, string, lighter, that sort of thing: stuff I'm always going to need. For posterity, the rest of the bag is filled with a jumper, umbrella and water bottle. Not very exciting, but worth having around.
Mrs Gold watches with interest as I open the velvet bag and pull out the salt shaker and lighter. I hand her the salt shaker. “Take a pinch of it,” I say, “And put it on your open palm.” She gives me a look that says she'll need more than a pinch to take me seriously. I return it with a look that says she's gotten this far so she may as well do as I say. Cretan bats at a dangling drawstring from the bag and Mrs Gold gives the salt a shake. I sigh as far more than we need spills out onto her hand, then shrug and flick the lighter. She asks what I'm going to do with it, a note of concern coming into her voice.
Another stop goes by, mis-announced yet again. I roll my eyes in embarrassment as I begin to explain, “Magic, if you want to call it that, relies on symbolism. The salt is a kind of... well, conductor, I guess you could call it. Mainly I'm making this up as I go.” She expresses disbelief, maybe expecting something deeper or more complicated. Then she expresses concern and even anger as I set fire to the flyer.
Cretan bolts under a nearby seat to get away from the fire. I put out a hand to stop her as the flame rapidly ignites the copy-paper and singes Stephen's face. “Mrs Gold, I told you this is about symbolism, right? Well, this is symbolic of Stephen's loss. You've been associating this flyer with him for nine months, right? So you've been pouring the energy of your sadness into it, making it a focus of your feelings and emblematic of your search for him - ow!” The fire singes my hand and I drop the paper. It hits the ground and I suck my fingers as the flyer burns itself out.
“What happens now?” She asks, visibly upset but still holding the pile of salt in her open palm. “We wait,” I say, “And see what the answer is.”
We wait. Nothing happens. Shit, I think. I've just set fire to her son for nothing. Then the automated voice comes on again as we start to pull into another station. It's wrong, but I smile. The voice doesn't name a station. I have an address, and Mrs Gold looks at me like an astonished goldfish.
*****
Almost an hour later, I have absolutely gotten sick of Mrs Gold thanking me and asking how I did what I did. Even Cretan is giving me a look which asks when she'll shut up. I rub my temples and look about, then head over to a drink machine and tap the button to get myself a soft drink. I get the message telling me to pay first and almost laugh. I put an ear to the machine, mostly for Mrs Gold, and tap the side in a few places. When I think she's been suitably impressed, I take twelve deliberate steps to one side of the machine, then use the run-up to deliver a solid kick. It rocks on its base and spits out my selection of drink.
I look at the bottle, obviously shaken up and decide not to open it straight away. I slip it into by backpack and zip it up, pretending not to notice Mrs Gold's expression. “Shall we, Mrs Gold?”
We leave the station and cross the road, then head downhill through a dingy industrial park to an abandoned office building. The chain-link fence outside is high, rusted and graffiti'd. I wonder why anybody would bother tagging this type of fence. I mean, it's mostly air, so what's the point? I look up at the barbed wire at the top and let my shoulders sag. I hate barbed wire. I think back to a particularly bad night in Dandenong and take the jumper out of my bag, then pass the bag to Mrs Gold.
“Hold this for me, will you?” I ask, then climb the fence. Carefully, I lay the jumper over the barbed wire at the top and use it to protect myself from getting stabbed in the crotch. It doesn't work completely, but it's much better than the alternative. I drop down to the other side, leaving the jumper in place. Cretan swiftly joins me, having found a way in on his own; no doubt he squeezed through a hole small enough that he had to break the laws of physics to fit. I tell Mrs Gold to stay put, then wander off to explore, Cretan trotting ahead.
I don't find much outside or on the bottom floor. The building is gutted, windows smashed in and grass growing wild. The walls are crumbling concrete and I guess that any plaster or fittings have been taken away with the last occupants. There's some rubbish scattered around, but not enough to suggest squatters. Cretan sniffs around, finding little of interest, and disappears out of sight behind a pillar. I wander around and look for a safe way upstairs. There's a few gaps which might have been stairwells, but they're all missing stairs.
Cretan pops his head over the edge of one of the gaps and meows at me. “Bastard” I mutter. How'd you get up, huh? He disappears again, and I can hear him meowing as he moves. I follow the sound and find a very wide column hiding behind a wall I'd missed. I circle round and sure enough, there's a big steel door on one side. Fire door too heavy to bother with, I guess. I give it a tug, but the hinges are rusted shut. I brace one foot against the decaying concrete and put my weight into the pull. The door comes off and I manage to drop it to one side rather than go over backwards with it on top of me. The noise is loud and echoes in the dim light leaking in from the street outside. Cretan is sitting in very dignified fashion at the top of the stairs, looking quite pleased with himself. I glare at him and head up the stairs, looking around at the first floor.
This level is much clearer than the ground floor, with no grass and less rubble. I walk along the hall, checking empty doorways for Stephen. Cretan hovers around me, sniffing and pawing at small piles of stuff I can't identify. There's some graffiti, but not much. I'm beginning to become disheartened when Cretan looks up, flattens his ears and dashes off into the darkness. I shout after him, then follow. My footfalls are loud in my ears. I see Cretan go round a corner and come around close behind, only to come face-to-face with Stephen Gold.
He's sitting on a pile of blankets under a mostly-intact window. He's unwashed and unshaven, but it's definitely Stephen. A pile of rubbish is nearby, and a ripped rucksack sits at the end of his makeshift bed. His eyes are closed and I can see a used needle by his hand. His breathing is very slow and laboured, but doesn't sound painful. Cretan is sniffing at his fingers, gingerly avoiding the needle.
“Good cat.” I whisper, quietly approaching Stephen and squatting down beside him. Cretan gets out of my way and sits to his right. He looks from me to Stephen with apparent concern, and meows once or twice before going quiet. I reach out to grasp his shoulder and give him a gentle shake. He doesn't react, so I call his name softly, trying to wake him.
His eyes crack open a sliver and he looks at me from beneath his eyelids as if staring into the sun. His brows tighten and his lips part to take in a breath. I say his name again, dipping my head to get a closer look into his eyes. Suddenly, Cretan opens his mouth wide and hisses, then he bolts. I twist to look where he's gone, and almost lose my balance, but Stephen's hand steadies me. I turn back to Stephen and see that his eyes are wide open and milky white.
“Nowen Jones!” He shouts, and my own eyes open wide in shock. His other hand shoots out and grabs me by the throat. Between gasping breaths I voice my astonishment at him knowing my name.
“I have felt you, Mister Jones,” he croaks, his voice like bat wings and hospital respirators. “I have felt your presence coming to take Stephen Gold away from me. I have felt you coming and I have felt your intent. You cannot take this boy from me,” the grip around my throat tightens, “He has purpose now, Mister Jones. He has purpose!” Whatever controls Stephen makes his body stand up, taking me with it, then flings me like an unwanted drink across the room. I hit the wall and fall to the floor, counting ribs and feeling my brain rattle around in my skull. I roll over and try to lie still as Stephen walks jerkily towards me.
“He has order now, Mister Jones, and you cannot take that away from him.” Shit. It's a Spirit of Justice. These things are insane. Their idea of order is utterly perverse. Meeting them is like getting a scolding from an alcoholic parent who thinks you should make something of your life. They look at us and wonder how we can live such disordered, chaotic lives. Never mind that from our perspective, doing more than one thing in a day is generally considered healthy. I quickly figure that this spirit came across Stephen, was disgusted that he was living a normal, happy life, and took him over with the intent of getting him hooked on some horrible drug. That way, it thought, he wouldn't have to bear the burden of unpredictable diary entries.
I sigh and try getting to my feet. Stephen picks up speed and reaches me before I finish getting to my feet. I take a fist like a sledgehammer to the side of my chest and go sideways, stumbling down the corridor. I spot Cretan crouching at the end, tail and ears low and eyes wide and scared. I can't blame him.
Stephen is coming after me, so I turn and run. Cretan gets to the stairs before me and takes them in two bounds. I try to take them three at a time, but trip on the last one and sprawl out on a pile of concrete rubble. I can feel the skin come off the tops my knees but I don't stop; I struggle to my feet, see Stephen reach the top of the stairs and leap down, moving unnervingly like a marionette as he does. I'm moving before he hits the ground, limping because of the pain in my knees. Cretan runs on ahead and I follow.
I take several turns in the maze of bare and broken concrete, and I can hear the Justice Spirit screeching behind me. It sounds like an angry parrot, I think, except for the part where it's probably capable of reducing my mind to the consistency of a Slurpee. I keep running, and I can hear Mrs Gold's concerned shouting. I turn a corner and spot Cretan. He's on the other side of the fence.
“Oh, you little shit.” I say between harsh breaths. “You little bastard, you've led me to the wrong place.” I turn around and spot Stephen about twenty metres away, shambling towards me. I shout for Mrs Gold and spot her, looking concerned on the other side of the fence. “Mrs Gold! Run!” I yell, starting towards her. She begins to go, but spots Stephen beside me. I realise she's not going to flee for her life because she doesn't realise that I'm fleeing from something mind-breakingly terrible. “Shit. Shit. Shit!”
From behind me, the parrot-screech comes again, screaming something incoherent about drinking from the well of command. Then it comes to me and I realise I might be able to save Stephen after all. “Mrs Gold!” I shout, breaking her rapturous attention away from her son. “Throw me the drink!” I have to repeat the order forcefully, before she unzips my bag and flings the bottle over the fence to me. With an outstretched arm, I catch it and give it a solid shake. I watch Stephen grow closer and hope that I can time this right. I'll only get one chance.
With Mrs Gold shouting her joy and excitement at seeing her son again, the spirit reaches towards me with Stephen's arms and curling fingers going for my throat. I hold up the stolen drink and unscrew the lid, hoping to spray his face with a symbol of disorder and evict the spirit. I certainly get wet, but as the lid comes away and a splash of water spills onto my hands, I realise that Mrs Gold has thrown me the wrong drink. Stephen's fingers close around my throat and I feel my airways close. Shit. Figures.
Mrs Gold springs into action, shouting at her son from behind the fence. She tries to reach through the fence to pry her son's fingers from around my neck but her efforts are futile. Even if she could get a proper grip between the wires she wouldn't be strong enough. She cries at him to stop, that I'm the one who found him and isn't he happy she's here? I struggle weakly as my air starts running out and I can see stars. I hear Cretan hissing and yowling his concern but even he can't get through the fence to help. I'm about to pass out when I feel a foamy spray on my face.
In her desperation, Mrs Gold shakes up the remaining drink and tears off the cap, spraying Stephen and me with soft drink. Either she's somehow figured out the symbolism of dowsing a Justice Spirit with stolen drink, or she has a strange way of disciplining her son. Either way, his fingers loosen and the parrot-screech of the Justice Spirit cries out in agony, burned by the very idea of theft. I shout for her to keep spraying and she does. Most people would baulk at the idea that they were somehow searing their son with soda, but Mrs Gold is definitely a trooper.
I can see the outline of the Justice Spirit beyond Stephen's body, like the sun's corona revealed in an eclipse. I punch him in the face, solidly, and he falls away, leaving the spirit standing over me. It grows and expands, looming as a bright white cloud with shifting features. I try not to look but my eyes are drawn to it. Two points of red light emerge just above my eye level, pulling me in and moving closer. They are a few centimetres away when I hear Mrs Gold yelling again.
“Get away from him!” She cries out, “Get away from my son!” With commendable force of will, she meets its gaze. It begins to move towards her, but she's clearly figured out its weakness. With a thumb over the neck of the bottle, she shakes it hard and points it at the spirit. She releases the pressure and hoses it down. It screeches in agony, but she keeps going. The spirit begins to break up, its foothold in reality shifting and slipping. When the pressure is gone she starts just shaking out the liquid, until only droplets are left. The spirit's screams rise to a crescendo and a wind picks up, rising like a storm over the bay. I hold onto the fence and so does Mrs Gold. I keep my eyes on the spirit as the wind twirls it and whips it about. Finally, its grip is broken, and it breaks up, cries like diamond on glass tearing at the air and my ears until it is gone. Only the sounds of our breathing and Cretan's unhappy meowing break the silence.
I limp over to Stephen and lift his head. I quietly call his name and his eyes open a sliver. The milky white is gone, and his green eyes are dull but definitely his.
Once I've gotten Stephen back over the fence and into his mother's arms, Mrs Gold thanks me and promises me a reward; she tells me she'll never forget what I've done. I know otherwise. We walk back to the station, but by the time we get there, she and her son are in conversation and I'm about twenty steps behind them. They don't even stop to look behind them when they get on the train.
I walk to a bench and sit, Cretan seated by my feet. My pants are ripped, my hands are bloody, and I'm sticky from the soft drink. Even so, I smile. “I reckon I've done a good deed for tonight, Cretan. What do you think?”
He just curls his tail under his bum, spares me a glance and goes back to watching the night.