Chapter 1
Electrical energy surged in the barren night sky. Remnants of dust and bone collided in a macabe dance of dreamless simplicity. Crackles of light ebbed their way into the darkness, soon joined by an ageless song. Shadows as tall as ancient trees flew forth from a vortex of red and blue before seemingly vanishing into the night.
Soon the once dead frequency of dead gods was unleashed above Bellview retirement home. The forces of Unreality stalked the night once more- and their purpose was clear- retrieve the enemy within the walls. The hunt had begun anew...
[His first trick was to pull a dead rabbit out of the hat. An offering of dust and bone- that was met with shock, and in some quarters, hollow laughter.]
‘Eh that wasn’t supposed to happen folks...just a minor setback.’
[A wry smile that meant something that was hard to define. The frazzled magician was a walking enigma. He wore a moth eaten tuxedo that was engulfed in a thin sheen of dust. A crumpled top hat concealed his receding greasy hairline. His skin was a pale yellow, perhaps the result of a medical condition or some sort of cheap make up. The skin itself was riddled with thick wrinkles that consumed his already hideous features. Such an aberration would have attracted a lot of attention had he been in any other place but here. Here was my prison- Bell View retirement home for the moderately rich- the garish waiting room that separated its senile occupants between mortality and the great beyond. I had been waiting just over ten years for the moment of clarity, but no such luck. Instead it was lukewarm food with crude plastic cutlery. The only human contact l had was when the obese charge nurse helped me into bed each night, and l couldn’t help but want that hand to stay on mine a little longer, just so l could relish human touch...
Melodramatic -absurdly depressing lm sure, but all of this was the price l had to pay for pretending to be mentality and physically deficient. I am so much more, but until the moment of clarity l shall remain to be much less. No one here suspected a raging intellect was trapped behind the decrepit body with a tendency to droll on his dressing gown after meal time. Only he- the amateur magician with the name tag that proclaimed simply -“FINCH” could see through my brilliant disguise. It was on that sunny afternoon in suburban octogenarian hell that l knew this Finch would be an integral part in unlocking the moment of clarity.]
‘It’s ok kids another trick will be comin up shortly if you just bear with me.’
[Mrs Davis the residential drama queen let out a shrill wail to accompany this statement. I just rolled my eyes. I knew most people in the room where too far gone to care what was in front of them. The home could have hired a mail man to stand in the corner with a sack of letters and it would have invoked the same response- passive wonder. The same ubiquitous expression remained simmering in their eyes day after day. They were eternally processing but never realising what they saw. Despite how obvious this was Finch started setting up his next futile magic trick. The window let in a balmy breeze, further on down the road a car back fired. The outside world held the answers. I would have to be quick to make it out. Finch would be my transport. Looking through the dusty glass l could faintly make out a rust eaten motor vehicle, of a most disgusting nature sitting in the parking lot. Malcolm Murray wasn’t used to slumming it, but needs must when escape was at stake. There were only so many more games of l spy with Mr Finley’s one glass eye l could take in good grace.]
‘I’m gonna need a volunteer for my next trick kids.’
[An unremitting silence descended. It was no surprise to me, Malcolm Murray an esteemed master of media and art, that such a response would occur. Finch was fishing in a pool full of amnesiac piranhas with false teeth. They would bite; but would forget to lock their jaws. Mr’s Davis, animated with life moments ago was drooling into her tined soup. How l pitied her- emotions ranging up the scales- from rage to wonder. I couldn’t take much more of this suffocating place. I was willing Finch to draw this laborious display of cheap trickery to a close. Some planning time was essential. I stared out the window at his rusty three wheeler and noticed a crude hand written sign on the side of the car that read ” Mr Finch’s mobile magical mystery machine!” all this had been scrawled with a marker pen, the word machine cascading down the side door, the result of rain no doubt. The sign itself flapped restlessly every time the wind blew, as if signalling Finch to go. How l wished he would do just that: go. There was a whole world of possibility out there a mere thirty feet away. I just had to sneak in the trunk, with the magic paraphernalia and-]
‘How’s about you kid- you look like you’re a candidate to be sawn in half.’
[ME! His dark eyes were locked on mine. For a moment l panicked...nearly spoke- nearly gave away my cover, years of deception almost overthrown due to a question from a stranger. He was grinning now, his fang like teeth as yellow and decrepit as his face. I merely shook my head, hoping this would be enough, but in a bound of alarming energy Finch had grabbed me by the hand and was forcing me on to his make shift stage. Mrs Davis was by now crying. Mr Finley’s glass eye had fallen out of its socket, and was now peering inquisitively at me from his bowl of tinned tomato soup. The old dog hadn’t noticed a thing- none of them had, except Barry Fairweather the head charge nurse, he was eying me with intense suspicion while he ran his fingers through his blond toupee. Mr’s Davis was now clapping, which caused a Mexican wave of applause from the befuddled audience, the vibrations of which caused Finley’s glass eye to bop up and down in the confines of its watery prison, like the eyeball of a predacious crocodile.]
‘Come on kid don’t look so fucking nervous, it’s just a little trick you won’t feel a thing.’
[Finch insisted through gritted teeth, snarling into my ear like a caged animal. He was sweating profusely now- we both were. Perhaps it was Barry eying us the whole time, clicking his jaw whilst adjusting his twelve thousand dollar hairball, that channelled a cross between a working man’s Donald Trump and a blond turban.]
‘Were gonna need some quite kids’
