Part 6
Magic coming out of my arse!

I am standing outside Museum Station and it’s very late. Or very early, depending on what it is you’re waiting for.

Now I’m not so sure what to do. I mean, I remember what happened to my friend once. He comes home and finds a burglar struggling to escape through the window. So he runs after him. The burglar’s running away but he’s unfit. OK, so he’s fat. And slow. My friend easily catches up with him, but a few metres away he starts asking himself, now what? Does he tackle him? Wrestle him to the ground? Beat him to a pulp? Hell, my friend’s never been in a fight before! He wouldn’t know the first thing about bringing a guy down.

And neither do I. I’m a nerd, for Pete’s sake. I say things like ‘for Pete’s sake’. People who say things like that don’t get into fights. Astrid. She’s the feisty one in the family. Oh Astrid!

I know this is where I’m supposed to be. The voice on the phone last night told me the way to find whoever it was who took away my reading ability is to sniff out what he calls the snail trail. Astrid. My wife. She also used to use the term with me. But now that I think about it, she was probably referring to something else … oh Astrid, you’re so hot! Why did you do it?

But the voice on the phone wasn’t coming on to me. The snail trail he’s talking about is the trail of astral dust that follows a spell from the caster to the recipient. To sniff out the snail trail, like to sniff out anything, you need a nose. The more complex the spell, the more sensitive a nose you need.

Your common fart is an example of a most unsophisticated basic form of a discomfort spell. And it is usually easily enough to use your own nose to follow the fart to its ‘caster’.

On the other hand, the spell that I have been inflicted with is much more sophisticated and so to sniff it out, I needed a much more sensitive nose. So in this case, he recommended me the nose of the Albanian yak - the most magically sensitive nose in all creation. Mummified will do. Tied to the end of a silver pendulum. Follow it and it will lead you to the spellcaster.

Earlier in the day I went to visit Francis at his magic shop again to get everything I need. Well, everything I thought I needed. This is becoming a habit. A mummified Albanian yak nose, a silver pendulum and a weapon of sorts. All I could afford was the Dagger of Orobos. Orobos, Francis tells me, is not so much a demon as it is a physical embodiment of anal excretion. This is its dagger. You can fill in the gaps.

Now, the dagger looks kinda flimsy. Then I check the hilt and it says ‘Made in Taiwan’. I think the bastard ripped me off again.

So now the yak nose has led me to Museum Station but my timetable says there’s only one more train running tonight. Yes, I know I still can’t read but I went to a pub to ask someone to read it for me and guess who I run into. Mitch! And he’s still dressed in flannel and although he was off his face, he was still pretty much able to read the time… or so I am assuming.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘I need to find someone.’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It sounds exciting.’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Can I come?’

I told him no. I don’t want anyone else involved with this. And besides, I didn’t want a drunken guy hanging around me when I’m trying to hunt someone down. But the man is hard to get rid of. So I stayed with him for a while and I bought him a few more drinks. And eventually, as it happens, he needed to go to the bathroom, providing me with the perfect escape route!

Thank god for beer!

Now I am walking down the station stairs. The nose is still definitely pointing down here. The voice on the phone, he told me that the yak nose itself leaves a trail that is traceable. So he gives me a simple trail buster spell which fixes that up. This involved stuffing my mouth with Weet Bix and chanting ‘Yamala yamala yama’ eight times while constantly thinking about the yak nose. The whole thing made me want to throw up.

The voice on the phone also gave me a handy recipe for guacamole that used sweet chilli sauce.

I think we got sidetracked there.

Once I’m in the ticket area, the nose is going nuts. No longer pointing in any one direction, it’s spinning wildly and tangling the string.

Stupid piece of crap!

A door opens and I quickly hide the nose under my jacket.

It’s one of those transit officer guard people. He’s tall and looks like Tom Cruise if Tom Cruise had been a junkie and tall. His cheeks are hollow. He’s gaunt to the point where I feel uncomfortable just looking at him. But he still somehow looks like Tom Cruise. Behind him walks out another guard. She’s chubby, blonde and doesn’t look like any particular celebrity I know.

She smiles at me.

I smile back.

“You’re gonna just make the last train,’ she says, and I say ‘thanks.’

Behind her walk out four more guards.

That’s six. What are they, having a party in there?!

I quickly duck down to the platform, which is completely deserted. I guess that shouldn’t really be a surprise considering the time.

Now what?

Again, I’m at a loss. The yak nose is still going nuts under the jacket but what am I to do? Say it’s one of the transit officers. There are six of them. I can’t take them all on!

So I do what I always do when I don’t know what to do. I run and hide. In this case, in the broom closet at the end of the platform.

It’s tiny. Barely fits me. And smells like off yoghurt. Funny that. But once I’m in, it’s strangely comfortable. Funny that too. When I close the door it’s dark but I can still feel the yak nose spinning inside my jacket. I figure I must be at the right place, but now what?

OK, the smell is starting to get to me so I open the door a little. That’s a bit better. Well, maybe just a little bit more. Yes, now it’s better. And I have a slightly better view of what’s going on outside … which happens to be nothing at the moment, but if something were to be going on, I would be able to see it!

In about five minutes, Tom Cruise and the chubby blonde walk down onto the platform just as the final train approaches. They march to my end of the platform, talking.

‘The secret is to use butter,’ says the chubby blonde.

I assume that I’ve missed the better part of this conversation.

They stop about a metre away from the broom closet where I am. The train stops and leaves again with no passengers either coming or going.

This is the last train service for the night

‘Well thank god that’s over,’ says Tom Cruise.

‘Yeah. Felt like the longest night of my friggin’ life.’

And then it begins.

__________

With the last of the trains gone, in time, the lights go out. Tom Cruise and Chubby are still standing just a few metres from me in the dark, chatting about the best way to cook goat meat, so I can’t leave my broom closet.

I’m thinking why they are still here when the lights are out, but then more of the guards come down to the platform. I can’t see too well from here but there looks to be about seven or eight others. And they’re carrying torches. Not the hand-held variety but I mean the old fashioned flame ones. Also, they’re not wearing guard uniforms. They’re wearing robes. Like the ones monks wear.

With the low lighting, I am even less visible to the outside so I open the door a little further. It’s beginning to make sense to me but the scene is still extremely bizarre. These guards are going to do some sort of ritual in Museum station?!

Tom Cruise and Chubby are now putting their robes over their guard uniforms. I feel hot just looking at them layer their clothing like that. It could also just be the closet.

There is quite a bit of chatter now. A few more people in robes come down to the platform. I’m assuming they’re also guards. Two of them carry with them a table and set it down in the middle of the platform. Torches, on their stands, now line the entire length of the platform.

Try to imagine what I’m looking at. It’s not really something you see every day!

I feel around for my Orobos dagger and I hold the hilt tightly in my hand but I’m still not sure what my course of action should be. I mean, one of them is probably the spellcaster I’m looking for. Or it could be all of them!

Then suddenly, I hear a soft rumbling from my end of the tunnel. The guards must have heard it too because now they’re all facing towards that direction. The rumbling grows louder. And louder still. Lights shine out of the tunnel.

It’s a train!

The train screams into the platforms and screeches to a halt. It’s one of those old red rattlers that were decommissioned about ten years ago. There is a buzz of excitement now from the guards. It’s like they can sense something about to happen. My heart is pounding.

The centre door opens and suddenly everyone is silent. I can hear footsteps coming from that carriage and then the guards begin to clap and cheer. A few of them whistle out. Their hands are up in the air and they’re waving them like they just don’t care.

This short man with a big head walks out of the carriage and raises his hands up to quiet the crowd but they just cheer even louder. Oh my god, it’s Artie from work! The He’s naked except for a pair of glasses. I would think this curious if not for the fact that I consider this whole situation rather curious. In that context, a short naked man with glasses fits rather well actually.

I can’t believe it’s Artie! I can’t believe I’m looking at him naked!

Artie still has his arms raised.

‘Thank you. Thank you. I know it’s been a while since we’ve had one of these. But the wait is finally over.’

He goes back inside the carriage and them comes out with a girl, who is also wearing a robe. Over her eyes is a blindfold. Despite being mostly covered up, I can tell she’s hot.

‘May I present… Maria!’

The place erupts with more cheers, more clapping, more whistling.’

‘Artie,’ Maria whines, ‘where are you taking me?’

She sounds drugged or half asleep or perhaps she’s just an airhead. I can’t tell.

‘I’m taking you to a beautiful place, sweet child,’ says Artie, trying to comfort her.

He leads her to the table and lays her across it. She struggles meekly. She’s definitely drugged. He starts removing her clothes. And I am proven right. She is indeed hot. Artie is getting excited. And unfortunately, so am I. So for some reason, I choose this time to make my move.

I leap out of the broom closet. On the way out I almost trip on a mop but I regain my balance before everyone is hears the noise I make and looks at me. They are silent.

With little in the way of options, I grab the nearest person (who happens to be Chubby) by the waist and I whip my Orobos dagger to her neck. She lets out a scream, which stops as the dagger makes contact with skin.

‘Everybody just calm down,’ I say in a very non-calming voice.

‘Hey, I know you,’ chirps Artie.

‘Yes Artie, it’s me. Now just calm the hell down everyone!’

I notice that I am probably the only person on the platform (other than Chubby) who isn’t calm at the moment.

‘Now look, son,’ says one of the older guards, ‘there’s no need to do anything rash.’

‘Well I just want to know who cast a spell on me so that I can’t read and all that. And… um… er… I mean, I think it’s rather rude and… inconvenient… so would you please kindly remove it… and no one will get hurt.’

No one says a thing until the older guard speaks again.

‘So someone put a spell on you.’

‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’

‘Right you guys, who put a spell on this poor gentleman here?’

All the guards in their robes look at each other and shrug.

‘Oh… and also,’ I say, ‘stop with this secret magic business.’

‘What secret magic business?’ chirps Artie.

‘This! That,’ I say pointing to the torches, ‘that girl on altar.’

‘Maria? She’s not magical. We’re not doing anything magical.’

‘Really?’ I’m caught off guard. ‘So you’re not an evil demon-worshipping cult?’

‘Um… well,’ says Artie, ‘… well we are. But tonight, we’re just having a party.’

‘A party? Oh… really?’

Suddenly, Chubby decides to make a move and elbows me in my side and momentarily she’s free of me. No doubt this is one of the moves she learnt during her City Rail Transit Officer training.

Artie reacts and commands ‘GET HIM!’

I’m taken back by this, and in an act of pure instinct, I make a light cut on Chubby’s arm with the Orobos dagger and I push her away into the oncoming mob. I run towards an exit and in the background I can hear one of them.

‘That was an Orobos dagger he stabbed her with. Oh sh…!’ followed by the ripping sound of the hugest fart you’ve ever heard! I can hear little splattering noises and the bad egg gas smell fills the air with tremendous pungency. I dare not even turn around but I’m assuming that Chubby’s unfortunate… um… explosion has given me a bit of time.

The exit gate is barred shut. I pull at the lock to no avail but then someone on the other side of the gate opens the lock. It is Mitch!

‘Mitch! What are you doing here?’

‘Getting you out of here!’ he says.

He allows me to slip through the gate and then he shuts it before the mob of guards reach us. I’m pushing it shut against the pressure of the mob while he locks it.

‘Open up you bastards!’ cries a guard, whose robe is now covered in diarrhoea.

When the gate is locked, Micth pulls me away and then points towards the mob.

‘Er… um…fern… no… learn… um… BURN!’ And the guard bursts into flames! He reels back into the body of the mob, screaming.

Mitch leads me up the stairs and into the toilet.

‘Why are we going in there?’

‘Because we’ll never outrun them by foot,’ explains Mitch, showing impressive resolve despite his obvious (and usual) drunkenness.

He locks the door of the toilet and we run to a cubicle. Mitch rummages into his pocket and fumbles out a red texta. He then kneels down next to a toilet and starts drawing these symbols on the rim of the bowl. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, only to start coughing. Well a toilet (and a City Rail one at that!) is no place to be breating in deeply at all!

I notice the toilet bowl beginning to glow and Mitch says ‘Good! Gavel! The bowl glows brighter. ‘Um… um… quick, give me a word that rhymes with travel.’

‘Um,’ I’m thinking, ‘Dazzle!’ The bowl dims slightly.

‘That doesn’t rhyme with travel!’

‘Crap! Sorry! I can’t work under this amount of pressure! Um… er… gravel!’

Bowl glows brighter again.

‘Ravel! Unravel!’ I think I’m on a roll. And the bowl grows brighter still.

Crap, I’m not a roll!

‘One more,’ says Mitch.

‘Um… er…’ We can hear someone trying to open the toilet door.

‘Quickly!’

‘You think of one!’

‘I can’t! I’m too drunk!’

‘Um… well I can think of something, but it only sort of rhymes with travel.’

‘How sort of?’

‘Sort of… better than dazzle anyway.’

‘OK. Shoot then.’

‘Bevel!’

The toilet bowl glow splutters a little.

‘Good enough!’ beams Mitch, ‘… final touch… TRAVEL!’

A column of light emanates out of the toilet bowl with such force that I’m flung back out of the cubicle. Mitch says ‘Follow me!’ and jumps into the column of light and is sucked into the toilet.

‘What?! I’m not jumping into a toilet!’

I can hear the door banging. ‘Where are the keys! Where are the keys!’ someone is shouting.

I’m considering following Mitch in but before I make a decision, a hand jumps out of the bowl and grabs me!

‘Aaaaarggghh!’

And I’m sucked into the toilet! Into this vortext. I’m hurtling head-first at super speed underwater through pipes, past excrement and used nappies. Either I’ve shrunk or everything’s become huge. Mitch is just ahead of me and now I’m clinging to his foot. I guess this would be an awesome experience for anyone who’s ever wondered what it feels like to be a piece of poo being flushed down a toilet.

I just can’t say I’m one of them…

Part 5 1/2
To there and back
Click here for Part 4

Right now, I’m on the road again. I’m Driving back through torrential rain because something crap has happened to me. No, not that. Something else.

But before that, I was having the best time that I could possibly afford to have in the past few days. Sitting by the pier on a bright sunny day. Fresh crusty bread and two cans of tuna. There was the cool sea breeze. The dolphin cruise boats, or ferries or whatever you wish to call them, lined up one after the other. Even the seagull poop seemed to miss me every time. There was a group of Japanese tourists lining up to see the dolphins and one of them took a picture of me. Maybe Astrid did some spell on me and made me look like a dolphin. But I was feeling good there for a while. I maybe went a whole hour without thinking of her. And the rest of the trip had been pretty good too.

The drive up to Port Stephens was uneventful enough.

Well… I suppose there were the three exploding tires that was kinda freaky. I mean, what are the chances of that? I got the same NRMA mechanic twice.

‘Dude, you sure you don’t wanna just ride with me the rest of the way?’ he says. I told him no and twenty minutes later, I got another puncture.

And then there was also that freak electrical storm that seemed to only be above my car.

But these things happen.

Anyway, when I decided that I had to leave the house, there was only one place that I could think of going. That's Port Stephens. It's always been my happy place and I needed that. Ever since childhood, it’s been the one place where I can’t remember ever feeling sad.

I stayed, last night, at the Paradise Island Motel, which in itself wasn’t a bad thing at all. The room was basic and decorated like a 70s love motel but it had a TV and kettle and I was allowed to borrow a microwave from George, the owner. He was very nice.

Then, in the middle of the night I was visited by a ghostly figure (who looked a bit like Dennis Franz except with fangs and a tail) who told me I should go back home. Thank God that was only a dream though. Would have been real scary otherwise!

So anyway, things were going quite well, given the circumstances. I was on the pier, as I mentioned, and whistling the theme song to Bewitched when I saw a newspaper fly straight past me, catching itself on a pole. Flapping around noisily like a makeshift flag. So I got up and picked it up.

And here’s when things went to crap. See, I wasn’t really trying to read the paper as I grabbed it but I glanced at it. As you would. And when you glance, you end up reading. Except I didn’t. Couldn’t.

I couldn’t read a single word. I mean, I could sort of tell the letters apart and it was all clear and not blurry or anything. And I was pretty sure it was all English. But I couldn’t make out a single word. These… symbols… these… things just danced in front of my eyes but giving me no joy of meaning!

I turned the pages but they were all the same. Just pictures and undecipherable symbols. And I realised it was the same everywhere. I looked up and I couldn’t derive any sense out of anything I tried reading. The name of the boats. Signs on the pier. I turned around and it was the same with all the shop signs.

I panicked. How am I going to survive? How will I work? I need words! Was this Astrid? Why? Why would she do this to me? What did I write in the note again? Was it that bad? I can’t remember. I can’t read. Dammit, I can’t read! If I can’t read, how am I supposed to, like, read stuff?!

So here’s where we’re at. I feel like all I do is pack and run. Back and forth. I’m driving now. It’s very wet. And my inability to read is no longer possible to ignore. Road signs point me in to foreign towns, while speed limits have become mere educated guesses from how fast the other cars around me are going.

I’m thinking of my next step. What now? What do I do? Do I go and face Astrid? Is that what she wants? Is that an ice cream van that just passed me? What’s this thing on my head?

Oh, it’s seagull poop.

_____

When I get back into the city, I decide that I’m not yet prepared to face my wife. These past couple of days, I’ve had this growing feeling of pride that I don’t think I ever had in me before. Going back to her now, after all she’s done, would just make me the loser that I always assumed I was. So instead I go to Newtown to see the only other magic person I can think of.

I park my car behind Coles, hoping that I am allowed to park there. Of course, I can’t read the parking sign. But I don’t really care at the moment. I run to the magic shop.

And so I’m there in the alley behind the bar but the shop isn’t there. I run out the front to check it’s the right bar. It is, but the shop isn’t there. Has it closed? No, the shopfront isn’t even there. It must be the wrong place. Or have I…

‘Oi!’ says a voice, ‘it’s you again.’

I look around. The voice seems familiar though. I reply, ‘Hello?’

‘You’ve been locked out mate,’ says the voice again. ‘That’s why you can’t see it anymore.’

‘Who’s locked me out?’

‘Can’t say, really. Could be anyone.’

I look around a bit more. There’s nothing and no one around that could be speaking. Then I look down and I see a doormat against the wall. It’s the same one that was in the shop! I stoop down and say, ‘is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me!’ the mat shouts, ‘who else could it be?’

‘Well, I guess it’s just that I’m not used to talking to doormats. Are you magical?’

‘"Enchanted" is my preferred description.’

‘Oh, alright then. So I can’t get in?’

‘Well it’s kinda hard to get anywhere if you can’t see where you’re going.’

I give him a perplexed look. Quite possibly because I am perplexed.

‘Well let’s put it this way, mate,’ the mat continues, ‘what’s a doormat doing without a door?’

‘Ahh’ I smile, figuring out that the door to the magic shop must be the part of the wall next to the doormat. Well, duh!

‘You’re not as dumb as you look.’

I step on the mat and smile to myself. I hesitate a second and then walk through the door.

Bang! On the head! And I reel back, with what distinctly feels like I just banged my head against a brick wall.

‘You said there was a door there!’ I demand of the doormat.

‘Well there is, you dickhead.’

‘So how come I couldn’t walk though?’

‘Cause it’s a friggin’ door, you moron. You need to open it first!’

‘Oh,’ right, I knew that. ‘So where’s the knob?’

‘You gotta be able to see the door first.’

‘And how do I do that?’

‘Step back a bit. If you squint, you’ll be able to see it.’

So I do that. I squint. And I could see…

‘Nothing. I just see bricks.’

‘Keep going.’

And so I do. And so it does. And slowly, out of the blurriness of the bricks doubling into each other, I can see the beginnings of a door. Like a Magic Eye picture materialising from the page before me. A door never looked so amazing. I walk up to it slowly and reach for the knob. It’s icy to the touch. I turn it until it clicks. The door then opens effortlessly and I’m inside the shop where it’s still as musty as ever.

‘Thanks,’ I say, looking back to the doormat.

‘Dickhead.’

_____

Francis stands by his counter with a wand pointed at me.

‘How did you get in here?’

‘I opened the door.’

‘You can’t be in here.’

‘Why did you lock me out?’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Aren’t I a valued customer?’

‘I can’t sell you nothing no more.’

‘Why?’

‘If I tell you, they’ll kill me.’

‘Really?’

‘Er… yes.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Don’t make no difference.’

Despite being the one in the power position – you know, him having a loaded (with what?) wand pointed at me and all – he’s the one who looks scared. I can see he is sweating and his white vampire skin makeup is running down one cheek.

‘Look, I’ll be quick. I just need your help. You’re the only… um… magic person I know. Other than my wife of course.’

I step closer. He takes an air swing of the wand. I pull back. Hands raised to head level.

‘I think somebody’s put a spell on me.’

‘Of course they have. They’ve put a few spells on you.’

‘But why?’

‘I got no idea. But whatever it is, you must be in trouble, and if you’re here much longer, I’ll be in trouble.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Was it my wife?’

‘Listen, leave please!’

‘Can’t you help me?’

‘No, I told you.’ Francis looks really nervous now.

‘How about someone else? Do you know anyone who can help me? I need these spells removed.’

‘No, I can’t risk that.’

I take out my wallet slowly out of my back pocket. Francis flinches and I raise my hand again. But after he sees that all I have is a wallet, I fish out a note from it that I can tell is a fifty. From the colour. Because of course, if you’ve been following my story, I can’t bloody read anymore!

‘Even if I just happen to drop this on the floor?’

‘No,’ he says, eyeing the note as it floats gently to the floor.

He doesn’t move or say any more so I bend down to pick up my note.

‘Well maybe.’

I leave the note. ‘Please.’

‘I know this guy.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘You can’t. But you can call him.’

‘OK.’ I gotta say. I’m sceptical.

Francis digs around behind the counter and pulls out a teabag.

‘Here,’ he says and hands me the teabag. ‘Make a cup of this…’

‘It’s Lipton!’

‘No… well yes, but it’s magic Lipton.’

‘That’s crap!’

‘No, serious! Look, brew this tea for two minutes. While you’re waiting, find a pillow and tie it to the back of your head…’

‘What? You’re just having me on!’

‘… drink the tea. Then call this number.’ He writes me the number on a piece of paper and hands it to me. ‘Then, when it connects, start chanting this mantra: “Owa Tagu Siam”. Keep going until he responds.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You don’t have a choice.’

‘This is true. But what the hell do I need to tie a pillow around my head for?’

'You'll see.'

I leave the shop after that and I start thinking of where I can spend the night and where I might make this phone call. I ended up settling for this backpackers’ hostel in Surry Hills that has private rooms for a little more than the cost of a bed in the dorm. Well, quite a bit more really but that’s not really important right now.

‘Oh by the way,’ I say to the reception guy, a tall skinny redhead, named Dave, who’s obviously on weed – something I disapprove of quite strongly but that’s also something that’s not really important right now – I say, ‘Do you have any string or masking tape?’

_____

So I have this pillow tied to the back of my head and I’m drinking the tea which, it turns out, is certainly not Lipton. Maybe really old Lipton. Like Lipton that’s so old even the maggots have discomposed. I hold my mobile phone in my hand and I take out the piece of paper with the phone number on it. I unfold it and… well, yes I am an idiot once more, because of course I've forgotten that I can’t READ THE BLOODY THING! So I run out the door and down the stairs to Dave who on second thoughts may be not on weed at all. I think he’s just tired. Maybe he’s been playing too much Xbox. Or maybe he has a sick mother that he has to tend to. But anyway, I digress. So I give him the piece of paper and I ask him to read it to me.

‘Why dude?’

‘Just read it please.’

‘OK dude.’ And he reads it out to me. It doesn’t sound like a home number. And it’s rather easy to remember, thank God.

I then thank him and start to walk back up the stairs.

‘Hey dude,’ he calls out to me. ‘Why do you have a pillow stuck to the back of your head?’

‘Well,’ I start, ‘it’s just that when I sleep, I toss and turn so much that the pillow often ends up falling off the bed. So now I just tie it up.’ I’m grinning at him.

Dave looks puzzled. Then smiles and starts nodding.

‘Cool, dude. I might try that.’

So now I’m back in the room. My stomach starts to rumble and my head feels light – probably from the bad tea bag. I get the feeling that Francis has scammed me again but I go ahead anyway as people with nothing to lose often do. I ring the number and I start the chant.

Owa Tagu Siam.

Then it connects.

‘On the third stroke, it will be 10:32 and 30 seconds.’

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

That bastard Francis has given me the time information service! And the bad tea! And he’s made me tie a bloody pillow on my head! I bet he’s having a good old laugh now!

I’m about to put the phone down but then I think ‘eh, why not.’ Just go with it. What can I lose? And besides, my head feels light now and I’m resting it on the phone in my hand.

‘On the third stroke, it will be...’

I think I’m smiling. No. I’m just… um… what am I doing? Oh, I’m still chanting. I didn’t even realise.

Owa Tagu Siam.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Oh wa tagu Siam.

Ah… this is nice. And maybe if I start rocking back and forth on my chair it will be nicer.

Oh wat agu Siam.

Yes. Rocking is nice! Wheeeeeee!

‘… it will be 10:39 and…’

Oh what agoo siam.

I’m a rockin’. I’m a rockin’.

Oh what a goose…

And I snap out of it. The bad tea or whatever. One moment of clarity. But my momentum is already going backwards, in a violent jerk at the realisation. And I’m falling backwards onto the floor.

‘Ahh, the pillow,’ I think to myself. But I hit my head hard and I black out anyway.

_____

When I open my eyes, I’m upright. On my chair. One hand is still holding the phone to my ear. The pillow on my head is gone. I feel great. Doesn’t seem to be any effects left from the tea. The room is deathly silent.

‘On the third stroke, it will be 3:56 and 45 seconds.’

It’s still the time information service. Has it really been over five hours? How much is this going to cost me? That bastard Francis!

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Oh what a goose I am!

‘On the third stroke, it will be 3:57 and I should be in bed right now dreaming about Jessica Alba or my hot next door neighbour who kinda looks like Jessica Alba. So tell me who the hell you are, who gave you my number, what you want from me, or just bugger off, will you?’

Part 4
'I'm taking the tuna with me'

From the bottom of this here glass, even this guy looks pretty hot. In a drunken smelly guy sort of a way. Wait… or is that me? Oh, it’s just the toilet I’m sitting next to. Yeah, that’s it. Bloody frickin’ toilet. Close the damn door or something! Lock it up! I’ll swallow the damn key. It’ll probably taste better than this smells... smells better than this tastes. What do you mean I can move? Of course I can move but I don’t want to. No! Leave me the hell alone with my smell.

I’m drunk.

I am thinking of Astrid and what she has done or what I think she has done and I am thinking of whether I will ever see her naked again or if I could ever find anyone else that I love and is hot and is all that Astrid is. I feel that what I am thinking may be frowned upon by some as superficial and I am thinking where such a voice is coming from in such a drunken state.

Am I really drunk?

Is this all real?

Will I wake up in the morning to find that it was all just a bad dream?

Does she seriously think he’s better-looking than I am? Surely not! He was short. He had bug eyes and the mouth of a horse. Surely she has eyes!

Is this biased?

Is there a God?

Is that a beer stain on my pants or did I just wet myself?

I need to pee.

_____

I’m talking to this guy, right. He’s been sitting next to me all this time and he’s a little shorter than I am and a few years older, and I think he’s fully covered in flannel but that seems unlikely. He’s saying… um… no, I’m saying ‘Would you leave your wife if you found her sleeping with another man?’ and he says ‘Your life is bleeping with another fan?’ I say ‘Fair enough’ and he hesitates, but then nods in enthusiastic agreement and pats me on the back, shouting ‘Good man!’

But, well, of course she may not have been cheating on me at all. I have, to be sure, often seen her on top of guys naked before. Although it’s never been the case where the man ends up creeping out the front door. It typically ends in blood. A lot of it. ‘You see,’ I tell him, ‘she’s a witch.’

He nods again. With a positively solemn sincerity that only drunken men can exhibit, he pats me on the back again and says ‘Me too, mate. My wife is also a bitch.’

‘No, I said “witch”!’

‘She’s rich?’

I try to say no but he’s already patting me on the back again.

‘Good man! Better to leave it all on the cricket pitch, I say,’ he tells me and I nod even though I have no idea what he’s on about.

‘It’s OK that you live in a ditch.’

And that’s when I leave the conversation. He extends his hand and tells me ‘the name’s Mitch’ and I tell him my name and he says ‘good man!’ I turn to leave and that’s when he grabs my hand and, looking almost sober, tells me ‘I know magic… if you ever need any.’ I wave the drunken man away and I say ‘magic is the last thing I want to hear about right now.’

_____

I suspect it’s not so late when I stumble out of the pub, although it could be anytime, really. The walk home seems surreal in its quietness. I look up at the sky and the stars are bright blurry dots constantly coming in and out of focus.

When I come home I have sleep on my mind. Momentarily I remember that I haven’t had dinner yet, but it doesn’t bother me enough to do anything about it. Even though, from where I am, I can see the eighteen cans of tuna that we had bought for 99c each from Coles.

In the morning I wake up with all the pretty symptoms of a hangover. I get up off the couch, which I decided to sleep in last night, and I go upstairs to the bedroom.

It looks normal, I guess. As normal goes the morning after you’ve just witnessed your wife naked and on top of another man but without a ceremonial dagger. The bed is still unmade. Astrid rarely makes the bed in the morning. I leave the house a little later usually, so oftentimes that’s my job. But it seems a little more unmade than usual this morning. You know… yeah.

I stand there for a few minutes, not moving. I see from the alarm clock that it’s actually 3pm or thereabouts. Not morning at all. Then I pick up the sheets and put them in the washer to rid it of the human sin that has soiled its usual pristine white lustre. I consider burning them but decide that I’m not that much of a drama queen.

There is anger within me. Yoda would not approve.

My head still throbs so I go to the potion cabinet and get myself some anti-pounding-head elixir. Unfortunately, while it works wonders to soothe a throbbing head, the elixir has a nasty side effect of intense blistering of the foot. So I quickly down a teaspoon of no-foot-blister powder with a glass of water. This powder has its own side effect of a tick in the neck for ten minutes after consumption. But that, I can live with. Happily.

With a clear, non-pounding, head, I feel only slightly less crap than before. I turn on the TV but that’s mostly crap too at this time. I have no idea what to do. Passions is on and I’m less than passionate about that show even at the best of times.

I start to write Astrid a letter but my writing goes funny every time my head jerks involuntarily to the side. And what if she decides she would rather talk to me instead? I don’t want to talk to her. I really don’t. At least not yet. I wouldn’t know what to say. Do I want to leave? Do I want to stay?

Maybe I can go away and leave the note. But that would be too dramatic, wouldn’t it? And I don’t even know what to write. This is hopeless. This is terrible. And maybe I need to find some Anti-tick-in-the-neck potion. It’s starting to annoy me. And it’s been 20 minutes at least.

On the ABC now there’s some British show from the 70s or early 80s that’s set in a pub similar to the one down the road and there are these two guys talking, both drunk, looking pretty much like me and Mitch did last night except what they are talking about is different. This one guy, who actually looks more American than British (if that makes sense!), is telling the other guy about some woman he slept with the other night and he’s describing it all rather crudely, or at least it’s suggestively crude because the language itself was M15+ at most and it is late afternoon free-to-air TV we’re talking about. And so the other guy is responding in pretty much the same manner and making drunken suggestive hand actions and stuff and it’s all quite disgusting and way over the top. This should be funny. There’s canned laughter in the background to tell me that it’s supposed to be funny. But in no way am I laughing right now. I kinda just stare at the screen without absorbing anything, really. Almost creating my own dialogue and my own show in my head. And suddenly the two guys are no longer Mitch and me. But it’s the guy. You know. That guy. And he’s with some work colleague, some bozo in a suit, sneaking in a quiet late afternoon beer and he’s telling him about this hot chick that he was banging last night and how good she was but then her husband walked in on them. Only this guy, the husband, is a gutless, useless loser who didn’t really get all that angry and instead just walked out the room with his tail between his legs and started watching some dumb documentary about pyramids or something while he got dressed and calmly went out the front door. Now what a stupid tosser this guy is who sees his wife screwing someone else and just does nothing about it. Nothing!

_____

I think I know now that this is not a dream. If anything, it’s waking up from the dream. The happy home. The beautiful wife. The magic of it all. I need to go. At least for a while to clear my head. I’ll take some clothes, some CDs and the car. I’ll finish that letter and tell her that I need some time out. I’ll tell her that I’m taking all of the eighteen cans of tuna that we got for 99c each at Coles, and some bread. And then I’m taking this book of hers. It’s called Magic for Beginners. By some German guy named Alexander Wurz. It’s a glossy, full-colour, fully illustrated coffee table book laid out like one of Jamie Oliver’s cookbooks. From what I can tell, it’s like an overview of all types of magic from around the world. And I am going to read this book from cover to cover and if I find something magical in it about sitting naked on top of a guy without a ceremonial dagger, I’ll come back home. Actually, I’ll come back home soon, regardless, but that’s what I’ll tell her in my note anyway.

Yes, I know. I’m a fool.

Part 3
Don't eat the bad cake!

I came late to work again today. Which I suppose wasn’t totally not my fault. But I blame the trains nonetheless. I cursed them as I left the carriage and cursed them some more as I was walking to my office. Not the type of curse that my wife does, mind you. Just your average silent potty-mouthed complaints over the current state of the New South Wales public transport service. No one will die because of these curses. No trains will explode. No fat conductor will be finding pustules on his arse today.

In fact, I once did ask Astrid if she would put an actual curse on City Rail and she flatly said no and I felt guilty about asking her. Although I still don’t understand how she can kill innocent (well… sort of innocent) men on a regular basis and yet she can’t put a curse on a large faceless organisation that continually takes us to work late. I don’t understand her morals sometimes. But I love her. And she’s hot.

I miss the meeting by about 45 minutes but no one seems to notice. They must have had cake during the meeting because what’s left of it is just sitting there by the bookshelves, and I go and eat some without asking anyone about the occasion. There’s usually an occasion. There’s always an occasion, really.

And it is during the eating of said cake that I actually notice that there is no one in my team who could have noticed me missing from the meeting, or been able to answer me about the occasion question. In fact, I can’t see anyone at all. Strange. My area is completely empty.

I look around the corner and can’t see anyone. Just blocks of empty desks. I then walk a bit further around the level and I finally find one guy. Arthur. What you need to know about him is he’s 35, short, glasses, checker pants and he has an unusually large face. He’s into pots. Not pot. Pots. Not pot plants. Just pots. The ceramic kind, mind you.

‘Hey Artie,’ he likes being called that, ‘where is everyone?’

‘Oh hey man. How are you?’

‘Good Artie. Listen, where is…’

‘You wanna see my new pot?’

‘Um… listen, I’m just wondering…’

Hey, that was good cake.

‘It’s really nice,’ he says with a smile that Winnie the Pooh would be proud of. I don’t really like to talk to him for extended periods of time. Actually I don’t really know anyone who does.

He hands me the pot.

It really is nice.

It’s about the size of his head, which is to say it’s about twice the size of my own head. Short, fat and rectangular on the bottom. Mostly blue. With yellow swirls. If you rotate it, it gives the illusion that it’s moving. Swirling. Like you’re looking into a bottled vortex. It’s nice.

‘I told you it was nice.’

Almonds. Fruits. A little on the heavy side, perhaps. It’s swirling in my stomach.

‘Yeah, it is, Artie. Listen, where is everyone?’

‘Oh yeah, they’re all sick.’

‘All of them called in sick?’

‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘They came in. Then they went home.’

‘How did they all get sick?’

‘It was the cake. Something bad in it, I think.’

I feel something coming up, all of a sudden, as if on cue. Up from the stomach. And before I know it, I’m emptying my guts into Artie’s pot.

He’s not a bad guy, that Artie. He helps me out the next five minutes or so — or maybe twenty — over a toilet emptying the rest of my guts. It feels terrible. Like having a vacuum cleaner pipe shoved up my throat. I then take some Mylanta and I go home too.

‘Are you sure you’ll be fine?’

‘Yeah. Thanks Artie. Sorry about your pot.’

‘Oh that’s alright. It’s dishwasher-safe.’

I catch a train home and it actually comes on time. This comes to me, in some perverse way, as a disappointment. The ride is also disappointingly comfortable and so I find myself with a pain in my gut but nothing else to whinge about.

By the time I’m about 3/4 of the way home, I’m feeling fine so I get off at Sydenham and catch another train. I haven’t had the chance to leave work this early for a very long time and it’s too good to waste at home.

I’m thinking about my wife, which happens to happen quite often. Usually I would be picturing her as I saw her last — waving goodbye to me in the morning, in her nice suit, before work. But more often then not, it would spiral into a series of dirty fantasies.

This time, it leads me into thinking that I haven’t bought her a present in over a month and being out early, I could come home and surprise her with something nice and make her happy (or something not so nice as is often the case with things that make her happy). So I make a trek to Newtown to the shop with the 400 year-old vampire owner (whom I suspect isn’t a vampire at all, since I’ve seen him in broad daylight and he wasn’t burning up).

It’s a tiny shop in an alleyway behind a bar that sells cocktails for half price during happy hour. It’s called Francis’ Magic ‘n’ Gifts.

Like most legit magic shops (as opposed to those that sell things like fake barf, wigs and whoopee cushions), Francis’ Magic ‘n’ Gifts has an entrance-by-invite spell, which in simple terms means that if no one has told you about it, you won’t be able to see it. It’s not that it turns invisible or anything. It’s still always there. But you’ll miss it somehow. Right there in plain sight, with its monkey heads and peacock plumes on the door. You’ll just walk right past it.

I open the door and the bell rings. Inside, it’s musty like it was the last time. The shop is tiny. Only two shelves line the walls. Everything else you want you have to ask for, and Francis gets it for you from the back room.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Francis barks.

‘Huh?’

‘How did you find this place? You’re not a magic user.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I can’t smell you. So you’re either good enough to hide yourself, which I sincerely doubt by the look of you, or you’re a non-user. Now explain yourself before I set off the traps.’

‘Look, I’ve been here before. My wife, she’s a…’

‘Ahh. The eye of newt. Economy pack.’

‘Yeah. My wife. She’s a…’

‘Next time,’ he says turning his back to me, ‘tell her to come herself for her supplies. You normal people make me nervous.’

I look around the shop. I don’t dare touch any of this stuff. There’s a head of a dwarf on the second shelf smiling at me.

‘I’m looking for a present for her actually. Do you have anything you might recommend?’

‘Hmmm…’ he seems more accommodating all of a sudden. ‘What’s she into?’

‘Um… I’m not sure.’ I’m thinking. ‘She kills a lot.’ Not sure if I should’ve said that. ‘She’s into curses and stuff, I think.’

‘Friendly girl, I take it?’

‘Oh but they’re all bad people.’

‘Yes… well… how about an orb of Orobos?’

‘What’s that?’

‘For flatulence spells.’

‘More sinister.’

‘The Dagger of Orobos?’

‘More flatulence?’

‘Exploding anus.’

‘Oh.’

I look around again on the two shelves that are there. Mostly crap really. A shrunken head, mummified hand candles. That sort of thing. Then I look up on the top shelf and I see it. It’s the pot. The same one that Arthur had today. It shimmers. The swirls almost seeming to move. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before. Now it’s like it’s the only thing that I can see on the shelf. I can barely take my eyes off it.

‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing to the pot.

‘Ahh, that.’ He walks around the counter and, on tiptoes, grabs the pot off the shelf.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Well it’s a place to put all the gory bits after a kill. Hearts, livers, you know…’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t see why not.’

‘Is it magic?’

‘Er… of course it is.’

I like it.

‘How much?’

‘Hmmm… for you, $120.’

‘$120? For this? You kidding?’

‘It’s magic.’

I reel back.

‘I can’t afford that. Do you have something else like it? But cheaper. Not magic, perhaps.’

‘OK, let me look.’

Francis takes the blue pot into the back room and I am left alone for a couple of minutes to the entertainment of some sort of mystical muzak which, as well, I never noticed was on before. I am listening to the muzak when the doormat starts talking to me.

‘Does she use her tongue?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I bet she does,’ says the doormat.

I’m about to answer but Francis walks back out with the same blue pot with the yellow swirls.

‘You have a talking doormat?’

‘Of course not,’ snaps Francis. ‘You must be nuts.’

He holds up the pot to me.

‘Here you go.’

‘It’s the same pot!’

‘Certainly not! I de-magicked it!’

‘Oh.’

‘Magic-free now. I’ll give it to you for 60.’

’20.’

’20?!’ He’s acting angry. ‘40’

’25.’

’40.’

’30.’

’40.’

’35.’

‘Look, I’m a 400-year-old vampire. You don’t want to mess with me.’

‘Speaking of which…’

’40.’

‘You’re not really, are you?’

‘Not a what?’

‘I saw you in direct sunlight, loading stuff from a van.’

‘You did not.’

‘I did.’

‘OK, so you caught me. I wasn’t a vampire then. I lied.’

‘OK. So, how about 35?’

‘But I am now. A vampire that is. I got bit last week.’ He lifts his collar to show two marks on his neck.

‘Oh give it up!’

‘Hey, you can’t prove I’m not!’

‘Go ahead and bite me then.’

He starts to move towards me. I step back and hold my hands out motioning him to stay where he is.

’40 it is then.’

‘Deal.’

_____

I walk home with the pot, unwrapped, and it’s getting dark already. Winter’s like that. I suspect she won’t be home yet. She doesn’t normally get home yet but then again, I told her this morning that I’d be working late and yet here I am.

The way from the station to my house is a lazy ten minutes long. I pass the library and the local pub. There’s also this empty carpark that is often empty despite being near a pub and a library. I imagine there must be something magical about it but I’ve never actually checked that theory out. Actually there’s probably nothing magical about it at all.

The reason I mention the carpark is that from here I can already see our house and from here I can see that the light in the bedroom upstairs is on, which is rather alarming, seeing as though my wife isn’t home. So I start running, still pot in hand. When I get to the front door, it’s locked, which means the intruder must have gotten in from the back or climbed up perhaps. My heart is racing. I’m sweating.

I unlock the door and race up the stairs. The door to the bedroom is open and the light streams out of the room like a scene from a horror movie. I can hear a fair amount of commotion in there.

When I finally get there, I see Astrid which comes as both a shock and a relief.

‘Oh.’ I say. And she’s naked and is sitting on the bed. Or kneeling. There’s some man, also naked as usual, under her.

‘You’re home? And how come you’re doing the ritual in hear and not in the basement like…’ I’m talking fast now because I am in some sort of shock or daze, whatever you want to call it.

She turns around and looks at me, startled like I’m some sort of stranger. And she covers her nakedness with the sheets and she gets up and I’m thinking ‘where’s the knife’ and that there’s an alarming lack of blood on the sheets or on her or on anywhere really. And then the guy gets up covering his bits and grabs his underwear from the foot of the bed and I notice that he’s not the least dead. Or even drunken for that matter, and suddenly I get this shiver up my spine and I break into a cold sweat and I struggle to look away. Captivated like I’m under a spell.

It takes me a long second to snap out of it and I’m feeling strangely calm. I place the pot, which I realise I’m still carrying and is now warm and wet with sweat, on the carpet and I turn around and slowly walk down the stairs. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV and watch a show with this guy in a safari suit explaining to me how the bent pyramid of Dashur was built. It’s very interesting. So much so that I don’t flinch when I hear someone skipping down the stairs and walking out the door, taking care not to make too much noise. Apparently the pyramid is bent because halfway up, they realised it was too steep to hold itself up so the engineers lessened the inclined to complete the construction.

My wife comes down the stairs now. And she sits down next to me and places a hand on my knee and calls my name softly. I take the remote and turn the TV off. I stand up and look at her and tell her that I think I might go down to the pub and have a drink and then I walk out the door and I do just that.

Part 2
Boy meets witch

She was twirling in the summer rain, out on the Library lawn. Her arms stretched out. Her head cocked back. Laughing. The sun’s rays broke the clouds and made the air smell like warm dew. As she spins around, she stumbles. Dizzy. From where I was, she looked cute. (This was, of course, quite a while before I ever saw her naked, at which point I reassessed her as more ‘hot’ than ‘cute.)

I remember I walked over to her and offered my umbrella but she just smiled. Wet. She picked up a flower from the grass and offered that to me.

‘I made this,’ she said.

‘The flower?’

‘No, silly. The rain!’

I laughed and she started laughing too, skipping away from me, still twirling. Her eyes, in moments, looked at me, smiled at me, beckoning me to join her.

I just stood there watching. Transfixed. Mesmerised. Bewitched.

I was, then, in my first year at uni. It was by pure chance that I walked past the Library lawn at that very moment. Normally, I would walk behind the library to go down to the lower campus but on that day, the rain had turned that path into a obstacle course of puddles. Chance has a way of smiling upon you when you’re not looking.

It was only much later that I would find out that she actually did make the rain come down that day. It would be even later still before I would find out that she had ritually killed a presumedly harmless and probably cute white rabbit earlier that day for the spell. And it would take her a while longer still to eventually learn that killing the rabbit had been wholly unnecessary.

This was how I met Astrid.

When eventually we got married, it was in my old church, which is actually not very old at all. Barely older than myself, really. I only say ‘old’ because it was the one I grew up with. Next to my school. Whatever I have become, for better or worse, can probably find its roots in this place. It was built in the 70s to be state of the art, which is to say it now looks unmistakeably of poor taste. Tacky is the word I’m looking for.

Both of us having no parents left on this earth, our wedding was small. Just a few friends and random well-wishers. The priest who married us (… married us… I’ve always found that to be an awkward phrasing) was father John Dougall. Father Doogie we used to lovingly call him.

This was the same priest who Baptised me. The same priest who gave me my first Holy Communion and conducted my Confirmation. And it is Father John Dougall who is at the moment looking at me like I just invited him to join me in eating a plate of gold coins.

I am, at this moment, sitting the living room of his house (is there a technical name for a priest’s house?) telling him of my recent frustration that my wife is killing too often for my liking.

‘You mean, she literally kills these men?’ he asks me with equal parts disgust and curiosity.

‘Yes Father. Lots of them.’

‘And you saw her kill each one?’

‘Well I missed one because I had a basketball game on one night, but other than that… yeah.’

He wipes some sweat off his brow and takes a sip of water.

I tell him ‘it does scare me sometimes. I mean, where is she going to draw the line? It’s something like once a month now.’

‘Have you told the police?’ he asks.

‘No. Why would I do that?’ I am surprised by his suggestion. ‘They’d just lock her up. And I can’t let her be locked up. I love my wife, Father.’

‘Well…’ my priest begins, ‘you do know the Church doesn’t condone murder, right?’

‘But it’s her thing. She doesn’t question my taking Communion. Is this any different?’

‘But you always told me she was Catholic.’

‘Me? No Father. You asked me before we were married if she went to church. And I said yes. And she did. And still does. Sure she thinks it’s all crap but she still goes to support me and well… I think I should do the same for her faith, except sometimes, well… it just gets hard.’

‘I… I don’t know what to say. I mean, Astrid always seemed like a very lovely girl, but… but frankly I’m appalled by what you’ve told me.’

‘So what do you think I should do, Father?’

‘If I weren’t a Catholic priest, I’d suggest you divorce her. But since I am… well… frankly I’d still rather you divorce her, even if you have to leave the Church.’

I laugh. That Father Doogie is such a kidder.

‘But I love her, Father. I mean, you should see her…’ I pause, cutting myself off from a potentially embarrassing and inappropriate subject matter to be talking to a priest about.

‘See her what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Have you told her that killing will get her to Hell?’

‘But she wants to go Hell. Well maybe not really since it’s all hot and fiery and all. And apparently all that brimstone smells like fart gas but…’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘She says she wants to eventually earn some real estate in Hell. Maybe become a mistress of a small house. Serve not too far under one of the big hot shot demons.’

‘And you’re OK with this?’

‘Well you gotta admit, the girl’s got ambition.’

‘And what about when you have children?’

‘We thought we’d cross that bridge when we get to it.’

‘But… but… OK, so haven’t the police been looking for any of these men?’

‘Of course they have. The last guy was all over the papers.’

‘And you’re not afraid of getting caught?’

‘Well that’s the thing, you see, she does this cool cloaking spell to cover up each sacrifice so that no one ever sniffs our way. And any witnesses forget about what they see or hear the second they break contact with us. It’s brilliant! She will never get caught. I just think it’s all too easy and she’s beginning to lose touch with the value of human life.’

‘Of course she’s lost touch with the value of human life. She’s a homicidal maniac for God’s sakes!’

‘Did you just blaspheme, Father?’

‘I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t hear any more of this! What have you become, son? I’ve known you since you were a baby. You were always such a fine soldier of God. And now you’re married to a homicidal Satanist and helping her kill these innocent men…’

‘I don’t think Satan is one of the deities she worships but I’m not sure.’

‘… they probably have families. Wives. Kids…’

‘But I love her, Father. Please try to understand. And let’s face it, I’d say a good eighty percent of them probably came our house looking for adultery.’

‘I can’t. And I must do what’s best for you. I’m going to the police with this whether you like it or not.’

‘But you can’t, Father.’

‘Everything you’re telling me has been outside the church. Strictly speaking, this isn’t really a confession. And I feel it is my moral duty to…’

‘No. You don’t understand. That cloaking spell I told you about… well it affects you too. Anything to do with the rituals I’ve talked to you about today, you’ll forget everything the second I walk out your door.’

‘No it can’t be!’

‘Yes it can. And it is. For example, you think you’re only hearing this all for the first time. But I’ve been coming to you and talking about this every week for the past three months. And every week it’s like the first time to you.’

‘What?!’

‘I’ve been frustrated, Father. In moderation I can live with, but she’s just killing too many. Too often. Sometimes I question if she’s going to burn out too early. Too young… and sometimes I just want to go home and watch TV, you know. So I’ve been coming here every week to vent my frustrations to you. I mean, I love Astrid very much but well…’

He’s starting to cry. I hate this every time. It always ends like this.

‘Sorry Father, I won’t distress you with any more today. It’s alright. The second I leave, you’ll be fine again. I’m hoping one day I’ll tell you about all this and you’ll react… well… differently…’

I sigh. Father Doogie is still crying and he’s shaking. I get up off the armchair and find my own way out the door. He tries to chase me and stop me, crying ‘noooo!’ but he is old and slow and by the time he reaches the door, I’m out near the mailbox. I turn to face him. The pained look on his face slowly turns to confusion and then to a smile as he looks at me. He waves to me and shouts goodbye. I tell him that I’ll see him next week and he nods enthusiastically.

I walk a few metres down the road and I turn around to see his door has already closed. I then walk further down the road to Nick’s fish and chips to buy dinner. This is the shop where Father Doogie once caught me jigging school. But this was a long time ago and I’m sure he’s forgotten.

Part 1
'Honey I'm home'

The rate at which she has been bringing guys home has been alarming. It’s almost once a month now. It’s getting out of hand.

It used to be maybe once per quarter. Around the same time as when the council rates came around, my wife would bring a guy home. Random guys. They wanted anything from a cup of coffee to sex to a simple use of our telephone. But they would all invariably not get whatever it was they came for.

Tonight’s fool is young. Maybe 21 or 23. He’s small, somewhat weaselly. If you asked me for another way to describe him, I would say that he has the look of a guy in a horror movie who talks too much, smiles way too often and dies far too early.

He is shocked to see me come in. Most of them get this way. My wife is holding a glass of champagne in her hand and welcomes me home with open arms. I give her a kiss while leering at the guy. This weasel. This first-to-die-horror-movie guy.

‘Honey’, I tell her, ‘I was hoping we didn’t have to do one tonight. I was hoping to just sit on the couch and watch Desperate Housewives’.

She assures me it’ll be quick tonight.

The weasel asks her who I am. I introduce myself.

I’m the husband, dickwad.

Dickwad. It’s been my favourite phrase (would you call it a phrase?) ever since Arnie used it in Total Recall. He just brings a whole new level of meaning to anything he says.

‘You’re married?!’

‘Oh like you didn’t know’, she says. ‘I didn’t even take off my ring, she says’.

‘But I thought…’ says the weasel.

‘He’ll just watch. Won’t you honey?’

I’m silent and peeling a banana. I don’t like this. Never have. Of course she never pretended to be anything other than what she is. I knew she was a witch when I married her. Knew she was one while we were still just dating. I love her. I really do. With all my heart. I don’t much care for the whole black arts thing. But it could have been worse. She could have been an accountant.

I just want to get on with it tonight. She asks him if he still wants to do this and he says yes. More often then not, they get weirded out and want to leave, so then I’d have to grab the baseball bat and club them over the head. This guy, though, is willing. And he seems groggy. She must have used the elixir of hallucinogenic stupor. That’s a good one.

Orange juice, a sprig of fennel and the bile of a pregnant turtle.

She leads him by the hand down the steps to our basement. He’s mumbling stuff I don’t understand and she keeps telling him yes. Yes. Yes. Sure. Soon. And so on.

I follow them down. She tells him to get on the altar but he’s too far gone to get himself up there. I help him up.

This is the stone altar that I got her for Christmas even though, of course, she doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her old one was wooden and it was starting to wobble a bit. So I got her this stone one. Doesn’t stain, the guy says. One wipe and all bodily fluids are gone. She loved it. Best damn present I ever gave her. Not like the time I got her a giant economy jar of eye of newt. I thought it would be a great present. Witches. Eye of newt. So I went all the way to this magic shop, whose owner was rumoured to be a 400-year-old vampyr (although I did see him in broad daylight unloading a box of six-fingered mummified hand candles off the back of a van, but that’s another story), and he got me a good deal on a three-litre jar. Anyway, when she got it, she gave me this very disappointed look and didn’t talk much to me for three days or so.

What? Is it because it’s an economy jar?!

That wasn’t it. Apparently, getting a witch eye of newt is like giving a serious classical pianist a Richard Clayderman CD.

He’s on his back on the altar and she’s taking off his clothes. I hate this part. Why does it have to involve nudity? My wife, a guy and nudity. He’s even more gone by now and is giggling. I’m just standing there watching. I yawn.

Dear, can you go up and bring me the statue of Baphomet?

Sure thing. And I get up the steps and go the display case. There are seven different statues for seven different deities in here. I’ve asked why she has to have seven deities in her display case. She says it’s because she has no room to fit eight.

I pick up Baphomet. It’s heavier than it looks. Stone, I think. It’s ugly. Kind of like a man-fish thing. As I’m walking, I’m carrying it some distance away in my outstretched arms as if it were a baby that needed a nappy change.

Downstairs, she’s already naked herself and I look at her. She’s hot. And it hits me every time. No matter how often I’ve seen her naked. I remember the first time I saw her naked I was thinking, ‘she’s hot.’ I’m having a brief moment with myself while I’m looking at her right now.

His hands start to grab at her. He’s still giggling. I really hate this part. Even worse than the last part. Every time. Why can’t she just tie their hands up? I’ve brought this up with her before but she would just gives me the ‘How the hell can you get jealous of a guy I’m about to sacrifice to a demon’ argument and I just end up shrugging my shoulders and turning on the TV. She’s right. How can I argue with that?

So now I’m holding up the statue above my head and she’s raised the beautiful gold-hilted and diamond-encrusted ceremonial dagger above her head and the weasel is still grabbing at her breasts. She lifts her head to look at the statue, then lowers the blade, sighs and drops both her shoulders.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘What have you got there?’

‘Baphomet?’

‘No. What does that look like?’

‘Baphomet?’

‘No. What does it look like?’

‘Er… a fish?’

‘Yes. A fish. Now do we remember which one looks like a fish?’

‘Baphomet?’

‘No. Try again?’

‘Um…’

‘It’s Dagon. You’re holding Dagon. I asked for Baphomet. I’m doing a head-pop spell. I need Baphomet.’

‘So which one is it?’

‘Try to remember.’

‘The fat guy with the big head?’

‘No. That’s Baal.’

‘The big guy with the fat head?’

‘No. Oh, for crying out loud!’

‘OK, OK, is it the goat guy with the breast?’

‘Yes, it’s the goat guy with the breasts! Can you at least pretend to take some interest in what’s important to me?’

‘Give me a break! I try, OK?’

‘You try? You mean like the time you got me the newt eyes?’

‘Will you let that go, already? Come on! I said I was sorry!’

‘Just bring me the damn idol!’

‘Hey! Dickwad! Stop touching my wife’s breasts!’

‘He can’t hear you! Now hurry up with the idol. The elixir of hallucinogenic stupor is wearing off. I’ll have to start the blood-letting without the statue.’

‘OK, OK!’

I turn around and march back up. I don’t like it when she uses that tone with me. I go back and put Fish-face back in the display case and get the androgynous goat with the titties. On the way back I am momentarily distracted by the television where Desperate Housewives is playing. Susan has tripped over something or other again like she does in every episode. And the plumber is laughing. I think he’s an FBI agent.

I then hear the screams from the basement. She’s made the first cut. Time to go back down, I guess. I’m not in the mood but I go anyway. All this for just a head-pop spell. I’ve seen this spell before. For her to be doing one must mean someone pissed her off at work today.

But anyone would know that a human sacrifice for a head-pop spell is overkill. So someone must have really really pissed her off at work today.

The spell is elegant in design. What it does is it plants a seed in the head of the target individual that, in time, will cause his or her head to spontaneously explode. The only problem is that the seed has an incubation period of 40 years. The last time she did it was to her boss. And he was 45 years old. So he would have to live to 85 for his head to explode. She has been telling him to eat healthy and exercise often ever since. Suffice to say, the spell was originally intended to be inflicted upon annoying kids and babies who refused to stop crying. The only reason people use it is because it is one of the simplest of the culling spells to do. A more potent, but less stable, and infinitely more complicated hybrid of this spell is called the head-obliterate spell. Here, the seed only has a 22-day incubation period but is unstable in that, if done wrongly, there’s a small (but present) chance that the spellcaster’s head would explode as well.

I’m downstairs again and she’s covered in splashes of blood now. All over her head and chest. I hate this bit too. At least as much as, if not more than, the other bits. The weasel is convulsing and blood is bubbling though his mouth and nose. It’s not a pretty sight. I hold Baphomet up and she starts the spell. It’s in Latin. She repeats the spell over and over until the sacrifice dies.

But he’s not dying yet. Ten minutes later and he still flops around

‘Are you sure you got his heart?’

‘Yes I’m sure.’

‘Well, it’s not that I’m telling you how to do your thing, but… um… well… they don’t usually convulse as much and they die faster than this.’

‘You think?’

‘Maybe you can give him another poke. With the dagger, I mean. Just to be sure.’

So she does. And I was right. The weasel dies a few moments after the extra stab. She stops the chanting and puts the dagger down.

‘Can I put it down now?’ I asked, referring to the idol statue.

‘Sure. Thanks hon. You can go back up now. I’ll just clean up here and I’ll let you know when I’m done.’

I go back up the steps and watch the ending of Desperate Housewives, except that I don’t really understand what’s going on. Mr Solis is arrested. Why is he being arrested?

‘I’m gonna take a shower now’, calls my wife from the echo of the bathroom.

The show is over and I’m still not too sure what happened. I turn the TV off and I go back down to the basement, grab my shovel and the black bag, and drag it out of the house to the backyard.

My neighbour, old Mr Spence, who, on account of our very low fences can see me from his back porch, waves hello. I stop walking, look to him, and smile.

‘Howdy neighbour.’

‘Howdy Mr Spence. Nice evening.’

‘Yes it is. Now is that a big bag of fertiliser you’re dragging there?’

‘Why yes it is, Mr Spence. It’s an economy pack. Just doing a spot of gardening on such a fine evening.’

‘Well happy gardening to you.’

‘And you have a good night Mr Spence.’

‘You too, young lad.’

I remain unmoved. Still smiling.

‘Well perhaps I best be getting in the house now. It’s getting chilly.’

‘Well goodnight Mr Spence.’

And Mr Spence walks into his house, leaving me to do my spot of gardening underneath a bright new moon and a fairly minor stellar alignment on the Pagan calendar.