1815: Untitled, Chapter 7

[Back to the start.]

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When the following morning came, Magnus was startled awake by a hammering on his flat’s front door. It was an urgent, persistent hammering; whoever was doing it clearly wanted to come in right now.

He groaned and unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. He had all but passed out where he had fallen the previous night; he was still wearing the same clothes, and the crumpled bedsheets left an obvious outline of where he had slept. His mind was not fully alert as yet, but he knew two things: he was in a lot of pain, and he very much wanted that noise to stop.

Yawning, groaning and rubbing his face, he staggered to the front door pulled it open a crack without looking through the peephole first. He poked his head around the gap in the door, but kept the rest of his body in the warmth and safety of his home.

“What?” he said, his vision still blurred.

“Mr Magnus Thompson?” said the police officer standing in the hallway; a stocky, stern-faced man with a neatly-trimmed goatee beard. He was accompanied by a female police officer built almost as solidly as he was. Radio chatter burbled in the background, but was indecipherable.

“Yes,” said Magnus, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, not fully registering what was going on.

“We were hoping to talk to you about the death of Stacey Barman,” he said. “You are the one who reported it, correct?”

Magnus suddenly felt very awake, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him like an electric shock. How did they know?

“The number the one who reported the crime called from was registered to this address,” said the female officer, speaking up for the first time. “It was you who called, yes?” she said, echoing her colleague’s words.

“Yes,” said Magnus in a low voice. “I reported it.”

“May we come in?” said the male officer gruffly. Magnus got the impression that despite the polite language, it was not a polite request. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“You’re not in trouble, don’t worry,” said the female officer. Magnus would have smiled at the obvious and clichéd good cop-bad cop routine were it not proving to be one of the more stressful experiences he had lived through to date. “We just want to get a better idea of what might have happened, what you might have seen.”

“Okay,” said Magnus. He stepped out from behind the door and pulled it open fully. He realised too late that the shirt and jeans he had been wearing since last night — the shirt and jeans he hadn’t changed when he had got up in a hurry not five minutes ago — were both streaked with smears of dried blood.

 

*       *       *       *       *

Dora looked uneasily at the disheveled figure of Magnus visible through the glass, the guard standing mute and still as a statue behind him. She lifted the receiver. Magnus did the same.

“Hi,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

Dora had been the person he called when they had brought him in under suspicion of the murder of Stacey Barman. He wasn’t thinking straight and didn’t know any lawyers, so she was the only person he could think to call. The offers who had brought him in — the man was named Wilkins and the woman was named Jensen — had allowed him to obtain the number from his phone, but the device itself had then been confiscated along with the few other personal belongings he had in his pockets.

Dora didn’t know what to make of the situation. She didn’t believe for a second that Magnus was capable of murdering anyone, but she was also fully aware of the strange happenings that had been occurring recently — and was certain that if her own strange experience she had had on the way home the previous night was anything to go by, Magnus was probably also in a peculiar situation where he needed to quickly learn how to control an enormous power he didn’t understand.

It had happened unexpectedly as she was walking back to her car; a curious urge to run. She obliged the sudden instinct, surprising herself, but quickly found that the instinct was stronger than her conscious, self-aware mind: before long, she felt like she was out of control. She ran, rapidly speeding up until she had reached a velocity that should have been physically impossible for even the most well-trained athletes. She became dimly aware that she was heading straight for a solid-looking wall, and then the world was turned on its side as she simply charged up the side of the building as if it was a flat piece of flooring. Then she was atop the roofs of the city; she bounced and leapt from building to building, feeling an odd — and slightly frightening — sense of euphoria as she did so. It was an addictive, intoxicating feeling; initially, she didn’t want it to stop, but as what little remained of her rational mind started to panic over the lack of control over her own body she was exhibiting, she wanted nothing more than to be back on solid ground.

And then she was; walking down the street where she had been before she had started running. Had she imagined it? A daydream? A hallucination? She wasn’t sure, but the strange, frightening experience caused her to stop, pinch herself and whisper under her breath “I’m here, everything’s fine, everything’s fine,” without caring if anyone around her heard.

“Hi,” she said.

“I didn’t do it,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

The two gazed awkwardly at one another through the glass. All was silent for a moment, and Dora became very conscious of the ticking of the clock on the wall behind her. She glanced around and looked at it. They didn’t have long together.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked. “How can I help?”

“I don’t really know,” he said, his face clouded over with abject despair. “It looks pretty bad, doesn’t it.” He indicated his bloody clothes.

He had explained to her on the phone that he had discovered a dead body the previous night, and that due to an unfortunate series of circumstances was now under suspicion of putting it there. He hadn’t explained the rooftop fight against his golden assailant or his conversation with the shadowy figure, though he had little doubt, after their conversation, that she would believe him.

“Whatever it is that those… people said was going to happen,” he said, resting his chin on the palms of his hands, “it seems to be starting.”

She nodded mutely. She didn’t really know what to say about it. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, and what was happening to Magnus. But she knew that this wasn’t something she’d be able to just ignore and hope it would go away. She hadn’t chosen this path, but she was on it anyway, and so was Magnus. They just had to follow it and see where it went; she hoped, sincerely, that it didn’t simply lead to a life in prison for her friend.

Conscious of the guard standing behind him who, despite remaining stoic and statue-like throughout their conversation, was obviously listening in, Magnus refrained from giving a full account of his confrontation. If he got out of here, he resolved, he’d explain the situation fully. For now, however, he was just comforted by her presence; he felt more at ease than he had done all day.

A buzzer sounded, and the line between the receivers went dead. Magnus saw the door open behind Dora, and a police officer step in. Looking at Magnus for one last time with sadness in her eyes, she replaced the receiver and turned for the door. He watched her leave, waiting a moment before hanging up his own receiver and standing, following the guard back into the darkness.

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus was questioned by several police officers over the course of the rest of the day. By the time they had finished with him, night had fallen. He hoped that his answers had made it abundantly clear that he had no idea what had actually happened to Stacey Barman, and that the dried blood on his clothing was simply a result of him being near her and trying in vain to help her, but he didn’t get an answer as to whether or not he had done a good enough job that day. Even if he were to be released, it seemed, it wouldn’t be until tomorrow when the appropriate paperwork could be filled out. It looked like he’d be spending the night here, at least.

Eventually, the lights went out. He was the only occupant of the cells right now; although not a small town, crime had never been a big issue here. Between some ambitious and expensive youth projects and a close-knit community of residents who genuinely loved where they lived, faults and all, it was unusual to hear of even a robbery or mugging, let alone a murder case. Magnus was sure that what had happened to Stacey Barman would be all over the newspapers and Internet by the morning, if it wasn’t already.

He stared into the darkness, contemplating his situation miserably. If he’d thought things were bad before, they were even worse now. He seemed to be sinking ever further into his own personal pit of darkness; how could he escape?

Did he want to escape?

The thought surprised him for a moment, and then several things started to make a certain degree of sense.

Despite everything, he was enjoying the excitement in a perverse fashion. And he realised, with a combination of fascination, horror and satisfaction, that he had been enjoying the bleakness for a while before this had started happening, too. It made him feel important and special; it gave him something to talk about that made him feel like he mattered; a feeling which he had been sorely lacking for many years prior. He had been wilfully embracing his own darkness for a perverse sense of pleasure; it was a drug to him, and one that he couldn’t quit.

He blinked as his eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and was surprised to discover that he appeared to be standing on the other side of the bars to where he had been a moment earlier. He was outside his cell, which was still shut. He tried the door; it rattled slightly, but did not budge.

Was this another manifestation of his new power?

He found himself smiling to himself, even as his skin started to crawl at the prospect of explaining how this had happened should any police officer happen to see him. The adrenaline of both excitement and fear started to course through his veins as he walked towards the door; he reached out for it, but then paused before grasping the handle. It was probably locked anyway.

Instead, he closed his eyes and concentrated on immersing himself in the darkness that was all around him. He willed himself to become part of the night; to blend in; to disappear. He’d always been good at escaping people’s notice, after all, though not always intentionally.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on the city streets outside the police station.

However it had happened, however he had escaped, it wasn’t over yet. He needed to get away from here. Right now.