demon.Part 1 Legacy

Legacy, originally titled Smoke, Mirrors and Lights was started in 2008 and finished in 2011. The reason for this is that while writing we moved to another house, the paper going missing in the ensuing chaos that you always get no matter how organised you are. It took another three attempts to get started on the manuscript to finish. It was inspired by Clive Barkers books.This is the first of three short stories, the other two following.

'And now ladies and gentlemen! The famous sawing the person in half trick!'

the magician leaned forward.

'Got to be careful what you say these days'

There was some laughter in the smoke filled room. Dim candlelight threw writhing shapes upon the far wall.

With perfect timing he straitened up to his full height and flashed the saw blade with practised care, then brought it down neatly into its accustomed slot.

'the faint of heart now down your drinks!'

again he leaned forward; conspiratorial,

'You are going to need it'

more laughter.

He began to saw.

Someone screamed on cue.

Job done, the blade vanished into the curtain behind him. It was so quick that the eye, bleary through tobacco mist missed it entirely. Nobody saw the hand come out from behind the curtain and grab the blade.

No one except the sombre young man in the front row, centre.

The trolleys spun at the magicians hand, first the head then the feet, until both were facing each other. There was a groan from the head.

'Oh, excuse me!'

he turned the head away

'My apologies madam'

There was more laughter.

'I seem to be losing my touch'

He turned to his audience a third time, raised his hands

'LIGHTS PLEASE!'

pitch black filled the room.

People shifted uneasily in their seats.

Suddenly the lights flashed back on, brighter than ever, lifting a gasp from the audience as eyesight painfully adjusted against the glare.

And there stood the cabinet, open and upright to show the assistant waving and grinning professionally even though the bottom half of her body had been twisted all the way round showing her bum and heels.

The illusion only lasted for a fraction of a second, but it was all the time the magician needed to slam the cabinet door shut again.

Backstage

Hands reached for him, bulbs exploded in his face and unfamiliar voices called his name.

The hands he shook, the ones holding pens he batted playfully away. The bulbs he faced into, an expression that felt inane to him, but seemed winning to those around him. The pictures that would appear in the newspapers next day would show a full set of healthy white teeth under a pair of glassy eyes. The camera does not lie.

People pressed in on him, backed him up until his bum hit the solid, welcome wood of his dressing room door.

Encouraged by the promise of escape he stretched to his full height, as he had done on stage five minutes before. The effect; because they were so near him seemed to make him tower above them, causing cheers to erupt from the heaving mass. He gave his best 'fuck you' expression and took a deep breath before announcing;

'laidees and gentlespanners! I will now make myself disappear!'

and he was gone.

...through the door in one swift movement, bulbs still flashing at him. The resulting pics would all be captioned differently, but only one would come close to the truth.

He slammed the door shut as hard as he could behind him, leaning against it with all his weight for good measure.

'Fucking pests'

You knew it would be like this, came the reply.

'I know, but I didn't think it would be so soon'

You were mistaken.

He pushed himself away from the door. There was a bang against it, the frame rattled.

'Go away!'

Davinda, lay on the couch, sticking his head under a stack of pillows to escape the noise. The din receded, but only a little.

'Cant you leave me alone!'

They will go away. Eventually.

Davinda made note of the teasing tone, clear as a bell, even through the pillows.

'We agreed! We had an agreement!'

Our arrangement has been met. You, Davinda Nahapa are now the rich and famous 'George De' Chain', master of illusion.

The Great and Famous Illusionist whimpered.

*sigh

Fine then.

The commotion outside immediately began to recede to a murmur

'thank you'

pitiful.

At first he thought he had left a tap running. The gentle tapping on his door could have been heavy drops of water hitting the stained porcelain of his sink. As he rose through the layers of sleep he realised that he must have dreamt it. He was about to nod back off when a loud banging awoke him to full alert, the knocking at the door resuming more urgently.

Swearing, hair tousled, he got up and reached for his gown.

'I'm coming! Don’t knock a hole in my door!'

the knocking stopped at his shout.

'Pain in the ass fans' he mumbled while reaching for the lock.

The thing in the corner made no reply or comment. Davinda hadn't expected it to. He knew it was shy and never spoke in company, which suited him fine.

He drew back the bolt and opened the door to a figure in a trench coat the man at the door looked him up and down, eyes moving, head still.

So this was the famous showman it had taken all his courage to muster before finally confronting. This pale, wasted scarecrow of a man who had held so many in thrall.

'yes? Can I help you?'

The showman’s breath washed over him, and he had to stifle a gag reflex; sweetly sick. The figure in the trench coat wondered briefly how many teeth of his own he had left. Couldn't have been many.

He opened his own mouth to answer, sure his own breath was not much better for the drink.

'DI Lea'

he flashed his id badge and put it away again, so fast it looked as if it had just vanished.

'Come on in inspector. What can I do for you at this hour?'

lea scanned the room, taking in every detail. The large dominating mirror, suspended over a dressing table piled high with paint and powder that made his nose itch.

'What is it you actually do Mr Nahapa?'

'I am a showman inspector. I entertain'

The inspector picked up a jar, it's contents unidentifiable because the label had long faded.

'It says on your bill that you are an illusionist Mr Nahapa.' he tipped the jar to get a better look at what was inside. The lid fell off, powder puffing up in clouds making him sneeze.

'Please, don't touch anything. It's expensive' Davinda moved swiftly across the room, grabbed the jar from the inspectors loose grip, then placed it safely back in it's place with the other unknown things, lid firmly shut.

'Sorry Mr Nahapa'

The showman, out of breath; through exertion or nervousness, the inspector did not know, pulled himself together

'Just don’t do that again.'

He paused, seeming to listen. Then;

'What did you call me?'

'Mr Nahapa. Davinda Nahapa. That is your name, despite what it says on those show posters. Davinda Nahapa. Fifty four years of age. Good general health, apart from a slightly dodgy ticker. In this business known as show business for twelve, nearly thirteen years. Prior to that you were a clerk at a government building for five years, prior to that a chef at your fathers restaurant since the age of sixteen. Married once. Now divorced. One child, a boy you named Davinda junior, who, at a later stage in his life changed his name, joined the police force and is now a DI, who has spent every spare time and resource at his disposal to find his cunt of a father who ran away when he became famous, leaving his young son to stand by and watch as his mother became ill, then died of a broken heart.'

Lea paused for breath. He felt anger towards this man, knew he had every right. The thing was though, despite rehearsing this moment in his mind for years in his mind, always finishing the same way, he found that he could not hit the old man. He had more or less burned himself out with his speech. It was either that, or he actually felt pity for this sad excuse for a human being

'You are my son?'

The thing in the corner burst into nasty laughter.

No shit Sherlock, it said between gales.

Lea didn't know what to say. What could you say to a question as this?

In the few seconds silence that followed Lea tried out several responses. None of them any good. So he told the truth.

' I am your son, dad'

he twisted the last word into something distasteful. Davinda noticed this, even though the thing was still giggling in his mind he still heard it.

He supposed he deserved it, but nonetheless, it didn't make it any easier to bear.

Mistaking his silence for something else lea turned to go.

'Wait!'

the old man lifted his hand. He was in no doubt that this man was who he said he was, for a wise father knows his own son.

'Stay..

How touching.

Davinda senior nearly turned on the thing, catching himself in time.

Oops! Nearly had you there

it giggled again.

Maybe next time.

The old man bit his lip. As soon as he could he would get rid of the thing, and to hell with the consequences.

'Go to hell dad'

Davinda turned, just in time to see his son walk out of his life, just as he himself had done to him all those years ago.

'Wait! Son!'

no use

Davinda put his head in his hands and cried.

So many regrets. Said the dummy. You knew there would be a price, you were willing to pay it.

He didn't reply.

The phone rang.

Ira picked it up and answered

It was three days since he had seen his father. Three days since he had regretted his temper at the old man. He had expected something to happen, his father to try to get in touch with him or something. Wishful thinking on his part. The illusionist didn't even know who he was, as a person, never mind where to find him.

'Who?'

The voice on the other end of the line repeated his name, adding that he was a lawyer who dealt with wills, and that he was dealing with his late fathers estate, could he arrange to come in and see him'

Ira listened on. As the lawyer droned on his brain raced with possibilities. It was weird sure, but there was always an explanation for these things. The only one he could think of was that the old man had recanted his not being there when he was a kid and wanted to leave him something, what, a few thousand? To buy his son some favour back.

Listening to all this, thinking these thoughts Ira watched his own son; Charlie, in the living room with his wife, happily trundling an over-large green fire engine back and forth on the rug.

No. he wasn’t interested in what he had been left. He would not forgive and not follow his father. What was important here was the two people who were in that living room, both innocent in their own way. Both worth more to him than anything.

Ira blinked.

'sorry?'

the lawyer on the other end, to his credit showed no surprise that Ira had to ask him to repeat what he had said.

'Three hundred and nine thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds seventy four pence, to be held in a trust account until he is twenty five'

Ira couldn’t speak for a moment.

' I know it is a bit of a shock, but it was stated that you might be, erm, unreceptive to the idea was how it was stated, so, rather than the state getting his money, and few other possessions, he has left it in a trust account for your son.'

'Can I make an appointment?' came out slightly choked.

'I thought you might. I'll have all the relevant information ready for you within forty eight hours if that suits.'

The lawyer listened to Iras reply.

'Fine then. See you at two o’clock. Do you need directions?'

he listened for a moment then.

'well I suppose that is true. Things do seem to fit together See you tomorrow then. Bye.'

he hung up.

The painting opposite him told him that he had done good. He just had to make one more call.

The lawyer pushed up his glasses and pinched his nose, with on hand while the other replaced the reciever. Then lifted it again.

'What number' he asked wearily.

The painting told him a number. The lawyer noticed no area code, so it was local. At least this would be easier on the bill than the last one. He listened as line made the needed connections, quickly, effectively, then the longer tone as the phone rang on the other side.

And rang...

...and rang....and rang....

The lawyer was considering hanging up. Waste of time. The stone bust of his father warned him sternly not to, the painting, in the same voice affirming that that would be a very bad idea.

A man answered, young by the sound of his voice, cultured.

There was a pause, then a clatter, as if someone had dropped, or thrown the phone away.

Then it went dead.

The lawyer continued to listen to the silence while the painting began to laugh.