* * *
It was true that Enforcers had a reputation, validated by endless amounts of rumours, for either being creepy, overly flamboyant, odd, or just plain scary. I had on many occasions presented a wacky “Celebrity Enforcer” story as one of my “ten items of interest”. Most concerned reports that one had been spotted doing something inexplicable, or had been confirmed to have a bizarre fetish; including goat fondling, making love to a goldfish or perhaps rolling around naked in chicken feathers. Take your pick, it was all as substantial as any other celebrity news. I had never heard of an Enforcer making a person eat their own liver, and was sure, not in the least because of the logistics involved, that it was not possible to do so. The thought did linger in my mind.
Although being ludicrously easy to identify by the theatrical uniform, one that would, in my opinion, seem far more at home in a military ceremonial event, I had seen only a handful of real Enforcers in my life. And that was just in passing, glimpsed on the street or perhaps hovering around in a building lobby.
Upon entering the Department of Magic building I was greeted by the sight that turns even strong men’s blood cold; a queue of seated civilians, all looking as though they were secretly hoping for a quick death to relieve them from the tedium, winding its way in a zigzag fashion to a row of teller windows. I was grateful for my free pass.
To my left behind a tiny wooden desk sat an obese frowning woman. I approached with caution, my footsteps deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent hall.
“I have an appointment with Benny Kingston.”
She gave me a dedicated scowl and consulted an open book on the desk, “Jet Clarence?” I nodded. “Door across the hall, turn left, office is on your right.”
I headed for the door, feeling a little smug as I skirted the queue and drew envious gazes. It opened onto a narrow passage and I turned left, soon found the door labeled “Benny Kingston” and knocked.
“Enter.”
Inside the office was roughly the same size as a jail cell. Benny Kingston I assumed, sat behind the desk, eyes fixed on a computer monitor that could have told more stories about the “good old days” than I cared to hear. He was a thin clean-shaven man with only one real distinguishing feature; a nose that would have felt comfortable in profile on a roman coin. All this apparent ordinariness was absurdly contrasted by that ridiculous Enforcer’s uniform. Blue blazer, protruding gold buttons, a jingling collection of what appeared to be decorative medals on the left breast, and although I could not currently see them, I knew the polished black boots sat below the table.
“Benny Kingston?” I enquired.
He gestured to the guests’ seat, an uncomfortable looking chair, without taking his eyes from the monitor.
I sat, aware that a powerful feeling of claustrophobia was setting in like a foot of whale blubber.
Apparently forgetting I was in the room Benny continued to stare with intense concentration at the monitor, leaving me in awkward silence.
So I leaned back, fingers locked in my lap, and chose a section of blank white wall above his head at which to stare.
The moment drew on; he didn’t cough or so much as clear his throat. To my left the plain white clock on the wall ticked; a sound I would never have believed could be so loud.
I’m not a person who finds himself easily put into a state of discomfort, so I was surprised to realise that the level of awkwardness was fast becoming unbearable.
Finally I opened my mouth to make some kind of indication I was still in the room, and as I did Benny’s head snapped up.
“So you surf porn for a living, huh?” he said brightly. It was not a question.
“Sort of,” I responded, feeling relieved though not understanding why. “That’s part of it.”
“If I got paid to surf porn I’d be a rich man.”
“Well, I’m not.”
He grinned again. “You said over the phone you had a dream?”
“That’s right,” I confirmed, shifting about in my chair in an effort to avoid my legs going numb, “last night.”
Here one might have mentioned the poltergeist objects and dead cat.
“I see.” He nodded, then leaned down and took a plastic pouch from the desk’s top drawer. I got the impression that the pouch must contain some kind of magical paraphernalia, but he opened it and tipped a mountain of tobacco onto the desk’s surface. “And this dream was significant to you?”
“It made an impression.” I said, watching as he started to sift through the tobacco with his fingertips, separating larger chunks into a second pile. “I was attacked by a guy with a blue face.”
“You recognised this guy?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Afterwards there was a red mark on my back. That’s what worried me.”
“Nothing to be worried about. You were attacked by a demon.” He said this as if it held no significant impact.
I paused, absorbing the words. “Is that not a bad thing?”
“Well, it’s not a good thing, per se, but it is good confirmation your Spirit levels are high. No one squanders their time digging for potatoes in unfertile soil, if you catch my meaning. Would be a waste, right? Just sand and earthworms.”
“So I’m not in any danger?”
He hesitated. “Actually, you’re in a fair amount of danger. I was trying to lessen your anxiety.”
“Oh. What kind of danger?”
“If left unchecked the demon will grow in strength and eventually… feed on you. If that continues, it can be very bad for your mental health.” He paused, then added; “Sorry.”
I stared. The words did not register. “What? Feed on me?”
“Don’t sweat it; it takes a long time for a demon to reach that level. You’ll have it sorted out long before then.”
“Okay.”
“The plus is you can learn a few spells. Impress girls, be the life of the party. That sort of thing.”
Satisfied that his tobacco was now sorted, he reached down and took a second pouch from the drawer. From this he extracted a pinch of new tobacco that was sprinkled onto the original pile. I watched the process with fascination. It was not the first time I had seen a person handling his or her own tobacco, but the methodical way in which he went about it seemed misplaced.
“So what does this mean?” I asked. “Are there… side effects?”
I was fishing for information, hoping he’d mention something useful about avoiding further accidental pet mutilations.
“Two things,” he declared, “Firstly, we will need to measure your Spirit level. Secondly, should your Spirit level be above average, I will have to register you. Beyond that, it’s really up to you. If you want training that’s on your own buck, the government doesn’t cover it.” He now took a rolling paper from his top pocket and started to roll a cigarette.
“Wait. What? You said I need this training to avoid being fed on by my demon.”
“Yes.”
“The government doesn’t cover that?”
“No.”
“You can tell me I need it, but not give it to me?”
“Correct.”
“Great.”
“Tell me this, how much do you actually know about magic? Read any books? Got a user in the family?”
“My mom.”
“And what is her Spirit level?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You never asked?”
“No. Well, she’s told me before, but I don’t remember.”
“Okay, and what is her chosen field of magic?”
I racked my brain for the exact words. “Illusion, Influence and Manipulation.”
“That’s a broad field. More specifically?”
“I’m not sure.”
His frown managed to make me feel like a dog that had just messed on the rug. “Her name?”
“Liza Clarence.”
“Liza Clarence.” He repeated, placing the perfectly rolled cigarette betw
een his lips and punching a few keys on the keyboard. His eyes scanned information on the monitor as he pinched the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. A small flame sprang forth from between the fingers and ignited the cigarette. A not too impressive bit of magic, I’d seen it before. “It says here your mother is a competent Influencer.”
“Right. That’s it.”
“Your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“And was he a user?”
“Not as far as I know.”
He squinted at the monitor. “It says here… your father died under suspicious circumstances…”
“What? No. He had a heart attack when I was young.”
“I’m reading it right here, Jet; ‘died under suspicious circumstances’. But the case was closed almost immediately after being opened, so I guess it was nothing.”
“It must be a mistake, I’m telling you it was heart attack, I was there, I saw it.”
“Yes? What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not at all, it was a long time ago…”
I cast my mind back to the events of my father’s death, something about which I thought as little as possible for obvious reasons, and drew up a memory.
I had been standing looking down at my father as he lay on his back, arms spread on either side of his body. My mother had been kneeling beside him, screaming herself near hoarse.
“What’s wrong with dad?” I had asked, my voice calm for a child witnessing the death of his father.
And my mother, looking up at me as if just realising I was present, responded…
What had she said?
Try as I might I could not remember the words, though the impression they were ones that had caused me emotional grief remained strong.
Benny watched me as my brow furrowed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” I muttered, “I just don’t really remember the events very well.”
“Interesting.” As he pondered this he had one long drag, then took an ashtray from the drawer and stubbed out the un-smoked cigarette. The ashtray was overflowing with similarly abandoned cigarettes.
“What’s interesting?”
“Vague memories are sometimes a sign of having been manipulated.”
“You think I was manipulated? Magically?”
“I never said that.” he replied, “I just said it’s interesting. Besides, the case was closed so I’m sure it’s nothing. Now, let’s do your test, shall we?”
“Okay.” I shifted my position again.
“What can you tell me about your time here so far, Jet?” The question was accompanied by a smile and sweeping gesture of the room.
I squinted at him. “Is this the test now?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Well, is it?”
“You’ve already had the test.” Another smile.
“I’m confused.”
“Good. Then the test worked. Now, tell me about the time from when you entered the room up till now.”
I decided to play along. “I came into the room, you told me to sit and I sat down.”
“Is that what happened?”
I thought about it. “You never actually said sit down, you gestured to the chair, and then I sat down.”
“Right. And then?”
“And then what?”
“How did you feel?” he prompted.
“I remember feeling a bit claustrophobic.”
“Good, yes. And then…”
“I was about to talk, but you spoke first.”
“Exactly. And how long do you think you sat in silence before you started to speak?”
“A minute or two.”
“Two minutes and thirty seven seconds,” he declared as if this fact held significance. “Would it amaze you to know that some have sat there in complete silence for nearly a full hour? Others have simply stood and left, never having exchanged a word with me, so deep was their confusion. They failed.”
“Failed? I’m sorry I’m still not following.”
“I’ve measured not your Spirit Level, Jet my old chum, but rather your natural defence against Spirit attacks. You were under attack the moment you stepped through the door. The room, the clock, your chair and my attitude, were all a very well planned attack. But you broke the effect in just two minutes and thirty seven seconds, not bad.”
I hesitated. “Is this the real test? Talking nonsensical shit and seeing if I’ll buy it?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, but extra points for that.” Leaning forward, he spoke the next words with deliberation; “Mental Manipulation and Influence. I suspect, since your mother is a practiced user of similar techniques, you have picked up a strong resistance, regardless of whether you know it or not.”
“So you made me uncomfortable and waited to see how long I would tolerate it?” I asked, still not understanding.
He nodded. “It was just the basis of an attack. It could have gone much further, depending on intention. It may have progressed to making you believe you were a wildebeest, for example.”
“A wildebeest, right. The tobacco thing was part of it?”
“No,” he said, “The tobacco thing is my Primary Crutch. But that’s not important, you’ll learn about that later, if you choose to have training.”
“Did you make a guy eat his own liver?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
He stared at me, expressionless. “Did I make a guy eat his own liver? Are you serious?”
“I heard a rumour.”
“Did you even stop to think about what that would involve, logistically? How would I have gone about doing it? Surgically extracting it, then serving it with a bit of apple sauce and hoping the victim will go along for the experience?”
I shrugged. “Yes well, when you say it that way it does sound a little impossible.”
“It’s very possible. Weren’t you listening? Surgery and apple sauce. And yes, I could make a man eat his own liver. As to why I would do it is another question.”
“Right.” My mind struggled to keep up. “What about the fire from the fingertips thing? How do I do that?”
“Well, that’s a different field altogether; Self Deceit, a branch of Reality Manipulation. It involves having a mental discussion about the nature of combustion, friction and heat. And if your mind is convinced, at that moment, that having fire spring forth from your fingertips is logical, it will be so.”
“I’m still a little confused here…”
“Yes well, you may have a high Spirit Level, but your grasp of the basics is not very strong, Jet. I’ll register you. What you plan to do now is up to you. But since you have been targeted by a demon, I would strongly recommend you seek advanced defence training.” He took a business card from his top pocket and handed it to me, then turned his attention to the monitor. “Full name?”