The Talisman

Frigid air funnelled in through the hole in the window.
    Blood was dripping from Lily’s hand – no; no, not just dripping. It was running . She had cut herself quite badly in two places. She picked shards of glass out of the pad on the side of her palm and then wiped her hand against the bodice of her nightdress.
    ‘DIDN’T EXPECT THAT, DID YOU, FUCKHEAD?’ she screamed at the bird, which was circling restlessly over the gardens. She burst into tears. ‘ Now leave him alone! Leave him alone! LEAVE MY SON ALONE!’
    She was all over blood. Cold air blew in the pane she had shattered. And outside she saw the first flakes of snow come skirling down from the sky and into the white glow of that streetlight.
    5
    ‘Look out, Jacky.’
    Soft. On the left.
    Jack pivoted that way, holding the Talisman up like a searchlight. It sent out a beam of light filled with falling snow.
    Nothing else. Darkness . . . snow . . . the sound of the ocean.
    ‘Wrong side, Jacky.’
    He spun to the right, feet slipping in the icing of snow. Closer. He had been closer.
    Jack held up the Talisman. ‘Come and get it, Bloat.’
    ‘You haven’t got a chance, Jack. I can take you anytime I want to.’
    Behind him . . . and closer still. But when he raised the blazing Talisman, there was no Sloat to be seen. Snow roared into his face. He inhaled it and began to cough on the cold.
    Sloat tittered from directly in front of him.
    Jack recoiled and almost tripped over Speedy.
    ‘Hoo-hoo, Jacky!’
    A hand came out of the darkness on his left and tore at Jack’s ear. He turned in that direction, heart pumping wildly, eyes bulging. He slipped and went to one knee.
    Richard uttered a thick, snoring moan somewhere close by.
    Overhead, a cannonade of thunder went off in the darkness Sloat had somehow brought down.
    ‘Throw it at me!’ Sloat taunted. He danced forward out of that stormy, exposures-all-jammed-up-together dark. He was snapping the fingers of his right hand and wagging the tin key at Jack with the left. The gestures had a jerky, eccentric syncopation. To Jack, Sloat looked crazily like some old-time Latin bandleader – Xavier Cugat, perhaps. ‘Throw it at me, why don’t you? Shooting gallery, Jack! Clay pigeon! Big old Uncle Morgan! What do you say, Jack? Have a go? Throw the ball and win a Kewpie doll!’
    And Jack discovered he had pulled the Talisman back to his right shoulder, apparently intending to do just that. He’s spooking you, trying to panic you, trying to get you to cough it up, to –
    Sloat faded back into the murk. Snow flew in dust-devils.
    Jack wheeled nervously around but could see Sloat nowhere. Maybe he’s taken off. Maybe –
    ‘Wassa matta, Jacky?’
    No, he was still here. Somewhere. On the left.
    ‘I laughed when your dear old daddy died, Jacky. I laughed in his face. When his motor finally quit I felt—’
    The voice warbled. Faded for a moment. Came back. On the right. Jack whirled that way, not understanding what was going on, his nerves increasingly frayed.
    ‘—my heart flew like a bird on the wing. It flew like this , Jacky-boy.’
    A rock came out of the dark – aimed not at Jack but at the glass ball. He dodged. Got a murky glimpse of Sloat. Gone again.
    A pause . . . then Sloat was back, and playing a new record.
    ‘Fucked your mother, Jacky,’ the voice teased from behind him. A fat hot hand snatched at the seat of his pants.
    Jack whirled around, this time almost stumbling over Richard. Tears – hot, painful, outraged – began to squeeze out of his eyes. He hated them, but here they were, and nothing in the world would deny them. The wind screamed like a dragon in a wind-tunnel. The magic’s in you , Speedy had said, but where was the magic now? Where oh where oh where?
    ‘You shut up about my mom!’
    ‘Fucked her a lot,’ Sloat added with smug cheeriness.
    On the right again. A fat, dancing shape in the dark.
    ‘Fucked her by invitation , Jacky!’
    Behind him! Close!
    Jack spun. Held up the Talisman. It lashed a white slice of light. Sloat danced back out of it, but not before Jack had seen a grimace of pain and anger. That light had touched Sloat, had hurt him.
    Never mind what he’s saying – it’s all lies and you know it. But how can he do that? He’s like Edgar Bergen. No . . . he’s like Indians in the dark, closing in on the wagon train. How can he do it?
    ‘Singed my whiskers a little that time, Jacky,’ Sloat said, and chuckled fruitily. He sounded a bit out