FanStory.com - Psychic Psychotic

I strode through the back streets of Piccadilly Circus, my head spinning like a potter's wheel as my brain flopped around loosely on top. I wet my mental hands and tried to caress it back into shape, but my grip was flaccid and hesitant. I'd lost the baby I was meant to protect, burned a bridge with the Knights, got an old friend killed, and after the damage I'd seen and done to Amy's face ... No, that memory was like a barbed wire enema right now. Best stay focused on the case, and try to find the baby before Mr Black ended its frail existence.

Without another lead, it was all I could do not to head back to the Knights' seedy pub hideout and firebomb the shit out of it. Instead, I dialled the number they'd called from earlier and left a message:

"I'll deal with you later."

There was one upside to my situation; I had nothing left to lose. That was a bracing concept, and it hardened my thoughts like quick-dry cement. A man who loses everything has no fear and very little inhibition. A small part of me shrank from the clinical bent to my rationale, but if you're going to have a shitty experience, you may as well plumb it for wisdom.

The air wafted my hair and a lank lock tumbled across my face, dropping like a curtain before one eye. My head told me it didn't matter, that there were more important things to worry about than looking like a middle-aged rock fan with a goth complex. At that thought, I stopped dead in my tracks, right there in the middle of the pavement.

"Idiot," muttered a woman as she stumbled past, thrown off course by my unexpected halt. An idle corner of my brain conjured something horrifically rude in response, but it dissipated on the way to my mouth.

I pulled at the bandage round my knuckles, wincing as it aggravated the puckered tissue. That punch had been worth it, even more so in retrospect, but right now it hurt so much I thought even the dead would be able to feel it.

A light bulb turned on above my head - literally as well as figuratively, the electrics in the street lights doing the dance of bad workmanship. The dead feeling - there was a thought!

I made a very deliberate point of grabbing the lock of hair and brushing it back onto my head. As it moved, my vision cleared and the world got just a tiny bit brighter. In the wake of my hair's shadow, I caught something in my peripheral vision. An advertisement, dominating the window of a sad recession victim, was staring at me from a nest of notes saying 'Bill posters will be prosecuted'. Bill Posters was clearly in trouble, but the face on the advert didn't care. It was Vic Quantum, the people's psychic.

"What a cock," I mumbled to myself, but even as I spoke, a thought was forming in my head.

Vic Quantum was pointing at me from his own advert like the guy from the war posters with a huge moustache, except he was bald and raising one eyebrow so high Roger Moore would be suing if he caught sight of it. The ears had been photoshopped to near-Vulcan proportions and the eyes were impossibly blue. 'Are you dead?' demanded the advert. 'If so, I've got your number.' I winced - this guy was a prize muppet.

Nevertheless, he'd given me an idea. As shots went, it was longer than Dirk Diggler on a warm day. In a normal situation, when luxuries such as alternatives might exist, I'd have laughed and swept it under the carpet. But all my rugs had been pulled out from under me.

I was halfway through dialling Amy's number, ready to ask her to dig out Vic Quantum's address, when I remembered what had put me in this desperate position, the torn mess I'd left her in, the certain knowledge that she would never be pretty again. A tear tickled my face like a water fairy wearing her best feather outfit, but she was a clawed minx and left a terrible sting in her wake. In a numb haze, I utilised my phone's internet to do my own digging, and wondered if I would ever return to feeling normal.

*****

"Mr Quantum?" I growled into the intercom. I hated these things!

"No, I'm his receptionist." To call the speaker's voice 'camp' would be like naming a blue whale 'tadpole'. "Mr Quantum is in a very important seance."

"Not any more, he isn't. Let me in!" The recording studio was a plain metal door in a bright orange brick wall down one of Soho's many narrow side roads. I stamped my feet against the cold breeze and wondered if I'd been too aggressive, but anger was pulsing through my veins and I wanted to milk it before the inevitable descent into depression.

My voice must have carried something of the rawness welling inside me - or the receptionist was a complete wuss. Either way, a dull buzz sounded and I pushed my way through the door. The receptionist looked like Tim Curry in the Rocky Horror Show, if he'd spent a year in Ethiopia. He pointed through another doorway from his perch behind a desk, a sulky pout twisting his lips. I winked in response, and walked on through.

"Welcome, Mr Radshaw," said Vic Quantum. "I've been expecting you." He was sitting at a desk in a dark room, illuminated by a single light from above. His fingers were steepled beneath that ridiculous chin, a tribute to his own effigy as he rested elbows on the table. All around was a crowd of microphones and cameras, catching every conceivable angle.

I sat down in the chair placed conveniently opposite him. "A panicked update from your receptionist thirty seconds ago doesn't count as clairvoyance. Oh, and Roger Moore called - he wants his eyebrows back."

"Very droll," he said with a smile, "but hardly original. How can I help you? I can't imagine you're a believer, or did you just come here to hone your sarcasm?"

A vision flashed through my mind of rent flesh, blood trailing across skin in sticky streamers, of my friend shredded and mutilated by demon claws and teeth. I felt rather than saw my face drop towards the floor.

"Oh, I'm a believer, alright," I whispered, then sprung my head up to match his sardonic gaze as steel slipped into my voice. "I just don't know if I believe in you."

"I'm good enough that my fame's spread, even across to the States. Can you claim anything like that?"

I smiled. "Only if you count my appearance as 'English guy eating burger in background' on episode forty six of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives."

His eyes twinkled briefly as if in amusement. "What can I do to help you, Radshaw?"

"I'm in something deep, Quantum. A protection job - you don't want the details. I thought I could keep my charge safe, but it turns out I couldn't even protect my nearest and dearest. Now I got no leads, no charge, and no idea where to go next. I'm so fucked, my unborn children are feeling sore."

A smile twisted the corner of his mouth, but he didn't respond.

"If you can talk to the dead," I continued, "you just might manage to connect me to the one person who seemed to know what was going on. She's a particularly foul gypsy woman who recently got her insides turned into lawn ornaments, and she had something to tell me."

He nodded. "What is her name?"

"No idea. I just thought of her as 'she-woman dog type thing.'"

"I don't think I can call that over the ether without upsetting some spirits. How do you expect me to find her?"

I grinned, and it felt uncomfortable on my face. "I don't think you'll need to look hard. I have a feeling she'll be waiting."

For the first time, Quantum looked uncertain. "I may not be able to help you, Mr Radshaw."

I felt my mouth relax as the grin disappeared. "What, just get too real for you? I got a missing baby, an impending apocalypse, and the only person I care about is in hospital with a face like a meat feast pizza. You think I give a fuck in the wind what makes you uncomfortable?" I leaned forward out of my chair until our noses almost touched. "Try."

"Okay," he said, blinking. "But please sit down, Radshaw. My security people are watching, and I pay them not to ask questions."

I nodded and thunked back into my seat. "Just wanted to be clear."

"You get this one for free, since you asked nicely. If you come back though, you pay the going rates."

I glared at him. "Take it from my royalties for appearing in your home videos."

He placed a candle in the middle of the table and lit the wick, then held his hands, palms up, either side. "Take my grasp, wrist to wrist."

I complied, suppressing the sarcastic comment that rose in my mind - this was too important. As mad as this idea was, I couldn't risk ruining it by alienating Quantum. Besides, there was always later.

"Watch the flame," he whispered, drawing out the 'a' unnecessarily. Then he lapsed into a susurrus of harsh, sibilant sounds.

"If you conjure up a snake, I'll go Potter on you," I mumbled, but he ignored me and continued his diatribe. His wrists were cold in my grasp, and I could feel the tendons working beneath the skin despite his still hands clutched upon me. He was working some serious muscles further up the arms. All part of the show, I assumed. This was a guy who thrived on showing off, especially when he had a willing believer in his midst.

The flame reached into my gaze like a tongue hungry for eyeballs, dancing in sinuous motions; a snake beholden to its charmer. It curled and licked to the sounds of Quantum's shushing chant, a faint crackle tumbling through the air like excitement. It reminded me of my mad, stupid life. Always dancing to someone else's tune, hot with determination but ultimately just lighting the way for others to use me. In many ways-

"God, fuck my arsehole with a sandwich!" I roared, pulling back from the table. Quantum's head was flung back, mouth wide, screaming at the ceiling in a voice that made the girl in the exorcist seem timorous. His wrists were burning hot, searing at my palms, but I couldn't pull away. His fingers curled round my arms like constrictor snakes, binding me in place despite my motion. I crashed to my knees, stomach hitting the desk edge as my arms held me up. Getting a knee under, I pushed myself back into the chair as a wet cackle sounded. It was Quantum's vocal chords, but his voice had left the building.

I watched his head slump back into an upright position, his features so twisted, it could have been a different face. Muscles quivered under the strain of yanking his mouth into a terrible grimace and his eyes were so wide, they looked like evil ping-pong balls.

"What filling would you like, Radshaw?" rasped the face, harsh with guttural rawness. "God can't help you, but I might."

It was a moment before I understood what it was talking about. "On second thought, maybe I'll take an iced bun instead."

"Even in shock, you make jokes." A sound like a cat throwing up filled the room, and I realised it was a laugh. "Perhaps you should trying watching your organs arranged for decoration while you still live. Would you make jokes then?"

I blinked. "Repulsive gypsy crone, I presume."

The fixed mouth twitched; perhaps a smile. "Now deceased, but at your service, for a price."

"What?" I laughed despite myself. "I don't think Vic Quantum would thank me if he woke up to find I'd sprinkled blood and flob on him and wanked in his hand."

She chuckled. "Whilst your colourful image might be entertaining, you misunderstand. It's not the liquids I need - the medium is unimportant. I desire your lust, Mr Radshaw. Your pain and your vitriol; all those emotions you dare not admit. The dreams of rape, the rage-spiked desire to maim with bare hands. The darkness you deny so life is possible."

"Just tell me where Black went with the baby," I growled. "We have a score to settle."

"Cross my palm."

I contemplated head-butting her. It was irrational and wouldn't achieve anything beyond a moment's satisfaction, but the urge was strong nevertheless. Instead, I asked, "How?"

"Tell me your thoughts. The wicked ones - the things you can't admit."

I glanced around me at all the recording devices. "I have an audience."

She shrugged Quantum's shoulders. "That is your concern, not mine."

"When I was nine, my gym teacher humiliated me and I wished she was dead."

"Pathetic! All nine year-olds have such thoughts. They do not understand consequence. Only in a grown man's ire does true darkness reside. Tell me about dreams of fellating yourself with a girlfriend's severed head, of slicing the throats of all who wronged you."

I sighed. She wasn't going to let me off easy. "When I helped take down a street gang who were making kiddie porn to finance a demon excavation, I almost understood. I wondered if I'd have done the same things in their situation, and realised I might have."

She nodded. "Better, but evil done under duress is mitigated by diminished responsibility. Sate me, Mike. Let loose and tell me something really, horribly honest."

It was a while before I answered, but the thought had already been in my head - a thing I'd hidden, even from myself, tied up in all the terrible shit I was dancing amongst. "I just had to glue my assistant's face back together 'cause a dirty fucking demon tore it up." I swallowed, recalling all the sensations I'd felt. "Each time she cried out because I tore her skin, or whimpered when I pulled too hard, I..." Snot clogged my throat and I sniffed expansively. "I felt a little rush inside. It felt like, well. It felt like a thrill." I looked straight into Vic Quantum's eyes, except they weren't his eyes. They were gleaming with lust for visceral emotion. "Some sick, sadistic part of me enjoyed inflicting the pain." I looked down again, and let the sobs take me.

A sigh wafted my hair from across the table. "Now we're getting somewhere, Mr Radshaw. Power is the greatest vice of man. The freedom to inflict pain on the helpless has seduced for millennia."

I stared hard at the table top in front of me, my brain seeking distraction in the details of the faux-wood grain. I followed a contour as it hugged the bullet hole of a knot.

"We always manage to abuse power," I said.

"Abuse is subject to interpretation. If you have power and use it, somebody will always see it as abuse. What you know, even if you won't admit it, is that power must be used. Otherwise, it's just a bomber without a pilot, sapping your resources without even trying to make a difference."

I smacked my hand down on the desk. "Are you going to help me, or do I have to listen to more metaphors?"

She sucked in a breath. "Tell me more. My palm is unfilled."

"No. I'm through plumbing the depths of my guilt so you can give this two-pence psychic a hardon. You want to help, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered coming. Give up the goods, or I'm gone."

The hands crunched even tighter on my wrists and fire slid along my bones. "Feed me, Radshaw. I need it!"

I glared directly at Quantum's eyes, wincing at the pain, anger flushing through my mind. An idea winked at me from the darkness of my thoughts, and I smiled. "I helped an elderly lady cross the road last week. I even carried her shopping."

"What are you doing? I don't want to hear this!"

"She'd bought cat food that was in an offer, but not got her second pack free, so I popped back to the shop for her and got the extra food."

She actually hissed, spreading Quantum's mouth even wider, if that was possible. "No! Stop this vile diatribe!"

I stood up, rearing over her even if I couldn't lift my hands from the table. "I love kittens! They're so cute and sweet. They make adorable little faces when they play. Kittens make me believe in the fundamental niceness of the world."

"Shut up! You will only undo your own designs."

"Sometimes, when I'm sad and lonely," I laughed. "I spend whole days talking to coma patients and volunteering in the children's ward. It doesn't make me happy, but I like to know that someone's life is benefiting from my efforts."

"Alright!" she stamped a foot for emphasis. "Okay, I give in. Please, leave me with the shred of negative I'm still clinging to. Sit down. I'll tell you what you need to know."

I did as she asked and settled once more opposite the form of Vic Quantum. The skin of his face and neck was looking strained and raw from the pressure of the expression she was pulling. He wouldn't be happy with me after this.

"Where can I find the Angwrath?" I whispered. "It's just a baby."

She sniggered. "Your ignorance is matched only by your predictability."

"So my first girlfriend kept saying, but hey, how was I meant to know where the clitoris was?"

"I like you, Radshaw. You have balls, and you aren't afraid to lay them on the butcher's block and hand him a meat tenderiser." Vic Quantum's face twitched, shifting in something like relaxation before she pulled it back into that heinous grimace. "Mr Quantum seeks to reoccupy his body, so we must conclude our business. The Angwrath may be a baby, but it is also a force for peace. It is the anti-wrath, a calming influence upon humanity. It births once in a millenium to placate the vicious tendencies of the population. So says the prophecy."

I leaned forward. "So Mr Black hates this thing - is that why he wanted it?"

"He is the demon of death. A calm population leaves him feeble."

"He wants to kill it," I sighed. "That means we're probably already too late."

"No, he wants to take it home."

"Why does that sound somehow worse?"

The face shifted again, and sweat glistened on the contended forehead. "The Angwrath is Angelspawn. It is more potent than you can imagine, and a power upon its environment. You will understand when you go there. Your only chance to avert the Black Dawn is to follow Black and retrieve that child. London cannot survive a new dark age."

"The Knights said angering him would bring the Black Dawn, that I was meddling."

"That is because they lack the appropriate belief. You can open the doors, Radshaw, thanks to the taint they put in your hand. You can get to Black, and I can tell you which door to use. You must go now to have any chance."

I looked into those tortured eyes. "What if I fail?"

She grinned. "Then you and I shall have a picnic here in Hell, and lament the idiocy of man." With that, she told me where I needed to go, and I wondered if the world had shed its last vestige of sanity.