Magic Inc.

By Ian Fraser

When Milford takes a job at a small shop called ‘Magic Inc,’ the last thing he expects is an adventure. Before he knows it, though, he's befriended a talking cat, traveling through time, and becoming entangled in a full-fledged war.

In a world populated by malevolent fairies, rock-n-roll-loving trolls, and good-natured Gods, Milford finds much more than he ever bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Fraser
• Release date: Jan 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507097090

Book preview

Copyright Ian Fraser 2012

CHAPTER ONE   THE OLD MAN AND THE CAT

Milford missed his grandmother at the oddest times. It had been a year and six months since she’d died, three days before his seventeenth birthday. He’d been the only one at her funeral, aside from the priest who mumbled through the ceremony by rote, pausing to double check her name from a sliver of paper. The service brought him no lasting peace, and his mind often returned to his grandmother, who’d raised him as if he were her own.

She’d left him a little inheritance and a strong work ethic, and Milford used the money to get a small apartment, and after endless job applications, had found employment as a temp at a firm of accountants. The job entailed filing, and running the mail cart four times a day, passing out envelopes to the mostly balding men who made up the bulk of the office.

It pays the rent, Milford told himself when the tedium got too much. There were moments when he thought about resigning and simply going on the dole – but the idea of sitting around slack-jawed, on government benefits, watching TV all day, was more frightening than his present boredom.

Watch out for Malaprop in Human Resources, said Rimshaw – the nearest thing to a friend at the office that Milford had. Word is they’re going to be firing people.

It was lunch break and they were watching the shivering smokers out on the balcony. Milford had been quietly venting about being under-utilized. Rimshaw didn’t see the problem.

Still better than being on benefits, said Rimshaw, adjusting his comb-over surreptitiously. Milford elected not to notice. 

Is it? said Milford. Some days I wonder. He squinted at the silent pantomime of the freezing smokers; one of their numbers was doubled up and coughing, fist to pink mouth.

Rimshaw grinned. That looks like it hurts.

Milford sighed inwardly, observing Rimshaw’s attempts to hide his balding pate. Is that going to be me in thirty years time? It was a depressing thought.

Rimshaw and Milford were out on the balcony, keeping a safe upwind distance from the coughing smokers. There were advantages to having smokers on the staff – one could slip out and spend a few minutes staring blearily at the urban landscape without anyone shouting. Between the buildings, a thin sliver of smoggy silver revealed the Thames winding its way through the city.

Milford’s thoughts turned to his grandmother. Would she be pleased by what he’d become? He doubted it.

"You’ve got potential, my boy, his grandmother would say, on those days when going to school felt like stepping into a war zone populated by bullies. Never forget it."

Through Milford’s school years, when everyone else seemed to have regular mothers and fathers on parents day, he was always the odd one out. The fights initially were many and fierce between himself and others: those quick to poke fun at Milford’s grey-haired grandmother. Thankfully, he thought, no one in school knew about his parents, or how they’d died. If that bit of information had spread amongst his classmates, it would have made his life hellish. At least when he was growing up, his grandmother had spared him the grim details.

So what was it? said Rimshaw, noticing Milford’s wool-gathering. You finally went out someplace and drank too much? Rimshaw raised his eyebrows, knowing Milford’s unwillingness to go out and party.

Milford shook his head. No, he said. Think I might be coming down with something. He tried to divert attention. How’re things going with- with-

Lucinda? said Rimshaw. Milford nodded gratefully. No, that didn’t work out—

Milford zoned out as his friend launched into the latest tale of woe on the domestic front. He nodded in all the right places, did encouraging noises to keep Rimshaw going, and kept his thoughts to himself. Finally the shivering communicated, and they both retreated to the canteen to pick up some tea.

Milford munched on a sandwich as Rimshaw grumbled about sports, his absence of girlfriends, the weather, the office, his ex-girlfriend, their salaries, Malaprop in Human Resources. At the mention of Malaprop, Milford got a bad feeling. Given his position at the extreme bottom of the career rung, he was a likely candidate for being given the boot.

The long day at the office was finally drawing to a close. Milford discovered to his surprise he was dreading going home to the quiet of his apartment. Take it one step at a time, he told himself. Get to quitting time without being fired. He threw himself into the routine, pushing the afternoon letters cart around, delivering mail.

Across the open plan office he saw Malaprop from HR enter the room and look around, Milford ducked and pretended to be checking through the larger parcels on the underside of the cart. Then he got angry at himself. If he was going to be fired, then so be it. His grandmother didn’t raise a sniveling coward. 

He rose and continued knocking on cubicle entrances and handing over mail to their occupants, telling himself not to stare in Malaprop’s direction.

You all right then? said one of the cubicle workers, accepting the offered wad of mail. Milford nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He checked the clock: almost home time.

Afternoon Milford, said a familiar voice behind him.

Milford stammered a greeting, bringing the cart to a halt. Worst nightmare time. It was Malaprop. He was a balding man in his mid sixties, clipboard clutched under one arm. He had a grim look about him.

You seen Clarkson anywhere?

Clarkson was a junior employee, most often found on the smoking balcony. Not that Milford would say this. No sir, said Milford.

Hm, said Malaprop. Well if you run across him, ask him to come see me, would you?

Of course, sir.

Malaprop moved past; Milford restrained a sigh of relief, followed by a little thought of ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ in the direction of the unfortunate Clarkson.

At last, the clock showed 5pm. Milford fled with the rest, down the silent crowded elevators and out into the darkening overcast afternoon. It being a Tuesday, Milford was used to getting a curry. I’m not really that much of a routine freak, am I? he wondered, stopping at a local supermarket. He went searching through the rows of ready-meal curries until he found a Bengali one to his taste. Pop in microwave! the text said. Ready in two minutes!

Not that I’m a fan of routine, he told himself, coming out of the shop. Am I? Almost to disprove this to himself, instead of walking straight along the High Street as he always did, he decided to take a zig-zagging course through the town. He got a little thrill turning off the main street and taking a side alley he’d never been down before. Something caught his eye.

Magic Inc. Job Vacancy. Apply Within.

Someone grumbled and weaved around Milford as he surveyed the tiny sign. The shop front was small, barely ten feet across, with an old wooden door. Odd. In this modern age of instant communication and things being made easy to understand, Milford was at a loss as to what the shop was selling. More importantly, the longer he stood eying the sign, the greater his sense of déjà vu grew. I haven’t walked this route before, have I? He squinted up and down the alley, feeling strangely exposed, as if someone was watching him. He even checked behind himself: nothing. The shop front remained inscrutable, yet the quaint sign was oddly alluring. He eyed the door, trying to understand the rising desire to reach for the metal handle.

Who works in a shop called Magic Inc – and what are they selling? Milford wondered, feeling gooseflesh ripple on his skin. Weird. He shivered, his hunger decided things and he moved on, almost regretfully. Walking down the alley, he couldn’t help himself from looking back at the nondescript shop front.

Back home and fresh from the microwave, the food resolved itself into a hot orange mush, and Milford spooned it into his mouth. There wasn’t much to chew and the meal was over before it had begun.

Now what?

Milford made cocoa. Look, he said to the kettle. Even if I lose my job, I can go on benefits and still make the rent each month. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but do-able. It’s hardly a train smash. The kettle said nothing and simply boiled. He poured cocoa and huddled in his comfy armchair. The curious shop resurfaced in his thoughts. Magic Inc. Milford wondered what the attraction was he’d felt. It was unlike anything in his experience: as if someone had switched on an invisible spotlight, and he’d stepped unknowingly into it. He tried to shrug it off.

It was early evening, the night showed through the windows, smoggy and oppressive. Milford began to feel his apartment was too small. His stomach rumbled. He was still hungry. Instead of getting under a blanket to stare at the TV like he usually did, Milford decided to go get something else to eat. Upon reflection, fish and chips sounded good. Its stress, he told himself as he put on comfortable shoes, picked up his keys, and stepped out into the night.

Milford told himself the shop probably wouldn’t be open this late. This idea didn’t slow him down any. He walked on automatic through the drizzle, inwardly growling at the people roaring by in taxis. It must be wonderful to live a life without counting pennies at every step.

Maybe this was all just... Just what? Milford pulled a face – I’m too young to be having a midlife crisis. He threaded his way along the main street, weaving around the crowds of well-dressed folks out for a night on the town. Same planet, different world he thought. Milford drew his raincoat closer about himself, trying to keep out the cold. He looked around, and saw a fish and chips shop diagonally across the road from the alley in question. Milford decided to buy a fish supper, telling himself that when he discovered there was no shop and no vacancy sign, he could have a decent late night dinner.

Telling himself the butterflies in his tummy were just from hunger, he ordered a cod and fries and stared blankly out at the passing cars, enjoying the warmth of the shop. The food came, wrapped in newspaper. Milford paid and stepped out into the cold again. Dodging the traffic, he crossed the road and slipped into the alley. Milford decided that if there was no shop there, he’d call in sick tomorrow. His footsteps echoed as he tried to remember how far down the shop had been. He was on the point of giving up when—

Magic Inc. Job Vacancy. Apply Within.

The purple letters glowed softly, the lettering almost too subtle to see unless one was looking for it. Milford swallowed.

You made it this far, he muttered, checking both ways in the alley. He reached for the door handle, an ornate thing of metal, and twisting it, stepped inside.

*

Milford’s first thought was that he’d stepped into one side of a very large warehouse, filled with distant high shelves bristling with bric a brac. There was a soft chime above him as the door closed; he descended the few steps on to the shop floor proper. Directly in front of him, a wide aisle lined with exotic plants led to a wooden counter, behind which an elderly gentleman was working. Is he writing with a quill?

Be right with you! the old man said.

Milford peered at the towering shelves branching off in all directions, feeling momentarily giddy as he realized he couldn’t see the ceiling. He glanced back at the door. He was sure the shop roof, at least from the outside, wasn’t as high as its interior. But that couldn’t be possible, could it?

The contents of the nearest shelf caught his attention. The lowest shelf, barely two feet above the ground, contained what looked like a glittering assortment of surprisingly authentic-looking battle-axes and swords. Milford blinked. In the modern nanny state where even the sale of fireworks was strictly governed, it was bizarre seeing such a deadly array of lifelike medieval weapons. His attention went to the next shelf up: bulbous-looking carved sticks, some mirror-like polished axes amongst them. The shelf above that, almost at face height, contained what looked like canes and walking sticks – one of them was unsheathed, and Milford realized he was gazing at sword sticks.

The shelving continued overhead; Milford squinted but could see only rough-looking handles jutting over the edge of the rack.

Cudgels, said a voice beside him, making him jump.

Ah.

The old man looked as if he were en route to a fancy dress party. A long sleeved silk shirt billowed at his every movement. Over this was an odd leather halter that resembled chest plate armor. Canvas pants swept down to calf-high boots.

Those ones up there, the old man said, indicating the overhead shelf, are for the plus-sized customers.

Really? said Milford, feeling decidedly stupid.

Oh yes, we have weapons and accoutrement to fit just about every hand.

You mean they’re real? he said, gesturing at the swords.

The old man smiled. They wouldn’t be of any use if they weren’t, now would they?

I suppose not.

Milford felt himself under observation. He reddened, and being British, began to try and explain himself. I noticed the sign, he said.

The old man nodded pleasantly. Of course you did. Would you like some tea? It’s freshly brewed. He nodded to the counter beyond the foliage-filled center aisle.

Milford stammered. I wouldn’t want to impose.

Oh nonsense, the old man said, taking him by the arm and leading him toward the counter. Just keep an eye out for Pistol.

Pistol?

Yes, the old man said, moving around the counter and retrieving another cup. She likes a nice bit of fish.

Oh, a cat. Of course. Milford kept a protective hand on his aromatic parcel.

The old man picked up the kettle and gave it a thoughtful swirl before pouring.

Behind the counter were shelves filled with trays of assorted joke and novelty items, interspersed with cabinets encasing rows of small shiny objects. A pair of gloves hung on one of the cabinet handles.

What are those? Milford said.

The old man looked. Gloves.

No, I meant the small shiny things.

Those are charms and talismans. The gloves are to ensure that none of their power gets drained when being handled.

Milford smiled. He’d been in various New Age shops before and understood how some folks got rather odd when it came to bits of crystal. The tea was poured. Milford cautiously sniffed the steaming brew. It smelled unlike any tea he’d ever encountered.

What kind of tea is this? he asked.

It’s called Prime.

Milford inhaled. It was hard to explain, but the aroma made him think of when he was a little boy, playing pirates in trees, and floating newspaper boats down rainy streets. He sipped the tea and instantly a warm cinnamon-like flavor made itself known. He smiled, enjoying the spread of unique flavors across his tongue.

Good, isn’t it? the old man said.

Milford nodded, too busy sipping to be polite.

I’m curious, said the old man. Are you here about the job vacancy?

Milford spluttered. Er, no, he said. I have a job. Sorry if I gave you the impression that—

The old man waved his protestations aside. Not a problem. He eyed Milford. What sort of work do you do?

Milford frowned. It was one of those questions he always hated answering. There was no two ways about it. Glorified filing clerk, he said, pulling a face.

The old man grunted thoughtfully. Hm. Yes. I remember doing something like that, a long time ago. He smiled to himself.

There was a blur of fur and an orange cat skidded to a halt in front of Milford and examined him carefully.

Be nice, Pistol, the old man said. Milford could have sworn that the cat reacted as if it understood. It bowed its head and meowed softly.

Pleased to meet you too, said Milford.

The old man beamed. Capital! he said slapping his knee. Oh, I almost forgot. My name’s Blenkins, Alfred Blenkins. And you, he said not giving Milford a chance to speak, you look like a...hmm...Milwall? Milgram? Definitely a Mil-something-or-other.

Milford’s jaw dropped open. How did you do that?

Comes from years in the business, my boy.

Milford set his cup back on the saucer, wondering at the sense of déjà vu he was experiencing.

"Excuse me