Slippery Times

By Nicholas De Kruyff

A MAN FOR OUR SLIPPERY TIMES

EDMUND LOVENIGHT would much rather party in Soho with the Dalai Lama than actually, you know, work. But when a dead cabbie named REG shows up with a message from the world's most cantankerous matron-of-arms, Lovenight embarks on a m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Story Well Publishing LLC
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781952876134

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

-- SCARBOROUGH, YORKSHIRE. NOW --

Edmund Lovenight fumed.

He fumed at the universe, at his rapidly diminishing alcoholic buzz, his sketchy memory, and for good measure, life in general.

It was October, it was the middle of the night, it was raining, and it was miserable. Typical North Yorkshire. The fact the rest of the world was in the middle of October made it October² in North Yorkshire. Lovenight wondered if some temporal divot had situated itself over the northern English city and as a result every month became October. He wasn't far off the truth.

I will not be trifled with! he cried defiantly into the wind, as the North Sea answered him by blowing sheets of hard rain sideways into his face. He considered yelling back, but realized the wind would always win. Instead, he tucked his chin down into his double-breasted black velvet jacket, mumbled, and continued walking, looking for the damn retirement home.

A few short hours ago he had been at a swinging party in Soho attended by most of Hollywood's A list, several Chinese dissidents, the real Dalai Lama, recuperating bon vivants, and all one hundred of Forbe's List of the 'World's 100 Most Powerful Women'. He had left the party reluctantly because a trans-corporeal message materialized in his martini in the form of complex geometric patterns swirling around the olive. The message simply read COME IMMEDIATELY and it was signed LADY MONTIQUE.

He did the only thing he could when a summons from Lady Montique arrived instructing him to COME IMMEDIATELY: he left immediately. He hadn't time to change out of his glad rags into proper operative gear, hence the velvet jacket.

He did of course destroy the message by downing the martini.

The problem was he could not remember for the life of him where he was supposed to COME IMMEDIATELY to. It was a retirement home, certainly, a sort of industrial looking building trying to appear cozy by the addition of a few Japanese maples outside its magnetically locked front doors. The retirement home was in deepest darkest Scarborough, but that was all he could remember. No address, nothing else. And he'd be damned if he tried to look it up on the internet.

Literally, damned.

As soon as he typed on any electronic device, the electromagnetic parasites which kept constant surveillance on him would report it to his adversaries. If you'd been a professional rogue and chrono-operative for a secret society called the Outliers as long as Lovenight had, you had your fair share of adversaries, not to mention nemeses, enemies, and bowling partners.

A cab approached from up the coast road, its headlights illuminating the fat drops of rain pelleting Lovenight. He waved his hand frantically in the headlight beams. The cab stopped beside him.

He slid into the rear seat and said, Well timed, my good cabbie. I'm looking for a retirement home.

A little young for one, don't you think, sir? the cabbie quipped, without turning around.

What? No. Not for me. Lovenight sighed. Look, just take me to a retirement home.

Which, sir?

Any! Lovenight snapped. You're a cabbie, you must know them all. Pick one.

Have an address, sir?

Lovenight regarded the back of the cabbie's head. If I did, I would have given it to you.

Why not look it up on...

No! No electronics. They're creeping death.

Do you know what this retirement home looks like?

If arch-supports were a building, they would be this building. If geriatric vitamins were a building, they would be this building.

Ah, you want the Leasuirex Shady Lane Retirement Home.

That's it! Good man. Take me there, posthaste.

Right you are, sir.

The driver started driving.

Lovenight settled back in the worn leather seat and checked his watch. Three in the morning. The party would really be getting started back in Soho. The Dalai Lama would be cracking (what he claimed) was the rudest joke possible on this plane of existence, while the Forbe's women tipped waiters with luxury German automobiles. If he could get back before the party ended he would able to get in on the after-party party. Lovenight didn't consider it a proper weekend unless he'd been invited to several after-party parties. That was the way to spend a weekend. Not roving around North Yorkshire looking for a retirement home that housed the oldest human on Earth.

In some remote part of his brain an alarm sounded.

Lovenight didn't like alarms. Alarms generally meant some kind of imminent danger. Alarms meant jumping out of windows or airplanes or something equally life-challenging. Alarms were bad. Alarms meant no hope of waking up in luxury suites. Alarms were to be avoided at all costs.

Internal alarms however could not be ignored. That made them even more dangerous.

Leaning forward, he said to the cabbie, Ah, excuse me, I said I wanted to go to the Shady something something.

Right you are, sir, the cabbie said cheerfully.

But we're on the A1 heading towards Leeds.

Right again, sir.

Out of Scarborough and North Yorkshire?

Correct.

But I thought Shady something something was in Scarborough.

Oh yes, absolutely in Scarborough, sir.

Lovenight puzzled over the cabbie's response. He examined his directives to the cabbie, concluded they were clear enough, clarion really, and the fault must lie with the cabbie, which meant either the man was a lunatic, deliberately disregarding his wishes, or, more likely, something sinister was afoot. What Lovenight needed was further information.

Ah, so we are heading towards Shady something something?

Yes, sir.

Via Leeds?

Correct, sir.

Yet the Shady something something is in Scarborough; you have said as much.

It is, sir.

Then why are we leaving Scarborough?

To get you to the Leasuirex Shady Lane Retirement Home.

The alarm in Lovenight's head flashed big red warning signs. Lovenight blinked them away and focused on the driver, one hand on the door handle. Better to be ready to jump out of the cab if things went sideways. Not being ready to jump could lead to nasty accidents.

I feel like there's something you're not telling me.

Oh, sir? How do you mean?

Well, I say 'take me to X', and you say, 'right you are', but then you take me in the exact opposite direction. Are you a Dadaist?

Don't know. Don't know what a Dadaist is.

A follower of the Dadaist art movement.

Oh? And what are they on about?

Well, they reject logic in favour of nonsense, intuition, and randomness.

Sounds like a thirteen-year-old.

Lovenight considered this for a moment. Yes, very similar.

Sorry sir, I'm no Dadaist, nor Mommyist either.

Lovenight gripped the door handle tight. You're not a schizophrenic, are you?

No, sir. I had me shots.

Something about the cabbie's diction and cadence reminded Lovenight of the postwar films of the 1940s, the way people spoke back then. An alarm in Lovenight's head fired every synapse and neural pathway it could commandeer, leading him to an epiphany.

Hold everything! What's your name?

Reginald Warrick, sir. But everyone just calls me Reg.

Reg, I have a question for you, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer.

I will endeavour to do my best, sir.

Reg, are you dead?

Oh yes, sir. Most definitely.

Mind if I take a look?

Not at all, sir.

Reg turned around. He had been dead a long time. Beneath his cap the round face was drawn and eyeless, the skin blackened and leathery, the cheeks sunken and stretched so tight Lovenight could clearly see each ridge and bump of the jawbone underneath. Reg's nose resembled a dried fig. Thin wisps of blonde hair dangled from beneath his cap. There was an astringent smell about him reminiscent of formaldehyde.

The moribund visage would have been horrible to behold except for one mitigating factor: Reg had a fluffy moustache that was as thick as Lovenight's ring and middle finger combined. A blond cookie-duster that could have graced the lip of any 70s network TV detective. It somehow made him affable and ridiculous at the same time.

Reg, why didn't you tell me this before?

What sir?

This whole 'you being dead' thing.

Never came up, sir.

Who revivified you?

They never gave their name.

And it never came up?

No, sir.

Lots of things don't tend to come up with you, do they Reg? Now listen, please give me a detailed account of where we are heading.

Happy to, sir. We're going down the A1 to the M1, then straight to Heathrow.

Ahh, see, there's an important piece of information.

From there, we are taking a flight to Toronto, Ontario. That's in Canada, sir.

Thank you, I know where it is.

The Leasuirex Shady Lane Retirement Home is in a suburb of Toronto, called Scarborough. So you see sir, we have to leave Scarborough to get to Scarborough.

Lovenight struck his forehead with the back of his palm. Several more details surfaced in his alcohol-hazed memory. Scarborough, CANADA; not Scarborough, UK. Of course!

Wait a moment, did you say 'we' are taking a flight'?

Yes sir, Reg said. I'm to accompany you. All the way, the ma'am said.

On a plane? You? In your state of...living-challenged existence?

Absolutely, sir.

Lovenight took his hand off the door handle and eased back in his seat. Forget the after-party party, he said, This, I've got to see.

CHAPTER TWO

-- GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN. NOW --

Simon swung the censer from side to side, filling the wood-paneled basement with thick grey smoke, obscuring the velvet posters and causing Mark to cough uncontrollably. Something at the bottom of the censer rattled ominously.

Not so much! My asthma, Mark complained.

Screw your asthma, man! We're going for broke here!

You're going to set off the smoke alarm and I'll get in shit! Mark took a dose off his inhaler and turned to Herb, who sat peacefully on the couch rolling a joint. Herb, open that window, will ya.

Wuss, Simon said mockingly.

Mark shot back, "It's Saturday night and we're hanging out in my basement. Ergo est, we're wusses. Thanks for stating the obvious."

Mark unfolded the legs of the card table he'd pulled from the crawlspace, then set half-burnt birthday candles (found in a junk drawer in the kitchen) stuck in zucchini muffins (leftovers from a book club meeting held by Mark's mom) at each of the corners. That done, he turned to Herb who had forgotten what he'd been asked to do only moments before and had gone back to rolling his joint.

Herb? Herb! Can you please open the window?

S'no problemo, Herb slurred.

Herb put the joint down and stood up. He walked slowly, methodically placing one foot firmly on the floor before raising the other, moving at a snail's pace toward the basement's only window. He walked slowly because he was certain the floor was about to decide it was not a floor and it no longer wished to be trod on. Floors like that were dangerous. They could suddenly slip and transmogrify into walls or tables or cabbages. They needed firm footfalls to constantly remind them they were floors and to mind their place.

Hurry up, Herb! Jeez, what's the holdup? Mark could already feel his bronchial tubes filling with whatever incense-crap Simon had put in the censer. He popped his inhaler in his mouth and sucked in measure amounts of prescription steroids.

Herb's tripping balls, Simon explained, still cleansing the corners of the basement with thick sage smoke. Got hungry before he came over. Only food in the fridge was two hash brownies.

Jesus, Herb! You don't eat hash brownies because you're hungry, you eat them to get wasted!

It's alright. If he gets comatose, we'll get him a pizza and stick him in the corner, Simon said, capping the brazer. It stopped smoking immediately. Help me light the candles.

My mom's going to be back at 11.

Don't worry, we'll be done before she gets back.

Mark nodded, then turned and watched Herb lumbering towards the window. Herb, you okay?

Herb mumbled something which sounded similar to 'it's cool' but had entirely too many P-sounds in it. In reality, Herb himself wasn't really sure what he had said. He just said it because he felt the need to acknowledge his friends were talking to him. Of a much more immediate concern was the dubious floor beneath him. He was intent on making sure it stayed where it was. So, he crept at his petty pace towards the window. An overly excited worm could have passed him.

While Herb's shuffling looked ridiculous to Simon and Mark, it was in fact, the only thing keeping them alive at the moment.

Herb opened the window. The sudden intrusion of fresh air into the smoke-filled basement made him cough violently for several seconds. Once the coughing subsided, he started his long, arduous journey back across the basement floor towards the card table.

Simon and Mark stared at him with blank expressions.

If we wait for him we'll be here all night, Mark said to Simon. What's next?

We need to draw a triangle-of-conjuration on the floor, to contain whatever demon we summon.

What's a triangle-of-conjuration look like?

This is only a guess, but...a triangle?

Funny. So funny I forgot to laugh. Mark chalked out a triangle on the basement floor next to the Laz-Y-Boy. How's that?

Simon stared at the triangle. It's purple, he said flatly.

That was the only colour of sidewalk chalk I could find in Beth-Ann's toy box.

She's going to kill you for going through her stuff.

She hasn't used it in years. She'll never miss it.

They sat at the fold-out card table. Simon picked up the deck of tarot cards. Light the candles.

Mark struck a match and lit the wicks. The smell of sulphur tickled their noses.

What now? Mark asked.

We start the summoning.

All right! Dungeons and dragons on steroids! Real occult magic! Herb, hurry up!

Can't, Herb mumbled. Floor's tricky tonight.

Mark sighed. Just start, Simon. We need to finish before my mom gets home.

Simon picked up the worn paperback. The cover, done in the style of Norman Rockwell, depicted a blissfully naive family gathered around a table covered with tarot cards. The title, Pax Arcana: The Handbook to Arcane Tarot Card Readings and Incorporeal Summonings, was written in block letters. Simon flipped to a dog-eared page and began reading, I invoke thee, Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, in the name of all that is holy to protect us, your humble servants, so that we may--

Hurry, Simon. The candles won't last.

--so that we may do thy work and stuff like that, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. Amen.

With his eyes closed Simon shuffled the tarot cards, then laid the cards out in a Celtic cross spread.

Wow, all major arcana!

Mark's eyes roved from card to card. The Hanged Man, The Tower, Judgement, The World. Something huge is going on!

I've never seen a spread like this.

Herb, you gotta see this!

See, like Kurosawa, man, Herb said, still shuffling across the floor. "It's all perspective. Dude shot with multiple cameras. Total coverage. Unreal. Ever see Yojimbo or Seven Samurai? Far out!"

Film majors, Mark scoffed, shaking his head. What's the verdict, Simon?

Shut up, will ya? I'm trying to figure it out.

He read furiously for a moment, his eyes scanning the page. Finally, he put down the book and said in a hushed tone, "According to the Pax Arcana we have rent the veil between worlds and have summoned forth a vile and malignant force."

Mark and Simon glanced over to the triangle-of-conjuration. It remained empty.

We did? Mark asked, sounding unconvinced.

According to the instructions.

Shouldn't something have appeared then?

Simon shrugged, considering. Mark did have a point. Normally, summonings summoned something. That was the whole point of summoning. There should have been a slobbering, foul-smelling, shape-shifting beast contained within the triangle, squirming and spitting and cursing in forgotten languages while scratching at the floor with its scimitar-like claws in a vain attempt to free itself.

Instead, there was, well, nothing.

Perhaps it's invisible, Simon suggested.

An unseen force?

Yeah, unseen. Like a poltergeist or something.

How do you know it's there then, if it's invisible?

Mark got up and walked towards the triangle-of-conjuration.

Don't step inside! Simon warned. You could be possessed...

Mark moved close to the chalk line without stepping over. I don't see anything.

Doesn't mean it's not there.

Bogus.

It's not! Simon stood up, bumping the card table with his thighs, causing the candles to flicker. Try throwing something at it.

Like what?

Your slipper.

I'm not throwing my slipper. What if there is something there? It'll get pissed.

Simon reached into his backpack and pulled out a sheet of paper. He crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it. The crumpled paper arced through the space just above the triangle-of-conjuration, hitting nothing.

Maybe it's crouching, Simon said.

Crouching?

Yeah.

Bogus, Mark reaffirmed.

Simon was about to object when the basement door swung open and a small figure stood backlit at the top of the stairs. Simon and Mark both screamed high-pitched, emasculating screams.

The figure descended the steps, its small form racked with laughter.

You losers scream like little girls! the figure said, waving away the smoke from her eyes. What's that skunk smell? Are you guys getting high down here? YOU ARE! You're in so much trouble, Mark.

Beth-Ann, get back upstairs! Mark demanded. You're not supposed to come down when I have friends over.

Beth-Ann shrugged and said, Wifi is down. I need to reset the modem.

Fine, Mark said exasperated. Do it and get out of here.

Beth-Ann walked smugly to the jumble of wires at the back of the basement and unplugged the modem, counted to fifteen slowly, on purpose just to annoy her brother and his friends, then plugged it back in. In that time Herb managed to reach the card table and take his seat, feet firmly on the floor.

Good job, he said to no one in particular.

Finished, Beth-Ann said.

What're you waiting for, then? Get out of here.

Ask me nicely.

Beth-Ann!

Or I won't leave.

Just do it, Mark, Simon said. We've got shit to do.

Language! Mark snapped back. Not in front of Beth-Ann.

"We've got stuff to do."

Mark, slightly mollified, turned back to his younger sister. Please, Beth-Ann.

Beth-Ann, chin up, started to walk past her brother when she noticed the triangle drawn on the floor.

Is that my chalk? she said accusingly, her hand reaching out to erase it. You don't get to play with my chalk!

Don't touch that! Simon