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This story involves some recognizable characters that belong to Marvel and DC. The story itself belongs to me. It is set the day before the fateful expedition to Dream Nails.

This story is not intended for overly sensitive readers.

Many thanks to Tina S, Mandy L, Lady Disdain for their editorial comments, and to RatMist for comments on the dialect.

Other stories are archived on the web-page of Luba.

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I was sitting in the snug in the Frog and Bicycle, out the Western Avenue, nursing a Newcastle Brown just for the hell of it. I could've gone out to the local, but that night I wanted to be alone. No aggro. Just sit quietly with memories of old friends, like. I was all by lonesome, as I'd given the landlord a good tip on the Saturday race at Newmarket.

So, anyway, I've paid to be alone, and so I am for a good four pints. I'm into the fifth when he comes in. Not much to look at. Thin, weedy. Needed a shave. Black suit. Pegged him for one of them who thinks Tarantino is an artist. Some South Bank type who works in the City and thinks that he's living on the edge 'cause he's bought some nose candy in Notting Hill, once. I let him know I want him to piss off, but he didn't move. I pay him no attention. Of course, he sits down, 'cross from me.

"I hear you do magic," he says.

Bollocks, I thought. Probably wants to sell his soul to get a better return on his mutual funds. Another Eastender wanting to make good in Thatcher's dog pits. I decide to have a little fun with him. Nothing serious, just let him know what he was dealing with.

"What you want?" I says.

"To get rid of someone," he says. "To make them go away."

I give him a once-over. Reeks of death and gasoline. One of Them.

I reach into the pocket of my coat and take out this bottle that I keep for these occasions. Found it in a gutter in Brixton. Nice workmanship, carved stone on the outside. Probably came from some head shop out that way. Filled it with wine vinegar and a few herbs. Tastes and stinks something awful. I put it on the table in front of me. He looks at it, then at me, all confused like.

"What's that, then?" he says.

I give him a very serious look.

"A potion," I says, all serious like.

"A potion," he says.

"Yeah," I says.

"How's it work?" he says.

"Let me tell you," I says.

I go rooting around in the attic, and I find just the thing. Bloody useful, them Greeks.

"Well," I says. "Bird came to me, marriage going down in flames. Seems her bloke's daughters hated her guts, always went about slagging her off all over the place. She wanted to make the little cow go away, so she comes to me. I gave her some of this."

I unscrewed the top, for effect.

"Now, she did what I told her. She goes down the King's Road, buys this posh dress that the little cow's always wanted. Takes three drops of this, puts one on each sleeve and one over the heart. Lays it out on the bed, girl comes home, puts it on. She's off in front of the mirror, twirling around like a ballerina, thrilled out of her mind. Never looked so beautiful."

I stop and light up, just for effect. I expect him to be looking at me, but he's not, he's looking at the floor.

"So there she is, twirling about in front of her sis, absolutely chuffed. She's twirling, and twirling, and she can't stop. Dress wraps around her tighter and tighter, so she can't draw a breath. Tries to tear it off, takes her skin with it. Her sis tries to stop her. Bad move. They can't get unstuck, and when she stops twirling, dress bursts into flame. Fire Brigade found their bones wrapped together like ivy in the ashes."

I look up. I expect him to be scared. Scared isn't the word for how he looks. He's giving me the thousand yard stare, like one of them what didn't bring it all home from the Falklands. Still, he was one of Them.

"No," he whispers, so quiet I barely hear him.

"Then what do you want?" I says.

"To make her go away," he says. "Just to make her stay away from me."

There's this tear running down his cheek. He doesn't even know it's there. I give it some thought. He's one of them, but he might be useful. They can be very useful when they get like this, if they don't get themselves killed.

"When you lot say 'get rid of', that's usually what you mean," I says.

The stare is gone. There's something else there, but it's nothing I need to worry about.

"I mean what I said," he says. "I just want to make her stay away from me."

"A bird," I says.

"Yeah," he says.

"You work with her?" I asks.

"Yeah," he says.

"There's things you can do," I says. "Grab her arse. Ignore her if she's the type who'd go for that sort of thing. Tell her you're a Jehovah's Witness. Don't need magic for that."

The look in his eyes takes me back. Like looking in the mirror after seeing Kit and Brendan off, back when.

"I just don't want her around," he says. "She's always there, making trouble."

"Maybe she fancies you," I say.

He coughs or laughs, can't tell.

"She's got another bloke?" I says.

"I don't fucking well fancy her," he says, showing a bit of life. "She's a seventeen year-old American face on a stick. She wanders around in a personal no-smoking zone all the bloody time."

"Seventeen?" I say. Can't imagine how someone seventeen would be mixed up with him.

"Bloody genius, too." he says.

"She fancy you?"

"She gives me hell over the cigs," he says. "Doesn't trust me. Treats me like dirt."

"Are you?" I says.

He gives me a look. At least we agree on something.

"I just want her to leave me alone," he says.

I'm thinking. Seventeen year old American girl genius? Swords and stones come to mind.

"Why don't you just do what you've been told to?" I says. "That'll get rid of her."

"No," he says, as if he's begging. "Not going to do that. Don't want to do anything like that ever again."

"It would solve your problem," I says.

"I'm not going to burn-," he says. "Hurt. I'm not going to hurt anyone again."

I see the steel in him. He doesn't wear black 'cause he thinks it's posh, he wears black 'cause it's the colour of death for him. He doesn't belong to Them any more. I root around in my pocket, and I find something there. From the feel, it's this little fabric pouch that Kit used to wear around her neck with her key in it. She used to wear it when her pants were too tight for her to keep a key in her pocket. A little sleight of hand, and the contents of a packet of that filthy powder Americans put in their coffee end up inside it. I pocket the bottle, pull out the pouch. He looks at it.

"Not lethal," I say.

"What's it do?" he says.

"It'll make her go away," I says. "No-one gets hurt."

"Not hurt?" he says. "Not in any way?"

"You have my word on it," I say.

He seems to believe it. He bloody well is lost.

"How's it work?" he says.

"Not as easy as the other one," I says. "You have to acclimate it to her."

"Acclimate it to her," he says, frowning. "As in, get in close, like?"

"Yeah," I says. "There's something you're planning in the future. Something what goes against them what owned you."

Nothing changes in the eyes, but he goes even paler.

"Yeah," he says. "Mate of mine's in trouble."

"Put that round your neck," I says. "Take her with you when you go. Stay close to her all the time. Talk to her. More you listen to what she says, the faster the charm'll work."

"But no harm comes to her," he says.

"No harm," I says. "Just be sure to have it hanging round your neck every time you're round her. Everything'll work out just the way you want it."

"Right," he says. "What'll it cost me?"

"Get me a pint on the way out," I says.

"That's it?" he says.

"What did you expect me to ask for," I says. "Your immortal soul? Seems like you've gone and pawned it already."

"Could be," he says. He picks up the pouch. He doesn't put it on. He leaves. Leaves me with memories of Kit. I raise a toast to absent friends as a bird brings me another pint.

FIN