Divided by Magic Read online

  Divided by Magic

  by Rebecca Danese

  For Daniele,

  who is waiting for the movie version.

  CHAPTER 1

  The first punch breaks his nose. I can hear it from across the road and it makes me feel ill. The blows land on his face and ribs making crunching noises that I can hear even from here. I fight with my feet, urging myself to move and do something, anything at all, but all I can do is watch them beat him until he falls.

  "STOP!" I shout from across the road. Finally I manage to make my body move in the direction of the fight.

  "Get lost, Augur lover," one of them says, shoving me away roughly. I scramble up just as I hear one of the boy’s ribs crack under the weight of a boot.

  "You’re going to kill him!" I shout, trying to pull one of them off of him. The punch to the eye I get in return sends me spinning. The street lamps flicker, sparks fly from the boy’s body and his assailants fall to the floor one by one, pinned down by something that I can’t see. I recover only just in time to scramble away, the sound of sirens coming closer finally pushing me into action. I run.

  The memory hits me at the strangest time, although the bruise has already faded. I stare at my gaunt face in the bathroom mirror and sigh, thoughts of the Augur boy being crowded out by the realisation that I have to get ready for work.

  The smell of bacon is wafting up the stairs and through the crack under the bathroom door, which is the signal I’m looking for to get myself moving. It being a Saturday means I get to spend the whole day with her. Ella. The girl of my dreams, as far as I’m concerned anyway. The fact that she hasn’t realised it yet doesn’t perturb me.

  I wash, dress and grab the printed-out concert tickets from next to my computer. These are what I spent most of the night in a bidding war over against @foolsfan69 and are, I hope, the key to getting Ella’s attention. The lack of sleep better be worth it, I think to myself. They were three times the face value by the time I’d finished, and I gulp at the thought of my bank balance. I slip them into my back pocket for safety and come downstairs to find a typical Saturday scene.

  Dad reads the newspaper that he got up early to collect from the newsagents. Mum is standing at the kitchen sink, which is pretty much her permanent location I find. She’s usually either in the kitchen or at work, and rarely anywhere else during her waking hours.

  I grunt at Dad and he grunts back. That’s about the limit to our morning conversation on the best day. I kiss mum on the cheek, who in turn smiles at me and waves a rubber-gloved hand at the grill where my breakfast is keeping warm.

  "Thanks, Mum. You didn’t have to," I say, and shovel a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth while still standing.

  "I did too," she replies, not even putting down the scrubbing brush that she is attacking the frying pan with. "Can’t have you going to work on an empty stomach," she says as a stubborn piece of blackened fat flies up and hits her in the face.

  I wait tables. Probably not the career I’d originally considered, but it keeps me out of my parents’ way and earns me cash for ridiculously expensive concert tickets.

  Plus, there’s Ella. If nothing else she’s the reason I work every evening and all weekend, even if she doesn’t know it.

  "Will you be able to get lunch at the restaurant, love, or would you like me to pack you one?" Mum is a typical Northern mother with a heavy dose of West Indian in her, always making sure that I’ve got food in my stomach and I’m looked after.

  "Ah, don’t worry, Mum, I’m sure I’ll manage something," I reply, knowing Ella usually steps in at lunch time and makes sure I’ve eaten.

  "Don’t coddle him, Mar," Dad says gruffly.

  "Don’t be silly, Pete. Honestly, Curtis, don’t listen to your father. I’m more than happy to make you food and you don’t worry your head about it," she says, finally finishing the washing up and setting about wiping the kitchen table.

  Mum’s family lives in Yorkshire but originally come from the West Indies. It makes for a homely combination of caring and comfort as well as never letting much bother her. Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s a nurse and is used to looking after people, or maybe it’s that she has to make up for Dad’s permanently disgruntled attitude, but she always puts others first. I’ve never understood how two people so opposite to one another have been married for so long.

  I finish inhaling my breakfast and go to make myself a coffee, but realise that she’s already beaten me to it, strategically removing the empty plate from my hands and replacing it with a freshly made cup.

  Dad, who always reads the paper back to front, has now evidently taken his fill of the sports, travel and property pages. He’s finally getting to what can loosely be described as ‘news’. The sound of tuts, just loud enough to be heard, tell me he must be outraged by something that he has just read.

  I plonk myself in a chair opposite and read the glaring headline on the front:

  AUGURS TERRORISE BONFIRE NIGHT

  No doubt Dad is reading the article associated with it, and although I know I shouldn’t really goad him I can’t help myself. It’s like pissing off a bee. You know that swatting at it will only annoy it more, but instinct makes you do it anyway.

  "Something the matter, Dad?" I say, feigning interest and slurping my coffee loudly.

  Dad usually blocks out the sound of my voice, but the question must register somewhere with him. He clears his throat loudly and then says, "Bloody terrorists again. Attacked a town on bonfire night and terrified the locals. They should be bloody hanged, the lot of them. It’s not natural, you know!" Dad, known to his friends and everyone else as Peter Mayes, is a total Augurist (although in my head I’ve re-dubbed him as an Augurphobe, which sounds worse). That is, he completely hates anyone with enhanced abilities. For as long as I have been alive there has always been discrimination of one kind or another against Augurs —people who can manipulate energy in a sense that might loosely be called ‘magic’. But with a small group of idiots calling themselves The Magic Circle, they’ve gotten the country in an uproar. I reckon they’re probably a group of kids just pranking and giving Augurs a bad name, but all the same the media is going bonkers about it at the moment. My mind flashes back to the incident I witnessed just a few weeks ago. Witnessed, but didn’t do anything about. Suddenly the coffee tastes bitter in my mouth and I put down the mug in distaste.

  Dad has always been offended by the thought of Augurs. The fact that someone can do something that isn’t per his definition of normal offends his sensibilities or something. But now with The Magic Circle appearing in every paper and on every half-hour news update, Dad is at an all-new level of hatred for Augur kind. The practice of ‘magic’ is illegal in all major cities around the world, the Augurs tending to be pushed out and hidden away in little villages outside where they can live their lives in peace. But there’s no denying that there’s discord between us, the ‘Normals’ as we often get called, and them.

  I’ve never personally had a problem with them. I’d had a slight fascination with the whole thing when I was a kid, but I never found out where they really came from. Popular theory is that they’re some form of human evolution, becoming more and more prevalent now that artificial energy is being bandied around left, right and centre. I’d read somewhere that they were another race all together that mingled with humans thousands of years ago. When I was a bit younger I used to wish I had abilities too so that I could turn my Dad into a frog, but an Augur kid at my school told me that it didn’t really work like that. Shame.

  Thanks to The Magic Circle, Dad is now mentioning his hatred for all Augurs everywhere on a daily basis. I feel grateful that my schedule is so weird that I barely have to speak to him, let alone listen to him rant every
day.

  "Says here that seven people were left in shock after The Magic Circle tampered with a local firework display somewhere in the countryside. The field exploded, and the flames could be seen for miles. Hooligans!" he finishes with slap of his fist on the kitchen table.

  "Was anyone hurt?" I ask, almost not wanting to know.

  "No, but someone driving by was severely distracted and crashed their car into a tree, and it says here that several residents were traumatised. Traumatised!" he says just as emphatically. It rubs me up the wrong way. If Dad had been there at the time I’m sure he would have kicked that Augur kid along with the rest of them.

  "Believe everything you read in the papers, do you, Dad?" I snark. I’ve crossed a line and I know it, so I hastily throw on my jacket before he can retaliate. There’s a sudden thickness in the air which is a sure sign for me to leave.

  "Going to sort your life out and get a proper job one of these days, lad? Rather than scrounging off your parents?" It’s a cheap shot, I know, but it pushes my button. I attempt to shrug and smile nonchalantly but fail as I open the front door.

  "Can’t wait for the day, Dad," is my only parting shot, leaving before I can get into a real argument.

  I shake my head angrily as I walk the twenty minutes to work, to help me clear my head. It’s twenty minutes through the quiet back streets and onto the high street which is plenty of time to concoct all the smart answers I could have given but didn’t.

  Almost every weekend we have a similar conversation. When am I going to get a proper job? When am I going to figure out what I’m doing with my life? When am I going to leave home? Every time I tell myself I won’t get annoyed, but he has the ability to sound disapproving even when wishing me ‘Happy birthday’ or saying ‘job well done’. It’s like his own grumpy-old-git power.

  The morning is colder than I expected, and I turn my collar up against the chill. I can see my breath hang in the air, and there’s a sparkling layer of frost on the lawns and the last few remaining leaves. Most of the trees that line the streets are bare though, and on the high street some poor sod has had to get up early to grit the pavements. I crunch along, realising that my polished black shoes will probably be ruined by the time I get to work.

  It’s the usual quiet Saturday morning. Very few people in their cars yet, unlike the weekdays where the roads are jammed with vehicles. There’s the odd person taking their kids to football or swimming and the occasional jogger, but otherwise it’s deathly quiet. Two doors down from my house a man stands on his doorstep in his dressing gown and slippers, a cigarette in his mouth. The smoke remains suspended a few inches in front of his face with every puff. He glances at me for barely a moment as I walk past, and I intend to give him a nod and smile but he’s already averting his eyes. Eye contact isn’t really a done thing in London if it can be helped.

  On the main road I pass a series of shop windows, boarded up and graffitied. A series of crude-looking stickers have been plastered along it with the familiar picture of a circle with a large red ‘M’ in the middle of it. This is the Magic Circle logo. Over the top of it someone has spray-painted Death to Augurs.

  I don’t know who I dislike more, the Magic Circle pot-stirrers or the Normals that hate them. The discord between them is just barely being held in check by people desperately trying to appear social and civilised towards each other. What happens when that pot boils over?

  I remember a kid from school that I used to be friends with, before it was completely illegal to practise magic in London and the Augurs all went into semi-hiding.

  He’d been blamed for causing electricity surges during a class experiment and suspended, whether it was a fair accusation or not. It could’ve been a problem with the National Grid for all they knew, but the Augur was blamed and that was the end of it.

  What was his name? Evan? Ewan?

  Before I have a chance to dwell on it any more I realise I’m nearly at work. Time to prepare for one of the scariest things I’ve had to do in a long time: ask a girl out.

  Cutting down a narrow alleyway, I take the kitchen entrance at the back of the building. Federico, the chef, is standing at the griddle, heating it up in preparation for the first customers that will probably roll in within the next half hour.

  "Good morning, Fred," I say chirpily. Perhaps it’s because the staunch Italian hates the name ‘Fred’ or possibly because he just hates me, but he never replies.

  I drop my jacket in the cloak room and don a serving apron before getting a wet cloth and bucket from the kitchen. Through the swinging double doors I can see the dining room, and as I enter I catch a glimpse of Ella behind the bar polishing glasses.

  A small butterfly tries to leap out of my stomach when I see her. Blonde hair tied into a ponytail as usual, she smiles at me when I walk in, looking up from the wine glass that she’s cleaning. I pat my back pocket out of habit to check that its precious cargo is still in there. It is.

  "Curtis, Mr. Gregorio wanted you here early, remember?" she says gently, trying to be cross but failing to mask her grin.

  "I am early. It’s two-minutes to nine," I try to give her a cheeky smile and she rolls her eyes.

  The restaurant doesn’t open until 9:30am for the breakfast shift, but there’s a lot to do before we can let customers through the doors.

  I wipe the tables and chairs down and fetch the table cloths from their cupboard behind the bar. Ella is silent, which isn’t unusual for her, and I wonder if now is the time for me to ask. A jolt of panic courses through my chest. No. Now is not the time —I need to wait until things are a little calmer. Right before we open the doors to dozens of hungry people is not the moment. I push the panic back down and put my mind on the task at hand.

  I shake open the folded table cloths and place them on each table making sure the creases aren’t visible. Mr. Gregorio, the manager, requires perfection if nothing else, and after two months I’ve just about gotten the hang of what that means.

  The sound of the radio echoes through the kitchen hatch behind the bar into the dining area where we’re working, and although when customers arrive it will be turned down and ambient Italian music will be played in its place, whilst we set up it is accepted that Federico will listen to Radio 2 as loudly as possible. Mr. Gregorio doesn’t usually leave his office until ten minutes before opening, and I’ve never seen him argue with the chef. I figure they have some mutual agreement going on since they’ve been working together for about a decade.

  The news jingle clangs out across the room and a demure sounding correspondent announces the day’s headlines. "An alleged Augur attack on the small town of Aylesbury is being investigated today by police. It has been confirmed that there were no fatalities, but residents are ‘shocked and shaken’," she says, following which one particular ‘shocked and shaken’ resident’s squeaking voice comes over the airwaves.

  "We are really worried for our lives, you know? What if things had gotten out of hand? I’m scared for my children," comes the shrill voice of a panicked woman.

  Ella tuts loudly from behind the bar, although I can’t be sure if this is from the ridiculous news report or because there is a water spot on a glass she can’t get off.

  "In other news, the Prime Minister has agreed to hold hearings in parliament regarding the legal testing and segregation of Augurs in major cities, including London, Manchester and parts of Scotland and Wales. If the hearings are successful, Augurs will be legally required to register themselves which may cause them difficulties in obtaining housing, school places, and jobs in the future."

  Another snippet of some outraged citizen, this time an Augur themselves, comes over the radio, but the sound is cut short by Federico slamming a cooking pot down on the stove and then abruptly turning the radio off. The noise makes me jump. I had only been half-listening, but the sudden silence makes me glance right up at Ella, and what I see surprises me. She stands behind the bar, eyes wide and fierce and her face paler than usual, a slightly shocked
expression on her face.

  "You okay?" I ask, coming over to get the silverware from its drawer and beginning to place it on the tables.

  She shakes her head, more as if trying to remove some thought, and looks back at me.

  "I'm fine. Just got a lot on my mind," she replies, not unkindly but certainly distracted. I guess that Federico’s thrashing about in the kitchen just startled her. I finish my cutlery placement and go back to retrieve the now shining glasses from the bar where she has placed them. The morning preparations are a well-drilled set up for us, and without asking Ella has handed me over four wine glasses for me to take by the stems and place on each table. Then follows the water glasses and finally the table placements, flowers of some kind or another that Ella’s picked up during the week and painstakingly arranged for each table. We are just finishing up when Mr. Gregorio himself appears from his back office.

  "Good morning, Mr. Gregorio," we say almost in unison.

  He smiles pleasantly at Ella but barely nods at me. Having been here for over eight weeks I sort of hope that he’ll give me some hint of appreciation, but when I’ve broached the subject with other staff they just say, "He pays you, doesn’t he? What more do you want?"

  Apart from the obvious benefit of being able to work with Ella, which is the highlight of my day, I stick it out because otherwise I’d be home every evening and weekend and so would Dad. I prefer to avoid being under the same roof as him other than to sleep if I can help it. Plus, I have an empty house to myself during the day which means I can pretty much do what I want, which largely involves playing video games.

  "Should be a busy day what with our ad in the local magazine having reached everyone a few days ago. Let's have a good one, okay?" Mr. Gregorio's pep talks are usually short and sweet, with minimal hand gesticulations and only his thick black hair, dark features and strong accent to show for his nationality. He seems to lack the buoyant enthusiasm that I had always associated with Italians growing up. But then, so does Fred, so maybe the pasta adverts were misleading.