Wizard for Hire
Chapter Three — The Meaning of the Odd Word: “S.P.O.P.E.”

It would be so much easier to travel by train or underground, I thought, as I pulled into a parking space in the corporate underground car park. I could change jobs, so that I wouldn’t have to drive through London everyday. The wizards voice echoed through my mind “Just quit!”

It really was as simple as that to him wasn’t it?

My desk was almost slap-bang in the middle of the large open plan floor. Glass windows surrounded us on two sides, with fantastic views of the London skyline. The job could be worth that view alone, if it wasn’t such a fucking chore. Each desk was separated by a fabric divider giving the effect of a cubicle. It gave enough privacy so that I could look at Facebook unhindered, but not enough that managers could see over the top at who looked busy or not.

To the left of my desk was a man I almost never spoke to, in all the time I had been here. He worked weekends, which was more than I was prepared to offer.

Stan was on the desk to the right of me, lovely chap, but doddery. He was almost always near bottom of the sales chart, but somehow just did enough each month to continue on.

Up until lunch time involved calling prospective customers that had enquired about having some blinds or shutters in their home. It’s as boring as it sounds. So, on turns the charm as I dial a number, build some rapport (as they tell us in the morning meetings everyday!) and try and arrange an appointment at their home.

I looked up at 11.15am (coffee break time). “Any luck Stan?” I said, standing and stretching.

He put the receiver down. “No,” he said in his nervous quivering voice. “Not a bean.”

Poor guy, he had a continually nervous disposition, and by all accounts had a wife who liked to spend money and a sick kid. The others made fun of him behind his back saying things like ’Don’t do a Stan!’ — that meant talking a customer out of the sale, which he had a bad habit of doing. Or dropping a cup of tea all over a customers new carpet. Or breaking their toilet. All things that have happened to Stan. He was more down on his luck than me, and that was saying something. I asked him if he wanted a coffee, he nodded as he dialled a new number.

The guy on my left, who I didn’t like, was talking loudly into the telephone like he was the Wolf of Wall Street or something. Dickhead.

As I reached the staff room and flicked on the kettle, I was somewhat accosted, as was her management style, by Gemma, who stood in the doorway with her I am better than you because I am a manager face.

“Anything to report Will?” she said knowing the bloody answer. She was a thick set woman who had given up her chance of being beautiful, or nice, in exchange for a career. “You’re slipping down the board,” she said leaning in showing off her massive cleavage (and not in a good way). “You will be below Stan soon.” Explaining myself as best I can, I knew I was thin ice.

“Can you explain why you were late this morning?”

I thought about it for a moment, wondering if I should tell it was because I had the give my new housemate, a wizard, a lift to Tottenham Court Road. “Traffic,” I said.

She left me in peace to make the coffee, my only respite, so I took my time. Coffee the only thing keeping me going after little sleep. As I stirred in the milk, I wondered if I, like Stan would still be here in thirty years? Working 6 days a week, with no respect, feeling unfulfilled and resentful. Earning just enough the pay the bills, I chuckled to myself as the words ‘J.O.B. Just Over Broke’ replayed themselves.

In the top desk drawer, I had left a photo frame I had of Ginny and me on holiday in Venice. The sight of it stirred up unwanted feelings again. I watched Stan, nearly at retirement age, stressing and wracking his nerves over each call.

After a mediocre lunch that consisted of a egg sandwich, crisps and another coffee, I settled at my desk for the second leg of afternoon work.

But everything was about to change with one phone call…

The phone on my desk rang, like it did sometimes when a client called back, it was a good sign. So I gratefully snatched up the receiver.

“Norton?”

The voice on the end of the phone was not the one I was expecting. “It’s me.”

I waited for some more information as I didn’t recognise the voice. “Who?”

“Who do you think!” he shouted. And the voice became clear to me — it was the wizard, perhaps he was wondering if I had his wand?

“Felix?” I said. “What are you doing calling me at work—”

“Shush,” he butted in. Manners of a pig. “I haven’t got long, I am at the Paddington Green Police Station. I need you to come as soon as possible on matter of death.”

Then he hung up!

Strange thoughts ran through my head as I sat in quiet contemplation for a minute judging what to do. But curiosity had got the better of me, not less that than what the wizard would do to me if I didn’t go. I took a deep breath, put my coat on and marched to Gemma’s office, knocking hard on the glass door. She seemed affronted by my newfound energy.

“I have to go, family emergency!” I said, before slipping my coat on and running out of the office. It sounds strange now, but I felt this wondrous sense of liberation as I ran out of there, down the stairs to my car.

Google maps was correct, it took 30 minutes, even with road works which seem to litter London streets so liberally. The blank 60’s police station was on the corner of a busy 6 lane road, opposite Edgware Road Underground. Why was everything so complicated? I navigated to the nearest (expensive!) car park behind the Underground station.

The thoughts that ran through my head as I walked smartly, consisted of how the wizard had found himself in police custody. Whether it had something to do with leaving his wand in my car? Or the phone box in which he had, seemingly, disappeared from?

The reception was similar to any state-run 60’s building, dun-coloured walls, static carpet and fixed plastic chairs in a small waiting area. It was empty and quiet. I approached the policeman behind the glass screen tentatively — I didn’t do well with manly men like builders, or soldiers or anyone taller and bigger than me. “Will Norton, here for Felix Freeman?” I said, wishing I could sound more forthright.

This man, whom had bigger bags under his eyes than I, clicked around on the computer.

“ID?” he said. I looked plainly at him, hoping he would elucidate. But he, rather rudely, and perhaps had his fill of rude, unpleasant customers, stared back. I pulled out my wallet, withdrawing my driving license and passing it through the gap.

“Sign here,” he said passing through a form, before handing me a lanyard marked Visitor. The door made a buzzing noise as he withdrew from the room and shew me onwards. Following the man to the floor below, a clinical looking questioning suite full of rooms and metal doors, which rather put the frighteners up me. Not one clue I had about what was supposed to happen when you collected someone from police custody, never having done it. However that was not what was to happen.

The man knocked on a nearby brown door, pushed and lazily announced my appearance and left again. Inside, Felix was sat back on his chair gazing up at the ceiling nonchalantly. Two people sat facing him with an annoyed expression, before one, an attractive blonde lady stood to greet me. Her expression of annoyance didn’t fade as she shook my hand and shew me to the seat next to Felix, who didn’t even greet me.

I was struggling to work out how was this a matter of death?

“This is my lawyer.” Felix announced.

Trying to hide the look of shook, as the wizard lied, I looked about the room instead, the cold, clinical room, feeling their eyes on me.

“I don’t recognise you,” said the blonde lady.

“I am… new.” I said with a cursory glance at Felix, trying to convey my pissed-off-ness to him. I had never so much as been told off by a police officer in my life, now here I was pretending to be a fucking lawyer to what could be an absolute madman. “Very new.”

“Glad you could make it in a timely manner,” said the blonde lady sardonically. “He refused to say anything until you arrived.” Her voice was an octave lower than suited her. “My name’s Inspector Jena Hawkins, this is my colleague Police Constable Rasheed Kahn.”

“They’re more than colleagues,” Felix whispered audible enough for all to hear. In which, he got his way, as an awkward few seconds of silence fell and tint of red grew on Jena’s cheeks.

“Right, we shall start,” she said opening her file before looking curiously at me.

“Don’t you have any papers?”

Felix started shaking his head before I could answer. “He doesn’t need them, he has a photographic memory.” He was in a playful mood, but it was like a smart-alec kid playing up in class. Annoying. “They think I stole something.”

Rasheed passed Jena a picture. “Yes on that subject,” she said. “Do you recognise any of these items of jewellery?”

The picture had several items, a golden broach, silver hair piece, a stack of golden coins and a pearl pendant. Looked valuable.

“They were found earlier this morning by a passerby, who said he saw someone of your description running down the road dropping them.”

Felix snorted. “I wouldn’t drop them.”

“But you do recognise the items?”

Felix jabbed me in the arm. “You going to let her talk to me like that?”

“Er,” I mumbled. “I object to that… line of questioning.”

They all stared at me, Felix had an eyebrow raised in disappointment. What did he expect? I wasn’t a fucking lawyer.

“You’re not the usual two that question me,” Felix said leaning forwards.

Jena ignored him. “Can you tell me why this witness saw you?”

“You two are just the warm ups I’m guessing?”

Rasheed: “Where were you at 3.15am this morning?”

“Could kill for a cup of tea.”

It went on in this vein for a while longer, like a tennis match. It felt to me that Felix was playing with them, like a cat does to a mouse. Until a more interesting line of inquiry came up.

Jena took a breath, sat back in her chair, relenting from her current line of questions. Her expression changed to a relaxed, comfortable, curiosity. “So, you claim that you are a… wizard, is that correct?”

“Correct,” said Felix bowing importantly. “To be more precise, in this world I am a S.P.O.P.E.”

He left it hanging there like a bad fart.

“S.P.O.P.E?” we all repeated back to him like good backing singers.

Felix sighed as if it hardly needed explaining. “Supernatural Paranormal and Occult Phenomenon Expert,” he reeled off. “Or in other words: a wizard.”

Jena and Rasheed glanced at each other before bursting into laughter. To say it rather dampened Felix’s mood would be an understatement, he turned downright stormy.

Jena continued to giggle patronisingly. “We needed a good laugh after a bad day didn’t we Rasheed?” she said.

“It could get a lot worse.” Felix’s voice had gone down a level, inspiring a ripple of fear somewhere in my stomach. His eyes stayed fixed on them both, as the light in the room started to flicker.

“Dam lights,” said Rasheed standing to take a closer look. But I don’t think it would help, faulty wiring it wasn’t.

4

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