25. Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? #3
He rolls his eyes and dramatically raises his arms. “Oh, come on, Gary. You already know. Nine hundred and ninety-two questions left.”
I do? “There were disembodied legs found in the hotel’s pool. Who did they belong to?”
“Ooh, excellent question. You can have that one for free,” he says, and why am I preening? “There was a man named Joseph. He was paddle?boarding in the River. He sailed too close to a whole heap of crocs, and his body drifted here on the tides.”
“And into an indoor swimming pool?”
“Okay, fine. Those were my legs. I was just making use of the spa facilities one morning, and Francesca Driscoll walked in and spotted me. What was I supposed to do? I invisibled my top half and let the police department come along and prod me for a while.” He shrugs.
“Was fun. And then I got taken to the mortuary in Truro. Less fun.”
So many new questions are popping up in my head. I’m trying to organise them by order of importance. “You can move outside the hotel boundaries.”
“Yes,” is his disappointingly succinct answer.
“And you can make yourself fully visible and corporeal to living people?”
“I’m counting that as two questions, Gary. Yes and yes. Only nine hundred and eighty-six left,” he says, though I’m pretty sure he’s not counting anything and simply pulling random numbers from the air.
“When did you really die?”
Magnus’s face lights up. “Ahh. Good lad. But the better question here would be, was I ever alive?”
“Huh?”
“Nine hundred and eighty-four.”
Oh my Jesus, this guy is more frustrating than Stove. “What do you mean? You were never alive? Are you a poltergeist? A level five?”
“Justin Bieber!” he yells. “‘What do you mean’ is a Justin Bieber song. And no, technically I was never alive, and no, I’m not a poltergeist, but I meet with the poltergeists every Tuesday for a little tête-à-tête.”
Ignoring the friendly gossip sessions Magnus has with the soul-eating entities, I push on. “So . . . what are you, then?”
He doesn’t directly answer my question. Of course he doesn’t. I’ve known the guy . . . person . . . thing for all of five minutes and I already know I’d get a faster response by speaking to a puddle of sea water.
“Have you ever heard of a man named John Dee?” he says.
I roll the name around in my mind. It’s familiar, but I can’t remember why, until suddenly an image rushes to the forefront of my memories.
An oil painting of an old bloke with a long pointy beard and a Smurf hat.
A gold-coloured plaque at the bottom read: John Dee 1527–1608.
It was hanging on the wall behind Gerald Pickett’s desk.
“Yes.”
“He was an occultist. He summoned me to help him clean up a few of his mishaps, but I told him to jog on, so he banished me to the Atlantic Ocean, and now I’m an island.”
“Wait . . . you’re the island? You are Enys Marow.”
“Ding ding ding. Yep. By the way, that old saying is wrong. No man is an island.”
I puff out a breath. Outwardly this time. “Did you see me die?”
“Yes and no. I saw it in my mind’s eye, but I was too busy making a super cool tropical storm to stop it. Besides, I don’t mess in human affairs . . . correction, I try not to mess in their affairs.”
“So, that wasn’t you in my room that night?” I had seen a tall figure, with squared?off shoulders and an angular, almost robotic head. Magnus has the right build for it.
“Nah. Like I said, it was cyclone time, baby.”
I’m beginning to really dislike this guy.
“Aw, don’t say that. It’s not as though I have a choice. I can’t interfere with the course of human life. That’s part of my curse.”
Did you just read my mind? I say, inside my thoughts.
“No.” He smooths his chin. “Dammit.”
“Okay, I have another question,” I say, but the wind suddenly grows strong and loud, and grey clouds gather overhead. “Is unfinished business real?”
“Of course it is,” he says.
“Do you know what mine is?”
The wind picks up speed. Magnus’s cape violently slaps his thigh. Sea spray hits him in the face. No part of my person or clothing is affected by the weather, which is kinda nice.
“I do,” he says.
“And Trystan’s?”
Magnus nods.
“And you’re not telling?”
He smiles. I can’t work out if it’s a happy or solemn smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Can’t you just tell me?” I ask out of sheer, unfiltered desperation.
Instead of nodding, or shaking his head, or simply answering my bloody question, he “zips” his mouth shut. Literally. Big silver zip teeth appear over his lips and an oversized toggle dangles at the corner.
“I might need you to help me with something on Monday night, if that’s okay?” I say. Magnus flashes me a thumbs up. I guess that means our conversation is over. “If you ever feel lonely or bored out here, don’t be a stranger. You can hang out with us any time . . . but with clothes on.”
He unzips his mouth. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“That’s very kind, thank you. It does get rather lonely out here sometimes.” Then he closes the zip once more.
“I still have nine hundred and sixty questions left,” I say taking a stab at the rough amount.
But Magnus simply waves his fingers in a toodaloo fashion, and . . . poof, he’s gone.