The following morning, I found myself standing just off the main street with my arms crossed. The man standing next to me had a ruddy complexion and, although I wasn’t a doctor, I could still read its complex network of lumps, red blotches and broken veins. It said ‘heart attack’ and ‘early grave’.
“Those fuckin’ kids, Steve! You’ve got to do something about those fuckin’ kids.”
We were looking at the side of The Coach and Horses. Beneath the threadbare tinsel that festooned the balcony, someone had created their own decoration in red and green paint. The shaft was about six feet long with a couple of very festive balls at the bottom.
Since Sandy had started bartending at The Coach and Horses, Sharkey and I routinely dropped in to keep an eye on its clientele of lecherous old men. This didn’t endear us to Archie Cox—the publican who was currently on the verge of a massive stroke—as the drunks and gamblers who frequented the joint tended to drink less when the local copper dropped by.
“I’ll get right on it…Mr Cox.”
I gave a polite nod, turned towards the station, and trudged down the main street, hoping to put enough distance between me and Archie so that, when he inevitably experienced congestive heart failure, it wouldn’t be my bloody problem.
A couple of years ago, there was an earthquake in Holbrooke. At the time, I was sitting in the living room of the station house watching Division 4. My first thought was that the washing machine had entered a particularly violent spin cycle. No, that was impossible…the washing machine was off. Then, the entire house started to shake. I leapt off the couch and yelled, “What the bloody fuck?!” Shithead—the calico cat that had sauntered into the station house one day and steadfastly refused to leave—raced out of the room with her ears back. Next door, dogs started barking and, through the front window, I could see surprised neighbours congregating in the street.
That’s what it’s like when weird bullshit starts to happen in Holbrooke. We were feeling the psychic aftershocks created by some kind of malevolent force: in the coming days, we’d see petty crimes, short tempers and, if I didn’t intervene, violence and death.
I’d spent the morning practicing spells. Ethel took me through the basics before she left: in essence, magic is a type of energy and, like all energy, it can be generated and stored.
A witch like Ethel generates energy through friendship, kindness and—as far as I can tell—baking scones for the Country Women’s Association. The sense of belonging and cohesion that comes with a small town like Holbrooke is a manifestation of that energy.
Community, in short, is a kind of magic.
Practitioners like Ethel draw on those vast reserves to cast powerful spells. The events of last winter, which had pushed her abilities to the limit, drained the energy she’d accumulated over decades of kindness, bake sales, volunteer work and popping around to feed the cat while you were off on holidays. While there were quicker ways of generating magical energy—usually involving blood rites and ritual sacrifice—those techniques were generally frowned upon by the judicial system. After three hours casting, I was seriously contemplating the virtues of sharp daggers and sacrificial altars.
My baton sat in the middle of the table. The runes inscribed on its surface helped to capture and store magical energy. I closed my eyes. There was a familiar ripple of air and those faint sensations I’d come to associate with casting: the smell of vinyl records, the sharp air of a cold morning, the sound of Shithead purring. When I picked it up, it felt heavier than before. I could feel its reassuring weight on my service belt as I returned to the station.
Before I reached the end of the main street, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
Oh shit.
Peter, the owner of the newsagency, was limping quickly in my direction with a bundle of red fabric beneath one arm. Thinking of Ethel, I mustered my reserves of goodwill and kindness, turned and gave him a broad smile.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been avoiding me!” he said in a relentlessly cheerful voice. My smile faltered when I realised what was tucked under his arm. “Don’t tell me you’d forgotten!”
“How could I forget?” I replied, taking the red and white costume that I’d been avoiding for months.
“Looks like you’ve been preparing for the role!” he said. Casting an eye at my gut, he gave an explosive laugh, clapped me on the shoulder and hobbled back to the newsagency.
I appraised the costume.
The Christmas Eve parade was less than twenty-four hours away and I’d been nominated for a starring role.
Fuck me dead.
Thinking of Ethel, of the goodwill required to bind a community together and protect it from the forces of darkness, I tucked the humiliating costume beneath one arm and continued towards the police station on Bayview Avenue. The road alongside the recreation reserve was lined with peppermint gums. The morning was crisp and cool, the air redolent with the smell of eucalyptus and, for a few seconds, it was possible to imagine that everything was going to be okay.
My optimism was short-lived.
Reaching the intersection, I noticed the peppermint gum on the corner was dead, skeletal branches completely devoid of leaves. I reached out and ran a hand across the papery, desiccated bark.
What the hell?
Picking up my pace, I turned the corner and caught sight of a hunched, elderly figure waiting beneath the blue and white sign. In the moment it took to register her visible distress, I knew things were about to get much worse.