Dyer Street Punk Witches: Ordshaw

Way Back in 1995...

An impatient clamour was rising outside the room. Stomping feet, voices shouting over a stereo beat, everyone waiting for the girls to come down. Kit sat on a slightly damp sofa, her hands squeezed together and a knee jumping with nerves. She breathed deep to keep down the little lunch she’d managed to eat.

Think they’ve waited long enough, Bill Fuller said, from his position by the door. He was a big man in a brown suit, with sharply trimmed muttonchops making up for his scant wisps of hair up top. His meaty hands rested on a cane he didn’t really need, gold rings tapping against the brass tip. You girls ready?

Kit met his eyes, silently saying yes; if she spoke, she might spew. Clover curled herself into the corner of the sofa, while Big Mad paced through the centre of the room, stomping out her worries. Bill gave Kit a simple, fatherly smile that said they could have an extra minute. But the crowd was getting restless.

Get out here, Bill! someone shouted. What are we waiting for?

A glass smashed somewhere, making Clover flinch as it sparked a round of complaints. Big Mad peaked through the window blinds and offered a breathless assessment: Oh God.

I’m gonna go down, Bill said. Stall them. Come when you’re ready, but don’t wait too long. You’ll spot Chester right away. He’ll be the one dressed fancy, looking like he owns the place. Whatever else you do, make an impression on him. Bill opened the door and exited onto a metal gangway overlooking the warehouse floor. The crowd quietened as he surveyed them, and the door swung closed. Kit listened to his footsteps descending, heavy on the creaking steps. He called out, Before we begin, a few ground rules.

Bill began a quick back and forth, the words becoming muffled by distance and the returning hubbub of the unhappy crowd.

They’re not a bunch of kids, Mad said, still peeking through the blinds. She meant this wasn’t a performance for friends or a club full of teenagers like they were used to, no matter what Kit had assured them.

To see Mad nervous stoked Kit, though. Fearless Mad, with her acid tongue and broad frame, clad in studded dark denim, made a hobby of putting bullies in their place. She shouldn’t be scared of a bunch of louts. Kit bounced to her feet and said, It’s nothing. We’ve got this, don’t we? Neither girl responded so she raised her voice. You know we do. They’re a bunch of clumsy drunks. We’ve got the power. Right?

Mad peeled her eyes away from the window. They could kill you. These are seriously dangerous bastards.

So are we, Kit insisted, spreading her arms. Don’t we look dangerous, Mad?

Mad considered her – the ripped jeans, leather jacket, and skull t-shirt, three chains hanging from her belt loop. The tussled bright green hair. Kit’s appearance alone was going to shock these men. Mad set her jaw and said, Yeah.

Clover? Kit said.

Clover, their genius guitarist, the slender, retiring recluse, didn’t look up. For all appearances, she was on another plain entirely as she stared through the floor. Kit shoved her shoulder. Clover? You hear me?

Clover gave a sudden, chilling dark stare, and Kit faltered.

Outside, Bill raised his voice over the renewed disquiet. Things were going to get ugly if Kit didn’t get things together. She’d promised Bill they could handle this. It wasn’t just a payday on the line, it was her reputation. She looked Clover in the eye and said, No one’s even going to know you’re here. I’ll be the only one they see. I just need you to have my back. You’ve got my back, right?

Clover barely moved.

We could still do this another way, Mad said.

We’re putting on a show, Kit snapped, pointing a finger at her while keeping her eyes locked on Clover. "Or at least I am. You do your thing and I’ll do mine and these dickheads won’t ever forget it. Because who are we, Clover? Come on, who are we?"

We’re the Dyre Grrls, Clover whispered, at last.

"I can’t hear you. Who are we?"

We are the Dyre Grrls, Clover said, chest rising as she came back to the moment, drinking some of Kit’s confidence.

And what are we gonna do? Kit said, louder. Down below, men were shouting threats at each other, on the verge of clashing. Bill had bought all the time he could. If they didn’t act, there’d be violence any second. What are we gonna do, Clover?

We are the Dyre Grrls! Clover replied, standing, clenching her fists. She completed their mantra: "And we are here to make you scream!"

Raw, dark power flooded out of her with whispers of shadow that made Kit swell with pride and strength, and just a tingle of fear. She flashed Mad another look. Ready?

Clover hopped on the spot, repeating, We are the Dyre Grrls! We are the Dyre Grrls!

Mad paced over to join them and Kit grabbed her and Clover’s shoulders, pulling them in for a huddle. They bumped foreheads as she said, Don’t hold back, okay? Give me all you’ve got.

Her friends nodded, excitement finally replacing fear as they started muttering under their breaths, a quick chant, a blessing. Energy buzzed between them, infecting Kit, amping her up. She jumped clear of her friends, rolled her shoulders, and stretched her neck. Ready. Actually going to do this. The others moved into place behind her, rubbing their hands, humming low with powerful focus. Kit inhaled their energy and felt its shadowy embrace sweep through her as her eyes found the baseball bat propped by the door.

Down below, a rough voice boomed: Enough talk, Bill! We doing this or what?

Yeah? Bill shouted back, worked up, too. I’d say we’re ready to go!

That was Kit’s cue. She thrust the door open and jumped out, grabbing the bat. Leaving Mad and Clover behind, she leapt down the metal steps in light strides, two or three at a time, twanging the bat against the banisters. A sea of two dozen hard-faced men watched her in surprise. They were separated by an invisible divide – half clustered around Bill, the other half flanking a short, ugly guy in a thick woollen trench coat, surely Chester Pacey. Most of them were carrying tools of some sort: pipes, bats, hammers, no blades.

Kit jogged off the steps, driven as much by adrenaline as by the energy flowing down from Mad and Clover back in the office. Bill’s group parted to let her through, many as confused as Chester’s lot.

What the fuck is this? Chester demanded.

Kit picked up speed, moving through Bill’s men, brimming with power that needed to come out. She was a supernova about to blind them all. They were the Dyre Grrls and these men were nothing. Drew Fuller, at Bill’s side, winked as she approached, and his friend Oscar Tallice gave her a disapproving sneer. She ignored them, no time for distractions. She reached the front of the group and skidded to a halt, her boots kicking up dust. Chester gawked at her from across the gap, one hand holding a short lead pipe, the other deep in a pocket like he expected to club people in a one-handed, dignified manner. Huge brutes surrounded him.

Kit felt Clover and Mad right there with her, hidden in the office as they were, their voices whispering behind her ear, black mists of power stirring in her veins and covering her skin. She twirled the bat and picked out the biggest, nastiest bastard in the crowd.

You’re not bloody serious, Chester said, making his men dutifully snigger. Then Kit shot forward, faster, more powerfully than they could follow. Time slowed with a dozen faces showing surprise and fear, big men cowering, holding up arms to shield themselves. She was coming at them hard, and no one could stop her. Chester ducked with a startled, disgusted look, but the hulk Kit had targeted stood tall, more defiant than the others. He had just enough time to throw his arms wide and roar like a champion before her bat came swinging at his face.

1

Introduction

I believed long before I found proof. I expect you know what I mean. You wouldn’t be reading this right now if there wasn’t a part of you that believed already, too. Maybe you’ve sensed or seen something you can’t properly explain? But while I could ask you to simply have faith, I do intend to prove it for you, too.

Now, a word of warning. Not everything works for everyone, and I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but if you indulge me on this journey, you’ll see by its end that there’s still magic in the world.

Betsy Burdock’s Book of Spells, p. 3

Uneasiness stirred in Kit’s mind; the irrational worry that something bad was coming for her. At the window of her loft apartment, she looked down on Dyer Street while swigging her fourth vodka. The empty road was typically dead at this time on a Tuesday night. Maybe her worries had been exaggerated by the first three vodkas.

But how else was she supposed to respond to a text message from Drew Fuller? Six simple words after years of silence: Need your help. Can we meet?

With that trigger, the memories of baseball bats, blood and clawing shadows were unavoidable. After the Dyre Grrls put their magic to rest, Kit had worked hard to avoid thinking about any of that – especially the shadows – but the message had jerked a response out of her unbidden. With the memories came an instinct to quest her senses out into the city, feeling for the magic she hadn’t touched in decades, and the response had been immediate and troubling. There was a ripple in whatever power it was that held the world together. Most likely, someone in the city had a foot in the other side.

Kit had been busy denying it for an hour. She tried to ground herself by pacing her apartment, where she lived surrounded by stacks of undistributed copies of Incite Ordshaw magazine, signed band posters, scrawled notepaper, and tangled cables. An ordinary life in a different millennium entirely to when they’d been involved with the Fullers and touched on forbidden power. Now, she had a demanding job, young people looking up to her, and important community connections. Her magazine was read citywide, not just in St Alphege’s, and her influence stretched beyond the city itself. Granted, not many of her contacts liked her, but she could open doors all the same. There could be a thousand reasons Drew might get in touch. The Fullers were mostly legitimate now, with two nightclubs, a tattoo shop, a Turkish restaurant, and a laundry business. There were a lot of strings she could pull for them.

Except Drew wouldn’t want to revisit their past any more than she did, so it would have to something serious for him to get in touch. And she felt the power out there. She couldn’t identify its nature or anything more than a vague directional pull, but it wasn’t paranoia, and it demanded her attention. It recalled how she felt when the Dyre Grrls were together: raw energy that could’ve been euphoria from performing gigs or breaking the law, or hedonist youth, except it wasn’t. It was a knowledge that the city of Ordshaw itself was alive, and they could connect with and manipulate the world around them. When was the last time Kit felt that? When they buried the book or when the others left town?

When Clover died?

Kit downed another glass of vodka to burn that thought away.

Damn Drew. He knew that text would trigger her. She ought to arrange a meeting just to kick him in the balls. Or just reply Piss off. She closed her eyes and counted her breath, slowly. An anger management therapist had taught her that. She was always reacting too soon. Almost forty years old and Kit was yet to calm down. She didn’t want to calm down. Calm people didn’t get things done.

Kit opened her eyes and looked down on Dyer Street again. Her street.

She held her breath as she saw a ghost walking by. Head hidden by a big hood, shoulders raised self-consciously near the ears. Clover had walked like that, pleading to be ignored even as an unseen quality about her always made you look twice. An apparition, triggered by Drew’s text? Betsy Burdock’s book warned that the spirits you touched never left you, a fear Kit had lived with but never seen realised. It was about time.

But as Kit tensed, she noticed the ambling figure was being followed. Another man, not particularly subtle. Kit cursed under her breath and put her glass down, pushing through the fog of Drew’s text and unsolicited memories. That was no apparition. Spirits did not attract muggers.

Dyer Street was supposedly the most dangerous part of the most dangerous neighbourhood in Ordshaw. Hence, Aaron Wise made a point of crossing it whenever he was nearby. Mostly with drunk courage. His one-bed apartment could be reached via the better-lit main road which separated the boroughs of St Alphege’s and Hanton, but a cut-through connecting the imposing twin towers of Gunners Estate to Dyer Street shaved off a minute’s walk, so why not? He didn’t like how nervous the concrete alley made him, so he marched bravely into it. Besides, he had long suspected the reputation was conflated. He was wrong.

This evening, a bite in the late November air made Aaron huddle within his coat, a fluffy hood cocooning his head. As the estate path met Dyer Street, the chill made for a good excuse to walk more briskly. He passed from one pocket of yellow light to another, the streetlamps old and too far apart, and he distracted himself by taking in the faded shop fronts. An Oxfam behind shutters; a vintage furniture store with oil lamps behind a metal lattice; the Dyer Fryer kebab shop beaming fluorescent across the pavement. The serving staff were out of sight inside, as the pillar of donner meat turned slowly. Aaron might’ve gone in, otherwise, and got some chips, but it seemed sad and empty. And if he got home quicker he could squeeze in some Twin Peaks.

There were footsteps behind him.

Aaron resisted the urge to bolt, because why shouldn’t someone else be walking down the road? He mildly increased his speed. The footsteps seemed to get quicker, too.

Aaron frowned, eyes on the turning ahead, a side street that ran to his road. Even darker than Dyer Street. The alternative was to continue another block to the intersection with the main road, which would defeat the point of the cut-through.

He chastised himself; he’d walked these streets a hundred times. There was nothing to be scared of, and the kebab shop was open back there, in case he needed to run for help. Yet his stomach turned, throat closing, and he cursed his body, tightening up over what was surely nothing.

Aaron turned onto the side street and continued determinedly towards home. The person following turned, too. Aaron swallowed, suddenly feeling like he might simultaneously go rigid and vomit. He told himself they were just using the same shortcut. Down a nearly unlit row of terraced houses. Aaron walked a little faster.

Hey, Jon! a voice called from behind. That’s you, right? Clipped, dropping consonants. Aaron slowed but did not stop, quite sure he did not know this person. What’s up, Jon? Why you running?

Aaron had a polite urge to point out that he wasn’t running but his rattling nerves suggested that he should run. As a compromise, he walked slightly faster.

Jon, don’t pretend you don’t hear me! The young man laughed in a fake, vaguely threatening way.

Despite his better judgement, Aaron found himself turning back.

If he showed no fear, he could head this off – just explain he wasn’t Jon and show he wasn’t scared. Demonstrate to himself, and his rebellious body, that fear was something he could handle. He set eyes on the approaching man and realised it was a mistake. The stranger was suddenly upon him, shorter and slighter than Aaron but tightly wound, with wild eyes and a spotty, sharp-nosed face sticking out from under a grey hood.

"Why you not answer me, Jon? the man demanded, making Aaron flinch. His voice dropped to a nasty whisper. How you gonna make it up to me, white boy?"

The comment threw Aaron, as this man was clearly white himself. The hesitation earned him a two-handed shove that made him stumble. Panic locked his limbs.

I said how you gonna make it up to me?

I don’t – I mean – I – The words came as gags, Aaron’s throat blocked.

You scared? the man spat and Aaron shook his head. Good, what you got to be scared of? Big man, strolling about ignoring me and that. What you got on you?

Could he outrun this man? What if he struck first, punched his face? Or his throat? Make him choke? It was a very narrow target, but –

I said what you got on you!

Aaron jumped and shook his head again, trying to deny this whole encounter.

The man moved forward, reaching for his pockets. "I said –"

Oi! Dickhead! a woman’s voice interrupted him. Both Aaron and the man turned toward it. A tall, slim lady in jeans and a leather jacket was striding towards them. Leave him alone and piss off!

Aaron’s heart leapt with hope, but his assailant replied, Who you talking to? Mind your business.

This neighbourhood is my business, the woman snapped. In the dim light, Aaron couldn’t make out her features, except that her hair was short with a sweep that was longer at the front, barely covering her ears.

It’s just me and my mate Jon, having a chat, the man sneered, throwing an arm roughly around Aaron’s shoulders. Aaron tried to shake free, but the man tightened his grip. Tell her, Jon, weren’t we just having a friendly chat? Keep your nose out.

Muggers were supposed to run when they were spotted. Why wasn’t he running scared? Maybe because it was a woman interrupting them.

She stepped up to the guy and glared down at him. I warned you once. Piss off or I’ll make you.

The mugger’s mouth thinned. He dropped his arm from Aaron and hiked his top to reveal a handle sticking out of his sweatpants. A knife? You want to –

He fell forwards with a gasp as the woman’s knee caught him hard in the crotch. Aaron jumped aside to let him hit the pavement. The woman crouched and snatched the knife from the man’s trousers before grabbing him by the collar and pulling his face to hers. The man sucked in air, fury widening his eyes.

Now listen – the woman started, but the mugger balled a fist. Aaron stepped closer, willing her to resist the attack as the sound of warning caught in his throat. The woman noticed the coming punch. The man paused mid-swing, suddenly distracted, then cried out, startled. He fell from the woman’s loosening grip, flicking his hand about, and she stepped away as he crawled backwards across the pavement. He staggered to the side, shaking his limbs like he was covered in bugs, and the shadows seemed to flicker around him like parting clouds. He threw a terrified look to the woman that chilled Aaron, too. The mugger sprinted, back towards Dyer Street, cursing. Aaron and the woman mutely watched.

The woman looked at Aaron and the question in her eyes made Aaron’s unease return, stomach warning him he was still not safe. Was she wondering if he caused the mugger’s strange behaviour?

I . . . Aaron started, wanting to deny the unspoken accusation.

You okay? she said, saving them both the trouble of explaining it.

Just . . . Aaron tried to smile. Now that he had a moment, he realised his hands were shaking and he would quite like to cry. He lowered his eyes and clamped his mouth shut before he could embarrass himself.

Don’t sweat it, she said. He was a nasty little shit, but no harm done. Except to his balls. You live nearby?

Aaron nodded. Henry Road. Just around the corner.

I’ll walk you. The woman gestured ahead.

Aaron wanted to say no, he didn’t need an escort, but he was already walking, and with a feeling of great relief. That guy had a knife. What would have happened without her help? Would he have stopped at taking Aaron’s money or might he have cut him anyway? What if Aaron had fought back? He didn’t know how to fight. And where was the knife now?

That was brave of you, standing up to him like that, the woman said, breaking through his thoughts. But it would’ve been smarter to run. Or just to not be here in the first place.

Yeah, Aaron agreed. His throat hadn’t quite opened yet, so there was no chance he was going to explain that his stupid mind had been trying to convince his sensible body that there wasn’t anything to be scared of.

You a student?

No.

You look like one. I’m guessing you’re new to the area? This isn’t the safest place to wander alone at night. You’re lucky I saw you from my window.

Aaron glanced over his shoulder, wondering which house was hers, but they were all unlit. As they reached the lights of Sander Road, Aaron took her in properly. She had a youthful complexion, with a thin-lipped mouth and dark eyes. Only slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth marked her as more mature than she initially seemed. She carried herself youthfully, too: hands deep in her jacket pockets, a swagger to her hips, stomping big Doc Martin boots. She was also, Aaron noticed, a couple of inches taller than him. He had a pang of concern about the way she was studying him.

Thank you, Aaron said quietly. A bus rattled past, announcing they had left that dark, otherworldly road behind and he took in a big breath, his throat finally relaxing. I’ve actually lived near here for four years. I never had any trouble before.

Then you’ve been lucky. Be more careful in future.

I – Aaron looked up at the woman, mouth open but no words coming. He what? Didn’t think it was really that dangerous? Didn’t think it was normal to be scared about where he lived? He turned his attention to the road, spotting a pub, The Hook and Cart. He asked without thinking, Can I get you a beer? To say thanks.

No, the woman said. Go home and call your mum or something. Aaron nodded, halfway between disappointment and relief. She smiled, a disarmingly cheeky grin. Despite appearances, I am a bad influence.

Aaron smiled back. He wanted to say something witty or charming, to counter that, but his mind wasn’t working quickly enough, and what came out was, Well. Lucky for me.

Sure. Take care. She slapped his back, making Aaron jump, then she turned back towards Dyer Street.

You’re going back that way? Aaron said. Should I –

I can handle myself. The woman winked, then walked into the shadows with a hand raised in a wave. He watched her go, a cocky angel in denim and leather, with regret, partly for her leaving, partly for him needing her to save him. Trouble had finally come for him, and he’d frozen, failed, maybe almost wet himself. But she was fearless, tough. Scary.

Aaron frowned, the memory of the mugger’s terrified face resurfacing as he finally recounted the incident. The man had looked like he’d seen a ghost, right as he was about to hit her. The shadows had seemed to move. What was that about? Had Aaron imagined it in his own fear?

The woman hadn’t mentioned it. She looked surprised but hadn’t commented on the weirdness. Aaron had an uncomfortable feeling that she had done something, though he couldn’t say what. Except that it was scary and was probably a good reason to not want to know her.

2

Somerfield Car Park, 1992

Kit Fadulous and the Tearaways, she suggested, but Big Mad’s face made that a Big No. Standing in front of the other two, Kit waved her joint like a conductor’s baton and quickly moved on, Or the Bad Bitches, NoDix, Punch Your Dad – I don’t know, the name’s not important. We’ll figure it out later! What matters is what we do. And we can do this. We’ve got – she pointed to herself – energetic front woman – then to Mad and Clover in turn – muscle-bound tub-thumper, nimble-fingered strings. Bombshells, all.

The girls had started laughing before she finished, and Mad tried to swat her away. I’ll give you muscle-bound!

I bloody hope so! Kit replied, through her own laughter. "Because a lot of people are gonna try and put us down. That’s eighty per cent of a punk’s work. We fight against the norms. Show them weird’s cool. Spit in the eye of anyone calls you fat, Mad, by showing them how hard you can hit a drum. And when they call you quiet, Clover, you show them how loud you can scream."

And you get to show everyone how great Kit Hamley is, Mad put in. Ringmaster, crowd pleaser –

Activist, Kit pointed a sharp finger at her. "Kit Fadulous will show them what angry sounds like. It’s our time, girls. We’ve got Bikini Kill and Huggy Bear building on what was started in the ‘70s, the ‘80s, there’s a female rock revolution coming and we’ll be front and centre."

Alright, you’ve thought through the fame and glory, Mad said, folding her arms. What about bloody instruments? Drums and guitars aren’t cheap.

I’ve got an acoustic guitar, Clover volunteered softly.

Bin it! Kit cried. We’re making noise, Clover! Blowing amps and ripping vocal cords! She took a long drag as they laughed again, and through the smoke she could see her enthusiasm rubbing off on them. They were getting the spark in their eyes, matching the glow of the joint’s burning embers. She narrowed her eyes as the joint fizzled down, and said, And I know where we can get some money.

No such thing as easy money, Kit told herself, as she got off a call from the bank. It was a maxim she gave her staff constantly to justify the crap they went through chasing advertisers, putting in long hours without financial reward. This morning, though, she was remembering exactly why she believed it. She’d chased easy money herself and learnt where that led: into bed with dodgy people who did dodgier things, and got you doing the same. Like conjuring shadows when you were just trying to drive off a mugger.

She’d been a good girl, keeping that stuff hidden well in the past, until Drew’s bloody message. Then in the space of an evening, bam. Dark magic, right in front of a civilian. The guy did have a knife, but she’d acted without even meaning to. How quickly the Deep Dark returned, and already it was making her question everything. Like, had the shadows kind of reached towards the kid? Was the energy she felt out in the city somehow connected to him? She couldn’t see how, but what did she know, twenty years out of practice.

Kit watched her staff from the kitchenette and considered how quickly it could all come tumbling down.

There were only two of them in the Incite office this month: dependable