Fletcher by David Horscroft Page B

cigarette burns precipitated into climax.
    You could always tell a witchery addict by the burn marks. Valerie was in control, but fresh red welts always sprang up whenever she got her hands on a new batch. She loved her witchery almost as much as she loved her morphine.
    We disengaged and she grabbed my hand. I could feel hot spots all over her nimble fingers. Surprisingly forceful, she yanked me past the bouncers and to the bar. Dante winked at me.
    “You’re not in theme, sweetheart. Welcome to Salem.”
    That’s how it’s pronounced.
    “Sweetheart?” I laughed. “Please, Dante. You’ve seen me operate.”
    Valerie spun around—back now leaning against the bar—and grabbed my lapel. Another forceful tug, and I was inches away from her face. Our teeth bared in unison, and she pulled my lips into hers.
    Her tongue extended and I felt a sweet strip begin to dissolve on my own. Payload delivered, she snaked back and smirked at me.
    “I was lying. You don’t need to be nice for me to share.”
    Sly cun—
    —the first part of witchery kicked in quickly. A faint echo started up in my ears, and a fresh surge of heat made it to my face. I could feel the blood pulse in my cheeks, and my vision twitched to the beat. Valerie’s hand—wrapped in mine again—felt exquisite, the flowing notes of her skin punctuated by the high floriations of the burns. I trailed my fingers across the counter, adding a deeper tone to the experience.
    Dante pushed two drinks towards us. He brought a lighter to one, but I raised a finger to stop him—the second effect of witchery would take a while to kick in.
    Five minutes later I was pouring the flaming liquor down my throat. I’d regret it tomorrow, but for the moment it felt heavenly.
    Valerie tried to drag me onto the dance floor, but I stopped her and motioned towards my backpack. She pressed a key into my hand and waltzed off. I passed through the Wasp Gallery and into her private quarters.
    Taking note of the discarded lighter cartridges strewn everywhere, I nestled my backpack in the space between her bed and the wall. From its folds I drew a meat cleaver—red from the experiments of the earlier evening—and dropped it in the sink. I’d explain it to her later. I paid the ward a visit—devoid of patients, but stocked up on burn cream and gauze. A young man sat by the window, smoking and staring into the night. He hadn’t noticed me.
    “First time?” I asked, foregoing introductions.
    He twitched at my words, but said nothing. It was enough.
    “Guessed as much,” I continued. “Valerie is out to get broken tonight, so you’re going to be flying solo. Here’s some advice.”
    He turned around while drawing deeply on his cigarette. “I’m listening.”
    “Play safe over sorry. If you think you might have to restrain someone, do it. People don’t sue here, they just take angel-rage and try to bite your ears off. Valerie keeps the ketamine and the morphine syrettes in that closet there. Always keep a few of each on your person.
    “Learn to prioritise. The screaming drunk isn’t the issue, especially if he’s in restraints. The straitjacket user going into freezing seizures: not the issue. The quiet guy who’s repeating ‘no no I’m okay, seriously’ with a hook in his stomach… That’s the issue.
    “Lastly. If I end up on your table, and you screw anything up…” I stepped closer and took a breath. “If you screw up on me, I’ll peel your eyelids off myself.”
    There was a visible tremor. Audible? I couldn’t tell anymore. The cigarette shook for a second, but the new guy steeled himself. I liked that. I extended a hand, and was surprised when he shook it.
    “Fletcher.”
    “Daniel.”
    “Charmed, I’m sure. Welcome to Salem.”
    I never saw him after that night. I didn’t particularly care.
     
    ***
     
    I found Valerie spiralling with another girl on the dance floor. A lively beat carried them around. It sounded electronic. I realised that I was