He was outside. Outside, in public, and on his own.
After running like a scared rabbit from the latest Not Magda to appear, he’d found himself several streets away from the sanctuary of Big Pins without even realising he’d left the place. His mind was a spinning top of fear, and all he knew was that he had to go, go, go.
And now here he was, approaching the seafront. He should turn around and get back quick-sharpish before things turned from bad to worse and he was recognised. He wasn’t even wearing his baseball cap, and his shades were sat on the bedside cabinet.
Yes, he should absolutely turn around and speed-walk back to Big Pins, head down, not making eye-contact with anyone as he rushed back.
But he didn’t.
Fresh air.
He’d been trapped inside for so long. And yes, he knew it was for his own good, but he was going stir crazy. His reaction to the pretend Magda was proof enough of that. He knew it was a waking dream, but it had twisted him up inside. Maybe if he’d had something else to focus on as he drifted around Big Pins like a ghost, but he hadn’t, and so the dream had wormed its way under his skin.
It would be okay. He would be okay. He’d just sit on that bench over there and watch the sea for a few minutes. Shake off the inside air, clear out his head, and then he’d go back. Rita wouldn’t even know he’d left.
He made his way over to the bench and sat, glancing around to see if anyone was looking at him, but there was hardly anyone around. He was okay. He was fine.
Ben Turner closed his eyes and stretched out his legs, leaning his head back and enjoying the sound of the waves crashing, of the seagulls crying, of the traffic passing by behind. After a few joyful minutes he opened his eyes and pulled out his phone. He searched for an appropriately adorable cat video, then sent it to Rita. He wondered what she was doing at that moment.
‘Okay,’ he said, putting his phone away. He leaned forward, ready to stand and make his way to Big Pins, when he realised he’d been joined on the bench. A young boy with a mass of dark blonde curls was sat at the other end.
‘Why do I hear a wolf when I look at you?’ asked the boy.
‘I… I’m sorry?’
‘My name is Liam. I can see stuff. See even more stuff now since the ghost thingy.’
‘Right. I should probably be off,’ replied Ben, standing.
‘It’s coming from the sea,’ said Liam.
‘What is?’
‘The bad stuff. Everyone’s having nightmares, even when they’re not asleep, and it’s all coming from the sea.’
Nightmares? Ben pushed away the image of Magda waving at him. This was the case that Rita, Dan, and Formby were investigating. Could this boy actually know something helpful? Perhaps Ben could help out after all.
‘I’ve had the waking nightmares,’ said Ben, sitting back down on the bench.
‘I think we all will pretty soon. I think all day every day will be nightmares.’
‘You said something about the sea. What did you mean?’
Liam turned and looked at Ben for the first time. ‘Can’t you see them?’
‘See what?’
Liam pointed out to sea. ‘The black fingers.’
Ben squinted, but all he saw was the tide, the sky, the seagulls circling.
‘I couldn’t see them at first, but then a ghost came to me. Well, I think he was a ghost, he was all see-through anyway. I was stood on this beach and scared and the ghost whispered to me and passed through my head, I think, and then I could see more than before. Then I could see the black smoke fingers and I think I got what they meant.’
‘Can you show me?’ Ben asked.
Liam shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’
Liam reached out with one hand and Ben took it.
‘Can you see them? The smoky black fingers?’
Ben could see them.
There were hundreds of them, thousands. Thin trails of dark smoke starting way out on the horizon and arching over them both before dipping back down all across Blackpool.
‘That’s what’s causing the nightmares?’ asked Ben, staring up in wonder at the writhing, snake-like trails.
‘Think so. Part of it, at least.’
Liam pulled his hand away, Ben blinked, and the smoke trails disappeared.
‘Okay, my friend, she’s going to want to know about this. Do you think you can show her?’
Liam shrugged and nodded and Ben pulled out his phone, ready to call Rita. He did not manage to make the call.
‘Stay right where you are, sir.’
Ben’s heart sunk as he turned to see two uniformed police officers, batons drawn.
‘Benjamin Turner, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.’
Ben turned to see Liam, hands in pockets, wandering away up the beach.
13
Mr. Cotton and his brother in terror, Mr. Spike, were stood in the cool of the Angel’s marble prison.
‘I wonder what you dream about,’ Mr. Cotton said to the Angel of Blackpool, which was still on Its knees in the glass box, hands resting on Its thighs, head bowed, pure white robes pooling around It.
‘What say you, brother of mine?’ asked Cotton of Spike, but Spike did not answer as he was sulking. His favourite plaything had gone missing.
‘Never fear,’ said Mr. Cotton, and the mask he wore smiled and wiggled its nose in mirth at the very idea that they should know fear (though of course it did not smile or twitch its nose as it was just a mask). ‘Person by person, town by town, country by country, we shall spread across this world and infect all with our beautiful terror. None shall escape. Sooner or later, Carlisle shall fall under your boot once again.
Mr. Spike made a wet sound that might have been joy, and clapped his hands, the dirty white gloves he wore creating a cloud of grey dust as they were struck together.
Mr. Cotton raised a hand and toyed with one of the thousands of smoky tendrils that wormed their way from the Angel and through imperfections in the glass box. Imperfections the Angel had spent close to an eternity creating so that It could eventually escape Its bonds. Now Cotton and Spike were using them for their own ends, amplifying their natural gifts many times over.
‘Have I ever told you of the first person whose heart I caused to stop with blind terror, brother mine?’ asked Mr. Cotton. He had, but he enjoyed the telling, and Mr. Spike was always such a good listener.
‘There was a child, a miracle, born to a mother and a father who had long since accepted that they would not be gifted with such a thing. I watched the birth, watched the new parents weep tears of pure joy. At night, as they slept, I sang to the child and it wiggled its fat little legs in pleasure, her tiny heart, no larger than a plum, beating strong and firm.’
Mr. Cotton clasped his hands behind his back and began to sway in time to his words, as though they were the dreamiest music imaginable.
‘Every night I watched the baby as it became aware of itself. Of the world around it. Of the two big things like itself that cared for it. Such pure, reciprocated love, brother of mine, oh, it did warm my innards. One night, I took a knife from the kitchen drawer and I introduced myself to the mother, her hair long and golden, her eyes a bright, bright blue. She did not want me in the house, but I explained to her that it was all fine, fine, fine. I used the knife upon her and then wore her face as my very first mask. I went to the child’s crib and lifted it by the neck. It weighed not much more than a bag of sugar. With the child in one hand, the knife in the other, and peering through the eyeholes of a face that was not my own, I waited for the father to arrive home from work. When he finally arrived, his eyes did open wider than any I had witnessed before or since.’
Mr. Cotton’s feet tapped out a rhythm against the marble floor, and Mr. Spike clapped along, his breath eager against the inside of his hedgehog mask.
‘The father made sounds the likes of which I had never heard. He could only make sounds and not words. As he took in what greeted him that evening, words had been stolen from him. As I bega
n to whittle away at the child, the father clutched his chest and crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings have been sliced.’
Mr. Spike stopped his dance and turned to his brother, bowing. ‘Now, is that not a story to be cherished, oh brother? There have been so many since, and soon there will be many, many more. But you must never forget where you came from.’
Mr. Cotton held out a hand and Mr. Spike took it. ‘Come, there is no rest for the wicked.’
And in less than a moment, the Angel was alone.
14
Despite Waterson’s insistence, Rita refused to share her experience of the dreamscape she’d been subjected to.
‘Hey, I told you what mine was about,’ complained Waterson.
‘Your mother being a bitch is hardly fresh information.’
‘Oi! She wasn’t being a bitch, they were making her. She never thought the things she was saying.’
They walked to Big Pins in a heavy silence for almost another minute before Rita mumbled an apology.
‘As always, you are forgiven,’ replied Waterson.
‘Look, it was just something from my childhood. Something I dealt with at the time.’
‘Moorsgate?’
Rita didn’t reply, which was all the confirmation Waterson needed.
They entered the blind alley, Big Pins’ spluttering neon sign lighting the way home.
‘They really are sneaky little bastards, eh?’ said Waterson as they stepped into the warmth of the bowling alley and headed for the bar.
‘Oh, the most bastardy of bastards, but don’t worry, we’ll be giving them a good boot to the bollocks soon enough.’
‘Right. How, exactly?’
Rita frowned as she took a stool and waved Linton over. ‘Not sure on the specifics just yet, but it’ll come to me.’
Waterson smiled and took the seat next to her.
‘Linton my man,’ said Rita, ‘a pint of something wet, if you please.’
‘He’s gone,’ Linton replied with a grunt.
‘Who’s gone?’ replied Waterson.
‘The other one. The one who isn’t you and isn’t her.’
‘Ben?’ said Rita.
‘If you say so,’ Linton replied, pulling her a pint.
‘Shit,’ said Rita slamming her fist on the bar top. ‘Shit! I told him to stay put, I told him he wasn’t safe!’
‘Maybe your doggy needs more obedience training,’ replied Waterson, swallowing back a smirk as Rita glared at him.
‘This isn’t funny, he’s a wanted man. Wanted for murder, remember?’
‘I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not stupid, I don’t think. He’s probably just gone for a quick, well-disguised walk around the block. No doubt he’ll be walking back through that door safe and un-carcerated at any moment.’
Rita leaned past Waterson to look at the entrance, willing it to open. Her phone ringing made her jump and almost fall from the stool.
‘Ah, that’s probably him now. Maybe he has a new cat video for you.’
Rita scowled at him as she answered, ‘Hello? .... Okay.’ She hung up.
‘Was it him?’
‘It was him.’
‘See, he’s fine.’
‘Yeah, he’s in jail.’
Waterson nodded. ‘Fine-ish?’
Rita swigged half of her pint in one, then headed for the door. ‘Ghost Boy, with me.’
Waterson followed. ‘I told you I don’t like Ghost Boy.’
Liam felt his phone vibrate for the tenth time in the past hour. He pulled it out of his pocket and turned it off. It was just his mum again, wanting him to go home.
He sat down on the beach and watched the fingers of smoke dancing in the sky.
The man he’d been talking to had been arrested, but the police hadn’t been interested in Liam. They seemed far more excited about the person they were bundling into the back of their police car.
‘Are you still there, ghost?’ Liam asked.
He didn’t like being at home at the moment. The bad things came even when it wasn’t past his bedtime, and his mum and dad didn’t want to listen to him. He knew they must be seeing things too. They looked tired and were snapping at each other.
He wondered what the nightmare tendrils made them see. Did the man in the rabbit mask come to them, too? Maybe his dad would see a Not Liam with a fistful of soil and a headful of hungry birds.
‘Ghost, it felt like you needed help, and I like to help, so if you’re around, you can come back and talk to me.’
He picked up a stone and threw it into the waves.
Rita and Waterson crossed the forecourt of the police station they used to work at, en route to their old workspace on the second floor. Rita wondered how her ex-colleagues were dealing with the loss of three of their number in quick succession.
When it came to Rita, they’d simply forgotten she ever existed, but they’d have felt the absence when her workload—inexplicably to them—began to land on their desks instead.
And then Waterson was murdered.
And not long after that, Alexander Jenner, the guv, disappeared.
It must be drama central up there, Rita thought.
‘Christ, something awful just crossed my mind,’ she said, as they approached the station’s automatic doors.
‘What? What is it?’
‘With Jenner gone, you would have been the most likely candidate to take his place.’
‘And that’s awful why?’
‘That’s not the awful part. You’re dead. Which is awful but also not the awful part. With you not around, and me not around, who do you think they’ll have shoved in Jenner’s old office?’
Waterson stopped in his tracks. ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Not Collins, surely?’
DI Collins, a sack of spoiled meat with a stuck-on moustache. A man whose favourite hobby was blocking the Men’s toilet on a bi-weekly basis.
‘On paper, he’s the one they’d have turned to,’ said Rita.
Waterson crossed himself as they stepped into the station. ‘God help those poor bastards.’
Liz Peters was behind the booking in desk. Apart from her, the reception area was empty. They walked over to her, unseen and unheard, as she scrolled through her phone.
‘I like what you’ve done to your hair, Liz,’ said Rita, ‘that copper tint you’ve had done really suits you.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Waterson. ‘She looks like Carrot Top to me.’
‘You’re overly critical, you know that, Waters?’
‘You should hear the things I don’t say about you.’
Rita shot him a look, shook her head, then gestured towards Liz Peters. ‘Okay, in you pop then,’ she told Waterson.
The plan to spring Ben Turner from his cell was simple: they would open its door and walk out with him. The Angel had shown Waterson how to hop into people and work them like a person-suit. Waterson wasn’t exactly an expert at it, but he reckoned he’d be able to work whoever was holding down the booking desk for as long as it took to slip in the back with the key, let Ben out, and escort him to Rita’s car.
‘Okay, here I go.’ Waterson rubbed his hands together and closed his eyes.
‘You’re not moving,’ said Rita, after several seconds of silence.
‘I’m preparing myself,’ hissed Waterson. ‘Takes a bit of focus. Skill. Artistry.’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you, you diva.’
Waterson ignored her and got back to focussing. ‘Okay. Brace yourself, Liz, I’m coming in.’
Waterson stepped forward, through the booking desk and into Liz Peters.
Liz looked up from her phone briefly in surprise, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her copper-coloured fringe, hands grasping at nothing. After a moment, she seemed to relax and lifted her hands, turning them back and forth as though seeing them for the first time.
‘Waters? You in there?’
‘See? Artistry,’ replied Water
son, with the voice of Liz Peters.
‘Okay, smart arse, let’s go.’
Waterson opened the door, allowing Rita to join him.
‘Do you have the keys we need?’
‘Right here,’ said Waterson, patting the big ring attached to Liz Peters’ belt.
‘Okay, jail break time.’
The pair first made their way to the security office, the one containing the equipment that recorded footage from the many cameras dotted around the station.
‘Your go,’ said Waterson.
Rita pulled the axe from her belt, gripping it in both hands, and closed her eyes. Without looking, she could see the magic and she willed it into the axe, telling it what she wanted of it. And the magic obeyed. It surged from the axe-head and swamped the recording equipment.
‘Oh,’ said Waterson, ‘I sort of expected it all to catch light. Or at least a bit of fireworks.’
‘Sorry to disappoint.’
Waterson shrugged. ‘Is it done anyway?’
‘Yup,’ replied Rita, sliding the axe back into her belt as they vacated the room. ‘All footage has been wiped and the cameras fried. No one will see poor Liz Peters setting a prisoner free.’
‘All right, Liz?’
Waterson and Rita turned to see a uniformed officer swaggering towards them, his eyes roaming up and down the body Waterson was currently inhabiting.
‘Uh, hello there…’ Waterson tailed off.
‘Jenkins!’ said Rita.
‘...Jenkins,’ Waterson continued.
‘Karl Jenkins!’ Rita prompted.
‘Karl Jenkins.’
‘Correct,’ said Karl Jenkins.
‘Hello, Karl Jenkins. Bit busy, so...’ Waterson pointed down the corridor, ready to leave Karl Jenkins behind.
‘Did you mean what you said last night?’ asked Karl.
‘Did I…? Pff. I mean…’
‘Just say yes!’ Rita implored.
‘Absolutely,’ said Waterson.
‘Even the bit about wanting to stick your tongue so far down my throat you’d be able to taste what I had for dinner.’
‘Oh, disgusting,’ said Waterson. Rita elbowed him. ‘Disgustingly hot, I mean.’
Night Terrors: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Hexed Detective Book 3) Page 10
