Between Jobs

by W. R. Gingell

  Between Jobs

  The City Between: Book One

  W.R. Gingell

  Contents

  Thanks & Apologies

  Sign Up Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Back Sign Up Page

  Also By W.R. Gingell

  Thanks & Apologies

  There are many thanks I need to make on account of this book. Mostly those are to the amazing beta readers who scoured this book for mistakes, inconsistencies, and general weirdness (as opposed to my specific brand of weirdness).

  Specifically, my thanks go to Elizabeth Brown, Georgia Webb, Charlotte Michel, Carly Salsbury, Dinah Owens, Rebekah Kreyling, Priscilla Márquez, and Ellen Sheffer; with special thanks to Intisar Khanani, who spent her precious time going over my work when she could have been doing her own, amazing writing.

  There are also apologies that need to be made for this book. First and foremost is the apology for the Romanised Korean, which doesn’t at all convey the feeling of the language but has to make do at a pinch; and any shaky grammar thereto attached. Any errors are my own fault for being so certain that my grammar was correct and didn’t need to be checked.

  The other apology is one I make grudgingly, since it’s not something I feel I really need to apologise for. This book uses Australian spelling, language, and vernacular. Since I’m an Australian and the book is set in Australia, I reckon this is fair enough. If some of the slang is unfamiliar to you, I apologise and say a very hearty, “Welcome to Australia, mate.”

  (It’s also usually Queenslander slang, so if any of you Australians out there think the accent’s a bit thick—go and live in the best part of Australia, mate!)

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  Chapter One

  Hi. My name is Pet.

  It’s not my real name, but it’s the only one you’re getting. Things like names are important these days.

  And it’s not so much that I’m Pet.

  I am a pet.

  A human pet; I belong to two Behindkind fae and a pouty vampire. It’s not weird, I promise—well, it is weird, yeah. But it’s not weird weird, you know?

  Hang on, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll go back to the first day I saw them.

  When I woke up that morning there was a dead guy hanging outside my window. It’s not like I was meant to be living where I was, so it wasn’t a personal insult or anything. Just a bit of a shock.

  I was up early as usual, brushing my teeth while I looked for a pair of clean socks. I don’t open the shutters on my window as a rule—it’s a bad idea when you’re squatting in a place—but I like to have a look out, even if it’s still dark. I could see the gold of sunshine around the slats; at six in the morning it’s already bright and light in the summer.

  I peeked through the slats with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth, and there he was, strung up from the power lines, slashed open from torso to well below the navel and trailing dark red stuff down into the front yard. His head wasn’t drooping over his chest decently like it should have been, either; it was dangling over the back. There was a bit of breeze, so I could see it swaying out from behind him every now and then.

  There was a kind of loud silence in my ears that I get two or three times a week when my nightmare comes, the air warm around me even though it was a cool morning.

  Into that warm, heavy silence, birds suddenly chirped, and when I moved forward, the window glass was icy cold beneath my fingers.

  Then that thing—that thing that was dripping blood and intestines outside my window—it must be real.

  It’d be a lie if I said the first thing I did was call the cops. The first thing I did was throw up; a big mess of toothpaste and toothbrush and last night’s dinner, all over the carpet. Then I threw up again because it was still there when I looked out the window to make sure I’d actually seen it.

  I called the cops eventually, but when the questions started to get a bit too personal, I hung up. I couldn’t—can’t—afford to be part of an investigation. I might have mentioned I’m not exactly living in this house legally: I’m squatting in my parents’ old house.

  Just minding my own business and trying not to get caught sneaking in and out. That’s easier when there aren’t many people living at your end of the street. It’s funny what it does to a neighbourhood, having double murders go down in one of the houses. The house across from us was always pretty creepy, what with the lights and smells and the crazy bloke that lived there, but this end of the street didn’t really empty out until my parents were murdered a couple years ago.

  Then it was only me and the bloke over the road.

  I looked out my window once more, to be sure it was who I thought it was. There was the tattoo on his shoulder that he always showed off by wearing singlets.

  Yep. That was the bloke across the road, all right.

  Looked like it was just me now.

  I expected the cops to get there a bit quicker. I mean, it wasn’t longer than an hour, but it wasn’t much quicker than half an hour, either. Two of them arrived first in one car, and did the same thing I’d done: threw up and called for more cops. I’ll give ’em this, they were pretty quick to arrive after they knew it wasn’t a hoax. In another ten minutes there were more cops on the scene than I thought Hobart actually employed, and sheets of white plastic were hung across the street. Unfortunately, they didn’t bother to cover it from my side; if there’s no one in the house to see, why bother?

  “I’m here,” I said, fogging up the glass. “And I don’t wanna see it, either.”

  My windows are well hidden behind those slanted shutters—the old-fashioned kind that everyone thinks are fake decorations—and the cops couldn’t see me. I could see them, though. Worse, I could still see it, just hanging there, dripping and glistening in the morning sunlight, right where it would have been looking straight into my window if its neck hadn’t been snapped, hanging its head over its back. I stopped looking at it and gazed down into the street instead, sitting very still in my usual spot. They might not be able to see me, but I was careful not to let my shadow fall across the shutters anyway.

  Better safe than dead. That’s what Dad used to say. He said it cheerfully, with a grin—something like a riff off Better safe than sorry—but now that he and Mum are dead I don’t think it’s funny anymore.

  So while the cops crawled around below, I stayed still and quiet. I mean, the shutters stop anyone from seeing me from the outside and even if the cops came inside they wouldn’t be able to get to my room anyway. My room—oh yeah, I didn’t tell you about that, did I? The cops couldn’t find me even if they did come inside because it’s a secret room, hidden in the top end of the upstairs living room behind a bookcase.

  That’s why I’m alive and my parents are dead.

  Let me explain.

  The first floor of our house looks like the others along the street—all the older houses, that is. It has two stories, is the same length as the ones either side, and all the windows match up. If there was someone next door, they could see right in through our windows. Ours…I keep saying that like it’s still true. Like Mum and Dad are still here, not dead.

  On the front facing of the house, now; that’s where things get interesting. There are shutters on the windows upstairs. They loo
k fake; and as far as I know, the shutters on the rest of the houses on this side of the street are fake. You don’t get any sun from that direction anyway. But the inside of the house—now that’s where it’s different from the others in the street.

  On the other side of those shuttered windows is my room; blocked off from the rest of the house and forgotten. It was already blocked off when we moved in. We didn’t even know there was a room there until Dad was doing that thing that Dad does—pacing the length of the floor to see how long it was, preparing to do improvements. We never actually did the improvements, but he liked to figure it out in his head and make calculations and plans on graph paper. Some people do jigsaws, some people do crosswords; Dad did floorplans.

  It wasn’t until he’d paced the floor upstairs three times, frowning more each time, then went downstairs and returned, that we found out the upstairs living area was two metres shorter than the downstairs. After that, it was just a matter of finding the entrance behind the bookcase.

  When I first made that long, skinny room my bedroom, we turned the bookcase on its side and formed a makeshift hall of it. It was tiny and cramped, but I didn’t care; I had my spy room, and the light filtered through the shutters, pleasantly cool and green. A year or two later I went away with out-of-state friends for a few days, and when I got back the bookcase was where it had originally been.

  At first, I thought they were trying to tell me in a diplomatic way that I’d outgrown my hidden room. Turned out that Dad had built another bookcase, and this one swung open; now I was the proud owner of a secret room, behind a secret panel.

  Tell me you didn’t want that when you were a kid.

  That’s why, when our house was invaded late one summer night when I was fifteen, nobody ever found me. The home invaders didn’t find me, though they found my parents. I don’t remember much about that night, or finding them, but sometimes I see things in my nightmares, along with the monsters.

  I don’t even know why I woke up that night, all hot and sticky. It could have been the warm scent of some heated metal, coating the air like honey, that woke me. The sheet was the only thing covering me, but it was still too hot. I kicked it off and it tugged at my sweat-dampened skin, tangling in my feet—but no.

  You don’t want to know about that right now, and I don’t want to talk about it.

  Where was I? Oh yeah. The cops outside my windows.

  It took them a long time to take down the dead guy. I suppose they were trying to do things as thoroughly as possible; they cleared out the entire street, and anyone trying to look in from higher on the hill would have only seen white sheeting from power pole to power pole. Apart from a few reporters, no one was stupid enough to try and push through that many cops.

  I was encased in a bubble at the centre of it, stuck in my room while uniforms talked and took pictures and measured stuff below. Even if I’d wanted to leave, I wouldn’t have dared. It was an ant’s nest down there, and all of those ants were crawling around one dead guy who hung where he was all day, his insides right outside my window.

  That’s why I noticed them; the three blokes. They didn’t fit in with the general squall of cops, and they definitely weren’t reporters. They didn’t all arrive at once, either; they arrived one by one, each one in his own self-contained circle of aloofness. The effect could have been created by authority, but none of them were in uniform, and none of them had the same identification lanyard that the other plain clothes detectives had, either.

  The first one to arrive was an elegantly casual man who looked like he was in his early forties. He strolled down through the crawling scene with his lashes lowered. Maybe he was looking deferentially at the ground instead of the shifting throng of police, but I didn’t think so. And those policemen and women scattered around him, forming a circle of silence that moved with him until he was below the body. Below my window, too; the area clearing of cops and noise as soon as he took his position there.

  It wasn’t authority, and it wasn’t respect. What was it? As if they couldn’t see him, but were repelled anyway. Like iron filings being pushed away by the opposite pole of a magnet.

  This first one only looked at the body once. Even then, I got the impression that he didn’t avoid looking at the body because it made him feel ill, but because he was more interested in looking at—or maybe for—something else. That was pretty weird, because I’d already seen at least six cops lose their breakfast.

  What was weirder, though, was what he was interested in. And by that, I mean he was looking at my house. Not even just my house—my window specifically. Which was stupid, because no one could see through shutters, even if they weren’t as fake as they pretended to be.

  He strolled away from the body in the same way he’d strolled down the street, eyes down, lashes lowered. I watched his back as it crossed the road opposite my house. He turned.

  Wait, was he calculating the angle of the corpse’s eyes? If so, he was looking the wrong way; its eyes were facing the other house. Maybe he wasn’t, though; he looked back at my house, my window, his head tilted to the side.

  “What you lookin’ at?” I said against the window glass. He disappeared in the fog from my breath and appeared again. Now he was walking toward my house again. “Go away.”

  He didn’t stop; he disappeared somewhere out of my sightline, somewhere near the patio stairs. Great. Now I had a creepy weirdo sitting on my patio, and the cops weren’t doing a blind thing about it. If I was old enough to legally rent this place, or buy it, stuff like this wouldn’t happen. No way I’d let weirdos sit on my patio.

  The same thing happened when the second one showed up. This one was a tall, broad-shouldered bloke in jeans, leather jacket, and leather boots—different from the first in almost every way. But that same circle of empty space followed him all the way from the top of the street to the corpse.

  He was a lot bigger than the first man, too, his skin almost translucently white without tending to the sort of ruddy cheeks I usually see with that colouring. His hair was so white that it was almost silver.

  Tree bark, I thought—silver bark, with that thread of silver running through the paleness. He was younger than the first man, maybe mid-thirties. He prowled around below the body, too; his eyes flickering across to my house in the same way that the first man’s had.

  I saw him stiffen. Oh. Creepy bloke was still hanging out on my patio, was he?

  The second man’s voice, muffled by the glass and the distance, said fuzzily, “Are you following me?”

  That was rich. The other weirdo was here first.

  “You seem to have an odd idea of what constitutes following,” said the first man mildly, echoing me. He wandered back into sight in a leisurely sort of way. “I was here first, if you recall. Now, if we’re speaking of following, perhaps you’d care to glance up the street.”

  The second man and I both looked to the top of the street at the same time, and there was another one there. I say another one, because whatever the first two were, he was obviously one of them.

  He was a little bit different from the other two, though. There was still that same ring of empty space following him down the street, but this time the cops looked at him instead of a smidge to the side or a smidge beyond. Some of them were staring as if they’d seen the most beautiful thing they’d ever encountered in their lives; others looked once, then away, as if they’d seen something terrifying—then looked again because they couldn’t seem to help themselves. None of them approached him, either, no matter how adoringly they gazed at him.

  This one looked around boldly; smiled at a few of the female officers and winked at one. Unlike the first man, who had a sort of crème-matte look to him, and the second, who was almost blindingly white-skinned, this one was the colour of milky coffee.

  He must have known the others had seen him, but that didn’t seem to bother him at all; or make him move any quicker. His eyes were on the leather-clad bloke, and now they were dark and angry, though
his lips still smiled. He raised his brow at the oldest man, cocking his head toward him as if asking the leather-clad one exactly what the older man was doing here. I saw those leather shoulders go up and then down again.

  For a wonder, it was almost entirely silent outside my window; the babble of police and chattering cameras gone. In that silence, I heard the third man say: “Hyung? Mwoh haeyo?”

  Great. Now they were talking in—what was that? Chinese? Japanese?

  But Leather Coat said, in English, “Aren’t you speaking English yet?”

  The third shrugged one shoulder and glanced up at the body. “Waeyo?”

  “Because everybody speaks it.”

  “He doesn’t want to speak it until he’s perfect,” said the oldest man, with a small smile that went right to his eyes. “Until then, he will continue to understand English but speak Korean.”

  Oh. Korean. Well, I only learned a bit of Japanese from Mum in my homeschool classes, so what do I know? I wanted to learn Russian. But with no Mum, school hadn’t been a thing since I was thirteen. Now that I’m seventeen, it’s probably too late to think about going back to school, even if I didn’t have to work.

  “Yogi waeyo?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?” Leather Coat’s voice wasn’t impatient, but it was brief. It suggested that they were all here for a reason, and that they each knew what the others’ reasons were. So Leather Coat wasn’t a fan of small talk, was he? “It’s another one. I’ve got a good chance of catching him now that he’s not Behind or Between. He won’t be able to hide as well, and there’s still another four to come if he holds true to form.”