Something Rotten: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (The Ghosted Series Book 2)

by David Bussell

  It’s not like I’m the only one at it. Ever found yourself spacing out and looking at your watch to find a half hour’s vanished into thin air? Might be that you were the unwitting vessel of an invasive spirit. Of course, it’s far likelier that you’re just a bit of a ditz, so try not to fret about it. Very few ghosts are capable of possession, so chances are you’ve never personally been taken for a ride. Keep an eye out though... you never know.

  Me, I’m an expert at possession. A couple of seconds in the company of a living body and I’ll have it dancing around like a marionette. That thing you call you is really just a container—a big old sack of blood, gristle, and bone—and I can edge you into the passenger seat like it was nothing. I’m not saying it’s a nice thing to do to someone, taking ownership of their body against their will, which is why I try to make sure the people I possess are deserving of a bit of ill treatment.

  My go-to body belongs to a bloke called Mark Ryan. I’ve known him since high school, where he used to torment me on a daily basis. Mark’s a City Boy now, the type that runs with the pinstripe suit crowd. When he’s not managing hedge funds or chasing bimbos, he likes to go jogging in the most conspicuous places he can find, dressed in a pair of those five-toed sandals that only wankers wear. Mark is the kind of person who puts up a toilet roll with the paper hung underarm. I’m talking about a monster here.

  Since I’ve used Mark as my meat suit so many times in the past, I have a psychic bead on him now. There’s nowhere he can go that I won’t find him, not that he’s ever hiding. I always make sure to scrub any memories of our time together, so he has no clue I’ve been repeatedly hijacking his body for the past few years.

  Operating the pink blob of meat that Mark calls a brain, I marched him to a chicken shop back-alley that I’d read about online. I got the skinny from an urban explorer site on the dark web that told me there was an old ventilation shaft there that lead into the tunnels – one that hadn’t been capped off like the rest. The people living below used it to snatch supplies from the surface, dragging bits of refuse to the depths that they fashioned into their jerry-rigged shanty town.

  It was getting on for three in the morning when I reached the alleyway, well past pub chucking-out time, when the streets of London were as quiet as they ever got. Checking the coast was clear, I ducked into the alley, located the unfastened ventilation fan, and pried it back to sneak into the shaft beyond. Down a grimy passageway I crept, hopscotching piles of reeking rubbish and stagnant puddles of God-knows-what. Following the instructions I’d found online, I pursued an old emergency escape route to a flight of stairs, which I carefully descended to reach the station’s crumbling train platform. Stepping onto the southbound track, I tiptoed over a steroidal rat and headed off into the tunnel’s perpetual darkness.

  I used the beam of a Maglite torch to make sure I steered clear of the main rail, which I’d heard the tunnel’s inhabitants leeched electricity from to power their second-hand TV sets and hot plates. Despite being inhabited, South Kentish Town is known as a ghost station, and with good reason. Anguished howls echoed down the tunnels, bouncing from arched brick walls coated with spray-can art reminiscent of primitive cave drawings. Sinister stick figures danced besides illiterate, doom-laden proclamations, meant to ward off intruders. It was spooky as shit down there, and that’s coming from a bona fide dead man riding around in a suit of haunted meat.

  I passed by the warnings and pressed on through a rubble-strewn no-man’s land to arrive at a cluster of shacks made from lumber and cardboard. The air was thick and heavy, and I felt eyes crawling over me as I passed along the shanty town’s thoroughfare. I saw a couple of raggedy men crouching by a fire, roasting a rat on a spit, and thought back to an Attenborough documentary I’d seen about an ecosystem living at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. Giant worms, thriving somehow in the poisonous warmth of volcanic vents. I saw the same thing in the eyes of these men, a Darwinian drive to endure even this most hostile of environments. To survive, no matter the odds.

  A figure stepped from a doorway as I passed by his makeshift shack. ‘Clear off, ya fooker,’ he barked.

  Not exactly the reception I’d been hoping for, but it was a start.

  I didn’t want to dazzle the man, so I kept the beam of my torch pointed at the ground as he shuffled from the gloom. As he drew closer I got a look at his face, lit by the flames of the nearby fire. His pallid skin was charcoal-smudged, his features decorated with a single, milky eye.

  I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Don’t mean to bother you, feller,’ I said. ‘Just looking for some info on a kid who used to live around here. Went by the name of Fergal.’

  I saw now that the disgruntled resident had brought a friend with him; a malnourished rottweiler on a threadbare length of twine.

  ‘And ‘oo are you to be askin’?’ the man demanded.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘A fookin’ queer are ya?’

  Not the most enlightened outlook I’ll admit, but given the bloke’s circumstances, I was ready to let that one slide. ‘I’m not looking for a dust up,’ I told him, ‘so why don’t you go back to your hut and let me get on?’

  ‘Why don’t you get ta fook?’ he enquired.

  His dog growled and strained at the bit of string wrapped around its neck.

  ‘Let’s put a pin in that for now, shall we?’ I suggested.

  He leered at me, exposing a set of teeth like the tombstones of a half-demolished graveyard. ‘That’s a fancy suit yer wearin’. Did it come with a fancy wallet?’

  I stood my ground. ‘So long as you’re willing to talk, we can do a deal.’

  ‘Ahm not here ta deal,’ he explained. ‘Ahm here to take yer fookin’ money.’

  I sized him up. Without the pooch he was nothing to get in a tizz about—more skeleton than man, really—but that dog of his definitely looked hungry.

  ‘You sure you wanna do this, mate?’ I asked.

  Whether I was bluffing or giving him one last chance was hard to say. Either way, the outcome was not the one I desired.

  ‘Sic ‘im, Tyson!’ the tramp yelled, setting the rottweiler free.

  The dog’s hair stood up along the ridge of its spine and it came at me, jaw snapping and foaming at the muzzle. I was hoping to get an arm around its neck as it leapt at me; instead I got its teeth in my wrist.

  I screamed as the dog’s fangs sunk into the flesh of Mark’s forearm, sending a jolt of pain straight to the brain I was borrowing. I took a quick inventory of my situation and arrived at the following course of action: “If in doubt, give it a clout.” I raised my Maglite and thumped the dog on the top of its head as hard as I could muster.

  Crack.

  The torch shattered to bits.

  The dog yelped but remained firmly attached. I balled a fist and landed a punch, but the dog refused to budge.

  I’d need to employ a change of tack quickly before the fanged bastard managed to chew through to an artery. My punches were doing nothing to penetrate its thick skull, and besides, I didn’t want to be bashing the thing over the head. I knew it wasn’t really a bastard, it was just hungry and poorly-treated, a victim of circumstance really. I know, I know, I’m a real bleeding heart. Well... bleeding arm in this case.

  Just then I landed on an idea.

  What if I could possess the dog and get it off me that way? I’d never tried taking the reigns of an animal brain before, but how hard could it be?

  Very hard indeed, as it turns out.

  I allowed my spirit to drift out of Mark’s body so I could take control of the rottweiler, but when I got there I felt an immediate sense of unsteadiness. With a dog’s brain, the toeholds I usually relied on just weren’t available. It’s like I was working with a sheer wall, with nothing there to grip. I clawed at the surface, desperate to find purchase, but it was no good.

  I was falling...

  Falling...

  And then I found it.

  A crack, just wide enough for
me to get the tips of my fingers inside. Just wide enough for me to anchor onto.

  I shot out a hand and latched onto the chink in the wall.

  Having slowed my descent, I took a metaphorical breath and steadied myself. Ready to resume my attack, I pressed my forehead against the cold surface of the wall and felt my will grind up against the dog’s own. I tried to force my way in—to wrest control of its psyche—but the beast was strong. Much stronger than I’d expected. Even after I’d managed to slip through its first line of its defences, dominion remained well out of reach. The mutt was a thousand times harder to possess than Mark was, which spoke poorly of his mental fortitude.

  I did manage to obtain some level of control though, even if it was only fleeting. Instead of forcing the dog’s psyche into the passenger seat, our minds merged, filling my consciousness with thoughts of chewed-up tennis balls, walks in the park and furiously humped legs. In return, I sent the dog some thoughts of my own, chief of which was, “Let go of my arm right now and attack the fucker with the milky eye.”

  I wish you could have seen the face of the cackling dosser when his loyal attack hound unlatched from my arm, snarled like a timber wolf and went tearing off in his direction. If that didn’t delight you, you’d definitely have enjoyed the face he made when the starving dog got a big, wet bite of his ball bags.

  I know I did.

  With that message sent, I hit the ejector seat and returned to Mark’s body as the man and his mutt went scarpering off in different directions, their friendship brought to a sudden and unexpected close.

  The fracas with the dog had only lasted a few seconds, which meant Mark hadn’t been up to do much in the meantime besides scrabbling around in the dust, babbling on and on about losing his mind. Classic Mark.

  I hopped back inside and inspected his wounded arm. It was a mess for sure, but he’d live – a bit of iodine on it and he’d be right as rain. Besides, I had bigger things to worry about in that moment, starting with the disconcerting taste of tramp dick I’d been left with since my human/canine mind merge.

  As I sat there, scraping at my tongue with the rough fabric of my sleeve, I heard footsteps coming my way. I went to find out who it was with my torch, but it lay in pieces at my feet. Determined not to be snuck up on, I span around, ready to take on my next attacker, whoever they might be.

  ‘Who wants some now?’ I shouted, fists raised. ‘Come on then, let’s be ‘avin’ ya!’

  From the darkness stepped a young woman wearing a coat so big it made the tiny hands that stuck out of its sleeves look like a pair of bell clappers.

  ‘I brought a bandage,’ she said, holding up a surprisingly clean looking rag. ‘For your arm.’

  The young woman approached carefully. She was only a slip of a thing, and had the kind of eyes that belonged on a puppy dog. ‘I knew him,’ she said as she patched up my punctured wrist. ‘Fergal I mean. Is he alright?’

  My face told her all she needed to know. ‘He was a nice guy,’ she sighed. ‘Hard to come by down here. Most of the blokes who end up this way are scum. He was sweet though. Never tried anything on.’

  That’s two character witnesses who spoke well of Fergal now. It was getting to look increasingly unlikely that he’d been dragged off to Hell.

  ‘When did you see Fergal last?’ I asked her.

  ‘A couple of nights ago,’ she replied. ‘When he OD’ed down here and I had to call him an ambulance.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ I asked. I could see the tunnel-dwellers had tapped the rail line for leccy, but it was hard to imagine getting a five bar signal down here.

  ‘I went up top and used a payphone to call 999,’ she explained. ‘Led the paramedics down here myself. Last I saw of Fergal was when the two of them carried him off on a stretcher.’

  Okay, looks like I had a decent lead to follow. Time to visit the nearest hospital. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘For the info and for patching me up.’

  I opened Mark’s wallet and handed her the contents, but as I turned to leave she reached out, touching my arm to stop me.

  ‘There was something a bit… wrong, though,’ she said. ‘The paramedics. They had all the right gear and everything but they looked... weird.’

  ‘Weird how?’ I asked.

  ‘Pale. Strung out. Jittery. Like they needed a fix of something.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying they looked as much like junkies as the rest of us.’

  Jittery junkie paramedics, eh? Now there was a wrinkle in the story.

  5

  The generally accepted etymology of the word “gumshoe” describes a detective dressed in rubber-soled galoshes that enable him to creep up stealthily on thieves and wrongdoers. In reality, the trade doesn’t involve that much excitement. Most of the time, being a P.I. involves endless stakeouts and chasing leads no matter how futile they might seem, which means pounding the streets, day in day out, until the soles of your shoes are worn thin and covered in chewing gum. That’s what the word “gumshoe” means to me anyway. Hard graft and low reward.

  Locating Fergal’s ghost had proved a challenge so far, but now I had a plan. Using GMaps on my enchanted mobile phone, I plotted the quickest route to the nearest hospital and walked the journey there. In all likelihood he’d died in the emergency room, but if he’d perished in the ambulance along the way, there was a chance his spirit had become dislocated and left by the roadside. By following the ambulance’s route on foot, I’d be sure not to miss him either way.

  Having emerged blinking into the light of the back-alley, I plotted my course and made off. As I walked, I tilted Mark’s head to the sky and looked out to the smog-streaked horizon. A new day had dawned. I hadn’t realised I’d been below ground for that long, but then it’s easy to lose track of things when you don’t abide by the usual time markers like mealtimes and bedtimes. Being a ghost, I don’t need food or sleep, so the days often merge into one. It doesn’t help that daybreak in a polluted city like London is less of a glorious, peachy sunrise then a slow, murky bleed from black to grey.

  I’d been walking for about an hour when I heard a commotion up ahead. Carving a rut into the pavement was a young man, pacing up and down and wailing at passers-by. Despite his cries for assistance, he remained invisible and unheard. Hurt yet neglected. Of course, in this city that could account for just about anyone in need of help. This was different though. This man was beyond help. This man was dead.

  The ghost of Fergal span in circles, throwing his arms around the commuters strolling by him but passing through them as though he were made of smoke.

  ‘Easy,’ I told him, holding my open palms out to placate him.

  ‘You can see me?’ he screeched.

  I’m lucky I got to him in time. Fergal hadn’t been out there long, but from the looks of things he was already beginning to turn feral. That’s what happens to some ghosts—to most ghosts in fact—sooner or later they lose their marbles and become full-blooded, chain-rattling spooks. Whether it’s the loneliness or the shock of dying I don’t really know, but it’s as though a semblance of their physical form remains while their mind dissolves away, turning them from a rational person into a screaming, ghost train phantom. I’ve seen it happen too many times, which is why I decided to become a paranormal P.I. – so I could help folks pass over before they turned into malevolent spirits. That and to plug some landfill into the smoking crater I’d made of my soul.

  I told Fergal to calm down and follow me to a side street. I was inside Mark still, and didn’t want to look like a lunatic talking to himself in public. Fergal pursued me, practically nipping at my heels. He was wild and twitching and so frail that he looked as though he had the metabolism of a humming bird, except that he had no metabolism at all. Not anymore.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ he begged.

  I hate this part. Hate that it falls on me to tell a person they’ve died, but I make it my job all the same. Mostly I do it because I remember h
ow it was when I croaked. I didn’t have anyone holding my hand. No one told me the rules, I had to figure the ghost thing out myself. Yeah, I already knew a few things from my time as an exorcist, but there were still an awful lot of blanks to fill.

  It hurts being dead. It's not an easy transition, going from being a living breathing person to a spooky hologram. People say break-ups and bereavements are hard, but they should try snuffing it. The only reason that one doesn't make the list is because no one’s writing about it, but take it from me, dying is the worst.

  I let Fergal down as easy as I knew how. I have a bit of boilerplate I use to bring new ghosts up to speed and let them know how things work down here. I explain how they’re stuck between worlds like a penny in a sofa, but that they can still cross to the other side, just so long as they help me finish up their business on Earth. To that end, I disclosed to Fergal how his body had been found on Hampstead Heath with a murder weapon in its hand.

  He was shocked to say the least.

  ‘Any idea how you wound up there?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a clue,’ he replied. ‘I nodded off underground and the next thing I knew I found myself up here.’

  That seemed to confirm my suspicion that he’d died en route to the hospital, but not how his body had arrived on the Heath two days later.

  ‘Why do you want to help me anyway?’ he asked, lip curled. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  I could understand the suspicion. Living on the streets makes a man tough – it’s no wonder Fergal wasn’t too trusting of a stranger offering free salvation, particularly when he dressed like a door-to-door salesman.

  ‘The truth is, saving your arse is as much for me as it is for you,’ I told him. ‘I made some mistakes when I was still among the living, and helping you out offsets some of that. That’s how it works: your wayward soul goes to the Great Beyond and I earn some Brownie points for my trouble. Win-win.’

  ‘So, you’re sort of like a… spirit guide.’

  ‘If you like, yeah, but not in the dreamcatcher, crunchy granola, beat poetry sense.’