A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “Did you see the opposition?” Sceptre retorted. “An eighteen year old Kylie look-alike who didn’t look a bit like Kylie, and a twenty-five-year-old rapper whose poetry was appalling. It was a foregone conclusion.”

  The Wicked Witches were coming to the end of their number.

  “Sounds like a recording to me,” Pete said.

  Kevin tutted. “It is a recording, you donk. This is the world of entertainment. Audio and video are recorded separately, especially in musical sets like this.”

  “You’re a proper little mine of information, aren’t you?” Pete sneered.

  “Kevin knows what he knows, Pete,” said Sceptre, coming in defence of her favourite psychic. “We all do.”

  “Thank you, Sceptre,” said Kevin.

  The Wicked Witches finished their routine and Pete noticed as they walked along the beams, there was a curious spring in their steps. Kevin’s famous harnesses.

  Once back on the flat roof, they became the centre of attention for a couple of men, who seemed to be fooling around with the girls’ waistbands.

  “Unhooking the harnesses,” Kevin said.

  Pete grunted. “I didn’t think they were groping them.” He turned back for the car. “You two right?”

  “They won’t let us in?” Kevin asked.

  “Of course they will,” Pete replied. “But I’m not walking all that way.”

  Police and security cleaved a gap in the crowd for them, and Pete drove through and along the drive to pull his car into a gap where the movie crew cars were collected.

  “I need to speak to Nag,” Pete said as they climbed out and walked towards the catering van. “Dunno who you’ll want to rap with but there must be someone who …”

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, but stow that camera.”

  The warning, coming from American director, Phil Dunstan took them all by surprise. Kevin hugged the camera to his chest as if trying to protect it from possible theft, and threw the challenge back. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “I’m the director here,” Dunstan declared. “That’s what it has to do with me. I authorise the use of cameras on this site, I say where and what those cameras will film, and I don’t even know who you are, so five’ll get you ten you ain’t on my schedule.”

  Kevin huffed out his breath. “Well pardon me for trumping, Mr big shot director, but I’m not here to film Haz and Nag. I’m here to deal with the man in black.”

  “What man in black?” Dunstan marched across the few yards to confront Kevin. “For the last time, who the hell are you?”

  Pete, waiting for coffee at the catering van, broke off and tapped Dunstan on the shoulder. “He’s with me and I’m here to see Nag Lane.”

  Like so many others, Dunstan found himself having to look up when speaking to Pete, and Kevin was glad of it.

  The director’s lip curled. “The girls will be on their way down from the roof. And stow that freaking camera.”

  Sceptre intervened before further argument could ensue. “Mr Dunstan? I’m Sceptre Rand.” She held out her hand and Dunstan shook it. “Kevin works closely with me. The Wicked Witches’ manager called Pete here, yesterday, and they authorised our investigation of the school, but Kevin and I heard about your problem with extraneous images on camera. We’re specialists in that kind of problem.”

  “I got all the AVA people I need.”

  “So you’ve solved the problem?” Sceptre persisted.

  With a suspicious eye, Dunstan shook his head. “We have a makeshift solution in place, but that’s all.”

  “Kevin is extraordinarily adept with the technology and between us, I think he and I may be able to deal with it,” Sceptre said. “Have you traced any external signal?”

  “I direct movies, honey. I hire people to deal with tech stuff. You need to talk to my technicians.” Dunstan pointed to a trailer. “You’ll find them over there.”

  “We’ll have a word with them,” Sceptre said, “and please don’t call me honey. Come along Kevin.”

  *****

  “Touchy, huh?” Dunstan said as Sceptre and Kevin walked off.

  “She,” Pete told him, “is Lady Concepta Rand-Epping, the Countess of Marston.”

  Dunstan’s mouth fell open in horror. “Ohmigod. You mean she’s a real live countess? And I called her honey?”

  Pete nodded gravely. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her. Three hundred years ago, she’d have had your head off for that, but I’ll see if she’s willing to let it drop. We don’t want to throw you in the bloody tower, do we?” He delivered a false laugh. “Oh, by the way, it’s customary to bow when you meet her for the first time.”

  “Ohmigod,” Dunstan repeated, smacking a hand against his forehead. “How could I be so dumb?”

  “It’s probably genetic,” Pete said. “Shouldn’t worry about it.” Turning his back on the director, his face split into a broad grin and while Kevin and Sceptre headed for the technical caravan, he scanned the site.

  All around him, the crew were hard at work. Dunstan had gone back to complaining that the man in black was still showing on his monitor, and took it out on the video technicians. Soundmen checked their balances and a lighting technician who had just set up a freestanding spotlight, moved off to join a gang on an overhead gantry. Elsewhere, cameramen were busy setting up and testing their machinery. One sat in a cradle on the extended boom of a mobile crane. He was heavily wrapped up against the cold, wearing a thick coat, quilted over-trousers and a woollen muffler to cover his face. Pete was thankful that he didn’t have to sit up there all day. It was cold enough walking around the grounds, never mind sitting in one place, eye glued to a camera focus for anything up to 10 hours.

  He looked to the school entrance where Haz, Nag and Briscoe had just emerged. Pete made his way to the steps as they congregated near a free-standing spotlight. Briscoe and Nag were in conversation, the manager’s muscular bulk towering over the determined Nag. Hands on hips, her left foot tapped the ground as they argued over something.

  A hatchet faced girl of about 23, she would have been pretty, Pete thought, if she ever learned how to smile, but in every one of the Wicked Witches’ videos she maintained a permanent frown. And she had a reputation to go with the looks; snappy, short-tempered, given to tantrums when she didn’t get her way. In the two years since she and her sister had become the hottest property on the music scene, there had been a number of incidents with the media and they had once been forced to pay an exorbitant settlement to a photographer after Nag threw a punch and broke not only his camera but also his nose.

  Ambling towards them, mentally rehearsing his inquisition of Nag, he had just yards to go when the spot lamp wobbled and began to topple, falling right at her head. Their backs to it, neither Briscoe nor Nag were aware of it.

  Adrenaline flooded Pete’s bloodstream. He yelled, “Look out,” and shouldering his way past Haz, threw himself at them, knocking Briscoe sideways catching Nag’s midriff, his momentum carrying her and him out of harm’s way as the lamp crashed to the ground.

  Pete and Nag rolled across the concrete front of the school, coming to a stop a couple of metres beyond the fallen lamp.

  “Get off me you great lump,” Nag cried.

  Pete scrabbled to his feet and offered her a hand. Ignoring it, she stood up and examined her trousers, now covered in grime.

  “Look at the state of these. I’ll have to go back to wardrobe now.” She rounded on Briscoe. “Sonny, why is this moron working for us?” Nag stormed off towards the caravans.

  Pete stared after her in amazement. “Thanks for saving my life, Brennan. No problem, Ms Lane, anytime.” He, too, faced Briscoe who stared from the lamp and back to him. “I’ll bet you’re glad I’m here, aren’t you?”

  Briscoe scowled. “You’re a bum, Brennan, and the day I need someone like you to nursemaid me is the day I move into an old folks’ home.”

  “If that’s the thanks I get for saving your life, ne
xt time I’ll let the lamp fall. Now get your backside after her and tell her I want to speak to her. No ifs, no but, no abuse. If she wants her boyfriend found, she talks to me now.”

  *****

  “You’ve tracked for outside interference?” Kevin asked.

  Lenny Ingham, the video technician who had taken the brunt of Dunstan’s temper over the last 24 hours, claimed to be about Kevin’s age, but he was so slim and had such a boyish face that he could almost have passed for a teenager.

  “We usually track for extraneous noise,” he said, “but this time, we’ve had to look for incoming video signals. No go. As far as we’re concerned, there is nothing coming into the site. We’ve been over the whole site a dozen ways from Sunday, but …” he shrugged. “Nothing.”

  Kevin and Sceptre studied the video images. Standing by the double doors of the school entrance the man in black looked exactly as he had done on the upper corridor of the Ashdalean.

  “Pete’s right,” Kevin said. “This has to be an imprinted or transmitted image. Possibly CGI. He’s not doing anything. Just standing there.” He looked up at Lenny. “Have you seen him actually do anything?”

  “That,” Lenny said, “is all we got. He was there practically all day yesterday. Dunstan was going bananas.”

  “We’ve noticed,” Sceptre said. “Kevin, Pete is wrong. This is a spectral image. I’m sure of it. Haven’t you seen enough during the night to convince you? And how could anyone beam an image into the equipment here and, at the same time, hit us through the night? It’s not possible. Our equipment has nothing to do with theirs, and these people are not fools. If there was an incoming signal, they’d have traced it.” She too, looked at Lenny. “Does your tracking equipment cover all possible frequencies?”

  “Of course not,” Lenny said in tones that told Sceptre it was impossibility. “But we can cover all the broadcast frequencies. If someone was beaming a signal to us, we’d know about it. The only other explanation would be a software virus, but the gear’s been checked. It’s clean.” He gestured at the mass of computer equipment and edit suite hemming them in.

  “You’ve checked it all?” Kevin said. “I don’t believe it. I could hide a dozen hacks in the registries on any of these machines and you wouldn’t know until you got an unscheduled fart on your playback.”

  Lenny tapped the desktop machine nearest him. “Brand new. Only came out of the box when Dunstan flipped his lid yesterday. The image still showed up. Whatever or whoever he is,” he waved at the video playback, “he is not real, he is not computer generated. He’s a gremlin.”

  “Besides which, Kevin, as you pointed out, your camera wasn’t linked to any computer last night,” Sceptre said. “And you’re forever telling us your hard drive is virus proof.”

  “It is.” A deep frown etched Kevin’s brow. He checked with Lenny again. “Camera?”

  Lenny pointed at the monitor. “That shot was Dunstan’s main feed. It came from a static near his seat. We changed it twice. We even stuck up one of the security outfit’s CCTV jobs. Y’know. Cheap and nasty. He still showed up. I’ve been in this game seven years and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Kevin sat back and strummed his lips with his fingers. “All right, Lenny, thanks for your help.” Turning to Sceptre, he asked, “you got any ideas?”

  “Only one, and I don’t know how or whether it could be done. Fishwick.”

  *****

  The moment Sceptre called, Fishwick left the corridors of the Ashdalean and hovered above Madam and her friends in the technical trailer.

  “Yes, Milady?”

  “Fishwick, if you wanted, could you imprint your image on a digital video image?”

  “There are several methods I could employ, Madam, but yes it could be done.”

  “How could you do it without manifesting other than on the recorded work?” she asked.

  Fishwick considered the proposition. If he were able to feel true emotions, he would have experienced some pride in Madam’s confidence. He had told her many times that almost a century on the Spirit Plane had enabled him to learn as effectively, if not more so, as he had been able to in life.

  “The simplest method, Madam, would be to manipulate the images at source. Inside the camera. It would take a lot of energy. As much, if not more, as a physical manifestation.”

  “And what impact would that have upon the spirit?” she wanted to know.

  “He would find it draining. Afterwards, he would probably have to visit the outer perimeter of The Light in order to re-energise. That is something we all do from time to time, Madam, as you’re aware from your experience at Melmerby Manor. Creating the appearance would probably restrict his ability to interact with your world on other levels.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Sceptre said, “is that while he was manipulating the electronic images, he could not, for example, make a physical appearance.”

  “He could not anyway, Madam. As I have pointed out before, it is impossible, even on this level of existence to be in two places at the same time, and if he were busy inside the camera, he could not manifest outside. No, Madam, I was thinking more of his ability to channel, to communicate.”

  “Ah. I think I understand. If he were trying to speak, at the same time, his abilities would be restricted.”

  “Precisely, Madam.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.”

  Disengaging from the conversation with her butler, and disregarding Lenny’s amazed and amused stare, she said, “Fishwick thinks it’s an apparition within the camera, Kevin.”

  His chubby face fell. “Great. Now we’re looking for a spook who was a video technician in real life. Sceptre …”

  A sharp rap on the trailer window cut him off. All three turned their heads towards it. As they did so, there was another clatter, and an object punched through the window, showering the floor with crystals of shattered glass. The missile struck a cannibalised hard drive on the rear bench, and fell to the floor. It was a blur, spinning like a top. As it slowed down, it took on the shape of a coin. It wobbled and rattled and slowly settled onto its back.

  Lenny bent to pick it up, but snatched his hand away. “Ouch! It’s red hot.”

  Sceptre pulled on a pair of woollen gloves and picked it up. Even through the thick fibres, it felt hot. She dropped it on the bench and the face of Mr Punch grinned up at them.

  Lenny rushed out of the trailer, and they heard him shout, “Hey, who’s throwing coins through the window?”

  Kevin sneered. “No way that was thrown. It either came from a catapult or a gun.”

  “It’s not a coin either,” Sceptre said.

  She flipped the top of her water bottle and poured a few drops over it. There was no hiss as might have been expected if the thing were red hot, but the water vaporised quickly on contact. Tentatively, Kevin checked it out with a fingertip. Happy that it was cool, he picked it up and turned it over. On the obverse, under the safety pin fastener, was the depiction of a long-haired man. He strained to read the inscription around the rim.

  “VDL,” he read, “Mv … mvlti sv … svnt … here, you read the bloody thing. I can’t see it.”

  Sceptre studied it. “Multi sunt vocati, pauci vero electi. Many are called, few are chosen.”

  About to drink from the bottle of water, Kevin paused. “Isn’t that the same motto as the school?”

  “Yes, Kevin, it is. And VDL must stand for the Venerable Disciples of Loki.” Sceptre flipped the badge over and looked at the reverse. “Mr Punch.” Her face took on a thoughtful pose. “You know the Punch And Judy show is about four hundred years old, and it’s said that the Mr Punch represents the Lord of Misrule and although the history is Neapolitan, this mischief maker can be found in most folklore, including Scandinavian.”

  Thoroughly bemused, Kevin stared at her. “What are you saying, Sceptre?”

  “Mr Punch was the Lord of Misrule, the trickster, and in Norse mythology, the evil Loki played the same role. This,
” she held up the badge, “wasn’t fired from a gun or a catapult. It was thrown. Not by a man, but by a spirit, with all the power of the supernatural behind it.”

  Kevin gave a long, low whistle. Sceptre turned her back on him and stared through shattered window, across the site where Lenny was haranguing his fellow crewmen, shouting to make himself heard, gesticulating at the trailer.

  “But why should it turn up here?” she asked.

  “Why should the man in black turn up here?”

  She turned back to Kevin and smiled. “Mine was a rhetorical question, Kevin.”

  “Mine was in English,” he said.

  Sceptre laughed. “I mean mine was a question to which I already knew the answer.”

  “Ah.” It was obvious from Kevin’s vacant expression that he had lost track of the debate.

  Sceptre slipped the badge into her pocket. “The man in black is the only link between the Ashdalean and here. I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

  Kevin harrumphed. “Well why doesn’t he just send us an email or a text, or something. Does he have to keep scaring the crap out of me?”

  “He’s disturbed,” she said.

  “He’s not on his own.” Kevin lapsed into silence for a moment. “All he can say is Vali. You don’t suppose that’s another wossname ... antonym, do you?”

  “You mean an acronym?” Sceptre shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Fishwick assures me that Mr Punch can only say Loki, and it goes together too well with Vali for it to be a coincidence. Loki, the evil one, Vali, the vengeful one. Vali has already saved Fishwick. Vali is on our side, and I think Vali may well have thrown this to us.”

  Kevin snorted. “Right. So he’s chucking badges about now. He’s a crafty little bugger, isn’t he? Diving into cameras, dragging me into his death scene and now he’s smashing windows with his membership badge of a secret society. What’s he gonna do for an encore? Turn the school inside out until it disappears up its own …”

  “Yes, thank you, Kevin. There’s no need to be coarse.”

  “I was gonna say disappears up its own drainpipe.” He drew a deep breath, “All right, supergirl, where did he get the badge and how did he get it here. As far as I know the only non-management organisation on this site are the cleaners and I’m certain they’re not even members of a union, never mind a secret society.”