by M. V. Stott
15
The late Detective Sergeant Dan Waterson was at a bit of a loose end.
Ever since he’d peeked inside the black body bag in the morgue—the one containing the shredded remains of a wizard—Waterson had taken to his heels and gone on a bit of a restless wander.
‘Shit,’ said Waterson, for potentially the one-millionth time since his premature death.
Was this going to be his afterlife then? Just endless solo-strolling, feeling sorry for himself? Hadn’t he lead a good life? He’d helped people, it had been his job to. If there was to be an afterlife, you would have thought he’d have accumulated a few brownie points there. Have pushed him a rung or ten up the afterlife ladder. But here he was, wandering around feeling sorry for himself.
He needed a plan. A purpose of some sort. A reason to carry on.
‘Shit,’ he repeated.
The dead detective sighed, hands deep in the pockets of his blue chinos, then looked up, to see he’d circled Blackpool and found himself back at the beach. He walked across the sand and looked up the beach to where he’d been murdered, a few hundred metres to the left of where he currently stood. He didn’t fancy revisiting the scene of his demise, so he turned right and trudged off in the opposite direction, the sea at one side, the town at the other, Blackpool Tower piercing the sky in the distance.
There was something poking out of the sand.
It caught Waterson’s eye as the sun was glinting off it. Breaking off from his journey, he made his way to the object, which was partially concealed by waves lapping over it. He could see part of a hilt, part of a blade. It was a sword. There were strange, ornate symbols carved into the blade. If Waterson’s eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, the symbols seemed to glow with a black and purple haze the closer he got to it.
He knew that sword.
He hadn’t seen the whole object that had been shoved through him, he’d been too busy blinking with dumb surprise and then doing the whole dying thing, but he had seen part of the blade as it thrust up and out of him.
He reached out to take hold of the sword, to yank it out of its grave, but of course his hand passed right through. No matter how many times he tried, or how hard he concentrated on making his hand more like meat and bone and less like fog and nothing.
‘Shit!’ said Waterson, the word fast becoming his catchphrase.
As he sank back on to his knees further, he noticed something else. Something besides the glowing sword. He noticed twin tendrils of black smoke twisting out of the sea and snaking at speed toward him.
Waterson uttered his catchphrase again as the smoke snakes hit him, twisted round him, then yanked him off the sand out, screaming over and into the sea.
Waterson was still screaming when he realised he was no longer moving and that he was no longer on the beach, or over the sea, or even in the sea, but someplace else entirely. He stopped screaming and opened an eye. There were candles. Lots and lots and lots of candles. Way too many candles. It looked like someone was trying to get rid of a giant surplus of wax.
Waterson opened both eyes and stood. He was in a large, vaulted chamber of some sort. Marble floor, marble ceiling, giant, thick marble pillars at regular intervals, and everywhere, lit candles. In candelabras, large and small, on the floor, affixed to the sides of the pillars. The multitude of flickering flames threw dancing shadows across every surface.
It was all a bit spooky.
Maybe this is actually Heaven, thought DS Dan Waterson.
Yeah, that bit before, the aimless wandering, that was just him waiting for his number to be called. For his table to be free. And now here he was, picked up and delivered to the entrance to Heaven. That made sense. Even more sense when he turned the corner and met the Angel.
‘Hello?’ said Waterson, wary, edging slowly towards the figure in the brilliant white robes who was on his knees, head bowed, encased within a large glass cube.
‘Hi, I’m Dan. Is this Heaven?’
The Angel laughed. It sounded to Waterson like songbirds. ‘Hello, Daniel,’ It said, lifting Its head to look at him.
‘Oh,’ said Waterson, as he took in the full beauty of the figure before him. ‘Wow.’
The Angel stood and smiled.
‘You are an angel, aren’t you?’ asked Waterson.
‘I am. One of the originals. Divine.’
‘Wow,’ said Waterson again, though that didn’t really mean anything to him. Still, he was talking to an angel, and that was pretty wow-worthy. ‘So, is this Heaven? Or, maybe, a gate leading to the main house, maybe? Also, you seem to be in a glass box. Any reason, or…?’
‘I am in prison.’
‘Oh.’
‘You are going to help me escape this prison, Daniel.’
‘Am I?’
This was all taking a bit of a turn, as far as Waterson was concerned. All he wanted was to enter a place of eternal happiness, and instead it seemed like this Angel was about to give him chores.
‘Quite lucky, really,’ said the Angel.
‘Yes. I suppose so. What is?’
‘Your death.’
Waterson frowned and nodded, mulling that one over a bit. ‘Come again?’
‘After he lost the axe, I gave the Magician, Jenner, a sword with which to dispatch anyone who tried to stand in our way. Upon the sword was a hex that would pin any soul taken to the physical plane to Blackpool. That way they would not find themselves in Heaven and tell tales where I do not wish tales to be told.’
‘Right. Sorry if I’m not completely up to speed with all this sort of thing, but it’s really Rita who was into the weird stuff. Me, I like snooker and beer. I also babble like this when I’m scared. Though should I be scared? I’m already dead, I can’t be deader, surely?’
The birdsong laugh again. ‘Oh, there are worse things than being dead, Daniel. I can show them all to you.’
Waterson swallowed and dithered, wondering if he could leg it in the opposite direction.
‘No, you cannot,’ replied the Angel, reading his mind.
‘Good. Not a big fan of running, anyway. Tight hamstrings.’
‘The hex also gives me control of you. Which means, without access to my other tools, I shall now pick you up. Use you.’
‘You know, for an Angel, you don’t seem very nice.’
‘Hush now,’ replied the Angel. Waterson opened his mouth to reply, but found that he could not.
He staggered back, passing between hundreds of candles on the floor, their lit ends weaving as he passed over, but remaining bright. Waterson raked at his throat with his fingers, tried to force the words out, but none came.
The Angel laughed.
16
Rita really enjoyed the faces Ben Turner pulled as she lead him to Big Pins.
There was confusion; that was good. Shock and surprise; those two played a big role. Childlike wonder; that came into play once, too. Rita saw it wash over his face, and she drank down each and every expression with glee. This time, she wasn’t the tourist, wasn’t the new kid in town. No, this time, Rita was the one who knew the secrets and was able to share like some seasoned, nonchalant pro. Swaggering ever so slightly, she lead Ben down the blind alley – the alley that wasn’t there, that Ben knew wasn’t there and did not (and never had as long as he’d lived in Blackpool, which was his whole life) exist. Until it suddenly did exist and he was walking down it, gawping in disbelief.
‘How? How, how, how, I mean…? This is crazy.’
‘Hm?’ replied Rita, scuffing a worn cobble under her shoe. ‘Oh right, yeah, hidden streets. They’re dotted about. Here and there. No big deal.’
Ben hopped out of the blind alley, back into a street he knew existed, and then hopped right back into the blind alley once more.
‘Ha! This is… wow!’
Rita grinned, enjoying the gleeful shock.
‘You’re telling me this alley has always been here? I mean, always-always?’
‘Yup. Pretty cool, eh? A sec
ret, invisible alley. Those of us in the know, know of course.’ Rita sniffed and leaned against the wall, buffing her nails on her coat.
‘So it’s true. You were telling the truth. There’s a whole hidden world people don’t know about?’
‘Oh yeah, all sorts of magic guff all over the place. Hidden streets, vampires, ghosts, all kinds of crap. I’m also a teensiest bit related to an angel.’
Ben blinked at her. ‘You’re… you’re an angel?’
‘Yeah. Little bit.’ When Rita said “little bit”, she was vastly overestimating.
‘Amazing. You know, I thought you looked, sort of… well…’
Rita raised an eyebrow. ‘Sort of what?’
Ben’s cheeks flushed. ‘Sort of… nice. Angelic. Sort of.’
‘Well, aren’t you the charmer?’
So much blood had rushed to Ben’s cheeks that Rita worried he might pass out.
‘Come on,’ she said, letting him off the hook, ‘lots more to see down here, love.’
Rita pushed open the door to Big Pins, its neon sign coughing and spluttering above, and lead Ben inside.
‘Why is there a dodgy looking 1950s ten pin bowling alley in a secret alley?’ asked Ben. ‘If that’s not a stupid question.’
Rita stopped at the bar and waved at Linton so he’d pour a couple of drinks.
‘Not stupid. If you were a bunch of secret weirdos, you’d want a secret place to hang with other weirdos being weird, right?’
‘Right, yeah. I suppose you would.’
‘So you get places like Big Pins. Just because you’re a wizard, doesn’t mean you don’t like beer and bowling.’
Rita and Ben took their drinks to a spare table.
‘That guy behind the bar…’
‘That’s Linton. Yes, he’s big, yes, he’s scary looking, no, I don’t know what he is either. Other than big. And actually a lot nicer than you’d think. Lets me kip in a back room for free.’
Ben nodded and sipped his drink. His heart beat a little too fast and his eyes darted around the room at the other patrons.
‘It’s okay, you’re safe here,’ said Rita. ‘Well, probably.’
‘Thanks, that makes me feel much better.’
Rita waved at the small, round figure of Formby as he shuffled into Big Pins, hands clasped together. He hurried over and took a seat at the table.
‘Good timing,’ said Rita. ‘Anyone would think you were following me.’
Formby ignored the insinuation. ‘Any news, then?’ he asked, nose twitching, eager as all eaves are for fresh information.
‘Yup, this is Ben Turner,’ she replied pointing to Ben, who stared warily at the strange person who had sat down next to him.
‘Is he… what is he?’
‘This is Formby. He’s an eaves.’
‘That I am,’ said Formby, grinning, exposing his twin set of sharp little piranha teeth and holding out a grubby hand to shake. Ben took the hand, grimacing.
‘Yes, Ben, Formby is what we might have thought of as a monster.’
‘I’m a nice one though. Mostly.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Ben, slowly sliding his chair away from Formby in a not at all obvious manner.
‘Honestly,’ said Rita, amused, ‘he’s a mate, okay? He might look like a thumb with sharp teeth and Spock ears, but he’s a good guy.’
Formby nodded and supped his drink, which had, only moments before, been Ben’s drink.
‘He will nick your drink though,’ said Rita.
‘My drink, now,’ said Formby, smacking his lips.
‘Think I might just… pop to the little boy’s room,’ said Ben.
‘Sure thing,’ replied Rita, pointing to a far corner, ‘that way.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ben, turning to make his way over. Rita leaned over and grabbed his arm, turning him back.
‘Don’t think about wriggling through the window and legging it, okay?’
‘I wasn’t thinking about doing that,’ Ben replied.
Rita raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m a copper, I know a flight risk when I see one.’
‘Okay. Sorry. It’s just all a bit…’ Ben gestured at Formby, at Linton, at the thing with leathery wings lining up a bowling ball, ready to take down a spare.
‘I know. I understand. I’m only a few days into this myself. But you’re part of it now. And not a good part so far. The best place for you is with me and my magic axe, okay? Trust me on that.’
Ben looked up as the winged person swore at the still-standing pin, then nodded at Rita and headed to the Gents.
‘So he’s the killer, then?’ said Formby.
‘Shh!’ said Rita, peering over Formby’s shoulder to make sure Ben was out of earshot. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Then why so friendly? Werewolves get put down, not patted, in my experience.’
‘It’s not his fault. And he didn’t kill the wizard.’
Formby cocked his head and frowned. ‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, he only got turned two nights back, after the wizard was murdered, so it couldn’t have been him.’
‘But he did kill the security guard.’
‘Okay, sure, that’s a strike against him, fair do’s. But someone has done that to him. He wasn’t in control. A woman made him into a monster and he knows her name and what she looks like.’
‘Probably a master werewolf.’
‘A what-the-what?’
‘Master werewolf. Your pissing friend is a plain old werewolf. Gets turned and then every full moon he turns and goes on a kill rampage. A master werewolf, they’re pure lycanthrope. They can control the change. Can change whenever they want. Can turn others, others like Ben, to be their pet, too.’
Rita nodded, noting everything down in her pad. Ideas, information, evidence. ‘So they’re bad news, I take it?’
‘Oh aye, bad lot, master werewolves. Not many of them left these days mind you, so she’s a rare one.’
‘And she’s the one I have to find. Directly or indirectly, she’s the one responsible for all this. For the wizard, for the security guard, for Ben. She’s the criminal, she’s my target.’
‘Then best be careful. Vicious they can be.’
‘Oh, werewolves can be vicious? Who knew?’
Formby frowned at her, not in the least bit amused. He opened his mouth to reply when the conversation was halted by the sight of Ben bursting through the toilet door and into the room with gusto, stumbling to the faded carpet.
‘Ben?’ said Rita.
A hulking shape with dark green, leathery skin and two sharp tusks jutting up from his lower jaw exited the toilets after Ben.
‘Oi, ugly, what’s your game?’ said Rita, standing and throwing her coat open, resting a hand on the axe.
‘He stinks! Stinks!’ said Tusk.
‘He could do with a shower, but he’s not that bad,’ replied Rita.
Tusk grunted and began to stomp towards Ben, who stumbled to his feet and rushed back until he was behind Rita.
‘He just attacked me! I was washing my hands and suddenly he was behind me, sniffing.’
Linton stepped out from behind the counter, baseball bat in hand. ‘Okay, what’s the noise about?’
‘Him!’ said Tusk. ‘Stinks. I smell what he is.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Linton.
‘Werewolf.’
The other patrons of Big Pins were all ears now, and Rita could feel the ripple spread out and around. Apprehension, fear, violence, all bubbling together and getting ready to explode.
‘You brought a werewolf into my place?’ asked Linton, slapping the bat in his palm.
‘I’m okay, I won’t do anything,’ said Ben.
‘Yes, because I kill you now,’ said Tusk, stepping towards Ben.
Rita pulled out the axe and held it high, heart thudding. ‘Back up there, toothy, or I’ll hack those gnashers right out of your gob.’
‘Kill the werewolf, kill the werewolf,’ the low chant began to circle r
ound and round Big Pins. Rita was starting to get the impression that these Uncanny types were not overly fond of werewolves.
‘Take him away,’ said Linton.
‘Linton, wait,’ pleaded Rita. ‘Yeah, he’s a werewolf, but is it currently a full moon?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the rush?’
‘Vermin. Kill vermin,’ said Tusk.
‘Yeah, I think we all know your take on this, uggers,’ said Rita. ‘Linton, I’m on a case, there’s someone bigger than Ben at play. A master werewolf in Blackpool.’
Rita looked around Big Pins and saw that new bit of information had hit home.
‘That’s right,’ she continued, ‘a master werewolf, not your mindless creature like Ben here.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ben.
‘This werewolf here is under my protection until he helps me bring the master werewolf to justice, got it?’
Rita looked to Linton for support. He frowned, then nodded, turning to Tusk and pressing the baseball bat against his chest. ‘You will not hurt him.’
Tusk growled, ‘Can’t protect always, sooner or later I will—’
The rest of the sentence was cut short as Linton swung the end of his bat at Tusk’s forehead and knocked him out cold.
‘He’s barred,’ said Linton to the rest of Big Pins, who all nodded and made a great show of going back about their business.
‘Thanks, Linton,’ said Rita.
‘Yes, thanks. Thank you,’ said Ben, stepping out, shaking, from behind Rita.
‘For her, not for you, wolf,’ replied Linton, grabbing Tusk by the foot and dragging him to the exit.
‘Well, that was all a bit exciting, eh?’ said Rita, slipping her axe back in her belt.
Ben didn’t seem so cheery. He sat and put his head in his hands. ‘Christ. What am I? What have I done? What has she turned me into?’
‘Monster,’ replied Formby, who was now finishing off Rita’s drink.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rita, ‘everything is going to work out just fine. Trust me.’
