by M. V. Stott
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 Waterson, 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.’
Karl smiled. ‘I’ll be at the Dog from eight. Wear something nice.’
‘Right. Sounds great. Wait, didn’t you get married last year?’ said Waterson, remembering how he’d dodged the work drinks celebrating the nuptials.
‘Yeah. Karen. Cracking lass.’
‘So…?’
‘So there’s a pint and a bag of crisps with your name on it,’ said Karl, swaggering past. He paused and leaned close to Liz Peters, so close that Waterson could feel the man’s spittle in his/her ear. ‘And maybe, if you’re lucky, there’ll be more than that on offer.’
Karl Jenkins slapped Liz Peters on the arse, then strode away without looking back, a jaunty whistle on his lips.
‘You’re well in there, mate,’ said Rita.
‘Shut up,’ replied Waterson, wiping his damp ear with his sleeve (her ear/her sleeve).
They hustled through to the cells and found the one holding Ben Turner. Rita opened the little hatch and peered through, Ben was sat on the small cot.
‘Did someone request a rescue?’
‘Rita!’ Ben stood and ran to the door.
‘What’s up, handsome?’
‘Oh, you know, one
of those days.’
‘What happened to not being stupid?’ asked Rita.
‘Did you get the latest cat video?’
‘Yes, it was adorable.’
‘Get out the bloody way,’ said Waterson, placing the correct key into the cell’s lock.
‘Why is she helping exactly?’ asked Ben.
‘Oh, that’s Waters in someone else’s body.’
‘Right. Have you done something different with your hair, Dan?’
‘Hilarious,’ replied Waterson as he opened the door. ‘Now let’s get a wiggle on, I think this body is going to vomit me out any minute now.’
‘Aw, but you’ll miss your big date with Karl!’
‘Shut it,’ replied Waterson, not giving Rita the satisfaction of seeing the shit-eating grin she was sporting.
Liam turned his phone back on and looked at the screen. Three more missed calls. He wondered if his mum had phoned the police yet. He stood, ready to run back home before he was in any more trouble.
‘Got to go, ghost,’ he said, turning from the sea.
There was a shape rippling before him. Liam stopped and took a step back.
‘Ghost. You came back.’
Carlisle reached out a hand towards him.
15
Ben Turner had never been so grateful to find himself in Big Pins. Sure, he’d basically swapped one cage for another, but at least the bowling alley wasn’t an actual prison.
‘Big man,’ said Rita, signalling with her axe to grab Linton’s attention, ‘the heroes have returned from their quest. We shall celebrate with much booze and bar snacks.’
Linton grunted and set about providing the requested. Meanwhile, Rita lead Ben and Waterson to the table Formby was sat at, cradling a half-pint between his small, filthy hands.
‘Heard he was in prison,’ said Formby, touching his ears.
‘You heard right,’ Ben replied, pulling up a chair.
‘Ben here was a big, big idiot,’ replied Rita.
‘Thanks.’
‘But he’s learned his lesson, right?’
Ben nodded and accepted a drink from the tray Linton set down. ‘Lesson learned. From now on, I’m going to stay in my kennel like a good dog.’
‘So,’ said Waterson, trying not to lick his lips with jealousy as he watched the other three tucking into their drinks and snacks, ‘what exactly made you break the really very simple and, I believe, only rule Rita gave you?’
‘I was going mad cooped up in here, okay? A lot has changed all at the same time, and it’s just been sitting on me, crushing me. I just needed to breathe for a minute.’
‘A lot has changed?’ replied Waterson, raising a hand. ‘Recently deceased bloke over here, hexed out of her life over there. Join the club, mate.’
‘All right, zip your lip for a second, Waters,’ said Rita, butting in. ‘It’s not a competition.’
‘But being murdered and turned into a ghost means I win though, right? At least you got a magic axe. What do I get? Bugger all, that’s what.’
‘Ben,’ said Rita, reaching out and placing a hand over his. ‘I understand, okay? This whole thing is mad as a box of frogs, and there’s no right or wrong way to cope with it.’
‘Though me running out and getting arrested was the wrong way, right?’
‘You are correct,’ replied Rita, grinning.
‘You know, the whole time I was sat in that cell, I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d come for me.’
Rita met Ben’s eyes and held them. She felt her cheeks start to flush, her heart flutter. Suddenly, it seemed very, very hot in there.
‘Uh, I did most of the heavy lifting, thank you,’ said Waterson finally breaking the spell. Rita busied herself with coughing and fiddling with her bag of nuts.
‘Thanks, Dan,’ said Ben.
‘Waterson. Only my mum calls me Dan.’
‘She calls you Daniel,’ said Rita.
Waterson gave her some serious side-eye, then left the table to stretch his legs, which was something he found he needed to do even though he didn’t strictly speaking have muscles that required stretching.
‘I’m not sure Waterson likes me all that much,’ said Ben.
‘Oh, that’s just him. He’s a pissy little bitch to most people, you get used to it. Even enjoy it. Plus he was murdered recently, as he keeps pointing out. That’ll bring out the grump in anyone.’
‘He doesn’t like me much, either,’ said Formby.
‘That’s because you smell,’ replied Rita.
‘He’s dead, he can’t smell nothing,’ said Formby, checking his breath against a grimy hand and recoiling at his own stench.
‘He might not be able to smell it, but intellectually he knows it. Always liked things very clean, that boy. I think his first word was “bleach”.’
Formby sniggered, then his eyes went wide and his pointed little ears twitched as he looked at Ben. ‘Oh!’
‘What?’ replied Ben. ‘What is it? Do I have food in my beard?’
‘You have information. New, tasty information.’
‘How on earth do you know that?’ asked Ben.
‘Can see it in your eyes, the way you sit, you have news.’
‘What news?’ asked Rita, turning to Ben.
‘I met a young boy, before I was arrested.’
‘Okay,’ Rita replied warily. ‘You were arrested on suspicion of murder and not suspicion of… anything else, right?’
‘Har-de-har. He was a weird little bloke. Kept talking funny, and I think he knew I used to go, you know, a bit wolfy. He showed me something. He took my hand and pointed out to sea and suddenly I could just see them.’
‘See what? Tell!’ said Formby, desperate to taste some fresh information.
‘They were like smoke trails. Thousands of them.’
Rita leaned forward, ‘Sorry, did you say smoke trails?’
‘Yeah, they reached out from the sea and over into Blackpool. The boy said that’s what’s causing all the nightmares.’
Rita sat back. ‘The Angel.’
Carlisle was drifting apart.
Having made it back to the marble chamber that the Angel of Blackpool was trapped within, Carlisle found it increasingly difficult to keep himself together.
Astral projection was a tricky thing to keep a grip on, even for those trained in the art, and Carlisle was very much not trained in the art. After so long roaming free, and with his body now M.I.A, Carlisle was increasingly at the mercy of the astral plane’s raging, vicious winds. He could feel himself being pulled apart. His form drifting. Smoke in the wind.
He frowned, or thought about how a frown would look if he were still able to frown. If the astral approximation of his face wasn’t now spread across several metres.
There wasn’t enough time. To keep himself together he needed to get to his body, now, or at the very least find an anchor point he could cling to. A shell to crawl inside of like a Hermit Crab.
But he didn’t have one.
He di…
...gone for a moment. The gaps between thoughts, between sentience and nothingness were growing longer.
So this was…
...end.
Fog and…
‘Got to go, ghost.’
A flare!
That voice. He’d heard it before.
With his last ounce of effort, Carlisle found himself stood before a small boy. The same small boy who’d anchored him the first time.
‘Ghost, you came back,’ said Liam.
Carlisle, unable to even remember what words were, rushed forward into the boy. The sound of the raging winds cut out, all Carlisle could hear now was the boy’s heartbeat. That had been far too close. Another few seconds and his essence would have been stretched too thin. He would have drifted into oblivion. It seemed as though he’d pulled himself out of the fire at the last moment once again. He laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Liam, far less perturbed at being possessed by a phantom than one might
have expected.
‘Everything, depending on your point of view,’ Carlisle explained, delighted to find that he could speak again, if only inside the boy’s head. Now his form was settled inside of a receptive, Uncanny form, he was safe, he was strong.
‘What do you want with me, ghost?’
‘I am not a ghost. Ghosts are of the dead.’
‘Are you not dead, then?’
‘I’ve been dead a few times,’ replied Carlisle, ‘but not currently, no. I am in my astral form.’
‘Astral?’
‘Astral.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘I am overcome with shock.’
Carlisle was secure inside Liam, but he wasn’t able to control the boy’s body. His astral form did not afford such luxuries, he was just a passenger.
‘There is something of the Uncanny to you, boy,’ said Carlisle.
‘The what?’
‘The strange. The out of the ordinary. When I first left my body, you shone like a lighthouse. We connected.’
‘I could see the smoke fingers after that, and what they meant.’
‘You anchored me, and in return gained extra insight through me. But you could only have provided me such a service if you were of the Uncanny world already. No ordinary human could do such a thing.’
‘I have always seen weird stuff. My mum and dad say it’s just me remembering bad dreams, or making stuff up.’
‘No. Either they do not know or are choosing not to see. Magic is connected to you in some small way.’
‘So I’m special?’
Carlisle laughed. ‘Oh no. Magic has touched you, but that is all, you are just one of thousands. About as special as a ten pound win on a scratch card.’
Carlisle felt Liam’s body sag a little.
‘Buck up, boy, you’re still part of something most will never even be aware of.’
‘Yeah. And that actually is pretty special, isn’t it?’
Carlisle held in a long sigh so as not to dispirit the donkey he was riding. Finally, he said, ‘Now I have a very important mission for you.’
‘What?’
‘We need to locate a piece of chalk.’
