Now, you might wonder why a ghost would need help getting into places when he can already walk through walls, but being able to pop open doors is still a handy trick. After all, even if I am intangible and able to stroll unhindered into a bank vault, how am I going to walk out solid diamonds through solid metal?
I turned to Jazz. ‘Did he set off the bell when he came through here?’
‘Yes,’ she huffed. ‘That’s how I knew someone was breaking in.’
Using her powers of enchantment, Jazz had manufactured a special bell that hung above the shop’s door. It was rigged to sound within the proximity of an Uncanny; an early warning alarm system she’d put in place to alert her to any unwanted supernatural visitors. The bell had appeared on the premises about five years ago, the day after we first met. I try not to take it personally.
The bell hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know though. I’d seen the burglar up close and recognised him as an eaves, so him being Uncanny came as no surprise. The real question was, what had he taken, and why? Were the stolen goods for personal use, or was he planning to fence them for a profit? Or was there some other angle I wasn’t seeing? As far as I knew, no one had succeeded in breaking into Legerdomain before, so why now?
I made my way behind the shop counter and popped the till. The drawer was still full of the previous day’s takings. The thief hadn’t shortened the register, he’d only been interested in the merchandise. He’d come here with a mission, it seemed.
‘What did he get away with exactly?’ I asked.
Jazz Hands slid a list across the countertop. It was a long list. I scanned it, surprised by the sheer volume of items that had gone missing. Also surprising was the nature and unfamiliarity of the items. I’d come to consider Jazz Hands my personal ‘Q’ over the years, and though I’m not naive enough to think she enchants items exclusively for me, it was a bit galling to see just how many commissions she’d undertaken on strangers’ behalfs. I was suddenly given a very real sense of my place on Jazz Hands’ priority list.
‘Bloody hell, Jazz, you’ve been keeping busy. I’m surprised I even get a look-in with all these side jobs you’ve been doing.’
‘Oh, grow up, Fletcher,’ she replied. ‘You think I keep the lights on in this place selling capes with red lining to stage magicians, and giving you stuff for free? In this economy?’
She had a point, but I still felt as though I’d been cheated on; a feeling I was only too familiar with.
I went back to scanning the list so I could get a sense of what the eaves had liberated from the place. Among the pieces that had gone walkabout were the following:
Spectroscopic contact lenses: an upgrade of the glasses Jazz engineered, which allow her to see ghosts without possessing The Sight. Otherwise known as “spooktacles” (to wankers);
Amulet of protection: a special item of jewellery that acts as a kind of magical kevlar;
Masque of the Metamorph: an artefact Jazz acquired at auction that enables its wearer to alter their facial features;
Arcane tattoo kit: for adorning the body with magical glyphs, runes and sigils;
Blasting sceptre: does what it says on the tin.
I pushed the piece of paper back to Jazz. ‘Is that everything?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So, can you get my stolen inventory back or not?’
I offered her a smile. ‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’
6
The Beehive is a neutral zone; a safe harbour, where blood enemies lay down their arms, pull up a bar stool, and drink side by side. A musty drinking hole where Uncanny folks can knock back a pint in peace, among their own kind and away from the prying eyes of the masses.
It isn’t a place for the capital’s Friday night crowd; the post-work pubbers and the weekend warriors. You won’t find it on FancyaPint.com, and you sure as shit won’t read about it in any tourist guide. The Beehive isn’t even on a map, technically speaking, hidden as it is down one of London’s many “blind alleys”, invisible wrinkles in reality that go unseen by the city’s bread and butter residents.
The entrance to the establishment is similarly nondescript, marked only by a small, faded painting of a beehive on its stout, oaken door. Only those in the know can see The Beehive, but then knowing is my business.
I pushed open the pub’s entrance and stepped into the saloon bar. I hadn’t visited The Beehive in a while, but that didn’t matter, nothing had changed since the last time I was there: not one stick of furniture, not one stain upon its sticky, wooden floor. The place was frozen in amber.
The locals swayed drunkenly to an ancient jukebox playing scratchy, old wax from the last century, and the usual gang of misfits indulged in a spirited game of gin rummy, with tarot cards instead of playing cards, and human finger bones for chips. Meanwhile, a pair of satyrs argued over who'd win in a fight between Odin and Cthulhu. They asked for my opinion on the matter, but I knew better than to get in between a couple of satyrs. Nasty bite on them, those swines.
To look at the pub’s colourful collection of characters, you could almost mistake The Beehive for being bohemian, but a place for dilettantes it is not. Lenny runs a no-nonsense, spit and sawdust tavern with nothing in the way of frills. You don’t come to The Beehive expecting zany chalk board messages, beat poetry, or olives and focaccia served on wooden chopping boards. You come to this place to get out of the cold, lay low, and die one beer at a time.
I scanned the saloon in search of my prey.
Where are you Razor?
Razor is an eaves I’ve tangled with a couple of times down the line, and practically a piece of furniture around these parts. The piranha-toothed eaves are a race of Uncanny known for passing on secrets in exchange for certain none-too-salubrious favours. I wasn’t here to grant Razor any boons though, I was here to kick in his teeth and find out which of his conniving brood had made off with my friend’s inventory and lain me out in an alleyway.
There was no sign of Razor this evening though. He wasn’t sat in his usual spot at the back of the room, or propping up the bar, or even crimping one off in the little boy’s room. Where had he gotten to?
I was pretty miffed about having wasted a journey, but then I suppose it is a bit much to ask that Razor always be sat around waiting for a fresh kicking whenever I have a burning question that needs answering.
I returned to the bar and approached Lenny, who towered behind the taps like some hairy Lurch.
‘Jake Fletcher,’ he said, gravelly and low. ‘Don’t you have a house to haunt?’
I laughed good-naturedly. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen Razor about, have you?’ I asked, offering the immense innkeeper a polite smile.
Lenny just shrugged. He’s never been one to waste words, or even facial expressions, now I come to think about it.
As I dawdled there, wondering what to do next, I caught sight of an unfamiliar label on one of the beer pumps. ‘What’s this now?’ I asked.
‘New brew,’ Lenny replied. ‘O’Ghouls. Special beer for ghosts, seeing as you lot can’t hold proper booze.’
You don't come to The Beehive for the comedy. Given Lenny’s size and temperament, though, I faked another laugh. ‘Ha. Good one.’
‘Or if you’d prefer something stronger,’ Lenny went on, stringing together more words than I’d ever heard him use in one sitting, ‘I can always crack open a bottle of REDRUM.’
I’d never heard Lenny make a joke before, let alone two in a row. I’ve seen some barmy stuff happen around here since the London Coven was destroyed and the barriers protecting the city came crashing down, but this was by far the most unsettling thing I’d witnessed. No wonder I suddenly felt the need for a stiff drink.
Thankfully for me, Lenny hadn’t been kidding – The Beehive’s new line of alcohol had been specially brewed with the phantom in mind, and was perfectly tankable for those of us lacking an actual gut. Will wonders never cease? I was salivating just at the thought of it. I hadn’t had a dec
ent drink in forever.
‘I’ll take a pint of the brown stuff,’ I said, then realised I’d forgotten my wallet.
And thus ended Lenny’s brief and baffling sense of humour.
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, theatrically padding down my trouser pockets, ‘looks like I’ve come empty-handed. Well, no-handed really…’ I passed a paw through the bar to demonstrate my predicament.
Lenny continued to give me the hairy eyeball, glowering at me like a speared bull.
‘Don’t suppose you could start us a tab, eh?’ I tried. ‘I’ll settle up next time I’m in, Scout’s honour.’
Again with the glower.
I chanced my arm. ‘Go on, Lenny, you know I’m good for it. When have I ever let you down?’
I’d not once been in Lenny’s debt before, and I’d always been a good customer. Well, except for the fact that I’ve never put so much as a quid in the till, and only ever came into his establishment to earwig on the latest rumblings. And then there’s the time I got into a scrap with the aforementioned Razor and trashed the place, which led to a short-term barring. Come to think of it, maybe I hadn’t been The Beehive’s number one patron, but you can’t go dangling a carrot like ghost beer in front of a dead man, then whip the thing away. It’s just not cricket.
‘I’ll have the money to you inside of a week,’ I promised, counting on Jazz Hands to enchant me some bank notes I could settle up with. ‘With interest. Come on, Lenny,’ I begged. ‘Don't go being the brown in my rainbow.’
Lenny’s scowl slowly slipped, to be replaced by his usual, resting frown. He reached out and fetched a pewter tankard from a hook above the bar. ‘You settle up next time you’re in,’ he said, pulling a pint of delicious-looking, nut brown ale. ‘Plus ten percent.’
I pressed my hands together in a silent prayer then picked up the enchanted tankard and put it to my nose. The beer smelled glorious – of cloves and Belgian truffles and… well, booze. I couldn’t believe it. I could actually smell the stuff; a sense I usually don’t have access to, what with having a nose that only semi-exists.
I thanked Lenny again for his kindness and retired to my favourite booth (the one under the mounted unicorn head), where I carefully set down the pint, making sure not to spill a drop. I was in heaven, or at least as close as I was going to get to the place for the time being.
I took a sip of beer, marvelling at the sorcery that had made this moment possible. The only way I’d been able to enjoy a pint since I carked it was to possess a breather and borrow his body, but it just wasn’t the same using another man’s taste buds. Needless to say, given the opportunity to sup on some neck oil with my own neck, I got on the piss good and proper.
The next pint barely touched the sides. I felt the beer ease into my system, and sank blissfully into the Gaffa taped padding of my seat. An hour later, I’d drunk what you might call, “Too much beer,” but what I prefer to call, “An heroic amount of beer.”
While Lenny kept an eye on my mounting bar tab, I kept one on the pub’s entrance, hoping Razor might come through it and answer some of my questions, but when the door finally did scissor open, it wasn’t Razor who stepped inside. Instead, came a tall, raven-haired stunner with rosebud pink lips and cobalt blue eyes. She had on a rabbit fur coat, which she wore unapologetically, as though PETA were never a thing. There was a hesitation to her entrance, though not out of nervousness. Her movements were cool and precise, the kind that suggested a woman keenly aware of her surroundings and any potential dangers therein. Judging by the way she took in the room, it seemed unlikely that she’d visited Lenny’s pub before, a suspicion that was confirmed as the locals turned and all eyes fell upon her. I looked across the saloon to see Lenny, who spent a moment sizing the brunette up before shrugging and casually mopping a spill from the bar.
I carried on watching the woman—privately, I thought—convinced that she wouldn’t be able to see a ghost, but instead of walking by my booth and taking a stool at the bar, she brushed a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, turned on her heel and made a beeline right for me.
I made a quick assessment of her as she sashayed over. This was a woman of class. She was dressed elegantly, moved with poise, and just about reeked of money. Of jolly hockey sticks and champagne fountains, of yacht varnish and shopping trips to Harrods. She reminded me of my ex-wife, only brunette, and even more of a looker.
‘Jake Fletcher?’ she asked in a cut-glass, Oxford accent, as she settled into the chair opposite me. ‘The ghost detective?’
I tried not to act surprised. ‘What gave me away?’ I replied, gesturing to my very much ethereal body.
She offered a stiff smile and a brittle laugh. Bit of an ice queen it seemed. Just my type.
‘My name is Prudence,’ she replied.
Of course it was. ‘What can I do you for?’ I asked, unconsciously fidgeting with my wedding ring.
‘I’m in need of your services,’ she replied.
I played it cool. ‘Sorry, love, but I’m off the clock right now.’
‘I’m not your “love,”’ she said, the word coming from her mouth like a bite.
‘Whatever,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Drop by my office during business hours and I’ll call you whatever you like.’
She held up a hand, diamonds flashing on her fingers. ‘Please, Mr Fletcher, this won’t wait.’
I sighed and pointed to my empty tankard. ‘Tell you what, how about you wetten that up, then we talk?’
‘You’re a ghost, Mr Fletcher. Why would you need to drink?’
‘Because there are things inside of me that still need killing.’
She rolled her eyes and hailed Lenny, who instantly obliged me with a fresh mug of beer. I’d never once seen the man offer table service before. This woman really was living up to the “queen” part of that “ice queen” tag I’d given her.
I took a gulp of my new pint. ‘How did you find out about me?’ I asked.
‘By reputation,’ she replied. ‘According to my sources, you’ve destroyed an elder demon, rescued a number of innocent souls from a nightmare realm, and defeated a necromancer rumoured to be the Grim Reaper.’
I stifled a grin. When you put it like that, I suppose I had earned some prestige of late. ‘I see,’ I replied, nonchalantly. ‘But how did you know to find me here?’
‘By process of elimination. When you weren’t at your office I went to the place where all the Uncanny drink in this town.’
That added up. ‘And what is it you want me to do for you exactly?’ I asked, running a glance over her fancy fur coat. ‘Let me guess... your corgi died and you want to know if he went to Heaven? Ghost of a disgruntled butler haunting your estate? The dowager forgot to tell you where she buried the gold before she shuffled off her coil, and now you need me to whip out the old ouija board?’
Prudence’s features curdled. ‘You’re drunk,’ she sniped, and started to stand up.
She had a point, I wasn’t exactly on my steadiest leg. ‘Sit down,’ I said, causing her to hesitate. ‘I’m sorry, okay. That was out of order.’
And it was. I’d just seen something of my ex in the woman and lashed out at her reflexively, my tongue loosened by Lenny’s amber brew.
I pushed my half-full pint away to show her that I meant business. ‘Tell me what I can help you with.’
She sat down, eying me warily still. ‘My little brother,’ she said, her lip trembling just a trace. ‘He died.’
Now I really did feel like a tool. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I replied. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how was he murdered?’
She tensed. ‘He wasn’t murdered. He died of a congenital heart defect.’
I shook my head. ‘Then I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do for your brother if he died of natural causes.’
I help ghosts pass on to the Good Place, and the only way a ghost comes about is if a person dies from a murder, or some kind of a traumatic death. A dicky ticker didn’t fit either of those categories.
>
‘The problem isn’t how my brother died,’ she said. ‘It’s where he ended up.’
There’s only one thing that could mean. ‘You’re saying he’s in Hell?’
‘That’s right.’
If that was true, he’d have to have been a very naughty boy, but then that was par for the course with the country club set. ‘There’s no polite way to tell you this, so I’ll cut to the chase,’ I said. ‘If your brother really is in Hell, he belongs there.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ she insisted. ‘He only wound up there by accident.’
‘People don’t just “wind up” in Hell.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she said, nibbling on her bottom lip. ‘My little brother isn't in Hell because he committed some terrible sin. He's there because he made a deal with the Devil.’
Ah. So, a Faustian pact, was it? ‘I see,’ I replied. ‘And what exactly was it your brother was bargaining for?’
Prudence looked embarrassed. ‘To be a world-class guitarist, if you can believe that.’
I certainly could. I’ve known people sell their souls for a good deal less: money, a bigger dick, a starring role in 2 Broke Girls...
‘Would I own any of your brother’s albums?’ I asked.
‘No, he had the heart attack before he got that far.’
Funny how often that happens, I thought. It’s almost as though making a deal with the devil is a risky proposition, fraught with mortal downfall.
‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that you know an awful lot about Hell and the supernatural.’
‘I’ve been a practicing magician for a while now,’ she replied, matter-of-factly.
‘And how did you get into all that exactly?’
‘I wonder, would you ask that question of a man, Mr Fletcher?’ she asked, her words chipped from ice.
‘Well, if you really know as much about the Uncanny as you’re implying,’ I said, ‘you’ll know that people don’t come back from Hell. Besides, my job is to help people get Upstairs, not to rescue them from Below. Hell is out of my jurisdiction.’
Uncanny Kingdom: An Eleven Book Urban Fantasy Collection (Uncanny Kingdom Omnibus 1) Page 69
