by Lucy Banks
Xena glanced down at her patent-shoed toes, which poked out from beneath her large skirts like two shiny beetles. She seemed lost for words.
“When my dear Earnest died,” she began at last, “I heard him cry out from the garden shed that he could see himself. That his twin had come to fetch him.” She paused. It was clear that the memory was painful.
“Yes, I know,” Kester said gently. “We read the notes on the case.”
She looked up. “He also cried out something about wanting to go home. Or his twin wanting to go home. I don’t know which. I knew, even then, that it hadn’t been an accident. It wasn’t just that he’d said he’d seen his own double; it was the terror in his voice. Earnest was never frightened of anything, you see. And the atmosphere in the shed, when I . . . when I . . .”
Lara cleared her throat and shot Kester a warning look. He nodded, whipping out a packet of tissues from his pocket.
“Here,” he muttered. “I’m sorry to bring it all up again. I can only imagine how painful it was for you. But we need to get to the bottom of this.”
She nodded, then blew her nose energetically. “At first,” she went on, “I didn’t connect it to the Celtic site. None of us did. But after Dr Kleinmann’s wife told us that he’d seen his double too? Well, then I just knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That we’d disturbed something. Something that should have been left well alone.” She sniffed and dragged a sleeve across her eyes. “I sometimes wonder when it will come for me.”
“It seems to be working on finishing off the Ancient History Club first,” Lara said, brushing down her jeans. “I guess you’re safe for a while, as you’re not a member.”
“There’s not many more members left.” Xena rose. She looked more haggard than she had a few minutes previously—as though the conversation had aged her by years, not minutes. “Peter Hopper’s obviously one. Grace McCready and Denzil Powers are the only others.”
Kester hastily wrote their names down. The government needs to know who these people are, he thought, nervously biting his lip. Given that it looks like they might be next on the list.
“And what do you think the Ancient History Club did to disturb the graves?” he continued, pen poised.
The old lady winced and shook her head. “I’m sorry, young man,” she replied. “If you want to arrange a proper time to talk, that’s fine. But I’m not feeling very well today. It’s my migraines you see. They’ve been terrible since Earnest passed away—I think it’s the stress.” Without pausing for a response, she opened the door and waited patiently beside it, gazing out at the rolling sea.
Kester nodded and tucked his pen back into his breast pocket. Lara joined him, towering beside him and reminding him once more of his own distinctly average height.
“You’ve been most kind, Mrs Sunningdale,” he concluded. “And you’ve given us plenty of food for thought.”
Xena smiled faintly. “Just remember,” she said as she led them out into the cold again, “whatever Peter Hopper says, I’m not the villain here.” She sighed heavily, fingers restlessly plucking at her necklace.
A few grey clouds had started to roll in from the sea, threatening rain on the otherwise flawless blue sky. Kester glanced at the old woman and noticed the sadness in her expression, mingled with a tinge of anger and regret.
Xena turned back to Kester and pressed a finger against his arm, so firmly that it startled him.
“It might have been me that discovered whatever it is that’s plaguing us,” she continued as she wrapped herself in her woollen cardigan. “But let me tell you one thing.”
“Go on,” Kester said gently, studying her intently.
Xena removed her hand and shivered. “I wasn’t the one who woke it up.”
Chapter 11: Down the Pub
The week that followed the visit to Lyme Regis felt particularly long and exhausting. Kester spent the majority of the time online, trying to discover more about the mysterious Celtic burial ground in Lyme Regis, but, so far, all his searches had come up with nothing. He still felt that he was missing something—a vital piece of information, dangling right in front of him, just waiting to be grasped. There was more to these murders than met the eye, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what.
It was frustrating, not least because Larry Higgins phoned every morning to check their progress and gloated with obvious delight at the delay. In fact, the only thing that they’d really achieved was to make sure the remaining members of the Lyme Regis Ancient History Club—Denzil Powers, Peter Hopper, and Grace McCready—were protected. Now, inconspicuous government officials had been hired to regularly check up on all of them.
Kester’s head ached. It was a particularly gloomy, windswept Friday night, and he was fighting hard against the urge to order a takeaway pizza and officially postpone the diet for a month or so.
Sitting in his tiny bedroom, he shivered. A stiff breeze was currently wafting his curtains around like a pair of billowing spectres, presumably because the windows hadn’t been replaced since the house had been built over a hundred years ago. His laptop glowed unnaturally in the dimness, casting a milky light over the School of Supernatural Further Education brochure, which seemed to be goading him with its very presence, refusing to let him ignore it. Opening it up with a sigh, Kester typed in the Swww. web address printed on the first page and logged in.
Here goes nothing, he thought, waiting for the site to load. It looked much like any other academic website, with a traditional logo at the top and plenty of photos of pupils looking rather pleased with themselves. The lack of sinister images comforted him somewhat, even though he still felt unsettled at the prospect of enrolling in a supernatural course. Clicking through to the menu, he scrolled through the list, until he found the BA in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies.
Oh boy, Kester thought, scanning the details. Do I really want to do this?
His mouse cursor hovered over the “enrol now” button, white arrow icon blinking in a manner that was almost teasing. Just get on with it, he told himself sternly, and clicked through to the application page.
Just as he’d completed entering his details and hit the “submit” button, a series of rhythmic knocks on the door startled him. Before he could call out, the door flew open, revealing a flushed-looking Daisy, wrapped in a stripy apron, covered in flour, and wielding a plate of rather ostentatiously iced cakes. Kester shut the site down as discreetly as possible, then turned to face her.
“Want one?” she chimed as she sauntered in and dangled the plate liberally under his nose. He inhaled deeply, then grimaced.
“What are they?”
“They’re beetroot and courgette muffins with carob icing. Danielo, my yoga instructor, said that courgettes are excellent for unlocking your fourth chakra.”
He gently pushed the plate aside. “I think my fourth chakra’s just fine, thanks anyway.”
Daisy sniffed. “Suit yourself. Me and Pineapple are going out later, down the Three Tuns. Did you want to come? You could ask that nice friend of yours?”
Kester closed his laptop, swivelling round to face her. “Which nice friend is that? Do you mean Anya, my girlfriend?” He still felt silly calling her that, especially considering they’d only had one date, but the opportunity to claim that a female actually liked him was too good to pass up.
“No, not her. The guy you work with. Mike, I think he’s called?”
Oh god, please don’t tell me she fancies him, he thought, taking in the sight of her two pigtails, which were currently tied up with flowery scrunchies. Not to mention the vast array of plastic rings on her fingers—at least two of which portrayed popular 1980s cartoon characters. She couldn’t be less Mike’s type if she tried, he thought, not knowing whether to laugh or feel sorry for her.
“Er, Mike might want to come out, I suppose,” he said as he ru
bbed his hands together, trying to warm them up. Then he remembered what Mike had said about Pineapple when he’d last met him, and regretted his statement immediately. He couldn’t remember the exact phrase Mike had used, but he was sure it had included the words “intolerable” and “moron.”
Daisy beamed, jiggling the plate of cakes until they teetered wildly, threatening to tumble to the threadbare carpet. “Yes, do ask him. I thought he was so nice. He had such a positive energy, you know? It really flowed through him.”
“Well, more to the point, he likes beer flowing through him, so I’m sure he’ll be up for it,” Kester replied. “I’ll ask Anya too.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Daisy said as she dusted some flour off her nose. “We’ll be heading out around nine o’clock. Just don’t ask that mean girl you work with. What was her name? Selina?”
“Serena,” he corrected. Last time Serena had joined them all down the pub, she had spent the entire time sulking in the corner, glaring dangerously at anyone who dared to come within three metres of her. “Don’t worry, she won’t want to come. That I can guarantee you.”
“Ugh, yes. That girl. She had some seriously blocked energy. Standing too close to her was like receiving a punch to my spiritual core.”
I’m fairly sure she would have liked to give your physical core a good kicking too, Kester thought, grinning. He straightened, then reached for his phone. “Count me in,” he said. “I’ll see if Anya can come.”
“And Mike?”
He sighed. “Yes, and Mike.” Though don’t blame me if he spends all evening avoiding you, he finished silently.
After a deeply unpleasant lukewarm shower and a change of clothes, Kester was ready to go. To his delight, Anya had responded to his text immediately and agreed to see him there. With less pleasure, he noted that Mike had also replied with an agreement to meet—but judging by the spelling errors and general misuse of the English language, Kester presumed he was already quite a few beers into his evening.
He headed out into the windy night, maintaining a respectable distance from his housemates, in case anyone thought that he was associated with them. They were looking particularly mortifying tonight. Pineapple was clad in a day-glo waistcoat and faux-leather harem pants—giving him the general appearance of a drug-addled New Romantic mixed with a hyperactive toddler. Daisy wasn’t much better, with a pair of revolting purple dungarees and crop top, which showed far too much flesh for such a chilly evening.
Thankfully, the pub was only a short walk from their house. Tugging the door open with a sense of relief, he stepped out of the icy breeze and into the welcoming warmth of the fire-toasted bar area. He spotted Anya immediately, propped against the fireside and chatting to a bearded man who looked slightly bemused by her attention. Spotting him, she gave a cheerful wave and trotted over, exuberant and bouncy as a Labrador out for a run.
“Hello!” she sang, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I am so glad you invited me out! I was feeling bored at home with only Thor to keep me company, and then you texted.”
“I aim to please,” he replied, aware that his wide smile was perhaps veering towards the imbecilic. “I’m very glad you wanted to come.”
She chuckled, then glanced at his companions, who’d headed straight to the bar. “I didn’t know you liked to hang around with your housemates,” she said, watching Pineapple hopping energetically from foot to foot, finger hovering in mid-air as he tried to decide whether to have peanuts or a packet of ready salted crisps.
Kester winced. “I don’t,” he replied, “but it was either agree to come out or be forced to eat one of Daisy’s awful courgette cupcakes.”
“A wise decision, then. Plus, it means you get to meet up with me, which is always fun!”
He grinned. “Yes, it certainly is.”
Spying a vacant table, they quickly wove a path through the crowd, avoiding the sticky puddle on the floorboards that might have been beer or something more unpleasant. To Kester’s annoyance, Pineapple and Daisy joined them, squeezing in tightly on the narrow bench and slopping wine over his sleeve in the process.
“Well, this is nice!” Daisy gushed as she wrapped an arm around Anya, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I am so pleased to meet you, Anna.”
“Anya.”
“Same thing, right?”
“Not really.”
Daisy patted her hand in a manner that was reminiscent of an elderly woman indulging a child. “Understood, my love. Now, shall we gossip about something? Girlie stuff, yeah?”
Anya released a strangled choking noise, which was thankfully muffled out by the sudden familiar bellow of Mike, who had just staggered through the door. Kester glanced up, then groaned. Christ, how many has he had? he wondered. Mike wiggled his hips provocatively, nearly knocking over a group of chatting females in the process.
“Hello there, you lovely people!”
“Hi Mike,” Kester replied, instantly regretting his decision to invite him. Mike spotted Anya, pointed at her in a distinctly leery manner, then winked. Anya raised an eyebrow. She took his offered hand reluctantly and shook it, even though he didn’t seem to notice, as he was too busy eyeing up the bar.
“Right, who’s up for a drinky-poo?” he greeted without preamble.
“Oh, I certainly am!” Daisy chimed and turned her face upwards like a flower reaching for the sun.
“Fabulous.” He crashed down on the end of the bench, then slammed a hand on to the table. “Make mine a pint of local ale, love.”
Daisy looked baffled. Kester shrugged and resisted the urge to laugh. Perhaps I should have warned her, he thought.
“Hey, dudes, I am totally without funds at the moment,” Pineapple drawled. “Daisy, can you get me a drink too?”
“You told me you just got paid on Monday!”
“Yeah, but you know. Bills. Electricity bills. Water bills. They totally drain you.”
“We haven’t had any bills yet this month.”
Pineapple nodded sagely, topknot wobbling dangerously to one side. “But those bills will get me in the end, right? Like, you know what I’m saying?”
“I personally haven’t got a flaming clue what you’re saying,” Mike slurred, rolling backwards and leaning uncomfortably against Kester’s shoulder. “In fact, I’m not sure you’re even talking English half the time.”
“I’m on a higher plane, man.”
“You’re plain bonkers, more like.”
Pineapple nodded appreciatively, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. Daisy gave Kester a pleading stare before giving up and slinking to the bar.
“So,” Anya began as she eased herself into a more comfortable position in Daisy’s absence. “I take it that you’ve had a hard week, Mike?”
Mike groaned, then rolled his head into his hands. “When is a week not hard?”
“What is it that you actually do? Kester won’t tell me.”
“Aha.” He nudged the side of his nose and nodded at Kester. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She grinned. “I guess, given all the secrecy, you either do something really exciting or something so boring that you don’t want to admit it.”
Actually, try “so weird that no one would believe you,” Kester thought, twiddling his fingers anxiously. He knew that, at some point, he was going to have to give Anya some idea what his job was, but he didn’t have a clue where to even start. What if she thinks I’m completely crazy? After all, that’s what I would have thought if someone had told me they worked in a supernatural agency. I don’t want her to think I’m a certified lunatic, not when things are going so well.
“Mike works in IT,” he offered, then flinched under the sudden force of Mike’s drunken glare.
“I create highly sophisticated electrical equipment,” he bellowed, leaning haphazardly against Anya and waggling a finger in her face
.
“But you also maintain our website. That’s an IT thing.”
Mike rolled his eyes, then lurched towards Kester with the unrestrained strength of a wrecking ball. “Yes, but I’m not ‘the IT guy,’ okay? I didn’t do three years at university to be called an IT nerd. Speaking of which, have you signed up for that course yet?” He punctuated his sentence with a hiccup, closely followed by a beery belch.
“What course is this?” Anya asked as she leaned around Mike’s swaying body.
“Um, it’s a business studies degree,” he replied. The statement was partly true at least.
Anya frowned. “You two are very mysterious people. But I’ll get to the bottom of it one day, let me tell you.” She winked. “I have my ways.”
Kester gulped, then jumped as Daisy plunked the drinks in front of him, slopping wine and beer over the table.
“That cost over twenty pounds,” she exclaimed, pressing against Kester until he moved over. “I’ll be destitute if I carry on spending money like that.”
“That’s what a bloody round costs, isn’t it, love?” Mike slurred, then raised his glass and poured it cheerfully down his throat. “Real world, and all that. Taxes. Bills. Booze.”
“Wise words, man,” Pineapple added, nodding vigorously. Mike wiped his lips then examined Pineapple’s drink.
“Are you seriously drinking pineapple juice?”
“Yeah, why?”
“When you call yourself Pineapple?”
“It’s my vibe, innit? And it cleanses the body and soul. It’s a healing fruit.”
Mike cackled, launching himself over to Pineapple, who was starting to look distinctly worried. “It’s not a bloody healing fruit, and you’re not a fruit either. What’s your real name?”
“I go by the name of Pineapple, man. Be cool.” He flapped his hands placatingly whilst sending wide-eyed pleas of help across the table to his housemates. Kester sipped his beer and shrugged. There was no point trying to stop Mike once he’d got stuck onto something. He knew better than to get involved.
