by Lucy Banks
Kester looked up to see the bull bearing down towards them. Christ, those horns are deadly, he thought, falling back to sharp reality. In a daze, he allowed himself to be pulled away. They raced across the thick grass, the feet of the bull storming only metres away from them. His father threw him through the bramble bushes before diving in after him in a flurry of rustling leaves and panting. The animal’s hot snorts pulsed through the foliage behind them.
“Get in deeper, get in deeper!”
They crawled in a confusion of mud, snagging thorns, and prickly leaves until finally collapsing in a heap, directly in a muddy puddle. Kester closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping.
“You did it,” his father whispered. “You actually did it.”
Kester looked around for the bull, which seemed to have given up the chase. He could just about make out its hulking form through the tangled briars and hear the wet snorts emanating from its nostrils. But the main thing was, they were safe, against all the odds. It felt like a miracle.
“I know,” he acknowledged with a faint smile, picking bits of bramble out of his hair. “I actually did.”
Chapter 22: Missing
The next day, they prepared for the long drive back to Exeter. Kester still felt exhausted, despite having had almost fourteen hours sleep the previous night. It all still seemed unreal to him. He’d prepared himself so well for failure that the fact he’d succeeded hadn’t fully registered in his mind yet.
Mike climbed into the driving seat with great reluctance. This time, Serena had chosen to come with them to “avoid being subjected to Pamela’s continual singing.” She launched herself onto the back seat, kicked off her shoes, and started massaging her feet, which looked horrendously sore.
They waved at the others before finally rolling out onto the road. Kester leaned back against the seat and sighed.
“You can’t still be tired, mate,” Mike said as he indicated left. “You slept for ages.”
“I know, I know.” Kester rubbed his eyes, then yawned. “I think it’s all just caught up with me.”
Serena wound down the window, letting in a sharp gust of winter air. “That’s classic stress, isn’t it? You keep yourself going for ages, then, once the stress is removed, you collapse. It happens all the time.”
“If you say so,” Kester replied, too tired to enter into a conversation about it.
They rumbled back through granite villages and craggy landscapes, each largely silent, lost in their private thoughts. Kester still couldn’t believe that he’d managed it. He recollected the tiny wave that the spirit had given him as it had passed through the door. In a strange way, it had been almost endearing, despite the fact that it had been trying to kill him only a few moments before. It was almost as if the fetch had been saying thank you and apologising for giving him such a hard time. I think Miss Wellbeloved might be right after all, he thought. These spirits are more like us than we realise.
He switched on his phone. Anya still hadn’t replied, despite the fact that he’d sent her another message last night. I suppose I just have to accept she’s angry at me, he thought, tapping his knuckles on the side of the window. Hopefully when she hears my explanation, she’ll understand. Except, what am I going to say to her, exactly? It’s not like I can tell her what’s been happening.
He checked his emails. There were the usual junk ones, promising him fifty-pound gift vouchers and free insurance. Then he spotted one from the School of Supernatural Further Education. Oh boy, he thought, his stomach sinking. Here it is. The letter of rejection. There was no way he’d been accepted on the course, not after his abysmal performance at interview. He couldn’t be entirely sure, but he was fairly convinced Dr Barqa-Abu had loathed him on sight and would probably rather offer a cockroach a place on the course than him.
“I’ve got an email from the SSFE,” he muttered.
Mike turned off the radio, grinning. “Well, open it then!”
“I know what it’s going to say.”
“You don’t know what it’s going to say,” Serena said and leant over the seat. “Don’t be so negative.”
“I majorly messed up the interview.”
“We all mess up at interview,” Serena snapped. “I told them I hated spirits. Imagine how well that went down!”
“I turned up drunk and told them I’d got into spirits because I liked Halloween,” Mike added. “Don’t worry, mate, they expect you to perform badly at interview. It’s all part of it.”
Kester grimaced. “Shall I open it then?”
“Yes!”
He clicked on the email, then scanned the contents.
“Well?” Mike leaned over to see the screen, veering into the oncoming traffic in the process.
Kester exhaled heavily. “Well, I never,” he murmured as he stroked the beginnings of his beard.
“Let me guess,” Serena drawled, leaning back. “You got in.”
Kester grinned. “I did! Isn’t that odd?”
“I personally wouldn’t teach you,” Serena retorted. “But it’s their funeral.” But nonetheless, she reached across and patted him on the back, giving him a tiny smile.
What a peculiar few days it has been, he thought, leaning against the threadbare headrest and looking out the window. In under a week, I’ve encountered a murderous spirit, a possessed woman, and been accepted to a supernatural school. It doesn’t get odder than that. He grinned again. Why am I even pleased about it? What’s happening to me?
“Congratulations,” Mike said. “That’s great news. It’s hard work, mind. You’ll be knackered, let me tell you. I studied online too. It’s difficult when you have to do the dissertations in the evenings.”
“I don’t mind,” Kester said. “I like dissertations.”
“That’s just weird. Don’t tell your girlfriend that—you’ll put her right off.”
Kester grimaced. “I think she might have been put off already.”
“Don’t tell me,” Serena said, groaning. “You’ve messed things up already? What was that, two weeks?”
“You’re not exactly known for your successful relationships, you old cow-bag,” Mike interrupted.
Kester sighed. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I’m useless. It’s not even as if I can explain things when I get back, can I?”
“It’s the curse of our job,” Mike agreed. “All this hush-hush. Drives women mad, it does.”
“Why don’t you treat her to something special?” Serena suggested.
“Like what?” Kester replied. “It’s not like I’m rolling in money, is it?”
Mike stuck his finger in the air and grinned. “How about tickets to the Billy Dagger gig? He’s performing in Bristol this weekend.”
“Oh, tell me you’re not serious,” Serena groaned, wincing. “Billy Dagger is about eighty, isn’t he?”
“He’s late sixties, and he’s an absolute legend,” Mike barked, glaring at her in the rear-view mirror. “I won’t hear a word said against Dagger in this car, thank you very much.”
“There’s no way I can afford tickets to a Dagger gig,” Kester said. “Anyway, they’ll all be sold out.”
Mike’s eyes twinkled. “Not if a good friend of yours happens to have some going spare, eh?”
“How the hell do you have spare tickets?” Serena squawked, edging forward.
“I bought as many as I was allowed to when the phone lines opened,” he explained. “Most of my mates snapped them up, but I’ve still got a few left over. Kester, they’re yours if you want them.”
Kester smiled. “That’s nice of you, but I still can’t afford them.”
“On the house. Seriously. Without your help on this case, none of us would be getting paid, so it’s the least I can do.”
“I can’t accept that!” Kester was touched. After all, he’d only known Mike a few months. O
nce again, he found himself appreciating how nice the team had been to him, how they’d welcomed him in as one of the family. Even Serena seemed to be finally thawing towards him.
“You can, and you shall,” Mike persisted. “And I bet your girlfriend will be delighted and forgive you on the spot. Now, say thank you to your Uncle Mike.”
“Thanks, Uncle Mike.”
“I might have wanted to go too, you know,” Serena interrupted, with a mutinous look.
“You just said you thought Billy Dagger was past it!”
“I didn’t say that, I just commented on his age.” She folded her arms. “I never passed judgement on his talent.”
Mike winked. “Are you trying to get a free ticket too, Serena?”
She drummed her fingers on the edge of the seat. “Of course not. Why, have you got another spare one?” She caught sight of Mike’s face and added, “Not that I’d want it, of course.”
“Yeah right,” Mike retorted. “I do have one more spare, actually, as old Johnno pulled out. But if you don’t want it—”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want it.”
“That’s exactly what you said, actually,” Kester interrupted. “Your precise words, in fact.”
“Shut up, Kester.”
“I’ll take it that you do want to come then,” Mike said with a gleam in his eye. “You’ll have to pay me back though. I’m not giving you a freebie. You don’t deserve it.”
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, apart from a minor incident at the service station involving an irate BMW driver and a malfunctioning petrol pump. Fortunately, Mike managed to accelerate out of the station before the petrol-drenched man had a chance to catch up with them, which, given the van’s past performance, was something of a miracle.
They finally reached the outskirts of Exeter as the sun was starting to set. Kester stared up at the now familiar blue bridge that spanned the motorway, heralding their arrival back into the city. The surrounding fields were bathed in a soft orange glow, which looked almost impossibly idyllic.
“It’s good to be back,” he said and checked his phone for the hundredth time. The screen was frustratingly devoid of message notifications, despite the fact that he’d now texted Anya four times.
His phone suddenly vibrated in his hand, startling him.
“Oh, is it your lover-girl?” Serena crooned, waking up.
“Yes, it is,” Kester said with a deep sense of relief. “It’s her home number. Maybe she’s lost her mobile.”
“See, lover’s tiffs are soon sorted out,” Mike added with a yawn. “Best answer it, mate.”
Kester pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello Anya!”
“This isn’t Anya.” The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar. What’s going on? Kester wondered.
“Er, who is it then?”
“It’s Wendy, Anya’s housemate. I hope you don’t mind me calling, I found your number on a post-it note in Anya’s bedroom.”
Kester frowned. Weird, he thought. Why’s she calling me? I’ve never even met her. “Hi,” he said. “How can I help you, Wendy? Is Anya okay?”
Wendy gulped. “I don’t know.”
Kester froze. “Why, what’s wrong?” Mike looked over, concerned.
“We don’t know where Anya is,” Wendy continued. “Have you heard from her?”
“No,” Kester stuttered. “I mean . . . Why, what’s going on? When did you last see her?”
Wendy sighed. “She went to her book club two nights ago. We haven’t seen her since. I’ve called her parents in Denmark, but there wasn’t much point; they don’t speak much English. I don’t know anybody at her book group, so I couldn’t call anyone there.”
Kester took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Think, he commanded himself. What rational explanation could there be? “Could she have gone to a friend’s house?” he asked.
“We wondered if she was with you to begin with,” Wendy said. “She hasn’t got many other friends in Exeter, apart from this mysterious book club of hers.”
“She’s not been with me,” Kester said, suddenly feeling rather sick. “I’ve been away.” Oh my god, that’s why she’s not been answering her text messages, he realised, eyes widening. Something’s happened to her.
“Do you think I should call the police?”
“Yes, call them,” he said, massaging his head and trying not to get in a panic. “And keep thinking of anyone else who might know where she is. What was her book club called?”
“I have no idea. She’s never told us anything about it.”
“I’ll try to find out some more information,” Kester said.
He hung up, then looked over at Mike.
“What’s going on?” Mike asked, stopping the van at the traffic lights.
“Anya’s gone missing.”
Mike whistled. “Since when?”
“Since two nights ago.”
“Has she gone back to her parents?” Serena asked, now wide awake.
Kester shook his head. “Her housemate doesn’t think so. It’s rather worrying.”
“Yes, it is a bit,” Mike said as he revved the engine and nearly drove into the car in front. “Still, there’s usually a rational explanation for this sort of thing, isn’t there?”
Kester swallowed hard. “I hope so.”
Serena leant over and patted him on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. People don’t just go missing in Exeter, it’s not that kind of place.”
He nodded, then reached for his phone again. Anya, he typed, fingers whizzing across the screen.
Wendy just called and said you were missing. Pls let me know you’re alright. Am worried. Kester.
Finally, the van pulled onto Kester’s road. Mike switched off the ignition and turned to look at him.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, looking concerned.
Kester shrugged. “Not really. I don’t know what to do. I’m really worried.”
“She’ll turn up,” Mike said. “She’s probably having a strop about something and has stormed off for a bit. You know what women are like.”
“Excuse me?” Serena snorted. “Less of the appalling gender stereotypes, please.”
Kester attempted a watery smile and climbed out the van. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said, not feeling convinced. He surveyed his front door warily. God, the last thing I need at the moment is Pineapple and Daisy, he thought with a sinking heart. Any talk of chakras, yoga, or spiritual cleansing might just send me over the edge.
After waving goodbye to the others, Kester trudged inside. It felt strange to be back. The house seemed smaller and dirtier than when he’d left it, and, as usual, it was freezing. The landlord obviously hasn’t sorted the boiler out, he thought, unable to stop himself from glancing at his phone again. Not that the heating really matters at the moment.
Pineapple appeared at the top of the stairs like a rabbit in a magic trick. “Yo, Kester! My main man!” he shouted with a disturbing wiggle of the hips. “Long time no see, yeah? Where you been?”
“You actually noticed I wasn’t here, then?” Kester observed as he headed towards his bedroom.
“Yeah, right on, course I did.” Pineapple reached across and tugged at Kester’s chin. “Digging this facial growth, dude. That’s like super-tight, innit? Real manly, like.”
“I’m going to shave it off,” Kester announced as he extracted Pineapple from his path. “Did you know you’ve spilt something down your t-shirt by the way?”
Pineapple looked down. “Nah, that’s the look. Bought it online. Some artist in Camden, he throws food on tops, right, but he does it in a real sharp, artistic way, yeah? You feel me?”
“Not really,” Kester admitted and escaped to his room before Pineapple could say anything more. It had been a long day. A long week, in fact. He
was in no mood to talk about food-stained tops with a man named after a fruit.
He slumped on his bed and stared at the stained ceiling. It was meant to feel good to be back, he thought with a sigh. But now I’m even more worried than I was about the fetch!
Suddenly, his phone beeped. He grabbed it, hoisting himself into a sitting position.
“Yes!” he shouted and pumped a fist into the air. It was a text message from Anya. Finally, he thought, opening it up. God, you had us all terrified there. Where the hell are you? He wondered.
He read the message. His mouth fell open.
“Need help,” he read aloud. His mouth went dry. “Can’t talk. I’m with the Thelemites. I’ve made a big mistake.” There was nothing else, only that.
What the hell does that mean? Kester wondered, reading it through again. He felt even more afraid than before, though he didn’t entirely understand her message. Who are the Thelemites? And what mistake has she made, exactly?
Some instinct, deep inside him, told him who might know who the mysterious Thelemites were. He scrolled through his contacts and dialled his father’s number.
About the Author
Lucy Banks grew up in provincial Hertfordshire, before fleeing to the wilds of Devon, where she now lives with her husband and two boys. As a child, she spent a disproportionate amount of time lurking in libraries, and prowling car-boot sales to feed both her hunger for books and her book collection. It’s fair to say that she’s bypassed being a bookworm, and become a book-python instead. Today, most of the available space in her house is stuffed to the brim with literature, which is just the way she likes it.
After teaching English Literature to teens, Lucy set up her own copywriting company and turned her love of the written word into a full-time career. However, the desire to create never went away, so Lucy turned her insomnia into a useful tool—penning her novels in the wee small hours of the night and the stolen moments of the day.
Lucy has enjoyed inhabiting worlds of her own creation from a young age. While her initial creations were somewhat dubious, thankfully, her writing grew as she did. She takes particular delight in creating worlds that closely overlap reality . . . with strange, supernatural differences.
