Twice Damned: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Ghosted Book 3)

by David Bussell

  Once again, I'd been sold a pup. Buffaloed. Catfished. A veritable menagerie of deception. I thought I’d been playing on the side of the angels, but all this time I’d been aiding and abetting the damned. Damon would be long gone by now; back in London and shagging my ex-wife no doubt. Naturally, my ticket home was no good – made out to “Mickey Mouse” I discovered, not Jake Fletcher (no middle name). I’d been carrying around a dud ticket from the start.

  My ring finger suddenly began to itch like mad. Goddamn you, Sarah. Wasn’t there something in our wedding vows about honouring each other? Or should I have been more specific when I wrote them?

  To have and to hold, to refrain from murdering, to not dispatch to Hell for the sake of rescuing your dead lover...

  How had I managed to let Sarah get the better of me this time? She had brains and she had resources, but since when did she have magic? That’s the only way she could have pulled off that face-switch at The Beehive. The only way she could have convinced me she was Prudence (and didn’t I wish I’d shown some prudence now!).

  That’s when I finally joined up the dots. Sarah didn’t have magic, she had a magic artefact. The Masque of Metamorphosis—the one stolen from Jazz Hands during the break-in at Legerdomain—Sarah must have used her money to hire that eaves to bust in and steal it. Huh. The two jobs I’d been working were tied together. I guess that solved The Mystery of the Purloined Masque, or half-solved it anyway, since the artefact was still in Sarah’s perfectly manicured mitts.

  In the end, I could only blame myself. I’d fallen for another ice queen. The same ice queen, even! Like a dog returning to its own vomit, I never learned.

  Now I was stuck. Imprisoned in Hell in the place of my own killer. I’ll tell you what, that was not on my vision board.

  Fucked if I was giving up now though. I might have been stuck in Hell, but I had no intention of staying jammed up in a poxy prison cell for the rest of my life.

  I placed a palm on the cage door, put the right words together, and channelled a spell into it that popped the lock and sent the door swinging. Piece of piss if you have the know of it. I could only hope that Satan kept his evil magicians in a more secure wing than this one.

  Damon should have known better than to think a lock would keep me on the inside. I got into his cell in the first place, didn’t I? What was to stop me busting out again? One more spell to get the iron off my ankle and I’d soon be playing hooky. And who knew, maybe once I’d made it outside, I could figure out some way to give this plane the old Irish goodbye. There had to be some way out of Hell, surely? I’m not suggesting there’d be a departures office or anything, but some way.

  I performed another unlocking spell on my ankle bracelet, but the iron stayed firm. I tried again. Focussed all my energy into it. Nothing. I peered inside the keyhole, only to discover that Damon had bunged the lock. No amount of kleptomancy was going to get the thing off now.

  It could never be easy, could it?

  Puffing and panting, I dragged the cumbersome ball and chain behind me, inch by agonising inch, out of the cell and all the way down nine, treacherous flights of stairs.

  I tried everything to detach the ball. Tried picking the lock with a makeshift shim, tried breaking the chain with a rock, but nothing worked. I couldn’t even cradle the ball in my arms as I walked, as the chain connecting it to my ankle was too short. And so I wandered the wastes for days, dragging that bastard of a ball onto the Reaper’s ferry, underneath the wall, and all the way back to Camden Town. Back to the start line. Back to where I’d begun this futile quest.

  It took weeks—months even—but time was no enemy to me here. Hell is a forever place. I limped on, mile after mile, moving so slowly that I felt like I was rowing upstream in a river of glue. I didn’t encounter anyone else along the way. The South Souls I’d met were done for, and Big Blue was probably chasing new prey since I’d dropped off his radar.

  I had no idea why I was going where I was going, I just knew that I had to keep moving, and that I might as well head for familiar territory. Camden had been where I’d met Dizzy, after all, and I figured so long as I’d found him there, maybe there were other survivors in the area. Who knew, maybe even someone who could help me get off this toxic rock. A man could only hope.

  I was dragging my ball and chain past the ruins of the Stables Market when I heard a man’s scream.

  No way.

  Again?

  It was Dizzy’s voice, I was sure of it.

  Just like before.

  Just like when I’d arrived here and saved him from the jaws of that giant maggot.

  Dizzy. That little swine. Out there trying to hook another sucker, was he? Picking up a new mark and luring them into Big Blue’s beady firing line?

  I wasn’t having that. Not a chance of it. I dragged my ankle wear around the corner, past a market stall covered in ash-smothered vape accessories and fidget spinners, and faced down my betrayer.

  There was Dizzy, foot stuck in a maggot’s mouth, fighting for his life.

  History repeating.

  What was that thing anyway? Some kind of a prop? A special effect? It had looked real enough when I put a bullet in it the first time, but I was seeing it from a distance then. I’ll tell you what, if it ended up being a sock puppet, I was going to be livid.

  Dizzy saw me. ‘Jake?’

  The giant maggot made its way up to his thigh, tight as a boot, and bit down with its fanged mouth.

  ‘Help me!’ Dizzy pleaded.

  There was no mistaking the anguish in his voice. Meryl Streep couldn’t have pulled off a performance that convincing, not for all the Oscars in Hollywood. The maggot was real, and it was chewing through Dizzy’s thigh like it was its last meal.

  I wanted to tip my metaphorical cap and carry on walking, I really did. Dizzy had made his bed, let him lie in it. I couldn’t though. Couldn’t just leave him there to die, not even in Hell, where no one would judge me for it. Where I’d only be applauded for leaving that slippery little Judas to his fate.

  ‘Keep fighting!’ I shouted, as I did my best to get over there and pry the maggot off him.

  The ball was too heavy though, and the distance too far. The best I could manage was to make do with a missile, so I picked up a large rock and launched it at the maggot. It went wide, so I scooped up another, but that one only succeeded in hitting Dizzy in the shoulder (hard to feel guilty about that). The last rock I sent the maggot’s way found its mark though, catching the thing right on the snout.

  The creature recoiled, releasing its grip on Dizzy’s thigh and retreating back beneath the ground with an ear-splitting screech.

  The damage was already done though. By the time I made it to Dizzy’s side, I could see I was too late. His leg was pumping like a burst pipe. I whipped off his beret and used it to put pressure on the wound, but he was bleeding out. Dizzy was done for.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jake,’ he wheezed, his face turning blue.

  ‘Why’d you do it, Dizz?’ I asked, cradling him on the ground.

  ‘Because I’m a coward.’

  ‘You’re not a coward. You’re a serviceman. You fought for your country.’

  He laughed a sick little laugh. ‘Look at the medal...’

  Medal? The one that was missing from his jacket. The one I’d found backstage in that theatre, clutched in the hand of a dead body. I took it from my pocket and inspected it properly.

  ‘It’s tin, isn’t it?’ I said, already knowing the answer.

  Dizzy nodded bitterly. ‘Fancy dress. The whole outfit.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I was at a Halloween party when I died, Jake. I’m not a serviceman.’

  My mind folded like an origami swan. Dizzy wasn’t a WW2 paratrooper, he was just some punk kid from my time. No wonder he’d had modern change to pay Lenny with at The Beehive.

  ‘How though?’ I asked, still not getting it. ‘What about that war story you told me? The Krauts on D-Day...?’
<
br />   He looked to the ground and sighed. ‘I was an actor before. That was my audition speech for Band of Brothers.’

  The whole time I’d known Dizzy, he'd been pulling my plonker. Only now, delivering his deathbed confession, was I finally getting the truth.

  ‘I needed you to believe that I could get you where you wanted to go,’ he said, gritting his teeth, ‘so I pretended to be a soldier instead of a drama grad.’

  ‘What about the name?’ I asked, just feeling sorry for him now. ‘I figured you got it from the RAF, but I take it you’re not really called Dizzy?’

  ‘No, that’s my name. My nickname anyway. I didn’t get it from the army though.’

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘Picked it up in college. From being spaced out all the time.’

  ‘But you were so... convincing.’

  He smiled. ‘Tell that to Spielberg’s casting director.’

  He was ashen now. On his way out.

  ‘Tell me how you wound up here,’ I said.

  ‘The Halloween party,’ he gasped, recanting the last of his sins, ‘I was there in this costume… hired it for my audition… never returned it...’

  ‘No wonder you ended up in Hell,’ I joked, and bless him if he didn’t laugh.

  ‘Not the reason,’ he replied, grinning with bloody teeth. ‘I was selling… pills. Needed the money. Not much work going… for someone with a theatre degree. Became a dealer...’

  ‘That can’t be it. You don’t end up here for flogging a few disco biscuits.’

  ‘You do… when they kill people.’

  A dodgy batch, he explained. Six ODs. A half dozen people dead, Dizzy included.

  His eyes were two sunken wells of despair. ‘I didn’t know, Jake. I didn’t mean to… didn’t want to...’

  His body went limp. His eyes floated back into his head, focus lost. He was gone.

  Just a kid. A kid stuck in a costume, pretending to be someone he wasn't, as much a soldier as I was a detective. A kid who’d snuffed out some lives without really meaning to. Without understanding the gravity of what he was doing. Just like I hadn’t understood the consequences of my actions as an exorcist, going at stranded souls like a wrecking ball and smashing them into oblivion.

  I looked down at Dizzy, his body cold to the touch now, his spirit gone forever.

  It’s shit in Hell, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

  20

  I’d only just finished burying Dizzy’s body when I heard a familiar voice over my shoulder.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn't Fletcher the Friendly Ghost.’

  I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Vic Lords. My old boss. Everything I hated about humanity in one convenient package.

  ‘I thought I’d already told you to piss off back to Camden, Vic.’

  ‘And leave you behind?’ he replied, his voice as rough as his tailoring.

  He was here in his astral form still, checking up on my progress while his body remained safe and sound in London Town.

  ‘I’m not in the mood for this right now,’ I said, staring down at Dizzy’s shallow grave.

  Vic frowned. ‘Hate to say I told you so, but I warned you not to trust that sherpa of yours.’

  ‘You didn’t know shit, you were just trying to put me off my game.’

  ‘Not true, Jake. Not true at all. I knew that little runt was bad news, just like I knew the person you’d been sent here to rescue was our mutual friend.’

  That got my attention. ‘You knew Damon was wrapped up in this and you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I wanted to,’ he said, his bottom lip puffed out like a child’s, ‘but no matter how hard I try, you never seem to want my help.’

  I gave him a hard stare. ‘Well, I’m a bit beyond help now, aren’t I?’

  He bubbled up a laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that…’

  He held out his hand to show it was empty, then balled it into a moist, hammy fist. When he opened it up again, a small cube had appeared in his palm. He presented it to me like a waiter serving an entrée.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ I asked.

  ‘Your door home,’ Vic replied.

  He took a step closer. I could see now that the cube was made of what looked like bone, and had black spots carved into each of its six faces.

  A dice.

  Okay, a “die” if you want to get technical about it.

  ‘Take it,’ Vic insisted. ‘Roll it on the ground and a portal will open between Hell and Earth. This is it, Jake. Your ticket home.’

  I took the offering from his palm. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘You call it a catch, I say it’s a favour,’ he smarmed. ‘Here’s the deal: I get you home and you go back to working for me. Even Stevens.’

  I laughed right in his face. ‘Work for you? I reckon you must have a few of your pages stuck together, mate.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m offering you a chance to make something of yourself instead of running around like some Poundland Sam Spade?’

  He was proud of himself for that one – I could tell by the way his gullet puffed out like a bullfrog's. And who knew, maybe he had a point. I mean, look at the way things had turned out for me so far. Maybe it was time to quit the P.I. game. To hang up my tits for good.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, pointing to the cube in my hand. His dirty little bribe. ‘Give it a roll. Don’t be shy.’

  ‘No dice,’ I quipped, and shoved his offering into the depths of my jacket pocket.

  I sensed the birth of anger in him, but he composed himself and proceeded with calm. ‘Your loss, Fletcher,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘If it's all the same to you, I'll be doing the opposite. Going home to my nice, comfy bed in the real Camden Town. Toodle pip, Jake. Enjoy your afterlife.’

  But I was already going, dragging my ball and chain across the dusty ground as I left Vic behind.

  ‘Oh, Jake,’ he called after me, ‘I notice you kept hold of the dice.’ I could feel his smile. ‘It’s only a matter of time, son.’

  I didn’t respond. Just carried on trudging the opposite direction, eyes straight ahead.

  Then I felt a tremor. It came from the ground, like a train rumbling beneath my feet.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I heard Vic say, ‘that doesn’t sound good…’

  I saw a bulge appear in the earth ahead of me. A bulge that turned into a ridge, forming a line in my direction.

  ‘Looks like your maggot’s back,’ Vic noted, rather unhelpfully.

  Fuck. The crest of loose earth continued to cut my way.

  ‘Anyway, good luck with it,’ he chirped. ‘And don’t forget, Jake, if you ever have a change of heart, my offer still stands.’

  And with that, Vic’s astral form dissolved into the night air, just as the oversized grub exploded out of the ground in a fountain of black earth.

  The maggot went to clamp its teeth down on my foot, but I managed to pull it back just in time.

  Snap!

  Undeterred, the creature dived back into the ground and disappeared beneath the surface again, burrowing by me, then coming about for a return attack. I instinctively went to run, but felt the tug of the metal ball laying at my feet. So long as I was hamstrung by that thing, I was a sitting duck.

  I adopted a fight-or-flight crouch just as the maggot burst from the ground again, jaws snapping for the meat of my calf. Diving like a goalie, I managed to avoid it just in time, but the chain I was attached to arrested my momentum, sending me crashing face-first into the soil, hard. I coughed up any dirt that I hadn’t managed to swallow, then quickly clambered back to my feet. If I didn’t find some way of emancipating myself from that leg iron, I was Hovis.

  I watched the maggot come about again, embossing the earth with a semicircle as it bored a shallow path beneath the ground. Its course righted, the maggot straightened out and made another run, bulleting toward me, picking up speed.

  I readied myself for the attack, b
ut just as the maggot reached striking distance, the crest of earth it left in its wake suddenly petered out. I blinked sweat from my eyes. What happened? Why did it stop like that? Did it crash into something buried down there? Did it turn tail and run?

  No.

  It must have tunneled deeper. Must have altered its trajectory and gone into a steep dive. But why?

  I soon found out.

  The ground shook beneath my feet, swiftly followed an eruption as the maggot emerged vertically from a fresh crater. I threw myself to one side again, but the maggot wasn’t aiming for me this time. It was aiming for the metal ball I was attached to.

  The beast closed its mouth around the hunk of iron and sucked on its chain like it was eating spaghetti. Having gobbled it up all the way to my ankle, it then downed periscope and returned to the depths, taking me with it.

  My feet disappeared into the pulverised earth as though I was standing on quicksand. Up to my waist in a manner of seconds, I clawed at the ground like a child being dragged to his doom by the monster that lived under the bed. If I didn’t find something to grab a hold of soon I’d be finished, drawn into the suffocating depths and turned into worm food.

  Flailing, I launched out an arm like a drowning man and brought my hands down on a length of cable: a wire from a collapsed telegraph pole that lay across the market. Wrapping both hands around it, I gritted my teeth and held on tight.

  The chain beneath me sprung taut, halting the maggot’s downward drill. At the same time, my body snapped to full extension as any slack between me and my underground attacker vanished. The maggot fought, thrashing, windmilling its tail in an effort to drive itself deeper into the earth. Meanwhile, I white-knuckled the cable, up to my shoulders in dirt now, desperate to cling on. I felt the bones of my vertebrae begin to separate as the leg manacle bit deep into my ankle, making me cry out in pain.

  Think like Superman.