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

by David Bussell

  All thoughts of eternal quietude gone, I swam toward the something, kicking out my legs, paddling at the murk with the scoops of my hands.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, but the sound didn’t make it clear of my throat.

  Finally I reached the thing, my eyes adjusting to the darkness now, and I saw it for what it really was.

  A shopping trolley.

  A Sainsbury’s shopping trolley to be exact, slanted to one side and half-embedded in sludge.

  I wasn’t in purgatory. I wasn’t in limbo. I was at the bottom of a bloody canal!

  Feeling as stupid as I did relieved, I swam away from the trolley, away from the bed of the canal, up, up, up to the surface.

  My head broke the water and I instinctively went to gulp down some air, but it was a worthless act. I didn’t need air. I didn’t need food or water or even sleep. I didn’t need anything, I was a ghost again, a shipwrecked soul, coasting invisibly among the living.

  The sky was dark and streaked with neon. I was underneath a humpback bridge and facing an old barge inlet. I knew this place. I was floating in the part of Regent’s Canal they call Dead Dog Basin. The area’s been Disneyfied since the developers moved in, but somehow the name stuck, a hangover from the days it used to be associated with the bloated, bobbing carcasses of drowned pets.

  I dragged myself to the riverbank and hauled myself out of the filthy water and up onto the towpath. Back to reality. I felt reborn in the most peculiar way. Like I’d been subjected to a backwards baptism; alive to dead, my body dissolved, my spirit loose. A baby drowned in the baptismal font.

  I’d escaped Hell. I wasn’t sure how exactly, I wasn’t sure whether I’d lost anything in the transition, whether I was even less of a person now than I was before, but I did know one thing with absolute, burning certainty.

  I had a score to settle.

  The sign for Legerdomain creaked gently on its gibbet. Where the Magic Happens, its tagline proudly proclaimed, and just for once, I expected there to be some enchantment in the air.

  I figured Jazz Hands would be pretty stoked to see me. Ecstatic even. I’d been gone for I don’t know how long. Weeks? Months? I’d said my goodbyes, waltzed blindly into Hell, and maintained radio silence ever since. And now I was back! Surely even a woman as stoic as Jazz Hands had to give it up for that?

  Needless to say, it wasn’t the welcome reception I’d hoped for.

  I ghosted through the shop door, setting off the bell that warned the proprietor of any Uncanny visitors. Jazz Hands sat in her usual place behind the counter, looking like she was cosplaying a jumble sale, and reading a gossip rag that—much to my annoyance—featured a cover bearing the face of Justin Bieber.

  She lifted her chin as I entered and I saw her eyes widen behind her violet spectacles. ‘Jake?’ she croaked.

  She never called me Jake. It was always “Fletcher”, or “you”, or sometimes (most of the time) “gobshite”. But never, ever, Jake.

  She looked at me as if she’d just seen a ghost, which, yes, she had, but you know what I’m saying. Her eyes turned red. She sniffed, right on the edge of crying. I saw her reach under the counter, produce a hankie, and then—

  ‘Where’s my inventory, gobshite?’

  It wasn’t a hankie, it was a list of items stolen from her safe, none of which I’d been able to recover. She flattened the paper on the counter with the heel of her palm and jabbed a finger at me accusingly. ‘Well?’ she said.

  I held up my hands in surrender. ‘It’s okay, Jazz. You don’t have to pretend. I can tell you’re pleased to have me back. If you need to cry, just cry.’

  She straightened up defensively, then sniffed again and wiped under her eyes. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she said, ‘it’s this new incense making my allergies play up, that’s all.’

  I nodded at her knowingly, unable to keep the Fletcher smirk from my face.

  Making my hand corporeal—still got it!—I span Jazz’s shopping list around and drew it toward me. ‘I’ll get your stuff back,’ I assured her, inspecting the inventory. ‘I’ll get you your blasting rod, and your contact lenses, and your Masque, and your magical tattoo kit, and your funky amulet...’ I slid it back to her, ‘now I know who has them.’

  ‘Who?’ Jazz asked, nostrils flaring. ‘Wait, don’t tell me… was it that miserable succubus at The Den? Surely not the slapheaded bastard who runs L’Merrier’s Antiques?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Believe it or not, my ex-wife.’

  I expected her first reaction to be shock, instead it was pedantry. ‘Don't you mean wife?’

  She was right I suppose. Sarah had denied me the satisfaction of a divorce when she’d had me pushed under a train. ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ I told Jazz, and felt my ring finger itch. One of these days I was going to that thing off my digit, even if it meant hacking it off at the knuckle.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she replied. ‘So, now you know who has my stock, what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Aren’t you at least going to ask me how my job went?’ I asked. ‘You know, the one that literally took me to Hell and back.’

  She shrugged. ‘Seeing as you’re in my shop, I assume it went fine.’

  ‘No, Jazz. It did not go fine. It did not go fine at all.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she replied. ‘You know what I think will cheer you up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Recovering my inventory.’

  I sighed, gave her a defeated nod and handed her my revolver. ‘Fill her up then,’ I said.

  Jazz Hands grinned like a cheshire cat and located a box of slugs from her side of the till. ‘How are you going to find the bitch?’ she asked.

  ‘Easy,’ I said, ‘she made one big mistake.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘She gave me this.’

  I slapped the compass down on the counter.

  23

  Time to pick up the hammer and nail this coffin shut.

  The compass Sarah had given me was tuned to Damon, but I was willing to bet my left nut that it would lead me to her too, and to Jazz’s stolen supply.

  I followed the needle to the bustling Covent Garden district, all the way to the Savoy, a five-star, luxury hotel overlooking the north bank of the Thames. The two of them were taking care of themselves, apparently. Almost seemed a shame to go busting in there and ruining their honeymoon, I thought, as I slipped the safety off my shooter.

  When I arrived at the hotel, I visualised myself sneaking my way into Sarah and Damon’s suite. Slipping by the guy on the front desk, padding stealthily to the floor they were holed up on, dodging room service as I went, then finally magicking open the door to their room. Then I remembered I was a ghost again, and could walk through walls, soundlessly and invisible. So I did that instead.

  I emerged through the polished, wood panel wall of the hotel’s lobby and crossed a chessboard, black and white marbled floor, following the compass needle further into the building. Finally, having made it to the top floor, I felt the compass vibrate in my hand, its needle twitching at the door of a penthouse suite.

  I stepped through the door and unholstered my gun, ready to start throwing my weight around. I’d arrived in the suite’s entrance parlour (this place really was fancy). I couldn’t see the people I’d come for but I could hear them just fine. From up ahead, came the sound of bedsprings creaking and a headboard slamming against a wall. Of pig-like grunting, and high-pitched squeals that were all too familiar. I’d caught the lovebirds in the act.

  I rounded a corner and found myself in a grand bedroom with a high corniced ceiling, all deep pile carpeting, soft tones, and regal Edwardian furnishings. Going at it hammer and tongs on the bed were my killer and my black widow of a wife.

  ‘Surprise,’ I said, levelling my pistol at the pair.

  The two of them leapt into their air like they’d been cattle-prodded, Damon, angry, Sarah making a face like she’d just sent a personal email to everyone on her contacts list.<
br />
  ‘Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me, eh?’ I said, keeping my sights on them. I turned to Sarah, who snatched up the bedsheets to cover her modesty. She looked just like I remembered her: blonde, beautiful, and cold as a witch’s tit. ‘Why’d you do it, Sarah? Wasn’t it enough to kill me once?’

  She was looking in my direction but her focus was off, like she was staring through me. Of course. She could hear me, but she didn’t have The Sight, so she couldn’t see me as a ghost. The only way she’d managed that when she sought me out at The Beehive as a brunette, was by wearing the spectroscopic contact lenses she’d had that eaves nick from Jazzer’s place.

  I turned to Damon, who lay there, naked and hairy but for a medallion nestling in his chest fuzz. ‘Evening, Father,’ I said. ‘You’re looking grand.’

  He was back in his old body again, which—going by the shiv wounds in his belly—was the same one he’d died in. From what I could tell, Sarah had dug up Damon’s corpse and put it on ice while she waited for me to reunite his body with his black little soul. I have to admit, when I thought of the lengths she’d gone to to get Damon back, I was begrudgingly impressed.

  ‘Howya, Fletcher,’ said the Irish bastard, eyes on me. Damon used to be an exorcist; Damon had The Sight. ‘Mind if I slip something on, fella? The old tadger’s catching a breeze.’

  He pointed with two fingers to his semi-erect penis, which lolled stupidly on his thigh.

  ‘Alright,’ I said, aiming the gun at his head, ‘but no funny stuff.’

  Holding up his hands in surrender, he reached slowly for a silk robe and slipped it on, putting a much-welcomed layer between me and his private parts.

  I rolled my eyes back to Sarah. ‘Bet you thought you were pretty clever, huh? Playing the femme fatale, knowing I go in for all that film noir, P.I. stuff. I notice you took advantage of the family angle too. That was smart, knowing I’d have sympathy for a big sis wanting to help out her kid brother.’

  Not like my sister, leaving me at the mercy of my drunk mum’s sloppy fists.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ replied Sarah, looking right through me still. ‘I can’t talk to you like this, Jake,’ she said. ‘Not while I can’t see you.’

  ‘What’s new?’ I said. ‘You didn't see me when we were married.’

  She made a wounded face, and for a stupid, stupid second, I actually felt sorry for her.

  ‘Please let me put my contacts in,’ she pleaded, head tilted, doe-eyed, ‘then you can tell me off as much as you like.’

  I wavered. I was going to tell her no, but I wanted her to see me. Wanted her to see the whites of my eyes as I marched her and her lover to the cop shop (I wasn’t sure how exactly I’d convince the authorities that she was guilty of a crime—let alone Damon, who’d already been convicted once for my murder—but I had friends in law enforcement and I was ready to give it a bloody good go).

  ‘Go on then,’ I told her. ‘Chop chop.’

  She reached slowly for the dresser drawer, slid it open, and produced something from inside. Not contact lenses, something cylindrical and about a foot in length. For a moment I took it for a sex toy and wondered if Sarah was misguidedly trying to seduce her way out of this pickle, but it wasn’t that.

  It was the blasting sceptre.

  Another of the magic items from Jazz's stolen inventory.

  Sarah had come packing.

  Boom!

  A big red blast tore from the sceptre, arced across the room, and blew my pistol apart.

  Thank Christ she was shooting blind, or those would have been my ashes drifting lazily onto the shagpile.

  Boom!

  A second blast soared over my shoulder and blew a hole into the adjoining suite.

  That rod was not to be messed with. All this time I'd been thinking the Masque was the most valuable item on Jazz’s list, but it turned out the blasting sceptre was the big ticket item.

  As I stood there, gathering my wits, Sarah managed to get her contact lenses in and adjust her aim.

  ‘There you are!’ she said, her voice cold as a chisel.

  It was time for Plan B. Or was it Plan C? So many things had gone wrong already, it was hard to say. Anyway, the point is, I had a strategy held back in reserve, and that strategy was possession. As I’ve mentioned a couple of times already—thereby setting this bit up beautifully—I’m able, as a ghost, to take possession of the living. To step inside of their bodies and wear them like a meat suit. Sometimes I do it because I fancy enjoying a little mortal indulgence, other times I do it for survival. This was one of those other times.

  I rushed at Sarah and prepared to turn her into my skin sock, but it was like running into a brick wall. I bounced from her body, knocking the sceptre from her hand and sending it ricocheting off the wall and rolling under the bed.

  I’d failed to fill Sarah with the spirit.

  She lifted the hem of the bedsheet, which she was wearing like a toga, and showed me a discreet tattoo on her thigh.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked.

  The lines were fresh, swollen and red, and formed a symbol I recognised as a warding glyph. No wonder I couldn’t possess her, she’d used the stolen tattoo kit to protect herself from invading spirits. I should have expected as much, she always was the type to insulate herself. A decade plus of marriage, and she’d never once let me in.

  I looked to Damon on the off-chance that I could possess him instead, but saw now that he wore the same symbol Sarah had, only on his bicep. Matching tattoos? These two really made me sick.

  While Sarah hunted around under the bed for the errant blasting sceptre, Damon squared up to me in his robe, looking every bit the boxer. He’d brawled some back in the old country, he was always fond of telling me, back when we were partners, and spoke highly of his legendary right cross. “Won myself more than a couple of belts with this old iron”, he’d say, often accompanying the boast with a bit of Mohammed Ali soft-shoe. Well, I wasn’t a stranger to the ring either, and I was confident I could hold my own against Father Damon O’Meara, even as a phantom.

  Just call me Gaseous Clay.

  I let him throw the first punch, which turned out to be another glaring mistake on my part.

  My teeth sang like a bell as his fist connected with my jaw. I shook my head, my surroundings spinning like a kaleidoscope, and when the picture finished rearranging itself, I picked out a detail I hadn’t noticed before.

  Damon’s knuckles.

  They were tattooed too. Tattooed with symbols I recognised as glyphs of wounding. They acted like knuckledusters. Like a horseshoe in a boxing glove. Not only could Damon hurt me, he could hurt me bad.

  ‘Think yer a hard nut, do ya, fella?’ he said. ‘Well, who's yer daddy now, huh?'

  He threw another fist and hit me so hard it felt like he’d reorganised my skeleton.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ I said, head spinning, brain soaked in battery acid.

  ‘Yer getting old, Fletcher,’ he taunted.

  ‘I'm a ghost, I don't get old.’

  He threw another punch but I managed to block it and get one of my own in.

  My fist connected with his chin, sending a shock down my arm that exploded in my shoulder like a wad of Semtex.

  ‘Holy shit!’ I said, nursing my busted knuckles.

  Meanwhile, Damon fixed me with a crocodile smile, unharmed.

  He hooked a finger under a piece of jewellery he was wearing around his neck. ‘Amulet of protection,’ he said.

  The magic kevlar. Another of Legerdomain’s missing items. The two of them really were getting the most out of the loot they’d stolen.

  Damon threw a haymaker my way. Crack. I dropped to the ground like clothes slipping from a hanger.

  ‘Ya think yer hurtin’ now, lad, but you’ll be pissing blood by the time I'm done with ya.’

  I was on the ropes as far as he was concerned, but I'm scrappy when I’m cornered. I waited for him to get in range, then launched the toe of my sh
oe up the skirt of his robe and into his genitals.

  He didn't so much fall as he did deflate, collapsing slowly to the ground like a punctured air mattress.

  Apparently, the amulet’s powers of protection didn’t extend to the crotch area. Bit of an oversight on Jazz’s part, I’d say. I could only hope she was planning to sell the thing at a discount rate.

  As Damon lay there, nursing his manhood, I went to snap the amulet from its chain and plant a fist in his face—

  —When suddenly Sarah was there, blasting sceptre in hand, spitting scarlet wrath.

  I managed to roll aside just in time, evading the bolt, which hammered a hole through the exterior wall of the hotel and rained rubble onto the street below. With nowhere else to turn, I leapt through the breach and into the building’s forecourt. It was eight storeys straight down, but that was okay, I could handle the fall. As a ghost, I land like a cat, no matter how far the drop.

  On the street now, I looked up to the smoking hole I’d leapt out of and saw Damon following suit. He landed hard, leaving twin craters under his feet, his body armoured by the amulet of protection.

  ‘Where do ya think yer going?’ he enquired.

  All around us, incredulous civilians gathered around to watch the display, phones appearing in their hands, all set to video.

  There would be proof of this moment—cast iron proof of the Uncanny—but the world wouldn’t change. In time, the onlookers would rationalise the things they’d seen. Discount it. It couldn’t be actual magic they were witnessing. No, it must be a street performance. A happening. An advertising stunt for a new movie. Anything but the truth. The conscious mind would continue to filter out any events that challenged the status quo. Cloak them in cynicism to protect its self-preserving world view. It’s how people get through their day.

  Damon caught up to me and the two of us engaged in some more fisticuffs—him swinging, me ducking—until Sarah joined us on the ground with her blasting sceptre.

  Civilians scattered and fled as Sarah employed a scorched earth policy, shooting indiscriminately, wrecking architecture, destroying infrastructure (all to later be explained away by gas leaks, or fundamentalist terrorism).