Location, Location, Damnation

by Nick Moseley

  ‘Er, I could have?’ said Trev. ‘And what did you mean, not a coincidence?’

  ‘There’s a war on, Trevor,’ said Granddad, his tone sombre. ‘It’s been going on since before any of us were born, and it’ll go on long after we’re all dead.’

  ‘Agatha’s dead already,’ Trev pointed out. They both ignored him.

  ‘The Light versus The Shadow,’ said Granddad. ‘The Eternal War. Order against chaos. Or in the classic cliche, good versus evil.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me, though?’ persisted Trev. ‘I’m not a soldier. I sell bungalows to old ladies.’

  ‘I think there’s going to be a conflict here,’ said Granddad. ‘Whatever is attracting the Shades in such numbers can only be a powerful agent of The Shadow. The War is all about balance, so it stands to reason that a being of similar strength would make a stand for The Light.’

  ‘And you think that being is me? Don’t talk such bollocks,’ snapped Trev, his voice quavering just a little.

  ‘I agree with Agatha, this can’t be a coincidence,’ said Granddad firmly. ‘What you need to appreciate is that this war has gone on for millennia. That couldn't happen if the sides weren't evenly balanced. For every evil, there has to be a force of good to face it.’ He tugged at an earlobe. 'That's not to say that good always wins, of course.'

  ‘Oh, so I’m just supposed to accept that I’m some kind of pawn in this?’ said Trev, getting angry. ‘Well you can tell the forces of The Light that they can ram it. I didn’t want or ask for this Sight crap, and I’m not bloody going to set myself up for a scrap against some sodding monster or whatever. Let the bastard burn Brackenford to the ground. I need a holiday anyway.’

  ‘There is every chance that may happen,’ said Agatha. ‘But I doubt you’ll be able to get away for a holiday because of it.’ She aimed a glance at Granddad.

  ‘What do you mean by that little remark?’ asked Trev, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘She means that if we are aware of the enemy, so the enemy is aware of us,’ replied Granddad, speaking as if he was choosing his words with care. ‘The agent of The Shadow will no doubt want to remove any obstacles to the completion of its plans. If, for example, it does intend to burn Brackenford to the ground, it will only be able to do so once any resistance has been dealt with.’

  ‘What?’ said Trev. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘He means that the agent will tackle its enemies first,’ said Agatha. ‘Us. More specifically, you, Trevor.’

  There was silence in the room. Trev’s eyes went blank. He sat, numb, his mouth opening and closing in a manner so uncannily like a goldfish that any passing ichthyologist would surely have applauded.

  ‘It’ll try to kill me?’ he eventually stammered. ‘Even if I’m not doing anything to fight it?’

  ‘Well, we can’t say anything for certain, but it’s a possibility,’ said Granddad. ‘You may not want to get yourself involved, and that’s fair enough. We certainly won’t try to force you. But The Shadow may see you as a threat nonetheless.’

  ‘I’m going to go home,’ said Trev. ‘I’m going to go to bed, sleep, then get up in the morning and go to work. I don’t want to hear anything more about werewolves, vampires, mystical bloody Wars and the rest. I’m going to get on with my life.’

  ‘I can understand how you feel,’ replied Granddad. ‘It’s a lot to take in, I know. But please, you need to take some time to consider things. Don’t rush to any decisions.’

  Trev rose from his seat. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I don’t need this in my life, end of story. There’s nothing more to think about. Like I said, I’m going home. Feel free to get in touch, but only if you want to talk about normal Granddad stuff, like how bad your arthritis is or how kids these days should have more respect.’ He jerked a thumb in Agatha’s direction. ‘And I don’t want Mary Poppins following me around, either.’

  ‘Well really,’ said Agatha, exasperated.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Granddad, with a sigh. ‘I’ve already said that I won’t try to force you to become involved. Those who align themselves with The Light do so of their own free will – only The Shadow uses coercion. But do think, Trevor. You could make a difference here.’

  ‘Oh God, here we go,’ said Trev, throwing up his hands. ‘It’s like one of those adverts on TV begging for aid for starving kids. “Make a difference,” they say. But the money just ends up lining the pockets of whatever crackpot dictator is in charge that week. Nothing changes. Millions of pounds’ worth of aid goes out, and what happens? People still starve, die of disease or kill each other.’

  He shook his head. ‘Listen. You can bang on about “making a difference” all you like. The only difference I’m worried about is the difference signing up for this bullshit crusade will make to my life expectancy. This War’s been going on since forever, hasn’t it? I don’t think my involvement is going to bring it to a close, do you?’

  ‘Of course it won’t,’ said Agatha, looking even more like a disapproving schoolmistress than ever. ‘The Light can’t win the war.’

  ‘What?’ said Trev, knocked out of his stride.

  ‘Only The Shadow can achieve victory,’ said Granddad. ‘They seek to bring destruction, chaos and death, the total eradication of anything good and pure. The Light doesn’t strive for victory. It strives to prevent The Shadow’s victory. The Light recognises that without evil, there can be no good, and vice versa. The two must be kept in balance, as I said earlier. A total victory for either side would result in the end, Trevor. The end of everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The whole country?’

  ‘The whole world.’

  ‘Even France?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it’s not all bad, then.’

  Had Agatha still been alive, Trev suspected she would’ve been jumping up and down with rage. Unable to do that, she rose a full two feet further off the floor in her agitation.

  ‘Why do you keep making light of the things we tell you?’ she snapped. ‘I wouldn’t object so much if your jokes were genuinely amusing, but they aren’t.’

  ‘They make me laugh,’ retorted Trev. ‘Look, this war’s been going on for centuries, right?’

  ‘Millennia,’ said Granddad.

  ‘A long time, then,’ said Trev. ‘I’m one bloke. What difference could I possibly make to such a huge conflict? If what you say is right, the War will rattle on quite happily without me.’

  ‘If all the others who’ve worked and fought for The Light over the years had felt the same, the War would’ve been lost a long time ago,’ said Granddad softly. He held Trev’s gaze with a sudden intensity. ‘You would never even have been born.’

  ‘But they didn’t, and I was,’ Trev replied. ‘Don’t start with bloody what-ifs. Anyway, if I don’t get involved it doesn’t matter, someone else is bound to. The world’s full of do-gooders, sticking their oars in. One of them can put his knackers on the anvil, not me. What’s the point? What’s in it for me? Nothing, I’m guessing, or you’d have mentioned it by now.’

  ‘Of all the selfish–’ started Agatha, but Granddad held up a hand and she subsided.

  ‘Well, I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed,’ he said, ‘but as I told you: those who align themselves with The Light do so willingly.’

  ‘Good for them,’ said Trev. ‘I’m going to willingly call for a taxi.’

  He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the taxi firm he’d used earlier. Granddad went and sat behind his desk and began shuffling his paperwork about in silence. Agatha said nothing either, but Trev knew that she was absolutely fuming; she’d risen so high off the floor that her head was sticking up into the ceiling.

  Trev finished his call and picked up his jacket.

  ‘I’m off then,’ he said. ‘I meant what I said - I don’t want to cut you off, Granddad, but I don’t want any part of this War rubbish. Get in touch if you want to talk about anything
else.’

  ‘All right,’ said Granddad, looking up from his papers. Trev expected to see a disappointed expression on the old man’s face, and knew it would make him feel bad, but it wasn’t there. He looked ashamed, which Trev was surprised to find made him feel far worse.

  ‘Bye,’ he mumbled. Granddad merely nodded before looking down again.

  Agatha remained silent, her head still out of sight in the ceiling. Maybe she’d spotted something exciting between the floors, a dead mouse or an unusually large woodlouse perhaps, and it was holding her attention, Trev thought.

  Either that, or she was really, really pissed off with him. It was definitely one of the two.

  He let himself out and went to the end of the front path to wait for the taxi. He found that his discomfort at Granddad’s parting expression was finding itself replaced by indignation. They were a pair of cheeky buggers to ask him to stick his neck out for a cause hardly anyone knew about. Why would he want to get involved in something that offered a big risk but no reward? He might save the whole of existence, but who’d know about it? Just Granddad, his cat and some sanctimonious ghost, probably. Not exactly the cheering crowd you’d expect for such an endeavour. No chance of chat-show appearances, a book deal and film rights.

  A good deed is its own reward, said Trev’s mum’s voice in his head.

  ‘Is it, bollocks,’ muttered Trev, stepping forward to flag down his taxi. He climbed into the back seat and was whisked away from Granddad’s house without a backward glance.

  Nine

  When Trev awoke the following morning the events of the previous day were a bit hazy, much like a half-remembered dream. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous that he began to wonder if he’d imagined it all – ghosts, vampires, werewolves? Evil spirits that made people commit crimes? Levitating women with a tendency to stick their heads in the ceiling? Bloody hell.

  Trev spied the bottle of vodka standing on the sideboard where he’d left it the previous night.

  ‘Did I have a bit too much of that?’ he mused aloud. The lack of a headache suggested he hadn’t, but it wasn’t conclusive. Trev knew his capacity for alcohol consumption was pretty low, especially compared to his friend Cledwyn, who made Oliver Reed look like a shandy-drinking lightweight.

  The thought of Cled made Trev realise that he hadn’t seen his drinking partner in over a week, and he resolved to give him a call. Probably during the afternoon, when there was a fighting chance the lazy git would be out of bed.

  Trev put the vodka back in the cupboard and poured himself a bowl of cereal. He sat and crunched his breakfast in a reflective mood, trying to mentally file the previous day in the drawer marked “weird” and forget about it so he could prepare himself for work.

  He groaned inwardly as he realised he’d have to apologise to Barry. He didn’t really want to, but knew that if he tried to wriggle out of it the atmosphere in the office would be so bad it would hinder his efforts to get the sales needed to ensure a decent pay packet. He decided it would be best to do it as soon as he got in. Painful as it was, he’d have to get it out of the way and defuse things quickly. It would give Barry an opportunity to gloat a bit, but hopefully he was still distracted with his attempts to convince Sarah that her ideal man was a fat, middle-aged buffoon with foot-odour issues.

  That decision made, Trev’s mind began to wander back to the strange experiences of the day before. With the benefit of a night’s sleep he was finding it surprisingly easy to dismiss what had happened, but something was niggling at him. He rummaged around in his brain, trying to trace the source of his unease, and soon he came up with an answer. It was the prickling, creepy feeling that somehow he was being watched.

  He cast an eye around his kitchen but all the shadows were behaving themselves. Still, though, the uncomfortable sensation of unseen eyes on him persisted.

  ‘Agatha?’ he said aloud, and immediately felt extremely silly.

  There was no answer.

  Frowning, Trev rose from his seat and shuffled over to the small window. It overlooked the back yard of the newsagents, which the proprietor, Mr. Mistry, kept scrupulously well-maintained. It appeared to be much cleaner than Trev’s flat was, although in fairness that was no real achievement. Trev viewed cleaning as something that happened to other people.

  There was nobody down in the yard or in any of the neighbouring gardens. Trev allowed himself a smile as he spotted the largest pair of Y-fronts he’d ever seen flapping serenely in the breeze on a nearby washing line. This moment of childish amusement relaxed him and he moved to turn away from the window.

  As he did so, his gaze fell upon a pair of unblinking, beady black eyes regarding him from a leafless tree.

  Trev’s heart screeched to a halt, but thumped back into action seconds later as he realised that the owner of the eyes was nothing more sinister than a sparrow, perched unassumingly on a branch. Trev knew that Mrs. Mistry liked to put scraps out for the local birds, and the yard was often as busy as Gatwick Airport. It was quiet this morning, though, with just the one winged visitor in evidence.

  ‘Scared me, you sod,’ muttered Trev. ‘I hope a cat has you for lunch.’ The sparrow stared back at him, unintimidated by this ill will. ‘Bugger off, then,’ added Trev, flapping a hand in a “shoo” gesture.

  The bird eyeballed him for another second or two, then spread its tiny wings and zipped off its perch. It was gone from view almost immediately, but Trev’s attention remained fixed on the branch; it had seemed, for just a moment, that the bird had left a misty black outline of itself behind when it left. It was gone so quickly that Trev couldn’t be sure he’d seen it, but it bothered him nonetheless.

  ‘Get a grip, man - you’re being menaced by a sparrow,’ he said, putting a fist to his forehead. This was getting embarrassing. What was he afraid of? Even if the creature was some kind of evil bird that wished him harm, what could it do? Chirp off-key at him? Lightly peck him into submission?

  Shaking his head, he headed for his bedroom to get dressed. Below the kitchen window, the local birds began to stream back into the yard to squabble over the scraps left out for them.

  The thing that had frightened them off was gone.

  Trev bypassed the Hot Cuisine on his way to work. He didn’t blame Ollie (or more specifically, his coffee) for what had happened the day before, but somehow he felt it was a bad idea to go there again for the time being.

  The walk was quite refreshing. Although there was still a hint of chill in the air the morning was sunny and clear. Trev strolled along the High Street in relaxed fashion before turning down Chilgate Street. As he approached the office’s entrance, the relaxation ebbed away. He was steeling himself for his apology to Barry.

  ‘This is going to leave a nasty taste in my mouth for weeks,’ he muttered to himself.

  Squaring his shoulders, Trev pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Helen was, of course, at her desk, shuffling through the usual scattered paperwork. She looked up as Trev entered, but her expression was less than welcoming. Phil, who was sitting at his own desk uploading some photos to his laptop, lifted his eyes and gave Trev a curt nod. Trev offered him a weak smile and turned toward Barry’s desk.

  Barry was making a show of not looking at Trev. He was clicking away on his mouse in a random manner that suggested his computer had crashed irretrievably several minutes ago.

  ‘Morning, Barry,’ said Trev.

  Barry didn’t reply, though his mouse-clicking became more aggressive.

  ‘Look, I want to apologise for what I said yesterday,’ continued Trev, trying hard not to grit his teeth. ‘About your mother.’

  ‘Oh that’s right, just carry on taking the-’ started Barry, then Trev’s words sunk in. ‘What? You’re apologising? You?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trev. ‘I’m sorry. I went too far and I apologise.’ He was aware that all sound of activity behind him had stopped. Yep, he had everybody’s attention all right.

  ‘Right, well, e
r...’ stammered Barry. He clicked his mouse half-heartedly another couple of times, causing his computer to emit a muted beep. He clearly had no idea how to respond to Trev’s olive branch.

  ‘Morning, everyone,’ said Sarah, stepping in through the office door. She took in the pregnant atmosphere. ‘Um. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Trev’s just apologising to Barry for yesterday,’ said Phil, with just a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘Would you believe.’ Trev could almost hear the raised eyebrow.

  ‘Good. It was a bit of a low blow, I thought,’ said Sarah, dropping her car keys into her handbag and making her way over to Helen’s desk.

  ‘Yes, well, he’s said sorry so let’s just get on, eh?’ said Barry with forced joviality. Sarah’s appearance seemed to have encouraged him to be magnanimous about the whole thing.

  ‘Thank you, Barry,’ said Helen. She looked at Trev. ‘Maybe you two could try getting on for a change. It’s like a bloody playground in here sometimes.’

  ‘I know. He just caught me at a bad time yesterday,’ said Trev. He sat down and switched on his computer.

  ‘I’ve been catching you “at a bad time” for the last three sodding years,’ muttered Barry.

  Trev mentally scrolled down a list of possible rejoinders, then decided – with regret – that it was best not to aggravate his colleague further. He didn’t want to be making any more apologies for a while.

  The morning meeting revealed that Phil’s four valuations the day before had gone well, but none of the vendors had yet committed themselves to going on the market with SmoothMove. The owner of the house on Fallow Lane with the horrible decor had, however. Her name was Mrs. McNamee, which Trev made a note of. Apparently Mrs. McNamee had been less than impressed with Pinky Pinkton’s valuation on behalf of Stepperton Properties; Phil reported that she had described Pinky as “a jumped-up little twat”.

  Trev thought this was a pretty charitable description, all things considered.