Location, Location, Damnation

by Nick Moseley

  He got up and followed the two men out of the reception area.

  Trev was taken to a windowless interview room, furnished only with a scarred metal table and four chairs, all of which were firmly fixed to the floor. He sat down while the younger detective, who'd introduced himself as Detective Constable Sockett, set up the tape-recording equipment. The other detective still hadn't spoken, but had been identified by his partner as Detective Sergeant Gibbons.

  Sockett identified himself again for the benefit of the recording, and Gibbons broke his silence to do the same. Trev noted that he had a gravelly Scottish accent. The time and date were noted and the interview began.

  Trev was asked by Sockett to describe the afternoon's events at KolleyCo, which he did to the best of his ability, leaving out the supernatural side of things. He'd been helping his Granddad cover the store opening for the Crier; he'd seen the man in the crowd pull a knife; the man had vaulted the barrier and made for Kolley; Trev had tried to stop him, injuring himself in the process; and the knifeman had ended up dead.

  Sockett did all the talking, asking for clarification at certain points, or more detail. Gibbons said nothing, leading Trev to wonder if he was getting the time-honoured "good cop, bad cop" routine. Trev imagined Gibbons suddenly exploding into life, smacking his head on the table, telling him he was a “lying little slag” and demanding he tell the truth. As things turned out, Gibbons' only contributions to the interview were to stifle a belch, excavate his left nostril with a finger and scratch his gut. "Good cop, bored cop" seemed to be the new, politically-correct way of doing things.

  The interview was winding down when Sockett returned to the subject of the knife-man's weapon, almost as an afterthought.

  'Could you describe the attacker's knife for me, please?' he asked.

  'Well, yeah,' said Trev, by now getting a little impatient. 'But can't you just go down to the evidence room or whatever and take a look at it?'

  Sockett looked embarrassed and glanced at his colleague for support, but Gibbons was staring vacantly at the table.

  'We don't have the knife in the evidence room,' he admitted. 'It was never recovered from the scene.'

  Gibbons responded to this statement with a snort and a shake of the head. Trev guessed that the uniformed officers who'd been at the scene weren't exactly flavour of the month with C.I.D. for failing to recover the weapon.

  'It didn't go far,' Trev said, puzzled. 'It flew out of his hand and into the bunting, I think. How come you didn't find it?'

  'We searched the whole area,' shrugged Sockett. 'It wasn't there. Someone must've picked it up. An accomplice, maybe.'

  Trev didn't find this piece of news very reassuring. Had there been more than one person at the event who'd been under demonic control? If so, they were probably out there somewhere, carrying the big knife with them. Trev hoped that Granddad would be able to get a warning to Alastair Kolley. The threat to the tycoon's life had definitely not passed, despite the death of his assailant.

  He became aware that both detectives were now staring at him, so he stroked his chin as if trying to remember something. Thinking about it, he realised he had a pretty good mental picture of the weapon.

  'Well, let's see,' he said. 'It was long, maybe nine or ten inches, and the blade was made of a dark-coloured metal, not stainless steel. Wooden handle, I think, and the blade was an odd shape.'

  'Odd how?' Sockett pressed.

  'It was a sort of wavy shape, but still tapered to a point,' Trev answered. 'Looked a bit impractical to me.'

  'Possibly the weapon had some sort of significance to the attacker,' Sockett mused. 'Still, I think that's everything we need from you, Mr. Irwin, unless you've anything to add, D.S. Gibbons?'

  Gibbons shook his head again. Sockett officially ended the interview for the recording and Trev was escorted back to reception.

  'We may need to speak to you again,' said Sockett, opening the door for Trev. 'Don't go leaving the country or anything.'

  'Chance'd be a fine thing,' muttered Trev as he stepped out into the street.

  Trev's parents lived in a spacious detached house on Railway Avenue, which he knew from experience was one of Brackenford's more sought-after streets. His mum and dad's workaholism hadn't left them much time for their son, but it had at least given them one of the best postcodes in town. Trev had hated growing up in the place. It had always seemed empty and lifeless, and he'd been glad to move out. His flat was small and rather tired-looking but it felt more like home than the house on Railway Avenue ever had.

  It was his mum that answered the door. She was a petite woman in her fifties, slender, with long ash-blonde hair that she usually tied back in a ponytail. She gasped when she caught sight of Trev's bruised face and blood-stained attire.

  'Your Granddad said you'd just got a few cuts and bruises,' she said, embracing Trev in one of her trademark slightly-awkward hugs. He winced. 'You look like you've been beaten up.'

  'Feel like it, too,' said Trev. 'They told me it was all superficial stuff though, no lasting damage to my good looks.' He gave her a tired smile.

  'I'll get you a cup of tea and you can tell us what happened,' she replied. On her way to the kitchen she passed by the foot of the stairs. 'Lindsay!' she called. 'Come down, Trevor's here.'

  'Coming,' replied Trev's father's voice from somewhere up above. There was a set of golf clubs standing in their bag in the hallway, which indicated to Trev that his old man had been out on the course that day. They were expensive clubs; as Trev played a bit himself, he knew that you could get a pretty good car for the sort of money his dad had spent on his golf gear. Hell, just the flashy umbrella clipped to the side of the golf bag was probably worth more than Trev's old Rover.

  Having said that, most umbrellas were probably worth more than Trev's old Rover.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Trev's father appeared. He was a tall, athletically-built man in his early sixties with matinee-idol good looks and dark hair shot through with grey. He strolled down to the foot of the stairs and extended his hand for his son to shake, one eyebrow lifting as he took in Trev's injuries and the state of his clothes.

  'Hello, son,' he said.

  'Hi dad,' replied Trev.

  Whenever Trev spoke to his father, he always got the feeling that he was being assessed; assessed and found wanting. By anyone's standards, Lindsay Irwin was a successful man. Both he and his wife had been able to retire early and their savings, investments and pension funds guaranteed them that the remainder of their lives could be spent in comfort, safe in the knowledge that they were respected pillars of the community.

  Trev was aware that, as things stood, he wasn't exactly following in his old man's footsteps. Irwin Senior had never openly expressed any disappointment with his son (although in truth he rarely expressed much interest in Trev at all) but Trev was nonetheless sure that disappointment was what his father felt. It wasn't an angry, mean-spirited sort of disappointment, Trev supposed; rather a slightly puzzled "how-has-this-happened-there-must-be-some-mistake" variety. Trev told himself that he didn't care, trying to ignore the hateful fact that somewhere deep down inside him was a little boy whose most fervent wish was to impress his daddy.

  Even if it was just the once.

  'Been out on the course today?' Trev asked, inclining his head towards the golf bag.

  'Yes, played really well actually,' said his dad. Golf had become his raison d'etre since his retirement and even Trev had to admit that the big man was bloody good at it. 'I hit a cracking three-iron approach into the sixth hole today, you know, the par five. On the green in two and my eagle putt lipped out! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.'

  'Laugh,' replied Trev. 'Leave the crying to those of us who can't hit a cow's arse with a banjo.'

  Trev had taken up golf himself for a number of reasons: it allowed him to claim he played a sport without having to do any of that tiring running about nonsense; it got him out in the fresh air (which, allegedly, was g
ood for one's health); and it gave him an almost unlimited selection of double entendres about balls, shafts and holes to snigger at. He’d also hoped that taking up the sport would give him a bit of common ground with his father, although to date the number of times they had played golf together stood at one.

  Trev still had nightmares about it. One of his dad's usual four-ball had cried off at short notice and Trev had - grudgingly - been allowed to take his place. Desperate to do well, Trev had been in a state of extreme nervousness on the first tee which had had some fairly hideous effects on his golf swing. It quickly began to resemble a myopic lumberjack trying to fell a tree with a rubber chicken. The round had come to a premature end at the eighth hole, where Trev had hit a shanked shot which flew like an Exocet missile into the left buttock of the club captain, who was standing in an adjacent fairway. Trev was asked to leave the course and the club captain had been forced to walk sideways for a week.

  Strangely enough, Trev hadn't been invited back.

  'What about you, then?' asked Trev's dad, arranging his face into a close approximation of a concerned expression. 'I hear you had an eventful day.'

  '"Eventful" doesn't even begin to cover it,' replied Trev, with a rueful smile. His mum appeared in the kitchen doorway wielding a tray of tea and biscuits. 'Let's sit down, and I'll tell you both about it.'

  Fourteen

  It was dark by the time Trev left his parents' house. The story had taken a while to tell, plus he'd had to field the inevitable questions afterwards. It hadn't been much fun to have to recount the afternoon's events all over again, but Trev could at least take some satisfaction from having held his parents' undivided attention for such an unusually long time. Even his father had maintained a keen interest. He moved in some of the same social circles as Alastair Kolley and had met him a number of times.

  'I'll make sure he buys me a drink the next time I see him,' he'd chuckled.

  'Is that all saving someone's life is worth these days then?' Trev had replied. 'A gin and tonic?'

  'Good point,' said his dad. 'I'll make sure it's a double.'

  They'd shared a laugh at that, the recollection of which brought a smile to Trev's face as he closed the garden gate behind him and stepped out into the street.

  'You look terribly pleased with yourself,' said a sharp voice. 'For the life of me I can't imagine why.'

  Trev jumped, the smile falling from his lips. He turned around. Agatha was standing, or rather floating, behind him, her arms folded.

  'Do you get some sort of cheap thrill out of sneaking up on me?' hissed Trev, annoyed. He glanced up and down the street, checking to see if there were any other pedestrians watching him apparently talking to himself. To his relief, there weren't.

  'Don't be ridiculous,' Agatha shot back. 'Had you been paying attention, you'd surely have seen me.'

  Trev rolled his eyes. 'Whatever. What do you want?'

  'The very model of politeness, as always,' Agatha said with a sigh. Trev had started walking and she was drifting along beside him. 'Bernard asked me to find you. He'd like you to pay him a visit as soon as you can.'

  Trev groaned. 'Bloody hell. I just want to go home, have something to eat, and maybe go for a pint at the pub. Is that too much to ask of you two?'

  'Well it doesn't have to be immediately, but this evening would be preferable,' said Agatha.

  'Fine, I'll stop by on my way to the pub.' Trev waved a hand dismissively and carried on walking. After a few steps he looked to his left and saw that Agatha was still keeping pace alongside him. 'You still here?'

  'So it would appear.'

  'Any reason why?'

  Agatha sniffed. 'Bernard is concerned for your safety.'

  'That's big of him,' replied Trev, 'but I thought the demon was after Kolley, not me.' He tried to sound casual but Agatha's words had unsettled him. The possessed knife-man had been trying to kill Kolley, that much was true. Trev had been the one who'd stopped him, though. Did that make him a target as well? The knife had disappeared from the scene too, of course, which couldn't be good.

  'That's what your grandfather believes,' Agatha said, 'but after your intervention this afternoon he's afraid you may be seen as an obstacle.'

  'I see where he's coming from,' said Trev quietly, pulling his suit jacket tighter around himself.

  'Then you don't object to my accompanying you?'

  'Suppose not.' Trev trudged on for another few steps before speaking again. 'What are you going to do if someone or something does jump out at me, though? You're a ghost.'

  'Spirit,' Agatha corrected him. 'As you say I can't assist you physically, I'm afraid. However I'm rather more sensitive to anything of a supernatural nature than you are. I can give you advance warning.'

  'Fair enough, you just tell me which direction to run away in,' said Trev.

  'Very well.'

  They carried on in silence for a minute or two, Trev with his hands deep in his pockets and his brain equally deep in thought. Against his better judgement he'd let himself get dragged into Granddad's world of weird, despite promising himself just twenty-four hours beforehand that he wouldn't. He had to hand it to Granddad: the old boy was a master of the art of guilt-tripping.

  Trev frowned. He'd also agreed to stop by Granddad's house that evening as well. Already the supernatural crap was getting in the way of things, forcing him to re-organise his life around it. He even had to have a bodyguard (although he had to admit that Whitney Houston had had it worse – she’d been lumbered with Kevin Costner, the poor cow). It was a nuisance, and with a demon on the prowl somewhere it was a potentially dangerous nuisance.

  No sooner had he had that thought than Agatha came to an abrupt stop, holding up a hand.

  'Wait,' she said curtly.

  Trev did as he was told, nervously looking along the street. They were approaching the T-junction at the end of Railway Avenue and Trev could see cars passing along the main road. Railway Avenue itself was still quiet, though. A couple of cars had passed by as they'd been walking, but there were no pedestrians.

  'What is it?' he whispered. 'Do I need to start running?'

  'I don't think that will be necessary,' replied Agatha. She drifted across the road and stopped at the gate of one of the houses there. Trev followed, curious to know what had attracted her attention.

  'What is it?' he asked again, peering over the gate and into the garden. The house beyond was a large detached in the mock-Tudor style. There were a few lights on but all the curtains were drawn.

  'Listen,' said Agatha.

  Trev listened. Faintly he could hear the sound of raised voices – one male, one female – emanating from within the house. It sounded like a pretty spectacular argument was in progress.

  'It's just a domestic,' said Trev with a shrug. 'What's that got to do with us?'

  'That kind of negative emotion tends to attract certain… entities,' said Agatha, drifting through the gate and into the garden. Her head was swivelling from side to side, apparently looking for something.

  'You mean the Shades?' Trev answered. Without thinking he went to follow Agatha, forgetting the fact that he was unable to pass through a closed gate like she was. After exhausting his repertoire of swear-words and rubbing his knee, he unlatched the gate and shuffled through.

  'Are you quite finished?' said Agatha without bothering to look round at him. 'Perhaps you'd consider moderating your language in front of a lady?'

  'If a lady shows up here, I will,' muttered Trev.

  Agatha sighed. 'In answer to your earlier question, yes, I was referring to the Shades. I can feel one of them trying to break through.'

  Trev looked around the garden, remembering with a shudder the events in the Hot Cuisine Café. 'Er… shouldn't we just leave it well alone?'

  'The argument going on in there is just shouting at the moment,' said Agatha, 'but the introduction of a Shade could easily turn it into something more serious. You should know that.'

  Trev, who was alrea
dy thinking about Robert Byfield's picture on the front page of the Crier, could only nod.

  'There!' gasped Agatha, pointing into a very deep patch of shadow at the side of the house. Trev took a step forwards, straining his eyes to see what Agatha had spotted.

  The shadow was growing, stretching on one side. The Shade's arms appeared first, oozing out of the darkness and along the brickwork. The head followed, wriggling itself free. It seemed completely focused on the large window at the front of the house, to the extent that it didn't register the presence of Trev or Agatha at all. Soon it had detached itself entirely from the shadows. Through his fear, Trev noted that although the thing had arms and a head, it had no legs. The body just tapered off into nothing.

  The Shade flowed up the wall until it was on the glass of the window, where it attached itself, its long fingers spread. Trev was reminded of a gecko he'd seen at a pet shop once, clinging to the side of its tank with its sticky toes. He looked across at Agatha, wondering whether she was going to intervene in some way. She was staring at the Shade, her eyes half closed, but made no move towards it. It was only when the thing's head began to pass through the glass that she came to life.

  'You there!' she shouted, shooting another couple of feet higher in the air. Startled, Trev stumbled backwards. Agatha now had a pale white glow around her, outlining her against the night.

  The Shade's head whipped around and Trev was certain he heard the creature hiss in anger or irritation. It changed position on the window, moving with an oily speed. It gathered itself against the glass as if preparing to spring forward at Agatha, whose eyes were now slits. Her glowing aura was spreading, becoming steadily brighter.

  Trev looked back to the Shade just in time to see it hurl itself off the window towards Agatha. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but before any sound could come out there was a blinding flash of white light which dazzled him, causing him to lose his footing. He fell heavily onto the lawn, his cuts and bruises making themselves known in a chorus of complaint.