Location, Location, Damnation

by Nick Moseley

  'You think someone sent it after Kolley on purpose?'

  'It seems the logical conclusion.' Granddad stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Summoning a demon isn't something to be undertaken lightly. If it's not done properly the demon could well decide to just take the summoner's soul as soon as it arrives and have done with it. There's a lot of knowledge and skill involved. I've only known a handful of people over the years who've had the power and know-how to pull it off.'

  'Do any of them have a strong dislike of Alastair Kolley, that you know of?' asked Trev.

  Granddad smiled. 'Well to be honest most of them have long since died,' he said. 'There are a couple still alive but they are firmly aligned with the Light, so demon-summoning isn't something they'd be involved in. Neither of them live anywhere near here, anyway.' He shook his head. 'No, this is the work of someone I've not encountered before, I'm sure. Someone of the Shadow.'

  'Whoever it is must really hate Kolley to take such a risk,' said Trev. 'Although I suppose a demon is the perfect hit-man – there’d never be anything to tie the summoner to the death of the victim, would there?'

  'Very true,' said Oscar. 'Plus of course it sends a message to your peers. The sort of person who can summon a demon to dispose of their enemies is not someone you want to mess with.'

  'And we intend to track this person down,' said Trev.

  'Yes,' said Granddad, 'I'm afraid we must.'

  Trev held up a hand. 'There's a second option I think you're all missing, though.' The others gave him questioning looks. 'We just let the demon have Kolley's soul and it'll take itself back off to its own dimension, won't it?'

  Oscar broke the silence with a laugh. 'I'm starting to like this bloke,' he said.

  'You're correct, Trevor, but we aren't going to do that.' Granddad's voice was firm.

  'Oh come on. All right, Kolley might end up dead, but the important thing is that we'd all still be alive.' Trev thought for a second. 'Well, apart from Agatha, obviously.'

  'No. We don't sit back and let these things happen when we could do something to prevent them.' Granddad leaned forward. 'I've never had to deal with a demon in all my years as Custodian, and frankly the prospect of taking one on doesn't enthuse me all that much. I'm still going to have a go, though. I must.'

  'We're all going to die,' said Trev, shaking his head.

  'Well, apart from Agatha, obviously,' said a grinning Oscar.

  Sixteen

  Trev left Granddad's having agreed to attend the interview with Kolley, although he didn't think that they'd get any useful information from the tycoon. The sole reason Trev had decided to tag along was that he was hoping Kolley would have some sort of reward for the man who'd saved his life. After all the smarmy git was known for his generosity, wasn't he?

  Trev's car rattled its way from Granddad's into the town centre, where Trev parked it in a side street not far from the SmoothMove office. He then strolled to the Spigot & Ferret pub on Flint Road.

  The Spigot had been Trev's favourite watering-hole ever since he'd discovered the delights of the demon drink. It was one of the few pubs left in Brackenford that hadn't been stripped and refurbished, so it still had a bit of character. The landlord was a curmudgeonly old coot called Douglas. He'd been running the place for as long as anybody could remember, including Granddad, who was no spring chicken himself. Douglas was tiny, stooped and wrinkly but he was nobody's fool. He was scarily sharp and stood for no nonsense in his pub. Cled had once remarked that it was like having your drinks served to you by Yoda.

  Troublemakers were dealt with by Douglas's grandson Shaun. To say that he was a large man was an understatement; Trev reckoned he'd sold several houses that were smaller than Shaun. He stood about six feet six inches tall and was almost as broad, with long black hair styled into a luxuriant mullet that wouldn't have looked out of place in a 1980's heavy metal band. Occasionally someone got drunk enough to make a witty comment about Shaun's hair, but as a rule he didn't take it too badly. Sometimes he even let them come back the following night to collect their teeth.

  The pub was quiet when Trev arrived, with only a handful of drinkers present. Trev recognised most of them as regulars and nodded to a few as he made his way to the bar. Douglas peered at him through his thick glasses and grunted a greeting.

  'Evening,' said Trev. 'The usual, please.'

  Douglas took a glass from the rack and began pulling a pint of lager. 'How's your Granddad?' he asked.

  'Fine, thanks,' said Trev. Well, as fine as anyone who's trying to track down a psychopathic demon can be, he added mentally. 'How's things with you?' he said aloud.

  'Much the same,' Douglas replied, as he always did when asked how he was. He handed the pint to Trev, who paid him and headed for the back of the pub. On his way he waved to Shaun, who was sitting at the end of the bar poring over a copy of the Racing Post, and got a slight nod in reply.

  'You've just got to love that mullet,' Trev muttered under his breath.

  Cled was sitting at his usual corner table opposite the Spigot's only TV, which was tuned to Sky Sports News. He was already halfway down his first pint, which he raised in salute as Trev sat down.

  'All right, mate?' asked Trev.

  'Great,' replied Cled. He was a few years older than Trev, taller and more sturdily built, with short blond hair and roguish grey eyes. He regarded Trev with an expression that was one part concern to four parts amusement. 'What the hell happened to your face? And I'm not talking about the accident of birth that made you so bloody ugly.'

  'Well,' said Trev. 'Did you hear that someone tried to kill Alastair Kolley this afternoon?'

  'That was you?' gasped Cled in mock astonishment. 'How did you miss him? Surely his swollen head's a big enough target.'

  'Visible from space,' agreed Trev, 'but it wasn't me trying to kill him. In fact it was me that tackled the bloke who was trying to kill him.'

  'Seriously?'

  'Yep.'

  Cled took a long swig of his beer before speaking. 'He died, didn't he? The attacker.'

  'Yes.' Trev took a sip of his own drink. 'Hit his head on the stage when he fell. It was an accident. I was just trying to stop him.'

  Cled let out a long breath. 'Bloody hell,' he said. 'You OK?'

  'Think so, yeah.' Trev knew that his friend was wondering if he was holding himself responsible for the man's death. He wasn't; he knew that the assassin wouldn't have died without the demon's interference. Not that he could tell Cled that, of course. 'Like I said, it was an accident. The police won't be charging me with anything.' I hope, he thought.

  'Good to know,' replied Cled. 'So what happened?'

  Trev recounted the afternoon's events for the third time, finding that he was already bored with telling the story. He felt that leaving out the supernatural elements left the whole thing a bit flat. Cled listened in silence, working his way steadily down his pint.

  'So there you go,' concluded Trev. He blew out his cheeks and reached for his beer.

  'Can't say I've ever pictured you as a man of action, Irwin,' said Cled thoughtfully. 'How come you got involved like that?'

  'Been wondering that myself, as it happens.' Trev scratched his nose. 'Haven't come up with a decent answer yet. It was just one of those acts of random stupidity that you can't explain afterwards.'

  'Random stupidity, eh?' Cled gulped the last of his drink and set the glass back on the table. 'Now that sounds a bit more like the Trev Irwin I know.'

  'Cheers mate. I can always rely on you for a kind word, can't I?'

  'You know it. Same again?'

  'Yeah.'

  Cled got up and headed for the bar. Trev sat and stared vacantly at the TV, lost in his thoughts.

  He was brought out of his reverie when he looked up to see Wayne "Pinky" Pinkton entering the pub. Stepperton Properties' finest was accompanied by pair of his colleagues, both of whom Trev recognised. One of the two was Stepperton's answer to Barry Clark, a bitter, ageing goblin of a man called Len
O'Brien. The general consensus among Brackenford's estate agents was that Len had all the charm of a genital wart. Having met the man, this was a view that Trev could whole-heartedly endorse.

  Pinky's other wing-man was his young, acne-ridden protégé Andrew. Or Adrian. Or Alan. Trev could never quite remember the bloke's name, which was why he usually referred to him as "that little prick".

  Trev shifted in his seat in an attempt to escape Pinky's attention. He failed. Len spotted him and, typically, was quick to point him out. Pinky's face creased itself into a particularly hideous smirk and he came striding across the pub like a Trev-seeking missile.

  'Evening Pinky,' said Trev with a sigh.

  'Let me guess - a pissed-off customer punched you? Or did Frosty finally get bored of your smartarse mouth and give you a smack?' replied Pinky, using his glass to gesture at Trev's face. He was a lanky man with a fussy spiked hairstyle that made him look like a pastry brush in a shiny suit.

  'Actually no,' said Trev. 'I was knocked down in the street by a stampede of customers fleeing Stepperton Properties.'

  Pinky swapped his smirk for a scowl. 'Ha bloody ha.'

  'I'm just kidding,' said Trev with a cheerful smile. 'Stepperton Properties doesn't have any customers.'

  'You're a smug little shit, Irwin,' spluttered Len, who'd appeared beside his colleague in time to hear Trev's last comment.

  'And those are just my good qualities,' said Trev.

  Cled chose that moment to return to the table with the drinks, casting a puzzled glance at the new arrivals.

  'Steady now, lads,' said Pinky, his smirk returning. 'Let's not embarrass Trev in front of his boyfriend.'

  'Boyfriend?' said Cled in a toneless voice.

  'I think he's suggesting that because we're two men in a pub together we must be engaged in some kind of romantic relationship,' said Trev.

  'That so?' replied Cled. 'What does that make these three then? A ménage a trois looking for somewhere to happen?'

  'A ménage a what?' said Andrew (Adrian? Alan?) who, it appeared, wasn't the shiniest pin in the cushion.

  'Anyway,' continued Cled, 'even if I was gay, I'd hope I could do a bit better than you, Trev.'

  'Aw don't say that, you heartbreaker,' said Trev, giving Cled his best sad puppy expression.

  'Pair of fruitcakes,' said Len, shaking his head.

  'Fruitcakes trying to be funny,' added Pinky, 'and failing.'

  'Well, we're not quite as funny as Stepperton's sales figures but we're doing our best,' grinned Trev.

  'What the hell would you know about our sales figures? You should worry about your own, mate,' snapped Len, jabbing a finger at Trev.

  'I don't need to worry,' replied Trev. 'I can drive around Brackenford and see SmoothMove boards all over the place with "SOLD" on them. Can't say I see many Stepperton Properties boards though. Maybe you need a new valuations manager?'

  The sideways glance that Len gave Pinky suggested that he'd had that very thought himself. It was no secret that Stepperton Properties was struggling, and Pinky's failure to get more than a handful of houses on the market in recent months was a big part of the problem. Pinky's girlfriend Sophie was Stepperton's sales manager, which Phil Grant had suggested was the only factor keeping him in a job.

  'Piss off,' growled Pinky, leaning forward over the table to eyeball Trev. Cled was looking on with a smile on his face, although Trev knew he wouldn't hesitate to wade in if Pinky tried to start anything.

  'You all right, boys?' came a rumbling voice. Shaun was looming behind Pinky, who hurriedly tried to look as non-threatening as possible.

  'Fine,' replied Trev. 'These, ah, gentlemen were just buggering off. Weren't you, lads?'

  'Whatever,' said Pinky. 'This pub's a shit-hole anyway. Let's go.' He put down his glass and moved to leave, but Shaun had placed a huge hand on his shoulder.

  'Don't bad-mouth grandpa's pub, it upsets me,' he said, tightening his grip. Pinky nodded dumbly and was released. He left the pub without looking back, his two cronies trailing in his wake.

  'Cheers Shaun,' said Trev. Shaun gave him a thumbs-up and went back to his seat at the bar.

  'Those three arseholes were the competition then, eh?' asked Cled.

  '"Competition" is debatable, but yeah,' said Trev. He shrugged. 'Bollocks to 'em.'

  'Fair play,' said Cled. 'So, at the end of your little story earlier you said your Granddad had talked you into doing an interview with Alastair Kolley?'

  'Yeah. Doing the old boy a favour, you know,' muttered Trev.

  'Think old Alastair'll give you a reward?'

  'Oh, I hadn't thought of that,' said Trev, guiltily.

  ''Course you hadn't,' chuckled Cled. 'I can read you like a book, Trev, and it's a large-print book with a lot of pictures.'

  'All right, all right.' Trev held up his hands in surrender. 'Got to admit the thought's crossed my mind since it all happened. I wasn't thinking about a reward when I was chasing after that bloke this afternoon, though.'

  'God knows what you were thinking. When I see a man with a big knife running towards me, I make my excuses and leg it.'

  'Happens to you often, does it?'

  Cled shrugged. 'Sometimes it's tough being a proud Celt in a heathen place like England.'

  'I don't think it's your nationality, it's your face that's to blame.'

  'What, you mean people are jealous of me being so gorgeous?' Cled rubbed his chin. 'Understandable, I suppose.'

  'Not quite what I meant,' Trev smiled into his pint.

  'I guess I ought to know you well enough not to expect many compliments,' replied Cled, arching an eyebrow.

  Trev tipped his glass to his friend. They'd known each other for about five years; Cledwyn's job had brought him to the area and he'd picked the Spigot as his local. His first encounter with Trev had been in the pub, and consisted of a lively argument about the sport of rugby. Trev had contended that it was "a pointless game invented by some fat public schoolboy cheating at football" and Cled, being from a country where rugby was almost a religion, naturally felt moved to disagree. Were it not for the fact that they were making each other laugh so much it might've turned nasty, but a couple of rounds of drinks apiece and they'd been bantering like old mates.

  'So, you working tomorrow?' Cled asked.

  'Yep. Ended up having half of today off unexpectedly, so I need to be in tomorrow to stop Barry from thieving all my customers,' said Trev. He sighed again and rubbed his eyes.

  'Things OK, this afternoon aside?'

  'More or less.'

  'That sounded convincing.'

  Trev thought for a moment. 'Since you've been in Brackenford, have you ever seen anything… odd?'

  'Odd?' Cled gave Trev a blank look. 'Odd how?'

  'Well, you know, sort of spooky,' Trev clarified.

  'Why?' said Cled. Trev just shrugged in response. Cled scratched his head, puzzled. 'Nothing since I came here, but I remember something that happened when I was a kid.'

  'What was that?'

  'I was asleep in bed one night, when something woke me up. I got the feeling that there was someone in the room with me. It was suddenly really cold in there, you know? When I turned over I saw this little white-haired old man sitting by my bed, smiling at me.'

  'What did you do?' Trev asked, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise up.

  Cled took a mouthful of beer before answering. 'I sat up in bed and said "Bugger off, Granddad - I've already told you I don't know where mum hid the gin. And close the door on your way out, there's a hell of a draught blowing through here."' He tried to keep a straight face but one look at Trev and he started laughing.

  'You wanker, you had me going there,' said Trev, rolling his eyes.

  'I know, your face was a picture.' Cled wiped away a tear. 'Seriously though, I've never seen anything spooky, sorry. Come on, there must be a reason why you're asking.'

  'The new girl at work was quizzing me about Brackenford's reputation for weirdne
ss,' replied Trev, having had enough time to come up with a plausible explanation. 'I told her I'd never seen anything myself. Was just wondering if anyone else had.'

  Cled gave an expansive shrug. 'I always assumed it was just some stuff the local tourist office came up with to bring in a few extra visitors. I think your new colleague is going to be disappointed if he she thinks there're any spooky goings-on in this dull town.'

  'Horribly disappointed,' agreed Trev, peering into the bottom of his glass.

  Seventeen

  When Trev left the Spigot at closing time he immediately spotted Oscar, who was sitting on one of the wheelie bins outside. Cled had gone on his way a few minutes earlier, leaving Trev behind to have another brief chat with Shaun who, as usual, had a couple of horse-racing tips for him. Trev only took an interest in the gee-gees to be polite to Shaun. He wasn't much of a gambler, but it was worth feigning an interest to stay on the big man’s good side.

  'Evening,' said the cat, his eyes glinting in the light from the streetlamps.

  There were people passing by, so Trev waited until they were out of earshot before he replied.

  'Are you my escort for the evening?' he said.

  'Afraid so,' said Oscar, leaping down from the bin. 'It was supposed to be Agatha actually, but I said I'd step in. Been doing a lot of research work with your Granddad over the last couple of days, so I fancied getting out for a bit.'

  'And you're sensitive to anything weird, like Agatha is?' Trev started walking, Oscar falling in alongside him.

  'There wouldn't be much point in me accompanying you if I wasn't,' said Oscar. 'I'm a cat spirit, mate. Even ordinary cats are among nature's finest hunters, sensitive to a lot of things. I've got the added bonus of being a just a little bit extraordinary, which makes me sensitive to a whole range of additional things, including the spooky stuff.'

  'Nature's finest hunters?' snorted Trev. 'You'd starve to death if my Granddad stopped feeding you minced cows' knackers out of a packet.'

  'Cows don't have knackers.'

  'Bulls' knackers, then,' said Trev. 'The point still stands.'