Location, Location, Damnation

by Nick Moseley

  'Don't knock minced bulls' knackers until you've tried 'em,' said Oscar. 'They're full of knackery goodness.'

  'You know, I'm quite happy to take your word for that.'

  'You're missing out.' Oscar looked up at Trev. 'By the way, we found out the name of the knifeman.'

  Trev frowned. 'How did you manage that?'

  'The Brackenford Police has a few leaks,' replied Oscar with a feline smile. 'More than a few, in fact. The Crier keeps their tea money topped up and they let slip the odd tit-bit, such as our assassin's ID. Your Granddad then wangled the name out of the editor.'

  'Sly old bugger,' said Trev. 'So who was the bloke?'

  'His name was Steven Harvington. He was a sewage worker.'

  'Lucky him.' Trev walked the next few steps in silent thought before speaking again. 'I suppose it's good to be able to put a name to the face, but I don't see how it helps us find the demon.'

  'On the face of it, it doesn't,' agreed Oscar. 'However, according to the police Harvington was sent out to check a section of sewer yesterday morning and never reported back in. Then this afternoon he turns up outside KolleyCo and tries to assassinate your hero Alastair Kolley.'

  'A bit more detail, but still essentially useless.'

  'Much as I value your insight, and you can rest assured I really do, could you shut up and let me get to the point?'

  'Easy, tiger. Got worms or something, you stroppy little sod?'

  Oscar sighed. 'So, Harvington disappeared while working the sewers. Bernard had the idea that we could ask the ghouls if they saw him.'

  Trev looked askance at the cat. 'The… ghouls?'

  'Yes. I'm sure Bernard mentioned them to you when you had your first little chat.'

  'Oh yeah. He didn't go into much detail though.'

  'The ghouls live beneath the sewers,' explained Oscar. 'They don't miss much that goes on in their neck of the woods.'

  'Beneath the sewers? How do they manage that?'

  'You'd need to see it to understand. They've got quite a thriving community down there.'

  'Beneath the sewers.'

  'Indeed.'

  'Sounds lovely.'

  'I'm sure it is.'

  'You've not seen it?'

  Oscar shook his head. 'They'd view me as a four-legged meal. You'll be all right, though.'

  'Yes, I will. Mostly because I won't be going anywhere near the sewers.'

  'So you're going to let your poor old Granddad go down there on his own?'

  Trev threw up his hands. 'When you sign up to work for the Light, do they give you an intensive course in the art of guilt-tripping?'

  'Absolutely. It's why we're so proficient at it.'

  'And when is my "poor old Granddad" heading down into the depths?'

  'After the interview with Alastair Kolley tomorrow. Don't worry, you'll be fine. Bernard's got all the protective clothing and everything.'

  'I'm doing my best to contain my excitement. Just look at me restraining myself.' Trev scowled at his companion.

  Oscar's aura of feline superiority remained undamaged. 'Sorry kiddo, but over the years I've become quite impervious to sarcasm.'

  'When you say "over the years", how long are we talking?'

  'As a spirit? Since those bloody meddling Egyptians summoned me to this plane of existence a couple of thousand years ago, and left me stranded here. Physically, I've been in this particular body about six years.'

  'You change bodies, then?'

  'Yep. Cats have many qualities, but physical longevity isn't one of them. When one of my bodies wears out, I'm reborn into another. Like I said, I'm no ordinary cat.'

  'That's true. You're far more annoying than the average moggy.'

  'Yep. That's also something I've worked on over the years.'

  Trev blew out a breath. 'Two thousand years, eh?'

  'Or thereabouts. My first physical form grew up in the court of Queen Cleopatra. Nice girl, but a bit bonkers.'

  'Right.' Trev started walking again. 'Tell you what, any more of this and my head's going to explode.'

  'Drama queen.'

  'Who? Cleopatra?'

  'No.'

  'Oh. Cheers.'

  They strolled on without speaking for a while, Oscar scampering along the tops of walls and fences. The pleasant dose of normality that his visit to the pub had provided was wearing off, leaving Trev once again with the unsettling sensation that his life was drifting away from him. The previous two days had rudely wrenched him from the comfort of his routine existence and into something that he didn’t understand and couldn't control. He was tired, sore and bruised, and the prospect of a trip down into the sewers was failing to make him feel any better.

  Why couldn't they just leave him alone and let him get on with selling houses? That was what he was good at.

  'Penny for 'em,' said Oscar, dropping down off a wall and onto the pavement.

  Trev sighed. 'I'm just wondering when I get my life back,' he replied.

  'You mean your everyday nine-to-five?'

  'That's the one. The one without the demons, ghosts and talking bloody cats.'

  'Let me ask you a question: what exactly were you doing with that life?' said Oscar, fixing Trev with his mismatched gaze.

  'What do you mean?'

  'What I said. What were your plans? Stay in the property trade or do something else? Get married? Have kids? What were you hoping to achieve?'

  'Achieve?' echoed Trev. He thought. 'Er… I don't know.'

  'Blimey. With that sort of motivation, all things are possible.' Oscar shook his head. 'So basically you were planning to just drift through life without really doing anything?'

  'You make that sound like it's a bad thing.'

  'I do, don't I? Funny, that.'

  'It is funny, because to me drifting through life sounds preferable to premature death by demon.'

  'There are fewer risks on the path of least resistance, that's for sure. Of course there are fewer rewards as well.'

  Trev rolled his eyes. 'I hope your demon-fighting skills are better than your philosophical statement-making skills.'

  'Never been much of a fighter,' said Oscar. 'Knowledge, research, facts. Those things are more my bag.'

  'What happened to being one of “nature's finest hunters”?' asked Trev.

  'I am. Unfortunately there's nothing natural about demons. I wouldn't rate my chances against one.'

  'Nor does Agatha,' said Trev. 'Granddad's a bit old for it, so who does that leave, eh? Me. You want me to fight it. That's why you and Agatha have been giving me these little pep-talks.'

  'Who says any of us have to fight it?' retorted Oscar. 'If we can find whoever summoned it, we can get them to banish the bugger back to its own reality.'

  'That sounds a good plan,' agreed Trev, 'but what if we can't find the summoner?'

  'We fight or walk away.'

  'And no way will Granddad even think about option "B" of those two, so that brings me back to where I started. You'll want me to fight it.'

  'Yes,' admitted Oscar, 'but as part of a team, not on your own.'

  'You lot? Or does Granddad have someone he can call in for back-up?'

  'He does, hopefully.'

  'Hopefully?'

  'The Custodians try to help each other out where they can, but they're spread pretty thin. Bernard's got a favour or two he can call in, so we'll see.'

  'That doesn't sound all that hopeful to me,' said Trev with a shake of his head. 'How do you fight a demon, anyway? I'm guessing that harsh words and a pointy stick won't do the job.'

  'If you were trying to really piss the demon off, they'd do fine,' said Oscar. 'On the other hand, if you were trying to banish it you'd be best off with a vapour weapon of some sort.'

  'And a "vapour weapon" is…?'

  'I think Bernard's planning to talk to you about them tomorrow night. I don't want to steal his thunder. In any case, it's the kind of thing it's easier to show you than explain.'

  'Yeah, whatever
.' Trev found he couldn't summon the enthusiasm for another argument. 'Tell me something else, then. Why doesn't this demon just crash through Kolley's window in the middle of the night and do him in? More to the point, why didn't it come after Kolley this afternoon instead of sending a bloody sewage worker?'

  'You have to understand a couple of things about demons,' said Oscar. 'Firstly they're a bit obsessed with their appearance. They like to look as impressive and fearsome as possible compared to their peers – we’re talking horns, wings, fangs, claws, you name it. That kind of makes it difficult for them to blend in with you humans. It's not the sort of stuff you can disguise with sunglasses and a big hat. Human senses may be woefully under-developed, but even the dopiest of you would spot a demon pretty quickly. Even you would.'

  'Right, thanks,' sighed Trev. 'They could attack under cover of darkness though, couldn't they?'

  'That brings me onto the second point,' continued Oscar. 'They don't do their own dirty work. They're both arrogant and lazy, plus manipulating people and working things from behind the scenes is all part of the fun for them. Anyone reckless enough to summon one needs to keep on their toes. You can't trust a demon for a second.'

  'You seem to know a lot about them,' observed Trev.

  'I've met two of the slippery bastards in my time,' explained Oscar. 'On both occasions I was lucky to walk away with all my limbs, and my internal organs still… well, internal.'

  'Sounds like they can't be all that tough, if neither of them was able to kill a little cat.'

  'To be honest the only reason I survived the first encounter was because I'm a little cat – I was small enough to get away. The humans I was with got massacred.'

  'Oh,' said Trev.

  'Still, the second encounter was more successful. We were able to banish the demon before it caused too much trouble.'

  'Nobody got killed then?'

  'Well, a few people died but it was nothing like the first time. Preparation, you see, that's the key. It can mean the difference between getting massacred, and almost getting massacred.'

  'You're really selling this demon-hunting malarkey to me, you know?' said Trev. 'Those two examples make it sound like we've got no chance.'

  'I'm not going to play down the danger,' retorted Oscar. 'We all need to go into this with our eyes open.'

  'Thanks for not pussy-footing around the issue,' muttered Trev, managing a hint of a smile.

  'I've been around for two thousand years and never heard that one before,' groaned Oscar. 'Seriously though, we have to be bloody careful.'

  'I get it, I get it.' Trev waved a hand dismissively. 'I still don't see how I can help, mind. I don't think I've ever been in a proper scrap in my life, or learned to use any weapons. I'll just be in the way of anyone who does know how to fight.'

  'You don't need to know how to fight, there are ways around that problem,' replied the cat. 'What's important is raw power, which you have in abundance.'

  'Been comparing notes with Agatha?' asked Trev. 'She said pretty much the same to me earlier. The old "you are the Chosen One" bollocks.'

  'Maybe "Chosen One" is pushing it a bit,' mused Oscar, 'but you've definitely got more than the average amount of juice in the tank, so to speak. Much more, actually. I can sense it, mate. It's practically running off you.'

  'If you say so.'

  'Oh I do. Agatha agrees with me, as does your Granddad. He's a human, with only a fraction of the sensitivity I have, yet even he can feel it. That power's there, you just have to learn how to dip into it.'

  'Yeah? So tell me.' Trev's face was a study in scepticism.

  'Bernard thinks you've already used it without realising,' said Oscar.

  'He hasn't said anything to me about it.'

  'He wanted to talk to Agatha and me about it first. The incident he told us about happened today. Think back to this afternoon, when you went chasing after good old Steve Harvington.'

  Trev frowned. He'd just run after the bloke and ankle-tapped him, hadn't he? No evidence of special power there. And yet… he remembered the unusual feeling he'd had, just for a second or two, that everything had slowed down around him while he continued moving at the same speed. He'd been able to catch Harvington despite the knifeman's head start.

  'That was just an adrenaline rush,' Trev said, as much to himself as his companion.

  'No, it wasn't,' replied Oscar, who seemed to know exactly what Trev was thinking about. 'Bernard said you didn't look like you were going to get anywhere near the bloke before he reached the stage, then all of a sudden you were right behind him. Apparently you just blurred for a second, and in that time you moved much faster than any Joe Public off the street could have.'

  'What a load of cock,' said Trev. 'Granddad's seventy-eight, for God's sake. His eyes have had it.'

  'There's nothing wrong with that old geezer's eyes, you can trust me on that.' Oscar's voice was firm. They reached the door that led up to Trev's flat and stopped walking.

  'He was mistaken then.' Trev rummaged in his pocket for his keys. 'Either that, or he wanted to see me do something special so much he imagined it.'

  Oscar seemed unperturbed by Trev's denial. 'I'm not going to stand on your doorstep and argue the point. It's easy enough to prove one way or the other – you’ll see tomorrow night.'

  'I can hardly wait.' Trev selected the right key and unlocked the door. 'You want to come in for a saucer of milk or something?'

  'No thanks,' said Oscar. 'I think I'll carry on stretching my legs, if it's all the same to you. Promised Bernard I'd stick around the area tonight, keep an eye open.'

  'OK,' said Trev. 'Thanks for the escort, anyway.'

  'No problem.' Oscar gave Trev a wink as he closed the door and headed upstairs.

  The cat stayed sitting on the pavement for a moment, staring at the door with his head on one side. Then he stood and padded off into the shadows.

  Eighteen

  Trev awoke the next day feeling stiff and sore. He'd slept fitfully, his night's rest filled with strange dreams that, though he couldn't remember them in any detail on waking, left him feeling uneasy and anxious. He stumbled into the kitchen and struggled his way through a bowl of soggy cereal while trying to order his thoughts.

  Uppermost in his brain was the tail-end of the conversation he'd had with Oscar about his supposed powers. He wondered if the cat was having him on. It was hard to tell from one moment to the next whether the little bugger was being serious or not. Trev hadn't got much choice other than to believe the strange things he'd seen with his own eyes, although his natural scepticism was still fighting a desperate rearguard action against all the other stuff he'd been told about but hadn't yet witnessed.

  Granddad and his companions seemed convinced he had some sort of latent superhuman abilities. They might've believed that, but Trev didn't. They wanted, no, needed to feel they had a hero figure on their side, someone who could face their demonic enemy and have a chance of winning. That need had made them misinterpret a few things and jump to some wild conclusions, Trev thought.

  He had a shower before returning to his bedroom to get dressed. Standing in front of the mirror to knot his tie, he regarded his reflection.

  'You're no hero,' he said to himself, 'and you haven't got any super-powers. You are, and always have been, a base coward. Yesterday afternoon was a one-off, like you told Cledwyn.'

  And yet Oscar's words still worried away at him. He remembered starting to chase Harvington and thinking that he was never going to catch him. Somehow he'd managed to, though. How? He was no athlete, of that he was certain. At school he'd always been one of the last picked for team games; only Paul "Cripple" Coughlan, the most fat, asthmatic and pitifully uncoordinated boy in Trev's year, was considered more hopeless at sport. Trev's school reports for P.E. always read "Trevor tries to the best of his ability", which was a euphemistic way of saying "Trevor is beyond help".

  Maybe Harvington had been even worse at P.E. in his schooldays than Trev had. May
be he'd been his school's equivalent of Cripple Coughlan. Or maybe that was bollocks, because the bloke had vaulted the barrier like a ninja and had been travelling at a sprint as soon as he hit the ground again.

  'All right then, let's settle this,' said Trev. He left his bedroom and walked to the far end of the hallway that ran the length of the flat. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to focus his mind on the slowed-time feeling he'd experienced during the previous day's pursuit. When he thought he had it, he started running.

  He was unable to prove that he was capable of super-speed; however he did manage to prove that the wall at the end of the hallway was very hard indeed, should one fail to stop in time and run into it. As he tried to staunch the resulting nose-bleed, he reflected that perhaps he should've attempted the experiment in an outdoor setting.

  A change of shirt later, he left the flat and headed for work. It was a chilly, overcast morning and Trev dug his hands into his coat pockets as he walked. Resolving to settle the issue of his powers – or lack thereof – at a later stage, he dredged his memory for the work-related thoughts that had been forced onto the back burner by the events of the previous day.

  He took stock of the situation. It was Thursday and he only had one sale tied up so far, which was pretty crap. He always felt it had been a poor week if he managed less than two sales. All was not lost, though – there were still more than enough working hours left in the next few days to pull something out of the hat. In any case he'd had a solid last couple of months sales-wise, meaning he was due some tasty commission in his next pay packet. It'd be more than enough to tide him over if he went through a lean spell.

  As he'd done on Wednesday morning, he steered clear of the Hot Cuisine Café. He was quite awake enough not to need Ollie's coffee, and with all the stuff he had careering around his brain he didn't want to risk getting any more wired than he already was.

  Avoiding the Hot Cuisine meant he arrived at the office earlier than usual. Naturally Helen was already there, sat at her desk. She waved Trev over as he let himself in.

  'Let's have a look at the war wounds then,' she said, giving Trev's face a critical look.