Location, Location, Damnation

by Nick Moseley

  A completely unremarkable man in a grey suit stood there. He was of above average height and looked to be in his mid-forties, with side-parted brown hair and a pale, expressionless face. He didn't say anything, merely raising a questioning eyebrow.

  'Evening,' said Trev, flashing a smile. 'I'm Trevor Irwin, here to see the Colonel. Er, is that you?'

  The pale man lowered his eyebrow and shook his head. He stepped back inside, beckoning for Trev to follow.

  Trev found himself in an expansive wood-panelled hallway with a parquet floor and a high ceiling, from which hung a chandelier the size of a small planet. A wide staircase with decorative banisters dominated the far end of the room, while several doors were visible to the left and right. The pale man led Trev to the last door on the left and knocked.

  'In you come,' said a jovial, posh voice. Trev's escort opened the door and ushered him inside. The door clunked closed behind him.

  It was a large drawing room. A genuine log fire burned in the fireplace and bookshelves stood against two of the walls. There was a massive black leather sofa and several easy chairs near the fire, as well as an antique table upon which sat a bone china tea service on a silver tray.

  There was an elderly man sitting in the chair nearest the fire. He had short white hair and bushy sideburns which met in a moustache. He was wearing a tweed jacket over a crisp white shirt with a cricket club tie; one hand cradled a cup and saucer in his lap while the other held a tobacco pipe of the sort associated with Sherlock Holmes. A monocle hung on a fine gold chain around his neck.

  He clambered to his feet as Trev stepped forwards, and thrust out a hand. 'Young Trevor, isn't it?' he said. His voice could've been taken from a Pathe newsreel, clipped and precise Received Pronunciation. Trev immediately felt lower-class and uneducated. If he'd been wearing a flat cap he'd have taken it off and wrung it in his hands.

  'Hello, Colonel,' said Trev, shaking the proffered hand. The old man's grip was surprisingly firm.

  'Tea?' the Colonel enquired.

  'Er, yes, please,' said Trev. The Colonel hefted the teapot and poured a cup of steaming brew.

  'Milk and sugar?'

  'Yes please, milk and two,' said Trev, still off his guard. Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. The Colonel handed him his tea and puffed on his pipe expectantly. 'I have to say, Colonel, that you don't look anything like any vamp– er, I mean haematophage, I've ever seen,' Trev remarked, trying to fill the silence. Even as he said it, he realised it was a pretty stupid statement.

  'Really?' said the Colonel around the stem of his pipe. 'And how many have you seen, old chap?'

  'In the flesh? Um, just you,' Trev admitted.

  'I see,' said the Colonel.

  'Well, you know, I was talking about vamp– haematophages in films and stuff,' floundered Trev.

  'Ah yes, fangs and cloaks and all that nonsense,' the Colonel replied mildly. 'Or more often these days, spiky hair and hanging about the place looking tortured and moody. It's quite all right to say "vampire", by the way. It's the word I'd have used myself, before I became one. Can't see the point of being a hypocrite about it.'

  'Right,' said Trev, relieved.

  'Tell me something,' the Colonel continued. 'The vampires in these films. What usually happens to them?'

  'Well, the heroes usually find them and destroy them. Or if they're "good" vampires, they get hunted down by the baddies and have to bravely sacrifice themselves.'

  'Indeed, m'boy, indeed.' The Colonel nodded sagely. 'So, all things considered, it'd probably be a little silly to style one's appearance in a way that announced "I am a blood-sucking creature of the night", wouldn't you say?'

  'Um, yeah.'

  'Quite. So, what do you see when you look at me?'

  'A stereotypical country gent, I suppose,' replied Trev with a shrug.

  The Colonel seemed delighted by this answer. 'Bang on, old chap! Stereotypical, that's the ticket. First lesson: if people can pigeon-hole you easily, they don't really think about you. I'm just the "eccentric old posh fellow up at Fritley Court, you know the type", et cetera, et cetera. Nobody's going to expect anything sinister of me, are they? We country gentlemen aren't like that.'

  'I see your point,' said Trev, sipping his tea.

  'Splendid,' said the Colonel. 'After all, who'd want a pitchfork-wielding mob to arrive at the door when one's in the middle of the Times crossword? It'd be dashed inconvenient.'

  'Absolutely,' agreed Trev, who viewed crosswords as something that old people did while they waited for death. 'You have got a sinister mute manservant, though. That might be a bit of a giveaway. Is his name Igor, or Lurch or something?'

  'Don't be ridiculous, his name's Graeme,' said the Colonel. 'And he's not a mute, either. While he's everything one could want in a retainer, he unfortunately has a distressingly strong Liverpudlian accent, so I've asked him not to talk unless it's really necessary.'

  'Er, right.'

  'Come and have a seat, old chap.' The Colonel returned to his chair by the fireside and gestured at the sofa opposite. Trev walked over and sank into the soft leather. 'Now, what's that old rogue of a grandfather of yours been telling you about me?'

  'Not all that much, to be honest,' lied Trev. 'Just that you're a vampire, and have been since the nineteenth century.'

  The Colonel snorted. 'Yes, and that I'm a grasping, untrustworthy coward as well, no doubt.'

  Trev inhaled a mouthful of tea, triggering a coughing fit.

  'Don't worry, m'boy, it's nothing I haven't heard before.'

  'Really?' wheezed Trev.

  'Bernard sees the world in terribly black-and-white terms,' said the Colonel. He drew thoughtfully on his pipe. 'He believes that all supernatural types should declare themselves on one side of the Eternal War or the other. While I agree that it would make things admirably simple, it really isn't likely to happen.'

  'So you really haven't taken a side?' asked Trev, his coughing finally under control.

  'The only side a man can ever truly take is his own,' replied the Colonel. 'I've heard all sorts of people rattle on about all sorts of principles, both noble and nefarious, but it all comes down to self-interest in the end, old chap. I'm just honest about it.'

  'That's very cynical,' said Trev, wondering privately why he was arguing against the sort of viewpoint he'd often put forward himself.

  'It's a cynical bloody world we live in, m'boy,' said the Colonel. 'Let the buggers have their war, just keep it off my doorstep, that's what I say.'

  'But Granddad said you help to keep the status quo here in Brackenford,' Trev pointed out.

  'Indeed I do,' agreed the Colonel, 'and I'm doing a rather good job of it, if I do say so myself. Why do you think this town only needs one Custodian? I don't favour either side, though. Troublemakers need to be dealt with, whatever banner they're operating under. I won't allow the sort of nonsense that goes on in the big cities, fighting in the streets and all that. I enjoy my peace and quiet.'

  'So you'll give us a hand against this demon, then, if you're keen to sort out troublemakers?' asked Trev. 'Granddad reckons that a vampire called Corbyn knows where it's hiding. Can you help us find him?'

  'Listen, m'boy,' said the Colonel, the cheerful tone disappearing from his voice, 'I'm not the charitable type. Unless the brute is coming after me, I really don't see why I should involve myself.' He used the stem of his pipe to point at Trev. 'I wouldn't recommend you do either, old chap. You're a powerful one, that much is obvious from those weapons you're carrying, assuming you can actually use them of course. But even so you'd be taking a nasty risk by going toe-to-toe with a demon.'

  'So every man and his dog keep telling me,' replied Trev glumly.

  'Then why do it?'

  'I don't know, really,' said Trev. 'I've never seen myself as an action hero or anything. I mean, I'm called Trevor, for God's sake. Is there a less suitable action hero name out there? But it just seems somehow… well, wrong to let this creature com
e waltzing along, kill a few people and stroll off again when I could do something about it.'

  'A canny soldier knows to pick his battles,' said the Colonel. 'I've got enough experience in that field to know that the odds aren't with you.'

  'Fair enough,' said Trev, reflecting on how quickly having your own death predicted could go from being frightening to being monotonous. 'So if you aren't going to help, why did you ask for me to come?'

  The Colonel gave Trev an appraising look. 'Curiosity, for one thing,' he said. 'I'm sure Bernard has you ear-marked as the next Custodian, so I thought I'd have a look at you.'

  Trev frowned. 'The next Custodian? No chance.'

  'Indeed?' replied the Colonel, sucking on his pipe. 'I'm sure Bernard would be disappointed to hear you say that, old chap.'

  'I bet he would,' muttered Trev.

  'Of course I can understand why that particular role lacks appeal,' continued the Colonel. 'Dreadful working hours, pitiful recompense and scant appreciation. However, I can always find more rewarding work for the right individuals, m'boy.'

  'You brought me here to offer me a job?' said Trev, trying to keep up with this new conversational tangent. The Colonel said nothing, but smiled and raised his eyebrows. Trev was pondering his response when there was an urgent knock at the door.

  'Come in,' called the Colonel. Graeme entered, looking agitated. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and looked to his employer. 'Yes, yes, out with it,' the vampire said, waving a hand.

  'There's a problem, sir,' said Graeme. He did indeed have a very strong Scouse accent. 'The patrols haven't checked in and I can't get hold of them on the radio.'

  'Patrols?' queried Trev.

  'My security men,' replied the Colonel. 'I like to keep the grounds clear of sightseers, travelling salesmen, assassins, that sort of thing.'

  A loud buzzing sound started up, emanating from a small control panel next to the door.

  'That's the motion detectors on the front lawn,' said Graeme, checking the panel.

  'The brazen buggers are walking right up to the house,' said the Colonel, with some irritation. 'Let's have a picture then, quickly now.'

  Graeme pressed a button and an LCD screen lit up on the control panel. The Colonel looked closely at it, then turned to Trev. 'Come here, m'boy,' he said. 'Do you recognise these chaps?'

  Thirty

  Trev crossed the room and squinted at the panel. The screen showed an impressively sharp image of the area in front of the house. Trev guessed from the field of view that the camera was mounted somewhere above the front doors. The flight of steps was visible at the bottom of the picture, along with the green Range Rover. Beyond the gravel of the driveway an expanse of lawn stretched away into the darkness.

  Standing at the very edge of the grass were three figures, each one given multiple shadows by the floodlights. Trev studied them, frowning.

  His first impression was that they weren't the most threatening group of people he'd ever seen. Standing on the left was a tracksuit-clad youth of maybe sixteen or seventeen years of age. He had the kind of wiry build and acne-ridden skin that you can only get from living on a diet that consisted of a burger and fries once a week, topped up with counterfeit cigarettes and cheap cider. He was wearing a baseball cap with the peak pulled down low to shade his eyes, and he was carrying a two-foot section of wooden post in one hand.

  Next to the youth was a man who looked like he'd spent the last three years sleeping rough. In a ditch. He wore a long tattered coat that had as many hues as Joseph's famous one, although limited to a pallette labelled "colours, unpleasant". He had long, greasy brown hair and a bristling beard which was mottled with streaks of grey and bald patches. He looked like he stank, though if he did the smell didn't appear to be bothering either of his companions. In his hands he held a side-handled baton of the type favoured by American policemen when they absolutely, positively had to beat a suspect until he coughed up his own kidneys.

  'Must've got that baton off one of our lads,' said Graeme with a scowl.

  The third member of the group was a little blue-rinsed old lady in an exquisitely hideous floral-print dress with a beige anorak over the top. She was wearing one of those clear plastic rain-hoods that, despite Trev never having seen one in a shop anywhere, all old ladies seemed to own. She carried a sensible handbag in one hand and a very large wood-axe in the other. The weight of the weapon was making her lean noticeably to one side.

  As alarming as the axe was, it was the old lady's eyes that held Trev's attention. 'Can you zoom in, at all?' he asked. Graeme obliged, focusing on the three intruders' faces. As if sensing the camera's attention on them, they all raised their heads to stare directly back at their observers.

  All three of them had blank, black eyes.

  'Shit,' said Trev, failing to suppress a shudder.

  'What the hell is that about?' asked Graeme. 'They wearing contact lenses or something?'

  'Keep the chit-chat to a minimum, Graeme, if you would,' said the Colonel. 'I'm trying to think.' He turned to Trev. 'It would appear that your demonic nemesis has tracked you down, m'boy.'

  'He's controlling all three of them?'

  'The evidence would very much suggest that, yes.' The Colonel walked briskly to one of the bookcases, pressed a hidden switch on the side and swung it away from the wall like a door. Behind it was a shallow alcove, into which was built a weapons rack that contained enough hardware to start, or quickly end, a medium-sized war.

  'Come along, Graeme,' said the Colonel, impatiently.

  Graeme left the panel, shedding his suit jacket as he did, which revealed that he was carrying a large handgun in a shoulder holster. He strapped on some body armour and took a monstrous pump-action shotgun from the rack, checking and loading the weapon with practiced efficiency. Trev was beginning to feel completely out of his depth.

  'You're going to kill them?' he asked the Colonel, who had selected for himself what appeared to be a genuine World War II Sten sub-machine gun. Trev had only ever seen them in war films before.

  The Colonel gave him a long stare. 'M'boy, those three out there have just killed or otherwise incapacitated twenty of my security staff, and believe you me I don't hire slack or incompetent men. Most of them are, or were, former SAS boys.' He cocked the Sten with a loud clunk. 'While I generally frown on assumptions, old chap, in this case I think we can safely infer that they aren't here to try and sell us double-glazing or collect for charity.'

  'What I don't get,' said Graeme, 'is why they didn't take the guns off our blokes. They all had MP5's, Glocks…'

  'They're being controlled by a demon,' replied the Colonel. 'Fortunately for us demons don't know how to use guns. Unfortunately for us, they're bloody good with melee weapons.'

  Graeme pumped the shotgun, chambering a cartridge. 'Got to get close to use that sort of weapon,' he smirked.

  'Quite so,' agreed the Colonel. 'Trevor, old chap, best if you wait here while we sort this out.'

  'Wait, wait,' said Trev. 'Those people haven't done anything wrong. It's not their fault they've been possessed. We can't just kill them.'

  'Well actually we can, m'boy, and nobody would ever find out about it,' said the Colonel in a matter-of-fact tone that Trev found chilling. 'They're here for you, though, so if you think you can deal with the buggers in a less fatal way, I'd be delighted for you to have a dabble.'

  'Give me a sec,' said Trev. He drew Caladbolg out of the holster on his belt and activated the sword, bathing the room with crackling light. Graeme immediately interposed himself between Trev and the Colonel, his shotgun tracking Trev's movements.

  'Lower the gun, there's a good chap,' said the Colonel, pushing the weapon down.

  Ah, it's yourself again, said Caladbolg. This is a nicer place than Dark Limbo, eh? The sword registered the presence of the Colonel and the disembodied voice became cold. Tracked this vampire to its lair, have you?

  'Not exactly,' said Trev. 'I came here for information, but
that demon I told you about has sent some possessed people after me.' He held the sword up to the panel and its screen. The three intruders hadn't moved. 'Is there any way I can beat them without having to kill them?'

  Course you can, lad, replied Caladbolg. The demon can only control them while it has some of its essence in their bodies. Swing me or Tyrfing through them and we can drive out the demon's essence without harming the flesh containing it. The shock will knock the poor wretches unconscious, but it won't kill them.

  'Sounds good,' said Trev, relieved. He hadn't liked the idea of standing by while three people were murdered in messy fashion outside, although, he reflected, he now had to go outside himself and fight those three people. He didn't think they were going to show him any gratitude for pre-emptively saving their lives.

  'What sounds good?' asked the Colonel. Graeme was looking at Trev in utter confusion, presumably wondering why the hell he was talking to his sword.

  'You can't hear Caladbolg?' Trev asked, feeling somewhat smug.

  The vampire has a tiny touch of the Sight – most of them do – but not enough to hear me, said Caladbolg. His lackey may as well be deaf and blind.

  'No,' said the Colonel, sounding irritated. Graeme also looked unimpressed, and Trev was reminded of one of the great universal truths: that it was best not to annoy Men With Big Guns.

  'Caladbolg says–' Trev began.

  'So you want us to believe your sword talks to you?' interrupted Graeme.

  'Aside from the sword, I think that's quite enough talking from you today,' snapped the Colonel. Graeme subsided. The Colonel turned his head back to Trev. 'Unlike my rather indiscreet employee, I'm quite familiar with vapour weapons, m'boy. I know some of them can communicate, although I can't hear them myself. What's the verdict?'

  'We can do it,' said Trev. 'We don't have to kill those people.'

  'Very well.' The Colonel indicated the door. 'Off you go, then. Try not to get bludgeoned to death, won't you, old chap? I was hoping to finish our earlier conversation.'

  'I don't know how I'd cope without the non-stop support and encouragement I get,' muttered Trev. He left the room, unsheathing and activating Tyrfing as he went.