Location, Location, Damnation

by Nick Moseley

  'Yes we are,' confirmed Granddad. 'Still nothing happening. I'm hoping that in taking care of those three enthralled people at Fritley Court, you've put a stop to the demon's plans for this evening. I'm going to wait until Alastair leaves and make sure he gets home safely, though.'

  'There's definitely something strange about this,' mused Trev. 'Demons can't hang around in our world for long, can they? Much beyond a week and things get a bit dicey for them, right?'

  'Yes.'

  'So like I said earlier on, the first attack on Kolley was Wednesday afternoon and the demon's waited two days before having another crack at him. Why? If time's a factor, I'd have expected Kolley to be under siege.'

  'Could be any number of reasons,' replied Granddad. 'Difficulty getting hold of people to turn into thralls, perhaps. Alastair's not made a public appearance since Wednesday either, so maybe he's proving a difficult target.'

  'Maybe,' said Trev. 'I still think we're missing something though.'

  'You're just tired. Go home and get yourself some sleep, Trevor. I'll keep an eye on things here. I doubt anything's going to happen now, in any case.'

  'OK,' said Trev. 'I was hoping you'd say that.'

  'I'll give you a ring tomorrow. We need to talk before you and Louise go chasing after Corbyn.'

  'Right-o. Catch you later.' Trev hung up and settled back against the churchyard wall to wait for his taxi.

  It was half-past ten by the time Trev got back to his flat. He made himself a big bacon sandwich, which he demolished in three bites, and a cup of tea. Normally he was something of a night owl, happy to slump in front of the TV for a few hours before turning in, but that evening he was so tired that slumping in front of the TV seemed like an exhausting prospect in itself.

  He shambled into his bedroom, undressed, and hurled his clothes in the general direction of the laundry basket before collapsing into bed and dragging the covers over himself. Sleep, deep and dreamless, claimed him almost immediately.

  For the second day in a row the morning performed its sneaky trick of coming along far more quickly than Trev had thought possible. He gave his squawking clock radio a firm thump to silence it and dragged himself out from under the covers. Once he was on his feet he found that although he was still tired and a little sore, the unpleasant empty feeling from the previous evening had more or less gone. He yawned, stretched, and let his eyes wander around the room.

  They were quickly drawn to the belt on which The Twins hung in their holsters. It was draped over the back of a chair. Still clad in just his boxers, Trev wandered over to it. There was definitely an addictive quality to using vapour weapons, he decided. It wasn't a physical craving of the type Trev often experienced when it came to beer and pizza; it was something more subtle, something mental. Using the weapons made him quick, strong and confident, a swashbuckling man of action. Without them he was just a short, unremarkable bloke with a monotonous job and a crap car.

  He sighed, patted the belt and left it on the chair while he went to get himself ready for work.

  Once he was showered, breakfasted and dressed he went back for the belt. He didn't want to leave the weapons behind, but there was no way he could wear them to work without both attracting rather awkward questions and looking a just a touch crazier than he was comfortable with. He put the belt on anyway, to see if he could conceal The Twins under his suit jacket. A look in the mirror was enough to tell him that he couldn't.

  He frowned, rummaged under his bed and pulled out a tatty rucksack, into which he stashed the belt. He threw a jumper in on top of it, just in case someone should take a peek inside. Thus prepared, he set off for work.

  It was an overcast morning, perfectly suited as a backdrop for Trev's thoughts. Normally he used the walk to work to plan his day, pondering potential sales, which buyers to chase for viewings and so on, but that morning he couldn't focus. Every time he got settled into some comfortably mundane thoughts his brain would jump the rails and career back to the alarming fact that he was going to spend his evening hunting a dangerous vampire… using a werewolf as a sniffer dog.

  He felt the weight of The Twins in the rucksack on his back and wished that he could simply draw the weapons, activate them, and take a hit of the trance-like calm they brought him. Sadly that course of action was a sure way to bag himself another appointment at the Brackenford police station and, even more terrifyingly, another rendezvous with the August 1986 issue of Trout Fishing Monthly.

  He squared his shoulders and tried once again to set all the supernatural stuff aside. Brawling with vampires and demons might well get him killed, but it wasn't going to pay the rent – selling houses was. He didn't need a pair of smart-arsed phantom swords to be good at it, either.

  By the time he reached the SmoothMove offices he had managed to force his brain back onto the right track. He let himself in, waved to Helen and tucked the rucksack under his desk.

  'Morning,' said Helen without looking up from her computer screen. Her fingers rattled around the keyboard. 'Good day off?'

  'Not as relaxing as it could've been,' replied Trev, quietly proud of the sheer enormity of that understatement.

  'Oh?' said Helen with polite disinterest. 'How come?'

  Trev scratched his head. 'Granddad kept me busy running errands for him,' he said after a pause. 'He's not as mobile as he used to be, you see.'

  'Right,' said Helen, still clattering away on her keyboard. Typing and being rude at the same time, mused Trev. This must be the famous female ability to multi-task I'm always hearing about.

  'Any media types hanging around yesterday?' he asked. 'Or have my fifteen minutes run out already?'

  Helen finally took a break from her typing. 'There were a couple of them there in the morning,' she replied. She took a sip from her coffee mug. 'I told them I'd given you a week off and you'd gone to visit with some family in Scotland. I think that was what finally broke them.'

  'Ah well, back to obscurity then,' said Trev with mock disappointment. He sat down at his desk and fired up his computer. 'Anything exciting happen yesterday? Any sales?'

  'Just one. Barry sold the bungalow on Richards Close.'

  'Barry got a sale?' Trev raised his eyebrows. 'Is it April the first already?'

  'Don't start.' Helen set her coffee aside and attacked her keyboard again. 'Barry's a good salesman. He just needs to get his touch back.'

  'He needs to stop leering at the new girl and breaking his computer, and concentrate on his work, you mean,' Trev said.

  'Maybe,' allowed Helen. She stopped typing again. 'He's had more than his fair share of personal problems, Trev. Perhaps you could take that into account before you decide to take the piss out of him all day, every day.'

  'It's just banter,' said Trev, defensively.

  'I'm not sure Barry sees it like that,' Helen answered, then started typing again.

  'Probably not,' muttered Trev. He shrugged. 'I'm a bit tired for Barry-baiting today anyway.'

  'Good. I don't want you two to spoil things tonight either.'

  Trev blinked. 'Tonight?'

  Helen frowned at him. 'Are you still asleep or something?' she asked. 'The office night out. We have one every month, remember?'

  'Duh. Oh yeah.' Trev gave himself a slap on the forehead. 'You're right, I must be still asleep. At least I'm not having that dream where I turn up to work naked without realising it.'

  'That's a relief,' said Helen, with a smirk. 'I wouldn't want to be struck blind by that horrible sight when I've got this much work to do.'

  'Struck blind by the sheer magnificence of my physique, I think you meant.' Trev flexed his biceps and winked.

  Helen snorted. 'Now you really are dreaming.'

  'You're a cruel woman, Ms. Frost,' said Trev, putting on a wounded expression. 'I'll forgive you if you buy me some beer this evening.'

  'I'll bear that in mind,' said Helen. She went back to her typing, giving Trev some time to think.

  It wasn't surprising he'd forgott
en about the office night out. He'd been busy with extra-curricular activities. More to the point, he was still busy with extra-curricular activities, and that night was no exception. He sighed. He didn't like being forced to miss out on what was usually a bloody good booze-up because of it, but it wasn't like he had much choice. He couldn't see an obvious way to combine drinking, dancing and vampire-hunting without making people suspicious.

  Irritating as it was, he was going to have to make an excuse and not turn up.

  'That's the sort of happy, smiling face I want to see when I arrive at work,' remarked Phil as he walked through the door.

  'Just glad to be back at work after my day off,' replied Trev, swapping his scowl for a smile. 'I hear Barry got a sale. Explains those pigs that flew past my bedroom window yesterday, at least.'

  'Ever hear of karma, Trev?'

  'I think I'm quite well paid up with the karma police at the moment, actually.'

  'If you say so.' Phil began unpacking his laptop computer from its bag.

  'I do.' Trev watched as Barry passed by the window on his way to the door. 'Check this out, I'm going to be nice to him. It'll confuse the hell out of him.'

  'Morning,' grunted Barry as he shouldered the door open and slouched toward his desk.

  'Morning mate, how's it going?' asked Trev.

  'All right,' said Barry, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

  'I hear you sold the bungalow on Richards Close,' Trev continued. 'Nice work.'

  Barry stared at him, apparently unable to believe what he was hearing. 'Thanks,' he said.

  'No probs.' Trev gave him a thumbs-up and turned back to his computer. Phil was watching him with a raised eyebrow. Trev gave him an innocent expression and began checking his e-mails.

  Sarah was the last to arrive, hurrying through the doorway looking rather flustered. 'Sorry I'm late,' she said.

  'Don't worry about it,' replied Barry, favouring her with a sympathetic expression.

  'Morning,' said Trev brightly.

  She smiled. 'Hi Trev. Good day off?'

  'Not bad, thanks,' said Trev with a shrug.

  'Coming for a few drinks tonight then? I hear your drunken dancing is pretty entertaining.'

  'So I'm told,' replied Trev, noticing Phil and Helen were both smirking behind their computers. He raised his voice for their benefit. 'A lot of the great performers were laughed at when they started out, you know.'

  'I'm looking forward to judging for myself,' said Sarah. 'I promise not to laugh too much.'

  'Well that's the thing,' Trev said. 'I'm not sure if I can make it tonight.'

  Sarah looked disappointed. 'Really?'

  'Yeah. I was going to come, but I've remembered there's something else I agreed to do this evening.'

  'Shame, but I'm sure we can have a laugh without you, Trev,' piped up Barry. He winked at Sarah. 'You can judge my dancing instead.'

  Barry's smug expression, along with Sarah's one of carefully repressed horror, was too much for Trev.

  'What the hell,' he said. 'I can probably manage to get away for a drink or two.'

  He'd just painted himself into a very tight corner, but Barry's face made it all worthwhile.

  Thirty-Six

  The day passed uneventfully, for the most part. Trev put himself on autopilot and went about his tasks without giving them much thought. He answered e-mails, chatted with customers and stuffed envelopes with sales particulars. After a while he reflected that he was actually taking a kind of comfort from the sheer dullness of it all, and the thought unsettled him for a moment. Up until a few days ago he hadn't considered his job to be dull, but he supposed it was inevitable that after spending the previous day sword-fighting with evil spirits, demon-thralls and werewolves, he'd find answering questions about central heating, noisy neighbours and downstairs toilets a little, you know, sedate in comparison. He was aware that he'd crossed a bridge, and hadn't burned it behind him as much as obliterated it with a tactical nuclear strike.

  It wasn't a nice realisation. He had, after all, always been happy at SmoothMove; he was a natural salesman, he made very reasonable money in commission, and – with the exception of the malodorous Barry, of course – he got on well with his colleagues. Hell, he probably could've got on well with Barry too, if he'd been prepared to turn a charitable blind eye to the bloke's inherent cockishness and put up with the ever-so-slight feeling of self-disgust that was sure to result.

  Trev thought that that set of circumstances was as likely to happen as Satan waking up one morning and having to decide whether to take the skis or the snowmobile to work. The fact that Trev had completely torpedoed his own plans for the evening just to spite the bloke was evidence enough. Inwardly grimacing, he looked up and inadvertently caught Sarah's gaze. She smiled at him and went back to her training notes.

  Well, that was assuming that pissing off Barry had been all that he'd had in mind when he'd agreed to the night out...

  Reeling his thoughts up above his waist again, Trev did his best to formulate a plan of action. Backing out of the work do was no longer an option, as Barry would never let him hear the end of it. Backing out of hunting down Corbyn wasn't an option, either. Granddad, Agatha, the Colonel, Oscar, two talking bloody swords and the assembled members of Werewolves Anonymous wouldn't let him hear the end of that one. It was yet further evidence of his dislike for Barry that he weighted the two possibilities about evenly in terms of their unpleasantness.

  The only realistic answer was to go to the work do, then slip out early in order to meet Miss Pine at midnight as he'd arranged. Sarah wouldn't get to see his best dance moves – he’d be gone before they made it to a nightclub – but at least he'd have made an appearance. It wasn't a perfect solution, and he expected he'd still have to field some awkward questions from his colleagues, but it would have to do.

  'See you at Webster's at half eight,' said Phil as Trev packed up his stuff and headed for the door at closing time.

  'Got it,' replied Trev. He waved a hand to the office at large. 'Later, people.'

  'See you in a bit,' replied Sarah. Helen returned the wave from behind her computer monitor. Barry just grunted.

  Trev hurried home, refining his plan as he went. He decided his best bet was to take the car into town and stash it in a side street with The Twins hidden in the boot. After he'd left the work do he could return to the car and retrieve the weapons before heading off to meet Miss Pine. He'd have preferred to keep the two swords with him, but he doubted the bouncers at Webster's Wine Bar would be enthusiastic about admitting a heavily-armed estate agent to their premises.

  He phoned Granddad and arranged to stop by the old boy's house on his way back into town, and by the time he'd finished the call he was just about at his own front door.

  Trev cooked himself a flavourless microwave meal (the packaging claimed that it was a beef casserole, but Trev had his doubts), ate it while watching the TV, then had a shower and got dressed. He put on a pair of smart jeans and a black shirt with a thin jumper over the top before rummaging in his wardrobe, looking for a jacket or coat that was long enough to conceal The Twins if he was wearing them. The only suitable candidate was a rather old camouflage jacket that he'd bought on a whim from an army-surplus shop a few years previously.

  'I need to get myself one of those long, black action-hero coats like that bloke off The Matrix has,' Trev muttered to himself. Until then, he mused, the camouflage jacket would have to suffice. He scooped it up with his rucksack and went out to the car, throwing both items into the boot. Dropping into the driver's seat, he performed the little ritual necessary to get the old Rover started and the engine clattered into life. The radio abruptly switched itself on, blaring out what sounded like Stand By Your Man sung in Flemish. Trev punched the dashboard in just the right place and it fell silent.

  'Right,' he said, and set the car lurching on its way toward Granddad's.

  'Don't be over-confident,' Granddad said, leaning forward over his desk. 'Corbyn's
been around a long time. He's unpredictable and clever.'

  Trev was leaning against one of the bookcases, trying to look relaxed. 'Yeah, Miss Pine said much the same. Look, I'm not going to go wandering in and just challenge him to a fight or anything. Maybe he'll tell me what I want to know if I ask him nicely.'

  'Or maybe he'll pull your head off and drink you like a Martini,' said Oscar. 'I hear he likes his estate agents shaken, not stirred.'

  'Thanks for the support,' Trev replied. He was getting used to the cat's relentless abuse. Trev had come to the conclusion that there wasn't any real malice behind it. Oscar simply didn't seem able to help himself.

  'He's not going to hand the information out for nothing, I'm afraid,' said Granddad. 'You'll either have to do some kind of deal with him, threaten him, or fight him.'

  'Great.' Trev took his weight off the bookcase and stood upright. 'Are you guys coming along?'

  'I will if you ask me to, Trevor, but I don't know how much help I would be.' Granddad sat back in his chair and Trev was struck by just how old he looked. The events of the week had clearly ground him down. 'Corbyn has never shown anything but contempt for the Custodians, so he's not going to tell me anything out of respect for my position. If it came to a fight he'd make short work of me.'

  Trev nodded. If there had been any chance of persuading Corbyn to peacefully divulge the information they needed, he knew it would've been worth having Granddad there. However if it was going to come down to threats, intimidation or even violence, Trev didn't want to put the old man in a position where he could get hurt, or worse.

  'It's OK,' he said. 'It's probably best for you to stay out of the firing line if you think Corbyn's going to be difficult.'

  'Oh, he will. I'm afraid there's almost no doubt about that.'

  'Right,' sighed Trev. He frowned. 'Assuming I, er, persuade him to tell me anything, how do I know he's not lying out of his arse?'

  'Make him swear a blood oath,' said Agatha, who'd been floating in the corner, apparently lost in thought. 'He's a particularly vile example of the species, but he's still a vampire. Even among the worst of them the blood oath is considered a sacred rite. He won't break it.'