by Nick Moseley
There was a figure standing at the far end of the alley, half hidden by shadow. It appeared to be dressed all in black, with a baggy newsboy cap on its head. It wasn’t physically imposing – Trev estimated that the figure was shorter than him, and he was hardly Shaquille O’Neal – but there was something about the way it stood, the stillness of it, that made it seem somehow predatory.
Trev kept his eyes on the figure and backed away. The dagger was in his hand but he didn’t activate it. No need to provoke a reaction if he didn’t have to. Despite the figure’s face being shadowed by the peak of its cap, Trev could feel its gaze on him. This wasn’t a shop-worker putting out the bins before going home, or a fellow commuter taking shelter from the wind. This was something from the other world. The supernatural world.
And it was there for Trev.
It moved. The figure’s body had been turned a little to the side, but now it shifted position to face Trev, revealing that it held an old-fashioned lantern in its left hand. A faint, bluish-purple glow flickered in the bottom of the lantern. As Trev watched, the light began to swell, pulsing like a heartbeat. The glow illuminated the alley while somehow keeping the figure itself in shadow.
Trev realised that he’d stopped moving. He shook himself and resumed walking backwards. The figure stepped forwards. As it did so it seemed to blur and flicker; it was as if there were two figures, one overlaid on top of the other. Trev could feel his Sight working, trying to penetrate the shadowy outer layer and show him what was underneath.
As the figure advanced, Trev decided he really didn’t want to know what was underneath.
He turned and ran.
Six
Well, he wanted to run. The snowy ground had other ideas. His office shoes offered no meaningful grip so he was forced to move in a series of fast stumbles. As he was using all his concentration not to go sprawling, he couldn’t risk a look behind to see whether his pursuer was catching up. The purple glow from the figure’s lantern threw Trev’s shadow out in front of him in a tangle of elongated, flailing limbs.
Stupid stupid stupid, Trev thought. He knew that there was a traitor within the Custodians who wanted not only to kill him, but to destroy his very soul, and had tried to do so twice. And yet here he was, wandering into deserted alleys in the dark and making himself an easy target. The only saving grace was that he’d remembered to carry the vapour weapon with him.
He came to a junction in the alleyway. Ahead there was a small goods yard behind one of the larger shops. It was a dead end, the gates on either side of the yard chained shut, so there was no use going that way. To the right there was another alley, although it was very dark. The white snow reflected enough light for Trev to see the ground, which was good enough. He skidded into the turn, bouncing off the left-hand wall but keeping his balance. The shifting purple light was left behind.
Trev was capable of turning his hand into a rudimentary torch by feeding psychic energy into it, which caused it to glow. In need of the extra illumination, he tried to do the trick but his attention was on keeping himself upright and he couldn’t focus enough to manage it. He plunged on down the alley, past the dark shapes of wheelie bins, abandoned cardboard boxes and old pallets. A turning appeared on his left. He made a snap decision and skidded into it just as the lantern was coming around the corner behind him.
It wouldn’t take a genius to work out where he’d gone, but going straight on would’ve left his back exposed to his pursuer and Trev didn’t feel comfortable with that idea. The downside to taking the turn was that straight on was the way back to Jarvis Street, and now he didn’t have a clue where he was going. And it was pitch dark. But other than those minor niggles, the plan was solid.
Yep, I’m going to die, he thought.
He stumbled and fell to one knee. He had the option to activate the vapour weapon, which would improve his coordination, at the cost of illuminating himself to the world. He got to his feet and ran on, choosing to keep the weapon as a last resort. The wind whistled across the rooftops, muffling the sound of his footsteps and his ragged breathing. He fought to control the rising panic in his chest. All he had to do was find a way back to the main road and he’d be safe. Whatever the thing behind him was, it surely wouldn’t follow him up the street in full view of the general public.
Would it?
The question was academic unless he could find his way out of the alley. Another turning appeared on his right. This one he ignored, reasoning that if he carried on in one direction for long enough, he’d have to come to the main road eventually. It was a logical assumption, and completely wrong. He ran straight into a wall instead.
He bounced off and landed on his backside in the snow. He’d been so busy watching his feet he’d neglected to look ahead for potential obstacles, such as the eight-foot wall that had sneakily ambushed him out of the darkness. There was no door, gate, or conveniently-placed ladder to get him through or over it. Climbing it was also out. He climbed about as well as an arthritic wombat at the best of times, and his hands were numb. The only option was to go back and take the turning he’d passed. He picked himself up and turned to retrace his steps.
The figure was walking towards him from the far end of the alley.
Purple light pulsed across the snow. The lantern was held at arm’s length, as if towing the figure along behind it. Trev was still unable to get a good look at his pursuer. It ought to have been illuminated by its own lantern, yet it still seemed to be in shadow. Its outline flickered and blurred, and it was moving faster than its leisurely stride suggested.
Trev’s eyes kept returning to the lantern. Its light was bright without being blinding, and as Trev stared at it he felt his fear drain away. He was very tired. All he wanted to do was sit down and rest. His fingers loosened on the handle of the dagger and it hung there, a twitch away from falling into the snow. The figure continued its approach, bringing the soothing light closer. Trev knew that there was something he’d intended to do, but he couldn’t remember what it was. He couldn’t remember much at all.
Trev’s reverie was broken by an unpleasant sensation in his chest. It began as an irritating tickle at the edges of his consciousness, like a faint, persistent noise preventing him from sleeping. As his annoyance at the feeling grew, so the feeling itself grew; irritation became annoyance and then outright anger. It demanded to be acknowledged, to be given control, driving away the fugue state that had settled over Trev’s thoughts. His chest tightened and his teeth gritted, and he re-gripped the dagger. Reality rushed back in on him, bringing with it the sound of the wind, the numbness in his fingers and toes, and the fear.
Ahead of him the shadowy figure stopped walking and the light from the lantern stuttered and dimmed for a second or two. The figure’s head cocked to one side in a silent question. Trev gathered that his resistance to the lantern’s light was unexpected, but he didn’t feel like hanging about for a question and answer session on the subject. Instead he put his pursuer’s confusion to good use by bolting for the side alley.
As he ran he activated the vapour weapon. The dagger’s crackling blue blade fizzed into life and he immediately felt the familiar surge of confident calm wash over him. His unsteady gait evened out and he was able to pick up speed, no longer teetering on the edge of a snowy face-plant. He didn’t look back. If the sauntering figure could catch him while he was going at this speed, then best of luck to it.
He was almost at the end of the alley, and feeling quite upbeat about things, when the light from the vapour weapon revealed two stacks of wooden pallets blocking the way. They’d been stacked at the mouth of the alley, presumably so that a vehicle could back up and collect them. Trev could peer through the gaps between them and see the main road beyond, but he couldn’t get past. The gaps between the two stacks and the walls of the alley were too narrow, even when Trev turned sideways and sucked in his beer belly.
Once again he was forced to consider climbing. The pallets had a lot more handholds than the wal
l, and Trev wasn’t one to stand and fight if running away was an option, so he decided to give it a go. It went well until he was about two feet off the ground, at which point the whole stack began to wobble. He jumped down, aware that if he had to make a stand against the pursuing figure, it was probably best not to do it from underneath a pile of fallen pallets.
He stepped into the centre of the alley and waited for his pursuer to catch up. He wasn’t kept waiting long. The purple glow closed in on him, the figure behind it appearing out of the shadows. Trev adopted a serious expression, trying to look like he was making a stand because he’d chosen to, not because he’d been outwitted by a stack of pallets. The figure stopped a few feet away, its face still hidden.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Trev asked. The wind nipped at his words, making them sound muffled and faint.
‘You can call me Jack Smith,’ the figure replied. The voice was a harsh rasp, the sound of a cemetery gate creaking shut. It (he?) took a step forwards.
‘Stay back,’ Trev said. He raised the crackling blue blade and took up a defensive stance.
The figure – Smith – took another step, evidently unimpressed by Trev’s bluster. He held up the lantern and its light began to pulse again. Trev felt an unpleasant draining sensation and looked down. The vapour weapon’s blade was wavering and stretching, its energy streaming away, drawn into the lantern light. Trev flinched back, instinctively shunting more energy into the weapon. All this achieved was to increase the speed of the drain. He was left with no choice but to shut the weapon off or risk his reserves being wiped out altogether.
Smith nodded as if satisfied and advanced on the terrified Trev, who backed up until he stumbled into one of the stacks of pallets. They rattled in the wind like mocking laughter.
‘All right, all right, stop,’ Trev said. The last word turned into a squeak as Smith’s hand closed around his throat and pinned him against the pallets.
‘Where is she?’ Smith asked. He was finally close enough for Trev to see his face, cast in the purple light of the lantern. He was middle-aged, with a pale, weather-beaten complexion and shaggy dark hair. His eyes were sunken, further hidden by thick eyebrows. Although his face was almost expressionless, his eyes held a gleam of something; an intensity that was cold, hard and unflinching. Trev was immediately sure of one thing. Whoever this Smith was, he was about as sane as a concrete chicken at a roller disco.
‘Who?’ Trev croaked. Smith’s question had confused him. He’d assumed that the man was an assassin, but instead he wanted information?
‘Sarah Teale,’ Smith said. ‘Where. Is. She?’ He punctuated his words by thumping Trev against the stack of pallets.
‘Who?’ Trev said again. He was so dumbfounded he was able to forget all about being choked half to death and just stared at Smith’s face in shock. A face, he noted, that was blurring around the edges a little.
‘Don’t try me,’ Smith said. ‘I can do this.’
He raised the lantern and frowned in concentration. Trev could see that the source of the purple light wasn’t a bulb or flame but a fist-sized blob of glowing energy that flowed and shifted behind the glass like the wax in a lava lamp. It began to pulse in a steady rhythm and Trev felt a sudden and excruciating pulling, tearing sensation inside himself. It wasn’t a physical pain. It was as if a part of him, something essential, something fundamental, was being dragged out of him.
My soul, he thought with helpless horror. That lantern is pulling out my soul!
The blurring at the edges of Smith’s face spread. It flickered like an old-fashioned television set with poor reception, and the face simply disintegrated, falling away to reveal what it had been hiding.
Smith was a walking corpse.
His true face was little more than a skull. Brownish, shrivelled skin clung to the bone, cracked and peeling in numerous places. Wisps of thin grey hair spilled out from beneath his cap and bloodless lips split to reveal two rows of uneven, blackened teeth. But it was the eyes that were the worst. The cold, insane eyes, set back in their sockets, staring into Trev’s own with the same intensity he’d seen before and telling him that, somehow, this hideous creature was alive.
He tried to scream, and failed. He didn’t like to give up so easily, so he went right on trying until the lantern-light stopped pulsing and he felt the awful pressure on his soul released. He sagged, Smith’s gloved hand at his throat the only thing keeping him upright.
‘I’ll have your soul if you lie to me,’ Smith growled. His false face reformed itself, mercifully covering the desiccated nightmare beneath. He swung the lantern in Trev’s face. ‘With this, I can tell. And that darkness you have in you won’t help. Understand?’
Trev gave a feeble nod. He understood. It was difficult to lie to someone who could take hold of your soul and squeeze it. He did what he could to shake off the after-effects of Smith’s assault and organise his thoughts, and his brain coughed back into life like an old car on a cold morning. If he was going to outwit a half-decomposed human lie detector, he was going to have to think on his feet. Fortunately he was an estate agent, and being devious under pressure was more or less a requirement of the job.
‘So, where is she?’ Smith asked. The lantern pulsed very softly, and Trev felt its touch on him again, just enough to remind him what was at stake.
He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t.’
This was quite true, and Smith appeared to recognise as much. ‘When did you last speak to her?’
‘Not for weeks,’ Trev said. He was relieved that Smith hadn’t asked when he’d last heard from her, because then he’d have been forced to reveal the voicemail. But as no two-way conversation had taken place, his answer was again true.
Smith gave him a searching look. Trev experienced a little twinge of satisfaction at being able to give two truthful, yet completely useless, answers. This soon changed to panic, however, when he realised that having no information might make him expendable in Smith’s eyes. He was walking a dangerous path; he’d have to give Smith something.
‘As far as I know she’s still in hiding,’ Trev said.
‘Oh? From whom?’
‘Some group or other,’ Trev hedged. ‘Something about eyes.’
Smith’s grip tightened again. ‘The Eyes of Nona?’
‘That’s it,’ Trev croaked. ‘You know them?’
‘By reputation,’ Smith said. He didn’t add anything more.
‘Why are you looking for her?’
Smith shrugged. ‘She took something.’
‘What?’
‘Something I’m going to retrieve.’
‘Right.’
‘Final question,’ said Smith.
Trev didn’t much like the use of the word “final”. ‘Go on.’
‘If she were in trouble, would she seek you out for help?’
‘Possibly,’ Trev said.
‘Very well,’ said Smith. He let go of Trev, who slid down the stack of pallets and ended up on his backside in the snow. ‘If she contacts you, I want to know.’
‘But how will I contact you?’ Trev asked.
‘I’ll be watching,’ Smith said. ‘You won’t have to look far to find me. And if you try to hide…’ He raised the lantern again.
‘Got it, got it,’ said Trev, holding up his hands in surrender.
Smith nodded. He turned and walked away down the alley. The purple light faded and vanished, leaving Trev alone, shivering in the darkness.
Seven
‘So I sat in the snow until my arse went numb and I was sure he’d gone, then I came here,’ Trev said. He took a sip of his tea.
‘Are you all right?’ Trev’s Granddad looked at him with concern from across his kitchen. The old man was in the process of making Trev a massive fry-up, which was his culinary speciality. The light glinted off his bald head and little round glasses as he divided his attention between the sizzling frying pan and his grandson.
‘Well, it could
’ve been worse,’ Trev said. ‘He only threatened to pull my soul out through my nose, he didn’t actually do it.’
Granddad stroked his white Van Dyke beard. ‘You did well to come through it, if what I’ve heard about Jack Smith is true.’
‘Wait, you’ve heard of this bloke?’
‘Oh yes, although I expect Oscar knows more than I do.’
‘I usually do,’ said Oscar. The kitten was lying on a chair next to the radiator. ‘He’s a real piece of work, old Jack.’
Trev frowned. ‘Who the hell is he?’
‘Jack the Smith, AKA Jack Smith, AKA Jack O’Lantern,’ said Oscar.
‘Isn’t a jack o’lantern a pumpkin with a candle in it?’
‘Where do you think the name came from?’ Oscar asked. ‘A pumpkin jack o’lantern is a hideous face illuminated by a flickering light, isn’t it? Sound familiar?’
‘OK fine. But who is he?’
‘There are any number of stories,’ Oscar said, ‘but the accepted version says that hundreds of years ago Jack was a blacksmith working in a small town in Ireland. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular; he was a drunk, a liar, a philanderer and a cheat. Fortunately for him though, he was the only blacksmith in town so people had no choice but to give him their custom.’
‘So how did he go from that to sucking people’s souls out with a magic lamp?’
‘Well as time went on and Jack got older, he started to worry about what would happen to him when he died. He became terrified of going to Hell, so much so that he made an effort to stop being an arsehole. It didn’t work. Nobody trusted him, and they all assumed that the new, nice Jack was a trick of some sort. Before long he’d fallen back into his old ways, even more bitter and resentful than before.’
‘And the magic lamp?’
‘I’m getting to that. Jack thought about his problem and decided that the best solution was not to die at all. That way he could be as big a bastard as he wanted, with no threat of Hell. So he did a trawl through all his dodgiest, nastiest acquaintances looking for someone who could offer him some dark magic or ritual that would do the job.’
