by Anthony Ergo
Chapter 10
Tuesday 17 September 3:15pm
Zara Gordon
"Come on, Rover. . . start!"
An old man shuffles alongside the driver window and stares in at me without a shred of embarrassment, as only old people seem able to do. I turn the ignition key with even more aggression and the Landrover responds with a pathetic cough. The old man taps on the window.
"Sounds like the battery, or the starter motor. Or maybe you put the wrong fuel in?"
"Well, thanks for the expert opinion."
I immediately regret the sarcastic reply. He's only trying to help. Either he didn't hear me, or he didn't get the sarcasm.
"Try pumping the gas."
Resisting the temptation to tell him where to go, I stomp on the accelerator. When I turn the key Rover roars to life.
"It worked!" I say and give him the thumbs up, before pulling off and accidentally leaving him in a cloud of diesel smoke.
I make a mental note to treat Rover to a service. Car maintenance is a Dad kind of thing; mine didn't hang around long enough to change a nappy. It would make much more sense to get a newer, more reliable car, but Rover is like an old friend to me. Like anyone else, he has his faults, but I'm too attached to scrap him. He was given to me as a gift by my mother for getting a place at a university. She had Rover as long as I can remember; it still smells of her. It took me a while to get used to climbing into the driver's side rather than onto the passenger seat like I did as a young girl. Like mother, Rover has gone one too many times around the mileage clock. This car was the last thing she gave me before her mental breakdown. It happened three years ago, on the Day of Dystopia.
I associate Rover with a better time, when mother was vibrant and engaging. The car was also a symbolic gift. Being her only child, I guess she was proud that I'd managed to even make it to university.
If only she knew I'd graduated with a first class degree in psychology.
If only she knew I'd just performed an exorcism.
The traffic lights turn red and I'm worried Rover might cut out. My mind is still on Menzies Blake and the phone call I just had with him. It's normal practice to call in and report a completed assignment, at which point he usually assigns a new job. However, this time he asked me to come back to HQ immediately. It was his sense of urgency that got my attention. I wanted to ask him why, but I knew he wouldn't disclose anything over the telephone. At times like this I'd normally call Agent Hunter for advice. He's always known how to deal with Blake. But right now, Hunter is in a coma.
It's not the first time an Agent has been injured in the line of duty. Dealing with the supernatural is a dangerous profession. On hearing the news about Hunter, I took Agent Hart to the hospital to see him. For some reason, he was prevented access; immediate family only, apparently. Strange how I noticed Blake's car in the hospital car park. Then Hunter's daughter turns up at HQ wearing a visitor pass. There are too many coincidences and things just don't feel right.
The traffic lights remain on red and the car behind inches closer impatiently. A young school girl ponders at the crossing, which still shows a red man. I feel a momentary wave of dizziness and I know what's coming: a premonition.
The girl begins to cross as the car behind loses patience and tries to jump the lights. It doesn't end well.
I press the horn and keep my hand held down. The girl jumps back and looks at me angrily. The man in the car behind throws his hands in the air and utters expletives as he jumps the lights. He screeches through the space that the girl was about to walk into. Pedestrians look at me and shake their heads for making such a racket with the horn. None of them understand, so I can't get frustrated. It's just how it goes sometimes.
The lights turn green. I press down on the accelerator and Rover stalls. Great.
+ + +
I arrive back at HQ more stressed by the journey than the assignment. If my car doesn't always work at least my precognitive senses do. Ludvig is standing on the stone steps of the mansion like some kind of nightclub doorman. The guy creeps me out. While Agents come and go regularly Ludvig is always here, always watching. I've never understood why Blake has his own personal bodyguards.
"Morning, loverboy," I say, trying to provoke a reaction.
He remains as emotionless as a wax dummy, only moving to follow me as I enter the building and ascend the stairs to Blake's office. There's an uncomfortable silence as he walks behind me, step for step, until we reach Blake's room. I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open.
"Agent Gordon, please come in. I have some freshly brewed coffee."
Blake nods to Ludvig who closes the door behind us. He offers me a seat and a drink.
"White with four sugars, please."
Blake double-takes at my request. As he tips the spoonfuls into the fine china cup the coffee level rises and spills onto the saucer. Blake fusses over the spillage with napkins; he must be some kind of neat-freak.
"How can I help you, Mr Blake?"
"Please, call me Menzies."
Why would he want me to call him by his first name after referring to him as Mr Blake for so long? He carefully places the cup onto a coaster in front of me. Everything about his office smacks of cleanliness and order. It's kind of ironic, for a man in the business of chaos.
"Now Zara, you understand how important our work is here at The Agency?"
I nod and take a far too audible sip of coffee. Blake frowns at my faux pas, then quickly recovers.
"You'll also be aware that we've had a situation with Agent Hunter. Unfortunately, he has caused himself harm by pursuing his own unauthorised investigation. For this reason, I have offered lodgings to his daughter, who I also believe to be at risk."
Blake reclines in his expensive leather chair, inviting a response. I don't have one, so I take another sip of coffee. He clears his throat and seems mildly irritated by my behaviour.
"You have worked closely with Agent Hunter during your time here. I know you are close to him. What can you tell me about his extra-curricular activities, so to speak?"
He's probing me, and I don't like it.
"Agent Hunter has been nothing but professional and extremely helpful to me," I reply in a neutral tone. "He follows procedures to the book, as far as I'm aware."
"And what of his daughter, Sasha?"
"I didn't know she existed until today."
Blake rises from his chair and stands facing out of the window behind his desk, with his back to me. They say people who lie can't look you in the eyes. He moves his hand over a decorative cloth which is draped over a box. As he whisks away the cloth I recoil at the sight of half a dozen large white rats in a cage. To say I don't like rats is an understatement.
Blake opens the cage and reaches inside to pull out one of the scurrying rodents. I hold my breath; it's all I can do not to vomit. He cradles the white rat in cupped hands, its pink tail curling around his wrist.
"Rats are my favourite creatures. They are intelligent and ruthless survivalists." He strokes the rat and the sight sends a cold shiver down my spine. I try to take a sip of coffee to distract my mind. "You are greatly valued here, Zara. I have high hopes for you. All I ask of you is one thing. Please do inform me of any premonitions you may have concerning Agent Hunter and his daughter."
I'm uncomfortable with this request. He's never asked me to use my skills like this before. As I place the cup on his desk a half-covered brown cardboard file catches my eye. It's got Ashleigh Hunter's name on it. I wonder whether Blake left it there on purpose.
"You must know about Agent Hunter's wife?" asks Blake.
I'm aware that he's probing me for information again, but this time I don't need to be evasive.
"Not really," I reply. "Agent Hunter doesn't talk about his personal life, and I don't ask."
The rat squeaks and wriggles in his hands.
"Of course," says Blake. "What happened on the Day of Dystopia was. . . unfortunate. That will be all Agent Gordo
n. Thank you, and good day."
I'm mid-sip when he ends the conversation. Before I'm able to digest what I've heard, I feel the familiar faint dizziness that always precedes a premonition. Blake is busy returning the rat to its cage and hasn't noticed my disposition. I mumble a thank you and try to compose myself as I open the door to leave. Ludvig steps aside to allow me to pass, but I'm sure he's picked up on my sense of urgency as I dash along the corridor.
I dive into the nearest room and lean against the wall for steadiness. The premonition comes on fast.
A young girl in a dark forest. It's Sasha Hunter. She's lost and disoriented. Something appears from nowhere. It's a ghost, and it looks like it's holding a noose.
It's a strong vision, so I know it's only the first of many. I need to figure this out, and quickly.
Chapter 11
Tuesday 17 September 6:04pm
Sasha Hunter
Afternoon turns to evening as I ponder Blake's offer in my room. I flick impatiently through my MP3 player and half-watch a Sci-Fi film on one of the TV channels. No special effects can match what I've seen over the last couple of days. I gaze at the picture of Mum and Dad. It took me a while to recompose myself after seeing the folder with Mum's name written on it. Why does Blake have information on my mother's disappearance? The numbness of her loss had passed over the years, but the pain still hits me out of nowhere at the mention of her name.
Blake's offer is tempting: in one simple exchange I can get rid of the hangman game and find out about what happened to my mum on Dystopia Day. I'm angry at Dad for putting me in this position. My mobile phone bleeps; it's a text message from Kat:
Hey Sash, how are you? I am with your dad.
He still in hospital, but feeling more like old self.
Call me if need to talk. Speak soon, love & hugs,
Kat x
So Dad is starting to feel more like his old self? But what exactly is his old self? He's been distant with me for as long as I can remember. I'm not a needy type of girl; not one to burst into tears or need comforting hugs on a daily basis. Whenever I've had a problem in the past, I've had Katalina to talk to.
It makes me smile how Kat's text-speak is the same as her normal speech. I want to call her back and tell her everything, but instead I send a brief reply of "Thanks c u soon x". I miss Kat. She's been more of a parent to me than Dad has. I try to ignore the pangs of homesickness and focus on finding a way to speak with Zara.
As I wrestle with my emotions there is a knock on the door. I look outside to see a food tray left on the floor. When I remove the silver dome lid I'm disappointed to find sausage, chips and beans. It's probably left over from this morning's cooked breakfast. A white envelope is tucked underneath the plate with my name written on it. I pick through the chips while I open the letter:
Sasha,
You're considering handing something over to Blake, something you don't want to give him. It will make you unhappy and it won't help you or your family. Don't do it. Get out of the room as soon as you read this. Meet me in the gardens behind the mansion. Bring the paper with you. And don't forget the knife.
Zara Gordon
A chip drops from my mouth as my jaw hangs open. I can ignore this letter, stay put and keep playing Blake's games. Or I can risk everything and follow Zara's instructions. Can I trust this person that I hardly know, let alone her visions of the future? I have to trust Dad and his advice. As for Blake's offer, if I was considering it before I'm not now: I'm not going to betray Dad just to get some information on Mum. I have to meet Zara Gordon, and fast. I grab my black hoodie and scarf, stuff the hangman game and small knife in my pocket and head out of the room.
Once I'm outside, I pull up my hood and tighten the scarf around my exposed neck. It no longer feels strange to be outside after curfew. It's a crisp evening with a biting wind whipping up the fallen leaves. The landscaped grounds of The Agency mansion are lit by tall Victorian lampposts. A whirring noise makes me glance up and I spot a CCTV camera. It's probably Menzies Blake, watching from his office. Maybe the letter was a fake; a double-bluff to make me venture out. Or am I being paranoid? Either way, I don't have much time. Crouching in the shadows, I scurry my way torward the back of the mansion.
Peering around the corner of the building, I wait impatiently for Zara. I'm desperate for the toilet, but I know it's probably just nerves. I pull the yellow paper out of my pocket, folding the creases down on each edge to make sure it won't open on its own. As I rotate the paper a gust of wind blows it out of my hand.
"No! Come back!"
I grab at it hopelessly as it flutters away in mid-air, carried into the forest beyond the gardens. I freeze for a second, half wanting to chase after it, but half frightened by the thought of running into the darkness. I'm supposed to wait here for Zara, but now I have no choice. Taking in a deep breath, I turn and run.
The paper dances across the ground as I desperately give chase. Every time I get within a few paces another blast of wind takes it further away. Without the shelter of the mansion, the gale is much stronger and it carries the paper straight toward the woods. My feet feel as heavy as lead, like trying to run in a nightmare. I stop, bracing myself against the wind like an explorer in an Arctic blizzard, worried that an asthma attack will rise up.
The yellow paper stands out against the darkness as it flutters left then right. The trees will slow it down, I tell myself as I resume the chase. The wind won't be as strong in the forest. But it's also darker, much darker. I race past the first few trees, focusing on the small paper which holds so much importance to me. I make a dive for it, miss, then pick myself up and push on. The swirling breeze sends the paper on a meandering route through the trees, doing its best to lose me. And then it stops dead in a clearing within the forest. I take in my surroundings; tall trees converging with their branches like arms reaching down at me.
It's suddenly silent.
A silence worse than a terrible scream.
Silence that seems to echo around the trees.
The paper flutters its way back torward me and rests at my feet. It unfolds itself and lies face down on the ground. I pick it up and turn it over hesitantly. In the murky light, I can see that the hangman now has another arm with a message written across the top in startling bold writing:
I fold it up quickly and tuck it inside my jeans pocket with a cold shudder. Turning in a circle, I'm horrified to find that I've run much deeper into the forest than I realised. I can't see the distant lights of The Agency mansion anymore. I'm hopelessly lost. A strange tingle makes me hold my breath. It feels as if I've touched something, or something has touched me. The sensation is like the nail of a small finger brushing across my back.
With every hair raised on my neck, I turn slowly. Within the darkness I can make out a cloud-like shape between two trees. It's a shadow that cradles a dark threat, that kind of threat that lay underneath my bed when I was a child. It's a man-shaped silhouette, but it's not a real man. You can't see through real men.
The featureless, dark shape flows in and out of the shadows of the trees. It hovers torward me, its legs missing from the knees down. I want to scream, but feel as though all the air has been drained from my lungs. As it comes closer I recognise the executioner's sackcloth hood with the black eye holes. It's the same terrifying vision I saw in the mirror at home. Time seems to slow as he — it — lurches closer still.
I clench my fists so tightly they hurt, trying to convince myself that it's adrenaline more than fear making me tremble and preventing me from running away. I take in more details as I stand rooted to the spot. Its flowing white shirt and black leather waistcoat are of an age long gone. It reminds me of something I've seen in a film, which told of how ghosts always wear the clothes they die in. The figure comes to a halt and stretches out its arms. It holds an axe in one hand and a noose in the other. It doesn't appear to speak, but in my head, I hear a rasping voice.
"What will it be, my left hand or my right?"
The Hangman Ghost's voice is sickly smooth, like sand falling through fingers. My heart beats in my ears. Don't scream and don't run, I tell myself. That's what it wants me to do. I don't know why I know this, but I do.
"You will play my game," the voice hisses, as though via some wicked ventriloquist.
His words slide through my mind like oil into a rusty hinge, easing it open.
"Or you will PAY!"
Gale-force wind hurricanes through the trees, throwing me violently to the ground. I squint through the swirling leaves to see another figure beyond the Hangman Ghost.
"Stay down Sasha!"
It's Zara. I can see her blurred outline through the body of the ghost, motioning for me to me to drop to the ground. I don't have a choice; my legs buckle as the ghost hovers closer.
"Sasha, move into the circle. It can't hurt you inside the circle!"
I crawl backward and notice a round shape carved into the ground.
"Complete the circle!"
I can barely hear Zara over the roaring wind, let alone make sense of what she's saying. I move inside the circle and pull out the knife. With a shaking hand I trace over the carved shape. As I complete the gap, the Hangman Ghost lets out a piercing roar, making me cover my ears and squeeze my eyelids shut.
An eerie silence descends, like the quiet before the storm; the storm that came with the Hangman Ghost.
When I open my eyes the wind dies and the Hangman Ghost begins to disappear, as if someone has blown a man-shaped smoke ring. The edges of his silhouette break into particles which disperse like sparks from a bonfire. As he begins to fade I hear his voice:
"This is not over. Your time will come!"
The outlines of his body fade and in the space of a breath there is nothing except Zara. She runs to my side and helps me to my feet as my legs tremble.
"Are you alright?"
I nod numbly, not trusting myself to answer without bursting into tears. A full moon springs out from behind a cloudbank, bathing the forest clearing in milky white light; another bad omen. I look down at the circle I'm kneeling inside and I'm thankful for it being there; somehow it seemed to repel the Hangman Ghost. I shoot a glance left then right, scanning the moonlit trees.