Fresh Hell: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (The Ghosted Series Book 1)

by David Bussell

  ‘Why don’t you fuck off home and play with your ouija board?’ he politely inquired.

  I refused to meet his eye, choosing instead to stare at the top of his head, which was bald and shiny like an ice rink for fleas.

  ‘Mr Fletcher is here under my invitation,’ Stronge told him.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Why do you keep entertaining this con artist? You know people back at the nick take the piss?’

  Stronge shot him a look that could melt steel beams. ‘I’m the lead on this case, Maddox. If you don’t like it, I suggest you take it up with the Super.’

  Maddox went to say something but thought better of it. He turned to me. ‘Five minutes,’ he growled, ‘then you can piss off to the nearest graveyard and get your rocks off there.’

  ‘I will, DI Maddox; your Great Granny’s expecting me there at six sharp.’

  He took a step at me, only for Stronge to move in front of him, ‘Five minutes, okay?’

  Maddox stomped away, leaving me and Stronge alone.

  ‘Do you have to?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Detective.’

  A twitch of a smile as she shook her head and sighed, ‘You’d better come back with something good for me.’

  Stronge left, closing the flap of the tent behind her and retreating to a respectable distance.

  Only after the scene was clear did I turn to the presence that had been watching me since I’d arrived.

  A ghost.

  The phantom spirit of the body dredged from the canal.

  She looked a lot better with her skin on: waif-thin and top-heavy, with one of those faces that looked like it was cut from something rare and expensive. She had husky-blue eyes, a beauty spot right where it should be, and perfect, Cupid’s bow lips. Her glowing, blonde hair cast a halo about her head, making her look less like a ghost than an angel. The woman was stunning. Catwalk quality.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, letting her know I could see her, but trying not to letch. ‘My name’s Jake.’

  ‘You’re like me, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Well, inside.’

  She could see through my meat suit to the man within. Us ghosts can do that.

  ‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘And I’m here to help.’

  ‘I’m dead,’ she replied in her perfect, cut-glass voice. ‘How are you going to help a dead person?’

  I get that a lot. ‘I can help you get to the next place,’ I explained.

  ‘The next place?’

  ‘Take it from me, you don’t want to get stuck down here forever. There’s another place you’re meant to be, and it’s my job to get you there. I just need know what happened to you first.’

  I had five minutes to get what I needed, and time was running out.

  Her face wrinkled and two perfect rivers of tears raced down her cheeks. ‘Oh God, I’m dead. How can I be dead?’

  ‘Look, I know it’s hard but you have to tell me. I can only help you pass over if you let me know who did this.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she cried between sobs. ‘He was wearing a mask. One of those… what do you call those things... the ski masks…?’

  ‘Like Jason?’

  ‘No, that’s a hockey mask!’

  ‘Oh, you mean like a balaclava.’

  ‘Yes. A balaclava.’

  ‘What else can you tell me? Anything at all, doesn’t matter how small.’

  She nodded and got a hold of herself. ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit, you know…’

  ‘Hey, I understand, believe me. You’ve just been murdered, that sort of thing can spin you out a bit. But you have to tell me what you remember. Come on, you can do this.’

  She nodded and pushed away her tears. ‘He came at me from behind with a rag and knocked me out. When I woke up it was just me and him in a dark room. I didn’t see much before he came at me with the rag again. When I woke up he was gone. I wasn’t tied up or anything, but I was woozy and I hurt all over. Like my whole body was a paper cut and someone had poured lemon juice into it. It wasn’t until I looked down that I realised I was bleeding. Bleeding everywhere.’

  I felt the human suit I was wearing grimace.

  She went on. ‘I ran for help but I only made it a little way before I passed out. Next thing I knew, I was looking down at my own dead body. That’s all I know, I promise.’

  I forced a smile. ‘That’s excellent,’ I told her. ‘Plenty to get me started.’

  ‘Really?’

  Well, no, but I wasn’t about to tell her that, so I changed the subject. ‘I just have a couple more questions.’

  ‘Anything.’

  I took her by the hand. ‘Why don’t we start with a name?’

  She told me her name was Ingrid. Ingrid Vallens.

  Yup. Former supermodel and Nineties “it” girl, Ingrid Vallens.

  I thought I smelled catwalk on her, but I had no idea I was chit-chatting with the undisputed queen of lingerie models. Some people are so famous your mind just can’t handle it. It’s like your eyes know the truth, but your brain tells you no way. No way can this be the girl from all those music videos and perfume ads. There she was though, Ingrid frigging Vallens. Catwalk model turned fashion consultant, Ingrid Vallens. Ambitious, enterprising, and filthy rich. The kind of woman Beyonce likes to sing about. Ingrid Vallens. And some sick bastard had stolen her perfect skin.

  I played it cool. ‘What else can you tell me about yourself, Ms Vallens?’

  I got her next of kin, National Insurance number, home address, everything I needed to stick it Maddox. I got her DoB too: 3rd February 1974. A bit of subtraction told me that put her at forty-two years old, which came as a bit of a shock seeing as she didn’t look a day over thirty. Why she gave up the modelling lark was anyone’s guess.

  I jotted down her details and snapped my Moleskine shut. ‘Thanks, Ingrid, that’s a big help.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Now I start my investigation.’

  Her brow knitted. ‘So you’re just going to leave me here?’

  I took her hand again. ‘I have to, it’s the only way.’

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’

  ‘You have to stay here, near the site of your… passing.’

  ‘Then how come you get to go gallivanting about the place?’

  ‘It’s different for me, I know how to make the ghost thing work.’

  In the five years I’ve been a phantom I’ve picked up a few tricks, not least of which is being able to stay anchored to the material plane. I’m a rare diamond though, most ghosts stay pretty rooted, but not me. My best guess is that it’s something to do with me having had an inside track on the Uncanny before I snuffed it.

  ‘If you were to go wandering from here you’d get lost,’ I told Ingrid.

  ‘I know my way around London, thank you.’

  ‘Not that kind of lost. I’m talking about your soul. Drift too far and you’d risk losing it for good, or worse.’

  ‘What do you mean, worse? How could it possibly get any worse than this?’’

  I was hoping she wouldn’t ask that. ‘Sometimes instead of turning insubstantial, a ghost can turn... well, feral.’

  ‘Like an animal?’

  ‘Sort of. They’re known as “malevolent spirits” or “shades.” The kind of ghosts you read about in horror stories: your wailing, chain-rattling phantoms.’

  Turning feral wasn’t limited to location either. The longer she spent trapped between this world and the next, the more likely she was to go full banshee.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, casting her eyes to the ground. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  ‘Good. Plant your arse for now, I won’t be long.’

  I could see Maddox and Stronge marching my way. My five minutes were up.

  ‘Jake,’ said Ingrid. ‘Why would someone want to kill me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I told her, ‘but trust me, Ingrid, I’m going to find out.’

  Maddox arrived wearing his trademark scowl. ‘You�
��re out of time, Fletcher. So tell us, oh mighty Oracle, what have you got?’

  I tore a page from my Moleskine and handed it to him. ‘Just a name, address and DoB. I only wish I could give you something useful.’ I practically fluttered my eyelashes at the turd.

  He scanned my notes. ‘Are you taking the piss? Ingrid Vallens? As in Victoria’s Secret model, Ingrid Vallens?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure there’s a lot more to her than a nice body though.’ I looked past him and gave Ingrid a sly wink.

  Stronge took the scrap of paper from her partner and sighed. ‘This seems a bit unlikely, Fletcher.’

  Maddox put it more succinctly. ‘You’re a fucking con artist, mate.’

  ‘Just run the details then give me a basket of muffins when you’re up to speed,’ I told him. ‘I don’t have time to piss about.’

  As I turned and walked away, Maddox sang me a refrain.

  ‘You’re about as useful as a fucking magic 8-ball, Fletcher.’

  ***

  I headed to the Camden Tavern for a breather and a pint. It was past closing time, but they knew my face there (well, Mark’s face), so they let me break the lock-in and come inside.

  I ordered a tap beer and found a seat in the corner under an old print of two Victorian pugilists squaring off in a boxing ring. It felt good to take the weight off Mark’s feet. I exhaust pretty easily when I’m forced to tote his big lump of a body all over the place.

  Looking around, I watched the other patrons milling about, wasted, the lot of ‘em, staggering to and fro as if the ground beneath them were the deck of a storm-tossed boat. I took a sup of my pint. It tasted like heaven. As a ghost I don’t get to drink, or eat, or even breathe. If I couldn’t take control of a person’s body from time to time, I don’t know what I’d do. These simple, earthly pleasures are everything to me. It’s only the thought of sinking a beer from time to time that keeps me from going doolally.

  A woman walked past me; attractive, put together, a little stern looking. She reminded me of Sarah, my ex-wife. We were in love once, back when I was alive, before she went crazy and started acting like a thing possessed. I didn’t need that. Got enough of it from the day job, thank you very much.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a Twix bar and unwrapped the packet. I took out one of the fingers and gave it a sniff. It’s important to savour the good things in life, take it from a dead man. I sucked the chocolate off the Twix, right down to the biscuit. Jesus H Christ, it tasted good, but then I’m a man of simple tastes. When you’re used to working the night shift, you tend to eat anything you can get your hands on, and that suits me fine. I’ve always been a Scotch egg in a service station kind of guy.

  I finished off the Twix and drained the last of my beer. Mark’s body was beginning to twitch around me. Tremble like I was stuck in a meat locker. I always hated this part. It was time to give Mark back his body before it unceremoniously ejected me. I tended to leave him in the pub once I was done with him – stick ten empty pint glasses in front of him and let him join the dots. Tonight I was feeling puckish though. Tonight Mark had a date with an alleyway and a dry bottle of White Lightning.

  4

  You know that Jon Bon Jovi line, “I'll sleep when I'm dead”? Well, it turns out the dead don't get that luxury, at least not if they ended up a ghost like me.

  I do have a place I go to though. A place to spend my downtime. Somewhere I can put my feet up and pass the hours while the rest of the city snoozes. Since I don’t need a bedroom I set myself up in an office block in Chalk Farm. It’s a bit dilapidated, but that’s to be expected since no one but me works there anymore. Apparently the place is haunted. Awful business.

  The building is a converted gin warehouse. It has a lift with a folding shutter door that takes you up five floors. The top one is where you’ll find me. Actually, you won’t, not since I’m invisible. What you will find—if you’re nosy and brave enough—is one semi-furnished office with a panoramic view of Camden Town; which I like to think of as my little patch of London. There’s a desk there and an old office chair I sit on when I’m talking to clients about potential jobs. Potential “psychic investigation” jobs that is. I prefer to take bookings by phone as it disguises the fact that I don’t have a body. People can be weird about that.

  Aside from my simple office setup, the only other item of furniture I own is a TV/DVD player combo perched on a milk crate next to a pile of boxed sets and old movies. Changing the channel on the thing is a bitch. Even now, with all the practice I’ve had, picking up a remote is like working with a giant pair of Mickey Mouse gloves that keep turning into smoke.

  With no small amount of trouble I set the TV to AV1 and pressed play on a DVD. Movies are a great release for me, and the best way I know to chalk off some hours before the sun comes up. My favourite kind of movies are ghost movies, which I watch for the pleasure of yelling at them whenever I spot an inaccuracy. What can I tell you, a man needs a hobby.

  The target of this evening’s ridicule was the Patrick Swayze/Demi Moore vehicle, Ghost. I was only twenty minutes into it before I was mouthing off at the screen.

  ‘Bullshit!’ There’s no tunnel of light!’ I hollered, as Swayze turned down his ticket to heaven so he could chase around after his Grumpy Gus girlfriend.

  Ten minutes later he was having it out with some hobo on the subway and I was calling foul again. ‘He’s a droopy-faced old man! Just give him a punch in the bracket!’

  Next thing I know he’s waltzing into the shop of some spiritual advisor. ‘Oh yeah, right 'cause Whoopi Goldberg's gonna solve all your problems!'

  I picked up the remote and hurled it at the TV screen, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to give me some degree of satisfaction.

  That’s when something weird happened.

  No, not weird, downright terrifying.

  Whoopi Goldberg turned, looked right down the barrel of the camera, and spoke to me.

  ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Jake Fletcher,’ she said, sending me scrabbling away from the telly like the chick from The Ring had crawled out of it.

  Was I dreaming? Of course I wasn’t, I’ve already established that I don’t sleep. Try to keep up.

  Whoopi went on as her co-stars stayed on pause. ‘Your running days are over, Jake. We’re coming for you. You have to answer for the things you’ve done.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  Something told me I wasn’t really being addressed by the EGOT-winning actress and popular daytime television host.

  ‘You drifted from His light, Jake. You revolted against God.’

  It must have been one of the Big Man’s stooges. After five years on the lam, He was finally turning His attention to me. That didn’t add up to anything good.

  Thing is, I did some bad stuff back in my corporeal days, and it turns out He took them kind of personally. Don’t get me wrong, I never meant to be a sinner, I was just… misguided. Like I say, I used to be an exorcist by trade—the only agnostic exorcist in the phonebook, thank you very much—and my job training was something I kind of pieced together myself. I thought I was doing the lost souls I dealt with a kindness, releasing them from their suffering and returning them to the Great Beyond. Apparently, I was way off.

  The fact is, I was obliterating those poor bastards. Annihilating them. Exorcisms, as it turns out, are for banishing malevolent forces, not for relocating fragile, earthly spirits. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was throwing the baby out with the bathwater on a daily basis. So many souls just… gone. By the time I learned the folly of what I was doing it was already too late. I was dead. Time up. Off to meet my maker, and I wasn’t expecting him to roll out the red carpet for me.

  So, here I am, a phantom on the run, trying to do as much good as I can to cancel out the bad before I’m made to answer for my misdeeds.

  Whoopi glared at me through the TV screen, her eyes unnaturally bright – luminescent even. ‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself,
Fletcher?’

  ‘Listen, I did some bad things, okay, I hold my hands up, but I’m on the right track now, Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I have a case… I’m helping a lost soul find her way back home. Back home to you. That’s gotta be worth something, right?’

  ‘You think that’s going to save you, Fletcher? You think one, paltry soul is going to rescue you from damnation? From an eternity in hell? After all the souls you turned to nothing?’

  ‘It’s the ghost of Ingrid Vallens,’ I said.

  That caught Whoopi’s interest. ‘As in lingerie model, Ingrid Vallens?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Whoopi stared at me for a second then turned to one side as though she was being talked to by somebody standing off screen. She turned back to me, muttering something under her breath. ‘Very well, Jake Fletcher, you have bought yourself some time. But know this – if the soul of Ingrid Vallens isn’t delivered to us in one week’s time... I will come down there, and I will drag you back here myself.’

  Suddenly, the light went out of Whoopi’s eyes and she returned to her scripted dialogue.

  I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

  Five years it took them.

  I was starting to think they’re never find me.

  But now they had my number.

  5

  Sun up. Eager to press forward with my case, I decided to follow the next stage of the investigation au naturel, using my ghost form to tag along with Stronge and Maddox incognito. I was dressed in a black suit and tie, the same duds I was wearing on my deathday. That’s the way it works with ghosts, we get stuck with the last look we had in life. Good news for those of us who dressed up nice for the occasion, bad news for the poor sods that drowned in the bathtub.

  By daylight, the police had discovered a set of bloody footprints leading from the crime scene to the location Ingrid had taken flight from. The prints led into a disused warehouse along the wharf, one of the few in the area that had yet to be converted into luxury flats. The building was surrounded by a chain-link fence, but the blood trail led through a snipped out portion—likely the work of squatters—that Ingrid had managed to escape through.