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

by David Bussell

  This was only my second time seeing Ingrid, but I was already starting to feel a real connection to her. The kind I hadn’t felt in a long time. There’s something about two ghosts connecting… something pure. When you take all the physical stuff out of the picture—the rutting, the hormones, the springs and the leaks—you’re left with a different kind of appreciation. An ability to enjoy someone on a purely spiritual level. Honestly, I was starting to wonder if I even wanted to solve her murder – not if it meant her going away. Not if it meant her heading off to her final reward and leaving me stuck here.

  But of course I would, it was the right thing to do. Plus, after last night’s chat with Whoopi Goldberg, my own future might depend upon it.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘did you find out who did it?’

  I told her what I’d learned at the Magic Circle. That she’d been used as a blood sacrifice – killed by a magician seeking eternal life. She was horrified, naturally.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her, ‘but it won’t be long now. I’m on the right track, I’ll have the bastard who did this soon enough.’

  She thanked me emphatically and came in for a hug, but I stopped her. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I mean we literally can’t. You’d pass right through me.’

  It was a sad impediment of the corporeally challenged.

  Ingrid nodded sombrely. I wish I could have hugged her. God knows I did. Hug her and turn that frown into another of those glorious, warm smiles.

  ‘I have to get going,’ I said.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To lay some bait.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I need to draw your killer out into the open,’ I explained. ‘I’m going to set up in Highgate Cemetery and make him show himself, then I’ll have the bastard.’

  ‘Why there?’

  Good question. ‘It’s home ground, and I just feel safe there, don’t ask me why. Must be a ghost thing.’

  She smiled that smile again, the one that warmed my heart.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ she said. ‘I don’t like being here alone. It feels… cold.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ingrid, soon enough this’ll all be over and you’ll move on to a better place. Trust me.’

  ‘I trust you, Jake.’

  I headed off to my next destination, thinking of Ingrid the whole way.

  Maybe one day, maybe once I’d cleaned all that red from my account, maybe then the two of us could meet on the other side and spend some real time together.

  I smiled.

  Dying might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

  10

  I needed to get a message to a rogue magician, and in this town, that meant a visit to The Beehive. Every city in England has a place like it – a boozer for Uncanny types. A place they can chew the fat and get sloshed, away from the prying eyes of normals.

  I felt my mobile phone vibrate in my jacket pocket, another enchanted gift from Jazz Hands. Yeah, I may be a ghost, but this is the modern world, okay? Even the dead need to be contactable while they’re on the move.

  I pulled out the mobile and saw Detective Kat Stronge’s name shining out. I smiled and answered.

  ‘How is my favourite Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Overworked and underpaid.’

  ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘We’re not getting too far with the canal case, hoped you might have had another, you know, “insight,” or whatever you call them.’

  ‘It’s always straight to business with you. Whatever happened to the art of conversation?’

  ‘Jake…’

  ‘I’m working on it, Kat. These things can take time to, you know, become clear.’

  I heard her sigh on the other end, ‘So you have nothing. Got it.’

  ‘Trust me, I’ll have better news soon,’ I replied, and I even believed it.

  ‘One thing that always bugs me about you, Jake—’

  ‘—I know, how can one man be blessed with charisma, good looks, and a sparkling sense of humour, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I want to know how you always talk the same but your voice sounds so… off, sometimes, and only over the phone.’

  Ah, yes. A smarter person would have practiced doing Mark’s voice when he wasn’t in his body, but I was a lousy mimic.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s to do with, uh, my “gift,” I said, winging it.

  ‘Your gift?’

  ‘Yeah. It can play havoc with phones. And… other sorts of technology. It’s a curse, really.’

  ‘What types of technology?’

  ‘Sunbeds are a total no-go. Electronic toothbrushes – manual only for this guy. Toasters – I can’t get an evenly browned slice out of one of those bastards for the life of me.’

  ‘Sounds like a living nightmare,’ replied Stronge, deadpan.

  ‘Well, gotta go. I’ll let you know as soon as something juicy jumps out at me from the spiritual ether.’

  I pocketed my phone and carried on towards The Beehive. The pub was situated at the end of a blind alley, a hidden passageway, invisible to anyone not in the know. I checked over my shoulder and pushed open the pub door. I felt the skin of a protective spell part around me as I stepped inside. The Beehive had a rule—no spells in the bar—and the dampening magic that permeated the place saw to it that disputes didn’t get too out of hand. It didn’t rob the patrons of their powers entirely, but it deadened any spells to the point of making them non-lethal. That way no one got burned to the ground for giving the wrong bloke’s woman the eye. Which isn’t to say that thrown fists were unheard of there. When you cater to the kind of crowd The Beehive does, all bets are off.

  I walked in and scanned the lounge. Heads turned as I entered. Some Uncanny sorts can see ghosts, some can’t. There really seemed no rhyme or reason to it. For example, witches? They can see me, their familiars too. Fairies? Werewolves? They toodle by on their merry way without ever knowing I was there.

  As I made my way to the bar, a distracted imp playing darts with a telekinesis spell saw his arrow go wide, and cursed in an ancient tongue as it buried itself in the door to the Ladies. It was barely lunchtime, but the place was already peppered with day-drinkers. I saw Lenny behind the pumps, the pub’s proprietor, a grizzled mountain of a man who looked like he was born with bear DNA. He was tall. The kind of tall that cast a shadow on a cinema screen, even when he was sitting down.

  He looked at me from head to toe. I wasn’t a regular, but Lenny knew me well enough to know I was an Insider; someone who belonged in his establishment.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he growled.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ I told him. ‘A magician.’

  ‘Lot of conjurers come this way.’

  ‘This one belongs to a gang; or did before he went rogue. Order of the Eternal Flame. You know who I’m talking about?’

  Lenny’s face stayed poker solid.

  I was about to dig a little deeper when I felt a hand on my shoulder, heavy as a trailer hitch. Not good. Whoever that paw belonged to could touch me, and in this place, that did not bode well.

  I turned around to see a short, muscled creature dressed like a pile of dirty laundry. He had no hair and a mouthful of piranha teeth. The guy looked like the keynote speaker at a psychopath convention.

  ‘You’re not wanted here, phantom,’ he spat.

  I get this a lot. There’s a certain breed of people who just don’t like ghosts. I guess we must depress them or something. Remind them of their own mortality.

  ‘Leave it out, will you?’ said Lenny, cautioning the punter on my behalf. ‘Ain’t you had enough of being knocked around?’

  It was only then that I saw the lumps and bruises on the little guy’s face. He’d been in the wars alright.

  I smiled back at him, all peaches and cream. ‘What’s your name, mate?’


  ‘Razor. And I’m not your “mate.”’

  Now he was just getting on my nerves. I came to The Beehive for intel, not to get mugged off by some… whatever the fuck this thing was.

  I squared up to the little scrote. ‘What’s your problem, pal?’

  ‘You are. You stink. Stink of the grave. It turns my stomach.’

  I tried one last time to lighten the mood. ‘Don’t blame me if you can’t handle your spirits.’

  The lowlife did not appreciate my levity. I began to wonder if the argument we were having was about something more than he was letting on.

  I held my magic ring up to his face. ‘Do you know where I can find the magician I’m looking for?’

  ‘No,’ he growled.

  The ring glowed blue. He was telling the truth.

  He snapped his knife-edged teeth at me and I only just managed to pull my hand back in time to keep my full complement of fingers.

  ‘You dare use magic here? On me?’ He took a swing and chinned me, sending me sprawling through the bar.

  ‘Oi, staff only,’ said Lenny.

  I rubbed my jaw and stepped back through the bar, narrowing my eyes at Razor, who stood ready, legs spread and solid like a boxer. Whatever Razor was, he knew how to throw a punch.

  He chucked another one but I blocked it and gave him an elbow to the mouth for his trouble. Wallop. Couple of loosened fangs. Any more aggro and the next ones were going down his throat. I may not look like I’d be much use in a fight, but I’m not shy of a spot of fisticuffs. As a lad I’d had it out on the cobbles more times than I could count. I was brought up in an all boys school in a rough part of town, and it could get pretty scrappy at times. Downright vicious in fact. My teenage years were no different; walk around small town Britain dressed like a goth and trouble has a way of seeking you out.

  Razor sent another punch my way and it connected with my temple. I staggered backwards, my senses smudged. I realised I was actually smiling. Call me crazy, but when you spend so much of your life (well, afterlife) about as solid as smoke, it’s actually kinda exhilarating to feel something, even if it is a smack in the chops.

  ‘That all you got, you stinking corpse?’

  Oh, it was on. On like King Kong in a thong.

  The bar’s patrons gathered around, placing bets on the fight’s outcome. Well, the ones that could see me. The others just enjoyed watching Razor take part in a vigorous bout of shadow boxing. The imp whose dart game I’d disturbed put a hefty wager on the home player. That really jabbed my fight button.

  Razor came at me again. He delivered a fist to my stomach this time, hoping to knock the wind out of me. Fat chance of that, what with me not being a breather.

  I stomped on his instep and cuffed him hard around the side of the head, disorienting him and leaving him with a hell of an earache.

  He threw himself at me, raging. We slugged it out some more, careening about the place, overturning furniture, hitting each other with whatever come to hand. The bystanders cheered, yelling for more, howling for blood. It was bedlam.

  I shouldered Razor to the ground, and when he came up he had a bottle in his hand. He smashed it on the edge of the bar and came at me with the sharp end, making to glass me in the face. Jesus, only in this country do we use “glass” as a noun.

  As I backed away, I accidentally lost my footing and went sprawling to the ground. No sooner had I hit the deck than Razor was on top of me, bearing down with that jagged bottle. Razor could touch me, did that magic extend to the bottle in his hand? Would it cut my skin, pierce my flesh? I didn’t fancy finding out the answer to that little riddle.

  I managed to get a hand on his wrist, but he was surprisingly strong for a person of his size; a real pitbull of a thing.

  The cheering bystanders reached fever pitch, and I got the distinct impressing that none of them was rooting for me.

  ‘You act like a hard man,’ Razor hissed, ‘but I see right through you.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ I told him. ‘I’m a fucking ghost.’

  I concentrated on my free hand, willing it to be even less solid than usual, and reached into his chest—right through his skin, right through his rib cage—and grabbed him by the heart.

  He choked and froze.

  ‘One twitch and you’re a dead man,’ I said, tightening my grip. ‘So, what do you reckon? You wanna keep going at it, or shall we call this one quits?’

  The kind of hocus pocus that could kill people was cancelled out by The Beehive’s dampening magic, but that didn’t stop me from doing my ghost thing.

  ‘I submit,’ he gasped.

  ‘Good boy.’

  To make sure he didn’t go back on the deal the moment I let go, I gave his ticker just enough of a squeeze to knock him out.

  ‘Take a nap, mate,’ I said as I rolled him off me, ‘and don't feel like you have to wake up.’

  I stood and dusted myself down. ‘He’ll be fine,’ I told the onlookers. ‘Just needs to sleep it off.’

  A shadow swamped me from behind. Lenny.

  ‘Out. Now,’ he growled.

  I didn’t put up a fight. I had no idea who or what Lenny was, but I knew better than to tangle with him.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ I whispered.

  ‘Out!’

  I called to the rest of the pub’s patrons as Lenny’s glare practically shoved me to the exit. ‘Listen up, dickheads. Any of you knows the scumbag that killed Ingrid Vallens, you tell him to meet me in Highgate Cemetery at midnight. You hear me? Highgate Cemetery! I’ll be ready with my fighting pants on!’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Lenny.

  ‘You think they got the message?’ I asked, wondering if I’d stirred the pot sufficiently.

  Lenny told me not to worry. ‘The whole of the Uncanny Kingdom will know about it soon enough...’

  11

  I stopped by Legerdomain to kill some time before the meet.

  ‘You’re telling me you walked into The Beehive and started a fight?’ Jazz Hands screeched.

  ‘He started it.’

  ‘You’re like a child! Do you have any idea of the things that happen that place?’

  ‘I’m beginning to get an idea,’ I replied, rubbing my jaw.

  She marched up to me, gesticulating wildly. ‘You could have been killed! Again!’

  ‘Goes with the territory.’

  ‘This isn’t your territory, Jake. You solve murders. Domestics, hit-and-runs, muggings gone wrong. Since when do you get involved with magicians and creatures from the abyss?’

  ‘Hey, I was an exorcist once—’

  ‘—who banished piss-weak pit fiends and mopped up projectile vomit.’

  ‘Not exactly the way I had it laid out on my CV.’

  She threw up her hands in dismay. ‘Idiot.’

  I folded my arms. ‘Well, you’ve been a real ray of sunshine today. So glad I stopped by.’

  Jazz slid back behind her counter and snatched up the handset of a telephone. It was an old-fashioned rotary phone with magical glyphs on the dial instead of numbers.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m calling for help,’ she said, jamming a finger in the wheel and giving it a swivel. ‘I’m contacting the London Coven.’

  ‘I thought you told me they’d been wiped out.’

  ‘They left a familiar. A protector. Someone they built especially to handle this sort of thing.’

  The London Coven was, as far as Jazz explained it, a kind of a police force that kept an eye on the Uncanny of London, keeping them in line when the shit hit the fan. Now all that was left of them was one familiar keeping the peace in the entire city. She must have been putting in a shit-load of overtime.

  I turned my hand corporeal and placed a finger on the phone’s hang-up button, cutting off the call.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I appreciate you looking out for me, but the message I got from heaven didn’t say anything about bringing in a second party. I’m going
to have to lone wolf this one.’

  ‘Then let me help you find a way to hide,’ she said. ‘There must be some way to get you off his radar.’ She began pulling old tomes off the shelves and riffling their yellowed pages.

  ‘Give it up, Jazz. There’s no hiding from this. Judgement Day is coming, and I’m going to make sure I show up for it spick and span. Anyway, aren’t you the one who’s always telling me I need to make up for the bad things I've done?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘—So which is it? Do I carrying on running from my fate, or do I get out there and atone for my sins?’

  I had her there.

  She hung up the receiver. ‘Tell me why you’re really doing this.’

  ‘I just told you—’

  ‘—It’s a woman, isn’t it?’

  ‘How dare you. I am doing this one hundred percent because it’s the right and correct thing to do! I am a ghost of honour, not driven by something as mortal as crotch-based lust.’

  ‘How pretty is she?’

  ‘Off the scale pretty! I mean it is just insane.’

  She sighed and buried her hands in her hair. If I didn’t know better I’d almost think she was jealous.

  ‘Look, Jazz, I have to do this. Not just to get the Big Man out of my hair, but because I made a promise. To the victim. To Ingrid.’

  ‘What do you even know about this woman?’

  ‘That she’s dead and she’s in trouble and she needs my help. What else do I need to know?’

  Jazz drew a long breath. ‘Tell me this, Jake... is she worth dying for? I mean, properly dying? No ghosting around, no playing detective, no anything. Just the void.’

  I chose not to answer that one. Instead I checked my watch for the time. Ten to midnight. Almost time for my rendezvous. ‘I have to get going,’ I said. ‘Duty calls.’

  I was about to make off when Jazz Hands told me to stay where I was, and went to the framed picture of James Randi that she kept behind the counter. Pulling it aside, she revealed a hidden wall safe, which she opened using a key she kept about her neck. Reaching into the safe, she produced a bundle of some sort and set it down on the counter. The contents of the bundle were wrapped in a silk handkerchief, which I touched and found solid. Whatever was under there, Jazz Hands had worked her magic on it.