The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections)

by William Meikle

  Getting my trousers on proved a bit trickier. I tried it while standing up, but after falling over twice realized that the universe wasn’t keen on that idea. I sat on the bed and shuffled myself into the pants, suddenly feeling like an eighty year old on a bad day.

  I sniffed at my shirt and it didn’t sniff back, so I reckoned it was wearable for a while yet. I fumbled a bit with the buttons, but got them all done up… most of them in the right order.

  I’d been right about the belt… it was still in my trouser pocket. It squirmed as I zipped up my pants, but then went quiet.

  I found my other clothes in a drawer. My passport and money were also there along with my silver cigarette case. I took some of the Russian cigarettes from the black ceramic case on the bedside and transferred them to my silver case. I pulled on an extra heavy woolen sweater that I found in a wardrobe, and took both cases of cigarettes out in search of some friendly coffee.

  As I turned to leave the room, I realized it had taken on a pink hue. I pulled open the drapes, and looked out onto the sunset.

  The sun hung just above the horizon, an orange ball almost as big as my fist at arm’s length. The sky around it was aflame in oranges, yellows and purples that ran the full breadth of the arc of the sky. The ranch sat on a hill overlooking a long conifer-filled valley that stretched northwards as far as I could see. At the far end the ground rose to a snow-covered hill that seemed to glow deep gold, and long glacial ponds lay scattered across the valley floor, red, like bloody teardrops.

  The first room I came to was a small windowless office. I would have walked on by, but a telephone caught my eye.

  I suddenly felt a need to talk to somebody… somebody that I could connect to on a personal level.

  I remembered the international dialing tone for the UK at only the second attempt and ten seconds later was put through to Partick CID.

  “Betty Mulholland please,” I said.

  “Hold the line.”

  I got a thirty-second burst of James Last and his band playing The Long and Winding Road before Betty came on the line.

  “Sergeant Mulholland,” she said. The sound of her voice brought sudden tears to my eyes, and I almost put the receiver down. Her woman’s intuition must have heard me.

  “Derek? Is that you?” she whispered.

  “Hi sweetheart,” I said. “How’s tricks.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said.

  “Yes. I bloody would. Haven’t you seen the papers?”

  “They’re a bit late in getting here. Give me the headlines would you?”

  “How about, Lord Collins’ death ‘natural causes’. Does that sound good to you?” she said sarcastically.

  “I’m off the hook?”

  “Not with me you’re not. But the docs say it was a heart attack. We’ll still want to talk to you… just not for murder. A big boy like you can handle that can’t you?”

  “It wasn’t natural,” I said softly.

  “Oh come on Derek. Not more voodoo bullshit?”

  “Like yon thing I saved you and your partner from in Govan last year you mean?”

  She went quiet.

  “It’s back?”

  “No. This is something else. The same but different.”

  “That’s useful,” she said, the sarcasm back again. “Should we be worried?”

  “No. It’s not in Glesca anymore.”

  “So where are you?”

  If I told her, she’d be on the first plane out.

  “Just get any messages to George in the Dugs,” I said. “He’ll find me.”

  “George is busy,” she said dryly. “Somebody invited a gang of Goths for a fight. The place got wrecked.”

  “I’m surprised anybody noticed the difference,” I replied, and got a laugh. Just a little one, but it warmed me from the inside out.

  Maybe having a copper girlfriend wasn’t that bad after all.

  “Derek,” she said softly. “Come home. Please?”

  “I’ll see you soon,” I said, and hung up before the tears could come again.

  Natural causes.

  Yet again the authorities had shown their need to quickly look the other way when anything out of the ordinary showed up.

  I shouldn’t have expected anything different. When Detectives Newman and Hardy got chewed up and spat out by the fiend from beyond in the Amulet case the cops blamed it on hoodies jacked up on Buckfast and glue. When John Mason terrorized the South Side they put it down to an escaped psychopath. Cops were good at what they knew… drunks, bad drivers and petty thieves.

  Werewolves and zombified Goths were best left to people like me… people that knew fuck all about it, but were at least prepared to do something rather than ignore it.

  And now it was time to get on with doing something.

  My head still buzzed, and I had to lean on the door-jamb for a minute before continuing.

  Oh yes. Time to start doing something. Like falling back into bed and sleeping for another week.

  I pushed the thought away. I was off the hook for the Collins murder, but Mark Turner still haunted me, and would, until I’d got to the bottom of what was going on.

  When I left the room and went down the hall, I found McBarnette and Arcand sitting in a sun lounge watching the same view I’d seen from the bedroom.

  “Hey, look who’s back in the land of the living,” Arcand said. “Take a pew and enjoy the view.”

  “He’s a poet and doesn’t know it,” McBarnette replied, and both men laughed.

  I sat down in a leather armchair and let it swallow me. It felt like I’d walked two miles, not the fifty feet or so I’d actually done.

  The dying sun felt warm on my face, even through the large window, but it cast a red glow on the room that gave Arcand and McBarnette a sinister pallor and sunk their eyes in shadows I couldn’t penetrate.

  “Coffee?” Arcand asked.

  “Please. Hot and black,” I said.

  “Just the way I like my women,”McBarnette replied, and laughed, loudly.

  “Don’t mind him,” Arcand said as he stood and left. “It’s his happy hour.”

  McBarnette threw a look at Arcand, and Arcand went quiet fast.

  Looks like I know who’s the boss.

  The belt took that moment to squirm again. I took it from my pocket and put it on the arm of the chair. It went still.

  McBarnette tried too hard not to look at it.

  I tried forcing the issue.

  “Well, here it is,” I said. “This is what all the trouble’s been about,”

  McBarnette looked at me, not at the belt.

  “There’s always something causing trouble,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, but I got the feeling there was amusement there. Amusement, and more than a hint of contempt. If Arcand was the charmer, McBarnette was the heavy. I wasn’t sure which scared me more.

  By now the sun was a blood red semi-circle siting on the horizon. Outside the window the patch grassy scrub on which the ranch sat slowly filled with shadows. The temperature in the room dropped markedly, and I was grateful for the thick wool of the sweater.

  McBarnette didn’t speak again until Arcand returned and handed me a mug of steaming hot coffee. Just the smell of it made me realize how much I wanted it, and I took to it like a drowning man clutching a life belt.

  “So how are you feeling now?” Arcand said.

  I took a long sip of the coffee before answering. My heart jumped, rolled, then took the kick-start the coffee had given it. Blood pounded in my ears, but suddenly I felt much more alive. Alive, and ready for action.

  “Much better,” I replied. “But don’t ask me to run a mile just yet.”

  He smiled, his eyes flickering towards the belt, then back to me.

  “Are you up to eating? The cooks will have something ready in twenty minutes or so.”

  I realized I was hungry. The caffeine kick-start had done its job.

 
; “I could eat a horse.”

  “That can be arranged,” McBarnette said.

  I didn’t like his smile.

  I didn’t like it at all.

  Arcand and I smoked more cigarettes from his black ceramic case as we watched the sun go down.

  “I thought I was a goner, back there on the road,” I said.

  “You nearly were,” he replied.

  “So, tell me again,” I said. “How did you do the cavalry act? How did you know I was there?”

  But he still wouldn’t talk.

  The window slowly turned black, shutting out the view until all that could be seen were our reflections… two healthy, one zombie. I turned away from the window, shifting in my chair to look directly at Arcand.

  “Why did you ask me to come here?”

  He smiled. On him it looked sincere, but he was a lawyer. They get paid to look like that.

  “We wanted the belt,” he said.

  “But you could have had it in Glasgow. You obviously have people over there, otherwise you wouldn’t have found me so easily.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” McBarnette said.

  “It never is,” I said softly. “OK. Here’s another question then. Why do you want the belt?”

  McBarnette answered.

  “I told you,” he said. “I’m a collector.”

  “Aye,” I said. “Tell me another and we’ll see if you’ve got any better at lying.”

  He looked like he might throw himself out of the chair at me.

  Got you.

  McBarnette got himself under control fast, and sat back in his chair. But he was watching me now. I was dangerous, and he’d only just noticed.

  Arcand smiled.

  “OK. You’ve got us. You obviously know that we’re not just lawyers.”

  “I doubt if you two are just anything.”

  Arcand rose from his chair.

  “Come through for supper,” he said. “And we’ll try to clear up some of your confusion.”

  He led me through to a large open plan kitchen and dining area. It smelled of cooking. I suddenly had saliva in my mouth, and my stomach gave out a groan that could have been heard back in Glasgow.

  “Take a seat,” Arcand said, “And we’ll see if we can fill that hole for you.”

  Supper was steak. Lots of steak, with fries, salad and beer. I set to it with as much energy as I could muster.

  Two maids fetched and carried for us, each as subservient as the one who had served me breakfast. They studiously avoided eye contact, and were quieter than church mice, especially around McBarnette.

  We ate in silence apart from small talk about the food itself. By the time I’d finished I felt sleepy again, but I woke up quickly when Arcand started talking.

  “I can get you the hundred grand,” Arcand said. “Right now. We’ll put the check in your hand, call you a cab and you can be on your way within the hour?”

  I thought about it for less than a second. That’s all the time it took for Mark Turner’s face to come to mind.

  I shook my head.

  “Not without some answers.”

  “And what if all you get is more questions?”

  “Try me,” I said.

  He leaned forward and stared into my eyes.

  “What do you know of the Dubh Sithe?” he asked.

  I finished the last of my steak, and sat back in my chair before I answered.

  “His family name is Fraser, and I’m guessing it’s the same family as the one in the Journal. I know he wants the belt… wants it badly enough to kill for it. And he’s a magician. I’ve seen his act… it’s pretty impressive.”

  “Oh, it’s more than an act,”Arcand said. “He has found real power.”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupted. “Swivel-eyes, strange voices coming from inside people… he’s got some kind of mojo that lets him control people at a distance?”

  “Mojo is the right word,”McBarnette said. “The Elf is getting too strong. He has to be stopped.”

  I took a Camel from the silver case, lit it and sucked in smoke.

  “Why?” I asked. “What impact does a Scottish magician make to your lives, out here?”

  McBarnette banged a fist on the table.

  “He’s an abomination. He has to be stopped.”

  I saw something in his eyes that I recognized…something I’d first seen back in Glasgow. Something twitched in the back of my mind. I put it away as preposterous, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

  McBarnette was still glaring at me.

  I laughed.

  “For a pair of lawyers, you two have a real problem being precise. Are you always this evasive?”

  Arcand laughed.

  “Only when we have something to hide.”

  “Do you want a cigarette Mike?” I said.

  I threw him the case…the silver one.

  By instinct he caught it…then had to drop it immediately as his skin burned and hairs singed. Arcand’s lower jaw unhinged, falling forwards and lengthening. His nostrils flared and grew, and his eyes, speckled gold, glowed as they stared at me. A long pink tongue hung wetly between teeth that grew into fangs from bloody jaws.

  “Aye, you’ve got something to hide right enough.”

  That was all I got time to say. Arcand fell to the floor, letting out a howl of pain. His back bent, his knuckles dragging on the ground. Thick black hairs sprouted on the back of his hands. Wood scraped and splintered as talons dragged on the polished floor. He raised his head and howled again.

  It sounded like he had started to enjoy it.

  McBarnette got out of his chair and smacked me on the side of the head.

  Everything went gray again. I heard hurried footsteps on the wooden floor as more people came into the room.

  “Put him with the others,” McBarnette said.

  Arcand’s howls echoed in my head as they dragged me away.

  Eight

  HANGING AROUND

  It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds.

  That's a line from one of my favorite Westerns. Wyatt Earp comes across Doc Holliday, lying in a hospital bed being given the last rites by a priest after a life of killing and debauchery.

  I haven't prayed since I was a kid in Sunday School. I had a strict Scottish Protestant upbringing. Church every Sunday, with Sunday School afterwards, Religious Education classes at High School, and prayers every morning at assembly.

  It didn't take.

  I grew up, not atheist, but agnostic. I know there are more things than are dreamed of in my philosophy... I've even experienced a few. But none of my experiences have led me to fall into the arms of any organized religion. In fact, to me, organized religion is an oxymoron… the two should be incompatible. I can't believe in an overarching figure sitting on high meting out punishment or pleasure based on rules he gets to change when he feels like it.

  All of that is preamble.

  I dreamed, and in the dream I prayed. I prayed for a world where there were no supernatural beings in the shadows, a world of order, not chaos, a world where the worst thing you’d encounter would be another person.

  I prayed, on my knees, on a cold hard floor.

  I was looking for peace. But none was forthcoming.

  Someone was shouting at me, in a broad Glasgwegian accent.

  And then I woke up, and it had all been a dream.

  I was almost afraid to open my eyes.

  “Hey, mister,” the voice shouted again.

  My arms hurt. They seemed to be high above my head, but when I tried to lower them, I met some resistance and tugging only brought pain.

  “Hey, mister,” the voice called again, louder this time.

  I opened my eyes, squinting against a beam of sunlight that speared straight into my skull.

  It took me several seconds to focus, and I soon wished I hadn’t bothered trying. It might be day somewhere, but it looked like I’d strayed onto the set of a bad horror movie.
>
  A row of leather clad youths hung, shackled, from a long rafter that ran the length of a large wooden barn. There were nine of them in total, and all showed signs of being badly beaten. Blood stained the straw at their feet; it poured down their faces, it matted in their hair. The smell hung in the air, heavy and thick. Alongside that I caught other smells, piss, and the high acidic sweat that comes with fear and panic.

  The nearest youth to me raised his head to show a bloody nose that had been mashed half across his face.

  I knew who had done that one… it was me, with the back of my head, back at the Cruiser crash.

  “Thank fuck,” he said when he saw that my eyes were open. “I thought you were deid for sure.”

  I tugged again, met more resistance. Looking up only confirmed what I already knew. I too was attached to the beam by shackles that ran through a thick iron ring embedded in the wood.

  “It’s nae use,” the youth said. “We’ve tried.”

  I tugged again anyway, but he was right. I was chained up tight to the rafter.

  “How long was I out?” I asked.

  “They brought you in last night,” he said.

  “I know that much,” I said. “What time is it now?”

  “Morning,” he said.

  I’d guessed that much already.

  “Hey mister,” he said. “Where the fuck are we?”

  “Aye,” another shouted from further down the line. “And how the fuck did we get here?”

  “Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore Toto,” I said, but that only got me a blank stare.

  “Kansas? I’m no fae fucking Kansas.”

  “No. I can hear that,” I said. The last time I’d seen this youth, he’d been trying to kill me, and I wasn’t that keen on polite conversation, but when he looked up at me again he had tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Please mister,” he sobbed. It wasn’t his face I was seeing…it was Mark Turner’s.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Getting pissed up at yon magician’s gig at Goth One,” he said. “Gareth got us tickets. I remember being there… but I don’t remember leaving. There were five of us, but there’s only Kendall, Gareth and myself here.”