Grim

by Gavin McCallion

  With a squinted eye, Tom recognised the hall as the one from the video footage.

  They found the guy that ran the place behind the bar - a burly fella called Simon with a bald head and goatee. He frowned at them as Tom asked about me, and explained about the fourteen missing kids from their island.

  With prompt, he stroked his beard as the memories came back to him. 'Aw aye...' he said, in what was becoming a trademark fashion. 'Fuck me, I forgot about them.'

  'Of course you did!’ Derek smirked, from the label of a bottle of cheap whisky. ‘Everyone forgets!’

  'Aye, figured,' Tom spoke through his teeth.

  'But... I really don't recognise the name, sorry lads.'

  Grim deflated. 'Aw okay... sorry to have-'

  'I'm not sayin' you have to remember her specifically. You must run a hundred gigs a year in here. I'm saying she played here; I know exactly when. If I give you the details, can you tell me if anything weird happened that night?'

  'Mate, this is a bar for local kids to play for their pals every weekend, I see some stupid shit.'

  'Aye, aye, we get that- but listen you're not-' Tom pushed back at the anger. It wouldn't help to explode.

  Worse still, Simon noticed the anger and glared back like he should chance his luck.

  Grim intervened. 'W-We're sorry, I don't think we're being clear here. We already have footage of the gig. We need information about the rest of the night. We wouldn't expect you to remember in great d-detail, but do you have any cameras set up, any video we could view?'

  Diplomatic as fuck.

  Tom stepped back and let Grim handle it.

  'I do,' Simon replied. 'But I can't just let anyone walk in here and watch it, can I? You could be perverts, stalkers, anythin' like that. You look a bit creepy, mate, no offence. And that guy smells like a bear-pit, no offence. I can't help you.' Simon pointed to the door but didn't say anything else.

  Grim, torn between outstaying his welcome and some crucial information, started to emit a long, high-pitched whine.

  Simon turned an ear towards him. 'Is- is that you?'

  Tom shoved Grim, which cut the noise and slipped right into speech. 'Please, sir. We need to find her, we need to. This man is her father, and he wants to be the best Dad ever. H-He can't very well be the best Dad ever if she's missing, can he?'

  'Aye, aye, but-'

  'P-Please, sir. We don't have to leave the building, we only need thirty minutes with the internet in your back room or wh-wherever you keep it and then we'll go.'

  Tom cut in. 'We don't need thirty minutes with your inter- man, shut up. We don't want a fucking copy or anything weird, we just want to see it.'

  Simon sighed, ran a hand down his face, and nodded them past the bar.

  Grim and Tom shared a look that was about as close to a high-five as they were ever going to get.

  ~

  Simon led them deeper into the ground, into a basement within a basement. They passed a lot of boxes of drink and stepped over a startling amount of loose wires on the way. Simon's office was a low ceiling, a computer, an ash-tray and three guitars. He sat himself down at the computer and took the details of the gig from Tom.

  With the footage on the screen, Simon got up and gave Tom the seat. 'Half an hour,' he stated before he left.

  Tom tucked himself in at the desk. 'Well done.'

  'Thank you.'

  'You eh...' Tom hovered the mouse over the play button on the screen, he wasn't looking at Grim. 'You didn't say she... you said I-'

  'It was easier to say you were her Dad than to explain, well... everything.'

  Tom disagreed. Grim never had a problem explaining it before.

  Again, Tom had an apology to make, and it was about time he manned up.

  ~

  Since they were on the subject anyway, or whatever.

  Boys.

  ~

  He spun the chair around and found Grim leaning against the wall with his arms folded, taking a keen interest in the ceiling. 'Listen, mate... sorry about like... not telling Cora about you.'

  'Of course.'

  'No but... we didn't do it on purpose we just- we never got round to it. It's not like we deliberately tried to fuck you over. We-'

  'It's fine Thomas.'

  'Right... y'sure?'

  Grim scratched his ear and nudged his hair-do back over his head. 'If I... C-can I ask...'

  Tom waited.

  'D-did you ever keep her from me? Intentionally? Just to keep her from me? Was I imagining it or...'

  'Eh...'

  'Be honest.'

  'Honestly?...' Ah fuck it, Tom thought, he would be dead in the morning. 'I did, aye. Every time.'

  'Unless you needed me to babysit?'

  'Unless I needed you to babysit. Sorry about that too.'

  'H-uh.' Grim rested his head on the wall and looked off beyond Tom. 'Maybe if you'd tried harder, I wouldn't have died.'

  'You feel like telling me how that crash happened yet?'

  'I don't.'

  'Right then.'

  Tom clicked play on the computer.

  ~

  The night I went missing, I was in a blackout; I can't remember a thing.

  But the night of the gig, I actually remember a fair chunk of my evening.

  I showed up, with my girls, and found a corner to sit in. Bearing in mind, I was in the unfortunate stage in my life where I drank or humped anything I could get near. In that corner, I pulled a bottle of wine from my drumstick quiver and got myself good and toxic.

  I paid the guitarist in the band going on after us some attention and let the booze do its work. We went on stage, played a sweltering show, and came back off. With the bar open and my wine done, I spent some money on bad cider-blackcurrant and bit my lip at everything in the room because that guitarist decided to sit with her boyfriend, or whatever.

  It was David I spoke to, I don't remember that part too well.

  I remember his face being around me, and I remember him handing me a business card, and I remember him promising me stardom. He introduced himself as the manager of an agency called Wonderland Talent. He mentioned nothing about being a Writer for the Court, his work for a genuine sociopath, or his intention to kidnap and keep me in a basement for a year. I'd remember, I hope.

  Regardless of what he said, I woke up the next day with his business card in my purse.

  I phoned him.

  Because sometimes girls can be the fucking dumbest too, I guess.

  ~

  Grim and Tom saw this unfold.

  The video was taken on two different cameras at two corners of the room, between them they caught everything.

  They hit fast-forward on me binge-drinking in the corner, flipping my hair at girls and outright grabbing at the barmaid behind the bar in the sundress, until they got to the conversation with David.

  Both Dads leant into the screen, examining him.

  Tom didn't recognise him, and he would remember the dodgy ponytail if he had seen it before.

  He handed me something, and they couldn't make it out. They assumed, given the man's shifty nature and the evidence of a degree of self-destruction on my part, some kind of unsavoury deal took place.

  He walked away and could be seen speaking to a couple of other kids around the hall as the footage progressed. I didn't do much else of note, and then my bassist dragged me home.

  The information they needed was in the conversation with David. Tom knew it. Other people spoke to me, but only people my own age. They didn't hand me anything, and they were usually playing on the night's bill somewhere too. David couldn't have been one of my friends because by that point Tom would know. He was the part that stood out, but without sound, the footage was on the verge of being useless.

  From the back of the crowd at the gig, there was Derek. 'Swing and a miss, eh Tom? Swing and a miss!’

  'I think this is it, Thomas...' Grim said.

  'Fuck. Aye.' He hit the table, shaking the ashtray and
giving Grim another of his little frights.

  He rewound the footage back to the chat. Almost growling the words, he said, 'who the fuck are you...'

  Simon came downstairs to kick them out. He sounded weary as he spoke. 'Right lads, out you go.'

  Grim moved from his side, standing straight and correcting his shirt. 'Excuse me, sir. Our daughter is on your internet there, she's speaking to a man, do you know who he is?'

  Simon nudged Tom aside, leaning over the screen. 'Eh, aye, looks like one of our showcase nights. The guys at Wonderland run them once a month and pop in to see if there’s anyone worth signing. That's David, he runs it.'

  'Wonderland Talent?' Tom asked. He recognised the name.

  'Aye, couldn't tell you his full name mind you, sorry. But we see him a lot. Tell you what, she must be good if she got a business card from him. He gave one to a kid who used to play here most weekends, best guitarist I ever...' And then Simon trailed off, appearing to struggle with his memory.

  Tom perked up, like a dog hearing the ice-cream van.

  Simon shook his head a couple of times. 'Sorry I... I think I was thinking of someone else. I can't-'

  'Simon.' Grim put a hand on his shoulder. 'Sorry if this is at all inappropriate, but did you know a boy who vanished from the face of the earth?'

  Tom stood up. 'Was he from Wilson's Well?'

  Simon nodded. A slow, unsure nod. 'Aye. Not sure how I forgot, sorry.'

  'Aye, sounds like a pickle, but listen, he went properly missing, and he spoke to this guy from Wonderland Talent?'

  Simon nodded again.

  Tom collapsed against the wall. 'Fuck. Me. Dry.'

  Grim picked up the slack, seeing as how Tom lost the ability to function. 'Simon, sorry to bother you further, but do you have any of these business cards just... lying around here?'

  'Naw, sorry, I-'

  'I've... I've got one.' Tom said from his daze.

  Suddenly, hope came barrelling back towards him - it smacked him in the stomach and drove out the anger, and the guilt, and the hangover and everything else.

  He felt, finally, like he had a shot of finding me again.

  And it scared the holy hell out of him.

  ~

  Twenty-Nine

  Derek, Still on the Floor

  So, Derek was still on the floor.

  He learned the ceiling. Every curve, nook and cranny in the decoration was individually designed to look exactly as it did. It fascinated Derek, who now existed under a foggy duvet of pills. He wondered who would do such a thing. Who would design each curve like that? No two were the same. This wasn't a pattern. Someone made the ceiling look like that.

  As he dozed, the shapes morphed into graphic images of violence and of fire and of headstones and of crying families while Perfect Day rolled around his head, but only the first verse.

  When that happened, he scraped himself back to reality to deal with his shit, but then he saw the ceiling again, and the process would repeat.

  What was he to do?

  Derek was the heavyweight champion of blissful ignorance, but he found himself in the presence of a lunatic, a whole lot of gunpowder, an impending Murder Gala, vivid memories of arson, and a reluctance to piece them together into the most likely answer.

  Time passed. Derek had no idea how much. He didn't measure it by the minute, but by the number of occasions he had to push his tongue back into his mouth, and even then, he had lost count.

  Regardless, it was long enough for Judge Rabbit to pay him a visit.

  He heard a knock on the door. He never got visitors. A knocking door brought a whole new element to his room, resetting the patterns and clearing the fog. In slow-motion, he turned his head to the door.

  He only looked for a bit. The door seemed miles away. A distant brown smudge across a desert of comfortable sand.

  'Hm,' he said.

  'Derek? Are you in there man?' called Judge Rabbit from the other side.

  The voice put the fear into Derek. Judge Rabbit had never been to his room before. There was never a reason for him to come to his room. Derek always went to The Judge. Never would it be deemed appropriate for The Judge to come visit. He should be fired for such a monumental slip-up.

  The door opened across the desert, and Judge Rabbit let himself in.

  Derek could hear all the sounds like they were only feet from him, the clinking of ice in The Judge's glass and the door shutting at his back.

  His voice. 'Dear oh dear, what is this?'

  'I've... fallen, sir,' Derek replied pitifully.

  'So you have...'

  In four giant steps, Judge Rabbit towered over him, blocking the view of the ceiling and bringing him substantially closer to earth.

  A kind of hopelessness crossed his face. 'Talk me through this, would you Del-cat?'

  Derek considered his options. No would be the more professional option, but yes would help him sleep better.

  'I... no, sir. I have just had a bit of a...'

  Judge Rabbit pulled the seat over from Derek's desk and sat down.

  Derek had only a view of The Judge's feet, argyle socks and the hem of his tartan trousers. They moved as The Judge collected the pill bottle from the carpet.

  'I've fallen, sir.'

  'Good God, man. How many of these did you take? These are bloody elephant tranquilisers!'

  'I... some, sir. I'm afraid I may not be able to stand for some time.'

  'Unsurprising, my friend. I've never known you to partake, is this a common occurrence for you?'

  'This is... this is new, sir.'

  'Mind if I?'

  'By all means, sir.'

  The Judge popped a pill and sipped his drink as Derek admired the patterns on his employer's shoes.

  'These appear to be prescribed, for what do you need such medicine?' The Judge asked after a swallow.

  'Just some... head things... sir. Still fit to...serve.'

  'So I see.'

  Sarcasm, Derek didn't doubt. He took The Judge's words as motivation to sit up. Maybe not stand up, but to at least be sitting.

  In his head, he climbed a mountain.

  Sitting now, he gazed up at The Judge - his great moustache and perfect hair, his uniformed and strong brow and elegant chin.

  'Oh, Derek...' The Judge started, looking bemused but tired. 'I wish I could ignore this little... thing of yours, my boy, but I'm not an idiot, nor am I entirely heartless. Out with it.'

  'Sir...' Derek tried to swallow but found his mouth too dry. 'Our activities today concerned me some, sir. And off the back of them, I worry for our activities this evening, sir.'

  'Oh-ho... Derek my boy, I'm sorry to have done this to you. I am.'

  'Sir... that poor family, y-you-'

  'They weren't home, Derek.'

  'Sir?'

  'Indeed, bloody ridiculous. Ruined my afternoon. But I still had to find out how you would cope with it, so I let you believe they perished. A test of sorts, and one - I must admit...' A pause where The Judge distastefully eyed Derek up and down. 'You aren't quite passing.'

  ~

  Judge Rabbit - ever the efficient one - let us believe he had murdered Bass' family to keep us in line as well as to test the limits of his man-servant. Two birds, one brick.

  But while Derek got to find out the truth quickly, Bass wouldn't discover his family didn’t die until much later on in the evening.

  Weak sauce compared to actually performing the murder, I know, but still cruel.

  ~

  'Y'see Derek, tonight, the Murder Gala, you must've assumed I planned to kill a few people, specifically by way of supermassive arson.'

  Derek held in a whimper.

  'Well, I'm planning to kill simply everyone. All the guests, all the staff, friends, family, whatever. I have no further use for any of them. Mortals die tonight, immortals will be left brutally deformed.'

  Derek lowered his head, understanding how The Judge might perceive his behaviour as a failure of his te
st. 'I feel like I may, sir... I'm just-'

  'Everyone, Derek, with fire. Lock them in and blow the place up.' The Judge waved his arms around, fanning flames. 'Fire, Derek. Cleansing fire.'

  'Oh...' Dear oh dear. 'Sir... you won't have another Reaper, selection would... all that death would need to be sent, sir, and you don't have-'

  'Derek, I don't give a flying fuck. I don't care if they are sent, I don't care if the ghouls have them, I don't care if that muppet finds out I have his daughter, I don't care. I just need him out of the way. I just need to be a sordid, handsome criminal for one more day, and then I'm retiring.' His lips broke into a smile. 'I'm done, and so are you. We're retiring, together.'

  Derek didn't catch that. Judge Rabbit's voice, since he sat up, sounded like it'd been filtered through cotton wool.

  'Sir I... I'm not sure I follow you.'

  'I know my boy, because you're off your face. Put it this way.' The Judge swigged his drink and put it down on the carpet beside him. He leant on his knees, closing the gap between his face and Derek's. 'Like any other immortal, retirement is death. I don't want to die, Derek, I don't. I don't want to sign a piece of paper and be ushered off in a little box. I want to enjoy my retirement. I want to blow up everything and run away, leave the Court behind to clean up. And I want to do it with you! I owe you everything, man. I got here because of you, and you asked nothing of me in return but a room and some cheap suits.'

  Derek didn't understand. His suits were cheap?

  The Judge slipped down off the chair and sat cross-legged in front of Derek. The movement proved a bit much for his delicate senses. The tartan blurred too enthusiastically, and Derek had to shut his eyes to readjust.

  When he opened them, The Judge was right there, breathing whisky on him. 'Derek, let's run away together. Somewhere sunny all the time. We can spend it hammered on a beach. You'll be free of your servitude with a nifty - I promise you - retirement package. All I ask is that you're with me.'