I carried on watching the woman—privately, I thought—convinced that she wouldn’t be able to see a ghost, but instead of walking by my booth and taking a stool at the bar, she brushed a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, turned on her heel and made a beeline right for me.
I made a quick assessment of her as she sashayed over. This was a woman of class. She was dressed elegantly, moved with poise, and just about reeked of money. Of jolly hockey sticks and champagne fountains, of yacht varnish and shopping trips to Harrods. She reminded me of my ex-wife, only brunette, and even more of a looker.
‘Jake Fletcher?’ she asked in a cut-glass, Oxford accent, as she settled into the chair opposite me. ‘The ghost detective?’
I tried not to act surprised. ‘What gave me away?’ I replied, gesturing to my very much ethereal body.
She offered a stiff smile and a brittle laugh. Bit of an ice queen it seemed. Just my type.
‘My name is Prudence,’ she replied.
Of course it was. ‘What can I do you for?’ I asked, unconsciously fidgeting with my wedding ring.
‘I’m in need of your services,’ she replied.
I played it cool. ‘Sorry, love, but I’m off the clock right now.’
‘I’m not your “love,”’ she said, the word coming from her mouth like a bite.
‘Whatever,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Drop by my office during business hours and I’ll call you whatever you like.’
She held up a hand, diamonds flashing on her fingers. ‘Please, Mr Fletcher, this won’t wait.’
I sighed and pointed to my empty tankard. ‘Tell you what, how about you wetten that up, then we talk?’
‘You’re a ghost, Mr Fletcher. Why would you need to drink?’
‘Because there are things inside of me that still need killing.’
She rolled her eyes and hailed Lenny, who instantly obliged me with a fresh mug of beer. I’d never once seen the man offer table service before. This woman really was living up to the “queen” part of that “ice queen” tag I’d given her.
I took a gulp of my new pint. ‘How did you find out about me?’ I asked.
‘By reputation,’ she replied. ‘According to my sources, you’ve destroyed an elder demon, rescued a number of innocent souls from a nightmare realm, and defeated a necromancer rumoured to be the Grim Reaper.’
I stifled a grin. When you put it like that, I suppose I had earned some prestige of late. ‘I see,’ I replied, nonchalantly. ‘But how did you know to find me here?’
‘By process of elimination. When you weren’t at your office I went to the place where all the Uncanny drink in this town.’
That added up. ‘And what is it you want me to do for you exactly?’ I asked, running a glance over her fancy fur coat. ‘Let me guess... your corgi died and you want to know if he went to Heaven? Ghost of a disgruntled butler haunting your estate? The dowager forgot to tell you where she buried the gold before she shuffled off her coil, and now you need me to whip out the old ouija board?’
Prudence’s features curdled. ‘You’re drunk,’ she sniped, and started to stand up.
She had a point, I wasn’t exactly on my steadiest leg. ‘Sit down,’ I said, causing her to hesitate. ‘I’m sorry, okay. That was out of order.’
And it was. I’d just seen something of my ex in the woman and lashed out at her reflexively, my tongue loosened by Lenny’s amber brew.
I pushed my half-full pint away to show her that I meant business. ‘Tell me what I can help you with.’
She sat down, eying me warily still. ‘My little brother,’ she said, her lip trembling just a trace. ‘He died.’
Now I really did feel like a tool. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I replied. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how was he murdered?’
She tensed. ‘He wasn’t murdered. He died of a congenital heart defect.’
I shook my head. ‘Then I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do for your brother if he died of natural causes.’
I help ghosts pass on to the Good Place, and the only way a ghost comes about is if a person dies from a murder, or some kind of a traumatic death. A dicky ticker didn’t fit either of those categories.
‘The problem isn’t how my brother died,’ she said. ‘It’s where he ended up.’
There’s only one thing that could mean. ‘You’re saying he’s in Hell?’
‘That’s right.’
If that was true, he’d have to have been a very naughty boy, but then that was par for the course with the country club set. ‘There’s no polite way to tell you this, so I’ll cut to the chase,’ I said. ‘If your brother really is in Hell, he belongs there.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ she insisted. ‘He only wound up there by accident.’
‘People don’t just “wind up” in Hell.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she said, nibbling on her bottom lip. ‘My little brother isn't in Hell because he committed some terrible sin. He's there because he made a deal with the Devil.’
Ah. So, a Faustian pact, was it? ‘I see,’ I replied. ‘And what exactly was it your brother was bargaining for?’
Prudence looked embarrassed. ‘To be a world-class guitarist, if you can believe that.’
I certainly could. I’ve known people sell their souls for a good deal less: money, a bigger dick, a starring role in 2 Broke Girls...
‘Would I own any of your brother’s albums?’ I asked.
‘No, he had the heart attack before he got that far.’
Funny how often that happens, I thought. It’s almost as though making a deal with the devil is a risky proposition, fraught with mortal downfall.
‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that you know an awful lot about Hell and the supernatural.’
‘I’ve been a practicing magician for a while now,’ she replied, matter-of-factly.
‘And how did you get into all that exactly?’
‘I wonder, would you ask that question of a man, Mr Fletcher?’ she asked, her words chipped from ice.
‘Well, if you really know as much about the Uncanny as you’re implying,’ I said, ‘you’ll know that people don’t come back from Hell. Besides, my job is to help people get Upstairs, not to rescue them from Below. Hell is out of my jurisdiction.’
‘Please, Mr Fletcher, I’m begging you,’ she pleaded, her icy demeanour thawing. A tear rolled over one of her knife-edge cheekbones. ‘My little brother means the world to me.’
I felt the urge to offer her a hankie, but of course I didn’t have one.
Prudence went on to tell me about her brother. To tell me all the things I wish my big sis had said about me, but never did: how much she loved him, how she’d do anything to get him back. She obviously cared a great deal about the kid, and had gone to an impressive amount of trouble to get him back. Coming to me was a last resort, she explained—which didn’t exactly inflate my ego, I’ll admit—a final, desperate attempt to see her brother rescued after years of pursuing other arcane avenues, all of which had amounted to nothing.
I respected where she was coming from, and I’ve always been a soft touch for a damsel in distress, but really, what were we talking about here? As drunk as I was, and as bulletproof as that made me feel, there was no way I was getting into Hell.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
‘I know a man,’ said Prudence. ‘He calls himself the Coyote. He can get you there.’
‘Into Hell?’
‘Yes, and back too. Go there, bring my brother back to the land of the living, and I’ll give you anything you want.’
‘I don’t need money,’ I said, and I really didn’t. The Brownie points I’d earn for rescuing an innocent kid from the Devil’s clutches were worth more than any earthly reward she could offer.
I’d been treading water for a while now, taking whatever jobs I could, barely keeping my head above the water. I’d waited years for a job this size to come along. A score like this could change everything. A
score like this could buy me the big ticket. The keys to the Holy Kingdom.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked.
All the tension Prudence had been carrying suddenly drained right out of her. ‘Thank you,’ she gushed, wiping away a fresh tear. ‘Thank you so much.’ She reached into the pocket of her fur coat and produced a small, leather pouch, which she placed on the table in front of me. ‘Go ahead, you can pick it up.’
And I could, which meant the pouch and its contents had to have been magically treated. Inside the pouch I found an old-fashioned compass made of brass. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a compass,’ she replied, a bit unnecessarily. ‘I calibrated it to always be pointing in the direction of my brother.’
I swung it about the room and the needle stayed pointing south, which seemed about right. ‘Let me sum this up, just so I’m clear… you want me to meet with a man who calls himself the Coyote, walk willingly into the jaws of Hell, and find your kid brother using this old doodad?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And quickly.’
I had to admire the audacity of the woman. ‘What’s the rush?’ I asked. ‘He’s been dead for years already, why the big hurry now?’
‘My brother’s body is preserved in ice, Mr Fletcher, but his soul burns in Hell. Every minute he spends in damnation is another minute of torment he has to suffer. Would you wish that on even your worst enemy?’
I could think of two people in particular I’d be more than happy to see roasting in Hell for all eternity, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
‘Please, Mr Fletcher,’ she said, batting her ebony black eyelashes, ‘if you waste any more time, it won’t matter whether you succeed in rescuing my brother or not.’
She had a point. The chances of him coming back even half sane were already pretty slim at this point, without me dragging my heels. If I was going to do this, I needed to do it right away. Delaying any further could mean the difference between the kid living with some nasty flashbacks, or ending up locked in a padded room at Nightingale Hospital wearing a coat with sleeves that wrap twice around the waist.
‘What does he look like then, this brother of yours?’
‘The Coyote will tell you everything you need to know,’ she replied. ‘Now, please, hurry.’
She made it sound so simple. Like I’d be taking a quick safari to damnation. A fishing trip to the lake of fire.
I dropped the compass into my jacket pocket. ‘I’ll take the job,’ I told her.
She smiled gratefully, reached out to me across the table, and we sealed the deal with a handshake.
‘You know,’ I said, polishing off the last of my beer, ‘my friends would tell me I'm mad for doing this.’
‘Then why are you doing it?’ she asked.
‘Because I don't have any friends.’
7
Regret doesn’t even begin to describe it.
We’ve all looked at ourselves in the mirror after a night on the lash, shamefaced at the memory of something we did while we were under the influence, but how many of us have sobered up and realised that we’ve made an iron-clad promise to walk willingly into the gates of Hell?
My mouth tasted like bin juice and my head felt like it had been scooped out and stuffed full of old sausage meat. I ought to have known better at my age. I’d acted like a middle-aged woman at her niece’s hen party, away from her kids for the first time in ten years and drunk as a lord. Not that I was prepared to shoulder all of the responsibility for my actions. Oh no. Lenny's delicious craft beers had their part to play in this mess too. Honestly, the man ought to call them “crafty beers” for the way they sneak up on you.
I took my hangover to Legerdomain, which, while easy on the ears, still let in just enough sunlight through its grimy windows to amplify my headache.
Jazz Hands looked up from her magazine. ‘You’re back. Did you recover my inventory yet?’
‘Not yet,’ I mumbled.
‘Then why are you wasting time hanging around here?’
I pinched the bridge of my nose. ‘I booked another job, Jazz. Bit of a weird one. Going to need your help getting tooled up for it.’
She made a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle. ‘What have you gotten yourself into this time, Fletcher?’
I tried to make light of it. ‘Funny story: brunette has a brother that wound up in Hell, and muggins here is gonna get him back. What am I like, eh?’
Jazz Hands set her magazine down slowly, as if it were a bomb. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I need to take a trip south, Jazz. Made a promise.’
‘I've heard some stupid plans in my time, but this one really takes the biscuit. You're trying to buy your way into Heaven, Fletcher, not gain a place in Hell!’
I felt my temples throb. ‘Can you keep it down a smidge? I’m a bit under the weather after a night at The Beehive. Honestly, I feel as rough as a crab's arse.’
‘You took the job drunk then, did you? Why am I not surprised?’ She ground the heel of her hand into her eye as though she were trying to juice the thing. ‘You stupid, stupid gobshite.’
‘You’re making too big a deal out of this. How hard can it be? I already went to that nightmare realm, remember, and I came back from there alright.’
‘That was different, you had Stella with you then; a powerful witch’s familiar.’
‘What makes you think I won’t have her with me this time?’
‘Will you?’
I stared at my feet and traced a horseshoe in the rug. ‘Well, no. But you didn’t know that, so...’
Having Stella on my side would have been a fine thing. She’s the last remaining member of the London Coven: an attack dog for the forces of righteousness (though don’t call her a dog to her face, if you know what’s good for you). I’ve got my uses, but when it comes to a job this size, Stella would be any right-minded person’s choice. Unfortunately, I’d already looked into procuring her services, and found her to be unavailable.
‘She’d like to help,’ I explained, ‘but apparently she's up to her eyeballs with some armageddon thing.’
‘What?’
‘I know, right? That kid just can't stay out of trouble.’
Jazz groaned and ran two hands down her face.
‘Look,’ I said, calmingly, ‘maybe I was a bit rash taking the gig, but I’m a man of honour, and a deal is a deal.’
I mean, if I don’t have a code, then what am I? There’s not a lot left of me as it is, without losing my integrity too.
Jazz removed her head from her hands and looked up at me. ‘What do you need?’ she sighed.
Bingo.
‘A weapon, for starters,’ I said. ‘I’m guessing it might get a bit tasty down there, so a shooter would be good.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve already been cleaned out,’ she replied, swinging open her empty wall safe to illustrate the point.
‘Can you knock us up a quickie then?’ I asked. ‘A swift enchantment for the road?’
For a moment, she looked as though she might throw something my way for belittling her craft, then settled with offering me a contemptuous stare instead. ‘Your pistol. Do you have it?’
I reached inside my jacket and removed my pearl-handled revolver from its holster. ‘This one?’
Jazz had enchanted the pistol once already, which allowed me to hold the thing, but she was offering something extra this time.
She took the compact weapon in her palm. ‘I can juice it up,’ she said. ‘Make it so the bullets are able to hurt demons. It’ll only be good for six shots though.’
‘I don’t suppose you could do me an Uzi instead then?’ I asked.
‘Do you have an Uzi?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
As Jazz Hands rolled up her sleeves and went about performing the necessary magic on my six-shooter, I browsed the shop, idly perusing her wares as I considered the pickle I’d gotten myself into.
I didn’t li
ke how quickly I was having to put all this together. Ideally, I’d have had my affairs in order before I went waltzing into H-E-double-hockey-sticks. Especially aggravating was the fact that I was having to put the job of finding that thieving eaves on hold. Loose ends drive me bonkers, but finding Prudence’s brother had to take priority for now. The Mystery of the Purloined Masque would just have to wait.
‘Done,’ Jazz announced from across the room, her hands still glowing with a faint nimbus of vermillion light; an afterimage of the enchantment she’d performed.
I took back the pistol, the grip of which prickled my palm as I picked it up, fizzing still with fresh magic. I shoved it back into its holster. ‘Wish me luck, sweet cheeks,’ I said, forcing a smile.
‘Look after yourself, gobshite,’ said Jazz, less angry than affectionate now. ‘You’re playing a very dangerous game.’
And I was, like a round of Russian Roulette, or a thumb war with Edward Scissorhands, or a game of Pop Up Pirate with an actual pirate.
8
I found the Coyote in the basement of a Camden undertakers. I followed Prudence’s instructions to locate him, scribbled on the back of a bar napkin in rosebud pink lipstick.
The Coyote was a small, clammy man with fever bright eyes and a ghoulish grin.
‘Come in, come in,’ he insisted, ushering me into his establishment.
Twice Damned: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Ghosted Book 3) Page 4