by Tony Lewis
Legs suitably exercised, Ollie returned to his chair.
“As I was saying, no. We have no work at the moment.”
“What, none at all? Not even a sniff?” asked the zombie, dexterously threading a needle.
“Nope, I’m afraid not. We’re still basking in the glory of solving the cryptic Case of The Cracked Mirror though. Remember that?”
“The mirror in the bathroom upstairs?”
“That’s the one.”
“The mirror that Flug head-butted because he thought someone was staring at him?”.
Ollie nodded, “The very same.”
“Doesn’t take much working out though, does it?” said Stitches. “Broken mirror, monster with a three inch shard of glass in his face.”
Ollie didn’t respond, as he was lost in thought. He was mulling over the decision to take over his uncles’ detective agency. Not that he’d had much choice in the matter. It was stated in the will of his dad’s brother, Gorge The Corpsegrinder (1376-2009), that Ollie should head the business for a period of no less than six months, more if he fancied it. Yeah right! Ollie was convinced that his Father had a clawed hand in the decision.
Gorge had lived his whole life in Skullenia (population: some living, some dead, most undead, the rest, who knows? It was a rather drab and dreary place that had once ranked eleventh in a list of ‘Places I would rather go on holiday if Iraq was fully booked’. It was nearly twinned with Chernobyl, but the Russian town had withdrawn from the agreement because their council leaders had felt that its image would have been irreparably tarnished. It was also the only place on record that Kentucky Fried Chicken had refused to open a branch in. McDonald’s had tried, but the Skullenians had said no), so what better place for Ollie to spend some time immersed in the birthplace of his family and their unholy practices. The decision was probably made after Glut realised that his son wasn’t the body ripping, blood drinking, heart devouring fiend that he was. And let’s face it, you always want the best for your kids. Ollie’s reticence had, to say the least, left Glut a tad miffed, and when he found out that Ollie had developed a passing interest in astronomy and wanted to go to night school, he had almost burst.
“No offspring of mine is going to spend his evenings gazing up at the sky comet watching,” Glut had spat whilst looming over his son from his full height of seven feet four. “The only heavenly bodies you should be concerning yourself with are the ones that you’re about to sink your teeth into.”
“But dad…”
“Don’t interrupt, boy,” Glut had snarled, his piercing eyes seeming to bore into Ollie’s soul with a look that could stop a heartbeat in an instant. “You’re a vampire.”
“Half.”
“Well, mostly vampire.”
“Mum is human, don’t forget.”
“Alright, so you have some inferior genes in your system.”
“Perhaps you should have called me Wrangler then.”
“Don’t be flippant. The fact is that you have many of the qualities associated with the Wamphyri, and I want you to start acting like it. Now, go to your cellar and think about what I’ve said.”
So Ollie was convinced that Glut had pushed Gorge into putting the caveat in his will, making him stay in Skullenia. But Ollie still failed to see how running a hugely unsuccessful detective agency could give him an insight into the life of a vampire. All he’d learned so far was how to get incredibly bored. He didn’t go out much at night, and the chances of him finding a virgin to sink his teeth into in this neck of the woods were virtually nil. There was Fragrant Fiona, of course, but she was about as attractive as a Rottweiler in a tutu. And as her name suggested, she smelled bad enough to make a fly throw up. All in all, the next few months were looking pretty grim.
* * *
The assembled gathering numbered about a dozen. Males and females ranging in age from early twenties to mid-fifties, sat on various chairs, sofas and the floor. Despite the disparity in age though they were all magnificent specimens, each and every one of them in tremendous physical condition. The only person standing was a female who was pacing the floor.
“Has he returned yet?” she asked.
“No, he hasn’t,” came the reply from one of the males who had just entered the room, “and he should have been back well before now. I hate to say it but I think…..”
“I know,” the female responded, a pensive edge colouring her words. “So what do we do now? Suggestions?”
A chorus of voices rang out, ideas and thoughts flowing from the concerned group.
“Let’s get together and find out for ourselves what’s going on,” said one.
“They’ll come back eventually, let’s wait and see what happens,” said another.
“I’m for trying to find them right now,” said someone else.
The lady stopped her pacing and stood in the midst of the group, her arms folded but a hand raised to her mouth, an index finger gently tapping on her cheek as she considered what she had heard.
“I can appreciate what you’re all saying,” she said “but I think the best course of action would be to let the Master know. He is going to be in the best position to get to the bottom of it.”
Murmurs of agreement issued forth from the other members.
Whilst she could understand their willingness to plunge in feet first she didn’t want them all charging round the forest like headless demons stirring up a lot of trouble. And besides, if the Master found out that this had been kept from him she could guarantee that he would be spectacularly annoyed and people going missing would be the least of her concerns.
“Who’s going to tell him?” someone asked.
“I’ll do it,” said Obsidia, facing the group once more “but in person. This isn’t the sort of news to pass on via a message. I’ll leave now.”
* * *
Stitches shuffled out of Ollie’s office and made his way along the hallway to the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty but he needed to drink some water every now and again to keep his dusty innards lubricated. He’d tried three in one oil but it had just sunk to his feet and leaked out. He found Flug sitting on a chair staring intently at a bottle of washing up liquid over by the sink.
“What you doing, mate?” he asked, getting himself a glass.
“Sssshhhh,” muttered Flug.
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Don’t bovver me.”
“Why?”
Flug wouldn’t take his eyes off the bottle. “You’ll make me miss it.”
“WHAT?”
“Me watching my favourite soap.”
Stitches burst out laughing and dropped the glass to the floor, smashing it to pieces and making Flug jump.
“You total doughnut,” gasped the zombie, very much in danger of literally laughing his head off. It had happened before. He considered pointing out the tiny misunderstanding but decided against it. There was no point whatsoever in trying to explain much of anything to a creature with the intellectual capacity of a brontosaurus that had learning difficulties. Stitches went to get a broom when Flug let out a gasp. The bottle that he’d been watching levitated off the side and hovered a foot in the air gently swaying to and fro. Flug stared goggle eyed at the floating object and watched in horror as it moved slowly towards him.
“Wot goin’ on, Stitches?” he whimpered in a voice far too high for something that could knock down a semi-detached house with one punch. Stitches clapped a hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle the giggle that was trying to escape.
“Me scared. ME SCARED!”
The plastic bottle was now positioned over Flug’s head. He looked upwards, the terror evident on his face. Then, with a resounding THWACK, the object suddenly lost its aeronautical ability and fell onto Flug’s forehead.
“Ow!” he said, rubbing the sore spot as Stitches slapped him on the shoulder.
“You fall for it every time, don’t you pal?” he said sympathetically.
“Wot?”
The air in the kitchen began to writhe and undulate, as if the temperature and humidity had suddenly increased, and a high pitched whine, like a badly played harmonica, cut through the quiet. A small static charge buzzed the atmosphere, and a shimmering waterfall of colours appeared and slowly coalesced into a human form. Finally, with all of his atoms reconfigured, Ronnie Smalls ran a hand through his hair and grinned at his colleagues.
“Gotcha!” he said, winking at Flug.
“You a big naughty. Me fought it was ghost.”
“A ghost in Skullenia? Never!”
Stitches went to the sink and finally got his drink. “What have you been up to, then?” he asked Ronnie after downing a pint of the clear stuff.
“Nothing much,” answered Ronnie, pulling up a chair and sitting next to a now calmed down Flug. “Just been wandering round town, trying to find something interesting to poke my nose into. You know, listening at doors, peeking through windows, that sort of thing. All in the interests of the Agency, of course!”
Stitches raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Of course! Why do you have to sneak about, though? No one can see you anyway.”
Ronnie took a black leather pouch from a pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. Once lit, he took a deep drag on it. Stitches was thankful that he could see Ronnie at this point, because when he smoked whilst invisible, the sight of the smoke passing through Ronnie’s unseen system was quite disconcerting.
“Sneaking around is half the fun, especially when there’s a chance I might be seen. It’s far more exciting if there’s a possibility of getting caught.”
“If you say so. Not much happening out there then?”
“Not really. Old Sweaty’s out spooking people, Mrs Ladle’s lost her pointy hat again, and it’s talent night at the Bolt and Jugular.”
“Dazzling,” said Stitches sarcastically.
“Mmmm. Five minutes of Blind Arnold singing I Can See Clearly Now is enough for anyone.”
“You’ve got that right. He’s got a sander in his throat, not vocal chords. Still, it can’t be as bad as Imhotep’s fire eating act. Probably lasted longer too.”
Flug heaved himself out of his chair and made to leave the kitchen.
“Where you off to, big guy?” asked Ronnie, shrouded in a pall of pale smoke.
“Put cat out,” came the reply from the departing monster.
Ronnie cast a puzzled look at Stitches. “We haven’t got a cat.”
“I know. He puts a saucer of milk outside and keeps a litter tray in the pantry. Apparently it’s to do with subconscious memories resurfacing and manifesting themselves physically.”
Ronnie stubbed out his cigarette and flicked the butt into the bin. “Possibly. Or it could be because he’s got less brain cells than I’ve got gills.”
“That’s true,” laughed Stitches. “He couldn’t pour water out of a glass if the instructions were on the bottom.”
Ronnie rolled himself another smoke. “I’ll tell you who I did see,” he said, the fag dangling from his bottom lip. “Dr Jekyll.”
“Oh yeah, what’s he up to these days?”
“He’s gone into partnership with Mr Singh from the corner shop.”
“Doing what?”
“Bounty hunting of all things.”
“Mmmm. Could be useful if we ever need to track someone down. What’re they called? I’ll let the boss know.”
“Hyde and Sikh.”
The zombie snorted. “Catchy.”
“I thought so. Fancy a game of crib?”
Stitches pulled up a chair and joined Ronnie at the table. “Might as well. Nothing else to do.”
* * *
Alfred Resco sat in an outer office, perched on the edge of a burgundy leather sofa, tapping his fingers on his knees, his eyes darting in all directions. Due to the success of last night’s venture, he knew that he’d end up here again, but it didn’t mean he wanted to be. All he wanted was his money. He also needed a smoke, but a large sign on the opposite wall portraying a cigarette with a dagger through it put pay to that.
An aquarium sat in the middle of the room, and it contained some of the most evil looking fish that Alf had ever seen. Small bones and pieces of matted fur lay on the bottom of the tank, and the water was tinted with a subtle hint of red. They were the sort of fish that, if you had one of them on your plate, it would get to your chips before you did. He was about to go and have a look when a voice boomed from an intercom, making him jump.
“You can come in now.”
Alf crossed the room, feeling like an inmate on Death Row. He thought it might be good to trade places with them, because a nagging worry at the back of his mind was telling him that said prisoner, condemned to die, had better prospects for a long and happy life than he did. Stay calm, deep breaths. Yeah right! He opened the door and entered.
“Ah, Mr Resco. Won’t you sit down?”
The man was huge. He was standing by the window, looking at the view, but it was lost on Alf because the guy blocked it out. He was obviously a soldier, the uniform was a dead giveaway, but that and his American accent were the only things that Alf knew about him.
He turned to face his guest. A chin carved from granite supported chiselled, hardened features, and cruel, steely grey eyes stared out from above a badly broken nose. His hair was cropped into a severe crew cut that looked sharp enough to cut paper. He looked like something out of a Marvel comic.
“Why are you standing, Mr Resco? I asked you to sit.”
It was clear from the tone of his voice that asking wasn’t what he meant. It wasn’t an order as such, but the implication was definitely there.
Alf sat down.
The military man let him sit in silence for a couple of minutes before perching on the edge of his desk, not eighteen inches from Alf. He sat with his hands on his lap, fingers interlaced and twiddling his thumbs, an action that seemed entirely out of character for some reason. Maybe he’s a bit nervous too, thought Alf, but instantly dismissed the notion as nonsensical.
Alf looked for a name tag on the uniform but couldn’t see one. All there was were ribbons, lots of them. He’d obviously seen a lot of action.
The soldier leaned backwards and opened a drawer that Alf couldn’t see but heard, and took out a white envelope which he placed onto the table in front of Alf. “Good work last night, Mr Resco. I trust we can expect the same results tonight?”
Alf froze in position, mid-stretch, his hand hovering over the money laden package.
“T…tonight? I thought it was a one off job.”
The other man grinned. A cracked face leer that held not a trace of emotion.
“The wolves only hunt a couple of nights a month. We need as many specimens as you can gather in that short time frame.”
“But I was nearly killed last night!”
“But you weren’t. And you won’t be tonight.”
Alf decided to be bold. Last night had been terrifying enough, and he didn’t want to go through it again.
“I won’t do it,” he said with as much authority as he could muster. “The deal was for a werewolf.”
He went to take the money but a fist like a club pounded the envelope back down onto the desktop.
The big soldier leaned forward, crowding Alf’s personal space to the point that he moved backwards ever so slightly. Not much, but enough to signal that he had acquiesced.
“I’ll make this very easy for you, Mr Resco. You can leave now with your payment, but I can’t vouch for your safety or that of your family’s if you do.”
Alf knew he was cornered, and that he had no choice in the matter. There was no doubt that this chillingly polite psychopath meant what he’d said. “Do we understand each other?” he growled.
Alf pocketed the money and stood up. “We do.”
“Excellent! Good day, Mr Resco.”
Once Alf had left, a door to the right of the one he’d used opened and another soldier entered the roo
m.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Lieutenant Travis Tyler as he approached the desk. “Is he with us?”
Major Buddy “Ironheart” Cowan opened an ornately carved wooden box and took out a fat cigar which he rolled under his nose, enjoying its rich aroma.
“Of course he is. What choice does he have? But I don’t trust him. He’s now the only local that knows we’re here, and I think he’s close to spilling his guts.”
Tyler held his superiors’ gaze. “The usual procedure, sir?” he asked, a glimmer of anticipation in his voice.
Cowan lit the cigar and took a long draw, holding the toxin filled vapour in his lungs for a few seconds before slowly blowing it out in a thin, grey stream towards the ceiling, where it formed an undulating, spectral cloud. “I think so, but let our friend finish the job first. No sense in letting any of our guys get hurt, agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
* * *
Alf was successful that night. He managed to capture a fine specimen in an old bear pit after a brief chase through the forest. He didn’t get to spend his hard earned money though. In fact no one ever saw Alfred Resco again. They didn’t even find his hat.
* * *
Ollie paced around his office, willing the phone to ring or for someone to drop by with a problem that had a passing resemblance to a case. He hadn’t slept much the last few days, tossing and turning in his coffin, worrying that his Uncle’s centuries old business was going to fold within a couple of weeks of him taking over. There was also Stitches and the rest of the gang to think about. They had worked for Gorge for years. What would become of them if he couldn’t make it work?
At a loose end and sick to the back fangs with doing nothing, Ollie decided to pay a visit to the laboratory. The word laboratory was used in its loosest possible sense, however, because nothing remotely sensible, useful or indeed laboratory-like went on down there. Ollie didn’t really know the full story as to why or how the lab came to be buried in the bowels of the building, but he was sure that his uncle had watched too many James Bond films. The only problem, though, was, whereas James Bond could call upon the genius inventor, Q to come up with incredible and, let’s face it, unerringly handy gadgets, Ollie had been saddled with Rufus Barber Crumble. Rhubarb to his friends, he was the one time owner of Professor Crumbles Emporium of Jokes, Jollies and Japeries, a short lived venture that had collapsed faster than a bouncy castle at a Weight Watchers picnic. The problem with the business, though, was that nobody in Skullenia was much into practical jokes, and Halloween was every night of the year, with more or less everyone wearing their own costume. By some quirk though, the unemployed Crumble had ended up on Gorge’s doorstep, where he had been taken in. Gorge must have liked him a lot, because he left Crumble human, unusual behaviour for a vampire, especially one as bloodthirsty as his uncle.