“I don’t know what to choose,” he admitted. “My fashion sense is…”
“Non-existent?”
“Pretty much.”
Gertie nodded, before striding close to him.
“Take off your clothes.”
“This is moving a bit faster than I’m comfortable with.”
“I’m going to help you choose a uniform,” she grinned. “Relax. I’m not about to jump on you.”
Part of him was relieved at that. But strangely, only a part of him. Slowly, hesitatingly, he removed his t-shirt, then afterwards, one and a half trainers and his jeans, standing there before her in his boxers and socks. A glimpse of his own physique, for want of a better word, he caught in the mirror; were his abs more defined than the days previous? Did his arms and shoulders look a little bulkier? He didn’t have a chance to ask for a second opinion, for Gertie was already buzzing like a bee about the clothing racks, selecting a little something from here, something else from there.
“Try these on,” she said, thrusting clothes into his hands. “There’s a changing room over there.”
Brian glanced down at his nigh-naked form.
“Bit redundant now, don’t ya think?”
“Humour me. I want the full effect when you’re in your new clobber.”
And so he did as he was bade, disappearing into the tiny cubicle and drawing the velvet curtain behind him. What had she passed to him, he thought, as he discarded the clothes onto the chair. A long leather coat, de rigeur for hunting vampires. A wide-brimmed hat. Wait… wasn’t this all very similar to XII’s clothes? He shrugged; the man had looked cool, all broody and weather-beaten, he had to admit that. Slowly, with great difficulty in the tight confines, he climbed into the gear. Then finally, he strode out back into the room.
“Finally,” Gertie murmured. “You look like what you are.”
“And what’s that?” he asked.
She eyed him strangely.
“Helsing.”
The two stared at each other, eye to much-lower eye, a strange silence, a tension in the air, both sensing this new and different dynamic. They both opened their mouths as if to speak, then Brian’s stomach chose that moment to rumble once more, this time louder than ever.
“I’m hungry,” he declared, glad to break the tension, if a little embarrassed.
“So it seems.”
“Is there anything to eat in the Sanctum?”
“Nope. But there’s the National Trust café on the Mount.”
“Really? Millions coming in from the government and there’s not even a staff canteen?”
“We get discount. Ten percent.”
“Ten?” Brian was about to voice something suitably sarcastic, but then his stomach grumbled once more. “Fine. I hope they take card.”
“They do,” Gertie smiled, slowly walking towards him and re-arranging the wide lapels on his leather trench-coat. “And I’ll join you in a pasty. But after that, you’d best be on your way to Bodmin. The Scryers have narrowed the banshee down to appearing in a few places and you’d do well to scout the places out. Don’t want to be caught by surprise.”
“Speaking of the banshee, what’s the plan?”
“Like we were discussing before; find her, flirt with her, whisper sweet nothings into her spectral ear until she disappears.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” she told him, fixing his eyes with a strange gaze, one that he’d never seen before in a woman. “Try not to die.”
Chapter Seventeen:
Date Night
The Camaro howled its V8 bellow to the uncaring Cornish evening sky and, not for the first time, Brian shrunk back into the leather bucket seat, gripping the door handle for dear life and fervently wishing he’d never handed Neil the keys.
“This thing is awesome!” his friend proclaimed, a grin on his face as they dispatched another car in their thunderous wake. He glanced down at the centre console, spying a blue button above the air conditioning. “What’s this button do?”
“Don’t touch that! For God’s sake, don’t touch that.”
Neil shrugged, forgetting the button and focusing once more on the road ahead.
“So, a banshee, eh?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re supposed to flirt with her? So this is like… a date?”
Brian scowled.
“I wish people would stop saying that. It’s not a date. I’ve not been on a proper date in over two years and I won’t have my dry spell broken by a fucking ghost.”
“Fucking a ghost, more like,” Neil chuckled.
“Shut up. And no, nothing like that. I just have to butter her up a bit. You know; tell her she’s pretty, compliment her. Should be easy enough,” he gulped.
Neil gave him an amused side-ways glance.
“Really? Easy? You, the man I’ve seen let rip a nervous fart just because the pretty girl behind the kebab shop counter gave you a wink?”
“It’s a banshee, Neil. A ghost. A tortured spirit bound to roam the Earth, torn halfway between the worlds of the living and the dead. I sincerely doubt she’s going to be pretty. More like the opposite, probably some floating sack of half-rotten flesh. And anyway, the reason I get nervous around pretty women who show me attention is the fear that it might eventually lead somewhere and they’ll be inevitably disappointed. Doubt things’ll be getting that far with the banshee. Hope not, at least. Besides; you’ll be with me to help.”
Neil frowned, puzzled, as he slowed down behind a trundling tractor, towing a plough and belching clouds of black soot as it ambled along at twenty miles per hour. Why they all had to use the main dual-carriageway all the time, he didn’t know.
“Good point, how am I supposed to help again?”
Brian drew a deep breath.
“You’re going to tell me what to say…”
“Tell you what to say?” Neil laughed, hearty and strong. “I’ve got to flirt with a ghost, by proxy? Epic.”
“Epic isn’t the word I’d use,” Brian told him. “Banshees are fast and deadly. You’ll have to keep out of sight if you want to stay alive.”
“I will,” Neil promised, a grin of excitement on his face. “Besides, I’ve got the legendary Helsing to protect me, right?”
“Supposedly. Anyway, are you in?”
“I’m in,” Neil declared, before darting into the overtaking lane and flooring the throttle, launching the car past the tractor, slamming Brian’s head back into the headrest in the process. “What’s the plan for when we get there?” he continued. “And where’s she meant to be turning up?”
“There’s a hot spot of activity, so the Scyers say, a cemetery out back of a housing estate on the edge of town. We’ll head there. Apparently banshees are nocturnal and she won’t be making an appearance till about midnight or so.”
“What we gonna do till then?”
“Some dutch courage, methinks,” Brian sighed. “Might as well get a couple of pints in before she shows up and tries to tear my head off. If there’s a chance I might die, I’d rather be drunk. Or at least merry.”
“What about driving back?”
“I’ll get us a hotel room, we’ll stay over.”
“I don’t get paid till next week,” Neil protested. “So I hope you’re picking up the bill.”
Brian smiled weakly at that last comment.
“That’s not a problem. I’ll even get the beers in.”
“Well, check out Mr Moneybags over here. Demon-hunting pays well then, I take it? Do you get a commission on each monster you take out?”
“Nope,” Brian replied. “A flat rate.”
“Wicked. Any benefits, I mean other than the car and the mad stacks?”
Brian pondered his words, images of dyed pigtails and twinkling eyes dancing in his mind.
“Some,” he admitted. A green sign beside the road up ahead, declaring ten miles to Bodmin. Brian raised his phone, opening his maps app. “Right, let’s find a pub. I have
a thirst on, and I want it well and truly quenched before this mission.”
“Date,” Neil corrected him, as Brian stared daggers at his shit-eating grin.
Five pints in and the pair had already lost twenty quid to both the quiz machine and the one-armed bandit, finally giving it up both as a bad job and moving now over to the darts board. The pair often played a game of arrows or two of a night, Neil by far the better of the two. And so, when they’d been challenged to a match by the pair of locals, one short, round, with the rosy cheeks that spoke of a perpetual pub-dweller, the other grizzled and bald, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than its fair share of times, it had been Neil who’d stepped up to the crease, Brian content to sit back and watch, sipping his pint and glad not to be showing himself up.
“Shit,” Neil declared, face dropping as the last dart landed in the board with a thud.
He’d got a bullseye on his first throw, but then only a ten and a five, meaning that for his last round he’d need to hit a nigh-impossible one-hundred and eighty to win. And the two chuckling locals only needed ninety, a far easier goal.
“Best get that tenner ready,” short-round laughed, walking up to the toeline and readying his arrows.
He threw them, one after the other, with the seasoned skill of a misspent youth. His first hit a double twenty, his smirk widening. The second thudded into the black, a mere twenty. Thirty or more now and they’d won the game, making Neil and Brian thirty pounds down for the night. He aimed his last dart for the double twenty again, throwing, already confident of his victory. The missile hit the metal, pinging away to land on the floor.
“Fuck!” he barked. “Should’ve had that.”
“No bother, Frank,” his flat-nosed compadre comforted him. “He needs a one-eighty now. Once he’s failed that, I’ll mop up. Then our next round is on them,” he added, with a snorting laugh.
Neil gulped, made to aim, then paused, as if thinking.
“Brian?” he asked his friend. “Care to tag in for this last go?”
“Hmm?” Brian swilled his pint, one eyebrow raised. “Not really, no.”
“C’mon,” Neil goaded him, smiling. His eye glanced briefly down at the ring on Brian’s finger. “You know you want to give it a try. Besides; it’s your tenner we wagered.”
Brian sighed, before nodding and putting his pint down on a beer mat. The two locals grinned at each other as they watched him take the darts from Neil’s hand and step up to the line.
“Yeah, come on, Texas Pete,” short-round laughed, eyeing the lad’s long coat and wide-brimmed hat, digging his chuckling friend in the ribs with one pudgy elbow. “Show us how they do it in the Wild West.”
Brian paused and glanced their way. Funny; despite the terrors he’d faced the last couple of days, both supernatural and of his own – or Heimlich’s – making, the mocking stares of drunk chavs still caused a flutter of nerves in his belly. They looked like the kind of people whose children would have picked on him at school, mocking his gangly frame, his lack of social skills. Forcing the thoughts from his mind, he turned his gaze back to the board and took aim. He wasn’t as good at this as Neil, he knew that; his hands had a way of jerking like a marionette at the behest of some Parkinson’s-riddled puppet master, just at the wrong instant. Maybe it would be different this time, he thought? Maybe the ring would lend him preternatural darts skills too? Had his forebears played darts in their downtime, he wondered? He doubted it. With a deep breath, he drew back his first dart. And threw.
Triple twenty.
He gawped at his own luck, even as the two thugs uncrossed their arms and glanced at each other worriedly. Still confused, Brian drew back to throw his next arrow. The second one soared with all the precision of the first; another triple twenty.
“What’s going on ‘ere, then?” short-round growled.
Brian wondered the same himself. And he didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice either, nor the way he was popping his knuckles. Should he miss this last throw? He’d rather lose a tenner than risk getting into a fight with burly drunkards. He nodded to himself; yes, he’d deliberately fudge up the last throw. Haphazardly, not putting any effort into it and certain it would land in the black, or else merely bounce from the board, he threw the last dart. Triple-twenty once more.
“You cheating gits,” the taller of the two locals spat. “We don’t take kindly to being hustled round ‘ere. There’s a gentleman’s agreement that if you’re a professional player you don’t get to bet. What is there, Frank?”
“Gentleman’s agreement,” short-round repeated, eyeing the pair menacingly as he drew near.
Brian gulped, backing away a step, glancing at Neil beside him; the lad was smiling, as though finding this all funny. Was he hoping that Brian would launch into some dazzling display of Helsing fighting prowess, knocking the pair to their arses? If so, he would be disappointed.
“Here’s a twenty,” Brian blurted out, grabbing a note from his wallet and proffering it the pair’s way. “And sorry, lesson learned. No hard feelings.”
Broken-nose glared at him for a moment, then his eyes dropped down to the twenty, before he grabbed it, his ugly mug breaking out into a smile.
“No hard feelings,” he agreed, his venom of before evaporating in a heartbeat.
“A fun game, fellas,” Neil grinned, placing his hands on Brian’s shoulders and guiding him away. “But it’s getting late, and my mate here has a big date.”
“Good luck with that,” Broken-nose told them, before glancing to his friend. “C’mon Frank, let’s grab another pint.”
Brian and Neil made their way towards the pub door, opening it and striding out into the cool night air. The Camaro sat in the car park, looking angry, impatient and out of place amidst a sea of battered Peugeots and shiny BMW rep-mobiles. Across the way, the purple neon of Premier Inn blazed, their beds for the night awaiting. But no bed yet, not for them. A task first. And certainly not a date.
“You could have had them, you know,” Neil told him as they strode across the car park, turning left and following the sign that pointed down the road towards the cemetery. “I saw you fighting that Beth vampire-girl in the beer garden. You’d have had them on their arses in seconds.”
“Maybe,” Brian shrugged. “But the Welcome Pack was quite specific about that; no showboating, no using your powers against civilians without due cause.”
“Getting beaten up over a darts game sounds like due cause to me.”
“Aye, but hardly world-ending. Besides, it’s only money. I’ve plenty of that these days. And I’d gladly pay ten times that to not get into a fight. Anyway, enough about those Neanderthals; the cemetery’s just up ahead.”
Neil grinned at the prospect of some supernatural shenanigans. Brian didn’t share his confidence; despite everything he’d already been through the last couple of days, this world still felt strange and terrifying.
“What do you reckon she’ll be like?” Neil asked. “Chains? Sheets?”
“No idea,” he whispered in reply as they made their way up to the gates. “The powerpoint presentation showed pictures of women in rags. With boobs.”
“Boobs?” Neil’s face lit up at the mere suggestion of ethereal bosoms, but then his smile faltered as he eyed the chain firmly fastening the pair of wrought iron gates shut. “Damn, locked.” He turned to Brian. “Break the chain.”
Brian looked at his friend as though he’d just slapped a baby.
“What?”
“Break the chains. Use your Helsing strength.”
“You’re having a laugh.”
“Well what else do you suggest? We’ve got to get in there.”
Brian sniffed, casting his gaze about. The gates were those old fashioned black ones so prevalent amongst cemeteries; all spiky at the top, promising inevitable death should one try to make entry. At least any would-be vandals would be in the right place. He looked left, then right; the stone walls were ten feet tall. Perhaps he could
jump them, especially after his showing at the Obstacle Course, but there was no way he could reach down to hoist Neil up. Wait, he suddenly thought, what had he learned in that playground of terrors? He could possibly Blink through the gate; the gaps between the bars were certainly wide enough that he could see the ground on the other side. He could probably take Neil with him, to boot. But a large part of him still feared that they might simply end up buried to their waists in the earth, his attempt ending in them joining the numerous corpses already slumbering on the other side. No, he didn’t want to try that. Could he Shadow Form his way through? Maybe, but how then would he open the gates from the other side? He’d be in much the same predicament as now, only without the backup of his friend. He thought, hard. Then suddenly, it came to him.
“One second, mate,” he told Neil, before drawing a deep breath and holding it.
Lightness, softness, insubstantialness, if that was even a word. Cotton buds, soap bubbles. With a gulp, and under Neil’s puzzled yet rapt gaze, he walked forwards towards the gate.
“Ow.”
“Why did you just walk into the gate?”
“I was supposed to walk through it.”
“It’s locked, mate.”
“I know, Jesus. Just shut up and let me concentrate for a minute.”
Rainbows, kittens, fucking bubblewrap and spiderwebs, he furiously thought. Lightness, transparency. Morning bloody mist. Drops of dew on god-forsaken blades of grass. At length, he walked forwards once more, wincing in anticipation. This time, he walked clean through the bars and out the other side.
“You just walked through the bleedin’ gate!” Neil gasped. “That was incredible.”
“I know,” Brian replied, recovering his breath.
“But how are you going to get me through?”
Brian grinned at the foolishness of what he was about to do.
“Move aside mate,” he told Neil, backing away a few paces, then a few paces more. Then another pace, just to be sure. Then placing his fingers in his mouth, he whistled as loud as he could.
Long moments passed, silent bar the low rustle of dying leaves about the cemetery.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter: Mission #1: Just Try Not To Die Page 12