by Nick Moseley
Twelve
‘Trevor? Are you alright?’ said a voice which Trev’s groggy brain eventually recognised as Granddad’s. He raised his watering eyes.
‘Ow,’ he said. As a word it was inadequate to describe how he felt, but he suspected that his appearance would tell its own story. He was aware that his nose and lips were leaking blood; he could feel it running down his face and splattering his torn shirt.
Alastair Kolley’s amplified voice boomed out from behind him, reassuring the crowd that he was all right and trying to get their attention back to his store opening ceremony. Most of the spectators were ignoring him and were instead pushing forward to get a view of the area in front of the stage, their enthusiasm for cheaper groceries swept aside by the irresistible human desire to get a look at a scene of carnage.
‘Bloody hell, you look like something out of a Tarantino film,’ said Paul the photographer, snapping away at Trev’s battered face with his camera. ‘Don’t drop him, lads,’ he said to the two policemen who were propping Trev up. ‘Look this way, son, that’s it.’
Trev considered shoving Paul’s camera where the sun didn’t shine and putting it on motor-drive, but decided he hadn’t the strength.
‘Trevor?’ said Granddad again. Trev tried to focus on the old man and found it difficult, due to the fact that his eyes seemed determined to wander off in different directions.
‘Heard you... the first time,’ he croaked. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Unfortunately, due to the blood running down his face, he just looked deranged. He felt his police escort tense up slightly. The Crier’s front-page image of Robert Byfield, AKA Captain Comb-Over, swam into his mind. He was aware – painfully aware, in fact – that he probably looked quite similar.
The police had managed to wrestle the microphone away from Kolley, much to his indignation, and were trying, with little success, to disperse the crowd. The store opening had descended into a shambles but at least, Trev supposed, Kolley would get the publicity he craved.
‘Well done,’ said Granddad, rummaging in his pockets and producing the obligatory packet of tissues carried by all pensioners. He extracted a tissue and began to dab at Trev’s blood-streaked face.
Well, at least he didn’t lick the tissue first like my mum used to, Trev thought.
‘Ow,’ he said again out loud. Fortunately a St. John’s Ambulance man appeared at that moment and politely but firmly moved Granddad aside in order to attend to Trev. Under the first-aider’s instruction the two policemen helped Trev over to the stage so that he could sit down.
‘Did you know who he was?’ said a deep voice. A barrel-chested police sergeant had appeared to Trev’s right. Trev looked up into the man’s bearded face.
‘Was?’ he echoed. He rolled his eyes to the spot where the hooded man had fallen.
A pair of St. John’s Ambulance first-aiders were attempting artificial resuscitation on him, but as Trev watched one of them turned to look at the sergeant and shook his head slightly.
The hooded man’s eyes were still open and filled with blackness. Seconds after the first-aiders gave up their efforts, though, the darkness began to stream out of them. It curled up into the air like smoke, boiling out in two thick ribbons. At a height of six feet or so above the corpse they spread into the air and dissipated.
Trev heard Granddad gasp. He supposed he’d have done the same if there hadn’t been a man trying to stuff his mouth with gauze.
The phenomenon lasted perhaps ten seconds before fading away. When Trev looked back to the hooded man’s body the eyes were still open, but now they were a normal shade of pale blue. It was probably the blood-loss, but Trev suddenly felt very weak and giddy.
He turned back toward Granddad, who was staring at him with a meaningful expression on his face.
‘So did you know him?’ asked the sergeant again.
‘No,’ replied Trev. ‘Never seen him before. He just jumped out of the crowd with that sodding great knife and for some reason I went after him.’ He kept looking away from the man’s body but every time he did, he found his eyes drawn back to it.
‘Just as well you did,’ replied the policeman. He was looking at the pair of officers who were trying to calm Kolley. The supermarket owner seemed far more upset by the collapse of his carefully-arranged opening ceremony than by the attempt on his life. Trev suspected that, had the knifeman actually managed to stab Kolley, the tycoon would have been more concerned about the damage to his designer suit than the damage to his body.
‘We’ll need a statement from you, of course,’ said the bearded sergeant, turning away from Kolley with a roll of his eyes. ‘You’ll have to come to the station.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ mumbled Trev, his attention wandering back to the dead knifeman. An ambulance had somehow managed to fight its way through the gridlock and reach the supermarket, and a pair of paramedics in green overalls were unloading a stretcher to take the body.
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’ll just be an interview under caution.’
‘No problem,’ said Trev.
‘Is Trev in trouble, officer?’ asked Granddad, who’d been following the conversation.
‘Not at this stage, sir. There’ll be a full investigation though, so you’ll have to wait for the outcome of that to be sure.’ The sergeant aimed a pained look at his two colleagues’ attempts to subdue Kolley, which were being further hindered by Paul the photographer trying to get them all to pose for a picture. He sighed and started walking toward them to intervene. ‘Stay here,’ he said to Trev over his shoulder as he went. Granddad watched him go, then turned to the first-aider who was still fussing over Trev.
‘Could you give us a minute or two?’ he asked. The man gave him a long-suffering expression, but nodded and walked away. When he was out of earshot Granddad turned back to Trev. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked.
‘The black mist in his eyes?’ said Trev. Granddad nodded. ‘Yes, I saw it.’ Trev watched as the paramedics finished loading the body and slammed the rear doors of the ambulance. ‘Granddad,’ he said, wincing, ‘did I kill him?’
‘No, you didn’t,’ replied Granddad, his voice firm. ‘He was very much alive immediately after you tackled him – that thump on the head obviously dazed him, but I saw him trying to get back up. Then…’ he snapped his fingers.
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked a puzzled Trev. He tried to snap his fingers in imitation of his Granddad but couldn’t get them to line up properly.
‘He just seemed to… to switch off,’ said Granddad, struggling for the right words to describe what he’d seen. ‘It was like someone had just unplugged him from the mains. He dropped back down, dead as a stone.’
‘You think that mist did it?’ Trev thought back to the man’s eyes and the way the blackness had boiled out of them after his death; then he thought of Byfield. ‘Was it a Shade?’
‘No, not a Shade,’ said Granddad, tugging at his beard. ‘Something worse than that. Much worse.’
‘Oh good,’ said Trev weakly. The knifeman had made a point of showing himself to Trev, goading him… maybe even challenging him. He’d made his intentions clear when he appeared in the crowd, giving Trev a chance to stop him. Clearly it hadn’t been just a simple assassination attempt. He looked back at Granddad. ‘What’s out there, that’s worse than a Shade, that could’ve made him do that?’
‘There are plenty of things out there worse than the Shades,’ replied Granddad with a rueful smile. ‘Plenty. But not many of them could exercise direct control over a human being like that.’ He folded his arms. ‘Until I find any evidence otherwise, I think we have to assume we’re up against a demon of some sort.’
‘A demon,’ echoed Trev, nodding. He looked up abruptly. ‘Wait. A demon?’
‘Well the modus operandi certainly fits,’ replied Granddad. ‘They can control people by transferring a part of their essence into them. That would’ve been the black mist
we saw in that poor man’s eyes. When you foiled the murder attempt on Kolley that influence, that essence, was withdrawn, but not before it had killed its host.’
‘What, so you think the demon killed him to stop him from talking, or something?’ said Trev. ‘Seems a bit over-the-top to me – what about just blanking his memory instead?’
‘Demons don’t think that way, Trevor,’ said Granddad, shaking his head. ‘They are beings of the Shadow. Human life carries no value as far as they’re concerned. Yes, I expect the demon possessing Kolley’s attacker could’ve made him forget, but the easier and quicker option was simply to dispose of him.’
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Trev. It was a terrifying thought that such a creature had singled him out for its attention. The knifeman had been nothing but a puppet, apparently sent to kill Alastair Kolley but also to play some sort of game with Trev, one of the few people who could see him for what he really was.
Trev didn’t much like the idea of playing any sort of game with a psychopathic supernatural opponent, particularly when he didn’t know the rules, scoring system or conditions for victory. It also struck him that the penalty for losing the game was likely to be rather more unpleasant than having a wet towel snapped across his arse in the changing room afterwards, which was what had been done to losing sports teams in his schooldays.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said again.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Granddad, eyeing Trev with a worried frown.
‘This wasn’t a coincidence, was it?’ murmured Trev.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The attack on Kolley, today, with us here,’ said Trev. ‘Whoever was controlling that unlucky bloke knew we were here. He, or it, or them, or whatever, knows who we are. The assassination attempt was a message to us, or a challenge or something. You know, a statement of intent.’
‘You think so?’ replied Granddad, sounding unconvinced. ‘Well I suppose that might be true, but if that is the case, why attack Kolley? Why not attack us? Surely we’re the danger – we can see through its little tricks.’
‘Don’t know,’ said Trev, irritated. ‘I’m pretty new to all this, remember. You’re the one with forty-odd years of experience in this kind of crap, you fill in the blanks.’
‘Alright, calm down, Trevor.’ Granddad removed his spectacles and polished them with a small cloth as he spoke. Trev found the gesture strangely condescending. ‘I realise the last twenty-four hours have been rather difficult for you, but - ’
‘Difficult? Bloody difficult?’ Trev erupted. ‘Look at the state of me, for God’s sake! I didn’t want this Sight, didn’t need to know about vampires and werewolves and demons! I was happy not knowing! Whoever said “ignorance is bliss” was bang bloody on.’ He made a futile attempt to straighten his tie before settling for buttoning the front of his jacket. ‘I’m going back to work.’
‘You can’t, the police need a statement from you,’ replied Granddad calmly.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Trev, deflating somewhat. ‘They’ve only got several hundred bloody witnesses, I can really see why they need me to chip in with my two pennies’ worth as well.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about all this,’ said Granddad. ‘I wouldn’t have brought you here if I’d known what was going to happen. I was just trying to spend a bit of time with you, that’s all, and maybe get you some discount vouchers from Alastair. I didn’t want all the stuff we discussed last night to cause a rift between us.’
‘All right, all right.’ Trev held up a hand. ‘I know you wouldn’t put me in harm’s way on purpose. I’m just worried.’ He paused. ‘Well, scared, actually. I don’t have your knowledge about these things. I can’t incorporate them into my life just like that. In fact I’d rather not incorporate them into my life at all.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Granddad.
‘Is there any chance that… that I can get everything back to normal?’ said Trev. There was a note of pleading in his voice and he hated himself for it, but he knew he had to ask. If there was a way, any way, that he could be rid of his newly-found supernatural abilities and return to his routine existence of two days ago, he wanted to at least know about it.
Granddad shook his head. His expression was one of genuine regret.
‘I’m sorry, Trevor,’ he said. ‘If I could do that for you, I would.’
‘But you can’t.’ Trev’s shoulders slumped.
‘No, I can’t.’ Granddad sighed. ‘You know, when my Sight first showed itself I was terrified. For myself initially, then later for your mother. She was just a child then, maybe seven or eight years old. I didn’t want her to have to go through what I had, to have to learn the things I had, to see the things I had. I spent twenty years living in dread of her thirtieth birthday, Trevor. Twenty years. When it arrived, I waited for the signs to appear, but they never did. The Sight skipped a generation, and for that I gave thanks. Now, though, I have to face what I dreaded all those years. Someone close to me has the Sight – you. Believe me when I say that I wish this day had never arrived, but also believe me when I say that I will give you any support and help I can. I can’t make it go away, no, but I can and will protect you for as long as I’m able.’
‘Thanks,’ said Trev. He hadn’t expected such a speech from the old boy. ‘I kind of got myself into a nice wallow of self-pity there, didn’t I?’ He stood up decisively. ‘All right then, I suppose if I want to get my life back to some semblance of normality we have to get rid of this demon. He’s the one that’s buggering things up around here, right?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Granddad. He inclined his head toward the bearded police sergeant, who was now walking back in their direction. ‘Go with the police and give them their statement. When you have the chance, give me a ring at my house.’ He stroked his chin in contemplative fashion. ‘I’ve got some reading to do.’
Thirteen
Trev's visit to the police station was every bit as long-winded and tiresome as he'd feared. He was kept sitting around for ages, with only a polystyrene cup of tepid brown water – the drinks machine alleged it was tea, but Trev wasn’t convinced – and a copy of Trout Fishing Monthly from August 1986 for company. Trev had flicked through the magazine at random and it had fallen open at an article about which type of fly was most effective in luring the wily rainbow trout onto one's hook. Despite his eyes moving mechanically over the words, he was failing to take any of it in.
He began to question if the long wait was a deliberate tactic on the part of the police; it was easy to imagine a suspect breaking down and confessing to an unsolved crime just to relieve the tedium. He felt relieved that he hadn't bothered to report his run-in with Robert Byfield the previous day. Being involved in two major cases in as many days would have looked more than suspicious.
Trev shifted position on the plastic chair for what was quite possibly the millionth time, his cuts and bruises throbbing and preventing him from getting comfortable. The St. John's Ambulance people had patched him up well, although they couldn't do anything about his clothes. He was getting alarmed looks from the people passing through the police station's reception area, and it was difficult to ignore the fact that he was alone on one side of the room while opposite him all the seats were occupied. There were even people who'd elected to stand, rather than risk sitting near the blood-stained bloke who was apparently so twitchy he couldn't sit still for more than five seconds at a time.
Trev debated getting up and wandering to the other side of the room just to see what would happen. Would everyone get up and rush in the opposite direction in an effort to stay as far away from him as architecture allowed? He was tempted to try it but reasoned that someone might get hurt in the stampede. Probably him, in fact.
He sighed and took his mobile phone out of his pocket to check for messages. It had picked up a scratch or two when he'd hit the ground but was still working. He'd used it earlier to call work and tell Helen that he wouldn't be back in until the following
day. Her reaction had been one of surprise but not disbelief – it turned out that a customer who'd witnessed the fracas outside KolleyCo had been in to SmoothMove afterward to collect some sales particulars, and had told Trev's colleagues all about it.
'She said that it was one of the reporters who tackled the knifeman, not an estate agent turned vigilante,' Helen had said. 'What the hell were you doing there?'
'Humouring my Granddad,' Trev replied. 'My handsome face is going to be all over the Crier tomorrow. It's a bit of extra publicity for us at least, eh?'
'I'm sure Gavin will be thrilled,' said Helen drily. 'Just try to resist the urge to hurl yourself at any more armed criminals today, will you? Our sales figures are crap this week and I need you in the office.'
Trev had assured her that he wouldn't be tackling anything more frightening than a microwave-ready shepherd's pie that evening and hung up.
He'd at least been spared the awkward task of ringing his parents and trying to explain the whole thing by Granddad, who'd offered to call and fill them in himself. His one condition was that Trev stopped by at their house on his way home from the police station instead. Trev had accepted, although on reflection he wasn't sure he'd got the best part of the deal. It was easy enough to make an excuse to end a phone call; less easy to escape when you were there in person and your mother was cornering you with a cup of tea and a cream slice.
As Trev sat pondering alternative ways he might make the visit to his parents' house as short as possible, he was approached by a pair of smartly-suited detectives.
'Mr. Irwin?' asked the younger of the two, a slim, sandy-haired man who Trev estimated to be roughly his own age.
'That's me,' replied Trev.
'We're ready for your interview now,' said the detective. His partner, who was older, paunchier and balder, said nothing but looked at his watch in a manner that suggested he'd rather have been just about anywhere else than where he was.
'OK then,' said Trev, tossing the copy of Trout Fishing Monthly onto the seat next to him. It seemed he'd never know which type of fly the rainbow trout liked best. He supposed that somehow he'd find a way to struggle through the rest of his life without that piece of information.