by Nick Moseley
'What the bloody hell happened?' he winced, scrambling to his feet. He blinked his eyes in an attempt to get rid of the white blobs clouding his vision. 'Agatha?'
'I'm here.'
Trev screwed his eyes shut and opened them again, finally able to see more or less properly. Agatha was kneeling on the grass, head down, the white glow gone. Of the Shade there was no sign.
'Are you all right?' asked Trev. He reached out to put a concerned hand on her shoulder and fell straight through her, ending up face down on the lawn. 'Dammit!' he growled.
'For goodness' sake,' said Agatha, rising first to her feet and then to her usual height of six inches above the ground.
Trev got up for the second time, brushing down his clothes. 'Shall we get out of this garden, and then perhaps you can tell me what the hell just happened?' he said, through gritted teeth. Agatha turned and floated back out through the gate without answering. Trev raised a clenched fist to the sky in a silent gesture of rage before following her.
Back out on the pavement he gave his companion his best glower and asked 'Well?'
'What do you mean 'well'?' replied Agatha. Trev continued glowering for all he was worth. 'Ah, you want to know how I dealt with the Shade.'
'Yes please,' snapped Trev. He decided to give the glowering a rest because it was bringing on a headache.
'The Shades are beings of the Shadow,' said Agatha, ignoring both Trev's tone and his Olympic-standard glowering. 'They draw power from death, fear, pain, sorrow. Those things fuel them, make them stronger. The Shade was drawn by the anger in that house.'
'I know all that,' grumbled Trev. 'I wanted to know what you did to it.'
Agatha ignored the interruption and continued. 'I, on the other hand, am a being of the Light. I draw strength from the opposite: life, courage, serenity, joy. When I clashed with the Shade it pitched its power against mine. The two forces are like elemental opposites – fire and water, earth and air and so on – and they cancel each other out quite vigorously.'
'So your mojo was stronger than the Shade's mojo?' said Trev.
'If you wish to put it that way.'
'And the Shade's gone? Burned out?'
'Yes. They aren't very subtle beings. It threw its full strength at me but fortunately I had enough power to withstand it.' She shook her head. 'It was a strong one, though. I'll have to recuperate before I can pit myself against another.'
Trev frowned. 'So you have to… recharge from time to time?'
'Yes. Such power is finite. It isn't a limitless resource. The stronger the being, the more of it they can store up.'
'So what would happen if you came up against this demon that's causing all the trouble around here?' Trev asked.
'It would snuff me out like a candle,' replied Agatha, without hesitation. 'The very weakest demon would make short work of the likes of me.'
'Well considering I can't even deal with a piddly little Shade, I don't find that very reassuring,' said Trev. They reached the T-junction and turned right onto Cooper Road. Trev began watching for a taxi. He was fed up with walking and it was still a good half hour's trek back to his flat.
'You might surprise yourself,' said Agatha.
'How? By getting killed even more quickly than I'd expected?' Trev kicked out at an empty Coke can.
'It pains me to say it, but I believe you're doing yourself a disservice,' replied Agatha. 'Both Bernard and I are convinced that you have power. It's merely a case of tapping into it.'
'You are the Chosen One, believe in yourself and you can do anything,' intoned Trev in a booming voice. He shook his head. 'Bloody hell, is some Hollywood hack writing the script of my life now? Because if they are, I should at least get to cop off with a bimbo actress or two.' He noticed a taxi approaching and waved. The driver spotted him and began indicating to pull over.
'Another flippant answer,' said Agatha reprovingly. 'I've noticed that's your way of responding to things you don't like.'
'If you say so,' replied Trev. 'Look, thanks for the escort but I think I'll be all right from here.' The taxi drew to a halt beside him and he climbed in, not waiting for an answer. 'Jarvis Street please, mate,' he said to the driver.
As the car drove away he turned and looked out of the back window at the empty pavement; Agatha was gone.
Back at his flat, Trev changed out of his ruined work clothes and cleaned himself up. He was still cut and bruised, but out of his torn and bloodied clothing he felt he could just about pass for human again. His appearance dealt with as best he could, he rummaged in the fridge for something to eat.
In the absence of microwaveable ready-meals, Trev would probably have starved to death. He distrusted fresh produce because it didn't have cooking instructions printed on the side of it, and in some cases couldn't even be cooked in a microwave. Trev considered life to be far too short to be waiting any longer than ten minutes to cook a meal.
Selecting the shepherd's pie he'd mentioned to Helen earlier in the day, he shoved it into the microwave and started it cooking before emptying a tin of baked beans into a saucepan and putting it on the hob. His dinner set in motion, he picked up his mobile and dialled a number. It rang several times before an unmistakably Welsh voice answered.
'Hello?'
'All right, Cled? It's Trev.’
'Irwin, you clown! I was starting to think you were dead,' replied Cledwyn. 'I've been worrying you'd gone on the wagon or something. A tragic loss to the brewing industry that'd be.'
'We only went out drinking last week,' Trev reminded him. 'Or has your memory finally succumbed to the years of alcohol abuse?'
'A week is a long time in politics, and even longer when it comes to the booze,' said Cled, in a tone that suggested this was deep wisdom indeed.
'You're in luck, then,' said Trev. 'I was ringing to see if you fancy a few in the pub tonight.'
'Hallelujah!' cried Cled. 'The prayers of the faithful are answered.'
'See you there at nine?'
'Tidy,' said Cled, and hung up.
Fifteen
Trev decided that he'd take the car. He was tired, battered and, if he was being honest with himself, a bit lazy. Walking to Granddad's and then on to the pub would take ages, anyway. With the car he could drop by Granddad's quickly, drive from there to the pub and leave the car in town to collect after work the following day.
The only potential stumbling block for this logistical master-plan was Trev's car. The old black Rover was noisy, dented, unreliable and about as stylish as a pair of Crimplene slacks. If it had been a family pet, the vet would long since have put it to sleep out of kindness. Probably using a mallet.
Trev knew that he should've got rid of the thing long ago, but it had come to think of it in the same terms as a well-worn pair of underpants – it was familiar and comfortable, and until a large hole appeared in the underside he didn't feel the urge to replace it. He knew all the car's little quirks and idiosyncrasies, of which there were a significant number. The last time he'd had the beast M.O.T.'d a bemused mechanic had phoned Trev asking how to open the bonnet; Trev had replied that one had to pull the bonnet release lever, then open and slam the boot lid which would cause the bonnet to pop. The mechanic had thanked him, and mentioned that he knew the number of a really great scrap dealer if Trev was interested.
The car had been clamped once. Some thieves had come along, taken one look at the knackered vehicle and had stolen the clamp instead. Trev was aggrieved that he'd still had to pay the fine.
It was about a quarter to eight by the time Trev was done with his gourmet meal of shepherd's pie and beans. He grabbed his jacket and car keys and headed down the stairs. The Rover was parked around the corner. Trev observed that it had acquired a "POLICE AWARE" sticker since he'd last driven it. He peeled it off the windscreen and slam-dunked it into a litter bin before making himself comfortable in the driver's seat. The start-up procedure was simplicity itself: turn the key once (it never started first time), sigh loudly, turn the key a
second time, wait a second, then mash the accelerator pedal to the floor while thumping the steering wheel and swearing. The engine obligingly farted into life before settling down into an uneven idle.
Trev switched on the headlights, then twiddled the switch until they lit up. He briefly considered turning on the radio before deciding against it. For some reason it would only pick up a Belgian station that specialised in Flemish-language country and western music. Trev had found that it discouraged people from asking him for a lift, which he was quite happy about. Whistling to himself instead, he crunched the car into first gear and set off.
Wednesday night wasn't a big “going out” night in Brackenford, so the traffic was light and Trev was at his Granddad's with pleasing speed. Even more pleasing was the empty parking space right outside the house, into which Trev deftly steered the Rover. The engine died with a lurch and a gurgle.
Trev ambled up to Granddad's front door and rang the bell. The old boy answered it promptly, greeting Trev with a big smile and a hearty slap on the back.
'You're in a jovial mood,' Trev remarked.
'He's halfway down a bottle of Scotch,' explained Agatha, poking her head through the wall from the lounge.
'Rubbish,' said Granddad. 'That wasn't a fresh bottle, I took the top off it last night.' He winked at his grandson. 'Care for a measure, Trevor?'
'No thanks, I've got to drive into town afterwards,' replied Trev, keeping his relief as well hidden as he could. 'I can't hang about, I'm afraid - I'm meeting Cled at nine.'
'The Welsh lad?' asked Granddad. Trev nodded. 'Give him my regards.'
'Will do. So what can I do for you? Your messenger was a bit short on the detail.'
'Messenger?' sighed Agatha.
'Hush now,' said Granddad. 'Listen, Trevor. I've been brushing up on my knowledge of demons and I need to compare notes with you regarding this afternoon.'
'I'll help if I can, but I think you had as good a view as anyone of what happened.' Trev cleared away a stack of books and seated himself in the squeaky chair.
'Yes indeed,' agreed Granddad. 'There's just one key point I need to clarify with you, though.' He went to his huge desk, which was even more cluttered than usual. The one clear space was occupied by Oscar the cat, who looked up from washing behind his ears to regard Trev with disdain. He had one blue eye and one green eye, which Trev had always found a bit creepy.
'Here we are, Trevor – did our would-be assassin's weapon look anything like this?' Granddad was holding up a rather tatty-looking book. It was open at a picture of a knife that appeared very similar to the one wielded by Kolley's attacker. It wasn't identical by any means, but the basic characteristics – wooden handle, wavy-shaped blade made of dark metal – were the same.
'Pretty close, yes,' said Trev. 'I assume the type of knife he had was significant in some way?'
'Sharp as a tack, this one,' said Oscar in a smooth, educated voice.
'Correct,' said Granddad, ignoring him. 'It's a special type of knife called a kris.'
'The cat spoke,' said Trev slowly.
'The use of a kris means only one thing,' said Agatha.
'The cat spoke,' repeated Trev.
'I'm afraid so,' said Granddad, nodding at Agatha. 'Alastair Kolley is in a spot of bother, it seems.'
'THE CAT SPOKE!' shouted Trev.
'Like I said: sharp as a tack, this one,' said Oscar. He looked smug, in the way that only a cat can.
'Didn't I introduce you two last night?' wondered Granddad. 'No, I didn't, did I? My apologies, Trevor.' He extended a hand toward the cat. 'This is Oscar, my research assistant.'
'Your research assistant? But he's a bloody cat!' spluttered Trev.
'His powers of observation really are first class,' said Oscar. 'I'm so glad we have him on board.'
'Now then, you,' said Granddad, wagging a finger at his feline companion. 'He's had a lot to take in these last couple of days. A talking cat probably puts the tin lid on it, eh?'
'Bloody right,' said Trev. 'Puts the lid on and nails it down.' He slumped in his chair. 'Do they… all talk?'
'All cats? Good lord, no.' Granddad shook his head firmly. 'Very, very few of them, in fact. Oscar is a vessel for an Ancient Egyptian cat spirit. It's the spirit that can communicate with humans, and then only with those of us that have the Sight and all it entails. The heterochromia marks such felines out, you see.'
'The what?'
'Heterochromia. It's the medical term for having eyes of different colours,' explained Granddad.
'Yeah. Don't bother talking to the rest of them,' said Oscar. 'They aren't scintillating conversationalists. Although,' he added thoughtfully, 'they might actually be on a similar level to you, now I think about it.'
'My life just hit a new low,' complained Trev. 'Mocked by a talking cat, for God's sake.'
'He's like that with everyone, pay him no heed,' said Granddad. 'Oscar, shut up if you can't find anything useful to say.'
'It's your loss,' said the cat, going back to washing himself.
'Right, where were we?'
'You were telling me that the attacker's knife was called Chris,' Trev reminded him, still trying to get his head around the idea of talking animals. 'Sounds a bit weird to me. I mean, I've heard about soldier-types naming their weapons, but it's usually something a bit harder-sounding, like "The Widowmaker", or "Ol’ Painless".'
'No, it's kris,' Agatha supplied. 'K-R-I-S. It's a type of ceremonial dagger that originated in South-East Asia.'
'Quite so,' agreed Granddad. 'The majority of the ones you see these days are replicas, made for the collectors' market. They look rather good on display, apparently. However there are still a few of the genuine ones about, sadly often in undesirable hands.'
'They're just knives,' said Trev, frowning. Granddad, Oscar and Agatha all shook their heads. 'Aren't they?'
'A genuine kris knife is an object of considerable power,' said Oscar, in the patient tones of a teacher talking to a remedial student. 'They have been used in some particularly nasty rituals over the years, because they can trap and contain a person's soul.'
'You're taking the piss now, surely,' said Trev.
'Afraid not.'
'Right. So why would our attacker want Kolley's soul trapped in a knife?'
'To deliver it back to the demon, of course,' said Oscar. 'At least try to keep up, eh?'
'You're pretty cocky for someone who licks his own arse clean,' retorted Trev.
'Touché,' murmured Oscar, showing his teeth in what Trev took to be a feline smile. The cat didn't seem in the least bothered by the insult. In fact he appeared to be enjoying the banter with Trev.
Trev turned to Granddad. 'What does the demon want it for?'
'It wants Kolley's soul because that's what demons do, Trevor. They collect souls, much like some people collect stamps, or records, or china dogs.'
Trev shook his head, baffled. 'Why?'
'Why would people collect china dogs? I've no idea. They must have something missing in their lives.'
'You know what I meant.'
'True. To answer, that's how their society works. Demons gain kudos from their peers for the quality of souls they collect.'
'What do you mean, the "quality" of souls?'
Agatha answered. 'Well, a philatelist isn't interested in common, everyday stamps is he?' Trev shrugged. Stamp-collecting wasn’t an area in which he had much interest. Agatha ploughed on anyway. 'No. He wants rare, unusual ones. The demons are the same. They aren't interested in the rank and file, they want the souls of celebrities, the wealthy, or even notorious wrong-doers such as serial killers. Alastair Kolley is both rich and an unapologetic self-publicist. It's easy to see why a demon might view his soul as collectible.'
'Surely if that were true there'd be dead celebrities and tycoons all over the place,' said Trev. 'The demons'd be killing them for their souls left, right and Chelsea.'
'If the demons were free to manifest themselves on the mortal plane a
t will, then yes indeed,' said Granddad. 'But fortunately they can't – they must be summoned here. They can't stay very long, either. Our world wears down their essence quite quickly. Even the strongest would struggle to maintain a presence here for more than a week or so. It's a race against time for them to bag themselves a soul and get back to their own realm, or risk being weakened to the point where they can't return at all, and simply dwindle away.'
'So if we can get Kolley to hide himself away for a week or so, the demon would have to admit defeat and bugger off?' reasoned Trev.
'How do you rate the chances of that happening?' asked Oscar.
'Slim to non-existent,' said Trev.
'I'm afraid I agree,' said Granddad, 'though he might be persuaded to take on a bodyguard, at least. I'll suggest it to him.'
'Planning on seeing him again soon then?' asked Trev.
'Well as a witness to this afternoon's incident the editor asked me to write up the story, which I did this afternoon.'
'With my help,' Oscar chipped in.
'Indeed. The editor was very pleased with it, so much so that when Kolley's publicity people got in touch and told us that he'd be delighted to be interviewed about the attempt on his life, I was asked if I wanted to do it.'
'Kolley can't help himself, can he?' mused Trev. 'Misses getting killed by half an inch and straight away he's trying to wring some publicity out of it.'
'That's how he works,' shrugged Granddad. 'Incidentally, the editor asked if I could get you to accompany me to the interview.'
'What the hell for?'
'It's pretty obvious, isn't it? Think of the photo opportunity: "Kolley shakes hands with his guardian angel",' said Oscar.
'Do I have to?' said Trev wearily.
'No, of course not. But it would be an excellent chance to get some information from him. He must have enemies. If we can get an idea of who they are, we may be able to find out which of them summoned the demon against him.'