by Nick Moseley
'What the hell was that all about?' gasped Trev. 'You trying to give me a heart attack?'
'That was revenge for you calling me "nearly dead" earlier,' said Granddad with no small amount of satisfaction.
'You're a funny man,' growled Trev. 'Really funny. But what use is a weapon that doesn't do any damage?'
'Oh, it does damage,' said Granddad. He turned and slashed at the fence, and the dagger sliced through the metal links with no apparent resistance. 'You have to want it to do damage, that's the key. Obviously I didn't want to chop my own arm off, so it didn't hurt me.' He held out the dagger to Trev. 'Go on, you try it.'
Trev took the handle and stared at it apprehensively. 'How?'
'Concentrate on the result, not the method,' said Granddad. 'You want the blade to appear, so focus on that.'
'All right,' said Trev, feeling a little self-conscious. He imagined the blue blade springing forth from the handle as he'd seen earlier. Initially nothing happened, then he became aware of an odd pulling sensation from the weapon. It was as if it wanted to draw something out of him, and his first instinct was to resist. He hesitated, then stopped fighting it.
The result was so spectacular he almost dropped the thing.
The spectral blade flared into existence, and far more brightly than it had in Granddad's hand. The shape of the blade was there as before, but it was surrounded by a crackling corona of blue light that pulsed rapidly, throwing stark shadows across the pot-holed road.
'Good gracious,' breathed Granddad.
'Cool,' was all Trev could say, swinging the dagger experimentally. He could feel the energy coursing through him now, throbbing in his muscles and veins. Although some of it was being drawn into the knife to keep it working, he was aware that it was only a small amount. It was like being a human superconductor.
'How do you feel? Are you all right?' Granddad was watching Trev closely, his face full of concern.
Trev realised that he was grinning like a twat and probably looked a bit mental, so he tried to tone it down. 'I'm fine, absolutely fine,' he said, still swishing the dagger.
'Vapour weapons can store more than just energy,' said Granddad, his eyes shining behind his glasses. 'It's psychic energy, remember, so over time the weapon absorbs echoes of the wielders' consciousnesses as well, including their weapons-handling skills. If you can tap into those echoes you'll give yourself an instant crash-course.'
'You're kidding,' said Trev. Granddad just shook his head. Trev concentrated again, tracking the fizzing energy down his arm and into the dagger, probing for… well, he wasn't really sure what. The vague nature of his approach meant that he was completely unprepared for the rush of sensations and snatches of thought that came gushing out of the weapon.
He staggered, his free hand going to his forehead. 'Bollocks,' he hissed. 'That hurts.'
'I'm afraid it does, to start with,' said Granddad. He reached out to steady his grandson. 'Stay calm. It'll pass.'
'I bloody well hope so,' winced Trev, trying to do as he was told. 'Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.' He floundered through a mish-mash of thoughts, some his own and some not. Images flashed through his brain of unfamiliar places, strange people and, on more than one occasion, things. Things that weren't human. Trev shuddered and reeled again, leaning against Granddad for support.
'Steady now, steady,' said Granddad.
As abruptly as it had come, the mental overload drained away. Trev let go of Granddad and stood upright. With some trepidation he checked all his limbs were still functioning as nature intended. They were, but there was something subtly different. The dagger sat much more easily in his hand; it felt comfortable there. He took two quick steps away from Granddad before turning to face him.
'Trevor?' said Granddad nervously.
'Watch this,' said Trev. Without taking his eyes from the old man, he began flipping and juggling the dagger, shifting it from hand to hand so quickly it was a flickering blue blur. As Granddad watched wide-eyed, Trev finished the show by snapping the weapon into the air, pirouetting and catching it again before dropping into a knife-fighter's crouch.
'I know kung fu,' he said in his best Keanu Reeves voice.
'Astonishing,' said Granddad. 'Whenever I've used that dagger I've been able to draw on a few basic skills, but nothing like that. Oscar was right about you, Trevor. You've got a lot of power.'
'He told me that and I didn't believe him,' said Trev. 'Bloody hell, it feels like I've been hooked up to the national grid.' He carefully withdrew the energy supply to the dagger and the pulsing blue blade spluttered and evaporated. Trev handed the weapon back to Granddad with a twinge of reluctance. 'Maybe you should hold onto it. Don't want to over-stimulate myself, do I?'
Granddad took the dagger, slipped it into its sheath, and returned it to Trev. 'I think you should take it, for the time being. You can get more out of it than I can.'
'OK,' replied Trev. He put the dagger into the deep breast pocket of the overalls. 'I've got to say I feel a lot less worried about paying these ghouls a visit now.'
'That's good news, because it's time to get cracking,' said Granddad, reaching into the car's boot and retrieving a manhole-opening tool.
Trev followed as Granddad squeezed through a gap in the fence and walked along the side of the warehouse until he found a manhole cover. He used the tool to lever it open and dragged the cover to one side.
Trev peered down into the blackness below before stepping aside with a flamboyant bow. 'After you,' he said.
Twenty-One
Trev had never been down a sewer before. Based on his first impressions of the one he was now in, he hadn't been missing much. The tunnel walls were brick-built and stained with things he didn't want to think about. A channel ran down the centre of the tunnel with a narrow walkway on one side, and along the channel ran a shallow stream of grey water. In it floated yet more things Trev didn't want to think about. Sadly he had no choice about smelling them.
'God, it smells rank down here,' he spluttered, trying to breathe only through his mouth.
'It's a sewer, Trevor,' said Granddad, patiently. 'What were you expecting? The gentle scent of summer meadows?'
'Fair point,' conceded Trev.
Granddad tapped the wall with a gloved finger. 'Solid Victorian engineering, you can't beat it.'
'The good old Victorians, eh? They may have been a bunch of puritanical imperialists, but at least they were good at spiriting away peoples' excrement.'
'Most of Brackenford's main sewers are Victorian,' said Granddad, ignoring Trev's comments. 'Not all of the tunnels are still in use though. The ghouls have claimed the disused ones as theirs, as well as excavating their own.' He started walking off down the tunnel. Trev gave the ladder that led back to the outside world a last longing glance and followed.
'How do we let them know we're here?' he asked, catching up to Granddad.
'They'll know we're here already,' the old man replied. 'As I told you, there isn't much that happens down here they don't know about.'
'You mean we're being watched?' said Trev uncertainly, his hand straying to the dagger in his breast pocket.
Granddad grabbed Trev's wrist. 'Don't get that weapon out, they'll take it as a sign of hostility. In answer to your question, yes, we're very likely being watched. They'll wait to see what we're up to and report back. The best thing to do is go and knock on their front door and let them know we want to talk to them.'
Trev was using the light from his torch to probe the shadows in search of any hidden observers. 'I don't see anything.'
'You won't see them unless they want you to. They've not got away with living down here for so long by revealing their presence to every chap who comes down here with a torch.'
'Right. So where's this door, then? Would I be right in guessing that it's not a nice shiny red door with a brass knocker, letter-box and little basket for the empty milk bottles?'
'You would indeed. Naturally it's well hidden.' Granddad walked along the tunn
el for another hundred yards or so, then stopped in front of a section of wall that looked no different to any of the rest. 'Here.'
'Where?' asked a puzzled Trev.
Granddad didn't answer. Instead he leaned toward the wall, apparently studying the bricks. Quickly identifying the one he wanted, he counted three bricks above it and then seven to the right. 'Here goes,' he said, and pushed.
The brick slid an inch into the wall. Trev heard the faint bass sound of a large bell from somewhere behind the wall.
'They've got a doorbell then,' he remarked unnecessarily. 'Makes sense. It'd be pretty awkward for the postman otherwise.'
'Please be quiet,' replied Granddad. Trev could see the tension in the old man's face and it wasn't very reassuring. 'I know you're fond of your jokes, Trevor, but there's a time and a place and this really, really, isn't it.'
'Er, OK,' said Trev. 'I can do quiet.' He settled for fidgeting from one foot to the other instead.
There was a short silence followed by a soft clunk from the other side of the wall. 'Turn your torch off or you'll dazzle them,' said Granddad, clicking the switch on his own. Trev followed suit, leaving them both in darkness.
A doorway-sized section of brickwork swung smoothly open revealing a corridor beyond, lit by a single guttering oil lantern. Trev didn't take in much more detail than that because he was staring at the creature that stood behind the door, illuminated by the flickering light.
It occurred to Trev that he hadn't really believed there were ghouls living beneath the town, despite all that Granddad and his companions had said about them. It was an interesting idea, sure, and he'd have been lying if he'd said he wasn't intrigued by it, but it just hadn't seemed real enough to him. He wasn't sure what he had expected to find down there in the sewers; a bunch of tramps who'd taken up residence in the tunnels perhaps, or maybe nothing whatsoever except an elaborate practical joke. In any case, he definitely hadn't been expecting what he now saw.
The ghoul was humanoid in shape, at least. It was small, maybe three and a half feet tall, with long apelike arms that ended in four-fingered hands equipped with claws. Its grey, scaly skin was shiny, hairless and decidedly reptilian. Large pointed ears protruded from a head that was more flattened and streamlined than the human equivalent, and the creature's face featured a pair of slitted nostrils and a set of huge pale eyes that returned Trev's stare with interest. Bizarrely the ghoul was clad in a tattered and dirty ABBA t-shirt, which hung down well below its knees. The shirt proclaimed that its wearer was the “No. 1 DANCING QUEEN”, which seemed to be a pretty bold claim.
'Yes?' the ghoul said in a rasping voice, revealing a broad mouth lined with sharp-looking teeth. It was like being confronted by the world's smallest nightclub doorman; Trev wondered if the creature was under instruction to turn away people who were wearing trainers.
'I'm grandfather-of-one Bernard Simms, seventy-eight,' replied Granddad, 'and this is my hunky grandson Trevor Irwin, thirty.'
Trev looked askance at Granddad but remembered he'd agreed to be quiet, and said nothing. Unlike Trev the ghoul didn't seem to find anything strange about Granddad's introduction.
'The well-respected Custodian of the bustling Midlands town of Brackenford,' it replied, nodding.
'I'm here seeking vital talks with the much-loved Queen of the ghouls,' said Granddad.
The ghoul eyeballed them both briefly, then said 'Custodian asked to wait,' and swung the door shut in their faces, plunging them back into darkness. To Trev's relief, Granddad was quick to turn his torch back on.
'Hunky?' whispered Trev, unable to keep quiet any longer. 'Have you been drinking?'
'The ghouls have an unusual way of speaking,' murmured Granddad. 'It stems from the fact that they have something of a fascination with us humans. They live off the things we throw away, after all.'
'Kind of like really ugly Wombles?'
'Careful what you say down here,' warned Granddad. 'Anyway, they see us as a sort of chosen people, because we get to live on the surface in the sunlight that burns their skin and hurts their eyes. They try to emulate us, so occasionally they'll send foraging groups out at night to scavenge through the rubbish tips, recycling banks and wheelie bins. They collect and hoard all sorts of things, including the written word. Unfortunately people don't tend to throw away many great works of literature, so mostly the ghouls get tabloid newspapers and gossip magazines.'
'So they talk in the same style as the stuff they read?'
'Precisely. They don't like it if you try and correct them, either.'
Trev rolled his eyes. 'Every second of the last few days has been weirder than the last. When's it going to end?'
Granddad gave him a pat on the shoulder but before he could say anything the door in the wall began to re-open. Granddad turned his torch off again.
The same ghoul was behind the door, accompanied by two friends. The newcomers were clad in makeshift armour that had been cobbled together from various bits of scrap metal. Trev spotted a bent baking tray, a toolbox lid and several tin cans among the ghouls' respective ensembles. For headgear, one wore a modified welder's visor while its companion looked up at Trev from under a child's motorcycle helmet. The overall impression was of two kids playing a dressing-up game, and Trev might've laughed at them were it not for the fact that they each carried a sharp-looking knife and a long spear. It was remarkable, Trev mused, just how unfunny people became when they had weapons pointing in your direction.
'Lucky Custodian granted exclusive interview with fabulous Queen of the ghouls,' announced the doorman-ghoul, wringing the hem of its ABBA t-shirt in apparent excitement. 'Our boys detailed to provide proud escort.'
Granddad nodded his thanks. The two soldier-ghouls turned and moved off down the corridor without bothering to see if the humans were following or not. Exchanging a meaningful look, Trev and Granddad fell in behind.
The ceiling was low, forcing them to walk in a stoop. The dimensions of the tunnel suggested that it was one of those the ghouls had cut themselves; there were no bricks reinforcing the rock walls and the trusses supporting the roof, while sturdy, were crude. Trev was glad of his hard-hat as he repeatedly scraped his head on the ceiling.
The tunnel had a gentle downward gradient which made Trev all the more conscious that he was travelling further and further away from the safety of the normal world above. Just as he was beginning to feel the first pangs of claustrophobia, though, the ghouls reached the tunnel's end and disappeared down some steps. There was a low murmuring of noise emanating from the space ahead. Granddad, who was in front of Trev, turned to face him with an odd smile on his face.
'This is quite impressive,' he said, before heading down the steps himself. Frowning, Trev shuffled to the tunnel's mouth and looked down.
And gaped like a simpleton at what he saw.
There was a huge chamber below him, dimly lit by innumerable lanterns. It was impossible to gauge its full size in the semi-darkness, but Trev estimated it was at least the size of a football pitch. At one time it had probably been an underground cistern of some sort, though Trev didn't know enough about sewerage systems to be sure. What was obvious was that it had long since been disused and sealed away, and the ghouls had claimed it as theirs.
The top of the staircase was just below ceiling level and descended all the way to the floor below, a distance Trev estimated as being about three storeys. The ghouls had constructed a number of buildings in the chamber, using all manner of scavenged materials. Trev spotted road signs, wooden pallets, corrugated metal and even car body panels integrated into the nearby structures. A few of them had been built almost up to the ceiling, and ghouls peered down at him from open windows as he descended the steps. Every building had been decorated with posters, trinkets, pieces of glass and in one or two cases, splashes of paint.
Granddad was waiting for him at the bottom. 'Pretty ingenious, aren't they?' he said. 'Welcome to Murkhome, Trevor.'
'It's like the world's gaudie
st shanty town,' said a dazed Trev. 'Oscar said they had a settlement down here, but I didn't picture it like this.'
'This is only part of it,' said Granddad. 'There are other, smaller, rooms and a lot of tunnels.'
'Unbelievable.' Trev looked along the main thoroughfare that ran straight up the centre of the chamber. There were ghouls everywhere, going about their business in an unsettling imitation of the humans who lived above them, dressed in an assortment of cast-off clothes. Some of the buildings were shops, the proprietors bartering with customers through large serving-hatches in their frontages. Another nearby structure appeared to be a restaurant of some sort, with ghouls sitting at a pair of tables outside, tucking into steaming bowls of food. Trev didn't look too closely at what they were eating. There were some things it was best not to know.
'We'd better keep moving, our escorts are leaving us behind,' said Granddad, angling his head toward the two armoured ghouls, who hadn't stopped walking and were now halfway down the shadowy street.
The two humans hurried to catch up, attracting surprised and curious looks from the citizens. By the time they had closed the gap on the ghoul guardsmen they had gathered a noisy crowd.
'They're making me nervous,' whispered Trev. 'Why are they following us?'
'It's very unusual for them to see humans in Murkhome,' replied Granddad softly. 'They're just excited. They won't hurt us.'
Trev nodded, but again found that his right hand was straying toward the pocket that held the spectral dagger.
'Don't,' said Granddad, spotting it. 'I don't want you taking a swipe at one of them just because you're nervous.'
'Not even the one in the Man United shirt?' asked Trev, jerking a thumb at one of the ghouls to his left.
Granddad shook his head. 'Not even that one.'
'Killjoy.' Trev dropped his hand back to his side, hoping nobody would notice it was trembling.