by Nick Moseley
Trev blinked. ‘Fair point. But if those circles aren’t toilets, what are they?’
Bookbinder’s jaw shifted as if he were about to speak, then he shrugged and turned away. Trev somehow restrained himself from punching the good doctor in the back of the head and raised his eyebrows at Desai instead.
‘Do you think they could be the same sort of conduits as in the walls?’ he asked her.
‘They’re marked differently, but maybe,’ she replied.
‘Are you telling me that these shadows can simply materialise in any cell they choose?’ said Montano, who’d been following the conversation.
‘Potentially,’ said Trev. He rummaged through the plans until he’d got all the cell blocks in front of him. ‘Those little circles are in all the cells.’
‘And we’re only just working this out now?’
Trev didn’t reply. The memory of the lucid dream he’d had was coming back to him; the cells filling up with darkness which then flowed away into the ceiling and floor. If the black circles did represent conduits for the shadows’ energy then the dream now made a lot more sense, though he was still none the wiser as to what the darkness itself actually was. That thought triggered another memory.
‘Hang on,’ he said, swivelling in his chair to face Oscar. ‘Didn’t you say that you’d worked out what the shadows are?’
‘Yep,’ said the cat. ‘I was going to tell you all when we got back here, but you started shouting at each other so I thought I’d have a nap instead.’
There was a pause. ‘What?’ said Montano.
‘I didn’t like to butt in while you were handing Trev his arse,’ said Oscar. ‘It would’ve been rude.’ He faced down the poisonous looks being aimed in his direction with his usual insouciance. ‘Would you like me to tell you now?’
‘Of course we bloody would,’ Trev growled.
‘You only had to ask,’ the cat replied. ‘Well, it’s quite simple really. They’re ghosts.’
‘Ghosts,’ Desai echoed, without conviction.
‘Bollocks,’ said Richie, taking time out from scratching his arse to make a contribution.
‘A carefully-considered rebuttal, and one that I’ll answer in three parts,’ Oscar said. ‘Firstly: you’ve never even seen one of the shadows, so I’m not sure why you think you’re qualified to pass comment. Secondly: I’ve forgotten more about the supernatural world than you’ll ever know. And thirdly: shut up, you mouth-breathing nincompoop.’
‘Who the hell–’ Richie began. Montano silenced him with a curt hand gesture.
‘Ghosts?’ she said. ‘Explain.’
‘I know they aren’t the type of ghosts we’re used to dealing with, but hear me out,’ the cat said. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. What is a ghost?’
‘A disembodied human soul sustained by an accompanying accretion of psychic energy,’ Desai answered promptly.
‘A textbook answer,’ Oscar said. ‘And I should know, because I wrote the textbook. Well, dictated it, anyway.’
‘Yes, we get it. You’re very clever,’ said Trev, making a get on with it circling gesture with his right hand.
‘Jealousy is a terrible thing,’ Oscar replied. ‘Anyway, what we’re saying here is that psychic energy is the “battery” that keeps a ghost running. Specifically, it’s positively-charged psychic energy.’
‘Even when it’s one of those sad, melancholy ghosts loitering around the place where they died?’ Trev asked.
‘Even then,’ said Oscar. ‘Negatively-charged energy is by nature a transitory thing. It’s quickly formed and quickly shed. People don’t retain it the way they do the positive stuff.’
‘All very interesting,’ Montano commented, ‘but am I alone in thinking “so what”?’
‘God, you’re an impatient bunch,’ Oscar said. ‘What I’m trying to tell you, despite the constant interruptions, is that these shadows we’re dealing with are ghosts with one very important difference. They’re being sustained by something else. Namely, that presence lurking in the walls, whatever it is.’
‘I don’t see how that’s possible,’ Desai said. ‘Ghosts need psychic energy to exist.’
‘It shouldn’t be possible,’ Oscar replied, ‘but there you have it. You’d be surprised how many things are impossible until they actually happen.’
‘I suppose it explains how the Corbyn-shadow spoke to us,’ Trev said. ‘The presence has his soul. But is it actively controlling him, or just sustaining him while he does his own thing?’
Oscar cocked his head to one side. ‘It might be both.’
‘What do you mean by that? Either it is controlling him, or it isn’t.’
‘I wish things were that simple, really I do,’ said the cat.
‘What else is it then?’
‘We just don’t know enough about this thing to be able to speculate.’ Oscar sounded apologetic, which was unusual enough to make Trev frown.
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ he muttered.
‘This presence, this darkness, is something entirely new,’ Oscar said. ‘We won’t know whether it’s capable of something until it happens. But it doesn’t appear to be mindless. It’s unpredictable, yes, but it seems… well, it seems to know what it’s doing.’
‘Are you saying it’s alive, or something?’ Montano asked.
‘I don’t think I’d say “alive”, necessarily,’ said Oscar, ‘but either it’s aware enough to be able to direct itself, or someone within the prison is directing it somehow, using it to kill.’
‘I’m not sure which of those options is the scarier,’ Desai said.
‘Is there any way of stopping it?’ Montano put in.
‘No idea,’ said Oscar. ‘If, as the prison plans suggest, Spectre’s Rest was built to contain this thing, then it’s possible there’s some kind of mechanism or failsafe somewhere that could restrain it. If it’s being controlled by a person, then we need to find that person and stop them.’
‘Would cutting off the presence dispel the ghosts?’
Oscar dipped his head in a feline shrug. ‘It looks like the ghosts are dependent on the darkness to keep them going. So removing it ought to cause them to fade away. Eventually.’
‘Assuming someone is controlling the darkness, who could it be?’ Desai wondered.
‘Anyone seen Jerry Phelps lately?’ Trev said, giving Montano a sidelong look.
‘If you’ve got any evidence that he’s involved, then let’s hear it,’ Montano replied. ‘Until then, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Where is he, then?’ Trev said. ‘Don’t you think that him disappearing just before Corbyn’s death is even a teensy bit suspicious?’
Montano’s expression hardened. ‘You’re not listening. Give me some evidence or stop throwing unfounded accusations about. His disappearance isn’t necessarily suspicious. He could easily be another victim in all this.’
‘Then where’s his body?’ Trev pressed. ‘You have to admit–’
‘Evidence,’ Montano cut across him, ‘or shut up.’
Trev threw his hands up in frustration, but he took the hint and dropped the subject. If Montano wanted to bury her head in the sand, then fair enough. He wasn’t going to join her. Jerry Phelps was still the prime suspect in Trev’s eyes, and as soon as the Custodians arrived he was confident that they’d quickly find the evidence the warden wanted.
A couple of guards, neither of whom Trev recognised, entered the library with a pair of flatbed trolleys loaded with blankets, tins of food and other supplies. Montano silently directed them to a corner with a wave of her hand and they began unloading. Trev watched them for a moment before turning to Desai, one questioning eyebrow raised. She shrugged.
Trev’s wandering gaze settled on Dr. Bookbinder, who’d sat in silence through Oscar’s theories and the resulting debate. He was staring at the table as if it was the single most fascinating item of furniture in the world.
‘Anything to add, Doctor?’ Trev sai
d.
Bookbinder started. ‘What?’
‘I said, “anything to add”? What do you think about Oscar’s ghost theory?’
‘It’s not a theory, it’s a fact,’ Oscar said.
‘It sounds like nonsense to me, but ghosts are hardly my area of expertise,’ Bookbinder said.
‘I think you know exactly what’s going on,’ Trev said. ‘Why are you keeping quiet? Are you covering for someone? Being threatened? Blackmailed?’
‘You’re talking more nonsense than the cat,’ Bookbinder replied.
‘Please, don’t debase me by comparing me to him,’ Oscar said.
‘The Custodians’ll be here in a bit and we’ll get to the bottom of all this anyway,’ Trev continued. ‘But it might be better if you’ve come clean before that. It won’t look good if you’re still withholding information by the time they get here.’
Bookbinder’s sigh was so theatrical it could’ve got an audition with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He stood up. ‘All this claptrap is tiring me out,’ he said, ‘so if you’ll excuse me I’m going back to the infirmary for some sleep.’
‘No you aren’t,’ said Montano. ‘I’m not having people wandering about alone. It’s too dangerous. We’ll be using the library as a base of operations for the time being. Anyone not on duty is to stay here.’
Behind her the two guards were setting up some folding camp beds, spreading out a woollen blanket on each. On the comfort scale they looked one notch ahead of a bed of nails. Bookbinder glowered at Montano but didn’t argue. He sat back down.
‘Oh great,’ Trev said. ‘I should’ve taken that offer of a cell when it was on the table.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ Oscar replied. ‘You’re spoiled for choice when it comes to bedtime reading.’
Thirty-One
Trev was awoken to murky daylight spilling through the library windows and a heavy cat standing on his chest.
‘Come on, you lazy sod,’ Oscar said, batting at Trev’s nose with a paw. ‘The Custodians are here.’
‘Bleh,’ Trev replied. His mouth was dry and tasted like a sumo wrestler’s jockstrap. ‘What time is it?’
‘About half-past eight,’ Oscar said.
‘And the Custodians have only just got here? Where have they been?’
‘Nah, they’ve been here for hours. You looked knackered so we’ve let you sleep, but they want to talk to you now.’
Trev shoved Oscar off him and sat up. The camp bed had given him a whole new set of aches and pains. He yawned and stretched, and his joints popped and cracked like a volley of gunfire.
‘Bloody hell, that didn’t sound good,’ Oscar said. ‘Want me to get you a can of WD40?’
Trev shook his head. ‘I think I’ll manage.’
He hauled himself to his feet, eliciting a pair of meaty clicks from his knees. After helping to get the beds set up he’d fallen into one and sparked out. He’d managed a good few hours’ sleep but he didn’t feel particularly refreshed; of course, waking up in a freezing cold prison with nothing to look forward to except another day of dodging the Grim Reaper was bound to sap anybody’s enthusiasm.
He tried to straighten his clothes, which was a losing battle, and put on the belt that held The Twins. Just wearing the two swords gave his confidence a lift, despite his dishevelled appearance. There were a few guards asleep on the far side of the room, little more than snoring lumps of grey blanket. Trev assumed that everyone else was out on duty. There was no sign of Montano, Desai or Bookbinder.
He picked his way across the room, avoiding the clusters of camp beds and stacks of boxes. Oscar led the way, his tail held high like an aerial. They managed to get out into the corridor without falling over anything. Trev let out a breath, which was faintly visible in the frigid air.
‘How come the Romans designed their buildings with effective central heating but the Victorians didn’t?’ he wondered.
‘They probably thought that freezing your bollocks off was character-building,’ Oscar said.
‘Sounds about right,’ Trev agreed. ‘So, where are the Custodians?’
‘Out the front,’ Oscar said.
They set off down the corridor. ‘It was good of you lot to let me have a lie-in, but I probably should…’ Trev tailed off and his eyes narrowed. ‘Hang on. Was I left sleeping because Grace wanted me out of the way?’
‘You might think that, I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Oscar, doing a very serviceable impersonation of Ian Richardson.
‘I think this is the first time I’ve ever had a lie-in and felt pissed off about it,’ Trev grumbled. ‘Are the Custodians at least going to evacuate us out of this place?’
‘Don’t know,’ Oscar replied. ‘They’ve brought a couple of big trucks with them that look like they might be for transporting prisoners, so that’s a good sign. But they aren’t actually putting anyone in them.’
‘It’s still early,’ Trev said. ‘There’s plenty of time before it gets dark again.’
‘You’re assuming because the previous attacks have all happened at night, the next one will too,’ said the cat. ‘And you know what they say about assumption.’
Trev dropped his right hand onto Caladbolg’s hilt. ‘Thanks. I was just starting to feel safe for a moment there.’
‘The time to feel safe will be when Spectre’s Rest is disappearing in your rear-view mirror,’ said Oscar. ‘Until then, eyes open and expect the worst.’
‘Pessimist.’
Oscar nodded. ‘Yup. It’s the best way to be. If the worst happens you’re prepared for it, and if it doesn’t, you get to be pleasantly surprised.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ Trev said.
Oscar led them to the prison’s main entrance hall, which had an air of resigned neglect about it. The paint on the walls was peeling and the black-and-white floor tiles were scuffed and cracked. The front doors were eight feet tall and made of thick wood banded with iron. One of them was ajar, in what Trev assumed was a scandalous breach of security protocol. It seemed that standards were slipping since Montano had called in the Custodians.
They walked out through the door and onto the road outside. The sun was trying to penetrate a thin layer of mist that hung about the prison grounds. The broad expanse of lawn between the prison and the gatehouse was smeared white with frost. Trev shrugged deeper into his jacket and looked to his right, where the two trucks Oscar had mentioned were parked.
The vehicles were quite impressive. Trev had seen the armoured cars the police used to transport prisoners and these were similar, albeit larger. They looked very new, though their white paintwork was speckled with mud and grit from the wintry roads. Every part of the bodywork appeared to have been heavily reinforced. Trev reckoned that they could be driven straight through the average building and the driver would only feel a slight bump.
Two groups of people were gathered near the trucks. One of them consisted of Desai, Montano and the ever-present Richie, who was leaning against one of the trucks and smoking a cigarette. The other group was made up of Custodians, clad in full combat gear with guns, tactical vests and big boots. There were four of them, three men and a woman. Trev didn’t recognise any of them. The man in charge was tall and well-built, with hair cut so short it was almost down to the scalp and a contrastingly thick moustache. He was busy giving instructions to the group.
‘That can’t be all of them, surely?’ Trev said to Oscar.
‘No, of course not,’ said the cat.
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Yeah, there’s another bloke around somewhere,’ Oscar continued. A fifth man jumped down from the back of one of the trucks. ‘Ah, there he is.’
‘They sent five Custodians?’ Trev said, aghast. ‘Five?’
‘And two really big trucks. Don’t forget those.’
‘What the hell is going on?’
‘All they could spare, apparently.’ Oscar sniffed. ‘They’ll send reinforcements as they become available, or more likely, if t
hey become available. Until then, this is it.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Trev shook his head and walked over to where Desai, Montano and Richie were standing.
‘Morning,’ said Desai, giving him a nod. ‘Sleep well?’
‘I slept, let’s just leave it at that,’ Trev replied. He leaned his head to the side until his neck clicked. ‘Ow.’
Desai grimaced. ‘Well, you sound like you’re in the peak of physical condition.’
‘I try to avoid peaks,’ said Trev. ‘I’m more of a troughs kind of bloke.’
‘In both senses of the word,’ Oscar agreed.
‘Any particular reason you didn’t want me talking to that lot?’ Trev asked, jerking a thumb in the Custodians’ direction. ‘I mean, the lie-in was welcome, but I’m not quite daft enough to believe it was done out of the goodness of your hearts.’
A flicker of guilt passed across Desai’s face; Grace Montano, however, stared back at him with a measured expression.
‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘I’m the warden and I decided it wasn’t a priority for them to speak to you.’
‘But now they’ve asked for me?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Must be your friends in high places.’
‘If you’re talking about Feargal Deacon again, I already told you we’re not friends. Not even close.’
‘It’s true,’ Oscar chipped in. ‘Feargal thinks Trev’s a complete moron.’
Trev swung a foot at the cat and missed. ‘Fine. I’ll go and ask them then.’
He walked across to the group of Custodians. The moustachioed leader was just finishing handing out his instructions and turned to face Trev as he approached. His four colleagues gathered up some boxes of equipment and headed for the prison’s front doors.
‘Trevor Irwin, am I right?’ said the Custodians’ leader, holding out a hand for Trev to shake.
‘That’s me,’ said Trev. He winced as his hand was crushed in greeting.
‘Ralph Barton,’ said the man, releasing Trev’s maimed hand. ‘I’m in charge of the squad.’