Spectre's Rest

by Nick Moseley

  ‘Search me,’ said Trev. ‘Maybe one of the trucks got bogged down in the grass.’

  ‘Looks more serious than that.’ Barton had called over the other Custodians, with the exception of Stewart, who was rummaging in his pockets and looking worried.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Trev said. The relief he’d felt when Barton had agreed to evacuate was rapidly draining away. Something was definitely up. He crossed the room to speak to Stewart. ‘What’s all the drama?’ he asked the tall Custodian.

  ‘It’s nothing, really,’ Stewart replied. ‘Someone’s made a little mistake. Hopefully not me. It’ll be sorted out.’

  He smiled, or at least attempted to. If it was intended to reassure Trev, the effect was the exact opposite.

  ‘Why did you say “little mistake” in the way someone would usually say “absolutely enormous mistake”?’ he said.

  Stewart puffed out his cheeks. ‘Dawn went to move the trucks like Ralph asked,’ he said, ‘and she couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The keys were left in the cabs,’ Stewart said. ‘Only they’re gone. Someone’s taken them.’

  Thirty-Four

  Stewart’s worry wasn’t misplaced. None of the Custodians had the keys, and all the guards swore blind that they hadn’t been near the trucks. The possibility of a genuine mistake was quickly ruled out; both vehicles had been left unlocked, and both were now locked with the alarms set and the keys gone. Someone was making a deliberate attempt to stop the evacuation.

  ‘Have you got CCTV coverage of the front of the building?’ Desai asked Montano.

  ‘Should have,’ the warden replied. ‘The repeated power-cuts haven’t done the system any favours, and most of the internal cameras are shot, but at least one of the external cameras was working as of this morning.’

  A small group consisting of Desai, Montano, Richie and Barton left the library and headed for the security control room that Trev had visited on his first night at the prison. For want of something to do, he tagged along behind the group, with Oscar at his side. Nobody seemed to mind.

  The security room was staffed by a lone guard who Montano addressed as Mike. He was in late middle-age and had the telltale physique of someone who sits at a desk all day on premises equipped with junk-food vending machines. When he removed his Veil Security baseball cap to scratch his head he revealed a bald pate with a fuzz of white stubble around it, standing out against his dark skin. He spoke with a hint of a Jamaican accent.

  ‘I’ve been watching the cell blocks, so I haven’t seen anything out the front,’ he said, a little defensively. He looked so tired that Trev thought he might’ve been watching the inside of his eyelids rather than the monitors. ‘I’ll run back the footage.’

  He operated some controls on the panel in front of him. Many of the screens were dark, but one of those that wasn’t had a monochrome view of the area in front of the main doors. It showed the cab of one of the trucks and an expanse of frosty grass. Mike rewound the camera feed, quickly finding a point where there was still a bustle of activity going on. He then moved things forward at a speed that was brisk, but not so fast that the viewers couldn’t see what was going on. Trev saw himself go past the camera, on his way to speak to Barton.

  Soon the area cleared as everyone went back inside to start hacking into the walls. Nothing moved for some time, until suddenly a blurry white figure appeared in the truck’s cab. A few moments later the vehicle’s indicators flashed as the doors were locked and the alarm system armed.

  ‘There we go,’ said Desai. ‘Any way of improving that image?’

  ‘Don’t need to,’ said Trev, scowling at the screen. ‘It’s bloody Bookbinder.’

  The guard ran the footage again. ‘You’re right,’ said Desai. ‘What’s he playing at?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to have his bollocks for earrings,’ Montano growled. She snatched her radio off her belt. ‘Montano to Dr. Bookbinder. Leo, where are you?’

  There was no response. Montano tried a couple more times for the sake of appearances, but everyone knew the old doctor wasn’t going to answer.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Barton. ‘Now we have to waste time searching the prison for this idiot. Any idea where he might be?’

  ‘He spends most of his time in the infirmary, as a rule,’ said Montano. ‘I doubt that’s where he’s gone though. Much too obvious.’

  ‘We’d better check anyway,’ said Barton. He grabbed his own radio and started issuing orders. Montano followed suit.

  Trev glanced down at Oscar. ‘Can’t you sniff him out?’ he asked.

  The cat snorted. ‘I’m a cat, not a bloodhound.’

  ‘But cats have a better sense of smell than humans, right?’

  ‘Rocks have a better sense of smell than humans.’

  ‘Whatever. But you could sniff Bookbinder out if you wanted to.’

  ‘If I’d taken note of what he smelled like when I last met him, I suppose I could. Although everything’s being drowned out by the mingled smell of Richie’s aftershave and body odour at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, even I can smell that,’ said Trev. Richie, fortunately, was out of earshot. ‘Look, why don’t we go down to the infirmary and you can try to pick up Bookbinder’s scent there?’

  Oscar sighed. ‘Fine, if you insist.’

  Trev went over to Montano, who was talking to Desai. ‘Oscar thinks he might be able to track Bookbinder by scent. We’re going to head to the infirmary and see if we can pick up his trail.’

  ‘About time that cat made himself useful,’ Montano said. She picked up a spare radio from a charging station atop the CCTV console, switched it on, and handed it to Trev. ‘If you find him, call me and I’ll send someone to bring him in. I’ll let the guards know to let you through any doors you need opening.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Trev. He looked at Oscar and jerked his head towards the door. ‘Come on, then.’

  It came as no surprise to find the infirmary deserted. Trev did a quick walk-through but there wasn’t anywhere for Bookbinder to hide. A narrow door led off Bookbinder’s office and into his living quarters, which consisted of a cramped room with a single bed, a wardrobe, and a desk and chair. The desk held an elderly laptop computer and a positively ancient record player. A tall wire rack stood next to the desk, filled with a wide selection of jazz LP’s, and a TV was mounted on the wall, the dust on the screen indicating that it didn’t get much use.

  ‘He told me he’d been here for over thirty years,’ Trev said. ‘Look at this place. It’s almost as bad as the prisoners’ accommodation. Are these all the possessions he owns?’

  ‘He’s obviously not a materialistic bloke,’ Oscar replied. ‘Except for truck keys. He can’t get enough of those.’

  There were some plastic stacker-boxes under the bed, although there was nothing of interest in any of them. Trev had just finished rummaging when one of Barton’s search parties turned up. He gave them the news that Bookbinder wasn’t there, although they insisted in having a look around anyway. Trev left them to it. On a whim he opened the desk drawer that he’d seen Bookbinder glancing at on his first visit to the infirmary; it was empty, but a round mark on the bottom of the drawer showed where a bottle usually sat.

  ‘Either he ran out of booze, or he’s taken it with him,’ Trev observed.

  ‘No empty bottle in the bin,’ Oscar said, ‘and someone’s definitely drunk some whisky in here at some point today, I can smell it. So he must have taken it with him.’

  ‘Have you got enough of a scent to track him?’

  ‘Ordinarily I’d say yes,’ said Oscar.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But having this creepy darkness lurking in the background seems to be throwing my senses off a bit. I’ll give it my best shot, anyway.’

  They left the infirmary. Oscar stood for a long moment in the corridor, whiskers twitching. Trev managed to restrain himself from hurrying him up, despite his increasing concern about the time sli
pping away from them. Finally the cat spoke.

  ‘I think I’ve got him going and coming back, then going again,’ he said. ‘He left the room, went in the direction of the front doors, then came back here before going off again.’

  ‘Came back for the bottle of whisky?’ Trev hazarded.

  ‘There’s definitely a whiff of booze about,’ Oscar confirmed. ‘He went this way, I’m pretty sure.’

  They walked through the central building towards the west wing. Oscar stopped regularly to check that they were still going in the right direction. They arrived at a junction in the corridor; ahead was the route that led past the now empty Block C and back to the reception area, while the left-hand corridor would take them to the front of the building and the right-hand one led to Blocks B and D. There were guards about, and although they gave Trev and Oscar some speculative looks they didn’t challenge them.

  ‘Well?’ said Trev.

  ‘Give me a sec.’ Oscar turned a slow half-circle, facing each corridor in turn. ‘Straight on, I think,’ he said.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Trev said as they set off. ‘There aren’t any prisoners left in Block C and all the offices’ll be deserted. Probably the quietest part of the prison.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Oscar agreed. ‘I still don’t get why he’s done this. Why’s he trying to stop us evacuating?’

  ‘He’s been hiding something all along,’ Trev said. ‘I think he knows exactly what’s been going on here, but he’s been threatened or blackmailed into keeping quiet.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘No idea. When we find him, we’ll ask him. And if we can’t get it out of him, I bet Barton can.’

  They arrived at the silent Block C. Trev tried the cage doors and found them both unlocked. Passing through, they ended up at the back of the reception area. The front desk was still unmanned, its little Christmas tree looking even more forlorn than before. The cage door here was locked, and Trev wondered if Bookbinder had gone through on his way to the exterior door. Oscar’s nose, however, indicated that the doctor had headed upstairs instead.

  ‘Up to the offices it is, then,’ Trev said.

  ‘Want to call it in?’ Oscar suggested.

  ‘Bookbinder might have a radio and be listening in,’ Trev replied, shaking his head. ‘I’ll call it in when we know for sure where he is. I’ve got two vapour weapons, I think I can handle an old drunk.’

  ‘Famous last words,’ said Oscar.

  They climbed the stairs and entered the long corridor at the top. Oscar’s nose led them past the office rooms, all of which were dark and empty, and towards the far end. Trev pulled Caladbolg from its holster, readying the weapon in case Bookbinder had armed himself.

  ‘He’s in Montano’s office, isn’t he?’ he murmured. ‘That’ll really piss her off.’

  It was the only closed door on the corridor. The fading sunlight from the large window in the end wall glinted softly off the brass nameplate. Trev estimated that they had little more than an hour before it got dark. He gave Oscar a questioning look.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ the cat said, his voice low. ‘He’s definitely in there, though.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trev. He blew out a breath through his nostrils and barged the door open, activating Caladbolg as he did so in case Bookbinder attacked him.

  He didn’t. The doctor was seated at Montano’s desk with a tumbler of whisky in his hand, which he raised to casually salute Trev as if armed men burst in on him all the time.

  ‘Was wondering who’d find me first,’ he said. His voice was thick and he pronounced each word with care. The missing whisky bottle sat on the desk in front of him, almost empty.

  Also on the desk were the truck keys, or rather the remains of them. Bookbinder had smashed them into a scattering of jagged pieces using a large metal paperweight, destroying the plastic casings and the electronics inside. He’d been very thorough; there was no chance of repairing them. His face ashen, Trev shut Caladbolg down and groped for the radio at his belt.

  ‘Trev to Grace Montano,’ he said.

  ‘Go ahead, Trev,’ Montano replied.

  ‘I’ve found Dr. Bookbinder,’ Trev said. ‘He’s in your office.’

  ‘Has he got the keys?’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s smashed them to bits.’

  There was a long pause, during which Trev imagined Montano’s reaction to that piece of news. He was glad he didn’t have to see it in person. ‘We’re on our way,’ she eventually replied.

  ‘They’re coming to take me away, ha-haaa,’ said Bookbinder. ‘Except I’m the one in the white coat. There’s irony for you.’

  ‘Why?’ said Trev, pointing to what was left of the keys.

  ‘We can’t go,’ said Bookbinder. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Well the roads are a bit icy, but I’d rather take my chances with dodgy driving conditions than killer shadows,’ Oscar said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Trev asked Bookbinder, holding out a hand to Oscar to tell him to keep quiet.

  ‘I’m afraid that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,’ the doctor replied, ‘and in this case, we are, sadly, the few.’ He took another sip of whisky and stifled a burp.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Trev shouted, shock and confusion shifting into anger.

  ‘You ought to know,’ Bookbinder said. ‘You’ve got a little of the darkness in you. Felt it when we first met.’

  Trev frowned, remembering Bookbinder flinching away from him when they’d shaken hands on that first night. Had the doctor sensed the knot of negatively-charged energy inside him? How?

  Bookbinder was nodding at Trev as if his bleary eyes could somehow read his thoughts. ‘I’ve been here long enough to develop something of a sensitivity to the prison’s… peculiarities.’ He said the last word very slowly, syllable by syllable.

  ‘You can sense the darkness?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Bookbinder. ‘Anybody with the Sight can. What do you think the creepy feeling is you get when you’re here?’

  ‘I get that,’ said Trev. ‘But you know what it actually is?’

  Bookbinder tapped the side of his nose. ‘Oh yes. I’ve been in on that for a while. In fact I may be guilty of setting all this in motion.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not on purpose, you understand,’ the doctor said. ‘I didn’t think it could hurt. A little extra money to top up my pension, you know. And maybe a little reflected glory if they discovered something interesting.’ He turned his eyes to Trev, suddenly pleading. ‘I didn’t know that anyone was going to die, you have to believe me. That poor girl, what they did...’

  ‘Girl?’ Trev understood that Bookbinder was making a confession of sorts, but none of it made sense. ‘And who’s “they”?’

  Bookbinder regarded the half-inch of liquid in his glass with an expression of regret. ‘Oh dear. I’ve always had the problem with saying things I shouldn’t after a couple of drinks.’

  ‘A couple?’ Oscar blurted out, unable to keep silent any longer.

  ‘A couple, yes,’ said Bookbinder. ‘At least, that’s how it starts. One becomes a couple, a couple becomes a few, a few becomes a lot… now I think of it, that’s how things have been going in the prison over the last week.’

  ‘You mean the shadows?’ Trev said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bookbinder agreed. ‘Although as a doctor, I should tell you that they’re a symptom rather than a cause.’

  ‘I still have no clue what you’re getting at,’ said Trev. ‘All I know is that you’ve guaranteed that some of the people in this prison are going to have to die.’

  ‘Some of the people?’ Bookbinder repeated. He shook his head and drained the rest of his whisky, banging the empty glass down on the desktop. ‘No, not some.

  ‘All of us. We all have to die.’

  Thirty-Five

  The mood in the library was bleak.

  After his ominous pronouncement Bookbinder had retreated into a sullen silence, which had only b
een reinforced when Montano arrived and began to berate him. Barton had secured the doctor’s hands with a set of plastic handcuffs and they’d taken him down to the library where he now sat, staring at his feet and saying nothing. Trev filled everyone in on what Bookbinder had said but nobody could make any sense of it.

  Barton and Montano were trying a good cop / bad cop approach on the old man. Barton was the good cop so the difference was negligible, although he was swearing slightly less than Montano. Clearly a prison was the place to work if you were serious about improving the scope and variety of your bad language. Bookbinder was unmoved; it was as if he couldn’t even hear them.

  Naively, Trev had wondered aloud if the trucks might be hot-wired. He’d then had a short but comprehensive lecture from Stewart about engine-management systems and immobilisers, which had explained the numerous ways in which that was a stupid suggestion. Trev had extricated himself from the one-sided conversation and was now lurking in a corner with Oscar.

  ‘So,’ said the cat, checking that nobody else was within earshot, ‘did I hear correctly that you’ve absorbed some negatively-charged energy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Trev with a sigh.

  ‘And you can’t get rid of it.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘It was when Barker ambushed Mallory and me at Fields Hall,’ Trev said. ‘He set those zombies after me. I tried to get away through the woods but they were chasing me down. I needed some energy and the only stuff to hand was bad mojo. I had no choice.’

  ‘Now all those questions you asked me that week make sense,’ said Oscar. ‘Am I right to assume that you can draw energy into yourself?’

  ‘I call it “recharging”,’ said Trev.

  ‘Not a common ability these days,’ said Oscar, holding Trev with his mismatched stare. ‘How come you kept quiet about it?’

  ‘I didn’t want to mark myself out as any more different than I already had,’ Trev explained. ‘I thought if I played down my abilities the Custodians would leave me alone eventually.’