The Case of the Hidden Daemon

by Lucy Banks

  “Chocolate and vanilla,” Pamela said, without preamble. “I baked it last night for some friends of mine, but I thought you boys could use it instead.”

  “I’m supposed to be on a diet,” Kester said uncertainly as he threw his coat over his chair. He fondled his belly, then nodded defiantly. “Actually, yes, I would like a slice. A big one, in fact.” That’ll teach Anya to storm out without telling me where she’s going, he thought churlishly. I’ll get back at her by eating cake.

  Pamela scuttled off to the stockroom to find a knife whilst Mike gestured to his desk.

  “You’ve got to hear this,” he said seriously as he fiddled with his laptop. “This is one of the best songs I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  Kester scratched his ear. “Hang on a minute. This is a Billy Dagger song that’s literally just been released, right?”

  Mike nodded gleefully. “The internet’s been buzzing with it for a few days now, and it was finally released at midnight last night.”

  “Did you stay up to hear it?”

  “Damn right, I did!” Mike looked indignant at the mere suggestion that he might not have done. “A true Dagger fan wouldn’t dream of nodding off when something this big happens.”

  “Except he wasn’t really Billy Dagger, was he?” Kester reminded him gently as he pulled up a chair.

  Mike grumbled under his breath and clicked his mouse. “Right. Listen to this, see what you make of it. It’s called ‘Ode to Set-Shirker’.”

  At once, the room was filled with sinister organ music, rendered slightly tinny through Mike’s laptop speakers. Pamela poked her head around the stockroom door.

  “Not that dreary old thing again, how many more times do we have to listen to it?”

  “Have you cut that cake yet?” Mike retorted over the melodious twang of the electric guitars. “Don’t keep a man starving, there’s a love.” He nodded, then added, “And it’s not dreary, it’s genius.”

  Pamela sighed theatrically, then disappeared again.

  Kester watched the video with fascination. “What the hell is it meant to mean?” he mumbled as he observed the hypnotic swaying of the dancers, not to mention the strange, hallucinogenic backdrop.

  “Dunno,” Mike said vaguely, “but it obviously means something, doesn’t it?”

  Kester watched until the end, entranced. After the song had finished, he shook himself, feeling suddenly cold despite the warmth of the office. That song was eerie, he thought, the situation with Anya momentarily forgotten. Though I’m not sure why.

  Pamela emerged bearing cake and tea, which they both tucked into eagerly. She sat on the edge of the desk and watched them eat, tapping her feet restlessly against the carpet.

  “So, what do you make of it?” she asked finally. “Miss Wellbeloved and Serena should be in soon, do you think you’ll need their help to decipher it?”

  “I haven’t even had a chance to read the lyrics yet,” Kester said as he sipped his tea. “And it’s a bit early in the morning for this level of brain activity.”

  Pamela looked at her watch. “It’s past eight o’ clock! Dearie me, you youngsters. Always in bed.”

  “With his girlfriend,” Mike added with a particularly lavish wink.

  “No, not with his girlfriend actually,” Kester said curtly.

  Mike wisely chose not to comment and instead started searching for the song lyrics. “Here you are,” he said finally. “Dunno how accurate they’ll be, given they’ve only been uploaded this morning, but it gives you an idea.”

  Together, they scanned the web page.

  Left the stage, in a pool of black,

  Razor-blade behind my back,

  Secret sermons left untold

  Shirked my last, left you cold.

  I reeked this roost,

  Though all was well,

  The set-shirker sang,

  And opened hell.

  The dorkiest heteros heard me call,

  That is all, I said, that is all,

  I left the stage, to a cave of black,

  Sharpened dagger behind my back.

  I reeked this roost,

  Though all was well,

  The set-shirker sang,

  And opened hell.

  Blackness tightens like a choker,

  False religion, theorised stoker,

  The stage is dark, under attack,

  A justice-sword behind my back.

  I reeked this roost,

  Though nothing was well,

  The set-shirker sang,

  And opened hell.

  Histories so putrid or . . .

  Histories so putrid or . . .

  Or nothingness. Blackness. Underground.

  “Wow,” Pamela breathed, placing her mug down on the desk. “Even more incomprehensible than his last lot of lyrics, if you ask me.”

  Kester puffed out his cheeks and leant back in his chair. “I think that’s his most sinister one yet,” he said finally. He wasn’t sure if it was his early wake-up call or Anya’s absence, but he was thoroughly rattled. He surveyed the windows, laced with a delicate frost, and shuddered.

  “Come on, then,” Mike said expectantly, polishing off the last mouthful of cake. “What does it all mean?”

  “I haven’t got the foggiest,” Kester replied and massaged his face. “One thing is obvious, though.”

  “What?”

  “This is the most audacious reference to his death on stage that could be imagined.”

  Mike chuckled. “Yeah. It’s pretty blatant.”

  Pamela bustled in closer, the steam from her tea rising in tantalising little plumes before her eyes. “Well, it makes sense that he’d write about his death, doesn’t it?”

  “How many singers do you know who manage to write about their own death like this?” Mike chuckled. “Remember, this is supposed to have been written before he died.”

  She squinted at the screen. “He’s playing with his fans, then. Making them wonder if he staged his own death.”

  “Staged his own death on stage, no less,” Kester reminded her. Once again, he was struck by the formidable intelligence of the daemon. Look at the way he’s teasing us all, he thought as he examined the lyrics once again. He’s masterminded all of this, from start to finish. How can we hope to compete?

  He yawned just as the office door flew open. Serena nodded curtly at them all, characteristic red pout in place, then stomped to her desk. Miss Wellbeloved scurried closely behind, quickly closing the door to keep the heat in.

  “I got accosted by a group of carol singers,” Serena announced with a scowl that suggested it was the most insulting thing that could have possibly happened to her. “I mean, seriously. Who sings carols this early in the morning?”

  “I thought they were quite pleasant,” Miss Wellbeloved said as she pulled off her mittens. “I was feeling quite festive afterwards.”

  “I bloody wasn’t.” Serena grimaced, patting down her hair. “I could do without being deafened by ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ before I’ve had my morning coffee.”

  “Incubus keep you awake again last night, did he?” Mike asked, with ill-disguised glee.

  “Sod off, Mike.” She flounced over to the desk and glared at the screen. “How far have you got with the lyrics, then?”

  “Give us time,” Kester said weakly. “I thought you were meant to be working on something else, anyway? Getting in contact with Whilshin & Sons or something?”

  “Done it already,” Serena said smugly as she perched on the neighbouring desk. “They’re sending me the full report today. You know me, I like to get on with the task.”

  Miss Wellbeloved gave Kester a wink over Serena’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should leave you to it?” she suggested. “Your father will be in a bit later. He wasn’t feeling great
this morning.”

  Kester raised an eyebrow. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, he’ll be fine.” Miss Wellbeloved didn’t look entirely convinced. Suddenly, she clicked her fingers. “Oh, I’ve just remembered. I spoke on the phone to Dr Barqa-Abu last night. She’d like to talk to you about the case. You’ll need to get in touch with her at some point today.”

  Kester’s heart sank. The mere thought of the djinn made him feel rather shivery. “Why does she want to talk to me?”

  Miss Wellbeloved shrugged. “No idea, but you’d better not forget. Dr Barqa-Abu isn’t someone who likes to be forgotten about. Anyway, shall we all crack on?”

  Kester returned to his own desk, already panicking about the prospect of the phone call later. Deliberately putting it from his mind, he flipped open his laptop, waited for the internet to go through its usual, slow machinations, then located the lyrics of ‘Ode to Set-Shirker’ again.

  “Histories so putrid or . . .” he mused as he pressed his glasses further up his nose. That’s got to be another anagram. It’s too strange a line to be anything but. Not to mention the song’s title, which is one of the weirdest I’ve ever heard.

  He typed “histories so putrid or” into a few online anagram solvers, but none of them came up with anything. The morning ticked slowly by as the winter sun started to filter through the windows, casting a bleak glow across his makeshift camping table. Finally, he resorted to the good, old-fashioned method of writing the letters down on a piece of paper.

  “There are definitely the words ‘spirit door’ in it,” he mumbled to himself, sighing heavily. “Beyond that, I haven’t got a clue.”

  Miss Wellbeloved glanced up. “What was that? Have you figured out any of the lyrics?”

  He read out the final line of the song to her, then revealed what he’d discovered so far.

  “What are the leftover letters?”

  As he told her, she deftly scribbled them down, and started to rearrange them.

  “So,” she mused aloud, “we’re left with an O, an I, an S . . .” Waggling her pen in the air, she wrote down some possible combinations. Kester did the same.

  “It’s quite fun in a way, isn’t it?” she whispered with a surprisingly youthful grin.

  Kester laughed. “I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use.” He changed the order of the letters again, repeating the shuffle until he felt his brain would burst with the pressure of it all. This is silly, he thought, staring at his paper, which was starting to look like the deranged scribblings of a certified lunatic. Without much hope, he jotted them down in a different order, then squinted at the results.

  His eyes widened.

  Without meaning to, he leapt out of his seat, knees crashing into the underside of the table, which promptly collapsed beneath him. Heedless of the crumpled mess of desk, laptop, and various notes and pens, he waved his paper in Miss Wellbeloved’s direction.

  “Got it!” he announced triumphantly.

  The others waited expectantly. Kester beamed. “The last line, ‘histories so putrid or . . .’,” he began, “is an anagram of ‘the spirit door is ours’.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Serena said indignantly. “They haven’t got the spirit door yet—it sounds a bit presumptuous to me.”

  Miss Wellbeloved looked worried. “I don’t like it. It’s almost triumphant, isn’t it?”

  “Gloating, more like,” Pamela said briskly, crossing her hands behind her head.

  “But it’s not like they’ve succeeded,” Serena pointed out. “So, why say that in the song?”

  Kester pondered, eyes fixed on the high ceiling. There’s much more to this song than we think, he realised, running through the lyrics in his head. It’s just a matter of accessing it.

  “I think it’s a warning,” he said finally.

  “A warning about what, exactly?” Serena paced across the floor, heels drumming into the carpet. “This is a song about his death on stage, isn’t it?”

  Kester scanned the screen again. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But that’s just the surface meaning. The meaning that’s designed to please all the Billy Dagger fans. I think there’s a far deeper message in there, hidden from view.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like the line ‘a justice-sword behind my back’, for starters.” He rapped the screen. “That tells us that he believes what he’s doing is the morally right thing to do.”

  “It’s a bit Old Testament, isn’t it?” Pamela said. “Judgement Day and all that.”

  Kester nodded. “Agreed. And the line ‘sharpened dagger behind my back’ is a clear reference to his veiled identity as Billy Dagger.”

  Serena sighed. “What about the reference to a razor blade, then?”

  “Perhaps it’s meant to be about his faked death?” Miss Wellbeloved suggested. “After all, razor blades are often used in suicides, aren’t they?”

  Kester shrugged. “I still think we’re missing much more. There are probably more anagrams in there. Some of these lyrics are just plain mental.”

  The room fell silent. Kester knew how important it was to decipher the song and felt the weight of the responsibility pressing down on him. He attempted a weak smile.

  “I’d best crack on with it, hadn’t I?”

  Miss Wellbeloved gave him a sympathetic look. “If anyone can do it,” she said gently, “it’s you. We’ll let you get on.”

  “By the way, everyone,” Serena added as she returned to her desk, “Whilshin & Sons sent through the report.”

  “And?” Miss Wellbeloved sat straighter in her desk.

  Serena frowned. “At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be much about Fylgja that we don’t already know. There were a few interesting comments though—just let me find them.”

  They waited patiently as Serena fiddled around with her computer.

  “Right.” She looked at them all to check she had their full attention. “This is a report from Mr Gilbert Whilshin.”

  “Benedict Whilshin’s father,” Miss Wellbeloved muttered faintly.

  “Quite.” Serena’s eyes narrowed at the interruption. “Anyway, he wrote this in 1922. It’s quite waffly, but he makes a comment about having to keep an eye on Flygja as she had acted ‘with uncharacteristic aggression’ on a few occasions. It also says how her behaviour had ‘become erratic’, and that she had disappeared without trace on a few occasions but had always returned to attend the obligatory spirit registrations.”

  “Perhaps her connections with Hrschni go back further than we realise?” Miss Wellbeloved said, biting her lip.

  “Or perhaps she was just a loose cannon, waiting to blow?” Mike suggested. “Gilbert Whilshin also notes an incident where Fylgja and her human got into a fight,” Serena added.

  “What, you mean the human she was inhabiting at the time?” Kester asked. “I thought humans were always happy to have daemons living inside them, because it made them successful and beautiful?”

  “Most of the time, yes,” Miss Wellbeloved said. “But sometimes, the relationship can become fraught. When this happens, the daemon normally does the decent thing and departs—though on very rare occasions, people like myself have had to intervene.”

  “You mean, spirit conversants?”

  “Absolutely.” Miss Wellbeloved nodded. “Remember, I act as intermediary between the human and spirit realm. That’s what we do.”

  “Did someone have to intervene with Fylgja and her human, then?” Mike asked, leaning across his desk.

  “Looks like it.” Serena frowned at the screen. “But it says it was resolved amicably.”

  “Still,” Mike said as he relaxed back beneath the pile of contraptions on his desk, “it tells us something about her character, doesn’t it?”

  They all nodded in unison. Great, thought Kester as he returne
d to his laptop, first a power-crazed daemon, and now a vain daemon with a bit of a temper. Could it be any worse? He sighed, then returned to the song lyrics.

  The afternoon passed without incident, apart from Dr Ribero hobbling through the door at about half-past two, glaring at them all, then promptly retreating to his office after announcing that he didn’t want to be disturbed until after his three o’clock siesta.

  Why does he even bother coming in? Kester wondered. Then he felt guilty. After all, his father was unwell, and he got the impression that he’d taken a much more active role in the past. Kester returned to work. The sky darkened, making the office lights look unnaturally bright by contrast. Finally, Miss Wellbeloved looked up.

  “It’s probably time to go home now,” she suggested quietly before glancing at Kester. “How did you get on?”

  He slumped against his camping table. “Nothing to report, I’m afraid. There’s definitely more anagrams hidden in there, but I can’t work out what they are. I’ve tried every possible combination I can think of.”

  Ribero’s office door burst open, and the man himself stood at the doorway, smouldering cigarette in hand, crutch hoisted under one armpit. “What is this?” he barked. “No progress? That is not good. The Higgins will laugh if he hears we cannot solve even simple song lyrics, right?”

  Kester rolled his eyes. “Dad, I’ve been working on it all day. I can only do my best, you know.”

  “Hmm.” Ribero stomped into the room, bandaged ankle protruding in front of him. “But I don’t want to lose face in front of the Higgins, do I?”

  “Oh, really!” Miss Wellbeloved snapped as she shut down her computer. “This is about much more than your silly fight with Larry, you know!”

  Ribero drew himself up to his full height and glowered at her down the length of his nose. “I do know that, thank you for reminding me, Jennifer. But still. I do not want the Higgins to have a reason to laugh at us, yes?”

  Kester pulled on his coat and seized his bag. “Whatever. I’m off now. It’s been a long day.”

  “Fancy a pint?” Mike chorused. “A nice ale or two to warm you up?”