by Nick Moseley
Trev flushed. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Seriously? Come on, Trev. You were never a model employee but you at least used to make an effort. Look at yourself. You’re obviously hungover, you’ve got cuts and bruises on your face, your suit looks like you slept in it and what the hell is that coat? Did you mug Rodney Trotter for it?’
‘Don’t hold back, say what you think,’ said Trev. He felt a dull throbbing behind his eyes. A combination of headache, embarrassment and rising anger. He did his best to keep his voice calm. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? I slept through my alarm this morning because–’
‘Save it, I’ve heard it all before,’ said Helen. She shook her head. ‘What’s happened to you? A few months ago you were the best sales negotiator in this town, pretty much. And now you can’t even get to work on time more than once a week. You haven’t sold anything for a fortnight, you spend most of the day staring into space and you frequently come in looking like you’ve spent the previous evening re-enacting Fight Club. What’s going on?’
‘I’d like to tell you, but you know the first rule of Fight Club,’ said Trev.
This attempt at defusing the situation with humour was followed by a short, but excruciating silence.
‘You don’t even have the courtesy to give me a straight answer,’ Helen said. ‘I used to let the smart-arse comments pass because you did the business, but you haven’t got any credit left there. I’m going to ask you one more time. What’s going on? Have you got a problem with drink? Drugs? Is it this whole thing with Sarah?’
Trev started, thinking for a moment that Helen somehow knew about Sarah’s distress call. ‘Sarah?’
‘Is this all a bad reaction to getting dumped?’
‘No. I hardly even think about her these days.’
Helen’s gaze said that she saw straight through that one. ‘So what is it?’
‘It’s… personal,’ Trev said. ‘I can’t really explain it, but I’m sorting it out.’
‘You said the same thing back in December, and you’ve got worse since,’ said Helen.
‘It’s taking longer to sort out than I thought, but I’m getting there,’ Trev replied.
‘Right,’ said Helen. Trev said nothing, his eyes roving around the room, avoiding her face. She shrugged and pulled an envelope out of her jacket pocket. ‘Here.’
Trev took the envelope warily. ‘What is it?’
‘A written warning. More specifically, a first and final written warning. I’m sorry, Trev, but I’m at the end of my tether with you, and so’s Gavin. Either you show a significant improvement in your performance, or we’re going to have to let you go.’
Gavin Winters was SmoothMove’s owner and managing director. Most of the time he was happy to let his staff to get on with things without his interference, although he occasionally got them all together for rambling “motivational” briefings, the content of which seemed to be culled from whatever book on sports psychology he’d read most recently.
Trev stared at the envelope. A first and final warning. One strike and you’re out. It seemed inconceivable that it could have come to this, but there it was in his hand. He felt sick. Being good at his job had been his only real source of pride. He’d enjoyed his reputation in Brackenford as the best sales negotiator, the sharpest operator. And now here he was, an inch away from being sacked.
So what if you do get sacked? said a voice in his head. You can go and work for the Custodians. They’d be more than happy to have you.
But it wasn’t as simple as that. His job was what kept him anchored to the “real” world, the world where vampires, ghosts and werewolves were fictional, where nobody expected him to put his life on the line and play hero, where he was just an ordinary bloke. If he joined the Custodians full-time, he was abandoning his old life and stepping into a place from which there was no return. He’d be giving up all pretence of a normal existence, and he just wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
‘All right, I get the message,’ he said. ‘Last chance saloon.’
‘Neither Gavin or I want to see you go,’ Helen said, ‘but at the moment you’re making it impossible to justify keeping you. You have to improve or that’s it. I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll sort it,’ said Trev.
Helen walked to the door. ‘I hope so. If only to wipe that smirk off Barry’s face. He’s been unbearable since he overtook you on sales.’ She walked out.
‘And if that isn’t motivation, I don’t know what is,’ Trev muttered, still holding the envelope as if it might explode.
Five
Trev was desperate to phone his Granddad but he didn’t dare make a personal call while Helen was paying such close attention. Instead he took a deep breath and got stuck into some work. Looking at his mountainous backlog of paperwork and e-mails, he was forced to admit that, if anything, Helen and Gavin were being pretty generous in giving him a last opportunity to save himself. He hadn’t fully applied himself to his job in months, and it showed. The fact that Barry was out-performing him was the rotten cherry on top of a very mouldy cake. The Trev of old would’ve worked himself into the ground rather than be beaten by Barry.
‘Nice chat?’ Barry asked, nodding at Helen. She was on the phone and didn’t hear him.
‘Absolutely,’ said Trev. He knew that Barry would be delighted to see him fired, so he was determined not to be provoked. The two of them had struck up a mutual loathing almost as soon as Trev started at SmoothMove. Barry saw Trev as a cocky upstart who didn’t respect the “old school”, but what really pissed him off was the simple fact that Trev was a much better salesman than he was. For his part Trev saw Barry as a whinging old fart who felt the world owed him a living; he was so set in his ways that his nickname among Brackenford’s estate agents was “Jurassic Clark”.
The animosity between them had been taken to another level by Sarah’s arrival. Barry, who was divorced and increasingly desperate to find a new partner, had become fixated on the idea that he and Sarah would become involved in a romantic May-to-December relationship. Sarah hadn’t shared his enthusiasm for this scenario and when she’d started seeing Trev instead, Barry had become a smouldering volcano of resentment. Sarah’s subsequent departure had actually made things worse, as Barry seemed to blame Trev for driving her away.
‘I give you a week,’ said Barry, favouring Trev with an unpleasant smile. ‘One mistake, that’s all it’ll take.’
‘If you were any good you’d be the manager and you could fire me yourself,’ Trev observed. ‘But instead you’re fifty-six and still on the bottom rung of the ladder.’
Barry scowled. ‘Better than falling off the ladder altogether.’
‘You’re the kind of bloke who could make falling off a ladder look difficult,’ Trev said, privately wondering how much more mileage they could get out of the ladder metaphor.
Helen put down her phone. ‘Don’t start, you two,’ she said.
Trev held up his hands and adopted a look of wounded innocence.
‘A week,’ Barry muttered.
Trev ignored him and went back to work. It’d been a long time since he’d really focused himself on the day-to-day tasks of his job but now he was forced to do so, he found himself enjoying it. It felt relaxing. Comforting, even. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the routine, the simple pleasure of doing something he was good at. Fighting the horrors of the supernatural stressed him out because he was crap at it. And the pay was rubbish, too – the previous night he’d risked his life for five pints of beer and a packet of crisps, and he was pretty sure that even Kamikaze pilots had been paid more than that.
The morning passed with a pleasing speed. A few cups of tea and some biscuits took the edge off Trev’s hangover and he managed to work through his whole buyer list, updating as he went. He even secured a couple of viewings on the Renton Road semi-detached, which was more than Barry managed, despite his confidence in the morning meeting. Trev was just starting to feel pretty good about h
imself when he remembered Sarah’s voicemail. That brought an abrupt end to his self-congratulation.
He eyed his phone. Even if he’d felt safe about making a personal call with Helen watching, he couldn’t really have a conversation about Sarah being held hostage with three of her ex-colleagues within earshot. The obvious solution was to use the phone in the back office. All he needed was a plausible excuse. Fortunately Helen announced she was going out for lunch, leaving Trev with just Barry and Phil to contend with. He knew that Phil wasn’t petty enough to care whether he made a personal call in work time, but Barry…
‘I’m making a cuppa. Want one?’ Trev asked, knowing that both of them already had drinks on their desks. Receiving the expected negative response, Trev hurried through to the staff room and switched on the kettle before going to the back office and calling Granddad.
‘Trevor!’ the old man boomed. ‘How are you? Oscar filled me in on your escapade with the earth elemental last night.’
‘I’m fine, just few cuts and bruises. And a bit of a hangover, but that’s it.’
‘Yes, Oscar was a little upset that he wasn’t invited to the pub with you.’
‘Douglas has a strict “no pets” rule in the Spigot.’
There was the sound of an outraged voice in the background. ‘Oscar’s quite adamant that he isn’t a pet,’ said Granddad. ‘And he’s a bit annoyed about being thrown out of Cledwyn’s car on your way past my house.’
‘We dropped him off at your house,’ Trev replied. ‘And he wasn’t thrown out. I placed him on the pavement quite carefully.’
‘Oscar’s sticking by his use of the word “thrown”.’
‘All right, I placed him on the pavement quite enthusiastically.’
‘He still says thrown. And something about killing you when he sees you next.’
‘Look, whatever. Granddad, I need your help with something.’
Granddad’s voice became serious. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s Sarah. She left me a message on my phone last night. She’s been… abducted, or something.’
‘Abducted? By whom?’
‘I don’t know. It was a short message. She said the group that sent her to watch me were called The Eyes of Nona. She tried to go into hiding but they tracked her down and forced her to do a job for them, a theft. Something went wrong and the man they were trying to steal from is holding her hostage.’
‘Did she say where she was? Or the man’s name?’
‘No, she didn’t know. And she didn’t know the number of the phone she was using either. It came through to me as a withheld number.’
‘Was she able to give you anything at all that might help find her?’
‘Not as such. Have you ever heard of The Eyes of Nona?’
‘I haven’t. Let me ask Oscar, I’ll put you on speakerphone.’ There was a click and the level of background noise increased. ‘All right then. Oscar, Trev’s asking about a group called The Eyes of Nona. Any thoughts?’
‘The name rings a very vague bell,’ said Oscar. Despite his habit of not taking anything seriously, the cat had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the supernatural world. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard it or read it somewhere before, but I can’t think where. Nona was one of the Parcae in Roman mythology, I can tell you that much.’
‘The who?’
‘No, The Who are a rock band. The Parcae were the three Fates. They decided how long each person would live and how they died. Nona spun a thread for each person, which represented their life. Her sister, Decima, measured out the thread. And a third sister, Morta, cut the thread when it was the person’s time to die.’
‘Very interesting, but I don’t think Sarah’s been working for a mythological Roman goddess who likes knitting.’
Oscar sighed. ‘I wasn’t suggesting she was, you quarter-wit. I was just trying to give you some context. The name of the group is probably a reference to the Parcae. You know, manipulating people’s fates or something.’
‘Through the power of knitting?’
‘Possibly. Or maybe by spying on people and getting close to them by posing as a work colleague. Or a girlfriend or something.’
Trev’s smirk faded. ‘What are you saying?’
‘It’s not rocket science. How do you know that this hostage situation is genuine?’
‘Why would she lie about it?’
‘Well she hasn’t got a stellar reputation for honesty, has she?’
‘She sounded genuine in the message.’
‘Yes, but she also pretended to find you attractive, so we know she’s a phenomenal actress.’
‘Bloody hell, that was low.’
‘Says the kitten-thrower.’
‘Back to the matter at hand,’ said Granddad, cutting in before the conversation could deteriorate any further. ‘What do we do next?’
‘Assuming she’s telling the truth, I don’t see there’s anything we can do except wait and hope she calls Trev again,’ said Oscar. ‘As it stands we’ve got no means of tracing her.’
‘That’s a sign that she is telling the truth, though, right?’ said Trev. ‘If she’s trying to manipulate me into doing something or going somewhere, she’d have given me some sort of clue, surely?’
‘If she had, it’d be the first time in your life that you did have a clue,’ Oscar said. ‘But it’s a fair point.’
‘So we’re left with your “wait and hope” strategy.’
‘I haven’t heard anyone come up with something better.’
‘All right, we’ll have to go with it. But keep thinking.’
‘Or in your case, start thinking. You’re thirty years old, about time you gave it a try.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Granddad, I’ll call you later.’
‘All right. Take care.’
‘Will do.’
Trev hung up and headed for the staff room. Barry was leaning against the door-frame, arms folded.
‘Was that a non-work-related phone call?’ he asked. ‘It sounded like it.’
‘Has it really come to this, mate?’ said Trev. ‘Do you ever sit at home, think about your life, and wonder where it all went wrong?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should.’
Trev pushed past him. He made his cup of tea and went back to the front office. Barry trailed after him, smirking. Trev sat down at his desk and started stuffing envelopes with sales particulars.
‘Hey Phil,’ said Barry. ‘Remind me, what’s the company policy on making personal calls during working hours?’
‘Don’t be a dick, Barry,’ Phil replied. ‘Trev’s perfectly capable of getting himself fired without your help.’
‘Damn right,’ Trev agreed.
Barry looked like he wanted to push the point, but was distracted by the arrival of some customers. He abandoned the conversation and went to greet them.
‘So are you trying to get yourself fired?’ Phil asked. ‘I’ve been wondering.’
‘Not intentionally,’ said Trev. ‘But anyway, now I’ve seen how happy Barry would be if I got the boot, I’ve decided to become a model employee.’
Phil just raised an eyebrow and turned back to his laptop.
‘Everyone’s a critic,’ Trev grumbled.
In comparison to the morning, the afternoon dragged. Trev’s eyes kept finding themselves drawn to his phone, which he’d left on his desk. Sarah didn’t call. In fact the only communication he received was a text from Cled, complaining that his Land Rover had been wheel-clamped. Trev’s reply was less than sympathetic.
By the time the office closed for the day, Trev had run out of enthusiasm. He’d made a good-sized dent in his backlog and had sorted out a few viewings and a couple of valuation leads for Phil, but Barry’s constant niggling, along with his general fatigue and bumps and bruises, had worn him down. Having secured employment for another day at least, all he wanted to do was go home, eat something unhealthy and fall asleep in front of the TV.
He packed up his things and put on the camouf
lage jacket, which thanks to Helen he was now thinking of as his “Rodney coat”.
‘Right, I’m off,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you all on Monday.’
‘I don’t want to see you on Monday,’ said Helen.
Trev stopped, halfway to the door. Is she telling me not to bother coming back? ‘Um… what?’
‘Well Monday’s your day off, isn’t it?’ Helen’s poker face slipped into a thin smile.
Trev’s heart started beating again. ‘Oh. Oh yeah. Right. Tuesday, then.’
He stepped out into the cold. With the sun down and the wind blowing, the temperature had plunged. Trev crunched along the gritted pavement, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. The wind had built in strength during the afternoon and it buffeted him with freezing gusts. The town centre was emptying as retail employees and a few straggling shoppers headed for home. It was Saturday night, but anyone planning a crawl around the pubs would have to be a hardy soul indeed.
Trev turned onto the High Street and the wind was full in his face. Snow was just starting to fall as well, and the flakes blew into his eyes, making them water. He ducked off the pavement and into the mouth of an alley. The rows of old shops had a whole network of alleys behind them, and Trev knew that there was a route through to Jarvis Street, where his flat was. Under normal circumstances he didn’t use the short-cut for fear of getting mugged. On a night like this, though, any mugger loitering in the dark was more likely to hug him for warmth than steal his wallet. Trev decided to risk it.
The alley hadn’t been gritted. Trev’s shoes crunched through a layer of snow that showed few other footprints. There was no street-lighting, although many of the shops had security lamps mounted above their rear doors. Trev trudged from one pool of light to the next, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Just get home, and you can crank up the thermostat to the “THERMONUCLEAR” setting and have a beer, he told himself.
He was enjoying that fantasy when a twinge of unease ran through him. His pace slowed. Since developing the Sight he’d learned not to ignore his instincts; they’d saved his life more than once. His right hand closed around the hilt of the dagger in his pocket, and he turned around.