by Nick Moseley
Trev let out a long breath. There was something else, as well. A feeling that had been lying over his thoughts for some time. A strange malaise, a sense of apathy about his fate. Although he’d long since made peace with the fact that he probably wasn’t going to live to a ripe old age and pass away quietly in his sleep, it wasn’t as if he’d given up all hope of it happening. But lately he’d begun to wonder if he really cared either way.
It was a strange thing to admit to himself. Looking back, his mental state had gone through three distinct stages. Immediately after he’d come into his Sight, Trev had spent most of his time in barely-suppressed terror, jumping at his own shadow, expecting another attempt on his life at any moment. That had given way to annoyance and irritation, a kind of bullish bring it on, you twats attitude. And in turn that had petered out into his current mindset, which was something like if you’re going to do it, then get on with it for God’s sake.
He was pretty sure that he didn’t want to die. His reaction to Jack Smith had told him that his self-preservation instinct was still ticking over. It was just that he knew death was coming, probably soon, and there would only be so many times he could dodge the scythe. When all was said and done, there wasn’t much he could do about it other than shrug his shoulders and try to face it with at least a minimum level of dignity.
As these not entirely cheerful thoughts were working their way through his mind, he came to a decision. He was going to follow the note’s instruction and go to Hangman’s Pond.
‘You could have taken up Feargal’s offer of a bodyguard,’ Granddad said, finally breaking the silence. ‘What harm could it do?’
‘Jack Smith wants me alive,’ said Trev. ‘I don’t think that extends to the people I’m with. He’d just go straight through a bodyguard to get to me, and I could do without any more deaths on my conscience.’
Granddad shook his head. ‘We’ve talked about this. You shouldn’t have any deaths on your conscience. You haven’t killed anyone.’
‘Hmm, let’s see,’ said Trev, ticking off points on his fingers, ‘Jack Rock, killed trying to protect me. Isabella Mallory, ditto. Most of the prisoners and staff at Spectre’s Rest, dead because I arrested Corbyn instead of letting him go.’
‘None of those were your fault.’
‘Yeah, well it doesn’t feel that way.’
The silence fell over them once more. Trev didn’t feel much inclined to break it. He was already thinking about his visit to Hangman’s Pond. Briefly he considered telling Granddad about it. The note had been very clear that he should “TELL NO-ONE”; under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have worried much about that, as he knew he could trust the old man. But he didn’t really understand the limits of Dorothy Walcott’s powers, and that meant that there was a real chance she’d know about it if he blabbed.
Not telling Granddad was a risk. Going to Hangman’s Pond on his own was definitely a risk. Although it seemed very much like everything he did, every place he went, and every person he met, carried a risk. Perhaps that was the reason for his apathy. Being in constant danger had stopped being scary and had instead become monotonous.
A few times Granddad took a breath as if he intended to restart the conversation, but in the event they made it back to Trev’s flat without him managing to find anything to say. He opened his mouth a final time as he pulled up to the kerb; unfortunately for him, Trev was already thanking him for the lift and baling out of the car like his arse was aflame by that point, and his words were lost to the winter night.
Trev took a taxi out to Hangman’s Pond. The taxi driver was a taciturn chap who drove as if he was determined to get his passenger to his destination as quickly as possible, although not necessarily alive. Trev clung on to the door handle and winced as the elderly Toyota slipped and skidded through the icy streets. After a journey that made up in terror what it lacked in length, the taxi slithered to a stop in an empty lay-by on Boundary Road. The driver gave Trev a look that said why the hell do you want to be dropped off here? but took his money without a word and went on his way in a shower of wheel-spun snow.
Trev hunched into his coat and started walking. The heater in the taxi had been on full blast, which meant the frigid air felt twice as cold on his exposed face. He was in an area of green-field land just outside Brackenford, though there was little green about it at that moment. The snow was up to Trev’s calves and he was forced to shuffle along, his feet crunching on litter, brittle grass and frozen dog turds buried beneath the powder. There was a path somewhere, but Trev didn’t bother trying to find it. He’d have to wait until the snow thawed, and he didn’t have that sort of time to spare.
He passed a copse of gnarled trees. Their bare branches rattled in the wind, an unpleasant sound that set Trev even more on edge. Beyond the copse lay Hangman’s Pond itself. The water was covered with milky ice scattered with snow. A lone weeping willow stood sentinel on the opposite bank, its spindly limbs frozen into the ice at the water’s edge. Near Trev’s feet, he could just make out an angular shape in the snow that he knew from previous visits was an old sign that read “DEEP WATER. NO SWIMMING.” This had always seemed rather pointless to Trev, as anyone who was crazy enough to want to swim in a muddy pond with an undead witch living at the bottom of it was hardly going to be put off by a sign.
He scuffed the snow at the water’s edge until he found a stone. He took off his glove and held it in his trembling fingers. Concentrating, he directed a little of his store of psychic energy into the stone until it glowed with a soft white light. Trev tossed it into the pond, throwing it high enough that it broke through the ice as it fell. It vanished into the depths, its light quickly swallowed by the dark.
Trev waited. He shuffled his feet and struggled with his rising apprehension. The atmosphere around Hangman’s Pond was bleak and unwelcoming even in the height of summer; on a freezing winter’s night it was downright hostile.
The whole sheet of ice abruptly shattered. The cracking sound sent Trev diving for cover, mistaking it for gunfire. Having realised his mistake, he extricated himself from the nearby snowdrift leaving behind a full-length imprint and most of his self-respect.
Bubbles erupted from the water, making the floating chunks of ice dance. Trev watched as a second fountain of bubbles followed the first, then a third, moving towards him from the centre of the pond. He took a small step away from the water’s edge. The bubbles brought with them a revolting, gassy smell that was all the more eye-watering in the crisp air. Trev breathed through his mouth and fought to keep his lunch where it was.
A thick cylinder of mud broke the surface. It pushed upwards until it was the height of a human torso. Worms, snails and other wriggling pond-life fell from the mass as it changed shape, forming a head and rudimentary arms. Slimy twigs formed fingers. Rotting leaves sprouted from the head to create “hair”. The mouth filled with pebble teeth. A pair of empty eye-sockets turned a blank but somehow penetrating gaze on Trev.
‘A fine night, is it not?’ Dorothy Walcott said. Her voice sounded like a septic tank being emptied.
Trev clenched his fists and managed not to run away. Just. ‘Yes, lovely.’
‘To what do I owe the honour of your presence?’
‘Um,’ Trev said. ‘Well, someone stuck a note in my locker saying that I should come here.’
Walcott inclined her head in a manner that said: Yes, and?
‘I suppose I was meant to find something out from you, maybe?’
Walcott made a sound that could have been called laughter under charitable circumstances. It was unpleasant enough that the hair on the back of Trev’s neck attempted a mass migration into his collar.
‘Ask your questions,’ she said.
‘Will I actually get an answer?’ Trev asked. ‘Or a bunch of cryptic predictions?’
‘What will you offer me in return for my answers?’
Trev frowned, caught off guard by the question. What can I offer her that she could possibly want or use?
he thought. A few seconds’ consideration told him that there was only one possibility.
‘I’ll do my best to free you,’ he said, ‘from… this.’ He swept a hand across the pond, the snow and the trees.
Walcott laughed again. ‘I have already been given that promise, by another.’
Trev’s heart sank. ‘Really? Who?’
‘I cannot say. But you are not the only one who has come to seek my counsel in these dark days.’
A light-bulb went on in Trev’s head as his brain made a few connections. The first attempt on his life had taken place as soon as his Sight had appeared, and he had always wondered how his would-be assassins had known about him so quickly. If they had had access to someone who could predict the future…
‘Are you talking about the traitor?’ he asked. ‘The traitor in the Custodians?’
‘Traitor to some, loyal servant to others,’ Walcott said. Her stony teeth arranged themselves in an approximation of a grin.
Trev pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.’
Walcott was polite enough not to reply. Her eyeless stare remained fixed on Trev.
‘But hang on,’ Trev continued, ‘if you’ve been feeding information to the traitor, how come you helped save my life a few months back? Which side are you on?’
‘Side?’ Walcott echoed. ‘I have no side. I merely desire to see balance.’
‘Why?’ said Trev, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s in it for you?’
‘You look for the worst in people, Trevor Irwin,’ said Walcott, with another laugh. ‘I like that.’
‘You didn’t answer the question.’
‘And nor shall I. Now, I grow weary of this prattle. If you have more to ask, do so quickly.’
‘What’s the traitor’s name?’
‘You are a fool indeed if you expect an answer to that.’
‘Didn’t think it’d be that easy,’ said Trev with a shrug, ‘but I had to ask. All right then, where’s Sarah? Sarah Teale?’
‘I have seen little of her in my visions,’ Walcott replied. ‘I cannot tell you where she is now, but I can tell you where she will be a day from now.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘She will be at the pax party in Highvale Wood tomorrow night,’ said Walcott.
‘Pax party?’ said Trev. He knew where Highvale Wood was – it lay between Brackenford and Ropleton – but he had no idea what a “pax party” was, or what Sarah would be doing there. Had her captor released her?
‘Is that all?’ said Walcott. She began to sink back into the murky water.
‘Wait, wait,’ said Trev. He knew that there were lots of questions he ought to be asking. His flustered brain tried to line them up for him and they all tripped over one another. ‘Who put the note in my locker?’
‘Someone who needs you alive.’
‘Who’s holding Sarah hostage?’
‘You shall see tomorrow night.’
‘These answers aren’t very helpful,’ Trev growled.
‘I didn’t promise that they would be.’ The water was almost at her neck.
Trev thought desperately for a last question. ‘Why does the traitor want to kill me?’
‘Because of what is coming.’
‘Which is?’
‘The end,’ said Walcott, and her head vanished beneath the surface.
Thirteen
By the time a taxi arrived at the lay-by to collect him Trev was flirting with hypothermia, though he hardly noticed as he was too busy kicking himself. So many questions I could’ve asked, he thought as he defrosted in the back of the car. So bloody many! Of course Walcott was never going to give him the name of the traitor, but with some clever questions he might have gleaned enough clues to work it out. He hadn’t even asked if his enemy was a man or a woman! Once again he’d found himself under pressure and had folded as quickly as an origami master.
He pulled together what he’d learned, searching for the positives. There weren’t many, but one of them was a belter – the knowledge of Sarah’s whereabouts the following night. Just that on its own was almost enough to salvage something from the wreckage, although it faded into the background when compared to what he could’ve learned if he’d had his wits about him. And Walcott’s final comment… well, that was just flat-out unsettling. “The end”? The end of what?
That issue, disturbing as it was, would have to go on the back burner. His first job was to find out what a “pax party” was, and how he could get himself invited. As a rule Trev wasn’t much in demand on the Brackenford party circuit. Assuming that there was a Brackenford party circuit, as such. He didn’t know, because he didn’t get invited to parties. But anyway, he had work to do. If the party was taking place in the middle of a wood, at night, then it seemed likely that it was either a very unusual illegal rave or something to do with the supernatural community. He’d never seen Sarah with a glow-stick or a whistle, so she probably wasn’t a raver. That left the supernatural angle, and Trev decided that Oscar was the best person to ask. The cat was insufferable most of the time, but his knowledge of the “spooky world” was unsurpassed.
It was getting late. Trev yawned and decided that he wouldn’t call Granddad and risk getting him out of bed. He was tired himself, in any case. He’d rack out for a few hours and then get in touch with the old man in the morning. That gave them the whole day to look into the mysterious pax party and how to secure entry to it. Under normal circumstances the time limit would’ve seemed tight, but Trev took confidence from Walcott’s assertion that he’d meet Sarah’s captor the following night. It was reasonable to assume that whoever it was would be at the party with Sarah, and Trev would meet them both there.
Well. He hoped it was a reasonable assumption.
The taxi deposited him outside his flat. Trev trudged up the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. He made himself a quick snack and then headed for his bed, setting his alarm for an early start.
However it wasn’t the alarm that woke him.
Trev was torn from sleep in a blaze of purple light and unbearable pain. He tried to scream and found that his lungs appeared to have escaped during the night. His hands scrabbled at the sheets and his feet thumped against the footboard of the bed. His eyes watered. His ears rang. He felt as if he was being slowly turned inside-out. The only positive aspect was that he was certain he would die before much longer, and then the pain would stop.
Suddenly it did stop.
Trev sagged back against the mattress. He struggled for breath and wiped at his streaming eyes with the back of a shaking hand.
‘Good morning,’ said Jack Smith.
Trev swivelled his eyes to where the man stood at the side of the bed, peering down at him from under the brim of his cap like a scientist who’d just noticed a fascinating new type of mould on one of his microscope slides.
‘How the hell did you get in?’ Trev wheezed.
‘I have something of an aptitude for locks,’ Smith replied.
‘Most people just ring the bloody doorbell,’ Trev snapped. The pain had receded almost entirely, leaving behind hot embers of anger that didn’t require much stoking to burst into flame. ‘Get out, you flaky-faced arsewipe.’
Smith sighed and shook his head. ‘Not that bright, are you?’
The purple light began to pulse softly and Trev gasped as he felt the lantern’s influence digging into his soul like a set of claws. This time the pain came on gradually, creeping but insistent, as if Smith were turning up a dimmer switch. Trev felt various parts of his anatomy surrendering and running up a white flag. His limbs trembled, his eyes twitched and his heart juddered.
‘Sarah Teale,’ said Smith, his voice bland, almost bored, ‘where is she?’
‘Don’t… know,’ Trev hissed.
Smith nodded, his hold on Trev’s soul confirming the statement as true. ‘Have you had any communication with her?’
‘N-no.’
‘Do you
know where the object is?’
Trev gritted his teeth. ‘I don’t even know… what it is.’
‘Perhaps for the best.’ Smith turned up the pain another notch, for no apparent reason other than that he could. ‘If you should find out where she is, will you tell me immediately?’
‘Not… bloody… likely,’ Trev ground out.
Smith laughed and released his hold on Trev’s soul. ‘I thought as much. I’ll just have to keep visiting you, then, won’t I?’
‘I’ll get a few beers in, then,’ Trev growled.
‘Good, I noticed you were running short,’ said Smith. He saluted Trev with a bottle of beer that he had presumably pilfered from the fridge.
Trev felt his anger shift up a gear into full-on outrage. It was one thing to break into a bloke’s house, wake him up, and subject him to prolonged torture. But to steal his beer as well? It appeared that Smith’s nefarious reputation was fully justified. What atrocity would he commit next? Leaving the lid off the toothpaste? Not flushing the toilet? ORDERING PIZZA WITH TUNA ON IT?
Trev ground his teeth and directed his anger away from cruel and unusual pizzas, focusing himself back on Smith. ‘You got what you want, now piss off.’
Smith took a swig of the beer and smacked his lips. ‘They told me you were this stupid. I thought they were joking.’
‘Who told you?’
‘You’re beyond stupid if you think I’ll answer that.’
Between Dorothy Walcott and Jack Smith, Trev was getting very tired of having his intelligence questioned. ‘Why are you protecting them? From what I heard, I didn’t think you were the loyal type.’
‘Loyalty doesn’t come into it. I made an agreement.’ Smith finished the last of the beer and tossed the bottle aside. ‘A temporary alliance.’