Grindhelm's Key

by Nick Moseley

  ‘What are they paying you, then?’

  ‘I don’t need money, you idiot. Stop asking these banal questions.’

  As an estate agent Trev was used to dealing with difficult – and occasionally, homicidal – people, so he had some experience in reading them. He’d formed the impression that, despite his dismissive demeanour, Smith was happy to allow the conversation to continue. It made sense, in a way. After all, it wasn’t as if he would’ve enjoyed much in the way of casual chit-chat over the centuries since he’d become… well, whatever he was. Plus it gave him the opportunity to lord it over Trev, who was at his mercy.

  ‘What did they promise you instead?’ Trev asked, aware that he was goading Smith but too angry to hold his tongue. ‘A way to keep yourself out of Hell for another few years?’

  A flicker of something passed across Smith’s artificial face. Irritation? Fear? Constipation? ‘Shut your mouth.’

  ‘Under that disguise you look like you’re about to fall apart,’ said Trev, defiantly not taking the hint. ‘Even with the magic lamp you can’t have long left. I bet you can practically feel those pitchforks prodding you in the arse, am I right?’

  ‘I’m not permitted to kill you,’ said Smith, ‘yet. But that doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.’

  ‘That’s what Satan’s going to say right before he shoves the first red-hot poker up your–’

  A smile touched the corners of Smith’s mouth. He raised his lantern and its light flared. The pain came back in a roaring wave as Smith’s power dragged at Trev’s soul, straining the bond that linked it to his body. Again he writhed on the bed, but this time something was different. The anger had awoken something within him, a dark place he had created by his own foolishness, a slowly-growing pocket of negative psychic energy that he had named Bad Trev. It was always there at the edges of his thoughts, picking at his composure. It was plugged directly into the undesirable aspects of his personality, of which there were, unfortunately, quite a few, and it forced them to the fore. Most of the time Trev had it under control, more or less.

  He didn’t now.

  It was as if something had broken inside him. He became aware of how fragile his restraint of Bad Trev had been, and it frightened him more than Smith’s torture. Its power welled up out of his core and smashed against the influence of the lantern, forcing it back. The tendrils of Smith’s influence that had dug into Trev’s soul were prised free and the pain abated.

  Smith backed away from the bed. The purple light from the lantern guttered and dimmed, and Smith’s face flickered in time with it, the disguise melting and reforming. The expression on his face – what Trev could see of it – was one of shock and surprise.

  Trev got out of the bed. He felt as if he were looking at Smith down a red tunnel; his hands were clenched into fists and his teeth were bared. His pulse was unnaturally loud in his ears. Smith fell back another step, either unsettled by the murderous expression on Trev’s face or horrified at the sight of him in just his underpants.

  Trev reached out and took hold of one of his old golf clubs that he’d left propped up against the wall gathering dust. It was a rusty four-iron with a heavy, old-fashioned head. He held it in both hands and moved forwards. Bad Trev egged him on, filling his mind with images of Smith falling to the floor under a rain of savage blows, his precious lantern smashed, his disguise torn away, his desiccated face reduced to an unrecognisable mass.

  Trev felt a strange disconnect, as if he’d been shouldered aside in his own head and was now watching somebody else at the controls. He could still feel his own body – the worn grip of the golf club in his hands, the rough texture of the ancient carpet beneath his feet, the cold air nipping at his bare skin – but it seemed somehow second-hand, distant. What felt very much close-up, however, was the swelling knot of rage, bitterness and despair that was spreading through him, bringing with it a sudden and worrying question:

  Is this who I really am?

  Trev had never been under any illusion that he was an altruist, a philanthropist or even an optimist, but he was dismayed at the sheer volume of negative emotion he’d apparently been bottling up. Bad Trev had dug deep into that well of nastiness and had taken the opportunity to drag it into the open. From a past conversation with Oscar, Trev knew that this was what eventually happened to any Sighted person who voluntarily absorbed negatively-charged psychic energy; it was only a matter of time before the undesirable aspects of their personality overwhelmed them and they became an unreasoning, rage-fuelled psychopath. The Vikings had called such people “berserkers” and had made use of them in battle.

  Trev didn’t think that particular career path was open any more.

  He’d hoped to have more time. And he’d hoped, as people tended to do when faced with an unpalatable inevitability, that he’d somehow be the exception to the rule, the one person who defied the odds. It looked a pretty vain hope at this point.

  He felt a low, feral growl rumbling in his throat. His arms came up, raising the golf club to strike. Smith mirrored the action with his lantern. Its light swelled again and Trev was immediately aware of its power reaching out for him, clawing at his soul. The darkness within him responded to the threat, surging against it. There was a long moment where both men stood frozen, each exerting their strength against the other.

  Trev rocked on his heels, trying to move but unable to. Bad Trev pushed against Smith’s influence with increasing ferocity. Blood began to drip from Trev’s nose, running down his bare chest in streaks that looked black in the purple light. His growl turned into a snarl as he finally forced the lantern’s power back.

  Both of them staggered. Trev dropped his arms, using the golf club as a crutch rather than a weapon. Smith slumped against the wall, his lantern pulsing weakly. Trev looked at him and found his rage subsiding. The effort of fighting off Smith’s attack had weakened Bad Trev, and he took the opportunity to throw his mental strength against it, bringing it back under control.

  ‘Get… out,’ he spat at Smith. The golf club twitched in his hands.

  Smith glowered at him, but slid along the wall towards the door. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said, although the words lacked any real venom. He stumbled out into the flat’s narrow hallway, and Trev heard the front door open and close.

  The room tilted and he found he’d made an unscheduled trip to the floor. He tried to sit up and couldn’t. Blackness had replaced the red around the edges of his vision, and he wasn’t too disappointed when it rose up and swallowed him.

  Fourteen

  He woke up shivering. The room was freezing. He pushed himself up with his hands and found that his face was glued to the carpet with blood from his nose. He peeled himself away with a low groan, leaving what felt like six inches of skin behind. His head thumped with a dull ache that seemed to make his eyes rattle in their sockets.

  The room was still dark. Trev dragged himself into bed and pulled the covers over himself before succumbing to a shivering fit that left him feeling even weaker. He squinted at his bedside clock for a long time before the numbers finally arranged themselves and told him it was a little after five o’clock in the morning. Trev buried himself in the bed and let sleep take him once more.

  The time was nudging ten o’clock when his eyes creaked open again. The headache had abated somewhat, although the lingering weakness – now joined by a hint of nausea – remained. He put out a hand and found his phone. Switching it on revealed that he already had a missed call and two texts from Granddad, checking that he was all right. He replied to the texts to say that he’d be round as soon as he could and headed for the bathroom.

  An hour and a half later he arrived at Granddad’s. A hot shower and a late breakfast had taken the edge off his physical complaints and the walk in the cold air had cleared his head. The damage to his face wasn’t as bad as it had felt; he had a strip of pink skin across his cheek but nothing that looked like it would be permanently disfiguring, which was good. He’d never been an oil pa
inting in the first place, so he really couldn’t afford to become any less attractive. Dogs would start barking at him and he’d frighten old ladies.

  Granddad let him in. The old man took note of Trev’s damaged face and hesitant movement and gave him a questioning look.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Eh, had a visit last night from everyone’s favourite lamp-wielding sociopath,’ Trev said, seating himself at the kitchen table. ‘We had a frank exchange of views.’

  Granddad handed him a cup of tea and sat down. ‘For God’s sake, Trevor. You should’ve stayed with the Custodians.’

  ‘He’s not allowed to kill me,’ Trev pointed out. ‘He roughed me up a bit, that was all.’

  He told an edited version of Smith’s visit, leaving out minor details such as beer theft, crippling agony and psychopathic rages. While he was talking Oscar sauntered into the room and Granddad lifted him up onto the table. The kitten appeared to have shaken off his dark mood and looked more like his usual self. That is to say, tremendously pleased with himself. He sat and listened to Trev with a faint smile on his feline face.

  Trev headed off any more criticism from Granddad about his choice to go back to his flat by switching the subject to his visit to Hangman’s Pond. This grabbed their interest immediately, although Trev could tell that the old man was a little annoyed with him for going there alone and unarmed.

  ‘So the first thing I need to know is what a “pax party” is and how I get an invite,’ Trev concluded.

  ‘Pax is Latin for peace,’ Oscar said, ‘and back in the day children used to use the word when they wanted to call a truce during whatever game they were playing.’

  ‘So a pax party is..?’

  ‘A pax party is a get-together for the supernatural community, all rivalries and grudges – and weapons – to be left at the door. It’s a chance for them all to enjoy themselves without worrying about being seen by, or persecuted by, the “normals”.’

  ‘Sounds charming.’

  ‘They’re often pretty boisterous, actually. Music, booze, food, the usual. Plus people selling stuff, deals being done, scores being settled.’

  ‘Scores being settled?’

  ‘Not like that. It’s neutral ground. People can meet to negotiate a truce, for example.’ He shrugged. ‘Or at least agree on a venue elsewhere to knock seven shades of shit out of each other.’

  ‘So there’s no trouble at these things?’

  ‘Rarely. But if you start something, you’ll be booted out and you’ll never get into another one. The security’s decent, run by an ex-Custodian called Miriam Kenton, or “Mim” if she likes you.’ Oscar eyed Trev. ‘Which she probably won’t. But it’s the stigma rather than the security that makes people behave themselves. Pax parties are important to the supernatural community. If you get excluded, you’ll find yourself persona non grata elsewhere too.’

  ‘How come I haven’t heard about them before?’

  Oscar smirked. ‘Because you’ve been hanging out with the Custodians. And if there’s one group that’s definitely excluded from pax parties, it’s the Custodians.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the law,’ Granddad said, finally chipping in. ‘When the Custodians were taken under government control and restructured following World War One, there were negotiations with the leaders of the United Kingdom’s supernatural community. They didn’t trust the Custodians, for reasons you know about.’

  Yep, Trev thought. The main reason being that prior to World War One the Custodians were mostly a rabble of vigilante groups who tended to treat all supernatural beings as guilty until proven dead.

  ‘The government needed the supernatural community to consent to being policed by the Custodians,’ Granddad continued. ‘It was quite a hard sell, as you can imagine. One of the concessions they negotiated was that the community would be allowed regular gatherings that the Custodians were forbidden from attending. I think the original intent was that they would be like council meetings, to discuss problems and debate issues, but as time went on they turned into what we have now.’

  ‘Is that going to stop me getting in?’ Trev asked. ‘I mean, I’m not a member of the Custodians as it stands, but I have been “hanging out” with them, as Oscar put it.’

  ‘You won’t get in on your own,’ said Oscar. ‘No chance. You’ve got the Sight, so technically you’d be classed as being part of the supernatural community, but you’re a known ally of the Custodians, chief. You’d be turned away at the door unless you had someone with you who’d be willing to vouch for you.’

  ‘So I need to be someone’s plus one?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘Right.’ Trev’s mind turned over. He had two options, and neither of them was going to be easily persuaded. ‘Let’s leave that on the back burner for now. Assuming I get in, what am I going to find?’

  ‘Highvale Wood’s a well-established venue,’ said Oscar. ‘It gets a pax party a couple of times a year. There’ll be a bar, an area for dancing, food stalls, people selling “occult” bric-a-brac to the gullible, and maybe two or three people who deal in the real stuff.’

  ‘Real stuff?’

  ‘Items that have actual value. Vapour weapons, sometimes. Psychically active objects of varying types. Favours get traded, too.’

  ‘Unfortunately the lack of Custodian oversight has created something of a black market,’ said Granddad with a sniff. ‘It was part of the original agreement that these gatherings would prohibit illegal activity, but in practice there’s something of a blind eye turned to it. Miriam Kenton herself is a stickler for the rules, but others aren’t quite as strict.’

  ‘Yeah, old Mim talks a good game but money makes the world go round,’ Oscar observed. ‘That’s as true in the supernatural community as anywhere else.’

  Granddad frowned but didn’t respond.

  ‘So any guesses what Sarah’s going to be doing there?’

  ‘She’s going to be there with whoever’s holding her hostage, right?’ said Oscar. Trev nodded. ‘And we know that he has a valuable item that she was trying to steal.’ Trev nodded again. ‘My guess would be that her captor is meeting someone at the pax party, then. Maybe to sell the item, or have it appraised.’

  ‘Seems a reasonable guess.’

  ‘It fits the few facts we have,’ said Granddad, holding up a cautioning hand, ‘but we know so little I don’t think we should make any assumptions.’

  ‘Fair,’ said Trev. ‘And we’ve got the problem of how I find her and get her away from the bloke as well. No weapons, you said?’

  ‘If you turn up packing, you’ll be sent packing,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Right. And there’s no chance of the Custodians, you know, doing a raid or something and arresting the guy?’

  ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Yeah. You’ll have to rely on your intelligence, charm and natural physical attributes,’ said Oscar. He looked at Granddad. ‘You may as well get started writing his obituary.’

  ‘Make me sound good,’ said Trev. ‘There’s a fiver in it for you.’

  They all shared a chuckle. Trev’s heart wasn’t a hundred percent in it. He was worried. Oscar had said that pax parties were neutral ground, no weapons or violence allowed, but they couldn’t assume that Sarah’s captor would stick to the rules, or even that he knew the rules. He might be quite willing to accept permanent expulsion as a risk if it meant completing his business, whatever it was. After all, Dorothy Walcott had simply said that Trev would “see” Sarah’s captor. It might just mean a fleeting glimpse as the bloke legged it out of the exit.

  They talked on for a while, discussing possible scenarios. It was agreed that approaching Sarah and the man holding her was inadvisable; Trev’s best bet would be to observe from a distance and try to track the pair when they left. Once they were outside the pax party it would be possible for the Custodians to move in. Granddad volunteered to speak to Deacon to ensure that the
re would be a “snatch squad” on hand to make the arrest. Trev agreed, feeling certain that any plan they made would be lucky to last more than five minutes once he was inside the party. There were just too many variables.

  He sat back in his chair and stared into the depths of his tea. This introspection didn’t tell him anything, except that Granddad’s milk was possibly on the turn. For about the millionth time after his thirtieth birthday, he asked himself where his nice, quiet, boring life had gone. Monday evenings ought to be about lounging in front of the telly with a pizza and a beer, not sneaking into mysterious parties to play at being an undercover cop.

  So why am I doing it?

  The answer to that was straightforward: because Sarah had reached out to him and asked for help. Trev was self-aware enough to know that nobody would ever hold him up as a model of rectitude, but even he had some standards. They were low standards, granted, and inconsistent, but standards nonetheless; and one of them was that he stuck by his friends. Even if they’d, you know, dumped him recently or something.

  Having thrashed out the skeleton of a plan, only one thing remained. Getting himself “plus one” status. He took his phone into the living room, knowing that the call he was going to make would be difficult, and as such wouldn’t benefit from Oscar’s input. He drew in a breath and dialled a number from his contacts list.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you not to call me?’

  It wasn’t the best opening line he could’ve hoped for but hey, at least she’d answered. ‘Hi, Louise,’ he replied.

  ‘I definitely told you not to call me that,’ Miss Pine shot back. ‘Only my friends call me Louise. You’re still just an “acquaintance”.’

  ‘Right-o, sorry,’ said Trev, wincing. She was even pricklier than usual, which didn’t bode well for the procurement of favours. ‘So anyway, how’s things?’

  There was a pause, followed by a sigh. ‘What do you want, Trev?’

  ‘Cutting to the chase, I see.’