Grindhelm's Key

by Nick Moseley

  ‘And don’t call me Louise!’

  Miss Pine stormed off towards her car. Trev knew better than to follow.

  ‘Still making friends and influencing people?’

  Trev looked down. Oscar was sitting at his feet. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Keeping out of trouble,’ the kitten replied. ‘I thought at least one of us ought to.’

  ‘Great.’ Trev sighed. ‘I suppose we might as well go home.’

  ‘Did you know Ezekiel Barker was here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t expecting to see him tonight.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re talkative.’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘It’s such a rare event I probably shouldn’t interrupt it, but… about what?’

  ‘All the ways this evening has ended up being a total disaster.’

  Oscar blew a raspberry. ‘Bollocks. I think it was pretty successful. We now know that Ezekiel Barker is Sarah’s captor, don’t we?’

  ‘True,’ Trev said, with a grudging nod. He scooped up the kitten and started walking towards his car. ‘And we also know that Barker is trying to sell some stolen property.’

  ‘Any idea what?’

  ‘A small brass wheel with a crystal in the centre.’

  Oscar narrowed his eyes. ‘That sounds familiar.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too. Maybe Granddad will know.’

  Trev nursed the spluttering Rover into life. He sat for a while with the engine running, giving it a chance to warm up. He took out his phone and glanced at the screen; still no signal. He’d have to wait until he got back to Granddad’s to let the Custodians know they could stand down.

  ‘So the evening wasn’t a total disaster then, was it?’ Oscar suggested.

  ‘Well, Miss Pine never wants to speak to me again, I’m permanently barred from all future pax parties and we’ve no idea where Barker’s taken Sarah,’ Trev pointed out.

  ‘I tried to follow them but they legged it,’ said Oscar. ‘They drove off in a white car, I can tell you that much.’

  Trev sat up. ‘Did you get the registration number?’

  ‘No, sorry. I got kind of stuck in a deep patch of snow, so I didn’t get close enough.’

  ‘Shit. What type of car was it?’

  ‘Not a clue. What would I know about cars? It’s dogs that are stupid enough to chase the damn things, not cats.’

  ‘Stupid? Maybe. But you have to admit they do seem to be happier than cats, on average,’ said Trev.

  Oscar sniffed. ‘They have lower expectations of life.’

  ‘Right. Well I’ll tell the Custodians to put out an APB on “a white car” then. I’m sure they’ll have Barker behind bars within the hour.’

  ‘Be as sarcastic as you like, but could you please drive at the same time?’ Oscar suggested. ‘I’d like to be home before the sun comes up.’

  Trev looked at the car’s clock and was dismayed to see it was almost half past one in the morning. Tuesday morning, to be precise. Which meant he was expected at work in just a few hours. He puffed out his cheeks, crunched the car into first gear, and aimed it in the direction of Brackenford.

  The length of time between Trev getting into bed and his alarm going off was depressingly short. He dragged himself out from under the covers with all the joyful enthusiasm of a man who knows he’s going to be hanged after breakfast. The one plus point was that he hadn’t had another nocturnal visit from his homicidal friend Jack, although it was possible he’d just taken the evening off to plan new and exciting ways to make Trev’s life a misery.

  Trev stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His negative train of thought was reflected in his face. He looked drawn and tired. I can’t keep this up, he thought. I can’t keep living two lives. But what was the solution? He’d tried going on with his life and hoping the supernatural stuff would go away; it hadn’t. It felt as if there was nothing he could do except abandon his old life and join the Custodians, and he recognised that as the most obvious course. The sensible course, come to that. What he didn’t like was that he felt as if he was being forced into it.

  Trev had never enjoyed being pushed around. The lack of control he’d experienced since discovering his Sight was something new to him. He was always reacting, always chasing around at the whims of others. He felt like a puppet, jerked by several sets of strings. It was frustrating; it was also frightening. He was at the centre of events he didn’t understand, surrounded by people whose intentions he didn’t know.

  It was tempting to just get back into bed and stay there, but he knew all too well that hiding under the covers didn’t keep the monsters away.

  He showered, got dressed, and ate breakfast, completing the tasks on auto-pilot. His thoughts jumped from one depressing track to the next, their restless energy a counterpoint to the bone-deep weariness that had sunk into his body. Whatever course he decided to take in his life, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to follow through on it.

  There was one thing he was sure of, though. If he was late to the office, he wouldn’t have to worry about his work / supernatural life balance any more, because he’d be out of a job. He pictured the smug expression that would form on Barry’s face if that happened, and it was enough to shake him out of the trance into which he’d drifted. No way was he going to give the bitter old git that sort of satisfaction, however many supernatural loonies were trying to kill him.

  He grabbed his coat and went to the door. He opened it and stood on the threshold for a moment, staring back into the flat. At one time it had felt like a place of safety, somewhere he could go to shut out all the craziness that threatened to take over his life. Somewhere he could eat pizza, drink beer and watch cheesy action movies, and forget that persons unknown had marked him for an early grave. Smith’s visit had changed that. Now it seemed confining rather than cosy, and vulnerable rather than secure.

  He closed the door behind him and set off, mentally crossing his fingers for an ordinary, boring day with no distractions of a supernatural nature. As usual, he was prepared to be disappointed.

  Twenty

  He made it to work on time, without any assassination attempts or other minor inconveniences, and Barry’s evident disappointment when Trev walked through the door was enough to lift his mood a little. Trev wished him a jovial “Good morning” and pulled up a chair to join the meeting.

  Helen’s eye was on him so he made an effort to shut out all thoughts relating to supernatural matters and focus on what was being said. It was difficult to begin with but as Phil showed them photos of the houses he was valuing that day, Trev found his salesman’s instincts reawakening. I don’t know whether I can give this up, he thought. I actually enjoy this. I can’t say the same about battling supernatural psychopaths.

  The meeting ended and Trev settled himself at his desk. He had a stack of work to do and he intended to throw himself into it, with no distractions. All the Custodian crap was on the back burner until he heard from Granddad anyway. The old boy had still been awake when Trev dropped Oscar off after the pax party, so he’d taken the opportunity to give him an abridged account of what had happened. Granddad had offered to report to the Custodians on Trev’s behalf, and then to call during Trev’s lunch break to pass on the response.

  Trev was still worried about Sarah, though strangely he was a little less worried now he knew Ezekiel Barker was her captor. If he was aware from personal experience just how dangerous Barker was, he also knew that the man wasn’t the one-dimensional killer the Custodian rumour-mill had made him out to be. Barker’s misdeeds had been the result of blackmail, duress and both psychological and spiritual manipulation, all administered by Francis Ducrow. Trev wasn’t naïve enough to believe Barker, having freed himself from Ducrow’s control, was a reformed character; but he also didn’t think the bloke would hurt Sarah out of hand. From the little he’d seen of her at the pax party, she hadn’t looked like a woman in fear for her life. In fa
ct, she’d seemed quite comfortable in Barker’s company. It didn’t fit with the distressed voicemail she’d left him. Just what was going on, anyway?

  Trev bundled up those thoughts and shoved them into a cupboard in the back of his mind. They were for later. At least until lunchtime, he had to devote his full concentration to saving his job. He cracked his knuckles and got started.

  Barry, clearly, had other ideas. Irked by Trev’s arrival at SmoothMove on time and his subsequent – and inconsiderate – failure to get fired, he decided to make as much of a nuisance of himself as possible. Given that Barry was a simmering cauldron of middle-aged bitterness and resentment, he had a lot of negativity to direct Trev’s way. However he was also a physical coward and stupendously lazy, so the practical extent of his malice was a series of snide comments delivered from behind his computer monitor.

  At any other time Trev would’ve felt obliged to respond in kind. Just sitting back and allowing Barry to get a few free shots in would, in the past, have been unthinkable. But Trev knew Helen was watching him closely and he couldn’t risk causing any disruption in the office. He had to be something he’d never been in his life: a model employee. So he calmly let Barry’s jibes wash over him, and channelled the resulting irritation and self-loathing into energy for his work. Eventually Helen tired of Barry’s constant put-downs and told him to shut up, which he did. As soon as Helen turned back to her work, Trev dropped Barry a wink, which caused him to go an unhealthy shade of purple.

  After Barry had been silenced the morning passed quickly. Just as on Saturday, Trev surprised himself with his productivity. He deftly switched between answering e-mails, taking phone calls, and dealing with walk-in customers. Viewings were arranged, valuations booked and offers fielded. By lunchtime he’d slipped fully into his old routine, and even the baleful looks he was getting from Barry had a comforting familiarity. The energy and purpose with which he’d started the day were beginning to ebb, however, and his body was reminding him how little sleep he’d had over the last few days. His break arrived at a good time, and he headed to the staff room to recharge his batteries and await Granddad’s call.

  He was busy with a large sub sandwich and a can of energy drink when his mobile rang. Trev closed the staff room door to deter potential eavesdroppers – i.e. Barry – and answered.

  ‘Afternoon, Granddad. All right?’

  ‘Fine, thanks, fine. How are you? You must be exhausted after last night. Did you manage to get to work on time?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries. I’m starting to feel like I’m running on fumes though. Just refuelling with some food and liquid stimulants.’

  ‘Take it steady with those energy drinks,’ Granddad chided him. ‘They’re full of chemicals.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure one of my many enemies will kill me long before the energy drinks do,’ Trev replied. ‘Anyway, how’d it go with the Custodians?’

  Granddad cleared his throat. ‘As well as could be expected, I suppose. I don’t think Feargal knew whether to laugh or cry when I told him Ezekiel Barker had surfaced again.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Well in one way it’s a good thing he’s come out of hiding – it gives the Custodians a chance of capturing him and locking him up. On the other hand, though, their resources are spread so thin it’s going to be difficult for them to mount a proper operation to find him, what with Jack Smith running around, the Line causing chaos in the community, and what-have-you.’

  ‘Right, yeah. There’re a lot of nutcases out there at the moment.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So what’s the plan? Assuming there is a plan.’

  ‘Feargal wants to know about this item Barker and Sarah are trying to sell. He’s asked Nichola Fisher to come up to Birmingham for an interview.’

  ‘And she is..?’

  ‘She runs Fisher’s auction house.’

  ‘Oh, that Nichola Fisher.’ Trev remembered the name from his conversation with B.B. the previous night. ‘Deacon has the clout to just pull people in like that?’

  ‘Under certain circumstances,’ Granddad replied. ‘The fact is that the Custodians could make life difficult for Ms. Fisher and her organisation if they wanted to, so she’ll cooperate. But I don’t think she’ll like it very much. That’s why Feargal wants me there.’

  ‘Well, your touch with the ladies is legendary.’

  ‘Heh. Actually I’m something of a friend of the family where the Fishers are concerned. I knew her father, Reg, very well. He was a Custodian, back in the day.’

  ‘I take it he’s no longer with us?’

  ‘No, he passed away a few years ago now. He left the Custodians over some silly disagreement and founded Fisher’s not long after. It was a smaller outfit back then, but more reputable. He fell ill – Alzheimer’s – and the running of the company passed to Nichola, his daughter. She’s turned it into what you see today. Wealthy, powerful, and some might say, as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.’

  ‘I’ve yet to meet anyone who has a good word to say about Fisher’s,’ Trev said. ‘Though to be fair, you’re only the third person I’ve spoken to about them.’

  ‘It seems to be common knowledge in the community that Fisher’s sometimes deals in items that have a, how to put it, dubious provenance,’ explained Granddad. ‘The Custodians have never been able to catch them at it, though. All their sales appear to be legal and above board.’

  ‘The ones you know about, at least.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So Feargal sees this as an opportunity to get something on them at last?’

  ‘I think that’s a part of it, yes. If B.B. is right and this item was sold for a high price before being stolen, it seems odd that Fisher’s didn’t report the theft.’

  ‘Unless there was something dodgy about it.’

  ‘Exactly. I think Ms. Fisher might be in for an uncomfortable evening.’

  ‘Any time spent with Feargal Deacon is uncomfortable, in my experience.’

  ‘Now, Trevor. I know you don’t like the man, but he does have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Did B.B. give you any description of the item Barker was selling? I don’t remember you giving me much in the way of detail last night.’

  ‘You’re lucky I was awake enough to give you anything,’ Trev grumbled. ‘I think he said it was a small brass wheel with a white crystal in the centre. As far as he could tell it didn’t actually do anything.’

  There was a long pause before Granddad spoke again. When he did, his voice was low and urgent.

  ‘Give me that description again.’

  ‘Small brass wheel, white crystal in centre, doesn’t do anything,’ replied Trev, a little puzzled. ‘Why, does it sound familiar? Oscar and I both thought it did. Didn’t he talk to you about it?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen him today,’ Granddad replied. ‘He’s been very distracted lately. In any case, there’s a reason that description was familiar to you. Do you remember Agatha’s story? How she died?’

  Trev sat bolt upright. ‘Holy crap! The wheel, the “Key” that guy Ewart used to open those portals?’

  ‘Sounds a lot like it, doesn’t it?’ Granddad let out a long breath. ‘This is bad, Trevor. Very bad.’

  Trev could only agree. Agatha’s death had come at the hands of a man called Prescott Ewart, a fanatic who’d been in possession of an artefact he referred to as “Grindhelm’s Key”. In Ewart’s hands the Key could open rents or portals into other realities; he’d used it to summon vicious spirits called Shades from a realm called Dark Limbo and to open a path into a black void that destroyed any matter passing into it. When Agatha and her husband George, both Custodians, had tried to arrest Ewart on a train, he’d shot George dead before opening the void, destroying both the train and Brackenford’s rail bridge. There were no survivors.

  The wreckage had been pulled from the river and the bridge rebuilt but the Key had never been found. It was lo
ng since forgotten, except by Agatha, still mourning the loss of her husband and unwilling to move on for fear of his rejection in the afterlife. She’d told Trev the whole story one evening; Ewart, she’d recounted, had been obsessed with using the Key to end something he called “the Cycle”, which he could only do in Brackenford. Nobody – not even Granddad, whose local knowledge bordered on the encyclopaedic – seemed to have heard of this Cycle or knew what it was. Trev had asked Jane Woods to look into it on his behalf, but she hadn’t found anything in the Custodians’ archives. With all that had gone on since, including the disaster at Spectre’s Rest prison that had almost cost Trev his life, he’d pushed it to the back of his mind.

  ‘How’s it turned up again?’ he asked Granddad. ‘It was lost in the river, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We can only guess,’ Granddad replied. ‘But we know there are at least two groups looking for it. The Eyes of Nona sent Sarah to steal it from Barker, and Jack Smith’s mysterious employers also want it.’

  ‘I wonder if Barker knows what he’s got?’

  ‘If he stole it from Fisher’s, then he must know it’s valuable. But the fact he was trying to sell it to B.B. suggests that he’s trying to get rid of it, and quickly.’

  Trev scratched his head. ‘Still doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  ‘Surely he’d know Fisher’s would put out the word to all the dodgy dealers in the community. He’s exposing himself by trying to sell it and there’s no way he’d get anything like the item’s true value in that sort of sale.’

  ‘Very true,’ Granddad replied. ‘Unless…’

  ‘He’s using it as bait,’ Trev concluded. ‘He makes it known that he’s got it and looking to sell, because in turn he knows that there are people after it. And he wants to bring them out of the woodwork. But why?’

  ‘At a guess, to try to do a deal of some sort with them?’ Granddad suggested. ‘Ransoming the Key back to the people who bought it from Fisher’s in the first place?’

  ‘If that’s his plan, it’s pretty ballsy,’ Trev replied, ‘if you consider that the original buyers are probably either The Eyes of Nona, a secret society that specialises in making people disappear, or the other bunch of nutters who’re using Jack Smith as their errand boy.’