by Nick Moseley
Trev felt like he might burst into tears. ‘Thanks,’ he croaked.
‘Nothing to thank me for,’ said Young. ‘Go home, get some rest and take it easy tomorrow, yeah?’
‘I’d love to,’ Trev replied. ‘But I’ve got to go to work in the morning.’
Thirty-Five
Trev’s sleep was interrupted by nightmares and his morning alarm woke him to another. He felt terrible. His head thumped like a drum and bass track; his mouth was drier than a physics textbook; and his stomach was turning over faster than a washing machine on its spin cycle. Overall, it wasn’t the best start to the day. It was worse than his most severe hangover, and didn’t even have a fun evening of drinking preceding it.
He made his way to the kitchen in the manner of a man negotiating the deck of a ship in a hurricane. He got himself a glass of water and sipped at it gingerly. He was very thirsty, but didn’t want to run the risk of his churning stomach rejecting it. Although it took a while, he managed to finish the drink without incident. Eating, however, proved a step too far. He choked down half a slice of dry toast before giving it up as a lost cause.
In the bathroom he downed some painkillers, cranked up the shower temperature and stood under the gushing water with his arms wrapped around himself. The sensible thing to do would be to phone Helen and tell him he was ill. He couldn’t imagine that he’d be much use as an employee in his current condition. If a client spoke to him he was more likely to collapse sobbing into their arms than sell them a house.
The obvious downside to the “call in sick” plan was that it would almost certainly cost him his job. He suspected that Helen thought he had a drug habit, so she wouldn’t be sympathetic to any claims of illness that weren’t backed by a doctor’s note. And he was unlikely to find a doctor willing to recognise “overdosing on psychic energy while trying to escape a hostile dimension” as a valid medical complaint. He had to go to work, if only to show Helen that he was ill. With any luck, she’d send him home.
He got dressed and did what he could to make himself resemble a functioning human being. The results weren’t great, but might’ve fooled the casual observer. The only real positive was that his various cuts and bruises were all on his body and hidden by his clothes. His face was more of a problem. He was deathly pale, his eyes bloodshot and sunken in their sockets. He looked like a man who’d gone without sleep, nourishment or sunlight for a month. If Helen did think he was a junkie, his appearance that morning wouldn’t do anything to change her mind. There was nothing to be done about it, so he grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
The sun was out and although the air was still cold it wasn’t as biting as the previous day. Trev crunched along the pavement, his hands deep in his pockets and his brain deep in thought. All the concerns he was carrying seemed a physical weight on his back, pushing his head down and shortening his stride to a weary shuffle. Uppermost in his mind was the damage he’d done to himself with that second recharge. The painkillers had taken the edge off his headache, but his symptoms weren’t going away. All he could do was take it steady and hope that his body was able to recover.
Which would’ve been fine, if “taking it steady” was an option. With Smith, Barker and the traitor in the Custodians all still out there, it really wasn’t. While Deacon had taken pity on him the previous night and hadn’t demanded he return to Birmingham for an immediate debrief, he couldn’t get out of it altogether. He was expected back there that evening, and he was going to have some serious explaining to do. The thought of it brought his headache pounding back with a vengeance.
Deacon was not happy. In one evening the Custodians had lost five good people, two dangerous suspects and a powerful psychic artefact. On the disaster scale it didn’t rank quite as highly as the massacre at Spectre’s Rest, but it was up there. The two incidents shared something else, though – the presence of Trev Irwin, the UK’s foremost walking health hazard. If any more people died in Trev’s company, he suspected he’d be issued with a black robe and a scythe.
Even Sarah, who seemed to see a noble side to him that not even Trev himself had noticed, considered him too risky to be around. That had been a particular kick in the teeth. Trev had been dumped by a variety of girlfriends for a variety of reasons over the years, but he’d never been told “I can’t be with you because I’m worried I might die” before.
His thoughts were drifting into ever darker waters and Trev belatedly recognised Bad Trev’s influence at work. Those feelings of self-loathing, resentment and frustration were its bread and butter. He clawed around for something positive to grasp, and remembered Young’s words. Think about the people you saved. The bloke had a point. Trev had spent so much time beating himself up about people dying in his company he’d lost sight of the deaths he’d prevented. Sarah had tried to tell him the same thing. The battle at Boughbrook Hospital; Spectre’s Rest; and the previous night’s bloodbath. In all those situations the loss of life would probably have been complete were it not for Trev’s intervention.
Have I been thinking about this the wrong way? he wondered. Seeing myself as a vector of death and disaster when actually I’ve saved a bunch of people that would otherwise have been killed? Put like that, it was obvious. Had Bad Trev’s sneaky influence really blinded him to it? If there was one beneficial side-effect of his current physical disrepair, it was that the forced recharges appeared to have suppressed Bad Trev somewhat. It was still there, of course, and still growing. But that morning its grip on him was not as tight as it had been. Trev had convinced himself he was doing well in resisting its influence; it was clear now how badly he’d fooled himself. The occasional outbursts of temper he’d identified as Bad Trev’s work were just the tip of a lurking iceberg. They hid the persistent undercurrent of negativity that had been dragging at his thoughts for months, less noticeable than the outbursts but far more insidious.
Trev looked up and found himself outside SmoothMove. His morbid introspection had distracted him to the point where he had no recollection of his walk to work. His body had got him there with minimal input from his overtaxed brain. The exercise hadn’t helped his symptoms but at least he didn’t feel any worse. He clenched his fists, let out a breath, and went inside.
The morning meeting was just about to start. Trev fetched his chair and joined the group. Helen gave him an up-and-down look, which Trev returned with a rather forced “I’m fine” smile. She frowned but didn’t say anything, for which Trev was grateful.
The meeting washed over him despite his best attempts to concentrate on it. Valuations, viewings, offers; not so long ago these things had been very important to him. That morning they could scarcely have seemed more irrelevant. After fighting for his life a few hours earlier, the price reduction on old Mrs. Tyler’s two-bedroom bungalow didn’t really set his adrenaline pumping.
He returned to his desk and set about his work. The whole week had been a struggle but this was unquestionably the nadir. His brain and his body felt disconnected, one of them drifting into the abstract while the other completed habitual tasks like a very bored robot. He couldn’t have expected his dysfunctional performance to go unnoticed, so it was no surprise when Helen asked him to come to the back office for a quick word.
‘What’s up?’ said Trev, poking his head around the door.
‘Come in and close the door, please,’ Helen said. Not a good start.
Trev did as he was asked. When he turned back he found Helen giving him that up-and-down look again.
‘So, what’s up?’ he asked for the second time.
‘Are you… all right?’ Helen said.
‘Feeling a bit peaky,’ said Trev. ‘Probably just one of those winter bugs going around.’
‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’ Helen’s expression was one of concern. ‘I don’t like to keep focusing on your appearance, Trev, but you look really ill.’
‘I’m all right.’ Trev tried to sound casual rather than irritated. He wasn’t sure he managed it.
Helen shook her head. ‘I don’t think you are. You haven’t been “all right” for months now. I never like to pry into colleagues’ personal lives but when it’s affecting someone’s performance this badly I can’t just pretend nothing’s wrong. What’s happened to you?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ said Trev. ‘I haven’t been late all week.’
‘No you haven’t, but you’ve been cutting it fine,’ Helen observed. ‘This isn’t about timekeeping though. I don’t just need you here, I need you here and doing your job. If it was about simply having a body at every desk I could replace you with a mannequin.’
‘I’m keeping things ticking over,’ Trev replied. ‘But the weather’s not helping. People don’t go house-hunting in minus temperatures unless they really have to.’
‘I know that, Trev. I’ve worked in this trade longer than you have.’ Helen shook her head. ‘And I already said this isn’t just about this week. Salespeople go through bad patches. The average ones plod on and wait for something to happen. The good ones make something happen.’
Sounds like some quasi-inspirational quote you pulled off the internet, Trev thought. He kept it to himself and gave Helen a solemn nod.
‘You used to be one of the good ones,’ she went on. ‘If you had a bad week you’d follow it with a really good week, nine times out of ten. You used to scrap for every sale. Now it seems like if someone walked up to your desk and said “I want to buy that house at the full asking price” you’d just stare blankly at them until they walked away or Barry took them off you.’
‘Barry’d probably lose the sale even then,’ said Trev, without thinking.
‘Barry’s beating you on sales and has been for months!’ Helen snapped. ‘Don’t stand there making smart-arse comments when you haven’t sold anything in... how long? Three weeks?’
‘I’m sure it’s not been that long,’ said Trev, worried to find he couldn’t remember.
Helen gave him a glacial stare. ‘I think you’ll find it has.’
Trev opened his mouth to argue. Fortunately some primeval survival instinct kicked in and prevented him from saying anything.
‘When you came in on Tuesday you looked like you really meant business,’ Helen said. ‘For a few hours you were your old self. Didn’t last, though, did it?’
‘I’m trying, honestly,’ said Trev, hearing an unwelcome pleading note in his voice. ‘Just wait until the weather improves and the punters start coming in again. I’ll be back on it, don’t worry.’
‘That isn’t good enough,’ said Helen flatly. ‘We can’t afford to have you sitting there treading water and waiting for things to improve. I need more than that. You’ve got to show some drive and determination, Trev. Proof that you still want this job and are willing to work at it.’
‘Like Barry has all these years?’ said Trev, losing patience with being lectured. ‘Or does being mates with Gavin overrule bad performance?’
‘This isn’t about Barry, it’s about you,’ said Helen, jabbing a finger at him. ‘Stop trying to deflect this onto someone else. We all know Barry’s got his flaws but he’s never come in late looking like he’s been in a drunken brawl every night for a week.’
‘Yet,’ Trev muttered.
‘You’ve been offered help if you want it,’ Helen went on, ‘and you’ve ignored the offer. So all we can judge you on is your current performance, and we know how that is. I have to be honest with you, Trev. You’re on thin ice here. You’ve already had a final written warning and all that’s changed is a slight improvement in your timekeeping. I’ve got to see a dramatic improvement in terms of your performance.’
‘I understand that,’ said Trev.
‘Do you? Then prove it. That’s the last I’m going to say on this. The rest is up to you.’
Trev nodded. He just wanted to get out of the room. It was impossible to explain to Helen what was really going on and all he was doing was aggravating her. Still, the way things were panning out he wouldn’t have to make a decision on whether to join the Custodians; he’d be left with no other option if he lost the job at SmoothMove. With the kind of reference he was likely to get, his chances of securing another “ordinary” job would be nil.
‘All right, get back to it,’ Helen said. The flare of anger was gone from her voice and she sounded dismissive.
She’s given up on me, Trev thought as he walked back to his desk. Can’t blame her, really. I’m on the verge of giving up on myself.
The rest of the day was a blur. Trev could honestly say he’d tried his hardest, but outside factors were conspiring against him. The one saving grace was that the headache and nausea had abated somewhat by the end of the day. While he was still a long way from a hundred percent, it was a definite improvement not to feel as if he might keel over and die at any moment.
Closing time arrived and along with it, Granddad’s little red Honda. It pulled to a stop outside the front doors, reminding Trev that he had another duty to endure before he could dose himself with painkillers and crawl into bed. He got his things together and checked his phone, which had been stashed in his desk drawer since the morning. There was a text message from a number he didn’t recognise. He opened it.
New number! Old phone not safe. Sorry I ran out last night but don’t trust the Custodians. Don’t think you should either. I’ll be in touch. S. x
So Sarah wasn’t cutting him off altogether. That was a lone snippet of good news in a pretty horrible twenty-four hours. Trev acknowledged the message and headed out to Granddad.
‘How are you, Trevor?’ asked the old man as Trev collapsed into the passenger seat.
‘I’ve been better,’ Trev admitted. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’
Thirty-Six
‘Thanks for coming,’ Deacon said. ‘We’ve got a lot to get through.’
And the “Stating The Bleedin’ Obvious” Award goes to… Trev thought. He shifted position in his chair. The journey had given him the chance to grab a short nap, though he was so behind on sleep it hadn’t made any noticeable difference. He felt as if he was clinging onto consciousness by his fingertips. The headache was a dull pressure behind his eyes.
Deacon had a sheaf of notes in front of him. Trev assumed they were the reports of the Custodians who’d survived the previous night’s debacle. He wondered what they said about him. Young had told Trev how he saw things, but what about the others? Did they credit him with saving them, or condemn him for the deaths of their comrades?
The third occupant of the room was Jane Woods, the archivist. She was there to take notes and had a laptop open in front of her. Trev would’ve liked Granddad there for moral support but the option hadn’t been presented. Although Trev doubted there was much he could tell Deacon that the other reports hadn’t already covered, he was still nervous. The secret of his recharging ability was out of the bag, and Deacon would no doubt want to know whether there was anything else Trev was hiding.
‘Let’s begin with your version of events,’ said Deacon. ‘Start at the team’s arrival in Kidderminster, if you would.’
Trev took a breath and started his account. He was honest and didn’t omit anything; what would’ve been the point? Deacon already had the facts. This was an exercise in confirming the reports he already had. Oscar’s stowaway act came up, on which Deacon chose not to comment. As an organisation, the Custodians appeared to have accepted the cat’s tendency to come and go as he pleased and turn up where he wasn’t necessarily wanted. Over the years he’d provided them with enough useful input they could tolerate his eccentricities.
Deacon’s silence was disconcerting. Trev had expected to find himself bombarded with questions. He’s probably going to ambush me with something, he thought. He was right.
Trev had reached the part where Smith arrived on the scene. He was about to launch into a description of his battle against the barghests when Deacon held up a hand.
‘Do you remember what you said to Smith?’ he asked.
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Trev paused to think. ‘Not word-for-word,’ he replied. ‘It was the usual macho posturing, you know, “Give me the Key”, “walk away while you still can”, that sort of thing.’
‘According to three of the previous statements, you said to Smith “your little magic lamp doesn’t work on me”, which he didn’t refute.’
Ah. ‘Like I said, I don’t remember word-for-word, but I might’ve said something along those lines.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘Well, what I said. His lamp doesn’t work on me.’
‘It worked on you the first time you met him, didn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What changed?’
‘Um. He kind of broke into my flat one night and used it to interrogate me. I found out I could push back against it. Resist it.’
Deacon was watching him very closely now. ‘He broke into your flat? When?’
‘A few nights ago.’
‘Didn’t you think this was worth mentioning to us?’
‘It… slipped my mind. A lot’s happened this week.’
‘Was this, by any chance, after you refused my offer to stay here for your own safety?’
‘Might’ve been.’
‘And is that a factor in you not mentioning it?’
‘If it was, it was subconscious.’
Deacon spread his palms on the table. ‘Trev, this is what I was talking about the other day. The Custodians can’t help you if you continually withhold information like this. Aside from not reporting Smith’s assault on you in your own home, the fact that you can resist the effects of his lamp could be of huge significance in bringing him down.’
‘Yeah, I can see that.’ Trev was so addled he genuinely couldn’t remember whether the decision not to share the information with the Custodians was deliberate, or an oversight. Likely the former, as his resistance to Smith was due to Bad Trev, and that was the one thing he intended to keep to himself for now.