Spirits from Beyond

  “By all means,” said Catherine Latimer. “What the hell were you doing, back at Chimera House? Is it connected with what happened to Robert Patterson?”

  “Kim is back,” said JC. “We had to go back to Chimera House to pick her up.”

  The Boss nodded briefly. “Why isn’t she here with you? I said I wanted to see all of you.”

  “Apparently she doesn’t trust you, or the Institute,” JC said flatly. “And she really didn’t feel like being interrogated.”

  “She’s been gone some time,” said the Boss, avoiding the pointed comment. “What did your ghost girl have to say for herself? Where has she been? What’s she been doing? What did she learn?”

  “She can’t remember,” said JC, calmly.

  “What?” said Catherine Latimer. She actually leaned forward in her chair, glaring right into JC’s sunglasses. He met her gaze unflinchingly.

  “Some form of traumatic amnesia, apparently,” said JC. “I’m sure her memory will return, in time. As long as she’s not . . . pressed. But for now, she can’t tell us anything. Such a pity.”

  Catherine Latimer switched her gaze to Melody, then to Happy. They both presented the Boss with their best poker faces though everyone present knew they weren’t fooling anyone. The Boss looked back at JC.

  “Did anything happen at Chimera House?”

  “Like what?” said JC, not giving an inch.

  “Don’t play games with me, Chance.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” said JC. “I did happen to notice that Chimera House hasn’t been pulled down and bulldozed, even though everyone was promised it would be. And it wasn’t in any way whatsoever under armed guard.”

  “I know,” said the Boss. “I took the guards away. Chimera House is being left intact, as a trap. To see who or what tries to move back in.”

  “You didn’t tell us that,” said Melody.

  “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

  “And you don’t,” said JC. “What can you tell us about what’s really going on, Boss? How far have your investigations progressed, into the infiltration of the Carnacki Institute? Any names, or facts? Anything you’d care to share with us?”

  “I have learned nothing useful, as yet,” said Catherine Latimer. “I have to be careful with what I ask and who I talk to, and even more careful not to reveal how much I know and, more importantly, how little I know, for certain . . .”

  “Would you tell us?” said Happy. “If you did know something?”

  “He’s being very brave, all of a sudden,” said the Boss, still looking at JC. “Back on the pills again, is he?”

  “It’s no thanks to you if he is!” said Melody, bristling immediately.

  “Happy goes his own way,” said JC. “He always has.”

  “Why is everyone talking about me as if I weren’t here?” said Happy, loudly. “Oh hell; I haven’t gone invisible again, have I? I hate it when that happens . . .”

  “You are entirely visible, every appalling inch of you,” JC reassured him. “Now hush, while the grown-ups talk.” He gave Catherine Latimer his best hard look. “You have been working us very hard, Boss. Working us into the ground, in fact. It’s no wonder some of us are feeling the pressure. It’s been one case after another, often without the mandatory downtime between cases that the rules call for, to help us get our heads back together again.”

  “That’s what being an A team means,” said the Boss, sitting back in her chair, entirely unmoved. “You get the most important, and the most dangerous, missions, as and when they arise. Whether you’re rested or not. Now stop changing the subject. I haven’t finished haranguing you yet. I want to know what you were all doing down in the Secret Libraries?”

  “You gave me the password,” said JC.

  “Yes!” said the Boss. “I gave it to you! I thought with the understanding that you had enough sense to keep it to yourself. At the very least, I expected you to avoid exposing your team members to toxic spiritual material. I’m surprised those two came back out with their souls still attached . . . Well, what’s done is done. Hopefully. Did you at least turn up something useful?”

  “Not . . . useful,” said JC. “Not as such . . . But we did uncover a few interesting things. For example, I was looking for information about past strange happenings down in the London Underground; and imagine my surprise when I discovered that all relevant materials had been removed from the Secret Libraries. On your orders.”

  Catherine Latimer removed the dark cigarette from her ivory holder and stubbed it out in an ash-tray shaped like a lung. She made no move to light another. She sat in her chair, thinking. She didn’t look particularly surprised or even shocked; but she was quite definitely thinking.

  “I gave no such order,” she said finally. “The fact that someone was able to use my name and falsify my authority, in such a way that no-one even questioned it . . . is interesting. I shall have to look into that. Makes me wonder what else might have been done in my name that I don’t know about . . .”

  “Did you know about the piece of The Flesh Undying that had been gifted to the Acquisitions Section?” said JC.

  “Of course I know!” said the Boss. “I arranged for it to be put there, in a safe location, as far as possible from the Institute itself. Tell me you haven’t damaged it!”

  “More like . . . muzzled it,” said Happy, smiling unpleasantly.

  Catherine Latimer shook her head slowly. “He worries me; he really does . . .”

  “You’re doing it again!”

  “This is what I’m talking about!” said Catherine Latimer. “Disobeying orders, blundering around, interfering in things you don’t understand!”

  “Only because you won’t explain them to us!” said JC.

  “You’ve all been making too much noise,” said the Boss. “Drawing too much attention to yourselves. And that . . . is getting in the way of my investigations. So I’m sending you away for a while. To deal with a haunted inn, down in the south-west.”

  JC, Melody, and Happy all sat up straight in their chairs. They looked at each other, then back at Catherine Latimer.

  “What?” said Happy.

  “You’re . . . sending us away?” said JC. “With everything that’s going on here, after all we’ve uncovered . . .”

  “That’s why you’re going,” Latimer said firmly.

  “What if we don’t want to go?” said Melody. “We’re getting close to some real answers! I can feel it!”

  “You’re making waves,” said Latimer. “And that’s not what I need right now. So off to the West Country with you. It’s standard stuff, practically a text-book haunting, nothing too difficult. Not really worthy of an A team, but it’ll do to keep you occupied, and out of the spotlight, until the interest in you dies down.”

  “Interest?” said Happy. “What interest? Who’s interested in us?”

  “You don’t need to know,” said Catherine Latimer.

  “Story of my life,” muttered Happy.

  “Treated like mushrooms,” Melody said harshly. “Kept in the dark and fed shit.”

  “Go sort out the haunted inn,” Latimer said flatly. “Do a good job. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t get killed. And take your time coming back.”

  Happy was up and out of his chair and heading for the slowly opening door the moment it was clear to him the meeting was over. Melody took her own sweet time getting up, to make a point, and still managed to catch up with Happy before he was out the door. JC stood up, checked that his incredible white suit was hanging properly, and only then looked at the Boss.

  “So what did happen to the Empty Librarian?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know,” said Catherine Latimer.

  FOUR

  GHOST STORIES

  Later that evening, following a series of railway journeys that went on that little bit longer than body and soul could easily bear, JC and Happy and Melody arrived at that old country inn, the King’s Arms, outside the small country town of Bi
shop’s Fording. An old farming community, of old houses in an old setting.

  The three Ghost Finders disembarked at a very small station, only to find they were still some way short of their destination. They had to take a taxi ride through the town and out the other side to reach the King’s Arms. And it was raining hard. Really hard. The kind of storm that makes you want to head for the high ground and build an ark. Chucking it down, with malice aforethought, adding an extra layer of misery to an already cold and desolate evening.

  JC and Happy and Melody crammed themselves into the battered back seat of the only taxi-cab on duty because the driver didn’t allow anyone to sit next to him. Apparently he found this . . . distracting. He didn’t even want to take them to the King’s Arms and went all sulky and silent when JC insisted. He drove his taxi through the pouring rain with great concentration, staring straight ahead, ignoring his passengers. There wasn’t really room for three people in the back seat, especially when two of them were ostentatiously not talking to each other. Happy and Melody sat jammed shoulder to shoulder and still managed to find two completely different directions to look in. They’d had a loud and emotionally messy argument on the train coming down, about any number of things, but always coming back to Happy’s return to supportive chemical maintenance. So now there was a frosty silence in the back of the taxi to match the sullen silence up front.

  JC stared straight ahead, peering past the driver to look through the windscreen because it was better than getting involved. He studied the town as they passed quickly through it: squat dark buildings with brightly lit windows and absolutely no-one out and about in the streets. Hardly surprising, he supposed, on a night like this. And it was late, heading out of evening and into night. The town fell suddenly behind them, and the taxi shot down a long, narrow road into the countryside beyond. Tall trees with heavy foliage lined both sides of the road, their heavy tops leaning out and forward, to form a dark canopy overhead; so it seemed they were travelling through a long, dark green tunnel. There were no street-lights outside the town, and with the moonlight cut off, all JC could see was the road directly ahead. Water splashed up around the taxi, thrown up by the taxi’s progress through the flooded road, the waters pouring in from the saturated fields beyond the trees. And still the rain came down, shining in the headlights.

  The great green tunnel suddenly disappeared, the trees falling away behind them. The taxi slowed down even though there was clearly still some way to go. At first, JC thought it was because the flooding had grown worse, but then he saw the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror and knew it was nothing to do with the flooding. The man’s face was pale and sweaty, the eyes wide and staring. And JC realised the driver was genuinely scared.

  “Is everything all right?” he said carefully.

  “You wanted the King’s Arms,” said the driver. “Don’t distract me. I need to keep my eyes on the road.”

  Everything was not all right. JC could hear it in the driver’s voice. And they hadn’t even reached the inn yet.

  * * *

  The taxi finally slammed to a halt right at the edge of the King’s Arms car park. The driver couldn’t get any closer because the wide-open area was packed with parked vehicles, crammed together from one low stone boundary wall to the other, with hardly a space left in between. Everything from family runabouts to Land Rovers to expensive muscle cars. As though the whole community were waiting at the inn to welcome them. The taxi-driver sniffed loudly and peered out through the windscreen. He addressed his passengers without looking around, without taking his eyes off the view before him. As though to do so might be dangerous . . .

  “This is it. King’s Arms. Close as I can get. That’ll be eight pounds. Please.”

  He said the last word as though it were part of some foreign language he didn’t normally use.

  “Get the baggage out of the boot,” JC said firmly. “And don’t bang it about if you expect any kind of tip.”

  He pushed his door open and got out, hunching his shoulders against the pouring rain. Happy and Melody got out different sides of the cab, then came forward to join him; and the three of them stood close together, scrunching up their eyes as water trickled down their faces. None of them had thought to bring an umbrella because the weather reports for the area hadn’t even mentioned the likelihood of even a gentle shower. JC glared about him. Shimmering blue-white moonlight reflected back from the rain-soaked open fields, filling the car park with an eerie, uncertain light.

  “I hate rain,” Happy said miserably. “It’s cold and wet and it sinks into your clothes and gives you chills. Hate it.”

  “Weather forecasts,” Melody said bitterly. “A very basic contradiction in terms.”

  “Let’s get inside,” JC said diplomatically. “I’m sure we’ll all feel a lot better when we’re all warm and cosy in the main bar.”

  “I don’t like it here,” said Happy. “I can feel the pressure building. There’s a storm coming; and it’s going to be a monster . . .”

  They all looked across at the inn, on the far side of the crowded car park, and the inn looked back at them. The taxi-driver hauled their suitcases out of the trunk, muttering under his breath all the time. It sounded like he was making hard work of it, but none of them offered to help. The King’s Arms was a large, blocky building, with bright lights burning cheerfully in all the downstairs windows. Up above, everything was dark. The inn looked solid, well established, as though it had endured time and weather and other things, and was still here in spite of all of them. The sign swinging noisily above the main entrance looked surprisingly modern, a stylised crowned head. Happy regarded it suspiciously.

  “So which King was the pub originally named after? George V, maybe? Though the building looks to be a lot older, maybe even sixteenth-century . . .”

  “Some people can’t help showing off their ignorance,” Melody said loudly to JC. “The King’s Arms is much older than that. This particular building goes back so many centuries, under so many names, that there’s no way of telling which monarch it was named after. I do wish at least one of you would read the briefing files . . .”

  “But then you wouldn’t have the fun of lecturing us,” said JC. “You’re annoyed because the truck bringing your main equipment is delayed by the weather.” He did his best to sound patient and understanding but couldn’t quite bring it off. It’s hard to feel civilised with rain trickling down the back of your neck. “I’m sure it’ll be here tomorrow, and you can shout at the drivers. Won’t that be nice?”

  Melody sniffed loudly and moistly. “I swear they do this deliberately, just to mess with me. Good thing I packed some basic tech in my suitcase. Enough to make a start . . .”

  “Would that be the really heavy case that the driver is struggling with?” said JC innocently.

  “Don’t you dare bash it about like that!” said Melody.

  She went hurrying back to rescue her bag from the driver. JC and Happy exchanged an understanding glance. And then they both looked at the inn again.

  “Are you picking up anything, Happy?”

  “Yes . . . It feels like we’re being watched.”

  “From inside the pub?” said JC, frowning.

  “No,” said Happy. “From all around . . . Something knows we’re here. And it’s not pleased.”

  “What kind of something?” said JC.

  “Old,” said Happy. “Very old.”

  Melody came back, dragging a large suitcase behind her on protesting casters. The taxi-driver followed after, bringing JC and Happy’s much smaller suitcases. He dumped them both at JC’s feet and glowered at him meaningfully. He didn’t actually stick out his hand for payment, but he was clearly thinking about it.

  “What’s your hurry?” said JC. “You weren’t in any rush to get here.”

  “I need to get back to town before the flood-waters cut off the only road,” said the driver.

  Which was reasonable enough; but there was something in the man’s
voice, and in his manner, which suggested there was a lot more to it than that. When JC didn’t respond immediately, the driver glanced about him in a jumpy sort of way. He was definitely scared of something. He wouldn’t even look at the inn itself. JC took pity on the man and gave him ten pounds. The driver stuffed the note in his pocket without even looking at it and hurried back to his taxi. He opened the door, then stopped and looked back, as though prodded by some last vestige of conscience.

  “You’re not actually thinking of staying the night here, at the King’s Arms; are you?” he said roughly.

  “Yes,” said JC. “Any reason why we shouldn’t?”

  The taxi-driver shuddered briefly. “Then may God have mercy on your souls.”

  He clambered quickly back behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, turned the taxi around, and set off down the waterlogged road, driving a lot faster than was safe. His lights soon disappeared into the dark green corridor and were gone. The three Ghost Finders looked at each other, then at the inn. Seen through the driving rain, the bright lights shining through the old-fashioned leaded windows seemed especially cheerful and inviting.

  “Looks cosy enough to me,” JC said determinedly. “We can check out the pub’s history tonight, do whatever needs doing tomorrow, after Melody’s equipment has arrived, then maybe take a few days off, for a nice little holiday. I think we’ve earned one. Good food, good drink, good company, and all of it at the Institute’s expense. Doesn’t that sound splendid, my children?”

  “Your optimism never ceases to amaze me,” said Happy. “You should know better than that by now. I told you; this is a bad place! I mean, look at it! That pub’s thirty feet away if it’s an inch, and already I’m getting bad vibes. Given the sheer age and accumulated history of that place, it’s probably crawling with ghosts and ghoulies and long-leggity beasties. And I hate long-legged things. Including supermodels. It’s not natural to be that bony.”

  “We only deal in ghosts,” said JC. “For anything else, they can call RentaKill.”