“You’re still fragile,” said Melody, looking steadily into Happy’s eyes. “The strain of another case could damage your mind. I won’t risk that. JC, tell the Boss she can go straight to Hell. I’m not scared of her.”
“Yes you are,” said JC. “All sane people are. Now please keep the noise levels down while I talk some more to our greatly beloved Boss, who is still on the other end and no doubt listening to every word we say.”
“I don’t care!” Melody shouted at JC’s phone. “Screw you, Catherine bloody Latimer!”
“Are you still there, Boss?” JC said politely into the phone. “You are! Pity . . . Don’t worry about Melody, she’ll come around. Well, she won’t, but I’ll talk her into faking it. You have rather taken advantage of us, Boss.”
“That’s what you’re for,” said Latimer.
“What is so special and important and horribly urgent about this new case?” said JC. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” said Latimer.
“Hold everything,” said JC. “You’re here? In Brighton?” He looked at Melody and Happy. “The Boss is here.”
“But . . . she never leaves her office,” said Melody.
“Not usually,” said JC. He gave the phone his full attention again. “Why have you left your office, Boss?”
“I’ll tell you when you join me at the Conference Centre,” said Latimer. “Some secure channels aren’t as secure as they used to be. Now get moving!”
JC shut his phone down and put it away. “Some days you just shouldn’t get out of bed.”
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
They took a taxi to the new Brighton Conference Centre. JC and Happy and Melody squeezed into the back seat, along with the dozen or so pieces of jagged-edged high tech that Melody hadn’t been able to cram into the taxi’s boot with the rest. Kim appeared just as the taxi pulled away and flew happily beside it, moving unseen by everyone except the Ghost Finders. She sailed serenely along, sitting cross-legged in mid air, easily keeping up with the taxi as it bullied its way through the slow-moving traffic. Kim was now wearing a female aviator’s outfit from the 1920s, complete with goggles. Her long red hair streamed behind her in the wind even though the wind couldn’t actually touch it. Kim liked to get the details right. It helped her pretend she was still real. Happy looked at JC.
“If she can make her ectoplasm look like absolutely anything, do you ever make her dress up in . . . special things? Just for you?”
JC stared him down. “You’ll never know.”
Happy shrugged easily. “Just curious. You wouldn’t believe what Melody sometimes likes me to wear . . .”
“Don’t believe a word he says,” Melody said immediately. “He’s on drugs.”
It was night now. Bright festive lights flared in the dark as the taxi made its way through a tourist city open for business. People were out on the prowl everywhere, loudly enjoying themselves. It was summer, and the living was easy. For a week, or two. Men and women, young and old, all of them in hot pursuit of a good time. Enjoying today, so they wouldn’t have to think about tomorrow. Gaudy neon advertised bars and clubs and restaurants. Indian and Italian and Harry Ramsden’s Fish Suppers. Smiling faces lined the streets, out and about in the night. Melody studied them through the side window.
“Look at them. Contented little sheep, with no idea of how many wolves there really are, hiding in the shadows.”
“That’s part of our job,” said JC. “To save them from ever having to know. It’s a kindness.”
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
The taxi finally drew up before Brighton’s newest Conference Centre. It had started out as a Regency hotel, but time and hard use had worn away the polish. Extensive refurbishment had put a new face on the building, to make it look like a modern meeting place for modern business people, and anyone else the Centre thought it could make money out of. But the building still had the air of an old, good-time girl, well past her prime. The taxi had barely stopped moving before Happy and Melody had thrown open both doors and bolted, leaving JC to pay the bill. He sighed heavily, paid the driver, and made sure he got a receipt. The Institute had become very strict over approving expenses, just recently.
JC glared at Happy and Melody, who were pretending to be very busy hauling Melody’s equipment out of the boot and stacking it on her motorised trolley again. JC looked the Conference Centre over. It all seemed quiet enough, with no-one going in or out of the main entrance. After a while, Happy and Melody moved in beside JC.
“I have a bad feeling about this place,” said Happy.
“You always do,” said Melody.
“Anything in particular?” asked JC.
“I am not a fortune cookie,” said Happy, with a certain dignity. “But if I were, I think I would be saying . . . Warning! You are about to meet an old friend.”
“Why are you warning us?” said Melody. “If it’s a friend?”
“Friend might not be the exact word,” said Happy. “Maybe ally . . . Fascinating, isn’t it?” He bounced up and down on his heels, smiling unpleasantly in anticipation.
“You seem very . . . up,” said JC.
“Oh I am!” said Happy. “Really. You have no idea. Enjoy it while it lasts; I am . . .”
Kim had disappeared again.
They went inside. JC led the way, striding across the wide-open lobby while trying hard to look official and professional and more than a little intimidating. Everything seemed suitably ornate and expensive, with comfortable furnishings and modern art on display, a marble floor and dark-stained wood panelling; but what stopped all three Ghost Finders dead in their tracks was a massive sign hanging over the Reception desk, saying, The Brighton Conference Centre welcomes the Ghost Finders of the Carnacki Institute to their annual convention!
Melody was the first to get her breath back.
“You have got to be freaking kidding!”
“Have we wandered into another reality, and I didn’t notice?” said Happy. “I hate it when that happens.”
“Relax,” said JC. “I know what this is. It’s the public face of the Institute, the tip of the iceberg we occasionally allow the general public to see . . . so they won’t think to look for anything else. Officially, the Carnacki Institute is nothing more than a privately funded think tank, sceptical debunkers, and all that. The kind that puts out regular reports in obscure scientific journals no-one actually reads. We had our own television show for a while, on one of the minor channels. But since it was more concerned with collecting evidence of the paranormal and testing it rather than holding the hands of hysterical celebrities, it only lasted the one season. Got really good reviews in the Fortean Times.”
“We had our own TV show?” said Happy. He shook his head. “No-one tells me anything.”
JC and Melody exchanged a look.
“I did tell you, sweetie,” said Melody. “We watched several episodes together. You just don’t remember.”
“Ah,” said Happy. “Can’t have been a very memorable show, then. Joke! Come on; if we can’t laugh about this shit, we might as well give up.”
His face was clear and open, his eyes calm and sane. But JC and Melody could still see the strain.
“I have a question,” said Melody. She gestured at the sign. “If we’re so very welcome, where is everyone?”
They looked around the wide-open lobby. It was completely deserted—no staff, no guests, not a murmur of sound. As though everyone had just . . . stepped out, for a moment. Not at all what one would expect from a Conference Centre at the height of the Season, and the busiest part of the evening. The Ghost Finders moved a little closer together, anticipating enemy action.
“The Boss is here,” said JC, after a while. “Maybe she frightened everyone else off. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be. Happy,
are you picking up anything with your marvellous mutant mind?”
“No,” said Happy, frowning. “Absolutely nothing. Which is odd, not to mention worryingly significant. This whole location should be lousy with trace memories and emotions, from all the people who’ve passed through, but it feels like the place has been scrubbed clean. Which suggests . . . some really major psychic shields. I wonder why. What could be happening here that someone needs to hide so badly?”
“Could be to do with the convention,” said JC. “To ensure the poor innocent enthusiasts don’t see anything they’re not supposed to.”
Melody looked at him suspiciously. “This convention . . . These fans . . . We’re not going to have to pose for photos and give autographs, are we?”
“In your dreams,” said JC. “The public face of the Institute only exists to spread disinformation and half-truths and defuse any real investigations that might get civilians hurt. These people are all about . . . special interests, conspiracy theories, and convivial get-togethers. No doubt there will be panels, with self-proclaimed experts on the supernatural earnestly discussing weird events and general strange stuff. UFOs and crop circles and alien big cats . . . And a whole bunch of people with new books to push. There will undoubtedly be a dealers room, to sell these books, along with specialist magazines, DVDs, and handcrafted ugly objects . . . And anything else people can be persuaded to hand over hard cash for. I might take a wander through later. See if there’s anything I fancy. You have to keep up with what people are thinking, if only to know the right lies to tell them to keep them quiet and contented. Besides, I like to collect weird stuff.”
“I could make a comment about Kim here,” said Happy. “Only given the way you’re looking at me, I don’t think I will.”
“Very wise,” said JC.
“Where is Kim?” said Melody.
“She’ll turn up,” said JC. “Look, don’t expect to find anything . . . genuine, at the convention. That’s the point. Baffle them with bullshit so they don’t have to worry about the really worrying stuff. This whole thing is a con. A cover story . . .”
“For what?” said Happy, immediately suspicious. “What’s actually going on here?”
“Good question,” said JC. “Hopefully, the Boss will make an appearance soon and enlighten us as to why we’re here.”
They waited, then they waited some more, but there was no sign of Catherine Latimer anywhere. JC lost his patience first, but it was a near thing.
“Okay, let’s go find someone and ask some pointed questions,” he said. “And the best place to find people is the dealers room. There will always be people there, no matter what’s officially scheduled.”
“How are we supposed to find that?” said Melody.
“Just a wild guess,” said Happy, “but we could always follow the directions.”
He pointed to a number of carefully placed signs indicating the way to various function rooms. One of which said, Dealers Room.
“Trust you to notice that,” said Melody.
It took a while before they set off because Melody made one hell of a fuss over having to leave her equipment behind again. But JC was firm; he wasn’t having her dragging suspicious-looking high tech through crowds of very curious people. In the end, Melody stowed her trolley behind the Reception desk, turned on all the armed protections, and hoped for the best.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Several empty corridors later, they pushed open a pair of very heavy doors, and were hit in the face by a roar of happy noise. The great open hall was packed full of stalls and tables, heavily laden with all sorts of everything. Targeted merchandise, licensed properties, high-priced collectibles, and batshit-mental come-ons. People coursed up and down the narrow aisles, chatting enthusiastically at the top of their voices, money burning a hole in their pockets. The noise level was actually staggering.
JC and Happy and Melody stayed just inside the doors, looking the scene over. JC was glad to see some people at last and quietly pleased that so many of them had come dressed up in colourful and really quite professional-looking costumes. Dr. Whos ancient and modern, Ghostbusters complete with backpacks, Draculas and Frankensteins and Mummies, and several Buffy the Vampire Slayers.
“I didn’t know Buffy was still popular,” said Melody.
“Some things are just timeless,” Happy said solemnly.
“Over there!” Melody said abruptly. “Isn’t that . . . ?”
“Yes it is,” said JC. “Don’t look at him. Soulhunters don’t like to be recognised when they’re working undercover.”
“But what’s he doing here?” said Happy. “Soulhunters don’t turn out for the minor stuff.”
“No doubt the Boss will inform us in due course,” said JC. “As and when she deigns to show herself. In the meantime, see if you can spot anyone who looks like they might know something.”
“Doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” said Melody. “We have come among geeks and nerds. The horror, the horror . . .”
“Snob,” said Happy.
“Show no weakness,” said JC. “They can smell fear.”
“I never thought of ordinary people being interested in the kind of stuff we have to deal with,” said Melody. “I mean, I spend most of my downtime trying not to think about it . . .”
“That’s because you know for a fact that it’s all real,” said JC. “Besides, most things look better from a distance.”
“A safe distance,” said Happy.
“Well, quite,” said JC.
They moved unhurriedly through the crowds in the packed aisles, checking out the various goods on offer with great interest. All the usual suspects were well covered: books and DVDs and magazines, all of them claiming to have the inside deal on Roswell and Rendlesham, Area 52 and the Philadelphia Experiment. This last featured a bunch of elves on the cover, and JC wasn’t sure what the hell that was all about. There was even a book on the Crowley Project. JC picked it up and flicked quickly through the pages.
“Gossip and conspiracy theory,” he said finally. “A distinct shortage of facts, names, or actual occurrences . . . Which is probably just as well, when you’re writing about one of the most openly evil organisations in the world. In fact, that’s almost certainly why it was allowed to be published.”
“Hey!” said the stall-holder, a sulky-looking individual with long, stringy hair, wearing a T-shirt that said Information Wants to Be Paid For. “Are you planning on buying that? I’m not running a lending library here.”
JC gave him a long, thoughtful look, and the stall-holder suddenly found a really good reason to go and be busy at the other end of his stall. JC put the book down and moved on. Happy stayed where he was, staring at nothing and humming tunelessly to himself, until Melody took him by the arm and gently urged him along. By which time JC had stopped again, to consider a collection of rather ragged dream catchers, relabelled as ghost-catchers.
“Fakes,” he said loudly. “They’re not even put together properly. You couldn’t hold off a daydream with these.”
“People will buy anything,” said Melody.
“It’s all about comfort and peace of mind,” Happy said wisely.
“Oh, you’re back with us, are you?” said Melody. “Where did you just go?”
“There are gaps in my thoughts,” said Happy. “I wonder if someone’s tunnelling . . .”
“Don’t ask,” Melody said to JC.
“Never even occurred to me,” said JC.
There was a poster saying I Want to Believe, and another beside it saying Trust Me, You Don’t Want to Know. Handcrafted bonsai wicker men; corn from a Wiltshire crop circle marked Not Suitable for Smoking; and an anatomically correct scarecrow that made JC wince. He browsed through a pile of dog-eared old paperbacks and turned up something claiming to be An Official History of the Carnacki Institute. J
C paged through it carefully.
“Well?” said Melody.
“Should be in the fiction section,” said JC, dropping it back on the pile.
Another stall boasted a wide selection of unusual objects. A somewhat ratty scalp from a yeti; a really big tooth from the Loch Ness monster; and a sealed jam-jar half-full of grey goop, labelled Extruded Ectoplasm. Melody looked at JC.
“Any of this real?”
“How would I know?” said JC. “Not my area of expertise. But it seems unlikely; if any of this stuff was even half-way authentic, you can be sure these people would be charging a hell of a lot more for it.”
At which point, a tall, brooding presence dressed in black leathers with big steel buckles, heavy Goth makeup, and a whole bunch of painful-looking piercings, planted himself in front of JC to block his way. He looked JC up and down and sneered pointedly at his white suit.
“What are you supposed to be? The ice-cream man?”
“This is my tribute to Ray Bradbury,” JC said calmly. “Or possibly Marty Hopkins.”
The Goth started to say something cutting, then broke off as Happy stepped suddenly forward to glare at him.
“Piss off, Brian,” said Happy. “Your mother’s looking for you.”
The Goth looked startled, then uneasy. He moved away quickly, losing himself in the crowd.
“How did you know that his name was Brian?” said Melody.
“Not good form, Happy, reading civilian minds,” JC said sternly.
“Oh please,” said Happy. “Like I’d lower myself. He just looked like a Brian.”
And then JC said something really bad under his breath as he saw something displayed on a table that had no business being there. Because it was real. He wandered casually over for a closer look, and Happy and Melody moved in on either side of him.
“Is that . . . what I think it is?” Happy said finally.
“Looks like the real thing,” said Melody.
“It is,” said JC. “A Hand of Glory. Made from the severed hand of a hanged man, with the fingers turned into candles. Light them up, say the right Words, and the Hand will reveal hidden treasures, open locked doors, and slow down the passing of Time. Very dangerous in the hands of someone who only thinks he knows what he’s doing.”