A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (60 page)

“You said Saturday,” I replied, unlocking the door.

“I said Friday,” countered the man.

“How about I give you the money on Monday when the banks open?”

“How about if I take that dodo of yours and you live rent-free for three months?”

“How about you stick it in your ear?”

“It doesn't pay to be impertinent to your landlord, Next. Do you have the money or not?”

I thought quickly.

“No—but you said Friday, and it's not the end of Friday yet. In fact, I've got over six hours to find the cash.”

He looked at me, looked at Pickwick, who had popped her head round the door to see who it was, then at his watch.

“Very well,” he said. “But you'd better have the cash to me by midnight sharp or there'll be
serious
trouble.”

And with a last withering look, he left me alone on the landing.

 

I offered Pickwick a marshmallow in a vain attempt to get her to stand on one leg. She stared vacantly at me, so after several more attempts I gave up, fed her and changed the paper in her basket before calling Spike at SO-17. It wasn't the perfect plan, but it did have the benefit of being the
only
plan, so on that basis alone I reckoned it was worth a try. I was eventually patched through to him in his squad car. I related my problem, and he told me his freelance budget was overstuffed at present as no one ever wanted to be deputized, so we arranged a ludicrously high hourly rate and a time and place to meet. As I put the phone down I realized I had forgotten to say that I preferred
not
to do any vampire work. What the hell. I needed the money.

VAN HELSING
'
S GAZETTE
:
“Did you do much SEB containment work?”

AGENT STOKER
: “Oh yes. The capture of Supreme Evil Beings, or SEBs, as we call them, is the main bread-and-butter work for SO-17. Quite how there can be more than one Supreme Evil Being I have no idea. Every SEB I ever captured considered itself not only the worst personification of unadulterated evil that ever stalked the earth, but also the only personification of unadulterated evil that ever stalked the earth. It must have been quite a surprise—and not a little galling—to be locked away with several thousand other SEBs, all pretty much the same, in row upon row of plain glass jars at the Loathsome Id Containment Facility. I don't know where they came from. I think they leak in from elsewhere, the same way as a leaky tap drips water. [laughs] They should replace the washer.”

AGENT
“
SPIKE
”
STOKER
, SO-17 (ret.),
interviewed for
Van Helsing's Gazette,
1996

T
HE INCIDENTS
I am about to relate took place in the winter of the year 1985, at a place whose name even now, by reasons of propriety, it seems safer not to divulge. Suffice to say that the small village I visited that night was deserted, and had been for some time. The houses stood empty and vandalized, the pub, corner store, and village hall but empty shells. As I drove slowly into the dark village, rats scurried amongst the detritus and
small pockets of mist appeared briefly in my headlights. I reached the old oak at the crossroads, stopped, switched off the lights and surveyed the morbid surroundings. I could hear nothing. Not a breath of wind gave life to the trees about me, no distant sound of humanity raised my spirits. It had not always been so. Once children played here, neighbors hailed neighbors with friendly greetings, lawn mowers buzzed on a Sunday afternoon, and the congenial crack of leather on willow drifted up from the village green. But no more. All lost one late winter's night not five years earlier, when the forces of evil rose and claimed the village and all that lived within. I looked about, my breath showing on the still night. By the manner in which the blackened timbers of the empty houses pierced the sky it seemed as though the memory of that night was still etched upon the fabric of the ruins. Parked close by was another car, and leaning against the door was the man who had brought me to this place. He was tall and muscular and had faced horrors that I, thankfully, would never have to face. He did this with his heart filled with courage and duty in equal measure, and, as I approached, a smile rose on his features, and he spoke.

“Quite a shithole, eh, Thurs?”

“You're not kidding,” I replied, glad to be with company. “All kinds of creepy weirdness was running through my head just now.”

“How have you been? Hubby still with an existence problem?”

“Still the same—but I'm working on it. What's the score here?”

Spike clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

“Ah, yes! Thanks for coming. This is one job I can't do on my own.”

I followed his gaze towards the derelict church and surrounding graveyard. It was a dismal place even by SpecOps-17 standards, which tended to regard anything that is merely
dreary
as a good venue for a party. It was surrounded by two rows of high wire fences; no one had come or gone since the “troubles” ten years previously. The restless spirits of the condemned souls trapped within the churchyard had killed all plant life not only within the confines of the Dark Place but for a short distance all around it—I could see the grass wither and die not two yards from the inner fence, the trees standing lifeless in the moonlight. In truth, the wire fences were to keep the curious or just plain stupid out as much as to keep the undead in; a ring of burnt yew wood just within the outer wire was the last line of undead defense across which they could never move, but it didn't stop them trying. Occasionally a member of the Dark One's Legion of Lost Souls made it across the inner fence. Here they lumbered into the motion sensors affixed at ten-foot intervals. The undead might be quite good servants of the Dark One, but they were certainly crap when it came to electronics. They usually blundered around in the area between the fences until the early-morning sun or an SO-17 flamethrower reduced their lifeless husk to a cinder, and released the tormented soul to make its way through eternity in peace.

I looked at the derelict church and the scattered tombs of the desecrated graveyard and shivered.

“What are we doing? Torching the lifeless walking husks of the undead?”

“Well, no,” replied Spike uneasily, moving to the rear of his car. “I wish it were as simple as that.”

He opened the boot of his car and passed me a clip of silver bullets. I reloaded my gun and frowned at him.

“What then?”

“Dark forces are afoot, Thursday. Another Supreme Evil Being is pacing the earth.”

“
Another?
What happened? Did he escape?”

Spike sighed.

“There have been a few cuts in recent years, and SEB transportation is now done by a private contractor. Three months ago they mixed up the consignment and instead of delivering him straight to the Loathsome Id Containment Facility, they left him at the St. Merryweather's Home for Retired Gentlefolk.”

“TNN said it was Legionnaire's disease.”

“That's the usual cover story. Anyhow, some idiot opened the jar and all hell broke loose. I managed to corner it, but getting the SEB transferred back to his jar is going to be tricky— and that's where
you
come in.”

“Does this plan involve going in
there?
”

I pointed to the church. As if to make a point, two barn owls flew noiselessly from the belfry and soared close by our heads.

“I'm afraid so. We should be fine. There will be a full moon tonight, and they don't generally perambulate on the lightest of nights—it'll be easy as falling off a log.”

“So what do I do?” I asked uneasily.

“I can't tell you for fear that he will hear my plan, but keep close and do precisely what I tell you. Do you understand? No matter what it is, you must do
precisely
what I tell you.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“No, I mean you have to
really
promise.”

“All right—I
really
promise.”

“Good. I officially deputize you into SpecOps-17. Let's pray for a moment.”

Spike dropped to his knees and muttered a short prayer under his breath—something about delivering us both from evil and how he hoped his mother would get to the top of the hip replacement waiting list, and that Cindy wouldn't drop him like a hot potato when she found out what he did. As for myself, I
said pretty much what I usually said but added that if Landen was watching, could he please please please keep an eye out for me.

Spike got up.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Then let's make some light out of this darkness.”

He pulled a green holdall from the back of the car and a pump-action shotgun. We walked towards the rusty gates and I felt a chill on my neck.

“Feel that?” asked Spike.

“Yes.”

“He's close. We'll meet him tonight, I promise you.”

Spike unlocked the gates, and they swung open with a squeak of long-unoiled hinges. Operatives generally used their flamethrowers through the wire; no one would trouble coming in here unless there was serious work to be done. He relocked the gates behind us and we walked through the undead no-go zone.

“What about the motion sensors?”

A beeper went off from his car.

“I'm pretty much the only recipient. Helsing knows what I'm doing; if we fail he'll be along tomorrow morning to clean up the mess.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

“Don't worry,” replied Spike with a grin, “we won't fail!”

We arrived at the second gate. The musty smell of long-departed corpses reached my nostrils. It had been softened to the odor of rotted leaves by age, but it was still unmistakable. Once inside the inner gates we made our way swiftly to the lych-gate and walked through the crumbling structure. The churchyard was a mess. The graves had all been dug up, and the remains of those too far gone to be resurrected had been flung around the
graveyard. They had been the fortunate ones. Those that were freshly dead had been press-ganged into a second career as servants of the Dark One—not something you would want to put on your CV, if you still had one.

“Untidy bunch, aren't they?” I whispered as we picked our way across the scattered human bones to the heavy oak door.

“I wrote Cindy some poetry,” said Spike softly, rummaging in his pocket. “If anything happens, will you give it to her?”

“Give it to her yourself. Nothing's going to happen—you said so yourself. And don't say things like that; it gives me the wobblies.”

“Right,” said Spike, putting the poem back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

He took a deep breath and grasped the handle, turned it and pushed open the door. The interior was not as pitch-black as I had supposed; the moonlight streamed in the remains of the large stained-glass windows and the holes in the roof. Although it was gloomy, we could still see. The church was in no better state than the graveyard. The pews had been thrown around and broken into matchwood. The lectern was lying in an untidy heap, and all sorts of vandalism of a chilling nature had taken place.

“Home away from home for His Supreme Evilness, wouldn't you say?” said Spike with a cheery laugh. He moved behind me and shut the heavy door, turning the large iron key in the lock and handing it to me for safekeeping.

I looked around but could see no one in the church. The door to the vestry was firmly locked, and I looked across at Spike.

“He doesn't appear to be here.”

“Oh, he's here, all right—we just have to flush him out. Darkness can hide in all sorts of corners. We just need the right sort of
fox terrier to worry it out of the rabbit hole—metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Of course. And where might this metaphorical rabbit hole be?”

Spike looked at me sternly and pointed to his temple.

“He's up here. He thought he could dominate me from within, but I've trapped him somewhere in the frontal lobes. I have some uncomfortable memories, and those help to screen him—trouble is, I can't seem to get him out again.”

“I have someone like that,” I replied, thinking of Hades barging into the tearoom memory with Landen.

“Oh? Well, forcing him out is going to be a bit tricky. I thought his home ground might make him emerge spontaneously, but it seems not. Hang on, let me have a go.”

Spike leaned against the remains of a pew and grunted and strained for a few minutes, making some of the oddest faces as he tried to expel the spirit of the Evil One. It looked as if he were trying to force a bowling ball out of his left nostril. After a few minutes of exertions he stopped.

“Bastard. It's like trying to snatch a trout from a mountain stream with a boxing glove. Never mind. I have a plan B which shouldn't fail.”

“The metaphorical fox terrier?”

“Exactly so. Thursday, draw your weapon.”

“Now what?”

“Shoot me.”

“Where?”

“In the chest, head, anywhere fatal—where did you think? In my foot?”

“You're joking!”

“Never been more serious.”

“Then what?”

“Good point. I should have explained that first.”

He opened the holdall to reveal a vacuum cleaner.

“Battery powered,” explained Spike. “As soon as his spirit makes an appearance, suck him up.”

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that. SEB containment isn't rocket science, Thursday—it's just not for the squeamish. Now, kill me.”

“Spike—!”

“What?”

“I can't do it!”

“But you promised—and what's more you
really
promised.”

“If promising meant killing you,” I replied in an exasperated tone, “I wouldn't have gone along with it!”

“SpecOps-17 work ain't no bed of roses, Thursday. I've had enough, and believe me, having this little nurk coiled up in my head is not as easy as it looks. I should have never let him in in the first place, but what's done is done. You have to kill me and kill me well.”

“You're crazy!”

“Undoubtedly. But look around you. You followed me in here. Who's crazier? The crazy or the crazy who follows him?”