Dark Harbour: The Tale of the Soul Searcher (10 page)

‘It’s my role to ensure that your past catches up with you.’

‘You three punks think you’re going to do me over, do ya? I’ll tell you what
you
should do. You should turn round right now and get the hell out of here, or we’ll smash the lot of you to fuck.’

Vladimir turned to the big-bellied snooker opponent. ‘You really do need to leave the room.’

Gridley’s friend was defiant and stood his ground with a stern face. Vladimir shook his head. The fool. If only he knew what happened when people interfered with Halo of Fires.

‘Listen fella,’ Gridley boomed at Vladimir, ‘you really need to get out of my face!’

Vladimir stared at him, inhaling long, deep breaths. Eventually the young vigilante nodded, a nod of resignation that could very easily have been interpreted as meekness. He turned around and grabbed the handle to the door. Pausing, he then suddenly slammed the door shut. Gridley raised his cue but Jake stepped in and caught the stick in his hand before it could connect with Vladimir’s head. Vladimir stood confidently, not flinching at all.

Jake yanked the cue from Gridley’s grip and then hammered it down onto his head, causing the wood to shatter into sharp splinters. The next time that he brought the fractured stub down onto Gridley, who had now fallen to his knees and was bawling like a dog that had just been hit by a car, it would really start to tear his flesh up.

The muffin-fat friend tried to intervene but Clint wrapped an arm round his throat and effortlessly kept him at bay. If it proved necessary, Clint would send a heavyweight’s punch his way and soon end his pointless fussing.

The sheepish faces in the club stared curiously at the closed door to the snooker room, and it didn’t take much imagination to know what was taking place on the other side of it. They could hear every hammering punch being delivered, every rib being cracked, the bloodcurdling shrieks, the ‘No no no, please stop!’ belting out. They knew the major to be a bit of a tough nut so no doubt he would eventually get the better of those three goons.

After about ten minutes the commotion died down. Vladimir opened the door and calmly appeared, like a headmaster walking out of a classroom after punishing an unruly pupil. The musclemen Jake and Clint were following on behind him and there did not appear to be a scratch on either of them. The same could not be said of Gridley as the club members discovered when they crowded around him on the floor.

‘Oh God! Someone call an ambulance!’ one of them called out.

Most of them knew the sort of person Gridley was and as they looked at him in a splattering of blood and broken teeth, some of them wondered whether he had in fact just ‘reaped what he’d sowed’, as was the common day vernacular. They would be right for thinking that. Halo of Fires was what came to him, for reprehensible actions he’d committed in his life. The consequence of years of sexually abusing his daughter had just caught up with him. And on this night he’d finally got what he’d deserved.

Chapter 2.3

After the trip to the Legionnaires Club, the three vigilantes had a few other minor revenge assignments to see to. A journalist for the
Harbour Gazette
needed his car spray-painted a vivid pink after insulting someone in one of his articles. A footballer needed to have Jake’s fist planted in his face after cheating on his girlfriend with her sister. They then swooped on the town centre to see old Bloated Bluey, the town drunk, who was always found by the river wearing his navy raincoat, a bottle of whisky in hand. It was nothing severe. He’d been harassing some people again in the street the other day so Vladimir wanted a quiet little word.

By two o’clock in the morning they’d done everything they needed to. As they wandered back through the town, Vladimir was not surprised to hear Jake suggest that they all visit a nightclub called
Ice Breakers
so that they could unwind. Whilst it wasn’t an atmosphere that Vladimir naturally fitted in with, he agreed to go there all the same. Jake and Clint would no doubt sit in a corner drinking themselves into a hazy state while Vladimir would retain his senses and people-watch. It was one of his favourite pastimes, and it was necessary to keep his finger on humanity’s thinning pulse.

‘Vladimir? Can I get you anything?’ Jake asked him as he stood at the bar in the nightclub.

‘Just a Coke,’ Vladimir shouted back above the thumping music.

‘Of course.’

‘Always got to keep your focus…’

‘Whatever. You should let your hair down every now and again,’ Jake shouted back to him.

Vladimir ignored him. They were two completely different people and whilst Vladimir could easily comprehend that fact, he did not expect Jake to. Besides, he wasn’t about to get into a deep and meaningful conversation about it right now.

The young vigilante understood a lot about people in this town. He knew what made them tick, what they liked to do, and why they liked to do it. He could fathom why, at this very moment, Jake felt like losing himself in drink, that there were deep feelings inside that he wanted to numb, and that alcohol was the only resource he knew of to do that. But just because Vladimir understood people, it didn’t mean that he was
like
other people. He knew that he was of a completely different sort to everyone. No one had the same perceptions that Vladimir had. Of that, he was certain.

Looking around himself at the other nightclubbers dancing and drinking in the dazzling disco lights, he could perceive more than what they could. He could see within that kaleidoscope of rainbow lights and observe how they were trying to escape themselves, the oppressive feelings of self-doubt that were hidden by smiles, and bravado, or by the embrace of another that gave them the affirmations they could not give themselves. All around him were broken people and he could see all their lesions, and that, for the most part, they had no idea how to heal themselves.

Floating away in these thoughts, Vladimir’s eyes sank solemnly to his feet. A familiar inner voice was kicking in and he did not like where it was leading him. He had to remind himself that broken people only existed because others had hurt them in the first place. People do people harm. He could see that plainly wherever he went. The ever-multiplying degenerates in this world had to understand their crimes and Vladimir knew there was only one way of ensuring that.

‘We’re gonna go sit over there,’ Jake said as he handed him a drink. They made their way over to a shadowy spot beneath a staircase.

Jake and Clint were probably going to get so drunk that they wouldn’t even know what they were doing. No doubt Vladimir would be arranging a taxi for them later. He didn’t mind. It was all part of his role, looking over people. And besides, as an Angel of Karma he had to protect the other servants who worked within that same field.

They all knew the fatal dangers of working in the Fires, having had a sudden reminder only six months ago. Quade had been an exuberant terrier, not quite as brutal as his fellow Powers Jake and Clint, and with not quite as strong an alcohol tolerance either. But he was spirited, a die-hard soldier always with that
What do we do next, boss?
look on his face.

Since Quade’s curiosity had led to his untimely death, Jake and Clint had managed to cope with the extra workload. Even so, promoting someone from the lower ranks to become a Power was something that had been on Vladimir’s mind recently. It would be desirable having three of them again.

It wasn’t like they would put an advert in the local paper for any old jobseeker to answer. All members of the Halo of Fires organisation were specially selected and took years to climb the ranks. They had to truly devote themselves to the purpose.

Vladimir swallowed a mouthful of Coke and he could feel the bubbles sparkling in his stomach. He was sure that the universe would bring along new candidates when the time was right. He knew all about the meaningful path-crossing that souls made.

Part 3: Searching

Chapter 3.1

‘Predictable,’ was the word Devlan muttered to Captain Harp when asked how he felt the search for the
Tatterdemalion
was going.

It was the evening of the twelfth day of their project and the two of them stood at the back of their vessel waiting for the three divers to remove their scuba gear. The sparkling carpet of sea stretched out before them, seemingly forever, its mysteries hidden beneath in the glop of sediment on the seabed.

Devlan had made some logical deductions going by the general tale of the
Tatterdemalion
. If the vessel had run aground then one had to conclude that it would have occurred close to the shoreline. Having agreed with Floyd on the length of coast in which they were to scour, the first task was to make an initial sweep up the coast, before then working themselves down again. And then going up again, and then down, slowly working their way further and further out to sea.

The three divers were Archaeological Oceanography students fresh out of a university in Rhode Island. One of them was a native Harbourian whom Harp knew, so he snapped him up, along with his two friends who were both Americans. They were all very geeky and generally kept themselves to themselves, or rather away from Devlan, as none of them knew what to make of the strange, hooded man who directed everything.

The divers brought a wealth of fledgling expertise along with all their computers and contraptions that seemed ill-fitting in the rusting
Alchemist
. Their multibeam bathymetry system fanned out sonar beams towards the seabed. The swath of signals returning to the computers produced maps from which the young mariners worked out possible shipwreck sites. So far they’d made only a handful of dives, and today’s efforts were once again fruitless.

‘It’s a wide playing field, but if they can find themselves that there
Titanic
, I’m sure we can find ourselves our old missus,’ replied the old salt dog Captain Harp. He’d spent more time on these waters than anyone else in Dark Harbour, which was exactly why Devlan had hired him. That and the fact that he was one of the few friends that Devlan had. In his early sixties, Harp had found a new lease of life taking on this job for himself and his faithful companion, the
Alchemist
, a well-used powerboat trawler with flaking blue paint.

‘Remind me to dig out my fishing rod, will you?’ Devlan said as he gazed thoughtfully across the waves.

Captain Harp suddenly roared with laughter, or more like exploded with it. He was always brimming with enthusiasm like a barrel of frothing beer. ‘Ha! If we can’t find our booty, there’s plenty more fish in the sea, eh Devlan?’

Harp started climbing the cabin to go to the helm. The three divers had now removed their diving equipment and the crew was ready to go home for the night and put their feet up before having another full day tomorrow.

Captain Harp switched on the engines but they stuttered and choked out thick black smoke.

‘Come on, my dear,’ he pleaded. Perhaps the
Alchemist
wasn’t used to being taken out so much, for today she’d been acting stubbornly. Harp gave the key another forceful twist, and then finally she agreed to come to life. ‘Homeward bound we go!’ cried Harp as he pointed the boat to the harbour.

Devlan called up to him: ‘What’s up with it?’

‘Think she must be in a bad mood with me.’

‘Let me have a look when we get back. I’ll have her fixed in no time.’ It was no exaggeration. Devlan had a genius ability to fix malfunctioning mechanical devices. Getting his hands on old rusty engines was actually something he loved doing more than anything else.

‘That you will,’ Harp agreed as he cheerfully began whistling one of his old sea shanties.

Their spirits hadn’t dampened yet, even though they were yet to find any clues as to the whereabouts of this sunken pirate ship. On the third day, the divers had come across an old war plane, a Spitfire, which only encouraged their thirst for discovery.

As long as Floyd was willing to pay then they were all content. Even if they were to be out there for months and find absolutely nothing, Devlan didn’t care. It was something to do.

Devlan’s thoughts were interrupted as Captain Harp began singing his shanty:

‘
Her eyes were as pale as the moonlight’s glow,

As she stood by the shore, her heart full of woe,

Her love set sail,

To search for that grail,

And nevermore would he know, how she loved him so.’

‘Not heard that one in a long time,’ Devlan said.

‘No. Me either,’ replied Harp.

He started on the second verse, the boat slowly chugging its way back to the harbour.

When they arrived back, Devlan slid beneath deck to examine the engines. Harp stayed on board while the divers all went home to get their rest.

‘Seen what’s wrong with her yet?’ Harp shouted down the hatch.

‘Your injectors are playing up,’ Devlan replied.

‘Blasted things. Want me to fix a brew?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure you don’t want a light down there?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

Devlan heard Harp’s footsteps walking across to the galley. Below deck, the damp air smelt thick with cloying fumes and oil. As he reached for a ratchet, Devlan paused. Strangely, he was now picking up the hint of another scent down there. Aftershave. He knew that Harp didn’t wear any and the deodorants the divers applied to their bodies were washed away by the end of the day.

He stayed still like a panther waiting for the rogue predator to come closer. As intuitive as he was at fixing mechanisms, he could also sense when there was danger about. Right now it had come to him in the scent of expensive cologne.

There soon came the unmistakable sound of further footsteps creaking on the boards above. He detected three people. Were they the divers? What would they be doing back?

‘Hello. How can I help you?’ he heard Harp ask them. Gone was the chirpy tone with which he’d been singing his shanties. These people definitely weren’t the young mariners.

‘Captain Harp,’ one of the uninvited visitors said. ‘Made any healthy catches today?’ He was smooth-voiced but sounded too friendly.

‘No. No, we haven’t gone a-fishing today.’

‘You’ve been out every day this week. And every day last week. But nothing to show for it. How curious.’

‘We been boating on other purposes. Private purposes, if you please,’ Harp informed him.

The spokesman of the group perched himself on the side of the boat. ‘Indeed. We assumed so. Not escaped our eyes at all.’

Devlan’s muscles were rigid like cement. There was no need to announce his presence yet. Not until he had a better idea as to what was going on.

‘Thinking of finding yourself sunken treasures out there in those waters, are you?’

‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business,’ Harp replied.

The spokesman began laughing, a laugh that would fail miserably in a James Bond villain audition. It certainly did not impress Devlan who was now readying himself to pounce.

‘Some things are best remained lost, Captain Harp. You never know what sort of trouble you may uncover if you find them.’

‘We don’t want no trouble,’ Harp replied.

‘I thought as much. By
we
you mean..? I’m assuming you’re not doing all this off your own back. It would be of great assistance if you could tell me who you’re working for.’

That was it. Devlan couldn’t risk him spilling his guts to them. It was time to even things up.

Springing up through the hatch, Devlan landed firmly on his feet in the middle of the deck with a rumbling thud that seemed to shake the entire vessel. The spokesman immediately shot up like someone had just burst a balloon under his seat. One of the other men involuntarily shouted: ‘Oh my God! That’s Devlan!’ as all their coolness dispersed. Devlan stared menacingly at the three of them, and looking back at him without the shades was an experience that generally made anyone’s blood run cold.

The spokesman swallowed hard. Although he still had three against two, on account of Devlan being one of the two, he could not help but feel he was vastly outnumbered.

Devlan glared back at him, his mouth turning into a snarl. The man was young, only in his twenties, cocksure and arrogant.

‘Herb,’ the man whimpered.

One of the goons who apparently had the name of Herb stepped forward. He was at least six foot three. Most probably lifted weights at the gym every day.

Herb charged towards Devlan, reaching for his throat. He was far too slow, and much too weak. Devlan darted out of reach in a blur of a move and Herb found himself with Devlan’s hands wrapped round his face. In a monstrous flick of his body, Devlan then tossed him face first into the sea.

Devlan then turned to the young man with the expensive aftershave. ‘It would be of great assistance to me if I knew who
you
were working for.’

But by now the man and the other remaining thug were backtracking their way off the
Alchemist
. They clambered hurriedly back onto the quay and waited for the humbled Herb to drag himself out of the water.

‘I thought that, of all people, you should know.’

With that, they scampered away.

Tentatively Harp walked up to Devlan. ‘Well, I think we handled that well.’

Devlan chuckled. ‘That tea ready yet?’

‘Those bigheaded bastards!’ Floyd roared as he kicked his chair across his office. The room, part of the arcades complex, was decorated in a steel grey emulsion, no pictures on the walls, just a cheap paper calendar that was a freebie from a local Chinese restaurant. The air in the room always smelt stale like flat, morning-after beer.

‘That’s it,’ he went on. ‘Tomorrow morning I’m going to see Henry and have it out with him.’ He held his bony fingers up in front of his face and stretched them out before clenching them into a fist, as though he could already picture the fight in his mind.

Devlan hadn’t seen him so pissed off in years. ‘Floyd, if I were you I would just keep quiet. Like I say, I’m pretty sure they weren’t the Fires.’

‘Ah, this has got Henry Maristow written all over it!’ Floyd spat.

‘But I know most of the Fires operatives, and I tell you none of these guys I’d seen before.’

‘Who else could it be?’

Devlan paused for a moment as though considering whether he really wanted to entertain the thought. ‘Come on. You know who else there is,’ he replied.

Now it was Floyd’s turn to be quiet, his small jittering eyes fixed in one place for a moment, as if they were about to bulge out of his head. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced up and down the room.

‘You think they were sent by…
him
?’

‘Why not?’

Floyd shook his head. ‘They don’t know I’m running the gig?’

‘They saw me. I would guess they worked it out from that.’

Floyd scrunched his eyes shut, not wanting to deal with his train of thought. ‘Nah, I’m going to see Henry and rub it in. Can’t wait to see his face when I tell him exactly what I’m up to.’

Devlan rolled his masked eyes. Deep down he was still the same old Floyd, reckless and headstrong. And a complete loudmouth too. He couldn’t say anything to him. Floyd was like a runaway steam train when he got going, and nothing he said to him would get past Floyd’s impulses. The best thing to do was just temper him.

‘Okay. But maybe leave it a few more days. At least until we’ve got the Donna Bank covered.’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’

Devlan got up. He’d had enough. ‘I’d best be going. Got another busy day tomorrow.’

‘Think you’re getting close?’ Floyd asked as he began to calm down.

‘Who knows? All I know is, someone out there is worried that we might be.’

‘That’s good enough for now,’ Floyd replied as he picked up his chair again. He sat back at his desk, the steam train coming to a rest at the bottom of the hill.

For now.

Chapter 3.2

Wednesday evenings were becoming a masochistic routine for Danny. At five o’clock he had a lecture at college, this evening’s being on post-romantic literature. In the warmth of the lecture theatre and with the monotonous tone of the lecturer’s voice, Danny found it a difficult task keeping his eyes open tonight. He never used to be like this. Recently his enthusiasm was like a dying fire.

After this lecture he would have normally gone straight home, but a few weeks ago he’d inadvertently stumbled upon an interesting discovery, something that was like throwing paper onto his fire - it reignited the flames again, but only very briefly. He knew it was pointless to do this, but that was what he’d continued to do. After missing the 1823 bus one evening and catching the 1906 bus instead, he’d made sure to continue getting this particular bus over the following weeks.