Ghost of a Smile (7 page)

“They woke up, they rose up, and they chased him till he died of it.”

“Oh, Gramps,” said Susan. “You should have told me.”

“I should never have brought you here, child,” said Tiley. “But I never really believed, till now . . . I believed in the Clear White Light.”

“You should have told me! It's my family, too! I had a right to know!”

“I wanted to protect you! The curse should have died long ago. It shouldn't still have a hold over the Winters, and the Tileys.”

JC moved away, to talk quietly with Kim. She was hovering a good foot above the floor, her shape so thin and insubstantial it was barely there, just a young woman made of flickering light. JC had to say her name several times before she finally turned her head to look at him.

“Kim,” said JC. “If the Dogges are still here, then the shade of Albert Winter must also still be here. Show him to me.”

Kim nodded, painfully slowly, then raised one hand and pointed. JC looked, and there was Albert Winter. Running, still running, fleeing desperately from the Black Dogges that still pursued him, and always would. Ghost Dogges chasing their ghostly victim, forever. He ran and ran, staggering and lurching, running endlessly round the perimeter of the factory, and behind came the Dogges. They pressed in close, hurting and harrying him, driving him on. Sometimes he fell, and the Dogges would savage him, tearing away chunks of ghostly flesh with ghostly jaws, leaving wounds that healed immediately, so the man could be forced to his feet to be chased again. They would chase him forever, in a hunt that would never end.

Some curses are worse than others.

Graham Tiley and his grand-daughter could see it, too, now. Tiley cried out at the sight of it and had to turn his head away. Susan hugged him to her, glaring defiantly at the Black Dogges around them.

“We have to stop this,” said JC. “The Past should stay in the Past . . . Albert Winter, he's the focal point! He's why the Dogges manifested again. But to put him to rest, we have to stop the Dogges. Interrupt the curse. We have to save the ghost of Albert Winter!”

“I'd quite like to save us from the Dogges as well,” said Happy.

“Science can't touch them,” said Melody. “I think the Dogges are older than Science. Or whatever these things were, before they were made into Dogges.”

JC looked at the old man. “You! Tiley! It's your curse. Your family summoned up the Dogges, and your curse holds them here. Release Winter's ghost from your curse, and the Dogges will be able to leave.”

“I can't!” Tiley said miserably. His dark face was wet with tears. “I'd free him if I could, but I don't know how! I don't remember what words called them, no-one does any more.”

“Terrific,” said JC. “No, wait a minute . . . What did you say, Melody? Back before they were Dogges . . . They weren't always like this! Whoever summoned them out of the Past imposed these shapes upon them! That's the key!”

He strode right up to the nearest Black Dogge. It snarled at him, growling so low he felt it in his bones as much as heard it. Great lips pulled back to show savage teeth in powerful jaws. Claws on huge front paws dug deep into the concrete flow as the Dogge tensed, ready to spring. JC leaned forward and thrust his face right into the Dogge's, meeting the blazing blood-red eyes with his own glowing gaze; and then he spoke sharply to the Dogge.

It looked at him. Its jaw snapped shut, and its head came up. No-one had ever spoken to the Dogge like that before. It stared at JC, fascinated. The other Dogges stopped in their tracks to stare at JC. And the ghost of Albert Winter was finally able to stop running.

“Bad dog,” JC said firmly, holding the Black Dogge's gaze with his own. “This is wrong! You were never meant to be like this. You are a dog, made to take the shape and form of a dog, and a dog was always meant to be man's best friend. Some poor fool called you here and imposed this shape on you to follow the old stories; but revenge was never your true nature. You're as cursed by this as your victims. But the man who summoned you here is long gone, and his need for revenge died with him. You don't have to serve his anger any more. You don't have to be like this, any more. You're free to be . . . just dogs. Good dogs. Man's best friend.”

And the Black Dogge sat down on its haunches and nodded its great head slowly. Inwardly, JC breathed a deep sigh of relief. He hadn't been entirely sure that would work. In magic, the true naming of a thing is the true nature of that thing. And so Dogge became dog. JC gestured at Graham Tiley.

“That man there is a Tiley, descendant to the man who brought you here, and bound you in this form. He is ready to release you. Isn't that right, Mr. Tiley?”

“Yes,” said Graham Tiley. “The past, with all its crimes and all its revenges, should stay in the past. You're not needed here any more, so run free, noble dogs.”

The great dark shapes simply faded away, gone in a moment, gone back into the Past. The ghost of Albert Winter looked slowly about him.

“Go to him,” JC said to Tiley. “Forgive him. And then show him the way to leave, through the Clear White Light.”

“Of course,” said Tiley. “Maybe . . . he was the ghost I was looking for, all this time.”

The old man walked steadily over to the ghost, and they talked quietly together, then the ghost faded away and was gone.

Kim came over to join JC, appearing entirely solid and substantial again. “I do so love a happy ending, don't you?”

“Black Dogges, haunted factories, and it all comes down to people, in the end,” said JC. “Human is, as human does. For good and bad.”

TWO

Early evening outside Chimera House, a large and solid stone-and-glass business building tucked away in the heart of London's business area. A night sky full of stars, a sliver of a new moon, and a cold breeze gusting through empty streets. No traffic, not a soul to be seen anywhere, flat amber light from the street-lamps falling on JC and Happy and Melody as they huddled resentfully together before the brightly lit windows of Chimera House. Two men, one woman, and a ghost unseen, all of them feeling distinctly hard done by.

“It's not fair,” said Happy, bitterly. “We're guaranteed proper recovery time between assignments! They can't throw us right back in the deep end just because we're handy! All this extra stress is putting years on me. Of course, on me it looks good . . .”

“Pause for hollow laughter,” said Melody. “What are we doing here, JC? I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I want to go to bed. If I don't get some proper refreshment and some decent sleep soon, someone's going to pay for it, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me.”

“You were all there when I got the phone call,” JC said patiently. “Which means you know as much as I do. The Boss wants us here, so we're here.”

“Five hours on a train, and what kind of greeting do we get when we arrive at Paddington Station?” said Melody. “Big bunch of flowers, box of chocolates, and a hearty
Well done
? An air ticket to somewhere decadent? No, we get dropped right in it again. I could spit soot . . .”

“Please don't,” said Happy. “It's not a pretty sight.”

“You will observe,” said JC, “that our dear and much respected and even-more-feared divine Bossness is conspicuous by her absence. Which suggests that whatever we've been sent to tend to, it can't be that important. Or she'd be here, bending our ears on the matter. However, given how unusual it is for us to be directed straight to a danger site, without even a quick stop-off for a briefing, it does suggest that whatever happened here . . . was not only really bad, but decidedly recent.”

“I love to hear him talk,” said Melody. “Don't you love to hear him talk? He has such a way with words . . . Look, can't we at least go inside? It's bloody cold out here. I am freezing my tits off.”

JC looked at her. “You really want simply to walk in there? Into an unknown situation, with unknown dangers?”

“Yes! I'm cold!”

“What exactly did the Boss say to you?” said Happy, tactfully changing the subject.

“Directions on how to get here and orders to stay put for further instructions,” said JC. “And then she rang off before I could tell her to go to Hell.”

Melody sniffed loudly. “You don't actually expect her to turn up in person, do you? At this ungodly hour of the morning? Far more likely she'll roust some poor unfortunate flak-catcher out of bed and send him down here for us to shout at. Hello . . . spot the expensive car.”

They all turned to look at the huge silver stretch-limousine as it glided down the empty street, then eased to a halt right in front of them, with a purr of its powerful motor. A uniformed chauffeur, complete with peaked cap and supercilious expression, jumped out from behind the wheel and hurried back to open the rear door. Out stepped Robert Patterson. Tall, black, expensively dressed in the best three-piece Saville Row had to offer. A shaved head, a noble brow, and a handsome face, elegant and dignified. Robert Patterson was the public face of the Carnacki Institute, on those rare occasions when it needed to talk with other parts of the Establishment. A product of Eton and Cambridge, ex-Guards and ex-Civil Service, Patterson didn't normally lower himself to brief field agents. Certainly not out in the field. He had important paper-shuffling to be getting on with.

JC considered Patterson thoughtfully as the man stood silently, ignoring them as he gave complete concentration to checking that his cuffs were immaculate. For Patterson to appear there, in person, meant they had to be facing a very delicate situation. The kind of case in which very rich, very important, and very well-connected people were involved. So highly placed that even the Carnacki Institute had to tread carefully.

Patterson finally deigned to acknowledge the field agents, looking them over sourly. He didn't seem to be any happier about being there than they did, which cheered them up somewhat.

“Mr. Patterson,” JC said smoothly. “How nice to see you. Especially when you swore you never wanted to see us again after that unfortunate incident at Her Majesty's garden party last spring. Did you ever get the stains out? No matter, no matter . . . Looking very elegant, as always, straight from your posh ride. Look at the length of it. That's not a stretch limo, that's a car with serious glandular problems. You must forgive our rather more rumpled appearance. We've just endured five hours in standard class on British Rail, direct from our last very successful assignment.”

“We had to hire a mini-van!” Happy said loudly. “A bloody mini-van!”

“Hush now, Happy,” murmured JC. “Grown-ups talking.”

“Hell with that,” said Happy. “Open up that limo and let me at the booze. I am in dire need of some medicinal brandy. Or medicinal vodka, I'm not fussy . . .”

“Damn right,” said Melody. “You got any snacks in there, Patterson? I'm so hungry I could eat your upholstery. Let me at it, or I'll shoot out your tyres and key your bodywork.”

“Can't take you two anywhere,” said JC. “Sorry about that, Mr. Patterson. But they aren't being entirely reasonable, after all we've been through. You can of course put it all right by saying the magic words: Extravagant Bonus.”

“It's either that or we mug you for what you've got on you,” said Happy. “Your choice.”

Patterson made a big deal of rising above them. “Pay attention,” he said, in his rich, deep, and very cultured voice. The field agents all made a point of sneering back at him, to show how unimpressed they were. Patterson pressed on. “This is a significant case, with important connections. It has to be handled carefully, with due regard for possible repercussions if it isn't handled . . . just so.”

“Can't be that important,” Happy said craftily. “Or the Boss herself would be here.”

“Catherine Latimer is here,” said Patterson. “But she's far too busy to spend valuable time talking with you. She is currently interfacing with the police and the Secret Service, making sure the whole area is evacuated, then sealed off until this is all over. Or hadn't you noticed how deserted the streets are?”

“We didn't see any Secret Service people on our way in,” said Happy.

Patterson allowed himself a small smile. “Which goes to show how good they are at their job.”

“I've never known London this quiet,” said Melody. “Even at this god-forsaken early hour of the morning. Look, I can see empty parking spaces! That's eerie . . .”

“What are we dealing with here?” JC said bluntly. “Ghosts, demons, those evil scumbags from the Crowley Project? What?”

“Unknown,” Patterson said carefully. “But almost certainly nothing you've encountered before. This whole affair is very much out of the ordinary. Even for the Institute. This entire building, Chimera House, had been officially declared
genius loci
. A bad place, psychically stained and corrupted. It has to be dealt with, quickly and efficiently. Before the vultures start gathering.”

“The whole building?” said JC. “Who does it belong to? What the hell do they do there?”

“Chimera House is owned by Mutable Solutions Inc.,” said Patterson. “One of the biggest drug companies, worldwide. They have branches everywhere, and annual gross sales bigger than many countries' entire budgets. In fact, they're rumoured to run certain small countries, on the quiet. This particular building is one of their private research centres. So private we didn't even know they owned it until now, and we're supposed to know things like that, given MSI's track record for working on the more extreme and dangerous edges of medical science. Chimera House pays volunteers to allow their medical staff to test new drugs on them. All very open and respectable. Good pay, civilised living conditions for the test subjects, never any problems or complaints. Until now.