When Evil Wins (7 page)

During the two days that had passed since Janus had dropped off his Dad's medication, he’d spent the majority of the time reading and researching every aspect of the paranormal he could find in the library.

The more he looked into it the more he saw it was quite likely he had some latent psychic ability himself. However, some of the books he read smacked of charlatanism, they were there to sell the idea to an unwitting public but others told of things in such a way that to dismiss psychic ability as a fraud would be a fraud in itself.

Janus closed the book he’d just finished and looked up, it was just in time too, the librarian was making her way towards him, probably to let him know that the library was about to close.

“Janus…,” the librarian started, he had become such a regular that all the library's staff now
 
knew him by his first name.

“Don't tell me. You're closing up,” Janus said, before she could finish.

“We are. Are you finished?” the librarian asked.

“Yes thanks,” Janus said, picking up the books. “Don't worry I'll put them back,” he added.

After returning the books to their respective slots on the shelves, a frowning Janus left the dingy glass fronted building. He was thinking about everything he’d read and he’d come to a decision; a decision about something that had been bubbling in the back of his mind ever since his father's tragic accident had allowed him the space to look into a side of his life which had been prohibited for such a long time. He would somehow convince his dad that the plumber's life was not for him, not right away of course, that wouldn't be fair to his dad, but perhaps over the next year or so.

He would start his own business as a paranormal investigator or something like that. He still had to look into what that actually meant, but he felt it was the path he had to take.

He knew for sure his dad would hate it, especially after the problems and the reasons his dad had taken him from Poland; but that was twenty years ago now.

The early winter's evening, though getting dark was warm and Janus decided he would walk the three miles back to his flat in Leigh.

It would be a good exercise for him as he had not had any manual work to do since handing over his dad’s contracts to other companies. Whilst walking along the London Road back towards his home it occurred to him that his dad had not called him once during these last few days. Janus mentally thanked his father for letting him get on with the stuff he wanted to do, without interruption. He also thought his dad desperately wanted to get back on his feet and do things for himself, for a change, and this was probably the reason he hadn't received a single call over the preceding days.

Oh well
, Janus thought.
I'll see you tomorrow morning, Dad
.

***

Janus woke with a start and looked at his clock. It was just gone twenty past eight and Janus frowned. He had deliberately not set his alarm as he was sure his dad would have called at 7.30 a.m. on the dot, just to remind him that he was due at the house.

Janus got out of bed and jumped into the shower. After getting dressed Janus put the kettle on and made himself a cup of coffee. Whilst he drank it he flicked through the news on the teletext.
 

Still no call
, he thought, as a dark and negative feeling enveloped him, making him shudder.

Finishing his coffee Janus rang his dad's number, after five minutes of the landline ringing Janus put his phone down.
He must have gone for a walk or something
, Janus thought to himself.

Picking up his jacket Janus left his flat for his dad's house curious as to whether he would be in or not, mentally avoiding the feeling that something was not quite right.

Janus knocked at his father’s front door, although he had a key he wanted to hear some reaction, some sound of movement in his Dad's hall. No sound was forthcoming. Janus opened the door to his Dad’s house and entering, he called out for his father.

“Dad?” he said in English, then; “Father,” he called out in Polish. There was no response. He quickly made his way up the stairs to his father's bedroom. The bed had not been slept in.

“Dad?” Janus called again, a little louder this time: still no answer.

Taking his phone from his pocket he rang his dad's mobile number. His dad's mobile phone rang out in the silence. The sound was coming from downstairs.

Janus scooted down the stairs taking them in twos and made his way into the lounge, as he entered the room he saw the back of his Dad's head poking just above the back of his favourite comfy chair, the one in which he always sat to watch the telly. The TV was off.

“Dad,” he said, as he walked up to his father. “What are you doing?”

His father didn't answer.

Janus was now standing between his dad and the television and saw that his Dad's face was almost completely grey, all colour drained from it.

As he reached to stir his father from his sickly sleep Janus glimpsed his father's trousers and recoiled in utter shock, dropping his phone. It looked as if his father had wet himself, not with urine, but a red-brown viscous liquid. His grey, silent and unmoving father was sitting in a vast dark and congealed pool of his own blood, the stain colouring even the front edge of the comfy chair’s cushion.

Janus tried to comprehend what he was seeing, but the longer he looked on, the more he began to notice things he didn't want to notice, but the things, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, were there all the same.

He knew then that there wasn't any chance of waking his father from this sleep. Somehow his father had bled to death. But why? He had been doing so well and there hadn't been any problems since his dad had been discharged from the hospital.

Janus rushed to his dad's phone in the hall at the bottom of the stairs and called an ambulance.

Within ten minutes the ambulance crew arrived and Janus took them to his father. The two crew members were shocked by what they saw.

They looked at each other, there wasn't any chance of resuscitating this guy; he’d been dead for at least twenty four hours and undoubtedly the dead man had been drained of almost all of his eight and a half pints of blood; it was also obvious to them that the guy's son was more than aware of this.

“I’m sorry, Mr Malik,” one of the paramedics said to Janus. “We can’t take the bod… I’m sorry, your father. In circumstances like these the police need to be called. I’m truly sorry. Your father has been dead for at least a day.”

Janus just stared at the man; a feeling of sickness developing in the pit of his stomach.

“Sir, it’s okay, I’ll radio it through. Peter?” the paramedic turned to his partner, “could you take Mr Malik to the kitchen?”

Peter guided Janus to his father’s kitchen, away from the awful scene. Janus followed, his mind numbed.

“Mr Malik, I’m so sorry for your loss — but Barry has to notify the police — it’s the blood, you know,” Peter struggled to explain.

Janus just shook his head; nothing was making any sense to him.

“I’m afraid we have to get the forensic medical examiner in; it’s just procedure you understand,” Peter told Janus. Janus didn’t react, he couldn’t, he didn’t know how.

Peter hated it when he had to attend situations like this; when the next of kin had no inkling about the possibility of one of their nearest and dearest’s mortality. He had been to many in his fifteen years with the service, but, in these situations, it always felt like the first.

After the police had arrived along with the FME and asked a few cursory questions of Janus, the undertakers loaded the body into the hearse and took Andrzej Malik to the mortuary.

When everyone had finished with his father’s house, Janus exited the front door to the property, closing it behind him.

Still feeling numb he got into his car and drove to the hospital to seek out Mr Greensteed.

Within a short while of Janus arriving at Southend hospital, his father's consultant appeared and took Janus to one side.

“Janus, I'm so sorry this has happened,” Greensteed said, reaching out and gently squeezing Janus's shoulder, “but I must stress this was always going to be a possibility; it was a massive internal haemorrhage.”

“But he'd been doing so well, Mr Greensteed. My Dad took all of his medicine,” Janus stressed.

“I know, I know, Janus.” Marshall Greensteed hated it when things like this happened, “but your father did suffer incredibly serious injuries. It was a miracle he survived at all.”

“But it's been four weeks since he left the hospital. You even checked him a few days ago.”

“I must admit that there was nothing to indicate this would happen, but these things do happen, Janus, I'm sorry to say. In the end it's sometimes nature's way rather than the surgeon's,” Greensteed paused, “I am truly sorry.”

“I don't know what I will do now,” Janus said. “What do I do? I've never been in a situation like this before.”

“Janus, here's a card. Contact this woman, she's a counsellor, she'll help you get through the next few days and help you with your next steps.”

“Thank you, Mr Greensteed,” after a second’s pause Janus added; “There was really nothing you could do?”

“I'm sorry, Janus, nothing at all. But I assure you your father had the very best of care.”

“I know he did, and thanks again.” Janus took the card from the consultant.

Janus was in a rush as usual. He didn't know why but every time he arranged to meet his publisher his timing was all over the place. He thought it was probably due to the fact that it wasn't him who controlled his schedule in these instances, although it ought to be. His ex-wife had made him feel much the same way while they were married.

Janus knew that if he left within the next five minutes he would just about get to the station in time to catch the train to London and from Fenchurch Street he could take a short tube journey arriving at the Royal Dragon, in China Town, ready for the discussions, with his publisher about his most recent investigation.

***

It was three months since Janus had buried his father. The will hadn't thrown up any surprises; everything his father had built up over the preceding twenty years had passed straight to him as he was the business partner and more importantly, his father’s son.

During the month following his Dad's death he had just moped around his flat feeling lost, and feeling loss. Most mornings he’d woken up at seven thirty on the dot, believing he’d heard his phone ringing.

As the weeks passed he stopped waking up so early and gradually came to terms with the fact his father had died. But the memory of finding his father in that state, as he had realised then, was going to take a lot longer to reconcile with himself, as it had surely been his fault, somehow, some way. No matter how he tried to address the issue the end result was always the same, he blamed himself; if only he hadn’t been so determined to discover the nature of the abilities he believed he had.

***

One morning during the second month he awoke with a sense of pure clarity and knew then what he had to do, he had to sell his father’s business and take the steps which would eventually lead, he hoped, to a career as a professional paranormal investigator.

He didn't know if this path would pan out but the money from selling the business would give him enough leeway to discover if this was going to be his true calling.

The business was quickly snapped up and Janus re-started his research into the paranormal and began devising a regime which he hoped, if he followed it, would lead to a better control over his abilities, a way which would allow him to tap into his psychic faculty on demand.

Janus started to place adverts in the small ads column of his local paper knowing that, at this stage, it would really be hit or miss as to whether his ability would kick in on cue, but was certain that the impetus in doing this would assist him in his development.

As part of his studies into the paranormal and his own abilities, he decided from the outset he would keep a journal of every case he was commissioned to solve, using the diary as reference material for tuning his skills, psychical or otherwise. And this was if he was ever going to be commissioned to solve a case in the first place. To his surprise requests for his help started to trickle in and he began his new job in earnest.

Since that time he’d learnt a lot, purchased extra equipment, the trickle remained just that, a trickle; but barring the financial implications of his chosen profession, he was a lot happier than he had been in a long while.

In the main, the jobs he was commissioned to undertake necessitated differing levels of background research into the histories of the people employing him, or the places where they lived. However, the slowly diminishing pot of money played on his mind and finally he had to admit to himself he needed to get a job of some sort, part-time hopefully, so he could at least guarantee a level of income when the work wasn't coming in.

Janus had decided to redouble his efforts in seeking out odd stories the local newspapers sometimes featured, ones that would warrant his involvement after an introductory phone call or letter, and in this way he hoped he could increase his current commissions’ rate.

It was during one of these intense news analysis sessions, when he was beginning to believe the only course for him was to become a labourer once more, he noticed an advertisement for a clerk's position at Essex County Council's Sites and Monuments office in Chelmsford. They were only asking for twenty to twenty five hours a week and the pay was an absolute pittance, but it was guaranteed income and with his new background in historical research, he felt he would have a fairly good chance in securing the position. His application was in the first post the following day.

Within a few weeks he had been invited to the offices for an interview and two weeks after that, he started his new part-time filing job at Essex County Council’s Sites and Monuments office.

Still the sums did not add up. The financial arrangement with his ex-wife the courts had foisted upon him through the incompetence of his legal representation meant he still had a huge hole in his finances to fill.

It wasn’t as if he’d had any children he should be supporting but the ruling had been made and that was that; there were a further three long months more to go, before he would be totally free of that financial burden once and for all.

Janus was adamant he was not going to go back into the plumbing trade if he could at all avoid it, so what else was there? He didn’t want to give up his part-time job, the access to the historical information he now had was a boon to the research requirements for his preferred career.

Getting lawyers and solicitors involved to resolve his current financial situation would only leech his finances further, with no guarantee he would end up better off, though the lawyers and solicitors certainly would be.

There was one last option and although he thought it was an unlikely one, after all the time that had past, there was nothing else he could do.

He pulled Richard Jameson's business card from his wallet and almost put it straight back considering the idea as foolish, but he was out of choices and this was an option, something he had to try. Janus made the phone call.

During his time on the phone, Richard told Janus that he’d been wondering when he would call and Janus was surprised that the guy still remembered him after all this time.

Richard suggested that they should have a meeting to discuss what was possible and that Janus ought to pop up to his offices in Museum Street in London.

During the meeting, Janus told Richard about his work as a paranormal investigator and the cases he had worked on, highlighting how he had successfully resolved the outstanding issues for those that had restless spirits and had demonstrated in other investigations that the physical surroundings had more to do with the apparent hauntings rather than the afterlife.

Richard suggested that Janus ought to refer to his field notes and try to put pen to paper and write up his casework in a form that would lend itself better to being read by the general public.

 
***

Now, since the initial meeting, he was going to be late once again. He supposed and hoped that Richard was getting used to this.

Janus ran down Gerrard Street, skirting quickly passed the railings which fronted the restaurant and burst through the post box red door of the Royal Dragon into the restaurant proper. He spied his publisher sitting at, what had become over the last half a year, their usual table near the entrance.

“Sorry I'm late, Mr Jameson.”

“Janus, don't worry, and please stop calling me Mr Jameson. We've been working together for, what is it now? Coming up to a year, I think. So Richard will do and I hope I won't have to remind you again. Isn't this what I say every time we talk?”

***

Janus had met Richard Jameson on two occasions during the time he had been working with his father, once at a spiritualist meeting near to where he lived in Leigh-on-Sea and once at a book signing in Treadwell's, a bookshop well known for its collections of occult and paranormal literature.

Jameson was normally aloof and distant from his authors but there was something special about Janus Malik, something he couldn't really put his finger on, something which allowed him to relax and enjoy Janus's company more than any other authors he had signed up.

It may have had something to do with Janus's usually candid nature; his honesty. Richard wasn't sure but he did know one thing, he didn't have to try and peel the layers of presentation back before discovering the ‘true’ person beneath. Janus was as he was and Jameson liked this aspect of his character in particular.

Their relationship had developed quickly and soon after taking him on Janus had become a regular fixture around the Jameson's household's dinner table.

Even Richard Jameson's wife, Liz, the woman Janus had seen Richard talking to at the book launch, and daughter, Stephanie, thoroughly enjoyed Janus's company and from day one it hadn't been any other way.

***

“I know, Richard,” Janus answered, “it's difficult though. You being my boss.”

“Janus, I know I represent you but I still like to think we're good friends. Think of it this way, we're partners. You write up your cases and I make them available to the public, less of a boss-employee relationship really,” Richard said, trying to make the situation absolutely clear.

“Okay,” said Janus, “and I know you've told me this before, but I still can't thank you enough for persuading me to put my investigations to paper. If it wasn't for your belief that the public at large would be interested in what I did, then I'm sure I would've blown my father's inheritance and still been a plumber. Offering to take me on for writing up my casework has made all the difference to me. I owe you a lot, Richard.”

“Forget it; I'm making a fair penny out of your work just as much as you do. Now what would you like to order?” Jameson dismissed the conversation. He was a man who neither wanted, nor liked, having his ego stroked. He believed that what he did, he did for the other person just as much as for himself.

“I'll have a pint of Tiger please,” Janus said, as he picked up the menu from the table to study it.

“Okay. Tiger it is.” Jameson looked towards the waiter to attract his attention. The waiter wandered over to the table and Jameson ordered their drinks.

The two men discussed Malik's recent case.

“There's not a lot to it this time, Janus, the first draft you sent me is quite light-weight to say the least. Don't you have any more?”

“Not at the moment, as I said my spirit guide told me that this guy, Royce, would phone me at my office…”

Jameson interrupted; “You mean where you work part time?” Jameson wanted to get the details clear in his head. “Where was it again? The Sites and Monuments office in Chafford Hundred, or somewhere near there?”

 
“No, it's in Chelmsford. Anyway, my spirit guide told me that this guy would need some advice, some information on how to rid himself of what could be called 'a haunting'. He was having visitations from malevolent spirits and from what my guide told me it was something to do with his ancestors, and the way they’d treated a Roman general's body after death.

“I informed Mr Royce that he needed to dispose of the remains in the way that would have been appropriate for a Roman general of that time.”

“Did he take this advice?”

“No. Not initially, I had to phone him a second time. I got the feeling my guide was very anxious to have this situation resolved as soon as possible. That's why I said there was not much more at the moment.”

“Is there any more to it?” Jameson asked. He was concerned that Janus may have a dud this time around.

“I'm not sure. I’ve not been able to contact my guide since then. Which is strange,” Janus replied, knowing the manuscript he’d sent in had not been up to his usual standard, but it was all he had had.

“Enough of work. Have you decided what you want to eat?” Jameson said, diverting the conversation on to more social topics, something he didn’t mind doing with Janus; Janus was someone he knew he could trust to act on his suggestions.

“Yep, I think I'll go for the Dim Sum,” Janus said, replacing the menu back in its stand.

“That's a good choice Janus, so will I.” Jameson called the waiter over once more and ordered their food.

During the course of their meal more people entered the restaurant and passed by their table; it was getting towards 1.00 p.m. and the city folk had decided it was time for their lunch.

Half way through the meal Jameson excused himself for the toilet and Janus took the opportunity to go to the bar and order another pint. When he got back to the table he saw that a small silver platter had been left, with a single, folded, white piece of paper resting upon it.

Jameson came back and as he sat down he also noticed the small silver plate.

“That's strange,” Jameson said.

“What?” Janus asked.

“They've brought us the bill and we haven't even finished our meal yet.” Jameson reached for the piece of paper and unfolded it and as he read, his faced flushed angrily.

“What's wrong, Richard? It can't be that expensive.”

“It isn't about expense, Janus.” Jameson twisted around in his chair to see if he could spot the person who had dumped the note on their table, slinking around somewhere in the depths of the restaurant. “Who brought this ridiculous piece of paper over?” Jameson demanded loudly, not just for Janus’s benefit.