Spectre's Rest Read online

  ‘Mac, are you there?’

  ‘Mac here, go ahead,’ the guard replied.

  ‘Smitty thinks he saw someone in here,’ said the voice on the radio. ‘I think he’s seeing things but we’re going to have a look. Stick by the door in case we need you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Mac replied. ‘Keep in contact.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Trev asked.

  ‘Simon,’ Mac said. ‘One of the lads on duty in there.’ He tapped a finger on the metal door leading into Block B. ‘The thing is–’

  He was interrupted by a faint shout from the other side of the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

  Mac didn’t waste any time. He’d opened the door and was through it before Trev had time to finish asking ‘What the hell was that?’

  Trev hesitated on the threshold, swore, and went after him.

  Twenty-Three

  The cell block was dark and noisy. Three torch-beams cut through the darkness, showing glimpses of brick, steel and concrete. Mac was on the ground floor, hurrying towards the nearest steps, while the other two lights were on the upper level. Mac’s colleagues, Trev assumed.

  The noise was provided by the prisoners, who were banging on the doors of their cells and calling out to the guards. Some were demanding to know what was going on, while others seemed to be making a racket just for the hell of it. Not all the voices sounded quite human.

  Trev re-lit his hand and followed Mac. The guard reached the bottom of the staircase before noticing that Trev was behind him.

  ‘Back outside,’ he said jabbing a finger in the direction of the door. ‘You’re in enough shit as it is.’

  ‘I think I’m safer in here,’ said Trev.

  Mac didn’t bother to argue the point. He shrugged in a way that said it’s your funeral and headed up the stairs, calling out to his colleagues as he went. Trev stayed where he was, one foot on the bottom step. He was curious to know what the guards had shot at, but not so curious that he wanted to risk being shot at himself.

  ‘What an intolerable commotion,’ said a voice. It cut through the background noise despite not being that loud. It was a voice that was used to being heard.

  Trev looked to his left. As he’d seen in Block A, the ground floor cells had old-fashioned bars, allowing easy surveillance of the inmates. This suggested to Trev that these cells were reserved for the most dangerous prisoners, those who had to be watched most closely. The man who’d spoken was in one of them.

  Trev turned the light from his hand to illuminate the cell. The speaker appeared to be in his forties and was physically unremarkable. He was short, maybe just over five feet tall, and slim, with brown hair parted at the side. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that looked older than he did, and a set of the same yellow overalls that Corbyn had been wearing when Trev interviewed him.

  ‘You’re not one of the guards,’ said the man, regarding Trev with a pair of ice-blue eyes. ‘A visitor?’

  ‘Yeah, I was on the guided tour and wandered off,’ Trev said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Lionel Vermont,’ the man replied. He put a hand through the bars for Trev to shake.

  ‘Nice try,’ Trev said, making no move to touch the hand. ‘I’m having a bad enough week already without letting some psychopath prisoner get hold of me.’

  Vermont smiled. He still looked like an accountant, but it was an accountant with several severed heads in his fridge. ‘Very well. Might you at least give me your name?’

  ‘Trev Irwin,’ said Trev. He couldn’t place Vermont’s accent, though he thought it sounded vaguely North American. ‘What happened in here?’

  ‘One of the guards saw something and shot first,’ said Vermont. ‘Presumably questions will be asked later.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trev. ‘Any idea what it was he shot?’

  ‘None,’ said Vermont. He took off his glasses and examined the lenses for smears in the light from Trev’s hand. ‘Although I can tell you that another two inmates are dead.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Trev asked, taking a nervous glance over his shoulder.

  ‘The credit goes to my neighbour on that score,’ said Vermont. He inclined his head towards the next cell along. ‘Mr. Dravine.’

  He gave the name an Eastern European inflection: Drah-veen. Trev swung the light in the direction that Vermont had indicated. A large humanoid shape stood behind the bars. Trev lifted the light a little higher and almost ruined his trousers.

  The thing in the cell had enough human features to show that he had once been a man. He stood at least seven feet tall, and that was while stooped to fit under the ceiling. His shoulders and chest were massively broad, straining the seams of his outsize overalls. His arms were a grotesque length, his clawed fingers almost touching the floor. Black hair sprouted from every area of exposed skin.

  For all his physical size, however, his face was the most intimidating thing about him. Trev had once seen a werewolf shift from human to wolf form, and Dravine appeared to have become stuck halfway through that process. His mouth and nose were pushed forward into a snout-like protuberance and his pointed ears appeared to have slid a couple of inches up the sides of his head. Small, dark eyes glinted at Trev from within their hairy sockets.

  ‘He’s spent so much time as a wolf he can’t entirely change back into a man now,’ Vermont explained. ‘Poor chap. Although it does have some benefits. How many dead prisoners, Mr. Dravine?’

  ‘Two,’ rumbled Dravine. His voice was like a truck engine in desperate need of a service. ‘Already told you.’

  ‘You did indeed,’ said Vermont. He peered over his glasses at Trev. ‘He has a better sense of smell than most of us, you see.’

  ‘He can smell two dead bodies here?’ Trev said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dravine. ‘One vampire. They smell bad when they die. One human.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trev. ‘And can you smell what killed them?’

  Dravine slid his lower jaw from side to side. Trev assumed that he was thinking and decided it was best not to interrupt what might be a lengthy process.

  Eventually the wolf-man shook his head. ‘Don’t know. Something there. Not smell.’

  ‘There’s something here all right,’ Trev muttered, glancing over his shoulder again. ‘I just wish I knew what.’

  ‘As a vampire I have no real sensitivity to psychic phenomena,’ said Vermont. ‘Which can only be a good thing, in this place. I hear you Custodian types find the atmosphere here quite sinister.’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ said Trev, raising his voice to be heard over a particularly loud and colourful volley of swearing emanating from one of the first-floor cells.

  ‘I’ve been incarcerated in Spectre’s Rest for over a hundred years,’ Vermont said. ‘I’ve found it cold, unutterably tedious and full of intellectual pygmies, but not particularly frightening.’

  ‘Oh right, you’re that bloke,’ Trev replied, remembering Bookbinder mentioning the prison’s longest-serving inmate. ‘What did you do to get locked up for so long?’

  ‘Oh, just the odd murder here and there, you know,’ said Vermont. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘Nothing serious. My sentence has always seemed rather… disproportionate.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Trev. ‘I think if I’d spent over a hundred years in prison I’d be crazy or dead by now, not complaining about my sentence being “disproportionate”.’

  Vermont nodded. ‘Well, it helps to have something to look forward to.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The knowledge that one day I’ll get out,’ Vermont said, leaning close to the bars. ‘And further, the certainty that when I do get out, I’ll find and kill everyone who has worked here while I’ve been imprisoned. If they’ve had the bad manners to die in the interim, then I shall kill their families, their friends, and, quite possibly, their pets instead.’

  He said it in an offhand, conversational tone
that made Trev shiver. It answered the question of why Vermont had been locked away for so long, and also made Trev fervently hope that he was never released.

  ‘Right. It’s good to have goals, I suppose,’ Trev replied.

  ‘Quite,’ said Vermont. ‘May I ask you something?’

  Trev was keen to end the conversation, but even more keen to avoid upsetting the psychotic vampire. ‘Uh. Yeah.’

  ‘Why don’t you come over here and let me out?’ Vermont said, in a strange, flat tone that buzzed in the back of Trev’s brain. He had to resist a sudden urge to do what he had been asked.

  ‘Again, nice try,’ Trev croaked. He blinked a couple of times, clearing his head. Vermont had just tried to hypnotise him; it was an ability all vampires had, and they generally used it to make their victims docile. People with the Sight were able to resist it, though Vermont’s command had been stronger than any Trev had felt before.

  ‘Well done,’ Vermont said. ‘Usually the new guards take a step or two towards my cell before they shake it off. At least the first time. Your Sight must be at the stronger end of the scale. Just who exactly are you, Mr. Trev Irwin?’

  ‘Nobody you need to worry about,’ said Trev. ‘And I don’t work here, so leave me off your revenge list, all right?’

  ‘Sorry, but you’ve piqued my curiosity,’ said Vermont. He produced another unnerving smile. ‘I’ll be sure to look you up when I escape. Are you in the phone book?’

  ‘Ex-directory,’ Trev lied. Though it wouldn’t be that difficult to find me, he thought. He just has to ask any takeaway restaurant within ten miles of Brackenford and they’ll be able to give him directions.

  ‘I enjoy a challenge,’ Vermont replied.

  ‘Why don’t you challenge yourself to stop being a loony, then?’ said Trev. He decided that the risk of being shot by the edgy guards was preferable to any further conversation with Vermont, so he headed for the stairs. ‘See you later.’

  ‘It might be sooner than you think,’ the vampire said. ‘Maybe I’ll bring Mr. Dravine with me?’ Dravine growled, sending Trev scuttling up the stairs with undignified haste.

  Mac and the other guards were standing next to a pair of adjacent cells which had their doors open. Unlike the ground-floor cells, these doors were solid metal with viewing hatches set into them. One of the three men was talking into his radio while the other two were looking into the cells and conferring in low voices. From their scowling faces and abrupt hand gestures, it wasn’t a happy conversation.

  Seeing Trev approach, Mac broke off from his dialogue to intercept him.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ he hissed. ‘The boss is on her way. Get back to your room before she gets here and none of us has to be in any more trouble than we already are.’

  ‘That wolf-man downstairs says there are two dead prisoners up here,’ said Trev. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Dravine?’ said Mac. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Jesus wept. Please tell me you weren’t chatting to Lionel Vermont as well?’

  ‘Is it true?’ Trev persisted, sidestepping the question.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mac. His face sagged with fatigue and resignation. ‘Yeah, it’s true. We’re screwed. There were three of us on guard. Three! Grace is going to do her nut.’

  ‘What happened?’ Trev said.

  ‘Smitty says he thought he saw a dark figure near those two cells, then he heard one of the prisoners shout out,’ Mac explained. ‘When he went to the viewing hatch he saw the prisoner on the floor and the figure standing over him. Then he basically panicked and fired his gun through the hatch.’ He shook his head. ‘Muppet. When we got the door open there was no sign of any figure, just the prisoner’s body and a bullet-hole in the far wall. Then we found that the vamp next door was dead as well.’

  ‘Any idea what killed them?’

  ‘There’s nothing obvious,’ Mac said, ‘but we won’t know for sure until Bookbinder’s done his thing.’

  ‘You think they might be “dead of being dead”, like Corbyn?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Mac snapped. ‘I’m not the bloody coroner. All I do know is that this shambles is probably going to cost me my job.’

  ‘We need to get everybody out of Spectre’s Rest, Mac,’ Trev said. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ said Mac.

  ‘Grace won’t listen to me,’ Trev continued. ‘You and the other guards need to put some pressure on her. She can’t run this place without you. She’ll have to listen.’

  Mac threw his hands up. ‘Get real,’ he said. ‘I’m staring down the barrel of my P45 as it is. I’m not going to make things worse by threatening to go on strike.’

  ‘Right, fine,’ said Trev. ‘But at least try and convince her that we need to get out.’

  ‘I told you, the only thing I’m going to be trying to convince Grace Montano of is that she doesn’t want to sack me,’ said Mac. ‘Now would you please piss off back to your room?’

  ‘Yeah, any second,’ said Trev. Mac gave an exasperated shrug and walked back to his companions, who were giving Trev a pair of very suspicious looks. ‘Always making friends and influencing people,’ he murmured to himself.

  He turned away from the guards and stared back at the cell block entrance, trying to picture where he was relative to where the dark energy had been flowing up the wall. If the mental plan of the building he’d formed was right, the darkness would have entered the cell block at about the height of the walkway he was standing on. If it then followed the wall, it would have been moving along the row that included the two victims’ cells.

  ‘Hey, Mac,’ Trev called out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are these cells occupied?’ Trev asked, pointing at the three cells that stood between the energy’s probable entry point and the cells of the victims.

  ‘No,’ said Mac. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Idle curiosity,’ Trev replied. He pointed at the stairs. ‘I’m going back now, OK?’

  Mac’s expression suggested that yes, of course it was bloody OK. Trev clumped back down the stairs, his brain whirring. As far as he could work out, the energy he and Oscar had seen in the corridor had flowed into the cell block and along the first floor until it reached the occupied cells, then it had – somehow – killed their occupants before disappearing. That was what had happened, Trev was almost sure. But he still had no idea why. He didn’t know what the energy was, what its purpose in killing the inmates was, or where it was coming from. He needed to get together with Desai and Oscar and see if they could puzzle it through.

  He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost walked straight into Grace Montano, who was entering the cell block just as Trev was leaving. Her face quickly shifted from surprise, through suspicion, and finally to anger.

  ‘Er, hi,’ Trev said.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ Montano said, her voice dangerously flat.

  ‘Well, I might ask you the same question,’ Trev said.

  It wasn’t the right thing to say.

  Twenty-Four

  They put him in the same room he’d used to interview Corbyn, but in the other chair. He assumed it was deliberate, to let him know that he was now a suspect himself. It wasn’t a good situation to be in, though Trev was reserving most of his worry for the shadow-creature that was busy murdering everyone in the background. In comparison, the prospect of getting his wrists slapped by Grace Montano didn’t seem all that scary.

  The prison staff had managed to get the power back on more quickly this time, though they were still mystified as to what was causing the power-cuts. Trev had been frogmarched to the interview room as soon as the lights returned. Mac had escorted him. The guard had seemed very eager to get himself out of Montano’s firing-line, and Trev couldn’t blame him. The head warden had been furious at the loss of two more prisoners.

  He tapped his fingernails on the tabletop. I need to speak to Mishti and Oscar, he thought. I
don’t have time to be stewing in here. One victim during the first power-cut; two during the second. There wasn’t really enough data to call it a trend, but Trev was willing to bet that there would be a third power-cut and that it would produce more victims. The phenomena in Spectre’s Rest weren’t going away. Their presence was only becoming stronger.

  A look at his watch told Trev that he’d been sitting there for an hour and a half. Another message, of course. Montano was giving him an indication of where he was on her list of priorities. Pretty low down, Trev decided, assuming he was even on the list at all. Maybe she’s just going to keep me locked up in here until this is all sorted, he thought. A headache was building behind his eyes, a dull throb of mingled anger, frustration and exhaustion.

  He got up and tried the door. It was locked, as he’d expected. Trev rested his head against the cold metal, trying to soothe the headache away. It didn’t work. At this rate he felt that he might have a complete meltdown on Montano when she arrived. In response to those thoughts Bad Trev stirred once again, tweaking the tail of his anger and giving him a sudden surge of rage.

  He thumped the door with his fist. Unfortunately he managed to hit the head of a rivet in doing so, which left him hopping around the room in pain, swearing. As the pain ebbed some of the anger went with it, and he was able to string a few coherent thoughts together.

  One thing was obvious: however much he wanted to, he couldn’t afford to lose it with Grace Montano. He was drinking in the last chance saloon with her already. In fact, he’d been thrown out of the last chance saloon and was now drinking paint-thinner in the gutter. He had no doubt that Montano possessed the authority to have him locked in a cell if she thought it necessary, and the way things were going at Spectre’s Rest, people locked in cells were looking at a substantial reduction in life expectancy.

  He sat back down. Right. So if “ranting and raving” was out as a strategy, what were his options? There was “obsequious appeasement”, which he wasn’t good at, “pitiful pleading”, which he really wasn’t good at, and “honest contrition”, which he’d never tried. That left him with “rational argument”.