Spectre's Rest Page 8

  Realisation dawned on Trev. He knows about the traitor in the Custodians, he thought. That’s his “earth-shattering” revelation. He’s got no idea that Deacon already knows about it. But does Corbyn know the traitor’s identity?

  ‘And tell him what?’ Trev said. ‘“Corbyn knows something that might be important and if you let him out of prison he’ll tell you what it is?” I don’t think he’ll go for that.’

  ‘I know I’m not in the strongest of bargaining positions here, so save the gloating,’ Corbyn said. ‘I need to deal with Deacon directly, but I knew he wouldn’t come at my request. All I’m asking is for you to persuade him. But he needs to come unannounced. I don’t want word getting about that I’m doing a deal.’

  ‘Give me the information,’ Trev said. ‘I’ll talk to Deacon in private. That way we won’t have to risk him making a visit in person.’

  Corbyn shook his head. ‘That isn’t going to happen. I deal with Deacon directly, or there is no deal. And if you don’t like it, then fine. Shove it up your arse. It’s not like I’ll be any worse off.’

  ‘Nice to see your seventies punk persona making a comeback,’ Trev said, giving Corbyn his most irritating smile.

  ‘It’s not a “persona”, it’s who I am,’ Corbyn snapped.

  ‘Everyone agrees the seventies was a crap decade,’ said Trev. ‘Let it go.’

  ‘No, the seventies was a great decade,’ Corbyn said, leaning forward and tapping a finger on the table. ‘I contracted vampirism in the sixties. I hated all that hippie bollocks. Sitting around smoking weed in a field, listening to shit music and kidding themselves that they were making the world a better place. “All You Need Is Love”, right? Piss off.’

  ‘I’m not entirely disagreeing with you there,’ Trev admitted. He had a pretty low tolerance for hippies.

  ‘Then the seventies came along,’ Corbyn continued, warming to his theme. ‘Strikes. Unemployment. Shortages. People found out that if they wanted to pay their bills, love in fact wasn’t all they needed. You try making a mortgage payment with love. The bank manager’ll call security and repossess your house. Some people let themselves go under. Others discovered that there were always ways and means to get what you wanted, if you were willing to step outside the rules and deal with people like me.

  ‘People like you look back now and say the seventies was a crap decade. It wasn’t. It was a reality check. It got people back to what mattered. Getting by. That’s what life is about. You can have all the high ideals you like about peace and love, but they won’t give your kids three square meals a day. Punk music was real. No lofty flower-power bullshit. It was about the unfairness of life, the struggle. Doing what you had to. The sixties was a decade for dreamers. The seventies was a decade for survivors.’

  Corbyn sat back in his chair and glowered at Trev.

  ‘Nice rant,’ Trev said, quite surprised at the vehemence of Corbyn’s words. ‘So making a deal with the Custodians is just “doing what you have to do”, is it?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Corbyn. ‘Vampires live a long time. I’d do a deal with pretty much anyone to avoid spending the rest of my life somewhere like this.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I hear the new place is much nicer,’ Trev said.

  ‘I’m hoping I won’t have to find out,’ Corbyn said. ‘So go on then. Are you going to have a word with Deacon for me?’

  Trev would have loved to tell Corbyn that no, he wouldn’t, and leave him to rot in a cell. But if there was a possibility the vampire knew who the traitor was, then Trev knew he had to at least run the deal past Deacon. Though of course that didn’t mean he had to give Corbyn an easy ride about it.

  ‘The best time to ask me for a favour would probably have been before you abducted one of my friends and made three attempts on my life,’ Trev said. ‘I think you might have missed that window.’

  ‘Don’t be a prick,’ said Corbyn. ‘Yeah, I’ve tried to kill you, but I bet I’m not alone in that. You are pretty annoying.’

  ‘You’re not really helping your case here.’

  ‘The point is that this information will help you stay alive,’ said Corbyn, pointing at Trev. ‘And others too, I’d have thought. So whatever you think about me, it’s in your own interest to speak to Deacon.’

  ‘If Deacon agrees to the deal and lets you go, won’t you just try to kill me again?’ Trev asked. ‘There’s not much mileage in removing one threat only to replace it with another. It’s like taking a knife off your attacker and handing them a gun instead.’

  Corbyn clenched his fists in frustration. ‘Are you serious? Right, fine. If Deacon agrees to the deal I’ll swear a blood oath to leave you alone.’

  ‘All right,’ said Trev. ‘And one other thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want all the information you have on Seth Lysander. Under oath.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘None of your business. Deal?’

  ‘If that’s what it’ll take to get you out of my face and Feargal Deacon in here, then yeah. Whatever. Deal.’ Corbyn tried to fold his arms but couldn’t because of the shackles. Instead he dropped his hands into his lap and stared down at the floor, a beaten man.

  Trev made no effort to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

  Ten

  ‘So what did he want?’ Desai asked.

  She was sitting with Trev in the prison’s staff canteen. Both of them had a cup of suspiciously grey tea in front of them, though neither had drunk much. While Trev’s palate was quite used to bad tea, this stuff represented a new low. He’d heard of taking tea with a slice of lemon for flavour, but somehow he didn’t think that lemon-scented washing-up liquid counted. He grimaced and pushed the plastic cup away.

  It was dark outside and the fluorescent tubes overhead filled the room with a stark white light. The canteen had only two other occupants, the sour-faced woman at the counter and a lone guard, who was snoring softly over a copy of The Sun. Trev scratched at the stubble on his chin and wondered what to tell Desai. Corbyn had been adamant that he didn’t want anyone other than Deacon to know about the proposed deal, but he hadn’t given Trev any idea what to tell everyone else. He decided on a story that was mostly true, albeit with a few omissions.

  ‘He says he’s got information and wants to do a deal, but he won’t say what he knows without confirmation that he’ll get something in return,’ he said.

  ‘What do you think? Does he know anything useful?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Trev, peering into the depths of his tea. ‘He’s just chancing his arm.’

  ‘We’ll have to run it past Feargal,’ said Desai, ‘but I know what he’ll say.’

  ‘Something like “the Custodians do not negotiate with terrorists”, maybe?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And then I’ll have to have another chat with Corbyn and tell him. Great.’ Trev leaned back in his chair and dug his phone out of his pocket. ‘Have you got Deacon’s number?’

  ‘Unless that’s a satellite phone, you won’t have a signal,’ Desai said. ‘Welcome to the sticks.’

  ‘Couldn’t the Custodians have stumped up the money for a mobile phone mast?’ Trev said, checking the screen on his phone. It confirmed Desai’s assertion.

  ‘Probably,’ said Desai. ‘But then you’d have the phone company down here poking about and asking questions.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Trev. He put his phone away. ‘Where do I need to go to make a call then?’

  ‘We’ll have to ask Grace,’ Desai said.

  ‘OK,’ said Trev. ‘Anything to get away from this tea.’

  Desai led the way through a succession of corridors and back to Montano’s office. Trev was beginning to understand the prison’s reputation. There was something off about the place; he couldn’t have expressed what it was, but it nudged at the primitive, instinctive part of his brain, telling him that something was amiss. All the silent corr
idors and deserted rooms didn’t help. The building was mostly empty but it didn’t feel empty. It was as if there was a presence in those abandoned spaces. Watching. Resenting the last few interlopers in its domain.

  Trev had to fight the constant urge to look over his shoulder. It hadn’t been so bad when there was daylight coming in through the windows. Now, with night crowding in around the building, the corridors seemed tighter, more claustrophobic. The buzzing fluorescent lights created strange patches of shadow that didn’t appear to quite match the objects casting them. The sensation was like that of walking into a familiar room and being aware that something had changed or was out-of-place, but not being able to identify exactly what. A sort of vague unease that Trev felt itching at the back of his mind.

  ‘You were right about this place,’ he said to Desai. ‘It’s just creepy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but you can’t quite put your finger on it, can you?’ Desai replied. ‘That’s what makes it unnerving. Something’s wrong, but what?’ She shivered. ‘There are people who’ve worked here for years. I don’t know how they can stand it. I’d go bonkers after a week.’

  ‘What about the inmates?’ Trev said. ‘At least if you work here you can go home at the end of your shift. Imagine being locked up in here.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Desai.

  It explains why Corbyn’s lost most of his cockiness, Trev thought. He’s heard of this place’s reputation and he’s desperate to get out of here. Can’t blame him for that. Before they’d arrived at Spectre’s Rest he’d been curious to see the actual cell blocks, but that enthusiasm had waned. Not at night, anyway. Perhaps in daylight, when the creep factor was turned down a couple of notches.

  They found Montano still at her desk. Trev gave her his edited account of the meeting with Corbyn and asked to use a phone.

  ‘The office two doors down is still in use, but the admin staff will have gone home by now,’ Montano said. ‘You’re welcome to use one of the phones in there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Trev. He got the number for the Custodians’ building in Birmingham from Desai and walked back down the corridor to the office Montano had suggested. It was the one in which he’d seen the two people working earlier in the day, although it was now dark and empty. He switched the lights on and shut the door before seating himself at the nearest desk.

  He dialled the number Desai had given him, which went straight through to the Ops Room in Birmingham. A harassed-sounding man answered with a blunt ‘Yes?’

  ‘Feargal Deacon, please,’ said Trev.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Trev Irwin.’

  ‘Really? What do you want?’

  ‘I want to speak to Feargal Deacon, like I said.’

  ‘No need to get stroppy about it,’ said the voice. ‘What do you need to speak to him for?’

  Trev had picked up a pen and was tapping it on the desk in irritation. ‘He asked me to call him.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘That’s between me and him.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘Fine. Tell him I’m calling from Spectre’s Rest.’

  ‘Lucky you. Spooky place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trev, exasperated. ‘So, will you put me through to Mr. Deacon now, please?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s not here.’

  Trev’s hand closed on the pen and snapped it in half. ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. He went out with a clean-up squad an hour ago. It’s a busy night, so he’s pitching in. He does that sometimes.’

  Trev clamped the phone between his shoulder and his ear and wiped at the ink on his hand with a tissue taken from a box on the desk. ‘Good for him. Please can you ask him to call me here as soon as he gets back? It’s important.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘No,’ Trev said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Is it about Corbyn?’

  Trev frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You said you were Trev Irwin, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘Well, you caught Corbyn, right? And Corbyn was sent to Spectre’s Rest, which is where you’re calling from. So is it about him?’

  ‘Just get Deacon to call me back, please.’

  ‘Did Corbyn give you any information? Is that it? I can try and get a message to Mr. Deacon if you tell me what he said.’

  ‘Get him the message to call me back. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Are you sure? You sound stressed. It might help to share the information. Get it off your chest.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Trev. ‘Just pass on the message. Please.’

  ‘All right. Was there anything else?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll have to go, then. It’s very busy here, you know.’

  ‘Yes, so you said.’

  ‘I can’t stand around talking to you all night.’

  ‘Right. Well, bye then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  The line went dead. Trev stared at the handset for a moment in disbelief. ‘Did that just happen?’ he muttered.

  He threw the broken pen and the tissue in the wastepaper basket and made his way back to the Head Warden’s office. Desai and Montano broke off their conversation as Trev entered.

  ‘He was out on an operation,’ he said. ‘I left a message with the loony who answered the phone. God only knows if it’ll actually reach Deacon.’

  ‘A “loony” answered the phone?’ said Montano.

  ‘Yeah, some bloke who messed me about for a bit asking questions and then told me Deacon wasn’t there. Idiot.’

  Desai frowned. ‘The staff in the Ops Room are usually very efficient. Maybe he was just having a funny five minutes.’

  ‘Maybe he was just a moron,’ Trev said. ‘Anyway, it looks like we’ll have to hang around here until Deacon calls back.’

  ‘If he’s out on an op he might not get back to us until late, or even next morning,’ said Desai, looking at her watch. Trev followed suit and was surprised to note that it was almost six p.m.

  ‘I suggest you go and get yourselves something to eat in the canteen while you wait,’ said Montano. ‘We lock the prisoners down for the night at eight o’clock, so if Feargal calls back much after seven you won’t be able to speak to Corbyn again tonight anyway. I’m not authorising a break in routine just for him.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Desai. ‘Can you spare us accommodation if we have to stay overnight?’

  ‘We’re running on a minimum staffing level at the moment so there’s plenty of space in the staff quarters,’ said Montano. ‘We can sort you out with a couple of rooms easily enough.’

  ‘I’m quite tempted to ring my mum and tell her I’m going to be spending the night in prison,’ Trev said. ‘Her reaction would be interesting.’

  ‘Well the rooms in the staff quarters have telephones, but try not to make any unnecessary calls, please,’ said Montano.

  ‘No dirty chat-lines, Trev,’ said Desai, wagging a finger at him.

  ‘Wherever I go, my reputation precedes me,’ Trev said, affecting a hurt expression. ‘I don’t ring those lines for my own gratification. I ring them to stop the operators from getting bored.’

  Montano looked from Desai to Trev and back again. ‘Is he being serious?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Desai. ‘If he is, I’m not sharing a van with him again.’

  ‘Right, much as I’m enjoying this weird conversation I’m starving, so I’m off to the canteen,’ Trev said. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Desai.

  ‘Cool,’ Trev said. ‘If the food’s as good as the tea, we’re in for a real treat.’

  Montano’s disapproving look followed them out of the office. They retraced their steps back to the canteen. It was much b
usier; Trev assumed that a shift had just ended. A group of five guards, four men and a woman, were sitting at a table eating. The woman at the counter was up off her stool and looked even more disgruntled than before. She glowered at the room from under her shock of blue-rinsed hair, to which a white paper cap had been pinned at a misleadingly jaunty angle.

  ‘Evening,’ said Trev, taking his life in his hands and stepping up to the counter. ‘What’s on the menu tonight?’

  ‘There’s pie,’ said the woman, staring at Trev as if daring him to find this exhaustive list of options inadequate.

  ‘What sort of pie?’ Trev asked.

  ‘Meat pie,’ said the woman. ‘It comes with chips.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trev. ‘One mystery meat pie and chips, then, please.’

  The woman grunted and shovelled some chips and a small, slightly burnt pie in a foil case onto a plate. She passed it to Trev with no further comment. Trev nodded his thanks and stepped aside.

  ‘Um, what vegetarian options do you have?’ said Desai.

  The woman narrowed her eyes in a way that suggested this question bordered on culinary heresy.

  ‘There’s chips,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Chips it is, please,’ said Desai, deciding that protest would be futile.

  She joined Trev at a table. He’d learned from past experience and avoided the tea urn, instead retrieving a couple of bottles of water from a fridge at the end of the counter. He passed one to Desai.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. She eyed Trev’s pie with some distaste. ‘How’s the pie?’

  Trev had cut the thing open and was prodding at the steaming grey meat inside with his fork. ‘It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.’

  ‘Vegetarianism is about the only thing I’ve retained from my Hindu upbringing,’ said Desai. ‘Looking at that, I’m grateful I hung onto it.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I might become an honorary veggie for the evening,’ Trev replied, spearing a chip with his fork. ‘After surviving all those attempts on my life, it’d be a shame to be killed by a pie.’

  They talked as they ate, but it was the empty chatter of people who have something more important on their minds. Trev wasn’t looking forward to staying the night at Spectre’s Rest, and he could tell that Desai wasn’t either. It was with a resigned tread that they made their way back to Montano’s office to see if Deacon had returned Trev’s call.