Dark Harbour: The Tale of the Soul Searcher (34 page)

‘Kill it,’ Floyd spat. ‘No, wait. Bring it too.’

‘We’re not going with you fuckwits!’ Eddie cried, clutching Meriadoc’s collar tightly.

Larry needed to do something. He needed to punch these guys, shout
Hi-ru-kin
and send a fireball at them, pull out a gun and get them in the crosshairs, anything.

As one of the silhouettes came bounding towards him, and as he wondered what Vladimir would do right now, the goon punched him hard in the face with a fist that he didn’t see coming.

Larry collapsed to the ground. He could no longer see any torches shining.

Chapter 12.3

Every day of the week, Michael’s radio alarm was programmed to switch on at seven, waking him up to the broadcasts of the local BBC station. At that time of day they usually played cheerful oldies from the fifties and sixties that were easy on morning ears. After slowly easing himself into the day listening to Hank Williams asking what his good looking had cooking, and Dion warning about keeping away from Runaround Sue, Michael got out of bed and put on some clothes freshly ironed the night before.

As it was a Saturday, Michael strolled down to the newsagents after breakfast. He bought his usual selection of newspapers (and a packet of lemon bon bons), which he would spend the morning reading, either on the promenade if it was nice, or back at the flat if it was raining.

This morning was quite fair, the skies littered with fluffy altocumulus as a gentle wind fluttered in off the sea. Michael found a bench along the front and began perusing the first of his newspapers,
The Independent
.

A hairy guy in shorts and vest jogged along the promenade, his iPod headphones ticking out a brief muffled beat as he darted past. A teenaged newspaper girl with a fluorescent yellow bag paused on her bike as she caught sight of a flock of geese swarming the skies high above. Michael looked up and saw the cloud of birds as they rhythmically flapped their wings. He brought his attention back to the newspaper, the pages rustling in the wind, the soothing sound of the waves in his ears. It was a perfect time to be reading newspapers.

But Michael couldn’t concentrate. Something wasn’t right. Far beyond the sounds of normality, the idle chatter between people, the steady roar of distant traffic, the occasional seagull that cawed as it soared over the sands, there felt to be an empty space where another sound should be: the whistling of a bomb as it fell from the sky, the crumbling boom of a building as it disintegrated to the ground in a pile of rubble.

Michael stood up and tucked his newspapers under his arm. He zipped up his white jacket tight to the neck and set off back to the flat, a familiar twisting tightness in his gut starting up again, one he usually got when he was rushing to hand in an assignment on time.

Tick-tock, time was ticking. But why was he feeling it? Perhaps when he got back to the flat he would realise that he’d left the kettle on the stove or something.

What’s with the jitters, Michael?

When he arrived back though, he remembered that he hadn’t even had a cup of tea yet this morning, for that was what he usually did after he’d gone to fetch the newspapers.

As it was still early Saturday morning, still practically the middle of the night for most of his flatmates, they’d all be fast asleep. He could do with talking to someone right now, just a little natter to make him feel that everything was all right with the world and balance his mind. Heck, even the dog would do right now.

Perhaps Danny was awake. Michael walked upstairs to his room and flung open the door. A fly buzzed at the closed window. A dirty pair of black socks had been discarded on the floor. The duvet lay in a crumpled mess on the bed. Danny wasn’t under it. Either he’d got up very early like Michael, or, most likely, he hadn’t even come home yet. So where in the hell was he?

Michael thought again to that intuition he’d had recently. The toast. The square reduced to a triangle.

One of us is going to die.

As those slugs began to crawl around in his guts once again, he thought back to last night when he’d gone to bed. Being a light sleeper, Michael would usually hear his other flatmates arrive home in his semi-sleep, never being able to switch off properly until he’d heard all of them arrive home safely.

Last night he hadn’t slept very well. He darted towards Eddie’s room and opened the door. Empty. He ran downstairs and opened Larry’s door. Empty too. That’s when it dawned on him that not even Meriadoc was there.
Everyone
was missing!

In the hallway Michael picked up the telephone and dialled Danny’s mobile number. Each ring felt like a dreadful eternity.

Eventually the ringing stopped, Michael figuring that he’d reached Danny’s voicemail.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey. Danny. It’s me.’

‘Hey, Michael.’

‘Danny, um… where are you this morning?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘I just wondered where you were.’

‘What, are you my dad now?’

‘I was just asking.’

‘I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! I had a dentist appointment, all right?’

‘Eddie and Diamond didn’t come home last night.’

‘They didn’t? Have you tried calling them?’

‘No, I’m calling you first.’

‘Maybe they’re out saving the world still.’

‘They’re usually home by now.’

‘It’s the weekend. Maybe they went to the club and got lucky with a couple of bints.’

‘They went to the club with Meriadoc?’

‘Maybe not then.’

Michael paused for a moment. Listening to himself, he knew that he was sounding like a neurotic old woman. ‘Where do you think they got to?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what we can do about it anyway. They’re walking the other side of the tracks now.’

‘They’re still our flatmates. Still our friends.’

‘You know, maybe we should forget about them now.’

Michael sighed. ‘Look, I’m worried. What do we do?’

‘Just call them.’

‘Okay.’

‘I would do myself but I’m out of credit.’

‘Yeah, I’ll try them on the landline.’

‘Okay, Michael.’

‘I’ll hang up now.’

‘Yeah. Try not to worry so much. I’m sure they’ll walk through the door any minute now.’

‘Yeah. Talk to you later, Danny.’

‘See you.’

Michael hung up. He reached into his jeans pocket for his mobile phone. He only had Danny’s number memorised; the others he had to check on his contacts list. After finding Larry’s number under ‘Diamond’ he dialled it into the landline and let it ring.

And ring. And ring.

A familiar voice of a woman answered. ‘Hello. The person you’re calling cannot answer the…’

He slammed the phone down and then checked his mobile for Eddie’s number. That one brought even less luck as the call immediately connected to his voicemail. Either Eddie’s battery had gone flat or his phone was switched off.

Michael felt as though he was in a horror film. All he could picture now was another scene where a blood-stained mobile phone rang to nobody, its owner no longer around in this world to answer it.

Why were his thoughts going away with themselves so fast? He was being silly. He looked up Larry’s number in his phone again and dialled it. Maybe he didn’t get to it in time or something.

It pulsed and pulsed again, the echoed ringing connecting to a phone in an unknown place, perhaps sounding through the dimensions into the spiritual plain, where a murdered Larry would answer.

Michael… We’re gone. Me and Eddie have jumped into the abyss and you’re never going to see us again…

‘Hello. The person you’re calling…’

Slam.

Something was up. Michael couldn’t shake the feeling. He felt sick as the slimy slugs crawled throughout his guts, breeding and multiplying so that there wasn’t enough room for them and they would surely explode his guts open as they reduced him to a wreck.

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Michael had only one more idea. In a dim corner of his mind, he remembered his brother telling him another little story over a Sunday afternoon roast, something that was most probably a fanciful rumour. Right now though he had absolutely nothing else to go on. If only he still had that damned business card! Why had he let Larry take it?

Michael zipped up his jacket again and shot out of the flat.

Chapter 12.4

Henry had planned to stay in bed all morning. He was going to carry on sleeping until whatever time he woke up, and if that was never, then never it would be. There was nothing to get up for anymore.

The phone had woken him though and he was annoyed at himself for not having taken it off the hook the night before.

He answered. It was Nigel at
The Cheshire Cat
and he told Henry to pop by. By that, he probably meant that Henry should get out of bed immediately and go straight down there. After hanging up, Henry fell back to sleep again for another hour. He dreamt of wild horses all galloping away from a storm. They were running towards a cliff and were unable to stop in time. One by one they all fell down. Henry saw the rocks at the bottom of the cliff and all those doomed horses smashing onto them. The blood, the horror. He woke up again with a jagged headache and a bitter cloud in his head.

He dragged himself out of bed, put on a crumpled grey suit and drove into town. The traffic was stacked up as usual but the jaded Seraph was in no rush. Parking at the hotel he then strolled up Eastgate.

Entering the café, he sat on a stool at the counter, and as soon as Nigel came over he asked him: ‘What?’

Nigel opened the till and picked out an envelope. ‘This was here when I arrived this morning.’

Nigel put on a brew of Henry’s special tea and then picked up his pad and pen and attended to another customer. Saturday mornings were always busy but Nigel remained relaxed and bright-eyed. Perhaps the antennas on his head were always sending soothing energies into his brain no matter how much frantic activity there was around him.

Henry stared at the letter. His first name was scribbled on it in a scrawly handwriting. Whomever it was from, he knew that it certainly wasn’t more correspondence from The Harbour Master.

His hand reached beneath his jacket for his chest. Through his shirt he could feel the imitation Akasa Stone. It felt as though he was wearing a loser’s medal, or perhaps he was Superman with a chain of Kryptonite around his neck.

He put on his glasses and read the letter. Afterwards he then stared ahead into space for a good five minutes.

His head was completely empty. The chatter of Saturday morning shoppers did not enter his ears. Although his eyes were open, his brain did not register the light that they allowed in. Henry Maristow was a dead man.

Nigel returned to the counter and started pouring his cup of tea.

‘Nigel, we need to get the boys in. Call them up and get them to
Clarence
.’

Nigel frowned. ‘Won’t they be asleep?’

‘Wake them up! I need them here now.’

‘I’m on it. One other thing…’

‘What now?’ Henry said, almost like a whisper. He no longer had the energy to speak.

‘There’s someone in says he wants to speak to you. Says it’s urgent. Do you want me to get rid of him?’

Henry glanced over his shoulder. A young man in a white jacket was hovering nearby.

‘Send him over.’

Nigel nodded and Michael approached. Henry folded up the letter.

‘Hello, Mr Maristow,’ Michael said as he stood by the Seraph and offered him his hand.

Henry appeared to be in a trance as he stared down into his cup of tea. ‘Take a seat.’

Michael withdrew his hand and sat on the stool beside him. ‘I assume I’m talking to the right person if I want to discuss a matter concerning Halo of Fires.’

‘You assume correctly, young Mr…?’

‘Foxbury. Michael Foxbury.’

‘And how can I help you?’

‘I’d love to talk about Jeremy Tuckwell for a start,’ Michael said which brought Henry’s gaze directly onto him. ‘But right now I want to know what’s happened to my friends. I demand to know what’s going on.’

Henry was silent so Nigel spoke for him. ‘Your friends?’

‘Lawrence Stewart and Eddie Jansz.’

Henry looked up at the blank ceiling. His face was the colour of ash; the flames that were once his harnessed force had grown too fierce and finally consumed him. ‘Jeremy’s dead. We’re all dead,’ Henry muttered.

‘Please. I need to know. They didn’t come home last night. Where are they?’

‘We’ll get them back soon,’ Nigel said gently, like a schoolteacher reading a story to a class of primary school kids.

‘You know where they are? We have to go to the police!’