A Three-Book Collection Page 5

It gave him a certain celebrity in the Uncanny world, or perhaps notoriety was more accurate. Formby enjoyed it. Some people almost feared him. Said any eaves that had lived such an ungodly long time knew things, terrible things, that no living creature should ever know.

  Well, there was some truth to that.

  Formby held secrets that must never be told.

  Truths that should always be denied.

  But back to the stories...

  Yes, Formby knew them all. It’s an eaves’ purpose to gather any and every bit of information that passed their large, slightly pointed ears. It all funnelled in and was stored in their memories. Everything they wanted to remember, and everything they didn’t want to remember, was in there, and Formby, like any eaves, was able to access it when needed.

  He knew the story of the Screaming Witch: a magical protector who fell for a demon and lost her mind. For laying down with a beast, the witch had been cast out of her coven—an unheard of thing—and was cursed to suffer never-ending torment.

  It was said, when the night was cold and dark, that if you listened closely, you could hear the cursed witch’s cries, weaved into the whistle of the wind. A normal person might miss the sound, as most were not attuned, but the witch’s screams were why the dogs of Blackpool were known to act strangely during a storm. To cower and bark and hide. They could feel the pain, the fear, and they wanted no part of it.

  If ever you took a walk on the beachfront alone after midnight and were very unlucky, you might even have seen the witch, staggering across the black sand, her face a mask of pain. Should you have the misfortune of crossing paths with the poor wretch, turn and head in the opposite direction, because if she were to lay a barely-there, icy finger on your skin, you would drop dead on the spot.

  Formby knew that story well, and had met with the Screaming Witch on many nights. Sometimes she was able to talk, to share scraps of information, but mostly she just begged for her torment to end. But there wasn’t anything Formby, or anyone else, could do to help her.

  He knew the story of the Devil Tree, too.

  In Carsters Park there was a giant, twisted oak, upon whose thick, gnarled limbs no vegetation ever grew, and no snowfall seemed to settle. Legend had it that a demon had been summoned in the park by a cabal of dark magicians, only for it to attempt to break free of their control. The dark magicians were forced to attack, to send the beast back to Hell, but part of the demon had remained. It sank into the soil and became part of an acorn that lay buried there, ready to sprout into an oak.

  Young children who visited the playground in Carsters Park and escaped their parents’ eyes would wander to the enormous tree and say they could hear it talking. Several of those children, after they grew into adults, said they never stopped hearing the tree. That its voice whispered and teased at them their whole lives, telling them terrible things and putting awful ideas into their heads.

  More than one suicide note had made mention of the Devil Tree.

  Blackpool was full of such black stories; dead things, awful things, pulled in by the tide and left beached on the sand. Sometimes, Formby wondered if Blackpool Tower’s tacky light show was a beacon that attracted malevolence: drawing it in like ungodly moths with ragged wings, making them weave and dance before its fevered light.

  And perhaps that was true.

  Formby thought so.

  Because above all else, he knew the story of the Blackpool Angel.

  Formby stepped off the path, the wind blowing in off the sea, vicious and tugging at his coarse, brown hair, as though it were trying to rip chunks of it from his large head. His battered old boots sank a little into the sand as he watched the surf wash in, and then drag itself back out again, an endless waltz.

  He wondered if everyone felt that sense of unease as they looked out at the water. How was it possible that anyone—Uncanny or not—failed to sense it? To have it itch at their flesh. To have it ball a fist in their stomach.

  But still they came and built sandcastles and splashed out into the sea, screaming and laughing as they met the water’s chilly embrace. For most it was just the ocean. They had no idea of the creature that had sat out there, imprisoned, before people had even walked across the land now called England.

  Had no idea an Angel stood beneath the waves.

  And not just any Angel, oh no, no. This was one of the original seven, hand-crafted by God Himself, to sit at His side. A creature of almost limitless power. A perfect, divine being.

  But even the divine could succumb to temptation. Perfection could turn to boredom, after all. And so it was said that the Angel made a deal with the Devil. A deal for power, for independence, away from God’s side. God, of course, discovered the Angel had turned dark, and unleashed His wrath upon the Blackpool Angel. A battle waged that cracked the Earth and shook the skies, until finally the Angel was brought low and chained beneath the sea, between life and death, never to rise again.

  And there it waited still.

  Was it the Tower, or was perhaps the Angel the beacon that attracted all manner of evil to Blackpool?

  Formby shivered.

  Rita followed Waterson into DCI Jenner’s office and shut the door behind them. Jenner ignored them for a few moments as he peered at his computer screen and prodded warily at the keyboard with two fingers, as though it were the first time he’d ever used the thing.

  Finally, he sat back and looked at the pair.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, as though they’d been keeping him waiting.

  ‘Right, Guv,’ started Waterson, ‘here’s what we know so far: two women have gone missing.’

  ‘Yep, know that,’ he replied, picking up a packet of mints and fiddling with it.

  ‘Both women were the same age,’ said Rita.

  ‘The same age?’ repeated Jenner.

  ‘Yes, Guv,’ said Rita.

  ‘Huh. Bit of a coincidence?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Waterson. ‘Could be, but with only two missing so far, it’s not enough to call it a pattern.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Waterson stepped forward. ‘Neither of the women have been heard from or seen since they went missing. Neither have used their mobile phones, or accessed their bank accounts. Also, both went to the same school, Old Lane Secondary, same year.’

  ‘Well that’s not a big surprise, considering they were the same age,’ said Jenner. ‘Did they know each other? Were they friends?’

  ‘We’re going to look into that,’ said Rita.

  ‘Okay, good work, keep me updated, all right?’

  ‘Right, Guv,’ said Waterson.

  As Waterson headed for the door, Rita dithered.

  ‘You coming?’ asked Waterson, hand on the door knob.

  ‘There’s just one other thing,’ she said.

  Waterson dropped his head and sighed. ‘The dream thing?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s weird, okay?’ said Rita.

  ‘Yes, agreed,’ said Waterson. ‘But it’s just dreams.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what are you two babbling about?’ asked Jenner.

  ‘Both the missing women, Ellie and Jane, they were suffering from recurring nightmares.’

  DCI Jenner’s eyes slid from Rita, to Waterson, and back again. ‘Nightmares?’

  Rita felt her insides squirm. She knew how daft this sounded, and wished her mouth would just shut the hell up already. ‘We were told that they were both suffering from nightmares, and that the nightmares had increased in frequency shortly before each went missing.’

  ‘Right. So? People have nightmares. I have one about a clown who might also be my mum. It happens.’

  ‘Yeah, but the thing is, it’s the same nightmare. Both women were having the exact same nightmare.’

  Rita turned to Waterson for support, but he seemed to have found the toe of his left shoe extraordinarily fascinating.

  ‘Two women are missing, possibly murdered,’ said DCI Jenner, ‘less nonsense and more proper police work please, DS Hobbes. Hm?’

 
‘Yes, Guv. Sorry.’

  Waterson opened the door for Rita as she turned on her heel and strode out of Jenner’s office, her cheeks burning hot with a cocktail of anger and embarrassment.

  Every part of the Uncanny Kingdom has a place like Big Pins, the bowling alley come drinking hole, two streets away from Blackpool’s beachfront. Big Pins was a private place, hidden from the rest of the population, where Uncanny sorts could gather, talk, and drink, without having to hide who, or what, they were.

  Big Pins, like all of these places, was secreted down a blind alley. Most passers-by would not notice the entrance to the alleyway – to them it would appear nothing more than a continuation of the brick wall either side.

  But Carlisle was not like most passersby.

  He strode towards the secret entrance to the blind alley, his coat flowing back in the wind like a cape, his boots clomping across the cobblestones.

  Carlisle did not like Blackpool.

  He had paid the place a visit just once before, perhaps seventy years ago now, and vowed never to return. He found it a tacky backwater. A grim excuse for a town, with little obvious charm or reason to stop itself toppling into the sea. His opinion upon arriving for the second time was in no danger of changing.

  He strode down the cobbled street of the blind alley, his skin tingling as he felt the wash of concentrated magic rolling around him. The world swims in magic, but in some places it is more concentrated than others. Here, in this alleyway, it made Carlisle’s eyes dilate and the corners of his usually downturned mouth twitch into a smile.

  He stopped and looked up at the slowly-blinking neon sign that announced Big Pins’ existence, and sighed. He pushed his way inside, a fug of warm air and unfortunate smells rushing out to greet him.

  As he stepped across the threshold, Carlisle felt an energy slide by him like the parting of a beaded curtain. Big Pins was protected by a magic-dampening bubble, and with good reason. Uncanny sorts gathered there to drink night and day, so the dampener acted as a safeguard. A safeguard against a drunken fight getting out of hand within Big Pins’ walls; a fight that might otherwise lead to undue damage and loss of life. You were meant to feel safe inside such a place, so the dampening bubble gave all who entered—all who drank and bowled and gossiped—a little peace of mind.

  Carlisle stopped as the door swung closed behind him, and took the place in. He’d visited Big Pins during his last visit, and it looked as though it had been renovated since then. Possibly sometime in the mid-seventies judging by the awful decor, which was a worn 1970s version of a ‘50s U.S. bowling alley. It was every bit as tired and tacky as it sounded, but that, as far as Carlisle was concerned, was Blackpool all over.

  He made his way to the bar, past the venue’s six ten-pin bowling aisles, all of which were in use by semi-inebriated clumps of flotsam.

  As he passed through the place, Carlisle was pleased to note that certain clusters of people turned to shield their faces when they saw who had entered. It seemed his reputation preceded him. Carlisle smiled. He did enjoy engendering a sense of unease around him. A frightened man was a man on his back foot, and someone, potentially, to use.

  Carlisle reached the sticky-topped wooden bar and took a stool. ‘Barkeep, a pint of your least objectionable inebriation, please.’

  A giant lunk of a man in a bowling shirt turned from polishing the optics and eyed the widely grinning Carlisle with small, hooded eyes set deep into a tombstone face. ‘Huh. Back already?’ asked Linton, the owner of Big Pins.

  ‘And blessed do I feel to make your acquaintance once again, Linton my fine, fearsome fellow.’

  Linton raised what was probably an eyebrow, but may have been a fistful of wire wool taped to his forehead, then grabbed a pint glass and began pouring a drink.

  Carlisle turned as aisle four cheered a strike. ‘I see you’ve decorated.’

  ‘Yup. Decorated,’ replied Linton, plonking the pint down in front of Carlisle and spilling a good quarter of it in the process.

  ‘Yup,’ said Carlisle, ‘I don’t like it.’ He picked up the glass and took a mouthful. ‘Now, this on the other hand, this is a step up from whatever swill you were serving during my last visit.’

  ‘I do not expect any trouble in my establishment, Carlisle,’ said Linton, placing a scarred baseball bat on the counter.

  Carlisle eyed the much-used object and recalled his last visit, when the thing had made contact with the back of his head. ‘You wound me with such suspicion, Linton, old friend.’

  ‘I’m not your friend, Carlisle. I don’t believe you have friends.’

  ‘Well, they do say you can judge a man by his closest company, and I am fabulous company.’ Carlisle offered up what would be best described as “a shit-eating grin”, as Linton sighed and placed the bat back beneath the counter.

  ‘So what is it then?’ he asked. ‘On your holidays?’

  ‘Please, I do not holiday. Holidays are for the idle and simple-minded. No, no, no, I am here to speak to a gentlemen whom I believe makes frequent patronage of your fine, sticky-floored, rat hole.’

  Linton crossed his thick arms across the broad barrel of his chest. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘You don’t even know who it is I’m after.’

  ‘Likes of you? You always want something. Information, most likely. And where do you best get information from but an eaves, and everyone knows which eaves you seek out first round here.’

  ‘Linton, I do believe you’ve grown smarter in your old age. Did you go and read a book like I suggested the last time we met?’

  ‘Drink your drink, leave, and I’ll let Formby know you want a word with him.’

  ‘So he’s not here?’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘I see. Of course. My apologies.’ Carlisle stood, finished his drink, and tuned to leave. ‘Just one thing,’ he said, turning back to the bar and pointing off to a darkened, far corner of Big Pins. ‘Who is that ugly old thing over there, trying to hide?’

  Linton’s eyes twitched to the figure shrouded in gloom, then reached down to grab his bat.

  ‘It’s okay, Linton,’ said Formby, leaning forward to reveal his face. ‘He can ask his questions if he pleases.’

  ‘Formby,’ said Carlisle, ‘you are here after all! Well, would you look at that, Linton, you big mountain of a man. Formby, that wretched old eaves, is here after all. What a stroke of luck!’

  Carlisle turned from the bar and strode over to join Formby, taking a stool opposite, his long coat reaching down to the worn carpet. ‘I take it you knew of my imminent arrival.’

  Formby nodded and smiled. ‘Not much escapes these old ears, your majesty.’

  Carlisle raised an eyebrow to that greeting, but let it pass. ‘Razor spread the word, did he?’

  ‘That’s so, aye,’ replied Formby. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘That’s okay, I like the look of yours.’ Carlisle reached forward and picked up the pint Formby was halfway through, raising it to his lips and slowly consuming the remainder before gasping, smacking his lips, and placing the now empty glass back before the eaves.

  ‘Well,’ said Formby, ‘that was a bit of a dickish thing to do.’

  Carlisle clapped his hands together and laughed. ‘Has Razor also informed you of the reason for my return to this godforsaken shit hole?’

  ‘Aye, he has at that.’

  ‘And is what he says true?’

  Formby shifted on his stool.

  ‘You will tell me,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘It’s true enough.’

  Carlisle smiled wide, though to Formby it did not appear pleasant, more like a shark readying itself for lunch.

  ‘Well then, where is my artefact?’

  ‘A magician has it.’

  ‘A magician? Ooh. And would this magical practitioner be known to me, old timer?’

  ‘Old timer? I understand you are even older than I, Carlisle.’

  ‘Ah, you are old, ancient in fact, but I am time
less.’

  Formby snorted. ‘I might use that in future, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘So, this magician, who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The smile dropped from Carlisle’s eyes, perhaps the shark would feast after all. ‘You would not be telling me porkies, now would you?’

  ‘I swear to it. I know the artefact was discovered, and I know that it is still here, in Blackpool, in the hands of a magician. But neither I, nor anyone I have spoken to, seems to know who this magician fellow is. Believe me, I have tried to find out. He has not mixed with the rest of the Uncanny world, it seems. Kept himself to himself all his years.’

  Formby swallowed as Carlisle’s eyes bored into him, and very much hoped the gloom of this corner of Big Pins was adequately hiding how much he was sweating.

  ‘A magician,’ said Carlisle, finally stopping his visual interrogation. Formby sagged back slightly in relief. Carlisle stood and flipped a coin on the table in front of Formby. ‘For the drink.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you hear any whispers on the wind about this magician, you’ll send them to my ears alone, I trust.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Formby. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘The word of an eaves? Well, now I can sleep soundly.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ said Formby.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Women are going missing. Some say the magician is involved.’

  There was another drunken cheer as a fresh set of pins was cleared with one bowl.

  ‘Christ, I hate Blackpool,’ said Carlisle, then pulled his coat closed and headed for the exit.

  8

  The Old Dog was across the road from Blackpool Central Police Station, and as such, was always crammed with off-duty officers. It was a small, snug pub with an ancient TV set that was always tuned to one sport channel or another.

  At that moment, as Rita was sat slumped and grumpy, nursing half a pint of lager and scowling at anyone daft enough to say hello, it was showing a snooker match. Rita closed her eyes and listened to the click-clack of coloured balls sliding across the baize.