“Deceased Estate” – An Excerpt

‘I’m an estate agent, don’t forget. I know a stitch-up when I hear one.’

Trev Irwin was annoyed. He’d been in bed, dreaming about having an uninterrupted Sunday morning lie-in, when his Sunday morning lie-in was interrupted by a phone call. It was his Granddad, sounding like he was at death’s door and telling him that there was an “urgent matter” that he needed help with. Trev had grumbled and tried to get out of it, but Granddad’s silent disapproval on the other end of the line had made him feel so guilty that he ended up agreeing.

And so it was that he found himself that Sunday morning not in his own bed having a lie-in, but at his Granddad’s house watching someone else having one instead.

‘I’d go myself if I could,’ the old man protested. He coughed, a nasty rattling sound that made Trev wince. Trev had to admit to himself that Granddad did look pretty rough; he was tucked up in bed with a nose so red it was almost glowing, though the rest of his bald head was almost as pale as his white beard. There was an impressive selection of over-the-counter cold and flu medication piled up on his bedside table.

Granddad’s house was a little two-bedroom terrace on one of Brackenford’s many quiet residential streets. Trev, now thirty years of age, had been going there to visit the old man for as long as he could remember, although he hadn’t often been in Granddad’s bedroom. It was cramped and sparsely furnished, with just a single bed, a wardrobe with a door that didn’t shut, and a small chest of drawers to add to the bedside table. The wallpaper was a floral design that gave Trev a headache to look at.

‘I’m not qualified for it,’ Trev said. He’d brought a chair from the dining room and pulled it up to the bedside, but not too close. Granddad, seventy-eight years old though he was, had a sturdy constitution and Trev didn’t want to catch the kind of cold that could reduce him to this wheezing, snotty state.

‘You’re barely qualified to leave the house on your own, but you manage somehow,’ said another voice. Trev looked up. Granddad’s black-and-white tomcat, Oscar, was sitting on top of the wardrobe. Nobody seemed in the least surprised that the cat could talk.

‘Nobody asked your opinion,’ Trev replied. ‘Nobody ever asks your opinion.’

‘They don’t have to, I give it freely,’ Oscar replied.

Oscar was a cat only in the physical sense. His body was merely a temporary residence for a primeval feline spirit that the Ancient Egyptians had summoned from another plane of existence and failed to send back. Oscar had been on earth for a long time and had gone through a lot of bodies over the years. He had a sardonic sense of humour and enjoyed making sport of Trev.

Trev ran a hand through his spiky brown hair. ‘Why can’t the Custodians do it?’ he asked Granddad.

‘They could, but it’ll be at least a week before they can spare someone,’ the old man replied. ‘Reg needs someone to look into it sooner than that. He’s worried, and he’s not the kind of man to worry over nothing.’

‘I still don’t really understand what you expect me to do. It’s not like I actually know anything about this spooky crap.’ Trev folded his arms.

It wasn’t long ago that Trev had been confident in his scepticism regarding the supernatural. Then he’d found out that he had the Sight, a hereditary sensitivity to psychic energy which allowed him to see ghosts, Shades and other spirits. It also allowed him to store and manipulate said psychic energy, which he could use to augment his modest physical abilities and, cooler still, use flashy phantom swords called “vapour weapons”.

‘You don’t have to be an expert, I just need someone to take Oscar up there and report back on what you find.’ Granddad blew his nose with a sound like a farting walrus.

‘What is it that’s got this Reg bloke so worried?’ said Trev, knowing that once he’d asked for the details he was more-or-less committing himself to helping out.

‘Reg is the groundsman at Rillenton Manor, out at Nimley,’ said Granddad. ‘The estate has its own chapel and graveyard. Something “weird” happened in the graveyard last night, and Reg phoned me about it this morning. Which, incidentally, will be the last time today I’m dragging myself down to the hallway to answer the landline. Almost killed me. Anyone else can call my mobile.’

‘Reg knows about you and the Custodians?’

The Custodians were a shadowy organisation whose members worked to maintain peace between the various groups of supernatural beings living secretly in and around human communities, as well as keeping them hidden from the public eye. Granddad had been a member for many years, and although he was now officially retired he still liked to “keep his hand in”.

‘Yes. Reg is an ex-military man. He ran across the Custodians a couple of times during his career in the Forces, so he knows about us. I’ve personally known him for years, he’s a useful source of information on things out in the sticks.’

Trev nodded. ‘Right. So what’s “weird” about the Rillenton Manor graveyard?’

‘There was some sort of disturbance during the night,’ Granddad explained. ‘Reg lives in a little cottage near to the graveyard. He says he was woken up by a sudden eruption of noises and lights.’

‘Thunderstorm?’ Trev suggested. ‘Kids on motorbikes?’

Granddad shook his head. ‘No. It was a still night with no rain. And Reg is a groundsman, he knows what kids messing about sounds like.’

‘Did he go and investigate?’

‘He did, but he said that by the time he’d got some clothes on and made his way to the graveyard whatever was happening had died down. There was evidence that something serious had taken place though.’

‘Such as?’

‘He said that the ground was disturbed in places. Some of the headstones had shifted or fallen. And apparently there were sticks, twigs and branches everywhere.’

‘OK, that does sound like it fits into the “weird” category,’ said Trev. ‘What does he expect us to do about it?’

‘He wants to know what caused it, if it’s dangerous and if it’s going to happen again,’ Granddad said.

Trev raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh right, not asking for much then.’

‘We can but try,’ said Granddad, wiping his nose.

‘Any theories, smartypants?’ Trev asked Oscar.

‘One or two,’ the cat replied. ‘I need to get a look at the graveyard before I can offer an opinion though.’

‘All right, fine,’ Trev said. ‘I’ll drive you up there. But if this thing turns out to be another demon or something, it’s all yours. I’ll be somewhere over the horizon with my foot on the accelerator.’

Trev’s discovery of his supernatural abilities had coincided with an unhinged local businessman, Alastair Kolley, and his as yet unidentified accomplice summoning a demon to kill him. Trev had managed to defeat the creature – mostly by dumb luck – but he was still in the dark as to why two complete strangers would want him dead.

‘It’s not a demon,’ Oscar said with finality. ‘No self-respecting demon would waste its time making a mess in a graveyard. They’re more about killing people and collecting their souls. Much more wholesome.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ said Trev. He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s get cracking then. I don’t want to waste my whole Sunday on this.’

Granddad struggled to sit up in his bed. ‘Take my car,’ he said. ‘The keys are on the telephone table. Take my dagger as well, it’s in the top drawer of my desk.’

‘You think I’ll need it?’ asked Trev.

‘Better to have it and not need it, and all that,’ the old man said.

Trev shrugged. ‘OK. I’ll give you a call when we’ve checked the place out.’

He headed downstairs, Oscar scampering behind him. Trev scooped up Granddad’s car keys from the little telephone table in the hall and went into the study, which was dominated by towering bookcases on all four walls. Granddad’s desk was a huge antique monstrosity, its surface piled with books, sheets of paper and writing materials. Granddad took his work as Brackenford’s pre-eminent local historian very seriously.

Trev opened the top drawer and retrieved a worn leather sheath, from which the hilt of a dagger protruded. He unfastened it and drew out the hilt, which was revealed to have no blade. This was a vapour weapon; over many years of use by people with the Sight, it had developed the ability to act like a battery of psychic energy. Its wielder, by feeding some of their own power into it, could generate a blade formed of the psychic energy held within the weapon.

Trev did so. Not to test the weapon or anything, just because it looked awesome.

There was a faint whoosh and a crackling, spectral blue blade erupted from the dagger’s hilt. Trev grinned.

‘Oh, here we go,’ groaned Oscar. ‘It’s showing-off time.’

Because vapour weapons had accumulated psychic energy from many talented fighters over the years, they also retained an “echo” of those fighters’ skills that a person using the blade could tap into. It was like having an instant mental upload of combat ability.

Trev dropped into a knife-fighter’s crouch. He flipped the weapon from hand to hand, moving it so quickly it was a glowing blue blur. His grin widened. Using a vapour weapon was addictive; they made their users feel fearless, calm and confident.

‘That isn’t a toy, you know,’ said a disapproving voice. Trev stopped juggling the weapon and straightened up, a guilty look flickering across his face.

Standing in the doorway was a dark-haired woman dressed in a plain black blouse and skirt. Well, technically she wasn’t standing, as her feet were three or four inches off the floor, and she couldn’t have actually touched the floor if she’d wanted to. She was a ghost, or “spirit” as she preferred. Her name was Agatha.

‘I know it’s not,’ said Trev with the sulky air of a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. ‘I just wanted to check I could still, you know, use it.’ He deactivated the dagger, returned it to its sheath, and stowed it in his pocket.

‘Of course,’ said Agatha. She didn’t approve of Trev much, but being someone raised in the austere Victorian era she didn’t approve of anything very much. ‘Bernard has asked me to accompany you on your visit to Rillenton Manor.’

‘Has he? Good old Granddad.’ Trev resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Agatha had some useful talents, but she wasn’t anyone’s idea of fun company.

‘We’ll need her to test my theory,’ Oscar said.

‘It’s a full-on road trip,’ said Trev. He jingled Granddad’s car keys. ‘Let’s go, then.’

Granddad’s car was a well-maintained little Honda. Trev fired it up and they made their way out of town and onto the country roads. Nimley was a village some twenty miles from Brackenford. Trev estimated it would take at least half an hour to get there, allowing for all the dawdling Sunday drivers who seemed incapable of passing even the most mundane of countryside sights without slowing to a crawl for a closer look.

It was the last week of October and the day was overcast with a chill in the air. Trev put the heater on a low setting and fiddled with the radio. It was pre-programmed with ten stations, all of them playing classical. Trev pressed all the buttons but the thing refused to emit any music composed in living memory, so he gave up and switched it off.

‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ he grumbled.

‘You mean being helpful and considerate?’ said Agatha from the back seat.

‘Yeah,’ said Trev. He paused. ‘I mean, no. I was talking about sorting things out for the Custodians again.’

‘All you’re doing is helping your grandfather, who is ill,’ said Agatha sternly. ‘And slow down, you’ll kill us all at this speed.’

‘You’re already dead!’ snapped Trev. ‘If you don’t like my driving you can just do your ghostly disappearing thing and meet us at Nimley.’

‘Bernard asked me to keep an eye on you,’ said Agatha. ‘He thinks you drive too aggressively.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Trev, dropping into third gear and flooring it to get past a tractor; the Honda’s engine, used to a much more sedate pace, howled in protest. ‘I’m a very courteous driver.’ He flicked a cheerful V-sign at the tractor’s driver, who was making angry “slow down you twat” signals.

Agatha sighed. ‘I shall be reporting all this back to Bernard, you know.’

‘Go for it,’ Trev said. ‘If he didn’t want me to drive his car like I stole it, he shouldn’t have given me the keys.’

‘Faster!’ said Oscar, who was on the passenger seat with his front paws on the dashboard. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

‘You’re the boss,’ replied Trev, working up through the gears. Agatha threw her hands up in surrender and vanished.

They made good time to Nimley. Trev slowed as he passed the “WELCOME TO NIMLEY” sign and pretended he hadn’t seen the line adding “PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY”. It was the quintessential English country village, all Cotswold stone walls and thatched roofs. There were a couple of pubs, a shop, a small church with a steeple, and a village green with a massive, gnarled oak tree in the centre of it.

‘It’s like something out of a Miss Marple novel,’ said Trev.

‘Any second now a buck-toothed vicar on a bicycle is going to go past and wish us a “good morning”,’ said Oscar.

At that point the local paperboy left the shop up ahead and got on his bike. He saw Trev looking at him and gave him the finger as he rode by.

‘Maybe not that much of a timewarp,’ said Trev.

They saw a signpost that said “RILLENTON MANOR ½ MILE”. Trev drove through the village, passing the church and following the road around a sweeping left-hand bend. At the point where the road straightened out again, there was an open gateway on the right-hand side. A discreet sign indicated that this was the entrance to Rillenton Manor.

Trev turned in through the gateway and onto a narrow access road which was enclosed on both sides by woodland. In some places the branches of the trees on either side met above the road, forming a tunnel. It was dark below the trees and Trev found the effect claustrophobic rather than picturesque. He was glad when the road passed out of the wooded area and into open fields.

The manor house itself became visible over the top of a low hill up ahead. It was a sprawling Tudor structure with a gatehouse and crenellated battlements. Ivy covered a large portion of the front of the house, giving the impression that nature was trying to fight back against the brick and stone intruder in its midst.

‘There’s the graveyard,’ said Oscar, looking out of the passenger window. A gravel track diverged from the road and led away to the left. At its far end Trev could see a tiny stone chapel surrounded by a surprisingly large graveyard. A dry stone wall marked the boundary of the chapel’s grounds and was in turn enclosed by the woods on three sides.

Trev turned onto the gravel track and drove up to the graveyard’s lychgate. He parked the car and got out. Oscar joined him, jumping across from the passenger seat.

‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ said Trev. Aside from the rustling of the trees, there was silence. No birdsong or other animal noise broke the stillness.

‘I think my first theory may be right,’ said Oscar. ‘Agatha?’

Agatha popped into existence next to Trev but only for a second before vanishing again. She reappeared some twenty yards away on the gravel track.

‘Can’t get too close, right?’ Oscar called out to her.

‘No,’ Agatha called back. ‘There is a presence here. It will not allow me to approach its area of influence.’

Oscar adopted an expression of feline smugness. ‘I love it when I’m right first time. Which is pretty much all of the time.’

‘Go on then, what is it?’ Trev asked. ‘What’s this “presence” Agatha’s talking about?’

‘It’s simple,’ Oscar said. ‘The graveyard has a genius loci.’

 

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