3. Charlie
three
Charlie
“—and that’s when I realised, Chaz, that the trick to a proper exorcism is all in the confidence. You’ve got to commit fully, yeah? No half-arsing it.”
I stared out the passenger window at the blur of motorway, willing myself to dissolve into the upholstery.
Brad’s Ford Focus smelled of protein shakes and something vaguely chemical—probably whatever he used to maintain that aggressively gelled hairstyle.
The rugby-ball-shaped air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror fought a losing battle against the stench.
“Mm,” I said.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out, grateful for the distraction.
Emily’s message lit up the screen with a photo that made my heart break. My niece Lily had her face scrunched into the most grotesque expression of despair—bottom lip jutted out, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching at her cheeks like a tiny, devastated opera singer.
Emily
Lily was gutted you couldn’t make it this weekend and wanted to send you this. She also has the next round of your game ready for you.
Below that, another image: an extreme close-up of something pink and ridged, the texture almost alien under what must have been maximum zoom. Lily was three points behind me in our “Guess What on Earth This Is” game and clearly out for blood. I smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Is that… a cross-section of someone’s brain? Should I be concerned about what you’re teaching your daughter?
“Are you listening?”
I tried not to sigh as I put my phone away. “Sure.”
My hand crept towards the radio dial. Classic FM whispered at barely audible levels, some soothing string quartet.
I twisted the dials, hunting through static until I caught the opening riff of something promising.
Arctic Monkeys. The guitar line made my fingers twitch against my thigh, muscle memory from years of—
Brad’s hand shot out and turned the volume back down.
“Anyway, as I was saying—”
Sweet Christ.
The M4 stretched endlessly ahead. We’d been on the road for forty minutes. Brad had been talking for thirty-nine of them. Walking to Wiltshire suddenly seemed like a viable alternative. I could’ve been there by Thursday.
“—absolutely demolished it. Proper textbook stuff. The client went mental.”
I nodded without really hearing him. This was my own fault.
When Gerald had offered me this lift with Brad, I should’ve said no.
Should’ve taken the train, even if it meant two connections and a bus that only ran on alternate Tuesdays.
But I’d looked at my bank balance—which had now reached overdraft levels of crisis—and thought, Fuck it. How bad could it be?
Regret tasted like stale coffee and poor life choices.
Brad’s hand darted for the radio again. I’d been so subtle that time, barely a millimetre turn of the dial. But no. Down it went.
“You listening, Chaz?”
“Charlie,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s Charlie.”
“Right, yeah, Charlie.” He grinned, all pearly whites and smug satisfaction.
The morning sun caught his profile—strong jaw, straight nose, those annoyingly clear blue eyes.
He’d probably never had a pimple in his life.
His hair, short and precisely styled, didn’t move even when he turned his head.
Some expensive product, no doubt costing more than my weekly food budget.
Despite the September chill, he wore shorts. Of course he did. He had to show off those thick, muscular thighs—ones built from years of actual athletic training rather than wishful thinking and the occasional jog. A tight-fitting polo shirt clung to his broad shoulders and chest.
Objectively speaking—if one were to assess him purely from an aesthetic standpoint, divorced from personality—some people might find him attractive.
Not me, obviously. But hypothetically. If you were into that sort of…
square-jawed, aggressively symmetrical thing. Which I wasn’t. Most definitely not.
“Brad and Chaz, though…” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
No. No, I do not think.
I turned back to the window. Fields rolled past, green and brown patchwork under grey skies. Cows dotted a hillside, living their best bovine lives, blissfully unaware of the human torture of forced interaction.
“So, what’d you do before this?” Brad asked.
Cold ice shot straight to my core. Here we go.
“Bit of this and that,” I mumbled. “Consultancy work. Admin. Some travel stuff.”
“Travel? Like a tour guide?”
“Sort of. Project coordination, mostly.”
Lies. All lies. Well, not entirely. I had done admin work.
For three months before they’d let me go for “attitude issues.” The travel thing wasn’t a lie if you counted my brief stint at a call centre booking coach trips to Blackpool.
And the consultancy… okay, that had been one weekend helping my mate’s dad reorganise his filing system.
My mind drifted, as it always did during these conversations, to that final year at uni.
My music production degree. I’d been so close.
Just half a year left. But Dad had died, Mum was too depressed to work, and it wasn’t long before the mortgage company had started circling like vultures.
The life insurance company had found some conveniently vague clause about undisclosed health issues—something from years ago that Dad had either forgotten or didn’t think mattered—and paid out exactly nothing.
The bank let Mum defer payments for a bit, but her wages as a carer for the elderly, when she resumed working, barely covered the essentials. By that final year of uni, the interest had piled up like weeds choking the garden.
Emily had still been in sixth form. Someone had to step up.
So I’d dropped out. Got a “proper job.” Climbed that bloody career ladder everyone banged on about.
Thirteen years later, I was still on the first rung, and Emily was a doctor with a mortgage and a kid.
At least if I’d stayed at university, I’d have a degree to my name. A piece of paper that said I’d finished something. Anything.
“You?” I asked, the word dragging out of me. I didn’t want to encourage conversation. But we were about to spend God knows how long trapped in a haunted manor house together. Might as well know something about the person who’d probably leave me to die at the hands of a vengeful spirit.
Brad’s face lit up like I’d offered him a pint and a microphone.
He shifted in his seat, shoulders straightening with pride.
“I don’t know if you follow sports.” The way he eyed me told me he doubted it very much.
“But I was a professional rugby player. Played for Bristol for three seasons. Would’ve made it to the Premiership, easy, but…
” He tapped his knee. “Meniscus tear. Doctors said I could keep playing, risk permanent damage, or retire with my health intact.”
Ah. That explained the shorts. The constant need to display those tree-trunk thighs like a peacock showing off its feathers.
“Tough break,” I said, fishing my phone from my pocket.
“Yeah, mate. Proper gutted. But you know what they say—when one door closes, another opens. My luck changed when Gerald recruited me. Said I had the perfect physicality for paranormal investigation. The entities respect strength, yeah?”
I nodded absently, typing into Google with my thumbs hidden in my lap.
Brad Harrington rugby player
The results loaded.
Nothing.
I scrolled down. Still nothing. Added “Bristol” to the search.
A Facebook profile for a Brad Harrington who worked at Tesco. A LinkedIn for a financial advisor in Manchester. A seventeen-year-old Brad Harrington who’d won a regional schools’ competition in javelin.
No rugby player.
I tried “Bradford Harrington.” Then just “Harrington rugby Bristol.”
Absolutely sod all.
“—incredible signing bonus too. They really wanted me, you know? Had other teams sniffing around, but I’m loyal. That’s what my coaches always said. ‘Brad,’ they’d say, ‘you’re the best player we’ve ever—’”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Professional rugby player. Right. And I was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Well, at least I now knew he was a complete bullshitter. And his earlier stories about exorcisms had almost convinced me. Silly me.
“Talking of money…” I shifted in my seat, phone still clutched in my palm. “How much do these clients actually pay Gerald? For us to come out and do this?”
Brad glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “The homeowners?”
“Yeah.”
“Depends on the severity, right? But for something like Grimthorne Manor?” He whistled low. “We’re talking thousands. Five, maybe six grand for a full investigation and cleansing.”
I nearly choked. “Six thousand pounds?”
“Sometimes more if it’s a repeat client or they want the premium package.
You know, the blessed candles, the full spiritual audit, follow-up visits.
” Brad merged into the left lane, completely oblivious to the rage building inside me.
“Gerald’s got this whole pricing structure.
It’s brilliant marketing, really. People are desperate when they call us. They’d pay anything.”
Six thousand pounds.
And Gerald was paying us minimum wage. No travel. No lunch. In the car boot was “holy water” that was almost certainly from his tap, equipment that apparently melted, and handbooks that told us to run from anything remotely dangerous.
My jaw ached from clenching it.
“So doesn’t the shit pay bother you?” I asked, sharply.
Brad shrugged, that same easy confidence radiating off him like cheap cologne. “Nah, mate. It’s not about the money for me. I like the perks.”
“Perks.” I stared at him. “What perks?”