Dead Vengeance

1. Gerald Pickett

one

Gerald Pickett

Liam

“Experience?”

Here it is, the question I’ve been dreading.

I don’t know why. It’s not like he was ever not going to ask it. This is a job interview, after all.

Why am I so nervous?

Mostly because I’m a very bad liar.

Think, Liam, think. Something more impressive than McBurgerBar.

“Um… McBurgerBar?”

Fuck!

He’s staring. I should talk.

“B-but I made manager there. Um. For a few weeks. You can call them and check. But if you do call them, you should know, there was an, um, a misunderstanding. Which was primarily to do with the coffee.”

Still staring…

Talk!

Clenching my fingers tight in my lap, I bluster out a hurried, “Did you know it costs them fifteen pence to brew a whole pot? An-and they said they did free refills. But this homeless guy, he kept his cup. For years. And they told me to cut him off, but I thought that wasn’t very fair since—”

A thick and bored cough interrupts me. “So no relevant experience then?”

Gerald Pickett, boss and owner of ExorSquad, London’s top ghost-extraction service (apparently), is next-level intimidating.

Not in a successful businessman kind of way.

More a shady back-alley organ sales kind of way.

He’s got this vibe like he could easily get me killed, and I’m not sure I want to work for him at all.

But I really need this job.

“I did make manager before that,” I remind him, if a little tentatively. “It’s just, they said my company spirit was lacking, even though I’d already earned a badge for excellent customer service. Kept the work spaces tidy and all that. And I thought—”

He breaks in again, pressing his arched and stubby fingers into the desk, making them look like an angry spider about to pounce. “Have you ever killed a ghost?”

“No, sir.” I do have to wonder how often people say yes to that question.

One of his eyebrows goes up. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Liam?”

He hits me with such sharp-eyed scrutiny, his two beady little eyes drilling into me, that I feel again like I should lie.

But, “Not really, sir,” slips out before I can stop it, like with all my attempted lies. It’s as if my mouth is faster than my brain.

He makes a little mark on a piece of paper, and I’m pretty sure that’s the kiss of death. Not a scratch of relevant knowledge, and I just told him I think this whole job is bullshit. Spirit Extraction Specialist? What a bunch of nonsense.

But truly, I’ll take any work I can get, so I quickly spit out what’s also true: “I would like to believe in them. I’d love if they were real. If I could see one just once… My brother…”

Me and my mouth. I’d like to stop there, but for the first time since I walked in, he shows some actual interest. He raises his chin, fixing wily-looking eyes on me, narrow beneath bushy eyebrows.

I run my gaze over the dusty contents of the room to avoid making eye contact when I talk about it, because looking into people’s eyes when I talk about it tends to make me cry.

And that is not a good look for a job interview.

So… it’s that weird shiny black antique-looking round thing that I’m going to stare at.

That among the billions of other creepy-ass objects dotted around the room.

“He went missing. A few years back. And… it was sudden. And… it really… It left me and my mum in a state. A lot. In ways that… You know, I’d just really love to be able to talk to him.

If he’s gone. Or understand him. Or even believe he’s still out there somewhere.

Or that he’s just moved on. Or if he is dead, that there’s more than… ”

Okay, that got dark fast. My voice breaks a little when I rush to spin things back to acceptable. “Um, d-do you? Believe in ghosts?”

Fuuuuuuuck, what a stupid question.

Literally at a job interview to be a ghost catcher.

Kill me now.

His smile is slow and crooked, a twinkle deep in his milky blue eyes.

But when he speaks again, even if his voice sounds like it’s coming through twenty litres of cigarette tar, there’s something softer about it.

“Ghosts are real, son. I can guarantee you that. They’re real, and they’re cunning, and they can make you and me a lot of money if we both play our cards right. ”

He places down his pen, then leans so close I can smell the stale tobacco on his skin. “Now, let me ask you again: do you believe in ghosts, Liam?”

My eyes squeeze tight with the effort, and I shove out a “Y-y-yes,” stomach and tongue twisting against the lie. “Yes, sir. I believe in ghosts.”

“Good lad.” Another mark on that paper. “And what’s your availability like?”

“Always. Um. Always available.” Probably another stupid answer. I think I’m supposed to make him think I’m in high demand. “For this. For this job. I would make that time. If-if we’re a good fit.”

His smile deepens, and I have the weirdest feeling he’s not convinced I’m in any sort of demand from anyone. “There are occasional night shifts.”

“That’s fine. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“And a lot of travel.”

“Yeah. That’s okay. I’ve always wanted to see England.”

Both eyebrows lower, and that’s fair. It’s not like I’m going anywhere nice. Probably just to visit old people in crumbling council houses who haven’t thought that maybe it’s their rusted pipes making those strange noises. But that’s fine. I guess I can help them get their pipes fixed.

“One more question,” he says. His fingers knit, and he looks deep into my eyes.

Shit. This feels portentous. Hope I can get this one right.

“Liam,” he begins darkly, “have you ever…”

I wait, bated breath. Done a séance? Said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror three times? Crossed paths with a black cat at midnight on Friday the thirteenth?

“…sued a past employer?”

“No!” I gasp the word out. “No. Why would I do that? I would never do that. I mean, it’s not like I even have the money to do that.”

Yep, seem even more desperate. Good work, Liam.

But Gerald’s already standing, holding out his hand, gold tooth shining bright in the weak mid-afternoon sunshine that streams through the broken horizontal blinds through a haze of smoke. “Welcome aboard, lad.”

“What?” I jump to my feet and snatch his hand up. My heart’s pounding, and my smile’s too big to even attempt to make serious. “Do you mean it?”

He nods like someone’s favourite jolly alcoholic grandpa, then winks. “Got a job starting for you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Already?”

He’s laughing at me now, kindly, and he might as well. I’m sure I seem ridiculous getting this excited about his weird job. Maybe he knows it’s all bullshit? But it’s money, is what it is. Money and a stepping stone. If I can just get some experience, get myself back into the workforce…

He’s at an old filing cabinet, actually pulling out a manila folder like this is the seventies.

In fact, I don’t think he has any sort of computer in here at all, come to think of it.

This whole office is tiny, nothing but weird knick-knacks and dust on chipped brown furniture.

I can’t tell if he’s been here for ages or just bought everything second hand out of a bargain basement yesterday.

He drops the folder down onto the desk and flips it open, revealing a form printed in reddish ink, as if the printer was running out.

The form has the same little ghost logo I saw on the job advertisement that was haphazardly pinned to the noticeboard in the supermarket.

The flyer fell right down in front of me as I was walking past. Fate, I guess.

The handwriting is a messy, spidery scrawl. I wonder if it’s Gerald’s own hand. Probably jotted down from over the phone while he had a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth.

He lights one of those cigarettes now, evidently unconcerned that I’m here breathing in his every exhalation. “Here it is,” he says. “The perfect first case for you. This one’ll get you believing in no time.”

I can’t help the slight laugh that bubbles up, but the way his eyes snap over at me shuts it down fast. “Um. Is it a very bad ghost?”

A fog of smoke covers the page for a moment as he breathes out. “He keeps calling me, this guy. Getting pretty anxious. Seems he’s got a few ghosts on the go all in one place.”

Hearing the words spoken aloud feels surreal. A haunting. A haunting that I’m supposed to take care of.

Time to make myself seem professional. I lower my voice and frown very seriously. “What kind of entities are we dealing with, sir?”

I feel so ridiculous right now.

But, “Fucked if I know,” Gerald mutters, shoving the papers my way. “Why don’t you take a look?”

Not quite the help I was expecting, but okay. I drag the pages closer with my fingertips.

Let’s figure out who this weirdo is.

Right there at the top of the form, a name: Archer Gravely.

With a name like that he’s probably a billion years old.

According to this, he’s lost count of how many ghosts he has. He says they’re dangerous. Going to get everyone in town killed. He needs someone to come help urgently.

Probably some mad, lonely octogenarian, shuffling about his mouldy old house, hearing the neighbour’s TV and thinking it’s spirit voices.

It’s quite sad, really. Maybe he could use someone to come for a cup of tea. Talk him through it. Get social services involved.

Or maybe he’s completely insane. Maybe he’ll think I’m the ghost and try to kill me.

But why would he try to kill a ghost? Can you kill a ghost?

“Can you kill a ghost?” I ask Gerald.

“That will all be explained tomorrow. You’ll receive top-of-the-line, on-the-job training, nine a.m. sharp.”

“On the job?” I repeat. “At…?” I look down at the page, but Gerald quickly picks it up, squinting to read the address.

“At sixty-nine Cockshoot Grove, Big Spanking cum Bottomly-on-the-Wold.”

I stare at him.

He stares at me.

Laughter—noxious, traitorous laughter—claws its way up from deep within. Traitorous, because Gerald’s face is deadly serious. Either this is a prank on me, or this is a prank on him, and if it’s the latter, I really shouldn’t laugh right now.

But come on.