3. Cash in Your Chips #3
The training room transpires to be a space no bigger, no brighter, and no fresher smelling than a public toilet.
The grey polyester carpet and underlay is so threadbare I can see gaps in the floorboards, and the places where it hasn’t completely worn through are wet.
Squelchy underfoot. There’s no natural light, but there is an ancient overhead projector, and a pathetic plastic fan puffing stale pissy air towards me.
“All of those risk factors are likely to occur here in the training room, aren’t they?” I ask.
Beside me, Charlie laughs. Another guy, a newcomer, trips over the threshold in his hurry to share this glorious space with us.
“Hi, hi, um . . . I’m Ted,” he says, stumbling again as he tugs on a cord. A tattered white screen drops into place against the wall.
Ted is a youngster, early twenties probably, and has the nervous erratic energy that only two types of people possess: caffeine addicts, and folks who are scared of their own shadow.
I’m willing to bet that it’s a little from column A and a little from column B with Ted.
I feel kinda bad for the guy and decide to go easy on him, reining in my sarcasm to base levels as he starts talking us through some of the ExorSquad rules.
“Rule four one two, never accept food or drink from a spirit,” Ted says.
Charlie flips open his handbook to the relevant section. I’ve left mine on the table by the door, so I lean over and skim read from his page.
Do not consume anything offered by the deceased . . .
Yada yada . . .
We’ve lost three operatives this year alone to “just a biscuit” . . .
Yada yada . . .
An inexplicable compulsion to waltz . . .
Blah blah blah . . .
Ghost food tastes like disappointment and ectoplasm.
“Three operatives,” Charlie says. “This year alone. To ghost biscuits.”
“What kind of biscuits?” I ask.
“I don’t think that’s a relevant question,” Ted says.
I glance at Charlie and raise a brow, feeling less and less sorry for Ted as the training session goes on. Not a relevant fucking question my arse.
How are biscuits ever not relevant?
We’re given carrier bags with some bits and bobs inside. What appears to be a regular torch, a couple of vials of clear liquid, something that looks suspiciously like a light-up walkie-talkie, and a plastic container filled with Sainsbury’s own brand table salt.
“It’s sanctified salt,” Ted clarifies.
“Mmhmm, and what’s this?” I hold up one of the vials.
“Holy water. The salt creates barriers against the spirits, and the holy water weakens the ghosts,” Ted says. “And the other thing in your bags are EMF readers. That’s electromagnetic field. For detecting activity.”
It all seems just so fucking farfetched. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Ted gave us a Pokédex, an armful of Poké Balls, and told us to get out there and “catch ’em all.”
“Circling back to the holy water. Are you telling me this liquid has been blessed by a member of the clergy?” I ask.
Ted nods and swallows loud enough for me to hear.
I massage my temples. I’m really trying not to be a total twat to this guy, who it appears is experiencing his first day ever on earth, but . . .
“Can we just clarify how we know this entity adheres to Catholicism?” I say. “Or is religion a prerequisite for eternally terrorising a building? Because if that’s the case, I’m fucked. No afterlife for me.”
Charlie purses his lips together, and Ted flicks his gaze towards the open door, perhaps hoping for a hero to save him from the moment.
I realise there’s a chance I’m being too hard on the poor kid.
He’s a deer in headlights. Surely he can’t believe all this bullshit.
He can’t actually think that ghosts and spirits and entities are real.
But the alternative to that would be wilfully acknowledging and then ignoring the scams they’re pulling on perhaps vulnerable people who are either in mourning, or are completely bonkers, and I think I like na?ve Ted more.
The same can’t be said for Gerald, though. That’s one seriously shifty bastard.
“I need a piss,” I say, getting up and excusing myself before Ted has a nervous breakdown in front of my eyes.
“Gary Runcorn?” Gerald yells as soon as I’m in the hallway.
I take a tentative step into his overstuffed office.
“If you’re insistent on tackling The Paragon Phantom, then you should probably take this.” He steps aside to reveal an item on his desk that looks remarkably like a Super Soaker water pistol. It’s essentially a squirt gun, with three “chambers” in an array of primary colours.
I half want to laugh and half want to slap his gold tooth right out of his mouth. I do neither, and just stare at him as though I’m waiting to be insulted by the punchline. “What’s that?”
“PolterPulse 33X. Latest model. You just point and pew pew.”
“Point and pew pew?”
He winks at me. I think it’s the first time since learning about my preferred case that he’s shown any kindness towards me. “You’ve got it, kid.”
I pick up the PolterPulse 33X. It’s much heavier than it looks, and colder, like it’s made of frozen metallic blocks.
“Gary Runcorn?” Gerald says.
“Yeah?”
“Take the weekend off. Get all your affairs in order. Maybe go and see your parents in Spain one last time.”
“Okaaaay?”
Gerald drops a heavy, warm hand onto my shoulder and leaves it there. “It’s been nice knowing you.”