Gross Domestic Product: 15

Chapter Fifteen.

The single tarot card lay face up on the table. It had a grey border with some Egyptian motif and in the centre, there was the picture, a painting of nine blood red swords. At the top of the card was the number 9 and at the bottom the word “Swords”. Atop this, the word “Cruelty” had been superimposed. Morton’s finger tapped on the card again. “I’m no’ happy.” He stated.

Both Willie and Skinner had already predicted that much. Skinner didn’t really care about Morton’s emotional well-being. “That’s neither here nor there Alec. The fact remains, we’ve got a problem.”

Morton stared at Skinner, his hatred of him written across every line in his face. Skinner noticed quite a few more lines seemed to have been added in the intervening hour or so.

“Shut the fuck up, you,” He hissed at Skinner. The words were spat out with such venom that Skinner decided shutting the fuck up was probably his best option of staying alive. Morton’s eyes were glaring, suppressing a rage. “Is this legit, Willie?”

Willie stood, leaning against the filing cabinet. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and gave a hint of a nod. “Aye.”

Morton barked, “Fuck!” and slammed the table. Looking up at Willie he asked. “Never anythin’ easy, is it?”

Less than an hour before Willie had been standing outside the house with Skinner. Even there, outside it’s hedged perimeter, some dark influence had been too apparent. For about three feet, spreading outward from the house, the grass had rotted into a dark mulch, but that was a mere detail. Whatever had been present had left its mark as a sense of foulness that saturated everything, even the air. Willie had been at the gate when he became aware of it, suddenly feeling ill, soiled, cold. He was not impressed. “Never anythin’ easy, is it?” He had asked Skinner.

Skinner, who’d been poking his head through the remains of the front door, had beckoned Willie to come forward, “Seems quiet in here.”

Willie opened the gate and sighed as he walked through the disappointment that was the front garden. “You love this crap, don’t you, Skinny?”

“Willie, I’ve told you before, call me Gordon and no, I don’t love this, but this is what we do to maintain the city, right? Come on, let’s check this place out.”

Willie peeked his hawk-like face through the frame. “Maintain the city is it noo?” He said before stepping inside, almost slipping on some shards of glass that still lay when he’d crashed through the door. The house smelled badly of dampness and there was a distinct and terrible stench of rotten meat.

Skinner had nodded. “Somebody’s got to do it, Willie, and given our place, I’d say we’re obliged. We’re the stewards of these streets, whether we like it or not.”

“You don’t half talk some pish. Let’s get this done quick, I’ve got a gig tonight.” Willie had ordered.

“Oh aye?”

“Aye, a preview of some Philip Glass thing.” He’d answered, craning his neck as look upstairs. “Up there.”

“Nice. Seriously though, the reason we keep locking horns is because we’re drawn to this, we’re like gardeners pulling up weeds because we know what might happen if it gets out of hand.”

“Aye alright Prince Valiant, give it a rest and get your arse up these stairs.” Willie responded, already half way up them. “Get’s oot a hand, eh? Like whit?”

A few paces and Skinner caught up. “Like Drumchapel a few year back, so I hear.”

Willie glowered at Skinner for a moment or two. Drumchapel had nearly been a disaster, had nearly cost them everything, Drumchapel had left Willie, and the others in his crew scarred. They never mentioned it to each other and to hear Skinner talk about it was almost offensive. Nevertheless he took Skinner’s point. “I’ll grant ye that. Hardly makes us ghostbusters noo, does it?”

“Who else is there? Well, I mean, apart from the department?” Skinner answered patting Willie on the back, smiling and heading to the top of the stairs. They were up here, according to Pete’s dead friend at least. Three bodies, who knew what else was up there with them.

“The Department are useless. You hear about all that shit that happened in Blackpool last year?” Willie replied. He swung open the door closest to the stairs and was almost sick.

Skinner winced too. The stench was unbearable, beyond mere overpowering odours of ripe decay, it was an assault. Skinner took a couple of deep breaths then said. “I heard some noise, rumours, you know? Nothing solid.”

“Aye? Well there some some fuckin’ thing down in that big fairground, it would abduct and eat weans. Took them nearly a month to get it sorted. Seven kids it took, in a month,” Wilie replied, he cocked his head forward in a gesture, “Efter you.”

Skinner pulled the neck of his sweatshirt over his nose as he said “Never heard anything about that.” Inside the room, it was worse than it smelled. Dead bodies, nothing more, but they were festering in bits. Three heads lay on the sofa, one next to another, all staring out the window. There was an arm, fingers outstretched stuffed in a vase by the mantle. The hands of the clock above had skewered two withered eyes that looked like fat slugs. The thing had had fun. “Not good.”

Willie shook his head. “This isnae it,” His eyes scanned the ceiling and then locked on Skinner. “We keep checkin’”

They walked through each of the upper-rooms but there was no other evidence of anything strange in either of the bedrooms or the bathroom. “Doesn’t feel as bad up here as it did downstairs, does it?”

Willie didn’t answer he just began to slowly descend the stairs, then he stopped. “Here, there’s something...” He began trailing off, scowled pensively and then looked at his feet. “Is there a room under these stairs?”

“Probably,” Skinner said.

Willie had dashed down the stairs and found the door round the corner. “Yep. Check this out.”

He’d opened the door just as Skinner arrived. Both of them shuddered. It, the girl, or whatever she was, had made a nest here among garden tools and boxes of household junk. Across the wall, hundreds of tiny symbols had been scrawled, in some questionable substance. There were chunks of rotten flesh spattered on the floor. “Jesus,” Willie had said. “It spent some time in here, eh?”

Skinner peered over Willie’s shoulder. “It was in the girl, whatever it was. I’m thinking it might be a demon of some kind.”

“A demon eh?” Willie smirked. “So tell me, Gordon, whit’s in this fur you?”

Skinner pushed past him and squatted. Stretching out with his hands he plucked something out from the darkness. A Tarot card. The Nine of Swords. He held it up to show Willie. “Hmm,” the older man replied. “The Lord of Cruelty, eh? I think you’re right, Gordon.”

“You know anything about all that Christian shit?” Skinner asked, clearly frustrated.

“A fair bit aye.” Willie chuckled. The lad was showing his ignorance. He might be a capable survivor normally, but this predator was not a local beast and despite his bravado and power, Skinner had no idea how to combat it. “Alec’s no’ gonny be happy.”

“Is he ever?” Skinner had asked.

“Naw.” Willie replied, both to Skinner back then, and Morton now. “It’s never anythin’ easy Alec. The lad’s right though, this is a right fuckin’ mess.”

Morton nodded, conceding the point. He glared at Skinner again, but the look was softer, marginally, like permafrost warmed a faction of a degree. “Fine. All I want to know is whit is this thing, who brought it here and how do we catch it. You, despite mah better judgement, seem tae have a haun’le on this, so fine, you and Willie get it sorted, jist let me know whit you need.”

“So truce then?” Skinner asked.

“Aye, fur the time bein’ Don’t even try tae fuck me o’er, ye hear me?” Morton warned.

“Come on Alec,” Skinner said. “You’re the only one harbouring a grudge.”

Morton ignored the jibe. “This needs done quick, and quietly. The polis are already aw’ o’er it, the last thing anyone needs is news scum catchin’ wind of it and kicking up a panic.”

Skinner nodded, “Jesus, never thought about those bastards. Fine, we need to find Bryce. He’s the main target.”