J
o stowed her bag in the boot of the Escort. “What’s all this about treasures?” she asked.
Ankerita leaned over to inspect a piece of paper in a plastic bag affixed to the front windscreen. “There are a number of hidden items that we need, to perform the spell to send thy affliction away... or so Genet says.” She peeled off the notice. “Is this a dodgy area? Someone’s stuck some paper on my car. What’s all that about?”
“It’s a parking ticket. You have to, like, pay a fine.”
“Ah,” said Ankerita. “A pox upon that. Perhaps this driver will pay it instead.” She crossed the street and stuck it to a car parked in a legal bay opposite.
“But it’s you who have to pay.”
“I don’t see why.”
“They will track you down. The might of traffic enforcement is feared throughout the cosmos.” Jo laughed as her friend returned.
“I managed to keep out of Fantasia’s way,” said Ankerita, “well mostly. I don’t expect the parking people will have that sort of dedication. When we get back, I’ll have George change the number plates again.”
“You said ‘we’? How many of us are there?”
“If I’m going to cure you, I have to get Genet back, and to do that, I need to find the remaining objects, and to do that, I need your help.”
“It sounds logical the way you say it.” Jo slammed the boot lid shut. “You genuinely think you can cure me?”
“We won’t know if we don’t try, will we? Come on, get in. We need to go to Edinburgh, whichever direction that is.”
“North,” said Jo. “Have you got a satnav?”
“On this phone.” Ankerita handed it over to her friend. “Can you set it to avoid motorways?”
“You serious?”
“Best way to dodge the spy cameras, George told me. I’ll need you to watch, though. If you see one, we can either find a way around, or I’ll put tape over the plates.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Only while we pass the camera.”
“It’s an adventure?”
“Isn’t it always, when you and I get together?”
“Like old times, like.” Jo laughed. “I’ve missed you, kid.”
The journey was long and tortuous. The Chariot couldn’t make it seem to go any quicker. As darkness fell, Ankerita stopped in a remote village. The local pub said ‘Accommodation’.
“This will do,” she said. “I’m tired out. We can stop here at this inn for the night.”
The landlord looked up from polishing glasses at the bar as the two girls entered the room, carrying their travel bags. “Sorry, we’re not open yet,” he said, a little gruffly. “Come back at seven.”
“We were like looking for a room,” said Jo. “Just for the night. It does say you have some. They’re not all taken, are they?”
“Fifty pounds,” the man squinted at the girls, “for a double. We’ve only got a double. Cash in advance. I don’t accept credit cards or cheques.”
“Fine.” Ankerita peeled notes off the wad she still had.
The landlord stared. “That’s a lot of money to be carrying around, miss,” he said accusingly.
Ankerita bristled, and took a breath, planning to tell him to mind his own business, as she was a lady, and he a mere malt-hook of a tavern keeper.
“We won it on the lottery,” interjected Jo, knowing exactly how Ankerita was going to react. “We’re on a celebratory tour.”
“Congratulations.” The landlord’s sour expression faded. “I expect you’d like dinner. Twenty pound each, set menu.”
“Please,” said Jo. “I’m starving. What do you think, Anna?”
“I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby horse between two bread vans.” She clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. “Oh my God, where did that come from?”
Jo giggled. “I guess you haven’t forgotten everything that Tox shared with you, during your body swaps.”
“How are you feeling?” Ankerita ventured, as she and Jo relaxed in expansive armchairs after a substantial meal. The landlord had stoked the fire and turned the lights down for them, and the warm glow was the main illumination in the room. The wind whistled around the old building, and occasional squalls of rain battered the windows. Jo was sipping a lager, but Ankerita had asked for a drink containing a cherry on a stick. She wanted to see what its appeal was for evil business magnates.
“Very comfortable, considering,” replied Jo. “It takes me back a few months to when I felt better. I can barely detect the twinges, but at that time I put them down to age. I had no idea. It was only when I collapsed at work, and they took me away in an ambulance did I like realise that something was wrong. Will it get worse?”
“I’m afraid so. From what you told me about Brother Francis, and what I know myself, it appears he survives by taking the life essence of others. He is basically a good man, so those lives are usually given freely; I don’t think he steals them, although he could if he wanted to. For some reason the transfer went the other way with you, and you took from him rather than the other way round.”
“He must have like aged a hundred years,” agreed Jo. “Does that mean I’ve gained a hundred?”
“I don’t think so. He has given you some life back, and from what you are saying, and how long you’ve known, that could be six months.”
“He looked so ancient afterwards,” said Jo. “Six months for fifty years or so. Not a great conversion rate. A bit like buying your currency from a bank.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said her friend. “But, it gives us time to find more artefacts, and release Genet to do the spell for us. Fantasia told me that you would have had a great future if she hadn’t arranged to have you killed.”
“Hey, but she couldn’t have arranged for this disease, could she?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what she said.”
Jo took another sip of her drink and gazed thoughtfully at the flickering flames. “What can someone like me do?”
“Fantasia said that anyone can make a difference if they want to. Do you want to?”
“She told you a lot, didn’t she?” Jo avoided the question. “A bit helpful for an evil bitch anti-Christ wasn’t it?”
“She was about to sacrifice me and, she thought, give herself eternal youth. I expect she wanted to boast; get it off her chest as it were.”
“Like the clothing,” said Jo obtusely. “Is that what you have to do in witchery, I mean strip off and dance round like butt naked?”
“It’s supposed to free the soul, and the body. Clothing restricts the flow of energy.”
“And you believe that?” Jo grinned.
“Fantasia did, and she’s the evil nemesis, after all.”
“Let’s hope we don’t hear from her again.”
“At least until I’ve released Genet. Then perhaps, we’ll retaliate on our own terms.”
As they said goodnight to the landlord, Ankerita noticed a set of ancient bottles, festooned with cobwebs and dust. There was a pane of glass in front of them. They looked very old, and she felt that familiar prickling, the sensation she used to get when there was something arcane nearby.
“Am I getting my old talents back?” she wondered. She pointed. “Why are those fastened away behind the glass?”
The landlord gave a sly smile. “You noticed, did you? They are maybe three-hundred years old: part of the fabric of the pub. I don’t disturb them.”
“You could clean them up,” pressed Ankerita. “They might look better. You know, get rid of some of the spiders.” She shuddered.
Jo tutted, and tried to drag her away. “Not again, Anna. There’s like no ghosts here. Leave it.”
“Oh there are ghosts,” said the landlord. “The bottles themselves are cursed.” He raised his eyebrows for effect.
“I’m interested,” said Ankerita. “Tell me more.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” groaned Jo. “We’re tired. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Yes, cursed,” repeated the landlord, as he saw that Ankerita was lingering.
“I’m exhausted,” said Jo. “You stay, Anna. I’m off to bed.”
“Goodnight. Sorry, please go on, my good man.”
The landlord squinted at her. “Are you having a laugh?”
“Not that I’d noticed.”
“Are you sure you’re not going to be scared?” he said smugly.
“Believe me, it would have to be bad to scare me now.”
He gave a knowing smirk. “Right then, missy...” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. The firelight flickered around the darkened bar as rain now lashed continuously at the windows.
“The story goes,” he began, “that these bottles have been left up here on the shelf since before anyone could remember. Nobody knew why. One stormy night, a bit like tonight it was,” he looked around the empty bar, “the regulars had gone home to their beds, and the landlord was finishing tidying up. His wife comes out of the kitchen and tells him it is about time he threw them away. She wanted to use the space for flowers or ornaments or something.”
“Go on. You retain my interest.”
The landlord scowled, but Ankerita seemed to be following his words, so he continued. “Despite his misgivings, him being a superstitious man and all, he gets them out on to the bar. He’s only thrown the first one into a bucket and is picking up a hammer to smash it, when, would you believe it, he drops down dead: dead as a side of mutton.”
“Oooh.” Ankerita pretended to be impressed.
“So, his missus hears the crash, comes rushing in. She calls the doctor, but it’s too late. They have to take him away. Not one for letting a death prevent her from opening the pub, she finds another gent, whom she apparently had been seen with on occasion, know what I mean, to help her the following day, before her poor old man is barely cold. They get the pub ready, and she asks him to put the bottles back on the shelf. Blow me if, soon after he’s tidied the bar, he doesn’t drop down dead too.”
“There’s a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it. So, the landlady declares it a curse on the bottles and vows to seal the shelf, so that nobody else should suffer. Oddly enough, history says she inherited this second man’s farm, him having no family and all, and eventually sold up and went to live somewhere on the continent with a male ‘cousin’ of hers that nobody knew of.”
“At least it had a happy ending.”
“That’s how the story goes.” The landlord peered at the girl to see the effect of his tale. Instead of being impressed, Ankerita was looking thoughtful.
“There is something on those bottles, you’re right,” she said, after a pause. “I can feel it. Best not to disturb them. I bid you goodnight sirrah.”
Ankerita lay awake that night, listening to Jo’s uncomfortable breathing in the other bed. The story of the covered bottles was intriguing her. She had detected something as she stood near them. The condition was familiar to when she had previously carried her beautiful dagger from the abbey. Holding it had brought normally unseen entities into sharper definition. Even without the dagger, though, she was sure she had felt something.
“I wonder if my augury is coming back?” she mused. “Maybe something to do with that ritual of Fantasia’s. That would be in good earnest.” She heard a sound and sat up in bed. “Who’s there?”
An area of blackness in the dark seemed to drift and cross the room.
“Jo, wake up.” She reached across and prodded her friend. Jo did not stir; in fact, she felt solid. It was like poking a log.
The shape drifted towards the end of Ankerita’s bed. She clicked the bedside light on. It didn’t help.
“She will not wake.” The voice was low and harsh.
“Who are you?” Ankerita was disturbed, but not afraid. “You can’t harm me, so go on your way.”
“Don’t think you’re safe, o Lady of the Past,” came the rasp. “I can see your great age, and it would be but a small task for me to return those years...”
“`What do you want? Away with your empty threats, you doddypol.” Ankerita felt the chill in the room. She pulled the blankets more tightly around her. As she did so, she cupped the ring on her index finger. Instantly, the room came into focus. She saw a middle-aged man, craggy, and dressed in an old-fashioned outfit. “You look like a highwayman I used to know, only scruffier.”
The man took a step backwards. “You have powerful magic,” he said. “I thought you were not a casual visitor.”
“What do you want?” repeated Ankerita. “Tell me, or return to wherever you came from, and let me sleep.”
“The bottles,” said the man. “You must smash the bottles to set me free.”
“You mean those old cursed things downstairs?” Ankerita felt irritated. “They are antiques: been with the pub for years.”
“They are also holding me to this place. You have to smash the big one at least, to free me.”
“I’d never get away with it.”
“That is your problem. If you don’t do it, I will claim your life as reparation.”
“You are threatening me?”
The man moved his head from side to side and held his palms out. “If you like.”
“And if I do what you want, what’s in it for me?”
“The Coat.”
“Coat?” Ankerita decided to feign ignorance.
“You seek the Coat of Padarn Beisrudd. I can find it.”
“How do you know? What trickery is this?”
The man looked surprised. “Nothing special,” he said defensively. “I simply overheard you talking about it downstairs.”
“So where is it?”
“That’s for me to know...”
“Can you tell me, please? You will also know that I need it to save my friend. Have you any humanity?”
“That is a merry jape,” said the man. “You asking me about humanity. No information for you, until you have done my bidding.”
“Think on this,” said Ankerita. “The moment I break the bottle, you will be free to go, vanish into wherever it is planned for you to end up, and therefore you can’t tell me where the coat is.”
“I could make a point of hanging around afterwards.” The man was looking thoughtful.
“I don’t think it works that way.” Ankerita warmed to the argument. “As soon as you are free, it will be as though I’d fired a crossbow. It is impossible to stop the bolt before it flies into the armoured chest of the Next World.”
“Mixed metaphors, and curses. I should have thought of that.” The man punched the end of the bed. It shook.
“So, if you tell me where the coat is, I’ll do what I can to get rid of that bottle afterwards. Are they indeed cursed? Tell me the truth.”
The man glanced guiltily downwards. “I’m afraid so. It was the wife who put the curse on; actually, her coating the outside of the bottles with a contact poison might have helped. If you touch them, it will be the end of you.”
“You perhaps should have mentioned that?”
“I was going to,” he protested guiltily. “Will you help?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” said Ankerita. “I might tell the landlord and see if he can do anything. I’ll warn him about the poison of course. That was a sneaky trick you tried to play. How does that make you feel?”
“A complete heel, actually,” the man said. “I was only thinking of myself. What is the next life like?”
“I truly don’t know,” said Ankerita. “I’ve heard good things about it, but why not consider your position here?”
“What position?”
“Why, resident ghost of course. With a bit of effort, you can improve your manifestations, and have loads of fun spying on the ladies, and scaring the men shitless, if that is the correct use of the word.”
“I never thought of that.” The man gave a lecherous grin. “I suppose I have been hiding so far.”
“Don’t shroud yourself,” said Ankerita. “Use your talents. I once knew a man who’d been suspended on the end of a rope for two-hundred years, and he made the best of a bad job. He had lots of fun.” Ankerita didn’t mention that she had released said highwayman, and he had stayed around until he was able to find his lost boots. She didn’t want to confuse this shade.
“Wonderful,” said the ghost. “Great plan. I’ve got ideas already. Suppose I try this on the ladies?” He dropped his trousers. Ankerita pulled a face. “That’s what I shall be practising,” he said triumphantly. “What do you think?”
“It looks like a pillicock,” said Ankerita thoughtfully, “but a lot smaller. Put it away.”
The man scowled, but replaced his clothing, all the same. “You don’t mean that, really?”
“In due course, you can check and compare for yourself,” suggested Ankerita, “so don’t be downhearted. Now, about that coat?”
The ghost’s face twisted. “I don’t have to give it to you,” he said.
“No you don’t, but I’ve given you a reason to live, or whatever it is you do. Fair’s fair; it would be the decent thing.” She held her breath.
“Oh go on,” the ghost said at last. “I do owe you one, even if you wouldn’t free me. It’s over there in the closet.”
“There’s no closet.”
“Press the panelling, top left corner. Give the bottom right a shove. It’s hidden. You weren’t expecting a sign, ‘Storage for the Thirteen Treasures of Albion’?”
“Don’t be mordant.” She got out of bed and slithered over to the panel. “This one?”
The ghost sighed. Ankerita leaned and pressed where she had been told. After a few tries, the panel creaked backwards on ancient hinges. She peered into the black space inside the wall.
“I think they used to store Catholic priests in there,” said the man casually. “Look to the back.”
Ankerita stood to one side, and let the meagre light into the space. Hanging on a peg at the rear of the small cupboard was what looked like a string of rags.
“You’re not serious.” She looked over to where the apparition was still standing.
“Time might have not been so kind,” apologised the man. “You can take it if you want. I’ve got no use for it.”
“I suppose not,” said Ankerita. She reached in, trying not to imagine the centuries of spiders waiting to grab her hand and sink their fangs in. Her fingers closed over the softest of materials. It reminded her of a line of feathers on a string. There was no substance. She unhooked the rags carefully and brought them into the room.
“I can’t see any use in this,” she said disappointedly. “Not much of a coat is it?”
“Wait,” said the ghost.
“Oh.” Ankerita dropped the item. As it floated downwards, the wispy material solidified and slowly formed into the shape of a coat, a modern coat, black leather, lined and trimmed with purple-dyed lambs-wool.
“It’s gorgeous,” said Ankerita with disbelief.
“What’s gorgeous?” Jo’s voice came blearily from her bed. “Turn the light off. I’m trying to rest here.”
“Sorry Jo.” Ankerita smiled at her friend. “Thank you,” she said to the man. He nodded, and walked straight through the wall.
“Is it time for breakfast yet?” asked Jo. “I could do with a shower. Do you want to use it first?”
“I don’t think I’ll bother, this morning,” said her friend, with a grin. “Go back to sleep.”
