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Spike got up.
'Ready?'
'Ready.'
'Then let's make some light out of this darkness!'
He pulled a green holdall and a pump-action shotgun from the back of the car. We walked towards the rusty gates, and I felt a chill on my neck.
'Feel that?' asked Spike
'Yes.'
'He's close. We'll meet him tonight, I promise you.'
Spike unlocked the gates and they swung open with a squeak of long-unoiled hinges. Operatives generally used their flame-throwers through the wire; no one would trouble coming in here unless there was serious work to be done. He relocked the gates behind us and we walked through the undead no-go zone.
'What about the motion sensors?'
A beeper went off from his car.
'I'm pretty much the only recipient. Helsing knows what I'm doing; if we fail he'll be along tomorrow morning to clean up the mess.'
'Thanks for the reassurance.'
'Don't worry,' replied Spike with a grin, 'we won't fail!'
We arrived at the second gate. The musty smell of long-departed corpses reached my nostrils. It had been softened by age to the odour of rotted leaves, but it was still unmistakable. Once inside the inner gates we made our way swiftly to the lichgate and walked through the crumbling structure. The churchyard was a mess. The graves had all been dug up and the remains of those too far gone to be resurrected had been flung around the graveyard. They had been the fortunate ones. Those that were freshly dead had been press-ganged into a second career as servants of the Dark One – not something you would want to put on your CV, if you still had one.
'Untidy bunch, aren't they,' I whispered as we picked our way across the scattered human bones to the heavy oak door.
'I wrote Cindy some poetry,' said Spike softly, rummaging in his pocket. 'If anything happens, will you give it to her?'
'Give it to her yourself. N
othing's going to happen – you said so yourself. And don't say things like that. It gives me the wobblies.'
'Right,' said Spike, putting the poem back in his pocket. 'Sorry.'
He took a deep breath and grasped the handle, turned it and pushed open the door. The interior was not as pitch black as I had supposed; the moonlight streamed in through the remains of the large stained-glass windows and the holes in the roof. Although it was gloomy we could still see. The church was in no better state than the graveyard. The pews had been thrown around and broken into matchwood. The lectern was lying in an untidy heap and all sorts of vandalism of a chilling nature had taken place.
'Home away from home for His Supreme Evilness, wouldn't you say?' said Spike with a cheery laugh. He moved behind me and shut the heavy door, turning the large iron key in the lock and handing it to me for safe-keeping.
I looked around but could see no one in the church. The door to the vestry was firmly locked, and I looked across at Spike.
'He doesn't appear to be here.'
'Oh, he's here all right – we just have to flush him out. Darkness can hide in all sorts of corners. We just need the right sort of fox-terrier to worry it out of the rabbit-hole – metaphorically speaking, of course.'
'Of course. And where might this metaphorical rabbit-hole be?
Spike looked at me sternly and pointed to his temple.
'He's up here. He thought he could dominate me from within but I've trapped him somewhere in the frontal lobes. I have some uncomfortable memories and those help to screen him – trouble is, I can't seem to get him out again.'
'I have someone like that,' I replied, thinking of Hades barging into the tea-room memory with Landen.
'Oh? Well, forcing him out is going to be a bit tricky. I thought his home ground might make him emerge spontaneously but it seems not. Hang on, let me have a go.'
