Page 12 of Love at First Fright

Emily had still been in sixth form. Someone had to step up.

So I’d dropped out. Got a “proper job.” Climbed that bloody career ladder everyone banged on about.

Thirteen years later, I was still on the first rung, and Emily was a doctor with a mortgage and a kid.

At least if I’d stayed at university, I’d have a degree to my name. A piece of paper that said I’d finished something. Anything.

“You?” I asked, the word dragging out of me. I didn’t want to encourage conversation. But we were about to spend God knows how long trapped in a haunted manor house together. Might as well know something about the person who’d probably leave me to die at the hands of a vengeful spirit.

Brad’s face lit up like I’d offered him a pint and a microphone. He shifted in his seat, shoulders straightening with pride. “I don’t know if you follow sports.” The way he eyed me told me he doubted it very much. “But I was a professional rugby player. Played for Bristol for three seasons. Would’ve made it to the Premiership, easy, but…” He tapped his knee. “Meniscus tear. Doctors said I could keep playing, risk permanent damage, or retire with my health intact.”

Ah. That explained the shorts. The constant need to display those tree-trunk thighs like a peacock showing off its feathers.

“Tough break,” I said, fishing my phone from my pocket.

“Yeah, mate. Proper gutted. But you know what they say—when one door closes, another opens. My luck changed when Gerald recruited me. Said I had the perfect physicality for paranormal investigation. The entities respect strength, yeah?”

I nodded absently, typing into Google with my thumbs hidden in my lap.

Brad Harrington rugby player

The results loaded.

Nothing.

I scrolled down. Still nothing. Added “Bristol” to the search.

A Facebook profile for a Brad Harrington who worked at Tesco. A LinkedIn for a financial advisor in Manchester. A seventeen-year-old Brad Harrington who’d won a regional schools’ competition in javelin.

No rugby player.

I tried “Bradford Harrington.” Then just “Harrington rugby Bristol.”

Absolutely sod all.

“—incredible signing bonus too. They really wanted me, you know? Had other teams sniffing around, but I’m loyal. That’s what my coaches always said. ‘Brad,’ they’d say, ‘you’re the best player we’ve ever—’”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Professional rugby player. Right. And I was the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Well, at least I now knew he was a complete bullshitter. And his earlier stories about exorcisms had almost convinced me. Silly me.

“Talking of money…” I shifted in my seat, phone still clutched in my palm. “How much do these clients actually pay Gerald? For us to come out and do this?”

Brad glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “The homeowners?”

“Yeah.”

“Depends on the severity, right? But for something like Grimthorne Manor?” He whistled low. “We’re talking thousands. Five, maybe six grand for a full investigation and cleansing.”

I nearly choked. “Six thousand pounds?”

“Sometimes more if it’s a repeat client or they want the premium package. You know, the blessed candles, the full spiritual audit, follow-up visits.” Brad merged into the left lane, completely oblivious to the rage building inside me. “Gerald’s got this whole pricing structure. It’s brilliant marketing, really. People are desperate when they call us. They’d pay anything.”

Six thousand pounds.

And Gerald was paying us minimum wage. No travel. No lunch. In the car boot was “holy water” that was almost certainly from his tap, equipment that apparently melted, and handbooks that told us to run from anything remotely dangerous.