Page 1 of Dead Vengeance

one

Gerald Pickett

Liam

“Experience?”

Here it is, the question I’ve been dreading.

I don’t know why. It’s not like he was ever not going to ask it. This is a job interview, after all.

Why am I so nervous?

Mostly because I’m a very bad liar.

Think, Liam, think. Something more impressive than McBurgerBar.

“Um… McBurgerBar?”

Fuck!

He’s staring. I should talk.

“B-but I made manager there. Um. For a few weeks. You can call them and check. But if you do call them, you should know, there was an, um, a misunderstanding. Which was primarily to do with the coffee.”

Still staring…

Talk!

Clenching my fingers tight in my lap, I bluster out a hurried, “Did you know it costs them fifteen pence to brew a whole pot? An-and they said they did free refills. But this homeless guy, he kept his cup. For years. And they told me to cut him off, but I thought that wasn’t very fair since—”

A thick and bored cough interrupts me. “So no relevant experience then?”

Gerald Pickett, boss and owner of ExorSquad, London’s top ghost-extraction service (apparently), is next-level intimidating. Not in a successful businessman kind of way. More a shady back-alley organ sales kind of way. He’s got this vibe like he could easily get me killed, and I’m not sure I want to work for him at all.

But I really need this job.

“I did make manager before that,” I remind him, if a little tentatively. “It’s just, they said my company spirit was lacking, even though I’d already earned a badge for excellent customer service. Kept the work spaces tidy and all that. And I thought—”

He breaks in again, pressing his arched and stubby fingers into the desk, making them look like an angry spider about to pounce. “Have you ever killed a ghost?”

“No, sir.” I do have to wonder how often people say yes to that question.

One of his eyebrows goes up. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Liam?”

He hits me with such sharp-eyed scrutiny, his two beady little eyes drilling into me, that I feel again like I should lie.

But, “Not really, sir,” slips out before I can stop it, like with all my attempted lies. It’s as if my mouth is faster than my brain.

He makes a little mark on a piece of paper, and I’m pretty sure that’s the kiss of death. Not a scratch of relevant knowledge, and I just told him I think this whole job is bullshit. Spirit Extraction Specialist? What a bunch of nonsense.

But truly, I’ll take any work I can get, so I quickly spit out what’s also true: “I would like to believe in them. I’d love if they were real. If I could see one just once… My brother…”

Me and my mouth. I’d like to stop there, but for the first time since I walked in, he shows some actual interest. He raises his chin, fixing wily-looking eyes on me, narrow beneath bushy eyebrows.