Page 2 of Dead Vengeance

I run my gaze over the dusty contents of the room to avoid making eye contact when I talk about it, because looking into people’s eyes when I talk about it tends to make me cry. And that is not a good look for a job interview. So… it’s that weird shiny black antique-looking round thing that I’m going to stare at. That among the billions of other creepy-ass objects dotted around the room.

“He went missing. A few years back. And… it was sudden. And… it really… It left me and my mum in a state. A lot. In ways that… You know, I’d just really love to be able to talk to him. If he’s gone. Or understand him. Or even believe he’s still out there somewhere. Or that he’s just moved on. Or if he is dead, that there’s more than…”

Okay, that got dark fast. My voice breaks a little when I rush to spin things back to acceptable. “Um, d-do you? Believe in ghosts?”

Fuuuuuuuck, what a stupid question.

Literally at a job interview to be a ghost catcher.

Kill me now.

His smile is slow and crooked, a twinkle deep in his milky blue eyes. But when he speaks again, even if his voice sounds like it’s coming through twenty litres of cigarette tar, there’s something softer about it. “Ghosts are real, son. I can guarantee you that. They’re real, and they’re cunning, and they can make you and me a lot of money if we both play our cards right.”

He places down his pen, then leans so close I can smell the stale tobacco on his skin. “Now, let me ask you again: do you believe in ghosts, Liam?”

My eyes squeeze tight with the effort, and I shove out a “Y-y-yes,” stomach and tongue twisting against the lie. “Yes, sir. I believe in ghosts.”

“Good lad.” Another mark on that paper. “And what’s your availability like?”

“Always. Um. Always available.” Probably another stupid answer. I think I’m supposed to make him think I’m in high demand. “For this. For this job. I would make that time. If-if we’re a good fit.”

His smile deepens, and I have the weirdest feeling he’s not convinced I’m in any sort of demand from anyone. “There are occasional night shifts.”

“That’s fine. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“And a lot of travel.”

“Yeah. That’s okay. I’ve always wanted to see England.”

Both eyebrows lower, and that’s fair. It’s not like I’m going anywhere nice. Probably just to visit old people in crumbling council houses who haven’t thought that maybe it’s their rusted pipes making those strange noises. But that’s fine. I guess I can help them get their pipes fixed.

“One more question,” he says. His fingers knit, and he looks deep into my eyes.

Shit. This feels portentous. Hope I can get this one right.

“Liam,” he begins darkly, “have you ever…”

I wait, bated breath. Done a séance? Said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror three times? Crossed paths with a black cat at midnight on Friday the thirteenth?

“…sued a past employer?”

“No!” I gasp the word out. “No. Why would I do that? I would never do that. I mean, it’s not like I even have the money to do that.”

Yep, seem even more desperate. Good work, Liam.

But Gerald’s already standing, holding out his hand, gold tooth shining bright in the weak mid-afternoon sunshine that streams through the broken horizontal blinds through a haze of smoke. “Welcome aboard, lad.”

“What?” I jump to my feet and snatch his hand up. My heart’s pounding, and my smile’s too big to even attempt to make serious. “Do you mean it?”

He nods like someone’s favourite jolly alcoholic grandpa, then winks. “Got a job starting for you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Already?”

He’s laughing at me now, kindly, and he might as well. I’m sure I seem ridiculous getting this excited about his weird job. Maybe he knows it’s all bullshit? But it’s money, is what it is. Money and a stepping stone. If I can just get some experience, get myself back into the workforce…

He’s at an old filing cabinet, actually pulling out a manila folder like this is the seventies. In fact, I don’t think he has any sort of computer in here at all, come to think of it. This whole office is tiny, nothing but weird knick-knacks and dust on chipped brown furniture. I can’t tell if he’s been here for ages or just bought everything second hand out of a bargain basement yesterday.

He drops the folder down onto the desk and flips it open, revealing a form printed in reddish ink, as if the printer was running out. The form has the same little ghost logo I saw on the job advertisement that was haphazardly pinned to the noticeboard in the supermarket. The flyer fell right down in front of me as I was walking past. Fate, I guess.