Page 13 of Hot Ghost Summer

“But I really think—”

“Don’t think, Theodore. That’s not what I hired you for. Just… do as you’re told.”

The site office suddenly grows far too small, and my skin far too tight. Snatching up the weapon that just… I can’t even bring myself to think about it. With the Synchrotron gripped tightly, I back out of the glorified shipping container into the bright sun.

There, I find my voice. “If we don’t help him, Hollis will die.”

There’s a pained exhale down the line. “Son, he’s already dead. Now go home.”

I shake my head, denial riding me hard, and grip the plasma ray harder, my knuckles turning white.

“No. No, Mister Pickett, he can’t be…” I swallow down the word that forms a hot ball in my throat. “Don’t say that.”

Determined, I march back over to Plot 47. The still-open phone line with ExorSquad crackles as it dips in and out of range of the signal.

“Look, Theo. It was an accident, okay? They happen. It’s tragic, it really is, but there’s nothing to be done now. It’s not like you can take his soul and put it back inside his body, is it?”

I kick at the loose edges of the poured concrete foundation, vision blurring with the tears that build in my eyes. I sniff. “No.”

“Right then, so you head home. Leave the rest to me.”

With that, the line goes dead.

five

Have You Seen This Cow?

Theo

Ishove the wicked weapon inside the ExorSquad holdall, probably a little too aggressively, and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Stripping out of the pink high-vis vest I’d worn so Hollis would pay attention to me, I dump it on top of the gun so I no longer have to look at it, and hoist the lumpy bag over my shoulder. Then I look up at the first floor of Plot 47, and salute like I used to when I was a cadet.

After a long minute, and with a heavy heart, I turn and walk away.

I take the southbound route through the park I’d told Hollis about. It’s picturesque, but the leafy and scenic atmosphere is completely at odds with my mood. I’ve never been this far north along it before, and while my adventurous soul would usually be filled by the wonder of exploration, right now, everything is muted. Even the dappled pattern cast by the sun’s rays on the surface of Pymmes Brook where it emerges from its underground culvert.

It’s not a contrast I have to manage for long. In less than twenty minutes, the towpath has delivered me straight into London’s urban sprawl and grimy high-density living. In another twenty minutes, I’ll be home. But I don’t want to go home, despite what my boss advised.

Cutting left, I choose an older path that diverts away from the flow of the small river and winds through lush parkland hidden behind a busy high street.

Although it’s a Monday afternoon, Bowen’s Park is teeming with people wanting to make the most of the nice weather. Young children scale old oak branches as they hide from pursuers, while their parents lie back and let the chaotic roar of city traffic dissolve into a distant, rhythmic hum. I share a silent nod with an old man feeding pigeons stale crusts from a grease-stained paper bag as I close in on my destination—a small eighteenth-century dairy at the far end of this field.

Bowen’s Park Farm Animal Rescue Centre is an animal sanctuary surrounded on all sides by the unstoppable march of urbanisation. But this little bastion of a bygone era is my happy place.

Designed to house cows, and with a separate area for dairy-focused operations, its mixed red-brick and timber construction boasts a Dutch-style barn roof, and a reasonable sized yard and paddock. Named after the family who’ve owned it since forever, Bowen’s Park and Farm are all that’s left of the original land now consumed by a predominantly high-rise suburb of London.

I visit this farm every day that I can, because it reminds me of home. And I need to feel that today, more than any other day in the handful of years since I moved here.

Approaching the rickety wooden gate that separates the farm’s paddock from the park, I’m reminded—yet again—that something more secure needs to be installed. I chuck the ExorSquad bag over first, turtling my neck into my shoulders when I remember the plasma ray inside it. When nothing bad happens, I jump over too, and the moment my feet touch down on the other side I breathe easier.

The four-acre paddock that comes with the animal sanctuary is small for the purpose it serves. The crab apple trees on the west side offer scant shade, yet Daphne and Delia, the two rescue donkeys, are taking advantage nonetheless. As I stalk across the patchy grass—baked brown by the heatwave—their curious heads come up, but when I hold up my empty hands to show that I don’t yet have anything for them, their ears twitch and they settle back to rest.

The sisters are expert pickpockets, and have been known to work together like raptors. I smile at the memory of their last coordinated mugging attempt. Delia had acted lame in her front leg to draw my attention, so that Daphne could bite through the bottom of the canvas tote I’d had slung over my shoulder to liberate the pound of root vegetables I’d brought up from the kitchen. I’d learned something about donkeys that day.

A little further along on the other side, is the double-wide field shelter the farm purchased after a community fundraising event. It was supposed to be for Baron, the retired stallion rescued from the slaughterhouse once he’d aged out from his role as a premier stud, and it is… It’s just that instead of being able to share with the donkeys in relative peace, as intended, the Three Musketeers have claimed half for themselves.

I can see them now, all standing on their throne of tractor tyres as they use the added height to tower over Baron. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore—the three pygmy goats—are anything but small. The farm took them on when they grew too big and wilful for the yoga studio that had bought them to dress in pyjamas and elevate their social media presence.

Raising my hand to my forehead to shield from the overhead sun, I squint to keep a close eye on them. Alvin is the biggest, and if he were to jump on you—pyjamas or not—during your sun salutations, then you’d slip a disc or two. Simon doesn’t like the word “no,” and makes that fact known by butting his head into whatever it is he wants. That’s how he lost one horn. But it’s Theodore who holds my attention.