smile,“you’re an expert at being dead then?”
“My dear lady, I don’t know what to say.” Gibbs’sympathetic nods were cut short by some more of his violent convulsions. When he steadied himself he continued,“I-If I were an expert at being dead I wouldn't be stuck here!”
But Morag had stopped listening. She was looking up into the dark sky. Her sorrow and anxiety were once more getting the better of her; she started speaking to herself again,“What does it all mean?”
Gibbs gave a gentle cough,“I-If I may suggest something?” He paused to make sure she was back with him. “I’m guessing that you’ve stayed behind to avenge his exorcism.”
Morag waited politely while Gibbs gibbered uncontrollably for a few moments. “Hga wggga wagga baaaah! Ugh, please excuse me dearest lady. Once you’ve wreaked your revenge, or done some serious h-haunting, you'll move on as soon as you’ve arrived. I’ve seen hundreds like you come and go.”
“Och maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am,”smiled Gibbs. “We will arrive at Judge Hawkin’s haunt in a few moments and call the Parliament. That’s the first step to revenge and the first step back to Harold.”
* * *
As they were talking the gentle breeze had gathered strength. Dust swirled around and a tangle of cloth fluttered and moved and slowly took human shape. With a sense of disgust Morag realised that the cloth was a mess of dirty bandages smeared with a number of exotically-coloured stains.
“Who’s there?”Gibbs called into the shifting mass of grubby material.
Once it settled into human form a dry voice like the sound of a quill on parchment spoke,“I am Nubkheperra. I have come for vengeance.”
“Och!”Morag exclaimed,“That’s nice, we’re for vengeance too.”
Chapter Eighteen
Shelly Apartments
Thee area where Arthur lived was not a place Iona would have visited at night. Even in the pale afternoon light it seemed a dangerous place to be. Broken glass crunched underfoot as she approached an almost derelict building surrounded by closed-down factories. The building had three boarded-up windows for each one containing glass, and at least half of the glass ones were broken.
Standing in front of the Shelley Apartments Iona found herself in a puddle so foul-smelling that she did not want to guess what it might be.
As she walked up the path to the building she wiped the soles of her shoes on some coarse grass sprouting between the cracked paving stones.
By the door was a panel of doorbells with labels and room numbers.
The list of occupants included:“O’Leary’s Loans Agency,” “Smith & Smith’s Security,” “Sharon - genuine model,”and, at number thirteen the name“John Palmer”was crossed out, and underneath, the name“Arthur Terpynne”had been hand-written. Iona was sure that was the number William had told her.
She pressed the bell.
There was no response. She waited and waited, tried again and waited some more.
Eventually a woman with tired eyes and a mini-skirt left the building without casting a glance at Iona or acknowledging her half-hearted apology for being in the way. Nor did she wait for the door to close properly behind her. Iona caught it before the latch clicked, and with one last glance at the apartment list, she slipped inside.
* * *
Having come this far, she resolved at least to go and look at his front door. Maybe the bell was broken, maybe he wasn’t in, or maybe he was too ill to answer the bell. She had to know.
Predictably the lift was broken so she had to walk up the unlit staircase, more broken glass crunching underfoot. When she arrived at the door, it had peeling green paint and a small pane of reinforced frosted glass.
Iona bent over to read another grubby label similar to the one outside the front, which also read,“Arthur Terpynne.”
Just as she was wondering if this really could be
“My dear lady, I don’t know what to say.” Gibbs’sympathetic nods were cut short by some more of his violent convulsions. When he steadied himself he continued,“I-If I were an expert at being dead I wouldn't be stuck here!”
But Morag had stopped listening. She was looking up into the dark sky. Her sorrow and anxiety were once more getting the better of her; she started speaking to herself again,“What does it all mean?”
Gibbs gave a gentle cough,“I-If I may suggest something?” He paused to make sure she was back with him. “I’m guessing that you’ve stayed behind to avenge his exorcism.”
Morag waited politely while Gibbs gibbered uncontrollably for a few moments. “Hga wggga wagga baaaah! Ugh, please excuse me dearest lady. Once you’ve wreaked your revenge, or done some serious h-haunting, you'll move on as soon as you’ve arrived. I’ve seen hundreds like you come and go.”
“Och maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am,”smiled Gibbs. “We will arrive at Judge Hawkin’s haunt in a few moments and call the Parliament. That’s the first step to revenge and the first step back to Harold.”
* * *
As they were talking the gentle breeze had gathered strength. Dust swirled around and a tangle of cloth fluttered and moved and slowly took human shape. With a sense of disgust Morag realised that the cloth was a mess of dirty bandages smeared with a number of exotically-coloured stains.
“Who’s there?”Gibbs called into the shifting mass of grubby material.
Once it settled into human form a dry voice like the sound of a quill on parchment spoke,“I am Nubkheperra. I have come for vengeance.”
“Och!”Morag exclaimed,“That’s nice, we’re for vengeance too.”
Chapter Eighteen
Shelly Apartments
Thee area where Arthur lived was not a place Iona would have visited at night. Even in the pale afternoon light it seemed a dangerous place to be. Broken glass crunched underfoot as she approached an almost derelict building surrounded by closed-down factories. The building had three boarded-up windows for each one containing glass, and at least half of the glass ones were broken.
Standing in front of the Shelley Apartments Iona found herself in a puddle so foul-smelling that she did not want to guess what it might be.
As she walked up the path to the building she wiped the soles of her shoes on some coarse grass sprouting between the cracked paving stones.
By the door was a panel of doorbells with labels and room numbers.
The list of occupants included:“O’Leary’s Loans Agency,” “Smith & Smith’s Security,” “Sharon - genuine model,”and, at number thirteen the name“John Palmer”was crossed out, and underneath, the name“Arthur Terpynne”had been hand-written. Iona was sure that was the number William had told her.
She pressed the bell.
There was no response. She waited and waited, tried again and waited some more.
Eventually a woman with tired eyes and a mini-skirt left the building without casting a glance at Iona or acknowledging her half-hearted apology for being in the way. Nor did she wait for the door to close properly behind her. Iona caught it before the latch clicked, and with one last glance at the apartment list, she slipped inside.
* * *
Having come this far, she resolved at least to go and look at his front door. Maybe the bell was broken, maybe he wasn’t in, or maybe he was too ill to answer the bell. She had to know.
Predictably the lift was broken so she had to walk up the unlit staircase, more broken glass crunching underfoot. When she arrived at the door, it had peeling green paint and a small pane of reinforced frosted glass.
Iona bent over to read another grubby label similar to the one outside the front, which also read,“Arthur Terpynne.”
Just as she was wondering if this really could be
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