Paranormal Investigations: No Situation Too Strange, Page 2

  I sighed as my hand rested on the doorknob, this was not my life. Every time I crossed the threshold I got a sense of unease, as if my life had gone off track and was now veering out of control and I was not sure how to reclaim it.

  As I entered the offices Rose's head peered out from behind a large pot plant, a pair of pruning shears in her hand. With the other hand she picked up her glasses which dangled on a cord around her neck and pushed her glasses back on her nose. She stared at me.

  I once asked Rose why she worked for Paranormal Investigations (she had been another inheritance from Great Aunt Mildred).

  “Well it was this or down the Oxfam,” she had told me.

  "Any messages?" I asked, as I sorted through the post which sat in a tray on her desk. Mostly bills and circulars by the looks of it.

  Rose’s office was the main reception, through which I had to pass to get to my office. You might almost mistake the reception for a garden centre as Rose had different varieties of plants in pots all over the place. I suspected some were plastic, but I had no proof.

  "No. We're out of biscuits,” she said, “I need to go and buy some. I've been waiting for you to come in so the phones wouldn't be unmanned."

  "Yes," I replied, "it wouldn't do to turn on the answer machine. It couldn't handle the weight of calls we get."

  Sarcasm was wasted on Rose.

  "I'll go get the biscuits then," she said as she picked up her coat and slid it on to her skinny frame, "any requests?"

  "Bohemian Rhapsody?"

  She blinked blankly. "Custard creams it is. I'll need some money."

  I reached into my pocket for my purse and opened the coin section. Rose stared at me until I closed that and opened the note section. She was happy with a fiver. I suppose it was the least I could do - keep her in biscuits. It's not like I paid her a wage or anything and I didn't want to lose her to the Oxfam. Who else would I find who could turn my offices into a garden centre and deal with such a hefty weight of calls and filing?

  In my office I got out a blank notebook and tried to record what the goat man had told me. I wrote everything I could think of in swirls across the page. The more I wrote the more I feared for my sanity. Seriously - the guy had hooves and horns? Fairies are real? I tried to eliminate the impossible - for, in the words of the great Sherlock Holmes, whatever remained - however improbable - must be the truth. The problem was - fairies were impossible. I knew they were impossible. Weird things like that just couldn't exist. However, despite that, there was a goat man staying in my flat and eating my peace lily. And no matter what - he had asked for my help.

  *

  Brain buzzing with questions, I abandoned the offices and drove back to my flat as soon as Rose returned with her custard creams. I had barely been gone forty minutes but that had been long enough for me to think clearly. I had to treat this man like any other client and deal with his case as I would any other. If he couldn't pay me, I'd sting my dad for it as it was his fault I'd gotten involved.

  A strange sight met me as I re-entered my flat. The goat man had discovered the Wii fit and was engaged in an on-the-spot jog. The Wii remote was tucked into his baggy black trousers and his hooves were wearing a bald spot into my carpet.

  "Did you get the salt?" he asked mid-jog.

  "Okay mister," I said, "sit down and listen."

  He turned around and blinked. "Are you going to help me?"

  "I'm going to take your case and treat it like any other."

  He smiled and as he did so I realised he looked like a child, very young and innocent.

  "Okay, sit down and let's start again at the beginning - and no - I don't mean with your birth."

  I slung my jacket on the back of the sofa and emptied my pockets, purse, keys and phone, onto the coffee table before sitting down. I reached for a pad of paper and a pen.

  "Right - describe the people who you think have arranged for the hit on you."

  "Well, they're not really people."

  "For the sake of my sanity we're going to call them people - okay?" I pressed a curling corner of a sheet of paper flat with my thumb.

  "Very well... they're sometimes known as the little people - it's hard to tell what they really look like as they are given to enchantments and trickery. They can move through the air on wings, they look like dragonfly wings - but bigger. And they shimmer. Most people only notice them as a blur of light, they never see the true fairy and they are so rare these days many don't even see that. Sometimes they look like human beings, but only if they want to be seen that way. Many of them choose this form to blend in."

  "These fairies are rare?"

  "You might call them an endangered species."

  "Why?"

  "They started dying out in the iron age." he said with a shrug as if it was a fact everyone knew.

  "Why?"

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. "Because of the iron, of course. They are allergic to iron."

  I scribbled on my pad 'iron allergy'. "Okay, go on."

  "The fairy who got me involved was called Orla. She did me a favour when I was younger, but of course it wasn't a favour and I was too young to know better. Fairies lure people in with favours and then they are the slaves of the Fae for life - there is no way out. The favour I owed her got sold on and being around fairies you get tricked into more things, before I knew it I owed debts to many of the Fae. Then they started calling them in."

  "What can you tell me about this Orla?"

  He scrunched up his nose. "She’s a fairy and her name is Orla. And she's mean. Really mean."

  I sighed. "How will they find you? Are you safe here?"

  He shrugged and glanced nervously at the window. "I really do wish you'd bought that salt," he said, "I'd feel a lot safer."

  "They don't like salt?"

  "No, if you spill it or throw it at them they have to sit and count every grain - it's the only way to slow an attack. They really do have very vicious teeth you know. And it makes a good magical threshold – it’s very hard to cross uninvited."

  I repressed a shiver. "Okay, I'll get some salt. Is there any way we can tell if they are coming?"

  He shook his head. "They might have called in a favour, it could be anyone." He gave a little shiver and then a sob. He pulled his green kerchief off his neck and blew into it loudly, "I don't want to die!" he said plaintively, "I'm only young!"

  Awkwardly I patted his hand. "There, there."

  "I need a protector, a bodyguard. Will you find one for me?"

  "A bodyguard?"

  "There's only one type of creature that would never get involved with the Fae, they hate them. Trolls. I need a troll."

  Oh of course he did. A troll. I had to find him a troll.

  Just then my phone rang on the coffee table. The goat man reached it before me and answered it before I could whip it out of his hand.

  "Hello?" he bleated, nodded and then held it out to me, "it's for you."

  Frowning, I ripped it out of his hand and held it to my ear. "Hello," I said tersely, "Paranormal Investigations, Leo speaking, how can I help you?"

  "Leo?" said a voice like chocolate and I melted whilst simultaneously feeling as if I had been punched in the stomach.

  "Oh, hello Jez," I said quietly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Troll Hunter

  There was a pause at the end of the line.

  "Who was that?" Jez asked.

  "Oh... er, Bob." I said, deliberately not looking at my uninvited house guest.

  The goat man blinked at me.

  "Bob?" Jez questioned.

  "Yeah, Bob." I stood up and went into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me.

  "I see," he went on, "Bob."

  "So..." I said, sitting back on the bed, my heart thudding, "what can I do for you?"

  "Well, I'm back in the country and I was just trying to catch up with everyone. How are you?"

  "Me? Great. And you?" I chewed my thumbnail. Of course he was great. H
e was in films, he was even on buses. How could he not be great?

  "Yeah, things are good."

  "I saw your naked chest on a bus today." I said rapidly without thinking and then blushed a deep crimson. Thank goodness it wasn't a video call. What an idiot. What had this handsome, sophisticated movie star ever seen in me?

  He laughed. "Yeah, who needs to go to the gym when you can get air brushed - eh?"

  He had a gorgeous laugh. I sighed. Everything about Jeremy Flynt was gorgeous. That was one of the reasons I loved him so much, he was so damn easy to love.

  "I was wondering," he said slowly, "if you wanted to meet up? I'm in a play at the National. Maybe you could drop by and we could have coffee or lunch? It's pretty manic as we open soon, but it'd be nice to see an old friend. We could hang out."

  Old friend.

  “I know it’s short notice, but how about a late lunch or coffee today? Meet you outside the theatre stage door? We could find somewhere on the South Bank to eat?”

  "Sure," I said coldly and stopped listening, my heart had hit the floor. He had called me an 'old friend', there could be no clearer signal that he didn't love me, that he only ever wanted me as a friend. He carried on talking and I agreed a time to meet him, but my main concern was not bursting into tears whilst talking to him. I managed to end the call as quickly as I could and, throwing the phone down, I hid my head in a pillow as hot, angry tears erupted from my eyes. A while later I heard the door open and a clip-clopping sound approach. A hand awkwardly patted my head and the goat man said, "There, there."

  *

  When my eyes were less puffy and bloodshot, I ventured out on my errands for the goat man. Budgens was my first stop. They had an array of different salts so I picked up a variety just to be safe. There was no reason to think vanilla infused pink Himalayan salt would be more effective than cheap old table salt, but I wasn’t going to take the risk and bought every variety I could find. My next mission was to find a troll and bribe him to protect the goat man. With my green plastic bag full of salt in boxes, bags and mills I walked the short distance to Oak Hill Park.

  Jez's phone call had shaken me and it had taken some effort to dry my tears and regain my composure. I had a job to do and could not afford to let my emotions run riot over me. I had a troll to find.

  "Where exactly," I asked the goat man without quite managing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, "am I supposed to find a troll?"

  He shook his head slightly - I noticed he did this every time he thought I asked a stupid question. "Under a bridge of course."

  "Ah yes, of course. Under a bridge."

  "All bridges have a troll under them."

  "Ah, I wonder why it is I have never seen one then - ever?"

  "Well it has to be a proper bridge, one over water."

  "Yep, I've seen a few of those in my time - knew a few intimately as a teenager and you know what - they appeared to be one hundred per cent troll free."

  "Did you ask?"

  "What?"

  "Did you ask for them? Did you ask them to come out and show themselves?"

  "No, I must admit I didn't ask a fictional creature to come out and show itself."

  "Well there you are then." he said with a shrug, "You should've asked."

  "So I just go to a bridge over water and ask a troll to show himself? Then said troll will agree to be your bodyguard?"

  "He might not, he might have something on. Trolls are a tricky bunch, you have to be careful how you deal with them. They're very proud and very vicious. We'll probably have to pay him."

  "We? I don't know if you're aware of this, but people normally pay me when I help them."

  "Not money - only humans have a use that. We deal in real things, not imaginary. He'll want something tasty."

  My eyebrows rose in question so he continued:

  "Trolls live under bridges, they eat whatever the water brings them. If you want a troll to do your bidding you only have to offer them something nice to eat. They just can't bear to refuse."

  At the door to my flat, as I left to buy the salt and attempt to procure a troll, I turned to the goat man and asked:

  "Look - what do I call you? What's your name?"

  He blinked. "You called me Bob."

  "I know I called you Bob when I was on the phone but I didn't know your real name - what is it?"

  "Bob."

  "No, your real name."

  "It is Bob. My kind, we don't have a name until someone gives us one. You were the first person to give me a name."

  "Oh."

  My insides scrunched up. That was so sad, not to have anyone care enough to give you a name. I left before I could embarrass myself with more tears. What did I care if this strange creature had never been given a name before?

  *

  Through Chipping Barnet and East Barnet there runs a small stream called the Pymmes Brook, there is even a walk you can do if you fancy strolling along a long stretch of stagnant water and dodging rusty supermarket trolleys. The brook actually ran underneath my flat building, peeping out from its underground route by the car park before flowing under the road and then reappearing in the park.

  Because of the Pymmes Brook there were three bridges in Oak Hill Park. I was going to follow Bob's instructions and see if I could get either a troll bodyguard or, failing that, some proof of my dwindling sanity. If I got him some protection maybe I could convince Bob to leave me in peace.

  Oak Hill was a beautiful park, full of a variety of trees which meant the park was a wash of colours at all times of year. It got its name from the fact it had once been covered with oak trees, there were still some left although their ancestors had long since been felled to build Saint Albans Abbey.

  Grey squirrels were plentiful, as were enormous black ravens, footballers, joggers and people with children or dogs. It was a popular place and I was not sure how I was going to manage to stand on a bridge and ask for a troll without someone hearing me and thinking I came from the 'extra care living’ home opposite.

  The park was such a size it took me some time to reach the first bridge. I hung about it uncertainly, leaning on the railing pretending I was enjoying the view when in fact I was trying to peer underneath to ascertain whether there was a troll beneath. There was nothing to see other than a brownish trickle of water ebbing over rocks, detritus and weeds.

  I waited until a mother with a pushchair and a fox terrier passed before leaning as far over the railing as I could and whispering:

  "Hello, is there a troll there?"

  I straightened quickly as a red setter came bounding by and I smiled as his balding, middle aged owner followed. As they disappeared round the corner I leant over again and said a little louder:

  "Hello! Is there a troll there?"

  "Alright, alright - heard you the first time," came a deep rasping voice from the space underneath the bridge.

  As I watched, the top of a violet coloured head covered with sparse dark hair appeared. As the head looked up at me I saw perhaps the ugliest thing I had ever seen in my life.

  "What you looking at?" he asked as I took in his full form, "Never seen a troll before?"

  "Er... no actually."

  He must have been about five foot tall. He obviously had to crouch to fit under the bridge and was uncurling himself as he came out to meet me. His arms were far too long for his body and he had enormous, knobbly elbows. In one over-large hand he held a dirty wooden club. His knees were bowed as if he had a very bad case of rickets - or had lived under a small bridge for a long period of time, I guess. It was his face that unsettled me - it was unlike anything I had ever seen before. His dark eyes were bulbous and too close together, over them was a dark unibrow that could have done with some serious attention from a set of tweezers. His nose sprouted awkwardly out from his face, twisting at the end as if he'd broken it a few times. He had rubbery lips and a seriously nasty overbite. Imagine this in your head and then add dark pustules to decorate his key features. That was th
e troll before me.

  "What do you want then?" he rasped, cutting straight to the chase.

  "I was wondering whether you would consider being a bodyguard for a... a man being pursued by fairies?"

  The bulging eyes stared at me without blinking. "Nah," he said, "I've got something on. It’s bingo night."

  He gave a sniff then he swung the club over his shoulder and began to bend his knees to fit back under the bridge.

  "Won't you reconsider?" I asked.

  He looked up at me. "Trevor does shit like that, tell him Graham sent you."

  Then he disappeared back under the bridge.

  "Where do I find Trevor?" I asked a little too loudly and a jogger in phosphorescent yellow gave me a very strange look. "Where is that dog?" I added pathetically to cover my embarrassment, "Oh Trevor!"

  A squirrel nibbling at an acorn paused long enough to give me a funny look and then continued gnawing.

  As Graham the troll didn't seem to want to help me, I decided the only logical thing to do was to try the next bridge and ask for Trevor there.

  I walked over Graham's bridge (would I ever think of the park in the same way again?) and around the corner to the other side of the park. The next bridge was at the far end of the path by the pavilion, where the parkrunners assembled on a Saturday morning for their 5k run. If that bridge failed I could always try the next one a little further on. Then I was out of bridges and potential bodyguards.

  As I walked, I considered the fact that I had been to this park many times over the last few years and had never seen a troll. Until the early hours of this morning I had never met a goat man or a troll. Now I had seen both - or, I had to acknowledge there was the another possibility, I had finally lost my sanity and the men in white coats would soon be after me with a strait jacket and some heavy sedatives. I was not sure which option was the more logical. Which would Sherlock Holmes believe? Madness or weird shit?

  The second bridge was not so secluded as Graham's, this meant at least I could see people coming but it also meant whatever I did on that bridge was visible from a distance. I leant on the rail as I had at the previous bridge and waited until the coast was as clear as it could be in a busy park.