Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (7 page)

Chapter 8

Tuesday 17 September 7:57am

I wait tensely on the road outside the Coach House Inn as the morning sun rises. The old building doesn't look any less sinister in daylight. It gives me a cold, creeping fear that is becoming my constant companion. With no signal on my mobile, I decide to stop the next car that passes and ask for help. But the next car that comes by is the familiar black Mercedes 4x4, exactly at 8am. Ludvig, with his icy blue eyes now covered by sunglasses, steps out and opens the rear door without so much as looking at me. Menzies Blake is sitting on the back seat, immaculately dressed in a pin-striped charcoal suit.

"Glad to see you made it, Miss Hunter."

"Don't give me all that nice to see you crap." I throw my bag onto the seat and slam the door shut behind me. "Why the hell did you leave me at this rat-hole?"

Blake smiles his irritatingly oily smile before nodding to
Ludvig to pull off.

"The Coach House Inn was a fine hostelry, in its day. Since it was acquired by The Agency it has, regrettably, fallen into disrepair."

"Yeah, right. So all the stuff that happened last night was a set-up?"

"I like to think of it more as a test.
A test of nerve. I'm afraid it's standard procedure."

Blake's reply is delivered instantly and dead-pan. I can't believe he's admitting it all so calmly.

"We needed to see if you are ready to be brought to The Agency. We wanted to make sure you were not easily, how can I put it, "spooked". Hidden cameras monitored your every move. You were never in danger, Miss Hunter."

If I was angry before, I'm raging now. While my dad is lying in a hospital
bed, I've spent the night in a fake haunted house.

"So you're telling me that nothing from last night was real?"

Blake smiles and shakes his head.

"What about the growling noises and the glowing red eyes in the bushes?"

"Audio-visual effects."

So the stupid bunch of keys was a delaying tactic. I knew it.

"And the eyeballs?"

"Film props."

"I don't believe it. So I suppose the dripping tap… "

"Remotely operated," Blake says, finishing my sentence. "That was my idea," he adds with a sense of pride.

"Well, the writing in blood looked fake to me."

"Sorry?"

Blake's expression is one of genuine surprise.

"You
know, the writing on the bathroom wall. Fake blood, was it?"

He stares at me for several seconds, before forcing a laugh. I'm not sure if it's a mocking laugh or a disbelieving one since he's capable of either.

"Oh, erm, yes, of course. Anyway, enough of all that. You must be hungry? Let's get to HQ and arrange breakfast. Please fasten your seatbelt."

Blake
sidestepped the question and changed the subject too quickly, anyone could see that. The writing on the wall is news to him. Maybe not everything from last night was part of his test. As I fasten my seatbelt I take the chance to sneak a glimpse at the hangman game. The writing at the top of the paper confirms my deepest fears. It's exactly the same as what was written on the bathroom wall of The Coach House Inn: Play or Die.

T
he ghost is still trying to communicate with me. A head has been drawn on the hangman game despite the fact I've not had a guess. Now I know why dad told me not to look at it. I'm playing the game whether I like it or not. I have to find Gordon, and fast.

+ + +

Ludvig steers the 4x4 off the main road and along a thin, winding forest path. I only know we're at The Agency HQ when the car pulls up outside a military-style gated entrance. A large warning sign reads "Restricted Area — No Trespassing". What secrets does this place hold? Beyond the thickly barred gates the tree-lined path meanders off into the distance.

Ludvig
lowers his window and taps a code into a keypad, the gates rolling open in response. I stare out of the passenger window as the track opens up to reveal a solitary building; a very grand but dilapidated old mansion. It looms several stories in height with long, thin windows; designed more for looking out than in.

"Welcome to The Agency HQ," says Blake, making a flourishing gesture with his hands like a bad magician.

If I thought the Coach House Inn looked spooky, it's nothing compared to this place. It's like a blueprint for a haunted mansion in a horror film.

"You're telling me I have to sleep here?"

"Yes, just fantastic isn't it? We're lucky to have such a beautiful old building for our headquarters. It's a Sixteenth Century Grade 1 listed mansion, left to us in the will of a former client."

It may have been beautiful once but this place has suffered the ravages of time and neglect. Climbing ivy and thick weeds cover most of the grey stone walls. Overgrown grassed banks shoulder a mossy pond within which sits a sculptured fountain, its marble column turned green. The wind wrestles control of the jets of water and the spray, instead of going straight up in the air, flies crazily to one side like an old man's comb-over.

A lone magpie pecks at the ground. I look around, desperately trying to find the magpie's partner. "One for sorrow, two for joy," as the saying goes. Frustratingly, I can't see another. I cast my eyes up the lopsided stone stairway, which spills down from a large oak door like lava. Above the lintel a foreboding arch has several Latin words etched into the stone.

"Ah, you're admiring the grand entrance?"

Admiring isn't exactly the word I'd use.

"The Latin inscription means “
The Past is entombed in the Present”. It's very appropriate for the work we do. Now, you'll need this Visitor Pass so everyone knows you're with me."

Blake clips the pass to the outside of my black jacket and frowns in confusion when he realises I'm wearing it inside out. I snap it off and shove it in my pocket, casting him a fiery glance. By his expression I know my eyes have their crimson glint to them.

"Our headquarters have several vacant rooms. You're on the first floor, room number thirteen."

"Thirteen? You're joking, right? Don't you have any other rooms I can use?"

Blake ignores my request.

"You'l
l find breakfast in the kitchen, at the end of the corridor. I'll brief you further once you've eaten. Don't wander inside the house, it's very easy to get lost in there. Oh, and please try not to bother the other Agents."

There is only one person I want to bother: Gordon. I wonder when I'll meet him, and what he looks like.

"You should drop your bag in your room, then hurry if you're to catch some breakfast."

Blake nods to
Ludvig, who opens the passenger door and ushers me out of the car.

"
Feel free to freshen up after breakfast," says Blake. "I'll call for you at your room at eleven. Any questions?"

"When can I go and see Dad?"

Blake pulls out a mobile phone.

"I'll get an update for you
straightaway."

That wasn't the question I asked, but before I can object
Ludvig shuts the door, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the black tinted window. As he straightens up, Ludvig's jacket falls open, revealing his white shirt underneath. But I notice something other than his shirt: a holster with a gun strapped inside. He casually pulls the jacket across his waist and fastens a button. I glance up at him as he stares into the distance over my head, waiting for me to walk off. Did he mean for me to see the gun, like it was a warning?

"Hey
Ludvig, your shoelace is undone."

He takes the bait and looks down. So you can hear me. I feel his eyes following me as I walk up the stone steps.

The mansion's front door, with its creepy lion-face knocker, creeks open with the gentlest of touches; as though opened by an invisible butler. A dimly lit corridor leads to a brighter room at the end which must be the kitchen. Ahead, a non-too-inviting staircase leads to the first floor, its bare wooden steps covered by a well-worn runner carpet, sagging like a dog's tongue.

As I climb the stairs and turn a corner, I'm drawn to the faces of the portraits whose eyes seem to follow me. Why do people in old paintings look so spooky? I open the door of room number thirteen and step into an antique room. Everything feels old: the writing desk, the four-poster bed, the giant wardrobe. Fancy-framed oil paintings do nothing to liven up the discoloured walls. The en-suite bathroom looks like it's not been used, or cleaned, for years. I make a half-hearted attempt to unpack my bag, placing the picture of Mum and Dad on the bedside table. I'll only stay
here long enough to find Gordon, I reassure myself. Besides, anything has to be better than last night at The Coach House Inn.

I walk downstairs to the kitchen. Thankfully, it's a much brighter room compared to the rest of the mansion. A microwave, dishwasher and other modern appliances create a homely feel. It's strange to think I'm at Dad's place of work where he eats and socialises with colleagues.

A young blonde woman sits alone at a table; I feel her eyes boring into my back as I walk to the far end of the kitchen. A folded card with my name written on it sits next to a bowl of Cornflakes and a glass of fresh orange juice. The blonde woman flicks through the pages of a thick document, not bothering to look up or acknowledge me. I take a seat at the end of the table, far enough away to avoid disturbing her. As I start munching my way through the Cornflakes I hear a voice.

"Can you pass me the sugar, please?"

"Sorry?"

My apology is an instinctive response to buy a few seconds longer to take in the details. The woman, dressed in a smart suit, has short, choppy blonde
hair, which shimmers like one of those girls in a shampoo commercial. Each strand seems like it's meant to be the exact length it is. I also notice her delicate nose beneath the black-rimmed designer glasses, and her full lips ─ she is striking without trying to be. It's kind of intimidating for a girl to be in the presence of someone so naturally beautiful. And it doesn't help that she has the domineering air of a stern head teacher.

"The sugar, please?"

"Oh, yes, sure."

I pick up the sugar bowl and pass it to her outstretched hand. I can't help but stare as she tips four heaped spoons into her mug, raising the level of the coffee above the rim and sending dark splashes onto the table.

"Had a good look, have you?" says the blonde woman, her coffee mug poised near her mouth. She puts it down and throws me a sideways glare. I didn't realise I'd been staring at her for so long.

"Didn't anyone tell you not to bother the Agents?"

I feel like I've been given a telling off by a teacher. I quicken my spoon-to-mouth action, determined to finish off the cereal and leave as soon as possible.

"I'm sorry," says the woman, flipping her document closed and casting a less harsh expression. "You're a visitor, right?"

She removes her glasses and folds them to reveal the young face of a woman in her early twenties.

"I'm Zara."

It's the same name that popped up on Aaron's mobile phone at the hospital. That's more than just a coincidence. She takes a sip of coffee with the hint of a slurp.

"I know, four spoonfuls
is way too much, but I need a sugar fix if I'm going to get all this work done. Nobody is perfect, eh?"

"Tell me about it," I reply, which makes her smile. "I'm about as far from perfection as you can get."

I smile back at her, grateful for the reality of someone who likes her coffee sugary. Zara takes another sip and sighs pleasantly at the taste.

"So, what brings you here? We don't get many visitors at The Agency. At least, not many who make it beyond The Coach House."

I pause to think of what to say. Don't trust anyone, I tell myself, repeating Dad's mantra. "I'm here with Menzies Blake."

"Really?"
Zara seems surprised. "Friends in high places, eh? Talk of the Devil, here comes Blake now…"

Zara juts her chin
torward the door and I twist in my seat expecting to see him. Strangely, the door is closed and nobody is there. I turn back to Zara with a confused expression.

"Keep looking," she says, having resumed reading.

Five seconds pass, then the door bursts open and Menzies Blake walks in. How bizarre? How could Zara possibly know that Menzies Blake was on his way here? As he enters he scans the room left to right then fakes a surprised expression when he catches sight of me.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, Miss Hunter."

"Really? You told me to come here."

Blake looks suspiciously
torward Zara who is now the one staring at me. Something strikes me about the look she casts. It's almost as if she suddenly recognises me or knows my name. Blake hovers over my shoulder, the smell of expensive after-shave invading my personal space.

"We've got lots to do. Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Gordon."