Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [21]
Jeffrey watched her go, open-mouthed. What on Earth was going on? Who had been on the other end of the telephone? And what had they done to drag the singer from the depths of depression in such a short time? As Jeffrey picked up the telephone to call a cab, he recalled the name that Patsy had spoken on the phone – she’d repeated it very carefully, as if she had been 34
committing it to memory. It was an uncommon name; Jeffrey couldn’t decide whether it was foreign or not. He tried saying it out loud, experimentally.
‘Kwedge. Christopher Kwedge.’
Gordy Scraton was a man with plans. Big plans. As he stood on the balcony overlooking the busy dancefloor of his nightclub, he thought about the future and smiled greedily to himself. The nightclub was a nice little earner and provided a cover for his more serious ‘business’ ventures, but it was still peanuts when compared to what he knew he was destined for.
Since his older brother’s death in the summer, Gordy had inherited the position of head of the family business. No small task for a young man of twenty-six, especially when the family trade was extortion, blackmail and unlicensed gambling. But Gordy had his sights set higher than ordinary crime, for Gordy knew that he was special. After all, he thought, how many men had cut a deal with the devil himself?
Gordy chuckled as he walked from the noisy club into the quieter office at the back of the building. His office housed a large desk from which he liked to give orders to the few men remaining in his employ. The desk had belonged to his late brother, Albert. It was made of a dark wood and smelt old.
When Gordy sat behind it he remembered his brother and he felt powerful and important. He liked that feeling.
But he didn’t sit down at his desk tonight. Instead he ran his fingers along the lip of the desktop until he located a small switch. Behind him, in the corner of the room, part of the wall silently fell away to reveal sharp wooden steps leading down into the darkness. Taking an electric torch from an otherwise empty desk drawer, he slipped down the steps and into the room below.
The room was small, cold and damp. The only light came from the torch in his hand. Gordy didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but he was secretly terrified every time he came into his little shrine. He was always frightened when the devil appeared before him; but he was more scared that one night the voice wouldn’t answer his call and he would be left alone.
He knelt before a small altar he had fashioned himself out of a wooden crate and an old drape. He began to murmur the now familiar incantation under his breath. On top of the altar, the large glass sphere sat dark and lifeless, waiting patiently for him to finish. He stumbled through the prayer selfconsciously, fearful of being found kneeling in the dark, whispering to himself.
He sighed audibly as the glass ball on the wooden crate in front of him began to shine with an eerie emerald light. Gordy stared deep into the glass, watching the intricate flames which flickered and whirled inside.
‘I’ve done what you told me,’ he whispered, his face so close to the glass that his warm breath left patches of moisture behind as he spoke. ‘I sent Carl 35
to see to the boy – just like you told me.’ The globe didn’t respond; Gordy carried on anxiously. ‘Carl will do the job, you don’t have to worry on that score. He’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’
There was a long pause, and then the crystal ball sighed with evident pleasure, reminding Gordy of a cat stretching after a nap by the fire. When it spoke its voice was a deep and melodic whisper.
‘There will be others,’ it breathed. ‘There will be many others.’
Gordy swallowed. ‘What about the things you promised me, you said –’
The voice from the centre of the fiery ball cut him short. ‘ I said, ’ it started sharply, clearly annoyed, making