Our realm and the Spirit Realm are definitely closer than anyone thinks, with a surprisingly permeable border. In addition to gates that can be opened and closed, there are some very well-hidden permanent pathways used by a select number of beings who treat one world or the other like some sort of commuting town.
Then there’s incursions: Those rare and often-disastrous meetings-of-realities that happen when tides that no man or woman can predict sweep two realms into the same cosmic or celestial neighbourhood.
Among the worst types of incursions are Sinkholes. They’re not as big as other incursions, and they’re not intentionally created, but their chaotic nature means they can lead anywhere: Even to the deepest, darkest, trench on the other side of the curtain. If we’re lucky, they only pull things down and through - hence the name - but occasionally something digs its way up from the other side.
x
We took a van down to a random spot on the Waterford coast and arrived before midnight. Not a long time before midnight, mind.
When we found the site and pulled over, Murtagh glanced at the dashboard clock and said, “We’d almost have been better off waiting for Cormac to make a door for us.”
“It’s summertime,” I reminded him. “It’ll be another hour or two before a door can be opened.”
He grunted as he pulled the handbrake, producing the same noise twice. “Seems fairly quiet,” he said, looking towards the beach. “This better not be a wild goose chase.”
The Sinkhole was on a small nearby beach. From what Murtagh had been able to gather before leaving Dublin, its epicentre was somewhere just above the low-tide-line. The tide was fairly low when we arrived but we could see no obvious disturbance.
Parked by the side of the road a few yards ahead was a pair of vans. One was a small winnebago-style camper-and-van combination and the other a vintage 1960s Volkswagen. The rear of the VW was covered with stickers, both bumper and regular, showing the cities and countries it had visited. Murtagh indicated them and said, “That must be Caroline’s. I heard she’d been travelling,” before exiting.
I dismounted as well and rapped on the side of our truck. I heard Containment stir from their slumber in the rear as I joined Murtagh at the campervan, where he was studying its stickers like a profiler studies a serial killer’s Kill Wall.
“Slovakia,” he said, pointing to a sticker. “Nepal. Paraguay. Mongolia!”
“She gets about, it seems,” I said.
“They’re all landlocked,” he said, “And I don’t see their neighbours here. She’s either flying this thing about or teleporting it,”
“Or travelling by land and not collecting souvenirs from everywhere along the way,” I said.
He ‘harrumphed’ like nobody like Murtagh could harrumph and knocked on one of the van’s curtained windows. Behind me, I could hear the doors of our own van open and Valentina emerge, barking orders to the rest. I walked to where the edge of the footpath overlooked the beach and took a deep breath. For once, the sea air didn’t make me want to hurl, but then I remembered what might lie below the sand, and the nausea returned.
“Simon!” a voice exclaimed, and I turned to see Caroline Grady emerge from the VW van. She hugged Murtagh for longer than it took me to realise she had been referring to him with her ‘Simon’ remark. Who knew he had a first name? She eventually released him and looked about the area.
Caroline Grady hit all the archetypes of a retired magic practitioner, which if you’re not immersed in our world, were also all the archetypes of a retired art teacher. The layers were a dead giveaway. Above her flouncy skirt, she wore a gypsy scarf, tied at her waist. Above that was a crochet top, a cardigan, a shawl, and one of those knitted scarves that circled endlessly. She wore a pair of glasses, with another nested in her thick curly hair that was several different shades of dark grey, and had a third pair hanging on a chain around her neck.
“Good to see you again, Caroline,” said Murtagh, extricating himself. “You’re looking well.”
“You should talk,” she said, readjusting her shawl. “You’ve not changed a bit since we last met.” Then she lifted the third pair of glasses and squinted at me through them. “Is that Victor?”
I nodded and went in to get my own hug.
“You’re even taller,” she said, which was probably not true, but certainly not impossible. “I hear you’re lead investigator now? I hope Arthur is treating you well.”
I made one of those backwards teeth-whistling noises by way of response and she laughed.
“Come in, come in,” she said, indicating the van. “Jim will be happy to see you.”
Murtagh and I hesitated. We’d have problems squeezing into the back of her van, even without Caroline and her brother already inside. Then she swung the door open, and we understood.
A few minutes later, we were sitting at a boothed table while she poured us cups of herbal tea and Jim Grady dressed in another room. Yes, the van had another room. At least one. The interior of the van had been lifted straight out of one of those giant star trailers they give to Hollywood A-listers so they can do cocaine in peace without having to leave the studio grounds. There was a small kitchen area, a pair of sofas, a full-size bathroom and doors at either end leading away to bedrooms. At least, I assumed it was to bedrooms. They could have connected to a cave network or the International Space Station for all I knew.
“Get good mileage out of this?” Murtagh asked sardonically.
“Surprisingly decent,” she said, joining us in the booth by squeezing next to Murtagh. “So, I hear you dropped off the grid for a while?”
This question was aimed my way, and took me by surprise. “Yeah,” I stammered. “The Bealtaine Offering had some complications.”
“Well, nice to see you made it back. Jim went on a few of those trips, and I always worried I’d never see him again. Oh, speak of the devil.”
Jim Grady had emerged from one of the bedrooms, wearing pyjamas and an old bathrobe. He was three years younger than his sister, but where she had a tangle of thick grey hair, he had only a thin fringe of pure white that circled from ear to ear around the back of his head. He seemed a bit befuddled by being woken up, but he smiled when he saw us.
“I should have known it was the two of you,” he said.
“How’d you recognise me?” I asked, pulling my glamour free.
“The camper tipped to one side when you got in,” he said and grinned.
I grinned back and stood to shake his hand. “How’s retirement treating you?” I asked.
“Wonderfully!” he said. “Nothing has tried to kill me for three years.”
“Well, if it gets boring, you can always come back.”
He took my vacated seat in the booth while I pulled a stool up to the end of the table. “My replacement’s not working out?” he asked.
“Don’t tell him I said this,” I said, “but he’s adequate. Competent, even. But he’s not a patch on an old pro like you.”
He reached for the herbal tea. “That’s very nice of you, but I am retired retired. I don’t even practice any more.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve survived one too many close calls and figured it was time to get out while I was still ahead,” he said.
“So you’re not going to help us close the incursion?” Murtagh asked.
“I can certainly advise, if you need it,” he said. “But my staff is back at home in the garden. It’s holding up some runner beans.”
“I never thought I’d see the day,” I said, shaking my head.
“No use arguing with him,” Caroline said. “I’ve tried.”
I looked at my watch. “Speaking of my replacement, he’ll be here in about an hour. You said you had a door?”
“It’s packed away,” said Caroline. She stood from the booth and went to one of the benches where she lifted the cushion to reveal a storage compartment. This, too, seemed to be bigger on the inside. Murtagh and I exchanged sidelong looks, which she noticed. “What? I have a Talent. I’m going to use it.”
Inside the compartment was a tent, folded and disassembled for storage, and an ornate wooden door, lying flat, frame-and-all. I reached in and dragged the door upright then lifted it out of the compartment.
“Careful,” said Jim. “Don’t let it open.”
“I’m aware,” I said. “Murtagh, grab the tent. Let’s get this up.”
Forty-five minutes later, we had the tent erected outside on the sand-strewn grass between the road and the beach, with the door standing inside.
Erecting the tent had been problematic. Murtagh and I had struggled with the plastic poles for some time while the Containment contingent watched, and probably placed bets, until Symonenko pushed us aside and finished it in about five minutes while muttering under her breath in Ukrainian.
It was a square four-man tent with room to stand in, so we had no problems getting the doorway inside. The frame had small legs that stuck out near the base, so it could stand without any support. We made sure it was secured and still closed and stepped outside.
The night air was cool, but not uncomfortably so. The sound of the ocean was pretty relaxing, now I stopped to listen. All-in-all, it wasn’t a bad spot for my last case with the Office of Special Investigations. Maybe Jim and Caroline needed someone to carry things for them.
Jim chose that moment to stand beside me. He didn’t say anything; just stood watching the glow of the ocean.
“Peaceful,” I said, after a few minutes.
“Yeup.”
“You want to talk-” he said at the same time I said, “I meant to ask-”. We both shut up.
He made one of those ‘after you’ gestures.
“I meant to ask,” I said, “who’s in the other van?”
“Oh, Patrick? Calls himself ‘Master Weber’ which is a bit much, I think. German sorcerer. Travels around teaching neophytes, for a fee.”
“Is he any good?”
“Let’s just say, I’ve seen the fee. For that much money, he’d have to be.”
“He have an apprentice at the moment?” I asked, turning to the van.
“I think so. Caroline saw a young man with him this evening.”
“So with him, Caroline, you, Cormac, and a possibly untrained apprentice, that makes two full wizards and three people we can throw at the monsters if they break through the veil.”
“Still a sarcastic bastard, I see.”
“That’s my magic power.”
We were back at the tent at 1:20, watching the door. There was silence. Symonenko and Murtagh were there, along with two other members of Containment I hadn’t met yet. They were big Irish guys with protective tattoos visible just above the necklines of their shirts. Jim was present, standing just behind my left elbow, like the good old days.
Time ticked on.
“Is he late? Did he miss?” Murtagh asked.
“Five euro says he’s on target,” said Jim, tapping my elbow.
“No bet,” I said back, without taking my eyes off the door.
“I’ll tell him you said that,” he said.
Fuck.
“That doesn’t mean-” I began when the door opened with a loud click.
Then it swung wide, and Cormac stepped out. He stopped when he saw us, like someone arriving at a surprise party whose birthday it isn’t. Then he gave a little wave and said, “Hello!”
The tension within the tent relaxed. Cormac had opened his share of Midnight Doors, but it was never a sure thing. Behind him, I could see a corridor from a level of the department just below the Containment cells.
“I made it then,” he said and retreated back through the door to get George.
George is a hippo. Stone or ceramic, we’re not sure, but he’s been with the department longer than anyone except Sir Arthur. At about two foot long and a foot high, his shape suggests that he was originally designed to be placed in garden ponds with his ears and nose and tail poking just above the water’s surface, but some time, many years ago, he wound up inside the Office of Special Investigation and was now used for the sole purpose of stopping Midnight Doors from accidentally closing.
Cormac swung the door to its maximum extent and then planted George on the tent floor against it, twisting once or twice to ensure his legs were securely anchored.
Then he straightened and took in the room for the first time. “Am I too late? Has the south coast been sucked into a lightless dimension?”
“Not yet,” said Murtagh.
“Then carry on,” replied Cormac. “The door is stable and safe, but it’s probably best not to have everyone clustered around it. I’m not sure how it’ll react if the incursion grows.”
The two Containment newbies backed out of the tent, followed by Symonenko and Murtagh. But Jim remained and then stepped forward to peer through the door. He took a deep breath, as if smelling the air, then turned back to us.
“It hasn’t changed a bit,” he said.
“Want to visit, Uncle?” Cormac asked. “I’m sure the Magistrate would appreciate a catch-up.”
“Oh, he has better things to be doing than talking to me,” said Jim, snapping out of his reverie. “Come along, Cormac, I’ll show you the sinkhole.”
There was not much to do after that but wait. Sinkholes don’t pop open overnight. It can take days to fully form, but when they do, they can be quite sudden. The plan was to station a presence on or near the beach, and keep the Midnight Door open for reinforcements.
I realised it had been about twelve hours since I had least eaten, so ducked through the door into the quiet of the department’s lower halls. I climbed the stairs, stole a chicken sandwich from the stash that Containment kept in their bullpen’s fridge and took it to the canteen.
I was a few bites in when the Magistrate stood before me.
“How severe is the incursion?” he asked.
I swallowed the mouthful of sandwich with a gulp. “I can’t see it myself, but Caroline and Jim Grady seem concerned. They said it's still in its early stages. Could be days or weeks.”
He pondered this for a while. “I will inspect it myself,” he said eventually. “You are working under Mister Murtagh for the duration. You will follow all of his instructions. When you are not there, you are to work in Archives. Records have a backlog.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“When the sinkhole is dealt with, we will reconsider your future with the department,” he said, and then he was gone.
I considered the remains of my sandwich briefly, and then dropped the thing into the bin before going back to the beach.
I watched the sunrise a few hours later from a public bench on the roadside, around three hundred yards from the little village we were growing, as the world gradually woke up around me. Just a few minutes after dawn, I heard the doors of the larger campervan open and voices echo towards me. I looked and saw two figures; one tall and fat and dressed in a suit and tie, and the other smaller and wearing a t-shirt and running shorts. The tall one barked orders to the shorter, who took off away from me in a slow jog. The taller one barked again and he doubled his speed.
I stood and moseyed my way towards them to make my introductions. “You must be Master Weber,” I said when I got close.
The man had been studying the beach with a small square telescope - the sort you see special forces using - and jumped when he heard my voice. He turned to me and looked me up and down. Then he put his scope back to his eye and looked me up and down again.
“You are the troll policeman,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said, extending my hand. “Victor Grey.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I am Patrick Weber.”
We shook hands and I indicated his scope. “You can see the incursion through that?”
“Not yet,” he said, putting it back to his eye and scanning the beach again. “But there is, what is the word? Contours? Like, a magnet?”
“Force lines?”
“Ja, the force lines in the air. Like lightning bolts, but frozen. They all point to the centre.” He offered me the scope, but I waved it away. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies. You have dealt with them before?”
“A long time ago, and it was only a small one. Dumped a half-ton of cold iron into it just as it was opening.”
“We will need a lot more than that this time,” he said.
In the distance I spied the jogging figure coming back towards us. “That’s your student?” I asked. “You have him running?”
“Healthy body, healthy mind,” Weber said, looking towards the approaching figure.
“Is he capable? Will he be able to help if the sinkhole opens?”
Weber made one of those ‘weeellllll’ gestures with his hand then said, “He is certainly talented and quite powerful. But he is very new. He has only been practicing a few months.”
I looked at the approaching figure again before realisation dropped in me like cold iron in a sinkhole. “Shit.” I said. “Shit, shit shit,” I added for good measure.
The figure reached us then, and Weber gestured towards me. “William, this is a member of your Office of Special Investigations. Victory Grey.”
William seemed out of breath, but still nodded in greeting before extending a hand towards me. “William Buckley. My friends call me Buck.”
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