Chapter 14
Glasgow25 June 2004
It's surprising how quickly life can become routine. Since I arrived in Glasgow, I've set up a home of sorts, fallen in love (with a car), even managed to make a friend or two. Being the city it is, there are a lot of cemeteries, and I've been patrolling them, working my way through the list night by night. It's not the Hellmouth, but it's been keeping me busy. Before hitting the cemeteries, I've been doing the rounds of various drinking establishments. It took a while, but the other night I eventually found one that has a significant demon clientele, and from there, I picked up a couple more. I'm planning to visit all of them when I can to try to pick up on anything that might be useful. Not being known around here is kind of a double-edged sword. It means that I'm not (yet) really known as one of the white-hats, but on the other hand, I don't have the sort of reputation that makes people wary of me either, so until I get a better idea of how things stand, I'm stuck with taking it slowly.
Of course, during the day, apart from sleeping, I've been spending time with Gus and trying to make sense of the disappearing Slayers. Jean reappeared, but according to Giles, although there was evidence that her mind had been tampered with, any memories of the time she was gone were simply erased rather than hidden. Physically, she's checked out fine except for evidence that she'd been drugged in some way. Of course, the authorities seem loath to believe that the drugs weren't self-administered despite her previously unblemished character. It just seems that they find it easier to believe than the alternatives, or at least, that's the conclusion they reached when there was no evidence of sexual assault. I suppose short-sightedness does export to police forces outside of Sunnydale after all.
Daytimes, I sleep - at least in the morning. Mrs. M and I even share a cup of tea most days. We swap stories of our pasts, and it's … good. It almost reminds me of the relationship I had with Dawn or Joyce in the past. It's comfortable, and that's not something I've had much in recent years, or maybe ever. Of course, Moira's more interested in the background than the violence, at least until I ended up in Sunnydale. And naturally, every single conversation ends up with her asking me if I've spoken to Buffy yet. It's almost a joke, but I know she's serious.
Today, after our afternoon chat, I head upstairs to find Gus on the phone. Nothing unusual in that, so I peruse the papers on his desk, looking for a translation he's been working on. He's quite the linguist, but his grasp of one or two demon tongues isn't up to mine, and I've enjoyed correcting his efforts. He, of course, started off being indignant, until he found that I was right, and now he's taking it all much better – even checking with me on Latin and Greek which I studied a long time ago. Truth is, I've enjoyed remembering all that stuff. Let's just say that my school days weren't the happiest of my life, but without the strain of the atmosphere there, I'm finding I'm more able than I remember being.
I find the most recent Fyarl document. Someone picked it up in Eastern Europe and Giles sent it to Gus, but I suspect, given that Giles knows I speak Fyarl, that it was really intended for me.
I take Gus' pencil - he hates that I don't take a new one, just grabbing his instead - and start to look through what he's done. I won't tell him, of course, but he's picking up the written language quickly. Can't say so much for his pronunciation, but then the day he tries to hold a conversation with a Fyarl will probably be his last.
Despite looking at the paper in front of me, I'm very aware of the fact that Gus isn't talking, just listening, so I glance at him, and his expression makes it clear that the call isn't good news. I concentrate a little, trying to hear the other end of the conversation, but just as I do, it's obvious that the call's ending. I do spot that it's not Giles, though.
Gus puts the phone down and turns to me, his concern obvious.
"Bad news?"
"Yes. Er … it seems there've been more Slayers taken. As of now, there are none left in the UK. They've been disappearing on a regular basis since the three from round here went missing. Giles was keeping it quiet at first – hoping that we'd find something useful that would help to stop further abductions."
"He didn't tell you?" I ask, incredulous.
"Apparently he didn't want the news getting out; he was worried that if it was generally known, there'd be an outbreak of problems."
"So what changed his mind?"
"The fact that whatever's going on seems to have accelerated. The last of the UK abductions was seven days ago. Since then, the problem's moved across the Atlantic. As of today, there are no Slayers within two hundred miles of New York City."
I sit for a moment, stunned.
"I assume it's the same scheme – whatever it is – but is there any evidence? I know we only turned up Fyarl residue on one of the abductions around here, but what about the rest?"
"There's been some residue, but none in the most recent cases. Problem with that stuff is that one rain shower can get rid of it. You were lucky to find it under those gravestones – and even that would have been washed away if there'd been a heavy shower. It's the same story. The women have been disappearing without trace."
"Any other reappearances?"
"Yes – that's the funny thing. Of the inactive Slayers like Jean, they're all turning up within a few days now – devoid of both their strength and any memory of what happened to them. The authorities are working on some theories which vary from some new drug which has hit local markets, to some sort of virus. Of course, they don't know that all the women involved were Slayers. Among the active Slayers, things are more mixed. There are a few who've been gone long enough that Giles is working on the assumption that they've been … killed. He thinks they'd be the most likely to resist … whatever's happening, and that they're proving more difficult to contain."
"He might be right," I agree, knowing that he's thinking about Fiona. "But there are other options."
"There are?" he asks, hope flaring in his eyes, and I kick myself. What I've got in mind isn't necessarily better than death.
"Look, mate, it's not a pretty world out there. You know that. Slayers … they've always been a valuable commodity in their own way. Me? I made my name out of them. Course then, there was only one at a time. Now, with lots of them? There're people who'd pay a pretty penny to have one."
"Have one? For what?"
"Use your imagination. Maybe just for some strong-arm on behalf of someone else. I've heard of some … organisations that collect fighters from various worlds and pit them against each other. Let's just assume that there's a market out there for Slayers, and if someone's found a way of filling that market …" I deliberately don't mention the prospect of a sexual motive, but it's an obvious alternative.
"Then we're going to find them and put a stop to it."
"Of course we are. We've just not got any idea of how to do it yet. How much detail did you get?"
"Not a lot. There's a courier on their way from London with a copy of the full report as of now. Giles didn't feel comfortable trusting it to the postal system."
We're both silent for a moment, and I look through my mental catalogue of people who might have information.
"There's one odd thing here," I point out.
He looks up, the unuttered question on his face.
"Morag. She wasn't active, but she hasn't reappeared. Is she the only one?"
"I think so. I got the impression that all of the inactive Slayers still missing are recent abductees, but I can't be sure until I get that full report."
"It could just be an aberration, I suppose. I'll hit the demon bars tonight. I think the time for quiet listening's probably over, and I should go and demand some information. In fact, there's one that might be worthwhile before tonight. The manager there's a particularly sleazy type - reminds me of someone in Sunnydale. I can get there through the sewers, and while things are quiet, he might just be willing to tell me something about Fyarls being hired or money changing hands."
"Do you want me to come?" he asks, a mixture of hope and dread apparent on his face.
"Probably better if I go alone for now. Maybe later, when I've got a better feel for what's likely to happen, but for now, I'm better off without you."
"I see," he mutters.
"I know you want to help, and you are helping. I'm not going to walk in there and get the full story. If I'm lucky, I'll get a few pointers, but we'll have to work from those to find out what's really happening. That's where you come in. You've got the contacts, the books and everything. And you'll get the chance to read that report when it gets here."
"Ok," he agrees. "So, how's that translation looking?"
I smile at the change of subject. "Not bad," I admit. "You pick up languages pretty quickly."
"Always have," he agrees. "Demon languages are harder than human, though."
"Of course, the document's a load of tripe," I add, and he smiles in agreement.
"Well, yes. I really don't see how recipes for cooking their favourite foods is going to be useful in the fight against evil."
I leave him then and go downstairs to get myself ready to go on my fact-finding mission.
It takes me maybe twenty minutes to get there. I could do it faster, but I prefer to take a slightly longer route that avoids the worst of the smells. Once at the right location, I know that the manhole cover above will lead into an alley close to my destination. I push it open a crack, making sure there's no one around, and then push it out completely and pull myself up. My destination's a pub round the corner which goes by the name 'The Office'. Now, I can see how human types might like that name - I mean, "I've got to stay late at the office tonight," might be a useful line if you actually work in an office, but the patrons of this place don't seem the type to don shirts and ties. There are humans, but I doubt that any of them do the sort of work that the tax man knows anything about.
The door's open, and even this early in the day, there're half a dozen inside. Apart from a couple of green types in the corner, the rest all look human. I head straight for the bar, where a lone man waits, staring into space. I know from before that he's actually the manager, and I'm assuming that most of his other staff don't come in until later.
"What can I get you?" he asks when he spots me.
"A pint of … heavy," I answer. He nods and walks to the pump.
"I'd like to talk too."
"Talking? Not a good idea in a place like this," he answers, placing the glass in front of me.
I grab his lapels and pull him towards me. "Not doing as I ask definitely isn't a good idea."
He starts to mumble things then, nervously threatening me with dire consequences. I sense something approaching from behind, and turn just in time to avoid the fist of a vamp who thought he'd creep up behind me.
It doesn't take me long to dispatch him - and by the look of the faces around as he explodes into dust, his demise doesn't seem to upset anyone other than the manager.
"Right, now that the interruption's over, we were having a chat," I remind him. "How's about we carry on where we left off."
His face is pale, and beads of sweat are forming on his pudgy cheeks.
"How? Brutus's never been beaten. He's …"
"He's gone. Now, if you don't want me to, let's say, start wrecking this place and denting some of your customers as an appetiser for what I'll do to you, then I suggest you just agree to answer some questions." Just to make my offer more appealing, I let my face change.
"Ok," he agrees quickly, but I know from experience that he's not planning on telling me anything useful.
"So, Fyarl demons. You know what they look like, don't you?"
"Y … yeah. Big. Don't like them coming in here. They start fights and … things get broken."
"Right. So, you heard of any of them getting some work lately? Maybe started a month ago?"
"Never heard about any work."
I grab his lapels again, pull him towards me.
"Try again."
"It's true, honest. I've never heard of any work. There were a couple, though. Barred them last month. Expected them to come back anyway, but they didn't. Maybe they got a better offer."
"What can you tell me about them?"
"Not a lot. I mean, you've seen one Fyarl, you've seen them all, haven't you?"
I run my tongue over my fangs, deliberately drawing blood. His face has now gone through white and is looking distinctly green.
"Anything else?"
"They said something about a boat."
"A boat?" I ask, incredulous.
"They were saying something about taking a sail, but that they couldn't get out of the van."
"A sail? Where?"
"Don't know. Not far, though. I mean, they'd been in every night for weeks. It's not like they'd be able to go far. Ferry maybe? You know, on the river? I don't know."
I drop him, and get a yelp as his feet fail to find the floor firmly and he skids back, falling to his knees. By the time he gets up, I'm back in the alley. One down and two to go.
I get finished as early as I can, but, of course, I don't expect Gus to still be at the office. That's why I'm surprised when there are still lights on up there. I climb the stairs to find him furiously taking notes from some site online.
"Thought you'd have gone home," I offer. "You got any idea what time it is?"
"Around nine?" he suggests, then looks at his watch.
"Oh. Later then. It took me a while to read the report, and then I've been doing some research. I've found some sites that could refer to the sort of thing you suggested earlier. You know, where girls could be pitted against … something. No addresses, though."
"Well, the actual places may not even be in this world," I warn him. "If they're advertising, then they're looking for clients, but that doesn't mean that they'll be round the corner."
"Oh. I suppose you're right. So, did you find anything?"
"Nah. Nothing I could make anything of. There was something about a ferry ride, and a Fyarl having to stay in the van, but that's …"
"A ferry ride?" Gus' ears have positively pricked at that suggestion. "It's probably nothing, but add an aberration to those words, and I come up with Morag Fitzpatrick."
"How so?"
"She lives in Glasgow, you know that. What you might not know is that she doesn't come from Glasgow. She was brought up on the Isle of Bute. I get the impression that the family home's still there, although as far as I know, she's the only member of the family left."
"So, how do you get to this Isle of Bute?"
"There's a ferry. Not sure where from, let me just check."
He hits a few keys, goes to Google, enters 'Bute Ferry' and hits return. The information appears a moment later. The route is run by a company called Caledonian MacBrayne, and it runs from somewhere called Wemyss Bay. Regular service too, and a short crossing.
"So, tomorrow we'll go and take a look," I suggest. "Only, we'll take my car. Apart from the fact that I'd rather not be seen in your Focus, there's the little question of the lack of sun-proofing in yours. We'll take the ferry across and see what we can find."
"Ok," he agrees, but he doesn't look too happy.
"What's up?" I ask.
"Well, Mr. Giles did say that he didn't think a lot of your driving."
"Oh, did he now? Well, tomorrow you'll find that you can relegate that particular opinion of Mr. Giles' to the rubbish bin along with several others that he has of me."
Somehow, Gus doesn't look at all convinced.
