The Ghost of Irycyll

A black van shambled down Caryll Street, and as it went blinds were pulled closed, lights turned off, and windows slammed shut. Sat in the passenger seat, James Arundel looked out at the terraced houses that bordered the road. Though it was dark, he could see the residents watching from their windows. Some boldly sat against the glass while others peeked through curtains. On some nights their anxiety would be warranted, but not that night. That night, they weren’t after rebel sympathisers or political deviants. They hunted very different game.

“How far now?” asked the driver, and James turned his attention back to the road.

“Not far.” Their intelligence placed the missing Choir Boy at 57 Caryll Street, and, although James knew better than anyone how temperamental intelligence could be, this time he had a feeling the reports were accurate. This time they had to be. “Twenty metres.” At that the van slowed. James took a black tactical helmet from his lap and shoved it on his head. With it were a pair of heavy-duty ear defenders that deafened him as he put them on. Once his headgear was fastened, he grabbed the suppressed assault rifle that rested between his thighs.

The van stopped and James opened his door. From the corner of his eye, he saw the driver’s lips move. Good luck, he must have said. James slammed the door behind him and rounded the van. The back doors opened, and six men filed out. They were all dressed in jet black with ballistic armour across their chests, rifles in their hands, and mufflers clamped down tightly over their ears. Their eyes all glimmered like the eyes of wild cats. They had each taken the same dose of Nocturne that James had, which meant for the next hour the dark wouldn’t bother them.

James made a series of hand gestures and spun around. Number 57 was just ahead, and they would waste no time. They crossed the lawn, then at the house divided into two sets of three. One group headed for the front door. James led the other group towards a little alley that separated number 57 from its neighbour. At the alley they were brought to a stop by a padlocked gate. James made another hand signal, and the man at the rear of their line came forward with a pair of bolt cutters. He bit through the padlock and placed his tool to the side, before taking the lead as they progressed into the back garden.

James couldn’t help but sigh with relief. They had crossed the lawn without coming under fire. A strong start. From the front he hadn’t seen any lights on or noticed any movement inside the house, and as they came into the back garden that didn’t change. Another wave of relief. At the back door they stopped again. It hung open, which at such late an hour was odd but promising.

The three men went into the house. Rifles swept from side to side as they checked every corner and crevice. They passed through a laundry room and then into the kitchen. There was movement. All three spun simultaneously and their rifles found the source of it. Someone was crouched on the far side of the dining table. It took a bit of restraint, but no bullets were fired. James circled the table with smooth steps. His sight fixed on the figure. Behind the table was a plump woman. She sat on her haunches and gently rocked back and forth. She held her hands a few inches from her face and stared intently at her palms. Blood oozed from her ears. James lowered his gun just a touch while his comrade Dia came to get a look. The third soldier set off alone through the kitchen, into the hallway beyond. It was up to him to let in the rest of the team, waiting by the front door.

James grabbed a handful of the woman’s hair and wrenched her head back. The woman winced slightly, but this wasn’t half the reaction any normal person would give. Her eyes were directed up at him, but she didn’t see him. They were blank and had a milky quality. James watched her lips which moved slowly but incessantly. He tried for a moment to make out what she said. It was gibberish. He released her hair and pushed the woman back. She had heard Choir Song and gone mad. There was no fixing that. Dia raised his rifle and shot her through the head. A shame, but it was the only thing to do. The body toppled sideways, while James and Dia moved on.

Out in the hallway, the soldiers who had entered through the front had cleared the living room and readied themselves to go upstairs. They glanced towards James, who cut a line through the air with his hand. Up they went.

On the landing, they split into pairs. Each pair came to stand next to a different door, ready to clear the rooms simultaneously. James raised three fingers and began to count down. When the last finger fell, there was an explosion of movement. Each door was kicked in and each pair surged into their room. Dia led the way, sharply sweeping each corner of the nursery that materialised ahead of them. James came to his side, ready to spray bullets. They both froze.

Sat in the middle of the floor was a small boy, his skin ghost-white, his head shaved. Dia lowered his gun immediately and James threw his to the side altogether. The boy’s lips moved as he sang a song that they thankfully couldn’t hear. James pulled a metal gas canister from his belt and burst forwards. He dove onto the boy and forced the mouthpiece of the canister over his face. Once it was secure, James pulled a pin from the canister. The boy struggled for a few seconds, but against James’ strength and weight it was fruitless. Then the gas did its work, and he went still. The others came into the room and quickly took in the scene. One produced a muzzle and hurried to James’ side. James took the canister away from the Choir Boy’s gaunt face and the muzzle was quickly fastened.

James sat back panting, from stress more than fatigue. He pulled off his helmet and his ear defenders with it. The others did the same. “Good shift, lads,” he said.

“Flawless,” said Dia. He went to the nearest window, took a flare from his belt, and lit it.

“Fucking stella, and we can suck ourselves off for it later, but where are the Cockerels? I thought there were meant to be Cockerels,” said Sam, the youngest of their ranks.

James looked around, suddenly feeling a lot less pleased with himself. “Yeah, there were. Maybe take a step away from the window, Dia.” Dia stepped to the side, but still held the flare so that its light was visible from the road. “There were meant to be a pair of them here. This one obviously proved too much for them. Must have left him behind and scarpered.” The Cockerels were terrorists. They were the ones who had stolen the boy from the Choir House, killing a fair few Umbrians in the process.

“Maybe they just guessed we’d be coming,” said another of the soldiers. “Didn’t fancy the smoke.”

“Maybe they forgot their ear protectors,” offered Dia. “Ended up like the woman downstairs.”

“Could be anything. Let’s just be glad that they’re gone and be ready for if they try and come back,” said James. “Though I doubt we’ll see them now.” Dia’s flare was a signal of success to the Umbrian authorities. They’d be coming for the boy and would take him back to the Choir House. For the Cockerels to come back for him would be suicide and even they had the brains to know it.