Nearly Christmas: Filthy Henry, #5

By Derek Power

Mortals magically murdered generally is enough to get Filthy Henry, Ireland's first and foremost fairy detective, involved in the case. But when those murders happen on Halloween there is even more reason for him to investigate what is going on. As the walls between Realms weaken, allowing spirits to roam the land, Filthy Henry and Shelly are in a race against time to ensure All Hallows Eve goes off without a hitch. Otherwise dead mortals are going to be the least of Ireland's problems... 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Power
• Release date: Sep 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215787137

Derek Power

I began writing in early 2001, mainly focusing on short stories. After winning the odd contest here and then I figured I would try and write something a little longer. A few false starts later I managed to complete my first novel, titled Filthy Henry: The Fairy Detective, in early 2013. I currently live in Skerries, Co. Dublin, Ireland with my wife and young children. A synopsis of my most recent work can be found below. 

Book preview

Chapter One

Some nights the stars shine brightly in the sky like tiny diamonds, twinkling so much that people write lullabies about them. Other nights the stars fail to put on a show due to the meteorological marvels called clouds. Like fluffy curtains being called, Stratocumulus float across the stage of the heavens and obscure everything above from all below. On nights such as these, when shadows and darkness mingle together to create that perfect blend of pitch black, dubious events transpire. Away from the light, even the bare amounts given at night by the stars, shadowy figures with questionable purposes roam the lands to perform dark deeds.

It was on a night such as this, when darkness and shadow danced, that a shady figure in a hooded cloak sat in the very centre of an unremarkable bench by the side of a road. A sign, one could safely assume, that they were the sort of person who did not relish company.

They leaned forward, looked up and down the road, then sat back and made themselves more comfortable on the bench.

You’d think that people would learn to be punctual, the shady figure said to the empty night.

The sound of horse hooves slowly clip-clopping from further down the road caught the shady figure’s attention. Standing up, they stepped onto the road and turned to face the direction the sound came from.

Up ahead, the shady figure saw two little lights hanging in the air. The lights swayed back and forth in rhythm with the sound of hooves hitting the ground. As the lights came closer, they started to illuminate the darkness of the night to the point that the shady figure was able to see the outline of the horse and its rider.

The rider sat on the back of a large black horse, a beast straight from the Zoological Gardens of Hell itself. The beast’s breath misted in the air, curling around its head before drifting away on the night breeze. From the rider’s right hand hung a large rope with a big ball at the end of it, the twin lights sitting inside this sphere.

Looks different from last time, the shady figure said as the rider approached them.

The lights, growing with intensity the closer they came, revealed that the ball was, in fact, a head. A human head, swinging back and forth with two candles burning brightly where the eyes should be. This was not the strangest part of the grotesque lantern. That honour fell to the fact the mouth of the head was opening and closing while the lights that burned in each eye socket moved back and forth, as if they were eyes searching for something.

Raising their hand, the shady figure signalled for the rider to stop, expecting them to continue trotting down the road until they were a few feet away. Instead, the rider stopped at once, the horse letting out a grunt that sounded oddly impatient for an animal.

The rider began to twirl the horrible lantern around in the air vertically, spinning it like a lasso. This action created an interesting ring of light on the right-hand side of the horse. A circle that grew larger with each spin of the lantern. After a few seconds, the rider flung the lantern towards the shady figure. It was a slightly unsettling thing to see, a human female head racings towards you with small candles burning in either eye socket.

Right before it hit them in the hood, the head stopped and floated in the air several inches from the shady figure’s face. They could see that the head was attached not with chains or rope or, thankfully, a spinal column, but full and luscious locks of hair. Hair that seemed to stretch back from the head, through the chill night, up to the rider’s hand. It was a Rapunzel length of hair, which magically grew in length as the hideous lantern flew through the air.

You shouldn’t be out of your House, Red God the head said, its voice like echoing whispers. What purpose do you have on the roads tonight? More importantly, how are you away from your House? You are in violation of The Rules.

The Red God chuckled, adjusting their hood slightly.

I’m not sure if you know this, they said. But sometimes people view those Rules as nothing more than guidelines. Particularly when people are forced into the fairy servitude by trickery and deceit. Not entering the contract voluntarily.

Somehow, despite having no shoulders, the floating head of the rider’s managed to shrug. The flickering candles dimmed slightly but continued to stare at The Red God. If you accepted that a candle flame could stare at something, that is.

I don’t fully understand what you just said, the floating head hissed. You have a task, one placed upon your shoulders. By immensely powerful individuals, as you well know. You dare not shirk this responsibility.

The Red God reached into their trouser pocket and pulled out a small object, keeping it firmly gripped in their hand so that the floating head could not see it.

While that may be true, they said. I have decided, dear rider, that I no longer wish to work for my current employer. In fact, I have found a new ally who has agreed to help me get out of the terms and conditions of my contract. By doing this I will be able to move on, away from this curse placed upon me. I will gladly help you break free of your bonds if you want. You simply must agree to help me.

Once again, the dismembered head tilted ever so slightly. As if considering what had just been said. One of the flames in the eye sockets winked out, briefly, while the other grew brighter. Like one eye was intensely examining the shady figure standing on the road.

That is against The Rules, the hideous whispering voice said from the floating head. You will return to your House and see to your charges. I will overlook this transgression, but only once. In lieu of reporting you, I will request a boon. To be decided later.

The Red God started to rub the small object between their fingers, feeling the metal edges against their skin. It had taken an extremely skilled artisan craftsman some time to craft the object. A couple of craftsmen, in fact, as the object required years of preparation at each stage.

That and the unfortunate need to kill each craftsman as they finished their specific sections of the object. The thing about complicated plans was they always had a weak link, which tended to be the ancillary individuals brought in to help one achieve their goal. This was a lesson The Red God had seen repeatedly over the centuries, a lesson they had learned before putting their grand plan into motion.

They peered behind the head floating before them, at the long braids of hair that stretched all the way back to the rider. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see that the mounted figure on the Hell horse was devoid of a head.

A Headless Horseman.

Such a shame, the shady figure said. We could have worked together. Created beautiful things. More importantly we could have been free from these ridiculous obligations placed upon us by those who are powerful, but petty. I beg you, please remember this.

Remember what? the floating head asked, both flames flickering once more in the eye sockets.

Remember that I gave you the choice...and you chose poorly.

Before the conversation could continue, The Red God tossed what was in their hand towards the floating head. A small chain of gold sailed through the air, forming a large loop that defied the laws of gravity and physics in many ways. Little purple streams of energy crackled around the chain, forming tiny Celtic knots in the air that vanished in bright flashes.

As the chain approached the floating head both candles burned brightly, eyes wide open.

The chain went around the head, then contracted just behind the ears. A scream erupted from the horse, a call of pain and suffering that the creature wished would end. It bucked on its hind legs, whinnied loudly, then started to trash around on the spot trying to dismount the rider.

A feat which the animal managed with ease.

Watching with interest, The Red God saw the horse take two steps backwards before blending into the darkness of the night. Not simply vanishing from sight like some hideous deformed ghoul with a magical trinket that made them invisible. As if the night and the animal merged, so that you could no longer tell one from the other. Where once stood a horse there was now emptiness, a void which had always been there unless you knew better.

The rider lay on the ground, clutching at where their neck would be. Their right hand still gripped the end of the hair tightly, but it was quivering with tension. Meanwhile the floating head opened its mouth and started to howl in a whisper.

This was a first for The Red God. They had seen many people scream over the centuries for assorted reasons. Pain, fear, spilling red wine all over the new white rug that cost several months’ rent. But this whisper screaming was different. It had to do with loss, a loss that no mortal could ever truly understand.

The loss of magic from one’s own blood.

I know you can feel it, the shady figure said to the floating head. I was extremely specific with the design. It had one, incredibly special, job to do. You should have lived up to the legend and led with an attack, instead of giving me the benefit of parley.

Slowly the head started to retract from The Red God, moving backwards along the Rapunzel-style tightrope. The rider was not winding the hair up from their forlorn spot on the ground, but still the head returned to its owner.

The Red God kept step with the hideous lantern, grinning beneath their hood.

We could have had it all, they said. We could have been the new gods of this land. But you stuck to your views of honour and justice. Enjoy being mortal.

As the head came within two feet of the headless rider it sped up, hair and head becoming a strange blur of motion that moved rapidly back towards the top of the rider’s neck. Like a horrible piece of Lego, the head audibly clicked into place. There was an interesting moment where the neck started to regrow between the head and the body. Muscles, veins, and skin all started to appear until, in a matter of seconds, the rider’s body was whole once more.

Around their newly created neck there was a faint, purple, line of Celtic knots that glowed in the darkness.

Be careful now, The Red God said, watching as the rider reached up and touched their new neck with care. Or you’ll be visiting my House sooner than you think.

#

Thomas O’Reilly stepped out of the pub.

This was not an entirely correct description of how he left the building. After going for several pints with his friends, it would have been much closer to the truth to say Thomas’ stepping out of the pub became more of a stumbling act. He tripped over his shadow, nearly crashing into an empty table just inside the door, then managed to right himself.

Standing up straight, or as straight as he could manage in his current inebriated state, Thomas looked up at the cloudy sky and rolled his eyes.

He always found it easier to walk home at night when there was some sort of illumination to see by. Any light source did the trick, really. For some reason, his ability to hold his phone like a flashlight became trickier after a visit to the pub. As if all the fingers on his left hand turned into misbehaving sausages. No phone holding abilities meant no convenient source of light with which to amble home.

Thomas looked around for a taxi that might aid in his journey, but the road was devoid of any vehicular saviours with little yellow signs on their roof.

Buggerit, Thomas slurred, then turned in the direction of home and started walking.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled as his beer-jacket kicked in, preventing the night chill from seeping into his body. It was probably a good thing, Thomas thought, that the fact alcoholic drinks kept people warm was not something widely advertised. The clothing industry would go into a worldwide recession in the space of a Happy Hour.

Time moved by in that drunken way it does when people have enjoyed the many and varied beverages containing alcohol. Before he knew it, Thomas was shuffling past an empty bench that usually marked the halfway point between public house and private dwelling. In a normal, sober, view of the world it would have taken twenty minutes to get this far, but the magic of a drunk mind had made it seem like only five.

Passing the empty bench made Thomas want to stop for a little breather, maybe taking a quick power nap before he continued on his way.

He turned around and stepped back to the bench, sitting down beside the old lady.

Wait a second, Thomas said, leaning to his left and rocking slightly on the bench. Where’d you come from?

The old woman looked at him and smiled. She reached down the side of the bench and pulled out a small folding table. Extending the legs, she placed the table down in front of her. Thomas blinked and the next thing he knew there were three white porcelain cups sitting on saucers in front of the old woman.

Is a neat trick, he slurred, nodding his head towards the table.

Want me to tell your fortune? the old woman asked.

Reaching once again over the side of the bench, she lifted a small bag up off the ground. From this the old woman took out a lump of what looked like clay, a bottle of water and a small gold wedding ring. Lifting each cup off its saucer she placed the ring on one little plate, the lump of clay on another and then poured out some water onto the third. Each cup was then, in turn, picked up and turned upside-down before she placed them over their matching saucer. Obscuring their contents from sight.

How’s this work then? Thomas asked, staring at the saucers in utter confusion.

Simple, the old woman said. I move the cups around a few times, and you pick the one you feel holds your fortune.

Fortune?

Future, dearie. Your future. It’s an old Celtic tradition, goes back so many years that the trees have forgotten when it started.

Trees remember things?

Oh, on a night like tonight they do, she said, tapping her nose conspiratorially. You know what the objects mean?

Thomas slowly shook his head once in the negative, feeling a little motion sick as a result.

It’s simple, the old woman said. A ring means marriage; most young couples like to get that one. Water means travel, adventures in different lands. Clay means death, a return to the dirt we come from. Sadly, all fortune telling traditions must include death. Although it can mean change. Which I guess makes sense. After all a person who is a living creature does change into a dead one. But don’t worry, I have a good feeling about you.

The old woman reached over and patted Thomas gentle on his arm. She leaned back into her spot and began to shuffle the cups around the foldout table.

Having been around the block a few times, Thomas was aware of how this scam worked. The ring was a pea in the other version. The player bet money and tried to find the pea after the cups were rearranged, but always lost because the dealer had a trick that let them pull the old switcheroo on Joe Public.

But not this time, because Thomas was so drunk that time moved differently in his brain. Thinking slower meant he could see things quicker than the sober eye would ever allow. Grinning, he pulled twenty Euro out from his back pocket and threw it onto the table. The crumpled currency landed just in front of the cups, the old woman paying it no heed as she continued to move them around.

It’ll be the one on the left, Thomas said, smugly.

The old woman looked over at him and arched her eyebrows, confused by his statement.

I don’t think you understand, my dear, she said. This isn’t some game of chance. This is your fortune, your future. I am going to read your destiny and tell it to you, on this night. Will you travel, marry...or perish.

She said the last word with such a final sounding tone that Thomas could almost hear the coffin lid slamming shut in his mind. It helped to sober him just a little. After a minute, the old woman stopped and sat back on the bench making a gesture with her hands towards the three cups.

Make your choice, she said.

Thomas glanced at the old woman. He did not recognise her from around the village, which was strange. Everyone knew everybody to some degree, even if it was just a passing nod or friendly smile. But it was coming up on Halloween...

Bugger, he said, more to himself than the old woman.

As the cruel sober mind regained a little more mental control, Thomas realised that he was sitting on a bench with a strange old lady in the middle of nowhere with Halloween right around the corner. In this very modern world, there were more people who did not believe in God than did. But when you were Irish some aspects of your home country were woven into your DNA. One of them was what happened to folk around Halloween, when the barriers between the worlds of the living and the dead were at their weakest.

Not that Thomas devoutly believed evil spirits roamed the land looking to capture unsuspecting folk and bring them back to The Netherworld. Far from it. But traditions died hard, and it never hurt to err on the side of caution.

Gingerly reaching out, he touched the left cup with his index finger.

That one, he said. I pick that one.

You’re sure? the old woman asked. Once I pick the cup up, your fate is sealed.

He nodded.

I’m sure, Thomas said. But...I want to use the twenty. To buy a do-over.

A do-over? the old woman asked, reaching out and placing her hand on the cup. You do not get a do-over on matters of fate.

Sure, you do. All the time, he said. There are loads of stories about people playing chess with Death and coming back to life. Precedent, if you will.

The old woman frowned.

Fine, she said, grabbing the twenty Euro from the table with her right hand while lifting the cup with her left.

On the saucer beneath was the clump of clay.

Death, the old woman hissed at Thomas.

But I have the do-over, ha ha! I bloody knew it would work. Let’s hope for travel on the next one, yeah? Can’t be settling down just yet. I’m only forty-five.

He tapped the cup on the right.

A deal is a deal, the old woman said, lifting the cup up.

Thomas stared at the plate in disbelief.

Hold on a second, he said, pointing at the second lump of clay on the saucer. You didn’t do anything funny; I was watching. There should only be one lump of clay. Let me see that!

He snatched the two cups out of the old woman’s hands, examining both closely. There was nothing hidden inside them, no secret compartment that could have been used to replace a ring or water with clay. Throwing both cups to the ground smashed them into a dozen pieces, but that was all. No splash of water or little golden ring rolling away.

Without saying a word, Thomas picked up the final cup and revealed a third lump of clay.

What the... he said, staring at the three lumps of clay before him.

Slowly he looked over at the old woman to see her smiling back at him.

Death, she hissed.

Then lunged across the bench at Thomas.

Chapter Two

Shelly added the final notes to the file opened on her laptop, saved the contents, then closed the application. When the files had securely been backed up to the cloud, something she did not fully understand but knew was the right thing to do, Shelly powered down the laptop and closed the lid.

Looking around her little office on the ground floor of an old building on Middle Abbey Street, Shelly could not help but smile to herself.

Only five short years ago she had been an artist, making an okay living painting, while hiding from the world over her fear of being judged for seeing things that other people could not see. Then she had lost her talking cat, hired a fairy detective to find said feline, been killed by a vampire, brought back to life via a leprechaun wish and granted the ability to see magical creatures walking around Dublin all on her own.

Now she was a detective, working magical cases, and enjoying every minute of it. Painting had become a hobby to enjoy rather than a means to pay the bills.

It was a funny old world at the end of the day, more so when that world happened to have a magical population that very few people knew about or could even interact with.

She pulled out a desk drawer and put the laptop into it, sliding it back in then locking it with a little key she kept in her pocket. Compared to her associate’s office, Shelly’s was a place of professional zen and peace.

The main piece of furniture was her desk, large and wooden with several drawers on side she typically sat beside. She had decided that, unlike Filthy Henry, Shelly’s detective practice would be a welcoming place for potential clients. Which was why there were three sturdy chairs in it, one behind the desk for her to sit in and two on the direct opposite side for clients to occupy. Again, taking a leaf from Filthy Henry’s unpublished book on how not to run a successful detective business, Shelly had opted for all her cases to be stored digitally. Which meant there was a distinct lack of filing cabinets with case files and folders stuffed in the drawers. The room itself was in the middle of the building, which meant it did not have a window as there were no external walls. That had not stopped Filthy Henry from calling in a favour and presenting Shelly with an office warming present in the form of a window frame. One which, once mounted on the wall, displayed a live view of the street right outside the front door of the building. Like a strange sort of camera feed.

This, surprisingly, raised far fewer questions with potential clients than Shelly guessed it would. Almost as if her clients expected there to be something in the room that made no sense, given they were there to hire a detective who primarily dealt in magical cases. Either that or it was true what most detectives thought; not everyone was good at spotting things out of place.

Which was how the Fairy World managed to exist right beside the mortal one without anybody accidentally stumbling into it. Human minds had a great ability for convincing themselves things were fine, nothing worth seeing, when it meant avoiding any tough questions about reality.

Such as how a room that did not face the street could possibly have a street facing window.

From the floor above, Shelly could hear an old desk phone ringing. This was not particularly unusual, since her partner in the detective game was one of those people who liked to shun modern conveniences. Things like mobile phones, computers and even the Internet were all viewed as annoyances rather than beneficial tools. It was why Shelly ended up helping him on his cases so often, because she was able to do research that Filthy Henry simply could not.

Plus, the fairy detective tended to think with his magical abilities first, his brain second. A trait developed over decades of working solo; Shelly figured.

The phone rang for a full minute before whoever was calling gave up and the bell was silenced.

I thought he was up there, Shelly said to herself.

For Filthy Henry to leave the building via the front door, he needed to walk past Shelly’s office door. A door which was always open unless she was dealing with a client. There was only one other way in and out of the building and it involved using the rooftop exit and jumping. While teleportation was another possibility, Shelly knew that Filthy Henry had limits on the sort of magical spells he could cast.

Teleporting out of the building just to avoid being seen would have cost him too much energy.

Which means he hasn’t been here since I arrived this morning, Shelly said, checking her watch.

Filthy Henry’s office was on the first floor, while his home apartment was on the top floor. Shelly decided to go and check on him.

Taking her coat from the back of the chair, Shelly made her way up to the first floor.

Filthy Henry’s office was in the usual state of chaos and disarray it always was. Loose sheets, some important and others just takeaway menus with case notes scribbled on them, were strewn all over his desk. Boxes were arranged in a dangerous game of Jenga on his filing cabinets. There was no fairy detective though, so Shelly continued walking up to the next landing.

Knocking on the door twice, Shelly waited to hear for a response from inside the apartment. She pulled the spare key out of her jeans pocket, then unlocked the door and went in.

The apartment was just as unclean and disorganised as the office below. Filthy Henry was the embodiment of an old-school bachelor.

Filthy? Shelly called out.

There was no answer.

Wonder where he is? Shelly asked the empty apartment.

Her mobile phone started ringing. She dug it out from her coat pocket and looked at the number on the screen. It was from an unknown caller, but in this business that meant either a client or a contact.

Shelly pressed the green button and answered the call.

#

Filthy Henry always found burying the dead to be a strange tradition.

Yes, there was the religious angle about the whole thing. Returning to the earth from which humans were meant to have come. But the world had gotten to the point now that there were more people collectively dead and buried than currently alive. If all those people underground ever decided to come back, the living would not stand a chance in any grievances the dead may have.

It was a huge plot hole in every zombie apocalypse movie, the fairy detective felt.

Still, one benefit of burying the dead was it gave people somewhere to remember their dearly departed by. A spot in a graveyard that could be visited on a regular basis. Once you died it was highly unlikely that you were going to be moving around.

Unless you went down the cremated route and requested your ashes were thrown to the wind. Good luck finding a speck of ash in the world.

Standing in the near centre of the graveyard, Filthy Henry looked around.

Ireland, like most countries with graveyards, had collections of the dead in places no new dead were ever interred to. People moved away from locations, towns slowly disappeared, the world moved on and traditions changed. Resulting in graveyards that became unused, untended, and