The Ninth circle

4th October

Stephomi contacted me a couple of days ago to arrange to meet for a drink in the wine bar of his hotel. I had been pleased to make these plans at the time, but this morning I didn’t really feel like seeing anyone. I missed feeling the fish food in my pocket. I realised how pathetic that was so I didn’t let myself rummage around in the trash for it. I didn’t take a new box from the stack in my cupboard, either. But I’m sure that my family are not returning now — after all, I’ve been here for two months. Holidays do not go on that long. There really are no fish. I must have moved to Budapest on my own. My old life could be anywhere, and I have no idea how to find it. Perhaps, after all, I should go to the police with this… I had half made up my mind to do so this morning, but now I am not so sure.

I tried to cancel my plans with Stephomi — I just wanted to stay at home by myself today. But his phone was just ringing out so in the end I had to go, although I’m glad I did now. I was impressed when I located the Hilton — the hotel in which Stephomi had been living for the past weeks. It’s situated on the other side of the Danube, in the Castle district — I had to walk across the Chain Link Bridge to get to it — and is one of the most luxurious hotels in Budapest. The hotel building incorporates parts of both a Gothic church and a Jesuit monastery, and the views of the Danube and the Pest cityscape are magnificent.

The wine bar in which I was to meet my friend was set in an authentic medieval cellar built beneath the hotel. I admit I was disappointed not to drink in one of the bars upstairs, looking out over the Danube. It seemed a shame to be drinking in an underground cellar when the view from above was so beautiful. But Stephomi was waiting for me downstairs so I followed the signs to the wine bar, expecting only to have to walk down a few stairs before I came to it, but instead I had to go down several flights of stairs scattered across the hotel before I came to another door with a sign for the wine cellar. When I opened it and stuck my head through, I stared in surprise at the sight of a stone staircase carved out of the rock, twisting down in semi-darkness and illuminated only by the occasional soft orange lamp. For a moment I wondered if I was still in the Hilton, or whether I had in fact come across some kind of underground monastery. I looked back over my shoulder, but the sign definitely pointed to this door. So I shrugged and crept inside, half expecting to be told off for going through, although there was no one else to be seen.

The uneven rock was cold to my touch and there was that unmistakable musty, slightly damp smell that only truly ancient places have. I followed the twisting staircase down until I saw it reached a short corridor, at the end of which was a stone archway to the wine bar. I froze in alarm when I saw it, for the twisting black words above the arch clearly read: Faust Wine Bar.

I jumped when someone spoke below me. ‘You’re late.’

I strained my eyes and saw that Stephomi was waiting for me at the bottom of the twisting stone stairs, leaning against an archway with his hands in his pockets, virtually hidden in the shadows cast by the soft light.

‘I, er… had some trouble finding it,’ I said, still staring down at him from the stairs.

‘Yes, it can be like that the first time. I think most of those tourists upstairs don’t even know it exists. They get distracted by the panoramic windows in the modern bars upstairs. Come on, this bar is far better, I promise you.’

I hesitated, feeling almost childishly afraid to go down the steps and join him. It was the name of the cellar: Faust… the once honourable man that Mephistopheles had so cleverly managed to corrupt and disgrace.

‘Is something wrong?’ Stephomi asked, when I didn’t move.

I wanted to ask if we could go back upstairs to one of the sunlit and tourist filled bars, but Stephomi was obviously keen to show me the cellar, and I knew it would sound odd… so I walked down, and followed him as he led the way through to the cellar.

It was very small, with only enough room for six tables or so in a long, thin room, with the wall and ceiling forming a semicircle above the floor. Apart from the odd light built into a rocky enclave, the whole room was lit by candles, illuminating the many bottles of wine stacked in the old wooden wine racks against the walls. When we got there, the cellar was empty but for the waiter stood behind the small table outside. Soft cello music was playing from somewhere, although I couldn’t see any speakers. Stephomi ordered a bottle of Szekszardi Merlot and we sat down at one of the corner tables in creaky old wooden armchairs padded with cushions.

‘How long have you been living in this hotel?’ I asked, once the soft-footed waiter had brought out our wine and retreated to his area outside, leaving us alone in the dim cellar.

‘Since I arrived in Budapest. A few weeks, I suppose. I came into some inheritance a few years ago and now I’m lucky enough to be able to travel the world at my leisure.’

‘What about your family?’ I asked glumly, still brooding over the loss of my own.

At once, Stephomi’s face darkened and he gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather estranged from my family,’ he admitted.

I knew such things happened, of course. I knew that families could tear apart and life-long feuds prevented relations from speaking to each other for years and years. But I still couldn’t help but cringe at Stephomi’s words. What a waste! At least he had a family.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Stephomi said, doubtless seeing the look on my face. He paused, then added with a smile, ‘Well, mostly not my fault, anyway. It started off as a small thing — you know how it is. But somehow the situation just — ’ he waved a hand around, searching for words, ‘- escalated. Now even when I do go home, my father and brothers won’t speak to me. Won’t even see me.’ He grinned suddenly and gave a lazy shrug. ‘I think the situation could have been salvaged if only I hadn’t proved them wrong about something some years back. The one thing they can’t forgive, really. So what about you? Do you get on tolerably well with your family or do you avoid Christmas reunions like the plague?’

Christmas reunions…? I couldn’t help but grimace. I had never thought about Christmas, only two months away now. What was I going to do on Christmas Day? Sit in my apartment by myself wondering what my parents might be doing? What my siblings might be doing? What my… wife… my children… might be doing? I felt suddenly desperate for them — for these people that I no longer knew. What if they had given me up for dead already?

‘I’m sorry, Gabriel, I didn’t mean to pry,’ Stephomi said quietly, misinterpreting my silence.

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Don’t apologise. The truth is I… I don’t know my family. I can’t remember them.’

‘You don’t say?’ Stephomi murmured, eyebrow arched. ‘You were adopted?’

I could have said yes right there. But Stephomi was my friend now — my only friend, in fact. He was a clever man; he might be able to suggest some solution to this problem. He might be able to help me somehow. He might know of some way to fix this without going to the police.

‘There’s no fish,’ I said suddenly. ‘All this time I thought they were real but… there’s no one here but me. And I’m not even sure who I am.’

So I told him the truth. I told him that I had woken up lying on the floor of my kitchen some months ago, and that I had no memory of my life before that day — no clue as to where I might have lived or who I might have been.

But I didn’t tell him of the incident in the back streets of Budapest late at night when I had been unable to stop myself from beating up five Hungarian muggers. I didn’t tell him of the utter horror that had risen up sharp and vicious within me at the sight of the dead butterfly, the antique book or the bleeding steak. Nor did I say anything about the strange mystery woman who had fled from me. I did not want to scare away the one person I felt I could trust.

I was afraid that he might be astonished and horrified by my predicament, or else denounce me on the spot as a compulsive liar. But Stephomi merely sat for some moments after I had finished, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his slender fingers and frowning slightly, as if contemplating an interesting puzzle.

‘Amnesia?’ he said at last. ‘Most unusual. And all this from hitting yourself with a shelf and falling from a chair?’

‘Well, as far as I can tell.’

‘And there is nothing in your apartment that gives you some clue as to what your life was before? No one has been in contact with you?’

‘No, but that’s because I’ve only just moved in. I don’t think anyone knows where I am. I don’t know what to do about it!’

‘You’re right. It’s a bloody mystery, Gabriel. But I’m sure the amnesia won’t be permanent. These things usually aren’t. You’ll just have to wait it out.’

‘Wait it out?’ I asked, appalled. ‘But I could go on like this for years!’

Stephomi shrugged. ‘The only other thing to do is go to the police. There’s nothing to stop you doing that if you want to.’

I could see him watching me closely. I hadn’t told him about the large stash of cash I had found in my apartment, and had no wish to let him know of the sinister elements I had deliberately left out.

‘I’d rather not do that…’ I began uncertainly.

‘Well, if your family aren’t in this country, then there’s probably little the Hungarian police could do anyway. I’d wait it out, if I were you. I mean, your friends and family must have known that you were moving to Budapest. I expect one of them will seek you out eventually, even if they don’t have your address. There can’t be that many English people living here. It’s only been two months, Gabriel. I’m sure everything will resolve itself eventually, just give it some time. And if your family is anything like mine, then be prepared for the ribbing of your life when they find out that you managed to knock yourself out with a shelf within days of moving in.’

His attitude made me feel so much better. I wouldn’t always be in this situation. It was just a matter of time. It was not something to become hysterical about. I’m glad that I trusted Stephomi with this. Perhaps, in time, I will be able to tell him about the other things. I’m sure he would be able to come up with a rational explanation for everything else that has happened to me too.

When I returned to my apartment after meeting Stephomi at the Hilton, I sat thinking for a while about what he’d said, replaying the whole meeting in my mind several times, feeling much calmer about the situation than I had done this morning. I lost track of time and when I at last glanced at my watch, it was too late to go out for dinner. It had started to rain and large drops splattered against the darkened windows. It was not until then that I realised I had been sitting in darkness on the couch in my living room for some time. Reaching out a hand, I turned on the nearby lamp, bathing the room in a pale glow. The apartment was silent but for the rain falling outside. I gazed into the mirror hanging opposite me on the wall and watched the second hand of the reflected clock ticking round in anti-clockwise circles — an oddly discordant sight.

And then, quite suddenly, he was there without my even seeing him arrive. A man standing behind me in the mirror, next to the bookshelf, cold aversion on his face as our eyes met through the reflected glass. I recognised him. I had seen him twice before, both times in dreams. On the first occasion, he had walked into my apartment and destroyed the card given to me by Stephomi. On the second, he had been there in St Stephen’s Basilica when the Nazis were looting the bell. And now, once again, flames flickered around the man and dripped from him like water.

‘ Traitor! ’ he hissed hatefully. ‘ Go back where you came from! ’

I could not place the language, although I could understand the words. His voice was deep, with a steely hard edge. I tried to say something but my mouth wouldn’t open, my limbs wouldn’t move. The suddenness with which he pulled a large book from my bookcase and hurled it at me, sparks spitting from its cover, shocked me out of my paralysis and I instinctively threw myself to the floor, hands over my head, as the burning book flew towards me…

I woke with a start, still sprawled on the couch, my heart beating quickly. The living room was filled with shadows. I must have nodded off — but such a thing is most unlike me. I just don’t get tired. I reached out my hand and turned on the lamp for real this time. Unable to resist, I glanced over my shoulder at the bookcase. There was no burning man standing there. There was no burning book on the couch beside me.

The evenings are worse. Much worse, somehow, than the days. That is why I usually eat out in the city and return to the apartment late. I find the silence and the emptiness oppressive, and it’s the evening, more than any other time, when loneliness throbs inside me, even though I know this is only temporary. It will not go on for ever; I will eventually be reunited with all those people I knew. But for now I have no memories to return to. I’m not greedy; I wouldn’t expect to get them all back in one go. But I’d like to have just one of those golden ones… You know, something you find yourself thinking about for hours, revisiting a moment that once made you so happy. A memory that can distract you from any present bitterness. Sometimes I think even unhappy memories would be better then nothing. They would make me feel less like a ghost, an invisible man, a no one. If nothing else, at least there would not then be this terrible, vast emptiness that eats away at me like some sort of cancer from within.

I stood up, stretched stiffly, and wandered to the bookshelf. All the books were lined neatly on their shelves, and everything seemed to be in order. But then I looked again and realised that one book was not in its rightful place. As I’ve mentioned, I keep my books arranged in alphabetical order, and one book entitled Keepers of the Circles should have been filed under K but was at the front with the Bs. Clicking my tongue with disapproval, I pulled the book out by its spine. Like so many of my books, this one was old and well worn and when I removed it from the shelf, a page fell from it. I bent to pick it up and then paused as a familiar name on the page caught my eye. Then I felt my lips curving in a grimace. Reluctantly, I walked back to the couch, the book and loose page in my hand.

When I first began to try and find out who I was, I had examined the name Gabriel in some depth. But I had never got very far with Antaeus, never even been able to trace its origin. Now the name gaped at me from these pages. This book was yet another one about Hell — Jesus, I really had been completely obsessed with it — the nine circles of sin contained within the centre of the Earth where the condemned are forced to wallow for eternity in atonement for their earthly crimes. The circles are concentric, each one representing a greater evil, culminating in the centre of the Earth where Satan is bound in a great sphere of sparkling ice.

Each circle represents a different kind of sin, and each circle’s tortures are different, corresponding with perfect symmetry to the crime committed. These punishments are dreadful to read of, turning the stomach and the soul with horror, and one can see why religion and the threat of an everlasting Hell used to inspire such fear in more religious days gone by. The Heretics of the Sixth Circle are condemned to an eternity of confinement within burning tombs. The Violent of the Seventh Circle are doomed to the eternal agony of being submerged in hot blood, the rim of this Circle guarded by centaurs that will shoot any souls who attempt to rise. Those who committed suicide are condemned to the Seventh Circle where they are turned into thorny black trees, their own human corpses hanging from the branches. The Sowers of Discord of the Eight Circle have their bodies ripped apart by demons, only to heal and be ripped apart again and again in a never-ending cycle of agony.

Each Circle is hidden deeper within the Earth’s core, and some of the outer Circles are separated by rivers such as the Styx and Phlegethon, with Ferrymen keeping watch over the rivers and transporting sinners and demons between the different levels of the Hellish realms. The Ninth Circle is the centre of Hell itself — the deepest, filthiest, most agonising and tortuous realm of them all, especially reserved for those worst and most unforgivable of sinners — the Traitors. The most disgusting of men’s sins — betrayal of family, friends and loved ones. Betrayers of Lords and benefactors, and betrayers of one’s country and God. The punishment for this sin is to be held completely submerged in ice in the centre of Hell alongside Lucifer himself, the cold scarring and burning the skin with a white heat that far surpasses that of fire.

But it’s the proximity to Satan that’s said to cause the most suffering. Once the highest and most trusted of God’s angels, his nature then mutated into something that even other demons fear to look upon. He’s said to have three gaping mouths, with bloodied, matted black fur covering his lower body and three pairs of leathery, bat-like wings… wings that have long since lost every single one of the white dove-like feathers that had once graced the highest ranks of Heaven itself. The three ultimate traitors — Judas, Brutus and Cassius — are held in each of Lucifer’s three mouths, their bodies eternally consumed by the Devil, while his three pairs of wings send forth freezing blasts of impotence, ignorance and hatred.

I liked my first name and its connotations. As for my second one, I had assumed that Antaeus was just an old French name or something. But, no, the name doesn’t come from France. Stephomi’s guess had been correct — Antaeus was of Greek origin. He was the giant of Greek myth who killed passers-by without reason or mercy, building caves from his victims’ skulls until he was at last slain by Hercules. Upon his death, he was brought to hell by Mephistopheles himself, and forced to guard the entrance to the Ninth Circle, standing aside only to allow sinners and demons to pass through.

I know I said before that I wasn’t scared but… I wasn’t scared then because, if nothing else, at least I knew my name. Gabriel… Gabriel Antaeus… Perhaps I’m just being overly paranoid… but the thought does occur to me now that perhaps, after all, Gabriel Antaeus is not my real name. I know it sounds sensationalist, putting it like that. I’m sure I’m probably just letting myself get carried away. But no one can deny that it’s a very unnatural coupling — a name from Heaven, a name from Hell…

‘Is this a reality TV show?’ I said aloud, thinking I’d worked it out and staring suspiciously around the living room for any hidden cameras. ‘All right, I’ve worked it out, very funny, game over.’

But no camera men came bursting in; no TV presenter came to shake my hand and tell me I’d won… I was so convinced that was the answer for a minute that I even turned on the TV and flicked through all the channels, half expecting to see myself on the screen. But that was stupid. They would hardly allow the show to be broadcast on my TV, would they? I can’t seriously believe it’s a reality TV show but… government experiment, maybe? An experiment exploring the effect of isolation and fear on the human psyche? I may even be putting myself in grave danger just by writing down this suspicion. The government have eyes everywhere. They might find out. But I can’t afford not to write it down in case I lose my memory again and have to start from the beginning once more. I should start hiding this journal when I go out. I cannot risk it falling into the wrong hands. And I can’t shake the feeling that someone — whether a TV audience or the government or somebody else — is watching me.