Vicious Circle

9

Rafi cried for a good long time, and that was painful to watch – but his present calm was worse in a way. It had a flavour of shell-shock to it.

‘Two years! Two fucking years! No, that’s not – that’s not even funny.’ He shook his head, hitting that solid wall of incomprehension again – unable to make himself believe.

Pen was beside him on the faded sofa: beside him, and entwined with him, and clinging to him as if he was a life jacket and she was adrift in stormy seas. She was crying too, and repeating his name whenever she could get her breath in between the racking sobs. He looked at me over her head, a look of mute terror and appeal.

‘It feels like I just went to sleep, and then woke up,’ he muttered. ‘I was in that sod-awful flat down Seven Sisters Road. You were there, Fix. I was talking to you, and for some reason I was . . . I guess, lying down, or something. Anyway, you were above me looking down. Then I closed my eyes, and . . . I had really bad dreams. The kind where if it was a movie you’d wake up screaming, but you try that and you find out you can’t.’ A new thought occurred to him. ‘Ginny. Did Ginny see all this? Where is she? Is she outside?’

‘Was that the girl?’ I asked, and he nodded. I remembered the white-blonde, stick-thin apparition who’d worked beside me through the hours of that night, shovelling off-licence ice packs into the bath where Rafi lay sprawled, to stop the water that was keeping his temperature down from boiling away. Rafi was right, it had been a bit like a dream – and she’d been one of the things that faded with the daybreak. I’d never seen her again, and it turned out the flat was only in Rafi’s name so there was no way of contacting her. ‘I lost touch with her,’ I murmured – which had the merit of being accurate without hitting him in the face with how quickly his lady had bailed out on him.

He knew how to read between the lines, though; and two years of being Asmodeus’s finger puppet had left him a little deficient in the putting-a-brave-face-on-it department. I had to look away from the naked pain in his eyes.

I was fervently grateful that this scene wasn’t being played out in Rafi’s cell. Doctor Webb – despite the lingering unpleasantness of Saturday’s punch-up – had allowed us to use one of the interview suites, only insisting that a male nurse stay in attendance and that we should all be locked in until we signalled that the visit was over. The nurse – a humourless Welshman named Kenneth, about the size and heft of a bulldozer – stood in the corner of the room watching Coronation Street without sound on the wall-mounted TV: it was as close to privacy as the Stanger offered.

‘I was possessed,’ said Rafi, sounding as though he was once again trying the concept on for size and finding that it didn’t even go over his shoulders. ‘Asmodeus took me over. Lived inside my body.’

‘Rafi, love,’ said Pen, wiping her bleary eyes, ‘you shouldn’t keep going over this. You want to get well first. Then later on, when you’re . . .’

She tailed off into silence because Rafi was shaking his head with slow, stern emphasis. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I need to know where I’ve been. You can’t just sit up in bed, yawn and stretch and get on with your life. Not after two years.’

‘It won’t be that easy in any case,’ I said, feeling it my duty as bastard in residence to shoot his hopes down before they flew high enough to hurt themselves. ‘Getting on with your life, I mean. You’re not here on your own recognisance, Rafi. You were sectioned. Getting you out is going to take time. You’ll have to convince a whole lot of people you’re sane again.’

Pen glared at me as if it was my decision to make. ‘He was never mad, Fix,’ she said, her voice betraying her because all the crying had left it shaky and high. ‘You know that.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I do. But it doesn’t matter a good goddamn what I know, Pen. Rafi isn’t in here because anyone ever really thought he had a mental illness: he’s here because demonic possession isn’t legally definable – and because Asmodeus couldn’t be let out on the streets to amuse himself with the traditional demonic pastimes of torture, mutilation and murder. We did what we had to do. And unfortunately, once it’s done, it’s not quick or easy to undo.’

Pen stood up, her fists clenched, and faced me down. Just for that moment, it seemed, I was the enemy – the voice of all the unreason and all the hypocritical hedging that had put Rafi here in the first place and was happy now to leave him here until he rotted.

‘I think we’d like to be alone for a while,’ she said pointedly. I threw out my hands in a placating gesture and headed for the door.

‘Wait, Fix.’

When I turned, Rafi was looking at the ground – or maybe, had his stare fixed on the ground while he looked within himself for a script for what he was going to say next. That search seemed to absorb every ounce and inch of his attention.

‘What?’ I asked, a little brusquely. I was with Pen on this one: I wanted out. Wanted to leave them alone to match velocities again after two years in which Pen had had a life and Rafi had had a padded room. And I particularly – fervently – needed to be somewhere else when the conversation got as far as Dylan.

‘It’s not . . . undone,’ he said. There was a long, terrible silence. Then, just as I opened my mouth to ask for a translation, Rafi looked up and stared at me with an intensity that shoved the words back down my throat. ‘I mean, Asmodeus is still here. A piece of him. It’s not like he just up and left. It’s more like –’ his mouth moved for a moment in silence ‘– like he took his weight off me so that he could lean over sideways and do something else. But I can still feel him, and he can still feel me. We’re still joined.’

‘No,’ Pen protested, in a tone that was almost a moan. Neither Rafi nor I responded to that poor, orphaned little syllable.

‘Maybe that gives you a window,’ I offered uneasily. ‘Maybe someone could do a full demon-ectomy on you now. If he’s loosened his hold . . .’

‘Someone,’ said Rafi. ‘Not you?’

‘You don’t remember,’ I told him bleakly. ‘If you did, you wouldn’t ask me. I tried once, Rafi, and I fucked up – badly. That’s why his soul and yours are wrapped around each other in a lovers’ knot.’

‘That’s not the only reason. I invited him in to start with.’

In spite of myself I felt a quickening of queasy interest. I’d always wondered what the Hell Rafi had thought he was doing that night. ‘So it was Asmodeus you were fishing for?’ I asked. ‘It wasn’t an accident?’

Rafi laughed – a laugh with a crazed edge to it. ‘An accident? It was an accident that I let my guard down. But you can’t say it’s an accident if you light your cigarette with a blowtorch and you lose your eyebrows. Asmodeus was the one I was after, Fix. The books said he was one of the mightiest demons in Hell. And one of the oldest. I didn’t see any sense in working my way up from the bottom: I wanted the goods, and I wanted them fast. So I don’t blame you for what happened, Fix. I blame myself. And I’ll take any help I can get right now.’

I shook my head. ‘No. You need someone with a lighter touch. Or a steadier hand.’ Call it cowardice or scruple or whatever the hell you like, but I wanted that cup to pass away from me. I’d ruined Rafi once: I didn’t think I could live with myself if I did it again.

‘You got someone in mind?’

I thought of Juliet. ‘Maybe. I know someone who could come in and give us an opinion, anyway.’

Rafi smiled the most unconvincing smile I’ve ever seen. ‘Thanks, Fix. You’re a brick.’

‘One letter out,’ I riposted, more feebly still.

Pen was still looking daggers, flails and chainsaws at me: the two of them still had a lot of ground to cover, so my turn would have to come later. I let myself out into the corridor, where Webb was hovering expressly to catch me as I exited. Another male nurse waited in the background – presumably in case I turned violent and had to be sedated.

‘You’re looking a little tense,’ I told Webb. ‘Is something on your mind?’

‘I need to know what I’m dealing with here, Castor,’ he snapped back, my solicitous tone having done nothing to improve his mood.

‘A miraculous recovery?’

‘Is that what you think it is?’

‘I don’t know,’ I hedged. ‘Why, what do you think?’

‘I think Ditko – or the thing inside him – is playing a new game. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve called Professor Mulbridge.’

Those words affected me like intravenous ice-cubes. ‘You had no right—’ I began. But Webb wasn’t about to be stopped when he’d barely started.

‘I have every right to consult with a colleague,’ he interrupted. ‘Professor Mulbridge is an acknowledged expert in the field.’

‘What field?’ I demanded, pinning him to it.

He hesitated, trying to sniff out the trap before he fell into it.

‘What field?’ I repeated. ‘Metamorphic ontology? Because your diagnosis of Rafi is schizophrenia. Are you saying you’ve changed that assessment?’

‘We both know—’

‘What we both know,’ I said, shouting over his already raised voice, ‘is that you’re so desperate to get rid of Rafi, you’ll try anything. And right now, saying that he needs specialised facilities elsewhere looks like a much quicker option than going through MHA screening and getting him independently assessed.’

‘He does need specialised facilities,’ Webb yelled back. ‘He’s a danger to everyone he comes into contact with.’

‘That was last week,’ I said, in a tone that was just barely short of a snarl. ‘And believe me, Webb – if you start flirting with Jenna-Jane, you’re going to be explaining in court exactly when your professional opinion of Rafi Ditko’s condition changed – and why you didn’t see fit to tell any of his friends or family about it.’

Webb flushed a very fetching shade of brick red that set off his pale yellow shirt nicely. ‘Castor, you’re chopping logic,’ he hissed, ‘and I won’t be intimidated by you. I have to do what’s best for the whole of this therapeutic community, and I believe my actions will stand the scrutiny of—’

I walked away, leaving him yelling apoplectically after me. I needed to get clear of him before I hit him, thereby handing him the moral and legal high ground on a plate.

Also I needed answers, and I wasn’t in the mood to wait until I knew what the questions were.

‘It’s good to see you again, Felix,’ my brother Matt said, as I squeezed into the booth opposite him. ‘You’re in my prayers a lot.’

‘I’d feel happier about that if I knew what you were praying for,’ I countered, with a cold smile. Letting him get away with a line like that would get the conversation off to a bad start.

We were in a little coffee house just off Muswell Hill Broadway with questionable decor in the general neighbourhood of art nouveau – or maybe a few blocks down. Figure paintings by Mucha and Hodler lined the walls, and square-edged Tiffany-style lampshades hung down dangerously low over each table. Upbeat 1920s jazz was playing softly in the background to make the point that this was all a period quote – but incongruously there was also a TV playing on a high shelf behind the counter with the volume turned all the way down: currently it showed a reporter with an earnest face standing in front of a row of shops, talking soundlessly to camera. From where I was sitting, the reporter stood on Matt’s right-hand shoulder like his conscience.

My brother had already ordered, which was fine with me: what I felt like drinking right then wasn’t on the menu here. When I passed this way, I preferred to drink at the O’Neill’s pub on the Broadway, which is built into the shell of a deconsecrated church. But Matty doesn’t share my sense of humour and I wanted to establish a convivial atmosphere, so we’d settled on the coffee house.

I’d called Matt from the Stanger and asked him to meet me. When he asked why, I said it was for the good of my soul and hung up. He knew I was most likely kidding, but he never quite allows himself to despair of me seeing the light. Pretty much any light will do.

He was in civvies, by which I mean he wasn’t wearing his collar: looking at him, you’d just see a slim-built, slightly bookish man on the cusp of forty, in a dark sweater and jeans that looked old without being shabby, with thinning mid-brown hair and very hard blue-grey eyes. Everything about Matty is hard: he’s got a weakness for moral certainties. He’s also got a good eye for detail, and he looked me up and down searchingly.

‘You don’t look well,’ he said. ‘There’s something hectic about your complexion. And your lip is swollen. Did you have an accident?’

‘I was mugged,’ I said.

‘In the line of duty?’ Matt’s lips pursed. He really doesn’t approve of how I earn my living.

‘You could say that. How’s mum?’

‘She’s well. She had a bad chest infection a few weeks back, but they gave her antibiotics and she’s fine now. They’ve put her on an inhaler, too.’ He frowned. ‘She won’t stop smoking, in spite of the emphysema, so keeping her airways open is the main priority. I thought you said you were going to go up and visit?’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a couple of things to clear up first, that’s all.’

‘Right.’

He took a sip of his coffee, gaze cast down, looking like a man who was trying hard not to say anything.

To fill the gap, I dug in my pocket for Zucker’s knife and put it down on the table between us.

‘You ever see anything like that before?’ I asked him.

Matt stared at the knife, and his eyes widened slightly. ‘That object belongs in your life, not in mine,’ he said softly. Too softly: and he never did learn to lie with his face as well as his voice.

‘Funny you should say that,’ I mused. ‘Because the guy who tried to use it on me was definitely one of your crowd.’

‘A priest?’ Matt’s tone was disdainful.

‘Yeah, in a way. Maybe. A functionary of your Church.’

‘My Church doesn’t employ armed men.’

‘It doesn’t? I suppose the crusaders were using your registered trade mark without permission, then?’

Matt sighed heavily. ‘The last crusade ended in the thirteenth century, Felix. I used the present tense.’

I tapped the hilt of the knife. ‘This thing is present, Matty. And it makes me tense enough for both of us. Tell me about the Anathemata.’

He was silent.

‘They’re trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘It would help a lot if I knew why.’

Another silence, but this time I went with instinct and let it stretch.

‘They don’t – kill – indiscriminately,’ Matt said at last. ‘And they’re not agents of the Church.’

‘Then why are they listed as a Church organisation?’

‘They’re not. Unless you were using an old book.’

Again, I waited, and eventually, reluctantly, Matty filled the silence.

‘They’re a very old sect,’ he said. ‘But their history is patchy. Under some popes they barely existed. At other times they were as powerful in their way as the Society of Jesus or the Inquisition. Their brief was to deal with those things that Mother Church considers abominations – anathema, in the Greek word. Anathemata is just the plural form. In recent times – over the past ten years or so – that has come to mean the risen dead.’

A murky light, like bioluminescence in a bloated corpse, was starting to dawn.

‘What exactly does “deal with” mean in this context?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Matty admitted. ‘I was never a member, though as a student of Church history I was aware of their existence.’

‘Are you telling me there wasn’t any loose talk behind the confessionals on a Saturday night?’

He frowned. ‘There were rumours, obviously. Contradictory, and based on nothing more than hearsay. Felix, the Catholic Church isn’t a vast, secret conspiracy, whatever you happen to think – in terms of freedom of information, it compares favourably to most governments.’

‘Set your bar a little higher,’ I suggested sourly. ‘Matty, I’m not talking about the Little Sisters of Maria Assumpta – I’m talking about a group within your church that’s using werewolves to run their errands. Are they reaching out to our hairier brethren? Is “deal with” a polite way of saying “recruit”? And they have daggers made to their own design, for fuck’s sake. You think they open a lot of mail? Cut a lot of cakes? What?’

‘I don’t know what they do,’ Matty repeated patiently, refusing as always to lose his temper with me. ‘I will tell you, though, if you’re interested, why an up-to-date listing of Church groups would leave the Anathemata out.’

‘Go on,’ I said. I was distracted by the TV images over his shoulder. Broken windows, and policemen in riot gear charging forward in a solid line.

‘Because they were disbanded,’ Matt said, with just an edge of smugness. ‘The new pope questioned their methods and their usefulness. He ordered the seniors of the order to stand down, after first reallocating their members to other groups and tasks. This was all quite recent – only a year ago.’

‘And did it take?’ I asked pointedly. I glanced down at the knife. ‘Because that thing on the table was used on me even more recently.’

That reluctance came back. ‘The prelates of the order took issue with His Holiness. I gather that they argued. . .’ He hesitated, and then didn’t seem to know how to start up again.

‘They argued . . . ?’ I prompted.

Matty nodded curtly. ‘Don’t try to browbeat me, Felix, please. I’m trying to word this in a way that doesn’t make it sound too sensational. They argued that the rising of the dead, and the appearance of infernal creatures as the shepherds of the dead, were an indication that the Last Days had begun. They felt – many of them felt – that their own dissolution would leave the field open to Hell, and that they would be remiss in their spiritual duty if they accepted it.’

He’d been looking at the knife. Now he looked up and met my gaze. He’d clearly reached the thing that he hadn’t wanted to say, and I was impressed by how well he swallowed the pill.

‘So they refused. En masse. And they were excommunicated.’

I whistled, long and low. ‘That’s strong stuff,’ I said.

‘Yes, Felix, that’s strong stuff. It put their souls and their bodies outside of the Church’s communion and comfort. It denied them the possibility of a place in Heaven.’

‘It left them with nothing to lose,’ I summed up.

Matty opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Matty, do you know where these people operate out of?’

‘No.’

I considered that bare monosyllable. It seemed to me to be concealing at least a moderately sized multitude of sins.

‘Would you know how to contact them, if you had to?’ I asked.

Matt breathed out, long and hard, through his nose. ‘The Anathemata are historically linked to the Douglas Ignatieff Biblical Research Trust in Woolwich,’ he said. ‘I say historically, because it’s been a long time since anyone in the movement published any papers or took part in religious debate. I doubt very much that the connection is an extant one.’

‘But would there be someone there who—?’

I stopped dead, my brain finally catching up with my eyes, and leaned over to the right to get a better look at the TV on the wall behind my brother. It was showing a scene of chaos on the nighted streets of a city: running people; a yellowish flare of distant flames, and in the foreground the corner of some building – one wall of red-brick, the other of glass with a huge hole in the middle of it like a jagged-toothed mouth. The camera was handheld and the light wasn’t good, but it looked like an office block of some kind – low-rise, only three storeys above a street of shopfronts.

‘Wait.’ I got up and crossed to the set. ‘Can you turn up the volume?’ I called out to the waiter. The resolution was still as clear as mud, but I could read the strap-line at the bottom of the screen well enough: it said WHITE CITY SIEGE.

The waiter looked a little indignant. ‘We keep it low so it doesn’t disturb the other diners.’

‘Yeah, I know. Just for a moment. It’s important.’

He held out for a moment longer, but I kept staring at him implacably and he folded. He found a remote from somewhere and aimed it at the set: the whisper of sound became a just about audible mumble. ‘– Are feared to be dead, although it’s obviously the hostages who are the immediate concern right now. The police have surrounded the Whiteleaf shopping precinct, and they’ve closed off Bloemfontein Road at both the north and south ends. Now they’re waiting to see if there are any demands. But since they don’t even know who they’re dealing with, or whether the motive is political or something else entirely, it’s far to early to say whether we can expect—’

I lost the rest of the sentence, because I suddenly caught another glimpse of what I thought I’d seen before: a pale, familiar face in the ragged-edged hole in the glass – leaning out from some anonymous strip-lit space, with two male faces behind her, one of them holding what looked to be a kitchen knife.

It was Susan Book, the verger at Saint Michael’s church.

I turned to Matty.

‘I need a car,’ I said. ‘Did you drive here?’

To my surprise, he reached into his pocket and handed me the keys. He’d seen my face as I was staring at the screen, and I guess it didn’t leave him with any questions.

‘It’s a Honda Civic,’ he said. ‘Dark blue. On Prince’s Avenue.’

‘Thanks.’ I gave him a nod, grateful that he wasn’t wasting my time by asking for explanations. ‘For the loan, and for the information. Shall I bring the car back here or –?’

‘There’s a Carmelite convent over in Hadley Wood. You can leave it there. The sisters know me.’

A predictable joke about the biblical sense of that word died on my lips as I stared into Matt’s solemn, concerned face.

‘Or leave it somewhere else, if you have to,’ he said. ‘Explain to me later, Felix. If there’s something important hanging on this, you’d better go.’

I went.