‘Because you asked me to,’ said Magnus, matter of factly.
She realised, with astonishment, that a single tear like a raindrop was rolling down his gnarled cheek, dampening his facial hair.
Magnus was a giant of a man, born in the Dark Ages of humanity. She knew him to be a thug, a bully, and a bloodthirsty monster. She was astonished to see him betray such vulnerability in front of her, a mere woman.
‘I did it, because you asked me to,’ the Viking warrior repeated, his voice wavering. ‘Because you are the kind of woman I wish had met when I was alive. Because I dream of you at nights. Because you are a great warrior as well as a ravishing beauty. And because I love you. That’s why.’
Chapter 3
Three months later.
‘Hello darling,’ Fillide said.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ said Roy. ‘What’s for fucking dinner?’
So much for repartee.
‘Something nice,’ she promised.
It was in actual fact a feast, with three hors d’oeuvres and a chicken stuffed with pheasant. It was based on her memories of a meal she’d eaten once at a count’s palace when she was seventeen; she was proud of her ability to replicate it from memory.
But Roy was already too inebriated to care about the quality of her cuisine. He sat on the sofa sipping whisky while she served up. Then he fell asleep, and she had to wake him, and it took him a while to come to.
He sat at the dining table, reeking of booze, doused in melancholy. And he ate in silence, grunting from time to time, occasionally spitting out morsels of half digested bird.
She kept smiling. She kept the wine flowing.
‘How’s the meal?’ she asked.
‘I had a kebab,’ he admitted. ‘In the car. This is okay.’
‘Good. That’s good. I’m so glad it’s “okay”,’ she said, effusively.
Since he was too much of a clod to appreciate her efforts, she savoured it herself. A feast fit for a count or even a king. Wasted on this boozy fool.
Get him drunk first, Magnus had said.
Well that bit was easy.
‘Why don’t you tell me about your day?’ she said meekly.
‘I’m glad you asked,’ he replied, sarcastically.
One dinner-time she’d forgotten to ask, and he had threatened to bury a steak knife in her forearm. Later he claimed he’d just been kidding, but she was never sure.
And so he told her about his day at work, and the various murder cases he was overseeing, and the arseholes he had to work with in Limehouse and over at Poplar and Leyton and Croydon and especially in Whitechapel.
‘That’s amazing, Roy.’
‘What bastards!’
‘They’ve got no fucking idea, have they?’
Fillide had various stock comments to offer him and she threw them in randomly. After a while he got up from the table, and announced his imminent intentions with the words: ‘Okay my darling, time for a really big shit.’
She laughed uproariously.
As soon as he was out of the room, she took the sleeping draught from her handbag, and stirred it in to the wine bottle with a skewer she’d taken from the kitchen.
You can defeat him, but first you must drug him, Magnus had said.
She sniffed the neck of the bottle, anxiously. The wine was rich, fifteen per cent, and its bouquet drowned all other tastes. And he was too drunk to notice in any case. She only wished it were cyanide, not barbiturates.
She hid the skewer before he returned. He drank the entire bottle and offered none to her. By now he was so shockingly drunk, she wondered if she had needed the drugs after all.
‘Tell me about Carter Street,’ she said, and he told her some familiar stories about his Carter Street days.
‘Those fucking Masons,’ she prompted, and he told her dark stories about those fucking Masons, who didn’t appreciate all he did for them.
‘Tell me about when you did close protection for the PM,’ she said, and he told those tired old stories about the days of Gordon Brown and other people she had never heard of.
‘But he never did that to me,’ his story concluded. She had never, in all honesty, listened to the story in full.
When he’d finished his meal Roy, who was a fast eater, began taking food off her plate. His hunger, it seemed, had returned. She smiled as he reached over and dabbled his fingers in her gravy, and ripped large fragments off her portion of the thrice-stuffed bird. He had seconds then thirds off her plate, then belched loudly. He staggered out to the cupboard off the landing where he kept his wine, and returned with a dusty bottle of Rioja.
‘Open that.’
She took the corkscrew and opened it. The cork that emerged was almost rotted away. She sniffed, and could smell a century’s worth of absorbed wine. The mingled scents of rainforest cork and the berries, sassafras and cedary oak bouquet of the ancient Rioja made her briefly dizzy.
She fetched him a fresh glass, one of the big fluted wine glasses that could take almost a third of a bottle. She poured the Rioja as if it were nectar being tipped into the throat of a bee. Then she passed it to him, and he held the glass in both hands, and rolled it in his palms as you are meant to do with brandy, though not in fact with red wine, and he held the glass up to his face and inhaled its rich bouquet. Then he drained it in one. She poured him a second glass.
As he gulped his wine, she began to clear the table. It was a brutal job, because of the spat-out shards of bird flesh scattered on the tablecloth and floor. But she used a crumb pan and brush with a deft touch. And when the table was relatively clear of flesh, she brought in the cheeses. She noticed the Rioja bottle was empty.
‘That hit the spot,’ he announced grandly.
She knew Roy used magic to enhance his liver and possibly his other organs too. Even so, it was a miracle to her he was still alive.
‘Some cheese?’ she said.
‘Just serve it.’
‘Yes, Roy.’
She served him large chunks of all the cheeses. And without asking she went to the wine cupboard and got another bottle of Rioja, and opened it in the kitchen. She dosed it generously with sleeping powder, and stirred it with a skewer. Then she took the bottle into the dining room and refilled him.
She sat opposite him and sipped a Chianti, her second glass.
After a while they retired to the drawing room and Roy smoked big Cuban cigars and drank port and told more stories. At about midnight they went to bed.
Act normal, fuck him if you have to, just make sure he goes to bed and sleeps, Magnus had told her.
They didn’t have sex that night, and for this she was grateful.
An hour passed.
He was snoring heavily now. She lay beside him, wide awake and anxious.
Wait until his pulse is slow, and you will know that the drugs have taken hold, Magnus had said.
She leaned over and took Roy’s pulse. It was slow, very slow; if it weren’t for the snoring she’d suspect he was dead.
And then, so Magnus had advised her, in his long and careful briefing: then shall be your moment to escape.
However, to her absolute horror, she realised she couldn’t move. After all her planning, her careful preparation, when the moment came she was inert and unable to get herself out of bed. She twitched and writhed – her fingers flicked this way and that – her eyes darted from side to side – but beyond that she could not budge. It was as if a huge weight was pressing upon her body. But there was in fact no huge weight. Nor was this part of his enchantment. This was just –
Fear.
She could hear the wind outside; she longed to be out there in the moonlit breeze, feeling its chill fingers on her body.
Instead she was flailing helplessly on her back in Roy’s master bedroom. A palatial room furnished with ormolu ornaments and gilded chairs, whose centrepiece was a Louis Quinze bed of soft yellow walnut wood. All lit by warm beams from the bronze table lamps, like dawn scattering its rays across a field o
f wheat. She must look, it occurred to her, like a fly trapped in a web of gold.
She imagined nothingness: her usual trick for coping with this lethargy of terror whenever it possessed her. She imagined being not herself, somewhere that was not here, and not now.
Yet still she could not move.
She tried again. And still -
With shocking suddenness, she tricked her limbs into motion, and flung herself out of bed. She gasped with relief as she landed on the floor in a sprawl. Her knees were bruised, her wrists and elbows jarred, her cheeks scratched by the carpet’s rough fibres. But she’d done it.
She got up and steadied herself, then went to the toilet and turned on the light and washed her hands and face in the sink. She remembered Magnus’s words:
You see, my dear, your binding spell will be highly specific and detailed. But it cannot cover every eventuality. And given your line of work, it’s unlikely he will have forbidden you to leave the apartment at night. Your spell will of course prohibit you from fleeing your master. So the trick is to NOT think about fleeing or being free until you are out of range of his presence. If you can do that, if you can censor your thoughts and do things without knowing why you are doing them, you stand a chance. So think about nothing, get out of range of his spell-binding, then fucking well run for it.
She could feel the warm perspiration trickling down her arms and torso and legs. Her nightdress was already soaked. All tokens that she was brushing close to the boundaries of her invocation. Which, as Magnus had explained, typically would say something like: Do not try to leave me thy master or harm me or cause me to come to harm or the fires of Hell shall burn within thy body.
She threw her nightie off and wiped herself down with a towel. She was hot; she was sweaty; but these sure as fuck weren’t the fires of Hell. She started to hope.
So the trick is to NOT think about fleeing or being free until you are out of range of his presence.
She gave a try.
I bet it’ll much cooler outside, she thought.
Nothing happened.
She added a cheery self-reflection: Mmm, I do so fancy going for a drive!
Then:
How nice it would be to get outside for a while, she mused. I’m sure Roy won’t mind, I’ll be back in no time!
And:
I know, she cheerily told herself, I’ll drive to South London! It’s so lovely there. And tomorrow I’ll tell Roy all about it. How I left him in the night and came back in the morning with a smile on my lips and some fresh baguettes for breakfast!
Her lies were absurd but she was able to believe in them for brief periods: for long enough.
She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was wild and there were little scabs of sleep in the corners of her eyes. So she filled the sink with cold water and ducked her head into it fast. It shocked and also freshened her. She dabbed her face dry with another towel, then dumped that too on the bathroom floor. She went back into the bedroom, naked.
He was still sleeping. Snuffling like a hog, his familiar elegance a distant daytime memory.
Her heart was pounding loud and fast now. It amazed her that he wasn’t woken up by the thundering sound her heartbeat made. She opened the wardrobe and took out a pair of loose black shorts and a T-shirt that bore a skull insignia. She slipped on a pair of beautiful soft lace knickers that she’d bought in Regent Street, then put on the shorts and T-shirt. Then she put on a pair of trainers over pop socks.
She’d already packed her bag, and she took it out of the space at the back of the wardrobe. Inside was money, her favourite books, and the letters Michel Agnolo had written her after he’d fled from Rome, which she had transcribed from memory in an imitation of his hand. It was the only thing from the old days that she owned. Fake or not, she revered them.
She took out her hair brush and ran it through her hair. A crazy thing to do since time was so pressing, but she hated to see it so unruly. When she finally had locks that flowed like silk, she took a deep breath to steel herself. Then she went into the box room and took out her tools. She’d hidden them in an old toy box that he had kept from his first marriage. Hand carved, with clowns upon the lid.
He rarely visited his children now, because they were so bitter about the way he’d abandoned their mother. Once, in a rage, he claimed they were dead to him; but she could tell that wasn’t true. He missed them.
Inside the toy box was the gun, the knife, and the metal can.
She went back into the bedroom. The curtain was stirring in the breeze, and the yellow light of the outside street lamp flickered through the crack, blending with the warm golden glow of the twin table lamps.
Do not try to kill your master, for it will come to naught, Magnus had told her. But use the holy flame to imprison him. That will buy you time till you can reach freedom.
She drew a near-perfect circle around his bed in liquid accelerant from the metal can, splashing the final seal on the wall behind the headboard.
This is perfectly safe, she reminded herself. And added the thoughts:
What fun this is, and of course, this won’t hurt my beloved Roy at all!
I’m so fond of you, my sweet Roy Boy!
Oh, I know my beloved Roy will be so happy that I played this little jape on him in the night!
The stench assailed her nostrils; the accelerant was adulterated with henbane and peacock feathers and ambergris and stork’s blood and the brain of a young stag, to form a potent incense.
She struck a match and lit a patch of the damp carpet trail. The flame sizzled a moment, then leaped up and walked until a ring of fire was formed around the walnut bed, with flames leaping up from the carpet to the height of a man’s calf. Now the smell was utterly unbearable, and the fug of smoke started to fill the room. Fillide wanted to retch.
The wood of the skirting board seared but did not burn; it was flame-proof of course. And the carpet around the line of fire blackened, but the fire did not spread, because the pile had also been treated. For Roy was a cautious man.
She stood there for a while, admiring the beauty of the yellow crackling fire that danced around the bed, casting its warm glow upon gilt and ormolu, making the crystal of the chandelier shine like stars. The ritual flames would burn thus for six hours or more, according to the instructions on the packet. Roy stirred. But he did not wake: she’d sedated him too heavily.
She knew she should seize the moment and flee.
Do not linger, Magnus had said. And do not, I repeat, do not try to kill your master, for you cannot.
A wildness of spirit possessed her, and she splashed some of the remaining accelerant over his sleeping body. She used her fingers to rub the liquid in his face and hair and over the grey hairs of his muscular chest. With her hands trembling with emotion, she shook the last few drops over his snoring face.
For the briefest of moments, she exulted. And fumbled for a match, to set the bastard’s flesh aflame.
I’m sure Roy won’t mind if I set fire to him!
Then she groaned, consumed by intolerable pain.
Do not try to kill your master, for you cannot, Magnus had said.
Though there was no heat, her flesh started to burn. She looked at her hand; it was bright red and blistering. The skin blackened, and started to peel off her bones. And her face was singeing too. She felt as if she were being beaten with red hot pokers.
She dropped the matches.
The burning stopped; the pain ebbed, and went. The flames disappeared, and never were.
She looked at her hands. The blistering had stopped. The blackened skin turned pink again. The burns healed. Her face no longer stung. Her breasts and arse and legs and torso were no longer on fire. A narrow escape.
Still the wildness possessed her.
Do not try to kill your master, for you cannot, Magnus had said.
She looked at the knife.
Roy will be REALLY amused if I stab him with this knife! she mused, c
heekily.
And she wondered -
She felt a dagger in her guts and she howled with pain.
She was stabbed again, and howled again. The invisible blade moved around within her, scuttling within her body like a rat in a sewer. She gasped and fell on her hands and knees, and puked red and black vomit on to the carpet.
She dropped the dagger and the pains ceased. She breathed; her lungs were restored. She tasted the joy of air.
She stared at the pukey mess on the carpet, and feared she saw there fragments of her own ripped organs. But her heart was pulsing again. Her stomach was no longer sundered. And the terrible cuts inside her sealed up. She was healed; she was whole. With absurd defiance, she stared at the gun.
Do not –
She looked away. Enough.
Her courage was at an end: she’d tested his power to the limit, and it had no limit. Her only options were to escape, or to die. So she would attempt to escape.
She picked up the gun by the barrel in one hand and the knife by the blade in the other hand, focusing upon her non-murderous intent.
I will not hurt Roy this will not hurt Roy I will not hurt my beloved Roy!
She placed the weapons carefully on the bed, in the hot hollow where she had been sleeping. When he woke, it would give him a nasty turn. And that was the most she could hope for, since she could not kill him.
It was time to leave.
She crept out of the penthouse flat, shoes in hand, and mortised the door as quietly as she could behind her. She had both sets of keys and she threw them in the rubbish chute as she passed, before descending ten flights of stairs. The lift was swifter, but she feared the noise it made; he might have bodyguards living within this mansion block.
Once she was outside the block of flats, she began to relax. Her car was parked in the driveway - a Ford Tornado. She’d chosen this conveyance for her escape rather than her motorbike because the car had air conditioning, and she’d surely need that.
She got in and sat behind the wheel, feeling the comfort of a familiar space. She switched on the ignition and drove the vehicle quietly out on to the street.
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