Sound

by Catherine Fearns

  They went back up to the living room, where the rest of the band were slumped on the sofas playing video games. Darren found a space to sit, was handed another beer and allowed himself to bathe in the satisfyingly Bacchanalian squalor of the heaped ashtrays and empty cans and bottles. He felt out of place and yet bizarrely accepted at the same time.

  ‘So, how did you get on with the backmasked tape?’ asked Mikko. ‘Was there a message?’

  ‘Yeah, there was, actually. I’m investigating.’

  ‘Fucking cool.’

  ‘Well, possibly not.’ Darren was dying to talk to someone about his visit to Napier Estate. But he realised he couldn’t talk about it here. Perhaps Colette would be receptive at work tomorrow, and they could re-open the case. In any case, Mikko was in his element now, telling Helen about backmasking.

  ‘So Christian groups in the US claimed that rock bands were hiding Satanic messages in their songs and using them to corrupt the youth, or whatever. They even accused Judas Priest of brainwashing two kids into killing themselves – there was a trial and everything. But it was ridiculous; I mean, backmasking is mostly used as a sort of musical joke.’

  ‘Although, it does raise interesting questions,’ said Helen. ‘Because you can certainly use music, or sounds, to manipulate people.’

  She was thinking of the gentle manipulation of church music, used to enhance the glorification of god and inspire awe in worshippers. But Darren was thinking about that PhD student Marcel Rees, and offered, ‘Like subliminal advertising?’

  ‘Or sonic weapons,’ said Mikko, making a ‘booming’ motion with his hands. ‘The military use them all the time. You can literally kill people with sound.’

  There he goes again, thought Darren, using that phrase.

  ‘Like Vox Inferi,’ said Anders, not taking his eyes off the computer game in which he was engrossed.

  ‘Yeah, their music is so fucking terrible that people actually die.’

  ‘No, dude, it’s the frequency, I’m telling you.’

  All the band members were laughing, while Helen and Darren looked mystified.

  She interrupted their uproar. ‘Mikko, explain. Darren and I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Ok, so,’ said Mikko, putting down his beer and leaning forward. ‘Vox Inferi is a black metal band, fronted by this dude called The Messiah. He’s one of the most controversial figures in metal, which is no small achievement, you know? He’s a really weird guy.’

  ‘You’re a really weird guy yourself, Mikko.’

  ‘No, no, you have no idea. The guy is obsessed with sound.’

  ‘Again, still sounds like you.’

  ‘No, not music, sound. He’s a conspiracy theorist who believes the governments of the world have been waging sonic warfare on humanity since the Second World War. He lives off-grid, somewhere in the woods in the north of England. He has his own satanic cult, and his music is supposed to be an ordeal, that’s the whole point. It’s so loud, and there’s so much feedback, that even with ear plugs it hurts. He holds the world record for the loudest ever concert. And the lyrics, oh my God. They’re disgusting even by metal standards. Vox Inferi don’t even need to bother with all that fake blood and killing animals on stage and shit. They’re way more scary than all that theatre. I mean, this dude makes Total Depravity look like a fucking pop group. Sometimes he performs in pitch dark. Once he performed in a spherical room, to induce a special type of disorientation. Once he announced that he was going to hit the ‘devil’s frequency’ and summon Satan. But you know what happened instead? He hit the brown note.’

  Again Mikko and his bandmates burst out laughing, while Helen and Darren looked bemused.

  ‘Enlighten us, please.’

  ‘The brown note. You know. It’s the frequency that makes your bowels open. Apparently the entire crowd literally shit themselves simultaneously.’

  ‘That is not true,’ Helen said, slapping his thigh gently.

  ‘It is fucking true, I’m telling you.’

  ‘He does summon Satan, though,’ said Knut quietly. The drummer was an enormous man with biceps that appeared bigger than Mikko’s waist. Tattoos strained and bulged from his flesh. He had a long bushy brown beard, the ends of which he plaited and secured with a silver ring carved with runes. His head was completely bald and an inverted cross tattoo, thick, black and ugly, with no adornments, covered his forehead. Darren thought he was the most terrifying-looking man he had ever seen.

  The others erupted into laughter again, but Knut protested.

  ‘No, he really does. He has this spectrogram, one of those programmes that translate sound into imagery, on a big screen. And when he hits a certain frequency with his power chords… the face of Satan appears. And like this, he has torn open a portal to the other side.’

  ‘What does Satan look like, then?’ asked Mikko mockingly. ‘Let me guess, does he look like the fucking goat head that just happens to be the Messiah’s logo?’

  Knut looked a little deflated, but he didn’t seem to be joking.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Helen. ‘It doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not. If the crowd believe it. Belief as a tool, right? Put on some of his music so I can listen to it.’

  ‘No can do,’ said Mikko, shaking his head. ‘He never records anything. He says sound is ephemeral and should only be experienced in the moment. That to record anything is crass and against artistic truth. Except the real reason is, of course, that if he never records this devil’s frequency, then he can never be proved wrong. His live shows are all secret as well. I’ve never been to one.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense!’ said Helen. ‘If nobody knows about the shows then how does he ever have an audience? Does he even exist? I think you’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘Knut has been to one, haven’t you?’ said Mikko, throwing a lighter across the sofa at his bandmate to rouse him from the computer game. ‘You can only get invited if you’re a fully paid-up member of the Church Of Satan.’

  Knut beamed proudly.

  ‘Yes. It is true,’ he said solemnly. ‘I have seen The Messiah. And I have seen Satan.’

  ‘Where does he live, this Messiah?’ asked Darren.

  ‘He lives everywhere and nowhere. The true Satanist must not be a part of modern society, which is founded upon lies. The fabric of social reality is a lie that hinders true chaos from realising itself.’

  ‘Is that what you put on your fucking Facebook page?’ teased Mikko. ‘He lives in the UK, somewhere up north. Nobody knows where he’s from originally, but apparently they all have criminal records and have been banned in, like, most countries. They take misanthropy to a whole new level.’

  The evening wore on into night, the beers flowed, the mingling smokes of cigarettes and candle flames hung in the air and blurred the faces. Darren began to relax for the first time in months and, as the blended English and Norwegian conversation flowed around him in the haze, he began to drift towards sleep. Then his ears pricked up. He thought he’d heard the word Adramelech. Yes, they were discussing Adramelech, the fire demon whose cult had played a bizarre role, or so he believed, in Matt’s death. Helen was leaning back on Mikko. He was saying, ‘I don’t know baby, I leave you alone for, like, five minutes, and you discover an ancient cult and an evil book wrapped in human skin, that tells you how to conjure a fire demon. I was the one on tour, I was supposed to be having all the fun…’

  Darren pretended to be asleep, and listened to her tell Mikko about the events of the summer. Then they realized Darren was awake and looking questioningly at Helen, and both she and Mikko shuffled upright.

  ‘I’m sorry, Darren. I told Mikko about the Ars Adramelechum. About Shawn Forrest. It just came up when we were discussing Chaos Magick. It seemed so relevant. I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.’

  Darren wavered for a moment. It had been a secret he had shared with Helen. But he quickly forgave her, because why should it be their secret? These Norwegians seemed to
know even more than her about demons and devil-worship and besides, the more people he could tell about this strange story, the more he could believe it had some basis in reality.

  Mikko asked, in a serious tone now, ‘So you think this fire demon worship had something to do with your fiancé’s death? With those poor men in the truck? And the lady in the street?’

  Darren shrugged sadly. ‘Officially, the lady in the street died because her metal handbag clasp heated up in the sun so much that it sparked, and was ignited by alcohol on her breath. Unofficially, it was a case of spontaneous human combustion. Officially, the Liverpool Eight truck exploded due to poor maintenance. Unofficially, it was torched as a warning to rival gangmasters. Officially, the Lumina II explosion was caused by fireworks nearby. Unofficially, Forrest torched it to claim on insurance, because he had undersold the apartments and couldn’t afford to complete the building work.’ Darren’s words were slurred and his voice cracked with emotion.

  ‘So it’s all explained then,’ said Mikko. ‘Except – it isn’t.’

  ‘Except it isn’t. Because we know more. Justice will be done, Darren,’ said Helen, leaning over to touch his leg. ‘Perhaps not straight away, but—’

  Darren interrupted. He knew he was drunk, and he felt reckless.

  ‘So this chaos magick. Belief is more important than truth, right? All the Shepherd murders… based on belief in God. And then all those deadly fires in the summer, based on belief in some demon. So belief being more important than truth seems to be a recurring theme in my life, even though I don’t believe anything. So if belief is that powerful, how would you defeat someone who believed they had summoned demonic powers? Who felt they were invincible?’ He didn’t know why he was shouting, he didn’t know why he was angry at them, but they allowed him to be, and he felt safe.

  ‘Well,’ said Helen carefully, ‘You could try to make them believe that you had summoned greater powers.’

  ‘Like, this dude who worships Adramelech…’ started Mikko.

  ‘You would, like, get the Messiah to summon Satan,’ interrupted Anders.

  ‘Or what about God?’

  ‘Do both! It would be, like, a three-way battle.’

  Both Helen and Darren, despite their drunkenness, were eager to move on from this conversation which bordered on being offensive to both of them, but Mikko and the band were having fun talking about demons and summoning. ‘Let’s fucking go to a Vox Inferi concert,’ said Mikko, leaping up in enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, I have to admit,’ said Helen, ‘I would be quite interested. As long as he doesn’t do that brown note thing. Shall we look up his concert dates?’

  ‘No, you can’t. Like I said, they’re secret. But… it’s almost Halloween, and apparently he only performs in the run-up to Halloween – it’s like a ritual thing. So I bet there will be one soon. Go on, Knut, do your thing. Find out where his next gig will be.’

  ‘I will investigate this,’ said Knut officially, and he reached for his laptop. Darren moved to sit next to him, somewhat unsteadily. He peered over at the screen, and at first Knut tried to cover it, with some irritation, but then he relented.

  ‘Is this the Dark Web?’ asked Darren, fascinated.

  ‘This is a group for members of the Church of Satan. It is accessed via the Dark Web. It is only for those who have professed allegiance to the Dark Lord.’

  Across the room, talk had moved on, loud heavy metal was playing, and Darren nestled back into the sofa, feeling bizarrely safe next to this gentle giant. His eyes glazed over as Knut scrolled through a series of message boards. He was almost asleep again, when he was thrown forward with a start.

  ‘Boom,’ roared Knut, standing up in triumph. ‘I have found it. Friday night, North Yorkshire. The exact location to be revealed on arrival at the checkpoint.’

  Ten

  The next morning Darren awoke with a throbbing head and took a few moments to realise where he was, on a sofa in a living room now emptied of people but littered with beer cans, ash trays and bongs. Everything smelt stale, and the house was silent. And bright. Nobody had closed the curtains. The light hurt his eyes and the room looked unfamiliar in the daylight. He sat up slowly and rubbed his face, then walked over to the garden window. His movement startled two red squirrels scampering across the grass and they darted up a tree. Stupid, stupid night. What a dickhead. He didn’t have time for this; he was already late for work and Formby was a good forty-five minutes away from the city centre in the current traffic. He grabbed his car keys and left, closing the front door quietly behind him.

  When Darren arrived at Canning Place, far later than usual and nursing a sore head, there was a strange buzz in the atmosphere. Something was different. Superintendent Liz Canter’s glass-fronted office was a hub of activity and a lot of people were on the phone and looking worried. He approached Colette at her desk.

  ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, only a terrorist incident. Where’ve you been? You look like shit.’

  ‘Terrorist incident? What’s happening?’

  ‘Someone was sighted with a suspected machine gun – possibly even a rocket launcher apparently – on a residential street in Aigburth. They’ve got an armed response unit out searching the area but they haven’t found anything yet.’

  ‘Jesus. Is it possible it was a prank call? Or some idiot with an air rifle heading to the park?’

  ‘Defo. But there were two separate calls, on two adjacent streets, both with the same sighting. Both reports describe something bigger than an air rifle. And apparently the person holding the weapon was wearing a black balaclava, which doesn’t look good. Anyway, we can only watch from the sidelines on this one.’

  Darren settled down to his work, checked emails, made a task list. But he couldn’t concentrate. Nobody else could concentrate either, with this crisis ongoing. Many of his colleagues had been pulled in on related tasks. But it wasn’t the terrorist incident that was bothering Darren. He couldn’t move on from Professor Neilson’s recording, from Neilson’s PhD student Marcel Rees’s strange manner, from the Napier estate, from the connections he couldn’t help making. After a while he realised that, lost in thought, he had filled a whole page of notepaper with doodles; a pattern of interlocking infinity symbols, over and over again. As soon as it could conceivably be lunchtime, he picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Hello, is that Marcel Rees? This is Detective Inspector Swift from Merseyside Police – we met the other day. I have a few more questions about Professor Neilson. Nothing to worry about, you’re not in any trouble. Are you at the university today?’

  Darren grabbed his jacket and headed out towards the university science area, a fifteen-minute walk from the station. When he arrived, Rees was waiting for him, perched anxiously on the edge of the covered pavilion in the centre of Abercromby Square. It was a beautiful day and students had flocked to the open space of the square to have lunch, sitting in groups on the grass and enjoying the last of the year’s warm sunshine.

  Marcel Rees wasn’t acting guiltily, but he did seem agitated.

  ‘What’s this about? Is there an investigation? I thought it was a heart attack?’

  ‘A heart attack has been confirmed, yes. There’s nothing suspicious about the death itself. It’s just that Professor Neilson had clearly been troubled by something before his death, and it appears that he had been about to send something to Merseyside Police. A recording. I feel it’s our duty to investigate what that was. So I want to ask you again – as someone who obviously cared about the professor – do you know of anything specific that was troubling him? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him? Anything controversial he was working on?’

  ‘Look, I do care about Neilson. I mean, I did care about him. But the truth is that we had fallen out recently. Like I said, I thought his paranoia was becoming a real problem. He was seeing things that weren’t there, and encouraging me to do the same. Apophenia, as I mentioned.’

  ‘Like h
allucinations?’

  ‘Not exactly. More like over-interpreting real sensory perceptions. Anyway, it meant we disagreed over the direction of my research. I had actually requested a transfer to a different supervisor. But it wasn’t… personal or anything. I mean, I was just worried about his state of mind. And I had to think about my own career and reputation too.’

  ‘Can you give me an idea of what he was working on?’

  ‘All I know is that he was placing sound level meters all over the city. He was just wandering about collecting data. He wanted me to help him, but it was a ridiculous waste of time because it had no purpose.’

  ‘Sound level meters, you say? What do they do exactly?’

  ‘Just what it says. They measure sound levels, except that with the precision instruments we have here in the department we can take measurements over a huge range – infrasound, ultrasound, frequencies that are completely undetectable to the human ear, and even to animal ears.’

  ‘Was he looking for something in particular?’

  ‘To be honest, I think it was to do with the Mersey Ghost. You know, the spooky noises that everyone’s talking about. But that’s all explainable; it’s a natural wind tunnel phenomenon. The slightest change in a city’s architecture can set something off, and Liverpool is changing constantly.’

  ‘What about his relations with the other members of the department? Any arguments? Affairs?’

  Rees looked at Darren, as if trying to decide whether to tell him something. He took a deep breath and said, ‘A couple of weeks ago, I walked in on him having a blazing row with another colleague. It sounded serious, and it sounded like something personal. But I don’t know what it was about.’

  ‘The name of this colleague?’

  ‘Dr Ian Springer. He’s a lecturer in our department.’

  ‘Where would I find him, this time of day?’

  ‘Well, normally he would have been giving a lecture today, but I saw on the department intranet that it was cancelled last minute. Due to illness, it said.’