The Templar's Curse

by Sarwat Chadda

  What a clusterfu—

  “You leaving?” asked Faustus. “I’ve got things to do. I’m on lunch duty today.” He looked over at his discarded plate. The mouse looked back. “I’ve got to boil up the pasta.”

  “Do you even know what day it is?” Billi asked. She looked around the room and spotted a shoebox full of wallets. “Back into old habits, eh?”

  “So I’m breaking the Seventh Commandment. Go tell Arthur.” He slumped back onto his mattress. “Just leave.”

  “Fancy a curry?” said Billi. “We’ve some leftover from Wednesday.”

  Faustus laughed. He shook from head to toe, it was big, hearty and without guile and reminded Billi he wasn’t half the cynic she was. Despite life on the streets there was still something sweet and innocent about Faustus. Eighteen years old, or thereabouts, maybe he still believed in happy endings.

  There was a Hamsa, also known as the Hand of Fatima, tattooed right in the middle of his chest. That was new too. He didn’t have the iron hard physique of Ivan, he was slim, but she knew there was a wiry strength in those long limbs and, when he needed to, he moved like a viper.

  “You think you can buy me with a meal?” said Faustus, now sitting up and very awake. He glanced down at the folder. “Any kebabs? This place is two hundred percent vegan.”

  Gotcha.

  Billi stood up. “Food’s at eight.”

  ***

  Billi invited Mo along. Faustus’s time with the Templars had been brief and unpleasant for everyone but he’d got on okay with Mo, and Billi wanted back-up for any awkward silences. She’d called Ivan but it had gone straight to voicemail, again. Was he still pissed? His loss.

  She’d jumped when there’d been a knock at the door at eight thirty, better late than never, but it had been Carados bringing the assignments from Gwaine. He ended up staying and helping himself to a large plateful of biryani.

  But no Faustus.

  Fine. Some jobs you just have to handle yourself.

  She knew how to deal with ghosts. She didn’t know why she’d even gone to Faustus in the first place.

  So, an hour before midnight, Billi was down on Middle Temple Lane, putting on her gloves. Mo handed her the satchel. “I’ve put in three bottles of Holy Water and a small jar of oil. Blessed by the pope himself so use it sparingly. You sure you don’t want the sword?”

  “It won’t come to that, Mo,” she said. “What about the fetters?”

  “Packed.” He shook the satchel and the chains rattled within. “I could come with.”

  “To deal with a single spook?” Billi zipped up her jacket. She should never have left the folder with Faustus. The guy was a loser, through and through. Still, now she knew, and she wouldn’t be wasting any more time on chasing him.

  Billi straddled the bike and settled the helmet on. “Don’t wait up.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A lot can happen to a house, left abandoned for a decade.

  Getting over the wall was no effort. The mortar had crumbled away and vines penetrated the old brickwork, easy enough for Billi who spent an evening a week at the local climbing wall. Now she stood amongst the knee-high thistles of a wild, over-grown garden, gazing at the derelict FitzRoy mansion.

  It was malformed, squat and festering in the moonlight, more resembling a grotesque toad clinging to a rock than a mansion, though traces of its former grandeur remained—the wrought iron balconies, the lofty bay windows—they only further emphasised its descent into senile decrepitude. It wore its withered glory like an old Soho tart, hoping the dim lights and thick plaster of makeup would hide the bitter wrinkles and sunken cheeks.

  Her skin tingled. The heavy, ponderous odour of decay, of moist soil, rotting vegetation and mould filtered through her nostrils, rising to dance within her forehead. The musky scent of a fox lurking in the undergrowth caressed the back of her throat. A bird flapped its wings noisily from a nearby tree as the wind rustled the crusty leaves that lay across the uneven, weed-latticed footpath.

  Heart barely beating now, a weight lifted out from the centre of her being, along her spirit meridian to pulse warmly behind her eyes.

  Where are you hiding, Simon?

  All dwellings held a spirit, absorbing the emotions of those that had lived there. They could glow, or they could be filled with bitterness. A fog of despair cloaked the old house, radiating from the void that lay deep within. And something had stirred it into, not life, but some atavistic sentience, a desire to reach out to the world beyond.

  The lock on the front door was a hefty industrial-sized block of iron but the door, rotted through, crumpled with a sharp kick. Billi took out her torch and stepped into the main hall.

  Moonlight glowed upon the drifting strands of webbing that floated from the open doorframes. The plaster on the walls was cracked and covered in graffiti. She stepped carefully through the litter; empty aerosol cans, discarded takeaway cartons and not a few broken syringes.

  Then she heard it. A soft creak.

  It was an old building, it would creak. But she backed into a corner and kept her eyes on the side door. Something was coming…

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  You have got to be joking…

  “Faustus?”

  He stuck his head around the door, hands up. “You haven’t got a sword or anything? It’s just I don’t fancy being skewered so early in the night.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He lowered his hands and joined her. “You invited me, remember?”

  “And I remember you telling me to piss off.”

  Faustus brushed aside a few dangling cobwebs in a futile attempt to keep his jacket clean. “I did some more research on the FitzRoys. It… piqued my interest.”

  “Oh?” she asked. “You find a ghost?”

  “Not yet. No guarantee there even is one. But you still owe me dinner, agreed?”

  “What did you find out?”

  “This house was bought by Colonel Reginald FitzRoy in 1919, right after World War I. It’s been in the family ever since.” He tapped the basement. “Reggie was a most remarkable man. The colonel was particularly fascinated by the history of Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization.”

  Now she had time, Billi took a closer look at the design on the banister. It was a winged bull with the head of a bearded man.

  “Lammasu. Guardian spirits from the ancient Mesopotamian religion.” Faustus gestured to the first door on their left. “Shall we retreat to the study?”

  The door handle was made of brass and designed as some sort of bearded merman. “By all means do continue your fascinating history lesson.”

  Faustus drew out his kerchief. “Heading down the hereditary line we get to Simon FitzRoy, former major of the Royal Scots. He and his tanks took part in the Iraq War and earned himself a few shiny medals. But medals don’t pay for houses like this. He needed another income stream.”

  “Stealing priceless historical artefacts. We’re on the same page, Faustus.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Using the kerchief, Faustus turned the merman handle.

  The study would have been grand, once. The lofty ceiling arched in a subtle dome and a rusty chandelier chain still dangled from its apex. The tall, slim bay windows were boarded up but there were enough gaps to allow the moonlight to lay thin strips of ghostly illumination across the room and the bare, high shelves.

  Books, now turned to mulch, lay across the huge, faded and moth-eaten, Persian carpet. The black scars of a fire marked the monolithic oak desk, but the rest of the furniture had been destroyed, by time, the elements and by vandals. The sofa had been cut up and mould sprouted upon the tattered curtains.

  Yet there was more than just dereliction. The desktop was a stone slab, an elaborate frieze of winged men with the same beards, horned helmets and long kirtles. The ragged velvet curtains were embroidered.

  “You came by yourself?” asked Faustus. “I though
t you and Ivan did all the hero stuff together. The dynamic duo.”

  “He was tired of cosplaying Robin.”

  Faustus grinned. “I’m sure he looks beautiful in tights.”

  “He looks beautiful no matter what.” She pulled the chain from her satchel. “I’ve got this.”

  Faustus did not look impressed. “The Nicaen Fetters? Why aren’t I surprised? You Templars are all the same. It’s all about the Bataille Tenebreuse.”

  “We’re dealing with the Unholy, Faustus. You can’t take unnecessary risks. This is the only way to get the spirit to obey us.”

  “Through more pain? You don’t think it’s suffering enough? I thought you were better than your dad. Guess I was wrong.” He shook his head. “I was never going to be a Templar. You’ve lost the point, the very reason you do what you do.”

  “Oh, and what’s that? Man-splain it to me. After all I’m just a silly girl who’s only spent her entire life in the order.”

  “Why do you always turn everything into a fight?”

  “Because everything is a fight.” She shook the chain gently to loosen out the links so they wouldn’t lock into each other. The silver was fine enough for a necklace, so fragile that it would snap with one hard pull. But it wasn’t made to bind physical bodies. “Can we just —”

  Faustus grabbed her wrist. “No.”

  Billi was so shocked she almost laughed. What would be best? Just pull free? Reverse the lock? A snap? So many options ranging from surprising to crippling. She met his gaze and there was no backing down from him.

  “I thought you were here to help,” said Billi.

  “Yeah, but not to help you. To help Simon.” Faustus met her gaze, she’d forgotten how much emotion was in his eyes. “You think they’re the Unholy, monsters to be fought. That’s how you Templars solve all your problems, through violence. But a ghost is something to be pitied, Billi. They need our help. There are ways to make them move on without adding to their pain. We do this my way.”

  “Your way? Is that tea and biscuits? Remember what happened last time we tried it your way?”

  “It almost worked.”

  That was how he remembered it? She remembered lots of screaming and lots of blood. The dead had rampaged through the tunnels of the underground and a ghost train had rattled through Baker Street. “Almost doesn’t count for anything.”

  He still didn’t let her go.

  Remember what you told yourself when you visited today? Don’t let him get to you. Take a deep breath, unclench those fists and don’t punch him in the face. Not until later.

  So Billi forced her whole body to relax. “Fine. Your way, Faustus.”

  And he let go. “Thanks. You got to have faith.”

  “I’m a Templar. Faith is what I do.”

  He stretched out his fingers and gave them a savage shake. He was nervous. Then he pressed the centre of his chest with his thumb, the spot of the Hamsa tattoo.

  The atmosphere changed. It seemed to centre in around Faustus, he became the heart of his surroundings and she could feel him reaching out by the rising of the hairs on the back of her neck.

  A parched, warm wind blew through the ragged remains of the curtains. Minute flakes of ash floated across the room. “Do you think —”

  Faustus put his finger to his lips. “He’s on his way.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The door crashed open and a man barged in, wearing an army dress uniform. He stormed across the room, fists banging against his forehead. “Enough!”

  Major Simon FitzRoy. He was just like that photo in the newspaper. He had a ruggedness to him, like her dad in many ways. A life of soldiering had left its mark. Yet he was frayed at the edges, hair too long for parade, his trousers badly creased and his jacket unevenly buttoned. His shoes were scratched and dull.

  Simon stared frantically around him straight past both Billi and Faustus. They weren’t in his personal hell.

  She could touch him. He was as solid as her or Faustus. But his eyes gave away his true nature. They were as silver as mirrors, hollow reflections of a person without a soul. This was no living man. This was the bitter remnant that couldn’t let go of the mortal realm. FitzRoy stiffened; his neck muscles stood rigid against his tanned skin. Then he took a deep breath. “There is a way to stop you. Delay you, at least.”

  He took a Zippo lighter from his pocket. He turned the device over his hand. “You haven’t won, despite what you may think.”

  Who did he mean?

  FitzRoy lit the lighter and waved the flames along the edge of the curtains. The velvet burnt easily and quickly. He then went to the shelves, ripping pages out of books, setting fire to them and scattering them over the study.

  How much of this was real? How much could harm them? She felt the heat from the flames and tried not to cough from the smoke. The psychic energy radiating from the ghost was powerful, enough to bring the torment of the past into the present. That’s what ghosts were, memories that had been so horrific they’d left a wound on the world. The house itself contained the pain and Billi and Faustus were on the edge of that memory.

  The ceiling was already swelling with smoke. The wallpaper caught light.

  FitzRoy slumped down on the armchair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can’t fight any more. I’m so sorry.”

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a Browning pistol.

  She had to save him. It was a stupid, impossible instinct but she had to try. She took a step forward, but Faustus grabbed her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You can’t, Billi.”

  The pain in his voice stopped her. The way his voice cracked as he spoke. He’d tried it himself. Of course, he would have. Who? Someone who’d meant a great deal to him. That pain was too fresh to be anything else. Billi nodded.

  Then she turned back to the horror show of Simon FitzRoy’s last few moments.

  Simon checked the pistol, loading a round in the chamber. His fear and anxiety were lifting. He’d made his decision. Still, a tear rolled down his gaunt cheek. “I hope you find the strength I never had. You have to make sure he never finds it. Find a way to stop him, once and forever. I love you, Erin.”

  Simon then pressed the barrel in the centre of his forehead.

  Billi closed her eyes as he pulled the trigger. She jumped at the sound of the shot. There was a thud as the pistol fell to the floor and the room suddenly filled with the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder.

  She thought she could handle ghosts, she’d fought a few by now. But Faustus was right, each was a victim of a unique tragedy. Some suffering was so great that even death wasn’t an escape.

  She didn’t want to look. She knew what a bullet could do at that sort of range. Ghostly manifestation or not Simon’s body was slummed in the armchair, right behind her.

  The heat subsided now, the flames dulled. She walked to the window to get some fresh air into the room and clear her head. “What do you think, Faustus?”

  He leaned over the body. “I want to take a look.”

  Why hadn’t Simon faded yet? He shouldn’t be lingering at all…

  Faustus reached out to touch him.

  FitzRoy hissed as he snapped his eyes open. He leapt up, locking his hands around Faustus’s throat. Bile, black and oily, seeped down his face from the grotesque hole in his forehead. The back of his skull was a crater of bloody hair and brains.

  Billi flicked the fetters from her hand. They lashed around FitzRoy’s wrist and she pulled hard.

  The fetters snapped.

  The silver links scattered across the floor as the entire chain disintegrated. How was that possible? Any ghost would have been held fast. The Templars had used those chains for centuries without fail.

  No time to worry about that. Simon had both hands around Faustus’s neck and try as he might, Faustus couldn’t break free.

  She jumped up
on the table and lashed out with her boot, taking FitzRoy hard in the jaw. His head jerked back so far, she thought his neck would snap but the ghost, or whatever it was, held his ground, gritting his teeth as he squeezed. FitzRoy lifted Faustus off his feet and hurled him against the broken furniture. Faustus landed badly; his arm being torn from wrist to elbow by the jagged shards of wood.

  FitzRoy spun around to face her, snarling. Scrub ghost. No spook moved like that. This thing was much, much more powerful. A revenant. Sometimes the hate, the rage is too much. The ghost goes from being a bitter memory, a stain on the psyche, to something filled with pure destruction.

  Billi flipped open the satchel and scrabbled inside until her hand locked around the bottle of holy water. Whatever it was, this would take care of it. She flipped the lid off with her thumb. “Come on, then.”

  “Billi, it’s not what —”

  FitzRoy charged, she threw the bottle straight at his chest. The glass shattered and the water splashed over him. And burst into flames.

  Okay this is officially bad.

  “Simon! It doesn’t have to be like this!” she yelled, ducking under the first swipe. She lashed out with her foot, slamming her clumpy heel into the side of FitzRoy’s knee. He buckled just long enough for her to add a steel toe-capped kick and all, into his ribs. She just needed to keep him down. The next kick caught him in the side of the head and there was a brittle crack as the jaw came loose.

  By now the flames had spread into a pool around him. She took another step back towards the window. The wind fanned the flames while Fitzroy’s skin blistered and boiled and flesh blackened. Fat hissed and dripped off in flaming bubbles. He sprang forward but Billi grabbed the curtains and pulled. They tore free, the rusty curtain rings snapped, and a piece of the curtain rail fell with it but she twisted it like a bedsheet over the undead thing. As soon as it was smothered Billi picked up a nearby chair and smashed down on the body, smoke and flames still rising through the holes in the material. Each time it moved, even twitched, she slammed it again and again, until all she was holding were two splintered pieces of legs.