by Will Carver
I ignore this church. It’s not the right place. It’s not the right one. The flow of people guide me past it.
I break away. Taking a road on the right and pulling out of the current. I look back. A figure moves faster than the others, dodging between them, unseen by me. Unseen by anyone. It passes and I feel at ease.
Safety in numbers.
The road is lined with red-brick flats. I hear a plate smash, I hear shouting, but I do not feel that sense of evil. I tell myself it is the hospital, it is the presence of death. I’m half right.
I want to reach the end of this street and turn right. Head back to the hospital. Wait for my sister and sick nephew. Face these facts.
As I hit the next road, an ambulance drives past, dragging me to the left, its siren sending me deeper into trance until I arrive at another crossroads. Until I arrive at St George’s Cathedral.
The place that I die.
*
I enter the cathedral through the door on the right. A sign tells me that the left-hand door can slam and that I should be careful. On entry I can immediately hear the voice of a man, yet nobody is inside.
On each of the pillars that line the great central hall is a flat-screen television; none are turned on. Below each screen is a speaker; this is where the sound is emanating from. The acoustics mean that most speech sounds like a mumble, but I make out the word ‘Amen’ and then a chorus of singers.
Still I see no one.
I tread carefully, edging cautiously forward, trying to recall my last time in a place of worship. To my right a woman stares at a statue of Mary. A sign informs me that votive candles require a 30p donation. She takes three. Lights them, then performs her own mumble.
I walk in her direction; this seems to be where the sound is coming from.
The singing stops and so do I. Paralysed outside an empty altar. A holy woman of some kind walks past me, a nun, I suppose; she says nothing as she heads further down the aisle towards a larger room near the front of the building. Two elderly black women follow closely behind her, both holding plastic carrier bags containing I don’t know what. Both from different supermarkets.
Again, the voice plays through the speakers, dreary and monotonous, trilling indistinctly, his congregation occasionally joining with their own murmured response.
And I move forward again.
To the next chapel.
Where St George waits to hear my prayer and watch over my demise.
Inside the chapel are what look like two large wooden seats with space to kneel and pray. Directly ahead is a marble statue of the saint perched on a box with curtains running the length of it; I step into the first seat and drop to my knees.
Inside, I do not ask why I am doing this.
Outside, I say, ‘Dear God.’
I ask for him to take away the pain my nephew feels, I say that my sister needs a break, that he should cut her some slack. I offer to take on their suffering, to endure the discomfort and agony of my nephew so that he does not have to.
I forget my fear. And ignore what I am running away from.
For the split second I feel the blade penetrate, I feel like God has listened to me.
The moment just before I cease to exist, inside, I believe.
Celeste
AROUND THE CORNER, a congregation says ‘Amen’ and I settle myself in next to the dead man to complete my ritual. It is his time. A time of rebirth. I do not look at this as death.
At this point in the year I think of my father and his belief that he would be reborn after his death. In this building, any church, I remember my mother saying he abandoned his faith and would go to hell for his mistake. I recall that she let me watch over him knowing this, thinking nothing could be done.
Something can be done, Mother.
Look at me now.
I cleanse these people.
I save them from the hell you were frightened of.
A voice creaks through the speakers. ‘Lift up your heart.’ The followers moan a response in unison. He continues, ‘Let us give thanks to the Lord, our God.’
His sheep sigh another few words in agreement.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the dankness of the cathedral, ingesting hypocrisy as I bow my head and pretend to pray. On the shelf in front of me I place my three small candles. The man to my left waiting to be saved. Waiting to be reborn.
I light the first candle, hidden from view, and recite my own verse.
‘The wheel of the year turns once more, and the vernal equinox arrives. Light and dark are equal. The Earth awakes from its slumber and springs forth new life.’
In the background I hear, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy Lord.’
All around, their drone reverberates.
At the back of the cathedral another woman drops thirty pence into a slot, takes a candle, speaks a few words to a replica of her Saviour’s Mother and totters past us without a second glance. A man kneels in front of a red-gated altar and taps his head, heart and shoulders before immersing himself into prayer.
I light the second candle and say, ‘The sun draws ever close to us. May the chill and darkness of winter be swept away.’ I look over to my left at the man. I hear a voice proclaim ‘Hosanna in the highest’ and the priest rings a bell.
I command the man, Graham White, chosen as the most worthy to be purged, ‘Rise. Step forth out of the darkness and into the light. Awaken once more in the arms of the Gods.’ And I bow my head again in fake worship as a woman with an African headdress drags her feet along the floor on her way to join the laboured rejoicing around the corner, her plastic bag rustling as it hits her moving leg.
When she is gone, I light my third and final candle. The parishioners continue to purr at more uninspiring oration.
‘The sky above us, the Earth below us. I thank the universe for all it has to offer and am blessed to be alive today,’ I chant in a rushed hush.
I look over again at the one who must be saved and whisper, ‘Welcome life, welcome light, welcome spring.’
A bell rings three times.
I take a moment to meditate on the three candles in front of me, ensuring that I do not catch the eye of the idol ahead, aware of the blasphemy and risk of a ritual in this location. But this was not my choosing. I do not decide who needs to be liberated, they do; with their plea for help and release.
I stand directly behind the man and finish my work, welcoming him. ‘You have stepped once more into the light and the gods welcome you.’
And he is saved.
I exit to the sound of the Lord’s Prayer; fifty people chant along, as yet unaware of the man in their chapel who was taken suddenly and returned a better person, finding his salvation in church but not in their Lord.
I hear them breathe ‘Amen.’ The word that signifies the end. A word that, to me, has come to mean ‘thank God it is over’.
I thank no God.
January
FOR THE FIRST time on this case, I was not trapped in or by my intuition. I was able to move freely inside the latest vision of The Two, even setting a hand on the girl. In the cathedral, also for the first time, there is no salt circle. But that is all the information I have gleaned so far. It’s all I have deciphered.
Nowhere in that vision of The Two was a location even alluded to.
But they were not trying to tell me that this time.
There was nothing I could do to save Graham White.
He was always going to die.
This time, The Two were trying to tell me who is committing these atrocities.
They’ve always been trying to tell me.
I call Alison and ask her to get here as quickly as she can.
I am still desperately hoping to understand this ability. Why, all of a sudden, I need this. I’ve solved my other cases before Eames without using it. I should be able to solve this case without the visions; they are another thing to contend with, another code to decrypt. It seems that, with each new appearance of my guide, whether it is The
Two or The Smiling Man, the level of information and detail is evolving. They start by telling me how the murder will occur, then where, then who. Suddenly there is the possibility for interaction. Their evolution is happening at a different pace to my understanding.
Are they helping?
Are they even real?
Did they manifest themselves out of the desperation I have to find my sister?
I need to make them work in conjunction with my regular police deductions.
Mother’s journal entry, two months after Cathy’s disappearance, says, ‘I give The Fat Man no peace. Now I can haunt his dreams.’ I question her sanity, always, but she shows development. Perhaps we are not as similar as I thought.
I am standing in the light, blind.
Murphy, as always, thinks it’s a copycat killing. The thing I am afraid of.
‘It looks similar. The stab wound, public place, candle arrangement, all fit. He was found kneeling, I’ll give you that.’ He pukes his words out, self-satisfied.
‘But …’ Paulson chips in.
‘But …’ Murphy continues, congratulating himself already, ‘there is no real sense of ritual. Sure, there are candles, there are candles all over this place …’ One of the nuns scowls over at us like an irritated librarian as Murphy’s voice begins to travel to further reaches of the holy building. ‘But it just seems too easy. Somehow less accomplished.’
He looks at us both for acknowledgement that he is correct.
We say nothing.
‘There’s not even a salt circle, for crying out loud. I mean, how easy would it have been to do that?’ he continues, trying to prove his point, miming the action of emptying salt in a ring around his feet.
How can I say that know for certain that this is the next in the series? How can I say that I know it looks different, but my vision, my nightmare, my intuition, my torment, was different also? How do I explain to a non-believer?
He drones on, hoping one of us will eventually give in. ‘Why, suddenly, inside a cathedral? It just seems so blasphemous and out of character.’ I know he wants to end that sentence with ‘for a Pagan’, because he’s still not convinced. He doesn’t realise that smug rhetoric is not the way to put forward an argument.
He doesn’t recognise that everything he does holds up the investigation.
Unless he is being intentionally provocative, unless derailment is his plan.
I tell him that two of the candles have burned out but one is still alight. I say that this would suggest that the candles were lit at different points in time; that it implies a ritual. A copycat would have just lit them all and left. They would have imitated ritual. I tell him that a salt circle may not have been required; as Alison Aeslin said, casting a circle in a Pagan ceremony does not always mean a literal circle.
I defeat him with conventional detective reasoning.
I don’t even need to see Paulson’s chubby face to know he is beaming with pride.
Murphy rolls his eyes up and to the right, as if peering into his mind for a prepared retort, but it’s too late for that. I’m on a roll. I feel revived.
‘The wound and positioning of the victim concurs, absolutely, with the previous victims. The publicness of this slaying is exactly the reason I feel it is part of the same series. There are far safer, easier and less risky ways to bump off an ex or a lover or a business partner.’ I’m starting to pace like a lawyer giving a final address to his jury, gaining confidence with each step.
Another ungracious look lands in our chapel from the nun as one of the constables seals it off by wrapping police tape around a pillar.
‘The means, the location, the ceremony, all point to a continuation of this series.
Alison said herself that the slayings do not show a full grasp of the belief system she follows. It is being abused.’ This time Murphy just rolls his eyes in resignation.
‘This killer thinks of him- or herself as a visionary, killing weak people in a time of great distress. These victims are dotted around London so probably look random. But what is this guy’s story? Why was he chosen?’ They both stand in silence waiting for me to continue.
‘I’m waiting for suggestions.’
‘How are we supposed to know who he is?’ Murphy chirps in with another attempted barrier.
‘That’s not the part of the question I am immediately concerned with, Murph.’
‘The religious angle,’ Paulson suggests. ‘Maybe this is a two-fingers-up to Christianity. The killer may not even understand why if they’re a confused religious nut.’
‘How does that link in with the other victims?’ I push back, not for an answer, just to get them thinking. Questioning. Murphy mumbles something under his breath about how this may not even be the same killer. I am preoccupied with the notion that the murderer may still be here, basking in the tumult.
I take my notepad out of my wallet and flick to the page where I have noted down all of the Pagan Sabbats. ‘So …’ I pause as I lick my finger to skim through to the correct page more quickly ‘… we have …’ I add it up in my head ‘… forty days.’
‘Forty days?’ Paulson questions. Murphy still stares at the body of Graham White, his eyes flitting between where he now lies and where he knelt only moments ago.
‘Beltane,’ I respond assuredly. ‘Beltane is the next Sabbat. It’s the first of May, so that gives us forty days to figure out why this is happening and who is doing it. We have four victims and well over a month to piece this together before another innocent is added to the list.’
I feel like a leader again. I feel a little control returning. I feel stronger.
‘What is this guy’s story? Is he sick like the two women who have been killed or has he lost someone close to him like Totty Fahey.’ My mind always comes back to Totty. He saved me. His tragedy pulled me from the dark abyss.
But I still feel I need to fully understand The Two. I need to continue working through Mother’s scribblings.
Alison arrives through the cathedral doors.
Maybe she can help me with that.
Once she has had the opportunity to view the body, I take Alison outside with Paulson to discuss further. Murphy waits inside with the man we will come to know as Graham White and the one we will eventually know as Celeste Varrick.
Hiding in plain sight.
V
I PREFER RUNNING in the rain. There’s something refreshing about it. Cleansing, even. But the weather is starting to change; it’s getting warmer. In the coming months it will be harder to breathe. In June I will have less energy and much more to do.
I’ll have someone else to take care of.
For now, I’ve been advised to leave her alone. To continue the preparations.
Gail stops me in the hall, like she usually does.
‘Morning, Sam. Keeping it up, I see.’ She smiles and puts me at ease.
I don’t recognise that she is flirting; that we’ve both always flirted.
I smile back at her and expect her to walk past to my flat but something is different this morning. She is standing in the centre of the walkway, almost blocking me.
‘I’m, er, having a few people over tonight for some drinks …’ She looks down at her shoes for a brief moment.
‘Oh, OK,’ I say, interrupting her. ‘That’s fine. Not much sound travels through my walls,’ I trail off innocently.
‘No, no, no. I was just wondering whether you fancied coming over at all. Doesn’t have to be the whole night. Maybe just for a glass of wine. Or if you don’t drink …’
‘I drink,’ I laugh. ‘Wine. I drink wine. Yes, I can certainly come over at some point, I’m sure.’ I would only be drinking at home alone anyway.
‘Great. Well, just come over … whenever. As long as it’s after eight.’ Her face lights up and she performs her trademark talk-while-you-walk-off routine that I am so used to.
I call back to her, ‘OK. After eight.’ But she has already disappeared down the stairs.
; The rolled-up paper waits for me with the news of another London slaying. This time in a cathedral on the South Bank. The first time the killer has so overtly disrespected a specific faith. I read the article in its entirety, noting the profanity and irreverence; my naked body twitches as I peruse the journalist’s words, leaning on the counter, performing my isometric stretches.
I know I cannot act. I want to. But that is not how it works.
My mind floats back to the meeting with Gail a moment ago. I’m lacking focus.
Why did I say yes to her invitation?
Have I forgotten why I am here?
The short spell of exuberance I felt in the hallway is blown away by the outrage I feel towards the article. Now I think about Gail again and pleasure returns. What part does she play?
Lord, why do I need her?
I should only want my wife.
Is this my temptation?
Is this my test?
This can’t continue like this. Celeste cannot be allowed to take another.
I drop to my knees on the cold tile floor of the kitchen.
‘Das berinu mireca ol tahila dodasa tolahame caosago homida,’ I whisper, my hands clenched together in front of my mouth, my lips touching my left thumb as I speak.
This is my call for vengeance, for the manifestation of justice.
I spring straight up to my feet again in one movement. The message I receive is clear.
I must wait. It is not the right time.
Just one more.
I will witness Celeste with the next victim. I will see it with my own eyes.
Soon, we shall be together.
January
ALISON AGREES TO meet with me.
This evening. Alone. At her place.
It is not a date.
‘It’s going to help me get in the mind of this …’ I pause, not wanting to say killer or psychopath. She doesn’t jump to my aid. ‘… this person we are after if I can experience Ostara genuinely.’