by Will Carver
But it was the look, the look that The Two gave each other. Not one of fear or anger, but of trust and co-operation.
Perhaps the victims are all suffering in some way.
Maybe they have asked for this.
Maybe they have requested the help of Celeste Varrick.
To save them.
To be their saviour.
V
HE TELLS ME I must do it again. That it is all part of the plan.
That I made the agreement.
He says that Annabel was not the last, I must take another. But it is Celeste that is the monster, not me. And I agree, for that is the word of the Lord. This is the truth. I am the one who asked for the help. The Lord is merely my guide.
But that does not make what I have to do any easier.
Celeste takes lives without conscience.
She steals souls with no remorse.
She is everything that I am not.
In preparation I have researched Lughnasadh: its history, the prayers and rituals that Celeste would perform if she were not trapped inside the room that was meant for my son. Sitting on my sofa, I twist and shape a handful of straw, tying string in the appropriate places to fasten legs and arms to the body of my homemade figure.
I learn that this ritual, once again, involves fire, and I see an opportunity to increase Celeste’s monstrous profile. I don’t want to do it but I know that I must.
I draw strength from the family I hope to be with again.
My faith breeds courage.
With my tiny effigy complete, I pack my things into a satchel. A miniature bottle of wine, some bread and the knife I will use to kill Celeste’s next victim; pretending to perform her next ritual.
I hope this is her last.
I hope our work is nearly done.
Dropping the hatch to the cell allows enough light in that I can see Celeste lying still in her confines. The scent of sweat pours out through the opening and I glimpse her now greasy blond hair draped over the side of the bed. She is not as appealing as the day I met her, the day I caught her. She has been weakened and sullied with neglect.
I know that she isn’t going anywhere; her belief keeps her ensnared. I throw the bag over my shoulder and leave the flat, no need to double-lock it. I stand on the doormat for a few seconds, debilitated momentarily by my indecision. I take deep breaths, telling myself over and over what has to be done. I went through the same motions before I fulfilled my duty by taking the life of Annabel Wakeman. I didn’t want to do it.
But she made it easier for me.
Deep down she had given up. She wanted to die.
I don’t even know who is next on this list.
Until I get there.
As I arrive, I see a man resting his back against the wall to the entrance. He’s in his forties, frail. Ill-looking. But that is given: we are outside a hospital. I don’t want to know that his name is Aldous, I don’t want to know whether or not he has children or a partner; this makes things more difficult. I just need to know how desperate he is to live. I only want to know how easy it will be to help him die.
I don’t want to use the word kill; only Celeste says that.
He waits. And so do I. I see him check his watch. At first it is infrequent, once as he exits, ten minutes later, seven minutes after that. He starts to look around, is he waiting for somebody to pick him up? Someone who never comes. I watch as he coughs into a handkerchief.
He checks his watch.
Two minutes later he barks violently into the same piece of material, scrunching it into a ball when he is finished, containing whatever was hacked up – bile, phlegm, blood – and placing it back into his pocket.
He checks his watch again and looks to his left, then his right. His expression more anxious. His face asking for help.
With one last glance at his watch, he decides to hobble on a journey by himself. This is his mistake. He is vulnerable now. Once out of view of the hospital, he stops to look around again, this time over his shoulder. He is not looking for someone to meet him; he is making sure that nobody is watching.
He concludes that nobody is.
But he is wrong.
He reaches down into his bag and ruffles the contents around inside until he gets to the bottom, where he has hidden a box of cigarettes. I can’t see the brand because his hand covers the box, but he pulls one out with his lips while simultaneously acquiring a lighter from his inside jacket pocket with his free hand.
The look of relief, of pure exaltation on his face, as he inhales the toxin that brought him here in the first place, is verging on orgasmic. His head tilts back in rapture, his eyes close; he holds the smoke in his lungs for several seconds. I wonder whether this is my opportunity to take him, piercing one of his lungs with my knife, holding my hand over his mouth so that he cannot exhale his poison.
I wonder whether I can do it.
What would Celeste do?
Then I start to grind my teeth. I blow air out through my nostrils, each time a little louder, each time with a little more brutality; tears begin to fall silently down my cheeks. It starts to rain. The man keeps his closed eyes aimed at the sky, allowing the droplets to bounce off his skin.
And, before I allow myself another opportunity to wonder anything else, my right hand has speared one of his lungs and my left holds his mouth shut. Just as I had imagined it.
Before I let myself ponder exactly who I have become, I have also sliced open his left lung, pushing the blade between two ribs and twisting on exit.
Before I have any chance to realise that Sammael Abbadon is never coming back, I whisper in the man’s ear, ‘Ssh, ssh. It’s over. Don’t fight. Go with it.’
I’m surprised at just how weak he is. He stops wriggling.
With tears still cascading down my face, my voice warbles slightly as I speak one last time to the dying man. I recite, ‘Nonuci dasonuf Babaje od cahisa ob hubaip tibibipe.’
Quivering through the incantation I end saying, ‘Shemhamforash. So it is done.’
He is now limp in my arms, giving in to his fate. If he’d wanted to live, he would have fought. If death wasn’t easier, he would have tried.
He wants this.
I’m not a killer.
*
The rain is now falling heavily and everyone just wants to escape; their thoughts are on self-preservation. With life still left in the man, it is easier to balance him in a kneeling position; he doesn’t resist. With his last gram of strength, he pulls the cigarette back up to his mouth, which I have now released, understanding he will not try to scream, and places it back between his lips, where it sticks as his hand drops back to his side.
I move around to the front of the nearly dead man, dropping down to his level. His eyes are still open. I expect to see the life draining from them but it seems he gave up long before I arrived. His look is vacant; he is not longing like Annabel. She wanted to die too, but there was a yearning in her eyes. I don’t know whether this makes it easier or more difficult.
I take the bread from my bag and toss it quickly between his legs. I take out the candles, lighting the first one on the cigarette that sits comfortably in a groove of his lips; I light two more from this one and place them in the gap underneath the archway made by the crotch of his trousers. On top of these tiny flames, I rest the straw doll.
So it is done.
I leave the straw man to ignite and slowly burn into a larger flame that will eventually set light to the dead, kneeling man with a cigarette still in his mouth. As this happens, as those who splash through newly formed puddles as they pass by begin to double-take, as they start to register the scene of this man, under the bridge, burning before them, cars driving by on the road next to him, I will have arrived at the crossroads.
I will be calling for the Lord to appear to me in exactly the same way I did after Annabel had to be taken.
I say: ‘Ilasa micalazoda olapireta ialpereji beliore: das odo Busadire Oiad ouoaresa caosago.’
I say: ‘Be thou a window of comfort unto me. Move therefore and appear. Open the mysteries of your creation. Be friendly unto me, for I am the same.’
On the other side of the crossroads, a woman looks straight through me. Her gaze pierces through my bloodshot, weeping eyes and I feel myself stop breathing for a moment. I catch my breath, blink, and she is gone.
This is the last, I am told. I will not be asked to do this again. I know that my focus should now be solely on Celeste. That monster, Celeste.
Soon, I will be rewarded.
I jog all the way home in the rain.
Shemhamforash.
So it is done.
January
I‘M STILL STUCK in traffic when I should be meeting Alison.
She has helped me unpick and decipher these visions. Without her, I would never have been able to accept them for what they are. Now, I use her to keep me level. The truth is I’ve grown fond of her; I like having her around.
I’m close, I can feel it.
As I finally arrive at the station, I notice Alison’s car is parked. She will be in the office alone with Paulson and Murphy; they do not know I have asked her to come in this morning.
It’s becoming too much effort to dodge Murphy’s suspicions; it’s another thing to contend with while trying to solve a case. I know the visions have worth but I can’t let him know that.
I sigh, unfasten my seatbelt and rest my head against the steering wheel, puffing out my cheeks and shutting my eyes for a moment.
I play through The Two’s message in my mind, rejoining the scene at the point I was interrupted by the impatient driver earlier. I want to go into that office with something, an idea, an answer.
The fire still burns high but makes no sound. I can’t hear it crackle or hum and The Two have disappeared. But they are not far away.
The flames take on a certain beauty; altering shape as they caress the air that gives them life.
To my left and right, dust begins to move from side to side as the children start to shuffle their feet in unison; no longer independent of one another, their message is of an alliance.
I taste red wine on the back of my tongue and blood on the sides.
The blaze lights the left-hand side of the girl and the right of the boy. For a moment they are two halves. Until they emerge into full view. They are both carrying dolls made of straw, very simple human shapes bound with string. They look at each other in the same way that they did before, longing, affectionate. Just as they were while I was stuck in traffic.
Before she strangled him.
Before he was burned.
I notice that both of them have their toes turned in slightly; they fondle their dolls in an identical manner, like a warped mirror that conveys a reflection of everything you are not. Simultaneously they lift an arm each – her left, his right – and link fingers. Their other hands clasp onto the straw figures. The girl smiles. The boy does not.
She drags him over to her side and starts to skip around the bonfire. He reluctantly follows her, never letting go of her hand despite his apathy.
After the third revolution they stop at the side, count to three in their heads and toss the dolls onto the fire.
I smell burnt straw.
I feel moisture on my cheek.
The boy starts to smile, the girl’s expression turns to a frown. They look at each other and, in an instant, she has used her strength to overpower him with a single blow that sends him flying into the fire once more.
It falls silent and still.
He does not scream.
She just stares into the inaudible blaze, expressionless.
As her head begins to swivel to the right to face the position I occupy, her mouth begins to open as if preparing for her silent shout but it is softer, smoother. Like she is ready to say something to me.
A giant knuckle raps against my driver-side window.
It’s Paulson.
He bends down and peers in at me, now sat back in my seat. ‘Everything OK, Jan?’
I click the door open. He steps back and I pull my weight outside. ‘Fine. Just having a moment to myself before the day begins.
‘The day began twenty-five minutes ago when your friend showed up unexpectedly.’ He smiles but I can tell he feels put out.
‘The traffic was insane. Roadworks. I was planning on getting in before you.’
‘Well, Murphy is beyond suspicious. He’s revelling in this,’ he points out.
I roll my eyes, lock the car and we walk together to the office. I explain that I need some time with Alison this morning. ‘You know what we need to talk about and I can’t have Murphy around. I wish I could have you in there too but I can’t run the risk with Murph, you know?’
He nods despondently.
*
Murphy smirks as I walk into the office, throwing a glance at Alison then back to me. Oozing his own particular brand of smugness.
Protected.
Controlled.
We stand there staring at one another for a few awkward seconds. I imagine picking him up by his throat.
Luckily, Alison disarms the situation with her mere presence. She is wearing a similar fitted power suit to that which entranced me on her first visit to the station. Her legs are crossed and she swivels ever so slightly on the chair behind my desk.
I motion for her to come outside to another room, leaving my detectives to fend for themselves.
The door shuts behind Alison and I find myself returning the smile she playfully threw in my direction, and for just a minute I forget about how much I hate Murphy.
Celeste
HE PREVENTS ME from saving any more lost and desperate souls.
I’ve been here for forty days now.
When you reside in the darkness, you don’t see the setting sun or the passing of a moon, and it is difficult to grip time as it progresses. I only realise the duration of my stay when the one who is now known as V brings in the morning paper and slaps it down on the bed next to my face. The reverberation wakes me instantly.
Still in the darkness.
‘What do you want?’ I croak at the back of his head as he walks away towards the narrow strip of light the open door has created. I suck in the fresh air that creeps in.
He flicks on the light and I scream as my pupils shrink in the sudden glare. He doesn’t even turn around when he speaks, like I am an afterthought to him. There is something different.
‘Read, monster,’ he growls, before disappearing round the corner for a few moments. With the door still ajar I can hear the clink of crockery, the running of a tap, and before I even have a second to glance at the tabloid by my right cheek, he is returning with a bowl of water.
He leans over me and places the bowl near to my shoulder. I can smell his sweat, and now the door is open I take in his attire: trainers, a hooded grey jumper with a growing oblong of moisture running from his chin and spreading across his chest. Two continents of acrid perspiration under each arm.
He left me here alone.
He leaves me here alone.
In the beginning, I would fight against my binding in this situation, yanking against my constraints, gnashing my teeth towards his neck, fighting as best I could. But I soon realised that this would leave a patch of damp under my shoulder and an empty bowl at my head.
And he would not bring another one for hours.
So now I don’t move. I let him perform his task in peace and lap at the bowl like a dog trusting that my master is not trying to euthanise me with tampered tap water.
He’s right: I am a monster.
I drop my tongue into the cold liquid and pull some moisture into my mouth and repeat this until the bowl is half empty. When I roll back, he is waiting, watching. He stares a dead, blank look somewhere between me and the newspaper, as though he isn’t really here. Like his body is in the room but his mind’s somewhere different.
Like I don’t exist.
I look down at the front page;
it is dated 2 August, the day after Lughnasadh. I don’t even look at the article. I have missed Lammas. I shut my eyes and begin to whisper to myself, asking for the fortitude to deal with my situation. ‘Strength is found not in arms nor knife nor gun nor sword. It is found in the mind, it is found in the soul.’ I hear him turn and his feet shuffle along the floor as he walks out the room again, plunging me back into darkness, leaving me, once again, shouting hysterically at a man who cannot hear me.
‘I call on those who will stand and fight, those who will do what is needed, who make sacrifices on behalf of others. I call on those who die so that others may live.’ I arch my back off the mattress, forcing myself up towards the skies, stiffening my body rigid and shout out, ‘I call upon you to give me strength of heart, soul and spirit.’
I drop back down to the bed with a thud; the bowl bounces and empties the last half of its contents on the covers and I know I have another few hours of quiet contemplation and meditation before another bout of harassment.
How did I get to this place?
Where did it start to go wrong?
January
‘IT IS COMPLETELY black this time. No fire, And it’s cold but there is no breeze. I feel exposed. I know there will be no salt circle.’
There is no sound.
None.
‘After five or six minutes, nothing has happened. I’m expecting something to pop up in front of me. I expect to smell the juice of an apple or detect the scent of straw or feel the heat from a bonfire, but there is nothing. No sound, no light, no scents, just an effervescent fear that my senses are slowly being knocked out one by one.’
Alison listens attentively as I work through the most astounding part of my vision. She sits across a desk from me as though I am ready to interrogate her about a crime. She leans her forearms against the edge of the table between us, forcing her jacket to open outwards into a broken triangle. I can see the form of her breasts through her blouse, the bottom of the triangle points down between her legs.