A Matter Of Blood (The Dog-Faced Gods Trilogy)

by Sarah Pinborough

  There wasn’t much inside: a few photos and a letter. Cass picked up the picture closest to him. It was a Polaroid and it took a moment for him to recognise the two men standing with their shirts off and with one arm round each other’s tanned shoulders, grinning against the backdrop of a desert and a military-looking Jeep. He checked the back and the scrawled writing there confirmed his guess.

  Alan and Mike. Lebanon 1970.

  His dad and Father Michael. He looked at it again. 1970. His father had been sixty-five when he’d died in 2010. Cass did a quick calculation in his head. He would have been in his mid-twenties in the picture, nearly ten years before Cass had even been born. He wasn’t even sure that his dad had met his mother by then. How strange that Father Michael had known him all that time. He’d never really given their friendship that much thought. He looked at the two men again. They were like strangers, more than ten years younger than Cass himself was now, and with the boundless enthusiasm of youth screaming out of their white smiles and hippy hair. He carefully put the photo to one side.

  The next was one of him and Christian in the garden at the back of the house. He recognised the spot; if he craned his neck he’d be able to see it out of the window. This picture had been taken in the 1980s, on a roll of easy-wind film. Their mother was crouched down, hugging her knees, between her sons but slightly behind them. As she smiled at the camera Cass could see her face was filled with excitement. Cass himself was on the right of the picture, a few inches taller than his blond brother. They both wore shorts, and judging by Christian’s chubby face and knees, his little brother couldn’t have been more than maybe three or four, which would put Cass at six.

  His smile faded as the more he studied it, the more he realised what a strange photograph it was. It was the way that they were standing that was odd, facing each other, their expressions serious. Each had an arm raised, with one finger pointing at eye level at the other. It was an unnatural pose for children of that age, who were more often squealing in the mud or pulling worms in two. A memory shifted in the dust in the far recesses of his mind, but he couldn’t quite pull it free.

  He turned the picture over.

  The boys see the Glow! Yay!

  The words were scrawled in his mother’s hand, but someone - Cass wondered if it had been Christian - had circled round the two words the Glow. The memory growled, sucking him back for a second into the faded landscape of the picture. He had a scab on his knee that itched. He was six years old and his dad was telling him to look harder. And then there it was. He could see gold coming from his brother’s eyes, pouring out in the brightest light. It made him feel warm just looking at it. The surprise he felt was mirrored in his brother’s face. They had both raised their arms at the same time, and their mother had laughed.

  He squashed the memory. It had been a trick of the light, nothing more than a childhood game. Still, it tickled maliciously at him, and he couldn’t deny the hint of fear in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t explain. He put the photo carefully on top of the first. Something else to ask Father Michael about tomorrow.

  It was the third picture that stopped him dead. On the surface, it was just a snap of his mum and dad, who had obviously met by then, although they still looked like a pair of young hippies. His mother’s hair hung in two long plaits and his dad stood behind her, his hands wrapped round her bare waist in the gap between her flared jeans and tie-dyed shirt. With his thick wavy hair that reached his shoulders and the short beard and moustache, Cass thought his dad looked like he’d spent the seventies doing a very good impersonation of Jesus. Beside them stood a middle-aged man, probably in his fifties, with silver hair and a sharp smile. His linen trousers had impeccable sharp creases. They were standing in front of some kind of office, and Cass had to bring the picture close to read the dusty sign. SOLOMON AND BRIGHT MINING CORPS.

  Mr Bright. He looked again at the man beside his young parents before quickly turning the image over.

  ‘Me, Evie and Castor Bright. South Africa 1973.’ Underneath, in the same blue Biro that had circled the Glow, Christian had scribbled ‘Bright? But how?’ Cass noted that his brother’s writing had lost some of its neatness. He turned it over again and stared, trying to imagine the middle-aged man in a suit and overcoat. He’d look just like Adam Bradley’s description of the man he met in the Newham flat. Mr Bright. He looked again at Christian’s question. ‘But how?’ The answer was simple. It couldn’t be the same man. It wasn’t possible. Even if he was still alive, the man in the picture would have to be in his nineties by now. One thing was established, though: there was a definite link between a Mr Bright and Christian, and this picture had obviously freaked his brother out. He looked at it again. What the hell had been going on in Christian’s world?

  The letter was interesting. It was addressed to Christian at his own office, although the paper itself had no header. It was creamy and expensive, just like the envelope Christian had used. The typed message was short: The Bank would be interested in employing Christian, and he should go to the head offices at Vauxhall Cross. There was a date and a time, and a signature scrawled in black at the bottom, written with what looked like a calligraphy pen. The name was printed under it. Mr C. Bright. Castor Bright? The same as the man in the picture? He paused, trying to get his brain to stop spinning. Whoever had got Christian his job at The Bank was related to a man who had known their parents - and now Christian was dead, and someone called Bright was sending videos of botched gangland assassinations to Cass . . . What the fuck was going on?

  Cass stared out of the window. The brief spell of sunshine was fading and in the true spirit of British March weather dark clouds were pulling in towards each other, slowly covering the sky. He needed to think. He gathered up the photos and the letter and as he headed back downstairs thunder rumbled overheard.

  In the kitchen, Christian was sitting perfectly still at the island in the middle of the room. His pale face gazed towards nothing. He didn’t move as Cass paused and turned to watch him. Rain started to fall outside, but within the house the steady drip of thick blood on leather was louder, even though no fresh stains appeared on Christian’s shoes. Cass sighed and turned away. He took a seat at the small glass dining table with his back to his brother’s ghost. His mind could play whatever tricks it liked. Cass would just look the other way. He looked over his shoulder. It didn’t seem to be bothering Christian very much.

  He emptied the envelope out on the table again, shuffling through the images. Some were older, random faces of men he didn’t recognise. Some were posed, others looked as if they’d been taken secretly. On the back of each his father had written, Network? but the word meant as little as the faces. He added it to the list of possible passwords to try on his brother’s laptop.

  He picked up his mobile and typed out a quick text to Claire. ‘Bright initial probably C. Try first name Castor. Thanks.’ He didn’t want to call her: it was Saturday, and she’d either be still at work or at home, and either way Blackmore would be with her. A call from Cass would likely cause an argument between them, and he had few enough friends left without making trouble for Claire.

  He stared at the evidence that meant something and nothing spread around him and wished he had a computer of his own. His BlackBerry had internet access, but its small screen wasn’t up to showing much on full searches. He didn’t want to use Christian’s computer in case he left evidence of his searches - he might be a bit of a Luddite but even he knew that whatever you did on a computer you always left a trace, even if you wiped the hard drive, and he did not want The Bank knowing what he’d been looking for.

  He stared at the pictures that meant something and nothing. What he did know was that Christian had concerns about Bright. He looked at the other pictures. Network? What the hell was that about? His head ached and rain pounded against the window. It was time for a break. He also realised he was hungry. This time when he turned round, Christian was gone. Cass couldn’t help the slight wave of reli
ef. Bacon and eggs for one then.

  Once the fry-up was done and the house filled with the mouth-watering scent of bacon fat, Cass opened the bottle of red that Father Michael had so thoughtfully provided and added it and a glass to his tray and went back into the sitting room. The room was empty of ghosts and he demolished the food in minutes, wiping up the dregs of runny egg with a thick slice of bread and butter.

  It felt good to have a full stomach. He lit a cigarette and poured his second glass of wine before turning the TV back on; it was nearly be time for the evening news and he wanted to watch Bowman’s piece again. The wine hit his system almost immediately and Cass enjoyed the warm buzz. He probably still had booze and drugs inside him from the previous night, but the wine was calmer than the whisky and cocaine. It was like a good woman’s arms wrapping round him, soft and warm and full of promise. His eyes felt heavy.

  He opened up Christian’s laptop and found his way back to the REDEMPTION file. He put in the first password, and when the second password prompt came up, he tried Network, the Glow, NetworkGlow, BrightGlow and various other combinations of words and numbers before giving up again. It could wait until morning. His brain was fucked.

  With the computer put away, he leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table, pushing the tray with his plate on it slightly to one side to make room. He should take it out and wash it up. The suggestion was a blend of female voices: his mother’s, Kate’s, Jessica’s, even Claire’s, all rolled into one. If you don’t wash it straight away it’ll stick and take ages to scrub off. That voice was purely his mother’s. As a boy, he might have done as he was told, but now he just relaxed into the sofa and took another long gulp of wine. Let it stick. How many plates did a dead house need? Maybe he’d just chuck it straight in the bin.

  His eyes grew grittier as the evening ticked round into the gloom of night. The news came and went and Cass half-watched as Ant and Dec took over the country’s Saturday night, still as irritatingly chirpy and cheerful as they had been when they hosted that jungle shit. The audience let out a tinny round of applause after one or other of them made some lame joke. Cass had never figured out which was which. He sipped more wine. They were feel-good people. They must be hell to live with.

  Night fell as the black drops of rain tapped at the window, blown in each gust of wind, and Cass’s brain drifted between the cases, focusing on nothing in particular but letting the thoughts and images come and go. It stopped the childhood memories that were threatening to overwhelm him: Saturday nights in front of the TV, his mum and dad laughing together over a bottle of wine, and Christian rolling his eyes over-dramatically when they kissed. He sighed, trying once again to focus on the TV. The house was full of ghosts. His tired eyes were threatening to close, and he wondered if maybe his dead family were watching him pityingly. The one they left behind. It was a maudlin thought, and a mildly drunken one. A glance at the bottle showed that it was nearly empty, though he couldn’t remember refilling his glass more than twice. The time glowed bright on his watch, not even nine o’clock yet, but if he sat there much longer he’d be out for the count on the sofa, and his joints would seize up and he’d spend tomorrow cursing himself for repeating the experience. The soft arms of the genie in the wine bottle were dragging him down sleepwards, but he didn’t mind. At least they were warmer than the cold fingers of the dead.

  He took his phone and cigarettes and pulled himself to his feet. With the TV off, the house finally succumbed to darkness. It was soothing on his eyes and he left the lights off as he climbed the creaking stairs. He plugged his phone in, but didn’t bother brushing his teeth before peeling off his clothes and collapsing into the comfort of his parents’ bed. Kate was right. He was a slob. But for now he didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing or caring. It was good to let his eyes shut and his muscles relax. It had been a motherfucker of a week. He idly wondered if one last cigarette was in order, just to add to the morning flavours his mouth would hate him for, but the dark behind his eyes claimed him before he could reach for it.

  Chapter Twelve

  He has been sitting on the edge of the low, narrow bed for hours, just staring at the cracks in the paint on the walls. It doesn’t disturb anyone. He has his own room in the hostel now. It wasn’t what he wanted when he started out. He moved from the luxury penthouse, first to a bedsit, now this. Next, he’ll maybe try spending his nights under the bridges. He’d wanted to rest in the large, overcrowded, stinking dormitory, with all the dregs of humanity, but after a few nights the softly spoken, well-intentioned volunteers had moved him.

  They said it was because of the good work he was doing with the vicar at the church, and that he needed a quiet space to sleep, but he knows better. He can see it in their honest faces. It’s because he upsets the rest of them. He makes the junkies and drunks and damaged people cry out and cause trouble. Perhaps the more feral a man becomes, the more he can see the truth, or what’s left of it. They can see he doesn’t belong among them . . . or maybe it’s simpler than that: they just can’t stand the buzzing in their dreams while they toss and turn and dream of the next bottle.

  He can’t control the flies so well when he’s sleeping any more. The more human he becomes the more they break free. They don’t live long. He’s dying, ergo they’re dying. Some spin in mad circles for a few scant moments before falling to the floor. He looks down and as if in testimonial three are lying near-dead at his feet. He watches them wriggling on their backs before they die, legs waving frantically in the air. There was a time when he could have felt each one, but no longer. He stretches his fingers out and concentrates. A tiny smooth egg slides out from under his fingernail. He smiles. He still has what he needs for his messages, even if it drains him.

  The walls are closing in a little and he stands. It’s nearly morning. He hasn’t settled all night. There are wheels within wheels, games playing out. The pawns move; the king must be protected. He frowns as he lets himself out of the small room. He was surprised by the press conference. The wrong man was at the desk, after he’d worked hard to make sure it was the right one. Still, that can be fixed. And it’s pleasant to be surprised, especially when humans get involved in the game. His feet hurt. It feels as if they thump heavily on the ground even though each step is silent. He is tired and his old bones ache. He wonders when it will be over, and how - though he thinks he knows. Wheels within wheels. There really is only one way for him.

  He heads for the entrance. He wants to enjoy the beauty of the creation as the sun rises. The door is locked every night, but he hears the slight metal click as it undoes itself for him. It makes him smile. Maybe it’s only his coming death that is truly human. He wonders if he should be more afraid. It’s been so long, and they are dying so far from home. In the street, grey cracks of light are finding their way through the night and the air is fresh and clean in his lungs. He has always loved London mornings, even when they were rank with smog so thick you could barely breathe, let alone see.

  His feet finally make some sound as the heels of his shoes click on the pavement. So much time has passed. At least his fear isn’t making him want to find a way back, unlike some of the others. They made their choices a long time ago, and he will live, and die, with the consequences.

  His legs feel lighter now he’s striding through the centre of town. He wonders what Bright makes of it all? Their private battle has overwhelmed the bigger picture for now. Bright always seemed so untouchable: the architect in his ivory tower. He would be at least a little piqued now, and that was something to live a little longer for.

  He makes his way to the church gardens and finds the gates are already open. No need for his magic here. It’s only six-thirty, but the first service during the Sundays of Lent is at seven. He wonders how many actually turn up so early to hear the kind vicar’s words when there are hangovers to sleep off and lazy mornings to enjoy. The physical so often gets its own way. He pulls the pay-as-you-go phone out from his pocket. He had taken a handful
of them before he’d walked out of the offices and his old life for good. Its number will be logged in some sales invoice somewhere. That makes him smile. Another small screw loosened. Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey. Bright wanted to leave this man be for a while, but he is intent on giving all the players in the game a chance to see for themselves before he dies.

  From within his jacket he takes a small moleskin notebook. In it is all the information he stole from the system, everything he thought he might need when he left to devote the rest of his own personal journey to playing with Bright’s plans. Two birds with one stone. His elegant fingers flick through the cream pages until they find the number. He’s always trusted paper and handwriting over computers.

  Why he’s calling from here he doesn’t know, just like he doesn’t know why he finds comfort in the peace of the church when its foundations are built on such a bad retelling of the old story: man’s great temple to wishful thinking. Still, he thinks, it’s a pretty place, and maybe he doesn’t need any more reason than that. He types in the number and presses the dial button. Time to call the King.

  The rain eased to quiet drizzle in the dark of the night. Cass slept fitfully, tossing and turning, sweating in the blackness. Ghosts crowded his mind and he called out as memories played, the incoherent sounds cutting through the silent house until he finally fell still and only his lips moved against the pillow as he whispered, ‘Well, what are you waiting for, Charlie?’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for, Charlie?’

  Cass stares at Brian Freeman as his heart races too hard in his chest. He thinks he might throw up or pass out or both.

  Brian ‘the Brain’ Freeman looks about a hundred years old. He’s sitting in a chair in the office in the back of the snooker hall. Even in the dirty light Cass can see that the old man’s Marbella tan has drained away with the blood that is soaking through the makeshift bandage. A light sweat coats his forehead and his breathing is rapid. His eyes are angry, and very much alive.