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

by Sarah Pinborough

  In the gloom, the paint appeared almost luminescent, the pale skin of the recumbent man like marble. The naked figure lay on one thick wing, and an angry eye peered over the raised arm that hid its face. Ghostly winged figures filled the sky above where this creature lay on the burned earth. Cass stared at it, for a moment all thoughts of Solomon and Bright forgotten.

  ‘I think I shall have that moved into my office.’

  Cass’s skin almost lifted from his body as he jumped at the sudden intrusion of sound. What the fuck? He turned to see a silver-haired man standing at the top of the spiral staircase.

  ‘It’s too good to just hang there with no one to see it.’ The man’s feet tapped out a quiet rhythm on the metal rungs as he came downstairs. ‘Although, who knows? Perhaps we’ll find someone to take over Mr Solomon’s position soon enough.’

  He reached the bottom and smiled at Cass, his perfect teeth gleaming white in his tanned face. Cass understood what Adam Bradley had meant when he said there was ‘just something’ about Mr Bright. He was shorter than Cass, and thicker around the middle, but there was an air of contained danger and energy in his confidence.

  Cass stayed where he was.

  ‘Mr Bright, I presume?’

  Again the flash of that smile. ‘I’m impressed with you, Cass.’ On the other side of the room, Mr Bright folded his arms. ‘You’ve found us quickly.’

  ‘As far as I was aware, the lift brought me here. I didn’t push the button.’

  ‘I was speaking in a more general sense. Of course,

  I brought you here. But I thought you’d earned it.’

  Cass didn’t like the tone of amusement. It made him feel like a child, and he hadn’t been one of them in a long time. There was a familiar twinge in his jaw as his teeth ground together. He wouldn’t bite back. If this man underestimated him, then all the better. Still, he couldn’t shift the unease from the pit of his stomach; this man looked identical to the person in the photo with his parents, far beyond what you’d expect from even the most similar father and child; this Mr Bright was an exact replica of the one his father had known.

  Questions filled his head and he spat out the only one he could form coherently. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  Mr Bright’s laugh was like hot water on ice. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘No.’ The laugh hissed into a soft sigh, and for the first time there was just the hint of age around the man. ‘I think I’ll just keep guiding you until you get there for yourself. I’m not in a hurry. Not yet.’ He pulled a remote control from the pocket of his expensive suit and pressed a button. The curtains slid away and he walked over to the vast window that looked down over the city. ‘Some people like the river view best,’ he said. ‘I prefer to see life.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘You’ve always fought it.’

  ‘Fought what?’ With you, Bright had said. Who else had he tried to lead?

  ‘Fate. Destiny.’ He didn’t face Cass, but his reflection shone in the glass.

  ‘There is no fate. There are only choices.’

  Even reflected in the glass Bright’s teeth sparkled. ‘No, Cass, in that you’re wrong. There are rarely accidents or coincidences.’ He turned. ‘Not for someone like you. You’ve always refused to see it. In many ways I’ve admired that in you.’

  Cass tried to keep up, his brain analysing each word and phrase. Always? How much did this man know about him? He remembered the figures in the Jones folder on the Redemption file. There had been money allocated in there for surveillance. Had this bastard been watching him? For how fucking long? And why? Were there films somewhere of his marriage as it slowly crumbled? A grainy shot filled his head: two boys dying in a busy street. The cold fingers were back and the rest could wait. This man had information he needed.

  ‘Why did you send me the film?’

  The slightest shrug. ‘I wanted you to see it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s for you to figure out.’ Mr Bright leaned over a box on the coffee table and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, the sound a snapped twig in the brief silence. Cass fought the urge to smoke one of his own. He didn’t want this bastard seeing he was unnerved.

  ‘I’m enjoying watching you work,’ Mr Bright continued.

  ‘Don’t spoil it by demanding answers. Perhaps you should see this as a kind of test.’ He smiled. ‘And it’s not one I’m expecting you to fail. I have high hopes of you, Cassius. We all do.’

  ‘Isn’t that what Solomon is doing when he kills these women? Some kind of test? Who’s he testing? Me?’

  ‘Mr Solomon, unfortunately, I cannot account for. He’s become . . .’ He hesitated, then said, ‘He’s become something of a liability. He thinks he’s dying.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps he is. He’s certainly having a crisis of faith.’

  ‘We’re all dying. He’s just making it happen too fast for some people.’

  ‘I think he’s hoping you’ll stop him.’ Mr Bright’s gaze was enigmatic through the haze of white smoke. ‘I think he likes you. I think he thinks you’ll understand him.’ He paused. ‘Just don’t trust him.’

  An echo of memory stirred. ‘Funny. He mentioned something about not trusting people too. You two have issues.’ Cass refused to let his own eyes drop. ‘And frankly I don’t give a fuck about trust. I just want to catch him. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No.’ Bright shook his head. ‘I’m rather hoping you’ll find him for me. He’s become something of an embarrassment for all of us, and he’s drawing far too much attention to himself.’

  ‘What was it that made him crack?’ Cass looked back at the vast office. ‘Corporate mental breakdown? Office not big enough?’

  Mr Bright laughed again, his head shaking slightly. He didn’t answer the question.

  ‘Who is he, this Solomon?’ Who are you? was what he really wanted to ask, but he already knew he’d get some infuriatingly ambiguous answer.

  ‘Solomon?’ Bright paused, and the cigarette smoke he exhaled settled in every tiny fine line that covered his tanned face, suddenly ageing him a thousand years. ‘I suppose he is my brother. Of sorts.’

  ‘Of sorts?’

  ‘One day you’ll understand.’

  Cass didn’t think he would. Black shoes. Crimson stains. His heart ached. ‘Did you or Solomon have anything to do with Christian’s death?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Mr Bright’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and he almost recoiled as if at the thought.

  Cass thought the sudden display of emotion looked genuine, but how could he tell with this enigma of a man? He’d seen the way Artie Mullins reacted at the mention of his name. Mr Bright was not to be underestimated himself.

  ‘He was perhaps too much like your father and I didn’t see it. I let the others panic me, and told him too much too soon, and then once he started digging he found things that didn’t concern him.’ He ground the cigarette out. ‘I think he wanted to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’ Cass glared at the man who clearly knew so much but wouldn’t share it. He wanted to stick him in a cell and kick the shit out of him until he couldn’t scream the information out fast enough. What help, and what with? Police business or his personal life? Cass had thought that Christian had wanted help, rather than trying to give it. Had he underestimated his little brother that much?

  ‘I should have told him about the film. And he should have trusted me.’

  ‘How would the film have helped him?’

  Mr Bright shook his head. ‘Don’t spoil the game. I trust you’ll get there eventually.’

  ‘Solomon will kill more people if you don’t help me.’

  ‘People die all the time, Cass. It’s in their nature.’

  ‘Perhaps I should get a warrant and come back here tomorrow.’

  Mr Bright laughed; a sudden tinkle of light. ‘We both know that’s not going to happen. The only reason you even know about me is because I wanted it that way. How e
lse to get a policeman’s attention but to provide an over-the-top wall of silence? Everyone’s traceable, Cass. An untraceable man would just leave a false trail. To give you nothing was sure to grab your attention.’

  The idea that he’d been suckered into looking for Mr Bright didn’t sit well. His fingers clenched at his sides. ‘Why can’t you just tell me what the fuck is going on?’

  ‘One day I will.’ Mr Bright stared at him for a second and then smiled. ‘But I think for now it’s probably time we said goodbye. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon enough.’

  ‘What?’ Cass was ready to punch him when he turned the remote to the lift. The doors slid open.

  ‘Unless of course you want me to call security and explain your presence?’ Teeth glinted in the soft light. ‘And don’t doubt that I would, Cassius Jones. In some ways it might add a little something to the game, putting you under the extra pressure of losing your job so spectacularly.’

  ‘You’re some piece of work.’ Cass’s impatience boiled over. ‘Why are you so fucking interested in me and my family? Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘All in good time.’ Mr Bright raised an arm to usher Cass to the open lift. ‘But you have nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘Really?’ Cass almost spat the words out. ‘Is that why my father ran from a man called Mr Bright? Is that why my brother’s now dead?’ He strode towards the lift. ‘In fact, don’t fucking tell me. You’re right. I’ll fucking figure it out for myself.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what I want you to do.’ Mr Bright’s smile was almost humorous, as if Cass’s rage simply wasn’t there. ‘Now if I could just have Miss Healey’s pass back?’ He held out a smooth pink palm.

  Cass had forgotten about Maya. His stomach turned slightly. ‘This wasn’t her fault. She doesn’t know I’ve got it.’

  ‘I know. But I’ll take it and make sure it’s returned to her in the morning.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘We wouldn’t want it falling into the wrong hands, now, would we?’

  ‘Will she get in trouble for this? I made her meet me. She didn’t even want to. She’s done nothing wrong.’

  Mr Bright laughed. ‘I would never blame her for simply being human. What she did was perfectly natural.’ The card slid into his suit so quickly he could have been a master magician. ‘In fact, she did exactly what I expected of her.’ He shrugged. ‘So how could I blame her for that?’

  Cass watched the strange man and couldn’t fight the slight awe that leavened his anger and frustration. ‘Does everyone do as you expect them to?’

  ‘When you’ve lived as long as I have there are rarely any surprises left.’ He paused. ‘You, though, Cass, you may prove the exception to that rule.’

  Cass stepped into the lift. ‘I fucking hope so.’

  ‘You don’t have to like me, Cass.’ Mr Bright’s smile didn’t waver. ‘But think of me as your guardian angel.’

  The doors slid shut and Cass stared at them. The world was unsteady under his feet and it had fuck all to do with the lift’s descent.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was gone one a.m. when he finally got back to the seminary. The corridors were dark and quiet. Beneath his feet the wood was scuffed and dull from overuse, but he found something earthy and clean about it compared to the highly polished floor he’d left Mr Bright standing on. For the first time he felt some sense of peace rather than discomfort in the building. He didn’t believe in any kind of God, and even without that faith he felt he was the last person to feel at home in a place dedicated to goodness, but the calm of the seminary and its sense of purpose helped to ease his mind’s furious struggle to pull all the pieces together. Maybe there were no gods, but there was something of the best of mankind in these corridors. A hope for something better, perhaps. Whatever it was, he needed a dose of it.

  For the first time he actually looked at the small paintings hung at wide intervals on the walls. There was a massive difference, in size and cost and sheer opulence, to the vast canvas hanging in Solomon’s office, but the theme was the same. His eyes snagged on an image of a naked Christ nailed to the cross. His face showed a perfect image of agony and self-sacrifice. Blood oozed from where thorns punctured his forehead and ran thickly through the painted crevices of his contorted face. In the sky above the dying man angels waited, garbed in white and clutching harps and bows, ready to take the Lord back to his place in Heaven when his suffering on Earth was done.

  The angels looked like children’s cartoons to Cass, floating regally above the Earth. The pain and suffering though: that looked so very real. He tilted his head and his heart felt heavy. Had all that suffering been worth it? The man in the picture, the thousands of others who’d burned and died and killed in his name - was there really a point to it all? What was it about this agonisingly painful death that drew the young men who now slept in the cells around him? Where was the goodness to be found in this? He wished he could understand it, he truly did, if only to had a better relationship with his father - but it would never be. The Earth was the Earth was the Earth. There was nothing else.

  Footsteps clicked against the floor behind him and Cass turned to see the shadow of a figure in the gloom. The black suit trousers turned the corner out of sight, a flash of crumpled blue hanging at the waistband. The painting was forgotten. Cass’s mouth went dry. He followed as Christian’s heels rang out in a steady, even tread. Cass’s own were merely a whispered thump, echoing the steady beat of his living heart. His brother was just out of sight until Cass reached the tiny chapel at the back of the building. The door was open and the rows of pews were half in shadow. In a small alcove a few candles guttered. To his left, a young man with an eruption of acne on the back of his neck knelt, praying hard. His lips moved, but Cass couldn’t hear what he said. He didn’t look up.

  Cass stayed where he was in the doorway and stared at the figure that stood in front of the altar. Christian’s back was towards him and his head was tilted upwards, gazing at the small stained-glass window that in the morning would catch the light from the courtyard and bathe the small chapel in dazzling colour. The Virgin Mary cradled her child, surrounded by smiling angels. It was still beautiful, Cass thought, even without the illumination of the sun creating a halo around their image.

  As if suddenly realising Cass was there, Christian turned and smiled. Cass recoiled slightly, his breath hitching. The praying boy didn’t move, his eyes squeezed shut as he repented for whatever sin it was that had kept him awake in the middle of the night. He was in his own world. The two Jones brothers were in another entirely. Cass stared at Christian. Above his smiling mouth, his eyes were red hollows. Blood ran down his pale face in slow streams, dripping crimson splashes on his black shoes. It was dead blood, thick and dark, and it had no right flowing at all.

  Cass didn’t move. They stood at each end of the small aisle: one blond, one dark. One dead, one alive. One innocent, one guilty. Still smiling, as if his bleeding eyes were the most normal thing in the world, Christian raised his arm and once again mimed a phone call. His fingers were paler now, as if death were finally taking hold of the apparition. After a moment his hand fell back to his side and he turned back to the altar and raised his head, once more surveying the beauty in the glass. Cass trembled and clenched his hands into a fist. His fingers were icy-cold. It had been a long day - too long. There was no ghost, and wouldn’t be, no matter how many times he saw it. It was just his mind, wanting him to work something out. He turned and headed back to his room. No footsteps followed him, only the hushed tread of his own filled the corridor.

  He’d just got dressed and was heading outside to clear the minty taste of toothpaste from his mouth with the first cigarette of the day when Perry Jordan rang.

  ‘Morning, Cass. Up and at ’em.’

  ‘Already am.’ He clicked the lighter and inhaled before opening the car door and getting in. The kid sounded cocky. That was a good sign. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘Mate,’ the laugh in his ear was thr
oaty, ‘you’re gonna love me.’

  ‘Go on.’ His gut tingled.

  ‘Both families were fucked financially. And I mean majorly fucked. They were a mess. Miller was four months behind on the mortgage and Jackson was three. And that was after remortgaging.’ A lighter clicked at the other end and he could hear as Jordan sucked in hard before continuing, ‘Looks like they’d both had a major run of luck, then a series of dud investments, some of them even more major. Their salaries have been cut too - I figure it was that or redundancy. From what I can see they’ve both had holes in their boats for quite a while, but this year was when they started sinking.’

  ‘Great metaphor, mate.’

  ‘I aim to please.’

  ‘So if they’ve been screwed for cash for that long then how have they been able to keep up their lifestyles?’ Cass wondered.

  ‘They sold some assets: private sales of paintings and jewellery. Bits and pieces here and there. Some of it was pretty pricey, according to payments I traced back to the auction houses.’