Sometimes, they’d see Serafina among the crowds in the dark rooms they visited, but she never acknowledged them. Othman told Aninka he’d instructed Serafina to keep their friendship secret. That had been a glaring clue, perhaps, which Aninka had dismissed without examining.
One night, they had been sitting in a hot, noisy bar, with the usual group of adoring people hanging onto Othman’s every word. One girl, with a typical mop of dyed black hair and heavy eye make-up, had become emboldened by alcohol. She said to Othman, ‘You look like an angel, a fallen angel.’
Aninka, uncharacteristically, responded. ‘But that is exactly what he is, my dear.’
The girl seemed surprised Aninka had spoken, and laughed uneasily, while Othman flicked a wry, slightly warning, glance in Aninka’s direction.
‘He’s got Nefilim blood in him,’ Aninka continued doggedly. These people would have heard of the term Nefilim, if not of Grigori, because the old myths of the fallen angels — tragic, beautiful and doomed — had become popular in the Gothic sub-culture, as attractive to the darkly inspired young as the legends of vampires. ‘Look at him. His height, his beauty. You should see his dick.’
Othman bridled at that. She saw a frown form on his face, and took satisfaction from it. ‘Are you drunk?’ he enquired in an icy voice.
Aninka shrugged, took a sip of her gin and tonic. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling so aggressive. All eyes were now upon her. She had the stage. ‘He’s a throw-back,’ she said. ‘Many people are. If the angels mated with women to create the Nefilim, it’s got to be in all our genes.’
‘If you believe in the Bible,’ one girl said with scorn. ‘Personally, I think it’s all bullshit. I don’t believe in the Christian god, therefore I don’t believe in all that angel garbage.’
Aninka directed a basilisk stare at her. She felt an urge to gather power within herself, forge it into a spear of light and hit the brat between the eyes with it. ‘Really?’ she said and laughed. ‘My dear, you should know that those legends are not found only in the Bible, but in many other texts, from several different cultures. In fact, the Bible barely touches upon them. It would be wise of you, I think, to know what you’re talking about before you open your mouth.’
The girl with black hair, who’d first spoken, was grinning. Aninka perceived a mutual dislike for the sceptic. ‘That’s true,’ she said, nodding to Aninka. ‘I’ve read some books on it all.’ She smiled smugly at her antagonist. ‘It’s very likely a race existed thousands of years ago, who were more advanced than humanity. Some of them broke the law of their people by giving humans secret knowledge and having affairs with human women. That’s where the legends of the Nefilim come from: they were half-breeds, monstrous...’ She glanced at Othman. ‘Well, monstrous only in the sense that they were very tall and strong. Giants.’ She put her head on one side to study Othman, who looked like thunder incarnate. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said to Aninka. ‘He is a throwback. It’s obvious.’ She laughed delightedly, clearly glad of the opportunity to stare at Othman without being obvious. ‘You’re a Nefilim, Pev.’
‘If you believe that,’ said the sceptic, ‘you might as well believe that the gods were spacemen.’
‘What do you believe?’ the black-haired girl asked Othman.
He shrugged. ‘If you want to think I’m a member of a superior race, I’m not going to argue with you!’
Everyone laughed. Othman had cut the subject dead. When conversation started up again, the matter under discussion was trivial. Aninka knew Othman had thrown out a psychic screen. He was right to. She chastised herself for contravening one of her own rules. How could she allude to the subject of the Fallen Ones, when it was something she wanted to deny in herself?
Later, back in the flat, as Othman took a shower in her bathroom, Aninka sat in her darkened living room and thought about the conversation. The children of the fallen ones, the rebel Anannage, that is what we are, she thought. They don’t realise it, and we forget, but that is what we are. Grigori? No. We are not scholars and scientists. We are Nephilim and Anakim; the seducers, the liars, greedy and corrupt.
The weight of history pressed down upon her, bringing with it a depression. Aninka didn’t want to be different, nor have to hide what she was. It meant nothing to her, she thought. It was irrelevant, now, in this modern world. Yet her family, and all the other families like them, held on to the past, wrapping themselves in secrecy. If we could just forget, Aninka thought, then it wouldn’t matter. We could just be.
Othman came into the room, naked and gleaming, drying the long rags of his hair with a towel. She spoke her thoughts to him, seeking sympathy. He only laughed.
‘Don’t lie to yourself. You want to be different. You say you love humans, yet you look down upon them. Those women tonight, they would have said to each other later, “Who does she think she is?”, and if you’d heard them, you’d have answered, “More than you, kids”. Get real, Aninka. You are Grigori, and you love it.’ He came up behind the sofa and put his wet hands on her shoulders. ‘There is no shame in it. We are what we are.’
Aninka pulled away from him, annoyed. ‘We are not that different from them any more. We have lost most of what made us superior, if that’s what you want to call it. We’re just hanging on to a memory of something that has passed. Genetically, we are half human anyway.’ She got up and marched to the window, blinked furiously at the glittering night-scape outside.
Othman obviously didn’t want to argue with her, but sat down on the sofa to watch a movie. Aninka wanted to hit him. Part of what she loved about him was the fact that he seemed so different to other Grigori she had met, less obsessed with his heritage. She wanted him to agree with her and scorn the others. They had the potential to bring their race closer to reality. They could have children together and give them ordinary names like Sharon and John, never tell them about their racial history. Aninka liked the thought of that: Grigori growing up without ever realising they were unlike the other children with whom they played and learned. In her euphoria at this idea, she was sure the differences between the Grigori and humanity were now so minute, her children would never suspect there was anything unusual about themselves. Thinking these things, looking down at her lover illumined by the flickering light of the TV screen, she realised she felt more for him than any other man she had met. Children? What was she thinking of? Othman had never even told her he loved her, never mind suggest their relationship might involve commitment.
He looked up at her, as if guessing what was on her mind. ‘Aninka, face it, you cannot be like them. Your longevity alone sets you apart. Even if you had human friends you trusted enough to confide in, and who could accept your difference, you would still have to watch them age and die. As they withered, they would see you remaining young, and whatever affinity you’d managed to create would be destroyed. It comes out, in the end, in all of us. Even our children. They have to be aware of what they are because, otherwise, they’d be regarded as freaks. We have to protect ourselves, and part of that involves never being able to become that close to humans. I can see you find that hard to accept, but you won’t do yourself any favours by denying it.’
‘It’s not fair!’ Aninka said. She felt swamped by sadness.
Othman sighed. ‘I can’t understand what the problem is. If someone could wave a magic wand and make you human, you wouldn’t like it. You’re far too vain. A wrinkle, to you, would be a major catastrophe. There will come times in the future when you’ll have to fake it, for convenience’s sake, but you’ll find yourself backing out of situations, changing your life and your environment, to avoid it. Believe me, I know.’ He held out an arm. ‘Now, stop fretting and come over here. Let’s watch the film.’
She hesitated, then went to him. He pulled her close, kissed her hair. ‘Aninka, if you weren’t Grigori, I wouldn’t be here with you like this. We couldn’t talk. Be thankful for what you have.’
Othman’s opinion of the Marks’ and their friends
seemed scathing. He commented on their naiveté and laughed about it. Aninka wondered why he wanted to spend time with them. Every Friday, he went to attend their rituals, and now Aninka went with him. He never appeared to want to get involved in their magical work, but seemed eager to spectate. Perhaps, Aninka thought with disappointment, it was a nostalgia for his heritage that lured him to the converted garage on Victoria Heights once a week. Aninka recognised a similar contradiction within herself. Despite her avowed rejection of Grigori culture, she was sometimes tempted to nudge the group along and even enlighten them a little. They were groping around in darkness, guessing how to recreate the past, and sometimes going wide of the mark in authenticity. Ivan wrote most of the rituals himself, using ancient material as a base, but adding a lot of his own ideas. Aninka possessed knowledge that could help them, but refrained from imparting it. She mustn’t fall into that trap. Wendy asked her a few times if she’d like to become actively involved, but Aninka refused. ‘I’m happy just to get artistic inspiration from it,’ she said.
Wendy Marks had phoned Aninka on the Monday morning after Othman had taken her to Victoria Heights for the first time. After a few minutes’ conversation concerning the prints they had talked about, Aninka invited Wendy over to the flat. They had started the afternoon drinking coffee and discussing art, but later Aninka had cracked open a wine box and they’d got drunk together. It marked the beginning of a proper friendship. After a couple of weeks, Aninka was visiting Grey Gables regularly by herself, and often met up with Wendy in the city for lunch. Aninka quickly learned that Wendy’s husband, Ivan, was having an affair with Misty Kennedy. At least, Wendy suspected he was. She said there had been confrontations in the past, but all her accusations had been denied. Now she just felt peevish, jealous and paranoid mentioning it. Aninka sympathised with Wendy. She thought her new friend to be a far superior creature to the blowsy Misty, but was also secretly grateful her marriage was in shreds because it meant Wendy had a lot of free time, of which Aninka could take advantage.
Enid Morningstar had been round at Wendy’s one afternoon, when Aninka called over with a bottle of wine and a need to get drunk in female company. At first, she’d been annoyed to find Enid sitting in the kitchen. Aninka had begun to confide in Wendy about Peverel Othman: revealing only that she couldn’t work out his feelings for her and that she was falling heavily in love with him, but this was more than she wanted to discuss in front of Enid. However, Enid was round to rake through the debris of a particularly messy divorce, and after several bottles of wine, Aninka found that she had warmed to the woman. This was what she loved: women drinking together, talking about men. Her experiences and her feelings were not that different from Wendy’s and Enid’s. They didn’t think she was odd or inhuman, therefore, she couldn’t be. She liked the affinity she felt for these women. It made her feel comfortable inside to know that she had proper friends, and that they were human. One day, she dared to think, she might know them and trust them well enough to reveal the truth about herself. She felt sure they would assuage her fears, tell her the past didn’t matter and that she was just the same as they were.
When Ivan came home — late, after seeing Misty no doubt — Aninka and Enid got a cab together back to the city. While the dark streets flashed past, Enid offered to make Aninka some clothes. Aninka, who dressed expensively, politely demurred, which surprisingly elicited a hot response. ‘I can create things for you that are just as well made as what you’re wearing, but for at least half the price You’re so tall, you must have to pay a fortune to get things that fit you.’ Enid shut her mouth with a snap. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was a bit personal. You’re like a model, Aninka. I envy you.’
Money didn’t matter to Aninka, but obviously it did to Enid, who was divorced and poor, so Aninka relented. Consequently, design and fitting sessions were arranged, and Enid became a regular figure in Aninka’s life. Enid lived quite nearby, though in a distinctly less salubrious area. Aninka was delighted with the clothes Enid designed for her, and was careful to pay the exact asking price so as not to offend her new friend. However, she did buy Enid an expensive bottle of perfume after the woman had admired the scent in Aninka’s flat. This was accepted with grace. On the nights when Aninka didn’t see Othman, she started going out to pubs and cinemas with Enid.
During this time, Aninka saw hardly anything of her cousins. Looking back, she could see that Othman had influenced her in this matter more than she’d realised. At the beginning of their relationship, she’d wanted to introduce him properly to Noah and the others, but Othman made it clear he wasn’t keen on the idea. Perhaps other Grigori would have been suspicious of him, and would have seen things in him to which Aninka’s obsessive love blinded her. Noah kept calling for the first couple of weeks, but Aninka only sporadically answered the messages he left on her answering machine, and then told him she was very busy working on new commissions. He must have sensed her disinterest in his gossip, because eventually his calls dropped off. Aninka worried about it sometimes, then Othman would imprint himself across her mind, and she’d forget about it. Tearah and Rachel called round a couple of times, perhaps at Noah’s request. Aninka found she didn’t want them to know about her affair with Othman. She made up a story about a human lover she’d taken on, and added a few lascivious jokes about him, which she knew her cousins would appreciate.
‘Call us when you get bored,’ Rachel said as she and Tearah left the flat after the second visit.
Aninka assured them that she would. She hadn’t seen either of them since.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday 20th October, Little Moor
On Tuesday morning, Peverel Othman woke up weeping. He lay in bed, with yellow sunlight slicing between the partly drawn curtains of his room, trying to remember what he had dreamed. The sense of loss and grief in his heart was familiar — he woke with that often — but there was something different this time: a sense of urgency, of approach, of revelation. There were things to be done. This time, he must do everything correctly.
After a light breakfast at The White House, Othman went directly to the Post Office, where he found Eva Manden alone in the shop. He selected a paper from the neat pile of journals on the front counter, and then asked Eva where her mother was.
‘I must apologise for the way she behaved yesterday!’ Eva blurted. ‘She’s very old and has these funny turns sometimes.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Othman said. ‘I hope it isn’t on account of me that you’ve banned her from the shop!’
‘Oh no!’ Eva shook her head. ‘She’s not banned! She’s at the day centre...’ The slightest frown creased her brow, which she quickly erased.
‘Oh? You’re lucky to have such facilities in so small a place.’
‘Yes... That’ll be thirty pence. Is there anything else?’
Her reluctance to talk about her mother did not escape Othman. ‘No. Thanks. Bye.’
Outside, he stood still for a moment and opened himself up to any passing information in the air. Presently, he began to walk slowly down the road, away from The White House.
Mariam Alderley was having a bad day with the old ones. They seemed spooked, restless. For fifteen years, Mariam had been the official care-person for the elderly at the Murkaster Day Centre in Little Moor. Now, she wondered how long it would be until she joined the others, mumbling in the plastic chairs before the stage. She was sixty-two, widowed, and paid by the Murkaster Trust a small amount that now complemented her pension. Cora Perks had phoned her yesterday, asking a few covert questions. Both women had sensed the anxiety behind the other’s words, but they’d confessed nothing. The call from Eva Manden had been equally strained. The Post Mistress had kept her mother away deliberately from the Centre for months, claiming, obliquely, that it affected Emilia badly, made her difficult to cope with. Therefore, Mariam had been surprised to receive the call informing her Emilia Manden would be attending again; surprised and disappointed. Emilia was the ring-leader in any t
rouble-making behaviour. Things had been running quite smoothly since she’d been confined to the post office during the day. Emilia’s arrival at the centre, late yesterday morning, had seemed to kindle a new tide of rebellion in Mariam’s charges. Emilia was an old minx, that was certain, and more alert and cunning than the rest of them put together. Something was afoot, and Mariam felt jumpy because of it. For a start, there had been a lot of whispering yesterday, conversations which were silenced whenever Mariam approached. She could feel the keen gaze of the ancient eyes, and a hint of scorn behind the silence, the suppressed atmosphere of excitement. She was intruding into something. Was it a petty war sparked by gossip? That was possible. When they weren’t ganging up against her, the old people spent their time sniping at one another, bound by the ancient tie, but hating each other for it. They had also started a spontaneous chant half an hour before Daniel Perks came with the Murkaster Trust minibus to take them all home. It had been a terrible racket, and Mariam had feared complaints from the smart new bungalows down the lane.
At one time, Mariam had been able to handle the old ones without difficulty. Now, it was becoming more taxing; perhaps she herself was getting too old for the job. The Murkaster Trust was administered by a firm of solicitors in Patterham. Mariam wondered whether they’d be prepared to fund another helper at the Centre. She could only suggest it. This thought lightened Mariam’s mood a little and she went to prepare the morning tea.
Othman paused where a side road joined the main road through the village, and after closing his eyes and sniffing the air for a few moments, he turned to follow it: Endark Lane. Presently, he came across a large two-storeyed building, which had an imposing facade of dirty stone columns and what appeared to be a heraldic device above the door : a peacock gripping an arrow in its claws. Below this device was a stone ribbon bearing the single carved word, Murkaster. Othman tried the door, found it unlocked, and went into the building. After crossing a gloomy hallway, he entered a large dusty room beyond. Arched, stained glass windows were positioned high in the walls. Dwarfed by the room, a group of elderly people sat in modern, plastic chairs near a stage at the far end. Othman noticed a middle-aged woman handing out tea. He walked towards the group, and the tea-maker became aware of his presence. She stood up straight, her face registering surprise. She seemed frozen.
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