Demogorgon

by Brian Lumley

  ‘Who?’

  ‘God damn you – if you’re not already damned!’ the other leaned forward and clutched his sleeve again. ‘Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? I’m talking about your father – your real father!’

  And suddenly Trace wanted desperately to know what it was all about. There was something about the Greek: an intensity that demanded belief. Certainly it demanded an audience. But before Trace could say anything more to him:

  ‘One last thing,’ said the Greek, ‘and believe me I use this only as a last resort. I do not enjoy it …’ His tone of voice had changed; now it was full of compassion, full of … pity?

  ‘Go on,’ said Trace, staring deep into the other’s eyes. ‘Your mother,’ said the Greek. ‘She’s in a Swiss madhouse.’

  Trace jerked back in his seat, wrenched his arm from the Greek’s grip, went white in a moment. ‘She’s … resting!’ he hissed. ‘She had a breakdown when I was a child, and – ’

  ‘– She’s a lunatic,’ the other insisted. ‘She will never recover.’

  Trace shrank down in his seat, glared at the Greek. ‘You bastard!’ he spat. ‘What the hell are you up to?’

  ‘Listen, I didn’t want to hurt you,’ the other held up his hands placatingly. ‘And it’s really not important that she’s mad, for there’s nothing we can do about that.’ He saw Trace’s eyes blaze up like fires and quickly went on, ‘What matters is this: I know what drove her mad and it’s the same black evil which threatens you!’

  Trace shook himself, struggled up straighter in his seat, reached out a trembling hand for his beer and drained the glass in one long pull. ‘Well, you’ve got me,’ he finally admitted and gave a weary shrug. ‘Where can we talk? Where can I listen to you while you get this – this thing, whatever it is – off your chest? My place is no good, you said?’

  The other shook his head. ‘No, it may be watched. Call a taxi and we’ll go to my hotel. On the way here I stopped at a place and booked a room. Also, I left my cases there. There are things in those cases I want you to see.’

  Trace nodded. ‘OK,’ he agreed, ‘and the sooner the better. I want all of this sorted out – right now!’

  Chapter Two

  In the taxi Trace asked: ‘Did you come here direct from Cyprus?’

  ‘No,’ the other shook his head. ‘I did not come from Cyprus at all, except in the beginning. I arrived here from Athens – but I might just as easily have come from Karpathos, Rome, even Paris. I have business in all four places. That is, I’m a silent partner in businesses in these places. That’s how I manage both to finance myself and stay out of sight. You see, Mr Trace, I’m a fugitive. I’ve been one for almost fifty years, and in half a century you get to be good at it. My money works through a numbered Swiss account – just like yours.’

  Taken aback, Trace couldn’t subdue a single nervous twitch. The Greek saw it and for the first time smiled. ‘Homework,’ he said.

  Trace chewed his lip and made an effort to cover his confusion. ‘Karpathos? Isn’t that in Rumania?’

  ‘You’re not much travelled, Charles,’ the Greek snorted. ‘You’re thinking of the Carpathians – that’s a mountain range. No, Karpathos is an island of the Dodecanese group in the Aegean. It has one main town, one or two villages. Until recently it was very much a nowhere place, forgotten on the edge of civilization. It’s a little more lively now, through tourism. I have a profitable wine shop in Pighadia, the town.’

  ‘Hardly cosmopolitan,’ said Trace.

  ‘My interest in Karpathos isn’t purely business,’ the Greek answered, his tone souring. ‘No, for there’s more to the island than first meets the eye. A monastery in the mountains, for one thing. At least it was, many years ago. There’s just an old man and a handful of servants there now – a man old before his time, and the thing he watches over …’

  That was far too cryptic for Trace. Doubtless the Greek would get around to unravelling all of this thing in time, but in his own time. It was going to be very frustrating, Trace decided. And he was becoming far too dependent upon thinking of the Greek as ‘the Greek.’ So: ‘Before we get any deeper into all of this,’ he said, ‘I still don’t know your name. And incidentally, I don’t like being called Charles.’

  The other shrugged. ‘Then I shall call you Mr Trace.’

  ‘I meant that my friends call me Charlie.’

  ‘Are we to be friends, then?’ he raised an eyebrow.

  Beware Greeks bearing gifts! Trace said to himself, and out loud: ‘At least until you prove to be otherwise.’ For to be honest, he couldn’t help liking the man. ‘So what do I call you?’

  The other nodded. ‘Very well, hear my name and use it when you speak to me; but in all other instances forget that you ever heard it. I am Dimitrios Kastrouni.’

  It meant nothing to Trace. ‘OK, Dimitrios,’ he said, ‘and you’re also a fugitive, right?’

  ‘That’s correct. I am two sorts of fugitive. A long time ago I killed a man. But that was fifty years ago. I don’t think there’s anybody who cares much about that now, but it served to teach me a great deal about survival. I needed that, for since then I’ve also become a fugitive from your father. And he is utterly relentless!’

  ‘See,’ said Trace, exasperation showing again, ‘while on the one hand I’m inclined to hear you out, statements like that last seem deliberately designed to put me off! You killed a man; you’ve been running for fifty years; you’re now on the run from my father – who I know died before I was born, died thousands of miles from here in a car crash! How in hell am I supposed to take you seriously?’

  ‘In hell, yes,’ said Kastrouni, nodding. He glanced out of his window and saw that the sky was darkening at what looked like the start of a summer storm. Anxiously, his eyes flickered from one quarter of the sky to the next; a nervous tic tugged the flesh at the corner of his mouth; and again he said: ‘Yes, in hell …’

  Trace sighed, tried a new approach. ‘You said Greg Solomon wasn’t my father. But I’ve had it from my mother – many times, times without number – that he was. Why should I believe you? What’s your evidence that you should make such a claim? Who was my father if not Solomon?’

  ‘Who?’ Kastrouni gave him a sharp glance. ‘Rather you should ask what. “What” is he, not “who”.’

  Trace took it to mean that his father was something – someone - big, at least in Kastrouni’s world. ‘OK, “what” is he?’

  ‘Demogorgon!’

  ‘Eh? Never heard of it.’

  ‘Untravelled,’ said Kastrouni, almost to himself. ‘Not especially well read. Cynical. No real vices – except perhaps he likes too many girls. But these days … ?’ (A shrug.) ‘And no blemish, no stigmata, apparently, upon his body. On the surface I might seem mistaken. But his mother was Diana Trace, and while he does not appear to have any sure means of support, still he is not poor and keeps a numbered Swiss account. So what does he do for a living – and why does he fear blackmail? So maybe there’s something of his father in him after all.’

  From beneath knitted brows he glanced at Trace, then out of the window at the darkening skyline. He drew himself down in his seat at the sight of thunderheads gathering over the heart of London. In the far distance, lightning flashed. Kastrouni shrank down farther yet.

  ‘Does lightning bother you?’ Trace asked.

  Apparently startled by the question, Kastrouni sat up straighter. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ he countered. And: ‘Did you know that in the Holy Land in biblical times – and in parts of the Mediterranean even today – people believed that the devil walked the earth in lightning storms?’

  They had arrived at their destination – a motel sort of place near Brent Cross, nothing special – and while Kastrouni hurriedly paid off the driver Trace sprinted for the lobby. It had started to rain: warm, heavy droplets that marked light clothing like splashes of ink, and thunder had become audible even over the heavy rumble of traffic. Kastrouni was spotted like a Dalmation when
finally he joined Trace under an awning outside the lobby.

  ‘What’s your drink?’ he asked, leading the way inside.

  ‘Whisky,’ said Trace, ‘with a little ice and water.’

  Kastrouni crossed to the desk, spoke to an untidy, uniformed young man with pimples, beckoned Trace to follow him upstairs to his room. Surprisingly, the room was clean and well set up: it had good wide windows that let in plenty of light, was equipped not only with a large bed and its own bathroom but also a couple of comfortable chairs. The obligatory Gideon Bible stood on a small table beside the bed; there was no TV; the carpet was wall to wall and looked new. It was probably as good a place as any for a private conversation.

  Trace excused himself and used the toilet, and when he came out saw that Kastrouni had drawn the curtains and put the light on. Before he could comment the Greek said: ‘Yes, you are right, I don’t like storms.’

  There came a soft knock at the door and Kastrouni answered it, returning with a tray containing glasses, a jug of iced water and two half bottles. One of the bottles was Courvoisier, the other Johnnie Walker.

  ‘Courvoisier?’ said Trace, raising his eyebrows in question.

  ‘Mine,’ said Kastrouni. ‘I’m for anything in brandy or cognac. All other spirits are second-class citizens. And I should know because I’m in the business. My family has been in the business since … a very long time.’ He poured drinks, passed a glass to Trace. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers!’ Trace returned, lifting his glass and sipping.

  And without further pause, except to light the occasional cigarette or freshen their glasses, Kastrouni told his story: how he had come to leave Cyprus in the first place, about Guigos and Chorazin, then on to Khumeni and that night of discovery and horror confirmed at the villa on the coast road north of Larnaca. He offered little by way of explanation, told it just as it had been, or as he believed it had been, left the rest and a great deal of unnecessary detail to Trace’s own enquiring mind and imagination. If Trace wanted to know more, surely he would ask.

  He did:

  ‘What are you on, Dimitrios?’ he said quietly when it seemed Kastrouni had finished.

  ‘On?’ the other looked puzzled.

  ‘What’s the monkey on your back? What is it you take? What poison is it you’re addicted to?’ Trace watched his reaction closely – and was disappointed.

  ‘Addiction?’ And at last Kastrouni’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘Ah! – Drugs, you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘I have no strong vices, never have had. Unless you class tobacco as a vice.’

  Trace fingered his chin, took a sip at his drink. He had sat here patiently for a long time. Perhaps for too long. ‘I can’t believe in satyrs,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you saw what you think you saw.’

  ‘Not a satyr,’ said Kastrouni, ‘except perhaps in the sexual sense of the word. No, for a satyr is part goat. Like Pan, you know? Pure myth, as far as I know. Khumeni is no myth …’

  ‘Then he’s simply deformed. You saw a cripple with badly deformed legs, or maybe legs burned in a fire, an accident.’

  Kastrouni was shaking his head in denial, but before he could give that denial voice Trace went on: ‘And you say he raped my mother?’

  ‘He raped three women that night: a Greek girl, a Turkish woman, and your poor mother.’

  ‘But they didn’t know it was happening? They were drugged?’

  Kastrouni half looked away. After a moment he said, ‘I know what you’re getting at. Just in case I am telling the truth, you want it confirmed that your mother didn’t suffer. Well, from what I saw, she would not have suffered physically – not right there and then – not a great deal. They knew very little of what was happening to them, those women. Later they would be hurt, would need medical attention. But your mother was in the best possible place in the world for that. She worked at the BMH: the British Medical Hospital in Dhekelia.’

  Trace nodded, tightening his mouth, said, ‘One of the things you said that hooked me – the main reason I came here with you – was that you knew what drove my mother mad. I take it you meant this rape? And yet now you say she wouldn’t remember it, that she was doped to the gills. That doesn’t connect, Dimitrios.’

  The other made vague, frustrated gestures with his hands, finally said: ‘If Khumeni had been any ordinary sort of a man it wouldn’t connect. How can I explain? I don’t wish to hurt you more than I have already. We’re talking about your mother, after all! I – ’

  ‘Don’t hide anything from me,’ said Trace abruptly. ‘If you know or think you know something – anything – then tell me. I can always make up my own mind about believing or disbelieving.’

  ‘Very well,’ Kastrouni answered. ‘But first you tell me something: are you a religious man, Charlie? I think not.’

  ‘I think I believe in God, yes. I mean, not the God who sits on a marble throne in the clouds attended by a flock of winged harpists. Maybe the God I believe in is part of me, part of us, the group goodness in all of us. Our intelligence, perhaps? Our compassion? I don’t know. It’s too deep for me. Anyway, I don’t go to church. That would be sheery hypocrisy. I’m no angel.’

  Kastrouni nodded, slitted his eyes a little, quietly commented, ‘Indeed you are not.’ Then, with more animation: ‘Very good. So, you believe there is good in the world. The root goodness in mankind. The intelligence of men. Their compassion. But for everything there must be an opposite, Charlie, every plus has its minus. Day and night, black and white, good and evil. Good, with a capital “G” – and Evil with a capital “E”. Do you also believe in evil?’

  ‘Of course. Look around you. Isn’t it far easier to believe in evil than in good?’

  Again Kastrouni’s nod. He was eager now, warming to his subject. ‘But I mean an ultimate evil. I mean the devil himself! The horned one, yes! You believe in the good in men, their compassion, their intelligence. You are not sure about God, but you agree there is something that lifts us up. And what of that which bubbles and seethes and blasphemes and strives to maintain the balance? What of that which drags us down? Evil, you say, is far more evident than good, and I agree.’

  Trace was looking weary now, his mind full of strangeness, his head packed with pictures and impressions and ideas which hadn’t been there before. It made him feel tired, but still he would hear Kastrouni out. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Just let us suppose that Jesus was a focal point for Man’s goodness – let us say that in this way he was the Son of God. Incidentally, I personally have no doubt of that last: this conjecturing is merely my way of putting it to you. So let us say that Jesus came to bring God’s light to men – to “save” them, if you like. My question is this: who would maintain the balance, Charlie? And how would it be maintained?’

  Trace shrugged, said the first thing that came into his mind: ‘An antichrist?’

  Kastrouni sat bolt upright in his chair, almost spilled his drink. Eagerly he grabbed Trace’s arms, stared at him wide-eyed. ‘But you understand the concept! A man was here who could live forever – if he desired. With all the powers of – of God, on his side. He had only to will it and we couldn’t hurt him, nothing could. And yet he let us kill him, cruelly. Why? To teach us a lesson, Charlie. To lift us up. So that today we would remember and believe. Do you see?’

  Trace could have argued but merely nodded. Best to let Kastrouni get on with it. ‘So?’

  Kastrouni released him. ‘Satan is quick to learn, quick to take advantage. Jesus – Jesus the ultimate martyr – was the biggest blow he’d ever suffered. People knew there was evil in the world – it was self-evident, as you’ve pointed out – but until Jesus they had had no proof of the existence of good. Now they knew! Satan had to retaliate, and quickly. And so he, too, gave the world a son.’

  ‘Khumeni?’

  ‘Khumeni now!’ said Kastrouni at once. ‘But first there was a creature called Ab. And later there was Guigos. And in between – how many more?’

  ‘I don�
��t understand.’

  ‘Reincarnation! Resurrection! He is a black phoenix rising from his own putrid ashes. I saw just such a foul rebirth in Chorazin …’

  Trace sat back. ‘This doesn’t explain my mother’s madness.’ He gave a snort. ‘In fact that could be strictly hereditary, for all I know. Certainly I must be more than half-crazy – I must be, just to sit here listening to all of this!’

  ‘Certainly it explains her madness,’ Kastrouni insisted. ‘Charlie, she wasn’t merely raped by Khumeni. She was utterly defiled by him – she was desecrated – penetrated to the core by the son of Satan himself. It wasn’t only her body he raped: it was her mind, her soul. She had been joined with him! The very fact itself was a cancer, something which grew in her just as you grew in her – but more slowly. She knew she’d been used, defiled. But by whom, by what? She must have wondered; and over the years perhaps there were vague recurrent memories of that night, of the thing that took her like a beast. The thing that – ’

  ‘Shut up!’ Trace shouted.

  Kastrouni started as if he’d been slapped. He pushed his chair back, stood up, went shakily, almost staggering, to the window and parted the curtains a little. Outside, the storm had long since retreated. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was steaming dry the roads and pavements. They had been here for a little over two hours. Their half-bottles were almost empty. Kastrouni turned, leaned backward against the window-sill, tiredly said:

  ‘I don’t blame you for reacting like that.’

  Trace stood up. ‘You’re a crazy man,’ he said.

  Kastrouni hung his head, ran his fingers through his white hair. ‘You were right,’ he said without looking up. ‘I did come to you for help – but also to offer help. But you mustn’t go yet. We’re not finished.’

  ‘Yes we are, and I’m going now,’ Trace answered.

  ‘I want the beast dead,’ Kastrouni continued, as if he hadn’t even heard Trace. ‘I want him dead! – but I can’t do it alone.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Trace, heading for the door.