The Ninth Circle

by Alex Bell

  Once we were settled I asked Stephomi about his name, as much to deflect any personal question he might ask me as anything, and he arched his eyebrow at me in surprise when I mentioned the archangel Zadkiel.

  ‘You do know your angels, don’t you?’ he replied. ‘Isn’t Zadkiel supposed to be the angel of . . .what was it . . . memory?’

  I jumped at his emphasis on the word and knocked my wine glass over.

  ‘Oh dear, how clumsy of you,’ Stephomi said lightly, calling over a waiter to help clean it up.

  He couldn’t know . . . He couldn’t know about my problem . . .

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked once the waiter had gone to get me another wine glass.

  ‘Yes, of course I am! I’m in perfect health, why? Why do you ask?’ I replied in a panicky rush.

  Stephomi gave me an odd look. ‘You just seem a bit jumpy, is all.’

  ‘No,’ I said, running a hand through my hair agitatedly. ‘No, no. I just—’

  ‘You’re not diabetic, are you?’

  I couldn’t stop the slightly nervous laugh. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Well, the food will be here in a minute, anyway,’ Stephomi replied.

  With a tremendous effort, I pulled myself together. As the evening wore on, I switched to non-alcoholic drinks. Sighing wistfully, Stephomi agreed that there had been enough alcohol for now and, with a twisted smile, proclaimed that I was good for him indeed. It wasn’t that I had anything against drinking; it was just that I needed to stay alert in case Stephomi asked me something that I would need to quickly lie about. I couldn’t risk . . . I don’t know, having too much to drink and then blurting out the whole truth to him, or something equally awful. Although with such a sensational story, I suppose he would probably have taken it for drunken rambling anyway.

  At one point, somehow, the topic of music came up and Stephomi mentioned that he owned a beautiful, priceless, old Italian violin - a Grand Amatis, in fact, made by Andrea Amati, who had himself been the teacher of the great Antonio Stradivari.

  ‘Violin?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘Yes, do you play?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Don’t think so?’ Stephomi asked, looking amused. ‘Well, I’m sure you would remember something like that.’

  I laughed it off hurriedly. ‘Isn’t the Devil supposed to play the violin?’ I asked, remembering one of the paintings I had seen in my book.

  Stephomi raised an eyebrow at me. ‘I believe there are certain myths that portray the Devil as a supernaturally accomplished violinist. Hasn’t there been a song about it or something? A bet made between the Devil and a fiddle boy as to who could play the greatest? The boy wins in the song, playing for his soul; but if legends are to be believed, then Satan’s skill with the violin is unrivalled, in this world or any other.’

  The amusement in Stephomi’s voice told me clearly that he did not believe any of the myths he was repeating, but still they made me a little uneasy.

  ‘And then, of course, there was Giuseppe Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata,’ Stephomi said, leaning back in his char. ‘The inspiration for which came in a dream Tartini had in which he gave the Devil his violin and heard it played on a level he hadn’t thought possible. Although the Devil’s Trill was seen as far superior to Tartini’s other compositions, he maintained that it was nothing but a pale reflection of the music he’d heard Satan play in his dream.’ Stephomi tilted his head at me slightly and grinned. ‘Perhaps I should give it up and play the heavenly harp instead?’

  At last it was time for the restaurant to close and, when we could no longer ignore the pointed looks of the staff, we retrieved our coats and stepped back out into the cool night. I was going back to the metro station and Stephomi was catching a bus a few blocks away. We paused in the archway of the restaurant as we buttoned up our coats.

  ‘You have my card safe this time?’ Stephomi asked, turning to me.

  ‘Yes, and you have mine,’ I replied. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t lose it again.’

  Indeed I won’t - it’s lying on the table beside me as I write - but I spent the journey home committing the number to memory anyway. No being alive will be able to take it from me this time. Nothing short of a renewed bout of amnesia will tear the digits from my grasp.

  19th September

  I have been savouring the memories of my hours with Stephomi these past few days, rarely leaving my apartment but simply sitting, staring at the walls for hours. I had almost been feeling content. Which is why I am irritated that something should have occurred to mar my pleasure.

  It was because of the antique book I had received from Italy. The one so concerned with Demonic Realms that I had hidden away under the floorboards with distaste. But, over the last few days - as I have been spending so many hours within the apartment - the book has been calling out to me. Almost as if the hateful thing really did have a voice. Its presence burned in my mind with white heat, imprinting its image there even after I had closed my eyes. I did not wish to have such a thing in my home. I had quite enough books with devils dancing through the pages as it was, so I decided to send this one back to the Italian bookshop so that it might be re-sold to some other person.

  I walked down the street to buy some brown paper and tape, which I took back to my apartment, already feeling the beginnings of relief. Once home, I retrieved the volume from its hiding place beneath the floorboards and placed it firmly face down on the sheet of brown paper I had laid out ready on the kitchen table. I began to fold it carefully, and then . . . hesitated. This was dangerous, I suddenly felt. I should not be sending the book away like this. I would make it angry.

  I shook my head impatiently and thumbed all the way through the old pages, just as repulsed by the vivid images and descriptions as I had been before. As I gazed down at it, I saw that a corner of the yellowing parchment had come unstuck from the red leather back cover and was curling forwards. Frowning, I pressed my thumb over the paper, but it curled back again as soon as the pressure was gone. Then, looking more closely, I saw that the cover had been repaired before - rows of neat, black stitching pinned the yellow paper to the leather back.

  It’s hard to explain what happened next without sounding like a madman, which I know I most certainly am not. I even shocked myself when, with a yell of fear, I leaped to my feet and stumbled several steps backwards, my chair clattering to the floor, sliding back along the floorboards. Something about the book had bothered me from the very beginning. I had assumed that it was merely an aversion to the repulsive subject matter. But now I know that it was more than that. There was some palpable evil radiating from the book in invisible waves, pummelling into me as I stared fearfully at the horrible thing. It would harm me. I knew it would. There were real devils living in those innocent pages and they hated me and would be only too pleased to destroy me given half a chance. Well, they wouldn’t have it. I wouldn’t give it to them. I pulled open one of the kitchen drawers, grabbed a carving knife, whirled back to face the book and with a strange animal-like sound somewhere between a snarl and a sob, I drove the knife through the book to its hilt. My own strength surprised me - the knife went through the volume and well into the wooden table beneath as easily as if I were slicing the blade through butter.

  And then, to my horror, there was a call at the door. ‘Hello? Gabriel?’

  I recognised that voice, and even as I looked I saw that I had not shut the front door properly on my way in. When the visitor knocked, it swung open easily, leaving Stephomi’s slender figure framed in the doorway. His eyes swept the room and I saw him take in the red book, pinned to the table by the large carving knife, the overturned kitchen chair, and me, backed up against the kitchen units and struggling to look like a calm and rational human being rather than a depraved and dangerous one.

  ‘I’m not mad!’ I said at once, eager to reassure him.

  But I shouldn’t have said that. Most people don’t need to defend their sanity. I should’ve just l
aughed it off. Laughed it off and made a joke of it. But my mind wasn’t working quickly enough for that.

  ‘Mad, Gabriel?’ Stephomi asked with a smile. ‘Why, whoever said anything about being mad?

  ‘I—’ I began, having no idea what I was going to say but feeling the pressing need to say something, anything, to explain.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Stephomi said holding up his hand and taking a step into my apartment. ‘The author was a narrow-minded bastard? I’ve sometimes had the urge to impale such works myself, although I must say,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’ve never actually acted on it.’

  I laughed, I hope not too hysterically, relieved that Stephomi was not pronouncing me a lunatic and leaving my home with haste.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve . . . come at a bad time,’ Stephomi said, glancing at the book with an amused expression. ‘I just wanted to return this.’ He held up a slip of paper and I saw that it was my weekly metro ticket. I had missed it when I went to board the metro after our dinner and had needed to buy a single ticket to get home.

  ‘There are still some days left to run on it so I thought I’d better return it. It must have been left on the table when you took your wallet out, and I picked it up by mistake with the receipt.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the ticket from him. ‘Will you stay for a drink?’ I asked, even as I spoke realising that I only had wine or water to offer.

  ‘Not today, thanks. Some other time, though.’

  And with one last quizzical grin at the speared book on my table, Stephomi walked from my apartment, closing the front door firmly behind him.

  Although not as bad as it could have been, this incident was enough to convince me that the damn book really had to go. I could not have it in the house a moment longer. Once Stephomi had gone, I grasped the knife by the handle and pulled, but I could not wrench the bloody thing free, it was so ingrained in the table. I couldn’t believe I’d driven it in as forcefully as all that; really it should be a simple enough matter to pull the knife free again. I redoubled my efforts, grasping the handle of the carving knife with both hands and heaving on it as hard as I could; but, although I lifted the whole damn table from the floor, still the blade wouldn’t come loose. That book . . . was mocking me!

  At last, in a fit of desperation, I tore it through the knife in order to free it, virtually cutting the old volume in half in the process. As I pulled the book free, something dislodged from the back cover and I bent to pick the pieces up, thinking it was a page the blade had sliced in half. But, no, it couldn’t be a page, could it? It was never going to be just some harmless, meaningless old page. Some innocent thing that couldn’t hurt me. That would have been too easy.

  When I bent to retrieve the pieces, I realised that they were actually two halves of a photo. My heart sank when I saw what the photo was of. Slowly, I lowered myself to the floor, held the two halves together and gazed at it in dismay for a while. Later, on closer examination of the book, I saw that the photo had been concealed in the back cover, covered over by the stitched yellow parchment I had seen . . . those neat little rows of tiny black stitches that had caused me to lash out so violently.

  The photo was of a woman. She was walking down a street somewhere, although it was impossible to tell where. The camera lens had zoomed in for a close- up shot of her head and shoulders, taken from slightly above her. She was in her forties with an intelligent face and long chestnut hair. There was no mistaking her - she was the running woman I had encountered some three weeks ago. The woman who had run blindly away from me into the back alleys of Budapest, and then quietly slipped away while I was occupied with the five large men all doing their best to bash my head in.

  I carefully taped the split photo together, and then sat there staring at it, hoping if I only did so for long enough it might make sense. The photo was a little scratched from its concealment in the book, but other than that it was in good condition and was obviously fairly recent. When I turned it over, I saw that there was English writing on the back, printed in neat capitals and written in red ink -

  NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN’S WEEPING WILLOW IS WEEPING STILL.

  Also printed on the back of the photo was the name of the film developers. It was an English name. The photo had been developed in the United Kingdom, been concealed in the back of an antique book in Italy, and was now lying on a table before me in the centre of Budapest. I was at a loss. I could not even begin to explain it. I had seen this woman three weeks ago. She had run from me, as if she was scared of me, but I am sure that must have been some kind of misunderstanding. I know nothing about her. I have no name, no nationality, no occupation, no address . . . But she spoke to me in Hungarian, and I saw her in Budapest - I suppose that, in itself, suggests that she must be Hungarian.

  As for the reference to Neville Chamberlain and a weeping willow printed on the back, I couldn’t even begin to imagine their relevance to the woman in the photo. The words seemed so utterly irrelevant that I wondered if they were, in fact, unrelated and had been written on the photo back by accident.

  Was the photo meant for me? If not, it surely is the most incredible coincidence that I saw this woman only weeks ago. She knew me, once. I think she might be in trouble. I want to help her. And I would if I could. But I don’t have the slightest idea as to how to go about finding her.

  21st September

  I have pored over and over the photo in vain. I have sat and stared at it for hours. I found the card that had been in with the package, giving the address and phone number of the Italian antique bookshop. When I phoned the number, the elderly owner of the shop answered the phone and recognised me at once, greeting me warmly - firm proof that the book had indeed been a costly purchase. I spoke to him in Italian for some minutes about the book, and am confident that he knew nothing of the picture. For one thing, when I suggested that something had happened to the back cover that had necessitated its repair, he sounded quite alarmed and assured me that he had not had any need to repair the book. I learned that he had one young man who assisted him in the shop, so I suppose it’s possible that this assistant could have placed the photograph inside the back cover for some strange reason - but it would have had to be a strange reason indeed. When I asked where the book had come from, the shop owner said he had purchased it from a private collector over ten years ago. For some reason, the book had been difficult to sell.

  I was sure that the photo was not ten years old - for one thing, the woman had looked the same as when I’d last seen her, which meant that the photo must have been hidden in the book while in the possession of the dealer. The only reason I could see for perpetuating such a childlike prank would be to perplex and disturb the buyer of the book. Perhaps, after all, it was nothing more than a coincidence that I had seen this woman a few weeks ago; but I find that difficult to believe.

  I didn’t know anything about any weeping willow but, of course, I knew who Neville Chamberlain was. I can’t help but feel for the man. It was hardly his fault that Hitler was a nutcase who couldn’t be reasoned with. The holocaust wasn’t his fault any more than it was Churchill’s or Roosevelt’s, or any other of the world leaders during that time.

  While reading about the Second World War on the internet, I came across something that referred to a Holocaust Memorial in Budapest, so yesterday I went to see it. I stood staring at it in perplexity for some time, for it takes the graceful form of a weeping willow. It’s in memory of the 600,000 Hungarian Jews killed by the Nazis during the war, so why would anyone refer to it as Neville Chamberlain’s tree? Surely, if the tree belongs to any one man, that man is Adolf Hitler?

  There is something poignant and sad about the elegant fronds of the aptly named tree, immortalised in honour of those who fell prey to Hitler’s demon-driven sins. I stood and gazed at it for a while, feeling regretful and ashamed on behalf of the human race in general. Then I went home.

  How was the mystery woman mixed up in all this? The image of the weeping willow, and the hi
story that had caused its tears, depressed me and I found I was unable to shake the bleak mood that was haunting me. I had no appetite and I did not feel like going out, so for once I decided to break my usual routine and go to bed early.

  It didn’t work. Nightmares ruined any hope I might have had of shaking this unsettled frame of mind. I dreamed I was at St Stephen’s Basilica, seeing the sacred building overrun with Nazi soldiers. The flickering light of flames from elsewhere in the city danced through the windows of the church, and distant screams and shouts were carried in on the night air. There were monks running, sobbing . . . Mephistopheles was playing the huge organ and three Nazis were exclaiming in delight over the size and value of the huge old bell that had just been taken down from the bell tower. A monk was begging, pleading with the soldiers not to take it. One of them looked round and shot him in the head before turning back to the bell, and I recoiled in horror as he fell onto the stone flagstones, blood staining his robes and spreading in a pool around him. What madness was this? Jesus Christ, it was just a fucking bell!