The Ninth Circle

by Alex Bell

  When I returned to my apartment after meeting Stephomi at the Hilton, I sat thinking for a while about what he’d said, replaying the whole meeting in my mind several times, feeling much calmer about the situation than I had done this morning. I lost track of time and when I at last glanced at my watch, it was too late to go out for dinner. It had started to rain and large drops splattered against the darkened windows. It was not until then that I realised I had been sitting in darkness on the couch in my living room for some time. Reaching out a hand, I turned on the nearby lamp, bathing the room in a pale glow. The apartment was silent but for the rain falling outside. I gazed into the mirror hanging opposite me on the wall and watched the second hand of the reflected clock ticking round in anti-clockwise circles - an oddly discordant sight.

  And then, quite suddenly, he was there without my even seeing him arrive. A man standing behind me in the mirror, next to the bookshelf, cold aversion on his face as our eyes met through the reflected glass. I recognised him. I had seen him twice before, both times in dreams. On the first occasion, he had walked into my apartment and destroyed the card given to me by Stephomi. On the second, he had been there in St Stephen’s Basilica when the Nazis were looting the bell. And now, once again, flames flickered around the man and dripped from him like water.

  ‘Traitor!’ he hissed hatefully. ‘Go back where you came from!’

  I could not place the language, although I could understand the words. His voice was deep, with a steely hard edge. I tried to say something but my mouth wouldn’t open, my limbs wouldn’t move. The suddenness with which he pulled a large book from my bookcase and hurled it at me, sparks spitting from its cover, shocked me out of my paralysis and I instinctively threw myself to the floor, hands over my head, as the burning book flew towards me . . .

  I woke with a start, still sprawled on the couch, my heart beating quickly. The living room was filled with shadows. I must have nodded off - but such a thing is most unlike me. I just don’t get tired. I reached out my hand and turned on the lamp for real this time. Unable to resist, I glanced over my shoulder at the bookcase. There was no burning man standing there. There was no burning book on the couch beside me.

  The evenings are worse. Much worse, somehow, than the days. That is why I usually eat out in the city and return to the apartment late. I find the silence and the emptiness oppressive, and it’s the evening, more than any other time, when loneliness throbs inside me, even though I know this is only temporary. It will not go on for ever; I will eventually be reunited with all those people I knew. But for now I have no memories to return to. I’m not greedy; I wouldn’t expect to get them all back in one go. But I’d like to have just one of those golden ones . . . You know, something you find yourself thinking about for hours, revisiting a moment that once made you so happy. A memory that can distract you from any present bitterness. Sometimes I think even unhappy memories would be better then nothing. They would make me feel less like a ghost, an invisible man, a no one. If nothing else, at least there would not then be this terrible, vast emptiness that eats away at me like some sort of cancer from within.

  I stood up, stretched stiffly, and wandered to the bookshelf. All the books were lined neatly on their shelves, and everything seemed to be in order. But then I looked again and realised that one book was not in its rightful place. As I’ve mentioned, I keep my books arranged in alphabetical order, and one book entitled Keepers of the Circles should have been filed under K but was at the front with the Bs. Clicking my tongue with disapproval, I pulled the book out by its spine. Like so many of my books, this one was old and well worn and when I removed it from the shelf, a page fell from it. I bent to pick it up and then paused as a familiar name on the page caught my eye. Then I felt my lips curving in a grimace. Reluctantly, I walked back to the couch, the book and loose page in my hand.

  When I first began to try and find out who I was, I had examined the name Gabriel in some depth. But I had never got very far with Antaeus, never even been able to trace its origin. Now the name gaped at me from these pages. This book was yet another one about Hell - Jesus, I really had been completely obsessed with it - the nine circles of sin contained within the centre of the Earth where the condemned are forced to wallow for eternity in atonement for their earthly crimes. The circles are concentric, each one representing a greater evil, culminating in the centre of the Earth where Satan is bound in a great sphere of sparkling ice.

  Each circle represents a different kind of sin, and each circle’s tortures are different, corresponding with perfect symmetry to the crime committed. These punishments are dreadful to read of, turning the stomach and the soul with horror, and one can see why religion and the threat of an everlasting Hell used to inspire such fear in more religious days gone by. The Heretics of the Sixth Circle are condemned to an eternity of confinement within burning tombs. The Violent of the Seventh Circle are doomed to the eternal agony of being submerged in hot blood, the rim of this Circle guarded by centaurs that will shoot any souls who attempt to rise. Those who committed suicide are condemned to the Seventh Circle where they are turned into thorny black trees, their own human corpses hanging from the branches. The Sowers of Discord of the Eight Circle have their bodies ripped apart by demons, only to heal and be ripped apart again and again in a never-ending cycle of agony.

  Each Circle is hidden deeper within the Earth’s core, and some of the outer Circles are separated by rivers such as the Styx and Phlegethon, with Ferrymen keeping watch over the rivers and transporting sinners and demons between the different levels of the Hellish realms. The Ninth Circle is the centre of Hell itself - the deepest, filthiest, most agonising and tortuous realm of them all, especially reserved for those worst and most unforgivable of sinners - the Traitors. The most disgusting of men’s sins - betrayal of family, friends and loved ones. Betrayers of Lords and benefactors, and betrayers of one’s country and God. The punishment for this sin is to be held completely submerged in ice in the centre of Hell alongside Lucifer himself, the cold scarring and burning the skin with a white heat that far surpasses that of fire.

  But it’s the proximity to Satan that’s said to cause the most suffering. Once the highest and most trusted of God’s angels, his nature then mutated into something that even other demons fear to look upon. He’s said to have three gaping mouths, with bloodied, matted black fur covering his lower body and three pairs of leathery, bat-like wings . . . wings that have long since lost every single one of the white dove-like feathers that had once graced the highest ranks of Heaven itself. The three ultimate traitors - Judas, Brutus and Cassius - are held in each of Lucifer’s three mouths, their bodies eternally consumed by the Devil, while his three pairs of wings send forth freezing blasts of impotence, ignorance and hatred.

  I liked my first name and its connotations. As for my second one, I had assumed that Antaeus was just an old French name or something. But, no, the name doesn’t come from France. Stephomi’s guess had been correct - Antaeus was of Greek origin. He was the giant of Greek myth who killed passers-by without reason or mercy, building caves from his victims’ skulls until he was at last slain by Hercules. Upon his death, he was brought to hell by Mephistopheles himself, and forced to guard the entrance to the Ninth Circle, standing aside only to allow sinners and demons to pass through.

  I know I said before that I wasn’t scared but . . . I wasn’t scared then because, if nothing else, at least I knew my name. Gabriel ... Gabriel Antaeus . . . Perhaps I’m just being overly paranoid ... but the thought does occur to me now that perhaps, after all, Gabriel Antaeus is not my real name. I know it sounds sensationalist, putting it like that. I’m sure I’m probably just letting myself get carried away. But no one can deny that it’s a very unnatural coupling - a name from Heaven, a name from Hell . . .

  ‘Is this a reality TV show?’ I said aloud, thinking I’d worked it out and staring suspiciously around the living room for any hidden cameras. ‘All right, I’ve worked it out, very funny, gam
e over.’

  But no camera men came bursting in; no TV presenter came to shake my hand and tell me I’d won . . . I was so convinced that was the answer for a minute that I even turned on the TV and flicked through all the channels, half expecting to see myself on the screen. But that was stupid. They would hardly allow the show to be broadcast on my TV, would they? I can’t seriously believe it’s a reality TV show but . . . government experiment, maybe? An experiment exploring the effect of isolation and fear on the human psyche? I may even be putting myself in grave danger just by writing down this suspicion. The government have eyes everywhere. They might find out. But I can’t afford not to write it down in case I lose my memory again and have to start from the beginning once more. I should start hiding this journal when I go out. I cannot risk it falling into the wrong hands. And I can’t shake the feeling that someone - whether a TV audience or the government or somebody else - is watching me.

  6th October

  When I look at what I last wrote in this journal - when I read of my first discovery of the murderous, Hell-bound Keeper, Antaeus - it’s hard to believe that was really only three nights ago now. I feel I must have been a different person altogether when I made my last entry, for I didn’t know anything then. At least now some of the secrets are no longer secrets.

  The first thing was that I saw the mystery woman again. Or rather, a child did. Yesterday, still very early, I was troubled by what I had learned about Antaeus and decided to go to St Stephen’s Basilica again before it became more crowded. Spiritual places and holy buildings have always calmed me in the past, but not this time.

  The morning was cool and still. Soft, white-gold light tinted the sky and a gentle breeze blew through the air. But as I approached the church, all I could think of was my dream of the Nazi invasion. The fear and the shouts and the sobbing and the fires. Some of the Jews never even left Budapest: they were just shot and thrown into the Danube. The blood of children, grandparents, wives, fathers and mothers running through the river, forever staining the city with a shame that would surely never come out. Was that really only sixty years ago?

  The Basilica didn’t open until nine o’clock so, when I reached it, I sat on the edge of one of the fountains to the left, where I could sit and look up at it while I waited. It was cool at this time of the morning, with an early, dew-laden freshness that was more befitting the vast countryside than the inner circles of a capital city. A few pigeons fluttered about at my feet, cooing softly to each other in the great shadow of the cathedral, and the hush of early morning settled softly like a smooth, cold blanket.

  I had not been there for very long when I felt a hand tugging insistently at my sleeve. Glancing down, I saw a boy stood before me, no more than six or seven. His head was bald and about his face and in his eyes there was that pinched look of illness. He was dying. Leukaemia, perhaps. A quick glance across the square showed me that a couple about my age were a few yards away, lost in fierce argument in front of the Basilica, and I guessed that these were his parents and, in their distraction, they had not noticed their boy wandering over to me.

  I felt guilty as I looked at him. Why should I get to live so much longer than him? What had I done to deserve it? What was health to me? It was this terrible, disgraceful waste and I felt a bleak shame as I looked at him. I wished that I could take the illness out of his body and into my own. I would have done it if I could.

  ‘She’s still lost,’ the boy said, one hand still grasping my sleeve as he gazed up at me. ‘Can you help her?’

  I gazed down at him in alarm, my mind at once filled with thoughts of the mystery woman. ‘Who?’ I asked hoarsely.

  ‘The lady. She left when she saw you coming. She said the Ninth Circle took it all from you and now you can’t help her. Can’t you? She’s scared, you know. She’s really frightened. Isn’t there anything you can do about it?’

  You’ve known your share of fear, haven’t you, little boy? I am sorry for that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy’s mother suddenly glance around in panic and then, spotting her son, she and his father started walking towards us with relief. Quickly, I pulled the torn photo from my pocket.

  ‘Was this the woman you saw?’

  The child took a look and then nodded. ‘Can you help her?’

  My answer seemed to mean a lot to him somehow so I just nodded in silence as his mother came up and took him by the hand.

  ‘I told you not to wander off, Stephen. I’m sorry, sir, I hope he wasn’t bothering you.’

  I smiled at the couple, trying not to let raw, painful pity show on my face as I assured them that the child hadn’t bothered me. Part of me wanted to run after the family, as they walked away, and get the child to tell me all he knew of the mystery woman; what exactly she had said to him and in which direction she had gone. But I didn’t want to frighten them, and I especially didn’t want to frighten the little boy. I watched him walk out of sight, standing between his parents as they each took one of his hands. When he died . . . there would be this huge hole left in their lives. Would they ever be able to fill it? Would they ever be able to pretend it wasn’t there for long enough to be happy? My disappearance must have left such a hole in the lives of my own family. I wondered if they missed me as much as I missed them.

  When the family had disappeared from view, I found it easier to rid my thoughts of them and turn my mind back to the mystery woman. How strange that she should have mentioned the Ninth Circle. She surely couldn’t have been referring to Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell. She said the Ninth Circle took it all from you ... The Ninth Circle . . . My mind raced with the possibilities. Could the Ninth Circle be some kind of organisation? Or was it a place? Had something dreadful happened there, causing me to lose my memory?

  Could the Ninth Circle be a person or a code name or a book or a thing? A valuable possession, perhaps, that I had stolen and sold, hence the large amount of money hidden under the floorboards of my apartment? Had the child simply been making it all up? Was he a compulsive liar with an attention-seeking problem? But then he would hardly need to be a liar to get attention, would he? That’s the grand thing about dying: you can have all the attention you want. No, I’m sure he really did see her. And, in the light of what I have since found out, that in itself is extraordinary.

  I waited until the Basilica opened and then climbed the steps to the top of the dome again. I was the only one up there and had the whole place to myself. For at least an hour, I just stood and gazed at the city, feeling safe and protected in a way I never felt when on the ground. Everything seemed so beautiful from that height. It was only at closer range that you could see the filth and the muck, but from the dome, everything was golden and dripping with clear sunlight. The cathedral was solid and safe at my back and beneath my feet, and I felt that, if only I could live here in this tower, everything would be okay. Everything would be fine and my existence would be bearable if I could just stay up here. Usually I enjoy human companionship . . . but sometimes, peoples’ eyes seem to burn into me and their very presence is painful, like acid on my skin. And all I want is to be alone.

  I returned to my apartment in the afternoon, earlier than usual. I’d hoped that the visit to St Stephen’s Basilica would lift my spirits but, if anything, the outing had only intensified my feelings of foreboding. The encounter with the dying child, and the news of the mystery woman in particular, had served to unsettle me even further.

  But I wasn’t prepared for what I found at home. I was not prepared for the sickening wrench of betrayal that wracked me upon the discovery. The bitterness of it cramped my whole body with pain and for long moments I simply stared at the photo, shaking with shock.

  Like the photo of the mystery woman, this one had also been concealed within a package. This time the order was for a case of French wine and when I phoned the supplier I found once again that I had placed the order myself some months ago. There was nothing in the case to give any clue as to where I had bee
n living at the time - the only address was my current Hungarian one on the label. So I unpacked it and proceeded to stack the wine according to vintage on the wine rack in my cupboard. As I took out the last bottle, a photo that had been concealed at the bottom beneath the bottles was pulled out, fluttering to the floor.

  The photo was of Stephomi and I talking in a hotel room. We stood facing each other before large bay windows, a city visible through the glass behind us. And there, rising above the other buildings, was the clear outline of the Eiffel Tower, tall and majestic, piercing the sky with its tip.

  I couldn’t remember ever being in a hotel room with Stephomi. I couldn’t remember ever being in Paris. I’d always assumed that our first meeting had occurred a few weeks ago, beside Michael’s church on Margaret’s Island in the middle of the Danube. But the awful truth in all its hideous and grotesque reality was that Stephomi and I already knew each other, before we ever met again in Budapest. Stephomi knew who I was, yet had given no indication of having seen me before in his life. On coming across me on Margaret’s Island, he must have guessed or somehow already known about my amnesia. Perhaps our meeting had not been an accident at all.

  How could he not have told me? How could he have so brazenly and coldly lied to me like that? How could he? It didn’t make any fucking sense! At our last meeting I had even admitted to him that I had amnesia and didn’t know what to do. He could have helped me then if he’d wanted to. He was using me. Somehow, in those moments, I was sure of it. Just as sure as I was that he was bloody well going to answer to me for what he’d done. I wasn’t going to take one more lie from him.