by Alex Bell
‘Of . . . of course I can see you,’ I stammered.
‘We’re in need of your services,’ Michael said. He looked anything but happy about it.
‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’ I asked, and then flinched at the anger that flashed across the angel’s face.
‘Your ignorance and lack of desire for the truth distanced you from us, and placed you closer to demons. That’s why you were such pathetically easy prey for Mephistopheles and why you couldn’t see us. Do you remember the Ninth Circle now?’
I nodded. Oh, yes, I remembered it. I remembered it clearly. At some point, all assassins became too old and were required to retire. Or they cracked up and had to be quietly dealt with. When I told my handler that I had started seeing angels and devils, he decided that the work was getting to me; that I was one of the few who could not compartmentalise as we’d been trained to do, not dwelling on the crimes we’d committed. So he put me down for the Ninth Circle. It was an experimental programme designed to protect state secrets and help ex-assassins rehabilitate themselves back into civilian life. The process had not yet been fine-tuned enough to allow the removal of certain memories while leaving others intact. So the assassin’s entire memory had to be repressed by blanking out everything, right down to early childhood. I have no idea why the programme was called the Ninth Circle. I’m sure there never was any kind of theological connection but, back then, the name seemed utterly profound and significant to me - like a warning from God that I must find some way of circumventing the effects of the procedure.
Careful preparation was made beforehand - with the willing co-operation of the assassin. They were given a new home, a new identity - false records were made up and stored in the bank. I even remembered copying out the letter to my non-existent aunt as my handler dictated it to me, and the hours and hours I had spent signing my new name so that the false signature might become automatic.
After the procedure, a blow was carefully applied to the head, causing a nasty looking bruise and some bleeding but hardly enough to cause any permanent damage - we’d all taken much worse during the course of our careers. The assassin was then left in their new home amid a set-up that would lead them to believe that an accident had caused them to lose their memory. I had had my doubts about the programme, sceptical that any man would be content to simply accept such a strange scenario.
But it worked. It really did. I had been sure that it wouldn’t work on me, however. That, even with my memories temporarily gone, I would realise something was not right; and that I wouldn’t rest until I’d found the answers. But it did work. And it would have continued to work, had it not been for the failsafe I had installed - there was that to my credit, at least. It was just that I had so badly wanted to believe that all I saw was true and that there were no hidden horrors. The scientists at the Agency believed it was a subconscious thing. That, on some level, the brain prevented assassins from delving too deeply into the set-up and instead urged them to accept the superficial ‘truth’ that they themselves had helped create.
And as an extra precaution, there was always the money. The cash was always left in the assassin’s home as an added incentive not to go to the police. Human greed never failed. They didn’t want the money to be taken from them. This was also why I had so much cash in my bank account, for assassins were handsomely paid - as if anything could pay the price for what we do.
The memories were repressed, not deleted, and could be recalled again with the careful application of timely prompts. I thought back to the clues I had sent myself. They had had to be cryptic. A sudden revelation would have recalled my memories only for a moment before being rejected by my subconscious and then becoming even more deeply buried within my mind. Hence the ambiguous clues . . . to instil uneasiness, to instil suspicion, but to postpone the final revelation until some time had passed. The photos alone would have been sufficient for that. There had never been any need for the quotes, but I did it because I wanted to feel fear. It was a curiosity thing. I had never felt fear before and I wanted to know what it was like. I couldn’t have known that my plan would work so spectacularly. Fear of losing friends . . . fear of losing a normal life . . . And fear when I had read the accusatory notes written in Latin and entrusted to Toby . . . Fear that I might have committed wicked, terrible sins, of which I had no memory. Now I knew what that emotion felt like at last. It was only fitting, for I had been the instrument of fear for so many, even though I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could.
I always took pains to make sure my victims were unsuspecting, but . . . sometimes, it couldn’t be helped . . . they knew. Not for very long, of course. But for moments, they knew what was about to happen to them. You cannot avoid fear completely - you cannot always kill people without scaring them first. I detested strangulation and avoided it, even though many of my colleagues favoured it because of the lack of blood. But what about fear? What about the agonising fear a person has to go through first? It is too slow, too drawn out. That is why I like weapons, for they are quick. They’re merciful like I am.
Sex was an effective weapon and I’d used it before, in varying degrees, depending on the circumstances. It was useful for building up trust, and so on. But we were forbidden to have sex with a victim just before a kill because, of course, that would leave biological evidence that could connect us to them. I no longer had emotions by then, but lust is hardly an emotion, is it? Lust is nothing more than a base animal instinct, like hunger. It was only ever a job to me, and I never went further than I had to. That would have been wrong.
The Neville Chamberlain’s Weeping Willow reference on the back of Anna Sovànak’s photo makes sense to me now, for I had felt very strongly about appeasement. I’d felt that standing by and doing nothing while crimes were being committed was just as bad as committing the crime yourself. It was all to do with self-loathing - I had allowed myself to be pushed into becoming an assassin when I should have resisted it. I’d regarded the Weeping Willow memorial as belonging to Chamberlain and Churchill and Roosevelt just as much as it belonged to Hitler. I had been as much to blame for Anna’s death as the person who gave the order. I remembered writing out the sentence on the back of the photo with a malicious smile on my lips, delighted at the prospect of frightening my future self.
And the photo of Mephistopheles . . . We had never been friends, in spite of his lie. He had been no more than an acquaintance of whom I was suspicious. He had claimed to be from a rival agency. He had tried to tell me that I had nothing to be ashamed of because my job was a necessary evil that must be performed by someone. He had spoken to me of moral ambiguity. One man’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter. I had a role to play, that was all. I had been working on a case in Paris when he came to my hotel room to see me. He spoke of another kind of career, serving under a different boss. But he was vague about the nature of the work I would be expected to do, speaking only of my ‘special talents’ and their need for someone like me. I had turned him down, of course. The higher salary he offered was of no interest to me; I couldn’t spend the money I earned as it was. I had purposefully taken the secret photo to warn my future self of him should he approach me again, for he had known that I was booked for the Ninth Circle procedure when we last spoke and I was worried then that he might try to exploit my ignorance. The problem was that I had been so eager to latch on to any friend that I had not heeded the warning, and Mephisto himself must have been quite delighted with the change in my attitude.
I had not wanted the Ninth Circle procedure. But I knew I would ultimately have no choice and the safest thing to do was to pretend to go along with it. Most assassins were delighted to accept since it meant a fresh start for them. A life untainted with the guilt that all of us carried but none of us admitted. Like I said - it’s not like James Bond - you can’t really casually kill twenty men in a day and then not see each and every one of their faces that night, no matter how many beautiful women you might have writhing around in y
our bed to distract you. It just doesn’t work like that. James Bond is a fallacy - killing has never come so easily to anyone, and that holds true even if you do believe you’re doing it in pursuit of a just cause. It’s still killing. It’s still death. Someone who existed that morning no longer does because of you . . .
I’d felt that I deserved no fresh beginning or second chance. I wasn’t fit to live and circulate with other people. So I set about laying clues for myself, a trail of black and shrivelled breadcrumbs. I chose the name of Gabriel Antaeus because I knew I would try to find out more about the name and I knew the disturbing connotations I would find. I concealed clues in packages and paid Toby to hold on to the disc and deliver the notes, written in Latin so that he would be unable to understand them. I had to be careful, for I knew that the organisation would search the apartment and my belongings to ensure that there was nothing there that would trigger my memories to return. But they never expected to find anything really, because assassins were supposed to want the procedure. What kind of madman would reject the chance of a new life?
‘If your memory has now returned,’ Michael said, gazing at me coldly, ‘then you are aware that you have committed the most wicked series of crimes.’
I nodded silently. I knew now why I had acted with such distinctive horror at having to kill the butterfly that the boy in the park had mutilated. I knew why the sight of blood, even from a steak on a plate, was repugnant to me. I wanted no more to do with death and dying, suffering and bleeding. I wanted to shut those things out from my mind and life for ever. I’d had enough to last me several lifetimes already.
‘Do you know how Anna Sovànak’s body came to be in Budapest?’ I asked.
This was the one part I had been unable to figure out, for I clearly remembered rowing far into the Mediterranean before dropping the crate overboard.
‘Yes, I put it there,’ Michael said steadily.
‘You? But I thought, Mephistopheles, or Lilith, or some other demon—’
I broke off in surprise at the sneer curling the angel’s lips.
‘Mephistopheles! ’ He spat the word, as if its very presence in his mouth was distasteful to him. ‘Why do you think he never just came out and told you the truth when he had the chance? Why do you think he purposefully kept you ignorant about your past? Because ignorance itself brings you closer to demons, as truth moves you closer to angels. As your last victim, I had hoped that the sight of her photo in the papers might be enough to break through to your memories.’
Almost, almost, perhaps. But my subconscious mind had been working exceedingly hard to keep those memories buried for ever.
‘She was lost,’ Michael went on. ‘Luckily I found her before Mephistopheles did.’
I thought back to the smashed violin and black fur in Mephistopheles’ hotel room. An angry friend, the demon had said. I’ve lost something of his . . .
My shoulders slumped with the bitter weight of guilt. Then Michael spoke, for the first time in a voice that was almost kindly, ‘Redemption can only come in the service of God, Gabriel, not demons. It won’t be easy. By its very definition, redemption must involve hardship and sacrifice.’
‘I accept that,’ I replied eagerly. ‘I want to redeem myself. Please, just tell me what to do.’
‘You must take Casey March away somewhere. She can’t have her child in a hospital.’
I nodded, feeling a weight slipping from my shoulders as I gazed at God’s angel stood before me. At last, no more demons, no more lies. Here was Michael, who would guide me.
‘And as soon as the child is born, you must kill it.’
I stared at the angel, my mouth dropping open in horror. ‘We can’t risk the coming of the Antichrist at this time,’ Michael went on.
‘But it’s . . . it’s just a tiny baby, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Who may grow up to be responsible for mass genocide on a scale never seen before,’ Michael replied sharply. ‘You must take action to prevent this abomination from ever getting the chance.’
‘But . . . but, Stephomi - I mean, Mephistopheles - said that the baby could be the Saviour too . . . the Second Coming—’
‘Yes, but it’s an acceptable compromise,’ Michael said. ‘We have agreed it with the demons.’
‘But I can’t do it,’ I said, desperately. Of all the things I’d done before, all the awful things I’d done, I had never come anywhere near the wickedness of harming a baby. Just think how tiny that coffin would have to be . . .‘I can’t kill Casey’s son. Oh, please, don’t ask me to hurt her like that!’
Michael narrowed his eyes at me and I shrank back from the anger in his gaze. ‘If the child turns out to be the Antichrist we’ve been waiting for, you will carry responsibility for his actions, because you have a duty to act now, while such action is still possible. ’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said helplessly. ‘I can’t, I can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ the angel snapped. ‘You’re an assassin. Killing and hurting people is what you do. This is just another job. I fail to see the problem.’
I stared at Michael for a minute. I had continued to work for the government because my soul was already consigned to Hell anyway, and I didn’t want to condemn another innocent person to such a life and such an afterlife. And we were serving our country, the government said. Now the angels wanted me to save the world by killing a baby. My mind went back to something Mephistopheles had once said to me - ‘Wouldn’t it have been nice if Hitler’s father had killed his son? ’. . . ‘Well, of course,’ I had replied tersely. If I had never lost my memory, the horror of killing a child would not have touched me in quite the same way. The justification would have come easier. And surely there were grounds for such justification here. But I could not bear to get any more blood on my already dripping hands.
‘Look, I’m through with killing, all right? I don’t want to do this any more! I’m trying to repent! For the last four months . . . I’ve had a taste of what it is to be normal. I just want a normal life,’ I said pleadingly.
‘You can’t have a normal life,’ Michael said coldly.
‘But if I . . . if I dedicated myself to the service of God,’ I said desperately, ‘for the rest of my life . . . He might forgive me eventually —’
‘He would not.’
‘Then what the hell’s the point?’ I shouted angrily at the angel. ‘If that’s the way you feel, then I might as well go and join the demon ranks right now!’
‘You are flawed,’ Michael said stonily. ‘There’s something twisted in your soul. I’m not asking you to help so that you might redeem yourself. I am asking you so that countless lives might be saved. This is not about you, Gabriel.’
‘Oh, fuck off, if it’s not about me then it won’t matter if I sod off to America tonight, will it?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve had it with the lot of you, and I won’t stay to be a part of any . . . any . . .’
I faltered, for suddenly Michael was no longer there. He was simply gone -vanished like smoke, so that for a brief moment I even wondered if I had imagined him. Had an angel really come to me and asked me to murder a teenage girl’s baby? Or had I now become one of those people who heard the voices of angels or demons or aliens in their minds, believing they were being ordered to commit the vilest of atrocities? While I have been writing, Casey has left a message on my answer phone, saying that her contractions have begun and that she’s on the way to the hospital. ‘Please come if you get this message’ . . . But I can’t. I can’t risk the chance of some madness coming over me so that I kill her baby without meaning to . . . I am not a stable person, perhaps I never have been . . .
Perhaps, after all, I am already mad. A wandering madman with no idea of who or what I am, seeing things that are not there, hearing voices in my head . . . It’s unbearable this sensation - as if the world has started to spin the wrong way round. Am I mad? Am I?
1st January (New Year)
It’s done. It’s done. I can’t change it . . . T
here’s no way of going back and fixing it. For now at least, it’s over. I’m still here in Budapest, for I didn’t make my plane last night. I’m still here. And I, at least, am still alive. I know that my mind is still numb from what happened last night, but at least now I know what I have to do. I’m not mad any more. Madness would be far, far too easy.
I got home in the early hours of this morning and I’m now at this journal, even though my clothes and hands are stained once again with blood - angel, demon and human. One might think that, really, it should not be so very hard to go through life without getting blood on your hands again and again and again. Why don’t I seem to be able to avoid it?
After finishing the entry I made last night, I walked back into the bathroom looking for Michael in the mirror, but he wasn’t there - just my own reflection staring back at me. For some while I gazed into the mirror, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t insane. Eventually, I sighed and raised my hand to massage my temple . . . and then froze, for although my own hand was halfway to my head, my reflection hadn’t moved an inch. He was still standing there motionless, both arms hanging at his sides. With a growing sense of dread, I lifted my gaze to meet that of my reflection’s. As soon as our eyes met, a slow, nasty grin spread across my reflection’s face . . . More of a leer than a grin, really. I screamed at him and he stared back with that horrible grin fixed on his face, mocking me, scorning me, despising me. I stumbled backwards out of the bathroom, tripping over myself in my haste to get out of the apartment.