The Artisans

by J G Alva

  “Yes, he was Belluch Luche, but after what they did to him-“

  “After what society did to him,” Bellafont corrected, amused.

  “Yes, yes, after that…he was unstoppable.”

  Clive shook his head, in something close to despair.

  “He can’t be the Coosjak,” he said again.

  There was some noise from outside, voices raised in alarm, and Clive heard it again: somebody shouted Coosjak. It gave him a chill to hear it, as if it had jumped from his brain to someone else, like a virus.

  He looked to Bellafont; he flicked his head, and Clive rushed to the door, to go outside and see what was causing such a disturbance amongst the Disciples.

  Brides, Workers and Soldiers made a human pathway, down which Dook and Amdell were struggling to make their way. Amdell supported Dook, whose face was horribly blistered. His arm was broken, and he barely seemed conscious.

  “What happened?” Clive demanded, checking Dook’s wounds.

  “Priatt,” Amdell breathed. He looked exhausted.

  Two of the Soldiers took Dook away to tend to his wounds.

  “We almost had the boy,” Amdell said. He looked ready to collapse.

  “What? What happened?”

  “He came,” Amdell said. “Priatt. He was unstoppable. An animal. A hurricane. We had to set fire to the place. It was the only thing we could do that would keep him back.”

  It was all coming apart.

  No, no, no. It couldn’t. Not yet.

  They were so close…

  “Okay, Amdell,” Clive said. “You rest, you rest…”

  Amdell reached up and clutched at Clive’s shoulder tightly, pulling him down until their faces were only inches apart. This close, Clive could see the broken veins at the corners of his eyes. And the eyes themselves…Amdell looked crazed in that moment.

  “He is the Coosjak,” he said, and then fainted.

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 15

  “Look, I told you, nobody knows,” Sutton’s neighbour said to Fin.

  He was distracted by the fact that his building was burning down, but still…he wasn’t an easy man to like. He had a ridiculous beard and ridiculous hair, and he was ridiculously tall, with a ridiculously large belly. He was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a white vest. The earring in his ear was the worst: it was almost the same diameter as an African neck ring, and it was distending the skin of his ear in the same disturbing fashion as the aforementioned rings stretched the necks of the wearers; it was disgusting.

  “But there was someone who knocked on his door earlier on, and he wasn’t in then,” the neighbour continued. “Okay? So he probably wasn’t there.”

  Fin had recognised the man in the knot of onlookers. He had pulled him out to talk to him, but the sound of the fire and the crowd was loud, and Fin could feel the heat rolling over them in waves. As they finished talking, a section of the outer wall peeled back and dropped the four storeys to smash on the concrete below. It made an incredible racket. Fin felt the vibration in his feet. Some people screamed in fright, small sharp sounds like firecrackers. Two firemen detached themselves from the action and forced the line of people back still further.

  “Oh, fucking Christ,” the neighbour yelled, putting his hands up to his forehead, distraught. “What the fuck?”

  Fin turned and walked away. His heart was beating wildly. It was possible Sutton hadn’t been home. If he wasn’t home, then he might be at the pub. He had to get back there and check. He wouldn’t start worrying – not really worrying – until he got back to the pub and found that Sutton wasn’t there. If Sutton wasn’t there…

  He couldn’t think about that. Not, and hope to function on any reasonable level.

  He walked back the way he had come, along Cumberland Road. He focused on the pavement directly in front of him, just walking; he just had to get to the pub.

  Suddenly, the screech of car brakes close behind him made him turn.

  Sutton.

  He came out of the car like a bullet, and for one confused moment Fin thought he was coming for him. Instead, he rushed at a man that was walking on the pavement ten feet behind Fin.

  Fin watched with something like shock as Sutton attacked the man. Fin didn’t know who he was, he didn’t recognise him: he was six feet tall, in his early twenties; he had a goatee, messy blonde hair, and was wearing a dark T-shirt and ripped jeans.

  Sutton slammed him into the nearby wall. The man cried out. Blood flew from his mouth. He quickly jabbed an elbow at Sutton, which Sutton dodged…but it meant losing his grip on the man, so he was able to turn, duck, and hit Sutton in the ribs. Fin heard Sutton grunt in pain. He stepped back as the man threw another punch, missing Sutton. Sutton head-butted the man so suddenly Fin blinked and almost missed it. The younger man stumbled and then fell backward. He quickly recovered, rolling and then getting to his knees. Blood was pouring from his nose. He had a knife in his hand suddenly.

  Shit.

  The young man went for Sutton, repeatedly trying to pierce Sutton’s stomach with the knife, but Sutton was too quick for him, and avoided every attempt. When the knife came in again, Sutton took hold of the offending arm and used it as an anchor to hold the man in place while he punched him in a nose that already looked broken.

  In desperation, the man pulled away, stumbling backward and almost falling over. But the wall prevented him from losing his feet.

  They stared at each other, Sutton hunched over, his fists up, the younger man using the wall to straighten up, to brace himself for an attack, the knife held ready. Fin was touched with a sense of unreality. A knife fight, in the street…There were no immediate people about, but there were cars travelling by on the road. Still, no one stopped to help. Had anyone called the police?

  The young man said something to Sutton then, spat it at him like an insult.

  “Coosjak.”

  At least, that was what it sounded like to Fin.

  The two men faced each other, hardly moving. Fin thought he should be doing something, but what? The younger man looked as if he was about to launch himself at Sutton, but instead he did a surprising thing: he turned and ran. Fin watched as he bolted down the road and then ducked out of sight down a small passageway between the buildings. He was a fast runner, and had disappeared within five seconds.

  Sutton did not give chase. Instead, he relaxed, dropping his fists and turning to Fin.

  “Are you alright?” He asked.

  “What?” Fin said, shocked. “What?”

  “He didn’t do anything-“

  “Sutton, he just pulled a knife on you and you’re asking me if I’m alright-“

  “Fin-“

  “I just came from your estate where your fucking house is on fire-“

  “Fin-“

  “I gotta catch my breath, I gotta catch my breath-“

  Fin leant forward, placed his hands on his knees and took long deep breaths until his head felt normal again, and his heart had slowed.

  When he straightened up, Sutton was standing in front of him. He was, of all things, smiling.

  “Better?” He asked.

  “Better,” Fin agreed.

  Sutton patted him on the shoulder.

  “I don’t do well with stress, you know that,” Fin explained.

  “I know that.”

  “My problem…”

  “I know. But there was nothing else I could do. Are you alright? You’re not going to…”

  “I don’t think so.” He checked inside himself. He thought he felt okay. Usually, he could tell if a fit was coming on. There was usually a little something, a differentness about his head…and he wasn’t feeling that. “I’m okay. Who was he?”

  “He was…part of the problem I’m involved with. That I need your help with.”

  “He was after you?”

  “Well…he was after you. To get to me.”

  Fin thought about that.

  “Shit,” Fin said eventually.

>   “Yeah,” Sutton agreed, and patted his shoulder again.

  “Your hair,” Fin said helplessly, and then, “your flat.” He gestured toward the line of smoke rising above the buildings. “Sutton…what the hell?”

  Sutton turned toward it.

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Sut. That’s just…it’s shit, is what it is.”

  Sutton looked at the ground momentarily.

  When he finally looked up at him, he was what Fin’s mother would have called “putting on a brave face”.

  “There’s nothing that can’t be replaced. Come on. Get in the car. Let’s get out of here.”

  ◆◆◆

  Lisa Hopkins opened the door to their flat to find Freddie at work in the kitchen.

  He saw her and smiled.

  “Welcome home, my sweet, my love,” he said. He turned back to the pots and pans bubbling on the cooker. “And I know what you’re thinking. And you’re wrong. This is fish.”

  She shut the door behind her and dropped her keys on the small stand in the hallway.

  “Freddie-“

  “It’s fish chilli,” he pronounced gaily.

  She came into the kitchen and put a hand on his arm.

  “Freddie,” she said.

  Her tone brought his attention around to her fully. His glasses flashed in the low set kitchen lights.

  “What is it?” He asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Your friend, Sutton Mills…”

  “What about him?”

  She didn’t know how to tell him without alarming him…but it was alarming.

  “I was in Southville visiting a client when I saw smoke on the other side of the river,” she said. “I don’t know what made me think that it might be him, but…Anyway. I drove across the bridge to take a look.”

  “What? His flat was on fire?”

  She nodded.

  “I stopped and asked but nobody knew if he was in there or not, or even if he was at home…”

  “Fuck,” Freddie said. His eyes went distant a moment. “I haven’t heard from him in about four weeks.”

  “You better call him.”

  “Yeah,” Freddie said, drifting from the cooker to the phone on the landing.

  “I’m going to get changed in the bedroom,” she said, reaching down to untie her shoes. “You know. In case you want to go out.”

  “Okay,” he said, distracted. He looked at the phone as if he didn’t recognise it.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Freddie looked at the door, then at her.

  “Maybe it’s him,” he said, turning to attend to it.

  “Actually,” Lisa said, “there was this young guy in the hall. I think he was looking for someone. He came up in the lift with me…”

  Freddie opened the door. Lisa couldn’t see the identity of the visitor, as Freddie’s body blocked the narrow hallway. There was some muted conversation, and then movement…it was hard to tell exactly what was going on.

  Lisa had taken a step toward the door when Freddie reeled back inside. He immediately fell back against the wall. His glasses came off, and skittered along the wood floor toward her; she would remember it always, the glasses stopping within six inches of her feet, and with them the realisation that something was terribly terribly wrong.

  Freddie dropped the phone in his hand and it smashed. Their visitor – the man in the hall that she had seen earlier – was stabbing Freddie repeatedly in the face and neck. Lisa watched as icy horror seemed to freeze her organs. A huge jet of blood shot upward suddenly, splashing the ceiling as if a hose full of red paint had exploded. The man released Freddie and he slumped to the floor, dead. The visitor shut the door and then came toward her with the knife.

  “Freddie, Freddie…”

  Someone was screaming his name.

  That someone was her.

  The man with the knife wasn’t particularly tall, or well built; certainly not threatening. He didn’t have a murderous look on his face – only one of concentration. The blood that had splashed across his cheeks and chin made it a gore mask of course, something out of a Halloween horror, but it was still a mild and almost friendly face despite that: a degree student, or a young research scientist.

  The man and his mild face was coming for her.

  Before she knew what she was really doing, she had reached for one of the bubbling pots on the cooker. She swung it around in time to connect with the man’s face.

  He brought up an arm to deflect it at the last minute, but boiling fish still splashed over one side of his face and neck. He screamed but didn’t drop the knife. He fell back against the railings on the landing; directly behind him was a ten foot drop to the dining area below. Lisa swung the now empty pot at the man’s head. She wasn’t left handed, and she didn’t want to get too close, but she put all she had into the swing.

  By luck, she connected with the man’s nose.

  She heard it break…or rather she felt it break, through the conduit of the pan.

  While he was writhing in pain and cupping his nose, she dived toward him on her knees. She heard her skirt rip; a very small sound. She slid, and then she had both hands around his knees.

  She lifted.

  At the last minute, he felt his centre of gravity shift, but by then it was too late. Still, he made a grab for her and managed to catch a fistful of hair. It didn’t allay what she had set in motion however.

  He went over the railings, taking a clump of her hair with him.

  She screamed as it ripped out of her scalp.

  There was the briefest moment of silence, and then the man hit the dining table on his back. One of the legs went, and the table seemed to split down the middle lengthwise, folding like a decorator’s table. The man rolled off it, into one of the dining chairs, his arms and legs tangling in it, before he rolled off that too. He cried out in pain.

  Lisa got to her feet and, leaning on the railings, looked down into the dining area.

  The man was on the floor on his back. One side of his face was a horrid raw mess, the skin pink and tender, blisters forming like soap bubbles. He groaned, but it didn’t look like he was getting up any time soon.

  It was just what he deserved.

  Freddie.

  Before she had time to turn, a pain unlike anything she had felt before erupted in her right shoulder. She couldn’t think what it was – was she having a heart attack? – until the man leaned in close behind her and whispered in her ear, “you’re going to call Sutton Mills. You’re going to call him and get him to bring the boy, or I’m going to cut off every bit of you that moves, Raveness whore.”

  The man twisted the knife in her back, and she screamed again.

  ◆◆◆

  “Have you got Wi-Fi?” Fin asked politely.

  Dot smiled. She placed a cup of tea on the table next to the laptop.

  “Yes, of course, dear. Let me go and get the password for you.”

  As she wandered off, Fin moved the tea from the table to the windowsill behind him. That’s close enough, thank you very much. He didn’t like liquid too close to his tech; there were always accidents.

  The living room was long and narrow, and smelled faintly of air freshener and old people. Behind him was the main bay window that looked out at the bridge. The woman – Aimee – perched on a chair next to a dining table at the far end of the room. She was a good looking woman, but not to Fin’s tastes; too glossy by half. The boy – Toby – sat on the sofa to Fin’s right.

  “I was given three names,” Sutton said, leaning in the doorway.

  “Who gave you these names?”

  “A man named Alfred Alger.”

  “He’s dead,” the boy informed Fin.

  Fin looked at him. The boy was odd. Not Asperger’s odd, but odd nonetheless. Fin tried to put his finger on it. It was as if the boy were stoned, and liable to do something socially taboo…like drop his trousers and do the can-can. He made Fin uneasy. He had dark hair that fell almost
strategically over his forehead; like a photographer had arranged it, and stuck it down with blu-tack. His cheek bones stood out like tailfins on an old American Cadillac. He looked French, with his bruised, tired eyes. He sat on the sofa with one leg curled under him. Even his clothes were odd, and didn’t seem to fit: a large knitted sweater and baggy jeans.

  “He’s dead?” Fin looked to Sutton for confirmation.

  Slowly, grimly, he nodded.

  “He was working with a Detective Chief Inspector Raymond Kent.”

  “Who’s also dead,” the boy interjected.

  “Jesus. That’s…a lot of dead people.”

  “Yes,” Sutton said.

  “What am I looking for?” Fin asked. “When I finally get connected.”

  He looked for the old woman but she was nowhere to be seen. Where did she keep the password? Tibet?

  “That’s where it gets tricky,” Sutton said, with a look at Aimee. “If what I was told is true, then these three policemen are involved in the investigation into the Cult.”

  “The occult?”

  “No. A cult. They’re called the Church of the New Artisans. I was hired by Toby’s father” – Sutton nodded to the boy – “to infiltrate this cult.”

  Fin made a face.

  “That’s a bit…intense.”

  “The idea was to recover Toby. If possible. Then disappear into the night.”

  “What happened? Was he kidnapped?”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Not exactly,” Sutton said. “Anyway. Greg knew DCI Kent, and together they set up a taskforce to build up a case against the Cult. This was running in parallel to what I was doing.”

  Fin frowned.

  “So what happened?”

  Aimee spoke then.

  “Somebody in that taskforce – one of those three names – is working for the Cult. And Toby’s father died because of them.”

  Sutton added, “and so did Alfred Alger. And DCI Kent.”

  Fin looked at Toby. No wonder he looked fucked up.