by K E Coles
Spicer gazed into Luke’s eyes, held fast to them, as if they were his lifeline.
‘Your mother, is ill, that’s all, okay?’ Luke said.
Spicer’s laugh ended in a sob. He shook his head.
‘Jim says you were inducted as a foot soldier, not an Elite?’
Spicer nodded.
Both priests exhaled. Dawn muttered something.
‘We’re not saying we don’t believe in possession,’ Luke said, ‘but we can say with certainty it doesn’t apply to you or your mother. You have to believe us.’
‘Okay.’ Spicer nodded. ‘Okay. So what’s the matter with me?’
‘They’ve played with your mind, that’s all. Were you aware of anything odd, before this feeling you had?’
‘No.’ Spicer thought back to the first meeting with Papa – those black eyes. ‘Yes. I mean yes,’ he said. ‘His eyes - Pitt’s - and Art’s. Once you look into them, you can’t look away.’ He licked his lips, remembered more. ‘I couldn’t even blink with Pitt.’
‘It’s a kind of hypnosis. It won’t harm you, so you don’t need to worry.’ Luke said.
‘Could it make me do something – I mean, something I would never do – never?’
‘No. It can’t make you do anything against your will.’
Spicer half-laughed. Tears spilled out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Relief left him giddy, lightheaded.
Both priests laid their hands on his head.
‘Don’t be afraid, Marcus,’ Dawn said. ‘You’re strong. You have an army of angels behind you.’
Marcus nodded, gripped the arms of the chair.
Their voices, low and gentle, recited the unfamiliar words like a lullaby – calming, soothing.
‘Deus pater, et filius, et spiritus sanctus,’ they said together, ‘defendat proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium esse.’
As they spoke, Spicer once again felt the sensation of water over his head, but this time, it made him feel good, feel clean.
‘Better?’ Luke said.
‘Yeah.’ Spicer smiled. ‘Yeah. I feel . . . Thank you.’
Luke opened the door, and Jim poked his head around. ‘All done?’
‘Yes,’ Luke said. ‘A very strong young man you have here.’
‘He’ll do,’ Jim said.
At the door, Spicer turned back. ‘Why did you check I was a foot soldier?’
‘Ah,’ Luke said, ‘we’d be - concerned if they’d made you an Elite. It’s the Elites who believe they’re possessed.’
‘And are they?’
‘We don’t know,’ Dawn said, ‘but we think so, yes.’
A month earlier, Spicer would have laughed. Now it didn’t seem funny, or even improbable.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX PEARL
There were two options as I saw it. Go back home to Gloucester to stagnate once more, or find a new job, somewhere Leo and the others would never find me. If I could earn some decent money, I could even move out, rent a room somewhere.
I applied for everything I could find online, even stuff I didn’t have a hope in hell of getting. For a week, I heard nothing. Then a trickle of rejections, all with similar wording: Sorry, but you have been unsuccessful on this occasion.
After two weeks, I realised I was incapable of getting any job without someone ‘wangling’ it for me. Of over one hundred applications, only nine bothered to reply, and they were rejections. Art hadn’t reappeared anyway, so the urgency had gone. I quite liked my job, and liked the people I worked with. It was just living in the not-section house that was unbearable, and I could see no way that was going to change. Mum and Dad drove up when they could, but they were busy, and their time off rarely coincided with mine. The weekly ‘work experience’ allowance barely covered food and toiletries, leaving nothing to save for a deposit, let alone a month’s rent in advance.
My basil seedlings keeled over, because I forgot to water them. The coriander had yet to make an appearance. Only the mint seemed happy, growing steadily towards the light. Mint was tough, I decided. It never gave up, no matter how crap its life was. Mint was my inspiration.
When it, too, gave up the struggle, so did I.
It was as if God had been waiting for me to resign myself to endless tedium. The very day the last patch of green leaf turned brown, an email arrived inviting me for an interview at a cafe in Camden Market. I had no memory of applying for it, but I’d applied for so many, they all blurred into one.
My self-confidence surged. It’s only an interview, I kept telling myself, but it felt as if my life was about to change, for the better.
On the day of the interview, I answered the door to Ed in my pyjamas, and put on a croaky voice.
‘I’m not well,’ I said.
‘Do you need a doctor?’ He pulled out his phone.
‘No,’ I said, forgetting to croak. ‘No, it’s just – girl stuff.’
‘Ah!’ He coughed. ‘Right. Yes, right. I’ll um . . .’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and shut the door.
Within half an hour, I was on the bus, travelling across London. I should have been nervous, but was enjoying the freedom too much to worry about the interview. The weather was fabulous. Hazy sunshine made even the grotty streets look good.
Camden was bustling, even at ten in the morning. I crossed the canal, and headed into the market. Someone directed me to the café, upstairs, and along a wooden walkway. It all felt far too cool for me. My interview clothes, smart black skirt, heels, jacket, looked all wrong, dull and stuffy against the hip, cool clothes everyone else was wearing.
The guy running the place didn’t look much older than me. His hair was as bonkers mad as mine, but fair, and tied back with a piece of string. He barely asked me anything, and when he did, didn’t appear to listen to the answer.
‘You can have a trial next Wednesday,’ he said. ‘You’ll be with another new girl. That okay?’
‘Yeah.’ I attempted to make my surprise sound like enthusiasm. Either I’d made a damned good impression, or they were desperate for staff. Considering I’d hardly said a word, it had to be the latter.
I felt weirdly deflated on the way home. The money was amazing for such a small cafe, more than enough for me to rent somewhere to live. It was exactly what I’d wanted, so I should have been elated. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN SPICER
Spicer spent his days with Leo and Nico in an unremarkable semi on an unremarkable council estate, where various shadowy people came and went throughout the day and night. He never saw their faces. They were ushered into the poky living room, the warmest room in the house. Spicer was excluded from these meetings, banished to the draughty kitchen. He’d sit in front of the useless three bar electric heater that must have been there since the war.
‘It’s not that we don’t trust you,’ Nico said. ‘It’s just . . .’
‘That you don’t trust me?’
Nico laughed. ‘Kind of, yeah. It’s not me. It’s Art. He’s always like this – ultra cautious.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Spicer said, and he didn’t. Since the blessing, he no longer felt something evil crawling around inside his head, but images of bloodstained corpses, sliced flesh, and blood-spattered jeans still punctuated his dreams. He woke several times each night, so each morning found him more exhausted than the night before. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d wandered into something he’d never get out of, quicksand, a bottomless pit of filth.
In time, he’d get back to normal, wouldn’t he? Not that he was even sure what normal was any more, or if he was even capable of being it.
Money changed hands. He’d see notes being slipped into back pockets as the visitors left the house, but for what, he didn’t know, and no longer cared.
Art rarely showed his face.
Leo laughed when Spicer asked why. Spicer was in his usual place, sitting in front of the fire.
Leo opened the fridge, took out a can of lager
. It opened with a hiss. ‘Think he’d lower himself?’ He took a slurp from the can. ‘No! Likes a bit of comfort, does our blue-eyed boy.’ He spat the last words, his mouth twisted, ugly.
‘You don’t like him?’
‘Like him?’ Leo pulled his head back. ‘Why would I like him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Spicer said. ‘I just . . . I mean you guys, you’ve been together a while, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ Leo looked at him as if he’d said something idiotic. ‘And?’
‘Well – when you – when have to work with people, you generally . . .’
Leo stood, leaned over Spicer, his hands on the arms of Spicer’s chair. ‘Listen, pal. You don’t get it. We don’t like anyone. That doesn’t happen, okay? We either hate you, or we don’t give a shit. Get it?’
Spicer nodded. ‘So, Art?’ As he said it, Art appeared behind Leo. He held a finger to his lips.
‘I hate him,’ Leo said. ‘When I get my chance, I’m gonna slice him.’
Art chuckled.
Leo jerked upright. His face paled.
‘I’m touched, Leonard.’ Art held a hand to his heart. ‘To think you feel such emotion about little old me.’
‘I was – I was just explaining . . .’
‘How I saved your arse?’ Art said.
‘How you what?’
‘You failed to deliver a certain body, remember?’
Leo flushed. His forehead shone.
‘You think Papa forgot?’
‘No, I . . . well, yeah.’
Art shook his head. ‘You’re a dickhead, Leo. Next time, I’ll leave you to hang.’ He glanced at Spicer. ‘Get packing, both of you. We’re relocating to London.’
‘What?’ Leo said. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Shit,’ Leo said. ‘I have stuff on – my target . . .’
‘Your target’s cancelled.’
‘No way.’
Art took the can from Leo’s hand, tipped it down the sink. ‘You have a problem, talk to Papa. His orders.’
Leo’s face grew dark purple, his eyes bulged.
Art leaned into his face. ‘Go – and get – packed.’
Leo stared back, fists clenched at his sides, sweat beading his forehead. Spicer held his breath, but Leo must have thought better of it. He spun round, stalked out of the kitchen, and slammed the door behind him.
Spicer caught the bus back to his place, spotted a man sitting in an unmarked car parked opposite. He went over and tapped on the window.
The guy jumped. ‘Yeah?’
‘Dozing off there?’ Spicer said.
‘I’m waiting for someone.’
‘Yeah, me.’ Spicer said. ‘Tell Jim Macready we’re moving to London – tomorrow, Wednesday.’
The guy frowned. ‘What?’
Spicer straightened up. ‘Oh, and they know you’re tailing them. They think you’re crap. I agree.’ He headed for his door, put the key in the lock, turned to see the guy driving away, shaking his head.
It took him no more than half an hour to pack his belongings. He stared at the backpack and the canvas bag next to it. That was it, all he had, his life in two bags. Maybe in London he’d feel different. Maybe he’d find the evidence he needed, and be able to get out of there, put Mesmeris behind him. Perhaps he’d get a chance to visit his mum. He wondered if she’d recognise him this time. Maybe she had recognised him last time, and seen something inside him, something he didn’t even know was there – evil.
He tried to recapture the peace he’d felt after the blessing from the two priests, but it wouldn’t come. He had a couple of cans, and went to bed.
Ruby picked him up first thing the following morning.
He sat in the back, passenger side. The further he could get away from Ruby, the better he liked it.
She didn’t speak as they drove through town. They picked up Leo and Nico and headed straight to London.
The house was a three-storey, Victorian terrace in Paddington, walking distance from the train station. Dusty and grimy like its neighbours, the house had a neglected air about it – unswept front steps, bags of rubbish in the small front yard, rusted railings. The basement window was barred, the glass thick with grime.
‘Your room,’ Ruby said, with a smirk.
‘That your decision?’ Spicer said, but she was already halfway through the front door.
Inside, the house was clean – functional. Cheap, new furniture – job lot from some crappy homeware store. Bare, magnolia walls. It smelled as if it had just been painted. Sure enough, when Spicer touched the gloss paint around the doorframe, it was still tacky.
Art arrived almost immediately. Leo ran upstairs like a kid.
‘I’m having the front room,’ he shouted.
‘You’re having the room I give you,’ Art said. He went straight ahead to a long, narrow room, fitted with a pine table and eight pine chairs. He placed a roll of paper on the table and unrolled it.
‘Here’s the plan. You’re on the top floor, Ruby.’
She smirked at Spicer.
‘Next floor down, we have my room – here.’ He pointed to the front room.
‘Then Nic, Leo, and Spicer in the three back rooms.’
Spicer grinned. Yes! First floor room.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ruby said. ‘Who’s in the basement?’
‘Basement’s not for living in,’ Art said.
‘What’s it for then?’ Spicer said.
Art raised his eyebrows, stared. ‘Guests.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT SPICER
Spicer unpacked his stuff, folded it into the rough wood chest of drawers that smelled of sawdust. Other than that, and the single, wood-framed bed, the room was bare. The new, cheap carpet smelled of melted plastic. He sat on the brand new, cellophane-covered mattress.
Art opened the door – no knock.
‘Do come in,’ Spicer said.
‘Get your coat on,’ Art said. ‘You’re going out.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I need you to deliver some stuff. It’s cash, Spicer, so be careful, there’s a good boy. Get nicked, and you’re dead.’
‘Get . . ? Why would I get nicked?’
‘Just get moving and shut up with the questions.’
‘Right.’
He caught the tube to Camden, delivered envelopes to the concierge of an upmarket hotel, the owner of a cafe, the back door of a filthy take-away, and the manager of a tawdry lap-dancing club. So far, so banal.
Job done, he walked along the canal, and crossed over to the market. The sun was shining, and the place full of people. Buskers played on every corner. Smells of West African, Turkish, Thai foods wafted from stalls and restaurants, made him hungry. Everywhere there were girls with long legs in short skirts. Spicer felt as if he was on holiday. He’d pretend he was, forget everything for an hour or two. No harm in that, he thought – pretending. After all, his day-to-day life was one big pretence anyway.
He headed for a cafe, thought he’d sit on the terrace, watch the girls, and daydream. He went inside and ordered a double macchiato.
By the time he came out again, all three tables were occupied. That was okay, he’d sit on the steps. A girl with dark, crazy hair sat alone at one of the tables. She wore heels, black pencil skirt, blouse – formal, office wear. She held a book in front of her, but wasn’t looking at it. She was staring out at the canal. She looked like the girl at the vicarage, Pearl, but the full mouth was less downturned, less sulky.
She raised her hand and brushed her hair back. It was her – had to be. He breathed, hesitated. Off limits, Jim said – vulnerable, broken. Well, he was just being friendly – nothing wrong with that.
‘It’s Pearl, isn’t it?’
She covered her eyes, squinted up at him.
‘Mind if I . . ?’ He pointed at the seat opposite.
She glanced around the terrace. There were still no free tables. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, yes.’ She shifted in her seat, cr
ossed her legs, half-turned away from him. Nice legs, slim, slender ankles.
He sat, watched her pretending to read the book, avoiding his gaze. ‘You do remember me, yeah?’ he said.
She frowned.
‘We met at your parents’ house – in the middle of the night.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
He ignored the lack of enthusiasm, and gave her his best smile – the one that usually worked. ‘It was a bit weird, wasn’t it?’
She nodded, smiled back.
Bingo! ‘I thought you were a ghost.’
She chuckled. The sound surprised him – low, gravelly.
‘No, straight up,’ he said.
‘And now?’ She raised her eyebrows. Was she flirting with him?
He made a show of looking her over.
Her cheeks flushed. It suited her.
‘More a witch than a ghost,’ he said, and meant it.
She looked away. ‘What’re you doing up here? Thought you were working with Jim.’
‘I am.’ The sun went behind a cloud, and with it all the shit came back. He stirred his coffee, watched it go round and round. ‘What about you?’
‘You know, working,’ she said.
‘Yeah? Anything interesting?’
‘No.’ The sun came out again. It lit up her eyes. They were the oddest colour – a mix of blue-grey and green.
‘Your dad’s a nice guy,’ he said.
‘The best.’
‘So, why d’you move?’
She shrugged. ‘To get away from people who know me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not you. You don’t know me.’ Her smile was warm. ‘Wanted to be independent, I guess.’
‘Lonely, though, don’t you think?’ He realised he was talking about himself, sick of having perves and psychos for company.
‘You miss your family,’ she said.
‘There’s only my mum, and she’s . . .’ he opened his hands, palms up, ‘not well.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He rubbed at his stubbly chin. Should have shaved. ‘Last time I saw her, she didn’t know who I was.’ Shit! He coughed, sat up, raised his eyes to the sky, blinked. Hang on, wasn’t she meant to be the nutter, him the sane one? ‘Sorry,’ he said.