Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2)

by K E Coles

  Ruby appeared behind slick. She held a finger to her lips.

  Spicer’s pulse rate shot up.

  ‘Well, well,’ Ruby said, ‘if it isn’t my mate, Richie.’

  ‘Hey.’ Richie span round, whistled. ‘Looking hot, babe.’

  Spicer moved across the aisle, shuffled a couple of things on the shelf, as though searching for something, watched their faces.

  Ruby played with her hair, licked her lips. ‘Fancy a ride?’ She kept her mouth open. ‘Old times?’

  ‘Do I?’ Richie said, almost drooling. ‘I’ll just . . .’ He lifted the bottle of Scotch in his hand, and pointed towards the till. His expression fell as he saw Leo and Nico. ‘Guys! Good to see you.’

  Leo grinned. ‘Coming for a ride with us, Richie, yeah?’

  Sweat glistened on Richie’s brow. ‘Love to, guys. Not right now, though.’ He laughed, short and shaky. ‘Just remembered I have to, er . . .’

  Leo took the bottle of Scotch from his hand. ‘Tell you what, Rich. Do your shopping later.’ Leo dropped the bottle. It smashed, sending shards of glass across the floor in a sea of whisky. ‘Oops!’

  ‘Something wrong?’ Richie’s voice shook.

  ‘Art wants a little chat, that’s all.’

  Richie spun round, saw Spicer. His eyes darted left, right.

  Spicer smiled. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Run.’

  Richie ran toward him. Spicer moved to block him, but Richie veered left, through swing doors marked ‘staff only’.

  ‘Get him,’ Nico shouted.

  Spicer was already through the doors.

  Richie was ahead, careering through the store room. He grabbed boxes as he passed, tipping them over to block the way.

  Spicer let out a whoop of joy as he vaulted a cardboard box. He was used to leaping over bodies, avoiding obstacles. The crates, cans and veg that Richie managed to dislodge were nothing to Spicer. He was closing on him too fast. He slowed his pace.

  Richie burst through the fire exit.

  Spicer gave him a second, two – prolonging the game. He pushed the door open, inhaled, surveyed the delivery yard. All was still. Nothing moved. Hiding then. No time for him to have reached the road. Spicer smiled to himself. Nice one.

  Ruby and Nico came through the fire exit behind him.

  ‘You’ve lost him, dickhead,’ Ruby said.

  Spicer held a finger to his lips, pointed at the toe of a brown leather shoe poking out from behind a bin. He tiptoed over to it, peered over the top, and there he was, Richie, cowering, hands over his head.

  ‘Well, well,’ Spicer said. ‘What have we here?’

  Richie looked straight at him, eyes terrified, desperate. ‘Please.’

  Damn it. Spicer turned away. He shouldn’t have looked, should have left it to the others. He never saw their faces, never – let alone the eyes. Shit!

  Nico dragged Richie to his feet. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy.’

  Ruby slid her arm through Richie’s and squeezed it. ‘Be like old times, eh?’

  Nico glanced at Spicer. ‘What’s up?’

  Spicer shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  Nico slapped his back. ‘You love that chase, man, don’t you?’

  Spicer nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ So where was the rush, the high?

  Richie sat sandwiched between Spicer and Leo in the back. Squashed together as they were, Spicer could feel every tremor of his leg, every shiver. Richie was pondlife, scum. Whatever happened, he had it coming. He had to remember that, had to hate him, hate all of them.

  ‘Nico?’ Richie said.

  ‘Yeah?’ Nico looked over his shoulder, gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘There’s no . . .’ Richie’s knuckles stood out white on his tight fists. ‘There’s no – sabbat tonight, is there?’

  Leo laughed. ‘Must be psychic, Rich, mate.’

  Richie’s face paled, his lips went white, then green. ‘I’m gonna puke.’

  Spicer recoiled, moved as close to the door as he could.

  Leo lifted his feet. ‘Mind me shoes, will you, mate? They’re new.’

  Richie threw up into the foot well. The bitter, acrid smell of bile filled the car. Then another smell, warm and sweet.

  ‘Ah, shit!’ Leo shifted to the extreme edge of the seat. ‘He’s pissed himself.’

  Spicer didn’t dare look, because he knew what he’d feel if he did. Disgust for certain, but there’d be pity too, and he couldn’t afford to feel pity, couldn’t afford to feel anything.

  They drove the rest of the way with the windows open. By the time they reached the house, Richie was stinking – vomit down his jacket, urine soaking his trousers. He stood on the doorstep, shoulders slumped, head bowed.

  The door opened. Art looked him up and down. ‘You’re a disappointment, Richard.’

  ‘Listen, Art,’ Richie said. ‘I’ve done nothing, I swear.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Art’s lip curled. ‘Come in, and get cleaned up. Can’t have Papa seeing you like that, now can we?’

  ‘Art, please.’ Richie’s voice broke into a sob. ‘We were mates once, weren’t we, me and you?’

  ‘No.’ Art touched the collar of Richie’s jacket, held it between finger and thumb, as if afraid of catching something. ‘I don’t have mates.’ He tugged on the collar. ‘Get inside and get cleaned up.’ He shoved Richie into the house.

  ‘Art?’ Spicer said.

  Art turned back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What happens to him now?’

  ‘That, Spicer my lad, is not your concern.’

  ‘Do I get to go to this sabbat?’ Spicer said.

  Art sighed, turned and leaned into Spicer’s face. ‘I’m getting a little tired of your questions.’

  ‘So, do I get to go?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’ Art slammed the door in his face.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO PEARL

  Art staying all night was a huge leap, and he’d liked it. He said he liked it. Every time I remembered his face when he said it – alight and happy – I’d hug myself. Being with me made him happy. Everything would be different between us, better.

  Work was quiet, so the day dragged. Excitement made it difficult to concentrate on stupid things like drinks orders. My life had been transformed overnight. So, what did it matter if I gave someone chai tea instead of cappuccino, chocolate cake instead of lemon drizzle? Lucky, really, that business was so slow.

  I couldn’t wait to get home. I ran straight upstairs, sat at the window and watched the clouds give way to blue sky and an amazing sunset, all pink and orange, and I thought of him, and wondered what he was doing, wondered if he was thinking of me.

  Dusk was different in London. The shops stayed open later. There were more people about. For some reason, it felt safer than home. I wandered down to the high street, breathed the evening city air. The sky changed colour. The oranges and pinks intensified until they were almost fluorescent.

  I found myself standing outside Art’s church. The hoardings appeared intact so, close up, you’d never even know the building was there. I glanced over my shoulder and took a few steps down the side, between the hoardings and the dentists’ surgery next door. The path underfoot was uneven, littered with all kinds of rubbish – fast food wrappers, cans, bottles, fag ends. I picked my way along it but could see nothing but more hoarding. I’d almost decided to turn back when I spotted one panel that didn’t fit properly. I slid my fingers into the gap and pulled it open. I edged through it, my pulse picking up, expecting to come across junkies or kids.

  All was quiet, bar the traffic noise from the street. The building loomed dark and forbidding, with its blackened bricks and boarded-up windows. Pale lichen and beautiful green moss grew on the damp brickwork. There was no door, so I carried on to take a look at the back. Within seconds, the sky faded to cold blue, then grey. I could still see quite clearly, even though the colours had drained from everything. Around the corner, at the back of the church, light filtered out of an open door. Hushed voic
es and footsteps on gravel came from somewhere. It took me vital seconds to realise they were coming from behind me.

  No time to run and only one place to go, I shot inside the door, into what must have once been the vestry. My pulse pounded in my ears, so loudly it drowned out every other noise. There were two exits from the vestry. A long velvety curtain hung at the far end, probably leading to the main body of the church. That meant the little door on the left should have led to the altar. I hesitated, but the footsteps were nearer now, and even louder than my pulse. I could have hidden behind the huge oak desk, but if someone brought a light in, I’d be seen for sure. I stepped into the full-length cupboard. It was like the one my dad hung his cassocks and choir robes in, except it was dirty and damp and the door was broken and half off its hinges. I crouched down and prayed that the wood wouldn’t creak under my feet.

  Two guys I didn’t know went past me and through the curtain. They didn’t look like junkies – too upright and bulky for a start, not stooped and thin and wasted. A woman followed them, smartly dressed in pencil skirt and heels, as if she was off to work in the City. As I was trying to work out what they might be up to, a tall, black guy came in. Crap! Nico – dreads, the smooth skin, the superior sneer – it was definitely him, Papa’s techno wizard.

  I swallowed, breathed through my mouth to make as little noise as possible. How the hell was I going to get out of this? More people arrived, none of whom I recognised. I waited until the stream of people lessened. Five minutes went by without anyone arriving, then ten and I thought it was probably safe to leave. I stood up, stuck my head outside the cupboard and listened. Murmurs and laughter from the church, but nothing from outside.

  I stepped out of the cupboard just as a figure appeared in the doorway. We both froze.

  ‘Art!’

  ‘Shit!’ He flew across the room, shoved a hand over my mouth. ‘You idiot.’ He half dragged, half pushed me backwards to the left of the curtain.

  I couldn’t breathe, his hand blocking my nose and my mouth. He was much stronger than I’d imagined. I kept thinking, he wouldn’t hurt me – would he? Would he? He pushed a door open behind me and shoved me into a tiny room, smaller than the wardrobe I’d been hiding in.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he hissed.

  ‘I . . .’ What was I doing? I didn’t know.

  ‘Stay there,’ he said, ‘and shut up.’

  The sound of voices came from behind him. He ducked into the tiny room with me, held his finger to his lips. As if I didn’t know to keep quiet.

  I could just see his eyes in the gloom. ‘You’re having a sabbat.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll go home.’ I tried to get past him.

  He held my shoulders. ‘Don’t be stupid. You stay in here until we finish.’

  ‘What?’ I looked around me, not that I could see much. What I could see were walls, filthy, glistening walls running with damp. A huge spider the size of my hand scuttled across the light patch on the floor. I tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

  He shook me, made my neck crick. ‘Listen.’ He leaned into my face. ‘I’m trying to protect you, but if you do stuff like this . . .’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He backed off, almost blocking the doorway.

  ‘Art, please, please don’t leave me in here.’ I let my voice break, as if I was about to cry.

  He shook his head. ‘Keep quiet, okay?’

  ‘It’s dark,’ I said.

  ‘Diddums. I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Art.’

  ‘You make any noise – anything, it’ll be Leo who finds you, understand?’

  I nodded.

  He kissed me, hard on the lips, and groaned. ‘You’re going to get me killed, you know that?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t feel his hand in my pocket, knew nothing about it, until I saw him holding my phone as he shut the door

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE SPICER

  Spicer followed Leo and Ruby along the narrow path to the back door of the church. He’d wanted to come, to witness a sabbat, knew he had to, but he was afraid too – afraid of what he might see, afraid it would reach him, break him.

  The chill air came as a shock after the balmy night outside. The main body of the church looked amazing. Black candles burned in sconces all along the walls. Leo had been right – they did hide all the crap. Damp dripped down the walls, trickled around the lush, green moss, the slimy algae. Spicer knew all that, but in the candlelight, it sparkled like thousands of fine silver threads – magical, beautiful.

  People arrived, all ages, shapes, colours – fifteen, twenty of them. Spicer tried to memorise the faces, but the light wasn’t good, and there were too many. They could have been any mixed group on a night out – smart, city types, younger, cool kids, scruffy bikers. They smiled, chatted, greeted each other like normal people. He thought perhaps Jim, Luke, all of them, had got this cult all wrong. It was a family – a large one, an odd one, but a family. There was no proof they were involved in his sister’s murder, none at all, and he couldn’t imagine what had made him think they were. There was something, but his head hurt when he tried to remember. Later, maybe, after the sabbat.

  A plush, red velvet curtain hung across the altar area, what Nico called the sanctuary. ‘Used to be a server,’ he said, ‘until I saw the dark.’ He laughed at his own joke.

  In front of the curtain, a fresh-faced girl with freckles and golden hair, stood like a statue next to a large stone bowl on a plinth. In her right hand, she held a ladle, in her left, a silver chalice.

  A sense of anticipation filled the air, the muted excitement almost tangible. Art came through the door from the vestry, shut it firmly behind him, and rang a hand bell nine times.

  All heads turned towards the red curtain. Some knelt, others followed, until everyone was on their knees, including Spicer.

  ‘Ave, Papa,’ they chanted. ‘Ave Papa.’

  Papa appeared from behind the curtain.

  ‘Ad Papa,’ they chanted, ‘qui dat potentiam et divitias.’

  Spicer joined in, gradually picking up the words, with no idea what they meant.

  Papa smiled, like a benevolent, gentle father. His gaze shifted around the room, bestowing his blessing on every single person there. Muffled cries came from behind him, but he didn’t appear to hear them, and neither did anyone else. Only Spicer, it seemed, found the short, desperate squeals distracting. Animal or human, it was impossible to tell, but every cry jolted Spicer’s nerves.

  ‘My children,’ Papa raised his hands. ‘Let us pray.’

  Everyone bowed their heads.

  ‘Amen,’ they said. ‘Evil from us deliver . . .’ The words familiar, and yet all wrong. It took a few moments for Spicer to realise they were chanting the Lord’s Prayer backwards.

  ‘Come.’ Papa waved a hand. ‘Come to the feast, my children.’

  Everyone stood and queued to kneel in front of Papa. The girl filled the chalice from the stone bowl. Leo was first. He knelt in front of Papa, took the chalice from the girl and drained it. He kissed Papa’s feet before heading back to his place.

  Spicer lifted the chalice to his mouth and drank. That same sweet, bitter drink. It burned his throat, warmed his stomach. By the time he knelt in his place again, the warmth had spread through his body. He felt elated, powerful, happy. This was his life now, and joy would be his forever, as long as he obeyed.

  He knelt back in his place, chanted, ‘Gloria, Papa. Gloria, Papa. Gloria, Papa,’ along with everyone else. It felt so right. The chanting grew louder, faster. People around Spicer jumped to their feet. He copied them. They clapped their hands, their eyes bright, sparkling in the candlelight, their smiles broad, and Spicer knew he looked the same – joyful, excited. Bright lights, gold, silver, crimson, emerald flickered at the edge of his vision. They shimmered around Papa, like a multi-coloured aura – beautiful, so beautiful.

  The red curtain rose. Spicer cheered and clapped, although he couldn�
��t see. A tall guy with massive hair blocked his way. He moved to the side. Ropes, ropes coming down from a gantry high in the roof space, and feet, tied one on top of the other. One on top of the other, like . . .

  Spicer put a hand out, leaned against the slime-covered wall. He didn’t want to look, to see the blood, see the flies, but no, these legs and hips were twisting, contorting, alive. He breathed. Just a show, he thought, a trick. An escapologist for a party. He laughed aloud, too loud.

  A girl turned her head and laughed with him. ‘Wild.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Spicer said. ‘Wild.’ But something bothered him – the way the thick rope bound the wrists, held them outstretched - an inverted crucifixion. But this was different. There were no flies, no smell, except for the candles and some kind of smoke that shrouded everything, blurring the edges.

  Papa raised his hands. The clapping and chanting stopped. Silence.

  Papa picked a knife up from the altar – long, shiny. It glinted in the candlelight. ‘We have two new members in our little family,’ he said. ‘Spicer and Ruby. Where are they?’

  Ruby waved her hands in the air. Someone shoved Spicer in the back, so he raised his right arm.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Papa said. ‘One of you shall have the honour. Whom shall I choose?’

  Spicer felt unsteady. Papa’s face grew huge, the eyebrows so black, then tiny, tiny, like a toy head on top of a man’s body. He wanted to be chosen. He raised his hand, higher.

  ‘Ruby,’ Papa said.

  The wall under Spicer’s hand moved, breathed, in and out. Why Ruby? Why not him? Why not?

  Ruby jumped up next to Papa, took the knife, and held it aloft, exultant. Lights shimmered around her too, but darker colours, reds and purples and orange. Spicer’s head swam. Then he saw the eyes – desperate, pleading, brown eyes. He’d seen those eyes before, looking up at him from behind a rubbish bin. Richie.

  Papa said something about treason. Spicer couldn’t hear him for the pounding in his ears, a drumbeat, on and on, bang, bang, bang. He covered his ears, sank to the floor, but he still heard it. And then, it stopped, and for one moment, there was blessed silence, then the swish of the blade, the gurgle, the splash, the roaring cheer. He opened his eyes to meet Art’s piercing stare.