by Paul Crilley
I frown, turn back, and the treemen suddenly break into laughter.
‘Sorry, man,’ says the one on the right. ‘We’re just fucking with you.’
‘Right.’
The treeman on the left wipes his eyes. ‘Ah . . . that’s funny shit. I’ll see if she’s free.’
He turns and disappears behind a tatty white curtain.
The second treeman is still laughing at us. A ringing sound starts up behind him. He glances over his shoulder, grabs something from the table, then turns back with a cell phone pressed to his ear.
‘’Scuse me,’ he says to us. ‘Gotta take this.’
He walks away, talking into the phone. ‘No, Randle. I said two thousand on the dragon winning. Why would I bet on the human . . . ?’
He walks out of earshot. I look at Armitage, but she just shrugs.
The first treeman reappears and gestures for us to enter. He stands aside and we duck through the net curtain. He doesn’t follow. The kiosk is too cramped for us all to fit inside.
A lantern hangs on the wall, but the flame is turned down, casting a low, flickering light throughout the interior, picking out shadows rather than illuminating anything.
There’s a click and the kiosk floods with electric light. I blink, squinting against the brightness. The kiosk looks remarkably less mysterious now. A messy room filled with junk and pot plants.
It turns out that Gran is the perfect name for the lore-keeper. Her face is chubby, her expression good-natured. Her black eyes are almost swallowed up by a mass of deep wrinkles, crevasses that map out the years in her skin.
She’s sitting behind a fold-down table with an iPad leaning against a half-empty jar of coffee. I glance at the screen and see the paused image of what looks like an action movie. One of the Fast and the Furious films, if I’m not mistaken.
She’s also wearing a knitted tea cosy on her head.
‘So,’ she says briskly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’re looking for information on sin-eaters,’ says Armitage.
‘We were told you might know about them,’ I add.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Harry Grimes.’
Gran throws her hands up in the air in frustration. ‘Urgh. You break one of your stupid laws and you owe that guy forever. He’s a leech.’
‘So? Can you help?’
‘Doubt it. There’s not much to know. They’re very secretive.’
‘Anything you can tell us would be great,’ I say. ‘We know the basics. That they turn up at a dead person’s house and take on the dead person’s sins, but that’s it.’
‘Ah. Now. Maybe I can help you. Because that’s a very old-fashioned view of sin-eaters. It’s like saying that all vampires live in castles in Transylvania. No, the sin-eaters have evolved way past that now.’
‘How so?’
‘They’re organized. A group – no – a corporation. And they don’t take on the sins of the dearly departed anymore. No money in it, y’see. They hire themselves out to take on the sins of the rich and connected. I heard rumours that their company is one of the top earners in Europe. People pay a lot for absolution.’
‘What, you mean . . . like the Catholic Church?’ I ask. ‘Ten Hail Mary’s and all is forgiven?’
‘It’s a bit more concrete than that, but yes, that’s the general idea.’
‘Do you know what this company is called? Who’s in charge?’
The fae shakes her head. ‘No. All I know is the gossip.’
‘All very interesting,’ says Armitage, ‘but it doesn’t get us any closer to our buggering killer, does it?’
‘No.’ I sigh. ‘But at least we know why the last victim was so rich. This sin-eater company must pay their people well.’
‘What about the ramanga? He was dirt poor.’
‘Maybe he was a rookie? Bottom of the ladder?’
‘What is this?’ asks Gran.
I hesitate, then decide to tell her about the deaths. (Without mentioning Lilith. No need for her to know that.)
‘So this killer is targeting sin-eaters?’ she asks.
‘If Caitlyn Long is one, then yeah. Two so far.’
‘Tell me, was there any residue left at the scenes of these murders?’
Armitage and I exchange looks. She takes out the bag of yellow powder that she gathered from Long’s body and hands it over. Gran opens it up and takes a big sniff. I step quickly back, but she doesn’t throw up.
She returns the bag to Armitage. ‘Your killer is another sin-eater,’ she says matter-of-factly.
‘What?’ I step forward. ‘How do you know that?’
She gestures at the bag. ‘That residue. It is manifested sin. What is left over when sin is taken from a sin-eater.’
I frown. ‘I don’t understand. I thought sin-eaters took the sin from normal people. Not another sin-eater.’
‘Yes. But sin-eaters . . . they’re not immortal or anything. Understand? When they die they must pass on the sins they have collected to the next in line, otherwise the sins return to those who first committed them. It’s an apprentice-master thing. So a sin-eater nowadays can hold sins stretching back hundreds – thousands – of years, passed down to them from previous generations.’
‘OK. What’s that got to do with these deaths?’
‘Because passing down the sins voluntarily is not the only way to do it. Another sin-eater can take sins forcefully, can draw them from a sin-eater’s soul and absorb them as the victim dies.’
‘Why would they do that?’
Gran shrugs. ‘Information? Blackmail? Industrial espionage?’ She leans forward. ‘See, the sins are not just sins. They hold memories and feelings. Everything associated with where and when the sin took place. The sin-eater takes all that into his very soul when he takes on a sin.’
Is that why Lilith is so obsessed with the ramanga’s soul? Because it holds the sins he’s collected? But why does she want them? Is it about blackmail? Does she intend her pet sin-eater to absorb the sins Jengo held? To blackmail those who committed the sins in the first place?
That doesn’t sound right.
‘I don’t suppose you happen to know what Ul Khu tavu means?’ asks Armitage.
‘Ulkhuta-what?’
‘Ul Khu tavu. Three words.’ Armitage glances at me. ‘We think.’
‘Where did you hear these words?’
‘The first sin-eater that was killed. He kept saying them. Well, I say he said them. But it was more like his ghost. Long story.’
‘It sounds like it could be one of the ancient tongues. Pre-Sumerian.’
‘But do you know what it means?’
‘No.’
Another dead end. But before I can start complaining to Armitage about how shitty our luck is, Gran picks up her iPad and starts swiping across the screen until she finds what she’s looking for. She taps an icon, looks sharply at us, then tilts the iPad away so we can’t see what she’s doing.
‘Not for human eyes,’ she says.
My interest is piqued. ‘What is it?’
‘My reference books.’
‘I thought you’d . . . I don’t know, have a library somewhere.’
She gives me a look of scorn. ‘Keep with the times, boy. Why should I keep a library when I’ve got one of these?’ She brandishes the iPad. ‘Everything I ever collected can be stored in here.’
‘Kinda takes the magic away from it all.’
‘Pah. Magic is overrated. And before you get any funny ideas about stealing this, it only works for me.’
‘Hey, I’m one of the good guys,’ I protest.
Which is true, but I had been thinking about ways to get my hands on it. That kind of reference library would be worth a lot back at the Division.
Gran starts typing on the screen. After a couple of minutes she leans back, looking worried.
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Armitage.
‘I was right. It is pre-Sumerian. Ul is easy. It means the. Khu
is a bit trickier. It means . . . one, to be the best, or . . . to be first at something. And tavu means evil. No – not quite evil. But . . . personal evil. ’
‘Personal evil?’ I say. ‘That’s sin, isn’t it? Personal evil can be described as sin.’
Gran locks eyes with me. ‘Yes. Yes it can.’
‘So it means . . . what? One sin?’ asks Armitage.
‘No. In this context I would say it means the first sin.’
I frown. ‘What the hell’s the first sin?’
Armitage gives me a look. ‘Well, seeing as we’re dealing with sin-eaters and words in a pre-Sumerian dialect, I’d hazard a guess that it refers to the first sin that the first sin-eater took on. And that’s what you-know-who is after.’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Maybe nothing.’
‘It could mean the ramanga’s first sin. The first sin he absorbed when he became a sin-eater.’
‘No,’ says Gran. ‘He would have said my first sin. Not the first sin.’
I chew my lip. ‘Is that even possible?’ I ask Gran. ‘Can Jengo, the first victim, have this first sin?’
‘I suppose. As I say, the sins are passed down each generation. So it’s theoretically possible a sin-eater nowadays holds this first sin. Whatever that may be.’
‘Something powerful enough to kill for,’ says Armitage.
‘Obviously.’
‘Is that all you can tell us?’ I ask.
‘Is that all?’ snaps the fae. ‘Isn’t that enough? And you tell Grimes that wipes my slate clean, understand?’
I nod, distracted. So our killer is a sin-eater? Where does that leave my investigation into Cally’s death? If he’s a sin-eater, what was he doing back at the lodge that night? I remember he had his hands on that one guy’s head, the one who got away.
And what about the other one? The one who was left at the lodge. The one who acted like he had no idea what I was talking about.
What if he really didn’t know?
What if the guy with the shaved head and the beard isn’t the killer at all? What if he was just taking on the killers’ sins?
‘Do . . . do sin-eaters – when they take the sin, do they take the memory of the deed as well? Like, if I used a sin-eater, if he took my sin, would I remember that I’d done something?’
‘No. Everything about the sin is taken away.’
My throat constricts. I swallow, feeling the rage building up inside. That meant the other guy got clean away. The man who helped murder five kids and hide their bodies, he’s out there right now, walking around without any knowledge of what he’s done.
Christ, what if he’s done it again? What if he’d done it before? And every time he just paid a sin-eater to take away his crimes?
‘Hey.’ Armitage is frowning at me. ‘You OK?’
I take a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’m fine. Let’s go.’
I duck back under the curtain and step outside. I hear Armitage thanking the lore-keeper before coming to join me.
‘So what now?’ I ask.
‘Now we head back to the Division and focus on finding out who our sin-eater is. He’s the key to all of this.’
Yeah. He is. And I’m going to catch the fucker.
We take the stairs down from the herb bridge and into the market proper, winding our way through the noisy, smelly crowds as we head back to the gate.
At the Congolese barber stand, a skinny creature about eight feet tall cuts the hair of a squat fae with hair that sprouts all over its body, keeping up a constant stream of chatter while he does so.
As we pass a circle of tables that have been pulled into a makeshift beer garden we’re approached by one of the fae. The creature doesn’t even come up to my knees but has a belly so large and distended it’s supported on a tiny unicycle. If he didn’t have the support I think he’d just fall onto his stomach and roll around like an upended turtle.
We stop and look down at him.
‘Nomkhubulwane wants to talk to you,’ he says to me.
Nomkhubulwane is the African goddess of rain and fertility. I suppose she’s the African equivalent of Danu, the Celtic Earth goddess. Her powers are at their height at this time of the year.
‘What have you done now?’ asks Armitage, glaring at me.
‘God knows. And if he does, he’s not telling.’
We follow the little fae and his squeaking belly-wheel back around the side of the unfinished overpass on which the Muti market was built. He pauses beneath the drop-off. There’s a huge mural of Nomkhubulwane painted on the final concrete support. The mural shows her leaning forward, her hands outstretched as if reaching in for a hug.
I wait, but nothing happens. I’m about to ask the little guy what’s up when he suddenly starts dancing.
Seriously. Rolling around in circles, his hands up in the air, then down to his chest, his wheel giving him a squeaky accompaniment. He sketches a wide circle, grinning at us as he wheels past.
‘The time is on us when all of us are timed.’
I look at Armitage. She shakes her head and shrugs.
A movement ahead of me catches my attention. The mural of Nomkhubulwane is moving. She’s leaning out of the painting, the top of half of her body becoming three dimensional. I step back. Armitage stays where she is. The little dude squeaks past us again.
‘When all are timed, the race must end.’
What. The actual. Fuck?
But if all that isn’t weird enough, Nomkhubulwane, now hovering above me like some massive hologram, smiles and says, ‘I have a message from my sister, Yemanja. The message is as follows: When you see the five rand coin, pick it up.’
That’s it. She fades back into the mural, becoming a painting once again.
Little dude squeaks past. ‘Pick it up. Pick it up.’
I glare at him, then turn to Armitage. ‘When the fuck did we start living in Twin Peaks?’
I turn away and start making my way back towards the gate. Armitage catches up and we walk across the purple bridge that arcs across Brook Street Market. It’s the biggest market in Warwick, currently filled with fae doing their grocery shopping.
The glow of cell-phone screens can be seen all over the place. I wonder what types of apps the fae use? How to be really annoying and cryptic? How best to confuse humans?
Although, to be fair on them, Nomkhubulwane isn’t actually fae. She’s a goddess – Tier One. And she was just passing on a message. From my fairy godmother.
I snort and shake my head.
We’re let out of the market by either an orc or an ogre. I’m not sure which. As soon as we step through the gates the hubbub behind us instantly stops, as if someone hit the mute button. I look back and see only empty stalls and deserted bridges.
‘Well,’ says Armitage, clapping her hands together. ‘Today has been a long day filled with what-the-fuck and I-don’t-know-what. I’m tired, I stink, and I’m going home to veg in front of the TV for the rest of the night. You? Wait – don’t tell me.’ Armitage puts a hand to her head as we cross the street, heading back to her car. ‘I’m picking up an image. I see . . . something murky in your future. Something disgusting. An evil odour and taste. It’s . . . it’s whisky.’
‘Har-de-har-har.’
We arrive back at the car. The street is deserted. No clubs or pubs down this end. Too far out. Light from shop windows spills out onto the sidewalk.
Something catches my eye. A glint of metal.
I look down and see a shiny coin next to my foot.
A five rand coin.
I frown at it.
‘Hey . . .’ I say. I hesitate, hearing the words in my head.
Pick it up. Pick it up.
I bend down.
And a spray of bullets shatters the window behind me, showering me with broken glass.
Automatic gunfire explodes around us. I dive behind the car. Armitage scrambles around from the driver’s side to join me. She already has her gun in her hand. I pull out my Glock.
The gunfire carries on. The shop displays in front of us are being shredded, bullets ripping through the buildings. Bottles of whisky and beer exploding in the liquor store. Clothing and pillows bursting into floating feathers and shredded material. The heavy thunk-thunk of bullets hitting the car, metal vibrating beneath my back.
‘You see anything?’ I shout.
Armitage shakes her head. She crawls slowly forward so she can peer around the front of the car. I head to the back.
The gunfire stops. I slowly put my head around the bumper. Muzzle flash from a building across the street. Upper storey window. I jerk back. Bullets skit across the ground where my hand was, thump into the bumper.
I put my hand around the car and fire off five or six shots in the general direction of the muzzle flash. Armitage is doing the same.
‘How many?’ I shout.
‘Multiple muzzle flashes. Five at least.’
Shit. We’re pinned down.
Another burst of gunfire aiming for the front of the car. Armitage and I hunker down and I’m praying a bullet doesn’t ricochet beneath and bounce into one of us.
‘So who the bloody hell are they?’ screams Armitage.
Who indeed? This didn’t have the smell of magic about it.
‘We can’t stay here forever, Tau.’
No. We can’t. I scan the street, then fire a couple of shots at a shop about ten doors down, shattering the glass in the door. Hopefully our friends across the road don’t notice.
‘Cover me,’ I say.
Her eyes widen. ‘What—’
But I’m already moving, running from cover. She swears and fires frantically over the hood of the car as I dive through the empty window of the liquor store we’d parked next to. I land in a lake of whisky and brandy, slide forward until I hit into a shelf, knocking the remaining bottles over.
I catch one. Glenfiddich. It’ll do. I yank the cork out and take a mouthful.
Then I’m moving, heading towards the back of the shop. Past the till, into the office at the back. There’s a locked door here. I kick it open and step into a dark alley. Crates of bottles waiting for recycling are piled against the wall. I peer around them, scanning the darkness.
Nothing.
I run to the right, counting ten shops before stopping before a metal door. This one has a huge padlock on it. I shoot it off, pull the door open. Step inside and make my way through a dingy office and into the shop.