The Acolyte

by Nick Cutter

  “You’ll be granted no such opportunity,” said Quint Two. “Coordination bespeaks parity, of which there will be none.”

  “We put ourselves in the hands of these capable men,” Exeter went on anxiously. “The Lord shall guide us. Should they require intelligence in the way of known heathens, ghetto hotspots, etcetera, we are duty-bound to provide it.”

  Quint Four rose. His movements were chillingly brachial—a spider with half as many limbs. He crossed behind his brothers to hover directly behind Exeter.

  The Chief flipped a glance over his shoulder, gripped the lectern, swallowed, went on: “In the interests of public tranquility, I expect we’ll continue to search out and punish the culprits, as our Prophet has requested—”

  Quint One, legs crossed and fingers knitted over his kneecap, tilted his chin and said, “Is that what your Prophet requested?”

  When Exeter affirmed this, the Quint removed one hand from his knee and ran a finger down a scar curving under his jaw.

  “Requests made by your Prophet will forthwith be afforded as much attention as the howling of a dog.”

  Quint Five, sitting closest to the lectern, stood, crossed in front of his seated brothers and stopped behind the seat vacated by the Quint who currently stood behind Exeter. That Quint, Four, guided Exeter from the lectern and bid him sit in the unoccupied seat.

  “Gentlemen,” said Four, “my brothers and I extend our thanks for welcoming us into your bosoms. Evidently you are unable to keep the devil off your doorstep.”

  The Quint standing behind Exeter produced a small bundle from his duster pocket and unfolded it on his flattened palm: a black satin sack.

  When he slipped the sack over Exeter’s head, one plain-clothesmen laughed: actually more of a hysterical, confused yip. The sack was pulled sheer across Exeter’s face so we could all see his nose and the jut of his chin.

  Exeter spoke the first few words of a prayer before the Quint to his right pulled a thin bone-handled knife from his boot and stuck it through the black cloth and into Exeter’s neck.

  Exeter made a sound like he’d been doused with icy water. The blade passed through his throat, through his windpipe, the tip winking out the far side. His arms dipped then went up again, fists clenched, thumbs stuck out: giving us an involuntary thumbs-up. Gurgling, drowning on his own blood. Loafers beating a rat-a-tat-tat on the tiles. Blood from his carotid artery jetted round the knife handle.

  The Quint who’d done it, Two, leaned in close to Exeter’s ear. I watched his lips move.

  What do you see? he asked.

  Exeter’s legs slowed and stopped. Gravity pulled his neck from the knife blade; he fell sideways into the Quint on his left, who raised a knee to casually deflect Exeter’s bagged head from his lap. The body thumped on the floor.

  Four cleared his throat. “It is difficult to find the right words at times like this.”

  Hollis jerked up, teeth bared like some feral animal, backing through the throng and out the door. The Quints let him go.

  “Should your services be required,” One addressed the rest of us, fingers re-knitted over his knee, “we’ll reach out and touch you.”

  Two: “Questions?”

  Five: “No?”

  Four: “Dismissed then, gentlemen.”

  Out in the parking lot I had to force myself not to break into a run. I needed to put space between myself and the sight of Exeter laid out on the piss-yellow tiles, a pool of blood shaping itself around his head. The motor pool cage was unmanned. I grabbed a set of keys and scribbled my name on the sign-out sheet . . . then crossed it out. It was stealing, technically—but when a man takes property that isn’t his and uses it as a tool of survival, does it count as stealing?

  I ran into Garvey in the garage. A rumpled combat jacket draped over his shoulders, paper-bagged bottle of Hallelujah Energy Boost sticking from one pocket.

  “What the hell happened?” His canines were stippled with pinholes of decay. “I never had much use for Exeter, but hog-sticking him like that . . .”

  He pulled the bottle from his pocket, tore the bag in thin strips around the mouth and took a desperate chug. “Where are you going?”

  “Haven’t thought that far ahead,” I told him.

  “Can I come with?”

  The prospect of sharing a car with an antsy, drug-addled Garvey was not one I relished.

  “We should work separately. Cover more ground.”

  He gripped my shoulder. His fingers—blackened tips, as if he’d burned them on a hot plate or something—twined with my hair at the back of my neck and twisted through it. Slowly, deliberately. Lovingly.

  “We’re buddies, aren’t we?” he asked. “Been through a lot. Still pals, right?”

  “We’re whatever you want us to be, Garvey.”

  “We’re close.” Twisting, twining. A rash of gooseflesh broke out over my upper arms. “We go waaaaay back. . . .”

  I removed his fingers, gave his hand back to him. He tucked it to his chest as a cripple might.

  In the prowl car, I scanned the CB dial: nothing but static. On a channel way down the dial I swore I heard someone sobbing softly into the open frequency. Chalked it up to some atmospheric anomaly.

  Goat and Rabbit

  The heathen girl was still there when I got home.

  She’d showered and eaten and now sat in the farthest corner of the room, balled up where the walls met, as if her being there might be tolerable so long as she took up as little space as possible. She looked much nicer having reacquainted herself with soap. Kitchen countertops gleaming, the air hung with a hint of pine. She’d tidied up.

  I plodded into the living room, kicked off my brogans and slumped on the sofa. Amira’s gaze was latched on me.

  “Okay?” she said.

  Okay her still being here, or was I okay? In either case, “Okay.”

  She uncoiled herself and traipsed delicately across the room like a schoolgirl attempting to sneak out of class unbeknownst to her headmaster. She poked a finger through the birdcage’s lattice, wiggling it. Bird twittered, pleased with the attention.

  “She’ll bite you.”

  Amira yanked her finger back.

  I said, “Can you blame her? What if a giant came along and stuck its big fat finger through your window?”

  She said, “It’s a pretty bird,” in a way that suggested such a creature wasn’t capable of anything so mean-spirited as biting her.

  “Her name is Bird.”

  She asked, “Do you play with it?”

  “You can’t play with a bird. They don’t fetch sticks.”

  She gestured to the aquarium. Her top lip curled to touch the tip of her nose.

  “He looks slimy.”

  “Plenty of animals are slimy or ugly or smelly,” I said. “So are lots of people. You stunk this morning. Frog can’t help being slimy. That’s the way God made him.”

  “I like furry animals,” she offered.

  “He’s really more sticky than slimy. Touch him. You’ll see.”

  Amira was disinclined to accept my offer.

  “What are you, afraid to touch him?”

  Her eyes held mine. A calm dauntless shade of grey. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Well, he needs to be fed.”

  I cracked the freezer door and shoved aside butcher-wrapped goat flanks until I located the package of beef heart. I hacked off a half-ounce and popped it in the microwave.

  I said: “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  I rubbed my jaw, considering her. This was a shrewd eleven-year-old. The microwave dinged. I cut the meat into tiny cubes and slid them off the cutting board onto a saucer.

  “Grab some toothpicks,” I said to Amira, pointing to the drawer they were in.

  The frog swam circles round the f
lat rock in the centre of the tank.

  “He’s blind,” I told Amira. “But he’s got a great sense of smell.”

  I pinned a shred of meat on the point of a toothpick. Frog clambered onto the rock and nosed along in his ungainly way, zeroing in on the beef heart and, with a graceless little lunge, snatched it off the toothpick.

  Amira was fascinated. “Can I try?”

  She laughed excitedly when Frog made his move and snatched the meat. Amira stuck a cube to her finger and waved it before the frog’s mouth. She did not draw back at his lunge. The cube disappeared, leaving a spot of wetness on her fingertip.

  Now I was fascinated. “Did it hurt? Does he have teeth?”

  “No teeth. It felt . . .”—a considerable pause—“. . . slimy.”

  “You like furry animals, do you?”

  She said, “Furry’s nice.”

  “Alright, then. Come with me.”

  The shop front was tall and narrow, wedged between a soup kitchen and a blood bank, both of which were closed. A wooden ram’s head dangled on a single chain above the door, the other having snapped. The neon sign was busted.

  The shop was locked. I knocked. The funereal-looking proprietor shuffled to the door and unsnapped the deadbolts.

  “Officer Murtag, do come in.”

  When I stepped aside he got a glimpse of Amira. He set a hand on my shoulder and in an apologetic tone said, “I’m afraid there are still limits to the sacrifices we can arrange.”

  I shouldered past him. The goods were picked over ruthlessly. A scrawny molting dove lay asleep in its cage. A goat with ribs poking out like staves.

  “Look around,” I said to Amira. “Pick whatever you’d like.”

  The owner gripped my elbow. “You realize it won’t matter if they’re sacrificed on her behalf. Her soul is permanently stained.”

  “Are you saying we can’t conduct business?”

  I’d known this man on an informal basis for years; he wasn’t the type to let moral qualms intrude on a sale.

  “You’d be throwing your money away but—”

  “—so long as it’s thrown into your pockets, right?” I said.

  After a thorough scouting of the goods, Amira settled on a small brown-eared rabbit, the only one left.

  I said: “How much for the cage?”

  The owner frowned. “What use is its—?”

  “How . . . much?”

  His quote for the rabbit and cage was outlandish. Amira was over with the goat now. She scratched the bristly hair between its amputated horns; it bleated and chewed the sleeve of her parka. She looked at me.

  “Who wants a goat?” I said to her.

  “Me,” she said.

  I sighed. “How much for the goat?” I asked the owner.

  Another outrageous price. I agreed so long as he’d throw in a bag of barley pellets. I tossed the sack of pellets over my shoulder and grabbed the goat’s lead. Amira carried the rabbit.

  “You can’t leave with live animals, officer,” said the owner. “It’s against the law.”

  I booted the door open. “Feel free to make a citizen’s arrest.”

  “We need to give them names,” I said, walking home. “Pets need names.”

  Amira said, “Can’t we call them Goat and Rabbit?”

  “No. They need real names. They’re yours now. Name them.”

  The goat gnawed at a patch of scraggly weeds sprouting round a telephone pole.

  “Any names I want?”

  “Whatever names you want, yeah.”

  “Okay. The goat will be . . . Dighet.”

  “Dig it? Dig what?”

  Amira pronounced it slowly: “Deeg-hat.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Goat.”

  “So, wait,” I said, “you’re naming the goat Goat—only in Arabic?”

  “You said whatever I wanted. And the rabbit . . . Hoppsy.”

  Visit from a Quint

  Afternoon into early evening was spent getting the animals settled in.

  Hoppsy was an easy matter; his cage rested by the window. Dighet the goat was trickier. He could not be given free rein on account of a destructive appetite: his first order of business upon entering the apartment had been to eat the laces out of my sneakers.

  The apartment next door lay vacant. I clambered onto the fire escape and cracked the window with a screwdriver. We lined one of the empty bedrooms with newspapers. Amira positioned a sheet from the society section—a full-page photo of The Prophet—face-up where Dighet might be inclined to piss on it. We filled a bucket with pellets and another with water.

  “You should check on him twice a day,” I told Amira, who nodded solemnly.

  We were eating canned stew I’d scavenged from the next door apartment when someone knocked on the door. I put a finger over my lips and nodded to the bedroom closet. Amira slipped into the closet while I slipped into my shoulder rig and unsnapped the trigger guard.

  Another knock. I went to the door. The bedroom closet made the softest click.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mary Kay calling.”

  Fear stole over the crown of my skull and shrink-wrapped the skin down my throat. I knew that voice.

  I opened the door. I had to.

  The Quint—Number Two; the one who’d stabbed Exeter—stood squared in the frame. He had a good head and a half on me, though there couldn’t be more than a hundred and fifty pounds cladding those bones. He was dressed the same as earlier with the addition of a wide-brimmed felt hat; he had the look of travelling preacher.

  He pressed a finger to my heart. “You’ve been touched.”

  His car shone like an alligator skull under the streetlamp. Its interior was coffin-dark. Its roof was strapped with shotguns, pistols, what looked to be a sniper rifle. A pine-scented crucifix was garrotted from the rearview mirror. The backseat was full of children’s toys. Teddy bears and ragdolls. All the eyes had been inked out with a black marker.

  “You’re looking at my tattoo,” he said once we’d gotten on the road.

  I hadn’t but it struck me as unwise to contradict his assumption.

  “Nobody does tattoos anymore,” Two went on, “bodily adornment being a sin. An old Navy man did ours. He’d never learned to draw much more than anchors and hearts and skulls, those being the sum of the shipmen’s requests.”

  The car hit a pothole. The Quint cracked a window; wind hissed through the slit, ruffling the hair of the black-eyed toys in the backseat.

  “Your city stinks of rotten meat.”

  He wrenched the wheel, whipsawing across the opposite lane. The Buick’s tires skipped up over the curb and back to the macadam. Reaching out, Two brushed his fingers across my cheek: like being brushed with the bone-stubs of something long dead.

  “Tell me, Acolyte Murtag . . . does the name Victor Appleton tickle your brainstem?”

  “No. That’s a blank.”

  The Quint offered the most animal smile ever to grace a human countenance. Every square inch of his face was scarified: wire-thin scars crisscrossed his cheeks and lips and even eyelids, horizontal intersecting with vertical, overlapping like the cured reeds of a wicker basket.

  Why not just tell him? Tom Swift, Porter Rockwell, Damascus Towers, Jeremiah. It would be no different than siccing two packs of rabid dogs on each other. But I didn’t.

  We pulled up beside the gutted remains of The Manger. The club’s back end was blown apart, blackened rafters poking at the sky. The sidewalk was littered with wilted bouquets and candles melted to pools of colourful wax on the concrete.

  The Quint kicked his way through the flowers and crunched a framed photo of Eve under his boot. He knocked around inside for a few minutes and came out with streaks of char on his face.

  “Come, Acolyte. We�
��ve the Lord’s work to do.”

  The joint standing catty-corner to the Manger was nameless: only a buzzing neon martini glass marked it an establishment currently accepting clientele. A bleary porthole window was inset in its swinging door; the Quint shouldered it open and I trailed him inside.

  The bar was dark, the only light shed by the cathode rays of an ancient TV bolted over the scarred bar. Even the air tasted scummy. High-backed booths ran up the left side; all save the last were unoccupied. A gilt-edged portrait of The Prophet—his more censorious expression, as required by law in such establishments—hung over a rack of dusty RC bottles behind the bar. A jukebox played “Missionary Man.”

  The bartender possessed the plastic face of a used car salesman. Brilliantined hair, plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, flyspecked apron. His was a face best served by mood lighting.

  “What can I get you fine Followers?” he said a little queasily.

  “Soda water,” said the Quint. I nodded the same.

  The Quint sipped his soda and, finding it to his liking, downed the glass. The bartender refilled it swiftly. A cockroach scuttled down the bar ledge. Big as a communion wafer. I slipped my coaster over top of it. The coaster scuttled forward a few inches. I set my glass atop it, pressed down until it went crunch.

  “Sorry for the state of the place,” said the bartender, wiping a grotty rag down the bar.

  The Quint said, “There was an explosion across the road.”

  “That was a while back.”

  The Quint’s arm snaked out, corralling the bartender’s rag-hand. “I trust your memory goes back that far?”

  The bartender squirmed. “It does.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Saw? Nothing. It’s a different breed of clientele: they had all the young ones, the spangly nightclub crowd; we . . .”—he cast a desperate eye around the place, urging us to draw our own conclusions—“. . . appeal to earthier tastes.”

  “So you didn’t see anything?”

  The bartender’s hand turned white in the Quint’s grip.

  “Heard the explosion alright. We all rushed outside to look.”