“The woman’s name? What’s the woman’s name?” shouted the Harbinger above the commotion.
“Eliziah.” It was the tall, bearded man who called back. Then something else, her surname maybe, but the Harbinger did not catch it.
He felt someone barge past him, knocking him off his stride, then the back of one of the midgets pushing his way to the front, grunting for people to stand aside. The other followed shortly after and then a boy of about his own age. The Harbinger mistook him for a man at first because of his height but as he passed their eyes met briefly and the Harbinger was able to deduce from the stranger’s youthful face that he was no man. His eyes were set deep in their sockets behind dark rings chiselled into an expressionless and sallow face.
The priest’s hand on his shoulder made him jump.
“Now, boy,” he said. “The blasphemy in this room is not for the witness of someone so young.”
“But I’ve just seen-”
There was a tremendous crashing noise, no less than could have been summoned by the roof being lifted from its frame and left to drop back down onto the house. Then the wailing. The terrible, repugnant noise of distress, or rage, or extraordinary sorrow - the Harbinger could not tell which – emanating from the room at the end of the corridor. A fear rippled through the Harbinger that he had never before felt. The voice seemed not to have an exclusive quality to it, like it was many voices layered on top of each other, but whether it was the utterance of man, woman or beast, the Harbinger could not be sure.
“The demon calls us, father!” shouted the bearded man, throwing the door open and flooding the landing with light.
The Harbinger looked at the priest, but his eyes were averted. He waited but there were no words of comfort, no soothing hand on his arm. The priest was making his way across the corridor already, avoiding the Harbinger’s pleading gaze. The others filed into the room, one-by-one swallowed up in the glorious radiance. The noise from the room – the unfathomable sounds of madness – engulfed the Harbinger, pulling him to the floor.
“Father!” he cried but even his own voice was suppressed by the noise to nothing more than a muffled whimper. He looked up, furrowed his brow as much as he could to block out the intense light, and saw momentarily the priest’s face break through as if it had floated upwards through a pool of water. He mouthed something. A word. But the Harbinger could not see what it was. He was gone in an instant before the Harbinger could react.
The sound of the door slamming brought complete, impenetrable silence.
The Harbinger waited. The room had turned icy cold. The rain had stopped. The lights flickered uncertainly. This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be able to see his breath in June. At the end of the corridor, the light seeping through the cracks around the door burned fiercely, as if there was a fire blazing on the other side. Perhaps there was? Perhaps that was why the noise had stopped so suddenly. They had all trooped into the room only to be consumed in the fiery pits of Hell.
The Harbinger didn’t know what to do. Father Ireland had left him no instructions but he had tried to say something to him at the end before he went into the room. What was it? The Harbinger tried to recall the movements of the priest’s lips, trying to form a word. One word, he was sure of that. Something short.
He took an uneasy step away from the door; his foot felt something on the carpet. He looked down. The tatty leather cover had come away from the paper a little. There was a picture of a funny looking sun and an inscription but the words were too difficult to read. The sun was yellow: a small circle with nine uneven rays of light branching outwards from the centre. He picked the book up and a thought struck him: perhaps Father Ireland had dropped it accidently and needed it. Perhaps he was at this very moment scrambling through his bag in desperation, searching for the text.
He looked at the door again. The outline seemed even brighter, but there was no sound coming from the other side. The horrible wailing had stopped. The Harbinger found himself moving forward timidly, driven by some subconscious compulsion. He must give the book to his teacher, he was sure of it.
He put a hand to the door, lowered his head to the wood, listened hard. Nothing. The handle was brass, heavy and ornately shaped. One sharp tug and it would give. Less than two inches of wood separating him from... from what? Two worlds sprung to his mind but he knew it was just his overactive imagination. Like Alice, teetering on the precipice of the burrow, he thought.
He touched the handle. Felt something, some small vibration; pressure from the other side? He hoped not. The handle clicked easily, light streamed into his face from where the door had opened a little. He couldn’t see into the room but he was committed now. He pushed the door further, stepped onto a soft, crimson carpet, clutching the book under his arm like it was his most prized possession.
He had meant to just open the door a little way and peer round, hoping everyone in the room was too preoccupied to notice him but the hinges were too well oiled and the door slipped from his grasp, swinging wide open away from his trailing hand and he was left stranded, staring straight into the room.
Eyes turned on him. Lots of eyes, that’s what he noticed first. Those who had been downstairs to greet him: the bearded man, his portly companion, the dwarfs, the pale boy, the witchdoctor and others. They lined the sides of the room, heads turned towards him, bodies turned away. Like toy soldiers, they stood, rigid and erect. Like they were waiting for something.
Like they were waiting for someone.
The room was small and the parade members were crushed together awkwardly. There was no furniture save for a chair at the end on which sat a woman he had not seen before. Behind him, he heard the door shut.
“I-” he began, but he couldn’t find the courage to speak. Every nerve in his body tingled, every muscle flexed. He could hardly breathe. He concentrated instead on suppressing the urge to wretch as he scanned the room furiously, looking for his teacher. Surely Father Ireland would be here; surely he would step forward at any moment, put his hand on his shoulder, smile, say everything was okay and lead him away.
But nothing. The priest was in the room: hunched up against the far corner, hidden almost entirely behind the witchdoctor, whose massive body seemed to take up the space of two.
“Father-” he choked. But the priest didn’t answer. Father Ireland was the only member of the parade to be looking away, straight at the wall.
“I’m afraid he won’t respond to you.” The voice was the unknown woman. The Harbinger hadn’t looked at her before but he did so now. She sat crossed legged, perfectly properly, in a pale blue summer dress that flowed to the floor. She had mousy brown hair that hung loosely over her shoulder and a heart shaped face that bore just the slightest beginnings of weather lines, making her actual age difficult to determine. Her white skin – bare shoulders and arms – glistened so mystifyingly that the Harbinger wondered whether she had been the source of the light that had bled so strikingly through the cracks in the door.
For a moment, the Harbinger forgot his fear, embraced as he was in her captivating beauty.
“We’ve been waiting for you-” She said his name. How did she know his name? Her voice was soothing and low, nothing more than a whisper, like the wind rustling through the trees.
“I-” Still he couldn’t speak. His throat felt as though it had closed up, the last tiny airway fighting for breath.
“It’s ok,” she said. “Don’t be afraid. Just look at me. This is the most important day of your life.”
“Who... are you?” he managed.
“My name is Eliziah. I am the Demon Keeper.”
“Demon? Belial?”
“Yes. Belial. And others too. But, for now, Belial. I see you have the Key.”
She nodded at the book. The Harbinger had forgotten he was holding it but instinctively brought it from under his arm to show her.
“It’s a book,” he said. “Not a key.”
“No. It’s a key. A very special key. The Key.
Your teacher has no use for it now, having relieved himself of its burden, I see, by passing it on to you. His little protégé. How privileged you are and you don’t even know it. How pivotal you are to the future of this world. And yet you are so young, so weak, so...” she screwed up her face and for a moment her beauty gave way just a little and he caught a glimpse of something much more frightening in her, “...so innocent.”
“The book you carry,” she said, the radiance returning, “contains the entire history of matters past and future. It is the answer to everything and the question of nothing. It contains the judgment of all things. Its pages are fate, time, death, war, suffering, hope and love – all conjoined horribly and wondrously.”
She smiled at him, she was so captivating that he believed – wanted to believe – that she might not harm him. But the sick feeling in his gut told him otherwise.
“What have you done to him?” he asked, motioning to Father Ireland.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Can you not see? Poor child. He has betrayed you.”
“No!” shouted the Harbinger, the surge of anger overcoming his fear. He rushed over to his teacher, pawed at his coat, tried to turn his face but the old man resisted, moaning as if in pain, fighting to keep his eyes level with the wall and nothing else.
“Father! Father!” the boy shouted. “Wake up, father! What have they done with you?”
Tears welled up. His cheeks burned, hands sweated, but the priest was immovable. In the end the Harbinger collapsed at his feet, sobbing gently, his arm across his face, his head spinning with anger and confusion.
“There, there,” she said, her voice soothing and calm. She must feel his pain, he thought. She must understand. But she did not touch him. She didn’t move from the chair and, after a short while, his tears dried up and he was able to turn to her again and look upon her beauty.
“He betrayed you,” she repeated softly. “From the moment he picked you out of the prison cell you were his to groom, ready for this moment. Did you really think it was benevolence that drew him to you? Poor child. How deceived you have been. But no matter, your betrayal is our gain. You are here now, here to fulfil your destiny.”
From seemingly nowhere, Eliziah produced a small wooden box, which she placed on her knee. It was the size of a music box but when the Harbinger examined it a little closer he recognised the symbol on the top: the sun with the nine beams of light, the same as in the book.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A spirit box,” she replied. “In here is Belial. King Belial, Destroyer of Worlds.”
“I thought the demon was in you.”
“No,” she laughed, genuinely laughed. “No, the demon – as you call him – is in here and has been incarcerated in here for ten thousand years. Ten thousand years waiting for you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are the Harbinger.”
The boy thought about what the priest had told him. About his encounter with the Russian boy who had told him about the end of the world. The Harbinger was a man, the priest had said. A man with an incurable lust for power who would bring about the coming of Sin.
“I’m not him.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.” She smiled dreamily at him. “You are so young but in time you will realise the importance of your role in the fate of the world. You are a very important person.” She ran her hand along the edges of the box, intimately, lovingly, teasing the lock with the end of her finger. She looked the personification of everything the Harbinger had dreamt a woman should look like. He felt her penetrating stare fill him with energy, with lust. He moved towards her slowly, transfixed, like a moth drawn to the burning flame, reached out to touch her perfect, white skin. He moved so closely to her he could feel her breath on his face, felt her take his hand in hers, only vaguely aware of her fingers wrapping themselves round him, gently sliding his own hand along the curves of the box and under a small hinge.
Click.
And the world turned pure white.
V
“If ya’ don’t want money then what do ya’ want?”
The sound of George’s voice brought the Harbinger back from his daydream. He turned round, allowing George to see his full face for the first time and he took pleasure in the change that crossed the old man’s face as the realisation washed over him.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” he croaked.
Chapter 37
Ash sat at his desk thoughtfully. His office was not much bigger than a broom cupboard carved into the side of a much larger bull-pit where everyone else muscled in together. The Major Crime Unit had expanded quickly – eight officers in all now, including himself and Baron. There was hardly room to fit them in this end of the building. Funding cuts in other departments had created space elsewhere and there was talk of them swapping with the paedo hunters down the corridor. That was fine with him. Their DI had a decent size office with enough room for a two-seater sofa and at least three filling cabinets. It would be a good trade for Ash.
The window overlooked a back street: plastic bins, stairs lined with broken glass leading to terrace houses, an old Citroen parked on the curb. The houses were a mixture of student digs, local families and the occasional dealer. The first floor was below street level. If you walked along it and looked down through the peeling iron gates to the windows sunk into the building below you’d see a kaleidoscope of life. Men in string vests drinking beer, women with two or three young children strapped to their legs cooking, kids smoking joints while reading papers or weighing out hash on kitchen scales.
Maybe he wouldn’t like the move across the corridor. He’d miss the view.
Keera Julian stood at his doorway. She had a habit of hovering around his office when she wanted to speak to him rather than just coming in. He wasn’t sure why. He looked up at her and she smiled, or at least the corners of her mouth moved to form the image of a smile. He never saw her laugh, other than at other’s misfortune. It occurred to him how little he actually knew about her. She’d been promoted to DS a few years back, before Ash. She’d watched him rise from her subordinate to her superior in five years. He wondered if that was ever a problem. She was married but estranged. He knew that much. Her husband had run off with a younger model – one with a sense of humour perhaps – a few years ago but they’d never bothered to get a divorce. They simply forgot about their marriage, he thought. She wasn’t unattractive but not his type. All boobs and bum. The sort of thing Eran Green would like to get his chubby hands on. Still, now and again, he couldn’t help stealing a glance at the way her voluptuous curves undulated as she leant across the desk to hand him a file.
“Techies gave me this, boss. You better see it.”
“Okay,” he said, taking the file and opening it.
“They’ve started doing backgrounds on the massacre at White Helmsley. The whole village was piled up in that church from the youngest child to the oldest granny. It’ll take a few weeks to compile reports on each victim but this is of special interest.”
“South Glos have the White Helmsley job. We have to find Megan Laicey.”
“Fine,” she said, taking the file back off him. “Their DI thought you ought to read it anyway but I can send it back.”
“Okay I’ll read it.” She put the file back down. He knew she was annoyed he’d given the White Helmsley job away but it was technically outside of their patch and he’d have a job keeping it anyway. And Keera Julian was usually annoyed at something anyway so it might as well be this. “What is it?”
“One of the victims was a fourteen year old male named Jacob Lightfoot. This is a hardcopy of Jacob’s blog. He was posting it on Facebook although it doesn’t appear anybody actually read it.”
“Why not?”
“Because kids are boring. Would you want to read the juvenile ramblings of a child who hated his parents and believe no one understood him?”
“Okay. Give me the ten second summary.”
“It’s creepy as Hell
.”
“You still have eight seconds left.”
“I’ll leave it with you.”
She got up and walked out. He watched her arse wiggle out of the door. Too big, he thought. Not his type.
He turned to the file. About an inch of papers. A printout in a strange font he didn’t recognise. Presumably the techies had just produced the wording in their own format. It didn’t look a very intriguing blog. A lot of words in long paragraphs. No wonder no one bothered to read it.
He considered the papers before reading them. A dead boy’s diary. In a mystery like the White Helmsley incident, this was a valuable piece of evidence. He wondered why the DI at South Glos had sent it to him.
The start was typical of a kid writing without knowing why he was writing.
So this is my blog. My thoughts laid out bare for everyone to see. Please don’t judge me by them. I don’t like being judged. My name is Jacob and I’m 14. I’m clever but some kids say I’m stupid. I’m good with numbers but I need Word to do the spelling and grammar for me. I live in White Helmsley, which is a shithole. The pub closed last week because the landlord was having an affair with my neighbour Mrs Lodger and Mr Lodger found out. I hear them sometimes when I’m in the garden. They go into a shed at the bottom of the garden and shag. He’s quick. Quicker than me. Less than a minute sometimes but they stay in there for longer. It’s my fault that they got caught because one day when they were in there Mr Lodger came back from work earlier and I went round to ask if my dad could borrow a saw to build a bird table. He keeps the saw in the shed. I went down to the bottom of the garden and listened when he opened the door. It was awesome! Proper swearing and everything. I think Mr Lodger tried to punch the landlord (I don’t know his name, sorry) but I reckon that the landlord is harder than Mr Lodger. He’s an accountant or something. Anyway, now the pub’s closed so I guess that’s my fault.
Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1) Page 16