by Adam Hamdy
Schaefer moved along the corridor studying the intricate graffiti that covered the walls. Graffiti was the wrong word – these were painted occult symbols masquerading as street art. The patterns were more accessible than the ones in the house and Schaefer recognised most of the symbols: invocations of protection commonly seen in and around dark temples. There were a handful of glyphs that were new to Schaefer. He followed them along the wall, taking photos of the strange letters – Aramaic? Sumerian? – as he went. Their trail led him down the corridor. When he reached the fire door at the other end, Schaefer noticed an image, which he must have passed during his pursuit of Yates the previous night. It was etched into the plasterwork, the neat scoring creating a white stencil against the local authority grey wall. Schaefer moved closer and studied the image. It was a delicate representation of a man chasing a young girl in a cloak. The girl in the cloak was running, just out of reach of the man who had his arm outstretched in an attempt to get hold of her. Schaefer felt an acidic knot tighten around his gut as he looked at the symbols beside the two figures: three bevelled stars; the insignia of a British Army captain; a crook, the symbol for a shepherd; and the Ouroboros, the mystical snake swallowing its own tail. Schaefer suddenly felt weak, the man in the image was meant to be him, the girl, Amber.
“Infusco revolvo.” The words were like a whispered breeze.
Schaefer looked round and saw a man in a dark suit at the other end of the corridor.
“What did you say?” Schaefer demanded as he marched towards the man, full of purposeful anger.
“I said you shouldn’t be here,” the stranger responded.
“Who are you?” Schaefer demanded. “What is this place?”
The suited man expressed puzzlement at the questions, but Schaefer was in no mood to play games. He grabbed the man by the collar and forced him against the wall.
“What is this place?” Schaefer growled.
“I don’t know. Please don’t hurt me,” the suited man pleaded, reaching for his wallet. “I’m with the council. I’m just here to survey the damage.”
Schaefer studied the man’s identification – Neil Molloy, a local civil servant with the Housing Department – and deflated, like a sail suddenly robbed of wind. He let go of his shaken victim, as the adrenalin, generated by the prospect of imminent violence, dissipated. Schaefer studied the man closely, and saw the fear of an innocent in his eyes. The man backed away and Schaefer saw the familiar efforts of a terrified man trying not to draw attention to himself – he was even trying not to breathe.
“Sorry, wrong floor,” Schaefer said by way of explanation. He backed away, and then turned for the exit. Neil Molloy didn’t start breathing again until the fire door slammed shut behind Schaefer.
*
As he drove across London, Schaefer’s mind fired furiously trying to make a connection between Amber and Yates. Thousands of threads, each followed to the ragged end, no matter how worn and tenuous. In his desperation Schaefer had followed absolutely every lead. A child matching Amber’s description seen in a Coventry chip shop. The ethereal spectre seen in a psychic’s dream, wafting over Exmoor. A gangster selling young girls on the back streets of Bristol. There was a time, around three years after the abduction, that Schaefer’s mind had broken down entirely and, in his madness, he had fabricated clues, created leads, and spun threads that simply didn’t exist. Schaefer had tortured dozens of men in the futile hope that his delusions might prove to be true. They had been guilty of something, but all were innocent of anything to do with Amber. In all the years he had been searching for her, there was nothing that linked the abduction to Yates, even by the most remote degrees of separation. Even taking his darkest, most desperate theories into account.
Schaefer parked at a meter on Saville Row, and walked the short distance past the Royal Academy to the Burlington Arcade. The arcade’s twinkling lights, sparking glass, and polished floor always made Schaefer feel uneasy. This was a world he was no longer a part of. The smart young couple browsing in the windows of the bespoke jewellers. The fur-clad old lady enjoying a late stroll with her pocket-sized pedigree. The moneyed executive buying a designer pashmina for his expectant lover. Happy people living bright, promising lives that were now as alien to Schaefer as his desolate, bleak existence would be to them.
Mathers Antiquarian Books. Embossed gold letters against gloss black paint. The sign ran above the hardwood framed window. Unlike most of the shops in the arcade, Mathers’ did not have a display. A red curtain hid the interior from passing eyes. A red shade delivered the same privacy at the door. Schaefer heard the familiar ring of the old-fashioned bell as he entered. A grey-skinned customer with a pock-marked face looked up from the book he was studying. His face betrayed no emotion as he watched Schaefer shut the door, and he returned to his old book. Kelvin, the fat manager, with thinning curly hair, stood behind a counter near the window. He nodded a quiet welcome at Schaefer. Schaefer raised his chin in response, and pressed through the shop. The packed, floor-to-ceiling bookcases were spaced no more than eighteen inches apart, creating narrow aisles that could only accommodate one person. Every time he walked down one of these aisles, Schaefer felt oppressed by the towering proximity of all the books. They loomed over him like so many reminders of his ignorance. Mathers’ was a place to visit when he wanted to be reminded how little he still knew. After six yards, Schaefer emerged from the aisle into a narrow corridor that ran behind the book cases. He opened a door that was covered in embossed red leather and stepped into Mathers’ private rooms.
Schaefer had first come to see Mathers just after Amber’s abduction. A university professor had recommended the strange, slight man as one of the country’s foremost experts in the occult. Mathers had an unrivalled knowledge of the dark arts and Schaefer had always been able to rely on him to find answers to even the most arcane questions. That’s probably why Mathers always had people waiting to see him. Schaefer looked around the waiting room and saw a scene similar to that of all his previous visits. Six chairs lined the undecorated walls on either side of the room, and in each chair sat peculiar men and women. Schaefer rarely used the word peculiar, but in these circumstances, nothing else would do. The woman with alabaster skin was a perfect example. Her haunted, pale face was broken by a tiny nose, blood red lips, and red-rimmed eyes that contained the most striking jewel green irises. She looked at Schaefer when he entered, and then immediately looked away. She seemed to be muttering something under her breath, but was trying not to be seen moving her lips. Schaefer guessed she was a student. Maybe a psychology student? Psychologists were all strange. The other eleven men and women in the room were built along similar lines; people who might merit a second glance if you passed them in the street, but who, when collected together, looked like they belonged in another world. The old, dark African man with a shaved head and eyes that were that little bit too intense. The melancholic, albino youth with wavy white hair whose eyes flitted around nervously. The fat, middle-aged, blind woman in the garish flowery dress. But then, Schaefer wondered, what must I look like to them? The occult does not attract the happy people. They don’t want the arcane to taint their bright, promising lives.
“Good evening, Mr Schaefer,” Penny said with a smile. She sat behind a small clerk’s desk that was set against the far wall. Her striking blonde hair fell straight about her angular face.
“Looks like a busy night,” Schaefer observed.
“He always has time for you. Let me just tell him you’re here.”
Schaefer watched Penny enter Mathers’ office. Her tight pencil skirt, stockings, and high heels were like something out of an old movie. She moved with a graceful confidence that seemed out of place in this room full of freaks. Schaefer caught sight of Mathers as Penny stepped into the room. The small, frail man sat at his enormous partners’ desk, and was almost obscured by the piles of books that covered the area that would have been his partner’s, had he one. Penny emerged a moment later and becko
ned Schaefer.
“Mr Mathers will see you now, Mr Schaefer.”
Penny smiled as Schaefer passed her in the doorway.
“Do you need anything, Mr Mathers?” Penny asked.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Mathers said without looking up from the manuscript he was studying.
“I’m okay,” Schaefer replied.
“Nothing for me, thank you, Penny.”
Penny pulled the door shut as she left the room.
Mathers finally looked up with piercing eyes that looked like they could penetrate the flesh and study the soul. He never made any apology for his intensity. Mathers’ life was not a light-hearted journey; it was an unrelenting search for knowledge. He examined Schaefer for a moment, and then leant back in his leather–lined captain’s chair.
“Thomas, it’s been too long,” Mathers began. “How are you?”
Schaefer suspected that Mathers had already reached his own answer to that question, but he answered nonetheless, “Keeping busy.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I found some glyphs I don’t recognise,” Schaefer said as he pulled out his camera. He walked around the desk and leant over to share the images. The first picture was of the three triangle mandala in the derelict kitchen in Yates’ house. Mathers studied the image with a look of recognition.
“Yes, yes. We have talked of this one before. It is a ceremonial mandala used in many occult rituals,” Mathers said. “Where was this picture taken? Is that paint?”
“It’s light sensitive. These markings are concealed in normal light, they only show under ultraviolet,” Schaefer replied. “They were in an abandoned house that was being used by the leader of the Area Boys. Have you heard of them?”
Mathers shook his head.
“Should I have?”
“It was a criminal gang run by a man called Leon Yates. He used cult techniques to indoctrinate members and ensure loyalty. It’s obvious from these that he was dabbling in the occult.”
“More than dabbling, I’d say,” Mathers observed as Schaefer flicked through the photographs. “This here,” Mathers said, pointing to a section of symbols in a photo of the living room, “this is a Sumerian Snare. It’s an ancient spell of binding, designed to trap and contain a human spirit.”
“You don’t believe in that kind of thing, do you?” Schaefer asked.
Mathers took a long hard look at him, and then slowly shook his head.
“When are you going to open your mind to the possibilities, Thomas?” He asked irritably. “In all the years you have been coming to me, you still refuse to accept that there is more to life than what you can see.”
“I’ve been around enough cults to know that’s exactly how they get you. Once you admit there’s more to life, you admit that someone else might know more than you – a priest, a guru, a swami – and before you know it, they’re telling you how to live. The world is what I can see and feel,” Schaefer said, placing his hand on Mathers’ desk to emphasise the point. “Anything else is just a fairy-tale.”
“Then why do you come to me?” Mathers asked. “I’ll never be able to give you answers that are grounded in your real world. This,” Mathers said, indicating Schaefer’s camera, “is the world of shadows. You will only ever truly understand what is happening if you accept that.”
“Do you know what infusco revolvo means?” Schaefer asked with a smile.
Mathers threw up his hands and sat back in his chair.
“And still you persist in asking me questions?”
“I don’t have to share your beliefs, Alistair,” Schaefer countered. “I just need your insight.”
Mathers sighed as he smiled sadly at Schaefer. “It’s Latin. It means darkness reborn. Where did you see it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Schaefer replied curtly.
“You didn’t see it, did you?” Mathers surmised. “You must accept that there is more to this world, Thomas. It is very important.”
“And these,” Schaefer continued, ignoring Mathers’ remarks. “I found them in a tower block used by Yates.”
Schaefer showed Mathers pictures of the etching of the man reaching for the young girl in a cloak.
“It’s you,” Mathers said without hesitation. “The three stars are the insignia for a British Army Captain; your rank when you were discharged if I’m not mistaken. The crook is the symbol of a Shepherd; the German for Shepherd is Schaefer. And the Ouroboros, the snake that eats itself, is one of many occult symbols for eternity. I can only assume that the girl is…”
Mathers left the words hanging.
“Yeah,” Schaefer said with a sudden tension in his voice. “Amber. What does it mean? Am I going to be chasing her forever?”
“I’m not a fortune teller,” Mathers replied. “I can only try to tell you what whoever scored this into the wall was trying to achieve, not whether they will succeed.”
“Well?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen this combination of markings before. I’ll need to look into it.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Schaefer said, as he turned for the door.
“Look after yourself,” Mathers counselled. “Whatever they mean, these markings are clearly intended to bring darkness.”
“I’m used to it,” Schaefer said flatly. “Call me when you’ve found something.”
Schaefer walked out, and left Mathers to his books.
*
The Royal Inn on the Park was a popular pub in a gentrified part of Hackney. Located on the perimeter of Victoria Park, the bar was clean, spacious, and full of happy people enjoying their bright lives. Schaefer would normally have given the place a wide berth, but five years ago he rescued the absentee owner’s brother from a cult and had earned himself the run of the place in the process. Schaefer never had to pay for another drink, and the bar staff all knew he was not to be refused anything. The Inn had become a home from home, and sometimes, as he watched Hackney’s bright, young residents laughing under the low lighting, Schaefer would try to pretend that the past ten years hadn’t happened, and that he was really just enjoying a quick drink on his way home to Sarah, Oliver and Amber. Instead, he was a brooding figure who sat at the bar and drank remorselessly. Out of place, and alone, patrons knew not to approach him, guys never picked fights with him, and women never gave him a second glance. He exuded danger, and carried with him the darkness of the world that was his day to day existence. Even the bar staff, who knew of his great service to their employer, were never anything more than professional and courteous.
Schaefer downed his rum and waved the empty glass at Tilly, the smiling, slightly overweight blonde. While she got to work on the refill, Schaefer took out his phone and the card that Gilmore had given him. He dialled the number, which went through to voicemail.
“Mrs Blake, this is Thomas Schaefer,” he said, his words running together ever so slightly. The rum was already getting to work. “Doctor Gilmore thought we should meet. Perhaps you could give me a call. My number is 07799346720.”
Schaefer hung up as Tilly pushed a brimming glass across the bar.
“Thanks,” Schaefer said.
Tilly said nothing, but smiled sadly, as though she could see Schaefer’s tragedy writ large. Schaefer was used to the reaction. Even among his clients, who would be desperate for his friendship and promise him the world when they needed him. When he had closed a case, most of them wanted nothing to do with him. He was a bitter reminder of a world they preferred to forget had ever touched their lives. Even Richard, the owner of The Inn, had grown distant. On the rare occasions they saw one another in the pub, Richard would give Schaefer a couple of minutes stilted conversation before remembering something that required his urgent attention. Schaefer didn’t bear any of them any ill will; he knew he was doomed to be an outsider. He sometimes wondered how he would have reacted if he had met himself eleven years ago. A shudder, that same look of pity, and a desire to get to a safe distance as quickly as possible. Sc
haefer smiled as he thought of the man he once was. That man was long dead. Even if he could find Amber, he would never be able to go back to the man he was. Schaefer drained his glass, and tried to confuse the warmth of the rum filling his stomach with happiness. He held his empty glass aloft and nodded at Tilly. She was going to have a busy night.
SIX
Schaefer woke to the dull roar of a vacuum cleaner. He was lying on an old Chesterfield that occupied a quiet corner of the pub. The cleaner, Natasha, a sour-faced, middle-aged Eastern European, shook her head with obvious disapproval as she saw Schaefer come round. Not for her the looks of pity, she only knew him as a drunk, who, for some inexplicable reason, was allowed to sleep off his excesses in the lounge bar. Schaefer’s skull throbbed violently, his eyes were gritty and stung as light assaulted them, and his tongue, swollen and fur-lined, oozed a disgusting film that slithered down his burning throat. As his brain ran through its customary post-binge boot-up process, Schaefer realised he was supposed to be somewhere. He checked his watch and sat up with a start: he was late. When the head rush subsided, and he retreated from the edge of a blackout, Schaefer stood slowly, and shuffled unsteadily to the door.
*
If the Burlington Arcade made Schaefer uneasy, St Paul’s Cathedral made him feel positively reprehensible. Wren’s high church loomed over him, making him acutely aware of his insignificance. When everyone else had given up, only he, tiny and impotent, still chipped away at the task of finding Amber. The cathedral’s heavy immensity only served to remind him that he didn’t stand a chance.