‘Living bitch,’ Cindy said, absently. She didn’t bother waiting to see if the remark caused any upset. Instead, struggling to make the task seem effortless, she put one foot in front of the other and made her way to the top of the stairs. It was not as arduous a climb as she had feared. When she realised she had managed the chore without incident, Cindy breathed a heavy sigh of satisfaction.
‘RICHARD!’ she called. ‘Are you up here, Richard? It’s Cindy!’
A figure loomed onto the landing in front of her. It was male, tall and rushing with wild urgency. After it had sped past her, Cindy recognised Richard. But he was clearly preoccupied with his own problems and didn’t see her standing at the top of the steps. It was instinctive to want to step backwards to avoid the inevitable collision but, because the dreaded stairs were behind her, Cindy fought the urge. Instead, she stepped to one side and allowed Richard to go rushing down the staircase.
Melissa came rushing at Cindy. She too was running and her path was on a collision course with where Cindy stood. Reminding herself that Melissa was a harmless, insubstantial ghost, Cindy held her ground and stared levelly at Melissa to show she was not intimidated.
When the woman pushed into her, knocking her backwards and into the empty air above the stairs, Cindy’s first thought was a panicked refusal that this was happening. She flailed to reach out for something. She needed to clutch anything that might slow her descent. Her feet kicked aimlessly in the air. She began to plummet down towards the marble stairs. A shriek of protest built up in her throat. Before she could release the sound, Melissa’s voice whispered in her ear, ‘Lucky me! I do have a corporeal presence.’
Will I get away with it?
Cindy was trying to think how she could now answer that question as she fell backwards on the same route that Melissa had taken on Friday night. The world turned upside down and her head connected with a hard, angular step. In that moment she understood that she wasn’t going to be as fortunate as Richard’s former wife when it came to surviving that first agonising descent. But it was only when her body had reached the floor at the bottom of the stairs that she understood her plight.
‘Cindy,’ Melissa said quietly.
Cindy could see that the woman was kneeling over her.
Melissa reached out and took the fractured remains of Cindy’s right hand. She lifted it in the air. Cindy tried to exercise some control over the arm, tried to retrieve her hand from Melissa’s grip, but the ability was beyond her.
‘Cindy,’ Melissa whispered conspiratorially. ‘Cindy. I think you might have broken a fingernail.’
26
‘I don’t get it,’ Becky complained. ‘How can you tell us a story about how you died, when you’re here talking? That doesn’t make sense.’ She glared angrily round at the others and said, ‘I’m right, aren’t I? That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It made as much sense as your story,’ Richard observed.
Cindy was indignant. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
Richard tightened a comforting hand against her shoulder. ‘No one’s calling anyone a liar,’ he said firmly.
‘The thing that doesn’t make sense,’ Heather broke in, ‘is that Cindy said she didn’t want to hear another story about Raven and Skull, and then goes on to tell us about her affair with someone at Raven and Skull, and what a shitty Wednesday she had going crazy in Raven and Skull’s offices. What was that about, Cindy? How come your story took us straight back there?’
Cindy looked set to snap back with a vitriolic response. Before she could say anything, Geoff spoke quietly from his seat in the corner.
‘The reason for that is because everything leads back to Raven and Skull. No one can escape the place. And, once you’re in their clutches, they take over your existence.’
‘Have you got a story?’ Tony asked.
Geoff pursed his lips.
27
‘Half now. Half when you hand it over to me.’
Geoff didn’t stare at the stranger. He could only look at the contents of the tote bag that had been dropped onto the table in front of him. Sitting in a corner booth at Shades, enjoying some discretion from the rest of the room, his stomach muscles tightened. It was automatic to glance over his shoulder and assure himself that no one else in the pub had seen this element of their transaction.
There were a handful of locals in the pub. Most of them were burly men dressed in snug T-shirts pulled taut over bulging beer-bellies. A few of them stood at the bar, chatting and drinking. A couple of them lazed in front of pints glued to nearby tables. The open door revealed a glimpse of the triptych of smokers who stood outside Shades beneath the sickly green glow of the pub’s illuminated sign.
No one was looking in the direction of Geoff and his corner booth.
No one had noticed that he was involved in an illicit transaction.
Still, it was impossible to loosen the coil of anxiety that tightened in his stomach. He knew that people had been killed for a lot less than the bundle of notes concealed inside the flimsy tote bag. The idea that he could become another statistic because of the money made his bowels twist as though he had received a knife blade to the guts.
‘Is it a deal, Mr Arnold?’
The stranger was an imposing figure. His casual jeans, worn with a hooded fleece beneath a leather jacket, were uniform standard for rough urban pubs like Shades. Geoff had seen a dozen men dressed identically this evening and he didn’t consider himself particularly observant. The stranger wore a skull-hugging grey beanie. It was pulled down far enough to hide the tops of his ears. His face looked battle-hardened with the memories of scars criss-crossing one cheekbone and acne pockmarks making an alien landscape around his mouth. There was a day’s worth of razor stubble dirtying his lantern jaw, adding to the impression of strong physical ability. The only thing about him that struck Geoff as peculiar was the fact that the man carried a vague scent of incense. It was a fragrance that was musky, sweet and vaguely religious.
‘Is it a deal, Mr Arnold?’
Geoff continued to study the contents of the tote bag without moving. The situation wouldn’t become real until he placed his hand inside the bag and touched the crisp, dry notes. Until his fingers made contact with the money his commitment to the deal remained no more than a half-joked suggestion, a quip that intimated he might be able to do as the stranger had asked. Until he did that much, until he placed his fingers on the notes and accepted that the money was his, Geoff could consider himself good, honest and innocent.
‘Mr Arnold?’
‘Geoff?’
Geoff glanced up at the sound of Nicola’s voice. He passed her a thin smile. Reaching across the table, ignoring the money for a moment, he squeezed her hand and then returned to his contemplative silence. It was an enormous decision and he refused to be rushed.
‘What am I getting myself into here?’ he asked, eventually.
The stranger rolled his eyes.
‘Geoff!’ Nicola protested.
‘I’m just asking what I’m getting into.’
The stranger reached for the tote bag. He grabbed both handles and started to slide the money out of Geoff’s reach forever. Geoff was ready to let him. If the money was gone, the temptation to accept it was taken away and he would no longer have to make the decision to become a thief.
Nicola glared at him. Although she remained silent she shook her head. Her lips shaped the word, ‘NO.’
The stranger regarded Geoff with a cold, murderous gaze. His contempt and the loss of his respect should have meant nothing. Geoff didn’t know the man’s name. He had only met him once previously. But a part of him felt politely apologetic for the inconvenience he had caused.
‘I’ll see if I can find someone capable of this job,’ the stranger grunted. He flashed his glower in Nicola’s direction and said, ‘Your boyfriend should not organise introductions with amateurs.’ The last word was invested with the contempt normally reserved for the v
ilest epithets.
Geoff placed his hand on the back of the stranger’s wrist. The skin felt cold, clammy and dead beneath his touch. It was like touching a fat slug. ‘Leave the money there.’
The stranger hesitated.
‘The more I know, the better chance I have of doing this job properly,’ Geoff explained. ‘Do you really have issues with me doing this right?’
‘You’re acquiring something for us from Charlie Raven’s desk,’ the stranger said stiffly. ‘I thought we’d already established this fact.’ He glanced from Geoff to Nicola, then back to Geoff. ‘Wasn’t that clear? Didn’t we sort out all these details at your boyfriend’s restaurant, the House of Asher?’
‘Usher,’ Nicola corrected.
Geoff sipped his drink so the stranger couldn’t see his smirk. He liked the man’s evasive use of language. The stranger wasn’t asking Geoff to steal something: he was paying him to acquire an item. Geoff wasn’t even being asked to acquire the item for the stranger: the man’s careful vocabulary suggested he represented a group of people who would likely share the burden of avoiding responsibility if the shit hit the fan.
The item itself remained nameless.
Geoff noted the way the stranger reminded them that it sat on the desk of Charlie Raven, a wheelchair-bound invalid. The stranger made no mention of the fact that the daunting spectre of Roger Black was now the man who usually worked from behind Raven’s desk. The stranger was shaping his words so carefully, and openly concealing so much, Geoff had to wonder how much the man was keeping to himself.
Geoff wondered how much he had already missed.
He placed down his drink and regarded the tote bag. Making a momentous decision, he pushed his hand inside and grabbed a bundle of notes. Pulling them out, feeling the paper touch his fingers and knowing that he could no longer convincingly describe himself as innocent, he thumbed at the corners of the notes for a moment and savoured the sensation.
‘This is fifty thousand?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And there’ll be another fifty thousand when I give you the item?’
‘That’s correct.’
The division of the money had been settled a month earlier at The House of Usher. From the hundred thousand Geoff had been promised, Don, Nicola’s boyfriend, would receive ten per cent for organising introductions between Geoff and the stranger. Nicola was due to get twenty grand because Geoff had insisted on having her help him. With those expenses out of the way, Geoff would be left with an even seventy thousand once the job was successfully completed.
Thumbing the bundle of notes, relishing the sensation of having illicit money in his hands, he supposed that seventy grand seemed like a reasonable amount for the gamble he was planning. He knew that there could be three possible outcomes from this endeavour. The chance of coming away from the situation better off by seventy thousand pounds made them all seem worth the risk.
The best result would be if he acquired the item, got the remainder of his money, and could continue working for Raven and Skull until he decided to do something different and more exciting with his life. With seventy thousand pounds in the bank he would be able to afford the few luxuries that made existence bearable. He would not have to worry about annual appraisals, savings accounts, pensions schemes and all those other drains on his financial and spiritual resources that preyed on his thoughts through the long and miserable hours of sobriety.
If things didn’t go as he hoped, and he found he was no longer able to continue working for Raven and Skull, Geoff figured that seventy grand would be enough to finance a satisfying new start in life. He could go anywhere in the world if he wanted. He could enjoy any adventure that appealed to him.
He was savvy enough to understand that going anywhere in the world might be a necessity if he had earned the displeasure of Roger Black. But he refused to brood on the possibly negative elements of his plan. If he had to leave his comfortable position at Raven and Skull, Geoff was determined that a new start would incorporate the thrills and excitement that were currently absent from his life. It did not seem unreasonable to think that avoiding the wrath of Roger Black could be considered as a level of excitement.
Ultimately, if things went badly wrong and the shit really did hit the fan, Geoff figured that prison would provide him with three nutritionally balanced meals a day and the chance to study with the Open University. Even that option, with the unwelcome opportunity of making intimate friends in a prison shower block, had to be better than the grey and worthless existence of an office drone that he was currently calling life.
‘What makes the gold-plated skull on Charlie Raven’s desk worth one hundred thousand pounds?’
The stranger glowered.
Nicola rolled her eyes and looked away.
The stranger reached again for the pile of money.
This time, when Geoff stopped him, he was more forceful. Ignoring the natural distaste that came from touching the man’s cold, dead flesh, he said, ‘I’m doing the job regardless of how you answer. I just want to go in there with as much knowledge as you can possibly provide. The more prepared I am, the more likely it is that I will acquire the item for you without incident. Doesn’t that make sense?’
The stranger considered him, warily. ‘Do you know anything about the Church of the Black Angel?’
28
‘I suppose it falls on me to make introductions,’ John Skull began.
Skull sat at the head of the board. To his right sat his partner and the newest recruit to the Skull and Raven management team. The visitors to his office sat on his left. Skull’s secretary, Fiona, slowly circled the room anointing, and then lighting, the ritual candles. At the foot of the table a translator repeated Skull’s words in Haitian Creole. He pointed at Skull when the man spoke, in case any of those listening to the translation were unsure whose words he was translating.
Fiona conducted her work with methodical and unostentatious efficiency. Even though it was late at night, with no one else in the office building and dark outside, she had still taken the precaution of drawing the blinds at the office windows. Approaching each knobbly black candle she immersed the wick with a citric sweet balm of van van oil. Whilst the blend of lemon grass, citronella and ginger grass trickled down the uneven sides, she rubbed a special composite of High Jon powder into the length of the candle. Her small, slender hands worked sensuously against the wax, as though she was intimately massaging a lover. Her fingers shone with the oily lubrication as they worked their way up and down the hard length, blending the powder and oil into the wax. Fiona mumbled quietly to herself as she went about her work. Those close enough to hear her caught snatches of a mumbled dialect not too dissimilar from the one being used by the translator.
‘Going round the table,’ Skull began, ‘we have Charlie Raven, who I’m sure you all know.’
Each of the visitors turned to study a grinning Charlie Raven whilst the translator repeated Skull’s words. There was a lit Woodbine smouldering in the corner of Raven’s mouth and he waved a cheerful greeting.
‘It’s a pleasure,’ Raven muttered.
‘Charlie is my junior partner in this company,’ Skull explained. ‘And it’s through his hard work and the resources of his contacts that we’ve been so swiftly able to establish our prominent position within the city.’
Skull paused, allowing the translator a moment to reiterate his message and giving everyone else the chance to politely acknowledge the wunderkind that was Charlie Raven.
Raven seemed to bask in the adulation. His grin grew wider.
‘Beside Mr Raven we have the newest recruit to our management team,’ Skull went on. ‘This is Mr Roger Black.’
Roger Black nodded gruffly.
‘Mr Black has shown a level of competence for our style of business trading that far exceeds the expectations of his youthful appearance,’ Skull explained. ‘Aside from graduating summa cum laude from Cambridge last year, he’s also shown a penchant for
planning and execution that match well with our company’s ethos.’
There was a moment’s confusion. The translator was questioned by one of the visitors and he shook his head. Staring at Skull he said, ‘You must excuse me. The houngan says, in his language, the word ‘execution’ can mean ‘to kill.’’
Skull considered this before nodding. ‘It can mean the same thing in our language,’ he agreed. Saying no more on the subject, gesturing towards Fiona, he said, ‘The young lady working her way around the room will be familiar to you all. Fiona has been my secretary for the past five years and she’s spent the last month researching the nuances of voodoo and educating the rest of us on its technicalities so that we’re all properly prepared for this ritual.’
Involved in her work, Fiona didn’t bother to acknowledge Skull’s flattering introduction. The visitors glanced in her direction but no one spoke.
‘To complete the formalities,’ Skull continued. He gestured towards the figure sitting closest to the translator. ‘This is Houngan Despre, a very powerful bokor who most of you have already met.’
The visitor nodded solemnly. He was tall, dark skinned, with a timeless quality to his features that made it impossible to estimate his age. He mumbled through an over-white smile and the translator said, ‘It is an honour.’
‘Next to Houngan Despre is Mambo Rillieux.’
Skull waved his hand in the woman’s direction.
Everyone turned to stare at the elegant Creole woman.
‘Mambo Rillieux, also known as Queen Juliet, is a special visitor to our country due to our government’s lack of cultural sympathy for her religious beliefs. I trust, since it will be to our advantage, we can all show her a more hospitable welcome than that provided by the authorities.’
Rillieux nodded gracefully as the translator repeated Skull’s words.
‘And finally,’ Skull said, ‘We are honoured to be in the presence of Supreme Houngan Manumishon. Manumishon is the gentleman who, if our plans are successful, will be–’
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