by J. F. Penn
Petra fell silent for a moment, biting her lip a little.
"He would talk of suicide as the ultimate control," she said, "as the moment when you exercise the last freedom any of us have in this life. But he would also caution not to use that power lightly, for once it's used, it's finished and spent, the power is gone. For someone to murder him, it would be to take that ultimate power of choice away. He wasn't allowed to meet death on his own terms, and that would have been torture for him. But no, I can't think of anyone specifically."
"Can I ask where you were last night?" Jamie asked.
"Of course. I was here, Detective. Alone with my stones." Petra smiled. "I have no alibi, but then I really have no motive, either."
Chapter 8
Blake blinked, desperate to believe the vision was wrong, but he could still see it. A creature was curled around his father's back, its spines embedded in the old skin, piercing through the thin gown, the visage lizard-like and darkly scaled. Its tongue darted out, licking at Magnus' cheek, tasting the sweat there. This thing would be the first to feed. Blake met his father's eyes, and comprehension darted between them. He knew then that this was the world his father had always perceived and that Blake had only glimpsed the edges of.
"Daniel, Daniel, stop!"
His mother's voice intruded into the trance and Precious pushed his shoulder, jerking Blake's hand away from the Bible.
"You know he hates your visions," she said, almost in tears as she bent to brush damp hair from Magnus' brow. "How could you do it here with him?"
Blake put his glove back on, looking around the lilac room, his eyes lingering on the walls and then back at his father's form on the bed. He could no longer perceive the creatures, and there was no sense of anything evil here. Was it just a hallucination, an extension of his father's belief that there were demons in the world waiting to feed on dying souls? Or was there some kind of supernatural reality that he had glimpsed through the eyes of a man of faith. In nearly twenty years of visions, Blake had never seen this before.
He frowned, brow furrowed as he walked around the bed to stand behind his father. He reached down and patted the bed where the creature had been curled. Nothing. He held his hand in the space behind Magnus' neck, thinking perhaps he could feel something, like a patch of disturbed air. But it was more likely the breeze from the window, open to let fresh air into this room of sickness.
"I know it's a shock seeing him like this," Precious said. "I'm so sorry I didn't send for you earlier." She sighed. "I didn't think the years would pass so fast, and look at you now." She held out a hand across Magnus' body and Blake took it, squeezing a little. The least he could do was comfort her for a moment, but he couldn't tell her of what he had seen in this room. He looked down and caught sight of a black mark on his father's back. Could this be evidence of the creature?
Blake pulled away the gown that was tied at the back of his father's neck. A moan of protest made him pull his hand away in remembrance of what the man would have done for such trespass in stronger days. He had never seen his father less than fully clothed.
"It's OK, Dad," Blake said, knowing he needed to see what it was. "I just want to look at the mark."
"It's a tattoo," Precious said, her voice strangely dull. "He would never tell me what it meant, but he has had it since I met him. He would get angry if I asked about it."
The symbol began at the very top of Magnus' spine, just below his neck, and as Blake parted the gown, he could see it spread over the main part of his father's back. The ink was faded but there was clearly a design of triple claws, overlaying each other in a knot. The thick lines were bisected with scars and welts in a rhythmic pattern, always the same diagonal down from each shoulder. It seemed his father had beaten himself as well as his son over the years, atoning for whatever sin this tattoo represented. A glimmer of understanding for the man flickered through Blake's mind. He pulled the edges of the gown up and tucked in the covers again, placing his hand on his father's hunched shoulder and tightening his fingers a little, the pressure as close to a gesture of love as he could manage. Blake's own scars were as deep as the ones on his father's back, and neither set would ever fully heal now. But there had to be something in his father's past that would explain the creatures that lurked here waiting to feed.
"How did you meet each other, Mum? You've never told me."
Precious smiled, her eyes shining, and Blake envied the simple pleasure of that memory of young love, so far from his own drunken one-night stands. His thoughts flickered to Jamie: of what could possibly be if they could face their pain together.
"It was back in London," Precious said. "I had just started college and my Pentecostal congregation in Brixton had a visiting preacher." She reached down to stroke Magnus' hair as she spoke. "Your father was a magnificent servant of God and when he spoke, I felt his words go straight to my heart. He stayed in London and soon after, we started dating, with chaperones of course. I know there have been hard times, Daniel, but you were born of love and of God."
Blake nodded. "And what about before that? Where did he live before London?"
"His family are from the very north of Sweden, almost on the border of the fjords of Norway. But he would never say any more than that, and we've never been to visit." She paused, looking down at her husband. "I don't even know their names, and that's how he wanted it. He needed to forget the past, whatever it was, and I honored that. I expect you to as well."
"But I need to know more," Blake said. "It's important, Mum. I saw something … I can't explain, but I think Dad needs help."
Magnus moaned again, his words unintelligible, but his tone made Precious pale and Blake recognized the man's hold over her. She exhaled.
"So be it. Come, I'll show you the chest."
She picked up the Bible and walked to the door. With a last glance at his father's pale face, Blake followed Precious out the room and up the stairs towards his parents' bedroom. It had been out of bounds when he had lived here, a child's gate and later a beating keeping him away from their private space. But he had often sneaked in when they were out and he knew the huge window looked out into the forest, the bed facing the green expanse. How often had his father lain there and thought of the wilds of Sweden and the forests of his own youth?
"It's underneath the bed," Precious said, a waver in her voice. "He would never let me touch it. Even to clean. The only time he ever beat me properly was when I tried to move it." Her eyes darted to Blake's. "I know that's no comfort to you, but the nights after he beat you, he would cry in my arms. He was terribly afraid of something, Daniel. Something that he thought might come for you."
Blake knelt down, pulled the covers up and looked under the bed. A small chest sat under the side his father had slept in, the dull wood sucking in the light and deepening the surrounding shadows. He reached under and pulled it out. A thick padlock held the chest closed and the metal was rusty, clearly not opened for many years.
"He kept the key in here," Precious said, placing the Bible on top of the bed. "That's how much it means to him, for this book has been within arm's reach as long as I've known him. Even when we met it was already worn with use. I discovered the key once, years ago when we were first married …" Her hand went to her cheek, eyes glazing over at the memory. "But I learned quickly not to pry into his past."
Blake's anger flared at her obvious remembrance of violence, but the past was done now, and all they had left was the broken man in the bed downstairs. Precious turned to the back of the Bible. A small envelope was taped to the inside of the cover, a handwritten verse on one side. Deuteronomy 28:48.
"'In hunger and thirst,'" Precious recited from memory, "'in nakedness and dire poverty, you will serve the enemies the Lord sends against you. He will put an iron yoke on your neck until he has destroyed you …' I've pondered this many times over the years. Why link that particular verse to the key?"
She slipped the key from the envelope and handed it to Blake. He pushed i
t into the padlock and with a few wiggles, it finally twisted and the lock opened. He pulled it off the box and laid it down by the side as Precious knelt next to him, her breath shallow, expectant.
Blake lifted the lid, tugging a little to free the hinges. Inside was another layer of wrapping, this time a kind of oilcloth, like the type found on sailboats. It must have been cream colored once, but was now a dirty ivory. Blake tipped the chest a little and the object fell out into his gloved hand. He laid it on the floor and pulled apart the sailcloth, revealing a book bound in deep burgundy leather. A symbol was inscribed on the front, a circle in the center, bisected by four lines with prongs on either end. The lines were cross-hatched with other markings, the whole image giving the impression of a twisted snowflake.
"It's beautiful," Precious said, reaching out a fingertip to touch the leather. "But why keep this hidden?"
Blake lifted the book from its covering and opened it.
"Galdrabók," he read from the first page, flicking through the heavy book. "It looks like Swedish or some kind of Nordic language, and look at these diagrams and pictures."
"Oh, Lord," Precious whispered. "It's a book of some kind of magic, isn't it?"
Blake's fingers itched, wanting to take off his gloves and touch the book, read the chest, to see what his father was hiding in his past. But he couldn't do it with his mother there.
"I need to know more about it, Mum. Clearly it's important to Dad, but he can't tell us why. Go back down to him, and I'll check it out on the internet."
"It shouldn't even be in the house." Precious stood, her face furrowed with concern. "Leviticus 20, verse 6. 'If a person turns to mediums and necromancers, I will set my face against that person and will cut him off from amongst his people.' Goodness, what did your father do?"
She walked out the door, her footsteps heavy as she went back downstairs. Blake could hear her whispered prayers, interceding for Magnus with her Lord, and for a moment, he was envious of her certain faith. He turned the pages of the book carefully, and within its thin paper, he found a folded chart written in burgundy ink. Blake spread it open on the floor to find a genealogical history of the last few generations of the Olofsson family, written in Swedish. There were strange etchings next to some of the names, runes that marked out individuals in each generation. The symbol lay next to his own name, and that of his father and grandfather. Blake frowned. He needed to understand what this book was.
Laying it down, he took off his gloves and used his smartphone to access the internet, wanting to know more before he tried to tap into the visions. He found a reference quickly. The Galdrabók grimoire was a book of Icelandic spells with invocations to Christian saints, demons and the old Norse gods, as well as instructions for the use of herbs and other magical items. The text was a mixture of Latin, runic script, sacred images and Icelandic magic sigils, symbols of power. What was his father doing with such a text? The only way to find out was to see what visions the book could release to him. Taking a deep breath, Blake laid his bare hands on the leather.
Chapter 9
Chadwick Street was tucked into the warren of residences and government buildings on the edge of Westminster, walking distance to Millbank and the Houses of Parliament. The building was painted in shades of cinnamon and cream, with shutters around the windows giving a slightly Mediterranean feel to this bureaucratic hub of the capital. Taking off her leather protective gear, Jamie pulled a black jacket from her pannier and straightened her clothes. She redid her tight bun, winding her black hair and securing it with a clip, tucking in the stray ends. But the transformation into professionalism was wearing thin these days and the bike felt more like her real self than the buttoned-up Detective. The fragmentation of her world was seeping into the job, and part of Jamie craved a final collapse. She rang the bell.
Matthew Osborne pulled the door open within a few seconds, clearly having heard her bike arrive. He was freshly showered, his hair still wet, and he smelled of pine forests after rain. With blue jeans and a black shirt open at the neck and rolled up sleeves, he looked like he had stepped out of a weekend magazine advertising the good life of the rich and famous.
"Detective, come on in. I'm Matthew." He held out his hand and Jamie shook it. His grip was firm, fingers smooth against her skin, and she noticed the slightly crooked tooth in his otherwise perfect smile. It was a chink of normality in his media-constructed image, but perhaps even that was designed. "I'll put the kettle on, and then we can have a chat about what you need."
"Thank you." Jamie followed Matthew inside, shutting the door behind her. She glanced around the flat as she walked into a large living space, leading to a small kitchen. The room was furnished in shades of champagne, a muted undertone, with furniture that looked comfortable but still expensive. The outstanding element was a feature wall with stripes of fuchsia, lemon and vermilion, hung with stunning pieces of modern art. In one, a woman's hand and the side of her head emerged from the canvas, as if she was trying to climb out of the wall behind. Another was a riot of color over a black tangle of what looked like neurons in the brain. It should have been chaotic, but there was a space in the middle of the pandemonium, an opening for calm.
"My sister, Lyssa, was very talented," Matthew said, emerging from the kitchen, his voice wistful. "These are just a couple from her portfolio. She could have gone so far with it, and creating the work calmed her, kept her from spiraling downwards." He paused, gazing at the woman's hand reaching out to him, as if she was calling for his help. The kettle whistled and he shook his head slightly, reverting to charm. "Now, how do you take your tea?"
"Black with one, please."
Matthew stirred in a sugar and brought it to Jamie in a blue mug with a chip in the rim. It made her almost smile to see that he was so clearly at home with imperfection. Perhaps there was more to this man than just the media profile.
"Now, what can I help you with?" Matthew asked, sitting on one of the chairs and indicating that Jamie should do the same.
"I'm investigating a homicide that occurred this morning at the Imperial War Museum."
Matthew's brow furrowed. "Surely not at our Fun Run? It went off without a hitch and all participants were accounted for."
Jamie shook her head. "No, actually, it was within the main building, unrelated to your event. But the victim was your sister's psychiatrist."
"That bastard Monro, are you sure?"
She caught a hint of satisfaction in Matthew's eyes.
"You sound pleased."
"I am. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course, but I believe his treatment only made Lyssa worse over time." Matthew looked intently at Jamie, but she could see no hint of his underlying thoughts. With so many years of hiding things, a politician was a real match for the police. "He tried her on so many drug regimes but she was afraid of needles and the experience was always terrifying. There was no spark left in her after dosage, the drugs emptied her and left her anemic and stale. As they began to wear off, she would fill that emptiness with ideas and thoughts and color, but the cyclic regime of years wore her down. Each time the colors came back, they were more muted, pastels instead of primary shades."
Matthew pointed at the walls. "As you can see, she hated pastels, Detective. She couldn't bear baby pink and duck-egg blue. She wanted strong bold shades, like her personality. You would have noticed her in a crowd." He pointed to a picture on the mantelpiece and Jamie stood for a better look. Lyssa had been strikingly handsome, not beautiful in a traditional sense but with strong features that drew the eyes. Her hair was cropped short and dyed a deep red, and she had tattooed eyebrows in a Celtic design. Jamie felt Matthew's analytical gaze take in her own black work-wraith uniform, her dark hair in a tight bun, her colorless skin. She suddenly felt tepid compared to this woman whose eyes were so vibrant and whose photo exuded life. Jamie felt an edge of that passion in tango, but it had become a secret part of her fractured life these days. She sat back down as Matthew continued.
&nbs
p; "We're all coerced into uniformity but Lyssa never gave into it. Despite our lip service to diversity, society wants conformity. We frown at the misbehavior of others. That's the real reason that Lyssa was medicated … so she couldn't be remarkable. You might think the inhuman restraint, the physical violence done to the mad is over, Detective, but the restraint has just moved from the outside to the inside, and the drugs are just a replacement for the manacles of Bedlam. Perhaps the drugs were worse because they left Lyssa without the freedom of her mind."
Jamie thought of Polly in the last days before her death, surfing the internet and learning new things, desperate to suck everything she could from life. Her body had been twisted and malfunctioning, but her mind remained clear and curious until the end.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Jamie said. She had spoken those words many times over the years, but now she actually understood them deep within. "But without the drugs, surely Lyssa may have ended up self-harming even more. Perhaps the chemical restraint helped in some way."
There was a flash in Matthew's eyes, something Jamie couldn't quite identify. He tamped it down quickly, returning his face to the politician's equilibrium.
"That's the opinion of many, for sure." His words were curt, ending that thread of conversation. "Now what exactly can I help you with, Detective?"
"I need to know where you were last night."
Matthew grinned, the charming smile that housewives all over the nation doted on.
"Oh, I'm a suspect. That's a new one."
"Not a suspect as such. I'm just following up on leads from the workplace of the deceased, and of course, you were at the museum this morning."
Matthew nodded. "Of course, it's no trouble and I'm always happy to help the police with enquiries." He took a sip of tea. "This morning I arrived at the site early, around nine, but I wasn't the first, and I wasn't anywhere near the main museum. I parked on Lambeth Walk near the London Eye Hostel, which I'm sure you can check. Last night I was out to dinner with a fellow MP. She'll certainly support that. We parted ways at around ten-thirty and I was tucked up in bed by eleven. But I do live alone, Detective, and despite what the press may speculate about my love life, I actually live a quiet, private existence. You won't find scandal here. Lyssa lived with me for a time … but of course, she can no longer speak on my behalf."