Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “Please, sir, help us. We flee the fire.”

  “I don’t have room,” he said gruffly.

  “We have no possessions, just ourselves. Please.”

  “No, go away.”

  Mary took a deep breath. “Come, sir, it shall be all your pleasure.”

  Anne barely recognised her sister’s voice.

  The man paused. “My pleasure?”

  “Provided you do not touch my sister, here,” Mary said.

  “But I may touch you?”

  “All you want, sir. Until you bring us safely to shore.”

  The man grinned. “Climb in.”

  Anne was bewildered, but once again Mary dragged her along. They climbed into the boat, and the man left one of his trunks on the bank. They rowed out onto the river. An enormous crash drew their attention back to the bank. From here they could see St Paul’s ablaze.

  “The roof,” Mary whispered.

  “She is dead then,” Anne replied, numb.

  “Now where is my payment?” the boatman said.

  “Yes, yes,” Mary replied. “Anne, turn your back.”

  “I —”

  “Turn your back, look to the south bank, and do not turn around until I say you can.”

  Anne was tired and in pain in her very soul. She did as her sister asked, watching the reflections of the fire on the water around her. She could barely hear the sounds of Mary debauching herself in the boat behind her, for the thumping and crashing of the fire. Her thoughts seemed too large, too unwieldy for her mind. Her attention was scattered everywhere, and every impression her mind lit upon hurt her, hurt her deep, deep inside, hurt her head as if it would burst it open. From far away she heard an animal, grunting sound. Her sister?

  No. It was herself.

  Mary was calling to her. “Annie? Annie, what is it?”

  But the grey closed down around her and she didn’t fight it. Better to turn it all off than to feel it any more. Better to descend into the dark.

  Deborah lay herself out along the floor and tried to breathe under the crack in the door. It was no use. Her lungs would burst if she stayed in here any longer. She stood and tried the door again to no avail. Damn Lazodeus. He had set her up for this, she knew it. Why else send her down here? And damn herself, for not thinking of the smoke. For smoke killed as easily as flames. She kicked the door in frustration, sobbing and screaming.

  “Help me!” she shouted. “Help me!”

  Her throat was raw from shouting and from coughing. Was this what it had come to? Was she to die for her Father’s poem? How unbearable, to die not for her own achievements but for somebody else’s.

  In a rage she dragged Lazodeus’s talisman from around her neck, was about to cast it into the flames behind her when she saw that the chain she held was not the talisman, but the demon key. She raced through the tables Amelia had taught her. There wasn’t a single door-opening demon among them.

  And yet … Why did she have such a strong sense that there should be one?

  She gazed at the key a moment, dangling on the end of its chain.

  Of course! Lazodeus had named a demon to lock her in and let her free when the business with the exorcist had got out of hand. Now, if she could only remember its name.

  She held the key out in front of her, shaking. Violent spasmodic coughs racked her body as she tried to centre her mind. Its name was …

  “Paratax,” she gasped. “I call upon you with this key as your commander. Open this door.”

  The five notes were barely audible above the crashing of the fire, but the sweet feeling still rocked through her, seeming to fill her lungs with air. She breathed, the door opened, and she ran. Father’s manuscript pressed close against her body, she ran and ran. How she gathered her strength was a mystery, but she ran. Behind her, an immense crashing sound indicated that the roof had finally given. The exploding stones cracked and echoed around the city. She ran towards Cripplegate, through black smouldering ruins, then out of the city walls towards home. The fire had been controlled before it reached White Cross Street, and she knew that Father would be safe. But he didn’t know it, and the frightful sounds of the fire, of Paul’s going up, would have terrified him. She ran as though she would never need the energy to run again.

  Gasping, up Artillery Walk.

  Pushing the door open, calling, “Father!” breathlessly.

  “Deborah?” A querulous voice. By the muted light of a sputtering candle, he cowered on the floor in the corner of his study, the little dog still clutched to his chest.

  “I’m here, Father,” she said, dropping the manuscript on his desk and going to him. She stroked his hair from his forehead, leaving a black smudge of soot.

  “I heard such frightful sounds. As though the world were ending.”

  “Paul’s is ablaze.”

  “My poem is gone then?”

  “No, for I have just dropped it upon your desk.”

  He turned a blind bewildered gaze upon her. “Deborah …?”

  “Never ask me,” she said. “Never.”

  He shook his head. She helped him to his feet and back to the chair. Max ran away and hid in the same corner.

  “I must go and wash myself. I am covered in soot.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I will not tell you. Do not ask me to.”

  He nodded timidly. “You are safe?” he said, his voice quiet.

  “Perfectly,” she said, and began to cry. “Despite … despite everything, I am perfectly safe. We are both perfectly safe.” For the moment.

  Only for the moment.

  Another Interlude

  I waited as the old woman paused for a breath. And waited. The moment spun out, and the sick disappointment began to swell in my stomach.

  “Keep going,” I said. My own voice was barely recognisable to me; it sounded like a pleading child’s voice. An unwieldy fear sat an inch outside my consciousness, the kind of fear that signifies that everything has changed forever in one’s perception, because I started to understand that this was not normal, that me pleading like a child for the old woman to speak was not within the usual ambit of my experience, and that something bad had become uncontrollable in my life.

  “I don’t think I can, Sophie,” she said with a huge sigh. “I grow so very tired.”

  “But I’ll die if you don’t finish.”

  “Do not misunderstand me. I want very much to finish. I am very close to the end now, but I am old and I am weary and I have been speaking for hours.”

  “But will I have to wait another week?” The thought was unbearable.

  “No. For I wish this whole business to be over finally. No, come back whenever you wish.”

  “Tomorrow? No, tonight? I could wait here with you for a few hours.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said decisively, “not before. Or the day after if you prefer. I’ll wait for you. But now I need to rest. The next time I see you, as well as finishing the story, I have to explain to you the consequences.”

  “The consequences?” There was that fear again, lurking nearby, top-heavy and intrusive.

  “Listening to my story comes at a price. I warned you.”

  “I didn’t believe you. I still don’t.” Nobody would have been convinced by my words, but I felt very strongly that I had to say them aloud, and it did make me feel better.

  “Scepticism is the supernatural’s best friend. The supernatural can continue unchecked provided scepticism lags so far behind.”

  “But mundane explanations, while not as romantic, are always more common.”

  “Do you believe in nothing, Sophie? Have you never looked around you and seen the world? How can you remain a sceptic?” She sounded angry, though her face and demeanour remained impassive.

  “I … I never thought about it.”

  “Go to my bookshelf.”

  I stood and did as she asked.

  “Last week you were eager to look at the first edition of Paradise Lost.” />
  “Yes.”

  “Go on. You may take it and keep it.”

  I picked it up, with the insincere words, “I can’t possibly accept such a valuable gift,” poised on my lips; a first edition like this would be worth a fortune. But I sensed instantly something was wrong, the book was too light. I opened it. Scholars would weep; the inside of the book had been hollowed out, a square cut right through the centre of the pages. In the hollow was a dark piece of metal, about three inches long, strung on a piece of nylon cord.

  “This book is ruined,” I said.

  “That is the demon key,” she said.

  Her words surprised me. I lifted out the metal bar and looked at it. “Deborah’s demon key?” It was so impossible that I felt suddenly much better. The old woman was crazy after all. This was surely just a random piece of metal — an off-cut from a factory or a scrap from the side of the road or some such ordinary thing — and here she was telling me it was the magical key from a fictional story which took place over three centuries in the past.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get it?” I asked. I was being polite now, humouring her. The lurking fear receded.

  “It comes with the story. You’ll understand it all tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow; that sweet day when I could return. But that didn’t make sense — how could such a paradox of feeling exist? This primal need to be in her company, to hear her tale, could not live side-by-side with my conviction in her quaint insanity.

  “Take it with you, Sophie,” the old woman was saying. “I have no use for it any more.”

  I tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans, leafed through the mutilated pages of the book. “This could have been worth a lot of money.”

  “I have no use for money.”

  “I sure do.”

  She shifted in her chair, turned to the window. “You’ll have to leave, Sophie. I need to rest.”

  The moment I had been dreading. “Can’t I just stay here? I won’t disturb you.” I shuddered at the idea of all those melancholy feelings descending upon me again, those feelings which were dispelled by her presence.

  “No. Go. I shall see you upon your return.”

  I hesitated but knew she would not change her mind. I slid the mutilated book back onto the shelf and went to the door.

  “Goodbye.” What if she died before tomorrow? What if I felt like this forever?

  “Goodbye,” she said firmly.

  I walked down the stairs — careful on the ankle I’d twisted jumping from the bathroom window — and out onto the street. The wrench was terrible, like leaving a loved one to die. I was trying to rationalise it when I heard a noise directly behind me. Before I could turn around, a rough darkness made of cloth descended over my eyes, a hand closed over my mouth, and I was pulled to the ground. I could not scream. My hands flailed everywhere, but were soon caught. I guessed there were two people on top of me, lifting me, carrying me roughly. I couldn’t make a noise for the hand over my mouth, and it was so firm I could not move my jaw to bite. I was dropped somewhere — it felt like old carpet under my skin through the gap between my shirt and my jeans. My hands were bound. The two attackers were completely silent — not a word passed between them. Then I heard a door slam and knew I’d been bundled into the back of a van. They hadn’t bound my feet. I kicked at the wall, turned myself around and kicked where I thought the front seat would be. My shoes contacted a metal grid. I heard my assailants get into the van and start it. My ankle howled with pain, but I kicked out again.

  “Help! Help!” I screamed. “Who the hell are you? Where are you taking me?”

  They didn’t respond, and ignored my continuing shouts. I was terrified, and only a massive effort of will prevented me from peeing in my jeans. But even through the primal terror, the thought that plagued me was that if I didn’t escape, I wouldn’t make my appointment with the old woman tomorrow.

  We drove for an hour, maybe a little longer. I kicked and shouted the whole way but my assailants didn’t respond. When the van stopped, so did my heart. I thought, this is it, they’re going to kill me and dump me, and it seemed so unreal that I almost believed I must be dreaming, that I’d fallen asleep on the old woman’s floor and all the psychological distress of the curse had generated this nightmare.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I said.

  One of my assailants said, “Shh”, very gently. This confused me. I had thought them to be thugs, rapists, burglars, not gentle people. I was puzzling this when the van door slid open. I bent my legs ready to kick, but they had the advantage of being able to see me and they grabbed my feet and hoisted me out of the van.

  I screamed at the top of my lungs, but I could hear no traffic noises, just birds and the wind in the branches.

  “Shh,” the gentle voice said again, although his hands were not gentle on my ankles, and nor were his partner’s around my shoulders. I wriggled and bucked to no advantage.

  A door opened, and I sensed a third person there. No words were exchanged. I was brought inside and carried up a flight of stairs. The house smelled musty and old, but I gathered from the size of the staircase that it was large, an old manor home perhaps. I was dropped face down on a bed and pinned while my hands were untied. Before I could pull off my blindfold, my assailants had left and I’d been locked in.

  “Hey!” I shouted, going to the door and pounding on it, wrenching the handle, kicking against it violently. “Hey, let me out!” Two minutes of shouting left me hoarse and frustrated. I turned to survey my surroundings.

  I was in a bedroom. A mahogany four-poster bed took up most of the space, and between the windows there stood a large chest of drawers, a mirror and an armchair. On top of the chest was a towel, some toiletries, and some fresh clothes. I walked over to examine them. My clothes. So this wasn’t a random abduction, they had targeted me specifically. I guess I knew then who was responsible.

  I went to the window and looked down. A big drop. I wouldn’t be jumping. The room was surrounded by tall ash trees, their huge round trunks bellied right up to a brick wall marking out the property. No branches stretched near enough to climb on to, and besides I expected … yes, the windows were locked.

  On the other side of the bed was a door which led to a tiny windowless bathroom. I sank down on the closed toilet lid in the half-dark and put my head in my hands. How was I to get out of here by tomorrow? Already the sick compulsion was threading up through me like pins and needles, making me feel as though the entire network of my nerves was straining to break out of my body. I had to hear the rest, I had to be with her again.

  I stripped off, leaving my clothes in a heap under the sink. I turned the shower on hard and hot and collapsed into the bottom of it, letting the water run over me. I cried for a little while. The threatening fear was back, and I didn’t want to let it in, because to believe that the curse was for real was to undo my entire belief system. I was sick, I was tired, I was heartbroken, I was lonely; I was anything, anything but cursed. Anything but that.

  The hot water ran out at the same time my tears did. I had left my towel in the bedroom, so I dried myself off with a handtowel which I dropped on the pile with my clothes. I dressed in the bedroom and then noticed that a tray of food had been left on my bed. I snatched up the folded card in the corner of the tray, lying on my stomach to read it: “Sophie, we’re very sorry, but we feel this is for the best. Neal, Chloe, Marcus, Mandy, Art and Deirdre.”

  “Fuck you all,” I shouted, hurling the card away from me. I lifted the lid on the plate, and found a chicken breast with vegetables and gravy. I thought about hurling it away, too, about making a big mess and tearing things up, but I was hungry and I was tired and the long shadows of the summer afternoon were growing deeper. I ate, I climbed into bed and, miraculously, I slept.

  Nobody came to see me until the middle of the next morning, and by then I was mad with frustration. I had pulled up the armchair to one of the windows and was watching for any sign of movem
ent, any walker on the other side of the brick wall whom I could call out to, tell them to phone the police. I had a bronze statuette in my right hand with which I intended to break the window if such an opportunity arose. But I had begun to suspect that on the other side of that wall were fields and trees and very little likelihood of pedestrians.

  The door opened and Neal slunk in. Behind him, someone pulled the door closed and locked it. They were wary, they knew I’d run for it. He had another tray of food.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Sophie, we’re doing what’s best for you.”

  “I said fuck off.”

  He placed the tray on the chest of drawers, and stood beside it nervously as though he waited for inspection. A marvellous smell filled the room — fresh coffee in a pot. I found myself approaching the tray, pouring a coffee, gulping it down.

  “Can we talk about this? Without you abusing me?” he asked.

  “Listen,” I said, drilling my index finger into his chest. “You let me out of here, now. This is illegal. The police won’t go for your stupid story about a curse; this is abduction, this is holding me against my will, and you’re kidding yourself if you think I won’t report it when I’m free.”

  Neal dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgment. “We happen to believe that by the time you’re free you’ll be thanking us.”

  “Thanking you?”

  “You’re not yourself, Sophie. You know that.”

  “You know nothing about me. I’m like this all the time.” Nobody was going to be convinced by that lie, and hearing it out loud keenly reminded me how unlike myself I felt. I was strung out and depressed and a little crazed, and it was all new to me. “Where the hell am I, anyway?”