by Max Hardy
‘You had a choice John. It was all down to you. Jacob or Jessica. Only you knew the truth. Only you had the facts.’
‘I am not Madame Evangeline. I thought you believed that, I really thought you believed that.’
‘You have to believe me John, I am not Madame Evangeline.’
‘In my world Saul, this type of pain is a precursor to pleasure.’
‘Why John, why did you choose her?’
‘Why Daddy, why did you forsake me?’
The snake crawls up my arm and its body circles my neck, coiling around it, the head slowly angling in front of me again as the coils start to constrict. It hisses silently, eyes piercing me, as do the eyes of Rebecca/Jessica, as do the hundreds of eyes of Sarah and Jacob. Screaming words start to change in my mind as all of the lips in front of me start to sync.
‘You had a choice John. It was all down to you…’
The coils start to constrict further, tightening around my throat, crushing my windpipe, slowly choking me. All of their lips now whisper sibilantly, accusing me.
‘Only you knew the truth, only you had the facts…’
I try to scream, but my throat is too constricted, my tongue fattening and filling my mouth, my eyes bulging in my skull as I am starved of oxygen. I begin to palpitate and shake in my bindings, unable to move, unable to stop the descent into my hell as with the last whisper of breath in me, gutturally I plead ‘Forgive me!’
My eyes start to roll in my head, the room around me swirling, the images spiralling into a vortex of faces blurring into each other, all mouthing the same damning incantations. Consciousness starts to leave, everything turning dark, sinking into the distance, my body slumping as the last vestige of my human being escapes. The voices fade. Darkness. Silence. The emptiness of forever.
Then, crystal clear, a voice, coming through the darkness, through the silence, through the emptiness of forever.
‘John, think on one thing: Even Fallen Angels Have Wings.’
I wake with a start, sitting bolt upright in the leather chair I fell asleep in. The nightmare is still resonating through my mind so the very first thing I do is raise my hands, just to make sure they aren’t nailed to the chair, just to make sure I am not back in that cell. The bandages are weeping slightly and are soaked in sweat, as is the rest of my body, and as I lift my left hand, I see the Nagant M1895 revolver still tightly clasped in its palm.
Statistically, you would think the odds of blowing your brains out with a Nagant playing Russian Roulette would be seven to one. After all, there are seven chambers in the cylinder and only one bullet, right? Wrong. What people don’t generally take into account is gravity. When you spin the cylinder, the chamber with the bullet in is heavier than the ones that are empty, so nearly every time, that chamber will end up near the bottom. So statistically, the odds of blowing your brains out are very long. That’s how magicians get away with it.
Slivers of light are seeping in through tiny gaps in the closed blinds, suggesting daylight outside. They are strobing talons through the semi-darkness, revealing the contents of my studio, revealing the collage of evidence I have pinned to every spare surface in the room. I put the revolver down on the writing desk in front of me, stand up gingerly and slouch my way to the far wall through the discarded takeaway containers, empty vodka bottles, ripped up notes and photos festooning the floor. It still hurts to walk. I take in glimpses of the evidence, of images, of loved ones gone on the wall in front of me.
Two weeks ago, my wife and son were killed in an explosion at a country house called Fetherstone Hall. My son had been kidnapped, incarcerated inside a crate in the Hall and was being used as bait. Bait to try and ensure that I investigated the murder of a dead body, Michael Angus, which was also in the Hall. A murder where his mother, Rebecca Angus, had already been committed to a mental institute for the crime. An ‘Unknown Caller’ set a challenge. He wanted me to find the real killer of Michael and return to the Hall with that killer, within twenty four hours, before midnight, or the crate would explode. All the evidence pointed to a woman called Jessica Seymour, my lover, being the real killer of the dead body. But I knew she couldn’t be. I knew that at the time Michael was killed she was with me.
I thought the ‘Unknown Caller’ was a man called Gordon Ennis. He ran a mental facility called the Fielding Institute, where Rebecca Angus was committed. I had investigated him in the past for suspicious deaths caused by ‘Face Down Restraint’ and thought that he was out to exact some kind of warped revenge against me. He wasn’t directly involved, but he was a killer and during the course of the investigation, he nailed me to a chair, sexually molested me and would have ripped my heart out if the real ‘Unknown Caller’ hadn’t intervened and saved my life.
I say real ‘Unknown Caller’, but I still don’t know who he was. He was a trinity. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. One in the same. An older man called ‘Ben Hanlon’ who had spirited Rebecca Angus away from under the nose of Gordon Ennis. A young paediatric physician called ‘Rob Adams’ who was looking after my son, Jacob. A nebulous voice of the ‘Unknown Caller’ who no one ever saw. They were all the same person and he wanted me to choose.
He wanted me to choose between Jessica and Jacob. He wanted me to believe that Jessica had an alter ego. An alter ego called Madame Evangeline who had seduced Rebecca Angus and somehow been involved in Michael’s murder. But I knew Jessica could not have been Madame Evangeline. Even though Jessica was in Edinburgh when Michael was killed. Even though Rebecca and Michael had been seen in a Limousine owned by Jessica. Even though Jessica owned Featherstone Hall, where Michael was killed. Even though Jessica had the exact same Snake tattoo on her abdomen, I knew she couldn’t have been Madame Evangeline.
So I chose Jessica: and Sarah and Jacob died at midnight on that fateful evening when the Hall exploded. Shortly after that, while I was being taken to hospital to have my injuries seen to, Jessica died too, in a car crash. In the space of an hour, everyone I had ever loved was gone.
And I still don’t have a clue why. There was a serpent, there was temptation, there was forbidden fruit and someone wanted me to make a choice. I chose wrong. All I do know is that it wasn’t chance.
But I will find out. If chance lets me, today I will go and see Allie, Sarah’s friend and see if she knows which Private Investigator Sarah used to have Jess and I followed. I chose wrong, which means Jessica could have been Madame Evangeline. Nothing in the evidence I have can corroborate that. This Investigator may have seen something while following us, which could help.
If chance lets me.
I turn from the wall of frustrated hope and stagger to the other side of the room, picking up the revolver from the desk as I pass. There is a six foot tall blank canvas leaning against the wall, my signature, John Saul, in the bottom right corner. It will be called ‘My Last Lament’ when it is finished. I’m not sure exactly when that will be. It could be in the next few seconds, it could be in a day, or a week. Only chance knows that.
While statistically there is very little chance of blowing your brains out during Russian Roulette if you let the barrel come to a natural stop, that’s not true if you stop the barrel mid spin. I flick the barrel on the revolver out, slip the single bullet into my palm and then quickly slide it back into a different chamber. When you stop it mid spin, the odds are seven to one. When you have tried it seven times, statistically, the odds are even. Every time you try it after that, statistically, you will blow your brains out.
I turn, standing with my back to the canvas and spin the barrel of the revolver, stop it mid spin, put it to my forehead, and for the fifteenth time, pull the trigger.
Chapter 3
The squeal of seagulls swirled around in the thermals the birds were riding. They glided in circles, occasionally swooping down towards the white plastic barrier that had been erected around the Crime Scene in front of St Giles Cathedral. The noise was sharp and biting, cutting through the jovial buzz that had returned to the Festi
val activities taking place on the Royal Mile. One particular Great Black-backed gull swooped low inside the barrier, its dark wings shimmering in descent as it skimmed the heads of four people, excited by the odour of blood, and defecated onto the drab, dirty raincoat of one of the four stooping over the outstretched wings of the dead body lying on the ground.
The guano splatted onto DI Bentley’s shoulder, spattering onto the side of his face on impact. He stood up animatedly, raising a balled fist and shaking it furiously at the ascending bird as he shouted, ‘Fucking flying rat!’, while using the other arm to wipe the white deposits from his cheek, dislodging dog hair from the sleeve of his raincoat which gently floated down onto the body below.
‘Ne pas contaminer mon Crime Scene vas te faire encule sale!’ screamed Marcel Laurent, a svelte, tall angular faced man dressed in white Personal Protection Equipment. The Forensic Examiner straightened up as he shouted the insult and faced up to DI Bentley, shoving him backward, away from the body.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Bentley responded in surprise as he stumbled before gaining his footing and standing his ground. He tried to push back against Laurent, but the Frenchman was strong and determined and held him in place.
‘I said, don’t contaminate my Crime Scene you filthy fuck!’ Laurent repeated, in English this time, his features taut with fury.
Bentley tried again to push his portly, broad frame against the palm of the hand in his chest but still couldn’t move it. Anger flowed over his paunchy ruddy cheeks, coursed through his body, diverting the balled fist that he had shaken at the receding bird and angling it towards Laurent’s head.
A hand shot out and stopped it just before it made contact with Laurent’s skull. ‘Gentlemen, please, we have enough blood shed to investigate here today without the two of you adding to it.’ intervened Dr Le Fenwick, the Medical Examiner, as he positioned himself between the two men. ‘There are a also a good number of Junior officers and investigators here today, not least the lovely DC Tait, and I don’t think you are showing them a particularly good example of how senior professionals are meant to behave. Calm down, the pair of you, or I will report you both for gross misconduct. Do I make myself clear.’ finished Le Fenwick, his bulbous blue eyes radiating disapproval as his bald head moved back and forth, glaring at them.
‘Il est une telle chatte ecossias inconsidérée!’ mumbled Laurent under his breath, still simmering.
‘And you are a stinking oily four legged amphibian.’ Bentley growled, gutturally.
‘Great, you are an inconsiderate Scottish Twat, and you are a slimy French frog. You don’t like each other. I get it. But we have a dead body behind us. We have a potential Serial Killer to investigate, so could you please put your bigotry to one side and let’s get back to work please gentlemen.’ asked DC Tait, a tall, pallid young woman with blonde hair tied tightly in a ponytail. Le Fenwick looked at her in admiration and winked.
The two men grumbled an acknowledgement, begrudgingly nodding their heads. All four of them turned back to the dead body that was lying on the ground dressed in Jester’s Motley, wings spread out from either side of its back.
‘Cause of death is due to a single gunshot fired directly at the left temple. The bullet passed straight through the brain and exited via the right temple. Death was instantaneous.’ informed Le Fenwick as he crouched down beside the right side of the head, next to the blood pooling from the exploded exit point. The Jester’s eyes were wide open, glazed and empty, a rictus grin still singing from his lips.
‘And the wings?’ asked Tait, standing back from the body.
Laurent bent over the body and rolled it onto its right side, the left wing rising as he did. Their gaze followed the arc of the wing, all the way to where it met the Jester’s back. Through the torn Motley they saw a metal bracket with hinges, the end of the wings attached to the hinges. The bracket was strapped around the Jester’s chest. Laurent reached inside the Motley near the bracket, seeing a cable heading off up towards the shoulder and traced it all the way down the left arm, to a metal band circling the Jester’s wrist.
‘The wings were contained in a metal harness, strapped around his body, with control wires on each wrist to activate them. So, not a real Angel then.’ Laurent finished, smirking towards Le Fenwick.
‘And you thought it was.’ sneered Bentley. ‘Do you have any idea who he is? Any ID? Anything?’ he added.
‘No, nothing to identify him yet.’ Laurent answered curtly.
‘What about the Archbishop, Dick. How are his injuries?’ Bentley asked Le Fenwick as he turned and took in the rest of the area. Other Forensic Investigators in white PPE were examining the cabinet and various Manila files and boxes were being taken out of the drawer at the bottom of it. A number of police officers congregated at the side of the cabinet talking to PC Simpson.
Bentley walked towards them, Tait and Le Fenwick following. ‘Nails hammered through his hands and feet, proper crucifixion, but nothing life threatening. He has a few cuts and bruises from the stones that were thrown but otherwise is in reasonable shape. He had been sedated and the effects of that are starting to wear off. An ambulance has just taken him to hospital to have the wounds treated and he will be taken to the station after that.’ Le Fenwick answered.
‘Catholic bastard.’ grumbled Bentley under his breath as he approached PC Simpson.
‘Simpson, you okay?’ Bentley asked without concern, quickly adding, ‘Good, now tell me what happened?’ before Simpson had a chance to answer.
‘Gents.’ Bentley added, addressing the other Police Officers, ‘Go and make sure the perimeter is secure. I don’t want the press getting any more pictures than they already have.’ he finished, his tone admonishing.
The other officers left, each patting Simpson on the shoulder as they did, mouthing words of encouragement. Bentley looked on in irritation.
‘So Simpson, what happened?’ Bentley reiterated.
‘He blew his brains out. He blew his fucking brains out. Right in front of me.’ Simpson said, looking up at Bentley with imploring eyes.
‘Yes, he blew his brains out. Get over it. Who was he and why did he have the Archbishop?’
‘Jesus Bentley, show a bit of compassion, the man has just seen someone die.’ interrupted Le Fenwick, kneeling down alongside Simpson while wrapping a consoling arm around his shoulders.
‘Comes with the territory. Simpson, you are still on shift and we need to know what happened here.’ Bentley continued, unabashed.
Simpson looked up into the stern uncompromising face of Bentley, then down towards Le Fenwick’s considerate countenance. He spoke to Le Fenwick.
‘He said they were the Fallen Angels. He didn’t say who he was particularly. He said that they would no longer sit in the shadows of your Gods and let their impotence prevail. He said, even Fallen Angels Have Wings! And then the wings came out and he fucking shot himself!’ Simpson said, his voice rising in intensity as he shook in the seat, eyes wide with shock and panic.
‘And what the fuck does that mean! What about the Archbishop? What did he say about that Catholic twat?’ demanded Bentley abruptly. The harsh words seared through Simpson’s panic, bringing him back through his emotion, to fact.
‘He said that the Archbishop had killed seven women. He sodomised and strangled them to death on the altar in the cathedral. He said there were files in the cabinet containing the relevant evidence.’
‘He said a Roman Catholic Archbishop killed seven women on the altar of a Presbyterian church?’ Bentley reiterated, paraphrasing.
Tait looked up at Bentley in astonishment. ‘I think he told you the Archbishop killed seven women and you have been given the evidence to prove it. Is Catholic or Presbyterian really that important in the context of seven murders?’
‘Isn’t it? It seems to be important to the Fallen Angels. Important enough to crucify him. Important enough for one of them to commit suicide in broad daylight in front of an audience o
f hundreds. Important enough to make a religious statement. ‘We will no longer sit in the shadows of your Gods.’ What the hell do you think that is if not religious?’ Bentley said with sarcasm, shaking his head as he looked at Tait in disdain. Tait turned away sheepishly and knelt down to join Le Fenwick in consoling Simpson.
‘So what’s in the folders?’ Bentley added, marching away from them and over to the cabinet, scooping up one of the Manila folders in his stride.
‘Sir!’ shouted the mask covered face of one of the Forensic Examiners working the scene. ‘We haven’t processed that file yet.’
‘Bog Off. You’ve got my DNA on file, and my fucking dog’s, so you can easily eliminate me, right?’ Bentley challenged with a forceful glare. The examiner cowered under the gaze and didn’t answer, simply went back to dusting the small box in front of him for prints.
‘Prick.’ Bentley mumbled as he looked at the front of the folder. There was a white label in the top right corner of the cover, the name Josie Richards typed on it. He opened the cover and started to flick through the contents. The first few pages were typed notes. He read a few paragraphs, shaking his head as he did.
‘It’s a confession. A typed transcript of a confession detailing everything the bastard did to her.’ He flicked to the end of the notes. ‘And he has signed it. It looks like the bastard has signed it in blood.’
Le Fenwick came up alongside him and he scanned the notes as well, his face contorting into disbelief as he took in the graphic atrocity being described. Three words stuck in his mind. ‘Vade retro satana.’ he whispered.
‘I saw that too.’ said Bentley, turning the last page of the notes over to reveal a photograph. A photograph of a naked woman laying prone on her front over an altar. A naked woman with a clear plastic bag over her head and taped around her neck with blue masking tape. A plastic bag through which her dead bulbous eyes stared beseechingly out of the picture. Beside the altar, smiling, a triumphant expression on his sweat stained face, stood Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll. He was dressed in a surplice, a loose fitting, broad sleeved white vestment which was adorned with a purple stole over the shoulders. The surplice was rucked up at the front, his still erect penis stopping it from falling down.