A Question of Faith (Harlem's Deck 9)

by Paul Smith

  *

  Saturday saw Elliot's introduction to the new PA. Wanda was bright and vivacious in an a-skirt and heels that came down on just the right side of slutty. A fitted jacket to match the skirt and thick rimmed geek glasses completed the impression of a ditzy stripper about to start her show. An effect ruined completely the instant she opened her mouth.

  This, he quickly realised, was a woman at the head of her field. During a short interview over take-out coffee (his a caramel mocha with extra marshmallows, hers a tall black) he discovered that she'd only been 'in the field' as she put in for coming on two years, graduating from NU with a first (and honours) in political journalism. She had two cats (Frieda and Perseus), liked old movies (“Snyder? Abrams?” - “Try Curtis and Monroe”) and spent the weekends (where possible) helping out her sister's family with their allotment.

  She was also an ardent church-goer.

  “So you'll be joining us tomorrow then?”

  She nodded, lips twisting beneath the mane of raven black hair she was busy fixing back in its tail. Elliot was finding the whole thing quite arresting. “On this occasion, yes. Though I usually attend my local. There's a house band.”

  He raised an eyebrow but held his peace, watching as she finished what she was doing and lowered her arms. They both looked across to where Jaret sat with the reason for their visit here: Jones had requested the powwow; a pre-candidacy meeting, off the books. The franchise had been cleared of patrons for the occasion by Dagmer and his cronies, leaving just the four of them and a pair of very nervous looking staff who were loitering in the back until called. Men in dark suits stood impassive at the counter and by the door, with an extra set stationed out on the street for good measure. Jones had left his people outside, in the car.

  It was sinfully early, even ignoring last night's furore, hence the ridiculous caffeine/sugar confection. Karl would disapprove horribly, but Elliot didn't really see a lot of choice in the matter. Jaret had a full day planned and no intention (apparently) of letting last night's attack slow him down. There had been quite the argument on the subject when Detectives Williams and Summers arrived at the house this morning, but Jay had been adamant, and they'd eventually been forced to back down. Lise had graciously agreed to put her day on hold to answer any questions, and Jaret had conceded to be available for video calls, should the need arise, with a concession that he would clear his schedule on Monday morning to visit the station again. Personally Elliot didn't really see the need. But the maid the daemon had used as cats-paw (Elliot was still fuming over that – he interviewed each member of staff personally and regularly, to sniff out any taint) did constitute just cause. The police had access to far more information than him. Combined with their testimonies they might actually stand a chance of finding out where and when she was contaminated.

  Elliot slept like the dead that night and woke feeling, if not full of the joys, then at least refreshed. Rising, he ran through his morning work out routine then showered and dressed before joining Jay and Lise at the breakfast table. She peered up as he entered, offering a smile. Jaret had his head buried in the papers, but that was nothing new.

  He spent the half hour before church going over the staff records on his pad. It was a pointless exercise, he knew, but his pride just wouldn't let him let the issue go. He'd been beaten, again, within the same week. Yes Jay and Lise were still alive, but that was at least in part, he suspected, because they were more useful in that state. He needed to up his game before someone decided this wasn't necessarily the case, or chose to attempt one of the various more direct approaches at persuasion open to the Pit's residents.

  Calling Francis over, he asked the man to organise a schedule of interviews for the afternoon, receiving a nod of approval from Jay.

  “It's got to be done,” his brother agreed, face grim. “Tell them not to be concerned, this isn't a witch hunt, we're just being proactive. The NPD will expect it.”

  Francis nodded solemnly as he withdrew.

  So, fun fun fun then.

  Sighing, he thumbed the pad off as he rose with the others.

  Time for worship.

  The firebird growled its way through the Sunday morning traffic. Elliot rode in the front with Brahms, enjoying the other man's quiet self assurance. It made for refreshing company. In the back, Annalise and Jaret were full of the coming week's schedules. This was normal for them: the Sunday morning car ride being one of the few stable points in the week where they could guarantee a solid half hour together to compare notes on their plans, synchronise points of intersection.

  With a growl Brahms pulled up at the bottom of the cathedral steps, Jay and Lise winding up their tête-à-tête with practised grace. Wanda was waiting for them as Elliot climbed out, his coat tails swirling in the chill morning air as he strode round to open the door for Lise whilst Jay saw to himself. She and Wanda were already into heated discussion as Jay lofted a hand to Brahms, watching the man pull away. Experience told Elliot he would be headed for a particular cafe van that always parked up on the edge of the warehouse district. He'd yet to work out whether Brahms was courting the woman who owned it; his own wife had died some years ago.

  Turning away from the departing roadster's sleek black and red lines he and Jay followed the girls up the steps towards the line of faithful heading in through the cathedral doors.

  Functioning as the centre of Neppon's Orthodoxy, the Sacra Familiae was a souring structure of dark stone modelled after the sensibilities of Gaudi's cathedral in Barcelona. Whilst not an exact replica, the building owed its historical sibling much by way of its Gothic-Noveau sensibilities. Elliot loved the place. From its soaring organic columns and multifaceted stained glass windows, to the heavily stylised statuary that littered the interior, the whole thing was just fabulously moving.

  ArchArchbishop Carlton greeted them as they reached the entrance, stood to one side of the massive double doors. A pair of Priests accompanied him, watching the crowd. It was a simple fact that the cathedral was unable to accommodate all those who might wish to worship here, and one attended service by invite only. There was nothing so crass as an actual roll call at the door, any more than you received notice through the post. The whole thing was handled amongst Neppon's upper echelon via a core network of attendees who would let you know if your presence would be welcome. Jaret and Annalise had both been attending since they reached their majorities, albeit separately. Elliot still remembered her excitement the first time they came as husband and wife.

  Elliot always found his own admission something of an oddity, particularly given the church's poorly hidden views on his profession. Yes, as Jaret's man at arms it would be difficult for them to exclude him, but still. The Archbishop never seemed anything less than ecstatic to see him however, greeting him with a firm double handed clasp about his own proffered palm (not the one with the Horus eye, that would be a step too far he always felt) and a few kinds words. For himself, Elliot was always careful to respond in kind. He did not, after all, have a problem with the church. Indeed, there had been a few occasions when he had needed to call on their services, such as when he'd first sealed the mansion. It was a job he was more than capable of doing himself, but the gesture was traditional. Kind of like having a chimney sweep at a wedding.

  Which reminded him...

  “Father, I need to organise the services of one of your people...”

  The Archbishop nodded his understanding. “I was so sorry to hear. Fear not, my son. I will have my people contact Jaret's office on Monday morning to arrange a convenient time.”

  “Thank you.”

  Archbishop Carlton waved a be-ringed hand in dismissal. “Nonsense my boy. What else are we here for, if not to tend the flock?”

  Elliot smiled at that, bowing as he moved on through the foyer, into the vaulting nave beyond. The pews were already filling up as he and the Mayoral couple moved down the aisle towards the front. As with the door policy, there was a strict but unspoken code regardin
g where one sat that was echoed firmly by one's social station. As city Mayor, Jaret and his partner rated a place in the front row. An honour reserved for the highest of city officials. Elliot nodded as Lise glanced over her shoulder, moving to take his place next to Wanda amongst the other hangers-on. Here, as further forwards, there was a strict hierarchy in observance. One you did not baulk as he'd discovered, whilst he was still a snotty nosed teenager with too much sass. That particular confrontation, featuring himself, Jay, the Archbishop and Jay's father stood out as one of the most embarrassing in his entire life. He often looked back on it as the tipping point that had seen him take his first steps down the road to becoming a man. Karl's words, later, still rang in his mind.

  Being a man is about more than attitude and swagger.

  It was a lesson he'd taken somewhat to heart, though he did still enjoy a little showmanship every now and then. But who didn't? As long as you saw it for the fun it was and didn't let it go to your ego.

  Wanda was dressed for the occasion in what could only be described as ninja chic, the midnight garments hugging her curves in all the most distracting places. A forest green rain mac draped across the pew at her side did not help the accompanying mental images. Elliot did his best to keep his gaze front and centre, smiling politely as he sat and thanking his lucky stars that the organ chose that moment to rumble into life.

  All stood as the doors behind them boomed shut, the Archbishop making his aged way down the aisle with the Priests and a procession of censer-wielding Deacons in tow as the choir lifted their voices in adulation.

  Head up, hands clasped before him, Elliot lost himself in the room's beautiful acoustics.

  He didn't like to admit it but Elliot found church to be quite an affecting experience. He could never pinpoint the exact reasons behind it, though years of self examination had led him to believe it had something to do with the coming together of people. And the way the cynicism pervading the congregation here seemed to kill the experience did lend his intuition a certain legitimacy.

  Rich people putting on a show. He'd eat Daiko for Sunday roast if more than a handful of them were genuinely devout.

  It was a strange truth of the shallows that proof did not bring belief with it. He'd always imagined the conversation went something like this in people's heads:

  Hell is real.

  How do you know? Anyone ever gone there and come back with holiday snaps?

  But the demons...?!

  Dimensional aliens. There was that article in Diaspora Science.

  But, the soul contracts... and what about the reported angel sightings?

  Been a lot of weird shit out here. But religious iconography? Really?

  Suppose it does stretch the bounds of credulity a little...

  To be honest he was forced to agree with them to a certain extent. Mankind had seen some weird shit since leaving the backyard to go walkabout.

  The wraiths living in the rings of Devlan Seven, for example.

  Or that debacle over the denizens of Aire's northern seas.

  And of course everyone's favourite: the Silent Coruscation. Elliot had been in a bar when news of that one came through. Every network had dropped what they were doing to broadcast the images, relayed from a group of privateers out near the Rim. He'd sat in the sudden rapt silence watching with the rest of the bar's patrons as the blade-like sails of the lead privateer's craft were suddenly backlit by crackling pyramids of white light that seemed to insert themselves into local space from some elsewhere beyond the gathered ship's ken. They stayed for about half an hour, in what would go down in history as the strangest Mexican stand-off ever, before retreating back into whichever dimensional undercurrent they'd emerged from.

  Debate and finger-pointing was (of course) still rife over how the whole thing might have been handled differently/better.

  The point, Elliot reminded himself, was that for many the revelation of the shallows had been lumped in with all this other strangeness.

  So the monsters he and the other Nu Shakya had been trained to deal with claimed to be from the Hell of mankind's unconscious.

  Could they prove it? No.

  Personally, Elliot saw the question as a moot one. Whether they originated from the Nine Circles (good old Dante) was neither here nor there. This world apparently occupied a region of physical space where the walls were thin enough for said denizens to push through (with a little help) from the otherside (where ever that 'otherside' might, in actual fact, be). They existed and they were a threat. And, they seemed bound by many of the trappings of ancient theology and spirituality.

  That was proof enough for him. Quibbling over semantics would get you nowhere when you had a third degree atrocity slathering in your face.

  The choir gave voice to the final sacrament, signalling the congregation to move forward and make its offering. Glancing at Wanda, Elliot made for the end of their pew, taking his place politely in line as they shuffled towards the front. The Archbishop stood by with his attendant, a cushion set before him so that each supplicant might kneel in comfort. Elliot watched the parade of rich and powerful as they bent the knee, doing his best not to laugh at the spectacle. When it came time for his turn however, he was all sober seriousness. This stuff was, after all, his bread and butter. He believed, had felt the power of the Host coursing through his form.

  He knelt, sharing a brief smile with the elderly man before lowering his gaze over clasped hands for the blessing, eyes closed. A gentle touch on the chin and he looked up again, accepting the wafer, and the sip of wine that followed as the Archbishop murmured the benediction.

  With his sword and coat he always felt like a knight of old, receiving some sacred duty from his liege.

  Rising again, he nodded thanks before moving on, accepting his votive from an awed chorister. The lad barely managed to keep his eyes from popping out, and Elliot had to reign his amusement in again before it became irreverent as he crossed to the side of the church, where a portion of the transept was given over to the offerings. Leaning forwards, he lit the tiny candle from one of the others present (it was a matter of pride with the Archbishop that a light always burned here) before placing it on one of the stepped tiers that lined the wall. The entire section had been panelled in black, with the intention that the candles resemble stars in the night. An illumination on the wall above depicted St Christopher in his white space suit, helmet under one arm, shepherd's crook in his hand.

  Elliot had always liked the re-appropriation of the old iconography. Found it reassuring.

  Help me sort out this mess, old man.

  Unexpected tears pricked his eyes. Smiling faintly to himself, and with a nod for the kindly old space farer, he stepped away from altar, letting the next person take their turn.

  Headed back out into the hall for exchange of the peace, which heralded the service's end.

  Sunday afternoons were his fixed gym date, and daemonic smiting or not he was expected at the dojo straight from church. It was the one time the Roscan's were required to bend their schedule round their Nu Shakya, under the original training contract they'd signed with the Three Winds all those years ago.

  What might have been a easily predicted weakness in their security schedule was plugged by the expedient of having Daiko escort them back to the mansion. Though usually averse to the sun's baleful glare, the crow was relatively safe behind the firebird's tinted windows.

  Elliot had always found the idea of the two of them being chaperoned back from church by one of the damned highly entertaining.

  Apparently the bird rode up front with Brahms. “We talk soccer,” the handler had explained, when Elliot had probed him on the subject.

  Karl had already spoken to Stephanie by the time he got there (Maha holy services were on a Saturday) but still demanded a blow by blow account from him whilst they worked the punch bag before sticking Elliot in the ring with Kaiden and then Maria, who also wanted to know all the gossip. The story had, naturally, been all
over the social networks on Saturday and even rated space in the NTime's Sunday society pages.

  “That photo of you and the kid has gone viral you know,” she informed him, as they relaxed with Kaiden in the jacuzzi after swimming.

  Elliot raised an eyebrow. “That'd explain the missed calls from Beth.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the Laines when he saw their blank looks. “She owns That Cave.”

  Kaiden raised an eyebrow. “Isn't she married to Lilith Blues?”

  Elliot nodded. “The DJ? Yeah. How do you...?”

  “People I work for helped set up the lighting rigs for Masquerade's new venue when they moved.”

  “No way!”

  Maria was looking from one to the other. “You mean I know two people who could get me on the guest list and I wasn't aware?”

  Elliot shook his head. “I'll have a word with Beth when I speak to her.” He glanced at Kaiden. “Unless you...”

  The gruff electrician raised his hands from the gently steaming water. “You go ahead, man. Though if there's space for a little one...”

  Elliot grinned. “I'll see what I can do.”

  What he could do, apparently, was go screw himself.

  “Seriously El,” Beth growled, against a background of busy commerce. “What does it take to pick up the phone, eh? Or a text. Not like I'm asking for the earth.”

  “Um, middle of a family crisis here? Daemons flying at me etc.”

  “Yes, well...” Beth paused to shout something at one of her staff, a hand over the receiver doing little to muffle the cacophony. He pulled his own phone away from his ear before replacing it as he heard her begin speaking into it again. “...not like I'm not grateful. Takings are through the roof, thanks to that stunt with Nigel.” Her voice lowered, and the background abruptly cut off (he imagined her stepping into the back). “Ended up giving him a job, just to guarantee the press come here if nothing else.”

  Elliot felt his eyebrows raising at that one as he entered Grand Central but nodded, seeing the business acumen there. “What about when it all blows over?”

  “I'll need fresh meat for the weekends soon anyway: Clara starts uni this coming semester, down in Port Vale.”

  “Fair play.” Should I...? He stole himself mentally, before asking: “Any news on that little project I brought you...?” found himself trailing off at the stony silence on the other end of the line. “I'll take that as a no then.”

  “You can be such a self absorbed prick sometimes Elliot Roscan, you know that?”

  “Hey!” He lowered his voice as other people queuing for the ticket machine gave him funny looks. “I've been busy, like I said.”

  He heard her draw breath, exhaling expansively. “I guess you didn't deserve that. It's just been pretty hectic round here too, is all. And with Sam getting that weird note in the post...”

  “What weird note?”

  “You mean she hasn't called you?”

  Elliot paused on the stairs down to the main concourse. “No. Beth, what note?”

  “I – shit. Hang on.” The phone was muffled again. Then she was back. “El, I gotta go. The LARPers have just turned up and turned the store into a battle ground. Need to referee.”

  Elliot found himself grinning as he made for platform twelve. “Go rain vengeful wrath.”

  “Promise me you'll call her?”

  “Soon as I'm on my train.”

  “Thank you. I'll have your shit for you Monday.”

  “Cheers Beth.”

  She rang off to the sound of door hinges and teenage battle cries. Elliot grinned as he stepped through the barrier, heading down the length of the ancient train that served the branch line out towards the Glades.

  But when he called, Sam wasn't picking up.

  Shit Samara, what have you gotten yourself into? Sam was a journalist, as well as a DJ and club promoter. Her work on the fashion scene was well respected, but hardly dangerous.

  He didn't like it, but he smelt smoke. And where there's smoke...

  The girl in the red hood had first walked into Elliot's life while he and Jay were still at Glades UNC.

  Well, actually it was Jaret's life she'd walked into. At the time Elliot had been entertaining a string of bimbos that had left Jay alternately horrified and intrigued.

  They'd met at a political social she was covering for the university paper, one thing leading to another as these things often do where teenage hormones are concerned. This had been after he and Ishra parted company the first time, he into brooding self absorption and she into the arms of the head jock.

  Elliot had left a boglin in the guys locker (he was a complete dick about the whole thing). Apparently he'd shit himself when he found it. Literally.

  Jaret and Sam's had been a brief affair truncated by a combination of their differences in political views (she thought he was too much of an idealist, he considered her to be narrow minded) and Sam's growing realisation that Jay was missing two vital attributes that she needed in a lover.

  Elliot still fondly remembered the first time he had come across her and Beth in the library, where Beth had picked up part time work to see her through her studies. The connection had been so obvious he'd wanted to rush up and hug them both on the spot.

  Instead he'd retreated tactfully and spent the next week agonising over whether he should tell Jaret. In the end it had proven unnecessary, when an argument following a political rally Jay attended finally sparked the row that would push him and the gifted young journalist apart.

  (It was much much later that Elliot found out about Sam's short fling with Demontaire in the months leading up to this. It was a secret he'd likely take to his grave.)

  Surprisingly, for all concerned Elliot often thought, the four of them (Jay, Sam, Beth and himself) had actually ended up hanging out once the dust had settled. Turned out Beth shared the man's whithering disdain for some of Sam's more outré political views, for all she was more than prepared to put them to one side for the sake of the woman she loved. But still, it had been entertaining watching the two of them try to gang up on Samara, who was having none of it, whilst the four of them shared a jug of sangria in one of the campus bars.

  To this day Jaret still displayed a certain quiet respect, whenever Beth's name came up.

  This was, of course, all pre-Annalise.

  The phone rang, pulling Elliot out of his reverie.

  “Beth, I was just thinking about you.”

  “Really El, I don't want to know.”

  “Tried calling Sam by the way, she's not answering.”

  “She's out at her parents. Signal's crap out there.”

  Elliot nodded to himself, a small tangle of worry unwinding in the pit of his stomach. “What can I do for you?”

  “It's more what can I do for you. Can we meet?”

  Elliot glanced across the office at Jaret, busy in conversation. “I'm kinda stuck here at the moment, and then I've an appointment tonight.”

  “Oh...?”

  “Nothing like that you gossip, new ink.”

  “Ah, I see. At night...? Oh. Oh!” He smiled, imagining the series of facial expressions accompanying that one. “They let you in to the Old Quarter?”

  Elliot shook his head. “What? It's not like I'm going to make trouble. Not unless someone else starts it.”

  “Still. A vamp, really El?”

  “They're people just like the rest of us. You've seen the footage with the Dalai Lama. And then the Pope...? Everyone has. Which means far as I'm concerned we're good...” He smiled, aware Beth once again had him on the defensive. It was a long established go to for them, thrust and riposte. “Besides,” he continued, smile colouring his words, “have you seen his work? It's stunning.”

  “So you pay him to doodle cartoons on your skin.”

  Elliot blew a raspberry down the phone. “Look, I'm all tied up tonight, but I might be able to get Jaret to let me off for an hour or so first thing tomorrow?”

  “Ok. Buy
me coffee?”

  “Sure thing. That place...?”

  “Glens. Eight thirty sharp.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Yes, there are two of them in the day. Get over it.”

  “Eight thirty.”

  “Don't be late – I have a business to run you know!”

  “I'll be there, long as the almighty one isn't having a bout of paranoia.”

  “Just keep me posted.”

  “You'll know within the hour. He's almost finished waffling.” Jaret shot him a look across the room and he winced, ducking back into the corridor. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Have fun with Picasso.”