CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
A Secret Optimist
A PRESENCE IS a Presence. You draw the shapes and symbols, you dress up like a birthday cake. If it’s demons, you stamp your foot, scream the names of God, and poke your wand in the fire. You compel them.
If it’s angels, you plead and grovel. And if it’s archangels, you plead and grovel like hell.
Thank God it hasn’t rained. We’ve got the shed packed with firewood and ready to blow. We’ve got this bloody great circle painted all around it. The linen squares with the symbols that Kazia and I drew with our blood are pinned to the ground with nails from a dead baby’s coffin. In the three corners of the big triangle we’ve got the sun, the moon and the corpus, the body. In the seven tips of the star I’ve got the sun, the moon and the five planets Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn.
I can’t do candles because they’d only blow out. But north, south, east and west I’ve got four lamps that Charlie rustled up. They’re burning consecrated oil that I siphoned off from the barrel in the cellar of the termite nest, so I’m hoping that the fact that it was nicked doesn’t deconsecrate it. Something else we didn’t cover at Saint Cyprian’s.
I’ve managed to get seven braziers; one at every tip of the star. They symbolise the seven stars, the seven colours of the rainbow, the seven stages of alchemical transformation. You name it, they symbolise it – so long as there’s seven of whatever it is.
In an ideal world, the shed would’ve been built on an east–west axis. But of course it wasn’t, so I’ve got precious stones representing the planets, the sun and the moon arranged all around the circle to rotate the magic space into a favourable orientation.
All this in only two days? I’m impressed, even if you’re not.
I’m ritually clean. I feel sick. But I can make this work. I’m a secret optimist. Secret even from myself, most of the time.
Let’s get down to the grovelling.
Everybody’s got a small circle inside one of the arms of the seven-pointed star. OK, so Marvo’s still passed out cold in hers. To be honest, I’d prefer to do all this without her – I know she’s going to be more trouble than she’s worth. But it seems like she’s got the right to be here. At least Kazia, Charlie and me are all wide awake. And on our knees.
The kid is curled up in his circle, right outside the shed. We’ve wrapped him in a white linen cloth, like a shroud, and slapped a pair of slippers on his feet.
Let’s go, then. These things always start pretty much the same way. Feel free to skip ahead . . .
‘In the name of Adonai the most high. In the name of Jehovah the most holy.’
I’ve got a bowl of black ash in front of me. I dip my finger in, and smear a cross on my forehead. As Charlie and Kazia copy me, I recite: ‘In the name of the Lord, Amen. In the name of the Lord who is blessed. In the name of the Lord, Amen.’ I pick up the bowl, and I’m off! ‘Adonai, Tetragrammaton, Jehovah, Tetragrammaton, Adonai, Jehovah, Otheos . . .’
The wind has dropped. The owls have shut up.
‘O Lord God, full of compassion, look with favour upon the work which we are about to perform. I do most numbly beseech thee—’
‘Frank!’ That’s Charlie. ‘Numbly?’
Oops – an old joke from Saint Cyprian’s come back to haunt me. I nod and go again: ‘I do most humbly beseech thee: assist us mercifully, O Lord, in these our supplications and prayers . . .’
There’s a lot of this until I get to a bit you might know: ‘Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes.’ I close my eyes.
‘Dust to dust.’ I tip the entire bowl of ash over my head.
I can hear coughing. I open one eye and see Charlie struggling in a thick cloud of ash. I give him my fierce look and manage to get crap in my own eye. I can’t make any attempt to wipe it away: the ash must fall or lie as it sees fit. At least, that’s what Kazia’s recipe seems to say, and who am I to doubt her?
Time to rustle up an archangel.
‘O blessed Michael, angel of the Lord, I beseech thee by God the Father Almighty who created us out of nothing and by the virtues of all the holy names of God: Eli, Eloe, Sabaoth, Adonai, Elion, Sother, Emanuel . . .’
Eventually, I run out of names. I toss a handful of sulphur into the brazier and get a rush of brilliant blue flames.
‘In this, by this, and with this, which I burn before thy face . . .’
I throw in a couple of drops of mercury and some salt and get a lot of sizzling and spitting.
‘O Eternal! O King Eternal! Deign to look upon thy most unworthy servant and upon this my intention. Vouchsafe to me thine archangel Michael, that in thy name he may judge and act justly in all that I shall request of him.’
Next up, some metal filings: silver, copper, gold, iron, tin and lead. They spit in the fire—
And we’ve got light. Lots of light. It doesn’t seem to come from any particular direction and doesn’t cast any shadows. It’s like everything’s being illuminated from within. Kazia’s holding her hand up, staring at it open-mouthed. Charlie catches my eye and draws his finger across his throat. I read that as, ‘Stop now, while you still can.’ I shrug apologetically and drop the wad of Kazia’s hair into the brazier. It sizzles and burns and gives off a horrible smell.
‘O great Lord Michael, who will defend us in battle; who will rescue us from the power of the enemy, especially at the hour of death; who will cast down the Antichrist and bring our souls to judgement—’
With archangels, flattery gets you everywhere.
‘I conjure thee by the living and true God. I invoke thee—’
The bigger the Presence, the louder the bang. There’s a detonation like someone’s fetched the entire planet a whack with a spade. I just manage not to go flat on my face. Kazia nearly topples out of her circle. Marvo’s rolled over . . .
What can I tell you? He’s an archangel. Golden hair and pearl-white skin. Robes that shimmer with every colour of the rainbow. And, for some reason, red shoes with pale blue bows and two-inch heels. Wings too, of course. You can’t have an archangel without wings. That’d be like a chocolate biscuit without chocolate. Or my dad without a glass in his hand.
I try to hit him with more flattery. ‘O great Lord Michael—’
He just holds up one hand. He turns. Marvo has rolled over again and is lying outside her circle.
I remember telling her once: the main difference between demons and angels. Demons want to do damage. Angels . . . they seem to want to help. Like they feel sorry for us.
Michael walks over to Marvo – none of this floaty crap, thank God – and goes down on one knee beside her. He takes her head between his hands. Her eyes flutter open and she stares at him, open-mouthed. He draws her up until she’s sitting, and lays her head on his shoulder. He strokes her hair. She smiles . . .
And you know what? I get this pang of jealousy, a physical pain in my heart like when I burn a wand after a ritual. And I’m thinking: why couldn’t it’ve been me?
I look round. Charlie and Kazia, they’ve both got the same resentful frown plastered across their faces.
A mixed blessing, archangels. I say, if you can’t please everyone, don’t bother.
Anyway, down to business. My ears are still ringing and my voice is unsteady, but I say, ‘Behold the pentacle of Solomon, which I have brought into thy presence. Thou hast healed the sick—’
He holds up his hand. ‘Yes, we know all that.’ He sounds pleased with himself. He lays Marvo down in her circle and gets to his feet, brushing dirt from his robe. ‘Shall we get this over with? I haven’t got all night . . .’
He sounds exactly like Matthew. My throat has gone dry. I point to the kid.
‘And you want me to do what, exactly?’ Michael says. ‘Sort out your mess for you again?’
I want to say that it’s his mess – Matthew’s – not mine. And that it’s not for me, it’s for Marvo—
‘Come here, boy!’
My Master’s voice. I step out of th
e circle. I’ve got a moment to think that I’m done for.
‘Hold out your hand.’
I feel a sharp pain across my palm, and I’m still staring at the cane in his hand when he turns to Kazia.
‘And you.’ Not just Vannutelli’s voice: the toad-like head with the skullcap perched on top.
She blinks and steps out of the circle. No cane this time; he slaps her hard, across the face. A trickle of blood runs from her nose.
He turns to Charlie. ‘I can’t be bothered with you.’ And a moment later he has transformed back: wings and red shoes with blue bows.
A shower of falling stars streaks across the sky overhead.
Michael says, ‘And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.’
He picks the kid up and cradles him in his arms. ‘I could take you all out,’ he says. ‘One flick of my wrist. But I’m in a generous mood tonight.’ He looks down at the kid. His voice softens. ‘And this child has suffered enough.’ He stares me right in the eyes. ‘So can we have some fire?’
I just stand there blinking like a fool.
‘Come on, somebody must have a light!’ He sighs ostentatiously. ‘If you want a job doing, do it yourself.’
The shed bursts into flames.
As he disappears into the inferno with the kid in his arms, it’s like Marvo finally wakes up. She screams, ‘Sean!’ and dives after him. I take a flying leap and grab her by the foot and we both go flat in the dirt. She’s kicking and wriggling, struggling to get free. I just hang on in there and take my knocks.
Maybe she gets tired. Maybe Michael has something to do with it. She just goes limp on me. The shed is blazing away like all of hell has been tossed inside it. The flames leap towards heaven in a dancing whirlwind of sparks. The roof falls in. The fire gives a final rush. The walls stand for a moment like blackened teeth. Then everything collapses in on itself and Michael is stepping out of the other side of a field of glowing embers with the kid, apparently unsinged, still cradled in his arms.
He drops him on the ground, like a rag doll.
‘Well?’ he says.
It takes me a moment to catch up. I dive into my circle, grab my black-handled knife and reseal it behind me—
‘In the name of the Lord, Amen.’ I grab my sword. ‘I thank thee, Lord Michael, because thou hast appeared—’
‘Get on with it, boy.’
I sweep my sword across my toes. ‘Do thou therefore depart in peace—’
But he’s already gone.
So I’m standing there with my mouth open, and you know what? I think I found Michael scarier . . . OK, maybe not actually scarier, but certainly more unsettling than any demon I’ve ever met. Demons, it’s like a firework display: ‘I can go off any moment with a whizz and a bang and I’ll take you with me . . .’
Angels, it’s like they’re under your skin and you don’t even know they’re there – or what they’re burrowing towards.
Enough, anyway. Let’s wrap this up. ‘Marvo,’ I say.
‘What is it this time?’ She climbs unsteadily to her feet. ‘I don’t feel well.’ She stares at the glowing shell of the shed and the twist of smoke disappearing among the stars. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’
‘Over here . . .’
‘Oh yes,’ she says at last. She sounds only slightly surprised. ‘Sean.’ Her hand flies to her mouth. Tears run down her cheeks. ‘What happened to him?’ She’s on her knees beside him . . .
Sean gives this violent spasm that almost lifts him off the floor.
Marvo whirls round and whacks me one. ‘Did you do this to him?’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Repentance
I’LL SPARE YOU the touching reunion scene because actually it isn’t as touching as all that. Marvo’s up for some serious weeping and wailing, but although Sean’s eyes are wide open and he’s breathing steadily since he did that big twitch, he isn’t exactly in touch with the big wide world yet.
Mostly – for now, at least – he just dribbles. So we take him home, where his mum waves her amulet around and refuses to believe that this is her beloved boy. Finally, Marvo convinces her and we leave her clutching him while he dribbles gently on her shoulder.
An hour later, the rising sun is reflected in the black water of the canal across the road from the jack shack. Marvo’s shivering, despite her coat and my jerkin over her shoulders. I step out of harm’s way as she blows a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I can’t stand it, Frank.’ Her voice shakes. ‘The thought of him just lying there, all that time . . .’
‘Don’t think about it.’ I’m a fountain of good advice. ‘He’ll be OK. A decent healer can fix the scars.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. Good as new. Just like the picture on your mum’s piano.’
Kazia is sitting on the edge of the canal, watching a rat swim past. Marvo leans close to my ear and whispers, ‘So how did she make it work? I mean me, my mum, everybody who knew Sean . . . how did she figure out all the details?’
‘She didn’t need to. You and your mum did all the hard work. Put together the story, filled in the details. You thought there’d been a funeral and that certain people turned out. Obviously they didn’t, but you’d treat them like they did and the spell’d ripple out, I dunno, sort of like an infection, and make them believe it.’
‘What about the headstone?’
‘Matthew must’ve organised it.’ And got Kazia to extend the spell to it. Hence the buzz of magic I got off it.
‘“Our beloved boy”. Maybe he felt guilty.’
Yeah, maybe.
Kazia looks round as Marvo tosses her cigarette into the water. ‘OK,’ says Marvo. ‘Let’s see what Doctor Death says . . .’
‘Sean Michael Marvell,’ says Marvo.
Squeezed into his corner, in his tiny den at the top of the jack shack, Doctor Death closes his eyes. There’s a sound like sheets of paper being shuffled: elementals can really take the piss sometimes. He looks up with an apologetic smile. ‘Sean Michael Marvell is not known.’
I turn to Marvo. ‘All straight now? No pariah spell. No police record. Nothing.’
I push my chair back. The gas light fades. Doctor Death’s head falls forward onto his chest.
I’m halfway down the spiral staircase when Marvo says, ‘I asked him about your dad.’
‘Huh?’
‘Yesterday.’ She’s a couple of steps behind me, one hand on the rail. ‘What he knew about him.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘If it was an accident, like you said—’
‘When’d I say?’
‘You told me once, your dad fell asleep with a lighted cigarette.’
Maybe I did. I can’t remember. ‘Can we just get out of here?’ I head on down the stairs.
‘But that’d get the fire brigade out, and the police would investigate.’ Marvo’s right behind me and I realise she isn’t going to shut up. ‘So why didn’t Doctor Death know about it?’
‘Maybe it’s like you said, he’s getting past it.’ I can’t help sniggering. ‘Needs new batteries.’
‘Or maybe it wasn’t an accident and it was one of your stupid magic things . . .’ She trails off. Her footsteps have stopped. I look round and she’s just standing there by the window over the canal. Her face has gone white. She’s staring blankly back at me. She shakes like breaking china . . .
Heads down, everybody! Insight coming in: ‘Frank?’
‘What?’
‘You killed him.’
That’s the trouble with fixing Sean: Marvo’s fixed too. I turn and head off along the corridor, but she calls after me, ‘Why, Frank?’
‘I told you, it was an
accident.’
‘Like hell it was.’
I sigh. When Marvo’s on a roll, there’s no point in fighting her. ‘I was a fire-starter, OK? As a kid. You know, I could just set things alight—’
‘Yeah, but why?’
‘I’d get angry. Boom! That’s how they found out I was Gifted. My dad . . . I dunno, must’ve whacked me once too often when he came home pissed. I don’t remember, OK?’
‘But how come Doctor Death doesn’t know about it?’
‘The Society wanted me. They probably had a quiet word.’
‘Does it ever occur to you that maybe you’re not as important as you think you are?’
Of course it does. But if I don’t talk myself up, who else will? I’m dead on my feet, and I still have to decide what to do with Kazia. At the bottom of the stairs, I push through the door into reception—
Straight into Caxton, standing there, hands on hips, face like thunder. Ferdia’s right behind her, clutching his sorcerer’s case and looking pleased with himself.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Caxton snarls.
I really don’t need this; I’m so tired I can barely stand up. I try to push past her, but she grabs me by the collar of my jerkin and slams me back against the wall. ‘Kidnapping, assault . . .’
She runs out of steam, so Ferdia adds helpfully, ‘God knows what else.’
‘Ouch.’ I rub the back of my head.
That gets me a shaking. ‘The Crypt Boy, where is he?’
I can’t move, but I can twist my head round to Marvo. ‘Do you want to tell her?’
Ferdia’s parked his case on the desk. He makes a grab for Marvo’s arm. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks in this weaselly voice.
She pulls away. ‘He’s at my house.’
Caxton’s turn: ‘Who is?’
‘My brother. Frank found him.’
‘Alive,’ I point out.
Ferdia stutters, ‘But he’s—’
‘Not as dead as everybody thought he was.’
‘You’re saying—’
‘I fixed him.’
Caxton and Ferdia, they’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer, so it takes a while to convince them. Crypt Boy. Sean Marvell. One and the same. But I know we’ve finally got there when the door opens and Mr Memory steps up to stand beside Caxton. With the spell broken, there’s no case to solve – no data to be remembered. He’s got a sad smile on his face, and I can see the wall through him. He’ll soon be gone.
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