Cat looked around the table and found everyone beaming at her again. They appeared positively enthralled. Even one of the cats miaowed. And the Great Sheldrake made a flourishing gesture with his hand, like a courtier before the Queen.
‘Another splendid answer, Catriona. You really are something to behold.’
Cat again gathered that she was meant to be pleased with herself. But she wasn’t pleased with herself. She was only impatient.
Then came the third, considerably darker dilemma.
‘You’re working for a secret government agency,’ read the Great Sheldrake, ‘when you uncover evidence of a terrorist plot to assassinate a leading political figure whom you despise. Do you (a) inform your supervisors in order to prevent the politician’s murder; (b) let others find the information for themselves; or (c) actively bury the evidence?’
Of those sitting between eight and one o’clock Johannes the Austrian was again the most well-spoken: ‘This illustrates a central tenet of Satanism – that the power of God, the right to kill, should be delegated to the common man. Now, if everyone had a right to kill then there would be barbarism, that’s true, but that right is currently exercised freely by those on the highest rungs of power, and very often such people only reach those positions through psychotic levels of deceit and narcissism. So if a Satanist is given the opportunity to participate in the assassination of a man he or she judges to be a menace to society – simply by burying the evidence – then it’s one’s duty to do so, without guilt or second thoughts. Not burying the evidence, in most cases, would be an act of irresponsibility.’
At twelve o’clock Cat was wondering if this was all an oblique reference to her own desire, privately shared with Agnes, to eliminate the guy upstairs – the very reason she was here. So she forced herself into another challenging response.
‘This sounds like the Hitler dilemma,’ she said. ‘Would you assassinate Hitler in the 1930s and prevent the Second World War? The answer is yes, of course you would. And if you had nothing to do with the actual assassination, well, so much the better. But is it really as simple as that? I mean, who are the people – these so-called terrorists – arranging the assassination? Members of some ethnic minority? Wouldn’t then the assassination only empower the tyrant’s cause? Turn a maniac into a martyr? Make things even worse than they are? Because there’s now proof that a minority is acting against the nation’s will? Besides,’ she said, ‘is there any real evidence that Hitler’s replacement – Himmler, say – is any less of a psychopath? Or that a war would be prevented? Who can say? I mean, you can’t really judge these things unless you’re immersed daily in the detail and fully aware of all the variables. In light of that, I can understand how someone might pass the information on to her superiors or pretend not to see it at all. Suffice to say the devil is always in the details.’
It wasn’t intended as a joke and Cat, when she realised what she’d said, blinked self-consciously. She wouldn’t have blamed the Satanists if they were offended; if they decided to give up on the game entirely. Part of her wished that they would. But the people around the table – and those off to the side – didn’t look remotely upset. They were still wearing their wax-museum smiles. Their adoring eyes. Their tense postures.
‘Can I take my jacket off?’ she asked. ‘It’s hotter than . . . than Florida in here.’
‘Of course, dear.’ Maggie sprang to attention. ‘I’ll pour you another Irn-Bru!’
‘Thanks,’ said Cat, wriggling her arms out of the sleeves just as the Great Sheldrake reached for another card.
‘So there’s to be more of these questions?’ she asked, annoyed.
‘Oh yes,’ said Sheldrake. ‘The devil, as you say, is always in the details.’
And then things started to turn really dark.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
First of all, the chamber had literally become darker. The tiny overhead globes had dimmed and the only illumination came from the hearth. The figures around the table, splashed with wavering light, now looked like genuine old-time witches around a bonfire.
Second (and this would later cause Cat much consternation), there seemed to be someone in the velvety darkness behind the mosquito nets at the other side of the room. Observing her. A man who’d never been introduced to her, a man who was making everyone else edgy. He was sitting in what looked like a high-backed chair, or a throne, and when he leaned forward, resting his chin on steepled hands, Cat thought she saw his eyes – bestial eyes, like those picked out by a flashlight in the woods.
Third (and most disturbing of all), the dilemmas were now deeply discomfiting and personal, as though someone had plundered her mind of its darkest and most closely guarded secrets.
‘You’re busy with an important work project, integral to your professional career, when you receive word that your elderly parent is close to death. As chief carer, you know very well that your parent has been deteriorating for years and suspect that the nurse has made a premature evaluation. Do you (a) drop everything and rush to your parent’s side anyway; (b) wait for further evidence before you commit yourself; or (c) continue guiltlessly with your work and wait for an opportunity to present itself?’
In fact, the parent had been her father, stricken with leukaemia. Cat had been deeply immersed in the crime syndicate court case in Tallahassee. The call had come from one of her brothers, Mark, who’d had little contact with his father in years and seemed ill-qualified to judge his condition. And Cat’s decision – to remain with the court case at a critical stage – had never stopped haunting her. Because she had not been there – no one had – when her father had slipped into eternity.
So she listened blankly to the other responses and when her turn came she was unusually reserved.
‘No details are provided about the “important work”,’ she pointed out. ‘No details on the location of that work in relation to the parent. No idea if there are other relatives, sons and daughter and so on, in the mix. No real idea if the parent would even want anyone to come rushing to his or her side. There’s so much we don’t know that no answer can be categorical. So I’m really not sure what I’d do in similar circumstances,’ she said, struggling not to wince.
There followed an extended silence, as though everyone was waiting for her to continue. But she’d said enough this time. She refused even to look around, to check for a reaction. She only stared at the Great Sheldrake, imploring him to get on with it.
Which, eventually, he did. In wavering flamelight he picked up the next card. He held it in front of his face. He read it in silence for a few moments. Then he returned his knowing eyes to Cat.
‘A young girl who has been sexually abused by an older relative contrives to take violent revenge. She confesses this to you after the fact and throws herself at your mercy. Do you (a) inform the police or the girl’s parents; (b) counsel the girl to confess to the authorities; or (c) advise the girl to stay silent on the matter and assure her you would have done the same thing in the circumstances?’
Cat squirmed. She herself had been such a victim. And the way she had responded – heroic, understandable or shameful? – continued to plague her nearly three decades later.
‘I wish I could say,’ she responded self-consciously – was it just her imagination or were the witches surveying her with particular cunning? ‘Violence often begets violence but that doesn’t make revenge forgivable. And there’s no indication what sort of “violent revenge” we’re talking about anyway. Like so many other arguments, it might boil down to semantics. And, of course, how close you are to everyone involved.’
She shot a glance across the chamber and thought she saw the glimmering eyes of the man on the throne. She sensed that he – everyone – wanted her to elaborate. But she only lowered her gaze to the table, like Connor Bailey in Callander, and waited for them to move on.
By now her vision, fixed on the number XII in the table, was becoming blurred. Her head was starting to swim. And s
he must have blacked out for a second, or simply lost sense of time, because when she looked up she found the Great Sheldrake already reading the sixth dilemma.
‘A dying relative sends you a letter revealing that your late brother, lauded in his lifetime as a pillar of the community, was in reality a sexual predator responsible for a string of assaults. Do you (a) inform the authorities; (b) inform the authorities only after those close to your brother have passed away; or (c) destroy the letter and tell no one, in order to preserve the family name?’
This too seemed a distorted reflection of the truth. The predator had been her cousin. And the decision not to speak out about him, while complicated for many reasons, had years later caused her intense, life-changing guilt.
‘The brother is “late” – meaning dead?’ she asked, struggling for a coherent response. ‘Does that mean he was old? Does that mean his victims have died also? Again, there are a lot of things here that need to be . . .’
And she waffled on without even hearing what she was saying. In truth, she had lost control of her own thoughts. She might have started slurring. All she knew for certain was that she was tired. The soda pop was making her tipsy – she was convinced now that it had been spiked with something less innocent than whisky. The warmth, even with her jacket off, was furnace-like. And the sulphurous odour was impairing her ability to think straight – did the Satanists not realise that the use of unbearable smells could influence ethical judgements? Or was that the point? Were they toying with her? Experimenting with her?
‘Are you OK?’ Agnes was asking.
‘I’m OK,’ said Cat. But she most certainly was not OK. She was dizzy and scared.
‘Final dilemma,’ the Great Sheldrake announced from three o’clock. He was reaching for the last card. He was studying it. He was smiling. He was turning his eyes directly to Cat.
‘You purchase a perfect apartment in a picturesque city and everything seems to be going splendidly. But then the tenant upstairs, a worthless loafer, returns to his own apartment and, disregarding all your pleas, begins a campaign of malicious disruption with the specific intention of driving you mad.’
Cat squinted – was she really hearing this?
‘Do you: (a) move to a different residence at considerable financial cost; (b) try to live with the nuisance or hope that the problem resolves itself; or (c), make moves to eliminate the troublemaker at the source?’
My God, Cat thought, this is my very own dilemma. Starkly and indisputably. But surely it hadn’t been written on one of the cards?
Alice: ‘The fellow sounds like a right royal prick. I’d kill him without a second thought – with my bare hands.’
Petra. ‘I concur.’
George the Cornishman. ‘People with that level of sociopathy don’t deserve to live. They’re like a virus. It’s a duty to wipe them out, for the good of society in general.’
Johannes the Austrian. ‘Sounds like what LaVey calls a “psychic vampire”. A man who only feels relevant if he’s creating pain and displeasure. Such men are often crying out to be terminated. I see no reason to disoblige them.’
And around the table it went, though Cat for the first time couldn’t work out what to say. She wanted to advocate her fervently held belief that nobody has the right to appoint himself judge and executioner. She wanted to point out that the people most willing to kill others are invariably the least suitable to kill anything. She wanted to declare that she had always opposed the death penalty, even for mass murderers and terrorists. She wanted to insist she couldn’t kill an animal, let alone a human being – it was the principal reason she was a vegan. She wanted, in short, to indulge in yet another high-minded analysis. But how could she do such a thing, considering the very reason she was here? Under the circumstances, would it not be supremely disingenuous? Could she really do anything but admit to her own raw impulses – to own them by echoing the replies of those preceding her? And by so doing acknowledge that such dilemmas are in fact a good deal simpler than she cared to admit?
Not that it mattered, in the end, because somewhere between three o’clock and midnight Cat’s mounting fatigue overwhelmed her. She had a last glimpse of the Great Sheldrake smiling at her, and over his shoulder, in the satanic darkness, the ghostly face of the man with the gleaming eyes.
And then her head dropped onto the table and she plunged into delirium.
‘Rege Satanas!’ she thought she heard in the darkness.
‘Ave, Satanas!’
‘Der Mensch ist Gott!’
‘Gott ist der Mensch!’
‘Hail Satan!’
‘Shenhamforash!’
Through half-lidded eyes Cat saw, or thought she saw, the black mosquito nets rising like velvet stage curtains. She saw the others gathering around the distinguished man in the darkness. She saw him gesturing to her regally. She slipped again into unconsciousness but awoke now and then, for fleeting seconds, enough for her later to remember being moved across the chamber, and being fussed over, and being lowered into a chair, and having her head propped up by leathery fingers, and feeling other hands encasing her head, and seeing the two bestial eyes hovering over her face, and feeling hot breath on her cheeks, and hearing a litany of chants and blessings as the sulphurous stench, stronger now than ever, assailed her nostrils.
‘Rege Satanas!’
‘Ave, Satanas!’
‘Shenhamforash!’
‘Everything is going to be all right.’
Whoever uttered the last words had a voice so deep and resonant that it shook the chambers of her heart.
‘Are you OK?’
It was Agnes now, with streetlights flaring behind her. She was at the wheel of her VW. She was stroking Cat’s hair with a tender hand. They were speeding home through the dark and deserted streets of outer Edinburgh.
‘I’m not a victim,’ Cat protested.
And then she fell into a deep sleep, with no idea what she’d just said.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Cat was in her cousins’ unkempt back yard in Philadelphia. She was alone. Her siblings had all left home. Her father was working round-the-clock. Her mother was laid up in bed with a mysterious ‘bug’ that would eventually claim her. So here was Cat, bursting with displaced aggression, setting out into the jungle to exterminate every insect she saw. She roamed the garden with an old fly-spray pump. She overturned rocks and bricks, shifted metal sheets, separated clumps of witch-hair grass. No hiding place was safe from her deadly pump; no insect was swift enough to escape her fatal poison. She was vaguely aware of her brooding twenty-one-year-old cousin watching her from the window of his upstairs bedroom. But it wasn’t until she had moved to the back shed – a hive of creepy-crawlies – that she noticed him now standing in the doorway, viewing her from close range, with a curious expression on his face.
‘All God’s creatures have—’
Cat jolted awake. She was at home in her bed. With the lights on and the blinds down. And that didn’t make sense. She liked to sleep with the windows uncovered, so she could watch the moon climb over the tenement rooftops of Rothesay Place. She glanced at the alarm clock. 3.11 a.m. She sat up. She was still wearing her clothes of the previous evening. Only her shoes had been removed. The duvet was covering her. But how had that happened?
She heard snoring. Loud, hog-like snoring. She thought for a moment it must be Moyle upstairs. But then she realised it was coming from inside her own flat. Someone was in her living room.
Her pulse accelerating, Cat flung off the duvet and went to investigate.
She smelled the lilac before seeing her – Agnes, sprawled across the sofa with a half-eaten cracker sitting forlorn on her chest. There were other crackers, piled high with cottage cheese, on the coffee table beside a glass of orange juice. The lights were on and the television was tuned to some documentary about the Vietnam War.
Cat nudged Agnes until she shook herself awake, blinked a few times and focused.
&nbs
p; ‘Well, well, look who’s risen from the grave,’ she said, grinning.
Cat, feeling not remotely amused, folded herself into the neighbouring armchair. ‘I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.’
‘Not angry, are you? I was hungry. But all I could find in your kitchen was rabbit food – damn, girl, haven’t you got anything edible? This stuff tastes like wet rice.’
‘Never mind that,’ Cat said. ‘What happened?’
‘Huh?’ Agnes was brushing crumbs of her chest.
‘How did I get here?’
‘How did you get here? You fell asleep – don’t you remember? And I drove you home.’
‘You carried me all the way in here?’
‘I almost had a heart attack getting up the stairs.’
‘Then how did you get me through the door?’
‘You were awake enough to hand over your keys.’
‘And you put me in bed?’
‘What else was I supposed to do?’
Cat released a pent-up breath. ‘I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t undress me.’
‘Hey, I’m not that creepy.’ Agnes laughed and then frowned. ‘What’s wrong, girl? You’re not angry, are you?’
‘I am angry, of course I am. What do you expect?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I . . .’ Because I lost control, Cat wanted to say. ‘Because I remember hardly a thing about the end of the ritual.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s a blur, it’s fragmented, it’s . . .’ Cat became aware of her scratchy and sweaty clothes, the dull ache in her head, the queasy feeling in her stomach. ‘Was I drugged?’
‘No, you weren’t drugged. You were drunk. You had too much of the Laird’s whisky, that’s all.’
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