‘The whisky that laced the soda pop?’
‘That’s right. I warned you what might happen.’
‘When did you warn me?’
‘Many times, but you just kept on drinking. Don’t you remember?’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’
‘You were settling your nerves, obviously.’
‘I wasn’t nervous.’
‘The sweat on your brow said otherwise.’
‘That was just the heat.’
‘It was your nerves, lassie – it’s perfectly normal.’
Cat, sighing, acknowledged it was possible. ‘Then what happened after I passed out?’
‘What do you mean, what happened? You passed out. So we wrapped the thing up and I drove you home.’
‘I heard chanting . . . satanic chanting.’
‘Of course you did – we had to conclude the ritual.’
‘Even though I was delirious?’
‘Semi-delirious, by the sounds of it. What’s the matter?’ Agnes reached for the fruit juice. ‘Everything went extremely well. You were awesome. And he liked you. He really liked you.’
‘Who liked me?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘The Laird of Howgate?’
‘Aye, the Laird of Howgate.’ Agnes gave a sort of half-wink.
Cat’s head started throbbing again. ‘I saw a face in the darkness . . .’
‘A reflection of the Great Sheldrake in the mirror. I noticed that too.’
‘No, it wasn’t the Great Sheldrake. I saw flashing eyes.’
‘Just one of the cats. There are so many in that place nobody even notices them any more.’
‘No,’ Cat insisted, ‘it was the face of a man . . . a very distinguished-looking man. He was sitting on a throne.’
Agnes guffawed. ‘You saw this fellow when you were passed out?’
‘Before I passed out. He had a voice . . . an incredibly deep voice . . .’
‘Aye? And what’d he say?’
‘He said to me, “Everything is going to be all right.”’
‘“Everything is going to be all right”? Everything is going to be all right?’ Agnes burst out laughing. ‘That’s the sign above the Modern Art Gallery, silly girl! Just around the corner from here!’
Cat, embarrassed, realised that Agnes was right. The message was emblazoned in blue neon across the entablature of one of the gallery buildings: EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT. She’d seen it numerous times while out running. So what had happened? Had she imagined the voice? The whole end to the ritual?
Agnes meanwhile launched, victoriously but unsteadily, to her feet. ‘Anyway, can I get you something? You must be hungry? Thirsty?’
‘No,’ said Cat. ‘I’ve got one hell of a headache, though.’
‘Then I’ll fetch a tablet. Where’s your medical stuff?’
‘In the bathroom cabinet.’
‘That’s original.’
When Agnes left the room she seemed, most uncharacteristically, to be blushing. Cat heard her rummaging around in the bathroom and humming ‘Only for the Weak’ with such awkward enthusiasm that she had to ask to her to pipe down – she had neighbours to think of.
‘Oh, that’s right, the neighbours.’ Agnes returned with a tablet fizzing in a bathroom tumbler. ‘Must say I’ve heard not a squeak out of your musician friend upstairs, by the way. Maybe he’s been taken care of already.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting,’ Cat said, ‘but Moyle’s been away for a couple of days.’
‘Maybe he’ll have a car accident on the way home, then. Here.’ Agnes handed over the glass.
Cat contemplated the bubbling tablet. ‘You know, I still have no idea what happened tonight.’
‘What do you mean? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?’
‘Did I? All I remember was a slew of ethical dilemmas.’
‘That was all part of it – to make sure you were worthy.’
‘Like an aptitude test?’
‘I guess you could call it that, yeah, an aptitude test. And you knocked it out of the park, as you Yanks say.’
Cat remembered the dreadful feeling of having her mind plundered. ‘Are you absolutely sure something wasn’t done to me?’
‘I told you, you weren’t—’
‘I mean something else.’
‘Like what?’
Cat narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you sure I wasn’t violated?’
‘Violated?’ Agnes exclaimed. ‘Jesus, Mary and the Cuckold – is that really what you think happened?’
‘Like I said, I wish I knew.’
‘Well, you certainly weren’t violated, I can promise you that. You’ve been suckered by too many horror movies, girl. Satanism doesn’t condone non-consensual sex any more – doesn’t condone anything sexual without specific invitation. It’s very strict about that. So relax. Nobody undressed you and nobody got naked. And if you thought anything like that happened then you really were delirious. Get that headache tablet into you.’
Cat had been referring to her mind, not her body, but she let it pass. As she sipped the soothing water – the tablet had fully dissolved – Agnes adjusted her breasts, looking remarkably self-conscious. ‘Anyway, I’d better get home. I’m not feeling all that well myself. Maybe I got some of that whisky in me too. You gonna be OK by yourself?’
‘I’ll be OK,’ said Cat, feeling ashamed. ‘And I thank you for bringing me up here – sorry if I seem a little edgy.’
‘You’ve got a right to be edgy. You are on an edge. The edge of a wonderful precipice, that’s what. But you’ll see. You’ll see.’ Agnes tugged her frock at its tight points, shaking her head affectionately. ‘Violated, for fuck’s sake. Let me tell you, girl, if you’d been had by him, you’d know, girl. You’d know.’
‘Had by who? The Laird of Howgate?’
‘Aye.’ Agnes chortled mysteriously. ‘The Laird of Howgate.’
* * *
When Agnes departed, Cat, belatedly troubled by her friend’s misinterpretation, removed her clothes in front of her bedroom mirror and checked herself all over. But she could find no signs of interference. Physically, at least, there was no evidence that she’d been violated. But the odd sense of losing control continued to gnaw away at her. She couldn’t imagine how the Satanists had divined so many of her secrets.
Returning to bed, she found her headache had eased but she was still sore and swollen with fatigue. She plunged almost immediately into a deep and a disturbingly vivid dream.
As if from a God’s eye perspective, she saw a leathery-winged creature rising from the demonic darkness of the River Esk. She saw him soaring over the chimneystacks of Edinburgh. She saw him descend like a hawk into a moonlit Dean Village. She saw him swoop upon her building and effortlessly spring open the stair door.
Clop clop clop. He was ascending the steps.
Clop clop clop. She heard his cloven hooves.
Clop clop clop. She saw him heading for a door.
Kee-wah! She saw the door opening. She saw him stepping inside. She saw his glowing yellow eyes.
And – with a violent shudder – she awoke.
She adjusted herself in the bed.
And lay there, listening.
Creak creak creak.
It was the floorboards upstairs.
Creak creak creak.
PLONK!
Oh, there was a demon in the building, all right.
Creak creak creak.
But it was Moyle.
Nnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
TWANG!
The Hound of Hades was back. Alive and well. And ready to raise some hell.
Kah-lunk!
‘Shit!’
Glancing at her bedside clock – it was past four a.m. – Cat didn’t know whether to be relieved or infuriated. The whole night’s chicanery had been a complete waste of time. But at least she’d been spared the ordeal of battling with her sanity, not to mention her conscience, h
ad the ritual actually worked.
She rolled over, wrapped the pillow around her head, and when she fell asleep again it was to the image of the ghostly man’s face – wicked and yet loving – behind the black mosquito nets at Aileanach Castle.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Cat enjoyed a relatively uninterrupted sleep on Sunday night, waking only at a loud thump, which she guessed was Moyle dropping something, and an unearthly shriek, which she figured was a nocturnal bird or a fox in the private gardens. But at the office on Monday Agnes was absent, having phoned in sick, and Cat couldn’t help being disappointed that she wouldn’t have a chance to discuss in further detail the ritual at Aileanach Castle.
As it happened, she didn’t get a chance to discuss anything. As soon as Nick ‘Wing Commander’ Bellamy arrived – at ten thirty, after Monday morning’s customary inter-departmental meeting – he summoned her to his ‘cockpit’, the first time she’d been allowed inside.
‘Can you guess why you’re here?’ he asked, indicating that Cat should sit down.
‘I must admit I’ve got no idea,’ said Cat, obediently taking a seat.
On Bellamy’s desk was a model of a Hawker Hurricane. Mounted on the wall was huge print of a Lancaster bomber. Bellamy himself, close-cropped of hair and clipped of moustache, had tried to join the RAF as a youth but had been knocked back for unspecified reasons. A permanently bitter man, he had moved under sufferance to Edinburgh from sunny Torquay, on the English Riviera, in order to help cure the homesickness of his Scottish-born wife. But the marriage had proved by all accounts an unhappy one, sustained only by fear of change, and Bellamy had taken to venting his frustrations on his long-suffering staff.
‘They provided a file on you before they sent you here, you know.’ Bellamy indicated a folder on his desk. ‘And it spoke glowingly of your work ethic, your ambition, your total commitment to the job. But now, I must admit, I’m a little confused. Because when I examine your work record since you arrived here’ – he looked at the folder and up again, as if shovelling bad news at her – ‘I see lapses. I see a pattern of overstepping your boundaries. I see a performance that, to be perfectly honest, isn’t up to the standard I was led to expect.’
Cat knew there was no point challenging him so she nodded guiltily. ‘I admit I’ve disappointed myself.’
‘Ahhhh.’ Clearly he hadn’t expected that.
‘I came here with all my ambitions intact, I assure you. But I guess it’s taken me longer to adjust than I’d hoped. And there are certain complications which unfortunately I haven’t—’
‘Now, I must stop you there. I must stop you there.’ Bellamy’s eyes gleamed maliciously. ‘Because I’m sure you can appreciate why I can’t allow personal circumstances to be an excuse for poor performance. What happens at home or anywhere else is irrelevant to what happens at work. You shouldn’t discuss it with anyone here. I never do.’
Not quite, Cat thought: Bellamy’s constant whining about his sickly and passive-aggressive wife, shared with senior colleagues, was legendary. ‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘It is irrelevant.’
‘Besides, I already know about your problems with the fellow upstairs.’
‘Ahhhh.’ Now it was Cat’s turn to be surprised. ‘Can I ask . . .?’
‘Your good friend Agnes has spoken about them.’
‘Ahhhh.’ Goddamned Agnes, Cat thought.
‘But you really need to adapt. The most effective operators always adapt. It doesn’t matter how they do it – they just adapt. They certainly don’t let petty distractions get in the way of their work. Because their work is the most important thing in their lives.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cat. ‘And I’m doing my best to adapt right now. But – you’ll have to forgive me – there’s no question that my problems at home have had some impact on me. My health has suffered. I’m not as sharp as usual.’
‘Your health has suffered, has it?’
‘I like to think I don’t always look this bad.’ Said with a vaporous smile, as if to invite some reflexively positive comment.
Bellamy, however, merely shifted in his chair. ‘Did you know I have Type-1 diabetes, Ms Thomas? That I’ve had it since my youth? And yet my attendance record here is perfect. It’s been without blemish for eight years.’
‘I – I didn’t know about that,’ said Cat, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘I’m sure it’s very difficult for you. But my attendance record too is—’
‘Yes, I know all about your attendance record. It’s exemplary. It’s the best that can be said about you. I dearly wish the same could be said about your chum Agnes.’
Cat felt obliged to protest. ‘Agnes has some serious health problems too, but she’s a dedicated operator too – I can vouch for that.’
‘A dedicated operator, eh?’ Bellamy seemed to find that amusing. ‘Yes, you and Ms Sampson have quite the double act going on, don’t you? Practically inseparable, from what I understand.’
Cat wondered with alarm if Bellamy knew about the ritual. ‘I wouldn’t say inseparable. Agnes reached out to me when I arrived and I appreciated that.’
‘Swanning around the country, making your own rules, dining out at expensive pubs.’
‘We dined out after work, and both times I paid for it,’ Cat insisted, taken aback by his venom.
‘Oh really? Both times Ms Sampson claimed it as a business expense – did you know that?’
Goddamned Agnes, Cat thought again. ‘Well, now that I think of it, there were a couple of other meals that were on company time as well.’
‘If they were on company time, then why didn’t you claim them?’
‘I’m still finding my feet here. I’m still not sure what’s business and what’s not.’
It was a ridiculously flimsy defence and Bellamy, his moustache twitching, clearly didn’t buy it. He leaned back in his seat, his palm pressed flat on the desk. ‘I’ll be grounding Ms Sampson for a while, whenever she sees fit to return to the office. She needs to realise that a company car is a privilege, not a right, and field investigations are not an opportunity for “some fun”, as she’s been known to call them. And I’ll be grounding you, too, Ms Thomas, so you’ve more time to learn about our procedures. We may not have seen the best of you yet – I can’t believe that everything I was told about you was an exaggeration – but my goodwill only extends so far. There are budget cuts at ABC, you know. Very likely there’s to be significant consolidation of services and staff layoffs. And I’m in the firing line as much as anyone else. So I need everyone operating to their optimum efficiency. Your priority now is to do whatever it takes to get yourself up to your well-advertised standards. In the meantime, you can take Jenny’s desk.’
Cat’s heart sank. Jenny McLeish, a sweet-natured blonde who’d recently gone on maternity leave, was one of the department’s analysts, responsible for preparing stats, liaising with different business units and responding to incoming mail. It was a humiliating demotion, confining her to the Aquarium, but again Cat knew better than to protest. ‘No problem,’ she said, with a rueful nod. ‘Will this mean a pay decrease, by any chance?’
Bellamy was shifting papers now. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Will I have to hand in the keys to the company car?’
‘You can keep them in the key drawer. But the vehicle itself’ – he glanced up – ‘I’d prefer that you keep it downstairs, in case someone else needs to use it.’
‘Of course.’ She tried to sound hopeful. ‘So, just to clarify, there’s always the chance, if I improve my performance, that I can resume my proper role?’
Bellamy arched an eyebrow. ‘Your “proper role” is what I decide it is, Ms Thomas – though such things might soon be out taken out of my hands anyway. But, in answer to your question, I’m always willing to reward improved performance.’
Cat managed a humble smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said, rising. ‘I promise I’ll do my best.’
She left Bellamy�
�s office, wondering if she should click her heels and salute.
* * *
Cat moved into Jenny McLeish’s cubicle, with its happy snaps of a beaming Jenny, her goofy husband and a multitude of evangelical life-lesson stick-ons: GOD HAS A PLAN. TRUST IT, LIVE IT, ENJOY IT. And: GOD WILL ALWAYS MAKE A WAY. And: LET TODAY BE THE DAY WHEN YOU GIVE UP WHAT YOU’VE BEEN FOR WHO YOU CAN BECOME.
Well, Cat thought, that last one is nothing if not appropriate. In order to keep her job – in order to remain in Edinburgh, period – she was going to have to take positive action to get her groove back. Real action. Something more material than taking part in some ungodly ritual with a cabal of weirdos and seeking the help of ‘Satan’. She was going to have to soundproof her flat at devastating cost and then sell it off at a crippling loss. And find somewhere to achieve a decent night’s sleep, even if it was just a campervan parked on the outskirts of town (her hairdresser had recommended exactly that).
She was halfway through the mail when she came to a mildly interesting letter from a certain Mr Dennis Napier of Dundee.
Dear Sir/Madam,
I have been a loyal customer of ABC Bank for 25 years. Three years ago I opened a targeted savings account at your branch in Glenrothes, Fife. Against my stated wishes, the clerk who served me insisted that I take a credit card as an adjunct to the account. When this card arrived in the mail I purposely destroyed it and failed to activate the account. Two years later I moved to Dundee. It was at this point that a new card was forwarded to my old address (the previous card, it seems, had expired). Somehow the credit card account was then activated without my knowledge and someone (the bank will not tell me who) went on a spending spree. I first learned of this fraudulent activity when I received a stern email demanding full repayment or . . .
And so on.
Cat was intrigued. It looked as though service staff in Scotland, like their counterparts in the US, had been incentivised to foist credit cards on unwilling customers. But the activation process, at least in America, usually required the submission of personal information to which only the customer and the bank were privy. Cat was making a note of the details – there was something that made her radar crackle – when her mobile phone vibrated. She refrained from checking it immediately, because Jenny’s desk was in clear view of Bellamy’s office, but as soon as she went out for lunch she called up the text.
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