CHAPTER
SEVEN
Cat’s first thought was that it must be some sort of Satanic message, because the blood was almost exactly where she had painted over the stain left by Moyle.
Her second thought was to wonder who it was that Boucher had killed.
Her third thought was to wonder if the blood was human.
Her fourth thought was to consider the possibility that the blood might belong to Boucher himself.
Her fifth thought was to speculate if that meant the Devil was dead.
Her sixth thought was to wonder if the Devil had killed himself.
Her seventh thought was to wonder why the Devil would do that.
Her eighth and final thought was a slowly dawning acceptance – that if Robin Boucher was truly dead then he could not have been the Devil after all.
She retained enough sense to switch off the lights but she could not bring herself to leave as planned. She collapsed into her armchair and sat in the dark and cold and stared at the ceiling as lozenges of light streaked and bloomed across the bloodstain. Part of her knew she was in danger staying where she was. Another part told her she was in even greater danger if she fled.
As to who had actually killed Boucher, if indeed anyone had killed him, was not a line of enquiry she chose at that moment to contemplate.
She wallowed for so long in her own sense of disconnection – of floating untethered in deep space – that she lost track of time. The flaring lights became less frequent and the room even chillier. Thomas Cat curled around her legs, looking for warmth.
After a while there was a buzz from her intercom – startlingly loud in the midnight silence – but she moved not an inch. Another buzz. She wondered who it was but couldn’t bring herself to check from the bedroom window. One last buzz and whoever it was seemed to surrender.
The phone rang.
Not her mobile but her landline. She’d only had it connected as part of her Internet package and had shared the unlisted number with very few people. So who the hell could be calling?
It rang out.
She wondered if it was the police – though surely, if they really thought she was home, they would have forced the door by now? Then she wondered if it was Stella, concerned for her welfare. Possibly her sister had called back on the hotel line and somehow worked out that Cat had fled. Maybe she’d even tried calling Cat’s cell phone, only to discover it was switched off. Maybe she was panicking right now, imagining the worst.
Cat took out her mobile phone, stared at it for a few minutes and then decided to risk it. She turned it on.
Immediately there was a flood of purrs and vibrations. Messages and missed calls from Agnes, from ABC, from a flurry of unregistered numbers. Cat experimented with what seemed the most harmless one of all, a text sent by Maxine the previous day
You OK, hun? Heard nothing from upstairs last night except a ROAR. Any idea what’s going on?
And then switched it off at once. And continued sitting in the darkness. Trying not to make a sound. Feeling as though she wanted to crawl up in a ball and squeeze into a tight space. Thomas Cat, licking his lips, was watching her expectantly.
The landline rang again. It was so late now that it seemed unlikely that it could be anyone local, and Cat – considerate to the last – thought she had better stop the din, if only to prevent any further disturbance to Maxine and Michael downstairs.
She got to her feet and raised the receiver. Heard not a peep from the other end, then issued a tentative, ‘Hello?’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Agnes. ‘Knew you were home!’
Cat almost hung up immediately.
‘Are you gonna let me in or what?’
Cat wasn’t breathing.
‘Are you gonna open this door or am I gonna have to fly through the window on a broomstick?’
Finally Cat exhaled. ‘Where are you?’
‘Downstairs. Come to the window if you don’t believe me.’
Cat hesitated.
‘Don’t make me use that buzzer again! I’ll keep banging it all night if you don’t open up!’
Cat couldn’t bear that possibility. ‘OK, OK. Come up, then. Just . . . be quiet about it.’
‘Aye right, I’ll be quiet.’ With a snigger.
Cat went to the intercom, pressed the stair door release, then opened her own door on the darkened stairwell. Agnes tramped up the steps – God, she was loud – and then appeared in front of her, panting from the exertion.
‘Phew! It’s like climbing the Scott Monument!’
Cat said nothing and Agnes chuckled.
‘Not still angry with me, are you? Oh, what’s that? A cat? When did you get that?’
‘Just . . . step in,’ Cat said, standing aside.
‘We really gotta talk.’ As Agnes crossed the threshold her face crinkled. ‘Bloody hell, girl, it’s dark as a crypt in here. What are you doing with yourself?’
Moving presumptuously inside, she fumbled for the light switch. ‘There, much better. And where’s the heating control? You got a goddamn thermostat in this place or is home-heating against your religion?’
In looking around the room – Cat remained blank-faced, awaiting the inevitable – Agnes finally noticed the red-stained light and the swelling bloodstain. And that stopped her in her tracks.
‘Holy shit,’ she said. ‘Holy shit.’
Staring at the stain. And eventually turning to Cat.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
Cat didn’t know how to answer.
‘Cock Robin? Really?’
Cat only blinked.
And Agnes chortled. ‘Jesus, Mary and the Cuckold,’ she said. ‘And to think . . . we were all hoping the two of you would, you know . . .’ But she only shook her head and chortled again. ‘Well, well . . . glory be.’
Cat couldn’t decide if she should be angry. ‘Glory be . . .’
‘Yes, glory be.’ Agnes frowned at her. ‘What happened exactly? Did he get a bit fresh with you? Eat a rare steak in front of you? What?’
Cat frowned back. ‘Are you trying to say that I’m responsible?’
Agnes spluttered a laugh. ‘Who else, if not you? Poor guy. The grandmaster didn’t see that coming, did he?’
Cat was still puzzled and it must have showed.
‘Oh my. Oh my.’ Agnes was still piecing things together. ‘You still don’t know, do you? You still don’t know. Even though I told you last night, you . . .’ Another possibility seemed to occur to her and she glanced at the ceiling. ‘Oh, dearie dearie me. I see now, I see. You thought it was him. You really thought it was him. Oh my.’
Cat wanted to slap her for looking so amused.
‘And I suppose when Dunn and the Wing Commander . . . after you’d complained of them, and they were taken out, I suppose you . . .’
Cat just looked at her.
‘And then’ – Agnes was still thinking things through – ‘when I said it was all the fault of the one up top . . . oh my.’
Cat still stared at her.
‘Now that’s a wee shame, isn’t it?’ Agnes shrugged. ‘Still, he’s not the first man who’s been mistaken for the Devil, I suppose. Not the first and won’t be the last. And he was probably hiding something anyway – you suspected as much, didn’t you? Well, well, well. That’s the way it works, isn’t it? That’s always the way it works. When you project your evil onto others, the innocent always die.’ She glanced up at the ceiling again. ‘On the plus side, I suppose, it can always be a lesson to you. It’s probably a good thing, in a way.’
‘A good thing . . .’
‘A good thing because . . .’ Agnes seemed to change her mind. ‘No, you just sit down, Cat – sit down and take it easy. This is gonna take some explaining. Oh my. Have you got anything in the kitchen other than nuts and leaves? I’ll toss something into a pan.’
‘I don’t feel like eating.’
‘Well, you’re gonna get something whether you like it or not. You look terrible.
And I could do with some scran myself. So set your glutes down, Catriona Thomas, and let the witch take care of everything.’
Cat slumped again into the armchair as Agnes strode into the kitchen, flicked on the lights and started browsing through the fridge, watched closely by Thomas Cat.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
‘Ask not and ye shall receive,’ Agnes was saying from the next room. ‘Ask not and ye shall receive.’
Cat assumed she was talking about something she’d found in the kitchen. But then she went on, ‘That’s a central tenet of Satanism. That people who are self-reliant and adaptable are the ones who should be rewarded, not those who always come looking for assistance. Call it Nietzschean, if you like. Call it fascistic. But it’s not. It’s much more complex than that. Bloody hell, have you got anything edible at all in here?’
Cat, despite everything, was still bothered by the noise. ‘Keep it down. And what do you mean by edible?’
‘I dunno – something with a bit of flavour.’
‘Try making an omelette.’
‘An omelette – with this soy milk shit?’
‘Why not?’
‘OK, OK, if you’re happy with that. Anyway, what was I saying? Aye, ask not and ye shall receive. Well, in your case you did want something done for you, I suppose, and you got exactly what you wanted in the end. But make no mistake, we knew you were sceptical, we knew it was a symbolic measure for you, we knew you didn’t take the whole thing seriously. But that was fine, that was good, that was actually in your favour. The important thing was that you acknowledged your inner demons. You acknowledged them, you owned them, and then you went ahead and proved exactly how analytical and dispassionate you can be. Have you got anything I can use for filling in this so-called omelette?’
‘Try the vegan sausages.’
‘There are vegan sausages?’
‘In the fridge. Chop them up with some tomato. Are you talking about those Scruples questions? At Aileanach Castle?’
‘The “aptitude test”, as you called it, aye,’ said Agnes, clattering about with pots and pans. ‘But it was already pretty clear – to me, anyway – that you fit the bill perfectly. Sharp as a knife, even-tempered, discerning, a single-minded predator . . . and just a wee bit fucked up. I knew you’d pass the test with honours.’ There was a slight sizzling sound as the margarine melted. ‘What am I going to use for eggs? There are no eggs.’
‘Vegans don’t eat eggs.’
‘Then what am I gonna use? How can I make an omelette without eggs?’
‘Use the black salt.’
‘Black pepper?’
‘Black salt. It’s basically sodium chloride. Has a very eggy flavour.’
‘Black salt, for fuck’s sake. Where is it?’
Before she knew it, Cat was in the kitchen reaching into her spice cabinet. ‘Here. You whisk it into the soya.’
‘Let me do that,’ said Agnes. ‘And sit down, girl. I know how to make an omelette – when I’ve got the proper ingredients, anyway.’
Cat took a seat at the kitchen table. The cat was still wandering around, looking for food.
‘Anyway,’ Agnes went on, ‘you got what you asked for, regardless of whether you really wanted it or not. The musician upstairs – gone. Vamoose. But you also got what you didn’t ask for. And that was a thousand times more important.’
‘And what exactly didn’t I ask for?’
‘Easy, tigress, I’m getting there. You reckon I’m using enough of this black pepper, by the way?’
‘Black salt – yeah, I think you’re doing fine.’
‘Anyway, I guess we should’ve considered the possibility that there’d be a spanner in the works. Life never unfolds as expected, does it? Chaos theory and all that. I guess we should’ve expected that you’d think Mr Grandmaster was part of a stratagem or something. But in truth we just wanted you two to be happy – to, you know, procreate and be content and have a little responsibility.’
‘Procreate . . .’
‘Never hurts to have a stake in the future, you know. A little skin in the game, as they say.’
‘I think that margarine is drying up.’
‘Yup yup.’ Agnes stopped swilling and added a dash of olive oil. ‘Anyway, we tried easing you into it – full revelation, I mean. We did our best to grease the rails, get you comfortable with your new responsibilities. Madam Morganach, for instance – after your meeting in Corstorphine, she assured us you were well on your way.’
‘Madam Morganach was one of yours?’
‘Aye, of course.’
‘An actor?’
‘Well, acting a role. But that was the only way to get you to listen. And she said you looked comfortable with what she was suggesting – cool and calm, not particularly alarmed at all. If you were inwardly disturbed, she said, you’d get over it.’
Cat closed her eyes, remembering Morganach saying something about Satanism bringing the powers of God to mortal human beings.
‘So anyway, we hoped to get you settled into your new role before you did any harm. It’s a shame about the grandmaster, it really is, but as for the others . . . well, the world isn’t really gonna be any worse off without Alistair Dunn and the Wing Commander. And the musician upstairs, for that matter.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Cat. ‘You seem to be . . .’
‘You wanna help with the filling, by the way?’ Agnes said. ‘I’ve already got my hands full here.’
‘You said you didn’t need any help.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. This is more complicated than it should be.’
Cat got to her feet and started chopping the sausages. ‘You were saying,’ she said.
‘Aye, look, you shouldn’t be angry. You really shouldn’t be angry. This sort of thing needs to occur to you organically, so you can own it, you know. So you can deal with it your own way.’
‘What sort of thing? What are you trying to tell me?’
‘I’m trying to tell you that Satanism has always been a bit of yin to the yang. When the world was more puritanical it was all about indulgence and debauchery, there’s no doubt about that, and that helped blacken Satan’s name.’
‘Blacken Satan’s name . . .’
‘Aye, it sounds ridiculous. But things have changed, you can’t dispute that. Look at the world today. There’s a lot more tolerance for lifestyle choices but the levers of power are still controlled by psychos. And these days those psychos have infinitely greater power for death and destruction. But the ground is shifting under their feet, they can’t control the discontent, the anger, the growing rebellion, and they retreat into their little mental fortresses, becoming even more brazen and delusional. Am I sounding radical enough for you?’
‘You need to add some mustard to that mixture.’
‘Huh?’
‘Dijon mustard. It’s in the cabinet above you.’
‘Oh . . . oh aye.’ Agnes chortled and reached for the jar. ‘At least you’re not disagreeing with me.’ She tipped some mustard into the mix. ‘Anyway, it’s critical-mass time. The end of the world is not just some batshit biblical prophecy but a distinct possibility. More than that, it’s a damn good wager. Bet you never expected a Satanist to speak this way, huh?’
‘Just . . . go on.’ Cat was prodding the filling around the pan.
‘But that’s the point exactly. Satanism has always been about life. A love of life, a real zest for it – and a genuine hatred for those who won’t allow us to enjoy it. But the way we’re going, let’s face it, there might not be anything to live on. The wise parasite never kills its host.’
‘I think you’re overheating that omelette, by the way.’
‘Yup, OK. Anyway, that’s where Lucifer comes in. That’s where you come in.’
‘That’s where I come in.’
‘Sure. Don’t try to look surprised.’
Cat dived into the fridge and emerged with a packet of powdered vegan cheese and some basil leaves, w
hich she started to tear apart. ‘That’s where I come in?’ she prompted again.
‘Aye, that’s what the whole ritual was about. That was the gift that was given to you. The gift that was unlocked in you.’
‘What gift?’
‘What do you think?’
Cat tossed the basil into the mixture. ‘I hope you’re not seriously suggesting that I have some sort of . . . supernatural power?’
‘I can’t think of a better person to have a supernatural power, can you?’
‘Stir it a bit faster, will you? Oh Jesus.’ Cat stopped for a second, thinking about it. ‘Oh Jesus – what are you saying? What am I saying?’
‘Oh Jesus, indeed. Don’t try to make it sound like we did something evil.’
‘But you’re being absurd. You can’t be serious.’
‘I’ve never been more serious. We unleashed a great power in you.’
‘What power? What sort of power?’
‘What do you think? Are you in denial? You? What power do you think?’
Cat turned the gas down. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that I have the power to kill?’
‘With a thought, girl. With a simple wish.’
Cat stared at her, not blinking for ten seconds. ‘And all of those men who’ve been killed – you’re telling me that I was responsible?’
‘You must have felt it? You must have known?’
Cat thought of Scottie and Paulie Scicluna, and Robin Boucher, and Nick Bellamy, and Alistair Dunn, and Blair Griffon, and Dylan Moyle, and maybe even Angus Blinny the ogre. And it occurred to her that, if this was all true, her mind was even more homicidal than she had been prepared to admit.
‘No . . . no,’ she said. ‘No . . . it’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s difficult, I know,’ said Agnes. ‘But you more than anyone must be capable of seeing the logic. It’s the very reason you were selected. Your intelligence, your reason. And your predatorial instincts.’
‘Predatorial instincts.’
‘Well, don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t find such a power a wee bit useful, huh? In a broader sense?’
The Devil Upstairs Page 24