The Box of Demons

by Daniel Whelan

  ‘We can’t leave them here.’

  ‘You want to free them?’

  ‘I promised. We have to help them.’

  ‘Very well.’ The Seraph took hold of Kartofel’s bonds, and dashed them against the floor, exploding the stone into fine powder. A few swift movements later, and Orff and Djinn were also free.

  ‘Now for the lid,’ said The Seraph. Together they ran at the wood, shoulder charging it. It did not move.

  ‘It’s no good,’ said Kartofel, ‘I told you: no music, no exit.’

  Water had started bubbling up through the hatch. It was being lit from below, so that it resembled a city fountain at night. The green orb rose whole through the gap, racing to beat the water into the room. Frantic, Ben slammed himself into the lid again and again. The light expanded, steadily growing to fill the little cell.

  ‘It’s pointless,’ said Kartofel.

  Ben ignored him. He knew the water would soon be too high for him to keep his feet on the floor. He looked to The Seraph for help, but the angel was busy cowering from the light, laying his back flat against the wall, trying to make himself as thin as possible to avoid its reach.

  ‘It is The Castellan of the Veil,’ said The Seraph. ‘There will be no music as long as she is at work. I fear we are undone.’

  The ball had grown large enough to absorb the demons, sending them into spasms of delight. Ben was desperate. He looked from them to The Seraph, and an idea popped into his head. He waded over to the light as fast as he could, and let it touch his skin. Love and hope seared through him. He felt invincible. He did not want to leave the orb, but he knew what he had to do. He broke free, and splashed back over to the lid. He no longer felt invincible, but with the warming light on his back and the strength of the orb still throbbing through his muscles he pressed hard.

  The lid creaked, and opened just a crack. A loud grinding sound, an irregular metallic rhythm, started up in the air. A deep bass pulse shook the room.

  ‘It’s working,’ said The Seraph. ‘The Castellan of the Veil will not be able to hold on for much longer. Keep going.’

  Ben pushed harder, and felt the lid give a little more. His arms were on fire with the strain. The strength the light gave him began to ebb away, but as it did the music of the Box fell into a more stable rhythm. No melody was discernible, only the heavy vibrations of the rumbling bass; it was more like a great machine whirring away than actual music.

  He gave the lid one last push, roaring out a mighty cry of effort. He was drained. The power of the light deserted him, but the despair did not have chance to take hold. The lid gave way, and he fell forward, flushed through the opening by the raging water. The five of them found themselves tossed on the waves as the cell fell away. Round and round they spun, as if they were in a giant bath and the plug had just been pulled.

  The next thing Ben knew, he was lying face down on the twilit beach, his lips touching gloopy wet sand. The tide was rapidly coming in, soaking his trousers and the hem of his anorak. As he staggered up, he noticed the Box was floating in the wash at his feet, nipping at his ankles as the incoming waves tossed it around. He picked it up.

  ‘Thank you, Ben-the-Just. Today you have earned that name.’ The Triumph stood at the head of the Cult of the Four Winds, his huge feet firmly planted on the surface of the water. The sea was much rougher, particularly at the feet of The Castellan of the Veil, who was whispering rapidly.

  ‘Even if you did take your time,’ said The Archivist.

  ‘Everything is still possible because of Ben,’ snapped The Seraph. ‘You will show him respect.’

  The Archivist hissed in disgust.

  On the horizon, Ben could see that dawn was breaking quickly. The sun was rising like a balloon before his eyes, floating towards mid-morning. Everything was changing. The sea became turbulent, and dark clouds filled the sky. He tried to focus on the angels before him, but he could not make them out properly. His vision became blurred as the blue-and-purple colours of dusk receded, and the hues of the everyday world bled into view.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The Veil is shifting. Your world is seeping back in,’ said The Triumph.

  Ben’s eyes were fixed on the changing landscape: the water became dirtier, and more ferocious. It was raining heavily, and he could hear screams from somewhere.

  ‘You will see us one more time, Ben Robson,’ said The Seraph. ‘Once more, and all this will be over. Once I have recovered, we will return. You will not need to wait long. And one more thing . . .’

  Ben could no longer see the angels at all. The World was crashing in on him: real Towyn was taking the place of its Veil counterpart. He heard one more word before it kicked in completely.

  ‘Run.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Requiem

  ‘Run!’

  All Ben’s senses kicked back in at once. He was cold, and wet, and there was something yanking his arm.

  ‘Run! Ben, run! Come on!’

  He was back in the real Towyn, on the seafront, and it was Lucy who was pulling him. The storm had broken. The volcanic clouds had erupted, and the wind was vigorous, and savage: it was an effort not to be thrown backwards, and simply standing was taking all his strength.

  There was a flurry of hair and wobbly berobed flesh as panicking druids fled from the water’s edge. Waves crashed into Ben’s legs, and then retreated, ready to reach ever higher up his body on the next pass.

  He was having difficulty processing what was going on. The wind tried to blow him one way, while Lucy frantically pulled him another. He lost his footing, and toppled backwards into the water, but Lucy refused to let go.

  ‘Come on, Ben,’ she said. There was fear and determination in her voice, and Ben could see why. A huge wave was building up before them, rolling high above their heads.

  ‘I can’t swim,’ said Ben. All of the bravery he had found in the Box was gone. Lucy yanked him up off the floor like he was a naughty toddler, and he landed back on his feet.

  The owner of a nearby restaurant stood beside her front door, beckoning the beleaguered druids inside. If she was afraid of what the sea was about to do to her livelihood, she did not show it: she stood resolute, barking orders at the incoming deluge of damp pagans.

  Ben and Lucy raced inside. The door was slammed shut behind them, and seconds later the wave impacted. Water gushed through into the reception, and the woman herded them upstairs into a large function room.

  Ben squelched down in the far corner, exhausted. He dropped his satchel and the demons dragged themselves out. Djinn floated aimlessly round the room, croaking out the word ‘food’ until his nose caught the whiff of something and he wafted over to the stairs. Kartofel and Orff both seemed to lack the energy to move, and sat quietly on the floor. Orff managed to gasp a few words about West Nile Fever, but that was all. He did not mention his ankle, which now had a large fist-shaped bruise on it where Ben had grabbed him.

  The druids congregated in the middle of the room, unashamedly taking off bits of clothing and putting them on radiators. Ben had never seen so many people in underwear. He didn’t know where to look.

  ‘You need to dry out,’ said Lucy. She was wearing a dressing gown, and her hair was damp. ‘I grabbed you a bathrobe and a towel before they all got taken. Mrs Curry, the lady who runs this place, has given us as much as she can spare. You’ll have to pass it on to someone else once your clothes are dry, but I thought it’d be nicer to have a fresh one.’

  ‘Nnnn, how come you got a dressing gown, you little turd?’ said Tegwyn, skulking over to them. ‘I’m the treasurer of the Guild of North Wales Pagans, Rhyl and Towyn Branch. You’re not even a druid.’

  ‘Mrs Curry gave it to me,’ said Lucy. ‘She specifically said it was for Ben, since he’d fallen in the water and he was the wettest. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with her.’ Lucy pointed over to the woman, who was overseeing the evacuation of a large television set from the bar downstairs.
She wore every one of her twenty-five years in the pub trade: they had covered her in enough tattoos to intimidate whole rugby teams. Tegwyn took one look at her and skulked off.

  ‘I think he’s upset because the sea gave him his bath a few months early,’ whispered Lucy, and Ben laughed. ‘When you’ve changed, come and sit with me, OK? I’ll introduce you to some of the others. Dave’s going to lead a singing session later, they’re sometimes fun. Promise, OK?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘You should probably try and call home while the phone lines are still up. Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.’

  As she went, the Box played faintly on in his head, half-hearted, as if it knew it had been beaten.

  It was evening before he saw the demons again, having spent the afternoon with Lucy and the druids. At first he had kept quiet, but Lucy had kept encouraging him to join in, and by the time evening came he was enjoying himself so much that he was secretly disappointed when the fading light forced them to bed.

  When he got back to the corner, he found his clothes – which he had left sodden on the back of a chair – completely dry and neatly folded in a pile. They were sat on top of a blanket that had not been there when he left.

  ‘Me and ol’ Creaky liberated that from Tegwyn for you. He was stockpiling all the best blankets so we waited until the caterwauling started and got you one,’ said Kartofel. His flame was burning brighter than ever, and it lit the dark corner up enough for Ben to be able to see that Djinn and Orff were also looking like their old selves. ‘Managed to dry your clothes as well, now that I’m firing on all cylinders again.’

  ‘I folded them,’ said Orff. ‘Despite my rheumatism.’

  ‘Have you been waiting over here all this time? On your own?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yeah, so? We’re big boys, you know,’ said Kartofel. ‘We don’t need you to amuse ourselves.’

  ‘What Kartofel is trying to say,’ said Orff, ‘is that we saw you were having such an enjoyable time that we thought we would leave you to it.’ The shine had returned to his eyes, and he was no longer blind, though he did mutter. ‘Don’t you worry about the cataracts I’m probably developing as we speak.’

  ‘Ben! You should see the kitchen! It’s massive!’ said Djinn, who had turned the colour of dirty sea water. ‘And there’s all this food, and its all ruined anyway, so it doesn’t matter if I ruin it! It smells a bit salty though. But that’s fine. I like salt.’

  ‘It’s absolutely wrecked down there,’ said Kartofel. ‘It’s amazing. I saw a shark.’

  ‘There aren’t any sharks in Towyn,’ said Ben.

  ‘I didn’t say it was a real shark. It came off the wall, and now it’s floating in the middle of the bar. I pulled it under the water and paddled around a bit. You should have seen Fatso’s face.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re all feeling better,’ said Ben, and he was surprised to realize that he meant it. ‘Thanks for the blanket. And my clothes.’ He hunkered down on the floor, and pulled the blanket around him. He lay his head down, and yawned. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘Goodnight, Ben,’ said Djinn.

  ‘Goodnight, Djinn.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Orff.

  ‘G’night.’

  ‘Don’t have any really graphic nightmares about drowning or anything,’ said Kartofel.

  Orff coughed.

  ‘Tch. I mean “goodnight”,’ said Kartofel.

  Ben did not reply. He was already fast asleep.

  It was days before they were finally evacuated, and they were among the best of Ben’s life. The druids were all very strange, but they were also a lot of fun, and Ben loved being in their company. He got closer to Lucy, too, who told him all about their brand of druidism, and asked him loads more questions about Warmonger. He even started to enjoy the demons’ antics. Particularly when they teamed up to annoy Tegwyn.

  When they finally left, it was through the window rather than the front door, winched down to a waiting lifeboat to be taken to a community centre on the dry side of town. On the way there they got to see the extent of the flooding. There were more boats on the streets than cars, and most houses they passed were abandoned. The only other people they saw were journalists, who had swarmed into the area like mosquitoes. They were even filmed as they docked at the community centre.

  Ben’s grandparents were waiting for them. Ben leaped out of the boat, excited to introduce them to his new friend, his first one ever. But as he ran towards them, he did not get the welcome he expected. They both looked tired, and sombre, and his grandmother looked so much older than she had on Sunday night. They must have been so worried, he thought, and started to feel a little guilty for all the fun he’d been having. He bounded up to his grandmother and wrapped his arms around her.

  She started to sob. She seemed so frail that he relaxed his grip a little. He looked to his grandad, who stepped in to separate them.

  ‘We need to go inside, Ben,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some bad news.’

  As he was led away from the main hall and into a small side office, the Box played an insidious, spidery little tune.

  In the end it was his grandad who told him. Every time his grandmother tried, the tears would start and the words would stop. When he had finished, his grandad sat back in the overused plastic chair, his arms dangling down by his sides like a boxer between rounds in a fight he knows he has already lost.

  Ben sat perfectly still, staring at his grandparents. They were on one side of the desk, he on the other.

  Nobody spoke.

  Maybe if nobody spoke, it wouldn’t be true.

  His grandmother began to sob again, and in her grief shuffled round the desk on her knees. She pawed at his hair, and tried to wrap his head in her arms. Ben knew he was supposed to be feeling something other than embarrassment, but nothing came.

  ‘I want to be on my own, Gran.’ The words tumbled out of his mouth.

  She stopped snivelling. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I need to be on my own.’

  She buried her head in his shoulder, weeping. His grandad rose, gently draped his arms around her, and ushered her out of the room.

  It still hadn’t sunk in. He heard the lid of the Box swing open, and Orff popped his head out of the satchel, blinking at the new surroundings.

  ‘I think I might have malaria.’

  Ben could not make sense of what his grandad had told him, could not understand how it could be right. He shook his head.

  ‘Ben?’ said Orff. The lid opened again, and Kartofel and Djinn burst out.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Djinn. ‘Is Ben OK?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Orff.

  ‘Perhaps he’s been possessed or something,’ said Kartofel. ‘We’ve not had any weird stuff happen to us for a few days, so we’re probably due.’

  There was a timid knock at the door, and when Ben did not answer it was followed by a meek turn of the handle. It inched open, and Lucy stuck her head through.

  ‘I wondered where you were hiding,’ she said. ‘Someone said they saw you come in here. When am I going to meet your gran then?’

  Ben slowly turned his head to face her. A little half-sob escaped his throat.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, pulling a chair round to his side of the table. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘It’s my mum,’ he said. He opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the words, not quite believing them himself. ‘She’s gone. She died. On Tuesday night.’

  The noise he made next was barely human, dredged up from deep inside him. It continued even as Lucy put her arm round him and drew him close.

  The funeral was held at the end of March, delayed by both the floods and the inquest. Ben’s grandmother had insisted on a Catholic burial, with accompanying Mass, because ‘it was what Mary Rose would have wanted’.

  The huge church was cold and draughty, lacking as it was in congregation: the funeral party consisted of Ben, his grandparents, Lucy, and
Pat. Ben’s grandmother held his hand tightly throughout, sometimes squeezing so hard that it hurt his fingers. As the decrepit Irish priest mumbled his way through the service, Lucy leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  They were met at the church door by the demons, who were lined up to form a guard of honour. Djinn and Orff had their heads bowed, and Kartofel – who lacked the necessary joints to bow – had toned his flame down for the occasion. Ben felt a lump form in his throat at the sight of them.

  There was no wake, much to Pat’s disappointment. She had made a great show of how upset she was, complete with handkerchief eye-dabbing, and kept saying what a beautiful and fitting service it had been (the only word of it Ben had understood was ‘Amen’). It was only after the third or fourth ‘thanks for coming’ that she got the message and flounced off, disappointed that there would be no cake.

  The cemetery was quiet. They were the only living souls there.

  The demons were present at the graveside, but they did not cause trouble. They observed the silences, and they paid their respects, just like the rest of the family. As the coffin was lowered into the grave, it struck Ben that for better or worse that is what they were. Family.

  As they walked back to the car, Ben noticed that they were no longer alone. A veiled woman, dressed entirely in black, was kneeling at a moss-covered memorial. They walked past in silence, her whispered prayers the only sound.

  Ben stopped. She was speaking a language both completely familiar and utterly alien to him. The language of the angels. He turned to look, and as he did the woman rose from the gravestone and walked away.

  ‘I think I need a moment on my own before we go,’ he said.

  Ben’s grandmother looked to his grandad, and then nodded. Lucy stepped forward, and took his hand.

  ‘Take your time,’ she said.

  ‘I will. Thanks for coming. I didn’t have anyone else to ask and—’

  Lucy put a finger to his lips. ‘That’s what friends are for. We’ll see you back at the car.’