Mike Carey

by Dead Men's Boots (v5)

  “Your Honor—” Prentice spluttered.

  Runcie cut over him, giving me a severe frown. “Mr. Castor, if I hear any repetition of that pugnacious tone, I’ll take it as a contempt of court. Are you seeing proof of association as proof of collusion?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Not automatically. But Professor Mulbridge is desperate to get her hands on Rafi because”—better pick my words with care here—“his condition is so rare and it chimes so well with her own interests. And you’d have to admit, Your Honor, it smells a little off if the institution that’s trying to swipe Rafael Ditko, to take possession of him against his own wishes and the wishes of those close to him, is able to pad out the tribunal panel with its own staff. It looks like ballot-stuffing.”

  Jenna-Jane put her hand up, and the magistrate turned his eyes on her. “Your Honor,” she said, sounding a little reproachful, “could I make an observation? Not to rebut Miss Bruckner’s and Mr. Castor’s allegations but to indicate the problem that the tribunal was faced with?”

  Mr. Runcie indicated with a gesture that she could. Jenna-Jane nodded her thanks. “The facility I run at Saint Mary’s,” she said, sounding like a grandmother reminiscing about the queen’s coronation, “is for the study, treatment, and understanding of a very specific range of conditions. Many of my patients believe themselves to be possessed by the dead, or to be themselves dead souls inhabiting animal bodies. As you know, the body of scientific evidence on such matters is small. In trying to enlarge it, I’ve had to call on the skills of a great many people whose knowledge is of an empirical rather than an academic nature.”

  Knowing the Jenna-Jane juggernaut and how it rolled along, I was listening to all this with a detached interest. I had to give her a 5.9 for artistic effect, but only 5.6 for technical merit. She’d gotten the respectful tone right, but she’d overdone the beating around the bush. “Your point, Professor Mulbridge,” the magistrate chided her.

  “My apologies, Your Honor. My point is that Rafael Ditko claims to be demonically possessed. Dr. Webb’s initial diagnosis was paranoid schizophrenia, but he admits that there’s some anomalous evidence that brings the diagnosis into question. He wants Ditko transferred both because he represents a danger to the staff at the Stanger Home and because they don’t have the proper facilities there to treat him.

  “So a decision on Mr. Ditko’s case requires an awareness of the paranormal as well as of the psychiatric factors presenting in his case. And it would be hard to find anywhere in the United Kingdom any practitioner in those areas—specifically, any exorcist—who hasn’t worked with me or for me at some point in the last ten years. Why, Mr. Castor himself”—she turned to indicate me with a tolerant smile, our eyes locking for the second time—“was a very valued colleague of mine at the Metamorphic Ontology Unit until comparatively recently.”

  The magistrate looked at me with a certain mild surprise. “Is this true, Mr. Castor?”

  Damn. Sometimes when you’re not knife-fighting with Jenna-Jane on a day-to-day basis, you forget how strong her instinct for the jugular really is.

  There was no point dodging the bullet. “As far as it goes, yeah,” I admitted. “And it’s also true that a lot of exorcists are going to have had associations with the MOU in the past. That’s different from being still on staff there, though. And you could easily find a psychiatrist who isn’t in Jenna-Jane’s pocket.”

  “A psychiatrist with a background in the behavioral and psychological matrices of bodily resurrection?” Jenna-Jane inquired, tapping her thumbnail against her notebook.

  “You don’t have a monopoly on—” Pen broke in.

  “Please,” said Mr. Runcie with more of an edge to his voice. “I must insist that you address all comments to me and restrict yourself to answering my direct questions. Sit down. All of you, please sit down. I haven’t asked anybody to stand.”

  We all complied, but the magistrate’s feathers were thoroughly ruffled, and he didn’t look any happier. “Thank you. It appears that there are two separate issues here—the one concerning Miss Bruckner’s assertion of power of attorney, and the other relating to the legal constitution of the tribunal’s panel. Mr. Fenster, are there any other heads under this case of which you’ve failed to apprise me?”

  “None, Your Honor,” the barrister said, taking the implied criticism on the chin. “Those are the two substantive issues.”

  The magistrate glanced at Pen. “And do you agree with that summary, Miss Bruckner? I mean, insofar as it states the matter at issue—the substance of your case?”

  Pen hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  There was a silence. The Honorable Mr. Runcie looked far from happy. “And the tribunal has no brief to review the terms of Rafael Ditko’s detention—only his transferral from one facility to another?”

  “Your Honor,” said the barrister, looking profoundly sorrowful, “Mr. Ditko has been involved in incidents of damage or assault at the Stanger Home on five separate occasions within the last year. There are currently no plans—outside of the usual periodic authorization process—to review his sectioning and detention. Nobody is claiming that he can safely be released back into society.”

  Runcie gave Jenna-Jane a look that was fairly long and fairly hard. “Professor Mulbridge, I take it you were not yourself involved in the selection of the tribunal’s members?”

  Jenna-Jane spread her arms expansively. “Your Honor, these things are the province of the local authority—in this case, Haringey. As far as their internal workings go, I don’t ask, and I’m not told.”

  The magistrate nodded agreement. “Yes. Just so. Still, I have the option of asking and presumably will be told. On the face of it, it does seem possible that there could be a conflict of interests. I’m keeping an open mind, but I’m going to order a three-day suspension of these proceedings while I look into the selection arrangements and make sure that all proper regulations were followed.” He pondered. “On the question of power of attorney, that’s an issue that goes far beyond these current events. I can’t rule on the a priori assumption. Even if Dr. Webb has been dealing with Miss Bruckner and Mr. Castor as though they had such a power, that does not necessarily make it so in the eyes of the law. I believe you should take legal advice, Miss Bruckner, and perhaps give further thought to whether representing yourself is the wisest course of action here.” He stroked the bridge of his nose self-consciously. “Given that Mr. Ditko can’t legally give you his informed consent while he’s sectioned on mental health grounds,” he mused, “you’ll almost certainly have to make an application through a higher court…”

  Pen looked distressed. “But, Your Honor—” she interjected.

  The magistrate raised a hand to forestall her. “I’m sympathetic to your position, Miss Bruckner. You clearly believe that you have Rafael Ditko’s best interests at heart. But power of attorney would give you very wide-ranging rights over his estate and over any future decisions about his treatment. The safeguards have to be there, and they have to be observed. I’m sorry. But for what it’s worth, I think you have a strong case. You should get yourself proper representation and do whatever it takes to prepare a full legal argument. My judgment, in the meantime, will focus on the makeup of the review panel.”

  He stood up, taking the clerk by surprise so that his “All rise” sounded a little panicked.

  The magistrate gathered up his papers. “These proceedings are adjourned for three days,” he said, “and will resume on Thursday, in the afternoon session. Make a note, Mr. Farrier, if you please.”

  He swept out of the room without a backward glance.

  Jenna-Jane put on her jacket while Pen stood there looking like she’d lost a pound and found a plague sore. I knew what was going through her mind: With the power-of-attorney ploy kicked into the long grass, we had to shoot down Jenna-Jane’s stooges on the review panel or the whole thing would go through on the nod. On the other hand, the Honorable Mr. Runcie—pompous and self-satisf
ied though he definitely was—struck me as being nobody’s fool. I still felt like we were in with a chance.

  There were exits on both sides of the courtroom, so it had to be deliberate that Jenna-Jane took the longer route and paused in front of Pen on her way out. “I’m so sorry, Pamela,” she said, looking limpidly sincere. “I want you to know that if Rafi is given into my care, all of the resources of the unit will be brought to bear on him. If it’s possible to make him well again, we’ll do it.”

  Pen stared at her in stunned silence for a moment. Then she drew back her arm in a staccato movement, fist clenched. But I was already moving, and I stepped in before she could bring it forward again, sliding between the two of them with my back to Pen. Felix Castor, human shield.

  “Jenna-Jane,” I said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes. Actually, let me rephrase that. My eyes are scabbing over just from looking at you. I’m carrying a voice recorder, so why don’t you stop prejudicing your case and go play with your ECT machines?”

  “Felix.” Jenna-Jane shook her head with mock exasperation. “You’re determined to hate me, but I have only respect and admiration for you. I’m hoping to welcome you back on board someday. There’s going to be a war, and I want you on my side. I’m determined on it. Perhaps your friend Rafi might actually be the bridge that brings us together.”

  “You mean you’re going to lay him down on the ground and trample on him?” I said. “Tell it to the court.”

  She raised her hands in surrender and walked on. I turned to Pen, who was trembling like a tuning fork. “Well, that went as well as could be expected,” I said.

  “Fuck off, Fix,” Pen answered, her eyes welling up with tears and instantly overflowing. “Fuck off and don’t talk to me.”

  She turned her back and stalked away along the seats, tripping at one point over somebody’s briefcase and then kicking it out of her way as she righted herself. It wasn’t a dramatic exit, but it did the job.

  What’s that old Groucho Marx line? No, never mind: “I’ve got plenty of enemies. But if they ever start to thin out, most of my friends are right there in the wings ready to audition.”

  There’s going to be a war. Jenna-Jane Mulbridge actually believes that shit, and she isn’t the only one.

  The dead rose again only because they were running ahead of the demons, the theory went, and now the demons had started to appear. There was a gaping hole in the walls of Creation: Hell was throwing its legions into the breach, and so far our side not only didn’t have an army, it didn’t even have a poster with a pointing finger on it.

  The first and greatest of the exorcists, Peckham Steiner, had believed, too, and toward the end of his life, he’d devoted his personal fortune to the building of defenses that would give the living a fighting chance in that war when it was finally declared: the Thames Collective, a barracks for ghostbreakers on running water, where the dead and the damned couldn’t walk; the safe houses, protected by ramparts of water, earth, and air, which I’d assumed were an urban legend until I’d actually seen one and figured out how it worked; a dozen wacky schemes full of customized craziness in every flavor you can think of. It was classic paranoid stuff, but at this point in my life, I was finding it a lot harder to laugh it off.

  If there was a war coming, then Rafi Ditko was conquered territory. Playing around with black magic, he’d opened up a door to hell inside his own soul, and something—a big, bad bastard of a something that called itself Asmodeus—had stepped through. Now Rafi was locked up in a ten-by-ten cell in a mental hospital, because the law hadn’t caught up with the facts yet, and the only diagnosis that fitted his symptoms was schizophrenia. And the cell was lined with silver because—law or no law—you had to do what worked. Silver weakened Asmodeus and kept him from asserting full control over Rafi most of the time. The tunes I played to him had the same effect, pushing the demon down further into Rafi’s hindbrain and giving his conscious mind a bit more wriggle room.

  Unfortunately, it was also partly my fault that Asmodeus was stuck in there in the first place. After answering a panicked phone call from his girlfriend, Ginny, I found him burning to death from the inside out. I did what I could to stop it, but this was the first time I’d ever encountered a demon. To put it bluntly, I screwed up. In fact, I screwed up so badly that Rafi and Asmodeus had ended up welded together in some way that nobody had even managed to understand, still less undo.

  And then a few months ago, when I’d had the chance to sever the connection permanently, I’d backed off because the price—letting Asmodeus loose on earth—had seemed too high. I still think I was right, but I’d never been able to explain it so that Pen understood. Actually, I’d never managed to get more than two words out before she either decked me or walked away.

  Pen—Pamela Elisa Bruckner—is Rafi’s ex-lover and my ex-landlady. Ex-friend. Ex- a whole lot of other things, one way and another. And what made relations between us even more strained was that this whole business at the Stanger kept throwing us together. The Stanger’s director, Webb, had been trying to divest himself of Rafi ever since an incident about six months before in which the demon inside him had cut loose and almost killed two nurses. Now he’d formed an unholy alliance with Jenna-Jane to get rid of him, effectively gifting him to the MOU at Paddington. And the MOU was a concentration camp for the undead, where Jenna-Jane talked about clinical care and pastoral responsibility while she performed experiments on her helpless charges that were increasingly sadistic and extreme. She was desperate to get her hands on Rafi because her menagerie—replete with ghosts and zombies and werewolves and one poor bastard who thought he was a vampire—didn’t include a demon yet. So Pen and I had to work together to clog Jenna-Jane’s works with spanners, whether we liked it or not.

  Meanwhile, the war—if it was a war—was still in the “cold” phase. Maybe that’s only to be expected when the enemy is the dead.

  I’d had more than enough of the legal profession to last me for one day, but a promise is a promise, even if your arm is halfway up your back while you’re giving it. I could have called, but I needed to pick up some silver amalgam from a dental supplier in Manor House, so Stoke Newington was almost on my way.

  The offices of Ruthven, Todd and Clay turned out to be in a converted Victorian court built in chocolate-colored brick, on the corner of a slightly drab row of terraces from a later era. There were window boxes on either side of the door, painted bright blue, but they contained nothing except bare soil. No flowers at this time of year.

  The front door was pretty bare, too—no wards, no sigils, no come-nots or stay-nots. Maybe the evil dead avoided lawyers out of professional courtesy, like sharks are supposed to do. I walked in off the street and found myself in a small reception area that, judging from its modest dimensions, must originally have been the front hall of a house. A wide, elbowed staircase took up a good half of the available space, and what was left was dominated by a large, venerable-looking photocopier. The inspection covers had been removed from the machine and were stacked up against the wall. An enormously fat, enormously pale bald man was on his knees in front of it, one hand thrust into its innards up to the elbow, looking like a vet trying to assist with a difficult birth. He glanced up at me as I entered, and then he kept on staring as if trying to place the face. He had a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his half-open mouth hung down at the corners like a melting clock in a painting by Salvador Dalí. A young brunette sitting at the reception desk under the stairs watched him work with more attention than a busted photocopier seemed to merit. Maybe it was a slow day.

  “I’m here to speak to Mr. Todd,” I said to the brunette, as she pulled her attention away from the exhibition of mechanical midwifery. “I called earlier. Felix Castor.”

  She ran her finger down the very full columns of a double-width appointment book. “Felix Castor,” she confirmed. “Yes. Please take a seat.”

  There were several, so I took the one farthest away from Mr. Fix-it, picked up ye
sterday’s Times, and started to flick through it as the receptionist called upstairs. I glanced across at the fat man once, out of the corner of my eye. He was still on his knees and still looking at me, although when I caught him at it, he dropped his gaze to the ground with a slight grimace and went back to the job.

  “Any luck, Leonard?” the receptionist asked.

  The man shook his head glumly. “There’s no jam,” he said in a higher voice than I would have expected, a voice that had a slight fluting quality to it, as though the big man had swallowed that weird little device that gives Mr. Punch his voice. “I think it’s one of the rollers come off its bracket.” He leaned forward and reached into the machine—with both arms this time. It shifted on its base and creaked ominously.

  “Mr. Castor.” I looked up. Todd was coming down the stairs, hand outstretched. He had on a different suit—mid-blue instead of gray, with a subtle dogtooth. Maybe he had one for every day of the week. I stood, and we shook.

  Shaking hands is always a little jump into the unknown for me. The same morbid sensitivity that makes me good at sensing the presence of the dead sometimes allows me to pick up superficial psychic impressions through skin-to-skin contact. Nothing this time, though, or at least nothing revealing. Maynard Todd exuded only a cool aura of self-possession as immaculate as his tailoring.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. Then he looked past me, and his expression shifted into a slightly perplexed frown. “Uh—Leonard, are you sure you know what you’re doing there?”