by Rick Wood
“It will get stronger,” Oscar added. “The restraints are keeping it tied down for now, but… I don’t know how long that will last. Days, if that. And I don’t know how long this will take. Hopefully quickly, but…”
He looked away. Bit his bottom lip.
Thea could see the tears he was not willing to let out.
Maybe she hadn’t realised just how much this battle had worn away at him. He had barely left the house as he was reluctant to leave April alone — yet there was no room where you could not hear it. It was constant. Whatever he did and wherever he went, he had to listen to the torture of the woman he loved.
“We’ll look after her,” Thea said, trying to sound calm and in control, trying to provide as much reassurance as she could. She had a feeling no amount of reassurance would be good enough.
“It will help keep it a little under control if you read the exorcism rites,” Oscar suggested. “I mean, it won’t do anything, really, but it can’t hurt. Just a little a day. Hopefully, it will delay it growing stronger.”
“I thought it took about a year for amalgamation incarnation to occur,” Henry said, looking between them.
“That’s with a normal demon,” Oscar replied. “This is not a normal demon. And April is not a normal host — she is a conduit. She is more susceptible. We can’t know how long. It could be as little as weeks until it’s fully–”
Oscar stopped.
He couldn’t say it. He just couldn’t say it.
Thea stepped forward. Put her arms around him.
She felt him cry into her shoulder but, when she stepped back, she saw no tears; he was determined not to show any weakness.
“I just hope this isn’t all for nothing,” Oscar said. “If we lose her completely, or if she dies, and I’m not here–”
“Then I will make sure that, before she goes, she knows that you are still fighting for her.”
He nodded.
He looked at Henry and nodded again.
He went to speak, but didn’t.
He picked up his bag. Turned. Opened the front door. Stepped out.
Looked over his shoulder.
“I trust you,” he said. “Don’t let me down.”
“We won’t.”
Oscar left. Thea shut the door, stepped back into the hallway, and resumed her place by Henry’s side.
The ceiling shook again.
Thea and Henry found their hands entwining. Not out of any feeling of attraction or love, but of fear, and a need to share this fear.
After all, they were alone with The Devil now.
There was no one else coming to help them.
11
The drive to London had taken three hours.
The flight would take eleven hours.
Then God knows how long it would take to find this place once Oscar arrived. If he even did.
He hadn’t been to Korea and did not know what to expect. He did not know how to get a bus or a taxi, and he did not trust himself driving down a busy street on the opposite side of the road. Yet he had to get to a temple, in the middle of nowhere, that had not been used for many, many years.
Lorenzo could have given more help than just booking a plane ticket and assuming Oscar was going to leap onboard with no objection.
But that’s what Lorenzo does, isn’t it? Expect the Sensitives to wage the Church’s war and hate them for any destruction that may occur as a result.
His leg bounced. He huffed. He felt impatient.
What was he even doing?
Going to see some Buddhist in a temple…
What was he expecting to learn that he didn’t know already?
He’d been fighting demons for years. He’d faced all kinds, and he’d confronted The Devil in Hell. What could someone who had isolated themselves from the world know about the war he was waging?
The air stewardess paused by Oscar. Asked if he’d like a coffee. Oscar asked if they had a beer. They did.
He ordered two.
He poured the first into the plastic cup provided, drank half down in one, then rested his head back and closed his eyes.
He was not restful, but he had to try. He had a lengthy flight ahead of him. He hadn’t thought to pick up a book to occupy his mind — such thoughts seemed ridiculous at the time.
All he could think about was leaving April at home.
Well, whatever was in April’s body was at home… Oscar had no idea where April was.
What happens to a soul when it is pushed out of its body?
Hell, supposedly.
Funny, really. He’d fought to save souls, but he’d never really questioned what he was saving them from.
He wished Derek was still there to provide the answers. Or, as much as he hated admitting it, he’d gladly make do with Julian. Despite his impatient demeanour and constant condescension toward Oscar, he had been a good friend. Oscar was only just starting to see that now.
Julian would always be Julian. He would be who he was; an irritable, stubborn individual who flung disparaging remarks around like a child’s entertainer might fling sweets to their audience.
But that was who he was. There was no real malice in it.
And, more than anything, Julian cared deeply for April. He had taken her off the streets and taught her how to use her gift. Even though Oscar hadn’t been on the streets, Julian had done a similar thing with him — he had taken him from a dull, monotonous life that was going nowhere and given him a purpose.
Oscar bet that, wherever Julian was now, he regretted bringing Oscar into the battle. If he hadn’t, maybe he would still be alive and the world would be saved.
Oscar raised his cup, tilting it to the memory of his lost friend, and drank the rest of its contents.
He looked around.
Everyone was so clueless. No one knew. All the horrors that had been occurring in the world, the increased amount of violence, and none of these people really knew why.
A woman was sitting across from him, her child next to her, giving him crayons and helping him look through his colouring book. She was a mother doing anything she can to keep her child occupied for a lengthy journey. Her biggest concern was whether her child would get restless. She had no idea what she should really be worried about.
An elderly couple sat a few rows back. Holding hands. Probably in their eighties, yet still holding hands. As if it was still just as special as it was when they were young. If this plane went down, they would go down together. They had no regrets.
A man in a suit sat on the seat across the aisle. Laptop open, tapping away, getting work done.
He resented each of them for their ignorance, yet envied their unawareness.
They would all probably be dead within the coming months.
Dead or tortured. Whichever fate befell them.
Unless this man, this… what was his name? What had Lorenzo said?
Ah, yes. Om Samsara.
Unless this Om Samsara had some answers as to how they could defeat The Devil — or Mara, as Om apparently called it.
Who was Oscar kidding? What the hell would this man know?
This was stupid, and he wanted to go back. He wanted to be with April before he lost her completely, just so she would know, however deep she was buried, that he was still there, still by her side.
Everything infuriated him. Lorenzo’s resolve to keep going, this long flight, The Devil, Thea’s naivety, the world for not knowing — and he didn’t stop there. He thought back to his childhood, resenting his parents for having too high expectations, and hating the boy who bullied him at school.
Ten hours of the flight left.
He closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep, however unlikely that would be.
THEN
FOUR YEARS OLD
12
The classroom felt crowded. It always did. It wasn’t, but it felt that way.
Oscar was so much smaller than the other children.
Not that much smaller, but again, t
hat was how it felt.
He sat on the second row in from the back, next to the window, and found himself spending most of the day staring out of it. He could see the playground and, beyond that, bushes, and beyond that, a house with a swing set and an older lady who was always gardening.He wondered why, with an older lady living there, she had a swing set. He speculated that maybe she had a granddaughter — only Oscar had never seen a granddaughter there.
“Oscar?”
Oscar quickly turned his head. His teacher, Mrs McNeil, was looking at him expectantly, as were the rest of the class.
All the other children, all twenty-something of them; staring at him.
He’d been asked a question, he knew it. Only he hadn’t been paying attention. He didn’t know what the question was.
He looked around for help.
“What do you think, Oscar?” repeated Mrs McNeil.
Oscar did not know what he thought, as he did not know what he was being asked about.
He tried to remember what this lesson was. Was it maths? English? Something else?
Letters were written on the board. A B C D E F G H I.
“Come on,” urged Mrs McNeil.
Why was everyone staring at him so much? They were all smiling, like they knew something he didn’t, like they enjoyed how scared he looked.
“I — I don’t know,” he said.
“Sure you do. Just come up with an idea.”
In front of him, a boy turned around. His name was Bertrand.
Oscar did not like Bertrand.
Bertrand was mean.
He was pudgy and had meaty hands. He had these spots on his cheek, and his hair was always messy. Yet, despite these flaws, no one ever dared be nasty to him. He was always the nasty one. Kids would always do what he told them, even if it meant hurting someone else, so long as it meant they didn’t get hurt instead.
“Just one word, that’s all I’m after.”
One word about what?
Bertrand’s smile widened. He was taking pleasure out of this.
Oscar was too young to know when someone was being vindictive, but he was old enough to feel ashamed. He couldn’t explain the feeling, but he felt it. Bertrand was making him feel terrible, and he didn’t like it, and he wished that everyone would stop looking at him.
“Just one word beginning with I, that’s all I need.”
A word beginning with I?
Is that what she wanted?
Oscar tried to think.
A word beginning with I, then he’d be left alone…
“Igloo,” Oscar suggested.
“Not quite,” Mrs McNeil said. “Bertrand already said that one. Try thinking of one of your own.”
“Yeah, dick face,” whispered Bertrand, so quiet only he and Oscar could hear him. “Think of another one.”
Everyone was still staring.
Everyone.
Staring.
He didn’t like it.
He didn’t.
His heart raced.
He breathed quicker and quicker.
Tears accumulated in the corner of his eyes.
“Come on, Oscar,” urged Mrs McNeil.
“Yeah, come on, Oscar,” spat Bertrand.
Oscar couldn’t take it anymore.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t take it.
He stood. His chair fell over. His desk shoved forward. He ran from the classroom, into the corridor outside, and sat on the bench beneath the coat pegs.
He buried his face in his hands and cried.
Class ended five minutes later.
The other kids came out of the classroom to put their coats on, table by table, until the classroom was empty but for the teacher.
“Why don’t you come in?” she said to Oscar. “Let’s have a chat.”
She walked back inside the classroom, expecting Oscar to follow.
Oscar stood.
Bertrand was next to him. He hadn’t seen him arrive, nor had he heard him approach. He was just there. Grinning.
“You’re a fucking loser,” he said.
Oscar didn’t know what that meant.
“I will kill you someday.”
Bertrand walked away, coat in hand, into the playground.
Oscar returned to the classroom, not hearing a word his teacher said.
NOW
13
The taxi drove for an hour and cost an extortionate amount of money. He wasn’t particularly bothered about going into his overdraft, considering the world was about to end — but, after an eleven-hour flight in a seat where his legs wouldn’t fit behind the chair in front, he was already in a bad enough mood.
The driver let Oscar out at the base of a hill, and left before Oscar could ask where he was meant to go. As it was, after a walk of twenty minutes or so up a path that took him around the circumference of the hill and through a steep forest, he came to some stone steps.
He decided this must be it. He was finally there. Hurrah, journey over!
Except, as his eyes rose up the stairs, he realised he couldn’t see their end.
“Of course,” he muttered.
His legs were cramped from the travelling and already aching from walking uphill. The last thing he wanted to do was climb a mass of stairs.
What if the temple wasn’t even at the top of these stairs, and they just led to nothing?
But then again, what else was he supposed to go? Google Maps wasn’t much help, and he could hardly just phone up the reclusive Buddhist that lived here for directions. The steps seemed like the only choice and, if he wanted a bed to sleep on that night that wasn’t made of twigs and insects, he would have to climb the steps.
With a huff, he began.
Up the first, up the second. Ten steps and he already had to pause.
Why were these people always a recluse? He couldn’t remember the last time he went for help from someone who wasn’t shut away in their house or in some obscure part of the world.
He continued onwards. He tried taking two steps at a time to see if that would help, but it didn’t seem to make him climb any quicker.
He looked back and could no longer see the beginning.
He looked up and still could not see the top.
This better be worth it.
He continued.
As he rose higher, he tried using his hands, pulling his body upwards, helping to ease the pressure on his legs.
The top finally came into sight.
“Oh, thank you…”
He forced the final bit of energy to his legs and pushed himself up, and up, and up, until he reached the top step and threw himself to the floor.
He lay, looking up at the darkening sky. Panting.
No one came to see him. No one greeted. This Buddhist bloke was obviously somewhere asleep or watching from afar and laughing at him.
Oscar waited for some energy to return to his body.
It didn’t.
His back hurt from the bumps of the stone, so he sat up. Looked around.
Stone rooms surrounded him. No doors, just blackness. It didn’t look like this place was connected to electricity. But then again, why would it? May as well keep everything as medieval as possible!
He pushed himself to his feet. Stepped forward. His light steps echoed around the abandoned monastery. The enormous roots of a tree divided into sections and ran down a roof that was covered in weeds and vines and moss and all other kinds of unwanted plantation.
“Hello?” Oscar shouted. His voice rebounded back at him.
He stepped forward. A big spider ran past his leg, and he jumped.
What the hell was he doing here?
“Hello, is anyone there?”
Where was there to sleep? As far as he could tell, these rooms were open, damp and exposed. This wasn’t a home; it was a mess. It had been left to rot for a reason.
“Hey, I just travelled ages to get here, it would be nice if someone actually came out and said hello!”
Nothing.
He threw his hands in the air and landed them on his hips. He turned, looking around, growing more and more frustrated.
Had this all just been for nothing?
He took out his phone. Dialled Lorenzo’s number and put it to his ear.
The phone rang and rang until the answer machine answered.
“This is Father Lorenzo Romano, I can’t get to the phone right now. If you would like to leave a message—”
Lorenzo’s answer machine message stopped. Oscar looked at his phone.
No signal.
“Dammit,” he muttered, lifting the phone into the air.
He rotated, but no bars appeared. He kept spinning and turning, lifting his phone higher and higher — then halted.
A man stood in front of him. Bald head. Old. Robes that were probably once a clean white and a vibrant orange, now faded and tatty.
He watched Oscar with a knowing yet unassuming smile.
“Hey, are you Om Samsara?”
The man paused, then nodded a tiny nod.
“Great. Did Father Lorenzo Romano tell you I was coming?”
Another pause, and a tiny nod.
“Hey, do you speak or what?”
Another pause, then nothing. The man stayed still, watching him.
“Just fantastic,” Oscar declared.
He huffed. Tried to stay calm.
“So I was told you defeated The Devil?”
Om shook his head. “I did not defeat him.”
“You what?”
“I said I did not defeat him.”
Oscar couldn’t have heard that right.
“Did you just say you did not defeat him?”
“That is correct.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“I did not defeat him, I resisted him. I have this temple, and he cannot get me here. All I did was not give into my temptations.”
“Yeah, right. See, I think I already have that part down.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Then you have no reason for being here, and you should probably leave.”
Oscar exhaled a large, angry sigh and threw his arms in the air.
“This is bullshit,” he said.