by Rick Wood
They doubted her.
This spurned her on further. They would soon realise how much people pay when they doubt her.
“Because from all distress you have rescued me, and my eyes look down upon my enemies.”
“Glory be to the Father!”
They stumbled a little. They did not back away, but they did not persist. They hovered, waiting to see what her next move was, expecting an act of power.
Thea tried to think — how had they exorcised St Helen’s Psychiatric Unit? She had performed a mass exorcism that night — how had she done it?
Three Sensitives had formed a triangle around the building, each of them saying the prayer, and Thea had…
Thea had entered the building. She had walked amongst the possessed. She had used her gift from inside the building.
She’d had to be among the possessed to succeed.
She turned to Henry and thrust the crucifix into his hands.
“You remember the rites of exorcism?” she quickly asked.
“Uh huh, I think so.”
“Then do it.”
She stepped forward, striding toward the crowd.
“What are you doing?” Henry cried out. “They will kill you!”
Thea looked back. Smiled.
“Not if you keep going,” she said.
He went to object, but she decided not to let him. She ran onwards, disappearing between the bodies.
“Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate,” Henry continued, and Thea listened as long as she could, but his voice faded quickly.
Thea pushed aside the first few lines of possessed, barging them out of the way, mining further, until she could see nothing but demented faces, and feel nothing but outreaching arms.
She knocked their arms out of the way. Strode onwards, persisting forward.
She kept going until she was in the middle of them, surrounded.
She stood still, waiting to feel her power surge through her.
53
“I command you, unclean spirit!” Oscar bellowed, screaming like he never had; screaming like he knew it would be the last time he ever screamed it. “Along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God!”
“You think this works?” The Devil said, approaching Oscar, slowly edging forward. The arrogant facade had faded a little, but there was still plenty of self-belief behind that stride.
“By the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection and ascension of our Lord!”
The Devil advanced until he was a few steps away.
Oscar saw Thea disappear into the crowd as Henry gently spoke the words of prayer. He hoped she knew what she was doing.
“I command you to obey me to the letter!” Oscar boomed. “I am a minister of God despite my unworthiness!”
The Devil grinned. The initial shock Oscar had provoked, the surprise at his strength — it seemed to pass.
He was no longer phased, and Oscar could not understand why.
Hoping it was a temporary fault, Oscar persisted.
“Nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God!”
He held his arms out, rigid, firm in the cross he was creating. He did not need a crucifix. He would be the crucifix.
The Devil still advanced, until he paused, inches away, close enough that Oscar could see the yellow stains on April’s teeth and feel the tepid breath from between her lips.
Oscar held his hand out, placing it on April’s forehead, feeling the heat of Hell against his palm.
“They shall lay their hands upon the sick and all will be well with them.”
Was April in there? Was she fighting too? Could she hear him?
Come on, April. I need your help. This is it.
“May the Lord, through the merits and intercessions of His holy apostles, show you favour and mercy.”
The Devil reached out a hand and pressed it around Oscar’s throat. He flexed April’s fingers, and the ends of her long, cracked nails dug into his skin.
“I give not into your temptations, Devil,” Oscar said, spitting each word coolly, yet full of detest.
“How long will an already dead body take to die again?” The Devil asked.
The Devil squeezed, pressing April’s fingers inward, applying force to Oscar’s neck.
Oscar struggled to breathe.
He was confused. Terrified. What was going on? This was not meant to happen…
He’d shown up, and he’d commanded power over his enemy.
He’d acquired this strength.
He’d resisted the temptation to feel anger, hostility, worry... yet The Devil still had a hold over him.
But why?
What was it that The Devil still held over him?
He could feel it, but he couldn’t explain it. There was still a piece of The Devil inside of him, still some way he’d wriggled into his mind. There was one last piece of temptation that he needed to remove.
But what was it?
He’d endured all the torment in Hell, he’d done all that. He had no idea what he had left.
“You see, my boy,” The Devil spoke. “Whatever you call me — The Devil, Lucifer, Mara… There is no greater power than that name.”
Oscar grabbed hold of April’s arm and tried helplessly to push it off.
“You can let go of everything you hold dear.”
The Devil squeezed harder. Oscar felt his throat crush.
“You can resist every temptation.”
Oscar felt his mind fade.
How was The Devil doing this? What had Oscar failed to overcome?
He had done everything he needed to do…
“But as much as you try,” The Devil said, “I have been preparing for this moment all your life. And you can never let go of a childhood where all you ever knew was fear.”
The Devil threw Oscar’s body to the floor and stood over him, his fists burning with flames, getting ready to end the life of his most formidable opponent.
He placed April’s fading face an inch from Oscar’s and asked a question Oscar did not expect to hear:
“What’s the matter? You scared, you dirty piece of shit?”
Oscar’s eyes widened.
Oh, dear God.
Finally, he realised how The Devil still had hold of him.
Oscar had thought The Devil’s attack started a year ago, but he was wrong. It had started when Oscar was just four years old.
With eyes of terror, Oscar looked up at the eyes of The Devil, and the eyes of the boy who had destroyed his childhood.
“That was you?” he gasped.
THEN
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
54
They said Oscar was smart. They said he could do anything with his life. They said the world was laid out for him, and he could fulfil whatever vacancy the world had.
His parents also said he disappointed them. They also said they couldn’t understand why he had stopped putting effort into his GCSE exams. They could not understand why his application to work at the checkouts in the local supermarket was the only application he was filling in.
“What about college?” they said.
“What about considering university?” they said.
“Or maybe even an apprenticeship?” they said.
Not that Oscar was averse to any of those things; it was just that they didn’t appeal to him. They did not interest him. It wasn’t where his focus lay.
To his parents, this was a grave disappointment. But Oscar’s spent all his time trying to find out who that boy was.
Who Bertrand was.
Why he was there and why he kept tormenting him.
It became an obsession.
He used his study leave to work, rather than revise. He would end his shift, and walk home from another eight hours where his body had been working but his mind had been elsewhere.
He’d arrive home and his parents would plead with him to revise, to make some kind of effort t
o at least get a few grades at his GCSEs. They just wanted a response from Oscar that resembled caring.
But Oscar’s attention was elsewhere.
He went on the computer and searched for all the searches he thought might be relevant:
Non-existent child bully.
Tormentor who’s not really there.
Terrorised by recurring boy.
There was nothing. Just nonsense about supernatural things such as ghosts and apparitions. People with extreme beliefs in the dead coming back to hurt us.
Was that what Bertrand was? Something evil from a paranormal realm?
He scoffed. Leant back in his chair and ran his hands over his face. He was tired. He’d been thinking about this boy non-stop, and he worried that it was making him mad.
He logged off and went to bed, where he lay awake, unable to sleep.
He never did sleep much. He’d hear things — or, at least, he thought he heard things. He’d even found himself at the doctor’s after admitting to his father he’d heard people whispering in his ear in an empty room.
They prescribed him medication.
Those pills became his salvation. Any time he thought he heard something, or felt this overwhelming panic come over him, or let his mind stray to Bertrand, he would take another. And another. And another until he was numb and void of feeling.
His mind strayed from Bertrand. It was as if his medication made him resistant to the torment of this individual.
In fact, he only saw Bertrand one more time.
He’d just finished his English exam. He was sure he’d failed. He had put little effort into the essay. He’d had to discuss how Austen’s writing of Mr Collins’ letter vividly revealed the character of Mr Collins.
He could not care less.
Not that he disliked books. Quite the contrary, in fact, he enjoyed reading — but he read modern texts about zombies and vampires and wizards. He could not understand why they were forced to read outdated texts about Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy. Who cared whether they ended up together?
As the exam left his thoughts and his mood changed from annoyance to no longer caring, he found his way to the bathroom.
Like most school bathrooms, it was in an awful state. The school had spent a lot of money improving the bathrooms, which had turned out to be pointless. It took only weeks until the walls were once again covered in graffiti, the locks had been broken, and the toilet seats were hanging off.
He entered a cubicle. Locked the door.
The strip light above him flickered.
He looked up, then tried to ignore it.
The strip light flickered again, accompanied by a buzz. When it finished flickering, it stayed on, but dimmer, allowing only a little light.
Oscar flushed the toilet and went to leave the cubicle, struggling to see what he was doing in the darkness.
As soon as he opened the door, his body trembled.
The silhouette of Bertrand stood before him.
“No…” Oscar whimpered.
Why?
Why was he here?
Why was he always here?
Oscar just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be granted peace, to live his meaningless life without interference.
But he always showed up. Always.
Bertrand stepped forward and Oscar reversed back into the cubicle.
The strip light flickered again.
Bertrand grinned.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You scared, you dirty piece of shit?”
Upon the repetition of this question, something changed in Oscar. He wasn’t sure what it was, or how it happened. Perhaps he’d just become fed up of being asked this question. Perhaps he’d decided his life meant so little that it didn’t matter if Bertrand was to kill him.
Or, perhaps, and this was just a possibility — Oscar realised that he had nothing to lose, and there was nothing Bertrand could do to him any longer.
What, was Bertrand going to take away his job? His life? His friends?
He could have them.
But, should he take those things from Oscar, it would be unlikely he’d find much to salvage among them. Oscar felt nothing for his job, he did not cling onto his life, and he had no friends to speak of.
“Leave,” Oscar said, quietly, but with a little force to his voice.
Bertrand frowned.
This was the first time Oscar had ever seen him frown. In fact, it was the first time Oscar had ever seen him not grinning.
“Leave!” Oscar said, louder this time, and with more conviction.
Bertrand snarled.
“Leave me alone!”
Oscar pushed Bertrand out of the cubicle, knocking him against the wall.
“I have nothing you can take from me,” Oscar said, pushing Bertrand further. “You do not scare me anymore.”
Oscar pushed again, and Bertrand fell to the floor.
Bertrand lifted a hand and grabbed onto Oscar’s wrist. Oscar felt his arm burn, but he tolerated it. It was nothing. Just a twinge. He could withstand it.
Oscar crouched over Bertrand, confidently frowning into his empty, angry eyes.
“You do not tempt me to feel anger. You do not tempt me to feel fear. And I have nothing you can touch.”
Bertrand gripped harder.
“Leave me, and leave this place,” Oscar said. “And never come back.”
Bertrand squealed, then faded. A tinge of smoke rising from the place on the floor he had occupied.
Oscar wasn’t entirely sure what he’d seen. Honestly, he saw a lot of strange things his psychiatrist told him wasn’t there. But he accepted it — as far as he was concerned, Bertrand was a part of his imagination, and this was his imagination killing him off.
So he left, satisfied. It was gone, and a childhood of torment was finally over. There followed the happiest few hours he’d had in a long time.
The happiness didn’t last, and his anxiety returned. He’d see things out of the corner of his eyes, or hear things as he walked through an empty street. He put it down to craziness and swallowed his pills.
He decided he was nothing and wasn’t worth the time or effort a psychiatrist might give him. He resolved himself to spend his days living his meaningless existence, caring little for where it took him.
Two years later, a woman called April would meet Oscar in a pharmacy and change everything.
NOW
55
Oscar looked up at The Devil, unable to believe the words just spoken by the epitome of evil.
“Are you scared, you dirty piece of shit?”
“That was you?”
Oscar shook his head, defiant in The Devil’s smiling grimace.
“No… It can’t be…”
The Devil stood, straightening his back, like he was preparing for a cocky strut.
“That was you?”
The Devil nodded.
“Why?”
“We knew who you were,” The Devil replied. “We knew what we needed to do.”
“What you needed to do?”
“Remove any ambition. Any drive. Ensure you became nothing.”
Everything made sense.
Bertrand had spent Oscar’s childhood doing whatever he could to remove any confidence. He systematically isolated him, making sure Oscar did not make friends. He removed Oscar’s self-esteem piece by piece. By the time Oscar was sixteen, he was nothing. He did not want to become anything, and he was happy staying that way.
Bertrand had created a person who would be least likely to stand up for what he believed in, never mind attempt to save the world. He had created a weakened enemy.
All for this moment.
Somehow, Hell had known what Oscar could become — they had known he would be the world’s last defence. So they had destroyed him.
Until April came along.
Until the love of his life showed him he was not the person Bertrand had created.
Oscar knew he could not be that scared little
child anymore.
He could not be that terrified boy who was too scared to tell April how he felt.
He could not be that weak man who allowed a demon child to control him.
He could not be the pathetic mess of a person Bertrand had created — not now.
Not anymore.
“You have failed,” Oscar stated.
“Excuse me?”
Oscar pushed himself to his knees.
The Devil went to send the flames he had conjured in Oscar’s direction, but Oscar resisted with a defiant, “No!”
The Devil looked peculiarly at Oscar.
“These childhood fears you refer to…” Oscar said. “You failed.”
“I failed?”
“You tried to create a person who would never stand up to you. Who would never beat you.”
“Hah! Just because you grew up and had a few friends, you you’ve changed?”
“If I was not a threat, you wouldn’t have bothered.”
“It was a precaution. As long as you are alone, you are nothing.”
The Devil lifted his fists of fire into the air once again.
Oscar considered those words: As long as you are alone, you are nothing.
He looked at Henry. So terrified, speaking the rites of exorcism with an unmistakable tremor in his voice. Everything about him screamed fear.
But he was still there, and he was fighting for Oscar, and the world.
He peered into the crowd of the possessed. Thea was among them. He could feel it. He could see the demons cowering away from her strength. She had never taken on such numbers, or such powerful opponents.
But she was still there, fighting for Oscar and the world.
And finally, he looked into the eyes of The Devil.
But they weren’t The Devil’s eyes. The Devil was in there, but he was only using those eyes.
They were actually April’s eyes. And he looked deep into them, searching them, trying to find her. Seeking her presence.
And he could see her.
Hidden away.
She was too strong to be concealed. That look of devotion she would always give him was covert, but he could see it.