by Peter Laws
‘Could you hear it?’
‘Yes … he said, your baby’s in hell, and I didn’t know what that meant because Pam doesn’t have kids … but she still got upset and distracted. And that’s how he got her. I tell you, it makes me nervous.’
Neither of them spoke for a while. Matt just watched the black shadows of the rocking horse becoming the slouched body of Tom. Looking away at the black field didn’t help. He saw tree trunks turning into the usual watchful corpses, and quivering bushes becoming crouching black rabbits. Stupid brain of his.
Fenn said goodbye, and even though the phone hiss vanished from Matt’s ears, he still didn’t feel like he was alone. He frowned and turned from the park to look back across the field. He saw throngs of parents in the distance, going home, but there was no sign of the reporters anywhere. So at least his little escape plan must have—
Creeeeeeeek.
He spun back, losing an entire breath on the turn.
His eyes sprang through the black, assuming he’d catch the wind in the act, causing that swing to move again. But the swing was moving because somebody was in it.
He saw a dark figure, perched on the seat, with hands curled high around each metal chain. A human-shaped hole, cut into the world.
The figure, knowing it was now seen, started pulling itself up to stand.
The shadow came towards him. It spoke with a woman’s voice.
‘Good evening, Professor. I hope I didn’t scare you.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Do I know you?’
‘No, we haven’t met … but I’ve been hoping we would, tonight. May I?’ She came closer and a light suddenly bloomed from her hand. The torch from her phone. ‘Is that better?’
She was an Indian woman, maybe late forties, hovering in a cloud of extremely potent perfume. She had immaculate make-up and a long, thick rope of black hair. It hung in a swoop to one side, as did a long grey scarf dangling from her neck. It kept drifting in the breeze. The glow of the phone flashed its reflection in the military-style buttons on her long, meticulously tailored jacket. She nodded towards the hut, and her hooped earrings swung. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt your call. So I waited.’ She put out her hand. Black leather gloves. ‘My name is Anupa Parekh. Call me Nupa.’
He shook it and her wrist immediately jangled with bracelets hidden up her sleeve. ‘Nupa, it’s nice to meet you but I’m not in the habit of just running into random people in the park at night. No matter how nice they smell.’
She laughed. ‘I’m a TV producer—’ She clocked his expression and held up a leather palm. ‘But before you scamper away, let me say that I totally understand why you’re avoiding the media tonight. Makes sense.’
He glanced towards the bus stop. ‘You saw my big exodus, eh?’
‘I did.’ She nodded. ‘And bravo. You lost them all.’
‘Clearly not all. Let’s sit.’ They walked to the swings and sat down, hands automatically grabbing the chain on each side, like they were ten. ‘So, Nupa … what do you need?’
‘Right, well, I’m a documentary producer. I work for the BBC, Netflix, PBS but I’m also involved in an ITV show called The Exchange. It’s an hour-long debate programme. It’s on 11 p.m. every Tuesday. It’s presented by Freya Ellis.’
‘Freya Ellis. National treasure.’ He started to rock back a little on the swing. Creeeeek. ‘I’ve actually watched that show quite a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s … um … feisty.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s a fair choice of word. The live audience certainly adds spice. Then, as you’ll know, we cover the day’s news events and exchange views on them. Which means that later tonight we’re devoting a full half-hour, that’s half of the entire show, to the Demon Murder of Cheddington Village today. We have a few guests lined up already—’
‘Such as?’
‘Someone who claims to be demonically possessed for a start and then there’s Reverend Simon Perry. He’s involved with the Cheddington case. I understand you know him already.’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I can see from your escape that you’re clearly not keen on the media right now but we really think the show would benefit from your balanced perspective as a guest. And while’s there no fee, we can certainly transport you there and we’ll be glad to—’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘—drive you back …’ Her eyelids fluttered a little. She tilted her head. ‘You’ll do it?’
‘Sure.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Though I guess we better scoot into town pretty soon?’
Her surprise clicked into a relieved smile. ‘Well … that would be fabulous, thank you.’
‘I just need to let my family know.’
‘Of course. You can call them from the car.’
‘And can we get a coffee on the way? I’m parched.’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Absolutely.’
They headed out of the park, Nupa’s phone lighting the way. He hadn’t spotted her heels in the wood bark of the playground, but they sounded surprisingly loud on the pavement outside. Nupa tossed her scarf over her shoulder and waved a hand at a BMW parked across the street. The headlights clicked on and it slinked across the street slowly. It rumbled up to their kerb. The door opened automatically.
‘All aboard,’ she said, shaking off her jacket.
He climbed inside and slid along the smooth cream leather. She followed him in and tapped the headrest in front – a signal to pull away. She started peeling off her gloves, tugging at each fingertip in turn.
He called Wren, but it went to voicemail. He told her he’d be back late and to tell Amelia he was sorry he had to leave, and that he hoped he hadn’t caused hassle with those crowds. He hung up the phone, just as they started rolling through the street at pace, which was when a thought occurred to him. He never actually asked this woman for any sort of ID. What if this was the most polite, and finest smelling, kidnap in history? But then she started handing him multiple release sheets to sign. Then she flipped open her laptop and started running through potential questions on the topic of possession. She seemed genuinely fascinated by his answers.
The driver was called Dom – Matt made a point to ask, and Dom grabbed three coffees from a service station for them. Through the window Matt could see a large TV hanging above the till, on the news channel. It didn’t display what you might expect. No weather maps and no sombre-looking folks in business wear, gazing into an autocue. Instead, there was something he would never have expected to see on a news channel. It was a grim fifteenth-century painting that he knew well. The Devil himself was dancing and raking clawed feet into the backs of the damned, pushing them into the fiery mouth of some giant amphibious beast, and he was holding a banner aloft. He had the head of a bat, leering and glaring, while in his bare stomach was the staring and trapped face of a man.
Nupa saw him staring at it, and she shook her head in a kind of baffled wonder. ‘You’d think demons would be a figment of our past by now. That we’d be over them.’
‘You’d think.’
‘Do you know the painting?’
He turned to her. ‘It’s by Hans Memling from the end of the Middle Ages.’
‘And that banner the Devil is holding? Is that Latin?’
Matt nodded. ‘In Inferno nulla, est redemptio … In Hell there is no redemption … I believe the painting’s called Hell.’
She sighed. ‘Well that’s a very fitting title for that picture, wouldn’t you say?’
He thought she was referring to the Memling, but when he turned back to the window he saw a brick house on the TV screen instead. It was looming against a concrete sky, sitting at the edge of a vast, windswept field. It was Tom Riley’s house, standing defiant in the wind. And as he watched it, he wondered if those eager country breezes were now carrying the lingering stench of Justine’s blood across town. Like the fallout from a nuclear catastrophe. And rolling across the bottom of the screen, the banner headline, white text on red, simply read �
� demon murder: latest.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Scrunch again.’
Matt wrinkled his nose as Jackson, the freakishly tall make-up guy, leant over like a palm tree. He was dabbing Matt’s face with a little hand-held brush. Matt, fighting a sneeze said, ‘Are you sure I really need—’
‘Shhhh.’ Jackson pushed his lips forward in concentration, his accent Australian. ‘Just because someone has good skin doesn’t mean you have good TV skin. Kapeesh? Now … eyes.’
Matt closed them and for ages felt the brush bounce and swish around his temples and cheeks. When he finally opened them, he dreaded seeing a white-faced mime artist staring back. If anything, he looked slightly more orange. Yay. He’d just gone two or three levels up the Donald Trump skin scale.
‘So, Jackson,’ Matt reached for the tea they’d made him, ‘what else is on the show tonight?’
He spoke through a comb in his teeth, pluming and picking at Matt’s fringe. ‘Second half’s about working mothers and depression. Which, don’t get me wrong, is important. But it’s not as rock and roll as your bit is it? Satan, demons … murder.’ He whistled as he freed the comb.
He leant forward as Jackson manhandled his head, and Matt wondered if he’d watch tonight’s show on catch-up. Or rather, he wondered if he’d admit that he would. He flicked his eyes to the huge countdown clock on the wall.
Twelve minutes to go.
The door swung open just then, and in walked something he didn’t expect: a little boy, about seven years old, with jet-black hair and a Super Mario backpack. He was holding someone’s hand, who he tugged through. The hand became an arm, the arm became an elbow, then a shoulder. It was attached to a young Asian woman with incredibly long straight black hair. It hung over her white gypsy blouse, ruffled at the collar, all the way down to the waist of her jeans. She moved inside with a tentative step, then she caught Matt’s eye and gave him a nervous smile. She couldn’t have been much more than twenty-five.
A chunky researcher pointed her to the empty styling chair next to Matt, and then she had to let go of the boy’s hand. She watched as he was taken into a corner, where a depressed-looking crew member in dungarees was setting up the game Connect 4, ready to play.
Now alone, the young woman made a cautious move towards the chair. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get a babysitter.’
‘No worries, I’m just about done … grab a seat.’ Jackson slid his fingers out of Matt’s hair, then he tilted his head, nodded and said, ‘Fin.’
Now Matt was complete, he swung his chair round to the woman, who was now sat bolt upright before Jackson, armrests gripped in a dentist’s clench. ‘Hiya …’ Jackson said, but when he looked at her head on his voice trailed off and his mouth dropped. ‘Jesus, you’re bloody beautiful …’
She scrunched her nose and laughed. ‘Bet you say that to everybody who comes in here.’
‘He didn’t say it to me,’ Matt said.
Jackson tilted his head. ‘So you’re what … Japanese?’
Her eyes bulged in mock horror. ‘I’m Vietnamese.’
‘Whoops. I’ll shut up.’
She laughed as Jackson got to work. Since she had to keep her face forward, she asked her question to Matt’s reflection. ‘So … are you the presenter?’
‘Ha, no. I’m a guest.’
Her shoulders dropped. ‘Phew, me too. I thought I was the only one …’ She lifted her head as Jackson brushed around the perfect line of her jaw. ‘I’ve done a few photo shoots, but I’ve never, ever done anything like this before. You?’
‘Bits and bobs.’
‘Advice, please.’
‘Relax. Enjoy it, and even if you don’t, remember that it’ll be over in a flash.’ Just as he said that he became conscious of his own raised heart rate. These media things were always a mixture of nerves, adrenalin and that constant dread of cracking a joke that’d get him crucified on Twitter.
‘Eyes,’ Jackson said suddenly.
‘Sorry?’ She frowned and looked at Matt’s reflection again. He blinked back at her, over and over. She mouthed oh, then closed them. She smiled. ‘I’m Abby Linh, by the way.’
‘Matt Hunter. And who’s the mini-me?’
‘My son, Tuan. And yeah, I know I’m keeping him up late, but I had insane sitter issues. I’m a terrible parent.’
‘That’s nothing. I had to leave my daughter’s school play for this.’
‘Oooo, that’s cold. Makes me feel better, though.’ Just then Tuan cheered as a winning plastic game piece fell into place.
‘Well he looks pretty hap—’
The door cracked against the skirting as it swung open. They all looked up to see a black man with a clipboard, headset and bleached blonde hair.
Jackson quiffed Abby’s fringe and stood back. ‘Stunning. Fin.’
Abby blushed.
The crew guy tapped a sharp set of knuckles against his clipboard for attention. ‘Okay, folks, my name is Foster, and I need everyone appearing in the demon segment to follow me … oh … hold up … two seconds.’ He pressed a finger into his ear and started talking quietly into his mic.
Matt went to stand and turned to Abby. ‘Well, nice to meet you, and good luck for later …’ He frowned when she stood too.
‘I’m coming too.’
‘Oh … I presumed you were here for the working mother’s bit.’
‘Well I qualify, but nope. Afraid not.’ She trotted to Tuan, dropped to her haunches and kissed him on his head, lips buried in his hair. ‘I’ll be half an hour, okay? Then it’s …’ she winked at him ‘… ice cream.’
‘Kay …’ Tuan’s eyes were fixed on the game, but then something made him blink, and he pulled his eyes away. He looked up at her. ‘You can do it, Mama.’ She gave him an aren’t-you-adorable smile, but then he added something else that made her mouth drop at the edge. Just a little. He said, ‘Just be yourself, Mummy? Be you.’
Foster’s hands clapped together. ‘All right, they’re ready. Let’s go, people.’
They headed out into the bustling corridor and entered a busy and swift slalom, weaving through backstage workers and randomly placed trolleys filled with wires and kit. Over the speakers was the constant soundtrack of the TV news report, now playing live. As they slid through arms and shoulders Matt leant into Abby and said, ‘Forgive me for assuming before. I’m embarrassed.’
‘No problem at all …’ She caught his eye. ‘So, does this mean you’re possessed too?’
The comment slowed him for a moment, because she’d put a hand on his arm when she said it. She looked like someone lost in the woods, desperate for fellow travellers.
‘Actually, I’m just here as a stuffy academic. I’m a professor of sociology of religion.’
She looked disappointed at first, but then she smiled and looked him up and down. ‘Professors ought to have thick glasses and crazy white hair.’
‘One day, hopefully.’
She laughed as they started walking again.
‘So, Abby … are you? Possessed, I mean?’
‘Seems that way …’
‘Have you tried a doctor?’
‘Course,’ she nodded. ‘She gave me some meds and they help a little but … only a little. I reckon I just—’
‘Hey!’ Foster was way up the corridor and had only just noticed them lagging behind. He was waving frantically to hurry them. They picked up the pace and he ushered them backstage, a netherworld place filled with tall black curtains all the way from the floor to the very high ceiling. Matt thought of the long temple curtains of ancient Judaism. The tearing open to reveal the holiest of holies.
‘Wait,’ Abby grabbed Foster’s arm. ‘I saw a TV in the make-up room.’
Foster tutted, ‘So?’
‘Well, can you make sure they’re switched off? I don’t want Tuan … you know … hearing the details.’
Foster nodded. ‘Not a problem.’
‘I’m serious. Switch them off.’
‘I’ll do that as soon as you’re sitting, I promise. This way.’
He led them through a slit in a black curtain, and then through another. Each step increased the dull murmur from the studio audience who waited unseen in the gloom. Then, after speaking into his headset, Foster pulled back the final curtain.
He saw Abby squint under the hefty spotlights, and he did the same as they were led on set. He saw the studio audience now too, sitting to his left. About one hundred of them, perched on an ascending slope. They muttered to one another as they came past, sharing their disappointment that this man and woman were not famous. Foster led them to the three high-backed swivel chairs, and told each of them precisely which one to sit in. But before they sat a couple of crew members lifted Matt and Abby’s arms, like a search for drugs at the airport. They were rigging up a lapel mic.
It was as he was standing there, arms out Good Friday style, that Matt did a double take. The presenter was right there.
Crikey, he thought, it’s Freya Ellis. Off the telly!
The veteran celebrity was standing near a cameraman, arms out in the same position, while some greybeard roadie-type was fiddling with the national treasure’s bra. He was tugging a lapel mic through her neat blue suit. Her trademark hook nose looked even more pronounced in real life. They say the reason so many politicians cracked under her pressure was that nose of hers. Some sort of witch’s power.
Matt was so busy staring that he didn’t even notice the curtains opened behind her. But then a figure walked right up to her and grabbed her hand, shaking it with both of his. It was Reverend Simon Perry and Matt thought his lips formed what looked like Amazing to meet you. Ellis smiled and pointed at the chairs. Perry turned, and Matt noticed that he’d ditched the folksy jumper and jeans. He was now in a full clerical collar. Grey shirt, black trousers, black shoes recently polished. His well-trimmed beard sparkled with some sort of oil, and when he looked up into the lights, he did it in a kind of slack-jawed wonder.