by Peter Laws
Another knock.
‘Almost done.’
Another knock, only this time followed by a voice. ‘Professor Hunter?’
Matt’s fingers stopped in his hair.
‘Professor Hunter?’
‘I’m in the shower.’
It wasn’t easy to hear them over the gushing water. ‘Can we chat?’
‘While I’m butt-naked?’ he hollered. ‘Give me a sec—’
‘Professor Hunter?’
Tutting, Matt turned the valve and the water finally stopped. He threw his towel over his shoulder and opened the door up a tiny gap, blinking away the running drips. Through the haze Matt saw a spindly guy emerge in skinny-white jeans and a blue T-shirt. Mid-twenties probably, but he’d fast-tracked his hair to the future. The whole cut, quiff and all, had been dyed a funky shade of cool, silvery grey. He was wearing blue deck shoes too. No socks, and he had the biggest Adam’s apple Matt had ever seen in his life. It bulged as he talked, pushing through the rim of his collar. He looked vaguely, vaguely familiar.
‘Sorry to bother you.’
‘While I shower in a public swimming pool?’ Matt smiled. ‘Not at all.’
‘Then we’d like to talk to you.’
Matt leant out and looked left and right. He whispered, ‘Who’s we?’
‘Oh. I’m Ethan.’
‘Okaaay.’
‘I’m from Stiff Media. We make TV shows.’
‘About men showering?’
He looked confused and shook his head. ‘My boss, she’s in the cafe. She told me I had to grab you before you left. There’s a time frame element. Can you meet her?’
‘Can I be unreasonable and dry my crotch first?’
He bit his lip and actually checked his watch.
‘I’m gonna dry myself, okay? Then I’ll meet you in the cafe. How about that?’
‘And you won’t leave?’
‘Promise,’ Matt saluted as he closed the door. He looked down as he started scrubbing his towel through his hair, and for a split second he saw a clump of someone else’s hair on the tiles below. Yuk. He stepped back and saw it was a thick clump of blonde hair, with streamy rivulets of pinky red blood, sprouting like veins fading into the plug hole. He closed his eyes, just so that he didn’t have to see Justine Riley’s hand reaching from the next cubicle to get her hair back. Trying to lift it with her snapped wrist. When he opened his eyes, the hair was gone. He caught a glimpse of his face in the curve of the tap.
‘Dimwit,’ he said to himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Matt slung his bag over his shoulder and paused when his phone buzzed. Wren had received his text message.
He’d written: Sorry. Random work meeting in the cafe. Grab your drinks and I’ll join you soon.
And her reply was. Absent father!
He noticed she was typing again.
JOKE! That was a joke!
He laughed and pushed through the turnstiles. He headed towards the white leather sofas and scattered tables. A tattooed dad was trying to stab a disobedient straw into his kid’s Capri-Sun, and he saw five red-faced women tightly wrapped in garishly patterned Lycra. They were hi-fiving for another hardcore gym workout. Celebrating, naturally, with only a mid-sized latte and only a mid-sized cupcake.
Sitting on a circular table, in the far corner, was Ethan talking to someone. And when he turned, Matt saw it was Nupa. The TV producer from the park last night. She’d ditched the long black jacket, and now wore red leather trousers and a chic white shirt, patterned with thin, but still bold black lines. She wafted her black mane back like a shampoo advert and stood.
‘Hey, Nupa.’ He put out his hand. ‘Come for a swim?’
‘Never. My hair despises English pools.’ She tugged at his hand. It felt more like a pull down to sit than a handshake. ‘Now, can I get you anything?’
He dumped his bag to the side. ‘Do you know what? I’d love a vanilla milkshake.’
‘Done.’ She turned and randomly made the peace sign to Ethan. Matt frowned until he realised it wasn’t the peace sign at all. It was a drinks order. He sprang off on his deck shoes towards the counter, each hand plunging the minuscule pockets of his skinny jeans, rummaging for money.
‘So, Nupa …’ Matt said. ‘About last night.’
‘That was a pretty astonishing bit of TV. It’s causing quite the buzz.’
‘It was dangerous. I saw a mentally unstable man having some sort of seizure. Is he okay?’
‘Mostly, though he’s disappointed. As you know, he wishes you hadn’t intervened.’
Matt said nothing.
‘Don’t you wish you’d let Kissell finish?’
Those nearby women suddenly erupted in a mad cackle. Matt looked across at them and said, ‘Even if I had, I’m pretty sure his medical issues would have only returned.’
‘If indeed it was only medical …’
He looked back. ‘So if you’re not here for a dip …’
‘We’re making another programme on this subject. A follow-up.’
‘In the studio again?’
Her hooped earrings were heavy enough to drag her lobes down when she shook her head. ‘No, this will be different. A documentary. A fly-on-the-wall look at the subject of exorcism.’
Matt groaned. ‘Do you mean one of those corny supernatural shows? With the night vision cameras and the idiots?’
She laughed. ‘No. It’s not that at all. Far more serious. This one is for BBC Two and BBC America, and we’d like you on board.’
‘For what, background research?’
‘Partly, but actually you’d be on-screen too. A fair bit, I hope.’
‘With this hair?’ Matt pointed at the growing frizz.
She smiled. ‘This will be fifty minutes, exploring both sides of the exorcism debate. And the central focus is going to be Bernie Kissell’s visit to the UK.’
Matt felt himself sit up a little. ‘He’s coming here?’
She nodded.
‘When?’
She checked her watch. ‘Well, his flight was about three hours ago, so he’ll be over the Atlantic by now. He’s really looking forward to meeting you. He talked about you a lot.’
Ethan appeared with two very full milkshakes in hand. With an edgy sense of focus he set each glass down with no spills.
‘Thank you.’ Matt took a sip. ‘So why’s he coming?’
‘To save England.’ She gave him a wry smile and took a delicate sip of her drink. She wiped her lip with a napkin after. ‘He says that what happened in Cheddington yesterday, and in the studio last night, proves that England’s demon problem is out of hand. He thinks it’s about time someone sorted it out. He’s already got a waiting list for British Skype exorcisms.’
Matt shook his head.
‘He’s decided to do their exorcisms here in the flesh, all in one go. And we’d like to film that.’
‘Well, what could possibly go wrong?’
‘It’s going to take place at The Reed Institute, in Cambridgeshire. Have you heard of it?’
Matt bit his lip in concentration. ‘Isn’t that where all the celebrities go for rehab? I thought it’d closed down?’
‘It had, but it’s been bought by Faith Fire now. They’re a UK megachurch—’
‘Oh, I know Faith Fire.’ He thought of trendy hipsters, supping on craft beer and lifting their hands to ‘Jayzuz’ their ‘save-your’.
‘They’re reopening The Reed as a big Christian retreat centre in a few months, but Kissell’s booked it for this weekend.’
‘You’re kidding. This weekend?’
‘It’s short notice, true. But you can get a lot of footage in a few days.’
‘Yeah, but what about his’ – Matt searched for the word – ‘his clients? What about psychiatric assessments? Have they seen doctors first?’
‘We’ll try and push for that, yes.’
‘You’ll try?’ Matt set his shake down. ‘Nupa, I don’t want to tell you how to
do your job, but if you guys are going to bankroll something like this you take on a duty of care. These are vulnerable people. They could wind up exploited or damaged …’ He trailed off when she held up a palm.
‘We’re not paying for it. Any of it. A bunch of private donors, religious types, they saw the show last night and the news about Tom Riley. They were horrified. The tide is turning, is how Kissell put it. They want to nip this possession boom in the bud, so they’re paying for him to come over and they’ve hired The Reed. And remember, all of these clients were prepped to pay Kissell a fee for a Skype exorcism, anyway. They’ll pay a fair bit more when it’s done face-to-face.’
Matt shook his head. ‘I bet that’ll be the crux of all of this in the end. The money.’
‘You don’t know that. Besides, the programme isn’t out to prove or disprove possession. We’re impartial. The point is that we’re not organising this at all. It’s going to happen with or without us being there, but he invited us. Surely you agree it’d be better to at least be there, than leave them on their own?’ She leant forward, hands clasped. ‘Come aboard, Matt. You can offer the alternative perspective, like you did last night. Be the voice of rational science in the face of the mystical.’ She ran a hand across the air. A poster tag line. ‘Or at least, just give his clients, as you call them, a bit of balance. They deserve it. And besides, Kissell’s very keen for you to take part.’
‘Why? If I’m opposed to what he’s doing?’
She blinked slowly. ‘Because he’s convinced that by the end of it, you’ll believe.’
Matt snorted into his milkshake. ‘He doesn’t know me very well …’ He took a gulp, swallowed, then he scrunched up his face. ‘Sorry, but I’m not sure about this. Maybe you should ask somebody else.’
‘It’s not just Kissell who wants you there.’ Nupa tilted her head. ‘Remember Abby from the show last night?’
‘Crud. She’s going too?’
‘Yep. He offered her a free exorcism and she’s accepted. I think he wants to make her a focal point of the whole event, but I can see she’s in two minds about the entire topic. She said she might benefit from you being there.’
Matt let out a long breath and sat back.
‘She needs you, Matt. The programme needs you.’
‘You’re making it sound like a poster for war.’
‘Isn’t it? The battle between rationality and superstition?’
He glanced at her, annoyed at how she was trying to play him. So he looked away for a moment and saw Wren and Amelia over his shoulder. They were now in the queue for drinks, red cheeks glowing, hair a mass of drying straw. Wren waved, though she didn’t smile.
‘Beautiful family you have there,’ Nupa said.
‘You don’t expect them to be involved, do you, because I—’
‘No, just you … but, your daughter over there, just gets me thinking. Abby has a young son. Tuan.’
‘All right, all right. You can lay off the guilt trip. Just email me details, and I’ll think about it.’ Matt went to stand and put out his hand. ‘Well, thanks for the drink, Nupa. I’ll let you know.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow?’
She shook her head. ‘We’d need an answer soon. Kissell’s plane lands at four this afternoon and we’re filming his arrival. We’d want you there to meet him. Then you can have input into the event planning for The Reed. He’s calling it Free Indeed, by the way.’
‘It’s not that free for all those folks who are paying for it.’ He blinked. ‘Hey, do I get paid for this?’
‘Yes. Quite well. We’ll be hiring you as a consultant.’
‘Well, Nupa, why didn’t you say that at the start?’
‘So, you’ll do it?’
‘Just send me the details and give me a couple of hours to think about it. How about I call by three this afternoon?’
She nodded. ‘Okay. But you’d be mad to say no. I think it’ll make for a fascinating hour of television.’
‘It’s better than another damn talent show I guess …’ He tipped his head. ‘Thanks for the milkshake.’
His glass was still half-full so he took it over to Wren and Amelia where they talked through the rest of the day’s plans. He was supposed to be sorting out the garage at home, while the girls were heading into town to meet with Lucy. They were taking Amelia for a haircut, and they kept talking about fringes a lot, scrolling through Google Images. He did a pretty good job at keeping his attention through all of this, nodding at the different styles and putting his thumbs up at the right times. But it was hard not to sip his milkshake and think of Abby Linh. He pictured her sitting at a kitchen table, fingers bent into claws while her frightened son called her name over his cereal. Pleading for her to be … her.
A call you have, a Call you Have. A CALL YOU HAVE!
The phone crashed into his mind and he quickly killed the Yoda ringtone. He pressed it to his ear and turned from the girls.
‘Matt, it’s me, Detective Fenn, I mean, from yesterday.’
‘I remember who you are, Fenn.’ He walked towards the huge glass viewing window overlooking the pool. The glass was so thick he couldn’t hear anything from the water. He just saw people splashing in a weird silence.
‘Right. So are you busy today?’
‘I might have something at four. Why?’
‘Four this afternoon gives us plenty of time. Look, I’m heading back to Cheddington today. Reverend Perry’s wife has a video of Tom Riley. Says it proves he was possessed.’
Matt turned to the girls, who were already finished and reaching for their coats. Wren tapped her watch and hooked a thumb at the door. We’re heading off, okay?
Okay, he mouthed back to her, then turned his ear back to Fenn.
‘Do you fancy it?’ Fenn said.
‘You know what? Yes, I do,’ Matt said, just as a child dive-bombed into the pool, mouth open in a silent wail that could have been a scream or a roar of joy. Without the sound, it was impossible to tell. The child’s face stuck in Matt’s mind as he headed out to the car. He wasn’t sure why, though he could guess. The jumping kid’s face stayed with him all the way up the motorway. Lodged in a mid-air plunge, lips peeled back from his teeth, mouth setting a black hole between two pink cheeks, and eyes all wide and wild and staring, with either happiness or panic. Maybe even both.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
She had both of her bay windows wide open, so that the cold air from the Cheddington fields sucked her mustard curtains out across the sill. Hems flapped against the pebble-dashed walls while Matt and Fenn watched her from the doorstep outside. Oblivious to them, Reverend Perry’s wife just slid the noisy hoover back and forth, back and forth, her face expressionless. Her short brown hair was cropped into a pixie cut.
Fenn sighed and pushed the doorbell again. Nothing.
‘Maybe it’s not working.’ Fenn stepped off the path, and almost clipped the Keep off the Grass sign with his foot. His shoes pressed into the damp, perfect lawn as he reached the bay window. Matt could smell the faint smell of manure in the air from the fields. A hard knock on the glass did nothing, so Fenn leant his head through the open gap instead. ‘Mrs Perry?’
She hoovered on. Her mouth a perfect, unbroken line.
‘Mrs Perry!’
She spun and spasmed when she saw Fenn leering through the window. He tried to set her at ease with a wave and a toothy smile. It only made him look like a happy killer, rather than a glum one. ‘Mrs Perry,’ he hollered. ‘We spoke on the phone? The video?’
Her shoulders, as arched as a cat on the M1, dropped a touch, and she quickly yanked the plug. The wincing drone of the hoover dropped to silence and she threw a cold stare at Fenn. ‘Please, please get off our lawn. It’s only just been laid.’ She stepped over the hoover and moved towards the door.
He tiptoed back to the path and Matt shook his head at the Bigfoot tracks he’d left in the muddy grass. Fenn shushed him and frantically scraped dirt off his shoe, as t
he lock of the door rattled and slid. When she opened up, she was pulling a grey cardigan over her yellow T-shirt.
Fenn flashed his ID. ‘Hiya. I’m Detective Sergeant Fenn.’
She leant forward and squinted. There weren’t many lines around her eyes. Simon Perry was early thirties, but she looked five years younger. And that hair of hers was pretty funky. He wondered if she’d had it cut by Justine.
‘Come in.’ She stepped back and opened the creaking door wide. She led them to the lounge where she pointed at a terribly worn, brown leather couch, full of cracks in the fabric. It looked like spider webs.
‘Would you mind closing the windows, Mrs Perry?’ Fenn sank with a shiver. ‘It’s a bit nippy.’
She blinked, then looked across at the windows, as if she’d only just realised they were open. She shut each in turn, talking to the glass. ‘Call me Claire, please.’
‘Will do. Thanks for seeing us, Claire.’
She sank into a high-backed armchair covered with throws and the definite curve of cat hairs. ‘I have to ask. Why is he with you?’
‘This is Profess—’
‘I know. He’s the man who called my husband a murderer on TV last night.’
Matt tilted his head. ‘I didn’t quite call him a murderer, I just—’
‘Blamed him for Justine’s death?’ She crossed her legs and brushed some dust from her knee. ‘Which is why I think it’s fair to ask … why are you in my house right now?’
This wasn’t easy for her, and what he said next seemed to make her soften. ‘I apologise if I came across too harsh last night. And I don’t believe your husband is a murderer. However, I do have a legitimate concern that—’
A slap to Matt’s knee cut him off. Fenn smiled. ‘Matt is purely offering a few … theological insights to the investigation. Cos, to be honest Claire, all this demonic possession malarkey didn’t really feature on my police exam. Matt’s just my walking Wikipedia. Okay?’
‘Maybe you should use my husband for your information instead. At least he’s wise enough to know that it’s not malarkey, for a start.’
Fenn nodded. ‘Sorry. My bad.’