Possessed

by Peter Laws

  When they finally came to a stop in front of Matt’s drive, it was well after 11 p.m. He saw a light on in his bedroom. Wren must be up reading, most likely. Amelia’s room was, unsurprisingly, cloaked in darkness.

  Matt got out and went round to the other door. He reached in, unhooked the box, slid it out and stood up straight. At that precise moment a low rumble of thunder rippled across the sky.

  ‘Aye, aye?’ Dave poked his head through his open window, eyes on the stars. ‘Devil’s a stirrin’.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you believe in demons too.’

  ‘Course I do. I’m married, aren’t I?’ He laughed loud enough to wake the street. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And don’t worry about that box, Matt.’ They’d been on first-name terms since the A41. ‘That devil in a crate stuff is bullllllshit.’

  ‘Amen to that, brother.’ Matt tapped a goodbye on the van roof. He watched Dave head off, the muffled sound of his stereo clicking back on. Then he turned to his house and hitched the box up on his hip. He checked his pocket for the car park ticket. Still there.

  ‘Come on, Baal,’ Matt said, as the drops began to fall and the thunder rolled. ‘Let’s go watch some telly.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Matt lifted the spoon and shovelled some more granola into his mouth. He liked this stuff with its chunks of coconut and squirrel-feed ingredients. They made his current favourite self-delusion much easier to believe: that this sugar-soaked bowl in his hand was somehow healthier than his usual, beloved Coco Pops.

  He clipped his elbow on his second scoop and a single wet crumb of sultana, raisin or whatever the heck that was (rat turd?) scattered onto his paper. He picked it up with pincer fingers and set it neatly to the side. Underneath was his open A4 pad, covered in his chaotic handwriting. Wren once likened Matt’s handwriting to a bunch of spiders marching across a pad, before someone slammed it shut and crushed them all.

  He stared at the page and thought, Behold! Roll up! For here lies the astounding and soon-to-be-world-famous Matt Hunter Tests for Demonic Possession! – patent pending.

  He sighed – and shivered a little too. Running such tests sounded like a good idea at the time. Cool, even. And the notion had come from a genuine hope that when Kissell’s clients failed these tests they’d at least consider that wild and unpopular outside opinion he kept suggesting. That maybe Abby Linh, Tom Riley, the airport cat lady and even that baseball cap hunk Richie were just normal human beings who needed actual support, not hysterical prayers. That motivation remained, and that’s why he was still going ahead with these elaborate TV experiments. Yet, as he stared at his list of challenges, with a spoon handle hanging like a cold cigar from his mouth, he knew his big contribution to this TV show could turn into a kind of laughable, satanic game show.

  There was that other thought, too. That niggle.

  What if they beat his tests somehow, even by fluke? Like test number three, for example. He’d planned on putting out five identical glass bowls. Four filled with ordinary tap water and one with Holy Water. All at identical temperatures. When he asked them to dip their fingers in, one at a time, what if they somehow flinched and squealed when they touched the blessed one? He took another gulp of tooth decay and upped the numbers with a shaky pencil. Forget five water bowls, let’s make it ten. And heck, let’s do that water test a further ten times. Ten rounds with ten bowls, and he’d mix them up every round. So the chances of getting all ten rounds right would be … he started jabbing the rubber on his calculator, and scrawled out the stats. Yikes. They’d have a one in ten billion chance of being right all ten times. A psychic demon of the occult might ace that test. There was no way anyone from the real world was going to consistently beat that.

  The plan was to head into uni this morning and get all these tests set up. He had all of today and this evening to get them shipshape and standardised. Then at 10 a.m. tomorrow, Kissell’s troop of demon-ees (and Nupa’s troop of cameras) would trot in. A day after that, on Saturday, would be the big showdown at The Reed.

  The cameras … he was getting used to them. This was an unnerving thought. When you’re used to something you let your guard down. If his tests turned out to be dumb, the cameras would know. And the cameras would tell.

  He checked his phone for a distraction, and after a brief flick through his email a thought popped like a bubble in his head. The car park ticket. He’d forgotten about it with all this test stuff, but for now he fired off a quick message to Fenn. He took an awkward few pictures of the ticket itself, making sure that the various codes were clearly readable. He said it might be nothing, but it’d be interesting to see where Claire Perry’s car had been on the day she insisted she’d stayed at home.

  He sent it off, sighed, and pulled the pad back towards him. He’d just started pencilling in a few ideas when the kitchen door swung in and slapped the skirting.

  ‘Daddy!’ Amelia was midway through getting ready for school, a slice of toast flopped from her hand. She was half in, half out of her school jumper. She swallowed and shook her head.

  ‘What the emergency?’ he said.

  ‘You’re on TV!’

  He set the pencil down. ‘I am?’

  ‘Like, right now. Get in the lounge.’ She span and ran off, hollering as she went. ‘Like right now!’

  He paused and considered English modesty for a moment. Then he quickly scooped up the half-full cereal bowl and ran too. In the lounge he found Wren and Amelia glued to the screen. Even Lucy had set her phone down. Their sixty-inch beast of a TV was showing one of his old lectures … on BBC News. Crikey. They must have grabbed that from the uni website.

  ‘Well, check out Professor Studley,’ Matt said, as he perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘What a dreamboat!’

  ‘Shhhh.’ Wren tugged him down. She slid him off the arm to sit beside her, his hand across his bowl for spillage.

  Lucy tapped the volume up.

  ‘… on Friday, when Professor Hunter will carry out a series of intricate tests to prove that demonic possession is purely in the mind.’

  Intricate? Don’t call them intricate.

  Matt suddenly vanished from the screen and they cut to disturbing clips of YouTube videos. People were shaking and writhing on the carpeted floor of a megachurch, under the outstretched hand of Bernie Kissell.

  ‘Yuk.’ Wren looked away. ‘That stuff makes my flesh creep.’

  Amelia shrugged and pointed at two women, jerking around in spasm, arms cocked behind them like chickens. ‘Has anybody considered that these guys are just like, the worst dancers ever?’

  Matt chortled into his spoon. ‘Case solved.’

  ‘Totally. Like this?’ Amelia leapt in front of the TV and started copying their chicken walk.

  ‘Amelia,’ Wren snapped. ‘Go and brush your teeth.’

  ‘Can’t …’ She started jogging on the spot, with hands waving. ‘The Devil won’t let me.’

  ‘Hey.’ Wren pointed her magic finger at her, which always seemed to work. Amelia tutted and trudged off. At the door, she turned back, eyes rolling around in her head. ‘Daddy, watch!’ She started squawking and strutting.

  ‘Move it!’ Wren shouted. ‘And grab a clean jumper. You’ve got butter all down that one. There’s one in the utility room.’

  The door clicked shut and the newsreader went on.

  ‘Meanwhile, controversial exorcist and author Pastor Bernie Kissell is preparing for what is being called a mass exorcism event, taking place at The Reed therapy centre in Cambridgeshire. All this in response to the death of forty-year-old hairstylist Justine Riley, who was brutally murdered by her husband Tom Riley some time on Monday evening. Critics of Kissell, particularly Professor Hunter, have warned of the intense psychological damage the ritual of exorcism can inflict. Kissell and his supporters, however, point to the astonishing success from last night, when a visit to Tom Riley in prison seems to have unlocked the thirty-eight-year-old chef from a mostly catatonic state. Riley has
made a full confession for the murder of his wife and cites Pastor Kissell as the key source of healing. The mass exorcism, known as Free Indeed, takes place overnight on Saturday evening and will be filmed by a television crew for broadcast later in the month. In other news …’

  Wren clicked the remote. The TV blinked to black.

  They were all silent for a moment. Especially Lucy.

  ‘You okay?’ Wren said.

  Lucy stared at the blank screen. ‘Just a bit scary. The way they move and stuff.’

  ‘It is. But it’s not real,’ Matt said.

  She looked at him. ‘So it’s in their heads?’

  He nodded. Wren kept looking at her.

  Lucy swallowed. ‘Fair enough. I’ll go and brush my teeth too.’

  ‘I’ll do mine with you,’ Wren said, even though Matt knew she’d already brushed. He saw her walking with Lucy up the stairs, a hand on her shoulder.

  When minty-fresh Wren eventually returned, she found him at the kitchen sink, washing out his bowl.

  He paused for a moment with the brush dripping. ‘Is Lucy okay?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just the sounds these people make. The faces. And the murder, of course.’

  ‘We should have switched it off.’

  ‘Probably.’ She leant against the counter, leant closer, and in a whisper said, ‘You know, she said she saw Eddie’s face like that, a few times.’

  Matt immediately set the brush down and turned to her. ‘Oh …’

  Eddie Pullen was Lucy’s real dad and Wren’s ex. The violent piece of crap was now in prison, after almost beating Wren to death. Eddie Pullen was the closest thing to a demon that Matt could imagine.

  ‘Lucy said Eddie acted that way sometimes. Like the people on the TV.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Now and then, when he was drunk. So seeing that just creeped her out.’

  He hugged Wren, and he heard her sigh and squeeze him tight.

  ‘Do you think I should chat with her?’

  ‘No … it’s fine …’ She pulled back. ‘What she did ask was if there is going to be decent security at this weekend thing of yours.’

  He paused for a second, touched that Lucy would have asked it. He nodded. ‘TV people say they’ve got all that covered.’

  ‘And you trust them?’

  He reached for a tea towel and realised that he had no idea if he could trust this TV crew at all. ‘They’ve won loads of awards. They’re a well-respected company.’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Just be super careful okay? Cos this stuff can—’

  ‘What the heck is this?’ Amelia’s muffled voice boomed from the utility room. Then after some hurried footsteps, the kitchen door opened. She was standing there in a new jumper, back to front. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Why is there a treasure chest on the tumble dryer?’

  ‘Oops.’ Matt’s teeth clenched and they all followed her to the utility room. They found Tom Riley’s wooden box sitting on the top of the washing machine. It sat next to a big box of powder and a litre bottle of fabric softener.

  ‘What is that?’ Wren said, leaning through the door.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘If it’s nothing, then how come I can see it?’ Wren wrinkled her nose. ‘And smell it too.’

  ‘You think it has a smell?’ Matt said.

  ‘Yeah. Like smoke.’

  Amelia leant in, eyes on sticks. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something for this show I’m doing.’

  Amelia’s eyes flashed. ‘The demon show?’

  ‘Shhhh.’ He looked back over his shoulder. Lucy was still upstairs. ‘They asked me to look after it, until the weekend. No biggie.’

  ‘What’s in there?’ Amelia tried to push through. ‘A ghost? The Devil? Let’s open it up.’

  ‘Amelia.’ Matt grabbed her reaching hand. ‘Don’t touch it.’

  ‘Why. Does it bite?’

  ‘Course not. I just have to look after it and I’m not allowed to mess with it. It’s a silly prop,’ he turned to Wren. ‘I was going to put it in my office last night, but it started chucking down when I got in.’ His office was in a cabin outside in the back garden. ‘I couldn’t be bothered getting soaked, so I dumped it in here late last night. Sorry.’

  Wren pushed her lips forward. ‘Then put it in your office now.’

  ‘I’ll just fin—’

  ‘Now,’ she said.

  ‘Okay. Will do.’

  ‘I kinda like it. The little locks look cute …’ Amelia said. ‘Hey, you could put this in my room, if you like.’

  Wren caught Matt frowning at the box and tilting his head. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing, just … did you move this, Amelia?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Did you move it round just now?’

  ‘No. Why …’ Her eyes flashed again, a glimmer of excitement on her face. Countless hours of spooky YouTube clips had given her a taste for creepy things. ‘Whyyyyy?’

  He shrugged. ‘No reason. I’m tired.’

  ‘Put it in the office, Matt,’ Wren said. ‘Or I’ll put it in the rubbish. How about that?’

  He did what she asked. He lugged that thing across the garden and into The Cabin. His funky office that housed a lot of the geeky stuff that Wren didn’t want in the main house. Said it would ruin the tone. Like his Star Wars Lego kits, and vintage ’70s and ’80s arcade machines, and now the banished box of evil.

  He stared at it for a moment. Wanting to leave it alone but finding it hard to look away. It was probably just a standard storage or toolbox that someone had decided to kit out with rusty old padlocks. Intrigued, he rummaged in a drawer for his little Maglite torch. Squinting, he started shining it through the wood, but the gaps were just too thin to see through. There were no distinguishing marks. No stamps of origin (Made in Hell – that sort of thing.) No chirp of a Mogwai deep inside. He put his hand on the side of it and for a dangerous second he considered pushing it off the desk, just so he might watch it crack open on the floor. But then his finger slid across a corner and the tip sliced open on some splintered wood.

  ‘Dammit.’ Matt grabbed a tissue and wrapped it around the tip, just as a single bead of blood started to bloom.

  ‘Why did you bring that home?’

  He spun around, to see Lucy standing next to Donkey Kong.

  ‘It’s just a work thing.’

  ‘Right. Can you drive me to school?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s just I don’t want to walk today.’

  ‘Course. No problem.’

  She said nothing, just kept staring at the box.

  ‘Lucy? I said I’ll drive you.’

  She swallowed, nodded. ‘Okay. Cool.’

  She waited outside on the grass while he slapped a plaster on his finger and locked up his office. They headed inside and neither of them looked back. He wanted to ask her a very simple question, he really did, but for some reason he couldn’t. He didn’t want to make her feel awkward or stoke any old memories of her real dad. The thought of Eddie looking possessed during his rages … that broke his heart and it scared him too. The thought of what they’d been through. So he said nothing as they headed to the car, and decided it might be best to avoid his question. To ask if Lucy was the one who had turned the box around. After all, he was sure that when he’d dumped it in the utility room last night, the locks were facing the wall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Matt paced the floor of the university toilets and caught himself in the mirror. He straightened his back. Gave his shirt collar a tug too, for symmetry’s sake, and was suddenly baffled as to how to set it. A collar sticking out over the jacket looked way too disco. Tucked too neatly inside had a vague whiff of the pervert.

  You’re overthinking this. You’re nervous. Just get in there.

  He nodded and tried to shift his own mood. He put a thumb up to himself like a pilot might, then he cringed b
ecause he’d put a thumb up to himself. The cringe made him chuckle, and that was the relief he needed.

  Go.

  Before he changed his mind he grabbed his clipboard from the edge of the sink and stepped back into the corridor. Suzy was waiting, camera ready. She’d told him not to smile at the lens so much, and to act natural. So he made a massive effort just to walk like a human being. She walked backwards, giving him the OK sign of approval.

  He headed back to the large Merrill Hall – the university gymnasium that they were using today. He took a subtle breath before he pushed through the double doors and was surprised to see almost everybody had already arrived. Many faces turned and stared at him, and he was instantly conscious of the silence in there. This space was usually filled with the squeak of trainers and the grunts and cheers of sport. Now the only sound in the entire universe was the clop, clop, clop of his new shoes echoing across the gym floor. Suzy’s gliding pumps made no sound whatsoever. Guess that’s what made her the pro.

  There were over thirty people in the hall, including a bunch of his post-grad students. They were eager for practical credits for helping out. He’d pulled in a few nurses from the university infirmary too, and the rest were from campus security. The only other member of the academic staff was Lisa Hammond – the veteran head of the psychology department. She was dressed in her usual funeral, let’s-suck-all-happiness-from-this institution shade of black. She’d agreed to sit in and observe and boy was she doing that now. She gave Matt that slow, unsmiling blink of hers. Lisa was a master at the slow blink.

  And then of course there was the TV crew, dotted all over the room and already filming. Lenses were pulling in reality and turning it into something else. Nupa, he noticed, wasn’t there. She was tied up this morning with some prep for The Reed. It was the only part of the filming she’d missed, so far. Ethan was here, though. He’d pulled up a small chair and was watching from the corner, with his eye on Abby especially. Ethan had happily admitted the other day that he thought Abby was ‘stunning’.