Possessed

by Peter Laws

  Matt shrugged. ‘Trick of the light?’

  The picture flicked again. Matt was addressing his test subjects at the university experiment. A very faint shadow stood behind him..

  ‘Your camera crew need to clean their lenses—’

  Matt in the back of a car, talking to Nupa. Laughing about something, but with a faded black ghost, hovering between them.

  ‘This shape doesn’t appear in the moving footage, so we never noticed it until a day ago. But when we took screenshots of the film for promo, we kept seeing … this shape.’

  ‘I think you’re letting your imaginations run away with you.’

  ‘It’s always with you, Professor. Nobody else. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Like I said, the marks are too faint to be meaningful—’ He stopped talking when he saw the next picture. It was him, standing outside his daughter’s school. The night of the play when they turned up and dragged him into this whole thing. He saw a tall figure standing next to him, still faint, and clearly not actually there, but it was more pronounced than any of the others. He saw a spindly man, or was it an animal on its hind legs, standing like a friend at his side. And what looked like a black transparent hand was curled across Matt’s eyes, blocking his sight.

  He turned to the camera lens and started to clap his hands together in hard applause. ‘Well, there you have it, folks. Proof that all that matters to you people is getting more viewers. This is a very cheap, and very ropey bit of photoshop and it’s—’

  ‘We didn’t touch—’

  ‘Shameful, that you’d stoop this low.’ He grabbed the lapel of his jacket.

  ‘Professor? Please …’

  Matt started tugging at the microphone, as more and more shots flicked by in rapid succession. All with the figure by his side. ‘How do I get this damn thing off?’

  ‘Just a few more minutes? We’d like—’

  ‘No more minutes. I have tried to offer a rational explanation, but …’ He turned to the camera again and spoke directly into it. ‘But the simple fact is, rationalism doesn’t sell, does it? The truth doesn’t’ − he threw up finger quotes − ‘work. But demons, oooo, and ghosts, ahhhh, and miracles and God … hallelujah, the paranormal. That’s news. That’s got media currency.’

  ‘We didn’t touch those photographs.’

  He shook his head. ‘Shame on you. You are fuelling the very thing that caused those people to die. Shame on you.’ He dragged the microphone from his lapel, too angry now to care if he tore the cable. It flung off and took one of his buttons with it.

  He heard a voice, a male voice, call out from the darkness. ‘Professor. Don’t be like that.’ Matt didn’t reply, because he could hear the smirk in that voice. The pleasure of capturing a decent scene.

  He pushed his chair back and walked off into the void. He paused. ‘Can someone please switch a light on?’

  He tapped his foot impatiently, heard some movement, and then someone finally pulled what must have been a hefty-sized switch. The world came into view. Wincing with the new light, he looked around, and saw wires and cables strewn on the floor. And people, way more than he’d expected, were scattered holding clipboards and wearing head mics. Looking at him awkwardly. But at least he could see what was actually there.

  He tutted loudly and headed for the door, wondering if anybody might come up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Maybe to apologise for their crass bit of sensationalism. Maybe to check he was okay, at least. But nobody came. They had what they wanted. Though as he looked at them, standing there, he got the uncomfortable feeling that there was more than awkwardness in their eyes. Was that fear, too?

  He noticed one of the crew, jogging behind him. Matt thought he was filming him, but the rhythmic tap of the guy’s thumb at his screen suggested he wasn’t. He was taking a series of still photographs as he left.

  Matt stopped in his tracks, threw two thumbs up, and gave him a massive, winking grin. ‘Hey, why don’t you paint a big old demon sitting on my shoulders? Like I’m taking him to the zoo for the day. That’d grab attention.’

  Then he walked out the door and into the daylight.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Wren was sitting in the car outside, reading a magazine and chewing on a cereal bar. When she saw him turn the corner on the pavement, her face lit up and she tossed the magazine into the back seat. She reached over to open his door. He heard the engine kick in as he climbed inside.

  ‘Hey, you’re that fella off the telly.’ Her laughter sank like a stone when she saw his face. ‘Oh dear … didn’t it go well?’

  ‘I walked out.’

  Her mouth started to drop. ‘Don’t kid.’

  ‘I threw my little mic on the floor and everything. Full-on diva …’ He started to massage his neck with a sigh.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yep. So it’s probably a good job they didn’t let you in, after all.’

  Through gritted teeth she said, ‘What on earth made you do that?’

  He turned to her. ‘I don’t know what … possessed me. Geddit? Geddit?’

  She punched him in the shoulder. ‘Seriously. Why’d you walk out?’

  ‘Because I told the boring, tedious truth and I guess they don’t like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Come here.’

  He scrunched up his nose. ‘Wren, I’m ready for home.’

  ‘Come here.’ She yanked his shoulder and he let himself lean over towards her. She pressed her lips to his temple. He felt the warmth of her breath for a blissful few seconds, and then when he turned to face her, she set her forehead against his. He could smell her perfume. His fringe was lost in hers. ‘You’re a good man, Matt.’ And then, the words she’d said to him, every single day since The Reed. ‘This wasn’t your fault, okay?’ He felt himself shudder against her, and so her hand found his. Since the beginning of time, these hands were meant to be clasped together, just like this.

  They listened to each other breathing until she leant back and knocked the car into gear. ‘Now,’ she said, sniffing, ‘let me tell you what one of my clients said to me today. Matt, you are gonna wet your knickers …’

  They drove straight home and they spent the rest of the afternoon working their way through the giant box of chocolates that DS Fenn had sent over. It was great to hear Pamela was doing so well. Matt also helped Amelia build the International Space Station out of plastic milk bottles and chopsticks. She took selfies of them both holding it, insisting that Lucy and Wren join in since it was too long for one person to carry. They stood in a row, holding it up, and it collapsed just after the picture timer went off on her phone. There was a lot of mess on the kitchen floor, and Amelia cried, yet he was the first to scoop it up and start again. He was happy to rebuild a strengthened 2.0 version with her, even as the task spilt into his evening. They laughed a lot, as it came together. And as crappy and juvenile and unslick as it looked, it was a true attempt at depicting reality and so he loved it very much.

  He was amused with Lucy’s reaction when he told her about that wooden box having some sort of recorder and a timer in it. She burst out laughing and called herself a ‘dickhead’ for being scared by its singing. But then she went quiet for the rest of the night, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was embarrassed, or perhaps understandably freaked out that a little murder device had been in her house … in her hands.

  Later that night, he called Abby Linh at the hospital again. He’d been trying for days and could never get through. He left her a message, saying he’d just seen the footage, and that he was delighted that she hadn’t done what he’d said she had. It was an awkward thing to say to a person. After a few fumbled attempts to phrase it right, he just flat out apologised for getting it wrong.

  He wondered if she might call. He hoped she would, but then he really, really hoped she wouldn’t. He’d had enough of demons for the week, for a year, for a life. As long as she was getting the help she needed, finally. That’s what mattered. He
reminded her of the free university counselling. That he was there if she needed him. Then he hung up and stared at the phone for a while. Hovering his thumb over the text message that had come from his mute counsellor, Jeff. Speaking in his usual kind and thoughtful manner.

  You missed your appointment.

  It was only when they were going up to bed that he leant into Amelia’s room. She was fast asleep by now. She had a habit of making the slightest-sounding snores you ever heard. It was a family joke. Whenever Amelia snored, tiny dolls were dragging their house furniture.

  He could hear Wren brushing her teeth as he reached for Amelia’s phone. It was lying by her bedside, plugged in and charging, as usual. It was already a hundred per cent, so he tugged the wire out to conserve energy and protect the planet. Got to save those polar bears – another family motto.

  They had an ‘open phone’ kids’ policy in the Hunter household. So his thumbprint was on her system. He pushed it into place and the phone flung wide its gates. He saw her screensaver and almost baulked with laughter. Where did she find this stuff? A bizarre photograph of an oven-ready chicken with a fish sticking out its mouth. And in the fish’s mouth, a cigarette was hanging.

  He snorted a quiet laugh, then he deliberately kept the smile plastered as he tapped on her photos. His thumb hit the latest.

  There they all were, Wren and Lucy holding one half of the ISS and Amelia and Matt holding the other. It was sagging so much in the middle that they should have realised that within a second of the camera timer going off, the middle section would break apart and come crashing down to earth.

  He swiped his thumb towards himself. Then he pinch-zoomed. Wow, he thought, if Wren walked in now, she’d think this TV thing had turned him into a regular Vanity Fair, obsessed with his own image. But actually, he was looking around his own image instead.

  Every pixel was as it should be. Every colour, every shade, to be expected. And yes, there was a shadow on the wall behind him. But that’s what lamps do, they cast shadows.

  The only thing you could call remotely spooky was when he was brushing his teeth and staring into the bathroom mirror; when a sudden low breeze started to moan through the frosted windowpane. It made him turn around. He could just hear the outside world, pushing the sound of its melancholy through a tiny gap somewhere. If he was one of those idiotic, dumbo types from that studio today, he might think his old friend Baal-Berith was out there, climbing up the vines and coming home.

  But he wasn’t one of those idiotic dumbo types. So instead he ignored the breeze, even when it turned into cruel whispers. Such sounds were made by the leaves outside, and it could only ever be so. He brushed his teeth, quicker than usual. And didn’t look at his reflection too much, because he really was tired and preferred to rest his head.

  He headed back to bed to find Wren waiting for him, sitting up, with the pillows plumped around her. She gave him an exaggerated wink, and he laughed. He closed the door and for a while they made giggly, quiet, healing love. After they lay on their backs, they decided that tomorrow they’d play squash together. They hadn’t done that in such a long time. The university had insisted he take at least a week off, and so Wren had taken some days off to be with him.

  These days, they didn’t normally cuddle at night. There was an efficiency to their sleep patterns that was perfectly acceptable, and hardly a sign of dying love. There’d always be the little chat. Maybe more. Then the kiss and the smile, followed by the usual retreat to each other’s pillow. But tonight, after the goodnight kiss part, she slid her arm under the back of his neck and her hips shifted along the mattress. Her head joined his pillow.

  They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. They just lay in the dark, breathing and loving and living. In the quiet, he noticed that the same breeze from the bathroom was at his window now. He could hear it whistling and crying his name. But he’d be damned if he’d let simple physics keep him awake. He phased it out with the sound of her breathing, and he let himself drift, knowing full well what dreams were coming. He thought he heard the voice at the window, full of mischief, quoting Dr Seuss of all things.

  Oh, the places you’ll go.

  He let a breath out, drummed up courage, and finally closed his eyes. He gripped her a little tighter as she slept. He thought of an old dream experiment he’d read about. Where external stimuli, like sound or temperature, could influence the dream itself. An interesting idea, worth exploring, and he wondered that perhaps it’d be interesting to put it to the test right now. That if he fell asleep like this, very close to her, he might still feel the sensation of her arms holding him. Maybe if he did that, he might not feel so alone tonight, when his faithful monsters came.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Did you know that I’m ‘The UK’s Leading Exorcist’? Well, I didn’t know I was either until I read it in a newspaper headline a few years back. A UK tabloid did a full-page interview with me after I was asked to speak at a film premiere in Leicester Square. It was a demonic possession horror movie about Satan running riot in the Vatican. I guess I seemed like a good fit for the pre-popcorn spiel. The paper sent me an initial mock-up of the article, complete with a moody, pasty-faced shot of me folding my arms and staring hard into the camera. I looked like I’d just gone ten rounds with Beelzebub, but in reality, the pic was taken on the morning after a particularly raucous karaoke night in my hometown, Chester-le-Street. But yes, there in bold black and white, next to my glassy-eyed glare, was the name Rev. Peter Laws and along with it … ‘The UK’s Leading Exorcist!’

  Course, I spat out my tea in shock and called them immediately – the power of embarrassment compelled me. ‘I’m not even an Exorcist’, says I, ‘never mind a leading one!’ They apologised and dropped that claim before it went to press, and just like that, I was back to your bog-standard pastor fella. So just to be clear … if your kid’s head starts spinning, I’m not the guy to call. The thing is though, you might think I overreacted to all of this … after all, nobody’s going to actually ask for an exorcism anyway. Not these days … well, you might be surprised.

  You see, requests for exorcism are actually on the rise today. Remember that bit in Possessed in the TV studio? Where Bernie Kissell starts spouting statistics about a worldwide boom in exorcisms? I didn’t make that stuff up – it’s real. Some churches are struggling to keep up with demand. The idea that an ancient religious ritual is not only surviving but thriving in the modern, rational world fascinates me. I just knew I had to write a novel about it. So, ta-dah … here it is. My Matt Hunter book on current affairs.

  Now, what’s behind this exorcism spike? Simple. A society that ‘doth turneth from the Lord’ has effectively invited the demons in. At least, that’s what some Christians will tell you. Others, like Matt Hunter, take the more rational approach. That these are demons of the mind, not the soul. Being a Christian myself I’m theoretically open to the possibility of demonic activity, but I have to say that on this topic I tend to sit with Matt on this. When I’m contacted by folks who suspect possession (it happens sometimes), the doctors are always my first recommendation. To ignore or misdiagnose mental health issues can be deadly, and it’s a key theme of this book. Please don’t dismiss these risks as fiction. There are real-life cases of exorcism that have ended in shocking, heart-breaking tragedy, even at the hands of the well-meaning. I read such cases while researching this novel. They made me feel cold in my bed at night. They still do, when I think about them. Yet, despite this rational caution, the complexity of possession still fascinates me, especially the idea that for some people today, the idea of an ancient demonic invader can be psychologically preferable to a medical label. Such is the continuing stigma around mental health.

  As I wrote Possessed, however, I sensed a wider theme developing: the scandal of demonising others. Of taking somebody who may be innocent, and turning them into a monster. In the book, Matt claims Christianity did this exact cosmic switcheroo to an ancient, possibly benevolent deity like
Baal. While simultaneously, under everybody’s noses, the exact same thing is happening to an insecure pub chef who just wants his wife back. That notion of turning a fellow human being into a one-dimensional beast troubles me. Perhaps because I see it happening around me all the time.

  The Puritan witch trials of the Middle Ages was one of the themes of my second novel, Unleashed, and I see that Salem spirit alive and well in our modern times – maybe more than I’ve ever seen in my life. You see it in politics, in conversations at dinner parties, at the school gates, in social media especially so. We shame, vilify and ‘cancel’ others in full view of the gathered mob (who often observe it all by looking through screens and lenses – devices that litter this book). I’m not sure why we demonise the people we don’t like, but we do. Maybe we just yearn for a simple dualistic world of goodies and baddies. Or maybe we’re so insecure that we can only raise ourselves up by pushing others down. Whatever it is, we’ve become one-click experts at slotting others into the demon file. Now relax … I’m not trying to get all preachy here. This book is essentially just a pulpy bunch of chills and kills, peppered with a few laughs, a bit of theology and a few cheeky nods to The Love Boat along the way. Forgive me … I watched a bunch of those on reruns during the writing of this book.

  But here I sit at the end of Possessed, trying to figure out what the heck just happened to me. It’s odd saying this … and maybe other authors will give me a slow nod of understanding as I do, but writing a novel is a bit like being possessed. Only not by just one entity, there’s a whole bunch of them. At some points with this book I just sat at my desk and heard the keys tapping, while I read what happened next. During one of the later death scenes I even remember thinking, dang, this is disgusting, I feel sick, I should probably stop. Yet those fingers refused, and tapped on. Course, I’m not actually possessed – it’s just called imagination, and I promise you, my head DID. NOT. SPIN. But yeah, this story seemed to unfold itself to me and if there really is a ghost of a message in this book, I wonder if it might be simply this: a nod and a nudge to remind me of something so easily forgotten in this Salem age. That if I ever start treating another human being like a one-dimensional monster – no matter who they are – I may have lost what it means to be human myself.