rmed Up
By Christopher J Young
Copyright 2014 Christopher J Young
In the darkness I hear a voice and the dull ache in my head makes me dizzy.
I try to form words but all I can do is groan.
Where am I? There is a buzzing in my ear, and a tickling feeling, like a fly.
The blackness fades to grey, I feel the solidness of the desk beneath my hands and the voice speaks again. “This is a number you can reach me on.”
The voice is deep and foreign, I try to open my eyes, and when I do, it all looks grim and blurry. The man in front of me speaks again; I have no idea who he is. A big black man in a light suit, sitting across from me, holding out a business card with one hand, the other hand holding a handkerchief to his nose. I try to speak again. Nothing.
What am I doing here? I was somewhere else.
It takes a while before I work out what he is saying. “I do not like to mention it, Mr Hawes, but the stench in here is unbearable.”
My eyesight clears a little. I reach for the card and notice that the skin on my right hand is pale and flaccid, and the nails look loose and dirty. The fly lands on my hand and I brush it away with my left, seeing that this hand is the same, with a dirty, bloody bandage wrapped around the wrist. Looking down, I see that my pin-stripe suit is scuffed and filthy, my tie is gone.
What time is it?
I look back at the man sitting across from me and begin to feel hungry. I drool saliva down my chin and stare at his neck, his smooth, juicy neck. So hungry. Maybe it's lunch time.
He stands up to leave, still holding the handkerchief to his nose. “Well, Mr Hawes,” he says, “I will leave it in your hands. And this time, let us hope you find the Jamaican. And my Aramaic necklace.”
I stare blankly at him and he keeps talking. “Use the talisman and name the demon. Do not forget, Mr Hawes.” He opens the door of the office and turns back to me. “The talisman is your protection.” And then he is gone, and I am staring at the backwards lettering on the window of the door. Jockson Hawes, Private Investigator. That's me.
I look around my office at the disarray. This is wrong; I am always tidy. Books are in piles on the floor, shelves have been emptied. Drawers lay open and files and papers are scattered all around. My desk is a mess of paper and pot-pourri. There is dry brown blood on some of the paper and books. In the corner of the room is an antique freestanding mirror, ornately framed. Cloudy glass. I avert my eyes from it.
I realise that I stink. I need more air fresheners. I press the intercom button in front of me and speak. “Janice? Can you...uuurr...get some...Janice?” And then I remember she doesn't work for me anymore. I'll have to get my own air fresheners.
My brain continues to throb, dully. The fly lands on my eye, but it doesn't hurt. I try to remember.
I read the card in my hand: “Roberts – 09766121266” printed on it. Mysterious. And in handwriting: “Talisman of Ashtoreth.” The fly lands and crawls along the edge of the card. I flick it away and stand up. Talisman of Ashtoreth?
I pick up the open book on my desk. An old hardback. I read the front and see that it is called “Ceremonial magic” by A.E.Waite. It means little to me. Same for the other books that are lying around. “The Constitution of Pope Honorius the Great,” “The Donum Dei,” “The Divine Horseman”. What was I looking for in these books?
Roberts. Been here before, some kind of priest. A houngan priest from Haiti. I know he has been here before. Was it the same thing? Must have been. But the talisman of Ashtoreth, what is that? And he mentioned a demon, but when I try to think of the demon my mind goes dark.
I must eat.
I get my hat and coat and leave the office, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, and something else too. My eyes look dead and milky-white.
Outside, I know the weather is cold but I cannot feel it. There is no sun.
I enter the butcher's shop and buy some meat. Raw meat. He tries to hide his distaste at my appearance and smell, but I can see it. The other customers say things as I leave. I make them sick, they hate me. And the fly has followed me, joined by several more.
Did people always hate me? I don't know.
As I walk back to my office building and look up to see my name on the window, I remember something. I came back this way the last time. When I was dying...
I had wrapped my tie tightly around my wrist to stop the flow of blood. I had staggered up the street in this same direction. It was the middle of the night...
And the memory is gone again.
I stop in the doorway to my office and lean my head against the wooden frame. The demon. Try to remember the demon's name. I can picture it now, so clearly. Big black dog, evil as all hell. Snarling, slobbering, red-eyed. Trapped in the pentagram, but still deadly. The demon cursed me. The demon will not let me die.
But I can not remember its name!
No, not the demon – the witch! The witch is the one who cursed me. Ugly, laughing, tattoos on her face. Maybe food will help me remember.
I go back into my office and sit at my desk. Opening the bag, I lay the raw meat on the desk and pick up a piece. I bite into it and the juices run down my chin and into my sleeves. The flesh tastes of nothing and is dead, but it will have to do. I feel a pang of guilt as I feast, but it feels so good to fill my empty stomach.
Dizziness swamps my head and the telephone rings.
I hear a ringing in the darkness and the dull ache in my head makes it spin.
I try to remember where I am and a buzzing tickles my ear.
I open my eyes and see the mess all around me. Is this my office? So untidy. Before me, lying on the desk, is a piece of raw, dripping meat, crawling with flies. I pick it up and realise the telephone is ringing.
I can taste blood in my mouth and my hands and sleeves are covered with it. Such a mess. I pick up the phone but cannot form words. A deep foreign voice says; “The Jamaican, Mr Hawes. The witch. You must find her, and do not forget the talisman.”
Talisman? Witch? I manage to speak. “Who..?”
“This is Roberts. You must hurry, Mr Hawes, find her. Keep moving or you will stagnate.”
As I get to my feet, the receiver slips and falls to the floor. Yes, keep moving. Must wash myself, and keep moving.
I walk into the bathroom and turn on the tap. Splashing water onto my senseless face, I remember more.
Days before. I was alive, still alive. Mr Roberts was sitting at my desk. I was checking books in my occult library, and telling Mr Roberts that I had seen it before. The sigil and the incantation. I said to him; “I have seen them on a doorway somewhere. It will come to me, Mr Roberts. I have a fantastic memory.”
“Well, remember one thing, Mr Hawes,” Roberts had said. “When it is done, remember to burn the demon's body.”
I leave the bathroom and the memory fades again. Once again, I avoid the ancient mirror, and, stepping out into the corridor, I rummage through my pockets, looking for the key. So much junk in my pockets. What's this – a coin? Never mind, I have the key. I lock up and walk outside into the dull and dreary afternoon.
I look down the street, people and traffic going by. I look up the street, same thing.
Where was I going?
I seem to wake up and find myself at the docks. I watch the late afternoon businesses winding down for a while, and have a flashback, just for a second. I had been walking away from the docks, my left wrist bleeding, darkness all around, and a sense of failure eating me away.
The devil is at the dockyard. Storm clouds seem to gather on the opposite side of the river.
Through the dull ache in my brain, the memories come shuffling back. This was where I should have died.
“Down at the docks,” I had
told Mr Roberts, “that's where I have seen this symbol. It's on the doorway to the rooms above a barbershop.”
He had appeared at the door to my office without fanfare, without warning of any kind. And I did not know what to make of him. A tall man, very serious and efficient, by the look of him. He did not hold out his hand to shake, but stood straight and alone, almost as immaculately dressed as I myself like to be. He introduced himself and said, “I have need of your peculiar skills, Mr Hawes.”
As I had no clients, I invited him in. Wasting no time, he produced from his pocket a silver talisman depicting the star of David within the interlocked images of Alpha and Omega. An aura of great and ancient power seemed to emanate from it, disturbing my soul. “You may have seen one of these before, Mr Hawes,” he said.
I had seen it before. It was the talisman of Ashtoreth. Bad news indeed. Throughout the years, this talisman has crept out of the shadows intermittently, its demon-power driving men to murder and madness. What was this priest doing with such a thing? It should be cast into the ocean.
I would have to consult my guardian. I went to my mirror, wondering if this priest was to be trusted. Touching my hand to the cloudy glass, the mist within eddied and swirled, and before me appeared the grizzled and bearded face of the sombre spirit whose name I never learned. The old ghost nodded, indicating Roberts to be the genuine article.
Roberts spoke. “Your spirits will vouch for me, Mr Hawes. They recognise me as a houngan, a priest of Vodou. The Loa
Death Warmed Up Page 1
