Only the Devil Is Here

by Stephen Michell

  The boy sat in a double seat and the man stood beside it, his hand on the rail and his other hand near the boy. The boy stared down at his feet. Underneath his jacket he twisted his wrists against the ties. The man looked straight ahead, his expression stern and pensive.

  We’re heading east. Get to the subway. Go south.

  The bus stopped at a red light and the engine hummed. The man looked out the window again and from afar he heard sirens. They were ringing, louder and louder.

  The man turned and faced the red glare of the traffic light, the colour bleeding across the front windshield. The night was ebbing from him. He could see his own obscured reflection in the glass, and he realized he was not holding the boy. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and felt the boy flinch. The light turned green. The bus drove. The man closed his eyes.

  The boy sat very still now. He listened to the sound of the sirens and he wished they would grow louder instead of fade away. Only once did he dare look up, and when he did, he saw the man’s eyes closed, his expression forlorn with a deep crease through his brow. The boy opened his mouth at the man’s face as if screaming as loud as he could, but then shut it and looked away.

  The bus made several stops and then arrived at the station. When the doors opened, the man hauled the boy to his feet.

  “Come on,” he said.

  They went down the escalator to the southbound subway platform. The man led the boy along to a space well away from everyone else and then stopped and held the boy back against the wall.

  The boy hung his head. He stared down at the man’s boots, and he could smell blood. The thought of running hit him, but he stayed still, fear burying the idea. He wished the wall would open up behind him so he could fall through it and get away.

  When the train came, they got on and sat at the back of the car near the doors. They said nothing and no one spoke to them and the boy stared at his lap the entire time. His wrists were hurting.

  The train announced that they had arrived at Queen’s Park Station.

  “Let’s go,” the man said.

  They came up out of the subway and the man looked around under the traffic lights and the falling snow, but he saw no one waiting for them. He led the boy west along College Street at a brisk pace.

  At the corner of Spadina Avenue, the man stopped and held the boy tight against him with his huge hand on the boy’s chest, considering his choices.

  He watched the traffic lights and the wet sloshing procession of cars and the street trolleys full of passengers gliding through the slush, all of it a glaring collage of possibility and indecision. Against his palm, he felt the boy’s heartbeat, a strong and even pace. For a moment it felt almost doubled. Then the man realized the boy was shivering. He made a decision.

  When the lights changed, the man led the boy across the street and walked up to the Maverick Hotel and went in and requested a room.

  The concierge had thin blond hair, wire-framed glasses. He had a sore on his bottom lip. He peered from behind the counter with a languid expression, glancing from the man to the boy and back to the man.

  “Rate’s forty an hour or sixty-five for the night,” he said.

  The man paid for the night and waited.

  “Room 408,” the concierge said, procuring a key card from under the counter. “Just try not to make too much of a mess.”

  The man grabbed the key card, almost before the concierge noticed he’d reached for it, and led the boy across the foyer. He took one look at the elevator, its faded chrome doors riddled with dents, and hurried past to the stairwell.

  The concierge watched them until they were out of sight. The stairwell door shut with a soft click.

  The concierge rolled his eyes. “Fucking perverts,” he grumbled.

  On the fourth floor, the man shoved the boy along the hall to the room and pushed him inside after the key card beeped. He stepped in and flipped on the light, closed the door, bolted it, and fastened the chain. When he turned around, he saw the boy huddled in the far corner of the room, his head bowed against his knees.

  It was a small plain room. A sagging double bed, telephone on the nightstand, television on a stout grey bureau against the wall. The man went and stood near the boy, looking out the window to the street. He watched the crowd gathered at the streetcar stop. Mostly downturned heads. Regular people in jackets and toques. As he watched, there was one person who looked up towards him, but their face was in shadow, their eyes plain and unbetraying, and they looked away almost immediately. He nodded and pulled the dingy yellow curtains closed.

  He turned to the boy, who was still huddled in the corner, eyes averted, silent.

  All the better for now.

  The man shook off his jacket and tossed it onto the bed, causing the lime green cover to shift and reveal the stained sheets underneath. He noticed, then, all the stains on the carpeting, the grease and dust on the darkened television screen, the discolouring of the worn telephone, a fist-sized hole in the wall. It filled him with a sudden revulsion and dismay not only for the room and the world outside but his own place in it as well. Drawing a deep breath, he went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, scratching his cheeks and chin thoroughly through his beard. He avoided looking in the mirror. He turned off the taps. Before he left, he pulled the shower curtain back.

  He came out into the main room, regarding the space again, then ducked down and lifted the bed-skirt. He stood again and nodded.

  He looked at the boy. Still huddled, still silent.

  The man walked around the bed to the nightstand and considered the telephone. The stain on the receiver marked the passage of countless callers, the grip of many sweaty hands, the crook of unwashed necks. He lifted the receiver to his ear, adding his own mark to the phone’s history, and dialled the only number he knew. He waited while it rang, his shoulders hunched, looking at the floor. When the call was answered, he straightened.

  “August,” he said. “Sorry to wake you.”

  The boy looked up. He saw that the man’s back was turned and so he sat and watched him. He was too far away to hear the other voice on the phone, but he wanted to watch. For some reason it made him feel less afraid. It was just a man talking on the telephone.

  The man said, “Listen, I’ll be visiting . . . tomorrow some time . . . I’ll need to borrow your truck. Yes. No, I’m all right.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder at the boy, who looked quickly at his knees.

  “A boy,” the man said. “I don’t know, six or seven, it doesn’t matter. I made a deal, August. A fair deal. If they hold up their end, I’ll hold up mine.” The man was quiet. He was listening. When he spoke again there was heat in his voice. He said, “I didn’t call you for a lecture. Like I said, I’ll be visiting tomorrow. Don’t make any plans. Good night.”

  The man hung up and looked over his shoulder. The boy had moved.

  He was sitting on the foot of the bed with his eyes open wide, a blue light flashing across his face. The man turned and saw the bright television. It was set to a news station. The anchor’s mouth moved mutely. The boy looked up at the man and did not speak but looked at him straight and then wiggled his arms from inside the jacket.

  “No,” the man said. “But it’s good to know you’re listening.”

  The man grabbed the television remote from the side table and switched on the volume.

  “A six-year-old boy is missing after a gruesome home invasion near St. Clair and Vaughan Road. Officials are not releasing names at this time. One suspect is reported. Adult male, forty to fifty years of age, tall, dark hair, beard, seen leaving the area with suspected kidnapping victim.”

  The bulletin cut to an interview with the building’s superintendent, the portly man who had stopped them in the hall. “Ya, oh, he was huge! Easily the biggest man I’ve ever seen. I saw him leaving with the kid, and I tried to stop him but he pulled a gun on me.”

  The newscaster returned. “Police are asking anyone w
ith information to contact the tip line at the bottom of your screen.”

  The man shook his head. “Looks like we’ll be leaving sooner than later,” he said, turning off the television

  The boy looked up at him, tight-lipped, and wiggled his arms again. The man made a face, as if a small part of him was considering it, but before he could speak there was a knock at the door.

  The knock came again, and the man stepped towards the door. From behind him he heard the mattress’s old springs twang loudly. He turned and saw the boy had jumped up from the bed, ready on his feet.

  The man glared at him. He could see the intensity in the boy’s face, his little brown eyes trained on the door, as if each knock was the tolling of some salvation bell. There was a new feeling in the room like static in the air. A tense, hopeful energy of escape.

  “Get in the corner,” the man said.

  The boy stood still. He glanced once at the man and then returned his attention to the door. It was the police, he reasoned. The guy at the front desk must have called them. It had to be.

  The man raised his fist, and the boy’s eye followed it. His nerve wavered.

  “Into the corner,” the man said. “Now.”

  The boy obeyed and went into the corner of the room. The man followed him.

  “Sit,” he said.

  The boy sat. The man steadied himself at the window. He tore aside the yellow curtain and glanced out to the street. No police cruisers. No flashing lights.

  Another knock.

  The man swept his hair from his face and turned to the boy.

  “Lie down and put your face to the ground,” he said.

  The boy hesitated, but then obeyed. The man walked to the door, unfastened the locks, unbolted and opened it.

  The hallway was empty.

  The man leaned out and peered down the hall in both directions. Nothing. It appeared that the door to the stairwell at the end of the hall was slightly open, but that might easily have been his own doing earlier. A television chattered from one of the rooms, the low roar of canned laughter. Otherwise, the hallway was deathly quiet.

  He stepped back into the room and locked the door, refastening the chain. When he turned around, he saw the visitor standing in the centre of the room between the bed and the window.

  The man froze, but only for a moment before he recognized the visitor. His silver hair, his clean white suit. He went by the name Gabriel.

  “I trust we are still in accord?” Gabriel said. His voice was loud and it lingered in the small room.

  The man nodded.

  “Good.” Gabriel glanced down at the boy “We like to keep a watchful eye on our interests.”

  “Is that all?” the man said.

  Gabriel formed a pyramid with his hands in front of his chest. He looked at the man and grinned and his jaw looked huge, as if the majority of his personage resided in his mouth. “I have come to ensure you continue in accordance with your oath,” he said. “You have procured the child as was agreed. I trust you have no hesitations regarding what comes next. It is imperative that the child reaches the church alive. There we will meet the Adversary.”

  “Who’s your Adversary?”

  “The Adversary. There is only one.” Then he said, “Occupy yourself with the task at hand and bring the child to the church.”

  “I know the terms of my oath.”

  “Very good. Then we have nothing more to discuss.”

  “Why don’t you take him?” asked the man. “I still don’t see what reason you have for involving me in this.”

  “It is not our way to engage physically. We are mere influencers. You, however, are a creature of action. Does it matter so much why you help us, as long as we help you in return? You do still want your reward, do you not?”

  The man’s face tightened, as if the mention of his reward caused him pain.

  Gabriel said, “You do still wish to see your sweet Allison again? To hear her voice? To hold her in your—”

  “Yes,” the man said, looking at the floor.

  “Then you must fulfill your oath. There is absolutely no profit in becoming an oath breaker, I assure you.”

  “What will you do with him?” the man asked.

  Gabriel only grinned. His white teeth flashed in the yellow light of the room. Then his mouth closed and smoothed.

  While they had been talking, the boy had been listening. His right ear was pressed against the carpet, but he had heard enough to think again about rescue. Slowly, he turned his head to the side to look up.

  He saw his captor standing in front of the door, and he saw the back of the other man. The visitor’s white suit looked so clean. His white leather shoes were spotless.

  He thought maybe the visitor was a lawyer or someone from social services. Maybe they had come to get him. They had come and taken him from bad places before. Maybe the hotel guy had called them instead of the police, and they were here to take him back to the Centre. Maybe he would get to live with the other kids again for a while.

  The boy was thinking like this when all at once a cold shiver ran down his spine and settled in his stomach. If he had had a tail, he would have tucked it between his legs.

  The visitor looked odd, the boy now thought, his fresh white suit was too white. His back and shoulders were extremely stiff and rigid. As if his fine clothes were all the wrong fit or his body as a whole was a source of discomfort. Looking at him, the strangest feeling of an old dream, the memory of a dream, washed over the boy. He felt somehow that he knew the visitor, but the familiarity was matched with a sense of danger.

  This person is not your friend.

  The thought made the boy numb, and he closed his eyes.

  “Bring the child to the church,” Gabriel said. “I will come again, then.”

  “There were others,” the man said. “When I grabbed the kid, there were others who could draw the night like I do. They seemed young, just fledglings, their eyes gave them away. But they were waiting for us. Did you offer them a reward, too?”

  “We came to you and you alone because we believe you can keep the child alive and ensure that our interests are upheld. But your search for the child has been felt widely. Many know that you have found him. And they are coming.”

  The man’s expression was knowing. “If the fledglings found me once, they’ll find me again. And chances are there will be Michaelian Knights not far behind them. This is going to be a long night.”

  “Do whatever you must. As I said before, we are mere influencers in this place. We will not be able to help you. You understand you are on your own?”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever understood.”

  At that moment, there was a rubbery thud against the window. The man and the visitor turned and watched as a pair of legs dangled outside, feeling for a foothold. They steadied on the ledge. Then one foot swung away and came forward again, smashing hard into the glass with a loud crack.

  “Well,” said the visitor. “Here they come now.”

  Even before the visitor had finished speaking, the man ran to the boy and lifted him up under his arm.

  A booted foot came through the window, the glass shattering onto the carpet, but the man was already away. He thought to carry the boy out into the hall, get back out onto the street, but as he reached the door he heard running in the hall. Gabriel was gone, but someone else was coming their way, fast. The man spun and went into the bathroom.

  He set the boy down inside the tub and hurried back out, pulling the door shut after him.

  In the main room he found the fledglings waiting for him.

  He knew right away it was the same four he had escaped from in the street. The calling of the night connected them with a strange intimacy, as if they already knew each other’s names. Standing now in the yellow light of the hotel room, he saw them stripped of their shadowy menace. They looked like a band of rock-and-rollers, the man thought, cut straight out of a magazine, two guys and two girls. He half expected th
em to be holding electric guitars and drumsticks, but instead they held short curved knives. They spread into the centre of the room in a semicircle. The closest one squared his shoulders, holding his knife out in front of him.

  “We’ve come for the heart, old one,” he said. “We know you found it. Just give it over. We have no fight with you.”

  “You’ve been tracking me,” the man said.

  “Your name is old and your movements through the night are easy to follow. We want the heart.”

  “The heart of a child.”

  “It’s not a child. If we eat the heart, we will become as the Lord. We will be free of this place.”

  The man stepped towards them and the young man flinched, then steadied his knife.

  The man said, “What if I say no?”

  “There are four of us.”

  The man could tell they were about to strike. If they all got on him at once, he would be in trouble. He knew he needed to break them of their pack mentality, set an example with one and the others would fall apart.

  He locked eyes with the young man holding the knife and said, “No.”

  When the knife came at him, he ducked and sidestepped and came up behind his attacker, grabbing the back of his head with one hand like it was a piece of fruit. His other hand went to the young man’s mouth, his fingers going down his throat, and then he pulled down hard and there was a loud crack as he tore off the lower jaw. With a choked wail, a gush of phlegm and blood spewed over the man’s hand and the young man dropped to the floor.

  The three others stood in a row together and their eyes and mouths were wide with horror. The man was panting as he wiped blood from his face and swept his hair back and gazed at them with eyes rounded black. Then he stepped towards them.

  Inside the bathroom, the boy sat in the tub. He wriggled his arms out from the bottom of his jacket and raised his wrists to his mouth and started biting at the zip tie. The plastic was strong and it hurt his teeth, but he twisted his wrists to the right and chewed with his incisors. He was panting from the strain, his breath warm on his wrists, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Either cut by the tie or biting his own skin, he could not tell. He was hurting, and his breath was becoming hot. Really hot. He bit down hard and felt the plastic soften. Steam rose past his eyes. He bit again. The plastic felt like a soft eraser between his teeth, and then the zip tie snapped off. It landed between his feet in the tub. The broken ends looked like they had been melted. He pulled his arms out from the torn pockets of his jacket and rubbed his wrists, careful not to touch where they were bleeding.