Paul was convinced that if it had not have been for the angels Kate would have woken up next to a corpse. He had considered telling her about it all but decided against it. He didn’t know anyone, except Malone, who would believe him. Kate would react in the same way as everyone else. She would think he was stressed out or was losing it. Or else he was on drugs. No, this was not the sort of stuff you could just drop into a conversation over dinner. Finally, with a grunt, he stumbled out of bed and headed for the shower.
CHAPTER EIGHT
False prophets
Rory was stomping around the kitchen by time Paul returned from the woods with Sabre and let the dog loose into the garden. Annie had given him a quick kiss goodbye and left for school with Kate, scrounging money from him at the very last second as was her normal style. Kate had smiled and waved perked up by black coffee and sunshine.
“Last day at college, Dad,” Rory grunted through toast and maple syrup, dropping crumbs.
“So, what now?”
“I’ve been sorting out my visa for Australia. Rod’s already got his.”
“You’re serious then?”
“You bet. I’m sick of this country.”
“So, when are you going and how long for?”
“Should be off in a couple of months. We’ll stay until we get kicked out. If I can get sponsored I might be able to get a permanent visa.”
“So that would be it then? You’d emigrate in effect?”
“Damn right I would,” he munched cheerfully.
“So, we’d never see you again,” Paul sounded serious.
“Course you would, Dad. I’m not going to forget you guys am I?”
“Well, it’s about the only thing you’ve been consistent about,” said Paul.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never been able to settle at anything for long. You’ve had more career ideas than a human resources directory and nothing has gelled. You don’t seem to be able to stick at anything, you know, sustain an interest and keep at something.”
“I’ve never found anything I wanted to do,” he replied.
“That plus there is your lazy streak.”
“There you are then. Every reason to try for a new life in a new country.”
“You’ve hardly given this one a fair crack of the whip. Anyway, I can’t hang around. I’ve got to prepare a meeting for later today. I’ll probably be late back. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”
“Okay.”
Rory gathered all his belongings strewn in various rooms and the hall, and left by the back door. Paul looked at the mess of breakfast, glanced at his watch and started clearing up. He had a few hours before he had to leave the house and he had become used to being a part-time house husband. No one ever believed that people who worked at home actually worked and had to adhere to disciplined schedules just like anyone else.
He was in his office and noticed the pendulum lying curled up near its little bag by the folded chart Nuttley had sold him. No, he would be strong willed. He swept the pendulum and chart into a drawer and assembled the papers and files he would need for his lunch meeting. He had not had much time to think about the events of last night or of the nightmarish dream he had experienced.
The whole thing was getting out of hand. There had to be some way of putting an end to these visitations, angelic or otherwise. But he could not think of one. Except, maybe it would be worth visiting a spiritual healer. He had been to one or two spiritualist services in the past with demonstrations of clairvoyance that he found particularly unimpressive. He simply could not believe that every Uncle Joe or Aunt Agatha or Mother Mary would come back in the personality guise they been alive in and declare such utter drivel and uninteresting trivia. He remembered hearing the medium telling one member of the congregation not worry about next door’s cat and another that things would work out with her marriage. He wanted to hear the real McCoy, something revealing and substantial and profound - insights into life in spirit. Instead he was given a soap opera to contemplate. But they had spiritual healing sessions there. Maybe he would turn up for one of those.
Then he thought to himself. He was, to all extents and purposes, being given a master class in spirituality. If this angel contact was genuine and if he had not yet been driven mad, as he was quite sure others had been, then the information he was receiving was of a higher order than any book on esotericism, mystical revelations, spiritual prophecy, yoga or religion ever written except if they had been written as the result of direct contact with the infinite. The prospect of a person who could not read or write emerging as a new world avatar was the biggest story in the history of the world. And he was part of it. As long as he could hold on to his critical faculty.
“Paul, you must not believe what anyone tells you except me,” pronounced a clear and unequivocal voice in his head. Paul glanced around. He moved towards his desk drawer.
“There is no need for the pendulum. You will not need that. Paul, you must dedicate yourself to the new Messiah. You must be purified.”
“Are you my guardian angel?” asked Paul. “I am being purified as far as I know.”
“There are many false prophets, Paul. You must listen only to me.”
Paul could sense a number of spirits or angels. He was suspicious. This was a new voice but it sounded familiar. He wasn’t sure. He just wasn’t sure.
“Kneel, Paul. Kneel by the mirror.”
Without thinking much about it, Paul walked to the full-length mirror in the hall. He felt movement inside his mind, like something whizzing by at great speed.
“You must remove your clothes, Paul. Everything. Burn everything.”
Paul paused. Maybe there were multiple groups of angels. Maybe the dark force could take on the guise of angels. He could feel the thoughts and ideas infiltrating his mind.
“You have been contaminated, Paul. You must completely clear yourself. There is no time.”
Paul was in two minds. Firstly, just what was going on? Who was who? Burning his clothes just seemed a crazy thing to do. He felt conspicuous, stupid. Then again, could he take the risk of not complying?
Paul stripped his clothes from his body, even his spectacles.
“Burn them, Paul. They are contaminated.”
The voice was so seductive and so persuasive. Paul believed it without question. Hurriedly, he gathered up his clothes and found paper and matches in the kitchen drawer.
“Quickly, Paul. There’s not a moment to lose.”
He rushed outside into the first flurry of rain. He was naked but oblivious. No one would see him. He ran to the end of the garden to the bonfire patch and threw his clothes, shoes, spectacles and wedding ring into the centre. Then he quickly lit the paper and threw it onto the pyre. A fine rain was beginning to fall. The fire had to burn. It had to. The voice was insistent. He jogged to his shed and picked up a can of kerosene. He took IT back, opened the cap and threw the raw fuel onto the licking flames. The fire burst into life igniting like an inferno. Paul stood back delighting in the flames as they took hold of his clothes and shoes. The spectacles and ring would be more difficult to dispose of.
“Repeat after me,” said the voice, sounding dramatic. “I dedicate myself to the new Light Of The World.”
Paul repeated the pledge starting back at the bonfire, which by now had defied the shower and was blazing intensely.
“Again, Paul, pledge yourself to me once again. I am the only true Light Of The World.”
Paul repeated the dedication again with passion and then a third time. Was this Rua-Ah himself? He had no way of knowing. He turned and walked back over the wet grass feeling the river of rain sluicing down his back. The fire. It would go out. What then? He couldn’t leave evidence for all to see.
“Your sins are being washed away, Paul.”
If he had been spiritually infected by something, maybe this ritual was the way to redress it. He was in a kind of trance. The voice was right. He had to listen to the voice.
/> “You will need to wash your body frequently before contacting the higher orders.” The voice was adamant.
Paul looked back at the embers of the fire. There was nothing much left of his clothes except part burned shoes jutting out of the ash. The rain was extinguishing the flames. He would have to fill a couple of sacks with the remains and dump them at the waste disposal site.
“Dress your body in white,” commanded the voice, close in on his mind. Paul reminded himself that he had to get to a meeting and checked his watch. White. He didn’t have much in the way of white clothes. However, he ran inside, showered and changed into white pants and vest, white shirt and fawn slacks. Shoes would be a problem so he just wore his normal tan pair.
The voice seemed to have taken a back seat. He could hear something murmuring to him but as though coming out of a dream and feeling ridiculous, he gathered his work briefcase, cell phone and car keys, locked up and jumped into his car.
What had just happened to him was simply beyond understanding. There was no doubt now, if there ever had been doubt, that something serious was going on. In the beginning he had been prepared to just play along with pendulums and angels and off-the-wall spirits half believing and half disbelieving the major revelation about the new light of the world who couldn’t read or write, the book and his place in the scheme of the future.
If he had been told that he would have stripped off his clothes, burned them on a bonfire and pledged out loud his devotion to the new Messiah he’d have laughed at the ridiculous notion. But, he reminded himself as he started the car and pulled out of the drive, this is exactly what he had done no more than thirty minutes ago. He hadn’t even bothered to question seriously the compelling voice in his head. Hearing voices was a bad idea. It wasn’t normal. So far, he had felt perfectly normal, despite talking to angels and demons. Now, he felt that the stakes had been raised. There appeared to be an inexorable rise in the frequency, urgency and information value of this celestial contact. And he was no longer sure what he was communicating with. He thought he recognized the warmth and love emanating from the angels who had done him no harm. So, what was the voice back in the garden? Was it an angel voice; the voice of the new Messiah himself or some errant spiritual sprite attracted to him by all the activity?
Paul reached the main highway out of town and pushed down on the accelerator. He looked around him. Farmland stretched either side of both carriageways with farm buildings and houses dotted here and there. Traffic was busy. Paul concentrated hard looking about him quickly before checking his mirror and the road ahead.
A feeling of hopelessness began to creep over him about half way from his destination. He could sense it entering him from outside. Unless he was alienating such a feeling, it did not emanate from his own mind. He had to concentrate on driving but found his hands were starting to sweat as the pressure in his head and his solar plexus began to mount with every mile. This just couldn’t be real. He was driving with total concentration to get to his appointment. He forced himself to think about the business in hand, to psyche himself up for an important meeting. He ran over the report he was presenting, making sure he knew the points he wished to emphasize.
What was seeping into him was a feeling of intense foreboding. It was almost palpable. At this rate he might be forced to pull over. He knew now that whatever had found a doorway into his mind was settling down for a long stay. Malone had said that entities like these would not hang around if they did not get what they wanted. But what was it they wanted? The angels were clear about their information but the others, or was it just one other, or were they all the same but with different personas?
He stared at the road ahead and noticed with a shock that he had been drifting across into another lane. A yellow sports car snarled past, blaring its horn as it overtook.
Get a grip! Get a grip! Paul berated himself. Up ahead he could see the inversion layer over the city. Not far now. Almost there. But what then?
At last he entered the outskirts of the city. He could still feel the slow, cold paralysis and the insistent pressure inside his head as well as feeling of utter despair that was attached to it. He slowed and joined the long queue of traffic crawling towards the city centre. He had to use all his power to combat this possession. He could not afford to let this situation affect his meeting but then, he had not been in any formal, professional situation with angels and demons plaguing him. He had thought the angels would protect him and they had done, but only when the chips had been really down. Maybe this was a feature of spiritual life. It was a kind of free society of spirits entitled to do whatever they wanted to do until, as in this case, it began to threaten something really important.
There were three blue suits sitting around a polished mahogany boardroom table. Despite the high tech nature of the business the room had a dusty and slightly old-fashioned décor and atmosphere. At the head of the table, jacket off, sat the fourth figure, company founder and chief executive Barry Spears, a self-made, no nonsense kind of guy. Paul liked him. You knew where you stood with Barry. He did not know the others. Barry introduced them.
Paul was determined to keep the feelings of suicidal darkness at bay by concentrating on the job in hand, that of convincing Barry Spears and his colleagues to use his services. This was an important piece of business and Paul needed it.
“Paul, now that you’ve met everyone I’ll kick off by saying that I like your report. It’s concise, not full of techno bullshit and it cuts to the chase. I can understand the benefits. It’s not cheap, but that’s another issue. I brought Louis, Mark and Oscar along because these are the guys you’ll have the most dealings with, if we accept your proposal. So, I’ll sit back and let them take bits out of you, no, just kidding. Okay, over to you, chaps.”
For the next hour Paul answered questions, parrying some, dismissing fears and stressing the benefits. He could feel the slow paralysis starting to slither along his calves and thighs. Whatever happened, whatever demonic shit came his way, he could not afford to lose concentration and yet, there was a force trying to literally drag his mind away from the here and now.
He began to sweat and he swore that Barry Spears noticed. He noticed everything. That’s why he was where he was. Paul felt clammy and poured a class of water. He dabbed his forehead. The onset of the dark force was announced by a kind of static which blocked out the present moment or tried to. It was like listening through radio interference.
Barry Spears then pushed his weight onto the reclining chair back with a slight whoosh, got up and opened a couple of windows. “It’s stuffy in here,” he said. “Listen, let’s adjourn for lunch. We can carry on with the third degree there.”
Paul was relieved. He watched Louis, Mark and Oscar take their lead from Barry and he knew that the examination was over. Barry had made up his mind one way or the other. Paul cursed the black demon wherever and whatever it was. He was convinced he had screwed up. There was nothing he couldn’t answer but he had come across as hesitant and preoccupied.
Thirty minutes later they were assembled around a back table at Luigi’s. The white tablecloth was starched till it glowed with a kind of sheen. This was an understated kind of place across the street from the office and it was clearly Barry’s local retreat. Despite his performance in the boardroom, Paul believed that there had not been one question that he had not answered competently, if not with his usual dynamism. The only issue at stake was cost but then it always was.
“You feeling all right, Paul?” asked Barry as the waiter poured ice water and a sharp Sancerre.
“I’m fine, Barry. Just had a bout of flu, that’s all. It’s jammed my brain a little.”
“No sign of that, was there guys?” Barry addressed his cohorts.
“Well,” replied Oscar, “I thought you were a little distracted here and there. But now I understand. Hope you get over it.”
Louis glanced at Barry trying to assess the corporate mood. Spears could be a difficult son-of-a-bitch, switchin
g moods rapidly. You had to get it just right with Barry Spears. “No, I think you covered all our areas of concern,” he said, steering a middle path.
Mark said nothing, just sipped iced water, not touching the wine until he saw Barry take an appreciative sip. He was the hardball guy, Paul concluded. Still, on an ordinary day when he was feeling one hundred percent, Paul could handle him. He’d handled far worse.
The darkness lurking at the recesses of his mind had not given up. It was just biding its time. Paul was not sure how to handle it. His mind was filled with fearful anticipation that he could be driven over the edge at any moment; and in public in front of Barry Spears. He mentally tried to contact his angel group. They had been conspicuous by their silence. It was as though the angels had taken a step back and were deliberately allowing the negative force, or dark angel as Paul had come to think of it, to have access to his mind. Maybe this was the way it had to be.
Meanwhile he made small talk with Barry Spears and his team. Paul could feel Mark’s eyes on him, assessing him, searching out any weaknesses.
They ordered and then Paul remembered Barry Spears’ passion. He was a keen yachtsman and sailed whenever he could. Gently, in between mouthfuls of crisp salad and a vibrating feeling in his solar plexus, Paul led the conversation to hobbies and then to sailing.
Spears couldn’t resist the invitation and proceeded to bore the pants off everyone for the next thirty minutes or so. This gave Paul time to fight off the incoming waves of fear while maintaining a rapt expression of interest as Barry Spears recounted his latest sailing adventures. The others listened politely, trying to show genuine interest.
Half way through lunch it happened. A blazing bombshell exploded in Paul’s brain unleashing a cocktail of emotions from despair to fear of instant death.
An Angel on My Shoulder Page 11
