In the study, Louis turned on the desk lamp, which threw a comforting yellow glow around the wood-panelled room. The fire, which had been lit in the early evening, was still faintly glowing. The room was hot, yet Louis felt too lethargic to take the few steps to the long windows and struggle with the stiff latches to let in some air. He sat down in the enormous leather armchair on the left side of the fireplace, where he could watch the door. His eyes were drawn continually to the glass-fronted case where he kept his guns. They gleamed there as a painful reminder of healthier days, when his body had been fit and active. Often, when he cleaned them, he thought about secreting them away, wrapping them in cloth in a trunk in the attic, but he still liked to handle them and also appreciated the way they looked, hanging there on the wall. Ornamental menace. None were loaded, of course, and the ammunition was kept in a locked desk drawer, but... Louis shivered. Why should he think about that?
Minutes ticked by. Perhaps Othman would not return. Louis did not feel completely at ease with the man; there was something very odd and almost sinister about him. But at the same time, Othman possessed a quality which made people want to spend time in his company. Perhaps it was simple charisma.
At half past ten, fifteen minutes after Louis had entered the study, Othman came into the room. Louis had not heard him enter the house. Perhaps he’d been dozing. Othman was a tall, dark shape against the light from the hall. He closed the door, turned the heavy key in the lock. Louis experienced a tremor of unease. He was at this man’s mercy now. ‘Is that necessary?’ he said.
Othman padded across the room. ‘I don’t want us to be disturbed. It could ruin the process.’ He’d already sniffed the air to see whether the son was present, and had been relieved to find he wasn’t. Daniel might be a problem in this situation because he could pick up vibrations from what was happening. Othman hadn’t checked over the past day or so to see how Owen was progressing with the boy, but he considered it better to have Daniel out of the way at the moment.
Othman stood before Louis, his hands on his hips. ‘Before we begin, there are some things I would like to tell you.’
Louis nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘You have a part to play in this as much as I do. Some of what I need you to do might unnerve you, even disgust you. Therefore, I have to ask for your complete trust in me.’
Louis looked wary. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. Perhaps we should just forget it.’
Othman smiled. ‘I understand your feelings. Therefore, I’m prepared to give you a taste of what’s to come. Look on it as a trial demonstration, a test drive. Why should you believe me? You hardly know me. I understand that.’
Louis shrugged. ‘That seems fair enough.’ He still felt slightly threatened.
Othman walked round behind Louis’ chair. ‘Now, I must ask you not to look at me while we do this. It’s very important, because you could get hurt. The energy I use in the healing is very strong. You will realise this for yourself shortly.’
Louis had gone rigid. What would Othman do? Would a knife come and slit his throat as he sat there, helpless? What?
Othman picked up these loud, panicked thoughts as he took off his jacket and rolled up one of his shirt sleeves. ‘You must try to relax,’ he said. ‘It will make things easier. Please don’t be afraid.’
Louis laughed. ‘I’d feel better if I knew what you were going to do.’
‘In simple terms, I’m going to feed you with healing energy. In a moment, I shall ask you to close your eyes. Soon, you will feel a kind of heat on your face. This will only be my arm, but you must not open your eyes and look at it. It could blind you. When you feel my flesh against your mouth, suck. It’s as simple as that.’
Louis turned round in the chair, tried to look at the man behind him. ‘Oh no, I’m not doing that! Are you mad? Get out!’ He wondered, if he shouted loud enough, whether Verity would hear him. Would she be able to get through the locked door in time? He eyed the gun case desperately.
Othman put a long fingered hand on Louis’ shoulder. ‘Please, don’t get angry. I know this must sound very peculiar.’
‘Peculiar? Sounds like something out of a horror film! You want me to suck your blood? What do you think I am?’
‘You’re disabled,’ Othman answered simply. ‘And desperate. You want vitality. You want strength and agility. Youth. You want Barbara Eager.’
Louis spluttered a protest, but Othman interrupted him.
‘I don’t care about that. I’m not claiming to be a vampire, Louis, and I’m not offering you blood. Do as I suggest and you will feel the effect for yourself immediately. It is just a test. If you really want to stay as you are, tell me to leave once more and I will. But I won’t offer you this again, and you’ll live the rest of your life tormenting yourself with the thought that I might have been telling the truth.’
Othman let these words hang in the silence. He could feel Louis battling with himself, the primitive, instinctive side, deeply buried, against the rational, intellectual conscious mind, which shouted to him that this was preposterous.
After a while, Louis sighed. ‘All right. Do it.’ He wished he could have a drink first, get used to the idea, but he was afraid Othman might take such a suggestion as an excuse.
‘Relax,’ said Othman. ‘Just close your eyes.’
Louis sat tense in the chair, unable to obey the first instruction. His eyes were shut tight, his brow creased, his mouth a little open.
Behind the chair, Othman drew himself up to his full height, threw back his head and composed himself to summon the energy. It came eagerly, as if desperate to be taken. Othman’s flesh became hot. He raised his arm to his own mouth, and bit the skin of his wrist, sucked a little. A small amount of blood rose to the tiny wound, but the light came pouring out. Quickly, Othman put his hand over the wound, and reached round to the front of the chair. He removed his hand and put his arm against Louis’ lips. Louis jumped at the contact. At first, he closed his mouth tightly.
‘Take it,’ Othman urged. ‘It won’t take a moment.’
Louis was shaking. He opened his mouth again, tentatively sucked the flesh held against it. The skin was warm, fragrant. Something like liquid fire filled Louis’ mouth.
After five seconds, Othman took his arm away. The flesh tingled only slightly. Louis was no voracious monster like Emilia Manden. A slight glow still played around Louis’ lips, which were shuddering. Othman knew the ichor would have tasted wonderful, literally divine.
‘There now,’ he said. ‘It’s done.’ He walked around to face Louis again, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. Louis opened his eyes, blinked rapidly. ‘Well?’ Othman enquired.
Louis wasn’t sure what he felt. The heat had come and he’d sucked at it, as instructed. He’d felt something white hot flow into his mouth, something that was neither liquid nor solid, yet something that was more than air. The flavour of it lingered on his tongue like a fine liqueur, burned his throat in the same way. Abruptly, he lurched out of the chair, stood upright, swaying. His legs tingled, but the pain had diminished.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he said.
‘Oh, but you must,’ Othman said. ‘It’s no illusion.’
‘What are you? Louis asked. ‘Just what the hell are you?’
Othman smiled. ‘An angel of deliverance. Do you want to continue the process?’
Othman’s ichor had filled Louis with a wild euphoria as well as having silenced the pain in his damaged limbs. He felt like laughing hysterically. This man could not be human, but at that point, Louis did not care. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Yes.’
Othman sat down in the chair Louis had vacated. ‘Good. Are you willing to do whatever I ask?’
Louis nodded, his eyes wild. ‘Anything!’
Othman reflected, as he undid the belt to his leather trousers that it was so easy to manipulate them once they’d had the first taste. If he told Louis now that slitting his own throat would grant him immortality, he’d believe it and do it. Too eas
y, really. ‘Kneel before me,’ he said.
Louis complied like a child, trusting. His face looked manic, almost imbecilic, his hair sticking up in all directions. Othman had to smile. He peeled back his trousers, revealed the smooth, pale flesh, the ripe fruit, within. ‘Drink to your fill, Louis Cranton,’ he said. ‘Take as much as you like. The well is depthless.’
Louis looked slightly confused. ‘You want me to...?’ He could not speak the words.
‘Make yourself comfortable and close your eyes. Remember, you must not look once the energy comes.’
Louis shuffled forward on his knees. He did not think about what he was doing, concentrating only on the fizzing sense of power that coursed through his body. He wanted more. He didn’t care how he got it.
At midnight, Verity turned off the TV. She was bored of it, and looked forward only to going to bed with Raven. She hadn’t experienced any more unusual dreams or visions since Wednesday night, but tonight she felt spicy, wild. Tonight might be the night. When she went into the hall, she noticed the front door stood open. Had Daniel come back? As she closed it, Verity remembered her father telling her that Peverel Othman was due round. She hadn’t heard anyone arrive, but perhaps Louis had left the front door open on purpose. Still, that wasn’t like him. Purposefully, Verity went to the study door, knocked softly, then tried to open it. She was surprised to find it locked. Louis never locked himself in there. ‘Dad?’ she called, knocking again. She pressed her ear against the door, but could hear nothing.
‘Dad? Are you all right?’ She slapped her open palms repeatedly against the wood. At first there was only silence. Panic gripped Verity’s heart. Was her father lying unconscious in there? She called again and heard, with relief, a slight movement beyond the door.
The lock turned, although the door did not open. What had Louis been up to in there?
Verity opened the door and stepped into the study. The room was in darkness but for the dim light of the desk lamp, which hardly illuminated anything. A stifling heat hit her in the face, bringing beads of sweat to her upper lip with unnatural speed, followed by a fierce chill, which raised the hair on the back of her neck. At first, she thought the room was empty, but in that case, how had the key been turned in the door? Then she saw a pair of glowing eyes in the chair by the hearth. At first, she thought it must be Raven crouched on the back of the chair, but then realised that someone was sitting there. Someone with glowing eyes. Alarmed, Verity reached for the main light switch, turned it on.
‘Don’t!’ The voice, as loud as a thunder crack, shattered the bulbs in the chandelier and the desk lamp, but not before Verity saw. The sight was so shocking, she could hardly draw breath. Her father was sprawled on the floor before the chair, his face buried in the groin of Peverel Othman. It looked as if they had been like that for a long time. However the door had been unlocked, it hadn’t been by the agency of a human hand.
Verity wanted to scream, or run out of the room, but could neither make a sound or move. The shattering of the light bulbs seemed to have transfixed her. Now, she stood immobile in the darkness. In her mind, she called, ‘Raven!’ but she knew the cat could not hear her. Something huge and black had engulfed her, chained her to this bestial room, while shutting out the world beyond. Time itself seemed to have stopped.
Gradually, as Verity’s eyes readjusted to the dim light, the outline of the chair by the hearth exposed itself before her.
Othman raised a hand, weakly. ‘Come here,’ he said.
Verity tried to resist the command but, in jerking movements, her limbs carried her towards the fire. She found herself looking down into the gaunt, handsome face of the stranger. He looked very tired. Louis never even raised his head. Something like luminous paint covered her father’s face, shining dully. She dared not look too long. It was too vile to contemplate.
‘Verity,’ said Othman. ‘Kiss me.’
Verity thought she might be sick; acid bubbled in her throat. She wanted to scream, ‘No!’, or attack the man before her, but her body ignored her feelings, and obeyed Othman’s words. Leaning down, Verity put her lips against his. It was a chaste kiss. She felt him sigh. ‘Thank you. Please, sit here with us. Let me stroke your hair. You have beautiful hair.’
Verity kneeled down beside the chair. Her mind was slowly becoming occluded by a numbing lethargy. She felt the long fingers in her hair, the gentle caress. She pressed her face against the old leather of the chair, her eyes closed.
‘You mustn’t judge me, Verity,’ Othman said. ‘I’m healing your father.’
Verity could only listen, unable to speak. How could healing be so dark? She felt only evil around her, nothing healthy at all. It was bleak and cold and cruel. Heartless. This, she reflected miserably, was almost a reflection of herself.
Othman continued to stroke her hair. Occasionally, he made a small sound, which might have been distress or pleasure. No sound came from Louis. He barely moved.
After what seemed to be several hours of being trapped in a nightmare, Verity was partly jerked from her trance by the sound of a car in the driveway outside. Othman uttered a brief hiss and reared upright in the chair like a snake. Louis collapsed onto the floor, where he made feeble, crawling movements. Verity tensed. She heard Owen Winter call her brother’s name, heard them come into the house. Would they find them here like this? ‘Daniel!’ she said, but realised the sound was only in her head. Her throat was closed. Gently, Othman pushed her away.
‘Get up,’ he said. ‘You can go to your room.’
Verity’s limbs felt like stone, the blood stilled in the veins. Without looking backwards, she lurched uncertainly to the door and went out into the hall.
For a few minutes, she simply stood there, mindless. Then she thought of Raven, and a few tears spilled from her eyes. ‘My cat,’ she murmured. ‘I want my cat.’
He would be in the kitchen.
Seeing Owen and Daniel embracing made no impact on Verity’s mind. How could it after what she’d just seen? In some ways, she was glad they were there, for despite their closeness, which normally she’d find distasteful, they were clean and pure. She felt she could see their souls shining out of them, clear light. Their love for one another surrounded them like a glowing shield. She could not tell them what she’d seen, what had happened. In their purity, they could not possibly understand the words. An alien language of darkness. She couldn’t tell them to go to the study, although some part of her thought she should. Othman still had a grip on her tongue.
Once Raven was in her arms, she felt better. Owen opened the door for her and she was able to escape.
Verity went directly to her room, and put Raven down on the bed. The cat was purring, his tail moving slowly against the duvet as he watched her undress. She wanted to cry, but it seemed impossible. Naked, she slid beneath the quilt and Raven walked up the bed to purr in her ear.
‘Horrible,’ she murmured, ‘bad thing. Oh Raven, what’s happening?’ The tears came then and she pulled the cat against her.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
Was the voice in her brain or her ears? She couldn’t tell.
‘The tall one can’t hurt you,’ Raven said. ‘You’re protected. You don’t have to be afraid.’ Then he began to lick her damp, salty cheeks with his rough tongue.
‘Will you be a man again?’ Verity whispered.
‘Sometimes,’ the cat replied, ‘but not tonight.’
Downstairs, Louis lay unconscious in his study before the dead hearth. Fluids within his body flowed and ebbed upon a strange, alien tide. Fibres twisted and mutated, grew. He did not dream.
Othman was sitting on the stairs, trembling, his hands dangling between his knees. His wrist ached now. Will it never end? he thought. He sensed Owen and Daniel’s communion two storeys above him, and instinctively fed upon it. Owen was running ahead. He would have to be brought back under control.
Othman pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. His fl
esh was burning. He smelled charred meat. No! He threw back his head, sucked in a lungful of breath, attempted to rise to his feet. Instead, he collapsed against the banister. It was with him again, the torment. He heard her terrible screams, the grief of it, the unbearable grief. Then the stones came down, to bury and conceal, to crush and kill, to seal the pact of the curse, their justice. It was in this house. Something, someone. Weakly, Othman pulled himself up against the banister. He had to get out.
It came as a whisper, as a shout. It came like a silver dart down the stairways, snaking as a trail of vapour into the hallway. It hit him between the shoulder blades. A name. Shemyaza. The name he dreaded. He had to take it, absorb it. The impact made him nauseous.
They have awoken the spirit of the church, Othman thought. I am with them. The oldest memory, still to be recalled, stirred deep within him, forbidden and intangible, yet real and terrible. A desire to flee the house overcame him.
Outside, he vomited into the antirrhinums, a substance that tasted of smoke.
Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday 24th October: Little Moor
Daniel woke up alone. It was full daylight, and a glance at the clock told him he’d slept till midday. Owen must have crept out earlier. Daniel lay back, first to savour the lustful memories of the night, then, less readily to contemplate the dark images that had assailed his mind, holding sleep at bay. The name: Shemyaza. It stuck in his brain like a mantra. First in the club, then later in bed; too much of a coincidence.
He got out of bed and pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt. Again, the day was unnaturally warm for the time of year. He opened the window and an airless blast came into the room. He could see Verity out in the garden, picking the late summer flowers and putting them into a basket. Raven was winding in and out of her legs, his huge tail held aloft. An idyllic sight, Daniel thought.
When he went into the kitchen, he was surprised to find Owen there, reading the paper and eating toast. ‘Verity made me breakfast,’ Owen explained.
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