by Alex Bell
‘What deception?’ Mephistopheles asked pleasantly. ‘There has been no pretence or lies from me.’
‘Get away from me, you filthy . . . you disgusting creature!’ I spat, instinctively staggering back a few steps.
I saw the demon’s mouth tighten angrily. ‘Now, Gabriel, let’s not react too childishly about all this,’ Mephisto said coldly. ‘I’m the same person I was before. I like you, you know - even if you can be a self-righteous, pompous pain-in-the-fucking-arse at times - always whining about morality or Godly virtues or Lucifer or anything else you can fucking think of. But to my surprise, I have enjoyed keeping you company. I kept Captain Hosenfeld company too - you remember him, don’t you? Szpilman’s brave rescuer. Do you know how God rewarded his bravery, Gabriel? By sending Russians to capture him and torture him for years and years after the war ended, until at last he died in a cold, miserable little cell, broken, alone and unwept for. That’s hardly fair, is it? The only kind words he ever heard during those seven years were spoken by me.
‘As for this imminent apocalyptic problem we’ll soon have, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing when the time comes. I’ve never known a person so constantly inwardly preoccupied with morality. I will just remind you, though, that the disgust you feel for me now didn’t exist before you found out I was one of Lucifer’s angels. I had nurtured a faint hope that if you came to know me with no prejudices clouding your mind from the outset, you might come to feel a little differently about the angel/demon divide. After all, if my kind really were so vile, you would think you would have seen through me, whatever form I happened to be in.
‘You were forsaken by God and his army. When you were here in Budapest, friendless and alone, did any of God’s angels come to your aid? Did they make any effort to take the edge from the loneliness that was tearing at you from the inside? Like it or not, Gabriel, it was Lucifer, not God, who sent an angel to you to pull you back from the brink of madness. You owe the Devil your sanity, my friend. How does that feel?’
I stared at him, feeling like I was going to be sick. How had this happened? How had this happened? How had I let myself be tricked by him? The idea that I had eaten and drunk with a demon; that I had welcomed a demon into my home as a friend . . . The very idea sickened me and my stomach shrivelled nauseatingly at the horror of it.
‘Get out!’ I whispered - a mixture of shame and disgust making my whole body shake.
Mephisto narrowed his eyes at me and for a moment I could clearly see the demon there - the malice, the hatred and that dreadful cold nastiness . . . Then he flashed me a sudden smile and gave an easy shrug, striding towards me.
‘Oh, well, all friendships must have their final goodbyes. No hard feelings?’ he asked, holding out his hand.
I shrank back from him in instinctive revulsion. ‘I will never shake hands with a . . . with a—’ I began, but even as I spoke, Mephistopheles grabbed my arm with one hand and gripped my hand with the other, forcefully shaking it in a terrible charade of friendship. I flinched at the coldness of his touch but was too afraid to try and resist him as he stood there shaking my hand, gazing at me with an amused expression on his face, one eyebrow slightly raised as if in challenge.
‘Goodnight, Gabriel,’ he said suddenly, dropping my hand abruptly. ‘Merry Christmas.’
I remained where I was, rooted to the spot as Mephistopheles strode from my apartment, the door banging shut behind him. Silently, I held up my shaking hand and saw that the demon’s handshake had left glistening splinters of ice embedded in my palm, a raw frost burn outlining the shape where his long, slender fingers had touched my skin.
I should have known. I should have worked it out for myself long before this. Stephomi . . . Mephisto. It was right there before me, a flaunting arrogance and recklessness that was in itself astounding. And I had been too stupid to see it. Even his stolen first name, Zadkiel, was a taunting clue, for Mephistopheles is the dark twin of the archangel Zadkiel.
And the burning man . . . Mephistopheles had called him Michael. As in archangel Michael? Leader of the angelic armies and God’s most trusted servant? When I had prevented Mephistopheles from being beheaded by him, it had been at Michael’s church. The angel had been dispelling the demon from his own church. I’d thought that Stephomi’s wound had healed so quickly because the sword had been abnormal, not the man. . . . Oh, God, why did I intervene? It had been the fire. That was what had thrown me. It’s surely understandable to associate fire with Hell and its devils. But now that I look more closely at the books and paintings I own, I see that angels are indeed often associated with the blazing brightness and warmth of fire, while demons are connected with cold, blistering ice. I recall too that in Dante’s Divina Commedia, the Ninth Circle of Hell - the one reserved for the most depraved and wicked of sinners - consists of a perfect sphere of ice in which these sinners are condemned to eternal, freezing agony, inwardly cowering at their hideous proximity to the Devil himself.
The Ninth Circle . . . I know that the Ninth Circle is responsible somehow for all my misery. After Mephistopheles left my apartment, I stood rooted to the spot for some moments until I looked up and glanced over at the mirror again to see more letters written on its surface in shining fire: CIRCLEIX. Circle. IX. Roman numerals for the number nine. Circle 9. I glared in mounting anger at the mirror and in a sudden outburst of rage, I picked up the kitchen chair and threw it into the glass, smashing it with a grim, deeply pleasing satisfaction - showers of glass exploding out towards me and skittering across the floorboards in sharp, sparkling pieces.
Right now I feel I hate all angels, whether God’s or Satan’s. They’re a bunch of bastards, the lot of them, and the terrible bitterness of it was that Mephistopheles was right. The one person to be a friend to me over these past months was one of Lucifer’s devils. No merciful angel of God had come to explain what was happening to me, to comfort me, to be a friend to me, to take away my fear. On the few occasions that Michael (if that really was the identity of the burning man) had appeared to me in dreams and visions, his appearance had served only to frighten me . . . He hadn’t helped me. Stephomi . . . that is . . . Mephisto had come to me like a man, speaking in clear words, coming to my world rather than exploiting the fact that I could see through to his. And now once again Michael was being cryptic, ambiguous, enigmatic, and I could not even guess what the message written in fire on the mirror meant. Surely the angel must know that I had no idea what the relevance of the Ninth Circle was? He must know that I had asked Mephistopheles about it and researched it and wracked my mind for hidden memories but to no avail. The Ninth Circle surrounded me, trapping me with lies and agendas and my own self-imposed ignorance.
But I won’t be used as a puppet. The strange message - CIRCLEIX - continued to appear as I prepared for bed. I saw it blazing above me in the bathroom mirror and scorched into the wooden footboard of my bed. But I ignored it. I didn’t understand it anyway, and I wouldn’t do anything about it if I could. I felt I hated the angels - or whoever was responsible - for tormenting me, for forsaking me and for putting some truth into Mephistopheles’ words by refusing to explain clearly to me what the hell it was they fucking wanted.
26th December (Boxing Day)
I’ve disgraced myself before God by letting Mephistopheles trick me in such a way. I hope that one day I will be forgiven. The CIRCLEIX message is still appearing around my apartment, but I am ignoring it.
th December
Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles! All this time it has been Mephistopheles I was talking to! How did this happen to me? How did it happen? How did it? How? Mephistopheles - the one known as ‘He who destroys by lies’ . . . Can I believe a word that demon said to me? Can I believe a word of it? Was he lying when he told me Nicky and Luke died in a car crash? Or was he lying when he said they never existed? They must have existed once! You can’t love a dream.
29th December
I have drawn pictures of them to stop myself from worrying. I’m c
arrying them around with me in the apartment. Casey has been banging on the door outside, but I’ve pretended to be out. I can’t see her right now. I can’t see anyone. I want to spend the time here with Nicky and Luke. They’re not much more than stick men, for of course I can’t remember precisely what they look like. But that doesn’t matter. When I talk to Nicky, it helps calm me down. Of course, I know that it’s not really her. I’m not losing my mind or anything distasteful like that. I know my wife is dead. I’m just talking to a crude drawing, that’s all.
It’s all right, though. Nicky herself has told me that she’s real, and she ought to know. Her death was an accident, like Stephomi said. There was nothing I could have done. I loved them. They were everything to me. I would never have hurt them. I wish this CIRCLEIX message would go away. It’s burning into the floorboards as well as the walls now.
31st December (New Year’s Eve)
My name is not Gabriel Antaeus. What a fucking surprise . . . At long last, I know the full disgusting truth about my past. I know why I took pains to punish myself, for if any man alive deserves punishment it is me.
I have committed the most wicked acts and they haunt me now as they did then. It is necessary that I isolate myself entirely from those around me. But now, of course, I have a problem, for Casey’s life is already quite hopelessly entangled with my own. Despite my promises I must cease all contact with her. I have made arrangements for her to have her baby in a nearby hospital in the city centre, with a private room and every comfort she might need. I have also deposited enough money in a bank account, set up under her name, to see her through for at least several years.
‘But why?’ she had asked, trying not to cry when I had told her. ‘Why aren’t you going to be there with me yourself?’
‘I can’t explain,’ I said stiffly. ‘That’s just the way it has to be.’
‘My Black Madonna’s gone,’ she said suddenly, giving me an accusing look. ‘Did you take it?’
I hesitated for a moment before replying, ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well, can I have it back?’
‘No.’
‘But it belongs to me!’ she raged. ‘That man in the marketplace gave it to me! How dare you steal it from me like that? How dare you? It was a present! You know how much I love it! I feel like I don’t know you at all. You got your memories back, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re leaving Hungary?’
‘Yes.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘I’m not.’
‘But you promised me, Gabriel. You promised! You said that no matter what you remembered, you and me would stay together. You said, if you had to leave then you’d take me with you, and if I couldn’t go then you wouldn’t either! You said it was as simple as that and I believed you!’
She started to cry then. I hated to see her so upset, but what could I do?
‘I don’t want to go,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Casey. I don’t want to go. I love you. I always will. But I can’t be around you.’
‘Why not?’ she sobbed.
‘I can’t tell you,’ I said, feeling helpless. ‘Look, Casey, do you trust me? I mean, do you really trust me?’
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
‘Then you’ve got to believe me when I say that you’ll be better off without me in your life rather than in it.’
‘That’s bullshit!’ She tried to shout at me through her tears.
‘What could possibly be worse than being on my own? How am I supposed to do this by myself, Gabriel?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to find a way, Casey.’
And then she slammed the door in my face and I sighed and turned back to my apartment to pack for the flight. My plane leaves for Washington tonight. Arrangements will be made for my possessions at a later date. I don’t know how long I will stay in the United States. I simply purchased the first plane ticket I could. I have had some money changed into US dollars, and packed a small bag of essentials. The important thing is simply to be away from Hungary, the focal point of the mounting tension of this religious War. I know that God won’t let anything happen to Casey. Mephistopheles said himself that neither angels nor demons will be able to directly affect her or her child, and I believe him. If there were no need for a human agent, then why go to such lengths to pose as a friend and try to obtain my trust and loyalty in the first place?
I’m afraid that, as the only person of the In Between nearby, if I stay I might be compelled to act for the demons somehow. I fear that Stephomi . . . that Mephisto will find some way to trick me into doing something that could hurt Casey. And I will never hurt her. I’ve hurt so many other people, but I won’t ever be responsible for hurting Casey. I love her too much for that. So I’m removing myself. With no human agent available, Casey’s baby will simply be born tonight, grow up and turn into whatever it is destined to be. Nothing good will come of my interference - that I know for an absolute certainty.
I leave for the airport in two hours. Meanwhile, I must make some record of all that has occurred since Michael’s exposing of Mephistopheles. I must make some record of who I am. I want to ground myself. I don’t want to feel myself slipping away. There must be a record. This is essential, essential. I won’t go insane over this. People like me don’t deserve the luxury of madness, although, God, I wish I were mad.
It was the messages. The fiery six letters and two numbers: CIRCLEIX. For five days I continued to ignore them, even as they increased in frequency and location - appearing in mirrors, on tables, burning into the spines of my books and the linings of my curtains. By the sixth day - yesterday - the message was all over every spare bit of space in my apartment: the furniture, the walls, the floor, the ceiling - everything, until all my rooms blazed with it. And then one of them burst, quite literally, into flames. It was one of the messages on the window in the living room. The fiery letters and numbers exploded into molten shards, shattering the window instantly with the heat and sending a shower of sparks over the room, where they started to smoulder on the rugs and on the furniture. Hastily, I managed to put them out with the fire extinguisher. When the last of the glowing embers had been stamped out, I threw the extinguisher into the corner of the room in frustration and tore my hands through my hair.
‘What is it?’ I shouted angrily. ‘Circle 9! The Ninth Circle! I don’t know what it is, you fucking idiots! If you don’t realise that by now, then you really are the most fucking useless angels—’ I broke off suddenly, my hands clamped over my mouth in horror. Christ, what was I doing? What was I thinking, swearing at angels? What a vile, disgusting, unforgivable thing to do!
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry. Forgive me, God,’ I stammered, head bowed, half fearing that I might be struck down by lightning where I stood.
And then I froze, finally realising in a flash of enlightenment what the angels were trying to tell me. Cold fear prickled on my skin. The computer disc that I had given to Toby, with instructions for it to be handed back at a certain time . . . The disc that I had been unable to access because I did not have the eight-digit password . . . CIRCLEIX.
As soon as I came to this conclusion, the burning messages all disappeared from the walls and the furniture and the floor with a suddenness that made the ensuing quiet darkness seem strange and unnatural. I retrieved the disc from its hiding place in the cupboard, sat down at my computer and loaded up the programme.
And then I hesitated when the password box came up on the screen once again, tempted just to turn the computer off now and destroy the disc once and for all so that I might never know what was on it. But even as these thoughts filled my mind, the burning message appeared once again, with alarming ferocity, in the wood of the desk; and quite suddenly I found I was afraid of the angels and what they might do to me if I didn’t do what they wanted. I already knew that they were not above violence, and that they were not above killing people when they had to.
; ‘All right,’ I said aloud and at once the message disappeared, leaving identical burn marks in its place.
I typed in the password.
The box disappeared and a message came up to replace it: ‘Password Confirmed.’ Then the screen loaded up, and I forced myself to look as a list of filenames appeared on the screen. They were people’s names. Some of them were English, some French, some Chinese and Spanish, Korean and Australian . . . And then my eye fell on one name that I knew. Anna Sovànak. Automatically, I double clicked to open the file. It was a video file, no more than thirty minutes long. But it was enough. Enough to show me what had really happened to that woman, and what my connection to her had been. And I knew that the video spoke the truth. That it was not fabricated or doctored in any way. I knew because suddenly I could remember it all.
I remembered my real name: Gilligan Connor. I remembered renting that isolated villa on the Italian coast purposefully because it was quite near to the spot that Anna Sovànak and her family were vacationing. I remembered striking up a friendship with Anna on the beach - a meeting that had nothing whatsoever to do with chance, despite outward appearances. I remember sympathising with her as she confided in me about her problems with her husband. His rudeness, the way he took her for granted, the way he never did anything to help round the house, the way he didn’t romance her as he’d once done. And I listened patiently to her complaints about the problems she had with her children and her job and her friends.
