Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1)

by James Costall

  And with that Penny pushed past him and slammed the door behind her. He watched after her, mouth gaping. After a moment the car roared into life and he heard the sound of the tyres screeching as she pulled away from the house.

  Later that night he got another text.

  Hi sexy! Great to c u this evening. B over tomoz for hugz! XxxP

  Chapter 27

  As tired as she was, when she finally stumbled into her flat after Ash had dropped her off and they had exchanged an awkward goodbye, Alix felt strangely energised. Mixed feelings of horror, disgust, worry and excitement clashed, like two mighty oceans coming together in her mind. As sickening as the scene she had witnessed in the church at White Helmsley was, the dark appeal of her involvement was as intense a feeling as she had ever experienced and more than compensated for the potential loss of the Anwick case.

  Then she felt ashamed that she had trivialised the death she had seen as cards to be traded. Annoyed, she poured herself a glass of wine; supermarket own brand rose, the sort of cheap stuff that made you wince on the first swig.

  But as she switched the lights on, checking each room carefully before being satisfied that no one had broken in, she thought of Ash. Seeing him again had awoken some part of her that she had thought was long forgotten. Something deeply embedded and unresolved. Not to do with him, she assured herself, but to do with what she was doing. She was doing the right thing at last. This was her calling. She was sure of it.

  But then there was Anwick. Most in-house shrinks probably had to wait half a lifetime for a good murder. She had been fortunate enough (if that was the right phrase) to pick up two in a less than forty eight hours. Albeit of course that one was, according to the Crown at any rate, an open and shut case and no longer anything to do with her. Officially at least. The slight oddity was that the principal suspect was presently incarcerated in a secret psychiatric hospital that seemed to be run by morons and managed in accordance with nineteenth century values. Of course she wasn’t going to drop it.

  Bugger Amanda bloody Harker.

  She stripped off her clothes and tossed them in a basket of dirty clothes in the corner. They were heavy and toppled the basket over but she didn’t care. In her shirt and pants, she sat down at the desk in the bedroom and flicked open the cover to the laptop. It responded automatically, whirring into life.

  She thought for a moment. There was little point in searching for Innsmouth. She had done that prior to her visit and found nothing of interest.

  She searched the word Anwick had used as a name for his alternative personality.

  Azrael.

  The Archangel of Death. She scanned several pages of a Christian website but there wasn’t much, principally, it would appear, because the Archangel of Death only appears in certain Jewish traditions and not orthodox Christianity. In one account:

  he has four faces and four thousand wings, and his whole body consists of eyes and tongues, the number of which corresponds to the number of people inhabiting the Earth. He will be the last to die, recording and erasing constantly in a large book the names of men at birth and death, respectively.

  The accounts conflicted. Some painted Azrael as the embodiment of evil, devouring the souls of the worthy and unworthy indiscriminately. In other religions, he is nothing more than a taxi driver, delivering souls to God at His command. In others, he is an avenger, stalking the earth in human form murdering sinners and dragging their screaming souls to Hell for punishment.

  Something else caught her eye in amidst the mass of contradictory dogma. She found a website listing the supposed names of common angels and demons, of which Azrael was one. The site claimed that the list was of the two hundred original angels sent by God to watch over mankind mentioned in the Book of Enoch, an ancient Jewish text. Enoch, said the site, was Noah’s great-grandfather and his scripture describes how God sent his angels to earth and that these angels – known as the Watchers – lived amongst men.

  And it came to pass when the children of men had multiplied that in those days were born unto them beautiful and comely daughters. And the angels, the children of the heaven, saw and lusted after them, and said to one another: 'Come, let us choose us wives from among the children of men and beget us children.' And Semjâzâ, who was their leader, said unto them: 'I fear ye will not indeed agree to do this deed, and I alone shall have to pay the penalty of a great sin.' And they all answered him and said: 'Let us all swear an oath, and all bind ourselves by mutual imprecations not to abandon this plan but to do this thing.' Then sware they all together and bound themselves by mutual imprecations upon it.

  Alix read, but more out of interest than because it improved her understanding of Anwick any further. Somehow, she felt drawn to the story. God sent his angels to earth to protect man but those angels decided instead to fornicate with human women. She smiled. Even angels couldn’t resist a pretty face and a decent shag it would seem.

  Before she knew it, it was three in the morning and she had absorbed everything there was on the name Azrael. And not one scrap of it helped a jot.

  Part II

  The eighth Law of the Ether

  It shall be forbidden to destroy a life on the Ether in a place assigned for the worship of a Divine

  Chapter 28

  Alix didn’t sleep well. Dreams of her father were replaced by images of the dead swirling around her mind and mixing together with the faces of tortured souls, shut and abandoned in the dungeons of Innsmouth.

  So Alix didn’t sleep well.

  In the morning, she found herself outside the Governess Retirement Home watching the caretaker grit the path that lead to the entrance. For all the resentment her father caused her, she could never let go of him. She could never let him lose everything. Zara, then her mother. She was all he had left, as far as family went anyway.

  She knew what the problem was. It was the curse of her profession. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Sometimes it’s easier if you don’t understand yourself. But she knew. And he did too. Zara was his favourite, the daughter who lived up to his expectations, but the problem wasn’t Zara. The problem was that both Alix and her father blamed each other for the loss of Mai Franchot, Alix’s mother.

  The years after Zara went missing were the hardest of Alix’s life. The family moved south of the city, to a new school and for a new start. Vaughn cut back on his practice, kept to lecturing. Spent his days locked away in his study, marking papers and writing. Alix recalled that his office resembled a warehouse. Reams and reams of unpublished works stacked on top of each other. She wondered where it all was now. Burnt probably when he purged the family home of everything before completing his self-imposed exile to the Governess.

  Mai died from pneumonia two years after Zara had disappeared. Not anyone’s fault. But blame is the best anaesthetic.

  She wasn’t going to go in. She just needed to be here, for a short while. Her hand was on the ignition when a blue Astra pulled in beside her and the driver got out.

  “Well hello there!” Gail called over. She couldn’t leave now. Gail would see she hadn’t signed in and think it was odd she came and never saw her father. So reluctantly she got out and made her way across the car park with Gail. They made small talk before, as they reached the door, Gail turned to her.

  “You know he loves you in his own way,” she said.

  Alix nodded in agreement and made her way to her father’s room.

  He was reading again. Less than a few chapters left. When she was here yesterday, he had barely begun. As usual he didn’t acknowledge her at first but as she hovered uncertainly at the door it was Doctor Franchot senior who spoke for the first time.

  “Twice in one week is indeed an honour. I feel weak at the knees.”

  She took that as an invitation and walked in. Vaughn had a spare chair near his for visitors, although who visited him other than her and Gail she had no idea. She perched herself on it, not sinking back to appear at home but enough to let him know this wasn’t just a pass
ing visit like last time.

  “You rarely come here without a purpose,” he told her. “How’s the new job going?”

  “I didn’t take it just to annoy you.”

  “No, I suspect that was just a happy bonus.” He looked at her. The skin around his eyes was tired and dark but the iris was as bright as hers and just as piercing.

  When she didn’t speak he eventually put his book down, although he didn’t turn to her directly.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Innsmouth?”

  He looked at her long and hard, considering his answer very carefully.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Why?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  He sighed, as if the whole conversation was a terrible bore and this time turned to face her.

  “It was a Victorian asylum. Decommissioned in the sixties. A nasty blot on our history of treatment of mental illness. It’s just a ruin now.”

  “It’s not a ruin. It’s still in use.”

  He considered this, again very carefully before turning away from her.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I want to discuss it with you.”

  “No,” he turned to her suddenly and there was a look of anger in his fierce eyes. “You’re breaking some agreement you have with a higher power to give me information that is clearly classified to gauge my reaction. This conversation ends.”

  She held her hands up defensively. “Who said anything about that being classified?”

  “It isn’t then?”

  Now it was her turn to consider her answer very carefully. “It’s operational. A handful of patients kept in nineteenth century conditions locked away from society.”

  “Enough!” he shouted, holding his own giant hand up to her. “Enough, child.” She hated that word, child. It goaded her. “If it’s moral guidance you’re looking for, then seek it elsewhere. You should know better.” He gave her a look that said the conversation was over. She sighed heavily. Was this anything other than what she had expected? A little more of an over-reaction perhaps. He knew more than he was letting on. As always. That was enough to know for now. Their eyes were locked. He knew he’d let her on to something. But he never did anything without a purpose; even the most subtle of reactions that only the trained eye could see.

  It was enough. She picked up her bag and stood. For a moment, she thought she might lean over and kiss his cheek.

  Thinking better of it, she left without another word.

  Chapter 29

  The snow around Parkview Abbey’s grounds had drifted in the storm so that it lay in great mounds against the stone walls which marked the ancient boundaries. Dewdrops on the greenery glistened in the morning light like fireflies. The gravel crunched under the wheels of a black Mercedes as it pulled up in the courtyard in front of the entrance. A murder of crows, startled by the noisy, mechanical visitor, took flight from a nearby willow.

  A uniformed police constable hurried down the stairs towards the car. He stumbled slightly as he reached it in his haste, but the doors were already open and the two people he had been waiting for were gliding towards him.

  “Good morning, sir,” he stuttered, wondering whether he should be offering his hand or just showing them inside.

  DSI John Baron nodded curtly and turned to the woman who accompanied him. The PC gawped up at her: she was taller than Baron by a good three or four inches. Her white beehive added another head above that.

  “I want it on record that I was displeased with your choice of safe house, Amanda,” Baron spoke quietly to the giant woman as they trudged over the courtyard toward the front entrance.

  “If you’re going to try and push the blame for this on me, John, you can think again,” she spat back.

  “You took responsibility, in circumstances when arguably it was not your place to do so, for Megan Laicey’s safety,” he reminded her.

  They got to the front entrance. The PC opened the doors nervously and ushered them through to the grand entrance hall. Harker brushed past Baron to get inside first. As she moved past him she whispered something in his ear, just loud enough so that only he could hear her.

  “Fuck you, John.”

  *

  Alix drove back from the Governess toward the station in silence. Not even the radio could bring her any comfort. The traffic was murder, backed up in the centre with nothing moving and with no obvious reason why. Everything ground to a halt in snow. It was as if the soft white powder was an excuse for everyone to suddenly start driving like a complete moron. The roads were gritted. What the Hell was the problem?

  She looked across past the Hippodrome and up the Marriott. Not far till she passed There and Back Again Street, which was, by far, her favourite street name ever. She had always liked this part of Bristol: a clutter of little clothes stores, kebab houses, students lettings shops and pubs. The city’s true persona, she had always thought.

  In the central space under the CD slot (which was occupied by the greatest hits of Lenny Kravitz), there was a can of full fat coke. As the traffic was stationary she thought long and hard about that full fat coke. How long had it been there? It was Wednesday. She’d noticed it yesterday and been shopping – when? – Sunday? Three days, four max. Would it be ok?

  Phone rang. She checked for police and then laughed. They were colleagues now. Not that that would probably stop them booking her. She answered and heard Ash’s voice.

  “Alix?”

  “Sleep well?” she asked. Alone? she wondered, although why the Hell that was any of her business she had no idea. But she still wondered anyway.

  “Megan Laicey’s gone. Katelyn Laicey’s body is missing,” he replied.

  “What?”

  “I just got a call from Baron. He’s on his way up to Parkview Abbey, the safe house where Megan was being kept until the media interest in her died down and we could re-house her. They can’t find her.”

  “What do you mean about Katelyn?” She felt as though she was struggling to assimilate what she was being told, as if only half of it was English and the other half some foreign language she only knew a few words of.

  “The body’s gone. A guy in the morgue apparently opened up the bag and found a dead dog.”

  “What? What about whoever was looking after Megan?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

  “Ash?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said.

  *

  The grand entrance hall to Parkview Abbey was dominated by a marble stairway that led to the upper floors which curled round the walls like the horns of a ram. The floor was a mosaic of white, red and black tile. Every surface was covered with vases, relics, ornaments and clocks. On the walls, musty oil paintings with golden frames filled almost every space. They were mainly portraits and, standing in the middle of the room, the PC felt like a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him.

  “Is there any sign of Megan,” Baron said to him.

  “Nothing, sir. She’s not here. We’re searched twice.”

  “Search again. Children hide when they’re scared. Road blocks?” he asked, glancing at an old grandfather clock to his left at the bottom of the stairs. The pendulum was still, the hands stuck on the hour of three.

  “Posted on every route out of the Wolds, sir, but this could have happened at any point last night.”

  “Were there not systems in place for this sort of thing?” he shot at Harker, who frowned at the question. She was ill-used to being cross examined.

  “Of course there were systems,” she replied abruptly. She didn’t feel obliged to give Baron anymore explanation than that so they followed the uniform through a set of double doors in silence.

  “He’s just through here,” he said. “In the library.”

  “With the candlestick, no doubt,” Baron muttered under his breath.

&nbs
p; On the other side of the room another set of double doors opened but the angle made it difficult to see what was going on. They heard talking; there were three or four people there, and the sound of equipment clanking on the floor. Maurice Reid, the pathologist, appeared in the frame of the door, as if from nowhere. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and smiled weakly as he saw Baron.

  “Hello, John,” he said. “Every time we meet some guy ends up dead. You think one day they’ll start suspecting us?”

  Baron managed a laugh and turned to Harker.

  “It’s good to see you, Maurice. This is Amanda Harker. She’s prosecuting the Anwick case.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss,” Maurice said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”

  “I’m sure that meeting people under difficult circumstances is your forte, Doctor Reid,” she replied. He smiled a little broader this time showing three gold teeth at the back of his mouth and let his hands fall by his sides.

  “I gather Mr Speck was a friend of yours,” he said to her.

  “An associate of the vaguest acquaintance. Nothing more.”

  “An associate. Of course.” Maurice turned to Baron. “You better come and see.”

  *

  Alix shut the phone and pocketed it. The traffic started to crawl a little but not quick enough. She hit the horn. Nothing moved any faster but a few people turned their heads to look at her. She tried to make sense of it all. Somebody had killed Katelyn Laicey and now her sister had been kidnapped. But the number one suspect for Katelyn’s murder had been inside Innsmouth at the time of Megan’s kidnapping. At the same time someone, or someone else, had broken into the city morgue and taken Katelyn Laicey’s dead body. What sick pervert were they dealing with?

  Meanwhile, twenty miles outside of the city, an entire village had been massacred, or possibly had committed suicide.