Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1)

by James Costall

  “I’m pretty sure I saw a Star Trek episode about that,” said Keera.

  “There are literally hundreds of references to the multiple universe interpretation in TV programmes and films. It’s a Wonderful Life is my personal favourite.”

  “I bet you can name all the people who played Doctor Who, can’t you?” she said.

  “For every decision we make,” Crow continued, ignoring her, “multiple universes split and the numerous consequences of our decisions are played out in alternative realities. But of course the point is that you only know one reality, one universe: the one you’re in. The one where you decided to come and see me to talk about Anwick. The one where you decided to become a policeman. The one where you decided to buy that suit you’re wearing, to not bother to shine your shoes, to give up smoking.” To this last comment, Ash looked up inquisitively. “It’s the way you’re holding your pen, detective.” Crow explained.

  “How do you know I’ve given it up?” he asked.

  “You look tired.”

  “That’s it? I look tired and I hold my pen funny? Therefore I gave up smoking?”

  “I’m right aren’t I?”

  Of course he was. And the grin that crossed his chubby face as Ash sat back in his seat, defeated, was rather like splitting open a bean bag with a knife.

  “Where are they then?” asked Keera.

  “Where are what?”

  “These other universes, dimensions. Whatever.”

  “They could be less than a millimetre from you.”

  She scoffed before replying, “pretty farfetched.”

  “Not at all. Our perception of the world is limited by what we can see and explore. Take two colonies of ants, for instance. One colony lives on one side of a leaf; another on the other side. Both may deny the other’s existence but that is merely because Ants can only think in two dimensions. They know nothing of the third dimension and therefore, to them, the existence of the other colony on the other side of the leaf is inconceivable. We have similar ignorance about the fifth, sixth, seventh dimension. There are, purportedly, eleven in all.”

  “We can’t see them, but we know they’re there.”

  “The universe is far bigger than we can presently compute. It has an edge, but only insofar as the sailors on a boat see the edge of the horizon as being the edge of the water. Yet they are very different things.”

  “Then how do we know they’re there?”

  “We don’t know, but we can authoritatively speculate. Remember the cat in the box? It may be both dead and alive until it is observed. That state of being both is known as a superposition. We can prove that particles – photons, specifically – are capable of existing in two different states at the same time.”

  “So Anwick was interested in this multiple universe idea,” Ash said. “So what? What was he doing?”

  “Becoming obsessed with it. Dangerously obsessed with it. His own theories were getting more and more farfetched. I was worried for him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Crow wiped a chubby hand across his face and snorted loudly. “He thought he couldn’t die. He had this wacky idea that, whatever happened, when he made a decision, he would split into a world in which he’d survive.”

  Ash ran his hand through his hair. Perhaps Keera was right and this was a waste of time. “What do you mean, doctor Crow?”

  “He once said to me that he was planning to take a gun with one bullet in it – Russian roulette they call it – and keep pulling the trigger to prove he couldn’t die.”

  “But of course – eventually – he would die, wouldn’t he?”

  “He said not. At some stage, in my world – and in yours – Eugene Anwick would die. But in his world, he would not. Every time he pulled the trigger, the worlds would split, but Anwick’s world would only split into one where he would survive. So he said, anyway.”

  Ash waited a minute to take it all in before responding: “so he’d prove his theory to himself, but no one else.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You know Anwick tried to smoke himself to death in a garage, don’t you?” Keera.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the significance of all this, doctor?” asked Ash.

  “You tell me. You’re the detectives.”

  Ash thought about this for a moment and then, seemingly having come to some conclusion in his head, he got up and thanked Crow for his help. Keera was already half way out the door by the time Crow had managed to haul himself out of the sofa he had occupied. “We’ll see ourselves out, Doctor Crow,” Ash said, rather apologetically. The snow was falling thickly around them as they got back into Ash’s truck and they had to wait a couple of minutes for the window to demist before setting off again.

  “Where to now, boss?” asked Keera.

  “I want to know more about Anwick,” he replied thoughtfully.

  “You know Anwick’s weird behaviour that the lump of lard we just wasted our time with – sorry, I meant interviewed – was telling us about might well have been because he was having it off with the housemaid after all.”

  Ash didn’t respond. They drove back to the station in complete silence.

  Chapter 36

  Inside the little mid-terrace off Gloucester Road, the Harbinger placed a red bag on George Bricken’s dining table. In the opposite corner, George struggled to move; his hands were tied behind his back and his legs strapped with cable tie to the chair. He wheezed and choked with the effort of trying to loosen his bonds but he knew deep down that his efforts were futile.

  “I wasn’t afraid of the fucking Nazis and I’m not afraid of you, you bastard!” he said, and he meant every word.

  “George, calm down,” said the Harbinger. He didn’t look at the old man but instead opened the red bag. “You’ll do yourself a mischief going off like that.”

  “Whadoyawant’? Money? There’s three hundred pounds in cash under the sink in a tin. Take it. Take it and piss off!” When the Harbinger didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him, George started to look around the room for something to help him. The phone was too far away but if he could just get his hands loose. There was a gun upstairs. An old shotgun left over from his hunting days. It was loaded, always loaded. And he could blow this intruder’s head off in a second. One shot, bang! Brains all over the wall.

  “Why don’t ya’ untie me ya’ pig and see how long ya’ can stand up. I might be old but this is my home, my castle and if Hitler didn’t take my country you’ll not take my property!”

  “George, please be quiet, I’m thinking.”

  The Harbinger put out the bag’s contents on the table and appraised them carefully. He picked up a scalpel and examined it in the light from the window. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror hung on the wall. He stopped and looked at himself. He was completely human once. He remembered. Years ago. Free from the Necromire in his head. Human. A boy scarred from a troubled upbringing.

  Human.

  And weak.

  I

  The Harbinger recalled some of his existence before he was corrupted by the Necromire named Belial. Sometimes, when he looked into a mirror, he saw glimpses of the past, of the time before the Mergence, and it brought a flicker of light to his dead heart to know that there was a time when his mind was exclusively his own.

  The Harbinger was born in one of the many nooks of the Square Mile where unwanted children are brought into the world under dim lighting by untrained hands for a small fee so their whore mothers can abandon them without fear of intervention. Even by 1948 people were beginning to ask questions in hospitals and it was becoming increasingly difficult to discard such mistakes without there being at least some complications. So there were those that were willing to offer a bed for the night, some food and water and a little help during the birth in return for a fee (paid in advance in cash). Mothers who needed to earn a living could get back to doing so and the child would be left to chance.

  By
the time the Harbinger was ten, he was a skilled thief. He had spent his early life surviving on the streets of London, wandering from doorway to doorway, sleeping mainly in the recently nationalised tube stations and learning how to steal and, in all probability, had it not been for the intervention of fate, the Harbinger would have led a perfectly normal life of delinquency.

  It was a hot and dry day in the summer of 1959, the sort of repressive weather that made one lethargic and careless. The tube station was packed with commuters, sweat pouring from under their arms and across their brows, red faces anxiously waiting for the next train to sweep some air through the tunnels, a moment’s respite from the heat. Pictures of Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story lined the walls, old men sat skulking in corners strumming banjos and vendors thrust copies of the Times in the faces of businessmen with greased back, dark hair and thick framed glasses. The Americans had managed to send two monkeys to space but nobody cared that day; the papers were used more as fans than reading material.

  At the intersections between the platforms, the crowds moved in waves, people anxious to make the next connection or get out on to the streets. They weaved in and out of each other awkwardly, children hauled along by stressed mothers, small gangs of youths laughing and jostling each other for space, stock brokers and lawyers in expensive suits with matching waistcoats and hats ignored each other and everyone else. In few other places were people so tightly and indiscriminately packed together, where those at each end of the social spectrum merged into one.

  Amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the Harbinger slipped unnoticed, his old tatty clothes and dirty face making him easy to ignore. He knew that the heat would make thieving easier; people were less interested in looking themselves when their bodies were dripping with sweat and their heads throbbed. As the 10.12 to Paddington pulled away, the crowds were less dense and the Harbinger was better able to pick out a target. He scanned the commuters, watching them closely out of the corner of his eye, looking for a weakness. His heart raced as he saw a man hidden behind a newspaper, his bag by his side and the tell-tale bulge of a wallet jutting out of his jacket pocket. The Harbinger would leave the bag; there would be nothing of interest to him in it anyway. He just wanted cash; he wouldn’t even take the entire wallet unless it looked sellable. The Harbinger had always seen his crimes as those of necessity rather than profit.

  He moved quietly so he was close behind his target, trying to blend in, not stare but look at the floor, as though he had dropped something. He edged closer, heart racing, the familiar rush of adrenaline taking its hold. The target shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cleared his throat and turned the page. The Harbinger stopped and looked around, making sure the target wasn’t intending to move but he settled down on the new page and appeared engrossed in what he was reading. The Harbinger moved forward, slowly at first but then into a stride. He would brush past, so lightly to be undetectable, but the closeness would be enough to remove the wallet.

  As luck would have it, the sound of the incoming train distracted the target. He glanced right, towards the sound as the Harbinger came up on his left and slipped his hand quickly in and out of the man’s pocket. His fingers felt leather – a good sign – but he didn’t look at what it was. He wedged it deep into his own pocket and kept walking. He would walk right out of the station and for several miles until he was alone by the river before he would examine his prize.

  It took him less than a few seconds to meander through the commuters and out the exit and in no time at all he was walking swiftly up to the street. The thievery gave him little satisfaction – he was just pleased it was over – but the thought of what might be inside the wallet was comforting and he was closing in quickly on the final escalator that would lead him to Oxford Circus. It was when he touched the street itself that he would allow himself a small inward celebration because once he got out on to the street, disappearing into the chaos of the city and all its little hiding places and back alleys was easy. Down here in the tunnels carrying a wallet that clearly wasn’t his he remained vulnerable.

  He turned the final corner, ahead of him the escalator. Natural light descended down into the underground, bounced off the metal stairs and a refreshing breeze hit his face; the first signs of safety. It was only a few more seconds now and already the corner of his mouth, as dry as it was, had curled into a sly smile.

  Outside the city was alive, loud and chaotic. It was lunchtime and the city suit huggers were prowling the streets in search of food, meeting clients, doing deals, discussing the weather, how hot it was today and how humid, too. It seemed as though nearly everyone, from women in patterned dresses pushing prams to the gangs of teddy boys on the corners, was smoking one form of cig or another. The Harbinger breathed it all in, relieved the theft was complete and began weaving in and out of the crowd, heading to where the streets were less busy, where the people asked fewer questions.

  It was because of that – because he was so sure that no one had followed him, or seen him, or paid one jot of attention to him – that when the rough hands took hold of his mucky shirt collar and hoisted him clean off his feet he felt as though his heart might wedge itself permanently in his throat.

  “Now don’t struggle, there’s a good lad.”

  The copper’s face showed not one sign that at any stage in his life he had managed anything more than a wry curling of one side of his thick-lipped mouth, let alone a smile or a laugh, such was the sternness of his features.

  “Let me go!” demanded the Harbinger, but the handle bar moustache told him he was beaten already.

  “Took that gentleman’s wallet, boy! I saw ya’. Now it’ll be the cells for the night and before the magistrates in the mornin’ I expect.”

  The Harbinger was carted off down the street much to the amusement of passers-by who clapped and jeered as he passed, red-faced and flustered like a little radish, to Paddington Police Station where he was told to hand over the contents of his pockets, which of course included one fine leather wallet containing a five pound note, and led to a cell in the basement. There he was placed, wide eyed and bemused, before the cage door was slammed and the sound of the commotion ceased.

  Inside his cell, the Harbinger slumped himself up against a corner and wrapped his arms around his knees. He ignored the bed in the corner, it looked no more comfortable than the floor anyway. He eyed the piss bucket suspiciously. Likely it was the source of the disgusting smell that seemed to permeate everything around him.

  But he wasn’t there long.

  The handle-bar copper opened the door. His face was so pursed with annoyance that it looked as though it might implode and snap back like a burst balloon. Behind him, a man unmistakably of the priesthood: long black garment, dog collar, slick back hair. A long, pear shaped face, but with kind enough looking features and round glasses. There was something about him that drew the Harbinger to his feet; something about the way he stood, the way he half smiled and nodded as the boy took a step towards him.

  “That’ll do, lad,” said Handle Bar. “Stay where you are.”

  “I’m sure there is little chance of the young fellow eluding you, Officer Crab,” said the priest. He knelt down to the Harbinger’s level and examined him, something no one had ever done to the Harbinger before.

  “You don’t recognise me, lad?” said the Priest, turning the Harbinger’s face from side to side, as if he was looking for something.

  “No, sir.”

  “No. Not without a newspaper in front of my face.”

  The Harbinger’s heart jolted. He went to take back the step he had so hastily put forward earlier but the Priest stopped him, placed his hand on the scrawny shoulder.

  “You stole from me, boy. But as God is merciful, so am I. And I shall offer you a deal...”

  II

  The Harbinger took the Priest’s deal. It was a no-brainer. Warmth, food, clothing and shelter in return for errands and training. It was easier than stealing and living in the
Underground and although the Harbinger had little understanding of God, it was simple enough to entertain the Priest by studying the Bible and as the Harbinger grew from gaunt urchin to an athletic young man, so did his fondness and respect for the old priest.

  He spent the early years learning how to do the things we take for granted: how to read, write, add up and take care of himself and proved himself to be a competent pupil. He was fortunate. His teacher was a gifted theologian and opened the Harbinger’s mind to many concepts and things he had never even dreamed of on the streets. But when asked, as the Harbinger so often did, why he had seen fit to offer him the opportunity to better himself, the priest would smile knowingly and put his hand on his pupil’s shoulder, “God asked me to care for you, son. I have no idea why. Perhaps he has some plan for you that I am not privy to. But I know that the chance I gave you pleased Him.”

  And for a while, the Harbinger knew peace. Father Ireland kept a respected parish in Westminster and when he gave mass his church was full and his collection plate overflowing. By the time the Harbinger was sixteen, he had forgotten many of his nomadic ways. Father Ireland came to know him as a compassionate and thoughtful apprentice and the Harbinger came to know him as a sage and gentle teacher.

  But the Harbinger’s blossoming was short-lived.

  It was a wet evening in November when he heard his teacher open the door to a stranger. It wasn’t unusual for Father Ireland to have calls late at night - those in need of the church’s sanctuary didn’t care much about the time – but something told him this was no normal visitor seeking shelter or money and he crept downstairs in his night shirt, candle in hand, shivering in the cold, to listen at the study door.

  He heard men’s voices. Two men, and Father Ireland. There was agitation, but he couldn’t tell from whom it was emanating. He held his breath and listened hard, ready to make his presence known if his teacher was being threatened at all. His grip on the candle tightened as he strained to hear.