“A lot of that going around.”
“Your father was the most tormented soul I have ever encountered. It was a mercy, healing him. He went to a better place.”
“You consecrated your demon-trap with my father’s soul.”
“I put it to good use.”
“You’re a poor excuse for a blackmailer, you know that, don’t you?”
“And you a poor excuse for a woman, it must be said.”
“Did you really hate me that much?”
He pulled up a chair behind my head somewhere, and I heard something wet and heavy shifting about as he sat. The smell was bad, and it was made worse, knowing from whom it emanated. It was hard to believe such a man could fall so far.
He said, as if aware of my thoughts, “I have made peace with my God. Have you? Oh yes, of course. You have no God, do you?”
“I want no part of a God that would have you.”
“Always so self-righteous. Sometimes I think you must be angry at the entire world, Mrs Black.”
“Not the entire world.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I cannot believe that you really thought that extortion nonsense would work.”
“I was a desperate man.”
“Desperate enough to … eliminate my father?” I shuddered, thinking about how it must have been. The confession, the penance, the blessing. “Go with God, my son,” he might have said, just before ripping Father’s essence from him.
“He was already dead. I eased his torment. He was grateful.”
Grateful? I lay there and bit back the things I was going to say about these comments of his. “So you’re saying,” I said after a while, “your God will let you embark on a career in demonology and blackest magic, and even order the death of innocents, and, as long as you make all the right noises by way of confession and so forth, you can return to a state of grace? Is that right?”
“It’s more complex than that.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Your father had a lot to say.”
“You took advantage of him.”
“He needed to talk.”
I thought about my father, who had always been a well-meaning old chap, fairly capable, an asset to the government, if not to his family. I’m sure his fellow Cabinet Ministers saw more of him than we did at home. During those days, he always looked like a kettle about to boil.
“Well,” I said at last, “you seemed awfully keen to tell me the awful truth about my father and husband. Why not unburden yourself at last, now that you have me at such disadvantage?”
He hesitated. When he spoke, he sounded sad. “It is not an easy thing, having neither power nor hope, is it?”
He had a point but I did not wish him to see that. “All right. Don’t tell me. Fine.”
“Oh, but I want to tell you. I want to tell you all about it.”
“What — that my father was a traitor and my husband a spy? I know that already.” Which was not strictly true, but I was growing impatient.
It seemed to have the desired effect. “You know that your father was selling secrets to the Germans?”
I had not known it in quite so many words. Again, I worked to stay calm. “It seemed likely,” I said, thinking now about that late-night conversation with Gordon, in which he had first floated the preposterous notion that Father and Antony might have been involved in espionage. At the time it had seemed like such an extraordinary, fanciful notion. I had even been offended, if I recalled correctly.
Struggling to sleep these past several nights, I had spent a considerable time thinking about this, and how it must have been between Antony and my father. At some point, Antony must have made contact with Father, to let him know that he, Antony, knew about Father’s little secret, but he was not there to arrest Father. I didn’t know this for certain, but I knew it was common practice, to send disinformation back to the enemy. So it seemed plausible, at least, to think that Antony might have offered Father a chance to redeem himself this way. Father would have had much the same choice I had had: do as we ask, or face punishment for High Treason — which was execution by hanging. Father agreed to consider the extremely risky prospect of trying to fool his German masters. And then, one day, as Antony was working on Father, he came across me, and, possibly, saw what must have seemed like a golden opportunity. Get involved with the daughter in order to remain close to the target of the operation.
But then … Something happened. Father died. Near the anniversary of Mother’s death. Naturally, it had looked like all-too-understandable grief taking him. It had been his heart. I remembered that night, as Antony drove us to the hospital, hurtling along those narrow country roads, driving like a man possessed. He certainly looked at all times like a man desperately concerned about my father.
But then he would, wouldn’t he? That would be all part of the operation.
I remembered Father William’s note:
WHY DID YOUR HUSBAND KILL YOUR FATHER?
I could not say, and was not sure that I wanted to know. The question still disturbed me. The coroner said, at the time, that Father’s heart had failed him, and there were no suspicious circumstances. Father was getting on in years; he did not eat well; he was overweight; he liked his cigars and his wine rather too much. It all made a certain kind of sense. But, of course, it would make sense like that, wouldn’t it, if someone wanted to kill him and make it look like natural causes? Why would Antony kill Father, the proverbial goose that laid the golden eggs? The two of them had always seemed like such great chums. Had that been a performance for my benefit? Had Antony’s behaviour with me been as much a performance?
“It does rather eat at one’s sense of reality, does it not, Mrs Black?”
“Reality, these days, seems up for grabs,” I said.
“Who can you trust? Your husband? Your father? It’s all lies.”
I ignored this. “You changed your mind.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You changed your mind. You had the notes coming each day. But with the third note you asked for far too much money. Naturally I wasn’t about to give you money, and when your pet demon came by to see if I was playing along, you gave him instructions to hurt someone close to me.”
“I did need the money. The church is terribly run-down.”
“Yes, I’m sure. But not only did you have Variel kill my helpless Aunt Julia — ”
He interrupted, snorting, “ — Your Aunt Julia was in no way helpless, let me assure you.”
“ — But you then had this bright idea to set up a bizarre scenario in which you would have me framed for your murder!”
“Ah yes, of course.” He sounded pleased. His smell was worsening. I did not want to see how he must look now to be making a stink like that.
“Why the change of plan? Why not keep at me, picking off my staff, everyone else in my life, until I paid up?”
“Mrs Black,” he said after a long pause. “I have been a sick man for many years. Very, very sick. Dr Munz had kept me alive for years, and sent me to all the best specialists, up in Perth and elsewhere. Then, more recently, they told me there was nothing more they could do. I had one month, perhaps two, if I were lucky. If I were ‘blessed’. It was hopeless. Inoperable. I was riddled with it, they said. They showed me their X-rays, and even I could see it. Even I could see how God had betrayed me, when I needed His strength most. My whole life was collapsing around me. My whole life! The church was crumbling. People were no longer coming to Mass. ‘Oh no, that terrible War has shown us that God is irrelevant, He doesn’t matter, blah blah blah.’ And there I was, imprisoned in that pathetic little town, with these indifferent parishioners, no money, precious little hope, no matter how much or how often I prayed, kneeling there on the cold stone floor, begging for strength and guidance, begging like a pauper! I wrote and wrote to the Archbishop, telling him about my many excellent ideas for making the Church mean something again, to bring the people back … But no. The Old Boys Net
work wanted to keep me down, stuck in Pelican River, going nowhere. I wrote so many letters, so many fawning, begging letters … ”
He went on and on, angrier by the moment. It was just as I had been told. I did not dare point out that perhaps word of his occult adventures had leaked out, and that perhaps the Archbishop and the rest of the Church hierarchy were trying to keep him in Pelican River as a punishment — and perhaps as a means of quarantine. Because, and I knew this only too well, the Church would never actually sack anyone. Problematic people simply were moved out of harm’s way, so the Church could keep an eye on them. Telling him this would not have helped, though I was sorely tempted.
So there he was. Banished to Pelican River, starved of parishioners, frustrated beyond reason. And no sooner had he received his original diagnosis than I had come along, offending his every sensibility, and he mine, and I slapped him, hard enough almost to make him topple over, humiliating him in public. He sat and stewed away for years, thinking about me up on Frenchman’s Hill in my castle. How it ate at him! Then, recently, the hammer had come down on him, told he had only weeks or so to live, so he must have thought, What have I to lose now? A holy man so full of furious rage that he had decided, after that day, to plot against me. Then, one day while visiting the deadworld, he stumbled across the wandering guilt-ridden spirit of my poor father.
He went on, sounding a little more reasonable, now that he’d had a moment to gather himself. “I have long been interested in the unorthodox side of things. I was recruited to the Order during my third year at the Seminary.”
“The Order?”
“The Order of Pentacles, Mrs Black.”
I remembered Mr Brown telling me about Father William’s connections with other organisations and so forth.
My God, what have I stumbled into here?
“So you had me framed for your ‘murder’ … ”
“I was out of time!”
“You were out of your feeble mind!”
“Framing you was the better idea! In any case, I was dying, moment by precious moment … ”
“Julia said you were a poor wretch of a thing when she saw you. All confused, sitting on the tram, looking out at the city around you, wondering what on Earth had happened. You weren’t supposed to come here, were you? You knew about this place, but you still believed in the charcoal of your heart that when it was your turn, you would go to that other place, right? This must surely just be limbo, a way-station. Maybe there were further tests for you, things to prove? How confusing for you! It was all a terrible mistake. But there was no mistake, was there? You daily spat on your precious Bible, and you came here to torment the tormented, but you nevertheless believed in the Biblical afterlife, didn’t you? Godless heathens might wind up here, dazed and confused, but you, you were different. You were a man of God. And yet, here you are, just like the rest of us.”
All I heard for a while was his wet, sticky breathing. He’d lost his own poise. “It was a mistake! God betrayed me again!” He suffered another, withering, coughing fit.
“It must have been lovely, then, finding a friendly face on that tram.”
“Your Aunt Julia was a fine lady. In other circumstances … ”
I snorted. “My Aunt Julia pitied you.”
“She was a good listener.”
We said nothing for a long time. I heard him swallowing such tears as he was capable of expressing. I swallowed my own. He said, “She’s gone to a better place. A better place than … than this.”
“Damn you!” I managed, my voice hoarse, after a while. “Damn you and your lies.”
“Lies, Mrs Black? Fair enough. I have told many lies. But I can tell you one thing that’s absolutely true.”
I said nothing.
He went on. “Your father.”
“What now?”
“It wasn’t your father’s espionage for the Germans that he confessed to me. He dealt with that on his first day here, a decade or more ago. No. He had a greater, more serious burden weighing on him, Mrs Black.”
“There’s more? Even now, you continue to torment me?” I kept thinking of Mr Brown’s instruction to keep the bastard talking. Talking was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Your father. Yes. He told me to tell you he was sorry.”
I was confused. “I beg your pardon? What?”
“He was sorry, Mrs Black. The awful burden he carried with him, even after he had been absolved of his crimes, was you. He deeply regretted that he had not been a better father to you.”
I could not speak. Tears welled in my eyes. My heart pounded.
The wreck of Father William went on. “He told me he had always wanted a son, but instead had a daughter, a beautiful, intelligent young woman, and he had no notion of what to do with you. It kept him awake at night. He prayed for guidance. He didn’t understand. Before I took his soul, he had one final request. He wanted me to tell you that he loved you. I promised I would, if I had a chance.”
I was crying, but I managed to say, “Thank you.”
The doctor, a woman, arrived later. Father William had not left; he sat on an empty bunk nearby, spent, hardly able to breathe, wheezing moistly. I was alive with thought, and there was so much to take in, and to try to understand. Quite apart from what he’d told me about my father — could I believe him? Couldn’t he have simply been telling me what I most wanted to hear about my father? It was impossible to know one way or another. It was maddening. I wanted to believe him. I wanted that perhaps more than anything. I certainly wanted that more than I wanted to know everything else he’d told me. My father a traitor and spy. Antony the spy sent to recruit him. It made me sick to think about it, even now.
Then there was this other business. This “Order of Pentacles”, with their supernatural shock-troops; they were the other side, no doubt playing for control of all of reality. I burned inside, thinking about it. I seethed, like molten glass. This sad old remnant of a man was not the only one who knew about towering, all-consuming hatred.
I remembered my instructions. Had I drawn him out enough? Had I done enough to make sure Father William went down for the rest of whatever sort of life he had coming? For a moment I considered whether I should moderate my hatred, because after all he had told me my father loved me — the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like lies, and the worst of lies, for pretending at such intimacy. I could have killed him.
The doctor came in with a young, pretty nurse. Both looked worn out, as though they had been on duty for three days straight. Which made me wonder: just where were we? There were no windows in here that I could see from where I was parked. The air, reeking of antiseptic and of course Father William’s suppurations, was vile. No fresh air had been through here in a long time.
The nurse moved Father William to a corner of the room. “Come along then, Father. I’m just popping you over here for a bit. Is that all right?” He said nothing in return, but I heard sticky, wet movements and I caught a fresh waft of his smell. The doctor looked competent, about middle-aged, and wore a crisp white coat with stethoscope but no name-tag. I caught her glancing at Father William, and I suspected she would have preferred to carry out this procedure without his supervision. She smiled at me. It was that cool, polite smile doctors employ to “set the patient at ease”.
“How are we today, Mrs Black?” she said, snapping on rubber gloves.
“If you’re going to kill me, make it fast.”
The doctor smiled again; this time she looked genuinely amused. “I say, we’re not going to kill you.” Smiling, there was something about the doctor that looked odd. I stared at her as she busied herself with some sort of machinery behind me. I heard her giving the nurse complicated instructions, and getting impatient when the girl didn’t do things quickly enough. “No, Sister — like this!” She leaned across me, and adjusted something on a machine.
I said, “Would you at least do me the favour of telling me what’s going to happen?”
“O
f course, of course,” the doctor said, without coming back into sight. “We just need to decant your immortal soul. Shouldn’t take more than a moment.”
38
I laughed. I must have misheard her. It wouldn’t have surprised me. My mind was still spinning with everything Father William had told me. It was not every day that a woman learns that she has been a pawn in matters of international, and even supernatural, espionage, for example. Nor was it every day that she learns that her husband only used her to get to her father. Presumably, too, my father knew about this, and never once told me about it, as one might expect, and which further undermined Father William’s parting gift to me. So I was having a big day, one might say.
And yet, I was fairly sure that the doctor had just said that she proposed to take my immortal soul from me. It raised the question: what would become of me, once I had been relieved of this numinous burden? Would I be up and about in a few days, and taking gentle walks around the grounds of the hospital, perhaps, eating bland jellies and putting up a brave face when my relatives dropped by to provide a bit of moral support?
So, even as I heard an electric humming sound, growing in power, and as I watched the nurse, from the corner of my left eye, smearing some kind of eucalpytus-smelling gelid substance to the contacts of a thing that looked wickedly like it might attach to my head, I managed to inquire, quietly, “Excuse me … ”
The nurse looked up and smiled at me. “Yes, dear?”
I flashed for a terrible dizzying moment on a memory flood of Aunt Julia. And the last time I had seen her, she was evaporating into mist. Because those soldiers had shot her. There had been so much blood. At the time I had been too much in shock to even register this, but she had been full of blood, and it had gushed out everywhere, spreading over the expensive carpets, and even the blood had dissolved into that eerie mist. I remembered that now.
Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry. So very sorry. I was having trouble breathing.
The nurse was saying, “You’ll be just fine, Mrs Black. Nothing to worry about at all.”
Black Light Page 30
