Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Mr Garrett?’ Robyn repeated. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? You know about the Célèstines? You know what they do, and how they do it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ The voice was on the brink either of losing its temper or bursting into tears.

  ‘Mr Garrett, the Célèstines took your daughter, didn’t they?’

  There was a silence so lengthy that Charlie began to think that Mr Robert Garrett had let go of the telephone receiver and left it hanging. At last, however, the deep voice said, ‘The sheriff said I wasn’t to talk about it. He said it would make things worse for other runaways. They didn’t want to publicize the Célèstines because other kids would get to hear about them and the last thing they wanted was an epidemic of kids joining up.’

  There was another silence, and then the voice said, ‘The sheriff told me that nobody could have done more. I went to the place, I talked to her, they didn’t stop me talking to her, those bastards, they just stood around and smiled. She wouldn’t change her mind, though. She said it was the way to heaven, for Christ’s sake. The way to heaven!’

  Charlie spoke for the first time. ‘Mr Garrett, my name is Charlie McLean, I’ve been listening in.’

  ‘Who are you? Are you a cop, or what?’

  ‘I’m nobody. I’m a parent, like you. The Célèstines just got hold of my fifteen-year-old son.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I’m very sorry,’ said Robert Garrett. ‘What else can I say? I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Did you try to get your daughter out of there?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I went to that place with a sawed-off shotgun and I threatened to kill the whole lot of them unless they let my daughter go. They called the police and the police locked me up on a charge of threatening behaviour and illegal possession of a firearm. After that I went to my lawyer and I spent $12,000 of savings trying to get a writ to have her released into my custody. The courts turned me down flat. The judge said that she had joined the Célèstines voluntarily and that there was no evidence of mental disturbance. The rituals may have been unusual but they were entirely voluntary and undertaken without any persuasion or compulsion whatsoever. Furthermore, if he were to rule against the Célèstines he would be setting two dangerous legal precedents. One would be to make it possible for parents to interfere legally in the chosen worship of their children. The other would be to diminish the individual’s rights in respect of his or her own body. Parents could legally prevent their children from having cosmetic surgery, or indeed any surgery at all, and might even be able to reverse a child’s wishes to have his or her organs used after death for transplant purposes.’

  ‘You sound like you’ve memorized that ruling,’ said Robyn.

  ‘Memorized it? I didn’t have to memorize it. It’s engraved on my heart in letters an inch deep. I asked my attorney if it was worth going to appeal. He took me aside and said the word was that the Célèstines were well within the law and that they were supposed to be left alone. In fact, I’ll tell you how brightly the sun shines on those bastards. I went to your newspaper the Litchfield Sentinel with my story of what had happened and your editor listened very politely and do you know what happened? Well, you know what happened.’

  For the first time, Robyn was taken by surprise. ‘You actually talked to Ted Fellowship about the Célèstines? And he did nothing about it?’

  ‘Have you ever read a story about the Célèstines in any newspaper, or any magazine? Have you ever heard them mentioned on television? No, sir. Because the law can’t touch them, that’s why, and the law is too embarrassed to admit that they can get away with what they do.’

  Charlie said, ‘Robert? Can I call you Robert?’

  ‘You can call me Bob, that’s what everybody else calls me.’

  ‘Bob––my son’s in that place. I want to get him out.’

  ‘I sympathize, Charlie, believe me. I’ve been there. But you won’t stand a cat in hell’s chance.’

  ‘I got in there before.’

  ‘Sure, just like I did, when I first went looking for my daughter. They let you in on purpose, so that they can show you just what you’re up against. They want you to hear your own child saying no, I’m not coming back with you, dad, I’m staying right here, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  ‘Bob,’ said Charlie, ‘I have to try.’

  ‘You can try,’ Bob told him. ‘Nobody can stop you trying. But what can I tell you? There isn’t any future in it.’

  ‘Will you help me?’ Charlie asked him.

  Silence again. Robyn looked across at Charlie and Charlie could see the tension on her face.

  ‘Bob?’ said Charlie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bob. ‘The Célèstines are something I’ve been trying to forget.’

  ‘Bob, I understand, I really do. But with two of us, and somebody to drive a getaway car, I’m sure that we can do it. If you want money for doing it, I’ll pay you whatever I can. Bob, I have to get my son back. Nobody gave you any help, but if they had done, maybe you could have got your daughter out. Think about it, Bob. Those Célèstines have to be stopped sometime, by somebody. Maybe this is the time and we’re the people to do it.’

  Bob replied, ‘It’s late. Do you have a telephone number where I can reach you?’

  ‘Call here,’ put in Robyn. ‘If I’m not in, my parents will tell you where you can contact me.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Bob. ‘I want to toss this over in my mind. I’ll give you a call by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, yes or no.’

  ‘Bob,’ said Charlie, ‘thanks for listening.’

  ‘You got it,’ Bob told him, and hung up.

  Robyn picked up her glass of wine and came to sit next to Charlie on the couch. ‘I’m still in a state of shock,’ she said.

  ‘Because your editor knew about the Célèstines and didn’t print the story?’

  Robyn nodded. ‘I’ve suddenly found that my whole world has been turned upside down. How can I ever trust Ted again? I mean – what other stories has he spiked? I thought the press was free and fearless.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us is free and fearless,’ said Charlie. ‘Anyway, look at the time. I’ve got to get back to Allen’s Corners. I’m working on the assumption that Bob Garrett is going to help me, and that means I’ve got to make some arrangements. Plane tickets, and a rental car, and a gun. The gun’s going to present some problems.’

  Robyn said, ‘I can get you a gun.’

  Charlie set down his glass of wine. ‘Where is a sweet, innocent newspaper reporter like you going to get a gun?’

  ‘My editor keeps one in his desk. Some outraged reader came into his office with a knife once, and threatened to cut out his kidneys. He’s kept a gun ever since.’

  ‘He’s not about to lend it to you, is he?’

  ‘I can borrow it. He doesn’t get into the office until ten, and I know where he keeps the keys.’

  ‘Supposing he finds out? That’s not going to do your career any good, is it?’

  Robyn shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’m really too worried about working for a newspaper whose editor cans crucial stories just because they don’t happen to suit his personal convenience.’ She lowered her head so that Charlie could see the parting in her hair. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’ll get you the gun, and I’ll drive the car, too. A friend of mine has a Shelby Cobra, we can borrow that.’ She hesitated, and then she looked up at him. ‘Charlie, I want to help.’

  ‘You know the risks? It’s not just your job, there could be bullets flying around.’

  ‘I want to help. Don’t preach.’

  Charlie reached across the couch and took hold of Robyn’s hand and squeezed it. ‘In that case, I accept. Listen––I’ll get back to Allen’s Corners now. You have my number. Call me as soon as you hear from Bob Garrett. I’ll fix the plane tickets. You get hold of the gun and the car. Provided Bob Garrett agrees
to help––and, God, are you listening up there? Please lean on Bob Garrett and make him agree to help––we should be able to break into Le Reposoir at about noon tomorrow.’

  Robyn said, ‘Do one thing for me. Book three plane tickets.’

  ‘We’re going to California, and then to Mexico. I hope you understand that. I’m not at all sure we’re ever coming back.’

  ‘Ever since Carl, I’ve learned to take one day at a time.’

  ‘Carl was the spectacularly messy love affair?’

  ‘Carl was Adolf Hitler reincarnated as Robert Redford.’

  Charlie knew at that moment that something was happening between Robyn and himself; that they were both strongly attracted to each other. With luck, and a little prayer, the time might come when they could let that feeling of attraction loose. But right now, Charlie’s overwhelming priority was rescuing Martin. He did nothing more than lean forward and kiss Robyn on the forehead, and squeeze her hand again, and tell her, ‘I’ll be waiting to hear from you, right? And thanks for everything. Thanks for listening. Thanks for being sane.’

  ‘Carl never said that I was sane.’

  ‘Human society is riddled with bozos.’

  Charlie said goodnight to Mr and Mrs Harris and Robyn came to the kerb to see him off.

  ‘Don’t stay out here,’ he told her. ‘You’ll catch cold.’

  ‘Tomorrow we’re going to rescue your son like the Three Musketeers, and tonight you’re worried about me catching cold?’

  ‘Goodnight, Robyn.’ He smiled, and blew her a kiss. He U-turned in the road, and drove off. He glanced in his rear-view mirror as he reached the intersection, and she was still standing by the fence watching him go. He didn’t know whether to feel happy or apprehensive. He switched on the radio and listened to Tina Turner.

  He reached Allen’s Corners at half past midnight. The sloping green was silver under the full moon. The streets and the buildings were silver, too. Charlie was reminded of a poem his schoolteacher used to read when he was small, about the moon turning everything to silver. He parked outside Mrs Kemp’s house, switched off the radio, and dry-washed his face with his hands. For the first time since he had discovered that Martin was missing, he allowed himself to admit that he was totally exhausted.

  He was about to climb out of the car when he thought he saw something flicker beside the house. He frowned, and peered into the shadows. There was nothing there. He got out, closed the car door as quietly as he could, and locked it. It was then that he heard a rustling, scurrying sound, only about thirty or forty feet to his left, beside the trees. He froze, and stared, and listened intently. Slowly, silently, now the moon / Walks the night in her silver shoon––

  He took one step towards the front gate. Without any warning, the dwarfish hooded figure rushed out of the shadows straight towards him, in a hopping, tumbling, headlong gait, and collided with his legs. He fell backwards against the car, jabbing his hand up as he did so to push the dwarf away. But then he saw the hooked machete lifted in to the moonlight, and he twisted sideways just as the metal blade clanged against the hood of the car, and rolled across the sidewalk into the gutter.

  The dwarf hissed, and came rushing after him again. Charlie kicked at him, and felt his foot strike at the solid meat of his stubby thigh. The machete whistled, but Charlie heaved himself away, and the blade jarred against the sidewalk.

  With one more roll, Charlie somehow managed to scramble up on to his feet. The dwarf advanced, swinging the machete from side to side as if he were cutting grass, panting and whispering under his breath. All that Charlie could see inside the shadow of his hood was a pale nose and two glittering eyes.

  ‘You bastard,’ Charlie breathed at him. ‘You sawn-off runt.’

  The dwarf let out a piercing, effeminate shriek, and rushed at Charlie yet again. Charlie backed and dodged sideways, but the machete sang into his left thigh, wheeooo-smakk! and even though Charlie felt no pain, he knew that he was cut. He pivoted around and punched the dwarf in the side of his hood, so hard that the dwarf somersaulted over on to the ground.

  ‘Come on, you runt!’ Charlie yelled at him. ‘Come on, if that’s what you want! You want blood? All right, then, you can have some blood! Come on, runt!’

  The dwarf clung on to the side of Charlie’s car in an effort to heave himself back up on to his feet. Charlie kicked him mercilessly in the ribs, and he dropped to the sidewalk again. Then Charlie stepped on to his arm and knocked the machete out of his reach with a sideways sweep of his foot, and then reached down and seized hold of the dwarf’s robes.

  ‘You Goddamned half-assed –!’ he began. But the dwarf suddenly lifted his arms and dropped right out of his robes, falling heavily on to the ground with a noise like a sack of beets.

  ‘Scaaaarrccchh!’ the dwarf screamed, and glared at Charlie in venomous hate. Charlie stood where he was, paralyzed, still clutching the dwarf’s discarded robes. The dwarf – the creature that M. Musette had called ‘David’ – was standing in front of him wearing nothing but a tight cotton waistband.

  David was hideously white-faced, but his head was normal size. He was a mature young man of twenty-four or twenty-five, with wiry mid-brown hair. It was the sight of his body that had stopped Charlie dead, however. His arms had been severed below the elbows. He had been holding his machete by means of a leather strap around his right stump. His legs had been severed halfway down his thighs, and his stumps were protected by leather cups padded with the fibrous material that lined the hoods of cars. There were ugly scars and indentations all over his torso, where he must have cut out flesh for the Célèstine rituals; but worst of all, his genitals were missing. There was nothing but a bush of pubic hair, beneath which Charlie glimpsed a grotesquely twisted scar, a male vagina made out of purple knots. He took in every horrifying physical detail of this thing called David in the same way that he had made an instantaneous check of ten fingers and ten toes the moment that Martin had been born.

  ‘I will murder you, I promise!’ the dwarf shrieked at him, all teeth and spittle. Then he snatched at his robes, tearing them out of Charlie’s grasp, and hopped off into the shadow of the trees. Charlie stood where he was, breathing deeply. His left trouser leg was stained dark with blood, and glistening in the moonlight. He picked up the dwarf’s machete, and limped slowly up to the house.

  The front door was slightly ajar. Charlie knew straight away that something was wrong here, because Mrs Kemp had always been security conscious. He pushed open the door and hobbled inside, hefting the machete in his right hand. ‘Mrs Kemp?’ he called. ‘Are you okay? It’s Charlie, Mrs Kemp! Charlie McLean!’

  There was no reply. Charlie listened for a few seconds, then limped into the kitchen to see if Mrs Kemp was there. He switched on the fluorescent lights. They flickered and jolted and then came on full. The kitchen was deserted, but there was a smear of blood across the worktop, next to the rice jars.

  ‘Mrs Kemp?’ He went back to the hallway and climbed the stairs. The moon looked in through the window. One by one the casements catch / Her beams beneath the silvery thatch. Charlie reached the landing and hesitated, listening, listening, but there was no sound to be heard except a gurgling in the plumbing, and the faraway drone of an aeroplane.

  ‘Mrs Kemp, it’s Charlie,’ he said, although his voice was so hushed now that nobody could have heard it.

  He said ‘Mrs Kemp’ for the very last time as he opened her bedroom door and saw what the dwarf had done to her. After that, there was no point at all in calling her name.

  Mrs Kemp’s brass bed was a grisly raft of blood and chopped-up flesh. The stench of bile and blood and faeces was stunning. Mrs Kemp’s head had been almost completely severed, and was wedged between the side of the bed and the nightstand, staring wildly at nothing. All that connected her head to her torso was a thin web of skin, like the skin of a chicken’s neck. Her chest had been hacked apart, her breastbone broken, and her heart and her lungs and her liver chopped into gliste
ning ribbons. Her arms rose stiffly up on either side of her ribcage as if she were still trying to protect herself from the frenzied blows of the dwarf’s machete.

  Charlie couldn’t quite work out what had happened to the rest of her, and didn’t want to try. He could see heavy loops of pale intestine wound around the brass bedhead, and he could see one of Mrs Kemp’s feet lying on its side by the bureau, severed, but still wearing its pink slipper. He closed the door and then he stood on the landing and closed his eyes. He told himself that he was probably entering a state of shock; but that he had to keep on functioning, no matter what. The machete dropped out of his fingers on to the floor, and of course it didn’t occur to him that the handle now bore his fingerprints; and that the last person who had been seen in Mrs Kemp’s house, by no less a witness than Sheriff Norman Podmore, was him.

  All he could think of was the Célèstines; and the fact that they were prepared to kill people in order to protect themselves. Mrs Kemp, and him, too. And nobody would protect him against them, not even the police.

  He stumbled downstairs, and went out of the front door, slamming it hard behind him. Somehow he found himself sitting in the driving seat of his car. He started up the engine, turned around, and headed out of Allen’s Corners in the direction of Waterbury.

  The moon was gone now. Shock and exhaustion began to overwhelm him. He swerved from one side of the road to the other, and the Oldsmobile’s suspension groaned with every swerve. It was dark out there, he couldn’t see anything. Then he narrowly missed a roadside tree, his wheels bumping over grass hummocks and slews of gravel, and he pulled the car to a stop beside the road.

  ‘You’re going to kill yourself,’ he told his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  Hm, retorted his reflection, They’re going to kill you anyway. It depends what kind of death you prefer. A highway accident – restaurant prodnose dies in auto smash – or a homicide – food scrutineer chopped into American steak.

  He wanted to go on, but he forced himself to switch off the engine and douse the headlights. He needed sleep and he needed it badly. He shifted himself into the passenger seat and reclined it. Then he loosened his necktie and tried to make himself comfortable. Even an hour’s sleep would be better than no sleep at all.