‘That’s what magi down the centuries have tried to discover. It has already happened naturally two or three times in our history. Do you know Julian Jayne’s book The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind?’
‘I missed that one,’ Watts said through his own mouthful of smoked salmon.
‘I’ve used it as the basis for a couple of my novels. It posits, among other things, that there was a time when we had two brains operating independently – you’re aware of discussion of left brain and right brain?’
‘I’ve heard something about it.’
‘In biblical times, when prophets or warriors heard the voice of God commanding them it was actually their left brain talking to them, although they didn’t realize that. They thought these voices were from outside them. As the brains fused these left brain commands became our consciences. By then the damage had been done in terms of establishing a belief in the existence of God or gods.’
‘You don’t believe in a God?’
‘I believe in the perfectibility of man.’
‘All men?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Which is why communism failed – and why, incidentally, everything else that ignores the existence of greed will fail.’
At that point the parrot raised its tail and shat down Avril’s blouse. She ignored it and carried on eating.
‘But everyone would be uncommon if they could access this full consciousness,’ Watts said.
Pearson was gulping down his food like a starving man. His mouth full again he said: ‘Could be, but won’t be because not everybody will be capable of accessing it – or have the inclination to do so.’
Pearson emptied the last of the wine into his glass. He waggled the bottle at his wife.
‘We’re going to need another.’
The flat stank. If Gilchrist didn’t throw up by the end of the evening she’d be impressed with herself. The flat also seemed to have been turned into a fortress. The front door was barricaded with furniture. A bar to fit across the inside of the back door was leaning against a wall in the kitchen. The walls were covered with blue-tacked pieces of paper with quotes from the Bible.
The bedroom was bare of any furniture. On the exposed wooden floor a pentacle had been drawn in chalk. At the tip of each point there was a glass bowl containing some blobby silver material and some kind of white crystals. There was a jug of water and a mat in the middle of the pentacle.
The Lord’s Prayer and the psalm about walking through the valley of the shadow of death but fearing no evil were handwritten on opposite walls.
Someone had spray-painted across them in red: Lucifer Has Risen. The walls in the sitting room were smeared with shit.
Gilchrist looked into the bathroom last, nervously because she was convinced she’d find the vicar dead in a bath of his own blood. She pushed the door open, took a deep breath and walked in. It was empty.
There was no sign of Andrew Callaghan anywhere in the flat.
She pondered what to do. She didn’t know for sure that a crime had been committed. However, the state of the flat certainly suggested something was amiss. She called for scenes of crime, then Bilson. She mentioned the shit on the walls. She started to tell Bilson about the shit that had been dropped on her when he interrupted.
‘Does the faeces on the wall look like it has been smeared pretty recently?’
‘Well, I’m not looking too closely but I don’t think so.’ She looked down at her leg. ‘I do have some on my leg that fits that bill, however.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Stress can exhibit in unpleasant ways. But you can get good pads these days, you know.’
‘Fuck off, you patronizing bastard.’
He chuckled. ‘If you believe it’s from the same person get a sample from the wall and another from your leg into plastic bags straight away.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s beyond your pay grade, Sarah, but it’s amazing where you can get DNA from these days.’
Feeling a bit of a wuss Gilchrist put a wodge of tissues over her nose and mouth and peered closely at the shit on the wall. It didn’t look particularly fresh. She went into the kitchen and got a couple of spoons from the cutlery drawer. Five minutes later she had the faeces in two separate evidence bags and the spoons in two others.
Pearson gazed fondly – lasciviously – at his wife. ‘First time I saw Avril was at a party for the launch of Sergeant Pepper. All the life-size cardboard cut-outs Peter Blake had done for the cover were around the room. I was arguing with that cunt Ronnie Laing about something or other. Ronnie was always an argumentative bugger but when he’d got a few Scotches inside him – which was most of the time – he’d argue about the colour of shite.
‘We both had bestselling books out that year. We were the two big-name thinkers in the room – except he didn’t know how to think. All that anti-psychiatry garbage. Therapy was just an excuse for him to shag all his patients.
‘Anyway, we were arguing, standing on either side of the cardboard cut-out of Aleister Crowley. And it was turning into a Morecambe and Wise sketch because we kept turning to Aleister to ask his opinion. We thought we were hilarious and we both knew this beautiful dolly bird, sitting on a white sofa nearby, her short dress virtually up to her waist, was watching and laughing.
‘She had great tits and these great legs and we had a bet on what colour her knickers were but we couldn’t quite see them. Then, as if guessing what we were up to she stood up and bent across the table for a cigarette lighter, showing us her lovely arse under the dress. And she wasn’t wearing any.’
Avril’s unwavering gaze was on Watts as Pearson told his story. ‘They were flesh-coloured,’ she said quietly.
Pearson didn’t hear. ‘I said to Ronnie: “I’ve got to fuck that.” “Me first,” he said, but I pushed him into Aleister Crowley. The two of them fell over and one of the security blokes came over, most concerned that Mr Blake’s artwork might be damaged. By then I was leading Avril into the cloakroom.’
He threw her what was intended to be a loving look but was definitely lascivious. Her eyes didn’t leave Watts as she said: ‘That’s right, Colin. You got to fuck that and you’ve been fucking it ever since.’
Watts looked down at his salmon. Way too much information.
THIRTEEN
It was dark by the time the scenes of crime officers arrived. Bilson arrived moments after. Gilchrist dangled the plastic bags at arm’s length. Bilson took them in passing as he headed into the flat.
‘And?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Valuable evidence in a piece of shit. The fresher the better, but it all tells a story. The perpetrator has virtually signed his or her name. One test I can do right now. Total long shot but we’ve got nothing to lose.’
He went off into the kitchen. Gilchrist followed. Bilson took a card from his bag and a couple of phials.
‘What was all that black magic stuff on the walls?’ he said.
‘I dread to think,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Especially as the tenant of the flat is a vicar.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Missing.’
‘So what crime is this the scene of?’
‘Maybe abduction. How are you getting on with DNA on the Wicker Man remains?’
Bilson gave her a look. ‘You think it’s this vicar?’
‘It’s crossed my mind. The victim cried out to God asking why he’d been forsaken.’ Gilchrist gestured round the flat. ‘Looks like this vicar felt pretty forsaken.’
‘Two sides of the same coin,’ Bilson said. He saw Gilchrist frown and gestured towards Lucifer Has Risen.
‘God and the Devil. If you believe in one, you’ve got to believe in the other.’
‘So I understand,’ Gilchrist murmured.
Bilson took a wooden spatula and spread some of the faecal matter on the card. Using a dropper he applied two drops of clear liquid to the sample.
‘This is going to freak you,’ Bilson said.
Gilchrist took a st
ep back. ‘Is it going to explode or something? I’ve already had shit on my legs once today.’
‘Ha,’ Bilson said as the liquid around the sample changed colour. ‘I meant the name of this test will freak you.’
‘Because?’
‘Because it’s called the faecal occult blood test.’ He glanced over and grinned. ‘Spooky, eh?’
‘Spooky.’
‘But occult just means hidden or concealed.’
Gilchrist nodded, looking down at the colour change on the sample. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘What’s going on here is that I’m virtually doing your job for you.’
‘Thanks. Which sample is this?’
‘The one that was dropped on you.’ He looked at her again. ‘Thanks? That’s it? Your acting status is about to become permanent and I get a throwaway thanks.’
‘What do you want?’
She saw his leer.
‘In your dreams.’
He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘You already are.’
‘Doctor Bilson – tell me more about this test.’
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘There is a God.’
‘Don’t you start. This test.’
‘It’s looking for hidden blood. Indicates colorectal cancer. And we have a hit. Your perpetrator may have cancer. Or not.’
‘What do you mean “or not”? You’re giving with one hand and taking away with the other.’
‘What better definition of life could you ask for?’
‘I’m not asking for any definition of life – that is definitely above my pay grade. I’m asking for help solving a possible crime.’
‘Colorectal cancer can definitively be indicated by blood in the stool – but not all blood in the stool is there because of colorectal cancer.’ Bilson ticked off his fingers as he spoke. ‘Anal fissures, colon polyps, peptic ulcers, ulcerative colitis, Crohn’s disease . . .’ He waggled the little finger of his other hand. ‘Or aspirin causing a stomach haemorrhage. All these cause blood in the stool. I’ll know more when I get back to the lab.’
‘Well, we’re in Brighton. Couldn’t it just be haemorrhoids from anal sex?’
‘No, this is hidden blood – haemorrhoidal blood stays on the outside. This is blood you can’t find with the naked eye. Hence occult.’
‘You can get DNA from this too?’
‘Sure. Bog-standard stool test – so to speak. And if there’s abnormal DNA from cancer or polyp cells we’ll know it.’
He opened the second bag of excrement. Gilchrist looked at Lucifer Has Risen scrawled across the wall.
‘Let’s see if we get the same result from this,’ Bilson said.
Gilchrist was trying not to breathe.
‘Bingo,’ Bilson said, waving the spatula in front of her. ‘Same result so the two samples probably came from the same intestine.’
‘Thanks, Bilson. And we need DNA from the flat to see if it matches the DNA from the burn victim.’
He nodded.
‘Have you seen those little bowls in the other room?’ Gilchrist said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know what’s in them?’
‘No, but I can find out. This guy was seriously scared if he was doing the whole pentacle thing.’
‘You know what it means?’
‘It means he was bonkers.’
‘But you know about a pentacle like that?’
‘It’s a refuge. If he stays inside it, the Devil or his minions can’t get at him – they can’t cross the threshold of it.’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘You’re into this stuff?’
Bilson shook his head. ‘I’m into the theatre. I saw the pre-West End touring production of Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out when it came through town last month. The big set piece is when the heroes take refuge inside a pentacle whilst the Aleister Crowley figure sends all kinds of horrors at them. The lighting effects were first rate.’
‘You constantly surprise me, Bilson,’ Gilchrist said.
He leered again. ‘Just give me half a chance.’
That night, the Goat of Mendes crept up on Brighton. Yard by yard, its shadow made slow, deliberate progress across the town. It stood on the rim of the Devil’s Dyke, arms outstretched, the sinking sun behind it, a low bank of clouds lying before it. It had the body of a man and the head and horns of a gigantic goat. It cast its shadow over Brighton and the sea beyond. Those who saw it fall upon them feared it. Those who didn’t see it would learn to fear it.
As the second bottle was drained, words tumbled out of Colin Pearson. He paused only for Avril to wheel the hairdryer away into a corner.
‘I’m very angry about Schopenhauer and Sartre because they so nearly got it but they stopped short. I am an existentialist. I do believe – as Sartre believed – that the world is a meaningless place. But for me that means we have to navigate it with our perceptions focused. And that is quite possible. Husserl taught us perception is intentional. You can hurl it like a javelin.’
His wife sat placidly looking at the television screen. Edward Woodward’s painful demise was growing ever closer, though in mime as the volume was still turned down.
At around eight thirty, Watts gave up on the idea of asking the questions he had come for answers to. He decided to leave and hope to come back another day. Woodward had long ago been burned to a cinder.
Pearson got up and excused himself to go to the toilet. As he left the room he called back: ‘I could have been a guru but it would have taken time away from what I want to do.’
Watts looked over at Avril, who was reading a gardening magazine, the parrot still on her shoulder.
‘I’d better make a move,’ he said.
‘He’ll expect you to stay,’ she said without looking up.
‘What time does he normally go to bed?’ Watts said.
‘He’s gone,’ she said. She glanced up and saw Watts’ look of surprise. ‘We’re not big on social niceties. He’ll want to talk to you in the morning.’
‘You mean stay stay?’
‘There’s a guest chalet in the back garden. It’s got everything you’ll need. We’re early risers in the summer and he’ll be impatient to start work so if you could aim to come in for breakfast by seven he’d appreciate it. He’ll want to show you around. And talk, of course.’
Watts didn’t want to stay but nor could he think of an immediate excuse. He stood.
‘Well, you probably want to get to bed too.’
She put her magazine down. ‘I’ll take you to the chalet.’
The parrot hopped off her shoulder when she stood. It perched on the back of her chair, its baleful eye on Watts as she led him into the kitchen. She picked up a screw-topped bottle of red and handed it to him with a glass.
‘In case you need a nightcap.’
‘I’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
She shrugged. ‘Then bring it back in the morning.’
They went out into the back garden. At intervals there were half-a-dozen garden sheds and a couple of bigger chalet-style sheds each with a small veranda.
‘He keeps books in the sheds,’ she said, stopping at the nearest chalet. It started to rain as she opened the door and stood aside to let him step in. She followed him inside and turned on a garish fluorescent light. She looked up at him. ‘Would you like me to suck your cock?’
He thought at first he’d misheard. Her face was still wearing that same placid expression. He glanced at the long dribble of yellow bird shit encrusted on her blouse.
‘That’s kind of you,’ he finally said, conscious of the ludicrousness of his remark.
‘I’m very good,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘I’m sure . . .’
She scrutinized his face then turned and opened the door. ‘Breakfast at seven,’ she said without turning, closing the door behind her. Watts stared at it. He was bewildered by the oddness of the whole evening but Avril’s offer had capped it. There had been no coyness or seductive tone in her voice. No lust. It had
been as matter-of-fact as if she’d been asking if he needed a towel. She had seemed indifferent to his response.
He turned and examined the chalet. Aside from a vase of lilies by the bed, the cloying scent of the flowers filling the room, it was a mess. Watts wasn’t particularly house-proud but even he recognized filth when he saw it. The floor was covered in crumbs. He opened a cupboard. It was full of filthy crockery. The reading lamp was a small strip of fluorescent tubing above the bed. Garden chairs and a barbecue had been haphazardly tossed into a corner.
Everything looked bodged. He pulled the duvet off the bed. There were crumbs and other unidentifiable things down the bottom. He touched the mattress. It was cold and damp.
He’d been in the army and was used to roughing it but even so he contemplated sneaking to his car, driving to the nearest hotel and coming back at the crack of dawn.
He went to the door and looked out at the hard rain now falling through the blackness. He went back inside the chalet.
FOURTEEN
‘Another day, another spooky happening in Brighton. Simon here. Last night, as many of you will have seen, the Devil cast his giant shadow over the city and far out to sea. I know, I know, but Simon is just paid to read this stuff. Blame my producer Kate – she wrote it. Actually, Simon didn’t see the shadow and he’s truly cheesed off – it’s not as if he was doing anything more interesting. No offence, Phil, if you’re tuned in. And if you’re not – why not?
‘Anyways, a giant man with the head of a goat cast a shadow some ten miles long – that’s my kind of guy – from somewhere on the Devil’s Dyke – naturally – over the city and out to sea. Kate, I have to say I’m finding this hard to comprehend but I know we’ve had lots of calls from people who saw it. People who are freaking out, quite frankly. Calm down, madam. Oh, except I’m freaking out too so carry on.’
‘Let me help you here, Simon,’ Kate said. ‘In certain atmospheric conditions this phenomenon is quite common.’
‘A man with the head of a goat casting an enormous shadow over the city is common? We have got to do something about the licensing hours here.’
Kate laughed. ‘The phenomenon is common. If someone is standing at a high point with a low sun behind them and clouds below them they cast an exaggerated shadow in front of them. The original is the Brocken Spectre. Those who know what that is perhaps weren’t too alarmed. Those who don’t were probably pretty spooked.’
The Devil's Moon Page 11
