A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  ‘More tea, Toby?’ said Diane, and Tobias could not prevent himself from smiling broadly. He had heard that phrase or permutations of it so many times at discreet and refined afternoon tea-parties given by stalwart old ladies, in black and lace (as befits pillars of the Church), that it had become a private joke among the clergy of Rugby and for all he knew, all over tea-drinking England.

  ‘What’s so funny about that, Toby?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Yes, please, I’ll have another cup.’ Toby’ was a recent addition to Diane’s vocabulary as she grew more confident, and Tobias saw no burning reason to correct her although he didn’t particularly like the name.

  It was a Saturday evening early in February 1983, and a rest day for Tobias which he had chosen to spend with Diane. They had both had a very pleasant time. In the morning they had walked, well wrapped against the cold, to the Cathedral and around the nearby hamlets before a cosy fireside lunch in an inn. Back in Rugby in the afternoon, they had done a little half-hearted shopping and as an extravagance Tobias had bought a large iced fruitcake for their tea.

  Just as they were preparing this meal, a courier knocked on the door and delivered a crinoline which Diane had been admiring that afternoon, and which Tobias had covertly purchased. It was no great sacrifice since between his stipend, opium income and other less regular sources of revenue, he was now reasonably secure. However, Diane’s reaction was not the expected one since, half-tearful and half-joyful, she tried to correct any implication that she consorted with Tobias purely to receive such presents. Accordingly, he had to convince her that no such idea had ever entered his head (this was true). This was done at length and, her point clearly made, she could give way to delight. Tobias was deeply untouched by such tedious explanations but on reflection felt himself lucky to have found such an honourably minded concubine.

  They had been together for fifteen months or so, sufficient time for any gossip (such as might be provoked by shopping together) to die down, and long enough even to dull the edge of Mrs Coley’s disapproval. Tobias had never anticipated a relationship of anywhere near this length, yet partly because no one else had caught his eye and partly because of her undeniable sweetness, they had gone on and on until it was an effort to conceive of life without her presence. In some vague sense he felt this to be somewhat threatening – to what he could not be sure, but it seemed incongruous to the main flow of his life. Yet he was loath to end it.

  He brought out the whisky decanter which was always the sign that he planned a domestic evening, and since this was Diane’s greatest delight she had grown to take a quite irrational pleasure just in the sight of the unremarkable glass vessel. Besides which, like Tobias, she had a great liking for alcohol, both in moderation and occasionally in excess.

  As they drank, he smoked and she (as ever) knitted – though Tobias had rarely seen a finished product of her labours. The fire glowed and the small parlour was warm. Tobias and Diane separately thought that at this moment, misgivings and anxieties forgotten, they were happy.

  Later on when silence began to pall, Tobias asked Diane to read aloud for a while (this was a way in which they often passed the evening), and she selected Waugh’s ‘The Temple at Thatch’, (which she knew to be a great favourite of his), from Tobias’ growing library. She had a pleasant enough voice and a good reading manner, derived from many desperate Sunday afternoons as a Sunday school teacher – a vile, cold memory.

  Tobias sprawled in his chair, satisfied and unneedful of defences. ‘Life,’ he considered, ‘or my life, is a very rich thing.’ He looked at Diane and she smiled.

  Later, after a particularly successful swiving, they lay in the bed that Diane now considered to be ‘theirs’ and studied the ceiling.

  ‘I’m very, very happy, Toby.’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a very pregnant pause.

  ‘And you are too, aren’t you?’

  Tobias was silent for a while.

  ‘Yes, I think I can honestly say that I am and I’m very thankful to you.’ For once Tobias spoke from the heart. Diane rolled over and clasped him very tight.

  ‘Careful, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘When you’re with me, just us, you’re so different, so gentle and nice, not like when you’re out in the world.’

  To please her he agreed, but he knew which was the real Tobias.

  Tobias sat in his study enjoying a cup of tea and some biscuits. His attention was engaged by the pentagram he had just chalked and painted on the floor. He had been checking this for fully ten minutes and was already satisfied with its completeness. Nevertheless he would allow another five minutes by the study clock, as he had previously decided, to make absolutely sure nothing had been omitted or incorrectly done. In the field of demonology, caution was Tobias’ master now.

  During his initial researches he had, needs must, used his Southwark notes and, to a much lesser extent, Sir Arthur Waite’s Book of Ceremonial Magic. But his subsequent work went beyond such sources, surpassed and corrected them. He had found that much of the elaborate ceremony which surrounded demon-summonings was superfluous and could be safely abandoned. At the same time some of the protective and dismissive rituals could be reinforced to give greater security to the magician. His greatest work was, however, in the field of naming the myriad spirits and powers available for help and consultation; by painstaking delving into confused, contradictory and always dogmatic texts, he had been able to abstract a number of concrete ceremonies and namings which were pared down to the necessities. With Diane acting as his secretary and typist, he had put his findings into a small monograph which, when he finally submitted his degree thesis, the See of Canterbury would be good enough to issue in a small print order thereby bringing Tobias’ name to a wider, and on the whole, appreciative audience. Needless to say he did not tell all that he knew or suspected as a result of his studies.

  On this April morning in 1983, he was putting his efforts to practical use. He finished his tea and using a taper he lit the candles which stood at each point of the pentagram. This done, he crossed to the door and made sure it was secure. Mrs Coley had been impressed with the news that he was not to be disturbed for any cause whatsoever. ‘Even if the house is burning down.’ Underneath her guise of unflappability, she had a deep and profound dread of magic; she took the hint and found an excuse to put off the upstairs cleaning until the next day.

  He chalked the customary square on the opposite wall and, since he valued comfort above dramatic effect, he took his desk chair and placed it in the middle of the pentagram. When he felt at ease, he took a small tin case from an inner recess of his gown and removed from it five thin circles of unleavened bread. Tobias had appropriated these blessed hosts (at great risk even to a priest) during his last mass and, despite himself, had to admit the awe which these holy sacraments generated in him out of their proper context. He set them down in a semicircle by his feet.

  At Southwark he had been taught a spell which, while ineffective in itself, was conducive to inducing a magical ‘atmosphere’; a catalyst to greater events as it were. Tobias had developed a version of this specifically applicable to demonology and he used it now.

  Little more was needed; the elaborate and wordy summonings that he had been forced to memorise at Southwark were unnecessary. All the requisite symbols were already on the pentagram and so those forces which he was confident were now observing him, knew precisely who and what was being summoned.

  ‘Barrow, come. You are required,’ he invoked.

  At once a tiny part of his brain flicked awake and was filled with something, or someone, that was not entirely Tobias. He had been noticed. It was a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

  ‘Come on, damn you. You’ll have to come eventually.’ Tobias leant forward in an irritated manner, picked up one of the hosts and ate it. ‘The longer the delay the less you get.’

  This seemed to be effective, for his mind returned fully to himself and the chalked square facing h
im began to show something that was more than wall.

  When the mist had cleared, Tobias could see a quite charming scene; the inventiveness and vanity of these unguessable forces never ceased to amaze him. He could afford to relax as this was but a minor summoning and quite safe to a man of his abilities and thoroughness.

  A windy, grassy cliff top had been revealed; white flowers dotted the thick lawn, while far below the sea was choppy and dark. Wherever this was, it was sunny and probably very early morning.

  A girl came into the angle of vision and walked along the cliff top towards him. She stopped just short of the ‘window’.

  Barrow was undoubtedly very pretty and smiled most disarmingly at Tobias.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in a sweet manner.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Tobias with his nicest smile.

  Her hair was very red and long, but he noticed it was dark at the roots – henna dye? Her teeth protruded and her eyes were slightly too large for her small round face and, as so often happened, these small faults combined to make a most pleasing whole. Barrow was very short and dressed in a long claret-red dress.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘The usual bargain, sealed by your solemn vow according to the black eminence in return for four bodies.’ He indicated the hosts by his feet. She seemed disappointed.

  ‘Oh; you know the bargain well, do you?’

  ‘Backwards and in mirror language, my dear, so I’m afraid truth must be your master for a while.’

  Barrow smiled again, seemingly reconciled.

  ‘OK then, three questions.’ She leant over the frame into the room and appeared completely at ease.

  Tobias stirred in his seat. ‘One: A Miles Bostok of Rugby, England, an opium addict, has been forcibly confined to a private bedlam by his family, where presumably he is undergoing agonies of withdrawal. What I want to know is whether he has revealed or will reveal my name as his supplier?’

  ‘He has not, and will not, as he hopes to leave his captivity and renew his addiction. However, he is very sick and weak and an infection will take him and cause him to die in twenty days from now.’

  ‘You vow as I have directed?’

  ‘I vow.’

  ‘Second: have I now got the necessary ritual and bindings established to summon in safety and then control and dismiss your kin, the demon known to man as Bellaston?’

  ‘Your researches have revealed to you the measures necessary to fetch, control and dismiss the force known to you as Bellaston, without risk to yourself, so long as all precautions are observed.’

  ‘You vow as I have directed?’

  ‘I so vow.’

  ‘Third: is Diane French of Rugby, England, truly pregnant and will the babe be born alive?’

  ‘Your seed has grown, Tobias, and Diane will bear you a live, bonny boy in seven months’ time. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. You vow as I have directed?’

  ‘I so vow, bring me the bodies please.’ Barrow once again fixed him with an innocent and winning smile.

  ‘Good try,’ said Tobias, ‘but I think I’ll stay in my nice safe pentagram, thank you.’

  Barrow blew him a kiss.

  Tobias replaced the four hosts in the tin box, tossed it through the window in the wall and as she bent to retrieve it, and so disappeared from view, he said the spell of dismissal. The window disappeared.

  Tobias felt pleased and satisfied that the summoning had gone so smoothly, but the news it had brought was mixed. Two heralds of good tidings and one of inconvenience.

  He would clear up, and then root out Mrs Coley from her hiding place in order to procure another pot of tea and then settle down in private for a long think.

  And later as he sat in the transformed study, considering what was to be done, he found his eyes and thoughts more and more dwelling on the black-fletched arrow which hung opposite his wicker chair, and all that it represented.

  CHAPTER 7

  In which our hero helps a friend in need.

  ‘Any chance of enlisting your assistance in this venture?’

  Phillip Chitty, at his most predatory and excited, was talking to Tobias who had come to visit him in his room at Castle Waith.

  ‘Why? Do you reckon you’ll need it?’

  ‘It’d help.’

  Tobias settled back in his chair and studied Phillip through slitted eyes. He was having to do some serious thinking quickly. At the end of it, everything was evenly balanced between yea and nay; when he added his personal inclination this just tipped the scales in favour of affirmative.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Phillip grinned broadly and slapped Tobias on the shoulder. ‘Good man – we’ll do a grand job on those bastards.’

  The illegitimates in question were a section of the small but highly regarded University College in Rugby, with whom Phillip had fallen into dispute and he proposed nothing less than their physical extinction.

  Chitty could not be said to be a violent or vindictive man, but he had very set views of personal honour, which when breached could bring him to a state of quite savage rage in which all restraints were set aside.

  The story was relatively simple. Several weeks before, Phillip had been in the company of one of his lady friends in a quite respectable eating house in town. Also present were a number of university hearties who formed a loose club which they termed ‘The Beau Monde’. This association of worthies were known for what was charitably termed ‘boisterous behaviour’, although when sober their tastes were known to extend to more cultural and commendable activities, such as political debates, poetry readings and so on. Some of the noblest-born undergraduates were known to patronise The Beau Monde. Surprisingly enough the unacknowledged leader of the group was a tutor at the university, a Professor Goring, whose lugubrious presence often graced some of their more discreet meetings. The University Senate, in its time-laden majesty, approved of this, seeing his influence as beneficial and restraining.

  Unfortunately this was not so. Goring was quite a young man by the standards of his profession, thirty-five or so, but had already rid himself of all his more worthy characteristics. Not that this in any way inhibited his career or social interaction, since his undeniable ability and natural propensity for ingratiation (when necessary) guaranteed rapid professional promotion and this in turn always assured him the supply of a certain type of friend. Within the university, and among certain members of the town council, he exerted a great deal of influence and in a wider sphere his unparalleled knowledge of the intricacies of Homer was greatly respected. This left him free to be as drunk and gratuitously offensive as he liked to those without similar repute or influence. In Phillip Chitty, however, he met the barrier that was destined to halt this charmed progress.

  The Beau Monde contingent, Professor Goring among them, were very drunk on the evening in question, but Chitty was no stranger to this state himself and paid them no attention. Later on, however, he had no choice but to do so when an empty bottle glanced off his head. The desire for destruction had mounted to the level where various pieces of crockery and cutlery were taking to the air (the weary manager was used to this and had retired to the safety of his kitchen where he would put an inflated estimate for breakages on the party’s bill).

  Phillip was in no such philosophical frame of mind and strode, incandescent with rage, to remonstrate with The Beau Monde. Sad to say, his protests were met with laughter which – his companion completely forgotten – Phillip chose to quench by upsetting their table and piling in with boots and fists.

  The manager, observing this, decided that his tolerance was exhausted and a kitchen boy was sent scurrying for the militia.

  Phillip had neglected to calculate the odds against him and when three officers of the militia arrived, they found him in a deep sleep. Of the six men he had fought, two were damaged. Not so Professor Goring, however, who was quite compos mentis, having quickly withdrawn from the fray. He was a known and respected town figure to
the militiamen and such was the glowing tale he spun that when Phillip woke up he found himself surrounded by the uncompromising walls of a prison cell. He was not in the least surprised to discover that none of his foes was suffering the same fate. When his headache had abated somewhat, he managed to convey who he was to the duty officer and earned himself more deferential treatment.

  By the time he was due to appear before the Magistrates with other unfortunates and undesirables that afternoon, he had had time to despatch a letter to the Castle. To his relief Paxton and Fidelio were present in court and gave fulsome character references. Phillip was just grateful he had resisted the temptation to use magic in the battle, otherwise he would have been facing altogether graver charges. Lord Waith’s name had a greatly soothing effect on the three bewigged Magistrates sitting on the Bench, but matters were not helped at all by a personal letter of complaint addressed to the Court from Goring at his most respectable and proper.

  Accordingly, Phillip should have been grateful that he was merely bound over to keep the peace and fined five shillings, but such warmth was far from his emotions at that time. Nor were his troubles over. George Paxton was severely chastising once they returned to the Castle, even when the true course of events had been explained and Phillip had to promise to bear ‘the good name of the Castle’ in mind at all times.

  It was the unfairness of it all that really rankled with him. Goring’s word had been accepted above his in Court and the nature of Phillip’s company that evening left him vulnerable to a one-sided view of events. That is to say, his female companion was not of the sort that could be produced in Court to make a favourable impression, and the restaurateur was too intimidated to stand for the truth. Phillip was in no doubt that if he had not been protected by the name of Waith, Goring and his cronies would have been able to secure his lengthy imprisonment. Deep and bitter poison was implanted within him.

  But Goring’s seemingly frivolous vindictiveness did not stop there. It transpired that he had sent letters roundly condemning Phillip to various town figures. The town council received one, so did the University Senate and the Dean Temporal at the Cathedral. Worst of all a letter from Lord Waith, away in London, made it clear that he had been contacted as well. Waith demanded clarification. It became clear that an effort was afoot to displace Chitty from his career and his home.