by Thomas Emson
“I . . . I . . . ” Faultless forced the words out and they came in a growl. “I don’t . . . want a fucking . . . purpose . . . ”
“You have one,” said Lew, his lip curled. “You don’t have a choice. No one has a choice. Not even I have a choice. Creation is fraying. It’s becoming worse every day. I can’t do anything about it, or I would. I set it in motion only for them to corrupt it. Those good-for nothing humans I—”
“You made them, you bastard,” said Faultless, finally recognizing the situation he was in and acknowledging that he might actually be talking to God.
“I made them good,” said Lew. “I gave them every chance.”
“You put sin in them—by thinking it. By unleashing it on the world.”
“Well . . . I am not perfect. I was only meant to be a tribal deity, you know. Worshipped by desert people. But when I defeated the other gods, I was allowed to be a creator god. I did my best . . . ”
“This . . . this is all a nightmare. It’s . . . it’s not real . . . I’m dreaming it . . . ”
“It’s no dream, Charlie. You were born for a reason. You were made for something.”
Faultless looked around. He cared nothing for his purpose. He now wanted to die. He wanted this to end. He laid his head back against the cold stone and watched the doomed traipse down the tunnels. Thousands of them continued to stream through the caves. Some tried to beg like Folcci. Some tried to flee. But they all suffered like the Italian. They were crucified and mutilated. Some were flayed. Some had their bellies opened. They didn’t die, because they were already dead. But they hurt as if they were alive. Everywhere Faultless stared, there was terrible brutality.
Finally he asked, “What was I made for?”
“You were made to kill your brother.”
Chapter 105
SEND HIM BACK TO ME
Lew said, “That’s your judgment, Charlie. That’s the price you have to pay.”
Faultless was shaking with anger. “The price,” he said. “The price for what?”
“For your birth. For the murder you committed.”
“And how many have you committed?”
“But I’m God. I create and I destroy.”
Faultless sat slumped on the dusty ground. He rested his arms on his knees and his head hung low. He was beaten.
“How did he get to Barrowmore in the first place?” he said. “How did he get to Whitechapel? You, I guess?”
Lew shrugged. “Not me. I don’t have as much control as you might think. Now and again I do interfere. An earthquake, perhaps. Famine. The reason I interfere is that death on a massive scale oddly brings people back to me. I made a funny race in humans, I really did.” He paused and looked around his domain—his hell. “He wasn’t Jack when he came to England. He was someone else. He came with the Crusades in the 12th century. Those were fine days. Men really loved me back then. They murdered lavishly and inventively in my name.”
Hate welled up in Faultless.
Lew said, “Some of them came for a cup. You know the story? Holy Grail. The cup I was supposed to have drunk from during the Passover meal when I came to earth in human form.”
“And did you?” said Faultless, dislocated from reality now. I’m asking God questions about The Last Supper, he was thinking, while a madman’s laughter echoed through his mind.
“No. Never. I never came to earth in human form and sacrificed myself. Why would I do that? Why would I put myself through torture because men broke my rules?” Lew grunted, and his eyes glazed over. “He was called Yeshua, and he was a prophet. One of mine. People have called him Jesus. Made him a god. But he wasn’t. He was human. But he was crucified, and he was named the Christ, and his wounds still resonate.”
“The wounds of Christ . . . ”
“Those wounds were there from the beginning of time. Like everything I wrote down. Like everything I made. Nothing is random. They have meaning and power.”
“And the knights, they never found the cup?”
“Course not. It doesn’t exist. Just another story. But they did come back with original sin. Him—my first evil thought. A group of knights raided a Muslim fort in a place called Acre. Hundreds of years before, seers hunted Jack—as you call him—to that fort, and they trapped him there. This group of knights raid the fort. They steal the treasure—in my name, of course.”
“Makes it all right, then.”
“It does. But coiled up in the gold and jewels was him. He had free passage to England. And on the boat over he managed to get into some knight’s head who then spilled the blood that can unbind him—just like that little fellow Spencer did.”
Faultless said nothing for a while. He listened to the screams of the damned. Then he said, “So I kill him, and he’ll be gone?”
“He’ll be gone.”
“Where? Here?”
“Back into my heart, where I will love him tenderly and torture him endlessly.”
“And then there’s no evil?”
Lew raised his eyebrows. “Charlie, there will always be evil. It’s necessary. It counterbalances goodness. It’s vital.”
“But with him gone, there . . . ” He trailed off. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. He started to realize something, and the knowledge was like blades inside him. He stared at Lew. “I can’t be . . . you’re not . . . ”
“You’re his brother, Charlie. You’re evil’s evil twin, if you like. It’s why I thought you into existence. To carry out this task. You are the darkness that comes from my heart. Now you’re going to suffer for it.”
Part Seven
THE DARKNESS SHALL COVER ME
Chapter 106
BROTHER KILLS BROTHER
NEAR HAVILAH, MIDDLE EAST—PRE-HISTORY
The serpent watched from the palm groves.
The elder brother, who was named Havel, had killed a goat. Now he was skinning the animal.
The reek of blood filled the air. From his hiding place, the serpent smelled it, and it was beautiful.
The younger brother, Qayin, lurked nearby, watching Havel at work.
Qayin had a dark look in his eyes. The serpent recognized it. He knew it because it was his look. It was his name. It was up-elo. It would become the word “evil”.
Havel worked hard at skinning the goat. Havel always worked hard. There was goodness in him. More goodness than up-elo. More light than dark. The sin buried deep in his heart was hard to get to. It was easier to find Qayin’s sin. Havel loved Yahweh. He praised him and often brought offerings like this goat.
The serpent looked at Qayin again. The evil in the youngest brother shone. It glittered in his eyes. It was etched on his face. The serpent lusted for that look. He wanted to see it in every eye.
The serpent then became a man and slipped from his hiding place.
As he crept towards Qayin, he thought about his existence and cherished it. He had been there from the beginning, when Yahweh had thought of him.
Yahweh, like all gods, was not perfect. He was jealous, angry, wrathful, and cruel. He had made everything and had made it good—or what he considered good.
After creating everything in six days, Yahweh rested on the seventh. His intention was to have a good time with his wife, Asherah, queen of heaven. But that day, Asherah refused to go to bed with him.
She was angry. Her husband had ignored her for six days. He’d been busy making man and a place for man to live. And then he’d even made a mate for man to breed with. And so on the seventh day, when he went to Asherah and demanded that she give him her body, she said no.
Yahweh raged. Dark thoughts hurtled through his vast, infinite mind. They clashed like stars. They burned. They erupted. The debris from them mingled. And at the center of the chaos, some of the fragments fused together, and they attracted more pieces from the wreckage. And the splinters
of darkness welded into a power.
It welded into The First Evil, the up-elo.
It was so strong that it was spewed out of heaven and fell to earth. It crashed into the garden, where Yahweh had put man and his mate.
The First Evil made itself into a serpent and coiled around a tree. It was the one tree in the garden the man and his mate were forbidden to touch. The serpent thought it was stupid to put a forbidden thing in a place that was supposed to be paradise.
It was asking for trouble.
And as he expected, he managed to tempt the mate, the female of the man, to eat from fruit of the tree.
It caused uproar in heaven. Yahweh was outraged. His perfect little creation was flawed. He’d been shown to be a bad designer. Slivers of the evil he’d made when Asherah rejected him had entered the man and his mate. And it was easy, then, for the serpent to call on those slivers. After all, they were pieces of him.
Because they had disobeyed him, Yahweh threw man and his mate out of the garden. The serpent laughed. But he didn’t get everything his own way.
He was cursed. He was made a pariah. He would never find a place in heaven. Still, Yahweh loved him because he thought of him as a son. And because of that love, the serpent was allowed to live.
Another mistake by Yahweh.
You should’ve killed me then, he thought now, watching Qayin.
Over time, the serpent grew stronger. And when Qayin and Havel were growing up, he sensed a rage in the younger brother. He recognized the rage as himself—the piece of him coded into every human.
Now that fury would be unleashed.
Up-elo would show its power for the first time.
It would make brother kill brother.
He went to Qayin and whispered in his ear.
“Yahweh hates you.”
Qayin snarled. He never took his eyes off his brother. Havel was hanging the goat up. He had already lit a fire. The smoke billowed. Soon Havel would pray and offer the animal to Yahweh, and then the man would eat the flesh.
“He loves Havel more than he loves you,” the serpent whispered.
“And I hate him,” said Qayin.
“Havel has something that will make you strong. It is inside him. It shines. Yahweh loves it, and if you take it, you will be as strong as a god. Find it. I will be with you. I will give you the power to see it and take it. Look at him, Qayin. Look at Havel. Look at how good he is. Murder him and I will make you king.”
And Qayin murdered his brother. He cut open Havel’s belly. He raked out his brother’s intestines and organs. He scooped something else out. He lifted it to his face and gawped. It was a golden orb. Like an egg. It shone brightly. Qayin held it up to heaven and said, “See? See this you gave to my brother? Now I have it.”
The serpent moved like lightning—a shadow sweeping across the landscape. He snatched the orb from Qayin’s hands and crammed it into his mouth. Gold liquid dribbled down his chin, and he chewed. The orb was soft and broke easily on his teeth. It tasted like honey.
The serpent swallowed the golden orb.
He swallowed Havel’s soul.
And already he felt stronger.
He dashed away, leaving a shocked Qayin to Yahweh and his wrath.
Chapter 107
THE GHOST
“Do you want me to drive?” said Jasmine.
Spencer said, “I can do it.”
“Well, you can’t. You’ve had five goes, and you’ve stalled it every time.”
“You’re ten—”
“Eleven and a half, and my mum’s going to get killed.”
Jasmine was trying to be calm. Inside, she was frantic, but her voice remained steady and she wasn’t shouting or screaming. She was doing her best to concentrate. But it was difficult for many reasons. First, the car was stolen, and the owner could storm out of his house any second. Second, Spencer didn’t have a clue what he was doing, and letting him drive might be dangerous. Third, she might never see her mother again.
Finally, Spencer got going. The car jerked and jumped a lot, but they made it to Commercial Street. It was late at night, but pedestrians and traffic still made the road busy.
“Which way, then?” said Spencer.
She pointed right, and Spencer joined the traffic. He drove nervously. He was sweating, Jasmine could smell it. But she tried her best to ignore him. Her heart was about to explode. She trembled but tried to master her fear.
If she lost her cool, she would lose her mum.
Jasmine knew what being psychic meant. Everyone at school believed in it. Why shouldn’t it be true? Why shouldn’t she be one? Some girls had mums who were mediums or clairvoyants. One girl had a mum who ran a New Age shop selling crystals and tarot cards and incense. So it was obvious that being psychic was possible. Jasmine had never thought it was possible for her.
But it was.
I’m special, she thought. I’m gifted.
A little voice inside kept trying to say she wasn’t special. But she had to believe she was. She had to believe she could see things with her mind.
She could see evil.
She gasped for breath. Spencer drove badly. Cars horns blared. A cabbie mouthed “wanker” at him. But he kept going, licking his lips and whimpering.
Jasmine closed her eyes and concentrated. In her mind, she trawled the streets. Somewhere in the distance, darkness waited for her. She could sense it. The coldness of it made her shake. The blackness of it made her sweat.
Something that felt like electricity suddenly flooded her veins, and she opened her eyes. On the left stood a pub. It was the Ten Bells. It looked rough.
Jasmine’s heart thundered.
“Stop here,” she said to Spencer.
“Here?” he said.
They were in the middle of the road.
Before he could do anything, she started to open the door. He shouted at her not to. The car veered to the right. The door flew open. Jasmine rolled out, hitting the asphalt hard. She jarred her shoulder, and it hurt for a second, but she quickly forgot the pain and leapt to her feet.
Spencer ran the car into the side of a bus. Everyone was shouting and screaming. Horns wailed. Tires skidded. Curses flew. Jasmine kept going, entering Fournier Street, which ran alongside the Ten Bells.
She sensed the havoc she’d left behind. Spencer was caught in the middle of it. She felt sorry for him, but her mother was more important. She never turned back to look.
Although she had no idea where she was going, Jasmine started to head down Fournier Street.
But as she went, ghosts appeared.
She stopped in her tracks, terrified.
Despite the shouts and screams filling Commercial Street as a result of Spencer’s accident, her eyes were locked on another unreal scene of chaos.
There was a riot. But it was silent. And those fighting were transparent.
They were ghosts.
They wore old-fashioned clothes. Men with cloth caps battled with big, burly policemen. Women with long dresses and hats clawed at each other. Fists and boots flew.
Jasmine stepped forward, and it was as if she walked right through the figures.
They’re not here, she thought. Only in my mind.
It scared her. And when she moved into the brawl, she could feel the ghosts pass through her—cold and clammy in her bones and blood.
A man bleeding from beneath his flat cap knelt over a policeman. The copper was big, with red whiskers. His eyes were wide and glittery, and his mouth was open, panting for breath. The bleeding man pressed something into the officers belly, and Jasmine heard him say, “Keep your hands there.”
Then he leapt to his feet, a knife in his hand. He spun round, ready to escape the scene.
But he looked straight at Jasmine and stopped.
She was frozen to t
he spot. He stared right at her. He was seeing her, she could tell. His eyes flashed. He reached out a hand to her. She reached out to him. It was as if Jasmine knew the man. She felt a connection with him. She felt like she was part of him.
He said, “Go and save her, little seer.”
And then he ran past her, looking into her eyes. She turned, her gaze following the ghost, and he headed into Commercial Street, where he faded away. Jasmine faced the brawl again, wondering if the policeman was all right. But he, like the ghost who spoke to her, had gone. They had all gone. Just Fournier Street with its cars and its buildings remained.
The ghosts voice echoed in her head.
Go save her, little seer.
Jasmine turned and ran back into Commercial Street and through the chaos left by Spencer.
Chapter 108
HELL’S THING
The guards with skull helmets chained Faultless to a wall. The red-hot stone burned his back. He screamed. He smelled his flesh burn.
“What is this for?” he said.
The guards branded Faultless. They wrote on his body with ink and with his own blood. They painted symbols and words from dead languages all over him. His body steamed. Sweat poured off him. Blood smeared in the perspiration. He screamed.
“These are ancient marks of judgment,” said Lew. “You are hell’s thing. Everything that comes here knows pain, so you must know it, too. There’s none of the humanity given to you by your surrogate mother left. You are an angel again. Does it hurt?”
“Fuck you. This is nothing. I’ve been fucking blowtorched.”
“That was playing.”
Faultless’s body ached all over. Every inch of him was in on fire. He tried to stay upright, but his legs were weak. He panted, desperate for air. “Am I still alive?” he said.
“Do you feel alive?” asked Lew.
“I feel alive.”
“There’s your answer.”
