Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  Cecil presses on through another door and Lydia follows him into a room lined with bookshelves, large potted plants and pieces of animals; a tail that might have belonged to a fox, an ivory horn, a rabbit’s foot. The plants, Lydia is surprised to find, seem to be in fine health. They may be the only things in the entire house not blanketed under a decade’s worth of dead skin cells. She reaches out and touches the deep emerald leaves of the nearest, a small tree in a colourful Greek vase. It feels cool, soft, hydrated. Alive.

  Cecil finally settles himself in one of two antique leather armchairs and gestures Lydia towards the other. Between them, a small table bearing a bowl of green apples. They look like they have been polished. Lydia has an odd vision of Cecil polishing these apples every day and her mind begins to analyse his behaviour before she checks herself. It’s your imagination, she chides. Don’t get distracted. A large ceiling fan revolves overhead, keeping the stale air at bay just enough so as to be tolerable.

  “Do you like my collection?” asks Cecil as Lydia settles herself in the chair.

  “It’s very…” Lydia searches for a word that won’t offend him. It is not easy. Most of the books seem so worn as to be on the verge of collapse, and the less said about the animal remains the better. Her eyes alight upon a collection of photographs. “Do you travel a lot?” she asks.

  “I used to,” he replies brightly, rubbing his hands together. “With my wife, Clarice. She…” his voice falters. “She died some years ago.” Lydia thinks he hears his own words as if for the first time. She wonders what it must be like to have your mind begin to fail, to have to remember afresh every day the bad things that have happened to you. To have to relive that grief over and over like a recurring nightmare. But she doesn’t feel sorry for him. Instead she fears for herself should it ever happen to her.

  “Cancer,” Cecil says, helplessly. The word interrupts Lydia’s thoughts. She has no words of comfort for him. “She was always the one who kept this place together.” He reaches out and touches one of the faded photographs gingerly.

  “That must have been very hard for you,” Lydia offers.

  “Yes…” Cecil seems to lose himself for a moment, then his eyes snap back to Lydia suddenly as if remembering she is there. “But enough about me,” he says briskly. “You came to hear about Jason.”

  “Right.” Lydia fishes her phone from her bag and taps and swipes her way to the recording app, then pauses as though considering her first question. In reality she has played this conversation out in her head half a dozen times already. “Why don’t you tell me when you two first met?” she asks finally.

  Cecil’s body stiffens. “I was seven years old,” he begins. “It was the beginning of the school year and Jason was new, so he didn’t know anybody. I told my mother about him, and she said that I should make friends with him because that was the kind thing to do. She said imagine if you didn’t know anybody, how lonely you’d be.”

  “Yes, Mrs Eagle said the two of you spent a lot of time together.”

  “Oh!” Cecil’s face lights up. “You spoke to Mrs Eagle? How is she?”

  Lydia hesitates. Be generous. “In good spirits.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” says Cecil, beaming. “She was my favourite teacher. Such a kind woman.”

  Maybe I caught her on a bad day, Lydia thinks, but she smiles back at him. “So, you and Jason were friends?” She has her notebook out now, resting it on her knee as she scribbles.

  “Best friends,” says Cecil. Lydia notes that he shows no sign of pleasure, as she might expect a person remembering their best friend to do. “We were always at each other’s houses. Our mothers got along very well. She is a lovely woman, his mother. It must have been so difficult for her.”

  “Why difficult?” asks Lydia quickly, seizing the thread.

  “Well,” says Cecil, “his father was long gone by then, and his brother died shortly before he started scho—”

  “His brother?” Lydia interrupts. She knows she shouldn’t; you get more useful details when you let people talk themselves out, but something is pinging the registers in her mind, alerting her that something here is important. Why has nobody mentioned Jason’s brother before? Not Gretchen, not Mrs Eagle or Alex or Jason himself, and she’s sure that none of the news reports mentioned him.

  “Yes,” Cecil replies, slightly taken aback. “Finley, his name was.”

  “And he died?”

  “Yes, but really this was all before I knew—”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Oh, it was all such a long time ago,” says Cecil, rubbing his head. “From what I remember, he and Jason were playing on Traveller’s Bridge, you know, over on the west side of Decanten when Finley… he fell into the river.”

  “How awful,” Lydia says. “And they couldn’t save him?”

  “Never found the body,” says Cecil, shaking his head. “The police looked for weeks my mother said, but they never found him. Anyway, Jason thought his mother blamed him for it.”

  “Surely not,” says Lydia. “A four-year-old child?”

  Cecil shrugs and sits back in his chair, adjusting his belt. “That’s what Jason used to say. That she blamed him for Finley and sometimes for his dad leaving too.”

  “Where did his father go?”

  “No idea,” says Cecil. “All I know is that wherever it was, he didn’t come back.”

  “I see,” says Lydia, her pen skimming across the surface of her notepad. “Then what about Jason? What was he like as a child?”

  Cecil slowly crosses one leg over the other and puts his hands on his knees, looking upward as though searching for a memory. “He was a quiet boy. Serious. But funny sometimes too, when no one else was around. He was clever, but never had any time for schoolwork or the teachers. Came to a point where he was getting into trouble every day.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Oh bullying, drugs, theft,” says Cecil, with a wave of his hand so as to suggest that the list goes on and on. “He fell in with a bad crowd. That’s when our friendship became…” he looks pointedly at Lydia, “strained.”

  “Was he violent?” asks Lydia.

  “Not exactly,” says Cecil. “Not at that time, anyway. But he used to draw some very weird things.”

  “What kind of things?” Lydia asks, a note of excitement in her voice. The psychology of art was a fascinating pool that she had delved into on several occasions.

  “Animals, people,” says Cecil, “but twisted, you know, grotesque. They were violent, those pictures.” His voice quivers, and Lydia recognises it straight away as the unmistakable distortion of fear.

  “I don’t suppose you have any of them?”

  “Gosh, no!” He looks at her like she’s crazy. “Even if I did, I would have thrown them away a long time ago. They were creepy. Especially after, you know, what happened.”

  “Of course.” Lydia can’t hide her disappointment.

  “Besides,” Cecil continues, “it was around that time I was barred from visiting his house.”

  “By Jason?”

  “His mother,” says Cecil. “Jason would invite me, but his mother would always make up some excuse why I couldn’t go.”

  “Do you know why?” asks Lydia, momentarily distracted by a large spider loitering on a shelf at the edge of her vision. Cecil shrugs, his palms facing upwards. “What was she like, his mother?” asks Lydia.

  Cecil scratches his face as he remembers. “Evelyn was her name. She was a theatre actress. Very flamboyant. His father was a costume designer. Used to make all her costumes, before he disappeared. I don’t know his name.” Cecil’s gaze shifts to a large, free-standing globe, thick with dust like everything else, one side of it dimly illuminated by the fading light creeping in through the window. “I’m sure something awful happened to him.”

  “Jason’s father?”

  Cecil shakes his head. “Jason,” he says. “He wasn’t evil when I knew him. He was just a child. A strange one,
sure. No angel.” He looks up at Lydia, and for the first time she sees grief behind those old eyes. “But those things they said he did, in the papers… the Jason I knew could never have done that.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Lydia asks, but not for her benefit. She’s heard this dozens of times before. People find it impossible to believe that someone they know is capable of terrible things. They rationalise that their friend or family member must have changed, or snapped. That the person who murdered somebody wasn’t the same person from their memories.

  “I just know,” Cecil replies, simply. “Jason was, well, always Jason, but he was no killer, it just didn’t seem within him. Even when he was doing bad things as a kid, there was, or rather seemed to be a degree of empathy I felt coming from him. But, people aren’t born evil, are they? Something happens to make them that way. Life changes us. Tests us. Some react well to that, and some badly.”

  Lydia jots down the quote. It isn’t exactly how she would have phrased it, but it’ll do. She can clean it up later.

  “Tell me, Miss Tune,” Cecil says, leaning forward and peering at Lydia, “from what you’ve learned so far, what do you think happened?”

  Lydia’s skin prickles. She is suddenly on edge. Was that a question born of genuine curiosity, or is Cecil Sprinkler toying with her? Maybe he knows more than he’s letting on. Maybe he and Jason aren’t as estranged as she thought. In which case, a small voice in her head tells her, you mustn’t let your suspicion show.

  “Honestly,” says Lydia with the lightest of shrugs, “I’ve only just begun looking into this, so I really couldn’t say.”

  “Have you met him yet?” asks Cecil, that note of fear back in his voice.

  “Briefly,” says Lydia. “I’m going back there tomorrow.”

  “It must be lonely in that place,” says Cecil, with a small shiver.

  “He didn’t strike me as the type who minds being alone,” says Lydia.

  “Yes, well,” Cecil replies, somewhat sadly, “it’s a little different when you don’t have a choice.”

  The words strike at Lydia’s heart like frozen daggers, and it takes her a moment to realise why. He’s talking about her. Cecil is alone because his wife died. Jason is alone because Mortem keeps him locked up in solitary. Lydia is lonely by choice. She stares at Cecil Sprinkler. Does he know? But Cecil simply smiles, benignly.

  “Yes,” says Lydia finally, finding her voice again. “I suppose it is.” She closes her notepad and slips it back into her bag, along with her phone. “Well,” she rises with a muffled squeak from the leather chair, “thank you for your time.”

  “Oh,” says Cecil, surprised. “Are you leaving already?”

  “Unless you have more to tell me?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He scratches his face again. “I was just rather enjoying the company, that’s all.”

  Lydia smiles. She knows people who would stay and chat to Cecil Sprinkler, have a cup of tea and let him reminisce about happier times. But she isn’t sentimental that way. She doesn’t get attached. You don’t care, a small, accusing voice bites in the back of her mind. Lydia banishes it with a shake of her head.

  “Well, let me walk you out at least,” he sighs.

  “Thank you,” Lydia says kindly, gesturing for him to lead the way.

  “I hope you can figure out where it all went wrong for Jason,” says Cecil as they pick their way back through the cluttered house. “It would be nice to finally find some…” he fishes for the right word.

  “Closure?” Lydia offers.

  “I was going to say peace,” says Cecil. “But it’s probably the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “More or less,” says Lydia as they reach the front door. “Well, thank you, Cecil,” she offers her hand for him to shake, “you’ve been most helpful.”

  “Not at all,” Cecil replies. He’s smiling, but Lydia has the distinct impression that something is still bothering him. She is halfway to her car when she hears her name. “Lydia!” Cecil hobbles over the gravel in his worn-out slippers.

  “Yes?”

  “He likes to play games,” says Cecil. He looks anxious. For himself, or for her, Lydia wonders.

  “What kind of games?”

  “Mind games,” Cecil replies. He glances around as though worried they might be being watched, which makes Lydia do the same. But there is no one in sight. “He likes to… to play with people.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Lydia, reaching into her bag for her phone. But before she can retrieve it, Cecil has begun backing away towards the house again. “Cecil?”

  “Just… just be careful,” he warns, before turning and disappearing back into the dusty darkness.

  Eight

  The Mask

  The devil only does business with willing clients.

  Lydia cannot remember where she first heard these words, but they swim in the forefront of her mind now as she sits opposite one of the most sadistic men the world has ever known. The Krimson Killer. Jason Devere.

  Frozen air from the vent above seeps into her lungs, making each breath feel like an effort, and causing both Lydia and her lethal company to exhale thick clouds of vapour that churn and spiral. Neither has spoken for several minutes. The stark metal table between them contrasts sharply with Jason’s grubby clothes and hair as he hunches over it, studying Lydia’s contract. The chains around his wrists gently clink and scrape as his fingers work the paper, rubbing, creasing, betraying his inner tension. He looks up, locks eyes with Lydia and smiles, licks his thumb and slowly turns the page. No wonder Gretchen called him dangerous, Lydia thinks. He has a feral quality that’s almost visceral. Cunning and powerful, with a jagged, broken aura that scrapes viciously against a reality to which he does not belong. He may be a prisoner, but he is free in ways that most people never will be.

  Lydia returns the smile politely. She is frustrated with Jason’s time-wasting, but knows that this is his intent and to show it would give him what he wants. It is imperative that she retain the upper hand. She remembers the warnings of Gretchen, Cecil and Alex. This monster likes to play games. Upon further evaluation, Lydia was beginning to find something strangely inauthentic about him. It felt as if he was playing a role, but who was it for? Her? The question nagged at the back of Lydia’s mind like an ice pick, jabbing away at her.

  Jason reaches the end of the final page and makes a performance of carefully returning the document to its original state neatly in front of him, perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table. Then he flips to the first page and begins reading again. Lydia sighs. Only softly, but the cold air scrapes her throat, amplifying her impatience. Jason does not seem to react, but then a few moments later he begins to hum quietly. A banal tune. Lydia feels her eye twitch.

  “What do you think?” she asks finally, unable to contain herself any longer. Jason holds up a hand signalling for her to wait. He reads on for another minute or so before finally granting her his attention.

  “I like to be thorough.” He smiles, then glances down at the paper again as his lips curl into a smirk. “Very pointed your notes, aren’t they? Very cold and clinical. There’s no poetry to them, they’re not lyrical, they don’t sing off the page.”

  “Is everything to your liking?” asks Lydia, business-like, denying his clumsy attempt to take control of the conversation.

  “For the moment.” Jason extends an open hand towards Lydia as far as his shackles will allow, and she flinches at the unexpected motion. He smiles, slowly. “Do you have a pen?”

  Lydia reaches down, fishes a slim silver pen from her bag and looks over to the guard watching them through the window for permission. He eyes the pen warily, but jerks his head in agreement.

  “Who do you think I am?” Jason asks, accepting the pen with a deliberate, slow movement. “Houdini?”

  “Their house,” says Lydia, inclining her head towards the guard, “their rules.”

  “Interesting,” says Jason, scratching a jagged,
staccato signature on the paper.

  “What is?”

  “You don’t seem like the type to follow rules,” he says, his cold eyes twinkling as he hands the pen back to her. Lydia shivers involuntarily. Is he flirting with her? Is this part of the game?

  “Shall we begin now?” she asks, choosing to ignore the compliment.

  “Whatever you like,” Jason replies. “I have no pressing engagements.”

  Lydia sets her phone on the table, out of his reach, and taps it to begin a new recording. “Tell me about your childhood,” she says, sitting back to observe her subject.

  “Oh, we’re starting from the top, are we?” Jason asks, sounding suddenly bored. “Well alright, but there really isn’t much to tell.”

  “Really?” Lydia asks, surprised.

  “Yep, pretty ordinary.” Jason sits back as well, mirroring Lydia’s posture. “Why, what were you expecting?”

  He’s challenging me, she thinks. He knows that I know something.

  “Alright,” Lydia presses on. “What about your family? Parents? Brother?”

  Jason shrugs. “What about them?”

  “Can you tell me anything about them?” Lydia asks, patiently.

  “Not much to tell,” Jason replies.

  “I see,” says Lydia. She pauses for a moment, then reaches back into her bag to retrieve something. She keeps the object deliberately hidden in her hand, and notices with satisfaction that Jason cranes his neck to try to see what it is. “Perhaps I can help jog your memory.”

  “Brought some toys, did you?” Jason asks, his chains clinking as he shifts, agitated, in his seat. “A taser, is it? Well, you needn’t bother. They’ve already tortured me here more times than I can count.”