by Peter Laws
Abby whispered, ‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Simon Perry, he’s the vicar from Ched—’ He turned to her. ‘What’s wrong?’
She was staring at Perry. Eyes locked on him as he was shown to his chair. That sweet smile of hers had totally drained now. She kept watching him as his mic was rigged up. Perry’s eyes were on the crowd, and Freya Ellis mostly. Yet when he sat, he finally turned to his fellow guests. Abby was in the next chair and Matt was at the end. He waved at Matt and nodded a polite and chivalrous hello to Abby. She looked away.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ he asked her.
‘Fine … I’m just nervous.’
‘Right. Just don’t worry about him. He’s harmless.’
She attempted a smile. The type a kid does, when you leave them at a birthday party where they don’t know anybody. That trying-to-be-brave face that you see framed in the soft-play window, just as you drive off.
A floor manager suddenly hollered out, ‘Quiet on set. Rolling in one minute.’
Freya Ellis – her name sounded like a Hogwarts magic spell – was standing alone now, directly in front of a camera. She kept tugging her jacket into place.
‘Here we go,’ Abby whispered out the corner of her mouth. ‘Good luck, Matt.’
He whispered back, his own heart shifting up a gear. ‘And you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘We are live in five … four …’ The sweaty-looking producer only said the first two numbers. He silently mouthed the rest, theatrically counting the seconds with his fingers.
Four … three …
The lights went out.
Two … one …
Boom.
Hefty speakers burst into life, filling the studio with an instantly recognisable theme tune. The industrial drums (that global signifier of serious current debate) thumped and pounded as the spotlights faded up.
And suddenly, here he was, a fly trapped in live amber, securely set into the fake-believe world of hot lights and cross markers on the floor. A huge screen behind them suddenly flashed up an … oh great, he groaned inside … that iconic image from The Exorcist movie. The silhouette of Max von Sydow standing in a shaft of eerie light, spewing from a possessed girl’s bedroom window.
a possession epidemic? read the bold, capitalised, in-your-face, dammit-be-worried-people! lettering.
A camera, fixed to a long mechanical arm, did the show’s trademark swoop across the heads of the audience. It gathered up their eager applause and delivered it to the single spot in the centre of the flow, where the presenter stood bathed in a perfect circle of light. Freya Ellis had been a newsreader since the ’80s. She’d won awards for her fieldwork in Afghanistan, but for the last decade she’d really found her post-retirement niche in studio-based warfare.
The music dropped to its usual low beat for her opener.
She looked straight into the camera, arms folded, nose pushing straight through the screens of Britain. God help anybody watching this in 3D. Her voice was so husky you’d think she’d just caught a terrible strain of sexy bronchitis. It had been her ‘sound’ for decades, and it still made her the delight of grandads everywhere. ‘A think tank warns that working parents face unprecedented levels of pressure and are more at risk of depression or suicide than ever. Are those who juggle kids and career really the forgotten casualties in mental health? But first, a chilling murder case in Cheddington, Buckinghamshire today, which raises a topic one might expect to find only in the Middle Ages. Yet why are requests for exorcism growing today? Could we really be on the cusp of a … possession epidemic? That’s tonight, with me, Freya Ellis … this is The Exchange.’
Boom-ba-boom.
The lights instantly dimmed, and the screen had a new image on it. An epic, heavily filtered drone shot of rolling countryside hills, and then a house on the corner, Tom Riley’s place. Next shot, a reporter, standing at the front gate, her white shirt collar flapping like fishtails in the wind. She told the story of a local chef who had been ‘demonically driven’ to murder. Every sentence went up at the end into an implied question mark. It was their way of appearing balanced, Matt assumed. The screen now lingered on that wedding photo of Tom and Justine.
The scene switched to Reverend Perry sitting in a church pew, looking grave and serious. Only this wasn’t filmed in his own modest little clapboard church. There were no goggle-eyed puppets on these walls. It was the main Anglican church. Perhaps Perry wanted to make himself look higher up in the Christian food chain, or maybe, and Matt suspected this, the producers had seen that pink salmon carpet in Perry’s church and insisted on a more divine-looking backdrop. Whatever the case, he now sat, one arm resting casually on a pew, and he was beautifully lit by a stained-glass glow. Perry was in his early thirties, but on screen he looked five years younger.
His posh, old-Etonian accent boomed from the speakers. ‘The spiritual state of our country suggests that what happened to my friend Tom Riley will not be an isolated incident. The chances of another demonic murder, or indeed many? I would say they’re high. Great Britain … be on your guard.’
Boom-ba-boom.
Matt saw a camerawoman swing across the studio floor, like a dancer in the dark. Then Matt, Abby and Reverend Perry were slowly born under the rising of spotlights. He saw a tiny red light on the camera, pointing right at him, which made Matt’s mind explode with sudden questions.
Had he left his zip down?
Was there a hideous and unforgivable flake, quivering in his nostril?
He had a fierce urge to cross his legs and sniff hard, but now that other-worldly human – who he’d seen on screens since he was a kid – strode her long, and very real, trousered legs towards Perry, headmistress arms folded.
‘Reverend, you say that even if the police prove that Justine Riley died at the hands of her husband, you still claim he is innocent of any crime.’
Perry nodded, without nerves or hesitation. ‘Tom Riley was as much of a victim as she was. And the solution is not incarceration. It is a full and comprehensive exorcism.’
That word threw a nervous murmur into the audience.
‘And what makes you so convinced that Tom Riley was … as you say … possessed?’
Perry started reeling off the exact same reasons he’d given to Matt and Fenn today. Almost word for word. Tom’s aversion to religious symbols, the blasphemous licking of the Bible. As he listed these devilish symptoms, Matt looked across at Abby.
She sat there, listening politely, smoothing her jeans down, tilting her head in a patient, attentive way. He decided that sometimes you can just tell when people are nice, and decent. He could see it in her. Like a glow. But at times, when Perry said certain words, her eyelids fluttered. A barely perceptible twitch in the right corner of her lip. A microsecond of downturn, when the glow would fade. He kept a mental note of when these little spasms happened, and within about sixty seconds he’d built up a clearly discernible pattern. It was any time Perry mentioned the name Jesus or Christ or Lord or …
‘Abby Linh.’ Ellis took a step towards her. ‘You’re a healthy, twenty-five-year-old single mother. You work for a successful office cleaning company, but you’ve done a bit of fashion modelling. You hope to do more. Correct?’
‘Yes.’ It came out as a barely audible croak. She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Yes.’
‘And yet, you’ve recently requested an exorcism from your local church. Do you really believe that you are possessed?’
The audience shifted in their chair. Forwards.
‘Abby?’
‘When you say it out loud, it sounds crazy. And maybe I’m not possessed. Maybe it’s just in my head. But I might be. All I can say is that something’s changed this year.’
‘Tell us …’
‘Well …’ She glanced at the camera lens and slipped some of her long hair behind her ears. ‘I can’t step into a church any more. I have to cross the street to avoid priests. The thought of prayer or the sound of hym
ns makes me feel physically ill. I’ve felt a presence in my bedroom. And yes, I sometimes have horrible thoughts.’ She sat suddenly upright. ‘Though obviously nothing like this Tom Riley guy. Like, I need to make that clear. I’m not a danger to anybody—’
‘What about to yourself?’
She bit her lip, then slowly shook her head. ‘That’s not how it is with me. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just sometimes feel there’s something with me, or … in me. And if I touch a crucifix my fingers ache. I mean they throb. It’s very weird and I don’t like it.’
‘So, you requested an exorcism, from a church?’
‘Yes, but they refused.’
‘Why?’
‘They said my issues were pastoral. That exorcism was a dangerous relic of the past. They said I should just join them at a Sunday service, but I can’t get near the place. I mean, I see the entrance and want to throw up.’
‘Interesting … so we have a demand for exorcism and yet not all churches seem prepared to help.’ Ellis turned towards the camera again. ‘Well, we have two experts with us tonight, both from opposing sides of the argument.’
Here we go, Matt thought, and he turned his chair towards Perry, ready for a theological, one-on-one rumble. Only it turned out that the other expert wasn’t Reverend Perry at all. It was somebody else.
‘So, ladies and gentleman, may I introduce you to the world’s leading exorcist … Pastor Bernie Kissell.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Matt blinked with genuine surprise, but when he glanced across at Perry he seemed very chilled about it. He must have known Kissell was going to be on. Matt looked towards the curtains, waiting to see the infamous exorcist come striding out, but he saw Freya Ellis walk towards the screen instead. The camera followed her.
‘Over the last five years,’ she said, ‘Pastor Bernie Kissell has become one of the world’s leading deliverance ministers. Unaffiliated to any major denomination, he claims to have performed independent exorcisms on thousands of people, both face-to-face, but also, and perhaps controversially, over YouTube Live and Skype. Speaking through screens is therefore not new to him, which is just as well, because tonight he joins us live from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Pastor Kissell, are you there?’
The Exorcist image faded from the screen, and in its place came a backdrop video of a sunny city park. Superimposed in front of it was a skinny, smiley figure in a white, open-necked shirt. He had a comb-over which, considering he must be pushing sixty, was a deep, dark brown and almost certainly dyed. His wispy sideburns, however, were flecked with grey. He wore glasses too. Big aviator things with clear glass and thin silver frames. Maybe he’d just stepped off the gun range.
When she said his name, he smiled. Forget that … he beamed. Eyes wide, eyebrows up, mouth open in delight. Like a sweet old grandpa spotting his kids at the airport, or a jolly geography teacher seeing his birthday cake. What he certainly didn’t look like was the type of guy who’d drag a spitting demon from the souls of the damned. Forget Max von Sydow. This was the happy-go-lucky ship’s doctor from The Love Boat.
‘Mr Kissell,’ Ellis said, ‘welcome to The Exchange.’
‘Hey, call me Bernie, everybody does. And good evening, guys …’ He gave a goofy, kids’ TV show wave. ‘Though it’s actually pretty early here in the Keystone State. Behind me by the way, you’re seeing the beautiful Point State Park. And the joggers are jogging. It’s making me feel suitably out of shape, Freya.’ He slapped a hand off a stomach that lacked any excess fat at all.
‘Well, thank you for joining us on a cold, British night. So Bernie, in your recent book you claim that the demand for exorcism is exploding today. Which isn’t what we’d expect in a modern, secularised society.’
‘Well, the numbers don’t lie.’ He reached off camera, then raised a copy of his book for the screen. ‘My book, The Great Devouring, takes a Christian standpoint, sure, but only in the second half. In the first I’ve simply collated government statistics, health surveys and secular demographics, which do indeed show that the demand for exorcism not only persists today, it’s growing. Rapidly. And I don’t just mean here in the US. I’m talking about the entire globe. Including over there in England. Beautiful country, by the way. I adore your queen.’
Matt slid a quick gaze to the audience.
One or two looked bored or sceptical. They had that chewing-the-inner-cheek thing going on. Maybe they were just holding out for the promised fun of the depressed parents segment. But most were listening to Kissell intently. Some on the edge of their seat, and many … many looked scared.
Kissell went on, ‘Exorcism stats are up all across Europe, actually. For example, last month I was in a French region called Île-de-France, just out of Paris. Now, about a decade ago the church in that region was performing fifteen exorcisms a year. That’s still a lot, sure … but in the last few years that figure has shot up to fifty each year. That’s five-zero. It’s a huge leap. Or look at Italy. The Vatican have had to set up a telephone helpline to cope with the exorcism demand. You know, Father Vincenzo Taraborelli recently told the press that five hundred thousand people in Italy requested an exorcism in 2015. That is a mind-boggling number. Oh, and your own think tank, Theos, in the UK. Their recent report called the growth in exorcism demand “astonishing”. That’s their word, not mine. So, like it or not, and however you want to explain it, the fact is that it’s happening. Growing numbers are claiming to have been oppressed, or even possessed, by a demonic entity.’
Ellis glanced at the audience. ‘What you’re suggesting is rather disturbing, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely, but these folks are not monsters. We’re talking about afflicted people in pain. That’s what truly matters here. Human beings who need freedom … freedom in Christ.’
As soon as he said that, Abby pulled back in her chair.
Not by much. Just a slight and swift push back, and Matt saw that her left hand was trembling. She put her right hand over it. Like one hand was in charge, and the other wasn’t. He considered leaning over and asking if she was okay, but then, without warning, she spoke.
‘Mr Kissell?’ Abby said to the screen.
‘Hey kid.’ He smiled at the screen. If he was next to her he might have ruffled her hair. ‘You just call me Bernie, okay?’
‘Okay … I just wanted to know. Aren’t you scared? When you go head to head with these things?’
‘Often, yes. Heck, I’ve seen stuff that’ll turn your hair white. I’m not ashamed to admit that I sleep with the lights on some nights. But I know I’m safe with the Lord. And my mom always used to say a calling is a calling, and a need is a need. And that need is growing. I refuse to just dismiss or laugh off the pain of others. Like your pain, Abby. You know it just about breaks my heart to hear your struggle, and to think that your church wouldn’t even help you … dang. That’s cruel. That’s cold. You are a precious child of God and you’re doing the right thing by at least trying exorcism. I mean, come on, what harm can it do?’
The presenter did a swift turn towards Matt. ‘Professor Hunter, let’s bring you in here. You’ve heard the statistics. What’s your take?’
‘Well, good evening, and thanks for having me.’ Matt cleared his throat. ‘You know, I’d say that Pastor Kissell is quite right. The demand for exorcism is rising. I’ve been keeping an eye on the stats for a while now. Which is troubling, to say the least.’
‘Would you go so far as to call demonic possession a modern trend?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly this year’s fidget spinner’ – titters from the audience – ‘but yes, the rise is significant. It’s the reasons for that rise where I differ. I see the cause lying with psychology, not spirituality. In the brain, not the soul, if you will.’
Abby turned her seat towards him. ‘So you mean we’re all just mad?’ There was no malice in it. No defensive snap. Just a worried young woman, biting her lip.
‘That’s not a helpful word. I just mean the real ans
wer is in counselling or medication. There’s no shame in that.’
Kissell smiled. ‘So why is demand growing? Oh, and hi, Professor.’
‘Hi,’ Matt said. ‘Well, what’s particularly interesting is the theory that demand is rising because being possessed can be a more attractive prospect than being labelled mentally unwell.’
Reverend Perry leant forward, aghast. ‘Attractive? Are you kidding?’ He threw a horrified look at the audience and shook his head. ‘Folks, I saw what possession did to Tom Riley, and it was anything but attractive.’
Heads nodded in agreement, but up on the screen Kissell tapped a knuckle off his chin and said, ‘I’m intrigued, Professor. Carry on.’
‘Well, as I’m sure you’ll discuss in the second half of tonight’s programme, we have stigmatised mental illness in our culture. So much in fact that many of us are deeply fearful of ever being labelled with words like depression, anxiety or personality disorder. Now it’s completely normal for some of us to struggle with our mental health, just like our physical health. There’s nobody to blame and yet we live in a blame culture. So when we’re given these labels some of us blame ourselves. We say it’s our brain or our personality at fault. Now … by contrast, imagine that someone tells us that we’re not suffering from any mental illness at all. Instead, we’re told we’re demonically possessed. That our negative and unpredictable behaviour is not because of the inherent architecture, or the native chemistry of our brains. The problem isn’t inside of us. It’s an external foreign invader. Now that’s freaky and scary, don’t get me wrong. Yet for some it can be a liberating thought. They can blame someone else and not themselves.’
Abby’s shoulders dropped. ‘Are you saying I should blame myself?’
‘Absolutely not. I’m saying we needn’t blame anybody. Not ourselves, not a fictional demon. And yet we’re trapped in this blame culture. We are constantly looking for scapegoats.’ He looked across at Perry. ‘And I say this respectfully, but religious world views are notorious for blaming others for problems. Be that other humans who don’t believe, or when they blame mythical devils. Christianity itself throws all its pain on Jesus on the cross. The cosmic scapegoat, but, I digress …’
