Maps of Hell (8 page)

T
he shop wasn’t much more than a five-minute walk north from the U Street-Cardozo Station in northwest D.C. When talking on the phone to potential customers Monsieur Hexie played up his proximity to the hip bars and clubs on U Street, omitting to mention that his own street was less then safe after sunset. Not that he’d ever had a complaint. After all, he was in the business of selling supernatural power.

Monsieur Hexie’s Voodoo Supplies had been in Shaw since 1977. Before that, the owner had gone by his given name, Francois Robiche. His parents had originated in New Orleans and later had worked themselves to early death in the kitchens of the capital’s tourist hotels. In his teens, Francine had been a street hustler, his exotic looks and lithe body getting plenty of work. Eventually he saved enough to set himself up in the shop. He’d always been interested in what his
maman
called
“les pouvoirs secrets”
—the secret powers—and all he’d needed to do was read a few books to know more than his customers. A talent for self-advertisement had helped and soon Monsieur Hexie became a local character. The shop was in several D.C. guidebooks, as he’d paid the compilers under the table.

He sat at the back of the shop in the early evening, having closed up early.

Wednesday wasn’t usually his day for private business, but this client had been insistent—as well as amenable to the inflated price he’d quoted. Even though he was now sixty, Monsieur Hexie was still powerfully attractive and his involvement in the occult was an extra turn-on for many johns.

There was still half an hour before he had to shower and prepare himself. He spent that time reviewing inventory. His Monsieur Hexie dolls were doing well, as usual—the wax men and women, both black and white, came with a set of long, sharp pins. Candles were always a good sell, too, especially the ones in red wax. And, of course, the traditional herbs that he concocted into his own mixtures were trusted by many customers to solve problems of a sexual nature. All in all, things were going well, despite the prevailing financial climate. He had paid off the loan on the shop years ago and lived in the small apartment above, so he didn’t have many expenses. His only regret was that he’d never found a lover to settle down with, but he lived in hope.

Shooing away the stray black cat he’d named Satan—how the customers loved it when he called to the animal in the shop—Monsieur Hexie went to get ready. The apartment upstairs was cramped because a king-size bed took up much of the main room’s space. It was surrounded by black candles and incense jars, and above the pillows hung an expressionless face mask. Men got a big thrill from screwing beneath the zombie’s glassy-eyed stare. On the table by the window was the head of a moray eel that he’d had preserved. The fleshy jaws were wide apart. Monsieur Hexie slipped the wad of bills he’d removed from the till between them. It would take a brave thief to run the gauntlet of those needle-sharp teeth.

Sitting naked on the bed, Monsieur Hexie rubbed aromatic oil all over himself. The aroma was sweet and cloying, with a hint of rotten leaves. He knew from experience that johns couldn’t resist burying their noses in it, so he made sure that there was plenty on his chest and lower abdomen.

Monsieur Hexie glanced at the clock in the shape of New Orleans. He had timed things perfectly. The chime from the street door rang out. He told people it was the repeated clang of the single-note bell that sounded at the beginning of the voodoo service to raise the zombie king. The electrician had been instructed to set the device to keep ringing while visitors climbed the narrow stair to the apartment. The snake skeletons and goat skulls on the walls of the stairway were all part of the trip; they also made sure that the advantage was Monsieur Hexie’s, a state of affairs he did everything to sustain. More than once, Monsieur Hexie had been confronted by trembling men who had lost their nerve.

He slipped on an almost transparent silk robe over his sequined briefs and put on his high priest’s headdress: three black ostrich feathers attached to a snake skin that circled his head twice. Then he went to the spy hole in the door. It had been a long time since anyone had dared lay a rough hand on him, but he was too smart to take unnecessary risks. The white guy he peered out at looked normal enough. He was probably in his thirties and of average height, brown hair, possibly dyed, a face that was smooth and rather girlish. His leather jacket and the pale green shirt were smart enough, even if at odds with the john’s mild-mannered expression. If pressed, Monsieur Hexie would have said he was an office worker—an accountant or bank employee—trying to look cool in his free time.

He opened the door and extended a long leg. “Well, good evening, honey,” he said in his most come-hither tone. “Ready for the trip of your life?”

The john looked at his bare thigh with a show of interest. As he moved a hand toward it, Monsieur Hexie stepped back.

“What’s your name, darling?” he asked, smiling.

“Um…Pete,” came the unconvincing reply.

“Uh-huh,” Monsieur Hexie said. He grabbed his shirt-front and pulled him close. “And would you like a drink to warm you up on this chill evening, Pete?”

“Um…yeah.” The guy looked at him and then cast a glance around the room. He seemed less impressed than most johns by what he was wearing, and the crocodile heads didn’t make his eyes open wide, either. As for Satan, sitting on a cushion with his eyes half-closed, well…Pete was ignoring him completely. Monsieur Hexie wasn’t concerned. The liqueur he made from rum and herbs had never been known to fail. He handed the john a generous measure in a heavy crystal glass.

“To the powers of darkness,” he said, raising his glass.

The man stared at him like he was some kind of freak and eventually chinked glasses.

“Drink, child,” Monsieur Hexie said, licking his lips. “It’ll make you last all night.”

Pete lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a sip. “Nice,” he said, screwing his eyes up.

Cold fish,
Monsieur Hexie thought. Sounds different to what he did on the telephone. Much less eager. He stepped close and started to unfasten the john’s shirt buttons. He then shivered terminally as two sharp points pierced the skin of his back and ran through each of his kidneys.

The last thing Monsieur Hexie heard was a loud hiss from Satan as he scurried under the bed.

I
nside the gloom of the hut, I could make out very little. I felt around for a light switch before realizing there wouldn’t be power lines in the middle of the forest. My head bumped into a metal object. I stretched up, feeling a stab of pain from the wound I’d made in my upper arm, and found a hurricane lamp. I shook it and heard the splash of liquid inside. Now all I needed was a match.

After I’d banged my shins against a heavy wooden chair, I thought about opening a shutter to let in the last of the daylight. I stopped myself before I got to the nearest window. I couldn’t risk attracting attention. So instead, I started running my hands over all the surfaces, eventually finding matches in a wall holder. Putting a flame to the lamp’s wick, I looked around the single room that composed the ground floor. There was a kitchen on the rear wall—gas stove, plate holders, no fridge. There was also a waist-high cupboard. I strode over and pulled it open. Bingo. The shelves were stacked with cans and packets. I reached a hand down.

The sudden crack made me jump backward, and I yelped at the sudden pain. I held my right hand under the lamp. The index finger was in a trap, the size of which suggested that rats rather than mice were the local pest. I pried the spring-loaded wires apart and examined the livid welt across the finger. It hurt even more when I bent it, but I didn’t think it was broken. Then I remembered what I’d thought about things not getting any worse.

My stomach clenched and I realized I had to eat before I did anything else. Then I saw the wooden ladder that led up to a platform in the back half of the cabin. I clambered up it, my finger throbbing. A mattress covered most of the surface, and it was piled with discolored pillows, quilts and blankets. I dragged two blankets over and let them drop to the floor below. Although there was a fireplace with a pile of chopped wood next to it, I couldn’t risk lighting a fire. The only way I was going to get warm was by wrapping up well.

I pulled off the outer layers of rain-soaked clothing and hung it across chairs, then wrapped one blanket around me and the other over my shoulders. Fortunately, the material was thick and the shivers that had plagued me since I’d stopped running gradually disappeared. I went back to the food cupboard and rummaged around: canned tuna, chili and several different kinds of beans. I found a can opener in a drawer and settled down to a cold feast. It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. After I’d finished, I looked for something to drink. There were cans of beer and a bottle of whiskey. They were no use to me as I couldn’t risk blurring my senses. Then I found some sodas. I got through a couple before it occurred to me to examine them.

I checked the cans and bottles. The whiskey was from somewhere called Lynchburg, Tennessee, the tuna had been canned in Fort Lauderdale, FL, and the beans were from Pittsburgh, PA. I looked at the whiskey again. It was Jack Daniel’s. The black label and name rang a bell deep in my memory. I opened the bottle and took a sniff. A subtle aroma flooded my nostrils and suddenly I retched. I remembered—I had got horribly drunk on Jack Daniel’s, and I knew where. In a bar with a view of a great storied building with colonnades and a high dome. The name of the city flashed into my mind. Washington. Washington, D.C. Capital of the United States of America.

I rocked back on my heels and tried to come up with more. I caught glimpses of a scene in a bar, people laughing and cheering. But I couldn’t think who they were, or what I had been doing there. The only thing I knew for sure was that the bar was in Washington, near the seat of government. Did that mean I was in the United States now? I looked at the cans I’d emptied. Fort Lauderdale, FL. I sounded the letters
FL
together and immediately thought of the name Florida. Pittsburgh, PA, didn’t register, but the letters on some other products I took from the cupboard prompted names—IL, Illinois. CA, California. It wasn’t overwhelming proof that I was in the U.S.A., but it certainly seemed likely.

I stood up, feeling twinges in my knee. I needed rest badly. As I was heading for the ladder, I caught sight of a newspaper under the table. I picked it up and looked at the front page. It was a tabloid—that word popped into my brain instantly to describe the small newsprint pages—called the
Star Reporter.
The paper was dated May 12, 2008. I wasn’t sure if that was recent, but I had a feeling it was. A photo took up most of the front page, showing an underdressed woman standing by a horse. The headline was Senator Bares All to Stallion. According to the story, the forty-nine-year-old politician had been seen riding naked on a ranch in New Mexico, an allegation she strongly denied. I flicked through the paper. It was full of what I suspected were either invented or hugely exaggerated scandals.

I put the newspaper back where I’d found it and unhooked the oil lamp. As I headed for the ladder, I caught sight of my face in a small cracked mirror on the wall. My hair was cut short, under an inch in length. It was mainly black, but when I looked closer I saw some white hairs. My face was haggard, the skin tight over the cheekbones. I tried a smile and saw straight white teeth. I tried to imagine how an unbiased observer would have described my appearance. The best I could come up with was craggy.

I scrambled up the ladder, gripping the lamp’s wire handle in my teeth, and buried myself in the quilts. At last real warmth returned to my body, but it didn’t make me much happier. It wasn’t just that I was on the run from armed men, but the fact that I felt so alone. If I was in the U.S., as seemed likely, I was in a foreign country—I knew without being able to say why that I wasn’t American. I didn’t know if I had any friends here. Why had I been in the camp? What had been done to me?

I was a man without a past, running into a future I couldn’t predict—far from home, on my own, in despair. I put the lamp out and laid the pistol on the bare wooden floor. If I’d been more in control of myself, I’d have gone back down the ladder and opened the door. That would have given the impression that I’d been and gone—no one in their senses would have stayed in a cabin with the door ajar when the rain was pouring down and the temperature was low. But I couldn’t make myself get out of the warm cocoon.

Soon I fell into an uneasy and haunted sleep….

…The dark-haired girl is laughing.

“Come on, Dad,” she says, pulling my hand. “We’ll miss the film.” She starts running down the street and I’m forced to follow, shortening my stride so I don’t crash into her. We cross the road after a red double-decker bus passes. The cinema is lit up, people crowding the entrance. There are posters up for three screens.

I laugh.

“What?” the girl says, giving me a stern look.

“Nothing, Lucy,” I say. “It’s just that there are two Hollywood blockbusters on here and you want to see the Slovenian art-house film.”

“So?” she says, her cheeks suddenly on fire. “Not every thirteen-year-old wants to sit through rubbish.”

“You’re the world’s only such exception,” I say, and buy the tickets. We are directed up narrow stairs to a small screen that was obviously an afterthought. There must be all of three other patrons. As it turns out, there are five minutes before the program starts.

“How’s school?” I ask, offering her some chocolate-covered raisins.

“All right, I suppose.” She twists her lips. “The others don’t take it seriously enough.”

“You’re turning into a real little bluestocking.” I dig a finger into the flesh behind her knee.

“Stop it, Dad,” she says, pushing me away. “I’m too old for that.” She looks around in embarrassment. “Especially in public.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly solemn. “I’ll put in a call to the Metropolitan Police and have myself arrested.”

“Ha-ha.” She isn’t able to resist the raisins. “Anyway, you know everyone who counts in the police. You’d just get off, like you always do.”

I laugh. “Like I always do?”

“You-know-who looks after you,” she says, smirking.

I change the subject rapidly. “What’s so great about this film, anyway?”

Lucy puts on the horn-rimmed glasses she insisted on—the truth is, she loves the bluestocking look—and takes out a notepad and pen. “Well, it’s supposed to be a penetrating examination of peasant life in contemporary Slovenia and—”

I fake a yawn. “Oh, great. Listen, I’ll double your pocket money this week if we can change to the Tom Cruise film.”

“No,” she says firmly. “You watch far too many cop films. You need some proper culture.”

I fumble for a response. “How’s your mother?”

She looks away. “As if you care.”

“That’s not fair, Luce,” I say. “You don’t know everything that I feel about Caroline.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she says, giving me a superior glance. “Deep down you still love her, do you?” She snorts angrily. “The only time you show any concern about her is when we get targeted by one of the killers who keep chasing you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply, staring at a middle-aged woman a couple of rows in front of us. She keeps looking round and seems to be fascinated by Lucy. “I see your mother every weekend,” I say in a lower voice.

“Yes, and you hardly manage to say two civil words.”

I suddenly notice that her eyes are damp. “Oh, Luce, I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can.” Guilt crushes me. I know very well that the acrimonious divorce and the double nightmare of the White Devil and the Soul Collector have been far too much for her to cope with over the past five years. I put my arms round her. At first she resists, then she softens.

“It’s all right, Dad,” she whispers. “Come on, let’s go to the other film.”

I stay in my seat. “Oh, no you don’t. You wanted this movie and you’re going to sit through it to the bitter end.”

She jabs her elbow into my ribs and smiles, then looks avidly at the screen as the lights go down.

I lean toward her. “Be gentle if I start snoring,” I say in her ear.

My ribs take another pounding…

I woke up and found myself sweating beneath the heap of quilts. For a few moments, I had no idea where I was, then I remembered the cabin. I got my head clear and listened intently. There was nothing, not even any birdsong. It was obviously still night. I relaxed and started going over the dream. I knew for sure that the scene with me and the girl called Lucy, the girl who’d addressed me as Dad, had really happened. So I was a father. The realization hit me hard. I felt a tenderness well up. Now I knew there was something for me beyond the hell of the camp and the desperate chase through the forests. The idea that there was someone to stay alive for made me feel much stronger.

I thought about other things I’d remembered. I had been married to a woman called Caroline and was now divorced. Lucy referred to a “you-know-who,” which I had the strong feeling meant some woman I was now involved with, not that I could come up with any recollection of her. Was she in the police? Was that how she could protect me? I felt a wave of desolation break over me.

I got my breathing under control. At least I knew there was someone else in my life besides Lucy and an ex-wife. All I could hope was that my memory would work better with every day I spent away from the camp. I thought of the scene with Lucy again. The red bus. The name of the location flashed into my mind. London. I immediately knew the city was the capital of Great Britain. That was where I lived, I was also sure. But, then, what was I doing in the U.S.A.? Maybe that was just an illusion. Maybe the people in the camp had programmed me to remember things that weren’t true.

Sitting up, I slid my hand down to my knee. It was aching dully, but I couldn’t feel any external pain. Then my right index finger gave a twinge. I remembered the trap and moved the digit gingerly. If it didn’t function as it should, I’d be at a serious disadvantage when I had to pull the trigger, as I was sure I would have to. I couldn’t see what I could do. Splinting it would mean I couldn’t fire the rifle or the pistol at all.

I sank back into the inviting warmth and softness of the quilts and drifted back to sleep. This time I saw a man’s body peppered with bullets; a young woman hanging from the ceiling, her entrails touching the floor; an underground chamber painted to show all the horrors of hell; and a savage beast with yellow fangs leaping up at me—

I woke with a start. It wasn’t the dream that had roused me. I had heard the unmistakable sound of an ammunition clip being pressed home. I felt for my weapons and slid silently to the edge of the loft.