Sam: A Novel Of Suspense (4 page)

“What’s
wrong with him exactly?”

“If
only I knew.  Sammie was such a sweet, energetic little boy, but about nine
months ago he awoke in the night screaming, yelling that something was inside
of him.  Of course, my husband and I put it down to a bad dream, but the
following morning Sammie was sullen and pale, as if he had come down with some
wretched flu.  He’s been like that ever since, and now he barely eats or sleeps
either.”

Angela
placed her whisky down on the glass table.  “I still don’t see why that would
make you seek
me
out.”

“Because
you were an exorcist for the Church of England.  You performed more than one
hundred exorcisms, yes?”

Angela
picked up her whisky again and took a large sip.  She let out a sigh.  “It was
more like thirty in actual fact, but the church only conducts exorcisms to
bring people peace-of-mind anyway.  A bit of dodgy plumbing or noises in the
night and people think demons are to blame.  It’s usually nothing more than a
mask for other underlying problems that people don’t wish to confront.  But
it’s a good way for the church to take advantage of people and gain their
faith, so they perform their rituals and flick their holy water. I was a part
of that charade, yes, and nine times out of ten, an exorcism is merely
theatrics – like most things in the church to be honest.  You’d be better off
using all your money to find a medical specialist.  Your son sounds very
poorly.”

Jessica
smiled knowingly.  “Nine times out of ten – so what about that one out of ten
that is more than just
theatrics?”

“I
don’t know,” Angela admitted.  “Scam artists, schizophrenia, unknown
phenomena?  What are you getting at?”

“I
know about Jersey, Miss Murs, and I know that there is more to what went on
there than what the papers reported.  I know that you’ve dealt with evil
before.  You know that it exists.”

Angela
started to rise from her chair.  “Look, I’m very sorry, but I think it was a
mistake me coming here.”

Jessica
reached out and grabbed Angela’s wrist.  There was pleading in her almond
eyes.  “Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

Angela
sighed. She never could resist a plea for help.  She sat back down.

Jessica
smiled but seemed close to tears.  “Thank you.”

“Go
on then,” said Angela.  “Tell me what you have to.”

“Okay. 
Well, Sammie has been sickly since the time he had that nightmare – about
something being inside of him – but that’s not all that’s happened.  Sometimes
it’s like he’s somebody else, somebody older.  He uses language that he’s never
been taught and sometimes he…swears.  Such filthy language that you wouldn’t
believe it.  Then there’re all the accidents.”

“Accidents?”

Jessica
nodded.  “There’s a reason for there being no staff around here anymore: they
all left. The ones that were still in one piece, anyway.  Our chef, Nicholas
slipped while carrying a pan full of boiling pasta.  One of the maids tumbled
down the stairs and broke her neck like a twig. Our gardener lost two fingers
to his own shears and managed to blind himself in one eye. And my husband…my
husband hung himself, which is something he would never have done.”

“I’ve
seen a lot of suicides in my time,” said Angela.  “Anyone is capable.”

“With
all due respect, Miss Murs, my late husband was Joseph Raymeady, son of Wesley
Raymeady, one of the original founders of Black Remedy Corporation, the largest
commercial entity in the world.  My husband, like his father, was one of the
wealthiest and most driven men in the history of our world.  Suicide to him was
the same as failure, and failure was never an option to my husband.”

Angela’s
eyes widened.  “Your husband owned Black Remedy?  Well then there are many
reasons he may have felt guilty enough to take his own life.  That company has
been indicted for everything from child labour to illegal arms dealing.  I’ve
heard that the only reason they’re still even allowed to trade is because they
buy-off governments like most companies buy stationary.”

“My
husband was trying to change all that.  His father was in charge of the company
until his death seven years ago.  Since then, Joseph was trying to clean up the
company’s ethics.  Black Remedy donated more than six-hundred million pounds to
charity in the last three years.  That’s more than the entire fifty-odd years that
preceded it combined.  My husband was a good man, and he loved his family.  He
would not have hung himself. There’s just no way.”

“Okay,”
Angela said. “While I admit that the amount of accidents that you’ve had
recently is unfortunate, I don’t see what makes you believe you need an
exorcism performed?”

“
This
does.”  Jessica reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a dog-eared
notebook.  It was small, about the size of an address book.  She slid it across
the table to Angela.  “Open it.”

Angela
did as she was asked and was immediately shocked by the very first page she
turned to.  It was covered in the erratic scrawls of a child: crayoned pictures
and pencilled words co-mingling in a tapestry of graffiti.  The images featured
symbols she didn’t recognise and several depictions of winged beasts.  Most
disturbing, though, was what the words said.  Several short sentences mentioned
such disturbing things as:
TAINtedsoUL, No eScape, He iSABYSS, SEekSAlvation.
HeLp ME.
Eventually Angela’s eyes fell across something in the lower corner
of the page that chilled her bones to the marrow.  Written in neat, full
capitals, so that it stood out more than any other words, was the plea: BRING THE
PRIEST.  BRING ANGELA MURS.

CHAPTER FOUR

After
one more glass of sixteen-year old whisky to calm her nerves, Angela had agreed
to stay at the house, at least until morning.  The notebook with her name
written in it could have been a fake designed to keep her there, but Angela couldn’t
know for sure.  Real or not, it had left Angela concerned.

As
soon as she’d set eyes on the childish scrawls, an ominous wave of dread rattled
her bones. She knew deep down in her marrow that something strange was going
on, and for some reason it involved her.  Whether or not it was due to
natural
or
unnatural
means was yet to be determined.  She needed to know more.

Frank
had come into the lounge at Jessica’s request and taken Angela up to the second
floor, where she’d been presented with a suite the size of a modest flat.  Then
he had left her alone to survey her new surroundings.  An ancient four-poster
bed occupied the centre of the room, its mahogany corner struts climbing from
floor to ceiling.  Opposite the foot of the bed was a large bay window looking
out into the velvet darkness of the night.  Angela imagined that outside there
would majestic, landscaped gardens matching the grandness of the house, but
right now they were invisible, cloaked in shadow.

Above
the bed was a magnificent oil pattern that could literally have taken years to
complete.  It picture a heavenly battle, perhaps Lucifer’s war against God.  In
the foreground were two cherubim with gossamer wings outspread.  They wielded
spears, brother against brother.

It
was clear that Jessica’s late husband had been one rich son-of-a-bitch, and it
was a surreal feeling to be sat in his family’s home. Angela wondered how
anyone so blessed could be so selfish to take their own lives.

Obviously
being filthy-rich isn’t as great as it sounds.

Angela
headed over to the en suite at the far side of the room. There was an antique,
freestanding bath inside, made of steel and perhaps two feet longer than most
typical baths.  It looked like heaven.  There was also a separate shower
cubicle.

A
nice hot bath or shower was a tempting proposition, but Angela settled for the
faucet right now.  The stainless-steel hot tap turned smoothly, and Angela
stared into the wall mirror as she splashed the steaming water onto her face. 
Her eyes were red and sunken; they were the eyes of someone a decade older.

How
did I end up this way?  My life used to make sense, but now, here I am, standing
in a gazillion-pound mansion because the lady of the house wants me to exorcise
her ten-year old son, who is probably just reacting badly to the death of his
father.  I’m wasting my time here, but let’s be honest: what else have I got to
do?  Besides I need the money.  Booze doesn’t buy itself.

There
was a knock at the door.  Angela left the en suite and crossed the bedroom. 
“Who is it?”

“It’s
Frank.”

Angela
opened the door to find Jessica’s Chief of House standing with a tray full of
sandwiches.  She could tell by his grim expressions that room service was not
one of his usual duties.

“Ms
Raymeady thought you might be hungry.”

Angela
took the tray from the man and thanked him.  Angela wasn’t much of an eater but
she had to admit the sandwiches looked good. Without further word, Frank went
to walk away. She stopped him.  “Can you come in for five minutes, please,
Frank?”

Frank
seemed confused.  His silver sideburns wrinkled.  “I…yes, I suppose so.”

“I’d
just like to ask you a few questions.”

Frank
marched past Angela and entered the bedroom.  For a moment it looked like he
was about to take a seat on the bed, but he chose to remain standing in his
usual stiff manner.  “Questions about what?”

Angela
closed the bedroom door and faced him.  “I suppose the first thing I’d like to
know is what you think of all this?  What’s been happening in this house?”

Frank
sighed and shook his head.  “I wish I knew.  Things have been…tense.  The
accidents seemed a little too many to be mere coincidences, but I’m sure that’s
all they are.  Mindless superstition got the better of everybody anyway and the
staff all resigned.”

“Except
you?”

“I
have a duty to Ms Raymeady.  Her late husband hired me almost ten years ago to
look after his family.  He was a good man and I intend to fulfil that role even
in his death.  Besides, I don’t believe in…well, any of what is being claimed. 
Mike and Graham don’t either.”

“You
don’t believe in Evil?”

Frank
laughed and rubbed at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin.  “Before I took
this job, Miss Murs, I spent twelve years in the Army.  I
absolutely
believe in Evil, but what I
do not
believe is that demons and monsters
are responsible.  The very notion of an
exorcism
is laughable to me.”

“So
you’re an atheist, I take it?”

“I
believe in flesh and bone and what I can see in front of me.  But what I do or
do not believe is of no consequence.  Ms Raymeady is concerned about her son –
and I agree that there is sufficient need to be – so if you being here will
make her feel at ease then I welcome you and will do my best to make you feel
comfortable here at the house.”

Angela
smiled at the man and decided that was as welcome as he was ever going to allow
her to feel.  It was good enough, she supposed.  “So what do you make of
Jessica’s son,
Sammie
is it?”

Frank
shrugged.  “He’s a good kid.  A little strange at times but I’m sure that has
more to do with his upbringing than anything else.  A child isn’t supposed to
grow up in a place like this: surrounded by servants, home schooled, a father
who was away more often than he was home.  I can’t even remember the last time
Sammie got to play with another child.  Don’t get me wrong, Jessica loves her
boy dearly, but sometimes this place is a little detached from the world. I
don’t think Sammie has any idea what real life is like.  With his father dying,
I’m not surprised he’s been acting out.”

“Acting
out?”

Frank
shrugged again and seemed a little uncomfortable, as if speaking so freely was
a betrayal of his employer.  “He’s been swearing a lot, which is totally out of
character, and he’s suddenly gotten much smarter.  I mean much much smarter – like
he’s been reading a set of encyclopaedias.  It’s…peculiar.  Plus, he seems to
know all about current events, from politics to pop music, but all I ever see
the kid watch is
South Park.
Personally, I think the child needs therapy
rather than anything else.”

“I
thought a psychiatrist had already seen the boy,” Angela said.

Frank
nodded.  “A couple have.  They didn’t provide much help, but such things take
time.  If Ms Raymeady had been a little more patient then perhaps we might have
seen a change.”

Angela
thought things through.  In her experience, claims of demonic possession or
evil presences often resulted in a verdict of mental illness.  A psychiatrist
was almost always more use than a priest was.

But
not always
. 

Angela
had witnessed one event in her life when all the psychiatrists in the world would
not have helped.  But that was something she put out of her mind.  It would
only cloud her judgement.

“Look,”
said Frank.  “I have other duties to attend to, so if you don’t mind? If you
need anything, just dial 904 on the handset beside your bed.  Otherwise I will
see you bright and early tomorrow.  Ms Raymeady will want you to meet with
Sammie as soon as possible.  If you then decide to stay, Michael will drive
over to your home to gather your things for you.  Try to get some sleep, and
don’t worry if you hear anything in the night. Young Samuel has taken to causing
commotion during the late hours. It is nothing to worry about.”