The Deceit (18 page)

Sally Pascoe popped a slice of Nicorette. ‘What do you do, anyway, when the museum is shut?’

He shrugged, and straightened the knot of his tie. ‘Oh, this and that. I pootle and potter, potter and pootle. I suppose I am semi-retired now. The museum gives a reasonable income. My pension! Ah. I used to be a tour guide, to the Middle East. I had my own little company, quite upmarket, tailor-made trips to biblical sites, with academics and writers. That’s when I became first, ah, interested in the occult. The belief in ghosts and miracles and the paranormal is so sincere there – the demons of Sumer are still with us! If you go to somewhere like Palmyra, it is—’

Karen raised a hand. She’d just remembered how much this guy liked to talk. ‘Sorry, but can we get to it? This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. We just want your opinion on an interview I conducted.’

Ryman nodded, silenced.

Karen toyed with the digicorder as she quickly explained about Alicia Rothley’s arrest, her transfer to Bodmin Psych Unit, her connection to the cat-burning and the possible chief suspect, her elder brother, Luke Rothley.

The pallid face of the man became even whiter as he listened. ‘Good holy lord. That is, ah, that is something. Ah yes. Hm. Trevelloe Lodge, eh?’

‘Yep. We think there were maybe eight or nine people staying there. For the whole month.’

‘Well. Trevelloe. Yes yes, yes yes. I know that area, the standing stones there, of course, the Merry Maidens. And Men-an-Tol, the birthing stone, up by Ding Dong mine. And Madron well, the whole area is, ah, drenched with occult and supernatural associations, and let’s not forget the fogous—’

‘No. We mustn’t forget the fogous,’ said Sally, giving up on her gum and throwing it in the overfull rubbish bin. Then she tilted her head at the digicorder.

Karen took the hint, picked up the recorder and pressed play. ‘So, Mr Ryman, this is the recording of my interview with Alicia Rothley at Bodmin. Have a listen, and tell us what you think.’

The voices were quite distinct: it was a good recording. The sound of the faint winter drizzle on the police HQ windows seemed to recede as Karen’s questions to Alicia echoed around the office.

Donald Ryman gazed warily at the little machine on the desk. He said nothing. Karen picked up the recorder, and fast-forwarded.

‘She didn’t respond at first, as you can tell. She just sat there, terrified, and mute. Kind of locked in. But then, eventually, she opened up. Here.’

She pressed play once again.

‘
Cats.
’

‘
What? Alicia? Tell me about the night, when you killed the cats.
’

‘
Didn’t.
’

‘
You didn’t kill them?
’

‘
He killed them. Burning them, all night.
’

‘
Your brother Luke?
’

Karen looked at Sally, and then at Donald. He was transfixed now, leaning close.

‘
He killed them, the Devil killed them.
’

‘
What does that mean?
’

‘
The Devil, my brother is the Devil. He killed the cats. The Devil came and entered him. Fuck you!
’

On and on, to the crazed crescendo. Despite her best attempts, Karen failed to suppress a shudder. The words sounded all the more horrific for being relayed in this fairly anodyne environment – in this friendly, messy office with its empty plastic coffee cups and the Christmas-party photos on the wall, and the bin containing yesterday’s
West Briton
newspaper.

And a girl screaming from a digicorder:

‘
Ananias, Azarias … atha atha atharim!
’

The recording concluded; an awkward silence ensued. Donald Ryman seemed shaken, his nervous tics more pronounced as his hand adjusted the knot of his tie.

Finally Karen spoke. ‘Mr Ryman, do you know of any magic that might, in some inadvertent way, induce sexual or hormonal changes?’

He gazed at her with a bewildered expression.

‘I ask this because the girl, Alicia Rothley, is showing signs of
masculinization
. She is becoming a man. In fact, if you looked at her results, you would say this is someone having pre-operative hormone treatment for gender-reassignment surgery.’

Sally Pascoe interrupted Karen. ‘We’re not suggestingthere is some spell that can simply do this, but maybe there is some kind of, you know, sexual magic, where people …’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, where people have, say, testosterone injections. Does that happen in any magical rituals?’

Donald shook his head. ‘No, I have never heard of such a thing; it is … ah, quite outside the canon. Most bizarre. Really …’

Karen and Sally swapped glances. Karen gestured at the recorder. ‘OK, what do you think about the recording? Can you give us any context?’

This time he seemed more confident.

‘Well the names, yes yes. I know the names. Ananias, Azarias, they are obviously the names of demons, hermetic demons, ah, ah, ancient Egyptian magic. She has obviously been witness to some … serious ritual.’

‘What does that mean?’

He shrugged, a faint shine of sweat on his lined and anxious forehead. ‘I mean a ritual from one of the old grimoires, one of the old books of magic. It could be the Key of Solomon the King, or the Grand Grimoire. But …’ His voice faded.

‘Go on,’ Sally Pascoe urged.

‘Well. Ah. One of the words she used,
Araki
, implies something a lot more … well,
worrying
. Have you ever heard of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin, Abra-Melin the Mage?’

‘No.’

‘Well, of course not, sorry, it is quite obscure. But to experts …’ He seemed flustered again; the tie straightening was now almost pathological. ‘The book of Abra-Melin is a magical manual which dates back to the fifteenth century. There are copies of it surviving from about 1700: in Dresden in Germany, in the Bodleian in Oxford, and one in the Bibliothèque Nationale, in France, I believe. It was written by a Jewish scholar, Abraham of Worms, who was apparently taught magic by Abra-Melin himself. A mage, or a sorcerer.’

‘A wizard? A real wizard, with sleeves?’

Donald Ryman ignored Sally’s question. ‘Until recently it was thought the grimoire was merely compiled by Abraham of Worms, culled from extant sources: but a few years ago some German scholars proved that it is probably entirely authentic, that it really does come from a tiny town called El Araki in Upper Egypt, between Sohag and Luxor. The description of the village in the book is completely accurate: there is no way a Jewish Kabbalist from fifteenth-century Worms would have known about Araki, unless he’d been there. Moreover, Araki is near the, ah, epicentre of Egyptian magic, Nag Hammadi, where the Gnostic gospels were found, and Akhmim, which is the very home of alchemy and the occult itself. All in all it is a fascinating region …’

‘Mr Ryman, what is the significance of this magic?’ Karen asked. Specifically, the, what did you call it, the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin?’

‘Well now.’ Donald Ryman shut his eyes for a second, as if praying. Then he looked at the window, and spoke to no one in particular. ‘Please don’t think me a credulous old fool. I am aware of the fatuity of much of this. I don’t believe in pixies and Beelzebub. But even in sceptical circles the magic of Abra-Melin has a troubling reputation. The ritual involved for summoning demons is complex and ancient, extremely challenging, and, ah, truly evil. Some say the Abra-Melin ritual can only be successfully completed if several humans are sacrificed, culminating in the murder of a living child. Others believe it merely requires a symbolic sacrifice, or perhaps animal sacrifice.’

Sally interrupted him. ‘You’re saying this … this Abra-Melin thing, this
is for real
? You can get demons to appear?’

‘No.’ He gave a pained shrug. ‘No, probably not. Of course not. At least, I don’t think so. But I know that Crowley himself tried the magic in 1900, in Boleskine in Scotland and at his notorious flat in Chancery Lane, and even he found it too frightening. So it is reported.’

Karen asked, ‘What you are
definitely
saying is that the girl, his sister, has been exposed to this particular ritual, right? Otherwise, why mention Araki?’

‘Yes, that is exactly what I am saying! My educated guess is that her brother is attempting the difficult and ancient Abra-Melin ritual. And in all the history of the occult, that is the one solitary ritual that might give one pause, that could make one lie awake at night.’ He flapped his tie again, agitated. ‘Consider me an imbecile if you wish, but the rite of Abra-Melin is the only magic in history that, for whatever reason, and in some terrifying way, actually appears to work.’

‘Chu, Kouchos, Trophos, Kimphas, Abraxas.’

Rothley tipped the silver salver of blood over her head: the liquid ran down her face in warm trickles, in dark, salty and delicious rivulets. Francoise looked up at his handsome face, and his glittering eyes. ‘Yes, yes please. Please give it to me. Baptize me with blood.’

He wasn’t wearing robes this morning: was this really the special day? He was just in his jeans and the T-shirt with the picture of Hendrix, but he was so handsome. His eyes glittered: she couldn’t stop looking at them, looking at him. Like watching a film when she was a child, she was staring up and adoring something bigger, brighter, finer.

‘These are the names of the six powers of death, those who bring every sickness down upon every person, those who bring every soul out from every body.’

He poured a little more of her blood. Some of it ran into her eyes and it stung but Francoise tried to ignore it: she had to be strong, she wanted to be strong; this must be the end. She knew it now. This was the day; but she was so very faint, she was losing too much blood already, but she was going to be strong.

‘I adjure you by your names and your names and your powers and your places and the security of death itself, that you shall go to Francoise, daughter of the father, and that you shall bear away her soul.’

Too much blood
: how much blood could she lose without fainting? She wanted to lie down now but there he was, Rothley. He had seen she was in pain and close to fainting and he’d paused, he had set the salver down and he was tightening the tourniquets on each arm. Yes! He was fixing them like a doctor, he was a doctor, a healer, her Saviour, her Christ, no,
better
than Christ.

The light from the windows was wintry and glorious, she could hear the last sounds of the London traffic, a sweet muffled music.

Rothley’s teeth were white and lovely as he bit on the leather straps of the tourniquets, cutting off some of her blood loss; she gazed patiently at him, yet she wanted him to bite her, she wanted him to bite her face, he could bite away her face, and kiss her too, like Jesus coming to kiss a child who says her prayers. She remembered the holidays in Normandy – her mother and her father, the sea and the sky, pearly-grey seas, and beautiful skies … long, long skies. Mont Saint Michel and the oysters, her first oysters, grey as the Normandy skies in winter.

Rothley dropped the straps of the tightened tourniquets and gazed into her eyes. His eyes were so dark, almost black, like the Devil; he was a beautiful devil with his black eyes, like a demon in the desert, seducing.

‘I adjure you, O dead one, by the manner in which you were seized. And by this punishment that has come upon you, which you have heard. And by the demons you have seen, and by the river of fire that casts wave after wave, you must bring your suffering down upon Francoise. As I place this bone here.’ He pressed a bone to her face. A collarbone, was it a human collarbone? He took the bone away and she saw that it was smeared with the blood on her face, her own blood, from her beautiful wounds, wounds like Christ; yet
he
was Christ, the Christ of Death, coming to take her.

‘Zarlai, Lazarlai, Lazai, Lazarlai.’

Burning leaves, burning cats, the burning cats, the way the cats burned, she could not forget it, ever, and then the Devil was Rothley and Rothley was Jesus, the Christ of the End.

‘Samakari, of Christ, I call upon Lord Sabaoth, Adonai Adonai, O child with the flowing hair, I place an oath upon you, O dead bone, in order that you bring forth suffering, from this corpse Francoise whose true name this is.
Yaoth Yaoth Yaoth
.’

The intonation made her sleepy, she was ready to sleep now. She gazed around the large empty room, at the altar with its saucer of severed rats’ feet, and the small steel sword, smeared with her blood, staining the white altar cloth; she gazed along, and down, at the little dead birds scattered across the floor.

So many of them. So many tiny dead birds – and there was the skull that ate all the birds. The skull had fallen over. It lay on its side on the wooden chair, staring back at her, choked with grey feathers stuck between its yellow teeth. Yes, that was the smiling skull he fed with starlings and little baby pigeons and her blood.

‘Iesseu, Mazareu, Iessedekeu.’

Francoise nearly swooned. In front of her was the hole.

She knew that was her coffin, she would have his child in the hole in the floor, which was her coffin: that was where she would give birth to his child, the child of death, a smiling dead baby, for he was the Father of Death.

Francoise looked down at herself. She had blood on her naked breasts and on her thighs; her whole naked body was soiled with blood and yet she felt cleaner than she had ever felt.

And now Rothley was writing words on her skin with her own blood.

‘By the calling of four demons, written on the body of one. Aromao, Tharmaoth, Marmarioth, Salabaooth. Adonai Adonai Adonai. From the flame of which they are made, the wrath of the scorching wind.’

His fingers lingered over her breasts, writing the words in sticky red blood.

‘By the fire of the scorching red river. The hatred that scattered, and the four hundred angels, scattered and written with hatred – and strife – and loathing.’

Delicate words, beautiful words, she was written with names and words, she was his page, her white skin was his parchment, his blank white page. Francoise murmured, in pain, ‘I am ready …’