Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA (16 page)

Everybody comes to Harley Street.

I looked at Molly. “That demon knew you.”

“Probably.”

“And?”

“Best not to ask.”

“That covers so much of your life,” I said.

Looking up and down the street, I was pleased to see many of the old familiar establishments were still doing business. Even though it had been . . . what? Ten years since I was last here? Where does the time go . . . Saint Baphomet’s Hospital still had the same brutally ugly exterior, because it wasn’t there for the nice things in life. It specialized in treating the more unpleasant supernatural illnesses and unnatural conditions. Where the cure was often not only worse than the illness,
but a damned sight more expensive. Right next door was Dr Dee & Sons & Sons. The old firm. There to deal with the more extreme forms of exorcism. Its unofficial motto,
We get the Hell out.
They guaranteed to save your soul but not necessarily your mind. A little farther down stood the VooDoo Lounge, for those who needed to consult the Loa Courts. People forget that voodoo isn’t just a system of magic; it’s also a religion practised all across the world, with a huge pantheon of gods. Most of whom are in dispute with one another at any given time. And since a large part of voodoo worship is based on possession of the living by the loa, things are bound to get a bit argumentative on occasion. You need a really good advocate if you’re arguing a case in the Loa Courts.

Molly led the way, striding it out, and everyone hurried to get out of her way. Some people clearly recognised her, some just as clearly didn’t, but they all knew trouble on two legs when they saw it. Molly was in no mood to be messed with. Though to be honest, I would be hard-pressed to name a time when she was. I had to hurry to keep up.

“An angel this morning, and now a demon,” I said. “It’s like the afterlife is rubbing my nose in it; just to remind me how close it’s getting. Or maybe it’s because the afterlife is drawing nearer that I’m seeing its denizens more clearly.” I looked thoughtfully at Molly. “What do you know about the afterlife, Molly? I mean, really know? You’re always saying you’ve been to Heaven and Hell and everywhere in between . . . but you never talk about what you found there. Or at least, not to me.”

“No,” said Molly, not looking at me. “I never talk about that to anyone.”

“I spent some time in Limbo,” I said. “In the Winter Hall. Whatever that was . . .”

“Think of it as a waiting room,” said Molly. “Or a holding cell.”

I could tell she really didn’t want to talk about it, but that just made me all the more determined to press the point.

“Talk to me, Molly,” I said. “I need to know what you know.”

“There’s nothing I can tell you!” said Molly. She finally turned her
head to meet my gaze, but instead of the stubbornness I was expecting, her face was full of helpless concern. Like someone had asked her for a lifeline, and all she had was empty hands. “I don’t remember anything of what I saw or experienced in the Other Realms, because I’m not allowed to. Mortals can’t know such things, because it would interfere with our experience of this world.”

“Come on, we’ve spent our whole careers interacting with angels and demons, and all manner of agents from Above and Below! We’ve known any number of people who’ve slept with demons or channelled angels . . .”

“I know!” said Molly. “And if you think about it for a moment, you’ll remember none of them have ever said anything useful. Or in any way illuminating. And it’s not because some of them didn’t want to. You know hellspawn love to mess with our minds. But anything that enters our world, from Above or Below, has restraints placed upon it. As a condition of entry.”

“Who decides that?” I said. “Who enforces that?”

“Who do you think?” said Molly. “These things are decided where all the things that matter are decided—in the Courts of the Holy, and the Houses of Pain. And keep your voice down, Eddie! You never know who might be listening, especially in a place like this. Yes, we’ve met angels and demons, but they might not have been what they seemed, or what they claimed to be. They could have been lying, or playing games with us, or any number of equally worrying things. I know what you want, Eddie. You want me to tell you what’s going to happen to you after you die. But I don’t know.”

“Does anybody?” I said.

“No one whose answer I’d trust,” said Molly. “Beyond a certain point, the maps just end. Usually in large open spaces marked
Here Be Mysteries.
Everything we know, or think we know, about the afterlife . . . can only usefully be discussed through metaphors. Simpler truths, to
allow us to contemplate a far more complicated situation. There are some things human beings really aren’t meant to know. And believe me, my sisters and I have tried very hard to find out. Often in disturbing and subversive ways.”

“Doesn’t surprise me for a moment,” I said dryly. “Who have you talked to about this?”

“Zombies and vampires, ghosts and ghouls, death-walkers and necronauts,” Molly said in an entirely matter-of-fact way. “And we couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of them. Or at least, nothing that wasn’t immediately contradicted by the next person we talked to. The only thing they would agree on . . . is that you can’t trust anything the dead tell you. Because the dead always have their own agenda.”

“It seems to me I might have heard that before,” I said. “Did you try the Ghost Finders?”

Molly sniffed loudly. “Amateur night.”

“Snob,” I said, not unkindly.

Molly looked at me with real pain in her eyes. “I wish I could be more of a comfort to you. But I don’t know, and anyone who says they do is either lying, or has a vested interest in making you believe them. Would you rather I lied to you?”

“Maybe later,” I said. “You know, it occurs to me that we’ve been walking for quite some time. Are you sure you know where you’re going? Should we stop someone, and beat directions out of them?”

“I’ve never actually been to the Clinic myself,” said Molly. “I’m just going by what Isabella told me. This isn’t the kind of address you can look up on Google Maps. It shouldn’t be far now.”

“What was Isabella doing at this Clinic, anyway?” I said.

“She wouldn’t tell me,” said Molly. “Which usually means,
Don’t ask, as the answer would only upset you.
”

“You’re not exactly selling me on this,” I said.

“Isabella told me the Peter Paul Clinic could save people everyone else had given up on,” Molly said stubbornly.

“Maybe,” I said. “But did she say how? Because I’m going to say it again; some prices can be too high.”

“Relax,” said Molly. “I brought my credit card.”

“I thought the company cancelled it?”

“That’s what they think. Ah, this looks right.”

She took a sudden turn down a narrow side street, and just like that, the whole character of the neighbourhood changed dramatically. The bright lights disappeared, replaced in a moment by subdued lighting and sprawling shadows. As though no one here wanted to be seen too clearly. The terraces in this street were decidedly older, and less well maintained. Smaller, less ostentatious businesses squeezed in side by side, with a general air of
Enter at Your Own Risk
about them. Establishments where it would always be cash in hand, and no questions asked on either side.

There was hardly any traffic on the quiet road, apart from the odd ambulance, and none of them bothered with lights and sirens, as though there was no need for them to hurry any more. A few people on the pavements, definitely more down-market than the visitors to Harley Street. Everywhere I looked, all the windows in all the buildings were covered. By blinds, drawn curtains, even heavy wooden shutters with hex signs carved into the frames. There were lights on, here and there, but no trace of movement. The whole street had a gloomy, depressing ambience. A place where people came to watch their loved ones die.

I went to raise my Sight again, and found I couldn’t. A really heavy-duty security barrier was in place, suggesting everyone here took their privacy very seriously. I couldn’t decide whether I found that reassuring or not. And it did bother me that I didn’t recognise this particular side street. I thought I knew all the streets in this area; it was part of my local knowledge as a London field agent. I looked around the grubby walls for the name of the street, but there wasn’t a sign to be seen anywhere. I turned to Molly.

“Where are we?”

“Off the beaten track, and off the sides of the map,” Molly said briskly. “One of the shadowy places. Because the kind of miracle you need can only be found in places the Light can’t reach.”

She stopped abruptly before a small anonymous establishment. From the outside, it could have been any kind of storefront. Bare brickwork, covered with accumulated grime, interrupted here and there by long streaks from the leaky guttering. It looked to me like the kind of place where unlicensed surgeons would perform unauthorized cosmetic surgery, on people who’d been turned down by everyone else. The kind of place where you could take the cure for tanna leaf addiction, or a taste for recreational possession; or get an elemental off your back. Off-white plastic blinds covered the only window, and the dull brown door didn’t even have a number. Nothing about it said medical clinic to me. Apart from the small and very discreet sign above the door:
The Peter Paul Clinic.

I looked at it doubtfully. “Is that the name of the guy who runs this place?”

“No.”

“Then . . .”

“Look, just wait till you get inside,” said Molly. “Everything will be made clear.”

“That’s what’s worrying me,” I said.

I looked dubiously at the lone ambulance parked a short distance away. There were no patients being unloaded, no driver at the wheel. It was just . . . waiting. I found its presence ominous, and more than a little creepy. Suddenly, I couldn’t get my breath. I was shaking all over. I shook my head hard, trying to clear my thoughts. Part of me just wanted to turn and run, and keep running. Molly moved in close beside me, slipped an arm through mine, and pressed it firmly against her side. So I couldn’t run, even if I wanted to. Her presence did help me to feel a little calmer.

“We’re almost there, Eddie,” she said.

“You sound like a dental nurse,” I said numbly. “Announcing,
The dentist will see you now!
Like that’s a good thing.”

“You get scared of the strangest things,” said Molly. “I’ve seen you stand up to demons and ancient gods and never blink an eyelid, but . . .”

“I’m allowed to hit demons and ancient gods,” I said.

“Better now?” said Molly.

“Some,” I said.

She looked me over carefully, till she was sure I could stand on my own, and then disengaged her arm and approached the Clinic door. She didn’t try the handle; she knew it would be locked. She leaned over the intercom grille set into the rough brickwork beside the door.

“It’s Molly Metcalf. Isabella’s sister.”

The buzzer sounded immediately, and Molly pushed the door open. I followed her in, thoughtfully. Her name, or that of her sister, was a passWord.

*   *   *

The interior turned out to be much larger than I’d anticipated. A great open space, with pleasant pastel-painted walls designed to be calming and soothing to the eye, and to the troubled mind. Comfortable chairs had been set out in neat rows, vending machines offered snacks and hot drinks, and bland, inoffensive music played quietly in the background. But there were no signs on the walls to describe the practices or options available. No list of doctors or departments. As though you were supposed to know what you were getting into. A flowery perfume hung heavily on the still air, undermined by something astringently antiseptic.

“You take a seat,” said Molly, “while I go and sort things out. Do you want to get something from the vending machines?”

“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “Boiling hot flavoured water and sugary cholesterol bites? If you weren’t sick when you came in, that stuff would do it to you.”

“You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” said Molly.

“Yes,” I said. “I wonder why.”

I looked suspiciously around the reception area while Molly just walked off and left me, heading straight for the long reception desk at the far end of the room. It was manned by a half-dozen bright young things in starched white uniforms, all of them doing their best to appear professional and efficient as they worked their computers and answered the constantly ringing phones. Molly planted herself in front of one of the reception staff, and just glared coldly at her until she put down her phone. Molly then proceeded to talk urgently and implacably to her, in a way that made clear she wasn’t going to take any variation on
no
as an answer. I left her to it.

Visitors and family members, and those there to be supportive, had their own section, off to one side. They sat in quiet rows, showing great concentration as they read the magazines provided. So they wouldn’t have to think about anything else. On the other side of the room, a man with a horse’s head sat next to a man with a shrunken head, who sat next to a man with two heads. Under a sign that said, simply,
Cursed.
They seemed quite resigned, all things considered. Not far away, a middle-aged man in a crumpled suit sat on his own, staring at the floor, while half a dozen smoky ghosts swirled around him. Their faces were vague and unfocused, all dark eyes and chattering mouths, all of them talking at once while the man did his best not to listen. The miserable look on his face showed he’d been listening for some time. I sympathized. Haunted houses are bad enough; haunted people are worse.

A woman sat alone, bent right over on her chair. At first, I thought she was hunchbacked, given the way her ridged spine rose up to press against her coat, but then I saw her back heave and swell, before subsiding again. Something inside wanted out. The woman’s face was pale and drawn from the pain, and slick with sweat. Her eyes had a lost, hopeless look. I hoped someone here could help her.

There were a great many other patients, sitting quietly, all of them
wrapped up in their own problems. Hoping against hope someone in this very out-of-the-way Clinic could do something for them. They looked at me, searching for symptoms. And when they couldn’t see anything obviously wrong, they looked away again. Not one of them.