Something Wicked (24 page)

Although she was real, Andrew had thought of Keira as that dreamlike paradigm for much of the past eight years. He remembered the things they had done together: the laughs, nights in and out,
the places they’d been. The other experiences and the reason why he left her were cast aside as if they’d never been there in the first place.

He thought of the chilli and potato stuck to Keira’s top as now she stood in front of him wearing a pink coat. Her hair was completely blonde, cropped short to her ears in a bob that was
curling slightly inwards. She was perhaps a little thinner and there were definitely more lines around her face, but they gave her features a striking lived-in sense, as if she had gone places and
experienced things.

She unfurled a rainbow scarf from around her neck and unzipped the coat, breathing a final mist of cool air before closing the door with a second rattling of the bell. After the briefest of
glances in Andrew’s direction, Keira headed to the counter, walking in the way she always had: shuffling without fully picking her feet up, as if gliding. Her voice was a tiny bit deeper than
he remembered but it could have been because of the cold outside. She ordered a latte and a cookie and then floated across the cafe, scraping back the metal chair and sitting opposite Andrew.

Andrew tried to look at Keira in a not-looking-at-her kind of way: glancing over her shoulder towards the window and the door, focusing on the empty table beyond for no reason, picking up his
mug and peering around it. Then, finally, he gave up and simply watched her.

Her eyes were bluer than he remembered, the colour of exotic oceans in far-flung places of the world that he’d seen on television but never been to.

Or perhaps he was just a soppy so-and-so?

Probably that.

‘Hi,’ she whispered.

‘Hi.’

‘Sorry I’m late, I couldn’t get away . . .’

‘It’s all right. Thanks for coming – I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t need help.’

The waitress stepped across with Keira’s order, before returning to the counter and her book. There was a delicate clank of mug on saucer, followed by a slow sip of milk froth and then a
clumsy, confidence-sapping hush. Andrew could barely remember why he was there.

Keira was peering at him over her cup, a hint of an upwards crinkle to her lips. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

Andrew peered down at his stomach. Since he’d last seen her, he had eaten loads, exercised a bit, gained weight, lost weight, obsessed over it, not cared about it – the usual. His
words felt stuck, scraping somewhere at the back of his tongue, unformed.

‘You too . . .’

Ugh. Awkward.

Keira returned the cup to the table. ‘So what do you want?’

With the lack of small talk, Andrew followed Keira’s lead, fumbling with his satchel and pulling out a cardboard wallet but not opening it. There was a lot he wished he had the courage to
say but if she didn’t want to bring it up, then he couldn’t either. ‘I’m working on something and there are links to the occult.’

Keira yawned, covering her mouth with a flapping hand. ‘It’s been a long time since I thought about anything like that.’

‘That’s still more recently than me.’

‘What’s wrong with the Internet?’

‘We tried that. It’s hard to know what’s accurate and what’s been written by excited teenagers who’ve been to the movies. Plus you can’t just search for
“black magic expert”.’

‘
We?
’

Oops.

‘My assistant and me.’

Her eyes hadn’t left him, searching for hidden meanings, the presence of which even Andrew wasn’t sure about. ‘I only studied European history,’ she said.

‘But we both know what your dissertation was about. You knew all sorts about cases involving witches and dark magic at the time. You don’t just forget that, do you?’

The peppering of freckles on Keira’s cheeks was slightly darker than it used to be. Perhaps she’d been on holiday?

She had another sip of her coffee. ‘What do you want to know?’

Andrew took out a pen, and drew an upside-down triangle within a circle on a napkin. Keira glanced briefly at it but seemed a little confused.

‘What are you showing me?’

‘That symbol’s been following me around. I’ve seen it on tattoos and someone drew it on my office door.’

She grimaced slightly, almost pained. ‘It’s only a symbol, a bit like a pentagram but a little more traditional.’

‘Does it mean anything?’

‘Not really. Some say certain combinations of shapes show power but it’s all about belief. All sorts of different sects or people might have their own interpretations about various
icons or numerology. It’s so broad that I’m not sure what I can tell you that wouldn’t be on the Internet.’

Andrew now understood why she’d winced. This was small-fry and, from her point of view, an excuse for him to contact her after such a long time.

‘When I say that symbol’s been everywhere, it’s about a teenager who went missing. He and his girlfriend had that tattooed on their wrists. Three of his fingers were found at
this site in the woods where there’s a natural bowl shape. Around the edge, there are three trees, like a triangle.’

Keira pursed her lips for a few moments, then pulled the napkin back towards her and peered at the symbol again. ‘I can’t really remember properly . . . but you’ve got three
points of a triangle and three fingers . . .’ She rubbed an invisible blemish on her cheek, clearly trying to think back. ‘. . . I remember something from one of my books about this
nineteenth-century thing in southern Europe. People would have their hands and feet removed in a sort of ritual. It was something to do with the Bible saying that Man was created in God’s
image. Believers did it to desecrate that image.’ She ran her hand through her hair. ‘I’m sorry – I really can’t remember any more.’

Andrew paused, thinking through what she’d said. ‘Southern Europe?’

‘I think so.’

‘Have you ever heard of the name “Malvado”? We did search for it but, aside from its Portuguese origins, we were struggling.’

Keira replied but it took Andrew a few moments to realise she had done so in a foreign accent. She smiled at him as she finished with a flourish – ‘Mal-va-do’ – rolling
the word around her mouth. ‘It
is
Portuguese,’ she added, ‘but that means it’s Brazilian too. More or less, it means “evil”.’

Lara Evil: like Doctor Evil but with more eye make-up. Something felt wrong.

Keira continued, more confidently this time. This was something she clearly knew about. ‘Portugal began colonising Brazil in the 1500s. They exported their language and used African slaves
to help them mine gold and diamonds. By the eighteenth century, they were transporting millions of pounds around the world and home to Portugal. With all that to-ing and fro-ing, all sorts of folk
tales and myths were exported to mainland Europe. Malvado
does
mean evil but you could easily translate it as “devil”, “Satan”, or something like that.’

‘Was there a myth about something named Malvado?’

‘How much do you know about devil-worship?’

‘I only practise at weekends if that’s what you’re asking.’

For the first time, Keira smiled with her eyes, not just her mouth. Almost as quickly as the sparkle appeared, it was gone again. She straightened herself and continued. ‘People think
it’s dancing in a field but it’s more nuanced than you might imagine. In many ways, the idea of Satanism is about anarchy, disrupting the normal structure of society. Christianity is
broken down into all sorts of sects and factions. Even at its very base, there are Protestants and Catholics. Then there are Quakers, Evangelicals, Baptists and so on. It’s hard to say that
Christianity is any one thing. Devil-worship is much the same. Most wouldn’t even believe in “God” or “the Devil” in those senses. It’s more about the forces of
nature. But others would and they’d have their own rituals. If you think of a Christian communion, breaking bread and drinking wine, it symbolises the body and blood of Christ. A
devil-worshipper might do something similar. There are all sorts of accounts dating back to the dawn of time about black masses – where people drink the blood of a cloven animal, like a goat.
Christians might say the Lord’s Prayer, or litanies to keep them safe. Satanists might do the same, so their chants or rituals are no different in the sense that they’re reciting
something they believe in. It’s all about faith.’

‘How would that tie in to Malvado?’

Keira paused to have a bite of her cookie just as another couple entered the cafe in a bluster of freezing air. They knew the waitress’s first name, ordering drinks and snacks and then
sitting close to the counter, chatting.

After another mouthful of coffee, Keira continued: ‘The important thing to remember is that the devil takes many forms.’ She burst out laughing, putting a hand over her mouth.
‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I sounded like a fundamentalist Christian for a moment.’ She took another sip of her drink, still smiling. ‘What I was trying to say is that
every culture has its own demons – in most cases, more than one. There are long lists of devils – Mephisto, Abbadon, Eligos, Valac – all sorts. One of the myths brought back from
Brazil was of Malvado. He was a deity who ruled over the woods—’

The gasp had slipped from Andrew’s mouth before he’d realised: an actual connection from Nicholas to the place where his fingers were found.

Keira nodded but continued. ‘Malvado would supposedly appear to weary travellers or others seeking refuge, promising them eternal life in exchange for their soul. It’s like a nursery
rhyme, not the type of thing anyone would think to take seriously now, but I suppose things like that have diluted over time. Now there are horror movies everywhere, then it was just the power of
storytelling. If you knew how to really tell a tale, then you could make anything sound intimidating.’

‘How would that have found its way here?’

‘Patience!’ She smiled at him – with her eyes again, actually enjoying telling the story. ‘I don’t really remember much more about the Brazilian origins but I do
know a sort of cult built around Malvado in Portugal. There are documents going back to the nineteenth century of groups setting themselves up as a community living in the woods. They would capture
homeless people and sacrifice them to their god of the trees. There was a big scandal at the time. As for how it found its way here . . . assuming it has, then I suppose in the same way as anything
else: either passed down through generations, or it’s an idea that immigrated.’

‘Is it something that’s widely known about?’

The other man and woman picked up their drinks and offered a loud ‘thank you’ to the waitress. They said ‘hi’ to Andrew and Keira, clearly mistaking them for another
couple and making brief small talk about the conditions, before crossing to the table closest to the window.

Keira finished her drink and pointed to the mug. ‘Are you buying me another?’

‘Um . . . sure.’ Andrew reached for his wallet. ‘What do you want?’

‘Peppermint tea.’

Andrew paid for the drink and sat back down. Keira finished her cookie and checked her watch, though didn’t comment on the time. ‘It’s definitely not
that
widely known
of, especially over here. I suppose if you went to Portugal and asked if they knew about the Pendle Witch Trials, then you’d see blank faces. Over there, seven people were executed for
various offences involving witchcraft in what roughly translates as the “Black Evil” trials: “Mal Preto”, or “Malvado Preto”. It’s not massively known
about but it was one of the things I studied as supplementary information for my dissertation.’

Keira’s tea arrived and the rest of the table was cleared, leaving a small trail of cookie crumbs across the polished surface. She dunked her teabag a few times and then gave it a poke
with the spoon.

‘Has that helped?’ she asked, not looking up from her mug.

‘Massively.’

Andrew was thinking about the reaction of Brian Oswald’s wife to the name Malvado. At the time, he thought she’d flinched because of a link to Lara but it might be that she was more
worried by the legend.

He watched Keira stirring the drink, knowing she’d never drunk peppermint tea when they’d been together. It had been eight years and was such a small thing but it seemed strangely
affecting that he’d missed out on something she now enjoyed. How had she discovered it? Did she drink it regularly?

She still didn’t look up, the greeny-brown pigments from the teabag completely discolouring the steaming water. ‘Can I help with anything else?’

‘Have you ever heard of anyone having the last name Malvado?’

Keira’s eyebrows bowed in the centre. ‘I don’t think so. I’m probably not the right person to ask – but people would baptise or christen themselves as a
devil’s child. That’s not just related to devil-worship. Think of a name like “Christenson”: literally, “Son of Christ”. At some point, someone decided to take
that name.’

‘So their last name wouldn’t really be Malvado?’

‘I doubt it. They’d have an actual birth name. If you had those Portuguese roots, you might call yourself something like “Andrew do Malvado”, which is “Andrew of
Evil”. Of course, you’d probably lose the “do” part.’

That explained a lot. They had struggled to find out very much about Lara Malvado, likely because that wasn’t her real name. Instead, she’d taken – or been given – a name
that roughly translated as “Lara of the Devil” or “Lara of Evil”.

Keira sipped some of her tea, checking her watch again. Andrew knew he only had a few more minutes to talk to her. He thought about everything he’d wanted to say over the past eight years
– the explanation of why he’d walked away and how he’d regretted it from the moment he told her they were finished. He thought of how he could best put it into words, sentences
that might not make it feel so brutal.

In the end, he could only come up with a pathetic: ‘So how is everything?’

Keira put down her cup and started to laugh, not because she found it funny but because she understood how pitiful he was being.