The Matrix (20 page)

As the bus twisted through the countryside, I sat rigid in my seat, fighting down waves of panic and terror that threatened to overwhelm me. It was all I could do to stop throwing up. I shivered every time I saw my own reflection in the bus window. A hooded scarecrow made me start. The book nestled in my pocket like a smoking gun. I could not have left it there for Harriet to find if she returned to the lounge. In any case, I knew that any further attempt on my part to destroy or lose it would prove as unsuccessful as the first.

I remembered the words of the old bookseller as he handed it to me, words I had thought a little odd at the time: ‘This was the book you wanted, wasn’t it?’ If I had had my wits about me, I would have guessed what he was up to. The first time the book had been left for me to find, in the library, it had, in a sense, forced itself on me; I had not taken it home knowingly. When I had found and disposed of it, they had been compelled to find a way of tricking me into taking it back voluntarily. The old man had asked me if it was the book I wanted, and I had answered that it was. It belonged to me by right.

I knew there was only one way to get rid of it now. Burning it, throwing it in the sea, burying it: none of those would work. The book had to be given back to the old man in person, and he had to be persuaded to take it from me of his own volition, just as I had taken it from him. My only hope of achieving that lay in tricking him in the same way he had tricked me. Whatever evil the book carried in its pages would revert to him, and I would be free of it forever.

The moment I arrived home, I got my boxes of books out of the cupboard. I dumped them on the floor and set aside two which contained spells for protection against evil forces: I thought I might need them before the night was through. They were both volumes that Duncan had loaned me from his own collection.

Sorting through the others, I found one of almost identical dimensions to the
Matrix Aeternitatis.
Carefully removing its cover, I glued it round the older volume. Provided the bookseller did not leaf through it, there was a good chance that he would accept it as a copy of the 1972 reprint of Mathers’s edition of
The Key of Solomon the King.

I could not possibly carry all my books in one trip, but a mere bagful would be useless as a hiding-place for my Trojan horse. The more I could get to the shop in one go, the better.

On my first day at my new address, I had noticed a second-hand bicycle shop a couple of streets away, on Leven Street. I went there now and found just what I needed, an old sit-up-and-beg with front and rear baskets, going cheap at ten pounds. Back at my flat, I crammed one bag into the rear basket and a second into the front. Dismantling a large cardboard box, I folded it and tied it to the back: once I was at the shop, I would reassemble it and put all the books inside, with the
Matrix
at the bottom.

The bicycle was much too unwieldy to be ridden safely. Perching another, smaller box on the saddle, I set off pushing it, making my way back into the maze of side streets. I went unsteadily at first, but by and by settled into the rhythm of pushing and steering. The bicycle had been well oiled, and fitted with decent enough tyres and brakes.

When I reached the corner of the street off which the shop was situated, I leaned the bike against a wall and set my bags and boxes on the ground. Unfolding my large box, I fixed it together again and began to fill it with books. By the time I had finished, it was immensely heavy.

Leaving the bicycle where it stood, I staggered down the street with the box in both arms. Only then did I wonder what I would do if the shop were closed. With a couple of stops to rest my arms and re-balance my load, I reached the cul-de-sac. I put down the box and looked in both directions. Perhaps I had been mistaken, perhaps this was the wrong street. But on the corner stood the pub that I had noticed on Saturday.

Where the shop had been was just an empty shell. Going closer, I realized that it was indeed the same shop, but utterly changed. It looked as if no one had done business there in years. The sign had been taken down, and over the window only the faintest trace remained of the original name. The door was boarded over, and when I pressed my face against the window I could see nothing but empty shelves and what looked like litter.

Leaving my box outside the shop, I went to the corner and entered the pub. It was almost empty. A woman was cleaning glasses behind the bar. She looked up as I came in, then away again, as if to indicate that customers were not the reason for her being there.

‘I’ll have a half of Caledonian,’ I said.

She pulled the half-pint without a word and pushed it across the bar. I paid her and took a sip.

‘I noticed there’s a wee shop round the corner that’s empty,’ I said. ‘Has it been like that long?’

She looked up, dishcloth in hand, as though making up her mind whether I was human or not.

‘You’re no’ from round here, are you?’ she said.

‘Not far,’ I answered. ‘I moved to Drumdryan Street a few weeks ago.’

‘Student?’

I shook my head.

‘I’m looking for work,’ I said. ‘Some friends and I were hoping to find a wee place to open a shop. We make leather goods. You know, bags, belts, and stuff.’

‘Oh, aye?’

She did not seem impressed. Her hand turned listlessly in an empty glass, smearing rather than cleaning it. I took another mouthful of the beer.

‘The shop I mentioned would suit us well,’ I said.

‘Where’s that?’ she asked. She had obviously not noticed my first mention of it.

‘Just round the corner. In the cul-de-sac.’

‘Oh, aye, I know the one you mean. You’re wastin’ your time.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It hasnae been open in years, no’ since the old man left. They say no one will take it. Or they’ll no’ rent it out, I’m no’ sure. It has a bad name.’

‘I don’t understand. What sort of shop was it?’

‘I’m tol’ it was a bookshop. This is before my time, you ken. I’m only here five years.’

‘And what was wrong with it? Did they sell dirty books or something?’

She grimaced and twisted her cloth into a tight roll.

‘Do you think a thing like that would worry anyone round here? It wisnae dirty books. It was just . . . I’m tol’ there was something aboot the old man, something people didnae like. And since he’s gone the place has had a bad feeling aboot it. That’s all I ken. But no one will take the place. You and your friends would do well to look elsewhere.’

I finished my drink and went outside. The box of books was still where I had left it; I had almost hoped that someone might have stolen them. I found the bicycle and brought it round to the cul-de-sac. Looking more closely, I could see that the air of desolation extended beyond the shop, touching in varying degrees the houses on either side of it. Curtainless windows and neglected paintwork suggested that several flats were empty. None of those above the shop seemed occupied.

I was desperate now, sensing that I had been outmanoeuvred at every step. It was not yet clear to me why the book should be important, but I associated its presence with a measurable sense of threat. If I could not get rid of it, I would remain in greater danger than ever.

On an impulse, I rifled through the box until I had found the copy of the
Matrix.
Leaving the books against the wall of the shop, I cycled to a corner grocer’s shop I had passed on my way. He sold me a small pocket torch and batteries. Properly equipped, I went back to find the rear alley that served the culde-sac. It was a narrow, dingy lane smelling of garbage and dog shit. I found it hard to believe that sunshine ever entered it.

Finding the rear entrance to the shop was a simple matter of counting from the end. There was a rickety gate with a lock that would not have kept a toddler out. A sharp kick and I was in the back yard.

The door to the shop itself proved more difficult, but a window next to it had been broken. I slipped my hand inside and found a catch. Moments later I was crawling through the open window. Switching on the torch, I saw that I was in a tiny room that seemed to have served as a kitchen. There was a sink, and near it an electric ring. Everything was coated in a thick film of dust, as though preserved for the next tenant. A grimy milk bottle stood on the draining board, there were cans on a shelf, their labels faded and peeling.

I stepped through the open door and found myself in a larger room lined with empty shelves. This must have been where my vanished bookseller kept his better stock. I played the beam of my torch along the shelves, wondering if I dared leave the
Matrix Aeternitatis
here. Thinking it over, I knew it would not be enough: he had to take it from me personally.

It was much colder here than it had been outside. My breath lay on the torch’s beam like mist. The floor was white with a carpet of undisturbed dust. The curtain that had been there on my first visit, separating the front of the shop from the rear, still hung in its place, grey and threadbare. No one had been here in a very long time. And I knew that I had made a mistake in coming, that something was very wrong.

It was growing palpable now. What had started as a vague feeling of unease was turning rapidly to a choking sensation, and an acute awareness of the presence of real evil. Not only the room in which I stood, not just the shop, but the entire building was saturated with it. I had the sensation that my body had turned to felt. I was limp and immobile, a rag doll equipped with sight and hearing.

As I stood there, perfectly still, struggling for breath and fighting to regain volition, I became aware that a low sound had started in the front of the shop. It was at first impossible to identify. At one point, I almost thought someone had switched on a radio with the volume turned down. But the sound grew a little at a time until, in a moment of horrified recognition, I realized what it was. Someone was playing a violin, and the piece they were playing was the largo from Bach’s concerto for two violins in D minor.

No, not ‘someone’: Catriona. How did I know? Because I had heard her play that piece time and time again until I could anticipate the exact fingering, the pauses, the fractional errors that she always strove to eliminate. Her playing was like a glass with her fingerprints smeared all over it. And I knew there was no recording, that there never had been.

The playing continued. I remained standing in that same freezing spot, unable to stir, sick at the thought of what might be in the next room, revolted by the thought of what Duncan Mylne had done, terrified by what he planned to do next.

The playing stopped. The last notes lingered in the air for a few moments, then faded and were gone. I was trembling, but still I could not move. The music continued to play in my head, bar after bar, like a record. And I knew that, if I closed my eyes I would see Catriona standing with her violin pressed under her chin, her eyes catching mine as she played. I was sick with tension, wondering if it would begin again, the same or another piece. And all the time I knew that the force that held this place together was growing in strength.

I kept my eyes fixed on the curtain separating the front from the rear. The light of the torch lay on it, as though it were the curtain in a theatre, about to be raised or drawn aside. Each time I breathed, a thin coat of dust settled in my mouth. There was a foul silence throughout the building.

The curtain rippled suddenly, as though a current of air had passed through it, and then grew still again. I could not move, and I wondered if this was another dream. But even in the most vivid of my dreams I had never felt so frightened. This was reality.

I am not sure that I can easily describe what happened next. It still sickens me to think of it. I remained standing in that same spot, expecting at any moment to see Catriona materialize beside me. Had I not just heard her play, had I not seen the curtain move? A moment later, I grew more certain of it: the air around me filled with an unmistakable perfume.

She did not materialize; that is to say, I did not see a figure appear. But out of the darkness I felt something touch my cheek. It was a hand, the skin soft and warm, though I could see nothing. The hand continued to caress my face. I stood there rigid, wanting to scream, to pull away, to run. And then she stepped closer, and her arms were round me, pulling me to her, embracing me. I could feel her body, invisible yet disturbingly real, pressing against my own, and her lips kissing my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, and at last my lips.

It was Catriona, not a simulacrum, not a doppelgänger. I could not mistake the very special physicality of that embrace, the movements of her hands, the teasing and surrender of her lips. I might almost have succumbed, might have given in to the embrace and put my own arms round her: dear God, I came so very close to that. Reason screamed at me to run, my eyes told me there was nothing there, that, whatever it was, it was not Catriona; but my body, so unexpectedly caressed, had its own responses.

It came to me that I had once read in one of the books lent to me by Duncan, that if a succubus came to a man, whether waking or in a dream, he should turn to it and ask its name. I pulled my lips away from the mouth that was kissing mine.

‘What is your name?’ I asked. And then in Latin and Hebrew and Arabic, ‘What is your name?’

The air, that had been so sweetly perfumed, changed suddenly, and I started coughing as though ashes, newly burned, had been pressed against my face. Instead of lips, I felt a tongue licking my skin; not a human tongue, but longer and rough to the touch.

Whether it was my sudden revulsion, or the mere effect of the question I had asked, I found myself capable of movement. I turned and ran for the door. Behind me, a voice started calling. Catriona’s voice.

‘Andrew, come back. It’s me, I need you, Andrew . . .’

I carried on running and did not stop until I had reached the alleyway. My bicycle was waiting where I had left it.

The
Matrix Aeternitatis
was still in my coat pocket. There was no point in going back for the other books: the old man would stay out of my way to be sure he gave me no opportunity to palm the volume on to him.