The White Devil (33 page)

Andrew read, automatically. Homosexual love at Harrow. Lord Byron and John Harness. Their love letters. The jealousies, the sexual predation, followed by the swoons of Cambridge. He was aware of the discomfited fidgets of his Harrow classmates. Askew in particular twisted in his seat, searching, frantically, dying to meet someone’s glance:
Can he really be writing about this? This is gay porn! Are we really sorry this fellow is leaving school?

But Andrew sensed the presence fierce and close.

Eyes boring into him.

Teeth gritted.

Animal.

Waiting.

DO NOT LOOK UP

“Byron and Harness’s affair at Cambridge was thrown into sobering relief,” Andrew read slowly, as Fawkes had coached him, “by the death of one of Byron’s close friends, Charles Skinner Matthews, who—aside from being regarded as one of the most brilliant and intellectually daring of the Cambridge set—was the closest to an ‘out’ homosexual that Byron knew. Matthews’s death itself, in addition to being sudden, and therefore shocking, possessed elements of horror and scandal as well. While publicized as an accidental drowning in the Cam River, Matthews more likely had killed himself—a suicide, by gripping the weeds in the river bottom until he was overcome. This incident may have been the turning point for Byron and Harness. If the brilliant Matthews had decided he could not face life as a homosexual in England, how could they? He had executed upon himself the sentence of England’s Bloody Code: homosexuality deserves death. It was enough to persuade them that England held no future for a gay couple, however they might cloak their true emotions as friendship.”

Hang in there.

Now came Mary Cameron, the sixteen-year-old prostitute, Byron’s slutty, gritty, street-smart fuck buddy; and Andrew Taylor the essayist could not help but grin to himself because he could tell through his peripheral vision that Askew was hooked; almost open-mouthed.
Gay porn . . . now straight porn? What an essay!

“After Harness left Cambridge, Byron struck up what we might call a ‘rebound’ love affair with none other than a teenaged London whore, whom he bought from her madam—like someone paying down the lease on a car—for twenty-five pounds . . .”

Byron impregnated Mary. Brimming with guilt over abandoning Harness to London and poverty, he intended to do the right thing by this waif: marry her. His friends were outraged. It was a stupid, impulsive move; they piled on the letters and advice to get rid of her; Byron refused; but Mary herself, confused, and acting on her own professional instincts, sat down one afternoon in the Durant Street hotel and chewed hundreds of sulfur match heads until she became ill, and aborted the fetus in a pool of blood. This was especially awkward for the doctor called to the scene because Mary Cameron at that moment was dressed as a boy. “Byron had been disguising her, so that a normally socially unacceptable companion—a Cockney hooker—could become, for lack of a better term, socially portable. He could take her with him anywhere, as long as he called her his cousin, sometimes even his brother.”

The marriage talk ended. But the sexual liaison with Mary Cameron didn’t. Byron’s poetry of these months spoke of tender, physical intimacy:

Can I forget—canst thou forget,

When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did move?

the rage builds

a great fist

“All the while,” Andrew swallowed, fear nearly overcoming him, “John Harness was aware of the liaison. But tricked by the swirling rumors, Harness was aware only that a mysterious young
man
had replaced him as Byron’s consort. This gives rise in Harness to a murderous rage. This rage climaxed here at Harrow School, at Speech Day in 1809. Byron was staying—my research suggests—at the Three Arrows Inn, where the murder took place.”

Andrew could hear the breathing. It was wet and lungy.

“What precisely happened at the Three Arrows, is, of course, impossible to know.”

Andrew afforded himself a glance at Fawkes. Fawkes stared, so frozen-looking that Andrew stammered and lost the train of the sentence.
They must feel it, too, now
. He looked around the table. All the other faces, uncomfortable.

“What?” he asked, breaking his flow.

“Go on, Andrew,” croaked Fawkes.

because the icy bath of the presence had touched them all—they were pale, rigid, all of them, shadowed over with death

The only thing to do was to keep reading and

NOT TO LOOK UP NOT TO LOOK AT THE SEAT ACROSS

“Due to the fact that certain original letters of Harness’s were found at Harrow School,” he continued with monumental effort, now reading in a gale wind, “it can only be assumed that Harness and Byron met at their old house, the Lot. There they had a confrontation in a basement cistern room, a former secret meeting place of theirs. Harness had returned to Harrow to confront Byron about his change in loyalties. Byron met Harness to try and stop his obsessive stalking once and for all. This argument resulted in Byron returning Harness’s letters and, significantly, the carnelian ring that Harness had given Byron as a love token, a symbol of their union. In the aftermath of this fight, Byron goes out on a social call and leaves his mistress at the inn. John Harness, overcome by a jealous rage, seizes his opportunity.

“During Byron’s absence, Harness steals to the lovers’ room. He finds Mary Cameron and attacks her with his remaining strength. He manages to suffocate her to death. He has a moment of triumph: he has vanquished his rival. In this moment, carried away by his victory, he decides to leave a token: he pulls Byron’s carnelian ring from his own finger and places it on that of the dead girl. Now Byron—and only Byron—will know who has committed this murder. (These are the days before fingerprints.) Yet he has a horrible surprise: the corpse is a woman’s. Harness was expecting a male rival. Recognizing his mistake, he slinks off to die, unsure of whether he has killed his true rival, or some stranger who happened to have been in Byron’s room by mistake.

“Byron returns. He is astonished to find a dead body in his room. He is stricken to find . . .”

ALMOST INEVITABLY—IT
was an instinct—Andrew now raised his eyes to meet John Harness’s. Andrew had to catch his breath. He had never seen such malice. A shapely nose with long, flared nostrils; thin lips; small, babyish teeth; high cheekbones and forehead. It was at once a face of dignity and intelligence, and the devil’s own face, curled and singed with murderous, white-hot hate. Andrew felt a pang of tragedy; perhaps in some other world, John Harness might have blossomed. Yet here he was, still imprisoned by the purity of his own venom.

“ . . . his own lover, dead upon the floor, strangled. He finds the token. He immediately understands. And his heartbreak is doubled, since he has lost two lovers now: one to death, another to the sickening betrayal of this act. His beloved John Harness is a murderer.”

Andrew met the eyes again.

The room plunged into cold.

Andrew
. . . Mr. Toombs spoke; nervous; his voice catching . . .

Andrew began to fade away, overwhelmed by those eyes

“No records we could find ever accuse Byron of murder—and such a report, surely, would have survived history, given Byron’s later fame and talent for scandal. Byron, in the moment, must have done the prudent thing and preserved his own reputation. He would have waited until the dark of night, dressed Mary Cameron in her women’s clothing once again—her whore’s clothing—and carried her through paths he would know well (didn’t he compose “Lines Written Beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow”?) to Church Hill, and dumped her body there. The corpse would be found in the morning, in the spot very near to where our own friend, Theodore Ryder, was found . . . by me . . . earlier this school year . . .”

Andrew’s voice cracked.

THE BOYS AND
masters in the room later recalled hearing, at that point, a sound like an animal growling.

“Andrew.” Now it was Dr. Kahn who spoke. She was warning him. But he heard it, too.

The growling

He looked up at the face

It was smiling; or was it snarling? Harness had risen from his chair. His teeth were bared.

You’re in for it now

I am not the growling animal you hear

I have conjured him in time

You know whose chair I am sitting in

The door to Mr. Toombs’s classroom opened. A figure stood there—a real figure. Pale. Rumpled. Grey stubble on his cheeks. Face transfigured by misery; a stuffed black overnight bag on his shoulder. The nine seated figures in the room turned to the door. There Sir Alan stared back at them, eyes vague and watery. His glasses—usually bright and sharp as a weapon on his face—were for once off-center, greasy. His glance searched the room, then fell on Andrew.

“You’re here,” he said, “reading an essay.”

Fawkes stood, rousing himself from the spell. On instinct, he blocked any clear passage Sir Alan might have toward the head of the table. Dr. Kahn pushed out her chair on the other side. The only way for Sir Alan to reach Andrew was over the table.

“You’re here,” he repeated, his voice growing in volume and anger, “
reading an essay
!” The candles guttered, as if blown by the grieving father’s breath.

Andrew saw Harness now, standing, crouching, ready to pounce

Or was it Sir Alan the two were one

“Persephone is making a sound, now,” Sir Alan lamented, his eyes streaming tears, “like nothing a human should produce. It’s a slow . . . gurgle. It sounds like air eking through a water pipe. Which, in a way, is exactly what it is. You see, she is so weak,” he choked, “she’s so weak she cannot even spit out the blood and . . . secretions . . . in her chest. She can’t even cough anymore. I thought that was the worst. Expectorating her own blood. But the worst, I know now, is when she stops. The doctors have a name for this . . .
Mister Taylor
,” he spat the words with fury. “They call it the death rattle. When the death rattle comes, they say, she has fifty-seven hours to live. On average. Fifty-seven! How would you like to spend two of them, coming back to tell my daughter to her face that you murdered her? Or better yet, how would you like to be locked away, as you deserve?” He fished a mobile phone from his pocket and thrust it in the air. “Shall I call the Health Protection Agency?”

“Andrew was tested,” Fawkes said. “He does not have tuberculosis.”

“Shut up, you ass,” snarled Sir Alan. “I know what he did.” Then his voice quieted unnervingly. “And you’re here . . . reading an essay.”

The body language of the others in the room eased with this falling cadence; Sir Alan was calming down, they told themselves; he was rational. The room of listeners wished very badly for something to appear normal, if even for a minute. But they soon discovered it was just the ocean receding before a wave.

“
To hell with you!
” screamed Sir Alan, and he lunged across the table. And Andrew Taylor saw him

John Harness

in midair; John Harness an inch from his face; John Harness, in a shocking, final trump—oh the irony, young Mister Taylor, you who wished to defeat your enemy with
a story
—Andrew saw Sir Alan Vine fly across the table, at him; and in that flight

Vittoria Corombona

The barking strangling sunken-cheeked killer on the hill

The limber pale lover

Harness overtook Andrew’s body, making him gasp as a man does plunging into arctic water. Wind swept through the open door. The candles flickered, and went out.

26

Death Rattle

IN THE DARK
they heard coughing. It was prolonged; it made your throat itch to listen to it. There was a shuffling. The bang of a chair moving. Fragments of voices:
Can anyone . . . ? Should we light the candles or just . . . ?
Finally came a decisive scrape as Mr. Toombs’s chair pulled back. After a few seconds, a snap brought on the harsh classroom lights. The students blinked at one another, still in their seats. Dr. Kahn had kept to her post. Fawkes had moved to the head of the table, to defend Andrew. Sir Alan had crawled across the table in his fury, but now he sat with his bottom resting on the table end, his feet dangling into the speaker’s chair, leaning back onto the table, on one arm; an exhausted warrior. He stared at the shallow space between him and the chalkboard. Andrew was gone.

“Good, he managed to get away. What were you going to do? Throttle him?” Dr. Kahn accused, from her chair.

Sir Alan did not respond. He sat in a daze. Fawkes searched the space for Andrew and satisfied himself that the boy had escaped. He turned, ready to reprove Sir Alan, but he no longer saw rage in the puffy face, only collapse. The man’s anger at Andrew had been, in a way, his last expression of hope, that there would be someone to blame, some action still to take. Now, deflated, it was clear this illusion had been stripped from him. Fawkes felt a stab of sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” Fawkes said.

“Sorry?” Dr. Kahn sputtered indignantly.

Fawkes continued. “Persephone is a wonderful girl, and a friend. I wish there were something I could do.”

Sir Alan flinched, as if these kindnesses stung him. He spoke softly, almost to himself, and with bitterness. “You don’t know anything.”

But Fawkes had already spun around.
Of course there was something he could do; what was he doing, standing there?

He searched for Father Peter at the table, among the other dazed members of the Essay Club.

“It’s time,” he said. “Come on!”

THE TWO MEN
clambered back up the Hill to the High Street. Father Peter spoke excitedly. “Piers,” he said. “Piers, I don’t know if you shared those sensations?”

“What?”

“It distinctly seemed as if there were something in the room with us.”

Fawkes winced. “I know.”

“Have you experienced that before?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“I don’t know how to describe it. It was
negative
, wasn’t it? Clammy. All over you, as it were.” The priest shuddered. “Not a happy feeling.”

“No, not happy. You heard Andrew. Harness is a murderer.”

“And you think this person, John Harness, is responsible for the others being sick? Sir Alan’s daughter, and the boys?”

“I do. Or I’ve gone mad. Which at this point seems a distinct possibility. But that would mean you’re mad, too.”

“Yes. But it is the role of the clergy to join parishioners in their suffering.”

Fawkes glanced at Father Peter sidelong. Sarcasm under pressure. Indeed, he liked the priest. They hurried around the bend in the High Street, past Headmaster’s House and the Old Schools. “It’s all up to you now, Father Peter. Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t hope. Be.”

“Jesus Christ is the arbiter of such conflicts. I am only his representative. But His power is absolute.”

“That’s encouraging,” said Fawkes.

A voice called behind them. Father Peter came to a halt.

Fawkes went ahead a few paces before stopping. “Come on,” he ordered, crossly.

“But it’s Judy.”

They turned. Behind them, on the High Street, Dr. Kahn bustled, waving something in the air. They waited for her. She seemed to move in slow motion. Urgency tugged at Fawkes.
Come on, come on.
He felt that something terrible was imminent, and that every second he let pass might be ruinous.

“I’m coming with you,” she called, out of breath. “Are you going to perform the exorcism?”

“House blessing,” corrected Father Peter. “Do you need to rest?”

“No no,” she puffed. “Look. I found these.” She held out a wad of crumpled white printer paper.

“Never mind those,” snapped Fawkes.

“They’re Andrew’s essay. I found them on the walk up the Hill,” said Dr. Kahn. “He’s come this way. Maybe back to the Lot.”

“Okay, good. He can join in, if we ever get there,” said an exasperated Fawkes. “We have to start the ritual, right away.”

THEY REACHED THE
Lot after a few minutes. Music and television blared from the house into the street. The corridors echoed with ball-playing and shouting. The place seemed to thud with noise.
And Macrae thought he would tidy it up; get it under control
, Fawkes smiled bitterly to himself.

“Right. What do we need to do, Father Peter?”

Father Peter chewed his lip appraisingly. “Where is the main room? The center of the house?”

“This way.”

They pushed into the long, narrow common room where Fawkes had held his house meeting on the first night of school.

Father Peter appropriated a disused upright piano as his workstation. He placed his bag on its top and removed four items: his grey bound booklet, his water bottle, a small brass crucifix, and, to Fawkes’s surprise, the twig of a fir tree, five inches of white and spongy stem with vivid green needles.

Father Peter’s air became more formal. “You are petitioners with me in the blessing of this house,” he explained. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God the Father Almighty?”

Fawkes and Dr. Kahn exchanged glances.

“I’m a Jew,” said Dr. Kahn. “So no.”

“I’m an atheist,” Fawkes winced. “I thought you were going to . . .”

Father Peter ignored them. “Do you accept His authority to cleanse this house of any defilement, to cast out the evil one and all his minions?”

There seemed only one answer to this, and Fawkes and Dr. Kahn, affected by the priest’s seriousness, stood up straighter and answered together: “I do.”

Father Peter nodded.
That was better
. “I will perform a blessing on this house, especially all those places, Piers, where you feel have been most affected by the spirit. I will need you to be the guide. Judy, if you would, please assist me. If you would hold the water and the evergreen, please.” She took the bottle of water. He held his hand over it. “We thank you, Almighty God, for the gift of water. Over it the Holy Spirit moved in the beginning of creation. Grant, by the power of your Holy Spirit, that this water be sanctified to be a sign of your dominion over all that it might touch. Amen.”

Father Peter peered at them over his glasses.

“Amen,” echoed Fawkes.

“This is now holy water,” pronounced Father Peter. “Judith, in every room we enter, I would like you to dip the evergreen in, then sprinkle some of the water about. Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“Right!” He smiled, and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Let’s start right here, shall we?” He picked up his booklet. The three of them stood in a tight triangle, feeling both silly and, somehow, important, listening to the boys’ games pound the floorboards, and their electronic dance music throb, a storm of distraction whirling about them.

“Lord,” began Father Peter, in his well-bred tenor, “I cover myself and everyone around me with the blood of Jesus. I cover Piers with the blood of Jesus. I cover Judith with the blood of Jesus.” Fawkes watched Dr. Kahn for signs of irony, but her face was grave. “I cover this home with the blood of Jesus. By the power of His blood, I break off every power of the kingdom of darkness for this home, for each of us, and for Andrew Taylor. Please sprinkle, Judith.”

“Hm?”

“Sprinkle now. The holy water.”

“Oh right. Like this?”

“That’s the idea, very well done indeed. Where shall we go next, Piers?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Andrew’s room. Maybe he’ll be there.”

They moved to the stairs, Father Peter carrying his crucifix and booklet, Dr. Kahn bearing the water bottle and dripping twig. Fawkes remained on edge. He was forgetting something critically important. He knew it, but could not put his finger on it. A clock ticked in his chest, and it was frighteningly close to buzzing.
Those papers
—
Andrew’s essay
. Dr. Kahn, as usual, had found the right track. But where did it lead? Fawkes, in the frenzy of the pounding music and the pressure of the ritual, could not locate this misplaced clue, so he merely led them up the narrow stairs with a frown.

THE FIRST THING
Andrew felt was a nagging twinge in his throat. He coughed and hacked at it:
Surely this must come out somehow
. He felt a warm trickle, a clot of something form in his lower throat. He was about to hawk up this ball and spit it out . . . when a moment of self-awareness came on him.

Stop. Wake up.

He was still in the Classics Schools.

The candles had blown out. Confusion swirled around him. Yet Andrew knew one thing with certainty.

Harness had made him sick.

Heat pulsed his forehead, flushed his cheeks.
Fever
.

You’re sick. And if you spit in here, with ten, eleven others, you’ll make them sick, too
.

Andrew covered his mouth with his hand, and fled for the door in the dark.

Outside a cool evening awaited. The perspiration on his back and neck turned icy. His body quaked. He staggered through the darkness. Harness intended to kill him now. He had tried seduction, tried to lure him, but Andrew had resisted. And so Harness had seized him like a beast, a monkey sinking fangs into him, clinging to him and weighing him down, waiting for him to tire; a predator making a kill.

Get as far from the Classics Schools as you can,
he thought
; get away from people. You’re infectious.

He climbed the stairs to the street. His breathing came heavily. When he reached the top, he stumbled. He pulled up a trouser leg and found his calves and ankles had swollen: taut, puffy, dragging beneath him like bags of fluid.

What was happening to him?

The thoughts came with pure, primitive panic.
He had no time
. Sir Alan said Persephone had only hours to live. She would be a corpse, Roddy, too, if he did not do something now.

Andrew leaned against a building and coughed again. He spat blood onto the sidewalk. He went faint. In this swoon—
it must have been just in his mind, subject to the fever, or to the exhaustion of writing all night, because how could this be real
—he perceived the High Street as it would have been on the night of his essay—in 1809. The night of the murder.

No concrete, no sidewalks, no paved roads. A narrow dirt road, with ruts from carriage and cart wheels, and beaten firm by horse and human feet. A few lamp-lit windows. And beyond their feeble halos, darkness. Here the great night hung over the Hill; it slithered between the trees; it dripped. It was here Lord Byron had carried Mary’s body and dumped it.

Asphalt again. A car swooshed past.

The pain in Andrew’s throat increased.

He understood, suddenly, what Harness was doing to him.

He was forcing Andrew to endure the journey from health to death, to experience that same, slow, consuming disease that Harness had suffered. Only Andrew would live it—die from it—in a single evening. He reached up with his fingers and touched his face; felt the ridge of his own cheekbone, and traced it with his fingertip. The fat had melted away. The sores grew in his mouth. The fever burned his cheeks.

Harness was going to kill him. He was going to kill all of them.

All of them?

What if I give myself to him?

Wasn’t that the idea that had occurred to him before? And Fawkes had dissuaded him. But Fawkes was not always right. Fawkes did not know about dead Daniel Schwartz, about the overdose, about rising into the sky alone in a balloon, and being left behind and feeling in your churning stomach that you deserved
were fated
to die, too. Fawkes did not know about your father selling the canoe; or about
being through
. Fawkes, in his selfish way, loved himself; could not bear to part with himself. Could not know how Andrew might
just know
, with certainty, that he did not belong, and would never belong.

The idea grew ever more clear.

If I give myself to Harness then maybe he’ll leave the others alone. I’m what he wants. Just let him know he could have me, if he gave the others back.

Andrew propelled himself forward on the mossy brick pavement, leaning against the plane trees. His breath came in gulps. His muscles scarcely obeyed his commands. His flesh had been devoured away.

He was emaciated
.

He might not have the strength to make it to the Lot. He saw a car come around the bend and pause at the light at the crest of the Hill.

Andrew flung himself into the road, holding up his hand. The headlights were blinding.

“Can you . . .” The rest of the sentence died on his lips.
Can you give me a ride, just a few blocks up?
The pain in his throat was excruciating—a dagger stroke. But worse, perhaps, was the look of shock on the driver’s face. He was fortyish, fit, wearing an exercise tank top, heading home from the gym. He started to respond to Andrew, then recoiled. The driver saw a gaunt youth, cheeks thrusting from wilted skin; dark hair over a starved, angular face. The boy—if you could assign such a vibrant word to the thing he was looking at—had the appearance of something freshly exhumed. But what truly frightened him was the eyes. They were sunken in their sockets. They stared out at him with a kind of dull desperation; they wanted things from him, yet they knew asking was futile; they were going through the mere motions of survival. The figure mumbled. It was wearing some odd, old-fashioned coat. The driver slammed the stick into neutral, let the car ease down the gradient a few feet—away from the figure, who had lurched into his headlight beam, and then, when the vehicle pulled clear, gunned the engine. As the driver put distance between himself and the figure, he glanced back. Was he dreaming? He dismissed the notion of calling the police or even an ambulance. Instead he would speed home, move quickly to his own door, and lock it tight.