Vicious Circle (3 page)

Nothing wrong with his observational skills, though: After a while, he noticed that I was getting fidgety, and that there was an edge creeping into my tone when I was repeating myself for the third or fourth time on some minor detail like where I’d been standing when I said X or Y.

“Got somewhere else you need to be?” he asked aggressively.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s it exactly.”

“Oh, right. Hot, is she?” He favored me with the kind of pruriently suggestive leer that cops and squaddies get issued on day one along with their boots.

I really wasn’t in the mood. “It’s a he,” I said. “He’s a demonically possessed psychopath, and he tends to run a core temperature about eight degrees higher than the bog standard ninety-eight point four. So yeah, I think you could safely say he’s hot.”

MacKay put his notebook away, giving me a stare of truculent suspicion: he’d felt the breeze of something going over his head, and he didn’t like it. “Well I don’t think we need anything else from you right now,” he said sternly. “The sergeant will probably be in touch again later on, though, so you keep yourself available, yeah?”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll contact him on the astral plane.”

“Eh?” The suspicion had turned to frank alarm.

“Skip it,” I muttered over my shoulder as I walked away. It wasn’t MacKay’s fault that my Saturday night was up the Swannee. That was down to nobody but me, which is never as much consolation as it ought to be.

The weekend is meant to be a time when you unwind from the stresses of the week that’s gone and recharge your batteries for the shit-storm to come. But not for me, not tonight. The place I was going on to now made this God-spurned dump look positively cozy.

I
CAN
DRIVE
,
WHEN
I
HAVE
TO,
BUT
I
DON’T
OWN
A
CAR
. IN London, owning a car doesn’t seem to help all that much, unless you want somewhere to sit and soak up the sun while you’re lazing on the M25. So it was going to take a long haul on the underground to get me to where I was going—into town on one branch of the Northern Line, back out again on the other one.

It was the twilight zone between Saturday afternoon and Saturday night: the football crowds had already faded away like fairy gold, and it was too early yet for the clubbers and the theatergoers. I was able to sit for most of the way, even if the carriage did have a fugitive whiff of stale fat from someone’s illicitly consumed Big Mac.

The guy next to me was reading
The Guardian,
so I read it, too, in staccato glimpses over his shoulder as he turned the pages. The Tories were about to slice and dice their latest leader, which has always been my favorite blood sport; the home secretary was denying some spectacular abuse of office while refusing to relax an injunction that would have allowed the news media to describe exactly what it was; and the Post Mortem Rights Bill was about to come back to the Commons for what was expected to be an eventful third reading.

That wasn’t what they were calling it, of course. I think the actual title of the proposed act of parliament was the Redefinition of Legal Status Extraordinary Powers Act—but the tabloids had resorted to various forms of shorthand, and Post Mortem Rights was the one that had stuck. Personally, I tended to think of it as the Alive Until Proven Dead Act.

Basically the government was trying to pull the law up by its own bootstraps so that it could slip a fairly fundamental postscript into every major statute that had ever been written. It wasn’t a case of how the law worked, exactly: it was more a case of who it applied to. The aim was to give some measure of legal protection to the dead—and that’s where it got to be good clean fun of the kind that could keep a million lawyers happily engaged from now until Doomsday. Because there were more different kinds of dead and undead entity around these days than there were fish in the sea, or reality TV shows on channel 4. Where did you draw the line? Exactly how much of a physical manifestation did you need to count as a productive citizen?

There’d been some spirited batting around of all these issues in the Commons and in the Lords, and the pundits were saying the bill might hit the rocks if it came to a free vote. But even if it did, it seemed like it was only a matter of time: sooner or later we had to grudgingly accept that our old definitions of life and death were no damn use anymore, and that people who refuse to take the hint when their heart’s stopped beating and their perishable parts are six feet under still have at least a minimal degree of protection under the law.

Which for a lot of guys in my profession was just flat-out bad news.

I guess the dead were always with us, but for a long while they were fairly discreet about it. Or perhaps there just weren’t so many of them who bothered to come back.

In my earliest memories, there’s no real distinction: some people had laps you could sit on, hands you could hold, while with others you sort of fell right on through. You learned by trial and error who was which—and then later you learned not to talk about it, because grown-ups couldn’t always see or hear the silent woman in the freezer aisle at Sainsbury’s, the forlorn kid standing out in the middle of the road with the traffic roaring through him, the wild-eyed, cursing vagrant wandering through the living room wall.

It wasn’t that much of a burden, really: more bewildering than traumatic. I found out that ghosts were meant to be scary when I heard other kids telling ghost stories, and as far as I can remember my reaction was just “Oh, so that’s what they’re called.”

The first ghost that ever really rattled me was my sister Katie, and that was because I knew her from when she was alive. I’d even been there when my dad had brought her broken body back to the house, sobbing uncontrollably, fighting off the hands that tried to help him lay her down. She was skipping rope in what was nominally a “play street,” off-limits to cars (8:00 AM TO
SUNSET
,
EXCEPT
FOR
ACCESS
). A delivery van, going way too fast in the narrow street, hit her a glancing blow and threw her about ten feet through the air. As far as anyone could tell, she died instantly. The van, meanwhile, kept right on going. My dad spent a lot of time after that going round the neighbors’ houses asking people if they’d seen what kind of van it was: he was hoping to identify the driver and get to him before the police did. Fortunately for both of them, he got a whole range of different answers—Mother’s Pride, Jacob’s Biscuits, Metal Box Company Limited—and eventually had to give up.

I was six years old. You don’t really grieve at that age, you just sit around trying to figure out what the hell is going on. I sort of got that Katie was dead, but I wasn’t all that clear yet on death itself: it was a transition, a change of state, but how permanent it was and where it left you afterward seemed to vary according to whom I asked.

One thing was for sure: Katie wasn’t up in heaven with God. The day we buried her, she walked into my bedroom at five past midnight and tried to climb into bed with me—which was where she normally slept, there being only one room and two beds to share between us three kids. I was perturbed by the broad, bloody gash in her forehead, her pulped shoulder, her gravel-sculpted side, and she was upset by my screaming. It went downhill from there.

My mum and dad were falling apart themselves at this stage, so they didn’t have much sympathy to spare. They took me to a doctor, who said nightmares were entirely normal after a trauma—especially a trauma like losing a sibling—and prescribed large doses of sweet bugger all. I was left to get on with it.

And that was how I found out that I was an exorcist.

After two weeks of Katie’s nightly visits, I started trying to make her go away, running through the whole gamut of gross and offensive behavior that six-year-old boys can come up with. Katie just kept on staring. But when I sang “Build a bonfire, build a bonfire, put your sister on the top,” the subdued little ghost made a whimpering sound and started to flicker like a dying lightbulb.

Seeing that I’d made an impact at last, I pushed on through my small repertoire of songs. Katie tried to talk to me, but whatever she was saying I couldn’t hear it over my own raucous chanting. By the time my parents stormed in, their patience finally exhausted, she was gone.

She was gone, and I celebrated. My bed was my own again. I was stronger than death, and I knew that whatever death actually turned out to be, I had the stick that would always bring it to heel: music. I became fascinated by the mechanics of the whole thing; I discovered by trial and error that whistling was better than singing, and playing a flute or tin whistle was best of all. It works differently for each of us, but music is the trigger that does the job for me.

It was years before I really thought again about the shy, scrawny little girl who collected elastic bands for no fathomable reason, wrapping them around each other until they formed a huge, solid ball, and who let me share her lunch when I’d swapped my own crisps and sandwiches for
Twilight Zone
bubblegum cards: years before I even asked myself where she went when I made her go away.

I grew up. So did my big brother, Matthew. We’d never had a lot in common, and as we grew we took off in totally opposite directions. He went straight from school to a Catholic seminary in Upholland—the same one that Johnny Vegas trained in, but Matthew stuck to his guns when Vegas ditched the priesthood to become a stand-up comedian. On the other hand Matthew would have been hampered in that job by having a sense of humor so atrophied that he still thought
The Goons Show
was funny.

I went to Oxford to study English, but dropped out in my second year and by devious and twisted routes ended up going into exorcism. For six or seven years I made a living out of doing to other ghosts for money what I’d done to Katie out of pure, naked self-preservation.

There was a real call for exorcists by this time. Something was happening as the old millennium bumped and creaked and trundled its way downhill toward its terminus. The dead were waking in greater and greater numbers, to the point where suddenly they were impossible to ignore. Most were benign, or at least passive, but some had clearly gotten out of the wrong side of the grave—and a few were downright antisocial. The immaterial ones were bad enough, but some of the dead returned in the flesh, as zombies, while other ghosts—known as loup-garous or
were
—were able to possess animal hosts and sculpt them into a more or less human shape. And in some cases, where you got a big concentration of the dead in one place, other things would appear there, too: things that seemed to correspond to what mediaeval grimoires called demons. It seemed like it was chucking-out time in hell, and the whole rowdy bunch had all come surging out onto the streets at the same time. Kind of like eleven o’clock on the Dock Road back home in Liverpool, but with brimstone.

And equally suddenly, there were the exorcists. Or maybe we’d always been there, too; maybe it’s part of the genome or something, but it didn’t really come into its own until there was something out there worth exorcising. We’re a weird, unlikely lot: every one of us has got his own way of doing the job—which is to catch a ghost, tangle it up in something that it can’t get free from, and then dispel it.

For me, obviously, that “something” is music. I play some sequence of notes on my tin whistle, which for me perfectly describes—
models
might be a better word—the ghost as I perceive it. And somehow the music adheres to the ghost, or becomes part of it, so that when the tune stops the ghost stops, too. I’m not unique, I have to admit: I’ve met more than a few people who use drums in the same way, and some bat-shit guy I met once in Argentina taps out a rhythm on his own cheek. Other exorcists I’ve bumped into along the way have used pictures, words, dance, even the syncopation of their own breathing. The religious ones, of course, use prayer, but it all comes down to the same thing. Most of us are in no position to get all holier-than-thou about it.

So for a while, by the simple application of the laws of supply and demand, I was rolling in it: asking for top dollar and getting what I was asking for (in the positive rather than the ironic sense of that phrase). And if anyone ever posed the question, or if I allowed myself to wonder where the ghosts I dispelled actually went to, I had a flip answer in the breech ready to fire.

It’s only in the Western tradition, I’d say, sounding like someone who’d actually finished out his degree, that ghosts are seen as being the actual spirits of dead people. Other cultures have them down as being something else. The Navajo think of ghosts as something that congeals out of the worst parts of your nature while the rest of you goes into the next world cleansed and fighting fit. In the Far East, they’re often treated as a sort of emotional pollutant whose appearance depends on who’s looking at them, and so on.

Yeah, I know. Given that ghostbusting was my bread and butter, and given that I’d started with my own sister, it helped a hell of a lot if I could tell myself and anyone else who’d listen that ghosts were something different from the people they looked like. I was only talking my conscience to sleep, and while it was asleep I did some pretty bad things.

One of them was Rafi.

The Charles Stanger Care Home stands just off the North Circular at Muswell Hill, on the smooth bow-bend of Coppetts Road. From the outside, and from a distance, it looks like what it used to be—a row of Victorian workmen’s cottages, turn-of-the-century poverty reinvented as tasteful nostalgia.

Closer in, you see the bars over the windows, riveted directly into the original brickwork, and the looming bulk of the new annex protruding backward at an acute angle, dwarfing the cottages themselves. If you’re tuned in to stuff like that, maybe you also notice the magical prophylactics that they’ve put up beside the main door to discourage the dead: a sprig of myrtle for May, a necromantic circle bearing the words
HOC
FUGERE—flee this place—a crucifix, and an ornate blue enamel mezuzah. One way or another, you’re dumped out of the Victorian reverie into an uncomfortable present.