Vicious Circle (36 page)

This time I managed to get upright, even though the floor was lurching in every direction at once, trying to throw me down again. I groped in my pocket for Matt’s car keys. Yeah, they were still there. I had to see someone. Juliet. I had to see Juliet, and tell her where to find Rafi on a Saturday night.

Out into the hall. Which way now? Had to be either left or right, because there weren’t any other directions. Except I was forgetting down: there was an unreasonable prejudice against down. Down was amazing. Once you’d tried it, it was hard to get up again.

I was stretched out on the stairs, diagonally crucified on dusty carpet that didn’t have a pattern anymore because the sun had bleached the threads to a uniform pale gold. It smelled of must and very faintly of tarragon: not the recipe I would have used. I couldn’t even remember deciding to go upstairs, so I levered myself upright, leaned backward as far as I could and fell down them again. You have to be decisive at times of crisis or people will walk all over you.

Lying on my back in the hallway, I saw the door open and a pair of shiny black shoes advancing toward me, apparently walking on the ceiling. A man’s voice said a single word. Ship? Shit? Shirt? Then a huge face heaved itself into my field of vision like the moon rising in the middle of the day. It was a nice face, but it wasn’t one I knew.

“Does anything hurt?” his lips said. A second or so later, the sound broke over me like a sluggish wave. I shook my head, infinitesimally.

“Then is there any part of you that you can’t move?”

That would have made me laugh, if I could remember how laughing worked. There wasn’t anything I
could
move right then. Maybe a finger, if I tried hard enough.

The guy moved on to a lot of inappropriate touching, feeling my neck and my cheeks, pulling my eyelids down so that he could peer into my eyes, finally opening my mouth and looking down my throat with the aid of a flashlight: not a doctor’s flashlight, either—a Maglite about a foot and a half long that he must have found under Pen’s sink or somewhere similarly insalubrious.

“Fuck you,” I said. Or tried to say: maybe I didn’t manage it, because he didn’t react in any way or even seem to hear me. He went away and came back again, once or perhaps a couple of times. Then he put a bag down on the carpet next to me, leaned in close again.

“Do you have any recent injuries?” he asked me. “Wounds, I mean? Wounds that might still be open?”

Well, this was covered under doctor-patient privilege, so it was okay to talk. But my teeth were clenched together and they wouldn’t separate. Coming through, coming through, I thought, coherent sentence coming through. But they didn’t fall for the bluff, and nothing at all happened. I managed to roll my eyes in the direction of my shoulder: a minimalist clue, but he seemed to get it. He pulled my coat open, undid the top three buttons on my shirt and peeled it back. He nodded at what he saw there.

“You’ve got an infection,” he said, a whistling echo to his voice sounding like a cheap guitar effect. “I’m going to—”

His voice became a ribbon in the air, a flick of motion traveling from one end of it to the other like the crack of a whip seen in fascinating slow motion. When it got to the farther end, it fell off into absolute silence.

I half-woke with a mouth so dry it felt like it was full of panel pins. I tried to speak, and something cold and wet was pressed to my face. I was able to put my tongue to it and get some moisture. The pain faded a little, and I faded right along with it.

The next thing I was aware of was “Colonel Bogey March” playing on someone’s car horn. Who invented that story about Hitler’s ball? I wondered dreamily. Alternatively, who got in close enough to count?

Then memory poured in on me from all directions at once and I sat up as abruptly as if I was spring-loaded. I was in my own room, lying in my own bed, and the window was open. Alarmingly, dislocatingly, it was evening outside.

“Fuck!” I croaked. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

I threw off the covers, discovering in the process that I was naked and slick with cold sweat. My fever had broken while I slept, and now I felt weak but relatively clearheaded. Clearheaded enough to remember . . . something. Some revelation that had loomed out of the fog of my malfunctioning brain and caught me in its headlights just before I collapsed. But not cool enough to remember what it was.

Juliet. It was something to do with Juliet, and her plans for tonight. For some reason, I had a feeling—no, a dead, cold conviction—that it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to send her spirit into the stones of St. Michael’s Church. I wasn’t sure why, but I had to be there and I had to stop her.

I found my clothes neatly stacked on the chest of drawers just inside the door, my coat slung over the back of a chair. My mobile was in my pocket, but when I tried to turn it on I realized that it had run out of charge. Occupational hazard for me: I came to the technology late and unconvinced. I turned out every pocket, but there was no sign of Matt’s car keys.

I hauled the clothes back on in the order they came to hand. I needed a shower in the worst way, but there was no time. I stumbled down the stairs, my legs still trembling just a little.

The phone was in the kitchen, and so was a short, stocky man with a sizable beer gut. He was sitting at the kitchen table, leafing through a very old magazine, but he closed it and stood up as I came in. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket that looked slightly frayed, and National Health glasses that did nothing for his florid, pitted face apart from magnify one of the least impressive parts of it. The top of his head was bald, but tufts of hair clung on around his ears like thin scrub on treacherous scree. I gave him a nod, but I had too much on my mind right then for small talk. I picked up the phone on the kitchen wall. The short man watched me dial.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He had a very faint Scottish accent.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Can you give me a moment?”

The communal phone at the refuge rang a couple of dozen times without anybody answering. I was about to give it up when someone finally picked up. “Hello? This is Emma, who are you?” A little girl’s voice, with that awkwardly formal telephone manner that some kids pick up from grown-ups without quite knowing how it works.

“My name’s Castor,” I said. “Can I speak to Juliet? Is she there?”

There was a murmured conversation on the other end of the line, then, “She’s gone out,” Emma said. “You can leave a message if you like.”

“Thanks. The message is that she should call me.” I thought that through. No good: I’d be on my way west. “Actually,” I said, “the message is that she shouldn’t go to church. I’ll explain why when I see her.”

“I’ll pass that message on,” Emma piped.

I hung up, and turned belatedly to acknowledge the little man who was still watching me in silence. “Whatever you did to me, it worked,” I said. “Thanks.”

He shrugged—magnanimously, really, considering that I’d just cold-shouldered him after he’d pulled me back from the brink of—something. I had to go, but I had to know, too. “What was it?” I asked. “What was wrong with me?”

“
Clostridium tetani,
mainly,” he said.

“
Clostridium
—?”

“You had a bad tetanus infection. You should have kept your booster shots up. Tell me, have you been playing with werewolves lately?”

I hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Why?” I demanded.

“Yeah, I thought so.” He scratched his jaw, looking at me like he wanted to examine me some more and maybe write a monograph on me for
The Lancet.
“It’s something I saw before once—and it struck me so much I tried to read up on it. The wound on your shoulder was made by some kind of caltrop or throwing star. Whoever threw it at you was a loup-garou, and he’d licked the blade first, got it nice and wet with his saliva.

“You know how the bad guys in spy novels will put a bug on the hero’s car, or on the sole of his shoe or somewhere, and then use it to follow him? Well this is a kind of no-tech version of that: they can smell the pheromones in their own saliva. For miles, according to one study. They could track you across half of London. Of course, they can also infect you with rabies—or
HIV
. All in all, you probably got off pretty lightly.”

That explained a lot—and my feelings must have shown on my face, because the little man hastened to reassure me. “Oh, don’t you be worrying about it. I shot you full of vancomycin. There’s nothing living inside you now that shouldn’t be there. And the povidone-iodine scrubs I used will kill every last trace of pheromone that’s still on you. You won’t need to be looking over your shoulder. Obviously you should have a blood test at some point to rule out any infections that have a slower progression. But as far as I can tell, you’re okay.”

I was more concerned with the harm that had already been done. This was how the two loup-garous, Po and Zucker, had found me at the
Thames Collective,
and then again in Kensington Church Street. And on the Hammersmith overpass, too, come to that. The bastards must have been riding on my tail for two whole days. Fortunately, for most of that time I’d been
chasing
my tail, so all they’d got for their trouble was vertigo.

“Thanks,” I said again, lamely. “I appreciate it.”

He waved the thanks away. “I was doing a favor for a friend,” he said.

“For Dr. Forster?”

“Aye, that’s right. He would have come himself, if he could. But his time’s not his own.”

The man’s manner changed—became a little tentative and awkward. “This little girl—is there anything I can do to help? Professionally, I mean—as a doctor?”

The question caught me off balance. “What little girl?”

“When I was working on that cut, you were talking about a little girl. And a bloodstain. I couldn’t make out a lot of it, but it sounded bad.”

Yeah, I thought, with a sinking feeling in my stomach. And it would sound even worse in court. “No,” I said brusquely. “You can’t help. Whatever the hell she needs now, it isn’t a doctor.”

He’d come around the table, was standing only a few feet away from me, his brow furrowed with a somber thought. I could tell it wasn’t the answer he’d wanted to hear. Was he asking himself if he’d just aided and abetted a child-murderer?

“Look,” I said, “the girl is—kind of—a client. You know what I do for a living, right?”

“No. Sorry. I can’t say that I do.”

“I’m an exorcist. The girl is dead, and I was hired—this sounds crazy, but it’s the truth—to find her ghost.”

He nodded understandingly, as though that made perfect sense. But then he turned it over in his mind and started finding the rough edges. “Hired by who? Who steals a ghost? Who tries to get one back?”

“Who steals her? Probably her real father. Who tries to get her back, I don’t know because they gave me a truckload of bullshit. Maybe some fucking lunatic satanists. But I’m still going to find her, because I think she’s in trouble.”

The little man gave a humorless laugh. “Worse trouble than being dead, you mean?”

“Yeah.” It felt strange saying it, but I knew it was true. I realized I’d known it for a while now—even before Basquiat had shown me how Abbie died. “Worse trouble than being dead.”

The doctor digested this in unhappy silence. “Well, I hope it sorts itself out,” he said at last, with the look of a man trudging resolutely back into his depth. “You should take it easy with that left arm for a little while. While the muscle’s all inflamed like that it’s easier to tear.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, and took Matt’s car keys out of the fruit bowl where Pen had left them.

“You may still be a bit shaky,” the little man said, frowning in concern. “If you feel like you’re having trouble controlling the car, you should pull over and take a cab or something.”

As far as solicitude went, he was getting just a little bit in my face now. I owed the man plenty, but I’ve never liked lectures, sermons, or public health notices. “Don’t worry about it,” I muttered as I headed for the door. “It’s my brother’s car.”

The sky was darkening fast: too fast for spring. It was like a night that should have drained away a long time ago, but had clogged the sinkholes of eternity and now was backing up into the daylight. Either that, or I’d just slept for longer than I thought.

The front doors of St. Michael’s were still locked and bolted, and so was the lych-gate. That slowed me down for all of twenty seconds: the gate was more of a decorative feature than an actual barrier, and—weak as I still was—it offered me plenty of handholds. My landing on the graveyard side of the wall was a little bumpy, though, and I fell forward onto my hands, skinning them slightly.

I circled round through the graveyard until I could see the back door of the vestry up ahead of me. It was standing ajar. I walked out into the open, heading toward it, but was stopped before I’d gone ten steps by a breathless chuckle. I froze, looking around for the source of it.

There was a man propped up against the cemetery’s farther wall, his head lolling forward on his chest. He had long, lanky hair and he was wearing a stained mac. He looked like a drunk looking for an impromptu urinal on his way home from the boozer, but a second, slightly less cursory glance more or less ruled that out. The stains on the mac were dark, irregular spatters: the dim light didn’t allow me to be certain, but they looked like blood. The side of his skull was smashed in, and one of his arms was dangling uselessly, like a pendulum, swinging slightly from left to right as he shifted his balance.

A zombie—and one who’d been taking a lot less care with his mortal remains than Nicky did.

Some suspicion that I couldn’t quite explain to myself made me veer in his direction. Maybe I recognized him from somewhere. Maybe I just didn’t want to have him at my back as I went into the church.

“You okay there, sport?” I said, conversationally as I approached him. I was rummaging around in my pocket for the myrtle twig, but it wasn’t there. I must have left it on the floor at Imelda’s, where she’d probably have treated it like a dead rat: dustpan and brush, no direct contact, sterilize afterward.