Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1) (15 page)

Chapter 34

George Bricken wrapped the old, woollen coat tightly around him as he made his way carefully down Gloucester Road to his mid-terrace home. The paths had been gritted but there were still considerable sections where the salt didn’t cover the surface and he had to negotiate around a number of large ice pools. The cold wind stung his craggy face and the sunlight glinted off the snow piled up against the sides forcing him to squint but, after eighty-six years of life, he had seen much worse weather than this.

At the Somerfields ne
ar the top of the road he had bought eggs, milk, some bread and a Daily Mail. He didn’t cook much, that was Martha’s department, but since she had died he had had to make do as best he could. Occasionally, Sally would turn up, unannounced and stinking of fags, and bring a cake that she had left over from one of her
parties
. He guessed she only came to see if he was still alive, see if she had inherited anything yet and to make sure he kept her in the will. In fact he had written her out years ago but there was little to be gained by telling her that. The dog home, and various other charities, would soon acquire an unencumbered, neatly kept property worth somewhere close to one hundred and fifty thousand and that gave his old heart some much needed comfort on a lonely night.

When he got back home he was greeted by the
remnants of a snow man made by the students next door. Its bloated body sagged under the weight of its head, the eyes were made of black sludge and a rolled up envelope was stuck in the place where its mouth should be, no doubt representing a spliff or whatever it was they referred to drugs as nowadays. Disgusting creatures, those that lived next door to him. Constantly singing at three o’clock in the morning, shagging each other and generally treating his garden as a tip for their beer cans and kebab wrappers. The notion of respect had sadly died shortly after Thatcher stood down and the country had yielded to a series of incompetent and dishonest leaders.

Inside his home, George felt a waft of heat sooth
e the chill on his face. Things here were pretty much how they had been since Martha died: every room wallpapered and carpeted, jammed with odd little items of furniture that didn’t go together, leather poufs and stools, side tables displaying china ornaments, a beige sofa and a fancy welsh dresser in the corner of the lounge where Martha kept her best plates. He hadn’t used them since he had found her dead in her favourite chair, a smile on her face and a glass of sherry by her side, five years ago.

George liked his house. It was predictable, untouched by the fast changing world outside, cut-off
from the pressures and vices of the modern world.  His haven, his sanctuary.

In the kitchen, he boiled the kettle and made tea, being careful to allow the bag to stew in the pot for two minutes, no more, no less. He added the milk and took his mug to the lounge where he planned to spend the rest of the morning reading the paper and watching the news. Later, he might see about
clearing the snow from the backyard and perhaps visiting the bookies if it didn’t snow again.

When he found a man sitting in his chair looking for all the world like he had lived there for years, he dropped the tea to the floor and cracked his knee on the table.

Chapter 35

“It’s important to understand that I was about the closest thing to a human friend that Eugene Anwick had, but in truth I was hardly close to him at all.”

From the angle that Ash was sat, it was difficult to tell exactly where Erik Crow ended and the sofa he was crushing began. He sort of merged into it. To his left, he could hear Keera shuffling in her seat. He didn’t need Alix’s psychology degree to guess what she was thinking.

“We don’t have time for this, boss,” she
whispered, leaning across to catch Ash’s eye.

“Is this gonna
’ help us, Doctor Crow?” asked Ash. “I have a missing child to find.”

“You need to und
erstand Professor Anwick. That’s why you came. I’m going to help you understand him, or at least understand him as best anyone can. Take it or leave it.”

Ash thought about it.

“Go on,” he said eventually.

“Oh, Jees, guv-” Ash raised his hand and Keera fell silent. She muttered something under her breath but he didn’t catch it.

Crow glanced at Keera and, satisfied that she wasn’t going to interrupt him again, continued. “Eugene didn’t let me see the forensics of his theories, or his experiments. But he did discuss them with me. At least to some degree.”

“What was he working on?” asked Ash.

“Eugene’s discipline was what most people now know as quantum physics, a very misunderstood science. Are you familiar with Schrodinger’s cat, inspector?”

“No. But I remember Top Cat. Is that the same thing?”

“There’s no need for cynicism, inspector. Schrodinger’s cat is a thought experiment designed to illustrate the illusion we call reality. We would call it a
paradox
.”

Keera cringed at the use of the word “we”. It made Crow and his colleagues sound like they were higher beings, that only they were capable of understanding the complexities of their world. It was bullshit. They were college nerds. The only paradox was that Crow was the size of a small Travelodge but somehow his overworked heart hadn’t packed up yet. She folded her arms and sat back in her chair refusing to take any notes. Ash ignored her. “Go on,” he prompted, much to her annoyance.

“Schrodinger’s idea was to put a live cat into a sealed box rigged up to a mechanism that may slay the cat, or not as the case maybe, depending on an indeterminable action. In fact, he proposed to rig up a bottle of hydrochloric acid that would be shattered if a radioactive atom – which was also placed in the box – decayed. The point is not to worry about the technical aspects of the experiment but to accept that there is a cat in a box and, after it has been left for, say, an hour or two, there is no way of knowing whether the cat is alive or dead unless you open the box.”

In truth, Ash had begun to question whether any of this
was helpful. He had a sinking feeling that, at the very least, whatever Crow had to say was unlikely to be of any immediate help. It was times like this when his craving for nicotine started to distract him. He hadn’t smoked in six months but he still found himself occasionally sucking on a pen lid absentmindedly.

“One interpretation – known as the Copenhagen Interpretation – says that the cat exists in two states at the same time until someone observes it. In other words, it’s both dead
and
alive – known as a superposition - up until the point that someone opens the box whereupon the cat assumes one of those two states.”

“A bit like the question of whether or not a tree falling in a wood with no one around
to hear it fall actually makes a noise,” suggested Ash.

“Not quite on point but not far off either,” Crow said. Keera had now started to play with her nails.

Crow continued, “But the Copenhagen Interpretation is not the only possible solution. For instance, an idea developed which said that where I might open the box and find the cat dead, there is a parallel universe almost identical to our own in which I have opened the box and found the cat to be alive. Or perhaps you opened the box and found the cat dead, or that I had forgotten to put the cat in the box at all. There are an infinite number of possibilities all of which are played out in other realities.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw a Star Trek episode about that,” said Keera.

“There are literally hundreds of references to the multiple universe interpretation in TV programmes and films.
It’s a Wonderful Life
is my personal favourite.”

“I bet you can
name all the people who played Doctor Who, can’t you?” she said.

“For every decision we make,” Crow continued
, ignoring her, “multiple universes split and the numerous consequences of our decisions are played out in alternative realities. But of course the point is that you only know one reality, one universe: the one you’re in. The one where you decided to come and see me to talk about Anwick. The one where you decided to become a policeman. The one where you decided to buy that suit you’re wearing, to not bother to shine your shoes, to give up smoking.” To this last comment, Ash looked up inquisitively. “It’s the way you’re holding your pen, detective.” Crow explained.

“How do you know
I’ve given it up?” he asked.

“You look tired.”

“That’s it? I look tired and I hold my pen funny? Therefore I gave up smoking?”

“I’m right aren’t I?”

Of course he was. And the grin that crossed his chubby face as Ash sat back in his seat, defeated, was rather like splitting open a bean bag with a knife.

“Where are they then?” asked Keera.

“Where are what?”

“These other universes, dimensions. Whatever.”

“They could be less than a millimetre from you.”

She scoffed before replying, “p
retty farfetched.”

“Not at all. Our perception of the world is limited by what we can see and explore. Take two colonies of ants, for instance. One colony lives on one side of a leaf; another on the other side. Both may deny the other’s existence but that is merely because Ants can only think in two dimensions. They know nothing of the third dimension
and therefore, to them, the existence of the other colony on the other side of the leaf is inconceivable. We have similar ignorance about the fifth, sixth, seventh dimension. There are, purportedly, eleven in all.”

“We can’t see them, but we know they’re there.”

“The universe is far bigger than we can presently compute. It has an edge, but only insofar as the sailors on a boat see the edge of the horizon as being the edge of the water. Yet they are very different things.”

“Then how do we know they’re there?”

“We don’t
know
, but we can authoritatively speculate. Remember the cat in the box? It may be both dead
and
alive until it is observed. That state of being both is known as a superposition. We can prove that particles – photons, specifically – are capable of existing in two different states at the same time.”

“So Anwick was interested in this multiple universe idea,” Ash said. “So what? What was he doing?”

“Becoming obsessed with it. Dangerously obsessed with it. His own theories were getting more and more farfetched. I was worried for him.”

“What do you mean?”

Crow wiped a chubby hand across his face and snorted loudly. “He thought he couldn’t die. He had this wacky idea that, whatever happened, when he made a decision,
he
would split into a world in which he’d survive.”

Ash ran his hand through his hair. Perhaps Keera was right and this was a waste of time. “What do you mean, doctor Crow?”

“He once said to me that he was planning to take a gun with one bullet in it – Russian roulette they call it – and keep pulling the trigger to prove he couldn’t die.”

“But of course – eventually – he would die, wouldn’t he?”

“He said
not
. At some stage, in my world – and in yours – Eugene Anwick would die. But in
his
world, he would not. Every time he pulled the trigger, the worlds would split, but Anwick’s world would only split into one where he would survive. So he said, anyway.”

Ash waited a minute to take it all in before responding: “so he’d prove his theory to himself, but no one else.”

“Indeed.”

“You know Anwick tried to smoke himself to death in a garage, don’t you?” Keera.

“Yes.”

“What
’s the significance of all this, doctor?” asked Ash.

“You tell me. You’re the detectives.”

Ash thought about this for a moment and then, seemingly having come to some conclusion in his head, he got up and thanked Crow for his help. Keera was already half way out the door by the time Crow had managed to haul himself out of the sofa he had occupied. “We’ll see ourselves out, Doctor Crow,” Ash said, rather apologetically. The snow was falling thickly around them as they got back into Ash’s truck and they had to wait a couple of minutes for the window to demist before setting off again.

“Where to now, boss?” a
sked Keera.

“I want to know
more about Anwick,” he replied thoughtfully.

“You know Anwick’s weird behaviour that the lump of lard we just wasted our time with – sorry, I meant
interviewed
– was telling us about might well have been because he was having it off with the housemaid after all.”

Ash didn’t respond. They drove back to the station in complete silence.

Chapter 36

Inside the little mid-terrace off Gloucester Road, the Harbinger placed a red bag on George Bricken’s dining table. In the opposite c
orner, George struggled to move; his hands were tied behind his back and his legs strapped with cable tie to the chair. He wheezed and choked with the effort of trying to loosen his bonds but he knew deep down that his efforts were futile.

“I wasn’t afraid of the fucking Nazis and I’m no
t afraid of you, you bastard!” he said, and he meant every word.

“George, calm down,” said the Harbinger. He didn’t look at the old man but instead opened the red bag. “You’ll do yourself a mischief going off like that.”

“Whadoyawant’? Money? There’s three hundred pounds in cash under the sink in a tin. Take it. Take it and piss off!” When the Harbinger didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him, George started to look around the room for something to help him. The phone was too far away but if he could just get his hands loose. There was a gun upstairs. An old shotgun left over from his hunting days. It was loaded, always loaded. And he could blow this intruder’s head off in a second. One shot, bang! Brains all over the wall.

“Why don’t ya’ untie me ya’ pig and see how long ya’ can stand up. I might be old but this is my home, my castle and if Hitler didn’t take my country you’ll not take my property!”

“George, please be quiet, I’m thinking.”

The Harbinger put out the bag’s contents on the table and appraised them carefully. He picked up a scalpel and examined it
in the light from the window. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror hung on the wall. He stopped and looked at himself. He was completely human once. He remembered. Years ago. Free from the Necromire in his head. Human. A boy scarred from a troubled upbringing.

Human.

And weak.

I

The Harbinger recalled some of his existence before he was corrupted by the Necromire named Belial. Sometimes, when he looked into a mirror, he saw glimpses of the past, of the time before the Mergence, and it brought a flicker of light to his dead heart to know that there was a time when his mind was exclusively his own.

The Harbinger was born in one of the many nooks of the Square Mile where unwanted children are brought into the world under dim lighting by untrained hands for a small fee so their whore mothers can abandon
them without fear of intervention. Even by 1948 people were beginning to ask questions in hospitals and it was becoming increasingly difficult to discard such mistakes without there being at least some complications. So there were those that were willing to offer a bed for the night, some food and water and a little help during the birth in return for a fee (paid in advance in cash). Mothers who needed to earn a living could get back to doing so and the child would be left to chance.

By the time the Harbinger was ten, he was a skilled thief. He had spent his early life surviving on the streets of London, w
andering from doorway to doorway, sleeping mainly in the recently nationalised tube stations and learning how to steal and, in all probability, had it not been for the intervention of fate, the Harbinger would have led a perfectly normal life of delinquency.

It was a hot and dry day in the summer of 1959, the sort of repressive weather that made one lethargic and careless. The tube station was packed with commuters, sweat pouring from under their arms and across their brows, red faces anxiously waiting for the next train to sweep some air through t
he tunnels, a moment’s respite from the heat. Pictures of Audrey Hepburn in
The Nun’s Story
lined the walls, old men sat skulking in corners strumming banjos and vendors thrust copies of the Times in the faces of businessmen with greased back, dark hair and thick framed glasses. The Americans had managed to send two monkeys to space but nobody cared that day; the papers were used more as fans than reading material.

At the intersections between the platforms, the crowd
s moved in waves, people anxious to make the next connection or get out on to the streets. They weaved in and out of each other awkwardly, children hauled along by stressed mothers, small gangs of youths laughing and jostling each other for space, stock brokers and lawyers in expensive suits with matching waistcoats and hats ignored each other and everyone else. In few other places were people so tightly and indiscriminately packed together, where those at each end of the social spectrum merged into one.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the Harbinger slipped unnoticed, his old tatty clothes and dirty face making him easy to ignore. He knew that the
heat would make thieving easier; people were less interested in looking themselves when their bodies were dripping with sweat and their heads throbbed. As the 10.12 to Paddington pulled away, the crowds were less dense and the Harbinger was better able to pick out a target. He scanned the commuters, watching them closely out of the corner of his eye, looking for a weakness. His heart raced as he saw a man hidden behind a newspaper, his bag by his side and the tell-tale bulge of a wallet jutting out of his jacket pocket. The Harbinger would leave the bag; there would be nothing of interest to him in it anyway. He just wanted cash; he wouldn’t even take the entire wallet unless it looked sellable. The Harbinger had always seen his crimes as those of necessity rather than profit.

He moved quietly so he was close behind his target, trying to blend in, not stare but look at the floor, as though he had dropped something. He edged closer, heart racing, the familiar rush of adrenaline taking its hold. The target shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cleared his throat and turned the page. The Harbinger stopped and looked around, making sure the target wasn’t intending to move but he settled down on the new page and appeared engrossed in what he was reading. The Harbinger moved forward, slowly at first but then into
a stride. He would brush past, so lightly to be undetectable, but the closeness would be enough to remove the wallet.

As luck would have it, the sound of the incoming train distracted the target. He glanced right, towards the sound as the Harbinger came up on his left and slipped his hand quickly in and out of the man’s pocket. His fingers felt leather – a good sign – but he didn’t look at what it was. He wedged it deep into his own pocket and kept walking. He would walk right out of the station and for several miles until he was alone by the river before he would examine his prize.

It took him less than a few seconds to meander through the commuters and out the exit and in no time at all he was walking swiftly up to the street. The thievery gave him little satisfaction – he was just pleased it was over – but the thought of what might be inside the wallet was comforting and he was closing in quickly on the final escalator that would lead him to Oxford Circus. It was when he touched the street itself that he would allow himself a small inward celebration because once he got out on to the street, disappearing into the chaos of the city and all its little hiding places and back alleys was easy. Down here in the tunnels carrying a wallet that clearly wasn’t his he remained vulnerable.

He turned the final corner, ahead of him the escalator. Natural light descended down into the underground, bounced off the metal stairs and a refreshing breeze hit his face; the first signs of safety. It was only a few more seconds now and already the corner of his mouth, as dry as it was, had curled into a sly smile.

Outside the city was alive, loud and chaotic. It was lunchtime and the city suit huggers were prowling the streets in search of food, meeting clients, doing deals, discussing the weather, how hot it was today and how humid, too. It seemed as though nearly everyone, from women in patterned dresses pushing prams to the gangs of teddy boys on the corners, was smoking one form of cig or another. The Harbinger breathed it all in, relieved the theft was complete and began weaving in and out of the crowd, heading to where the streets were less busy, where the people asked fewer questions.

It was because of that – because he was so sure that no one had followed him, or seen him, or paid one jot of attention to him – that when the rough hands took hold of his mucky shirt collar and hoisted him clean off his feet he felt as though his heart might wedge itself permanently in his throat.

“Now don’t struggle, there’s a good lad.”

The copper’s face showed not one sign that at any stage in his life he had managed anything more than a wry curling of one side of his thick-lipped mouth, let alone a smile or a laugh, such was the sternness of his features.

“Let me go!” demanded the Harbinger, but the handle bar moustache told him he was beaten already.

“Took that gentleman’s wallet, boy! I saw ya’. Now it’ll be the cells for the night and before the magistrates in the mornin’ I expect.”

The Harbinger was carted off down the street much to the amusement of passers-by who clapped and jeered as he passed, red-faced and flustered like a little radish, to Paddington Police Station where he was told to hand over the contents of his pockets, which of course included one fine leather wallet containing a five pound note, and led to a cell in the basement. There he was placed, wide eyed and bemused, before the cage door was slammed and the sound of the commotion ceased.

Inside his cell, the Harbinger slumped himself up against a corner and wrapped his arms around his knees. He ignored the bed in the corner, it looked no more comfortable than the floor anyway. He eyed the piss bucket suspiciously. Likely it was the source of the
disgusting smell that seemed to permeate everything around him.

But he wasn’t there long.

The handle-bar copper opened the door. His face was so pursed with annoyance that it looked as though it might implode and snap back like a burst balloon. Behind him, a man unmistakably of the priesthood: long black garment, dog collar, slick back hair. A long, pear shaped face, but with kind enough looking features and round glasses. There was something about him that drew the Harbinger to his feet; something about the way he stood, the way he half smiled and nodded as the boy took a step towards him.

“That’ll do, lad,” said Handle Bar. “Stay where you are.”

“I’m sure there is little chance of the young fellow eluding you, Officer Crab,” said the priest. He knelt down to the Harbinger’s level and examined him, something no one had ever done to the Harbinger before.

“You don’t recognise me, lad?” said the Priest, turning the Harbinger’s face from side to side, as if he was looking for something.

“No, sir.”

“No. Not without a newspaper in front of my face.”

The Harbinger’s heart jolted. He went to take back the step he had so hastily put forward earlier but the Priest stopped him, placed his hand on the scrawny shoulder.

“You stole from m
e, boy. But as God is merciful, so am I. And I shall offer you a deal...”

II

The Harbinger took the Priest’s deal. It was a no-brainer. Warmth, food, clothing and shelter in return for errands and t
raining. It was easier than stealing and living in the Underground and although the Harbinger had little understanding of God, it was simple enough to entertain the Priest by studying the Bible and as the Harbinger grew from gaunt urchin to an athletic young man, so did his fondness and respect for the old priest.

He spent the early years learning how to do the things we take for granted: how to read, write, add up and take care of himself and proved himself to be a competent pupil. He was fortunate. His teacher was a gifted theologian and opened the Harbinger’s mind to many concepts and things he had never even dreamed of on the streets. But when asked, as the Harbinger so often did, why he had seen fit to offer him the opportunity to better himself, the priest would smile knowingly and put his hand on his pupil’s shoulder, “God asked me to care for you, son. I have no idea why. Perhaps he has some plan for you that I am not privy to. But I know that the chance I gave you pleased Him.”

And for a while, the Harbinger knew peace. Father Ireland kept a respected parish in Westminster and when he gave mass his church was full and his collection plate overflowing. By the time the H
HHH
arbinger was sixteen, he had forgotten many of his nomadic ways. Father Ireland came to know him as a compassionate and thoughtful apprentice and the Harbinger came to know him as a sage and gentle teacher.

But the Harbinger’s blossoming was short-lived.

It was a wet evening in November when he heard his teacher open the door to a stranger. It wasn’t unusual for Father Ireland to have calls late at night - those in need of the church’s sanctuary didn’t care much about the time – but something told him this was no normal visitor seeking shelter or money and he crept downstairs in his night shirt, candle in hand, shivering in the cold, to listen at the study door.

He he
ard men’s voices. Two men, and Father Ireland. There was agitation, but he couldn’t tell from whom it was emanating. He held his breath and listened hard, ready to make his presence known if his teacher was being threatened at all. His grip on the candle tightened as he strained to hear.

“We have the order from Rome, Father. You are to perform the Rite.” The stranger’s voice was gruff, the sort of voice that is forged from years of smoke and booze.

“No.” Father Ireland was indignant. “Not me. I am through with that... that side of things. I have a good parish here which I have no wish to abandon.”