Chapter 7

Seven-thirty that night and I’m walking along the esplanade.

The cicadas are out, hiding in the trees along the sidewalk, their shrill shrieks a summer chorus as the sun drops behind the tankers and container ships queuing up on the horizon.

I pass a guy pushing a mobile ice cream fridge along the street. He nods at me, eyebrows raised. I usually buy a Cornetto from him but tonight I shake my head. I need something stronger. I need to sit down. Stop moving so my brain can catch up with everything that’s happened.

My heart is still hammering. I’m excited. Nervous. Terrified. This is the first real lead I’ve ever had. The first clue that the man actually exists. That he wasn’t a figment of my own imagination. (Because believe me, it’s something I’ve considered every day since that night in the mountains.)

I’ve already printed a copy of the perp’s face and circulated it to all the law enforcement agencies throughout the country, marking it as highest priority.

Never mind wondering how he connects with the ramanga, what his motive is for killing him. I’ll figure that out later. (I know why he killed Armitage. She got too close.) Right now I just have to focus on catching him. Making him talk.

Making him tell me where Cally’s body is buried.

After that I can get him for Armitage. For the ramanga. But Cally comes first.

The Cellar is a pub that was built below street level. Hence the incredibly original name. I hurry down the stairs and shove the reinforced door open. My feet immediately stick to the linoleum, and that’s about as classy as you’re going to get in the Cellar.

A pool table takes up the space to my left. An old jukebox straight ahead, one that still plays records. Booths around the walls to give the drinkers their privacy. Old movie posters hang on the walls. Plan 9 from Outer Space. The Maltese Falcon. Metropolis. That kind of thing.

Charlie is leaning against the bar that runs along the wall to my right. Charlie is a retired cop. Bald, with a trimmed grey beard. His face is weathered, lined and creased by the wind. He goes surfing every morning. Apparently he’s out in the water from sunup to midday. Crazy bastard.

He’s chatting to Mick, the old guy with one leg who I suspect actually lives here. He has a little dog that never leaves his side. Some kind of Jack Russell hybrid. It sits on the stool next to him, looking between Mick and Charlie like he’s following the conversation.

The rest of the pub is empty.

‘London Town,’ says Charlie. ‘Back again?’

‘Charlie.’ I nod at Mick, and, before I can stop myself, at the dog. ‘Glenmorangie. Double.’

Charlie pours the drink and slides it to me. No ice. No water. Just as God intended. Down in one go.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Rough day?’

I gesture for a refill, which he does without any more questions. That’s why I like it here. It’s never full, and no one talks to you when you don’t want to talk.

I take my drink to a booth with a torn Blade Runner poster hanging above it. I slide in and stare at the TV mounted above the bar. The sound is down and some soccer game is playing. I sip my drink this time, letting my brain do its own thing. Not trying to pin anything down. Not yet. I don’t have nearly enough information to make any deductions. I know from past experience that it’s best just to stay out of my brain’s way for a few hours.

After the third double whisky I’m feeling maudlin. Armitage was such a huge part of my life over the past five years I’m finding it hard to accept I can’t just pick up the phone and call her.

I stare at my phone, sitting in a little puddle of sticky . . . something on the counter.

It’s the suddenness that always gets me. That instantaneous severing of life. And everyone is supposed to just . . . adapt. Immediately. It makes you think in clichés. Life is short. You never know what’s around the corner, live each day like it’s your last, yadda-yadda-yadda.

But I’m feeling even worse because my grief is mixed with hope. A combination that feels . . . wrong. Hope is something I haven’t experienced in a long time. But I felt it flicker to reluctant life when I stared at that bearded face on my computer monitor.

Could this be it? Am I finally going to find him?

I pick up the phone and scroll to Becca’s number. I haven’t called her in . . . what? A year? Not my choice. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. Wants to move on with her life. To not live in the past. But . . . this is big. This is something, isn’t it?

My finger hovers over the call button. I stare at her name on the screen, take another sip of my Glenmorangie. I let the peaty taste swirl around my tongue, and a moment later the phone is dialling and I’m not sure if I hit the button accidentally or not.

She picks up after three rings. ‘Hello?’

She sounds the same, which is a weird thought to have. Why wouldn’t she sound the same?

I hesitate.

‘Hello?’

Why isn’t she saying my name? She should have my name programmed into her phone, right?

Unless she’s deleted me from her address book.

I lick my lips. ‘Becca?’

A pause. ‘Gideon?’

‘Yeah. . . .’

Silence. I swallow nervously. ‘How are you?’ I ask.

‘How am . . . ?’ I can almost see the incredulity on her face. That look of amazed wonder at the stupidity of some people. ‘What do you want — has something happened?’

Yeah, you could say that. I open my mouth to tell her. But then I freeze. What am I going to say? That I saw a grainy image of one of the men involved in the murder of our daughter? Then what?

‘No – yeah . . . It’s not . . .’ I sigh. ‘I . . . just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Goodbye, Gideon.’

‘Becca—’

She hangs up.

I stare at my phone. And that is why I’m supposed to leave it with the dog. No good comes from having access to comms when you’re feeling the way I do.

It’s about ten o’ clock now. The bar has filled up a bit. Charlie’s wife, Sandra, has come down to help out from their flat above the pub. I say help out, but Sandra is sitting on this side of the bar with a glass in her hand as she chats to Charlie. They burst out laughing at something and I feel a twinge of jealousy. I want that. I want the easy understanding that comes from knowing someone completely. That feeling of companionship. Did I ever have it with Becca? I can’t remember. We had good times, sure. We loved each other. But there were problems there as well. Problems that were starting to outweigh the positives even before . . . before Cally went missing.

I sigh. No point in hanging around here anymore. Any more drinks and I’ll be on the other side of the buzz line.

Maybe the best thing would be bed. Look at all the evidence tomorrow with the team. Write everything up on the board and start searching for connections, points of convergence, that kind of thing. I don’t feel like it’s a real case until we start sticking photographs on the board, drawing in links and theories with our markers.

I step out into the humid night air. I can hear the waves from here, a whispered susurration, a gentle reminder of the tide of life.

Christ, the tide of life? Maybe I’m already on the other side of the buzz line.

I climb the steps to street level and start walking the half kay back to my flat.

I’m still a couple hundred metres from home when I realise I’m being followed.

The street is alive with traffic. Young kids heading to the clubs and pubs along the beachfront, an older couple heading home after supper, the beggars and the homeless who call the sidewalks their home. Cars drive past, honking at the girls. Taxis too, always the taxis, kwaito music blaring from the huge speakers in the backs, the bass actually vibrating windows in the flats as they drive past.

All perfectly normal.

But then, as these people, chatting, laughing, shouting, get to around twenty metres behind me, they go quiet. A lull in life as Armitage used to call it.

I know what that is. It’s the uneasy silence that generates around Joe Public when they experience something . . . other. Like – to take an example entirely at random – when an orisha is following me.

The normals don’t see whatever it is, but they can feel it. Hence the uneasy silence that opens up, then drops away again as they pass by.

I slow my pace. Maybe not the brightest move, but I’m trying to think what to do. I don’t want to lead whatever it is back to my flat. It’s the only place I’ve got, and if it gets trashed then I’ll be out on the street.

I’ve got my wand with me. Never leave home without it, Harry Potter, was Armitage’s command. And later, when I still hadn’t found a replacement focus, Seriously. I know it’s hideously embarrassing for you, but don’t leave home without it. You’ll thank me one day.

I did indeed thank her as I pulled it out of my pocket and reversed it, laying it up along my forearm.

I draw level with the Southern Sun hotel. Faux marble steps leading up to glass doors. I look around, getting desperate. Too many people for a confrontation here. Need to take this off-grid.

I cross the street, giving the finger to a taxi driver who decides to pull out right in front of me. I dodge around his bumper, taking the opportunity to glance over my shoulder as I do so.

Something there. A patch of movement in the shadows. An indistinct figure. Big. At least seven feet tall. Pedestrians flow around it like a stream around a rock.

On the other side of the street is the main thoroughfare of the Golden Mile, a twenty-feet-wide esplanade where people stroll and rollerblade and walk their dogs. I jog across the sand-dusted concrete then hop over the low wall onto the beach itself. My feet sink into the sand. There’s an old pier about a hundred metres to my right. The pilings are cloaked in darkness. No pubs or restaurants facing it. That will have to do.

I’m not sure whether to run or just stroll casually. Strolling implies I haven’t spotted my tail, so hopefully whatever it is will give me time enough to get to cover. The flip side of that is that they might be sprinting directly for me at that very moment.

My neck prickles at the thought. My ears are straining, hyper alert, listening for the slightest sounds of footprints in the sand. The water is a constant woosh and sigh to my left. The moon is full, the tips of the waves glowing white. I can see ships far out in the ocean, lights twinkling, waiting for their turn to be pulled into the harbour.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, then grip the wand again. I don’t want to draw any attention, so I’m thinking anti-light, kind of like a reverse fire. It burns cold but doesn’t let off any visible fireworks.

I call up the sequence of conjuration in my mind, feeling the shinecraft building up in my chest. It feels like you’re on speed, a tightness, a rapidity, an . . . awareness of everything. My scalp tingles, the sensation flowing down my body like a shower of electrified sand. At the same time I can feel my surroundings being leached of power as I suck in energy from the world around me.

The pilings are about twenty feet away now and I see they’re not the traditional kind that I can hide behind or use for cover. These pilings are concrete and are actually joined together without any gaps between them. I’m actually leading myself into a trap.

Shit.

I can’t help it. I glance over my shoulder.

The huge shadow is loping towards me, bent over on all fours. Others come behind it, creatures I can’t quite make out that are moving with an odd jerky gait.

I fling my hand out and unleash some of the power. Dark tendrils of black lightning burst out of the wand. The air freezes as the tendrils shoot towards the creatures, mist exploding into being, then dissipating in the humid air.

I make it to the pilings and whirl around, the wand held ready before me.

Only then do I falter.

When I see what’s coming for me.

It’s a Matchstick Man. That’s what we call them. Real name Mpakafo – or heart stealer. Another tribe of vampire.

Over seven feet tall, limbs thin and abnormally long. The creature’s skin is pallid white and blotchy, like dirty marble. The colour of its eyes are reversed. White pupils in black.

The Mpakafo is wearing an old-fashioned velvet suit – dark purple or black, hard to tell in the light. But the suit is too small for it, the sleeves pulled up past the forearms.

And behind it, the creatures with the odd gait, are Smilers – Aigamucha. Again, vampires. They have no eyes in their heads. Their mouths are massive, ugly slits. Wounds that almost slice their heads in two.

I say no eyes in their heads, and that’s true. But they have eyes in the soles of their feet. That’s why their gait is so odd. They’re walking on their hands, their feet raised up before them so the eyes can see where they’re going.

One by one they put their feet down into the sand, rising up to their full height. I can hear snuffling sounds coming from the black holes in their faces where their noses should be. They’ve caught my scent. They don’t need their eyes any more.

Christ. I should have kept the tattoos for today. Looks like I might need them more than I did at the hospital. That’s the problem with calling the dragons. They weaken my will, my life force. If I summon them again so soon after the last time, they’ll defeat me. I won’t have the power to send them back.

Of course, there’s always the off chance that this is some kind of social call, that the creepy snuffling vampires might need Delphic Division’s help with something.

‘Anything I can do for you?’ I ask.

The Matchstick Man edges forward in a jerky motion. ‘Where is it, Mr Tau?’ it says.

‘Can you be a bit more specific?’

The Smilers have spread out in a line so that I can’t get past them. I’m trapped. Five Smilers and a Matchstick man. These are odds I’m not going to walk away from. Even if the dog was here, we’d still get our arses handed to us on a plate. It’s just a simple matter of numbers. I have a horrible, terrifying feeling I’m about to join Armitage.

‘Specific. Yes. We would very much like to have the soul, if you please.’

I blink. ‘Soul?’

‘The soul, that is correct, yes please.’

I have to admit, I’m stumped. I have absolutely no idea what it’s talking about.

‘Do you want my soul?’ I ventured. ‘Because I’m pretty attached to it.’

‘No please. The soul you very much know we would like yes.’

I wait, still none the wiser.

‘The ramanga’s soul, yes please. That is the one we seek, yes.’

The Smilers shift slightly at the mention of the ramanga.

‘Listen, mate. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘This is . . . displeasing to us,’ says the Mpakafo.

And then, with a suddenness that I’m totally unprepared for, it lunges forward, crossing the fifteen feet between us before I can even raise the wand above my waist.

A blow to my chest. Air sucked out of my lungs. Flying through the air, then I smack into the concrete pilings. Light explodes behind my eyes. I hear a crack. Not sure if it’s my back or a rib. Blood trickles down my neck where my head hit.

I fall into the water. Slump forward. Try to steady myself. The water comes halfway up my forearm. Cold wet sand beneath my fingers.

Still, I manage to hold onto the wand. That’s something.

I shake my head. Little flashes of white erupt before my eyes. Hands on my shirt, yanking me out of the water.

‘Where is the soul?’ asks the Mpakafo.

Before I even get a chance to respond, it flings me back towards the beach, sending me straight into the pack of Smilers.

I hit the sand and roll a few times. Look up. See the moon, suddenly eclipsed by the faces of the Smilers as they come for me. I bring the wand up, release the anti-light. It writhes out of the wand like diseased lightning, wrapping itself around the closest Smiler.

It stumbles back with the black tendrils locking around its face like a scene from Alien. I release more bolts, sending them randomly around me as I struggle to my feet.

A flashing, cutting pain in my back. An explosion of red hot agony. I cry out, stumble around and see a Smiler holding a long strip of skin with a layer of fat still attached. I stare incredulously as it eats it, black tongue darting out to fork my skin into its mouth.

‘That’s my fucking skin!’ I scream.

I pump bolts into the creature. It wails and falls back onto the sand, its whole body shuddering and twitching as the anti-light leeches life (or un-life) from its body.

Something grabs my left arm, yanking it back. I hear the bone break, cry out in agony. I’m whirled around by my broken arm. I scream. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. I’m convinced my arm is about to come away from my shoulder and fall to the sand. I’m shoved back and forth a few times then released to stumble back into the water, arm hanging uselessly at my side.

I stare dumbly as the Smilers and the Matchstick Man walk slowly towards me. I fire more anti-light, but it’s weaker. No power left. (Magic is directly proportional to the strength of the user.) The Matchstick Man bats the writhing blackness away. It hits the sand and fuses a patch to black glass.

I know I’m done. I can’t win this fight. This isn’t an underdog movie where the hero finds an inner strength he didn’t know he had. This is real life, and I’m outnumbered, fucked over, and about to die, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Knowing this brings a certain curious calm. Was this how Armitage felt? I always thought there would be panic, a maelstrom of regrets and fears. But all I have is . . .

. . . wait.

Ah. Not calm. That’s going away now, replaced by . . .

Anger.

Fury.

‘Fuck you, you toothy bastard,’ I mutter. ‘I will not die today.’

I charge the Matchstick Man. I summon the last of the power and the black lightning surges into the Matchstick Man’s chest. It sinks into his skin, disappearing.

The Matchstick Man stops walking. It makes a curious sound, like a child’s whimper.

‘This is . . . not pleasing,’ it whispers.

The Smilers stop moving, turning to face their leader, their body language radiating fear, uncertainty.

I almost feel a tiny sliver of hope. Maybe this is like every underdog movie from the eighties. Maybe I’ll defeat the bad guys and Becca will come back to me and we’ll live happily ever after. Maybe I’ll get out of this after all.

Then the Matchstick Man opens its mouth and the black lightning crawls out and flops to the sand like a dead spider. As one, the Smilers turn in my direction, smiling hideous, bloody smiles.

Then again. Maybe not.

The Smilers snarl and leap at me. All I see is wide open mouths and serrated teeth. Then I’m pushed to the ground. Water pouring over my face, up my nose. I choke, try to fight. The Smilers snap at me like dogs. Worrying at my flesh, pulling small chunks loose, getting the blood flowing. I’ve still got my wand. I lash out with shinecraft, feel weak lighting trying to push the Smilers away.

A barked command from the Matchstick Man. The Smilers jerk away, hurry to stand behind their leader, crouching down and fawning, reaching up to hesitantly touch its velvet suit.

I turn in the shallows, try to crawl away. I’m too weak. I’m losing blood. My arm is broken.

And I’m a bit impressed to realize I’m still trying to come up with a plan. Looking for a way out. That’s me. Good old London Town. Always looking for the angle.

I realise I’m pulling myself deeper into the sea. The water flows over my head. I rise up. Choking. Spitting. Then a wave hits me in the face and I’m back under. Struggling. Fighting the current.

Why do you fight me, child?

The darkness folds over me and I’m suddenly hanging in eternal nothingness. Pitch dark water, deep and ancient. It’s all around me. I’m swallowed up by it.

A lithe, dark-skinned woman floats before me. She’s naked, her dark hair floating around her full face.

I wonder if I’m dead. If this is the final vision of a brain starved of oxygen.

Who are you? I don’t speak, but somehow she hears my words.

I am Yemanja, says the woman. You are in my home.

Yemanja? I mentally flick through my internal catalogue of gods. Yemanja is an orisha of water and rivers.

Bit far from your patch, aren’t you?

All rivers flow to the sea.

Fair enough.

Can you help me?

That depends. How would you have me help you?

I rack my mind for any information regarding vampires. I didn’t have to think long.

Bless the water for me.

She smiles. I think not.

Why?

I only perform blessings for my people.

Oh. How do I become one of your people?

The smile widens. Why, you must give yourself to me. A sacrifice.

Isn’t all the blood I’m leaking enough?

No. I require . . . a fuller commitment. Do that and you attach yourself to me for the rest of your life, Gideon Tau. You will be mine, and I yours.

A fuller commitment.

I have a horrible feeling I know what that is.

Yemanja floats towards me and strokes my face gently. Her fingers are like little pleasurable electric shocks. I stare into her eyes, eyes as dark as the deepest ocean trench. Filled with the primeval darkness we all crawled from.

Well? What will it be?

Let’s be realistic here. It’s not as if I have much of a choice. It’s either give in and let them kill me, or I take matter into my own hands. There are no other options. I’m outmatched. Whoever is behind this wanted to get information and then kill me, so they sent a team big enough to do that. No messing about.

Yemanja floats backwards, receding into the darkness. I reach out for her, but something’s wrong. My throat is on fire. My chest feels tight. My entire body is in hideous, agonizing pain.

I open my eyes, feel the salt water stinging them. Water laps up my nose.

Then I’m dragged back out of the shallows. Flipped over and lifted up. Staring into the face of the Matchstick Man. It tilts its head to the side.

I sigh. Might as well get it over with.

‘Come on then, you wannabe blood licker. Nosferatu was a shit movie. Christopher Lee can’t act. You’re all pathetic. Scared of garlic? Do me a fucking favour.’

Then, just to get my message across, I lift my hand and stick my thumb in its eye, gouging as deep as I can.

The Matchstick Man snarls in pain and fury and drops me to the sand. I manage to keep my feet beneath me. ‘Do your worst, laughing boy.’

The Matchstick Man lashes out. A lunging pain in my neck. A sudden wind on my throat. Cool air caressing muscles that are not meant to be exposed.

Blood bubbles out of my shredded throat, pouring down my chest.

I smile.

And collapse back into the ocean.

The waves pull me out. I’m turned over by the current, staring into the dark nothing of the sea. I taste metal in the water. My blood. It’s cold. Freezing. I can’t see anything. Darkness closes in on my mind. I feel a sudden panic. This is it. I’m dead. But I don’t want to die. I’m pissed off it happened this way. A stupid ambush after a night out drinking. Pissed off I wasn’t prepared. Pissed off at everything, basically.

Your life doesn’t flash before you when you die. You just realize what a complete prick you’ve been. How small a difference you’ve actually made in the world.

Then Yemanja is floating before me. She touches me and the pain winks out. Vanishes. She comes closer, her hands caressing my face. I’m drawn into her eyes. Can’t look away as she leans in and her lips brush mine.

A burst of freezing heat. My body jolts. My skin tingles. Every nerve end on fire. Her tongue darts softly into my mouth, touches mine.

I try to pull closer but then the touch is gone and she’s floating backwards again.

You are mine now, Gideon Tau. And my blessing is yours.

My wand is in my hand. The blackness recedes and once again I’m floating face down in the sea. But I feel refreshed. Like I’ve slept for twenty hours straight. I hesitantly reach up with my free hand and touch my throat. The wound is gone. My arm is healed.

Yemanja has claimed me. She is my goddess now.

I smile and push myself to my feet. I’ve floated far enough out that the ocean comes up to my hips. I start wading back to shore. The Matchstick Man and his Smilers are walking away.

‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet!’

They turn. I hear their hisses of fury and the Smilers come for me, loping on all fours.

I raise the wand like a conductor and the seawater obeys my summons. It rises in a wave behind me, a wall of dark, ancient water.

Blessed water.

Holy water.

I flick my wrist and the water surges past me, parting around my body and engulfing the Smilers in a mini tsunami. Their shrieks of pain and terror echo across the beach as the water coats their skin, gets in their mouths, down their throats.

The Smilers fall to the sand, rolling, howling. Their skin is sloughing off their bodies, dropping away in huge, peeling chunks. Their fluids pool around them, leaking and soaking into the sand.

Their cries grow weaker, turn into mewling whines. Foul smelling smoke wafts into the air.

I peer through it and see the Matchstick Man making a break for it.

I start running, sprinting across the beach. I flick my hand and the water comes with me, a surging wave that keeps pace to either side.

The Matchstick Man glances over its shoulder, sees me coming. It trips, falls to its knees.

I stop and let the water carry on. It smashes into the creature, sending it tumbling across the sand. It pushes itself to its knees and just stares at me as its skin slides off its face. All of it just . . . melting away like it was burning beneath a blowtorch.

‘I will see you soon,’ it says, its voice a wet gurgle. ‘The war . . . the war is coming, Mr Tau.’

A final puff of cloying smoke, and the Matchstick Man’s head falls from its neck, hitting the sand and collapsing to sludge.