Twenty

The evening mid-­week services at St Christopher’s were never particularly well attended. And although Parish Mass on Sunday was occasionally a different matter, Father Daniels always felt saddened that such a large, beautiful church should stand empty so often. There were perhaps fifteen people present that evening. Old Mrs Cavendish, who had seven sons and three daughters, all of them living away from home and none of them in contact with her. Her living room was a silent gallery of frozen, faded photographs of children grown into uncaring adulthood. Mr Phillips and his wife – both so quiet that he had never been able to find out what kind of people they really were.

It was almost sunset and large shafts of golden light were spearing downwards through the stained-­glass windows. Light was shining directly into his eyes as Father Daniels began the service. Consequently, it was some time before he first noticed the two men sitting at the back of the church, silent and unmoving. He continued, noticing that they did not sing after he announced the hymn numbers. During prayer, they did not kneel like the other parishioners. They did not recite the Creed. And when the time came for Communion and the parishioners moved forward to the altar rail, the two silent men remained in their seats. Father Daniels realised that they were disturbing his concentration, that he was allowing them to let his thoughts wander. It wasn’t fair to the other parishioners. He put the two mysterious figures out of his mind and steadfastly continued.

The angled shafts of sunlight had crept further across the church walls by the time the service had ended. As Father Daniels processed with his two altar boys down the aisle and into the vestry, he deliberately did not examine the two men as he passed them. In the vestry itself, he listened to the parishioners’ final hymn as he removed his robes and resumed an earlier conversation with Johnny Fallup about the outrageous interest charge on the hire purchase instalments on his new motorcycle. But at the back of his mind, he still wondered about the two silent men in the back seats.

The time for private prayer after the final hymn always passed quickly and Father Daniels, now clad in his sombre black cassock, moved out of the vestry to talk to the parishioners individually before they left. His suspicions about the men were confirmed. They remained sitting, facing front. He knew that they were waiting for everyone to leave. That they were waiting to talk to him.

Mrs Cavendish was, as always, full of praise for her sons and daughters and told him a family tale that he had heard many times before. Smiling, he listened and felt sad. Mr and Mrs Phillips thanked him quietly and left. He decided that he must pay a social call on them in the next week or so and find out what they were really like.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the priest, as his last parishioner vanished through the doors of the church into the gathering night, ‘I’m Father Daniels. How can I help you?’ He turned to face them as they rose from the back seats and came towards him.

‘My name’s Mark Davies,’ said the tall, thin man with the walking stick. There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he had been sleeping badly. Father Daniels could see a livid scar on his forehead, just below the hairline. ‘This is Insp . . . This is Les Chadderton.’

The other man was perhaps Father Daniels’ age. He had stone-­grey hair and did not seem to have shaved for a couple of days. His words were tight and clipped when he spoke: ‘We need to talk to you, Father. Is there somewhere we can go?’

Father Daniels looked at his watch. It was late and he and his wife had been invited to dinner at the home of a close friend. Tonight was one of his relatively free nights and he had promised Sheila faithfully that he would meet her there promptly.

‘There’s a nice warm fire in the vestry,’ he said. ‘We can go in there, if you like.’

‘Thank you,’ said the tall, thin man called Davies as they moved through the connecting door at the side of the font. The church was echoing and lofty. It reminded Mark of the Central Station.

A wind had begun to gust outside. Mark and Chadderton slumped into the two seats proffered by Father Daniels. Mark tried to suppress a groan as he sat. It had been cold in the church and his joints had seized up again after sitting for an hour in the same position. Father Daniels could not help but think that they had the look of two guilty men about to make confession.

The room was fairly spacious. An ancient bookcase standing against one wall housed numerous theological volumes. A large gas fire hissed angrily as its grille began to glow orange. Father Daniels plugged a battered kettle into a socket above a small bench, took three cups from a nearby cupboard and arranged them by a teapot before sitting down heavily in an upholstered armchair that looked as if it had been there for a hundred years.

‘This is all very mysterious, Mr Davies. What can I do for you?’

The wind moaned softly beyond the wide windows above the bookcase. A flurry of crisp brown leaves rattled across the glass and was gone.

‘I don’t quite know how to begin,’ said Mark, looking across at Chadderton. The priest noticed how the man called Chadderton kept his head down and stared at the carpet, his hands clenching and unclenching.

‘Try,’ said Father Daniels.

‘Do you believe in evil?’

Father Daniels sat back, looking reflectively from Mark to Chadderton, elbows resting on the heavily padded arms of the chair and holding his hands before him in a kind of cat’s cradle of fingers. After a while, he said: ‘That’s not a bad try, young man. And quite a question to ask a priest, I might add. Is there a purpose behind your question or are you both here simply for a moral debate?’

‘There’s a purpose, Father,’ said Mark.

‘I’m a priest. Of course I believe in evil. Are you Anglo-­Catholic?’

‘No,’ said Mark; and then quickly: ‘I’m not talking in abstract forms. By “evil” I mean an outside, independently active, intelligent force.’

‘My answer again is “yes”. But it’s not quite as simple as that, as I’m sure you must really appreciate. You say you aren’t Anglo-­Catholic. Are you a Christian?’

‘Yes,’ said Mark, ‘I believe I am.’

Father Daniels looked across at Chadderton.

‘No . . .’ he replied to the unasked question. ‘Listen, Davies. Rather than get into a debate on good and evil and little pink fairies, I think we’d better just tell him everything that’s happened.’ Chadderton fumbled in his inside pocket, produced his police identification card and handed it to the priest. ‘I’m an ex-­police Inspector. I haven’t been . . . operational. . . as they say, for about two months. You may well have read something in the news­papers about Mark Davies . . .’

‘Mark Davies . . .’ said Father Daniels as he rose creakily to his feet and crossed to the small bench. ‘Davies . . . yes . . . wait a minute . . . something to do with a train accident, I think.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mark. ‘There was a large-­scale investigation after I was thrown from the King’s Cross train. Inspector Chadderton was in charge of it. I was in a coma . . .’

‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Father Daniels as memory of the incident flooded back. ‘A coma. What a terrible thing to happen to you, my boy.’

The panes of glass in the window were rattling now as the wind increased in force. Its moaning was louder and harsher as Father Daniels leaned over the bookcase to pull the curtains closed.

‘But, you’re recovered now, of course. You look . . . very well,’ he lied as he dragged the right-­hand curtain across.

And then all hell was let loose in the vestry.

In that instant, the windows exploded into the room in a whirlwind of glass and shattered wooden frame. The curtains billowed monstrously like huge wings as Father Daniels was flung across the room like a rag doll. Mark’s hand instinctively flew to his face as glass shards sprayed him. Chadderton tipped from his seat to the floor. And all around was the shrieking, banshee howling of the great wind which had preceded the explosion. Books flew through the air, ripped pages flapped and fluttered angrily in the maelstrom. Father Daniels lay on the carpet, mouth working soundlessly in the raging, howling wind that plucked his voice away.

Something Else had come into the vestry.

Mark knew it immediately and instinctively. He had shared an unknown, hideously intimate fourteen months with it. Host and parasite. An almost symbiotic, nightmare existence. His mind could smell it. It was a touch of crawling snakes. It was the face of the gorgon seen reflected in a mirror. And it was here again. Now.

‘God in heaven, help me!’ Mark found himself shouting as the dark wings of night flapped about him. Sight, sound and sensibility buffeted and whirled. He clawed across the vestry, lashing out with his walking stick at the raging wind that tore at his body. His feet connected with something soft on the floor. He groped downwards, felt an arm and saw Chadderton’s face for a brief instant before it was obscured by his flapping raincoat. Something screamed and snapped at Mark’s face like a wild, invisible animal as he seized Chadderton’s collar and heaved him into a sitting position. Chadderton pulled loose, stumbled to his feet and began clawing and snatching at the air around his head as if he were being attacked by a swarm of hornets. There was the sound of screaming again and Mark lunged around to the right where he knew Father Daniels lay. There was a loud, hollow clunking noise behind him, followed by a cry of pain; the kettle had whirled through the air and collided with Chadderton’s leg, scalding him. Mark stumbled across the priest, groped downwards again and began to pull him to his feet. Father Daniels’ face pressed closely to his own, and Mark knew that the priest was seeing his own worst nightmare. Mark tried to lift him, slapping his face, trying to make him not see. Chadderton was suddenly beside them, resisting the whispering in his head, seizing the priest’s arm and pulling it roughly over his shoulder. Gripping part of the priest’s robe, Mark lunged through the whirlwind, pulling them both after him like blind men. Over the raging of the wind, he could hear Chadderton yelling: ‘Where? Where?’ And, instinctively again, Mark knew where. The door between the church and the vestry loomed large and solid in front of them and, for an instant, Mark feared that Azimuth had locked it. He tugged at the handle and gave vent to a hoarse, deep cry when it would not open. Somewhere behind the storm, he could hear something that Chadderton had said to him earlier that morning: Some of the sites were destroyed, standing stones pulled down. Churches were built on some of the sites . . .

Oh God, is this church built on a ley line?

Chadderton was beside him again, the priest sagging semiconscious from his shoulder. With his free hand, he grasped the handle and wrenched hard. The door was not locked. The force of the whirlwind had been keeping it shut. Grudgingly, it pulled open.

In the next instant, the three men fell through the vestry door and into the church itself. The cold, unyielding marble floor slammed Mark’s breath from his body. He felt sharp agony in his knees as the priest fell across his legs. Mark dragged himself away from the door frame, hand still clenched in the priest’s robe, trying as hard as he could to drag him as far away from the vestry as possible. Here in the church, there was no wind, only cool, clear air. Mark twisted round to look back at the vestry door which stood wide against the wall. Beyond the threshold, the howling, shrieking wind continued to devastate the room. A snowstorm of paper whirled maniacally. The bookcase tipped forward and shattered on the floor. The curtain rail snapped and the curtains danced wildly in the air.

Azimuth raged invisibly on the threshold between the vestry and the church. But Mark knew now that it could not pass through into the church itself. And, as it raged, he looked quickly at Chadderton. He lay sprawled on the cold floor, his face buried in his hands. He had seen Hell before and he did not want to see it again. Father Daniels gazed openmouthed at the doorway, a look of absolute horror frozen on his face. Mark tugged at the priest’s arm, tried to tell him not to look, but his words were lost in the tumult.

And then, the wind was gone, sucked away and vanishing into the night through the ragged gap of the window frame. Pages from torn books fluttered through the door and whispered into the church. Mark felt Father Daniels go limp as he slumped backwards into a faint.

Raging and tearing, that which had been fed so well by its Catalysts in their remote seclusion, fled shrieking maleficently in dissipation down dark corridors of night. For a brief instant, it had known a freedom from the lines that it had never experienced before. In secrecy it had lived and fed. Growing stronger upon the Chosen Food which had never dreamt of its existence. Until now. Two Who Should be Tasted had gone to the holy man with the intention of moving against it. With the pulse of food strong within it, drunk on the glut of power which had freed it to act, Azimuth had moved against them. Unwisely, it now knew. It had not been strong enough to taste them. But the Time of Arrival was imminent. Even now, the Catalysts were returning from their place of communion, summoned to join it on the lines where their final purpose would be enacted and it would be free forever. Two men and one priest. What could they do to resist? The Tasting would be good. And the one called Mark Davies – He Who had Thrice Denied – would be tasted and savoured for all eternity.

Soon . . . Soon . . .

‘What was it?’ asked Father Daniels at last. His voice sounded stretched thin; wavering and lost in the echoing, empty church. He sat in the back pew where Chadderton had propped him, his robe disarrayed, thin white hair dishevelled and straggling forwards over his forehead.

‘I . . . we . . . think it’s some kind of demon,’ said Mark quietly. ‘Something called Azimuth. Does that name mean anything, Father? Does it have any religious significance?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ said the priest as if he could never know anything again. He was looking down into his lap, knotting his fingers in the same cat’s cradle. He gave vent to something between a sigh and a sob. Mark turned back to where Chadderton stood framed in the vestry doorway. He was looking back into the vestry, reluctant to pass through, as if something was hiding amid the shattered ruins of furniture and torn paper. Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Mark limped over to him.

‘It’s all right, now,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

Chadderton looked at him anxiously, as if seeking confirmation that his words were true. Then he stepped into the vestry, shoes crunching on broken wood and glass.

‘It’s getting stronger, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘In a very short time, there’ll be no stopping it.’

‘Where has it gone?’

‘Back to the lines. Back to feed. I don’t think it was strong enough to take us of its own accord yet.’

A light footstep sounded behind them. And in that instant, both men had a vision of something from Hell circling around behind them, trapping them in the close confines of the ruined vestry. They whirled round in alarm, Mark almost losing his balance and tumbling to the floor. Chadderton grabbed his elbow and steadied him as they saw Father Daniels leaning against the door frame, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

Chadderton moved forward to meet him, but the priest held up a hand to restrain him.

‘I’m all right, thank you. I just needed time.’

Mark tried to shrug off a feeling that time had stood still, that the three of them were frozen in some kind of still-­life portrait: Chadderton standing hunched, hands clenched; the priest sagging in the door frame; Mark leaning on his walking stick.

‘You said it was a demon,’ said Father Daniels.

‘Azimuth,’ repeated Mark. ‘It knew we were coming here to try and enlist your help. It knew and it tried to stop us.’

‘I felt . . .’ The priest struggled to find a word to describe it, clasping his arms around his body as if he had been frozen inside. ‘. . . something. It was evil. And so . . . powerful.’

‘Next time it comes, it’ll kill us,’ said Mark quietly.

‘But it’s not as clever as it thinks it is,’ said Chadderton. ‘If it hadn’t come here, hadn’t tried to stop us, we could have spent hours trying to convince Father Daniels that it really does exist. After all, like you said, all it needs is time. Days. After we’d failed to convince you, Father, you could have dismissed us as a couple of raving lunatics. And that would have been that. But by showing its hand, it’s done our work for us.’

‘How can I help you?’ asked Father Daniels. To Mark, it seemed that the priest was somehow distanced from them by his experience. There was a faraway look in his eyes that reminded him of the look in the eyes of his own wife and daughter when he left them in the hospital. When Mark spoke again, his voice was slow, measured and deliberate so that the priest could understand and digest everything he was saying.

‘We have to perform an exorcism, Father. We have to exorcise one of the trains on the King’s Cross railway line. It doesn’t matter which train – any one will do, so long as it’s moving. And it doesn’t matter which carriage. Azimuth exists on the King’s Cross line itself, feeding on and corrupting its passengers. An exorcism of the line is the only thing that can stop it before it grows strong enough to free itself.’

Father Daniels looked blankly at Mark for a long time, uncomprehending. After a while, Mark wondered whether he had heard anything he had said.

‘Trains?’ he said at last, ‘I’m afraid I don’t . . . trains?’

Chadderton rushed to the priest’s side as he convulsed, bent double in the doorway, retching onto the littered floor as the delayed reaction of shock set in. Chadderton helped him across the vestry as Mark pulled a splintered chair upright between them and helped him into it.

‘Why did . . . why did you come to my church? Why St Christopher’s?’

‘He’s the patron saint of travellers,’ said Mark quietly.

‘Oh, no. No . . .’ Father Daniels seemed to reply too eagerly. ‘Not any more. He is no longer officially a saint, I’m afraid. There’s no longer a feast day or a place in the Eucharistical calendar, do you see? This church has only retained its name because . . .’

‘Father!’ said Mark sharply. ‘It doesn’t matter. Any church would do, so long as it’s a Christian church.’

‘I’m sorry . . . I feel so . . . so terrible.’ The priest wiped a trembling hand across his mouth. ‘What was it?’ His eyes had suddenly lost their blank sheen as the horror of what had happened came fully home to him. Mark could see a familiar terror lurking there behind his eyes. ‘What in God’s name was it?’ He was gripping both their arms now, his eyes seeking some rational explanation.

‘It can make you see things that aren’t there, Father,’ said Mark. ‘The things you fear the most. By creating fear, it’s creating food for itself. This . . . thing, called Azimuth, feeds on fear.’

‘It can get into your mind,’ continued Chadderton. ‘It’s happened to both of us. When it attacked us here, it tried to make me see again, but I resisted it. If we’d stayed in this vestry I wouldn’t have been able to keep it out much longer. What about you, Davies? Did you see anything?’

‘It’s tried to take me three times and failed, as I told you. Somehow, for reasons I don’t yet understand, I seem to have become immune. It couldn’t get into my mind. But as I said, it’s getting stronger. When it’s free, no one will be able to resist it – not even me. Father . . . did it make you see anything? Because if it did, you must understand that what you saw wasn’t real. Only an illusion.’

The priest continued to stare at them, clinging to them all the tighter.

‘Did you, Father? Did you?’

Father Daniels screwed his eyes shut and strengthened his grip so that Mark could feel his flesh pinching. ‘I saw . . . nothing . . . Nothing!’ But to Mark, it sounded as if the priest was trying to deny something that he had seen.

‘I want you to listen to everything we have to say,’ said Chadderton. ‘Davies will begin and I’ll fill in the story where appropriate.’

The priest was nodding his head vigorously, breathing deeply as Mark began: ‘It started for me fourteen months ago, with the accident . . .’

Chadderton saw the terror lurking behind the priest’s eyes, just as Mark had done, and he understood how Father Daniels felt. He remembered how calm and composed the priest had been when they had first spoken to him in the church. It seemed that a different man was sitting in front of them now and Chadderton supposed that he himself had also changed in a radical way in the space of a single day. Reality and nightmare had hung in the balance and Chadderton had forced the scales down; had forced himself to accept the existence of something that defied sanity. Only by accepting the nightmare could he fight it. A hatred of this thing . . . this Azimuth . . . was building inside him. It was a pure hatred, somehow.

He watched the priest as Davies continued with his story and saw the mark of fear etched on his face. To Chadderton, it seemed that the priest had seen the very devil himself.