‘Come in,’ Jenny invited. ‘Perhaps Beloved will see you…’
The girl took Hazel’s hand and pulled gently. Her grip was dry and warm, informal. Wendy was behind now, bulk easing her towards the big door Jenny was pushing open.
‘Come inside,’ Jenny said, smiling.
Hazel smelled the other girl’s clean hair, felt her warmth. The hall of the Manor House was dark but not gloomy. Yesterday, she’d seen it as a set from an Agatha Christie film. Elegantly preserved in the Twenties, elephant’s-foot umbrella stands stocked with blunt instruments, portraits of disreputable family ancestors liable to have sired the missing heir, an old-fashioned telephone receiver with a knit cord suitable for surreptitious snipping or stealthy strangling. Actually, the place was tatty, with mismatched, frayed furniture and too much ground-in dirt. The phone on the hall table was old, an unstreamlined black dial model rather than a slim white oval with push-buttons.
She hesitated, and Jenny’s pull became stronger. A suspicion flared, and she remembered Paul and—strangely—Susan Ames. In cartoons, characters often had little figures perched on their shoulders, tiny replicas of themselves, one with a halo, wings, a harp and a blue robe, the other with horns, a tail, a trident and a red face. Paul and Susan were angels, holding her back; Jenny and Wendy imps, pulling her on. On the threshold of the Agapemone, she felt a swoon brewing in her forehead. Her vision went in and out of focus.
Weird.
Jenny came close and slipped an arm around her waist, cooing persuasively, trying to get her into the hall. Wendy laid a heavy arm around her shoulders. The Sisters formed a single body, hugging, protecting, cajoling.
‘Love,’ Jenny said, disconnectedly.
She took a step and paused again, half in and half out of the house. She could feel the cool of the interior, and it was tempting.
Jenny kissed her cheek and said, ‘Come on, Hazel.’
She looked the girl in the face. In a shimmer, Jenny’s skin was beet red, pointed horns pushing out from locks of flame. Her smile was heavily fanged, and she had a comical goatee. As an imp, she was a pantomime character, appealing and endearing. She licked scarlet lips with a black, forked tongue, and laughed like music.
‘It’s nothing, Hazel, just a step…’
‘One foot in front of the other, Hazel,’ said Wendy, gently prodding her back with three arrow-tipped fingers.
The brimstone smelled sweet, and she sucked it into her mouth through her nostrils. She picked up a thick-socked foot and put it down on the bristly doormat. Wendy and Jenny pushed gently, and she was inside the Agapemone. The Sisters let go, and she took a few steps on her own.
In the cool, she turned to look at Wendy and Jenny. The imps, fiery hair flickering, stood in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder, arms folded, red eyes sparkling mischievously. Behind was blue sky and bright sun. It gave them a backlit aura. As she watched, the Sisters changed. Their horns pulled in, their skins faded, their tails curled up under their skirts. Their hair began to shine, floating in circles around their foreheads. From somewhere, Hazel heard the delicate plunking of tiny harps and a choir singing ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’.
Hazel saw the Light. It was around the Sisters as they stepped into the hallway, spreading into the shadowed corner. The Light was warm and welcoming, embracing like clean sheets, supporting like sea water. Hazel felt herself almost float, surrounded by Light. She turned away from the door. A gallery ran around the hallway, gathering in a landing from which descended a wide stairway, banistered with dark wood. The Light was up on the landing, spreading like ground mist.
She had the sweet smoke on her palate and felt it filling her lungs. Light sparks scattered across her vision. There was someone on the landing, in the centre of the Light. Jenny was on the first step, kneeling, her head bowed.
‘Beloved,’ she said.
Hazel’s knees felt weak, and she sank to them. The touch from her dream returned and began to massage her neck and shoulders, slipping inside her T-shirt to ease her aches. The Light swirled, coming to a focus in the man shape at the top of the stairs.
She tried to stand, but could not. Her knees were gone, the muscles in her legs were limp. She saw His face in the Light. She had never even seen a photograph of Him. A picture couldn’t have captured the Light. This was Anthony William Jago. Beloved. His face was vast, yards across, and the eyes in it were holes. Through the holes, Hazel saw Heaven. The rest of the face didn’t matter. She didn’t know what He was wearing. It could be a golden robe edged with fire. It could be a priestly black suit with a dog collar. Or He could be naked, body sweating Light. His was the touch she had felt.
‘Hazel,’ he said, taking her name into his mouth, rolling it around and breathing it out again, renewed.
She felt herself standing, knees straightening, feet pressing against the floor. Her arms were reaching out involuntarily, drawn to Him. His smile fell upon her like a warm rain.
‘Hazel,’ He said, ‘Hazel…’
He touched one hand to His breast, then held it out, palm bright and bloody. She was on the bottom stair, between the Sisters, drawn up towards Beloved. Jenny looked up at her with Love, Wendy with tolerance. Jenny pushed her upwards. Beloved’s eyes were closed now. The Light was inside Him. Dressed casually—white shirt open at the neck, black cardigan running thin at the elbows, trainers—Beloved was human enough to be blotchy around the throat, a little hollow in the cheeks, hairline a touch high. The vessel didn’t matter. He contained the Light.
She looked away from His face to His outstretched hand. Shining blood pooled in His palm, glittering. Hazel stepped upwards, towards Beloved’s hand. The smoke was in her nostrils, mouth and lungs, filling her. She felt the touch again, soothing, teasing, slipping between her legs. A drop of blood fell from Beloved’s hand, tumbling slowly towards the carpeted stairs, turning end over end, making shapes. It fell for ever, Hazel’s eyes following the plunge. It struck, spattered in a spider shape, pulsed like a hot coal and faded.
Her mouth was dry, and the touch was around her neck, thumbs in the hollows of her throat, working the hinges of her jaw. Beloved stepped down to her, His hand level, the blood rippling. Hazel’s knees were still not working. She felt as if she were held by hooks under her arms, body sagging but upright. Her hair was extending in an electric frizz. Her scalp tickled, excited. Beloved brought His bleeding hand near her face, and she looked into the red depths of the M-shaped lake in the palm.
‘Beloved,’ Jenny said, ‘this is Hazel.’
‘Sister,’ He said, ‘welcome.’
The blood in His hand was wine, giving off a rich bouquet. Beloved held His other hand over the wound and dipped a thumb into the pool. Blood lapped up around the thumb, filming it from knuckle to nail. Knowing what was expected, Hazel fingertip-brushed her hair away from her forehead, relishing the tingle. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let her chin fall to her sternum. She felt the touch.
Beloved’s damp thumb was pressed to her forehead, twice. He had drawn the sign of the cross slightly askew above her eyebrows. The blood was cool and pleasant, like cream.
‘Hazel,’ He said, baptizing her, confirming her.
The touch took her chin, lifted her head. She opened her eyes and looked at Him. His eyes were blue and clear.
‘This is my blood,’ He said.
His wound swelled, and the blood lapped at her lips.
‘Drink freely of it.’
Without thinking, she let her tongue slip out and probe the blood. Beloved angled His hand, letting the blood flow towards her lips. There was a definite tang, not unpleasant, and her mouth filled. He let her go, and she wavered, unsteady on her feet, letting the blood creep past her tongue. Inside her mind, there were explosions.