Chapter ten

Edward had been in a perpetual state of confusion since the day he picked up Quentin from prison. Life was already confusing enough before. He had no idea what taxes were for so he didn’t pay them; he never opened his mail; he failed to understand why there was a Prime Minister if there was already a Queen who ruled the world with her lizard friends; and he didn’t know why the Americans wanted to blow up the moon. But life became far more confusing when the old man, the angry child, the cowboy priest, the sexy aunt and the mad scientist showed up. Edward wondered if maybe the government was putting something in his water to mess with his head, and that none of it was real. Or perhaps it was the new strain of cannabis he’d been smoking, which was laced with a powerful hallucinogen. He considered the former scenario to be the likeliest. Drug dealers were far more trustworthy than governments. Maybe governments were the true drug dealers, and drug dealers were actually secret governments. Maybe they were the lizard people. There were so many possibilities; how can a bloke keep ’em all straight? he wondered. Despite his various theories, Edward knew deep down that none of the changes in his life were drug-induced hallucinations.

Edward stood face to face with Chief Constable Glasgow. He never liked bizzies, but he especially didn’t like the look of this one. From behind, she looked fairly attractive despite her uniform. She had very small feet. He liked that in a woman. However, he found her particularly unappealing when she turned her head back to look at him and cracked her neck unnaturally far over her shoulder. Her eyes were yellow, like a snake. Because all bizzies are snakes. He laughed at this thought. He’d owned many snakes in the past because he enjoyed feeding them mice. However, his laughter stopped suddenly, and he felt like he was going to throw up his own heart from fear when the Chief Constable darted toward him with Dr. Whalen’s wire-saw. It dawned on him that if she were the snake, he was the mouse. She was awfully bloody fast, that bizzy.

She lunged at Edward and pinned him to the floor. She pressed the wire-saw up against his neck and tried to force it downwards as he held her back by her forearms. She managed to cut through the surface of his skin. He resisted and nearly pushed her off when she leaned down, sank her teeth into his cheek and bit off a piece of flesh. Edward felt that the teeth on the side on his mouth were now exposed to the cool air of the laboratory. He bled from his cheek into his mouth, and he wondered if he might drown on his own blood. The Chief Constable spat out the piece of cheek she’d bitten off, and Edward seized the opportunity to push her off of him while her head was turned away. He took the wire-saw out of her hands and threw it aside. He felt bad at the idea of hitting a woman but decided that in this particular case it was justified. He punched her in the head, which smacked her skull against the floor. A small amount of blood trickled down from her nose and out of her mouth. He wasn’t quite sure if she was unconscious or dead. It was all very confusing.

* * *

Stanley scuttled towards the door, away from Dalton. He seized the knob and turned it as hard as he could, but it wouldn’t budge. He slammed his body against the door, hoping to force it open. Still, it did not move.

“The door swings the other way, you stupid, foolish child,” said Dalton. Stanley turned to face him and flicked open his switchblade.

“Back off, ol’ man,” he yelled, holding up the blade.

Dalton leered, clutched Stanley’s arm and grabbed the blade out of his hand. He rolled up his own shirt sleeves, studied the scars from his suicide attempt, and traced them with the switchblade, lightly cutting through his skin.

Stanley’s knees began to tremble and he sank a little against the door. Dalton laughed and turned the knife on the boy, holding it against the bridge of his nose.

“Which eye do you like best? I’ll start with your least favourite if you behave.”

Dalton traced Stanley’s undereye circles with the blade, scratching the delicate skin deep enough to draw blood. Stanley began to cry, and his tears blended with the blood, turning his teardrops red. Stanley tried his usual tricks, shin-kicking, elbowing, even karate chops, but nothing seemed to bother Dalton. Instead, he grinned. His teeth were sharp and rotten, like the old man’s. Even the skin on his face was beginning to decompose.

“Answer me, lad,” insisted Dalton, as he brought the tip of the knife up to the white of his right eyeball and pressed lightly. Stanley wailed. Dalton cackled.

Father Peter raced over to Dalton’s side, brandishing his crucifix.

“Release Dr. McGovern now, old man,” commanded Father Peter.

Dalton slowly turned to face Father Peter. He chuckled and put Stanley in a chokehold.

“You’ll have to kill the child to get to me,” he said.

Father Peter decided he would put his theory about exorcisms to test. He was dead, and that came with some newfound abilities. He entered Dalton’s mind.

What he found there reminded him of the void—mostly empty space. However, unlike the void, binary code floated about. The thoughts in Dalton’s mindspace made Father Peter feel like he could never love again, never laugh again, that all he was capable of feeling was resentment, cynicism, and contempt. He spited everyone for their joy. How dare they smile in such an indifferent world? How dare they rub it in my face that they are blissful in their stupidity? How dare our society reward them for their dullness? How dare we admire their basic desires and ambitions and applaud them for reaching the most primitive and underwhelming milestones a person can achieve? How dare they overlook my genius and pity my loneliness? 

Father Peter felt so angry. He was torn between wanting to destroy himself and wanting to prove himself better than everyone else. Did the world deserve him? Should the world know how much better he was than them all?

Father Peter heard the old man’s voice echo inside Dalton’s mind. “Funny, is it not? What an unpleasant little man. I bet having me as his mind’s main occupant is an improvement.”

“Definitely not,” said Father Peter. “This is a troubled soul, but it can be saved.”

Father Peter searched for the old man inside Dalton’s mind. Where would a demon hide? In his emotions? In his memories?

“Dalton,” called out Father Peter. “Can you hear me?”

The old man kept talking. “He’s gone. This is all mine now. You’re wasting your time, and Stanley’s starting to wonder what’s going on with you.”

Father Peter became aware of a distant call. He made out the words; it was his own name.

“Father Peter, do something!”

Father Peter left Dalton’s mind and came back to reality. Dalton still held the knife to the child’s face, but kept tormenting him instead of cutting him.

“Bad children must be punished!” Dalton shouted, but the boy’s two eyes were still intact.

Dalton is stopping him, thought Father Peter. He’s still in there. Father Peter noticed Dalton’s bloody forearms and realized that the cuts traced over his scars, reminding Father Peter that Dalton had tried to kill himself. It was likely his most painful memory. A great place for a demon to torture his soul. Father Peter re-entered Dalton’s mind.

He walked through the void and observed the binary code surrounding him. Father Peter suspected Dalton was so uncomfortable with his own emotions and memories that he had to break them down into the least human form possible; a series of ones and zeros.

“Dalton, you’re going to have to show me how you feel. Somehow. Just clue me in.”

Father Peter waited. Nothing.

“I just need a sign. Anything. You can’t keep it all locked away forever, or the old man will win.”

“He doesn’t trust you,” said the old man. “He doesn’t like the way you think. It’s not compatible with his mind. You can’t get through to him.”

Father Peter ran around aimlessly, looking for a sign from Dalton’s soul. But there was nothing.

A gentle voice spoke to Father Peter. “Luckily, great minds think alike.”

Father Peter looked toward the sound of the melodic voice. Isidora stood next to him, with a half-smile. Father Peter shook his head.

“Isidora, you have to get out of here. If you drift from your soul much longer, you’ll be lost forever and tortured for all eternity. Please, go back, and fight.”

Isidora shrugged. “This is my mess. Had I not let Stanley leave my home, none of this would have happened to him. I don’t have any fight left in me, but if I can get rid of the old man, I can free Stanley. And besides, Dalton doesn’t like you. There’s more of a chance he’d like me.”

“Why would anyone like you more than me?” scoffed Father Peter.

“Because I… get him.”

Isidora opened her arms, raised her hands and looked around, showing Father Peter the evolution of Dalton’s code. It had gone from binary to abstract words, among other symbols and numbers.

“Now, where would a demon hide?” she asked.

“In his most painful memory.”

“His suicide attempt,” Isidora said with a nod. “All right, Dalton, I’m not a programmer. Show me something I can work with.”

The code evolved from somewhat coherent phrases describing various commands, to full length sentences.

“He’s describing what he’s done ever since the old man took over,” said Father Peter.

“Over there,” said Isidora. “The old man cut Dalton’s wrists where he had originally cut them himself.”

The code became increasingly abstract until it was in binaries again.

“What a load of rubbish,” said Father Peter.

“No, it’s not,” said Isidora. “He gave us a clue.”

Isidora repeated the series of 0s and 1s to herself continuously, with an inhuman ability to retain numbers.

“His actual suicide attempt would only be slightly different. The action is the same, but the depth is greater. With this code, we will be able to find where in his mind he has stored his suicide attempt,” said Isidora.

Father Peter reached for her hand. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “These abilities of yours are reaching far beyond your normal capacities.”

Isidora smiled. “I suppose being dead allows me to think outside the box.”

Inside the code-filled void of Dalton’s mind, walls, staircases, and corridors began to form.