In the second floor hallway, Charles Templin-Wright was attempting to recover from what he would describe later to one of his colleagues as a terrible ordeal.
The door of his office opened.
‘You need to do better than that Charles. Much better.’
Papa Bemba spoke to Charles, the scars across his eye sockets looking red and raised, more sore than usual as the small razor cuts from his spiritual self-mutilation last week were beginning to become infected.
‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
The smile on Bemba’s face was twisted and manic. ‘He sees, Charles. He sees without words. The spirits for some reason are guiding, unlike the woman…’
‘Maddie.’
‘She is blind. Visionless. You should find her, Charles, and when you do, bring her here to me.’