chapter one

I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock, oh eight oh one like always. I reach out my left hand, pick up the clock and silence it. It’s a cold morning and my hand withdraws quickly. It’s also Monday so I have to get up. I notice the pen on top of my dream diary. Usually it’s by the side, if it’s on top it means I had a dream and wrote it down sometime in the night. I take the diary to the bathroom with me, flip through the pages whilst the shower warms up. It’s only a short entry:

03:24hrs 25 Nov 1992

“I don’t see why Nightmare should have bothered with Sleepwalk personally.”

“Seems he planned something special. I don’t know any details but I think it’s called Remix or something.”

The above transcribed from the radio. The radio was switched off at the time. Perhaps I have a Client?

I re-read it, then step into the shower. I rub the soap over my body and consider my move. Cryptic voices over a dead radio certainly seems like a Client. It could just be a set-up. Or my radio picking up the local minicab service, again. I step out of the shower and towel a little. I clean my teeth and decide to go and see RadioMan. He’s Connected and owes me a favour. RadioMan operates out of a high class serviced office in the City - which means I have to shave.

“You cut yourself.”

I take my mail from Susan, and wonder if there’s even a trace of concern in her voice. After a brief look at her sparely made-up face I decide not. A pity, Susan is quite pretty, in an officey sort of way, and she’s not attached at present. Susan is the receptionist/secretary at the office resource centre I use as a business address - this is usually our only contact but we always make chat.

“Couldn’t you try something a little more conventional? like ‘Good morning’? ”

“I was startled by your neat appearance OK? In surprising but not altogether unpleasant contrast to the half-yeti usually standing around at this time of day making the lobby look untidy.” She stresses altogether.

“Anyway, what’s the parcel?”

“It’s an item of personal mail addressed to me.” I say, affecting disapproval, but unwrapping the brown paper anyway.

“Oh pardon me for breathing. Are you always this grumpy when you shave? I just need to know to be careful next time. Then again there might not be a next time might there? After all there wasn’t a last time. Or should that be there isn’t a last time? Tenses are difficult at this time of the morning - Ooh tarot cards.”

Apart from being generally useful in my line of work, tarot cards provide my bread and butter. Exorcism jobs are scarce so I make up the gaps by doing paid readings. Occasionally they provide useful information too - like the fact that Susan is unattached. Normally I keep a Waite deck and a Thoth deck handy, but some of my Waite deck had been consumed by infernal fire. I shuffle the replacement, then riffle it on Susan’s desk. I cut the cards and check I show The High Priestess. There she is. I try a line on Susan.

“First reading on a new deck is free. It’s traditional, you interested?” A telephone rings.

“I never let men mess with my future.” Susan presses the lit button on her telephone panel. “Good morning Glassbury’s.”

I decide to read the rest of my mail on the underground to The City.

Twenty percent into the journey I finish one hundred percent of my mail, I meditate the rest of the way.

Like most City serviced office buildings Bennet house is impressive on the outside, three quarters empty on the inside. Like most of the people who work there. I stand outside the one-room office on the fifth floor noticing the name plate. The building owners are ready for RadioMan to go out of business in two weeks, just like everybody else. An obviously removable slot-in piece reads “Raymond D. O. Mann”. Cute. When I go in “Ray” is buying over the telephone, he looks up and notices me without smiling. I pull up an office chair and sit down without waiting to be offered. RadioMan is sitting behind a desk with his feet up. I have a perfect view of the slightly scuffed soles of his handmade shoes. Eventually RadioMan gets off the ’phone, making it plain that he’s not hurrying on my account. You have to listen to the Connected very carefully, they like to use very few words and saturate each one with meaning. Will RadioMan say “Good morning” or “Hello”? Will he say my name? No, he just stares at me for two seconds then blinks. I remind myself that I didn’t come here for a conversation and tell him what I want. “This morning, three twenty-four, my radio.” RadioMan looks at the surface of his desk, concentrating. Then the ceiling. Then he looks out of the window at the traffic. As if realising something he turns quickly from the window and looks at a different part of his desk. He follows the grain of the wood with his finger. He kneels down and scrutinises some scratches on the paintwork on the metal legs. He stands up and looks at me, gathering his memories. “Nightmare plus Sleepwalk will be Remix. Remix minus Sleepwalk was Ashtaroth.” He nods to himself then returns to his chair. That’s it and I get up to leave. Just as my hand reaches the door handle RadioMan calls me. “Zus. We’re even.” I nod in reply.

Two stops along the underground realisation hits me. Ashtaroth. Also known as Legion. There are only four devils definitely more powerful. Shit. Even an Enlightened mortal couldn’t hope to take him on. I draw three deep breaths and tell myself to stop panicking and start thinking.

I don’t know who my Client is but they obviously know me. They wouldn’t call me for a job I couldn’t do. I relax a little, I’m not being asked to go a few rounds with a diabolic sub-prince after all. Unless it’s a set up. But who could set that up? RadioMan would have told me if the voices were faked. So the voices were genuine. Genuine what I don’t know, but maybe I’m onto something.

If the voices were genuine then so was their conversation. I heard a genuine conversation about somebody named Nightmare. So what? So plenty. Interpreted as simple algebra RadioMan’s equations mean that Nightmare is Ashtaroth. So I have heard, or been allowed to hear, two voices discuss the plans of Ashtaroth. Now I’m getting somewhere.

I consider the lines of conversation again. On reflection they seem less like planning than gossip, diabolic gossip. Some people say there’s no other kind. The picture I have seems complete but I feel that there’s something missing. I look out of the window for a moment. I’m half way through my return journey and I’ve deduced that early this morning I was patched in to some idle chatter between two devils. Not bad for a Monday, but hey, I am a son of man.

My mind wanders through memories of other conversations with devils. Any practitioner of magic, and especially an exorcist, has some experience. Usually it’s fairly one sided: “Obey me!”, “As you command master.” type of thing. Who’s obeying and who’s commanding depends entirely on the skill of the magician. I’ve talked to devils, I’ve been talked to by devils, I’ve heard a possessing devil argue with its victim - but I’ve never heard a devil talk to another devil. Instincts tell me this is important, but why? Suddenly I get it.

Devils don’t talk to each other because devils are outside time. They only talk to communicate into time. Like with humans and other temporal beings. So it’s not possible for me to hear two devils talking. Except I did. How? Simple.

The conversation was played to me by an extra-temporal being. That means an angel. Or a fallen angel. I have found the missing piece. I get the warm feeling of satisfaction, quickly replaced by the dizzying chill of realisation.

Either my Client is an angel, or I’m being set up by a devil. This is a big one, I’m sitting at the adults’ table and eating with the grown ups - If I forget my manners I’ll end up dead, damned and Darkened. I look out of the window again, I’m five minutes from my station. I allow myself to stop thinking and get back to panic for those five minutes.

As I alight from the train I start thinking again. The whole thing could have been set up by RadioMan. I chew this over as I walk home. It seems unlikely. Of course RadioMan could have predicted that I would go to him for an explanation, and could easily have faked the radio noise. But basically, I trust him.

Although the Enlightened and the Connected can never be friends we are playing for the same team. After all we are the good guys.

chapter two

Taking the bus would get me home quicker but I need time to think so I walk. A job like this demands care. A devil can only get me if I walk into the trap. Accent on walk. There have to be clues. It’s called the Law of Mortal Free Will. A devil breaks the law? That’s when an angel pulls my fat out of the fire, I hope.

Most people take the easy path: they follow the first clue and don’t get involved in magick at all. Some people get interested and dip a toe in the water. Or fool around in the paddling pool. Then there’s people who think they’re smart enough to work out all the clues and swim out to sea on their own. My case books are full of them so I know better. I never play the Great Game without Help.

For this case the only Help that can make a difference is an angel. It’s a corollary of the Law of Mortal Free Will that once a devil moves against you an angel can help you out. Of course you have to ask. In my case that means an invocation. That’s easy and difficult.

There’s no complex formula. Just get pure and get on your knees because you are definitely not worthy. I did the Big Purity years ago, I’ve got it in background, which is enough for most of my work. This isn’t most. This is forget meat and the five-knuckle shuffle and hit the mineral water. It starts now and doesn’t end until I’m told. The first thing an angel says is stop. Stop whipping yourself, when the blood starts flowing. Stop confessing, after eight hours. Stop fasting, when your stomach’s about to eat itself. The devils want you to blame the angels. But angels don’t make the rules. Angels are the rules.

A pillar of fire attracts a lot of attention so nowadays a sign is more subtle. Like a notice in a convenience shop window. Sixteen bottles of still Convent Spring for the price of eight. I go in and buy a box of sixteen bottles. It’s all I’ll be eating for the next few days. I’m only half way home - carrying the box is my first penance.

So I won’t be talking to an angel for a few days, but there’re still preparations. Cancel all social engagements - that won’t take long. Clear up outstanding business - two tarot readings tomorrow. Then some preparatory workings. Like recharging some tools. Like conjuring a familiar. Like opening my temple.

I get home and decide to start straight away. Upstairs I unlock the outer door to my “back bedroom”. The cargo shackles securing the inner door are still intact. I walk out of my front door, around the corner and down the road to a plant-hire shop. I hire some light bolt cutters. Light, sure. I make it home without a heart attack. Lucky I didn’t pick heavy duty.

I take a cold shower, dry myself and don’t get dressed. I collect the bolt cutters and a strong torch and go back to the inner door. I cut the shackles then put down the bolt cutters. I switch on the torch, and use it to knock the broken shackles to the floor. I pull the door open and enter the room, playing the torch across the floor and walls.

There is no ventilation and the old smell of incense and wax hangs in the air. I close the door behind me, paint it with torch light. Then I do the rest of the room. The electric light is for Banishing so I have to cover every surface, and get in all the corners.

The walls get the treatment first. I go about widdershins and don’t read the words which cover them. There’s no need, I wrote them all up there anyway.

Next is the ceiling. Broad strokes left to right light up a background of plain white with an entropic of variously sized black dots. And a few smoke stains.

I cover the floor in a gradual inward spiral, deosil this time. My feet pick up small pieces of ash, dust and the occasional dead insect. Then I reach the circle.

I don’t think how many times it’s been cast. I can remember. I walk astride it for a complete revolution. The centre of the torch beam points straight down and follows a wide line. It’s not paint, not chalk, not string, not wax, not paper shreds, not wire, but an accumulation.

I step inside the circle. At the centre is a mound covered by a sky blue silk sheet. That comes off in the next stage. For now I just do the small area of floor around it. A spiral, then a grid, finally a pentacle. That’s all for this part. More later. I turn my back, turn off the torch, and walk straight out, closing the door behind me.

Downstairs I wash my feet, get dressed and prepare stage two. I need something to cast the circle. There’s a big packet of rice in the kitchen. I won’t be eating for a few days and the rice is organic so it’ll go off. Also I’ve never used rice. The packet is covered in writing so I pour the rice into a blank paper bag. I’ve got five white candles left in a box. I find a matchbox, take three matches out and tear the strike off. The candles, matches and bag of rice make a small pile against the temple door. I undress, hang my clothes neatly and take another cold shower.

It’s awkward picking up the stuff. Last time I thought about making some magickal robes, with pockets. Then a close friend died. Too easy to forget what’s in your pockets.

I clumsily open the door, step in then close it. I bend down, put the stuff on the floor, except for a match and the strike. I fold the strike around the match head, pinch with my right and pull with my left. The only way to light a match first time, every time. I light a candle in my right hand, shake out the match, pick up the stuff and walk to just inside the old circle.

I place the candle on the circle, everything else on the floor. I walk backwards, widdershins pouring rice from the bag. It empties exactly back where I started. I light the other four candles and set them at irregular intervals in the rice.

I walk over to the mound, lean over and bundle up the silk quickly. I know what’s underneath.

The table is three feet across and circular. The tabletop is supported one foot off the ground by six legs. There’s enough room to store the silk underneath. At the centre of the tabletop sixteen silver rods are laid side by side. They’re identical, about as wide and long as a biro, hexagonal cross-sectioned like a biro too, but flat at both ends.

I take a rod in both hands, kiss it and place it at the opposite edge of the table. The next goes on the near edge. Then the right-hand edge. Then left. When all sixteen are placed I step up onto the table. It’s time for Calling the Kingdom.

I use a simple method. Like everyone who’s up to it. People who aren’t up to simple have to use ceremonies. I relax my body from the feet. As soon as I feel my face go I start visualisation.

Warm water puddling against my toes and heels. The level rises gradually. Ankles. Shins. Knees. Thighs. Fingers. Palms. Penis. Wrists. Balls. No air bubbles in my pubic hair. Hips. Forearms. Navel. Elbows. Chest. Upper arms. Nipples. Shoulders. Neck, slow on the neck. Chin. Jaw. Mouth. Nose. Ears. Eyelids. Forehead. Crown of the head. The level fills higher and I begin to float. I knew my destination before I began, now my mind is clear. In five minutes I will have a sensation.

I arrive and surface quickly. It’s completely dark and I am completely dry. After a minute I hear a small rustling. It approaches, then recedes. When it returns it multiplies. The rustlings do not approach closely. They move around at a safe distance. Gradually their number increases. And multiplies further. As they increase in number the sound becomes less distinct. A wall of rustling, buzzing, crackling noise. I wait. Timing is everything. When I feel them about to close in I submerge myself fast and float off.

Off course they follow me. When I get back I torpedo myself out of the water, open my eyes and clap my hands once. I step backwards off the table and kneel on the floor.

Moving opposite pairs of rods I form an octagon around the centre of the table. Picking up pairs of rods I place one upright at each of the octagon’s corners. The Cage.

I exhale and relax. Everything went smoothly but I still have to check. I rap my fist in the centre of the table. I don’t have to wait long for the responding knock. My temple is open for business. Game on.

I put the matches and strike in the empty bag and step outside the circle. I sit and relax. After five minutes nothing has happened so I extinguish the candles, and leave.

The bag goes in the bin. I get dressed, casual this time. The kitchen clock reads lunch-time, reminding me how hungry I am. I pour myself a glass of Convent Spring.

chapter three

More candles, more matches, my wallet’s in my suit jacket. I take it to the corner shop. Red candles and matches from Eastern Europe. I’m about to pay with a five pound note when the Queen winks at me.

I almost don’t notice. I almost dismiss it as a trick of the light. I almost pay with it anyway, but a small voice inside stops me. Or is it outside? The shopkeeper frowns as I withdraw the note then hand her a twenty. I smile back and keep the winker separate from my change.

I hurry home thinking. It always starts before I’m ready. My temple’s just open, I’m days from angelic contact and I’m under attack. I must have missed a clue somewhere. All I have is the names Remix, Nightmare and Sleepwalk. And some equations from RadioMan, which I don’t understand. Of course in this game you don’t expect to be in control all the time. There’s always something unexpected and a good magician has to know how to improvise. Sometimes it’s okay to make the whole thing up as you do it, but there are limits. Busking Ashtaroth on my own is past them. Well past. At the moment I don’t even have a familiar. I stop panicking because that’s it.

That’s all it is. The wink is not an attack, it’s a clue to a suitable familiar. It’s my next working but it was going to be a few days yet. I’m being told to hurry up.

The candles and matches go in the kitchen. My front room has a table and chair in it. It’s where I do tarot readings. I sit down with my eyes open. I close them and spread the winking note out flat. Using my fingers to locate the edges of the note I position my face directly above it, about twelve inches away. I gather. There’s something important on that note. It’s going to be the first thing I notice when I open my eyes.

I open my eyes, count to none and close them. The Queen pointing to the serial number. I put the note back in my pocket and open my eyes. The serial number?

The name of my familiar for this job is somehow linked to the serial number on the fiver. Must be cabalistic. Numbers always are.

In cabala every letter has a numeric attribution. Somehow the numbers corresponding to the letters of the devil’s name can be combined to make the number on the bill. That’s enough of a clue to get me a name, and that’s enough. It means I’m safe to look at the note again. Handy since I can’t remember the number.

There’s a cupboard full of my magickal diaries in the room. I get the one from way back when I did the Big Purity. I’m looking for a specific part. The occasion when Leviathan was compelled to list “names for the summoning, instruction and dismissal of three hundred devils possibly of use to the mage as familiars or servitors”. I flick the pages. The pages of perfectly formed Hebrew letters are easy to find. I leave the notebook on the table, open at the start of the list.

I can remember the Hebrew attributions pretty well but I get a book of tables to make sure. I bring that to the table and check the notebook is still open to the same page as when I left it.

Now comes the decision. How to combine the numbers. I look at the table and the names and the serial number. Addition is the usual method but that’s not going to give me enough. I guess at multiplication. Five hours and three hundred transverse product calculations later it looks like I guessed right. Only one name matches.

A glass of Convent Spring dissipates the acid and stops the growling. It’s been all day and now I need the lavatory. I get a few ideas for the summoning I’m about to work whilst I’m sitting.

This time I take a small knife with me to the temple. And the five pound note. I check The Cage and set out the red candles in an irregular pattern. I sit by the table, take a deep breath and begin.

I take the upright rods in pairs and form a new pattern in the centre of the cage. An eight pointed asterisk. The Cage Door, also known as The Trap. I put the five pound note in the centre and on top. The Queen faces me and I can read the writing. I don’t.

“Shimal is called.” I address my speech to the centre of the asterisk. “Shimal is called a second time.” That’s it primed, now for the real one. “Shimal is called a third time.” Sometimes they get tricky straight off, sometimes they wait a while.

“Who calls Shimal?” The faint voice emanates from the centre of the asterisk. He’s getting tricky straight off. Rule one is never to answer an unbound devil’s question. Also if I tell him to speak up he’ll burst my eardrums. I’ve heard of it happening.

“The speaker will identify himself.” If he doesn’t it means he’s not low rank. And that means it’s not Shimal.

“Shimal speaks.” Got him. “Shimal is your slave. What are your desires?” Maybe not. He wants me to send him forth before he’s bound, but I’m no amateur.

“Shimal will reside, and be bound, in the object with his name written upon it to serve the magus as a familiar until such time as intentionally unbound by the magus.” I mean the fiver.

“Shimal will not.” Surprise surprise.

“Shimal is compelled.”

“Shimal is compelled? How compelled? By you mortal?” There’s a sound of laughter. Affronted by my orders he’s forgotten to be devious. I almost feel sorry for him.

“Shimal is compelled by Him whom I will now name.” Shimal knows what’s coming and stops laughing. I begin to read from the walls of the temple. After two holy names he’s pleading me to stop. I pause after each name. After two more he gives up and says:

“Shimal will reside, and be bound, in the object with his name written upon it to serve the magus as a familiar from now until such time as intentionally unbound by the magus.”

I fold the note in half, widthways, twice, then tie a knot in it. I put it down on the table near me outside the octagon. I quickly reform the cage.

I take up the knife, kiss it, make a small horizontal cut in my left upper arm and wait for it to bleed a little. Using the knife as a pen I draw a pentacle on each side of the pentagonal knot. The blade doesn’t hold much and I have to dip it into the cut quite a few times. When it’s finished I blow on it to dry it. Shimal is now bound and sealed.

“Shimal?”

“Here master.”

“You will speak when spoken to only and be heard by me alone. Understood?”

“Yes master.”

I blow out the candles and leave the temple taking my knife and Shimal with me. I keep Shimal with me from now on.

I put a small piece of cotton wool on my cut and put on a dressing gown. I go back to the front room and tidy up. As I put away the old diary I take out the latest and untie the silk strip around it. I use a fountain pen for my magickal diary, and black ink. After writing up the day I sleep with Shimal under my pillow and don’t have nightmares.

I wake up and it’s Tuesday. I look at my dream diary expectantly but the pen is by the side. I get up and go to collect my mail.

“Only some junk mail and Office Equipment magazines for you.” Susan smiles her nearly smile.

“’Phone messages?”

“No. Are you expecting something?”

“Something big.” I say but Susan is already answering the telephone.

“Good morning Glassbury’s”.

I return home, have water for breakfast, do a reading for a businessman from St Albans, have water for lunch, do a reading for a literary agent from Hampstead and have water for tea. Nothing happens and I’m worried.

I take what I wrote by hand at the readings to the office centre for Susan to type up. There are still no messages, but a few magazines arrived by second post. I take them home on the bus and worry.

I flick through the magazines but find no clues. I try reading them but can’t. The worry is getting to me and it’s time to act. Or at least time to decide. I can’t talk to my Client yet so I’ll just have to work it out myself.

A Client has to tell me what to do, like the Convent Spring and the five-pound note. Of course if I don’t look hard enough it’s my fault. I look hard. I read and re-read yesterday’s magickal diary entry. I re-read today’s tarot readings. Nothing.

If nothing happens for a while in a case like this it’s usually a sign that you’re on the wrong track. How long is a while? Until tomorrow. I relax and read the magazines. Then I read a book and doodle a little before going to bed.

Before I go to sleep I think. I can’t help it. Clients always give you just enough time to do things and my Client knew I would be busy today. So the reason I had to bind a familiar yesterday can only be that it’s all going to happen tomorrow. Or tonight. I sleep anyway.

Wednesday, I follow my routine but this time there is a message. I thank Susan and walk out reading the neat handwriting.

Detective Sergeant McDonald, Metropolitan Police, ’phoned.

Please meet him at 23 Colvestone Crescent, Dalston ASAP.

09:01hrs 27 Nov 1992

chapter four

Number twenty-three has three storeys and looks like a squat. I knock on the door and wait. I’m listening for footsteps, but don’t hear any before the door opens suddenly and I get pulled inside. It’s dark and there’s a torch shining in my face.

“Don’t move son I’m not going to hurt you. Now what’s your name?” He sounds like he’s from London and a big man.

“Gerard Zus. I had a ’phone call.”

He moves the torch, pointing it at the ceiling, and apologises. “Sorry about the rough stuff. D S McDonald.” I blink a few times. It’s a big torch and, after a couple of seconds to adjust, my eyes see that he’s holding out his right hand. I shake and find out that he’s on the square. He very briefly shows me a very large identity card.

“I got your number from a friend.” He turns, points the torch at a staircase then walks towards it. I follow. “Four A M a nine nine nine call was placed from a ’phone box down the road giving this address.” As we ascend the staircase the damp, dirty squat smell is replaced by something else. “Said a murder was taking place here. A uniformed officer was sent to investigate.” He pauses at the top of the stairs. “We thought it was probably a hoax.” The other smell is vomit. “I hope you have a strong stomach mister Zus.” The first floor landing is dark and I follow DS McDonald closely as he follows his torch beam to a door. “It’s alright sir, the vomit’s in that corner.” (He must have noticed I was following him closely). He reaches for the door handle then pauses.

“I don’t want to have to explain what’s in this room. You’ll notice there’re no barriers up here. I’m having this treated as a hoax. A sick hoax I’ll grant you. But ... well when you see it you’ll see what I mean. Ready?” His hand is on the door handle. I nod and he opens the door.

There’s a window and daylight in the room. It’s quite a large room. In the centre of the room is something big and red.

As I look I see that there are specks of white and grey in the red. The red is blood, the other colours are bone, muscle and internal organs. By a piece of intestinal tubing I notice what looks like the surface of a mattress. I realise that under the layer of blood, splinters and shreds is a bed. So this is a bedroom, not an anatomy laboratory.

It looks like a radical dissection. Done with a blunt cheese grater. I force myself to observe. The red spiky crust covers the bed and some of the floor around it. In places the edge seems to make a pattern, there’re marks on the floor just next to it. Painted marks. A magickal protection? The policeman is speaking.

“I’ll leave you to it then sir.” He keeps talking as I follow him down the stairs “I won’t be back. Like I say I’m treating this as a hoax. Since you didn’t -” he stops suddenly, listening. There’s a noise at the door. Approaching footsteps. The letter-box goes. “Just the postman” the policeman smiles. “Where was I?” I follow him downstairs. “Oh yes. Since you didn’t gain entry unlawfully the house is yours to occupy. Look around the rest of the house, the previous occupants left in a hurry early this morning.” He pauses to pick up the mail, snorts. “Looks like they’ll be back though. Giros.” He waves the brown windows at me briefly, places them on an occasional table and lets himself out.

I look at the door closed behind him briefly. What’s upstairs is no hoax but the man doesn’t have a choice. The police force doesn’t employ the kind of talent needed for a case like this. Even if they did where would it lead? I don’t see Ashtaroth holding the bible in his right hand promising to tell “nothing but” somehow.

I stumble back upstairs, go back in. I take Shimal from my jacket pocket and call him.

“Shimal.”

“Here master.”

“Is there a magickal protection here?”

“Yes master.”

“A strong one?”

“Very strong master.”

“Could you pass it?”

“No master. Nor could any of Us. One of The Highest might break it, master, but not pass it.”

“How about a possession?”

“No master. Not without breaking it.”

I put him back in my pocket without thanks. I turn to hang my jacket on the door knob to make sure I don’t break the prot by carrying Shimal through it, and because that gives me an excuse not to look at the bed. I delay further by thinking.

It’s possible that the mess on the bed was made by an unaided human, but that doesn’t explain the blood splashing and dripping only up to the inside of the protection. Could the blood outside the prot have been cleaned away? No. There’s a coat of dust and dirt on the floor around, and even inside, the prot. A devil wouldn’t have been able to cross the protection, nor propel anything across, which would explain the pattern, and the dust. I’m wasting time, there’s more to find out in this room.

I still don’t want to look at the bed so I check out the rest of the room. No carpet, peeling walls and ceiling, a pile of junk and laundry covering a rickety table and chair. It looks like what’s on the bed used to be female: the laundry is all girls’ clothes, also there’s tampons and contraceptive pills. It looks like she was an occultist: there’s some well thumbed and annotated Crowleys, dream and magickal diaries and a pile of candles, also the clothes are mostly black. Here’s a lead. A ticket to a gig.

The venue is a club in Islington, the date is the day after tomorrow and the band is “Chasing Satan + support”. The word “COMPLIMENTARY” is stamped across the yellow ticket in red ink.

There’s nothing else useful here. I check very thoroughly but there’s nothing else to find before searching the bed.

I put the ticket in my trousers and go downstairs to find some rubber gloves. There’s a pair in the kitchen. I put them on and clear the sink and draining board. I have to do the bed, but I don’t have to remember it. Self-hypnosis.

There’s a flicker and I’m washing the dried blood and sticky pieces of flesh and organs off the gloves and down the plug hole. On the draining board is a cigarette end and a flap of skin.

The flap is a rough square, three inches a side, with torn edges, tattooed with a pentacle. Another protection? I’ll ask Shimal. I rinse the cigarette end under the tap and examine it. Camel. I don’t remember seeing a packet in the room, which explains why I brought it downstairs. There was no ashtray or cigarette ash in the room either which suggests that the victim didn’t smoke. So somebody else smoked it. Whilst in the bed.

I collect my jacket from the bedroom and sit on the stairs. I take Shimal from my jacket pocket and call him again.

“Shimal.”

“Here master.”

“Is there a magickal protection here?”

“Yes master.”

“Can you read its intent?”

“Yes master.”

“What is its intent?”

“To protect the body of the magician master.”

Now I have to be careful. The Law of Mortal Free Will again. The flip side.

If a magician compels a devil to do an action that devil cannot do, like opposing a senior, or answering a paradox, the devil goes free. It’s like when an employee gets fired but still has access to the office. Often they turn troublesome. Devils always do, or so I hear. If I ask Shimal a question he can’t answer he’s free. That’s the deal.

In practical terms: I can’t just ask him how come? If the magickal protection protects the body how come it now looks like a pile of tripe and about fifty heavy periods?

“Could a devil injure the body of the magician without breaking the protection?”

“No master.”

“How about a possession?”

“No master. Not without breaking it.”

I replace Shimal without thanks again. His answers bring me back to the unaided human I rejected earlier because of the constrained blood. I reject him again and settle for something simpler. A devil, which could not have been inside the protection, was in there and tore the living body into pieces, which did not injure the magician. It’s funny and I laugh. Briefly. Then I’m shocked by my fast adaptation. The purification must be beginning at least.