Nightmare, Sleepwalk, Remix, part 2

chapter five

I wander about downstairs, and count my assumptions. There was only one person killed on the bed. It was the person who lives in the room. Two, not bad. This is the job my Client wants me to do. Three, still acceptable. I decide to proceed and consider my next move. Obviously I’ll be going to the club to see Chasing Satan + support. I go back upstairs to get her diaries which I will obviously be reading. As I enter her room again I think how obvious it is that I want to speak to her house mates. Pity I have to wait for them. I put the envelope down and pick up her diaries. What envelope? It’s one of the giro’s. I must have picked it up while I was wandering about downstairs. Except I didn’t pick it up. I was thinking. Or part of my brain was. I was thinking I’d have to wait but now I don’t want to. And I don’t have to because I’m a magician.

I go back downstairs to the kitchen. I trust myself that Alison Brown, the name on the envelope, isn’t upstairs. I write the letters of her name in columns in water on the draining board. I read across the rows out loud.

“Aoo lnw ibn sr.”

Come on down Alison. The shout echoes slightly as I wipe the draining board and obliterate the letters. She’ll be with me in half an hour tops. I collect the diaries and plan how to meet her.

She probably won’t want to stay here to talk. I fetch my jacket and check I’ve got money. I put the giro’s in my inside pocket and find the tattoo. It survived the attack and experience tells me it’s going to be useful. I find a plastic bag in the kitchen and wrap it up carefully. I put the diaries in another bag and I’m ready to go, nearly.

After leaving I may not be able to get back in. I go back up to the room and sit in a corner not facing the window. I don’t like it, but I have to take the room with me. I scan left to right, noting, remembering. Then right to left. A few more times and I close my eyes and try to recall details, floor, clothes, chair, blood. It’s a complex picture and I don’t know what I’ll need to remember later: it’s twenty minutes before I can visualise the room completely. I keep practising until I hear a key in the door.

chapter six

I pick up my jacket and make noise walking so she isn’t frightened by my voice. “Hullo?” I call from the landing. I walk down the stairs. When I can see her I add “Do you know anything about what happened here?” so I have a moment to check her out.

A skinny eighteen year old in rags, Docs and a hooded army surplus coat. I can’t see it, but I’m pretty sure it’s got a big A for anarchy painted on the back. “Are you the police?”

Actually an interesting question. I resist the temptation to smile enigmatically and make cryptic remarks about the higher law. I can’t see her face to be sure, but probably Alison’s not concerned with cosmology right now. Probably she’s concerned about not getting arrested and having the shit kicked out of her.

I keep walking down the stairs and tell her “I’m not police.” To forestall the next question, I add “And I don’t carry ID.”

“We did call the police.”

Looks like I misjudged her. She sounds like she needs to be told she did something right, which makes sense now that I think about it. Alison’s a witness and I need her to cooperate with me. Because I’m not the police, I can’t use the law to compel her. I could just flash the giro’s, but I prefer to have her on my side. A little analysis could go a long way here, maybe all the way.

In front of me is a girl who, last night, had one of her friends fine blended, maybe in front of her. There was nothing she could do about it. Where did she turn? Straight to an authority figure, then ran. Poor young anarchist, having to call the pigs to help a friend. Analysis complete. Now to compose a reply.

“The police called me. I’m here to find out things, but not for them. They’re not involved now.”

She looks uncertain. Her eyes dart glances at my face, at the floor, at her side of the open door. She’s looking for a certain bunch of envelopes, no doubt.

“I think you saw something last night, and I’d like you to tell me about it.”

“Have you got our giro’s?” The darting glances have stopped. So young to be so suspicious.

I put my jacket on. “You mean these?” I show her the envelopes, then put them back in my pocket. “Yes, I’ve got them. And if you tell me about last night then you’ll have them.”

“Those are ours. They’re not addressed to you. You can’t just take them.” She holds her hand out. “Hand them over.”

She has a point I suppose, but so what? “Like I said Alison, it’s my job to find things out here. If I give you these now you’ll run away now, and then I won’t have found out anything, will I?” I let that sink in for a moment. “Can’t you wait till I’ve bought you a cup of tea and we’ve had a conversation?”

She goes for it, although I have to up the offer to breakfast. She knows a nearby cafe so we go there.

Without thinking I buy two teas. At least I remember not to drink mine. Alison eyes it as it sits and goes cold while her breakfast is being prepared. I never eat in greasy cafes like this one, but even so the sight of her plate of bacon, eggs and beans makes my stomach rumble.

She doesn’t want to talk or think about what happened last night and I don’t make her until she’s finished eating. I get her a second mug of tea, remembering not to buy myself one this time.

Her reluctance to talk doesn’t make for an easy conversation. At every pause Alison’s eyes flick to the right hand side of my chest, where the giro’s are in my pocket. Despite this I do find out some things about Kate - the dead girl (Kate Valedictan from her giro) - and what happened to her.

She took the occult seriously enough not to talk about it to her housemates. Her boyfriend is in a band; Alison remembers the name “Chasing Satan” when I prompt her. He visited her yesterday evening. She remembers him coming over at about eight and leaving at eleven. She doesn’t know if he smokes or not. No point asking if it’s Camel then. Yes she did see Kate alive after he had left, in fact they had a chat late that night about boys and anarchy and stuff.

Seems like it hasn’t sunk into Alison yet that Kate has gone. That Kate did not die of cancer, or in a road accident, but of causes completely outside Alison’s experience and comprehension has contributed to this delay in her appreciation of reality. Turns out Alison didn’t even see Kate die, although she did hear it, or the start of it.

Kate Valedictan’s death started a few minutes before 04:00hrs. Her screams woke the other three people in the house. They gathered outside the door to her bedroom, wondering if it was a bad dream and whether or not they should go in. Finally one of them, Tom (Thomas Kraft), decided to open the door. He closed it after maybe one second. When he turned around his face was white and his whole body was shaking. He told the others that they had to call the police and get out, immediately. Which they did. Kate went on screaming for the ten minutes or so that Alison took to dress and pack. She was still screaming when they left.

“We should have gone in. Maybe there was something we could have done.”

“Other than get yourselves killed? I don’t think so somehow.” It seems to comfort her a little.

I’ve already paid. I leave the giro’s and my card on the table and walk out.

The neighbours shrug when I ask them about the people who used to live next door. Some noise last night. A police car later when it was all quiet again. Then they shrug again. Not supportive of squatting, not hostile, even indifference seems like it’s too much trouble. I go home.

chapter seven

“The magickal diary of Soror Utchaluna”. Here we go. It takes the rest of the day to read but it seems like even longer. Kate took her magick cold and without humour. No laughing matter this diary.

I copied out a few pieces, which I’ll read again tomorrow but as I lie in bed hungry I concentrate on general impressions.

Kate was in an occult group named Puissance Res. From time to time she mentions other members. Only names in magick of course, this being a serious business. Point is, I didn’t run out of fingers counting Fraters and Sorors. Magickal order or just a few kids getting grandiose?

The workings are pretty standard stuff. The protections look OK, so do the curses and blessings, but the invocations are just way too elaborate. Kate’s diary records results like “feeling of energy and tingling”. Not exactly “the body of a bear, a human head, but with a duck’s beak” stuff, but so what? Visible manifestations? Who needs them. Not Puissance Res, that’s for sure. It’s pretty clear they’ll stay small and together for a while as they are, at least until their leader gets bored.

The line is that the angels keep these kind of people out of trouble, and out of the way of real seekers. Which means allowing them to get good at the basics but not much more. So how did Kate get herself into something that would kill her?

Nothing in the diary leads to Kate’s death. She wasn’t in the middle of a big working. There’s no incomplete banishings. No recent curses to rebound on her. No ignored dreams. Puissance Res had not raised up that which they could not put down. The last entry is a regular meditation in the afternoon before the night of her death.

All of which suggests that Puissance Res is not directly responsible for what happened. But maybe somebody they know is. For sure they’re a lead. And that’s something I’d be stupid to ignore.

I wake up. Wash, dress, drink water, read notes.

The pentacle around Kate’s bed was cast about eighteen months ago. The rest of the group came round to her place for the occasion. Pure water, lots of carmine red and soot black, new paintbrushes discarded afterwards, drums and incantation. She’s even copied out the spell used: “A barrier that none devils nor daemons nor any summonéd forms may pass, neither can their bodies, their spirits nor their powers nor their missiles.” Seems pretty clear.

The tattoo was done about one year ago. Not much reasoning given in the diary. Probably because Kate’s real reason: “everyone on TV’s got one” doesn’t sound like it has much to do with causing change to occur in conformity with will. It was done locally, she checked the design with her friends, she copied out the spell: “The inscryption of this symbold thereon does make the magus’ skin to be impervious to the attacks from the devils, and from elementalles, and other manners of creature from beyond nature. From their claws, hooves, horns and other bodily instruments, also from their fiery breath, lightning bolts and other harms, also from their weapons - be they magickal or be they mundane.” She might not have had a sense of humour, but she at least she didn’t mess about with anything less than all-inclusive.

I’ve got a few of their names in magick copied out as well.

The notes go in a jacket pocket with everything else. They’ll be re-read, when I get the odd moment. And I’ll need them with me today when I go hunting Puissance Res.

chapter eight

Into town on the tube again. Destination the West End, a little way from which is the Lost Continent. The bookshop and mail order outfit, that is, not Lemuria. I go in and ask for my contact by name:

“Morning. Is Glen in today?” I know he is because I doused before I came out.

“Yeah, he’s downstairs. Do you know the way?”

“Yes thanks.”

Down to where the computer is. Where Glen feels at home. He’s not Special this time around, but he sure knows a lot. Like an encyclopaedia. Must be all those books and magazines he reads. And I do mean all. I knock at the door marked private.

“It’s open.” Glen’s voice is soft southern English university, and not at all stuck up.

I’ve gone in and closed the door by the time he’s finished what he was typing and swivelled his chair away from the monitor so he can see who’s come in.

“Gerard! It’s been ages.” He gets up to give me a hug, which I return.

Before he sits back down Glen moves a couple of parcels off a chair so I can too. The parcels halve the office’s standing room when he puts them on the floor. I say standing room because I’ve actually no idea how large the office is - the walls are always hidden by stacked cardboard boxes.

He frowns “Did I post you a Waite deck last week?”

“Yes I got them a few days back thanks.”

“Good.” He reaches for a mug on the desk, then thinks. “Would you like some tea?”

“No thanks.” It’s a lie, but hey, it’s in a good cause.

Glen and I go back a long way. We hack a few names about for twenty minutes or so, then he pops the question.

“So what brings you down here?” I’d almost forgotten that I came for a consultation with this oracle of the occult margins.

“Looking for something. A group.”

“You’re joining an order again? That’s great Ger’.”

“Not joining, just want to get in touch or something.”

Glen knows me well enough to know when I’m for real. He shrugs and asks me “Who is it?”

“Small order. Name of Puissance Res.”

“I’ve heard it somewhere. Got any names of people?”

I hand him the short list I copied out of Kate’s diary. The paper’s folded so he doesn’t see the spells. I don’t want Glen’s curiosity to get him involved in anything at this level.

He remembers one of the names on the list. We go upstairs to the fanzine racks. Buried on the lowest rack is a copy of the second issue of Teutonic Way magazine. Even when I buy the ’zine for a quid Glen’s boss doesn’t seem too pleased at me taking twenty-five minutes of his time.

I say good-bye and agree to meet Glen and go out some time soon.

I find a park to sit in and read the article. Conservative rubbish. Only useful thing here’s the address and that’s a B.M. Box. Predictable, I guess. The serious types tend to overdo the anonymous thing.

So all I’ve got is a confidential forwarding address. So I’ll write a letter.

It’s lunch time, whatever that word means, so I’ve got a few hours before the post offices close. I take my time with the letter. To give myself time to think, I scout around for appropriate materials. Some heavy quality paper and an italic felt-tip from an art shop gets the job finally.

The letter goes like this: Leaving my group. They’re going all messy - blood and sex. Energy that shouldn’t be mucked about with. Chanced on the Teutonic Way article as if by fate. Just what I was thinking. Happy to do an apprenticeship, but veiled references to good degree of competence. How about a rendezvous sometime? It’s in the post.

I stay up late reading and stuff to mess up my sleep patterns. I want to catch main Z tomorrow afternoon, in case I have to stay up for some follow-through after the gig. It works.

chapter nine

I stroll past the queue outside the club, to present my comp and get in first. Inside is not much brighter than the night outside. The bar’s easy to find and has some tables and chairs next to it. I sit where I can see the stage.

Pretty soon some guy sits his lager at my table and strikes up a conversation. Pity, I was just getting into the Fred Carter Performance Unit’s stage piece.

“All right?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yeah. You here for, what’re they called, Chasing Satan?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Nah. Support band me. Servants of the Deceiver. Mind you I liked ’em better when they were Political Uniforms.”

“Better name.”

He reckons I’m taking the piss and stops talking to me. Then when he goes to get another pint he doesn’t come back. I get another chance to look around.

The crowd’s clothes make the place look even darker. There’s a fair sprinkling of some of the lesser known occult symbols on the backs of leather jackets, but otherwise they’re fairly standard model early twenties gothic.

Later, the support band comes on. Much later, Chasing Satan come on. At which point the symbols leave their places around the bar, and at the back, and get closer to the stage.

Chasing Satan’re good. The drums are interesting, and the singer’s got a good voice. Pity I can’t really hear his lyrics. I can feel magick here, coming from them.

When they’re in mid-set is when their auras’ll be brightest, so I wait till then before doing the eyes closed and then opened only not opened bit.