The Deceit

22

The owner of the witchcraft museum was frowning nervously as Karen reached in her bag for the recorder. Setting the machine on the desk, she sought to calm him. ‘Many thanks for coming in, Mr Ryman, we know you are busy.’

‘Oh, not at all, not at all.’ He smiled in an unconvincing way. ‘I was in Truro anyway, to see my mother. She’s up at Treliske, the hospital.’

‘Nothing terrible, I hope?’

‘Her pacemaker needs changing. Marvellous what they can do these days. She is practically bionic: two false knees, replacement hip. I sometimes wonder if she will rust rather than age.’

Sally Pascoe popped a slice of Nicorette. ‘What do you do, anyway, when the museum is shut?’

He shrugged, and straightened the knot of his tie. ‘Oh, this and that. I pootle and potter, potter and pootle. I suppose I am semi-retired now. The museum gives a reasonable income. My pension! Ah. I used to be a tour guide, to the Middle East. I had my own little company, quite upmarket, tailor-made trips to biblical sites, with academics and writers. That’s when I became first, ah, interested in the occult. The belief in ghosts and miracles and the paranormal is so sincere there — the demons of Sumer are still with us! If you go to somewhere like Palmyra, it is—’

Karen raised a hand. She’d just remembered how much this guy liked to talk. ‘Sorry, but can we get to it? This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. We just want your opinion on an interview I conducted.’

Ryman nodded, silenced.

Karen toyed with the digicorder as she quickly explained about Alicia Rothley’s arrest, her transfer to Bodmin Psych Unit, her connection to the cat-burning and the possible chief suspect, her elder brother, Luke Rothley.

The pallid face of the man became even whiter as he listened. ‘Good holy lord. That is, ah, that is something. Ah yes. Hm. Trevelloe Lodge, eh?’

‘Yep. We think there were maybe eight or nine people staying there. For the whole month.’

‘Well. Trevelloe. Yes yes, yes yes. I know that area, the standing stones there, of course, the Merry Maidens. And Men-an-Tol, the birthing stone, up by Ding Dong mine. And Madron well, the whole area is, ah, drenched with occult and supernatural associations, and let’s not forget the fogous—’

‘No. We mustn’t forget the fogous,’ said Sally, giving up on her gum and throwing it in the overfull rubbish bin. Then she tilted her head at the digicorder.

Karen took the hint, picked up the recorder and pressed play. ‘So, Mr Ryman, this is the recording of my interview with Alicia Rothley at Bodmin. Have a listen, and tell us what you think.’

The voices were quite distinct: it was a good recording. The sound of the faint winter drizzle on the police HQ windows seemed to recede as Karen’s questions to Alicia echoed around the office.

Donald Ryman gazed warily at the little machine on the desk. He said nothing. Karen picked up the recorder, and fast-forwarded.

‘She didn’t respond at first, as you can tell. She just sat there, terrified, and mute. Kind of locked in. But then, eventually, she opened up. Here.’

She pressed play once again.

‘Cats.’

‘What? Alicia? Tell me about the night, when you killed the cats.’

‘Didn’t.’

‘You didn’t kill them?’

‘He killed them. Burning them, all night.’

‘Your brother Luke?’

Karen looked at Sally, and then at Donald. He was transfixed now, leaning close.

‘He killed them, the Devil killed them.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The Devil, my brother is the Devil. He killed the cats. The Devil came and entered him. Fuck you!’

On and on, to the crazed crescendo. Despite her best attempts, Karen failed to suppress a shudder. The words sounded all the more horrific for being relayed in this fairly anodyne environment — in this friendly, messy office with its empty plastic coffee cups and the Christmas-party photos on the wall, and the bin containing yesterday’s West Briton newspaper.

And a girl screaming from a digicorder:

‘Ananias, Azarias … atha atha atharim!’

The recording concluded; an awkward silence ensued. Donald Ryman seemed shaken, his nervous tics more pronounced as his hand adjusted the knot of his tie.

Finally Karen spoke. ‘Mr Ryman, do you know of any magic that might, in some inadvertent way, induce sexual or hormonal changes?’

He gazed at her with a bewildered expression.

‘I ask this because the girl, Alicia Rothley, is showing signs of masculinization. She is becoming a man. In fact, if you looked at her results, you would say this is someone having pre-operative hormone treatment for gender-reassignment surgery.’

Sally Pascoe interrupted Karen. ‘We’re not suggestingthere is some spell that can simply do this, but maybe there is some kind of, you know, sexual magic, where people …’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, where people have, say, testosterone injections. Does that happen in any magical rituals?’

Donald shook his head. ‘No, I have never heard of such a thing; it is … ah, quite outside the canon. Most bizarre. Really …’

Karen and Sally swapped glances. Karen gestured at the recorder. ‘OK, what do you think about the recording? Can you give us any context?’

This time he seemed more confident.

‘Well the names, yes yes. I know the names. Ananias, Azarias, they are obviously the names of demons, hermetic demons, ah, ah, ancient Egyptian magic. She has obviously been witness to some … serious ritual.’

‘What does that mean?’

He shrugged, a faint shine of sweat on his lined and anxious forehead. ‘I mean a ritual from one of the old grimoires, one of the old books of magic. It could be the Key of Solomon the King, or the Grand Grimoire. But …’ His voice faded.

‘Go on,’ Sally Pascoe urged.

‘Well. Ah. One of the words she used, Araki, implies something a lot more … well, worrying. Have you ever heard of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin, Abra-Melin the Mage?’

‘No.’

‘Well, of course not, sorry, it is quite obscure. But to experts …’ He seemed flustered again; the tie straightening was now almost pathological. ‘The book of Abra-Melin is a magical manual which dates back to the fifteenth century. There are copies of it surviving from about 1700: in Dresden in Germany, in the Bodleian in Oxford, and one in the Bibliothèque Nationale, in France, I believe. It was written by a Jewish scholar, Abraham of Worms, who was apparently taught magic by Abra-Melin himself. A mage, or a sorcerer.’

‘A wizard? A real wizard, with sleeves?’

Donald Ryman ignored Sally’s question. ‘Until recently it was thought the grimoire was merely compiled by Abraham of Worms, culled from extant sources: but a few years ago some German scholars proved that it is probably entirely authentic, that it really does come from a tiny town called El Araki in Upper Egypt, between Sohag and Luxor. The description of the village in the book is completely accurate: there is no way a Jewish Kabbalist from fifteenth-century Worms would have known about Araki, unless he’d been there. Moreover, Araki is near the, ah, epicentre of Egyptian magic, Nag Hammadi, where the Gnostic gospels were found, and Akhmim, which is the very home of alchemy and the occult itself. All in all it is a fascinating region …’

‘Mr Ryman, what is the significance of this magic?’ Karen asked. Specifically, the, what did you call it, the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin?’

‘Well now.’ Donald Ryman shut his eyes for a second, as if praying. Then he looked at the window, and spoke to no one in particular. ‘Please don’t think me a credulous old fool. I am aware of the fatuity of much of this. I don’t believe in pixies and Beelzebub. But even in sceptical circles the magic of Abra-Melin has a troubling reputation. The ritual involved for summoning demons is complex and ancient, extremely challenging, and, ah, truly evil. Some say the Abra-Melin ritual can only be successfully completed if several humans are sacrificed, culminating in the murder of a living child. Others believe it merely requires a symbolic sacrifice, or perhaps animal sacrifice.’

Sally interrupted him. ‘You’re saying this … this Abra-Melin thing, this is for real? You can get demons to appear?’

‘No.’ He gave a pained shrug. ‘No, probably not. Of course not. At least, I don’t think so. But I know that Crowley himself tried the magic in 1900, in Boleskine in Scotland and at his notorious flat in Chancery Lane, and even he found it too frightening. So it is reported.’

Karen asked, ‘What you are definitely saying is that the girl, his sister, has been exposed to this particular ritual, right? Otherwise, why mention Araki?’

‘Yes, that is exactly what I am saying! My educated guess is that her brother is attempting the difficult and ancient Abra-Melin ritual. And in all the history of the occult, that is the one solitary ritual that might give one pause, that could make one lie awake at night.’ He flapped his tie again, agitated. ‘Consider me an imbecile if you wish, but the rite of Abra-Melin is the only magic in history that, for whatever reason, and in some terrifying way, actually appears to work.’