The Deceit

34

The little girl was sobbing.

‘Don’t cry,’ said Rothley, leaning close. She was squashed in her wooden box, looking up at him. ‘Why cry? Really. There’s no point. Do you want to speak to your mother again?’

She nodded.

‘OK. Here.’ He held the phone close. The girl looked up at him, trusting, sweetly, desperately waiting for permission. Rothley held the phone to her ear and the girl listened to her mother’s voice, and she sobbed and wailed into the mobile, entirely incoherent. Rothley waited for her to finish her futile lament. Then he killed the call and said, ‘Good. Now, I hope you understand, I am going to do something to you, soon.’

‘Yemm.’

‘It is going to be very painful, and you will see horrible things.’

‘No yem.’

‘Yes. Say yes. It is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.’ Rothley smiled. The winter cold was piercing but they were all warm in here, in this sweet little chamber, that he had taken so long to prepare. All the months, all the years of training and dedication: from Buddhism to Zionism to veganism to Scientism to the final revelation — this. Here. This was it.

A faint smell of ammonia hung in the air. The little girl had voided her bladder with fear. Again. Rothley sighed. She also looked fairly ludicrous, roped and tied and kept in the box. But it didn’t matter. The time had arrived for him to do the ritual, the very last of the Abra-Melin rite. Then the demons would come and the final revelation would be his. The ancient truth of the dark, dark magic, the Akhmimic magic.

The man strapped to the iron frame was groaning. He probably needed more Diazepam. Forty milligrams should do it. Rothley crossed the dark room and lifted the man’s head. ‘Do you want to say something? You want to say something important?’

But the man just sobbed. Twisting his hands in his restraints, twisting his mind against the drugs.

Rothley tutted. ‘I thought we were friends.’

Reaching for his syringe, Rothley carefully injected his older prisoner with more Diazepam. Then he glanced at the clock. Seven a.m. He really needed to be careful about time: the ritual was so fastidious about procedures and protocol: turn north, turn south, write the SATOR square, wear only white, then complete.

Rothley turned and walked back to the child. She was still crying, and yet, through the endless, fizzing tears, she also gazed at him with that trusting look: wanting to believe that an adult knew what he was doing, that he wasn’t going to hurt her again.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rothley. ‘It’s not me, sweetheart, it’s the Egyptians. And the Jews. Here.’ He reached in his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag containing three vivisected rat hearts, smeared and bloody. Fingering the little bag, he extracted one heart, still warm, and offered it to her. ‘Eat this.’

She shook her head. Defiant.

‘You have to eat.’

She shook her head. Mm-mnm. Like a toddler. Not eating.

Rothley grabbed her and forced open her mouth and shoved the rat’s heart in her mouth and clamped shut her jaw. ‘Fucking eat it.’

The girl whimpered. But she refused to chew.

‘Eat it or we’ll do it again. Another turn around the block.’

Then he slapped her hard, having to reach down to do it. The slapping felt odd, because she was stuck in her box, just her head protruding. But it worked. She bowed her head, swallowing the rat’s heart, and she cried.

Lucas Rothley exhaled in exasperation. ‘OK.’

He had to stay in control. The Abra-Melin ritual was adamant about that: stay serene and pure, wear white, pray to the north. Now he had to say the words.

He opened the book.

‘May the lady of fire shrivel your soul.’ Rothley lifted the page to the dim wintry light. ‘I beseech thee Lampsuer, Sumarta, Baribas, Iorlex. O Lord send Anuth, Anuth, Salbana, Lazaral, now now, quickly quickly. Come on the morrow night, and take this girl and this man, take them, shrivel up their souls, lady of darkness. Take them for your bitter food, chew them, and consume them.’

Rothley walked across the room. In the corner was a sack that writhed with vile energy. He slipped on his leather gauntlet, and untied it. The many rats inside surged, eager to escape, but he lifted the sack so that they fell back, seething, then he leaned in and grabbed just one by the throat. He knocked its head against the wall, rendering it semi-conscious, giving him a chance to retie the sack. Then he carried the lolling rat across the room, to the wooden box containing the girl.

Lifting the stunned rat over her head, Rothley extracted a pin from his pocket and jabbed it in the rat’s eye. There was a faint popping sound. Liquid dribbled down on her.

‘By a fire kindled with eyes, take her, Abraxas, Jesus, Adonai, take her. And feed her soul with offal.’

The little girl was whimpering, as ever. Rothley dropped the blinded rat onto the floor, where it writhed. Then he checked his watch.

The trap was closing.