Текст книги "Deviance"
Автор книги: J. F. Penn
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
Chapter 22
The smashing of glass woke Magda from a deep sleep. Her heart beat fast at the unusual sound, panic rising in her chest. She untangled herself from O's sleeping form and pulled a robe around herself. She walked quickly into the studio area to find flames spreading from a broken bottle of accelerant, glass all over the floor from the broken window.
The fire caught on some of the flammable paint and flames spread quickly towards the stack of canvases in the corner.
"Olivia," Magda shouted. "Get up, quickly. We have to get out." She grabbed at some of the canvases nearest to her, dragging them out of the way of the flames, but she knew it was too late. The fire was spreading too fast.
The high-pitched squeal of the smoke alarm pierced the air, a note of danger and desperation. Magda beat at the flames with a fire blanket, sobbing as she watched her canvases catch and burn.
O emerged from the bedroom and rushed into the kitchenette to grab the fire extinguisher. But Magda knew that it was only meant for a small fire and sure enough, it was soon empty, the flames still spreading. She called the emergency services, giving the address in a calm voice and explaining the situation, even as her mind struggled to fathom the destruction around her. The soothing voice of the operator assured her that the fire brigade was on its way, but Magda knew it would be too late.
"We have to get out." O tugged at her lover's arm, covering her mouth to block some of the smoke.
"I can't leave it all," Magda whispered in desperation. "This is everything. I'll be ruined."
O put her hand on Magda's cheek, turning her face and looking into her eyes.
"You are everything, my love. This stuff can be replaced, but you can't. Haven't we learned that over the last days?"
Magda looked around at the flaming studio, her canvases, her equipment on the way to ruin. This was her life's work, her sanctuary. The flames roared as they accelerated through a pile of packaging material.
"We have to get out now." O pulled on her arm and Magda's resolve crumbled. With tears in her eyes, she stumbled out of the studio and into the courtyard outside. Groups of people stood looking on, tenants from the flats above weeping as the flames climbed higher and they were pushed back towards the road beyond.
The sound of cracking and buckling beams could be heard from within as an upper level collapsed down through the ceilings to the ground floor. The creaking protests of the building were like the groans of the dying.
Magda stood as close she could, the heat from the fire almost burning her skin. In other circumstances she would have reveled in these flames, an element of destruction that allowed rebirth. She had thrown her own past on flames like these, destroying what was spent and rotten to enable the new to arise. But now … everything she had built here would be destroyed. She swallowed, fighting to hold back the tears.
The sound of sirens filled the air and fire engines arrived along with police to control the scene. Tenants and onlookers were pushed further back, urged to move away but Magda couldn't leave. She watched as fire hoses began to soak the flames, their powerful jets raining down on her studio. Whatever hadn't been lost in the fire would be destroyed by its opposite element. Perhaps there was a lesson in that.
O slipped an arm round Magda's waist, leaning her head on her lover's shoulder.
"There's nothing we can do here," she said. "Why don't you come back to my place? Have a drink. We'll come back when it's all under control."
But Magda couldn't tear her eyes from the flames.
"I need to stay," she said, her voice quiet. She turned and looked into O's eyes. She was so lucky to have this woman in her life, but there were times when she needed to be alone. "But maybe you can go get some supplies. Hot chocolate would be good. Maybe something stronger to go with it."
O leaned up and kissed her full on the mouth.
"Of course, I won't be long."
O turned and navigated through the crowd away from the scene. Magda walked to the edge of the perimeter and sat down on a step, exhaling deeply as she looked into the flames again, holding out her hands to the fire so she could see the full length of her own tattoos, silhouetted against the orange-red of the flames. The marks on her skin were both the end and the beginning, she thought, remembering the past. Had it all been worth it?
She had left Ireland twenty-two years ago now – strange that it had been so long. It seemed like a different life.
Back then, her name had been Ciara, for her dark hair and for the saint who saved a village from fire back in the seventh century. Raised in a strict Catholic home and sent to a convent school, her world had been shuttered and controlled by rules. Any question deemed wrong for a girl to ask had resulted in punishment, and she had spent a lot of time recovering from the birch in the struggle to be silent.
Boys were forbidden and exciting, although she had sensed more of an attraction to girls even back then. The nights she had escaped the convent and spent drinking with the local boys had turned into something more, and when she discovered she was pregnant, her world turned. She was called deviant and possessed by the Devil for following the path of sin. Magda remembered how confused she had been back then, how angry that fumbling and pain had resulted in something that turned her into a pariah. Even now, she could still recall the hate in the Reverend Mother's eyes as she had been cast out.
They had sent her to a house for unwed mothers to await the arrival of the child, but Magda knew she couldn't stay. She had felt an overwhelming sense that she would die there if she remained. The eyes of the other girls were hollow and haunted, rumors of a pit out the back where hundreds of babies and young mothers were buried, taken back to God.
That night she had run from the place, escaping over the fields and heading cross country, eventually reaching the coast. There she had used her body to bargain for a ferry crossing, the pregnancy not yet far gone enough to put the man off. She didn't care for the sexual act, but she certainly understood what it was worth.
Once on English soil, she had found an abortion clinic. When they asked for her name, she found herself saying Magda. The harsh syllables were more European than Irish and yet Mary Magdalene had always been the saint she had loved the most. The sinner who Jesus had loved, the woman whom he chose to reveal himself to first in the garden after his resurrection.
Magda looked down at her tattoos. The ink reclaimed her body, but it had taken many years to get to the point where she accepted all of herself. Sex was the only trade she had when she arrived in London, and she had become the very sinner that the nuns claimed she was. But the sex was mechanical, and never meant anything except cash to live on. It was work, and easy enough. There had been some bastards but most were lonely men who needed to be touched, and she had understood their need for love and acceptance.
Perhaps she had always loved women, but she hadn't even known it was allowed until London, the city that welcomed all. She had found her tribe here, the sex workers, the junkies, the pagans, those who society had labeled deviant but really just didn't conform. A cast of antiheroes against the backdrop of the greatest city on earth.
The Magdalene had been her first tattoo, embodying both sinner and saint in her many incarnations. She was also separate from the Mother figure, the Mary who Magda could only pity. The Mother had no identity apart from her relationship to the Son and Magda couldn't ever see herself living like that. But the Magdalene – now there was a woman worth admiring.
The flames were dying down now, finally under control by the fire service. Above her, Magda heard the cawing of the ravens. The birds wheeled high in the sky but Magda could still feel her connection to them. Sometimes it was as if she saw with their eyes. Her other full-sleeve tattoo was for them, her totem birds, and for the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of battle who roamed on the wings of ravens, choosing those who would die and those who would live again.
On the day the tattoos had been finished, Magda finally felt her own transformation had completed. She tied herself to her Irish-Catholic roots in one way, but her own truth was bound up in the strong female goddess. On that day, she had walked away from sex work – but not from sex workers. This borough was her home now, and her work as an urban shaman was to bring that sense of the otherworld to the physical. But was she too attached to what she had created here, and was this a way to leave it all behind again? Was it time to turn her back on London and seek peace somewhere new?
There was a deep booming sound as thunder rolled across the night sky and it began to rain. Magda turned her face to the sky, letting the drops wash her tears away as she sent up a prayer to the goddess of the dark, she of the moon, the Maiden and the Crone.
"Help me," Magda whispered.
Ash ran in rivulets around her feet now, remnants of her art mingling with the structure of the building. It would soon flow into the Thames, the droplets becoming one with the great river that kept the city alive. Magda smiled. Her own ashes would be scattered there one day. It was a reminder that all would perish but this city would stand, whatever came.
As the rain began to hammer down, Magda huddled back into the doorway. Some of the crowd dispersed while others put up colored umbrellas, their faces in shadow. O returned, juggling an umbrella and a bulging paper bag. She crouched on the step next to Magda, sheltering them both from the downpour.
"Here," O said, pulling out two steaming cups of hot chocolate. "Sugar makes everything better." She dug back in the bag and pulled out a large chocolate brownie. "Overdosing on it must seriously help." Magda gave a half smile as they broke the cake in two and shared the pieces, watching as the firefighters finished dowsing the flames and the rain dampened any last embers. The sweet taste in her mouth made Magda focus on that moment, how grateful she was to be alive, to have O by her side.
"Thank you," she said, turning to kiss O's cheek. Her words contained a promise for a future, whatever that would look like.
"We'll take it a day at a time," O said. "You'll create new work soon enough, and you can stay with me until we find you a new studio. The insurance will cover it, although I know the money won't replace your art." She paused, gazing into the ruins that lay before them. "What do you think they'll do with this site? Rebuild the studios?"
Magda stiffened as realization dawned. "This block is owned by the same corporation that has been trying to turn the social housing into luxury flats. They've been trying to get us out for years. Now there'll be no more annoying tenants to deal with."
"You don't think –" O's words trailed off, her blue eyes clouding. "Oh no – what if this isn't the only place under attack?" She dug through her bag. "I haven't been checking my phone." She pulled it out. There were ten missed calls and texts.
O stood up, her face pale. "I need to get to the Kitchen."
Chapter 23
They came before dawn, black balaclavas over their heads to hide their faces from the ever-present CCTV cameras and matching black clothing with no identifying marks. One of them carried a baseball bat, another one hefted a tire iron, banging it against his palm. The other two held no obvious weapons, but their meaty hands were clenched into fists. They all wore thick-soled work boots. "The uniform of the militia," their leader called it. They were working together to clean up the city and as long as the police powers were curtailed by bureaucracy, this was the only way the deviants could be dealt with.
They were silent as they approached the Kitchen, their steps deliberate, single-minded. One of them jimmied the lock, breaking open the door and allowing them into the space. The smell of roasting meat hung in the air, a homely smell that made one of the men briefly reconsider what they had come to do. The leader took charge, gesturing as he spoke.
"You and you – get to work on the cooking facilities. I want everything destroyed so it can't be easily fixed. No fire here though, only damage. You – with me out the back."
Two of the men got to work in the kitchen. One unplugged the chest freezer, opening the lid to reveal containers of stew, cuts of meat and bags of vegetables. He grabbed a huge bottle of bleach from the cleaning supplies and poured it over the food. No dinner for the dole bludgers, he thought. Then he turned to the double fridge, swinging the baseball bat as he walked. Time to break some shit. The man smiled with pleasure.
Another man began to systematically destroy the inner workings of all the equipment in the large kitchen. With his electrical and engineering background, he understood it wasn't about brute force and smashing things. It was about twisting wires and cutting supply lines and melting specific elements that were hard and expensive to replace. It would take them weeks to get this place running again.
In the storeroom, the leader opened the back doors to reveal the small truck they'd arrived in.
"Everything needs to go," he said, pointing at the shelves full of canned and packaged food, boxes of fruit and vegetables. "Empty the place and we'll dump it all on the way home."
They began shifting the pallets, loading them into the truck as sounds of muted destruction came from the kitchen.
It soon began to rain, the overcast skies breaking. The leader looked up at the clouds. It would be heavy enough to help firefighters calm the flames from the studio they had torched earlier.
"Let's get a move on," he said. "We need to get out of here."
As they finished packing the last of the boxes into the van, a young man rounded the corner, approaching the entrance to the Kitchen. He was blonde, with a blue streak through his hair. He had his hands in his pockets and a half smile on his lips.
The men in the shadowed parking area stood still as he approached. The leader held his hand up, waiting to see whether the young man would pass on, just another local out for a morning walk.
But he stopped at the door of the Kitchen and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. As he reached for the lock, his face fell. He saw the broken lock and reached for his phone.
The leader nodded at two of the men.
They burst from the shadows with no words, only heavy footsteps thumping on the pavement. The young man looked up and saw them, dropping the keys and sprinting away.
The first man was on him in seconds, pushing him to the ground.
"No you don't, you little fag."
He kicked out viciously, slamming his boot into the young man's stomach.
The beating was swift and deliberate, the men knowledgeable on the various subcategories of assault, battery and grievous bodily harm. Within a minute, the young man was unconscious, his beautiful face a bloody mess, his body curled in on itself in pain.
They left him there and ran back to the van, jumping in as it roared off down the road. The rain pooled around the young man's body, washing the blood from his broken skin.
***
O jumped out of the cab and ran towards the door of the Kitchen dodging the puddles. Magda paid the driver and followed her, shielding her face from the heavy rain. As she approached the door, O slipped, dropping her bag. Magda bent to pick it up and as she did so, she saw the body on the pavement further down the street.
Magda dashed to the young man's body, O running after her. Magda felt for the pulse at his neck. It was weak and sputtering. She pulled out her phone and called for an ambulance, giving them the location.
"It's Ed," O said quietly, kneeling by his body, uncaring of the puddles. "He works the morning shift." She bent to his ear. "Hold on," she whispered. "We're here now and help is coming. Hang in there, Ed – please."
Magda reached out a hand and laid it on the young man's chest, willing life into him. Above her, a flock of crows began to gather and circle, their feathers dripping in the rain. Their harsh cawing joined Magda's whispered chant of ancient power as O looked on, her eyes fixed on Ed's pale face.
Within minutes, a yellow and green motorbike swerved around the corner, the distinctive shades of the ambulance service marking it out. In central London, they were mostly on scene faster than the larger vans. The single responder grabbed her bike pack and knelt by Ed's side. As Magda lifted her hand and moved back, the crows settled in a nearby tree, silent now as they watched the scene with narrow black eyes.
"We only recently found him," O said, as the paramedic expertly assessed the wounds, calling on her radio for a full ambulance crew.
"We can't move him," the paramedic said. "And I'm worried about internal bleeding after an assault like this. The police will be here soon to take your statements."
Magda held O's hand as they watched her work. The ambulance arrived and they soon had Ed on a gurney and in the van.
"Where are you taking him?" O asked.
"St Thomas," the paramedic said. "But it will be a while until he comes round."
The police arrived as the ambulance drove off. Two officers emerged from the patrol car, gesturing to O and Magda to stand in the shelter of the nearby houses.
"Didn't we see you earlier?" one of the officers said. "At the fire near Borough Market."
Magda nodded.
"It's been a busy night."
"How about we do the statements inside the Kitchen?" O said. "We can get out of the rain."
They walked back down the street. The door was open a fraction.
"That's unusual," O said. "It should be locked, unless Ed opened it."
One of the officers bent to the lock.
"It's been broken," he said. "We'll go in first."
Magda and O stood back as the officers pushed open the door and proceeded inside. The smell of rancid meat wafted out to them, overlaid with the stink of shit and piss.
O's face contorted with pain and she rushed inside, Magda following.
The police officers stood looking at the wreckage of the place. Every piece of furniture was smashed, every item in the kitchen destroyed, food all over the floor topped with human excrement. The walls were spray painted with graffiti, the black paint dripping globules onto the floor.
Whores. Fags. Deviants. Get out.
The hateful words burned in Magda's mind, somehow worse than the destruction that lay about them.
O fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Magda knelt next to her, wrapping her arms around her weeping lover. After a night of staying strong, this final offense had broken them.
Chapter 24
It had been a long day.
Blake walked slowly along the crowded streets from the museum back towards his flat. With each step he felt the jarring of the pavement through his bruised body and each breath hurt his lungs. He really should be in bed, but the exhibition opened at the weekend and it was all hands on deck to finish the last pieces of work. He wanted to be part of it.
After the blast at the Tate, Margaret had agreed on time off, but Blake wanted to complete his part of the display, and working alongside Catherine wasn't so difficult. He turned away from the flat and headed for Bar-Barian. Alcohol was the best way he knew to quiet his mind and dull the pain of his injuries.
A couple of drinks to take the edge off.
He walked into the bar, its familiarity a comfort. He didn't have to pretend here, because he was surrounded by people like himself. People who found truth and solace in drink.
"Usual?"
Blake nodded and Seb the barman poured two shots of tequila and grabbed a bottle of Becks from the fridge. Blake downed the shots, letting the golden nectar seep through him, bringing a calm he could reach no other way. He sipped at the beer, checking out the after-work crowd who gathered in Soho to find love for the night, acceptance in the arms of a stranger. Drinking alone in his flat meant that he had a problem, but here he was just one face in a party that went on at all hours in this part of London.
After another couple of shots, Blake sensed the heaviness that would let him slip into dreamless sleep. He wandered home slowly, the few blocks taking longer than usual as he lingered, watching the faces of the passersby. This was the floating part of being happily drunk, a wellbeing that buoyed the spirit.
Maybe he should call Jamie, Blake thought. Maybe she would come over and they would be together. Or he could call Catherine for something altogether less complicated.
He shook his head as he pushed the key into the lock on the front door. Probably best to go to sleep. He walked up the stairs, his steps heavy.
Then stopped at the top of the stairs. Something was wrong.
The door to his flat was open a few inches. Someone was here. The drunken sensations subsided as Blake focused. He clutched his keys in his hand, pushing one through his fingers to use as a weapon if needed.
He pushed open the door.
The man from the museum sat on his bed holding the Galdrabók in his strong hands. It was open to a page of Icelandic spells, the man's lips moving as he read them quietly.
He looked up at Blake, his eyes the color of northern oceans that would freeze a man to death in seconds. The scar across his nose was deep, the flesh livid around the edges. He was a stranger, but once again Blake saw a hint of his father in those features.
Blake stood in the doorway, ready to run.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"I've been wanting to read this book again for a long time," the man said, with a slight Scandinavian accent. "Your father stole it from us many years ago."
Blake knew he should give it to the man and let him leave, but he felt a strange possessiveness for it, a need to keep it under his bed like a talisman. His father had used the book and Blake was curious as to whether he could use it himself.
"You don't look much like him." The man smiled, baring teeth that had been filed in the way of the Vikings. "But then I heard Magnus married as far from the north as he could."
"Who are you?" Blake asked again.
"Your uncle," the man said. "Allfrid Olofsson. One of your northern kin."
He held out a hand to Blake, holding it there, waiting. His other hand rested on the Galdrabók, claiming it.
After a moment, Blake reached out with gloved hands and shook. Allfrid looked down at the gloves.
"You have the sight, then."
His words were matter of fact and Blake reeled at the implication. It was the first time that anyone had been so accepting of his gift, treating it as mundane.
"What do you know of it?" he asked, coming into the room now and shutting the door. Allfrid was a threat, of that he was sure, but he also wanted to know more.
"You come from an ancient line of seers," Allfrid said. "But your father wanted none of it. He was scared of the visions and what was demanded of those who could renew the pact with the gods."
Blake sat down heavily in his desk chair.
"My father had visions too?"
Betrayal washed over him. The years of beating, the curses, the claim that Satan had entered him. All were just a way for his father to deny his own gift.
"He was one of the strongest among us," Allfrid said. "At least when we were young. But he left before he understood the true meaning or how to control it."
Blake looked at Allfrid, the words sparking something within.
"Yes, boy." Allfrid understood the look. "You can control it. You don't need those gloves if you know how to separate the visions in your mind from reality. You've never been taught the right way."
Blake pulled the gloves from his hands, revealing the crisscross scars underneath.
Allfrid shook his head in resignation. "Your father?"
Blake nodded. "He tried to beat the curse from me. And yet he kept the Galdrabók and used it to draw people to him. Even my mother, I suppose."
"We all have to manage our addictions," Allfrid said. His piercing gaze rocked Blake to the core, as if he could see the alcohol wrapped around his soul. "It's a struggle we each walk alone." He traced a finger over the pages of the book. "But this can help you, as can your family."
He thrust the book towards Blake.
"Read me through it, I know you can do this. Let me show you the north."
Blake hesitated. He had read his father through the book and witnessed a human sacrifice that left him retching and weak. Was he safe in this room, in a city so far from that wilderness?
He sensed a hard edge to Allfrid, a blade's breadth away from savagery, but here in the city it remained cloaked. If he opened his mind to the man, would he be able to return?
But curiosity drove him on. This was the first time anyone had explained his visions as an integral part of him, and now he knew he wasn't alone.
Blake put his hand on the book and closed his eyes.
There was no sinking through the layers of memory this time. There was a pure jolt of energy and he gasped with the cold. Blake opened his eyes to find himself standing in freshly fallen snow surrounded by birch trees. The tinkling of a stream pervaded the glade and a light rain fell on his exposed skin. Above the trees he could see mountaintops.
Blake inhaled deeply. The air was fresh and clean, filling his lungs as a sense of freedom expanded within him. There was nothing of human manufacture in sight, the sounds and smells only spoke of what had been here for millennia.
There was a crunch in the snow behind him and Blake turned to see Allfrid smiling at him.
"This is only the beginning," he said. "But I wanted you to see the place I come to be at peace." He looked up to the mountain. "Your father and I climbed that peak as boys. Back then, he understood the power of the place. But he left and when you're far from nature, you lose touch with its strength."
Blake could hear his own heartbeat in the still of the glade. He could feel the pulse at his neck, his wrists, and he felt a connection to the earth here. He wanted to jump around in the snow, lie back in it and look up at the sky. It was far from the wild, dark places of the New Forest where he had grown up.
Allfrid cupped his hands around his mouth and called into the woods, a harsh sound, the words as raw as the land they stood in.
A few minutes later, faces appeared in the trees and figures crept through the wood, darting between the sheltered spaces. There were children amongst the group as well as older people and those Blake's own age.
One little girl peeked out from a tree close by, catching his eye. She giggled at him and Blake smiled back. He must look odd to them with his dark skin and city clothes. She took a step out into the snow, her hand held out to him in greeting.
As she came closer, Blake reached out to touch the girl's fingers.
A whoosh of cold wind swept snow into his face.
He gasped, opened his eyes, and he was back in the attic flat again. He grabbed the desk with both hands, trying to orient himself into the physical space again.
Allfrid laughed, shaking his head. "You need training, boy, if you're to use your gift properly."
"They could see me," Blake said, his voice shaky. "Those people, they could see me and touch me?"
"Our tribe live with closer ties to outer realms. What you see as a vision, others experience as part of their usual world. You differentiate but that's only because you haven't truly accepted that part of yourself. But every time you read, you take a step towards us. Each time you sink into memory, it also seeps into you. Beware of doing this without the proper training, boy. Come to us and I will show you."
Allfrid rose to his feet, the Galdrabók in his hands. "Now, I must go and I'm taking this." His head almost touched the ceiling in the tiny flat and he bent a little, the posture of a man who was always leaning over others. "The grimoire belongs with the family – but you are one of us."
He pulled a map from his pocket and handed it to Blake. It was marked by lines and runes, with a clear red X in a patch of green in northern Sweden. "The glade is marked. If you come to us, we can teach you of your gift and how to use the book." Allfrid looked out of the window, over the rooftops of London. "Or you can stay here, wearing those gloves to hold back the visions, using alcohol to deaden their power, wondering how you fit into the world." He looked down at Blake again. "It's your choice."
Allfrid turned and walked out of the flat without a backwards glance, leaving Blake sitting on a chair, shaken by the experience of the vision. He heard his uncle's footsteps tramp down the stairs and then the bang of the door onto the street.
