Cabal

The man looked away. As he broke eye-contact a surge of panic rose in Boone: fearing that the bastard was going to keep the rest of the story to himself.

‘I need to know,’ Boone said.

The other man looked up again.

‘I can see that,’ he said, and there was a twist in his voice that suggested the spectacle of Boone’s despair entertained him.

‘It’s north-west of Athabasca,’ the man replied.

‘Yes?’

That’s what I heard.’

‘That’s empty country,’ Boone replied. ‘You could wander forever, less you’ve got a map.’

‘Midian’s on no map,’ the man said. ‘You look east of Peace River; near Shere Neck; north of Dwyer.’

There was no taint of doubt in this recitation of directions. He believed in Midian’s existence as much as, perhaps more than, the four walls he was bound by.

‘What’s your name?’ Boone asked.

The question seemed to flummox him. It had been a long time since anyone had cared to ask him his name.

‘Narcisse,’ he said finally. ‘You?’

‘Aaron Boone. Nobody ever calls me Aaron. Only Boone.’

‘Aaron,’ said the other. ‘Where d’you hear about Midian?’

‘Same place you did,’ Boone said. ‘Same place anyone hears. From others. People in pain.’

‘Monsters,’ said Narcisse.

Boone hadn’t thought of them as such, but perhaps to dispassionate eyes they were; the ranters and the weepers, unable to keep their nightmares under lock and key.

‘They’re the only ones welcome in Midian,’ Narcisse explained. ‘If you’re not a beast, you’re a victim. That’s true, isn’t it? You can only be one or the other. That’s why I don’t dare go unescorted. I wait for friends to come for me.’

‘People who went already?’

‘That’s right,’ Narcisse said. ‘Some of them alive. Some of them who died, and went after.’

Boone wasn’t certain he was hearing this story correctly.

‘Went after?’ he said.

‘Don’t you have anything for the pain, man?’ Narcisse said, his tone veering again, this time to the wheedling.

‘I’ve got some pills,’ Boone said, remembering the dregs of Decker’s supply. ‘Do you want those?’

‘Anything you got.’

Boone was content to be relieved of them. They’d kept his head in chains, driving him to the point where he didn’t care if he lived or died. Now he did. He had a place to go, where he might find someone at last who understood the horrors he was enduring. He would not need the pills to get to Midian. He’d need strength, and the will to be forgiven. The latter he had. The former his wounded body would have to find.

‘Where are they?’ said Narcisse, appetite igniting his features.

Boone’s leather jacket had been peeled from his back when he’d first been admitted, for a cursory examination of the damage he’d done himself. It hung on the back of a chair, a twice discarded skin. He plunged his hand into the inside pocket but found to his shock that the familiar bottle was not there.

‘Someone’s been through my jacket.’

He rummaged through the rest of the pockets. All of them were empty. Lori’s notes, his wallet, the pills: all gone. It took him seconds only to realize why they’d want evidence of who he was and the consequence of that. He’d attempted suicide; no doubt they thought him prepared to do the same again. In his wallet was Decker’s address. The doctor was probably already on his way, to collect his erring patient and deliver him to the police. Once in the hands of the law he’d never see Midian.

‘You said there were pills!’ Narcisse yelled.

‘They’ve been taken!’

Narcisse snatched the jacket from Boone’s hands, and began to tear at it.

‘Where?’ he yelled. ‘Where?’

His face was once more crumpling up as he realized he was not going to get a fix of peace. He dropped the jacket and backed away from Boone, his tears beginning again, but sliding down his face to meet a broad smile.

‘I know what you’re doing,’ he said, pointing at Boone. Laughter and sobs were coming in equal measure. ‘Midian sent you. To see if I’m worthy. You came to see if I was one of you or not!’

He offered Boone no chance to contradict, his elation spiralling into hysteria.

‘I’m sitting here praying for someone to come; begging; and you’re here all the time, watching me shit myself. Watching me shit!’

He laughed hard. Then, deadly serious:

‘I never doubted. Never once. I always knew somebody’d come. But I was expecting a face I recognized. Marvin maybe. I should have known they’d send someone new. Stands to reason. And you saw, right? You heard. I’m not ashamed. They never made me ashamed. You ask anyone. They tried. Over and over. They got in my fucking head and tried to take me apart, tried to take the Wild Ones out of me. But I held on. I knew you’d come sooner or later, and I wanted to be ready. That’s why I wear these.’

He thrust his thumbs up in front of his face. ‘So I could show you.’

He turned his head to right and left.

‘Want to see?’ he said.

He needed no reply. His hands were already up to either side of his face, the hooks touching the skin at the base of each ear. Boone watched, words of denial or appeal redundant. This was a moment Narcisse had rehearsed countless times; he was not about to be denied it. There was no sound as the hooks, razor sharp, slit his skin, but blood began to flow instantly, down his neck and arms. The expression on his face didn’t change, it merely intensified: a mask in which comic muse and tragic were united. Then, fingers spread to either side of his face, he steadily drew the razor hooks down the line of his jaw. He had a surgeon’s precision. The wounds opened with perfect symmetry, until the twin hooks met at his chin.

Only then did he drop one hand to his side, blood dripping from hook and wrist, the other moving across his face to seek the flap of skin his work had opened.

‘You want to see?’ he said again.

Boone murmured:

‘Don’t.’

It went unheard. With a sharp, upward jerk Narcisse detached the mask of skin from the muscle beneath, and began to tear, uncovering his true face.