Darkmans

– the history he could take. It was bone-dry, like Beede. The history made sense to him. It was old and silly and wonderfully unthreatening. It didn’t shock or unsettle or confound. It was dead. It was done. It was after.

Phew

Next up –

Ay ay –

Shakespeare: The Complete Plays (markers in all of the Henries and Richard III), followed – hard-upon – by another ridiculously hefty volume: John Ayto’s Dictionary of Word Origins. Kane lugged it aside, with a small grunt, boredly. Under that, Robert Burchfield’s far more svelte and shapely The English Language. He flipped it over and ran his eye across a brief spiel on the back about how the mother tongue was so ‘resilient’ and so ‘flexible’…

‘The English Language is like a fleet of juggernaut trucks,’ he read, somewhat perplexedly, ‘that goes on regardless.’

Really?!

Well, uh…Okay…

Under that –

C’mon, c’mon…

– a hardback: Art of the Late Middle Ages (purchased from Abebooks.com – the invoice shoved inside – from its original source of Multnomah County Library – at £29.50 – with shipping) –

Huh?!

Beede buying books on the internet?! Kane gently yuck-yucked – Is this an end to the world as we know it?

In this particular instance the front flap had been employed as a marker within the belly of the text. Kane opened the book to this place, casually. He inhaled sharply as his eyes alighted upon the stark, photographic reproduction of a sculpture entitled Death Disguised asa Monk. The sculpture consisted of an eerily animated skeleton – in wood, exquisitely carved – the bony skull and arms of which peeked out, ominously, from the sumptuous folds of a monk’s cowl. Its expression was at once delirious – the gaping smile, the hollow eyes, the pointing finger – and…and poignant, somehow.

As he held the book several more pages flipped over, revealing a small, black and white illustration of a woodcut (1493) in which a group of skeletons performed a macabre jig over an open grave. Next to this image, in Beede’s characteristic red pencil (that creepy, teacher-y, bloody pencil), he had written:

‘DEATH –

He said it was a dance.’

Burning

Kane sniffed, then frowned, then shook his head –

Don’t be ridiculous

He put the book down. He was at the bottom of the pile, now, with only one volume remaining:

The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology by Russell Hope Robbins.

Kane picked it up. It was a heavy tome (old, hardback, the fine cover preserved in plastic). He looked for a book-mark and found one (of sorts), pulling it out as he turned to the spot. It was a business card for a company called Petaborough Restorations (no address, just a number). On the back of thecard, in very shaky writing, Kane read: ‘Peter’s exactly what you need (Did an absolutely superb job on Longport for the Weald and Downland Museum). J.P.’

Kane gazed at this card for a minute, half-frowning, then casually pocketed it.

Good

He glanced down at the text. He found himself in the segment entitled ‘Possession’. It consisted – in the main – of a series of lists. His eye settled, arbitrarily, upon one of them: a treatise (Rouen, 1644) which detailed the eleven main indications of true possession. Next to each item on this list Beede had inserted a series of tiny, red marks. Item One: ‘To think oneself possessed’ carried a minute question mark. Item Two: ‘To lead a wicked life’ had a minuscule cross –

etc

Point Nine: ‘To be tired of living [s’ennuyer de vivre et se désespérer]’ had been strongly underlined –

Burning

Kane sneezed, hard, as he slapped the book shut (a sudden interest in the wonders of Satanism? Well this was definitely a turn up). He blinked, winced, inhaled…

No. No. Hang on – it was burning. For sure. He quickly glanced behind him –

Shit!

A cat! A fucking Siamese cat. Just standing there, its blue eyes boring into him, unblinking, its grey tail twisting up like a plume of smoke. He looked down and saw his Marlboro burning a hole in the rug. The cat lifted its head and then coughed (with just a touch of fastidiousness).

‘Fuck!’

Kane lunged for the cigarette. The cat pranced away. Gaffar jumped up, with a hiss (Gaffar hated cats).

‘You bastard!’ Kane yelled, snatching up the still-red-embered stub and observing – much to his horror – the ugly, black hole in Beede’s Moroccan rug.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’

Beede loved his rug. Kane thought of it as Moroccan, but it celebrated – in words and pictures – some kind of crazy, phallic-shaped public monument in Afghanistan, surrounded by tiny planes (which looked like birds) with MINARET OF FIAM written on the periphery, semi-back-to-front. It was a ridiculous object. Kane remembered it – almost fondly – from his boyhood –

No –

Perhaps that’s a false memory

Gaffar had already bounded over. He was staring down at the spot in dismay. He seemed to instinctively appreciate that this unsightly burn was a big deal for Kane (and Kane instinctively appreciated his awareness of this fact).

‘Smoking could seriously damage your health,’ Gaffar announced portentously, his accent almost cut-glass.

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Kane murmured despairingly. ‘Beede loves this stupid rug.’

‘He go crazy?’ Gaffar enquired.

‘No,’ Kane shook his head. ‘Not crazy. It’ll simply…uh…it’ll confirm something…’ He paused, then gave up. ‘Yeah, absolutely fucking psychotic,’ he muttered.

‘Leave,’ Gaffar said. ‘I do. Go!’

He waved Kane away.

Kane glanced over at him, almost poignantly. ‘You think you can fix this?’

Gaffar nodded. ‘Turkish.’ He pointed to himself, as if that was explanation enough.

‘Really?’