Desecration Read online

  Two more shots and another slow beer.

  After a few minutes, Blake finally started to feel his tension soften and a tequila haze began to drown out the noise of his inner world. This is what tequila did for him, more of a drug than mere alcohol, changing his perception of the world into some place brighter. It swept the shadows from the corners of his mind and revealed them to be lies, planted there by the curses of his father.

  Without the drink, he was alone in the darkness, sure that his true nature was a twisted, rotting thing feeding off pain and memories of torture. He struggled daily against that perception, and the tequila freed him from the chains of lies that his father had told him as a child. Blake pulled off his gloves and ran the fingers of his right hand over the scars on his left, criss-crossed lines of ivory on his cinnamon skin. These patterns intimately marked him, and he knew every stripe.

  He thought back to the long nights on his knees by the altar, his father calling desperately to God for deliverance. As a child, Blake had mistakenly thought to share his visions, puzzled by the mirage he glimpsed, a tableau of the past. His father had gathered the faithful and they had held him down, forced his shaking palms out. His father had whipped his hands, prayers driving him into a violent frenzy. Blake was considered possessed, a child used by the Devil for dark purposes. “And if your right eye offend you, pluck it out and cast it from you,” his father would intone, his voice carrying the authority of Christ himself.

  Blake’s hands were the instrument of the Devil’s work, so his hands were punished, caned and whipped until they dripped with blood. His mother had wept hysterically and tried to stop the violence, tried to protect her son, but Blake had believed his father was right. He had to be. The man was a prophet in the Old Testament tradition, a figure of gravitas, strength and unshakeable faith. He was a Jeremiah of the present times, weeping for his people even as he ushered them to God’s judgment. When he spoke of possession, others listened. Even Blake.

  And so he had taken the beatings, clutching at his damaged hands, silent tears spilling down his cheeks as he bore the pain. He almost relished the days afterwards while the scars were forming because he couldn’t touch anything and he was freed from what he usually saw in the objects of the world. So many times he had thought the visions gone and he was blessed again, then his father would hold him close and praise God for his redemption. But days later, when the wounds were still raw and weeping, Blake would touch something and the visions would return. His father would push him down to his knees and call for the inner circle to pray again, confident in their ability to eventually vanquish the evil in the child.

  Blake took another swig of his beer as the memories flooded through his mind. Perhaps the answers to his present despair lay in the past. He remembered the last time, the final escape from the cycle. He had knelt in penance at the altar, listening to the frenetic prayers of the elders, as they called down power from God in the beginnings of the exorcism ritual. As they were praying, Blake had laid his hands on the Bible that they read the lessons from in the center of the church. In a hazy vision, he had seen what these trusted men were doing, the perversions that were hidden by their veneer of holiness. They touched their daughters, they found pleasure in destructive addiction and even his own father wasn’t as holy and blameless as he pretended to be. Blake saw the lies and understood that he was only punished as a scapegoat for their own sin, the beatings harder to cover their own guilt.

  As the men had turned to lay their hands upon him once more, Blake had seen anticipated pleasure in the eyes of his father’s most trusted minister. The man whipped down a cane and split open a recent wound, blood spotting his clothes. Blake saw excitement in his violence and as the pain lanced through him, he knew that this wasn’t God’s way, but only man’s invention. This curse was just the reality of his life, not Satan’s hand. Blake had pulled his hands back so the cane missed on its next swipe and stood to face his tormentors. His father’s prayers had faltered at his son’s audacity and then he began to shout. “Out, Satan. Leave my boy.” But in that moment, Blake had seen eye to eye with his father. During the years of repeated abuse, he had grown into a young man and they had no power to keep him there anymore.

  Blake had walked out of that church and never returned to his parent’s life. His father was still preaching messages of judgment, destruction and apocalypse; his mother was still in thrall to her prophet. The visions wouldn’t leave him, and so Blake had tried to live with them, adapt them to a useful life in his museum research. He had to believe that a normal life was still possible. Blake turned back to the bar and signaled Seb for more tequila.

  The fifth shot.

  This was the one Blake craved, because this was when the visions of reality finally left him and he slipped into memory loss. A little brain death never hurt anyone, he thought, slamming it back. Swallowing it down, he breathed out in relief, feeling the prick of tears behind his eyes, from the alcohol or his morbid thoughts, he didn’t really know which anymore. He blinked the tears back, wondering where the rush of emotion had come from. He didn’t want to care for Jamie, didn’t want the complication of her in his life. He looked around the bar, searching for the kind of oblivion that could easily be found on a night in London.

  The bar turned into a nightclub as it grew later, full of girls in tight tops, hair loose about their faces, taut stomachs curving down into fitted jeans. Blake turned on the stool to watch a girl dancing, appreciating the glimpse of soft flesh, wanting to lay his head there and forget. Young men circled around the edges, predators waiting for the sedation of alcohol to lower inhibitions. But Blake knew that there were women just as predatory, and there was a point when tequila turned him into willing prey. Women were drawn to him, the very fact that he generally avoided them was nectar that drew them in. Like cats, some women were best attracted by a kind of detachment, an inattention they had to conquer. Blake knew his bone structure helped, for sure, and despite his lack of care, his body was strong and muscular, clinging to life even as his mind struggled to escape it.

  A woman danced closer and then leaned into him, her long blonde hair reflecting the spotlights. Her eyes were sultry, inviting.

  “Dance with me,” she whispered, placing her hand on Blake’s chest. He felt a surge of desire, a need to bury himself within her and forget this day. He stood and pulled her towards him as a heavy bass rocked them. His hands slid down to cup her buttocks and tug her closer. He felt the tendrils of her life knocking against the walls of his vision but the tequila haze kept them far enough away and Blake reveled in the release.

  The woman smelled of vanilla and coconut and he breathed in her scent. Then the woman’s hands were inside his shirt, touching the muscles on his tight stomach and edging downwards. It was permission: all he had to do was bend to her mouth and tonight he could lose himself in her.

  Lifting his head, he caught sight of their reflection in one of the barbarian blades, just another couple desperate to lose themselves for a few hours. London was full of this need, an attempt to stave off loneliness, even though in the morning there was so often regret. Under his close-cropped hair, Blake saw the shadows under his eyes, making his face even more angular. He looked haunted and there was no escaping, least of all from himself. Even the fifth tequila could not drown his life right now.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the woman and opened his arms to let her go. She shook her head slowly but in her eyes was a crazy need and she backed into the dancing crowd. She wouldn’t be alone tonight, but Blake felt that he should be.

  Chapter 19

  Jamie pulled up in front of the tall terraced houses of Bloomsbury, distinctive in this area of gentrified London. Street lamps lit the quiet streets with a glow that only seemed to accentuate the fog of chill air in the hour before dawn. The area was dotted by large garden squares, many of them locked for residents only, but Jamie could just make out the trees of Bloomsbury Square Gardens, where in the summer, students and tourists
lazed by opulent flowerbeds.

  She wondered how Blake could afford a place here, right around the corner from the British Museum. The area was saturated in history and academic brilliance, from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and the University of London. It had been made famous by the Bloomsbury Set, an influential group of British writers, artists and intellectuals including Virginia Woolf, EM Forster and John Maynard Keynes, luminaries who had lived or worked here during the early twentieth century. Jamie looked up at the blue plaques on the houses in front of her, marking places of historical significance across London, littering this district with great names from British history. Darwin and Dickens once lived here, as did JM Barrie, whose Peter Pan visited Wendy Darling amongst these rooftops. Jamie smiled as she remembered Polly finding that out on the internet after they had read the book together. Her daughter had always wanted to know more, never satisfied with what was on the surface. The memory stung her with a jolt of grief and she caught her breath, willing it to pass.

  Now she was here, Jamie desperately wanted to ring Blake’s bell and get him out of bed, to plead for his help. But she knew she looked like a crazy Goth, and at this time in the morning he was unlikely to be conducive to helping her on unofficial business. Jamie slumped on the bike, her shoulders dropping as a wave of tiredness hit her. The ride from the club and the thrill of finding a clue had invigorated her, but now she felt unsure. Should she just take the key straight to Cameron and the investigation team? But then what? Jamie suddenly felt very alone.

  She heard footsteps and looking up, she saw a figure weaving up the street, his silhouette familiar. As he drew closer, Jamie realized that it was Blake, and he was singing something unintelligible in an actually half-decent voice. He was definitely drunk and, as he reached his door, Jamie made a decision. She got off the bike and holding her helmet, ran across the quiet street.

  “Blake,” she said, as she approached. He spun round to see who it was, his face confused for a moment as he looked at her. “Hi Blake, it’s Jamie.”

  He squinted at her, then grinned and the smile transformed his face, like a little boy proudly showing off his skills.

  “Jamie … hot Detective. You’re really here?” He shook his head in wonder, like she was the fulfillment of some kind of wish. “Wow, you’re looking… hot tonight. Love the black. Very alternative you.”

  His cobalt blue eyes raked over her body and Jamie could see his blatant appreciation, the alcohol preventing any form of inhibition. He stammered into silence as Jamie met his eyes, bemused. She was definitely stepping over the line being here with him in this state, but she needed his unique talent. If she took the key to Cameron, it could disappear into evidence for days and she needed to find what Jenna had hidden before the Lyceum deadline tonight.

  “Why are you here?” Blake asked. “It’s a bit late for me to help on police business tonight and I … may have had a few drinks.” He finished in a loud whisper. “Sorry.”

  Jamie stepped closer to him.

  “I need your help, Blake, but it’s not for the police right now. It’s for the case but I’m investigating it separately.” Blake looked confused. Jamie shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter, but it’s urgent and I need you to do a reading.”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down,” Blake hushed her. “I don’t like to talk about that in the open. You’d better come up.”

  He fumbled in his inner pockets and pulled out his wallet and key fob. His hands were bare and the scars reflected light from the street lamps. Jamie thought of the body art at Torture Garden, self-inflicted shades of pain that revealed inner lives. But Blake’s weren’t artistic markings, they were violent cuts, evidence of another wounded soul. For a moment, she wanted to reach out and trace the lines.

  Blake managed to get the key in the lock, pushed open the door and led the way into a darkened hallway. There were a number of doors leading to inner flats and a staircase heading upwards.

  “This way,” Blake whispered, pointing at the staircase. “I’m right at the top.”

  He took the lead, swaying a little on the way up and Jamie wondered if he would be any use at all for reading. Part of her doubted it would work, but right now she would take any help she could get. At the top was a tiny landing and one faded red door.

  Blake turned another key in the lock and pushed open the door for Jamie to enter. The space was small but neatly laid out with a few pieces of wooden furniture, creating a homely feel. Jamie was immediately captivated.

  “It’s not much,” Blake said, “but I can’t resist living in a real artist’s garret in Bloomsbury. It’s my spiritual home.” He pointed to the large window. “Check out the view.”

  Jamie walked three steps to cross the flat and gaze out the window, over the rooftops to the moon shining above the chimneys and spires of London. Jamie thought of Polly, flying off to Never-Never Land across these skies. She turned.

  “I’m sorry to come to you privately like this, but I need help with something.” She reached inside her jeans pocket and pulled out the key. “I need you to read this. I have to find what it unlocks, because I think there’s information there that I need urgently and time is critical.”

  Blake rubbed his head and then sat heavily on the bed, his eyes drooping with tiredness.

  “I’d love to help you, Jamie, but this is the way I numb the visions. This is how I kill them. The finest tequila will always crowd out any demons that threaten my peace. Please don’t ask me to try and pierce the happy haze.” He looked up at her and Jamie caught a glimpse of the little boy again, asked to do things he didn’t want to and then punished for it anyway. But she pushed aside her guilt.

  “But can you?” she asked, desperate to know what might be possible.

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.” He shook his head. “You don’t realize what my life is like. The visions come to me unwanted, unasked for. I see too much, Jamie, and this is how I numb them.” He gazed out the window, speaking softly. “But it’s taking more and more tequila these days. I don’t know what will kill me first, the madness or the booze.”

  Jamie felt a surge of pity, for whatever Blake heard and saw, it was real to him. Whether it was mental illness, a supernatural gift, or a part of the brain he could access that most could not, she didn’t know. But she could see that he was hurting and alone, and she recognized her own torment in that state. Part of her wanted to pull him to her, to soothe their pain together but instead, she sat next to him on the bed, careful not to touch him.

  “My daughter, Polly, died yesterday.” Jamie’s throat tightened with emotion. She heard Blake’s intake of breath but she kept staring out the window, wanting to tell him the story. “She’s been ill a long time with a genetic disease, but she was only 14. Too young to die, even though we’d been preparing for it for years. I wanted to say goodbye in the way she had chosen, a cremation where she could be released to the sky and then her ashes buried to bloom into flowers. She knew exactly what would happen after she died.” Jamie stopped and turned to Blake, looking into his eyes. “But her body has been stolen and I have to get it back.”

  “No,” Blake gasped. “Seriously, what are the police doing?”

  “They’ll do their best, but I can’t be a part of the official investigation as I’m too close to it, and I can’t just sit around and wait.”

  Blake shook his head. “Of course … but that’s just awful, Jamie. I’m so sorry.”

  Jamie heard the truth of his concern in Blake’s voice. Yet how could this man care so much for her so quickly? She remembered he had seen Polly in his vision of her. He had felt her pain, and his empathy scared her. This man knew her inner world and yet they had only just met. Jamie felt laid bare, part of her wanting to run out the door right now and never see him again, because she didn’t let people get this close. It was the way to ensure she was never hurt again, but she couldn’t run. She had sought Blake out, and she neede
d his help.

  She stood and walked to the window.

  “I think Polly’s body was stolen because of what I’ve been investigating on the Jenna Neville case,” Jamie said. “I thought perhaps you might be able to help and I can’t wait until morning. This is urgent, Blake.”

  He considered for a moment. “Tell me about this key.”

  “It was Jenna’s and she gave it to a friend. I only found it an hour ago and if I give it to the police, the processing will take too much time. But if you read it, we might be able to find the place it belongs to. It might lead me to Polly’s body, Blake, and perhaps help me to solve Jenna’s murder. They have to be related.” Jamie paused, and then decided to tell Blake as much as she knew. There was nothing to lose anymore. “Jenna Neville had noted something called the Lyceum in her diary for tonight. She also had articles on body snatching at her office, marked with an L, and she was warned off investigating them. I think that what she discovered led to her death, and I think they have Polly’s body too.” Her voice cracked a little. “I can’t stand the thought of them cutting up my daughter’s body like a specimen for their cabinet of curiosities. I can’t let that happen to Polly and so, I really need you, because I don’t know what else to do right now.”

  “The specimens in the museum … the mutilation of dead bodies … Mengele and the dissections. Oh, Jamie,” Blake said, his voice betraying horror at the possibilities. Even through the fog of tequila she could see he understood the parallels. “You think the same people have Polly’s body? And if they do, they will …” He went silent for a moment, and Jamie saw his eyes darken. “ Of course, I’ll try to help.” Blake dropped his head to his hands. “Shit. This is serious. I guess I can try but I’ve never read after this much tequila before. That’s kind of the point.”

  Jamie nodded. “I understand, but anything you can give me is better than nothing. This is the only clue I have. Please try.”