story ever written. Add whatever you think is necessary, but don’t take anything out. And make sure it’s in the first person, okay? I, I, I.” He gave a dry laugh. “I’m a reasonable man, Matt. Do me ten thousand words in a week and I’ll send you another five grand. You’ll get more information every day.” He broke off. “And, Matt, remember the ground rule. Don’t tell anyone.” His voice was harsher. “You’ll never know when I’m watching or when I’m listening. Just like you’ll never know if I decide to make a move on Lucy or anyone else you care about.”
The line went dead. I hit 1471 and was told that the caller’s number was unavailable. Shit. Then I realized that he’d used my restricted landline. How had he found that number?
I booted up my computer and checked my e-mails. As the Devil had said, there was a message from WD1578, with an attachment. 1578. I knew what he meant-1578 was taken as the date of John Webster’s birth by many scholars. I copied the attached text to my hard disk and opened it.
Jesus. The guy-he didn’t name his family-had been beaten regularly by his father and sodomized by his local priest. By the time he was nine, he was an accomplished shoplifter, fencing his loot to fund his collection of model tanks and soldiers. But that was only the beginning. When I got to the end, I discovered that he’d killed his old man by pushing him off the third floor of a partially completed building. He’d been twelve when he did that.
I felt the blood run cold in my veins.
A strange thing happened as I got down to work on the Devil’s material. It was as if a curtain had been raised in my mind. For the past three months, I’d been clutching in the dark for a plot for my next novel. Suddenly it seemed that I could see things clearly, like at the beginning of a play. I could see the backdrop-Bethnal Green and its run-down tower blocks-and the characters had appeared on the stage: the pedophile priest, the bullying father, the quiet and loving mother. And in the center was the White Devil himself, small and devious, his spite and viciousness concealed.
And then I understood why he’d chosen to call himself that. The White Devil was a play in which evil and guilt were hidden under the guise of courtly manners. White Devils were hypocrites, corrupt evildoers lurking beneath layers of apparent probity. That was how the bastard had got away with the murder of his father. No one had suspected that the quiet altar boy could have stood up to a drunken laborer, let alone push him to his death.
I felt the quickening of breath I used to have when I hit on a plot that I knew I could turn into a decent book. It had been a couple of years since that had happened. Maybe Caroline was right. I’d constructed a comfort zone with my Albanian books, writing stuff that interested me and not much caring what readers might want. But this had the ring of credibility about it; this was cut from the rough fabric of life rather than the tissue of my imagination.
As happened when things were going well, I made fast progress. In the past, I’d thought about books for months before I started writing-wrangling about who was going to tell the story, what the relationships between the characters would be, what theme I wanted to tackle. But in the last Sir Tertius book, that had all come together without much advance planning. I’d just sat down, scribbled a few notes and started writing. That was also what happened with the Devil’s story. By the time I went to pick up Lucy, I’d written the first chapter. It ended with the antihero I was calling Wayne Deakins (the initials WD being significant) knocking his father out in the living room. Before I left, I backed up what I’d written onto a diskette. Then it occurred to me that I should have copied all of the Devil’s messages, too. I’d do that later.
Christ, was I really going to get a publishable novel out of the lunatic’s life? Then I remembered how deep the Devil had his claws in me. He was obviously as mad as the avenging killers in Webster’s play.
What chance did I have of exiting the final scene upright?
I had to think on my feet when I took Lucy back to Ferndene Road after school.
Shami Rooney was sitting in the front room next door. I knew she’d taken the day off work because of Happy. She stood up as soon as we opened the gate and came out.
“Matt?” she said, her voice taut. “Can I have a word?”
Before I could reply, she was on her way round. I took Lucy into the dining room and sat her at the piano.
“What’s up?” I said over my shoulder. “Yes, practice the one about the crocodile, darling.”
Shami beckoned me out into the hall.
“You were here during the day yesterday,” she said, stating a fact rather than asking a question.
I managed to hold her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Stewart in number eight says she saw your Volvo when she was having her lunch. You know she always sits in the bow window looking out over the park.”
My gut twisted as I remembered that detail. Mrs. Stewart was a sour-faced old widow who disapproved of anyone who didn’t buy the Daily Mail. She particularly disapproved of people who got divorced, although I was the only one in my family she took that out on-apparently Caroline was guiltless in the matter. The reason she sat staring at Ruskin Park was so she could rush out and berate anyone who didn’t clean up after their dog. Christ. I wondered how much she’d seen.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, giving Shami a slack smile. “I did pop round. I was picking up some cases of books that I left in the attic.” There was an element of truth in that. I was hoping that Caroline wouldn’t go and check out my story, because the cases were all still there. I was getting better at lying to order, but there was still room for improvement.
“You didn’t see Happy?” Shami asked. She was a decent woman, plump with a sweet face, and I didn’t like what I was doing. Then again, if I told her what had really happened to her dog, she’d have a fit.
I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I thought she was inside.”
The uncertain notes from the piano stopped.
“Daddy?” Lucy called. “Has Happy come back from the dog hospital?”
Shami and I exchanged glances, and then her eyes filled with tears. I touched her shoulder.
“Just a minute, sweetie,” I said.
“I have to go,” Shami said, swallowing a sob. “I need to stay by the phone. We’ve put ads in the papers.” She hurried out.
I watched her leave, thinking that I’d better make sure Lucy didn’t see the papers. I felt like a callous bastard. Then it struck me: maybe that was exactly what the Devil wanted.
I had to retain as much of my own nature as I could if I was going to survive this.
I went back to my place and logged on to my e-mail program. I wasn’t surprised to see a message from the Devil, with another attachment.
Send me what you’ve got, Matt, I read.
I hit Reply and attached my text. I experienced what used to happen when I sent completed novels to my editor-brief sadness that my offspring had left home mixed with apprehension about what the recipient would think of it.
I leaned back in my chair, suddenly feeling exhausted. I was going round to Sara’s when she finished work. I was desperate to see her, even though I couldn’t share my burden. She’d brought me out of the depression that most writers live with often enough, her kindness and quick smile acting on me like a spell. She was my guiding light.
I stood up and headed for the kitchen-which wasn’t more than an alcove-and made a pot of coffee. Then I sat down in front of the TV and turned on the news. I’d missed the national bulletin and the local London report was on. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered watching yet another policy initiative by the mayor and more shots of beleaguered commuters. This time, when I got the gist of what was being presented, I made an exception.
A black female reporter was standing in front of a small Victorian Gothic building.
“…of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in West Kilburn. Detectives from the Metropolitan Police’s elite Violent Crime Coordination Team were called to the scene not long after midnight. The murder victim underwent a horrific attack in the church. Detective Chief Inspector Karen Oaten made this statement.”
The screen was filled by the face of a blond woman who managed to look stern and alluring simultaneously. “I can confirm that the dead man is Father Norman Prendegast.”
The coffee I’d just swallowed shot back up my throat.
“At this time we do not know who his assailant was, but it is likely that he-or possibly she-fled the scene with
