of this Circle guarded by centaurs that will shoot any souls who attempt to rise. Those who committed suicide are condemned to the Seventh Circle where they are turned into thorny black trees, their own human corpses hanging from the branches. The Sowers of Discord of the Eight Circle have their bodies ripped apart by demons, only to heal and be ripped apart again and again in a never-ending cycle of agony.
Each Circle is hidden deeper within the Earth’s core, and some of the outer Circles are separated by rivers such as the Styx and Phlegethon, with Ferrymen keeping watch over the rivers and transporting sinners and demons between the different levels of the Hellish realms. The Ninth Circle is the centre of Hell itself — the deepest, filthiest, most agonising and tortuous realm of them all, especially reserved for those worst and most unforgivable of sinners — the Traitors. The most disgusting of men’s sins — betrayal of family, friends and loved ones. Betrayers of Lords and benefactors, and betrayers of one’s country and God. The punishment for this sin is to be held completely submerged in ice in the centre of Hell alongside Lucifer himself, the cold scarring and burning the skin with a white heat that far surpasses that of fire.
But it’s the proximity to Satan that’s said to cause the most suffering. Once the highest and most trusted of God’s angels, his nature then mutated into something that even other demons fear to look upon. He’s said to have three gaping mouths, with bloodied, matted black fur covering his lower body and three pairs of leathery, bat-like wings… wings that have long since lost every single one of the white dove-like feathers that had once graced the highest ranks of Heaven itself. The three ultimate traitors — Judas, Brutus and Cassius — are held in each of Lucifer’s three mouths, their bodies eternally consumed by the Devil, while his three pairs of wings send forth freezing blasts of impotence, ignorance and hatred.
I liked my first name and its connotations. As for my second one, I had assumed that Antaeus was just an old French name or something. But, no, the name doesn’t come from France. Stephomi’s guess had been correct — Antaeus was of Greek origin. He was the giant of Greek myth who killed passers-by without reason or mercy, building caves from his victims’ skulls until he was at last slain by Hercules. Upon his death, he was brought to hell by Mephistopheles himself, and forced to guard the entrance to the Ninth Circle, standing aside only to allow sinners and demons to pass through.
I know I said before that I wasn’t scared but… I wasn’t scared then because, if nothing else, at least I knew my name. Gabriel… Gabriel Antaeus… Perhaps I’m just being overly paranoid… but the thought does occur to me now that perhaps, after all, Gabriel Antaeus is not my real name. I know it sounds sensationalist, putting it like that. I’m sure I’m probably just letting myself get carried away. But no one can deny that it’s a very unnatural coupling — a name from Heaven, a name from Hell…
‘Is this a reality TV show?’ I said aloud, thinking I’d worked it out and staring suspiciously around the living room for any hidden cameras. ‘All right, I’ve worked it out, very funny, game over.’
But no camera men came bursting in; no TV presenter came to shake my hand and tell me I’d won… I was so convinced that was the answer for a minute that I even turned on the TV and flicked through all the channels, half expecting to see myself on the screen. But that was stupid. They would hardly allow the show to be broadcast on my TV, would they? I can’t seriously believe it’s a reality TV show but… government experiment, maybe? An experiment exploring the effect of isolation and fear on the human psyche? I may even be putting myself in grave danger just by writing down this suspicion. The government have eyes everywhere. They might find out. But I can’t afford not to write it down in case I lose my memory again and have to start from the beginning once more. I should start hiding this journal when I go out. I cannot risk it falling into the wrong hands. And I can’t shake the feeling that someone — whether a TV audience or the government or somebody else — is watching me.
6th October
When I look at what I last wrote in this journal — when I read of my first discovery of the murderous, Hell- bound Keeper, Antaeus — it’s hard to believe that was really only three nights ago now. I feel I must have been a different person altogether when I made my last entry, for I didn’t know anything then. At least now some of the secrets are no longer secrets.
The first thing was that I saw the mystery woman again. Or rather, a child did. Yesterday, still very early, I was troubled by what I had learned about Antaeus and decided to go to St Stephen’s Basilica again before it became more crowded. Spiritual places and holy buildings have always calmed me in the past, but not this time.
The morning was cool and still. Soft, white-gold light tinted the sky and a gentle breeze blew through the air. But as I approached the church, all I could think of was my dream of the Nazi invasion. The fear and the shouts and the sobbing and the fires. Some of the Jews never even left Budapest: they were just shot and thrown into the Danube. The blood of children, grandparents, wives, fathers and mothers running through the river, forever staining the city with a shame that would surely never come out. Was that really only sixty years ago?
The Basilica didn’t open until nine o’clock so, when I reached it, I sat on the edge of one of the fountains to the left, where I could sit and look up at it while I waited. It was cool at this time of the morning, with an early, dew-laden freshness that was more befitting the vast countryside than the inner circles of a capital city. A few pigeons fluttered about at my feet, cooing softly to each other in the great shadow of the cathedral, and the hush of early morning settled softly like a smooth, cold blanket.
I had not been there for very long when I felt a hand tugging insistently at my sleeve. Glancing down, I saw a boy stood before me, no more than six or seven. His head was bald and about his face and in his eyes there was that pinched look of illness. He was dying. Leukaemia, perhaps. A quick glance across the square showed me that a couple about my age were a few yards away, lost in fierce argument in front of the Basilica, and I guessed that these were his parents and, in their distraction, they had not noticed their boy wandering over to me.
I felt guilty as I looked at him. Why should I get to live so much longer than him? What had I done to deserve it? What was health to me? It was this terrible, disgraceful waste and I felt a bleak shame as I looked at him. I wished that I could take the illness out of his body and into my own. I would have done it if I could.
‘She’s still lost,’ the boy said, one hand still grasping my sleeve as he gazed up at me. ‘Can you help her?’
I gazed down at him in alarm, my mind at once filled with thoughts of the mystery woman. ‘Who?’ I asked hoarsely.
‘The lady. She left when she saw you coming. She said the Ninth Circle took it all from you and now you can’t help her. Can’t you? She’s scared, you know. She’s really frightened. Isn’t there anything you can do about it?’
You’ve known your share of fear, haven’t you, little boy? I am sorry for that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy’s mother suddenly glance around in panic and then, spotting her son, she and his father started walking towards us with relief. Quickly, I pulled the torn photo from my pocket.
‘Was this the woman you saw?’
The child took a look and then nodded. ‘Can you help her?’
My answer seemed to mean a lot to him somehow so I just nodded in silence as his mother came up and took him by the hand.
‘I told you not to wander off, Stephen. I’m sorry, sir, I hope he wasn’t bothering you.’
I smiled at the couple, trying not to let raw, painful pity show on my face as I assured them that the child hadn’t bothered me. Part of me wanted to run after the family, as they walked away, and get the child to tell me all he knew of the mystery woman; what exactly she had said to him and in which direction she had gone. But I didn’t want to frighten them, and I especially didn’t want to frighten the little boy. I watched him walk out of sight, standing between his parents as they each took one of his hands. When he died… there would be this huge hole left in their lives. Would they ever be able to fill it? Would they ever be able to pretend it wasn’t there for long enough to be happy? My disappearance must have left such a hole in the lives of my own family. I wondered if they missed me as much as I missed them.
When the family had disappeared from view, I found it easier to rid my thoughts of them and turn my mind back to the mystery woman. How strange that she should have mentioned the Ninth Circle. She surely couldn’t have been referring to Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell. She said the Ninth Circle took it all from you… The Ninth Circle.. My mind raced with the possibilities. Could the Ninth Circle be some kind of organisation? Or was it a place? Had something dreadful happened there, causing me to lose my memory?
