The Fabric of Sin

They parked at Tesco, walked round the corner by All Saints Church and Lol went into the bank on his own.

Came back with a thick yellow envelope.

‘Let’s not get too excited, it might be a letter bomb. Or something.’

Insisting on her getting into the truck while he opened it on his own in the car park, up against a perimeter wall.

He slid back into the truck.

‘I’ve never had a fifty-pound note before. Let alone eighty of them.’

‘Well, well …’

‘And there’s also this.’

He laid a plastic CD case on the dash. Merrily grimaced.

‘I do hope it’s not death metal.’

‘I seriously don’t like to put it on.’ Lol took out the CD, held it up to the light. ‘Doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake …’

‘Now?’

Lol switched on the engine, loaded the CD, turned up the volume.

A background hum was relayed through six speakers. A lot of rustling, movement of objects. A female voice.

‘Is this what you wanted?’

‘Yeah, yeah … over there.’ Male voice. ‘Near the mirror. And don’t talk again, all right? Just keep quiet. Whatever happens, you keep quiet. This is important.’

After about a minute of near-silence, the girl said:

‘Ooh, kinky.’

And the man hissed:

‘’King shut it!’

‘That could be Hayter,’ Lol said, ‘but …’

Merrily said, ‘The girl … did that sound like a Brummie accent to you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Christ.’

The atmosphere — a suggestion of burning, a hissing — was issuing like steam from speakers on either side, filling the cab. After some minutes, another male voice came in, up-and-down, liturgical.

‘I conjure thee by the name under which thou knowest thy God and by the name of the prince and king who rules over thee. I conjure thee to come at once and to fulfil my desires, by the powerful name of Him who is obeyed by all, by the name Tetragrammaton, Jehovah, the names which overcome everything, whether of this world or any other … Come, speak to me clearly, without duplicity. Come in the name of Adonai Sabaoth, come, linger not. Adonai Shadai, the king of all kings, commands thee!’

Background noise, with swishing movements. An exclamation of distaste. ‘Sulphur! Jeez! ’ A nervous giggle.

After a while, another voice.

‘Told you it was boll— Sorry.’

Then the whole incantation repeated. Twice.

Near-silence this time. A thump, as if the tape had been unsubtly edited. Then two voices, one going, ‘Oh my—!’

Cut off by the second, louder, triumphant.

‘Welcome. Thou wert invoked in the name of him who has created heaven and earth and hell. I hereby bind thee so that thou shalt remain here, within the confines of the triangle, while I still require thee and leave not without the licence to depart, and then not without answering the questions I shall put to thee.

‘That which was brought here on the instructions of the Grand Master and Grand Preceptor of all England, Jacques de Molay, to be hidden from those who would purloin it … if it be still here, I command you to inform me of its true location and if it be not here I command that you so inform me.’

More invocation of the secret names of God. The question repeated. No clues as to what hidden item they were hoping to locate. It went on for another ten minutes, with edit bumps, until whatever had been welcomed was formally dismissed and the recording ended.

‘The problem with ceremonial magic,’ Merrily said, ‘is that it can be incredibly tedious. The language they use … stilted, pompous. Mock liturgy.’

‘Very defined, though,’ Lol said. ‘Very exact, focused on what they want and closing up all other avenues. I don’t know what to make of it. All smoke and mirrors, or what?’

‘Actually, it involves both smoke and mirrors. This ex-Catholic priest Eliphas Levi — huge admirer of the Templars — once claimed to have conjured up a spirit for a friend of Bulwer-Lytton, the writer. Admitting that he couldn’t really be sure what he’d got, but claiming to see the figure of a man. And he asks it the designated questions and gets the answers in his head.’

‘No big, sonorous voice echoing around the temple?’

‘Inside your head,’ Merrily said, ‘is usually as good as it gets. Apparently.’

‘So who were they trying to invoke here?’

‘Dunno. You go through the Key of Solomon and all these magical texts, you get a selection of spirits — funny names, Biblical-sounding roots — which perform certain functions to order. Finding hidden treasure — that’s a big favourite.’

‘It’s been quite heavily edited.’

‘Because this stuff takes for ever,’ Merrily said. ‘But, yeah, it also covers up essential facts. Like, we don’t find out exactly what they’re after or who they’re trying to talk to. Or what they get out of it … if anything. It’s just rich kids messing around, trying to scare themselves. Like, hey, we’ve done all the drugs, had all the weird sex, let’s do Other Spheres of Existence? Point is, why did Hayter want us to hear it?’

‘Sign of good faith? He said that if he found any of the tapes he’d let me know. I thought that was just to get my phone number. Which, of course, he put to good use a short time later.’

‘But why is he telling us anything? Went to a lot of trouble here. He must’ve either shot straight round to the bank with it, or he’d taken it earlier, making provision for collection by someone else. He didn’t have to offer you any money — there was no way you could pin the Boswell on him.’

Lol ejected the CD, slid it back into the plastic case.

‘Well, he doesn’t want us to drop it, does he? He’s just trying to steer us away from him. More or less editing himself out. Like, “something did happen, but it wasn’t down to me.” The girl … could that be Mary?’

‘Perhaps I’ll play it to Mrs Morningwood. And of course, Sycharth’s not in there at all. Where’s his big Welsh- language scene?’

‘Yet Hayter told me about Gwilym. Without mentioning his name.’

‘But that, presumably, was before he spoke to him again,’ Merrily said. ‘Now it’s like they’re on the same side, both pointing at the guy who conducted the ritual.’

‘Saying this is the bad guy, Mat Phobe, and he’s dead? End of story?’

Merrily’s mobile chimed.

‘I don’t know. It might be somebody they can’t— Hello?’

‘I think I should like to talk to you, Merrily,’ Beverley Murray said.