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  “Dad?” The concern in Oliver’s voice had given way to fear. He stood and forced Schaefer to look at him. Schaefer saw himself reflected in his son’s eyes and took a step back from the brink. He had been about to interrogate an old woman who could not possibly have had any connection to him or his case. The chances of her knowing about Edward Lomas were virtually non-existent, and yet he had been considering abducting her and beating out answers.

  “I’m okay,” Schaefer said, snapping out of it.

  “You sure?” Oliver asked, relaxing slightly.

  “I’m fine. Just got a lot on my mind,” Schaefer dissembled.

  The old woman stepped out of the way, and Schaefer and Oliver left the Ghost Train. They picked their way through the crowded fair, and headed for the exit. Families were leaving, to be replaced by an early evening clientele that was a mix of teenage gangs, couples on dates, and loners looking for something to do. Schaefer scanned the eyes of the people he passed, looking for something, anything that might give him something to hold on to. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Oliver. What happened in the Ghost Train had proven that he was incapable of looking after his son. He dreaded to think what would have happened if he had lashed out at his hallucination. He could have hurt Oliver. He could have done something far worse. There was no apparent residue of Oliver’s earlier concern. He was chatting enthusiastically as they passed the wire fence that delineated the fair from the rest of the park.

  “What was your favourite ride? Mine was the Zero G. You should have come on it, Dad. It made me feel so dizzy. The world was going so fast you couldn’t see it. I thought I was going to be sick. I bet you thought I was going to be sick. I think the dodgems were my next favourite. Or maybe the ghost train. Can we—” Oliver was cut off mid-sentence.

  “Oliver!” Schaefer yelled, as he stopped walking and grabbed his son by the shoulders. “Calm down! You’re – it’s too much. I need some peace and quiet, not this constant jabbering.”

  Schaefer saw the tears well in Oliver’s eyes, and his bottom lip tremble as he fought to keep himself from crying.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Oliver said, his voice cracking with the effort of keeping his emotions under control. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

  Too late, Schaefer realised what he’d done and pulled his son close to him.

  “I’m sorry, champ,” Schaefer said quietly. “It’s not you. There’s a lot stuff I can’t tell you. It gets to me sometimes. I shouldn’t have said that. You deserve better.”

  Schaefer released his son and stood upright.

  “My favourite was the Ferris wheel,” Schaefer said with a forced smile.

  Oliver smiled back.

  “The Ferris wheel? It’s pretty boring,” he said, testing the waters with a bit of humour.

  “What can I say? I like heights,” Schaefer replied with a playful nudge. “Come on; let’s get you home to your mother.”

  Schaefer and Oliver walked past the burned out remains of the toilets and left the park as the sun touched the roofs of the houses opposite them.

  *

  It was almost dark by the time Schaefer got Oliver home. Sarah was watching from the living room window, a look of mild concern on her face. She opened the door as the started up the garden path.

  “It was amazing, Mum,” Oliver said before Sarah had the chance to speak. “We went on everything. And I had a hot dog. And candy floss.”

  “I hope you’ve got room for dinner. It’s on the table,” Sarah replied.

  “What is it?” Oliver asked as he attempted to push past his mother.

  “Hey!” Sarah exclaimed. “Where’s my hug?”

  With an air of mock petulance, Oliver gave his mother a hug.

  “It’s sausages, chips and beans,” Sarah said, releasing Oliver from his filial obligation.

  “Ace,” Oliver said, as he set off toward the kitchen.

  “Say goodbye to your father.”

  Oliver turned on his heels and ran to give Schaefer a hug.

  “Bye, Dad,” he said quickly. “Thanks for a brilliant day.”

  “You’re welcome,” Schaefer responding, wondering just how much of the darkness his son would recollect in years to come. Hopefully his mind would filter out the low points and give Oliver fond memories of what was one of their better days.

  Oliver broke the hug and ran for the kitchen.

  “Brilliant?” Sarah observed.

  “It was okay,” Schaefer conceded.

  “This is what he needs, Tom. He needs his father.”

  “I know. But I just can’t…” Schaefer trailed off.

  “Can’t what?” Sarah asked, her tone becoming markedly more aggressive. “Can’t what? Give up on her? Abandon her like the rest of us?”

  “No, no. It’s not like that. I just don’t know how you do it,” Schaefer countered.

  “Do what?” Sarah challenged.

  “I don’t know how you stop yourself thinking about her.”

  Sarah’s shoulder’s sagged, and she was silent for a moment. When she spoke her voice was softened by great sorrow.

  “I think about her every day, Tom. But I won’t let it destroy me.”

  “You always were the stronger one,” Schaefer said.

  Sarah drew closer and looked at Schaefer’s weary, troubled face.

  “Is this it for you?” she asked sadly. “Oliver’s stopped asking what’s wrong with you. He’s stopped asking why you never talk to him about anything. Why you’re always sick. Why you never smile. He’s stopped hoping you’ll ever get better.”

  The words stung with their truth. Schaefer knew his record of neglect. He was aware that he was unlike any other fathers. And privately he had started to think that his drinking was getting out of control. But to hear these things articulated hurt him.

  “Your son has stopped hoping you’ll ever get better,” Sarah reiterated, continuing her assault. “Doesn’t that scare you?”

  Schaefer struggled to find the words. He didn’t want this life. He wanted something much better. He wanted the life of the buffoon he had met at the fair. A bright happy family taking joy at life’s simple pleasures. But he could never have that as long as Amber was out there. And there was no way to explain that to Sarah without making her feel guilty about the fact she had moved on.

  “Is this your life, Tom?” Sarah asked.

  “Until I find her,” Schaefer replied coldly.

  Sarah shook her head in frustration.

  “I’m worried about you, Tom. The life you lead – it’s – difficult,” Sarah hesitated, uncertain how to broach whatever she was about to say. “I think you should see someone.”

  Schaefer flashed a miserable little smile. If only she knew the truth, he thought to himself. If she knew the full extent of his, as she euphemistically put it, difficulties, she would never let him anywhere near Oliver.

  “What good would it do?” Schaefer asked defiantly.

  Sarah was about to respond, when Schaefer cut her off.

  “I’ll see you in a fortnight,” he said, as he turned to walk away.

  As he walked out of his ex-wife’s garden, Schaefer was consumed by one thought. If he was losing his mind, he would have to redouble his efforts to locate Amber. Insanity was a clandestine peril. Schaefer was aware that there was an ever-present risk that the life he lived, and the world he inhabited might push him over the edge. But how would he ever know? Even in the grip of total madness, a raving lunatic might perceive himself as sane. Schaefer felt himself momentarily drawn to the prospect. If he could go insane and lose himself in a delusion that he and his family were reunited, madness might not be such a bad prospect. Schaefer chastised himself for thinking such a selfish thing. He might find solace in an asylum, medicated and drooling in the delusional belief he had succeeded, but Amber would still be out there. And the only thing that counted was what happened to her. Schaefer could not afford mental frailty. If his mind was to truly go, he would never be able to trust him
self. He began to wonder how much he could trust himself now, but quickly suppressed the doubt. A hallucination did not amount to psychosis. But it might foreshadow it, Schaefer considered as an afterthought. He had to get moving.

  TWENTY

  Kelvin greeted Schaefer with a sad smile. The grey-skinned customer with a pock-marked face was back. He nodded in recognition as Schaefer headed for the back room. The peculiar folk who sought Mathers’ advice waited patiently; many of them were familiar from Schaefer’s previous visit, but he didn’t have the opportunity to study them closely.

  “Mr Schaefer,” Penny said brightly. “Let me just see if he can fit you in.”

  Penny disappeared through the door to Mathers’ office, and Schaefer caught sight of the bookseller hunched over an old manuscript. Moments later, Penny emerged.

  “You can go right in,” she said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Schaefer shook his head, “No thanks. I’m good.”

  Schaefer entered Mathers’ office and found him in poor spirits. He seemed troubled.

  “Did you read through the papers?” Mathers asked without his customary preamble.

  “Most of them,” Schaefer replied. His response seemed to irritate the frail man.

  “This is most serious, Thomas. You must take every opportunity to protect yourself. In this situation, knowledge is most definitely power,” Mathers said urgently. “I studied the images in the house. Look here.”

  Mathers led Schaefer to an easel that was covered by a red drape. He drew aside the drape to reveal enlarged copies of the photographs Schaefer had taken of the luminous images in Yates’ house.

  “Here, in this picture, next to the Vitruvian Man, is this tiny inscription,” Mathers indicated some indistinct Latin text, “I think it says Libri Ex Baezeal – The Book of Baezael. It is an extremely rare text. The librarian at the Bodleian is an old friend. We trade books every so often. He was kind enough to lend me a copy.”

  Mathers took Schaefer to a large lectern in the corner of his office. On it was a huge book with a hard gilt cover. As Schaefer’s eyes picked out the contours of the gilt relief, he realised that the engraving on the front cover was the image of a hideous demon surrounded by tortured souls. Mathers put on a pair of pristine archive gloves and opened the book to a specific page near the centre. The pages were thick and brittle with age, but the text looked fresh, and the illuminated illustrations seemed to have lost none of their vibrancy over the years. The page Mathers had selected was illustrated by a terribly magnificent illumination of a demon standing on a bed of skulls. The beast’s jaws were locked open in fearsome roar, and inside the creature’s throat, Schaefer could see the faint illustration of children who were screaming in terror as they slid into oblivion.

  “The Book of Baezael was a condemned text. Legend has it that the book was commissioned by Lothair when he was Duke of Saxony. Baezael was a heretical priest who claimed to have discovered the secret to taming the forces of Hell and using them to acquire worldly power. Lothair was an ambitious man, and had Baezael’s rantings transcribed, and twelve copies of this book made. When they were finished it is said that Lothair put Baezael to death, along with the twelve scribes who made the books. They were burnt as heretics. Lothair was said to have given copies of the books to the most corrupt men of his time in an effort to unlock Baezael’s magic. It is not known whether he succeeded, but his ambition was fulfilled. Lothair went on to become King of Germany, and then, in 1133 A.D., became Holy Roman Emperor – the most powerful man in the known world. That year Pope Innocent the Second issued an edict requiring the destruction of a number of books condemned as heretical. Listed among them was the Book of Baezael. This is believed to be the only surviving copy. Look here.” Mathers gestured towards a specific passage in the book.

  “Trauco est anima comedentis. Fons ultimum potentia. Immensas opes ex omnibus terrae adorabunt possidebit,” Mathers said in unfaltering Latin. “Il Colletivo pascet eum. Il Colletivo honorabit eum.”

  “Trauco the soul eater. The source of ultimate power. The riches of the Earth shall come to all who worship him. The Collective shall feed him. The Collective shall honour him,” Schaefer said quietly, recalling the Latin he had spent so long learning in order to better study such arcane texts. “You don’t believe this stuff do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Mathers replied. “What matters is that there are people out there who think it is true. The people you are dealing with, they worship this thing. The Soul Eater is evil, Thomas, and the Collective believe they gain power in our world by feeding it.”

  “Are you telling me they kidnapped my daughter to feed a demon?”

  “I don’t know,” Mathers replied slowly.

  “Do you know how crazy that sounds?” Schaefer asked testily. “None of this is real. There are no demons. The only evil in this world is what we inflict on each other. There is nothing beyond what we can see. There’s nothing beyond…”

  But Schaefer’s words lost conviction towards the end and he trailed off as he thought of his vision of Edward Lomas at the fair.

  “What is it?” Mathers asked, concerned.

  Schaefer was not about to share his experiences with the small man. It might discourage him from offering further assistance. Instead he suppressed the memory of Lomas’ mutilated face and composed himself.

  “What else have you learned?” Schaefer asked.

  “Not much. Traces of the Collective dotted throughout history.”

  “I read the monk’s journal, and the doctor’s account of the boy, which suggests they target children,” Schaefer said.

  “So it would seem,” Mathers acknowledged sadly.

  “See what else you can find out,” Schaefer instructed. “Find out what they do with their victims.”

  “I will,” Mathers replied. “Thomas, whatever this Collective believes, it seems capable of great evil. Please be careful.”

  “I’ve had to get a new phone,” Schaefer said, ignoring Mathers’ entreaty. “I’ll leave the number with Penny.”

  Schaefer left Mathers with his books, gave Penny his new number, and headed east towards Hackney.

  *

  Tilly didn’t smile when she handed Schaefer his first drink. He had tried to avoid the bar, but the agreeable sound of Sunday night trade had risen through the floorboards of the Great Room and enticed Schaefer down. It was the usual crowd of Sabbath time travellers. There were the hardcore booze hounds like Schaefer who were simply stuck, doomed to always be draining the dregs from a glass. There were the reruns, who were trying to relive a legendary Saturday night by chasing the hair of the dog. And then there were the leeches who were determined to stop time and cling on to Sunday night, elongating every possible moment of pleasure to avoid the bleakness of Monday morning. Schaefer preferred Sunday night drinkers; they were generally a more civil, philosophical crowd than the Friday and Saturday night hedonists. It was a tenuous excuse, but it got him down to the bar and put a brimming glass in his hand. I’ll just have a couple, Schaefer told himself, then I’ll get back upstairs and get stuck into Mathers’ books and my journals. But Schaefer knew he was lying to himself. In reality, he would use his vision at the fair as an excuse to get well and truly obliterated.

  TWENTY ONE

  Schaefer woke to an unfamiliar sound. He hadn’t changed the ring tone on his new phone and it was blaring out an irritatingly catchy tune. Schaefer rolled off the sofa onto the Great Room’s hard floor and scrabbled to get his phone, which he had discarded near his shoes.

  “Hello,” he croaked into the phone.

  “You sound healthy,” Baker chirped. “Meet me by the river in an hour.”

  “What time is it?” Schaefer asked, looking at window. It was dark outside.

  “Five thirty,” Baker replied brightly. “While you’ve been doing – whatever, me and Billy have been burning the midnight oil for you, Schaefer.”

  *

  The cold fresh air puffed away
the worst of Schaefer’s hangover. Or maybe it simply hadn’t set in yet and he was still drunk. He cut up past the drab concrete of the Southbank Centre and headed for the Festival Pier. It was six thirty and London was only just starting to wake. A handful of enthusiastic runners pounded the pavement, but otherwise the promenade was quiet. Schaefer saw Baker on a bench opposite the pier and walked over to join him.

  “Fuck!” Baker exclaimed, as Schaefer slumped next to him. “You look like shit.”

  “What have you got for me?” Schaefer asked.

  “Fine. Just an old friend trying to show concern,” Baker replied, feigning hurt.

  “We’re not friends, Baker,” Schaefer said unemotionally. “We just share similar interests. Now are you going to tell me what you’ve found? Or are you going to sit there and pretend you love me?”

  Baker picked up a cardboard folder that was on the bench next to him and handed it to Schaefer.

  “Your man’s a nut,” Baker said matter-of-factly.

  Schaefer leafed through the folder which contained photographs of Edward Lomas along with articles taken from the pages of publications such as Fortean Times and Psychic News.

  “He thinks he’s a psychic,” Baker continued.

  “You’re not a believer?” Schaefer asked with a wry smile.

  “Fuck that. What you see is what you get. We’re meat.”

  Schaefer wasn’t so sure, and scanned the articles which all seemed to be of the opinion that Edward Lomas was a powerful and, more importantly, genuine psychic.

  “He disappeared about ten years ago. Just vanished,” Baker said with his variation on a magician’s gesture. “No sign. No trace. No hope of ever finding him.”

  Schaefer knew Baker hadn’t summoned him to read through old magazine articles. This was all part of their routine. Schaefer never praised Baker for his skills, so the fat man felt compelled to play up his achievements.

  “Unless you happen to know a fucking genius,” Baker concluded with a smile.

  “It’s a shame I don’t know any,” Schaefer said dryly.