The Grimoire of Alec O'Dea - Part Two: The Seller

1

She sighed, took a set of handcuffs from the bedside table, and held them up for him to appraise.

“Want to go for it?” she asked.

2

His eyes lit up, fire against a black sky, making her feel a brief twinge of fear. “Yes, please.”

 “You’re insane,” he heard her whisper as she cuffed him and his heart rate quickened.

“That’s right,” he told her.

“That’s right,” she repeated, smashing the wine glass she had been drinking from and plunging a sizeable shard into his left forearm. “But I love you.”

Before removing the cuffs, stemming the flow of blood and beginning the process of stitching and dressing the wound, she let the moment play out a little longer, admiring the gory work of art they had created.

When she eventually went to work with a nurse’s delicate care and skill, he leaned towards her as though they were in company and he wished to convey a message he wanted only her to hear. “That was great. Thanks.”

Normally she would have kissed him, but not tonight. Instead she led him into the bedroom where they silently undressed and got under the covers. There in the darkness she was his possession, and he held her. However, he would soon be asleep, and while she waited for this to happen, she let her thoughts drift.

Something was wrong with her mind lately, something that made her wonder if maybe she needed to seek help. The locked room of her reason wasn’t being destroyed, or even breached, but something was rapping at its door, suggesting it come inside. It wanted to tell her something, bring up matters she would rather it didn’t bring up. This visitor manifested itself in the world around her as a movement out the corner of her eye (say of a door, or a fleeting shadow) or noises she couldn’t identify the source of. These latter phenomena were mostly whisperings or sudden, loud bangs. James experienced them too, but was dismissive of them. In any event, they occurred at night, sometimes in the small hours as she traversed the hallway.

She wondered how much these developments had to do with what they had been up to lately with the grimoire.

She knew she should count herself lucky, because not everyone had a rich dad who was willing to set his daughter up in the West End of Glasgow, and then leave her alone. Yes, not everyone had a dad so filled with shame that he made these extravagant gestures to help himself sleep at night and, hopefully, dissuade her from saying anything to anyone about what had happened.

And really, she thought, what was the point in saying anything? What good would come of it? Would it bring Mum back? No, of course it wouldn’t.

Speaking of Mum, she had been present in her thoughts quite a bit recently. In the past, she had only dwelt on her when times were tough, if she was stressed or worried. This therefore begged the question: why now? Things were good, weren’t they? She was happy with James. Ah, but there was the visitor, that unknown quantity, who dwelt outside that bolted door, peddling his dangerous information, and who was sometimes given to shouting, in the moments when he lost patience with her, “Do you even know where you are half the time? Where is it you think you are now then, eh? Tell me! Play a tune on your piano!”

James was snoring and had turned away from her, so she got up and pulled on her T-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

Once back in the living room, she sat down at the piano that had been the property of the elderly lady whose death had led to the house being put up for sale in the first place. Her dad had advised her to get rid of it, warning that it might be home to mice. She had told him she was keeping it and had paid for the repairs herself. There had, mercifully, been no mice, just one or two damp or missing notes.

James would sleep through anything, and playing had always soothed her. She needed relief from the gnawing from within, the gnawing that said all was not well and that she had much to attend to: the thing at the door; the man asleep in the room; even the piano.

3

Following an exchange of messages with an online seller who had acquired a grimoire, she got into the car and drove down the coast. It was early evening, and out on the river the herring dipped their heads beneath the surface, while a lone tugboat traversed the dusk.

The seller had remained vague as to the circumstances of the acquisition, but the grimoire’s singular ugliness had drawn her to it. There were many things in life which had intrigued her, but which she had not felt compelled to own. However, in this case, as odd as it sounded, she had felt seduced.

Unlovingly homemade, its white cover had gained a yellow tinge and many a stain, while the typed text thereupon (which read “The Grim0ire 0f Alec 0’Dea) was faded to the point of illegibility. And, yes, the typewriter used had been missing its “O”, meaning the author had had to use zeros instead. No sample of the book’s interior had been provided, and this had the effect of stoking her interest even further.

She had been able to establish the following: that it had been in the seller’s possession for a year, and that his reasons for selling it were “his own”. He had added, “You can take it or leave it. There are others interested.” Indeed, his advert on Gumtree had specified “NO TIME-WASTERS”.

The only other information offered was the price: £200.

Of the books she owned, most were of value only to her. However, there were some rarities and first editions, and all of these were concerned with esoterica. She had never owned a grimoire, but was keen for that to change.

The seller lived above an ice-cream shop next to the ferry terminal in Largs. His flat had a balcony, and he led her out onto it when she arrived. Everything about him was thin: his build; his hair; the material of the loose, dark shirt he wore untucked from his chinos. His feet were bare.

“You made it,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “Come in. Hi. Apologies for the mess of the place. Let’s go out on the balcony.”

A quick assessment of the place told her that his idea of messy was different from hers. Apart from a jacket flung over the back of the dark-grey couch, which itself was strewn with papers, nothing else was out of place. Buried underneath the papers, its corner just barely discernible, was a sleeping laptop.

Once out on the balcony, they watched as one car and half a dozen passengers boarded the penultimate ferry of the day.

He asked how her drive had been, and whether or not she worked. Finally, he asked if she would you like to see the book.

“Sure,” she replied.

“Sorry if I was a bit abrupt in our chat,” he said, when, a few moments later, he returned with the grimoire.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She guessed - correctly, as it turned out - that he would offer no explanation as to why he had been abrupt.

“Just be careful,” he advised, handing her what she had driven all this way to obtain “I mean, it’s not falling apart or anything, but it requires care.”

The title page was in better condition than the cover, but was still marred by dark stains, some of which she thought might be blood, while others were almost certainly coffee and chocolate. The title itself was inelegantly handwritten in blue biro. If it gave her the impression that O’Dea was strangely playful and wished to toy with anyone who might happen upon his grimoire, it was an impression reinforced when she turned to the dedication, which read:

“Being the grimoire of Alec O’Dea. Mr O’Dea trusts you will enjoy that which is contained herein.”

Again, the same handwriting, which could, she mused, have been that of a child.

She stepped forward slightly, away from the seller who had been reading over her shoulder.

“Get ready,” he said, his voice low and monotone.

“Excuse me?”

Instead of replying, he nodded towards the book as if to say “you’ll see”.

The next page was blank, and the next, and the next, and…

“It’s all blank,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, sounding oddly delighted.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s magic. Or evil. Evil magic maybe?”

“Black magic?”

He pursed his lips and darted a glance upwards as though mulling over whether or not he considered that term to be entirely accurate. “If you want,” he eventually said.

“I’ll need more than that before I part with two-hundred quid.”

“What you need’s a demonstration. And this book, this grimy old grimoire, puts the “demon” in demonstration.” He sounded like an old snake-oil salesman, or one of the men who stood on a box in Glasgow and tried to sell God to every passer-by. “Oh, I know I sound mad. But pray do not judge until you’ve borne witness.” And now he lapsed back into his previous, normal mode of speech. “You know, until you’ve seen it in…in action. Look.” He snatched the grimoire from her. “It won’t work for you because you don’t own it yet.  And there are no instructions. It was blank when I bought it, and the words I’d filled it with were erased again the moment I decided to sell it. Understand that I hadn’t taken any action yet; I hadn’t decided on a price or put it online. The moment, the very instant, I formed the thought - “I’m going to sell it” -all the words were erased, like the grimoire understood that it no longer belonged to me. It wasn’t interested in the formalities, and was awaiting its next owner.”

He stopped talking, but stood staring at her.

When she realised that he was waiting for her to say something, she shrugged and said, “What.”

He continued looking at her, and realisation quickly dawned.

“You’re saying I won’t be able to see a demonstration until I own it.”

“’Fraid so.”

“Buy before you try.”

“Yeah,” he replied with a note of peevish impatience.

She took the purse from her handbag and handed him the money.

“Take heart,” he said, resuming his air of playfulness. “You will not be disappointed.

“OK, so there I was, the proud owner of a grimoire. I wasn’t impressed, you know? I had no clue as to how to proceed.

“Now, I’ve always been really useless with women, right?”

She nodded.

“I mean, I was really useless. And, as a result, I was as lonely as fuck. I just couldn’t imagine anyone ever wanting to be with me like that. This presented a problem whenever I fell for someone, because all it was was just someone else I couldn’t have. And that just made me feel lonelier.

“OK, so, long story short. I was at the point where I’d decided the grimoire was a pretty useless addition to my book collection.  I’d also met this girl at work. We’d chatted a bit, and had been getting along quite well before she was absorbed into what I privately referred to as “the collective”. The group of people everyone gravitates towards, you know? The ones who go out after work on a Friday, chat online, all that shit. After she’d been absorbed, we never really spoke again. But I wanted her so badly, or at least what she represented, which was emancipation from this solitary…” Now clearly aware that he had said too much, he stopped talking and tapped the cover of the grimoire with a slightly trembling forefinger. “Sorry.”

“For what?” she replied.

“This kind of proves my point. I’m shit round people. And now, without the grimoire, I’ll be shit again.”

“The book helped?”

“That’s what I’ve been fucking saying.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the level tone he maintained was perhaps even scarier.

Now her every instinct was telling her to get away, and to do that as soon as possible.

His eyes looked vacant, like he’d taken something that was now just kicking in.

“I’d better head,” she said.

He placed himself between her and the living room door. “Why not stay for a while?”

“Get out of the way, please.”

“Why are you being like that?”

“I just want to leave.”

“Fine; I’m not stopping you. I only asked if you wanted to stay for a bit.”

“I don’t; I want to go.”

“See? You’re acting like a cunt.”

“Get out of the way.”

As she took a step forward, he raised his hand.

“Wait. You can meet her.”

“Who?” But it was like she knew the answer, like it was down there in the black depths of her subconscious, ready to be dredged up the moment she was prepared to confront it.

“Kate.”

“Who’s Kate?” And ripples appeared on that black surface, as though the awful, secret thing beckoned to her.

Dusk was coming to an end, and the sky promised nothing but sleep and sorrow. Now that the last ferry had come and gone, she could hear the lapping of the waves on the beach.

“Kate’s Kate,” he said. “She’s in the bedroom. The moment I was honest enough to admit my heart’s desire to myself, the grimoire told me I would be given the courage to obtain it. That’s all I needed - courage. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? But it’s not; it’s hard; it’s hard to have courage. Sometimes it’s impossible. I’d been scared all my life, and I’d got stuck because of it.”

He took her hand. His were cold and clammy, but his grip was frighteningly strong. As she was led out of the living room, she looked again at the jacket over the back of the dining chair, and reckoned now that it belonged to a woman

Into the hallway. The smell she had noticed upon entering the flat was stronger as they passed the bathroom and a locked door on their left, before coming to another locked door on their right. The seller took a key from his back pocket, turned it in the lock, but paused before going further.

“This is a sacred space. Upon entering, we must therefore observe the silence that is appropriate to sacred places.”

She wanted to scream, but his eyes were meeting hers, telling her everything she needed to know about what the consequences of such an action would be.

So, instead she said, as calmly as she could, “OK.”

He pushed open the door, and they entered the bedroom. Before them, lying on a bed stripped of sheets, was a naked girl. A plastic bag, the inside of which was splattered with blood and vomit, had been placed over her head.

The seller closed his eyes, as if in prayer. “May she rest in peace,” he whispered.

4

James was capable of sleeping through anything, even the racket that was now coming from out in the hallway, meaning she would have to wake him up.

Fuck it, she thought, and decided to go on her own.

It sounded like someone was running from room to room, slamming doors and laughing that familiar, deranged, high-pitched laugh. Could this be Alec O’Dea himself?

The lights flickered as something invisible brushed by her, giggling as it went, the meaty stench of its warm breath turning her stomach

There were three rooms.  She checked the two on her left first, one of which was the bathroom, opening doors she was confident she would find nothing behind. Somehow, she was sure that the last door was the one she had to fear, that it was the one behind which the thing lurked. Whether it was O’Dea, or something else entirely, it had run in there, and it now waited for her in the shadows, coldly, unfathomably patient.

She walked forward, listening intently as she went. At first, she heard nothing, but then the low murmur of conversation began. Now she wished she had woken James up; now she wished she hadn’t been so…so what, exactly? Stupid? Brave?

With a lack of hesitation that surprised even her, she knocked the door, immediately silencing the voices.

“I’m coming in,” she told whatever was on the other side of the door. “Alec O’Dea, if that’s who you are. I live here. We have your book. If you want to speak to me, then that’s fine, but I mean you no harm, so, ah…please don’t hurt me, OK?”

5

“May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed…”

The mirrored wardrobes showed her the seller grinning over her shoulder.

The everyday disarray filled her with fear and sadness.

“Through the dubious mercy of God,” said the seller, continuing his prayer, “rest in peace.” Then, the prayer concluded, he told her not to be afraid. “Note, instead, how tranquil she is.”

No, he was wrong. Even now, with all life having left her, the girl did not exude anything approaching tranquillity, not with her face trapped inside the bloody, vomit-flecked death bag, not with her body left here, in a room that looked as it would have done when she lived in it, a juxtaposition which suggested how quickly and violently she had been ripped from this world.

“Why are you showing me this?” she managed to ask.

Her initial panic had convinced her that his intention was for her to be the next one lying there, her wide, bulging eyes recalling her last moments, that hopeless horror of suffocation. However, now she suspected he had a different fate in mind for her.

“I…ah…I need you to make me forget…Reset me…Ah…” He stepped forward and began pacing round the room, nervously adjusting things. The wardrobe door, for example, had slid open a little, and he closed it over before moving over to the windowsill, where he busied himself with some items of jewellery on the jewellery stand. “Reboot me.” Now he presented her with the tremulous memory of a laugh. “Use the grimoire.

“Look.” He turned to face her, and a large, distant boat recalled the deep note of a trombone as it passed up the river. “You see what I am.”

She looked at the ugly death-room with its grotesque exhibit. Yes, she saw that.

“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t plan to end it by doing this to her.  But the book is mischievous and spoke to her, and warned her. And then I had to do it, you see? I had to do for definite what I’d only mulled over. Sly old Alec O’Dea: he gives you what you want, but then he betrays you.”

“Maybe it depends what you want.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well,” she said, “maybe he doesn’t betray you if what you want is to solve the country’s homeless problem, or have a stab at world peace.”

“Oh. Oh, I see! Yes.” As he spoke, he resumed his frantic pacing, although it now seemed that he was intent on undoing his work of a few minutes earlier. He flung open the wardrobe and began emptying its contents onto the bed, seeming to be deliberately aiming for the dead girl.

“Stop it,” she told him.

“Fuck up. Yes, now, where were we? So, yeah, you think that old Alec’s on the side of the greater good? He’s too much of a shit for that, I assure you.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do!” he yelled. “OK? I know, believe me.” He looked down at the girl buried under trousers, skirts, handbags, and jackets that were still on their hangers. “Look at that. Look at that poor girl.

“Look, the book’s yours now, ah…fuck, I don’t even know your name.” His ever-changeable tone shifted into a kind of self-pitying murmur that she had to strain to make out. “Anyway, you’re the proud owner of the grimoire. Couldn’t you do me a solid with it? No one should have to remember something like this. I’m not a bad guy.”

“I’m Rose,” she said, putting aside all good judgement.

6

She pushed the door open and entered the bedroom. As the curtains were drawn back, it was afforded some little light from outside: passing cars and buses; street-lights. Just as well, really, as nothing happened when she groped for and flicked the switch on the wall. Although she was too scared to move further into the room, the floorboards still creaked underfoot.

In a corner, to the left of the window, stood a shadow the size and shape of a slender and gangly-limbed man. No one threw the shadow; there was no man present in the room, only this figure of utter darkness; and when it spoke, it was in a whisper of erratic, eccentric sentences.

“Stay not. The book. Whence. We disapprove.”

In the silence that followed, she tried to speak. More precisely, she tried to think of something useful or appropriate to say, but could think of nothing.

And so, at length, the thing that may or may not have been Alec O’Dea made its next, seemingly nonsensical utterance: “Never. It has denied white. Cold light silenced. Abhor. Quantity decision. Establishment of union continues. Or are trials forever coalescing?”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Now the shadow seemed to be on the point of dispersing: it stretched lengthways, and she could see through it to the wall behind. However, it quickly regained its shape, spouting its riddles as it did so.

“Curious undertakings lie within reach. Infamy! We awaken to antagonistic genesis.”

“Don’t listen to it,” said James, and she turned to see him standing in the doorway. His expression was one of such fury, such naked hostility, that he looked suddenly unfamiliar. “Step away. Go into the living room and wait for me.”

 “I can’t understand it,” she told him. “I don’t know what it’s saying.”

“Bullshit.”

“Empirical consent leads forth hordes,” said the thing.

“What’s hard to understand about that?” James asked her.

She felt a premonitory chill. “Do you know what it means?”

“It means I’ve been betrayed. Now, do as I tell you.”

“No.”

His voice was stripped of all emotion, and he stood there, wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, sweat forming on his brow despite the room feeling cold to her. “Go to the living room, Kate, I mean it.”

“I’m not going anywhere. What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”

From the pocket of his pyjamas, he took a familiar-looking set of handcuffs. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he began advancing towards her.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” he growled at her. “In fact, you must think I’m a fucking moron.”

In the corner, the shadow stood observing in silence. It seemed to pulse, as though somewhere in its being a dark and impossible heartbeat powered it.

“He’s going to kill you,” she heard it whisper.

“That’s nonsense,” said James. “See?”

The blow to her face was swift and powerful. Before she could collect herself, he had her hands cuffed behind her back. The contortions he subjected her arms to in order to achieve this made it feel to her that they might break, and although she had taken his punch silently, she know yelled out in pain.

“Fucking put a sock in it,” he demanded, turning her to face the wall. He dug a knee into her back, and she heard rustling. “We had it all, didn’t we? But nothing lasts.”

She gasped as the clear, plastic bag came down over her head. He pulled it tight against her face and neck, digging his knee further into her spine. In a panic, she tried to say his name, to plead with the man he had been to her, but all that came out was a hot mixture of blood and vomit, which she choked and went blind on.

7

He looked a little taken aback, but shook her hand anyway when she held it out. “I’m James. Pleased to meet you, Rose.” He seemed calmer now - it was like a storm had passed. “Sorry I became a little worked up.

“That’s OK.”

In truth, since handing over the money, she had felt an odd, gradual change. If forced to specify what the nature of the change was, she would have said that she now felt a strong sense of ownership, even possessiveness, in connection with the grimoire. There was a bond, and maybe even a feeling that (and this was the hardest sensation to accept) the book was communicating with her, like she would open it and know immediately what to do. She thought James must sense all this, too, because he had begun asking her to do this thing for him without explaining properly how she would go about it. Yes, he had implied that, via his grimoire, O’Dea gave you what you wanted (albeit while seemingly preparing to pull the rug out from under your feet at a later date), but the nuts and bolts of how all this was brought about had been left vague. Upon first acquiring the book, had he felt what she now did? Probably, she thought.

Two notions vied for dominance in her head and heart: one was that she couldn’t, on a moral level, consider giving James what he wanted; the other was that she would do anything to get out of here with her book, and with as little complication as possible.

“Well, Rose?” he asked, possibly guessing most of what she was thinking. “Will you do it?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. Well, if nothing else, it would allow her to break the grimoire in, see its power in action for the first time. Mind you, wasn’t this girl (poor Kate) proof of what it could do? Ah yes, about her: what was her story? How had she met this end? “Tell me about her first. Tell me what happened. You met her at work; you wanted her: I know that much. What happened then?”

8

“Well, then I got her. I looked in the book one night, when I was at my lowest. In fact, I was thinking of ending it completely. It’s like this girl was the end of the line for me. She’d be the last - I was determined about that. No more loves that I’m made to feel curdle and eventually die over time. No more of this unrequited shit, you know?

“I looked at the book as my chest hurt with that yearning, with that pain that I felt was unbearable. It felt weird when I touched it: it was like it was alive, like it was vibrating. I turned to the first page and writing had appeared. It was nonsense, and I knew it was nonsense, but I also knew what it meant, and that it was a spell. I’ll always remember what it said, although I’ve forgotten all the ones that came after (there were so many of them). It said, “Blooms on distant shingle await deciphering. Fallacy. Combustion. This is indeed startled.” Kind of nice in a way. And I knew that Alec wanted me to read it out loud, and I did.

“I worked in Glasgow at the time, in this shitty office. The days of that job were fucking numbered though, thanks to old Alec.

“Anyway, the next morning I got up, and I knew right away that something was different. Nothing had happened yet, but it was going to.

“I felt on-form all day. It was like I was me, but with all the good stuff turned up to ten. And she loved it. Kate. She was all over me, hanging on my every word.

“That night, she walked with me to the train station, and suggested that we go for a drink in the station bar. She’d never suggested anything like that. In fact, she never walked with me right to the station. She had a flat in Glasgow - I think she said her dad had bought it for her - and we usually parted company at the first subway station.

“And after the drink, she hopped on the train with me to Largs. Can you fucking believe that! She told me to wait, and then she bought a ticket, like this was just a normal, everyday occurrence. That’s what it felt like, like this was what she did every day! It was so weird, but I knew what was happening: this was the spell; I mean it had to be, right? It was a bit like she was a sleepwalker, but she was wide awake. And she was on-form too: she was funny, and chatty and flirty; and it was fucking amazing!

“We got to Largs, and I just went right along with it. Over the next few months, she was mine, and I took full advantage. She did absolutely everything I wanted, everything I could think of. I even let her in on the grimoire. I let her see that, while I had the book, the world was mine, and everything in it. And because she was my Katie, she would share it with me. We’d have money, and we’d never have to work ever again; we’d never have to go back to that fucking office.

“And then he fucked it up. I think that’s his thing, what he always does, you know? I don’t know whether he’s a demon, or a ghost, on some pen name, or whatever the fuck he is. I’ve never been able to find anyone with that name. I mean, I didn’t exactly throw myself into researching it, but I glanced online, knowing, really, that it was a waste of time.

“Yeah, he screwed everything up. He tried to warn her. In fact, he actually appeared to her. At least, I think it was him. She heard nonsense - that same nonsense of the spells, I suppose - while I heard very clear warnings. At the end she heard it, but by then it was too late

9

The thing that made up her mind completely (although she never truly admitted this to herself, always maintaining, in the years to come that she had known what she was going to do long before this moment) was when he looked out through the patio doors at the silent, black river and said: “You know, I think there were times when she thought she was back in Glasgow, back in her own flat.” Then he sighed and added, “Actually, I’m sure of it. She’d had a piano up there, and there were a few times when she actually sat there and started playing it. You know, like she could see it. And she’d say stuff, and I’d think, I’ve lost her for a moment; she’s back in the dream. Then she’d come back; I’d get my girl back.”

“OK,” she said, not wanting to stay a moment longer than was necessary, “I’m ready when you are.”

He was sitting on the couch; she was on a dining chair, which she had turned to face him.

He looked up at her, and, all of a sudden, he seemed like a little boy. “Do you know what to do?”

“I think so. It tells you what to do, in a way, doesn’t it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I found.”

“OK.”

“My arms hurts.”  He rubbed at his left forearm.

“What do you want me to do about it?” she asked.

“I was just saying,” he replied, sounding like a man who realises his last attempt to gain sympathy has failed.

She knew, and so did he: the moment she expressed what she wanted, it would begin, and so that was what she did.

“I want this man to be under my command.”

The book lay open on her lap as she spoke, and now its blank pages began to fill with the nonsense spells, all written in that childish hand by a blue ghost-biro.

“Thriving silence beyond the wall,” said the grimoire. “Barriers severed; roots entwined.”

James gazed at her in rapt silence. She snapped her fingers in front of his face, but he remained staring straight ahead, his free will suddenly swept aside as his immediate destiny waited to be shaped by her.

“You don’t get to forget,” she said. “Not her; not what you did.”

“Rainfall cannot touch yesterday. Marshal; muster; mysterious fear.”

“Instead you’ll feel what she felt. You’ll feel the fear as you attacked her.”

“Cataclysms tickled certain engines, he was sure. Surprising. All bets are off.”

“The choking as the bag went over her head; and then a deeper fear, as she faced the certainty that this was it, that you were going to kill her.”

“Heaven didn’t scratch. Once catechism founded marvels, granite spilled.”

“Panic, mixed with love, mixed with pleading.” She saw it now, as clear as day: those final moments: “And, oh, sudden flood of remembering, of realising where she was, and the accompanying confusion as she tried to recall how she’d got here.” She struck him a blow across the face with her open palm. “You fucking monster. You evil bastard. You’ll relive it, over and over again, until you die. It’ll drive you insane. I hope you live a long time, and that when you die you burn in Hell.”

“Monstrous, exquisite appellations. The buzzing is tremendous outside. Squeal, for my appetite is yielding for no knotted nonce. Hackles made them loophole the bonnet where the angel of snails quizzed and sizzled. Do? Entice.”

10

Wishing there were some punishment greater than Hell, some other torture she could conjure, she took her phone from her pocket and phoned the police.

She would wait here for the real world to come. Maybe it would be real enough to burn all the black magic from this evil place, to make sense of all the senselessness. Maybe if she submitted the book to the light of that reality, its pages would be suddenly translated. However, she knew that in the world of Alec O’Dea, translation was an ultimately meaningless concept.