Death Warmed Up, Page 2

spirits have communicated with them.”

  The priest was beginning to unsettle me. “And what is it you wish me to do, Mr Roberts?” I said.

  He produced from his breast pocket a photograph of a necklace that depicted a pentagram with a crescent moon. “I wish for you to recover this item. It is a very important necklace, Aramaic in origin.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “I know who has it, but I do not know where she is. I can describe her to you, but no photographs exist. I also have a sigil, which will be on her doorway wherever she resides.” Roberts showed me a piece of paper with a drawing on it and stared intently at me. “It is the sigil of Agau, Loa spirit of the winds. The witch's name is Annie. And you must be wary, Mr Hawes. You must be very careful, or she will have your soul.”

  I thought perhaps he had been watching too many 1940s Hollywood melodramas, but he was right about being wary. I knew this from past experience. There is more in the world than most men can see, and I can see more than most men.

  Later, when I remembered where I had seen the sigil, I went to the docks to double check. There it was, carved into the wooden frame of the door to the flats above the barbers. I had found Annie's lair. Now the thing to do would be to go back to my office and let the Haitian priest deal with it.

  But no, not me. In with both feet, I knocked on the door.

  A face covered in Caribbean tattoos, dirty dreadlocks and a smile full of crooked teeth was my first impression of the old witch Annie. Beads strung around her neck, the Aramaic necklace amongst them. She had an untamed, almost crazed look about her, but the eyes, they were cold, calculating and very aware. I didn't like her. I didn't like how she laughed and invited me in like an old friend.

  “Afternoon, my love,” she said, and ice covered my back. I would have to go through with this after all. “Come to see old Annie? Come for your future told, have you?”

  I followed her into the dark stairwell, ducking to avoid the sprig of mistletoe hanging in the doorway. I ascended the stairs after her, looking at the framed paintings of saints that lined the wall. I could almost physically feel the shadows engulf me, and a waft of incense and curry and dogs came from the rooms above.

  Annie spoke as she went through the beaded curtain at the top of the stairs. “Come inside and make yourself comfortable, my love.” I had never met anyone so creepy. She made me feel sick.

  I said nothing. Rummaging in my jacket pocket, I made sure the amulet was there, amongst all the junk I carry with me. For a neat man, I must admit to having very cluttered pockets.

  “Do not mind my dog. He's a darling,” she said, and this gave me pause. I should go, and quickly.

  The bead curtain clattered against my ears as I pushed through into a room that made me feel like I was in another country. Paintings on the wall, both hellish and saintly, wooden and enamel ornaments of every description on every surface, carved wooden images and idols on shelves all around the walls. In the centre of the room stood the poteau-mitan, the pole used in Vodou temples for communicating with the spirits. But it all gave the impression of being heretical, like a crucifix in a Satanist's chapel.

  In the far corner was the altar, elaborately adorned with candles, bowls, a small drum and Catholic statues next to small paintings of Christian saints.

  Beaded curtains hung at the windows, allowing dappled light to fall onto the small table covered with a patterned cloth. On this table were tarot cards, an old paraffin lamp and a bowl of rune stones beside a bottle of wine and two pewter goblets.

  But what disturbed me most were the shrunken heads hanging from the poteau-mitan with their eyes and mouths stitched up. Whether real or imitation, they added to the room an even more sinister aspect.

  I stepped into the room and a guttural growl from my left caused me to step sideways to my right. I bumped into something and it rattled like a snake as I caught it. It was an asson, a sacred ceremonial rattle, decorated with beads and snake bones. I hung it back on its hook and turned to look at the dog.

  He was a brute. Jet-black and huge, sitting in the centre of a painted pentagram, and he had his red malevolent eyes squarely on me, drooling and baring his formidable teeth, hackles raised. It looked like his dearest wish was to pounce on me and tear my flesh to shreds. I knew he would not stop there.

  I stepped past the freestanding mirror that was placed next to the door for visitors to pass, and into the middle of the room, near the small table, away from the dog.

  Annie had brought out a steaming bowl of curry from somewhere, stirring it with a wooden spoon. The steam curled up into the air and blew away from the corner where the dog was.

  “His name is Stanley, he will stay in the circle,” she said. Take a seat at the table, my lovely.”

  But I remained standing as she carried on talking, her Jamaican accent tinged with something else.

  “Do you like my pictures? They are Christian saints, among others. But I do not believe in them. They are for your benefit, to put you at ease.” It wasn't working. “They represent the miste, that's spirits to you. The Loa.”

  I knew all that, and I suspected that these were the Petro Loa, violent spirits borne of suppression and slavery.

  She carried on talking, stirring the curry and holding it away from her own face. “You British with your ignorance of Vodou ways. Like the Americans and their Hollywood. Stupid Americans, always showing us as cannibals and witch doctors, raising zombies from the dead.”

  She thought I knew nothing. That was a good sign. But I did know one thing – Annie was no Vodou priest.

  “We have become so reviled, it makes me sick,” she said, losing her false humour. Then she smiled again. “Please forgive an old woman while she finishes her late lunch. I will not be long. Take a sniff.” she thrust the bowl beneath my nose. “It smells delicious, would you not say, my boy?”

  I should have paid more attention instead of being distracted by the trimmings and the dog. I caught a whiff of something acrid, and my sinuses screamed out. My eyes ran blurry as Annie put the bowl on the table, away from her. “Why don't you go look in that mirror, boy? Speak to your ghosts.”

  She knew. How could she know about the spirits? I felt dizzy, and fought to keep my balance as the room began to sway. Annie was grinning, the dog had become silent and alert, black ears erect.

  “Yes, the mirror has the answers.” I staggered to the mirror and almost fell into the frame. “You have the An-da-shealladh. You see them, don't you, with the second sight.” The dog growled quietly.

  I looked into the glass and saw not my own reflection, but the images of several dark figures moving in the smoke beyond. They were hideous and sad. Like ghosts, but rotting in stagnation and despair.

  Trapped Loas. One raised a bony hand towards me and seemed to be pointing towards the door, as if warning me to leave. And I realised I had to keep moving, run if possible, keep the blood flowing and slow the drug down.

  Annie's sharp voice cut through the haze in my mind. “Let it flow, relax your head. Your gros bon ange is leaving you. Your Ti bon ange will be alone.”

  What was she talking about? Everything was becoming numb. But the wretched spirits wanted to help me. They told me what the witch meant. She was talking of my angel. My big guardian angel, cast away from my body. I would be left with no protection, and Annie would have my soul.

  I should leave.

  But not yet. Must finish the job. I turned towards the table and the dog growled low and terrible.

  “What do the dead say, white boy?” said Annie, scooping runes from the bowl. “They tell you to help me? Help old Annie?”

  I leaned onto the edge of the table and tried to focus on her demented smile. I slurred my words. “Necklace. Aramaic necklace.”

  “He speaks. I was beginning to think the tongue had been torn from your head, lover. The Aramaic necklace, eh?” Her mocking laughter sent my head spiralling and I felt dumb. “The Haitian houngan sent you to me. His mistake.” And then s
he threw sand into my face. “Yours too.”

  Then I was on the floor, trying to get up, too woozy. My hands scrabbled over the wooden floorboards and I couldn't get my balance to stand. I half sat, half lay there, thinking that I had to get the talisman out of my pocket.

  I put my weight on my left hand, and searched inside my jacket pocket with the right. There was so much junk in there, and I couldn't locate it.

  A searing pain in my left wrist made me lurch violently. My hand had fallen within the confines of the pentagram, and as the blood ran over my hand and sleeve, I realised the dog had bit me. I gasped and glared at the beast. It glowered back, and I felt a fear I had never had before. The animal looked more demonic than ever, and blood the colour of its eyes dripped from its teeth. It growled and I shuddered, yanking off my tie and wrapping it around my wrist to curb the flow.

  “Stanley is such a good boy. Such a loyal baka,” said the old crone.

  I held my wrist tightly. The dog was the demon, her familiar. Of course he was. I was an idiot not to see it. I had entered here unprepared and I was probably not going to get out in one piece. Ertreal.

  My throat was constricted, I couldn't speak. I could not name the demon. Ertrael. Damn her. Damn the witch!

  The room kept spinning. I felt nauseous, and Annie was leaning over me, sprinkling herbs from a jar over my head as she spoke. “You need the talisman, my love. You need the talisman to