Читать книгу She Demons - Donald J. Hauka - Страница 8

Chapter Three

It was hard to tell that the sprawling building had once been a church. It looked rather like a community hall; a plain, rectangular box with wooden siding and tall, single-pane windows. But a congregation had once worshipped here, filling the long gone pews that had stretched from the entrance alcove to the raised stage where the pulpit had once stood. That congregation had thrived and prospered even as the neighbourhood around them crumbled into decay. Finally, the worshippers made plans for a new church, raised the money, and had left the building over a decade ago, taking the sacredness with them to the new site and retiring this one in a special ceremony. Now it was used by a variety of temporary tenants: film companies, flea markets, and Lionel Simons, who knew that, deconsecrated or not, holding his rave there would drive the Reverend Peter Hobbes insane with fury.

Jinnah didn’t bother to fill Saleem in on that background as they approached the front door. He wanted to keep his son focused on the plan.

“This is gonna be cool!” said Saleem.

“This is gonna be work,” Jinnah reminded him. “Remember: you go in there, you look for Andy Gill. You find him, you point me in his direction, hmm? Failing that, drop the name of Thad Golway and see what you can scare up. Understand?”

“I got it,” said Saleem, with just the right shade of petulance in his voice.

Jinnah choked down his frustration. His heart was pounding faster than the muffled beat that could be felt emanating from within the abandoned church. He was a mass of anxieties and fears. It was getting on to eleven o’clock. The rave officially ended at 1:00 a.m. Manjit would stay behind to help the rest of the health officials pack up. That gave them less than two hours to get in, get the goods, and get home without Manjit being the wiser.

“And if you should see your mother —” Jinnah began for the tenth time.

“I know, I know,” Saleem cut him off. “Lie.”

“I am not telling you to lie to your mother,” said Jinnah, whining only slightly. “It’s called plausible deniability.”

“Why don’t I get plausible deniability?”

“Because I’m the president of this operation. Just avoid her at all costs and if you get caught, you snuck out of the house while I was out, right?”

“Thanks, Mr. President.”

There were a handful of youths at the doors, smoking. They were from a cross-section of ethnic backgrounds and a wide variety of social circumstances, but had one thing in common: they were all about Saleem’s age. Jinnah was easily the oldest person there by two decades. An insolent silence settled over them as Jinnah approached the doorman.

“Two, please.”

The doorman was stocky, with a weightlifter’s torso and legs that were just a little too short for him. His face was broad, his hair was short, and Jinnah was reminded of the drill sergeant he had been forced to listen to for several weeks while doing his compulsory service back in Kenya. The doorman cleared his throat. “Two? You don’t quite fit the demographic, do you, pop?”

His voice was pleasant enough, but Jinnah’s hackles went up anyway. “It’s my right as a taxpayer to be allowed in!” he thundered. “And as a parent!”

The youths were now staring at them curiously. Saleem looked like he wanted to crawl under the floorboards of the porch. The doorman laughed. “You want to go inside and check things out? Make sure it’s safe for your kid?”

“Absolutely,” said Jinnah. “Listen, my friend, don’t try and stop me —”

“Go right ahead,” said the doorman, offering them two tickets. “It’s a clean rave, friend. It’s about peace and openness, not secrecy and suspicion. That’ll be forty bucks.”

“Forty bucks!” squealed Jinnah, at which point Saleem found the courage to elbow him in the ribs, dislodging his wallet and gaining them access to the rave.

Once inside, Jinnah had hoped to give Saleem one last pep talk, but it was useless. The music was so loud, even in the foyer, that he had to shout to hear himself speak. Once they were through the main doors, they were assaulted by a wall of sound. Jinnah felt he was being rocked back and forth by the music. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was startled by the action on the dance floor. Dozens of teens were dancing and writhing, packed in so tightly it was amazing they could move at all. It looked more like a huge rugby scrum than anything else. Jinnah’s nose quivered with the warm aroma of human sweat and teen hormones. And the stench of his own fear for his son.

“Live in the present moment. Put peace in this moment. Put love in this moment. Put yourself in the centre. The centre is everywhere….”

Jinnah wrenched his eyes from the floor to the stage. Strobe lights flashed in time to the heartbeat rhythm of the music. There was a lone figure, lit up every half second by the pounding lights: tall, slender, dressed in black silk, his head partly covered by a golden scarf. Lionel Simons, in mid rap homily. Jinnah studied the Rave Messiah’s face. He’d never been able to place Simons exactly. He was of mixed race, and could have passed for anything from an Indian yogi to a Tibetan monk. Right now, the former shock-rocker was belting out a gospel rock with a danceable World Beat.

Jinnah felt rather than heard Saleem talking at his side. He turned to see Saleem chatting with a small circle of teens who had surrounded them. Several of them were Indo-Canadians whom Saleem seemed to know. In an instant, they had whisked Saleem onto the dance floor. Jinnah lost sight of them almost immediately. Shit. He moved with difficulty along the wall, pushing past people, trying to catch a glimpse of his son. Just ahead of him, the crowd seemed to thin, promising a vantage point. Jinnah was about to wriggle his way through when he saw a familiar face not ten feet ahead.

Manjit. Handing out water to teenagers.

Jinnah hastily ducked behind a young couple, turned, and headed the other direction. His head was throbbing like the speakers and he was having trouble breathing. He felt claustrophobic, slightly panicked. Head down, he fumbled in his pockets for a couple of tranquilizers, meaning to pop them into his mouth and swallow them without water — definitely without water — and with that he cast a glance back at Manjit. Oh, God, no. She’s staring at the dance floor. That’s not a look of professional concern on her face either. Jinnah followed her gaze. Well, at least he had found Saleem. The little bastard didn’t look like he’d done a lot of talking. Gyrating, yes. He was considering trying to haul Saleem off the dance floor when a new problem presented itself. Manjit was moving in his direction. Keeping one eye on Saleem and another on his wife, Jinnah tried to make good his escape along the wall and ran headlong into a young woman, who doubled over.

“I am sorry!” Jinnah shouted above the din, helping her straighten out.

“S’okay,” the woman gasped.

She stood up and looked at Jinnah. In that moment, a spark of recognition leapt between them. Although she was young, she was definitely a little old for this crowd, being in her mid-twenties. Her hair was a long, jet-black mane and her face still had the grace and beauty of a princess carved in the stone temple of Konarak. She was, admittedly, a few pounds heavier than when Jinnah had first seen her, but she was still stunning. He could not help but wonder what she would look like in a sari, but then, even the jeans and white cotton blouse she wore was an improvement over her wardrobe during their first encounter, when she had been totally nude.

“Jassy Singh!” he cried.

It was not until Jassy’s tight little mouth set and her soft, brown eyes hardened that Jinnah also recalled that they had not, strictly speaking, parted on the best of terms.

“Jinnah, you son of a bitch!” Jassy screamed above the music. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Jinnah’s memory had finally located the file marked “Singh, Jassy.” Interview subject eight years previous. Story: Simons’s first mass, nude baptism on Wreck Beach. Subject had been eloquent in defence of the MiMis. Wardrobe consisted of flowers in her hair. Had reminded the reporter of a wild pony revelling in new-found freedom. How could she have taken offence at that?

“How have you been, Jassy?” shouted Jinnah. “I must say, you look fantastic.”

“Don’t give me that shit!” said Jassy, hands on her hips. “Do you think I’ve forgotten what you wrote about me?”

Jinnah had, actually. He did remember the photos, of course. Most of which could not be used in a family newspaper like the Tribune.

“I’m sure it was nothing but flattery for one so young and beautiful,” Jinnah said, resorting to evasive tactics.

“Flattery! You called me a besotted teenage zombie!”

“It was meant in a nice way,” Jinnah protested.

“You totally distorted what I said! You completely twisted everything to make me look like I was some … some Moonie or something. And you called us a cult! The MiMis aren’t a cult, we’re a service organization!”

“I thought I painted a charming portrait of a new generation of flower children,” Jinnah riposted, still trying to remember the exact tone of the article.

“Depraved nude revels. Brainwashed automatons cavorting in a public orgy. Charming?!” yelled Jassy, whose memory seemed far more perfect on the subject than Jinnah’s. “My parents threw me out of the house! They haven’t talked to me in eight years because of the lies you wrote! Maybe if you paid more attention to what I was saying instead of scoping me out —”

By now, several people had gathered around to watch. And the music, which had been at near ear-bleeding level since Jinnah’s arrival, had stopped. But Jassy hadn’t bothered to lower her voice.

The last thing Jinnah needed here was a scene. He switched desperately from the defensive to the offensive. “Look, this has nothing to do with your nakedness. Everything I wrote about you and your cult — and it is a cult — was true,” Jinnah said, lowering his voice. “Does the naked truth hurt so much?”

“Let me tell you a thing or two about truth —” Jassy started.

“Tell me what you know about Andy Gill.”

The question landed like a low blow in a boxing match. Jassy closed her mouth for the first time since she’d bumped into Jinnah. His instincts tingled. Yes. On the right track at last….

“Andy who?” said Jassy fiercely. “I don’t know an Andy Gill.”

Her eyes cannot meet mine. She’s a bad liar, Jinnah thought.

“His family is very anxious over his whereabouts. He left home in your company several weeks ago, according to his father.” Jinnah pressed his advantage. “And I have reason to believe he would like to speak to me about — several things.”

“I don’t know him and I hope I never see your stupid face again!” Jassy stomped off and was swallowed by a crowd of teens, who eyed Jinnah as if he were some lascivious ogre. He turned to find a nice, safe corner to crawl into and ran right into Manjit.

“Manjit, darling! What a surprise!”

“Hakeem. Who was that young woman?”

“A former interview subject who objected to a story I wrote. That’s all, my love,” said Jinnah, shrugging.

“And do you interview all of your subjects while they are naked?”

There was no logical response to this question. In fact, Jinnah knew the entire episode was a black pit into which he would be sunk for months, even years. He was about to confess the entire truth when Manjit put up a warning hand.

“Not now, Hakeem. Why have you brought Saleem here?”

“I brought him here to work, not for fun, Manjit. He’s on assignment.”

“You went against your own word so you could use your son to pursue a news story?”

The words shook Manjit’s head for her. They were lost on Jinnah. This was partly due to his ability to hear an ugly truth and have it bounce off his emotional armour, but mainly because his attention was elsewhere. Near the exit, Jassy was pitching into the doorman — likely for letting Jinnah in. It was his subconscious that picked up the urgent tone in Manjit’s voice and yanked him back to attention.

“I’m sorry, my love — you were saying?”

“I said don’t you think it’s about time you took our child labourer son home, Hakeem?”

“Of course, darling. I’ll just go get —”

But when Jinnah’s eyes finally peeled away from Jassy and the doorman and focused on the dance floor, there was no Saleem. Manjit looked at her husband. Jinnah knew his eyes were twin revelations of guilt behind his tinted glasses. Her words from earlier this evening echoed in his head: “The problems aren’t on the dance floor. They’re around the edges, in the parking lots, the washrooms….”

“Sonofabitch,” muttered Jinnah.

* * *

Jinnah burst through the crowd at the front door of the building and felt like a drowning man breaking surface. Panting, he put the two Phenobarbitals into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Where the hell was Saleem? He didn’t need Manjit’s accusing look to know this was his fault. What if he was already shooting up in the parking lot? No, he couldn’t be — wouldn’t be. Surely he’d raised his son — okay, surely Manjit had raised his son better than that. He found his cellphone in his hand and he almost used the speed-dial to call Graham for help. His finger was on the button when a small circle of teens hanging around the steps broke apart, revealing Saleem at the centre. To Hakeem’s immense relief he appeared unharmed and still in his right mind.

Jinnah’s heart rate had scarcely begun to slow when he heard a disturbance in the parking lot. Standing at the top of the stairs by the doors, he had a perfect view of its source. A gang of teens was approaching, singing loudly, marching in a tight formation, and sweeping errant ravers before them like a scythe. They were dressed in white bomber jackets bearing logo of the warrior Archangel Michael and his flaming sword. Shit, it’s the crusaders. Hobbes’s God Squad. Led by the Reverend Hobbes himself. All hell was about to break lose. Without reflecting on the irony of that thought, Jinnah sprinted down the steps and grabbed Saleem by the collar. His ring of friends, having spied the God Squad, had already started for the building.

“What —”

“Inside,” Jinnah snapped, hauling Saleem up the steps, pushing and shoving against the rest of the teenagers seeking sanctuary inside the abandoned church.

“Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great!” Hobbes roared through his megaphone. “It has become a dwelling place of demons, a haunt of every foul spirit, for all nations drunk the wine of her impure passion….”

The God Squad had made it to the foot of the stairs. Jinnah and Saleem were one step from the top and could go no further. A surge of people trying to get out the door had met the tide of teens trying to get in and become a hopeless whirlpool of pushing, shoving humanity. Hakeem and his son were being squished, elbowed, kicked as young men and women flailed, trying to move. It was like being in the mosh pit without the music.

“What’s going on, Dad?” asked Saleem. “What’s happening.”

“I believe the Christians call this ‘tough love,’ Saleem,” Jinnah gasped as someone trod on his Guccis.

“Repent! Repent! The wages of sin is death!”

Hobbes was standing at the bottom of the stairs, haranguing the crowd, backed up by over a dozen God Squad members. Hadn’t anyone thought to call the cops? Jinnah would have done it himself, but his arms were pinned to his side. Where the hell was the doorman when you needed him?

Suddenly, Jinnah became aware of a hush over the crowd. Perhaps a dozen people had entered the old church, but only one person had come out into the cleared space. Standing alone at the top of the stairs, facing down the Reverend Hobbes was Lionel Simons himself, a dark figure facing the forces of white glaring hatefully up at him. Jinnah groaned inwardly. Caught between a rock of ages and a hard place.

“Reverend Hobbes, good evening,” said Simons, his voice firm and commanding. “How good of you to come to the party.”

“Blasphemer!” roared Hobbes, abandoning his megaphone. “How dare you desecrate this holy ground?”

“I think it was one of your denominations that abandoned this as a place of worship,” said Simons, smiling. “It felt lonely. We’ve restored its sense of purpose.”

“Drug dealer!” shouted Hobbes. “Corrupter of youth! How dare you talk of worship! It’s the devil you bow to, Simons!”

Simons’s smile faded. He walked slowly down the steps. Jinnah found himself among the crowd watching from the front of the porch as the Rave Messiah towered over Hobbes like some dark angel.

“We worship life, we do not deny it, as you do,” said Simons calmly. “As you will not listen, you are not welcome to our feast. Go, and take your God Squad with you.”

Jinnah found himself holding his breath. He could easily imagine these two men of peace murdering each other. How many years had they been waging a war for the hearts and minds of kids just like Saleem? For a long moment, there was near silence as the two men glared at each other. Then, another figure joined them on the stairs. It was the doorman.

“Come on, Magus,” he said cheerfully. “Time for your closing set. Unless you want to borrow the Reverend’s megaphone and do a little dancing in the streets.”

Simons did not take his eyes off Hobbes. “Ray, get inside,” he said.

Ray the doorman was nonplussed. “Now, now. Reverend Hobbes, where are your stones, sir? The ones that he who is without sin is allowed to cast?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” spat Hobbes. “I know you, Daisley. Servant of the evil one.”

“Hey, the evil one pays scale and has a great benefits package. Now if you two want to start a riot, you’re both going about it the right way. But despite our differences, we all believe in making love, not splitting skulls, right? Remember the sixties? All you need is love. Incidentally, Reverend, where were you in ’62?”

Jinnah looked at Ray Daisley, the doorman, in a new light. He’d looked like a whipped puppy while Jassy was dissing him. Now he stood between these two driven men and tried to kid them out of a potentially violent confrontation. Simons visibly relaxed and even managed a wan smile. “Ray, you’re crazy,” he said, turning to go.

Hobbes went to lift his megaphone to his mouth, then found Daisley’s hand on his arm.

“Enough, Reverend. For the love of the kids, enough.”

Jinnah was amazed. The words were pleasant enough but carried a distinctly menacing undertone. Suddenly, he realized why Daisley was Simons’s gatekeeper.

“Please. I’m asking politely, Reverend. I would add that the police are on their way.”

“We answer to a higher authority,” said Hobbes.

But Jinnah noted that the Reverend still turned away, waving his megaphone over his head at his God Squad. “The Lord’s work has been done here tonight, friends! Let us go and sing His praises in purer air.”

Jinnah watched as the God Squad fell in behind Hobbes and marched off singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Daisley stood still at the foot of the steps, watching them go, grinning. Jinnah looked over at Saleem. Consumed with guilt, he saw the boy’s wide eyes watching Hobbes and his crew march off. How could he expose his son to danger like that?

“You okay, son?” he said, voice heavy with concern and conscience.

“Wow! That was wild!” Saleem exclaimed. “Do those guys show up every time?”

Jinnah stared at his son, uncomprehending. “Saleem, I risked my life to save you from being trampled underfoot, lost a pound of heart tissue dragging you to safety, and I have aggravated my meningitis, every symptom of which I am now suffering, and you’re telling me you enjoyed that?”

It was Saleem’s turn to look at a loss. “Does this mean I can’t catch the last set?”

To his credit, Jinnah considered it for an instant. Then the image of Manjit swam up before him like a Yaksha, a divine demoness who would lure him into the forest, only to slay him.

“Saleem, I gave you a job to do tonight. Did you actually ask anyone about Andy Gill or Thad Golway?”

“I was going to,” Saleem whined. “But the music was kinda loud and I was dancing and —”

Jinnah was not angry, just resigned. He had tried to take a shortcut to the truth and in murder cases that seldom worked. One needed to emulate Sadhu’s Kirat Karna to solve a slaying. He put an arm around his son’s shoulders and steered him towards the stairs.

“Consider the ride home your severance package, son,” he said.