Existentially Challenged, page 11
“Anyway,” said Anderson, fed up. “The government did not establish this law so you jokers could round up all the stage magicians and get revenge for your shitty birthday parties. It was supposed to stop faith healers and the like taking advantage of thickos. Alternative medicine’s exploding now it can associate with real magic. The prime minister’s been very hot on this since his sister-in-law’s dog choked on her crystal therapy kit.”
“Admirable,” said Elizabeth dryly.
Anderson looked at each person in turn, waiting for suggestions, and met nothing but polite blankness, indifference, and cringing terror. “All right, since you’re all collectively as much use as a one-legged cat on the Palestinian border, I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to invite these internet snots to come watch you enforcing this law in a way that makes us all look good. Yeah? Come down on some hippie who made a cancer patient ditch chemotherapy to stick incense in his pisshole. That sort of thing.”
“Couldn’t we just issue a press release saying we do take the law seriously?” suggested Danvers.
Anderson looked at him with the usual contempt, then sighed. “Be nice to go back to those times, wouldn’t it? When that was all you needed to do. No, people get so much smoke blown up their arses these days, they don’t pay attention anymore. They just take it in and fart it straight back out. These days, you want a story to stick, you gotta do stuff, not just say you’re doing stuff.”
“I’m firing a message off to LAXA Updates as we speak,” said Pavani dutifully, going at her tablet like a desperate window washer without a sponge. “They’re easy enough to find. Very social media active.”
“Right,” said Anderson. “Now all we need is a bogus healer to arrest in front of them.”
The moment the words left his mouth, an urgent knocking came upon the meeting room door. It wasn’t particularly loud or hard, but it started slowly and gradually increased to urgent tempo as the knocker gained confidence.
“Bog off!” roared Anderson. “Senior meeting!”
A moment of silence as the person behind the door wrestled with their courage, then the door opened exactly six inches. “Sorry, sorry sorry sorry, this can’t wait,” said a breathless Adam Hesketh. “I’ve got an urgent, I mean, I’m late for some . . . investigating I’m doing. I just need a quick answer on what to do about that faith healer I was investigating?”
“Adam . . .” said Danvers, tired.
“Get in here, shambles,” commanded Anderson. Adam swiftly did so, and the moment the door fell shut behind him, he was pinned to it by the stares of everyone in the room. “You got a faith healer we can move against?”
“Oh yes,” said Adam, nodding so rapidly his voice was distorted. “This online faith healing group called Modern Miracle—”
“Modern Miracle?” asked Alison, sitting up. She exchanged a glance with Elizabeth.
Anderson looked from her to Adam and back. “This name mean something to us?”
“It appears to be coming up a lot lately,” said Elizabeth, her voice low with suspicion.
Pavani was going at her tablet again and reading from the results. “Looking up Modern Miracle. A few results. Are we talking about the streaming channel, the message board, or this . . . Cult of El-Yetch thing?”
“Yes,” said Alison and Adam together.
“It’s all the same thing,” said Adam.
Anderson was clutching his head. “Look, I couldn’t give the fluff on a monkey’s bum for the details. You lot work this out after I bugger off to the next pack of cockheads on my list for today. I just need to know one thing: are we absolutely sure this is fake healing? ’Cos the whole plan is in the bog bowl if it isn’t.”
“Erm . . .” said Adam.
“Oh yes, pretty much all faith healing is fake,” said Alison eagerly. “Because of how real magic healing works. Basically everyone who knows anything about magic knows that.”
“Okay. Good.” Anderson stabbed a sausage-like index finger in Adam’s direction, and he unconsciously flattened himself against the door again. “It was your idea, so it’s on you if this goes up the poo pipe, spotty. Can I leave you all to it now?”
Alison hadn’t realized it was possible to flush pale, but Adam was making a spirited attempt. “Uh,” he said. “Uh. Well. Yes, I suppose it’s probably fake, isn’t it.”
“Okay! Good meeting! Where am I next?” Anderson was already stomping toward the door and checking his phone. “Oh. Department of Business. And Alan is swearing that he dumped his shares by coincidence, because he thinks my brain has been replaced with a pulled pork sandwich since the last time. Eff me. On second thoughts, eff him.” He opened the door and left, hardly noticing that Adam was still pinned to it.
After waiting the customary amount of time for the sound of angry footfalls to fade away, Danvers coughed. “Well, the strategy seems clear. Alison, could you inform Diablerie that his new assignment has been decided?”
“Modern Miracle is having one of their public healing shows at their house this Friday evening,” said Pavani, still staring at her tablet. “I’ll make sure LAXA’s people are free, but does that suit the two of you?”
Alison didn’t have the slightest idea. She didn’t have access to Diablerie’s calendar, or anything so mundane as a phone number with which to reach him; she had simply grown reliant on his tendency to materialize when needed, or thought about. “I think so,” she summarized aloud.
“You propose to put Doctor Diablerie in front of cameras,” said Elizabeth, holding her clasped hands before her face.
“Yes!” said Pavani.
“To show that we’re taking our work seriously,” continued Elizabeth.
“Hm,” said Danvers, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Alison, just . . . do your best to keep him reined in.”
“Maybe I should go too!” said Adam, stiffly holding up an arm like a schoolchild asking to use the lavatory. “In case she needs help reining him in.”
“I think not, Adam,” said Danvers. “There are plenty of open cases at Investigations that would benefit from your input.”
“But—”
“Alison knows Diablerie well enough to handle him now,” said Elizabeth. “One suspects the only thing that would significantly help would be a straitjacket.”
Text messages between Victor and Leslie-Ifrig, 11:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.:
Your private message history with Leslifrig6969
hey victor
thanks for joining the site
hey
you there?
oh i guess your probly at lunch
hey are you back?
hey
hey you there?
i know your there it says your reading these
i thought you wanted to be friends
You replied: For christ’s sake.
You replied: I didn’t sign up here to be friends.
You replied: I am keeping tabs on you because you tried to kill me.
you tried to kill me too
see we’ve got a lot in common
You replied: I’m not going to respond any more after this.
ok
hey
hey victor
hey victor
hey victor
victor
You replied: WHAT DO YOU WANT?
hey victor
wanna go start fires in rainham quarry
You replied: NO.
i think im going to
You replied: DO NOT DO THAT.
well im going to soooooo
better come stop me
THE NEXT FRIDAY EVENING
19
The address that Modern Miracle provided on their website turned out to belong to a very nice detached home at the end of a curling side street on the west edge of Worcester. As Alison drove Diablerie’s car around the curve, the house was directly ahead, standing against a backdrop of a rolling grassy hill with the houses to the left and right of it seeming to cringe at its obvious greater importance.
The house itself was two stories of flat-faced nondescript orange brick, and the front garden little more than a rectangle of green lawn bisected by a path, but it was a bustle of activity. People of all ages were standing around it in small groups, chatting indifferently, all throwing occasional glances at the front door of the house and the inexpensive Modern Miracle banner that had been hung over it.
There were so many vehicles parked in the small suburban road that driving Diablerie’s ostentatious car through the space available would have been like working out a particularly antisocial kidney stone, but then Alison noticed the familiar sight of Beatrice Callum’s LAXA van parked a good distance from the house and took that as the invitation to park directly behind.
“There lies the weasel den,” announced Diablerie, the moment the car door opened and his polished shoes touched the tarmac. “Come, then. Glorified rat catchers we may be, but never let it be said that Diablerie—what is it now, girl?”
The moment Diablerie had thrust himself to his full height and begun talking at maximum volume, Alison had started urgently hopping from one foot to the other and shaking her palms at him. “Um,” she whispered. “I was just thinking we could try to be subtle?”
Offended, Diablerie threw his cloak around himself. “Think you to lecture Diablerie on the subtle arts?”
“We are . . . trying to catch someone in the act,” tried Alison. “Maybe we should try not to be noticed?”
Diablerie’s gaze shifted to the small crowd gathered on the lawn in the distance, and his eyes narrowed slowly as his lips drew thin. “From the mouths of babes, perhaps,” he muttered, before turning and rummaging around the back seat of his car for a few moments. When he turned back around, he was wearing a top hat that had a black band instead of a red one and was about an inch shorter. “Come! Let us melt unseen among the dark shadows that haunt this place.”
Alison decided to let the matter drop, partly because she was trying to figure out if Diablerie had just said something racist or not, partly because, at that moment, the side door of the van opened, and Beatrice Callum became visible for about half a second before Alison’s view was entirely filled by a flailing mass of brown fur.
“Sorry!” said Beatrice, grabbing the dog’s leash just in time and hauling him back. “I think he remembers you. Down, Arby. Bad boy.”
Arby pawed the air, thrusting himself forward again and again, it apparently taking quite a long time for his conscious brain to absorb the fact that he was leashed up. Alison leaned back as far as she could over the bonnet of Diablerie’s car until her body resembled a question mark. “You brought the dog?!”
“Yeah, well, we were going to drop him off at Mum’s,” said Beatrice, quite casually, despite the frenzied, slobbering mass she was using all her strength to keep at bay. “But that didn’t really work out because, you know, Mum doesn’t technically know we have him yet. How’ve you been? You all right?”
Alison was making a courageous effort to will herself two dimensional. “Allergies,” she explained, in what came out as a whispered squawk.
“Oh, right, sorry.” Beatrice pulled the dog back in earnest, and the leash was taken by her dreadlocked boyfriend-cameraman, who had also emerged from the van. “So . . . we got the message from your lady at DEDA and I gotta say we’re pretty pumped about this, Modern Miracle has been on our radar for ages, there was this whole thing actually where they poached one of the best moderators away from LAXA.com and it was all a load of drama llamas for a while so it’ll be great to get some ammunition—”
“Bea!” shouted Beatrice’s brother David from his usual spot in the driving seat of the van. “How long is this going to take?”
“I don’t know!” replied Beatrice, fists clenching. “An hour or two!”
“You said that last time! This is gaslighting!”
“No it isn’t! Shut up! We’re streaming!” She turned to her cameraman, who was tying the dog to something hopefully secure inside the van. “Can we start streaming?”
“Oh yeah, let me get the equipment out,” he replied, after he had finally successfully closed the sliding doors without a furry snout getting in the way. He then produced his phone from his coat pocket and held it up. “Okay. Ready.”
“Roger, we need lighting,” said Beatrice reproachfully. It was to be an evening sermon, and the last rivulets of daylight were dribbling down the chimneys of the houses.
“Oh yeah,” said Roger. He fumbled with the screen for a few seconds, then activated his phone’s inbuilt flashlight. “Okay. Streaming live.”
For the second time, Alison had the privilege of witnessing Beatrice’s transformation, this time in the opposite direction. After she had finished blinking away the afterimages, her posture and expression changed like a cinematic dissolve. Her loose shoulders tightened. Her sleepy gaze hardened into a gimlet stare. Her perpetually open mouth clamped shut and became tight with disapproval.
“This is Beatrice Callum for LAXA Updates,” she said into the microphone that she had produced from her hip pocket. “Thanks for watching, remember to like and subscribe. We’re here in Worcester to investigate the so-called Modern Miracle cult and their so-called claims of magical so-called healing.” Her eyes rolled back for a few moments as she parsed her own words. “And we’re very pleased to announce that LAXA Updates is now fully backed by the British government.”
“Erm,” said Alison as the phone light swung around to drill into her retinas. “Hello?” She glanced around for Doctor Diablerie’s support, but he was a few yards away out of shot, doing a channeling routine that looked as if he was trying to rhythmically sweep his hands past his nose as close as he could without touching it.
“Donation from TimelyGonad,” reported Roger, reading off his phone. “He wants to know if Ms. Arkin is going to use her mind-taking powers against Modern Miracle.”
“I don’t have . . . that wasn’t . . .” said Alison, words sputtering in her throat like a dying sparkler. “Do I have to answer that?”
“He donated,” said Roger, as if that resolved the matter.
“Okay, back to me,” said Beatrice, beckoning with a finger until Roger turned the lens back on her. “Modern Miracle is holding one of their so-called healing services tonight for all their brainwashed followers, and we intend to uncover the truth in front of everyone they’ve misled. This is investigative journalism at its noblest and most serious.”
“Donation from JizzFairy,” said Roger. “He wants to know your favorite flavor of crisp.”
“Thanks for your support, JizzFairy, I would have to say salt and vinegar,” said Beatrice, not changing her tone of voice.
Beatrice continued establishing the scene and answering viewer questions as she walked slowly toward the house, Roger trying his best to lead the way facing backwards. Alison drifted along after them, far enough into the road to be safely out of shot.
By this point there was music coming from the front garden of the Modern Miracle house, and judging by the way the visitors were all now politely sitting cross-legged in the grass, this was apparently the signal that the show was about to start. The music was a powerful orchestral track that was somehow simultaneously very bombastic and very generic. In fact—Alison’s eidetic memory suddenly kicked in—it was music that she had heard on no less than three epic fantasy movie trailers in just the last six months.
“Girl,” said Diablerie, heart-stoppingly close to her ear. He had been strolling along at the rear of the party and had subtly slid into place beside her, marching with the ominous tilt of a pallbearer. “A storm brews here, girl. A metaphorical storm,” he swiftly added. “For the sake of our mutual dignity, do not glance at the sky.”
Alison’s neck stiffened as she rushed to cancel the nerve impulse she had just sent.
“There’s danger here.” He sniffed. “Dark tendrils play at the edges of that house’s aura like black fingers.”
“This isn’t a racism thing, right?”
“Keep your wits about you,” said Diablerie, in about as serious a tone as Alison had ever heard from him. “Be ready to react to the unexpected.” With that, he slowed his walking pace again and glided smoothly back to the rear guard of the party.
Between Diablerie’s words and the dying sunlight projecting a flare of red sky against the looming silhouette, Alison felt a deepening sense of omen from the Modern Miracle house. Although that might equally have been coming from the fact that the trailer music had reached the part normally accompanied with a succession of quick cuts of increasingly intense action scenes.
By the time Alison had knelt down on an unoccupied patch of grass at the very back of the crowd and leaned against the perimeter fence, the music had reached a crescendo and faded out. The enraptured silence of the followers as they stared expectantly at Modern Miracle’s front door painted a fresh layer of eerieness onto the scene.
Miracle Dad’s entrance, after a few finely calculated moments of utter silence, left her rather underwhelmed, but perhaps she had spent too much time around Diablerie and his smoke bombs. Miracle Dad simply opened the door and bounded out. “All right, Miracle Mob!” he exclaimed. “Thanks for coming to another Modern Miracle stream!”
He addressed the second part to the camera rather than the crowd. Modern Miracle appeared to have a more advanced setup than LAXA, because their camera was a webcam sitting on a pile of books on a dining chair. It was connected by cable to a laptop being operated by a frail, meek-looking middle-aged woman who Alison assumed must have been the lady of the house, Miracle Mum perhaps. She seemed like the kind of person who would end up with someone like Miracle Dad, the way a small, pale moon gravitates to a large, boisterous planet.
