Thicker Than Water

And whatever it was they talked about, the conversation - as you just heard with no trace of surprise - ended with Kenny carved up like a Christmas turkey. And I mean the way Homer Simpson carves up a Christmas turkey.’

Matt held up a hand as if to correct me on a point of fact. I rode right over him. ‘Now maybe those things aren’t connected, but I’m working on the assumption that they are. Because the last thing Kenny did, as his nifty little urban runabout filled up with his own blood, was to write my name on the windshield.

He called in an exorcist, Matty. The only exorcist whose name he knew. Leaving me with a lot to explain to the boys in blue, but making bloody sure I got to hear about what had happened to him. Why do you think that was?’

Matt’s brow constricted into a frown. ‘It wasn’t . . .’ he began, but then he shook his head as if despairing of shifting me from my point of view. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘I have no idea at all.’

‘Me neither. But if I’m right - if the Anathemata is sniffing after something at the Salisbury, and if Kenny is a part of that something, then is it too much of a stretch to imagine good Father Thomas Aquinas Gwillam sifting through all the tools in the box until he finds the one Catholic priest who happened to know Kenny when we were all kids? Like I said, he’s got that kind of mindset.

So I could see him asking you, Matty. I think that’s well within the bounds of possibility. Don’t you? The only thing left to wonder about is what answer you gave him. ’

Instead of answering, Matt made to walk past me, heading for the door. I stepped into his way, forcing him to stop. Although I didn’t touch him, he backed away as if he was rebounding from a physical barrier. There was genuine pain on his face now.

‘Please, Felix,’ he said. ‘You really don’t understand. And I’m—’ He drew a slightly ragged breath. ‘I’m desperately sorry that you got involved in this. It’s unfortunate, and unforeseen. You should walk away, as quickly as you can.

It’s not something that needs to concern you. It doesn’t bear on anything that you know about, or need to know about.’

He was grinding his clenched fist into his open palm again.

‘Are your palms itchy?’ I asked. He looked down at his hands as if only just realising they were there. The skin of my own hands felt like it was crawling with bugs, although the sensation seemed to have peaked and was now starting to fade.