Chapters (50)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication Page
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Ninteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Epilogue
- Letter From the Author
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
‘There’s something following you, Andrew,’ he said in a hushed voice, leaning forward. I leant back. On the wall behind him was a canvas with a disturbing image: a woman with no eyes in her face, reaching out while flames danced around her. I looked at the nearest bookshelf: fat tomes with titles like English Magick: The Dark Art and The Life and Eternal Death of Aleister Crowley stood out.
‘Following me?’ I said.
His earlier smile had vanished. ‘Something has attached itself to you. A . . . a dark spirit. It’s hiding – or trying to hide.’ He peered closer, and I looked behind me to see what he was staring at, half-expecting to see a demon, crouched and giggling behind its wing, on the back of the chair.
‘You won’t be able to see it, Andrew. But it’s there.’ He gasped.
This was extremely unnerving.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Have you suffered a lot of . . . bad luck recently?’
I hesitated. ‘I’ve had some.’
‘I thought as much. It’s a mischief maker, this spirit. It likes to create chaos.’ He narrowed his eyes and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s dangerous, Andrew. But I could help you rid yourself of it. Perhaps.’
My flesh was coarse with goose bumps. ‘No offence, but you’re giving me the creeps.’
He smiled. ‘You’re a sceptic. Most people are, unfortunately. But when it’s too late, then you’ll believe.’
I stood up, setting the Scotch aside. I couldn’t wait to tell Charlie about this later. She would laugh at my description of the old man and his portentous warnings. ‘Can you tell me about Karen? Where is she?’
He frowned and said, ‘Oh dear’ again.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Andrew. But she’s dead. She died some days ago.’
Twenty-seven
Twenty-seven
Trains clattered in and out of Victoria station, lovers kissed goodbye, mothers tilted buggies into carriages, commuters headed home, pigeons fluttered and crapped, cleaners cleaned, guards guarded, bodies streamed and jostled and shoved. And among it all, I stood as still as death, fixed in place while the entire world – or so it felt – jostled past me, and I half-listened to the eardrum-pounding announcements: I am sorry . . . Due to an accident . . . The 17:45 to Orpington is currently delayed . . . A person being killed on the tracks.