Slow Hell

The complete first story from Slow Hell is presented below for free

Budget Wards

In Queen’s street the pavement is moist with sticky mucus and is horribly spongy underfoot. I hate it when the city turns organic and can’t help thinking it enjoys upsetting me. This close to The Pit the world rarely holds a single form for more than a day, but Queen’s street is always like the lining of some unimaginable beast’s intestines. At least that is what it’s like for me. Reality is disturbingly subjective around here.

Squelching footsteps tell me I’m not alone but I know better than to look back. Gripping my personal ward in both hands, I squeeze the smooth pebble in sweating palms, tugging nervously at the gold chain around my neck. It’s an expensive ward, unbranded but obviously made to order in the facilities of one of the Big Four. Papal Ward, I expect. It’s due for a top-up. I’ll have it done as soon as I get to work; it’s too dangerous to be unprotected in the Periphery. 

A huge pavement cyst bursts under my high heels and pale green pus spatters against my bare legs, stinging like nettles. I should wear trousers but Roy doesn’t like it when I do, constantly reminding me he wears the trousers in our house. I don’t stop to wipe the mess; I just keep walking, eager to find a street which hasn’t targeted me for special mistreatment

On Wilton Avenue the pavement is lost beneath a dense carpet of depressingly dark blue mist which claws at my ankles with a billion tiny hands. At least there seems to be solid pavement beneath my feet. A snarl of distant thunder tears through the early morning and sets me shuddering. Everyone calls it thunder, that way we don’t have to name the horrors crying out their hateful agony from The Pit. We do that a lot - delude ourselves, tell ourselves the nightmares of our world are natural, not what we know them to be. I wish it was raining; pretending these snarls are thunder is so much easier when it’s raining.

I flick a three inch beetle from my arm and turn my personal ward over to check the red dot on its back. Nearly faded. It shouldn’t be this low, it’s rated for a couple more days yet, but the beetles always turn up when my ward is low. Maybe I should get the whole thing replaced. I pick up the pace, focusing my gaze on the circle of shifting symbols etched into the smooth pebble, trying not to notice the city warp and change as I get closer to work. My head is hurting, pounding with the familiar ache of Infernals trying to get in. But I should be OK, my ward should hold until I’m safely at the factory. They aren’t going to inhabit me here. Not today. That doesn’t stop them trying though, and I am vulnerable enough for them to leave me hurting. 

*

Work is an enormous factory complex on the banks of what used to be the river. This close to The Pit the river can now be anything from a howling flow of boiling blood and lava to an endless and silent procession of mindless corpses marching along a bone-lined riverbed. The factory is an island of continuity amid a tempest of Hell's overflow. And we, its workers, are amongst the few stupid or desperate enough to be there. But we aren’t the only people.

Most people call them Hell Divers, or Freakers, but I call them idiots. The tabloids like to push the stereotypes - gangs of kids from the council estates with their cheap welfare wards dialled back to bare minimum, revelling in the horrors which threaten to engulf them while searching for an infernal Wi-Fi signal to connect their phones and tablets to Hell’s Net. But it isn’t just kids. I stop to steady myself against a maggot infested flesh wall opposite the factory’s main gate, suddenly dizzy with sickness at the memory of Roy’s one flirtation with Hell’s Net. He hadn’t been interested in the hate-filled chat rooms in which unknown demons delight in the corruption or abuse of curious mortals, nor was he attracted to the obscenely blasphemous and cruel news feeds or games. He had been seduced by the lure of porn which, like the mortal internet, dominates Hell’s Net. Adults and kids alike, it is usually to the porn that Hell Divers are drawn. It was hardly our first flirtation with pornography, Roy has always enjoyed getting me to watch some kind of filth with him; but even he was unprepared for what demons apparently get off to. He couldn’t get it up again for months after downloading the short clip, and when he eventually could get aroused I vomited at his touch. We don’t make love anymore and we never watch porn.

I swallow bile and stride quickly to the gate. 

*

Cath, my supervisor, watches from the other end of the changing room, frowning and wincing as I slip my jacket off to reveal an arm mottled purple and yellow with enormous bruises which extend down from my shoulder to my elbow. She catches my eye and I look away, staring at the non-slip tiles on the floor, flushing red with shame.

She asks what happened. Am I OK?

I’m fine, I promise her. It was just a fall while getting through some tough abominations. For a moment I believe it. I rub the pebble of my ward between finger and thumb and tell her it’s drained a lot faster than usual, blaming its failure for my accident. 

She says she’ll get it replaced and squeezes my hand, holding open the door for the imbuing section’s factory floor and offering one more worried smile as I hurry to my station at the end of the Third Glyph charging line.

*

It’s draining work. Draining in a way that people a few years ago could never have imagined. The wards we construct, like all legitimate wards, are imbued with a modified flow of the raw power of The Pit. Like repels like. But we aren’t one of the Big Four and our products are bulked out with filler: a little human spirit sucked into the glyphs straight from us workers. It would never have been allowed six months ago when the Big Four were the only licensed providers, but everything changed after Papal Ward and Pendack Defence got caught in the tithe fixing scandal. Now we have a dozen new budget providers, including Walmart:Faith. At risk of defaming my employer, I think the world is worse off for the change. But at least Walmart:Faith doesn’t expect us workers to use its own cheap wards when getting to the factory complex which rests dangerously close to The Pit where raw power is more cheaply harvested.

I can feel the drain as soon as I sit down and pick up the bone-handled etching tool. I’m not surprised when I feel the bruises begin to burn and throb, giving me the deadest of arms. The drain always goes for your weakest parts. I’m a couple of minutes late and a small pile of pebbles has already gathered at my station. With a crushing depression, for which the drain and The Pit are only partially responsible, I start scratching the third of Walmart:Faith's patented glyphs into a budget personal ward.

*

The bell chimes three times, bringing to an end an agonizing shift. It’s difficult to put down the etching tool - after ten hours it is, in a sense, alive and unwilling to be separated from its sustenance. 

After some effort I join the line at the door, waiting to be patted down and scanned with the detection stick. As if any of us would want to steal budget wards. I’m about tenth from the front when the loudspeaker crackles and a male voice growls for someone to come to the office. It takes the prompting of the woman behind me before I realise it’s me being called in.

Flushed, I leave the queue and make my way across the emptying floor. Half the women will be wondering what I have done wrong. The others, like me, have probably remembered the line-leader position advertised a couple of weeks ago. God knows I need the money.

Knocking on the door, rapping the sheet of frosted glass with throbbing knuckles, I feel suddenly guilty, anxious, as if I know I have done something wrong. I haven’t, have I? He calls for me to enter, his voice as deep and rough as it was over the loudspeaker. I tense at the sound. The only time I ever see a man at work is in an office of some sort. The company isn’t sexist in its recruitment, men simply aren’t capable of imbuing wards or enacting any of the other processes required to create the products of Walmart:Faith.

I open the door, willing myself to stop blushing, urging my eyes to look up from the floor. He tells me to come in, invites me to sit in the bare wooden chair on my side of a utilitarian desk strewn with post-it notes and lists of production figures. I sit, noticing how small the office is, and how small the man appears in contrast to the menace of his voice. He is, I suppose, manager only of the imbuing floor - one department in a very large complex. He is, however, the hirer and firer of everyone in this section and the promotion is entirely in his hands.

He tells me to relax and tries to give something akin to a smile. I wish he wouldn’t. He asks if he is keeping me, do I need to be off? I do; I need to get home and start dinner cooking. Roy will be expecting it. I shake my head and say I’m in no rush.

Good, he says with more of that poorly executed smile. Leaning forward, I suppose trying to appear friendly, intimate even, but seeming only sinister and threatening, he tells me the company is worried about me. Cath has raised some concerns. I slump and look down to my lap where my fingers nervously pick at one another. No promotion then.

He tells me there is support available, but I have the feeling he is just going through the motions, covering himself and the company rather than making any genuine effort to help. He reassures me I’m not in any trouble, my job isn’t at risk. But he slips in, none-the-less, his observation than my work rate has suffered recently. Definitely no promotion.

He’s droning on about the Walmart:Faith family, about the nurturing and caring work environment of which we are all so proud. But neither of us are that interested - he seems to be reading from some memorised script while I’m wondering how long I’m going to have to wait for the next bus if I miss the four-thirty-five. I can’t be late home.

*

I am only now stepping over the cheap strip of the Walmart:Faith residential ward at the threshold of my flat’s scuffed and tarnished front door. Dinner should have been in the oven twenty minutes ago.

I dial back my personal ward - it won’t work in a residential property - and drop it along with my keys in a glass bowl on the little table in the hall. Like the muffled thump of an inconsiderate neighbour’s excessive music, I feel the pressure of Infernals hurling themselves at the barely adequate ward around the flat. Invisible wisps of demonic essence shudder through the hall like shockwaves, splashing me with dark reflections of stolen emotion.

Welcome home.

I hate how this place makes me feel; I wish it could be the haven wealthier people get to call home. But who can afford expensive tithes on a factory worker’s pay? I really could have done with the promotion.

It is Roy I feel sorry for. It’s he who really suffers for the inadequacies of our budget ward. I grab a couple of ready meals from the freezer, stabbing at the cellophane lids with a fork before rushing them both into the microwave. Roy isn’t going to be happy with a microwave dinner, but he’ll be even less impressed if he has to wait while a proper dinner cooks.

Infernals can only work with emotions already present in their hosts. If any seep through tonight and slither inside my husband, I don’t want them to find anger amongst the smorgasbord of disappointment, frustration and resentment I know he must harbour but for which I can’t blame him. It isn’t his fault only women can work in the ward factories; if he was able to take my place we both know he would have earned enough promotions to meet the tithes required by any of the Big Four. He would be a better provider, but the only work available to him is a part time position stacking shelves. I can’t blame him for his resentment.

The microwave pings and I rush to grab one of the steaming plastic tubs, anxious to have Roy’s dinner served up and on the table when he gets in. A click at the front door. A key turns. I look up to see Roy storm through the hallway and into the cramped kitchen, utter misery branded into his face. He slings his cheap Tesco:Sanctity ward down on the table and looks at the black plastic container in my hands.

Shit! It’s hot! I drop it and suck on my throbbing finger tips as chicken madras explodes through ruptured cellophane to spray the fridge door and mottled brown lino.

People say it is impossible to sense an Infernal violating someone’s body, they say you can’t know when an incorporeal demonic essence usurps control of someone you love. But I think you can. To me it is the sound of a snake, the hiss of Roy sucking through his crooked teeth. It is a glare of spiteful contempt; a low shake of his head, chillingly calm but with the huge weight of malice behind it. It is a palpable momentum which can only be expressed through the fists which now clench at the edge of the table as if he could rip through the cheap wooden surface.

I tell him I’m sorry, dropping to my knees to scoop with my fingers the scalding slop of cheap curry and dry rice back into the split container. He strides towards me with an anger augmented and twisted by the Infernal now riding his body and mind, something close to murder in his hateful glare. I should get up, get away from him. Run; get out of the house. Hide. Too late for that. I should bring up my arms, protect myself and fight back. But I can’t. I need to clear up the mess, need to be a good wife and make amends for my clumsiness. I mustn’t raise a hand to Roy. This wouldn’t have happened if I had made his dinner properly, if I had been home on time. It’s my fault the Infernal has such dark emotions with which to work, my fault we can’t afford a decent residential ward to protect our home, It’s my fault he hits me. It always is.

*

Blood stretches out in wispy little coils, knotting like fine red threads in the bowl of warm water. I’m lost in the hypnotic patterns, still dizzy from the beating. Roy hisses and my focus resurfaces, a splash of adrenaline washing through me. But he isn’t angry, isn’t possessed again; the water is just painful against the little cuts and grazes on his knuckles. Gently cradling his hand in my own, I lift it from the bowl and blood wells up to form bright little pools in the two deepest wounds. He hisses again and I tense, restraining a shudder. He snatches his hand away and I let it go, passing him the light blue towel which is already ruined with spots of blood. He holds it to his knuckles, pressing hard. Give it another few minutes, I suggest. I assure him it will heal and I reach out to touch his leg. He pulls away, glaring his disappointment. Or is it contempt?

He wants a beer, tells me to make myself useful and get one from the fridge. It hurts to stand, worse than last time, worse than I can remember. But I don’t complain; I just wince, quietly hugging my arms about my body and I walk slowly, carefully, to the fridge. It’s a sharp throbbing pain and I’m reminded of the arm I broke nine months ago. An Infernal had got Roy into such a rage that time; I really thought he was going to kill me. I suppose he might have killed me this time - I’m sure I’ve got a broken rib - but I’m numb to that particular fear now. If I die, so be it. I open the fridge; the flow of cold air feels good against my flushed and hyperventilated body. I shouldn’t wish for death, it’s not fair on Roy. How would it make him feel? I couldn’t do that to him. I pull a can from the six-pack and gasp at the shot of pain through my hand. A broken finger? 

Roy calls over, demanding to know what’s taking me so long. Am I brewing the fucking beer? I tell him it’s nothing; it’s fine, I'm sorry.

He tells me it’s not his fault, tells me I should provide a better ward. Don’t I realise how it feels to be ridden by an Infernal? Don’t I care? I work the ring-pull with my broken finger, letting the jolt of agony rip through me, punishing myself for what I put my husband through. I won’t tell him how badly I’m hurt. He’s suffered too much already.

*

The ruby brooch is heavy with the weight of family history. I’ve heard people say Infernals are shades of the departed, the spiteful souls of our dead. If that's true - and I pray it isn’t - I wonder how many of the incorporeal essences are drawing close to me right now in anger at my disrespect. At least five generations have worn this brooch, cared for it and carried with it the memory of those who came before. Do they understand why I’m doing this, why I must do it? I dial up my replacement personal ward, shuddering at the hurt and the fury I imagine seething through my ancestors, the sorority of brooch carriers. It is an heirloom, merely in my custody. Not mine to sell. But that is what I have to do.

Westcott Street is well away from The Pit and its influence. No demons loiter this far out and the Infernals are at their least invasive. Housing in boroughs like this is prohibitively expensive, the shops discriminating in their pricing. I feel conspicuous, imagining my betters can smell the stench of poverty I bring with me. But perhaps it is just my cheap clothes, my tattered handbag that has never been in fashion. They know I shouldn’t be here and they are unafraid to let their pompous disdain show. They want me to go back to where my kind belongs, among the squalor and the brazen demonic presences of the slums. Do they think I might have dragged some part of The Pit here with me, contaminating their safe little corner of a world slowly succumbing to the landscape of Hell? I look to the floor, trying to avoid notice. Their safety is not as absolute as they like to imagine - I see the expensive personal wards about their necks or wrists, I notice the extravagant residential wards on the doorsteps of every house I pass. The Infernals are not so strong here, but they are far from impotent. And as the months pass us by, the influence of The Pit will only slither closer. Pits have opened in dozens of cities and more erupt every month. The Infernals can only get stronger.

I find the little boutique nestled cosily between the gilded doors of an enormous department store and the understated yet exquisitely carved wooden facia of an expensive looking café. The door is heavier than I had supposed, requiring quite a push and I gasp at the raw pain of an injury only hours old. A well-dressed customer inside the little shop doesn’t offer to help; he simply sniffs, looks away with a disgusted frown and continues to peruse a collection of ancient stone trinkets in a glass case.

With a grimace I walk through the single aisle of cabinets and slap my handbag down on the thick glass counter from where an elderly man oversees his shop. He narrows his gaze, looking at my bag through a critical and disapproving scowl. I didn’t mean so slam it down so forcefully and I mumble a meek apology. He sneers and mutters his insincere acceptance.

I called earlier, I tell him. About the brooch. The ruby one. He nods a begrudging acknowledgement of our earlier conversation. I think he had been expecting someone better. I wonder if I am making a mistake; will he assume I stole the brooch and call the police? But I need the money and if he pays what he was hinting at on the phone then I could pay a whole year’s worth of Papal Ward tithes on my home. When I take out the heirloom his eyes glint as brilliantly as the large jewel and the surround of diamond clusters. He grins widely and offers half what we both know it’s worth. He knows I’ll take it.

*

There have always been gangs of kids, angry and bored, hanging about on the Carrion estate’s concrete walkways and squares. The gangs are as much a part of the estate’s architecture as the intimidating and grim subways or the henge of six looming blocks of flats which delineate the territories of the dealers employing and corrupting too many of my neighbours’ children. For generations the mounted thugs have darted about the estate on stolen bicycles, circling and terrorising anyone outside of their violent surrogate family. I’ve never got used to it, never stopped expecting them to attack me. Sometimes I wonder who are worse: the kids or the demons. But of course there are demons among these fraternities.

They are squawking, a shrill raven parody as they circle me on their bikes. A wide perimeter, following me as I walk quickly through the square, silently drawing closer for a moment before spreading out again to resume their intimidating chorus. 

I’m staring at the chewing-gum speckled paving slabs, trying so hard not to look at my handbag hanging feebly from its thin strap. They all carry knives. It’s an assumption, but one proven all too often to be accurate by the vicious stabbings regularly reported in local papers. They could cut my handbag from my grip without even slowing their bikes. There is no cash in there, just my bank card. But there is now so much money in my account - not as much as there ought to be, but far more than I can afford to lose - more than enough to make it worth their while marching me to a cash-point and forcing me to empty my account. I know I look afraid and I’m certain they can tell I have something worth stealing. They’re going to attack me, going to rob me. I want to run, to dart for the entrance to my block, but I can’t outrun them. Besides, every landing of my block is infested with more of these kids and their demon pack-mates.

I can see three of the demons standing in the doorway. The kids aren’t afraid of them. Most of these children come from families on benefits, forced to make-do with next-to-useless welfare wards. They have been enduring inhabitation since the Pits first opened and are probably so comfortable with the denizens of Hell that the Infernals don’t even have to ride them to get them to do their will. The demons are their playmates, their brothers, very probably even a few of their lovers.

The bikers break away to scatter into the alleys and I am left alone to face these demons. My rib stings and throbs as insubstantial fingers prod and agitate my wound. I dial up my personal ward, knowing it will protect me only from Infernals and the more insidious attacks of these physical demons. Nothing will stop them knifing me, or raping me, if that is what they intend.

Superficially they look like kids. But the evil of which they are capable is orders of magnitude more vulgar than that of the most corrupt human youths. The trio are wearing hoods, pulled up over their heads and drawn tight to shroud their faces in utter darkness - if they have faces. I step closer to see the grotesque truth of the hoods; the fleshy texture crawling with bloated arteries and cancerous nodules; the seamless join to the skin of their thick pulsing necks; the worm-like tendrils tipped with razor-toothed mouths which replace the cords hanging from the hoods. I’m glad I can’t see beyond the darkness, I don’t want to know what mockery of a child’s face is hidden in there. I can’t see their eyes, though I feel they are following me, scrutinising my approach and deciding their atrocity. But now a phone rings and one of the demons pulls a device from the folds of a jacket which is as much its body as the hood. It clicks and snarls its nonsensical parody of the English tongue into the phone and the three demons turn and walk away, more interesting atrocities distracting them from someone as plain as me.

*

Roy is out with his mates; he’s been out all day. Playing football I think. Or watching it? I’m not certain. So long as he’s enjoying himself, getting out of this poorly warded house, away from the probing essence of Infernals and the things they make him do. He’ll be on a late shift tonight so I don’t expect I will see him again until the morning. He’ll just go to work from wherever he’s been hanging out. I wish he was here with me. Of course I do. But there is a tang of excitement, like wrapping Christmas presents for Roy, as I click the proceed icon on the Papal Ward website. The sombre image of Christ crucified fills the web-browser window while my order is processed, so I slide the bulky laptop aside a moment and reach for my mug of tea. Papal Ward’s corporate identity has always been very dry, severe even. Traditional iconography, taking itself as seriously as it expects its customers to. As far removed as is possible from the cartoon characters and lurid colours of the Anglican Protection website and their loud in-your-face TV adverts. Archbishop Hugs. Everyone hates the annoying little character but we all know his catchy song, and no matter how much we cringe at the appalling puns he delivers in those God-awful adverts it is Anglican Protection that most people think of first when considering a new ward. Their website is still open beneath the Papal Ward window, but I’m not shopping for a corporate identity and I certainly don’t have any brand loyalty. I have already checked the other two of the Big Four; I even tried a comparison site to check the budget providers. I’m a canny shopper, I’m too poor not to be, and Papal Ward has won my custom simply because it is the cheapest provider of a half-decent residential package.

The screen has flashed and is displaying a response. My credit rating is a joke - it doesn’t express it quite so bluntly, but the meaning is clear enough. They want the tithes paid up-front. I had expected as much and I eagerly tap in the digits from the front of my debit card. I wanted a year’s coverage but after being ripped-off over the worth of my mother’s brooch I can afford only six months. It’ll do. Six months of calm, six months of peace and domestic bliss. Six months in which I can focus on my work and earn the promotion I badly need.

I submit the short form and almost instantly an email arrives to tell me the funds have been received and an engineer will be here within six hours to fit the new residential ward, pre-loaded with six months of tithes. Please have all thresholds and windows cleaned and any existing ward unscrewed, it requests while cautioning that I don’t actually remove the unscrewed wards until the engineer has arrived. I smile; I can’t wait to tell Roy. I hope he is home before I have to leave for work first thing tomorrow morning. He will be so surprised and thankful.

*

It’s coming over dark and purple; a kind of twilight which has nothing to do with the time of day. It’s almost nine in the morning; the sun came up hours ago. This is like the localised darkness so common to the outskirts of The Pit, the suffocating black which descends on streets, sometimes whole boroughs, extinguishing flames and choking the artificial glow of street lights and torches. It’s common near The Pit, not so much this far out in my estate. But not unheard of. We might not be classified as a periphery borough, but it’s getting that way. In another few months, a year at the most, I can see the boundaries being redrawn and by then anyone with enough money will have probably moved out. At least it has got the kids off of the streets. They’ll all be indoors, playing their games consoles and getting high. I expect the hooded demons will be with them, right under the noses of parents too drunk or negligent to care. 

The purple is thick and wet as I breathe it in, tickling my lungs and sending icy wisps though my body. I don’t care; I’m in a good mood and no shade of Hell is going to ruin my day. There was a power cut at work and we were all sent home just an hour into the shift. I can't wait to get in and see if Roy has noticed the new ward. I hope he is home; he was still out when I left for work earlier.

Everywhere feels uphill, darkness forever pulling me back, and when I reach the stairwell the climb is long and hard. But I reach my landing and I smile as a warm glow of sunlight breaks through the unholy twilight, scattering the shade like soap on an oil slicked pond. It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.

The door opens a little stiff as it rubs against the new ward’s ivory strip. I’m sure Roy can shave a few millimetres off of the door, but I’m tempted to let it stay like this as a palpable reminder of the sanctuary my home has now become. I stand there for a long moment, looking down at the polished and glyph encrusted strip, and I grin. I step over the ward into the comfortable haven of my home, deactivating my personal ward and dropping it in the glass bowl. It feels so good. I want to laugh. I am laughing. No, I’m not; that’s not me. And it’s not Roy! My stomach clenches like the pus-covered sphincters on Queen’s Street. It’s a woman’s laugh. It’s more than innocent giggles at some joke I might have missed. There’s desire and wanton depravity in the filthy laugh, and there are groans I know have no place outside the bedroom. Certainly the hungry moans of pleasure have no place in my kitchen. I feel sick, legs going numb, so I reach for the wall to steady myself. I’m shaking, trembling. Acid burns the back of my throat and I swallow hard, stumbling down the hall, clammy palms slapping the wall as I use it to guide me to the kitchen. My head is lolling heavily from side to side, the world distorted and listing as if I’m drunk or back in The Pit’s periphery. I know what this is, I know what I’m about to see. I want to run, want to snatch up my personal ward and get the hell out of here. Run, hide and don’t come back until I know this is all over. But I’m at the kitchen door, reaching out, pushing with two quivering fingers.

The sound of their shared bliss strikes me harder than Roy’s fist ever has, knocking me back into the hall. The entwined and gyrating body’s burn into my sight; the vision of naked flesh staying with me even as I look away. They’re on the kitchen table. Again the laughter. Just her; he is swearing and panicked. I look up to see them both staring at me. Her, a woman I have never seen before, covering her mouth as she giggles like some kid caught kissing. Him, just cringing, pulling out of the bitch, dragging his jeans up from around his ankles. Go, he tells her, not looking away from me. There’s a severity in his eyes, a darkness which chills me as much as the hiss now escaping his teeth. Half naked, covering her skinny young body with a screwed up dress, she walks with infuriating coyness towards the door, towards me, and I step aside. I actually get out of her way and let her pass. I let her go. She feels hot, burning as she squeezes past me, her sweat and cloying perfume creeping into my nostrils and her long dark hair brushing my face as she flicks her head to glance back at my husband. I tense at this moment of intimacy, then turn to watch her leave my home. She doesn’t bother to shut the door.

*

It’s my fault, Roy is already telling me. If I wasn’t such a failure at work, if I was more committed to our marriage and was prepared to do what it took to raise the money we need to pay higher tithes, the Infernals wouldn’t get into our house; they wouldn’t be able to make him do these things. No shame; no apology. No guilt.

No idea.

He is buttoning his shirt, a familiar look on his face, the practiced mask of post inhabitation rage. And those accusing eyes. My fault; never his. He is the victim. He asks, what is for dinner? It’s like a punch in the face. I glare with an anger I have never been allowed to feel, the realisation of my naivety and damned stupidity dragging me free of comfortable meekness. Empowering me whether I want it or not. He doesn’t know about the new ward, doesn’t know the transparency of his lies. No infernal could have got into the house. Not now. 

Well, he demands, what’s for dinner?

I rush forward to the sweat-covered work surface, to the knife-block, and I pull out a long wide blade. For a moment Roy shuts up, watching as I turn, as I wield the knife to point at him. But now he laughs, mocking and humiliating. He tells me to grow up, tells me I’m not going to do anything. It’s not his fault, he reminds me. And even if it was, he suddenly spits, I could never hurt him. I don’t have it in me.

And I know he is right. I’m not like him, not a monster. 

I’m storming towards the door and Roy is letting me go. He’s calling after me that I’ll be back, shouting I don’t have the strength to leave, laughing that it’s my fault the house isn’t warded properly, still hanging on to that old and disintegrating lie. But I’m not leaving. This is my house; I worked for it. I worked hard. I stop at the threshold and drop to my knees, knife swung over arm to come down with all my fury and hate on the white ivory strip. I’ve worked at Walmart: Faith for months, I know the glyph architecture, can recognise even on a premium ward the key nodes and essential strings. I know where to crack the ward, splitting it across a line of tiny etchings.

Infernals rush in through the open door, invisible but as obvious as a gale, drawn irresistibly to a banquet of seething anger and murderous hatred. As I feel my body stand, the knife flipped to my other hand in an unfamiliar yet skilful grip, I know what is going to happen.

It won’t be my fault.