Mike Carey - Thicker Than Water (Felix Castor 4)
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Old ghosts of different kinds come back to haunt Fix, in the fourth gripping Felix Castor novel. Names and faces he thought hed left behind in Liverpool resurface in London, bringing Castor far more trouble than hed anticipated. Childhood memories, family traumas, sins old and new, and a council estate that was meant to be a modern utopia until it turned into something like hell ...these are just some of the sticks life uses to beat Felix Castor with as things go from bad to worse for Londons favourite freelance exorcist. See, Castors stepped over the line this time, and he knows hell have to pay; the only question is: how much? Not the best of times, then, for an unwelcome confrontation with his holier-than-thou brother, Matthew. And just when he thinks things cant possibly get any worse, along comes Father Gwillam and the Anathemata. Oh joy ...
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Thicker Than Water
MIKE CAREY
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Table of Contents
By Mike Carey
The Devil You Know
Vicious Circle
Dead Mens Boots
Thick
Vicious Circle
Dead Mens Boots
Thick
Thicker Than Water
MIKE CAREY
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2009
Copyright 2008 by Mike Carey
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the publisher,
nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than
those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 1160 2
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
Hachette Digital
And imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
An Hachette Livre UK Company
Acknowledgements
Id like to thank my brother, Dave, who went back to Liverpool with me so I could check my memories against whats left of the reality. It was a strange time, and it would have been a lot harder without him. Thanks also to A, who wrote the original on which Marks poem is based, and taught me what little I know about how it feels to be in that place.
To Barbara and Eric, with love
This is kind of how it would have looked, if you were watching from the outside - and this is how the papers reported it when they finally got hold of the story.
Ten minutes shy of midnight on 3 July, a van pulled off Coppetts Road into the front drive of the Charles Stanger Care Facility in Muswell Hill, North London. It was just a plain white Bedford van, unmarked and with very high sides, but it parked right in front of the doors in the bay marked AMBULANCES ONLY.
One woman and two men got out of the van - the woman in an immaf tculate black two-piece, the men in pale blue medical scrubs. The woman was wearing large, severe spectacles which gave her a stern schoolteacherly appearance - although she was unsettlingly beautiful, too, and she carried herself in a way that made the sternness seem to be an ironic - almost a provocative - pose. She checked her reflection in the nearside mirror, tilting her head to the left and then to the right while staring at herself critically out of the corners of her eyes.
You look lovely, said one of the two men.
The woman shot him a look and he threw up his hands in ironic apology. I was only saying.
The night was almost oppressively warm, and very quiet. The Stanger itself, normally the source of many unsettling sounds at night - screams, sobs, curses, prophetic rants - was unusually still. There were crickets, though, despite the paltriness of the Stangers grass verges, which seemed too meagre to support an ecosystem. But this was London, after all: maybe the crickets had to commute like everyone else.
The three went in through the swing doors, the woman leading the way.
The nurse on duty at the reception desk had seen them pull up and now watched them enter. She had to buzz them in through a second set of doors that had been installed very recently to enhance the Stangers security. She did so without waiting for them to announce themselves, because she was expecting them: strictly speaking, that was a breach of security right there.
She noticed that the two men didnt look entirely convincing as hospital orderlies. One was a slender Asian man with a certain resemblance to Bruce Lee and an air that you could - if you wanted to be polite - call piratical. The other wore his scrubs as though they were pyjamas that hed been sleeping in for three nights, and had a sardonic self-assured cast to his features that she instinctively mistrusted. His mid-brown hair was unkempt and his mouth subtly asymmetrical, hanging down slightly more on one side than on the other so that when his features were at rest they seemed to wear either a wry smile or a leer.
But these things she noted in passing, because most of her attention had immediately switched to the woman. It wasnt just that she obviously outranked the two men: it was something magnetic about her face and figure that made it an unmixed and startling delight just to look at her.
The womans appearance, to be fair, was both striking and out of the ordinary. Her hair and eyes were black, her skin white - the undiluted white of snow or bone rather than the muddy pink-beige mix that passes for white according to normal labelling conventions. Since she was dressed in black, relieved only by the occasional hint of dark grey, she could have been a monochrome photograph.
The woman gave the nurse a civil nod as she walked up to the desk. Doctor Powell, she said, in a voice that was as deep as a mans but infinitely richer in tone and nuance. From the Metamorphic Ontology Unit in Paddington. Were here to collect your patient. She laid four sheets of A4 paper on the countertop: a transfer form from the local authority, a court document granting temporary power of attorney and two copies of a sigs spies ofned and notarised letter from Queen Marys Hospital in Paddington acknowledging the receipt of one Rafael Ditko into the Hospitals care and jurisdiction. The letter was signed Jenna-Jane Mulbridge.
The nurse at the desk gave these documents the most cursory examination possible. She was secretly admiring Doctor Powells easy self-assurance, Doctor Powells very impressive outfit and, to be blunt, Doctor Powells magnificent body. The nurse herself was only five foot three, so she envied this other womans height and long legs. She noticed, too, how well the doctors black hair, shoulder-length but pulled back quite severely, framed her pale, exquisite face. And she noticed that the blouse was buttoned all the way up to the top, giving no hint of cleavage: perhaps this was because the doctors curves were ample, her nipples large and obviously erect, and there was no line or ridge in the blouses hang to indicate the presence of a brassiere. Any further display would tip over from arousing to indecent.
An incongruous image rose into the nurses mind, making her blush. She imagined herself unbuttoning that blouse, pulling it open on one side or the other and planting a kiss on one of the doctors breasts. She wasnt gay - had never even had a passing crush on another woman - but the black, bottomless eyes behind the big spectacles seemed to invite such intimacies and promise reciprocal explorations. Or perhaps it was the doctors perfume, which was even more striking than her appearance. At first it had seemed almost harsh, with sweat and earth mixed up in it, but now it had an aching sweetness.
You need to stamp the bottom copy of the letter, the doctor said in that same thrilling voice. The nurse, flustered, pulled herself together and did what shed been asked, although the outline of the doctors face and upper body remained on her eyes like an after-image as she fumbled for the stamp and applied it with trembling fingers.
And sign, said the doctor.
The nurse obeyed.
I believe Mister Ditko has already been prepared for transfer, the doctor said, folding and pocketing the letter. Im sorry to rush you, but we have another call to make tonight and were already late.
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