Mesmeris by K E Coles Page B

his pale, tired face. ‘Those scars on your back . . .’
    Guarded eyes watched me. ‘Mmm?’
    ‘Tipper didn’t do that, did he?’
    Jack shook his head. ‘They’re my mark,’ he said. ‘My rank.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘In Mesmeris. I’m an Elite.’
    ‘And is that good?’
    He nodded. ‘We’re the best.’
    ‘And your brothers, are they Elites too?’
    ‘Art is – Leo’s a foot soldier.’
    ‘Foot soldier?’
    ‘Not bright enough to be inducted – like the guys that came to your church.’
    ‘The ones that spat at my dad?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said.
    I stared at him. ‘Was Leo with them?’
    ‘No – different crew.’
    I didn’t want to hear any more. ‘Can we go for coffee now?’
    He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘It’s weird,’ he said, ‘but it’s only with you that any of it seems wrong. The rest of the time,’ he shook his head as if to clear it, ‘I don’t even think about it.’
    I tugged on his arm. ‘Get out of bed. We’ll go for coffee. Everything will seem better then.’ Part of me, the logical, sensible part, told me he was still deluded, still raving. My instinct knew better.
    ‘The rest of the time I like it,’ he said, ‘revel in it - the cruelty, the lust, the hatred.’
    ‘Jack . . .’
    ‘I kill people,’ he looked me straight in the eye, ‘torture them – for a laugh.’
    ‘Shut up,’ I shouted in his face. ‘SHUT UP! I don’t believe you. You’re ill, that’s all. Someone – some evil person, they’ve hurt you. It’s making you ill.’
    He stared at me but I didn’t want to see what his eyes were telling me.
    ‘I’m going out,’ I said. ‘I’ll find a doctor or a chemist and get you something – painkillers or something. Once the fever’s gone you’ll be fine.’ I didn’t believe it, but said it anyway.
    Outside, the fresh air and sunshine put everything in perspective. Life was normal. People were shopping, going to work, gossiping, laughing. The world hadn’t changed. Jack had a nightmare – and nightmares weren’t real. I passed a church on my way and felt tempted to go inside but decided against it. It took me a while to find a pharmacist and longer to queue at the till. As I waited, going over everything in my mind, the need to talk to someone became irresistible.
    St Stephen’s looked about as welcoming as a prison with its closed door and mesh covered windows. Still, I gave the door a try. Locked. Only then did I notice the rusted keyhole, the discarded take-away wrappers and cans that littered the grounds. I felt ridiculously upset. All of a sudden it seemed crucial that I talk to a priest.
    An elderly man crossed the road towards me. ‘Excuse me,’ I shouted. He didn’t look up, didn’t break his stride. ‘Excuse me.’ I stood right in front of him. He looked taken aback to see me there. ‘Do you know if there’s a church near here?’
    ‘A what?’ He inclined his ear towards me, his face screwed up in concentration.
    ‘A church.’
    He shook his head.
    I put my hands together as if praying, then crossed myself.
    ‘Ah!’ His creasy old face broke into a smile. ‘Down there. Down there.’ He pointed to a side road lined with brand new, modern terraced houses. It didn’t look the kind of area where there’d be a church. I mouthed ‘thank you’ even so and, since he was watching me, had to follow his directions, convinced he’d got it wrong. The road went on and on but eventually, there was a church, just not the kind I was looking for. It was a modern one-story building with its own car park and looked more like a school, except for the modern, arched windows, and plain wooden cross hanging above the door. A man and a woman were sweeping the forecourt. As I drew closer, I saw the remnants of a smashed stained-glass window, its shards of coloured glass in a neat pile by the open door. The woman looked up and smiled a welcome. She looked in her twenties or early thirties, as did the man with her, much younger than the