Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Monsieur Hexie’s Voodoo Supplies had been in Shaw since 1977. Before that, the owner had gone by his given name, Francois Robiche. His parents had originated in New Orleans and later had worked themselves to early death in the kitchens of the capital’s tourist hotels. In his teens, Francine had been a street hustler, his exotic looks and lithe body getting plenty of work. Eventually he saved enough to set himself up in the shop. He’d always been interested in what his maman called “les pouvoirs secrets”-the secret powers-and all he’d needed to do was read a few books to know more than his customers. A talent for self-advertisement had helped and soon Monsieur Hexie became a local character. The shop was in several D.C. guidebooks, as he’d paid the compilers under the table.

He sat at the back of the shop in the early evening, having closed up early.

Wednesday wasn’t usually his day for private business, but this client had been insistent-as well as amenable to the inflated price he’d quoted. Even though he was now sixty, Monsieur Hexie was still powerfully attractive and his involvement in the occult was an extra turn-on for many johns.

There was still half an hour before he had to shower and prepare himself. He spent that time reviewing inventory. His Monsieur Hexie dolls were doing well, as usual-the wax men and women, both black and white, came with a set of long, sharp pins. Candles were always a good sell, too, especially the ones in red wax. And, of course, the traditional herbs that he concocted into his own mixtures were trusted by many customers to solve problems of a sexual nature. All in all, things were going well, despite the prevailing financial climate. He had paid off the loan on the shop years ago and lived in the small apartment above, so he didn’t have many expenses. His only regret was that he’d never found a lover to settle down with, but he lived in hope.

Shooing away the stray black cat he’d named Satan-how the customers loved it when he called to the animal in the shop-Monsieur Hexie went to get ready. The apartment upstairs was cramped because a king-size bed took up much of the main room’s space. It was surrounded by black candles and incense jars, and above the pillows hung an expressionless face mask. Men got a big thrill from screwing beneath the zombie’s glassy-eyed stare. On the table by the window was the head of a moray eel that he’d had preserved. The fleshy jaws were wide apart. Monsieur Hexie slipped the wad of bills he’d removed from the till between them. It would take a brave thief to run the gauntlet of those needle-sharp teeth.

Sitting naked on the bed, Monsieur Hexie rubbed aromatic oil all over himself. The aroma was sweet and cloying, with a hint of rotten leaves. He knew from experience that johns couldn’t resist burying their noses in it, so he made sure that there was plenty on his chest and lower abdomen.

Monsieur Hexie glanced at the clock in the shape of New Orleans. He had timed things perfectly. The chime from the street door rang out. He told people it was the repeated clang of the single-note bell that sounded at the beginning of the voodoo service to raise the zombie king. The electrician had been instructed to set the device to keep ringing while visitors climbed the narrow stair to the apartment. The snake skeletons and goat skulls on the walls of the stairway were all part of the trip; they also made sure that the advantage was Monsieur Hexie’s, a state of affairs he did everything to sustain. More than once, Monsieur Hexie had been confronted by trembling men who had lost their nerve.

He slipped on an almost transparent silk robe over his sequined briefs and put on his high priest’s headdress: three black ostrich feathers attached to a snake skin that circled his head twice. Then he went to the spy hole in the door. It had been a long time since anyone had dared lay a rough hand on him, but he was too smart to take unnecessary risks. The white guy he peered out at looked normal enough. He was probably in his thirties and of average height, brown hair, possibly dyed, a face that was smooth and rather girlish. His leather jacket and the pale green shirt were smart enough, even if at odds with the john’s mild-mannered expression. If pressed, Monsieur Hexie would have said he was an office worker-an accountant or bank employee-trying to look cool in his free time.

He opened the door and extended a long leg. “Well, good evening, honey,” he said in his most come-hither tone. “Ready for the trip of your life?”

The john looked at his bare thigh with a show of interest. As he moved a hand toward it, Monsieur Hexie stepped back.

“What’s your name, darling?” he asked, smiling.

“Um…Pete,” came the unconvincing reply.

“Uh-huh,” Monsieur Hexie said. He grabbed his shirt-front and pulled him close. “And would you like a drink to warm you up on this chill evening, Pete?”

“Um…yeah.” The guy looked at him and then cast a glance around the room. He seemed less impressed than most johns by what he was wearing, and the crocodile heads didn’t make his eyes open wide, either. As for Satan, sitting on a cushion with his eyes half-closed, well…Pete was ignoring him completely. Monsieur Hexie wasn’t concerned. The liqueur he made from rum and herbs had never been known to fail. He handed the john a generous measure in a heavy crystal glass.

“To the powers of darkness,” he said, raising his glass.

The man stared at him like he was some kind of freak and eventually chinked glasses.

“Drink, child,” Monsieur Hexie said, licking his lips. “It’ll make you last all night.”

Pete lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a sip. “Nice,” he said, screwing his eyes up.

Cold fish, Monsieur Hexie thought. Sounds different to what he did on the telephone. Much less eager. He stepped close and started to unfasten the john’s shirt buttons. He then shivered terminally as two sharp points pierced the skin of his back and ran through each of his kidneys.

The last thing Monsieur Hexie heard was a loud hiss from Satan as he scurried under the bed.

Inside the gloom of the hut, I could make out very little. I felt around for a light switch before realizing there wouldn’t be power lines in the middle of the forest. My head bumped into a metal object. I stretched up, feeling a stab of pain from the wound I’d made in my upper arm, and found a hurricane lamp. I shook it and heard the splash of liquid inside. Now all I needed was a match.

After I’d banged my shins against a heavy wooden chair, I thought about opening a shutter to let in the last of the daylight. I stopped myself before I got to the nearest window. I couldn’t risk attracting attention. So instead, I started running my hands over all the surfaces, eventually finding matches in a wall holder. Putting a flame to the lamp’s wick, I looked around the single room that composed the ground floor. There was a kitchen on the rear wall-gas stove, plate holders, no fridge. There was also a waist-high cupboard. I strode over and pulled it open. Bingo. The shelves were stacked with cans and packets. I reached a hand down.

The sudden crack made me jump backward, and I yelped at the sudden pain. I held my right hand under the lamp. The index finger was in a trap, the size of which suggested that rats rather than mice were the local pest. I pried the spring-loaded wires apart and examined the livid welt across the finger. It hurt even more when I bent it, but I didn’t think it was broken. Then I remembered what I’d thought about things not getting any worse.

My stomach clenched and I realized I had to eat before I did anything else. Then I saw the wooden ladder that led up to a platform in the back half of the cabin. I clambered up it, my finger throbbing. A mattress covered most of the surface, and it was piled with discolored pillows, quilts and blankets. I dragged two blankets over and let them drop to the floor below. Although there was a fireplace with a pile of chopped wood next to it, I couldn’t risk lighting a fire. The only way I was going to get warm was by wrapping up well.