Sarwat Chadda: Devil’s Kiss

‘Touch it,’ says Arthur.

‘No!’

‘Touch it.’

Billi looks at it. It’s stopped changing now. She can see the fingernails, though overgrown and encrusted with dirt, are normal nails, not claws. The arm, the same. She stretches out her hand, wary that it might spring to life and grab her.

But it doesn’t. She lowers her hand and rests it on the skin. It feels dead… like meat. Not so different from the chicken fresh from the butcher’s. Cold, a bit hard, but now not an arm, just dead material. Her heartbeat, running at a hundred miles an hour seconds ago, slows down and the shivering gradually stops.

Just dead meat.

She moves back and Arthur wraps it up. He rests his hand on her shoulder, and looks deep into her eyes.

‘Fear makes the wolf seem bigger,’ he says.

The pre-dawn chill nibbled the back of Billi’s neck and dragged her out of her dream. No, not a dream, but an old memory. Five years ago and still crystal sharp. She remembered Gwaine glowering at Arthur afterwards, and the half-hearted apology for the accusation he’d made. But the bad blood between them lingered, even now. She didn’t remember much else before then; it was like that night had been the beginning of her life. She groaned and curled up on the seat, trying to block off the draught coming through the open door.

‘We’re home,’ said Arthur. ‘Grab some breakfast. It’ll be matins in an hour.’

Billi glanced at her watch: 5.33. The birds weren’t even up and he wanted her at dawn prayers? Wasn’t it enough she’d spent the night fighting a ghost? She watched him open the boot and lift out the Templar sword. He half drew it from the scabbard, then slammed it back.

‘Can’t I get special dispensation? Y’know, after the Ordeal?’

Arthur shook his head.

‘All the more reason you should be at prayer, giving thanks.’

Thanks? Thanks for nearly being possessed? Thanks for what she’d done? She tried to remind herself that she hadn’t killed a six-year-old boy, tried to believe it had been a bitter, malevolent spirit in the guise of a child, but it was hard. Billi slid off the seat and on to her feet, arms wrapped round her chest. It was still dark and the cold breeze carried the hint of winter. She shivered.

‘Stop that,’ Arthur said. ‘A Templar does not tremble.’ Their eyes met. He couldn’t look down on her the way he used to: she was too tall. Maybe he wasn’t really her dad. It would explain a lot – they couldn’t be more different. She was like her Pakistani mum, tall, skinny and dark-eyed. He was broad with a pale, craggy face made hard from years of fighting, dominated by those psycho blue eyes. His hair wasn’t as black as it used to be, but heavily spiked with grey. He gave the slightest shake of his head then turned and walked off.

Billi fought the urge to give him the finger. ‘Coming,’ she muttered.

She crossed the cobbled courtyard of King’s Bench Walk, weaving through the few cars still parked there and chased after her dad, towards their house in Middle Temple Lane. The Templars still owned a few dwellings in the Temple district, and the narrow Edwardian house was one of them. The paint of the window frames was peeling, the brickwork needed repointing and the roof tiles were uneven and patchy. Above the red-painted door was a small alcove. In it sat a carving of St George slaying a dragon. Arthur unlocked the door and Billi hopped in behind.

Her dad flicked on the hallway light. The soft golden glow lit the dark wooden floor and warmed the faded carpet that led to the wrought-iron spiral stairs at the far end.

‘What, no balloons?’ Billi asked drily.

‘You want balloons, join the circus.’

Typical. This was what he had wanted. But not a word of praise. All the other Templars had been recruited as adults, only she and Kay had joined as children. Kay, the one friend she’d had. But even he was gone now, sent away by her father.

Billi walked along the dimly lit hallway, passing portraits of the ancient Grand Masters of the Order and scenes of famous battles. She paused by Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master, and hung up her coat on the nearby hook. There he stood, splendid in his armour and white mantle, the bright red cross upon his white tabard, hand resting on a sword.

What would he make of the Order now? A handful of warriors, near destitute, living in secret and led by her dad, an ex-criminal and altogether rubbish parent? She shook her head. He’d make nothing of them. The original Order was long gone, with Jacques de Molay dying a heretic and devil-worshipper, burned at the stake by the Inquisition.

Arthur disappeared into the kitchen on the first floor, but Billi continued upwards to the second and kicked off her boots before wandering into the bathroom. The pipes rattled as she spun the hot tap of the bath fully on.

As the steam rose she inspected tonight’s bruises. The one on her cheek was a fluorescent purple; there was no way she’d hide that with make-up.

Damn. The school welfare officer was suspicious enough.

The cut across her knee, from Monday’s sword practice, had almost closed – she was lucky she hadn’t needed stitches – but there was a fierce red welt across her ribs, courtesy of Percy and his quarterstaff. She twisted slowly, wincing as her muscles slid under her glowing dusky skin.

At least there are no broken ribs. Billi stared at herself until she vanished into the hot fog. Then she turned and, bone-weary, climbed into the bath.

Dressed and fed, Billi set off for matins. She’d found a box of chocolates from Percy in her bedroom, a ‘congratulations on surviving the Ordeal and not being dead’ present. Nothing from Dad – quelle surprise.

She’d hoped there’d be something from Kay. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year, but she thought he’d try to get in touch for this, at least. But not even a card or a text. Some friend. Billi kicked a can across the courtyard. Friends, she didn’t need them.

She gazed up at Temple Church and, like always, paused. It stood wrapped in the dawn mist, the pale yellow and orange walls glowing like eggshell in the weak autumn dawn. The flagstones glistened with frost and the tall vaulted stained-glass windows along the high walls seemed like portals to the underworld, gates of polished black marble.

‘This way! Quickly, Mrs Higgins.’ Billi glimpsed a dash of scarlet from beyond the columns of the cloisters off Church Court. Suddenly a dozen figures spewed out, led by a tall woman wearing a bright red mackintosh. She headed for the Templar column, a ten-metre-high stone post bearing the Order’s emblem.

Half past six. It must be a Monarch Tour. Only they started this early.

The tour guide did a quick head count, then clapped her hands as if she was addressing a bunch of school kids instead of a group of white-haired tourists. She cleared her throat.

‘The building behind you is Temple Church and was once the heart of the London Preceptory: the English headquarters of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ of the Temple of Solomon, better known as the Knights Templar. Founded by Hugues de Payens in 1119, they took their name from their base on Temple Mount in Jerusalem, believed to be the ruins of the original Temple of Solomon. They were warrior monks sworn to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land. Originally comprising only nine men, the order soon grew to become one of the most powerful organizations in Europe.’

Hands began to wave frantically. One woman, hair a pale blue, with silver-framed glasses, pushed her way to the front of the crowd, arms flapping.

‘We’ll find you a loo in a minute, Mrs Higgins,’ said the guide. ‘This church was consecrated in 1185, but has been extensively modified since, not least of all by the Luftwaffe, who bombed it in 1941. But it was from places such as this that the Order declared its crusades and holy wars. Yes, Mrs Higgins?’