The Forging of Fantom by Reginald Hill

Author:Reginald Hill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2019-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

9

THE Church’s teaching is that the spirits of the dead are insubstantial things. Only demons and other instruments of darkness may put on sinful flesh when they visit this world. So a man may easily see the form of his departed wife or mistress, but if he finds he may take her in his arms and be bold with her, then is it no spirit but a demon in masquerade, hoping to capture his seed and his soul in a blasphemous coupling.

Well, I was not about to screw Jaraj, but the feel of his boot crashing into my only recently healed ribs convinced me that here was no spirit but a malicious demon at the least. And even this small hope (for a demon may be discharged if you find the right conjuration) disappeared as his humanity became apparent in his words as well as his deeds.

‘Though I was dead, eh, shit-fly?’ he grunted as he pursued my squirming body with kicks and blows. ‘Thought I was bone-meal now? You and that blond-haired bastard. Lechery and treachery, eh? Lechery and treachery!’

He liked this phrase for he repeated it several times as he tried to kick my balls in. If I had had the time I would have .been amazed at the deep dints my innocent courtship of Dusanka had made in this villain’s cast-iron sensibility. But my only concern was to avoid (or rather to absorb, for evasion was not possible), as much of his assault as possible till the moment for counter-attack arrived. One thing I did gather from his inchoate babblings was that he’d no idea where Godfrey (or Godislav as he still called him) was, and that he was delaying my death till I had told him what I knew. So waiting till my scrabblings had brought me close to the foot of the stairs, I suddenly cried out, ‘Wait! Wait! Godislav is … Godislav …’

Then, arching my spine, I let out a terrible shriek and fell on my back, limbs rigid, eyes wide and staring, in a posture I’d picked up from some scenes of martyrdom daubed on the walls of the Priulis’ private chapel.

Jaraj regarded me doubtfully.

‘What of Godislav?’ he demanded. ‘Speak, shit-head!’

He gave me another kick, but there was something tentative about it. I think it was the staring eyes that convinced him. One blink and I would have had it, but I bent all my will to keeping my face as stiff as a hot bull’s pizzle and finally he knelt beside me to attempt resuscitation.

If you have no weapon and only one chance at an opponent (and I did not fool myself there would be more than one) you have a straight choice – crutch or eyes. Nothing else is worth thinking of unless you have mastered those eastern blows which paralyse a man by a flat-handed chop to the spine or neck. Well, I was still young in the arts of combat then and ignorant of such refinements. So I had

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