The Orientalist and the Ghost by Susan Barker

Author:Susan Barker
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448169931
Publisher: Transworld

15

‘SEE HOW HE shakes with demons. They do not grant him a moment’s peace,’ whispered Marina Tolbin, the hawk-visaged missionary.

‘The heathen embraces them,’ observed Blanche, best friend of Marina and arch rival in the battle of the sanctimonious. ‘He is a willing host. We have no choice but to perform the rites.’

‘But he does not want the demons expelled. He has grown fond of them and will resist.’

‘True. But we must do our duty. He killed our Humphrey, and next time he might kill a village child.’

Gimlet-eyed and pendulous of jowls, the witches’ coven of two watched me from the living-room doorway. Two battleships in flowery frocks, Blanche’s steel-grey bun imperious on her head, and Marina gorgonesque as ever, her mere propinquity to a mirror enough to crack it.

I was hunched on the edge of my fold-out bed, shivering like an alcoholic in the latter stages of cold turkey. My dentures chattered like a wind-up toy and my hands were suspended midair, as if by invisible strings, twitched by a wicked puppeteer. They are occurring more and more frequently, these shaking fits. I ought to arrange a check-up, but I’ve never cared much for doctors (especially that condescending pill-pusher Dr Chopra). I wanted to tell the missionaries that I hadn’t murdered Humphrey, but I knew my voice would not be steady enough. As I shook, the Sisters Grimm continued to whisper and err, misinterpreting my affliction as Unholy Tenure. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped.

‘Whatever gave you the idea that I killed Humphrey? I can’t even stomach rare steak, let alone decapitate a dog. I dare say the culprit was a bandit, or a Buddhist, fed up with all your baptisms. Or maybe the gambling, opium-eating husband of Mrs Ho …’

The missionaries took no notice of these sensible suggestions. They were convinced it was me and that was that.

‘Ooh, to hear him speak! He is the mouthpiece of Satan!’

‘Beelzebub, master of demons commands his tongue! Let us be upon him.’

They left the doorway, proceeding towards me, the sacrificial victim, defenceless in my flannel pyjamas.

‘The Lord Jesus rebuke you, the Lord rebuke you. In the name of Jesus of Nazareth, rise up and walk!’ cried Blanche.

Though I’d intended to ignore the silly exorcism, the strangest thing happened. The words of the scripture literally stung my skin, as though I were being rubbed in nettles. I confess I ‘freaked out’ (as Julia would say). Snarling, I lashed out at the missionaries, swinging my arms as if fending off a swarm of killer bees.

‘Bugger off, you vile witches!’ I screamed. ‘You evil crones! Out of my flat! Who said you could come here?’

Marina plucked a vial of holy water out of thin air. She sprinkled a few drops on my forehead, where it hissed and sizzled like hydrochloric acid.

Blanche Mallard, holding the Bible out before her like a shield, intoned: ‘The Lord rebuke thee! O demons, be gone from this man for we go by the commands of God.

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