Grimaldi

Grimaldi

My house is the last place untouched by Hell. Number 27 Celestin Crescent. The name and number were the reasons I chose it. I knew that one day when the demons came, in chariots of ice and fire; it would be the safest place to be. Even then, when Grimaldi was only a voice niggling away at the back of my mind, I knew I would need somewhere safe. When it caught my eye from the estate agent window, a little end of terrace on the edge of town, my heart beat as fast as a mouse - Celestin, meaning cloud of heaven. The photographs showed three white rooms with huge sash windows. I sat at the desk at Barton Browns, watching dust collect in the sunlit static, as the estate agent went to get the details. His shiny black brogues left marks on the waxy floor when he slapped over from the filing cabinet and presented me with the ‘brochure’ - two A4 sheets stapled together; pictures of the white rooms, thick-lined diagrams of upstairs and down, fanned steps between the floors, the promise of safety in black geometry. On the back there were more pictures: a box garden sheltered by an apple trees, a tiny bathroom and galley kitchen. Back then – before Grimaldi was physically here – I didn’t need much space. It all looked perfect, newly re-furbished; I wouldn’t even have to decorate. But it was when I saw the number that I knew I had to have it - the number of God in an angel’s cloud - how could I be safer?
I think Grimaldi was already there when I moved in or, at the very least, got in through the open door as the removal men carried in my belongings. The demons sent a messenger. A beast to tell me they were coming for me - for everyone - I might think I was safe but no-one was. The end was nigh.
When the removal men left me in silence I started to smell the sulphur. At first I thought it was the kettle, an afternoon of tea making burning out the plug, but the smell was strongest in the lounge. As I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the sofa opposite the window I saw him. At first I didn’t believe it. He was small, no bigger than a cat, curled on the armchair in front of me shadowed by the effect of the sun over its back. He was dark red, almost black, with skin like worn leather; his forked tail snaked up over the cushion and flicked at its point, left to right, like a reverse pendulum. I froze, metallic bile forced its way up into my throat. He opened an eye - a terrible yellow eye - and snorted a little acrid smoke though his nostrils. ‘I’m Grimaldi,’ he said in a hissing whisper,’ and you might think you’re safe but you’re not. Oh, it’s all well and good inside your little heavenly cloud, we can’t get you in here but you have to go out, and one day when you do, we’ll be waiting.’ I couldn’t breathe, tightness burned my lungs and all I could do was stare at him. Abba, my cat, padded in from the hall and stood hackles raised at the door, as if he’d been pushed back from the chest. Grimaldi hissed and Abba turned on his tail and ever after refused to go in the lounge, thereby denying me the comfort of a cat on my lap in the evenings. Grimaldi laughed then closed his eyes and settled down to sleep, his tail still twitching.
Grimaldi grew each day. When I got home from work we’d watch TV together as I ate my dinner and tried to ignore his presence in the armchair. ‘What have you got tonight?’ he’d ask, ‘Chicken? My favourite!’ He’d rest his chin on his clawed feet. ‘Did you see this story Angie? Bird flu in Indonesia – be over here soon, course it’s just the start.’ Then he coughed, insidiously atomising sulphur into the air, and snuffled back down to sleep. He swelled in his sleep - I could hear his scales creaking as he grew. My chicken tasted of ammonia but it didn’t matter, my throat was too constricted to eat. I threw it away and washed up my plate and scrubbed at my hands with the brillo pad.
Bird flu, SARS, swine flu, malarial mosquitos found at Gatwick, TB in London, Polio in Glasgow - pestilence dominated. Every night I sat down to my meal for one with Grimaldi and watched it all unfold. When the swine flu really hit, when it was all that was on the news, with maps and hotlines and people dying, Grimaldi picked at his teeth with a curved claw and said,
‘Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.’
He stared at me and laughed, a deep belly laugh, like Tom Baker in Doctor Who. By now he was as big as my ex-husband, sitting in the chair with his legs crossed, tapping one foot on the floor as if he was waiting for something, the motor equivalent of saying, ‘any day now.’ I went and washed my hands.
During the swine flu panic everything changed. Marlene found me in the toilets at work trying to wash the blood off my hands. My own blood, slicking my palms where I’d rubbed off the top layers of skin when my boss had sneezed without covering his mouth. They took me to hospital, fed me tranquilizers, lay me in a crisp-sheeted bed looking out over the grounds through a cinema-screen window. I didn’t understand how people couldn’t see them. The demons, I mean. Every one a copy of Grimaldi, swooping down from the sky and lifting their victims away in their claws, until all that was visible were legs running desperately through thin air. Of course I didn’t tell anybody. I’m not stupid. I needed to get back to Celestin Crescent; to the one place I knew I’d be safe. At any minute they could smash through the window and take me like they had the others. After a week I got new pills and a ‘manageable hand-washing routine’. They talked about Danny and why he left me (as if that had anything to do with anything). They assigned me a mentor and sent me home.
Leo, my mentor, is sitting opposite me now, where Grimaldi used to sit. Actually, since I’ve been away, Grimaldi doesn’t come in anymore. He’s still here but he’s outside with the others, and he’s the size of a cat again so now he sits on the windowsill and stares through the glass. I can see him over Leo’s shoulder.
‘You ready Angela?’ says Leo. Grimaldi narrows his eyes and draws his claw in a slicing movement across his throat.
‘Hmm?’
Leo turns to the window. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘My cat.’ I lie.
‘So, shall we go?’
Leo says I have to go out; that if I don’t soon they’ll take me back to hospital. I feel like I’m plunging through the sofa, my stomach twists and turns, screaming silently. Grimaldi puffs up on the window ledge, his grinning face visible behind Leo. I hug my coat tightly around me.
Leo crouches on the floor in front of me and touches my arm.
‘It’s alright Angela,’ he says, ‘you’ve got your magic cloak remember? Nothing can happen to you. I’ll be with you all the way.’
I like Leo. He’s been here every week since I got back. His hair fits his name, a great big afro mane and he has kind eyes. But the main reason I like Leo is because he’s done this too, so he knows how I feel and I don’t have to explain everything like I did in the hospital.
‘Have you got a magic cloak Leo?’ I ask, playing for time.
‘Course I do – everybody has. How do you think I got here?’
I did wonder, but then I think it’s just because it’s not his time yet, when they really want him they’ll get him.
‘C’mon, you’ve got that birthday card to send to your Mum. It’s just a little stroll to the post box.’
He stands up, holds out his hand and smiles. He’s so calm. Maybe he’s right.
‘One step at a time.’
I look out of the window but I can’t see Grimaldi at all, just a little puff of smoke in front of the railings and the trees across the crescent. The trees look happy; their leaves blowing in the breeze, chlorophyll clean. I take Leo’s hand.
My feet glide across the carpet. One. Two. Three. Past the stairs. Four. Five. Down the hall. Leo’s hand is big and warm. He leads me past the photographs on my wall, family and friends I haven’t seen in months; smiles imprisoned in black frames. I notice a smear of dust on the tops as I pass – must clean when I get back, I think. Six. Seven. We’re almost at the door and I can see the outside world through the lead-patterned windows. The colours and lines are a kaleidoscope in the frosted glass, the azure sky and cotton ball clouds, the swaying green of the leaves. As Leo goes for the latch I see a flicker of dark red, so dark it’s almost black, and then another, cutting across the comforting natural colours, turning the kaleidoscope into a Dali dream, and I know they ‘re there - outside waiting to swoop. Leo pulls down the catch and opens the door. I close my eyes, my throat feels too small to swallow, a solid lump of fear is wedged inside. Leo squeezes my hand.
‘Angela,’ he says gently, ‘it’s ok – open your eyes.’
I’m still inside. I can refuse to go any further. I open my eyes.
Sunlight floods the hall, as warm as Leo’s hands. In the picture frame of the door I see blue sky and trees heavy with cherry blossom. Birdsong fills the air, a high-pitched xylophone. A man with a smile on his face whizzes past on a bicycle. Two girls in pink dresses skip by holding hands. There are no demons, not even Grimaldi. My eyes widen, the air smells good. Leo smiles at me, he nods his head and then he lets go of my hand, almost dancing down the path to the gate. I walk over the stoop. One. Two. Onto the path. Three. Four. Leo pulls open the wrought iron gate, it scrapes over the path.
There’s a terrible repetitive throaty call, like the ignition of an old car failing to catch, and the sound of feathers slapping air. A magpie lands on the gatepost, its black clawed feet skittering on the brick; one wing extended showing the huge paradox of black and white. It turns its head and looks at me, its eyes and beak as black as sin, and speaks again. This time I hear it clearly. Hell Hell Hell.!
My cloak falls from my shoulders. There’s a sudden pain in my chest as if the bird’s words hold my heart in hooked hands. I fall slowly to my knees, unable to speak, unable to say to Leo – please, please pick up my magic cloak. I look up into the mercury sky and see them coming together, blowing fire from their snarling mouths, a demon army.
Grimaldi is as big as the garden. He laughs sulphurously.
‘Told you, you weren’t safe. You’re fine in the house but look at you now - you can’t even get through the gate! ’