Free The Midnight Man by Paul Doherty

garrotte or the club were drawn at the drop of a dice or the turn of a counter. Narrow, evil-smelling lanes, the walls on either side coated with a messy slime, the ground under foot squelched with the dirt and refuse thrown out by those who lived in the rat castles on either side. Now and again a candle glowed against the perpetual darkness. A
flambeau
burnt under a crucifix which did not hold the figure of Christ but Dismas the Good Thief. Shadow people, nighthawks and darksmen flittered through the murk. Anselm and Stephen were watched then dismissed.
    â€˜Friars, white-garbed!’ The cry went out. Doors slammed, shutters clinked. Anselm and Stephen hurried on. The figures who confronted them seemed to merge out of the gloom: three women, street-walkers, their hair dyed different stripes of colour, their feet bare and their loose-fitting gowns open at the neck and chest to expose nipples painted a bright orange. The women blocked their way. At first Stephen thought they were drunk but, as he grew more accustomed to the dim light from the lantern horn the woman in the middle held, cold dread seized him. All three stared, hard-faced and glassy-eyed. Creatures from beyond the edge of darkness.
    â€˜Out of our way!’ Anselm ordered.
    â€˜Preacher! Peddling preacher! Interfering mumble-mouth! Another shaven pate comes with his cub to confront and oppose,’ the woman opposite Stephen snarled, bringing the long stabbing knife out of the folds of her gown to glitter in the juddering light. ‘Who are you?’ the woman jibed mockingly.
    â€˜Anselm the do-gooder,’ one of her companions replied. ‘Mind you, he’s seen enough hot blood gurgle and splash. So, who set you up as a prophet in Israel? Why have you come to meddle?’
    â€˜To spoil our little games with your stupid chuntering,’ her snarling friend jeered. ‘You whoreson bastard! Why have you come into our domain? You, Anselm, a filthy sinner with your dirty thoughts and foul moods.’
    â€˜And you, Stephen of Winchester,’ the third woman took up the litany of insults, ‘a friar, are you – why? No vocation, surely? Fleeing your father?’ The voice was harsh, mocking and ugly.
    Stephen, mouth dry, was aware of other dark shapes creeping along the walls on either side – scuttling shadows, as if a horde of hairless rats were swarming around.
    Anselm stepped forward. ‘In the name of the Lord Jesus, by what are you called?’
    â€˜The hordes of hell greet you,’ one of the women retorted.
    â€˜And the power of heaven responds.’ Anselm grasped the tau crucifix. ‘In His name . . .’
    One of the women darted forward, dagger blade snaking towards Stephen, but Anselm knocked her aside with his satchel even as he cried. ‘
Deus vult
,
Deus vult
– God wills it, God wills it.’
    The third woman lunged with the club she was hiding by her side. Anselm punched her full in the face. She staggered back. The attack faded. The sinister scrabbling along the alleyways disappeared. The darkness thinned. All three women dropped what they were carrying and withdrew, looking fearfully down at their hands then up at the exorcist, faces vacant, eyes staring, mouths gaping. They backed away, then turned and fled. Anselm leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
    â€˜Magister, what were those?’
    â€˜
Succubi
,’ Anselm replied, ‘the demons we tried to exorcize last night. They swarm like flies seeking entrances to souls. Well, they found an open door to those three ladies.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘They came to threaten, even to kill. God knows.’ He sketched a blessing above Stephen’s head. ‘And what did they tell us? That we are sinners? Well, we know that already! I am also very hungry and our refectory awaits . . .’
    Stephen knelt on the prie-dieu before the Lady altar in the Church of the White Friars. The Angelus bell had