Victoria House - Part 7 of 9

Rosie looked different. Strong and upright, the slight hunch she’d always carried was gone. Her carriage reminded me of an encyclopaedia illustration I once saw of Joan of Arc rallying troops — resolute, beckoning confrontation. Towering beside her, the worm stood in an S-shape, its cavernous mouth dripping fluids onto the parquet flooring. Its breathing was a slow, rhythmic pulsing. Ripples passed through its pale pink body, each ending in a rush of air that sounded like breath pushed through cold fingers on a winter morning.

I could feel my body preparing to flee. My vision narrowed. I could hear my heart — and then I wasn’t sure where I was at all. According to my father, I turned to him and asked if we were having toad-in-the-hole for dinner before collapsing.

In reality, Dermot had never been to my home. Most parents wouldn’t take on the responsibility, not even briefly. But the vividness of the image — him standing at our front door — convinced me for years it was a memory, not a dream. Our dining table was set for two. Torn wrapping paper littered the living room floor, a detail my mother later used to discredit the whole thing. “There’s no way I’d leave paper lying around with visitors coming,” she said, clearly disturbed. Her aversion to mess, germs — and by extension, people — made it all the more implausible. Still, I would have preferred the false memory to the guilt I now know it really was.

Conversation with Dermot had never been possible. He lived trapped in his own mind, and everyone who knew him was dragged into his waking terror. In my dream, he spoke clearly, laughed, ate jelly, flew toys around the room. The realisation that none of it had happened came slowly, after the conversation with my mother. The joy, the playfulness — they were borrowed from other people. Things I knew we should have shared. Things I should have invited him to.

My father, ever the rugby forward, carried smelling salts. It used to make my mother and me laugh — watching him dash across the pitch to rouse a teammate, only to berate them seconds later for weak play. When I came to, his unimpressed face loomed over mine. He yanked me to my feet by the back of my shirt. I shook him off and moved toward the front of the crowd, flushed with embarrassment.

The scene hadn’t changed. I glanced at Broad’s watch: 8.45 p.m.

My father had instructed everyone to remain in the hall. He worried movement might stir the creature. While it looked terrifying, it was motionless, seemingly awaiting a command from Rosie. For the first time in my life, I saw fear in my father’s eyes. Broad was sweating profusely — I saw him wring out his handkerchief onto the floor. Two men who had built their lives solving problems were now utterly lost, as vulnerable as anyone else. Their posture spoke total resignation.

A familiar hand landed on my shoulder. Gary was smiling.

“We’ve got a plan,” he whispered, and led me to the back of the hall. I edged through the crowd and reached a small group of residents, huddled and half-naked, beside a pile of discarded purple shirts. Gary still wore his.

Tasked with keeping spirits up, Gary had taken to his role with gusto. His understanding of the residents — their moods, their quirks — had been invaluable. “If we’re not wearing shirts, it won’t eat us,” he said. It couldn’t hurt, I thought, but doubted it would matter. What would the creature do if no one wore purple? Would it just pick at random?

It was a sacrificial plan. I urged Gary to take off his shirt. He refused.

A wheel squeaked behind me. I felt a tug on my blazer. Mrs. Rabasandratana was whispering strange animal noises, motioning me closer with a curled finger. I leaned in. She grabbed my tie.

“Fucking stupid’a boy,” she grinned. “You have'a the book, little wank.”

She snatched the Summonitores Libro from my belt and flipped through the pages until muttering, “Bingo.” She held it up. There it was — the worm, ridden by a cloud of smoke.

“I can’t read this,” I stammered. “It’s in Latin.”

She looked horrified. “Why you not know Latin? Are you fucking stupid’a?”

“No. What does it say?”

“I teach you. Fuckin idiota.” Her method was brutal — not unlike my grandmother’s. I’d always struggled with languages, a source of shame in a family of bilinguals. My grandmother’s Dutch lessons were laced with shrieking and theatrical despair. More than once, I’d caught my father smirking in the background while she flailed her arms, shouting, “Is this boy fucking stupid?” Meanwhile, my sister collected china ornaments from an antique dealer in my Grandmothers home town of Groningen — rewards for fluent recitations.

“If I could stand up, I smack you up in your face,” snapped Mrs. Rabasandratana. She shaped her hands into a bird, flapped them gently, then transformed the gesture into two thrusting middle fingers.

“Let’s kick off’a the head and throw in a river of piss.”

I stared, lost in the insult’s surreal poetry.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Please — what does it say?”

She sighed and proceeded to jerk into a different pose and dramatic expression with every point she made.

“Summon demon. It smile like friend. You make wish. Demon trap souls. Hide them from God. Is bad book. No?”

“What can we do?”

She leaned closer, her tone darkened.

“I listen to the teacher lady. Had a vision. Said book choose you. They fear you now. Think maybe if you go… demon go too. A trade. I think you have job little man.”

I didn't feel shocked by the statement. A small voice inside me stirred — not quite belief, but recognition. A seed had been planted — for what I couldn't be sure.