Through The Black Door - Chapter Seven
Coffee With The Devil
Just found this story? It starts here - Chapter One
The dial tone drones in my ear then cuts to my disembodied voice: “I guess I’m not here. Leave a message.”
Click.
It’s Karen again, tighter this time, more insistent. “Mark... please... I know things were tense... but... you’re still my baby brother... call me... please call me.”
Baby brother. The phrase grates as it always has. Decades have passed. Our lives have diverged, yet to her, I’m the perpetual kid needing guidance or saving.
I scrub a hand over my face. The lingering ache in my broken finger throbs. The bandage is fraying at the edges and curls away from my skin.
I don’t need saving.
But her voice creates a tremor of fear beneath the concerned-big-sister routine. I delete the message with a spiteful jab.
The dream girl’s warning pulses behind my eyes: Don’t push.
I must compartmentalise and right now, that means Eli Hoffman. He holds my financial future in his manicured hands and texted me an hour ago: Trading Post. 11:30. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation has intensified since my encounter with the Circulus Insanire.
I slip my phone into my pocket and grab my jacket. The clock on the wall shows 11:05. I’m cutting it close, as usual.
Mrs Patel from the convenience store downstairs passes me on the stairs with wary eyes. Since Cecil’s early morning visit, her friendly nods have transformed into frown-filled glances. Nothing travels faster in a neighbourhood than the news of a debt collector’s appearance.
“Good morning, Mrs Patel.”
She gives a curt nod, her gaze flicking to my bandaged hand. “You should be more careful, Mr Holwood,” she says, more like an accusation than concern.
I raise my eyebrows and hurry outside into the blinding spring sunlight. Brighton bustles, oblivious to the strange undercurrents pulling at my life. Tourists clutch ice creams despite the chill. Students huddle in Café doorways while seagulls scream overhead with their perpetual outrage at existence.
Everything looks so normal.
The Trading Post Coffee Roasters explodes with late-morning caffeine madness. Espresso machines scream like tiny Italian opera singers having nervous breakdowns! It’s coffeemagedon, people! And somewhere, some poor soul is still trying to explain what a “half-caf soy macchiato with room” actually means to anyone who’ll listen!
Eli Hoffman is already waiting, occupying a small table near the window, looking incongruous amidst the trendy clientele with their MacBooks. His tailored suit stands out like formal wear at a beach party. His eyes drill into me. He’s an eagle with a PhD in staring contests!
“You owe me a coffee,” he states as I sit down opposite him. No preamble, no pleasantries. Just transaction, as always with Hoffman.
“Well... I guess,” I concede, slumping into the chair. The events of the past few days have left me drained and the thought of verbally sparring with Eli is exhausting. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Full fat latte. None of that vegan crap.” His lips curl as though plant-based alternatives represent an affront to his worldview.
“Why am I not surprised?” I mutter, hauling myself to my feet and heading for the counter. The blue haired, tattood barista catches my eye with “next customer please” alertness.
I’m like a man walking the plank, but with caffeine at the end instead of a giant man-eating squid.
“One latte for the one staring like he’s calculating my net worth in sighs, and a black Americano for me. The blacker the better.”
The barista’s polite laugh echoes with the enthusiasm of a telemarketer who’s been on hold for three hours.
Minutes later, I’m navigating back through the fixie obstacle course, balancing a tray with Eli’s latte in a soup bowl and my Americano in a cup and saucer.
“You should know by now that I don’t give a fuck,” Eli says, and I wonder what he’s talking about before realising he’s held on to my last statement all this time.
I set down his drink. “In a strange way, that’s almost admirable.”
He misses my sarcasm or he’s ignoring it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the residual weirdness from the past few days of hunting this mysterious book, but his bluntness is clean compared to the shifting, unreliable nature of my own recent reality.
“I’m a bastard, Mark... but everyone knows.” He leans back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. “I don’t hide it. If I screw you over, it’s your fault for not seeing it coming.”
“That’s so... refreshing,” I say, and almost mean it. There’s a certain purity to Hoffman’s unvarnished avarice and selfishness. He’s a shark who never pretends to be anything but a shark. The real monsters are the ones who hide their teeth behind smiles.
“And you still owe me a story,” he reminds me with an unwavering gaze.
Ah, yes, the ‘favour’ from our first meeting. Details about the book. The real reason we’re sitting here pretending to be two normal humans having coffee instead of discussing supernatural artifacts that drive people mad.
“I know.” I stall, stirring sugar into my coffee and watching the crystals dissolve into the dark liquid. How can I explain what happened? The invisibility, a sentient book, a localised tornado in my studio? I’d sound deranged. Maybe I am. “I will give it to you but... I’m processing. It was weird... and...”
“And?” he prompts, and leans forward, lifting his latte with a hand below to catch the drips. Then he places pursed lips on the edge as if touching the liquid will blister them.
“I’m... not sure... I... maybe... my medication...” I trail off, hating the way it sounds. Yet, isn’t that the most logical explanation? Has the stress tipped me over? The boundaries between real and unreal have become so porous.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He snaps and sets his mug down with enough force that coffee sloshes over the rim, forming a small puddle on the table’s wooden surface.
“I may have been hallucinating but...”
“Christ.” Eli slams his mug again, spilling more coffee. “You better not be wasting my time.”
“I... there was a woman... Shelly Nash,” I push on, deciding to stick to the verifiable, human element of my strange encounter. Something Eli might be able to confirm existed. “Lives on the streets.”
“Fucking bums... I hate them.” His casual venom chills the air between us. The blue-haired barista passes by and twists round at his words.
“She was the book dealer,” I clarify, ignoring his comment and the flash of disgust it provokes. This isn’t the time to challenge Eli’s worldview. I need him, as much as the thought turns my stomach.
A flicker of interest animates his eyes, switching on behind frosted glass.
“I can’t find her now,” I continue, the frustration and worry resurfacing. “Could you... I mean... If she is... real...” The doubt creeps in again, insidious and persistent. “Then what happened was... horrific.” I shudder, the memory of the shop, the street, and the book, flooding back, the pages moving on their own, the text shifting, the unsettling sense of being observed by something ancient and patient.
Eli’s eyes squint below those massive eyebrows. The mid-morning sunlight streaming through the window catches the silver at his temples, lending him a momentary aura of distinction that his personality immediatelydispels.
“You’re on thin ice,” he says, his voice low and cold. He turns his face to the window but I don’t think he is looking at anything, just thinking. Then, unexpectedly, “I’ll look into it.” A potential lifeline, or another string pulled by a puppet master? With Eli, nothing comes without cost.
The sound of his chair scraping on the floor pulls me back from spiralling thoughts and I sip from my cup. “I need this,” I say.
Eli slurps his latte but keeps his eyes on me.
“Why do you do this?” he asks.
I pause to think. How can I explain the pull, the obsession, that answers hide just beyond the veil? “It’s hard to explain...” I trace a finger through the spilled coffee on the table. “Let’s just say it’s a family thing.” This is a half-truth, loaded with history that I’m not about to unpack for Eli Hoffman of all people.
“I don’t trust you,” he states.
“It’s ok... You shouldn’t,” I reply. “I don’t trust you, either.”
The statement hangs there. A strange kind of understanding passes between us. We’re two men with agendas using each other for their own purposes. At least we’re both clear about it.
“So,” Eli shifts gears, back to business. “When are you posting the latest show?”
“Well, it’s edited...” My voice is hollow, remembering my decision to quit after the last episode. But Eli’s call, this new investigation… the hook is set deep. “…but I need to leave them hanging for the next case so... I’m hoping you have something good for me.”
I’m back in the game. Whether I like it or not.
“Mmmm...” Eli has a faint, unreadable expression on his face. “You’ll be meeting another oddball... a wanker, just like you.”
Charming as ever.
“This one... outside chance of going anywhere... still.” He shrugs.
“Nothing ventured...” I murmur. How many times have I said those words before plunging into situations that left me more damaged than when I started?
Eli takes a sharp intake of breath, and leans back. “Back in the 70s, Brighton was the home of a maths prodigy who was thought to be the next big thing in quantum mechanics. Extremely well regarded at the University of Sussex.”
“Really? Didn’t know that,” I say. And I’m intrigued despite myself and wonder where this is going. Brighton’s hidden histories are an endless fascination. Layers upon layers of stories are embedded in the city’s bones like geological strata.
“Leonard Sopwith.”
“None the wiser...”
“Not surprising. He suffered a total mental breakdown and completely retired from research. A wimp,” Eli adds, as if a mental collapse is a simple failure of backbone.
I bite my tongue. It’s not worth arguing with sharks about drowning.
“Ok... so...” I prompt, ignoring the callousness.
“So... there’s a myth attached to him. Some people claim he can cause others to experience an altered state of perception... no drugs involved.”
My pulse quickens, coffee forgotten. Altered perception. Like the Circulus Insanire? “How, then?”
“It’s not clear. I hear magic science numbers, vibrational therapy. Vague hippy shit.” Eli waves a hand. His nostrils flare.
“This is Brighton!” A small smile touches my lips. If anywhere is receptive to hippy shit and vibrational therapy, it’s here. The city runs on crystal energy and alternative wellness.
“Mmmm. Anyway...” Eli ignores my comment and stretches his jacket cuffs to exact lengths against his wrists. “He has a support worker who accompanies him to the shops and I have her phone number. She’s expecting your call.”
“How do you do it!” The question bursts out of me. The connections. The information. The way he just knows things about people who should be invisible to him.
“Leverage,” Eli says simply, holding my gaze with a cold certainty suggesting depths I don’t want to plumb. I glimpse the real Eli Hoffman, not just the aggressive debt collector with manic eyebrows, but something more predatory.
A pause settles between us, punctuated by the cafe’s ambient sounds. Steam hisses over murmured conversations and the gentle tap of fingers on laptop keyboards. I think about the implications, the unseen strings, the potential costs. Do I want to learn how deep Eli’s web extends? Probably not.
“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know,” Eli confirms my thoughts, a slight smirk on his lips. Mind-reading. Is that another supernatural ability to add to the growing list of impossibilities becoming possible?
“Hmmm... It... seems like it’s worth a punt...” I concede. Leonard Sopwith. Quantum mechanics. Altered states. It beats hiding from invisible assailants in my increasingly claustrophobic flat.
“OK.” Eli pushes his empty cup away with a decisive gesture. “But I need that story... and this next one... otherwise...” The threat hangs clear in the air between us.
Cecil.
I nod, acknowledging the terms of our unwritten contract. What choice do I have? The debt looms, and Cecil’s cricket bat remains a visceral memory. Besides, something pulls me like a fish hook lodged deep in my psyche. The bus. The girl. The book. Reality’s edges fraying. I need answers as much as Eli wants his stories.
He stands up, knocking the table with his thighs.
“That’s enough time with losers. I’ve got stuff to do. Don’t fuck me about, Holwood.”
He walks out, looking down his nose at Uni students typing on their MacBooks.
Karen’s deleted voicemail follows me out of the Café, heavy with obligation and the scent of the strange, like a code I’m meant to decipher.
“...so stay tuned and follow me as I meet a local Brighton mathematics genius who may have uncovered a key to the true nature of reality.” The show stinger punctuates the outro. The bombastic electronic tone reverberates through my headphones.
I pull them off after stopping the recording and silence rushes in. Outside, rain falls again, tapping against my window. The dream girl’s face flashes in my mind, her warning echoing: Don’t push.
It’s too late for warnings. I’m already falling, tumbling through doors I opened myself. All I can do now is hope for a soft landing on the other side.
I reach for my phone, pulling up Eli’s contact, Leonard Sopwith’s support worker. My finger hovers over the call button.
I know I should stop. I know I won’t.
Don’t push.
I push.