The Last Days of Jack Sparks by Jason Arnopp Read Free Book Online Page B

being able to replay moments over and over again that my first instinct is to reach for a non-existent rewind button.
    I’d previously thought of Tony as a third party unconnected to the trickery here. So how did Maria’s voice come out of him – and how did she know my name? Di Stefano never spoke it. When telling Maria and Maddelena why I was here, he only described me as ‘a journalist from England’.
    Salvation soon comes when I remember that Di Stefano’s office recommended Tony in the first place – and Maria’s knowledge of my name only hastens the return of that
Truman Show
feeling. She and her mother are Vatican glove puppets after all. This whole thing really was an elaborate set-up. What the hell was I thinking there, for a while? Given the Catholic Church’s wealth, the ultra-convincing illusion of a nail spat into a leg is both achievable and relatively subtle. Making a young girl’s voice come out of a man’s mouth? Child’s play.
    This whole thing has been organised religion to a T: the use of man-made lies to try and make people feel small, protected and grateful.
    I award everybody the slowest, most sarcastic handclap I can muster, before getting in my car.
    This time, no amount of further dicking around will make me look back.
    * * *
    During the long, dull drive back to civilisation, I mentally run through the SPOOKS List. Today’s experience clearly does not require any further possible explanations to be added. At some point during the exorcism I’d believed Father Di Stefano was ‘trying to deceive others’ (Explanation #1) while Maria and Maddelena were in turn ‘being deceived by others’ (Explanation #2.) By the end, it had become obvious that only Explanation #1 was required. Everyone, to their eternal shame, was acting. Lying their heads off.
    A call comes in from an unknown number. The word ‘Unknown’ doesn’t pop up as usual: the screen is completely blank except for the options to answer or reject.
    When I answer, a piercing electronic shriek crashes out of the speakers. Warped digital feedback: the kind of thing Aphex Twin used to put on his records
(Eleanor: I know you’ll ask me to update this reference and make it a more current band. Sorry, but it sounded like Aphex Twin. Not my fault you’re too young to remember him.)
And it’s loud. So loud. I had no clue my phone was capable of such decibels.
    The sheer physical shock makes me cover my ears with both hands. Which is bad, because I’m negotiating a tight bend.
    The Romeo hammers along the middle of the dirt road. If something hurtles around that bend towards me, there’ll be a head-on smash, no survivors.
    Clutch. Brake. Steer. Terminate call with built-in steering wheel button. Pray.
    I sail around the rest of the bend, sick with adrenalin, ears ringing. Edging the Romeo back to safety.
    The noise sounded demonic. It was the natural, or unnatural, soundtrack to Edvard Munch’s
Scream
. And afterwards, however fleetingly, I find myself pondering how this call might be connected to Maria Corvi and her internal lodger. Which is ridiculous. Completely batshit. But it gets me thinking about the supernatural and how damn seductive that world can be. Because such connections are insidious. Once you start making them, it must be so easy to become seduced. To get sucked right in. Connections would lead to endless others: a vast social media network of belief. Before you knew what was going on, you’d be dragging your daughter to meet one of the Pope’s right-hand men at a knackered old church in the back of beyond.
    By the time I’m propping up a brutally impersonal Rome airport bar, the outside world is studded with coloured runway lights. My ears still ring and my phone holds more surprises. When I’d asked, ‘Where’s the EVIDENCE?’, hordes of people took this to be a genuine request for EVIDENCE, or at least their interpretation of what constitutes EVIDENCE. So my feed is now jam-packed with helpful links to