Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  ‘OK, that was a bit weird.’

  She sat back. ‘So you admit there are forces in this world you can’t explain. Why be so sceptical about worshipping such a force?’

  Alice tapped her foot slowly in thought. ‘You’re saying this life force was responsible for pushing that glass?’

  ‘No. I can’t say what pushed that glass. According to the message that was spelled out, it was a person who’d died five centuries ago. Maybe it was. When someone dies you bury the body, but you don’t bury the person. That person – the spark that gave their body movement, warmth, thought – doesn’t die. It returns to wherever it came from.’

  Jon rubbed at the back of his head. This was all too much on an empty stomach. ‘Can we eat?’

  Half an hour later and the food was finished. As Jon stacked their plates in the dishwasher his thoughts went back to why they’d invited Ellie round in the first place. ‘So when will you ring Mum?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘And this Wicca stuff.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Maybe it’s best you don’t mention joining a coven.’

  ‘I’m not hiding my beliefs from her, Jon.’

  ‘Just for the moment, OK? Let her get used to the fact you’re interested in something other than Catholicism first.’

  She looked away. ‘Why? She was only too happy to ram her beliefs down our throats when we were kids.’

  A sudden rush of anger caused Jon’s hand to clench. He slammed a plate into the rack, almost causing its neighbour to fall out. ‘For fuck’s sake, Ellie. This is what it’s really about, isn’t it? Getting back at Mum. Of all the beliefs out there, you pick the one that will aggravate her most.’

  ‘Oh sod off Jon. Now you’re being pathetic.’

  ‘Bollocks I am. Pilates, yoga, Buddhism – there are countless other things you could fixate on. But no, it has to be this Wicca shit. You’re paying her back for all those Sunday school sessions when you were a kid. Admit it.’

  Her bitter tone caught him by surprise. ‘How would you know? You were never there.’

  She bowed her head, but he’d seen the tears spilling down her cheeks. Registering Alice’s look of shock, he turned to stare at the top of his sister’s head. Something in her voice had set an alarm bell ringing. ‘What did you mean by that?’

  She sniffed loudly. Opened her mouth, then shut it.

  ‘Come on Ellie. What were you going to say? I got it easy? You and Dave had the rough ride? Bullshit. You didn’t cop a fraction of the crap I had to deal with. Mum and Dad had forgotten the meaning of the word strict by the time you were a teenager. You can’t—’

  ‘You don’t get it do you!’ Her face was bright red. ‘The oh-so-clever cop. You do not fucking get it.’

  He held his hands out. ‘What don’t I get?’

  ‘That Sunday school.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the hymns? Playing the tambourine. Tinging the triangle. Really tough on you, yeah.’

  She looked directly at him, eyes burning with more emotion than he’d ever seen. ‘The man who made me sit in the corner. The one who told me I was dirty, worthless, evil. The one who took Dave off into that side room for his special lessons.’

  His vision blurred and Ellie’s face was all that he could see.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard me. I was a Jezebel. I remember that was the word he used. Years later I looked it up.’

  A sense of dread rose up and Jon felt ill.

  Ellie’s eyes were now closed. ‘I sometimes think the reason why I’m single and twenty-eight years old is because I deserve it. I know it’s why Dave turned out so fucked up.’

  He tried to swallow. ‘He touched you?’

  ‘No. Just said things.’ She palmed away a tear about a drip from her chin.

  Jon felt the muscles in his throat seizing up. ‘And Dave?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was the look on his face when the man led him back out of that side room. I suppose I always knew, but I didn’t understand what had really happened to him until I was much older.’

  Jon wanted to shut it out, sit in front of the telly, have a normal end to the day. ‘You think he was abusing Dave?’

  She gave a single nod. ‘He was always so quiet in the back of the car on the way home. We’d exchange looks, but neither of us dared say anything.’

  Jon found himself turning away. He picked up a plate and started bending down to put it in the dishwasher. What the fuck am I doing? He put it back on the work surface, hand shaking. Behind him, he heard his sister sniff.

  ‘Are you OK Ellie?’ His wife whispered.

  Jon clamped his eyes shut. This is not happening. Please, this is not happening.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine,’ Ellie replied, but her words were ragged.

  ‘Here, I’ll get you a tissue.’ Alice again.

  ‘No, don’t worry. There’s one here.’

  ‘Oh Ellie.’

  He heard the sound of a chair scraping and he knew his wife would be leaning across to hug her. His palms felt glued to the formica surface. ‘Hang on,’ he said, head bowed to his chest.

  ‘Where were the other staff and kids? When this man who put you in the corner, and took Dave off into . . . into that . . .’

  ‘I often wondered that myself, but I figured it out. They’d gone home. It all happened after the class, when Mum was doing choir practice. This guy would look after us while she was in the main part of the church.’

  His eyes stung as he opened them and slowly turned round. Alice was kneeling by Ellie’s chair and they were holding hands. His sister’s head was resting on his wife’s shoulder. His vision began to swim. ‘And you never tried to mention it to Mum?’

  Ellie shook her head. ‘How would I have dared? After all the lectures she’d given us on going to heaven and not sinning.’

  Jon’s mind reeled. He understood exactly what she meant and the fury moved slowly within him. His mother, so concerned with her pious contribution to her church, hadn’t noticed the misery of her own children. He realised that if she was in the room now, he would find it hard not to pick her up and shake her like a rag doll.

  ‘Don’t say anything Jon. Of all things, that would destroy her.’

  The room felt stifling, like all the oxygen had been sucked away. ‘What did it do to you and Dave? That bloody woman and her beliefs.’

  ‘I’m OK Jon. I can live with it.’

  His mind went to their brother Dave. Living on the streets, begging, stealing, taking drugs. It explained so much. His moods, his love for getting wasted. He was trying to forget. Jon had to breathe in sharply. ‘I need to get out.’

  They both looked at him, eyes wide.

  ‘Don’t tell her, please Jon,’ Ellie whispered. He waved a hand. ‘I’m not going to Mum’s.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’ Alice asked. ‘Jon, your sister . . . what she’s just said . . .’

  He could feel the blood pounding in his temples as he ground his knuckles against them. ‘I just have to get out.’ He looked at his sister. ‘Ellie?’

  Her head sank back on to Alice’s shoulder. ‘You go, Jon.’

  He took a step towards her, hand half raised. ‘It’s just that . . . all you’ve said.’ The tears were nearly breaking from his eyes.

  ‘I can’t, I don’t know. Right now, it’s not something I’m able to—’

  ‘I understand. Go Jon. Get some air inside you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ With a last apologetic glance at Alice, he walked quickly from the room, grabbing his coat on the way out.

  The streets were deserted as he drove along them, windows fully down. The rush of air buffeted his head and he welcomed the sensation. Ellie. Why did you never say . . . the answer appeared before the thought was finished. His mum. The fear she’d sown in all of them. The fear of disgracing her God. He felt like he could rip the steering wheel clean off, fold it in two and hurl it through the windscreen. He breathed deeply, trying to force his thoughts away from what his sister
had just said. But, like the point of a compass, his mind kept going back. ‘Jesus!’ he yelled, slamming a fist against his thigh. The car veered and he had to grab the steering wheel to avoid colliding with the kerb. Again, his sister’s words played in his head and he reached for the radio, turning it up as far as it would go. Not loud enough. He wanted a barrage of noise. The song ended and the radio announcer started running through live music events in town that night. Satan’s Inferno in Diabolic on Bloom Street, tickets on the door. That’ll fucking do, Jon decided, turning left at the next junction.

  The air in the tunnel began to tremble and he looked at the black candle’s flame as it dipped and wavered in response. Finally the heavy rumble of the train passing overhead died away.

  Silence returned.

  He rearranged the flattened cardboard boxes, placing one against the brickwork to stop the damp creeping through his coat when he leaned back. The rest he spread out over the bare earth. Sliding the candle closer, he examined the blister on his finger. The skin was stretched taut by the fluid trapped beneath. It resembled, he thought, a full tick. From his army jacket, he produced a penknife and opened out a metal spike. He pressed its point against the surface of the blister, watching the skin bend inward as he gradually increased the pressure. Suddenly the metal pierced it and the sac deflated as a large droplet oozed out.

  He raised the finger to his face, liking the way the candle made the fluid glisten as it ran downward. After wiping his hand on his sleeping bag, he picked up the candle and held his middle finger just above it, watching as the skin began to contract, then swell. The intensity of the pain grew rapidly and he gritted his teeth, trying to keep contact with the flame. But the hand holding the candle dropped it and the air hissed from his lips.

  He placed the candle back on the cardboard surface and closed his eyes, shutting out the dullness of the ache that was now asserting itself, trying to keep the incredible sharpness of how it had just been alive. He wondered how it must feel to have your whole body wreathed in a sensation so intense. Was that how his mother would feel when Judgement Day came?

  Eventually he opened his eyes and reached for the final edition of that day’s Manchester Evening Chronicle. Starting at the back, he flicked past the sports reports and classified advertisements before reaching the entertainment section. There was the boxed announcement: Satan’s Inferno, tonight at Diabolic. He stared down, focusing more on the gaps between the letters than the words themselves. Serberos and Ed. He had thought the three of them were brothers, in this together. But he was wrong. They believed their music was their aim, and with it sales, success and celebrity. He had thought so too. But slowly he’d realised the music was merely a step to something far more important. Better than that: when used properly, it was a conduit, a key, a mechanism to open the fissures of hell and flood the world with fire. To destroy the church, his dad and the things his dad said.

  Closing the paper, he looked at the front page. It was devoted to the discovery of the body in the burnt-out remains of the Sacred Heart church. His eyes paused at a subheading that read,

  ‘A sacrifice to Satan?’

  His free hand went to a strand of lank black hair hanging down over his face. Fingers began to roll it back and forth, back and forth.

  Then he folded the paper over and flung it to the side. It skidded over the expanse of cardboard, coming to a stop by a ten-litre can of petrol.

  Chapter 8

  Jon followed the A34 as it passed under the Mancunian Way, the concrete pillars of the flyover covered in skateboarder graffiti. Soon he was on Princess Street, heading for a small car park tucked behind the deserted office buildings lining the road.

  As he parked, he glanced towards the fast food places dotted along the rear of Canal Street. Rick’s flat was only two minutes away. That would be good, he thought. A bit of company, and someone who’s oblivious to what I now know. He reached for his mobile and called his partner’s number.

  ‘Rick, it’s Jon. I’m in town.’

  ‘Jon, you all right?’

  He took a breath, made an effort to sound relaxed. ‘Yeah,

  ’course.’

  ‘What are you up to now?’

  Jon almost smiled at his partner’s wary tone. ‘Checking out the Death Metal band that Robson bloke was obsessing about. They’re playing in a venue called Diabolic.’

  ‘What, tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, fancy coming along?’

  ‘To Diabolic? That hell hole for Goths on Bloom Street?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Erm, it’s not convenient at the moment, mate.’

  ‘What do you mean? I can practically see your apartment from where I’m parked.’

  ‘I’ve got company.’

  Company? Did that mean he was in the sack with another man right now? He pushed the thought from his head. ‘No problem. I just thought . . .’

  ‘I know. Cheers for calling. You know, any other time I’d have been up for it.’

  ‘’Course. All right, I’ll let you know how I went on tomorrow.’ He pressed red, now relieved to get off the phone. Company. He could have just said he was busy or something.

  He crossed the half full car park and turned down the narrow side street leading to Diabolic. On one side was an old cotton merchant’s building, on the other a hotel from the Victorian era

  – elaborate façade, arched windows, large plunging drainpipes. Water dripped from a broken gutter high above his head. Both buildings loomed tall, making Jon feel closed in.

  Halfway down, two torches were mounted on the wall of the old cotton merchant’s, gas flames flickering in the gloom. A heavy metal gate had been welded across the entrance, possibly the original, erected to protect the side entrance from nineteenth-century thieves. Above it a couple of gargoyles glared down. Those were definitely newer additions. A shaven-headed bouncer regarded him, hands crossed over his bulging stomach, legs planted wide apart.

  Jon held up his warrant card. ‘Mind if I nip inside?’

  The bouncer stepped back. ‘You’re gonna stand out like a right knob wearing that gear.’

  Jon glanced down at his old rugby shirt, jeans and battered trainers. ‘Not a good choice for working undercover then?’

  ‘You want to blend in here? Think zombies mate, land of the living bloody dead.’

  Jon clocked the Salford accent. How the guy must despise the types coming in here. ‘I’ll remember that next time.’

  The bouncer extended a hand. ‘Doors are straight ahead. Good luck.’

  Jon stepped into the flag-stoned entrance area. The walls had been stripped back to the bricks, many of which had been removed to create alcoves in which skulls sat. More torches were mounted well above head height, these with living flame effects. Jon looked at the triangles of red and orange silk as they bobbed and wavered. A girl with dark purple lipstick watched him from inside the ticket booth. Grabbing an ornate door handle, Jon stepped into the club itself.

  Black. He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the near absence of light. A bar away to his left, softly lit by hidden bulbs. A stage directly in front, its edges a curved and writhing mass of . . . what? Tree roots? Snakes? The organic forms twisted upwards, creating an arch topped by a leering demonic head complete with shining red eyes.

  Jon looked to the sides of the stage once again. Were those pigs’ heads mounted on spikes actually real? Jesus, it wouldn’t surprise him. A figure was on the stage, tapping drums, pressing foot pedals. In the DJ box someone else was bent forwards, adjusting sound levels.

  Jon stepped to the side and something moved from under his trainer. He squinted down. Someone’s foot must have been poking out from an area of low seats. Faces and hands slowly materialised in the darkness. Pale, ghostlike. Eyes heavy with mascara stared up at him. ‘Sorry about that,’ he announced, not sure exactly who to address.

  No reply.

  And you lot are staring at me like I’m a freak, he thought, moving tow
ards the bar. ‘A pint of Stella please.’

  As his drink was poured Jon took another look around. Now he could make out the faint glow of green lights. Fire Exit. Toilets. Figures lurked in every recess, cigarette ends glowed briefly to reveal long black hair and darkly painted nails.

  ‘Cheerful atmosphere in here,’ Jon said, as his drink was placed on the counter.

  The barman’s eyes shifted to Jon’s rugby shirt. What are you doing here, the look said. ‘Three fifty.’

  Jon held out the cash. ‘When’s Satan’s Inferno on?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  Jon dropped the coins into the barman’s palm. ‘Cheers.’

  He took the stool to the corner of the bar, placed his back against the wall and examined the stage once again. It looked like something from the set of Alien and he guessed it was constructed from fibreglass or epoxy resin. Maybe even concrete.

  Something strong enough to withstand bodies crashing against it anyway.

  A couple sauntered up to the bar, both painfully thin. The girl’s hair had been teased outwards, making her head seem too small. They ordered alcopop drinks, blue liquid that shimmered in the ultraviolet light. You two want a bloody good meal, Jon thought, as they melted back into the shadows.

  Light spilled regularly into the club as more and more people came through the outer doors. The guy on stage approached the mike and put his lips against it. ‘One two, one two, one two.’ The sound engineer made some adjustments and held up a thumb. The other man climbed off the stage and slipped through a concealed door to the side of the DJ box. From the speakers all around a drum beat started up, followed by a voice which snarled and groaned.

  Sod this, Jon thought. He finished his drink and headed across the empty dance floor area. Aware that just about everyone in the club was watching him, he paused at the edge of the stage for a closer look at a pig’s head. Plastic, but very realistic.

  He reached the door and pushed it open. A narrow corridor led to another door. In front of it was the guy from up on stage.