Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  She tried to step out into the street to see the street name, or to draw herself to the attention of another potential rescuer. But a powerful compulsion came upon her and she closed the door.

  So much for an escape attempt.

  After that, she wept for quite some time. Until her T-shirt was very nearly alive with snot and her throat was raw and painful. She took off her T-shirt and rinsed it in the sink. She went upstairs and put on a formal blouse, from the M & S clothes collection Gogarty had placed in the wardrobe; all her size, all quite nice, just old-fashioned.

  She tried to think.

  She’d been able to open the front door for the postman; yet normally, she wasn’t able to open the door at all. So Gogarty must have factored that in when he bound her. And, though he’d left her with no conscious memory of his spell-binding, she could imagine the kind of things he would say. Things like: ‘If someone comes to the door, you may answer it and say, “May I help you, kind sir,” and when that person departs you will say “I bid thee farewell,” but you will not say or do anything to appeal for help and you will not leave the house.’

  And that’s exactly what had happened.

  She had at least got some kind of look at the street outside. And it was – well, an ordinary street. Semi-detached houses. Grey brick not red. Not new then. She had a feeling that if she were an expert in architecture she’d be able to deduce which area of London she was in from the bricks and the choice of architectural vernacular. But in truth, she had no fucking idea about house bricks or architectural vernacular. And she’d seen no landmarks. So she didn’t know if she was in North London or South London or even in London at all. It wasn’t Soho or Trafalgar Square; that was as good as she got.

  Then she had a brainwave. She looked at the package she’d just signed for. It was from Amazon, a box full of books no doubt. And the label said: Brian Gogarty, 13 Ildminster Square, London E1 6PX.

  She knew the address where she was being held captive! And so, if she could use the phone, she could call for help; and she could specify exactly where that help should go to.

  But she couldn’t use the phone. She had tried, but she just couldn’t. And she couldn’t use the computer either. She couldn’t even shout out of the window.

  She knew what was going to happen to her. She was going to die.

  She went to her room and cried for a little while. Then she had a bath.

  Then she made herself dinner in the middle of the afternoon. She drank a whole bottle of wine and puked it all up and felt terrible.

  She was quite certain that Gogarty wasn’t human. He was some kind of demon in human form; how else could he have such supernatural powers? He carried with him an aura of darkest evil. And he was so fucking ugly. The ugliest person she had ever met. With his hollowed out eye sockets and his staring eyes and his fat bald wrinkled head. His hands were chunky too, like a butcher’s hands. And his skin was cold to the touch, though in fairness he didn’t often touch her.

  By the twelfth day of her captivity she was living like a Queen on vintage wine and steaks fried in the pan with oven cooked wedges. She couldn’t leave the house, couldn’t phone a friend, couldn’t watch the news, couldn’t surf the net. She lived in a bubble, counting off the days, oblivious to the events taking place in the ‘real’ world.

  Thirteen days.

  Fourteen days.

  Fifteen days.

  Sixteen days.

  She saw Gogarty twice a day usually. He treated her well, considering. He never verbally abused her. He had not at any point sexually assaulted her or beaten her. They had dinner together a few times, cooked very skilfully by him, and during these meals he proved to be agreeable company. They chatted about politics. He knew a lot about the history of London and bored her to bits about it. Then they got on to favourite films, and that was more like it: Sarah found herself babbling about Tarantino and Kieslowski and the Coen Brothers to him, her captor. She even told him the plot of Fargo, which he claimed he had never seen. But when he let slip that he knew that the ‘funny looking guy’ was played by the actor Steve Buscemi, she realised he had been deceiving her.

  Fargo, she recalled at that moment, was a movie about a woman who is kidnapped. The irony, when it struck her, stung.

  But generally, life was pleasant. She watched the movies he’d left for her, over and over. She read books, mostly thrillers and Victorian triple-deckers. She even hoovered and tidied, just for something to do. She felt like a wife whose husband was always late home from work, and who had forgotten how to venture forth herself into the world.

  On the seventeenth day she spotted the trap door. It was a crack in the ceiling on the second floor of the house. An attic room?

  She tried standing on a chair but couldn’t reach it. Then she used her bonce, as her mother used to say. An attic – with no means of entry? How likely was that?

  The answer: not likely at all. She looked harder, and eventually found a switch inside the door of Gogarty’s master bedroom which wasn’t a light switch. So she turned it on and stepped back into the hall and watched the ceiling open. A steel ladder unfurled and lowered itself, like the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. And the stairway to Gogarty’s lair was before her.

  She clambered up.

  The attic was lit entirely by candles. Hundreds of them. She touched the flame of one of the candles and winced, because it was real flame. But the candles didn’t seem to burn down. All the candles were the same height, and there was no trace of melted wax at their bases. Magical candles.

  There were photographs on the walls. Mostly black and white, some in colour, many very old. All portraits of people. Men. Women. Children. Sometimes entire families. Family members? Or past victims?

  There were boxes there too, big wooden boxes stained jet black by the passage of years and greenly damp with mildew. They were unlocked, and she opened them all in turn.

  One box was full to the brim with vials of liquid held in purpose-built metal holders of the kind she recognised from GCSE chemistry. Acid? Nutrients for demons? Magic potions?

  Another box contained antique weapons – a sabre, several broadswords, a rapier. Some of them were loose or wrapped in cloth, some in ornate wooden cases. She took the sabre out and hefted it, and swung it through the air to test the weight. It felt good in her hand. She noticed a dark patch on the blade – rust, or blood?

  In the same box was a set of throwing knives, in a mahogany case. Arranged on a bed of green felt. The handles were white, probably ivory, the blades so polished they were like mirrors, the bolsters intricately carved.

  She took one of the knives out of the case and gripped it by the handle. She swung the knife back and forth slowly, getting the feel of it. The balance was perfect; just holding it was a joy. Then she touched the skin of her arm with the knife tip and saw a bubble of blood appear.

  A room full of weapons. It couldn’t be that easy.

  She smelled the trap he had set. And she was proud of her superior acumen. Gogarty had wanted her to find this place. He wanted her to fight for her life. And she would! Of course she would. But she was determined to be smart. For this was a war of wits. So she put the knives back, and the sabre too.

  Far too easy, she concluded. Think harder.

  And so she thought, harder.

  It was day twenty-five before she saw her chance, and took it. He came home in the afternoon, which was unusual. He was in a bad mood, and smelled sweaty and rank and unwashed. She wondered what he’d been up to.

  And when he asked her to run a bath for him, she did. She ran it hot, in the hope it might scald him. She smeared butter on the bathroom floor in the hope he might slip. Then he came upstairs and went into the bathroom and stripped in front of her and dunked his fat yet muscular body into the foaming bath waters and said: ‘That will be all, Sarah.’

  So she left him and hurried along the hallway into his master bedroom. And she switched the switch. And she saw the ladder descend. And
she clambered up the ladder. Into the attic.

  And when she was in the attic, she opened the third black wooden box from the end on the right hand wall and took out the set of throwing knives. And she tried to take them out of the box, but she couldn’t. So instead she took out the sabre and held it in her hand; and her hand began to tremble and she dropped the sword.

  And then she picked the rapier and instead of thinking about how much she wanted to kill Gogarty, she thought about the lovely meal Gogarty had cooked for her the night before. Blackened fish, Cajun style, washed down with a bottle of Californian Syrah. And she mulled about the fact that he wasn’t such a bad old sort after all.

  In fact, now she came to think of it, there was a lot to be said for Gogarty. He was kind of like a white CeeLo Green. Cuddly and charismatic and full of energy! What was not to love! A cutey pie really!

  She thought, over and over, about how much she liked him; that daft yet adorable old blighter! And she swished the long thin blade, and this time she didn’t drop it.

  Having prepared her ground, she did the rest of the things she had planned so very carefully. And then she climbed back down the ladder, still carrying the rapier.

  And she walked along the hall, into the bathroom. His huge body was immersed in water crested with bubbles, reminding her of a great white whale in a turbulent whirlpool. He was crooning tunefully to himself. She thrust the rapier into his flabby stomach and left the room.

  Down the stairs. Into the living room.

  She sat. She waited patiently.

  He took his time. She waited fifteen minutes, sipping a glass of vintage Merlot, until he was finally ready to join her. He wore a white towelling robe that was patched with blood.

  ‘Nasty,’ he said mildly.

  ‘I can’t kill you, can I?’ she asked.

  ‘You can’t kill me,’ he agreed equably.

  ‘You’d have been a fool not to put that in your spell. ‘You cannot leave the house. You cannot call for help. You cannot kill the evil piece of slime who is keeping you prisoner.’’

  ‘A standard precaution.’

  ‘What are you? You may as well tell me. Are you really a demon?’

  ‘Questions, questions.’

  ‘I can’t kill you but I didn’t try to. I just poked a hole in your flabby stomach because I thought it would amuse you.’

  ‘It hurt,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Oh really?’ Her smile was so full of niceness, it was agonising.

  ‘And now I have to punish you.’

  She raised the knife. It was a kitchen knife, not one of the ancient throwing knives. A simple Kitchen Devil. The knife knew that she had no intention of killing Gogarty, so it had allowed her to pick it up. And then it had allowed itself to be held in her right hand, as she sipped the glass of vintage Merlot with her left hand.

  Swiftly, without hesitation, she ran the blade across her own throat and felt the flesh give way, and her jugular spurted blood like a stuck tap. The wine glass fell out of her numb fingers, and its dark red contents stained the carpet. A torrent of blood poured from her neck and drizzled off her body and splashed downwards, turning the cream carpet burgundy.

  ‘No!’ he screamed.

  ‘I’ll die on my own terms,’ she told him, faintly. As her life ebbed away.

  ‘I’ll stop you,’ he said smiling, and began to chant in a strange language.

  Then he stopped chanting. He could smell the smoke. It was seeping through the cracks in the living room door. The smoke was coming from the attic room full of candles: the attic room with its wooden floor boards and wooden roof beams and mahogany boxes that were all now, thanks to her, drenched in petrol from the jerry cans that Gogarty had stored in his garage.

  And the fire had spread. Slowly at first; sizzling, then flaring; then searing the timbers. Billowing, and spreading, faster and faster, as the flames licked through the hatch and ignited the paint on the walls in the upstairs hallway. And on it burned. Until the walls and the carpets and the beds and the duvets in all the upstairs bedrooms were angrily aflame. Within a few minutes, by the time the flames had rippled down the stairs to the living room, the fire would be unstoppable.

  And so the house was burning down. Sarah guessed the first floor must be an inferno by now. Unless he acted quickly, Gogarty would be trapped.

  Gogarty laughed.

  ‘You think I can’t put out a little fire!’ he sneered.

  She knew that yes, of course, he could. Using his magic spells, he could easily quell the inferno.

  And that’s why she was able to do this thing. Because she knew beyond all doubt - and the house knew it too - that she had no intention or likelihood of harming Gogarty. None whatsoever. However, Sarah had shrewdly calculated it would take even Gogarty a little time to magic away the flames. She was confident about that; however great this bastard’s power might be, even magic has its limits.

  And by the time he succeeded in dousing the fire –

  It was the smallest of triumphs, but it was all she had, and she savoured it.

  Six minutes later, the fire was extinguished. And Sarah was dead.

  Chapter 8

  ‘I need to take a statement.’

  The creature groaned. PC Tom Derry felt his flesh creep.

  ‘A statement, sir,’ Tom persisted.

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘You were assaulted, sir.’

  ‘So? Do you fucking care?’

  The creature was not humanoid. It was similar to a lion, in that it had a mane and huge teeth. But it was larger than a lion and two-legged. And with scales. Its flesh rippled, like meat with maggots. It was a strange colour. A colour without a name. It smelled of death. Just the sight of it made Tom feel nauseous.

  ‘It’s my duty, sir,’ Tom said. He fiddled with his collar. Even though he was so skinny, the shirt was too tight - he’d accidentally bought three the wrong size, 14 instead of 14 1/2.

  What’s more his eczema was flaring up on his face and forearms. And the pimple on his chin had exploded. And the uniform really wasn’t meant for someone as wiry as he was. Coppers were supposed to have big brawny shoulders, and he didn’t. He knew that he looked terrible. However it comforted him to realise that this – this – monster was hardly in a position to judge him when it came to the looks department.

  ‘I don’t want to press charges,’ the creature said.

  ‘We still need a statement.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tom thought about it. ‘It’s my job?’ he suggested.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Brad, impatiently.

  PC Bradley Morgan was properly built, like an old style police constable. A copper’s copper. Broad shoulders, big feet, big hands. He was standing ten feet away from the demon, with pointed contempt.

  ‘I need to, ah…’ said Tom.

  ‘He said he’s not pressing charges,’ Brad insisted.

  ‘I still need to write it up.’

  ‘Fucking hell bastard,’ muttered Brad, and the creature’s gelatinous body swirled.

  ‘I’m a citizen, you know that?’ it whispered to Tom.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Citizen of London. I pay my taxes.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But what’s the fucking point? I’d be better off in Hell.’

  Tom resisted the temptation to agree.

  ‘Just tell me what happened? Who beat you up?’ The red weals on the beast’s body were starting to heal. Tom and Brad had found it unconscious in the street, after it had been viciously flogged with a silver cat o’ nine tails. You could buy them on Amazon now. Everyone knew that demons were not - according to the clauses of their warlock binding spells – capable of killing or injuring human beings, no matter what the provocation. So for thugs and louts all across London, it was easy pickings.

  ‘Human teens,’ admitted the creature. ‘The oldest, about sixteen, I’d say. Eleven of them. Masked. They’ve been stalking me. I live in the park, you
see, on the reservation, near the lake. I’m allowed to live there. I’m a citizen demon with an up to date license. The law is supposed to protect me from things like this.’

  ‘The law doesn’t protect anyone,’ Tom pointed out. ‘It just imposes sanctions when someone gets, well, beaten the fuck out of.’

  ‘You’re a lawyer?’

  ‘I have a degree in law.’

  ‘And yet you’re still a lowly police constable?’ the creature sneered.

  Brad stifled a snigger: not well.

  ‘I’m working my way up,’ Tom said stiffly.

  ‘No charges,’ the creature said wearily.

  ‘Give me your name at least,’ Tom said.

  The demon sighed: an exhalation like a thunder clap. ‘You couldn’t pronounce it, or spell it. Or even hear it.’

  ‘Nickname then.’

  ‘Humans call me Hellion. It’s a gag.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘Is it a funny gag?’

  ‘Not,’ Tom conceded, ‘especially.’

  ‘Let’s go?’ said Brad.

  Tom put his e-berry away. ‘Let’s go.’

  He and Brad got back into the panda car.

  They drove away, and headed for the shopping centre. Once there, they parked up, and bought some Jamaican patties and chips and ate them in the car. No vinegar, that smelled the vehicle out, and you could get fined for it these days.

  ‘That shirt’s too tight,’ Brad informed Tom.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a big neck, and a puny chest.’

  ‘Freak.’

  Tom nodded in homage to this shaft of wit.

  There was an awkward pause. Tom had a feeling he was in the doghouse, but couldn’t work out why. Eventually Brad suggested: ‘Look, mate. Bit of advice, don’t want to be rude. But. Well, you shouldn’t be so fucking polite. With the fucking MOP. Members of the Public.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I?’

  ‘It’s a sign of weakness.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Brad sighed. ‘It means you lack authority. Plus, you don’t look old enough to be a copper. Sorry – but -’