Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  There was no traffic around. The moon was full. It was a beautiful night. She took a deep draught of air. And she savoured the scent of a typical London evening: replete with perfumes from passing pedestrians, and the smog from the charcoal braziers of the homeless families living on the riverbanks, and the styrax and sandalwood incense drifting from the open windows of all-night orgiasts in their Chelsea homes.

  She drove to the end of the street and took the corner without pausing.

  She was on the Thames Embankment now, a broad London boulevard snaking beside the curving sweep of the river. She admired the newly-built apartment buildings on the opposite bank with their faux-Sumerian architecture and ziggurat footbridges. On her bank were more traditional London houses from the twentieth and the nineteenth centuries, peering angrily at the interlopers on the further shore.

  The city at night allured her. The car cruised powerfully under her foot’s control. She was free.

  Chapter 4

  The drive to Albert Bridge was fast.

  It took Fillide past the Rossetti house in Cheyne Walk that she loved so much, with its blue plaque and bay window frontage and whispers of past lives led. She felt comfortable with that kind of ‘neo-classical’ London architecture. But the airless shopping malls and looming glass skyscrapers of other parts of the city appalled her.

  She turned right at the mini-roundabout, and drove up to the bridge. Albert was her favourite of all the London bridges. Named after a Prince Consort; sleek and white and elegant. It spanned the river like the ribs of a dead whale, its cable ligaments stretching up to the tall bones of its pylons. At night the bridge was lit by thousands of bulbs that turned it into a golden gateway to the dark far shore.

  She stopped at the checkpoint in the octagonal tollbooth, fifth in the line of cars heading for South London. Cameras checked her registration; patrolling London Army soldiers eyed her suspiciously. She waited patiently, enjoying her distant view of Battersea Power Station, its four towers like the stumpy legs of an up-ended mythic beast. The power station was a zoo now, and in the mornings you could hear the lions roar, and the elephants trumpeting the dawn.

  The river waters shone in the moonlight, and the ripples seduced her. London itself was stretched out before her, a city as beautiful almost as her own.

  The bikers were out in force on the bridge tonight. She could see them clearly from her vantage point. Fat-bodied men and lean long-haired women in black leathers, leaning against the bridge’s rail. Fillide could see one biker chick blowjobbing her male acquaintance, forming an H silhouette against the black night sky. The smell of skunk and dark incense drifted past the turnpike, mingling with the petrol fumes of the cars. She could hear the purr of motorbike engines throbbing in readiness, and the whining of hounds longing to be let off their leashes for the climactic last race of the evening.

  Eventually she reached the front of the line and was asked by the guard to show her ID. She flashed her warrant card and was nodded through. The guard was a white guy, orange-jacketed and dour, and his skin was bad; like pizza topped with curdling cheese. She wondered if he was suffering an allergic reaction to something in the air. There was a great deal of that around these days. Plagues, poxes and allergies were rife, though no one really knew why.

  She drove across the bridge slowly, admiring the perfect contours of the Harley Davidsons and Kawasakis and Triumphs, and drinking in the laughter and banter of the night-time crowd. She saw a teenage girl with jet-black hair and bestial tattoos on her shoulders and midriff, and tried to count her facial piercings but lost track. The posses of bearded ’n’ beer-bellied bikers waved to her in cheery greeting. They knew her and her fuck-you attitude only too well. As for the biker chicks with their tattoos and bare tits and swearing and lust for life - they reminded Fillide of herself when she was young, carefree, and alive.

  As she cruised past, some of the younger men shouted their appreciation of her fantastic looks and offered her a ‘ride’. She grinned and sucked her middle finger, and raised it in the air. A gesture that meant something different here, but by now they’d learned her ways.

  She drove through the carnival of motorbikes and crossed the river. Ahead of her were the tree-lined streets and terraced houses of South London. Beyond that, the Ghetto: the wooden-walled enclave that had become a haven for her kind.

  Head for Damnedville, Magnus had said. You can be safe there.

  I’m going for a drive, she told herself cheerfully. But I’ll be home with my darling Roy soon!

  A speed camera flashed. She knew that on the film her vehicle would appear as a driverless car, in a long queue of driverless cars that thronged these night-time streets.

  And once you hit Battersea, Magnus had said, so long as Roy continues to sleep within the magic flames that dull his powers, you will be safe. For at that distance, his spell-binding will wane and lose its potency. And if he loses his enchanting grip on you just once, for however brief a period, he cannot re-bind you without a physical touch. And this is how you can slip his leash.

  She reached Battersea.

  I’ll be home soon! she thought.

  Looking forward to seeing my sweet Roy tomorrow! she thought.

  It’s a lovely night for a drive, but it’ll be even nicer to return to the flat and make breakfast for my beloved Roy! she thought.

  But then, warily:

  I’m never going back to that bastard Roy Hall, she thought. And she waited for the backlash. But for the first time ever, her spell-binding didn’t kick in.

  She tried again:

  I’m never going back to Roy.

  I’m never going back to that bastard Roy Hall.

  I hate that bastard Roy Hall and I wish he was dead.

  Nothing.

  Fuck me, I’m free!

  Fillide smiled, faintly, but fearfully. Not safe yet but – she was getting there. And so far, Magnus had been right every step of the way.

  She drove on.

  She had decided to aim for the North Gate of Ghetto, which was the fastest route, though she knew it would leave her more exposed to the scrutiny of area cars who liked to patrol the river’s bank. Speed, however, was of the essence tonight.

  So long as he sleeps, you will be safe, Magnus had said.

  So instead of heading south to Camberwell Green, she turned left on to Battersea Park Road, past the five-storey red-bricked mansion blocks of Prince Albert’s London.

  To her left was Battersea Park, with its canopies of trees and its deep calm lake and its spectacular river-side golden Pagoda. An aviary had been built in the park for parrots and hawks and nightingales; the air was rich with the chatter and melody of restless birds. No cameras here, so she burst the speed limit and hopped over the traffic bumps as fast as she could, cursing every one. Then reached the park entrance roundabout, across from the gasometer and the Power Station. She crossed the junction without a pause, veering to avoid a red saloon. She was afraid to use her brakes in case panicky lethargy consumed her again. But luck was favouring her tonight.

  On to Nine Elms now, the buildings blurring in her peripheral vision. Past a sofa warehouse and a long terrace of shops and wine bars. She was close to the river once more, close enough to smell the horse-meat and cucumbers dumped each night in an attempt to sate the renegade kappas in the river, and hence dull their taste for human flesh.

  Cautiously, driving at precisely the speed limit, she continued on down the Albert Embankment. A Smiley face on a road-side screen congratulated her on her skill in keeping below thirty mph. Once that would have been a runaway horse’s pace; it amazed her how slow such a speed now felt.

  In the old days, she would have -

  A band of pain engulfed her chest. Her breathing faltered. She blinked, in pain.

  She drove on. Faster now, chancing the traffic cops. She passed Lambeth Bridge, turned sharply right on to Lambeth Road, just before the brothel that once had been a Bishop’s Palace, then clumsily clipped the kerb and almost we
nt into a skid.

  She was sweating copiously, even though she had the air conditioning on full and was dressed as lightly as she dared. She started to become anxious. For Magnus had been adamant that so long as Roy slept inside the ritual flames, his powers would be diminished, and she could continue to flee.

  It will be hard, Magnus had said, and you may feel some pain, and your body temperature will soar because every spell-binding uses a phrase on the lines of ‘obey your Master and heed his will in all regards or you will feel the fires of Hell consume you from within’. Ignore these sensations, they’re just a kind of magic whiplash. So long as he sleeps, the power of the holy flames in which he is trapped will keep you safe.

  But she hadn’t expected this! Even in the Hell dimension, she’d never known heat so extreme. She was consumed by an inner fire that turned her muscles to jelly and made her heart a fireball and created a shiny lake upon her skin. It became so bad that the air conditioning couldn’t cope, and the recycled air started coming out of the vents scalding hot. It was like standing in front of a blazing log fire in order to cool yourself down.

  She drove on.

  She glimpsed the ruins of the Imperial War Museum on her right. The point of origin of the Breach of Walworth; the scene of the earliest and most bloody of those early battles between the hell-spawn and the humans. Its brick façade was now held upright by metal buttresses; the supporting walls had fallen long ago, and the ground all around was scorched, and cursed. No houses or offices could be built here, for the trapped spirits of the human dead haunted the ground like swarms of evil ants.

  She was getting near.

  She turned right, into St George’s Road. She could see the wooden walls and towers of the Ghetto, peeking above terraced houses and off licenses with barred windows and pubs that never closed.

  Much of Walworth and all of Elephant and Castle were now housed within this wooden fort, its walls made of ancient oak trees, tipped with thrice-blessed iron spikes that no demon dared touch. The twelve wooden watchtowers had searchlights that shone inwards on the Ghetto in slow overlapping arcs, making the night sky strobe.

  She went through two red lights and heard the hoot of horns behind her. No more Smiley faces. She misjudged her position on the road and scratched the side of a parked car with a terrible screeching sound and sent its mirror skittering to the ground. But she swiftly recovered control of her own car, and drove on.

  She was so close. She reminded herself once more: If she could only reach the ghetto before Roy awoke she would have won. For the damned can live freely there, Magnus had said. In squalor, admittedly. In cramped accommodation, often hungry, fighting for survival, bullied and persecuted by demon cops, constantly at risk of being press-ganged into the London Army. But free.

  He can’t find you there, Magnus had said, with a hint of hope in his voice. Not even with tracker dogs or hell hounds. For the hellspawn are too densely packed, and the aromas are too intense. It is the only place in London in which you can hide from a cop who is also a Magical Mason.

  And will you join me there? she had asked. And Magnus had paused for a long time. And then he had answered her softly:

  I want to, my love. I yearn to. I would give anything to be with you. But only one of us can escape, and it must be you.

  In all her years on Earth, Fillide had never known such selfless devotion. Magnus, it could not be denied, was a killer and a thug; yet she was deeply touched by his love for her.

  She was in sight of the gates now.

  The sky she could see through her windscreen was black with smoke and fumes. Thick clouds of pollution from the chimneys of oil-fired factories; smog from open charcoal fires; interlocking tails of incense that hung in lank coils above the wooden-walled Ghetto.

  She could see the Crystal Palace TV tower in the far distance. A finger of fate, pointing at the sky. The car –

  She felt another stab of pain in her chest. Like a heart attack, though her heart no longer beat.

  She took a deep breath. The pain returned, and intensified. A massive migraine split her skull. Her vision blurred. She began to shake. And then to spasm. Black bile dripped out of her mouth. This was no mere ‘whiplash’. She realised, with dawning horror, that Roy was awake. And with all his powers intact! How could that be?

  The pain grew worse. Her arms twitched, making her hands flap upon the wheel. More bile and yellow spittle drooled out of her mouth. Her tongue felt huge.

  She lost control. The car went into a wild skid and slalomed around the road, then crashed against a Fiat Panda, and bounced off. And ended up splayed across the street. Her seat belt snapped tight with the impact, jarring her. Her airbag had inflated, and she had to wrestle like a fool to rip it off and throw it on the back seat.

  Roy was, she had realised by now, toying with her, controlling her from afar. She was his crazily dancing puppet, whose limbs would flail each time he twitched a string.

  What had gone wrong?

  She took out her flask and gulped down half a pint of whisky, to numb herself to the pain. She tried to start the car but her vision was blurred and she realised it would be foolish to attempt to drive.

  She clambered out and glared defiantly at the speeding cars that were beeping at her and weaving around her crashed vehicle. No one stopped or offered to help. Her pain was more intense, the spasming of her body more absurd. But she was becoming adept at ignoring the twitches on her puppet-strings.

  She seized back control of her limbs, and turned staggeringly around in a series of half circles, until she finally had a smudged view of the Elephant and Castle shopping centre at the Ghetto’s heart. Her nirvana.

  The pain was worse. Her twitching and flailing was even more extreme. The heat being generated inside her body was still more unendurable. But she walked. And walked.

  And there it was! The North Gate was ahead of her! A hundred yards, no more. Once there, she would beg her fellow damned to hide her and chain her until the compulsion of the spell had passed. An hour of freedom should be sufficient to break her magic chains. Or so Magnus had assured her.

  But now she thought about it, how could she be sure he was right? And where was he? He’d promised to be waiting for her, at the gates, to bid her farewell for the last time. Yet there was no trace of him.

  She forced herself to walk onwards, despite the agony that shook every particle of her body. The pavements were deserted except for drunks, who greeted her with fellow feeling as she zigged and zagged past them unsteadily. On the other side of the street she saw a few dead whores patrolling their turf, looking for live trade, and she greeted them with nods of respect. They kept clear of her. They knew her likely doom and wanted none of it.

  After a while, she stripped off her top and abandoned it behind her. She was even hotter now, though a few minutes earlier she would not have thought that was possible. Beneath her T-shirt she wore a halter top running vest instead of a bra; it was drenched.

  After a while more she slipped off her shorts and walked with legs fully bare. Sweat flowed down her face and body like torrents tumbling off a crag. She tried to wipe it away from her eyes with her arm, but her forearm too was damp with salty sweat and made the blurring worse. Every few steps her body spasmed, her limbs flailed, her head was flung back wildly; like a rag doll being shaken by an angry child.

  A posse of black kids walked past her, whistling and blowing their lips appreciatively. One of them asked if he could fuck her as she burned. Such abominations had been known. She gave him her little finger and abused his parents, in her best and vilest gutter Italian. He kept clear of her.

  She walked desperately on.

  A car pulled up and a young white woman in a stylish suit and her hair in a tight bun wound down her window, and spoke to her gently. ‘Can I help?’ the woman said, but Fillide spat at her. And walked on.

  A sports car was tracking her, slowly. Assuming that she was for hire, no doubt. She smiled at that. There was a time, she’d have
haggled a price with the unwary witless cocksman. Now -

  She slipped and fell.

  With all the willpower in her possession, she made herself get back on to her feet. Her skin was scalding. Her vision was clouded by spumes of steam that were coming off her flesh. Her eyes stung as if burning coals had been buried in the sockets.

  She opened her mouth and, briefly, a tongue of flame flickered in the air.

  She tried to move but she could not. Her limbs no longer functioned. Her body had become a fiery candle; her flesh, the tallow. She heard the siren sound of the police car that had been sent to pick her up. She forced a weary smile. She took a step forward.

  She felt a pain like a thousand lances sharply stabbing. She stopped. She waited.

  She took a step forward. More agony consumed her.

  She stopped. Despair overwhelmed her.

  For thirty long seconds she was utterly defeated; everything that made her Fillide seemed lost to her.

  But then a spark of sheer bravado lifted her spirits. Fuck it, she thought. She might have failed; but at least she’d fucking well tried.

  And she laughed: a hollow self-mocking laugh. And took another step forward. The pain once more hit her like a fist. Her organs boiled. Her heart felt as it were trying to explode. She ignored the pain, and took another step. More pain. But the pain was nothing; not compared to the regret she felt at knowing she would never be free.

  A crowd of boozers were emerging from a nearby pub, and they stopped and gawped at her. A semi-naked woman spitting tendrils of fire from her mouth, with flesh as hot as coals! She realised that she was leaving charred footprints in the pavement. She knew this because she was walking in circles, and had stumbled upon her own black trail. She’d lost her ability to judge which way was forward.

  The police siren stopped and she heard the sounds of heavy feet running towards her. Roy’s men would have her soon, she knew, but still she tried to walk. If she could only walk another yard. If she could only burst through her binding. If she could only –