Sheila was bouncing next to Veda on the trampoline in the garden, trying to match her jump for jump and failing. Then the front door bell rang.
Sheila fell to her knees to kill the bounce and cursed silently – or so she thought. However Jacob, though he was deep into his book, heard every word.
‘Mum!’ he complained. This was in protest at his mum’s hypocrisy, not her actual use of bad language, which was mild by his standards. She gave her son a sheepish half-smile.
‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise, I don’t bloody buggering care,’ Jacob said provocatively.
‘Now now, young man. Do as I say, not as I do. That’s what I always say. Ha!’ Sheila smiled at her own joke, which was a favourite of hers.
‘I didn’t swear!’ Jacob protested. ‘Bloody’s not a swear word! Nor is “buggering”, not really. Now “Fuck”, that’s a swear word. And so is “cocksucker”. And I didn’t say either of those words, so you can’t tell me off for the saying of swear words that I only said in order to illustrate what I wasn’t actually saying,’ said Jacob, triumphantly.
‘Oh Jacob.’
‘Are you going to answer the door or not?’
Sheila had installed an external doo-dah (it had a more technical name, but she’d forgotten it) on the wall of the patio, which is how she was able to hear the bell. Fred never heard it, even though the doorbell was wirelessly connected to his studio. But once Fred was at his work, he was entirely lost to the world.
‘Hold on, sweetheart,’ Sheila said to Veda, who was still bouncing at the other end of the trampoline, arms flailing every which way.
‘Stay!’ Veda wailed.
‘I’ll just be a mo’. See how high you can jump,’ Sheila suggested.
‘This high!’ Veda jumped higher. Then landed, causing Sheila to jolt upwards on the canvas.
‘This high!’ Higher still.
‘This high!’
Sheila marvelled at the sight as Veda flew up high, did a graceful backwards somersault in mid-air, landed without wobbling, and grinned all over her faces.
‘Very good,’ Sheila said, struggling to keep her balance on the oscillating trampoline mat.
Still on her knees, Sheila crawled to the edge of the trampoline, clambered off clumsily, and trotted bare-foot over to the doo-dah by the back door. ‘Very good, you are such a good girl, Veda,’ she repeated to herself.
She did that a lot. The kids always gave her gyp about her habit of talking to herself, but it was hard to break.
She turned on the screen of the doo-dah and saw a fish-eye-lens view of the outside of her house. Two men, one short and balding, the other one tall and dark-haired with a vulture’s nose. Both were showing police ID to the camera. Sheila zoomed in and sent an identity check across to the station, which confirmed their bona fides. DC David Davies and DC Ronald Tindale, Number Five Murder Squad. Sheila felt her stomach lurch.
‘Keep an eye on the little ones,’ she told Jacob. Jacob shrugged sulkily, barely looking up from his book.
Jacob was a fierce bookworm, and Sheila didn’t entirely approve of his obsessive swottiness. A kid his age ought to be enjoying life, not just reading about it.
‘We have ten foot walls and state-of-the-art motion sensors, you know,’ Jacob said snidely. ‘It’s not like anyone can break in, is it? Unless, aha! they arrive by parachute that is. Or descend from a helicopter on harnesses like in Minority Report. I mean, get real, Mum.’
That was the other thing about Jacob: he was a devotee of the art of sarcasm. His idea of conversation was to hurl insulting bon mots in the air like fireworks. It was funny, occasionally, but exhausting.
‘So really and truly,’ added Jacob, ‘what exactly do you think could happen to these ugly little monsters? Short of a nuclear bomb, nothing much can hurt the buggers. So what am I meant to be “keeping an eye upon”?’
Sheila stifled a smile. ‘Well. Last time I left Veda in the garden on her own, she fell on her head and cracked her skull. Remember? It does hurt her you know, even though she heals fast. And don’t let Mithrai dig up the rose garden, or bury anyone alive, we’ve been there and done that. And definitely, don’t let Thea throw shitballs at the baby, that one’s really old now. Generally, honeykins, I’d ask you to discourage tout les famille from arguing about stupid things or stealing each other’s toys or being unpleasant. That’s a brief summary of things you could watch out for. Is that comprehensive enough for you, my love?’
Now Jacob looked affronted. ‘I’m not an idiot, you know,’ he said.
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘I have an IQ of –’
‘Jacob, stop.’
‘What? Why?’
‘You’re about to do that “thing” you do.’
‘What “thing”?’ he said mockingly.
‘The telling us all how very clever you are thing. So “dial it down”, as the saying goes, or I shall put you in a sack and throw you in the river.’
‘Now who’s being unpleasant!’
‘I’m allowed to, I’m your mother.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Yes I am, you cheeky little river sludge.’
Jacob stuck his tongue out at her. It was grey, and muddy. ‘Maybe you are, a bit, sort of,’ he muttered. ‘Go on then, can’t you see I’m trying to read?’
Sheila stifled a smile. Annoying, yes, but also adorable. That was Jacob. On impulse, Sheila leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. He recoiled with teenage boy reflexes, as if she’d sprayed him with sulphuric acid. Again, par for the course.
She went over to the back door and took out her keys and opened it, all three mortises. Then, struck by a sudden pang, she paused a moment. And she turned, and looked fondly at her children for a few moments.
Jacob had returned his attention to his book, a massive Vikram Seth tome about India, which he was finding fascinating. His huge golem body was awkwardly sprawled in a purpose built giant deckchair built by Fred. Strong enough to hold a two year old elephant, and Jacob was only one third that weight.
Thea meanwhile was playing with baby Troy in the trees, balancing herself with her baboon tail and throwing him in the air and catching him.
‘Had enough, you worm?’ Thea screamed.
‘Whee!’ said Troy.
As Sheila watched, Troy caught a branch with one pudgy hand, and spun himself around in the air, then fell down towards Thea again. Unerringly, she caught him. And she threw him – and off he went up into the air again – grinning and gurgling and full of joy.
‘Nice one, Thea!’ shouted Troy, Sheila’s very own talking baby.
Sheila smiled.
Meanwhile, Mithrai was basking in the sun, his big bull’s body shuddering as he dreamed of worlds he had never seen, and of adventures he would never experience. His wings were furled; he had tired himself out earlier flying above the houses with Alazu.
And Alazu was also enjoying the day’s warmth, hanging upside down from a hook, his golden eagle wings glinting in the sunlight.
As for Veda – ah, Veda. She was the most beautiful eight-year-old girl Sheila had ever seen, her dusky Asian looks illumined by that big silly grin on all five of her heads. Sheila adored the way that the five Veda-heads acted in delicious synchrony. They spoke in unison; they smiled in unison; they frowned in unison. One mind, five faces, five silly grins. Only in the extremest of circumstances did Veda’s heads show different expressions. Like the time she’d found a dead fox in the garden, and two of her faces made an “ick” expression, and three of her faces wept.
Veda was still bouncing up and down on the trampoline. Somersaulting, then bouncing up off the mat, all ten of her arms held out with balletic precision. Sheila smiled, treasuring each of her loved ones in all their childhood innocence.
Then she pushed open the back door, stepped inside, deadbolted and triple-mortised it behind her, and walked through the kitchen into the hall. She double checked her visitors waiting on the d
oorstep on her interior screen. She remembered the flier she’d got from the Council about bogus callers. The computer ID check was supposed to be 100% reliable, but better to err on the safe side, she decided.
So she took off her jacket. Unlocked the side cupboard and took out her gun, a Smith and Wesson Thames Edition, and her shoulder holster. Checked that the gun was double-loaded, with regular and silver bullets. Strapped the holster on and tugged it tight. Put her jacket back over her rig. Shook her shoulders and patted the jacket a little, to hide the bulge.
She opened the front door: cheerful as sunlight.
‘DC David Davies, DC Ronald Tindale, can we ask you some questions?’ the short balding red-nosed one said, proffering ID, and with a decent attempt at a smile. He was South Walian, she noted, with an accent as lilting as hills.
‘Of course. Cup of tea?’ Sheila flashed them a friendly smile.
‘Never say no,’ said the Welsh one.
The two coppers stepped inside, stamping their feet vigorously; not because their shoes were dirty, more to assert this house as being, from now on, their turf.
‘Is it a murder?’ she asked.
‘It is,’ said the tall one, Tindale. ‘How did you know?’
She laughed. ‘Internet search. You’re with Number Five Murder Squad. I deduced the rest.’
Sheila offered them a warm smile that did not touch her eyes.
She ushered them through into her living room. Luckily, she’d cleaned the day before, and was proud to have the place ‘just so’. Not an ornament out of place; not a trace of dust to be found. Her carpet was purest warm beige, with a lovely and a subtle Celtic pattern. The sofa and chairs were umber, and perfectly matched the occasional stool. She was proud too of her antique Welsh dresser, with a collection of Victorian plates arranged upon its shelves. The curtains were nearly new, cream with lightly embossed patterns of mythological creatures. A nice touch she felt.
She had five precious ornaments on the mantelpiece and burnished them to a shimmer every day. They were carved ivory figurines, intricately worked: precious artefacts from the tomb of a Babylonian emperor, Hammurabi. These days, in her line of work, you often had to take your bonus payments in kind rather than cash.
She flapped her arms, to get them to sit down. Which they did with alacrity. Then she inspected them to make sure they were sitting symmetrically on the sofa. Eventually she nodded: they’d do.
She vanished into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
And returned a minute and half later to find them pacing around on her beige carpet, and inspecting her ornaments, books and knick-knacks. No doubt they’d be opening drawers and searching for clues next, Sheila thought grimly. Well, they’d find none here.
Sheila smiled, but with a hint of frost. ‘Do take a seat, gentlemen,’ she said, beckoning at the sofa, as if unsure they knew it was meant for sitting on. They looked startled. They sat a second time. The tall skinny one took out his e-berry, turned it on, and began his interrogation.
‘We’re looking for an unregistered hell entity. We thought you might know something,’ he said. His tone verged on insolent. Sheila seethed.
‘I don’t see why,’ she said gently, still smiling.
‘Or you might have heard something,’ added DC Davies, who did at least have a little more respect in his tone. ‘Rumour mill, grapevine, you know. Sometimes just a snippet can help. Could I have a biscuit with that tea?’
‘No problem. Who or what precisely are you looking for?’
‘That’s what we don’t know. Take a look at this, if it’s not too much trouble,’ said Tindale. Then he smiled coldly, indicating he didn’t care if it was too much trouble.
Tindale passed her his e-berry, and on the screen she saw a fuzzy phone-camera image of a horned and scaled red hell beast, flying through the sky. The blurring was extreme; Sheila guessed it was because the creature was in the process of growing extra wings. There was, she realised, a man on its back, clinging on for dear life. You had to be quite experienced at reading demon images to be able to see that. But she was an adept at such things by now. And as for the demon - she was pretty sure it was Naberius.
‘Um, it’s a flying demon?’ she said, playing it as dumb as she dared.
‘Well obviously,’ said Tindale. ‘We told you it’s a demon, you can see it’s flying.’
‘Ronnie, eh?’ chid Davies, like a dad to a rude teenager.
Tindale made a face: like a rude teenager to a dad.
‘And we also have this,’ added Davies. ‘Photofit. It’s a bit, well, vague.’
He passed her his e-berry and she accessed the Photofit slideshow. There were twelve drawings in all, of a creature with horns, fangs and scales: some petite, some large, some faintly dragonesque, though all basically humanoid. ‘Each image is different,’ she pointed out.
Davies shrugged, sheepishly. ‘Memory plays strange tricks. One witness scores particularly high on the visual recall scale, she’s a former librarian in fact and highly observant, but even so she couldn’t narrow it down beyond these twelve disparate images. The point is, this creature is what we call an ICH4-F7, a two horned and also curly-horned two-legged two-armed one-headed red flying demon which conveys roughly this sort of emotional resonance.’
Sheila studied the array of drawn images and compared them with the blurry photograph. She was well familiar with the inability of some people to see angry demons clearly. She herself never had any such problem.
‘Yes yes of course. The point is, there are lots of them. Two legged red flying demons with horns I mean,’ Sheila said.
‘This particular demon blew up a police station with mystic fireballs,’ said DC Davies.
‘Ah. I read about that. In the local paper.’
‘It made the national news too you know,’ Tindale sniped.
Sheila laughed.
‘Oh I never bother with the national news. I don’t even watch tellythese days. Much too depressing.’ Sheila withered them with her cheery warmth. ‘All that stuff in China. Who wants to know about it, hmm?’
‘That was last year,’ said Tindale drily.
‘Well I’m sure it’s all blown over now.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘The photo?’ Davies prompted.
She looked at it again. And she mulled for a moment about how to handle this. Give them something, she decided. Just to show willing.
‘It might be Basan,’ she suggested, tentatively. Now she had their interest. ‘Japanese Chicken Monster. Don’t laugh. Vicious creatures. There are several living in the City, and quite a few in Damnedville. I saw one just last week.’
‘This is Christian. You can tell, because it’s got horns and a tail and it’s red,’ Tindale pointed out, as if to an idiot.
‘Or Glasya-Labolos, maybe,’ said Sheila, ignoring the sarcasm deftly; she was a mother, after all. ‘He can fly. Furfur is a winged hart, rather than horned demon, but they do all shapeshift, ignore what you read in the grimoires. And Farfur can send lightning bolts. And there’s Naberius, he can shapeshift into a raven, that usually means they have the power of flight in all forms. The Marquis Andras can fly. And the minor demons too, that aren’t in the books, they’re the majority of the demon population in the Hell dimension, and on Earth too of course. Mamfal, Carunder, Sheial, Bazel, Karbru, Zean. No, not Zean. He’s a citizen now, living in North London. But his body is black not red, it can’t be him.’
Ronnie was typing madly on his e-berry.
‘We have most of these,’ said Davies, reassuringly.
‘Not Bazel. Nor Farfur,’ said Tindale.
‘Glad to be of help,’ she said: heart pounding.
‘Maybe you could write us a list?’
‘Give me your card, I’ll email it to you.’
‘You’re on,’ said Davies, with a wink. She didn’t understand the wink. But there was, she decided, something sweet about Detective Constable Davies.
Though judging from his nose, he
surely was a most ill-disciplined boozer.
‘Tea,’ she reminded herself, and went back into the kitchen. The pot was warming, and she threw away the water and put loose tea in. Filled the pot. Laid out the teacups and put biscuits on a plate. Jammy dodgers, those always went down a treat, they were the kids’ favourite biscuits. She did have a pack of shortbread, but those were stale. Finally the tray was ready. But all the while her mind was whirring. Dare she speak out? Tell them the truth?
The answer of course was no.
She was worried now. And she felt foolish too carrying the gun under her jacket, that wasn’t going to help. What if they noticed? She was an idiot!
She took off her jacket. Removed the gun and holster and stuffed them in the pan cupboard. Put her jacket back on. She was flustered. She went back into the living room, realised she’d forgotten the tray, went back to the kitchen. Returned with the tray of tea and biscuits and a big smile.
They didn’t seem remotely suspicious, despite all her faffing about. Sheila reminded herself this was just a routine visit. All she had to do was keep calm, and lie.
‘You certainly know a lot about these creatures, Madam. Quite the connoisseur of evil creatures from the Pit, aren’t you?’ said Tindale, and she smiled at his attempt at flattery, or whatever it was.
She poured the milk. Davies grinned and said, ‘Nice biscuits,’ and took one. She had him wrapped round her little finger then.
Tindale was more worrying though. He didn’t like her, and he certainly didn’t approve of what she did for a living. She could tell.
She poured three medium strong teas using a strainer, and passed their cups around. They were made of bone china, sheer white and delicate. Sheila was a stickler for proper crockery. Then she answered Tindale’s question, though it hadn’t really been a question.
‘Yes I do know quite a bit, I suppose. More than most. These creatures are not, you know, mythological. They’re not phantoms of our imagination, as some idiots claim. They really do exist. But most of our information about them comes from mystics and lunatics. And dreams, of course. Beware your dreams, they’re a rickety bridge to another dimension.’ She smiled at her own jest, and Davies smiled back, encouragingly.
Hell on Earth Page 39
