‘And how old was your sister when you took your turn?’ Dougie asked. ‘Answer me honestly, for so I command thee, I command thee, I command thee.’
The boy hesitated but had no choice: ‘Six years old I fink. Maybe seven.’
Their five rifles roared as one.
Chapter 25
Dougie continued to wait by the blood lake that flowed from the pavement all the way up to the portico of St Paul’s. He felt as if he were trapped in a sea of monsters; drowning among the waves of his own memories.
Angela, red-haired, grinning.
The Battle of London, those long hours of waiting, the rocking battle bus, the coppers dancing.
The imp, fangs bared, claws daubed in blood, eyes red and glaring. Daniel mute with fear, staring up at him.
The child rapist in the Elephant and Castle, bragging to them, cocky and bold, without shame.
The massacre that ensued, on that terrible day.
Dougie tried to banish the images from his mind.
He thought about the Penhall Sisters Memorial Facebook site; he’d spent most of last night scrolling through it. It was the site set up in memory of Sarah and Julia Penhall, and curated by their friend Gabriel. A red demon who had full citizenship rights and who claimed to be grief-stricken at the deaths of his two fellow students.
Tens of thousands of well wishers from all over the world had come to the page to pay their respects to the two murdered sisters. A Hollywood producer had made an online offer for the film rights to their story; which had been elegantly and courteously rebuffed by Gabriel on behalf of the family. Students from the New York Film School and the UCLA film school in California and the London Film School in Covent Garden and the National Film and Television School in Beaconsfield had paid tribute to the souls of the murdered young women.
Hundreds of online mourners and feminist groups had posted respectful messages:
We are thinking of you.
Julia your death is not in vain. Sarah, rest in peace
Our thoughts are with you
We never met you but we love you
And so on.
Gabriel himself had posted a message explaining that the demonic killer of the two Penhall girls had now been slain by police. Hence, he concluded, justice had been done.
This was followed by an anonymous post which read:
You demon cocksucker one of your fucking kind did this. You might as well have killed those Penhall girls yourself!
After a few heartfelt tributes from friends, further messages continued with the vitriol:
Fucking monsters on our fucking planet they should all be sent back or dipped in a vat of molten fucking silver!!
Evil hell beasts we want you all to die!
Go to Hell where you belong and may God destroy each and every one of you scumbags!
Demons cannot be citizens you should all be boiled in holy water till you weep for mercy but you won’t get it from us you evil fuckers.
And more, many more, in the same appalling vein. Outpourings of hate and contempt.
As site moderator, Gabriel could have blocked these messages. It was a tribute to his integrity and impartiality that he did not.
The messages got worse the more you scrolled down. In fact, Dougie had written one post himself. A heavily rhythmed and injudiciously phrased rant that concluded there was no place on Earth for evil monsters like Naberius or Gabriel; nor was there any difference between them.
He’d almost posted it too, before realising that all internet communications are ultimately traceable back to source unless you have Government level security. And he knew he could lose his job and pension if he sent a hate crime message of this sort.
So he deleted the message; but the damage was done. He’d thought it. And he’d written it. And he’d meant it. And, though it dismayed him to realise this, even in the cold light of day, he still did.
Dougie was consumed by rage and hate; he had been for all the years since Angela died. And his presence at the funeral of Naberius was pouring petrol upon that hate. Yes, he knew, of course he knew, that Naberius was just a fall guy. A patsy, killed on Dougie’s orders to make the cover-up more convincing. But that made no difference. It just made Dougie all the more vengeful. How dare that monster be fucking innocent!
He knew he wasn’t being rational or fair. He did at least have that much self awareness.
But the hatred continued to flow through him. He could not control it. He could not abate it. Part of him wondered if he had lost his mind. He’d spend his career locking up psychopaths. Had he become one?
Before attending the funeral Dougie had disabled his My Position on his e-berry. He had entered Demon City via a backdoor, where he knew there were no surveillance cameras and no security scanners. And now here he was, in the midst of his enemies. At the heart of Demon City, inside the largest gathering of demons and damned he had ever encountered. With a police issue blowback-operated Uzi machine pistol holstered inside his jacket, loaded with silver incendiary shells. And three dozen spare clips in the bandoliers he had carefully draped around his body this morning.
He thought about what it would be like if he pulled out his gun and started shooting the demons around him. Blowing holes in the fuckers, till they silver-wraithed. How many could he kill, before he was grabbed and disarmed?
He knew he could get away with it too. However big and powerful these monsters were, none of them could hurt him. Their spell-binding wouldn’t allow it. So the chances of him getting lynched were zero.
And even if they took his gun, they couldn’t restrain him without hurting him; and they literally could not hurt him. So he could quite easily leave a trail of carnage, then stroll away with shoes soaked in blood, and catch a train out of London from King’s Cross. He could start again as a detective in a city somewhere up north where there was no extradition treaty with London. Which, frankly, was most places. He’d lose his pension, of course, and a number of his closest friends would despise him. But that was a small price to pay for fucking up a demon’s funeral.
He thought about it. He thought about it hard.
He was so close to doing it. He could almost taste the cordite. Almost smell the burning flesh.
But his gun remained holstered.
Which meant he had passed his self-imposed test. He had given himself the opportunity to run amok; but he had not done so.
In this fashion he had honoured, in his own peculiar way, his love for Angela.
All around him the monsters continued to grieve for their lost brother Naberius, oblivious to the danger they had been in. Dougie stood, calm now, and watched them.
After a while, he found he was intrigued at the sheer physical variety of demonkind, and began observing their interactions. He studied the servility of the greens; noted the beauty and power of the reds; and was awed at the sheer spookiness of the incolorates. The sun was still shining. He could still hear the Band of the Damned at the riverside, belting out the classic prison song ‘Midnight Special’. He thought about the murderer and bluesman Lead Belly, who had sung the best known version of this song, the one that Dougie had grown up with, and who was singing it now. That gave Dougie a pang.
Finally she came to him.
Herneith.
Her body had healed already, but her skin was dry and grey. Like wood that has been partially burned. Her body and organs had regrown but her beauty was lost. She was alone. He’d been expecting her to have bodyguards; not that they would have done her any good if he had run amok.
‘I am touched,’ she said savagely, ‘that you cared enough to pay your respects.’
Dougie shrugged. He was ice now, nothing could get to him.
‘We killed the bastard, it’s the least I can do to come see him off,’ he said cheerfully.
‘A noble sentiment.’
‘That creature murdered hundreds of people,’ Dougie said. ‘Real people. Human people. Do you think I care if he’s eradicated from the universe?’
He couldn’t tell if she believed his lie about Naberius’s guilt.
‘What do you care about?’
‘I care about –’
‘Look what they did to me,’ she said sadly.
‘Well I’m sorry,’ Dougie said, lying for a second time.
‘This happened because of you. There was a power –’
‘I know about the power.’
‘It was a warlock. A human warlock did this to me. Not Naberius. It was never him, he killed no one except under coercion. The man you called Gogarty was the real killer. He was your Love Chain Murderer. But he was no ordinary man. He was a warlock.’
She waited for him to react. Hoping, perhaps, that he still had a shred of decency in his soul.
‘I know.’
A sneer marred her grey dry face.
‘And yet you let the world believe Naberius was guilty?’ she said bitterly.
‘Yes. It suits us that way.’
Her shoulders sagged: hope lost.
‘Why are you here?’ she said, dully.
‘I need more information.’
She laughed. A cold bell of a laugh.
‘Why should I give you more information?’
‘Because if you don’t –’
‘I understand. I got your message.’
Dougie had threatened to revoke twenty previously-issued citizenships, by trumping up charges against some of Herneith’s people who were living outside Demon City. He meant it too.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘The true name of the warlock,’ Dougie said. ‘Gogarty was just an alias, we all know that. What was his real name?’ The case wasn’t closed in his eyes till he had that.
‘Does it matter? He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘It matters.’
‘He told me his name was Alexander. Though I think that was a lie. He told me he was two thousand years old. And then he burned me like a candle, for daring to hunt him down.’
‘And are there others like him? Rogue warlocks?’
‘I dare not say.’
‘Any information you have, bring it straight to me.’
‘I want my freedom,’ said Herneith.
‘Your freedom?’
‘My citizenship. I want to leave the City. Start a life outside. That’s my price for helping you.’
Dougie thought about it. Then shook his head.
‘Sorry. I need you here. In this place.’
‘You owe me this.’
‘I owe you nothing. The deal is: help me or I screw your people. There is no “owe.” ’
‘You are a cruel man, Douglas Randall.’
He flinched at the insult.
‘You’re mine, bitch,’ he pointed out. ‘That’s the deal.’
She studied him for a good while. Her ash-dry features were impossible to read.
‘Yes, my Master,’ she said, gently.
He flinched again. A half-smile flickered on her otherwise lifeless face.
‘Let’s walk to the river,’ she said.
The procession was out of sight by now. He nodded to her. And he and Herneith walked towards the Charon Bridge.
As they walked, he could smell a strange musk emanating from her skin. It was an ancient perfume she had sprayed upon herself, mingling with her dead flesh aroma.
He could hear another tune playing, wafting up from the water’s edge. He recognised it as a favourite of his: ‘Dealing with the Devil’. A song of love and jealousy and torment.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ she said, casually, as they walked.
‘Understand what?’
‘The real story. What’s really going on.’
‘Not with you.’
They walked. She used silence against him. Eventually she continued:
‘There’s a secret. A dark, important secret, about the world we live in. Something that you need to know.’
As they walked, the lyrics of Sonny Boy’s song were drilling into his mind:
‘I sooner be sleepin’ with the devil
I sooner be sleepin’ with the devil
I sooner be sleepin’ with the devil
My baby don’ love me no’ mo’.’
‘Then tell me,’ Dougie said.
‘Only if you meet my price.’
‘What’s your price?’
Herneith didn’t smile; but a hint of amusement flickered across her face.
Dougie stopped. They were close to the crowd again by now. Close enough, almost, to smell Ma Rainey’s cheap perfume. Close enough to see the dampness on the green scales on Mammon’s body. The mourners had assembled as a congregation by the banks of the Thames, united in grief and respect. There were thousands here: the black scales and the red hides and the pin-stripe suits and the low-cut dresses blending to form a bustling ribbon of colour along the shoreline.
‘I could coerce you,’ Dougie to Herneith, looking in her eyes and seeing no end to their intensity.
‘How? By asking “what is the secret?” That won’t get you anywhere, you need to be precise. Otherwise I’ll tell you every secret I know and that would take years.’ Her stiff lips twisted in what he took to be a sneer. ‘But you can’t be precise because you don’t yet know what it is you do not know.’
‘I get it.’
‘That’s why you have to pay me. To know what the secret is; to know what sort of secret it is. It could be important. The future of the entire world could be at stake. Your children’s lives - everything you care about. They could all be in jeopardy. Or – not. Because you don’t know, can’t know, till you pay me.’ Her features were expressionless, belying the passion of her tone. ‘Do you understand me? The lives of your children may depend on this. Will you pay me for what I know?’
‘Okay, okay! I’ll pay you. You don’t need to - leave my children out of this. What’s your price?’
Herneith paused.
‘You.’
‘Me?’
Her still expressionless face exuded contempt.
‘Yes. You. I want you to kill yourself,’ Herneith said softly. ‘And then I will tell my dark and terrible secret to Five Squad.’
Dougie recoiled.
‘Kill myself?’
‘That’s my price. It doesn’t have to be painful. You can choose your method. So long as you – die.’
Dougie shook his head. Almost admiring.
‘Nice try.’
‘You won’t meet my price?’
‘Fuck off.’
Herneith laughed. She walked away.
Dougie had a moment of doubt but banished it. She was, he resolved, just fucking with him.
He decided he might as well follow the funeral of Naberius to the bitter end.
So he pushed through the crowds, shoving inelegantly past green and red demons, and sometimes treading on the slithery crawly demons that were so often underfoot; using a crucifix whenever bad manners did not suffice. Finally he was at the river bank, looking across at the Charon Bridge: a stainless steel creation of rare beauty that leaped across the Thames like a fish.
The tall chimney of the Demon City Border Control HQ dominated the further shoreline. Its City of London crest was the only patch of colour on the dark brown brick exterior. Dougie pushed harder, and his view opened out so he could look along the full expanse of the Thames. He saw the Malebranche Castle – formerly the Tower of London - a citadel within a city. The Gothic towers of Tower Bridge; Unilever House, on the north bank, broad and white. And the City of London School, with that familiar City crest: twin dragons holding a white shield, the legend subtly amended to read LUCIFER NOS DIRIGE.
The music changed. Dougie didn’t know the tune. He wondered if it was a human song at all. A sax lamented. A horn howled. Bessie sang, with improvised scat lyrics, evoking love and life and the touch of skin upon skin.
He looked across at the leader of this funeral event - Mammon, his vast serpentine form looming above the lesser demons. The great serpent-beast wa
s using three of his clawed hands to pick up the urn of slime that contained the last remains of Naberius, the former Marquis of Hell.
Mammon tipped the silvery slime out and it dribbled downwards into the slowly flowing waters of the Thames. The wind caught some falling remains and created a spiral of diabolic fluid eddying in air.
The Band of the Damned continued to play the soulful dirge that struck dark horror into Dougie. A Hell-created elegy to a creature from the Pit.
Mammon spoke a long speech in the Old Tongue. Dougie could not comprehend it, but its power struck him like knives. In the river, sea demons floated on the waves next to the waste barges. Dougie saw kelpies and selkies in the clear blue waters of the Thames, and fanged mer-creatures too. All paid their final tribute to Naberius.
Mammon poured the last of the silvery slime on to the water and spoke a final few words. Then with a terrifying whoosh the ashes caught fire. A pillar of yellow-red flame rose up into the sky, dancing upon the waters of the Thames. A tornado of fire reaching up as if aiming at the stars. It struck a white cloud like a barbed spear and the flame spread from cloud to cloud, and the sky was alight in false dawn.
Slowly the pillar of flame dissipated. Its remnants turned into a red hail of fire that fell and turned the blue of the river waters crimson. Dougie blinked. He felt as if there was blood beneath his eyelids. But it was just the air burning. The demons and the damned along the banks of the River Thames chanted in a roaring wail of grief.
Finally the flames upon the waters ebbed; and then were gone. Naberius was gone. The sky flickered with the last floating sparks from the blazing remnants of the murdered demon.
Silently, and unnoticed, Dougie wept.
HELL ON EARTH
Volume 3: The Warlocks of London
From Web Words, the internet dictionary
Mammon
Mammon is a term used generally to describe material wealth or greed, often personified as a deity. In reality, Mammon is a Royal Demon of extraordinary probity and great beauty. (NOTE: This entry has been amended following several successful legal actions brought by Mammon plc against the owners of the Web Words).
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