Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  So she stood up and walked closer and realised the statue was in fact Fred himself. Her beloved Alfredo. Still a mute and angry statue. Still spellbound forever.

  Sheila had read about her husband’s continuing plight in the paper. He had been diagnosed with Petrifaction Syndrome. He had a pulse and a beating heart and a functioning brain but every fleshly part of him was solid stone. And nothing, the doctors had concluded, could be done to restore him to flesh.

  Sheila had yearned to visit Fred in the residential home where his body was now being kept. But the Gogarty-spirit that inhabited her body hadn’t allowed it, even though Sheila had begged him persistently.

  Sheila was desperate to see Fred. She had read that although he could not speak or move his eyelids, he could communicate by rolling his eyes. However, turning those eye-movements into English was a slow and painful business, and so far Fred had not progressed beyond a three word phrase.

  That phrase was: I HATE SHEILA. Doctors speculated this was a message to his wife Sheila Whittaker, who had never visited him, so it was no wonder he hated her.

  When she’d read that story in the paper, Sheila had been appalled. She’d begged Gogarty to take his curse off Fred and he refused. She begged him to let her go and see him, and he refused. And she begged him to forget his plans for Jacob, and to let the boy go free. He refused again.

  And then he muted her.

  Now she could not speak to Gogarty even with her thoughts. But when she was awake, she could hear every word he said and see every sight he saw. The only refuge available to her was sleep. and the world of dreams.

  Now in her dream, the marble Fred was staring at her accusingly and with abiding hate. And her heart was broken all over again.

  Poor Fred.

  At that moment the statue vanished and became a golem. A monster made of clay. It was Jacob.

  ‘What now?’ she said, wearily.

  ‘Tonight we return to the East End,’ Jacob said. ‘There have been no killings for a month which was such a bloody relief. But - but now it’s time for the next stage in the spirit’s plan. The plan to –’

  ‘I know about the plan,’ Sheila said wearily. ‘It’s all lies and delusions. The man is a monster. He’s not trying to save the world, that’s bullshit. He just loves killing for its own sake, but he can’t admit that to himself. He -’

  ‘I know. I know all that,’ said Jacob.

  ‘I thought you believed him?’

  Jacob snorted. ‘I’m not an idiot!’

  Sheila was abashed, but also relieved. The old Jacob was back.

  ‘But now,’ Jacob said, ‘things are about to get really bad. You see, Gogarty wants me to take revenge.’

  ‘On who?’

  ‘On the cop who caught him, of course. The cop who killed his favourite body, the Gogarty body. The cop who is his nemesis. That’s what you, or rather he, likes to call him. So tonight I will walk to Limehouse police station and kill the bastard.’

  ‘Who?’ Sheila insisted.

  ‘The cop! The leader of the police team. You remember, the tall one with big feet and big hands. Dougie Randall.’

  Sheila nodded. She remembered the copper with big feet and big hands. He hadn’t been very nice to her children. She could never forgive him for that. But even so, she decided, it wasn’t right for her son to murder him.

  ‘Is there any way to –’

  ‘No. I have no choice.’ Jacob’s voice was bleak. ‘I think he’s doing this to test me. To break my spirit, make me as evil as he is. But he doesn’t need to. I’ve already turned –’

  ‘Jacob no.’

  ‘- the corner. Evil has become my good.’

  ‘No. Never! You’re a child, an innocent, cling to that. None of this is your fault. And you have to refuse. You cannot do this terrible thing,’ she insisted.

  ‘Mum!’ Jacob protested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get a grip. I have no choice. Had you forgotten?’

  She sighed. The same dilemma.

  Sheila thought long and hard, which was difficult in a dream, but she managed it.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Then you must kill the policeman. But once you’ve killed him, you have to pass on a message.’

  ‘What? How can I do that?’ asked Jacob, confused.

  Sheila explained.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Some ground rules,’ said Dougie firmly.

  It was Wednesday the twenty-fourth of July, 2024. Four weeks had elapsed since Bravo had stopped killing.

  Today, Dougie had other fish to fry.

  The two cops from the Directorate of Professional Standards stared at him, poker-faced.

  ‘No ground rules,’ said the thin one. Dougie mentally dubbed him ‘Weasel’.

  ‘Then no information.’

  ‘Failure to cooperate with a Professional Standards investigation can in itself be considered a breach of professional standards,’ said the fat one. Dougie mentally dubbed him Toad.

  Weasel and Toad; if you sup with the Devil you need a long spoon, as the saying went.

  ‘I’m making an allegation against a senior member of the force,’ said Dougie patiently. ‘He’s my line manager. He’s a powerful man. He knows where the bodies are buried metaphorically and, let’s be frank, literally. I want anonymity and protection for me and my informants.’

  ‘We can’t guarantee that,’ said Weasel.

  ‘Have you ever met Roy Hall?’ Dougie asked.

  ‘No,’ said Weasel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Toad.

  ‘If we don’t play this right, he’ll have me killed, and he’ll have my witness killed. That’s why I’ve come to you guys. The sewer rats.’

  ‘No one calls us that,’ argued Weasel. His real name was Detective Superintendent Alan Blaine.

  ‘We’re fucking with you,’ joshed Toad, whose real name was Detective Inspector John Clyde.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ said Dougie. ‘Now, let’s go see the witness.’

  Dougie had taken a day’s sick leave to conceal his mission with the sewer rats. No one in the office knew where he was, except for Gina.

  Dougie followed Clyde and Blaine down in the lift. Gina was waiting for them there, in the reception of New Scotland Yard.

  A single flame burned in the foyer, inside a glass case. Beside it was the Duty Roll of Honour, bearing the inscription: ‘In this book are the names of officers of the Metropolitan Police Service who have been killed in the course of their duty.’ Dougie took a moment to pay his silent respects. There were on average two names per page, with ornate calligraphy, for all the entries up to June 2014. During the period June-August 2014, however, when there was considerable civil unrest, there were an average of eight entries per day. And on the days of the seventh and the eighth of June 2014 combined, when Hell was breached, there were nearly four thousand entries. Angela Randall was one of them.

  Gina got up and stood next to Dougie.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ she murmured.

  Dougie nodded.

  He’d never felt such a sense of dread. At least not since Battle of London Day. But there was no turning back. The DPS were the enemy for most cops; but there was no way he could go up against Roy Hall on his own.

  They drove through the South London streets in convoy; Dougie and Gina leading, the Weasel/Toad car following. Dougie had rented a hire car under a fake ID, so that the licence plate recognition software linked to the traffic cameras would not be able to find a connection between Dougie and the sewer rats. Dougie wore a baseball cap; Gina was wearing a wig. Enough to fool basic suspect recognition programmes, though Dougie was aware that Roy had people working in the Surveillance Office at New Scotland Yard who might be able to see through such basic disguises.

  Mixed in with his dread Dougie was experiencing tremendous waves of exhilaration. He knew that he should have done this sooner, when he was at Carter Street. Or he should have done it when Angela died, when there was nothing to lose – except
his wife’s memory, but what could truly tarnish that? Or at the very least, he should have done it when Roy Hall first came to Whitechapel nick.

  Skip back six years.

  Four years had elapsed since the death of Angela. Dougie was a widower and a highly competent single dad. And for three of those four years Dougie had been the DCI in charge of the East London Murder Squad at Whitechapel; in the period before most of the East London MIRs were centralised at Limehouse.

  It was a sunny day in late June. Wednesday the 21st of June, 2017.

  Dougie got out of his car and savoured the touch of warm breezy air on his skin. He took a breath and shook out his arms, ready for the day ahead. Then he stepped into the stuffy green-tiled reception area of Leman Street Station. Phil Matthews was at the desk; he’d followed Dougie to Whitechapel.

  The two men nodded. Bonded by friendship, and by blood.

  ‘Right, Phil.’

  ‘Right, Doug.’

  ‘Did you see the rugby?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘Fair result.’

  ‘Slow game I thought.’

  ‘They should have –’

  ‘I agree.’

  Dougie noticed that Phil was starting to put on weight.

  ‘See you Friday night, down the Beggar?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Sorry, got the kids.’

  ‘Thought I’d ask.’

  Dougie shrugged. The answer was never going to be different, but he’d be devastated if Phil didn’t ask.

  Then Dougie smelled trouble.

  Warily, Dougie punched the code on the door into the main station, and stepped through. As he did so he unholstered his gun and looked around him cautiously. Taff Davies, who was standing at the coffee machine, saw what he was doing, and crossed the hall to join him. ‘Easy, guv,’ Taff said.

  ‘Can you smell it?’ Dougie asked Taff.

  ‘No.’ Taff was perplexed. But he trusted his guvnor implicitly, so didn’t waste time asking stupid questions.

  Dougie sniffed again; the stench was overwhelming. But Taff shook his head; he was getting nothing.

  ‘Don’t you have a bloody sense of smell?’ Dougie said irritably.

  ‘Not much.’ Taff sniffed to prove it; still nothing. ‘Too much nose candy, see. We were awash with it in the Valleys, when I were a lad.’

  Dougie guessed the real reason. ‘Okay, fair enough. It’s brimstone mixed with salt. Demon sweat. That’s what I smell.’

  Taff unholstered too. ‘Do you want me to call this in?’

  ‘It may be an exhibit. Let’s not panic. But I know this particular diabolic stench of old.’

  ‘That in fact is when I lost my sense of smell,’ admitted Taff. ‘Battle of Lambeth Road. I was on e-vac duties. Got too near the incense bombs. Burned out my nostrils, I had to have surgery on my septum.’ He shrugged: a war wounds moment.

  Dougie nodded, getting it.

  Dougie took the stairs smooth but fast, with his long legs easily double-stepping it, gun on safety, eyes peeled. Taff huffed up beside him. The smell was getting worse. Dougie’s heart was racing, he could feel a vein in his forehead throbbing.

  He realised that he was becoming engulfed in kill-lust. He’d forgotten how that felt. Not since the massacre at the Elephant and Castle shopping centre had he known such unthinking and all-consuming rage.

  ‘I can feel it now,’ said Taff. ‘It’s a Something. Definitely, a Something.’

  Taff brushed the back of his neck and shuddered. Dougie glanced and saw the Welshman’s neck hairs were standing up like wheat stalks.

  ‘Call it in.’

  ‘Tango Control from Tango Three One,’ said Taff into his personal radio, ‘AFOs please assist, amber alert, attend at CID office, second floor, Leman Street, repeat this is an amber alert. Out.’

  Two PCs from Community Support were on the first floor landing staring at Dougie. He was feeling like the most paranoid person in the world. But he edged onwards, gun in hand.

  ‘Incident room,’ he said.

  They went down the corridor fast, locked together in team-think, feeling each other’s presence, sharing each other’s breathing patterns.

  Dougie kicked the door open, gun held out, and pushed through fast.

  Taff followed, flanking him, expertly skimming his barrel in a steady arc in search of a target.

  A seven foot giant stood in the middle of the room. Wearing a black suit and a black tie. He was red skinned with bright red eyes, and perfectly formed horns on his head. He had no tail - unless it was concealed beneath his designer jacket - but he did have furred hooves.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Dougie.

  ‘Hi, Boss,’ said the demon, smiling.

  Dougie lowered his gun.

  ‘DDC Baal, reporting for duty, sir,’ said the demon, still smiling.

  Ronnie Tindale was grinning; so was Catriona. They were all in on the joke.

  ‘You must be fucking kidding,’ said Dougie.

  ‘It’s the new protocol,’ said Catriona. ‘It’s –’

  ‘I know it’s the new fucking protocol,’ said Dougie. ‘But not here. Not my nick. Not my team.’ He realised he was losing his temper.

  Dougie hardly ever lost his temper; he just pretended to do so when expedient. Now he actually lost it.

  ‘No fucking way will I work with one of these evil fucking - childfuckers! Whose stupid fucking idea was this anyway?’ Dougie raged.

  ‘His,’ said the demon, smiling, and then he gestured. Dougie turned in the direction of the gesture, and realised there was someone sitting at his place at the briefing table, skimming through emails on a tablet.

  The man stood up, and looked smilingly at Dougie. He was handsome, dapper, grey-haired, and elegantly clad in an Armani suit that undoubtedly cost more than Dougie’s car.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Dougie,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Hall. Who, as Dougie subsequently learned, had just been appointed as head of all the London East Murder Squads, and hence was Dougie’s new boss.

  The room was hushed, waiting for Dougie’s response.

  Dougie forced a smile.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, through gritted teeth, ‘a pleasure, as always.’

  Skip forward nine months. Saturday the third of March, 2018.

  The man was on the bed was fat, bald, naked, and dead.

  And the woman, who was also deceased but had been resurrected, wore a ruffled red lace-up basque covered by a sheer white gown. The gown was as translucent as a spider’s web. Her stockings were red too, with black suspender clips. She was red-haired and remarkably beautiful. She had an eerie calm, as did so many of the long dead. She bore a half-smile on her lips, her way of showing her disregard for Dougie’s authority.

  ‘What did he take?’ Dougie asked her. DC Alliea Cartwright and DC Taff Davies had accompanied him on this shout; they were currently in the salon area interviewing the brothel owner and the other girls.

  ‘Poppers,’ the woman said calmly. ‘E. Viagra. Booze. I think he may be on heart medication.’

  ‘He died during coitus?’

  ‘Do I have to give the grisly details?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘After coitus. Sort of. He couldn’t really – that’s why the Viagra. I warned him not to –’ She smiled, full on. It was lovely to behold. ‘Actually I didn’t warn him. It’s their look out, that’s what I always say.’

  ‘This is the third suspicious death in this Palace in six months,’ Dougie said sternly.

  They were in Eltham Palace - South East London’s very own House of Sin. A 1930s art deco manor house built around an original medieval Great Hall. It fell within the bounds of Eleven Squad normally but Dougie was covering while Det Supt Armstrong was enjoying a week away with his family.

  The walk through the entrance hall with its domed ceiling and ocean liner ambience into the first floor brothel area had made him nauseous; for they were in the ambit of Spell’s Bound East here, and there was magic in the
air.

  In the elegant art deco master bedroom on the first floor, Dougie had found the dead punter, who had expired in flagrante with a woman who was not his wife, and who was not even alive.

  The prostitute shrugged thoughtfully, as if taking her time composing a response to Dougie’s rebuke.

  She languidly sat down on the cream sofa with its zig-zag patterns and quilted red Italian cushions. One of the many artful features of this 1930s wood-panelled boudoir. Then she crossed her long slim legs with a single fluid movement, baring more thigh than Dougie had thought was possible. Daring him to look at her lasciviously; which he dared not.

  ‘Not suspicious,’ she finally said, in husky but calm tones. ‘Natural causes.’

  ‘I’m suspicious.’

  ‘You don’t like my kind, do you?’ said the prostitute. Her smile was still on full beam, but she could not conceal her hatred of him for hating her.

  ‘How can you tell?’ he mocked.

  ‘You don’t look me in the eyes,’ she said.

  Dougie looked her straight in the eyes.

  They were pale green.

  ‘Same colour eyes,’ he said, ‘as my wife Angela.’

  The prostitute made a moue, pretending to be flattered, whilst actually not giving a shit.

  ‘She’s dead I take it,’ the whore taunted.

  ‘Killed by one of you lot. Hellspawn.’

  The woman sighed. ‘I didn’t,’ she said, ‘make the world.’

  ‘I could have you,’ Dougie told her, ‘sent back to the City, with all that entails. All I have to do is revoke your visa. And I have grounds, because you just killed a human.’

  ‘You’re threatening me?’

  ‘I’m bargaining.’

  ‘Bargain away. I can’t betray my spell-binder. The rest can go fuck.’

  ‘I could coerce you.’

  She laughed. ‘You can’t coerce a hell entity when there’s an omerta spell in place. Don’t they teach you anything at Woodentop College? Ask me anything that relates in any way to my spell-binder and I become, literally, mute.’

  She did a zipping of the mouth gesture.

  Dougie hadn’t known that.

  ‘What if I ask nicely?’