Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

LETS MEEET AND TALK ABOUT FF OUR FUTURE PLS TOM

  Once again, Tom pressed Send.

  I FFORGIVE U I FORGIVE YOU I LOVE YOU

  Tom pressed Send.

  As he sat there, getting drunker and drunker, he wondered to himself: had Fillide ever truly loved him? Or was it all lies? Had she deceived him, toyed with his heart, as a way of getting rid of Roy Hall?

  Tom knew that most men would have believed the first of those two hypotheses, despite all evidence to the contrary. Such is the nature of a lover’s self delusion.

  But Tom was a detective first and last. He had a logical mind, trained in the methods of deduction and induction and - under the tutelage of Dougie Randall – the epistemological principle of abductive inference. The methodology by which one avoids the delusion that there is such a thing as ‘truth’; and instead, one seeks the best explanation according to the facts which are available at that particular moment.

  And so, although Tom had firmly believed the previous night, with every atom of his being, that Fillide loved him truly; now, a day later, Tom believed with equal conviction that she did not love him. That she had never loved him. That she had played him for a sucker at every turn. This was the hypothesis that the current facts best supported. Hence Tom believed it: she had abandoned him.

  However, strangely enough, he didn’t mind. He didn’t care that he’d been cheated and humiliated and betrayed.

  Or rather he did care - it hurt him like hellfire. It hurt him more than anything had ever hurt him before. It hurt him even more than when his mother fell asleep for eight years, and missed his entire adolescence.

  But despite his pain, Tom realised - it was worth it. Yes! Tom felt this passionately, with every atom of his being. It was worth all the pain and heartbreak that he felt now. And it was worth all the lonely bitter years that his intellect brutally advised him were to come. Because what he had done was the only way he knew to save Fillide from her living hell. And for Tom, that was enough.

  Everything he had done he did for her. Not for himself.

  Such a thing was love.

  He e-berried Fillide again. No answer. He messaged her again: FILLDE I WANT TO SEE YU

  Eventually, her reply appeared on his screen: Poor stupid boy I don need you any more.

  Tom had expected such a response, with a 95% - 99% degree of probability. It hit him like a prophecy of doom finally fulfilled; creating in him a despair that was tinged with relief.

  He messaged her back. It took him a while, because of his tears, and the snot dripping from his single nostril, and the drunken clumsiness of his fingers. But eventually he managed to disengage the CAPS LOCK and he even got the spelling right.

  He wrote, simply, and without bitterness:

  Be happy, Fillide.

  A few minutes earlier, in the Spice of Life pub in Soho:

  Armitage clicked his fingers. Magnus’s beer glass shattered. Magnus reached for his knife; but he could not move his hand. The man in the grey suit clicked his fingers a second time.

  Magnus took a moment. Then he waggled his fingers. He could move once more.

  ‘Another pint might be nice,’ Magnus said calmly.

  The man in the grey suit clicked his fingers a third time. Magnus glanced down to see if his beer jug had reconstituted itself magically. But no, he was still surrounded by shards of broken glass. A few moments later, however, a harried-looking streaky blonde barmaid with wisps of hair drifting in front of her eyes approached their table.

  ‘Yes, what, what am I doing here, hey what’s up with all that glass, I’m sorry, sir you have to go to the bar to be served,’ she said swiftly and incoherently.

  The man in the grey suit stared, and gave her a bank note. She took it and looked at it. Magnus didn’t recognise the image on the front at first. Then he realised it was a one thousand pound note, with an image of Chief Warlock Brannigan on the front.

  ‘Sorry, we can’t change this, love.’

  ‘Then pay with your own money, and keep the change,’ suggested Armitage.

  The waitress smiled broadly, and brushed the hair out of her eyes with one hand; momentarily revealing her face as sweet and young, early twenties at most.

  ‘Okay. Fair enough, mate. You can do what you like here darling, within, um, reason. Same again?’

  ‘A foaming pint of ale for the Viking; a large glass of Chateau Talbot for me,’ said the man in the grey suit.

  The waitress departed, dreaming of a foreign holiday with her boyfriend no doubt.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Magnus. ‘Really? Mr “Armitage”?’

  The man in the grey suit eyed him carefully. ‘I’m nothing. Nobody. Just a friend of Roy Hall’s,’ he said eventually. ‘The late lamented Roy Hall. The glorious hero who you just called,’ - the man enunciated the word with care - ‘a prick.’

  ‘You’re a Mason then.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Are you a copper too?’

  The man thought. ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘So how does it work?’ Magnus asked. ‘The Masons, the Warlocks. Where does the power really lie?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say,’ the man said.

  Magnus laughed. ‘A dark horse. Well, no matter. Are you really going to re-bind me?’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘No,’ Magnus admitted. ‘I enjoy doing what I do. Why rebel?’

  The man smiled. A clear token that all was going well.

  ‘Then we have a job for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Revenge. We want you to kill the killer of Roy Hall.’

  ‘No problem. Who was it who did the deed?’

  ‘Fillide Melandroni. You know her?’

  Magnus frowned. Years of sweet memories came flooding back. He and Fillide had become close over the years, ever since that time she had killed Mickey Dolan. Very close indeed, in fact. In fact, he’d go so far as to say that he actually loved the little bitch. She was a bold wench and a warrior, and he’d never before known a woman like her.

  They’d had some bad moments, admittedly, after that time he had tricked her so disgracefully, at Roy’s behest. But even so, for the last eight years they had been colleagues on many missions with considerable success. They’d even fucked from time to time, when she was lonely, or he was needful. She was one of a kind, was Fillide.

  ‘I do indeed know the wench,’ Magnus conceded. ‘She’s a pal. We’ve had our ups and downs but I consider her to be my dearest friend on Earth. Without Fillide - well. We are comrades in arms and we are also soul-mates, I shall say no more.’

  ‘But you’ll kill her.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Magnus smiling, wiping the froth from his extravagantly bushy moustache. ‘Of course I’ll kill her. That’s what I do.’

  Chapter 16

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ Veda said, gently.

  ‘I know you’re not,’ said Jacob, his face damp with tears.

  ‘We have to make it stop. All of this – terribleness. I’m not a baby and I’m not stupid. I know that Mum is two people and one of them has to die.’

  Jacob cuddled his sister. He’d never done it before. It was spooky. He had ten hands clutching his back, five faces pressed against his. She was just a little girl. He had to look after her. It was his job to look after her.

  But in reality, he couldn’t. For all his physical strength, he couldn’t protect her. Just as he had been unable to protect Thea and Alazu and Mithrai or, least of all, Troy. It was just him and Veda now; they were in this together.

  ‘Jacob, did you hear what I said?’

  ‘I heard what you said. It’s not possible.’

  ‘Then both of them have to die. We have to kill Mum.’

  Jacob wept and Veda cradled him. She was the little sister, comforting him.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But how?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Their new home was a synagogue. Old, deserted, and partially derelict, but steeped in generatio
ns of worship.

  Jews had prayed here since 1888. In 1936 the synagogue was fire bombed but rebuilt. Seventy or so years later, in 2014, Rabbi Elias Cohen had preached an eloquent sermon here, predicting the imminent defeat of the forces of evil, in the early hours of the irruption of the demons; arguing eloquently that El Shaddai was an all powerful deity who would react to this provocation with all His wrath, and miraculously save the peoples of London.

  Within a few weeks of the Rabbi’s oration, however, the world had turned to shit. El Shaddai wretchedly failed to make His presence felt. Instead, warlocks had come from nowhere and imposed a truce. Demons were allowed to be citizens of London. Mammon became Lord Mayor of the former City of London. And the Rabbi ended up selling second hand cars on the Mile End Road.

  Sheila and Veda and Jacob had moved to this place a few weeks after Jacob had failed to kill Dougie Randall and, instead, had murdered and beheaded Ronnie Tindale.

  Jacob still had nightmares about that day. It was the first time he had killed without coercion. He had chosen to kill that particular human being. But he had done so for a good and a moral reason; in order to leave a message to the police, by carving the word ‘dybbuk’ on the corpse’s flesh.

  The real Sheila had told him to do that, as part of her plan to defeat the soul of Gogarty that was possessing her. And it was a good plan, he was sure of it. But he still had ghastly dreams and waking flashbacks about what he had done to Ronnie. He hadn’t used a knife – just his bare hands – he’d torn the head from the body – oh, the joy of it!

  That’s why he had the nightmares; he’d enjoyed it.

  Jacob had fled the station in Limehouse drenched in blood, and he had sprinted all the way from East London to the house in South London so fast he was nearly invisible. Jostling the people he passed as if they were grains of sand swirling about in the desert winds. Then, barely out of breath, he had told the dybbuk wearing the body of Sheila what he had done.

  And she had been furious with him for failing to carry out her precise instructions.

  ‘Randall wasn’t there –’ Jacob had protested.

  ‘So! You should have waited,’ Sheila-dybbuk snapped.

  ‘I was drawing too much attention to myself. They were getting suspicious.’

  ‘Then you should have –’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re wrong. What I did was better. Better than what you suggested, I mean.’

  Sheila-dybbuk went very still at that. ‘Oh, and how do you arrive at that conclusion?’ she asked, softly.

  ‘You asked me to kill Dougie Randall,’ Jacob argued. ‘But if you kill someone, you see, it doesn’t hurt for long. Just a moment, then it’s over. But instead I killed one of Dougie Randall’s best men. And now – it’ll hurt for ages. I’m taunting him. You see how clever that is?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sheila-dybbuk, intrigued.

  ‘You have to let me think for myself sometimes. I’m not an automaton. I had a better idea than your idea and I carried it out. So what’s your problem?’

  For once, Sheila-dybbuk was at a loss. ‘You’re supposed to be my slave,’ she said, warily.

  Jacob didn’t flinch at the word ‘slave’. Not flinching was part of his new strategy. Keeping calm was also part of it. Winning the dybbuk’s trust was the all of it.

  This, too, was all part of the real Sheila’s plan.

  ‘If you wanted a slave,’ Jacob argued to Sheila-dybbuk, ‘you could find one anywhere. Easily. I’m much more than that. I’m the son of the Golem of Prague. I’m unique. Demonic and damned both at the same time. So frankly, you need to make better use of me.’

  ‘I do, do I?’

  ‘You do.’

  Sheila-dybbuk laughed. ‘You cheeky – I have to say, I like your attitude, Jacob.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Initiative. There’s something to be said for it.’

  ‘You were testing me. To see if I would kill a human without you being there. And I did. And I added in a taunt. The pupil outstrips the master.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Not –’

  ‘Don’t bicker with me!’ said Sheila-dybbuk, marvelling. But also, clearly, proud.

  ‘But the fact is Jacob,’ she said eventually. ‘You did screw up. I had a complex plan in mind which has now fallen to pieces because of your bungling. However -’ She frowned, considering it all carefully. ‘I do appreciate you were trying to do the right thing, and I applaud you for that. Next time, though, do as you’re told.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jacob felt a surge of triumph. He’d tricked the dybbuk.

  That evening – as the London-wide golem hunt was getting into its stride, and as Dougie and his team toasted their dead colleague Ronnie Tindale in the Limehouse MIR - Sheila-dybbuk took them out for a pizza, all three of them. Like a family. Veda had her usual two pizzas; she ate like a horse, though she was a tiny little thing. Jacob supposed her metabolism was especially high because of all her limbs and heads.

  They got some strange looks because there weren’t many hell entities living in this part of South London. And perhaps because many of the local families had lost loved ones when demons had irrupted out of the Imperial War Museum, only six blocks from this pizza place.

  The meal was a success though. Veda was cheerful. Sheila was in a chatty mood. Jacob exuded the self confidence of a boy who is becoming a young man.

  ‘Have a glass of wine,’ Sheila-dybbuk suggested.

  ‘I’m underage.’

  ‘No one’s going to ask for ID.’

  Jacob drank two glasses of wine. By the end of the evening he was feeling squiffy.

  That night he tried to enter the real Sheila’s dream-mind again but failed. He guessed that the dybbuk was keeping her under tighter control: hence, dreamless. And it made him anxious. His mother was the one who had the plan. How could he defeat the dybbuk without her?

  He would, he resolved, have to be patient. Sooner or later the real Sheila would start to dream again.

  Two weeks later, on Monday the twenty-second of July 2024, they moved out of the house near the Imperial War Museum. Sheila-dybbuk drove them to the deserted synagogue in North London, in the area known as Hoxton. Just off the square, a short walk from Saint Monica’s Nightclub.

  Sheila-dybbuk obviously owned this place too, and Jacob marvelled at her financial liquidity. He mainly knew London from playing Monopoly, which was hardly a reliable source when it came to property prices. But it did strike him that Sheila-dybbuk was always the one who got to put hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair and the green Regent Street trio.

  When they had first arrived, Sheila-dybbuk told Jacob the story about Rabbi Cohen; this was why the synagogue hadn’t been used in ten years. Then she gave him the guided tour: walking him through the Assembly Hall, and into the back rooms, and up the rotted stairs to the living quarters. There was mould on most of the walls, and some of the floorboards had rotted through. The pillars in the main hall were cracked and most of the downstairs windows had been smashed through, generating cold gusts of air through the metal frames.

  At the end of the tour, Sheila-dybbuk cheerily advised Jacob to beware of the hundreds of rats who were living in this place. They dwelled, she explained, in nests made of pissed-upon insulation that they had built inside the wall cavities and behind the skirting boards and under the floorboards. This came as no surprise; Jacob had already seen their leavings, like messages written in hieroglyphs, shat all over the floors in the synagogue’s many rooms.

  Night began to fall. Sheila-dybbuk gave Veda and Jacob a pair of sleeping bags and told them to make the best of it. ‘You can’t escape,’ Sheila-dybbuk explained.

  Then she added: ‘Oh, and do take it in turns to sleep, in case those rats have acquired a taste for demon flesh; it has been known.’

  She smiled, with malicious glee.
<
br />   ‘You’re not staying here yourself?’ Jacob said.

  ‘I should say not. Five star hotel for me.’

  Then she left.

  The synagogue at night was cold, bitterly so. And desolate; haunted by years of human neglect. And as well as the rats scurrying inside the walls and water pipes, there were bats living here too, in the upper levels of the synagogue, and among the rafters. Jacob could hear the fluttering of wings above, and his acute hearing could hear their occasional high-pitched discontented screams.

  He and Veda ate cold baked beans from the can. And chicken slices. And cans of Pepsi, two each. Sheila had bought enough food to last them a month, with cans and boxes piled high beside the altar. But there was no way to cook any of it and none of it was fresh. And even though she was wrapped in both sleeping bags, Veda was shivering; Jacob was oblivious to cold, but his sister felt it intensely. So Jacob gave her his shirt and his jacket and she put them on over her own clothes, and wrapped the sleeping bags over that; but it didn’t help much.

  Jacob resolved to ask Sheila-dybbuk to buy some heaters and bedding and duvets tomorrow. And a Calor gas cooker. They needed to find some way to make this place feel like home. And –

  Jacob started to weep.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Veda said.

  ‘I can’t say. It’s just – I can’t say.’

  Veda cupped his hand in her face. She studied him carefully. Her five faces were blurry for him; that was because of the tears.

  ‘Yes, you can say,’ Veda told him sternly. ‘I know what you’ve been doing. I know you’ve been murdering human beings. I know it all.’

  ‘How did you –’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I just know. And we have to talk about what we’re going to do. You have to trust me more.’ Veda threw off her sleeping bags and hugged him, patting his back and shoulders with all of her arms.

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ Veda said, gently.

  ‘I know you’re not,’ Jacob told her, his face damp with tears.

  Chapter 17

  The Challenger tanks were trundling down the Bethnal Green Road. Nine of them in all, with wheels as high as a man and gun turrets like castellations set upon moving fortresses of bulletproof steel.