Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  Twenty five hours later. Just an hour after Jacob abandoned Veda in the synagogue.

  Instead of waging war, as he had pledged to do, Jacob was in a pub. Sipping a pint of beer with his new best friend and loyal retainer: Sheila-dybbuk.

  He had savoured the first, then the second and third, pints of beer he had ever drunk. They were in the elegant Georgian long bar of a pub called the Cittie of Yorke in High Holborn.

  ‘Don’t drink it too fast,’ Sheila-dybbuk advised.

  ‘I can hold my – liquor,’ bragged Jacob.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Sheila-dybbuk smiled.

  Jacob was keeping a tight grip on the ner tamid, which he clutched against his shoulder as he sipped lager with his right hand. He had visions of accidentally losing it, like the old joke about the drunken mourners leaving a loved one’s ashes in the pub. Except that the ner tamid contained not cremated human remains but more than a hundred thousand living demon souls. It was the most potent weapon in all of history. To leave it behind somewhere would be a sin beyond all measure; even by the standards of the hell kind.

  ‘Drink up.’

  ‘I’m getting woozy.’

  ‘You’ll recover. You’ve got the constitution of a – well. You are unique, that’s all I can say.’

  Jacob sipped his pint.

  ‘Were you really the saviour of mankind?’ Jacob asked mockingly. ‘Or is that just more of your bullshit?’

  Sheila took the dig well. ‘It’s true. I’ve saved the human race oh, many times now.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh you know. Here and there, now and again.’

  He snorted. ‘Tell me. I deserve to know.’

  Sheila-dybbuk sipped her pint.

  There was a rapport between them now. Two best mates, taking time out, savouring the craic.

  ‘Very well. The first time, my friend Jacob, was long ago, before the history that you know was written. There was a female warlock, they are very rare. I fought her and won. There was a battle – no that memory is too painful. Then again in Roman times. A sibyl with black magical powers. She was, I suspect, a reincarnate ancient God. We fought in Byzantium. Islamic warlocks played a role there too. Long story short: I prevailed. Then a third time, in the sixteenth century, here, in London.’

  ‘Where in London?’

  ‘Oh not far. You’ll see the area soon. A monk was involved, dabbling in black magic. He tried to summon a host of demons in order to create a Hell on Earth. I fought him and finally possessed him and slew the leader of his acolytes, then forced him to kill himself. Brother Martin was his name; he had the most evil human soul I have ever extirpated. Soon after that, well about a hundred years later in fact, there was the Great Fire of London, a Black Warlock started that too. I slew him and played a part in rebuilding London in a more dimensionally secure fashion. More recently, in 1888 the same thing happened all over again.’ Sheila-dybbuk sipped her pint, exuding the self-confidence of the practised raconteur. ‘The same old Black Warlock, Hell on Earth scenario. Once again I and the Black One fought, and again I prevailed. But that time I was weaker, for I’m getting older you see. So I had to supplement my powers with black magic rituals. Using human organs acquired by, let us say, unsavoury means. There was no other way to do it. I saved the world though. Four times in all have I saved the world.’

  ‘So why the fuck up on the fifth occasion? The Occlusion? The Breaches of London?’

  Sheila-dybbuk shrugged.

  ‘I got sloppy. That’s the truth of it. I was busy living my life, and I forgot who I am and what I do. Which I regret, but there you go. And then, who would have guessed it, Brannigan and the Grey-Beards came along and saved the day.’ She scowled. ‘Or at least, they pretended to.’

  ‘Pretended?’

  ‘Yes. That’s my view, anyway. It was all very strange.’

  ‘You’re saying that Brannigan is actually an Evil Warlock?’

  Sheila-dybbuk shook her head.

  ‘Not exactly. In fact, he’s not a warlock at all, he’s a pure human. No one knows why he’s so powerful. I’d never even heard of him, I’d certainly never detected his power before. The first I knew of him was after the Occlusion of the Sun in London. I was in America at the time, I flew back and managed to nip in under the cordons. But by then it was too late. He’d already saved the day.’

  ‘And by then you were Gogarty,’ said Jacob angrily. ‘You were a serial killer. I’ve read the papers. You’ve been killing for twenty years, for pleasure. Not to save the planet. Is that true?’

  Sheila was unabashed.

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘Why? If you’re a White Warlock, why? Why turn to evil?’

  Sheila-dybbuk shrugged. ‘I was bored.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant.’

  She sighed. ‘I’m not being flippant, my dear boy. You have no idea what it’s like, you see - all those aeons of time - all those thousands, tens of thousands of lives lived. It’s - Whatever. When I’m dead and gone, you can make your own moral choices. Drink up, it’s time to go.’

  ‘One more for the road.’

  ‘My liege, you have work to do.’

  Jacob blinked at that. ‘Yeah. Yeah. I guess I do.’ He drank up, savouring the last few precious drops of strong lager. ‘Yes indeed, I do.’

  ‘Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t –’

  There was no one to hear Veda’s cries.

  ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me! Jacob, please! Don’t go!’

  Eventually, she stopped crying.

  Jacob had never travelled on the Tube before. He found it disconcerting and confusing, and would have felt that way even if he hadn’t been so drunk. He’d wanted to catch the bus, but Sheila-dybbuk had warned him that the Tube was safer.

  Several hours had elapsed since he’d said goodbye to Sheila-dybbuk in the Holborn pub. He’d spent a little time walking to sober himself up for his forthcoming mission. Sheila-dybbuk had given him a watch, because split second timing was paramount if their plan was to succeed. She had also cast an invisibility spell on him to evade the police. He was an invisible giant clutching an invisible brass lamp full of oil and a hundred thousand demons to his chest.

  Occasionally people bumped into him but they never realised he was there.

  The journey was strange. Jacob had never seen so many human beings so close together before. He found it annoying. At times, he yearned to beat their stupid brains to a pulp. But he forced himself to be calm.

  When they hit the occult inner bound of Demon City the demons in the lamp began to scream. No one heard but Jacob thought he was going mad. Eventually the effect of the spell boundary wore off, and the demons were quiet again. That’s why the Tube: the spell barrier was weaker this far below the ground. If he’d tried to cross into the City by bus or foot, the lamp might have exploded, releasing the demons prematurely.

  Jacob had some doubts about what he was doing. But a powerful exhilaration was filling him. All his life a victim. But now, he was about to be a victor.

  Jacob got off at St Paul’s Tube. He saw the great Cathedral for the first time. He admired it hugely. He wished he had time to explore but he didn’t. So he opened up the lamp and a hissing sound following, then a swarm of tiny creatures flew out and up into the air. Swirling, massing, rising upwards. Swelling on exposure to air, expanding from microscopic to macroscopic, till each demon was the size of a small black pigeon, each with wings as sharp as dragon’s teeth.

  Jacob watched as the mass of demonality formed dark thunderclouds above the dome of St Paul’s. The light of day dimmed. Alive and dead humans and green and red and black and incolorate demons alike looked up nervously expecting rain.

  But those weren’t clouds: they were the hovering swarms of the Demon Army. When the time came, Sheila-dybbuk would cast a second spell and they would grow to their full and monstrous size. Then the Battle of Demon City would com
mence.

  But first, Sheila had to die.

  It was now half past noon - 12.35pm - on Sunday the eleventh of August, 2024.

  ‘Where the fuck are they?’ said Dougie.

  He looked around the deserted synagogue. And realised he was too late. The dybbuk was gone.

  It was 1.55pm on Sunday the eleventh of August, 2024. Nearly six hours since their morning briefing.

  After leaving the Major Incident Room, Dougie, Gina, and Taff had taken to the streets in Dougie’s car, armed with an A to Z, searching every abandoned synagogue in the East End. Meanwhile the rest of Five Squad searched maps and websites, interviewed Rabbis and Hasidic Jews and re-read every case file for anything which had the Index reference ‘Jew’ ‘Jewish’ ‘worship’ ‘Rabbi’ ‘synagogue’ ‘temple’ ‘basilica’ and a score of other Index categories.

  Finally they’d found this place.

  It was outside Dougie’s manor, in Hoxton. Taff, Gina and Dougie were the first to arrive. And the minute they walked in - Dougie knew it. No one had used this place of worship for ten years, since the Occlusion, but some of the candles were still lit. Others had melted to the wick so recently the tallow was still warm. The ark was in its proper place, bathed in golden lights. And a soundtrack on continuous loop was playing the sounds of the Jewish chasim.

  But no sign of the golem. And no sign of Sheila either. Just a hauntingly empty sacred space full of shadows and the stench of incense.

  ‘Let’s try the back,’ said Gina. They walked through the Assembly Room into the cantor’s room, then on through into the robing room. Until they reached a back room used for storage.

  On the wall, written in flame by a finger of the dybbuk, were the words:

  Look after the little one Dougie, she needs her sleep. Your friend, Roslyn D’Onston

  PS as you will have realised by now that’s not my real name

  They turned and saw Veda, her blood-stained body slumped against the opposite wall. She was limp, and motionless. Dougie felt his stomach lurch at the sight. Veda was a many armed, many eyed monster. But she was still a little girl. She reminded him of -

  ‘This is another taunt,’ Dougie said brusquely. ‘It wasn’t the golem who sent you that dream, Gina. It was the dybbuk.’

  Gina stared at him. Not believing.

  Dougie insisted: ‘The dybbuk. Gogarty, whatever he’s called. Another taunt. He brought us here to show us that he’s killed the girl.’ He looked over at Veda’s body. ‘He’s killed the fucking girl!’

  ‘Maybe it’s –

  ‘He’s killed,’ Dougie said, raising his voice. ‘The fucking girl. Killed. The. Fucking. Girl!’

  ‘Guv, dial it down,’ said Taff unhelpfully.

  ‘Fuck you, fat man!’

  ‘Easy now, guv.’

  They heard a whimper. The body slumped against the wall stirred. Veda turned her heads upwards. All her cheeks were damp with tears.

  ‘She’s alive,’ said Taff. ‘He left her alive.’

  Dougie was baffled. ‘Why? That’s not his style.’

  ‘These demon buggers’re hard to kill,’ said Taff.

  ‘Not that hard.’

  Veda was still weeping.

  ‘Let me –’ said Gina, but Dougie checked her with a hand.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  Dougie went over to the manacled Veda. He stared down at her, her five pretty faces wet with distress. He squatted and cradled her. Resting one of her heads against his body, stroking the hair of another.

  ‘You’re not planning to kill it, are –’

  ‘Shut up Taff,’ said Gina. Taff shut up.

  Dougie continued to cradle the little Asian girl-demon. ‘Baby, baby, it’s all right,’ he crooned. ‘You’ll be all right, trust me, it’s all going to be all right.’

  Taff and Gina stared at the sight in amazement. Dougie was lost in the moment. Nursing a hurt child who was consumed with grief.

  ‘My mother – did all those terrible things to me,’ wept Veda.

  Dougie absorbed it; pain etched on his face.

  ‘Not her fault. It’s really not,’ said Dougie softly. ‘It’s the monster. Your mother is innocent, she loves you really, how could she not? That’s what mums do. It’s all the fault of the blinking monster, eh?’

  The same words he had used to Daniel, when he kept wetting his bed after his mother’s death.

  ‘Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared of the monster, sweetheart. It’ll be all right. It really will. Daddy’s here, my love. Daddy’s here,’ said Dougie.

  Gina stifled a choking noise.

  ‘She killed my brothers and sister,’ whimpered Veda. ‘She made Jacob – the baby – poor Troy. Troy! What he did to Troy -’ Veda wept. Her childhood innocence lost.

  Dougie turned his head so Gina and Taff couldn’t see him, in case there were tears on his cheeks too. As indeed there were.

  At that moment, with a sinking sensation, Dougie realised what the dybbuk’s game really was. This was it. This was the taunt. The dybbuk had wanted to make his nemesis weep.

  And he’d succeeded.

  ‘Guv, you need to listen to your radio,’ said Gina, ignoring the tears on her boss’s cheeks, keeping her tone matter of fact.

  He nodded to her: do it.

  She turned the volume up on her e-berry/radio app. They heard the voice of the CAD dispatcher.

  ‘Golem sighted. Repeat, Golem sighted. All units converge on Mitre Square. Area evacuation plans are in progress. Repeat, Golem sighted. Golem sighted. All units converge on -’

  Chapter 20

  Donovan watched impatiently from behind his bullet-proof testudo in Mitre Square. He was yearning for the waiting stage of the battle to be over, so he could get in there and fight.

  Donovan was a big man, and a hard man. His father had been a hard man too, but he’d died of work-related emphysema after twenty years as a labourer on building sites - always cash in hand, never any safety regs.

  When Donovan was just a nipper he’d seen his dad put in the ground, surrounded by burly men with tattoos, crammed into their suits. Donovan’s father was only forty years old when he passed away and his son had always felt that was a young age to die.

  But Donovan himself was only twenty-six when he died, in the second month of Operation Iraqi Freedom. His jeep had been blown up by an IED but Donovan had been thrown clear. He’d dived into the wreckage to rescue his mates Mickey and Luke and Dave. And he’d pulled them out one by one from the smouldering wreckage. Then he’d sat by the roadside and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Two of his pals were dead but Dave was still alive. So Donovan stuck an IV drip up his mate’s arse and tourniqueted the leg and radioed for help.

  Some locals gave him hassle during the long wait. Shouting abuse in fucking raghead speak.

  So Donovan potted two of them, with fast bursts from his M-15. They were only kids but Donovan was delirious by then. It was a bakingly hot day, and his only shade was the dirt wall he was leaning against. Clouds of flies gathered around the four corpses, Mickey and Luke and the two ragheads. But at least, after he’d killed the two children, the locals left him alone.

  When the armoured personnel carrier pulled up, Donovan’s mate Dave was still alive. But as Donovan himself stood up, a sniper bullet took off his head. Later, reflecting back on the events of that day during his tenure in the Hell Dimension, Donovan reckoned it had been a reprisal shooting. In his bleaker moments, which often lasted months, Donovan had to admit he’d had it coming.

  Now, however, Donovan was back in action. Fitter and stronger than ever, but with the dead-eye stare that betrayed a damnèd soldier.

  He saw a green Bedford van pull up in Mitre Square and he was pleased that something was finally happening.

  ‘Hell hounds,’ said Private Tommy Jones.

  ‘I’d say so,’ said Donovan.

  ‘They have to be sure.’

  ‘They are fucking sure, pal.’

  According to the story Dono
van had heard, two woodentops on patrol had been told about a sighting of the golem in Mitre Square. And when they got there, the fucking creature was squatting on the wall of one of the office blocks like Spiderman, bold as brass. The cops had opened up with their Glock pistols, loaded with the usual anointed silver cartridges. But the bullets bounced off the beast. A scary precedent. Then the monster had crashed through the window of one of the offices and was still in there, holed up.

  A brigade of London Army forces was now in place, encircling the square. Brigadier Wilson and General Berith had their FOB in Mitre Street. The fire support group with their mortars and howitzers were behind the walls of the adjoining school. And the infantry, including Donovan, were behind huge hardened Perspex testudos in the square itself, their heavy machine guns balanced on enfilades carved into the plastic.

  ‘If we don’t see action soon,’ said Jonesy, ‘I’ll be extremely dischuffed.’ Jonesy had died in 1945, on the beaches of Normandy: it was his two pre-war rapes, he firmly believed, not his soldiering, that had got him sent to Hell.

  ‘Chillax,’ Donovan said. With a hint of irony of course, because that bit of slang was now as out of date as ‘dischuffed’.

  Most of Donovan’s mates were older than him these days. World War Two or One veterans or even Boer War stalwarts with those absurd moustaches. Hard soldiers, all of them; but they didn’t have the training or the exercise regime of your modern British squaddie.

  ‘Move aside!’ screamed Sergeant Major Barraclough from five rows behind them. The soldiers lifted up their testudos and made a passageway through which the hell hounds could pass.

  General Berith escorted the Beasts on long leashes through the narrow corridor between the troops. The beasts were large, twice as big as lions, with flesh that rippled and slavering mouths that left simmering pools of acidic spittle in their wake. They whined incessantly in an annoying way that dug spikes into your skull. They had all been blinded: eyes gouged out with an anointed poker to enhance their sense of smell. A hell hound, it was said, could track down any human or hell entity it had sniffed from a distance of thousands of miles; and even between the dimensions if need be.