Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  ‘Now,’ said Gina: and Five Squad opened fire.

  Bullets rained down upon the body of Brigadier Wilson. Machine gun bullets from Taff, .308 calibre hollow point rounds from Seamus’s sniper rifle, Heckler and Koch carbine bullets from Lisa and Catriona and Shai and the rest of the team. Finally Gina lobbed a grenade and she and Dougie and Tom hit the deck as it exploded at Wilson’s feet.

  At the end of it all, Wilson was still standing, surrounded by the faint yellow glow of his magical protective shell.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Wilson marvelled.

  Dougie got to his feet. A broken man. ‘Worth a try,’ Dougie said.

  ‘You don’t get it, you really don’t,’ Wilson said, kindly. ‘I have the powers of a god, pretty much. I’ve been toying with you all this time. And now, thank you very much for being my nemesis and adversary, but I’m afraid that you must die.’

  ‘Fight me,’ said Dougie calmly.

  Wilson did a double take.

  ‘You want me to fight you?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Fight me. A duel.’

  Gina took the sword off her back and handed it to Dougie.

  ‘You want to duel me?’

  ‘Are you up to it?’

  Wilson laughed; and though he didn’t smile, he exuded glee. Dougie knew he’d made the right call.

  ‘I’m up to it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Rules?’

  ‘Swords and fists. No guns. No modern technology. No magic.’

  ‘No magic! Then I might lose.’ Wilson used a ‘sad’ voice, mockingly so.

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  Wilson laughed. ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘I’m serious. You’re Gogarty, at heart. Gogarty. And I am the man who has hunted you and who caught you and who made you eat shit. And now it’s you and me. It’s personal. Let’s settle it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The two men faced off.

  Shrugging of shoulders. Rolling of necks. Eyes darting. Bodies poised, centred: ready.

  ‘What do I call you, by the way?’ asked Dougie. ‘Gogarty was just the vessel. You’re not Gogarty, you’re not Wilson, you were never Sheila. Martin? Was Brother Martin your first?’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘Oh no. Not by a long chalk. As it happened, I only occupied the Martin body for a few days, it was never one of my long-term abodes. But I instructed Jacob to gave you the Martin clue to help you connect up Mitre Square with Roslyn D’Onston. Otherwise, well, you were floundering.’

  Wilson beamed, as if praising a schoolchild for almost cracking a difficult quadratic equation.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Dougie equably. Though inwardly he was seething at the insult to his team’s detective prowess. ‘But before we start this duel, may I ask: what is your true name? I would like to know. What is your real name, Dybbuk?’

  ‘It’s Merlin,’ said the oldest warlock on Earth; and he drew his sword from his back with blinding speed, and the battle commenced.

  The two men fought. Dougie was a skilled swordfighter, trained in epée and sabre; he favoured the hanging guard and his sword play was fluent, with strong parries and a skilful use of belly cuts. Whereas Wilson fought in an older style and he carried his body strangely to modern eyes. Though his sweeps were fast and dazzlingly expert.

  At first they seemed evenly matched. But after a while, Merlin started to flag, and his movements became clumsier, less natural.

  Just as Dougie had anticipated.

  Once, the warlock had been a master of the sword and this showed in the boldness of his techniques and the risks he took. However the dybbuk had forgotten that most of his skill had been left behind in the muscle memory of a body that had died millennia ago. Wilson – a brilliant soldier who had never used a sword in his life - just didn’t have the technique to execute the moves his dybbuk desired.

  As time went on it became evident that Dougie was faster, and more skilful; and equally as strong.

  With growing glee Dougie outfenced the old soldier: blocking, parrying, slashing, thrusting; and finally he whipped his blade across the other man’s stomach, drawing blood. Wilson grinned, and his bleeding wound instantly healed. And then -

  ‘En garde!’ screamed Dougie, still wearing his radio mike; and the bullets rained upon Wilson a second time.

  This was the real ambush; the first was just a feint. The Grey-Beard strategy was bound to fail too, though Dougie hadn’t told them that.

  Distraction, that was the key to it; and the fading of Tom’s glamour had given Dougie his vital clue.

  Sniper bullets whistled from the roof; the machine gun sputtered; rifle bullets tap-tapped. And Wilson’s body shuddered, as the bullets sank into his flesh. For the warlock’s magical shield was off; momentarily forgotten about during the exhilaration of the duel.

  The first bullet hit Wilson in the shoulder and he screamed, and blood spurted out of the wound. The second bullet went through his leg. A fusillade of bullets riddled his torso. And then -

  And then time slowed down. Wilson calmly stepped aside, and brushed the bullets that had almost hit him out of the air with ease, like a man swatting away flies that were unable to move. When the air was clear, Wilson waved a hand; and real time was restored.

  A shell of light now encircled Wilson - his protective spell, restored. A second fusillade of bullets erupted and struck Wilson, but vanished into the light, leaving him untouched. A third rattle of gunfire: the same thing happened.

  ‘Cease fire,’ said Dougie, wearily.

  ‘Clever,’ Wilson acknowledged, pale-faced.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A trap concealed within an ambush,’ Wilson clarified.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Classic Dougie Randall.’

  ‘It didn’t work though.’

  ‘It almost did,’ said Wilson-dybbuk, ruefully. He touched his bloody shoulder; the bleeding stopped. He coughed, and a dozen bullets were vomited out. He breathed deeply; and his body was healed. He rolled the shoulder; it was fine again. ‘It’s quite true, if you catch me in that split second when I’m off guard and unprotected by spells you can extirpate me. I’m fallible. Vulnerable. That bastard artist almost took me out once, with a fucking palette knife.’ Wilson tapped his throat where he’d been badly cut by a knife, two bodies ago.

  And Wilson-dybbuk smiled that false smile again. ‘But almost isn’t good enough,’ he said coldly.

  Dougie nodded, accepting it. He faced his doom phlegmatically.

  Wilson waved; there was an explosion on the roof. Dougie recognised it as Seamus’s position. A Five Squadder had just died. Dougie felt it like a jolt.

  ‘You’ll kill us one by one.’

  ‘I will.’

  Another flash; another flare upon the roof, on the other side. Shai Hussain died; and Dougie felt the pain as if it were himself.

  Chapter 28

  Fillide hit Wilson like a meteor.

  He went rolling over. She stabbed him with a knife and bit at his throat.

  Dougie pulled his handgun. He fired at Wilson through Fillide’s body. Bullet after bullet ripped into her. She screamed; blood gushed out of huge wounds that were erupting in her flesh. Beneath her, Wilson yelled.

  Then Fillide was thrown off. She flew into the air, gripped by an invisible hand; and crashed back to the ground. Blood was pouring out of her bullet wounds.

  Wilson got to his feet. His neck was bloody from Fillide’s savage bites. His stomach was also bloody from the knife thrust, and his chest and legs were peppered with bullet holes. One bullet had grazed his temple. He was standing awkwardly. His arm was clearly broken. But he was grinning. ‘This is the most exhilarating day I’ve had since -’

  Fillide leapt back on her feet, ready for combat. Wilson waved a hand; she was frozen to the spot. He took out his handgun. He pointed it at her heart. A shimmering glow surrounded him: his magic shield was back.

&n
bsp; ‘Do your worst, you piece of shit,’ she advised him.

  He trembled. The gun slipped from his hand and hit the ground.

  His body was failing to heal the multiple bullet wounds fast enough. He’d been shot through the heart, the lungs, the colon. His body was now in cardiac arrest; only his will power was holding him up, supplemented by magic. But his voice remained calm: ‘Feisty, eh? Do you realise, your guvnor just shot you?’

  She sneered. ‘They weren’t silver bullets, they can’t harm me.’

  Wilson shuddered. His face was ashen now. Blood was oozing fast from the knife wounds and bullet holes in his body. His voice was weak, and cracked. ‘But your knife is silver, isn’t it? You could have extirpated my spirit with that. A second more – fuck fuck fuck! - and you would have - Nice one.’

  Wilson’s breathing was increasingly ragged. Even so he began to incant. He dropped to one knee to balance himself but kept incanting. All their guns were trained on him. He was staring at Fillide.

  ‘You’re trying to take over my body aren’t you?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Hadi xurk ckurlllu,’ muttered Dougie under his breath. As did Fillide; as did they all.

  Wilson stopped incanting his healing spells. He was even paler. Sweat was pouring down his face. He puked, and it came out bloody. Gina fired a shot at Wilson’s head; a silver bullet this time. It bounced off the magic shield. Tom fired a second round. It also bounced off. Dougie switched his gun to anointed bullets and emptied a clip at Wilson. The flickering of the protective shield quickened in tempo. But the bullets were still bouncing off.

  Taff’s heavy machine gun opened up, battering Wilson on his feet, making him rock to and fro. Two hundred silver bullets were fired in less than a minute. But all the bullets bounced off the invisible shield.

  Wilson slowly stood up. His breathing resumed a regular rhythm. The blood no longer spurted. The magic shield stopped flickering. He raised a finger and his gun floated back into his hand. He grinned; his body healed once more.

  Dougie was stunned. Could nothing kill this fucking bastard?

  Wilson pointed his gun at the frozen-in-place Fillide, and -

  ‘Wait.’

  Wilson visibly jolted. He lowered the gun.

  Dougie stared in amazement. Standing beside Brigadier Wilson was the clay golem, clad in jeans and a T-shirt; shorter than before but still terrifying.

  Its speed was awesome. Dougie hadn’t seen it arrive; just felt the mildest of breezes, then it was there.

  ‘Welcome, Jacob,’ said Wilson, with genuine affection in his voice.

  ‘How are you coping, old man?’

  ‘Not so well,’ Wilson admitted ruefully. ‘This old carcass is good for another ten minutes, at best, and then I need to switch bodies.’ He laughed, self-mockingly. ‘But I can’t even do that - every bastard in my eyeline is using a witch’s blocking spell to keep me out.’ He grinned. ‘I’m lost without you, you see.’

  Jacob half-smiled, the best he could manage with a rudimentary mouth. ‘I guessed that. Oh, I stepped over some slime on the way in.’

  ‘Warlocks.’

  ‘That’s what I figured.’

  ‘This is Dougie Randall, by the way.’

  ‘Hello Dougie, we’ve met,’ said Jacob. Remembering the contempt Dougie had shown to them all at Sheila’s house.

  A bullet fired. It was Tom’s gun, and his aim was good. But the shell bounced off Jacob. Wilson swivelled his gun towards Tom -

  ‘No let me,’ said Jacob. ‘Don’t spoil my fun.’

  Wilson lowered the gun. With, or so it seemed to Dougie, fatherly pride. ‘Very well. Kill them all, please. Do it quickly, we don’t want them to -’

  ‘How can you do this, Jacob?’ Dougie interrupted, brutally. ‘Does this bastard have you spell-bound?’

  ‘I am a free agent,’ said Jacob. ‘I choose to do this.’

  ‘After all he’s done? He killed your sister Thea, we found her dead in a bin, the dybbuk did that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He cursed Mithrai, to drown himself for all –’

  ‘We’ll rescue him, no worries there.’

  ‘And Veda, he cursed Veda too. How can you accept that?’ said Dougie.

  Jacob frowned.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Jacob brusquely. ‘Veda is safe.’

  The mood changed.

  ‘She’s safe, physically,’ said Dougie. ‘She’s in a police safe house. But she’s cursed. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Wilson.

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Jacob, to Dougie.

  ‘The curse is –’

  ‘ – what kind of curse –’

  ‘Shecan’teverdreamorshe’llbecomeevil,’ said Gina in one swift babble.

  Jacob caught her words. He turned to look at Wilson.

  A moment of dark reproach, and then -

  ‘I bind thee Jacob, I bind thee, I bind thee,’ said Wilson swiftly. Jacob was frozen in place.

  ‘Enough of this,’ said Wilson, ‘now I’m going to –’

  Jacob moved faster than sight and a clay fist descended and shattered Wilson’s skull. Wilson toppled and fell to the ground and did not get up. His head was cracked into many pieces, spilling his brains over the ground. A pool of blood haloed all that was left of his whiskery face. A long awed silence descended upon the scene.

  ‘Shit, it’s over,’ said Gina.

  Dougie tried to speak, but couldn’t. A first for him.

  ‘Where’s Veda? Take me to her,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Clay man, you did well,’ said Fillide, fervently, able to move again now.

  ‘Are we standing down?’ said Alliea Cartwright over the radio link.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dougie.

  Fillide looked at Dougie and scowled.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dougie, catching the meaning of her scowl.

  ‘No silver wraith,’ confirmed Fillide.

  ‘The dybbuk must have switched bodies,’ said Gina.

  ‘Shit,’ said Dougie.

  ‘Impossible!’ snapped Tom. ‘My mother’s spell will have protected us from –’

  ‘A B Fucking C,’ Gina warned him.

  The copper’s mantra. Accept Nothing; Believe Nobody; Check Everything. Especially when it came to magic.

  Her words sobered Tom.

  ‘But where is he? Or rather – who is he? Whose body has he taken?’ asked Andy.

  The question hung in the air.

  Dougie turned and looked at his companions. Jacob Golem. Gina Henderson. Fillide Melandroni. Tom Derry. Andy Homerton.

  Was it one of them? Or was the dybbuk inhabiting one of the other Five Squadders, scattered around the environs of Somerset House?

  ‘Show yourselves,’ said Dougie into his radio mike. The survivors of Five Squad stood and showed out. Lisa Aaronovich. Catriona Okoro. Alliea Cartwright. Hyun-Shik Moon. Taff Davies. Tony Williamson. Alice Tunstall.

  ‘One of us,’ said Dougie, over his radio link, ‘is possessed by the dybbuk.’

  Near him, Wilson’s dead body bled out on to the stones of the courtyard.

  ‘But which one of us?’ Gina asked.

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Not me, either, I –’

  ‘Everyone shut up,’ said Dougie.

  He looked around him and considered.

  All of them had guns except for Jacob. And all the guns were raised and pointed at someone. What Julie Penhall had once called, in an essay she’d shown him, the Tarantino standoff.

  Jacob was staring at each of them in turn. Clearly considering whether to kill all of them.

  ‘It could be anyone here,’ Dougie said. ‘In the courtyard, or inside Somerset House.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Gina.

  ‘It could be you, Taff,’ he said over the radio link.

  ‘Nah, he has to be close to his victims, in order to –’

  ‘You don’t know that, not for sure. It could be you.’<
br />
  Taff grunted.

  ‘It could be you, Cat. Or you, Lisa. Or you, Fillide.’

  ‘It’s fuckin’ not,’ Fillide snapped.

  ‘But it could be.’

  ‘Of course it fuckin’ could be.’ She spat blood.

  ‘It could be you,’ Andy pointed out to his boss.

  ‘Or you.’

  ‘Or me,’ admitted Andy.

  ‘Or you, Gina.’

  ‘No. Use your loaf, Dougie. It’s not any of us. It’s the golem,’ said Gina calmly. ‘Think about it. He’s the most powerful creature here. So powerful he can defy a spell binding. If you were the dybbuk, why would you steal the body of a mere human, when you could have the body of a super being?’

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Jacob. ‘Trust me, I never lie.’

  ‘What a crock,’ snorted Cat.

  ‘An armour plated silver shell might take him out,’ said Taff, lining up his sights.

  ‘A silver sword would cut off his head,’ said Fillide, picking up her sword again. ‘Then we could fill the skull with anointed water. I’ve never seen that fail.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Jacob wearily. ‘But kill me anyway. You really think I care?’

  Gina swivelled her rifle to point at Jacob. Taff swivelled his machine gun to point at Jacob. Fillide raised her sword, ready to sever Jacob’s head. Within moments twelve guns and one sword were trained on the golem Jacob, ready to strike.

  ‘Gina,’ said Dougie.

  She glanced at him. ‘Yes guv?’

  ‘Duck,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Duck.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Goose,’ said Dougie sadly, haunted by the uncomprehending expression on Gina’s face.

  He swung his rifle barrel and blew her brains out with a single round from his Heckler and Koch. And he did it fast, before the dybbuk had time to spell his way free.

  Gina’s body collapsed, like a de-stringed puppet. Her skull was blown apart by the bullet; all that remained intact were her nose, and her mouth, and her jaw. The colloid of blood and brain created by the bullet’s explosion hovered, then rained to the ground.