by Conrad Jones
Something told me that she was right. The baby would die regardless and so would I. I put the gun over the mound and fired off four shots. I looked over the rubble and saw Fabienne and her cronies at the edge of the jetty. I fired five more shots which ricocheted off the metal rails. They ran back towards the gate. The shooter fired again missing me by inches. I emptied the clip in his direction with little to no chance of hitting anything of use. I saw a muzzle flash, and then a train hit me. My left arm felt like it had molten lava in its veins. I felt blood pumping from the entrance wound at the front of my shoulder and more pouring from the exit wound in my back. I fell backwards and stared at the moon. The cold numbed my broken body and I could feel every single raindrop hitting my face. As they rolled down my cheeks, they mixed with my tears and made icy rivulets across my skin. My nerve endings were on fire, every inch felt scorching white pain. I felt unconsciousness claw at my mind dragging me down.
‘She said you would come, but you didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t…’ a voice whispered accusingly. I felt my eyelids becoming heavy. Numbness seeped through my veins. I felt cold fingers on my right hand, lifting it. Flashes of pain shot through my tortured brain. My hand felt like it had pins and needles deep in the sinews and tendons as it moved to the mobile phone. Something or someone was guiding it. The number that I needed to dial flashed into my mind, but I couldn’t move. The moon faded as my eyes flickered weakly and then closed. Only my hearing was functioning. ‘You didn’t come…’ As I drifted into oblivion, two massive explosions shook the ground.
EPILOGUE
It was two weeks later when I came around. I thought that I was dead. Although I was drugged up to the eyeballs, I recall a succession of familiar faces standing over me, brother, sisters, mother, and friends, smiling and happy faces, their voices reassuring. There were also unfamiliar ones too. Serious faces, asking questions, frowning, and accusing faces. My left arm was strapped across my chest; the right was handcuffed to the hospital bed. There were uniforms, lots of uniforms, police, nurses, doctors. And there were the needles. More fucking needles than you can imagine.
As the mists of pain and medicine cleared, there was only one question on my mind, but no one could tell me what had happened. I asked it a hundred times, but no one would answer me until, one day, a senior detective cleared the room. It was deemed that I was well enough to give a statement. They offered me a lawyer, but I didn’t see the point. The detective refused to give me any details about what had happened at Soldiers Point until I’d given a full statement. It took the best part of two days to recount my side of the story; they tape recorded the entire sorry tale. At the end of it, he was good to his word.
No one was found alive at the scene except me. The police examined the underground cells and the skeletal remains of fourteen people had been recovered, although they were struggling to identify some the victims. I didn’t think that they would. The Niners picked their victims carefully. The explosions brought the ceiling down on the ceremony cavern. Thousands of tons of rock had collapsed, liquidising the remains in there. They didn’t think that the investigation into what happened there would ever reveal any evidence. They simply couldn’t justify spending millions of pounds to recover mush. All they had was my word for it. My version of events was taken very sceptically.
Porth-y-felin House was gutted. When the inferno died down only the walls were left standing and the remains had been searched thoroughly. Signs of occult activity had been recovered but the police wouldn’t release all the details. Although the mansion was a landmark, it was demolished a few days later.
Fabienne Wilder and her followers were blown to bits. The jetty was nothing more than a pile of twisted metal. The investigation was limited to testing the DNA of a few bin bags of rotting flesh recovered from the metal stanchions of the jetty, or remnants floating on the sea. The rain washed most of the evidence away, leaving the forensic teams with mush. Any larger pieces of human remains, which had landed in the sea, had been gnawed at by the dogfish in the marina. Four of the six Niners who were killed on the jetty were identified. Fabienne Wilder was one of them. The police were left with more questions than answers, especially when a shredded blanket was recovered from the marina. It was stained with blood and there were chunks of skin covered in thick black hair. When the DNA was tested, they couldn’t identify it, but they said it was derived from the lupine family tree; it was the remains of a young wolf or something related to one.
They told me that Joseph survived his injuries and escaped any criminal charges. I have it on my list of priorities to call him and offer to replace his crockery. In the grand scheme of things, it’s important to me that I at least offer to pay for it. He was lucky to walk away a free man, whereas I don’t think that I’ll be afforded the same leniency. I will do some time once they decide exactly what I’m guilty of and I’ll embrace the experience with both arms. It will give me the time to write again. Being locked behind concrete and steel doesn’t seem so bad anymore; I’ll be fed, showered and given a bed to sleep in safety. They know that I’ll be a target, so I took a deal. They will guarantee to put me in segregation if I plead guilty, ‘on the grounds of diminished responsibility’. That would mean admitting or pretending that I lost my mind and went mad.
I can’t do that. I was never mad at any point. I knew what I was doing at every stage of the horrific journey. I thought that it was all over, apart from serving a few years, but once again, I was wrong. I received hundreds of cards from well-wishers, many promising to sign an online petition which was designed to put pressure on the courts to apply leniency. I can’t remember all of them but one stuck in my mind. It said,
‘Colin has saved you a seat in hell.’
When I asked him to do that, there was nobody in that cellar but us. My mind tells me that it’s a coincidence, but I don’t do coincidences. My gut instinct tells me that despite Fabienne being fish food, it still isn’t over.
Am I mad?
No.
Am I evil?
That’s a different question all together.
These articles are taken from Internet sources and the links are live. Please be careful if you access their websites as they’re dangerous and Internet ‘savvy’ as to who is watching their communications.
Order of Nine Angels
The Order of Nine Angles (ONA; O9A) ‘represent a dangerous and extreme form of Satanism and first attracted public attention during the 1980s and 1990s after being mentioned in books detailing fascist Satanism. Presently, the ONA is organised around clandestine cells (which it calls ‘traditional nexions’) and around what it calls ‘sinister tribes’. They are human vampires in that they sacrifice non-believers and drink their blood. The hearts are used in ceremonial ‘eating’ and the donors: men, women, and children, are chosen dependent on the Satanic calendar.
As recounted by Goodrick-Clarke in his book Black Sun, the Order of Nine Angles assert that they were formed in England in the 1960s with the merger of three neopagan temples called Camlad, The Noctulians, and Temple of the Sun.
