Demon 4- God Squad 0

by David Dwan

  Rodrigues had been working for Michael Davis productions for almost five months now and the up and coming show would be her second. It had been her job to chaperone Father Winthorpe in the days leading up to the previous event as she now did for this Father Ross.

  But as with the other priest she would steadfastly refused to go anywhere near that unholy sideshow itself. Her job as ‘talent’ liaison ended the moment she put the priest into the car and he was driven off to where the show was being held.

  She knew it was somewhat hypocritical but keeping her distance from the show itself helped her feel less culpable in what happened afterwards. She wouldn’t even watch the thing on the computer and didn’t want to know any of the probably gory details when they all met up for the after show party later.

  Whereas Winthorpe had been a sober serious type from the outset, always praying and fumbling with his rosary (again supplied by Michael Davis Productions.) Ross, who was perhaps ten years younger, seemed quite good-humoured and polite. But of course as the time drew closer to the air date he was beginning to take on the air of a condemned man awaiting his call to the electric chair. And she couldn’t blame him.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  Rodrigues realised she had been daydreaming and wondered just how long she had been standing there. “Oh, sorry Father,” she said a little flustered. “I was just asking if you needed anything else?”

  My head examining? Ross thought grimly but simply shook his head and thanked the woman for her enquiry.

  “Just call reception if you need anything later,” she told him.

  “Will do.”

  Then she was gone Ross put the bible on the table in front of him and took in the view. The hotel was situated at the edge of a large luscious park. He didn’t have much experience with jet setting (well until lately that was) but it wasn’t hard to imagine this place was five stars all the way, situated as it was in the centre of Barcelona.

  Feeling like he was once again caught up in a whirlwind, Ross had barely been back in England a week when the call had come to whisk him away to, at the time, God only knew where.

  All he had been told was to only pack a small case as the production would provide him with everything he would need, including a crucifix, bible and even the clerical clothing he was to wear.

  The whole thing had put Ross in mind of an actor being taken off to some exotic location. Which he supposed in a way he was, but a player in a movie for which the ending and his character’s fate had yet to be written.

  When he had been collected from his home by the middle aged woman who had barely left his side since, Susan she had almost reluctantly told him her name was. Ross had actually been frisked by the monosyllabic driver and security guard who no doubt was standing guard outside the hotel room at this very moment just in case Ross got the urge to go out unaccompanied into the Spanish sunshine.

  It had all happened so fast, Ross only had enough time to call Mendez and tell him he was off but couldn’t tell him his destination, and of course the old priest had tried once again, as he had upon Ross’ returned from Mexico, to talk him out of this madness.

  “Shane, please you don’t have to do this,” Mendez had pleaded.

  “I have to try,” Ross told him. When Ross had gone to Mexico, it had been hoped that Hauser would be able to provide him with something, anything to arm the priest against his upcoming meeting with the creature ‘Mister Minx’. In truth at the time Ross hadn’t believed such things were truly real.

  But the conviction in that small Mexican village, particularly amongst the children and then of course the creature in the box Hauser had shown him. Had left Ross in no doubt of the reality that now faced him, in sunny Barcelona of all places.

  “I have to try stop this thing, Father.” Ross said although he had no idea how, and he could almost hear Mendez shake his head in resignation on the other end of the phone. Then it had occurred to Ross that he hadn’t even seen the priest from the Vatican in the flesh. He had an image of a silver haired dark skinned Spaniard with skin like crumpled leather. But in truth Mendez might not even had been much older than he was, for all he knew.

  “And Hauser didn’t give you anything? Any indication how to defend yourself against it?” Mendez asked more in hope than expectation judging by the tone of his voice.

  Nothing, Ross reminded himself. Only the absolute conviction that he had to try. Something, anything, the image of that poor child’s grave seemed to be burnt into Ross’ retina. “Miguel Torres; May 2004 to September 2013” Ross whispered without realising it.

  “Who?” Mendez asked.

  “I have to try, for Miguel Torres,” he said firmer this time. He thought back to that desiccated thing in the box on that charred altar half a world away now. So far in miles but never far from his mind’s eye. He had to at least try for that poor nine year old boy and for what had once been his priest both corrupted and murdered in the most horrible of ways.

  And of course for that small Mexican village scarred for generations to come. And for what was almost worse than all of that. Because as far as anyone knew, it was all for no reason at all. What had Hauser said? They cause pain for pain’s sake or something similar. Whomever they were. Perhaps an encounter with the creature might shed some much needed illumination on the meaning of all this pain and suffering.

  And now Michael Davis comes along to profiting from his own would be assassin, that creature Mister Minx which was a kin to the monster that had killed Miguel Torres. The priest couldn’t believe it, but he mused that might actually be the worst of all of it all.

  Yes Shane Ross knew he had to try, even if it was only to make even a little sense of it all. Of child killing creatures in the shape of priests and internet sensations skulking in the shadows, praying on those fallen priests foolish enough to face its corruption in the hope of some kind of redemption. Foolish priests just like Father Ross himself.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I can make nightmares flesh,” Mister Minx had once told Michael Davis. “Or, I can simply use these.” The creature had grinned and tapped its claws on the door frame of the house and Davis had sworn he had seen a glint of mischief in its soulless eyes when he had involuntarily flinched at the noise as much as the action. Despite the fact the thing was safely trapped behind the charms nailed to the doors and windows.

  That had been just after the first show when the thing still had the slight pretence of power to it. It was a shadow now of that maleficent bastard, not that the public at large could possibly tell. To them it still was and perhaps always would be, the fearsome Mister Minx.

  It was shortly after this that Davis had come up with the idea of researching into the past of the priests before letting them enter the house. He had no doubt Minx could dream up no end of horrors to torture these holy men on its own but still, knowing the fallen priest’s own personal little peccadillos never failed to surprise and alarm both the contestant and the growing audience alike.

  When he had first suggested it to the creature, Minx had simply shrugged and said; “Why waste your time? You want horrors? You want me to torture the Christ lovers? That is the easy part. All I have to do is imagine the collar wearing cocksucker is you. That is motivation enough for me to cause them mischief.”

  Then it had actually winked at Davis and that was without doubt the one image of the creature he would take to his grave. Not its first appearance that horrible night months ago now. Nor when it loomed over him ready to visit it’s terrors upon him. That slight tilt of the head almost human in its execution then that wink. Shudder.

  Despite the demon’s taunt Davis had taken to compiling a short dossier on the next priest, then leaving it on top of the box holding Minx when it was placed into the house just before the show. Of all the surreal sights associated with the creature, seeing it sitting on the box reading the papers like a diligent student preparing for his final exam was perhaps one of the greatest.

  Davis almost
felt sorry for Father Ross as he tossed the three page document onto Minx’s box. Ross had been a drug addict before his rebirth and as such Davis could only imaging what horrors the little shit would conjure up for him later that night.

  The producer shook his head ruefully. He was going to hell and when he finally got there he wondered if Mister Minx would be waiting there to finally fulfil its raison d’etat.

  He thought back to when he had first told the creature what he was going to do with it now that it had failed its mission and it was under his control, well perhaps never under his control but it was Davis’ prisoner nevertheless.

  Minx had gone ballistic and had begged and screamed for Davis to let it die. It was humiliation enough that it had failed its one and only reason for existence without being paraded in front of a public it was so eager to avoid.

  Davis glanced up at the ceiling, there was still a stain from where the blood had seeped through the plaster from the other night’s mayhem. Davis started and took a couple of staggering steps back as the creature shifted slightly in the box.

  He had recited the incantation to stir the demon some ten minutes previous so it would be fully wake in perhaps another half hour. He tried to regain his dignity and was damn glad the thing couldn’t see him from inside that coffin.

  He let out a soothing breath and lifted the walkie-talkie he was holding up to his lips. “Nico, what’s the status on the audience?”

  After a moment the Russian’s voice came through loud and clear. “Inbound, boss. Should he here in about an hour.”

  Gorodetsky was in the first of eight coaches that had picked up the nearly five hundred strong crowd from the pre-arranged meeting place just outside of Barcelona.

  “Good. Let’s get everyone set. We start the show half an hour after everyone is in their seats.” Davis told him.

  “Roger that boss,” Gorodetsky replied and the walkie-talkie fell silent once more.

  Davis backed out of the room superstitiously keeping his eyes on the box and only finally turned his back on it when he had passed the charms placed on the front door frame which kept Minx trapped inside.

  And as he made his way passed the still empty main grandstand and towards the small production village that was tucked away from the public area, he did what he always did just before a show. He lied to himself. “Last show, this has got to be the last fucking show.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  One thing was for sure, whatever happened tonight. Win lose or draw. This would be Father Shane Ross’ first and final show. The young priest sat in his trailer which was situated at the centre of the production village set off way in the back of the field which was home to the show.

  He was transfixed by a large framed photograph which hung on the opposite wall by the door. It was a classic grainy bigfoot style photograph, just out of focus, a shadowy figure to the far left of frame as if caught at the last moment as the taker swung their lens back at a hint of movement in their peripheral vision.

  But the image which fair radiated malice to Ross’ over sensitive state wasn’t of the famed yet elusive sasquatch. This was no creature of legend, at least not to those like Ross who had seen its kind in the flesh before. No this thing was all too real and all too close. Mister Minx, the demon in demon time.

  It was a publicity shot of the monster which like most of the shots in the show itself could just about be explained away as an illusion, little more than a blur of movement captured by the photographer mid-action, and most likely in the very house he would soon be walking into live on the internet and in front of God only knew how many adoring fans. And armed with what, faith? A second hand bible and crucifix provided by the show.

  Ross had caught a glimpse of the house as he was driven across the field and over to his own personal plush trailer. The star of the show. Well perhaps co-star, Minx was the real star here.

  Just seeing the house through the back tinted window of the limo they had laid on for him had been enough to chill the blood in his veins.

  His constant companion, the normally stoic security guard and driver had seen him crane his neck as they passed and had asked him for the third time since they had set off from the hotel if he was sure he still wanted to go through with this.

  No he wasn’t, but he would do just the same.

  Ross had tried to place the man’s accent. Eastern European he thought but couldn’t decide if it was Russian or somewhere a little further west.

  The man’s demeanour had changed so dramatically since this morning that Ross had guessed what was coming, even before his other constant companion Susan Rodriguez had come in the hotel suite to tell him the news that tonight was indeed going to be the night of the show.

  The woman had fussed around Ross making sure he had everything he needed. She went through how the day and evening would pan out. His vestments, bible and crucifix would be waiting for him in the trailer they had hired for him, which was as they spoke being driven to the show’s secret location.

  She had assured him it was a top of the range model favoured by pop and movie stars alike and that his every need would be catered for in the lead up to the show.

  She had barely left him alone until it had finally been time to go. Then she had disappeared a moment before the driver entered his suite with the look of a prison officer about to escort a condemned man to the gallows.

  Ross stood and walked over to the trailer’s large window and hitched the curtain aside to peer outside. He started in shock. It had been bright sunshine when he had arrived but now dusk had well and truly taken a hold of the Spanish sky.

  The area outside was lit with several lights hanging from overhead cables which stretched like a spider’s web from poles spaced out around the area’s perimeter.

  He could see a large white brightly lit canvas marquee at the other end. The front was tied back so he could see inside.

  It seemed to be the production’s make up and costume tent. He could see several people milling around carrying costumes and cases. Four long trestle tables dominated the tent at which were seated a group of woman all scantily clad in their underwear whilst people buzzed around them, applying zombie make-up prodding and teasing their spiky hair.

  Two women wheeled a large clothes rail in to the tent followed by a young man with a clip board and wearing a headset. The two women began handing out the tatty looking costumes whilst the young male production assistant tried desperately to concentrate on whatever he was supposed to be saying to them surrounded as he was by barely dressed females. So these were the famous demonettes Ross mused.

  As he watched, four of them got to their feet and began going through what he imagined was their routine for the show. Two others, still dressed in their underwear, grabbed black pom-poms off a table and joined in.

  Another older woman dressed in jeans and a loose man’s shirt took a piece of paper from the production assistant and shooed him away. She then began clapping out a beat which they danced to, he couldn’t hear her but it was clear she was the choreographer barking out instructions to the dancers.

  Under any other circumstance it would have been a wonderfully erotic scene, even for a catholic priest. (After all he wasn’t dead yet.) But instead, or indeed despite this, the sense of foreboding he had been feeling since arriving gave way to one of melancholy as he watched.

  He was wondering if any of them knew all of this was actually real, when an old fashioned hearse drawn by two jet black horses moved slowly passed his window. Ross let out a short sharp laugh. And he wasn’t sure what was the more surreal. The fact that a horse drawn hearse had passed by or that it didn’t seem out of place at all.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “It’s perfect, it’s just fucking perfect,” Dex Dexter gushed as he circled around the horse drawn hearse that had come to a stop outside the show’s large hospitality tent.

  Michael Davis took a sip from his chilled champagne and watched as the host ran an exquisitely manicured hand over the black lacqu
ered wood of the carriage. He was flanked as ever by his personal make up girl Sandy who kept trying to touch up his face as he walked. The host looked comically camp as he moved, he still had a wad of tissues tucked into his collar to keep his suit make up free.

  “I knew you’d like it,” Davis said.

  “What are the chances of me keeping it after the show? Can you imagine riding around in this thing all day?” Dexter asked.

  “Less than zero,” Davis replied. “It costs a fortune just to rent. It goes straight back after the show.”

  The horses began to shy slightly as Dexter reached them, unnerved Davis mused by the host’s bright sparkly silver jacket. And their owner who doubled as the coachman had to brace himself against one to steady the beasts. “Hey, steady now girl,” he whispered.

  “Magnificent creatures,” Dexter said and gently patted one on the flank.

  “Sure are,” Davis agreed. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Hiring the hearse had been an idea he had been toying with for some time now. Dexter would be driven into the arena in the hearse then emerge from the back. Not cheap but the effect of his reveal would be worth the two grand euro price tag.

  Once they were back inside the hospitality tent, Dexter went back to his schmoozing. He slumped himself down onto one of the large sofas that were dotted around the place and he took yet another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

  Davis himself hated this part of the show. Meeting and greeting all the V.I.P guests who paid upwards of a grand to gain access to the back stage area and a chance to meet the host and see how everything was put together behind the scenes.

  And inevitably there would be those, usually the more wealthy and bored amongst them, who would seek Davis out and pull him to one side conspiratorially to request an audience with the real star of the show. And as always Davis would politely decline even when the wallets came out and the wads of cash were waved under his nose.