Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6

by Wright, Iain Rob

  John leaned forwards. “Throw him a bone, perhaps?”

  “Well, yes.”

  John glared at the man, letting him know he’d overstepped his boundaries. Jeff was new, but he would learn. “Okay, I’ll show some compassion. Barry, please tell my secretary to find out the name of the man’s sister and send a bouquet of flowers.” He looked at Jeff. “Good enough? No? Okay… Barry, make it a really big bouquet.”

  Barry broke into hysterics. “Right-o, boss.”

  Jeff stayed quiet for the remainder of the journey.

  John was glad to get back to Downing Street an hour or so later. He had meetings all day, but most were with lackeys who would do little to annoy him. He would keep one eye on the news—to see if anything came of his morning altercation with the egg-thrower—but the day would fly by. Tomorrow morning, he had a meeting with an American healthcare provider vying to pick the final morsels from the NHS’s corpse. They were welcome to it, so long as their pockets were deep enough. The time of free healthcare was over. It hadn’t been sustainable since the population boom in the sixties. People needed to take responsibility for their own lives in today’s world. The free lunches were finished. No tyrant ruled over them—they all had the chance to make something of their lives. No more excuses.

  John went into his office and sat down in his high-backed leather chair—a kind gift from the Italian PM. He liked its size—tall, like he was. An imposing, yet sophisticated piece to cement his position at the head of an empire—his throne. And make no mistake, Britain was still an empire—albeit financially now rather than martial.

  John had just pulled a sheath of papers from his in-tray when the buzzer rang on his intercom. He accepted the call. “Yes?”

  No answer. Only a crackling hiss.

  “Stephanie, are you there? Stephanie, you best not be interrupting me for no reason.”

  The line went dead. John leaned across his desk and prodded a finger at the black, plastic intercom. It hissed at him. “Chinese piece of crap!”

  “I believe it was made in the USA,” said a voice in the room.

  John shot back in his seat. “What the…?”

  A well-dressed gentleman smiled politely at him from the back of the room. Donning an old-fashioned, yet impeccable suit, the stranger’s aquiline face was indifferent. Pointing to the intercom, he nodded. “Motorola, see? I believe they are based in the United States.”

  “Who the Hell?”

  The man grinned. “Who the Hell, indeed. My name is Oscar Boruta. They call me the Toy Maker, but that’s of no consequence. My time is short, and I am here only as emissary.”

  “Emissary for whom? How did you get past security? If you’re another of those bloody imbeciles from the anti-fracking commission I will—”

  “Silence! I am not here to discuss trifling matters. My intention is to present to you an offer.”

  John was unnerved, and he realised that it had led to him humouring this intruder when he should have been slinging him out. He sat up straight in his chair and pointed a finger to his door. “You can bloody well make an appointment like everybody else. You do not barge into the office of the Prime Minister. I am this country’s leader.”

  “You lead nothing—a shepherd of sickly sheep and mewing lambs.”

  John stood up, fists clenched. “How dare you! I’ll have you—”

  “Hear my offer,” said the gentleman. “And then I’ll leave you to your impotent bluster.”

  John wondered how the man could be so brazen, to walk in here and talk to the PM in such a manner. He seemed to possess utter conviction about being there and that he should be listened to. But his eyes’ cold, grey flare betrayed his calm expression. The old man was dangerous.

  “You have thirty-seconds, Mr Boruta.”

  “I need only one.” With that, the elderly man lunged forwards and gripped John’s skull between his bony fingers, squeezing so hard that he saw stars.

  Boruta glared into John’s eyes. “Take a look at what is coming.”

  And John did see.

  He saw it all—what was coming, and what would be.

  The end.

  When Boruta finally let go of his skull, John was sweating and panting. It seemed like he had been trapped in a nightmare for days, but he knew it had been mere seconds. He gawped at the old man standing before him and realised the truth—this was no man at all. His cold, grey eyes were devoid of life—of anything that made a man human.

  “Well,” said Boruta. “What is your answer?”

  John was too shaken to speak at first. After a long swallow, he was able to say, “Yes, yes, I will serve him.”

  Vamps

  Vamps didn’t know what made him grab his grandfather’s old Browning pistol from the safe beneath his bed, but something in his gut told him he might need it today. The city was on edge. Born and raised on the streets of London, Vamps felt the energy of its people in his veins. Just as an investment banker knew where the next trendy wine bar would pop up, Vamps knew where the next pocket of unrest would be. He had known which areas would get hit worst in the 2011 riots and where the pigs were most likely to pinch you. The City of London was an organism, its brain in the financial centre, heart in the tourist districts, and a diseased liver in the poorer areas that dealt with all the filth produced.

  Today, Vamps experienced a feeling uncommon to him. He’d lived in Brixton his entire life, so danger was an everyday part of life, but this was different. Standing on the balcony outside his fifth floor flat and clutching his grandfather’s pistol in the pocket of his hoodie, he felt truly afraid for the first time since he was a child. The city was humming, from the rough areas to the posh. Trouble was brewing.

  And it’s all because of those weird black stones.

  Vamps had watched the news for most of the morning after awakening with a whiskey-hangover. The breaking reports told of a strange black stone in the centre of Oxford Street. A bus crashed into it, and when the driver got out to inspect the damage, he fell down dead in the middle of the street. He had touched the strange black stone moments before.

  There were more strange stones all over the country. An old lady died near the coast next to one, and a stone in the middle of a Scottish football ground killed the groundsman. Anyone who touched the stones died. Simple as.

  But it was the one in London—Vamps’s home—that concerned him.

  So what the hell were they? And where had they come from? Nobody knew the answers, which was why everybody was afraid. London was afraid. Vamps was afraid.

  The gunpowder was primed and ready to ignite.

  Vamps needed to get out on the streets—his streets. He couldn’t be a bystander if things were about to go bad. He had a duty to look after his home. They all did. Brixton was a tough place, but there was a code they all stuck to. You didn’t tolerate shit coming in from the outside.

  The elevators to Vamp’s low rise had been out of order for over a year, so he hurtled down the piss-stained steps instead. On his way, he hopped a sleeping junkie on the third floor without so much as a second glance—local wildlife. When he reached the pavement outside, he struggled to breathe for a moment. It was a warm day, but it was more than simple mugginess. The air tasted thick and ominous.

  The newsagents on the other side of Tanners road was chock-a-block, people seemingly having gathered there to gossip about what was going on. Everywhere else was quiet though—no kids on bikes, and no gangs hanging around on the brick walls that lined the car parks surrounding the low rises. Vamps knew were they would all be—glued to a television set somewhere.

  One person stood out in the open though. The nearest car park contained the usual mix of barely running Escorts and Golfs, as well as one or two newer—although not by much—motors. Vamps himself did not drive, but it still annoyed him whenever someone’s ride got messed with. Why should someone pay all that money to tax and fuel a car only to have some dickhead slash the tyres or key the bodywork? It was that kind of shit tha
t kept them all in the gutter. That was why, when Vamps saw the lad in the luminous green beanie cap trying to shove a metal coat hanger down the window of an old Corsa, he marched right on over.

  “The fuck you think you’re doing, blud?”

  The lad flinched, the beanie cap almost flying off his head. When he recovered from the fright, he put on a scowl and thrust out his chin. “This your motor?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the fuck you care, innit?”

  Vamps stepped up to the lad. “I care because you’re shitting on my doorstep. You vandalise this car and the owner has to pay to fix it. That means he struggles to buy his kid new clothes, which means they go to school and get bullied. Then they grow up with a big, angry chip on their shoulder that makes them go round robbing cars like the fucking low-life you are. You’re victimising people who have had to deal with the same shit as you, yo. We should be helping each other, not keeping each other down.”

  “The fuck you talking about, man? Just piss off, innit. Some guy is stupid enough to leave his sat nav on display, he deserves to get it pinched.”

  “And you deserve to get rolled if someone catches you.”

  The lad lifted his chin higher. “You ain’t man enough, blud, trust me.”

  Vamps grinned wide, letting his gold fangs show. “You is a toddler, blud. Don’t run before you can walk, you get me?”

  Just as Vamps could feel the vibe of the city, he felt the vibe of the lad, which was why he saw the punch coming in plenty of time. He stepped aside and the lad’s swing became a miss, but a line had been crossed. Rep was now at stake. Vamps had no choice but to deliver a vicious hook to the lad’s unguarded ribs. The blow produced a meaty thud, and its recipient dropped to the ground like a bag of bricks, gasping. The lad’s green beanie cap fell off his head, and Vamps retrieved it. Instead of giving it back, he put it on his own head.

  “Don’t throw your fists unless you know how to use them, blud.” He said it with more pity in his voice than malice. “I understand what it’s like living on these streets, yo, but you don’t have to be what they tell you. There’s no cred in hurting the people you live with. You want to be a criminal, then go down Canary Wharf and rob some rich-ass business man that deserves it. Only cowards sneak around and prey on the weak.”

  The lad lay on his side, clutching his ribs and wheezing. Vamps didn’t know whether his words had been heard, but was satisfied that the lad would not be robbing any of the cars on this estate today. Just a pity it had needed to devolve into violence. So many things in this part of the city did.

  Gingerbread had texted to say the boys were all down at the snooker hall, so that’s where Vamps headed. He found them at one of the tables, but they weren’t playing. Instead, they were propped against the cushion and staring up at one of the televisions. The volume was off, but someone had switched on subtitles.

  Vamps moved up beside Mass and Ravy, but only Ginge noticed him. “Hey Vamps, nice cap,” he said with a worried look on his podgy face. He was wearing his gingerbread man t-shirt that Vamps swore had gone months now without a wash.

  Vamps forgot he was wearing the bright green beanie cap, and he fingered the brim to make sure it was still sitting right. “How’s it going, Ginge?”

  Ravy and Mass noticed him, nodding hello. Mass sniffed and said, “This shit is messed up, buster.”

  Vamps glanced up at the television, mildly sick of the news by now. What mattered now was the news on the streets, not the BBC. “What’s the latest?”

  “That stone in Oxford Street just started glowing,” said Ravy, his eyes wide and white against his dark brown skin. “Shit’s about to go down.”

  Vamps nodded. “I’ve been thinking the same thing all morning. We should get down there.”

  Ravy frowned. “Down Oxford Street?”

  “If something’s gunna happen, it’s gunna happen there.”

  Ginge scoffed. “Which is why we should be anywhere but Oxford Street.”

  “No,” said Vamps. “This is our city, yo. I’m tired of being told about it on the news. I want to see with my own eyes. If something is happening I don’t want to be a spectator.”

  Mass, rarely concerned by anything, shrugged his massive shoulders. His confidence came from the fact he could choke a person out in ten seconds or break an arm in half that. When you fought as well as Mass did, very little could make you anxious. “I’m up for heading out,” he said, “if you want.”

  “You lot are tripping,” said Ginge, running both hands through his greasy, copper hair. When he saw that their minds could not be changed, he sighed. “Fine. Let me grab a Snickers from the bar, and we’ll get going. But only because I don’t wanna hang around here on my own.”

  And that’s what they did. Ginge grabbed a Snickers bar—as well as two bags of paprika crisps and an energy drink—and they headed out onto the street. The first thing they noticed as they neared the Thames was how many pigs were about. The police assembled everywhere, moving from shop to shop, or sat in squad cars. There hadn’t been this much presence even during the riots, and the only thing that brought this many pigs from their sties all at once was terrorism. It was exactly what Vamps had been afraid of—that the stones were some kind of weapon put there by someone with a grudge. The way the police were eyeing everybody up and inserting themselves into people’s business was not a good sign. People hung off the balconies of the nearby low rises heckling the pigs, but they would not be deterred from their presence.

  “Shit man, I don’t like this,” said Ravy, fidgeting with himself.

  “Me either,” said Vamps.

  Ravy shook his head. “Nah, I mean I’m carrying.”

  Vamps stared at his friend. “On today of all days? You muppet, what you holding?”

  Ravy swallowed and looked embarrassed. “An ounce.”

  “Shit man, what you carrying an ounce of weed on you for?”

  “Not weed, man. Charlie.”

  Vamps stopped walking and let his jaw drop. “The fuck? Where you even get that from?”

  “Limpy Laz sold it me cheap down at the Boiler House. I got a bargain. Thought we could go sell it in Angell Town.”

  Mass shook his head and chuckled. “Laz must have known you’re the only mug who would hold an ounce of cocaine today with all these pigs about. Not to mention all the robbing that’s gonna get under way.”

  “Well, I can’t dump it, can I? Cost me six-hundred quid. Money I was meant to put on rent. If I’m late again, the council are gunna kick me out.”

  Vamps glanced across the road at the police. They were chatting to everyone, and he knew that they would see Vamps and his boys coming a mile away. They couldn’t risk getting patted down. “We need to offload it to some other mug. You’ll get your money back if you’re lucky.”

  Ravy looked relieved. It was a big time move to grab an ounce of C, and Vamps was a little impressed, but today was not the day. On top of that, he wasn’t a fan of Class A dealing. It did too much damage as far as he was concerned and put a massive target on your head.

  “I know a guy nearby,” said Mass. “Can’t vouch for him that well, but I’ve had a few games of pool with him down Clapham way. Think he deals out of the Grey Goose over by the Evangelical.”

  Vamps itched at the back of his neck—the hairs standing up. “We’ll have to risk it. Would rather get caught with our pants down by some a-hole dealer than the pigs.”

  “Me too,” said Ravy. “Cheers, Mass. You got me out of the shit, yo.”

  They got going, heading west. The Grey Goose was a rough boozer at the northern end of Brixton. Vamps and the boys preferred the snooker hall on the east boundary in Moorlands Estate. It was better to stick to places you knew and the people who knew you, which was why Vamps was uneasy at the prospect of visiting another gang’s manor. Still, it was the middle of the day and things were not as they usually were. All bets were off.

  They took twenty minutes to reach the Grey Goose. It was a rund
own old boozer with rotting boards running below its roof. They may once have been painted white, but were now grey and peeling. One window had a board over it, and the double doors did not hang evenly. In that respect, it wasn’t dissimilar to the snooker hall where Vamps and the boys hung around. Many of the pubs in London were in similar shape. The spiralling cost of a pint made bar tending a dying trade.

  “I’ll go in on my own first,” said Mass. “We go bowling in all together, they’ll think we’re looking for a scrap.”

  Vamps nodded. It made sense, so he stood and watched as Mass headed off alone. It would take a brave soul to pick a fight with him, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be someone stupid enough to do it. Vamps didn’t like letting him go in without backup, but his friend could handle himself.

  Ginge was staring at his phone. Vamps asked him if there was any news.

  “Nah, man. That stone is still just sitting there glowing. The front of Selfridges is trashed because of how many people are outside.”

  Vamps pictured the scene. The more people flooded into Oxford Street, the more tempers would fray and nerves wear. Eventually, the massive crowd would provide cover for thieves to pinch anything not tied down. You could swipe a person’s phone and melt away into the crowd before the victim even noticed. That person would then turn around and accuse the wrong person, which meant a fight would break out, inciting others to join in. One of London’s poshest streets was a firework waiting to go off. Yet Vamps was still adamant they should make it there. They couldn’t just sit back.

  It took five minutes for Mass to come swaggering back out of the pub. He had a smile on his face that put them at ease. No one was hanging around outside, but it had still been nerve wracking standing exposed in a street they weren’t known in.

  Mass grinned. “He said he’ll take it off our hands.”

  Ravy waved his fist in the air. “Great! How much?”

  “Five-hundred quid.”

  “What? I paid six-hundred.”