by Tony Moyle
“That’s not enough for me. I need to know. Our equipment just isn’t advanced enough to break down the constituent parts. We need something bigger.”
“What do you mean, bigger? You’ve spent millions on the most advanced equipment available.”
“Millions isn’t enough. The equipment I’m thinking of has a lot more noughts on the end.”
“You’ve clearly lost your mind. We can’t afford that amount.”
“I wasn’t thinking about buying one. The equipment I need is a little big for our lab anyway,” said Emma with a smile.
“Well, how big is it?”
“Twenty-seven kilometres.”
“Have you been sniffing something in that lab of yours?”
“No, I’m talking about the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland. I’ve been talking to some of the experts there about our compound. They’re eager to fire it around their machine to analyse its structure. I’ll be away for a few months.”
“Thank God for that. I thought you were about to bankrupt me. When are you going?”
“As soon as I’ve prepared the samples and gained approval for moving it to Europe.”
The telephone sitting on a small table to Victor’s left started to flash, an indication that work was calling.
“Yes,” he said, answering it almost immediately.
“Sorry to bother you,” said the receptionist. “We have a walk in. Are you free to see him?”
The Serpo Clinic sat at the top of a valley on roads you’d only attempt if you were a rally driver or certifiably insane, and that was in the summer. In early autumn, as it was now, you were lucky if you found any evidence of a road at all. Most patients were rich enough to arrive by helicopter. Although they advertised the clinic, it was through carefully selected channels, designed to thoroughly research candidates that passed the tests of affluence and suitability. They were not accustomed to ‘walk-ins’.
“Really, are you sure?” replied Victor.
“Quite sure, he’s standing in front of me now,” she replied.
“Well, I won’t see him until he’s paid his deposit. That’ll put him off,” he mouthed to Emma who was packing her things back into her handbag.
A dull thud came out of the telephone. “I think he’s got enough, sir, but I might need to count it.”
“He’s paid one hundred thousand dollars in cash!” gasped Victor.
“I suspect you’ll want to see him, then,” said Emma, leaning in for another kiss before leaving. “I’ll let you know when I have more details on the trip.”
“Ok,” replied Victor. “Send him in please.”
The doors flew open and a man strode confidently into the room as if he was expecting a standing ovation. Unlike his last candidate, this man showed no signs of anxiety or stress. The sun from the skylights skipped off his claret suit, taking focus away from a face that no one else on Planet Earth could claim to be theirs. As he closed the door behind him, the back of his bald head showed an intricate tattoo that stretched from ear to ear. The only hair on his head was a white goatee beard that encircled a broad, toothy smile. Despite being in his late-fifties it was clear this gentleman worked on his slender build.
“Welcome, how can I help you?” said Victor.
The man didn’t reply but his piercing blue irises, fixed on Victor, gave no doubt that his ears had heard the welcome. He walked purposely to the sofa and lay down, kicking his polished shoes off in one smooth motion.
“Well, Mr…” Victor waited unsuccessfully for a reply. None came. “We’re not accustomed to having walk-ins at this clinic. It’s normally by appointment only. But as you have paid your deposit and I have the time, let’s begin. In order to decide on your suitability I have to ask you some questions. Is that ok?”
The man nodded, giving no reassurance that any of his answers might come out of his mouth.
“Your name?”
“Let me introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste,” came a gravelly response.
“You are allowed your anonymity, if you pay enough for it, but there are some questions that I do need accurate answers to. Age?”
“Oh, I’ve been around for a long, long year.”
“What is this? Who are you?” demanded Victor.
“Pleased to meet you, I hope you guessed my name!”
“Well, I haven’t,” said Victor angrily.
“Amongst others they used to call me Byron T. Casey.”
*****
All the encouragement in the world wouldn’t motivate the Clerk to leave Limbo. Whatever the Clerk was, or had been, his place was most certainly here. He argued that his job had not changed. It was still his role to accompany souls into the vast chamber of Celestium, and chaperone safe passage to their final destination. David didn’t hate the Clerk for it. There was no hate left in him to use. Once the logic of the man’s actions had been computed and rejected there was nothing more that David could do.
In the darkness of the Alpine panorama he sat for a while contemplating his next move. The less notorious southern side of the Eiger framed the starlight setting in the distance. There was no point leaving. The only safe return was to take the train via the visitor centre in the morning. He’d prepared well. Ropes and climbing shoes had been packed to allow escape from the grand fissure that housed the sphere. And his own abilities to find sanctuary in the wilderness were as natural as his inability to lie. The night’s weather conditions didn’t warrant it.
Growing up on the mountain slopes of Patagonia, in the shadows of Osorno the volcano meant his anatomy was quite suited to camping out. At four thousand metres the Eiger was only just higher than the hut he was born in. As the kettle boiled on his small, portable stove he lay down on his sleeping bag under a small outcrop of rock that hung from the side of the slope.
What next? Laslow’s name had been removed from the list and replaced by Byron’s. He drew his finger down the page. There was no clear way of taking revenge on the whole of Hell, not unless the rest of his soul took the opportunity. The next feasible name on the list was Dr. King.
At first there had been no overriding desire to wreak revenge on the old preacher. He’d only made it onto the list because of the circumstances surrounding John’s exorcism. Things had changed since then, though. The inscription on John’s grave had included the same name: King. Whether there was a connection or not didn’t matter. If you were on the list you were going to get a visit.
David had an alternative reason for wanting to track Donovan down. Dr. King was not only a doctor of theology but also a doctor of psychology. When you were fairly certain that you had no physical capacity for any emotions, psychology was going to draw a blank. But how about his dreams? What could King tell him about those? Why did he have such vivid, unconscious experiences that never materialised after waking? The stars twinkled and David raised his mug of tea to salute the other parts of him many light years away.
- CHAPTER SEVEN -
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
As the final wisps of Paul’s recycled soul passed out of existence, the onlookers started to filter away. They’d got the thrill they were waiting for and the collective disappointment, that comes from anything hyped up so much, was infecting their mood.
“Not as good as last time,” Jeff the lizard was heard saying as he scurried off in the direction of the desert biome.
The timing hadn’t been good for Sandy’s plan. This was the only time these creatures gathered in the same place in such numbers. Who knew when that would happen again? Before long his captive audience would be spread over an area the size of Belgium. How would he identify the right candidates to help him take on the demons? What had seemed ambitious but achievable no more than half an hour ago now seemed impossible. It was also the second most interesting topic in Sandy’s head.
“How are you feeling, Ian?” asked Sandy, collecting the white plastic bird off the floor like a trainer supports a defeated bantamweight boxer.
“Dizzy. I’m not quite sure what just happened?”
“You got your arse kicked by a tiny shrew with behavioural problems.”
“No, I didn’t. You must have missed the start. I got a couple of decent jabs in. He was scared, you could see it in his eyes!” said Ian, demonstrating more bravery now that he was further from the scene.
“Of course he was,” replied Sandy.
“What’s his problem anyway?” added Ian.
“I think he has many. One of which might well be that he’s John Hewson,” replied Sandy. “Although it appears he’s developed some rather disturbing characteristics. We need to get to him before he disappears.”
Finding the shrew was easy. The great kingdom of species were all filtering away down a narrow gully that led up from the beach between the dunes. Every three seconds or so one of them got an electric shock and leapt out of the way. As Sandy and Ian watched the exodus from the air they could pinpoint from the affected animals just where John was. They waited patiently for him to exit the gully and head off in the direction of the forest biome. The pigeons weren’t the only ones watching him from the air.
As close as physically possible to what was both the roof of level zero and the floor of level one, a magnificent golden eagle was hovering effortlessly above them. The direction of flight suddenly changed and with the accuracy of an Exocet missile the eagle went in for the kill. With air resistance having been given the day off, the eagle was at John’s position in seconds, its talons raised, sharp and inviting. The eagle’s prey responded with the type of shock that might be delivered by an electricity substation. By the time Ian and Sandy reached the spot, Malcolm was spread eagle on the ground.
“Ha! That’ll teach you…bitch…cough…what have I done, that’s awful…arse biscuits,” replied the overly confused rodent.
“John, stop!” shouted Sandy. “We need to talk.”
“Oh, it’s Sandy the traitor…cough…it’s all your fault…flange…it’s all my fault…bumholes…I cursed you to your fate, how can you forgive me…gusset.”
“What’s happened to John, Sandy? He was always so well…balanced?” asked Ian, trying to choose his words carefully.
“I’m not certain but something has. John, how did you get like this?” asked Sandy.
“I escaped…bastards…I split up my soul…going to take revenge,” he replied, constantly flinching from the little sparks discharging from his body and forcing him to blink rapidly and clear his throat valve. “I have things to do…must put things right…ahem…kill…they must pay for what they have done…knickers.”
Behind the one rodent argument, Malcolm came around from his bout of unconsciousness with a groan. “Ow, what happened?”
“I think you forgot about the notion of ‘not’ acting like an animal,” replied Sandy.
“But I am an animal. It’s not like I can be an accountant again, is it? Who’s going to need their tax returns done here? There’s just nothing else to do other than act like an animal.”
“We all have to adapt,” said Sandy. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Sandy. What’s your name?”
“Malcolm’s an arsehole,” replied John, giggling with laughter and hopping on the spot like a child desperate for the toilet.
“How did he know that?” replied the eagle.
“It’s not important,” countered Sandy before John could offer any further abuse. “I have a plan. I want you to send a message to as many animals that you can get to safely. Go to every biome and tell them I need to find a team of animals willing to break out of here. I want only the most cunning, wise, strong and nimble to apply. Tell them to congregate by the willow tree in the forest biome for try-outs.”
“You’re mental, you are. Why would I do that? I’ve got a good life here, no one bothers me,” replied Malcolm.
“If you don’t…crevice…then I’m going to hunt you down…jockstrap…I know where you live…fucker…I’ll rip all your feathers out,” replied John, getting more and more irate as he attempted to bite an animal considerably bigger than himself. Sandy held him back, although it cost him a couple of nasty burns.
“Ok, I’ll do it, but I’m not sure how many creatures are as bonkers as your friend here.”
Shaken but still capable of flight, Malcolm soared into the air to complete his newly acquired mission. The pigeons and the shrew watched as he headed for the Arctic biome over in the distance. It was incorrect to say that Sandy had a plan. It was more of an objective, really. He knew what he wanted to achieve and hoped that in the fullness of time some strands of genius would form themselves into something resembling a plan. If not, they’d just use their wits and propensity for causing havoc.
“John, we need to find you a hiding place. It’ll only be a matter of time before Primordial finds out that you’re in his domain without his knowledge.”
“I could take him…butt crack…scares the shit out of me…let’s go,” replied John, apparently at odds with himself over the outcome of any rendezvous.
When the only demon that surveyed the inhabitants of this particular level of Hell had the ability to sink into the ground and appear at leisure, hiding was a challenge. Nowhere at ground level, or sea for that matter, was safe. Being one of its newest residents, Sandy wasn’t an expert on demons yet. But he was a canny type, gifted at problem-solving and bouts of brilliance.
If Primordial was essentially a soup of elements and bacteria born alongside the first organisms of life, he probably couldn’t fly. Slide up things, yes. Squeeze through tiny gaps, yes. Fly into the air, no. It was time to test that theory out. What was the worst that could happen?
“John, Ian and I are going to take you somewhere safe so that we can talk. It needs to be high up, I’m afraid, and it would be useful if you didn’t shock us en route.”
“Can’t control it…shit…I love you guys, you’re so kind to me…feathery arseholes…”
“Ian, we need to work as a team on this one,” said Sandy. “I’m not convinced our friend here is going to be able to control himself.”
“Whatever you say, Sandy.”
The relay started with Sandy, but switched between them every three or four seconds. Once Sandy had been given a shock and spontaneously dropped the rodent, Ian had to catch him before he hit the ground. This process continued with both pigeons engaged in a foolish prank of who could put their hands on an electric fence the longest yet still stay conscious. When they finally landed at the very top of a thin, eroded rock tower in the canyon biome, their plastic feathers were sticking out like an avian Afro.
This wasn’t truly in the sky as Sandy had planned, but how could they keep flying with John in this mood? The tower was the next best thing. The column stretched a hundred feet from the ground, smooth from the repeated friction of the wind that blew through the valley. The head of the tower was slightly wider than the thin body, allowing them even more protection from the overhang. At the very least they’d hope to see Primordial coming.
“What’s happened to John?” asked Ian.
“Who knows? It seems to me that he’s developed a form of Tourette’s. He can’t control his emotions.”
“Revenge…dirty girl…I’m going to burn them……when I save Faith…it’s all my fault…no, it’s not, it’s yours…baps,” John garbled.
“So what good is he going to do us?” said Ian. “He’s more of a liability than I am.”
“Let’s not exaggerate,” replied Sandy. “Given the choice, I’d still be taking potty mouth over you.”
“But he can’t even walk straight without discharging everywhere,” replied Ian.
“Well, not at the moment, but if I remember rightly, you can teach someone to manage their Tourette’s. John didn’t used to have it so maybe we can help him…”
“Two souls…yes, I have, I have two…fucker…two souls in me…QUIET…don’t tell them…bite them…they don’t like each other very much…go do one,” said John, dancing all over the top of the tower
, precariously close to the edge a number of times.
“Two souls? Are you saying you’re possessed, John? Who else is in there with you?”
“Both Johns…don’t tell them, you idiot…the good part…stop it…ignore him, he’s disjointed…tosser…and the bad bit…well done…loser…”
“This is going to take longer than I thought,” said Sandy.
“I don’t think so,” replied Ian. “Remember when you and I were learning to fly?”
“Obviously. What’s your point?”
“Well, we solved the problem by understanding how our bodies worked, didn’t we? All we need to do is help John work out his.”
“I see your point in principle, Ian, but we have no idea how to do that,” said Sandy. “What did you mean by both Johns, John?”
“Negative soul…fuck pigeons…smelly dirty…scumbag…and a positive soul…I’m so embarrassed, he’s so rude…flying rats…rest of me sent back.”
“What rest of you? I’d have thought there was enough of you in there already,” asked Sandy.
“The boring bit…girlies…sent that bit back…bite me…REVENGE!” screamed John at the top of his octave range, which fortunately was not that high.
Sandy had a quick look over the edge of the column to see whether there was a pile of soil trying to scale it. There wasn’t and he sighed his relief.
“Ok,” said Sandy. “I think I’m getting it. It appears that John has splintered into different parts of his soul and is struggling to manage the competing factions.”
“Interesting theory,” replied Ian. “I was going with sex pest.”
“That’s the Tourette’s, you idiot. They have physical and verbal tics that come on when they’re unable to control their emotions. If I’m right, and normally I am, he only has emotions in there. No superego to restrain the wild horses of his id.”
“Well, if he has tics that’s pretty easy to deal with. My mum’s cat used to get them all the time. She had this little device with a hook on the end of it. The trick is to turn the device so you get the whole head out,” said Ian, attempting to indicate the movement with only the use of his wings.
