Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “You’re thinking of ticks, you fool,” replied Sandy, clipping Ian around the back of the head. “He’s not got lots of insects sucking his blood, has he? How’s that going to work? None of us has any blood inside, just plastic and electricity. A tic is an involuntary movement or verbal response.”

  “My mum’s cat used to scratch a lot, though, just like he’s…”

  “If you mention your mum’s cat once more I’m going to be forced to throw you off this rock. The only way of dealing with these types of tics is through John’s own willpower,” replied Sandy scornfully.

  “Willpower…my arse…go screw yourself…”

  “Which is clearly not going to be easy,” added Sandy. “I seem to remember that you have to get involved in something called habit reversal. Maybe I could try it on both of you.”

  “Habit reversal: how do you do that, then?” asked Ian.

  “Well, there are lots of ways. Relaxation works for some people.”

  “Couldn’t we just use psychological torment, refuse to feed him and damage his self-esteem?” stated Ian.

  “No, let’s go with relaxation.”

  “But how do you relax a shrew?” asked Ian.

  “Beats me. But if there are several Johns inside him, one of them must have some happy thoughts. If we can coax him to find those, maybe he can control himself?”

  “Bollocks to that…sex biscuits…worth a try,” came schizo John’s response.

  “Right. John, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Before you answer I want you to take a deep breath and really focus on your happy place. Ok?”

  “Go swing…it’s difficult,” replied John.

  “For all of us, John, believe me. So what do you want most right now?”

  “Arse biscuits.”

  “That’s not even a thing. Try again, remember breath slowly and think clearly.”

  The shrew closed its eyes and drew squeaky breaths through the thin, plastic valve that occupied the space where the mouth was for all creatures in this realm. The electricity that had been coursing through his body diminished momentarily and his body movements returned to stationary. Slowly he wrestled his negative emotions into submission.

  “I must return Faith’s shadow…ahem…nothing else matters…cough…will you help me…?”

  “Of course,” said Sandy.

  “You suck,” added John.

  “That was good progress, John, at least until the end part. We will help you. I have plans of my own. We can kill two birds with one stone, if you forgive the pun.”

  “I think,” said Ian, acting as current lookout, “you might want to take that back. Look!”

  It wasn’t a stone that might be responsible for killing two birds on this occasion. Stones didn’t take human form, unless they were Brimstone, and he wasn’t a good climber. Not as good as the humanoid pile of mud and ooze that was currently halfway up the column of rock.

  - CHAPTER EIGHT -

  BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

  “How have you been, Victor? I see you’ve landed on your feet with this place.”

  Victor remained motionless, jaw left open so that it rested on his Adam’s apple. This couldn’t be Byron. Byron was a big, fat guy who wore glasses and teetered on the edge of a heart attack, bolstered by the constant cigarettes that were lit faster than oxygen would burn them. Plus, and this was a big plus, he hadn’t been seen for over a decade, even though many, including Victor, had set a network in place to find him. Seemingly reading his mind, the man stood up and did a catwalk-style turn.

  “What do you think of my renovations? It took a long time to get this tub of lard back into shape.”

  “Who are you?” said Victor for the first time out loud.

  “I told you,” repeated the man, starting to show an angrier side to his character. “I was Byron T. Casey.”

  “And now.”

  “Ah well, that is the question, isn’t it? If these are the remnants of Byron, updated and improved, who is he really? Go on, have a guess.”

  Victor despised being played for a mug. That was his job. Those that lose power are the worst in the face of it. Like a playground bully who moves schools only to find there’s a meaner, bigger kid in the next playground. Well, this was his playground and he was damned if he was going to move aside for some imposter with a scary tattoo and a sharp suit.

  “How dare you come here and play me. Don’t you know who I am?” replied Victor defiantly.

  “Don’t you know? You’re the legendary Victor Serpo, aka Agent 15. The man who brought down a government without even trying. The man who destroyed a great man like Byron and drove him into my parlour, a fly to my spider. The man who tried to vanish into the night like a shadow into dusk. Spiders spin webs further than their meagre bodies look capable of. I am that spider and my webs reach everywhere.”

  “I think you may have misunderstood some of the facts of the matter. John Hewson was more influential than me in that chain of events. Maybe you need to set a web for him.”

  “You always were so quick. God, I missed that. Such a useful commodity in an ally. That’s partly why I am here.”

  The man sat down again and reached into his pocket. An apple was revealed in the palm of his hand as crisp and shiny as the fabric of his suit. He massaged it in his palm for a while, feeling skin slide against skin. Eyes shut, he lifted it up to his nose and sucked the air into his nostrils, before running his tongue from stalk to stamen.

  “Apples have always been my favourite,” he said with a grin. “So much history in this simple piece of fruit. Instrumental in drawing back the curtains of gravity, maker of discord in the hands of the goddess of strife, and inspiration behind much of your modern-day tech. Forbidden in the annals of religious history as a symbol of man’s corruptibility. Do you have a knife, Victor?”

  “That depends for what purpose.”

  “If I wanted to kill you I wouldn’t have left a bag with one hundred thousand dollars on your receptionist’s desk.”

  Even though he’d stopped being an agent sometime ago, Victor was always armed, but never with a blade. That was far too Middle Ages. Why would he give up his gun? It might come in useful, particularly when psycho patients licked apples and suggested they used to be an overweight former boss. Victor walked tentatively over to the cabinet, sitting against the wall at the far side of the room, conscious to keep one eye on his mysterious guest. He returned with a small penknife.

  “Thank you. Victor, imagine that this apple represents one human. Each human develops a smooth, shiny exterior that hides the juicy flesh beneath. Desperately they heap effort into keeping their skins from developing blemishes, to avoid any visible proof of the rotting flesh that festers under the surface. They’re all born with a natural instinct to avoid the discovery that sits at their core, and it’s a complete waste of time.” The man cut a third of the apple away and threw it over to his host. “What do you see?”

  “I see a piece of apple, slightly rotting and bruised around the pips,” replied Victor, still doing his best to reinforce his guest’s compliment to his speed of thought.

  “That’s my piece of the human soul. I don’t need to cut it, I can see straight through the skin of every human roaming this planet.”

  Victor in anticipation caught the second piece of apple as it looped across the room in his direction. “Whose is this piece?”

  “That is God’s piece, an equal third with the same ability to see deep beneath the surface. But God has eaten too many apples. He no longer enjoys the taste of flesh and pulp,” said the man.

  “So who does the last piece belong to?” asked Victor.

  “That’s the thing, no one owns this piece. This is the neutral element to a human’s soul. It lacks feeling or a need to enhance its appearance, being more interested in the simple reality of its existence. Until someone claims this piece, John is lost to the rest of us. I can no longer influence his movements or thoughts because he has cut away the two piec
es of the soul that now sit in your hands. Yet I must find him before someone claims the last piece as their own.”

  “That story would be much more effective if you used an orange,” replied Victor.

  “What?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t need a knife for an orange. You could just peel back the skin and take out the right number of segments.”

  “Oranges! When have oranges ever been used in a good metaphor? There’s nothing notable about an orange. Give me one example of a famous orange.”

  After a quick brain scan, Victor had to accept the orange was indeed the lesser cousin when it came to notorious bits of fruit.

  “Well, come to think of it, I can’t think of any.”

  “Exactly. Apples are where it’s at, trust me. I think you’re missing the point anyway.”

  “No, I think I get the point. Your story suggests that you are the Devil and John’s soul has been broken.”

  “Exactly.”

  “An excellent party piece, but I don’t believe a word of it. Preposterous. Somehow you’ve put this elaborate story together to extract money or advantage from me. Well, it won’t…” His speech was cut off by a deep pain that started in his left arm before shooting up towards his heart. The man took a bite out of the last remaining piece of apple and grinned.

  “This is not a game,” said the man’s voice in Victor’s head, even though his mouth was brimming with apple. “I can speak to you as easily as I can any person on Earth. All except one, that is.”

  “Ok, this isn’t a game. Stop it now.”

  “Very well,” replied Satan, casting the remaining apple segment to the floor.

  “But how did Satan become Byron?”

  “With the help of our mutual friend, of course. John’s mission, unknown to him, was always to bring me a fresh body at the point of the solstice. It was never about pigeons or the end of the Universe. Over the centuries I’ve been forced to squat in a body with other mortals. There were always plenty of volunteers. The weakness of man is always corruptible, if you can find the right pressure points. With Laslow it was to save his precious wife. In the fifteen hundreds I was Ivan, only known as ‘terrible’ after I took up residence, I might add. There is a war coming, Victor. In fact it’s already started and a warrior can’t fight in tandem.”

  “And John brought you the perfect suit of armour.”

  “When Laslow shot John in Limbo he forced both John and Byron’s souls from the body. It wasn’t a perfect specimen, but I have managed to prepare it for battle over the last few years.”

  “But that would kill Byron’s body, wouldn’t it?”

  “In normal circumstances. But they were not normal. It was the solstice. The pagans were right in their belief that certain flowers had an incredible healing property when administered at the correct moment. I left Laslow’s pitiful body and entered Byron’s, using the yarrow flowers to heal his flesh and fill it with courage.”

  “Well good for you. Well done. I’m not sure what this has to do with me?”

  “That part doesn’t. You may come in helpful one day in helping me locate the remaining part of John before he creates any more havoc, but that is not my main purpose for being here.”

  “So all the apple carry-on was pointless, then?”

  “No, not at all. It was still an important visualisation of why I came here to see you. Do you know how the mechanics of Emorfed works?”

  “Not really, I’m more interested in the huge amount of cash it generates.”

  “And fair play to you. I wouldn’t be a good role model of evil if I didn’t congratulate you heartily,” he said, clapping his hands a single time. “Yet it must stop immediately.”

  “Close the Serpo Clinic? Why?”

  “Because it is damaging my home. In comparison to my earlier analogy, Emorfed is the knife that I hold in my hand. It can cut away the two pieces of the soul that you hold, leaving the neutral third. Like a surgeon’s knife cutting away a cancerous growth, Emorfed cuts away someone’s pain, suffering, and also any joy. Emorfed is freedom.”

  “Well, I know all that, but why is it affecting Hell?”

  “Those positive and negative pieces of the soul become a shadow. They come to us, yet they cannot be cleansed. They have a life of their own and can only be housed in glass.”

  “Why glass?”

  “It doesn’t conduct electricity, in fact it’s one of the best insulators around. The problem is there aren’t many sources of real sand in Hell. I’m told he’s already shrunk considerably since all of your patients have been arriving.”

  “I can close the clinic, but I can’t do anything about the more than six hundred patients that we’ve already treated.”

  “On the contrary. A man with your résumé would be well placed to do just that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We must kill all your patients.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the only way to reconstitute their souls and stop the shadows destroying Hell.”

  In a location designed and purposely built to be a place of calm, a message of death was being extolled. Victor was used to killing people on the behest of a powerful employer. Who was more powerful than Lucifer himself? But over six hundred, not even he had killed that many before. His clients were spread all over the world. Their wealth and power meant they were well protected. It would take an age.

  “But there are six hundred and sixty-four.”

  “No, there are six hundred and sixty-six. You’re forgetting about two victims that took Emorfed before you opened the clinic.”

  “Who?”

  “Byron’s daughter and a man called Herb Campbell, former Manager of Nash Stevens. These two may also hold the key to finding John. John is bent on revenge, which means he may be looking to protect or save them in some way.”

  “What’s in it for me?” asked Victor.

  “You’ll be paid, of course: the first down payment is sitting out there in your reception as we speak.”

  “But Satan, it’s a massive job.”

  “I think we’ll keep to Byron if it’s ok with you. It raises eyebrows if you refer to me as the epitome of evil.”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought you’d be more positive about it. You were already running low on Emorfed: your business is a year from bankruptcy. This diversification will keep the business solvent.”

  “That’s true. Ok, I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent. There’s one other thing. You need to make the deaths look natural.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because someone else will be watching us.”

  “Who? John?”

  “No, I doubt that, although it would be excellent if he showed himself to us.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Baltazaar.”

  “I’m not familiar with him.”

  “Oh, but you should be. You’re holding his piece of apple in your hand.”

  - CHAPTER NINE -

  GOD PROTECTS THE KING

  There’s something deeply satisfying about working the land for income or survival. Of all the professions that rise and fall in demand and popularity, it’s unlikely the bottom’s going to fall out of farming.

  “Jimmy, what do you want to be when you grow up?” said the teacher.

  “I’d like to be a farmer, sir.”

  “Hmm, stupid boy. There’s no future in farming, son. You should think about being a software developer or social media guru. That’s the future. The world doesn’t need a load of farmers.”

  “But sir, farming has been an essential part of humanity and community for thousands of years and people will always need to eat, won’t they?!”

  “Stop dreaming, boy. Give it up, you’ll never make it. Annie, what do you want to be when you’re older?”

  “I’d like to be a reality TV star.”

  “Good move, excellent choice. See, Jimmy, I’m glad some of your classmates show some real ambition. Farmin
g, I ask you. Whatever next?”

  It may not be fashionable in the eyes of many a young school pupil, but to some, still nostalgic for how the world was, it’s a noble career path. To curate the soil in ancient arts passed down from father to son, planted in the brain like a seed might be sowed into the ground in March, with skills more complex than the highly paid stockbrokers that cultivate their own profits. What could be more humble or rewarding than that? The terroir, as French vignerons call it, is a religion in all but name. Prayers will be offered for a rich harvest at the same rate that excuses are apportioned to its failure. Not everyone, though, was convinced by the divinity of soil.

  The summer this year had scorched much of the ground in Cornwall to the detriment of the produce who struggled to grow and the people that struggled to manage it. On this small island’s only farm that responsibility rested on the shoulders of two women.

  A battered jeep trundled over the brow of the hill on its daily delivery run from the quay near All Saints Chapel to the hotel. Its arrival, as precise as any alarm call, signalled the onset of lunchtime and the two women laid down their hoes and stretched out their backs to more evenly spread the blood around their bodies.

  “Any better on your patch, Fiona?” said the elder of the two women, whose appearance looked well suited to manual labour.

  “Awful,” replied Fiona. “If we don’t get some rain soon we’ll struggle to harvest enough to live on, let alone sell.”

  “Chin up,” said Violet picking up a rucksack from the ground. “There’s not a lot we can do about it and I’ll be damned if I’m going to start praying to the soil for luck.”

  The farm was made up of a series of small fields scattered across Bryher, the smallest inhabited island in the Isles of Scilly and the most westerly point of England, far out to sea off the tip of Cornwall. The field they’d spent the morning working was in a shallow valley in the centre of the island sheltered from the sea elements by Samson Hill and banks of withering brown ferns.