by Tony Moyle
Revealed from underneath, his outer layer he glided into the water in his black wetsuit and swam to the side of the boat with the agility and guile of a sea otter. The focus of his swim was no everyday pleasure cruiser. The vessel was a hundred and fifty feet long and constructed on four levels. He knew from his surveillance that Grant would be on the bottom floor in the bedroom at the bow, closest to the shore. Whether Emorfed patients slept at all was an open question. None of his previous victims had. They’d all died fully conscious and completely passive.
Two crew members were on deck, walking the perimeter on a casual, unplanned basis. Victor scaled the starboard side and slipped unnoticed into the shadows. As the first employee passed by he quickly and quietly ambushed him from behind with a powerful sedative applied around the nostrils. He dragged the man into a store area and waited for the next to arrive. Once both men were medically preoccupied, he entered the main part of the vessel, tranquilliser gun ready for any resistance that might come between him and his target. None did.
Grant was a widower with no desire to change the situation. As a result this was probably the least debauched yacht anywhere in the city. No parties, no vice, just peace. In Victor’s opinion a little too much peace. He liked action and having the odds heavily stacked against him. It gave him a proper challenge and the opportunity to test himself. As long as he didn’t have to deal with doors, that is. Thankfully the pills made that little problem a less regular occurrence. His apprehension stemmed from the lack of a deterrent, rather than the possibility of facing one. It didn’t feel right to get this close to a mark unhindered.
He descended into the lower deck and still nothing impeded his progress. The door to Grant’s bedroom was open and the lights, typical of all Emorfed patients, were beating fiercely down on the bed. A small porthole was the only external indicator that it was night-time beyond the bright opulence of the expensive interior of the cabin. The room occupied a large portion of the bottom floor and was filled with elegant furniture and expensive contemporary sculptures. At the far end Grant was sitting on the bed, wide-eyed and sweating. Victor couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was like shooting big fish in a tiny barrel.
“Can’t you at least move about a bit?” whispered Victor sarcastically, swapping his tranquilliser gun for a pistol. “Make it a bit of a challenge at least.”
“Beware of the shadows,” said Grant without fear in his voice.
“It’s ok, Grant, I know all about the shadows. It’s not my first time.”
“He means me.”
The voice came from a chair in a dimly lit alcove at the back of the room.
Victor instantly turned the gun on the source of the voice, his finger patiently sitting on the trigger as it waited on confirmation to fire. That’s why it had been so easy. The deterrent was here in the room, guarding Grant all the time. The man sat calmly, unfazed by the sudden threat being aimed at him. A cane lay against the chair as the man slumped forward as if pushed down by some unknown force. A Panama hat was tipped forward over his features, and his hands were held together in a golf grip.
“I wondered when I’d catch up with you,” he said.
“Clearly you’re in the mood to be shot,” replied Victor, not accustomed to conversing with a victim peering down the barrel.
“You’re not going to shoot me, Victor,” he replied.
“How do you know that name?”
“You’d be surprised who knows that name.”
“I really would be. I can name only three and two are probably dead.”
“Let’s just say I’m aware of your work, particularly over recent weeks. I almost caught up with you when you were in Paris taking care of Madame Bonnaire. That was good work, by the way. Very clever to cause a fire in that way. You almost convinced me it was an accident for a while.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Victor innocently.
Madame Bonaire’s death had been a moment of genius in his mind. How often do you get to see someone spontaneously combust inside a locked room with all the keys on the inside?
“You can’t play dumb with me. I know who you are. I can see every move you make before you even think it. You have your friend, Dr. Trent, to thank for that.”
Victor’s trigger finger flickered and he took a pace forward, “What have you done with her?”
“Nothing painful. My relationship with Dr. Trent has been purely platonic. You see, when I discovered that the patients from your clinic were all dying in apparently accidental ways, I was most aggrieved. I was particularly interested by the alleged suicide of one Herb Campbell. I did a lot of research in order to discover who or what might be responsible. You’ll never guess what I came up with?”
“Tell me who you are or I will shoot you.”
“You won’t, trust me.”
Victor wasn’t used to being told that he couldn’t shoot someone. If he had a gun and desire to use it, how on Earth were the chances of success less than absolute certainty? However perverse this self-confident notion appeared, the very statement of it made him doubt himself.
“Go on,” Victor inquired.
“Well, I found out that a certain Dr. Trent had been one of the leading scientists responsible for the original trials of Emorfed and that she had mysteriously vanished with all stock of the remaining samples. It wasn’t hard to track her from there to the Serpo Clinic. I was most in favour, by the way. The more patients you have, the better. It was a lot harder to track her down after that, but I knew she wouldn’t rest until she worked out what Emorfed was.”
“Where is she now?”
“On her way home to Canada, I expect. You see the good people at the Large Hadron Collider weren’t as keen as she was to blast Emorfed around their little machine. It’s amazing how religious some scientists can be. They like to play with things they understand or have a theory they can test. They had neither in this instance.”
“And what happened then?”
“I told her the secrets myself.”
“You know how to replicate Emorfed?”
“Oh yes. The simple answer is you can’t. You don’t make Emorfed, you farm it. But you need a Soul Catcher for that.”
“A Soul Catcher?” said Victor, feeling intellectually way out of his depth in a contest that should have been all about physical dominance.
“A large device for catching souls,” the man replied, simplifying it. “I have one, you see.”
“What did you get for offering this information?” replied Victor, quite sure that this was not done from an angle of charity.
“I needed your client list. I can’t let you continue killing them, it’s just not the done thing. I like the shadows, they’re far more compliant than the rest of humanity. Whatever Satan is paying you, I’ll double it.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just shoot you and end this pointless conversation.”
“I’ll give you four words. God protects the King.”
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN -
IMMOVABLE OBJECTS
Byron was experiencing something that had not occurred for many years. In humans it was called nerves. That strange feeling deep in your gut that no medical relief can dispel. The saliva evaporating from your mouth and your stomach turning like a butter churner. It’s the sensation that appears in anticipation of some disturbing event, known or unknown. Right now, Byron’s stomach was trying to pull itself through his throat, but it certainly wasn’t nerves. Satan didn’t suffer from them. His body only reacted like this when very specific conditions were in play.
Although Byron’s body was still intact since the bullet pierced his chest, signs of which were still evident on both sides of his body, what lay within had no link to him whatsoever. The shivers on his skin were a psychosomatic reaction created by the mind that lay within the former prime minister. The mind and spirit were Satan’s and those elements only reacted like this in the presence of one other.
This wasn’t a regu
lar occurrence. It couldn’t afford to be. When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, you don’t forget it quickly. The result was usually painful. Byron was the unstoppable force, pure evil with a spirit as negative as it was malevolent. If his body’s reaction was anything to go on, he would soon collide with the immovable object and produce fireworks the likes of which Monaco would never have seen before.
It was impossible to ignore the urge to move towards what he knew was out there. Victor had taken longer than normal, which just added to his need to act. He felt the sensations grow more acute as he left the apartment and moved ever closer to the boat belonging to Grant Parker-Moore. The hair on his arms stood to attention, as if static electricity was goading them to evacuate their host and break free for a new life. Protected from the ocean by a concrete shield that encircled it like a force field, the normally calm tide bubbled and crashed against the harbour edge ever more furiously.
In a localised area above the boat the clouds dashed forward to audition their dark disapproval of what was to come. The wind swept through the gaps in the high-rise buildings causing aerials to quiver and shake. Like two magnets being pushed closer together, Byron knew there was a safe distance that could not be breached. Any closer to the boat and a force would be created even more powerful than the tempest developing around him.
He shouted from the shoreline towards the yacht, “Baltazaar!”
As the water rose the boat rocked more and more violently, its fenders stopping the vessel from smashing into the harbour wall. At the back of the ship a door opened and closed slowly three times, and a man, barely visible against the darkness, crawled out.
“Victor,” said Byron. “What’s happening?”
“There has been a situation,” replied Victor quietly.
“Is he in there?” asked Byron.
“They’re both in there. Baltazaar and Grant,” he replied.
“Baltazaar, show yourself,” roared Byron, taking a few steps backwards to increase the distance between them.
Byron had always suspected that Baltazaar had found a way to return to Earth. The rumour had started with John’s declaration that he’d spoken to Baltazaar during his exorcism. If what John had said was true, there was every possibility that Baltazaar would use that opportunity to return. This hunch didn’t extend to what he looked like. He didn’t need to know. The disruption in the atmosphere around him was enough to identify that he was there.
The dull thud of wood striking metal echoed up the stairwell. Every step coincided with a thud, each one following more slowly and loudly than the last. Finally the end of a walking stick came through the doorway. Supporting the weight from the rest of his body, a strong, elderly hand clutched the end, the other hand placed firmly on his Panama hat to mitigate against the forces of the burgeoning gale.
“Where did you get that old fossil from?” said Byron, making reference to Baltazaar’s elderly frame.
“Don’t be deceived. There’s more to this old man than meets the eye.”
“Is that an Irish accent?” asked Byron.
“Indeed. It gives me an aura of warmth and wisdom, don’t you think?”
“Not really. It makes you sound like an old fool.”
The forces of nature battled for the space between their long-distance face-off, as they eyeballed each other waiting to see who would make the first move.
“So then Lucifer, we seem to be at an impasse.”
“I prefer ‘Byron’, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Very well. The disgraced former politician back from the dead, I see. You’ll notice I have taken a more discreet, less well known body. As we are going on first names, you can call me Donovan.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Donovan had the misfortunate of presiding over John Hewson’s exorcism. When the channel was opened, I hopped on-board. His body is a little tired, I grant you. Though his standing in the community is second to none. That has been most useful.”
“Why are you back?” asked Byron. “I thought you were done with it all?”
“I’m back because of you. If you hadn’t been so obsessed at breaking out of your old form, then I wouldn’t have been introduced to John. A twelfth and final piece of the jigsaw.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” said Byron almost apologetically.
“You’ve stretched John too far. You’ve stretched him to breaking point.”
“And you took your opportunity to turn him to your advantage. But it backfired, didn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. You don’t know where he is, do you? He could be causing havoc in your domain at this very moment, destroying what you have spent so long building.”
“We’ll find him. And when we do, I will kill him like so many of the others,” said Byron.
“That’s if you can. Remember neither of us can access him any longer. Who knows what he might do?”
“Why did you do it, Donovan? Why did you give Emorfed to Byron?”
“Because I knew it would piss you off,” he said with a deep cackle of laughter that caused the clouds above their heads to burst forth with rain.
“But you have no interest in humans anymore. If you didn’t want us to deal with all of the souls, why did you turn off Heaven’s Soul Catcher?”
“We were full. We keep our souls, we don’t recycle them for pleasure like you do,” replied Donovan.
“Full, ha! You can’t lie to me, Donovan, I’m the ruler of lies. Lies and me go way back. Why did you really turn it off?”
“Because people started losing faith. The souls sent to us by Limbo, judged over by John and his friends, weren’t suitable to stay in Heaven. They kept questioning our authority and casting doubt on the rule of religion. They did not want to be in Heaven, they wanted their own domain.”
“There’s no such place for them.”
“Not anymore. But inside festers a genetic mutation that knows some great deception has befallen them.”
“It doesn’t help the situation by closing one of the Soul Catchers, though, does it?”
“The human race is out of control,” replied Donovan. “They don’t even care about each other, let alone gods. That’s why I was compelled to destroy all souls. Emorfed was the solution and you helped to deliver it.”
“So that’s what you’ve been using your Soul Catcher for. You’ve been drawing all the recycled energy from Hell.”
“Yes. Once we’d collected enough I picked the person I thought most likely to use it. Someone, like me, who was driven by the same desire to rid the population of their weakness. Byron was the best candidate.”
“But it didn’t work. Most of Emorfed was destroyed.”
“Until Victor here started the process all over again.”
Quite out of custom for a man addicted to thrill-seeking action, Victor was currently hiding behind a piece of expensive outdoor furniture. Occasionally he’d tempt fate by glancing over the top of it to see who was winning the argument. Both had made him offers of employment and it might be wise not to take sides.
“On top of releasing the shadow souls you have potentially helped John find the third way. His neutral soul has been separated from the rest of him and he’s currently on a revenge mission. I’d be surprised if you and I weren’t on his list of targets.”
“Good. Bring it on. I’ll find John, but not before he has helped me destroy Hell.”
“Over Byron’s dead body. I won’t rest until I have found every one of Victor’s patients and retrieved their shadows.”
“And I will stop you. Don’t forget, I also have the list. I know where you will be going and I will be there before you. Just as I did for poor old Grant downstairs.”
Unfamiliar with the concept of being threatened, Byron stood forward a stride. The waves surged up and over the deck of the boat. The clouds above them rumbled with thunder. The intensity of the storm increased exponentially with every step Byron took forward. The light fittings on the yacht star
ted to rattle free of their fixings, and the wooden floorboards buckled and twisted under Victor’s feet.
Realising Byron’s intentions, Donovan raised a hand to the air. The cloud above him compliantly released a bolt of lightning into his palms, where Donovan carefully moulded it into a ball. He threw it towards Byron with the speed and accuracy of the world’s most talented baseball pitcher. Byron easily ducked to one side and the projectile struck the boat moored next to Grant’s, which immediately burst into flames.
Semi-clothed yacht owners and their party-goers rushed onto the decks of their boats, frightened by the raging external anomalies. The flames from one of their neighbour’s superliners licked the quayside and threatened to pass from boat to boat. Millionaires shouted at half-sleeping employees to stop the natural passage of fire. Perhaps money couldn’t buy anything after all.
In the distance a multiple set of sirens signalled that the authorities would soon be in attendance. Byron was undeterred. As he took another step forward the deck of Grant’s boat ripped open down the middle. Victor, who’d been watching proceedings unfold, threw himself in the water before the boat did it for him. Donovan circled his hand around to manipulate the wind into a micro tornado. It spun around him before violently lifting him off the boat and down the boardwalk. As the pressure in the atmosphere sent needles of barometers off the scale, Grant’s luxury yacht finally gave way, splitting in two and sinking under the waves. It carried with it the body of Grant Parker-Moore, who’d sat through the whole incident, unmoved and undeterred on the edge of his bed.
“Job done,” muttered Byron, as the storm abated with the rapid retreat of Donovan into the distance.
“Don’t move! Stay where you are!” shouted a policeman who was pointing a gun at him from within the car window that had just skidded into the foreground.
