Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “Has anyone seen the sloth?” asked a voice.

  “I know,” said another.

  The demons looked around. The sloth was making speedy progress up the ladder.

  “How did he do that?”

  Gary turned and displayed a rather unpleasant v sign. “I was a racing driver, you know. Fastest around over short distances.”

  “But how short?” said Mr. Bitumen. “I mean, will he make it to the top?”

  “Let’s not wait to find out,” demanded Asmodeus. “Let’s get after him and out of this hell-hole.”

  “That’s very good,” replied Fungus. “It’s a hole in Hell. Do you get it?”

  Everyone ignored him. After all, everyone, apart from Fungus, was keen to get back to the normality of the upper regions. The sloth disappeared through the trapdoor unimpeded. Spurred on by this revelation, the demons jostled with each other to be the next to the escape hatch. One by one they hurried up the ladder and stepped onto the silty floor of the now dried-out lake. They were met by a series of poorly thought through chants.

  “What do we want?”

  “Stuff we don’t have.”

  “When do we want it?”

  “It’s difficult to express in a Universe with no concept of time.”

  Around the lake a colony of lesser demons marched in circles holding crudely constructed placards with phrases like ‘down with Misters’, ‘where’s my new whip?’ and ‘demons have souls, too (although strictly speaking, we don’t, which is why we’re protesting)’. They held burning torches, which was a bonus because they almost always did.

  Red, who was shouting into what appeared be an office bin with a hole in the bottom, had shaved off a piece of Fluffy and was wearing it around his chin. It made him itch terribly but he’d been told beards were an important element of convincing the bosses you meant business.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Asmodeus.

  “Striking!” replied Red.

  “You can’t strike. It’s against the rules.”

  “What do we want?” said Red.

  “New rules,” came multiple replies.

  “When do we want them?”

  “It’s difficult to express in a Universe with no concept…”

  “Everyone shut up,” demanded Asmodeus.

  “You can’t oppress us any longer,” replied Fluffy, sporting a rather flamboyant wooden hat, clearly a swap for Red’s beard.

  “Yes, I can. That’s my job. I’m the boss,” said Asmodeus.

  “Not any longer. We have a new one,” said Red.

  “Who?”

  “Sandy Logan.”

  “Who…a pigeon?” said Asmodeus connecting the two facts. “Him and whose army?”

  “This one,” said Red. A surge of shadows advanced down the banks of the lake.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE -

  UNDER SIEGE

  Dusk drew shadowy blotches across the landscape of the island like inky doodles. Rumbustious clouds jostled like football hooligans in order to get the best view of the action. A mild breeze swirled around the coast, which was never more than half a mile away wherever you positioned yourself. Sand and gravel crumpled under two pairs of feet as they advanced on the fudge box-branded farmhouse that crouched at the edge of the shore, protected by the sea on two sides.

  Victor and Byron stopped at the gate, fifty feet from the front door. A blue letter box, crudely nailed to a gate plank, broadcast its owner. This was the right place. Prepared for one more hit, Victor was dressed for the occasion. Conversely, Byron’s bright red attire could be seen from space without a telescope. Omnipotence was reason enough not to change your trousers.

  To their right was Gweal Hill, the only other way you could approach the house without getting your feet wet. Moving swiftly down the slopes, a man approached wearing a rather memorable white Panama hat. Byron glanced up at the sky and felt his pulse. Neither showed signs of change.

  “Is that who I think it is?” asked Victor.

  “Either that or another doddery old fool has decided tonight is a good night to sneak around in the dark wearing a very obvious hat.”

  “You can talk. You’re about as inconspicuous as a flare with all that red velvet on.”

  “It’s symbolic.”

  “Of what?”

  “Danger of course.”

  “Makes sense,” replied Victor. “If it’s him, why isn’t it all wet and windy?”

  “I could only guess. Let’s go ask him, shall we?”

  “Is that…safe?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “How about you go over, then?” said Victor.

  “Ok, don’t get your knickers in a twist. You go to the house and I’ll go see him on my own.”

  “Fine,” said Victor more than happy with the suggestion. He’d met Donovan once and his therapist had advised him against any repeat.

  *****

  Nash and David burst into the house, securely locking any doors that had locks. Violet and Fiona were inside, desperately asking questions that no one would give answers to. Eventually Violet got frustrated and broke out her aggressive side.

  “Owww,” shouted Nash whom she’d placed into a headlock.

  “What is going on here?”

  “Let me go!” screamed Nash.

  “Violet, we’re under siege,” said David calmly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Some people are here and we need to lock the doors.”

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “Victor Serpo.”

  “Him! Are you certain?”

  “Quite,” replied David.

  “If he’s here, then Byron won’t be far behind.”

  “Byron’s dead,” said David.

  “I’m really not,” came a voice in Violet’s head.

  “Barricade all the doors. Move everyone inside. Fiona, break out the weapons!” she shouted into the kitchen.

  She released Nash from her grip. Fiona appeared shortly after equipped with enough artillery for a leading role in a remake of Rambo. Shotguns, grenades, automatic weapons and a rather dubious-looking device with several sharp points on it.

  “I see you’re well prepared for this,” said Nash.

  “Use ‘everything in my power to protect her’, that’s what he told me,” Violet replied.

  “Yes, I did say that,” whispered David, being reminded of that discussion. “I’m going upstairs to see where they are.”

  At the top of the stairs he moved to the room that overlooked the front of the house. It was unquestionably a bedroom, but only discernible by the single bed that hugged the corner of the room. The rest of the space was covered in bookshelves, each as packed to the gunnels as a certain library with fires at each end. A large easel was propped against a wall and brimmed with complex calculations. At the window he gazed out into the gathering gloom of evening. There were three figures in various states of movement in the gardens below. He casually took out his folder and ticked one more name off his list.

  *****

  The closer Byron got to Donovan, the more he questioned why the Earth wasn’t shattering in front of him. It definitely should be, and Donovan knew that, too. Their eyes widened the more they approached each other. When they were no more than six feet away, their expressions were ones of utter disbelief.

  “Well, this is new,” said Donovan.

  “Quite,” replied Byron.

  “Any theories?”

  “Only one.”

  Donovan took off his hat and stroked his chin. The man’s wrinkled flesh sagged back into position. “Is it possible, though?”

  “Theoretically.”

  “I think we’re past the theoretical phase. If it was just theory we couldn’t be close enough to shake hands, could we?”

  “No. There’s something else you should know,” said Byron.

  “Go on.”

  “A third tree has grown,” said Byron, almost apologetically.

  “I�
�d say that was proof enough, then. What did its book say?”

  “He’s eleven years old,” said Byron. “That was about it.”

  “No other description?”

  “No. Could it be him?”

  “I suppose it’s feasible,” replied Donovan. “Who else could it be?”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how old would you say he was?”

  “Looked about seventeen, so take off a third and you’d get…”

  “Eleven…ish.”

  “We can still stop him opening the third way. If we work together.”

  “In the common interest?”

  “Exactly. Neither of us wants a third option to the afterlife, do we?” said Donovan.

  “No. I’m very happy that there’s currently only one since you closed for new applicants.”

  *****

  Hiding behind the curtains, just out of sight, David watched closely as the two figures chatted on the lawn like old school friends at a reunion. The man in red looked vaguely familiar. The other much too familiar. What was Donovan King doing here?

  “Can I help you?” said an eerie voice from behind him.

  David expected to see someone he recognised. But he didn’t expect her. Over more time and lives than he was able to recount, this familiar face had carved a deep furrow across his psyche. He never expected to see it again, least of all here. Even though the only light source was a small table lamp some way away, her white hair had the effect of illuminating the room. Her sky-blue eyes shone like cat’s eyes on a dimly lit motorway. Each of his organs went into a self-induced state of rigor mortis and like a concertina his body collapsed to the floor.

  “You,” he gasped.

  “Well, it is my room,” she said calmly.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Grace. What are you doing here?”

  His only response was to point a finger behind his head in the direction of the window. She floated forward to take a look.

  “They look like they’re trying to solve a problem,” she said, commentating on the figures standing in the garden. “I’m good with puzzles.”

  “That’s good,” he replied, trying to pump the air back into his lungs by rubbing them fiercely with his hands. “I have a couple of those. Including you?”

  Her facial expression turned into an interesting example of her own hobby. “I’ve never met you.”

  “But I have seen you before. You were there. In the road,” he said.

  “Roads are very dangerous places. Eight percent of all child fatalities happen on them. There would have to be a very good reason for me to put myself in that situation.”

  “But you did,” he muttered. “You were.”

  “When was this?” she asked casually.

  “Umm, twelve years ago,” he said picking his words carefully. “When John died.”

  “John who?”

  “Hewson.”

  “Don’t know him, or you. Plus I’m not old enough to have been there.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s such a puzzle.”

  She turned back to the view from the window. “What’s Scrumpy doing down there?”

  *****

  Scrumpy had been out on a late-night reconnaissance mission. His instructions were always to be back before dusk. After a rather precarious traverse of a section of Hell Bay had taken longer than planned, he was a little late. He’d also stopped off at the barn to find that David wasn’t there. But why?

  A spark of excitement had erupted from his toes to the ends of his curly hair. The mission had begun. He’d crept quietly back to the house only to find people, who could definitely be described as uninvited, casing the house. One was wearing red velvet, had a tattoo on the back of his bald head and was definitely skinny. The pirate jackpot.

  *****

  Bryon and Donovan watched a new phenomenon encircle the sky above them. A dark blue ball of electricity was dodging around telegraph poles, skipping this way and that to find a match. It must be here somewhere? It finally decided the best direction was down the chimney. As it entered the cottage the windows of the house lit up for a moment in dazzling blue before being diminished by a blood-curdling shriek.

  “One of yours?” said Donovan under his breath.

  “I’d say you’re more responsible for that than I am, don’t you think?” replied Byron.

  “Can’t fault a man for trying.”

  “You didn’t try. You succeeded. Hell’s a complete mess from what I’ve being hearing through the telepathy network. All thanks to your meddling.”

  “Those are the rules of the game,” said Donovan.

  “Apart from tonight.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “We have to draw David out. Take him somewhere we can kill him,” said Donovan.

  “What about Victor?”

  “I didn’t know you wanted him dead.”

  He shrugged, “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  “A useful diversion?” said Donovan.

  “And how do we draw David out?”

  “We’ll need some bait.”

  *****

  David and Grace watched as Scrumpy moved closer to the two figures. What was he doing? These weren’t pirates. Ok, one of them looked a lot like one, but they definitely weren’t. The boy crawled through ditches and tumbled behind bushes until he was close enough to be reached. Something unexpected overtook David’s quiet thought-process on the outside lane. It came screeching from nowhere in the form of his voice: “RUN.”

  The two figures looked up at David and then behind at Scrumpy. They had their bait. Byron stretched out an arm and scooped the young boy into his grasp. In response, Donovan clicked his fingers and a small cyclone lifted him from the ground. It sped him over the hilltop that dominated the middle of the island. Byron’s feet ignited with a flash.

  David knew that Laslow had had a talent for combustion, but he’d not seen this before. Aided by a streak of flames, Byron’s feet scorched the earth as he sped off up the path with the ease of a naked flame introduced to a trail of petrol. The burning remains of bush and thicket showed his devastating progress. As they came back into view, having disappeared over the brow of the hill, the burning foliage no longer tracked their route. David could see a streak of fire travel across the sea channel and come to a halt somewhere on Tresco.

  The lamp on the bedroom table shattered, casting the room in darkness. Something knocked David off his feet and he was reintroduced to the rough carpet. By the time he’d picked himself up again and returned to the window the only sight of either Byron or Donovan was a streak of flames burning across the island. They weren’t the only ones to vanish. Only David and his own confusion occupied the bedroom.

  *****

  The dark blue storm burst through the fireplace and hovered for a moment in the lounge. It appeared to sniff the air before, as far as Nash was concerned, it broke into a wide smile shape. It struck out and hit Faith so hard she was propelled off her feet. The electricity forced its way in, making every inch of her body convulse. The other occupants of the living room waited for what seemed an age, before the soul’s progress slowed and switched its focus to her head. A small puff of smoke hung in the air and Faith sank to her knees.

  While Violet and Fiona stood guard at various positions in the house, sharpening or brandishing all manner of lethal weapons, Nash had volunteered to sit with Faith. As soon as the chaotic process stopped, Nash ran to her aid.

  The grey hew of her normal tan started to brighten. The irises in her eyes sparkled, and vitality returned to her body after an absence of almost twelve years.

  Out in the corridor a door was being kicked in. Glass smashed and wood splintered. There was a great deal more kicking taking place than was actually necessary, as if this door was in some way taking the collective brunt of anger for doors everywhere. As it finally crashed into the house, hinges buckled and ben
t, a man dressed completely in black entered with the confidence of a returning homeowner.

  At the other end of the corridor a grey-haired hippy in self-made clothes was brandishing an automatic weapon.

  “I can see this is a bad time,” said Victor. “I’ll come back later.”

  The woman motioned for the man to enter the living room. Not wanting to be riddled with holes, he obliged. As he entered the room he was faced with a couple involved in what can only be described as overpassionate snogging.

  “I love you, Nash,” said Faith. “I know you’ve always been here for me, but I couldn’t find the words. The shadow has returned.”

  “You don’t know how much I’ve prayed for this,” said Nash.

  “You want to be careful with praying,” said Victor, sporting the barrel of a gun in the small of his back. “Apparently, God’s gone off apples.”

  “Sit down and shut up,” replied Violet.

  Faith and Nash adjusted to a change of dynamics in the room. For a blissful moment it was just the two of them, returned to how they used to be. Now they were sharing the living room with a former member of the British intelligence community, who had personally been assigned to deal with both of them in the past. Successfully, he’d be keen to point out. And yet here he was on a small island, as far west from London as it was possible to be. Clearly this was not a coincidence.

  “What are you doing here?” said Faith, clutching Nash closer to her.

  “Holiday,” he said sarcastically.

  “Sit down, Victor,” added Violet. “I don’t want to hear another peep from you. What was all the commotion in here?”

  “Faith’s shadow has come back to her. She’s as good as new,” said Nash with a grin pulling his face apart.

  “Where is she?” said Faith, scanning the room.

  “Where’s who?” said Nash.

  “Our daughter.”

  “Our WHAT?”