by Tony Moyle
“I take it, then, that there has been an incident?”
“How dare you be so blasé?” Byron barked in reply. “Do you call the death of three government scientists an incident? Would you tell their families quite so calmly? I’d say it’s a bloody catastrophe. An ‘are you considering your position’-sized incident, given the recent past, wouldn’t you say?”
The Prime Minister thrust a memo into Sandy’s chest. Sandy opened the now crumpled document and read the headline that leapt out from the page:
Saturday March 25th (9.06am)
Zytech Facility Bombing – Three scientists killed in latest terror attack.
Sandy took several minutes to read the rest of the briefing, partly absorbing the information and partly considering the best way to respond. Clearly this was a big deal for his department, and only hearing of it several hours after it had happened, instead of several weeks before, was sure to cause him embarrassment.
“Who did it?” enquired Sandy, his response typically reserved.
“I thought that you might shed some light on that yourself,” shouted Byron in dismay. “Is it not your department’s responsibility to identify these types of groups and prevent such an attack. I think I’m right in saying that in the past six months this is the twelfth such attack on similar facilities. How many of these have you foiled?”
Sandy showed no reaction.
“None. Not one. Not even a warning.”
“Can I remind the Prime Minister that one of the most notorious perpetrators in this particular war has been run underground on the information and actions of my department? He will also remember that I informed him, no fewer than three times, that the budget he has given me is wholly inadequate to win this fight. If we are to make an impact, I need twice what he has given me. What has he done with this request? Nothing. Instead he pumps millions of pounds into the government research laboratories that these people endeavour to attack,” retorted Sandy sternly, both men standing nose-to-nose, trading verbal punches with the other.
“Do you remember why I gave you this job, Sandy?” asked the Prime Minister, his tone softening as if suddenly talking to a compatriot rather than an adversary.
“Yes, I know exactly why you gave it to me. It’s because I have a unique insight into this world.”
“I gave you this job because, prior to your miraculous victory in the Blackpool by-election, as a one-issue candidate, you were within the inner circle of these groups. You vowed to work with me to destroy the renegade elements of these organisations. What did I say that I would do in return, Sandy?”
“You agreed to abolish all animal testing in Britain, sir,” replied Sandy, realising how poorly his part of the bargain had been delivered and the weakness of his position.
“I did, and I will. But I need to see progress first. This country is in the grip of the worst bombing campaign since the early 1980s, and now for the first time we have fatalities. The press and the public are baying for my head. I need to give them something. I have just been battered in a press conference in which you were noticeably absent, and, although numerous attempts have been made to get this news to you, it is clear that you had other priorities. How do you think that makes both of us look? Now I can tell you something for certain, they will get someone’s head, but it won’t be mine. Would you like it to be yours or someone else’s?”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy.
“I need you to give me Violet Stokes.”
Sandy stood quietly for a moment. He’d been backed into a corner. Both of them knew that Violet was one of the most infamous activists in the country and that Sandy had previously been in cahoots with her. Whether Violet was behind this spate of attacks was unimportant. The press would see it as success and allow the government time to identify the real culprits.
“You know that she is underground?”
“So I hear,” responded the Prime Minister, “but she’s not invisible. I suspect you know under which rock she has crawled.”
“She’s more of a symbol in their world now. It won’t stop others from copying what she stands for.”
“It doesn’t matter. She was previously involved, and no doubt will be in the future. It’s her head or yours,” demanded the Prime Minister, laying the ultimatum clearly and squarely at Sandy’s door.
“If I bring you Violet, then you must agree to the immediate abolition of vivisection?”
“My foremost thought is to stop any further loss of human life. I care little if a couple of mice die in the process. You must decide whether you have more chance of achieving your objectives in your present role, or out of it. I have more important things to worry about. You have a week.”
Before Sandy reached the door the Prime Minister added one final comment.
“Don’t forget where your allegiances lie, Sandy. We put you where you are: don’t do anything that might force us to put you back. Without us, you’d be an outcast. A politician in name only. Devoid of any influence or power. You must decide what it is that you hold most sacred.”
Sandy left the office. Rather than return to his own office, he made his way to the nearest exit to pick up his ministerial car.
The Prime Minister sat down on his throne-like leather chair, and leant back in quiet contemplation. He reached into a side drawer and removed a bottle of fifteen-year single malt whiskey and poured a large measure of the brown, viscous liquid into one of the fine crystal tumblers arranged neatly on his desk. He swirled it around the glass for a few moments to decide if his clarity of thought would be improved from its consumption. Placing the glass to his lips, he emptied it in one gulp, before resting the tumbler back on the table. As the warmth of the whiskey flooded through his body, he knew what he had to do.
He picked up his telephone handset and placed it on top of the secure scrambling device that was used to ensure none of his conversations could be infiltrated by undesirable ears. The familiar numbers punched into the keypad, he picked up the handset and after several rings an encrypted male voice, which sounded more like a computer than a human, answered.
“Byron,” said the distorted voice, “has he gone?”
“Yes, he knows his choices. Let us see what decision he makes.”
“Do you want us to follow him?”
“No, whichever choice he makes does not immediately concern me. You have to understand that Sandy would kill his own mother if he thought he might lose his power or any chance of more.” Byron didn’t show much trust in Sandy, which was probably a well-placed judgement of character. “I think he will make the right choice, but I can’t risk his failure if he doesn’t. My mind turns to more important matters.”
“Emorfed,” replied the voice, knowing instantly what he meant.
“Yes. It must be protected at all costs. I cannot risk it being damaged in one of these attacks. If Emorfed is discovered it will stop us creating the type of country that I want. The type of country that the people deserve. I need you to double the security at the Tavistock Institute. I am making you personally responsible for its safety. Is that understood, Agent 15?” demanded Byron.
“It’s understood.”
The voice was replaced with the monotonous sound of a disconnected line.
.
- CHAPTER FIVE -
THE SOUL CATCHER
During the spring of nineteen ninety-seven, in a town hall near Blackpool, a fresh-faced, idealistic and worldly naive John Hewson met a man who would shape his young adult life. Drawn symbiotically to each other by the same cause, the fight against animal cruelty. Both had their own unique reasons for their involvement and both had chosen the campaign group, ‘The Movement Against Animal Cruelty’, as their vehicle. John had always been passionate about animal welfare and needed little persuasion to join the group when confronted by campaigners in his local High Street. The graphic and shocking pictures that they presented of vivisection and animal experimentation horrified him and he vowed to do what he could to raise a
wareness.
His first campaign meeting was a rally outside the gates of a local pharmaceutical company that had been known to test products on mice and rabbits. The march was a totally peaceful event, although with the mass of demonstrators no one from the company would be foolish enough to stand in their way. John couldn’t deny, though, that the mere chance of conflict, the opportunity to take the law into his own hands, gave him an unexpected sense of rebellion. For the first time in his adult life he felt he belonged. He no longer needed the teachings of the Church to tell him what he could or should do. He’d discovered his own drive.
The man in charge of the campaign group was Sandy Logan, and everything that Sandy did was impressive. An eloquent speaker for a relatively young man no more than thirty years old, he could captivate an audience like a hypnotist. Moulding their views and opinions to his, he handed out his passion and conviction to anyone willing to listen. It was infectious and John was unable to stop himself being compelled to act as directed. Sandy also had everything that John sought in himself. Everything that he currently wasn’t: handsome, funny, the centre of attention and a hit with the female members.
Sandy soon recognised that John’s unwavering commitment could be fashioned to his every command. Although this aided Sandy greatly, he secretly mocked the weakness of John’s mind. Soon the two were at the very heart of the group’s activities, working closely together to design campaign leaflets, organise rallies and demos at local businesses seen to be supporting animal cruelty. The campaigns continued peacefully, but always on the edge of legality.
Sandy’s desire for attention, and his irritation with the limited progress of the group, made him envious of other organisations that took a more shocking and dangerous approach. It wasn’t just because this furthered their cause, it also brought their leaders increased levels of publicity and exposure. Sandy sought publicity more than anything, his real motivation behind his actions.
He became convinced that the only way forward was to join forces with another more national campaign group called ‘Justice for Animals, Whatever Species’, known more commonly as J.A.W.S. This outfit made headlines by publicly naming and then terrorising the senior management of government research laboratories and multinational companies. Their success had driven their founder, Violet Stokes, into the spotlight. The press latched onto her, creating an image of a dangerous freedom fighter who continued to evade capture.
Eventually John found that he was unable to back such a violent philosophy, arguing that their approach affected humans also. In John’s mind humans were included in ‘whatever species’, too, contradictory to the group’s very name. Sandy’s unstoppable quest for power and notoriety drove him to a position at the right hand of Violet. He no longer needed John’s ‘high horse’ morality and ignored any views that he held. Eventually the two men drifted out of contact. John left the movement and rejoined the normality of employment. Sandy used his powers of persuasion to canvass for local and central government elections, joining the mainstream parties as his only realistic chance of gaining the power he so craved.
All of this information flew through John’s mind as he sat on the floor at the front gate to Hell, his head buried in his hands. He never really comprehended what task he was going to be set. But he certainly hadn’t considered that he might be used because of who he was, rather than what he was. Emotions in a heightened sense of suspicion, his first question was why it wasn’t feasible for an entity like the Devil himself to go and find Sandy’s soul.
“Sandy Logan. That’s someone I haven’t thought of for a very long time. I didn’t even know he was dead. How did he die?” said John, buzzing with questions once again.
“We don’t know exactly, but suffice to say we know he is dead. What we also know for sure is that he isn’t here, and believe me, he definitely should be. So when you put two and two together we know that he is, or at least his soul is, somewhere else. We know he died about the time you did. But as to where or how, that’s unclear,” replied Brimstone. “Friend of yours, was he?”
“He was, but I couldn’t say whether he still is. He compromised our friendship because of his insatiable ambition. The last time I even thought about him was when he became a Member of Parliament. He had a way of using people to get where he wanted to go, rather than fight for the ideals that he so passionately spoke of. Why do you need me to do this? Surely you have the means to do it yourselves?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” answered Brimstone. “Unfortunately we are all tied to this place and the boundaries of our own Universe. Our time travels much faster than yours: a few minutes on Earth would take several years here, so crossing the time-space continuum through the wormhole would be impossible. We would suddenly age at an incredible rate, disintegrating before we got anywhere near our destination. We could travel there if we had a soul, but that isn’t the case for all but one of us at least. Anyway, these events are so incredibly rare there’s little call for it.”
“How did it happen? Surely you have processes in place to stop this stuff happening?”
“Well, for me to answer that question I’d need to explain the principles of the Universe and how the Soul Catcher works, which might take a while.”
“I seem to have the rest of eternity and an almost timeless location. What say you we give it a go?” replied John, getting tired with Brimstone’s demeaning approach to what he clearly thought was a lack of mental capacity.
“OK, you don’t have to get like that. If I told every soul that came through here the intricacies of how everything worked, I’d never get anything done,” he snapped in response.
Brimstone stood up and strolled towards the Soul Catcher, a look of pride on his craggy face, as if a father was about to talk about a highly successful offspring.
“This magnificent device is responsible for detecting negative souls and attracting them through space and time to the edge just outside of the wormhole.” Brimstone pointed out into the darkness where the end of the Soul Catcher poked out, almost lifeless except for regular pulses of energy that jetted into space.
“What’s the blue stuff?” John asked, less than intellectually.
“The energy that you see being emitted from the barrel are forces that suck those souls into the base. At any point there might be thousands of souls colliding with each other inside the bulb, which I am told is a rather unpleasant experience. All the evil charged emotions rub off on the other souls around them. It’s like a personal hell all of its own.”
“It’s like a big magnet,” mused John out loud.
“Yes and no. It draws things to it like a magnet, but it’s not magnetism. It uses the fifth force, but it’ll be several more centuries before the human race has fully understood it.”
“Why doesn’t it attract other electrically charged objects as well as souls?” asked John, fascinated by the unexpected science lesson. John’s pre-death career had been as a climate scientist and this was right up his street.
“It does on occasion. We had a particular problem at one point, got all of these aeroplanes and ships from the Atlantic Ocean. They called it the Bermuda Triangle, which made us laugh, I can tell you.”
John recalled a story that he’d once read about a B-52 bomber that had been found on the moon. Just goes to show you should never completely write something off, however farcical it seems.
“The fifth force should only attract atomic particles that have been released from an organic entity. Before the soul is released from the organic object where it resides it is subjected to the bigger forces, like gravity.”
Brimstone walked around the side of the Soul Catcher towards the control panel. The centre point of all the knobs, buttons and leavers was a screen, split in half down the middle.
“This screen splits the souls into two lists. On the left is a list of souls already trapped inside the machine, and on the right-hand side a list of the souls that are due to be captured in the next ten minutes. Now, we can
look at this list backwards and forwards to see who has been here and who is due here. When a soul is not accounted for the screen flashes like crazy and all hell breaks loose, if you pardon the pun. Now because it so rarely happens, we tend to be unprepared for such an instance. On the day Sandy’s soul was due here his name never crossed from the waiting list to the in-soul list on the left.” He indicated the movement with a craggy finger, sending a miniature pyroclastic flow over the screen. “The rest of course you’ve seen. When the vessol is ready at the end of the Soul Catcher, the souls are injected and sent off for processing to the relevant level.”
Brimstone had obviously worked on the machine forever, but sounded almost scared when mentioning what had gone wrong, as if the responsibility was laid squarely at his door.
“So, why did it go wrong for Sandy?”
“We’re not sure, to be honest. Every few hundred years something like this will happen. Some demons think it’s a problem with the machine, some say it’s a user error. My personal belief is that, once in a while, the soul itself is to blame. I think that somewhere in its composition is a force unknown to us that rejects the attraction of the Soul Catcher. It may be that they have the strength to remain on Earth, some higher level of need for one last deed left unfulfilled. I’ve heard it referred to as the Limpet Syndrome. The soul stays firmly stuck to the Earth, irrespective of how much force is applied by an external source. Even with the power of the Soul Catcher, it remains where it is.”
“Where has his soul gone?”
“Ah well, that’s less of a mystery. A soul can’t survive in its purest form on Earth; there are just too many electrical sources to mutate it, and the pull of the fifth force will catch up with it eventually. It has to go somewhere. This is where the human soul exhibits its ultimate instinct – survival. It seeks out and finds another vessel to occupy until it can be laid to rest, or complete its last purpose. In all other such examples that we’ve seen the other vessel is a body, just as the souls here are placed into a vessol. In the case of a soul on Earth, it could be anything that has yet to contain a soul. You know it commonly as reincarnation. The only other possibility is possession. But that’s much less likely. With possession the soul enters into another human, which already contains a soul, so it’s a lot harder. It either results in the human going crazy and killing themselves, or they are eventually exorcised. In both cases the soul returns to us.”
