Disturbing the Devil: An Underwood and Flinch Stand-Alone Short Story (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles)

by Mike Bennett

  McKinley opened his eyes. All he could hear was his own ragged breathing. He held his breath and listened. There was only silence. His mind told him to get up and run, but if he did, that thing would surely take him. Wasn’t he safer here, lying on the ground? Maybe … maybe because it had Harris it would forget all about him, go back to whatever hell it had been summoned from. Then, from the direction Harris and the creature had gone, came a distant sound; a steady, rhythmic shifting of track stones, as if they were being displaced by approaching footfalls.

  McKinley rolled over onto his belly and faced the sound. ‘Harris?’

  The footfalls stopped.

  ‘Harris, is that you?’ No answer came. McKinley got to his feet and ran over to pick up Harris’s gun. ‘Stay back!’ he shouted, aiming along the tracks in the direction of the sound. ‘I’ve got silver bullets.’

  A languid reply drifted from the darkness. ‘Yes. Your friend did mention that.’ The voice was close; McKinley recognized it as being that of the Lord. Had he come back here when he had fallen from the train? Was it he who had somehow summoned that creature from Hell? ‘How … how did you get behind me?’

  ‘Why, didn’t you see me?’ the voice seemed to have moved far to the left. ‘It’s not as though I tiptoed.’

  McKinley shifted his aim, the grip of the gun slippery in his hands. ‘I didn’t see you. There was only that thing – that horrible thing that took Harris.’

  ‘Oh, charming.’ Now the voice had moved to the right, it was as if there were more than one of him. McKinley swung his aim to where the voice now continued, ‘I’ll have you know that “thing” …. ’

  McKinley fired. The shot boomed, the echo rolling away down the tunnel in both directions before leaving him once again in silence. He inhaled; the sharp gasp of a man who has forgotten to breathe. Had he hit him?

  His answer came with the sudden appearance of two nocturnal eyes, glowing like coals in the darkness, and a voice that was as cold as ice. ‘That thing … was me.’

  He’d known not to look the Lord in the eyes - Christie had warned them repeatedly: “Avoid his eyes; if he’s a vampire, he’ll have the power to steal your will with a glance.” But McKinley hadn’t known where those eyes were going to come from, hadn’t known in which direction not to look. Now, as they grew closer, he felt all his fear and dread melt away. As the Lord walked slowly into the spill of gaslight, McKinley was calm, at peace. The lord was completely naked, walking barefoot over the track stones with no sign of discomfort. The black hair on his chest glistened with a dark spreading wetness. It was blood; a gunshot wound. McKinley’s shot had found its mark. Yet the man didn’t seem to be even mildly concerned. McKinley whispered, ‘I shot you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Underwood.

  ‘But the bullet … it was silver.’

  ‘Yes, nothing but the best for me, eh?’

  ‘But it didn’t … ’

  Underwood smiled. ‘No, evidently not. Nice try though – you and your friend, Mr …?’

  ‘Harris.’

  ‘Yes. The late Mr Harris.’

  ‘You … that thing … you killed him?’

  Underwood nodded. ‘Yes. Just as I’m going to kill you.’

  McKinley’s mind was screaming at him to run, but he couldn’t; the man’s eyes held him captive, draining him of his will.

  Underwood came up to him and took the gun from his hands. ‘Hmm. Adams revolver. I saw plenty of these in the Crimea. You’re a veteran?’

  ‘I am. As was Harris.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. We used to be on the same side, you and I. Shame it has to end this way.’

  ‘We,’ McKinley’s voice faltered as he spoke. ‘We … were never on the same side.’

  Underwood raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘I … march … in Christ’s army. You – you march with the Devil.’

  Underwood smiled. ‘Is that what you believe? Where did you hear that?’

  McKinley fought to keep his silence, but he heard himself speak the words regardless. ‘Christie, Edward Christie. Our leader.’

  ‘So, what, you’re part of some kind of organisation? Is that what the rings signify?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘The … Malleus.’

  Underwood frowned doubtfully. ‘The Malleus Maleficarum? That’s a book, not an organisation.’

  ‘Christie took the name from it. The hammer of witches. We are the hammer. The Malleus.’

  ‘That book is utter lunacy. Surely you don’t take it seriously?’

  ‘Satan is everywhere; his servants are all around us. They must be rooted out. Covens, cults … like yours.’

  ‘The Sect?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The allure of Underwood’s eyes intensified. ‘And what do you know of the Sect?’

  ‘A Satanic order, the biggest we’ve ever uncovered. Circles all over the country. All of them venerating you, the Lord; he who fell with Satan from Heaven.’

  Underwood chuckled. ‘Ah yes, that old chestnut. Do you know me by name?’

  ‘We know you only as the Lord.’

  ‘Hmm. And how did you find us out?’

  ‘One of us – Ives, Samuel Ives. Dead.’

  ‘Ah, the chap who came a cropper at Lord Pelham’s estate, yes?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been observing Lord Pelham for weeks before the night … the Sabbath.’

  ‘What did he see?’

  ‘He saw you murder a woman. He said you bit her on the neck, drank her blood.’

  ‘He told you she died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well he was wrong. Sect people volunteer their blood, Mr McKinley; it’s an honour. They may swoon from time to time, but they never die. I don’t murder my own.’

  ‘But you are … a vampire … that thing?’

  Underwood ignored the question. ‘Tell me, how did you and Mr Harris come by me this evening?’

  ‘Ives drew a picture of you. We all have a reproduction of it. One of our members saw you by chance at Baker Street station. He told Christie. Christie sent us to observe the station in case you appeared again.’

  ‘And how long have you been doing that?’

  ‘For four nights now.’

  ‘I see. And now, you’ve found me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unfortunately for you, what?’

  McKinley said nothing.

  ‘So,’ Underwood’s tone darkened. ‘Where can I find this Malleus and your Mr Christie?’

  McKinley fought to resist, trying to stop his voice in his throat, ‘I … I …’

  Underwood clamped his hands on either side of McKinley’s face and pulled him close. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Coffee house. The Ottoman on Clerkenwell Street.’

  ‘A coffee house? How salubrious. Not the sort of place I’d expect your ilk to congregate.’

  ‘We hire a private room upstairs. Thursday evenings. Share our findings, suspicions …’

  ‘Oh, your suspicions?’ Underwood sneered. ‘You know, you really do sound just like the witch hunters of old, Mr McKinley – a bunch of evil, ignorant madmen.’

  ‘But we have Christ on our side.’

  ‘Oh, but of course you do.’ Underwood eased McKinley’s head to the side, baring his throat. ‘Just as they always did,’ he drew back his lips to reveal his long, sharp canine teeth, ‘… and just as I never have.’ And then, Underwood relaxed his power over McKinley’s mind, enjoying the full blooming of terror in his victim’s eyes. He savoured the struggle, the hands that tore at his, the racing pulse, and as he pulled McKinley’s neck to his mouth, the scream: piteous and desperate, loud in his ears and trembling against his lips as he now bit down into the artery and let the blood gush forth.

  With Underwood’s clothes folded roughly in his arms and his shoes perched on the top of the pile, Ben hurried down the tracks away from the shouts of railway staff who were now gathered around the train. When Underwood had left hi
m lying on the tracks, Ben had slipped into a light sleep. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but he awoke with a start at the sound of a shrill blast from the train whistle. On realising where he was, he rolled himself off of the tracks and up against the wall of the tunnel. He looked in both directions, but the headlamps of no train were bearing down upon him. However, back down the tunnel, the lanterns of railway workers glowed eerily through the steam that wreathed the abandoned train. There was a sudden blast of smoke from its funnel and a number of the men got aboard. Then, with another whistle and a long sigh of steam, the train began to move away.

  Ben bent down to pick up Underwood’s clothes. He didn’t have much time; if that train was moving, then it wouldn’t be long before others were too. And now, on spying Underwood up ahead hunched over a body in a pool of gaslight, Ben hollered, ‘Milord, the trains are moving again!’

  Underwood, who had drunk McKinley to death, looked up rather dreamily. ‘Flinch?’ he murmured.

  ‘Milord, the trains! Get off the tracks!’

  Underwood opened his eyes as Ben came running up beside him. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘They’ve cleared the train, Milord. That means the others’ll be rolling any minute now.’ He thrust the pile of clothes towards Underwood. ‘’Ere. Get these on and we can peg it back to Portland Road. I reckon there’ll still be a fair commotion down the other way.’

  Underwood got up and took his trousers and shoes from the pile of garments. ‘Good show, Flinch. How’s your head?’

  ‘All right, sir. Thanks for asking.’ Ben looked down at the body on the tracks. ‘Oh. Had your evening meal then, I see. Which one’s that? I can’t really tell in this light.’

  ‘A chap called McKinley,’ said Underwood, pulling on his trousers. ‘Said he was part of a group who call themselves the Malleus.’

  ‘The mally-what?’

  ‘Malleus. It’s Latin; it means hammer. Hence the rings. The design wasn’t a cross but a hammer, and the thing they seek to hammer is the likes of us. They’re onto the Sect.’

  ‘They ain’t peelers, are they?’

  ‘No, not police, nothing like that. A private group. I don’t imagine there’s too many of them.’

  ‘Yeah, but dangerous, though. Where’s that gun?’

  ‘Over there,’ Underwood pointed it out. ‘And yes, dangerous enough. Certainly, we’ll need to do something about them before they do something about us.’

  Reaching behind his back, Ben slipped the revolver inside the waistband of his trousers and let his jacket fall over the handle. He kicked McKinley’s foot. ‘So what do you want to do with this one then, Milord?’

  ‘Drag it down the tracks so it’s out of the light, but leave it on the tracks so the train runs it over. Turn it so it’s face down and nicely tucked in between the rails. Better be quick, though, there’s a train coming.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Ben, taking McKinley by the wrists. ‘How long have we got?’

  Underwood, now tucking in his shirt while stepping into his shoes paused to listen. ‘less than a minute, I’d say. You can probably hear it yourself now, what?’

  Ben could. He quickly dragged the body out of the light and tucked McKinley’s arms beneath him as Underwood had instructed. Fortunately, McKinley’s hair was dark, as was his suit. ‘Do you reckon that’s enough, Milord?’ Against his shoe, Ben could now feel the rail begin to resonate with the oncoming train.

  Underwood, now fully dressed and stepping into an alcove in the tunnel wall, looked over at McKinley. ‘Lovely job, Flinch. Quickly now, in here!’

  Ben ran to where Underwood’s eyes gleamed in dark and ducked into the alcove just as the headlights of the train shone around the bend in the tunnel. From behind Underwood he looked out to where the rails glowed like twin streams of quicksilver, between them he could make out the dark shape of the body. Would the driver see it? The light grew ever brighter and the thunder of the oncoming engine echoed all around. Ben pressed his back against the wall, the vibration reverberating through his bones and teeth. He looked again at the body: now it seemed as clear as day, a corpse lying on the tracks. If the driver was looking …

  And then they were engulfed in a hot, acrid cloud as the train thundered past them. Ben caught a lungful and coughed, turning his nose and mouth into the shoulder of his jacket and breathing as best as he could until the train had finally passed. When it was all clear, he stepped out of the alcove, coughing and cursing. ‘Bloody Nora! Choke damp is right!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Underwood. ‘It’s invigorating.’

  ‘You ain’t serious, Milord! That was like the devil’s own Turkish bath back there!’ He saw Underwood go over to McKinley’s body. ‘How’s he looking?’

  Sparing Ben the details, Underwood replied, ‘Like a horrible accident. Same as Mr Harris, I’ll wager.’

  ‘What, the other fella, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I did the same with him a way up the track there.’

  ‘Oh, right. So, what, we can get out of here now?’

  ‘Yes. Just give me a second, would you?’ Underwood looked around, staring intently into the darkness in all directions. Then, appearing to have reached some kind of decision, he smiled and said, ‘Right ho, let’s be off.’

  Ben stood for a moment, wondering what had just happened, then he went after his master as he strode off in the direction of Portland Road station. Catching up with him, he asked, ‘What was that all about, Milord, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘What was what, Flinch?’

  ‘You looked like you were looking around for something.’

  Underwood smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I was.’

  ‘What was that then?’

  ‘Rats.’

  Ben stopped walking. ‘Rats!’

  ‘Yes, thousands of the blighters down here. Come on, unless you want another train up your arse.’

  Ben hurried after him. ‘But why are you worried about rats?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about them, Flinch. I was summoning them.’

  ‘Summoning them?’

  ‘Yes. Ringing the dinner bell, if you like.’

  ‘What? You mean there’s rats coming?’

  ‘Oh Flinch, don’t concern yourself. I’ll explain everything later.’ Up ahead, the glow of Portland Road station now shone at the end of the tunnel. A train was just pulling in on the opposite track. Underwood broke into a trot.

  ‘Step lively, Flinch. Train ahead.’

  Ben ran after him. ‘So, are we still going to Madam Sayonovich’s, sir?’

  ‘Oh, good god! No, Flinch. The pair of us must look like we’ve been fired out of a bloody cannon.’

  ‘And what about this Malleus mob? Are we going to go after them?’

  ‘All in good time, Flinch. Right now, let’s just out of this bloody tunnel, shall we? Like you, I’ve no desire for another dose of choke-damp.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Ben. ‘I thought you said it was invigorating, Milord?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, Flinch. I’m in no mood for any of your lip.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I forgot myself, remembering what you was saying about that article in the newspaper, you know?’

  ‘Article! Pah!’ Underwood scoffed. ‘That was no article. You were right earlier; it was a letter, and I was the one who sent it. Seemed like a shrewd business move at the time.’

  ‘I can tell you a shrewder move, Milord,’ said Ben, raising a finger to illustrate the arrival of a brainwave. ‘Instead of trying to flog the atmosphere as some health tonic, you want to start flogging a health tonic to cure the effects of the atmosphere. Now that’d make a right packet.’

  Underwood stopped running, his face thoughtful. ‘You know, that’s not half bad, Flinch. I’ll mention it to Daventry and West. I’m sure they must know a chemist in the Sect who could whip up a potion in no time. What shall we call it?’

  ‘What about, Metropolitan Lung Cleaner?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Flinch. It clearly su
ggests a problem. We have to be discreet.’

  ‘Metropolitan Anti-Wheeze?’

  ‘Now you’re just being ridiculous. I suggest, Metropolitan Mixture.’

  ‘Very good, Milord. Very catchy.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Underwood climbed up onto the platform at the edge of a seething mass of frustrated passengers, all of whom were too busy trying to board the train to give him any more than a passing glance. Smoke from the train swirled all around, as if reluctant to rise up into the air vents. Several passengers had handkerchiefs pressed over their noses and mouths. Underwood chuckled as he turned to offer Ben a hand up. ‘You know, I reckon if we had fifty bottles of Metropolitan Mixture with us now, Flinch, we‘d sell the bally lot of them.’

  Ben stepped up beside him and looked at the press of withered, flustered, angry people before him. ‘Blimey, they’re a thirsty looking bunch, all right.’

  ‘Yes. Come, Flinch,’ said Underwood, making his way around the edge of the crowd. ‘I for one could use a brandy.’

  ‘What, we’re going home then, Milord?’

  ‘No, to my club.’

  ‘What, won’t they mind you looking all untidy?’

  ‘Not if they know what’s good for them, they won’t. I can use the bath house there. Freshen up … ’ Underwood puffed his moustache from the corners of his mouth, ‘… and sort my bloody whiskers out; I feel like a damp walrus.’

  Ben laughed. ‘Right you are, Milord.’ They came to the stairs up to the exit and joined the steady flow of passengers. As they climbed, Ben scented the fresh chill of the cold London night. He raised his face to it and inhaled a long, blessed breath of London smog. He smiled. ‘Ah, fresh air at last.’

  End

  Thank you for reading Disturbing the Devil. If you enjoyed the story, you may be interested to know that there are three other titles available: the novels, Resurrection, Bonded in Blood, and Blood and Smoke. All are available from my author page at Amazon, or my website, http://www.mikebennettauthor.com/

  But for me, for now, until the moon rises again over Underwood and Flinch,