I reached an arm through a gap in the pile and tried to latch onto her ankle, but she stood just out of reach. If I could only make contact with her there was a chance I could take possession of her body and do the spell-slinging myself. Just a couple more inches. I stretched so hard I thought my arm might pop out of my shoulder, but there was no getting to her. I’d have to find another way out of this mess.
Beneath the crush an old woman’s face pressed into mine, her features twisted like a gargoyle’s. She snarled and spumed at the lips, and the added lubrication caused her dentures to slip from her wrinkled mouth and drop into my eye socket, hard and slimy.
Sometimes this job is not so great.
The rabid old dear closed her hands around my throat and I struggled to get out a few last words before she pressed her thumbs into my windpipe and crushed the unlife out of me.
‘Help me....’ I croaked. ‘Please…’
Stella continued to dither, fist raised but impotent.
I looked her right in the eye and let out one final plea. ‘Stella… these people… voted Brexit.’
Finally she snapped out of her trance, punching forwards with her fist and letting fly a mighty scream. The room’s frigid air transformed her breath into smoke, making her look like she was belching fire, and at the fulcrum of her punch a molten arc of blue fire burst from her knuckles.
For a split second the room turned the colour of an inner city public toilet lit by UV lamps to prevent drug-users finding a vein. A fraction of a second after that the whip of fire had torn through the bodies piled on top of me and reduced them to a pile of smoking ashes.
I’m telling you, it was some real Industrial Light & Magic shit.
Stella looked around the place, her skin suddenly pale.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘They were just puppets. The people who owned those bodies are ghosts now, back at the old folks’ home, playing cribbage and complaining about immigrants.’
‘You’d better be right.’
‘Trust me, Stella, I know dead things.’
‘What about the relatives?’ she asked. ‘How will they pay their respects now?’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that. I mean, it’s not as though these bodies weren’t headed for the oven anyway.’
Stella ran a hand over her face and let forth a long sigh.
‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen. Okay, yeah, we didn’t catch the bad guy, but we’ve got him on the run now.’
The fire escape door the Hooded Man had fled through flapped in the breeze.
‘What is that?’ asked Stella, pointing through the exit.
There was a light coming from outside. I went to have a gander and saw a glow emanating through the window of the chapel across the way. It had a touch of the divine about it, and was accompanied by the faint sound of gospel music.
‘Is that him?’ asked Stella. ‘The man in the hood?’
I felt my shoulders slump. ‘No, this is someone else.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘We’re doing nothing. Me; I’m going to church.’
‘You can set foot on hallowed ground?’
‘I'm a ghost, Stella, not the kid from The bloody Omen.’
I trudged towards the exit.
‘Do you still want me?’
‘Is that your way of asking me out, Stella?’
By way of an answer, she raised a crackling magical fist.
‘Point taken,’ I said. ‘Now why don’t you go back to your coven and let me take it from here? This one’s between me and him.’
‘Who?’
‘A solid gold arsehole, that’s who.’
16
Ribbons of pastel light streamed through the stained glass window of the church, settling in coloured pools on the cemetery.
There was no sense in running. Not anymore. The man inside that building was just going to keep coming at me, and for the sake of Mike and Fergal, I couldn’t let him stand in my way. I had to get the guy off my back, if only for a little while.
I strutted towards the old stone chapel, cracking my knuckles as I went. I could have phased right through the front door but I wanted to make an entrance, so instead I magicked it open and forced my way inside. The heavy oak door swung in and its croaking hinges echoed around the empty edifice.
Almost empty.
Celestial light emanated from the chapel’s confessional, leaking out from behind the booth’s maroon velvet curtain and casting an eerie glow upon the building’s dusty interior. I could see the place had fallen into ruin. Thick cobwebs hung on every surface, across chandeliers, across musty prayer books, across a ghoulish statue of Jesus nailed to a cross that stood upon the church altar like a pointed warning.
As I approached the confessional I saw a pair of legs sticking out from beneath the velvet curtain, suited in dazzling white. I entered the other side of the booth and took a seat opposite the wooden grille.
‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,’ I told the silhouette across from me. ‘Is that what you want to hear?’
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for a confession,’ said the angel on the other side.
‘How did you find me?’
‘It wasn’t hard. You’ve left quite a trail in your wake, Mister Fletcher.’
I suppose I had; getting into fisticuffs with vampires, chasing around after hanged kids and duffing up a bunch of undead OAPs. But then subtlety had never been my strong suit. ‘What do we do now then?’ I asked the man in white.
‘Now we go Upstairs,’ he replied.
‘You know, I could really do without this right now. Do you any idea what I'm up against here? What this city is up against? How about instead of getting in my way you help me?’
‘It is not my remit to help you, Fletcher. It is my job to bring you in.’
‘Of course it is,’ I sighed, ‘you’re a bureaucrat. A traffic warden.’
‘You have no idea what I am.’
‘Yeah, I do. I know your type, all mouth and no trousers. You act all that in your poncy clobber, but you haven’t got the bollocks for a proper dust up.’
‘If I were you I’d shut my mouth before my list of sins is appended to.’
‘Chalk ‘em up, you pillock. I don’t give a monkeys.’
‘Consider it done, Mister Fletcher.’
‘Good, and how about you go fuck yourself while you’re at it.’
‘One more of those and I’ll forget about taking you Upstairs for judgment and send you the other way myself.’
‘I’d like to see you try, mate.’
‘Gladly.’
‘Come on then!’ I shouted. ‘Let’s be ‘avin’ ya!’
He shot out of his side of the booth just as fast as I did mine. In one hand he held a set of glowing manacles. The other was balled into a fist.
‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ he said, coming at me.
I backed away fast.
‘What’s the matter, Mister Fletcher? Suddenly not so tough?’
I retreated another step and found myself climbing the altar. I’d soon have my back to the wall.
‘How would you like to proceed from here?’ asked the angel, giving the cuffs a jiggle as he ascended after me. ‘The choice is yours: either come quietly this time or be taken by force. Frankly, I’m hoping you’ll choose the latter.’
I had no intention of fighting him. He might not have looked like much of a hard case, but I’m sure the Big Man knew better than to send a rank amateur my way. So, instead of putting up my fists, I presented my wrists.
‘I thought so,’ he smarmed.
He held out the manacles. ‘Kindly face the wall and place your hands behind your back.’
I did as asked, turning to face the life-size crucifix decorated with our Lord and Saviour.
He took two more steps to cover the distance between us. I heard the cuffs ratchet open. Felt chill metal graze my wrist—
And
then I went to work.
Just as the cuffs were about to click shut I whirled about, carrying the bracelet to the crucifix and snapping it onto the ankle of Jesus. While the angel stood there, agog, I used his surprise to snatch the other bracelet off him and squeeze it shut on his own wrist. It was nothing really. A bit of stage magic I learned back in my breathing days. A simple parlour trick, but crafty enough to get one over on this toolbag.
The man in white snarled and swiped at me with his free hand, but I pulled away fast and moved out of his reach. He delved into the pocket of his pristine white blazer for a key, but came up empty. When he looked up again he found me dangling it on my finger.
‘Sorry, boss,’ I told him.
He strained at the cuffs, so hard he almost wrenched the crucifix from its moorings, but he remained very much captive. I had him at my mercy, for the moment at least.
‘Well?’ he roared. ‘What now?’
Good question. I suppose I could have taken advantage of the situation and laid into the feller, but something told me that maiming an angel wasn’t going to get any red out of my account. Instead, I decided to reason with him.
‘Just answer me this, okay? How’s it going to play with your boss if you pull me off my case and this looney toon murders more people?’
‘You’re asking me to let you go, is that it?’
‘We've been in this situation before, mate, we both know how it goes. You throw some bullshit roadblock in my way, I hurdle it, take down the bad guy, and buy myself a hall pass. So come on then, what is it this time? How are you going to make my job more difficult than it already is?’
The angel weighed up his options, wobbling his head like a dog trying to shake off a stubborn veterinary cone. Finally, he gave up. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’m going to let you carry on this doomed cause since it will almost certainly end in your death.’
‘Thank you very much. So, what’s my handicap then? Don’t tell me, I have to take the hoodie down with one hand tied behind my back? Eyes closed? Dressed like a pirate?’
He smiled. ‘No. You’re free to continue as you please… with one exception. You must bring the Hooded Man to justice without Uncanny assistance.’
‘You mean Stella.’
‘That’s right. If you truly want to offset even one of your many, many sins, it falls upon you to deal with this threat alone.’
‘Who cares how I pull it off as long as I get this killer off the streets?’
‘Don’t ask me to explain the system. I don’t make the rules.’
‘It really feels like you do.’
He shrugged and made a face that made me want to smack the Catholic out of him.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll do this one without Stella—’
‘—Without any Uncanny assistance—’
‘—Without any Uncanny assistance then.’
‘Good. And when you’re done—in the unlikely instance that you don’t end up deader than you already are—return to this chapel and call my name.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘I introduced myself already when we met,’ he huffed.
‘Be a lamb and refresh my memory.’
He gave me the hairy eyeball. ‘My name is Adonael.’
Great. My parole officer sounded like a wizard from a bloody Hobbit movie. ‘Alright then, Adonael. So long as we're done here, I’m going to toddle off.’
‘You have twenty-four hours, Mister Fletcher. Go with God.’
I didn’t bother answering back, just made for the exit.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ asked the angel, shaking the chain on his wrist for effect.
I offered him a shit-eating grin. ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, twirling the handcuff keys on my finger as I strolled off. ‘Ta ra, matey.’
Considering he was an angel, the words that followed me out of that church were none too biblical.
17
On the way to my next stop I rang Stronge and told her that the landlord she was guarding was fit to be released from custody. Much as I wanted to use the conversation to make good with her, she wasn’t especially glad to hear from me, and I didn’t have time for deep and meaningfuls. Those would have to wait.
The clock was ticking, a lot of clocks, so many clocks it was getting deafening. There was Adonael’s clock, counting the hours to my last chance at redemption. Then there were the clocks that ticked for Fergal and Mike and the gassed OAPs, who’d soon be stranded on Earth for good, cut off from the afterlife. Finally, there was the clock that counted down to the Hooded Man’s next attack, and there was no telling when the bell would chime on that one.
I wasn’t going to let that happen though. I was going to catch the Hooded Man, whoever he was and whatever he was up to. I still didn’t know much about his game plan, but I’d met him now and learned a thing or two about his methods, which were perverse to say the least. And when it comes to perverse around these parts, there’s only one game in town.
The Den.
An anything-goes, Soho fetish club run by a family of succubi. The Den wasn’t a place people went to for a bit of harmless slap and tickle. The club satiated its patrons wildest and most debauched desires, and in return, its owners fed upon their lust, their pain, their unchecked aggression. All kinds of people came to The Den to whet their appetites, and no one spoke of what happened there outside of its four walls. The club’s policy of unbridled hedonism, coupled with its open-plan architecture, meant any dirt that might be dug up there was distributed equally among its guests, ensuring an unspoken arrangement of mutually assured destruction. The rare person stupid enough to break The Den’s code of silence had been known to receive a visit from a vengeful succubus that served as an apt warning for anyone else considering entering its doors with blackmail on their mind.
The Hooded Man’s actions were the behaviour of a sick individual, which meant there was every chance he’d visited The Den, and if he had, Anya would know about it. Anya was the head of the succubus family that ran the joint, and was known to keep records on all of her clientele. It helped her keep people in line and ensure the club ran without incident, assuming you didn’t count the wanton shit that went down there as “incidents.”
I saw The Den’s flickering neon sign looming at the end of the alley. Now, you might think that advertising your illegal Soho sex and violence club with a great glowing banner was a bad idea, but the club operated on a perceptual bandwidth that could only be sensed by a few. Concealment magic kept it out of view of the hoi-polloi – only those invited to be there were able to perceive the place. That way the succubi could guarantee a guest list that provided only the very tastiest sins to feed from. A gourmet menu of filth and depravity.
As to how I know so much about The Den… well, I’m a detective, it’s my business to know what goes on in this town. My visits to the club are strictly professional and always above board. I draw no pleasure at all from what goes on in that pit of perversion, no matter how many times I’m forced to witness them, or how flimsy my pretext for being there. Your Honour.
I arrived at The Den’s entrance, which was guarded as always by the club’s two doormen, a pair of seven foot tall twins with bovine features and heads as bald as eggs. I knew from experience that they could see and touch me, which told me they were some kind of Uncanny, though to date I’d never figured out what kind.
‘Well, well,’ said one of them, I couldn’t tell you which. ‘If it isn’t the defective detective.’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked the other. ‘Second time this week, ain’t it?’
‘I’ve come to see Anya,’ I told them.
‘She ain’t in.’
Bullshit she wasn’t.
‘Mind if I take a look anyway?’ I asked. I went to push past, but one of them put a hand the size of a dinner plate on my chest.
‘Not tonight, Fletcher.’
Why the caginess I wondered. I knew it couldn’t be anything to do with the way I
was dressed seeing as I’d died wearing a spiffy suit and permanently looked like I was on my way to an important court hearing.
‘What’s the matter, boys? Got another Tory party conference in? Don’t worry about me, mum’s the word.’
Probably the safe word for some of those degenerates.
‘None of your business, dick,’ chimed the bouncers.
‘I'm going to assume you're using the slang word for “detective” there and let that one slide.’
Again, I tried pushing past, but the doormen were having none of it. I really didn’t have time to waste standing around being stonewalled by Tweedledum and Tweedledummer, so I came up with a distraction.
‘Hey, isn’t that Elton John?’ I asked, pointing off to a side street.
While their eyes were busy following my finger I ducked between them and phased through the door they were guarding, leaving them temporarily stuck on the other side.
‘Oi!’ I heard in stereo as I arrived in the club’s foyer and took off in the direction of Anya’s office. If I could just get to her in time I could state my case and get those walking biceps off my back.
I speed-walked as I went so as not to draw too much attention to myself, though I doubt anyone there was interested in my presence, even if they could see me. While the outside of The Den looked relatively innocuous, the inside was a hub of sordid activity. This was not a place for subtlety; within its walls The Den wore its heart very much on its sleeve.
As I passed briskly through the club I bore witness to all manner of perversions. I saw a group of naked people sat cross-legged around a Japanese style dining table, except instead of eating sushi they were feeding on raw fairies, biting their heads off and drinking down the magic inside. I saw a man playing a baby grand made of glass, its insides filled with tortured puppies that whelped musical notes as the piano’s hammers struck their tiny faces. I saw a donkey show, except instead of a donkey it was a unicorn, and instead of copulating with a sad Mexican prostitute, it was using its spiral horn to go vigorously at a man’s behind.
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