Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Clive Barker

  The effect, on the whole, was repugnant – and yet Holmes could not tear his eyes from the scene. He had somehow shifted around to face them, though he did not remember doing so. His mouth was dry and he was having trouble swallowing, let alone speaking – otherwise he might have asked, as he did with the vagabond, who they were. But then he knew that already, did he not.

  This was the real Order of the Gash. Or at least part of it. Holmes blinked a few times before rubbing his eyes. Like the dragon, this was just an illusion, surely? A tiny portion of that drug lodged somewhere, working harder than he ever had to solve Lemarchand’s puzzle? Something conjured up from the depths of his mind, his subconscious (though he doubted that anything this outlandish could ever have originated from his brain)? Or a product of the lack of sleep, lack of food and water? No matter how much training he had endured, there was still a chance that –

  “The box,” said their leader, breaking into his thoughts and pointing to the Lament Configuration on the floor. “You have opened it. We were summoned.” His voice was deep yet rasping, perhaps a consequence of the shards of glass protruding from his throat.

  Holmes could do nothing but stare.

  The leader looked from him to his companions, then back again. “Do you understand?”

  The detective found himself nodding like a child.

  “Then you know who we are.” This came not from the leader, but the one who looked ravaged by the plague; his voice was thin and reedy. “What will happen next.”

  “The exquisite suffering that awaits you,” the female added, licking her lips.

  “An... answers,” Holmes said at last, finding his voice. “I was told I’d find answers.”

  “And indeed you will,” replied their leader. “In time. But first...” He reached for one of the shards at his belt, detaching it in one fluid movement. There was no handle to the thing, but he held it anyway, ignoring – or perhaps relishing – the pain of the jagged edges. It looked for all the world like he was holding a dagger.

  Holmes was beginning to regret the fact he did not have a weapon himself. Watson was forever chastising him for forgetting to bring along a pistol when entering dangerous situations. But then, what kind of weapon could harm these beings? What could he do to them that hadn’t already been done – and savoured?

  Was he about to go through what Cotton and the rest had endured? If so, then how would he ever discover the truth? How could there possibly be answers beyond death?

  He’d thought himself dead before, though, hadn’t he? Yet he had survived. He would survive this as well, he told himself. Holding up his hand he said, “Wait! The Engineer. Is that you?” He was directing his question at the figure who’d been despoiled by glass.

  The leader looked about him at the others; it was almost as if they were in silent communion. When he turned back to Holmes, his lip was curled. “What do you know of him?”

  “I... I was told he was in charge of the Order.”

  The creature smiled, revealing more of his teeth. Or rather the wedges of glass that his teeth had been replaced with, rammed into the gums with considerable force. “In charge?” The concept seemed amusing to him.

  “If... if that isn’t you, then I wish to speak to him.”

  “You are in no position to demand anything,” said the female and cracked her whip. “Except perhaps an end to your torment – though it will never come.”

  “I want to know what your plans are for my city.” Holmes was rising, his limbs stiff from being in one position for too long.

  “Plans?” the leader said, bewildered.

  “What you are going to do to the people, to the world.”

  “The same as we have always done, to those who call us,” the diseased one of their number broke in. “We shall play.”

  Watson’s telegram returned to haunt Holmes.

  We are all just... toys.

  In spite of his terror, and regardless of the fact he was alone, Holmes stood straight and stiff-backed. “Then I, sir,” he said, with the same determination in his voice he’d mustered to bring these unfathomable individuals here in the first place, “will have to stop you.”

  At this, the leader laughed. “You... will stop us?”

  Holmes nodded. “I see no other way.”

  “Enough of this,” said the impatient female. “Let us begin.”

  But already Holmes was ducking sideways, out of reach of the leader and his dagger. The largest of their number blocked his way to the door, somehow moving faster than Holmes could ever have imagined. Yet, without hesitation, the detective struck him several blows that should have incapacitated anyone, no matter what their size. The muscled creature simply stood there, immobile, somehow regarding his tiny prey. Holmes might as well have been punching stone.

  He backed off, all too aware of the blades at this one’s knuckles and how a blow in return would probably cleave him in two. He’d taken perhaps three steps when something tore down his bare back, opening it up in three places. The ends of the female’s whip, which continued even now to rake his flesh. He felt the pain – of course he did! – but seconds after the initial shock, he was blocking it out. He’d trained for this.

  Holmes ducked and rolled out of the whip’s reach. When he righted himself, he was aware of someone behind him – reaching around to grab him. He looked down to see diseased hands on his chest, and where they touched his skin that too was becoming infected. “Why do you fight it?” whispered the plague creature. “There are such sights waiting for you.” Holmes wrestled out of his grip, clutching his chest. It felt like it was on fire, a rash spreading quickly across his flesh.

  Then came the chains and the hooks. From out of nowhere they sprang, left and right. Holmes managed to avoid a couple of them, but one tore into his forearm, another bit into his thigh. Again, he blocked out the pain – from these and the infection that was worming its way towards his heart. But he was held fast, being held for one reason and one reason only.

  Their leader floated towards him, the glass blade still in his hand. He’d had to wait while the others had their fun, but now it was his turn. He ran his tongue up the tip of the dagger, a final ritual before bringing it into play. Next he held it aloft and was just about to bring it down into Holmes, when a loud bang interrupted him.

  All eyes in the room turned to look in the direction of the doorway. There, standing in the entrance, was Dr John Watson, pistol in hand – still aimed at the ceiling where he’d fired. It was only now, apparently, when everything was still, that Holmes’ best friend in the world was able to take in the four figures properly – and his face soured. Nevertheless, the gun came down, levelled at them, and he said, “R-release him! Right now!”

  Their leader sneered.

  Then all Hell broke lose...

  PART THREE

  Dr John Watson & Sherlock Holmes

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In Hell

  I WAS IN Hell.

  That’s what it felt like to me. Hanging there in that chamber, no awareness of the passage of time, waking occasionally then drifting off again in a drug-induced slumber. The dreams came to me again, of the battlefield, of Mary. I think I screamed, but who would hear me in such a Godforsaken place? Who would hear me above the noise of the other inmates?

  I was beginning to think I had been forgotten about when Malahide finally visited me.

  He said nothing, asked nothing. He merely set about his tortures. I thought I had experienced pain, thought I had seen it inflicted upon others, but this man was an expert. He knew just which nerve endings to concentrate on, just how far to push me before I blacked out. I did not give him the satisfaction of screaming once, though!

  By the time he was finished with that first session, I realised, with dawning horror, that he was only just getting started. There would be more horrendous brutality to come, and by the time he was finished I would be no better off than those dregs of humanity out there. No better off than Lemarchand, begging for a
blade so that he could end his own suffering – little realising that it was only just beginning. I thought about those events a lot during my time down there in the dark, but that just seemed like a dream as well.

  Or a nightmare, to be more precise.

  The vampire man who’d fed off Simon, standing there, steaming, with no skin. Not even Poe could have conceived of such a thing, with his imagination. Even now, penning these words, it seems a preposterous thing to ask anyone to accept. They would think that Malahide had been right to lock me up.

  When he’d left, I drifted off again – not because of the drugs, for their effect had waned some time ago, but because of what I had endured at Malahide’s hands. More dreams; faces flashing before my eyes: childhood friends, tutors at medical school I had not seen in an age... Mary, looking the same as she had the day I met her – so, so beautiful. And Holmes, always Holmes. It was the one thing I regretted most then, thinking I would never see him again: not having made more of an effort to get to the bottom of what was troubling him so; what was making him act in such a strange way.

  Then suddenly there was someone else in the room with me. “H-Holmes?” I spluttered, only half awake. The figure was in shadow, walking towards me – then he lit one of the lamps nearby, giving me a good look at his face.

  It was only at this point that I realised my mistake. “H... Henri?”

  Either I looked confused, or he was just sickened by the state of my body, but he shook his head sadly and said, “Let me get you out of those chains, monsieur.”

  I was in no fit state to take much of it in at the time; in fact I thought, for a moment, that he was a ghost – and immediately as I did so, I heard Holmes’ voice in my head telling me there was no such thing. Malahide had as good as told me this man was dead, yet here he was, dressed as an orderly, undoing my shackles, having to hold me up as I dropped forward into his arms. “I am only sorry I could not come sooner, but I had to choose my moment carefully,” Henri told me, handing me my own pair of orderly pyjamas, which he then had to help me get into. “Are you able to walk?”

  I nodded, but even as I was trying to take a step or two, I stumbled and had to lean on Henri. “Just give me a moment,” I said. While he did, he told me more about what had happened. Malahide had him thrown out not long after my departure, leaving him beaten on some street corner in Paris.

  “I am like you, I’m afraid, Dr Lane – I see too much,” he said.

  “Watson,” I breathed. “My name is Dr Watson.”

  He went on to explain that once he had recovered sufficiently to return, he waited until the shift change and got in through one of the back doors, near the kitchens which he occasionally helped out in. “I may not have been here long, but I know my way around it... how you say, outside in?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

  “But how did you know about this place?” I asked.

  “I’ve had my suspicions for a while. You see I also listen as well as watch. And I read...” He fished something out of his pocket, and I could just about see that they were the notes I had made when talking to Lemarchand back in the dayroom. Henri had patched them together and worked it all out – quite the little detective. “I had observed Gerard putting a key away on occasion when he was coming out of the lift. I knew it led somewhere else. So I... borrowed it from him.” Henri laughed. “He did not care for the way I asked. But I had no idea you were down here.”

  “It’s a very long story,” I said, as we finally got going – Henri half-carrying me out into the corridor.

  Hearing a sound, I looked up to see the lift doors at the far end opening. Inside were Malahide, the orderly who had looked like a military-type – probably the only other person who had access to this place – and Gerard, rubbing the back of his head. Henri had not done such a good a job of ‘persuasion’ as he thought, and the man had lost no time in alerting his boss. If only we had not dawdled to wait for me to get my bearings.

  “Just what do you think you are doing?” Malahide said. “I thought I had made my position very clear, Henri. Your post here has been terminated, and so will you be in a moment.”

  “Get behind me, Doctor,” said Henri, but I refused to let him shield me. As Gerard and the soldier orderly advanced, I raised my fists, though I felt as weak as a kitten.

  Gerard went straight for my new friend, obviously wanting to settle the score. But he was not as fit as he thought, and Henri was easily able to sidestep the attack, swinging the man around and depositing him on the floor. The other orderly changed direction and lunged at Henri as well, punching him in the stomach and doubling him over. Gerard was rising and making to join in, but I tripped him up and he slid down the corridor towards Malahide, who was keeping well back, letting his troops do the work.

  It was Henri’s turn to be swung now, as the soldier orderly flung him around and into the wall. I went over to him as fast as I was able. “Are you all right?” He gave a resigned nod.

  There was a lull in the fighting as the orderly helped Gerard up.

  “Finish this!” ordered Malahide.

  I was about to stand up, to try and protect Henri, when he gripped my arm. “Non,” he said. “Wait.”

  “Wait... wait for what?”

  He grinned. “You were not the only one I freed, Dr Watson.” Then Henri banged on the nearest cell door, rousing the person inside. There was more banging and clattering as Malahide and his cronies looked about them. The inmates were coming to their dungeon doors and flinging them open, experiencing freedom for the first time in... well, for some of them it must have been years. I was a little concerned that they would not be able to tell who their true enemies were, that they might mistake us for jailers, but I did not have to worry. Even the ones who had been operated on, experimented upon, recognised the face of the man who had done all this to them.

  At first the three men ahead of us didn’t seem too bothered. The inmates were not that strong, they could handle them. But there were too many, and rage was fuelling their actions. They swarmed over Gerard and the other orderly, savaging them like animals. Malahide tried to run, but one of them leapt on his back, dragging him to the ground.

  Only now was Henri getting to his feet, helping me up as well. “Keep to the sides,” he told me, and we started walking gingerly. Once I stopped, began to move to try and help their prey – nobody deserved this, not even them – but Henri held me back and shook his head. At the end of the corridor, as we were about to get into the lift, I saw Malahide reaching up with one hand. “Help me!” he was screaming. “For God’s sake – help!”

  “He has chosen his side,” Henri intoned, “and it is not with God.” He pulled me into the lift and closed the doors, setting the thing in motion. Nothing was said as we reached the upper level; I don’t suppose anything needed saying really. Before we got out, though, Henri turned to me and whispered, “Walk as if you work here, and no-one will notice. Do you think you can manage that, just for a little while?” I nodded. “We are going out of the front this time.”

  So that’s exactly what we did. I have to say we didn’t see that many members of staff on our way, and those we did were busy with their own duties. Once we were outside (and I was surprised to see daylight; even more surprised to learn later that I had only been held captive a day or so), Henri told me that he had a cab tethered not far away – something else he had ‘borrowed’. “Why didn’t you just go to the authorities?” I asked.

  “They would not have believed me,” he replied. “The ‘good’ doctor has friends in high places. Besides, to the outside world this appears to be a respectable place. It is what you cannot see that is not.”

  “What’s kept below,” I said, recalling Lemarchand’s words. “Beneath.”

  Henri nodded firmly.

  “Well, they’ll believe me,” I assured him. “I have friends in high places, too. I’ll explain on the way back.”

  Which I did, telling him all about myself and Sherlock Holmes,
what I was doing there and what I had seen – or thought I had seen – the night of my capture. When I had finished, Henri remained quiet; I could see he was wrestling with it all. But he did not call me a madman, did not say I’d imagined it or that it was something Malahide had done to me, he just nodded again slowly.

  When we returned to town, to the hotel – ignoring the strange looks we drew because of how we were dressed – I sent a telegram to someone we knew in the French government; another person Holmes had done a favour for, immediately prior to his tangle with Moriarty a few years ago. The Institute and those who ran it would now come under very close scrutiny, I felt sure. Once I had cleaned myself up a little, I treated Henri to the biggest slap-up dinner imaginable – including a steak he insisted they almost cremate – and took great delight in seeing him eat. My appetite was yet to return, sadly.

  “I’ll be leaving for England on the first available steam ship,” I said to the man, who was now wearing one of my suits, the tie done up loosely at the collar because he wasn’t used to wearing one. “Why don’t you come with me, Henri?”

  I thought he was going to choke on his mushrooms. Henri waved his hand until his last mouthful had gone down. “That is a very kind offer, Dr Watson – but I must decline. I think I need to be very far away from what is happening back in London with your friend. If it is not too late, that is.”

  I thought for a moment he was talking about Holmes, for I had told him about the conversation between the aristocrat and Malahide, the name that had been mentioned. Indeed, Holmes had still not been in contact with me, which was the first thing I checked when I got back to Paris. “Non, you do not understand me. My mother used to call it being ‘touched by the darkness’. And once you have been...” He paused and looked at me. “I think that is what has happened here – I think we have all been touched by it, some more so than others. My only hope is to get as far away as I can.”