The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by Mitchell, D. M.

  ‘Records indicate the disease wiped out his entire family – his wife, his father, mother, cousins, grandparents – all of them died. The entire population of his district was virtually wiped out. And yet, in the midst of this carnage he survived. The loss of his family troubled him greatly. He commissioned a large stone memorial to them. It’s still there, if you look hard enough. His family all dead, his business hanging in tatters, being the man he is he decides to start up again from scratch.

  ‘Eight years pass and he remarries, again at the head of a successful trading business. This man clearly knows how to sell and make money. But in 1479 a fresh wave of plague strikes, and again everyone he knows and holds dear dies – his new wife, all her family, his friends, servants – all wiped out in an instant. But Benedict Jones survives a second time, and it is this second immersion in the aftermath of the plague that is the catalyst for the extraordinary thing he does next.

  ‘He believes the plague is Divine retribution on an unprecedented scale. Moreover it is all part of God’s Great Plan. There’s a printed pamphlet in which Benedict declares that God is now so distressed at seeing his wonderful creation being destroyed by man’s greed, lust, debauchery and war that He will wipe out the entire human race and return God’s earth to the heavenly state that existed before the Fall. A return to Eden.

  ‘There is nothing new in such sentiments being expressed at the time – all around was proof of God’s displeasure and that his wrath had been invoked. What makes our Benedict stand out as being different is his own part in God’s Great Plan. You could argue the loss of his family, twice over, affected his mind. Perhaps he went mad. Perhaps at the time he was trying to find a reason why he should live whilst all those he held close had died. In any event Benedict Jones next appears on trial accused of blasphemy of the highest order. It appeared, from the scraps of records left, that he’d set himself up as some kind of new messiah. God, you see, had preserved him whilst destroying others. God had chosen him to be his new Adam, and when the New Eden was eventually created, Benedict was to be set up as the earth’s natural leader, living forever with his chosen few followers in a world that was now pure, unsullied and free entirely from the sins of man that had so soiled the world and angered God.

  ‘Benedict Jones built up quite a following. People, fearful of the widespread death being handed out to prince and pauper alike, terrified that their souls would spend eternity in purgatory with no one to pray for them, condemned to the flaming pits of Hell for the accumulated sins of mankind, were easy targets for his preaching. He had a particularly strong following amongst the burgeoning and increasingly wealthy and powerful merchant class, which he’d been courting from early on, who were willing to pay handsomely to save their damned souls. Though his movement, which he called The Church of Everlasting Bliss, went underground for a number of years he was eventually denounced to the authorities.

  ‘This is where it gets interesting. Not only was Benedict Jones brought to answer for his religious unorthodoxy and heretical preaching, it turns out that evidence was provided accusing him of murder. You see, he believed that the serpent who tempted Eve, thus helping bring about the Fall, before God cast it to slither for all time on its stomach, existed in human form alongside Adam and Eve. Descendents of that first serpent, whom he named Serpentiles, evil creatures that he believed still roamed the earth, had to be sought out and destroyed otherwise any New Eden would be in danger of being corrupted for a second time.

  ‘The trial documents reveal the case of a man killed by Benedict and his followers. He had been ritually dismembered, every limb removed, including the head. This was, they testified, to prevent the evil soul from rising – it’s a belief that persisted into the Eighteenth Century when criminals could be hung, drawn and quartered. The soul cannot pass on if the corporeal body is in many parts. The man he employed to do the dirty work was someone he named Camael, so called after God’s avenging angel who would be sent to earth to punish those who transgressed God’s holy laws. They both freely admitted to the crime, and as a result were guaranteed an early death. But they did not die. Judgement was never passed because Benedict and Camael disappeared from their cells before it could ever be made. Helped out? Who knows?’

  ‘So who is Doradus?’

  ‘Change of name. When exactly the leader of the Church of Everlasting Bliss became known as Doradus we don’t know – obviously the name came into use after the invention of the telescope and its use in studying the stars three hundred years later, but it’s interesting they chose this name for their leader. Doradus is a star in the large Magellanic Cloud, one of the brightest stars known in the Milky Way. The brightest star in heaven, you might say.’

  ‘Like on the symbol,’ said Gareth thoughtfully. ‘At the centre of the cross there was a star.’

  ‘That’s our Doradus alright,’ she said. ‘Take the symbol: symbolically the star sits with Christ on the centre of the Holy Cross. The circle is in the shape of a snake eating its own tail; this represents the creature than tempted Eve with the old Cox’s Pippin. On the symbol, both physically and representational, it sits outside the cross, outside purity, outside Eden. As you can imagine, for the time such a belief was heretical to say the least.’

  ‘The woman murdered in Manchester in the same manner…’ he said. ‘Are you telling me this Church of Everlasting Bliss is still around? Still murdering people? After all this time? Jesus, are you asking me to believe those guys back at Godstone mines were really from a medieval sect?’

  ‘You got it. The position of good old Camael still going strong. How’s that for a job for life? See, unlike a lot of mediaeval sects and sub-sects that came and went – take Lollardy, for instance – this one sticks around. In fact it grows in numbers and grows in strength. It’s still an underground movement, naturally, but it gains followers amongst the medieval elite – particularly the nobles who already pay through the nose in indulgencies to the church in order to secure prayers for their souls in purgatory. Well, they also like to hedge their bets, and Benedict Jones’ radical new vision offers them another route in, so to speak. And given that the Church of Everlasting Bliss backs anything that kills off large numbers of people in order to fulfill God’s Great Plan, it suits those nobles who are thinking of financing the odd-war or two to further their own earthly ambitions. Killing two birds with one financial stone, so to speak. They can now secure an eternal place in the New Eden without feeling guilty about their bloody terrestial gains. So this new and dangerous religious belief feeds off both men’s fear of death and lust for power.

  ‘And it’s still with us. Same old promise – if it’s working don’t mess with it. Over the ensuing centuries the Church of Everlasting Bliss has been involved in many wars, acts of terrorism and genocide, in many countries, across continents. Death, to them, is simply an act of cleansing, preparing the way for the ultimate fulfillment of God’s Great Plan: to wipe everyone out and create a New Eden. It’s like the Masons but without the silly aprons, and of course a whole lot meaner.’

  Gareth shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Come on, Caroline, how come nobody knows about them?’

  She looked at him patiently. ‘Some of us know, Gareth, obviously. And anyhow, that’s the point of a secret sect; they don’t want anyone to know. Not yet at least. The modern Church of Everlasting Bliss has a foothold in all aspects of society, particularly in positions of financial power, a long tradition that goes back to Benedict Jones and its medieval origins.’

  ‘You seriously expect me to believe all that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. You asked, I’m telling. You’d do well to believe me.’ She looked to the ceiling. ‘Yeah, I know, it sounds like baloney, but it isn’t. They’ve been central to stirring virtually every conflict across the world for hundreds of years. Take one big example. Who do you think was instrumental in orchestrating the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914, an act that was to be the catalyst for the First W
orld War? A bunch of inept thugs, a nineteen year old kid called Gavrilo Princip? The Black Hand? The Church not only was a part of the plot to assassinate the Archduke, it also managed to get to the Serbian ambassador to Vienna, a guy called Jovanovic, so that he was unable to deliver the warning that there was a threat of assassination to Austria-Hungary. Not satisfied with that it even had a hand in drafting the Habsburg Ultimatum that hung the Kingdonm of Serbia out to dry, forcing them into war. War was going to happen, whetever it took, and they played everyone against each other to achieve those ends. That’s only one instance, there are many more. Who, for instance, was an unseen financial force behind the emergence of fascism across Europe in the ‘Thirties, secretly funding the Nazi’s rise to power, and that of Mussolini in Italy? Who is currently behind a great deal of the radicalisation of young British people who then go on the perform acts of terrorism? Who do you think is involved in recent events in Syria threatening to drag us all into God knows what? They have their twisted fingers in virtually every nasty pie across the globe in some way, shape or form. Hell, all they’ve ever had to do was give us a little shove and we do their dirty work for them, quite happily murdering each other by the million, year in, year out. It’s what we humans do best, kill each other. I’ve seen it up close and personal. The more people that die the closer Doradus and his Church feel closer to achieving God’s Divine Intention. Best of all there’s not a lot we can do about it; the rot has set in for far too long and is too far reaching for it to be cured.’

  ‘Are you saying they go right to the heart of our political system too? Is that why we can’t go to the police?’

  She laughed coldly. ‘That’s the trouble with all these conspiracy theories – every novel or movie that’s ever had one has the Prime Minister or President of the US ultimately responsible. In truth you don’t have to have anyone in government involved – those morons couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Don’t worry; Margaret Thatcher wasn’t Doradian, though many would probably argue otherwise. For the most part politicians are as ignorant as your average man on the street. Anyhow, political systems change too often. You need long-term stability, which means more can be done from elsewhere in the societal strata, particularly the financial sector. That’s where Doradus and his Church cut its teeth hundreds of years ago and has been a part of it ever since. That’s the more powerful force at play. Need an example? Take another look at major banks found to be processing billions worth of dollars in South America to finance God knows what mayhem through accounts that don’t exist? That’s just one dirty example. I have many more where that came from.’

  ‘It still doesn’t make sense. What on earth can this Doradus, whoever he is, want with my sister and me? And Lambert-Chide – what have I got that he needs so badly? Muller mentioned me being valuable because of some kind of immunity I had, but quite frankly this entire thing is just plain ludicrous!’

  ‘Ludicrous until you end up dead and in tiny pieces on the floor. You are both extremely valuable, that much is true, but Muller hasn’t quite got it right,’ she said. ‘He’s put two and two together and come up with five. Let’s say he was close but no cigar.’ She went to the grimy net curtains and peeled them back to peer outside.

  ‘OK, so what has the murdered woman in Manchester got to do with all this?’ asked Gareth. ‘My photo was found on a false driver’s licence in the flat. The way she was murdered obviously means Camael and Doradus were behind it. But what’s the connection between all that and me?’

  Something outside the house was bothering her; she found it difficult to pull herself away from the window. When she did her attention seemed to be elsewhere. ‘A simple case of mistaken identity. Your sister had been living at the flat, occasionally sharing with the Polish woman. Somehow Camael found out where she lived and turned up with the intention of disposing of her. Don’t ask me about their rituals, why it had to be there and then, why not anywhere else; those kinds of details even I don’t know. Anyhow, Job done, they thought, only to find out later it wasn’t your sister. Someone who looked a lot like her, yes, but definitely not the same woman. So the chase was on again. And it’s been a chase that’s been going on some time.

  ‘As for the false documents the police found at the flat, those belonged to Erica; she’d been gathering it, preparing an entirely new identity for you. She knew Doradus was getting close to discovering who you really were, and figured you’d be next on their hit list. She felt she had to protect you, to save you. It was no accident that you ran into her that night in the lane. She’d been squatting in an old house nearby, but had been traced there by Camael and his lackeys. She narrowly escaped being caught by them and was on her way to warn you when she encountered you in the lane, must have slipped in her haste and you accidentally knocked her over.’

  ‘And the symbol painted on my cottage wall?’ he asked. ‘How’d that get there?’

  ‘My guess is Camael and co traced Erica as far as they could, finally coming upon your cottage as the most likely place she’d find shelter for miles. They discovered the place unlocked and empty.’

  Gareth thought back to that night, which seemed an age ago. ‘I remember taking Erica’s coat off because it was so wet. I took it with me to the cottage, threw it over the back of the sofa. Maybe they saw it, thought she’d been there, or expected her back at any time.’

  ‘It’s the only reason I can see that they set about preparing for the ritualised killing,’ she said. ‘Like I told you, it’s impossible to know the exact secrets of their rituals – timings, places, things like that – but the time and the place had obviously been in alignment that night at your cottage.’

  ‘Except we were in the Land Rover and they never knew.’

  ‘That was a close run thing,’ she said.’ Had you taken Erica indoors you would have both been murdered.’ Caroline once again moved to the window. Stared hard outside. ‘The arrival of the ambulance obviously disturbed them and they either took flight or hung around to see Erica being taken to hospital. Muller’s appearance at the hospital scared her into flight again. So that’s how we are where we are,’ she said. She took the gun out of her jeans belt and checked it over. ‘Doradus wants you dead because he deems you evil; Lambert-Chide wants you alive because of your immense value. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, huh?’ She beckoned for him to rise. ‘We have to go now.’

  ‘You’ve been conspicuously vague on the real reasons I’m being hunted, I notice.’

  ‘That will all become clear later,’ she said. ‘Come on, Davies, we haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get you somewhere safe.’

  ‘Like hell,’ he replied defiantly. ‘The way I see it, nowhere is safe. I’m still not convinced. How do I know you’re not doing what Muller did? Are you using me?’

  ‘It’s no skin off my nose if you end up in pieces,’ she said, taking out a piece of gum and ramming it into her mouth.

  ‘You’ve risked an awful lot to say you don’t care what happens to me.’

  ‘I have my reasons, and don’t flatter yourself to think it’s all about you. Either come with me or hang around here and wait for Tremain or Camael to find you. I’ll just tell Pipistrelle that I did my best.’

  She went over to the door, eased it open and checked outside, the gun poised in her hand. Reluctantly he left his seat. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked as they went out into the farmyard. Rusted machinery lurked like prehistoric beasts in the long grass.

  ‘I have a car ready. No, not that way,’ she warned as he headed instinctively down the main driveway. ‘We have to go across the fields and into those woods over there. The main way is too obvious.’

  She leapt through a line of bushes onto a bare field beyond, bright green shoots of some plant or other poking tentatively through the soil. The mud began to stick to the soles of his shoes. His feet still hurt like blazes but he wasn’t about to let her see he was in any way distressed. He hoped the puncture wounds wouldn’t go septic. They clambered
up a steep incline, reaching the small wood on its summit that they’d seen from across the field. Caroline indicated with the gun to a thin thread of a path that ran through it. He was tempted to make a bolt for it, to get himself away from this strange woman, find some kind of help. Real help. But he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was, and if there was the remotest chance she had been telling the truth then he was in big trouble and perhaps she was the only one who could get him through it. With options thin on the ground he trudged blindly after her, drawn as much to her brimming confidence as much as anything. That and her cool determination, which he found reassuring and disturbing in equal amounts.

  They emerged from the wood onto a narrow, track-like country road, little used, a strip of dirt and weeds running through its centre along its entire length. Ahead, pulled tight into a bank was a large black Ford, opaque windows reflecting a stormy grey sky.

  ‘Muller didn’t see me follow because I’ve been waiting here all along for him,’ Caroline revealed, turning to Gareth. ‘He fell like a fly onto a web.’ She nodded. ‘After me,’ she said, pointing to the car.

  Gareth went in front, and as he did so the passenger door swung open. A man dressed in a dark suit emerged. Rose to his full height. It was Randall Tremain.

  Shocked, Gareth faced Caroline. She had the gun aimed squarely at his chest. ‘You bitch!’ he said. ‘You mean you’ve been working for Tremain all along?’

  In his anger he threw a punch at her. She didn’t flinch. His fist missed her jaw by an inch or so, his head dragged back by Tremain who delivered a swift punch into his kidneys. Another man leapt from the car and came over to hold Gareth in a painful arm-lock.

  ‘Where’s Muller?’ said Tremain, his voice as hard and as cold as granite.