The Yonjunana

I am, at least I was, Yakuza. Much is written of what we are and what we do, but above all else, we are family. We are one. The kobun or head of my clan, the Yonjunana (the forty seven) was Asano. He was an honest man, strong in mind and body, a man to love, a man to follow. He was taken from us and I have been cast aside, divorced. I am alone.

Each year the various kobun meet under the roof of Tokugawa Tsunayosi. He is Oyabun, father to us all. Control of the drugs, girls and gambling held tight within his fist. Kira Yoshinaka is his Saiko-komon, his advisor and has risen quickly to the status that he holds to the indignation of the others. He doesn’t walk the same path as the elders believing fear rather than loyalty will gain him the recognition he craves.

My master as is the custom bought gifts for the kobun to show his love and obedience. Kira became upset with the quality of Asano’s gift and insulted him in front of the others. My master took this initial slight with forbearance and grace as he was within the house of Tokugawa and to react would be a grave insult in itself. Kira however, would not be calmed and continued on his attack. Eventually Asano could not restrain himself and tried to kill Kira with his wakizashi. The guards intervened and Asano could only manage to wound Kira before he was stopped. The council met and decided that Asano should commit seppuku to atone for the gravity of an attack within the Oyabun’s house and so it was that my master took his life in the tradition of our fathers.

The house of Yonjunana was thus destroyed. For eighteen months I have played a role that has kept me free from harm and allowed me to plan for this moment. Others from the clan have attempted vengeance for Asano and paid the price of impatience. For me, sake was both my friend and protector. The disgust in the faces of people who I had called friends as they passed me in the gutter was just more fuel to the fire that burned within. My dishonour complete, my threat extinguished, Kira relaxed.

So it is that I stand here, cloaked by the absence of moonlight watching Kira Yoshinaka, the man responsible for my master’s death. The light from within the smoky glass allows me to watch him drift from room to room oblivious to the pain that I carry for us both. Once all is dark and quiet within I head towards the house.

The guard turns just before I get to the door and the look of surprise turns to one of fear then pain as I plunge the knife into his throat. The blood bubbles against his pale skin as he tries to shout a warning and his radio drops to the pavement. I hear movement from within and know that surprise is no longer a weapon I can use. I smash the window with the radio and climb in. I run through the corridor to the main bedroom but on first glance find it empty. I hear a rustle from the cupboard and open it to see his wide frightened eyes peering from the darkness within. I grab his robe and pull him out onto the soft white carpet.

I kneel in deference to his rank and lay Asano’s wakizashi on the floor ahead of him. “Asano still lives within his blade” I whisper nodding to the brittle brown powder like rust against the gleaming steel. “Follow his lead and do what you know to be right. I will act as your second”. His trembling hands push the blade away and he starts to cry. It sickens me that this man, as close as he is to the heart of what I love can be so weak. “Take it”, I say, unable to keep the irritation from my voice at the lack of honour being displayed. The incomprehensible sound that comes from his mouth I take as another refusal. The four movements that follow are as one. My sword slices through his neck and is back within the scabbard in a fraction of a second. His body slumps sideways to the floor as his head rolls towards the speckled wall.

As I lay his head at the gravestone of my master I know that I am whole again. I have almost closed the circle and I can be at peace with myself once more. The clans will come for me now that I have raised a hand against one of their own regardless of the context and this is how it must be. Unity is their strength and an attack on one is an attack on all.

The scent of the lilies helps me to find a place of tranquillity as I savour the last of my breath. I have asked Kamei one of the original Yonjunana to act as my second. He stands to one side waiting. I take four sips from the sake and place the cup back on the wooden table and take the paper and pen and start to write.

What are they to me
Money, health and happiness
When my lord lies still and cold
Vengeance I have had
Equilibrium restored

I slip off the kamishimo that I am wearing and tuck it beneath my knees to stop me slipping and grasp the blade.

My skin embraces the growing pressure of the blade and so it begins. Eyes fixed, I pull from left to right and at once feel the darkness creeping through my veins. The upward thrust takes my breath away and I almost falter. Shadows dance at the edges of my vision and I ask for just a little more strength as I bite down against the pain. I extract the blade and plunge it into my groin willing it towards my sternum.

I welcome the whisper of Kamei’s katana as my journey ends.

Ulfheonar Unleashed

In the dark I watch and I wait. The others are sleeping but not me. The jungle never sleeps. It speaks to me as I stare into its black heart; a constant hum which creeps into my soul and courses through my body. I close my eyes and the sound slowly starts to bleed, to break away into its individual components. The chirping of birds high in the canopy, the hoot of monkeys scrambling through the trees, the scratching of mice moving slowly across the leafy floor and the buzz, the ever steady buzz of the innumerable insects that cloud my vision and crawl over every uncovered scrap of skin. I hear the shifting of weight behind me and turn my wrist to check the time. Floating green numbers tell me that it’s almost three; time to change watch so I can grab some sleep. Tomorrow we move.

The dappled light incessantly tickles at my eyelids and with a groan I wake. No fires burn, no clattering of pans and plates to welcome me back to the living, just the silent movement of men taking stock of their surroundings as they slowly wake. The cold seeps into my joints and the strips of meat I pull from my bag are tough but tasty all the same. I think back to last week, a world away from here, when we were inside away from the rain sipping hot steaming tea as they instructed us on the mission. They have used us for tasks like this for as long as I can remember, always secrecy is paramount; no-one can ever know we exist. The orders are passed through the men and we rise and set off towards the enemy position. We should get there just before nightfall which is when we work best.

Stretching the march out of my limbs as we reach our destination, I take a seat in the leaf litter and wait for darkness. Grabbing my knife, I start to pick the leeches from my skin, horrible sucking masses that seem to shudder with the pleasure as they drink my blood; a more primal version of our superiors sitting warm and dry miles from here. I think through my orders, step by step. I look around me, at the faces that are by now as familiar as my own, anything to try and keep at bay the anticipation that threatens to envelop me. The waiting is always the worst; we are dogs straining at the leash, waiting to be let free to run, to attack, to kill. The light is fading and the order is given to prepare. I start to undress, packing my clothes away in the waterproofed sanctuary of my Bergen for when I return. Naked, we kneel on the damp earth and look to the sky.

As always, her simple beauty astounds me. Her pale angelic silver face high in the darkness, calling me and my kind to her. I can feel her power start to trickle through my veins; the elemental voice that commands whole oceans now steadily increases until at last it crashes through me and I feel myself, my real self emerge. My screams pierce the night as my spine snaps and reforms. I feel my fingers break one by one as they elongate and nails tear through the tips curving to razor sharp points. My hip dislocates and my entire body feels like it is being hammered and twisted by giant hands. My jaw stretches to breaking point as the canines push through the bloody gums and as the skin sloughs from my body it reveals the coarse hair below. My howl joins the others as we answer her in the way he have for hundreds of years.

We can smell them now, cowering in the depths of the forest, eyes wide at the sudden new additions to the jungle chorus. Order, discipline and stealth are distant memories to us now as the rage surges within us, our only need is for blood and we crash through the undergrowth towards them. Night is our ally. Our eyes see more in this absence of light than humans could on the brightest of days and confusion reigns within their ranks as we rip and tear into their helpless bodies. The sound of gunfire and screaming fills my ears and the realisation of the inadequacy of their weapons still does not keep their fingers from triggers as they react in the only way they can. My claws rake across faces and plunge into soft bodies as we lay a spreading red carpet to welcome Her back once again. Panting, I look around at the chaos we have unleashed and the human part of me understands that for now at least, we are done and I allow my pulse to steady. I curl against one of the others and let myself fall into an exhausted sleep waiting for the Keepers to arrive.

They pull us up and cover us with blankets to keep us warm now that we once again have taken the feeble form that we are forced to endure for most of our lives. They herd us coughing and shivering into a clearing where huge metal helicopters wait to ferry us back. Many years ago, we lived alone. Each of us hidden from sight, hidden from those that did not, could not understand us. The unwanted, the demons of the moon, forced to wander alone until at last we could change and run with Her. Now we are kept together, once again hidden from view but at least with each other for company. Mothers used to warn their children to stay inside when She was full. Now, instead of hushed fearful voices, stories of us litter the world. Bring us out in the open to keep us safely tucked away.

The great metal beasts rise into the sky and we return once more to the cells where we stay until we are called.

Fall of the Nizari

As I stepped through the door, I could just make out the dark figure in the corner. The embers in the fireplace cast an orange glow in the otherwise unlit room.

“Must we always engage in such theatrics?” I asked with a sigh as I crossed to light the torches on the far wall.

They blazed suddenly to life as I neared; a trick he often employed for the entertainment of the serving boys in the castle kitchen.

“It is hardly the time for such party tricks” I rebuked, the shadows melting away from the corners of the room.

With a small nod, he gestured to the empty wooden chair and as I have done many times before, I took a seat and waited.

Waited to hear who it was I would be asked to kill.

“It is madness”, I whispered once he had finished speaking. “To go against the Mongols is to go against the wind that blows through the valley beneath us; they are unstoppable”

Our leader, our Imam stood and started to pace the tiny room.

“It will be difficult yes, but God has spoken to me on this, Ashur. It is not madness but necessity which prompts this decision. I have been shown what awaits us should we hide away in our stone fortresses like eagle chicks unwilling to leave the nest and it is death for us all.”

“We made peace with the khan’s grandfather Genghis,” I implored. “Why would we choose to poke the snake now it has retreated from our lands?”

“This new khan, Möngke is crazed with power,” the Imam said. “He will not be content with what has been achieved in uniting the tribes. They wish to wipe away from the earth any that do not bow to their sky God. You will travel with two others to Karakorum with the annual tribute and you will strike down this barbarian where he believes he is most secure. His death will bring disorder and chaos as his siblings vie for control.

I sat for a while contemplating on what he had said, the brazier he had lit diffusing the hashish into the air around us. Regardless of my concerns, the Imam was God’s vassal and His word was not to be questioned. As I rose from my chair he held out his hand.

I knelt and kissed the fingers of Rukn ad-Din.

“Your will my lord.”

***

As we three rode slowly into the Mongol camp, I kept my eyes lowered as we passed through the mass of people crowding around us. I patted my horse, mouthing soft words to try and quell the unease she felt at the hands which pulled and pushed at her sweating body.

I heard a shout and glanced up to see one of my companions dragged from his horse. He half rose and began dusting himself off as the armour clad warriors hemmed him in. A large Mongol pushed through the group pulling a curved weapon from his belt. Pointing once at the fallen man and back to himself he spat on the ground and moved towards him.

“Enough”, a voice rose above the excited chattering and the crowd backed away to allow a man riding one of the short ponies these nomads favoured to come forward.

“I am Hülegü, war leader of the Mongol nation and right hand of the Supreme Khan. Come with me.”

We followed the khan’s brother through a forest of short fabric structures until we came upon a larger more ornate tent decorated with silks and animal skins. Dismounting, Hülegü gestured that we do the same and pulling the tent flap to one side he beckoned us through.

The smell as I entered almost turned my stomach. The heavy smoke which hung like a morning fog in the hot air wound around a cloying fusion of excrement, sweat and animal fat. Taking a breath, I knelt before the small wooden dais upon which sat the khan of the Mongols.

“Great Möngke, beloved of the Sky Father and Supreme Khan of the great Mongol nation, I bring for you gifts from our divine Imam, Rukn ad-Din in tribute to your honour.”

Still kneeling with my face against the hard mud of the floor, I heard muffled movements around me as I waited for the acceptance.

I received only silence.

To rise from my position of supplication would be an affront to his hospitality yet to cower in the dirt like a filthy animal was to accept my place as such. These dark skinned warriors respected strength above all else and to shrink from such a challenge would be even more dangerous.

As I raised my head, I gasped as the Mongol leader stood before me with the dripping heads of my two companions in his fists.

“You talk of tribute and honour yet come to me with death in your thoughts and treason in your blood” he spat.

“Great Khan, I beg…”

“Do not beg anything of me, worm. My shaman has spoken to the spirits and has seen the deceit that riddles your body. You speak of honour yet seek to poison me with words and then with potions as I sleep. You will take my message to your Imam and others will learn what it is to oppose me. Once again my people will march and we will devour the World.”

***

I stand alone in the rooftop garden letting the scent of jasmine caress me in her silken arms. The chants of the Mongols echo through the valley as the barbarian horde edges ever closer. I can feel the mountains themselves tremble at their approach and wrap my arms around my body against the first icy fingers of winter’s touch.

They tell me the Mongol army seeps from the horizon like an endless tide swallowing all in its path.

All I see is darkness and where eyes once were, phantom tears flow down my ravaged face.

Inspiration

The cursor winks at me, constant, mocking.

I stare forlornly at the white virgin snow of the page awaiting the footprint that will begin the journey. I’ve been huddled in this dark stinking room for six long weeks, feeling it slowly shrink around me as I battle with myself. A paragraph here, a line there, an idea scribbled in my notebook then discarded angrily onto the overflowing pile of rancid detritus in the corner. Trying so hard to will a spark to ignite, to grasp at something from the very air around me.

Before she had left it had been so easy. I would wake, ideas pounding through my head. With steaming coffee at my side I would sit and the words would flow from my fingers as water from a tap. The ever increasing mountain in the astray marked the passing of time. She would stand quietly in the doorway, watching me at my desk, alone, as the hours passed me by. The soft tapping of keys and cigarettes the only sounds as the pages swelled before me. I would fall exhausted into her warm soft arms at night knowing that my dreams in the darkness were destined to become my words in the daylight.

The days had stretched into weeks and then months. The end was tantalisingly close, always just a hairs breadth away as I raced towards it. People were waiting for me to finish, publishers, editors, my fans. I could not stop. Meals would be taken in silence as I re-read past chapters, made notes and corrections. I never saw the tears cloud her eyes as decisions were made, the tightness of her mouth as she willed herself to act. I saw her as I saw the bed, as I saw the chair; simply blurred items that I would pass, day by day at the edge of my consciousness.

I awoke to her pain the same day I awoke to her note.

My imagination has drifted away through the open door that she left. My words are my lifeblood, they feed and clothe me. I prostitute myself for the adulation of the faceless. Without them I am nothing. The cheques that once fell like autumn leaves through my door have become as scarce as the ideas that gave them birth.

I stretch and the cracking of my back echoes off the sparse walls. I chose this place to be free of distraction, free of the phone calls, the droppers by and the endless emails all wanting to know what was next, wanting more and more. Never content with what I'd given just what I had left to give. I thought alone, unbothered I could find peace, find myself again and it would come again. But instead of a place of serenity, an oasis in the whirling maelstrom that is my life, it has become an anchor around my neck dragging me down into the depths of my own self loathing.

A lone window I have allowed myself, an only view into the needful world beyond. I peer through the murky glass to the life outside. A river snakes through the valley off into the distance. Would that I could follow? Above the hills the grey/white clouds drift slowly across the sky, icebergs floating across an endless sea. I can hear the songs of the birds as they soar overhead. A smile touches my lips as I admire the simple beauty.

A glimpse of red just above the fence line shakes me from my reverie. Squinting to counter the glare of the morning sun I make out a shape, a person, coming this way. My heart starts thundering in my chest, sweat soaks my hands and the blood rushes through my head in crashing waves. I told him I needed space, time to finish. I can’t be rushed. As he gets closer, I swallow against the dryness of my throat and try to slow my breathing down to calm myself as I realise it is a hiker, nothing more. Some company may be what I need, inspiration to smash through this mental obstruction. Wiping my hands on my trousers I pick the breadknife from the table and reach for the door.

With the staccato drip of the coffee machine in the background and the cigarette smoke billowing gently up from the crammed ashtray I glance over at the bloodied rucksack in the corner and at my silent friend. My fingers fly across the keyboard.

God is great

The scent of saffron, turmeric and cinnamon pervades the air, overlaying the acrid stench of human waste seeping through the narrow streets. The hot dusty air stings my face as I watch the orange lights twinkling in the darkness; a hellish reflection of the cloudless sky above. Warmed by the fires, their prayers carry across the plain; a melodious adoration to the God of theirs that our Pope says cannot exist. For three days they have been gathering at the base of the mountain, a sprawl of darkness that cloaks our land while we ready ourselves for the assault. We have dug our ditches, and reinforced our walls. Tomorrow they will come.

I walk the wall, my words and touches all that remain to aid those that stand on watch. Stefan, the youngest of us pleads to me with silent eyes to make it better, to make it go away. I clasp his shoulder and quietly remind him that with God on our side, there can be no outcome other than to hold. Do I tell him the tales my father told me? Of the heroes that stood face to face with the Saracens, always weaker in number but stronger in faith. No. Such lies can help no man now. I have seen with my own eyes what favours God bestows on men. A death is no glorious ascension, no parade of angels to carry you to Him; it is a dark and lonely place of blood and gore, of screams and pleading, a single broken stone in the pathway of bodies that praise His name. I settle with my back against the wall to sleep. To die quickly is all we can hope for now.

The thunder wakes me and for a moment, as I stare into the beauty of the still blue sky I am serene and at peace. Again the crashing in the cloudless sky and the shouts around me pull me to my feet. The seething mass that marches towards us across the once empty plain brings a hopelessness that threatens at once to overwhelm. A galaxy of crescent moons shining bright against the morning sun. Shaking away the terror, I pull on my armour and ready myself for battle. Below me, men scatter in all directions, barricading the gate, herding families to shelter away from the walls, the adrenaline a physical force that drives them forward and dams the fear from seeping to the surface.

The sunlight fades and as I turn, I see the thousands of black shafts silently gliding towards us, a brooding flock of feathers with steel beaks. Like the start of a rainstorm, a single shaft thuds into a wooden shield followed by another and another until steadily the torrent flows all around us. We shrink below wood and stone and close ourselves to the screams that echo around us. The crash of metal upon stone brings me out of cover and I shout for oil as the first of the grappling hooks bite into the parapets. The smell of burning flesh is one that leaves a residue, which clings, sticky and black within your mind for the rest of your life. Skin burnt over years by the desert sun turns red and raw as the molten liquid drips from their bodies.

A commotion from the Eastern wall turns me from the horror beneath to find that these people have learned well over the years. Towers, fully four stories high trundle towards the wall pushed by a winding snake of willing men. Tactics we employed to bring us this city now thrown against us to recoup that, which was theirs. I call the order to soak arrows and ignite and pray that God will forgive me for what I unleash. The flaming heads pepper the hide covered structure and the individual fires reach to each other with fingers of flame to join hands in a wall of heat that engulfs the wooden tower and fans billowing black smoke into the throats of those that wait upon it. Coughing and screaming they jump to the ground, shattering bones as they land burning and broken among their own.

I feel a motion beside me, and duck as the whisper of a curved blade parts the air where seconds before my neck had been. My nose explodes in pain as a shield crashes into my face and I fall to the floor face to face with what once had been Stefan; his unseeing eyes, accusing. I scramble to my feet aware that I know not from which direction the attack came. Bodies all around me struggle and hack at each other, unintelligible grunts more akin to animals than humans fill my ears and I realise that I’m screaming. Screaming with hate, fear and with something deep within me that only now I can allow to surface, to carry me through this primeval chaos. I reach for a man who has his teeth in someone’s cheek and smash my forehead into his eye, ripping him from his bloody victim. I tear at his face and thrust my sword into his stomach, pulling at the purple tubes that spew from the gaping wound. The blade catches against something within and I pull a knife from my belt, stabbing into anything that comes near. I lose myself in a world of venom and violence until finally, I see that the bodies I attack are unmoving and all around me is quiet.

I wonder whether the blood I taste is mine as I clean the mess from my face. I look around at the sea of bodies, unrecognisable from one another. Within that tangle of flesh are friends and enemies, sons and fathers, worshippers of Christ and devotees of Allah. So far apart in life they now sleep together in death.

Allāhu Akbar. God is great.

The Station

The train arrived at the station with a lurch and woke her from sunny dreams of cream teas and beaches that the next few days would bring. Only one more train to go and she’d be there, far away from him and all the arguments. Aunt Mary would be glad to see her; she had always been her favorite. Grabbing the coat from the rack above her, she slipped her bag over her shoulder and stepped onto the dark platform.

The warmth of the train was instantly a distant memory as the cold wind cut into her bare skin. Pulling up the collar on her coat she headed across to the bright lights of the platform café, pulled open the glass door and stepped inside. Silence and stares opened their arms in welcome to her. A squeaky little giggle escaped her and she could feel the heat rising rapidly through her face. As one, they turned back to what they were doing and the steady hum of conversation resumed.

“Coffee please” she asked the red haired girl at the counter as the flush slowly receded. “Are they always like that?” she whispered with a conspiratorial smile. The scowling girl hobbled over to the kettle, poured the coffee and slammed the cup down on the counter without a word. And she thought people in the city were rude! Dropping a pound sixty on the counter, she found an empty table by the window and sat with a sigh pulling out her book. Wiping the steam from the window with her sleeve she peered out into the night. A single bulb danced in the wind occasionally lighting the platform, each blink of darkness reflecting back to her the dozens of eyes boring into the back of her head. She turned sharply almost toppling her drink. A few people looked up from their newspapers at the sudden movement but otherwise all was as it should be. Jumping at shadows, she chided herself and took a sip of the tepid sludge to steady her nerves.

She tried to concentrate on the book but the window had spooked her. She found herself peering over the top of the pages to make sure they hadn’t all stood while she was distracted with tales of passion and were lumbering towards her hands outstretched, eyes dead and glassy. Annoyed with the way her imagination was running away, she put the book away and looked around at the odd assortment trapped in the room with her. An old man with skin stretched thin across his face sat with his eyes closed, puffing on a pipe. The smoke swirling upward, sucked greedily into the bank of cloud hovering above us. A carved bird sat atop his gnarled walking stick at his side. A group of teenage boys, caps down low over their eyes were huddled together, a plastic bag at their feet. The bottles and cans spilling out onto the dirty tiled floor. A couple opposite were arguing about someone called Max and a variety of men in orange boiler suits sat in groups of two and three.

One of the teenagers eased himself up from the group and moved towards her, crouching down in front of her chair and leaned in close. She had to move her head back from the alcohol fumes that swept over her. His cracked lips parted to stained yellow teeth and she caught a fleeting sense of something hidden deep beneath the alcohol. Something sweet, something rotten. “Going somewhere nice?” he asked, eyes crawling over her chest, undoing her blouse. She crossed her arms and scraped her chair backwards on the tiled floor. “Just waiting for my husband” she said looking casually at her watch. “Tut, tut” he said wagging his finger at her. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out on your own. If there’s anything I can help you with…?” he ran his calloused hand up the back of her calf, higher, higher. She kicked out at him and he leapt back with a laugh. Eyes locked to hers; he sniffed at his palm and slowly ran his tongue across it. He returned to his laughing friends with a swagger.

“Did you see that?” she asked one of the men sat closest to me. “Did you see what he did?” The man just stared at her, smiling. “Anyone? Is anyone going to do anything?” she asked the room. Smiles, smiles and more bloody smiles countered her glare. Freaks, she thought grabbing her mobile to call the police. No bars. Damn the bloody countryside. She could feel the adrenaline running through her as her heart started to speed, her head ached and the heaviness grew deep in her stomach. She caught a glimpse of blue in the flicker of light on the platform and remembered the guard. He would have a radio! She picked up her stuff and ran back out into the cold. “Excuse me. Excuse me!” she shouted after him. He turned just as she caught up with him and almost toppled him over as she grabbed hold of him. “Radio. Do you. Radio?” she said looking back towards the café. “Sorry miss, out here it don’t work see. Don’t worry, though, we’ll take care of you. Nice and friendly we are, always sit down to eat together like one big family”. A long black tongue darted from his lips.

One by one she could see them leaving their seats. The old man leaning heavily on his stick, pipe still stuck in his mouth pushed open the door. The teenagers followed, the redhead at their heels giggling. They emptied out onto the platform and stood side by side in silence, watching her.

A Divine Incarceration

Death watches me through the thick metal bars with a curious half smile on her red painted lips. “They’re not switching it off just yet, if that’s what you’re thinking” she says as I look again at the small screen hanging above the toilet. On it I can see a man in white talking silently to Emily as she absently brushes my hair. I wish I could hear them. Her eyes are locked to his, looking for answers, looking for hope. Her eyes were what attracted me to her a lifetime ago; so blue, so captivating, they drew me across the room and into her arms in a matter of hours. Now though, they seem dull and lifeless; any remaining spark blunted by the endless hours spent at my bedside willing me to wake from the coma that has brought me here; locked up and teetering on the edge between life and death.

Shortly after arriving I saw Emily talking to my father and pleaded for sound to accompany the images informing me of what I’d left behind. “It would upset the others” Death said simply and walked away to deal with the constant stream of bewildered souls trudging down the wide central corridor towards the light. They, the dead at least have somewhere to go; Death welcomes them in and moves them on in a matter of minutes but not us. We who are imprisoned in Death’s waiting room awaiting sentence have no direction, no final destination. Trapped in an incorporeal airport; not left yet not arrived; the Terminal terminal if you will. The room that holds me is stark, the television and cracked porcelain the only nods to an age later than steam. The bars reach round on all sides interrupted only by the two doors that wait at either end.

I was hit by a bus. It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud like that, but there it is. The reason I’m here watching my wife sit by my motionless body is because of a f***ing bus. I was half way across the road when my phone went. As I think back on it now, it seems to have taken an age although I’m sure it would have been but a fraction of a moment. I can remember the flashing numbers on the phone being suddenly replaced by the large stationary ones above the word STATION as I turned my head. It didn’t hurt. One second I was surrounded by people and wondering what she was calling for and the next I found myself alone and imprisoned; looking down on my mechanically assisted self.

The people in the cells around me change every few minutes so I can’t really get to know any of my neighbours. They arrive terrified and lost, no idea where they are or why they’re here. I try to explain but as I said, time is of the essence and no sooner do I get them to calm a little than they fade away to be replaced by another screaming wreck. I’ve stopped bothering now. They’re young for the most part as I guess the older ones tend to struggle less when the time comes. I did see a guy yesterday who must have been in his eighties though. He appeared two or three times as the team in the hospital brought him back over and over again. I think he was relieved more than anything when they finally let him go. Me, I’ve been here for almost a month and seeing the resignation etched onto my wife’s face I don’t believe I’ll be moving on anytime soon.

I’m surprised at how attractive Death actually is; the individual rather than the state that is. She glides rather than walks; a gothic angel with pale white skin and eyes as dark as her soul must be. The black hooded robe at least gives a sense of familiarity to the figure that I see now coming towards me, my heartbeat quickening at her approach. She pauses a few feet from me, her eyes alternating from one locked door to the other. “Which one will it be?” she whispers. “The one back to her and the fleeting taste of time that you call life or the other where I and eternity wait?” Her hand reaches through the bars towards my face and I feel my skin pucker and blister as her nails sink into my cheek; watching with a repulsed exhilaration as she brings her fingers back to her mouth and slowly sucks them dry. The unnatural reaction of my body fills me with horror and an overwhelming hatred of what I am. I love my wife and long to be back in her arms but Death’s touch brought with it a craving and an arousal that resonates within me. Laughing, she drifts away.

My stomach clenches and I throw up, coughing and spitting as I eject the acrid stench all around me. Wiping my mouth with my sleeve I fall onto my knees as the hopelessness of my situation is finally realised. I look around at the hordes of people shuffling forward towards oblivion and a searing anger starts to boil at their resignation. There are no sounds of protest as they march toward their deaths. No tears for loved ones, no screams of anguish, just a weary acceptance of why they’re here and where they must go. I look to the screen and watch Emily as she sits with her head in her hands, the sobs racking her body and wonder what dice have been thrown, what wheel has been spun that has decided that she must suffer so. The anger bursts to the surface and I run at the bars pulling and screaming at them to let me loose, let me go, LET ME LIVE.

The sound of a bolt drawing back puts pause to my fury and I hear the creak as one of the doors slowly opens.

Perpetual Penance

It is a pitiful thing to see something once so beautiful reduced to this scuttling mess; fingers scraping against concrete as the sobs wrack its skeletal frame. Like the rats that share the cell, it writhes in its own filth, a fitting punishment for one such as this. Those that stand and watch feel nothing for this thing, this creature; no pity for one who was once as they are. The cell is unlocked and they drag it by the hair across the marble floor, its screams incoherent and primal; its broken wings scratching against the angry welts covering its naked body. They sweep it past others that reach out to them between the bars, faceless shadows of what they once were. It is not yet their time but for this one, Judgement has arrived.

The doors slam as they depart and it is left cowering in a bloodied heap. “Sophiel, so very glad you could make it. I hope the journey was not too unpleasant?” She gazes through eyes still adjusting to the light to see one the Seraphim seated on a dais above her, fingers steepled against his chin. “He has given instruction that you may be released; once certain conditions have been agreed upon, of course.” Was this more punishment? Had they not had enough of this torment or could it be that she might truly be allowed atone for her sins? It was but a moment of uncertainty; the rebellion had awoken something within her but she had not followed Satan into the war. She had watched from the sides as the battle raged and angels on both sides fell until at last Michael rose triumphant and banished those that opposed Him back to Earth. She had shaken away the doubts that nagged at her but still she had been hauled from her bed late into the night and thrown into Tartarus; fifteen lifetimes she had spent in that hole. “Anything” she croaked and the Seraph rose and extended his hand. 
 
He smiles as he rapes me. He thrusts with the knife and with his body, tearing and ripping at the flesh beneath but I am not what he sees. He sees the girl; the girl who is safely sleeping in her bed where I left her with no memory of my visit. I am her cuckoo. For each of the angels thrown down to earth, I must die in place of one of His children. The ones that are destined for a greater good should not and will not be taken from the Earth by such as this creature which looms over me. I can feel both his blades inside me and disgust wells within that something this vile should exist in this place that we have vowed to protect. I feel the mortal body dying around me and close my eyes.

He stands above the bloody mess and wipes himself against her hair. He thinks it’s a shame she didn’t scream like the others; didn’t thrash and bite as he took her. He likes that. He thinks of her nails scratching deep into his skin, exciting him again and he looks down on her willing form as again he starts to harden. He hesitates. Her eyes were closed. Why then are they looking at him and WHY ARE THEY MOVING?

My hands take his throat and I feel His wrath flow through my fingers as the light enters him and I can only hope that he feels the pain I did, the pain that he wanted for the girl. My father’s vengeance is dreadful in its beauty and I turn away as his soul burns. I drop him to the floor and the rain starts to fall on his limp body, washing away the sins of the past.

As I wait for another to be sent, I think about how my life is to be. My clothes stink and I am hungry and wet but at least I am free. I will try not to complain. I will do His work and the eternity that stretches before me is one that I deserve. I am here to protect His children and if I am to die for each of them then it is but a small thing; a single grain of sand in the desert of misery that His son endured. I understand the need to preserve the goodness in these people but why are they also so full of hate? So many that pass me huddled in this doorway look through me, if they turn their heads at all. They too do not see me but this time no celestial glamour is required to cloud their vision. They tell me that this is simply their way; too busy, too scared or too wrapped up in their own issues to care for the problems of others. I find it difficult to understand. I rub my hands together and pull them into my armpits away from the cold.

I see a boy playing in a park, laughing as he runs after the balloon mummy gave him for his birthday. It’s red, the same colour as his hat and mittens. I watch the momentary puffs of breath as he runs; a steam train on uncertain tracks. He shouldn’t go far; mummy said that she and daddy were setting up the ‘PIKNIK’ especially for him but that he could play until they were ready. The balloon is drifting towards the woods where a man waits. He is sad and he is lonely and I sense his thoughts of…oh Father NO!

I come awake with a start, my mouth dry and heart hammering in my chest. I gather my belongings into my plastic bag and melt into the night towards the boy.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone (Psalm 91:10-12)

Eight Men in a Boat

I’ve never really liked boats. It’s the deceit in which they present themselves. Gently tugging at their mooring; a vision of serenity as they bob to and fro, waves lapping tenderly against the hull. Lulling me into thoughts of long summer days floating on cloudy peaks as the breeze caresses my face. Land far behind; the ocean's tears on my lips and the horizon my ambition. I would be free; free to roam the planet with only my wits, my strength and the breath of God to guide me. The reality however is somewhat different. The instant I step aboard, my insides lurch and my legs lose their natural ability to keep me upright. The vicious dark water beneath trying desperately to unnerve and unbalance until it can reach in and drag me down. Don’t even get me started on sharks. Damn you Spielberg.

So why am I here? What could have convinced me to set aside the solidity and familiarity of terra firma for this? A sense of adventure I suppose; an inbuilt desire to challenge myself and my place in the world (the fact that there are no decent mountains within easy access might also have had something to do with it), but I digress. Here I am and I’m ready to roll. Signed up and kitted out for a battle against the elements and a chance to test myself against the might and fury of the ocean. A journey where I’ll find out more about the man within, the true worth of what I am. I’m going sea fishing.

I’ve been fishing before obviously but this might prove more of a test than hanging my piece of garden cane (with size 12 hook) over a rock pool and keeping very quiet. I’m not sure the need for silence was entirely necessary but Grandad was especially particular about that. He used to rock back and forth humming one of those tunes that you recognise but can’t quite place while small puffs of smoke escaped the corner of his mouth. I think it was there with pipe and rod that he was happiest; away from Gran and her constant craving for conversation. God she could talk. He told me once that the milkman chose to deliver in the dead of night just to avoid her smiling face waiting there on the doorstep for him.

I pull into the car park to find that most of the others have already arrived. Why Mike chose this as a stag do instead of the usual drink until you drop affair only he knows but cocky smile, smoke lit and step with spring all present and correct, I get out there as though I’m happy to be along for the ride. I’m greeted with a chorus of “Geeeeeeezer”s and once the shadow boxing and back slapping have settled I wander over to Marcus. I used to work with him way back when but now only see him at weddings, funerals and the likes of today. “Thought you weren’t into all this?” he asks waving around at the boats in the distance. “I’m not. But you know, Pete’s wedding and all. What can I do?” Nodding, he offers me another smoke and we soon settle back into that comfortable conversation that distinguishes friends from acquaintances.

“Come on then boys, we’re good to go”, Mike shouts and as a group we bounce (or trudge) towards the old man waving from the other side of the car park. He leads us up onto the dock and towards a weary looking blue boat that looks about to fall apart in fright at our approach. “You gotta be kidding me” I mutter to no-one in particular and with steps as light as fairy wings I board. I find a place about half way down as I can’t decide which end might be safest and hug my knees as the guy goes through his safety talk. We’re given bait and rods and with what sounds suspiciously like a backfire we set off.

Almost immediately I can feel the sea shaking the bottom of the boat like a snow globe, wanting me to join the flakes floating through the nothingness. I light up again which helps a little and pop the bait onto the hook. With a stomach better suited to washing clothes than breaking down food I pull myself up just as we break out of the harbour and into the open sea. Marcus looks over and begins a remarkable impression of a man about to turn inside out just to make me feel better. What are mates for eh? Ignoring him I cast and settle down onto the bench that runs down the centre of our little vessel.

Three hours later and the boredom is starting to kick in. The lack of beer on board (safety issue don’t you know) is causing consternation and nobody has had even a whiff of a bite when it happens. The rod suddenly comes alive in my hand; I’ve got one! Wearing my smugness like a windbreaker I lap up the bitterness all around, plant my feet firmly against the hull and start to reel it in. Man against beast, intelligence against nature, the hunter and its prey in the perpetual struggle for the ownership of life. I breathe deeply and try to centre myself to avoid being drawn into the maelstrom of adrenaline that stalks on the periphery of my emotion. I become the hook, biting and gripping against the terrified thrashing. I feel the tension slacken as at last fatigue stands shoulder to shoulder with me and the monster starts to tire, the fight for survival almost at an end as I pull it towards me and oblivion. With a final gargantuan effort that saps the final dregs of my strength I drag the beast from the depths.

With laughter ringing in my ears, I console myself with thoughts of the quid I’ll get if I return it to Tesco.

Lucien

They say that pride comes before a fall. Believe me, I know how that feels.

All I wanted was a little parity, acknowledgement of the effort that I’d put in. Sound the trumpets and sing Hosanna, for He made the Earth in six days and on the seventh He rested? He wasn’t alone in creating the first of the Worlds but as I found out well enough, you can’t argue with the Good Book. With the apology hardly out of my mouth, I fell.

Once the first had been created, you, His image unknowingly made the others. Your dreams, so real and rich with life opened tiny fissures in the fabric of creation which stretched and grew over time to become the other worlds that you glimpse each night but never truly see.

My original name is misunderstood here on Earth so for now I am Lucien and as I sit here sipping coffee in the park on a hot sunny day I wonder how the hell I’m going to get back. The last time I spoke to one of those still above watching over you, he mentioned that there was talk of Him relaxing his stance a little. The longer the world turns the tighter people seem to wind and the scales are starting to tip away from Him. He may therefore allow some of us back, an end to our ascension detention if you will.

You wander past me on your way to work, happily unaware that they walk among you. The lesser demons mostly, either escaped through small tears in the surface or summoned. Those that call them have but an inkling of what they do. They read through the ancient texts and recite the words of summoning. With power comes responsibility is not a mantra that they seem to heed. On the whole though, they’re relatively harmless, simply revelling in the freedom and mischief they find on the outside. They use your nightly travels between the Worlds as highways, hitching rides until they find something somewhere to entertain.

Occasionally though something altogether more ancient and flagitious arrives. They reside within the perverts and the paedophiles. You see the stories in the newspapers, on the news and can feel their vile touch. The stories that make you huddle just a little closer together, discussing in hushed voices. The ones with children, the innocent taste the sweeter.

Like the one I’m watching now in the café opposite.

It hides itself well. It’s within the man in the grey pinstripe suit, the one with the crisp white shirt and black horn-rimmed glasses flicking through the newspaper. His head is angled slightly and a slight smile coats his lips. His languid movements do not betray the turbulence that I know lies barely beneath the surface as it stalks. His fingers tap on the table top, dancing to an invisible song, a pause, it sees someone.

He stands and his arm brushes against a young woman in a pale yellow dress transferring to her. She hesitates as the sudden change momentarily stuns her, then seeing the prey ahead reaches out to touch the jogger in the grey tracksuit as he passes. This is how they move in daylight. The human contact that you crave bringing you comfort, reminding you that you belong to something bigger, turned against you.

I see the target, a child of around five with blue shorts holding his mother’s hand as they head towards the swings. The jogger excuses himself as he collides with her and disappears around a bend. The mother stiffens and changes direction suddenly pulling her son along with her as she heads back to the street, her son complaining bitterly. I follow at a distance, trying to keep them in view without it seeing me. My caution seems to be unnecessary. She doesn’t look back as she walks dragging him crying behind her. Her everything is in her hands.

They come to a halt at a white Victorian semi detached house with flowers in the garden. She unlocks the door and I notice thankfully that no dog comes bounding out to greet them. As they enter I cross to the gate attached to the side of the house and close my eyes concentrating on the lock on the other side. Once through and at the back of the house, I stop and steady my breath. I can feel it moving through the house within her. I enter through the back door. The house is quiet; the kitchen that I’m standing in has an ordered feel to the surfaces, clean and functional. The toys scattered on the floor in stark contrast. I hear the creak of the floorboards above and head for the stairs.

I take out the knife and climb. One step at a time, I concentrate solely on the movements, lightly placing my feet, breathing shallowly through my nose. I must keep quiet. As I reach the top I can hear them talking behind the closed door to the left of the landing. The doorframe splinters as I crash through the door. The boy is wide eyed and screaming as I plunge the knife into his mother, I really don’t want to kill her but only when trapped within a body can it be destroyed. I tear and rip at her insides and can see it behind those frightened eyes looking for an exit. It tries to flow into me, but pulls back when it realise what I am. Holding her to me I feel the life drain away with the blood until I’m holding a heavy empty shell.

I watch her shining soul drift away on the air. The acrid stench in the room slowly dissipates as it flows back to the darkness from whence it came. My task complete, I turn smiling to the boy who is trembling in the corner of the room. He doesn’t speak but makes small noises shaking his head in disbelief.

Wiping the blade on my trousers I advance on the boy apologising to Him once again.

Even angels need to feed.

Risen

The swaying leaves whisper to each other on the warm breeze as he weaves his way through the skeletal branches; the rippling growing ever louder as their frustration and anger mounts. Why does he not stop and explain what worries him so? They can feel his anxiety and panic, as he races through the cooling green canopy. He cannot stop. He must not stop. He has risen again.

Celeborn and Galadriel had known that one of the Nazgûl, Khamûl had taken residence in Dol Guldur away to the East and although wary, were content to keep the peace and let the evil lay where it could be watched. An understanding had been reached that the Galadhrim would stay close to Lothlórien and Khamûl would remain within the confines of the fortress. This had been how they had lived for many years. Recently, however The Grey, Mithrandir had been seen in the area and thus Haldir had been dispatched to find why one of the Old Ones walked among them. His brother Orophin had wanted to go, being the eldest, but in this Galadriel herself had interceded. “Speed, not strength is necessary for such a task and none are quicker than your little brother” she had reasoned and Orophin had bowed his acquiescence.

The evening was closing in and Haldir wasn’t keen to cross the river Anduin in darkness. He shivered as he remembered the nights when he and his brothers sat around the fire as their mother warned them of the wraiths that swirled within the mists rising from the river’s edge; a single touch of their ethereal fingers enough to draw the light from their golden hearts until only empty husks remained. He had to put such childish nightmares behind him and concentrate on the task at hand; he needed to warn them of what he had seen. A nagging tightness had started to form in his leg and although he had been running for many hours, cursed at the frailty of his young body. Urgency was paramount, but he would need to rest before crossing the great expanse of water.

Reaching into his pouch for the lembas, he looked around him and as he broke off a piece of the bread and thought of how much his people had to lose. The forest wrapped snug around his shoulders would always be a dark, lonely place to human eyes, whereas to his, the vibrancy and life within swelled his heart and filled him with love. The Galadhrim felt attuned to the trees in a way that humans could never understand; a sense of belonging rather than ownership of the world around them. Yet all would be destroyed; the green carpet stretching as far North as the Grey Mountains would become a river of ash and fire if Sauron had once again taken form. Celeborn would need to talk to Oropher, who had withdrawn to the North, to Mirkwood. The bread had eased the cramps somewhat and he felt a glimmer of hope as the warmth spread slowly through his body.

His head shot up as he felt it approaching, his senses at once alert to the presence that the forest seemed to scream and shrink from. From the East; a rushing malevolence that permeated through his skin and wrapped itself around his heart. Something was tracking him and coming fast. He secured the bow to his back, tightened the leather straps holding the curved knives to his side and slowly rose to his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, battling against the cold terror that gnawed at him, to find a peace within the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. For fully a minute he stood still and silent until at last the fear started to dissipate and he opened his eyes again, wondering what foul creature Sauron could have released that would have such an effect on him.

His eyes slowly scanned the horizon watchful for movement that would reveal the path the hunter was taking, his keen eyes battling against the darkness as the sun edged ever lower. A dark shadow suddenly rose to his left followed by an angry chattering as the cloud of crows announced that what he searched for was closer than he had hoped. He broke into a run towards the river, towards home, not wanting to turn his head and face the evil that hounded him. He unclasped the bow from his back as he ran and nocked an arrow to the string ready for the moment when he would need to stand his ground. He could feel invisible hands reaching for him, the flap of leathery wings as it swept onwards towards him.

He turned and fired, feeling the arrow wend its way through the maze of trees, hungry for soft flesh to welcome it home. A keening cry pierced the air and he screamed as his hands clamped to his ears, dropping the bow to the ground. He fell to his knees trying to shut out the horror of the sound that invaded every inch of him. His stomach twisted and hot bile flew from his mouth onto the ground around him as he tried to shut out the sound. The wail turned to a low growl and as he struggled to his feet, he saw it coming through the gloom towards him.

He had heard tell of Balrogs, but nothing could have prepared him for what now came crashing towards him, ripping trees from the ground and tossing them aside as its dark wings unfurled to cloak the moon. The whip it held shimmered with black flame and it thundered once against the dark sky as it watched him scrambling alone in the mud.

Haldir unclipped his knives and rose to face him.

Danse Macabre

Officer Petrie looked down on the broken body and wondered what kind of world he lived in where man could be capable of such a thing.

“Jesus Mick, will you give it a fucking rest” he shouted at his partner who was doubled up and retching uncontrollably.

Petrie dragged Mick away from the body towards the end of the alley.

“Stay there” he ordered and returned to the shapeless form hidden behind the nightclub bins.

He knelt next to the body and breathed heavily against the wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him. Each of the fingers had been broken and bent backwards on her hands; the tips were a bloody mess where nails had once been. What should have been in her stomach now lay between her legs and her head had been thrust into the cavity. The face, which once must have been pretty, was now frozen in pain as though Munch himself had laid his brushes to flesh and the lips; oh God the lips. They had been cut from her mouth and arranged against the milky skin on her thighs to spell out the numbers 555. Petrie picked up his radio and called it in.

“Yeah, we’ve got another one.”

By the time Jack Quinn arrived, the alleyway was a seething mass of people. Scenes of crime officers, reporters and detectives all bound together in the rush for information. He spotted Petrie standing away from the throng and wandered over.

“You found her?” he asked quietly, aware that the man was still working through the emotions that bubbled to the surface on cases like this. Petrie nodded and turned away as tears started to fall slowly down his cheeks. “I’m sorry man but I need to push you here”, Jack added. “When you found her was there a smell; something that didn’t belong?”

Petrie turned back towards him and Jack saw the anger threatening to erupt.

“A smell; I find that…her like that and you want to know what she fucking smelled like?”

Jack held his hands up to placate him and backed away slightly giving him room.

“Not what she smelled like, something that shouldn’t have been there, please this is important. You know there have been others and you know others will follow if we don’t find him.”

Petrie’s eyes seemed to soften at that and Jack saw him working back through the scene, walking through it step by step in his mind.

”There was so much blood; smeared everywhere. All I could smell was that at first but yeah, I didn’t think much of it but, this is stupid but there was something sweet there, something floral.”

Jack smiled and put his hand on Petrie’s shoulder.

“Thanks man, seriously. Get out of here and get some sleep”

As Jack drove he tried to put the pieces together in his mind. He was sure that the smell of flowers was something, but what? It had been mentioned in the report when the first body had been found but nobody had picked up on it until the third had been pulled out of the river. The water should have driven all scent away from the body other than that of decomposing flesh but the divers had mentioned the delicate smell so at odds with the circumstances. That had prompted the team to go back through the previous files.

He had originally been allocated as a single detective but as the body count grew so did the investigation and there were now five of them chasing this down. Once the papers had gotten hold of the story, the pressure had started to be exerted from above. ‘The Fiend of 555’ they called him. God how he hated the monikers the media handed out like candy to these animals. These people were unhinged and incapable of remorse and pity. Naming them simply added structure and reality to the delusional worlds in which they lived.

As he pulled into the small driveway he lit a cigarette and took a long drag letting the smoke flow deeply through his lungs, calming him. Flowers would have to wait but as to the significance of 555 he wanted answers and hopefully this guy was going to have some answers.

When a murder investigation starts, especially a multiple, the crazies flock to the phones and taking the call from Simon Caldwell told Jack that the deluge had begun. As soon as Caldwell identified himself as a student of Occultism Jack was ready to get him booked for wasting police time. Caldwell however continued to talk over the protests and disbelief and slowly the irritation gave way to incredulity as he gave details of the murders that had not been released to the public.

When Jack had pressed him on how he had known about the lips (they had told the papers that the 555 had been written in blood), he had simply replied that it was the only way that they could be summoned. When he had queried the ‘They’, Caldwell had replied that it would be better for them to meet in person as a telephone call could not properly convey the danger that was approaching.

Jack had never had much time for religion and his knowledge of the occult was non-existent but however sceptical he might be, the information about the lips had intrigued him and so had agreed to a meeting at Caldwell’s house. He opened the door and stepped out to the bite of an October evening. Pulling his collar up against the cold, he approached the porch and knocked.

The warm light that spilled over him as the door opened immediately extinguished any preconceptions that he had of dark rooms with strange runes written into blood spattered walls. Simon Caldwell also was nothing like the dark brooding figure he had envisioned. He was in fact a rather cheerful looking man with an air of intelligence that shone from his bright constantly jumping eyes. He was wearing a grey pair of trousers, white shirt with a brown cardigan and a pair of flannel slippers.

“Please” he offered with a wave, showing Jack though the doorway, “do come in.”

He followed through a long hallway lined either side with oil paintings. Jack had no interest in art but the beauty of the images he passed called out to him and seemed to lift his mood. “Beautiful aren’t they?” Caldwell said as he caught him staring at them. “I’ve always loved art. I’m unfortunately rather useless myself but I love to collect. Being able to capture the emotion and essence of something is a special talent indeed.” Jack nodded and reached out to touch one of the figures contained within.

As his fingers brushed the canvas a tremor of unease rushed through his body and the image seemed to melt and congeal before his eyes. The children that had been playing in the field grew larger and darker. Wings erupted from their bloody backs and as the grass wilted and turned to rock, their black mouths full of razor sharp teeth opened wide to him, dark and hungry. He felt a tug on his arm and turned to see Caldwell looking at him with a strange smile.

“You shouldn’t touch” he said and beckoned him through to a doorway to their left. Glancing back at the painting, the children were happily playing again and with a shake of his head he followed.

The room they stepped into reminded Jack of the world that Conan Doyle had created for him as a teenager. The wooden panelling, the bookshelves crammed with heavy looking books and the log fire burning brightly all brought to mind the room where Holmes would sit and ponder on a case while sipping at a glass of whiskey and puffing gently on his pipe. He had known at an early age that he wanted to follow in those fictional footsteps and felt immediately at home.

They settled into large leather wingbacks and Caldwell poured tea from a silver teapot decorated with an intricate design.

“Unless you’d like something stronger?”

Jack shook his head but pulled out his packet of cigarettes with a questioning look.

“Of course, the ashtray is on the side.”

Jack lit one and took a sip of the tea which was deliciously hot and sweet. Settling back into the softness of the chair, he crossed his legs and looked at Caldwell.

“So tell me about this summoning”

“Every thing that exists, has existed or will ever exist has an opposite. Dark and light, good and evil and yin and yang; all are simply different faces of the same coin. Occultists have always been feared, but we are simply searchers of truth; looking for answers where there are none, asking the questions which must not be asked. “

“Religion has always shunned us, believing that the texts that they have access to give them the truth of their existence. But each of them holds different books with different truths, so who is to say which of them hold the answers? God, as is believed here is the Godhead, the holy trinity of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Together they are one, multiples of a whole. If we take this as truth, then of course the opposite must be true and another made of three but joined as one must also be. “

“These are the beings that those that are killing are searching; the three faces of evil; Ba’al, Oriax and Vetis. The deaths are sacrifice to these three and the lips are used to call them to this plane, where they will become whole, become one and tip the edge on which man perpetually balances towards their own aim. The founding of a Hell on Earth where the Devil will reign”

The ash on Jack’s cigarette sat precariously, ready to fall as he sat open mouthed trying to take in what had just been said.

“The numbers?” he lamely managed.

“Ah yes the numbers. Five as you will know is the number of sides on a pentagram or pentangle if you will. These are the embodiment of the five classical elements of air, water, earth, fire and the divine. Turning these upside down, overturns the natural order of things and thus acts as a doorway into which evil can step. The etching of the numbers into the skin is a calling card; the three fives are the three pentangles, the three doorways into which the demons will be drawn.”

Jack placed the now extinct cigarette in the glass ashtray and put his head in his hands.

“I can help you” Caldwell said. “I know these people. I know their beliefs, their motivation and their rituals. Let me help?”

Jack looked at the man opposite him and couldn’t believe that any of this was real. Nothing the man had said made any sense, Demons, God and the Devil? How the hell was he going to get this past his superiors? Nevertheless, this was the only link he had however out there is sounded and…

”Flowers” he suddenly exclaimed.

“I’m sorry” said Caldwell.

“After we’ve found the bodies, there’s been a smell of flowers around the bodies.”

Caldwell eased out of the chair and crossed to the bookshelf which swallowed the far wall.

“Just a minute, let me see…ah yes.”

He took out a tattered looking book and brought it back over to the table that sat between them. He started carefully turning the pages which looked ready to simply crumble into dust until he stopped.

“Jonquil” he said with a smile. “Each flower tends to represent a power and Jonquil is used to show desires fulfilled. I would think it likely that the killer or killers rub themselves with the oil from the flowers to show that they desire this above all else.”

Jack shook his head. As crazy as all of this sounded, the guy seemed to be making sense in a warped kind of way and this was the first lead of any kind that seemed to have any legs.

“Ok” he said, “where do we start?”

Driving through the dark narrow lanes, Jack wondered whether not keeping his team in the loop about where he was going was such a good idea. He had no back up and no-one was aware where he was going but damn if he was going to try and explain what was going on. He’d have to take the risk.

They had spent most of the previous night trying to make connections to lead them forward. Caldwell had an extensive library in his house and Jack left him poring over books while he had logged onto the central computer to trace the deaths onto a map looking for an area in which to search. As he was marking the pins into the board, Caldwell had jumped up from his seat and hurried across to him.

“Don’t you see? Five, five always five” he had said shaking his head.

Jack had looked at the blue and red pins in the map and hadn’t been able to see a damn thing.

“Here” Caldwell had said pointing at an area where no pin existed. “You have four bodies. If the fifth were here and you were to draw lines between the five you would have….”

“A pentagram” Jack had exclaimed.

It had been so simple when they had something to link them with. Caldwell had nodded excitedly and had centred his search in the area between the four existing and one imaginary pin to find the location to which they were currently heading.

“Pull over” Jack said tapping the map as they approached the crossroads, “the house should be a few hundred yards further on. We’ll walk from here.”

They had waited until early evening as the light was starting to fail so that they could approach without being seen. The cloud cover was heavy and only a suggestion of moonlight gave them any visibility. He went to the boot and pulled out the huge Maglite he always kept there.

“Let there be light” he mumbled and together they started towards the house.

From what they had read, Learbourne house had once been a family home, the majestic columns which adorned the façade had started to crumble with age and the occupiers had opted to sell rather than renovate. The house had then been bought by a company named Diaballein Associates of which very little information could be gathered.

Walking up to the huge iron gates which protected the driveway, they could see lights and movement from the ground floor windows. Jack turned off the torch and looked along the fence line.

“Come on, we’ll get in over there below the trees.”

He was up and over the fence heading towards the house when he realised that Caldwell wasn’t with him. Hurrying back to the fence he saw him standing on the other side with a pained expression on his face.

“I’ve never been particularly athletic” he said by way of an explanation and shrugged his shoulders at Jack’s growl.

“Ok, stay here and keep your head down. I’m going to go and have a nose around. If I see anything dodgy I’ll call it in and meet you back here. Ok?”

Caldwell nodded. Jack passed him the torch and melted back into the darkness heading for the house.

He could hear the muffled noise of voices as he got closer to the building and music floated through an open window. Were they having a party of some kind? Ducking below a large stone window sill, his back against the cold wall he caught his breath and as always made sure his phone was on silent. It had gone off years ago when he was a beat officer and was part of a five man team getting ready to smash the front door of a drug den in; never again.

He crept round to the side of the house and tried to open the first unlit window he came across. It was shut tight so he moved onto the next and the next until eventually as he was almost at the back of the house one shifted. Carefully he pushed up the heavy sash window and climbed into the dark room. His feet landed on soft carpet and he took a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the light. He was in a storeroom of some kind. There were boxes stacked against the far wall and he could see a single door illuminated by the bright strip of light beneath. He twisted the handle and slowly peered around into the room beyond.

A grotesque parody of a ballroom dance greeted him. Naked bodies covered with what looked like blood danced entwined to the graceful melody of a brass quintet. Each of their faces was hidden behind masquerade masks shaped to look like demons. As they whirled and floated across the floor, they brushed their hands against any couple they passed and another tiny wound would be added to the hundreds already present. They were holding razorblades and cutting at each other as then span and twirled. The blood ran down their glistening bodies onto the floor where tiny channels had been dug which joined together and headed towards three slowly filling pentagrams carved into the floor.

The front doors opened to admit a tall thin man dressed entirely in black who walked with his head down into the room. His bloody hands dripped onto the pristine entranceway marble and as one the crowd turned to watch as he marched over to the polished black alter at the rear of the pentagrams. His pale grey eyes scanned the room and for a moment they stopped on Jack before moving on. Content that he had their attention, he held aloft a large curved blade.

“Five it was written and five have been taken.”

Cheers erupted from the bloodied dancers and the music abruptly changed to a slow rhythmic beating. Those holding razorblades started to cut and slash at their own bodies adding to the river of gore flooding into the carved sigils beneath their stamping feet. A guttural chanting rose in waves from the spinning dervishes and Jack felt himself entranced with the archaic scene before him as it reached a deafening crescendo.

Suddenly all was quiet.

From the centre of the three pentagrams, figures of blood started to rise. Shifting liquid forms that for an instant would became whole, almost solid, before melting back into themselves. The acolytes fell to their knees in supplication as eyes blinked into existence from where heads seemed to form. Malevolent dark pits that sucked the breath from Jack as they stared deep into his soul. Bloody fingers twisted together to beckon him and he felt himself pull open the door and step through.

He was aware of his body but unable to control the movements as he felt himself drawn towards the demonic figures. The man in black who had been standing silently behind the rising shapes came forward to meet him and Jack found himself stopping just out of reach of one of the demons. Up close, Jack could make out swirling blue tattoos that covered the man’s face and shaved head; shapes that seemed to slither and writhe against the papery grey skin. The way that the others held in awe, Jack assumed he was a priest of some kind.

“So nice to have company at such a momentous occasion” he said with a small bow. “And you might be…?”

“Sergeant Jack Quinn, Westbury police department. My team have been briefed as to the situation here and are on their way. I suggest you release me now before this goes any further.”

The grey eyes held his for a fraction of second as if deliberating.

“I think not” the man said with a chuckle turning away from him. “The police as I understand it, favour fact above fiction and I can’t for one second believe that you have managed to concoct a story convincing enough to entrust to anyone else. No, I believe you to be alone Sergeant Quinn and in more trouble than you realise. “

He gestured to the demons that still seemed to struggle to maintain their structure.

“Just take a look at them, the ultimate killing machines. Separately they would cause damage beyond repair but together, as a trinity of death this cursed Earth will belong to them. Once I give them the final set of fingernails they will become one and all will bow to their power. God will fall and…”

As he paused, Jack followed his gaze to the rear of the room where smoke billowed from beneath a closed door. With a shout, one of the kneeling figures ran to the door and pulled it open.

The air seemed to be sucked from the room as the fireball engulfed the man, his screams instantly cut short as his charred body fell to the floor. Others started to rise and the priest screamed at them to close the doors and contain the flames. As they moved towards the blackened body, their hands came up to protect them for the searing heat which kept them at bay.

Through the billowing smoke Jack caught a glimpse of Caldwell running across the other side of the large Hall. The demons seemed agitated at the disturbance, reaching out for the priest to release them from their shackles. More shouts arose as other fires were spotted and the room became a mass of confusion as people looked for ways to calm the flames which threatened to surround them. Jack watched in horror as a shrieking woman ventured too close to one of the pentagrams and liquid claws dragged her into their bloody grasp. The demon howled in rage as it tore her in half and threw her limp remains against the wall.

Jack backed away from the bloodied heap and realised he was once again able to move of his own volition now that the demons were distracted. He instantly scanned the room for the priest and found him as he grabbed for a package on the alter. He reached inside and across the room Jack could see the madness in his face as he pulled free the broken nails that would complete the summoning. With a triumphant cry the priest pulled back his arm just as the Maglite smashed against his skull. He crumpled to the floor as behind him Caldwell dropped the torch, fell to his knees and threw up.

The cry of anguish that came from within the pentagrams filled the room as the demons twisted and stretched against their invisible bindings. The flames licked at their feet and Jack could feel their hatred pulsing into him. Again he felt his muscles start to tighten until unsteady hands pulled him away.

“They can only control those that hold their gaze” Caldwell said, wiping his mouth with his cardigan sleeve. “Oh God, what have I done? That man with those tattoos...I think I've killed him”

Jack moved across to the body careful not to glance at the raging demons and felt for a pulse; nothing. Removing the priest's cloak he kicked the scattered nails away from the body and hurried back. The flames were all around them and the thick smoke made it difficult to breathe.

“Don't worry about him, we need to get out of here. What do we do about those things; we can't leave them to get free?”

Caldwell started to move towards the windows on the far side of the hall.

“The ceremony is incomplete; they are stuck between their realm and ours. There's nothing they can do now except retreat back to where they came from. Let them burn.”

They raced across to the large sash windows where the heat had started to blister the paintwork and using the priest's cloak to protect his arm, Jack smashed through the panes and they clambered out into the cool night air to a cacophony of sirens and flashing blue lights.

“I thought perhaps it might be wise to call for a little help” Caldwell said as he collapsed onto the damp grass.

They sat wrapped in blankets on the tailgate of an ambulance watching the fire-fighters futile attempts to dampen the flames that licked at the old house. Officers had bundled the naked, shivering acolytes that had escaped the inferno into vans. The clean up of the many others that had not been so lucky would begin tomorrow. Jack turned to the pale shivering man beside him shaking his head at the bravery it must have taken for him to act in spite of the fear.

A phrase long since forgotten came to mind and he smiled as he recalled the words.

And the meek shall inherit the Earth.

Heart of Darkness

Simon felt the gentle breeze play along his neck as he gazed out upon the low hills of the Malebo Pool plains stretching far into the distance towards the pink sky. He closed his eyes and contemplated his place in a World where such beauty could coexist with such atrocity. The war had claimed the blood of almost five million souls and no end was in sight; truly this was Africa’s, ‘Heart of Darkness’. Twisting the rosary beads between his fingers he turned back towards the large stone building to ready himself for Morning Prayer.

“So are you coming?” Joseph asked as Simon placed his robes in the wooden chest by his bed. “Yes, yes. Wait for me outside. I’ll just grab my bag and we’ll go.” Simon had only arrived at the mission a few months ago and almost immediately Joseph had been harrying him to travel to the lowland forests of the Cuvette Centrale and spread the word of Christ to the pygmy tribes that lived there. To most Congolese they were considered sub-human; at the bottom of the social scale and were routinely raided to provide slaves for the Bantu people. It was the human trafficking rather than lack of religion that had finally persuaded Simon to leave the mission unattended and agree to the trip.

The hypnotic swish of the oars as they drifted slowly downstream lent an air of peacefulness that was welcome after the constant noise and grime of the minibus they had ridden from the town at the base of Mount Mangengenge. The mountain was named after the Lingala word for shining. Did anything shine here? He still could not believe how many people had managed to cram into the decrepit thing and that bloody goat had eaten right through the side of his bag which was now in the steady hands of Joseph as he attempted repairs.  The porters were chatting animatedly with the guide and although he knew a little of the language, the speed with which they spoke meant that he soon gave up trying to find a way into the conversation and settled down to sleep.

The sudden jolt woke him and he found that they were up against a muddy riverbank and attempting to secure a line so he scrambled to his feet and hopped onto the shore to lend a hand. Once they had unloaded, the guide tramped ahead and started off through the forest calling for them to follow. They set up camp in a clearing a couple of hours before dusk and sat around the fire discussing the day to follow when they would arrive at the village. “They will be wary of us all, especially you my friend” Joseph said as he turned the roasting rat. “They will not have seen a white skin before and it is difficult to know how they will react.” Simon nodded as he stared into the flames. “God will find a way” he muttered. In the darkness Joseph shook his head smiling sadly to himself and continued to turn the charred rodent.

The tribesmen stood to one side, machetes in hand silently watching as the group walked into the village. A circle of simple structures with groups of women huddled beside them surrounded a central building where a small man, no larger than four feet in height stood patiently waiting. Joseph moved towards him and muttered something before kneeling in the dust in supplication. Simon felt a flash of anger as he saw the awe in which this man was held but stopped himself as he remembered he was here not to preach but to save. The man softly touched Joseph on the head and beckoned him to his feet. He shouted an order to the warriors surrounding them who lowered their weapons and started to disperse. “The chieftain welcomes us” Joseph said with a smile. “We will feast with them this night and work will begin tomorrow”.

That evening they were offered honoured seats either side of the chieftain and again Simon winced as Joseph bowed and fawned in thanks to the head man. Only God commands such respect. He decided to speak to him about it in the morning. The meal began with the low steady chanting of the village shaman; a spectral image as his naked body covered in a white chalky paste writhed in the firelight. The hundreds of metal rings hanging from his body clashed in time with his voice as he reached for the sky; reached for his God. From all around them drums started to pound; the energy seeping into every person present to become a single throbbing heartbeat. The noise intensified and villagers from the edges of the fire started to spin and contort; their hands clasping long knives as they moved into the light. Moans and shrieks filled the air as they pulled the blades across their glistening bodies; blood smattered the crowd as they twisted and turned, ever faster whirling with the incessant beat as it grew and intensified until at a crescendo…it stopped.

The echo of the beat still sighed gently in Simon’s ears and as he looked around at the expectant faces, he saw the wide eyes focussed on him and him alone. He turned in confusion to Joseph who was now facing him. “Pass me your beads” Joseph whispered “it has always been so.” Fear started to grow in his stomach as he passed over the rosary and watched Joseph place it at the chieftain’s feet. Gnarled hands reached down and placed the beads around a neck heavy with countless others that hung there. The chieftain smiled at Simon and reached for a pair of wickedly curved knives that hung from his belt. “What’s going on? Where’s the food?” Simon asked bewildered.
   
“As it has always been, it shall always be” Joseph said as the group started to advance “The Mission provides.”