by Chris Simms
Jon looked at him and thought of his brother and sister. This thing, he thought, this piece of shit, destroyed my family. He stepped clear of the flailing arms, then drove a fist into the side of Water’s skull. The priest’s head snapped to the side and he hit the grass once more. This time he didn’t move.
Jon bounded over to Rick, wrapped his arms round the stake and started pulling with all his might. Looking down, he could see the fire was now on the lower part of Skye’s nightie, tongues licking the flimsy material. He slammed himself against the heavy wood once again and with a creaking sound the stake finally began to fall. A last shove toppled it completely and together they dragged her clear, fell across her legs and smothered the fire with their bodies.
After a couple of seconds Rick raised himself up. ‘It’s out.’ The scattered remains of the pyre were burning brightly in the grass, shadows dancing over the courtyard walls. Beyond them another fire burned more steadily.
‘Waters!’ Rick gasped, jumping to his feet.
Jon raised his blistered fingers and used his partner’s sleeve to pull himself upright.
‘Our jackets,’ Rick said, trying to shrug his off. ‘We’ll use our jackets!’
Jon didn’t loosen his grip. ‘Don’t bother.’
‘You what?’ Rick said, still trying to pull his arm free.
‘Look at him,’ Jon replied, turning to the priest. What remained of the thick brown robe now seemed to have melted into the bubbling flesh below. ‘He’s dead.’
Rick stopped struggling. ‘What happened? He got to his feet, didn’t he?’
Jon looked up at the spire that towered above them. Just visible at its very tip was a thin cross. ‘Fuck knows,’ he replied.
‘I was more interested in trying to save her.’
He crouched down and started trying to scoop her up in his arms. ‘Make the call will you? She needs a hospital.’
Epilogue
Jon’s eyes followed the thin tube that hung down from the small sack of clear fluid. It curled across the bed covers before disappearing under the large plaster on Skye Booth’s forearm.
‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ he asked, as he struggled to open his notebook.
‘I think so,’ she smiled, eyes dropping to Jon’s hands. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
He glanced at the gauze bandages covering them. ‘I’ll manage. My writing might be a little hard to read though. So Valerie Evans was a member of your coven?’
‘Yes. He – that priest – was trying to destroy it. But each of us only knows the name of two other members, the person who introduced you and the person you introduced.’
‘And, in your case, Valerie introduced you?’ Skye nodded.
‘And so Troy Wilkes introduced her?’
‘No. We don’t have any male members. I can’t understand why Troy gave Valerie’s name.’
Rick stirred in the seat by the door. ‘Did Troy have any idea that Valerie was a witch? Maybe from the fact they were colleagues at the Psychic Academy?’
Skye considered the comment. ‘She would never have said anything.’
‘Maybe she didn’t need to. She taught the Way of Wicca course for a start. She also offered tarot readings. Call it an educated guess on his part.’
‘I suppose so,’ she sighed. ‘But why then did the priest go for
Troy in the first place?’
‘Ben Waters had an intense hatred of non-Christians,’ Rick replied. ‘It was something he hid very well, but we believe, when he actually found a Satanist trying to burn down his church, that control left him completely. We think that, after killing Luke Stevens, he thought he was on some sort of divine mission. Next he focused on the Psychic Academy, which he saw as a breeding ground for Satanic beliefs. If Troy Wilkes wasn’t a member of the coven, my guess is that he was just unlucky enough to be the first person Waters was able to snatch.’
Jon nodded. ‘And not being a member of the coven, he could only give Valerie’s name.’
Skye closed her eyes and leaned against the pillows piled up behind her. ‘And then Valerie gave Waters my name.’
‘That’s it,’ Rick clicked his fingers. ‘Because Troy Wilkes drowned having only given Valerie’s name, Waters could only follow the chain of coven members one way – and that was to you.’
Jon looked at her. ‘In the cell Waters had occupied at the monastery, we found a piece of paper advertising a medium called Helena Hunt.’
Skye winced and tears were squeezed from her eyes.
Jon leaned forward and placed a hand over hers. ‘You had no choice.’
‘He was torturing me,’ she whispered. ‘Stabbing me with this spike. I tried so hard not to tell him anything.’
‘Skye,’ Rick said quietly. ‘Are you sure you want to carry on?’
She wiped the tears off her cheeks. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us when you introduced Helena Hunt to the coven?’
‘I didn’t. It was my turn, but I haven’t introduced anyone, yet.’
Jon and Skye’s glances met. Ellie. A few days later, Jon thought, and you would have been giving Waters my sister’s name. He looked down at his notebook.
Rick was now frowning. ‘So how did you know Helena was in your coven?’
‘Luck. I knew her identity because of psychic evenings she does in pubs around town.’
‘My God,’ Rick whispered. ‘So if Waters had got to her, he could have forced out more names—’
‘Skye,’ Jon blurted out, trying to stop Rick from completing the sentence. ‘It was incredible you lasted as long as you did.’
She lowered her head. ‘The room he kept me in. Where was it in the monastery?’
‘In a side wing the monks used to live in. Near the end of the corridor.’
‘Yes.’ she murmured. ‘I could always hear his footsteps approaching.’ Her hand clasped the neck of her pyjama top.
‘How long was I there for? My memory seems to cut out after a while,’
‘Almost two days,’ Rick said.
‘In that room, tied to that chair?’ Rick nodded.
‘That’s where you found me?’
‘That’s right,’ Jon cut in.
‘So what happened to you?’ Her eyes were on his bandages again.
‘There was a fire, as we tried to arrest Waters.’
Silence for a few seconds. ‘He was going to burn me, wasn’t he?’
Jon couldn’t look at her.
‘Oh God. I’m right, aren’t I? He was going to burn me. Tell me, I need to know.’
No you don’t, thought Jon. Not unless you want the same kind of nightmares that haunt me. ‘When we arrived he had some wood, yes. But as we approached him, he doused himself in petrol. We couldn’t reason with him, he was determined to set himself alight. We tried to put him out and that’s when I got burned. Skye, he wasn’t interested in you by then.’
She turned to Rick. ‘Is that what happened?’
Rick peeled his eyes from Jon. ‘Yes. He committed suicide.’
‘Skye?’ Jon asked. ‘You said there are no male members of your coven.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So Tristan Arkell has no connection with it?’
‘None.’
‘I was convinced he had a role,’ Jon muttered. ‘Did you ever have any dealings with him at the Psychic Academy?’
‘I kept well clear. There was something about the way he looked at me. Lecherous, calculating.’
You nailed him there, Jon thought.
‘He’s under arrest, isn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. We now have almost twenty pupils or ex-pupils accusing him of sexual assault.’
There was a knock at the door and Ellie peeped in, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. ‘Hi there.’
‘Ellie!’ Skye smiled. ‘I’m getting outnumbered by Spicers here.’
‘Not yet,’ Ellie replied. ‘I need something to put these in first.’
She disappeared back out of the
doorway and Jon held his hands up. ‘That’s plenty for now. We’ll leave you to catch up with Ellie.’
As he stood, Skye pointed at his notebook. ‘The stuff about what Waters was doing. Does Helena need to know? I mean, I feel so . . .’
Jon shook his head. ‘No one does.’ He glanced meaningfully at the door. ‘all of this conversation, it can remain between us.’
Ellie reappeared with the flowers in a plastic jug.
‘Good,’ Skye said quietly.
‘What’s good?’ Ellie asked.
Jon stepped away from the bed. ‘Skye’s progress. She’ll be out of here in no time. We’ve got to go. You coming round ours tonight?’
Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘The big reconciliation with Mum.’
‘Come on Ellie, she’s apologised.’
‘She hasn’t. She says she regrets her words. She hasn’t said sorry.’
Jon widened his eyes at her.
‘OK, OK. I’ll come.’
‘Nice one,’ he said, stepping out into the corridor, then craning his head back round the door. ‘And we’re agreed? Religion is off the bloody menu?’
‘Absolutely.’
Jon and Rick walked towards the lifts.
‘I wonder where the Psychiatric Unit is in this place,’ Rick said.
Jon knew. His wife had almost ended up in it the previous year. He thought of Peter Robson. The young man was pretty much catatonic when the doctor had sectioned him. ‘The other side of the grounds. Tucked well away.’
There was a ping, the lift doors opened and they stepped in.
‘Daniel Humphries is applying for jobs on cruise ships,’ Rick said. ‘I spoke to his mum earlier.’
‘With that bloody thing on his forehead?’ Jon said incredulously.
‘No, his folks are paying for it to be removed,’ Rick replied with a grin. ‘Serberos Tavovitch is officially no more.’
‘He’s lucky to have been let off so lightly,’ Jon replied. In their last interview with the singer, he’d told them all about Luke Stevens, how the lad had hung around at their concerts. Eventually Pete Robson had invited him backstage and the two had struck up a weird kind of friendship. With glass fragments from the third and fourth churches now having been found on Pete’s clothing, it appeared the two had begun working together. It was everybody’s guess that Robson had got out of the window that night at The Sacred Heart – carrying the knowledge of what Waters had done to Luke with him.
They reached the hospital’s reception and walked out to the car park. ‘So what’s in store for Robson senior?’ Rick asked.
Jon raised his chin and drank in the sight of the blue sky above. ‘Kidnap, false imprisonment, three counts of GBH, several of ABH, possibly attempted murder. I’d say he’s looking at ten to fifteen. A good few years of not picking up the soap in the showers anyway.’
Rick laughed. ‘Can you imagine him inside? Surrounded by blasphemers, adulterers, sodomites and murderers.’
Jon grinned. ‘His own pesonal purgatory. By the way, can you drop me off in town? There’s something I need to sort out.’
The lawns to the side of the Cathedral were empty, so Jon trotted down the steps to the entrance of the Booth Centre. The wooden door was slightly ajar and he could hear voices inside. Laughter. Coughing. The chink of spoons in cups.
He stepped inside. The living skeletons were sitting round two tables, mugs of tea and plates of biscuits before them. ‘Anyone seen Dave?’
Dead eyes and gaunt faces looked at him for a moment before turning away in silence. Jon was about to step back outside when a gruff voice said, ‘The car park. Back of The Great Northern.’ He looked to his side. The arsehole with the baseball cap. The one Dave refused to pay more than twelve quid to for the mountain bike.
‘And when you see him,’ he added. ‘Give him a slap from me.’
A biscuit hit the side of the man’s head.
‘Fucking grass! Zip it.’
Jon turned to see where the missile had come from. Wet crumbs were caught in the old piss head’s overgrown stubble.
‘Fuck yourself,’ Baseball Cap snarled, scooping up a biscuit of his own and hurling it across the room.
‘Ya cunt!’ a custard cream was slung back.
‘Please! Please! Gentlemen, please!’ The man who ran the place positioned himself between the tables as platefuls began to fly about.
Jon closed the door behind him and cut down on to Deansgate, heading for the massive building that once served as a warehouse for Great Northern Railways. Now it housed shops, glitzy bars and a multiplex cinema. Soon he was striding past a ticket booth, heading for the doors leading to the overhead walkway that connected to the rear car park. Halfway across, two private security guards emerged through the double doors on the other side. The older held a dustpan and brush.
Jon raised his warrant card. ‘Have you seen a young male? Six foot tall, skinny, shaved head, Probably up to no good.’
‘We chased a group off five minutes ago. Hanging about in the toilets.’
‘Where’d they go?’
The man shrugged. ‘Back to the sewers.’ He held up the dustpan. ‘After leaving us with a few syringes to clear up. Scum.’
Jon looked to the car park. It was no good. He’d be long gone by now. ‘Cheers.’
He turned round and went back into the main building, walking slowly towards the escalators that led down to the main entrance. Halfway along the spotless corridor, his phone went. Alice’s name was on the screen. ‘Hi babe. Everything OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’s that girl of ours?’
‘She’s fine. Playing with the saucepans out of the cupboards. Can’t you hear her?’
Jon listened. The sounds of metal clashing against metal were punctuated by high-pitched shouts of delight. He grinned. ‘The little monkey.’
‘Where are you?’
‘City centre.’
‘Good. Can you pick up some wine on the way home? We’re out of red and your dad won’t touch white.’
‘No problem. Anything else?’
‘Depends. Is Ellie going to tell your mum about the Sunday school stuff ? Because if she is, you can get a bottle of brandy for me.’
‘No. We agreed to steer well clear.’
‘For the moment or permanently?’
‘It’s Ellie’s shout,’ Jon replied, shortening his stride and putting a foot on the top step of the escalator. He began to move forward.
‘But she’ll say something sometime?’
He placed a hand on the rubber rail. ‘I don’t know. Mum’s over sixty. why destroy her affection for something she holds so dear?’
He heard his wife sigh. ‘Because it’s the truth.’
Jon looked at the other escalator alongside his. The steps were gliding upward, glass panels revealing the oil-stained cogs that revolved beneath. The truth. Would it help his mum to know it? Would it help Skye to know she’d been dragged from a burning stake? Would Alice like to hear that, rather than try to save Waters, her husband had sent the man to his death? He looked down at his knuckles. The sensation of them slamming into Waters’ temple came back and he wanted to collapse on the metal steps and curl up. ‘I don’t know, babe.’
‘Mmmm. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘Yup. Love you.’
‘Love you.’
He closed the phone, eyes on the blackened cogs as he continued his descent. No one was on the other escalator, but those wheels carried on turning just the same.
Acknowledgements
For their skills during the editing process, a massive thanks to Jane and Emma. Also to Jon for an inspired adjustment to the plot, Jade for her amazing efficiency and Robyn for her deft touch with the copy-edits.
The following, in no order of preference, were also essential in getting this book done:
Deon Webber, Fire Investigation Team Manager, Greater
Manchester Fire and Rescue Service.
John Edgley, RF Grou
p Supervisor, Jodrell Bank Observatory. (Any failings to describe the CMB properly are all my own!)
Tony Hurley, David Gray and everyone at The Angels, Manchester.
Nessy, for all your Morse-like knowledge.
The ideas behind the story
In Hell’s Fire, DI Jon Spicer is on a particularly easy trail to follow; the criminal he’s chasing leaves churches burning in his wake. But with the fourth attack, a badly-burned corpse is found in the smoking ruins.
The novel looks at the decline of Christianity in this country, a phenomenon reflected in falling congregations and the boarding-up of many churches.
Also of concern is what’s replacing the traditional Sunday service as people seek spiritual fulfilment of one sort or another. In recent years, New Age beliefs have become incredibly popular. Spiritual Colleges are popping up all over the country – and internet – where pupils can, for a fee, learn about such things as crystal-healing, tarot or palmistry. Some even conduct séances where you can contact dead relatives through the (college supplied) spirit medium.
Pagan religion is also enjoying a renaissance. Witchcraft – or Wicca as it’s now known - pre-dates Christianity and was ruthlessly stamped out as the Church established itself in Britain.
Many in the Christian faith are still alarmed over the influence of anything magical. Vicars frequently speak out against the perniciousness of things such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer or even that sinister fellow, Harry Potter.
Of course, what they really fear is people exposing themselves to the forces of Satan.
Many would agree their fears are well-founded, after-all, there is no doubt interest in the satanic is as strong now as it ever was. All you need do is listen to Death Metal music. The band names give a good indication of what it’s all about: Abomination, Angelcorpse, Blasphemy, Fallen Christ, Infernum, Necromass, Rigor Mortis, Sodom, Ungod. Pretty music, it isn’t.
DI Spicer’s investigation into whom the dead person in the fourth church was draws him into a horrifying underworld – one where worship involves committing unspeakable acts.