Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  Once, in Oregon, Gogarty had seen a great anvil shaped supercell that stole the entire sky, like the mushroom cloud from an atom bomb: a single cell cumulonimbus incas. It was, or so he wrote in his cloud diary, ‘a beautiful white brooding of air’.

  Today the sky was full of cotton wool cumulus clouds that were creamy white and billowing. One cloud resembled a horse bucking; another larger double cloud looked like a pair of fornicating donkeys (or so Gogarty fancied). And there was another cloud that was like a clown’s face, frowning. But ten minutes later, the skies had changed again; and the horse was now a rock. A white, snowy rock. And the donkeys no longer copulated; they were twin dancers moving away from each other with shy grace. And the sky that supported the creamy white clouds was a gorgeous blue; a shade of blue so pale it was like ice. He could see the moon too, the daytime moon. Silvery and pock-marked, and almost but not quite full.

  It had taken Gogarty many years to appreciate the beauty of something as simple as ‘sky’. Water, too, fascinated him; he could watch ripples for many hours. He sometimes wondered if he should take an around the world cruise, and spend his days watching the ship’s turbulent wake, marvelling at the dawns and sunsets that would bookend his days.

  Gogarty walked onwards through the park, admiring the world around him, drinking in air rich in the promise of summer heat.

  He paused and called ‘Good morning!’ to an old lady with a stylish King Charles Spaniel. He saw this old lady often on his evening and morning perambulations. She was thinner now than she’d been a year ago and, he conjectured, surely didn’t have long to live.

  He left the park, regretfully. On his way home he called in at the French patisserie and bought his usual: twenty pains au chocolat and a loaf with cheese for his lunch. The owner was André; he was a sallow skinned cheerful Frenchman in his early 30s with big hands and sculpted sideburns.

  ‘You’ll enjoy these,’ André suggested.

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘You’re having friends around?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Enjoy your day,’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  Gogarty found his regular social interaction with the Frenchman comforting. He left a fifty pence tip. He appreciated good service and fresh baking, and these moments of courteous discourse.

  Gogarty walked from Victoria Park to Ildminster Square clutching the baguette under one arm, his pastries in a paper bag, bemoaning to himself the mess the Council had made of these streets, with their endless pollarding of plane trees.

  Gogarty lived in the only pebble dashed house in an early Victorian terrace. It was the only house where the garden was unkempt, and where the wheelie bin didn’t have a purpose-built concrete kennel to house it. It was an eyesore, in short; and Gogarty loved it that way.

  He let himself in and disabled the burglar alarm and checked his spells for signs of disturbance. No visitors; no signs of magical far-seeking. He was safe, for another day.

  He made a pot of coffee in the kitchen and warmed the pains au chocolat on the little rack that rested over his toaster. Then he sliced some bread thickly and buttered it and put the lot on a tray and carried it through into the garage. There, tethered by chains to hooks in the wall next to his Multigym, was Sarah Penhall. Purple-haired, pale of face, angry, but undamaged as yet. The chains were long enough for her to move her arms and feed herself. So he slid a plate of bread over to her, taking care not to get in range of her nails and teeth, and then sat at the table and ate his brunch.

  ‘Water,’ she said faintly.

  He walked over to the mini-fridge and took out a plastic bottle of Perrier and gave it to her. As a matter of policy he never offered her coffee, though he knew the smell of it tantalised her. Hardly torture, but it still gave him a frisson.

  She sipped the water from the bottle, chains clanking as she moved her hand. She gulped the liquid down loudly. He saw her throat twitch as she swallowed. She was a lovely one, without a doubt.

  He ate eleven of the pains au chocolats and smacked his lips in appreciation and started on the bread. He poured his third coffee. He loved coffee, and he liked it strong. Once, he had consumed laudanum in comparable quantities, but the side effects of that had been unfortunate. His chloral hydrate days too were a source of regret for him. Now he stuck to red wine and coffee, and occasional snorts of crack cocaine.

  Sarah was still angry with him but trying to hide it: not successfully.

  ‘Ask me how my walk was, Mr Gogarty,’ he said, gently chiding.

  It took her a moment to realise that silence was not an option.

  ‘How was your walk, Mr Gogarty?’ she said mechanically.

  ‘Good, good. And how are you?’

  She was boiling with hate, and managed not to speak.

  ‘Why don’t you say, “I’m fine, Mr Gogarty,” ’ he suggested, kindly.

  ‘I’m fine, Mr Gogarty.’

  ‘Do you need the toilet, Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took out his key and unchained her wrists. Unfastened her leg shackles. She stood up, tottering slightly. Clearly harbouring her strength for the escape attempt she was about to make.

  ‘You may go to the toilet,’ Gogarty informed her. ‘There’s one on the ground floor, second door on the left just before the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gogarty.’

  ‘Don’t mock me, Sarah, by being polite. And don’t think you know anything about me, just because you know my name. Because it’s not my real name you see. But as a special treat, instead of making you piss in a bucket I am letting you go to the loo on your own. Do not abuse that privilege. In particular, do not attempt to exit the house by the back door, or by the front door, or by any other point of egress. Do not try to escape, for it is not allowed. Quickly now.’

  Sarah nodded, deceitfully. She walked awkwardly out of the room, her limbs stiff with the effort she was making. He knew that she was fighting his spell with every atom of her being, which was foolish but commendable. Gogarty poured another coffee. His fourth. It was a large cafetière.

  Ten minutes later Sarah returned, looking exhausted. He knew she had tried to escape.

  ‘It’s a lovely day outside,’ he told her.

  She said nothing.

  ‘Reply conversationally to my every utterance. It’s a lovely day outside.’

  ‘Is it?’ she said dully.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Yes it is. Ask me if I went to the park today.’

  ‘Did you go the park today, Mr Gogarty?’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘That must have been nice.’

  ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad.’

  ‘Sit, why don’t you. Join me.’

  Sarah sat down at the table. Rather lethargically, Gogarty felt, but he didn’t feel entitled to criticise her for poor posture. He let her smell the coffee, but still didn’t offer her one; if she had some, he’d have to make a fresh batch. But there was plenty of breakfast to go around. Even he couldn’t begrudge her a bit of that.

  ‘Have a pain au chocolat, my lovely,’ he said.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then eat.’

  Sarah’s hand was shaking. She picked up a pain, but it slipped out of her fingers on to the table.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She stared at him with haunted eyes.

  ‘Why are you trembling?’

  ‘Because – I’m afraid?’

  Her tone was mocking; that was an encouraging sign, he felt.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of what?’ she said, stunned.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of you, of course. I’m afraid you’re going to kill me.’

  He grinned. He knew that the act of grinning accentuated his facial wrinkles in an unpleasant fashion; which was why he did it.

  ‘Don’t be absurd.�
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  ‘You mean, you aren’t going to kill me?’

  He had to mull on that one. He began his twelfth pain au chocolat.

  ‘Well yes I am. But not today. Not while we’re having breakfast. What sort of monster do you think I am? Now eat.’

  She was silent; he could almost hear her thoughts whirring.

  ‘Please don’t kill me, Mr Gogarty,’ she said gently.

  He smiled indulgently. ‘I’m sorry my sweet, but I have to.’

  She paused. And a cunning expression possessed her. ‘No you don’t, Mr Gogarty. You really don’t. Trust me. You really don’t.’

  ‘Oh? And why not?’

  Her face shone. She really was a lovely young woman, he thought.

  ‘Because I’m young,’ she said persuasively. ‘And because I’ve got my life ahead of me. And because, well, because you have the power to set me free. And power is your thing, isn’t it, Mr Gogarty? Your idée fixe?’

  He blinked. Interesting approach, he thought.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? It’s what you get off on. Using your power; or not using it. Oh, and I have another reason, a fourth reason. It’s because, as well as having magical powers, as you undeniably seem to have, you’re clever. Very clever indeed. So clever you would be able to cast a spell that means I can’t ever identify you, even if I try. Memory wipe job, you see where I’m going with this? And, you know what, that really would show those fucking cops, eh! Your victim gets free and says her abductor is the spitting image of Nicholas Debussy. Or Ed Milliband! Or she says she was kidnapped by that liberal fucking has-been, Barack Obama! What a laugh that would be, eh?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Those are good reasons. All four of them.’ He was genuinely impressed. She understood him and his quirky sense of humour well.

  ‘So please. Just let me go, Mr Gogarty. Please?’

  Gogarty laughed, again. He was proud of the fact that his current body had a loud and rumbling laugh that resonated like a cello in this brick-walled garage. It was a truly beautiful laugh. That’s why he laughed so much.

  There was a time when he’d had a feeble and reedy laugh; for nearly twenty years in fact. And a high pitched voice to boot. Eventually, in despair, he’d thrown himself under a galloping horse so he could start afresh in a new body.

  ‘Yes, but what if the spell fails?’ Gogarty pointed out. ‘They do fade over time, you know. And you know quite a lot about me. My name, or at least my current alias. My habits. My appalling taste in wallpaper. What I eat for dinner. What beer I drink. What I get up to on my computer.’

  As a sideline, Gogarty ran a world wide image mailbox service for paedophiles. It paid his mortgages, and satisfied his craving for company. To thousands of men worldwide, he was ‘Uncle X’. That made him feel good.

  ‘Even if the spell fails, I won’t tell anyone,’ Sarah insisted.

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Of course you will. I’m not naïve you know. You’re just pretending to be my friend. But you’re not, not really. The minute you’re free of my enchantments, you’ll be my enemy. You’ll try and get me sent to jail. Won’t you?’

  Another cunning look came across Sarah’s face. ‘No jail could hold you, Mr Gogarty. You’re not a man, you’re a demon or a devil of some kind. So why don’t you do as I say - cast a spell so that I won’t remember you, and then cast another spell to change your appearance. Then let me go.’

  He was even more impressed. ‘I didn’t do that for any of the others. Why should I do it for you?’ he said softly.

  ‘I’ll fuck you first,’ she proffered.

  ‘You’re not my type.’

  She wept. ‘Please,’ she begged.

  Gogarty shook his head. ‘No.’

  She continued to weep.

  ‘Enough talking, eat,’ he said. She shook her head.

  ‘I command thee,’ he said, wearily.

  She looked at him. Defeated.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ he said. She opened her mouth. He broke off a piece of pain au chocolat and put it inside her mouth. He liked the touch of her tongue on his fingers, the sharp hardness of her teeth.

  She stared at him, mouth wide open, the pastry resting upon her tongue.

  ‘Now chew.’

  She chewed.

  ‘Now swallow.’

  She swallowed.

  ‘Now smile.’

  She smiled.

  ‘That was nice, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘Would you like some more?’

  ‘Yes please, thank you very much.’

  ‘Eat it yourself this time.’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  She ate another pain au chocolat, slowly and cautiously. Her eyes darting fearful looks at him every few moments.

  Gogarty realised he was taking no pleasure in this, his familiar, ritual humiliation of his victim. Normally this was one of the high spots of his day. But not today. The problem was, he liked this girl. He actually did like her. She was smart. She had spirit. She wasn’t afraid to answer back. She had talent too; he’d read some of the short film scripts she’d posted on her website and they were good. Very good indeed, in his humble opinion.

  All in all, she was a gifted and charming young woman with, potentially, a fascinating and enjoyable life ahead of her. He very much wished he could let her live. He wished he’d picked a different victim.

  Too late now.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Do you know how this works?’ Dougie asked.

  ‘Sort of,’ Julia told him.

  They were in Interview Room Four in Leman Street. It was a small room with pale blue embossed wallpaper and a view through the sash window of the bustling road outside the nick. There was a sofa, a computer, and bookshelves with mostly law books on them. No one ever read the books, but Dougie was a great believer that books in a room put people at their ease.

  ‘It’s cognitive interrogation,’ Dougie explained calmly.

  In passing, he observed that Julia was a real beauty. Unselfconscious, with no trace of vanity; but undeniably lovely. But seeing her sombre face gave him a pang, because she looked so much like her missing sister Sarah. Despite the difference in weight and the different hair colours, the resemblance was marked, and deeply unsettling.

  Sarah’s photo was now on the Five Squad Crime Wall; she had moved from the Possibles Grid to the Probable Next Victim Index. Because two days after Sarah Penhall’s name had first been drawn to Dougie’s attention, and four days after she went missing, there had been another Facebook message purporting to come from Sarah’s account.

  This one said: Dougie I love you - Sarah

  A message from the killer, to the investigating detective. Classic stuff.

  There was a strong chance, Dougie knew, that Sarah was dead already. Dead but embalmed.

  Perhaps, he had wondered, visualising it with macabre intensity, her lifeless yet perfectly preserved body now sat at the killer’s dining table every night, while he ate his ghoulish meal. And perhaps also, in time-honoured fashion, he liked to chat to her, performing both sides of the conversation. Or maybe she lay next to the killer in bed as he slept. So that the bastard could find her there, still and cold, when he awoke.

  In other words, perhaps she had become, as one of the profiling scenarios had proposed, a real life mannequin for a man who liked to live with corpses.

  However Dougie tried not to let those thoughts or images infect his smile as he spoke to Sarah’s twin sister Julia Penhall.

  ‘It’s a bit like psychotherapy,’ he explained, ‘without the therapy. I’m going to ask you to remember stuff. And you will remember, because I will ask you in a very slow and methodical way. One, careful, step, at, a, time. Because it’s all in there somewhere, in your mind. Memories never die, they just get misfiled.’ And he smiled again.

  Julia made a face; Dougie guessed it was an attempt at a return smile.

  ‘Do you think my sister is dead?’

  ‘Not necessarily.
’

  ‘But you think she will die.’

  He shrugged. ‘We have no leads.’

  ‘So you just wait. Till her body turns up.’

  He thought of various ways of sugar-coating the pill. ‘Pretty much. Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake. But he hasn’t yet.’

  ‘So I may be able to give you the clue you need.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Well then.’ She looked almost angry. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Calm down,’ he told her.

  She looked offended: ‘What do you mean? I’m not –’

  ‘I mean, make yourself calm. Do some shoulder shrugs. Or some La La La actor’s exercises. Anything, to put you in a relaxed state. That’s what I need.’

  She visibly tried to relax.

  ‘Don’t think so hard about it.’

  ‘How can I not think so hard about it? Oh this is – please, tell me about the case. How did he get hold of her?’

  Dougie paused a little while, to let some of her negative energy dissipate.

  ‘He cyber-stalks,’ Dougie said. ‘That’s his MO. Your sister has a very active presence online. We think she may have been approached by one of her Facebook Friends, who was in fact the abductor.’

  ‘The Friend who claimed to be a film producer?’

  ‘Very likely, the Facebook Friend who claimed to be a film producer.’

  ‘Have you talked to him?’

  ‘There is no film producer. The Facebook identity is fake. The page was set up via a botnet: untraceable.’

  ‘I thought it was too good to be true. Film producer! How could she be so -’ Julia broke off.

  Dougie let the pause grow. He could see that she was relaxing; talking about the truth was relaxing her.

  ‘But it may be we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Dougie said. ‘She may just have thrown a wobbly and run away from Uni. Let’s hope, eh?’

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Ask me your questions.’

  ‘What’s your sister’s middle name?’

  ‘Louise.’