Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  Tom had to re-holster his gun when he realised he needed both hands to brace himself against the stone walls. He carried on, leaping and skipping crazily down the steps. He was dizzy and nauseous but he kept running.

  The screaming did not stop.

  He stumbled and almost fell. He paused and took a breath. There was dust in his lungs. The staircase felt cramped; the walls were oppressing him. He carried on more slowly, but he was giddy now. He felt as if he was falling as he continued his journey downwards.

  Then it felt as if was walking upwards, even though his legs were moving down. Something was out of kilter with his sense of direction. What’s more his head seemed to be lower than his feet, even though he wasn’t upside down. But still he kept trudging down, one step at a time, both palms touching the wall. Either his inner ear was being affected, affecting his perception of up and down; or reality itself was tipping and tottering.

  And still the screaming did not stop.

  He had walked down an entire level now, and he pushed through the doorway that led out to the Whispering Gallery.

  Once there he stood and swayed. And blinked. It was bright as day. No gloom, no shadows. The curving walls of the Whispering Gallery shone like gold in a furnace. The noise of frenzied crackling flames echoed in sweeping circles around the inner dome of the gallery of whispers.

  Tom stopped and braced himself against a chair. He puked; that helped. He stamped his feet, to remind himself where the ground was. He trod slowly down the aisle of the gallery until he reached the lip. And he stood below the calm and rational ceiling murals of Thornhill, lit with flames like Dürer’s vision of Hell, and grasped the rail and stared down.

  The formerly dark and dank cathedral was illumined by burning fire as intense as the flash of an atom bomb. The now-visible monsters in the air spiralled crazily like swirling sparks from a bonfire. And the Creation mosaics above the choir glittered in ruby and gold, out-shining even the bright white fire that had killed the dark.

  Far below him in the Crossing of the Cathedral was the origin of the light: a tall pillar of golden flame that staggered from here to there, like a drunk who has set his clothes on fire. It was from the pillar of fire that the screaming emanated.

  Tom was awed. He guessed that the burning pillar was Herneith. Something had gone wrong, she must have knocked upon the wrong door. He took out his e-berry and set it to Camera mode, and photographed the event on live link to the MIR.

  ‘DC Tom Derry, from St Paul’s Cathedral, this I believe is the Metropolitan Police Confidential Informant Herneith ablaze with mystic fire. Are you getting this, guys?’

  ‘We’re getting it. Tom, get the fuck out of there,’ Gina snapped. ‘We don’t have room for heroes on this squad.’

  ‘I’m not a hero, just a copper. Just let me do my job, Boss, okay?’ said Tom. A line he’d over-rehearsed in his head for decades.

  Even down the phone line, Tom could hear Gina sigh.

  Tom realised that it was cold. Not bitterly so. Just devoid of heat of the kind you expect to feel in the vicinity of such an intense source of fire. Another disconnect. But though the fire was mystic, Herneith’s pain was all too real. And her shrieks of agony echoed in the cavernous basilica.

  ‘What is it?’ said Catriona’s voice on his e-berry. ‘What could cause a thing like that?’

  ‘I have some thoughts on that very question,’ Tom admitted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d rather not proffer an opinion at this juncture.’

  ‘Juncture?’ said Cat, accusingly. ‘Just spit it out, you twat. What gives?’

  There was a long grating screech. A flying demon shaped like a raven but with a lion’s mane and claws swooped towards Tom, clipping him, and knocking him off balance a moment.

  He got his balance back. He was annoyed.

  ‘Look, the demons are going crazy here. I’m going to get out before –’

  It occurred to him: That shouldn’t have happened. Demons aren’t supposed to be able to hurt huma -

  Another black flying demon plummeted towards Tom. Its malicious intent was undeniable; so Tom took a step back and drew his gun and fired. There was a SCREECH sound. And a terrible and turbulent silver ball appeared in the air, writhing and cursing and shrinking and growing, like quicksilver whipped with flails; then it was gone. A hell beast had been extirpated.

  Tom’s best guess now was: The mystic flames are blocking or interfering with the warlock binding spells. Which means, these creatures are free to slay me...

  Another flying demon came from nowhere and shrieked and its claws tore at his face and he felt his eyeball being plucked out.

  It happened in an instant. Tom dropped both e-berry and gun. The demon flickered back, and hovered in mid-air, roaring with rage. He saw it peeringly, through his one remaining eye. The creature was joined by two hovering companions, one shaped like a bat, the other like nothing Tom had ever seen. They hissed and roared their rage at Tom. And then –

  Without hesitation he ducked and picked up his gun again, and began shooting silver bullets at them. Two flying demons exploded, and silvered souls died with a screech like fingernails of steel down a marble blackboard. The third whirled away, dripping black bile from its ripped body.

  Tom touched his face with his left hand, his fingers explored the empty socket. He gulped, with dawning dismay. But at the same time, he felt a glow of pride. Even with one eye, his aim was -

  A further blackness descended from the upper reaches of the Dome and he saw a flock of flying demons was heading straight towards him.

  Tom turned and ran. He was almost at the door when he felt claws tear at his back and he carried on, and pushed upon the door and slammed it shut behind him.

  Some of the creatures had followed him through. He was in the narrow stairwell with three or more tiny black demons flapping at his face and biting his body with their sharp dagger-beaks. It was his worst nightmare made real. Tom wept and thrashed his hands pathetically, then remembered he had a gun and fired and fired again and felt his eardrums explode, and fired again. And finally he saw the last demon was down and splattered, its soul dying in spasms, its corpse melting from within as the anointed silver bullets oozed out their curse.

  Tom put a fresh clip in his Glock and programmed the bullets to dum-dum by adjusting the gun butt’s computer.

  As he did this, the smell of the dead demons reached out and smote him. The stench of sorrow and despair they unleashed was far worse than the touch of his dead grandmother’s hand on his cheek, that day she came back to life.

  He wanted not to breathe but he had to.

  He was feeling dizzy.

  He took a breath and his breath turned to vomit in his mouth. He tried to puke the vomit out but he couldn’t. It felt as if the walls were closing in on him, crushing him.

  He tried again to spit out his puke, but instead his tongue got caught in his throat, and for a moment he was afraid he was going to swallow it.

  The wooden door behind him was shaking and splinters were flying from it. Tom forced himself to banish the fear that was disabling him. Monsters were coming for him; he had to escape. It was that simple.

  Monsters are coming. Run like fuck.

  He stepped over the liquidic corpses of the former bird-demons and stumbled down the stone steps, heading down towards the nave.

  After a few moments he was exhausted and he wanted to stop, but he forced himself on.

  Then he did stop. As he realised his utter folly. He was heading into the fire.

  He turned around and trudged back up the steps. Two steps at a time. One hand on the rail, the other in the air, clutching at the wall every time his orientation reversed and up became down. The walls were still closing in on him.

  He continued trudging, trying not to think because he knew that thought would lead to panic. Up the narrow, winding staircase, his throat as dry as ash, his clothes drenched in vomit, his wounds burning. The eyelid above his empty socket
was swelling up. The socket was oozing pus mixed with blood.

  He heard a crashing sound behind him, and guessed that the door to the Whispering Gallery had finally smashed open, and he heard a vast shoal of flapping noises behind him. He knew with unutterable despair that the monsters were behind him and he could not escape them. This ascending corridor of cold stone would be his crypt.

  But he banished the despair once again. And he told himself that this could not be happening. This could not be the ending to the epic story that was his life.

  Tom’s heart pounded. His skin was clammy. His eye stung even though he didn’t have it anymore. And he forgot his sense of balance entirely at one point and began clambering up the stone steps on his hands and knees like a toddler that does not know how to use its legs.

  Finally he reached the door to the outer gallery and staggered out. He got to his feet, and was once again standing on a gallery outside the Dome of St Paul’s.

  The fresh air braced him, and the absence of black hellebore incense in his lungs came as a blessed relief. He slammed the door shut, and wept tears of relief. The blue sky was gone and stars were out now and the moon was full.

  The sound of thunder from the beating wings behind the door echoed and made the walls of the cathedral shake. The lantern was still mystically ablaze and Tom felt the blistering effect again. He moved closer to the rail, away from the fire. The monsters were still crashing against the door. He feared it would break.

  It began to break. By his reckoning it had taken them nine minutes to destroy the previous door. But this was faster.

  He breathed the clear cold air. He admired the moon’s fullness. He looked at the buildings of London and remembered how much he had loved them.

  Two minutes had elapsed since the bird-demons started to attack the door. He had, he reckoned, three more minutes to live at most.

  Tom walked around the ledge that wrapped the dome, admiring the view of a city lit for mile upon mile by electric bulbs and car headlights; listing silently to himself the London landmarks he had never seen and museums he had never visited.

  Two minutes left.

  A door panel shattered. He revised his mental estimates; losing an entire minute of life in an instant.

  Tom tried to remember and grade the enjoyable experiences he’d had in his short life, but all he could think was: This is wrong. I haven’t started yet. I’m too young to bloody die.

  He endeavoured to have a moment of profound insight but failed. All his thoughts in the moments before his death were, he realised, rank clichés. It was pathetic.

  Thirty seconds.

  Twenty seconds.

  The banging was louder. The screeching of demon birds made his already burst eardrums resonate painfully.

  Nothing to lose now.

  As the door finally splintered, Tom ran forwards and threw himself off the rail and tumbled over in a bad forward roll, and began to plummet downwards. As he fell he raised his arms out, and felt the wind slapping him like angry fists. He tried to straighten out his legs to streamline his body but failed, so he just closed his eyes and gave up. He knew he was going to die. He embraced his fate.

  But then, instead of dying, he flew.

  Chapter 17

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ said Dougie.

  After getting the call from Catriona in the car park, Dougie had thundered up the stairs to the MIR, and found the team at panic stations.

  ‘St Paul’s is on fire,’ Catriona said. ‘Mystic fire. No actual flames, but it’s lit up like a beacon. The fire sensors are on overload, the walls are apparently hot to the touch and fatal to humans. Two tourists are dead. The fire brigade are on their way, together with a couple of Grey-Beards, we hope.’

  Dougie looked around the incident room. ‘Tom? Is he -’

  ‘He’s inside,’ said Gina.

  ‘Inside what?’ said Dougie.

  ‘The cathedral.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I just spoke to him. He’s been attacked I think, or was too close to the flames, he threw away his e-berry. But before that, he sent us these images,’ Gina said.

  Catriona screened Tom’s e-berry camera footage of Herneith as a pillar of flame. Dougie studied it.

  ‘Shit,’ he eventually concluded.

  ‘Guv,’ said Gina.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Did Herneith –’

  ‘She caught fire, we had no intel from her prior to that. My guess is -’ said Cat, shrugging.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Square one,’ said Gina.

  ‘Not even square one,’ said Cat. ‘Ground zero. We’re all out of investigatory options. What the fuck are we going to –’

  Dougie shook his head.

  ‘Foster mum,’ he reminded her.

  Gina looked guilty. ‘Yeah, sure. It’s a long shot, mind, but –’

  ‘It’s a line of investigation. Put it on the board.’

  ‘I’ve done some preliminary work,’ said Lisa Aaronovich, and immediately went up many notches in Dougie’s estimation.

  ‘Keep going.’

  Lisa went heads down. She started typing. Catriona also typed madly, and Actioned Vincent and John and Hyun-Shik and Alice to start reading all the documents relating to foster parenting since Mammon’s Edict.

  ‘Guys, read your Actions,’ she yelled across the room. The Junior Document Readers didn’t have desks in their new temporary home; they were sitting on folding chairs next to the pool cues.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Reading now.’

  Hyun-Shik said nothing; he was too busy reading.

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘I’m reading about mystic fire.’

  ‘Go boy, go.’

  Dougie waited until he could feel his machine was once more running properly. Then he smiled. His earlier doubts had vanished. He was, once again, sure of his ground.

  ‘This opens up a whole new LOI,’ he suggested.

  ‘It’s an avenue for sure,’ agreed Gina, not getting his drift.

  ‘Good call, though, Sean Gogarty,’ agreed Alliea Cartwright.

  ‘I still argue the rogue demon will have disposed of Gogarty by now,’ said Seamus. ‘If it’s possessing or controlling someone else, no wonder we can’t find the bloody thing.’

  Dougie shrugged; bored with that argument.

  ‘Like looking for a needle in a tailor’s shop.’ That was Taff.

  Dougie shook his head, still dismissive. And then he waited, till he had their undivided attention.

  ‘What?’ said Gina, at length.

  ‘Not just a new approach, a whole new line of investigation. ABC,’ Dougie insisted.

  ‘Not with you, guv,’ said Gina.

  ‘LOI-1: the first victim’s parents.’ Dougie counted them off with his fingers. He began pacing. ‘Quickly discounted. LOI-2: Suspects: the first victim’s friends and lovers and enemies. Then we had a second killing and we put all our energy into LOI-3: suspect, human serial killer. Then it all got weird, and we went to LOI-4: a demon serial killer, possessory or shapeshifting. Which somehow cast off its spell-binding to become a monsterly bastard on Earth. That’s where we stand. Our current working hypothesis. But I don’t buy it. It’s all crap. New surmise: Everything we know is wrong.’

  There was a difficult silence.

  Dougie stopped pacing, to give the team a chance to stare at him incredulously.

  Then he took out his jammer and scanned for surveillance devices in the Incident Room. There were none but the silence grew still more awkward.

  ‘We’re clean,’ said Andy, glancing up. He was ex- Crime Squad; he always checked.

  Dougie looked at his team.

  Vincent, Alice and Hyun-Shik were over by the pool cues.

  Cat Okoro, Andy Homerton, Gina, Alliea Cartwright, Victoria Howe, Lisa Aaronovich, Tony Williamson, Taff, Ronnie Tindale and Shai Hussain were at their desks, pulled together to make an impromptu briefing table
in this makeshift MIR. All of them were looking at him, waiting for a clue about his intentions.

  This was the moment. Conspiracy theory time.

  ‘If it’s not human, and it’s not demon,’ said Gina. ‘Then - oh – what the fuck.’ She shut up, baffled.

  ‘Give,’ said Catriona, staring at Dougie.

  ‘It’s not the demon, are we agreed?’ Dougie said calmly.

  ‘No, we are not.’ That was Catriona.

  ‘Well I’m agreed. Forget what Roy the Boy said,’ said Dougie. ‘It’s not the demon. It’s Gogarty. It always was.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Alliea.

  Dougie shrugged. ‘He’s evil. I felt it. We all did. Evil in the way that evil humans are - evil.’

  Dougie had encountered his first serial killer when he was twenty-two years old.

  He was just a rookie PC then. Stuck in an interview room with a man who had raped and killed numerous children. Dougie was baby-sitting the prisoner while his boss the DS was off having a piss.

  To Dougie’s astonishment, without any prompting, the killer had opened up to him. Confessing all to a uniformed cop he’d never seen before. Dougie had tried to silence him, he warned him he should have a lawyer present. But in the end, Dougie had put his mobile phone on to ‘Record’ and he had listened.

  John Steptoe was the killer’s name. He was a school teacher. A primary school teacher. A nice ordinary looking man with an easy going manner, and a smiling face. Steptoe had tried to win Dougie’s confidence, and his respect. He told a funny story about a school trip that had gone embarrassingly wrong – a child had got trapped in the toilets at Alton Towers and it took two men to break the door down. It was indeed a funny story and Steptoe told it well.

  But when Steptoe had laughed at his own jokes, there was no laughter in his eyes. And his gestures were big, expansive, as if he were acting being himself. Dougie had spotted that, and been puzzled by it, long before he knew it was a clinical symptom of psychopathy.

  Steptoe had told his lurid tales. He was on his third murder confession when DS McBride returned. And then he’d clammed up. But they had enough. They couldn’t use the confession as evidence, because it was not conducted under PACE rules. But Steptoe had given Dougie chapter and verse about where the bodies had been dumped.