Hell on Earth

by Philip Palmer

  The only truly black moments came when Sheila came home with glittering eyes and announced that she and Jacob were going to go out killing people.

  Jacob was highly accomplished at it by now. He almost prided himself on his skill with a garrotte and a knife. He had killed nearly six hundred and forty-three human beings in the course of the last year. He wrote the names of his victims in his journal, when he knew their names. Otherwise he just described them in general terms: ‘Indigent No. 24.’ ‘Prostitute No. 16’. ‘Clubber No. 127’, and so forth.

  He killed many homeless people as they slept under bridges or in cardboard boxes. There were a lot of them in South London and especially Peckham now, after the thermobaric bombs of ten years ago had demolished so many of the buildings. That was prime killing territory. Sometimes he travelled west, or north. Sometimes he culled the streets of Central London.

  He and Sheila often lurked outside clubs for their victims. Night clubs and satyr clubs and lap dancing clubs and gentlemen’s clubs of the even sleazier than lap dancing clubs variety. There were clubs on virtually every High Street these days, and come 4am the streets were thronging with drunk or drugged clubbers staggering home. He became adept at spotting the idiots who were going to try and walk rather than using taxis or shuttle buses, and he would follow them. He killed fifteen people one night that way; seven of them girls. His favourite method was to throw his voice and call for help, impersonating a woman being raped or a man being beaten up. Then he would wait as his victims panicked and ran away from the voice and towards him.

  And then the slaying would begin.

  Before they died, Sheila would always kiss the victim on his or her lips. And at those moments Jacob could sense a – something. A dimming and a brightening, both at the same time. He thought it might have something to do with the passing over of the victim’s soul.

  Some of the bodies were butchered by Jacob, according to Sheila’s precise instructions, and their organs removed and stored in jars which were kept in the basement of their big rambling South London house. Jacob spent many hours writing out labels, so Sheila would have a clear record of which organ belong to which victim. She was a stickler for that.

  That’s what Jacob had done to the first victims, the homeless couple he had killed last year, the ones whose bodies he’d stuffed in a trunk and thrown into the river. He’d harvested and stored their organs: two hearts, two livers, two spleens, large chunks of large intestine, two cerebellums, a uterus and a penis, all kept and catalogued.

  Jacob would often kill his victims by cupping their head in his huge palm, and squeezing the skull until the brain erupted. Other times, he would slash the throat with a knife, or break the neck of his prey with his two strong hands. Only twenty per cent of his kills, roughly, were eviscerated; many had no post mortem mutilations at all. At least one hundred and thirty-six of his murders were written off as accidental deaths or pub fights. Young people these days did tend to drink and take dark incense a lot - whether out of despair or a simple addiction to narcotic highs Jacob didn’t know. So the death toll from partying and clubbing was already alarmingly high, and Jacob slyly added to it.

  After every night of killing Sheila-Gogarty and Jacob would find an all-hours pub and toast their victories. She had to buy the rounds, though, in case anyone noticed Jacob’s clay face.

  And as they sat drinking into the early hours, Sheila would tell Jacob amazing and colourful stories about her life. Or rather his life. The life of the spirit who once had inhabited Gogarty, and who now dwelled within the body of Sheila Whittaker.

  ‘I lived in France for a while,’ Sheila said one time. ‘Have I told you about that? It was one of my more interesting lives. I lived in a château. Very large, exceedingly magnificent. This was back in the fifteenth century, there was no electricity, but we did have servants. Many of them, all properly garbed and deferential. They would curtsey and bow, they knew their place, they would never dare to “tu” me - ah, those days are gone. No matter. I had an estate. I had responsibility for hundreds of people, servants, peasants. My people. It was a good time.’

  ‘You were a king or something?’

  ‘A duke, just a duke. Or rather my body was. I move around, you see. I can hop from body to body. Sometimes at birth. I can enter a child as it emerges from the womb, before it starts to breathe and bawl. And that’s the best, really. Because there’s just a little ball of emotion there, not enough to get in my way. But in the case of the duke, I possessed him when he was in his thirties, after he’d been acclaimed as a hero in war. Then, well, he died a villain; and for that I accept the blame.’

  They were in a boozer near Carnaby Street, with wood-lined walls, open to the street: the Red Lion. It was the oldest pub in London apparently, though there were many of those.

  ‘You see, Jacob,’ Sheila said, ‘I can possess any body I desire, and be whoever I want to be. I’ve lived hundreds of lives that way from birth to death, and many hundreds more from maturity to death. Often I leave before they get too old. It does get duller once the joints seize up and you wake up every night needing to piss.’

  Jacob nodded, sipping his beer, faking savoir faire.

  ‘How do you choose?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘It varies. Sometimes I choose someone with skills I need. Usually – well, usually it’s just whim. I’ve been a warrior and I’ve been a farm owner and I’ve been a housekeeper and a butler and – oh, many things. Many lives. I – I’m sorry, I’m rambling a little. I do that. My mind is not –’

  ‘No no, carry on. It’s fascinating,’ Jacob said. And indeed it was. Though once, when he was looking bored, ‘Sheila’ had cast a spell instructing him to ‘be a good listener.’ Thus guaranteeing he would always be a rapt audience for her.

  ‘You’re so kind, Jacob,’ Sheila said, with ostentatious courtesy. ‘I do enjoy our times together, you really are a charming young man. Anyway, the point is, the duke was a soldier in a battle, and so was I, fighting on the opposite side. But my body was mortally wounded, so my spirit flew out and that’s how I came to possess the body of the Baron Gilles de Rais.’

  Jacob flinched.

  ‘Ah, you’ve heard of him. Then you’ll know he was a great man, he fought with Joan of Arc. A noble and a dignified man. But I possessed him and made his body mine.’

  ‘He was a monster. A serial killer. A child murderer.’

  ‘All me.’

  Jacob still looked highly fascinated by this anecdote. Though inwardly, he raged.

  ‘And then, after years of possession, and scores of ritual murders in my castle dungeons, the Baron fought against me and took the body back. It was a shock, I have to tell you. Never before had I known such strength of will. And then he tried to kill himself, in order to end my life and his own depravity. Such courage! But I’m pleased to say, I prevailed. And I had some fun, I really did. I used to stage my own theatre plays. And I dabbled in black magic – I, dabbling! See the delicious irony of that, me, with all my powers! I pretended to conjure up demons. Then I did indeed conjure them and I tortured them cruelly. I killed children too, as you know. That’s when I got the taste for it. And eventually I was executed but before the axe struck my spirit had moved on. It was the real Gilles who was slain by the Inquisition. Torn with guilt. Knowing he was innocent and yet at the same time entirely guilty of the crimes of which he was accused.’

  ‘That’s cruel,’ said Jacob; shocked but not surprised.

  ‘You’re damned right it was cruel.’

  ‘So why did you do it?’

  ‘Because –’ Sheila thought. ‘You don’t understand, you see, what it’s like for me. I’ve lived many hundreds of lives, no, a hundred times a hundred and more. I’ve been a good father, a good husband, a good daughter, a good son. I’ve been a doctor and saved lives. I’ve been a hero, and a saint, no several saints. I’ve been a statesman. I’ve been - You just get tired, you see. You get jaded.’

  ‘You killed children.’ Jacob’s to
ne was courteous; belying his inner anger.

  ‘Oh yes. But only in one of my lives. Well, a few - but no matter. You have to get it in perspective, you see. Think of all the bodies that I inhabited in which I lived lives of peerless virtue – do I not get credit for those?’

  ‘No you do not!’ Jacob said.

  Sheila laughed. ‘How dare you say that to me!’ she protested.

  ‘I do dare. You should be ashamed,’ Jacob informed Sheila-Gogarty, but in a teasing tone. Playing the trickiest of games with his ‘be a good listener’ spell.

  Sheila thought a while. ‘I am indeed ashamed. But in my defence, in three lives only have I been a murderer. As Gilles, then as Roslyn D’Onston, and then as Brian Gogarty. Perhaps it’s time to stop.’

  ‘Four times. You’re a murderer now, as Sheila.’

  ‘True. True.’ Sheila smiled. ‘You don’t let me get away with anything, do you?’ Sheila ruffled Jacob’s hair with her hand. A classic mother ruffling her son’s hair gesture. Jacob expected to recoil at such a touch; but in fact he rather liked it.

  Indeed, by and large, he enjoyed being with Sheila-Gogarty. It wasn’t just her spell that compelled his attention. He liked her jokes, and her elegant turns of phrase, and he liked drinking whisky with her in the early hours, listening to tales of terrible past lives. It made him feel adult and dissolute.

  ‘So why not leave us? Me and Veda. You’ve had your fun, why not move on?’ Jacob suggested mildly.

  ‘Oh I have work to do, my friend. I admit I do feel trapped sometimes, bored by this endless transmigration. But I still have ambitions, things I want to do. That’s why I need you as my helper. That’s why I – well.’ Sheila smiled. ‘That’s why I chose you.’

  Sheila looked at him, expecting a reaction. But Jacob merely shrugged.

  He had already guessed that much. It had occurred to him some months ago that Gogarty had never actually needed Sheila’s home as a refuge. He could simply have changed his appearance with cloaking spells.

  No, Gogarty had gone to Sheila’s for a reason; and that was to find a helper, a partner in crime. Someone with unique skills who could help him in his work. And so that clearly was Jacob’s destined role.

  To be the golem sidekick of a serial killing warlock.

  ‘What kind of work?’ Jacob asked.

  Sheila nodded approvingly: the master commending the apprentice.

  ‘The organs we take from many of our victims,’ Sheila explained, ‘there’s a reason for us doing that. I need them, you see. The hearts and spleens and brains and the female parts, in particular. They are the ingredients I need to cast my final spell, that will allow me to grow in power and make this world a better place.’

  Jacob thought about all the men and women he had killed in this last year. He wondered if they would have appreciated knowing they were making the world a better place.

  ‘You’re trying to conjure up demons from Hell?’ Jacob asked. ‘Like you did at Ildminster Square?

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And how does that make the world a better place?’

  Their voices were pitched low, and Sheila always cloaked their words so no one could eavesdrop, even if they were close.

  An old Black Eyed Peas song was playing on the pub sound system; Fergie’s voice had a lovely and haunting quality as she alternated with the rap of will i am.

  ‘Because,’ Sheila said, ‘I will use the hell kind that I conjure up to keep order in a world that I will ultimately rule. Instead of Brannigan and the Warlock Council there will be me. Master of the world. And then the world will be a better place because I shall insist upon it.’

  Jacob pondered. He enjoyed being ‘in the know’. And he also liked finding out the answers to the many mysteries in his life.

  ‘So is that why there was a Hell Breach at Ildminster Square?’ Jacob asked. He’d been thinking about that particular mystery a great deal. ‘Because you needed those demons for your plan?’

  Sheila shrugged. ‘Not exactly. That was a fuck up.’ She grinned, ruefully. ‘A case of too much, too soon, as it were. I’d deleted the warlock sealing spells, you see, for that one bit of ground, my house and my garden, in preparation for my eventual exvoking ceremony. And I’d replaced them with my own protection spells, on a temporary basis. A “patch” if you like. But my spells weren’t strong enough. And then that bloody girl tricked me, and I was arrested. And then they started digging up the garden, with its already-weakened warlock seals. And then - It was a disaster, basically. A total bloody clusterfuck of -’

  ‘Your spells weren’t strong enough?’ Jacob queried. ‘You’re saying, your magic is not as good as the warlocks’ magic?’

  Sheila winced. ‘That is so. For I am one, and the warlocks are many. And Brannigan is, let’s face it, one hell of a magician. But no matter. I’ll get it right next time. When the next Breach happens, I will be there, and I will be firmly in control. And thus I will be able to assemble my allies for what will be the next era in human history.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t seem impressed.’

  ‘Should I be? You’re planning to be a dictator. Take over the world. You’re no better than a Bond villain,’ Jacob said, scornfully.

  Sheila smiled at him. ‘Don’t be so simplistic. I’ll create order where currently there is chaos. I have no desire to dictate. My aim is to protect mankind, as I have always done.’

  Jacob sipped his pint. He was seething; yet, also, curiously, hooked.

  Another oldie played: Shakira, explaining how it should be illegal to deceive a woman’s heart.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Jacob. ‘Protect humanity! Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No I’m serious.’ Sheila was stern now. ‘You have to understand, these Breaches, they’re not new, they’ve happened throughout history. Demons enter the world and black warlocks gain power over them, and all humanity is in dire jeopardy. But there is always one person, one white warlock, who fights the good fight and wins the day. And do you know who that is?’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me –’

  ‘It’s me. It’s always been me.’ Sheila’s eyes were burning with the light of inner certainty. Jacob felt himself being caught up by her/his faith, her/his self-belief. ‘I am a white warlock, one of very few. And for more centuries than I care to remember I have protected this planet. And yes, I concede there came a time when I was inattentive, distracted by life. And the Occlusion occurred and it was the black warlocks who crawled out of the woodwork to supposedly keep the peace. But look at what evil they have perpetrated! Look around you! Look at the corruption, look at what Mammon is up to. Look at China, and the war we fought there to support the Americans! Do you think I can allow all that to continue? But the truth is, I can’t defeat the black warlocks and the hell-born monsters on my own. I need an army. I need warriors who will help me secure the freedom of humankind. And I am building such an army, and you are aiding me in that endeavour.’

  Still Shakira sang of her heartache, and Carlos Santana’s mellow guitar riffed around her words. Jacob wondered what it would feel like to fall in love.

  ‘Not through choice,’ Jacob said, grudgingly.

  ‘Not yet. But you will eventually help me of your own free will. I guarantee it, you will.’ Sheila’s eyes blazed. ‘My point is, Jacob, I need to fight fire with fire. Do you understand now?’

  Jacob didn’t know what to think.

  It was clear that Sheila - or rather the warlock mind possessing Sheila - was utterly insane. Yet it also seemed likely she/he was telling the truth.

  ‘What kind of man are you, to have such power, and to want even more?’ Jacob marvelled.

  ‘I’m not a man,’ said Sheila. ‘None of us are, we creatures you call “warlocks”.’

  ‘What then?’

  Jacob realised that the pub’s barman was standing at their table with two fresh pints. This was thanks to one of Sheila’s most ingenious spells, which allowed her to order
drinks without going to the bar. The barman put the full pints down and picked up their frothy empties.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sheila.

  The barman looked puzzled. ‘On the house,’ he muttered, and drifted away.

  Sheila smiled. She carried on talking, her words cloaked and hence not audible to anyone other than Jacob.

  ‘We are cambions,’ Sheila said. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  Jacob shook his head.

  ‘A cambion is half man, half demon. Born of woman, sired by an incubus. The children of rape; our mothers were raped by demons in their dreams and impregnated.’

  ‘That’s – disgusting.’

  Sheila smiled. ‘Tell me about it,’ she/he said.

  Sheila – the real Sheila - was flying.

  And it was glorious. The wind battered her skin and her arms were outstretched and the clouds were above her and the grass and mountains were below her and she was free, literally, as a bird.

  But then she flew up higher, above the clouds, where the sky was black and the stars shone brighter. And she flew too close to the sun and hot wax burned her naked skin and her wings fell off.

  And so she fell and it was awful. Green puke spilled from her mouth as she tumbled downwards, and the winds lashed her and ripped thick strips off her skin.

  After a few minutes of falling through showers of her own blood and flesh, she saw mountains and oceans rising up towards her. But the oceans were far away, and she was hurtling towards the hard globe of the Earth. And her wind-whipped skin was burning up. And she was a ball of fire now, descending to earth like a meteor. A shooting star that would live as a trail of cloud in the sky and then be no more.

  This falling sensation continued for some minutes. Then she hit the ground very hard. And it hurt. A lot. But the flames on her body went out. And her torn skin healed. And she realised she was wearing her favourite blue top which was, miraculously, unsinged.

  But there was a statue looming above her. A statue made of cold white marble, like the ones in museums. Not garishly coloured like the statues Fred used to make.