‘You think the humans are more powerful than me?’ Sheila-dybbuk said sceptically.
‘Yes. They are. Their weapons, their holy water. Their fucking ingenuity. Look at what those bastards can achieve, with mathematics and an industrial infrastructure! The H bomb. The thermobaric bomb. The smart missile. The anointed silver bullet, created on an industrial scale. Let’s face it, human science is at least as powerful as warlock magic; and humans are the true masters of war. Every schoolchild knows that. So even if you conquer Demon City then –’
‘Oh I surely will conquer the City.’
‘ – you’ll still lose the war.’
‘Ah, good point.’ Sheila-dybbuk beamed, like a proud parent. ‘You really are remarkable, Jacob, I congratulate you on your acumen. The new weapons created by the humans are indeed formidable. But you see, I have a plan to help me with all of that.’
Jacob was stopped in his tracks. Suddenly it dawned on him he wasn’t the only clever person in the world. A game-changing epiphany.
‘Tell me, then,’ he said.
And so Sheila-dybbuk explained the plan.
It was extraordinary, clever, and horrifyingly possible. It involved taking control of the warlocks’ own army by capturing the body of one of their senior officers.
In this way, the dybbuk explained, he and Jacob would have not one but two armies to fight the warlocks on their behalf. The London Army, with all its state-of-the-art weaponry; and the Army of Demons that the dybbuk had conjured up from Hell. The dybbuk also hoped to secure the support of a few of the most powerful Royal Demons – but not Mammon, or Belial, or any of the real monsters – and then unbind them so that they too could fight for Jacob, King of All The Earth.
It was a brilliant strategy. For the first time, Jacob realised how real this all was. And how close they were to victory.
But it also occurred to him he was in danger of being sidelined here. The dybbuk was driving everything; Jacob himself wasn’t getting any kind of say. Time to change the power balance, he vowed.
‘Good plan?’ Sheila-dybbuk seemed anxious and eager for his approval.
That eagerness in itself was a clue, Jacob thought to himself. She needed him to approve. That gave him authority.
‘It’s good,’ he said grudgingly. ‘A good plan.’
‘But you don’t seem happy.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You’re going to be King soon.’
He shrugged.
‘I’m still not happy.’
‘You should be.’
Jacob stood his ground. ‘Well I’m not.’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘Not really.’
‘We are. We truly are. Say you’re my friend, Jacob?’
Jacob was silent.
Sheila-dybbuk’s face was a picture of frustration and rage. She began biting her lip; a habit the dybbuk had inherited from the real Sheila.
‘Tell you what, then, ask me a favour,’ Sheila-dybbuk said. Her tone was almost imploring. Jacob realised he had her on the ropes.
‘What?’
‘A favour. Anything at all. To prove that you and I really are friends now. Ask me.
‘What kind of favour?’
‘Anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything at all. Wealth, sex with a beautiful woman of your choosing. If you want to, you can travel to the Moon. Anything.’
‘I want my freedom,’ Jacob ventured.
Sheila smiled; she’d seen that one coming.
‘Do you? Do you really? Remember, though, it’s one favour only. One wish, that’s your lot; that old game. Try again, why don’t you?’
‘I want -’ Jacob was torn.
He wanted his freedom. He wanted his freedom. He wanted his freedom!
Just one wish. Don’t be a fucking Faust. Think before you speak, Jacob.
He spoke.
‘I want my mother to be safe. No matter what happens, I don’t want any harm to come to her.’
Sheila-dybbuk frowned. ‘Impossible.’
Jacob stared blankly. ‘What do you mean? She can’t - ’
‘Oh I’m sorry, did I not explain?’ the dybbuk said smoothly. ‘It’s all part of the plan. The police are closing in on me. And so you see, Sheila has to die. I’ve laid the trap. It’s Sheila’s body they know about, it’s Sheila’s death that will make them think the story is over, that the dybbuk is dead. How by all that’s holy can I jump into a new body if I don’t let Sheila bloody well die?’
She looked at Jacob, as if appealing to him for his insight about why children need to have a bedtime.
Jacob was shocked at this casual revelation. His mother was supposed to die? This was worse than he had thought – he had to –
A sudden calmness enveloped him. Jacob realised that he didn’t dare show his qualms. He couldn’t allow the dybbuk to think he was weak. He was a King after all, and Kings have to accept the noble sacrifices of their subjects.
But even so…he had to protect his mother. So how -
His mind raced; then he had it.
‘Take another body then,’ Jacob suggested. ‘Die in somebody else’s body.’
Sheila shook her head, impatiently. ‘Not possible, it’s Sheila’s body that –’
‘Die in somebody else’s body, but make it look like Sheila,’ Jacob said. ‘You can do that, can’t you? Then do it. Make the shape-changing spell continue even when the body is dead. That way my mother gets to live. That’s my favour. That’s my one wish.’
Sheila-dybbuk was silent a moment. Then she tut-tutted. ‘Oh Jacob! I’m surprised at you. I really am.’
‘Why? What’s the problem?’
‘What’s the problem! If I do as you say that means - well. It means an innocent person will have to die, just to save your mother.’ Sheila’s tone was dense with outrage.
Jacob had already made this calculation.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘One less human being in the world - who gives a shit? But my mother is - ’ He was quiet for a moment. Then he continued: ‘She’s annoying, very annoying in fact, but I’m fond of her. I guess. A little bit.’
Sheila-dybbuk laughed.
‘Come with me,’ she told him.
They caught a cab to Soho. To the building opposite Groucho’s: a notorious brothel and dark incense den. It was called The Holy Land, in homage to the Victorian rookery that had once existed close by. Jacob was still clutching the ner tamid. Sheila rang the bell and was allowed in, after murmuring a password into the intercom.
Once inside she took Jacob to the brothel reception on the first floor, where lean-bodied women and men paraded scantily clad bodies to be sold - or rather, rented.
‘Pick a woman, any woman,’ Sheila said to Jacob, as the skinny good looking pimp with the tiny beard and the almost-moustache peered mistrustfully at them. A dowdy middle aged woman and a clay giant; they made an unlikely combination in this smoke house cum brothel.
Jacob looked around. He studied the whores strutting their stuff. Young kids, by and large, who’d abandoned A-Levels for incense abuse. He saw Sheila talking earnestly to the young pimp. He saw money changing hands. A lot of money. The deal had been struck.
Jacob couldn’t choose. The whores were all walking up and down, with him as the picker. He wished he could tell which of these girls was a horrible nasty person, so he could pick that one out to die. But though they were mostly tired and skinny and unhealthy-looking, and carried an air of defeat and cynicism, not one of them exuded unworthiness to live.
‘Have you chosen?’ said Sheila.
‘No.’
‘What about that one? What’s your name, honey?’
A Spanish-looking girl came over smiling. Her smile was bigger than her head, or so it seemed. ‘My name is Ecstasy,’ she said in a London accent, beaming at Jacob. ‘Shall we go into the other room?’
�
�That’s not your real name.’
‘It is now.’
Jacob shook his head. The girl moved away.
Another girl approached. ‘Hi I’m Harmony.’
‘That’s not your real name.’
‘Jacob, easy,’ muttered Sheila.
‘Let me see some others,’ said Jacob. And the pimp shrugged. The young girls left. A few minutes later, an older bunch of prostitutes took their place. Jacob studied them carefully. Eventually he made his choice.
‘Her.’
‘Why her?’
‘No reason. Random,’ said Jacob.
He’d chosen the oldest and most dismal-looking hooker he could find. Her hair was dyed blonde; her eyes were bloodshot; and she had no septum, just a big hole inside her nose, like a second mouth. Her breasts were implausibly big, and she was skinny, verging on emaciated. Jacob’s guess was that she deep down wanted to die.
Or so he told himself.
‘You want to know her name?’
‘No.’
‘Hi honey, shall we go in the other room?’ said the septum-less woman dully, not hearing their whispered asides.
‘Come with us,’ said Sheila-dybbuk.
The woman registered distaste. ‘More for a threesome.’
‘We’ll pay more.’
‘You’re old enough to be my mother, love,’ the prostitute told Sheila-dybbuk, reprovingly.
‘Not quite.’
The whore nodded. Jacob still didn’t know her name. He hoped she didn’t have any children.
They made their way upstairs to a small room: a fractional part of what had once been a drawing room or lounge, closed off with wooden partitions that didn’t block the noise from those rutting next door. The door was closed. It was just the three of them.
‘How are we going to do this?’ asked the whore.
‘What’s your name?’ Sheila-dybbuk asked.
‘Chardonnay.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Love, you don’t need to know that.’
Sheila-as-dybbuk stood closer and looked into the whore’s eyes. And she entered her, psychically. The whore’s body twitched.
The body of Sheila collapsed. And the whore was bright-eyed.
The dybbuk was now possessing Chardonnay. And Sheila was Sheila again, but unconscious.
‘Take Sheila’s clothes off and put mine on her, Jacob,’ said the whore with bloodshot eyes and no septum.
‘Can’t you –’
‘It’s easier to use the real clothes. I’m not using an illusion spell, it’s a metamorphosis illusion and – just do as I tell you, okay?
Jacob did as he was told. It was difficult. But eventually the whore was dressed in Sheila’s Monsoon dress – which was several sizes too large for her. And Sheila – the real Sheila - was in a tight-fitting basque covered by a gown and asleep on the bed.
Then the whore-who-was-a-dybbuk chanted, and the face of the sleeping Sheila on the bed changed. Her legs stretched; her skin tautened; her bones began to stick out; her nose became misshapen and lost its septum; her hair turned a tired blonde colour. At the end of this process Sheila, still asleep on the bed, had the bodily form and face of the whore who had claimed to be named after a type of white wine. The basque and gown now fitted her perfectly.
The dybbuk chanted again.
And this time, the body of the real Chardonnay transformed in the opposite fashion. The breasts shrank; the stomach grew; the skin pallor improved; and eventually she was ‘Sheila Whittaker’, snugly filling her large floral dress.
Jacob’s head was spinning, trying to keep track of the dybbuk’s multiple deceptions.
Sheila - the real Sheila - was now Chardonnay, unconscious on the bed. And the woman standing before him who looked like his mother Sheila was actually a Soho prostitute possessed by the dybbuk.
‘What do you think?’ said the dybbuk, doing a fashion model primp with the Sheila-lookalike body.
‘Good, good. You look just like her.’ Jacob sniffed. ‘But the smell –’
‘Cheap perfume. Nothing I can do about it,’ said Sheila-Chardonnay-dybbuk.
‘And the way you’re standing –’ Jacob further observed.
‘What’s wrong with the way I’m standing?’
‘You’re – flaunting.’
The dybbuk laughed. She changed her body language: less streetwalker, more Woman’s Institute.
‘How’s that?’
‘Better.’
‘Are you ready? Shall we go?’ the dybbuk as Sheila/Chardonnay said.
Jacob was thinking furiously. ‘No one must fuck my mother,’ he said savagely. ‘While she’s in this place.’
‘That wasn’t one of your wishes.’
‘It’s my wish now.’
The dybbuk sighed and chanted again.
‘That’s it. She can’t be touched with lascivious intent; it’s all I can do. Let’s go.’
They walked out, down the stairs, and back into Dean Street.
‘Now you hurry on. I have things to do,’ said ‘Sheila’, hand on hip, giving Jacob the eye.
‘What things?’
‘None of your business. You just – Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Body language again.’
‘Sheila’ readjusted her stance.
‘Better,’ Jacob said.
‘I’ll see you at Mitre Square. Two o’clock. Don’t be late.’
‘I won’t be.’
‘You’re a good lad, Jacob.’
‘We’ll show ’em all, eh!’ Jacob said, boastfully.
‘We will.’
The prostitute body that looked like Sheila sauntered off, hips swaying. Jacob watched her go.
Jacob made his way to Charing Cross Road, then walked via Cambridge Circus to Tottenham Court Road. From there, he got the Central Line Tube to St Paul’s Cathedral, where he released the demons.
A little later, at a few minutes before 2.00 pm, he joined the dybbuk at Mitre Square. Where Sheila released Jacob’s cloaking spell and allowed him to be glimpsed by some beat coppers. And at 2.30pm on Sunday the eleventh of August 2024, the Battle of Mitre Square began.
The vans drove on: full of silence.
In Van One, Tom’s mobile rang. It was, absurdly, the Bewitched theme tune. He took the call.
‘Mum?’ Tom said.
He listened.
‘Yes.’
He listened.
‘Say it again.’
He listened.
‘And again.’
He listened.
‘Can you tell your mother we –’ Cat began.
‘Hush.’ Tom’s tone was peremptory.
He listened.
‘Thanks.’
He hung up.
Dougie drove.
‘I texted my mother who’s a witch,’ Tom said, for the benefit of the others in the back of the van, ‘for some intel on how to ward off a dybbuk. How to stop it possessing your body.’
They all absorbed that one.
‘Ah, so it’s true then?’ said Seamus, large-eyed. ‘You really are a son of a witch?’
Everyone laughed; a great release.
After which, for twenty minutes, as they crawled though car-strewn streets, driving up on to the pavement and around abandoned vehicles, Tom recited the words of the spell over and over. Each of them repeated it in turn; including the team in Van Two who were listening in via speaker phone. Until they all were word and intonation perfect.
Dougie’s van crossed Waterloo Bridge, followed by Van Two. They could see lights in the sky from the exploding mortars and smart missiles. They could hear the sound of machine gun fire and tank shells impacting.
On her e-berry, Gina was tracking the progress of the battle. It was savage but sporadic. Wilson’s rebel troops held Trafalgar and Leicester Squares and Oxford Circus, and Tottenham Court Road, and all the streets in between. But the London Army still controlled the suburbs and the sky; and bombs were being dropped all across the cent
re of London, with total disregard for civilian safety.
Meanwhile, so another e-berry news item claimed, a strange meteorological effect had been observed in Demon City: a thundercloud was looming over the Bank of England, despite blue skies all around. According to spectrographic analyses the ‘cloud’ possessed a greater density per square centimetre than uranium. Some scientists were now claiming that this cloud was in fact some form of aerial hell-ware. In other words: a Demon Armada.
‘Fuck,’ said Dougie and drove on.
At one point a surface-to-air Grail missile flew over their two vans, barely missing the roofs. One of those There But For moments.
They got as far as Brettenham House on Waterloo Bridge then had to abandon the two vans - there were too many shot-up vehicles cluttering the roads. So they packed the guns and swords into canvas bags, and tucked incense grenades into jacket pockets, and set out by foot.
As they walked, Lisa was looking pale.
‘Scared?’ Seamus said to her.
She nodded.
‘You’ll find that –’
‘No platitudes.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘My sister was in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Shit. How old?’
‘She used to be nine.’
Seamus said no more.
They walked down Lancaster Place, with the flank of Somerset House to their right. The River Thames was behind them now as they came up to the Strand. Dougie was on point, the others in twin or triple ranks, and Taff bringing up the rear. Taff had a knack of walking virtually backwards to give him a clear field of vision.
Fillide strode out of the crocodile, and joined Dougie at the front.
‘I owe you,’ Dougie said to Fillide, softly, as they marched shoulder to shoulder. She shrugged.
‘I mean it,’ he insisted.
‘Roy Hall?’
‘He was evil scum. It needed doing.’
It was the first polite thing he’d ever said to her.
Gina was behind Dougie, next to Cat and Seamus. She continued to track the course of the battle on her e-berry whilst walking.
‘He’s gone,’ she said.
Cat guessed Gina was talking to herself, but answered her anyway. ‘Wilson?’
‘Yes. No sightings of him for the last hour. He’ll have fled the scene by now. He’s too smart to let himself get trapped inside a battle zone once the Grey-Beards arrive.’
Hell on Earth Page 87