by Sean Deville
Baal couldn’t help but peruse the numerous paintings of former Prime Ministers, most of them no longer alive. She resisted the temptation to inform her escort that a good number of the famous faces on display were suffering unimaginable and relentless agony down in the glory of the Pit.
There were also a few faces there that Baal was expecting to see over the coming years. As a Great King of Hell, she made a point of availing herself of the comings and goings of those on the surface world, especially those who thought power was something of importance. It wasn’t. Power was always a trap, very few who attained it being able to avoid the demise it created in their own moral soul.
The Prime Minister was waiting for Baal in the Cabinet Room, a room chosen most likely for its sound proof nature. The PM wasn’t alone either. Sir Kalvin Spacey was also in attendance, the government Chief Whip. They were both here to demand the Home Secretary’s compliance. It was no small thing for an individual of such prominence to be forced to relinquish their position.
“Come in and take a seat, for God’s sake,” the Prime Minister ordered. “Let’s get this over with.” Baal entered the lion’s den, the door closing behind her. She stood across from the PM, separated by a large oval conference table where so many decisions had been made in the past. Many of those decisions had condemned those that made them to the tortures of Hell.
“My God man, you look terrible,” Sir Kalvin stated. Thanks. Thanks for pointing that out. Thanks for bringing that into the conversation.
“It has been a trying day.” Baal rested her hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward. She felt weary.
“I’ve called you in to finalise your resignation,” said the Prime Minister. “I’m assuming you aren’t going to fight me on this. The evidence I have on you is damning.”
“Rent boys?” Sir Kalvin admonished. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Who are you to judge me?” Baal demanded. She hadn’t been the one to commit that crime. The guilt of that belonged to the mind that was now laughing at her. The host might have been witnessing the end of his political life, but he had been driven close to madness and was now revelling in Baal’s proxy humiliation.
“Don’t make this difficult,” the PM advised. “If the press get hold of this you will be a laughing stock. And then there are the other things.”
“What other things?” What else had her host done?
“I had an interesting conversation yesterday,” the PM said. “I had a phone call from his Eminence, the Pope.” Baal felt her blood run cold. “It was the Pope who provided us with the information about your indiscretions.”
“I won’t lie,” Sir Kalvin added, “my office was not aware of your past. So, I made a few enquiries with MI5. Turns out they had uncovered your dalliance with deviancy a while back. Seems they forgot to inform us.” Sir Kalvin laid a manila file down on the table. It had Top Secret written across it in big red letters.
“They knew?” Baal was incensed. So was her host. How long had Sir Kalvin kept that bit of dry powder under his hat?
“Of course, it’s their job to know. And I’m somewhat irked that they kept that to themselves. I suspect they wanted some leverage over someone they saw as a potential candidate for Prime Minister.” Sir Kalvin and the PM shared a look. “It’s only a matter of time before it leaks.” There was no way MI5 hadn’t passed that information on. It was obvious the Chief Whip had sat on it for his own future use.
“The Pope had a few other things to say which were even more disturbing.” The Prime Minister steepled his fingers and leaned forward onto the table. “I fear the esteemed pontiff might be coming down with dementia.”
“What things?” Baal asked suspiciously. The two men with him smiled at the private joke they shared.
“The Pope seems to think you are possessed by a demon. I’ve always found you to be a bit hot headed,” the Prime Minister added, “but I wouldn’t go so far as to say you are possessed.” Sir Kalvin really did find that amusing.
The photographs with the young men Baal’s host had frequented with were explicit and scandalous, even in this supposedly more enlightened age. The PM opened the file now and extracted some of the juicier photographs. He spread them out on the table in front of Baal.
Baal couldn’t believe what she was hearing. For as long as she could remember, the Catholic Church had kept their secret about the true nature of the demonic realm. She had come here to expose the Order of Tyron to the world, and now the Pope was doing that willingly. If the Pope was calling world leaders informing them that Hell was real, then that would change everything for it meant he was gathering allies.
The powers of Hell had to be told of this.
And what would this man, this so-called Prime Minister, say when the director of MI5 informed him about the events at the safe house? If the Prime Minister found the Pope’s words dubious at present, would that remain the case?
“I seem to remember there was talk of a secret Order of Catholic assassins working in the shadows.” The statement Baal had said to the head of MI5.
The Pope wouldn’t have made the demonic claim without offering some kind of proof to back it up. There was a danger here that the leader of the British state was about to learn of the threat posed by Satan, and Baal would get the blame for that when she returned to Hell. That risk would intensify when Baal departed for the fiery realm, because the mind she left behind would be there to confirm that the Pope had been correct.
Satan was not a forgiving sort of chap.
“I hope you don’t actually believe that?” Would the Home Secretary be believed? There was a dead wife lying cut up in the bedroom of his house, and people had noticed the erratic nature with which the Home Secretary had been acting. Baal hadn’t found it the easiest role to play.
“Of course not, Home Secretary, of course not. But you know how these things get out. Imagine what the press would make of that on top of your extracurricular activities. I can just picture how some of the lewder tabloids might even distort the story and combine the two.” The smirk on the Prime Minister’s lips seemed to suggest where such a press leak would come from.
“It won’t do,” Sir Kalvin added. “For the good of the government, and for the integrity of the great office of state, we really must insist you stand down.”
“Resign now and I’m sure this matter can be kept between the three of us.”
“Oh, I intend to. But I must say, Prime Minister, you don’t look at all well.” Baal knew that using her telekinetic powers would drain her considerably, but she didn’t care.
“I assure you I’m in tip-top shape,” the Prime Minister said, although he had to admit there was a pressure building in his chest.
“No, you’ve gone all pale.” Baal lifted her right hand and held it up like a claw. “If I didn’t know better, it’s as if someone were squeezing the life out of you.” Baal began to pull her fingers into a fist as the PM clutched at his sternum, the pain suddenly vice-like, ripping through his chest.
“I think…” The Prime Minister started, but the words were choked off by the bile that was threatening to erupt. He tried to stand, only to instead collapse off his chair onto the floor. As heart attacks went, this was pretty catastrophic.
Blood began to pour from Baal’s nose.
“Prime Minister,” Sir Kalvin shouted in alarm. The Chief Whip went to bend down, only for a terrible pain to rip through his left temple. Sir Kalvin stumbled, half blinded by the agony as the already weakened blood vessel in his temporal lobe ruptured.
This is more like it, thought Baal. This is what I want to see.
“You should sit down, Sir Kalvin,” Baal mocked. “I think you might be coming down with something.” Despite the elation she felt at finally being able to unleash her power, she felt the body failing. The owner, the persistent and irritating flea that kept buzzing at her was close to kicking her out for good.
“Not yet,” Baal said with a sneer. With one last effort, Ba
al concentrated on the Prime Minister’s dying heart muscle, and crushed the blood supply to it. With no oxygen to feed it, the heart stopped pumping, no longer able to withstand the abuse it was being put through. At the same time, Sir Kalvin himself collapsed onto the floor, falling across his boss. The stroke Baal had inflicted had been devastating, and there would be little chance of a recovery.
Baal finally pushed back from the table, thoroughly exhausted.
“Well, this will take some explaining,” Baal said. With the last of her energy, Baal stumbled over to the door she had entered through, blood gushing now. Opening it, she found the Private Secretary waiting outside.
“Home Secretary?” Baal must have looked a sight.
“You might want to call someone; I think the Prime Minister has had a heart attack.” That got the desired response from the Private Secretary. An alarm was raised and people rushed past Baal into the Cabinet room. A policeman appeared.
Ah, thought Baal, the final piece to the puzzle.
“Officer, I wish to confess,” she said, extracting the letter from her pocket. One corner of the paper was damp and red. She had meant to hand it to the PM, but the plan had changed. The policeman looked dazed, the news of the Prime Minister a shock to the system. He accepted the blood-stained envelope.
He was going to get another shock.
“Last night I brutally slaughtered my wife. Cut her up, good and proper.” That was a confession in front of multiple witnesses to add to the written version. Her fingerprints would be on the knife she had left embedded in the deceased woman’s abdomen. Whoever attended the scene would need to have a strong constitution, because Baal had done things, despicable things.
Cooked slices of the dead woman’s liver would be found neatly arranged on a plate in the fridge, the bulk of the organ left in the sink. The pathologist would later tell how the victim had been raped, kept alive for several hours whilst Baal butchered her.
That should be enough, Baal sighed with satisfaction. And then she left. Departing Earth was a lot easier than getting here.
49.
London, UK
Vicky couldn’t remember the last time she had been in a church. It would have been as a child, but if the memory was there, she couldn’t track it down at this exact moment. She didn’t know when it was exactly that she had abandoned religion for her atheist beliefs but that occurrence had been like a switch being flipped.
One moment she had believed as her father and mother had, the next she hadn’t. Some parents would have been critical of such a decision. Others might have disowned her, so entrenched in their beliefs had they become. The choice to live as one pleased was not afforded to millions of people across the planet, dogma often instilled with the help of force, violence and threats. That had not been the way with Vicky’s parents. They accepted her choice because, as they saw it, everyone had to come to God in their own way through their own reasoning. And even without the adherence to religious practice, Vicky’s parents weren’t brainwashed enough to believe she was threatening her immortal soul.
Vicky knew her dad believed that God would make his choice based on character and worthiness. For that not to be the case didn’t make any sense. Were the billions of people who had no access to Catholic teaching throughout history to be condemned because they weren’t born in the right country or the right era? What about those without the mental capacity to understand, children who died before they developed reasoning and those born so deformed their minds could not grasp the most basic of concepts?
James led the way in, having already phoned ahead to make the appointment. He was known at this church, had been on the parish finance committee. Whilst not classed as a close friend, James knew the priest of this church well.
Emily seemed captivated by the size of the building’s interior, the tall ceilings and statues like nothing she had ever seen. This was her first time to step foot in what her grandad called God’s holy house, and she reckoned it could do with heating up a bit.
“It’s cold,” Emily exclaimed.
“Big stone buildings are difficult to heat,” Vicky pointed out. “Churches were designed before central heating.” She didn’t add that she also felt that churches weren’t places where people were supposed to feel comfortable. Vicky had never felt the Catholic religion was there to preach comfort. To her it seemed all about suffering and guilt.
They moved between the pews, heading to the altar. The church was empty apart from them.
“That man needs some clothes,” Emily said, pointing at the large portrayal of Jesus on the cross.
“You know who that is, right?” Vicky asked. She’d never discussed religion with her daughter. James never brought it up either. Anything Emily knew would have been taught by the primary school she went to, which would have hopefully delivered a refreshing balance of different beliefs.
“Of course. It’s Jesus. I learnt about him in class.” James was clearly glad to hear that. “Although religion confuses me.” James wasn’t glad to hear that little nugget.
“Oh, how so?” Vicky enquired.
“Why are there so many religions?” The naïve mind of a child could so often be brainwashed into following an ideal, but sometimes a curious nature caused them to question everything. Other times children came up with insights missed by stressed and harassed adults. Now wasn’t the time for that discussion, though.
“I don’t know, peanut. Maybe that man will know.” The man in question was the priest who had appeared from a side room. James went over and shook the priest’s hand, the clerical collar and black attire a shining beacon to tell everyone who the man was.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” James said. He turned to make the introductions. “Vicky, this is Father Creed.”
“Nice to meet you,” Vicky said, hugging Emily into her legs.
“And who is this?” Creed said, bending down to get to Emily’s eye level.
“My name’s Emily. Are you a priest?”
“Why yes, that’s exactly what I am.” Vicky felt herself warming to the man. He wasn’t what she had expected.
“Why haven’t you got the heating on?” Emily enquired.
“Emily!” Children could embarrass you at the drop of a hat.
“Well, an old man like me doesn’t feel the cold so much,” Creed said. “Besides, it would be expensive to heat this whole place solely for me. We do turn it on when we are expecting a crowd.”
“This place is so empty,” Emily added. Creed stood, amused by his new guest despite her less than flattering observations.
“Tell you what, why don’t we come through here where I know it’s warm. James, do you want to all follow me into my office?” Creed led them through a door at the back of the church into an annexe that had been added more recently.
“Mummy, it smells weird,” Emily whispered.
“Hush now,” was the only response she got.
The office was the same one Lilith visited several hours before. Vicky and James took the sofa with Emily sandwiched in between them. Creed pulled a chair so he could sit opposite.
“So, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening.”
“How much did my father tell you?” Vicky cast a glance at her father. She felt nervous. This wasn’t something she was comfortable talking about with a complete stranger. She was a mental health professional, and there was the pressing worry that everything she had been experiencing was in her head. Even Emily could be experiencing the effects of Vicky’s own anxiety, manifesting it in a false belief of spooks and demons.
“Enough,” came the response. “I will need to hear your version of things though.”
“Firstly, I’m a psychologist by trade, so everything I was taught tells me I shouldn’t be here.” She stroked Emily’s head to ensure her child didn’t get upset by what was about to be said.
“Rest assured nobody outside this room will hear of what you tell me. We can keep our secrets,” Creed added, winking at Emily.
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“Thanks,” Vicky replied. She didn’t feel at ease calling him Father, not yet. Vicky felt she could trust the man though. “For the last week or so I’ve been having nightmares. They are unpleasant, and always revolve around bad things happening. Apocalyptic things.” James watched her, ready to step in if he was needed. “At the same time, Emily has been seeing things, haven’t you honey?”
“Yes,” Emily said with a shiver. “Bad things.” Vicky took out the picture and handed it over.
“Emily drew that. It’s what she said she saw around her teacher.” Creed had searching eyes. His reaction told Vicky he had seen similar before.
“This must have been very frightening for you to see this,” Creed said to the girl.
“It is,” Emily admitted. “And my teacher smelt bad.” Nobody had told Emily that the teacher she was so concerned about wasn’t alive anymore.
“She says her teacher smelt of rotten eggs.” Creed nodded sagely in response.
“Do you see this anywhere else?” Creed asked. Emily looked up at her mum.
“Sometimes I see it around mum.”
“Do you see it there now?” Creed knew what the answer would be.
“A tiny bit.” There was a shimmer of something around Vicky’s head. Emily didn’t fear her mum so much as fear for her.
“Can I tell you a secret, Emily?” The girl nodded eagerly. She liked to be told secrets. Lucy told her secrets all the time, although Emily sometimes wondered if the secrets were real or made up. “I see this too. I have done ever since I was young.” That surprised even James.
“But how can that be?” Vicky demanded.
“I’ll answer that with a story if I may. It is quite a scary story. Are you up for that, Emily?”
“I think she can handle it,” Vicky said in reassurance.
“There was once a young boy who started seeing things. This was in a time long before you were born, Emily. That boy lived in a village, and one day the boy saw a black cloud around one of the adults. Should he say anything though? The man with the cloud started acting bad, throwing insults and starting fights.”