Sound

by Catherine Fearns

  ‘Lily Taylor. You didn’t know about her! The fourth patient! She died with a full course of treatment, the OS-1 marker was trace in the body at my last visit and you didn’t get to her! I didn’t tell you about her, you see, and I did it! “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”’

  He continued ranting and raving as the judge ordered his removal, and two court orderlies took him, by one arm each, and pulled him towards the doors. He looked blissfully happy. And there was no way, thought Darren, that he was going to be allowed to give evidence after this. The psychiatrists would be called upon to revise their decision.

  But what was more unnerving about the outburst was the reaction of the defendants. Both instinctively and simultaneously stood up in horror when they heard there had been a fourth patient. They were made to sit down again immediately, and tried to reach for each other’s hands but they were too far away from each other, and in any case would not have been allowed. Jason Hardman, Chelsea McAllister, Stuart Killy. They had prevented, or so they believed, Andrew Shepherd from completing the gene therapy necessary to alter these vulnerable young people from designated reprobates to becoming members of the Elect, with places secured in heaven. Shepherd’s greatest mistake had been in asking for help with the treatment; otherwise they would never have known. But he didn’t tell them everything; he kept one patient, Lilith Taylor, to himself, just in case. And now, the thought of a demon entering the kingdom of heaven seemed more terrifying than the prospect of a lifetime in prison for the pair in the dock. Darren saw one of them sweating profusely, muttering what must have been prayers under his breath, while the other became breathless and panicked, and the court was forced to take a break.

  Anyway, the court didn’t want to hear all this rubbish, thought Darren. They wanted to hear the evidence that would convict the defendants. And although it was unfortunate that Shepherd’s testimony would be deemed inadmissible, Darren and his team had built a rock-solid case. There had been an elaborate plan to frame Total Depravity for the murders, but spiritual fervour had led to carelessness. Telephone calls had been made openly between the two conspirators and they had left a whole host of forensic evidence in their van… even without Shepherd, Darren was sure the case would be open-and-shut. He wondered if anyone else in the court would understand, as he, Helen and Shepherd did, the spiritual terror that now gripped the defendants. He wondered what Deaconess Margaret would make of it; she would be due to take the witness stand herself soon.

  When he arrived at Canning Place he saw Justine and Lacey sitting in his glass-fronted office, being briefed by Colette. All three were already dressed up in Halloween-themed clubwear; Lacey in a sequined strapless red mini dress with devil-horned headband and a forked tail; Justine in a purple bustier witch costume; and Colette, who had crossed the office sheepishly to the sounds of whoops from her colleagues, in a Batgirl costume.

  McGregor spotted Darren and jumped up to join him as he strode through the open-plan office.

  ‘What’s this Darren, the bloody Spice Girls? I thought you had a plan?’

  ‘We do. This is it. Justine has agreed to testify against Forrest. We just need to brief her on what to say and do tonight. Colette’s going to be there the whole time wearing a wire, and we’ll be down below.’

  Darren did have a plan. But it wasn’t quite the plan that he had outlined to McGregor and the team. McGregor thought that Darren was using Justine to lure Shawn Forrest to his weapon cache, by telling him the police were on to him. That was correct, but there was more. Darren knew Forrest wouldn’t buy that for a second, that something else would be needed to convince him. And he hoped that Mikko’s idea would pay off.

  A technician from audio was testing Colette’s hidden microphone. Darren noticed that the computer programme he used for the wiretap was the same the band had used to process the USB recording.

  The Mouthpiece

  Speak through me Satan

  I am your vessel

  I am your ventriloquist

  Speak through me Satan

  Now I am channelling

  The frequency of Hell

  Speak through me Satan

  All on Earth shall hear

  The amplification of horror

  Speak through me Satan

  Ear drums shall burst with your truth

  And there is no escape

  Per me loqui Satanas

  Haec est vox Satanas

  Per me loqui Satanas

  Haec est vox Satanas

  Vox Inferi (from the 2009 album Bubonic Abscess)

  Forty

  A cable snaked its way down Seel Street, almost imperceptible as it was mostly confined to the gutters and held in place with black masking tape. A patrol of Community Support Officers had spotted it earlier in the evening, called it in and had been informed it had been authorised by the Major Incidents Team at HQ, and signed off by DI Darren Swift. The cable made its way towards the Lumina building, where it attached itself to a connector that took another cable through a grate in the wall.

  ‘Hey trick or treat! D’you dare me?’

  A group of scallies were dawdling on the corner of Colquit Street, too drunk and with too little cash to get into any of the good bars, pondering their next move. One of them held up the connector unit that dangled out of the grate, cables at either end.

  ‘Ah, don’t,’ shouted one of the girls, ‘that might be important!’

  ‘It’s going into the Lumina building, fuck those rich bastards. D’you know it was two hundred quid to get in tonight? On a fuckin’ Monday! Fuck that!’

  ‘It would be well funny if you pulled the plug and all the music stopped, or the lights went out in there.’

  ‘Fuckin’ serves them right, I dare you!’

  ‘Go-ed then, are you ready?’

  The lad stood in a theatrically wide stance, shut his eyes and pulled. As the cable disconnected they all instinctively cowered and then, when nothing happened, they erupted into laughter. The muffled thud of music from the Lumina club continued as before, as did the rainbow-coloured search lights on the roof.

  ‘Ah, nothing happened. Shall I plug it back in?’

  ‘No, you might electrocute yourself.’

  The sound of a siren far off jolted them.

  ‘It’s the bizzies, let’s do one.’

  And with the clicking of heels, the cackling of laughter and the smash of an empty beer bottle tossed needlessly into the road, they were gone, leaving the cable loose and lying disconnected in the gutter. Whatever message it had been intended to convey would disappear into the void.

  ‘She’s here now.’

  Colette was perched on a stool at the main bar, buffeted by devils and pumpkins and vampires and witches, observing the scene as Justine made her entrance. The footballer’s wife sashayed across the main floor of the club, smiling coyly at groups of boys, high-fiving groups of girls, enjoying her local celebrity. Although tonight was a little different. She expertly hopped up the steps towards the VIP area in her vertiginous purple heels, and a bouncer unclipped the rope and let her through.

  Justine paused for a moment, to take in the scene on the balcony and make her presence known. There were several half-moon shaped booths, tables laden with cocktails and champagne buckets, populated by the most impossibly glamorous people in the city. Shawn Forrest was in his usual corner, and he waved to Justine. She went to join him, moving self-consciously, edging past the other people in the booth and air-kissing them in greeting. Shawn handed her a glass of champagne and kissed her, meaningfully. They were far less cautious than they used to be. Colette moved to a different part of the bar to maintain her view. Canter and McGregor listened in as she tried to describe what was going on, knowing she wasn’t able to hear their comments.

  Shawn continued smiling for onlookers, but his tone was harsh.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Sorry, babe, I could
n’t get Alfie down, he was disturbed by all the trick-or-treaters, you know, the doorbell kept ringing.’

  ‘Since when have you been bothered about putting Alfie to bed yourself?’

  ‘Since I’m trying to be a good mum,’ she said indignantly. ‘You could spend a bit of time with him yourself, you know.’

  ‘Justine, how many times do we have to go through this? He’s not mine. It’s impossible! I had a vasectomy the minute I got out of prison, I told you that. I’ve got enough baby mamas floating around Liverpool already without you as well.’

  ‘But Shawn…’ She stopped, because there was no point. They had been through this before. The only explanation was that his vasectomy hadn’t worked, but he was having none of it. And what did it matter anyway? As long as she didn’t think about it. Because the alternative was terrifying. Thomas was not the father either, since they had never consummated their marriage.

  ‘Listen, Shawn, there’s another reason I’m late.’ She looked around her guardedly. ‘We can’t talk here, people are watching. Can we go somewhere else?’

  They edged out of the booth, Shawn making ebullient excuses to his guests, and walked over to the balcony to speak privately. They leaned over the chrome balcony rail, surveying the expectant crowd below. The club was always packed, but tonight the sea of heads below them was festooned with devil horns, coloured wigs and witches’ hats.

  ‘Shawn, the police. They know about us. And they know about the weapon. They think it’s in this building. You and Ollie need to move it now. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What? What d’you mean he’s dead?’

  But Shawn didn’t answer, he just stared into space, towards the screen on the ceiling.

  At the corner of the VIP balcony was the DJ booth, and Justine cast a glance at Lacey, who had just taken up position for her set. Both the DJ booth and the balcony were set back from the main speaker system, so the beats that were projected into the crowd were somewhat muted, particularly for Lacey in her headphones. She and the VIPs didn’t hear quite what the people on the dancefloor heard. She played her first track, teasing the crowd with repeated sets of fade-ins until finally the bassline kicked in, and a roar of pleasure came up from the dance floor. At the same time, the huge flatscreen suspended from the ceiling crackled into life, and the spinning green number eight that had become the club’s emblem began its incessant 3D twisting.

  Justine turned to Shawn, and spoke in his ear, raising her voice more than she needed to. ‘There’s something else, Shawn. The prophecy is coming true. Tonight. Our Lord will choose his mouthpiece tonight, and his time on Earth will begin.’

  Incredulous, amused, he looked into her eyes, and played along. ‘How can that be, already? Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s happened quicker than we thought, but all the signs have been building for a while, and it’s coming to a head tonight. Thomas’ grandma is here, there are hundreds of followers at the mouthpiece. It’s time for me to take my place.’

  He looked at her for a long time but her eyes, those vacant eyes, betrayed nothing but seriousness. Surely this had all been a game, this whole time, hadn’t it? The ephemerality of it had given him a distance that allowed him to believe he wasn’t doing any of it. The way things had unfolded in the summer had been unbelievably fortuitous. He hadn’t really been responsible for the events that had unfolded. And yet he couldn’t have planned it better himself. Even if he had been that evil.

  All those people burned to death in the truck fire had had the effect of warning off his rivals, and securing his hold over the local labour-trafficking market. Had he instructed someone to plant an incendiary device in the truck? Or had it been a fire summoned from beyond hell? Then the inferno at the Lumina II worksite. Had it been a rogue firework, a wad of cash slipped to the foreman to torch the place... or something else? And then Max Killy, Justine’s loathed uncle. Faulty sunbed, prostitutes paid to kill him, or something inexplicable? Floating as he did, so many layers above the crimes on the ground, it didn’t really matter who was really to blame. Justine and her little demonic cult; who’d have thought that such a stupid girl could have given him so many ideas.

  He gazed at the screen, the infinity shape reflecting in his pupils, wondering whether he could still trust her.

  In the DJ booth, Lacey checked her watch; it was midnight, time to connect the cable she had been given by Knut. She plugged it in. Nothing happened. The music kept playing as before, the screen still showing the same stupid number eight image. Shit. They told her she would know straight away if it was working. She tried unplugging and plugging it in again. Nothing. She tried turning up the volume, which only made the crowd go wilder. Shit. There was nothing she could do.

  At Canning Place, in Canter’s office, McGregor and Canter strained to hear what was going on over the thudding music.

  ‘Colette, what’s going on now?’

  Colette had left the bar and was making her way to the dancefloor. She was more than a little distracted. ‘They’re on the balcony, still talking. I’m just… I just need to think for a minute… I might just go and… this music, my God… it’s incredible.’

  ‘Colette? Colette? Can you see what’s going on from where you are?’

  There was no more reply, only the sound of thudding beats and tinny pianos.

  ‘The music is getting to her. Jesus, Dave was right. I’m going down there,’ said McGregor, getting up.

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I bloody can.’

  ‘You’ll blow the whole thing, look at you. You haven’t been to a nightclub in thirty years and you’re wearing a suit. Give Darren a chance.’

  McGregor paced around the office impatiently.

  On the balcony, Justine was imploring Shawn to move.

  Why would she lie about the police? he thought. She wouldn’t want to expose the weapon, surely.

  ‘It isn’t that simple, Justine. Ollie is dead, Ian is dead, and there’s no-one else I trust with this. It’s all over now, and there’s nothing to connect me to that weapon as long as I stay away from it. I’ll get someone to come and clean up the tunnel tomorrow.’

  And then suddenly everyone – Colette, Canter and McGregor, Lacey, the VIPs, the dancers – grabbed at their ears, wincing, looking around in pain, as the dance music was overtaken by a horrendous feedback noise. It was more than feedback. It was a fuzz that caused an overwhelming sense of ominous terror, as if revealing a secret about the universe that each individual there had somehow known since before they were born.

  And then the noise began to construct itself into some sort of music. A drum rhythm, a bassline, chords from a church organ, and a voice so low as to be only just intelligible to human hearing. A voice saying words that were not quite discernible but were definitely not English. Perhaps Latin. People took their hands away from their ears, straightened up, and were inexorably drawn towards the screen above their heads. But no-one was afraid like Justine.

  ‘Shawn, look,’ said Justine in terror. The infinity symbol had disappeared. Amidst the green static, a shape was constructing itself on the screen. So pixelated at first as to be indecipherable, it gradually became more distinct. An animal perhaps, with horns, a beast, with a protruding jaw and small eyes. Soon it was so clear as to be almost 3D, as if it was suspended in the room rather than trapped in the screen. Some people were kneeling on the floor. The beast’s jaw was moving, in time to the words coming from the speakers, although they were still unintelligible.

  Shawn momentarily gripped the balcony, then tore his eyes away as Justine pulled at him, imploring, ‘Come on, let’s go, please. Now.’ He grabbed Justine’s hand and they ran, leaving the crowd in the Lumina club dumbfounded and desperate to escape the infernal noise.

  ‘Colette, Colette? What’s going on?’

  Finally Colette shook herself to her senses, still staring at the screen, shouting to make herself heard. ‘Sorry, boss, sorry. Something really weird is happening
in here. Shawn and Justine have gone, they ran – tell Darren I think they’re going down now.’

  Forty-One

  A hundred feet below the surface of Liverpool, a tunnel lay empty, but not quite disused. In the daytime it vibrated with the noise of traffic above and the underground trains not far away. In the night it vibrated to the beats of a hundred nightclubs and bars that lay within one square mile above it on the surface. Generations of dead rats and sewer run-off left a rank smell, not that anyone would be there to smell it. Nothing unusual about all that, in a city filled with empty tunnels. But in this particular tunnel, the smell of death is fresh. At the far end there is a scattering of mangled corpses – dogs and cats. Any light would have revealed their blood and pieces of their flesh spattered on the curved walls. Test cases. A door was unlocked and Shawn and Justine appeared in the tunnel entrance, Shawn turning on the single bulb that hung from the damp ceiling. Here was the workshop – first Springer’s, then Oliver’s – where the murder weapon had been constructed. Over two fold-out workbenches were scattered electrical parts, batteries, metal cutters, tools, scribbled plans, and diagrams.