The Demon Club

by Scott Mariani

  Tristan Dudley looked like a cornered animal there on the ground. A twisted look of hatred came over his face and burned in his eyes. ‘I’m not going to deny it any more. Why should I?’

  ‘Oh, my God. It’s true?’

  ‘Don’t you utter your filthy God’s name in my presence,’ he snarled at his wife. ‘Yes, damn it, it’s true. Every bit of it. And I don’t give a shit what you have to say about that.’

  She reeled on her feet, as though she felt faint, then turned and abruptly threw up in the grass. For a few moments she was bent over double, clutching her sides and racked with spasms. When she had nothing left inside, tears of agony were spilling down her cheeks. ‘This isn’t possible. How you could have killed our little baby?’

  ‘Baby, baby, baby,’ Dudley scoffed, flushed red with feral anger. ‘My dear, darling daughter was nothing but a curse on me. She hated me. Pushed me to the edge. Did everything she could to destroy my career. I should have got rid of her years ago. I had the connections. I used them. Because I can. And now she’s dead, I’m happy! Hear me? I’m happy! So are a lot of very important people who can make good things happen for me! Get it?’

  His wife listened quietly. The haziness had now completely vanished from her eyes and she looked strangely composed. Beyond tears. No more emotion left to give.

  Then she replied, ‘Our daughter might have had her problems. She wasn’t perfect. But she was my little girl. I loved her more than life itself. And you took her away from me, to help your career? I’ve always known that you were a shallow and ambitious man who only really cared about himself. But never, not in a million years, would I have believed you were really this much of an evil monster. I … I just can’t understand how you could do this to us.’

  He screamed at her, ‘No, of course you don’t fucking understand, do you, you stupid, hopeless bitch. You haven’t got a clue about anything! You’re just like all the rest of the pathetic low-down scummy trash of the world! I should have delivered you to the Grand Master along with your fucking slut of a daughter!’

  Clarissa absorbed his words without reaction and was silent for a long moment. Then she looked down at Ben’s weapon lying on the ground. She stepped towards it and picked it up. Her husband was panting and snorting like a tethered bull and staring at her as though he wanted to strap her to an altar and slice her heart out. She ignored him and said to Ben, ‘I’ve seen this gun before. It belongs to our security team. Are they involved in this, too?’

  ‘If we thought they were, Mrs Dudley,’ Ben replied, ‘they’d be dead now.’

  ‘Please tell me who you are.’

  ‘We’re just two people trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘What will happen after this?’

  ‘What has to happen. Your husband’s friends need to account for what they’ve done. To Annie, and to others.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Good. Now tell me, is this gun loaded?’

  ‘It is. And I’d advise you to put it down.’

  ‘Yes, put it down, you brainless cow!’ Dudley bellowed at her.

  But Clarissa Dudley didn’t put it down. Instead she turned towards her husband, raised the weapon and pointed it at him. Her grip on the gun was a little awkward, but at this short range nobody could have missed.

  The fury evaporated from his face and he struggled wildly against his tape bonds. ‘Clarissa! No! I … I didn’t mean what I said!’

  Still looking at her husband over the barrel of the gun she said calmly to Ben and Wolf, ‘You gentlemen came here tonight to murder my husband, for reasons that will never be known. Perhaps you were terrorists, or paid assassins, or simply opportunistic thugs. It doesn’t matter. You managed to defeat his security, and you used one of their weapons to kill him. Then you got away, and there were no witnesses to your escape. I was in bed asleep the whole time and knew nothing about what was happening. Does that sound like a story anyone would believe?’

  Ben didn’t speak. Wolf replied, ‘Sounds all right to me.’

  Dudley was contorting himself like a worm on the ground in his desperation to break free. ‘Clarissa! Someone! Please help me!’

  ‘Nobody can help you now,’ his wife told him. ‘Goodbye, Tristan. And I hope you rot in hell.’

  She squeezed the trigger with a hesitant flinch.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Safety’s on,’ Wolf said. ‘The little turny thing there by your right thumb.’

  ‘Oh.’ She found the catch lever and flipped it. ‘What does this other switch do?’

  ‘Sets the weapon to fully automatic,’ Wolf told her. ‘Takatakatakatak.’

  ‘Does that make it better?’

  ‘It can only make him deader.’

  ‘Then it’s better.’ She flipped the select fire switch.

  Ben said, ‘Maybe you don’t want to do this, Mrs Dudley.’

  ‘Listen to him, Clarissa!’ Dudley howled, frantic with panic, trying to wriggle away towards the bushes.

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ she replied to Ben.

  ‘Then it’s your choice.’

  ‘This is the only thing left in my life that I have any control over,’ she said. ‘Damn right it’s my choice.’

  She squeezed the trigger again. This time there was no hesitation, no flinch. Dudley screamed. The gun rattled into action, the sound suppressor doing its efficient work to muffle the blast. Eight hundred and fifty rounds a minute. Thirty rounds gone in just over two seconds. She didn’t take her finger off the trigger until the weapon was empty, and by then Tristan Dudley wasn’t screaming any longer. His lifeless body twitched a couple of times, and then there was nothing left for it to do except leak blood into the moonlit lawn.

  The night was suddenly deathly quiet. Clarissa Dudley lowered the gun. She took a tissue from her dressing gown pocket and spent a moment wiping her prints off the parts she’d touched. Then she tossed it to Ben. He wanted to express to her again how sorry he was, but there were no words. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone go through what she was going through and bear such intensity of unspeakable emotional pain with so much strength and dignity. He had decided that he admired Clarissa Dudley. He admired her very much indeed.

  ‘I’ll be going back to bed now,’ she said. ‘What with all these strong sleeping pills and tranquillisers that my doctor prescribed me, I might be out of it for the whole of tomorrow. For days, even. It could be thirty-six or forty-eight hours before I wake up and realise something terrible has happened to my poor husband, and call the police. I imagine that kind of timeframe would suit you fine, wouldn’t it?’

  Ben sensed what she was thinking. ‘You heard what he said about tomorrow night’s event.’

  She nodded. ‘And it seems to me that Tristan’s little friends might panic and pull the plug, if they knew he was dead. News travels fast.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘And I’m sure you want them all to be there.’

  ‘Very much so,’ Ben said.

  ‘And so, I can buy you some time.’

  ‘Thirty-six hours should be more than enough for us to do what we have to do.’

  ‘After which the shit’s going to hit the fan anyway,’ Wolf said. ‘We’ll be long gone by then.’

  She nodded again. ‘That just leaves the matter of the security team. For this to work, I suppose we can’t let them go until this is over. But if they’re innocent as you say, I wouldn’t want any harm to come to them. Will they survive for thirty-six hours in their present condition?’

  Ben replied, ‘If there were somewhere secure they could be contained for that long with some basic provisions to keep them going, they’d be fine until the police rescued them.’

  ‘There’s the old coal cellar,’ she said. ‘We use it as an extra food store. There are tins of things and stacks of bottled water and soft drinks. It has a chute where people used to pour the coal in. The trapdoor is solid and it has a strong bolt. I don’t think anyone could get out of there.’

&nb
sp; ‘Untie ’em and dump ’em down the chute,’ Wolf said. ‘They might wonder why the hell we’re doing it, but they won’t have a clue. Could work.’

  ‘We’ll take care of it,’ Ben told her. ‘One more thing. We need the Bentley.’

  She gestured back towards the house. ‘Take it. You’ll find it in the garage with the keys in it.’

  ‘Appreciated. Is there anything else we can do for you before we go?’

  ‘No. I’m going to be all right. At least, I think I am. Right now, I can’t really say for sure.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be fine. Goodbye, then, Clarissa. Under different circumstances it would have been a pleasure meeting you.’

  She said, ‘I don’t know your names, and I don’t think I want to. But I do want to thank you both for being here tonight. Now please go and send the rest of those fiends to hell, where they belong.’

  Chapter 56

  Surrey

  The next evening

  The night of March 29th had brought even more clement weather than that of the spring equinox. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the oaks and beeches and sycamore within the wooded parkland of Karswell Hall; the glow of the waning gibbous moon reflected over the rippling surface of the lake and illuminated the lawns that surrounded the fine old house. It was a perfect night for the predators that dwelled among the forest. The haunting twoo and answering kee-wick of a pair of tawny owls sounded from the treetops as they surveyed their territory for likely prey. But the avian hunters weren’t the only beaked killers intent on claiming victims in that particular idyllic patch of English countryside that night.

  The first vehicles had started arriving soon after eleven p.m., filtering in single file through the gates of Karswell Hall and pausing at the checkpoint where drivers handed admission passes to the security employees before being waved through. One at a time they proceeded around the side of the house, their headlights sweeping over the grand stonework, to park in their designated spaces at the rear. While the VIP guests exited their cars and made their way inside the stately home via a special entrance, all drivers and bodyguards were required to report to a separate lodge house on the estate, a distance away from the main building. The lodge was soundproofed and surveilled with cameras to make sure the staffers remained cocooned in there for the duration of the evening and witnessed nothing untoward. The general belief among them was that their employers must be up to some kinky stuff at the big house. A lot of knowing grins, nudges and winks were exchanged, but nobody had any cause to complain because they were getting paid double-time and provided with plenty to keep them entertained: a big-screen television with all the movie and sports channels on tap, pinball machines, pool table and computer games.

  Meanwhile, back at the house the arriving delegates filtered through from the lobby to the familiar and comfortable environment of the members’ lounge. Champagne, fine wines, gin and tonics and vintage whiskies were served from the complimentary bar as the members greeted one another as old friends. Hands were shaken, conversation was lively and affable. Top lawmakers, High Court Judges, corporate bosses and industry tycoons, senior civil servants and political leaders, media pundits, movers and shakers; in whatever walk of life they had achieved success, in whatever corridors of power they held influence and helped to shape national and global events, everyone was considered equal. Here, the bitterest of rivals who might otherwise be seen tearing each other’s guts out in the public arenas of the company boardroom or the Houses of Parliament lounged amicably on plush leather sofas, enjoyed their drinks and laughed together as Brothers. It was a place they felt utterly safe and protected, united in their purpose and beliefs, happily sheltered from the outside world. As the crowd gathered inside the handsome room and the hour of the ceremony approached, the anticipation of tonight’s events grew into a buzz of excited chatter.

  The highlight of the preliminary proceedings at Karswell Hall was the arrival of their beloved Grand Master. The great man’s black Rolls was waved through the checkpoint at eleven-thirty sharp, and minutes later he entered the members’ lounge like a king or an emperor, to the sound of reverent applause. As he’d done for forty years, Bartholomew Van Brakel received their adulation with regal grace, leaning on his ibis-headed cane while he shook a hand here and there, before taking his place in the gilt throne chair reserved for his supreme rank and accepting his customary flute of Armand de Brignac Methuselah champagne. At nearly £7,000 a bottle it was said to be the only form of beverage that ever passed the old man’s lips. Like most of his fellow members, he could well afford such indulgences and he drank it in moderation only because of his slowly failing liver. The decades of burning the black candle at both ends had taken their toll on his health.

  As usual, Van Brakel was accompanied to Karswell Hall by his close lieutenant, a man who went by various different identities – ‘Saunders’ and ‘Curnow’ amongst others – but whose real name was Herbert Tiberius Fitzroy. Known to his very few friends and trusted associates as Fitz, he had served as the Grand Master’s personal assistant for many years. Long ago, he’d spent the earlier part of his career mired deep in the murky world of British Intelligence before becoming involved in covert government activities that were even darker and more secretive.

  It was through those shadowy connections that their paths had first crossed. In the same way that the Grand Master had once become the student and protégé of the much older Aleister Crowley, Fitz had been introduced to a whole new way of life and become first Van Brakel’s disciple, and later his chief of staff and enforcer. His close association with the most powerful member of the Pandemonium Club endowed him with a great deal of power of his own. While the old man was immensely venerated, Fitz was profoundly feared. And for good reason.

  Standing by the Grand Master’s throne, Fitz scanned the room. He was personally involved in the vetting of new members, and so was intimately familiar with the personal and professional backgrounds of every single man present. He’d always prided himself on knowing them better than they knew themselves – that was, until the Abbott affair had come along. It had been inside this very room that he’d first noticed the odd change that seemed to have come over their longstanding member over the last few months. The excess drinking; the furtive behaviour and occasional flashes of anger towards his fellow initiates. Something had seemed to be gnawing at the man. Something had not been right. Was Abbott harbouring some resentment against his Brothers, Fitz had wondered at the time. Did he blame them for the many self-inflicted disappointments and letdowns of his political career and personal life? Or had he suddenly developed a conscience, thereby breaking his pledge of loyalty with the Brotherhood? Had he not been warned that failure to abide by their strict code was an offence for which the only penalty was death?

  Alarm bells ringing in his mind, Fitz had used his considerable power and resources to investigate. It hadn’t taken long to find out what was going on. Abbott might have thought he was being clever by steering clear of his home landline and email and purchasing a burner phone on which to carry on his secret business. But he hadn’t reckoned on Fitz’s ability to place bugs inside his house and car – thanks to which they’d soon discovered that he was planning on writing an exposé and in discussions with a London literary agency. Fitz had considered sending an assassination team to deal with them, too, before deciding to keep it clean and simple. Abbott’s murder could easily be attributed to a burglary. And he knew just the man to carry out the job.

  What a dog’s breakfast that had turned out to be.

  From now on, Fitz was determined to keep a much closer eye on his Brothers, lest a rogue member should ever again endanger the security of the Order. He switched his gaze from one face to another, scrutinising each in turn, observing their body language and mannerisms. Having learned his lesson from the Abbott affair anything remotely suspicious would have caught his attention, but he could see nothing that concerned him. The initiates of the Pande
monium Club were all visibly keyed up in readiness for tonight’s event. Those who were fortunate enough to be invited to the even more special ceremony planned for afterwards looked particularly animated.

  And so they should be, Fitz thought with a smile. Watching the blood of pretty young women being spilled in the name of Thoth was a thrill that never lost its appeal, but the entertainment the Grand Master had devised for his inner circle that night would be a truly ecstatic experience never to be forgotten. For them, the ritual ceremony on the lake was just the hors d’oeuvre; after it had reached its bloody climax, they would retire to the crypts below the house to enjoy the main course. Even Fitz, who had quite literally seen and done it all, was mildly excited by the prospect.

  But despite his anticipation of the fun in store for that night, Fitz couldn’t bring himself to feel quite as carefree and happy as his Brothers. He had more worrying matters on his mind.

  Fitz was still reeling from the triple-whammy of recent events. The first body blow had been the return of the DNA test results. Rushed through at great expense, they had confirmed his suspicion, fuelled by the on-site investigations of his man Vaughn, that the body in the burned-out van in Albarracín had not been that of Jaden Wolf. Meanwhile, examination of the custom-made denture that Vaughn had brought back from Spain strongly suggested that it was the genuine article. Just as Fitz had feared, it appeared that his former employee Wolf had teamed up with the man sent out to eliminate him. Just when Fitz had thought he had Ben Hope completely stitched up, the clever bastard had managed to find a way to outfox him.

  Then, hot on the heels of that discovery had come the mess in Scotland, when the Kirk woman had been magically whisked away from the clutches of Fitz’s men just as they were about to capture her. How in Satan’s name had that happened? Fitz would have concluded that Hope and Wolf were responsible, if not for the further incident that had taken place almost immediately afterwards at Anthony Abbott’s home, right at the opposite end of the country. Which had proved beyond any doubt that he was now dealing with two ex-SAS warriors on the rampage, both with very real reasons to seek reprisals against him.