by Tony Moyle
David had no recollection of John’s horticultural preferences but there seemed little point in challenging such an irrelevance. There were so many other details that might not be how he was told them. Maybe he wouldn’t get another opportunity.
“What was he like?” asked David calmly.
“He was a shy boy. Spent much of his free time on his own reading books or drawing elaborate, fantastical scenes that he’d pluck from his imagination. Although he didn’t find it easy to mix with others he was always there for you if you needed him. Sometimes when you least expected it. I remember when he was in his twenties I was taken into hospital with suspected meningitis. No one told him what had happened but somehow he sensed that I was in need of his support. There he was on the ward within hours of my first set of tests. He was very much like his father in that respect.”
“I read that his father died in the Falklands War?”
Mrs. Hewson paused for a moment, glancing up into the sky forlornly to give herself inspiration or the courage to answer.
“Yes. He was a hero, posthumously decorated, I might add. Saved many lives. Amazing man, he was. Affected John his whole life not having him around.”
“It must have been very hard for both of you.”
“More than you could imagine,” she said, but pulling herself from the conversation as if reminded of the fact that this eleven-year-old foreigner was not really worthy of the information. “If you’re not here making trouble, then why are you taking so much interest in my son’s grave? You can’t even have known him, you’re far too young.”
“Sometimes I feel I know him better than I know myself,” replied David dreamily, “in a manner of speaking.”
“What rubbish,” the old woman replied scornfully. “Youth. They think they understand life and emotion. You can’t possibly know my son. What are you, seventeen?”
“You’re right, I can’t say I have ever understood emotion. I’m younger than seventeen, though, I’m only eleven.”
“Eleven! You’re about six feet tall.”
David had always been big. He’d weighed twelve pounds at birth and passed four feet in height before he was five. It might have been explained apart from the fact that his parents were so tiny. His father, a Chilean llama herder, had barely threatened five feet six inches, and his mother wouldn’t have looked out of place at a pixie convention. His size had always been an advantage, until today that was.
“How can someone born a year after my son’s death have any interest in him? I knew you were up to no good, even if your demeanour suggests otherwise. Maybe you’re just a good actor?”
The vitality returned to her legs and with piston-like reflexes out sprang her pointing finger. David wasn’t a good actor. At the best of times silence was all he could muster, and at the worst of times he had a tendency to reveal the truth in a heartbeat. He couldn’t explain his inability to lie: it appeared to be as much a constant in his life as his abnormal size. He had, though, developed the ability to offer alternative facts that were true but not the truth. Certainly the truth would not be wise now.
“I’m studying law in London on a scholarship. I’m working on old cases, unsolved fatalities. The circumstances of your son’s death intrigue me. I wanted to get close to him as part of my research.”
None of this information was incorrect, even if there was far more that David failed to reveal. Along with his physical size, his intellectual capabilities had developed just as quickly. In some ways he was even more advanced than the multinational teenagers who made up his classmates. The college had done everything in their power to block his entrance, fearful that an eleven-year-old, a fact unavoidably laid out on his birth certificate, might bring undue publicity. Once David’s entrance exams results broke records they were powerless to stop him.
The college archives gave access to information unavailable outside of the library computers. Not that he needed to review the case at all: he knew the circumstances better than anyone.
“What do you mean it intrigues you?” asked Mrs. Hewson.
“It just seems so unlikely that he would die from that type of road traffic accident.”
“What are you talking about? It wasn’t a road traffic accident. He was murdered. Are you sure you’ve got the right John Hewson?” replied Mrs. Hewson, instantly correcting him, the case weighing heavily on her soul.
“Yes, believe me, this is the right John,” replied David unnecessarily pointing at the headstone. “Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“Of course I’m sure. I lost my only child: you never move on from that,” explained Mrs. Hewson, again doubting the boy’s stated purpose. “Surely you must have known that if you’ve reviewed the case?”
“Well, yes, of course. I have reviewed it, but it’s a difficult case. A lot of details are missing in those files,” replied David, again revealing the truth of the actual files that he’d added to his own experiences of the case.
“There certainly was a lot missing. They never found the weapon and more importantly no one was ever successfully prosecuted.”
“What weapon?”
“A gun.”
“No, that can’t be right,” responded David matter-of-factly.
“I can tell you it was, because I found him. He sustained a single shot to the heart. The coroner said he’d been hit at close range and died instantly. He must have been lying there a few hours when I found him. He was all alone and I couldn’t save him. I promised I would always be there for him. I just couldn’t protect him,” she said, wiping the tears and mascara combination from her cheek.
She turned away to prevent a perfect stranger seeing her well with tears, as fresh now as they were that day twelve years ago. The natural reaction in these circumstances should have been for David to reach out and comfort the woman. But it wasn’t the oddness of the situation that deterred him, it was a total lack of desire to do so. To him, the thought of hugging someone was uncomfortable, an alien reaction to something incomprehensible. Anyway, he was too busy dealing with his own confusion. How could she be right?
“Did they ever find anyone?” he asked, far more insensitively than any other human being would.
“They identified one suspect, but they never found him.”
“How did they identify him?” asked David.
“They had some CCTV footage of all the people who went in and out of the flat on that morning. A shady-looking old man had entered the building in the hours before the shooting. He didn’t even use the security system.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” replied David.
“He was just in the building. He didn’t go through the front door to enter or exit the place. He wasn’t there when they searched the property either. One minute he’s there and the next he’s not,” she tried to explain, although he could see that she really wasn’t able to.
“How do they know it was him, then?”
“He wanted us to know.”
“How?”
“He took time to stop and talk to the CCTV camera as if delivering a confession.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘How many times have I killed you now, John?’ It made no sense.”
“What did you say he looked like?” prompted David.
“Very old, all skin and bone really, wore a pinstriped suit as old and tatty as his own features. I’ll never forget the way he grinned into the camera, as if he wanted us to recognise him. It was as if he wanted us to know who he was, but with an arrogance that told us we would never catch him.”
David thought back to the inscription on the grave. Could it have been Laslow that placed it there? Laslow’s endless control over John’s actions now seemed to be pursuing David. Was there nowhere to hide, nowhere that was safe? If he was to complete the tasks that had been set for him, he wouldn’t be unopposed. Someone was watching.
“Did he say anything else?” asked David, hoping for more clues to this bizarre change to his understanding.
; “Just one other thing. ‘See you next time’. We never did find out what he meant. How would he see John again after he’d already killed him? We just ignored it after a while as irrelevant. Look at me, going on about something that happened years ago to someone young enough to be my own grandson whom I’ve never met before,” Mrs. Hewson mumbled to herself. “I don’t even know your name.”
- CHAPTER TWO -
THE COUNCIL OF CREATURES
“The more observant of you will notice that I’m wearing my compassionate face today, but be under no illusions, I’m quite prepared to break out the malevolent one if I don’t get the answers I want to hear,” announced Asmodeus to the congregation.
The demons squirmed nervously in the jewel-encrusted thrones that circled the large stone table at the very centre of level twelve. Like guilty schoolchildren they attempted a pose that neither demonstrated direct eye contact with their master, nor made it apparent they were avoiding it. No one wanted to be the one who looked the most eager or least reluctant to be asked the first question. None of them pulled the look off with any aplomb.
Occasionally a hand would shoot under the table in an attempt to put one of their peers off their stride, a foolish endeavour when you consider most of these creatures had their own unique anatomies more than likely to cause the antagonist varying degrees of pain. Following his attempt to prod Mr. Volts in the thigh, Mr. Graphite’s hand leapt into the air along with a muffled yelp.
Asmodeus glared at him. “Are you starting us off, then, Mr. Graphite. Come on, don’t be shy: share the joke with the group.”
Mr. Graphite’s eyes sank to the ground as if gravity had been turned off in a phenomenon solely isolated to the vicinity of his face.
Asmodeus had metamorphosed back into his most comfortable form. The angelic white robe, with its bold, bright sheen, may not have appeared as hideous as his three-headed guise but it had a more influencing quality. It had the ability to lull people and creatures alike into a sense of ease, lowering their defences and removing their fear. The demons knew all too well that this trickery was an attempt to get them to lower their guard.
“Perhaps you think what has happened here is in some way acceptable. That once in a while someone will beat us. THEY WILL NOT!” he bellowed as his fist hit the table and his composure was momentarily broken.
The demons all nodded furiously in agreement.
He pointed to the only chair around the table that was empty. The demons, sensing sudden reprieve, glanced over to the throne that Asmodeus was currently pointing towards. “Why don’t we start with you?”
“I don’t think he’s there,” whispered one of the demons to his neighbour.
“Yes I am,” came the indignant response from the empty seat.
“Mr. Virus, can you offer any words of enlightenment on what has happened here?” demanded Asmodeus.
After a pause, Asmodeus acknowledged the shake of Mr. Virus’s head, which only he appeared to witness, and his stare moved back to the ensemble. Again the demons reset their default positions to not wanting to be noticed, brief relief replaced by palpable anxiety.
“It’s a good job that I am here and not the Devil himself. Imagine what malice he would be smiting out on you in these circumstances. Imagine what mood he’ll be in when I tell him.”
A congregation of heads sagged onto their chins.
“What I want to know most of all, and I’m happy to hear any mere nugget of wisdom or outlandish conspiracy theory that you care to offer, is how the hell did John Hewson, an insignificant no one, get out of that prison?”
Their attentions were drawn in the direction of John’s empty metal box, still lying open, broken and empty on the red, dusty floor.
“I think I can offer some opinions on it,” came a gurgled voice from the far side of the table.
The council of creatures had not been assembled for such an eternity: very few could remember any of the correct protocols. It was the only time that all the senior demons, responsible for one department or function of Hell, gathered to debate or solve a problem. The last time they had been summoned, the Devil himself had chaired it. That debate had focused on what to do with the rumoured appearance of the Son of God. On that occasion the atmosphere had been quite jovial, more akin to a trivial board meeting with an agenda to discuss nothing more vital than which stationery they should order or who should be chosen to organise the annual fun run.
They had all voted unanimously in favour of the motion put forward at that meeting. The Devil would descend to Earth to deal with any minor inconvenience these rumours might cause. Consequently it was the last time that any of the demons had seen him in the flesh. It was also the last time all but one of the group had heard this current voice.
The slithering body of ooze transformed its shape in its seat, unable to comfortably confine itself to such a foreign object. If there was any demon who created trepidation on an equal scale to Asmodeus, then it was him.
“Primordial, welcome back,” said Asmodeus, his tone softened in recognition of his own respect. “Perhaps you can show this useless bunch of imbeciles why you are held in such high regard?”
“There is only one way that John could have escaped from his vessol,” he croaked. “The Limpet Syndrome is the only explanation.”
“So, the human condition for survival rears its head once again. One day soon we will need to deal with that condition for good. The Limpet Syndrome only explains how he escaped the vessol: it does not explain how he escaped the cask itself,” said Asmodeus.
“Not if it was his first time, no,” replied Primordial, “but if it was his second time, then it is possible.”
“Explain,” demanded Asmodeus, seemingly blind to anyone other than Primordial, to the great assuagement of the others.
“Nobody knows the true origins of the Limpet Syndrome itself, but what we can speculate, from what we have been delivered in the forms that live in my domain, is that it is a purely rational condition. No one with faith in religion, unless they know the truth, can trigger it. It’s a subliminal reaction to avoid what their subconsciousness cannot fathom – essentially a way of avoiding the only possible final destination, Hell. We have no way of knowing how it evolved, although all of us around this table know why it evolved.”
Now united in a sense of solidarity, the group nodded in agreement, hanging onto Primordial’s words like children listening to an engaging fairy tale, anxious and eager to discover the ending.
“What we do know is what constitutes the soul. The soul has the capacity for three equal properties: the good, the bad and the neutral. These three parts are rarely in balance and have a potential mass of twenty-one grams, or, to put it another way, three multiples of seven, two numbers purposefully symbolic. I believe that the Limpet Syndrome is neither an easy nor a painless process. It fights the pull of the fifth force, a force far more powerful than the bonds that hold the soul together. The energy required to resist such a force must have some consequences. I suspect it is the same consequence that Emorfed has on the shadow souls that you have seen come here.”
“Are you suggesting that part of the soul is sheared away in the process of the Limpet Syndrome?” enquired Asmodeus.
“Indeed. Although I think this is only the case when the soul doesn’t have its own body. When it does, the body is the by-product,” replied Primordial.
“As interesting as this turn of events is, I’m still unclear how this has helped John escape from what used to be one of the most secure places in the Universe.”
“I think I can offer a view on that one,” came a voice from what appeared to be a second unoccupied chair. In order to be fully audible, Brimstone clambered onto his throne so that he was now at the same height as his seated peers.
“Ah, Mr. Brimstone, I wondered when you might add to this debate,” said Asmodeus. “Please enlighten me.”
“If what Primordial has said is correct, and I am certainly not going to argue with him, then what I s
aw in the Soul Catcher at the time of John’s escape may hold the answer.”
The table’s attention shifted to the bubbling stone figure standing on his tiptoes, scorching the precious metals contained within his chair. Some were watching purely to see if he would melt it and fall through; others were interested in what might come out of his mouth.
“Whilst I was being summoned pointlessly back and forth to level twelve to explain John’s disappearance, a foreign object of no identity entered the Soul Catcher. When I finally returned, it was gone.”
“And?” said Asmodeus a little underwhelmed.
“Stay with me. I’m building up to it. If part of John’s soul had already been splintered from him in the weeks prior to his escape, then it is feasible that that fragment returned unrecognised. Unrecognised because no one was expecting it, least of all the Soul Catcher.”
“How could part of his soul have remained on Earth unnoticed, even if he did pull off the Limpet Syndrome?” cried Asmodeus disparagingly.
“Has anyone been known to enact the Limpet Syndrome whilst they were possessing another human?” replied Brimstone.
The room fell silent as they considered the revelation.
“If they have, none have ever got back here at least,” replied Primordial. “I would guess that whichever part of John’s soul was removed when he experienced the Limpet Syndrome first time would stay with the human host until it was released from him.”
“What about the writing on the side of the cask?” Asmodeus added, walking across to the metal box to be sure that it was still there. “Did anyone ask Newton what it means?”
“I did, sir,” replied Mr. Silica excitedly, wanting to separate himself from his cowering colleagues.
“What did he say?” enquired Asmodeus.
“He wasn’t very compliant at first, but once I explained the dichotomy between his work on gravity and Einstein’s theory of relativity, he said that was torture enough. He explained that Newton’s third law was based on every force having an equal and opposite force.”