Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “Hello, here at last. It’s ok, we’re not waiting for a certain demon to arrive, no hurry.”

  The cat looked at him impassively.

  “What’s your name?” asked Sandy.

  “Sir Roger Montague, the third Earl of Norfolk,” said the cat with a smile.

  “Bollocks it is,” replied Sandy.

  “You don’t know, do you? If I say that I’m the third Earl of Norfolk you’ll have to prove otherwise, won’t you?”

  “Fine. Well, Roger, why did you come here?”

  “Sir Roger,” added the cat.

  “Sorry, Sir Roger. Why did you come here?” A pigeon’s anatomy lacked lips, which was a shame because he was desperate to bite his.

  “I wasn’t actually invited. I was just passing, thought I’d stop to see what was going on. You can’t do it without me, you know. It’s impossible in fact. I should be interviewing you, rather than the other way around.”

  “You’re a little arrogant…”

  “No, it’s just fact. I’ve already escaped from this level nine times before, you know. It’s no biggie. Sometimes I escape without even meaning to. I even got up to level twelve once before,” replied Roger as he nonchalantly licked his paws and focused his eyes on anything other than Sandy.

  “Impressive. How did you do it?”

  “Plans. Strategies. Really good strategies. Some of the best strategies you’ve ever seen. Period.”

  “But no details apparently,” added Sandy. “What did you do as a human?”

  “I was the first astronaut to walk on the moon,” replied Roger without the slightest pause for thought.

  “I’m pretty sure that was Neil Armstrong, not Sir Roger Montague the third Earl of Norfolk, who for the record died some considerable time before the nineteen sixties.”

  “Roger was my original form, but when I was reincarnated I came back as Neil’s cat. He snuck me aboard the Eagle and I nipped out just before he did.”

  “Do you always lie…?”

  “I never lie.”

  “…Or are you broken?” replied Sandy.

  “I don’t care what you think. I’m a cat, we don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. Believe me, don’t believe me, it’s up to you,” replied the cat getting up and strolling back into the clearing.

  “I’m not done with the questions yet,” shouted Sandy.

  Roger ignored him and scurried up a nearby oak tree for a snooze. Sandy wasn’t feeling overly impressed with what he had to work with. A sociopathic cat was a step up from an evangelical ox, though. The cat was in, if he could be arsed to turn up, of course. The sloth was still some distance away so Sandy called one of the two remaining candidates.

  “Tarantula, you’re up next.”

  The spider had been avoiding any contact with the others as if in some way there was only one spot on the team and fraternising with the others might put him at a disadvantage. He scurried over to the spot at a blistering speed.

  “Wow. I can say without fear of contradiction that you are already my favourite candidate and I haven’t asked you anything,” said Sandy, impressed at least by the creature’s velocity. “What do they call you?”

  “Vicky.”

  “Well, Vicky, I can assure you that this is an equal opportunities mission and all candidates will be treated with the same level of fairness. Why are you here?”

  “I hate demons.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “And cats.”

  “Me, too,” agreed Sandy.

  “In fact, I’m not fond of anything with less than eight legs. Ox can fuck off, too, always trampling through all our webs. They shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

  “I think this part of Hell is open to anything that’s been reincarnated,” prompted Sandy.

  “Now, yes. But back in the early days it was just insects and rodents. They’ll let anyone in these days. Mammals are the worst. They take up all the space and kick all the indigenous breeds out.”

  “Right. That sounds a bit racist to me, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I’m not a racist. They always say that when someone tries to protect what was once theirs.”

  “I don’t think it was yours in the first place. You can’t claim a place just because you were there first and stuck a flag in the ground.”

  “Pigeons can fuck off, too. All the cooing and shitting everywhere they want. Have some respect for others.”

  “Ok. So I’m retracting my earlier statement and contradicting myself fully. What did you do when you were on Earth?”

  “I worked in the immigration department at an airport.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Apart from racial discrimination, do you have any specialist skills?”

  “You may have noticed that I’m a bloody big spider. I can do webs, really thick ones, too, and I’m a dab hand at scaring people.”

  “What about demons?”

  “Hate them.”

  “Yes, I think we established that. I mean, how would you deal with one, if you were needed to in a crisis?”

  “Probably shoot webs at them.”

  “Not all demons are likely to be too concerned. What if you were up against one made of electricity or wind?”

  “Oh in that case…probably run away.”

  “Excellent,” replied Sandy sarcastically. “Send the gibbon over, would you?”

  Before the gibbon was called, Sandy aimed his collective thoughts back up to Malcolm.

  “Is this really the best you could do? I don’t want to sound ungrateful but, so far, three of the five candidates I’ve interviewed are total nut jobs.”

  “Six, you mean? There are still three left to see,” replied Malcolm.

  “I can only see a sloth who’s barely travelled metres since I started interviewing, and a gibbon playing tricks on an ox. Where’s the third one?”

  “Over there,” replied the eagle, pointing a wing through the clearing to a point on the horizon.

  Where the water’s edge broke on the shoreline of the forest biome a huge creature wallowed in the shallows. It offered a welcome with a squirt from its blowhole.

  “Blimey, that must have been a difficult one for the Soul Catcher. Well, given my luck with candidates so far, I suspect he’ll probably have anger management issues or a pathological fear of feet.”

  - CHAPTER ELEVEN -

  WAKE

  The news of Herb’s death had come as a shock. The fact that he was dead wasn’t the big news. Any man who consumed the volume and strength of liquor that Herb had over a fifty-year spell was always likely to be teetering on the edge of some terminal mishap. No amount of cardiac surgery could prevent the single-minded nature of someone willing to self-destruct. It might come as the result of some barmy subconscious and drunken belief that he could climb a fifty-foot building with only his bare hands, or the more likely outcome of his arteries clogging up with plague. Yet none of these situations had taken Herb’s life from him.

  No drink had touched Herb’s lips for over a decade. David didn’t need to check this fact: he knew it to be true. Most people who attempted to kick the bottle are susceptible to a relapse, but not Herb. Once you’d taken Emorfed you had no such weakness. Life was unable to offer any type of temptation to a mind deficient of the required motivations. Which raised another important question: if Emorfed took away your ability to feel, love, hate, or the circumstances that brought about depression, how would someone in that state kill themselves?

  Donovan King had been quite clear about that fact, though. Surely there must be more to it? If he was going to understand the situation, David would have to dig a little deeper. Starting with the funeral.

  This created some challenges. Number one, Donovan was going to be there and David was keen to keep his existential background secret from as many people as possible. Number two it was highly probable that Herb’s best friend, Nash, would also be there. If anyone was likely to know who David really was, it was him. David had first-h
and knowledge of the lead singer from the ‘Wind-up Merchants’ and he was fairly certain the experience was mutual.

  Nash had demonstrated more than just the special connection common between twins. It was highly likely that some of John’s soul had attached itself to Nash as a consequence of his first use of the Limpet Syndrome. How else could it explain how Nash had come to John’s rescue when Victor held him prisoner on the plane? David’s soul, as neutral as the black wire in a plug socket, had only the slightest echo from parts of his soul that were left behind. Nothing was certain because most of his memories and emotions existed, presumably, elsewhere.

  Herb’s funeral was being held in his home village of Applecross which sat on the shores of the Scottish Highlands, sandwiched between the mountains and the water that stretched from it to the Isle of Skye. Herb had always been a proud Scot and it was fitting that his final resting place would take him back to his roots. The small church of Clachan, a few miles inland from the scenic village, set the scene for one of the most sparsely attended funerals in history.

  Herb hadn’t been a great collector of friends. Acquaintances were plentiful, but few of those even knew his second name, let alone harboured the motivation to travel to the back of beyond to drink his health. Many of Herb’s true friends had been dead for decades. Burnt-out candles that left their imagery alive, still youthful way beyond the years that ticked by for others. In the early days of the music industry anyone who wanted to be remembered worked tirelessly to ensure they fizzled out well before their full potential had been reached. Most did so successfully.

  Of those that were left, only a handful of part-time rogues and retired hellraisers had been capable or upright enough to travel to this spot. This made it even more difficult for David to remain anonymous. He couldn’t just sit in the small chapel surrounded by old gits and expect to blend in. Donovan would spot him in an instant. The plan was to wait a short distance away from the church and watch. After the sermon was conducted, the grieving would retreat to the graveyard and David could determine who was in attendance.

  *****

  Nash was one of only five mourners in the chapel. They’d spread themselves as far apart as geographically possible, as all humans appear to do in circumstances like this. The chapel held just over a hundred, but each human was sitting at least ten metres distance to the next. The only connection the five of them possessed was the person that they’d come to bury. Apart from Nash, there was an elderly lady in a wheelchair, a hippy wearing a black leather jacket, a bald-headed man attached to an oxygen tank, and Dr. Donovan King at the front, holding the altar.

  Nash brought the average age of the congregation down to somewhere in the mid-sixties. He was also the most traditionally dressed for the occasion, whereas the others clearly didn’t know what the normal dress sense was for a funeral, his neat black suit and tie did its best to hold up religious convention. The hippy was actually wearing shorts and an Iron Maiden T-shirt, one definitely not Church-approved. As Nash’s hands reached forward to the pew in front, his head and short hair nestled between them in silent thought.

  This wasn’t a sad occasion for him. It was one of reflection. Nash had accepted twelve years ago that the Herb he knew and loved had left the building. The essential characteristics that made him unique and charismatic had been removed and replaced by a soulless shell. Above all else, Nash was responsible for that transformation, and the guilt had never left him. The impacts of that fateful event were as evident on Nash as they had been on the man lying in a wooden box at the front of the church.

  When life kicks you, you have two choices: fight or run. Nash had been running ever since. What he was running from wasn’t totally clear. Certainly some of his retreat was down to guilt. Some of it stemmed from a diminished desire to be in the public spotlight. The glare of the media attention reflected their fake recognition, and his own deficiencies, back at him like a mirror. The band was nothing to him anymore. His only desire was to give something back and help others. One person in particular.

  Donovan coughed loudly and purposely to gain the attention of the mourners. Nash expected him to be here, although he was intent on avoiding any repeat of their last meeting.

  “Family and friends. We are gathered here today to bid farewell to Herbert Campbell and commit him into the hands of God. How ironic that, despite a life of excess, he outlived all but a few of his friends and family. He’s smiling about that now, I can assure you. He dedicated his life to the pursuit of musical excellence, the development of talent and personal enjoyment. I think we can all agree he achieved it.”

  Nash nodded in agreement.

  “Herb’s mother,” said Donovan, holding a hand open in the direction of the woman in the wheelchair, “tells me Herb had always been an experimental child. He had a deep inquisitiveness that included his homeland, this magnificent countryside, the arts and the local entertainment. A Scot, deeply passionate about his culture, he never achieved his own music ambitions, but was instrumental in so many other people’s’. One of those to benefit most is with us today.”

  Nash acknowledged the reference, quite displeased that he hadn’t managed to go unnoticed.

  “Sadly, Herb’s sense of adventure and proclivity for mischief were restrained in recent years. He fell victim to the government’s efforts to poison the nation, a living example of the torment that would have befallen so many others if it had not been stopped. It changed who Herb was, casting a shadow over him. Somewhere deep down a longing for the life that had been taken from him drove him to choose the manner and time of his own passing. Although, from what I have read about Emorfed, I find this hard to accept.”

  He wasn’t the only one to think this. Nash was convinced that no such suicide had occurred. The autopsy stated clearly that Herb had died from an overdose of painkillers. That was not in question. What was in debate was whether Herb himself had willingly taken the overdose. No one with Herb’s unique outlook on life had the will to do anything that might be harmful or self-destructive. That was the old Herb, not the new one.

  Nash had cared for Herb for many years after the incident with the contaminated water. He had first-hand experience of how he behaved in the years that followed. An Emorfed victim was not incapable or inactive. They slept little, ate infrequently and spoke only when spoken to. But they could move, walk, clean themselves, read and write. Above all else, a puzzle or a crossword might just keep their attention. What remained impossible was feelings or emotions. Neither desperation nor pity were available to pull a trigger or tie a noose.

  The service was short. A couple of rock songs replaced the normal hymns, and the hippy read the eulogy. Nash was pretty sure it was a recital of ‘Death or Glory’ by The Clash, certainly not content that most vicars would have approved of. It didn’t seem right to celebrate someone’s life with so few people and at such speed. Nash had developed a more traditional lifestyle than in his celebrity heyday, and religion had partly instigated his change in outlook.

  As Donovan brought proceedings to an end he signalled to Nash that he wanted a word. A wooden cane supported Donovan’s progress down the aisle.

  “Hello, Nash. How are you?”

  “I’m well,” replied Nash.

  “On your own?” asked Donovan.

  “Most definitely. It’s just me, no hitch-hikers whatsoever,” replied Nash, concerned that Donovan was in some way scouting for future exorcism candidates.

  “I didn’t mean inside you. I meant you’re not with your wife or children.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Oh, still playing the field, are you? You always did have multiple women on the go from what Herb told me,” replied Donovan with a wink.

  “Not anymore. I only love one girl and she can never love me back. I found no pleasure in the company of the opposite sex after that. Why are you interested?”

  “I’m not. I thought small talk was what people do when they meet after some time has passed.”

 
; “I appreciate the sentiment, I think. You’ve lost your stutter, I see.”

  “Yes. Your exorcism was responsible for that. A most unusual experience. Has John been in touch since?”

  Other than watching him take off from the airfield all those years ago, he’d only had one further moment when he felt John’s presence. A few days later, he was woken from his sleep by a convulsion in his body very similar to the one he experienced at his exorcism. Whatever had caused it was brief and, immediately afterwards, Nash felt a sense of peace he’d never experienced before. It was the start of the life he now led.

  “No. John’s gone. Why?”

  “Just small talk. He’s the only person other than Herb that connects you and me. Were you there when Herb died?” asked Donovan, changing his focus of interest.

  “No. He lived in a care home towards the end. I visited regularly but having moved some distance away it wasn’t always convenient.”

  “Do you think he killed himself, as highlighted in the autopsy?”

  “No. It’s not possible. Apparently the overdose was taken at night and he had no access to those drugs. How could he overdose in those circumstances?”

  “He couldn’t.”

  “So what’s the answer?” asked Nash.

  “Someone, or something forced him.”

  “But who and why?”

  “That’s just what I intend to find out,” replied Donovan.

  *****

  There were too few able-bodied mourners to carry Herb’s rather heavy coffin to the graveside. The funeral director had provided a team of six burly men to carry out the final journey. David watched as these hired heavies carried the wooden box from the chapel door to the newly dug plot, sunk between those that had made the trip at some point over the last three hundred years. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, David witnessed Dr. King perform his next duty.

  Once every finality was completed, the dilapidated congregation were helped to leave the lightly drizzled scenery for the sanctuary of the wake in the pub in Applecross. Only one remained at the graveside. Nash was deep in thought, tears welling in his eyes only now the others had left him alone. Desperate to learn more of Herb’s final days, David approached the solitary figure.