Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said David as he eased his skinny frame through the scattered gravestones.

  Nash wiped his tears as he felt the presence of the unknown man approach.

  “It’s never easy saying goodbye, is it?” offered David in an attempt to demonstrate a certain level of sympathy.

  “No. It isn’t,” replied Nash. It wasn’t clear if this olive-skinned youth was being nosy or friendly. “Are you just visiting?”

  “No. I have an interest in dead people,” replied David rather too truthfully.

  “Really. I find the living more talkative, although Herb never did much of it towards the end. Why are you so interested in dead people?”

  “I like to work out their stories,” replied David. “Work out what they were like in life and consider where they are now.”

  “Are you religious?” asked Nash.

  “I accept there’s a possibility that there may be higher beings in the Universe although I don’t have faith.”

  “No, I don’t have faith either,” he said with a sigh. “But I have found God.”

  “Would you mind shedding some light on where he is?” said David matter-of-factly. Any information he had suggested, if he was there, that he was hiding or had been kidnapped.

  “He’s around, if you look for him,” said Nash.

  “How did he die?” asked David pointing to the newly dug grave below him.

  “Who knows for sure?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s complicated and frankly I’ve never met you before.”

  “I understand. It’s just that as I was walking through the graves I thought I recognised you. You’re Nash Stevens, aren’t you?” asked David.

  “How do you know that?”

  “You were in a rock band! It’s not that much of a secret. I’m a big fan. I know this isn’t the best time but…”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Nash sharply. He hated being reminded of his past in general, but not at a time of grief.

  “He was your manager, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes…now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going, I have a long journey home.”

  “Back to Gloucester Road?”

  “No, back to Cornwall… Hold on, how do you know where Herb lived?” asked Nash.

  David had offered more information than he’d intended to in his pursuit of the truth. Herb was not famous: his address or details were not in the public domain as Nash’s were. How could he explain how he knew this without the talent to lie? He couldn’t. It was the equivalent of being caught with your hand in the cookie jar with a written confession in your hand and a sign that said ‘it was me’.

  “Someone told me.”

  “Who?” said Nash getting more agitated and advancing on the man.

  “John did.”

  The colour faded from Nash’s face faster than an adolescent on a roller coaster. Maybe this boy meant a different John? Even though he’d attempted to purge the name from his mind, along with all other elements of his past life, twice today it had been dragged out. Perhaps this was just a coincidence created by the anxieties held deep within him. John had left him unbothered for years now. Yet he only knew one John.

  “John who?” demanded Nash.

  - CHAPTER TWELVE -

  ALL AT SEA

  It wasn’t a hard decision to let the whale join the team. Even without an interview he’d already shown more promise than every other applicant. It wasn’t because he had any specific credentials for stealing something from one of the most dangerous places in the cosmos. In fact, his size and immovability were a distinct disadvantage. It also wasn’t because he lacked the mental impairments that ran through the souls of every other member of the team. He was in for one simple reason: buoyancy.

  It would be a lot more difficult for Primordial to find them if they were riding a whale than sitting defencelessly under a willow tree. Time, if there was any at least, would tell if Sandy was right. There was an added advantage. The ocean biome stretched up to the perimeter of the window that opened up onto the space in the adjoining universe. Sandy’s universe. Only the reincarnated sea creatures and a few of the most agile flyers, with the stamina to stay there long enough, could get to the edge to assess the scene. If they did, it might just offer some answers to any alternative ways out of level zero.

  Getting the whole team aboard the whale transporter took longer than expected. The anxiety of Primordial discovering them lurked ever closer on his thoughts as he attempted to encourage, cajole, bribe and lift this peculiar bunch onto their ride. Even though his anatomy hampered him physically, the ox had been the easiest. The cat was the most challenging. Despite his lies and an unwillingness to take orders from anyone, Sandy was fairly certain the poor wretch was petrified of water.

  As the whale slowly swam out to sea, rocking the crew gently on its back, Sandy assessed what he had to work with. A racist spider, a sociopathic cat, a shrew with Tourette’s, an evangelical ox, and a twat called Ian. It was hardly an elite unit. The discovery of the whale, and the opportunity for an innovative retreat, had curtailed the interview process. The gibbon and the sloth would have to demonstrate their commitment by first boarding the whale, and then facing an interview at sea. The sloth hadn’t been happy, having almost reached the willow tree when Sandy had called a halt to proceedings.

  The waterborne interviews hadn’t been any better than those on land. It transpired that the sloth, whose name was Gary, had spent his human life as the world’s least successful motor sports driver. Not that he accepted it. Delusion kept him hidden from a truth that was plain for everyone else to see. He was adamant he was still capable of going really fast as long as he had the correct equipment. Sadly the afterlife hadn’t agreed. But on a positive front at least Gary wasn’t a racist.

  The last of the team was Elsie, a gibbon who had the annoying habit of deflecting all serious subjects and replacing them with humour. A natural prankster, she had a complete lack of perspective. When he’d asked her what she’d do if she met a demon, her answer had been to give it a wedgie. On the plus side her specialist skills included the ability to make an excellent paella. Above all other characteristics he liked her because she wasn’t a racist.

  Sandy was clear on how he wanted to use this band of misfits. They’d first help John retrieve Faith’s soul, and in the process Sandy would use what he knew to disrupt the workings of Hell itself. After that, if it was possible, he would exert his own authority and reclaim some control of the situation. This strange posse may have lacked a certain level of sophistication but when it came to being annoying and disruptive he felt they’d be in their element.

  “Where exactly are we going?” asked Abe the ox.

  “God botherer…idiot…” blurted John.

  “Remember your breathing, John,” replied Sandy calmly. “Surveillance. How many ways out of level zero do you think there are?”

  The cat answered almost immediately. “Nine.”

  “Three,” countered Sandy.

  “Whatever,” replied Roger. “I know some of the best ways to get out of here. Secret ways. Once I disguised myself as a shower of gold and evaporated out of here.”

  “Roger, that was Zeus. You’re not impressing anyone, you know. Feel free to answer if you’re not a compulsive liar,” said Sandy to the others.

  “You know nothing,” replied Roger, strolling off towards the whale’s head in disgust.

  “What.”

  There was a pause.

  “Are,” continued Gary the sloth.

  “Yes,” prompted Sandy.

  “The.”

  “Spit it out…tit…” snapped John.

  “Three.”

  “You’re almost there…” said Sandy.

  “Ways?” finished Gary, obviously knackered from the effort.

  “The trapdoor, the cliffs and space,” replied Sandy.

  “What does it matter?” asked Vicky.

  “We need a plan
to get us from here to level twelve without being detected. On level twelve we’ll find a glass vase. In that vase is the shadow soul of Faith Casey. But getting the soul is the easy part. We then need to take her soul to the Soul Catcher and send it back to Earth.”

  “Plus…croak…we need to get to the library…kill demons…knackers,” added John.

  “What’s the library for?” asked Ian.

  “Books…albino bird…you’re a liability…breathe…it’s where they keep all the records of human…cough…locations.”

  “Fine, so before we get to the Soul Catcher we have to get to the library,” added Sandy.

  “That’s all well in theory,” said Vicky, “but how are we going to do it?”

  “By working as a team,” answered Sandy.

  In the history of teamwork no group had been less equipped for success. The pre-eminent expert on the subject, Meredith Belbin, would be turning in his grave, if he had one. All good teams needed leadership, generosity, compatible profiles and talented individuals. Sandy reflected on his statement.

  “Scrub that. We just need a good plan. The first part of which is to decide the route we’re going to take to get out.”

  “We can’t take the trapdoor,” replied Elsie. “That’ll take us through the heart of Hell and into the path of the demons.”

  “I agree with the gibbon,” replied Sandy. “Which only gives us two other options.”

  “Eight,” shouted the cat in contradiction.

  “Can we even go through the window?” asked Ian.

  “Who knows?” said Sandy. “I suspect it can’t be done whilst we’re wearing these vessols. But what if we weren’t wearing them?”

  “We’d be sucked out into space with the other souls,” replied Abe in horror.

  “No one knows. Perhaps we’d go back into the Soul Catcher, perhaps we’d vaporise.”

  “I’m not keen on either option,” said Abe.

  “Which is why we’re not going to try it,” said Sandy. “In my view there is only one possible option. We must go via the wall.”

  Level zero was a basement that directly mirrored the levels above with a few exceptions. The levels from one to eleven were enclosed around cliffs that extended in a huge oval, each level set further back than the one below. Like a series of giant steps that ended at level ten where a roof capped the sequence. The library at level eleven was enclosed and level twelve sat on its roof, open to the elements of space. As the whale made its slow commute to the translucent barrier, the underside of these giant steps were visible above them.

  “If you look above you’ll see our route,” said Sandy.

  “Dear Lord who art in Heaven, hallow…”

  “Abe, it’s not the right time,” said Sandy, as Abe went in for a quick pray.

  “Why is God always painting?” asked Ian.

  “What are you on about?” said Sandy.

  “Art in heaven,” added Ian. “What do you think he paints?”

  “Shut up,” snapped Sandy. “As I was saying, I think the cliff is our best option.”

  “We can’t climb that,” said Gary. “There’s a massive overhang every hundred feet or so.”

  “Who said anything about climbing it?” replied Sandy with a grin. “It would be madness if we all blunder up there together. First we need to send up a surveillance team. Ian and I will fly up to see if there’s any access. I want the rest of you to do some research on the window. Find out what it is and whether we can go through it.”

  “Are you sure you want me to go with you?” asked Ian.

  “Not really,” he replied, “but none of this lot can fly.”

  “I can fly,” replied Roger. “Piece of piss.”

  Sandy and Ian lifted off the whale as it crept slowly and smoothly further out to sea. The underside of the levels were almost completely visible to the pigeons, allowing an almost exactly vertical flight plan. The distance wasn’t a problem. It was probably no more than a thousand feet and they’d once flown from Bristol to London in a single day. As they passed each level, making a mental note of how many they’d passed, the distance between the cliff face and the window drew ever closer. At the top of level eleven the space between the two was just big enough for them to squeeze through.

  The translucent barrier was a benign object. There was no movement in it or obvious danger. The thin veil lay over the whole of this domain, creating the effect of being trapped in a massive snow globe. Its only obvious characteristic was its ability to refract and distort the objects that could be seen on the other side. As the pigeons hovered in the gap they heard voices above them.

  *****

  It was getting a bit cluttered on level twelve. An area that had, until recently, only housed an oversized dining set and a few metal boxes floating in the air, now had a rather large sideboard. The vases had to go somewhere. They couldn’t just be left on the floor like some unwanted relics that didn’t have a natural home. These weren’t the type of items that you ignored if you were a demon. At the behest of Asmodeus a stone cabinet had been erected so that each vase could be placed safely on the shelves. He’d wanted to put a glass front on it, but Silica was having none of it.

  There were more than six hundred of these vases growling their displeasure through their own glass coffins. They rocked and rattled like bottles on a milk float travelling down a cobbled street. Not only were these unnatural objects unsightly, they were also dangerous. If Emorfed had the ability to remove the emotions from a soul, the shadows had the opposite effect. These entities had the potential to convert a fully fledged soul into a copy of itself. Stripping away the neutrality until all that was left was a malevolent ball of pure teenager: hormonal, illogical and desperate to ignore all sensible advice. What’s more, the demons could do little about it.

  The arrival of the shadows, though, hadn’t been responsible for this second council of creatures. News had filtered down that made it essential to gather the senior team together. There were several points on the agenda, although very few of those attending had bothered to read them or check their pigeonholes.

  “Are you sure about this?” demanded Asmodeus.

  “Quite sure,” replied Brimstone. “When John came to us the second time, he had the choice of a small girl or a shrew. He knew the shrew was there. When he returned what remained of his soul back to Earth, the discarded elements would need to find a home. It won’t have been comfortable. The competing elements of good and evil forced into a plastic rodent will be hard to manage.”

  “Then he should be easy to spot. I’m surprised that Primordial hasn’t already done so,” said Asmodeus.

  “Have you ever been down there?” asked Primordial, feeling his reputation ebb away. “It’s an area of a thousand square miles. Level one, which is the equivalent size, has more than a thousand demons to patrol it. I have one.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Asmodeus.

  “I’m saying if you want to find John quickly, then we’ll need to increase the numbers. Who knows what he’s planning? If the reference to Newton is accurate, you can be sure he wants to have some impact here,” added Primordial.

  “Any theories as to what?”

  “Plenty. John is the last of the twelve. Before he used the Limpet Syndrome he was extremely useful to us. More than a third of the animals in my kingdom are there because of his expertise. But now that he’s heard the truth, he will try to find the way?” said Primordial.

  “You mean the third way,” said Mr. Volts from an invisible position somewhere around the table.

  “Quite.”

  “And what if he does?” said Asmodeus. “There won’t be anyone there. He’ll be alone in his own version of paradise.”

  “If he’s the only one,” said Primordial.

  “Of course he is. There aren’t any other purely neutral souls on Earth or we’d know about it. And if we can find the shrew we can bring that part back here. How many of us do you need to help find him?”

  “I
need everyone,” said Primordial.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be much help,” squeaked what remained of Mr. Silica, unsighted in his usual chair.

  “You have a pass,” said Asmodeus. “You can stay here.”

  “Is it wise for all of us to go, Asmodeus?” added Brimstone. “The worker demons have been acting a little militantly of late.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Brimstone. Getting nervous about the workforce. They don’t have the bottle for action. They do as we tell them.”

  “Whatever you say,” replied Brimstone, although his tone of voice suggested he wasn’t as confident as his boss.

  Asmodeus had spent too much of his existence separated from the real day-to-day running of Hell. Claustrophobically he’d sit amongst his metal boxes, dealing with matters of the state. The Devil would not have been so complacent. He’d have settled the nerves and reinvigorated their purpose. Asmodeus may have looked the part with his three-headed monster pose, but he had none of the diplomacy or gravitas of the real thing. An inferior at a time when only the genuine article would do.

  “I was thinking I might go to the library,” added Brimstone.

  “Oh, don’t fancy level zero either, then?” said Asmodeus.

  “If you remember, I’m one of the few that have already been there.”

  “So why are you going to hide in the library?”

  “Because the books are kept there. I wonder if John’s might tell us anything new. The books are a record of people. It may just shed some light on what’s going on.”

  “Fine. The rest of you gather all the senior demons. We move on level zero immediately.”

  *****

  It was hard to escape boats when you lived on an island so small even Google Maps struggled to locate it. If you were eight years old and had spent a substantial part of your life on one, sailing was as natural as walking. Every cove had been explored and yet there was no boredom associated with going back. Today Scrumpy Foster-Stokes was a pirate. Yesterday he’d been an Elizabethan explorer, and tomorrow, who knows? There were no boundaries to his imagination.