Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “But plastic doesn’t,” replied Graphite. “If you buy a food processor it doesn’t try to cut your head off, does it?”

  “What did the ox say?” said Primordial, avoiding the question.

  “Mainly the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “What?”

  “After one of us had been attacked or mugged or splatted or…”

  “I get the point.”

  “The ox would amble into the area and ask if we wanted to repent our sins.”

  “What?”

  “He said it was never too late to embrace God’s love.”

  “He tried to baptise me,” said Mr. Aqua.

  “How would that work? You’re already a hundred percent water,” said Primordial, getting irritated.

  “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “No, it isn’t. Even mad ox don’t count.”

  Asmodeus, who had been noticeable only by his absence, lumbered over the crest of the dune. Lumbered was not how he normally moved. Serenely was the best description of how his angelic, white-robed persona went from point A to point B. Lumbering was about third gear when you’d transformed into a three-headed monster that sat on the back of a winged lion. He didn’t change to this mode very often. The turbulent effect that it had on others had its downsides, including chronic backache.

  “This place is a disgrace,” he roared as he approached the dishevelled group. “I had more respect for you, Primordial. I thought you ran a tight ship down here.”

  “It was before you lot got here. Did anyone break the rules?”

  Everyone shook their heads innocently.

  “Sod your rules,” roared Asmodeus. “The creatures here are out of control. As soon as we find the ringleader, and no prizes for guessing who that is, I’m going to review our whole strategy down here. I’ll be sending invites for a conference on the subject.”

  Everyone groaned.

  “It worked perfectly fine. You’re just not used to it, that’s all. It takes special training to handle reincarnates.”

  “Cells are what’s needed here rather than training. At least tell me that one of you has some news for me.”

  “Mr. Volts electrocuted me, Mr. Fungus has darts in his arse, and Mr. Silver might never stop shaking,” said Aqua in summary.

  “About John,” said Asmodeus.

  The collective looked around at each other hoping their neighbour had better news on the subject than they did. Not one of them did. A fingertip search, which was a loose term given how few of them had any, had been made of at least six of the biomes, and no trace of John had been found.

  “I know where he is,” came a voice from a direction that no one could accurately place. It seemed to come from between the stuff.

  “Is that Mr. Noir or Mr. Virus?” asked Asmodeus, hoping it was the latter.

  “Actually your lion’s front paw is standing on me,” said Mr. Virus, straining to get the words out. Asmodeus’s lion wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered and made no attempt to move.

  “Why do you lot always ignore me?” said Mr. Noir.

  “Well, it’s hard for us to believe that you’re there,” said Asmodeus.

  “You believe Mr. Virus is there.”

  “That’s because he once gave me foot and mouth disease,” said Asmodeus.

  “I thought only cloven-hoofed animals got that?” said Mr. Bitumen.

  “One of my heads is a goat,” replied Asmodeus. He had three heads in this form: man, bull and goat. It had many advantages, particularly when playing hide-and-seek.

  “I wish Mr. Virus would give it to that bloody ox,” whispered Mr. Graphite.

  “You just have to assume that I’m here,” added Noir.

  “What, like God?” said Mr. Fungus.

  “No, not like God. That’s faith.”

  “Like what, then?” said Fungus.

  “If strange things happen then it’s probably me.”

  “I haven’t seen my cat-o’-nine-tails for over a week now…” said Mr. Shiny.

  “You left it in cell 28901. I can see it there now next to an inmate running round in circles to escape from an imaginary tax inspector.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “What about my…?”

  “It’s not always me.”

  “Mr. Noir,” said Asmodeus before any more of the demons added their own personal requests to the ‘lost and found’ department. “You said you know where John is.”

  “Oh yes. I can see him now.”

  “Where?”

  “Level twelve. Currently conversing with a pair of pigeons and what used to be Mr. Silica.”

  “Shit,” roared all three of Asmodeus’s heads.

  *****

  Elsie the gibbon was feeling rather pleased with herself. The demons had retreated to the desert biome to begin a kangaroo court that, thanks to her, would involve far more questions than answers. The kangaroo who lived in the savannah biome was not invited. Whilst they deliberated, she and the ox could make their way to the rendezvous point without fear of being noticed. As she swung from tree to tree, the ox trotted along below her and several reincarnates came out to salute them.

  Although many of them had declined to join Sandy’s band of misfits, it didn’t stop them being entirely in favour of the action he was taking. As long as they didn’t have to do anything. Doing things was frowned upon and frankly took up way too much effort. The least they could do is wave or clap, if it didn’t distract from sleeping. By the time the two of them had made their way to the hillock underneath the trapdoor, Vicky was waiting for them.

  “Where’s Roger?” asked Elsie.

  “I don’t talk to gibbons,” replied Vicky.

  “But you just did.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sandy said we had to work as a team,” replied Elsie. “But it appears your unit has already fallen apart.”

  “You can talk! Where’s the sloth?”

  “He’ll catch up,” said Abe, making the sign of the cross on the floor with his hooves.

  “So, the cat?” asked Elsie again.

  “Gone on ahead,” replied Vicky. “In several different directions at the same time. What now?”

  “The demons are licking their wounds in the desert biome. They still have no idea where John is,” replied Elsie with a grin.

  The demons weren’t the only ones who struggled with the concept of Mr. Noir. Elsie could prank anything that she could see or feel, but struggled with practical jokes against assumed matter. Unknown to them, the demons were a lot closer to finding John, and even closer to the trapdoor.

  “Sandy said that we needed to go to the library on level eleven before meeting him at the Soul Catcher,” said Elsie.

  “I’ll go to the library. I’m small and harder to spot. Plus you have opposable thumbs,” said Vicky to the gibbon.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well, I’m guessing you’re going to need them to remove the cat,” replied the spider.

  “Remove him from where?”

  “I expect he’s in the Soul Catcher. He said he knew a shortcut.”

  “Sandy told us to meet at it, not in it,” said Elsie.

  “Not sure he listens that well.”

  “What about me?” said Abe. “I can’t climb up the rope ladder. Unless the power of God helps me.”

  “It won’t,” replied Vicky.

  “You need to stay here and stop the demons from following,” said Elsie.

  “How?”

  “You’ll think of something. I’ll put a web on the other side of the trapdoor in case you don’t…you know.”

  “What?”

  “Think of something.”

  The gibbon easily scaled the rope ladder with the spider sitting awkwardly on his back. Any discomfort came from his own bigotry rather than a lack of space or smoothness of ride. The gibbon lifted the trapdoor and the two of them disappeared into the relative unknown of level one. The ox did what he always did.

/>   The demons rushed through the forest biome eager to escape what most had found to be a truly unpleasant experience. Finding John was secondary in their minds to the feel of stone and heat that would greet them above. As they climbed the hillock from all sides a familiar foe waited for them. Kneeling in a ‘bum in the air’ position, an overly sized ox was reciting scriptures and humming in a strange language.

  “Is this him?” said Asmodeus to the group.

  “That’s the one,” said Mr. Aqua.

  “Hordes of Satan, you cannot pass,” said the chanting ox, eyes still firmly closed.

  “Would one of you please remove this lunatic from my sight?” huffed Asmodeus.

  “What about the rules?” said Mr. Fungus.

  “What?”

  “Primordial said ‘rule one’ was not to punish the animals.”

  “But he didn’t say anything about moving them, did he?”

  “No, moving them is fine,” replied Primordial as he expanded upwards out of a nearby puddle, puddles being a mix of brown-painted plastic and water.

  “Aren’t they sacred?” said Graphite.

  “Sorry?” replied Asmodeus.

  “I think ox are sacred,” added Graphite.

  “That’s a bull, isn’t it?” said Mr. Virus from somewhere unknown but presumably not stuck under a lion’s foot.

  “What’s the difference?” asked Mr. Gold.

  “I think the only difference is testicles,” said Mr. Aqua.

  “What?”

  “A bull has them and an ox doesn’t.”

  “Are you really telling me that the only discernible reason for an animal having sacred religious prominence is dictated purely by it having a scrotum?” said Asmodeus.

  “And balls,” added Aqua.

  “We’d better check,” said Graphite.

  “No, we don’t need to check. I think you’ll find that we’re in Hell and whether a plastic cow has testicles or not isn’t going to stop me getting out of here,” said Asmodeus, losing his patience.

  “What.”

  The demons searched for the voice.

  “Did.”

  The head of an animal clambered slowly over the brow of the hill.

  “I…miss?” said the puffed-out voice of a sloth who might reach them sometime this week.

  - CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -

  FIELDS OF IVORY

  Bedraggled, David lay on the edge of the small crop of rock that jutted from the estuary to form what Advertising Standards might argue was an island. It wasn’t. At best it was a big rock. At worst it was a place where stupid people had to be rescued by lifeguards. Scrumpy stood proudly on the top, holding an imaginary flag in one hand and making a celebratory signal with the other. It wasn’t the first time he’d swum here. It was the second time today. But the sensation of achievement, in conquering the sea unaided, made him feel no less significant than a Victorian explorer.

  There was little physical sign that Scrumpy had swum more than three hundred metres. His shorts and T-shirt already looked dry, and his freckled face dispersed the water quicker than duck feathers. David, on the other hand, had discovered a new adjective for wet. He’d gone through damp, moist, soggy, drenched, saturated and ended up at drowned-under. The algorithm in his head, responsible for the decision to swim, made some vital readjustments in case the request came up in future.

  “Aren’t you cold?” shivered David, attempting to right himself on the slippery, seaweed-encrusted rocks.

  “No. Adventurers don’t get cold.”

  “Latino boys from Chile do,” said David. “This would be called a tough winter back home and it’s only September.”

  “You made it, though. Didn’t think you would halfway across when I had to give you a tow.”

  “Have I proved myself?”

  “Yes,” replied Scrumpy pretending to knight him with an imaginary sword, having left his on Bryher.

  “What’s your aunt’s name?”

  “Her name is Faith.”

  “But Faith what?” asked David.

  “Faith Casey, of course. Her dad was the Prime Minister, don’t you know?”

  “More than you’d wish to believe. What’s she doing here on the island?”

  “Escaped here with my mummies. They swore to protect her. When I came along I swore to protect her as well.”

  “Where is she now?” asked David.

  “Up at the house. It’s on the edge of the shore on the other side of the island over the brow of the hill,” he pointed to the horizon to an area to the left of the chapel. “She never leaves. She doesn’t like the darkness, it makes her feel uncomfortable. She only stays inside when it rains.”

  “That must be every other day in this miserable country,” said David, shivers finding parts of his body where nerve endings had never previously been present.

  “Nah, it’s nice normally. So what’s your quest?” asked Scrumpy.

  “I’m here to help save your aunt. She has been infected by a bug which must be cured. I fear, though, that I may have brought other dangers with me.”

  “Oh good. I do like a bit of danger. What’s coming? Pirates, armies, spies, monsters!”

  “Very possibly all of the above, except pirates. I’m not sure there are any of those anymore.”

  The boy looked dejected as if his huge pirate-shaped bubble had just been burst.

  “Even if there are,” added David, “I’m not sure I’ve pissed off any pirates.”

  “What can I do?” asked the boy, as the build-up of excitement tried to pop all his joints out of place.

  “I need somewhere to stay. I’m happy to work for my keep, but for the time being I must not see Faith. Not until we can find a cure.”

  “I can get you a job picking crops if you want. Mum said we only need one person this year and she doesn’t want to pick one of the locals in case it’s seen as favouritism. You can sleep in the workshop, plenty of room in there. Very cosy. I sometimes prefer to sleep there than in my bedroom.”

  “That would be great, Scrumpy,” said David with another shiver, wondering if hypothermia had set in yet. “How did you get that nickname? Someone overly keen on cider in your family, were they?”

  “It’s not a nickname,” replied Scrumpy, a little hurt at the suggestion, “it’s my real name. Scrumpy Foster-Stokes. Mom says that people with boring names never make anything of themselves. You can’t be an explorer if your name is Dave Williams, but you’re also not likely to be a binman if your name is Scrumpy.”

  “Interesting theory. Do I take it that your second name comes from your two mums?”

  “Yes, Mom and Mam. They adopted me when I was almost two years old. I never knew my real mum and dad. I don’t think anyone did.”

  The sun was starting to hide behind the horizon and to David’s excitement it had coincided with the tides’ retreat. The spring tides had made the estuary almost completely dry as the retreating water revealed vast sandbanks across the channel. There were a couple of places where they’d need to paddle, but if they left now the amount of that would be minimal. David’s algorithm sent confirmation to his mouth.

  “I think it’s time we made for shore. Then you can introduce me to these mothers of yours?”

  *****

  Victor Serpo worked hard to keep close to the contacts in his network. No one in those networks was that pleased about it. Given the aftermath of his rather public fall from grace, no one was that keen on being associated with him. Yet Victor was a hard man to shake off. If you were useful to him then you were on his radar. His radar could locate the loosest of acquaintances with a cellphone and a well-placed threat. When he used it, you answered. Unless you wanted to find several of your nearest and dearest missing their toes. He’d been dangerous when his name was Agent 15, but at least for everyone else’s sake there had been rules. Now there weren’t even guidelines.

  Agent 12 had recently come under the category of ‘friend’. Not a real friend. Real friends aren’t threatene
d with death or blackmail. Real friends tend to stay in contact on a regular basis and come to your aid at the drop of a hat. He wasn’t that kind of friend. Agent 12 was the type of friend claimed by control freaks when they need more than they are likely to give in return. They achieve their goals by the use of charm, persuasion, offers of help that never materialise, and mind games. Once they have what they want you’re unlikely to get a Christmas card.

  What Agent 12 had that Victor needed was information. Agent 12, as his name suggested, was still an active and respected member of the country’s Secret Service. As Victor knew, this was a doorway to intelligence on any single person living in the British Isles. He was only interested in two of them and he’d hit the jackpot on both.

  Sitting in the warmth of St. Steven’s Tavern he nursed a pint of bitter and waited to reveal his news. A stone’s throw from the Palace of Westminster, a place that both he and his absent guest knew only too well, the frosted glass and old-fashioned decor painted the private bar with a gloomy ambiance. The door creaked open and a man dressed in a red suit sidled in. Clutching a Bloody Mary, he sat opposite Victor. “Nice spot.”

  “You don’t remember it?” asked Victor.

  “Should I?”

  “Well, you used to work across the road. We came here a few times. It’s one of those pubs that tourists don’t seem to frequent. Must be the frosted glass.”

  “Never been here,” he said, glancing around as if to satisfy himself. “You’re forgetting that I’ve not always been Byron, and Byron has not always been me.”

  “Of course. I’ve got so used to calling you that, I sometimes forget who you really are.”

  “You’d be wise not to. What have you managed to find out?”

  “Plenty. Agent 12 has managed to find a number of documents that might help us.”

  “Excellent. Do proceed,” replied Byron, rocking back on his chair slightly and placing both hands on the back of his head. His demeanour had been rather jovial since being released from Monaco’s jail. Victor couldn’t work out why. Baltazaar was no closer to being stopped, and many of his Emorfed victims were no closer to being reunited with the rest of their souls. Maybe it was the joy of having a body that wasn’t like wearing a Grim Reaper costume. Whatever the reasons, Victor felt confident his news would further improve Satan’s mood.