by David Pinner
‘Of course, no one has ever understood suffering like You did,’ he said, placing the crucifix between the two tallow-oozing candles. ‘Although, of course, You allowed Yourself to be crucified, didn’t You? So You are the first Holy Masochist. But at least You had an over-powering reason for acting as You did. Unlike me.’
As his execrable headache returned, it made his skull vibrate. In despair Paul cradled his head in his hands.
‘Oh Jesus, just listen to me,’ he whined. ‘When I stopped drinking all those weeks ago, I swore I would never talk to myself again. Yet now I do nothing but talk to myself. Mind, it’s not surprising because I’m the only person who listens to me,’ he complained, turning back to the altar, and contemptuously addressing the crucifix. ‘See, I’m certain that You don’t listen to me anymore.’
Abruptly he moved away from the altar. Nodding to himself, the writer crossed over to the dilapidated bookcase, and he selected the volume with the scarlet cover. Then he pulled out the bookmark, and he read the same short chapter that he read every day. As he finished the chapter, he laughed maniacally. But by the time he had shoved the volume back onto the shelf, there was a blank look in his eyes because he had already forgotten everything that he had just read.
And it’s always like this, he thought.
Then he walked over Lulu’s inert body, and he paused.
‘So – as I am totally alone – I’m going to enjoy myself,’ he said, gazing at Lulu’s dishevelled ash-blonde hair, which was shrouding her gaping mouth. ‘And now I am going to do - what every night I dream of doing - to every woman who has refused me. And every woman has refused me. It’s why I’m so utterly alone, and why I am so consumed with hatred. ‘But “Vengeance is mine”, saith the Lord!’ he cried.
Nodding, and now grinning in anticipation, Paul turned his back on his victim, and he surged towards the curtained door.
26
Impatiently Paul tugged back the black curtain over the basement door, and he took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and ran up the basement steps. Then as he charged across the hallway, and out through the front door, the inside of his skull seemed to to be engulfed in searing flames.
After leaving the door ajar, he raced down the front steps. Although the late December night wind was coursing through his hair, he didn’t feel the cold. Smiling malefically, he wrenched open his dilapidated garage door with its broken lock. Once he was inside the garage, he switched on the light. He brushed past his little-used Ford Fiesta, and headed for a flaking cupboard in the far corner. From the back of the cupboard, he pulled out a plastic container, in which he kept a spare gallon of petrol.
There’s only one way that I’ll ever put out this furnace in my head, he thought. Clutching the petrol canister, he kicked the garage door closed behind him, and he went out into the night.
I’ll burn Lulu’s corpse, and then the flames in my head will go out forever.
He ran back to the house, raced up the steps, and through the front door, which he had left half-open. Merrily swinging the petrol canister against his thigh, he crossed his hallway. The thought of burning Lulu’s body was so erotically exhilarating that he found himself dancing down the steps into the basement.
And, anyway, if I don’t burn her, he reassured himself, The cops are bound to find her body, and then they’ll lock me up, and they’ll throw away the key. Yes, and there’s no way that I could bear being incarcerated in a cell for years and years because then I’ll be just like the rest of Lulu’s countless victim. And, ad infinitum, the Wicca-bitch will go on laughing at my suffering from her grave.
‘So this is the most wondrous, combustible solution,’ he said, with a devilish grin as he switched the petrol canister over to his left hand.
When he reached the basement’s bottom step, momentarily he paused, and listened.
Suddenly he felt that he wasn’t alone. Disconcerted, he peered back up the shadow-enshrouded steps, but he couldn’t see anything untoward. Shaking his head at his paranoia, and still clutching his petrol canister, he advanced into the basement towards Lulu’s prostrate body.
‘Now we’ll see how your flesh erupts, and then I’ll watch your flesh melt, you pagan-slut,’ he whispered, kneeling by Lulu’s body. ‘Yes, and I can’t wait to see you consumed by fire, Lulu. Or is it Lulutu, Lamashtu, or Lilith? Whatever your real name is, I’m going to pour this petrol all over you, and I’m going set light to you, you fucking whore. Indeed, I hope that you’re not really dead. Then the pain that you will suffer will be so deliciously-inordinate. And while the flames are lapping over your loins, I’ll savour the sweet scent of your burning succubus-body, and simultaneously, I’ll applaud to the rafters as you scream in agony, until you’re nothing but ashes in the wind. Then I’ll find that other witch, Gwynne Spark, and I’ll burn her, too. Yes, and also I’ll seek out all the other sluts in this godforsaken village, and I’ll burn them as well. Because every woman in this village is a slut!’
With a delirious laugh, Paul began to unscrew the cap on the petrol canister. But before he was able to remove the cap, from directly behind him, two hands slammed his mythological tome down onto the top of his skull. Then another hand snatched the petrol canister from the writer, and viciously the hand bashed the can against the side of his head. The multiple blows sent Paul sprawling across the cellar, and his acute head-pains skewed his vision.
As the writer slumped back onto the tattered carpet, he was barely conscious. A moment later, to his horror, he was confronted by a bevy of grotesque animals’ heads, with candlelit eyes. And all the eyes were glaring down at him.
Dizzily, he witnessed the impossible happen as he watched Lulu...whom he thought he had strangled…as slowly she was being helped to her feet by the witch, Gwynne, who was swathed in a black cloak.
Desperately Paul tried to lift his head from the carpet. But before he could move, two of the animal figures converged on him. Savagely a large lion’s paw jabbed into his chest, while a cow’s hoof kicked his rising chin, banging his aching head back onto the carpet. Then he realised that his assailants were village women, dressed in animal costumes, and also he knew that he hadn’t the power to fight back. The agonising blow to the back of his head, and the roaring inferno inside his skull, had sapped what was left of his ebbing strength.
A moment later, the swaying figure of Lulu materialised between the ‘lion’ and the ‘cow’. With her merciless stare, she loured over the writer’s prostrate figure. Yet despite his blurred vision, he could still see the vivid, purplish bruises, which he had inflicted on Lulu’s neck. Then he tried to speak, but inexorably the lion’s paw crushed down onto his jugular, while the cow’s hoof continued to grind into his chin, so he could only cough impotently.
As another bubble of saliva burst between his gaping lips, Paul’s rapidly-fading vision was filled with Lulu’s aquamarine eyes. As she transfixed him with her condemnatory gaze, he felt as if he was being sucked under a plummeting wave. And although he seemed to be drowning perpetually in the seemingly-ceaseless ocean-breaker that Lulu had created, he sensed that she would never allow him the luxury of actually drowning. On the contrary, she would ensure that his purgatorial suffering would be infinite. And despite his interminable pain, he would never die…
‘You’ve hypnotised him, haven’t you, Lulu?’ Gwynne asked, with an appreciative nod.
‘Yes, Gwynne. But this is only the beginning of Hopkins’ much-deserved suffering.’
Then as Lulu enfolded Gwynne in her arms, the witch shook her head as she demanded; ‘Lulu, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m embracing you, Gwynne, because as you heard from his own lips, Hopkins wanted to burn me alive. What’s more, he would have done so if you hadn’t come and rescued me. So now I want all your friends to see how grateful I am that you saved me from a truly excruciating death,’ Lulu said, continuing to hug Gwynne’s bewildered head against her bosom.
Then Lulu smiled knowingly ov
er the witch’s shoulder at the women villagers in their animal heads.
‘Well, you don’t have to keep hugging me, Lulu,’ Gwynne protested as she pushed herself free from Lulu’s fervent embrace, and then she adjusted her crumpled cloak. ‘You see, the truth is, Lulu…well, I had no choice in the matter. Especially as you saved me from being burnt to death in my cottage. So the very least I could do is to come here, to rescue you from Hopkins’ machinations.’
Then the witch pointed an arthritic finger at Paul’s semi-inert body as she asked, ‘But, Lulu, what I don’t understand is, how you can still be alive, well…after Hopkins strangled you?’
‘It’s not the first time it’s happened to me,’ Lulu replied as she peered distractedly at the congregation of animal heads surrounding her.
‘Lulu, are you really saying that someone else has strangled you before, then?’ Gwynne gasped incredulously.
‘Well, no one has actually succeeded in strangling me,’ Lulu said. ‘But several people have tried to put an end to me. Although I can’t imagine why,’ she added, with a resigned smile.
Mary pulled off her lion’s head while she continued to ram her paw down on Paul’s jugular. Then she pointed at the severe bruise marks on Lulu’s neck.
‘Yeah, Lulu, but how the hell did you survive Hopkins doing that to you?’
‘Over the years, I’ve mastered many techniques in the art of survival. But why do you ask, Mary? When surely you would prefer me dead, wouldn’t you?’ Lulu observed, once again in her own desolate world.
‘It’s true, Lulu, part of me would like you dead. But then there’s…well, there’s another part of me that...well…’ Mary trailed off, staring at the lion’s head that she was holding in her hands.
With revulsion, Mary refocused on Paul’s glazed eyes, and on the flecks of saliva in his beard.
‘And the other part of you, Mary, is glad that I’m not dead, right?’ Lulu murmured.
‘I don’t know any more,’ Mary said, shaking her head, and surveying the bizarre costumes of her silent friends.
‘Oh come on, Mary,’ Lulu interposed. ‘You know as well as I do that Jimmy Vaughn was always his own man. So when Jimmy left you, and then he came to live with me, well, it was entirely his choice, wasn’t it’
‘God help me, but what you say is the truth, Lulu. See, Jimmy had all but finished with me before he even met you. But then he behaved just like most men behave, didn’t he? And most men are just shits.’
‘Well, Mary may forgive you for what you did to her, Lulu Crescent,’ Sue Townley shouted, tugging off her cow’s head. ‘But I don’t forgive you for what you did to me!’ she raged on, throwing her cow’s head down beside Paul, who remained helplessly immobile on the ground as another saliva-bubble burst between his gaping lips.
‘Yes, and but for you, Crescent, my Vince would still be alive today.’ Sue shrieked, pointing an indicting finger at Lulu.
Lulu shook her head. Then she jabbed her toe at the prostrate Paul’s bearded chin.
‘This is the villain, who you should blame for Vince’s death, Sue,’ Lulu insisted. ‘You see, Hopkins could easily have stopped Vince from lighting that fire in Gwynne’s parlour. Instead, Hopkins not only approved of Vince lighting the fire, but then, maniacally, Hopkins applauded your husband’s efforts to burn Gwynne alive. And you know why this monster wanted Gwynne to be burnt alive?’ Lulu surged on as she ground her heel down onto the writer’s gaping mouth. ‘He did it because he hates women, and he’s always hated us.’
Lulu picked up the petrol canister, and she waved it over Paul’s body.
‘It’s why he tried to strangle me, and why he was going to pour this can of petrol all over me. See, he was lusting to set light to me, so he could watch me being burnt alive,’ she said, banging the petrol canister down on the writer’s chest.
‘Yeah, Lulu’s right. Hopkins is a sick bastard!’ Rachel White shouted. ‘Well you all heard him say that he was planning to burn Gwynne as well.’
‘And us! He said that he was going to burn all of us, too!’ chorused the rest of the women in vociferous agreement.
‘So what shall we do with this monster, ladies?’ Gwynne intervened as she slammed the scuffed toe of her shoe into the writer’s abdomen. ‘How shall we make him pay for the horrors that he wanted to inflict on us all?’
‘We should treat him like he was going to treat us, Gwynne,’ Lulu said, removing her foot from Paul’s mouth, and banging the petrol canister down beside his ear.
‘You really mean that, Lulu, don’t you?’ Mary asked, with surprise in her voice.
‘Absolutely. You see, now I realise that I’ve been much too forgiving, and for much too long.,’ Lulu said, peering down at the writer’s frothing mouth. ‘So it’s time that Hopkins paid in full for his murderous hatred of women. You see, if we don’t put an end to him pronto, he will definitely hunt us down, and then he will destroy us all. But, ironically, Hopkins has constructed the ideal weapon, which will ensure that now he will truly suffer – like he would have made us suffer.’
‘And what weapon is that?’ Gwynne muttered, wrapping her black cloak even closer around her almost-fleshless shoulders with her arthritic hands.
Lulu addressed the other women, who were now removing their animal heads, and who were looking equally mystified.
‘While all you ladies were hiding behind Hopkins’ altar just now, surely you must have spotted the perverse treasure-trove that he has got hidden away there?’
‘No! So where is his frigging treasure-trove, then?’ Tina Biggs shouted as she and Rachel White converged behind the altar.
Then together they began rummaging about under the gold-brocaded altar-cloth. A moment later, Tina whooped in triumph, with her double chins jiggling.
‘God, you’re right, Lulu. It’s unbelievable what Hopkins has been up to!’
‘Yeah, so don’t just stand there gawking, you lot,’ crowed Rachel. ‘Come over here, and give us a hand with all this. See, there’s a helluva lot of stuff here.’
In excited response, Sue, Mary and two other women ran to help Tina and Rachel. After some brief scrabbling about under the altar cloth, Mary cheered when she pulled out a whip, with knotted thongs. Ferociously she swished the whip as Sue held aloft Paul’s toolkit in a leather bag. Laughing triumphantly, Sue plonked the bag down on the altar. Then she wrenched the toolkit open, displaying a hammer, a dozen six-inch-nails, a pair-of-pliers and a ball-of-flex, plus several yards of coiled rope. But these finds were nothing compared to what Tina and Rachel and the other two women were slowly dragging out from under the altar itself.
Moments later, laboriously, the four women held up a very large wooden-cross, which was eight-feet-long, with a five-foot-wide crosspiece.
‘Hell on earth!’ Gwynne cried, pointing at the cross, while she kicked the inert-but-now-groaning figure of the writer. ‘So who were you planning to crucify on this cross, then, Hopkins?’ she demanded.
‘I’m burning in Hell,’ murmured Paul, his eyes flickering for the first time as painfully he returned to consciousness.
‘Burning in Hell is the very least you deserve,’ Lulu hissed at Paul as she gestured to the surrounding women. ‘So let’s make the evil bastard carry his cross, like His Master did two thousand years ago. And as we accompany Hopkins on his road to Golgotha, I will reveal to you all the full extent of his slaughterous thoughts. Then you will understand why he will always be a constant danger to women as long as he lives. So we have to destroy him before he destroys us.’
‘So, Lulu, are you…well, are you really going to join us, down on the beach for the Millennium Sacrifice?’ Sue asked.
‘Indeed I am. What’s more, as midnight is less than an hour away, I will light the sacrificial fire myself,’ Lulu said, kneeling beside Paul’s drooling mouth.
Hypnotically she gazed into his bleary eyes while she whispered a command into his left ear.
In response, Paul nodded briefly, and after a great deal
of groaning effort, he managed to push himself to his feet. Wearily he lurched across the basement. Then he seized hold of the huge wooden cross, which the four women had propped up against the altar. Slowly and arduously, he began to drag the cross towards the curtained door.
‘Tina, bring his toolkit with you,’ Lulu said, picking up the petrol canister. ‘But before we set off, there are two other requirements.’
Lulu plonked the petrol canister on top of the altar, and from under the altar’s gold cloth, she pulled out a small, ornately-covered Bible. Then she crossed to the bookcase, and she tugged the volume, with the scarlet cover, from amongst the other books. It was the same volume, from which she had read a chapter, when she had first arrived.
After she had shoved the Bible and the scarlet-covered book into the tool-bag, she handed the bag back to Tina as she said: ‘You’ll find that his bag holds everything we need for what is coming.’
‘Well, it’s certainly got a hammer, and some sodding great six-inch-nails, and they could prove bloody useful,’ Tina nodded, pushing the Bible and the book, with the scarlet cover, further down between the tools in the bag.
With a curt nod, Rachel appeared beside Tina, and she thrust her right hand into the toolkit. Then she pulled out the several yards of thick, coiled rope.
‘What are you planning to do with that rope?’ Tina demanded, rattling the toolkit against her bulbous thigh.
‘Don’t worry, Tina, I’ll find a good use for it,’ Rachel said, swishing the loops of rope over her shoulder.
‘Yes, and if the bastard doesn’t do exactly as we say, then we’ll hang him on the end of the rope,’ Gwynne said pointedly, as she turned to the other women. ‘But, meanwhile, ladies, why don’t those of you who feel strong enough, help “Mr” Hopkins up the basement stairs with his beloved cross? ‘Cause Lulu’s right; Golgotha is calling him.’
Laughing Mary picked up the whip from the basement floor. Then she lashed the knotted thongs across Paul’s heaving shoulders, forcing him to lumber up the steps with his cumbersome and heavy burden.