In the Devil's Name

by Dave Watson

  Alexander Griffiths had been well known locally for that and many other fables, many of which were collected over his long and colourful life. Despite being heir to an earl and therefore exempt from national service, he'd volunteered at the age of nineteen and fought in the war, seeing action in France and Holland and winning citations for valour. After the war was over, he'd travelled extensively through India and Africa as a travel writer before returning to Ballantrae to take his ailing father's place as Earl of Ayrshire and to run the many family businesses. He'd often hold court down in the Douglas Arms tavern, relating tales of his many adventures to a roomful of captivated locals while he sat there at his spot (which no one ever dared invade) next to the huge open fire, smoking his pipe of aromatic shag and drinking Talisker malt whisky.

  Griff missed the old guy sorely. Alexander Griffiths' remarkable journey through life had come to an ironically unremarkable end when he'd suddenly been taken by a devastating stroke last winter, and Griff had been bereft. As long as he could remember, his grandfather had been there and had been the main father figure in his life. His actual father was a cold, rarely seen presence with whom Griff shared little in either character or interests.

  As he stood in his dimly lit bedroom looking out over the moonlit coastline, Griff decided that as long as he was awake, he might as well start getting his stuff together for the camping trip tomorrow.

  Almost as he had the thought, a slight draft from somewhere stirred the hair at the back of his neck and his grandfather's words whispered in his mind again.

  I've never walked past Bennane Head at night again, Dean, and heaven help you if you do.

  Griff felt a shiver run the length of his spine, and couldn’t help but turn to look around his bedroom, half expecting to see his dead grandfather standing in the corner.

  Chapter 8

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  Phil was standing naked in the middle of his bedroom. Something was terribly wrong.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  He couldn't move. His entire body was gripped in a cold steel paralysis. Fear squeezed him in a marrow freezing embrace. His breath was fast and shallow. He stared at nothing.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  That terrible sound. Every few seconds it came. Blasting through his head like canon fire, though his expression remained as blank as a mannequin's. He smelled smoke, and could hear other sounds between the awful banging. Whispers, mutterings, screams that sounded very far away yet pierced him like slivers of ice.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  He abruptly found himself gliding like a wraith down the stairs to the living room. The wall at the side of the staircase crawled and bulged with vague shapes, as if something sought to claw its way through the brick and plaster and drag him screaming into the house's very fabric.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  He could hear a soft weeping now, and the crackle of flames. The stench of smoke in the air grew stronger. Still the whispers and agonised cries filed his head. Half heard warnings, curses, chewing, the crack of bone.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  Something was very, very wrong.

  He stood now at the bottom of the stairs, looking into his living room. It was engulfed in flames. Fire covered the walls like surreal wallpaper and the ceiling was a vertically inverted river Styx. The curtains were aflame and billowing in the intense heat, as if they were dancing to an unheard beat in the firestorm. Phil could feel the hairs on his arms shrivel and his skin tighten before the blaze's fury.

  The centre of the room however, was untouched by the inferno. The couch and two armchairs were in their usual position but they were no longer composed of soft upholstery and cushions. The living room furniture was made of stone, as if someone had clumsily carved out a three piece suite with a chisel and hammer.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  He now found himself sitting on one of the chair boulders. On the stone armchair across from him, Griff sat, chewing something that he held with both hands. It looked like a table leg or… something. Sam and Cairnsey were perched on the couch-boulder to his left, drinking from and passing a hard looking, white chalice between them.

  Phil knew it was made of bone.

  All four of them were naked and covered in blood.

  All around them, the living room burned and the air was thick with heat and the sickening aroma of blood, shit, smoke and roasting flesh.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  It was a severed human leg that Griff was chewing on. Phil could hear his friends teeth scrape on the femur as he sank his teeth into the meaty thigh, and listened, rapt, to the hellish wet music of flesh tearing away from bone with a moist ripping sound.

  Sam and Cairnsey sat on the couch-boulder with blank eyes, now cutting each other with long curved daggers that were white as death shrouds, filling the bone chalice with the claret that flowed from each other's rent flesh and drinking, drinking…

  Griff started to laugh.

  On the floor in front of Phil, Mr Galbraith and Ms Fabiani writhed naked. She was straddling him, riding him with frantic urgency and screaming obscenities. He stabbed her in the breasts with another of the long, bone daggers, stabbing her in time with her frenzied sexual rhythm till both were drenched in blood, and still they rutted, howling in ecstatic, perverted agony.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  Cairnsey grabbed Sam by the hair, pulled his head back and sank abnormally large teeth into his friend’s throat, sending a huge gout of blood spraying into the air.

  Griff discarded the leg he was eating and got off his chair. He walked over to Mr Galbraith and Ms Fabiani, took the dagger from his history teacher's hand, and drove it into his own face with a powerful two fisted thrust. He started to caper around the living room, laughing insanely.

  The living room burned on, the inferno now more intense. The picture window exploded outwards as did the television screen, sending out a deadly hail of glass slivers which embedded themselves in the flesh of the room's blood drenched occupants.

  Miss Fabiani got up and pulled the dagger from Griff's face, then plunged it between her legs, still screaming. Sam and Cairnsey were on the floor now, tearing away at Galbraith's torso with their teeth. He smiled fondly and stroked their hair as they devoured him.

  The sound of madness raged still in Phil's head as he saw all this, and he knew his sanity was about to snap. But the screams went on, the blood, Jesus Christ, so much blood flowed, ran, gushed from a thousand wounds, the sound of tearing flesh, meat being chewed, weeping, the smell of smoke and the fire all around…

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  Phil screamed out loud and found himself crouched in a corner of his bedroom, naked and soaked with sweat.

  Early afternoon sunlight filtered through a gap in his curtains, throwing a shaft of brightness upon his glistening, shaking body. Dust motes floated gently in the ray of light, seeming to mock his distress with their gentle motion.

  Phil managed to stand up. He tried and failed to control his breathing. He wiped tears from his face.

  Fucking hell. What was that all about?

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG…

  Phil shrieked in panic and threw himself back into the corner of the room, curling up in a foetal position; his nerves totally shot and fear the only thing he knew.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, please God, make it go away…

  "PHIL? PHIL? ANSWER ME!"

  His father's voice, from the other side of the bedroom door. His father banging on the bedroom door.

  "Dad?" Phil called, his voice cracking.

  "PHIL! OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

  There was panic in his father's voice.

  Phil quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and walked shakily over to the bedroom door, having to make a conscious effort to keep his hands from trembling long enough to turn the key and unlock it.

  His frantic father pushed into the room and t
ook hold of his son by the shoulders, his anxiety apparent in his face.

  “What’s up, son? What’s all the shouting about?”

  “Nightmare. Real bad one. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, dad. I’m okay.” He gave his father a weak smile and a shake of the head.

  His dad let out a long, stuttering sigh. After everything that had befallen the family, Kyle Densmore was very protective of Phil and constantly worried about his son.

  “Christ Almighty. I thought someone was bloody murdering you the way you were screaming. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Aye dad, no bother.”

  Kyle gave a slight smile and knuckled his son on the shoulder.

  “Come downstairs and get your lunch, alright?”

  “Cheers, dad.”

  His father left the room.

  Phil sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands, still shaking.

  He’d never had a nightmare like that in his life, at least not one that had freaked him out so badly. Already the memory of it was starting to dissolve, the way memories of dreams often do. But before it was gone, just for a second, he heard in his head the hideous sound of Griff tearing a hunk of flesh from a severed human leg with his teeth, and he shuddered.

  Then that too was gone, and he found himself wondering why he’d woken up naked when he’d gone to bed wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and more so, he wondered with no small amount of disquiet what had scared him so badly that he’d got out of bed and locked his bedroom door while still asleep.

  Chapter 9

  “Is there really any need for these lights to be so bright?” Sam complained grumpily, squinting his eyes as he and Phil made their way round the local general store's aisles collecting supplies for the night's trip to Bennane Head.

  “Actually, I reckon they heard you had a hangover and turned the lights up just to piss you off,” Phil answered.

  “The bastards.”

  They were currently in the aisle displaying crisps and soft drinks, the bright, garish colours making Sam wince and screw his eyes up further.

  “What do you reckon then, man?” asked Phil.

  Sam scanned the shelves of crisps, savoury snacks and drinks. A large green bag caught his attention.

  “Now there’s a thing…” he mused, wandering over.

  He held up the big lime green and yellow bag.

  “Twenty-four bags of scampi and lemon Nik Naks,” he proclaimed.

  Phil pulled a face.

  “They’re not bad, but I don’t fancy smelling of fish for the next few weeks. Twenty-four bags is a bit overkill.”

  Sam was outraged.

  “What? You can never have too many bags of scampi Nik Naks. And anyway, I didn’t think smelling like fish would be a problem for you.”

  “Shut yer ass.”

  Phil spotted a huge white and blue bag.

  “Now we’re talkin’,” he said, “Thirty-six bags of Salt n’ Shake.”

  “Oh yeah, Phil,” Sam said sarcastically. “Tremendous idea. I can't wait to try and get my nut ‘round a bag of crisps that you need to self flavour when I'm tripping out my skull.”

  Phil gave him a deadpan look.

  “You’re not funny, Sam.”

  “Fuckin' Salt and Sake! Get a grip, Phil. They're the most boring crisps ever made. How about we just buy a big sack of tatties and we can eat them raw with a pinch of salt?”

  “Alright, alright, smart arse. How’s about a big variety bag?”

  “Now you're speaking my language. Here’s one here. Four ready salted, four salt n’ vinegar, four cheese n’ onion, four smoky bacon and four prawn cocktail.”

  “Sweet,” Phil said. “Throw the fuckers in the trolley.”

  In they went.

  “You alright, man?” Sam asked as they moved along the aisle. “You’ve been pretty quiet this morning.”

  “No big deal,” replied Phil. “Didn’t sleep too well. Had a fucked up nightmare. Dad said I was screaming like fuck. Found myself lying in the buff on the bedroom floor when I woke up.”

  Sam snorted laughter at this. “Buftie. Imagine squealing like a bitch 'cause of a nightmare.”

  “Tell me about it. Never had one like it before,” Phil said with an embarrassed shake of the head.

  “So what happened in it?” asked Sam.

  “Beats me, mate. It was all messed up. Y’know that way when you wake up and you can remember what you’ve just dreamed about, but after a few seconds, it’s gone?”

  “Aye,” Sam said.

  “It was one of those things, except it hasn’t completely gone away. I’ve still got these…” he searched in vain for someway to express the curious anxiety he felt.

  “Images?” Sam offered helpfully.

  “Sort of, but more like…feelings with pictures.”

  Sam gave him a puzzled look.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Phil went on, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure fire was involved somehow, and you boys were in it.”

  “The dream or the fire?” asked Sam.

  “Both… I think. It’s not like I can remember any certain part with fire or you, Cairnsey or Griff. It’s just like, I know that stuff was involved somehow, but still…” he finished falteringly, looking confused.

  “There’s something else,” Sam said. Not a question, and Phil thought, not for the first time since he’d known Sam, just how perceptive his friend was beneath the flippant, wise ass facade.

  He met his friend's even gaze and again looked embarrassed.

  “I’m still scared, Sammy.”

  Sam looked in Phil's eyes and saw that he was being serious. He also checked the automatic impulse to give him a roasting for being such a poof.

  Instead he said, “Scared of what?”

  “Fucked if I know. Feels like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.”

  Sam though about this for a moment.

  “Wouldn’t worry too much about it, mate,” he said. “I knew something bad was going to happen when I went to my pit last night, and I woke up this morning with the worst hangover in recorded history. Shit seems a bit off kilter, a feeling like you've done something shady and are just waiting for a phone call asking what the fuck were you all about last night? It's just The Fear, mate.”

  Phil smiled at his mate's attempt to cheer him up and was grateful for the distraction. He knew The Fear though; the ugly cousin of the hangover, and this wasn't it.

  “Guess we did put away a few beers yesterday.”

  “Fuckin’ right we did, amigo. That’s probably what caused your night terrors. Plus we smoked roughly a quarter in about three hours. Think about it; how fucked up do things seem when your blootered and you’ve smoked a power of gear?”

  “Pretty fucked up,” Phil conceded, remembering a conversation they’d had the previous evening about making a pornographic episode of the Flintstones.

  “Damn skippy,” Sam continued, “and dreams aren’t the most coherent things in the world at the best of times either, correct?”

  “Correct,” said Phil.

  “So add these two factors together, taking into consideration that the dream you had happened to be a nightmare, and it’s only logical that you’re feeling weird today.”

  “Your powers of deduction astound me, Holmes,” Phil said dryly.

  “I know. Nobel prize for logical deduction and stud-muffinliness next year, I reckon.”

  “Let’s get some beer,” Phil said.

  “Doesn’t really explain why you were naked when you woke up, right enough,” Sam mused. “Guess you’re just a superfreak, ya shady bastard.”

  Just as they were leaving the store, Eddie Jannets was painfully making his way up the street on the opposite side of the road, hobbling along ungainly and intent on swiping a pain relieving bottle of booze from the shop when he recognised Sam and Phil, and stopped dead. His eyes narrowed.

  He was still limping pretty badly from his encounter with Cairnsey. His nose was in plaster and
both eyes were underscored with dark purple half moons, but the biggest bruise he had was to his ego. The wee prick was five years younger than him, and he had to all intents and purposes, kicked his cunt in. This was of course, unacceptable and he fully intended on evening the score, one way or another.

  He reached into the inside pocket of his tracksuit for his Stanley blade, ready to run across the street and chib Cairnsey's poofy wee mates right there and then. If the wee prick himself wasn't about, he'd make do with his friends for now.

  He had the advantage. They had their backs to him and hadn’t seen him as they exited the shop. He would come up behind them, get one across the back of the neck then rip the other one on the face as he turned round. Easy.

  It was always a good laugh slashing some cunt in daylight, he thought. You could see the blood better and their reaction was always funny. People usually expected that kind of shit to happen at night.

  He started across the road, one hand inside his jacket, gripping the metal handle of the knife.

  Just at that moment a police van turned the corner at the end of the road and Jannets hesitated.

  He was on a good behaviour bond. If the police caught him in the act of an assault with a deadly weapon he was getting put away. No doubts about it. Also there was a street full of witnesses and he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous with the cast on his nose and two black eyes.

  He quickly withdrew his hand from inside his jacket and turned his face away from the oncoming meat wagon, watching Phil and Sam as they made their way up the street. He thought about the problem, then got out his mobile phone, which had become his after he’d stolen it at knife point from some wee cunt a few weeks ago, and made a couple of calls.

  Chapter 10

  Griff stood in Cairnsey’s bedroom, studying the impressive CD collection which spanned almost the length of an entire wall in two neatly ordered rows.

  “Okay…trip music…” he mused.

  “Most of the sixties stuff’s over there, Griff,” Cairnsey was pointing to the CDs to the left end of the rack. “Top row.”