by Gary Kemble
‘But aren’t you the Goddess?’
At this she had laughed. ‘No, just a humble disciple.’
It made no sense. You couldn’t erase the past. That’s what the counsellor told him. You could deal with it and move on, but you couldn’t erase it. Yet Johnny felt himself believing Mistress Hel anyway. Maybe that’s what faith was.
Johnny picked up his shoes. Unlike the rest of his outfit, these weren’t brand new. Again, Mistress hadn’t explained where they had come from, just told him to clean them until they shone. Johnny admired the near-mirror finish. He was proud of his work. It had taken him three days, but he figured it out in the end. He breathed on them, then gave them one last shine with his cleaning cloth. He slid them on and tied the laces.
The sun was down by the time he got outside, but that was okay. He checked his watch and made sure he was leaving at the right time. Everything had to be just so. He walked across the dry grass, frowning as the dust coated his newly cleaned shoes. It didn’t matter. Soon none of this would matter.
He opened the shed. The police van was there, as it should be. He went around to the rear and opened it. Johnny had checked it at least a dozen times, but once more wouldn’t hurt. All the internal fittings had been stripped out, and sacks of ANFO stacked on either side. He squeezed between the sacks, taking care not to get his uniform dusty, and checked the detonators were in place and wired together correctly. He switched on the relay and made sure the light was green, then turned it off again. Finally, he checked the old phone. All he had to do was call a certain number, and it would be over. But he had to wait until the perfect moment. And the perfect moment was when Mistress Hel told him it was. Johnny dropped back to the ground and closed the back of the van, locking the door.
He went to the front, got in, and drove the van out. He left the shed’s doors open. He wouldn’t be coming back here. When he was outside, he checked the glovebox for the piece of paper she had given him. He unfolded it. It was full of symbols he didn’t understand. There was so much he didn’t understand. So much he couldn’t understand. Looking at those symbols, he felt shivers of pleasure and pain. He thought of Marcus Wilson, and those dark days at high school, and felt wracked by guilt. Johnny had enjoyed some of it.
Then a wave of calm washed in, and washed out again, taking all the negativity with it. He could almost see Mistress Hel sitting there next to him, smiling, telling him it wasn’t his fault. He was just a kid. It was another example of the terrible things men did, and why their time on Earth was about to come to an end.
He followed the wheel ruts from the shed to the front gates, put the van in neutral and got out. The air was cooler now, and his breath puffed in front of his face like a dragon’s. He opened the gate, letting it swing on its hinges. Above the sound of the van he heard cattle lowing somewhere in the distance. He breathed in the crisp, clean air, looked at the heavens and took a moment to enjoy the stars. It made him feel insignificant, then he remembered what Mistress Hel told him, about making a difference: anyone could do it.
Johnny went back to the truck, climbed in, slammed the door and pulled out onto the dirt road.
‘Time to make a difference,’ he said, and switched the radio on.
CHAPTER 42
‘Get on your knees,’ Wilson said.
Harry took a step into the room and Wilson raised an eyebrow in warning.
‘Now, shitbag. On your knees.’
Harry dropped to his knees. He scanned the room, looking for any way of escape. There was nothing. Wilson pushed himself to his feet, never once taking his eyes off Harry, who guessed he’d done enough of this sort of thing during his law enforcement career.
‘Hands behind your head,’ Wilson said. ‘Fingers laced.’
Harry complied, even as his mind reeled. People knew where he was. He couldn’t just disappear. But this was a former cop. A corrupt cop who had managed to keep his nose clean for many years, despite his predilection for young flesh. Besides, even if Wilson didn’t blow Harry’s head off, Harry was going to have a hard time explaining what had gone on here.
Wilson circled around behind him, climbing over the bed to get around him without getting in reach.
‘Cross your feet,’ Wilson snarled.
‘What?’
‘Your feet, cross them.’
Harry crossed one foot over the other, then winced as Wilson stepped on them, holding him in place. He held Harry’s thumbs together with one hand and snapped cuffs on with the other. Harry knew what was coming next. He felt Wilson’s foot against his back, and then he was falling forwards, unable to protect his face. He twisted his head just before it hit the carpet. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Then he felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his neck.
Wilson was breathing heavily. Harry looked under the bed. He could just make out a clear box filled with Lego, and a blue teddy bear. He shuddered.
‘Do you really think you’re going to get away with it?’ Harry said.
‘With what?’
‘Abusing kids? Killing me?’
Wilson sighed. ‘Well, as for the kiddy fiddling, lots of people do. My dad sure did. Eight years of that shit, until I left him cradling a broken jaw when I was sixteen. And killing you? Now, there’s a thought.’
‘Forget I mentioned it.’
‘Smartarse,’ Wilson said. He slammed his foot into Harry’s side. Harry screamed. ‘Let’s see, you came over to interview me . . .’
Slam! ‘Argh!’ Harry tried to roll away, but that sent another burst of pain firing through his ribcage and back.
‘. . . you got aggressive, we fought, I managed to get away and ran to my room . . .’
Wilson stomped on Harry’s back. Harry screamed again.
‘. . . you were kicking the door, so I retrieved my pistol from my safe. That sound about right?’
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but someone beat him to it.
‘If you’re going with that story, I’d roll him over first,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘So you can shoot him in the face.’
Mistress Hel stood in the doorway, her gun aimed at Wilson. Harry took a few deep breaths – as deep as he could manage – and pushed himself backwards, until he was resting against the wall. Wilson’s gun hand twitched.
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ Mistress Hel said. ‘I’ve got you cold. You know the drill.’
Wilson didn’t move. ‘Put the gun down, young lady,’ he said. ‘Police are on their way right now.’
Mistress Hel laughed. ‘I’m hardly young, and I’m certainly no lady. And no, no police are en route, I’m afraid to say.’
She walked into the room and placed the gun against his head.
‘You see that, Harry?’ she said. ‘He doesn’t even remember me.’
Harry took her point but, to be fair, he doubted many people who had known her at high school would recognise her now. Black leather coat and matching gloves, tight black jeans, boots. Flawless hair and make-up. Even though he was no longer under her spell, she looked like a goddess. Her eyes were full of confidence and purpose.
Then, to Wilson: ‘Drop. The. Gun.’
The gun clunked against the floor.
‘On your knees.’
‘Do you really think this is a good idea?’ Wilson said, but sighed and got to his knees, lowering one hand to ease himself down.
‘Hands behind your head,’ she said.
Wilson complied. Mistress Hel looked at Harry and gestured with the gun. ‘It’s not as fancy as magic, but it does the trick.’
Wilson sneered. ‘Do you really think . . .’
Harry flinched as Mistress Hel kicked Wilson in the face. He cried out and fell backwards against the bed, blood spraying from his broken nose. As he slid down the bed, she pressed her foot against the side of his head, then when he was on the floor, against his neck.
‘Get your fucking keys out! Move it!’
‘Okay! Okay!’ Wilson thrust a hand into his jacket, coming out w
ith handcuff keys. He coughed, blood spraying over his crisp white shirt.
‘Do you know what to do next, or do I have to kick you again?’ Mistress Hel spat.
Wilson fumbled the keys as Mistress Hel kicked the gun away from him. Harry turned so Wilson could unlock the handcuffs.
‘They’re all cowards at their heart,’ Mistress Hel said. ‘These beasts. That’s why they do what they do.’
The handcuffs came loose. Harry pushed himself away from Wilson, who now looked genuinely scared. ‘Please,’ he whispered.
Mistress Hel kicked him between the legs and he collapsed on the floor, screaming, and curled into a ball. She knelt by his head, and pressed the gun into the back of his neck.
‘You speak another word and I pull the trigger.’
Wilson closed his mouth.
She turned the gun on Harry. ‘Cuff him,’ she said.
Harry yanked Wilson’s arms behind him and snapped the cuffs over his wrists, closing them tight. He reached for the keys, which Wilson had dropped on the floor.
‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘We won’t be needing those.’
Wilson whimpered, until Mistress Hel pressed the gun into the side of his head.
She walked across the room, to the walk-in wardrobe. ‘Oh, you left your safe open, Marcus.’
‘Stay out of there,’ Wilson said.
Mistress Hel ignored him. She reached into the safe and retrieved a thick folder. She stood over him.
‘What could this be, I wonder?’
‘You have no right!’ Wilson moaned.
She stomped on his back with her heel. Wilson yelped.
‘I have no right? Let’s have a look-see, shall we?’
She opened the folder and took out a small, battered, black book. ‘Lots of names in here,’ she said. ‘Dates, and sums of money.’ She flicked through the pages. ‘This goes back years, Marcus. Whatever could it mean?’ She drove her heel into his back again, so hard it tore through his tuxedo jacket.
‘I recognise some of these names. Zak Godwin. Don Clack. I think Harry might too. Isn’t that right, Harry?’
‘Yeah. I do.’
‘I wonder what they could have been paying you money for, Marcus? What else is in this folder?’
She slid the book into her back pocket and took an A4 envelope from the folder. It was stuffed full. Mistress Hel pulled out something and showed it to Harry. It was a black and white photograph. She turned it back to herself before Harry had much of a look at it, but he saw enough to know what it was.
‘This girl looks about eleven, Marcus.’ She dropped the photo onto his back, then stabbed her stiletto through it, into his flesh. Blood bubbled up and Wilson cried out. Mistress Hel pulled another photo out of the envelope. She got onto her haunches and thrust it in Wilson’s face.
‘What about this one? The one being raped? How old was he?’
Wilson tried to spit at her. She held the photo against his face, then pistol-whipped him through it.
‘Argh!’
‘Lily . . . stop.’
She pointed the gun at Harry and trod on Wilson’s face. She upended the envelope and photos, maybe a hundred of them, fluttered over Wilson. She dropped the envelope, then turned out the folder. Two USB sticks fell to the floor.
‘Do you want to defend this man, Harry?’
‘No, of course not! But . . . this is evidence. We’ve got him! We’ve fucking got him!’
Mistress Hel smiled at Harry, but it was a sad smile. ‘You really believe that, don’t you, Harry?’
‘You haven’t got shit!’ Wilson spat. The photo fell away from his face. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple into his eyes. ‘You fucking idiots. You just gave me a Get Out of Jail Free card. None of this will be admissible in a court. Fucking amateurs.’
‘He’s right, Harry. It’s funny that he should speak truth with his final words.’
Mistress Hel pulled a stocking from her back pocket and threw it to Harry. ‘Gag him.’
‘No, Harry! No!’
Harry took the stocking and pulled it around Wilson’s face. As the former cop spoke, it slotted neatly between his teeth. Harry tied it tight at the back of his head. While Harry was busy, Mistress Hel backed up to the bedroom doorway, picked up Wilson’s revolver and put it into her jacket pocket.
‘Good boy.’ She pulled out her phone and dialled. ‘A slight detour,’ she said into the phone. She gave Wilson’s address, then put her phone away. She gestured at Harry with the gun.
‘Get him downstairs,’ she said.
‘Lily . . . you don’t need to do this,’ Harry said. ‘Whatever you’ve got planned. You don’t need to do it. Please, just talk to me for one second.’
Harry gestured to the doorway. Mistress Hel looked at Wilson. He wasn’t going anywhere. She nodded.
They stood just outside the room.
‘I know what Wilson did was wrong,’ Harry said. ‘Obviously. But killing him isn’t the answer. Think about it . . . can you imagine what life will be like for him in prison? Far worse than dying.’
Mistress Hel stared at Harry. ‘Finished?’ She turned back to the room. Harry grabbed her arm but she pulled away from him.
‘Jesus, you like it, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Having the control. Killing people. You got a taste for it with Elizabeth Tawny and you’ve never looked back!’
Mistress Hel surged at Harry, slamming him against the hallway wall. The back of his head smacked the plasterboard hard enough to dent it. The force of the impact caught him by surprise and he shook his head to clear it.
‘You know nothing about Liz!’ Mistress Hel spat. She pressed her forearm against Harry’s throat.
‘I know you entered a suicide pact with her, and then conveniently didn’t die. And then used your little bag of tricks to get in good with this goddess of yours.’
Mistress Hel snorted a bitter laugh, then pressed the gun under Harry’s chin. ‘This is what you think of me? Did you know that the reason Liz and I got to know each other was because of that fucker in there?’
Harry tried to speak, but couldn’t with the gun in his face. He shook his head.
‘No, didn’t think so. The suicide pact was real. It wasn’t a cry for help. I . . .’ Mistress Hel blinked back tears. ‘I wanted to die. I still want to die. Every day. Liz and I both offered ourselves to the Goddess. I was left behind. To do this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘But . . . what? Were all of them paedophiles? Brad Brooks – the young cop? Christopher Lawrence – the mine worker? How about the farmer? John Moncrieff? Jeff Stafford? Janek Murphy? Well? Were they?’
‘No, they weren’t. But they were useful.’
‘Did they deserve to die?’
She stopped him with a look. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? Man’s time on Earth is coming to an end. Tonight. Now MOVE!’
CHAPTER 43
When Harry saw the police van waiting out front, for a few seconds he thought Wilson had somehow managed to get word out. But the flashers were off and there weren’t a dozen cops breaking down the front door. Harry remembered Constable Brad Brooks, who had decided to aerate his own head after hanging out with Mistress Hel for a while. Phil had said something about Brooks being suspended shortly before his suicide, for ‘erratic behaviour’, although he’d never been forthcoming on details of what that behaviour had been.
‘Brad Brooks stole this thing for you?’
‘For the Goddess, yes. But then . . . he wavered. He was under a lot of pressure.’
‘So you killed him?’
‘Come on, Harry, move it,’ Mistress Hel said.
Harry dragged Wilson by the scruff of his tux, wincing in pain whenever Wilson tried to jerk out of his grip. By the time Harry had pulled Wilson across the lawn, he was dripping with sweat. Ms Hel opened the gate for him. A cop got out of the van and walked towards them. Crisp, pressed uniform. Cap perched on his head. Harry was so distracted by the uniform he didn’t immediately notice who
it was.
‘Johnny?’
Johnny ignored him and looked to Mistress Hel for instruction.
‘Get this one in the back of the van,’ she said, gesturing to Wilson. ‘Oh wait,’ she said, pulling the spare gun from her pocket. ‘Here.’
Johnny took Wilson’s gun and slotted it into his holster.
‘Johnny, what are you doing?’ Harry said. ‘We’ve got him. We’ve got the evidence. Photos. Names. Everything.’
Johnny grabbed Wilson, who was looking wildly around him, as though hoping to see someone he recognised. Harry looked up and down the street. It was deserted. He followed Johnny around the side of the van. Johnny dropped Wilson on his knees and opened the rear doors.
‘Holy shit,’ Harry said.
The pungent reek of ammonia hit him so hard he staggered back a step. The rear of the van had been stripped and packed with large white sacks. Between the sacks were blocks of something wrapped in brown paper. These were strung together with yellow cable. Wilson’s eyes went wide and he yelled through his gag. He fell on the ground and tried to roll away. Mistress Hel put a foot on him. Wilson started crying.
‘Put him in,’ Mistress Hel said.
Johnny grabbed Wilson by the back of his jacket and his belt and hefted him into the back of the van, in the narrow aisle between the sacks of ANFO.
‘Marcus?’ Mistress Hel said.
Wilson lay in the back of the van.
‘Marcus? Answer me or I’ll shoot your nuts off.’ She thrust the gun between his trussed legs. Wilson whimpered in response and tried to shuffle away from the gun.
‘You may have been a piece of shit in life, but in death, you’re going to become the portal that allows Her to come into this world.’
Marcus groaned.
‘I know, I know,’ Mistress Hel said. ‘I know you don’t understand. All you need to know is this . . .’ She climbed into the back of the van and lowered her voice. ‘It’s going to be painful. Imagine all the pain you put me through, and Johnny here, and all those other poor kids. Now multiply that a thousandfold, and then coat it in flaming shards of razor wire, and you’re starting to get an idea of how bad it’s going to be for you. It will only last a moment, but it’s going to feel like an eternity.’