Lucifer's Abbey

by Smith, Michael James

  It was time to placate him, she needed him with his guard down and defences switched off.

  “That was very kind of you to bring me fresh coffee and the newspaper I do appreciate them.” She smiled, “I'm sorry I don't know anything about what you are or what you do but I'm sure that you’re a very capable man yourself.”

  He deflated as swiftly as he had inflated. Another sign of his instability. “You have to go back in your cell now. I have to go to town and watch your Uncle making a fool of himself with our local pigs.” He stood up reminding her of just how big and powerful he was.

  She led him back to her cell carrying the newspaper and hoping he would not see the scissors and screwdriver as he followed her.

  She went in and turned to face him. He was staring at the crucifix. “He won't save you if your Uncle doesn't play ball, it has been a thousand years since he had any power over this place.” He laughed out loud.

  He closed the door, bolted it and looked back through the grill at her. “I know a shop down town where they have French books; I'll buy you something to read.” The contrast in him was amazing, he could almost have been normal.

  “Thank you, that's a nice thought. Would you also please try to get my own clothes, I'd really appreciate that.”

  “Tanith is having them cleaned for you.” He came close to the bars and lowered his voice.

  “Don't play any of your mind games with her she has real powers too and she would like nothing better than to try them on someone like yourself. I'm sure you understand what I mean.” He saw that she did.

  “Don't make her angry remember that. Next to him she is the strongest. Keep her friendly if you can!”

  Quickly Cherie stepped forward closer to him. “And you Harold? Will you be my friend too?”

  ”He stared at her, silent and she realised what he wanted. It wasn't difficult to guess.

  “I can't help you to leave he would know at once and he would punish me in ways you cannot even begin to imagine.” He was silent, just looking and she dropped her arms to her side and let him stare his fill.

  He wasn't slow to catch on. His damaged brain was quick to spot what he thought was being offered.

  “You be nice and friendly to me tonight and I'll bring you some things to make you more comfortable. That's the best I dare do.”

  “You could take a message to my Uncle”

  She thought he would laugh at her but he didn't. He thought for several seconds and then he came very close to the bars. She saw him look up and down the tunnel. “What will you give me if I do?”

  Cherie knew she had made her opening. Now, please God let him take the bait. “I'll be a good girl for you. I know what you want.” She smiled. “You really are very handsome you know.”

  The eyes through the grill studied her in silence. “I don't dare to tell him where you are but I'll let him know that you are still alive. How about that?”

  Cherie was very hard pressed not to allow the elation that surged in her to show. “That would be fantastic Harold, that's all I ask.”

  “And you'll be good to me tonight” She nodded yes; she was almost holding her breath. She saw the cunning spring into his eyes and wondered if it would all fail at the last moment. “Prove it and I'll do it.”

  How could I possibly do that? I have to trust you, so you have to trust me. That's only fair.”

  “Are you trying to trick me,” he said simply.

  “Why would I do that Harold, we're going to be friends now and I don't trick my friends.”

  “Well I want you to prove it.” He sounded suddenly stupid again. She could see he was capable of being really stubborn.

  “I don't have any way to prove I'm your friend Harold. You've been really nice with the newspaper and the coffee and talking to me so why wouldn't I be a proper friend to you in return?”

  He stood there so long she wondered if he wasn't just going to walk away and end it there. “I want to see them.” He nodded at her body.”

  Confronted, she didn't know what to think for a few seconds. “That's not really a friendship if we start to demand proof of things, Harold. Don't you have other friends? You surely don't ask them to prove their friendship do you?”

  “Bartholomew was my friend.” He nodded to one side at the cell opposite. “He's in there now because he was stupid. His mind is gone. He raised his large hands and made a strange gesture either side of his head. The Master's 'familiar' visited him in the night. I heard him screaming for hours, I almost went mad myself. That's what would happen to me if I get caught helping you so I'm taking a big risk and I want something from you first or I won't do it.”

  She could see he meant it and couldn't think of any way to deflect him. Then she had an idea and wished she had thought of it before. She also needed proof and how could he provide it?

  “OK Harold, let’s do it this way. You go and spy on my Uncle as you've been instructed. If you tell him I'm safe - nothing else - you don't have to say or do anything else at all. Just say that I am safe and ask him what he calls me. His special name for me. When you come back if you can tell me that name I will make you happy before you go to sleep tonight. How's that for a fair deal? You do something you don't really want to do for me and I do something I don't really want to do for you.”

  “Will you do it all for me, everything I want?” He whispered. He couldn't keep his eyes off her now, unable even to try to conceal his desire. She could see she had him. She mustn't give herself away now.

  She raised her hand and touched his fingers that lay along the base of the grill. “I'll keep my promise if you keep yours, Harold. You can be really certain of that.”

  “OK I'll do it. But if you don't keep your word I'll make you do things you don’t even know about. I'll take what I want and I'll hurt you doing it believe me. I have power too, enough to overcome you that's for sure.” His eyes were evil for a few seconds, she believed he was capable of everything he said.

  He walked away without another word and all she could do was hope that he had the courage to keep his end of their strange bargain. She had no intention of keeping her end whatsoever; she would use the scissors first if she had too.

  She went and sat down on the bed beside the newspaper. She felt too drained to pick it up even though it contained news of Uncle Leon. After a few minutes thought she did pick it up, she slipped her legs up onto the bed and got her back against the rough-hewn wall of the cell.

  He was there on the front page, she didn't even have to open it. He was pictured beside another man who the caption said was local Chief Inspector Mike Milton. She read that her Uncle was a visiting Member of Interpol who had flown over in response to Interpol having identified the body of the murdered girl who had been found in the sea off Hope's Nose on Boxing Day. The story it said was continued inside.

  Cherie was in the act of turning the page when she noticed a small movement out of the corner of her eye.

  Looking up she saw to her horror the ugly monstrosity she had struck from the Crucifix climbing slowly up the cell door to the grill, awful clawed hands somehow finding purchase on the smooth wood.

  It reached the sill and turned and looked at her, eyes blazing redly across the space between them, then it stood up straight. For a second it raised ugly hands upon either side of its horned head and then waved the claws in perfect imitation of the strange gesture that Harold had made when he was talking about Bartholomew in the cell opposite. Then it turned, slipped between the bars and leapt from sight.

  With absolute certainty Cherie knew she had sent Harold to his death.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE DEVIL AND ALL HIS WORKS

  Henry and I took advantage of Sunday to get a good lunch and talk through the case at our leisure. We had a pint in the early evening at the Cary Arms which he seemed to have taken a shine too and I retired back to my apartment early enough for him to call Ann Taylor. I was having one of my clairvoyant days.

  On the Monday it was all grind.
A couple of what were really courtesy hours with the Chief Inspector. And then we took Henry through every detail we had collated which he seemed to be able to absorb without any language problems or inter-service misunderstandings.

  He got on with everybody which was to be respected as some of our team are downright difficult to fathom and come evening we all took him down to the Drum Inn pub at Cockington for an end of shift beer. It was a cheerful affair and I enjoyed watching Ann Taylor's twixapation developing. I was going to tease them but she saw the look in my eye, took me by the arm and led me over to the gaming machine and to my delight threatened to do wicked things to me. “You won't have the strength left,” I whispered and walked away before her Australian upbringing got too much for her tongue. I left them all to play and being the senior officer took off to my apartment so that they could relax without my presence.

  The box was on the floor inside the door of my small apartment building. There are only three apartments and it's not uncommon for something to be left that way for one or the other of us. I wasn't expecting anything but seeing it was for me I picked it up having unlocked my ground floor door and carried it into the kitchen. On the way I saw the hand written label and recognised the hand writing at once, it was from Juliet.

  I threw my keys on the top of the refrigerator and intrigued I began to unseal it. I was sorry to have missed her and wondered how long it had been there.

  It had been quite heavy and I was not surprised to find it was full of books. On the top of them was a letter in a separate envelope which I opened without examining the books. I already knew what they were as the top title was revealed as I lifted the envelope off it: 'The Devil and all his works' by Dennis Wheatley.

  The envelope and writing paper were of fine quality, the hand writing clear and precise.

  Dear Michael,

  Forgive me if I am brief but I have to be in Court and want to drop these books off to you on the way. I do not know when I shall next be in Torquay and I think it is very Important you read them where I have marked them with 'stick its'.

  Do not dismiss what you will learn here even if it is hard for you to believe personally. For some people these things are very real and very dangerous. For the child whose murder you are investigating, these things were the difference between life and death.

  I have a story to tell you but first I want you to be a good man and read for me. We have been friends and sometimes much more than friends for a very long time and I ask you in the name of that friendship to do as I request.

  If you do this I will cook you a fine dinner on Friday. 7-30 sharp. You know the way.

  Bless you,

  Juliet.

  I had turned on the kettle while I was reading but ignored it when it boiled. I opened the lower cupboard, found a bottle of single malt and reached for a glass. In the refrigerator I found a new bottle of Soda Water added a good measure and then carried the glass over to the coffee table. I returned for the box of books, lifted them out and placed them in a pile on the table. I saw that there were a lot of yellow tabs protruding from them, a lot of reading then.

  My kitchen is also my lounge, modern bright and comfortable. I like my apartment - it's perfect for a single man who doesn't want to surround himself with the usual paraphernalia of family life. I keep it simple, keep it spotlessly clean and spend as little time in it as I possibly can. I prefer to work.

  On the odd occasion that I do get to spend time here I am comfortable and I have a good music system for the piano music to which I am addicted, a forty two inch television and a contract with Sky to provide the broadband, the football and National Geographic. It’s not much, but its home. Since my wife died it's the easy solution to not wanting to be away from work.

  That night I decided against piano music, put a Diana Krall C.D. in the player and turned it up. Besame Mucho began to play as I lifted the phone and spoke to the Indonesian Take-Away round the corner in the main street of Torre. King Prawns, oyster sauce, boiled rice and noodles. Cooking done for the night. A plate went into the oven to warm and the soy sauce came out of its cupboard. A quick shower and I was ready for Juliet to turn me into a Satanist. I wouldn't want her to know what evil mischief she was capable of bringing to mind. A beautifully cooked meal on Friday night was definitely going to be all right with me. I was prepared to be spellbound.

  The best line of her letter was 'I want to tell you a story'. I was more than intrigued.

  The food arrived as always in remarkably short time. I am a regular customer and I get spoiled, which is nice. As always there was more food than I could eat, piping hot and delicious.

  I picked up Dennis Wheatley's book and ignoring the 'post it' markers Juliet had placed on some of the pages I leafed through it looking at the bizarre pictures and reproductions: Gods for everything, Rasputin the Monk who controlled the Court of Tsar Nicholas II, Voodoo and The Witch Finder General. A long history of superstition and torture and to my policeman's mind the exploitation for gain of the ignorant or ill educated.

  Egyptian Gods and Temples, Buddhist Temples with all sorts inscribed upon them, Roman Gods and temples, Greek Gods and temples, Gods of the rainforest without temples, African tribal Gods. Witches, Warlocks, It was endless. It took a while but slowly it dawned on me that this stuff has been around since the earliest drawings of humans were made and it had been everywhere - it was worldwide. That had struck me as important. It was a very virulent virus that could spread everywhere. It had survived the Dark Ages, the Reformation, survived the Enlightenment and it seemed to be doing alright in the digital age too.

  One of Juliet's markers led me to Alistair Crowley's picture and a page of information about him that appeared to suggest he had tried an occult ceremony in Paris, to raise the God Pan, got it wrong and was found gibbering in a locked room, he was alive whilst his assistant had been found dead. The man's record was truly horrendous and I had little doubt that he was every bit as evil as he was painted. But that didn't convince me he had any special power above being able to coerce other people into satiating his disgusting tastes.

  The next marker I turned to was a different thing altogether. It contained a reproduction of a very old set of Tarot Cards. Juliet had indicated one named below a picture of a Greek mythological character holding a trident as IL DIAVOLA. The Devil obviously. Juliet had written on her ‘stick it.’ It wasn't Poseidon Mike it was the Devil. Your fishermen are safe!

  I smiled, no more fisherman cavorting round in wellies, now that was progress! The second picture drawn upon the girls corpse was the Devil then, the first had been Pan. No link with the sea just the occult symbolism of Black Magic. A picture from the Tarot - the strange cards of the Fortune Tellers.

  A second 'stick it' was attached to the bottom of the page, it read – Note that Il Diavola is depicted being carried on the back of Pan. Both your symbols are here together.

  So this Tarot card was important, Pan and Il Diavola painted upon the body of a young woman who was then brutally murdered. What was the significance and who the hell was going to tell me what it all meant? I didn't have to be capable of winning a Nobel Prize to know that Juliet had given me something of importance, a guide to what evil purpose was driving Hainsley-Sihl, if it was indeed him that was guilty.

  He had had this young person kidnapped - not an undertaking to be risked lightly - as the penalties were severe, smuggled her into England which required planning, funds and a lot of preparation. Killed her at some ghastly ceremony and then thrown her corpse into the sea. Why?

  The answer according to Juliet lay in something occult. Some magic rite that would give him increased power or something along that route. It had all gone wrong when her body got trapped in a fishing net instead of disappearing below the waves forever. In a strange twist of fate his victim had struck back. 'The Lord moves in mysterious ways' - came to mind. Though I didn't even know if that was from the Bible or not.

  There was something else; there was no way he had done all
these things alone. It was a team effort and he had been able to motivate that team to commit both kidnap and murder. Not many men around capable of that, I knew. Was fear his weapon? Or was there something for them all to gain in occult terms? If I'd correctly understood about Alistair Crowley it seemed to me that his followers were as much in it for themselves as for him. Some form of competition to see who could rise the highest in the ranks of Black Magicians.

  Wheatley had helpfully listed the many stages through which somebody wanting to be such a person had to pass. From Student to Ipsissimus. Reading through the list of things that had to be achieved along the way made me think that anyone wanting to stand out in such a small group of people worldwide would have to devote his or her life to it to the exclusion of every other consideration. Like a Buddhist Monk seeking Enlightenment or something. There was at the stage of Babe of the Abyss, a point at which a student must choose between becoming a ‘Brother of the Left Hand Path’ or being stripped of all attainments and of himself as well, even of his Guardian Angel.