by Simon Clark
2
Jesus encountered two demoniacs when He travelled through Gadarene.
They were so fierce no one could pass. The demoniacs cried out, ‘What have you to do with us, O Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?’ Nearby, a herd of swine grazed. Jesus cast the spirits of the demoniacs into the pigs. Immediately, the swine rushed down a steep bank into the sea and were drowned.
Jason Morrow knew the story well enough. He would often think of it as the pigs were herded into the slaughterhouse, where their squeals echoed from the white-tiled walls. Jason Morrow no longer even noticed the sound, but he smiled when he saw visitors screw up their faces at the sheer volume and intensity of the pigs’ squealing. It made an electric drill boring into brick sound as pleasant as a garden waterfall.
Pigs came trotting onto the killing floor, their pink bodies nicely plumped up from weeks of porking out on pig swill. Jason Morrow ticked off the relevant boxes of his inventory as the men moved forward with the electric paddles that they clamped to either side of the pigs’ heads. There were no sparks or smoke or fuss. The jolt of electricity snapped from the metal contacts of the paddles, blasting the brain to buggery; piggy went down kicking, then lay unconscious, all ready for the coup de grace.
Jason Morrow moved efficiently from pig to pig as they fell, nodding to the men with razor-sharp axes when he’d satisfied himself the pig was stunned. He wouldn’t claim to enjoy the job — I work to live, not live to work’ was what he’d tell his wife when she complained he didn’t work more overtime — only on pig days he walked with a spring in his step, hummed pop songs under his breath, while he watched the electrical contacts of the stunner being clamped to another meaty porcine head.
Slap. Another pig went down, its muddy trotters kicking; its piggy eyes, black as olives, bulged glassily. Jason nodded to Jacob who planted one bloody boot on the pig’s head and raised his axe above the pig’s neck.
Would axes have killed the demoniac-infested pigs Jesus had dispatched so efficiently? He liked to think they would. The axes glittered in the fluorescent lights; they were sharp as damned scalpels. One stroke severed the windpipe and major arteries. Blood gushed into specially cut stone channels in the floor, then poured on out of sight into the drains with a gurgling, sucking sound as if the drains were thirsty mouths sucking at that blood for all they were worth. Where the blood went then he didn’t know; but it didn’t take much imagination to picture it surging through the Victorian sewer system beneath Leppington’s streets, a mini-tidal wave of blood sending a pink curling wave ahead of it to God knew where.
The pigs came in like…(‘like lambs to the slaughter,’ Jason smiled to himself); axes glinted as they rose and fell; pigs still awaiting oblivion in the form of a squirt of electricity across the frontal lobes squealed their hearts out; the sound beating back from the walls was deafening.
Jason Morrow checked the tally of pigs. One hundred and twenty-one. That was a lot of bacon. His stomach rumbled with hunger. In ten minutes he could grab a mug of tea and — yeah, why not? — a bacon sandwich. He ticked yet another box and signed his name at the bottom of the form.
As he moved on from pig to pig, giving a nod to men waiting with the axes raised, he mentally replayed the story of Jesus’s encounter with the demoniacs. He pictured the hot dusty hillside. The tombs that the demoniacs occupied would be deep tunnels cut into a cliff face. He saw the pigs run squealing into the sea where they thrashed at the water with their stumpy trotters as they drowned, taking the demoniacs with them. Hasta la vista, baby.
He didn’t know why he found the story so satisfying; endless variations would work their way through his mind. Sometimes, when the demoniacs entered the bodies of the pigs, the pigs’ heads would morph into those of human beings with tormented faces all pig-snouted and drooling with bulging eyes…
He nodded at Ben Starkey who raised the axe. Down it came. Jason Morrow felt the heat of the blood ooze through the rubber skin of his Wellington boots.
And if, at that moment, you had told Jason Morrow that a hundred years ago to the day his great-grandfather, William Morrow, had gassed himself in Room 406 on the top floor of the Station Hotel he would have been surprised. His surprise would have increased if you’d shown him great-grandad Morrow’s signature on the bottom of the suicide note, because he would have seen the ghostly echo of it in his own signature, complete with the same vigorous zig-zag underlining. Although he would have been surprised he would have believed it all.
But if you had told Jason Morrow that by this time tomorrow he too would be dead — dead as the pig twitching and gushing blood at
his feet — he wouldn’t have believed you at all.
But both nuggets of information were true.
He nodded his head again. The axe came down. Jason Morrow moved across the killing floor.
And one by one the pigs, at last, stopped squealing.
3
Dr David Leppington sipped his coffee and wondered whether to order another cake from the girl behind the cafe counter. It seemed shamelessly greedy — the Bakewell tart he’d just eaten had been huge — but now he was definitely gripped by the school’s-out feeling and he was ready to make the most of his holiday.
I could walk up to the girl at the counter — pretty, blonde, red-varnished nails — ask her if she can recommend any good restaurants, then when she mentions a couple of names casually follow through and ask her for a date. Go on, David, urged a voice in his head. I dare you.
As the saying goes, he was as free as a bird since the break-up with Sarah; well, not so much a break-up, things just gently and gradually, very gradually, had dissolved over the last six months until they reached the point when they both had to agree that they were no longer an item. At least it was a painless separation for both parties. Even more painless because they weren’t living together.
He watched the blonde waitress moving around the cafe, wiping down tables and straightening menus and sugar bowls. He’d begun to rehearse his opening lines when he noticed the glint of diamonds on the ring finger of her left hand.
Damn, he thought mildly. Oh well, there was still a fortnight ahead of him in Leppington; if the town held enough interest for him after all. Already he was thinking of perhaps moving on up the coast in a couple of days.
He sipped his coffee. Through the window he could see the great clot of dark cloud hanging over the quad towers of the Station Hotel. There was no sign of the crow now.
Another twenty minutes and he could check in. The lure of a hot bath seemed particularly strong now after the long train journey from Liverpool.
With time still to kill he pulled one of two letters from his pocket. It was from a Dr Pat Ferman, one of the town’s general practitioners; he was inviting David to consider taking over the practice on Dr Ferman’s retirement in six months. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working in Leppington, ran the letter, and would have much to gain professionally and socially, especially so as you have family ties that extend back many centuries… The letter was chatty and friendly and mentioned David’s uncle, George Leppington, whom Dr Ferman had known as a good friend and neighbour for the last thirty years, so the letter said. David hadn’t seen his uncle since he left the town when he was six.
Would he accept the invitation to become a GP in this little town of his ancestors? He just didn’t know. The idea of tootling round the lanes in a Land Rover like some medical version of Postman Pat was strangely appealing. There’d be no more nine-to-five in a mind-numbingly dull office at the Occupational Health Centre where all that was expected of him was to confirm or deny another doctor’s diagnosis, or to advise businessmen to drink less booze and take more exercise. You might as well stand on a beach and recommend to the sea that the tide shouldn’t come in today. The sea’d probably take more notice than the businessmen with expense accounts just itching to be used in expensive restaurants.
An elderly couple came into the cafe; they ordered toasted teacake
s and hot chocolate, and sat down by the window. He noticed them glance in his direction. (‘By heck, Ethel. There’s a stranger in town’ — no, it didn’t need a mind-reader to know what they were thinking.)
David glanced at the clock above the counter. Ten minutes to checkin time. As he returned the letter to his pocket another envelope brushed against his fingers as if trying to attract his attention.
He’d not opened this letter yet, although he knew Katrina’s handwriting well enough to realize who it was from.
OK, David, you’re relaxed, you’re in a good enough frame of mind to deal with it now; go ahead; read the damned thing; get it over and done with.
He pulled the white envelope from his pocket; quickly tore it open.
See, David, painless, isn’t it? Read it, then tear it up and feed it to the bin in the corner.
But he knew he wouldn’t do that. He’d read it a dozen more times before destroying it.
He pulled the letter from the envelope. The moment he opened it he knew he’d made a mistake. He should have postponed opening it that bit longer — postpone opening the damn thing until you’ve anaesthetized yourself with a couple of beers, he thought, suddenly angry. You don’t need this anymore. You’ve not seen the woman in five years.
He opened the letter. The first thing that caught his eye was the housefly Sellotaped above the words ‘Dear David’.
The fly’s black body looked absurdly plump beneath the clear sticky tape. Its wings were missing. Not pulled off, he noted, but neatly snipped away with scissors. He jammed the letter unread back into the envelope and stuffed it again deep into his pocket.
A bitter taste welled up into his mouth.
4
From the deepest tunnels they surged upwards. They were hungry, eager for food. They moved quickly, purposefully, climbing upward to the passageways that ran just below the surface, and although they moved through absolute darkness instincts stamped deep into their very blood guided them.
When they reached their destination they waited, faces turned upward, knowing that in a second the deluge would come. Their sense of expectation filled the air; their bodies trembled with excitement.
Then it came, a torrent gushing down into a hundred or more open mouths.
The liquid sound filled the cave.
They fed. Their food was warm, wet, sweet. If there’d been enough light it would have revealed its colour. Red. Very red.
5
Wap!
The four tosspots lay at his feet in the grass. That had been a piece of friggin’ cake. Easy or what?
The man ran his palm across his shaved head. The scar that ran like a streak of bright red lipstick from the corner of his eye to his ear tingled pleasantly. The way it did when he crushed vermin. He’d gashed the knuckles of his right hand planting his fist in one of the tosspots’ baby-soft mouths but he didn’t feel a thing. He wiped his bloody knuckles on a fistful of stinging nettles. Still he felt nothing.
‘Listen to me,’ he told the four teenagers as they groaned and spat blood into the dirt. ‘From now on you’ll do exactly as I tell you. All right?’
‘Uh…ff-shit.’
Wap!
He slapped the one struggling to his feet.
‘You will do exactly as I say. Got that?’
‘Fug off,’ one blubbered through a mouthful of spit, blood and drool.
Wap!
‘lam…’ Wap ‘…the boss.’ Wap! ‘Now. Got it?’ Wap, wap.
He yanked the kids to their feet and slapped their faces hard with the palm of his hand.
After five minutes’ work, slapping their stupid heads, they started to come around to his way of thinking.
‘Now, listen to me. Get up onto your knees. And kneel there until I tell you to move. Got it?’
Heads nodded.
‘So what’re you waiting for?’
The four, still wiping bloody noses and blinking tears from swollen eyes, dragged themselves to their knees, like they were kneeling in the presence of their king.
The scar on the side of the young man’s head tingled even more strongly — like electricity was shooting from his eye to his ear. He felt good; he felt as strong as a monster from hell.
‘I’ll tell you this only once. I rule you now, okay?’
The four looked crushed. And all four nodded obediently.
Shit-hot, he thought, pleased. Now I’m hack in business.
6
Electra Charnwood unlocked the basement door of the Station Hotel.
Electra? You can thank my poetry-loving mother for that pretty little posy of a name, she’d tell people, grinning. She was thirty-five years old, tall, sophisticated-looking, with black hair that reached her shoulders. She was also a cuckoo. Born bright in a dull town. It wasn’t conceit on her part; it was just that she’d never felt as if she’d really belonged here, and that perhaps her parents had found her floating in a rush basket in the River Lepping. Maybe that wasn’t so far off the mark; her dark hair, almost a bluey-black, and strong nose gave her a Semitic, perhaps even an Egyptian-princess look. In fact, she bore little resemblance at all to her parents who were mousy, freckled and anything but tall.
Electra was certainly no willow; she was big-boned and had drawn many an appreciative whistle from the brewery truck drivers as she’d hefted beer kegs into the basement lift. That was when her boozy, glass-backed cellarman hadn’t shown up for work, as was his wont on a Monday morning. (‘Must be the flu,’ cellarman Jim would snuffle into the phone; or I think I’m going down with a migraine;’ or ‘It’s my bloody wisdom teeth again; you don’t know the pain I’m in.’) Once she’d been so pissed off with the wisdom teeth one that she’d driven him to her dentist in Whitby, forced him into the chair and watched with a satisfaction that was near-monstrous when the dentist had told Jim that he needed more than a dozen fillings. The poor man’s face had gone as white as snow. She could have sacked him for more reasons than she had fingers and toes, but when he did turn up to work he was conscientious enough — once she’d fed him enough booze. He didn’t mind staying late to straighten up, empty ashtrays and wash the glasses. And, once she’d boosted his Dutch-courage levels, he was the only one brave enough to go down into the basement at night.
Electra switched on the basement lights. Light and dark in the basement had come to some kind of uneasy truce, she’d tell herself. When the lights came on the darkness would retreat, but only so far.
She walked briskly down the steps. She didn’t want to be down there, she didn’t like the hotel basement; she never had, ever since she’d been a child. But it had gone beyond fear now. A fatalism had soaked into her blood down through the years.
She checked the cases of wine, soft drinks and spirits. There’d be enough to see the hotel through to the end of the week. There would hardly be a rush of wine-quaffing tourists. Leppington wasn’t on any tourist maps — unless slaughterhouses of titanic proportions were your thing.
Standing in the centre of the basement — as far from the walls, and their shadows, as she could possibly get — Electra let her sharp eyes roam over the cases of drink, beer kegs and plastic hoses that fed the beer to the handpumps in the bar upstairs. (One day she’d install electric pumps — but there never seemed a pressing need.)
She noted everything was in its place and as it should be. After the sounds she’d heard coming from down here last night she half expected to find the place completely wrecked. But then it was always like that. A lot of noise and fury, but she’d find not so much as a can of Pepsi out of place.
Now for the iron door at the end of the basement. Come on, Electra. You can do it. Best foot forward.
She steeled herself to walk the few metres into the shadows. You should have brought your torch, you silly mare, she scolded herself. But again that fatalism kicked in. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
She paused, licked her suddenly dry lips.
I shouldn�
��t be here, she told herself. I don’t belong here.
As if saying that would change the past. OK, so she’d been a bright young thing at school; she’d won the prizes for academic brilliance. She’d studied English at university. She’d landed the job as a researcher with a TV station in London. At twenty-five she was poised to be promoted front of camera as co-presenter on Business Tonight — but that was when it all went pear-shaped. Her mother died suddenly. (Dad had found Mum wide-eyed and cold on these very basement slabs, a broom clutched in her hand — by the brush head, not the handle.) Electra had come home for the funeral. Then, the day she was due to return to London to resume her glittering career (and take possession of the royal-blue Porsche she’d ordered from the dealer in Hampstead) her father had suffered a crippling stroke.
With no brothers and sisters to help out she’d taken over the running of the hotel, and effectively waved her TV career goodbye. Her father had been bed-ridden for the next six months, unable to walk, unable to go to the toilet himself, unable to even pronounce the letter ‘r’.
‘Electwa. Don’t waste your time here. You’ve a caweer,’ he’d say — or at least try to say, fighting to get the words clear of his distorted lips.
‘Don’t worry, Dad. As soon as we can find a hotel manager I’ll pick up the threads in London.’
Her father had died that year, the same year as her mother. She’d watched his coffin being lowered into the ground, his voice still going around in her head: Don’t cwy for me, Electwa, twy not to cwy.
She never had found that hotel manager. And ten years later she was still here in this shitty hotel. The career in TV was well and truly buried with dear old Dad. Damn. This hotel wasn’t an asset; it was like a damn virus in her blood just waiting to go full blown. The noises in the basement at night — it was enough to drive a bloody saint to drink. Thank you, Mum, thank you, Dad. Why didn’t you drive a stake through my heart when I was born and have done with it? The sudden upwelling of bitterness caught her by surprise. Her eyes pricked, she clenched her teeth and she found herself digging her nails into the palms of her hands.