‘You mean you didn’t hear it?’ says Danders, ‘we had a UFO take off in the hotel car-park just half-an-hour ago.’
‘A UFO!’ I reply. ‘That was a UFO? I heard the noise. It woke me. I thought it was just an early flight leaving the airport.’
‘It was an early flight all right, but leaving from the hotel car park. Straight up. You can see the scorch marks on the tarmac - and on the cars unlucky enough to have been parked nearby. Current theories are the craft: either had an invisibility cloaking shield or was like something out of Transformers and disguised as a normal car until takeoff. Listen, I’m going to have to rush off, BBC Nottingham’s camera crew’s just arrived, we’re trying to coordinate mobile phone and Twitter coverage and Sky TV News are on the way.’
‘No, no, of course, mustn’t keep you,’ I reply and go outside to join the other delegates surveying the scene, I find a bench to sit on and pull n’Drangheta’s note from my pocket. Had to catch early flight, she’d written.
I unfold the pink slip of paper. On the reverse side is a printed form and at the foot of that page is my signature. How did that get there? Then I remember when we first met and she asked me for my autograph, she’d handed me a sheet of pink paper to write on. I look at the printed form more closely. I clearly have the bottom copy of one of those multi-part carbonless business forms. Shit, what did I sign?
It’s in two languages: English and gibberish, well at least a character-set I’ve never seen before. It looks like that made-up Klingon language alphabet the more obsessed Trekkies play with. Is this some kind of joke? Were n’Drangheta and Marlene in this together?
I read on. The document is headed ‘Model Release Form’ and goes on to set out a contract between myself and AILF Enterprizes of Alderbaran. That would be Alderbaran in the zodiac constellation of Taurus? Which no doubt explains why n’Drangheta was knocking back the RedBuIls. Yeah, very droll. A little further on, it explains that AILF is the registered trademark of the Aliens I’d Like to Fuck satellite porn channel serving the Alderbaran system and that I’ve consented to my images being used on this channel for the agreed consideration.
Consideration? That’s a legal term. Maybe n’Drangheta is a lawyer? I read on ... In consideration for the satisfactory/unsatisfactory performance, AILF agree to order their starship to stand-down and withdraw from/attack and destroy the Third Planet from the Sun.
A lawyer with a sense of humour? No, can’t be....and yet? I look around, waiting for Ashton Kutcher, Harry Hill, or whoever Jeremy Beadle’s successor is these days, to pop out from behind a tree to say, ‘You’ve been framed’ or ‘Smile, you are on Candid Camera!’ But, nothing happens. There’s just a smell of melted car park in the air.
It is one of those autumn mornings when the moon is still clearly visible. As I stare up at it, I think I glimpse a flash of light to the side of it. It must be an optical illusion, I tell myself. Yet, deep down, I know what I’m seeing are the energy signals from an alien starship as it jumps into hyperspace to make the 62 light-year journey back to the Alderbaran system.
A Beretta for Azraella
PEOPLE THINK I’M CRAZY, but they haven’t seen the things I’ve seen.
So, I’m sitting in the club one day and I hear Hoodface say, ‘Did you know Maxim offed his bitch?’
‘What, that Big Foxxi?’ replies Retro, looking up from under the brim of his navy-blue Kangol fake-fur crusher hat. ‘That’s a shame, she was one hot chick, I’d have given her one any day.’
‘No, you fuckwit,’ says Hoodface, ‘not that bitch, his other bitch - the dog.’
‘Oh, that bitch. The Pitbull from hell. ‘Bout time too,’ adds Retro, turning towards me, ‘That bitch used to scare the shit out of me and I hear it turned on him a couple of times.’
‘That’s what I hear too,’ I say. Seeing as these two wise guys clearly aren’t going to shut-the-fuck up anytime soon and let me finish my Tanqueray No.Ten and Noilly Prat in peace, I decide I may as well join in the conversation. ‘Max tells me he ain’t gonna breed from any Pitbulls no more. Instead he’s got himself one of those big Jap Tosa fighting dogs.’
‘They say Lux has also got himself a new beast,’ chimes in Hoodface. ‘Uses it to protect that place of his out in the sticks.’
This would be the place where Lux stashes all the stuff he brings in from Eastern Europe. Drugs, vodka, fake pharmaceuticals, people. If there’s a margin to be made, you’ll find Lux in there somewhere. The word is he’s now into importing military grade weaponry from one of the former Soviet republics.
‘What’s the new dog’s breed?’ asks Retro.
‘Not rightly sure,’ replies Hoodface, ‘Came from some place out in Lebanon I think. What was the name . . . Chara or Chora-something.’
‘Chorazin?’ I suggest. ‘Was it Chorazin?’
Retro and Hoodface both look at me. ‘That’s spooky,’ says Hoodface. ‘How did you guess that?’
Oops, I think to myself, sometimes I can be too damn smart for my own good. You don’t follow? Perhaps I’d better take time out here to explain some of the backstory.
Although I don’t like to talk about my background, except when we need some extra leverage in a deal that’s going down with the Italian mafia, I really am the black sheep of my family. There again, my father was a lousy shepherd. But what can you expect from a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church? To his credit, he didn’t totally abandon my mother. He provided for her and paid for me to have a good education. I say, ‘he paid’, he plundered the diocesan funds, as he always had, to pay for his lifestyle - and his mistakes.
He wanted me to follow him into the priesthood, probably so he could have someone to pray for his mortal soul. But it didn’t work out that way and now I spend my days surrounded by thieves, harlots and sinners. Like father, like son.
I’m tolerated because everyone knows I can handle myself in a fight. Because I have contacts that can open doors in unusual places. And because I have brains that can be picked, particularly when it comes to the more out-of-the-way arcane stuff. Which brings us back to the significance of Chorazin.
‘Don’t get me started,’ I say. ‘But if you really want the full story, Chorazin ain’t in the Lebanon, it’s in Israel and it’s just a set of ruins now. However rewind two thousand years, back to when Jesus was still riding the range, and it was a busy little city. Busy - and evil. So evil that Jesus himself cursed the place.
‘Woe unto you, Chorazin. If the miracles that were performed in you had been performed in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, it will be more bearable for Tyre and Sidon on the day of judgement than for you. That’s what the Gospel of Saint Matthew says. Its chapter 11, verse 21, if you need to look it up.’
Hoodface rolls his eyes, his Dolce & Gabbana wraparound shades are sitting on the top of his bald head, while Retro tries not to choke on his drink.
I can see I’m losing my audience, so I cut to the chase. ‘What I hear about Chorazin today is that, apart from the usual rubber-necking tourists, the only visitors who go there now are Satanists and people into black magic. It’s called The Black Pilgrimage and they go there to worship the demons who, people say, still lurk in the ruins. They even say the place is cursed because it’s where the Antichrist will be born.’
I give up trying to explain when Retro asks, in all seriousness, if there’s an Uncle Christ to keep this Aunty Christ company. Instead, I just nod in agreement when Hoodface says, ‘Guess that beast Lux brought back from Chorazin must be one bad mother.’
And that’s it. I wouldn’t have given Chorazin or Lux and his beast another thought had I not been in the club on a particularly slow Thursday night three weeks later. You could tell how slow it was as even Retro had tired of his latest plaything - an Albanian student on a cultural exchange visit to the UK. At least that’s his story. Hoodface and I both think she’s a bit old to be a student and, from the flushed look on Retro’s face, whatever they’
ve been exchanging, it certainly isn’t culture.
Anyway, this evening Retro is bored and as we debate whether I should order more Cristal, he suddenly pipes up, ‘Hey, why don’t we go and visit Lux?’
‘Why not?’ says Hoodface and I agree to go along for the ride.
Five minutes later we are heading out of the city in Retro’s new midnight-blue Porsche Cayenne. The sound system and a few drinks (there’s a bottle of Courvoisier in the car’s cooler) make the journey fly by, and before midnight we are rolling down the isolated Eastern counties’ country lane that leads to Lux’s place.
At the end of the lane is a cluster of blacked-out buildings in a compound surrounded by a high, razor-wire topped fence and sealed off from the outside world by a big steel sliding gate. ‘Shit,’ says Retro, ‘don’t say nobody’s home?’
As we roll to a halt, the whole place is suddenly illuminated by floodlights and we hear a voice coming out of some fancy security entry-phone system asking us to identify ourselves. We get out of the car and stroll over to a terminal at the side of the gate. There’s a video link and, as we peer into the camera, a small monitor flickers into life.
‘Hey, get that Goth babe,’ says Hoodface. Instead of one of the ex-KGB goons Lux normally employs as security, the face looking at us is female.
I take a peek. Yep, definitely a Goth. And a babe. Heavy eye make-up, big hair, black lips, plenty of tattoos, plus the inevitable studs and piercings in all the wrong places. Good looking, but not the sort of woman you usually find around Lux.
‘We’ve come to see Lux. Who are you?’ Retro shouts into the entry-phone.
‘I’m the Gatekeeper,’ says the girl, ‘and Mister Deluxe is not here tonight.’
Retro, who has always fancied himself as a ladies’ man, then starts feeding her some corny chat-up line. While he’s doing this, Hoodface and I take a look at the security arrangements. I say nothing, but I know what’s going through his mind. He’s wondering if he can get into the place and maybe lay his hands on an unattended crate or two of Lux’s Russian imports.
‘What the fuck is that?’ Hoodface suddenly yelps.
I look to where he’s pointing. You know those cutesy signs people put up on their gates to deter burglars like a picture of an Alsatian or a Doberman along with the words Watch out I live here? Well, there’s one on this gate, only it isn’t a breed of dog I’ve ever seen before.
‘Is that a fucking crocodile?’ says Hoodface.
‘Crocodiles don’t have wings like a bat,’ I reply. ‘Lux must be having a laugh. He’s stuck up a picture of a dragon. What’s he think this place is? Harry Potter’s fucking Hogwarts?’
Hoodface laughs. I’m surprised he’s even heard of Harry Potter.
At that moment the floodlights go out and the big steel gate slides open.
‘I see Little Miss Goth fell for your smooth talk?’ I call out to Retro.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ he admits. ‘I was getting nowhere.’
This is when I begin to get a real bad feeling in my guts. If someone wants to let us into the compound, why turn off the lights? ‘Hey guys,’ I say, ‘I don’t think we should go in there.’
Hoodface gives me a shitty look. ‘Fuck you, this looks like an excellent opportunity for us mice to play while the Lux cat is away.’ And with that he stalks off into the inky blackness of the compound.
We kick our heels for perhaps a minute or so, but then Retro and I follow Hoodface into the compound. There’s a clattering sound and we both turn around to see the gate slide shut behind us. We’re trapped.
I pull the gun out of the pocket of my reefer jacket and the feel in my hand of the Ruger’s CrimsonTrace lasergrip offers me some comfort as we head in the direction we last saw Hoodface take.
‘Why the hell you still toting that cannon?’ says Retro.
I smile. I know Retro’s proud of the Glock 29 he packs and thinks I’m some kind of retard to still be using a revolver, even if it is a .44 Magnum. I don’t care. With so many Eastern European goons built like brick shithouses now muscling their way into our rackets, I want a gun that is big and reliable. One that guarantees the person on the receiving won’t be getting up again when they’re hit and this Ruger Super Redhawk Alasakan in my hand will blow off a grisly bear’s head at 25 feet.
A couple of minutes later we stumble across Hoodface’s body, or what’s left of it. In life, Hoodface was a smooth-skinned, almost plump dude, well-dressed and always wearing his trademark shades. In death he looks like a shrivelled yet still-raw mummy. As if all his skin has been sucked off him. Let me correct that: all his skin has been sucked off him, leaving behind just slime-covered flesh, sinews and bone. The creepy thing is, the Dolce & Gabbana shades are still on his head.
‘Do you think Lux’s beast did that?’ asks a white-faced Retro.
I nod and slip off the safety catch on the Ruger. ‘You go back to the Porsche, I’m going to check out a building I clocked as we came in. I think that’s where our little gatekeeper is hanging out,’ I say, and we go our separate ways. I don’t know it yet, but this will be the last time I see Retro alive.
I soon find the building. There’s a car parked to the side of it, and as this is the only sign of occupation I’ve seen in the compound, I guess this is the control centre for the gate. The front door was locked, but that doesn’t stop me. Two shots from the Ruger are as good as any key.
Inside I find myself in a small dimly-lit hall. The place looks more like a military bunker than an office, but this is typical of Lux. In front of me, down a short flight of steps, is a doorway. I can see it’s protected by the kind of thick steel door you normally find at the entrance to a strong room or bank vault, but my luck’s in, the door is still partially ajar. I pull it open and it slowly swings back to reveal the control room.
As I’d guessed, the Goth chick is there, sitting in front of a bank of CCTV monitors. She makes a lunge towards a desk drawer, but before she can reach it, I flick on the laser sights and a beam of red light hits her smack in the centre of her forehead. There’s a pistol, a little Beretta .25 semi-automatic, tucked in the drawer, which I pick up and put in my jacket pocket.
Still blinking from the laser light, the girl finds herself staring down the barrel of my gun. ‘In your own time, sister,’ I say. ‘Where’s Lux and who are you?’
‘If I tell you, he’ll kill me,’ she replies.
‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you,’ I answer, ‘and I’m the one pointing a gun at your head.’ Close up and in the flesh, apart from the flashes of neon blue in her backcombed raven-black hair, she looks more like a librarian with an attitude.
‘Let me guess,’ I continue. ‘You’re really a nice girl but you had a boring job, which is why you came to work for Lux? So what’s the catch? What’s Lux have over you that he can trust you alone out here with all his stuff?’
The girl smirks. ‘If you get to know me, you’ll find I’m not such a nice girl after all,’ she says.
Maybe she needs prompting. I fire off a shot just over the top of her head. Let’s just say that if she’d been two inches taller, she’d have had a new parting. ‘If you live to know me,’ I add, ‘you’ll find I’m not very nice either.’
The bullet has the desired affect of concentrating her attention. ‘My name’s Azraella,’ she says, ‘but you can call me Ella.’
Yeah, right, I think. As if Momma and Poppa Goth would have named their little girl after the Angel of Death. I’m about to ask her another question when a movement on one of the CCTV monitors catches my attention. ‘Oh, shit!’ Whatever killed Hoodface is now killing Retro.
I stare at the monitor in disbelief. The warning sign on the front gate had been drawn from life. A beast is hunched over Retro’s flayed carcass, its folded wings pulsating rhythmically as it sucks away his face. I don’t know what it is but it’s sure no Doberman.
I turn back to Ella. ‘I need answers and I need them now. I know about Chorazin. I know about Th
e Black Pilgrimage. And I know Lux brought back Fido or whatever you call that grotesque out there. What I don’t know is how you fit into the picture and what there is to stop the creature from also ripping you and Lux apart.’
‘It must be the tattoo,’ says Ella. ‘Lux insisted I be inked with a special tattoo before I could come here. It’s all across my back, a lot of words in a foreign language.’
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘I know the employment market is bad these days, but you let him tattoo you so you could get a job working out here at this dump?’
‘I didn’t have a choice. My father owed Lux big time over a deal that went bad. Lux said the options were working here on his terms or spend the next 10 years servicing the needs of his Eastern European customers in a brothel in downtown Bucharest.’
I grab her by the shoulders, pull her out of the chair, spin her around, push her face down across the desk and rip open the seam of her dress, baring her back from her shoulders to her hips. She starts to struggle, so I press the barrel of the Ruger into the base of her spine. ‘Relax, lady,’ I say. ‘The view from up here may be enticing, but with the beast of the apocalypse on the rampage out there, I’ve more important things on my mind at the moment than getting friendly with you. Lie still while I try to read the tattoo.’
The text is in Latin (my curious education sometimes comes in handy) and all too familiar. It’s the Gospel of Saint Matthew, chapter 11, verse 21 again. Its the passage in which Jesus curses the city of Chorazin. It is starting to make sense. Ella is the gatekeeper but she is also the gate.
I let her get up from the table and, while she shrugs her dress back on as best she can, I put her in the picture. ‘Lux keeps the monster under control by using the Chorazin curse. Correctly applied it will literally save Lux’s skin and send the creature straight back to hell.
‘That’s where you come in. You know how that thing eats - it sucks away the skin. So if either Fido gets unmanageable or you get uppity, Lux feeds you to the beast. It strips off your skin, ingests the curse and bingo, bongo. Two problems solved for the price of one.’
The Hot Chick & Other Weird Tales Page 7