Serial Killers Incorporated

by Andy Remic

  Jimmy and Callaghan hurried on.

  ‘That’s big,’ said Cal, staring up at the huge stone tower before him. Erect, solid and imposing, with twin buttressed tiers and a smaller, crenellated top–tower; high up, a Union Jack could just be seen whipping and snapping in the breeze. Arched windows sat like dull grey eyes. To the right, the main body of the cathedral veered away, with a steep slate roof puckered with snow.

  ‘Looks more like a castle,’ observed Jimmy.

  ‘Yeah. A place where battles are fought.’

  Jimmy grimaced.

  The whole building was grand in size, scale, beauty – sheer magnificence. The front of the cathedral housed a carved stone entrance defended by twin iron gates. Cal felt neck muscles straining as they approached, and paused for a moment, peering through the snow at their muffled surroundings, then stepping through the portal onto a patchwork of red and black floor tiles lining the hall. Passing through heavy, iron–bound oak doors into the cathedral’s main chamber, peace descended as Callaghan’s eyes widened, staring ahead at the massive array of stone archways which spanned ahead to far distant stained-glass windows.

  Cal breathed deep. Here, in the House of God, nothing could hurt him.

  Here, finally, strangely, ultimately, he felt safe.

  They walked over inlaid stone worn smooth by the passing of centuries and halted, boots echoing in the vastness of the cathedral’s interior. They gazed at the opulence of stone carvings, and above at detailed paintings on the high arched ceiling depicting Biblical scenes. Passing the donations box where two small children were dropping pennies into the clear plastic slot, giggling, pushing and shoving, the two men moved on down the central walkway past row after row of standing chairs.

  Callaghan blinked, admiring his surroundings. All around him the stonework was rugged, worn, and wearing its age with pride. It took a lot to impress Cal, but here, he was impressed.

  Jimmy pulled out his packet of Marlboros.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Having a smoke.’ Jimmy frowned. ‘What, you mean you can’t smoke in here?’

  ‘No!’

  Jimmy winced. ‘OK. OK. Come on, let’s check out this Lady Chapel place.’

  They moved carefully, respectfully, through the interior, nodding and smiling to a couple examining a black cast iron GURNEY’S heater which pumped out a terrific amount of heat. It would need to. The interior space was huge.

  Thankfully, the cathedral was quiet – almost deserted of people. Somewhere, the wind howled through the eaves.

  ‘This place gives me the creeps.’ Jimmy was scowling.

  ‘It’s a House of God, Jim.’

  ‘Still gives me the willies. How old is it? A thousand years, something like that? Think of all that history. Think, how many people have died here? How many people are buried in tombs and vaults beneath our feet?’ He glanced down, face screwed into a ball.

  ‘Come on. This way.’

  They cut left, through a trellis of incredibly ornate hardwood, down a corridor with an uneven and awesomely old paved floor; then left again through a conjoining annexe to the Lady Chapel itself. All the time they were glancing around, keeping a nervous sentry for the hulking figure of Volos.

  They were alone.

  The Lady Chapel was empty, and the first thing which struck the two men was its age. Cal blinked, eyes sweeping from the dominating sculpture of the Virgin Mary, past an array of crumbled stone fascia which had seen better centuries, to the high arched windows at the back of the chapel reaching up to nearly the roof height of the chapel itself. The interior spanned perhaps fifty feet in length. The ceiling above was criss–crossed with an intricate array of stone beams; the whole place emanated age.

  ‘I thought the other bit was old,’ said Jim.

  ‘You are the master of understatement.’

  The two men stood beside the door, assessing their meeting ground. Chairs were set out, and at the head of the chapel stood a long bench covered with ornate blue and white cloth, edged in gold. It bore an archaic wooden cross and two candles atop ancient silver holders. The beauty came from simplicity.

  ‘You go and hang–out over there,’ said Jimmy, nodding, his voice booming out and ringing off the walls. He clamped his hand over his mouth in horror. ‘Shite,’ he muttered, and that word reverberated around the rich interior.

  Cal put his mouth to Jimmy’s ear. ‘The acoustics are good for the choir, yeah? We’ll have to whisper.’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘You stand near the front of the chapel – as decoy. You’ll draw him away from the door. I’ll stand back here,’ he turned, eyeing a row of narrow recesses in the stone, low ledges bearing velvet cushions. ‘I’ll put my gun in his back when he enters. I’ll know Volos when I see him, right? After all, I don’t want to be upsetting any old grannies.’

  ‘You’ll know him. Don’t worry about that.’

  They waited. Despite under–floor heating beneath the Purbeck marble, Callaghan still felt cold seeping into his flesh; into his bones. Jimmy stood, occasionally rubbing hands together and blowing warm air into their cupped embrace. Callaghan walked up and down before the altar, eyes taking in the intricately carved walls with their smashed, headless statues. Soon, even this activity grew tiresome – filled with high–octane tension – and the wait stretched away teasing him with anxiety, crucifying him with unburned adrenaline.

  Volos.

  You bastard. Why couldn't you leave me alone? Leave me alone to a simple life of women and drugs? You had to come along with your needle fucking teeth and take a big bite from the shit pie, didn't you? Well, I'm going to put a stop to your little game. I'm going to sort you out good, my friend.

  As the hour approached, so Jimmy stopped his fidgeting, placed his canvas bag on the floor and eased open the zip. His hand curled around the haft of the sledgehammer, then let it relax again. Jimmy’s face was set in a hard stare. His eyes gleamed. He pulled free and checked his pistol. His Walther PPK.

  It looked out of place in the Chapel. Both Jimmy and Callaghan exchanged glances. They could feel it; this meeting place, this whole thing. It just felt wrong.

  Why here? thought Callaghan idly. Why pick this place?

  Jimmy slid the gun into his pocket. Cal was glad to see the weapon disappear.

  Jimmy checked his watch again, and Cal moved up onto the raised stone dais and dropped himself, sitting on the step beside the altar. His eyes swept the Lady Chapel, glancing to the doorway and –

  His heart caught in his throat.

  Volos was there, shadowed by the archway, huge and stocky and real, leather coat damp from the snow, eyes fixed like a targeting system on the single figure of

  Callaghan.

  Volos stepped forward... and so did Jimmy.

  ‘This is a 9mm pistol in your spine, so don’t get any fucking idea I’m pleased to see you. OK?’

  ‘Jimmy. So endearing of you to join us. It is a holy gift when friends care for one another.’

  ‘Yeah, sure shit–head. Just do exactly what I say, and I won’t drill you. Go on, move over towards Callaghan.’

  Volos did as he was bid, arms by his sides, moving easily, fluid for such a big man – with Jimmy close behind. The 9mm pressed hard in Volos’s back. Jimmy looked down, but his hands weren’t shaking. Not yet. He was pumped with adrenaline. The shakes, he knew, would come later...

  Volos approached, eyes fixed on Callaghan.

  It was with a start Cal realised the large man – the serial killer – had strange skin, odd skin, on his face... mottled, almost like... scales. Or maybe scar tissue? An age-old burn? Callaghan shivered. One thing was for sure. Volos was one ugly son–of–a–bitch.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Callaghan.

  Volos seated himself on the front row of chairs, glancing towards Callaghan with those eerie gloss eyes. He seemed unperturbed that Jimmy covered him with a 9mm Walther; and it unnerved Callaghan to see Volos so unruffled.

&n
bsp; Jimmy stood to one side, arm outstretched, gun aimed at Volos’s heart. Volos smiled, then. It was a disarming smile. Jimmy scowled, temper flaring.

  ‘Something amusing you?’

  ‘Wave your little maggot somewhere else, Jimmy–boy.’

  Jimmy laughed, the sound echoing around the chapel. ‘Yeah? Or what you going to do?’

  Volos shrugged, and returned his gaze to Callaghan. ‘I really scared you last night, didn’t I Callaghan?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I am no threat to you, boy.’

  ‘Really? You could have fooled me. Especially when you start dragging Mia into this. Now, you listen to me: we were playing by your rules last night. But, unfortunately for you, the tables have turned. This is my game now. This is my time. You’re going to stay away from me, fucker; you’re going to keep away from Jimmy, and Mia. And you’re going to do what you're damn well told, my friend.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Volos raised his eyebrows. He smiled. Needle teeth glinted in the ambient light of this subdued Holy Place; outside, voices crackled then faded, passing beyond the Lady Chapel’s entrance.

  Jimmy turned a fraction; distracted.

  When Volos moved, he moved so fast Jimmy didn’t see what hit him. Two blows, the first a back–hand smash sending the Walther 9mm clattering across the Purbeck marble to thud against a crumbling, carved wall; the second, delivering a savage upper–cut under Jimmy’s chin and lifting him a couple of feet from the ground, hammering him back, where he toppled over a chair and folded to the marble in a tangled heap.

  Callaghan leapt up...

  And the gleam of the cut–throat razor touched his chin.

  There came a tiny movement; a flick.

  A single drop of blood rolled free to fall, glistening, towards the inlaid floor.

  Volos stepped back and seated himself, skinning razor steady in long pale fingers. ‘You were saying, Callaghan? About me doing what I’m told, knowing my place, obeying your rules? Pray, please do continue.’

  Callaghan reached up, touched his chin, stared at his finger; at the violation of his flesh. His eyes narrowed, and he turned towards Jimmy who lay bent and broken. The Glaswegian was out cold; down and smashed and out of the game.

  ‘I just want you to leave me alone,’ Cal said, body deflating as he returned Volos’s gaze. He felt suddenly dead and empty inside. Carved out. Machined. Hollow.

  ‘That’s not an option.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Callaghan, it’s going to get tiresome if I have to explain myself every time we meet. I need you as writer, photographer, recorder. But I see you are still unconvinced.’

  He stood, long coat fanning behind him as he moved, as he turned. ‘An incredible place this, isn’t it Mr Callaghan? Magnificent. Reverent. Awe–inspiring!’

  ‘It's a House of God. And you abuse it.’

  ‘Do I? Does God condemn the souls of those who are evil? Does God cast judgement on those unworthy of His high Heaven?’ Volos laughed long and low. ‘Your religions and your values are worthless, Callaghan. Simple outdated concepts. Your Holy Book should be dead, buried and forgotten. You people, you do not even begin to understand the true roots of your religion; its true source, its basis of evolution. You worship blind, simple pagans before a stone altar stained with goat’s blood and rotten offerings of cheese and milk.’

  Volos lowered his head then.

  His eyes closed. He seemed to be... praying?

  Callaghan glanced at Jimmy. His eyes skipped further, to the enticing gleam of the 9mm pistol. Pick me up, it seemed to say. Kill him. End his days. Silence him. Only then will you know peace.

  Volos glanced up. ‘Tomorrow night, you will come with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We will visit one of The Killers. We will find one of the darkest of the Deviants; drain his blood, carve his bones, condemn and dispatch his blackened soul to the Second Level.’

  ‘Who are you to Judge?’

  ‘Who am I? I am Volos. The Destroyer.’

  ‘You can kiss my arse.’

  Volos smiled, strode quickly to Jimmy and hauled the unconscious man to his feet. Jimmy hung limp in Volos’s powerful grip, a broken rag–doll. Blood poured from his twisted nose to stain lips and chin with a red gloss beard. His head rolled uselessly, slack and dumb.

  Volos lifted the cut–throat razor. His skinning razor. His Weapon of Return. ‘I think,’ he said, voice low, eyes narrowing a little, ‘you need a lesson in obedience, Mr Callaghan.’

  The razor touched lightly against Jimmy’s throat.

  Callaghan saw Volos’s knuckles tighten around the black metal, ready for the strike...

  ‘No!’ he screamed, and the word was picked up by the Lady Chapel’s acoustics and hurled around, deafening, crashing, smashing, a deliverance bounced from wall to wall to wall as the world and sanity seemed to crumble inwards and the chapel’s lights glittered from the honed steel of the

  killing blade.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  11MM

  ‘MMMNN. MNN!’

  Darkness. Vibrations. A muffled, claustrophobic enclosure. The darkness was deeper than anything she had experienced; and infinitely more frightening. Acid. She could taste and smell acid, like inhaled metal, cloying and medicinal and downright evil. She could feel abrasive cloth covering her mouth and nose, tied tight behind her head in a small knot. Her eyes were sticky, filled with gunk, her mind light and usurped by spinning. She felt violently sick, a wave of nausea washing over her and flowing down inside her, a fist forced into her oesophagus and threatening to rip out her guts. It was more terrible than any drunken episode.

  What happened? Just what the hell happened?

  ‘Mmnn!’

  She tried to speak, to force out words and breathe precious air; but the cloth was too tight, acid taste biting her and making her eyes prick with fumes. She pushed her tongue between her lips, trying vainly to force the gag apart. She moved her lips, trying to work the cloth up or down. Then she tried to nip it between her teeth; again, to no avail. It was too tight. Fear clamped her heart in an iron fist. A single concept raped her mind.

  Suffocation...

  For a moment blind panic swamped her and she thrashed, squirming, trying to scream and dragging at her bonds until muscles cramped and tore and sweat stained her face, drenched the cloying cloth covering mouth and nose. She could taste salt sweat, mingled with her own stench and... another taste. Vomit? Was it her own bloody vomit? She cried then, lying in the darkness. Cried for a long time until the vibrations stopped and everything was quiet and still.

  After a while her sobbing ceased and she realised crying would do her no good. It could not remove the gag. It could not untie her bindings. It could not save her from this situation – whatever this situation happened to be. Only she could get herself out of this mess...

  Say your name, she thought. Say your name!

  ‘Mnnna. Mnnna! Mnneea!’

  You bastard, she thought, face grimacing. You bastard, kidnapping, piece of scumbag shit. What have you done to me? Where have you taken me? What the hell happened back there?

  She remembered the man clearly. Vladimir. His cigarettes, his dark, handsome eyes, his questions about Cal. As he spoke, so her lust died like a star, and she clammed up, intuitively feeling a sense of incredible danger emanating from the large... yeah, say the word... the large gangster. He stood up. The smile fell from his face, expression turning dangerous... just as Paulo knocked and came bustling in with a tray of coffee and biscuits, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a beaming smile.

  Then what? What happened next?

  Think! Through the blur! Through the haze of quicksand memory!

  What fucking happened?

  Mia explored her surroundings. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she lay cramped and foetal in the tightly restricted space. She could sense the confinement. The dark, stinking metal womb.

  She tried to move her legs and realise
d in horror that her feet were not only tied together, but her legs forcibly bent and secured to her hands behind her back. Her spine formed a painful arch. She struggled again, violently, until tearing muscles screamed at her to halt. Then she lay, panting and wheezing behind the stinking cloth.

  Her nostrils twitched. Her eyes narrowed. Through her sweat, and the acid, the vomit... she could smell – something else.

  Petrol. She could smell petrol.

  And oil. Old oil. Like you sometimes smelt in a mechanic’s workshop. Was that where she was? A workshop? If so, where? And why? Who had brought her here?

  Mind swimming, she struggled again, but weakly this time. Half–heartedly. Cramp seized her thighs, but unable to straighten her legs the pain rioted through limbs and she cried out, a muffled moan, and more tears streamed down her face and she knew they were useless, but she simply couldn’t help herself. She despised herself for weakness. She cursed herself for despair.

  There came a click.

  White light, incredibly bright, blinded her as a rectangle materialised above. Light glowed, the blossom of a new sun. She squinted through tears but could distinguish nothing more than the blocky shape of a solitary figure.

  A man? Woman? Who?

  ‘Mmmnn!’ she mumbled.

  There came a cold brittle laugh, and the square of darkness shut and she was left stunned, swallowed in ink. Now she knew where she was – in the short term, at least. The boot of a car.

  Not good, she thought. Not good at all.

  Focus. Calm your mind!

  Think, Mia! You’ve got to think!

  She lay perfectly still for a while, listening, but could hear nothing. Nothing at all. With her bound hands, limited though they were, she started to explore the space around her. Her movements were restricted; but questing fingers discovered an object. Long and smooth. It felt polished, like the handle of a broom. Only... no, this was thicker, much more sturdy. Her bound hands travelled up the shaft as far as her bonds would allow; but the object was long, too long for her to reach the end in her confinement. Her hands travelled the other way, moving down as she wriggled and struggled, pushing and pulling and tugging her body, until two things happened at once – she bumped her head on the boot’s interior, and her hands touched damp metal.