by Conrad Jones
“You’re the policeman, you tell me.” I finished my beer and walked into the kitchen. “Do you want another one?”
“One more. I’m driving, remember.”
I nodded and drank my new beer as I walked back to the table. “Can I talk this through with you, because I want to know that you fully understand what they’re all about. I know it’s difficult; sometimes I can’t get it straight in my own mind,” I said.
“I’m listening.” He frowned and looked offended. I wasn’t insulting his intelligence, I was questioning his ability to be open-minded.
“Jennifer was talking about human sacrifice as if it happens every week. She said she had seen dozens of people sacrificed.” I drank again and the beer hardly touched the sides. Evie Jones bounded down the stairs and skidded through the door, running right past me on the way to the dog flap in the kitchen.
Peter laughed and looked confused. “Where’s she off to?”
“She’s sensed someone walking their dog past the house. She’ll bounce off the fence and frighten the life out of them until she’s sure they’re gone.”
“She’s a good guard dog, I bet.”
“She is indeed.” We laughed, not realizing how good she would prove to be. “Look, when Jennifer said that the Niners regularly murdered people I was sceptical, but everything she said was plausible, even if it was shocking.” Peter nodded silently in agreement. “Who wouldn’t be sceptical until you really see the proof? Would you believe millions of people were exterminated in the Nazi death camps unless you had seen the bodies on television? I doubt if I would. I would think that the numbers had been exaggerated.”
“I see your point. I remember hearing something on the news about a lake in Africa somewhere that was so full of human bodies that the water had been poisoned and all the fish had died.” He was recalling the story of the Tutsi massacres. “I didn’t believe that until I saw a film crew reporting with actual footage of the bodies in the lake. Like you just said, I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen that documentary.”
“There you go,” I raised my bottle and we clinked them. “It’s the stuff of nightmares and horror books until you see it with your own eyes, and then it becomes real.”
“Do you believe her?” Peter looked tired. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes. He drained his beer and went to the fridge for another one for me. I’d finished it without stopping for breath.
“Yes, I do.” I took the full bottle from him and drank greedily. My throat was still sore from that morning’s meeting with pepper spray. “I don’t know why, but I think she’s telling the truth.”
“I think that she believes what she’s telling us is true, and there’s a big difference,” Peter said. “But I also believe that she’s deranged and delusional. This satanic order stuff is nonsense. I’m sorry but I just can’t accept it. They may well exist, and I believe what you have told me from your research, but I still believe that she killed that woman in the park and I think she’s manufacturing the whole thing to avoid prison.”
I felt totally deflated. I thought he was on the same wavelength as me, but I had read it all wrong. “You told me I could never be a police officer because I’m too soft, right?” Disappointedly, I emptied my beer in two slugs.
“Right.” Peter guzzled his and went back to the fridge. “I think I’ll risk another.”
“Well, you could never be a writer because your imagination doesn’t stretch far enough. Where do you think all this stuff has come from?” I pointed to the screen. “Look at all these websites. They’re not all created by one little computer troll off his head on acid.”
“Okay, let’s say I’m keeping my mind open for a moment.” He twisted the top from his bottle with strong, gnarled hands. “But my opinion hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Well, imagine she is telling the truth. Imagine they do scour care homes for vulnerable children. Imagine they do worship the dark arts and they do sacrifice humans. You have two dead bodies in the morgue that back up her story. Look at the pictures of their injuries. They were slashed and torn apart, no knife made those neck wounds on its own. They were carved with demonic signatures.”
“Maybe, but until we can prove that Pauline Holmes is her sister, the story is a nonstarter for me.”
“Look at her eyes. We both said they had the same eyes before we knew any of this, right?” I insisted. He didn’t want to believe it because it was too scary. “They even look alike physically.”
“They do look like sisters, I’ll give you that. I am being sceptical, Conrad, because in my experience of interviewing murderers, they tend to tell lies and make up stories.” He shrugged. Evie Jones rattled through the flap and made a beeline for me. She jumped up at me and bit my hand gently, mouthing the skin. It was obvious that the danger from the passing dog-walker had subsided and she was letting me know that we were now safe.
“What if it’s all true?” I sighed and swigged my beer. “She said that the temple leaders gain strength from human sacrifice and that they aim to become ‘Immortals’, the highest degree that they can reach.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Read this bit here. It’s a set of instructions on how to carry out a ritual sacrifice. People are being slaughtered by these lunatics.” He couldn’t believe what he was reading, but it was there in front of him. “Read it carefully because it’s there. You can’t ignore this.”
“Do you really believe in Satan?” Peter hiccupped and shook his head. The beer was beginning to get to him.
“I believe in evil. Just watch the news and you see it every day.” I flicked down the page and saw a link relevant to my point. “Listen to this.” I clicked on the link and began to read the information. “In ceremonial rituals involving sacrifice, the Mistress of Earth usually takes on the role of the violent goddess, Baphomet.” I looked at Peter. He was listening intently. “It sounds like they’re publishing a recipe for soup, it’s so blasé.”
“What kind of women get into this shit?” Peter grunted.
“Evil ones or women who are coerced into joining in.” I slurred a little on the word “coerced”. “Listen to this shit: the Master of the Temple takes on the role of either Lucifer or Satan. They regard the sacrifice as a gift to the Prince of Darkness. This gift, however, can be offered to the dark goddess, the bride of our Prince,” I continued. “They’re talking about the sacrifice as if it isn’t a person. Human life means nothing to them. Now that makes them dangerous.”
I remember our conversation that night as if it was yesterday, and I can also remember how frustrating it was trying to get Peter onside. I realized that night as we researched the subject that we had stumbled on a minefield. “Listen to me, the order and their followers believe that the act of human sacrifice manufactures powerful magic. The ritual death of an individual does two things: it releases energy and it draws down dark forces or ‘entities’ to them.”
“Now you’re asking me to believe in a load of old bollocks.” Peter scowled and shook his head. “It draws down dark forces?” he scoffed. “Where, from Mars, Jupiter or the planet Zog?”
Evie waddled off because she wasn’t the centre of attention. I heard her sigh as she marched up the stairs to seek it elsewhere. “You’re missing my point completely!” I raised my hands to my head in frustration. “It isn’t that long ago that people believed their Gods lived on Mount Olympus and shaped their fate by playing chess. The Egyptians buried slaves alive to look after their dead masters on the other side. The Norsemen thought thunder was made by Thor smashing his hammer against the clouds! The fact is that they believed what they were told to believe!”
“No, I’m not missing the point.” Peter was sticking to his guns stubbornly. He pointed to the laptop. “Some of it I can just about swallow, but that stuff about dark entities is a load of old bollocks!”
“You’re right, Peter,” I nodded and stared into his eyes. “You’re right, it is a load of old bollocks and we both know that but
– and here is the point, listen carefully!”
“I’m listening.”
“We know that killing people to release dark magic is bollocks, but these sad, silly, demented fuckers believe that it does!” I banged the table. “Do you get it?” Peter looked at me blankly. “They believe that killing people makes them powerful and magical because their teachings here on the laptop right in front of us – their Bible, their Koran, their encyclopedia of evil knowledge – tells them that it does, get it?”
Peter coughed and cleared his throat. “Of course I get that bit, but that’s why I think Booth is delusional.” Although he pretended that he understood my point all along, his facial expression told me different. It was as if a light had come on inside his brain. “It’s just hard to accept that thousands of people actually follow this shit.”
“Why, when millions of people like me and you go to church every Sunday believing that it will give them eternal life?” I stood up and walked to the window. “Do you think your local vicar will live forever?”
“Of course not,” Peter looked away sulkily.
“Do you believe that devout Muslims go to a place where they are surrounded by virgins.” I turned and stared at him.
“No, of course I don’t.”
“Well three quarters of the planet think that they will and they’re prepared to go to war and sacrifice their lives for their beliefs, and a shitload more are christened and live by the Bible because they all believe in some form of religious shit!” I laughed and finished another bottle. “Now you tell me who is talking a load of old bollocks, Peter.” He looked at me blankly. “Go on, you tell me who is telling the truth, then. The Christians, the Muslims, the Jews or the Nine Angels? They can’t all be telling the truth, so who exactly is talking bollocks then?”
“All of them.” Peter finished his beer and laughed. “Okay, so you think that there is something in this then?” He pointed to the Niners’ website again. “Convince me.”
“Are you two arguing?” I was so lost in making my point that I hadn’t heard my partner coming down the stairs. “You haven’t got him onto religion have you?” She rolled her eyes at Peter. She’d showered and changed and she was wearing baby pink house pants and one of my old shirts. Her hair hung loose in all its shining glory and the smell of Armani “She” followed her into the kitchen along with Evie Jones in tow. “Don’t mind me, I’m just getting a coffee and then I’ll be out of your way.”
“I’ll have one too, please,” Peter called. “So will he. He’s getting a bit argumentative after a few beers.”
“I’m not arguing.” I sat down, exhausted from the day. “I’m trying to show you that there are other points of view to consider.”
“There are always other points of view to consider, Peter,” she said sarcastically from the kitchen. I could hear the chink of cups and the kettle boiling. “You have to remember that the most important one is his.”
Peter grimaced again and smiled. “Come on then, tell me what you think.”
“I don’t know what to say apart from keep an open mind,” I began. “I’m not religious but I’ve always wanted to go to Jerusalem. When I got there, I realized what an amazing place it is. Don’t get me wrong, most of it is a shithole, but it has major religious significance to the three mainstream faiths, Christianity, Judaism and Islam.
“What has that got to do with it?” Peter moaned.
“What was it like there, babe?” I shouted to my wife.
“It was amazing, he’s right about that,” she backed me up.
“The history there is almost comical. The Muslims built their mosque, the Dome of the Rock, on top of the Wailing Wall to piss the Jews off, and then they sealed up the Golden Gate and buried their dead in front of it to stop the Messiah entering the city, all because the scriptures said that is where he would arrive. Millions have died there fighting for that city, before the Crusades and since. Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, they must have believed that the son of God could actually return from the dead as the scriptures foretold. They believe, Peter, and that is the point, they truly believe.”
“So why did you go there, then, if you think it’s all bollocks?” My partner plonked two cups of steaming hot coffee onto the table, kissed me on the forehead and disappeared up the stairs again with the Staffie panting after her.
“Curiosity, Peter,” I shrugged. “I’ve always been interested in religious iconology and religious wars. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“No, quite the opposite,” I gave a wry smile. “It’s one of my favourite places ever.”
“You talk in riddles sometimes.”
“I went to the Wailing Wall and touched it. I wrote a wish and rolled up a tiny piece of paper and placed it with the millions of other wishes that are stuffed between the huge building blocks, and then I visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The rock where Jesus was crucified is in there and you can queue up to touch it!”
“Did you?”
“Yes, behind a line of tiny nuns and priests from all over the Christian world. I put my hand into the hole and touched the rock where they crucified the son of God.”
“And what happened?”
“Nothing,” I laughed. “There was no epiphany or lightning bolts, but I’ll tell you something about the city. There is an electric atmosphere there. You can feel it everywhere. I can’t explain it, but there is an energy there which all three faiths will claim belongs to their God. There is something that we can’t explain emanating from every brick and stone.”
“Did you use the ‘force’, Luke?”
“Piss off,” I laughed again. “I don’t do religion, but scientists know that certain things in nature can absorb energy, such as crystals and batteries, right?”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
“Do you remember vinyl records?”
“Just about, although I’m not as old as you!”
“Well I think that certain elements retain echoes of the past within them, just like a vinyl record does, except rather than a stylus needle picking it up, some people’s minds do it. When they see a vision it’s a replay in their mind, and I think that the same thing happens with these forces or energies. They are all around us, but some people feel them and some people don’t.”
“I can accept that as a theory,” Peter smiled and slurped his coffee. “So you think that there is good energy and evil energy?”
“No, I don’t.” I laughed at his confusion. “I believe that there is energy around us and that it is people who are good or evil. They use the energy to suit them. The followers of Satan believe the evil force released in a murder can be absorbed by the killer, like a vinyl record absorbs music.”
“That makes sense to a degree, but I’m not going to get it by the Governor.” Peter paged down on the laptop and clicked on a subsection entitled “enemies”.
“Listen to this. This is really interesting.” He nudged me. The piece related to sacrificing enemies and specifically mentioned journalists and writers. “‘For satanists, not only the manner of living is important, but also the manner of your death. We will not tolerate the writers who interfere with our work. We will eradicate them. We must live well and die at the right time, proud and defiant to the end – not waiting to become sickly and weak. If you find them, kill them. The mundane scum of the earth wail and tremble as they face death: we stand laughing and spit with contempt at those that mock us or seek to expose us. Thus do we learn how to live, and when we find them, they will learn the pain of death.’” He looked at me and grinned. “That’s you fucked, then!”
“It’s no idle threat!”
“They’re crackpots,” Peter gasped.
“Yes, but they’re real,” I insisted as I read on. “Listen to this piece about killing writers and journalists. Jennifer said they hated writers didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did say that.
This is getting weirder,” Peter frowned. “Go on, then. Read it.”
“‘Great care is needed in choosing a sacrifice: if the object being disposed of is a difficult individual or individuals, then they must be disposed of without arousing undue suspicion. A temple or group wishing to conduct such a sacrifice with magical intent must first obtain permission from the Grand Master or Grand Lady Master. If this is given, then detailed preparation must begin.’”
“Do-it-yourself sacrifices?” Peter scoffed.
“It’s a ‘how to’ guide for selecting a victim.”
“They’re fucking nuts!”
“Listen, though.” I held up a finger and read on. “‘First, choose the sacrifice, those whose removal will actively benefit the satanist cause. If candidates are zealous, interfering Nazarenes, for example journalists and writers, attempting to disrupt us in some way, then they must suffer horrific pain. Use sacrifice to protect established satanist groups and orders. Find them and kill them.’” I made the claw hands again, although the chapter disturbed me. I tried to make light of it. “Doesn’t look good for me, then.”
“I can’t believe this is on the Internet.” Peter shook his head in disbelief. “I’m going to look into getting this site blocked. That has to be illegal.”
“I haven’t got a clue about the legalities, but it’s frighteningly close to what she said.” I looked at him for agreement, but he was having none of it.
“She could have read the same shit that you have!”
“Jennifer said they hated writers before we read any of this. This backs up her story, Pete!” I appealed to him to keep an open mind. “Either she has done a lot of research or she was a witness to their meetings.” I was adamant she was a victim, not a murderer. They had abused her from a young age. They were monsters and I was going to help her. At least that’s what I thought then; of course, all I did was make things worse.
Chapter 12
Constable Knowles – 6450
Back then I didn’t know why constable Knowles had targeted me. Since then I’ve had time to look at his police records and to listen to the recordings that he made. I’ll explain them as best as I can because his fate was forged by his own hands, not mine, although I don’t think that a Crown Court judge would see it that way. They will say that I went too far or that I used excessive force. I’ll let you decide.