I curled a finger around the trigger and squeezed off a round.
Blam!
A sound like a thunderclap as the gun recoiled in my hand.
I heard the maggot squeal—a monstrous, alien noise—then watched it let go of the soldier’s leg and retreat back into the ground, disappearing beneath the tarmac and shooting off in the opposite direction.
Nice shootin’, Tex.
The soldier fell to his knees, spent from the struggle, and I hurried over to check that he was okay.
‘Thank you,’ he wheezed.
‘And thank you for your service,’ I replied, working on the hopeful assumption I hadn’t just saved the life of a Nazi sympathiser.
Despite the many decorations pinned to his chest, the soldier was young; twenty-five years old, tops. But then they didn’t call WW2 the children's war for nothing.
I saw the soldier’s eyes stray over my shoulder, and turned to see what he was looking at.
A few hundred yards away, I saw a small group of shadowy figures, hooded and dressed in black, lining the horizon like the horsemen of the Apocalypse (minus their nags).
‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘The Eyes,’ the soldier replied with a gulp. ‘The gunshot must have drawn them to us.’
Whoever they were, I didn’t like the look of them. ‘What do we do?’ I asked.
‘There’s nothing we can do. They’ll hound us to the ends of the earth now.’
‘Sod that,’ I said, ‘on your feet, soldier!’
And with that, we bolted, running as fast as our legs would carry us.
10
An exhausting sprint led us to an abandoned shell of a building, a skeleton, long ago picked clean of its flesh.
‘We can catch a breather here,’ panted the soldier.
Unable to run any further, I nodded in agreement and slid to the ground, nerves like tattered shoelaces. I could feel my heart beating hard again, pounding under my rib cage like a bluebottle against a window pane.
And I had a serious case of swamp crotch.
I stole a glance behind us. It seemed we’d lost our stalkers, for now at least. As I sat there, bone-weary and full of dread, I felt an overwhelming urge to reverse back to the fork in the road where I’d decided that mounting an expedition to Hell was a good idea. Stupid beer. I've heard of alcohol leading people to ruin, but this was something else. Serves me right for acting like my old man, three sheets to the wind and vanishing into the night without a by-your-leave.
‘You saved my life,’ said the soldier, mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
‘You’re welcome,’ I replied, then realised we hadn’t been properly introduced. ‘What’s your name, mate?’
‘They call me Dizzy,’ he said.
‘Jake Fletcher.’
As I shook the soldier’s hand, I took a closer look at him. At his khaki uniform with its brass buttons and winged RAF shoulder insignia.
‘Airborne, huh?’
He nodded. ‘Parachute regiment.’
So, he was a para, was he? Probably picked the name “Dizzy” up in jump school. Maybe he had trouble deploying his chute one time, and found himself stuck in a spin. Bit of deductive reasoning there; the P.I. in me, working overtime. Speaking of which, I also noticed a bare patch among his medals, where one had obviously come loose. Torn off during his struggle with the giant maggot, I deduced. Lemon entry, my dear Watson.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked Dizzy.
‘London,’ he said. ‘Camden Town.’
I told him I hailed from the same area, and he marvelled at the coincidence. I knew better though. See, Hell isn’t one place. There are many layers to it, many facets. Different dimensions, different circles. The Hell we were experiencing was a corrupted version of the world we knew, which is why we were experiencing it together. We were two men from North West London, born of the same place, just at different times.
‘What’s your heading?’ Dizzy asked.
I showed him my compass and pointed to the needle. ‘There.’
The soldier removed his beret and ran a hand through the top of his short back and sides. ‘Only one thing that way,’ he said, a note of consternation in his voice, ‘and that’s the Castle.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s where the souls that end up here go. It’s the landing area for anyone sent to this godforsaken place. A prison for sinners.’
‘Gotcha. So what about you then? How come you’re wandering around out here, free as a bird?’
‘I was a prisoner too until a few years back, when I managed to break out. How about you? You don’t look like you’re from around here... and you can take that as a compliment.’
‘Just a visitor,’ I replied with a chuckle. ‘Booked a two-way trip.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Nope.’ I patted my inside pocket. ‘Got a ticket to ride.’
‘More like a screw loose!’ he bleated. ‘Take my advice and get out of here while the going’s good, feller. I don’t know what brought you here, but nothing’s worth this.’
‘I’m starting to think the same, mate, but I can’t. I’m on the clock, see.’
Dizzy shook his head in commiseration. ‘Then let me help you. You saved my bacon back there. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a goner for sure. I owe you for that.’
‘What are you saying?’
He sighed. ‘I’m saying I’ll show you the way to the Castle.’
It's one thing knowing where the top of the mountain is, but it's another thing getting there.
I’d need more than a fancy compass to get to the Castle, Dizzy explained. It was a long trek to get there, and the route to the Castle was anything but straightforward. There were blockades to contend with, streets clogged by fallen buildings, and absolutely nothing by way of transport
And then there were the natives.
‘Keep your head on a swivel, old boy,’ said Dizzy. ‘We’re not alone out here.’
We’d need to maintain a low profile, my guide explained. He wasn’t the only soul to have escaped the Castle. There were others on the loose too.
‘The South Souls, they call themselves. Lawbreakers who’ve banded together and become roving outlaws, living it up in Hell.’
‘And what about the other ones?’ I asked, recalling the group of hooded figures watching us from the horizon. ‘The Eyes, you called them.’
‘The Devil’s footmen,’ Dizzy explained. ‘They scour the wastes looking for runaways, hunting down anyone who escaped the Castle.’
‘And what do they do when they catch them?’ I asked. ‘I’m gonna take a wild stab in the dark and say it’s nothing good, right?’
‘They destroy them.’
Well, that answered my next question: ‘Is it possible for a person to die in Hell?’
The pair of us carried on through the ash-coloured mosaic of Camden’s sprawling corpse.
‘How did you wind up here then?’ I asked.
Dizzy stopped, as though my question were a roadblock I’d thrown in his path. For a moment, I wondered why he’d reacted so violently, at least until I realised that I’d basically asked a convict, ‘So, what are you in for?’ which is generally understood to be something of a faux pas in the prisoner community.
‘I did some things,’ he said. ‘Things I’m not proud of.’ His eyes settled into a ten-mile stare. ‘Have you seen combat?’
‘Not like that, no,’ I replied.
He nodded slowly. ‘War makes a monster of a man,’ he croaked.
‘It’s okay,’ I assured him. ‘I should mind my own business.’
It’s not like I was in a position to judge. I’ve done things I’m ashamed of. Thousands of them. All those souls I’d annihilated… if I didn’t succeed in cancelling out my misdeeds, this is where I’d be ending up, too.
As we carried on walking, following the compass point still, I stole a glance at my companion. I knew nothing of Dizzy’s sins
, but I could judge him by his actions at least. He could have parted ways with me the moment I rescued him from that giant maggot, but instead he’d volunteered to be my sherpa and guide me to the place that he was most afraid of in this world. That showed integrity, I thought, which is something I have a lot of time for.
I was going to keep an eye on him though. I’d been tricked before. By Sarah. By Father Damon O'Meara. And if my murder taught me anything at all, it’s to know that just because a man dresses like a good guy, doesn't mean he's on the side of the angels.
Hell’s permanent night had turned cold now, cold enough that I could see my breath fogging in front of my face – something I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. I was experiencing other things I’d grown unfamiliar with too: aching bones, sore feet, and a need to sleep that threatened to drop me where I stood.
‘I’ve gotta rest,’ I told Dizzy, and he nodded in a way that told me he felt the same.
We’d come a long way. It was hard to tell exactly where we were, being as most of the landmarks I’d grown up with had been flattened and torched in this dimension, but unless I was mistaken, we were in Knightsbridge. ‘We should find somewhere to get some kip,’ I said.
I scanned our surroundings until my eyes landed on a grand old edifice topped by a half-collapsed dome. The outside of the building was architecturally ornate, and ringed by a series of ragged green awnings decorated with a familiar, faded gold logo.
Harrods, it said.
‘That’ll do nicely,’ I replied.
11
Even here, half-destroyed, and in the nth circle of Hell, the luxury department store was still a thing of grotesque awe. If capitalism were ever to become a religion, Harrods would be its Vatican.
Dizzy and I entered the building’s crumbling facade and made our way inside, marvelling at the decadence of the place. The decor shone dully now, peeking out from beneath years of neglect; a clash of the Egyptian against a spew of Art Nouveau. Everything was made of marble, or gold, or marble, or more gold. This place belonged here. It hadn’t occurred to me back on Earth, but Harrods was like Hell’s idea of Heaven.
We headed cautiously up the steps of a broken down escalator, to be greeted at the top by a giant, stone statue of a sphinx. By which I mean it sat perfectly still and did nothing. It didn’t say “Hello” or anything. That would be mental, wouldn’t it?
Also on the landing was a shrine to Princess Diana and her lover, and as we crossed by the framed photos of the dead pair, I felt Diana's eyes following me. I stopped to check that it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, and was relieved to find that Diana wasn’t hiding behind her picture like a Scooby-Doo villain lurking round the back of an old oil painting.
As I stood there, regarding the picture, I wondered briefly if the ghost of the Queen of Hearts haunted the Earth still, marooned in the land of the living after her fatal limo ride. I made a mental note to look into it when I got home, then realised her phantom would be located in Paris, if anywhere, which was a bit outside of my purview.
We passed beneath the shadow of a busted chandelier and carried on past a row of ruined boutique stores. As we crept by, I caught sight of a place selling luxury whiskey, looted for the most part, no doubt by the prison runaways that Dizzy had mentioned: the South Souls. The store still carried a few overlooked bottles of the good stuff though, perhaps a couple too many for the looters to carry. I poked my head inside the store and considered grabbing a bottle or two, then thought better of it. Tempting as it was to take the edge off with a wee dram, I’d already been taught an important lesson about the dangers of drinking on the job. My being here at all was proof that alcohol was not always the answer.
On the next floor up, we found Toy Kingdom, a rainbow-hued wonderland of candy-coloured window displays, gargantuan Lego models, and stuffed animals standing six-feet tall. Face pressed against the shop window, I felt a sudden surge of juvenile excitement. As a kid, I’d always fantasised about getting locked up in a place like this, trapped overnight and having a full run of the shop until the sun came up.
It was a dream far removed from the reality of my bruised childhood, where joy came in small doses. I recalled my eighth birthday, before Dad had played full-body peekaboo on our family (minus the “I see you” part). Mum had been laid up with the flu that week, and hadn’t been able to get to the shops, leaving Dad to take care of my present. Consequently, I woke up on the morning of my birthday to discover a single gift covered in a sheet of yesterday’s newspaper. When I unwrapped it, I found—instead of the Tonka truck I’d been promised—a dusty extension cable that Dad had fished out of the loft.
There you go, son, have fun with it, he’d told me, reeking to high hell of scotch.
I suppose I should have been thankful that he’d managed to make it up and down the loft ladder without breaking his neck; it can’t have been easy with all that Famous Grouse sloshing about inside of him. 10/10 for effort, Dad. Another top-notch bit of parenting.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Dizzy, sensing my mind had wandered elsewhere.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, casting off the gloom. ‘Let’s keep moving, shall we?’
Opposite Toy Kingdom, and marking the final stop of our journey, was the Harrods interiors department—our shangri la—a half-acre of luxury homeware that stretched as far as the eye could see. Although this vast area of retail space was open to the heavens due to the building’s half-collapsed roof, remarkably, the shop floor remained largely intact. It had also been neglected by looters, who probably had more important things to pilfer than antique walnut nesting tables and hand-woven scatter pillows.
We wound our way through a maze of expensive furnishings until we found what we were looking for: a selection of beds fit for a king, or, more appropriately perhaps, a sheikh. I happened across an elegant, handcrafted kingsize covered in cashmere and silk, and bounced my backside on its mattress. Dizzy found an equally luxurious four poster and did likewise, and we grinned at one another like a couple of kids at a sleepover.
After an arduous journey, we’d finally found some respite. It was dark in that store though; a little too dark for my liking. Just in case any looters decided to make a return visit, I went looking for something to illuminate the place.
I hunted down a fistful of candles and some matches from the kitchen department, and planted them strategically about the store.
‘If any outlaws come this way, I want to see them coming,’ I said.
‘Good thinking,’ replied Dizzy. ‘We’ll need to get some sleep though. I’ll take first watch.’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I replied.
I enlisted Dizzy’s help to locate some thread and a stock of miniature bells, which we liberated from the collars of a pride of stuffed lion cubs found in Toy Kingdom. Having sourced those, we laid a series of tripwires about the surrounding area, wrapping the lines around any vertical structures we could find and threading them with chimes. It wasn’t long before the surrounding area looked like the world’s gayest spider web.
‘Sterling work,’ said Dizzy, doffing his red beret.
‘That’s me done for the night,’ I replied, stifling a yawn. ‘Nighty night.’
Time to grab some well-earned shut-eye. I was looking forward to this. I hadn’t slept since the day I’d died – I’d forgotten what it even felt like to lay my head on a pillow.
I sat down on the mammoth bed, swung my feet up, and made myself comfortable. As I shifted my weight, I felt my pistol dig into my ribs, and stashed it under the pillow for safekeeping. That got me wondering. What exactly were the rules of Hell? I was solid here—a regular person to all intents and purposes—did that mean I could finally shuck my wedding ring?
I tried to slip it off and set it on the bedside table, but, true to form, it stayed glued to my finger.
‘Balls.’
‘What’s that?’ Dizzy asked from his bed.
‘Nothing,’ I said, laying back down. ‘I’ll see you
in the morning, or whatever it is that passes for morning around here.’
I pulled up the covers and I was out like a light after that.
Sleep brought some comfort, at least until it brought nightmares.
In the dream I was a boy again, eight years old, dressed in pyjamas and opening my birthday present. Instead of being wrapped in newspaper though, this gift was handed to me in a smart box, tied up nicely with a big blue ribbon. Dad beamed as he held it out to me, eyes bright and clear, like he'd just returned from a spell on a detox ward. Meanwhile, Mum stood by his side, wearing a smile that I’d only seen in old wedding photos. They were together again. Or maybe they always had been.
‘Go on,’ said Mum, ‘open it up!’
Dad nodded like a Churchill dog. ‘Don’t you want to know what you got, Jake?’
I took the gift, scraped open the ribbon, and lifted the lid—
—only to be confronted with the fanged mouth of a razor-toothed yellow maggot, which burst from inside like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box.
I just about managed to swat the worm aside before it snapped its teeth shut on my face. It landed on the carpet with a squelch and slithered immediately for my bare feet, which I pulled back just in time, narrowly preventing it from making off with my toes.
‘What are you doing?’ screeched my mother, as I danced from foot to foot, crying my eyes out. ‘We paid good money for that!’
Panicking, I stomped on the worm, crushing it underfoot. I felt its body split apart and ooze between my toes.
‘You ungrateful little shit!’ Dad roared.
I looked to my sister, who was there too now, but she just stared back at me, hollow-eyed, like some human shrug of indifference.
‘Come here!’ demanded Mum, pointing to a spot of carpet just in front of her. ‘Right now!’
It was a move straight out of the Fletcher family playbook: force the kid to come to you for his beating, a bonus bit of mental cruelty on top of the physical punishment.
Twice Damned: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Ghosted Book 3) Page 6