The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  The things you think about when you’re on stakeout.

  He watched the warehouse on the hill. What an eyesore! He tried to picture a brand new building in its stead. Neon lights. Huge photographs of women in their underwear.

  In his mind’s eye, all the women looked like Melanie Miller.

  Oh, yeah...

  Woodcock’s imagination was so strong, he almost didn’t notice when the woman herself walked past. Probably because she was wearing more than just her underwear.

  She was in a suit, a jacket and skirt, and was wearing dark tights and high heels. Her hair was in a bun and her earrings were demure. Woodcock sat bolt upright. He’d never seen her like this before. Building society clerk chic. He approved. Made a change from that raincoat she was always wrapped up in. Although he liked the raincoat too. Especially on those occasions when, just for him, she wore nothing underneath it.

  Woodcock forced his mind not to wander as he watched her walk up the hill. She was making a phone call. He thought about sending her a text message to wish her luck and remind her he was just a scream away. Perhaps not the most tactful wording. He decided against it and focussed instead on the vision of her lovely backside, stretching the fabric of the skirt across her buttocks, receding as she got further away.

  Oh, Mel, Woodcock sighed. What would I do without you?

  As if in response, a loud and noxious fart emerged from Stevens’s arse.

  Woodcock choked.

  ***

  D S Melanie Miller was merely using her phone as a prop. She was really having a conversation via wire and earpiece with D I David Brough who had secreted himself somewhere in the vicinity.

  “All right, all right,” she repeated. “I’m putting in a job application not storming an embassy.”

  “Eyes and teeth, Miller,” Brough’s tinny voice hissed in her earpiece. “Shoulders back.”

  “I want an office job not star billing,” she reminded him. “Now shut your face and let me get into role.”

  “Good luck!”

  “Cheers.”

  She put her phone in her handbag. Anyone watching would think - well, there was no one watching, was there? Apart from Brough. And that wanker Stevens -who’d probably be having a kip, if Miller knew anything about him - and of course Gary.

  Ah, Gary.

  When all this was over, Miller was going to take the massive step of introducing Gary to her mother. Trying to introduce him. Mum, here’s my long-awaited boyfriend. Mum would probably think he was the insurance man or something. Mum was hardly aware she was in the Dorothy Beaumont. Mum was hardly aware of anything these days.

  Focus, Mel, she told herself. Job to do.

  She reached the top of the hill. She took in the enormous poster of a female torso. Coming soon, she read. Wanker Stevens would have a field day with that.

  There was a light on in the porta-kabin. Good. Miller didn’t fancy going into the warehouse proper. It didn’t look safe.

  She climbed the three wooden steps and knocked on the door.

  “I’m going in,” she whispered, knowing Brough would pick it up.

  She turned the handle. The door opened outwards and so there was a moment of awkwardness as she dealt with that and her heels on the narrow step. It was not the elegant entrance she’d hoped for.

  “Hello?” she called into the office.

  There was no one there.

  “There’s no one here,” she whispered. “I’m going in. I’m walking towards the desk. I’m standing still.”

  “That’s quite all right, Miller. I don’t need a blow-by-blow.”

  Miller sniggered.

  “Oh, you know what I mean!” Brough snapped. “Concentrate!”

  “I’m going to have a look at the desk,” Miller declared. “There’s papers and shit everywhere. Metaphorical shit, I mean. The papers am real.”

  She heard Brough sigh. Sometimes he was no fun at all.

  “Place is a mess. They could really do with someone to do all the filing. I could be in with a chance. I’ll just tidy these...”

  “Miller! You’re not really going for a job. Try to keep that in mind.”

  “Well, it’s stupid. All this is stupid. Why can’t we just rock up dressed as ourselves and see what’s going on?”

  “Because, Miller,” Brough struggled to remain patient, “if our perp gets a hint that the police are onto him, he might not turn up at all. And don’t say things like ‘rock up’.”

  “Well, you said ‘perp’.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Miller turned. There was a man filling the doorway.

  “Oh hello,” she said. “Hello, man who has just turned up and is standing in the doorway.”

  “What are you doing in here, um, Miss?”

  “He’s asking what I’m doing in here. I’m just, ah, handing in my job application, like.”

  She rummaged in her bag and took out a crumpled sheet of A4. “I’m taking out my application form and putting it on the desk.”

  The man stepped into the cabin. Light from the fluorescent tube in the ceiling fell on his security guard’s uniform.

  “Oh hello,” said Miller, relaxing. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  “Who is it, Miller?” Brough hissed in her ear.

  “Have we met?” said the man in the security guard’s uniform.

  “Miller! Who is it?”

  “Course we have, chick. At the paper. The wossname - the Chronicle!”

  The man looked confused.

  “Miller! Who the FUCK is it?”

  “Earning a few extra pennies, are you, chick? Newspaper not paying enough?”

  “What?”

  “FUCKS SAKE MILLER!”

  “I think you had better come with me,” the man intoned.

  “He wants me to go with him,” said Miller into her lapel.

  “Stay where you are! Miller, stay where you are!”

  “He’s coming towards me. He’s grabbing my arm. Ow! Gerroff!”

  There was suddenly a lot of crackling noise in Brough’s ear.

  And then silence.

  19.

  Stevens and Woodcock were roused from their absent-minded surveillance of the warehouse by D I Brough pounding on the bonnet of Woodcock’s car.

  “Come on, arseholes!” Brough roared. “It’s Miller! She’s in danger!”

  This was enough to galvanise Woodcock, who flung himself from the driver’s seat only to find himself yanked backwards by his seatbelt.

  “Twat,” Stevens laughed, getting out in a rather languorous stretch of his long legs. “Who wears a seatbelt for a stakeout?”

  Woodcock fumbled to release himself.

  “Come on!” Brough urged but Stevens shook his head.

  “Hold up, scruffbag,” he raised his hand. “We cor just burst in with all guns blazing. For one thing we ain’t got no guns; it’s a wossname, isn’t it, figure of speech? Any road, we need to think this through.”

  Woodcock let out an exhalation of frustration.

  “He’s right,” Brough admitted with a sigh. All three of them paused to mark this momentous moment. “We must proceed with caution.”

  “But Mel’s in danger!” Woodcock protested. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m thinking...” said Brough, scratching his beard.

  “What the fuck?” Stevens gasped, looking down the road. The others followed his stare.

  Coming towards them, or rather towards the warehouse on the hill, about two hundred men, all of Asian origin, marching with purpose and grim expressions.

  “What the fuck does this lot want?” Stevens rolled his eyes.

  “Ask them,” Brough suggested. “I’m going on a reccy.�
� With that, he ducked away. The marching men were almost upon Woodcock’s car. Stevens held out his hands, displaying his i.d. only to find himself completely ignored. The men marched past and continued up towards the warehouse.

  “Hoi!” Stevens spun around. “Cheeky bastards.”

  He and Woodcock had to flatten their backs against the car to avoid being caught up in the tide of angry marchers. The detective inspector turned his head to his detective sergeant.

  “What the blue fuckeration is going on, Gary?”

  Woodcock didn’t answer; he was too busy fretting about Miller.

  A cheer went up from the crowd. They parted to admit a liveried van pass through their ranks. Some of them patted its sides, welcoming it to the party.

  “Did you see that, Gary,” Stevens nodded towards the van. “What’s that van doing here? Have they all ordered takeaway or somert?”

  Woodcock strained to see over the heads of the passing marchers to read the legend on the van.

  “Simoom,” he read out loud. “That means hot wind.”

  Stevens nodded, able to sympathise.

  The van parked half on the pavement, half in the road. The back doors opened and more men poured out, wearing the pristine whites of their trade as chefs. They joined the crowd and a general cheer went up.

  “I’m calling this in,” Stevens pulled out his mobile. “We need back-up.”

  “Double back-up,” Woodcock nudged him and pointed back up the road. A crowd of people, men and women, was marching purposefully towards them. At their head was Councillor Dixon’s secretary Grace Hindle. At her side, struggling to maintain the pace, was Linda from the coffee shop.

  “Who’s this bunch of fuckers?” Stevens groaned.

  A banner appeared over their heads and answered his question.

  “Flames of Revival,” he read. “Oh, Christ.”

  ***

  The sound of the approaching crowd did not escape the notice of those tied up inside the warehouse. Gerry Dixon was hopeful; his rescue could not be far away. Charlie Johnson seemed aggravated; he wondered what damage the mob would cause to the site. D S Miller chewed her lower lip. She had a bad feeling about this but knew better than to utter the corny line out loud.

  The man in the security guard’s uniform dashed to the doorway to see what was going on.

  “Let us go, Theo,” Miller appealed to his better nature, his Theo side. She wasn’t exactly sure what was going on in his head but it seemed to her that sometimes he was mild-mannered and halfway-to-cute local reporter Theo Dunn and at other times he seemed to be someone else entirely. She’d almost believed there were two men who you only ever saw one at a time and never together, but now she was convinced Theo was - was what exactly, Doctor Miller? Possessed?

  “I don’t know what your grievance is with these men,” she continued, straining against the plastic washing line that bound her to a pillar. “We can talk it all through. Down at the station, if you like. Or somewhere else, if you prefer.”

  Theo turned to look at her, the pretty detective who had been so charming at the office... He took a step towards her.

  The noise of the crowd was now quite a roar. A chant rose up and gained voices.

  “Johnson out! Johnson out!” the men cried, punching the air with their fists. They were joined by the Flames of Revival mob who took up the cry.

  Charlie Johnson looked pale. A sheen of sweat glimmered on his sickly complexion.

  Theo looked confused.

  “It’s him they want,” Miller jerked her head towards the property developer on the floor. “Let us go and I’ll protect you from the crowd. It’s not you they want, Theo.”

  Theo looked at his feet, shaking his head. Then he lifted his face to look Miller in the eye, except it wasn’t his face. It was the face of the Dedley Devil.

  Miller gasped but found she couldn’t look away from those piercing eyes.

  “Foolhardy female,” Laocoön Smith’s deep voice rumbled from within Theo Dunn’s chest. “That you could protect me! It is risible indeed. The people here have come for a display of my power and my might. Who am I to disappoint them?”

  “No, they haven’t,” Charlie Johnson piped up. “They’ve come to stop me opening up a titty bar.”

  Smith rounded on him. He smacked Charlie Johnson across the cheek with the back of his hand.

  “What know you of my business?” Smith roared. “What know you of the ways of the occult? These feeble mortals may have denied me once before but I have returned. The portal will be opened. The fiend will be unleashed!”

  Gerry Dixon began to mutter an urgent prayer. Smith gave him a swift kick in the ribs and laughed.

  “Have you not seen the signs, Councillor? Around this town, on the rooves of the hostelries and fleshpots? The fiend walks among us and I am here to unleash him in all his glory. It could not be more opportune; the same place, the same blood sacrifice.”

  “You’re mental,” Johnson was aghast. He wriggled against his bonds, jolting Gerry Dixon out of another prayer.

  “Theo!” Miller called out sternly. “Theo, if you’re in there, take control. Untie us. You don’t have to do this, Theo. Don’t let him make you do this.”

  Laocoön Smith spat on the floor. He sneered contemptuously.

  “There is no Theo Dunn,” he said.

  Outside the crowd was louder than ever. Their chant continued. “Johnson out! Johnson out!”

  Laocoön Smith pouted, amused.

  “Time to give the people what they want.”

  He picked up a shard of broken windowpane from the floor and snicked Charlie Johnson free of his ropes. He seized the property developer by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

  “Curtain up, Mister Johnson!” he laughed in Johnson’s ear. He dragged Charlie towards the main entrance. With one hand at Johnson’s throat, he slid the huge door aside. He pulled Johnson out into the sunlight.

  The crowd fell silent at once, glad to give their chanting throats a rest. All eyes were on the intense-looking man in the security guard’s uniform and the sobbing, wretched figure in a dirty business suit held in his clutches.

  “Brothers,” Laocoön Smith addressed the mob, ignoring the women. “Welcome. You are privileged to witness the dawning of a new age. The time of light has failed. The time of darkness will prevail.”

  “Bollocks to that,” said one of the waiters from the Simoom. “Is that Charlie Johnson?”

  Charlie Johnson gave the game away by whimpering. Laocoön Smith pressed on as if nothing had happened.

  “Years ago, my attempts to unleash the fiend were thwarted by the misguided fools of Dedley town. They exploded my altar. They ran me out of the district. But I have returned to make amends for my gross failure. This time I will succeed.”

  The crowd was exchanging puzzled looks. This wasn’t what they’d come to hear. All they’d wanted was for Johnson to call off his plans for a strip club and now they were faced with some lunatic holding the poor bugger hostage with a nasty-looking piece of glass.

  Police sirens cut through the air.

  The crowd began to shift uncomfortably. They didn’t want trouble but neither did they want to miss what might happen.

  The voice of Chief Inspector Karen Wheeler cracked over their heads like thunder. She was standing on the roof of a patrol car, calling up to the mob through a loudhailer.

  “You are in breach of public order. Please disperse at once.” She repeated this mantra a few times until she became aware of a fair-haired man waving for her attention.

  “What the shitting fuck do you want?” she asked him, forgetting to remove the mouthpiece from her lips. The crowd rumbled and resumed their chant of “Johnson out!”

  “Not you!” she roared at them. She switched off the lo
udhailer. “Well?” she asked the man who looked to her like a smiling idiot.

  “My name is Mike,” the smiling idiot smiled idiotically. “I’m the Pastor up at Flames of Revival.” The sun glinted off his crucifix.

  “Oh Christ,” Wheeler groaned.

  “Some of these people are my parishioners,” he gestured towards the mob on the hill. “The others, I’m sure, share our concerns. Allow me to speak to them.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Wheeler shrugged. She offered him her loudhailer but he was gone, weaving his way through the mob and towards the entrance of the warehouse.

  Pastor Mike felt like he was walking on air. This was not how he had envisaged his moment but now that it was here, it felt as wonderful as he had imagined. He recognised people as they moved to let him through. Some were from his flock - there was that fool Linda and her friend from the Council - and others he recognised from around town, from the Simoom, from the market. They too stepped aside to let him through.

  In no time at all, Pastor Mike reached the front. He raised his hands and stepped towards the lunatic in the security guard’s uniform, a beaming, beatific smile illuminating his face.

  “Friend,” he began. “This is not the way we conduct our affairs in Dedley.”

  Laocoön Smith stared at this nincompoop incredulously.

  “Release the wretch,” Pastor Mike kept his voice calm and even. “I believe he has learned his error. He will not open his den of iniquity here.”

  “Too fucking right,” Charlie Johnson blubbered. “Whole town’s full of fuckwits.”

  The crowd didn’t know whether to cheer this remark. They remained silent. There was still the tantalising matter of the shard of glass to deal with.

  “You mistake me,” roared Laocoön Smith. “I care not for your petty squabbles. Have you not seen the signs? The fiend walks among us!”

  Pastor Mike laughed.

  “That is where you are mistaken, friend,” his smile broadened to almost jaw-dislocating proportions. “For it was I who painted those footprints on the public houses.”