by P W Hillard
"Yeah, do you not feel the heat? Oh, right…" said Rajan, realising what he had said.
"Well, I wouldn't say there was a concept of temperature in Hell. I mean it’s more of a transcendental inter-dimensional plane. It's only really hot if you will it to be hot. If you get what I mean?" Lucille said smirking.
"Not really," admitted Rajan. "I'm not entirely sure I want to either."
Lucille took a bite from her chocolate bar. It bent as she bit it, leaving chocolate across her top lip, another victim of the heat. "Maybe I could do that as a twitter hashtag. Hashtag Hellfacts?"
"You aren't allowed a social media profile, conditions of your witness protection remember?"
"Is that right?" said Lucille, lifting her eyebrows nervously. "In which case, don't go searching for Lucille's Bar on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram."
"I sincerely hope you’re joking," said Rajan staring at her. They stood for a moment, saying nothing. "You aren't, are you?" Lucille held up her hands. "Why are you so bad at this witness protection thing?"
"You know, Dale said the same thing to me earlier. Said he thinks it's in my nature to be unsubtle." Lucille tried to take another bite of her chocolate, but it nearly fell out of the wrapper. She grabbed it and popped it into her mouth, covering her fingers with chocolate.
Rajan opened a cupboard and began placing tins from one of the shopping bags into it. "You know, maybe he's right? I've met maybe only one other angel and two other demons in my time, and they were kind of similar. Fake names that are obvious once you know their real name. Stands out once you know what you're looking for. Angel I met wore all white. I think he's on to something here maybe."
"Can we drop it, I'm not sure I like the thought. It's making me consider my existence a little too closely," Lucille said shuddering.
"Fair enough. Where's Dale anyway?" Rajan asked, suddenly aware of his colleague's absence.
"In the garden, cutting the grass I think?"
"Why? It's a safe house, not his real house. Who gives a shit about the lawn." Rajan's shoulders dropped at his sudden realisation. "What did you do?"
"Whoa why do people always think it was me that did something?" protested Lucille.
"Because it nearly always is you. You have form. Famously so. So, what did you do?"
"Might have kissed him…" whispered Lucille, uncharacteristically shyly.
Rajan groaned. "Why?! You know he worries about his job with you. Honestly, everyone already knows, God knows we rib him enough about it at work. You two need to sort it out."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Well, we do know subtlety isn't your strong suit."
"Why do people keep saying that?!" complained Lucille.
Chapter Eighteen
Jess turned the coin over in her hands, the metal glinting even under the dull office lights. The irregular metal disc had been polished heavily, leaving it a bright silver. Some quick research showed it was a replica, the original examples being cast in bronze rather than what seemed to be a zinc-based mixture akin to modern coins. Melting coins was a relatively minor crime compared to what they had seen so far, but it was rare enough that it went into the file. Bizarre and obscure arrests being somewhat of a social currency at the Metropolitan Police's occasional mandated social gatherings. Jess was sat in D.C.I Weston's office, Mark having taken the seat next to her. Their boss sat opposite, reviewing the plan they had submitted, the department mandated health and safety assessment included. That particular form was something of a joke amongst Special Investigations staff. There was no checkbox for "werewolf attack" after all.
"Hmm, yes, ok," muttered Florence, mostly to herself. "So, you think this is solid then?"
"We do," said Jess, placing the coin down on the desk before her. "I'm surprised by how brazen they were in approaching me. They must be desperate for new recruits after the failed bombing."
"Makes you wonder how big of an organisation they are anyway? If they feel the need to replace one member so quickly. Must be only a handful of them," added Mark. He clasped his hands and leant forward in his chair. "Thankfully. I don't like the idea that there's that many more of them. Who knows how many cases we've missed with these guys. I don't like it."
"We work the cases we know about. You can't take the whole world on your shoulders. We know now, that's the important part. We have any more information on this nurse that approached Holden?" Florence placed the paperwork before her back into its manila folder and slid it across the desk.
Mark leant back into the seat. "We have some details, Georgia Shaw, thirty-eight. A London local lives in Brixton. From what we can find she lost her mother at a young age, unexplained heart attack. She was seemingly perfectly healthy and just dropped dead one day in two thousand and three."
"We did some digging and found an old case file from around then about a ba- "started Jess.
"Banshee in the Brixton area. Yes, I remember. It was my case after all," smiled Florence. "Damn thing was causing havoc going around at night crying at windows. You hear that wail and it's a death sentence. We thought it got three people. Seems like there was one we missed." Florence's face dropped, a pit forming in her stomach.
"Hey," said Mark. "Weight of the world remember. Your advice goes both ways."
"Giving advice and taking it are very different things, even when it's your own," Florence said. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and reopened them having regained her composure. "Ok so likely that was Miss Shaw's in with this, Gang? Cult? What are we calling it?"
"We've just settled on cell for now. Considering terrorism charges are at least part of the case. Some of the other detectives were joking about calling them a legion, considering all the Roman paraphernalia," explained Jess, tapping the coin on the desk for effect. "We haven't had any luck digging up anything in the records that could be linked to them. We have to be thankful they didn't expect Lucille, otherwise they might have gone unnoticed for a while longer."
"Maybe we have come across them?" mused Mark. "We've nabbed a few monster hunters over the years. We always assume they work alone, could be that we were wrong? We might have cell members under lock and key and not know it."
Florence tapped her finger on the desk excitedly. "That's a really good point. One we should explore before we send Jess in. Anything we can learn in advance is time well spent. Hell, even if we learn nothing it's worth the punt. I know just the person to talk too as well."
"Ma'am?" said Jess, intrigued at Florence's excitement.
"Twenty years ago, in the summer of ninety-nine, we caught a hunter who had managed to rack up at least five murders that we know of. Each murder was a different kind of super, so each murder was specific to them. Thankfully that meant the papers never picked up on it. The last thing we need is serial killer mania dragging in reporters." Florence shuddered. She had little love for the tabloid's grotesque excitement at serial killer cases. "At the time we thought he was just either incredibly skilled or lucky. It's unusual to have a hunter that doesn't specialise."
Mark nodded. Florence was right, most people who fancied themselves monster hunters tended to focus on a specific type. Normally linked with some past trauma or experience, just like other serial killers, they tended to have a favourite victim. "You think maybe he had help after all?"
"It makes sense, we did look into that line of reasoning back then but didn't find anything. I still think it's worth asking him about it though. Martin Samson, he's in Belmarsh so it wouldn't take long. Go down, see what you can shake loose."
Commodus barged down the street, his frustration striking the pavement with every step. Nothing! Not a single lead! He rubbed the sides of his head and grumbled beneath his breath. His usual methods were failing him, and as much as he hated to admit it maybe Drusilla had been right. Reluctantly he reached his destination and pulled open the door by its handle, the chrome coating old and flaking.
Commodus felt out of place. The outside of the establishment had d
eclared it was an internet café, but the reality inside was more eclectic. Directly to his left was a large ice slush machine, a slow steady churn of blue sloshing around inside it. Ahead of him were rows of computers, great beastly things covered in garish neon lights. LEDs twinkled from anywhere you could conceivably fit them. Several teenage boys were sat at a cluster of them, shouting excitedly into headsets like stock traders.
"Hey, can I help you?" said a voice. To Commodus' right was a small reception desk. The voice had come from a greasy teenage boy, who hadn't looked up from his computer situated behind the desk.
"Uh yeah, I was looking to use a computer. Just need to check some emails," said Commodus, drumming his fingers nervously on the desk.
"Ok," said the boy, still not looking up. "How long do you need it for?"
"Maybe an hour? Probably not even that."
"It's a pound then, but you need to use the internet only computer," said the boy, holding up an open palm. Commodus pulled a pound coin from his pocket and placed it into the boy's open palm. He typed something into the computer, and then pulled a ticket from a small printer. "That's the login, it's only good for an hour, will kick you out automatically after that. Internet computer is to right around the corner."
"Right," replied Commodus. "Thanks."
Commodus frowned, the internet only computer was disappointing. All around him was flashing lights and whirring fans, great obsidian obelisks outputting state of the art graphics. The computer he had been assigned was an ancient thing. It was originally beige but had long since faded into an odd sort of off-yellow colour. The keyboard had seen better days, though several of the letters had faded completely. Instead of the normal mouse, there was a huge unwieldy lump of plastic with a bright red trackball on top. At some point in the computer's history the monitor had been swapped for a more modern flat screen, more modern being relative, the screen being smaller than any Commodus had ever seen with a cheap matte silver finish. He sat down on the black wheeled office chair before it, squeezing himself between the armrests. Leaning forward he moved the trackball and the computer flicked to life. Slowly, one finger at a time, he began to type the code he had been given.
A buzzer sounded, and the guard opened the door, allowing Mark and Jess into the visitor's area. The hall, with its collection of plain white tables, and cheap plastic chairs was empty now, official visiting times long over. Sat in the middle of the room, a single guard next to him, was an older man. His head was bald and badly scarred, as though some terrible claw had raked him across the head. He wore a one-piece jumpsuit, a lurid mix of bright yellow and green, a standard outfit for prisoners determined an escape risk. The guard sat next to him looked visibly nervous.
"Pretty irregular police interviewing in the standard visiting area. Not normally something we would allow. We especially don't like not having him restrained. Martin is a bit of a trouble maker all things told. Keeps starting fights with one of the other prisoners, we have to keep them separate," said the guard escorting the pair.
"We'll be fine," replied Jess.
"I'm sure you will, I saw the governors face when he got the notice you were coming. His face was white as a sheet. You some kind of bigwigs or something?"
"Or something," said Mark. "We won't need guards present during the interview."
"I'm afraid I have to insist on that sir, don't matter how big a wig you may be," the guard stopped in front of them and crossed his arms as if to enforce his point. "Me and my colleague will cover the entrance and exit, with your place in the middle of the room it should be nice and private. Could have just done this in one of the interview rooms though, to begin with."
"It's about making him feel at ease," clarified Jess. "Putting him in an interview room is a level of formality we think might make him clam up."
"Ah, psychology and that. I get that you know? Seen one of those Netflix documentaries about it. Well, if you need anything, just shout." They had reached the designated table. The guard nodded to his colleague, who stood up. Both guards nodded again to each other and walked to the opposite doors.
"Good morning Martin," said Jess, taking one of the seats. "I'm D.C Holden, this is my partner D.C Curren." Mark nodded as he took the seat next to him.
"Well blow me down," said Martin, his accent thick and Cornish. "Been a fair while since I've had some coppers come to see me. What happened to that other one, what's her name? Like Thatcher with a decent haircut? Weston! That's it! Weston!"
"D.C.I Weston is still with the department," said Mark.
"D.C.I, that's a fucking boss-man rank, right? Good for her, hard as a pair of brass knackers her. You said the department, I'm guessing you pair are from her fucking monster police or whatever you're called."
"Special Investigations," corrected Jess.
"Special Investigations!" crowed Martin. "Fuck me that's a generic as fuck name. I suppose that's the point though right, all clandestine and shit? Special Investigations, that's some typical governmental bollocks that is. Like in here, we get prisoner development lessons. Just another name for the sort of useless courses the jobcentre sends you on to collect your dole. What fucking employer is going to look at my application and think oh, he has done twenty years in prison but that's ok, he had a two-week course in woodworking where he made a birdhouse. Fucking pointless." Martin was in full flow now, leaning back on his chair, hands placed on his head. "Guessing you want to know about all them fucking freaks I killed way back then. Should have just looked at the files. As much as I love a good chin wag, and I do fucking love one, I haven't got anything to add. They were monsters, I killed them. Made the world a safer place and your lot whacked me in here. Fucking waste of time, you lot should be hailing me as a fucking hero. Even in here there's a sick fuck pretending to be human."
"The inmate you keep fighting with?" asked Jess. "You think that they may be a super?"
"No thinking about it, I know for sure. They got shanked right in the ribs and didn't flinch, not even a scratch. I'm thinking they might be a ghoul? Nah that can't be right, ghouls can only eat raw flesh. Maybe some kind of other revenant like a wight? He's not a werewolf I know that for sure, they got a certain smell to them, like wet dirt." Martin rubbed his hand along his chin, lost in his musings.
"How do you know they weren't hurt after they got stabbed?" Jess asked, producing a notebook from her pocket and starting to scribble into it with a small pencil, sharpened down to a nub.
"Well that's easy, it was me that done the stabbing."
"And how did you know to stab him in the first place?" Jess licked her thumb and flipped the page on her notebook.
"Hey, she's clever this one. Making you look like a hanger-on big man," Martin said, leering at Mark.
"Hey, she's better as asking questions than I am," admitted Mark laughing slightly. "We all need to play to our strengths. She does people, I do books."
Martin nodded, seemingly happy with the answer. "Fair enough," he began, "well, in this case, I knew, had a feeling you could say."
Jess wrote something else on her notepad in a quick scrawl. "Might have been human."
"Never been wrong before," stated Martin. "How come you're writing this down, shouldn't you be recording this?"
"We're not here to question you about your case Martin. You're not a suspect in anything and we aren't here to add any more prison time," said Mark. "D.C Holden here just likes to make notes, you should see the number of notebooks she goes through, don't think the rainforest can keep up with her paper use. Plus, she's useless with phones, keeps dropping them and cracking the touch screens."
"Hah, don't talk to me about phones. Ninety-nine I came in here. I had a Nokia before I came in and haven't had a new phone since. Wouldn't know the first thing about touch screens or apps. Is that right? Apps? You hear it on the news and shit. You know I used to date a bird like you. Fucking wrote down everything. Used loads of gel pens that smelt like strawberries and shit. You'd get a shopping list that looked like a
rainbow and smelt like a fucking fruit salad. Never understood it myself. Always loved a good fountain pen me. Smooth, refillable, and you can stab a cunt with one if they get too uppity. Anyway, you got me rambling again. Mouthy Martin, they call me in here, on account of me being able to talk up a fucking storm. Never used to be like that, used to be all quiet and brooding. Fucking thing that did this to me," Martin said pointing at the scars on his head, "did something to my brain I think. You know like when someone is in a car crash and wakes up fucking French and a master artist? You should have seen the thing that did this to me. You pair ever see a harpy? Real nasty fuckers. All the old pictures of them tend to be all tits and wings but they tend to gloss over the nasty fucking claws. Shred you up good if you aren't careful. What did you want anyway?"
"You ever seen one of these before?" asked Jess, reaching into her pocket and producing the coin she had been given. It glittered even in the dull lights of the prison.
"Maybe on Time Team or something? I fucking love Tony Robinson, real funny fucker and helping out with all that archaeology for years? Top fucking bloke. Important stuff that archaeology. Sometimes a trip to the museum is what you need to find one of those fucking freaks and kill it stone dead. I suppose you would know that wouldn't you?"
"We don't kill Martin, we're the police, we help people," said Mark.
Martin burst into laughter, harsh and coarse, and echoing cackle. "Uh," he said wiping a tear from his eyes. "Got a good sense of humour at least. Police don't kill people. That's a fucking lie and a half. Good one mate, you got me there. Anyway, never seen that coin before, don't have a fucking clue."
"Really," mused Jess. "This coin belongs to an organisation. Of monster hunters. We have one in custody right now, tried to bomb two demons. We have leads on several more of them. We know they helped you Martin, know they let you know about the super in your prison wing." Mark glanced over at Jess, impressed with the boldness of her bluff.
"Wow. About fucking time." Martin began to clap slowly and sarcastically. "Always thought one day the coppers would catch on, I'm frankly amazed it took so long. Two thousand years of getting away with it must be a record, right?"