Hell's Fire Read online

  The paramedic looked at his colleague. ‘Arrhythmic heartbeat. Let’s get him to hospital. We’ll put an IV in en route.’

  ‘Which hospital?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Manchester Royal Infirmary is closest.’

  The female paramedic extricated her wrist from the priest’s grip, ran to the ambulance and returned with a stretcher. She and her colleague lifted him on to it, raised it up and then wheeled him to the back of the ambulance.

  ‘We’ll take care of your car. I’ll check with you later,’ Jon said through the rear doors, noting that the oxygen mask which hid the lower half of Webster’s face only emphasised the alarm in his eyes. Seconds later the vehicle accelerated away.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Jon, watching the flashing lights until they disappeared from sight.

  As he crammed the last of the pizza into his mouth a shiver sent his arms into miniature spasm. End of April and still so fucking cold. He chewed with his mouth open, watching the vapours of his breath as they curled into the freezing air. The temperature always seemed to drop to its lowest point in the final hour before dawn. It was the night’s parting shot, like an army forced into retreat trying to ruin the territory it had occupied.

  He knew that the horizon would soon begin to materialise and sunlight would warm the earth. But that would make little difference in his tomb of curving brick. In the shadows by his side, his sleeping bag lay like a giant insect’s sloughed-off cocoon. He’d forgotten to roll it up again.

  Straightening it out, he saw the slugs gathered in its folds, flaky trails of silver criss-crossing the nylon. He plucked their plump forms off and tossed them into the blackness that lurked beyond the weak glow of his lamp.

  After removing his army boots, he climbed in and zipped up the bag as far as it would go. Inside, his hand ferreted in his army coat, searching the breast pockets for the lighter. He brought it out, flicked the wheel and held the dirty flame to the black candle. The wick seemed to suck the yellow glow across, absorbing its power so the lighter’s flame shrank down momentarily as the wick caught. He snapped the lid of the Zippo shut and listened to the peaceful whisper the candle made.

  Staring into the source of light, he thought about his dead mother and where she was now. Would the tongues of flame really be licking her flesh soon? Scorching and blistering her skin but never actually destroying it, so that she would writhe in eternal torment?

  Tears stung his eyes as the memory of returning from school and finding her in the bedroom flooded back. At first he hadn’t understood what was keeping the door shut. As he pushed harder, the tape on the other side began to crackle and tear as it came away from the frame. Finally he’d broken the seal she’d created and the door swung open to reveal her lying on the bed. The windows were closed and the air that washed over him was heavy with the aroma of burning. In the corner of the room was their barbecue from the garden, half the charcoal on it reduced to white ash.

  The police and firemen had been reluctant to explain, but the internet had answered his questions. Carbon monoxide poisoning – a seductively gentle death.

  But her serene appearance was misleading, his father explained. Though her bodily remains were unscathed, her soul was facing an entirely different fate. Stuck in limbo for the moment, Hell would eventually claim it, and Hell would keep it forever. Judgement Day, when it came – and his dad said that time was getting ever closer – would see to that. She had committed suicide and there would be no forgiveness from God.

  He extended a freezing finger into the flame and watched impassively as an angry red bump began to push slowly up from his skin.

  Chapter 2

  Jon unzipped his jeans and let them drop to the kitchen floor. As he stepped out of them he pulled the rugby shirt over his head. Then, in just a pair of boxer shorts, he crouched down and opened the washing machine door. ‘Christ, that smell of burning’s horrible.’

  ‘Not with the baby stuff,’ Alice said, mashing Weetabix up in a bowl.

  His eyes took in her hair, casually pinned up with a tortoiseshell clip. It amused him to think that, however stunning she might look on the rare occasions they went out, seeing her barefoot in an old T-shirt and the cut-off tracksuit bottoms she wore at her kick-boxing classes was a far sexier sight. Ducking his head, he peered into the drum. A pile of dirty bibs and grimy babygro’s was already inside.

  ‘Just leave them on the floor, I’ll do another load later,’ she added, now sitting down and holding a plastic spoon piled with mushy cereal to her daughter’s mouth. Holly leaned back in the high chair to examine it for a second. Her mouth opened and Alice popped the food in. ‘Good girl.’

  As he piled his clothes neatly on the lino, he felt Alice’s fingers gently tracing a line down his back. The tingling sensation radiated outwards, causing him to breathe in. ‘Those stud marks are still red.’

  He lifted an arm to examine the angry row of welts that followed the curve of his ribs. ‘Traditional Scouse welcome that,’ he replied, thinking of the stamp he’d received that Saturday from a Newton-le-Willows player. It had set the tone for an afternoon of violent play that eventually erupted in a thirtyman brawl. In the melee, Jon had sought out the prop who’d caused his injury and landed a punch in the opposition’s player’s face that had sent the man staggering backwards like a comedy drunk. Finally his knees buckled and he ended up on his arse in the turf. It was a sweet shot, as the prop himself grudgingly admitted in the bar after the match.

  ‘Bloody stupid game,’ Alice stated for the umpteenth time. Jon didn’t bother replying. His love for the game was a subject he’d given up trying to explain to her long ago. His boxer dog, Punch, was edging on his belly across the lino, positioning himself beneath the high chair in the hope a fragment of food might fall down. Jon ran a hand over his head, then scratched behind the animal’s ears. Punch’s eyes didn’t waver from the pair of chubby legs swinging above. ‘Pig of a dog.’

  As he shut the washing machine door, the eight o’clock news came on the radio that was playing in the background. Alice waved a hand. ‘You’ll be on this!’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I heard it at seven. Listen. You sound quite professional for once.’

  Jon turned towards the radio, seeing his wife’s bottle of Fluoxetine beside it. As usual, he caught himself wondering how much of her upbeat mood was down to the anti-depression pills. The fire was second story on Key 0 , beaten to the top spot by a report on evidence emerging that the US illegally dropped massive amounts of white phosphorous on the civilians of Fallujah during its assault on the city.

  Police and fire teams are investigating the cause of a blaze that completely gutted The Sacred Heart Church in Fairfield early this morning. Our reporter at the scene had this to say . . .

  Sound quality dropped as the studio switched to the outside recording.

  ‘Local residents reported that the church was on fire at around three o’clock this morning. By the time fire crews arrived quarter of an hour later, the building was beyond rescue. This is the fourth church to have burned down in the last month and, at this time, police are refusing to rule out that the blaze is linked to the three other attacks. However, the presence of officers from the city’s Major Incident Team could indicate

  that we have a serial arsonist at loose in the city. I put that question to

  Detective Inspector Jon Spicer, MIT’s officer at the scene.’

  Jon then heard his own voice.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t say. The site has been sealed off and fire investigation officers will conduct an examination alongside our own forensic team once it is safe to do so.’

  ‘But is it true that the same satanic symbols found spray-painted on the walls of the other three churches were also found here?’

  ‘No one’s even been near the inside of the church yet, so I really can’t say.’

  ‘We understand the vicar of the church suffered a heart attack as a result of this act. Will it be a murder inv
estigation if he dies?’

  ‘I really can’t comment on that. Thank you.’

  The link switched back to the studio.

  We’ll bring you more on that story as it unfolds. Now on to sports news and a brilliant victory for Belle Vue Aces at Kirkmanshulme Lane last night—

  Jon turned the radio off. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’

  Alice smiled back. ‘You sounded very on the ball. How is that poor vicar?’

  ‘Not sure. I’ll drop by before I report in to the incident room.’

  ‘So is it Satanists doing this?’

  Jon ran a hand through his cropped brown hair. ‘Probably. How often do churches burn down of their own accord?’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Yeah. I thought those sorts of beliefs had died out in the

  Middle Ages too,’ Jon replied, filling the kettle with water.

  ‘You’re joking aren’t you? Alternative religions have never been so popular. Look at Ellie. Which reminds me, your mum wants to speak to you about her.’

  ‘What the hell am I supposed to do? Jesus Christ.’ He banged the cupboard door shut and placed two cups on the worktop.

  ‘Jon, losing your temper about this is the last thing we need. You should sit down with Ellie and sort something out.’

  Jon kept his eyes on the cups. For fuck’s sake! Why did he have to play the middle man here. . .?

  ‘I spoke to Ellie yesterday night,’ Alice continued. ‘She’s coming round for tea. Maybe you two could have a chat then.’ Jon turned to his wife, sensing that she’d set the meeting up.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m only trying to help.’

  He sighed. ‘Yeah, sorry. It pisses me off though. I always seem to get stuck as some sort of mediator.’

  ‘The pitfalls of being the eldest child.’

  Jon thought back to when they were all kids. It was true. Being the eldest had so many disadvantages. There was no doubt his parents had been strict with them all during their early years, but only Jon had suffered the same treatment right the way through being a teenager. In by ten o’clock until he was seventeen, not allowed to the pub until eighteen. Then along comes Dave, his younger brother by four years. Allowed to stay out far later, far younger. In the pub by the time he was sixteen. Then Ellie, the youngest by seven years. He couldn’t believe how much she’d got away with. Had his parents grown tired of enforcing discipline by the time she’d reached her teenage years? No wonder she drifted through life, swayed by any hippy-dippy shit that came her way. His thoughts turned back to Dave. The black sheep of the family who’d left home to live in squats, dabbling in minor crime and, in all probability, drugs. As usual, he was nowhere around, safe from all this family shit. ‘When did Mum ring?’

  ‘Yesterday. You got in too late last night for me to mention it then.’

  Jon reflected on the latest crisis to hit his family. During Sunday lunch at his parents’, Ellie had announced that she was starting to follow a religion called Wicca. She had described it as a set of pagan beliefs that pre-dated Christianity and were based around respect for the natural environment.

  Their mother, Mary, a devout Catholic, had hit the roof. In the ensuing argument she had asserted that Wiccans were actually witches, and Wicca was a religion that would lead its followers straight to hell.

  Ellie had responded with a description of the part the church had played in burning thousands of women during the sixteen-hundreds. Now, as an integral part of the Establishment, the church was meekly allowing government after government to help wreck the planet through policies based on pure greed.

  Jon had lost track of what Ellie was on about after her first three sentences. Concentrating on his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, he’d hoped the dispute would settle itself down, but things had got more and more heated, culminating in Ellie storming out of the house.

  He could understand why Mary had reacted so strongly. Increasingly he believed that his mum’s faith had become the most important thing in her life. She’d tried to impress it on each of them when they were young, and about the only advantage of being the eldest was that it had enabled him to escape the forced attendance at Sunday school. She’d tried to make him go, but he’d been so miserable, she reluctantly gave up, allowing him to spend Sunday mornings at the rugby club where his dad coached the Junior Colts. Soon Jon had taken up mini-rugby himself and was safe from his mum’s clutches.

  But Dave and Ellie hadn’t been so lucky. Jon’s memories of the time were pretty vague, but he remembered smirking at his younger siblings as they were driven to a dreary church hall while he and his Dad set off for some exercise in the open air.

  After Ellie had stormed out of his parents’ house, Alice had quietly said, ‘Mary, there’s a difference between Wiccans and Satanists.’

  His mother had dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. ‘Is there? They claim that, but is it really true?’

  Alice had proceeded carefully on. ‘Wiccans worship Mother Nature, Satanists worship the Devil. Surely that’s a big difference.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter in the eyes of the Lord. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t accept Christ as her true saviour.’

  Jon rolled his eyes, then turned to his dad, but over forty years spent under the same roof as his wife had taught him to keep his mouth shut when talk turned to religion.

  Jon spooned coffee into the cups as he waited for the kettle to boil. ‘What does Mum want me to do? Persuade Ellie to renounce evil and start going to church so her soul can be saved?’

  Alice placed the empty bowl on the table, then removed the bib from round Holly’s neck. A blob of damp cereal fell to the floor where it was instantly hoovered up by Punch. ‘She wants you to talk to Ellie, try and get her to at least answer your mum’s calls.’

  Jon tilted his head in semi-agreement. ‘I can try and do that, but you know Ellie. She’ll have probably found another fad in a month’s time. It’ll all blow over.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it. She’s discovered a new friend. A girl who belongs to a coven. I get the impression she’s made quite an impression on Ellie.’

  Jon glanced at his wife. ‘You mean Ellie’s being brainwashed?’

  ‘She’s twenty-eight, for Christ’s sake. I think she’s old enough to think for herself.’

  ‘But you implied this girl . . . who is she anyway?’

  ‘She works in a New Age shop on Oldham street.’

  ‘New Age? Selling what?’

  ‘You know. Healing crystals, tarot cards, candles, books on mysticism. All that kind of stuff.’

  ‘And the Wicca thing. Is it really just a front for devil worshippers? I mean, if it is and they’re torching churches round town, we don’t want Ellie getting involved. She’s gullible enough as it is.’

  ‘Jon, she’s not gullible. A bit naïve maybe.’

  ‘Naïve? She’s got her head in the clouds. Always has had. You never saw the collection of fairies she had as a kid. A dreamer, that’s what she is.’

  ‘Well, there are people who do use Wicca to hide more sinister beliefs . . .’

  ‘Bloody great.’

  ‘But it was Ellie who told me that on the phone last night. She knows the difference between right and wrong. She’ll be safe.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? I mean, you’re in the middle of no-where, dancing around in some field, and the lead guy suddenly announces it’s time for an orgy. If Ellie was there voluntarily . . .’ His eyes swept the ceiling. ‘It worries me. You know how hard this sort of stuff is to prove in court.’

  ‘You’re talking about rape? Jon, you need to chat with Ellie. I don’t think being a Wiccan involves free love with the other followers.’

  Jon poured boiling water into the cups. ‘I’ve got to get ready for work. The fire investigation officer and forensics are coming to the station at ten for a strategy meeting.’

  ‘By the way, I’ve been looking at nurseries for Holly.’

  Jon paused. His wife wanted
to return to her job in a beauty salon for a couple of days a week once Holly reached her first birthday. The earnings would barely cover child care costs, but Alice wanted to avoid becoming a stay-at-home mum. She had friends who’d chosen that role and she worried that, like them, eventually she’d only be able to talk about baby-related issues.

  ‘So which ones look like the best for Holly?’ he said, turning round in the doorway.

  She handed a beaker of apple juice to their daughter. ‘Well, the best one by a mile is called Sunshine, it’s connected to St Martin’s church.’

  ‘The Church of England place?’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s a bit happy clappy, but it’s got very good links to the primary school near to it. I’m thinking long term here, but it will set her up perfectly for when we look at secondary schools.’

  Jon’s mind reeled. ‘Hang on, we were talking about nurseries just now.’

  ‘I know, but we need to think ahead.’

  ‘Jesus Alice, she isn’t even one yet.’ Why did no one warn him having kids made everything so bloody complicated?

  She shook her head. ‘I never thought I’d be one of those horrible calculating parents, but you don’t want her ending up at the Dalewood do you?’

  Jon thought about the nearby comprehensive. Uniformed officers were called out to it most days and the most recent talk was about the school employing private security to try and keep control. ‘No.’

  ‘Which leaves Trinity. If Holly has been educated in faith schools, she stands a far better chance of getting in there.’

  Jon looked at her. ‘You’ll be telling me we’ll start needing to go to church next.’

  Alice glanced away. ‘When the time comes, it’ll certainly help.’

  Jon felt his eyes widen. ‘Tell me that’s a frigging joke.’

  ‘It’s an hour of your Sunday, Jon. Hardly much to ask.’

  Not if we’ve had a boy by then and I’ve started taking him to min-rugby, thought Jon. He pointed a finger. ‘Anyway. Who says we’ll still be in this little terrace by the time Holly starts Sunday school? I could have been promoted and we’ll be living somewhere out in Cheshire. Hale or round those parts. There are no sink schools out there.’