In the Devil's Name
Praise for In the Devil's Name
"Dave Watson is the Christopher Brookmyre of horror. He brilliantly evokes the world of ordinary, drug taking young men on the cusp of adulthood and then rips it all apart. In the Devil’s Name is a funny, keenly-observed and fast-paced horror novel that will appeal to anyone who has ever been young. Dave Watson knows his genre and he’s not afraid to subvert it. Readers, on the other hand, will be very, very afraid."
Louise Welsh, multi award winning author of The Cutting Room.
In the Devil's Name
Dave Watson
Copyright 2012 Dave Watson
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Thanks
Hungry For More?
Chapter 1
Dean Griffiths, or Griff as he was better known, wasn't what you’d call a weird kind of guy, but there he sat in a room full of people, and he was the only one who was enjoying himself.
Simon Galbraith, head of the school history department and notorious shagger of Ms Fabiani, the middle aged, yet disturbingly good looking school nurse, waffled on in his barely interested monotone.
"We eat this meat in the Devil’s name,
With much sorrow and muckle shame,
We shall destroy both house and hold,
Both sheep and cattle in the fold,
Little good shall come to the fore,
Of all the rest of the little store."
Galbraith abruptly slammed shut the thick red book from which he'd been reading with a sharp report that woke up a few pupils with heavy eyelids and rubber necks, and removed his glasses.
"That," he said "is part of what supposed witches would intone before the feasting part of their sabbats. A sort of graceless grace, if you like."
He chuckled at his own lame attempt at humour, the kind that only teachers can pull off without sounding sarcastic. Unimpressed by his comic stylings, the class looked on, skin crawling on their backs with the desire to be free of this boring arsehole, and counting each agonising second to the sound of the school bell that signalled the end of class, the end of term and the end of high school. Time not only dragged, but actually slowed down, stopped and started going backwards for many of the pupils.
Outside was beautiful. A full on, in your face, roast the bollocks off you summer’s day. You could even see the nearby beach through the classroom window, a mere half a mile west of the school, tantalisingly close, and here they were trapped in a hot sticky classroom with possibly the most boring man on Earth.
"In the year of our Lord sixteen sixty two," Galbraith continued, (someone sitting in the back row actually whimpered aloud in abject misery) "one of Scotland’s most famous witch trials was held in Auldearn. Isobel Goudie confessed, so the story goes, of her pact with Satan, her prowess in witchcraft and even of her ability to turn herself into a cat..."
That made Griff smile. He liked cats. He also thought that you'd confess to anything when you were tightly bound to a cartwheel and brutally flayed to within an inch of your life. Not because the pain inflicted upon your heretical, witchcraft conducting ass by the devout men of God known as the Inquisitors made you confess in hope of divine redemption. You’d confess just to get them to stop torturing you. That was how the Inquisitors got you to say what they wanted to hear. That was how they rolled. Griff was well versed in the standards and practices of the witch finders.
Likewise, he already knew the story of Isobel Goudie and her trial having spent what was once thought to be an obsessive amount of time reading as a child and into his teenage years. He was universally regarded by the faculty as the best pupil in the school, had in fact been regarded as such when he was only in third year, just halfway through the Scottish high school education system. He had refused point blank to skip a year when teachers had encouraged him to do so, not wanting to draw attention to himself. That had always been his way. Coming from a line of nobility, and being heir to the title Earl of Ayrshire would have been the envy of most teenage boys. For Griff though, this birthright was nothing but a fluke of chance. The way he saw it, it was only blind luck that he’d been born into a noble family that was centuries old. He could just as easily have been living under the bread line in a one bedroom flat somewhere. Fate could have given him a random throw of the dice that saw him born into a family fighting starvation in Somalia, but as it happened, he’d ended up the son of an Earl, living a privileged existence in what some called an extended mansion, but what was really a modest castle. He wasn’t ashamed of his family’s wealth and position, but he wasn’t so arrogant as to take it for granted, and he was well grounded and humble enough to be slightly embarrassed by it.
As flippant as he was towards the title and money that had fallen into his lap just by being born, he took great pleasure in one thing he had inherited; and that was his intelligence. From an early age, it had seemed there was nothing he couldn't pick up and just naturally understand. His mother would often tell him how he’d been forming whole sentences at seven months old, but he suspected this was an embellishment of the truth. By the time he turned thirteen, he’d been fluent in French and German, having learned them in his own time outside of school. His incredible ability in mental arithmetic had even led to him being sometimes nicknamed ‘Rain Man’ by his friends. His real academic passion however, lay in myths and legends from countries all over the world. Ancient civilisations and beliefs enthralled him like nothing else, and he could quite happily shut himself in his room for hours at a time, devouring texts on folklore. Griff’s main reason for being in the class he was in at the moment was that it contained a module entitled Scottish Folklore. Fair enough, he’d had to sit through other modules on the English civil war, the depression, early French government and all sorts of other tedious pish just so he could do the mod
ule dealing with the myths and legends of his homeland, but it'd been worth it.
He wasn't arrogant about his intelligence, far from it in fact, but he'd half expected to already know everything that Galbraith was going to teach them that year. He'd been pleasantly surprised when the folklore module had turned out to consist of several stories he hadn't known about or previously studied on his own. These particular tales came from the thick red book Galbraith read from during the lessons, and the course module only lasted for two weeks. Griff estimated with three history lessons a week in the timetable, with say, two or three short chapters from the book studied per session, that made about eighteen chapters covered in total. The prodigious size of the book Galbraith held told Griff that it contained a lot more chapters than that.
He had an almost photographic memory for books he'd read, and the library at home had an impressive collection of volumes dealing with the subject which he had already devoured, but he didn't recognise the title of Galbraith’s teaching aid; A Study in Scottish Folklore.
It was a damn shame, he thought, having to sit through all that dull nonsense that came with higher history for the sake of two weeks of cool stories about witches, ghosts, bogles and the Baobhan Sith, then finding that there was a lot more good stuff in the book he'd miss out on.
A damn shame.
Chapter 2
At approximately the same time that Griff was plotting to appropriate a piece of school equipment; a fine tome of literature from the history department, two of his friends were sitting on a hillside overlooking the school a mile away.
Joshua Cairns, or Cairnsey, as he was better known, took a deep drag on the joint he held. The exotic flavour and smooth texture of pungent Moroccan hashish filled his mouth, throat and lungs. He smiled to himself in appreciation of the superior quality of the contraband, and blew some smoke rings which rose slowly and lazily in the warm summer air.
"This is some nice gear, Sammy," he said. "Barnsey brought the good stuff this time and no mistake."
"Barnsey's a dodgy cunt, Cairnsey," Samuel Jethro Anderson said, matter of fact. "He'd bump you off with fuckin' oxo cubes if he thought he could get away with it."
"Barnsey is dodgy as fuck," Cairnsey agreed, "but he's got good contacts up in Glasgow. This soft black's excellent and you don’t get it all that often down this way. Can’t look a gift horse in the gub and walk away, even if it is a knob like Barnsey selling it."
He passed the joint to Sam.
"I'll smoke to that," his companion said.
They sat there and watched the school in silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth, each lost in their own thoughts. The only sound was Jimi Hendrix playing on Cairnsey’s stereo. Summers heat enveloped them.
This is what it's all about, Cairnsey thought, Good tunes, a wee smoke, nice weather and no more school. Minted.
He almost felt guilty, thinking about Griff and Phil still sitting in class, sweating their balls off and probably bored as fuck, while Sam and himself, who had already ended their time at the school earlier in the day, sat and got good and stoned, looking with glazed eyes at the grey slate prison which held their unfortunate mates.
"No luck for Griff and Phil, eh Sam?"
Sam chuckled.
"Has to be nasty in there on a day like this. It's fuckin' roasting." Sam considered just how nasty it must be for Griff and Phil, and chuckled again at his mates’ misfortune.
"Mind you," Cairnsey said, "Griff's in History the now. He said this morning he had that folklore class so he'll be lovin' it."
"Right enough," Sam agreed. "That's definitely his bag."
"What time did they say they'd be here anyway?"
"Phil said about four. He's meeting Griff at the gates then they're heading up here after they pick up some beers from the shop."
"Minted."
This, Cairnsey thought, is a fine day
Chapter 3
Let me the fuck out of here, thought Phillip Densmore.
This was the worst day of his life. Actually, his mother’s funeral had really been the worst day of his life, but at that moment, this felt pretty bad.
Double Maths, last ever class of high school, it's fuckin' boiling, my pens just run out and there's still an hour to go. Pure pish.
He could just imagine Sam and Cairnsey, sitting up on the hill watching the school, probably mangled by now and laughing at him. As he had the thought, his mobile vibrated in his pocket, silently informing him that he’d received a text. He took a quick glance around to make sure Mayfair’s eyes were elsewhere, then surreptitiously withdrew the phone, holding it out of sight below his desk. He opened the inbox and saw the text was from Sam.
Hows maths goin? Ha! it read.
Bastards! Phil raged internally. Jammy fuckin' bastards! Okay, here we go, put your hand up and ask Mayfair for another pen. Probably get a bollocking just because he's a prick and would love to dish out one last earful of shite my way before I finish with this place.
Phil put his hand up.
"What is it, Densmore?" Sean Mayfair growled.
"Can I have another pen please? This ones…"
"How many times have I told you to bring your own pen to class, Densmore?" the maths teacher interrupted.
"Twice, sir. I do…"
"Do what, Densmore? Do not have the necessary intellect to bring a pen to a class where writing is an integral part of procedure?"
The class giggled. Mayfair was one of the most feared teachers in the school, but no one could deny his patter could be pretty good when he was tearing some wayward pupil to shreds.
You old wanker, thought Phil.
"Sir…"
"See me after class, Densmore," Mayfair cut in.
"But, Sir…"
"SILENCE!" Mayfair screamed, making the whole class flinch.
Phil stared at the teacher, mouth agape.
This can't be happening, he thought, what’d I do to deserve this shit?
But he knew exactly what he’d done. He’d gone to the same school as his older brother.
Chapter 4
The bell finally rang.
"Okay everybody," Galbraith raised his voice above the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor as the class immediately got up to leave as quickly as possible. "good luck with the exams. You've all worked very hard this year and I know you'll all do me proud. Just remember to relax and take your time with the paper, and you'll be fine…"
No one was listening to the teacher as they hurriedly left, bursting to leave the suffocating classroom and Galbraith’s cheesy pep talk behind. School was over. Summer had begun, except for the minor inconvenience of the exams in a few weeks, and most of the pupils' minds were concerned with the more important issues of parties, holidays, booze, recreational drugs…
Griff purposely lingered behind, taking his time to put his books and folders into his bag and letting the other pupils leave the room ahead of him. He casually walked over to the teacher who was cleaning the blackboard, and positioned himself beside Galbraith’s desk upon which the thick red book he'd been reading from lay. He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket.
"Excuse me, Mr Galbraith," he said.
"Ah, Dean,“ Galbraith said, turning from the blackboard. “Good luck with the exams, not that you need it. I expect great things from you. Off to uni after summer is it?"
"Yes, Sir," he lied, not having the inclination to get into his future plans with the man.
Griff had bagged five highers in fifth year; English, maths, physics, computing and German, all A grades, and he had no worries about getting another couple this year in history and French, plus advanced highers in physics, maths and computing. He’d already received unconditional offers of acceptance from a host of universities who were eager to have the child prodigy heir to the Earl of Ayrshire as part of their student body, but he wasn’t sure he even wanted to go to university after the summer. If ever.
He’d intentionally taken on every subject h
e could in high school, and had even sought special permission from officials at the Scottish Qualifications Authority to take extra subjects above the normal curriculum. Even with the extra workload, he’d barely been intellectually challenged, and he suspected that university would be no different. The way he figured it, if there was anything he wanted to learn, he could do it from a book in his own time and without the cost of tuition fees. Plus, despite his young age, Griff appreciated that some things, maybe the most important things, can’t be learned from a book and must be experienced. As such, he’d recently been thinking an extended period of travel might be an idea. That’d be a laugh! He couldn’t wait to see his dad’s face when he dropped that one on him. Sorry dad, I know you were expecting me to go to St Andrews, or Cambridge next year, but I’m thinking getting stoned in Thailand, or maybe India, for a few months, shit, maybe even a few years, might be a better plan… Ha! The old cunt would shit a brick!
"Ms Fabiani asked me to give you this note, Sir,” he now said to his history teacher, holding out the piece of paper. “I meant to give it to you when class started but I was looking forward to the lesson so much, it just slipped my mind."
Griff saw Galbraith’s eyes light up at the mention of his not so secret lover’s name.
Sucker, he thought.
"A note, eh? Let's see it then."
Griff held out the piece of paper and fumbled it just as Galbraith went to grab it. It fell from his hand and landed on the floor behind the teacher’s desk. Just where he wanted it.
"Oops! Sorry, Sir," he said most convincingly.
Galbraith stooped down to get the note. When his head had gone below the level of the desk, Griff, smooth as silk, slid the red folklore book off the desk and into his ready opened bag. He’d already padded the inside with his jumper, and the heavy tome slid into the backpack without the slightest whisper of sound.