In the Devil's Name Read online

  His daddy did though. You could see he was scared as he stood there in the forest, looking down at him all angry.

  “I swear to Christ, Desdemona, if you don’t kill this wee bitch I’ll put you up the loft and lock you in, and the bogey rogey’ll eat you up. You want me to do that? He’s very hungry, son, and that’s why you’ve got to do this. Just once across the side of her throat like I showed you, and then he’ll eat her instead of you. But if you don’t do it, so help me, I’ll tie you up and leave you in the loft for him, and good fucking riddance.”

  “No, daddy!” Desdemona screams. “Don’t give me to the bogey rogey! I’ll be good, I’ll be good!”

  And he does what his daddy says.

  The funny white knife goes all red…

  A sudden awareness of a change in the room’s atmosphere interrupted his memories.

  It was suddenly very cold in the room, and there was that smell of moist, rotting things and burnt meat.

  The lights flickered. Went out.

  And then he heard it. That awful, low chuckling laugh that sounded like a dead body turning over in a swamp.

  Coming from the dark hallway behind him.

  He couldn’t turn around to look. He wouldn’t.

  It was here again. The thing passed down through generations like a genetic disease. The bogey rogey he’d known as a child, but that as a man, he’d come to know by another name.

  Ozay was in the house.

  It had come to him for the first time in almost thirty years back in May when things had first gone so spectacularly wrong. Miraculously, he’d managed to buy some time. He’d begged and gibbered in terror, saying that all was not lost; there was still Labhrainne’s blood, he said, and he might yet darken and fulfil the blood price.

  The daemon had given him a reprieve of three moons. For those twelve weeks Desdemona feverishly prayed that the Densmore boy would turn.

  Yesterday, after three moons had waxed and waned and the debt remained unpaid, Ozay had come to him again. Once more, Desdemona had fallen to his knees, tearfully beseeching his master for mercy, promising undying loyalty and never ending service. He had somehow brokered another deal, offering up the entire Densmore line, plus his own wife and son in payment for the summoning of a being that could finally see the blood price paid. Once again, the daemon had agreed to the terms, promising to revisit his pet on the morrow whereupon he would either set him free, or take him away.

  Now Ozay had returned to him again, and he didn't know what was going to happen.

  Heavy, slow footsteps came from behind him; the clack, clack, clack of approaching claws on the luxury hardwood floor.

  Still he refused to turn around and face it. Face him. He remained rooted, staring down at his wife’s body.

  The footsteps came closer still.

  Stopped immediately behind him.

  He could hear it breathing, then that hideous, gurgling chuckle again. An icy talon gently caressed the back of his neck, almost soothingly. Marrow numbing terror gripped Desdemona, threatening to loosen his bladder and bowels, and he fought the old urge to void himself. Clenching his eyes shut and grinding his teeth, balling his fists so tight his nails brought blood from his palms, he didn’t shit himself, but he couldn’t stop the trembling and cold sweat that coated his skin.

  The claw on his neck stopped its sickening caress, and the thing spoke inside his mind, as was its way. Its voice was of the void, empty and cold.

  Labhrainne’s blood has destroyed my Harvester before it could fulfil the quota. A quota that your spawn and the other two cursed were supposed to fulfil and failed to. Twice now you have not kept your side of our bargain, Desdemona Griffiths, Earl of Ayrshire.

  His bladder finally let go at this news, and he began to weep as piss leaked into his hand made Italian loafers. Desdemona Griffiths fell to his knees sobbing. He felt the claw return. It drew a scratching line up the nape of his neck, then a huge leathery hand closed over his skull, holding him firmly.

  “Please, master,” he moaned in total despair, already knowing it was useless. “I did as we agreed. I brought them together. I gave you the Densmore line. I gave you my wife and son…”

  Tell me, Desdemona, Ozay whispered. Did you love your wife? Did you love your son?

  “No, my lord,” he wailed between sobs. “I love only you. I serve only you. Please! Please! I have suffered in your majesty my whole life! Set me free as you promised, I beg you!”

  If you did not love them, then what worth does your sacrifice hold? the daemon asked, and started to squeeze.

  For the souls you have provided me, I thank you, but the deal is now thrice broken and void. As we agreed, your suffering will end, Desdemona, but only on this plane. You are mine. Now and forever.

  As the pressure on his skull increased with maddening, horrific slowness and he started to scream, Desdemona Griffiths had a very clear vision in his mind of his future. It was without time, without mercy, without any cessation of unimaginable suffering, and completely and utterly without control.

  With a loud crack, his skull caved in under Ozay’s grip.

  As his eyes fell from their crushed sockets to dangle by the optic nerves on his cheeks, the last thing they saw was his dead wife’s face.

  She was smiling, and he knew she’d be waiting for him in the timeless black into which he plummeted.

  Chapter 53

  I called Grant from Sergeant Grace’s house. His dad Tony picked up.

  “Who the fuck’s this?”

  He obviously wasn’t used to getting phone calls this early in the morning.

  “It’s Phil, Tony. Is Grant there?” I said.

  “Phil who? You know what fuckin’ time it is?”

  “Phil Densmore. You know? Josh’s pal? Sorry if I woke you up. Is Grant there?”

  “Phil Densmore? Oh aye. You’re the one that killed yer mate aren’t ye? What the fuck d’ye want to speak to Grant for?”

  I was too emotionally exhausted by everything that had happened in the past few hours to be stung by the arsehole’s words and he didn’t hurt my feelings by bringing up Sam. He was starting to get on my nerves, though.

  “Listen, you old cunt,” I heard myself hiss into the phone. “Put Grant on the line right now or I’ll come over there and fuckin’ kill you as well ya prick.”

  The hatred I heard in my own words scared me a little. I was stressed, no doubt about it, but threatening to murder a cantankerous old man who was trying my patience was something else.

  Thing was, I found that I’d meant exactly what I’d said.

  Luckily, there was no need to test my resolve, as he must have heard something in my voice that convinced him of my intent. I heard him stomping a foot on the floor of his bedroom where I imagined him lying in bed with his daily hangover. There was a click as the downstairs phone was picked up and Grant was on the line.

  “Hello?”

  I’d only spoke to Grant once or twice since May. He’d called me a few times to see how I was doing, but my head had been in such a state I hadn’t been in the frame of mind for it, and the few conversations we’d had were brief.

  “Grant, it’s Phil. Can you meet me at the workshop, mate?” I asked.

  “Aye, no bother. I’m just leaving for work the now. You alright? You sound weird.”

  No shit.

  “I’m alright, mate,” I lied. “I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  “No bother. See you soon.”

  “Grant? Can you grab me a change of clothes? I need jeans, a t shirt and a jacket.” I’d cleaned my face and hands as well as I could in Sergeant Grace’s bathroom, but my clothes were still covered in my dad’s blood. I’d considered searching for something that fit me in Grace’s wardrobe, but the big cop had been almost twice my size. “And go straight to the offices, Grant,” I said. “You’ll probably see some weird shit on your way but don’t stop alright? Just meet me there and I’ll explain everything.”

  “Eh? What’s going on
, Phil? I thought I heard sirens earlier on but I was still half asleep.”

  “I’ll tell you about it at the workshop. Please mate, you’ve got to trust me. Just go straight there and don’t stop for anything. Anything. And one more thing, can you bring Josh’s phone with you? See you in five.”

  I hung up before he could ask any more questions, hoping he’d do as I’d said. Grant was a good guy, loyal and dependable, but I wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle the sights I suspected he might encounter on the way over if he stopped for a close look. He’d always been the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to help someone in need, and I wanted to spare him from what might happen if he acted on his good nature.

  I found a sturdy rucksack in a hallway cupboard, stuffed in the ten grand Grace had given me before he’d died, and left the house, heading for the office of Anderson Engineering.

  Grant had already arrived before me when I got there, and I could tell from his face and nervous demeanour that he had indeed seen some weird shit on the drive over.

  He paced back and forth by his car outside the workshop and office gates, his face pale and haunted, and he kept looking over his shoulders every few seconds. He was obviously badly scared. He saw me approaching and started towards me, but stopped halfway as he clocked my blood splattered appearance.

  “Jesus, Phil, what happened to you, man?” he blurted. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s fine, mate. Not my blood,” I replied.

  That probably wasn’t the best thing to say I thought as he backed off a few steps.

  “It’s alright, Grant. I’m not going to hurt you. My dad’s dead. It’s his blood. Please, I need your help.”

  He still didn’t look convinced.

  “On the way over here…” he stammered, “I saw blood in the streets… there’s people walking around like fuckin’ zombies, a couple of houses on fire… and this, this red thing. Jesus, I thought it was a body… but it couldn’t have been… the shape of it… something bad’s happened.”

  “I know, mate,” I said. I’d seen them myself as I made my way to the workshop from Grace’s place; the people who’d lived through the morning and had found what the shape shifting demon had left behind. There’d been folk sitting in shock on the pavement and stumbling around in the street, staring into space, weeping, screaming. And bodies. There’d been a lot of bodies, the vast majority of them unnaturally twisted and mutilated.

  “Let’s go in the office. I’ll explain everything,” I said.

  He nodded, and we went inside, Grant locking the outside gates and door to the office behind us as we went. Once inside, he handed me a duffel bag containing the change of clothes I’d asked him for and Cairnsey’s phone. I excused myself for a minute and went to the small office toilet where I stripped out of my bloodied shirt and jeans and cleaned myself up as well as I could with cold water, sanitation gel and paper towels. I recognised the replacement clothes he’d brought as things that had belonged to Cairnsey; a black Led Zeppelin t shirt, worn jeans and his brown leather jacket. It felt right wearing his clothes.

  I studied his phone for a minute, debating whether or not to do what I’d thought I should.

  Was there any point in checking the call register?

  Fuck it, I thought. Why not? Things couldn’t really get any more messed up.

  I pressed the power button and waited for the phone to start up. Once the irritatingly cheery Nokia jingle and start up animation had finished, the screen displayed a photograph Sam’s mum had taken with the phone. The four of us in shorts and t shirts, reclining on sun loungers in Sam’s back garden, grinning like fools and toasting the camera phone with bottles of Budweiser. It’d been Sam’s birthday. The youngest member of our little tribe, he’d been the last of us to turn eighteen. The photo had been taken on a sunny Saturday evening a week before we’d finished school. Just a week before we’d gone to Bennane Head.

  Seeing that digital image just a few hours ago would have set me weeping, but by now I was all cried out, and I just smiled.

  It was good. It was alright.

  Putting the fond memory aside I pressed the green button, bringing up the dialled numbers register.

  I remembered the phone call clearly; Cairnsey calling Barnsey just after seven pm to ask what the deal was with the cryptic note we’d found pinned to the bench where we’d been supposed to meet Ozay. Barnsey’s annoying donkey laugh braying out the phone so loud it’d seemed like he was doing it on purpose.

  The call wasn’t there, of course.

  The last entry on the dialled numbers list was a call to me made at six forty five, fifteen minutes before we’d been meant to meet Ozay. I also remembered that phone call. Cairnsey had called to let me know he and Griff were on their way in his car to pick me up.

  According to Cairnsey’s mobile, the call to Barnsey at just after seven pm had never happened.

  Barnsey’d been telling the truth. Cairnsey hadn’t spoken to him that night. Hadn’t spoken to him, but to someone else who’d reassured us it was okay to take the trips contained in the sheet of paper. I knew then that if I were to check the phone records from my house the previous night there’d be no listing for the call to 999 I’d made as my dad had lay dying on his bed. Likewise, there’d be no record of the call my brother said he’d received when he’d been violently prompted to commit patricide, and if I’d been able to check my own mobile, I wouldn’t see any record of the call I’d received after speaking to Barnsey, when I’d had that brief conversation with something pretending to be Griff.

  Because calls made by and answered by daemons wouldn’t really exist in our version of reality, would they?

  I quickly turned the phone off again, shoved it into Cairnsey’s jacket pocket and left the toilet stall.

  Grant was sitting at one of the cluttered desks in the office, a bottle of Aberlour single malt and a glass containing a healthy shot in front of him. It seemed everyone I met that morning liked a drink. Understandable under the circumstances.

  He offered me a glass, which I declined, and then I sat at the desk opposite him and just started talking. I’d said to him I’d explain everything, but that’d probably been the wrong choice of words. I told him everything I knew, and everything that had happened, but I couldn’t explain much of it.

  It all came out in a great torrent of words. The night at Bennane Head, the three months of paranoia, nightmares and fear that came after, my meeting with Griff in the psych ward and all the madness that had followed immediately after. My spontaneous teleportations, the incredible bursts of speed, the other new physical and mental talents I’d seemed to somehow inherit from my dead friends, the monstrous shape shifter that had decimated the village, an abridged version of Sergeant Grace’s story.

  I told it all.

  By the time I’d finished, Grant was finishing his third glass of whisky, and was about to top it up when he seemed to think better of it, and put the bottle aside on the desk.

  He leaned back in his office chair and let out a shaky breath.

  “Jesus Christ, Phil,” was all he said. There was no hint in his voice that he didn’t believe what I’d told him, as insane as it all sounded. There was no sceptical look of disbelief in his eyes either. Only a naked look of fear.

  “Before I left the house,” he said, “my dad told me you’d threatened to kill him. And the way you look. I mean, you look the same, but… you’re not the same anymore, Phil.”

  The only thing I’d held back from telling him was the feeling that somehow, I wasn’t entirely safe to be around anymore, and I’d sensed that the way he’d taken a few steps back when I’d shown up at the workshop had less to do with my bloodied clothes than some indefinably dangerous aura that I now gave off.

  I nodded sadly. I was ashamed at the way I’d spoken to Tony Cairns, even if he was a cunt. The harsh words had seemed to leap from my throat before I’d even thought them.

  “I’m sorry, Grant,” I said. “Ever since I woke up in the hospi
tal, and especially since that thing touched me, had me pinned through the shoulder… I don’t know, man. It’s like there’s something deep down in me that wasn’t there before. Something bad. I swear to you though, mate, I’m not here to hurt you. I’d never do anything to you, and I’m sorry about what I said to your dad.”

  Grant abruptly gave a short bark of laughter.

  “Fuck’s sake, don’t worry about that, Phil. Many’s the time the same thought’s crossed my mind. The old bastard. I’m not worried about him, I’m worried about you.”

  He hesitated for a moment before continuing, giving me a strange look and squinting through half closed eyes as if straining to see something faint.

  “It’s like… you’re surrounded by something that for some reason I can’t really see. I can’t describe it, Phil, but it’s like… death.” He nodded slightly, as if confirming something to himself. “I know that sounds fucking weird, Phil, and I don’t know where I’m getting it from, but that’s exactly what it is. You’ve got death all over you, man.”

  Sergeant Grace had said pretty much the same thing right before he’d died.

  We just sat there in silence for a few moments.

  “So what happens now?” Grant asked me.

  “I need to leave,” I said. “Just go, and keep moving. Away from people. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me. I need to go and see Griff’s dad first though.”

  Grant nodded, then snatched up his car keys.

  “Let’s get going then,” he said. “Sooner the better. This town’s going to be swarming with police pretty soon I’d imagine. It’d probably be best if you weren’t here when they arrive.”

  I nodded and got to my feet. As he started towards the office door, I stopped dead.

  For a second there, just as Grant had stood up to leave, his face had been covered in blood, then it’d suddenly been gone again.

  “Hold on, Grant,” I said. “You stay here.”