In the Devil's Name Read online

  “What?” he asked.

  “I should go alone.”

  “No way, Phil. If Des Griffiths had something to do with what happened to Josh…”

  I shook my head.

  “Please, Grant. Just stay. I think something bad might happen if you come with me.”

  “I trust you, Phil,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t do anything to me. I’m coming with you. It’s my motor anyway, so you’ve not got a choice.”

  He turned back towards the door and made to leave.

  Without thinking, I snatched up the whisky bottle from the desk.

  Swung it at the back of his head.

  The split second before the impact seemed to last an hour. I meant to just knock him out. Just hit him hard enough to put him to sleep without hurting him too badly. As the bottle swung at his unguarded skull though, an urge to put all my strength into the blow suddenly bloomed up in my chest, and I absolutely meant to cave his head in. I saw it in my mind. Grant lying motionless on the floor while I stood over him, swinging the thickened bottom of the glass bottle into his pulped cranium again and again and again…

  With a huge effort of will, I only just managed to pull the blow at the very last instant, twisted my wrist, turned what would have been a full force and probably lethal strike into a glancing blow.

  It was enough. Grant dropped like a sack of totties and lay crumpled on the floor of the office. I checked his pulse, found it strong and regular, and then put him into the recovery position, noting as I was doing it that I’d never had any first aid training. Griff had though, of course.

  “I’m sorry mate,” I said to Grant’s prostate form on the floor, snatching up his car keys.

  I don’t know what would’ve happened, but the brief vision I’d had of Grant’s face coated in blood had all the grim solidity of a tombstone. If he'd stayed with me, he’d have died. Maybe not by my hand, maybe a car crash on the road to Glasgow, but I knew that being in my presence would have been a death sentence to him.

  As I left the office and started towards Grant’s car, it occurred to me that I’d never had any driving lessons either. Cairnsey had though, and

  sure enough, sitting behind the wheel felt completely natural and I instinctively knew what I was doing without thinking about it. I pulled smoothly away from the offices of Anderson Engineering and pointed the car out of Ballantrae.

  I never went back.

  As I passed Bennane Head just a few miles outside the village, I got a sense that I wasn’t alone in the car. So much so that I checked the rear view mirror, half expecting to see someone sitting in the back seat. There was no one there, but the feeling persisted until I was past the cliff tops. On a hunch, I turned on the car radio and there was Mick Jagger again, and he was most definitely free.

  I smiled, and knew that the graffiti down in the caves was just graffiti again.

  As Grant had predicted, I passed a few police cars, ambulances, fire engines and what looked like a military vehicle on the road north, all speeding south down the coast towards Ballantrae with sirens wailing. I had a few bad moments thinking someone might pull me over. None did though.

  The rest of the drive to Glasgow was uneventful, and I arrived a few hours later in the early afternoon. It didn’t surprise me that I knew instinctively where Griff’s dad’s west end residence was. I’d never been there, but of course Griff had, and what he’d known, I now knew.

  The two storey sandstone half mansion sat well back from the street in a quiet cul-de-sac just off Great Western Road. Desdemona Griffiths’ sleek black BMW M3 was parked in the wide driveway to the left hand side.

  The building boasted a large and immaculately maintained lawn to the front, through which a stone path the same reddish colour as the mansions façade led to the imposing front entrance which was flanked on either side by massive ground floor bay windows.

  As soon as I pulled up outside, I knew something was wrong. The building had a feel about it of not being used; a palpable air of desertion which I could sense even sitting in Grant’s car outside. The BMW parked in the driveway said otherwise though.

  Getting out of the car, the sense of abandonment got stronger as I walked up the path to the wide front door, which I found was unlocked. Stepping into the wide, luxuriously decorated hallway, a rush of cold air carrying the now familiar scent of blood washed over me, making me shudder where I stood.

  Despite the filtered light coming from outside through the stained glass window above the front door, the hallway seemed unnaturally dark and foreboding. The big house was crypt still. Not so much as a ticking clock could be heard. Knowing I would get no answer, I nevertheless called out a greeting.

  “Mr Griffiths? Are you home?”

  Nothing.

  A search of the downstairs rooms proved fruitless. The lounge, dining room, massive dining kitchen, conservatory and downstairs bathroom were all beautifully upholstered with the finest furnishings and appliances, but completely silent and lifeless as a vacuum. The pervading scent of blood was strongest in the hallway, and as I ascended the wide, polished walnut stairs, the smell of human waste was added to the increasingly pungent bouquet.

  I found them in the study, the two bodies.

  One was Griff’s mother, Sheena. In death, her normally beautiful, porcelain smooth skin had taken on a waxy pallor. Her eyes were open, and she seemed to be smiling slightly. The front of her expensive white dress was covered in dried blood which had apparently originated from the precise laceration on the side of her throat at the location of the jugular vein. Despite her apparently violent demise though, she’d had the easier death.

  The second cadaver was a man dressed in a black suit. He lay on his stomach, arms straight by his sides. Where his head should have been, there was just a pulped pile of crushed bone, brain, hair and tattered skin. A few teeth, roots still attached, were scattered around the hideous remains. One eyeball seemed to peer at me curiously out of the red mess that was all that was left of Desdemona Griffith’s head.

  By now, I was almost used to this type of carnage, but somehow, this terrible tableau seemed different to what I’d witnessed before. The wound in Griff’s mum’s throat was mundane compared to the horrific sights I’d seen in the last three months. As tame as it comparatively was though, it sickened me in a different way, and I couldn’t help but vomit into a waste paper bin.

  When I’d finished voiding my stomach, I looked up and noticed the odd looking pale knife that lay beside Griff’s dad’s body. Stepping closer, I could see that the handle and blade were constructed from one singular piece rather than separate parts, and the whole object had been intricately carved and decorated. For some reason, where the blade was unmarred by Sheena Griffiths’ arterial blood, the off white, almost yellowish colour drew my attention, and I forgot momentarily about the two dead bodies I shared the study with.

  Bending down for a closer look, I could better make out the fine detail that had gone into the filigreed patterns and the twisting, vine like forms that had been carved around the dagger’s handle. It was a singularly beautiful object, obviously the work of a master craftsman.

  I had to hold it.

  At that moment, it seemed the most important thing in the world to have that exquisitely fashioned dagger in my grasp. Nothing else mattered. Not the corpses of Griff’s parents, not the evil that had destroyed my home, family and friends, not the fact that I had been changed in some indefinable yet fundamental way.

  All that mattered was that dagger.

  I suddenly knew in my heart that it was made of bone.

  That excited me.

  Kicking aside the pile of offal that used to be Desdemona Griffith’s head, I reached out and took hold of the object that filled me with a terrible, craven need.

  Once again, the world went away for a while, and I saw.

  I saw it all, and I finally understood.

  Chapter 54

  It is not normal for a King to attend the birth of his child.r />
  This child however, is special.

  Conceived during forced ritual intercourse with an imprisoned peasant woman, this child, whom he names Labhrainne James Densmore, will be the King’s protégé in the dark arts.

  The dungeon beneath the castle rings with the woman’s screams as the child is born in a rush of blood. The infant’s lusty cries join that of his mother’s for a second before the King steps forward, an ornately carved bone dagger in his hand, and with a flick of his wrist ends the mother’s wailing in a gout of crimson that splatters the stone walls of the cell, then he uses the bone wrought weapon to sever the umbilical cord.

  The squalling child is anointed in his mother’s blood and sacred rites are chanted by the King and the other assembled devotees of the coven, pledging the newborn to the same dark deity that they serve.

  Later that night, a dark winter’s evening in the year of our lord fifteen ninety seven, the King retires to his chambers high in Edinburgh castle to continue work on his latest book; a delightful, secretly ironic piece of literature condemning the very practices to which he clandestinely devotes himself.

  King James the Sixth entitles the book Daemonologie

  The child is raised in seclusion in the castle, hidden away in secret from all but his tutors and royal father who makes frequent visits to monitor his progress.

  The boy is daily instructed in the lore of the dark arts, mysticism, witchcraft and black worship. The women, themselves brought to the castle dungeons under charges of consorting with the Devil, are used as teaching tools. Blank flesh canvases upon which the boy can hone his growing skills in torture, ritual abuse and blood sacrifice.

  Twenty three years pass, during which time the boy’s father is instrumental in the publishing of the holy bible which bears his name. The King, publicly pious and regarded by his subjects and the church itself as a great champion of Christianity, finds this most amusing, and takes delight in instructing and directing the scholars responsible for updating the original text. He knows this will be the definitive version of the book, to be used throughout the coming centuries, and the thought of his influence on the supposed word of God brings him a lasting satisfaction.

  In spring of the year of our lord sixteen twenty, the boy, now a man, is given the title Earl and Sheriff of Ayr, and is sent under royal instructions to take charge of the Southern Coven and continue the tradition of ritual sacrifice in which he has been well trained throughout his youth. The sacred sacrificial dagger goes with him, along with the blessing and complete protection of the King.

  Labhrainne James Densmore quickly establishes himself in the flat southern lands of Scotland, feared and respected by commoners and the gentry alike as a ruthless lawman. Free from all consequence under the protection of the King, he is free to indulge his raging bloodlust, and this makes him a figure of awe to his acolytes who worship him with unwavering adulation and devotion. They say he is blessed and favoured by their lord Satan for the frequency and volume of his sacrifices, which are tenfold what the black priests had been offering before his arrival.

  Men and women are apprehended almost daily for the slightest of petty crimes or under false accusation of witchcraft, fear of which is rife throughout the land. Those taken are never seen again, for the Earl and Sheriff of Ayr does not believe in public trial and punishment.

  But even with frequent ‘lawful’ arrests to quench Labhrainne’s thirst for blood, his dark appetites, nurtured in the dungeons of Edinburgh castle throughout his young life, demand further satiety.

  Men and women begin to vanish without trace. Then the children begin to disappear.

  The populace of south western Scotland begins to grow afraid. Mothers hold their children close, and no one ventures out after sunset for fear of whatever devilry stalks the night.

  Still the disappearances continue, till the vanishings all across the province of Ayrshire are a nightly occurrence. The locals demand justice, and look to their protector; the noble Earl of Ayr, Sheriff Densmore, to rid them of this evil. He cheerfully answers their call for justice.

  Many are accused, arrested and publicly punished most severely before baying crowds. It pleases him to be the bringer of this fear which has inspired such madness and blood lust among the peasants. Still though, there is no cessation to the disappearances. Mass hysteria and suspicion grips the region. Vigilantism is widespread, turning neighbour on neighbour in the search for the monster, and whole families perish in blood feuds sparked by the rampant climate of hostility and paranoia.

  And still the vanishings continue.

  Meanwhile, the depths of Densmore Hall, seat of the Earl and Sheriff of Ayr, are awash in blood. The bone dagger drinks deep in the bodies of the disappeared each evening. The great furnace which burns in the mansion’s bowels runs night and day, constantly fed by a seemingly never ending supply of fleshy, dismembered fuel.

  The commoners who live in the vicinity of the Earl’s sprawling residence notice the smell of roasting pork that pervades the air around his great hall of late. Densmore finds it amusing to spread the word that he keeps a large pig farm on the extensive grounds of the house, and more amusing still to distribute generous servings of ‘pork’ to the poor, which they accept with delight, praising the good Sheriff’s generosity and kindness of spirit. They are oblivious to the torture and slaughter that nightly plays out in the hall’s depths, and which often keeps their bellies full in these fearful, hard times.

  Eventually, word of the widespread disappearances reaches the King who fears that his bastard son and protégé has lost control and is slaughtering his subjects merely to satisfy his own depraved needs, and not in the Devil’s name, as he was taught.

  The King sends word to his son. The decimation of the populace must be brought to an end as it is attracting much attention. A specially assembled troop of soldiers, led by a man by the name of Captain Hugh Cairns, arrives in Ayrshire to assist the Sheriff in bringing those responsible to justice.

  Captain Cairns, also a follower of the dark religion, also carries a message straight from the King’s mouth. Labhrainne’s royal father knows the truth of the disappearances, and orders his son to quell his appetites. He is to find a suitable scapegoat to take responsibility for the vanishings, apprehend them, then return to Edinburgh immediately with captives in tow.

  The small coastal settlement just a few miles north of the village of Ballantrae has been there for years.

  The inhabitants of Bennane Head have ever made their peaceful way in the world by living off the surrounding forest, fishing the Firth of Clyde, and trading with other nearby settlements. They are a small community, numbering forty eight souls in all, and though they have no elected officials, they recognise the man who founded the colony, Alexander Beane, as their leader.

  Beane’s wife Agnes, a woman of singular beauty and grace, is skilled in the arts of natural herbal remedies. She possesses a deep knowledge of the medicinal use of roots, plants and compounds and is a well respected healer and midwife, sought out by people from all across the region who come to her seeking cures and advice for a variety of ailments, which she provides gladly and for no return of coin nor favour.

  This morning, she has discovered she is with child again, and intends to tell her husband that evening over supper. Though he loves their eight year old daughter Marie intensely, Agnes knows Alexander has always wanted a son, as is natural amongst men, and she hopes to provide him with what he desires. She is a woman loved by many, not least by her adoring husband, who cherishes her with an uncommon ferocity.

  Not all however, look upon her with favour. In the nearby village of Ballantrae, the religiously pious members of the Kirk regard Agnes Beane with a degree of suspicion. How can it be that a woman who is never seen in church and shuns the women’s circle in Ballantrae is blessed with such uncommon beauty, a fine God fearing husband, an equally comely child and widespread love and renown? Her talents and knowledge of the application of natural cures are also known to th
e church elders, and it is not long before their jealousy and suspicion breeds whispers of witchcraft and of bargains struck with the Deil. The church elders of Ballantrae feel it is their godly duty to report any word of heathenry in their midst to their lord protector, the good Sheriff Densmore.

  It is all the reason Labhrainne Densmore needs.

  On the day the soldiers come, the peaceful existence of the settlement at Bennane Head is brutally shattered.

  They come on galloping horses, armed with slashing swords and booming muskets. The settlement’s inhabitants have never known violence, have never had to deal with any sort of attack, and are quickly beaten into submission with rifle butts, fists, cudgels and boot heels. They are rounded up in the centre of the settlement, battered, bloodied and terrified.

  Sheriff Densmore pronounces them all under arrest, names them the perpetrators of the recent plague of evil that has pervaded the land and judges them guilty of consorting with devils and of committing uncounted ungodly and heinous crimes.

  Alexander Beane steps forward and speaks out, calling out to the good sheriff and pleading his people’s innocence of any crime.

  Densmore does not speak. At a nonchalant flick of the Sheriff’s wrist, Captain Cairns trots forward on his armoured horse and casually smashes the butt of his musket into Beane’s unprotected temple. Beane drops like a stone. His wife Agnes screams and rushes to her husband’s aid, and is quickly seized by two soldiers. She struggles, and a mailed fist crashes into her face. Still Agnes fights against her captors, cursing and spitting like a furie. She manages to wrench an arm free and rake one soldier’s face with her nails, drawing blood. The soldier screams and reels away clutching at his cheek. Captain Cairns dismounts slowly, walks forward, and slams his fist into Agnes’ belly. She falls to the ground to lay aside her senseless husband, her unborn child already dead inside her.