Hell Pit Page 3

  McGrath was about to leave the office when his external phone rang. Wilkinson was on the other end of the line.

  “There’s more bad news, I’m afraid,” said the engineer.

  “Don’t tell me another bomb has exploded.”

  “Not quite. We found out a couple of minutes ago that two more casualties have died.”

  McGrath felt weary with the strain. He stared out of the third floor window onto a grey September sky, lost in thought.

  “Both were elderly Paul.”

  “And that makes it all right?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. I apologise. More fatalities mean more carrion for the vultures, Bill.”

  “Vultures?”

  “The Press. They’ve already implied we were lapse in our safety procedures.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s a ridiculous allegation to make. There was no way we could’ve known the bomb existed, and nothing in our safety regulations could’ve prevented the disaster.”

  Wilkinson said, “If you need to contact me I’ll be in the underground for the rest of the day. Most of the shit has been cleared from the tube, so it shouldn’t be too long before we can get the thing moved from the tunnel. Then we can start the real work.”

  “I’ll relay what you’ve said to the Executive Committee when I see them, Bill.”

  “Rather you than me. A word of warning, the hole in the roof could be a problem. The reconstruction will have to be handled carefully. As soon as we clear the area, concrete stilts will be installed with a steel umbrella supporting the earth above. When that little job’s been done we’ll all be able to sleep more easily.”

  “Keep up the good work,” McGrath said. He ended the call and left the office bound for Northwalk Infirmary on another public relations visit. On the short drive over he pondered, not for the first time, on yesterday’s violent incident involving his neighbour, Bill Robinson. Robinson was being detained in a secure psychiatric unit unable to offer any explanation for the attack. His wife, meanwhile, was recovering in hospital from a particularly nasty head injury, whilst relatives looked after his son.

  The crosses he’d constructed in his back yard were subject to much speculation. One newspaper wrote that their differing sizes suggested Bill Robinson intended crucifying his wife and child.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They sat around the bar chewing over the day’s events as they did every single night of the week. Jed, the ex-coalminer, a diehard socialist who refused to come to terms with the failed miner’s strike of the eighties of which he was a part. Next to him sat Bill Clayton, second hand car salesman whose nagging wife didn’t understand him and never would regardless of the fact she’d known Bill since they were at school together. Then there was Eddie Wilcox; a hard man with a criminal record whom no one wanted to know, yet failed to ignore, due to his violent, boorish nature. Finally, sitting apart from them was Don Foster, normally the quietest of the bunch of hardened drinkers, who lived alone and made his living riding the underground in trains that ran automatically from signals transmitted along pick up rails.

  He’d been in the job for the past eighteen years. Up until the beginning of the month everyone would have wagered bets that he’d continue in that line of work until he retired or until such time London Transport finally dispensed with drivers. But no one had bargained for the bomb explosion, which had seen a worrying change in Foster. By all accounts he was lucky to be alive. He’d been on sick leave ever since and visited the Bull and Bush like clockwork, boozing till he was fit to drop, telling all and sundry about his religious experience in the tunnel that day.

  It was a quiet night in the East End pub. The four regulars had the place to themselves. As per usual Jed was on his soapbox blaming the woes of the world on capitalism and more particularly, ex-Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. Eddie Wilcox was quick to remind him that he was living in the past and to bloody well change the record.

  Meanwhile, Foster sat on his own nursing a large whisky. Pie eyed, he mumbled to himself incoherently, dwelling on the crash and the strange disembodied voices he’d begun to hear as a result. He’d told anyone who cared to listen that these voices belonged to angels. This he firmly believed. Unfortunately no one else did. Consequently he found himself ostracised. He’d learned the hard way that it didn’t pay to be too honest should you experience the supernatural. Hell no, it was best to keep your mouth shut, or risk being labelled a crackpot. Too bad, he thought, for the damage was done, so he may as well try to spread the Gospel, as it were; attempt to convince the doubters he spoke the truth. Trouble was; it was a mighty tall order when no one cared to even pass the time of day with you for fear of getting embroiled in a religious debate. What the hell was wrong with people; he wondered angrily, why were they so narrow-minded. He looked up from his drink and caught Bill Clayton’s eye. Clayton looked quickly away pretending not to see him, and bragged to no one in particular about his big win on the horses earlier that day.

  Clayton always won big on the horses if you believed what he said. In reality he bet often and won rarely. His compulsion had very nearly ruined his life. Everyone except his long-suffering wife knew he was deep in debt. Someone called his bluff, daring him to buy a round of drinks in celebration. The challenge left the car salesman strangely silent. At the other end of the bar Jed continued to bore with his militant socialist views. Meanwhile Foster treated himself to a fresh whisky, and concentrated on the neat little row of crosses sitting on the counter in front of him, formed from matchsticks.

  The pub dog wandered past, a mangy terrier called Eric. The dog’s name amused Foster. Why anyone would even consider giving a dog such a name was beyond him. It was like calling your son Fido. The sight of Eric had the tube driver thinking about his own dog, Tyson, named after the heavyweight boxer. The pit bull was old and riddled with cancerous tumours. Unmarried with no living relatives, Foster idolised the animal and would be heartbroken when it passed on. Not all was lost, however. If what the angels said proved true Tyson would be around for a very long time. Foster noticed Eddie Wilcox observing him.

  “What’s with the crosses?” Wilcox asked, drawing up a nearby stool.

  Foster was happy to explain, trying to repeat verbatim what the voices had said, but in his inebriated state succeeded only in confusing Wilcox instead of enlightening him. The thug was bright enough however to get the general gist. Foster, perhaps due to the accident he’d been involved in, had managed to daydream his way into the realm of the X-Files, implying he was somehow able to raise the dead. Wilcox didn’t know whether to laugh or knock him senseless for being such a self-deluded idiot. Not that his antics were really all that surprising. Foster had long been regarded as a bit of an oddity by his peers, never having had a woman of his own—or so the story went—living alone like he did with only a dumb animal for company. He struck Wilcox as the type who got his sexual kicks from books, DVD’s and the occasional visit to a seedy massage parlour. He wasn’t just sad and lonely, but was a positive danger to himself, and to everyone else. Wilcox had no qualms about telling him so. Foster’s reaction was to sneer, refusing to be intimidated.

  “You don’t believe what I say is true, that’s your problem,” he spat. “I swear to God I could kill anyone in this bar as dead as a dodo, and then bring ‘em back as good as new. Just like that!” He clicked his fingers together and grinned drunkenly.

  “Prove it,” Wilcox challenged.

  “Maybe I will,” Foster slurred. He climbed off the stool he’d been perched on for most of the night, struggled into his overcoat and staggered from the pub.

  3.

  At home he dwelled on the accident, particularly the explosion, the impact of which had decimated the driver’s cab. In the aftermath it had been pitch black in there. The air was filled with thick swirling dust. Before he was rescued he suffered a terrifying vision, showing row upon row of crucified dead freeing themselves from the crosses upon whi
ch they were suspended.

  Later, he’d been questioned by transport officials and the police, but could tell them little, before being medically examined and given the all clear. More questions followed. He’d signed a statement clearing him of any blame. Quite right too, thought Foster, for it wasn’t his fault a Jerry bomb had exploded having been stuck in the ground for seventy odd years. Reports were compiled. He’d met with his superiors who granted him sick leave and organised counselling sessions, which he’d failed to attend. No doubt he would get in trouble for that, but it mattered not for he wasn’t going to need counselling. All he needed was Tyson, but Tyson would soon by dead, he reminded himself.

  Or would he?

  If the voices were correct, Foster now mused, all hope for the dog might not be lost.

  Having fed Tyson a tin of meat mixed in with biscuits he settled down with a sandwich and a bottle of beer and watched television. At his feet Tyson whimpered pathetically. Tonight the arthritic pain was particularly bad. It upset Foster to see the animal this way. The voices egged him on to commit the deed. He procrastinated, fearing that it might not work. But Tyson would die soon anyway, he thought, and the dog was in pain. To kill him would at least end the suffering. It would be a humane act.

  Foster sipped beer and watched Liverpool trounce Huddersfield in the cup, whilst contemplating. Huddersfield pulled a late one back in the dying minutes but he no longer paid attention to the soccer game. Instead he studied his dog. He recalled the visions in which the bodies of the dead, nailed to crosses, had risen again like Christ. The voices dominated his thoughts, an unholy chorus inside his head.

  He reached a decision, calmly rose from the armchair and switched off the television set. Some things were more important than even soccer. He fetched a plastic bag from the kitchen. Death by asphyxiation was the way to go. Once upon a time he would not have dared try such a trick on Tyson. The dog would have been too strong: too powerful. It would have been he who ended up dead. Back then Tyson wasn’t old and sick however. There would have been no need for euthanasia.

  Tyson barely struggled as the bag tightened around his head. It seemed as if he was ready to accept death. Perhaps he hadn’t the will to fight or was simply too weak. When it was over Foster carried the dead animal out into his back yard and into his shed where he had a workbench. A couple of pieces of scrap timber would serve to make the necessary cross. The voices guided him. As Foster set to work he imagined how good it would feel to have Tyson back, healthy again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wilcox was waiting for him when he visited the Bull and Bush the next night. Sober, Foster regretted saying what he had. He should have kept his big mouth shut. The voices had lied—bugger all had happened. Now he had some explaining to do. He saw Wilcox as soon as he walked into the bar. Standing over six feet tall the man was hard to miss. He hoped the numbskull had forgotten their discussion or lost interest, having dismissed it as a drunken boast.

  As he reached the counter he noted Wilcox was in conversation with a chick wearing fish net stockings and a skirt half way up her backside. Her name was Sandra. Rumour had it she was the local bike. Foster ordered a drink, hoping Wilcox found Sandra more interesting than the prospect of witnessing the dead rise again. It wasn’t to be. The moment the hard man spotted the tube driver he honed in. “Are you here to prove what you were talking about last night, or were you full of shit?”

  Foster cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea. I was wrong to say anything.”

  “But you did, and I’m holding you to your word,” Wilcox growled.

  The ritual, ceremony, whatever you wished to call it, had been a complete wash out. Foster had crucified his dog, gullible idiot that he was, allowed himself to drift into some stupid trance, spouted a load of mumbo jumbo, the meaning of which was lost to him, and then waited. At the end of it all, his dog was still hanging on the cross, impaled through its neck, as dead as fuck! As for the voices, they’d been no help at all, squabbling over right of ownership of the dog’s body, as though it were something rare and precious, ignoring him, until that is, he inwardly expressed doubts about what he’d done. Then the voices had been quick to reassure. He had continued to wait for something to happen.

  Nothing had. The fact made him angry. It meant he had killed his dog for nothing. There was to be no miracle. The dog was dead and never coming back! Nevertheless, he’d stayed, at the same time questioning his state of mind. Finally he was forced to admit the whole thing had been a terrible mistake. The pub was his only refuge, it seemed. He guessed Wilcox would be there, waiting for him, but he cared not. His dog was dead, killed by his own hand, never to return. If he had to accept such a fact, then so too did everyone else. He told Wilcox what had happened. His explanation was met with scorn and derision. Wilcox wandered off leaving him propping up the bar on his own. He was furious with the voices. Wilcox should be angry about being made a fool of—Christ what about him!

  That night he drank heavily, seeking comfort from the alcohol, but to no avail. As for the pub he had called his local for the past two decades: it depressed him tonight. With Tyson gone it was as if the place was his only reason for existing. He left early for once, his mind in turmoil. What in God’s name had he been thinking about when he’d killed his pet dog!

  As he trod the cobbled path that ultimately led into his own neighbourhood he thought about the voices. Since Tyson’s crucifixion they hadn’t bothered him. The act must have brought him to his senses, he thought. He would go home and bury the dog by torchlight. To give the old boy a decent burial was the least he could do.

  He reached the corner of his street, shivering against an icy wind. It was cold enough to wake the dead, he thought hitching up his coat collar. He dreaded the prospect of confronting Tyson’s impaled form. Burying the animal would undoubtedly prove an extremely unpleasant task.

  Arriving home he went immediately to his shed, opened the side door, shone the torch inside, and suddenly frowned. The dog was no longer attached to the cross. He muttered an obscenity under his breath. So where the hell was it, he wondered looking around.

  And that was when he saw it, skulking beneath the workbench, looking very much alive. It stared at him through baleful yellow eyes, saliva dripping thickly from its meaty chops. Foster got down on one knee and tried to coax it out into the open, hopeful it would behave like the Tyson of old, but something in the way it stared told him it was different, prompting him to stand, and slowly retreat.

  “Don’s got to go now boy,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he backed slowly towards the door. “I’ll be back in the morning to give you a feed. How’s that old fella?” He started to turn, suddenly hopeful he would escape the threat presented by the dog. “See you in the morning,” he said as he made to push open the door. “See you in the morning...”

  Without warning the dog lunged, snarling viciously before clamping its powerful canine jaws around his thigh. Foster screamed in shock and pain and fell back. Floored by the ferocity of the attack and mortally injured as a result, he became easy prey for an animal that wasted no time in moving in for the kill.

  Rain beat steadily down against the shed roof as the creature settled down to feed.

  Foster’s body was discovered days later, minus its vital organs, the skull brutally cracked open, relieved of the brain. A police investigation revealed his final hours were spent boozing in an East End pub where he made drunken boasts about being able to raise the dead.

  Police forensic concluded he had died from blood loss caused by a savage dog attack. The finger of suspicion was pointed at his pet pit bull which, coincidentally had since gone missing. The local press ran with the story, linking it tenuously to the bomb blast in the London underground, with the melodramatic headline, UNDERGROUND CURSE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM!

  CHAPTER SIX

  St Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church stood in the small parish of Northwalk. A quaint rough stone building in the English
Renaissance style, its weather beaten steeple pointed to the heavens like an archaic space rocket. It was not the first church to be constructed on that spot. Several places of worship had occupied the site at various intervals prior to the construction of St Anthony’s. Buildings where noblemen and peasant alike had had opportunity to praise the Lord, and ask forgiveness of their sins.

  During the mid-seventeenth century, when the Stuart’s reigned and witch burning was rife, a nonconformist church then occupying the land burned down leaving only a crypt to the rear of the destroyed building intact. The reason for the fire was unknown, any evidence pointing to motive having died with the last embers of the blaze to be scattered with the ashes. Not until the end of the eighteenth century did work begin on the present church.

  St Anthony’s was an auditory church designed to accord with the new concept of worship and religion. It was of a classical design, barn like, having a single rectangular room with no screen dividing it into chancel and nave, and no arcades. A railed altar stood against the east wall, and a pulpit that overlooked the font and rows of box pews that furnished a floor of black and white marble. The rectory, with its austere rambling appearance was added sometime later, positioned a stone’s throw from the church for the sake of convenience.

  Father Patrick Donnelly, a ministerial veteran, was relatively new to the small parish, having been transferred from his old stomping ground the previous year. The reason for his transfer, the suddenness and apparent pointlessness of which had stunned his previous parishioners, was known only to himself and his superiors. As he was approaching retirement age it was widely assumed he’d been given a less strenuous posting as a reward for his many years of devout service to the Church in a lead up to being put out to pasture. The elderly priest projected himself as a kindly God-fearing man devoted to the Church, and its followers.