Urban Occult Read online

  Urban Occult

  Edited by

  Colin F. Barnes

  Published by Anachron Press

  All Rights Reserved

  This edition published in 2013 by

  Anachron Press —United Kingdom

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First Printed 2013

  Artwork: Sarah Anne Langton

  Copy Edit/Proofreading: Russell Smith

  Website: http://www.anachronpress.com

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/twvbn

  Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/AnachronPress

  Just Another Job

  Gary McMahon

  They waited for an hour after the lights went out before making their move.

  “You ready?” Terry’s eyes glinted in the darkness of the car, reflecting the light from a streetlamp on the corner. He leaned forward in the driver’s seat, picked up a packet of cigarettes from the dashboard, and then leaned back again.

  “Yeah. I think so.” Eddie took a deep breath. “I’m a bit nervous.”

  Terry smiled. “You’ll be fine. Just remember what I said and follow my lead. We’ve been through every fucking scenario on this one, so we know what we’re doing. Yeah?”

  Eddie nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Seriously.” Terry slipped the pack of cigarettes into the inside pocket of his jacket. “It’s a piece of piss. Just another job.”

  “My first job,” said Eddie.

  “The first of many.” Terry opened the car door. The internal light went on, making Eddie blink. “Let’s go.”

  They were parked a hundred yards away from the house. It was old, dilapidated. The nearest neighbour was a mile away, on the outskirts of the village.

  “Why do you think he lives all the way out here?” Eddie walked slightly behind Terry, letting the older, more experienced man lead the way.

  “He’s a nonce, isn’t he? What better place to do a nonce’s work? It’s isolated. There’s nobody to stick their nose into his affairs. No police around to spot his comings and goings.” Terry stopped at the gate, walked along the wall to the side of the old detached building, and climbed over the wall.

  Eddie took one last look along the road. The streetlamps were spaced far apart, creating pools of darkness between. There was no traffic. There were no other lights to be seen. Just miles of bleak Northumberland countryside, and beyond that, the rest of the world. He followed Terry over the wall.

  “Keep down low.” Terry was crouching as he moved. He was light on his feet for a big man.

  “Okay… I’m trying.”

  They approached the side of the house and went along the wall, towards the rear door. The garden was cluttered with debris: old bicycle frames, a box freezer with its door torn off, and several televisions sets with shattered screens.

  “What a fucking mess.”

  “Like a rubbish dump or something.” Terry glanced over his shoulder, grinned, and continued. He stopped when he reached the back door. It was mostly glass panels, with thin strips of timber between them. The paint was curling off like the skin of a rotting fruit.

  Eddie squatted down on his haunches to wait. He watched as Terry took a bundle of what looked like an array of thin metal pins on a key ring from his jacket pocket. He took his time selecting one, and then tried it in the lock. When nothing happened, he went through the selection process again. It took him seven attempts before he hit on the right one. The lock clicked. The door popped open when Terry leaned his shoulder against it, pressing with his considerable body weight.

  “Bingo,” he said, softly, and then ducked inside.

  Eddie shut the door behind him and surveyed the room. It was a kitchen but it didn’t look like a fit place in which to prepare a meal. The floor was filthy, coated with a layer of trash from the overflowing bins. The white goods were anything but white: most of them were covered in dark stains. The walls had slogans daubed across them, words painted in a foreign language. There were drawings, too, most of them sexual. Erect members, open vulvas, crude representations of breasts. Eddie looked away. He was glad it was too dark for Terry to see him blush.

  The only light in the room came from a small portable television on the table, which was surrounded by dirty pots and pans and plates, empty tin cans, and broken packing crates. The television was set on top of a VCR machine. Images played across the screen. They were fuzzy, badly-lit, and barely discernable. But Eddie felt his stomach clench when he made out what looked like a man tying a small, naked child to a mattress…

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  He nodded towards the table.

  “Fucking hell… at least we know we’ve got the right man.”

  “Was that ever in doubt?” Eddie stared at him, unable to make out his features in the spastic TV light.

  “No. Mr Rowan doesn’t leave anything to chance. It took him a lot of time and money to track this bastard down. He only sent us here once he was sure.”

  Eddie nodded.

  “Come on,” said Terry, keeping his voice low. “The stairs must be this way.” He made his way across the room, avoiding the worst of the mess and trying to ensure he didn’t make a sound.

  Eddie followed, less confident, much more cautious. He didn’t want to mess this up.

  When Terry went through the door and into a long, dark hallway, he stood upright. He reached inside his jacket and took out his gun. Stopping and turning, he indicated that Eddie should do the same.

  Eddie stopped moving. He took the small handgun out of the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. It felt funny in his hand—heavy, unfamiliar. He’d used a knife before, but never a gun. This was new to him. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

  Terry continued along the hallway. On the walls were framed photographs of old men and woman in weird leather bondage outfits, standing with children not more than eight or nine years old. All the children were wearing gags or muzzles, like dogs. They were either naked or wrapped up in sheets. Eddie tried not to look at the photos, but his gaze kept being drawn back to them.

  Terry stopped, turned around. He put a finger to his lips and waved the gun in the direction of another doorway. The door was open. Twitchy light spilled out over the threshold, making a white puddle at his feet. He nodded.

  Terry held up his free hand, making a fist. He counted off the seconds by raising his fingers, one at a time: one, two, three. Then he moved.

  Eddie followed him without thinking. He didn’t want to think, not about this. It was strange; there was something going on here that he didn’t quite understand. It was better to just follow, keep his head down, and do his job. Make a good impression on his first time out. Next time it would be easier. It would be better.

  The man was sitting in an armchair in front of a big flat-screen television. He didn’t even look up when they walked in, just kept staring at the screen. The jittery light splashed across his naked, overweight body, illuminating the blood that was smeared across his arms, legs and shaved chest. He was wearing a paper crown on his head, the type that comes inside Christmas crackers. The only clothing he had on was a pair of argyle golfing socks.

  “Don’t fucking move.” Terry walked to the centre of the room, pointing the gun at the man.

  The man didn’t stir.

  “Look at me.”

  The man did as he was told, but slowly. He didn’t look afraid; he was smiling.

  Eddie didn’t want to look at the screen, but his neck muscles seemed to m
ove of their own accord, carrying his head around to stare directly at it. The images he saw there were similar to the ones he’d seen on the set in the kitchen, only the situation had become more intense. Things had moved on. The sound was turned down, but he could see the small boy screaming.

  “Turn that fucking shit off.” Eddie wasn’t even aware that he had spoken until he heard his voice, and was surprised at the anger he heard there.

  The man in the armchair continued to smile.

  “I said…” He raised the gun and pointed it at the man. “Turn it off, you fat cunt.”

  The man slowly reached out a hand and picked up a remote control from the coffee table at the side of the chair. He pressed a button and the screen went blank, the sickly light vanishing. Eddie waited for his vision to adjust. He didn’t lower the gun. The man sat in the darkness, waiting.

  “Calm down,” said Terry, not taking his eyes off the man.

  Eddie nodded.

  “You’re Nicholas Hastings.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re forty-eight years old, retired from your job in the city five years ago, and you abduct and murder children.”

  The room filled with silence. Like a balloon nearing bursting point, the room began to swell.

  “Well?” Terry took a step forward, towards the man in the chair. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  Hastings shrugged. “You seem to be saying enough for the both of us.” His voice was smooth and steady. “I mean, you already seem to know everything about me.”

  “Oh, we know a lot about you. Mr Rowan knows a lot about everyone, you see. Especially those who do things they’re not supposed to.”

  Hastings didn’t respond. He just sat there, his fat belly resting on his flaccid thighs, his small cock curled up like a sleeping snail.

  “Do you know why we’re here?”

  Hastings nodded. “Is it about… the children?”

  Terry sighed. “One particular child.”

  “Oh, yes? So this isn’t some random vigilante hit squad? You and your chavvy little friend here haven’t been hired to kill me because of all the little ones?”

  “No,” said Terry. “Just one of them. His name was Peter. He was Mr Rowan’s nephew. I’m sure you remember him. He was a Down’s Syndrome kid.”

  Hastings began to laugh, but silently. His broad shoulders hitched up and down and his man-breasts shuddered. “Oh,” he said, finally. “Oh, my, that’s priceless. All those kids I murdered… all those pretty little sacrifices… and this is about one fucking retarded child.”

  “I’m glad this amuses you,” said Terry. Then he shot Hastings in the left kneecap. His gun was fitted with a silencer, so it made only a small popping noise. The bullet shattered his kneecap. Hastings grabbed at the wound. Blood spilled between his fingers. He yelped like a dog, and then started to moan.

  “There’s one other thing,” said Terry, smiling. “We haven’t come here just to kill you.” He waited a beat. “We’ve been told to torture you first.”

  Eddie lowered his gun.

  “Tie him up,” said Terry.

  Eddie moved forward, taking the plastic ties out of his tracksuit pocket. Hastings was still trying to stop the flow of blood from his shattered knee, but he didn’t struggle much as Eddie pulled his arms behind his back and tied his thumbs together with the toggles. Then he bent down and took off the man’s socks, before using a larger tie to bind his big toes together. He pulled it tight. Hastings squirmed, but he had fallen silent.

  Eddie stepped away from the prisoner. He was glad to be out of his immediate proximity. He smelled of old fires and some kind of musky flower. His skin had been cold to the touch.

  “Good work,” said Terry. He lowered his gun but kept it in his hand.

  Eddie looked around at the walls. There were framed pictures in this room, too, but most of them were paintings depicting witches’ Sabbaths, goat-legged men dancing through fires, or giant people crushing ancient dwellings beneath their feet.

  “Nice paintings,” said Terry.

  “They’re old.” Hastings looked up. His face was pale. “Worth a lot of money… most of them aren’t even registered in any museum listing. They belong to sacred orders.”

  “Lovely,” said Terry. He sat down in a chair on the other side of the room, close to the door. He rested his gun in his lap.

  Eddie was staring at a mounted goat’s skull on the rear wall. The skull had been painted black. It had silver ball bearings for eyes.

  “We expected you to be in bed,” said Terry, running his hand along the barrel of the gun. “We waited ages before coming inside.”

  “I was busy,” said Hastings. “In the middle of something. Decided to take a break and watch some telly.” He smiled again, and it looked dangerous: the grin of a shark. Eddie squeezed the handle of his gun, seeking reassurance.

  “So.” Hastings sat forward in his chair, opening his legs to display his hairless balls and penis. “Who is this Mr Rowan?” He was doing a good job now of hiding the pain. Blood dripped down his leg but he paid it no heed.

  “Let’s just say he’s a man not to be fucked with.” Terry picked up his gun and crossed his legs. “Eddie. Get the pillowcase, would you?”

  Eddie pulled the pillowcase out of his pocket, unfolded it, and walked over to Hastings. He opened up the pillowcase and put it over the man’s head, trying not to be disturbed by the way he’d stared at him before his eyes were covered.

  “Nice one.” Terry uncrossed his legs.

  “Is there really any need for this?” Hastings’ voice was only slightly muffled. “I’ve already seen your faces.”

  Terry laughed. “This is for our protection… we don’t want to look at your fat, ugly mug.”

  Eddie walked to the window, opened the curtains a crack, and peered outside. The road was still empty. One of the streetlamps—the one directly opposite the house—had gone out. For some reason this unnerved him. He let the curtain drop and turned away from the window.

  “Wait here,” said Terry, standing. “I’ll go and get the tools.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  Terry stared at his face, his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you on about, son? You stay here and watch this prick; I’ll go out to the car and get the tools. Don’t make this complicated. I don’t like complications. This is nice and simple. We hurt him, we kill him, and we dump the body somewhere it won’t be found. Simple.”

  Before Eddie could respond, his partner had walked out of the room.

  Eddie turned around and stared at Hastings. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t making a sound. His chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed. His knee was still bleeding, but not as heavily.

  “Are you afraid?”

  The question took Eddie by surprise, so he answered on impulse. “What?”

  “Here. Now. Are you afraid?”

  “No,” said Eddie, pacing. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Then perhaps you should be.”

  At that moment, Terry came back through the door. He was carrying a small scuffed leather case, the type doctors have in old films. He set it down on the chair where he’d been sitting earlier and opened it. Then he took out a claw hammer. He hefted the hammer, tested its weight. Nodded. “This’ll do for starters,” he said.

  Eddie nibbled his bottom lip. “Are you doing this bit?”

  Terry nodded. “Bit much to ask of you on your first time, son. I’ll do the dirty work; you can help me clean up the mess after.” He smiled. His teeth were uneven.

  “Thanks,” said Eddie, taking two steps backwards so that he was standing in front of the television set.

  Terry walked over to Hastings and looked down at the top of his white-covered head. “This is going to hurt you more that it’ll hurt me,” he said. It sounded like a line he’d used before, or perhaps he’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror just to get it perfect.

  Hastings was silent. He remained that way even when Terry swung the hammer and brought it do
wn on the side of his head. The naked man pitched sideways in the chair, but he didn’t cry out. He just lay there, breathing heavily, as if in a trance.

  “What the fuck?” Terry swung the hammer again. This time it smashed Hastings’ collarbone. But still he barely reacted to the blow. His body shuddered, but he didn’t make a sound.

  “Why isn’t he screaming?” Eddie took a step forward, then changed his mind and stayed where he was. “He should be screaming… that must fucking hurt.”

  For no reason that he could pinpoint, Eddie glanced sideways, towards the door. Hastings was standing there, his hands and feet untied, his head draped in the creased white pillowcase but with that silly paper crown over the top. He looked back at the chair, and the fat man was still there, leaning on one side. When he looked over at the door again, there was nobody there.

  “He can’t be dead,” said Terry. “Not yet. I’ve barely even fucking started.”

  “Something’s going on here.” Eddie rubbed his hands down his thighs, trying to wipe off some imaginary dirt. “I don’t like this… I don’t fucking like it.”

  “Shut up,” said Terry, turning to face him. He was breathing hard; his face was damp with sweat. He turned back to Hastings and grabbed the pillowcase, tearing it off the man’s head. Hastings was smiling. His eyes were open wide but he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in the room. His gaze was seeing much further than that, locked onto a place miles beyond these walls.

  Terry bent over and grabbed the man by his throat. “What the fuck are you playing at?” He shook Hastings but got no response. “Speak to me, you cunt!” he shoved Hastings back against the chair and sprang backwards, dropping the hammer. It slammed loudly on the floor.

  Hastings slowly sat up straight. His eyes came back into focus. He had returned to the room. “I wasn’t finished.”

  “What?” Terry was still struggling for breath. His voice was a whisper. “What are you on about?”

  “That thing I was doing. The thing you interrupted when you came here. I was right in the middle of it.”