Keeping an Eye on Hell - BD4

by Fleedleflump

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

Background
Mike Radshaw's sacrificed 2 friends and a hideous gypsy crone trying to protect an Angel's baby. Now Death Demon Mr Black has the child and he must rescue it.

My hands felt like I'd been tossing off hedgehogs, and the bastards spunked acid. Quantum's grip, with its evil gypsy instigator, left raised welts stinging on my skin in the shape of his fingers. Still, the renowned psychic hadn't gotten off easy - I left him whimpering as he nursed blackened skin and fingers like pork scratchings. He told me channelling spirits sometimes left a mark on him, especially if they were violent or angry. Like mosquitoes, they deposited their psychic sewage while they were latched to him, leaving an irritating spot.

The old crone did the spirit equivalent of opening his head with a can opener, squeezing out a massive dump in his skull cavity, and reattaching his scalp with a staple gun.

I called St Thomas' hospital to ask about Amy's condition, but all they could tell me was she was in surgery. I hung up and walked, head hunched down against a London summer shower, towards the nearest underground station. The rain stank like sulphur and defeat - the vestiges of a dirtier age, whiffs on the air like the ghosts of smog. For the first time in years, I felt utterly alone.

The weight of my gun made itself known from the shoulder holster under my coat. My only friend - a solid weight against the darkness - but about as trustworthy as a paedophile at a 1Direction concert. Giving guns to people seemed like sitting a child in front of a big red button marked 'global thermonuclear war' and telling them not to push it. Grant a man power and he'll find a reason to use it. One moment's chaos was all it took to steal a thousand tomorrows.

I smiled to myself, realising Amy would be telling me to snap out of it if she was around. The gun in my coat was probably the silliest garment since jeans that are actually designed not to fit round the arse, but I wouldn't be without it. Bullets did fuck-all to angry demons, but I'd been reared on a diet of Die Hard and Lethal Weapon, bred to believe firearms solved problems. In terms of my confidence, that felt true.

The rain caressed my face like a grease-caked glove on the hand of an inexperienced lover; warm, oily and grimier than a cat litter facial scrub. In a moment utterly against common sense, I was actually happy to get inside, even though 'inside' was a tube station. I jumped on the Circle Line - a metaphor for my life - and squeezed into a spot between armpits. It was approaching rush hour, so the trains were busier than Charlie Sheen's dealer, but the affected anonymity of a London crowd felt appropriate. The guy pressing close in front let out a fart like a nasal jackhammer then pretended not to notice. I laid my head on his shoulder and snuggled up, groaning appreciatively, knowing he had no space to escape. By the time I left the train at Embankment, he was sobbing softly, his gaze far away.

Mission accomplished.

I strode across the Thames on the bridge between Charing Cross station and the South Bank. The water lurked beneath me, lapping at its banks with intent. If the gypsy woman was right - and she had to be, because I had no other leads - I was almost at my destination. It turned ponderously through the skyline ahead of me, dominating the view.

The London Eye - designed to play second fiddle to the millennium dome, but it ended up conducting the orchestra. Who knew a poshed-up fairground attraction would come to define a city? As it turned out, the Eye was named more appropriately than anybody knew. It took forty eight minutes to turn a full rotation, which was exactly how long the elevator beneath it spent descending to the door into Mr Black's domain.

It's a lock, Mr Radshaw - a lock on the most important of all the doors. The Knights have tried to claim responsibility, but the London Eye was orchestrated at levels far beyond their understanding. Previously, access was only possible via a guarded tunnel from the bunker deep beneath Downing Street, but it seems even Prime Ministers can be too curious for their own good. Your hand will open Black's door, just as it does the other runed portals, but the entrance at the base of the Eye is guarded by entirely more human forces.

I studied the sensation roiling in my stomach as I walked. It felt like a bowling ball formed from snot, wire wool and a hundred bad curries, and my guts were not happy about it. It seemed like fear was my constant companion these days - not surprising when you've seen all the awful crap I get to deal with. It's come close to driving me insane once or twice. Hell, it might have succeeded - I mean, how would I know? Thing is, when you've got indigestion twenty-four-seven, it stops being debilitating and just integrates into your everyday reality. I was frightened like a lame dormouse in a nest of vipers, but the terror was just a tool on my utility belt.

"Suck it up, Mike. You can do this." I didn't talk to myself nearly as often as I used to, but without Amy's voice at the other end of a phone call, I needed to hear the words.

I descended the stairs to the bank and approached the base of the Eye, ignoring the absurdly long queue and heading down to one side. I passed the concrete base and threaded my way between giant metal supports, and then ran out of ground. Funny - she didn't think to mention this. The rear side of the foundation was actually out above the water of the Thames - a river so dirty, poo would swim upstream, salmon-like, to avoid being emptied into it. A description from a Terry Pratchett novel came to mind, of the river Ankh - the only river whose water could be picked up with a net. I was pretty sure the Thames inspired that.

Still, there was nothing for it but to take the risk. Between falling in the Thames and a black apocalypse for all mankind, there was genuine debate to be had, but I wasn't about to leave the baby to its fate.

I hugged one of the massive, white steel beams holding several hundred people up in the sky and swung myself out over thin air. My stomach lurched when my shoes failed to find any purchase, but I hung on grimly and resisted the urge to scramble. A glance back at the queue showed whole swathes of people managing to look in the opposite direction. City folk are adept in the art of not noticing anything that might cause complication or hassle. While I was distracting myself pondering the de-socialising effect of urban life, my sole found a crack between metal sections. It was just enough to get a corner of rubber into, so I inched my way round the support beam.

The water lapped hungrily beneath me. A glance at the back of the giant wheel showed me a shadowy alcove set into the concrete base, a few inches above the shifting river. It was designed to be invisible from almost any angle - unless you happened to be dangling from a metal support beam like a fucking idiot.

Creeping round the support until my back was to the alcove, I took two fast breaths and threw myself backwards. For the merest second, I thought I'd missed and envisioned being sucked beneath the water, a victim to the twin threats of current and general skankiness. Then my heels struck solid ground and I crashed to my arse in the alcove, skittering into the shadows in case anyone happened to be watching.

Feeling my way round a corner, I found myself in complete darkness, deafened by the thunderous rumbling of gears and pulleys from inside. I lit up my phone to use as a light and studied what appeared to be a smooth concrete wall. A chuckle rose in my throat but I suppressed it, sensing the futility fuelling it.

My arsenal included an automatic handgun and a biting sense of sarcasm. If I had to break through a solid masonry block, they were about as much use as a marshmallow pickaxe. I briefly considered hurling some of my best insults at the wall - perhaps I could break down its confidence at a molecular level.

"Nah," I muttered, remembering playground confrontations. "That only works on people."

Another memory rose - of a street gang holding me at gunpoint, trying to make me lead the way through an underground doorway for them. I shit myself that day - literally as well as figuratively. When you blindly put your hand through a portal and something shreds it, bowel control is suddenly way down on your list of priorities. My genuine horror in that moment - combined with shaking my suppurated digits in my captors' faces - saved my life. The encounter also left me with a demon-infused hand, able to open the secret portals dotted around London. It was an ugly hand, with skin so grey a zombie would be embarrassed and a terrible habit of flipping people off.

Okay, so that last bit wasn't down to the demon taint.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I raised that hand and gave the wall before me a solid middle finger salute. Once I was certain it'd got the message, I placed my palm flat against its surface and pressed gently.

Vibrations threaded through my fingers and drew lines of excitement along the edges of my bones. When the electric sensation reached my lungs, I breathed in a great lungful of air that felt like swarming bees in my chest. Yep, there was something dodgy about this wall, alright. That, or I'd unwittingly set up an insect sanctuary in my chest cavity.

The concrete shimmered and runes glowed black, showing up like clusters of spider legs crawling across my vision. Layers of grey shifted and swam until my stomach churned, darkening as the texture beneath my fingers altered. After a few moments, they settled into stillness and I found myself with a hand pressed against a timber door, its ancient, knotted surface rough and harsh beneath my skin. The runes were sunk into its surface, black as a pit in midnight's nadir. I was very glad I couldn't read them. This was more familiar territory - a creepy door leading somewhere I didn't want to go but went anyway.

With two deep breaths, I ignored that bole in my stomach that throbbed and scratched and told me to run, pushing on the demonic door. It creaked and gave way to the pressure, swinging ponderously away from me to reveal a room beyond. I wondered what I'd find - a slavering monstrosity, waiting to pluck my face from my skull; a black void ready to suck me into some terrible dark dimension; a group of knights who'd ambush me and dish out a good kicking.

Instead, I strode forward into a well-lit room that looked like a building entrance lobby. Two guards slouched behind a reception desk and a single elevator faced an entry door across the space in front of them. I'd come into the room behind the two guys, who were apparently oblivious to the groan of geriatric hinges I'd had to suffer. Realising they weren't aware of me, I stood stock still to eavesdrop, wondering what hideous demon's plans they might be discussing.

"I'm telling you, mate," one was saying. "She's got the best rack this side of the Dartford Tunnel. You gotta go a long way for fitter tits than them."

The other tutted as if in disgust. "Dude, it's all bra. Take it away and they'd be bouncing off her knees. Seriously - forget the rack. Always check out the arse. It's the only true measure of a fit bird."

"Arses are all well and good, but you can't bury your face between them and do the jiggle shake."

"You could," laughed his companion, "but you might get hepatitis."

"You're sick, mate. I mean, what kind of nutter doesn't like big jugs?"

"Dude, I love jugs - just not hers."

I couldn't take any more of this. "Sorry to interrupt," I said, "but I don't think you should talk about Ann Widdicombe that way."

Jugs-Lover guy jumped six inches in the air and Arse-Man fell off his chair. "Who the fuck?" shouted the jumpy one, now on his feet, fumbling inside his jacket.

I had about five seconds to contain this before their wits returned and they set about perforating me. "I need to get through here," I said, flashing my ancient, long-outdated police warrant card for exactly one tenth of a second.

Jugs-Lover opened his mouth to speak again, so I cut him off.

"The name's Radshaw - Supernatural Affairs. That's a department, not an internet dating service for vampires. You have to let me through, or it'll be curtains."

"Curtains?"

I nodded. "Velvet, with lace filigree and blackout lining."

"What?"

"Exactly."

"Hang on a minute." Jugs-Lover held up a finger.

I didn't give him a chance to continue. "Look, I'm not making this up."

"Eh?"

"Seriously - some people actually say 'it'll be curtains' and I can't explain it. Now, which one of you is going to accompany me?" I strode past them while they shared uncertain glances, heading for the elevator. "Come along, one of you. We can't keep 'his highness' waiting now, can we?"

"You got clearance?" asked Arse-Man, heading over. His gun was out, but he held it casually at his side - I wasn't currently a threat.

"Code Alpha, Level 6, Spectrum Priority," I said, hoping my eyes didn't look as manic as my brain felt. "The nail on my big toe outranks you, son. Now get this door open."

He pulled keys from his belt and slid a chunky one into a hole by the lift doors. He slumped slightly before turning it, looking at me. "I never actually opened this before. The bossman always does it himself. He said we should keep our eyes open."

"Quite right."

He turned the key and the doors parted with that subtle swish only the most mind-numbingly expensive technology manages to make. I strode into the bright silver interior with a lion's presence and a rabbit's confidence. Thankfully, Arse-Man followed me in without my needing to speak - I didn't trust my voice right then.

The panel held only one button, and it was entirely red. I was mildly surprised not to see a glowing skull in its centre. In my mind, a sign underneath it read 'Heart of Darkness' but my mind was unreliable right now.

"Off to see Mr Brando's head," I muttered, and pressed the red dot with my thumb.

The dampers were good, because I barely sensed movement, but my feet felt instantly lighter - this thing was going down faster than a Thai stripper with green cards in her eyes.

"What's going on here?" said Arse-Man uncertainly.

I turned and kneed him in the bollocks as hard as I could, then retrieved his gun as he slumped, gagging, to the floor.

"Your unlucky day, mate," I said. "Sorry about that. Problem is, you have things a bit backwards. The bossman, as you call him, is the guy you're here to keep in. Sounds to me like you let him come and go as he pleases. And that," I nudged him with a toe, "is bad for your balls."

He groaned and dribbled, but managed to speak. "Mr Black's not normal, dude. He's a proper mean, scary motherfucker. You know how fucked you are right now?"

"Oh, I've been fucked, impregnated, given birth and watched the devil grow into a seriously disturbing doppelganger. There's no hope for me, mate. I lost the battle long ago. I'm here for other reasons." I matched the guy's hurt gaze and shrugged, cocking his gun for effect.

"I got a score to settle."

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I hope you enjoyed the read :-).

After talking to Lyenochka about my books recently, I wanted to revisit this 8-part story and re-promote it for those who haven't read it before.

I'll revive a chapter every few days.

Previous Mike Radshaw stories can be found in my portfolio. They are (chronologically);

Satan Claws
The Door
Nuts, a Mike Radshaw Story
Mike Radshaw and the Demon Assassin

I write in UK English with some slang. Please feel free to ask if any of it baffles.

Mike
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Mike Radshaw heads for Mr Black's domain

A chapter in the book Mike Radshaw and the Black Dawn

Keeping an Eye on Hell - BD4

by Fleedleflump

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