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Chaosium Digest Volume 37 Number 01
Chaosium Digest Volume 37, Number 01
Date: Saturday, Dec. 7, 2002
Number: 2 of 4
AN EVENING WITH ASMODEUS
Part two
The following consists of notes and Dictaphone excerpts taken from James
Aspera's personal belongings at his last known location, the thistle hotel
in Middlesbrough, roughly two months ago, with the final draft of his 'An
Evening with Asmodeus' manuscript. Nihil Industries apologizes for the
self-indulgent faux-Lovecraftian slurry of the opening few paragraphs..
P.Seth
Late September 2001
The nightmares whirl drunkenly, uninvited, from the enigmatic depths of my
subconscious. Alcohol is no adequate defense against the horrific images
that bombard and intoxicate my mind, enveloping it in a hideous mixture of
revulsion and exultation. I have no adequate term to describe the emotional
state that these ambivalent visions render, but I find myself inexplicably
torn between a pantheon of alternating reactions. Before they started I
disconnectedly felt myself slumping in an alcoholic stupor, the Brandy idly
dripping from the etiquette-defying wine glass in my hand, a poor receptacle
for an unusually fine vintage purloined for this journey from my
less-than-extensive cellar. Each droplet sparkling as it hurls itself in
suicide towards the plush but faded carpet before the fireplace. Each image
is thus etched in my mind, and now autumn is on it's way I compile every
memorable image to counteract the vividness of the horrific dreams that
overwhelm me with disturbing frequency.
I am enraptured, horrified, compelled and defied all in one rushing wave of
ambiguity. Where is the portion of my soul where I can determine and destroy
the source of such uncharacteristic ambivalence? I have faced hell and felt
nothing but hatred and fear of the vortex of inhumanity unfolding before me.
I have read bizarre, unearthly books and deduced the 21st century makeover
that the Faustian scenario has undertaken, and felt revulsion and the desire
to vomit in disgust. But there are those among them that provoke a different
reaction altogether...I can't really explain it.
These questions I pose to an indifferent universe, an uncaring starscape
devoid of compassion. No one should be surprised that I received no answers,
of course. Humanity is alone beneath the glare of alien suns, and only the
ignorant and stupid may remain in comfort as such a state continues. I am
neither, but I feel a sense of belonging amongst those malevolent figures
that stalk both my nightmares and fantasies. I understand the ambiguities in
my family's hereditary attributes. Yes, I know.
I have a sneaking, gut-churning suspicion that the writing career of James
Aspera is reaching a concomitant apex and nadir, and that soon my expiration
is imminent, at least creatively. The impulses I regulate are warping, my
perception of the natural order of the universe is expanding in unforeseen
directions and I am beginning to fear that the author James Aspera no longer
truly exists, as the material and temporal form that I call my body is
wracked with agonies of indecision. I do not care one jot about my critics.
I am above them in my reasoning and rising beneath them with the vengeance
of the abyss. What am I saying? What sort of juvenile comment is that? The
September rain is flurrying outside, pirouetting with unspoken urgency,
signifying the maelstrom of emotion and rationality beneath this calm
exterior. As I type the night has gathered, and amongst the pines that have
superseded the meager flowers of my garden I feel that half seen,
shadow-formed, amorphous reflections taunt me, and my encircling environs
have been plucked from reality for the occasion of this evening. I feel an
agate-stare piercing my soul from beyond the thresholds of four-dimensional
reality. I know who you are. I understand everything.
I am one poncy bastard. What is this overwrought garbage I persist in
writing? I really need to get some sleep for once....
I am always thankful for dreamless sleep after drinking so much, the last
few hours have been snoring head down on my desk and I can't say I feel
better for the experience, but at least grateful for the lack of nightmares.
I've just woken with a monolithic hangover. Black dots are pulsing in my
vision as I filter my sight through a haze of bleariness. My head is
pounding incessantly and my now-messy hair is stuck to my face. I can
honestly say that I feel absolutely dreadful. I've just managed to struggle
my way through that little soliloquy I scribbled down last night - Alcohol
does dangerously fatuous things to the mind I find. It's still thankfully
dark outside, and I dread the moment that sunlight is going to slash through
the window above my laptop. There is a certain predawn quality to the
outside air, mist coalescing and making the silhouettes of the stark trees
vague and enigmatic in their private gloom.
Rummaging idly through my disordered papers I realize that this afternoon I
have another dreaded, arduous book-signing session to do. I can't imagine
what sort of fan this pitiful community will thrust forth for my analysis,
but I'm going to do my best to claw through the thickening fog of hangover
and drag myself up out of the pit I have recently been intent on digging for
myself.
Glimpsing at my watch I see that it has flickered to a stop at thirteen
minutes past one, which evidently from the light levels outside is
inaccurate. The clock overhanging this dingy motel bed also appears to have
expired at this irregular time. What could be the significance of thirteen
minutes past one? Then again, I tend to find myself pondering sometimes what
the significance of anything is. The hotel appears very quiet despite the
reassurance that breakfast will be being served by now, which is peculiar I
must admit.
Considering that I'm likely to be signing books, and feigning pleasantness
to the improbable dregs of humanity that Middlesbrough promises this
afternoon, I'll take my Dictaphone for notes. Misanthropy is always good
inspiration for my writing.
Transcripted Dictaphone recording on-the-move.
Now this is unusual. I must admit with world-weariness that I've experienced
the unusual so often that I feel more at home in these circumstances than
otherwise. At least this time I don't have the jabbering, unceasingly
GBH-justifiable Matt Swindell to intrude on my cogitation with the almighty
power of the cliché. At least, I presume that his uncanny presence is
nowhere near. I have not encountered the unmistakable whiff of his habitual
combination of cigarettes, old kebab odors and the hint of impulsive gun
smoke that always adheres to that tattered leather trench coat that he
wears. Neither do I see anybody wandering around with an overly melodramatic
manner with the frenetic, irrational hairstyle that Harpo Marx should have
been buried with. In point of fact, I can't see anyone, which is the
peculiar factor. Bloody hell! It's snowing, and there's a thick carpet of it
on the ground already. Snow in September? That's a good indication if
nothing else that something unusual is going on. The streets outside are
utterly silent, and a thickening blanket of fog descending, sending seeking
tendrils tentatively attempting to penetrate the other buildings on the
street, which are in themselves, utterly silent. The cheapening light of
neon signs seems diffuse through the mist, not so much garish advertising as
amorphous, blurred clouds of pastel-coloured residue sprayed across a
constantly shifting, intangible canvas.
It's impossible to tell what time of day it is, in the perpetual gloom,
though-
**Static crackling sound muffles a startled exclamation**
I don't know if this shoddy Dictaphone is picking this up, but somewhere out
there in the fog a bell is tolling. It's deep and resonant, but seems
unimaginably distant through the layers of suffocating moisture in the air.
I can't tell what direction the church must be, and the sound feels as it is
reverberating through the ground, or echoing through the molecules of the
air itself; defying a source of origin for me to pinpoint. I think I'll
finger my revolver to ease a little bit of the nervous tension I can feel.
**Pause, followed by a rueful sigh**
I don't have doubts about my abilities as a marksman, you understand. I did
once, but they've taken on an element of Cartesian doubt hitherto
unconsidered - I no longer feel unsure about my singularly poor abilities, I
can verify that I have absolutely no talent with firearms whatsoever. This
may facilitate two options; one, my attempts to counterbalance this failing
with my developed mental acuity, and the other to run as fast as my legs
will carry me and a substantial distance after they have given up but my
determination hasn't. OK, determination, or stark terror; eliminate one term
as you choose.
**Involuntary whimper**
OK, this is becoming less and less an opportunity to exercise my prose
muscles and more a time to start panicking. I could ruminate for aeons on
the peculiar characteristics of the fog surrounding me but right now I'm
focusing on the flickers of movement I can see within it. There are
definitely figures moving around in there and they don't inspire me with
confidence. There's a syncopation to the step, a certain aimless quality
which makes me uneasy.
**Several seconds of silence**
I still can't hear anything though. There is a cessation of bells, so I
presume that whatever enigmatic purpose that signal served has been
fulfilled, or, as concerns me more, a certain cycle of events has commenced.
**Sounds of crunching snow evidently under some heavy, continuous pressure.
A hastily drawn-in breath, and a quick pattering of feet**
That was close. A dilapidated car just slithered out from the fog on burst
tires, in a mindless, undirected crawl. I saw no driver and the insides of
the car seemed as decrepit as the outside. Smoke was curling from beneath
the bonnet but the engine was utterly silent. The fog has swallowed it again
now, and I can tell neither where it came from nor where it's going.
Certainly something had to precipitate its movement, but the fog is
thickening and swirling so that not only can I not see because of its
density, the curling of its wisps and tendrils masks any hidden movements by
other agencies or objects.
**Several seconds of silence broken only by sounds of walking through the
snow**
That last statement isn't quite true. From up ahead I can see a suggestion,
diffuse and characterless, of some vaguely unusual seeming green light.
Yeah, I know, that's got to be promising, right? It is steady, unbroken by
any tale-tell pulsing or flickering, and by my estimation it appears to be
glaring from the middle of the road, though it doesn't have that focused
beam, or duality of sources, that characterizes the headlights of a vehicle.
It's still a good way off, so I'll temporarily remain quiet unless something
else newsworthy comes up.
**Two minutes of hesitant, stealthy walking through increasingly deep snow.
There is commentary in between, mostly inaudible and fractured**
The fog appears to be thinning slightly, and the green light is getting
stronger. I'm becoming increasingly unsure about it, it has a baleful
quality and an unnatural tint to it that disturbs me in some unconscious
fashion. Whatever ever is creating the light source is at least twelve feet
tall. Despite the approximate time of day, it seems to be getting worryingly
darker. The mist is swirling and coalescing into increasingly ominous forms
and with greater enthusiasm. The atmosphere is becoming distinctly tense. I
don't like this. I must say, though-
**A horrified indrawning of breath, and the sound of several hurried
backward steps**
With an electrical hissing the street is bathed with a malevolent,
oscillating green light emanating a certain emotionless sentience..I.. It's
a crucifix.a damn crucifix but I've never seen one like it! The eyes of the
cruciform Christ are crying the wash of virulent radiance like green
searchlights. Its mouth is gaping horrifically and a drooping mass of
coaxial cables spread, like artificial tentacles into vast, precisely
incised wounds in its toast-rack chest. Its crown of thorns is a mass of
grotesquely formed blades meshed together with barbed wire. The feeling
pouring off it! The mist is alive with the sound of pulsing electricity.
There are great, bloated flies circling in lazy arcs around it, but when
they come into the beam of those eyes they buzz in insectile agony and then
drop to the floor, insensible and dead! No. I'm running NOW. I-
**More hurried footsteps coming from the distance and closing. Then the
sound of Aspera rushing to intercept**
Are you hurt? What's happened? I-
**Dictaphone lifted closer to mouth**
Some trembling woman has just staggered out of the mist with a look of
unrestrained horror on her face. She took one look at the -ugh- despicable
Christ thing and collapsed in a heap. I know how she feels, as I've done the
same hundreds of times before. Falling into a horrified heap, not looking at
bloody awful crucifix things, that is. I'm going to have to turn the
Dictaphone off while I move her out of the snow to somewhere even slightly
warmer.
**Pause for thought**
Now I can just make out that that church is up ahead. That'll be marginally
more temperate, and there are no sounds from within. It's a step in the
right direction.
**A break in the flow of the tape**
**Recording restarts**
Change of plan. I've helped the woman into the vestibule of the church,
which is warmer, but I'll take her no further in. There's a distinct feel
about this church. This might be what I'm meant to have found. Oh, joy.
**Footsteps on echoing flagstones**
A dank, unpleasant and nauseating smell is washing over me from the slightly
ajar inner door of the church. It's taking my eyes a while to become
adjusted to the dimness. Eerily pale moonlight is filtering through the fog
now, illuminating inefficiently through such a stubbornly thick veil. My
shadow is lengthening, blackening the snow like the graffiti of a depressed
electrician, and the dim, towering shape of another domineering Mech-Christ
is just visible on the far wall of this alley, wrapped deeply in shadow
betraying only mere hints of form beyond the cruciform posture. I feel as if
the mechanical, cruel cyclopean eyes of security cameras are gazing
indifferently at me, the moonlight glittering on their implacable lenses. A
scathing rain is beginning to bombard the frontage of this dilapidated
building.
This is getting particularly depressing, so I'm going to go into the church
and see what fate awaits me. I know that in all probability this will rank
among the most ill-advised not to mention stupidest things I have done in my
nearly-thirty years of existence, but what the hell.
*Sounds of scuffling and the creak of bad hinges. The sound of rain becomes
muffled and distant*
The vestibule before the nave is lit by dust-smeared, inadequate bulbs
emitting the feeblest of sulphurous gleams. Ancient, barely cohesive chairs
sprouting insides with abundance line each wall, beneath tattered
advertisements for God, always cheerful and always cheap. The walls are
painted a nauseating pastel shade like hospital corridors, and a stale
oppressive smell permeates the air.
A rickety desk covered in an untidy sea of documents stands in the corner,
and if I was inquisitive I might bother to look more closely. I simply can't
motivate myself that much. Sorry. Oh, alright.
*Disgusted vocal sound*
The papers seem yellowed with age and spattered with ancient, coppery
blood. I can see that much. I'm going to head into the nave, seeing as I
don't have much alternative. I hate the sight of blood. Mine especially.
*Sounds of a heavy door being laboriously pulled open, scraping on the
floor*
The chapel is in complete, catastrophic disarray as if attacked by a
localized hurricane. Papers are scattered everywhere and spattered with
blood beneath the mercurial, sardonic eyes of a considerably
uncharacteristic looking virgin Mary, hopelessly abused by repainting. A
feeling of disconnected chaos belies the controlled atmosphere of sinister
ambience cultivated here. Silent tiers of pews lie dormant, littered with
all manner of biblical paraphernalia, all seemingly collected and then
abused in one fell swoop. An emotionless hum betrays life in a small
computer squatting in the corner. There are nasty incisions slashed into the
casing. I'm really not going to say what the screen saver is. I don't think
I know adequate words to describe it.
The air is stale and chokingly dusty.
*Hastily in drawn breath*
I think I just saw glimmering hints of machinated movement, sending shivers
of nervous tension pulsing down my spine like a rain of icy needles,
injecting me with unreasonable fear. Wait, no, it' just shadows. My paranoia
is getting the better of me, I see.
The quietly amused, enigmatic eyes of that statuette of Mary, is really
getting on my nerves.
The lights glimmering inadequately in fittings made for oil lamps and don't
so much illuminate the room as emphasize the shadows dominating the place.
*Disgusted vocal sound*
I've just noticed the crucifix hanging above the entrance, behind me. It's a
bloated, corpse-like Christ with hanging jowls, grey flesh and a tri-lobed
eye that's presiding mutely over the proceedings. It's bedecked with
cobwebs.
*The sound of pacing on flagstones*
How inescapably wonderful. There's four of the disgusting Christ figures
hanging on each wall of this building, all of them equally repellent.
They're not all identical, of course. They seem to be individual essays of
dementia from the malformed hand of one crazed craftsman; technically the
work could be called brilliant but I don't think there's a word coined in
any humane tongue to encapsulate their deep aesthetic hideousness. I'm not
so caught up in my own expressions of revulsion to notice that each Christ
has a carving inscribed on an area of the wall beneath him though. A closer
look might take my mind off things.
Transcription ends.
Late November 2001
Breathing unsteadily, and grimacing, Matt Swindell trudged disconsolately in
the chilly, chemical tinted air around the tenement clusters of central
Middlesbrough, the sickly waning light bathing the cold, cracked and somehow
diseased pavements with a jaundiced glow. The thick buckles on his jacket
glittered like a veneer of frost over polished metal. His breath made half
seen forms in the unhealthy light as he leaned tentatively against a wall
crumbled with neglect and parasitic life.
Reaching into one deep pocket he fumbled for a cigarette, mumbling an
inarticulate mantra.
Chilly spires of barbed wire poked sharply through frozen folds and hummocks
of snow, wrapped in a sinuous arc masochistic grace across the top of the
bricks. Despite the freshness, the snow was already crusted with a brittle
veneer of ice. The sharp silhouettes glinted faintly with frost, giving a
heightened impression of slim, cruel blades slicing through from beneath the
veneer of reality.
A sallow and emaciated youth wrapped in several layers of shabby tracksuit
approached, bearing a cigarette in one shivering, gloved hand and begged a
light.
The teenager proceeded to light his cigarette with an almost sadly farcical
lack of co-ordination, which Swindell observed with an expression almost at
wonder at the absurd, inadvertent technique. Elbowed carelessly by the youth
in the exchange, Swindell suppressed an eruption of profanity and tried to
prepare a more respectable retort. The youth was evidently engaged in some
sort of conversation with beings from another world, his eyes unseeing and
mouth working noiselessly. From the corner of one pocket in the outermost
tracksuit poked the tip of a syringe. Swindell frowned in moral obligation
though in truth had lost any sympathy for such people. He slouched in the
other direction and warily eyed the rest of the street, cigarette in hand.
Swindell was suddenly aware of a face peering from between two patchy and
tattered curtains, which shielded a darkened upstairs room in one of the
decaying terraced houses. He would have missed his observer entirely if not
for the last flash of the sunset collapsing in on itself, a last flash of
imagined nova, before the fire-blanket of dusk conscientiously stifled the
blaze.
Swindell recognized the apparition. It was Lomas, one of the prolific
juvenile criminals of the town that Swindell had contemptuously dealt with
in the past for various reasons.
Despite the fact that Lomas was the embodiment of violent, dangerously
stupid, pettily malicious Teesside youth channeled into one gangly and
pock-marked walking corpse, he had somehow acquired one of the county's
finest solicitors to represent him. In his frequent court cases he was
always acquitted due to dubious evidence and professed delinquent inadequacy
in executing the crimes he was accused of. Swindell knew him to be mixed up
in -contaminated by- the occult underbelly of the nihilistic teenage
quotient of townspeople.
Lomas caught Swindell's eyes and grinned a repulsive grin commonly referred
to in dentistry as the 'how not to do it' method of oral hygiene. Swindell
folded his arms obstinately and leaned back, feigning nonchalance. Of the
many things that the private investigator never expected to see, what then
happened was conspicuous as being particularly unlikely. With his long and
stick-thin arms flickering with movement like the legs of a spider, Lomas
opened his window and with a staggering lack of grace swung down to land
with the musical sound of coins scattered on ice. He seemed not to notice.
Swindell was quick enough to spot the glint of a dagger edge hastily
concealed beneath the moron's coat, and prepared his dubious musculature for
a bout of unprecedented liveliness. Not that there would be much in it;
Lomas was a mannequin for filth and in build more a collection of
coat-hangers than a man.
'Swindell, I'll level with you,' called Lomas with his irritatingly nasal,
heavily accented whine.
Swindell misinterpreted the remark.
'You could never level with me. You aren't good enough,' he retorted with an
offensive smile, and swung his fist casually and pendulously, but with
threat implicit in the action. Along with Lomas, the rest of the universe
failed to be impressed by this show of predictable laddishness; Swindell had
a dirty Mack for when it pelted with rain but no machismo for when he got
pelted with abuse. As Lomas approached Swindell verified his initial
assumption; yes, the youth concealed a knife beyond the palm and wrist of
one arm. As if catching the drift of Swindell's thoughts, Lomas with a
moderate degree of confidence and skill allowed the knife to slide into his
ready hand, which he raised in a gesture of threat rather than imminent
violence. It looked healthier than the lad's fingers.
Having guessed the clichéd predictability of the youth's actions, Swindell,
with a sudden spin, flicked the inferior combatant's knife in a smooth arc
with the tensed flat of his palm. The knife clattered uselessly into the
gutter.
He grabbed the delinquent's greasy tracksuit collar and pulled him close. An
odour of stale sweat intermingled with cheap alcohol entered his nostrils
without a passport. Lomas's disgusting breath, flavored with extra vodka,
misted around his sneer and condensed on his face, drawing moisture from the
air with it. Swindell grimaced.
'I meant that I have a proposition for you-' he started, but at the sound
Swindell threw the stick-figure contemptuously backward into the street.
'You just don't know when to give up, do you, Lomas? It'd hardly be a
challenge to break both your legs and leave you squealing on the floor. I'd
lay down my life for my work, but if you push me more I'll lay down your
life as well.'
Lomas staggered to his feet, looking strangely intent and confused at the
same time and tried to close again. He sniggered in a tone that either
branded him one of the most stupid and single-minded people ever to exist,
or someone absolutely assured of their own prevalence in the unlikely
conflict.
He leered, revealing skewed rows of yellowing teeth bleached by years of
nicotine and the thick breath that rolled out of his mouth was foul.
Swindell gagged and lost concentration as he tried to quiet the turbulence
in his stomach. Lomas took his chance and lashed out with a scuffed boot.
Swindell's eyes crossed slightly as the boot connected with a place at least
emotionally close to his heart and emitted a high-pitched whimper, fighting
the compulsion to adopt a fetal position. He still possessed enough of his
faculties to conceal his own knife at the ready without his hand shaking.
Taking another chance, Lomas extended pencil-thin greasy fingers and with an
unnerving strength in his pipe-cleaner arm held the private investigator's
neck in a grip. With a free hand and insectile speed he scribbled an
inscrutable symbol on the crumbling bricks behind, before Swindell's feet
lashed out and the youth's face bounced off the pavement with a wet crack.
After a startled cry, Lomas began to convulse with spluttering laughter.
With contempt and repulsion Swindell stood up, eyeing the youth with
undisguised disgust as the ghastly wet chuckling continued. As Swindell
stepped back he looked at the symbol scrawled upon the wall. It hurt his
vision and he remembered seeing it before. A flash of recollection seized
him - James Aspera, clothes disheveled and face pale and rain-soaked,
fearfully reached out a shaking hand and traced the outline of a symbol
written in malevolent radiance upon a basement door.
His feet gave under him as Lomas took the advantage of the reflective moment
and kicked viciously out. Swindell staggered, spun and flung a hand back
against the wall to steady himself. In an instant the youth had him by the
throat, all pretence of twisted cartoon persona drained from his face. Blood
oozed from his nose, mouth, a painful gash open on his forehead, and his
eyes glittered with the flicker of inhumanity.
He pressed Swindell back against the symbol.
The private investigator cried out in pain as explosions flashed in front of
his eyes and a spasm racked his body. With a convulsion he would have fallen
incumbent breathing heavily and irregularly, but he remained somehow glued
to the symbol, which now slithered against his back with life.
Lomas stood back, brushed himself off and shook flecks of snow from his
sleeves.
'You just don't know when to give up, do you, Swindell?' he laughed in
grotesque parody of his victim's recent diatribe. His hand flickered to his
pocket and came out brandishing a cruel looking, slightly rusted syringe
containing an unidentified, translucent liquid.
With a masochistic, malicious slowness, he traced hands over Swindell's
impotently struggling arms and selected a patch of bare skin just above the
wrist, before inserting the syringe into his arm, enjoying the feel of the
needle sliding through flesh. Swindell winced with pain, trying to free
himself.
'Have fun,' muttered Lomas through clenched teeth and injected the liquid
directly into Swindell's bloodstream. The youth stood back, speculatively
surveying his handiwork.
'What the hell was that?', gasped Swindell with each word reverberating with
fury.
'Oh, just a little substance me and some friends cooked up. It's quite
interesting, though I'm not sure you'll find it particularly enjoyable. Can
you feel that headache, that compulsive irrationality?
That's the result of nicotine addiction. You remember nicotine? It's a
highly addictive substance, which results in dependency and subservience.'
'Your point being?' Swindell managed to wheeze.
'What I just injected into you reacts hallucenogenically and emotionally
with the chemicals in tobacco to create an interesting effect. You will be
subjected to strange visions while your body goes insane and completely out
of your jurisdiction. Which is where we step in.'
'You complete bastard!'
'I knew you'd like it. Incidentally, this effect is induced both through
directly inhaling tobacco fumes while smoking, passive smoking in the
company of others and any residual fumes from everyday life will have a
proportionate effect. Exhaust fumes don't have the same effect obviously -
we are going to need you to drive at times. You won't remember this
encounter later of course, which is part of the joke. You'll continue
happily smoking to your wrinkled little black lungs' discontent and handing
the biological keys of your cosmic convertible over to us every time.'
Swindell's jaw worked wordlessly, inarticulate fury reddening his face.
'Though I must point out just to add the finishing touches to the anguish
I've painted on your face, we can't do this without you - you have the raw
materials for an active pervert. However much your indiscretions sicken you,
however much your stomach twists in the future with each successive action
you are forced to make, understand that the central component of it all is
the fact that we are merely encouraging the desires you have repressed, the
festering canker of filth that you know very well that you've tried to bury
in the confines of your own little mind. We know, you know. About the photos
you try and hide on your computer. The box of videos hidden under your bed.
Your ex-police colleagues would have simultaneous heart attacks if they
found out. Of course, it's always been your little secret. You've never
acted on your deviant desires..yet. What will commit atrocity, with our
blessing, will still be you.'
Lost for words, Swindell felt violated by the truth in those that Lomas
spoke.
Casually and with a slightly overdone sardonic expression looking out of
place on his unhealthy face, Lomas took a sliver of chalk from one of the
recesses in his dirty tracksuit and idly scrawled a complex pattern of arcs,
sigils and lettering in a roughly circular shape on Swindell's jacket.
The private investigator suddenly found the restraints on him released and
buckled into a crouch, clutching his aching torso. With a mixture of rage
and humiliation he looked up at Lomas who was strolling away.
'Why?'
Lomas turned round. Swindell leaned back.
The youth's eyes were glowing balefully with a practiced malevolence that
had nothing to do with his street character, evil red pinpoints in his face.
He lurched forward until his face was a bare foot from Swindell's shocked
countenance.
His grimace widened perversely beyond the flexibility of human facial
muscles. The teeth within that abnormally stretched mouth suddenly looked
more animalistic, or insectile.
'This is why,' he whispered in an altogether blacker voice. Then he belched
a gout of tobacco smoke into Swindell's face.
(Continued)
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