Hell's Fire by Chris Simms

Author:Chris Simms [Simms, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General, Crime
ISBN: 9781409124108
Google: 1fiWueMkYp4C
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2007-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Peter Robson lifted the square of cardboard, pausing a second to study the worms half-buried in the compacted soil beneath. The creatures sensed they were now exposed and slowly began to probe at the earth, seeking safety below the ground.

Robson dug his fingers into the cold layer and hooked one out. Immediately it contracted to half its length and began writhing about in his hands. He could feel the ridges of its skin catching on his palm.

The magic mushrooms he’d eaten three hours before had now worked their way fully into his bloodstream and he stared at the creature, marvelling at its bizarre construction. A tube of goo; eyeless, limbless, hairless, yet a thinking creature all the same. After a few seconds its movements became calmer and it tried to extend its front tip between two of his fingers.

‘Tickles,’ Robson smiled, saliva glistening on his lower lip as he dropped the creature. He placed the flattened out box against the bare brick wall then turned to retrieve that day’s late edition of The Chronicle. It lay on the other side of the expanse of cardboard he’d spread out across the floor of the tunnel. He looked at the writing on the boxes.

Prince’s tuna. Sharwood noodles. Kellogg’s Frosties. The tiger’s chest puffed out as he gave Robson an approving nod. The young man lowered himself on all fours for a closer look.

‘They’re grrreat,’ he murmured, extracting a few more mushrooms from the tangled clump in his pocket. He popped them in his mouth, keeping it open and chewing quickly, trying to swallow them before the dusty flavour enveloped his tongue.

The layer of boxes undulated slightly as he picked up the paper then crawled back to his improvised seat. The headline on the front page was studied for a second, then the page was quickly turned, rustle of paper deadened by the tunnel’s confines. At page three he paused to bring the black candle closer.

As usual, the flame took his attention and minutes passed as he gazed at the source of light, watching tiny flecks as they were drawn across the pool of wax and into the wick. Eventually his eyes swivelled back and he had to think hard to remember what had originally caught his attention. The report on the church arson. The words kept trying to drift off the page and he had to anchor them down by running a finger below each sentence.

Following the discovery of the body on Monday morning, police are now considering the possibility that the victim died as part of a Satanic ritual.

Robson violently shook his head. That was wrong! They were spouting a loud of bullshit. They had fallen for the lies. He carried on through the report, banging a fist against the floor when he read about how the murder victim was believed to be a fan of the Death Metal scene. It was, the paper attested, an evil form of music inextricably linked to devil worship.

You want evil? I’ll show you the meaning of evil.

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