It was only recently that Damien had realised why he had been drawn to this sceptic isle.

  “Is it afternoon already?” His question wasn’t answered.

  “Do you need anything? Food or refreshment?” the same man asked. Damien shook his head. He wanted to get this over with.

  “Right, let’s get started. I’m Detective Inspector Paul Hargreaves, and this is Detective Sergeant Black.” Black glowered at Damien. Was that an attempt at intimidation? Damien would have liked Black to try that with his guts coiled around his ankles.

  “You two make a nice-looking couple,” Damien said, pleased with his own attempt at defiance. Neither officers rose to the bait. Instead, Hargreaves pulled out a disc and placed it into the recording device that rested on the table.

  “Right Damien, you’ve just seen me remove the seal and place the disc in the recorder.”

  “If you say so.”

  “This interview is being video and audibly recorded, and may be tendered in evidence if your case is brought before a court. We are in an interview room in Hammersmith Police Station. I am Detective Inspector 1791 John Hargreaves. Beside me is Detective Sergeant 1342 Dereck Black. We are both attached to the Special Investigation Unit in charge of investigating the crimes for which you have been arrested. At the end of the interview I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the discs and how you can obtain a copy of them.”

  “Peachy,” Damien interrupted.

  “For the purposes of the recording, Damien, can I get you to introduce yourself with your full name and your date of birth?”

  “Damien Morningstar. I do not know my date of birth.” That was actually true. He had no notion of when he had been brought onto this fetid planet.

  “Come now, let’s not play games,” Black admonished.

  “Unfortunately, it is the truth.”

  “And the name you use, Damien Morningstar? Is that for real?” Hargreaves was looking at him doubtfully.

  “It is the name I took for myself. It is better than what my father of record used to call me.”

  “And what was that?” Black asked.

  “Shit.”

  “Pardon, could you repeat that?” Black was also taking notes.

  “Shit, or Little Shit on a good day. The father who raised me called me Shit.”

  “Okay. For the purposes of the interview we will refer to you as Damien. Is that okay?” Hargreaves asked.

  “You can call me what you like. Except for Shit, of course. I tired of that long ago.” Damien’s smile wasn’t as infectious as he hoped it would be. “I must say, you are both being very polite.”

  “I’m glad we can accommodate you,” Black added. The sarcasm was not well hidden.

  “Damien, you are not represented by a solicitor at this interview. Can you confirm that one has been offered and that you declined?”

  “Most certainly.” A solicitor would only tell him to keep quiet. “I have so much to share.”

  “Thank you, Damien. Let me remind you that you have a right to free and independent legal advice, and you can speak to a solicitor in private at any…”

  “That will not be necessary.” Damien had no time for such legal nonsense, as he saw it.

  “…at any time, day or night. If you do want legal advice, then the interview can be delayed. If you do not know a solicitor or you cannot contact your own solicitor, then you can ask to speak to the duty solicitor. I will thus ask again. Can you once again confirm that you do not wish to speak to a solicitor at this time?”

  “That is correct.” My, weren’t they both being cautious.

  “Is there any reason why you have declined a solicitor?” Black asked.

  “Why delay the inevitable?” Damien wanted to sit back in his chair, but the chair prevented that. It felt too small for him. The room was also too warm, not the chill he preferred. “Plus, I’ve never met a solicitor that I would piss on if they were on fire.”

  “Do you know many solicitors?” Black asked.

  “You would be surprised.” He’d killed two that he knew of in his slaughtering rampage.

  “Before I start to interview you, I must caution you again.” Seriously, get on with it, Damien wanted to scream. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something when questioned that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?”

  Boring.

  “Yes,” Damien answered.

  “So, Damien, how many people have you killed?” Black asked.

  “Now that’s more like it. Why didn’t you start with that?” Damien gave a thumbs up to show his approval.

  "Just answer the question, please,” Hargreaves said sternly.

  “But where would be the fun in that? I’ll tell you what, you two come up with a number and I’ll tell you if you are close.” Damien was determined to enjoy this.

  “We aren’t here to play games. This is a serious matter,” Black said, leaning across the table. A gentle hand from Hargreaves restrained him. Interesting dynamic there, thought Damien.

  “You might not be here to play games, but I am. All life is a game.”

  “Murder isn’t a game,” insisted Hargreaves.

  “But my dear Inspector, that’s the best game of all.” Both men looked sickened by the smile Damien presented to them. “The hunt, the kill, and everything that follows. You two don’t realise that, because you have a mistaken view of the world.”

  “We have you present at the scene of two obvious murders. You were naked and covered in their blood. Your fingerprints were found on the knife we suspect was used to disembowel them. I don’t think your game has ended very well for you.” Black seemed pleased with himself.

  “I’ll admit, you have caused me some inconvenience. I do wish you could have given me more time. If you let me go, I promise to return in about, ooh, a week or three. There are people out there who urgently need killing.”

  “Somehow I don’t think we will be able to take you up on that,” Hargreaves responded. He had a cool head, this Inspector. Damien could tell. No doubt many a criminal had tried to goad him in the past, and likely all had failed.

  Hargreaves had one of those manners that would suck the information out of most prisoners.

  “Well, I had to try.”

  “Do you admit to murdering those two men?” Hargreaves was here for one thing. A confession.

  “Well you see, that’s a difficult question because I did, and I didn’t.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” It was evident to Damien that Black was too passionate about his job. The Sergeant had yet to learn the subtle skill of distancing oneself from the proceeding. It would be interesting to see how both officers reacted when Damien showed them the truth.

  “These hands,” Damien said, holding up his fingers, “are guilty of the crimes, but this mind remains innocent. A nice little riddle for you there, gentlemen.” He wiggled his sausage-like fingers in emphasis.

  “For the recording, can you explain what you mean by that?”

  “Oh, I can do better than that. I can show you. Would you like that? Would you like me to reveal one of the rare mysteries of the universe? People will flock to hear of the time you were there when Damien Morningstar revealed to the world his secret. It will be a story you can tell your grandchildren.”

  “And what secret is that?” Hargreaves asked.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” Damien seemed to shrink into himself, his face being swallowed up by his hands. The huge body began to shiver, an uncontrolled tremor running through it. Restrained as they were, both arms went into spasm, Black pushing his chair away in an involuntary reaction.

  Finally, the contractions ended and Damien lifted his head back up. His eyes were closed.

  “Damien, what just happened?” Hargreaves demanded.

  “Damien isn’t here right now,” came the response. The voice was different, lighter, not the thundering bass that had occurred throughout the interview.

  “What the hell is this?” Black demanded. In answer, their captive opened his eyes. Whereas before the irises had been a dark brown, now they were a light blue.

  “As I said, Damien isn’t here. You can call me Legion.”

  8.

  Off the coast of the Falkland Islands

  Wilson Smith had been fishing these waters for nearly ten years. As the captain of the fishing trawler, Castero, he was on the hunt for calamari in the waters north west of the Falkland Islands. The seas were rough and cold, but nothing he and his crew couldn’t handle. They were destined for a good catch, which was good news for him and his men. Despite the violence of the water, there was nothing better than being at sea.

  Unfortunately, his crew were going to be disappointed this trip.

  “Skipper?” Sitting in the comfort of his cabin, Smith was interrupted by the voice over his radio. Wearily, Smith put his book down and picked up the radio handset from the table beside him.

  “What’s up, Gary?” Gary was his first mate. A reliable man, which was who you wanted in such treacherous waters. You needed people you could rely on because this was also dangerous work and it was not unheard of for people to die.

  “Skipper, the sea…it’s pink.”

  “Probably just an algae bloom,” Smith replied. It wasn’t like Gary to worry about such things.

  “No, this is something more than that. You need to come up here and look for yourself.” There was definite concern in Gary’s voice. If Gary said something wasn’t right, you could take that to the bank.

  When Smith came out on deck, he was amazed by what he saw. For as far as he could see, the water was a bright, almost fluorescent pink. It was only now visible due to a bank of ocean fog finally clearing. That in itself had been a rarity for this region. There was a definite smell too, as if the air itself was rotten. Smith found himself almost gagging. So much for the bracing sea air he loved.

  “The fish are all dead,” Gary told him. Smith hadn’t spotted it at first, but on closer inspection, he could see the shapes bobbing in the water. Most of the fish were hidden by the algae bloom that had so obviously killed them.

  “We can’t catch anything in this,” Smith declared. This was a disaster. The fish were dead either because they had been poisoned or because all the oxygen had been sucked out of the water. Easy to catch, but no way they could be fed to any living things. Most likely every single one of them would be toxic.

  “I’ve heard from another trawler five miles from us. It’s the same there, too.” Five miles! How big was this bloom? Smith had heard of such things before, but never in waters so cold. And never so far out to sea. Normally it was associated with the run-off from land pollution. Such an occurrence shouldn’t be happening out here. They were in the middle of fricking nowhere.

  “Let’s see if we can find the edge of it,” Smith ordered. There were things other than fish dead in the water. It looked like all manner of marine life had been slaughtered. “Jesus, that smell.” Was it from the decaying fish, or was it a by-product of the algae?

  “Any idea what could have caused it, boss?” Gary asked.

  He did, but he didn’t voice his concern. He wasn’t one to share his Anglican religion, but the quote from the Bible he knew so well suddenly haunted him.

  Hosea 4:3 ...'Therefore shall the land mourn, and every one that dwelleth therein shall languish, with the beasts of the field, and with the fowls of heaven; yea, the fishes of the sea also shall be taken away.'

  No, surely it couldn’t be that.

  The waters were also unusually calm. Normally standing here would have seen Smith moistened by the spray as the boat cut through the waves.

  Further up towards the bow, one of his deck hands screamed in pain. Out of curiosity, the deck hand had run a boat hook into the water to drag out some of the thick, carpet-like goo. He’d then made the mistake of touching it.

  “What the hell happened?” Smith demanded coming to his man’s aid. In agony, the fisherman held his hand up, the flesh visibly bubbling where it had touched the algae.

  “I want everyone inside until we get clear of this,” Smith commanded. Sod finding the edge of this, they needed to escape it before someone else got hurt.

  9.

  Slough, UK

  Emily sat with Lucy on the edge of the playground. The break was nearly over, which meant they would need to be back in the classroom. She knew she was being silly about it, but being around Mrs Rawlinson made her nervous. If Emily was honest, the actual way her teacher acted had hardly changed, it was just the blackness that surrounded her.

  It made Emily feel icky to look at.

  “You’re very quiet,” Lucy said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “What are you thinking about?” Lucy prodded.

  “Stuff. Important stuff.”

  “You read too much,” Lucy advised.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yep. You read and read. It’s not healthy.”

  “How can reading not be healthy?” Emily was astonished by the idea.

  “It makes you ponder.” Lucy was clearly very proud of that word.

  “Makes me what?”

  “Ponder. That’s what you are doing now, pondering.” Lucy sounded like she was convinced that pondering was a source of many of the world’s ills.

  “I am not,” Emily insisted, though she wasn’t quite sure what she was being accused of. From the corner of her eye, she saw two of the boys in her class walking over.

  “Are you still worried about Mrs Rawlinson?”

  “No,” Emily denied. She didn’t want to talk about that. The boys were closer.

  “What are you doing alone over here?” one of the boys asked. He had ginger hair and a nervous smile.

  “We are talking, Richard. You should not interrupt ladies when they are talking.” Lucy put exaggerated annoyance into her voice.

  “What are you talking about?” Richard insisted. The other boy, Simon, hung back. Simon didn’t seem to want to be part of the conversation. He was new to the class, having only recently moved to the area. It was well known that Richard had taken it upon himself to befriend him and make sure nobody picked on him. Emily thought that was a really nice thing to do, because some of the kids in her class could be really nasty. Nobody bullied Richard though, he was too big for that. If he’d had a less agreeable character, Richard would have been the ultimate bully.

  “Politics,” Lucy suddenly exclaimed.

  “What are politics?” Emily thought Richard’s question was quite valid. What exactly were politics?

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Lucy threw her hand up and looked dismissively away. “Boys don’t understand such things, do they Emily?”

  “No. Boys only understand about farts and eating their own snot.” Emily couldn’t resist getting dragged into Lucy’s random fantasy.

  “We do not.” Richard sounded mortified. “Why are you being mean?”

  “Because it’s ‘be mean to boy’s day’. Everyone knows that.” Emily had no idea of how Lucy came up with this stuff.

  “There’s no such thing,” Simon managed.

  “Yes there is, because boys are dumb,” Emily added.

  “And they lie,” Lucy pointed out. “They lie all the time. I often can’t believe a word they say.”

  “And they sleep a lot and don’t do anything.” Emily didn’t know how she knew this piece of wisdom, but she was sure about it.

  “Sleeping isn’t a bad thing.” Richard stood with his hands on his hips. You’re wishing you’d never come over here, aren’t you? Emily thought. But you can’t figure out how to break off from the conversation. He was taking Simon round and making sure everyone had met him. And now he had to deal with Lucy when she was at her best.

  “Yes, it is. You can’t eat ice cream when you are asleep.” Emily knew this would win both boys over to her cause.

  “You shouldn’t eat too much ice cream, though,” Lucy replied. “My mum says too much ice cream will make you fat and give you a big butt.”

  “I thought you wanted a big butt?”

  “Emily,” Lucy scolded, “not a fat butt. You need to get a butt by doing squats.”

  “What the hell are squats?” Richard was lost in the maddening world of girls.

  “Squats are an exercise to give you a big bottom.”

  “Why would anyone want a big bottom?” Richard couldn’t think of anything worse.

  “It’s so Lucy can be famous on Instagram,” Emily said, although she could kind of understand Richard’s point of view. She could never say that out loud, though. Lucy was about to respond, but the bell went stating their break time was over. That meant going back into the classroom, an end to their freedom.

  Simon ran off, finally freed form the awkwardness the girls represented. Emily watched him go, running past two teachers that had gathered near the main entrance. Mrs Rawlinson was one of the two.

  It was then that Emily noticed that Mrs Rawlinson was watching the children intently, a serious look etched on her face, eyes scanning the children that were careening towards her. For less than a second, Emily felt herself catch her teacher’s gaze and a shiver ran down her spine. Then Mrs Rawlinson’s eyes fell on Simon and a sick, predatory grin formed. There really was no disguising it.

  As crazy as it sounded, the blackness surrounding Mrs Rawlinson was more noticeable today. And that blackness pulsed as if it were alive, reaching out to touch Simon as he made his way past someone who should always be able to be trusted. Emily felt her breath catch in her throat. She’d never seen the darkness so strong. It almost engulfed the top half of Simon, if just for a moment.

  “Emily, we’ll be late,” she heard Lucy say, but Emily was mesmerised. Why couldn’t anyone else see how evil her teacher was?

 

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