Fireproof (8 page)

"Fine."

The imp evaporated and Mike took his time finishing his shave. Afterwards, he made himself a cup of tea and sat at the table to think about his day. He had intended to break the ice with the Goths that lazed about the gardens of Belfast City Hall that morning. They'd be an easy enough target for Satanism so he could probably delegate that to Tony, if the youngster would agree to tone down his Hood characteristics. They looked dangerous, but most Goths were timid, middleclass kids with a bad haircut and awful fashion sense. Tony would probably frighten them easily if he approached them wrong. He'd have to leave the happy-go-lucky skater kids for another day. Tony would be doing well if he could recruit one group in a day.

He lifted the mobile Jim had hooked him up with and called Tony.

"What time is this to be phoning anyone?" Tony punctuated his abrupt question with a yawn.

"It's ten in the morning. You should have been up hours ago."

"I only got to bed at eight. What's up, big lad?"

"I need you to talk to some people for me today. Some potential members."

"Who?"

"The Goths."

"Those weirdoes? I can't be seen talking to them."

"Don't think of it as socialising. Think of it as recruiting. You know that this thing is bigger than just the Hoods. We need people from all walks of life."

"Can I take a few mates with me?"

"Just a couple of the girls, Tony. I don't want you scaring them."

"Right, okay. What will I tell them?"

"The same as I told you guys. New religion, lots of benefits, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and tell them that there will be a black mass in an undisclosed location tomorrow night."

"If it's undisclosed, how will they find it?"

Mike rubbed his forehead and reminded himself that his right-hand man was a little sleep-deprived at the minute. He kept his voice friendly.

"Get a few phone numbers, Tony. Tell them you'll call them a couple of hours before the mass and let them know where to find us. They'll find the mystery intriguing."

"Oh right. Do you have somewhere in mind or do you want me to do that too?"

"It'd be great if you could sort that out, Tony. I have something to do today but I'm not sure how long it will take me."

"Right, no problem. Any chance of a little extra payment this week?"

"Yes, Tony. You'll be rewarded for going the extra mile."

"Sweet. I'll let you know what happens."

Tony was a greedy wee sod but Mike liked his enthusiasm. After he'd figured out the ins and outs of the ceremonies he would make Tony a high priest or whatever they're called.

***

Mike finished his tea and made his way down the Falls Road. Before going to the library he had a little pit stop to make. Fat Sean Phillips lived down by the Twin Spires cathedral, which was only a stone's throw from the library. The lazy big bastard slept until noon every day so Mike knew he'd be at home.

Mike battered the door of the little mid-terrace house until he heard the elephant stomp of Fat Sean stumbling down the stairs. He opened the door and looked at Mike through sleep crusted eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his dressing gown.

"What?" Sean asked.

"It's me!"

Mike barged past the confused, fat man and marched into the tiny living room. Empty pizza boxes lay scattered about the filthy carpet. Mike grimaced as he sat on the dusty, food-stained sofa. Sean followed him as quickly as he could.

"Mate, I don't know you. You must have the wrong house. Piss off and let me get some sleep."

"That's the longest speech I've ever heard you make. Sleep deprivation must give you a bit of an edge."

"I don't know you."

"Remember Mike Rocks?" Mike watched Fat Sean's expression go from shocked to suspicious. He reached into his dressing gown and pulled an automatic pistol from the waistband of his boxer shorts. A Beretta, Mike noted, impressed. He also noted that the clip hadn't been inserted. He had an idea that Fat Sean didn't realise this. Sloppy bastard.

"You his brother or something?"

"Nope. I'm Mike. I'm back, fat boy. New and improved, and set for revenge. Give me the gun and I'll make it quick and painful."

The overweight hitman pointed the pistol at Mike's face and squeezed the trigger three times. Mike cackled as the gun clicked ineffectively. Fat Sean looked at the empty slot in the handgrip and cursed. Mike stood up and swiped some crumbs from the seat of his tracksuit trousers. Then he kicked Fat Sean between the legs. The big man went down coughing and spluttering. Mike plucked the unloaded gun from the hitman's chubby fingers.

I'm really getting the hang of using all this muscle,
Mike thought.

He pulled Fat Sean's dressing gown up over his head and beat the handgrip against Sean's head until the skull cracked open like a rock-bashed coconut.

The elation he expected didn't come. No feeling of power or fulfilment. Just queasiness.

***

He'd managed to keep the blood off his clothes and didn't need to go home to change. He took the gun with him and made his way to the library.

Before he could log on to one of the computers he had to produce his newly forged ID and fill out an application form for a library card. Then he had to wait an hour while the librarian tried to laminate his card before she would hand it over. While he waited he wandered about the dusty bookcases, picked up a few texts on Satanism and demonology, and sat at one of the large research tables to have a little read. The thin, elderly librarian called him over when the card was ready.

"You can take out nine books at a time and you have access to the PCs during our opening hours. Here's some information on appropriate web browsing. Most of it is common sense but please have a read through it before you log on to avoid any embarrassment."

Mike nodded, thanked the grim looking old woman, and went back to the desk to read over the sheet of information. He learned that the library kept a log of sites visited by each library member and that these logs were randomly selected for review every day. If a member got caught visiting inappropriate sites his membership would be revoked and, where appropriate, the authorities would be contacted. There was a brief list of dos and don'ts. Basically he wasn't allowed to access porn, download music or play internet games. Anything else seemed to be open season.

He tapped the word "Satanism" into a search engine and got over three-million results. He sighed. It was going to be a long day.

***

After a few hours of reading from a computer screen, Mike felt dizzy. He printed a couple of notable articles and logged off. He was sick of reading about demonology, magic and schisms within Satanism. The so-called religion seemed even more complicated than Christianity.

He nodded to the librarian on the way out the door, who made a show of blessing herself. She had obviously checked out his site log. He hadn't broken any rules, so she couldn't reprimand him, but she made her opinion quite clear. Mike blew her a kiss.

As he walked back up the Falls Road, keeping one eye out for dog-shit and appraising Republican murals and Hood graffiti with the other, he thought about some of the things he'd learned at the library. One of the sites that came up in the searches time and again was the official site for the Church of Satan. That merry little organisation was established in America in 1966-67 by an educated chap called Dr Anton Szandor LaVey. He wrote the Satanic Bible, which was unavailable in the library but was heavily quoted throughout the Church's website. Apparently, they did not believe in sacrificing or even harming children or animals, which Mike could get on board with, and believed that his current following would agree with. However, they were also against breaking the law and the use of mind altering substances. These ideals the Hoods might have a problem with. And then there was the biggest obstacle to this ready made religion. They didn't believe in Satan.

The Church of Satan worshiped Satan, believed in magic, used Baphomet trinkets and sigils during their worshipping exercises, and even chanted the Phrase "Hail Satan!" (exclamation point optional but preferred) on a regular basis. But to them, Satan was not an individual deity or an immortal being. He was a representation of the average Satanist. By saying "Hail Satan!" they actually meant "Hail me!" instead.

Mike thought this was a mighty peculiar idea. But then, he had some inside knowledge that LaVey's followers would discover in due course. Mike felt pretty sure that Lucifer would not be too happy with him if he took a short cut by affiliating himself with the most prominent Satanist organisation out there. They were too misguided.

There were numerous minor churches devoted to Satanism and Devil worship, most of which were teen-cult money-spinning groups or flimsy excuses for sexual orgies and deviant behaviour. Some admitted to killing little furry creatures and drinking their blood. Others prided themselves on the number of Christian churches they had vandalised or burned to the ground. Most of this was more than likely fantasy and internet lies but Mike shuddered at the thought of some of the sick pricks that were out there and actually believed some of the shit they were preaching. Lucifer would have a special little room for each one of them.

The worst behaviour in the name of Satanism seemed to have happened in the 1400s within European aristocracy. Mike had read of numerous scandals that involved child sacrifice and felt sick to his stomach. In those days the most common purpose of Satanism was to parody the Catholic Church by any means. This included defilement of the Eucharistic Host, saying mass backwards and spitting on inverted crucifixes. Many of these acts were made possible by involvement from deviant priests within Catholicism. Generally, it was more to do with a feeling of scorn towards conventional religion than any sort of identification with an evil deity. The fact that the altar was a naked woman and that the entire congregation would partake in a cluster fuck to round off the murder and chanting probably had quite an appeal too.

In this time of gender equality, Mike was pretty sure that introducing naked lady altars to his religion would not fly.

The imp's suggestion to consult Google for black mass instructions had not been as straightforward as he would have liked, but his research had given him plenty of food for thought. His biggest conclusion was that all existing organisations were wrong. It was up to him to come up with a new dogma and new rituals. He already had a few ideas to get the ball rolling.

Mike stopped at a corner shop and bought a pen and a spiral-bound notepad. He then went straight to The Beehive and ordered himself a refreshing pint of Guinness. Murphy's girlfriend had returned to work, her period of grief over by the looks of it. She gave him the now familiar flirty smile full of nicotine stained teeth as she handed him his change. He held eye contact with her until she was called to serve one of the other barflies.

You just couldn't keep a good pub down. Mere weeks had passed since Paul Murphy was glassed by a stranger, but all of the regulars were already back in the saddle. Between sips of his pint, Mike worked on the script for the imminent black mass. He smiled as he scribbled notes at a furious pace. It beat the shit out of sitting in the library.

***

Three pints later, Mike's mobile phone rang. The O Fortuna ring-tone still made him giggle. The little blue-lit display screen told him Tony was calling.

"Tony, how did it go?"

"Easier than I thought it would, boss."

"So the Goths are in?"

"They sure are. And you know what? They aren't even all that bad. Some of the girls kind of suit all that black shit they wear. One of them was flirting with me a wee bit too. Then Tracey told her to back off. The wee Goth girl took it in good humour though. Then she slipped me her number when Tracey wasn't looking. I think I'm in there."

"That's very… nice, Tony. How'd you sell it to them so quickly?"

"I just walked up to the biggest group that was hanging around in the City Hall garden and I started my wee speech off with, ‘Now your parents may have a problem with this…' and it all sort of fell into place from there. I was talking for about ten minutes before I realised it, but all I did was reinforce the decision they'd made in the first twenty seconds. Then we smoked some dope and waited for the news to circulate amongst all the wee cliques that were sitting about. It didn't take long. They seem to be one big happy family."

"You're a natural, Tony. I knew it."

"Tracey says I could sell sand to the Arabs."

"Wouldn't be much money in it though. Those Arabs drive a hard bargain."

"Um, okay, Mike. Whatever you say."

"And what about the other thing?"

"The room? Yeah that's sorted out too. Two birds, one stone. One of the Goth boys I was talking to is in a band. This boy calls himself Skid. Skid and his pals have access to a Parish Hall on the Lisburn Road for band practice. It's a really big room with a stage and all. He said he'll keep it undisclosed and mysterious for the fun of it. It should seat a few thousand. At the last count there was about five-hundred hoods claiming membership and now we have about two-hundred Goths."