“I thought Alex was your friend?” said Bettie, who I felt was enjoying the situation entirely too much.
“He is. Mostly. It’s because I know him so well that I’m worried! Alex has even worse luck with women than I do.”
“I resent that!” said Alex.
“I notice you’re not denying it,” I said.
Cathy stood close beside Alex, holding his arm protectively. It reminded me of the way Bettie had been holding my arm recently. Cathy looked me square in the eye, her jaw set in a familiar and very determined manner.
“I am eighteen now, going on nineteen. I’m not the frightened little girl you rescued any more. Hell, I’ve been running your office for the last few years and kept all the paper-work in order, which is more than you ever did. I am old enough to run my own life and to be responsible for my own actions. Just like you always taught me. Go after what really matters to you, you said. And I did. Alex and I might not be the most…orthodox of couples; but then, neither are you and Suzie.”
I smiled briefly. “Well. My little girl is all grown-up. All right, Cathy. You’re clearly off your head and displaying quite appalling taste, but you have the right to make your own mistakes.” I looked at Alex. “We will talk about this later.”
“Oh, joy,” said Alex.
“Quite,” I said. “Now, show me how that fiendishly complicated-looking remote control works.”
Alex picked up something big enough to land the space shuttle from a distance, turned on his television, dimmed the lights, and showed me how to work the DVD player.
“That button is for the surround sound, the toggle is for the volume. Don’t touch that one; it turns on the sprinkler system. And stay away from that one because it operates the vibrating bed. Don’t look at me like that.”
“What’s this big red button for?” said Bettie, sitting beside me on the sofa before the television.
“Do not touch the big red button,” said Alex. “That is only to be used in the event of alien invasion, or if someone not a million miles from here starts another bloody angel war.”
“I did not…”
“Right,” said Alex. “That’s it. You two enjoy the show, Cathy and I will be down in the bar.”
“Don’t you want to see what’s on the DVD?” said Bettie.
“I would rather stab myself in the eyes with knives,” said Alex. “Come along, Cathy.”
“But I want to watch it!” said Cathy.
“No, you don’t,” Alex said firmly. “Wait until John’s test-driven it; then, if it’s safe, we can have a peep at it.”
“So I’m your guinea-pig now?” I said, amused despite myself.
“Hey,” said Alex. “What are friends for?”
“If you do get Raptured,” said Cathy, “can I have your trench coat?”
Alex hustled her out, leaving Bettie and me alone with the television and the Afterlife Recording. The disc looked quite remarkably ordinary, almost innocent, as I took it out of its case. I handled it gingerly, half-afraid the thing might try to bite me, or even burst into flames once exposed to the open air; but it was only a DVD. I slipped it into the machine, hit PLAY, and Bettie and I settled back to watch.
There was no menu, no introduction. It was a recording of an unexpected transmission, with the beginning missing. It just started, and the television screen showed a view into Hell. There were buildings, or more properly structures, great looming things, like impossibly huge cancers. The walls were scarlet meat traced with purple veins, sick and decaying. Suppurating holes that might have been windows showed people trapped inside, plugged into the breathing sweating architecture, sometimes sunk deep in cancerous flesh; and all of them were screaming in agony.
The structures were packed too close together, their malign presence like a concentration camp of the soul. Through the narrow streets ran an endless stream of naked sinners, burned and bleeding, sobbing and shrieking as horned demons drove them on. The sinners who fell or lagged behind were dragged down and torn apart by the demons. Only to rise again, made whole, so they could be driven on again, forever. Bodies hung from lamp-posts, still kicking and struggling, as demons tugged their intestines from great rips in their bellies.
The sky was on fire, spreading a blood-red light across the terrible scene. Huge bat-winged shapes circled overhead. And from far off in the distance, vast and terrible, came the laughter of the Devil, savouring the horrors of Hell.
I hit the PAUSE button, leaned back on the sofa, and looked at Bettie. “It’s a fake. That’s not Hell.”
“Are you sure?” said Bettie. And then her eyes widened, and she actually leaned back a little from me. “Do you know? Are the stories true, that you’ve really been to Hell, and returned?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Only one man ever returned from the Houses of Pain, and he was the Son of God. No; you can tell that isn’t the real thing from looking at the sinners. They all have the same face, see? Pen Donavon’s face.”
Bettie leaned in close for a better look. “You’re right! All the faces are the same! Even the demons, just exaggerated versions of Pen’s features. But what does this mean, John? If this isn’t a recording of the Afterlife, what is it?”
I hit the STOP button and turned off the television. “It’s psychic imprinting,” I said. “We discussed this, remember? What we were looking at was one man’s personal vision of Hell. All of Pen Donavon’s fears and nightmares appeared on his television set, leaking out of his subconscious, and when he tried to record what he saw, he psychically imprinted his own vision onto the DVD. Poor bastard. He believes he belongs in Hell; though probably only he could tell us why.”
“So there never was any transmission from Beyond?” said Bettie.
“No. All that junk Donavon bolted onto his television set was just junk, after all.”
I removed the DVD from the player and slipped it back into its case. Such a small thing, to have caused so much trouble.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bettie said cheerfully. “It looks good enough to pass. Fake or no, the paper can still make decent money off it. Actually, it’s even better that it’s not the real thing; now we don’t have to worry about upsetting anyone Upstairs. It looks impressive enough, and that’s all the punters will care about. So what do we do now, John? Take the DVD back to the Unnatural Inquirer offices, along with poor Pen? We can keep him safe there, until the DVD’s appeared, then we can leak the news that it’s not the real thing after all, and everyone will leave him alone.”
“It’s not going to be that simple,” I said reluctantly. “That might have worked, right up to the point where I killed all Kid Cthulhu’s combat sorcerers over it. No-one will believe I’d go to so much trouble unless there was some truth to the story.”
“Ah,” said Bettie. “Then, what are we going to do?”
“Good question,” I said. “I’m not entirely sure. We need to play this exactly right…”
I thought for a while, pacing up and down, rejecting one idea after another, while Bettie watched, fascinated. And finally, I got it. A very crafty and downright sneaky way out of this mess. I took out my mobile phone and called Kid Cthulhu, on his very private number.
“Hi, Kid,” I said cheerfully. “This is John Taylor. How are the barnacles?”
“How did you get this number?” said Kid Cthulhu. As always, he sounded like someone drowning in his own vomit.
“I find things, remember? I know everyone’s private number. Or at least, everyone who matters. You should be flattered you made the list. Now, I don’t want a war with you. I’ve got the DVD of the Afterlife Recording right here in my hand, and I’m willing to sell it to you for a merely extortionate price.”
“You killed all my combat sorcerers, didn’t you?”
“Try not to dwell on the negative aspects, Kid; we can still do business. How about I come over to your place, and we discuss it?”
“You’re not coming anywhere near my place,” said Kid Cthulhu. “I’ve just had it redecorated. How about The Witch’s Tit? Down on Beltane Street? Lap dancers and the like. Very classy.”