Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter 5

Liam O’Driscoll sat calmly at an innocuous grey table, his wrists handcuffed to metal rings on the side of it.  He sat in an innocuous grey chair at one side of the table, looking intermittently between the palms of his upturned hands, where the weeping, open wounded stigmata was visible, to his reflection in a large mirror that filled one wall of the police interview room.  He smiled knowingly at his reflection, then looked back down at the stigmata.

The drab grey door to the interview room opened and DI Bentley, a large pile of manila folders in one hand, a steaming cup of black coffee in a chipped, stained Celtic mug in the other, entered.  Following a pace or so behind him was DC Tait wearing straight grey trousers, a white blouse and an equally lifeless grey jacket.  The only semblance of colour about her was the deep blue of her eyes shining from a face without any makeup, framed by blonde hair pulled tightly backward into a pony tail held in place by an elastic band.

DI Bentley stomped over the short distance to the two chairs on the opposite side of the table to Liam O’Driscoll and slouched into the one closest to the two recording decks, slurping coffee as he did.  He banged the manila files with some force onto the table top, glaring at the calmly smiling Liam O’Driscoll as he pressed the record button on one of the decks.

‘DI Bentley and DC Tait interviewing Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll on suspicion of the murder of seven women.  Time is 13:35.  Archbishop O’Driscoll has refused legal representation.’ grumbled Bentley, still glaring at O’Driscoll as DC Annie Tait sat demurely in the empty chair beside him, notebook and pen in hand.

‘Good afternoon DC Tait, DI Bentley.’ O’Driscoll said, his voice low and full of vibrato, with a deep powerful resonance, at odds with his slight build and bony features.

‘Good?  Good! You are having a fucking laugh aren’t you?  It’s not good for these seven women.  It’s not good for their families.  It’s not good for the poor stupid bastard that blew his brains out making a point this morning!  It’s not good for the Catholic Church.  It’s not good for me having to sit here and look at your smug, sick sadistic face.  So no, it’s not good, not good for anyone!’ fumed Bentley, one fist clenched, the other white knuckled, wrapped around the coffee cup. 

O’Driscoll simply stared at him, then looked toward the mirror, the smile on his face broadening as he looked at his own reflection, then at Bentley’s reflection.

Bentley followed his gaze, perplexed as he saw the smile broaden.  ‘Something amusing you about this it there?’ he asked angrily.

O’Driscoll looked from the reflection back to Bentley, glaring deep into the DI’s eyes, O’Driscoll’s gaze darting imperceptibly between the pupil, the iris, the white, from top to bottom and side to side continually, searching, his own expression becoming fixed, penetrating.  Bentley shifted in his seat uncomfortably under the intense gaze, feeling the sharp, mesmerising eyes burn into the skull, methodically delving and digging into the recesses of every crack in his countenance, drinking in knowledge of him. 

‘It’s not amusing DI Bentley,’ O’Driscoll began, his gaze not leaving Bentley’s eyes as he gently moved his upturned palms forward toward the DI.  ‘It’s an affirmation.  An acknowledgement that what we do, is his will.’ he finished, offering up the stigmata as a testament to the virtue of his suffering.

‘We?’ queried Bentley, the question coming out in a hoarse, dry gurgle, filled with the nervousness O’Driscoll’s continued probing stare was imbuing in him. ‘Was someone else involved in these atrocities?’

‘You see them as atrocities, we see them as deliverance.’ answered O’Driscoll, his eyes sparkling and his features glowing as he said the words.

Anger invaded the hypnotic state that Bentley was succumbing to and he quickly grabbed a manila file, thrusting it down on the table in front of O’Driscoll, breaking the gaze as he looked at the name on the front. 

‘Shelly Crabtree, seventeen years old, a sixth form student.  Three weeks ago you put a plastic bag over her head and asphyxiated her to death while buggering her.  We have the photographs.  We have your confession signed in blood.  How the hell is that Deliverance.’ spat Bentley as he opened the folder, stabbing a finger into the photograph of O’Driscoll in front of the dead girl, glaring back up at the Archbishop.

O’Driscoll’s gaze did not break from looking at Bentley as he answered.  ‘Shabnock.  He had possessed her since she was six.  He was a Mighty Marquis of Hell with fifty legions of demons under his command.  We captured him.  We freed hell, heaven and earth of his evil afflictions.’

‘Through exorcism?  What part of the rite of exorcism directs you to bugger the person possessed, to smother the person possessed and to kill the person possessed.  I’m pretty sure the rite of exorcism is meant to free the individual of the demon so they can live a happy life thereafter?’

‘And free the Demon into the world once more so they can spread their evil seed.  We lure them, we trap them, we capture them and we imprison them.’

‘So you do have an accomplice?  Someone who took these sick trophy photographs?’ pushed Bentley.

O’Driscoll’s smile broadened as he once again looked toward the mirror, taking in his excitably grinning reflection. 

‘Shall we tell him?’  O’Driscoll asked of his reflection, then answered in the same breath, ‘We should tell him.  The world should know.’

Bentley looked at O’Driscoll’s grinning visage in the mirror, then turned to DC Tait with a pained expression on his face.  He murmured under his breath. ‘Shit, I think this fucker is a totem short of a friggin pole.  He is one scary son of a bitch.’

‘More a roof missing than a tile Sir.’ Tait muttered in response. 

‘Proverbs 2:18-19 speaks of her. ‘Her house sinks down to death, and her course leads to the shades.  All who go to her cannot return and find again the paths of life.’  She is the Night Hag, the one who came before Adam.  She is my demon and she seeks atonement.  She is Lilith.  She knows where demons hide inside a human body.  They wallow in the bowels, in the detritus of digestion, feasting on our waste.  She is the incarnation of lust, and she uses me.  She uses me to get to where they wallow, so she can seduce them, lead them through the writhing ecstasy of intestines, up through the churning bile of a terrified stomach, sliding and gorging on the sputum slipping down a constricting throat as she propels the demon out of the humans mouth, into the plastic bag as I orgasm, reciting the rite of exorcism, ‘Vade retro satana’, imprisoning the demon.  She slivers back down through the dead body, back into me and their soul is delivered into Gods Kingdom.  And the world is freed of another demon.  For the life of one, the lives of many are saved.’ he proclaimed proudly, smiling at his reflection all the while.

‘What a steaming pile of horse shit.  Shelley Crabtree, sodomised and asphyxiated.  You killed her.’ shouted Bentley in anger, hammering his finger into the picture in front of him.  He reached for the next file.

‘We imprisoned Shabnock.  We ridded the world of the scourge of gangrene and worms.’  O’Driscoll said calmly, still smiling, still holding his stigmata out.

‘Demi Simpson, sodomised and asphyxiated.  You killed her.’  Bentley continued, veins in his temple pulsing purple, his face reddening with anger as he opened the folder and threw the picture of a dead Demi in front of O’Driscoll.

‘He is Belial.  No more do the Sons of Destruction roam this earth.’ 

‘Josie Richards.  Sodomised and asphyxiated.  You killed her!’ spat Bentley, pulling another photograph out of a folder and flinging it in front of O’Driscoll.

‘He is Baalberith, he makes men blaspheme and murder.  He is imprisoned.’ 

Bentley picked up the next folder, utter frustration and acrimony dancing on his features: which were broken by a visible uncertainty as he looked at the name on the folder, taking the photograph out as he did.

‘Heather Scott.  Sodomised and asphyxiated.  You killed her.’  Bentley said, less assured as he placed a photograph of the dead woman on an altar, the Archbishop standing in front of it with his erect penis out, onto O’Driscoll’s outstretched hands.

‘I do not know this woman.’  O’Driscoll started, looking down at the name and at the photograph.  He looked intently at Bentley, then to the DI’s reflection in the mirror before continuing.  ‘You know this woman.  Your Demon knows this woman.  Your Demon knows this woman intimately.  You have tasted her.’   

‘What the fuck are you talking about?  She’s there, in a picture with you and your raging hard on, dead.  There’s a signed confession in the folder as well.’ answered Bentley, trying to imbue his voice with bravado, but there was a worry evident in it, which was even more evident in his expression, and he saw that when he took in his own reflection.

‘I can see your Demon, in your reflection.  He whispers to Lilith, he speaks of your transgressions.’

Bentley was obviously rattled as he pushed his chair back and stood up, leaning over the table, towering over the calm form of O’Driscoll.  ‘Just shut the fuck up you utter nutter.  You killed seven women.  And it’s not just your confession and these photographs that prove it. Forensics have seven plastic bags wrapped in your stupid fucking scrolls downstairs and in less than an hour will have the necessary physical evidence that will let us lock you up and throw away the key for good you sick fuck.’

O’Driscoll’s expression suddenly changed, utter terror entering his features.  He started to shake his hands in their restraints, trying to loosen them as he stood up suddenly, tipping his chair as he did.

‘You can’t open the bags.  They will escape.  You can’t break the seal on the bags or the demons will escape and these women’s sacrifice will all have been in vain!’ he screamed at Bentley, spittle flying from his mouth with the pleading words.

Bentley stood back, out of the way of O’Driscoll’s flailing hands.  Hands which were trying to yank the dull grey table that was bolted to the floor in order to get closer to Bentley and Tait.  Hands that shook it so hard, Bentley’s Celtic mug toppled over, spilling the coffee.  DC Tait backed out of her seat too, the two detectives slowly moving towards the door. 

‘You mustn’t!  You must not break the seal on those bags!’ screamed O’Driscoll, more a forceful order than an imploring request this time, his whole person now wracked with intense broiling animosity and, with unnatural strength for such a small, frail man, he still tried to pull the table from the floor, shaking his bindings furiously.

Bentley opened the door to the interview room and shouted on one of the Officers in the corridor.  ‘Can you get someone to come and restrain this nutter now!  You might want to get a shrink in as well.  He’s definitely one sail short of a yacht.’

‘You will be judged and damned to suffer an eternity in hell if you release those Demons into the world!  You will be judged!’ screamed O’Driscoll after Bentley, banging the table furiously with his bleeding palms.

‘No mate, it’s you who will be judged and sent down for a long time, in with the nonces and rapists who will bugger your sick, twisted arse to damnation.’ countered Bentley as he and DC Tait left the room, pulling the door closed behind them, cutting out O’Driscoll’s screeching rant.

‘Jesus Sir, it sounds as though he really believes there are Demons in those bags.’ Tait said incredulously as they walked down the corridor of interview rooms back toward the main Incident Room. 

‘That’s belief for you Tait.  Especially fucking Catholics.  He’s a fag short of a packet, make no mistake.’  Bentley replied, a pensive expression on his agitated, sweating features.

Le Fenwick was approaching them from the other end of the corridor with a determined stride.  ‘Bentley, we need to talk, now!’ he said firmly as he stopped in front of them, halting their progress.

‘Oh fuck man, what the hell is it, we’ve got a madman and seven tossing murders to investigate, not to mention a bloody suicide, so make it quick.’ 

‘This is particularly relevant to the investigation.  It’s particularly relevant to you.’ Le Fenwick replied, standing firm and ignoring the disdain in Bentley’s tone.

‘What do you mean, relevant to me?’  Bentley questioned, his whole manner suddenly becoming guarded.

‘When we were examining the plastic bag that was used to asphyxiate Heather Scott we found a hair from your dog.’ imparted Le Fenwick factually, with measured concern.

Bentley looked at him incredulously, then at Tait with the same expression, annoyance rising in the rouge that ruddied his pock marked cheeks.  He looked down at his hair covered coat, then back up at Le Fenwick.  ‘Aye Dick.  That will be from my fuckin coat.  I was at the crime scene in case you’d forgotten you daft twat.’  Bentley hissed, taking a step forward ready to push past Le Fenwick.