CHAPTER FIVE
After the first bomb, many groups were blamed, and a surprising amount accepted responsibility. Banderas were suspected of being involved, as the mill where the first bomb went off was known as a sweatshop. The Caterpillar Supremacist Society were equally suspected, as the mill had been built on the birthplace of Piers Woodward, a man considered by the CSS to be one step up from God, and considered by the rest of the world to be one step down from a bitter, twisted, dangerous megalomaniac, with a demented following who had been troubling the police for decades. Even the Topsfield Practical Joke society tried to climb on the bandwagon by claiming the bomb to be the start of their six week Silly Season, and invaded the Miller's Rest town hall the next day, armed with military grade custard pies, high pressure squirt guns, and more joy buzzers than the mind can, comfortably, conceive7. The final straw came when Mad Ron issued a statement offering his Display Team's "Protection" to all buildings in the surrounding area, as he stated that they would "Go up like a rocket with a good size lump of semtex wired to the light fittings". Enough was enough, Miller's Rest realised they had to find who the bomber was before everyone claimed responsibility. Even the local branch of Alcoholics Anonymous were investigating if there had been a nearby pub, so they could find a reason to get in on the act.
Remiel had once been a volunteer agent in the Miller's Rest Justice Department, and had been involved in the case of a terrorist who called himself "The Gravedigger", a sinister figure who appeared to have no motive, and who attacked large and usually public areas indiscriminately. Remiel had been a witness in a supermarket which was now the aftermath of one of the Gravedigger's bombs, which were ingenious in design, and amazingly destructive for their tiny size. Theories abounded wildly about the Gravedigger's reasons for his actions, some thought he was an agent for Banderas, some thought he was a member of the Aphid Liberation Front, others theorised that he was a severe Luddite, who objected to the technological advances of the past years, this last theory seemed to lead nowhere, as most of his bombs had been very intricate and technological in design.
Remiel had been instructed to help the forensics crew, searching through the wreckage for parts of the bomb and other incriminating evidence, in fact he had found the partially intact security video in the shattered remains of the closed circuit camera. The film which Remiel found appeared to show a middle aged Caterpillar in the uniform of a security guard placing a small package into a shopper's carrier bags with the deft skill and elegance of a pick-pocket, before disappearing into the crowd. The facts were checked and it was confirmed that the bomb had been planted in someone's shopping. The description of the shopper checked out with the video, and Remiel knew that the Department had found their suspect. A checking with the records of the supermarket showed the security guard to be Leonard Therican, a security guard on a temporary contract. There was an address on file, so a team were dispatched to bring him in for questioning.
Remiel was part of the team dispatched, as a volunteer agent, he was put in a fairly non-risk position, being the rearguard and the radioman. The team arrived at the house and knocked. When no answer was forthcoming, an agent forced the door, and the team moved inside. Remiel stayed near the door, the point of entry and the base of operations. He sniffed the air as he stood waiting for the rest of the group to report in, and noticed a smell in the air, like a mixture of weedkiller and sugar, he thought no more about it as the house was a very tumble-down place, more of a shed than a house. The combination of ingredients tickled something in his subconscious, but he thought no more about it. Remiel waited for around five minutes before the radio hailed him back from his thoughts.
"Juno Delta Omega to Juno Delta fifteen," crackled the small handheld unit, Remiel fumbled with the controls for a few seconds before locating the "Send" button,
"Juno Delta fifteen to Juno Delta Omega, receiving," he replied, remembering the protocol from the lessons on correct conduct they had been given,
"We've just finished examining those records, following up on this Therican character."
"Any news?"
"The ID card he used to get the job is a fake, there is no Leonard Therican."
"We're obviously dealing with more than just a spree killer here."
"That's not all, the fake card used is extraordinary, it's so realistic it even has the magnetic strip and the watermark, we only found out it was a fake by cross checking with Candlewick, where the card claims he was born. Under normal circumstances we'd never have found him."
"Shit! We're dealing with a professional here, check his mugshot against the known terrorists on file, in fact check it against the whole Violent Crimes index."
"We've already done that, he's on file as a Thomson Eldritch, having changed his name by deed poll at age 17, after leaving the Volunteer Force he did 5 years for conspiracy to cause explosions, but the records say he died in prison last year."
"He's obviously much more skilled at this than we thought. Any details on this? any given Modus Operandi?"
"Mostly used a ten minute fuse, household bomb, made from a mixture of Weedkiller and..."
"Sugar! Shit!", Remiel flicked the walkie talkie to the 'Squad' setting and yelled "Get out of here now! This place is wired to explode!"
Remiel ran through the door, getting outside just as the entire building erupted into a series of explosions, as the various barrels hidden around the building were triggered. Remiel leaned up from where he had landed in time to see the explosion blossom like an impossibly large orange rose. Suddenly a pain filled his world as a large but unseen object crashed into the back of his neck.
Remiel came to, it was dark, so wherever he was, was not outside. There was also padding underneath him. Remiel relaxed slightly, the existence of padding ruled out entire worlds of horrifying possibility about where he was. Eventually he realised that he was in a cellar or building of some sort. His night vision returned enough to see the outlines of the room, vague items of furniture, and, slightly more frighteningly, to see a dark figure standing over him, viewing him with great interest in his eyes.
"Ah!" cried the figure, happiness in his tone, when Remiel tried to move, "You are alive, I was worried I may have hit you too hard."
"What the-" Remiel started saying, before being interrupted,
"No, don't try to speak." instructed the figure, "I already know all about you, and it was rather boring the first time. Your name is Remiel, no second name on file, your family being one of those obstinate self important groups of people who thought they were so important that they didn't need a surname, everyone knew who they were. You are a volunteer agent in the Millers Rest Justice Department, and inherited a profitable Leaf industry at an early age after the tragic disappearance of your parents, which, although unexplained, have been put down to death by natural causes, so at least the press can't blame it on me.
"You have obviously by now figured out who I am. I have indeed the pleasure of being the illustrious Thompson Eldritch, known to your agents as the Gravedigger, and I did indeed deliberately allow myself to appear on the security video, I needed to get hold of a surviving agent in order that your pathetic little Justice Department knows I am totally serious that I will kill any agent that comes after me."
Eldritch paused for breath at this point, pacing as he spoke but keeping within eyeshot of his captive audience,
"You're almost certainly thinking of raising some stupid comment about my being alive when I died in prison last year. Records can be changed, my zealous young friend, guards can mysteriously go missing just as a mutilated body is discovered in my cell. Sometimes a hush up is the easiest option. You may also be wondering why I used such a large bomb at the house you so clumsily raided. The reason is simple; whilst those tiny bombs, like the supermarket one, do the job - and very well, I might add - it's nowhere near as much fun as the feeling of mixing three or four barrels of perfectly legal, easily obtainable chemicals and watching the resulting mixture blow up a house. Anyway, back to business. Now, let me see, you have to be alive, and able to talk at least long enough to relate this."
Eldritch unrolled a set of sharp knives from a holdall resting upon a table.
"What a pity" he mused, "I'll have to leave your brain, heart, lungs and vocal chords virtually untouched."
Eldritch advanced upon Remiel, who now realised he was strapped to a hospital trolley. Eldritch hesitated, scalpel in hand,
"Oh, and Mr Remiel?" Eldritch said, pausing before approaching the table, "Your agents are wrong. I don't kill because of any grudge against anyone, or any thoughts of revenge. I cannot be psychoanalysed out of any of my actions, because not one of my bombs has been planted out of malice. I just plant bombs because I like killing people."
The light caught his eyes as he advanced towards the table, and it was clear to Remiel that he was quite, quite mad.
Remiel's overactive mind began working in overdrive, boosting itself to find a way out even as he was telling himself that he was quite definitely going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. The fear that this cold, heartless knowledge generated sprung his subconscious into activity and he began to think about possible escape routes. His subconscious reported back to his conscious mind in the amount of time it took for the fear to register. The table in the room, his tiny, unbearably smug subconscious voice told him, was a dining table, which had been cleared at speed, the contents either cleared elsewhere or scattered over the floor, and the bonds on his left arm were loose enough for him to reach to the sideboard, which the contents of the table had been cleared onto. Remiel's probing left arm searched fruitlessly for a few life-threatening seconds, before alighting upon the first thing it could find, a tall, and faintly tarnished, ornamental silver salt cellar.
DIVERSION 1
There were plenty of good, honest, proper superhero names. Loads in fact, millions, probably; Horace was not one of them. A lonely figure slouched on the rooftop of the Green Sounds club giving the appearance of a collection of tennis balls stuffed into a rotting sock. Nope, Horace was definitely not one of them. Perhaps a suffix of some kind might beef it up a bit, Horace tried a few for good measure, sounding them out into the cold night air:
Every superhero needs an evil villain to apprehend, hopefully one who he will be able to dispatch with some witty banter, and lots of "Pow" and "Thud" sounds. As Oris' luck would have it, one was approaching with rapid speed, his clichéd 'swag' bag swinging behind him as he raced round the corner of the club. Oris could barely contain himself, with a swish of his cape, he descended heroically into the path of the oncoming villain.
It had been a long, tiring night and Harry was not in the mood for being apprehended by inexperienced superheroes. Ever since the repeats of Supercat on the telly he had hardly been able to perform a single burglary without some figure-huggingly attired pre-pubescent kid shouting 'Halt!' in an overly deep voice. So when a silhouette appeared to hurl itself off the roof of the Green Sound club, he thought "Oh no, not another one, s'pose I'd better let 'im say 'is piece." The figure's fall was rather unmercifully broken by a cluster of bins and, as it picked itself up, it tripped over the ridiculously large black cape and landed face down in a puddle. With a muffled curse it picked itself up and prepared to speak.
Oris swooped down upon the evildoer, cleverly landing in a way that would throw the scum off guard. He was excited, this was his first villain, he desperately searched for something heroic to say:
Oris glanced down at the hilt that was now protruding rather rudely from what, in human terms would be his stomach. He tried to think of something to say, something that Supercat would be proud to have as his last words, something moving, a moral he could leave to the next generation, to stamp his mark on history, or at least on the base of the life-size statue he was sure they would erect in his honour.
"Oh, sod it." he croaked as the blood welled in his throat, ending the most short lived superhero career on record.
Some people may be thinking 'What has this got to do with the plot, then?' Well, as a statement of the tragedy of existence, the delicacy and fragility of life, the infinite sanctity of mortality, and a poignant reminder of the easy accessibility of death within which boundaries the life of Remiel currently hangs, absolutely nothing. However, as Harry was making his escape, a silver salt cellar escaped from his swag bag and, thanks to a fortunate rebound from the head of the falling Oris The Tragically Stupid, managed to find its way through a luckily open window and down the stairs of an adjacent house where it waited in the darkness of the underground room, a cellar within a cellar.
"Horace the Mighty.....Nope,"
"Horace the infallible.....Naaah, much too risky after a few pints."
"Catman?" A brief inter-species memory from the distant past lent this last suggestion an air of uncomfortable familiarity and it was left to drift away on a cloud of condensation from Horace's mouth.
Horace's thoughts were allowed to drift unchecked and they stranded themselves on the particularly nasty rocks of his childhood memories. The voice of his devoted, nagging mother chastising him once again for some careless error made whilst daydreaming rang clear in his ears:
" 'Orris! 'Ow many times 'ave I got to tell 'y' to pay some bloody attention! For chlorophyll's sake boy, wake up! If you'd listen to 'alf of what I tell yer, you'd be a bloody genius, I just wish you'd listen carefully."
"Listen", that's all she ever told him to do, nothing practical like leaping tall buildings in a single bound, or shooting x-ray laser beams from his eyes. In fact she always laughed and told him he'd grow out of it when he asked her to teach him superhero stuff, she thought he'd become a banker or a leaf farmer and then a butterfly like all the other good little larvae; so she just told him to listen, and she always called him 'Orris. Hold on though, 'Orris', perhaps if he dropped an 'r'. Oris, nice. He liked it. He spoke it majestically into the night air, "Oris". Yesss!
"Avast ye thar!" Oh shit. Quick, say something else, don't let him see that you didn't mean to say that.
"I am Oris."
"Horace?" the burglar's smirk was clearly visible in the twilight glow of the street light.
"No, Oris. Oh ar igh ess, Oris!" he paused, here was a chance to explain his previous choice of words: "Oris the Piratical."8
'Oris the Piratical.' thought Harry, 'Well, at least he's original.'
'Oris the Piratical.' mused Oris inside his head, 'Hmm, not bad.' He wasn't sure if 'Piratical' was a word but it sounded good anyway.
"I am Oris the Piratical, surrender or face the consequences." after a brief pause he added "Landlubber."
"Consequences?" Harry had never had to face consequences before.
"Yes, consequences." Oris replied in his falsetto boom.
"This should be good," thought Harry, turning to the ridiculous figure before him and inquiring, "Like what?"
"Like what?!", spluttered Oris, his chain of thought having not extended this far, this was all going wrong, he was just meant to smite the wrongdoer and get showered in gratitude and glory, he shouldn't have to think up consequences.
"Yeah, like what. What consequences?"
Oris faltered, his mind racing "Well, like splicing the mainbrace, or, or walking the plank, yeah!"
"Oh." Harry quite liked rum, but he'd be buggered if he was walking the plank, he made ready to say this, but Oris was on a roll.
"Yeah, and swabbing the decks and shivering your timbers and, er wearing an eyepatch!"
Harry smiled, this was quite amusing, pity the poor bastard had to die, he reached for his knife.
It was around this nondescript, tarnished piece of metal, filled with a combination of an incredibly reactive base metal and a yellow poisonous gas, a combination that we naïve humans mix with organic acid and pour on our chips, that Remiel's fingers contracted. With the dexterity caused by the extreme levels of terror, Remiel managed to unscrew the top of the small silver vessel in the few seconds remaining to him before Eldritch decided to perform his art with the scalpel. Remiel was still thanking his lucky stars that Eldritch was a classical evil orator, and was madly, passionately in love with the sound of his own voice; this had bought Remiel the vital seconds he had needed to loosen his hand and get the salt cellar. Remiel drew his arm back as far as he could in his bound condition, and swung it forward again in a fast, deadly pitch, which ended with the salt cellar flying out of his grip and depositing its contents directly into Eldritch's maniac eyes.
The dark figure convulsed in pain, blinded, and Remiel allowed himself to ride on the adrenaline rush long enough to break the bonds which held his left leg in stasis and drive it with astonishing force into the side of the gravedigger's head. The blow had the dual effects of knocking the killer out cold, and toppling the hospital bed, leaving Remiel on the floor, bruised, but within easy reach of Eldritch's scalpels. He loosed his left arm, then the bonds on his upper and lower torso, then turned his attention to his bound right leg, using the knife slowly in an attempt to use enough force to cut his bonds, but not so much that the scalpel went through the rope and his leg .
Exhausted from his exertions, Remiel allowed himself momentary rest to regain energy, and to avoid hyperventilation, as a faint smell pervaded his nostrils, jarring a short term memory, which caused a burst of anxiety, but nothing more. Freed from the table, Remiel searched for his radio, finding it carefully stored in a cupboard with the rest of his possessions. Eldritch had obviously planned to infiltrate the Justice Department with Remiel's uniform. Trying to find his bearings, Remiel looked for a door which led out. As he searched, Remiel was aware of a constant niggling thought at the back of his mind, he was positive that there was something he needed to remember, something regarding the smell in the room, something recent. Alarm bells were ringing throughout his central nervous system, but would provide no more information than the fact that something was wrong9. After around two minutes fumbling along the walls of the dank room, Remiel located a large wooden panel with a handle protruding. When tested, this handle allowed the door to swing slowly open. A few more seconds revealed the existence of a switch which, when triggered, illuminated the area and its contents.
The door led into a small room, more of a broom cupboard than anything else, which was undecorated, except for a bare light-bulb swinging from the ceiling; there was definitely no way out whatsoever through this room. All this passed Remiel by, however, as his attention was immediately absorbed by the four large barrels taking up most of the room, from which the smell had emerged. Even in the state of fear that followed, Remiel could hardly help but be surprised at the fickle nature of memory, the process which at the same time can tell you everything and nothing, keeps useful information away when you truly need it, kicking in with total recall just after the information stops being useful. The identity of the smell was instantly and completely apparent to Remiel as the mixture of sugar and Weedkiller he had been aware of at the house. Wired to the four barrels was a timer, currently ticking its way through the last ten minutes of its cycle. A sudden groan alerted Remiel to the resurfacing consciousness of Eldritch.
"You see, my friend," He began, in conversational tones, pulling himself to his feet, "I was slightly more prepared than you thought. Now, radio back to base and tell them that I managed to get away, despite your best efforts, and I'll give you a hand in switching this little baby off."
"You're trying to threaten me?" exclaimed Remiel, unable to believe what he was hearing.
"That's about the size of it." The figure before Remiel started to say, before a strong arm pinned him to the wall. A redness had started to glow in Remiel's eyes, making him look like a man who has taken just too much for one day and is seriously considering the possibilities offered by taking up a career of hitting things.
"Because of you," Remiel snarled into Eldritch's face, a manic tone entering his voice, and his grip on Eldritch's arms tightening almost to the point of severe damage, "Because of you, I've had a sodding bad day, I've been blown up, seen my comrades toasted, been hit over the head with a shovel, had a mad bastard try to cut bits off me, struggled around in the darkness trying to get out of this place, and found another sodding bomb! Now, instead of the deal you offered, I've got another one. It's very simple, I chain you to that bomb over there, then it's up to you whether or not you defuse the bastard. Whatever bloody happens, I'm getting out of here, right after I radio in to confirm I'm still alive."
So saying, Remiel hauled his captive towards the broom cupboard, and started searching for things to tie him with. Lacking any rope, Remiel instead grabbed a roll of duct tape, and wound it around Eldritch's torso, then around one of the barrels, and continued to wind until the roll had run out, leaving Eldritch able to move just enough to defuse the bomb.
"This is blackmail!" Eldritch screamed at the Caterpillar above him
"Yeah" replied Remiel walking towards the door, "Fun isn't it?"
"You can't do this!"
"I just have."
And ending this exchange, Remiel left.
Later on, Remiel was asked what his most vivid memory was of the entire incident. Remiel always told people that the thing he most remembered was walking into the house, and later around the cellar, and catching that pungent aroma in the air, sugar and Weedkiller. "That smell's in my head for the rest of my life," he used to tell people, "I won't ever forget it".
It was this smell that had sent him into his memories, the smell that he now detected as coming from the farm
Copyright 1999 Ian Rennie, for Remiel Productions.