the Irishman’s feet.
O’Neil walked away, wondering if he was the only one who felt cold.
‘Two minutes,’ someone shouted.
The singer moved towards the front of the stage and tapped the microphone then, satisfied, he retreated out of view and waited for the curtain to rise.
The lights were lowered until the theatre was in darkness and, as the gloom descended, the shouts and whistles grew in intensity finally erupting into a shattering crescendo as the curtain began to rise and the coloured lights above the stage flashed on and off. As the band opened up with a series of power chords which would have registered on the Richter scale, even the swelling roar of the audience was eclipsed. The explosion of musical ferocity swept through the hall like a series of sonic blasts, the scream of guitars and the searing hammerstrokes forged by the drummer merged into a force which threatened to put cracks in the walls.
O’Neil took the stage, his powerful voice soaring like an air raid siren over the driving sound of his musicians.
As he sang he ran from one side of the stage to the other, grinning at the hordes of fans who clamoured to get closer to the stage, occasionally pausing to touch their upraised hands. Like some leather clad demi-God he strode the platform, his disciples before him, fists raised in salute and admiration.
The heat from the spotlights was almost unbearable but still O’Neil felt an icy chill nipping at his neck, spreading
slowly through his entire body until it seemed to fill him. He gazed out at the crowd, their faces becoming momentary blurs to him as he spun round and moved towards Kevin Taylor.
O’Neil raised the microphone stand above his head, twirling it like a drum-major’s baton, much to the delight of the crowd.
Even Taylor smiled at him.
He was still smiling when O’Neil drove the stand forward like a spear, putting all his weight behind it, forcing the metal tube into Taylor’s stomach. The aluminium shaft tore through his midsectionand, propelled by O’Neil, erupted from the guitarist’s back just above the kidneys. Blood burst from botn wounds and Taylor croaked in agony as he was forced back towards the stack of amps behind him. O’Neil let go of the mike stand as Taylor crashed into the speakers.
There was a bright flash as they shorted out and, the guitarist, still transfixed, began to jerk uncontrollably as thousands of volts of electricity ripped through him.
There was a blinding white explosion as the first amp went up.
The PA system began to crackle insanely as a combination of feed-back and static accompanied the short circuit.
Another amp exploded.
Then another.
Rigged to the same system, it was like dropping a lighted match into a full box.
Flames began to lick from the first amp, devouring Taylor’s twitching body hungrily, writhing in his long hair like yellow snakes. He looked like a fiery Gorgon. On the far side of the stage the other banks of speakers began to blow up, some showering the audience with pieces of blazing wood.
Those in the front few rows clambered back over their seats, anxious to be away from the terrifying destruction before them but those behind could not move fast enough and many were crushed in the mad stampede to escape. Anyone who fell was immediately trodden underfoot as fear overcame even the strongest and panic rapidly became blind terror. On the balcony, some stared mesmerised at the stage which was rapidly becoming an inferno.
Flames rose high, destroying everything they touched. The other musicians had already fled the stage and a roadie who dashed on to help was crushed beneath a falling amp, pinned helplessly as he burned alive, his shrieks drowned out by the deafening crackle coming from the PA and the horrified shouts of the crowd.
The curtain was lowered but flames caught it and it became little more than a canopy of fire, suspended over the stage like some kind of super-nova. Dozens of lights, unable to stand up to the heat, shattered, spraying glass on to those below. A large frame holding eight football-sized spotlights came free of its rigging and plummeted into the audience where it exploded. Dozens were crushed, others were burned or sliced open by flying glass which hurtled around like jagged crystal grapeshots.
Motionless on the stage, framed by fire, stood Jim O’Neil, his face pale and blank as he gazed uncomprehendingly around him at the destruction. He saw people in the audience screaming as they ran, he saw others lying on the floor, across seats. Bloodied, burned or crushed.
A roadie ran shrieking across the stage, his clothes and hair ablaze. The acrid stench of burned flesh filled O’Neil’s nostrils and he swayed as though he were going to faint.
Behind him, still impaled on the microphone stand, the body of Kevin Taylor was being reduced to charred pulp by the searing flames which leapt and danced all around the stage.
O’Neil could only stand alone and shake his head. Like some lost soul newly introduced to hell.
Sweat was pouring from him but, despite the blistering temperatures, he felt as if he were freezing to death.
As darkness crept across the sky, Blake got to his feet and crossed the room to draw the curtains. Kelly watched as he shut out the gloom, feeling somehow more secure, as if the night were comprised of millions of tiny eyes — each one watching her.
The writer paused by the drinks cabinet and re-filled his own glass. Kelly declined the offer of a top-up. She felt that she had already consumed a little too much liquor since arriving at Blake’s house earlier in the day.
Throughout the journey to London she had felt an unexplained chill, an inexplicable sense of foreboding which only seemed to disappear once she saw Blake. She felt safe with him. But, more than that, she was now even more convinced that she was falling in love with him.
He returned to his chair and sat down, glancing across at Kelly.
Barefoot, clad only in a pair of skin tight faded jeans and a tee-shirt, she looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her before. And also, perhaps
because she was unaware of it, more alluring. Yet he knew, beneath that apparently anxious exterior, she still retained the courage and determination which had first drawn him to her.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked, noticing how intently she stared into the bottom of her glass.
‘I was just thinking,’ she told him, finally gracing him with her attention.
‘I know we’ve been over this dozens of times but I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. I’m convinced that someone at that seance is responsible for what’s been going on, for these murders.’
‘Go on,’ he prompted her.
‘The only one who knew all five victims …’
Blake interrupted.
‘How can you call Braddock and the other two, victims when they were the ones who committed the murders?’
‘They did them against their will. They were used.’ She looked intently at him. ‘And I’m sure that the same person who influenced them was also responsible for the deaths of Fraser and Lasalle. It has to be Dr Vernon.’
Blake shook his head.
“Fraser was killed in a car crash, right? You’ve already told me that Lasalle was starting to crack up again. What proof is there that Vernon had anything to do with their deaths?’ he said. ‘Who’s to say that both men didn’t die in bona fide accidents?’
‘Whose side are you on?’ she snapped.
it’s nothing to do with sides, Kelly,’ he said, angrily. ‘It’s a matter of practicality. You can’t go accusing someone like Vernon without proof.
Besides, if it were true, how the hell are you going to prove it? There isn’t a policeman in the country who’d believe you. The whole idea of controlling someone else’s Astral personality is difficult enough to understand, even for people like you and I, let alone for someone with no knowledge of the subject.’
‘Are you saying we’re beaten?’ she muttered.
‘No, I’m just trying to be practical,’ Blake explained.
