It is paramount that the appropriate measures are in place before the ritual commences, to protect against unwanted evil spirits. The pentagram, or circle of power, was already marked out in chalk. He sprinkled salt around the perimeter to keep out the dark forces he was about to summon. He knew he would need its protection during the incantation. Then he traced the circle with one of the engraved knives. He inscribed it with the pentacle and other symbols from the Kabala.
He was careful to start the ritual invocations on the stroke of midnight.
By the end of the ceremony, The Disciple felt mentally and physically drained. He crossed to his workbench on wobbly legs and slumped down in the padded chair that stood beside it.
As he sat there gathering his thoughts, The Disciple realised he was shivering from the cold, and that the temperature inside the old railway arch had dropped considerably during the ritual. Had the unseen forces that he had conjured caused that, or was it merely an untimely coincidence?
Despite the cold, he felt strangely exhilarated as he sipped mineral water from a plastic container. It was as though the atmosphere around him had somehow become charged.
The invocation had been made. Now he was obligated to kill five women. Failure to do so would bring about his demise in an unspeakable fashion and was therefore not an option.
An uncomfortable sensation rippled through his bowels. Hoping it was just wind, he switched on the lights around the stage mirror mounted on the long workbench in front of him.
“Here goes,” he said. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the powder puff and went to work on his face. Next, he donned the wavy-haired black wig and attached the matching coloured moustache with theatrical glue. When the makeup was fully applied, he studied his face in the mirror, searching for any imperfections that might give him away. Satisfied there were none, he stood up and moved into the darkness of the inner chamber.
As he approached the cab of his van, he glanced up at the inverted cross that was mounted on the wall directly above the double doors, sticking out so dramatically from the semi-darkness that surrounded it. He stopped in his tracks, and for a long, troubled moment he wondered if the Catholic God of his misbegotten youth was angry with him for turning to Lucifer. Looking away guiltily, he concluded that God was probably much better off without him.
He opened the wooden doors as quietly as he could, and then slipped back inside the lockup to collect his things. A few moments later, cursing next door’s security light – which had come on again – he nudged the van out into the chill night air.
Breathing deeply, he looked up at the scattering of stars that glistened in the clear sky above. Not a single cloud threatened rain. All in all, it was a fine night for bloodshed.
CHAPTER 2
Sunday 31st October 1999 – All Hallows’ Eve
Tracey Phillips sat on the edge of her bed and stared listlessly at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. A sallow-faced young woman, with puffy eyes surrounded by dark shadows, met her gaze with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish.
Up close, her heavily made-up face looked farcical, clown-like even; the mascara was too heavy, the lipstick was way too thick, and her blusher looked like it had been put on with a workman’s trowel.
Tracey despised what she had become, and after several seconds of intense soul-searching she tore her eyes away from the painful image, biting her bottom lip in shame and trying to fend off the stomach cramp that was threatening to strike.
Tracey had been released from the local nick an hour ago. The Rozzers had kept her there for eighteen hours while they tried to prove that she had been kiting stolen cheques. And even though she had started clucking almost immediately, that heartless bastard of a Police Surgeon had flatly refused to give her anything but paracetamols to ease the pain. When they finally realised they were flogging a dead horse and released Tracey without charge, she had rushed straight home, changed out of the sweat and vomit stained clothes she’d been wearing, and phoned her pimp to come and collect her as quickly as he could.
Staring down at the frayed and faded carpet beneath her feet, Tracey reminded herself that the skanky, hard-faced bitch in the mirror had been a real looker once, turning heads wherever she went. Of course, that was before she had traded her soul for the chemicals that had ruined her. She snorted, dismissing the self-recrimination. After all, what was the point? The fucking addiction owned her.
In an effort to take her mind off the craving, she tried to recall what life had been like before, but her memories of those drug-free days were elusive, like half-forgotten childhood dreams in which reality and fantasy blurred into one.
Just then, the mother of all stomach cramps hit hard, doubling her over. Please help me, she prayed to a God she no longer believed in. Sinking to her knees, Tracey clung to the rickety dresser as she struggled against the rush of hot bile that rose to the back of her throat, determined to keep the meagre contents of her stomach down.
She tried to pull herself up onto the bed, but another wave of pain washed over her, and she stumbled into the side of the dresser, scattering makeup onto the threadbare carpet.
Tracey squinted at the blurred hands of her cheap wristwatch through a pain-induced haze. By a sheer act of willpower, she forced herself
