The End - Visions of Apocalypse

“What can I do, then?” I demanded. “I can’t pay him, unless you can summon me up an angel’s skull, or something worth the same amount.”

The Burned Man sniggered. “If I could summon up things you wouldn’t be broke, would you?” it sneered. “There’s a limit to what I can do, bound and chained to your sodding altar.”

I gave it a sharp look. The Burned Man never said anything it didn’t mean, and it never said anything useful at all unless you asked it a direct question.

“What?” I said. “That sounded like a hint.”

“There was a settlement on the Thames, where London stands now, long before the Romans came,” the Burned Man said. “I was bound before even then, bound by a magic you can’t even begin to imagine, you little puke. So if there are things I can’t say, it’s not because you’re clever, you understand me?”

I nodded slowly. “You can’t say,” I said. “I have to guess?”

The Burned Man shrugged, and rattled its iron chains.

“So,” I began, pausing to wipe the oozing blood off my chest with the back of my hand, “if there’s a limit to what you can do while you’re bound, there might be less of a limit if you weren’t bound, is that what you’re getting at?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment on idle speculation,” the Burned Man said. “I could tell you a little story, I suppose, if you’re bored. Just to pass the time, you understand.”

I shrugged. This was getting obtuse, even for the Burned Man, but like I say it never said anything without a reason.

“Go on then,” I said. “Story time.”

“Back then,” it said, “in Tir Na Nog, before the waters made this land an island, there was an antler druid called Oisin who had the gift of Summoning. Oisin had the words of binding, and the gift of iron, and the power to take his pick of all the demons of Hell to enslave to do his bidding. Oisin chose me, as the most powerful, and bound me into this fetish to serve him. Do you see?”

I frowned at it. “You’re saying he chose you over Astaroth, is that it?” I said.

The Burned Man shrugged. “Is it?” it asked. “Why would that be, I wonder? If a man asked a direct cocking question maybe I could answer it.”

“Are you more powerful than Astaroth?” I asked it.

It laughed. “Is a bear catholic?” it said.

“Ah,” I said. “Well fuck me sideways.”

“Of course,” the Burned Man went on, “not while I’m bound into this hideous little thing and chained to your puking table I’m not.”

“So,” I said, thinking out loud, “if I unbound you, could you get rid of Wormwood for me?”

The Burned Man nodded. “I could,” it said.

“Forever?” I asked. “I don’t mean send him to Spain for a week’s bloody holiday, I mean smash him into atoms so he’ll never bother me again, yeah? And get my warpstone back. And fuck it, I wouldn’t mind his money, and his club, and his minions and his house in Mayfair while you’re about it, yeah?

The Burned Man laughed. “You drive a hard bargain,” it said, “but yeah, why not? I could do that for you. If you let me free.”

“Then I reckon I could let you free,” I said. “If I had that lot I wouldn’t need to work any more, so I wouldn’t need you anyway. It’s a deal.”

“Deal,” the Burned Man hissed. “Do it. Now.”

“Now hang on,” I said, “we need to plan this out. We need to get near him, don’t we? That club’s like a fortress, but he’s always suspected I’ve been sitting on something special, something that gives me my edge. How about I offer him a rematch, double or quits? If I bet you, he’ll be more than happy to go for it. Once we set up the meet, I’ll turn you loose in his club, how’s that?”

The Burned Man didn’t have a lot of choice, of course. I wasn’t stupid — I’d get Wormwood to put his club, his business and everything he owned up, as his stake. If I won the rematch I could keep the Burned Man and the club and everything else, and be happily rich. If not, well, turning the Burned Man loose to get it for me anyway could always be plan B.

* * *

I phoned Selina back in the early afternoon, and by nine that evening I was leaving the office with a big black holdall in my hand. I had used a circular saw to chop the middle out of the altar, with the burned man still chained to the ancient consecrated wood. It was in the bottom of the holdall now, grumbling and cursing to itself as I carried it down the stairs. I stopped to lock the door behind me, and noticed somebody had scratched “drunken” in front of the “wanker” underneath my sign. Someone had seen me come home last night then. Sod them, whichever way the game went tonight I wouldn’t be living in this shithole much longer.