Hellfire

Chapter 2 - Bring Me To Life

"The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. "

- John Milton, Paradise Lost.

Charlie closed the front door and threw the keys onto the kitchen counter. He had just finished his shift at the bar and once again it was past midnight when he got in. His stomach growled loudly as he walked over to the fridge and peeked inside. All it contained was a small block of moulding cheese, a drop of milk and pickled onions. It looks like shopping is on the list for things to do tomorrow then. The fridge was as empty as he felt. He grabbed the box of cornflakes at the side of the fridge and shoved his hand inside, not bothering to pour them into a bowl with milk.

He sat down in his usual spot on the sofa, his legs outstretched in front of him, his big toe poked out of his worn red socks. He flipped on the television out of habit and sat staring at the late night news. Nothing of interest except the score from the last football game 10-2 to Chelsea. He was about to switch off when a picture of Jane Hawthorn flashed across the screen. Grabbing the remote he turned the volume up louder.

"The body of a young woman was found Tuesday night after witnesses reported hearing a loud scream coming from a street in Sutton. Sources tell us the young woman was seen wandering the streets early hours of the morning in a deranged state; she was barefooted, crying and had cuts to her wrist and throat. One man was taken in for questioning, but was later released after police have ruled it as an apparent suicide. No further information has been released."

Charlie sat in shock, his mouth hung open and his body frozen. It had been two days since he was down the police station for questioning. After finishing his written statement and signing it he was politely asked to leave. They also told him he might get a call from them in the next couple of days. However there had not been any contact off them so far, and now he knew why. He knew he wasn't responsible for any murder, but the last thing he expected was suicide. What have you gotten yourself into Charlie, so much for keeping a low key profile in London, best not draw any more attention to yourself. Pushing the thoughts into the back of his mind he quickly recovered from the bout of nausea that filled his stomach. Turning off the TV he slowly began to compose himself.

Finishing the box of cornflakes, he mentally added them to his list of items to buy tomorrow. Shrugging off his leather jacket, he headed to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. The bathroom light was harshly bright, so bright it was giving him the faintest of headaches. He washed his hands and grabbed painkillers from the bathroom cabinet. He swallowed them quickly without any need of water.

He looked up from the sink, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There were faint dark circles under his steel blue eyes, making him look more exhausted than usual. That’s what working 10 & 12 hour shifts a night will do to you Charlie boy. He turned off the light in the bathroom shuffling into his adjoining bedroom. He crashed onto his bed, falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

The room was in complete darkness when he awoke; Charlie felt himself sit up and rise off the bed. Slowly his eyes began to adjust to the shadows. Feeling like a zombie, he made his way over to the mirror on his wardrobe where the smudged lipstick message that Jane had left him was still visiable despite his attempt at wiping it off.

In the mirror his reflection's dark and somber. The grey t-shirt he regularly wears has ridden up revealing his midriff while his torn jeans hung loosely at his waist. His dark hair was a tangled mess and there was dribble leaking from the corner of his mouth. He tries to wipe it off, but discovers he can’t. His hand just won’t move, no matter how much he tries to force it.

Realising he was in some sort of dream state Charlie relaxed and drifted back into sleep. He was only half aware of opening the front door and exiting into the cold night air. Through the dimly lit streets of London he walked, his feet slap the gritty wet tarmac. Charlie walked in the direction of Westminster Bridge, walking past a labyrinth of streets. Big Ben towered over him; the clock face was illuminated brightly, like a second moon in the dark blue sky.

Light pollution from the street lights blocked out the glow of stars, while the night fog crept around him like a snake coiling around its master. He walked past tramps scattered in nooks and crannies, instead of begging him for money or food however, they move away from him in horror. They know what’s hiding inside him. The pure black eyes that they have seen many of times before gave him away.

Despite the crispy cold air, and Charlie's lack of shoes, he continued on. Not even blinking when he stepped on broken glass or sharp gravel. His red tattered sock, the only protection from the gritty London streets.

After hours of walking he reached his destination - a corner shop with its closed sign twisted around the door. The lights were all off inside, and the flat above the shop was derelict and boarded up, showing no signs of life. Charlie looked around to see if anybody was watching or could bare witness to his actions. He reached up and ripped the sleeve off his top. Wrapping the torn fabric around his hand he punched out, striking the glass with a force, sending shards flying everywhere.

Within seconds the sound of the shop burglar alarm goes off, it's loud whining began to ring in Charlie’s ears. What? Huh. Where am I? His hands rushed to the side of his head, trying to block out the noise that has disturbed him. He spots the broken window and he began to realise what has happened.

Did I do this? Was I sleepwalking? Aw man. What have you gone and done now you first class idiot.

Before he can figure out any more, the sound of sirens can be heard in the distance. A silver BMW with orange stripes down its side and flashing blue lights pulled up at the side of the curb. Charlie Myles is long gone though, leaving no trace of him behind.

* * *

Pearce sat in the office chair bent over a pile of paperwork scattered over the desk. Outside the sun was setting creating a golden glow, with shadows from the buildings outside creating shapes that stretched around the office room. His shift had finished hours ago yet he still remained at his old desk, not realising half the staff had left to go home already.

“It’s been a week Sir, are you still looking over Hawthorne’s case file. We won’t find anything, it’s been ruled a suicide.” PC Nate Sparks broke Pearce’s concentration, causing him to look up suddenly. He stood in the doorway, his usually cheeky expression more serious in the presence of his boss. “What more can you expect to find? She was found outside her home with self inflicted wounds to her wrists and throat. Witnesses didn't see anything suspicious except her running around screaming her head off. Besides it would have been given to Dixon and his team anyway because of her previous convictions with drugs. So if there is anything else it's their business.”

“This isn’t her case. Although there is something which is nagging me about it, Stark, and I believe it is connected to this one.” Pearce sighed looking back down at the file in his hand.

“It’s Sparks, Sir.” Nate corrected him with a hint of frustration, while he tried to remain as polite as he could in his boss’s presence.

“Huh. Pardon, sorry you said something?” Pearce mumbled looking back up at his young colleague with minor interest. He didn’t like the lad, not exactly. There was an ignorance about him and it was clear he didn’t take his job seriously. It wasn’t his inexperience that bothered Pearce but his cocky persona and his abuse of the uniform to pick up his next female companion for the night.

Nate shook his head dismissing the matter. He took a seat near Pearce, watching the files over his shoulder quietly when something spots his eye.

“What’s that?!” He asked with importance, jumping up and pointing to a crime scene photo.

Pearce looked closely at the image of a young woman standing under a street light as forensics work on the body of Patrick Stables. Pearce had to blink twice, most of her was in shadow but her face unmistakably belonged to Jane Hawthorne.

“I think our suicide victim has just become a murder suspect Stark.”