Limbo 56 by Mike Morris (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

I catch him.” She poured another huge drink. “Aren’t you going to have any?” She asked.

Shakily, he poured a drink. “How did you get here?” He asked. “Where are you from?” She pointed to the dingy carpet, and he stared stupidly at it for a moment. “Oh,” he said finally, “You’re from H.. – down there.”

She leant towards him and laid a hand on his wrist. He shivered and goose bumps raced up his arm. “You’re not upset, are you?” She asked. “You are going to help me. I need you,” she said, and he drew a ragged breath. “Bobby was supposed to get me into Limbo,” she continued. “The Governor here dances to his tune, he said: that’s you, I suppose. You were going to be my sponsor, and then he was going to take over the place, exchange all the souls here for me. That’s about five thousand souls; I’m worth that, aren’t I?” He nodded dumbly. “Get another bottle, will you?” He looked down and saw that the bottle was almost empty, looked at her in surprise. “I’m a bad girl, I know,” she crooned. “I’m a really bad girl.” She drank, straight from the bottle. “I can’t resist temptation,” she said. “Let’s take the next bottle upstairs,” she said. “Take me upstairs;” she said, and she leaned forward, framing his face with her silken hair. “I’ll tell you what I can do for you, and then I’ll tell you what you can do for me.” They walked up the cobwebby stairs and no one noticed them. The upstairs rooms were all dusty and bare, and she turned dreamy eyes on him. “This is wonderful,” she said, and started to peel off her dress.

He woke up the next morning and looked at the dusty ceiling. “What a dream,” he murmured. “Life – death can’t be that good.”

“It was good for me too,” she whispered, and he jumped and winced. “Oh dear,” she said, sliding her hand between his legs. “Did you get blisters? It happens sometimes.”

“Aahh,” he said, somewhere between agony and bliss as her hands roved over his blistered penis. “Oohh,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

She snatched her hand away, and he howled in pain. “How can you say such a disgusting thing,” she shrieked, eyes turning red. Two distinct bumps started to grow on the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot. I forgot that you…”

“Never mind,” she told him. “I have a bad temper. It’s all part of being a Demon.” She wrapped herself around him. “Let’s go downstairs and drink some more whisky.”

He looked at her and gulped. “Shouldn’t we put some clothes on first? And, do you have a name?”

Her name was Pauline. She knew where Bobby Boy was; she had helped him escape from Limbo56, and, with Arthur’s help, she would locate him, tear him to pieces, and eat him. Arthur was not surprised to discover that this was, literally, what she intended to do. Unfortunately, in the real world she had no substance. Arthur must capture the criminal and bring him back to Limbo. Arthur briefly remembered the bullet in his head and the slash wound and smiled at her, thinking what a delightful, beautiful demon she had turned out to be. He agreed with her that Max and the Accountant could run Limbo indefinitely until he captured Bobby Boy, then he agreed that they should go upstairs again, and when he limped back downstairs several hours later, she whisked him away to Trafalgar Square, in London.

As a boy in the real world, Arthur had visited London for a weekend. He remembered a vast city with sleek, speedy carriages, the constant clatter of horses’ hooves, with rich citizens exiting and entering impressive houses, citizens who spoke with a strange accent. By 1930 the horses had vanished, replaced by automobiles that flowed in a stream round the square. Big red buses stopped to take on and disgorge passengers, and pigeons flew screaming around the statue of Nelson. He watched as the well-dressed citizens of the capital city streamed, unseeing, around them. One man, expensively dressed, with a silver-tipped cane, walked jauntily up to them. “I say…” he began, before clutching his heart and collapsing.

“Let’s get out of here,” Pauline said. “He’s going straight to H… - upstairs,” and she shivered.

Arthur saw that she was almost transparent. Here in the real world her horns were quite prominent, but they were prettily decorated with red bows. Even with a tail poking from her skirt, she had a stunning figure. “He’s living in Portland Terrace,” she said. “We need to take the underground to Bond Street.” She took his hand and led him across the street to where a stone staircase led them beneath the city. He tried to place his arm around her waist, but disconcertingly, it sank into her. “Stop that,” she said. “It tickles.” They walked through stone tunnels with a crowd of Londoners. Posters advertised old and new products, some of which he remembered, others that were completely new to him. Trains rumbled above and below as she led him through the confusing corridors. They stepped on to a platform and a train rushed from a tunnel to stop in front of them. “This one,” she commanded, dragging him inside.

“How do you know so much about London?” he asked.

“I lived here, not too long ago,” she told him. “Died here, too.”

Portland Terrace was an imposing row of large houses, sculpted in white stone. They looked as if they had been standing for a couple of centuries and were capable of enduring the ravages of time for several more. The house that Pauline pointed out was in the middle of the row, with several wide steps leading up to a landing and two massive doors. A large man in a black suit was leaning casually against the wall, as if taking a quick break. They watched for half an hour while he smoked interminable cigarettes. Two cars were parked close by, each occupied by two men in dark suits. The back of the house faced a large treeless park; anyone approaching would be seen for miles.

Bobby Boy left with his entourage, mostly in the early evenings. He usually returned at dawn or later. Two shifts of bodyguards kept him covered twenty-four hours a day. The task of kidnapping him and dragging him back to Limbo began to seem well nigh impossible. Pauline, unable to do anything in her present form, became more and more irritable. She began to demand that Arthur do something, anything to secure Bobby Boy. She began to fantasize about what she would do when she got him in her clutches. In desperation, Arthur obtained plumbers overalls and a false moustache. Miraculously the door was unguarded for a few moments, and he marched up and pushed his way in. He entered the study where Bobby Boy sat alone listening to the radio.

“I thought it would be you, Governor,” Bobby said without turning round. “Only you would be stupid enough for a stunt like this.” He turned around, a large gun in his hand. “What is that idiotic thing on your lip,” he said, and shot Arthur in the head.

Arthur felt the bullet tear through his skull, and most of his mental faculties went blank. He came to and stared at lumps of gray matter on the carpet, surrounding the bullet that had just ejected from his brain. Wincing, he picked up most of the shreds of brain and stuffed them into the hole in his head. From the next room, he heard the sound of voices raised in argument. Groaning, he crawled to the window, shoved it open and fell out, cracking his abused head. Numbly, he crawled across the large open space at the back of the house, expecting to be seized and dragged back at any moment. He reached a large building, dragged himself in and fainted behind a bench.

When he came to, Pauline was hovering anxiously over him. She was pale and trembling, and he was touched at her concern. “What the Hell did you crawl in here for,” she screamed when his eyes opened. “Don’t you know what it does to me to be in one of these places?” He looked around. It was a church. Pauline composed herself. “They knew exactly who and where you were and what you were doing,” she said. “They saw you buy the uniform, and left the door open. Luckily, only Bobby can see me, so I slipped in behind you.” She shook her head. “They planned to cut you up into little pieces and throw you in the basement furnace, but one of their neighbors noticed you in that ridiculous disguise and thought you were a burglar. He phoned the police and they arrived just in time. You must have revived when they were trying to get the police to leave.” She looked inquiringly at Arthur. “What’s it like for you undead to be cut up and burned? Would you ever heal? Is it painful?” She licked her lips.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said querulously. “It’s never happened to me.”

Pauline looked disappointed. “When do you think we will be able to get out of this place,” she said. “It’s really getting on my nerves.”

“Right now,” Arthur said. “I heal pretty quickly.” He checked his mental faculties. The only difference that he could feel was a certain diminution in his affections for the she-devil, but he wasn’t sure whether to attribute this to recent circumstances or the loss of some brain-matter. “Come on,” he said wearily. “I have to get hold of the local Limbo recruiter for this area. Whoever he or she is, they probably work for Jimmy Wheeler.” He scratched his head and noticed that the hole had diminished appreciably. “I need to steal a car and brush up on my driving skills.”

“That shot in the head seems to have killed some of your scruples,” Pauline said appreciatively.

They left the church and went in search of an unattended car. Arthur began to explain his plan to her. “When I woke up,” he said, “this plan was fully formed. I don’t know where it came from, but, at least it’s a plan, not just some stupid gesture from a besotted admirer of yours.” She smiled, and he wondered how completely he had rid himself of his obsession with her. “We can’t touch him here, in the real world,” he said. “Thanks to whatever you did, he’s free to wander around and cause chaos. If I can get him back to a Limbo, any Limbo, can you undo what you did?”

“Of course, she said. “All I have to do is tear him apart and eat him.”

“You are obsessive,” Arthur said wearily. “Once we get him back with the undead, can you fix it so he stays there?”

She hesitated. “Yes, I’ll fix it. Then I’ll eat him.”

He was looking around. “I don’t detect any recruiters,” he said.

Pauline laughed. “I can spot them,” she said. “Actually, that Jimmy Wheeler bloke is not far from here. We need to get the bus to Hackney. Then we steal a car,” she said before he could interrupt. “Then we drive to East Ham, in comfort. Right now, he’s having a beer with a prospective client.” She sniffed. “I’ll teach Bobby to run out on me,” she said. “Think what the two of us could have accomplished together.”

“I can’t imagine,” Arthur said faintly.

They finally caught up with Jimmy, bloated with beer, in a pub in Hackney. His eyes bulged when he