The Department of Hate - A Love Story (9 page)

"Well, that was impressive. You can walk me to my car."
Jarrod replied

"Certainly
." They sat around for just a few minutes more then made their way downstairs. Robert as promised paid for the evening.  He and Wendy made their farewells and left quickly. Jarrod walked out onto the cold street with Caroline. She pointed down the street, saying

"Amazingly enough, I got a park around the corner just two blocks away - down that way
." Jarrod didn’t reply. They started walking side by side - again, immediately he had that infuriating feeling of being watched. He looked about angrily - someone over the other side of the road? No. It was too dark to see clearly. But who was watching? Why? This had been going on for days now. Caroline hadn’t noticed. They continued walking. It was late now. The streets were almost empty.

As they finally came up to her car he looked at her again, sizing her up - even the way she walked was cool, detached, methodical. On the inside she was all intellect, sharp and shiny. He couldn’t imagine her cunt getting too wet or her body twisting out of shape or her soul crying out in passion. It would be a dry hump, perfunctory and unpleasant - and the flesh though held in temporary abeyance not satisfied - never satisfied, never enough, never just quite right, always crying out 'again', 'more' - nature's way of ensuring iterated performances. He could see the inevitable and inescapable future. They would get married. They would keep fucking each other with a frequency quickly diminishing to one and third times a week, resulting in one and a half children.  There would be a house, a mortgage, a car and a television, schools, parent teacher nights, a cat and a dog, birthdays and anniversaries, a backyard and a large tree, family Christmases, the local Mall, bills, elections and the occasional overseas vacation - and nothing else, nothing else, ever. They would grow old together, mostly complacent, gradually softer and fatter - if that was even possible in her case. And they would begin to hate each other, more and more with each passing year until towards the end each would want  nothing more than to pound the others face into a bloody pulp with their bare fists. Neither of them sure whether or not to die first - on the one hand the pure satisfaction of permanent escape, but on the other the chance to stand over the grave of the deceased spouse and intone

“
I hate your fucking guts. I am so glad you're finally fucking dead.”

They reached Caroline's car. She turned towards him, placing her hand on his arm. She spoke to him quietly - for once, a little unsure of herself.

"Would you like to come home with me?"
Jarrod was looking for a polite way to say

‘
Are you out of your fucking mind?' 
But all he could come up with was

"No, not tonight
." Caroline shrugged

"I didn’t really think so."
She got into her car closing the door behind her - but then opened the window.

"You're a bit of an asshole, you know."
Jarrod was surprised by this. But she drove off before he could reply in any way. He stood there watching her go, thinking

‘Well fair enough. Good for you.’

Again he felt someone watching him - this time from behind. He span around quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse - nothing. He called out in anger and frustration

"I don’t know who or what you are you fucking bastard. If I catch you, when I catch you, I'm going to rip your fucking throat out through your own arse. Then I'll be the one watching you - as you slowly choke to death on you own shit." He looked around carefully, listened carefully. Nothing but silence!  Still angry, he strode back along the street towards the restaurant.

Behind one of the trees on the other side of the street the gnome stood motionless, watching him storm off - an evil contented smile on his face. He was mildly disappointed though. Now he didn’t have anything more to do tonight - Amsterdam was all set and ready. He had been looking forward to killing the fat chick - maybe he'd just do her anyway.

                        ***************

Jarrod was in a much calmer mood the next day. He arrived at the university early. Robert McDowell was already there. They met in the corridor outside Jarrod's office. Robert was as loud and as abrupt as always

"So, did you shag Caroline?"
Jarrod shook his head. Robert roared out his disapproval.

"I knew it. You fucking pussy!"
He stood there scowling - then barked out

"Why not? She was practically begging for it."
Jarrod had given this some thought on the tube on the way in. He had known that he would be interrogated.

"You know, for a variety of reasons but the biggest was that I felt nothing for her, not even physically - nothing."
Robert was clearly not impressed much by this.

"Fuck!  All you need is a little friction to get things going. Christ all mighty!
” He paused and then continued, asking sarcastically

"You're holding out for true love are you?"
Jarrod could hardly reply to that. He stared back without saying anything. Robert shook his head, taking silence for assent

"Unbelievable! What are you, a fucking teenage girl?"
He turned around and, mumbling some further obscenities, walked down the corridor. Without looking back he called out

“
You're a lost cause mate." Then he turned into his own office - slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 9 – The Department of Hate

Abaddon turned up again a few hours later. He was cautious and apologetic. He wanted to see if the Lord Beelzebub was ready for a tour of his department. Jarrod readily agreed to this – he was eager to find out as much as possible. The quicker they did this the quicker they could get out of here. Abaddon didn’t seem too enthusiastic about Cassandra accompanying them but of course he had no choice. Once outside the apartment he led them along a long corridor. He seemed anxious to make an impression

“We’re heading for the main control room my Lord. We’re just going through the building as a short cut; we’ll enter from the side. I’ll show you the front entrance later if this pleases you my Lord.”
Jarrod didn’t care and made no reply. Cassandra also said nothing, she seemed quite calm, looking about, just waiting to see what would happen next.  Abaddon wouldn’t stop talking.

“We have five thousand three hundred and fifty seven demons working here directly My Lord. We have made a significant contribution to the current crisis.”

Jarrod stopped when he heard
this; he turned and stared at Abaddon. Over the last year especially, the world had certainly seemed to be teetering on the brink of the abyss. There had been any number of terrorist bombings and attacks, escalating international tensions and open threats of terrifying proportion, the Israelis and the Iranians screaming at each other as they continued their mobilisations, more nuclear tests in many countries and yet more North Korean missile launches and underground nuclear tests, even initial limited skirmishes between American, Russian and Chinese combat troops in Kyrgyzstan - a three way conflict, dangerously unpredictable. Huge naval fleets were moving into position everywhere. In most countries around the world there had been series of ongoing mass protests often turning into violent riots – put down only after days of terror by baton wielding storm troopers, though in many cases with canons and machine guns - leaving thousands dead at a time. There had been the beginnings of food shortages and widespread hording and looting, financial and political systems fragmenting, violent and murderous rhetoric and propaganda from all sources at all levels. There was a level of anxiety and anguish Jarrod had never seen before. In the past it would have meant war on a massive scale – opportunistic politicians and generals riding and further provoking the hysteria, safely from the rear. He could remember from his study of history the widespread relief, even ebullience, across Europe when World War 1 was declared on July 28 1914, a vast collective sigh of, “finally, let’s get it on”.  At least twenty million people were murdered in the next four years. Now with modern weapons – nuclear, chemical, biological – a hundred times that many could be dead in a few hours and the devastated Earth would never recover. Surely only the criminally insane would even contemplate any action that could possibly lead to this. Anything could so easily escalate out of control. Unfortunately these types seemed to exist in abundance and often enough they were the ones who ended up in charge. Psychopaths always had an enormous tactical advantage over those encumbered by such things as empathy or conscience.

Jarrod thought through all of this as he stared at Abaddon. Now, here was this grovelling little piece of shit apparently taking some of the credit for it. With some effort Jarrod said nothing. He decided to put off questioning him until later. For now he would just take in everything he could.  He was deeply angry – peace was fragile. It required constant effort and not the ongoing deliberate provocations of self-interested, self-serving assholes. In a flash of rage he thought that Abaddon might well find himself in the pit he so obviously admired – and sooner rather than later.  Of course he could see the internal contradictions in his reaction – responding to murder with murder. He saw Cassandra looking at him. She seemed puzzled. He tried to force a smile. They all started walking again.

They came into a vast room, as large as a warehouse, full of crates stacked on top of each other – row after row of them, thousands in all. They were all the same size – around three metres by three metres by three metres. Abaddon as always was quick to explain

“Ten thousand boxes in all, my Lord, and another thousand rooms just like this one.”
Jarrod was puzzled by this, he asked

“But the department isn’t big enough for that?”
Abaddon replied

“Normal geometry, doesn’t apply down here my Lord.”
Jarrod thought to himself

‘
Of course it doesn’t.
’ And he couldn’t help but think of the Tardis. He looked around. He had some vague memory of what this place was but couldn’t quite recall. He asked out loud

“What’s all this for?”
Abaddon replied eagerly

“You call these the hot rooms, my Lord”.
They were standing near the first row of crates. Abaddon pointed at one of them and it became transparent. It contained a man and a woman, naked, standing in front of each other and screaming at each other as loudly as they could – their faces hard and white with unending rage. Abaddon waved his hand. It became opaque again. He pointed to another – another naked couple also standing, also screaming at each other. Then another one and another one.  All the same. In one of the crates the occupants each sat in their own corner clearly sullen and vengeful but, at least for the moment, quiet. He pointed to a few more and in these the man and the woman were actually fighting each other - pushing and shoving, kicking and punching, clawing at each others faces – as well as screaming unending abuse. Jarrod was very disturbed by what we was seeing, he asked

“Who are these people?”
Abaddon seemed pleased with himself, he replied smugly

“Divorced couples, my Lord. One of your special studies.”
Jarrod was shocked, he asked

“How long do they stay here for?”
  Abbdon replied bluntly

“Well, forever, my Lord. But they haven’t been here very long. You only started this collection a few centuries back and you don’t take them all.”
Jarrod looked around – so many boxes, and this was only one room. He didn’t know what to make of it.  Abaddon continued speaking

“You always said, my Lord, that you wanted to understand how love turned into hate and in many cases so quickly
.” Jarrod had no reply to that. He simply replied

“All right, let’s keep moving
then.” They crossed to the other side of the room and went through the doorway. Jarrod saw that Cassandra was looking at him sternly and not at all pleased.  He replied uncertainly

“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.”
But this didn’t feel like much of an excuse and he could see that she was distinctly unimpressed.

They came into another room – still large though a lot a smaller than the previous one.  There were a large number of viewers spread around the room – not computer screens just large live video feeds floating in the air, each attended to by several demons. The images seemed to be mostly of children. Abaddon explained, with some enthusiasm

“Children’s Section.”
Jarrod was already dreading what they might be about to see. He said out loud

“Oh No.”
Cassandra also was clearly very concerned. She knew this wasn’t going to be good. She didn’t say anything but she didn’t look happy.

They joined the closest group of demons clustered around one of the live views, watching a scene unfold. It was a playground at a kindergarten. Four young children – two boys and two girls – were picking on another child, surrounding him and taunting him. Their victim was a young boy. He was already quite pudgy and overweight and he wore thick ungainly looking glasses. They screamed abuse at him.

“Fatty four eyes. Fatty four eyes.”
They closed in on him. The nearest of the girls gave him a push which almost knocked him over.  One of the demons seemed to be putting thoughts in her head.

“He’s disgusting. You hate his guts. You’re going to hit him.”
She seemed to be thinking these words as the demon said them out loud. Jarrod could see her face tightening up into an ugly sneer.  She pushed forward and then punched him in the side of the head with a quick right hook. He fell to the ground. They closed in on him screaming more abuse.

“Fatty four eyes. Fatty four eyes. Disgusting pig. Disgusting pig
.” The boy was crying, trying to cover his face. The demon intoned

“Kick him. Kick him.”
The little girl, her face twisted in self righteous rage, repeated out loud what she was hearing in her head

“Kick him. Kick him.”
The children moved in on him clearly intending to do so. A teacher ran over and started pushing them away, another teacher ran to help. The watching demons were practically falling over themselves laughing. One of them managed to say

“Ah, it’s just too easy.”

Similar scenes were unfolding throughout the room – hundreds of them. Abaddon turned to Jarrod

“As you always said, my Lord. Get them while they’re young. Make sure they don’t learn to restrain their impulses. Instant rage builds into deeper and more enduring hatreds.” Cassandra spoke to Jarrod

“Do you remember saying that then?”
Jarrod replied quietly

“No. No I don’t.”
She looked at him steadily, her expression unreadable. One of the other demons spoke up

“Doesn’t matter much
now anyway. We’re just having some fun.” Jarrod responded to this quickly

“What do you mean?”
The demon seemed confused

“What? But, you know, my Lord? The end of the world.”
Abaddon intervened. He motioned to the demon to let it go and be silent. The demon complied instantly. Then he spoke to Jarrod

“I’ll explain later, my Lord
.” Jarrod replied carefully

“All right, later.”
He certainly didn’t want to discuss it here. But he knew by now what all this talk of the plan was about. He could see that Cassandra also understood.

They came into the next room with an increasing sense of anticipation. Jarrod asked Abaddon

“How much further?”
Abaddon replied

“The next room is the main control room, my Lord.”
Jarrod looked around and asked

“What’s this one then?”
Abaddon replied, again with evident enthusiasm

“Armed robberies and home invasions, my Lord
.” Jarrod shook his head, incredulous

“That’s just great.”
Cassandra echoed his reaction

“
Oh yes, just wonderful.”

Their attention was drawn to one of the live views floating in the air nearby where a home invasion was taking place. As usual a group of demons surrounded the view waiting for the right moment to stir and provoke – looking for the outcome they desired. This one didn’t seem to need much input from them. Three large men, one armed with a rifle the other two with shotguns, had taken over a suburban house in Chicago. A middle aged couple, husband and wife, along with their two boys aged seven and nine were spread out along the floor face down with their hands tied behind their backs. The leader of the invaders, the one with the rifle, was screaming at them. He’d found nothing in the house of any value. It was all their fault. Everything was their fault. His whole wretched miserable shitty life was their fault. Fat, prosperous, worthless, middle class fucks – he hated their guts. Again one of the watching demons was putting words into his head but he really didn’t need much help. The other two men were laughing, looking forward to what was coming next. Their leader stopped screaming, his face settled into its usual pattern of near permanent psychotic rage. Then he simply walked down the line of his captives shooting each of them in the back of the head with his rifle. The husband was dead before he knew it, the wife tried to scream, the two boys were screaming and had begun to try to twist around. Just as he finished killing them, both doors to the living room exploded inwards and armed police stormed the room, automatic weapons cutting down the invaders instantly – their actions only a few seconds too late.

Sergeant Wilson, the leader of the assault team, felt sick in his heart as he looked over the row of dead bodies. Hardened as he was to all of this he still could not be unaffected by such senseless slaughter. Innocent families cut down.  It was happening more and more frequently. He was part of a special Chicago task force formed in response. They had been closing in on this gang for a week. If only they’d gotten here moments earlier. The other members of his squad had spread out and were covering the downed home invaders.  One of them called out

“Jack, got a live one over here.”
Sergeant Wilson walked over to him and looked down. It was the leader of the group, Robert Malone, responsible for at least a dozen attacks over the last four months, thirty men, women and children killed. Malone was trying to move and groaning out loud. He looked up at the two police officers, pleading, though still arrogant and defiant.

“I need help, call an ambulance
.” Sergeant Wilson thought of his own family at home, his wife Anna and their daughter Sylvia.  He locked eyes on Malone, pointed his weapon at him, snarled