Arthur Quinn and Hell's Keeper

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

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© Alan Early, 2013

ISBN: 978 1 78117 158 5

Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 215 5

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 216 2

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

All characters and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, which may occur inadvertently, is completely unintentional.

To Paul, Dee, Lou, Ruairí and Tag,
for your names and so much more.

Neil Conifrey felt a surge of relief when he saw the turn off the main road up ahead. It had been a long journey from Dublin and the snail's pace of the Friday rush-hour traffic had only made it longer. Kurt and Susanna had squabbled in the back for most of the two-hour-plus drive, while Joanna – Neil's wife – sat staunchly silent in the passenger seat, massaging away a particularly painful migraine. Now, as they approached the turn-off, the bickering finally came to an end. Neil glanced in the rear-view mirror at his two kids. Kurt was sixteen and had definitely inherited genes from Joanna's side of the family. With the cleft in his chin and the slightly bulging eyes, he was the spitting image of Joanna's older brother. He even shared his uncle's dark five o'clock shadow. Ten-year-old Susanna, on the other hand, took after Neil with her mop of wiry brown hair and poor eyesight.

He focused back on his driving as he turned up the laneway towards the holiday home. Despite the harsh winter they'd just emerged from, the gravel track was overgrown with brambles and bushes already. Usually he didn't have to trim back the growth until their annual visit over the May Bank Holiday, but by the looks of it he'd have to do some work on it this weekend.

Bad weather had forced them to remain in Dublin over Christmas. Normally they were glad to get out of the city to visit Joanna's parents in Leitrim, but the snow and ice had put a stop to that. Now – to celebrate Joanna's birthday – Neil had taken the family to their holiday home a few miles outside Mullingar. He thought it would be a much-needed break from the hustle and bustle of the city – although, judging by the way it had begun, he figured he'd have gotten more rest back in Dublin.

The house itself was secluded at the end of the laneway, overlooking a small hillside. It was a compact bungalow, painted a cheery yellow and of a clean, modern design. The sun had set a couple of hours before and, as Neil parked the car, he was surprised to see light pouring from one of the windows.

‘Did anyone leave a light on last time we were here?' he asked, pulling up the handbrake. He turned to his children, irritated.

‘No,' Kurt answered sullenly, looking out of his window.

‘Wasn't me,' said Susanna. ‘Honest.'

Neil turned to Joanna, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Don't look at me like that,' she warned him. ‘You probably left it on. You always do at home.' He unhooked his seat belt, unwilling to admit that she was more than likely right. He did have a habit of forgetting to turn off the house lights at night or any time he was going out.

They bustled out of the car. Joanna leaned back against the bonnet, inhaling the cool air deeply, glad to be out of the stuffy vehicle. She was holding a bag of basic groceries they'd picked up in a petrol station en route. Susanna ran off to inspect the apple tree she had planted the previous spring. As Neil heaved their one suitcase out of the car boot, Kurt was waving his mobile phone in the air, trying to catch some reception.

‘I have no bars,' he complained. ‘Dad, there are no bars.'

‘Of course there aren't,' Neil said, pulling the wheeled case towards the front door. ‘There weren't any when we came here last year or the summer before that or the spring before that. And there won't be any if we come here in May. But isn't it nice to be away from the pitfalls of modern society for a few days?'

Kurt chose not to answer, sighed and thrust the phone back in his pocket petulantly. Neil smiled to himself, took the house keys out of his pocket and tried to find the right one before his son could voice another complaint. Even after coming here all these years, he still couldn't work out the previous owners' key-coding system.

‘No apples,' said Susanna sadly, crossing back from the small front garden.

‘They'll grow in the autumn, Suzie,' said her mother. ‘Don't worry. As soon as your dad gets the door open, we'll put on some nice hot chocolate. How does that sound?'

As if on cue, Neil managed to turn the correct key in the door with a click.

‘All aboard!' he exclaimed as he went in – an old joke he'd used countless times before, which they all rolled their eyes at now.

Considering the house had spent some months uninhabited, Neil had expected it to be almost arctic inside, but he was bewildered to find that it was actually quite warm. As he put down the case, the family all piled past him into the kitchen – to where he'd apparently left the light glowing on their last visit. None of the rest of them seemed to notice the warmth in the house, or, if they did, they didn't think it strange. He watched through the door as Joanna turned the stove on and his children rooted through the cupboard for supplies. He made his way slowly towards them, keeping his ears alert for … well, he didn't know what for. He didn't want to think about it, really. The back of his hand felt a radiator as he passed; it was hot to the touch.

‘Any marshmallows?' Joanna was asking as she heaped spoonfuls of chocolate powder into a saucepan of simmering milk.

‘Just a few,' Kurt replied, retrieving a near-empty bag of marshmallows.

‘We'll put some more on the shopping list for tomorrow.'

‘Joanna,' said Neil.

‘Hmm?' She didn't turn, just kept stirring the chocolate.

‘Joanna,' he said again, more urgently this time.

‘What is it?' she asked irritably, swivelling towards him.

‘Did you put that there?' He pointed to the breakfast table. The calendar from the wall had been left on it, open to the month of February. The first three weeks' worth of days had been crossed off – right up to today. A rough-edged X the colour of rust marked off each day. It looked like it had been scrawled with a fingertip in ink. Or …

‘Is that blood?' Kurt spluttered, staring at the calendar.

‘Hello there!' said a voice behind them. Neil spun to find himself facing a tall man. He had platinum-blond hair, cropped close to his skull. His beard was trimmed into what he'd often heard Joanna refer to as ‘fashionable stubble'. His eyes were a shockingly pale blue and they darted from one member of the Conifrey family to the next. He was wearing pinstriped trousers, a matching waistcoat, shirt and tie. There was no sign of the blazer that would complete the three-piece ensemble. Over it all, he wore a frilly pink apron that had ‘Kiss the Cook' scrawled across it in cartoony text and a print of a naked, muscled chest underneath it. He was grinning at them, exposing a row of flawless white teeth.

‘Is that hot chocolate?' he asked, slamming the door behind him. ‘I do love hot chocolate.'

‘Wh– … who are you?'

Without warning, the man leapt forward. He thrust a hand against Neil's chest and pushed him backwards. Joanna cried out as Neil flew through the air, crashed into the kitchen units and slumped to the ground.

‘Who am I?' cackled the blond-haired man shrilly. ‘I am Loki, the Father of Lies,' he said, strolling nonchalantly further into the kitchen. ‘And we're all going to have such fun together!'