On Pythius Street.

Clara was not impressed. She had been in Glasgow all of three weeks and considered it little better than some of the third world slums she'd been sent previously to do missionary work. Certainly the weather was worse, as was the food. The people were short and grey, many looked more like hobgoblins than people, with atrocious teeth and even worse fashion sense. Simon, who'd parents had moved to Utah from this blight of a city forty years beforehand took it all in his stride. The constantly grey, damp streets and grey, damp skies didn't seem to bother him, nor did the incomprehensible nasal speak of many of it's citizens. They were not tourists, he reiterated time and time again, they were here to save souls. Secretly Clara thought the poor bastards were already in damnation, and she was right there along with them.

In three weeks the most common response to her and Simon had been an angry “fuck aff” followed by a door being slammed in their faces. This was not unusual, she recalled the trouble Saint Paul had in Ephesus. The job of a missionary was not easy, that she knew but never had she endured such utter disgust and contempt from an entire populace. Even the old folks, who being closer to death, occasionally would listen to them, but not here. One old woman had told her she needed to spend less time with the Jesus crap and more time getting her hole. That had shocked her a bit, once Simon explained what the old woman had meant by “getting her hole”.

As such she was not looking forward to another morning of knocking on doors. The news had been filled recently with stories of abductions and murder going back several months but since her arrival it was the disappearance of the manager of a homeless night hostel that had been all over the T.V. and papers. He'd just vanished. The suspicion was that he, like the five others whose corpses had been found in parts strewn all over the city, would be next. The murderer or murderers, had chopped them to pieces and burned the bodies, though Clara was not sure in which order. It was with trepidation that she performed her work, but knew that she had to try. People needed to be saved from the lake of fire, even, if like Sodom, it was only one or two. Nevertheless, she sat quietly in the car and was a bag of nerves.

Pythius Street was in the north east of the city and like much of the city was filled with a long line of three storey red brick tenements atop local shops, bookmakers, take-aways, tanning salons and pubs. Also, like most of the city, the place was squalid. Simon was careful to park his car near the sight of one of the CCTV cameras round the corner from the street, next to an old masonic hall. Most of the closes had heavy doors and no one would answer the intercom systems and allow them entry to the building. It wasn't until number 35 that they were actually allowed entry. The abrasive buzzing noise unlocked the door and they entered the close, which was filled with pizza boxes, polystyrene food cartons, empty cigarette boxes and used condoms. Clara also noticed one single pink stiletto shoe in amongst the strewn rubbish. The walls were cracked and huge pieces of plaster were missing leaving the once white walls looking like a map of some strange brick world of unknown continents. The place stank vaguely of piss and overwhelmingly of damp and there was a dull, throbbing bass coming from somewhere. She did not have high hopes that they would find someone here willing to see the light.

She and Simon waded through the mess and climbed the stairs and began knocking on the doors. Silently she prayed that no one would answer and upon the first and second floors, no-one did. On the top floor however it seemed like God was testing her. The door swung open to reveal a giant of a man, perhaps close to seven foot tall, huge, bald, corpulent and slick with a sheen of sweat. He wore nothing on his top half, only a pair of track-suit bottoms. From behind him the sounds of heavy techno music blared loudly.

“Aye?” he croaked. His breathe a cocktail of stale tobacco and booze.

“Hi,” Simon began. “We were wondering if you had heard the good news?”

The man grinned, unsettlingly. “Been a while since I've heard any good news pal, whit ye puntin'?”

“We were wondering if you had a moment to talk about your lord and saviour, Jesus Christ?” Simon asked.

The man's throaty laugh was a much a phlegm filled gargle as a chuckle. “Jesus Christ eh? I think you two should come in.”

At this offer, Clara wanted nothing more than to hand the great beast of a man a pamphlet and scurry down the stairs with all necessary haste. The hallway obscured behind the man exuded an atmosphere that could best described as abysmal. As the lumbering heap of flesh turned to the side to invite them in with an outstretched arm, she could see the terrible ambience was not merely a cautionary sensation but inescapably rendered in the livid and awful décor. Old newspaper clippings and pages of pornographic magazines were pasted on the walls, a vile and deranged collage of war, famine, sex and torture. There was a burnt table, all four legs dismembered and lying askew and the hall had no carpeting nor hardwood flooring, just bare dusty floorboards, cracked and bevelled. Clara could feel the hairs prickle on the back of her neck, her tongue felt dry and far too big for her mouth, a cold sweat seeped from the pores of her hands and her heart began pounding in her ears. Simon, however, seemed to sense none of this. Instead he merely nodded, thanked the man and stepped inside. Warily and against her defiantly screaming instincts she followed and felt immediately like a bewildered gazelle lured into a stinking lion's den.

“We won't take up much of your time, Sir.” Simon said.

“I've got all the time in the world mate, and call me Dennis.” The tall, fat man said, with a smile that was too sardonic, too knowing to be genuine. He ushered Simon and Clara through the narrow hallway and into a main room which, if anything was even more grotesque than the hall. It was occupied by two other men, who both sat on a torn and stained once cream sofa. Both were wearing track suits. They were smoking and seeming had been at it all morning, the air was a thick blue fog of tobacco smoke. There were no curtains, so the grey daylight shone in illuminating the room in all it's effrontery to civilised domestication. Again, no carpet, bare boards mostly covered by magazines, rubbish, filthy clothing, empty liquor bottles, cutlery and tools. A large table, not entirely charred sat in the middle of the room, upon which was a mirror covered in white lines of dust, which she presumed was some kind of drug, several overflowing ashtrays, more empty bottles and to top it all an uncooked oven-ready chicken which had been left to rot, apparently for weeks, it's pale skin bloomed with bruise-coloured fungus. Upon seeing them arrive, one of the men picked up a slender remote control and with it turned off the thumping techno music. With a nod at Dennis he said. “Who the fuck are these two?”

Dennis, still with the mocking grin, replied. “These two want tae gie us the good news aboot oor lord an' saviour Jesus Christ.”

The two men bust into laughter. At this even Simon began to have doubts that this lot genuinely wanted a conversation. “I-I… if this is an inconvenient time we could just...” He stammered. Dennis shook his head.

“You jist stay right where the fuck you are, baith of ye.” He demanding with a clearly threatening manner. As he did this, the two other men stared at Clara with such wanton leers that she felt both threatened and objectified in equal measure. One of the men bounced up off the sofa and gestured to them.

“Sit doon, say yer piece.” He said, with what seemed genuine civility.

Clara could not help thinking about the news, about the abductions and murders but as Simon nodded and sat on the dirty sofa with thanks she joined him and forced a smile. She'd heard once that showing fear was some kind of trigger to those who were sadistic, that they were often disarmed by pleasantry. She did not know if it was true but given the situation it was worth a shot.

The other man stood up, giving them room on the couch and stood in front of both of them with Dennis beside them, all three had their arms folded, waiting to hear what Simon had to say. It became clear quite quickly that he was having difficulty remembering.

“So… um, we represent the Church of the Latter Day Saints and we're here in...”

“Wait up, yer Mormons?” Dennis said, his tone derisive.

“That we are Sir. And we'd like you to know that very soon the salvation of mankind will be undertaken and we are here to ask that you accept Jesus into your hearts in order that you may too be resurrected like our saviour and be received into the Kingdoms of Glory.”

“Whit's your name son?” One of the men asked, the thinnest of the three men, perhaps five foot six or seven in height. He was balding on the top of his head but his grey hair was still growing on the sides.

“Simon.” Simon said.

The man's eyes widened. “Simon eh? Like Simon Magus perhaps? Noo is that no jist the maist apt thing?”

“Leave the boy alane, Peter, it's jist a name fur fuck sake.” The other man said. He was taller that the first but not by much, and plump but did not hold the enormous weight of Dennis.

“C'mon, Len, the fucker's named efter the faither o' heretics.”

Clara found herself shocked that these men, these half savage, debased beasts had even heard of Simon Magus, let alone knew anything about the time of the Great Apostasy.

Len seemed the more sympathetic of the three. “Gie it a rest ya fuckin' idiot. Ye 'hink these two are any problem?”

Simon chose to interject. “I was named after the brother of our lord as a matter of fact.”

Len scowled. “Oh really? Well then, my sincere apologies my fine fellow. Please, continue.”

The sarcasm was almost tangible but Simon decided to obey. “Well as I was saying, we are hear to try and make sure that you are aware...”

“Aye, we're aware Son. Are you?” Dennis said, impatiently.

Clara felt the atmosphere in the room become more oppressive, more threatening as Dennis spoke. Simon seemed to sense it too. “I'm sorry, we did not mean to offend you at all, perhaps it would be better if we just left?”

Simon stood up but Dennis put one massive hand on his shoulder and with a push shoved Simon back down onto the seat. “Sit the fuck doon, boy. We're no' finished wae you yit.”

This was all going badly, too badly and Clara tried her best not to think of the abducted people whose charred limbs and torsos had been discovered all over the town. She tried silently praying to herself but found that she could not even recall any of the words she normally knew by rote. She looked at Len, hoping that if she could catch him with a pleading look, perhaps he would somehow diffuse this dreadful situation. He seemed disinterested.

“Thing is,” Dennis began, “we've seen cunts like you before, swannin' aroon the toon wae big grins oan yer faces like somehow you've achieved salvation, I mean look at the two of ye, whit the fuck do you need saved fae, eh?”

Simon said nothing.

“It's just a fuckin' fairy tale. At least that's how you believe it.”

Simon stood up, defiant now, a scowl of anger on his face. “Look I insist that you let us leave, we don't want to cause you any trouble but...”

He stopped, suddenly but with good reason, as Dennis had smacked him hard across the face. So hard in fact that Simon's nose burst open with a crack and blood poured out his nostrils. “Trouble? You don't fuckin' know what trouble is wee man. I'll tell ye somethin' though, yer about tae.”

“Please, stop this.” Clara said.

“Oh hark boys, the bint speaks.” Peter mocked.

“Here's the thing.” Dennis said, a smile widening across his lips as he spoke. “See, in order tae know whit's good, ye really huv tae have experienced whit is bad, right?”

Simon said nothing.

“Answer me.” Dennis demanded loudly.

Clara didn't like where this was going, not one bit. “Please...” she pleaded, all hope that pleasantries might work were gone.

“Shut the fuck up woman.” Peter barked.

“I guess.” Simon said, already defeated and subservient to the will of these monsters.

“Ye guess? Well sunshine. How the fuck are ye meant tae experience Heaven if you've nae idea aboot Hell, huh?”

“Please, just let us go.” Simon said quietly.

“Aw naw, too late fur that, boy. You fuckers have the audacity, the downright fuckin' cheek tae walk intae oor manor an' try tae proselytise to us, without one fuckin' clue aboot any of the shite yer talkin' aboot? That shit is no' gonny fly.” Dennis sneered.

“What do you want from us?” Clara shouted.

“You came here tae witness? Well it's time fur you daft bastards tae witness.” Dennis said turning to her. “Lads...”

Len and Peter looked solemn as they walked from the room, coming back moments later, Len holding a hatchet, Peter a large blowtorch. Clara's worst fears seemed to be coming true in front of her eyes. “Oh god no, please.”

“I'll stay here wae the lassie. You two. Show him whit's whit.” Dennis said.

Simon just looked at the filthy floorboards, his blood spattering on the newspaper beneath his feet. Len and Peter walked over to him and gestured for him to get up. When he did not move, the dragged him from the couch. Simon tried to struggle, used what little strength he had to fight them but Len hit him hard on the back of the neck with the handle of the hatchet and said. “Don't be such a fuckin' pussy.”

Simon was clearly dazed as they dragged him out of the room, still trying weakly to struggle. The two men just ignoring his attempts to free himself. Clara knew they were going to chop him into pieces and burn his remains, just like all the others. She had to stop this, had to escape, had to do something. Now alone in the room with Dennis she looked up at him and sobbing said. “Why are you doing this?”

“You came here tae try an' convert us, right? Well doll, it's no us that needs convertin'. You two live in cloud cuckoo land, we're gonny rid ye of that illusion.”

“Please just let him go. I promise we'll say nothing.”

“Ach ye don't need tae promise us that, by the time we're finished ye'll be sayin' nothin' anyway.”

A moment later the screaming began, an awful noise, followed by Simon shouting “Oh Jesus Christ, oh good God no!”

Clara could hardly bear it. She wasn't fond of Simon, but they were torturing him in there with no reason. These were not men, they were monsters. She had to do something, had to stop this, had to escape. Thankfully Simon's screaming and pleading was brief. Again she tried to pray, to ask the lord to make sure his soul was safely transported to Heaven, to plead for her own death to be quick and…

...and then they brought him back out. Alive. Simon was pale, looked as if he had aged a dozen years, looked as if his very being had been shattered but he was very much in tact. “Simon?” Clara asked.

Simon looked up with tear filled eyes and said nothing, just nodded.

“Sorry aboot that. We really are.” Len said. “Ye want a drink?”

Simon nodded. “Please.”

“Fuck the drink, gie the poor bastard a line anaw.” Peter said.

Dennis placed his fat meaty hand on her shoulder. “Your turn sweetheart.”

Clara had no idea what was going on and was startled to watch Simon, the most wholesome, clean-living man she'd known suddenly stuff a straw up his nose and take a snort from the lines of drugs chopped out on the mirror on the table. It seemed impossible, something had changed him, something had made him abandon his vows, his faith. She was terrified.

“Up ye get. I promise, we're no here tae hurt ye.” Dennis said in a now conciliatory tone.

Clara stood up. Dennis put his arm around her and led her into the other room. It was a kitchen, just as filthy and ugly as the rest of the house. The room reeked of something rotten, of some ancient unidentifiable but familiar foulness that stung her nostrils and the back of her throat. It made her want to throw up. In the middle of it was a man, stark naked, bound to a chair with handcuffs. His mouth had been stitched shut with thick fishing line. His face had been beaten badly. Even with the swelling and bruising she recognised him from the newspapers, the manager of the homeless shelter. She had already jumped to the conclusion that she was indeed with the men who had kidnapped and murdered all the people the news said they had, now she was certain. Dennis had a firm grip around her waist.

“Noo, this wan, this foul shite, wis usin' his position tae prey oan the vulnerable before we caught up wae him, win't ye Rusbel? No only wid he kill them an' bind their souls tae his master, the cunt wid sell their organs too.” Dennis explained.

The bound man gave Dennis a glare of such baleful contempt that it chilled the blood in her veins. Dennis just shook his head. “Reveal yersel', ya dirty cunt.”

The man hissed a sigh through his nostrils and began to shift, his skin bubbled and sprouted thick writhing hair and glistening, black scales. His bubbling flesh shaped itself into a myriad of smaller heads as his actual head grew tall, black bone horns, five of them. His eyes changed from brown to fiery red, and his body grew more limbs until this vile spiderlike monstrosity revealed itself. As this hideous thing manifest, the air around it seemed to coruscate, to change into vague hallucinatory wraiths encircling the creature like some infernal aura. She could feel its presence scrambling around in the back of her mind, like some vile itch that could not be scratched. Clara screamed and screamed and collapsed into Dennis' arms.

“This is whit we're really fightin' against darlin', this an' aw the others like it. The world's full of such things.” Dennis said. “There's so many of them an' so little of us. So if yer really serious aboot savin' souls, ye need tae be prepared. We've found six in Glesga this last year alone. We want you, naw, we need you tae chuck all the bullshit. If you want tae serve our Lord sweetheart, then you need tae join us.”

Clara's mind reeled, she wanted to run, to get out of there, as if some part of her autonomic system refused to be in the same territory as this blasphemy. It was her mind that stood steadfast against the hellish blight in front of her. She did not know what to say but deep down knew that such things could not be allowed to exist, had to be exterminated. This was the enemy. This foul thing, not platitudes from a book, was the real source of damnation. In that moment, looking at this demon, sensing it in a way that shattered her mere belief into acceptance and knowledge of a brutal world of good and evil, she knew she had no choice but to fight.

As Dennis, still holding her tight, like a parent would a frightened child escorted her back into the other room, she finally found her voice. “Get me a stiff fucking drink, a large one.”