St Louis

Prologue

There is a hell, and its full title is Saint Louis’ School and Rehabilitation Centre for Criminal Children.

“This is, as you know, the Day of Discipline.”

Mr Demson descended the school’s stage into the ranks of several hundred children sat in absolute silence. Clad in a black suit, a velvet coat, he was a raven, black hair pulled back and framing his pale face. Cold, unfeeling eyes. Thin lips. When he took a step, it was slow and deliberate. When he looked around the hall, it was fast and sharp. Demson was alert, but gentle.

The students thought him to be about fifty plus, and they were about right. For fifty-four, Demson looked it; his face was lined with age and experience but did not sag, the once-slim man’s belly was now potted and his voice had the slight beginnings of a rasp. But still, his posture had not deteriorated, his hair was yet to grey and he still looked powerful. He had always looked powerful.

There is a Devil, and his name is Andrew Demson.

“We are gathered here, in the company and grace of our wonderful Father. Gathered in this chapel. Gathered… in this place of Christ… and justice.”

The way he said justice; it was excited and passionate, but he did not shout. No, he was beyond that. Always a quiet man, Demson hissed the word, clenching his fist as he did so. It trembled, another sub-curse of the curse of age itself. The fist was patterned with purple veins and spots, but he wore gloves of durable, black leather for it was always cold in St Louis.

He seemed a shadow in the huge open chapel, but then most of the hall was in darkness. Demson seemed to thrive in black. Like he craved shadow. The chapel itself was grim, especially in this gloom, seeming to emanate a feeling of despair. Several depictions of Jesus on the cross hung from the walls, grisly, writhing bodies of Christ with a look of utter despair on their faces.

Demson indulged in long pauses when he spoke, whether it be to large groups of students or in a two-man conversation. He had reached the fourth row of children now, striding through the aisle between the two large sections of nervous kids, sat in old pews, all looking down at their knees, avoiding the Headmaster’s gaze. They knew that to talk was the height of disrespect. Even their breathing was quiet and subdued.

“You know this school’s policies,” Demson proceeded, surveying the students. “The Lord knows our policies. He spoke to me today; He said “Andrew Demson, you are kind. The souls you have touched, the souls you are touching and the souls which you have yet to touch… are immeasurable. Heaven is smiling upon you today, and will continue to smile.” And I thanked Him. I thanked the Lord and He thanked me back.”

At this point the cold Headmaster reached into his coat, a heavy affair that reached his knees, large lapels acting as a protective collar that Demson adored in this cold. He shivered when the coat opened, and hoped no one noticed; sensitivity to the cold wasn’t powerful in anyone’s eyes.

No one had noticed. Every individual in the chapel- some eight hundred children (it was a small school, yes- children with criminal records and a desire to be religiously rehabilitated were hard to come by), two to three dozen teachers standing silently in organised and efficient spots around the hall and several armed guards (the school/centre was for criminal children, after all) - was focused on what Demson produced from his coat, not his reaction to the temperature. They all flinched as they witnessed the undesirable inevitable.

Andrew Demson pulled out a thick, metal revolver from his inside pocket. He loaded it with a click that sounded harshly in everyone’s ears, and held it at face level, turning slowly so everyone could see it.

“And so,” Demson’s voice grew louder, and it echoed through the chapel. “It is in the eyes of the Lord that I summon…”

Demson strode through the aisle once more, in the middle now, scanning the hall.

“… Cathy Jenkins.”

A harsh scream- Cathy- ran out from near the front of the chapel, behind Demson, followed by crying from several of Cathy’s friends and distraught sighs and groans from nearly every other child. Cathy herself was in manic denial, a child barely fifteen, with blonde hair in a ponytail and a pretty, if chubby, face that was now running with tear-trodden make-up.

“Silence please,” Demson said, turning slowly to face the front of the hall. “Cathy- don’t be afraid. Come up please.”

The girl was reluctant, of course, but she did as she was told. Cathy was an example of successful rehabilitation, her mind filled with Demson’s Christian ideals, believing he was right, that he was doing God’s will.

She reached Demson and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her uniform, a white shirt under a baby blue blazer, looking at her knees.

“Look up child,” smiled Demson. It didn’t suit him, his lips thin and sickly. She did so, her lip wobbling.

“Cathy, you came to us charged with the terrible crime of thievery on September 2nd 2010 and you have stayed here and flourished for one year, four months and two days, it being January 4th 2012.” He took another long pause as Cathy sobbed. “I want to thank you for ridding yourself of lustful thoughts and abandoning the Devil as you abandon drugs.

 “May your soul reside ever with God in Paradise, for my judgement is His judgement. It is you he wants with Him today, my child and so in the name of the Father,” he placed the gun on her forehead, “the Son,” just below her chest, “and the Holy Ghost,” one tap on each shoulder, completing the cross, “I now complete his command, and set your soul free.”

Demson placed the barrel once again to Cathy Jenkins’ forehead, and pulled the trigger.