The Devil's Duet: Chapter Three

This novella contains scenes dealing with violence, profanity, sexual and drug abuse, which may cause some readers distress. Please be warned. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. It is a work of cautionary fiction.

Diliges Proximum | (You shall love your neighbour as yourself — Leviticus 19:18)

Chapt 2 | Contents | Chapt 4

erek's kitchen was filled with people.

A meeting was being held at Camelot.

It was the usual in unusual times.

Gathered around his round kitchen table, his mother and her connections, a highly respected Detective Inspector, and the police officer's close friend, a highly feared drug dealer sat without talking. Behind them stood Mitch and Larry, dressed in their regular undercover attire. Minus Larry's grass stained pants.

Derek's mother did all the talking. As usual.

"My son only just recently brought it to my attention, and I felt I had to share with you."

"In person? This is why we have two undercover officers here." The Detective Inspector hadn't spoken before during a gathering. Even Derek couldn't mask his surprise.

Derek's mother reached out a hand to him from across the round table. "Andy, I know how much of an imposition this has been--"

"I don't think you actually do know what this is costing us," the DI butted in, irritably.

"That's why my son did what he did. We are all aware how our plans have not gone according to-- well, plan."

"Infiltrating a law-abiding person's airspace with butane fumes, burners, opiates and God knows what else, while he sleeps? Blowing it through cracks in cavity walls?"

Derek's mother gave a small cough. "But he's a violent--"

"Enough of that, too. Our surveillance has uncovered nothing. The man has done nothing wrong, as far as I can see, and I only came on board to stop this boat we're all on from rocking. But this-- this is insidious. Whatever happened to love thy neighbour?"

The DI didn't know the half of it. Derek had moved to the living room of a night while the fans and burners did their deed in his bedroom, now in partnership with Caleb downstairs during his visits with the elderly gentleman living adjacent to Dante, who blew his poison at the wall. Sometimes the boy they called Danny B would help out, too. Sometimes they swapped the boys between them. It was a double-fronted attack, and it still wasn't working as well as it should have done.

"It would have worked," Derek spoke quietly, and this time it was the DI's turn to look surprised. "But he's always out. He goes to the gym, now. To his local Church. He tends his herb garden out by his kitchen window."

Where the Sicilian faggot buried his cat, Derek thought, but didn't voice it.

The DI said, "And you got this intel from our lads?"

"No, my friends have been following him. Caleb keeps a close eye on his activities. But out of sight."

"I see, and we're here to discuss how to keep him inside, are we?"

Derek nodded.

They had turned Dante's bedroom into a relative gas chamber, and it was knocking him out of a night, but that was about it. They needed to keep him in to build up the toxins in his body. But, how? Dante couldn't be manipulated again to get one of Camelot's loyal knights into the freak's home and keep him there. Caleb's fuck-ups had made sure of that.

Derek ignored the fact of his own complicity. His flash-in-the-pan plan of Dante's arrest had, had the opposite effect. Instead of retreating further into his home, as he had done after they slaughtered his cat, the arrest had changed Dante.

Of course, that interfering bitch Martha had a hand in it, too.

But they had dealt with her. She couldn't take one night's dose of what Dante had been ingesting for over eight months. The neighbour above Martha was one of their innkeepers, and it had been easy to repeat the procedure they used on Dante. Quite by accident, they had hit upon a method of harming people without any culpability.

"It's not enough that he ingests it while he sleeps. He's-- too robust. He doesn't look like it, but his appearance is very deceptive."

"Well, we all know nothing is ever as it appears to be, don't we?" Derek's mother interjected, unhelpfully.

"Nothing in this debacle is as it appears to be," the DI said, but no one responded to that.

It was all too clear to everyone that Dante had to be removed from the street. Especially to Derek.

He'd initially thought that deteriorating Dante's air quality by cutting off his oxygen supply and introducing drugs into the vapours they blew down would swirl him out enough to get him hooked on the drugs. When that didn't seem to work, Derek wanted him mentally and physically weakened.

Now, he just wanted Dante gone.

He wanted him gone, badly.

It took all of Derek's mental training to keep his emotions in check around these people. He felt as if he had to physically swallow down the hatred; it rose up in him like bile in the throat.

Dante was still going out, in his usual fine supercilious form and ignoring everyone in the street.

He was still cooking. He was still speaking to himself. He was still singing.

"Be careful that what you do next doesn't mean that you're the one rocking the boat. If this thing capsizes, we all go down," the DI said, his voice stern.

Derek swallowed.

His mother had advised that they keep the hiring of the Irishman to themselves.

He began to get a sinking feeling.

ara was at the Black Lion Irish pub in another part of the city. Far from Downland. And he was glad of it.

The strange English couple of mother and son had explained his brief. They had put out a hit on the son's neighbour, but they had yet to pinpoint him to Dara's deadly sights.

"You must be parched after that flight, man. Here you go."

The owner of the pub, his friend Cillian from the streets back in Ulster, pushed a pint of the good stout in front Dara, but he shook his head. He needed it clear for his job.

His profession required secrecy, so he couldn't share his thoughts with Cillian. But he sure wished he could.

"You alright there, Dara?"

Dara turned his untouched pint glass around on the varnished counter. "How do you stand living here, man?"

Cillian shrugged his shoulders. "Aye, you get used to it sure enough. Only thing I really miss is me Ma and Da. Ireland is still what it used to be."

"Ireland will always be what we make it to be."

"Aye, mabbe, mabbe not. All I know is, it couldn't change quick enough for my liking. Now here, I feel ancient, like the time's past me by."

"You sound like the elders. You ain't far past thirty."

Cillian smiled, but it was sad. "The streets age a man, Dara. Not you though. I never knew anyone who took to it like you did. You thrived man. You feckin' look even bigger than last I saw you. Granted it was before I moved here."

Dara patted his toned eight pack underneath his shirt, and pretended it was stomach fat instead of pure muscle. "Siobhan feeds me well in Donegal."

Cillian raised an eyebrow. "You need an army to feed you, man."

Dara nodded. "My appetite is large, sure enough."

Cillian went behind the counter and came back with a plate of pastries. "If you ain't on a diet, try one of these," he said.

"Diet? What's that? I call it starving oneself of life's pleasures." He wolfed down three of the pastries in one go. "These are good! Where you buy 'em?"

"I don't. There's a guy that makes these for our local Church. Goes regular."

"When did you start going to Church?"

"A while now," Cillian said, quickly. "We got to talking, and he started making for us, too. He won't hear of any money. Calls it Christian charity."

"Is there such a thing in England? For the Irish, at any rate?"

"Aw, come now, Dara, who's sounding like the elders, now?"

"Aye, it was my Da and your Da, and men like them, that suffered it, but we suffered with them, you forget?"

You're being too hard, man. Your head is stuck in a past we don't belong to. Times have changed."

"Have they, indeed?"

Dara told Cillian about the bombing of the Church in Blacklion, but nothing else. Not how he found the man responsible. Or how he met his end.

Before Cillian could respond, a short, wiry man with long black hair entered the pub with a large wicker basket in his arms.

"Hello there! Speak of a good man, and he always turns up," Cillian greeted the newcomer with a smile, waving him in.

Dara stared, sizing him up. The man didn't glance in his direction, but walked straight over to Cillian. This was something new to Dara. Because of his looks and build, he was always the centre of attention. He didn't like the attention much, it wasn't an ideal asset for his job, but he had gotten used to it.

It suddenly dawned on Dara that he felt irritated this little upstart hadn't even given him a sideways glance.

"Good morning, Mr Hayes. I bring you more of my pastries if you are willing to take them."

"Now, how many times have I asked you to call me Cillian? And I'm sure glad of them, my customers keep asking for more. But you won't let me pay for them?"

"No, please. I am happy your customers enjoy them. That is my reward."

For the first time, in a long time, Dara wasn't sure about this little thing in front of him. He couldn't put a name on what he felt. He trusted his first impressions. They'd never let him down. He knew he was right about that English pair, and events would prove it soon enough.

But on the rare occasion he wasn't sure if he'd got the measure of the man, he had a test of his own he used. He called it O'Malley's Mercy. This was such an occasion, and he wondered whether he should put this little upstart to the test.

Cillian gave a nod in Dara's direction. "This is me mate, Dara, just over from Ireland. He raved about your cooking."

Dara watched as the man turned to look at him. There was no fear in his eyes, or any sense that he was intimidated by Dara's size. There was only curiosity. He felt he was being sized up, and correctly. The back of his neck prickled, his hairs stood on end. What was it about this man?

"I am pleased to meet you. My name is Dante, Mr Dara."

Dara took Dante's outstretched hand and shook it. A good grip, surprisingly strong.

"Likewise Mr Dante," he said, stifling the urge to twirl the black crucifix around his neck, "won't you sit and get acquainted?"

Dante shook his head. "I don't mean to be rude, but I must get to my church. Another time, maybe."

"Sure thing, I'm here for a few days. It's my first time in England," he lied. Dara hated lying, but he wanted to keep him talking. "Have you been here long?"

Understanding lit up in Dante's eyes. "A year and a half now. And what brings you, here? If you forgive my curiosity for asking," he said.

"I'm here on business," he said curtly, not appreciating the selfsame scrutiny.

"Ah, well then, I hope your business goes well for you," Dante replied, and with a slight bow, promptly left the pub.

Yes, Dara thought as he watched Dante stride out without looking back at him, if we do meet again, I think I'll put you to the O'Malley test.

The Bull of Blacklion was seeing red.

ante walked out of the pub, happy.

His nervousness around people had stayed, and Dante ignored people, for the most part, until he found one he felt comfortable around, and Mr Hayes was one of them. He was a good man. And he was glad to know that his customers enjoyed his cooking.

"I am glad I listened to the Father," he said to himself.

During his weekly confessionals, the priest had advised him to reach out to people after Martha's death, and to do more positive things. So, he had started to chat to Mr Hayes, a regular at his Church, when he kept complimenting his baking. It had still taken a few months before it felt right to make the offer of his pastries.

Following the priest's guidance, he had also signed up to a gym nearby. He still wasn't comfortable exercising in public, and would have preferred to have been by himself, but he was aware it was a public space, so he ignored the stares when he worked out on the treadmill with his weights. He assumed it was his style of exercising that made people stare at him.

He did make polite conversation when using the steam room or sauna, after his daily routine when compelled to, but he generally kept his eyes closed and listened to his music to avoid having to engage with the people around him. He was worried that the more he spoke, the more chance there was to cause offence. He did not want to hammer nails into anyone's heart, unintentionally.

"You are a stranger with strange ways, Dante," he said to himself, again, catching the bemused look of a passerby.

Dante ignored it.

He reminded himself that it was his peculiar ways of speaking, openly and honestly, which had caused the street he lived in to name him the Devil of Downland. He did not want to repeat those mistakes, and he had learnt the hard way.

People who had no love for him could not accept him the way he was. No matter how much kindness a person showed, it was never enough. But as he did not expect people to accept him, Dante now knew, he should not have accepted people into his home, if he could not accept them as they were, either.

He was starting to think it was possible to change the world, it was changing all the time, as the seasons did, but that it wasn't right to try and change people. Everyone must take their own path, and walk around their own corners.

They must walk their path, and I must walk mine, he thought.

The pact he had broken because of Caleb, he had remade after Martha.

Walk every corner of your life, but walk it with an open heart.

It was with an open heart, now, that Dante strode towards the one new thing that brought him the most joy. The discovery of the city's main park.

"I have missed the trees," he said out loud, and then stopped, frowning. His smile froze, as if a shadow had cast over the sun.

Whenever he went out, he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

It had began when he started going to the gym. He felt it now.

"It is your strange ways, Dante," he reassured himself.

Shrugging off the feeling, he made his way to the park.

erek's plan to keep Dante down below had been put into action.

Caleb had enlisted Danny B and a few other loyal knights to help carry it out. They had been following the Devil of Downland for a few months now, and knew he would come to the Racehound. Ever since Dante had discovered the park, he had made daily visits to sit inside a particular grove of trees.

The guy is out of his faggot head, Caleb had sniggered to himself, when he spied Dante that first time, stroking the barks of the trees and talking to them as though they could talk back.

That's why the park had been the ideal location for what Derek had in mind. It was out in the open, but secluded, and it was theirs. The knights of Camelot would converge here in the day before returning to Downland at night, and it made following Dante easier.

But that wasn't why the knights came here. Although Caleb thought it stupid, Baba Mamba had moved his own crew to the park for a different reason. No one spoke about it. Most of them wouldn't go to the Coke n' Poke's tunnel anymore, so they came to the Racehound, instead.

He grinned.

Not about the Coke n' Poke. He still wanked himself off sometimes when he thought about what Baba Mamba did to Angelo. He wished he'd been there to watch. But his imagination did just as well.

It was the name of the park that gave him the giggles, so called because whippets were raced here when it had been a legal sport. Now him and his friends were after sport of a different kind. Of a kind that had never been legal. And it was something he could get away with.

It wouldn't be like the other plans. He was sure what they had in store for Dante would work this time. The faggot seemed to feel more at place amongst the trees than in his own home.

What a fucking weirdo, he thought, as he always did, when he thought of Dante.

But if they stopped him coming here, maybe they'd stop Dante going out altogether.

And make it easier for the Bull to finish the job.

'Bout fucking time, too.

He wanted the Devil out of Downland.

So, they waited, like greyhounds in the slips, for Dante to appear.

Published 11 May, 2026

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