The Gates of Hell

THE GATES OF HELL

The twisting shadows of revenge

By

Graeme Bourke

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Published By

Graeme Bourke on Smashwords

THE GATES OF HELL

The twisting shadows of revenge

Copyright 2011 Graeme Bourke

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Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

A special thank you to the members of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, North West Tasmania Branch for there constructive criticism and assistance with the original manuscript; also to Neil Carberry, friend and fellow fisherman, for designing the cover.

* * *

Melbourne, Australia

September 1961

I woke in a lather of sweat. It was the same dream that had haunted me for five years, the same prophecy-filled dream that had come true in every sense of the word. I lived in exile and apart from the life that I cherished and could never have. I could not, would dare not, pursue any friendships, and those dear to me I could never see. She had warned me in the prophecy, and now I was subsisting in this halfway house, neither inside nor out. This was not a life, it was a mere existence.

In the beginning I had thought nothing of her words, as I had believed they were just the ramblings of a so-called psychic, the raving of an angry and vengeful woman. She had been emotionally torn apart just as I had been, and that was the only thing we had in common. Even though we were enemies, I was drawn to her stunning beauty, mesmerized by her mystique. To me she was a goddess, a woman whose mere presence could make the strongest man falter and stumble over his words, that all seemed so long ago.

I peered into the darkness with a mind that was momentarily paralyzed as I sought to gather my bearings. I threw off the blankets and immediately felt the caress of the cold night air. It was the jolt I needed to bring me out of this maddening dream. My head began to clear as I remembered my name, recalled where I was and the reason why I was here.

I looked down at the satin-smooth body beside me that was, as I had learned, both firm and yielding as a woman should be. It was not with any great purpose that I wandered into a suburban bar last night, I just needed a place to be myself, a small place of sanctuary within the metropolis of Melbourne where I could be alone with my thoughts.

Robin was her name, and she was to be married in a week’s time. I felt guilty at intruding on her life, at breaking her pattern of normalcy. Would she have doubt in her mind now? Had I wrecked another life? I hadn’t intended to approach this exquisite young woman as she celebrated the night with some of her girlfriends, a hen’s night out, I believe, is the common expression.

It wasn’t until Robin came to the bar to buy some more drinks that I felt the shock, felt the quiver in my body as the sweet fragrance of jasmine wafted through the air. This was a torment that I wasn’t prepared for as I tried to ignore the sensations that were coursing through my heart, the sensations of a love lost, a love that could not be. It had triggered a lust, a lust for a lost past, a relentless desire for something that I could never have. So I went after her with a sweet smile and the guile of a playboy predator.

While Robin had satisfied me physically, I still felt empty; it had not been as I hoped it would. It was void of any emotion for me. There was no connection and no chemistry. It was just sheer lust driven by animalistic instincts and a memory.

I was still tortured by the scent of that onerous perfume as I bent down over her and let my lips trail over her slender neck. The faint aroma of jasmine was still there. I wanted her again.

I looked at my watch and shivered from the cold as I stepped out onto the street after leaving the motel room. It was five o’clock in the morning and in the east I could see the lightness in the sky, a new day was dawning. I made my way to the train station just down the road. Last night had drawn me back into that past, most of which I had no wish to remember. But there was one tiny moment that I wanted to recall and to relive again, if I could. It had been a small part of my life where I had been at peace with myself. It was in fact, a transition from one life to another.

The shrill whistle of a train going past the station in the opposite direction jerked me out of my thoughts, and I was glad of it. Dwelling on the past for me only brought anger and despair. The wooden-slatted seat that I was sitting on was cold and unfriendly. I peered up at the large round clock hanging from the awning. There was a train due in ten minutes. Soon, I would return to my shadow.

* * *

Algeria, Africa

1956

Algeria had always been a thorn in the side of the French. A former base for Barbary Pirates in the sixteenth century, it was seized by French troops in 1830 after a dispute that inflicted pain on the French national pride. From that moment on it was in a state of unbalance, teetering from peace to almost outright war. After the Second World War, the rise of Arab nationalism began to take hold and by 1954 the French were fighting an undeclared war with the Arabs.

I arrived in Algeria in 1946 and became one of the lost souls who had inadvertently signed away a period of their lives to the French Foreign Legion. For the next ten years I walked, fought, rode, and often crawled through the hills and deserts of Algeria. If there was a hell on Earth then this was it. Life was cheap here; a severed head on a spear, bayonet, or sword was a moment of undignified glory encapsulated in celebration. There were no kind words, only blasphemy and hatred. This suited me perfectly, for I had no heart, it had been torn from me just before I made the decision to step into the world of violence, hatred, and revenge.

There was no compassion in me or in this land with its scorching heat and arid, waterless deserts that sucked the very blood from your veins. Only the strong survived here. I survived because I didn’t care about anything. In the beginning I wasn’t concerned whether I lived or died as I felt I had no future in this world. But I resisted the temptation to react to the cruel taunts of the officers whose world revolved around making your small world even more miserable than it could be.

Sergeant Krueger was a German, a squat, weasel-faced man who never smiled. He loved to leave us out on parade longer than normal in the molten sun. He would walk down each row with those piercing dark eyes just waiting for one of us to falter. Extra guard duty was usually meted out to the offender, or if he was inclined, his favorite punishment for the company, a hike in the desert under the glaring sun with a full kit.

While everyone hated him, one could not help but admire the man when we were in battle. There were none braver or fiercer against the enemy as he gave no quarter and expected none in return. Prisoners were never taken and he took great delight in executing those unfortunate enough to be captured. At first this seemed unnecessary to me, but as we learned more about these undeclared wars we found that our enemy did the same to their prisoners, except that they were usually tortured and endured a slow death.

Soon my time in the French Foreign Legion would be over, and for some strange reason I was looking forward to the end of my term. Why I was feeling like this I was unsure; maybe it was just the thought of change and the idea of being able to enjoy more civilized surroundings. I had nowhere to go, no home that I could go back to, and no friends. There was one great advantage in seeing your term through in the French Foreign Legion; they gave you a new identity when you left. It was a shield I could hide behind.

With one day to go before I was due to leave, Sergeant Kruger called the company together. He informed us we were going out on a patrol into the heartland of the enemy. We would be away for at least a week and would definitely make some sort of contact. It was inevitable that some of us would not be coming back. I believe I even saw a faint smirk on the sergeant’s face as he peered at me with those black, unemotional eyes. Did he know something I didn’t? Some sort of foresight, perhaps?

It was with a sense of foreboding that we left the fort that day and strode through the hot, dusty sand that sucked at our feet like a vacuum cleaner. Two days out we came to a small town. It was just two rows of sun-bleached mud huts around an oasis. It looked peaceful enough, but it smelled wrong; a soldier’s instinct told me that the enemy was near. The tribes in this area had been spoiling for a fight for a long time. Usually, they avoided direct contact and slinked away into the desert sands, preferring to use hit and run tactics at night.

Two scouts were sent into the village, and found it abandoned, which was rather odd. Why had the people left their homes and the security of the nearby water? I suggested to the sergeant that we should retreat into the desert as this to me looked like a trap. His only comment was that I was a shit-faced yellow belly who was too scared to fight, which was far from the truth. Many times I had sought the welcome blanket of death in this God forsaken land. But for some unknown reason I had survived the odds while a lot of my former compatriots had been buried in the desert.

For the first time in ten years, I wanted to live. I wanted to taste the good times, and most of all, I wanted a woman. A sweating, clinging, amorous woman, a woman to make me feel the power and pleasure in my body, to know that I was alive and that nothing would stop me until my satisfaction was sated. Surely God would grant me this one last wish, but then, I conceded that God and I hadn’t been on talking terms for a long time. Maybe the devil could help me as we were more attuned to each other’s desires.

We made camp in the village and in the cold grey dawn they surrounded us like a herd of demons as they chanted for our blood. We were outnumbered ten to one. They came on snorting camels and fleet-footed horses, brandishing sabers and rifles amid a flurry of brightly colored robes. There was no stopping them as they came at us like an avalanche.

They came so quickly that I had no time to reload my now empty rifle that was quickly discarded. They were upon us, firing hot lead, slashing with sabers glinting in the morning sunlight. Streaks of bright crimson stained the blades. Men beside me were impaled on long lances as the horsemen grinned in an evil feverish delight; they could smell blood and they were coming in for the kill.

I retreated back into one of the huts, yanked my pistol from its holster and began firing at point-blank range. Then I felt the explosion lift me off my feet, throwing me up against the wall of the hut. The roof was caving in as I cowered on the ground in a stupor. Suddenly, I was overcome by a shadowy gloom and sensed that it was all over.

Pain wracked my body. Where was I? If I could feel pain then I must be alive! Sounds began to invade my ears, soft, deliberate noises of movement. There was someone close by, a native perhaps, moving in for the kill. To rob me and finish me off perchance, but it did not come. The eerie silence was a torment in itself as I tried to open my eyes but found they were covered in a damp cloth. The weakness in my limbs was obvious and I had no strength to move them. I gave up the fight and relented to the sleep that beckoned me.

Far in the distance I could hear the sound of water splashing. Memories of my childhood came rushing back to me, and I tried to shut them out. I didn’t want to remember. My father stood over me, urging me on as I learned to swim. He was laughing and smiling at me. I didn’t want to remember! The current of my dream was strong. I fought against it, fought against those distant memories with sweat pouring from my body. I tried to open my eyes, but they were refusing. It was as if they had a mind of their own, a tortuous mind.

Suddenly, they opened and I could see the pale-white patchwork ceiling above me. Then, looking down along my naked body, I could see that I was lying on a flimsy mattress on the floor of what seemed like a one-room, mud-brick hut. Light filtered around a thin rag-torn curtain at the only window. I heard the splashing again. With some pain I rolled my head to one side.

Had I been transported to that mythological paradise, to Nirvana? Were my wanton desires and my mind playing tricks on me? I blinked but the figure standing in the tiny galvanized bath with a sponge did not disappear like a mirage.

I let my eyes wander up the long, bronzed legs, to her well shaped thighs and the luxuriant mound of dark hair between her legs. Her abdomen was flat and firm, her hips wide, and her waist slim. Despite my lack of strength and inability to move my pain-wracked body, I felt an old familiar feeling, a stirring in my loins as instincts beyond my control took over. It was a primeval instinct that was buried inside of every human, an uncontrollable urge that ensured the future of the human race.

I had a sudden feeling of shame, I felt as if I was intruding on the privacy of this young woman. But the voyeur in me wanted to watch, wanted to see more, wanted to feel the excruciating desire. Her breasts, not large and not small, were supple and firm; they bounced slightly and quivered as she scrubbed her shimmering golden-brown skin.

Short jet-black hair stranded her slender neck. She turned her head as if sensing that I was awake and watching her. She never flinched, or showed any emotion as her indigo-blue eyes stared at me with a strange indifference through more strands of hair. She was a half-caste, a beautiful woman of mixed blood who would stir the craving in any man. I closed my eyes to avoid her cold stare. It was as if she was rebuking me for invading her space and violating her intimacy.

I heard no more sounds of water, but ever so faintly I discerned the brushing of skin against a towel. She was drying herself. It was then that I remembered my naked and exposed state and my natural reaction to this bathing nymph. To my surprise I suddenly felt a warm, wet sponge washing my loins, washing my excited member. Had I died and gone to heaven? Had God forgiven my sins and given me one last wish?

I wanted to open my eyes to look upon this goddess, this Aphrodite, but I was afraid the dream would go away, afraid that this was really the end and not some new beginning. I felt her burning soft thighs touching my thighs as she sat astride of me, my member firmly in her hand as she guided it to that silken utopia. It had been so long for me, so long since I had been clasped in the warmth of a real woman, I gasped at the immediate pleasure as she moved against me. I knew I