Creature of the Night Part Two

The story so far:

The demon from the 4th circle of Hell (greed) is coming down to earth to harvest a few fresh souls to torment. He’s after the ‘difficult to reach’ ones as special trophies.

What he must bear in mind is the one rule that the Big Man has given them ‘Don’t get involved’……

We have a rota for all of this – we’re a pretty well managed lot you see, and it’s my turn for planet earth this evening. So I decide to visit one of my all-time favourites: your century and your capital - London. I’ll go Clubbing, to one of my regular haunts: a great dark hangar of a venue just south of the river.

It’s an easy trip and as I shoot through the atmosphere, and get closer, my excitement builds. Approaching the building through the clouds, and well before I materialise at the edge of the floor, my gradually pupating human form is already vibrating with the thrum of some serious drums and bass. Then I slowly let my eyes become accustomed to a sight that never fails to thrill me.

High above me in this vast space, laser lights in electric blues, emerald and fuchsia, strafe the darkness, criss-crossing it with surgical relentlessness, their brilliance casting the heaving Friday night mass of humanity into silhouette. They seem to be in thrall to the DJ and his crew, elevated on a dais, mixing the sounds and watching the bobbing heads: waving hands, pointing fingers, while on scattered podia, clad in form fitting flame Lycra, athletic dancers thrust and glide, their movements enhanced by softer lights, gently pulsing around them.

Enraptured by the intensity and general Friday night euphoria –it’s been a bit grey back home lately on account of recent heavenly tariffs on fire and brimstone – I watch until my reverie is interrupted by a Drag Queen, glorious: their hairy chest tightly laced into a scarlet basque above black harem pants.

‘Hello.’ They gush, flitting blue lidded eyes at me while stroking a robust black moustache. ‘I’m Stella, who are you?’

I move away with a shake of my head. Not my target – I can’t go trespassing on a colleague’s Circle and anyway, we’ve learnt over the centuries that the few of these creatures of paradise who do qualify, tend to be disruptive.

No, today I’m after the greedy; got to stick my brief, especially those living lives of gluttonous luxury and ease off the backs of others. They are the ones with the furthest to fall. Their suffering so enjoyable to observe when they find themselves amid the choking stench of poverty amid the Fourth Circle. Tonight it’s the dealers I’m after. The big ones.

From my vantage point I let my eyes rove. It takes a little while but then they become easy to spot: the pasty, puffy faced Eastern European types; the weasel faced, pallid with pimples; the tattooed, mallet headed thugs.

You know the sort. Of course you do - you’ve seen their mug shots on the front of the Daily Mail. Well, they’re the ones that get arrested because they’re so damned obvious. 

I don’t want them.

What I’m after is the one you’ll never see in the Press because they never get caught. That one perfect fruit that’s almost unreachable. I continue to scan the room

Then I see a hand, soft and white as a fresh napkin, draped insouciantly over the arm of a red velvet chair. It’s attached to a languorous figure, dressed in a fine bone-coloured linen suit. White-blond hair slicked back, with a slight curl at the nape of the neck, cheekbones like scimitars and above them, eyes as impassive as an Egyptian cat.

Here’s the Master of the Universe I’m after! The Dealer’s Dealer. And you know what, I’m willing to bet he’ll have a Lamborghini or Bentley carelessly slewed across the double yellows outside.

As I watch, two of his minions approach. Scrawny young women with tell-tale indigo circles below their eyes, crusted scars and scabs on their pale inner arms. When he sees them, his photo-perfect face is transformed into an ugly snarl as words are exchanged. The frightened girls scuttle away.

Now, I’m certain. It’s time to make my move. He looks up. Eye contact. Polar blue eyes sizzle into mine like weapons of shock and awe, leaving me momentarily numb. My mind whirls.

‘Do something, say something, act…….., before the moment is lost.’

I make a move.

‘You selling?’ I ask somewhat feebly.

A dismissive sneer crosses his face, and he makes an idle gesture around his assorted crew populating the club.

‘They’re selling.’ He replies, his white hand lazily batting me away.

Conversation over. This isn’t good, I need to engage, to land my hook properly, find a weak spot.

The car! I could gamble on my hunch about the car. Dressed like that, there’s no way he would have come on the bus.

‘Nice set of wheels you have outside’ I say.

‘My wheels? You like them?’

I nod.

‘The Lambo covered in purple velvet? Yeh. It’s cool’.

It’s a start. Carefully I consider his clothes: scarlet silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, red cashmere socks to match, encased in polished brown leather loafers. And that watch peeking out from his sleeve; it has enough buttons and dials to send him into orbit.

Vain, yes, he’s vain. A little flattery might be all it would take.

‘Nice suit too.’ I continue.

‘Savile Row’

‘You’re a man of wealth and taste.’ I say with a slight smile.

 ‘You have a decent eye, my friend.’ As he assesses my clothes with some disdain.

I’d gone for black. You can never go wrong with black, but I must confess, it was more Primark than Prada.

Budgets, you see, are carefully controlled in the Fourth Circle. With us being Greed, going out in some designer clobber would be hypocrisy, and completely unethical.

I smile. ‘I’d like to think that one day I might aspire to your standards.’

Do I see a little warmth creeping into his features? Am I winning him over by my skilled combination of flattery and humility?

There’s a long pause, backed the pounding rhythm of the bass.  I wonder if this is what having a heart might feel like.

Eventually he gives out a relaxed sigh.

‘So,’ he says. ‘You want to be like me?’

I nod in a manner I like to think is a combination of servility and sincerity.

‘You’ve got some nerve.’ He says, ‘But I like that. In fact, I’m taking a bit of a shine to you. Care to keep me company? Join me in a line or two?’ He indicates the empty velvet chair beside him. I sit.

Then with barely discernible gesture of his forefinger, one of his team shimmers into sight, and deposits a small white packet and virgin fifty-pound note on the glass-topped table, before evanescing just as quickly back into the crowd.

With a dealer’s sleight of hand, my quarry makes four neat, white powdery lines with a small blade on the mirrored surface, criss-crossing the ‘No Drugs’ sign reflecting there.  Then he rolls the banknote and passes it to me.

‘Be my guest.’

My wolflike inner maw drools and slavers. He’s playing right into my hands. Pushover, Pushover, Pushover!!

 I have all the proof I need. 

I could take him here and now.

I should take him here and now.

 But I don’t. Having hooked my big fish, it’s only sporting to play him along for a while.