Short story - 15 minute read
With apologies to the late Laura Brannigan
For the night,
is my world.
City nights,
painted swirl……
And I,
I am a creature of the night.
I live, I live,
among the creatures of the night.
But hey! Like all you Clubbers, Ravers, Dudes (and Dudettes) down there, who hit the scene at night, I’ve got a regular job too.
Me? What do I do? Well, I work in the Fourth Circle of Hell. That’s Greed if you’re not familiar. Yep, Fourth Circle is where you’ll usually find me, though sometimes we get moved between Five and Two, that’s Lust, Gluttony and Wrath. Our Boss, you know, the ‘Big Man’, likes to ensure we’re skilled in tormenting all types of souls: he believes it keeps us motivated. As managers go, he’s pretty fair.
So long as you obey the rules.
Now, I know you’re experiencing some scepticism right now, because you don’t believe that Hell and its Nine Circles exist, do you? You think that they’re just an invention of that poor lovelorn sap, Dante and his Inferno.
And no, by ‘Dante’s Inferno’ I don’t mean the ‘Immersive Action-Adventure Game’ that comes up first on Wikipedia when you Google it. (Frankly, I’m disappointed some of you are that uncultured - I was hoping for a more highbrow audience here). If you keep scrolling down, you’ll see it’s actually a mega poem about Dante and Virgil taking a lads’ road trip to us in the Underworld, some 700 years ago, to write a best seller about folks like me who put sinners through unimaginable and exquisite trials. Oh, and there’s a cold-hearted chick called Beatrice who won’t put out, and some sort of moral in it – can’t remember what though.
But I digress. Yes, you thought it was all one big literary fiction cum video game, did you? Well, you’re wrong, it’s real. I’m living proof. And if you still don’t believe me, all I can say is you’d better watch out because every now and then ‘He’ lets us out to do a bit of ‘harvesting’.
What do I mean by that? Well, naturally we get souls delivered to us all the time: great blubbery oligarchs who died eating one too many sour cream and caviar blinis, or some sinewy tin-pot dictator from a-country-you-have-never-heard-of who believed them when they said the glass was bullet proof.
And, don’t get me wrong, they’re decent specimens. But they’ve been processed. You see, by the time they’ve shuffled to the front of the queue at the Pearly Gates and then been told their name’s not on the list, they’re full of preservatives and a little bit stale to boot.
Fresh is best, we all know that, don’t we? And that there’s nothing better than going out onto the land for a bit of ‘pick your own’. I bet you’ve all been blackberrying or gone to some farm with a basket for some nice strawberries and raspberries. Taken along the kiddies and your Nan. Then you all said how much better it tastes than the stuff you get from the supermarkets.
Well, it’s the same for us. Nothing beats a fresh soul or two.
Best of all, just as you can travel between farm and field to forage, we can go back and forth through the ages. We’re not stuck on this linear treadmill of time like you – and jeez; you ought to see what the future is looking like for you guys………
The challenge, though, is finding the right, and for me, the greediest candidate or two, to take home and, as you probably know from your own picking, the most luscious fruits are often the hardest to reach. That’s the real test. If we bring back indifferent quality we don’t get released as much. And me? Yes, I’m good. Really good.
So, being who we are and having, as I mentioned before, a reasonably liberal boss, we can pretty much do what we like, with one condition: don’t get involved.
We have a rota for all of this – we’re a pretty well managed lot you see, and I’m on it 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, my gradually pupating human form is already vibrating with the thrumming of some serious drums and bass, well before I materialise at the edge of the floor. 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 shadow. 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, athletic dancers in form fitting flame Lycr,a 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 heavy 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, I want the sport of playing him along for a while.
I wait until he’s had snorted up his share and dabbed away the residue with a tissue he had to hand and then decide a little conversation might be polite before I strike. It’s always useful to get better acquainted. Boasting rights, you see. I continue with the flattery strategy.
‘You know,’ I say. ‘You’re very different from the ‘usual’. How come?’
His blue eyes turn to me: his gaze, now earnest, sincere, locks me.
‘You think you see a man born into wealth and privilege, don’t you? Someone who chose the easy way to gain more and yet more. But I’m not what I seem. What I am now has been wrought out of tragedy and heartbreak.’
He speaks softly. I lean in to hear better.
‘Imagine a land surrounded by lofty crags, their jagged peaks caressed by clouds like smoke from an ancient, sleeping fire. Beneath them, densely wooded slopes giving way to lush, fertile valleys of fields yielding plump, golden grain, and beyond, orchards glistening with ripe fruit. All watered by rivers and streams as clear as glass.
And in the midst of this land, a great, white citadel, its gleaming marble towers: symbols of peace and wisdom, that gazed down benevolently on the labyrinth of great, echoing halls and gardens beneath. Oh those gardens!’
He shut his eyes as if trying to transport himself there while I sit, bemused by his transformation from stone-hearted drug baron to, to well what? …Poet, bard…..
He continued.
‘Yes, such gardens! Where fountains played, their droplets catching the light, forming soft prisms of colour across beds of exotic flowers that wafted out giddying fragrances. Nearby, great trees arched into the zenith, protecting us from the warmth of the sun, while sparkling rills trickled gently over their roots.
This was my home.
My people, a race fair like me: filled with light, life and love, who lived in harmony with this abundance of nature while the heartbeat of their music and song echoed through these halls.
‘So, is he just a fabulist, I thought, or someone who had swallowed an entire purple passage of AI prose?’
But even as I was pondering this and readying myself for more, his face changed, his fair complexion took on a parchment-like pallor and his eyes became ashen and crepey, at the recollection of what was to come next. With an internal sigh, I braced myself.
‘But, perhaps as with all things that are perfect, there lies a seed, a tiny flaw, that grows and corrupts the whole. So it was in our land, there emerged malcontents - elements who stirred up envy and strife. Greedy for power, for dominance, they staged a thunderous and bloody coup, ripping our world apart then, cruelly, reweaving destiny’s threads: I lost absolutely everything, including many of my beloved family.’
He shudders at the memory his voice cracking as he continues, while I listen; my whole being now pulsing like a planet. This is not what I’d been expecting.
He continues.
‘Somehow, I managed to flee and after a perilous journey, found my way to your welcoming shores; a ragged, penniless orphan. People took me in and taught me things, taught me how to survive, to make money for them. Were they good people? No. Were they nice to me? No. But did I manage to use what they taught me and turn the tables? Yes.
They work for me now, in this sordid business.’, indicating the detritus left on the table and the motley dealers dotted around the room.
‘These clothes, the cars, the champagne nightlife – merely the necessary tools of my trade. A trade that will be used to do great good.’ He pauses.
‘You weren’t expecting this from me, were you?’
Well, I have to admit, I wasn’t.
‘You’ll do great good?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, I now study medicine with my profits, I’m, training to be a doctor to save lives. Endangered and miserable lives in troubled zones, like those of my family and friends who were lost.
And this…this lowly business’. He says, ‘Is the only way I can fund myself.’
I start to feel giddy at this turn of events. For a few moments, all the lights and sounds of the club seem to melt away and I feel that it’s just the two of us, cocooned.
Speechless, (yes, me, lost for words, can you believe it?) I return his gaze with admiration, while deep within my foetid core, I feel a little flicker. A dangerous spark of a new emotion. Is it compassion? Empathy? LOVE???. These are things I only half comprehend.
He speaks again.
‘Thank you for listening. You are a good person. Now, come with me. I’d like to give you something special.’
Taking my arm, he leads me to a half-concealed gold handled door, covered in cardinal-red flock wallpaper. He opens it and backs in with me, closing it softly.
It’s a large cleaning cupboard, redolent of disinfectant, with hints of vomit and faeces. A regular home-from-home, I think.
And there, in the dim light of the little room, amid the chaotic arsenal of trigger sprays, brooms, dustpans, cloths and rubber gloves, he carefully takes out a small violet pill from his stash.
‘Here.’ He whispers, his blue eyes now misty as a faraway shore. ‘Let me take you to Paradise.’
He comes in close, and, slipping his tongue out ever so slightly between his teeth and places the pretty tablet on its tip. Then he moves even closer, till our bodies meet, and, putting his forearms on my shoulders and his tongue to my lips, transfers the drug to me in a kiss of exquisite passion and tenderness.
A kiss like I’d never known before – not that there’s much of that going on in the Fourth Circle – my whole being reels, and fireworks of dazzling, multicoloured stars explode in my head.
It’s a sensation of almost unbearable ecstasy which seems to last an eternity, and at last, as we slowly pull apart, breathless and giddy, I can no longer help myself.
‘I love you!’ I cry. ‘Let me stay with you and help in your work to save lives.’
And for a few seconds, time halts like a silent raindrop quivering at the tip of a leaf.
Then it falls……
A crack, a shudder, an overpowering stench of sulphur.
And in an instant that exquisite face is transformed into a skull of cinders and ash, the eyes now glowing coals. The torso, a leathery, skin-covered rib cage and the lower half: that of a hirsute, concuspient goat.
Realisation hits me like an icy wrecking ball.
This is no drug baron – this is my Master, The Grand Deceiver. King of Illusion; clearly enjoying himself.
I freeze.
He speaks.
‘You know the rule. You broke the rule.’ He hisses though a grin of tombstone teeth. ‘You’re Toast.’
Now, we’re talking Toast in Hell here – the acrid black stuff you scrape into the bin - not a piece of your gently browned artisan sourdough.
Numb with shock and rooted to the spot, I wonder how I could have been so easily taken in. Pushover! Of course he was and then all that ‘Blissful place, bloody coup, the escape…’. that was pretty much our story. The tale of how we were expelled from Heaven.
And, as I stand, waiting to be reduced to a small heap of charred crumbs, something beyond my wildest expectations occurs.
It begins slowly, as a slight breeze which ripples through the airless room, then, rocking back and forth, a few snowy white feathers start to descend and float around us. The breeze then intensifies, reaching tornado force. A maelstrom of a wind that makes my trousers flap against my legs while an empty bottle of Lemon Cif clatters to the floor and microfibre cloths fly, like a Disney animation, around the confined space.
More feathers and then a powerful pair of luminous moonlit wings swoop in, and with them, an angel. But not just any angel: it’s Gabriel. The actual Top Banana.
Majestic, imposing; all 6 foot 5 of him, and handsome, with tendrils of rich dark hair around his lightly tanned olive face and a 48-hour stubble on his chin. Yes, Gabriel! Standing right there by the red plastic mop bucket.
‘Mr Darcy in a white satin robe’ I think. ‘Eat your heart out, Colin Firth.’
I watch as Angel and Devil face each other.
‘Hello Luce,’ says Gabriel with a nod.
‘Gabe.’ Comes the curt reply.
‘Alright?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’
After concluding the obligatory celestial pleasantries, the atmosphere turns. There’s a distinct chill despite all the heat my master is now generating.
He looks intently at the Angel
‘OK Gabe, what do you want?’ he demands.
Ignoring the question and turning his head completely away from my Master, Gabriel fixes me with his potent gaze and then addresses me.
‘Fallen Angel of the Fourth Circle of Hell.’ He declaims.
Ah yes! That’s me! I stand smartly to attention.
‘We’ve been watching you.’
‘We?’ I think. ‘We? What? Did he mean the whole sodding Heavenly Host was spectating as I snogged my boss? Just as well we didn’t take it any further…..’
‘It has come to pass, Fallen Angel of the Fourth Circle of Hell, that our Supreme Being, (at this he reverently bowed his head) has ordained a review, troubled, as he has been for some time, that we may have got our paperwork wrong; that not all the angels we expelled in the Great Fall were beyond hope. Fragments of goodness remained in some of you and, although you have just been cruelly misled by this Evil One, he unwittingly rekindled that spark within you. You showed you were capable of love.’
I wait.
‘Do you believe in Redemption?’ He asks earnestly.
Redemption? Frankly, I haven’t a clue. But right now, it seems a far better alternative than Toast.
The angel continues, ‘Would you like me to take you to Paradise? The only true Paradise?’
I nod.
‘Now just hang on a minute!’ cackles a voice. ‘You can’t just swoop in here and poach one of my staff.’
With his eyes glowing like volcanoes he, moves closer to the Angel, every demonic part of him shooting sinuous tongues of flame.
‘That nice white frock of yours flammable, Eh? I can make you Toast just as easily, Gabe.’
Flares like little red fireflies are now curling randomly across the floor, fizzing in electric greens and blues as they encounter assorted spilt cleaning fluids. Meantime, Satan starts capering between the sparks and the angel, in a grotesquely triumphant jig, before suddenly dragging me back in an iron grip.
‘How different,’ I think sadly, ‘from that thrilling embrace of mere moments before.’
‘He’s mine. He’s mine.’ He crows. ‘You can’t beat me – you never could.’
He gathers himself to throw another shot of flame, whilst the Angel looks skywards, a beatific smile on his face. Within seconds, a dazzling cone of light surrounds him, volleying the advancing fireball back to where it came, rendering Satan a balletic conflagration, fighting the flames, and releasing me in the process.
As the little fires start to subside, the two face each other.
‘You know, Luce,’ says Gabriel.’ Maybe you could beat me, maybe you couldn’t. Fire was never my element: but tell me, which of us has got back-up?’
He slowly raises an imperious hand at my charred and snarling Master, to halt him.
Then Gabriel turns to me.
‘Are you ready for Paradise? The real Paradise.’
I look at him and carefully incline my head in a gesture of assent.
We turn.
This time there was no little violet pill and no outstretched tongue, just an inviting hand. I take it.
Satan lunges impotently at me.
‘You’ll hate it, you never mastered the harp and they kicked you out of the choir because you sang like a jackdaw.’
But it’s futile, the majestic wings are already stirring, whipping up the air, ruffling the blackened fur on the Goat’s legs and blowing specks of soot into his scowling face.
Slowly we rise, above the roof, above the dark ox-bow of The Thames, above the great, glittering city, and then beyond the blue, shimmering planet Earth. And as we rise, I feel a tingling in my shoulders as little wings begin to sprout, while my earthly clothes become a flowing white shift.
Onwards we soar to Paradise.
Now the Light,
is my world.
Heavenly Lights,
holy swirl……
And I,
I am a creature of the Light.
I live, I live
among the creatures of the Light.
