A Fate Worse Than Death (11 page)

“What’s the idea, punk?”

“No idea,” I replied quickly. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”

“Well I’ve got an answer for you. Stay out of my way.” And he threw me to the ground again.

With a tear welling in my eye, I watched him hurry away. At last, I felt like I was home again.

I discovered that as a result of this bruising encounter, I’d been propelled through the crowd to the edge of the road. Right beside my face, cars were zooming past with drivers whose feet seemed to be permanently welded to the gas pedal. I couldn’t help noticing that a large proportion of these were taxis. If the residents of Hell were so reluctant to tell me how to get to the Devil, I could always catch a cab there instead.

I stood up and flagged down the first taxi I saw. Straightaway, it veered towards me. But as it stopped and I opened the door, someone else ran from behind and jumped into the passenger seat, slamming the door in my face as the taxi raced off. I tried flagging down another one, but again I was too slow climbing in. After the third time, I gave up. If these people wanted taxis so much, they could have them. I would find the Devil, even if I had to walk all night.

So I walked around Hell. Down the streets buzzing with energy and life. Through the melees and quarrels and street brawls that seemed to rage on every second corner. Past the restaurants offering the hautest of haute cuisine and the clubs that pulsated with the sounds of live music, tempting me to abandon my search for the undoubted pleasures within. Yet I stood firm, and after I’d walked for an hour or so, I reached my destination.

A huge castle towered before me. It looked like a diabolical mirror image of God’s palace back in Heaven, with soaring towers topped by thin spires. But where God’s palace glistened and gleamed, this castle . . . unglistened and ungleamed. It was so black that light seemed to disappear into it, as if it were being consumed. I knew as I looked at it that this had to be the home of the Devil. Even the welcome mat reeked of evil.

I examined the massive door to the castle. On the right side there was a small black button, carved in the shape of a hideous face. I pressed the button. A deep bell reverberated through the walls above me. And then the door slowly swung open.

I walked through the forbidding gateway and found myself in a large hall. To call it a little bit gothic would have been like saying the Taj Mahal was a little bit shiny and marbly. Arched vaults soared above my head and grotesque faces peered out from every surface, their faces leering in the shimmering candlelight. The only thing missing was the spooky organ music.

At the far end of the hall, at the foot of a broad staircase, a figure stood. Slowly, the figure turned towards me, revealing a face so gruesome it made the gargoyles all around look like catwalk models. The skin was an angry shade of red. The eyes were pinpricks that glowered beneath thick, dark brows, and the mouth was thin and cruel. A pair of sharp horns extended from the top of the head, while under the chin, a small, pointed goatee jutted out. I guessed immediately who the bearer of this ghastly visage must be. Surely I had come face-to-face with the Prince of Darkness himself.

I looked at him. He looked at me. Never before had I experienced a gaze of such pure malevolence. Never before had I faced such utter and unadulterated wickedness. For a moment, my instinct was to turn tail and flee from this castle of terror. But before I had a chance, a door opened at the side of the hall and another figure emerged.

He was a tall man in a dark suit. I recognised him immediately as the one I’d seen in Sally’s mansion.

“Mr Jimmy Clarenden,” he said. “How splendid to see you. I’ve been expecting you.”

THE MAN
IN THE SUIT
had dark hair and pale skin. His eyes shone keenly, like fluorescent white beads, but his smile had all the warmth of a beach resort in Antarctica. The suit encasing his lean, angular frame had clearly not been selected from off the rack. It had been fitted so well that when he moved, the suit mirrored those movements exactly, as if the two of them were a single unit.

At that particular moment, both man and suit were waving dismissively to the demonic creature I’d first encountered. Straightaway, the figure I was certain was the Devil scuttled away through a side door on the opposite side of the hall. As he disappeared, I swore I could see the swishing of a long, forked tail.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to join me, I’d love to have a chat,” said the suited man, in a voice that was deep and rich like a tureen full of gravy, but with an undercurrent that set my nerves on edge like fingernails scraping on a chalkboard.

He motioned me towards the door through which he had first appeared. I followed uncertainly and found myself in a room that couldn’t have been more different from the one I had exited. It was a large and slickly appointed office, with the sorts of fittings that were created by celebrity designers with unpronounceable names. The desk in the middle of the room didn’t look like a desk. The chairs arranged around it didn’t look like chairs. The cabinets that lined the walls didn’t look like cabinets. The whole thing was more like an art installation than an actual office.

The man led me towards the desk.

“Please take a seat, Mr Clarenden.”

I regarded one of the chairs, unsure where I was meant to place my posterior. Eventually, I hazarded a guess that seemed to work. I found myself facing the right way, with most of my parts in the right place.

Meanwhile, the man in the suit was making his way over to one of the cabinets along the wall. He opened a cupboard, took a bottle, and poured two drinks.

“Scotch whiskey. The finest single malt, I can assure you.”

He handed a glass to me. I took a small sip, letting the liquid kiss my lips, caress my tongue, and heartily embrace my throat.

The man registered my obvious satisfaction.

“Nothing but the best for my guests.”

He strolled back around the desk, oozing confidence like an oil slick oozed thick, black crude. Who was this man, so smooth and self-assured? Who was this person who could order even the Devil around?

“Who are you?” I said, sounding about as smooth as a chainsaw.

“Who am I?” The man was taken aback by my lack of recognition. “Who do you think I am?”

“At the moment, I don’t think anything,” I said, trusting that a few extra sips of single malt might help to smooth my voice a little.

“I would have thought it was obvious. I’m the man in charge. The guy who runs the place.”

“I didn’t ask for your resume. I just want to know who you are.”

The man sat down behind the desk and leant back. “But who else could I be? I’m the Devil.”

“You’re the Devil?”

He nodded. “Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Old Nick, the Prince of Darkness. Whatever you want to call me.” That smile was still on his face, warming the room like a six-pack of icicles.

“But if you’re the Devil, then who was . . . ?” I pointed to the door back to the hall.

“Him? Oh, that’s just Sid.”

“Sid?”

“Sid is my accountant. Don’t be embarrassed, Mr Clarenden. It’s a mistake nearly everybody makes.”

“But he looks exactly like . . . ”

“I know. He looks exactly the way you’d expect me to look.” The Devil chuckled. “It’s not a coincidence. Sid is my logo.”

“Sid is your logo? Are you the Devil or are you selling breakfast cereal?”

“A bit of both, I suppose. I consider myself first and foremost a businessman, and like any businessman, it’s important that I market my business as effectively as possible. I need to find a brand that people can relate to. Now, I could have used my own likeness to front my campaigns. It might even have been moderately successful. But I think you’ll agree that when it comes to looking diabolical, I can’t hold a candle to Sid.”

“He’s really that evil?”

“Hardly,” said the Devil, the laughter still in his voice. “Sid is probably the sweetest fellow you could ever meet. It’s just that he has a rather striking appearance. Using his likeness has helped me to really nail my brand. It’s allowed me to project that aura of absolute evil that has been instrumental to my success over the centuries. But you haven’t come all this way to discuss marketing strategies. So how may I be of assistance to you?”

I decided to cut to the chase. “What were you doing at Sally’s house?”

“So now you wish to know about my personal activities too?” The Devil’s eyebrows were raised but he was still smiling.

“Do you have any personal activities you’d rather I didn’t know about?”

“As it happens, no I don’t. If you must know, I was helping Sally with her Feng Shui.”

“I would prefer if you answered me in English.”

“Sally has just finished doing some renovations to her house,” said the Devil. “She asked me to come in and offer my opinion.”

“So you’re an interior designer as well.”

“I don’t think you understand what I mean. Feng Shui is an ancient oriental art. It involves arranging all items in a building in such a way as to maximise positive energy flow. I’ve been studying it for a couple of years, but I’d hardly call myself an expert. Are you interested in the oriental arts, Mr Clarenden?”

“Only if I can pick them up with chopsticks. So tell me, what would God say if He knew about this little trip you made into Heaven?”

“Why should God have a problem with it?” asked the Devil, a note of genuine puzzlement mixing into the otherwise cocksure tone of his speech.

“You don’t think God would have a problem with his arch-nemesis sneaking into Heaven in the middle of the night?”

The Devil laughed loudly. “I’m sorry, I understand what you mean now. Let me try to make this clear. As I mentioned before, I am a businessman, and I look at my relationship with God purely in those terms. There are numerous joint ventures we both have a stake in, and I like to think that the two of us can work together effectively as partners. I won’t deny that at times there is an element of competition between us, but it’s never conducted with any hint of rancour. And I have certainly never regarded myself as God’s arch-nemesis.”

“But aren’t you the master of evil? Doesn’t that automatically mean you’re opposed to God?”

“Who says I’m evil? You’ve been reading too many Sunday school pamphlets.” The Devil took a sip of his drink before continuing. “Look, I’m not opposed to God. We just have different roles to play. Sometimes that might seem to put us on opposite sides of the fence, but when it comes down to it, we’re both working towards the same goals.”

“Are you telling me you’re not actively tempting people into sin?”

“Do you really think I need to? Come on, Mr Clarenden, you know what it’s like out there. People are quite capable of being tempted into sin without any assistance from me.”

“So you’re not going around possessing people and speaking out of their mouths?”

“What do I look like, a ventriloquist?” the Devil snapped.

I couldn’t help laughing at that. “What am I doing, lecturing you? I must sound like some deranged televangelist.”

The Devil nodded. “I understand how these misperceptions occur. It’s all due to successful marketing. But believe me, it’s only an image. It’s not the real me at all. Actually, I quite like God. When He’s in the right sort of mood, there’s nobody who’s more fun to be with. Unfortunately, most of the time He’s too stressed to let it show. He’s always letting the pressures of His job get to Him. And He’s got that dreadful smoking habit.”

“Actually, He’s just given up.”

“I’ve heard that one before. I’m sure it won’t last more than a couple of days.” The Devil sighed. “I’ve tried to teach Him about the importance of a healthy lifestyle. I’ve even offered Him free admission to one of my workshops.”

“You run workshops?”

“Self-development workshops. They’re very popular here in Hell. I’ve based them on my bestselling book. Here, take a look.” The Devil opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a book, and handed it to me.

I examined the cover.
Be All You Can Be
screamed the title in bold letters, while underneath, a subtitle declared that this was
The Devil’s Guide to Fulfilling Your Inner Potential
. Beneath the subtitle was a picture of the Devil, or rather the Devil’s accountant, wearing a diabolical smile and grasping a handful of money with one hand and a buxom blonde with the other. I quickly thumbed through the text, observing a cross-section of chapter headings:
Mephistophelian Money Making
,
Satanic Stress Relief
,
Lucifer’s Love Manual
.

“This is popular?” I said, handing the book back to the Devil.

“Enormously successful,” said the Devil. “It’s changed people’s afterlives. But once again, I digress. We were talking about Sally, were we not? Would you like to know more about the principles of Feng Shui I employed for her?”

“Actually, I might take a rain check on the Feng Shui. But some things you’ve said have aroused my curiosity. You say you’re a businessman. Can you tell me a little more about your line of business?”

For the first time in our meeting, the smile slipped from the Devil’s face, but it didn’t make the room any warmer.

“I’m afraid that is out of the question. I’ve worked hard to build up my business, and I can’t go around giving away my secrets just like that. If any of my competitors were to find out, I would be ruined. Please understand, it’s nothing personal. Just the requirements of commercial confidentiality. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a yoga class to run.” The Devil motioned towards the door.

I took the hint and stood up. But as I was about to leave the office, the Devil called me back and handed over an envelope.

“I don’t want you to consider me rude, Mr Clarenden. Please use this to avail yourself of the pleasures of Hell.”

I looked inside the envelope. It contained a thick wad of large, red notes, each of which featured Sid’s grinning visage.

“Local currency?” I said, swishing the notes through my fingers. It felt good to have that feeling of cold, hard cash in my hands.

“Ten thousand diablos,” said the Devil. “If you want the best, you’ve got to pay for it. And here in Hell, we’re proud to offer the very best in all forms of entertainment. I’m sure you’re aware that most of the finest performers lived thoroughly sinful lives. If it’s great actors, artists, or musicians you’re after, you’re sure to find them here.”

I thanked the Devil. Then I departed the office, walked back through the gothic hall and out the front door of the castle.

* * *

On the road back into the centre of Hell, I considered the Devil’s claims that he was a businessman. Although he wouldn’t tell me what business he was in, I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t boiled lollies.

Still, there were things that puzzled me. The Devil had said he was afraid of information falling into the hands of his competitors. Which competitors did he mean? Who in their right mind would set themselves up in competition with the Prince of Darkness? And what of his claim that he’d been giving Sally home renovation tips? If his presence in her house had been that innocuous, why had Sally been so determined to keep me out? Surely it wasn’t because she was afraid a second opinion would complicate things.

I didn’t have long to ponder these questions before I found myself back on the main strip. If anything, Hell seemed to have gotten even busier. The neon signs glowed brighter, the crowds rushed past at a maniacal pace, and the music booming out of the clubs was bordering on ear-splitting. I looked at the billboard above the nearest door.
Hottest Sounds in Hell
it screamed back at me. Unsolved dilemmas could wait. It was time to see how much of the Devil’s money I could spend.

I placed myself at the end of the line stretching out from the nightclub door and I waited. The line wasn’t long, and there seemed to be plenty of comings and goings through the door ahead, but after a while I couldn’t help noticing I wasn’t getting any closer to the front. The longer I stood there, the further away I seemed to be from that door. After about half an hour, I tired of waiting. Besides, my stomach was growling like a pack of wild dogs in an echo chamber. I needed something to eat.

I detached myself from the line and approached a hot dog vendor standing by the nightclub door.

“One hot dog,” I said, waving one of the strange looking notes.

The vendor looked at the note I was holding. “If that’s what you’re offering, all I can give you is a couple of sesame seeds,” he replied smartly.

I took two more notes from my pocket. He shook his head again. I continued taking out notes, and when I was holding fifteen of them he finally nodded.

“That’ll do just fine, son,” he grinned.

“I thought robbery was illegal,” I muttered as I handed over the diablos and snatched the hot dog from his hands.

“I think you’ll find there’s very little that’s illegal here,” he replied with a chuckle.

I held the hot dog up to my mouth, but as I was about to take a bite, the sausage slipped out of the roll and fell into the middle of a nest of garbage.

I looked across to the vendor, who had already begun to construct another hot dog. Once again, I handed over fifteen of those red notes. And once again, as I was about to bite into it, the sausage slithered out and flopped down to the ground. The vendor shrugged and moved onto hot dog number three. I counted the notes in my pocket. There were only twenty left.

“No thanks, I’ll just have the rolls,” I snarled, and in five savage bites I had finished them off. They were as filling as three-day-old newspaper, but I was damned if I was going to give any more money to this thief with his lubricated sausages.

I continued walking down the street. It was beginning to rain lightly, but I wasn’t bothered. I found another nightclub that didn’t have a line outside and made a beeline for the door. But as I was about to walk through, a thickset figure blocked my path.