Fireproof (2 page)

Mike thought about telling the Prince of Darkness to shove his job up his big red hole. Then he thought about the possible consequences.

"Do you promise not to snap your fingers again?"

"Would you believe such a promise, Mike?"

"Good point. What do you want me to do?"

"I'd like you to take a crack at developing a new religion. Satanism, of course. Interested?"

Mike considered his options. "Where do I sign?"

To Mike's surprise, Lucifer produced a phonebook-thick contract. In no time it was signed, sealed and delivered. He'd become a true civil servant of Satan. He was just about to ask his new boss for directions back to the mortal coil when his surroundings dropped away. For a moment he floated adrift in pure nothingness. It bored the shit out of him. He slept.

***

When Mike regained consciousness he found himself in a leather armchair. He relaxed for a moment as he took in his surroundings.

A neat and comfortable little room. Another leather armchair and a leather sofa made up the three piece suite. The walls were painted cream; one had a window and the other three sported framed prints of serene Irish landscapes. There was no fireplace and so Mike immediately guessed that he was in an apartment. He looked to his left and out the small window. He could see his old local from where he sat, The Beehive. He was back in West Belfast. The thought of a good pint made his mouth water. He found a tenner on top of the telly and went for a quick one… or two.

He studied his new face in the mirror behind the bar. No scars or stitches. Not too bad looking. Dark hair, swarthy skin, perfect teeth; he might have been Italian. He had noticed the barmaid checking him out a few times. It was nice to be back.

"I'll have another Guinness, love," Mike said.

"I'll be with you in a wee minute."

Mike nodded and downed the remainder of his first pint. He used to feel at home in this place, but with a new skin he felt the eyes of the daytime regulars on him. It would be a long time before he became a part of the furniture again. Until then he'd needed to keep a low profile to stay out of trouble.

The barmaid handed him a fresh pint. As he fumbled for change in his back pocket, he watched the wonderful black stuff settle in its glass. It soothed insanely.

"Here you are, sweetheart," Mike said as he handed over a few coins.

"My pleasure."

They smiled at each other for a few seconds before she snapped out of the moment and busied herself at the bar. She wore faux-designer jeans and a low-cut vest top. Cheap, gold jewellery jangled with every movement. Her greasy, bleached hair was pulled back tight in a severe scrape-back ponytail. It tugged at the corner of her eyes creating the classic Falls Road Facelift. Mike's eyes explored her curves as she bent over to count the beer bottles in the under counter fridge. He found her attractive in the same way that a man, lost in the desert, lusts for a glass of dishwater. When she finished acting busy he called her over.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

She smiled at him for a second and then looked over his shoulder. She bit her lower lip. Mike felt a strong hand on his upper arm.

"That's my bird," said a gruff voice from behind. The voice he'd been waiting to hear.

In one swift movement Mike swivelled on his barstool, sacrificed a perfectly good pint and crushed his glass into the familiar face of a square-headed thug. The result was wholly satisfying. Mike let go of the glass just in time to save his hand from being shredded, but the barmaid's boyfriend was not so lucky. The glass had struck his angular cheekbone and shards of it now jutted out of his left cheek and his forehead. One particularly nasty shard had popped his eyeball. The one-eyed man's screams drilled into Mike's skull. He silenced him by deftly plucking the largest piece of glass from the punctured face and slashing it across the thug's throat. The wound opened neatly and a jet of blood sprayed Mike, the barmaid and the mirror behind the bar.

"Nobody else move," Mike said.

Nobody else moved. In the shocked silence Mike's unwavering voice had carried well and reached every ear. The bar was completely still, and the small number of customers suddenly found their glasses very interesting. Nobody met Mike's gaze as he scanned the room for a hero. Satisfied, he turned back to the barmaid.

"Sorry, babe. I guess there's no point in me asking you back to mine for a coffee," Mike said. "I'll come back and see you when you've had time to come to terms with your loss. Sorry about the mess."

Mike left the bar. His blood-spattered clothes earned him a few puzzled looks but he walked with a calm ease and nobody tried to question him. As always, the police presence on the Falls Road was nonexistent and he got back to his apartment without incident. He went straight to the window in the living room, and watched as the commotion unfolded in front of The Beehive.

The thug's body had been dragged outside by some of the regulars and the barmaid stood at the door, wide-eyed and silent. The Royal Victoria Hospital was only half a mile away and an ambulance arrived at the scene in no time. Mike shook his head. It wasn't going to do Paul Murphy an awful lot of good.

The last time he had seen old square-headed Paul was at the scene of his own death. There were only three more members of the Michael Rocks hit squad left now.

The joy he'd expected didn't come. He didn't feel powerful or satisfied. The barmaid's shocked face and bloodstained vest top seemed to be the only thing he could focus on. What had he been thinking? He could have saved her the trauma of witnessing her man's murder if he'd waited for Murphy to go for a piss and cut his throat at the urinal. Maybe he would have felt a little less robbed if he'd taken that kind of time to do the deed.

Next time. I'll be more patient and savour it, next time.

He turned to go to the bathroom and jerked backwards in shock. A three-headed dog loomed in the centre of the living room. It looked a bit like a Doberman with its black and tan coat and muscular frame. But it stood four times the size of an average Doberman and, of course, it had two extra heads. Mike thought that he should try and befriend it but he wasn't sure which head he should pat. Before he could decide, the dog spoke.

"What were you thinking?" asked the middle head.

"Well, obviously thought didn't come into it," answered the left head.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" asked the right.

Mike found this more than a little surreal, and he didn't answer right away. Instead he looked at the three angry faces and sighed.

"Cat got your tongue?" asked the middle head and the other two sniggered.

Mike did the only thing he could think of. He stepped forward and raised a hand in a placatory gesture. Dogs liked a good ear tousle. Mike had a moment to realise that this wasn't the ideal position to be in before the dog's middle head bit down and snatched his hand off at the wrist.

At first, Mike thought he was unable to feel pain in his new mortal state, but then the initial shock gave way to excruciating agony. The first real pain he'd felt since his death. As he fell to the floor and shrieked he was not comforted by the roaring laughter from the three-headed dog. He managed to gain some control over himself after he threw up. To help alleviate the embarrassment of his reaction, he got to his knees and loudly cast dispersions on the beast's lineage. The head on the right shot forward and clamped onto Mike's throat. It didn't puncture the delicate skin around his neck, but he could feel the strength of the hold and so he did not fight to get out of the trap. He decided on a different approach.

"Can we talk about this, boy?" Mike asked.

The jaws snapped shut, and Mike's brand new head rolled onto the carpet.

***

Mike sat in a comfortable chair with his head in his hand. A line from Hamlet danced on his tongue. He managed to avoid the temptation in favour of assessing his surroundings. Hell again. The smell gave it away. Brimstone. It smelled like rotten eggs, but he almost liked it.

This time Hell looked like a plush office. The proportions would have easily accommodated Goliath. Mike's chair faced a humongous ironwood desk with an oversized Dell computer on it. Someone had crossed out the "D" on the monitor's logo and painted an "H" above it with correction fluid. He felt a little dismayed by the lack of professionalism, but decided not to mention it to the big man. And there he was again. The Devil had appeared in his well-padded leather swivel chair in the same manner as he had in their first meeting.

"Couldn't you conjure up a cloud of smoke or something?" Mike asked, "You're really doing my head in with these entries."

Lucifer snorted. It caused an impressive eruption of black smoke from his nostrils.

"Fine," Mike said, "it was just an idea."

"Could you be serious?" Lucifer asked.

Mike raised an eyebrow and looked at the defaced Dell logo.

"Answer me, Mike."

"Okay, I'll be serious."

"Good, we have a lot to get through."

"I take it you're a little pissed at me for killing that guy in the bar," Mike said.

"What gave it away?"

"The three-headed puppy was a pretty clear indication."

"I'm glad that you picked up on it," Lucifer said.

"Still, I think it's a lot to expect of me. Not to kill people, I mean. That case in particular was self defence."

"First of all, that was not really self defence. Breaking his arm or knocking him out would have been self defence. A glass in the face and a slashed throat is a tad extreme. Secondly, I don't care who you kill, but I would appreciate it if you would be a little bit more careful about witnesses and the like. We both know how capable you are."

"Point taken," Mike said, "I'll only kill when I can get away with it. So, where do we go from here?"

"New body, new start," said Lucifer, "But don't assume that this is a game with infinite lives. My patience will only stretch so far. While you've been away I've designed a very special room for you. I might have found a way to torture you properly, should the need arise."

Mike couldn't tell if Lucifer was bluffing, but he
was
dealing with the Prince of Lies. Still, he played it safe.

"Okay, Master, I'll be cool. Just send me back up."

"Actually, before you go, I think you should apologise to Cerberus," said Lucifer as he pointed over Mike's shoulder.

Mike heard a growl from behind. He lifted his head, turned it periscope-style and took a moment to admire the dog's penchant for dramatic effect. Each mouth foamed brilliant white rabies-suds. The heads snarled in harmony as they weaved intricate patterns on powerful but flexible necks. Mike stood up, tucked his severed head under his right armpit and went to Cerberus. Each pair of eyes watched him carefully. He could tell by the intensity in its body language that any sudden movements would result in the further loss of body parts.

"Hey boy, sorry if you gagged a little on my hand; very inconsiderate of me."

"You raised your hand to me," said the middle head. "Nobody raises a hand to me."

"Yeah, yeah," said Mike. "Whatever you say. You know, Lucy here was just telling me about how I overreacted in the bar…"

A blast sent his body into the wall behind Cerberus with such force, that his skin exploded open and his organs became wallpaper. His severed head bounced off an inflated lung and landed on Lucifer's desk. The pain was not quite on a par with the taste of punishment Lucifer had given him earlier. It was a very close second, however, and much more drawn out. Lucifer picked up Mike's head and gave him a very serious look.

"I told you to call me Master!" The sonic boom burst Mike's eardrums and peeled back his eyelids. But he heard the entire command in his mind and so all confusion was avoided. Mike resolved to show respect to this guy at all times. It was, in his opinion, the most sensible thing to do.

"Sorry, Master," Mike said. "Can I please have a new body now? This one seems to have outlived its usefulness. Please, I really am in a huge amount of agony."

"Perhaps this will serve to remind you that you are not untouchable," Lucifer said. The Devil tossed Mike's head to Cerberus and all three sets of razor sharp teeth latched onto it and chewed. Mike didn't get his new body just as quickly as he would have liked.

Cathy Maguire looked away as her boss rummaged about in his right nostril with a fat, hairy-knuckled, index finger. The snot mine seemed to be where he drew his inspiration from. Her stomach churned and she bowed her head, allowing her long brown hair to fall out from behind her ears and shield her eyes from him.

"I can come back later," Cathy said. There was a True Crimes magazine in her desk drawer more deserving of her attention.

"No, no, Brown Eyed Girl. We'll finish this off now, eh?"

Cathy rolled her brown eyes. Her notepad had two words on it. "Dear sir." This letter did not lack a conclusion; it needed a beginning.

Her boss's name was John Fisher. He was one of the Fishers from the sign on their building, "Fisher and Fisher Solicitors". The other Fisher was his father, William. "Daddy" Fisher, a demented old codger who locked himself in his office and, judging by the muffled sounds from within, watched a lot of porn. He no longer admitted clients, but came to the office every day to escape his wife. John ran the firm by proxy. He demanded that everyone call him John because, here at Fisher and Fisher, everyone was "Family". William was the father figure and John considered himself to be the uncle. Cathy worried about John's family values, as it seemed to her that he enjoyed sleazing around his young "nieces" and bullying his "nephews" a little too much.