The Devil (12 page)

mislead y o u . I've endured a lot of your babble due to your

. . . affliction.'

He waved a beautifully manicured hand at my pint,

continued,

'Be assured of this, my dense disciple. I too have a limited

well of patience, and do tell,
pray
tell, why, if I were the

Devil, why in the name of all that's . . .'

He cackled, completed,

'. . . unholy, w o u l d I bother trifling w i t h a wreck such as

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you? Surely even a moron like you can appreciate that the

D e v i l must have a busy schedule? Swine flu - so sorry, so

non P C , M e x i c a n influenza, recession, Iraq, somewhat

pressing engagements, don't you think?'

I said,

'Very eloquent. Here's a thought for you, mate. W h a t if

you felt that one jaded, over-the-hill, broken-down wretch

had somehow managed to fuck up your malevolent plans?

W h a t if, whatever schemes you had for our still Catholic

t o w n , what if this wretch somehow managed to keep the

one element alive that is contrary to all the Light-Bringer

hates?'

He emptied his glass, asked in a tone of pure ice,

'What element might that be, Taylor?'

Taylor?
No more Jack?

I smiled, drew out the w o r d , said,

' H o p e . '

He stared at me for a long moment then switched gear,

muttered something in German, I think, but I'm guessing,

said,

'Wasn't that fun? Let me ask you a question, Mr Purveyor

of H o p e . Have you ever read the Catechism of the Catholic

C h u r c h , second edition?'

He smiled, added,

' N o t to be confused w i t h the Second C o m i n g . '

I said,

' M i s s e d that one. Is it on D V D ? '

He was done with me for now, said,

' A n d you such a vociferous reader? I highly recommend it.'

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THE DEVIL

He paused, licked his lips, said,

'Specifically, look at Section T w o ! But enough of all this

gravitas. If I'm the Devil and you're mankind's hope, the

w o r l d is even more fucked than one could have dreamed.'

H i s use of the curse seemed to shake the table.

It certainly shook me.

M u c h later, I did track d o w n the piece on the internet,

titled
The Fall of the Angels.
Dealing w i t h the real enemy of

Catholicism, it read:

Behind the disobedient choice of our first parents lurks a

seductive voice, opposed to God, which makes them fall into

death out of envy. Scripture and the Church's tradition see in

this the fallen angel called Satan or Lucifer.

A l l of a sudden I knew I was outgunned, out of my league,

and I just gave up. I'd thought I could play, beat this sucker

hands d o w n and not even have to exert meself.

The waiter brought entrees.

Prawn cocktails.

After oysters?

He dug into his with gusto, snapping his fingers for more

bubbly. He seemed to have a thirst brought on by the fires

of hell.

I stayed w i t h the G.

The Devil you know, right?

I wasn't going to beat him verbally, he had too m u c h

sleight of hand for my slower repartee.

The main course arrived.-

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Steaks.

So rare, the blood was leaking over the edge of the plate.

I said to the waiter,

'Sorry, but I need it well done, please.'

C a r l smiled, went,

'I'd have pegged you as the raw-meat type.'

I let it simmer, then said,

' Y o u ' d have been w r o n g ,
mon ami:

He didn't so much eat the steak as devour it. Like some

jackal w h o realizes another predator might show.

W h e n mine arrived, cooked to a crisp, I barely touched it.

Pushing his plate aside, pieces of meat lodged in his teeth,

he asked,

'Dessert?'

' N o , thanks.'

He signalled for the bill and I made to reach for my w a l -

let but he was already laying a platinum card on the table.

I don't do cards.

A n d I do k n o w when I've had me arse well and truly

kicked.

As the Americans say.
He handed me my ass.

He knew.

I knew.

So I did what you do when you've been walloped,

especially w i t h champagne as an outrider to your defeat.

I shut the fuck up.

We stood to leave and he put his arm round me.

I shit thee not.

I loved that.

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THE DEVIL

There was a time, when I had some mettle, I'd have taken

that arm and broken it over me knee and not a moment's

sleep w o u l d it have cost me.

N o w , I adjusted me hearing aid.

Felt my limp kick in.

M a d e a note to meself.
Give up, root out your K.
C .

Constantine novels and become a hermit.

C a r l , figuring I was done but to bury me, said,

'I'm going to help you, Jackie.'

N e x t he'd be calling me Jackie-o.

I asked, quietly,

' H o w ' s that.''

He beamed, the cat with all the freaking cream, said,

'I have some, shall we say, juice?'

OJ?

Continued,

'I'm aware of your fervent lust to get to the U S A . '

Yeah, he leaned on the L w o r d .

H u m b l e as Bono, I near whispered,

'Really?'

We were on Quay Street now, h i m literally leading me. He

said in a Brit accent,

'Name your departure date, matey.'

I said,

' A S A R '

He let me go, threw out his arms, bellowed,

'What are you waiting for? Get packing.'

I w o u l d .

N e x t time, I'd be packing the Sig.

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We were at the crossroads where Quay Street leads off to

three different streets. C a r l paused, said,

' A h , a crossroads. No doubt you're familiar w i t h the story

of the blues musician w h o sold his soul at such a junction?'

I asked,

' W h y w o u l d I want to sell my soul?'

He slapped my shoulder hard, laughed, said,

' Y o u already have.'

He turned at Naughton's pub, near Judy Green's pottery

shop, said,

'Quel dommage,
but I must bi d yo u adieu.'

A Japanese photo-cluster-fuck was taking snaps of every-

thing and he suddenly bared his teeth, bile in his eyes, said,

'Jack, I hate photographs.'

I stood there, watching h i m strut off, the Stones song

'Sympathy For The D e v i l ' uncoiling in my head.

Fm paraphrasing here, but it goes something like:

happy to meet you,

did you guess me name?

I k n o w those aren't the lyrics, but you get the drift.

I had the film developed at a one-hour photo joint.

The swans came out lovely.

The Claddagh church appeared splendid.

Of C a r l , Fd taken, I think, thirteen shots.

A l l blank.

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15

Tfthe Devil is at my left hand, then who is at my right?'

K B

J

I got back to me apartment.

D o w n ,

depressed,

defeated.

Nietzsche wrote that 'to shame a man is to k i l l h i m ' .

No argument from me there.

I opened the door, it was close to nine in the evening. So

O K , I stopped in a few places en route.

1. To erase the very chill he'd sunk in me bones.

2. The shock of the developed f i l m had walloped me hard.

The smell hit me first.

Rank,

foul,

dead.

It literally knocked me back into the corridor.

Took a deep breath, gathered me shredded nerves, went

in.

The whole apartment was lit up.

Blazing w i t h candles.

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Black candles.

Almost fifty at a rough estimate. On every surface.

On the coffee table was a dead dog.

Headless.

Gutted from end to end.

The entrails spilling on to the wooden floor.

Took me a moment to realize there was a note pinned to

the poor animal's hind quarters.

A very bloodied note. Read:

'Dog-gone.'

A n d on the bookcase, a red card - and I mean crimson.

W i t h more than a little trepidation, I opened it. It seemed

to be some k i n d of invitation. The words in black

read:

Missa niger.

Invito te venire ad dandestinum ritum.

A n d it was signed, 'The Devil's M i n i o n ' .

The acid-thrower, not hiding the fact that he'd re-

decorated my apartment. The bastard had balls, I'd give him

that, and I swore,

' Y o u ' l l fucking need them, p a l . '

I stood, frozen, as I surveyed my home.

Then rage kicked in. Never underestimate the dark power,

the energy of that. It galvanizes you, has you muttering,

'By Jaysus.'

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THE DEVIL

If there is a better antidote to terror, a sawn-off not being

to hand, bring it on.

I grabbed the help that was on site.

X a n a x ,

Jameson,

and a primed and loaded gun.

Whoever had black candled my place hadn't found the

gun. It was wrapped in oilskin, under a pile of dirty laundry.

Burglars k n o w that old ploy, but this intruder hadn't

come to steal.

Once the weapon was in me hand, I began to feel, if not

better, at least less powerless. I gripped it like me first H o l y

C o m m u n i o n money. Then:

double Jameson (neat),

double X a n a x (neater),

and mused on the poor dog's head.

Where w o u l d the sick fucker have put it, going for m a x

effect as he was? Godfather like, in me bed?

I'd check that once the meds hit.

The fridge, of course.

On ice, so to speak.

I added another dollop of the Jay, me gut w a r m i n g

already and a ferocious anger building. The magic of

prescription drugs, a frigging song began to roll in me

head.

N o w ?

I'm standing in the centre of my apartment, with a head-

less dog, its entrails dripping still on to me floor, my system

ablaze w i t h whiskey and 'dope, my temper close to Delcon

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KEN BRUEN

three, a loaded, primed weapon in my right hand, and I'm

humming 'The Boys Are Back In Town'?

L i k e on auto, this is followed by ' N o t A D r y Eye In The

House'.

M a y b e twenty minutes i n , I ease my grip on the weapon.

The butt is slick from sweat, my fingers aching from the

pressure.

I find my mobile, call Stewart.

Takes a time, but eventually,

' L o ? '

Jesus, n o w even ' H e l l o ' is abbreviated?

'Stewart, I need your help.'

Pause.

'Er, Jack, this is not like . . . er . . . the best moment.'

Discretion never being me strongest suit and me not being

in the best of tempers, I snapped,

'What? It's not like you're getting laid or something.'

W h o o p s .

He said,

'Actually . . .'

Christ, his date w i t h the freaking vegan lawyer. He was

scoring}

I could hear muttered whispering.

P i l l o w talk?

Like I'd know.

He asked,

'Where are you?'

I nearly said,
Iraq, why else would I call}

Went w i t h ,

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THE DEVIL

' M e apartment.'

' O K , I'll be there in, say, twenty.'

Clicked off.

What? N o pithy Z e n aphorism?

I slunk d o w n against the w a l l , the bookcase to my right, my

eyes locked on the still-open door.

The black candles threw macabre shadows dancing along

the ceiling.

The gun was resting on the floor, a H a i l M a r y from my

hand.

If anyone other than Stewart came calling, he'd better

have made peace w i t h his maker. It w o u l d be a real bad time

for the M o r m o n s to be house calling.

I'd never noticed before, but pinned to the side of the

bookcase was:

God is in the most secret corner of your life.

Where no one reaches,

Where a voice which comes and goes mysteriously tells you

What you do not want to hear.

Recall what you would prefer to forget

And

What you do not want to know.

He is that profound abyss of

Your unbelief.

He is in that

Which you feel you have lost,

That you fear

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You will not find again,

And which you wish to possess.

Although

You would be ashamed

To admit it

To other people.

Fuck, maybe the M o r m o n s had been after all.

I nipped at the Jay to keep me focus sharp, me rage on

fire, thought of Serena M a y and the golden child she'd been.

A n d almost as outrider to her, Lee A n n Womack's 'I H o p e

Y o u Dance'.

My m i n d like a cobra, lashing all over the place.

Time moved on. My cocktail of booze and pharma-

ceuticals had zoned me out. Languidly, I reached to the

bookcase. Always wanted to be
languid
as opposed to

langers. Using the Dice M a n method of random selection,