Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  I got the job at St Anne’s College – one of the many colleges that make up the university – shortly before my nineteenth birthday, working eight-hour shifts, five days a week. I was there for one simple reason: I needed money for the weekend; for nightclubs and the vice that beckoned me inside.

  I was around twelve years old the first time I was drunk. An Asian friend of mine from school, Ali, had an uncle who owned a restaurant and one day at the local park, during school holidays, Ali produced a large bottle of alcohol from his bag that he had stolen from the Bangladeshi eatery. I don’t remember which alcoholic spirit it was and even though I hated the taste of it, I gulped down nearly half the contents of the bottle in a few minutes.

  The liquid burned my throat on the way down and I coughed and spluttered, but the thrill of doing something that wasn’t allowed fuelled me to keep drinking. It didn’t take long for the bottle to become empty or for the alcohol to take effect. I remember how it seemed like everything began to move in slow motion. Running after the football we had been playing with became clumsy, as though my brain had difficulty telling my legs how to function. Walking was an action that rapidly became unlearned and my speech malfunctioned along with movement.

  None of this troubled me – far from it, in fact –as I found myself giggling over everything. A voice in my mind alerted me to the fact that I was losing control of myself, but the alcohol beat that voice away until it was silent. I found it fascinating to experience this strange world of drunkenness for the first time and then, at once, I was like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland, where all rational thinking was quickly swallowed up in fits of laughter. I don’t recall much after that but remember having to go home and sleep for an hour or two afterward. My mother never found any of this out.

  As a teenager, my friends and I drank alcohol regularly. There was one guy I knew, I’ll call him Mike, who carried so much booze with him at times he was like a walking off-licence. Mike and I had known each other since primary school and as teens we played basketball together all the time. Aged around sixteen we were at the court late one evening, shooting some baskets along with my friend, David, when all of a sudden Mike started producing cans of lager from his backpack, one after another. He was like a magician pulling rabbits out of a top hat. It wasn’t long before we were all knocking back beer. Mike had marijuana on him too and we made a night of it by getting high as well as drunk.

  As the sun came down, we left the basketball court and walked to an empty children’s park near my house – the same place where Ali and I had shared the booze years earlier. My friends and I sat on the swings and Mike showed that he wasn’t done with the magic tricks yet, conjuring a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and a bottle of peach schnapps from his bag. David refused the spirits but I snatched the bottles and drank. Already affected by the lager, I couldn’t even taste anything and gulped whiskey down like water. I was wasted.

  Night fell and my two friends had to walk me around town in an effort to sober me up before taking me home. The last thing I recollect from the night was urinating against a wall in a dark alley, barely able to hold myself up. Everything that followed was sucked into a black hole of drunkenness, until I opened my eyes the next morning, with no idea how I made it into my bed.

  My head pounded from a hangover and I found dry blood on my elbow, which was in pain. I learned later that the wound was caused by me falling through a hedge into somebody’s front garden. There was no hiding from Mum this time. She was furious with me, having heard me clatter and crash through the front door late that night and then, coming downstairs to investigate the noise, she discovered me on my face, sprawled across the living room floor. It was Mum who had taken me to bed, my breath reeking of booze and eyes glazed from the cannabis. A dark cloud of anger, unlike anything I had ever seen, hung over my mother for a time after that episode. Perhaps I reminded her all too much of her own father who had been a vicious, drunken bully. For a while she blamed my friends, too, believing them to have spiked my drink in some way. That was the only way she could explain my drugged-up eyes. I never had the courage to admit smoking the hashish voluntarily.

  Now nineteen, the job at St Anne’s College helped to pay for an entire lifestyle that revolved around going out and getting as drunk as I possibly could. Oxford is a small city, yet there are pubs, bars and nightclubs galore and every weekend the nightspots are crammed with men and women drinking, dancing and going wild.

  Once I discovered the nightlife culture in my teens it was all I lived for. The heady mix of flashing lights, thumping baselines and the intoxicating effect of strong drink produced a rush that was unlike anything I had known on earth. The atmosphere was charged with sexual tension as crowds of men and women flirted and danced. There was also a great social aspect to clubbing that I enjoyed. Familiar faces would stand out in crowds, gatherings of friends would meet, often unintentionally, and stories would be swapped and laughter shared. The feelings of affection and friendship were made all the more potent by the large quantities of alcohol we drank together.

  I slaved all week at a job I hated, solely motivated by the desire for the next big night out. Washing endless dishes and scrubbing dirty pots and pans was no fun, but when Friday arrived and another round of selfish pleasure and debauchery was only hours away, it all seemed worth it. After dark I would meet with David and together we would take the bus into town, joining other friends and falling in with the rest of the army of revellers, all marching as one toward another night of hard-drinking. Seven or eight hours later we would be on our way home to our beds, raucous and drunk and already looking forward to the next time we’d be able to do it all over again.

  Many times we ventured outside of Oxford, tasting the delights of nightclubs in London, Reading, Birmingham, Bournemouth – wherever the action was we were determined to get our piece of it. There were hundreds of people in every venue, all throwing themselves headlong into an orgy of hedonism, drunkenness and revelry. By 3 or 4am, or even later – sometimes as the sun was coming up – we emerged from the club and started the slow journey home. Our bodies would be tired and aching and, in some cases, drunkenness would already be giving way to a hangover, but our souls would be drenched in the euphoria of self-indulgence. Our carnal nature was entirely gratified and as we walked or shared a taxi, we relived every moment of lustful pleasure, with howls of laughter along the way.

  I lived from one night out to the next. Nothing was as important to me. Even my youthful zeal for basketball was gradually swallowed up by binge-drinking. The friends I used to play the sport with had all moved on; their time taken up with jobs, studies and in some cases the arrival of their own children. The rest had swapped the B-Ball court for the nightclub like me. In the tug-of-war between Michael Jordan and Jack Daniels, Jack was the outright winner.

  I didn’t care about anyone, took no responsibility whatsoever and had no interest other than in my own selfish desire for pleasure. I gave no thought to the future at all. Since I reckoned life had no purpose anyway, why bother?

  At St Anne’s College there was a high turnover among catering staff. Waiters and waitresses worked casually, earning quick, easy money for a short time before moving on. Many of them were students and all of them were young. In the spring of 2001, an eighteen-year-old Kenyan girl walked through the doors of the college to start work waiting on tables. Her name was Debbie Kwanga and she changed my life.

  From the moment her first shift began I had my eyes on Debbie and, full of lust and impure intentions, I introduced myself. However, it was clear within days of meeting that the young woman would be no straightforward conquest. One reason above all others told me in no uncertain terms that my new colleague was off limits:

  Debbie Kwanga was a Christian.

  Not merely a churchgoer, or someone going through the religious motions, Deb was a bona-fide, born again, God-loving Christian. She was no Bible-thumper though – far from it in fact. Debbie rarely talked about her fa
ith to begin with, but her convictions were clearly seen in her conduct. She was unlike any person my age I had ever met, or even knew existed.

  For one thing, Debbie never swore. Never. I had used swear words for as long as I could remember. As a child playing outside with friends we all swore, sing-songing curses at each other without shame. As an adult, every other word out of my mouth was a foul one. I had such an uncouth manner of speaking, though I didn’t care at all. To me, swearing was just part of my vocabulary and virtually everyone I socialised with was the same. I couldn’t think of anyone among my peers who didn’t swear at least some of the time, even if it wasn’t as much as I did – but Debbie never swore. Her clean speech was startling and made a real impression on me.

  Debbie told me off for swearing, too, particularly when I took God’s name in vain. “Jesus” and “Christ” were nothing but words to me. When I said them I never thought of them as being a name, or connected with a person – they were just expressions of surprise or anger and so on. Whenever Debbie made comments about my bad language I liked to wind her up by rolling off the most disgusting, swear-word-filled sentence I could come up with. I’d laugh my head off as Deb screwed her eyes up at me, only half meaning the strong look. I always thought she made too much of it. After all, they were only words.

  Debbie had never been drunk either and when she told me that I nearly choked. She may as well have told me she wasn’t breathing in and out.

  “You’ve never been drunk?” I asked her, open-mouthed. “Not even once?”

  “No,” was Deb’s answer, more than a little surprised at my shock.

  “Not even a little drunk?” I pushed. “Tipsy?”

  Debbie shook her head, no. I wondered if she was even really alive. As sure as birth and death were common to everyone on earth, I imagined that at least one tale of drunkenness in between was also. I made a commitment there and then to take Debbie out clubbing with me. I was going to rectify this abnormality as soon as possible and give my new friend her first taste of my world. When I told her all of this, Deb could hardly control her laughter. I meant what I said, every word of it, though despite my best efforts at cajoling her I never did see Debbie Kwanga drunk.

  It was obvious that all flirtatious manoeuvres around Debbie were not going to work and, in time, it didn’t matter anyway, because the more I got to know Deb the more I appreciated her as a person. Though we were as different as two people could be, a real friendship grew between us. The Christian and the Sinner – we came from two sharply contrasting worlds and our viewpoints were often entirely opposite. Regardless, I felt comfortable with Debbie, able to talk freely around her and, though she may have disagreed with much of my behaviour, I never felt she judged me for it. At first, I looked at Debbie and thought that her Christian upbringing had produced someone with no concept of real life in the big, bad world. Even that opinion changed in time. I saw instead that her character was actually free from a lot of the pollution that stained not just me, but nearly everyone I associated with.

  Debbie Kwanga was an enigma. She appeared to possess something in her life that was utterly mystifying and, at the same time, strangely enviable.

  Later the same year, Debbie’s younger sister, Becky, arrived at St Anne’s to work as a waitress as well, followed soon after by the third of the four Kwanga girls, Sharon. They each had their own unique personalities: Becky – inquisitive and cheerful; Sharon – opinionated and to-the-point, but both shared Debbie’s Christianity and the undefiled integrity that came from their faith in God.

  One day, Deb came and found me after her shift ended and told me that her mother was outside and wanted to meet me. I felt uncomfortable and unprepared as I walked towards the maroon Renault Savannah estate that was sat in the small car park, engine running. I was certain my friend’s mum was going to talk all about God – even worse, mention Jesus – and it made me hesitant to approach her. I had told Debbie once before that I “respected” her Christianity, but what that really meant was, “Keep your religion away from me!” The whole subject of church, Old and New Testaments and sandal-wearing men in the ancient desert was embarrassing to me. I avoided all such conversation like it was radioactive.

  I shook hands with Margaret Apudo and for a few minutes we exchanged pleasantries. The whole time, I was braced for a copy of the Bible to come hurtling my way. To my surprise and relief the short meeting ended (at my insisting I had to return to work) without any mention of God.

  Why did my friends’ religion leave me feeling so uncomfortable? It made no sense at all to be afraid of their Christian beliefs, so why did the prospect of them talking about Jesus Christ make me cringe so much?

  Shortly after meeting Debbie’s mother, the family moved to a new accommodation in Oxford. The house my Kenyan friends settled into was only a short distance from mine. It was just a five-minute walk from my front door to theirs and I started spending a lot of time with them in their home. Despite not knowing me for long, they opened their house completely and made me as welcome as a member of the family. These people – all of them – were the warmest and most hospitable people I had ever met and I enjoyed their company immensely; so much so, they quickly became the closest friends that I had.

  What none of us could possibly know at the time was that their move to a location so near to me was no accident. Their close proximity would be vital on a night of terror and evil, only a year away now, when I would need the help of Debbie and her Christian family more than I had needed any persons help ever before.

  My lifestyle of binge-drinking and nightclubbing had apparently succeeded in dulling the ache of my soul. When all else around me seemed pointless, I found a reason to live in those alcohol-drenched nights. Throwing myself head-first into the world of hard-drinking and profligacy had allowed me to bury the gnawing sense of emptiness I felt, I thought, for good. Clubbing seemed to be an effective antidote for my sadness. But it didn’t last.

  By the summer of 2001, once again, a desolate voice inside my heart crept up, crying out to be fulfilled and demanding that I give it attention. I still enjoyed going to clubs but they were losing their sparkle. Whatever sense of euphoria those nights gave was quickly snatched away as soon as the morning and its inevitable hangover came. I wanted more. I wanted something I could hold on to and that wouldn’t disappear through my fingertips. For years I had convinced myself that there was no ultimate purpose or meaning to life, no common goal that we were all supposed to reach for. Then why, after all this time, was something inside of me still longing, still yearning, still searching?

  One warm evening in late summer, I sat on a bench in my front garden, brooding over my unhappy life. The sun was going down and there was almost no sound as dusk fell. Above me I watched as the sky turned dark blue and the first stars began to shine. A few weeks earlier I had reached twenty-years-old and celebrated the milestone with one of the hardest nights of boozing yet. Sitting on the bench that evening, as the world wound down all around me, I wondered what two whole decades on earth had yielded. I had good friends and family and a great many memories in my head that made me smile, but where was it all going? For all the good times it still wasn’t enough. Something was definitely missing and I wondered if I would ever find it. Would I be able to say, at age forty, that life was complete and I needed nothing else – or would I be just as disappointed and frustrated twenty more years from now? All I had were questions without answers. I had no peace, only confusion and uncertainty. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I hurt so much inside and couldn’t find a remedy anywhere.

  Turning these thoughts over in my mind, my eyes looked heavenwards and I heard myself speaking suddenly. In a whisper, surprising words came right up from my aching heart: “God – are you there? Maybe I’m just talking to myself...but if you are there, if you’re listening, please do something? I need to make sense of all of this. What am I supposed to do with my life? Please...help me?”

  I sat in silence in the garden. The st
ars high above winked at me.

  I didn’t want any religion that night. I still didn’t care for churches and Bibles – I only wanted peace. I felt broken or somehow incomplete and I wanted to be made whole.

  Smiling, I wondered if a real God out there had heard me. Not the white-bearded old man in the sky but a force of some kind, an invisible power that made the universe go round. Had I touched it or connected with it, or was it all just a desperate wish, a fairy-tale illusion in my head?

  I stood up from the bench, took a last look at the glittering stars and went inside the house.

  My prayer had been heard. An answer was indeed coming my way, but so were lies and deception. Though I was oblivious to it that night, a battle had begun for my very life and soul.

  Chapter Five : Searching

  It seemed like an ordinary Tuesday afternoon when, with a day off work, I switched on my television and on every channel saw thick black smoke pouring from a skyscraper in New York City.

  It was 11th September, 2001.

  Rolling news coverage repeatedly showed passenger aeroplanes crashing through the glass and steel of the twin towers. I watched in disbelief as the cameras zoomed in on the falling bodies of men and women who chose to leap to their deaths over the suffocating smoke and the agony of burning jet fuel. It overwhelmed the senses to think that ordinary people were dying right before my eyes. Yet, still, along with the whole world, I continued to watch.

  As the first tower collapsed in a cloud of dust and debris that filled the New York streets, followed closely by the destruction of the second building, the news media were already asking who might be responsible for such a monstrous act. And in those few short hours a religion called Islam was thrust into the public gaze, where it has remained ever since.