Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  I had been taught a little about Islam in Religious Education lessons at school; However that was a long time ago and whatever information I heard in the classroom had long since been lost from my mind. Now Islam was suddenly everywhere and in the months following 9/11 it seemed like all reported news was related to Muslims. In the wake of the terrorist attacks and with the media saturated with Islamic stories, my interest was stirred.

  I started spending my free time flicking through the pages of Islamic textbooks in an Oxford bookstore. I was surprised by what I discovered. Muslims believed in Adam and Eve, Noah and the Ark, Moses and even Jesus. In Islam He is called the Prophet Isa and is said to be the last prophet before the arrival of the religion’s main figure, Muhammad. My curiosity about Islam grew and with an increased hunger to know more, I purchased several of these books to read and study at home. Slowly, without really being conscious of it happening, my intrigue with Islam and my hunger to find meaning and purpose merged into one.

  The teachings of Islam were more than interesting, they became appealing too. I wondered to myself, is this religion what I’ve been looking for? The way the textbooks presented Islam it seemed so simple: A life of complete surrender to God – or Allah – with five pillars of faith to observe that upheld everything. There were devout rituals, fasting and prayers with movements in such a precise and ordered fashion it all looked so pious. I had seen some of these things before – such as the prayers – on TV and not given them a second thought. Now, I was seeing everything with brand new eyes and I liked what I saw.

  I thought back to what I knew of Christianity: the cold, stiff churches and the vicars that sounded as bored as their congregations looked. I remembered the cruel torture of those carol singing days at middle school. Christianity looked so stale and dry contrasted with the spiritual appearance of Islam.

  Increasingly wrapped in an attraction to a religion about which I had previously known nothing, I checked out Muslim web sites too. I spent hours downloading information on Islam. As if to reassure myself of what I quickly believed was its superiority over Christianity, I also browsed any site on the net where Muslims attacked or undermined the Christian Church. Strangely, I enjoyed the web pages that attempted to disprove Christianity more than the ones arguing for the authenticity of Islam.

  Winter approached and one chilly, overcast Saturday afternoon I made my way through the crowded centre of Oxford, when a young middle-eastern man stopped me in my tracks. In the middle of the street next to the man was a table covered with brightly coloured literature. Two men manned the book table and one other was also trying to catch the attention of passers-by with their printed information.

  The man who stopped me was carrying a handful of yellow leaflets and one of them was now coming my way. “Learn about Islam, my friend?” he said.

  My eyes brightened at once. “Sure.”

  I took the leaflet and studied the front of it. The large black heading declared: ISLAM – THE TRUTH! The young man’s voice, soft and quiet, pulled my gaze back up to him. “Do you know anything about Islam, my friend?”

  I shrugged, carefully hiding a flush of excitement. Was this really happening? “I know a few things. You believe in the teachings of Muhammad. And you believe in Jesus too, don’t you?”

  The young Muslim nodded, before asking, “What is your opinion about Jesus?”

  I had no opinion of my own – only the Islamic doctrine I had greedily eaten up for the past few weeks. I knew exactly what the man’s own opinion was, too. “Well, I think that Jesus was a good man,” I said mechanically, as if parroting one of my Muslim books at home. “I think He’s a prophet – but not the Son of God though.”

  The man smiled wide through his long, straggly beard, as if pleasantly surprised by my answer. He quickly bent down to his table, scanned the materials there and found a small booklet for me, announcing: THE TRUTH ABOUT JESUS. While I turned the booklet over in my hands and thumbed through a few pages, the man resumed our conversation.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he told me. “Of course Jesus is just a man. How can God be married and have a Son? It’s not possible.”

  I nodded my head in agreement. For another five minutes the middle-eastern man talked, while I listened. He explained that Jesus, like all of God’s prophets, was actually a Muslim and that all of His disciples were the same. Also, he informed me that Allah would never allow harm to come to one of his prophets and so Jesus was never crucified, as the Christians believed, but was snatched from danger by God and taken to paradise. Apparently some other man – perhaps the traitor Judas – was made to resemble Jesus by a miraculous act of God and was killed in the prophet’s place.

  Our conversation wound down and I prepared to leave. My new friend gave me another free booklet as a parting gift. This one was called, MUHAMMAD IN THE BIBLE, and promised to show many verses in the Christian Bible that were, in fact, references to the messenger of Islam – something that the Christians, of course, didn’t realise.

  “Take them, my friend,” the Muslim said, still beaming a smile at me that had never gone away. “Read them and I know you will find the right way.”

  I thanked the man sincerely and stuffed the literature in my coat pocket. We shook hands and he waved me on my way. I read the two booklets as soon as I got home and, in the days that followed, I constantly referred back to them. I carried the yellow leaflet with me everywhere in my wallet.

  For some reason I was particularly interested in the booklet about Jesus. In the past I hadn’t given Him a second thought. I couldn’t see how a person who lived 2000 years ago and 2000 miles away could have any relevance to my life at all. I knew that the Christians called Him the Son of God and believed that He was crucified, then resurrected – I just didn’t understand (nor cared to understand) what it all meant. I couldn’t make any connection with Christianity. Nonetheless, I found myself wondering about this man from Nazareth and who He really was. Muslims had very different ideas about Jesus than Christians, but He was still an important figure in their religion and I wanted to find out more. Seemingly by coincidence, shortly after, I came across a book about Jesus, written from a Muslim perspective. I read a few pages in the bookstore and resolved to buy the book upon my return, although to my disappointment when I went back to the shop the book was gone. It had been the only copy on the shelf and I couldn’t recall the title.

  The feeling grew stronger all the time that I was on to something of real weight. That said, even while my fascination with Islam increased daily, I kept it entirely to myself. I didn’t feel comfortable enough to share my changing feelings about God and religion with anyone I knew. Talking with a stranger in the street was one thing, but after twenty years of non-religious life the thought of speaking to somebody I knew about God was all too embarrassing. Alone, however, I continued to devour all of the Islamic material I could find.

  Not long after meeting the Muslim man I decided that I wanted to read the Quran for myself. Standing in the religion section of Oxford’s BORDERS bookstore, I spent some time flicking through two or three different English translations. I wanted one that would be the easiest to read and understand. Eventually, I settled on the version I felt was right for me and was about to walk away when my eye connected with another book further along the shelf.

  It was the Bible.

  I noticed that there were many of them – far more in number than the Quran – and in all designs and sizes, from oversize, giant-print Bibles to pocket size editions. My eyes skipped along the row until I spotted a thick, paperback Bible with an attractive blue cover – my favourite colour. The picture on the front was of a red starfish. I picked a copy off the shelf and read:

  HOLY BIBLE – NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION.

  Promising me it was a modern English, easy-to-understand translation I opened to the inside and scanned the pages. The names of people I had recently grown to associate with Islam jumped out at me and I took time to read a bit. From the internet I had
learned more about the differences between Islam and Christianity. Even though there were many people, places and events which were similar, there were drastically conflicting accounts of some of those events too.

  I closed the Bible but couldn’t put it back where I’d found it. Instead, I wondered if I should buy it also. It didn’t make any sense. For months I had been studying the message of Islam and was being increasingly convinced by it, and at the same time had no affection for Christianity at all. Right there in BORDERS, however, I couldn’t let go of that Bible – I couldn’t leave without it. I had no obvious reason to purchase a Bible that day – none whatsoever – yet I found myself carrying the starfish NIV with me to the counter along with the Quran. Afterwards, I reasoned that I would probably understand Islam better by knowing how Christianity corrupted the message and got it wrong.

  At home, the Bible went straight onto the shelf in my room while I focused my attention on the Quran.

  I passed the Islamic book table in town on a few more occasions, though I never saw the young, middle-eastern man again. One time, as I hurried past the table on my way to work, an older Muslim man reached towards me with a leaflet in his hands. I took the folded paper and kept moving, turning as I went, to say thank you. I clearly remember the warm and pleasant feeling inside when the old man smiled back and said, “Asalaam Alaikum.”

  Peace be unto you.

  Months went by and I continued absorbing information about Islam like a sponge. For the first time in over twenty years I began to accept the likely existence of God. I wasn’t completely convinced and wanted to investigate more, until I was certain, but I felt more confident than ever that a meaning to life could be found and wondered if, perhaps, Islam was the way to find it.

  Even as I pondered these things the invisible powers of good and evil were fast closing in on my life.

  Chapter Six : Broken

  In a bizarre paradox, despite spending hours with my head buried in religious books, I still went clubbing every week. I saw no contradiction – I was only looking into faith, not actually practising it. It was easy to put Islam down on Fridays to go out and obliterate brain cells with as much alcohol as I could drink. Of course, I hadn’t shared my religious curiosity with any of my drinking pals either, for fear of being ridiculed. My soul-searching was private.

  The problem was that I was rapidly losing enthusiasm for nightclubs. Everything about those nights out that once enthralled me – the music, the people, the laughs and the boozing itself – now felt stale and mundane. Binge-drinking had become a monotonous routine with no variation. The same faces met in the same places to repeat the same antics every week and nothing was different. The anticipation I once felt when the weekend arrived wasn’t there anymore. Clubbing was predictable and my enjoyment of it was leaking away fast.

  It wasn’t the religious books that made me feel the way I did. I hadn’t revised my morals, suddenly objecting to drunkenness just because I was looking into spiritual things. I could read all about God and religion and, when the time came, without any feeling of guilt or hypocrisy, put the books away to go and get wasted. True, I was starting to come round to the idea that God really did exist, but that was still no barrier to indulging my carnal passions.

  No, I wanted to enjoy clubbing like I used to. I wanted to recapture the intense feelings and emotions of the past, the thrill of going out; I just couldn’t find any way to do so. I had resorted to mentally forcing myself to have a good time, a task which seldom worked. It was like trying to squeeze more toothpaste out of the empty tube. Whatever used to be there was all gone and no amount of squeezing would make any more come out.

  I confided in David that I wasn’t having fun when we went out and he agreed that it wasn’t the same. Though the routine was getting a little tiresome for him also, he and my other friends still seemed to find a way to make the most of it and have a good time. I tried copying them, to no avail. I was just going through the motions and conceded that my heart wasn’t in the lifestyle any more.

  At St Anne’s I spoke to Debbie about my loss of appetite for clubbing. She made no attempt at all to hide her delight at the news. We both worked weekends and Debbie was well accustomed to seeing me roll into work suffering the consequences of the night before. After only three hours sleep and with a raging hangover, I usually looked terrible. Debbie was never sanctimonious or self-righteous, but she always – every time – made a point to tell me that my life was worth more than those clubs and bars. According to my Christian friend I was made for much better things than to rot my body and mind with alcohol. Where once I protested that it was my life and I could do as I chose, I was now less ready to argue the point.

  One day, I explained to the Kenyan, as if it was a great tragedy, the boredom of visiting the same nightspots every week. Talking about the absence of joy at binge-drinking, I sounded as if I was mourning the loss of an old friend. As I spoke I watched the smile on Debbie’s face grow wider. “See, I told you that you would never get anything out of clubbing.” Deb was playful, rather than smug, though she gave me enough of a stare to let me know she meant it.

  I screwed up my face. “Yeah, but the thing is, I like going out! I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. What changed?”

  Debbie shrugged her shoulders, as if to say she was at a loss too. “Don’t ask me! I wouldn’t know the first thing about it – I’m a Christian and I don’t go out to clubs at all.”

  I shook my head, unable to find a reason for my change of heart. “It’s just no fun anymore,” I breathed.

  With that, our conversation was over and Debbie walked away. I never did see the smile on the Christian’s face as she left. She knew far more than she was letting on – more than my confused brain would be able to comprehend at the time.

  As midnight approached on the first Saturday in June – three weeks before my twenty-first birthday – I made my way to the dance floor in one of Oxford’s largest nightclubs. The venue, called Park End Club in those days, after the name of the street it sat on, was known by its detractors as “Shark End”, for the number of drunken men typically inside on the hunt – or “sharking” – for an easy woman. Lately, I had considered the place more Dead End than anything else – the result of the repeatedly dull nights there.

  As usual, I was with David, his girlfriend, Melissa and his younger brother, Pierce. Melissa had brought along some of her own friends and as we all stepped into the flashing lights and the crowd of people already dancing, we had no idea how this particular night was about to liven up in dramatic fashion.

  Near to our left, two heavily drunk young men started to get a bit too enthusiastic, jumping up and down wildly to the hard beat of the music. One of the duo was tall and gangly, while the other was a short, stocky character whose massive shaven head sat on his shoulders like a bowling ball. The music thumped harder and they knocked into everyone around them, with no care about the consequences.

  Bowling Ball bumped and pushed anyone near him, until finally he pushed into David a bit too hard and a stare down ensued between them. Suddenly, without words, Bowling Ball stepped forward and shoved David with a hard, straight-arm push that sent him crashing into the rail at the edge of the dance floor. David recovered himself quickly, glared at the drunken idiot for a moment and then, enraged, flew at him. Seeing David move, Bowling Ball’s lanky partner in crime also jumped into the fray and with that, I leaped forward.

  The entire dance floor erupted in violence. It was like something straight out of a Hollywood film, only here the blood was real. Other guys joined in, who had no allegiance to either party, nor anything to do with the initial argument and, in a flash, there were fists, feet and glass bottles flying everywhere. It was as if a cauldron of tension and anger had furiously boiled over. Women were screaming, bystanders were diving for cover and men shouted and roared as they fought.

  In front of me I saw the shaven head of the one who had started it all. I couldn’t even tell now who he was fight
ing, whether it was still David or some other guy. I didn’t much care and I wasn’t interested in fighting anyone but him. Bowling Ball was the only one I wanted. I pushed past somebody – a man involved in a brawl with another stranger – and sprung forward to attack my target. The stocky lout hadn’t seen me, though my eyes were fixed on him in a dagger-stare, as he lashed out at people, snarling like a beast. I cocked my left fist, all set to draw up behind him and swing a hook punch right into his meaty face, when the most unexpected thing happened.

  Over my right shoulder I vaguely heard the sound of something smashing and at that moment – right as I moved on the drunken yob who kicked the fight off – a shower of broken glass struck the right side of my head. I jerked and failed to compensate for the fact that Bowling Ball had turned his body slightly – still scrapping with others. My fist slammed into my enemy, only not into his face as intended but the back of his rock-like head. The moment I connected I felt an unnatural movement under the skin and I knew I had broken a bone. I stopped right in my tracks and examined my left hand. All the fingers uncurled from the fist except the little finger which remained bent over. Broken.

  The fighting raged on and the combination of alcohol and rushing adrenaline meant that I felt no pain. Wondering if I could still get to Bowling Ball with my other hand, I suddenly became aware that the right side of my neck was wet and my ear felt like someone had poured warm water into it. Before I had chance to use my good hand to investigate further, David appeared at my side and pulled me away from the war-zone, just as the Park End security staff streamed onto the dance floor to break up the brawl.

  A minute later I was upstairs in the men’s room examining myself in the mirror. During the melee, somebody next to me had been struck over the head with a beer bottle and the flying glass had cut the inside of my right ear, which now stung sharply. Dark blood was oozing out, running down my neck and all over my brand new shirt. I showed David my broken finger. His eyes flared and for a moment it looked like my friend wanted to go back downstairs and spend some more time with Bowling Ball. But knowing that was impossible now, David suggested that we leave Park End immediately. Before we had any time to move, however, the door swung open and a bouncer came in and found us. We could hardly deny our involvement in the scrap, as I stood there covered in my own blood.