by Tony Moyle
Lesser demons, or worker demons as they are more familiarly thought of, are made of the boring elements and come in multiples. Several are made of earwax, there are a couple made from salt, and a dozen or so made from the stuff that you mysteriously find hiding in your belly button. When you need thousands to run the place and start with the intention of making unique beings, your imagination soon runs out of puff. After Satan had perfected the senior demons, he ran out of patience and just signed off on a tonne of ‘wooden’ ones.
The lesser demons were addressed by nicknames. It was another efficiency saving. Not having to remember all of the ones made out of enamel saved bags of time. They’d all respond to Boney anyway. In Hell you learnt your place. Lesser demons reported to senior ones and they reported to Asmodeus, via a complicated series of working groups, subcommittees, and occasional symposiums of course.
None of the demons possessed emotions as we might be familiar with. They had opinions, but no concept of disobedience. Their jobs were clear and they got on with it until they got tired. Tiredness was physical and the more you do, the more energy you need. Whilst the senior demons had been trekking around in search of a shrew, Hell had continued at its ferocious pace and the lesser demons weren’t sure how they could keep up. What they sought most of all were shortcuts, or efficiency savings, as the bosses called it.
*****
It was clear that whatever Sandy said, he wasn’t going to convince the shadow to return to its vase. Sand and electricity in constant flux, it stood defiantly with its arms crossed like a petulant child. There must be another way they could use it? An idea started a warm-up in Sandy’s head. It stretched its muscles, pumping more oxygen into vital places, and without warning launched into an Olympic-standard gymnastics routine, scoring a quite respectable eight point three. The plan landed with only a slight foot wobble. It was good enough.
“Ian, I want you to help John get Faith’s shadow down to the Soul Catcher. Hopefully the rest of the squad will have kept the demons busy.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Ian.
“Start a revolution.”
“How is spinning around going to help us?” said Ian, scratching his head.
“Different type,” he replied. “Although I technically have time to explain, I’m not sure it’s going to be worthwhile for either of us.”
“What about…” Ian paused and pointed to the small sand creature. “…That thing?”
“Oh he’s coming with me. Now get on before the demons catch up or someone finds out the third Earl of Norfolk is on the loose.”
Ian and John dragged and pushed Faith’s vase along the floor towards the lift shaft. It wasn’t an easy thing for them to do. Neither of them had hands to easily grip it, and John’s constant bursts of energy impeded any sort of teamwork. After much huffing and sweat they eventually managed to clamber into the lift. Ian flew up to the lowest button and pressed it firmly with his beak. Sandy tried to suppress the painful memories of the last time Ian tried to do a task for him.
“Do we get to kill now?” growled the little sandy ball of anger as he practised karate chops.
“Patience. You need to do some heavy lifting for me first.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you could lift quite a bit of weight and I need a couple of vases off the shelves.”
“Got you. Which ones?”
Sandy indicated the vases that he wanted collecting. Second row eight along, third row six along, were all shouted out as picks. The small mutation burst into a cloudy sandstorm and immediately removed them like a strong gust of wind. Holding them in suspension, he followed Sandy’s gesturing wing until all had been collected.
To Sandy’s relief the lift returned and there was no immediate evidence of any cock-up.
“Where are we going?” said the shadow, weighed down by half a dozen glass vases in what looked like Hell’s very first mobile chemist’s shop.
“Level ten, I think, would be a good place to start,” added Sandy.
The lift eased itself down a couple of levels and the lift dial’s bony hand indicated a number ten. The steel gates at the front moved out of their way to frame a picture Sandy was not expecting. His personal experiences of Hell had been somewhat lacking in substance. After John had shot him in Limbo, all that time ago, he’d arrived at the Soul Catcher like most other souls. He’d briefly seen level twelve from the inside of Asmodeus’s ribcage before a pleasant and extended period of research down in the zoo. Somehow he’d missed the guided tour of the levels in between.
Level ten spread out in an oval shape and had excellent views of the wide chasm scooped out of the middle. The nine other levels could be seen below him like horrific paddy fields that got smaller and closer to the central point. This was the widest of all the levels, a crow’s-nest for spying on any activities happening below. Unlike the cells, carved into the cliff faces of rock that littered the lower circles of Hell, the accommodation here was a little different. This was the VIP area. Very Infamous People.
The further you ascended the levels of Hell, the fewer souls you found. Imagine a pyramid of morality where the least moral stood on the top, fighting for space at the pinnacle. Odd weirdos with Mummy issues, who liked nothing more than death, misery and their own company. Paranoid to the threat of being overthrown and with a tendency to kill anyone they suspected of having too much intelligence or a thirst for promotion.
As a consequence, mass murderers and dictators didn’t tend to mix well with normal people. Which was a relief for the rest of the world. It wasn’t as if they were great raconteurs at social gatherings anyway. Their behaviour tended to spoil everyone else’s fun. They had a habit of insulting their hosts, made inappropriate sexual advances to anything with a pulse, and on a whim would threaten genocide over a lack of good-quality hummus.
This level housed a few hundred of the most despicable humans ever to walk the Earth. And boy, were they spoilt. No cells for this lot. Each had a well-furnished condo that had been carved into the cliff face in order to give the best possible views of the cavern. Some had swimming pools. Gold lamp-posts lined the paths, and in several places an ornate statue of one of the residents had been erected.
For the first time in his life, or afterlife, Sandy was genuinely speechless. Power was his life, yet somehow he never imagined it could get this good.
The lesser demons who worked here weren’t tasked with punishing these souls. They were worked by their masters like valets. Vessols sat on verandas, sipping exotic cocktails from long, tall glasses, as demons rushed around with laden trays, or strange plastic devices for sucking up dust. Between hoovering and making sandwiches, distant demons could be seen waving in response to the bells that rang constantly from every building.
In the foreground a puffed-up, fluffy demon, who appeared to be made from cotton, was directing a colleague fashioned from an ancient redwood.
“Mussolini wants another sponge bath,” demanded Fluffy.
“He’s only just had one,” sighed Red.
“Well, he wants another one.”
“Right,” he sighed. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Pol Pot wants you to ask Gaddafi if he’s free to play tennis this afternoon.”
“He can’t. I think Franco and Fred West have the court booked this afternoon. I could get them in for the morning.”
“I’ll see what they think. What’s the update on Robert Mugabe’s apartment? Is it ready for him yet?”
“I thought Mugabe wasn’t coming until next week?”
“Well, you know Mugabe…hard to know when he’s coming. He lies about his age. Might be today, might be tomorrow, might be another decade.”
“Typical. I’ll get on with it in case it’s today. Did he want a statue or not? I can’t remember.”
“Three, I think.”
“Ahem,” coughed Sandy coming out of the shadows.
Neither of these lesser demons had ever seen a pigeon before, let alo
ne one made out of plastic.
“Who ordered you?” said Fluffy.
“What?” replied Sandy.
“Someone must have requested a bird.”
“Why would they want that?”
“You’ll be amazed what this lot ask for. Kim Jong Il is the worst. We’ve had to find him vintage brandy, diamond golf balls and a tame, yet real, ornamental hippo for his garden pond.”
“I don’t do requests,” said Sandy. “I’ve come to start a revolution.”
Both demons made noises that might be described as laughter. Neither had laughed before so the noise was muffled by their own surprise.
“I’m serious,” replied Sandy.
“You haven’t been here long, have you?” said Red.
“I’ve seen enough.”
“I bet you haven’t seen the senior boys, though?” said Fluffy. “The really nasty buggers. Bitumen and Aqua are some of the worst. Nasty streak in that lot. Not a lot of fun to work for, but I’d rather be me than you.”
“Oh them. Met them and already dealt with them. They’re currently trapped on level zero. Check if you like.”
This was a classic bit of a politician’s spin, as Sandy had no idea if this was a hundred percent correct. It might well have been zero percent correct with the bunch of idiots involved. The lesser demons were not allowed to access the telepathy system and their only way of signalling the bosses was a large, steel bell that sat on the edge of the chasm. Red gave it a swing and the noise reverberated around the levels. Nothing happened. They waited. Still nothing happened.
“How long does it normally take?” asked Sandy.
“Not this long,” said Fluffy.
“I told you, they’re trapped.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to get worried about a purple plastic bird, though, does it?”
“No, you’re right. I wasn’t looking for you to fight me, I wanted you to join me.”
“Why?” said Red.
“Look at you. You run around after these souls, constantly pandering to their stupid demands, even though they’re in Hell…and dead. The bosses overwork you. Anyone can see that. Do you get adequate holidays?”
“What’s a holiday?” said Fluffy innocently.
“It’s a day when they pay you to have relaxation and fun. Recharge the batteries by sitting on a fairground ride or learning to embroider tiny finger puppets.”
“And…they pay for it?” said Red, struggling to get his mind around the idea.
“Yes, because you’ve earned it by working so hard. What about medical?”
“I once set fire to my arm,” said Red, holding out his soot-ravaged appendage. “I took it to Health and Safety and they told me to stop complaining.”
“I know,” said Sandy patting Red’s leg sympathetically, “it’s not fair, is it? Why do you put up with it?”
“Well, the souls have to be looked after. They feed our existence,” said Fluffy. “Plus, it’s just what we do. What we’ve always done.”
“But so many come here. It’s a wonder that you can cope at all.”
“We can’t cope,” said Red despondently. “But what choice do we have?”
Sandy’s well-tuned political instincts told him he was making an impact on these embattled members of the working class. Throughout his life, in social clubs and at marches, he’d offered morsels of hope enveloped in invisible wrappers, emblazoned with the slogan, ‘Sandy’s ulterior motive’. It was starting again. The fires of ambition marinated every word he spoke.
“Strike!” shouted Sandy.
“You want us to hit someone?” said Fluffy.
“No. A strike is where you refuse to work until you are granted better conditions.”
“But what about the souls? They’ll still need to be managed.”
“I have a solution for that,” said Sandy. “Let me introduce you to my shadowy friend.”
The electrified Mr. Silica stepped forward.
“What does he do?” asked Red.
“Along with his friends, he’s going to deal with your soul problem. Here’s the issue as I see it,” explained Sandy. “You punish these souls until they pass on. Then you replace those ones with new souls. The cycle continues for an eternity. The souls only pass on when there is nothing left of them but the neutral part. But what if they didn’t have one? You wouldn’t need new souls because these ones would never pass on. Let me demonstrate.”
Sandy hopped over and bit a piece of cotton from Fluffy’s skin.
“Ouch, what was that for?”
“Apologies, I need it for my valve.”
Sandy removed the stopper of one of the vases the sand shadow had placed on the floor. The electricity shot out of the top like a hot geyser. It made a sniffing noise as it sought to track down its first victim. This particular soul was very evil indeed. A simple lesser demon wouldn’t fulfil its anger in a hurry. It was after something more substantial.
The vessol of Mao Zedong was returning to his villa after a frustrating round of mini-golf. His morning wasn’t going to get any better. A great unknown force struck him unexpectedly from behind. Before he had time to react, the shadow had surrounded Mao’s body and was marshalling its energies on a campaign for control of his valve.
Achieving a swift victory, the shadow spat out a sky-blue ball of energy and sent Mao over the edge of madness. The shadow moved on to its next target, leaving Chairman Mao to run amok through the neighbourhood. Sandy last saw him kicking over flowerpots and attempting to urinate on a statue of Slobodan Milošević.
“What’s happening?” said Fluffy.
“I think he’s been purged,” said Sandy.
“Of what?”
“Neutrality. These shadows feed off others, particularly those that have what they don’t, a neutral part of their soul. If it’s at all possible, I think we’ve just made Mao even more evil and psychotic than he was when he arrived here. It’s evil dialled up to ten.”
“But we’re already on level ten.”
“Up to eleven, then,” added Sandy.
“And why is this better?” said Red.
“Because now they can never leave. You can’t recycle a soul that doesn’t have a neutral part. Look, you can just about see that part leaving now,” said Sandy, pointing up to the small, sky-blue energy seeping away into space. “There are hundreds of these shadows and I plan to release all of them. If you don’t join me I might send them after you.”
“I like the idea of a strike,” said Fluffy.
Red hit him in the face.
“The other type,” said Fluffy.
“Sorry,” said Red.
“How do we do it, though?”
“Well, you’ll need some hastily painted signs, a few repetitive one-verse songs, and long, bushy beards.”
*****
Nash wasn’t deeply religious. If belief was a swimming pool he definitely paddled in the shallow end. It often crossed his mind whether it might be far less painful to just jump straight in. Instead he shuffled in, one cold inch at a time, accompanied by a wimpy ‘ahhh’ sound. At least it was progress. Once upon a time he’d never even contemplated paddling. The waters of devotion always looked so cold and he was convinced a couple of evangelical swimming enthusiasts would splash about recklessly, getting everyone wet against their will.
The time he’d spent with John had changed his perspective. Something profound had affected him, although he’d taken a while to cotton on. The massive quantities of alcohol he consumed back then made it hard to distinguish between an epiphany and delirious tremors. Tentatively he’d clambered onto the fence of religious devotion, always well placed to see on both sides. When he felt the need to secure his position he prayed. This was one of those times.
There were only three recognised ways of finding answers these days. The first was to ask the internet, which would attempt to convince you that semi-skimmed milk came from foxes, or that a perfect six-pack could be achieved in three days if you ate melons and
did four sit-ups a day. The internet wouldn’t help him with this question.
The second accepted way was to ask an expert. Someone who might have a more plausible explanation than Wikipedia. There were no experts available to him for this problem. Although it was a long shot, the third approach gave you a better than evens chance of success compared to the first.
Praying isn’t a complicated thing. Almost anyone can do it. As far as Nash had worked out, if you held your hands together in a pointy way and closed your eyes, you were in. After that you said what you wanted and hoped someone was listening. It was like Siri with less backchat. Plus, unlike the internet where you needed a half-decent wifi signal, you can do it anywhere. On the beach, Nash sat on an orange, marbled rock and waited for the small boat to take him off the island. There were no others waiting for it so he put his hands together in a ‘pointy’ way.
“Lord. Is that right? I never know if I should say God or Lord or something else. Let’s go with Lord. Lord, I need your help. I have prayed for my friend before. Her name is Faith. She’s had a rough time over the last few years. Now, more than ever, I think she’s in real danger.”
Nash broke protocol by partly opening one eye to check that no one had joined the queue for the ferry. They hadn’t.
“I worry about my friend, Lord. A strange man has come to the island. I saw him at an unrelated funeral just last week. I don’t know who he is but he mentioned…”
Nash paused.
“John Hewson. How can that be? John’s gone. This boy isn’t old enough to remember who he is. How can he be here?”
“Because I believe he is John.”
Nash was accustomed to hearing voices when mentioning the name John, but only because he’d hosted him for a few months back in the day. This voice definitely wasn’t John’s, but it did sound familiar.
“I’m not used to getting answers,” said Nash tentatively.
“That’s because most of your prayers aren’t worth responding to,” replied the voice.
“Really? What about the prayer I did the other day about the famine and all the hungry people?”