by Heide Goody
“Do that again and I’ll do more than stamp on your bunions, you swine!”
Stephen was out the door in time to see Brother Huey spin his paintbrush in his hand like a flick knife.
“I’ll snap your rotten spine before you do,” growled the larger man.
“Brothers! Please!” called Manfred, approaching from the other direction.
Neither of the older monks was listening. Brother Huey stabbed violently, not at Brother Bernard, but at his recent work on the wall. In return, Bernard slapped his heavier brush across Huey’s neighbouring work.
“Gah!” cried Bernard, smearing his hands over the still drying portions of Huey’s artwork.
“Ark!” replied Huey, equally coherently, and pushed Bernard against the wall, rag-rolling Bernard’s creations with the monk’s considerable belly.
In the seconds it took Stephen and Manfred to run forward and separate them, a small tin of yellow gloss and a tube of red acrylic had been used as weapons, and the two artists looked like a pair of sweary Easter eggs.
“Enough!” said Brother Manfred sharply. “Come to your senses!”
Brother Huey huffed and shook himself from Stephen’s grip.
“My apologies, brother.”
Brother Bernard mumbled something wordless but vaguely contrite and tried to claw the paint from his bushy eyebrows.
“What in God’s name came over you?” said Stephen, astonished more than upset.
“Ah,” said Manfred and gestured to the wall, where the two monk’s efforts of recent months had finally come together.
On the left, Brother Bernard had been working on a prehistoric scene in which yellow-eyed velociraptors stalked through a lush jungle while a feathered and scaly archaeopteryx glided overhead. Meanwhile, on the right, Brother Huey had been finishing off a representation of the fifth day of God’s creation with a starburst of a hundred birds at its centre.
“Creation versus evolution?” said Stephen.
Manfred smiled.
“Well, gents. It’s nice to see theological debate alive and well at St Cadfan’s, however crudely it may be expressed.”
Stephen contemplated the swirl of riotous colours in the borderland between the two pieces. Smears, spatters and violent splashes had created a dramatic inferno of expression, an explosion that reached outward towards dinosaurs and scriptural representation alike.
“It’s quite good,” he said cautiously.
“The act of creation itself,” agreed Manfred.
“Is it?” said Brother Huey.
“It will certainly be a talking point,” said Stephen.
Manfred clapped the artists on the shoulders.
“Nice work, gentlemen. Now, I must borrow Brother Stephen. We have a meeting in the chapter house to attend. You two can perhaps clean yourselves up. The boat will be arriving within the hour, bringing in our first visitors of the season.”
“And my jelly babies?” said Brother Bernard.
Manfred nodded.
“I did ask Owen especially.” He gazed at the artwork one last time. “Such passion, brothers.”
Only when Brothers Manfred and Stephen were out of sight and earshot, did Huey turn to Bernard and grumble, “You still owe me a paintbrush for the one you stole.”
“I told you,” Bernard growled back, “this one is mine.”
“Then you’re a liar as well as a thief.”
“Then why didn’t you tell Brother Manfred?”
“I’d rather he thought …”
“What? That we were arguing about creation? Who’s the liar now?”
“Pah! You are an incorrigible old devil!”
“And you’re not?” laughed Bernard coldly.
“At least I …”
Huey stopped as something rolled under his foot.
“Is that your paintbrush?” said Bernard.
Huey sucked in his cheeks.
“Might be,” he said, quietly.
“And this is Rutspud,” said Scabass, maintaining the servile half-bow he had apparently adopted for the entire inspection.
“My lord,” said Rutspud and threw himself on the floor, pulling the brainless Lickspear down beside him.
Lord Peter stepped over their prostrate bodies and into Rutspud’s cave of tortures. Rutspud risked a glance up at them. Lord Peter’s secretary, a fat man in a toga, with a laurel wreath of razor-blades on his head, passed his master a sheaf of notes. Lord Peter grunted and walked on.
Scabass dragged Rutspud to his feet.
“Everything is in order, isn’t it, Rutspud?” he hissed.
“Of course, sir.”
“His lordship seems pleased with the inspection so far and I hear there’s a promotion coming up in Belphegor’s offices.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Scabass snarled. “And if you screw up what little chance I have …”
“Understood, sir,” said Rutspud and scuttled inside with Lickspear, a hair’s breadth ahead of Scabass’s iron-spiked boots.
Lord Peter was gazing appraisingly at the Jacuzzi, where Boudicca and Mama-Na bobbed in the steam and froth, tears on their anguished cheeks.
“Unoriginal,” said Lord Peter’s secretary.
“Or classic?” suggested his master.
“Of course, lord,” said the fat man, bobbing.
“I say, Demon,” said Lord Peter.
“Yes, lord,” said Rutspud, materialising at his side.
“This dial …”
“Measures and controls the temperature, lord.”
“Surely you keep it piping hot all the time?”
“No, lord. I’ve found that a smidgeon just above bearable is optimum. The unbearable is more unbearable if the bearable is just out of reach. Each person’s threshold is different …”
Lord Peter had already drifted over to the snooker table, recently converted into a rack. Bernhardt and Potter writhed, their torsos stretched beyond the capacity for screams.
“This green material they rest on. I find it somewhat unusual.”
“Designed to encourage bedsores and keep wounds open as long as possible, lord,” said Rutspud.
“And these holes around the perimeter?”
“To the drain the women’s – I think they’re women – the women’s blood, lord.”
Lord Peter strolled on, consulting the notes in his hands and only pausing to inspect Wilde (impaled on a giant spike) and Shipton (hung from the punchbag chain by her hair) and Cartland (hands wedged in workshop vices while imps ripped out her nails).
“This is not what I expected,” said Lord Peter at last.
Lord Peter’s human face – his healthy, handsome and carefree face – was a unique sight in Hell. And to see such a face in the greatest position of power was unnerving, like seeing a puppy with a rocket launcher. Rutspud could not read such a face.
“No, lord?” said Scabass, clearly as equally uncertain if this was a good thing or not.
“I hear of demons doing exemplary work and I expect to see bold new ideas and revolutionary thinking.”
“I think the sixth circle is at the forefront of bold and revolutionary thinking, lord,” wormed Scabass.
Lord Peter tapped the report in his hand.
“You’ve rated this demon’s work as outstanding for the last three inspections. Climate for Suffering is rated as superb. Hope Management said to be flawless. The detail shown in this demon’s Individual Torture Plans is extensive and yet he’s also shown willingness to improvise if a torture session requires it. And yet … there are no big ideas, only small improvements. I mean even this …” Lord Peter gestured to Tesla who was twitching and groaning in the arcing light of his electric chair. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”
Lord Peter casually stroked the keys of Tesla’s scream-organ and an arpeggio of shrieks echoed through the chamber.
“What, pray tell, is this for?” asked Lord Peter, a frown on his face. “Artificially reproducing the cries of the damne
d, are we, demon?”
“Er, modelling, lord. How can the damned truly know what levels of agony they are to reach unless we show them?”
Lord Peter’s inscrutable gaze lingered long on Rutspud.
“Nero, come,” he said and walked out, his secretary in tow.
Rutspud looked warily to Scabass. Scabass was scratching his metal beard.
“So, was he happy with that or not?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Rutspud honestly.
“If you’ve upset him, Rutspud …”
Rutspud coughed and nudged his superior. The secretary, Nero, had returned.
Scabass smiled at the damned man.
“Yes?”
“His lordship wishes to see you both in his office at once.”
“His office?” said Scabass. “In Pandemonium?”
“At once,” said Nero firmly, and gestured for them to follow him.
Brother Sebastian, monastery procurator and business manager, stood on the rocky shore as Owen the boatman tied up and lowered the gangplank. The seas had – Heavens be praised! – calmed enough to allow the crossing. Although the near ceaseless storms of the past months had passed, Bardsey had been treated to a symphonic suite of rain ever since. The current rains, dribbling down the clear plastic poncho Bastian wore over his habit, were a tolerable andante, slow and even. However, the dark clouds to the south west suggested a fortissimo finale might be imminent.
Two dozen little customers, swamped by their orange life vests, bumped around on deck. Customers? Bastian mentally chided himself. Guests. They were guests, he reminded himself (although, frankly, he should have been satisfied that his inner banker hadn’t thought of them as ‘marks’).
The little blonde woman who led the party of guests ashore was not much taller than them. She stepped up to meet Bastian.
“Brother Sebastian?”
“Ms Well-Dunn,” he said, shaking her hand. “Call me Bastian.”
“Carol, please,” giving him a smile of the kind to which he was rarely treated. “And these little angels – Jefri Rehemtulla! She does not want to sniff your seaweed! – are 4W from St Michael’s Primary School.”
Four taller women were methodically rounding up the eight- and nine-year old children and driving them up the beach, moving with the ponderous stoicism of world-weary riot police.
“I certainly am looking forward to today,” said Carol.
“Well, you’ve come a long way. I hope you will find it value for money,” said Bastian.
“Oh, payment!” said Carol and began to shuck off her rucksack.
“Later,” Bastian assured her, although it was not easy for him to say. “Let’s get on with the fun first.”
Carol shrugged happily.
“My mother brought me here as a child. To see the birds, of course.”
“Of course. Keen twitcher, are you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not one of those mad people who stand in the elements for hours on end, binoculars at the ready, waiting to catch a glimpse of a bird that never appears.”
Bastian looked at the gleam of excitement in her eye and the binoculars hanging around her neck.
“Of course you’re not. Once you’re all gathered together, if you want to follow the path to the monastery and we’ll head up the hill to see what we can see.”
Carol turned to her corralled class and her four assistants.
“Marion. Julie. Can you lead them up this way? Peroni Picken! What have I told you about twerking in public? Have some modesty!”
Bastian said hello to the children as they filed past. Their reply greetings were loud, false, and a shade too confident for Bastian’s liking.
“Quite an outgoing bunch,” Bastian said to Owen, as the stubble-cheeked boatman came up to meet him.
“A bunch of bloody tikes,” said Owen.
“Is you being racist?” said one of the straggling schoolgirls.
Owen scowled at the girl. The woman bringing up the rear prodded her onward.
“Tough crossing?” Bastian asked Owen.
“Noisier than a flock of seagulls, that lot. And the same thieving mentality. I’m doing an inventory right now. If I’m missing a billhook or emergency flare, I’ll let you know.”
“Great.”
“Oh, and I’ve half a mind to have a word with your fool abbot while I’m here. When I spoke to him in the pub the other month, I could tell he was getting impatient. He could have drowned, attempting the crossing in a rowing boat.”
“We’re just glad that he is alive and well.”
“I suppose. Doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot.”
“No. Although I’m sure he’s going to bring some much-needed guidance and wisdom to St Cadfan’s.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing him, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t we all.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was, Manfred reflected sadly, the most hotly debated issue he had ever witnessed at one of the weekly monastic committee meetings. On one side of the long table was the conservative and cold-ridden Brother Gillespie and, sat across from him and pitted against him, the radical progressive, Brother Clement. The other monks, arranged around the sides of the long table in the chapter house, swayed in the tides of debate. Manfred could see that Brothers Cecil, Roland and Vernon were clearly on Brother Gillespie’s side, whereas Brothers Terry, Desmond, Henry and Lionel favoured Clement’s viewpoint. Brother Willie’s allegiances were less obvious, not least because the little old man’s face was barely visible among the press of monks. Manfred, observing all from one end, stared up to the head of the table where Father Eustace sat, figuratively speaking.
“All I am saying,” said Brother Gillespie, “is that one cannot tamper with tradition willy-nilly.”
“But, brothers, we must recognise that times change and we must move on,” countered Brother Clement. Brother Clement clicked rosary beads through his fingers as he spoke. They were like the ticking of his thoughts, rising and falling in tempo with his emotions.
“Change for change’s sake,” said Brother Gillespie with an emphatic nose blow.
Brother Henry gave a harrumph of support at this, although his attention remained firmly focussed on his book of Sudoku puzzles.
Brother Clement glowered, clicking a little faster on the prayer beads.
“Are you talking about what you want or what’s good for this spiritual community?”
Brother Gillespie waved his hanky at Brother Clement. “Now, look here …”
“And besides,” said Brother Clement, “I think the change would bring an extra theological dimension to proceedings.”
Manfred leaned forward. “Theological how exactly?” he asked.
“You see, it’s the trinity, isn’t it, dear brother?” said Brother Clement.
“Is it?”
“Yes.” As St Cadfan’s sacristan, Brother Clement was well-known for finding religious significance and meaning in the unlikeliest of places. “There’s the three aspects: the chocolate, the nougat and the caramel and yet, at the same time, it’s still one Mars Bar. As metaphors for God go, I think you’ll agree it’s quite elegant.”
Manfred, despite himself, warmed to this argument.
“Very well,” he said. “Perhaps it is worth making some compromise. We will, Brother Gillespie, continue to have Kit Kats at committee meetings, but also have a sample of fun-size Mars Bars.”
“On a trial basis,” insisted Brother Gillespie.
“How many Mars Bars?” asked Brother Clement.
Manfred closed his eyes.
“That is a matter to discuss another time, I think.”
“Because they are only fun-size and exceedingly moreish.”
“I think,” said Manfred loudly, “we perhaps ought to move on from the matter of snacks to the items actually on the agenda.”
‘Agenda’ was, Manfred knew, an entirely euphemistic term. His free-spirited ethos couldn’t allow
him to constrict his brothers to something as totalitarian and autocratic as a real pen and ink agenda. No, Manfred’s agenda was an unwritten thought-cloud of intentions and wishes, more organic than a compost heap and probably about as helpful in the efficient running of the small island community. For all his liberal views, Manfred knew he had only himself to blame for the fact that an hour of meeting time had already been wasted in discussion over refreshments and for the fact that Brother Henry unashamedly did number puzzles throughout the entire thing and had turned up in his paisley pyjamas and terry towelling dressing-gown for the ninth week running.
“I am sure Father Eustace is keen to get to grips with the business of the monastery,” said Manfred.
Everyone looked at the laptop positioned at the head of the table and the dark, blurry image on its screen. There was no movement on the screen or sound to be heard.
“It works, yes?” asked Manfred.
“I believe so,” said Stephen. “Bastian fitted a new webcam in the wardrobe on Tuesday. I think the essential problem is that the interior of the abbot’s wardrobe is quite dark.”
“He has to come out at some point,” said Brother Henry.
“Does he?” said Brother Clement. “There is, within the church, a grand tradition of ascetic hermits. St Simeon Stylites spent –”
“Thirty seven years sat on top of a pole,” said Brother Henry. “We know. You’ve said. I don’t think three weeks sat in the bottom of a wardrobe reaches the same level of profundity.”
On the screen, a grey and grainy face lurched towards the camera.
“Bedpan!” shouted Father Eustace.
“Indeed,” said Manfred, taking that as the cue to move on. “Now, as we enter a new chapter at St Cadfan’s, with our new abbot installed, our refurbishments almost complete and our first visitors in months exploring the island as we speak, I wonder if we could consider a renewal of the social fabric of our monastery.”
“Is this the team-building thing again?” said Brother Clement. “Pish and nonsense.”
“I liked the abseiling we did last year,” said Stephen.