by Heide Goody
“Sir, I have to tell you about that man in the Frigidaire.”
“What? Now? Four! Five! Mama-Na, you and I are having words later.”
“Gnnk Rrrrr!”
“He’s not dead, sir,” said Tesla.
“Seven! What? That’s nonsense. You mean he’s alive?”
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“Eight! Nine!”
Rutspud and Tesla were alone at the top of the stair to Hell.
“Wait!” said Rutspud, wide-eyed. “Nine. I counted nine.”
“Sir?”
Rutspud gritted his teeth, infuriated.
“We’ve lost one!”
Chapter 7 – The day it snowed
Bastian had known hangovers before. In his younger days, working and partying in the Square Mile, he’d suffered many a Bollinger-induced brainburster, which he’d generally treated with a cornflakes and champagne hangover cure. However, he couldn't help thinking that the state of his mind and body right now went beyond the normal bounds of a hangover. A glimpse in the mirror had not been encouraging. A greenish tinge was something he'd seen before, but his complexion today was a greyish khaki. He'd been quite relieved to see that the others were the same colour. Perhaps some quality of Manfred's seaweed beer had caused this alarming transformation.
“Breakfast, anyone?” Manfred asked in the refectory.
Bastian gave a small shake of his head, and had to take a moment to recover from the pain that it caused him.
At the nearest table, Carol Well-Dunn seemed to quail at the very mention of food. Brother Stephen looked little better.
“Could I suggest a refreshing walk outside, then?” said Manfred.
“A walk?” said Stephen, who looked as though a mere stagger might kill him.
“I’m not sure I’m up to walking,” said Bastian.
“But wasn’t there something that you wanted to show us, brother?” said Manfred and then frowned. “But for the life of me, I cannot recall what it was.”
“Was there?” said Bastian.
Carol wagged a finger at Bastian.
“Yes, it was very important,” she said. “Very, very important.” Her brow creased as she struggled to pursue the thought.
Bastian reached back into his recent memory. It was like plunging into a dark pool, full of nothing but uncertainty. A dark pool of slime and mud. A dark pool of slime and mud that burned his fragile brain with its acid touch.
He recalled he and Carol returning to the monastery, filled with excitement and burdened by a secret. Something … shameful?
“I’ve never been so drunk that I completely forgot the events of the day before,” said Bastian.
“What was in that punch that we had before bed?” Carol asked.
“We had punch?” said Stephen.
“It seems so,” said Manfred. “We found you face down in it this morning.”
“Oh,” said Stephen, relieved, “that was why I was all wet and stinky this morning.”
“If you like,” said Manfred, kindly.
“Look at all the snow!” said Manfred.
There was general wincing as the band of morning walkers encountered the brightness of the morning sun and its almost deliberately offensive reflection off the snow that covered the island.
“My eyes are melting,” whimpered Stephen.
Temporarily blinded by the brightness, Carol bumped into the back of Bastian.
“Oh, sorry,” she said.
“Are you all right?” he asked touching her arm.
He snatched back his hand as a jolt of recollection shot briefly through him. He looked at Carol and saw something of his own confusion reflected in her eyes.
“The strangest thing just popped into my head,” said Carol. “I think that punch must have given me some unusual dreams.”
Bastian looked away and shook his head, trying to dislodge the deeply impure thoughts that had flooded his mind.
“Very strange dreams,” he murmured.
“A brisk walk will soon restore us all to good health,” said Manfred. “It's so very bracing.”
“Painful,” gasped Bastian. “The word you’re looking for, my German friend, is ‘painful’.”
As though guided by a sense of déjà vu or, reflecting on Carol’s words, as though re-enacting a vaguely remembered dream, Bastian found himself walking on automatic pilot to one of the furthest corners of the island and a rocky cove, cut like a steep V into the side of the island.
“We’ve been here before,” said Carol.
“This was the place I showed you on the map,” said Stephen.
“Did you?” said Bastian. “Blimey. I simply don’t remember. It’s like I’ve been given a shot of amnesia juice or something.”
“Oh!” said Stephen, suddenly smiling. “Of course!”
“What?” said Bastian.
“Er, nothing,” said the younger monk.
“Hmmm,” said Manfred, crouching down at the cliff edge. “I can see that the snow is not so thick on the edge here. As though two people were …”
Bastian looked at Carol and saw that she was looking at him. He wondered why his guts were churning with anxiety. Maybe they were simply churning with seaweed beer residue.
“It is possible that you were both lying here …” said Manfred.
“What?” laughed Bastian, hearing instantly how horribly false his laughter sounded.
“To observe the bird, yes?” said Manfred.
“To observe the bird, yes,” said Carol woodenly and coughed. “Er, what bird?”
“That one,” said Manfred. “Well, those two.”
They all shuffled carefully to the edge and peered over. A pair of creatures that looked like badly stitched glove puppets, each operated by someone without the requisite number of fingers, clicked, pecked and preened on their untidy pile of a nest.
“Magnificent,” breathed Carol. “How could we forget our discovery?”
“Perplexing,” said Bastian.
“So, this is the bird that will bring us many visitors?” asked Manfred. “It looks less impressive than I had imagined.”
“It's an incredible opportunity for you,” said Carol, straightening up, her complexion suddenly flushed with new vigour. “The excitement that it's going to cause on the birding scene – I can't begin to tell you how important this is. You just need to manage the visitors you're going to get.”
“Managing excessive visitors is not a problem we’ve had to face before,” said Stephen.
“Well, you definitely don't want the birds disturbed as they raise their precious young.”
Manfred looked at the precarious ledge they were standing on.
“It's a tricky spot to be sure. We don't want to lose our visitors over the edge when they get too inquisitive.”
“Can't we build a hide?” asked Stephen. “Somewhere we can let people see the bird, but in a controlled way, so they don't clamber about on the edge here.”
“That's a very good idea,” said Carol. “How quickly can you get something in place? I don't imagine Bardsey's a very easy place to get construction firms to come to.”
“We can tackle it immediately,” said Manfred. “We pride ourselves here at St Cadfan’s on our ability to turn our hands to a multitude of practical things. I am certain that a simple bird hide is well within our capabilities. I can actually picture a very pleasing design where we can extend a viewing platform over the nest. I will draw up some plans when I have cooked some bacon sandwiches for our breakfast.”
Bastian looked around the group and saw that everyone now seemed to be in the mood for something to eat and they'd mostly lost the greenish tinge from their faces. He smiled at Carol, and felt immediately guilty for some reason that he couldn't place.
“Well, the least we can do is to serve you a hearty meal before your journey home. And then on with the chores. Mind you, I've no idea what to make of all the dirty habits I've seen this past day.”
Bastian flushed red a
nd caught Carol's eye as he did so.
“What do you mean?” he squeaked.
“Great big pile of them in the laundry. I'd swear there are more habits to wash than we have monks at St Cadfan’s,” said Manfred with a shrug.
Stephen ducked his head down and hurried off as if he had something very urgent to attend to. Bastian breathed out with relief and wondered why he felt so very, very embarrassed.
Rutspud took a seat at the rear of the conference room. He did his very best to blend in with the background, but as the background was painted in a colour that he'd been told was magnolia, it wasn't an easy task.
“I had no idea magnolia was so very unpleasant,” he whispered to Belphegor, who wheeled his chair next to him.
“It's supposed to be inoffensive to our Heavenly colleagues,” said Belphegor with a shrug. “It’s one of those compromise things. We promise not to decorate the place with priests’ innards and they promise not to give us an uplifting pamphlet on God’s love. What happened to your arm?”
Rutspud clutched his stump shamefully.
“Lost it in a fight.”
“With who?”
“Er, Cerberus.”
“And only lost an arm? Impressive.”
“It might have been one of his smaller relatives. Not so many heads. I’m going to get it back later.”
The conference room, temporarily conjured from pure nothingness in the Limbo lands between Heaven and Hell, was, if nothing else, decently air-conditioned and a blessed relief from the increasingly hot fires of Hell. Rutspud idly flicked through one of the neatly bound packs that was placed on the large table in front of him.
“So do you know who everyone is?” he whispered to Belphegor, eyeing the group of delegates from the Celestial City. “I know that’s Joan of Arc. She and I are both involved in the annual Christmas present exchange thing.”
“Really?”
“It’s fun. They send our lot words of hope and comfort. We send them E Coli flavoured sweets and a short compilation video to remind them that every decent musician, singer and actor of the past one hundred years is down in Hell with us. Who’s that guy?”
“Which one?” said Belphegor.
“The smug one.”
“Narrow it down for me, boy.”
“The cold-eyed one looking at us like we’re the something he’s just trod in. Next to the Archangel Michael.”
“That’s St Paul,” said Belphegor. “A real piece of work. Loves quoting his own letters. And that’s not Michael. Michael was the one with the lance. War in Heaven and all that tripe. Michael fell out of Heaven’s favour during the ‘unpleasantness’. That guy there is Gabriel. Insufferable bastard. Mouth like a foghorn and the brains of a hamster.”
“And the two tonne tubster?”
“St Thomas Aquinas. Never get into an argument with him. He’ll have you tied up in logic. The only thing he loves more than an argument is food. We always have to strengthen a chair just for him. One of my previous assistants got the chairs mixed up one time and he ended up on the floor.”
“What happened to the assistant?” asked Rutspud.
“No-one knows,” said Belphegor. “There’s a Hell for those who transgress in our Hell. We all know that. I heard that Lord Peter arranged for him to go to that Hell's Hell. Nasty business.”
“And why’s Mulciber here?” asked Rutspud, nodding towards the fallen angel. “Is this an architectural issue?”
“We bring Mulciber to the table because he used to be one of them. Apparently they feel more comfortable with angelic faces to look at. Not accustomed to beauties such as you and I.”
Rutspud shook his head and picked up his copy of the paperwork.
“Let's just hope that you and Lewis can prove adequate today. Keep us all out of trouble,” muttered Belphegor as he paged through his own documentation.
Rutspud glanced over at Lewis, who seemed to be making detailed notes on the back of his copy, humming a folksy tune as he did. Rutspud leaned over and saw that the tweedy university don was, in fact, sketching an ornate wardrobe. It was one of those occasions, Rutspud decided, where coming out on top wasn't going to be an option.
On an open page of the meeting documents, a large graph showed infernal temperatures and a small spike as representation of the recent rises.
“This makes it look as though there's not really a problem,” Rutspud said to Belphegor.
“Mmmm,” agreed Belphegor, scratching his warty belly. “It's possible that Peter's involved the Pit of Statisticians.”
“You mean these figures are lies.”
“And damned lies. We'd best tread carefully in case we get seasonally adjusted if you know what I mean.”
Rutspud didn't know what he meant, but understood an instruction to keep his head down and his mouth shut when he heard one.
Lord Peter entered the room, with Nero close behind.
“Game face,” whispered Belphegor and grinned genially at all present with a mouthful of teeth that were not all necessarily his own, most having been haphazardly replaced over the millennia.
“Welcome, everybody,” called Peter. “Thank you all for coming. Now, we've called this special meeting in order to get our finest minds focussed on the small environmental issue that we've noticed. I'd like to welcome our colleagues from the Celestial City who have graciously agreed to lend us their expertise.”
“Agreed?” said St Thomas. “We are here at our insistence, fallen one.”
Peter smiled without blinking and pressed on as though the obese saint had never spoken.
“I think we all appreciate what's been happening, but Hodshift here has made a brief presentation to summarise the key points. You've all got copies of his diagrams in your packs. Hodshift?”
“Right, Lord,” said the demon engineer, getting to his feet and clicking a hand-held device. “This ’ere's a slideshow with some charts and so on.”
The projector whirred into life and a diagram appeared on the magnolia wall.
“You'll see a rise in the temperature –”
“Well, this is strange,” said St Paul, peering at the screen. “The graph you have there is in a similar style to the one we have here, but the spike in temperature is much larger.”
“Oh. Aye,” said Hodshift, his eyes wide with alarm. “Hold up a minute.”
He clicked on a keyboard. A list of files appeared.
“Ah, yes. This is the one we want,” said Hodshift clicking on DATA_APPROVED_BY_PETER.
The graph that appeared showed a much smaller spike.
“Peter, can I ask why you edited this presentation?” asked St Paul.
“Edited?”
“Edited. As in changed.”
“Pfft,” said Lord Peter, “I have merely provided some clarification. Hodshift is perfectly comfortable with my adjustments, aren't you, Hodshift?”
“Aye, very comfortable,” said Hodshift, looking very uncomfortable indeed.
“So you found the figures that underpin the graph to be incorrect?” persisted St Paul.
“Not at all, it was simply a question of scale, of, shall we say, portraying a more accurate picture. Shall we move on?”
“Before we do, I'd like to take another look at the original,” said Joan of Arc. “I think the scale was the same. Bring it up, Hodshift.”
Hodshift glanced from Paul to Peter, a look of anguish on his face.
“Really?” said Lord Peter. “I'm not sure why you want to dwell on erroneous slides.”
“Indulge us, Peter,” said St Paul. “I'm trying to understand the journey you've been on. I offer only charity, which, as we all know, is patient, so let's take a moment to see the slide.”
Hodshift was frozen with fear, his eyes swivelling back and forth.
“Well, proceed, man,” said the Archangel Gabriel. “I think he wants your go-ahead, Peter.”
“Very well,” said Peter. “Hodshift, do show our guests the old, invalid slide.”
A few cli
cks later, the original graph was back, with the enormous spike in temperature climbing up the right hand side.
“So, Hodshift, it appears that your original graph uses the same scale as the edited one, if I'm not mistaken, only it shows that the temperature is very much higher, and is still rising,” said St Paul. He stood up and stabbed a finger at the graph. “So can you tell me if this figure here of five hundred degrees, for example, is accurate or not?”
Hodshift stared at the graph.
“That one, there? That one from three days ago? Well, ah. Actually,” Hodshift swallowed as he saw an opportunity. “Actually, what happened was that it got so hot, the instrumentation broke, so we had to do some estimates. That's what we did, yes. After talking with Lord Peter, we realised that our estimates were a bit high, so we changed them. Yes.”
Rutspud saw the tension lift from Hodshift as he glanced at Peter and got a small nod of approval.
“Interesting,” said St Paul. “So what is the upper limit of your instrumentation?”
“It's calibrated to four hundred and fifty degrees,” answered Hodshift promptly.
“Hmm,” said St Paul, tracing his finger along the paper graph in front of him, “and yet according to the amended graph, the temperature hasn't yet risen above three hundred and eighty. I have a proposal to help move things along. In the absence of accurate figures, why don't we assume, for the sake of our discussions, that the temperature in Hell is rising very quickly, and to dangerous levels. Do you think that might help?”
Hodshift gave a tentative nod, with a glance at Peter for approval.
“In that case, I think I’m all done,” said the quivering demon.
“Oh, I should say so,” said Lord Peter coldly.
The Archangel Gabriel raised a hand.
“I do not care how badly your underling has presented your lies, Peter,” he said. “We are here to find solutions.”
“Quite,” said Lord Peter. “And we’d be delighted to receive your wisdom on the matter.”
Lord Peter rose, marker pen in hand, and stood before a flipchart.
“Let’s brainstorm the matter,” he said. “I'm sure I don't have to remind delegates that brainstorming must foster creativity. Remember, any idea has value. Don't be afraid to shout up.”