by Heide Goody
“I can be whatever I want to be as long as I hold on tight to my dreams and follow my lucky star…”
“I’m a unique and special snowflake. I’m a unique and special snowflake. I’m a…”
Rutspud pulled back in horror.
“They’ve snapped. You’ve been too harsh on them.”
Slugwrench gave Rutspud a look.
“We don’t do anything to them. We’ve even got rid of the broken glass.”
“You mean they’re like that normally?”
“Oh, you’ve not even heard the ones who narrate their own lives. Sickening. But that’s not what I wanted to show you. Come on.”
Rutspud allowed himself to be pulled on. Behind him, one voice could still be heard.
“Day eight hundred in the pits of Hell. Marco decides to tell Chelsea how he feels about her…”
They continued onward through red caverns and up onto a high, frozen plateau.
“Oh, I know this place,” said Rutspud. “The Plains of Leng, isn’t it?”
“Shhh,” said Slugwrench. “Shush and listen.”
Rutspud stood still and did as instructed. The frigid wind whistled around them. Cold, dead stars that were definitely not stars wheeled above them.
Rutspud was about to ask what he was meant to be listening for when he heard it.
A small, pitiful yowl echoed from ahead.
“What is it?” said Rutspud but Slugwrench simply waved him forward.
The sound had come from a hole in the ground.
“I heard it the other day,” said Slugwrench. “I don’t know what it is.”
They gathered around the narrow-mouthed opening and looked down. The thing in the hole cried out again.
“Is it in pain?” said Rutspud.
“I don’t think so,” said Slugwrench. “It’s hard to see under all that fur.”
“Maybe it’s a plea of some sort.”
“It wants something?”
Two yellow eyes in the mass of white fur looked up at them.
“What could it possibly want?” said Slugwrench.
“A shave?”
Slugwrench shook his head.
“I thought it might be a warning cry. A foreboding.”
“Like a banshee?”
“Mmmm.”
“What’s it warning us?”
“It keeps saying, ‘Mao.’ I wondered if it was trying to tell us something about Mao Zedong.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe something bad is about to happen to Chairman Mao.”
Rutspud thought on that.
“Worse than what we’re already doing to him? That’d be tricky.”
Slugwrench gave an exasperated shrug, a gesture leant extra emphasis by his surprisingly expressive liver.
“But what is it?”
Rutspud looked closely.
“It’s small but its head is like that of a manticore.”
“Ah. I thought it looked like the demon queen Bast.”
“I know what you mean. But it has the body of a sphinx.”
“I’ve not seen anything like it.”
“Nor me.”
Slugwrench squatted on the ground, careful not to sit on his kidneys.
“Is it a resident?”
Rutspud was doubtful.
“Look at those eyes. I think it’s one of us.”
The creature yowled at them again.
“It clearly wants something,” said Slugwrench, “but what? I don’t know if we should ignore it or not?”
After a long pause, Slugwrench looked at Rutspud.
“That’s why I asked you here.”
“Me?”
“You’re the clever one.”
“Am I?”
“I wear my brain as a sporran, Rutspud. Yes, you’re the clever one.”
“What about Bootlick? He’s smart.”
“He’d just say we should eat it.”
“True. That is his answer to everything.”
“I thought I ought to take it to The Boss,” said Slugwrench.
“Woah, now,” said Rutspud, holding his hands out in warning. “You don’t just take things to The Boss. What if it’s a bad thing? What if he blames us for it?”
“Well maybe not The Boss but someone in charge? Berith?”
“Who would eat both it and us.”
“Azazel?”
“Have you forgotten what he did to those demons who let Dante Alighieri escape?”
“Well, what then?” said Slugwrench, nervously tying knots in his dangling loops of intestine.
Rutspud thought for a minute and then clicked his fingers.
“We take it to the wisest resident and ask him.”
“The wisest resident? As in… the Oldest Resident?”
Rutspud nodded.
“But he’s scary!” said Slugwrench.
“He’s a frightening piece of work, I admit, but at least he won’t eat us, flail the skin from our backs or grind us in the Bosch power-mincer.”
Slugwrench clearly saw the sense in this. There was the matter of how to transport the thing in the hole to the Oldest Resident. Neither of them was keen to touch it. In the end they agreed that Rutspud would hoist it out and Slugwrench would carry it.
Rutspud crouched down, reached into the hole and scooped his hand under the thing’s belly.
“Uugh! It’s so fluffy!” he said, fighting back his gag reflex.
The thing mewed at him and wiggled its stumpy little legs as he drew it out.
“Here!” he said, thrusting the thing at Slugwrench. “Oh, Hell. It’s got little whiskers and a tiny button nose. Yuck!”
Slugwrench pulled aside a huge flap of skin on his side and bundled the thing up in it. He shuddered briefly at its touch. His stomach groaned and spat out a wad of black bile in protest.
“Come on,” he said.
Rutspud led the way down from the Plains of Leng and across the Fields of Abbadon. As a shortcut that would hopefully avoid encountering any of the lords of Hell, the pair of them nipped through the Hall of Angry Bigots.
Rutspud thought it a shame that they didn’t have time to linger as the Angry Bigots were always fun. Every time one of them started to say, “I’m not a racist, but…” an imp would leap in and jab its pitchfork up their racist butt. And whenever any of the residents tried to blame their woes on the ‘bloody immigrants’ a clerical devil would give them a five hour lecture on how, in this place, everyone was an immigrant and then brand the word ‘immigrant’ on them with a white-hot iron. What entertained Rutspud so much was the fact that, even after decades and centuries of torture, they never learned.
Beyond the hall, they skirted round the base of the Hill of Sisyphus. The ancient king of Ephyra huffed and puffed as he toiled high above them.
“Blimey, listen to him,” said Rutspud. “Making a bloody meal of it.”
“I’d be more than grunting if I was eternally damned to push a rock up a hill, only for it to roll down again,” said Slugwrench.
“Yeah? Have you seen that rock though? It used to be the size of a house.” Rutspud looked up at Sisyphus nudging the football-sized rock with his foot.
“That’s just three thousand years of natural erosion,” said Slugwrench. “Give the man a break.”
“He’s a tosser.”
“You’re just sore because he beats you at poker.”
Rutspud fell silent, partly because Slugwrench had hit upon the truth, partly because they now stood at the entrance to the cave of the Oldest Resident. An impossible wind blew from its dark mouth, a wind both bitingly cold and cloyingly hot.
“I don’t want to go in there,” said Slugwrench, his arms tightening around the skin-wrapped creature, which squeaked in response. “I’m frightened.”
“Are you a coward?” said Rutspud, who didn’t really want to brave the cave either.
“A lily-livered coward,” said Slugwrench and waggled his liver at Rutspud as evidence.
“Remember,
” said Rutspud, “he can’t hurt us.”
“I know. I know. But he looks at you.”
“It’s this or The Boss, buddy.”
“Fine, fine.”
Side by side, they edged into the darkness
Rutspud wished that handholding between demons wasn’t a taboo, one punishable by a session with the thumbscrews, and was silently relieved when Slugwrench plunged his claws into the flesh of Rutspud’s shoulder and drew closer.
At the end of the cave was an unexceptional cavern and, at its centre, the Oldest Resident on his throne of punishment. There were no chains or shackles but both demons knew that the Oldest Resident could never step from that throne. Beneath his soot black rags, a patchwork of wounds, scars and blisters marked out the aeons of torture he had suffered.
The Oldest Resident watched them approach. They stopped at a very respectful distance, at the edge of the scorch marks and dried blood.
“Hello, sir,” said Rutspud timidly and then coughed. “I mean, damned puny mortal.”
“Hi,” said Slugwrench, peering from behind Rutspud.
“Rutspud,” said the Oldest Resident in a leaden voice. “Slugwrench.”
Rutspud quivered at the sound of his name. The Oldest Resident knew him, remembered him. What did it mean? What power did it give him?
“What is it?” said the Oldest Resident.
“We have brought something to show you,” said Rutspud and, with much prodding and faffing, had Slugwrench place the furry white creature on the floor.
“What new torture is this?” said the Oldest Resident, a strange smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“We hoped you could tell us, sir, I mean, most wretched of sinners.”
“You mean, you don’t know?”
Rutspud and Slugwrench exchanged looks.
“Er, no,” said Slugwrench.
“Ah,” said the Oldest Resident. “I must admit I haven’t seen one in millennia. What you have there is the strangest of mythological beings, a ‘cat’.”
“Cat?”
“Or to be more specific, a ‘kitten’. How did you come to find such a thing?”
“We found it,” said Rutspud.
“I found it,” said Slugwrench, suddenly emboldened.
“We were wondering,” said Rutspud. “Well, we were wondering, what it’s for?”
“What it’s for?” said the Oldest Resident.
“Is it a good thing or a bad thing?”
“A deep question.”
“Is it dangerous?”
The Oldest Resident drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne.
“People live in its thrall, compelled to serve its every whim.”
The ‘kitten’ on the floor miaowed.
“That is the signal that it wants something,” said the Oldest Resident, “and even the most wise and brave of the living run to fulfil its wishes.”
“What does it want?” said Rutspud nervously.
“Tell us!” begged Slugwrench. “We don’t want to incur its wrath!”
The Oldest Resident hummed to himself and continued to tap at the arm of his throne.
“Milk and fresh meat would be my guess.”
“Fresh meat?” said Rutspud. “Where in Hell will we find that?”
Slugwrench, panicking, snapped off his own thumb and threw it at the kitten’s feet. The bundle of fur sniffed at the gnarled digit and then nibbled it tenderly.
“I’m off to find Ceto,” said Slugwrench.
“Ceto?” said Rutspud.
“Mother of a thousand demons. She must be lactating, surely?”
Slugwrench scampered off.
“I wonder how it ended up here,” said the Oldest Resident.
“It’s not a devil then, sir?” said Rutspud.
“Not in the sense you’re thinking.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Its hide looks all spiky but it’s soft and warm like human innards. It has teeth and claws and cries like a wounded thing and yet the creature is perversely…” Rutspud groaned as language failed him. “I don’t know the word to describe it.”
“Cute,” said the Oldest Resident.
“Cute?” said Rutspud. He had never heard the word before.
“The kitten is cute.”
Rutspud shivered.
“It is cute,” he said. “I hate it.”
The kitten worked the finger down to the bone. The Oldest Resident patted his throne. Slugwrench returned with half a human skull filled with milk. He placed it on the floor and backed off quickly.
“Is it happy now?” he asked worriedly. “Are we safe from it?”
The Oldest Resident shook his head.
“Feeding the kitten will only delay its attack.”
“Attack?” squealed Slugwrench.
“It will select one of us for its torture,” said the Oldest Resident.
“How?”
The kitten stopped drinking, licked its face with a cute pink tongue and then walked over to the Oldest Resident’s throne.
“Oh, no,” said the Oldest Resident, still tapping the arm of his throne. “It appears to have selected me.”
“Is there nothing we can do to stop it?” asked Rutspud.
“Nothing,” said the Oldest Resident.
The kitten hunkered down and then jumped up into the Oldest Resident’s lap.
“What is that noise it is making?” said Slugwrench fearfully.
“It is like the roaring of distant machines,” said Rutspud.
“Like the rumbling of an empty stomach.”
The Old Resident began to stroke the kitten’s fur as it trod a circle in his lap.
“It is called purring,” he said. “The torment is about to begin.”
Slugwrench clung to Rutspud for comfort.
“If I stroke its fur, it might be merciful to me,” said the Oldest Resident uncertainly and tickled the kitten under its chin.
“What should we do?” said Rutspud.
“Run,” said the Oldest Resident, “or else the sight of my tortures might cause your heads to explode.”
“Can that happen?” said Rutspud.
“I bet it can,” said Slugwrench.
The kitten settled, wrapped itself into a ball and laid flat in the Oldest Resident’s lap, purring.
“The lull before the storm,” said the Oldest Resident. “Quick! Flee!”
The two demons needed no further exhortation and fled.
“Bring meat and milk tomorrow!” the Oldest Resident called after them. “To appease it, lest it turns on you! It knows your scent now!”
From far up the tunnel came two terrified whimpers.
The Oldest Resident looked down at the kitten in his lap and stroked it with fingers that had long forgotten how to feel. He wept silently at the old sensation. The horrors of Hell seemed oddly distant now.
He wasn’t going to question how or why the kitten had come to this place. Cats, like hell itself, were a law unto themselves. There was no point in questioning the ways of cats. There was no need.
“Hello, puss,” he smiled.
But the kitten was already asleep.
The Non-Specific Prayer Assessment Unit
Saint Christopher, former saint of travel, glared at the sea of heads that all swivelled in his direction as he entered the open plan office.
“Yes, yes. New boy in’t job. Get back to yer own work,” he called above the chatter.
“Now Christopher,” said the Archangel Gabriel, steering him to a workstation, “it’s very important that we convey a sense of calmness to our callers. I do hope that you can modify your tone when you begin your work here.”
“I think you’ll find that I’ve been answering prayers since most of these were in nappies,” cried Christopher, casting an arm across the rows of seated operators. “Sorted everyone’s travel arrangements, and their toothaches as well. There’s nothing I don’t know about answering prayers.”
“Yes, well we do things a li
ttle differently here,” replied Gabriel. “We might have to break a few bad habits.”
“Bad habits? Now you listen to me, the only reason I’m here is because some daft old sod who happens to be pope has declared that I never existed. It’s all a misunderstanding, I’m certain. As soon as people realise that I’m not there for them, there’ll be such an uproar that I’ll be listed again, you’ll see.”
“Oh, but you will be there for them,” said Gabriel. “In a sense. The calls for Saint Christopher are all now routed here, and any one of these operators is trained to respond in the appropriate manner.”
Christopher shook his head sadly.
“The Non-Specific Prayer Assessment Unit provides a vital service,” said Gabriel. “As we like to say, we’re the people you call when you don’t know who to call.”
“How the Almighty can dump me – me! - in the ohgodohgodhelpmehelpline I will never know. Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am? I was fording mighty rivers in the good old days, carrying the weight of Our Lord on me shoulders.”
“No, you weren’t,” said Gabriel. “That’s the point. Besides we don’t call it the ohgodohgod – and so on. This isn’t a trivial service. All of these calls are important and must be taken seriously. You’ll find the user guide and the online help will tell you exactly what to do. There’s a script for every eventuality.”
Gabriel handed him an enormous book, entitled Quick reference to non-specific prayer scenarios. Christopher took a seat and looked around. When they’d told him he’d be working in a call centre, he’d vaguely imagined that he’d be answering prayers as he used to, but sporting a natty headset like a rock star. He was beginning to realise that this was very different. He opened the quick reference at a random page. It was headed “God! It’s my husband. Get in the wardrobe!” He groaned at the dense text below, packed with lines that he was supposed to read out. He flicked over the page to “Jesus, I thought the handbrake was on” and slammed the book shut with a bang.
“Well if you’re ready to put on your headset, let’s see you take a call,” said Gabriel. “This is one is from Gavin in Essex who’s hit his thumb with a hammer.”
“God Almighty!” came the voice through the headset.
Christopher rolled his eyes.
“Hit his thumb with a hammer? Really? That’s so stupid, I thought it only happened in cartoons.”