by Heide Goody
“Brother Lionel was certain he was to be next,” added Demon Henry. “That’s why he left the island.”
“Ah,” said Manfred and shared a decidedly shifty look with Bastian.
“He didn’t?” said Demon Henry.
“The monk in the freezer,” said Tesla.
“We didn’t want to cause a panic,” said Bastian. “People were worried about the plague.”
“But he died of natural causes,” Manfred assured them.
“No,” said Demon Clement. “Demons cannot die.”
“He was murdered,” said Demon Gillespie.
“By the demon Treyvaw,” said Potter.
“Who?” said Bastian.
“Me,” said Stephen and bowed his head. “I did it. I killed them.”
The great ocean of water that had washed Hell clean and doused the runaway fires had now gone. The global climate of Hell was returning some form of equilibrium. The Lake of Fire was currently a lake of small and individual, but definitely growing, fires. The ninth circle of Hell, whilst not quite a frozen pit of eternal torment, was certainly quite nippy with the promise of colder weather on the way. Hot, cold, light, dark, wet, dry; Hell was going back to business as usual.
There were some exceptions. Treyvaw dragged Rutspud past a great globular monster with tentacles the size of pine trees which was moaning unhappily in the rocky eyrie it had washed up in, far from its watery domain. Rutspud waved sympathetically at the Yan Ryuleh Sloggoth, although he couldn’t tell if any of the waving tentacles was a form of reply.
“And what did you do with the demon monks when you caught them?” he asked Treyvaw.
“Sucked out their essences, of course,” the demon hunter said. “Puckered up to their human hosts and – ssscccchlupp!”
“Not sure if kissing monks is my bag, really. And, that’s it, you destroyed them?”
“Nothing so soft as that,” said Treyvaw. “Their workshy and traitorous essences have all been transferred down here to await punishment. You’ll see them soon enough.”
“I escaped from the Fortress of Nameless Dread once before, you know. I could probably do it again.”
Treyvaw stopped.
“You’re a funny one, little demon. I’d be quaking in my boots if I were you, not wisecracking like this is some jolly picnic.”
Rutspud tried to turn his head to address Treyvaw but he was held in a particularly tight and restrictive grip.
“Oh, great and terrible demon, be assured that if I had any boots I would be quaking in them,” he said honestly. “I am past terrified and in a far distant place where my mouth is running away with itself beyond all control. I can hazard a fair guess as to what lies in store for me.”
“Is that so?” said Treyvaw. “Well, you’re already wrong about one thing.”
He shifted Rutspud around in his arms so the demon could look at the landscape ahead. Yes, much of Hell was back to normal, but there were exceptions. The Plains of Perdition were a wasteland in which demons wandered in the ruins left by the tidal wave. Where the Fortress of Nameless Dread had once stood there was now a jagged hill of shattered stone and brickwork. At the base, whipped into action by a team of demons, Sisyphus rolled the largest pieces of rubble away.
“At least he’s doing something useful now,” said Rutspud. “So, where are we going?”
“The Emergency Bunker of Accelerated Damnation,” said Treyvaw.
“That does not sound very nice.”
“Exactly,” said Treyvaw. “Now, let’s not keep Lord Peter waiting.”
“All that bloody sleepwalking,” said Stephen. “That wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, but it was Treyvaw controlling my body. And whatever he did to Bernard and Huey and Lionel, that was through me.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Manfred.
“Well, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t tried to summon a sexy demon of the underworld,” said Whitehouse.
“That’s not a helpful comment, dear,” said Cartland.
“I’m just saying.”
“And all the camomile tea you had me drink to get a good night’s sleep,” said Stephen with a heartfelt irritation. “And that pumpernickel bread you had me eating.”
“Both are marvellous for maintaining balance of body and mind,” said Manfred defensively.
“I needed a sodding exorcism. I don’t think grass-flavoured tea and bread you can break your teeth on is the answer. You’re right, Whitehouse. It is my fault. And now Rutspud is going to suffer far worse than if I had never tried to rescue him in the first place.”
“Now, this Rutspud character …?” said Bastian.
“Is a demon,” said Stephen. “He found me in the library. We became … we became the best of friends.”
“Friends with a demon,” said Manfred approvingly.
“I did wonder what you were spending all those hours in the library doing,” said Bastian. “So, this staircase from Hell, it comes up in the library?”
“One of the older chambers further down,” said Demon Clement. “It was perfectly well hidden until the rains and those schoolchildren opened it up.”
“It’s incredible,” said Manfred.
“Quite,” said Bastian. “I think I’ll need to see it before I believe it.”
Stephen banged his head on the table.
“But it’s gone. Treyvaw destroyed it, ripped it away. There’s no way back.”
Father Eustace put down his now empty tankard of seaweed beer, belched loudly and then moved immediately onto his cup of tea.
“What staircase?” he mumbled into his cup.
“The one you used to get up here!” snapped Stephen. “Our only hope of getting Rutspud back!”
“Now, the thing is,” said Lewis, “neither my good friend Lugtrout nor I knew about the stairs when I agreed to help him escape …”
Hell has access to almost infinite resources and, within its bounds, all things are possible. However, Hell tends to have a limited imagination and likes to fall back on familiar themes and popular tropes. Therefore, although the Emergency Bunker of Accelerated Damnation could have been a vast underground hall of gothic or baroque architecture lit in bright neon and served by an underground monorail, it was instead designed in a style that simply and unavoidably said ‘bunker’.
Rutspud had been harangued and prodded down a flight of concrete steps, along an ugly and badly-lit corridor, and into a chamber of brutalist and functional design, the kind which any of the habitants of the Pit of Military Dictators would have been glad to call home. Perhaps they had even been brought in as design consultants or, more likely, cemented into the walls during construction.
Lord Peter sat at a high table, Nero at his side. Both looked somewhat soggy. Nero’s laurel wreath of razorblades sat askew on his head. A gallery of high-ranking demons sat along one side. Apart from one dark-cloaked figure, all of them eyed Rutspud with hatred or hunger or both. Treyvaw shoved Rutspud onto a raised platform and manacled him with the chains rising from the floor.
“Let us begin,” said Lord Peter. He addressed the gallery. “This court is gathered to pass judgement on those demons who have been found guilty of the most terrible crimes.”
“Found guilty?” said Rutspud. “I think I missed that part, lord.”
Treyvaw whacked Rutspud across the back of the head, nearly dislodging his eyes from their sockets.
“Demons,” continued Lord Peter smoothly, “who have shirked their duties, abandoned their posts and fled to the mortal world. In short, demons who have given Hell a bad name.”
“Bit harsh,” Rutspud muttered, and was immediately rewarded with another bash around the ears.
“We will hear the evidence that has been compiled against them and then they will be punished with torments including, but not limited to, the despairatron.”
Lord Peter gestured to a table in the centre of the room on which sat a simple silver box with a button at its centre. It didn’t look at all impressive
or frightening, but Rutspud had seen the schematics and knew exactly what it did and he was, as much as his mind had capacity for further fear, terrified.
“Bring up the other accused,” said Lord Peter.
Around Rutspud, circular grates shifted aside and a small podium rose beside Rutspud’s. At the centre of each was a demon. Spindle-limbed, pot-bellied and equal parts bewildered and petrified, they looked pathetically undeserving of the chains that bound them.
“Gufftit, Toeflange and Crotchwatch, my lord,” said Treyvaw.
“Toeflange?” said Rutspud in recognition. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been?”
The demon looked at him with rheumy and woeful eyes.
“Would you believe I’ve been taking a holiday in an elderly Welsh monk?” he said.
Father Eustace had finished his cup of tea and was inexpertly building a tower out of Kit Kat biscuits.
“Lugtrout was always a dear friend to me,” said Lewis, “and I could see that the pressures of managing the R&D department whilst fulfilling his duties in the second circle of Hell were proving too much.”
Manfred frowned in thought.
“A circle devoted to those who were lustful in life,” he said.
“I think he found them quite a handful,” said Lewis.
“Rampant todgers!” shouted Eustace.
“I had to help him escape before his mind snapped under the strain.”
“Big flappy baps!”
“Before he snapped?” said Bastian.
“I can see he has flourished here,” said Lewis with a fond smile.
“But how did you get him up here?” said Manfred.
“And can we get down to Hell the same way?” said Stephen.
“I should think so. Passage through the wardrobes is possible in both directions.”
“Wardrobe,” said Father Eustace.
Stephen slapped his forehead.
“A wardrobe! Of course!”
“Safe in the wardrobe,” said Father Eustace, staring cross-eyed at the spoon. “Knotted pine.”
“Sorry?” said Bastian. “Is there a doorway to Hell in Father Eustace’s wardrobe? I think we would have noticed.”
“Is that why he hid in there?” said Manfred.
“Or maybe he just associated wardrobes with escape, with safety,” said Stephen. “Father Abbot, where did the wardrobe lead you? Where did you appear on the island?”
Father Eustace beetled his brow at the spoon as though trying to melt it with his still glowing eyes.
“Beard,” he said.
“What?” said Stephen.
“Oh,” said Manfred.
“That means something to you?” said Stephen.
“It does. There’s a cave.”
“Cave where?”
“We can show you,” said Bastian.
“Then we go now,” said Stephen, and stood up to show he meant business.
“We’ll come with you,” said Potter.
“No,” said Stephen. “I’m not going to put any of you back in danger. The powers of Hell mean you harm, all of you,” he said with a gesture to include damned and demon alike. “Manfred, Bastian and I will go.”
“Sorry? Where are we going now?” said Bastian, somewhat perturbed.
“Hell, it seems,” said Manfred.
“Then we need to get tooled up,” said Bastian.
“Holy water.”
“Crucifixes.”
“Bottles of wee,” said Stephen.
“Pardon?” said Bastian.
“For bribery purposes. Trust me.”
“But what about the rest of us?” said Demon Clement.
“There’s a boatload of tourists coming over this afternoon. Meet them, greet them, ply them with tea,” said Manfred.
“And make sure they spend time and money in the gift shop,” said Bastian.
“And will this have worn off by then?” sniffed Demon Gillespie, pointing to his eyes. They still blazed with a fierce red light.
“Hang on,” said Bastian. “I’ve got just the thing.”
He dashed out without further word and returned in a minute with a big cardboard box.
“Put these on,” he said and dished out a pair of sunglasses to each demon monk. Soon enough there was a band of demon monks in pink, plastic-feathered sunglasses that certainly covered the glowing eyes but would undoubtedly raise many other questions.
Demon Gillespie coughed.
“Really not sure what kind of message we’re sending out here,” he said.
“I like them,” said Manfred. “They’re …”
“Kooky,” said Demon Vernon.
“Maybe we could help out with the visitors,” suggested Cartland. “At least we look human.”
“Why not?” said Stephen with some impatience at the delays. “All stay here. Deal with the tourists. Everything will be fine. Manfred, Bastian, we need to go. Now.”
“There is no spoon,” said Father Eustace.
“Exactly,” said Stephen. “Now, let’s go.”
Even though he had already been found guilty in his absence, Rutspud discovered he was to be treated with a lengthy litany of accusations, bundles of evidence, and even character assassination witnesses. Perhaps Lord Peter relished the bureaucracy. Perhaps he imagined that the anticipation would only heighten Rutspud’s suffering. Rutspud was only too glad to put off the inevitable and cherished every second that he stayed free of the despairatron.
On the central table of the grim hall were carefully labelled exhibits, including Potter’s incriminating sketches, sample bottles of water from the River Lethe and Rutspud’s internet search records.
Scabass had been wheeled in as the star witness. Taking time out from his busy schedule of constant and degrading torture at the hands of Flayshard, Scabass was brought in on his chair of torment with his torturer at his side. Rutspud took no pleasure in the deep scores in Scabass’s steely flesh, the ravage of his toothless mouth or the fat eyepatch he wore over one eye which seemed to constantly wriggle and seethe. It wasn’t that Rutspud felt any empathy for his former boss; he simply had no energy to feel anything for anyone but himself.
Throughout his testimony, Flayshard repeatedly poked and dug at Scabass’s side with a variety of pointy, serrated and corkscrew implements.
“In truth,” said Scabass, “we don’t know how long – ow! – Rutspud has been lying to us, my lord. There’s – oof! – probably been no torture of – hnnn! – of any sort in his cave of tortures for centuries. Shit, that hurts!”
“But your inspection records have consistently awarded him the highest grades,” said Lord Peter.
“And the fact that – aargh! – he has not only shirked his duties but chosen to falsify evidence and – ow! – make a mockery of Hell’s supportive performance management programme makes his – Satan’s balls! – makes his crimes all the worse.”
“Madam,” said Lord Peter. “Do you really have to do that?”
“Just maintaining his levels of discomfort and suffering,” said Flayshard, wiping her bloody fingernails on Scabass’s shoulder.
“She’s a true professional, my lord,” said Scabass. “Don’t stop.”
Flayshard’s bubble eyes blinked and then she rammed her hand into Scabass’s open wound.
“Nnnn! Thanks!” grunted Scabass hoarsely. “Worse still, I believe that all the evidence presented today shows – oh, fuck! Are those my kidneys? – that this evidence proves that Rutspud not only caused the initial heating crisis by stealing fuses from Hell’s furnaces, he also tried to cover it up by wiping the memories of witnesses with Lethe water – urnh! – and then attempted to undo his mistakes by, at first, illegally diverting water from earth through a pumping machine devised by one of his human allies and then – oh! No! Yes! – by unleashing a flood upon Hell that destroyed the Fortress of Nameless Dread.”
Rutspud saw the deep anger that came over Lord Peter’s face at this last comment. He could believe Lord Peter
would put up with all manner of transgressions, but not anything that interfered with his precious corporate headquarters.
“Rutspud has not only failed in his duties,” said Scabass, “he – ah! – has lied, he has cheated, he has tempted others to bad habits, shifted the blame onto others and caused almost incalculable destruction, misery and suffering.”
Nero paused in his note-taking.
“Aren’t these the kind of attributes we try to encourage in our demons, sir?” he said.
“Ye—ees, well, I’m sure that’s not the point,” said Lord Peter.
On the ruin-strewn Plains of Perdition, a pile of rubble shifted, rolled, and was still again. There was a muffled bout of swearing, a great thump, and then the pile fell away as three monks climbed up out of a buried wardrobe, lovingly crafted from knotted pine. Stephen led the way and cautiously glanced around before giving Manfred a hand up.
“This isn’t Belphegor’s laboratory,” he said. “I’m guessing the wardrobe got washed out here in the flood.”
Manfred put his hands on his hips and gazed round at the Hellish vista.
“Well, isn’t that a sight?” he said.
“Not looking,” said Bastian, his eyes screwed shut.
“It’s okay,” said Stephen. “I mean, it’s Hell, but it’s okay.”
Bastian opened a single eye experimentally.
“It’s, um …”
“Yes?” said Stephen.
“It’s rather like the Nevada desert.”
“I know what you mean,” said Manfred.
“Albeit at night.”
“Yes.”
“And with much of the desert on fire.”
“Obviously.”
“Hmmm.”
“And with another desert directly above it,” said Manfred.
Bastian contemplated the high ceiling of Hell.
“I think that’s a bit more than I can handle,” he said eventually.
“You’re doing great,” said Stephen. “Sure, this is Hell, but we’re monks, men of God. We have nothing to fear.”
“Fools rush in,” said Bastian doubtfully, but followed the others out across the wasteland nonetheless. “Actually,” he said, after some lengthy thought, “the real Hell is a bit … well, this is all a bit of a cliché. Red light. Jagged rocks. Pools of fire. I can’t help but feel I’m walking through a cheap TV production of Dante’s Inferno.”
