Audience With The Devil

“A bottle of scotch and a glass.” His voice was deep and he spoke with an almost forced levity. I caught a look at him in the mirror behind the bar as he shook the water off his head. He was a big man with close-cropped dark hair. His clothes consisted of dark blue jeans and large charcoal grey wool jumper; an oilskin coat lay draped over the bar, dripping onto the threadbare carpet beneath our stools.

The bartender slid an unopened bottle of scotch and glass across the polished wooden bar to my companion. With a quick twist of his wrist, he unscrewed the bottle and poured himself a large measure of dark brown liquid. He grabbed the glass, threw his head back and emptied the contents in one gulp. He stood beside me with his eyes closed for a slow count to thirty, before forcing the air from his lungs and slumping down into the bar stool with a groan.

My companion introduced himself and we sat exchanged pleasantries the way strangers do simply to break the silence. My glass empty, he leaned over and filled it along with his own, before leaving the open bottle between us.

We continued to talk about this and that and I found myself relating the story of my conviction and incarceration. It was a simply enough tale, one often repeated throughout the ages. Too little time spent in school and too few opportunities outside led me down the path of petty crime; first committed out of boredom, then out of necessity. It caught up with me eventually. I spent time in juvenile detention before graduating to adult jails with revolving doors. I had only completed my last stretch the day before, and I wasn’t planning on returning. I promised myself the same thing each time I received my parole, and each time I’d fall back into the same habits.

My companion commiserated. “I did a five stretch a while ago.” He took a long sip from his glass, sighing with contentment, before going on. “Got done for break and enter on some bloke’s house. Silly sod was home when he shouldn’t have been, and put up a fight when he should’ve just handed over his cash. That was enough to stop me going back again. Too much time spent watching your back, especially in the shower.” He chuckled to himself before falling silent.

I asked him what had brought him out in the cold winter storm. He looked down at his glass for a long moment, grabbed it and emptied it before speaking. “I woke up from the weirdest dream and had to get out of the house and find some company.”

“What was the dream about?”

“You’re never going to believe me, you’ll just laugh.”

I assured him I wouldn’t and settled back to listen to the most fantastic yet harrowing tale I’ve ever heard.

“I found myself seated in a small wooden boat in a dark cavern. The air was hotter than a furnace and stank of sulphur; when I looked down, we were not floating on water, but a river of fire and molten lava.

“The ferryman stood at the rear propelling us forward with a long slender pole. He wore a dark hooded cloak that concealed his face, for which I’m eternally grateful. For when he raised the pole, I saw that his arms were merely chalk white bones.

“I called out to the ferryman, begging him to tell me where he was taking me. He didn’t reply, but continued to push us through the cave of black granite rock and fire.

“Eventually I spied a distant shore. Upon it, a solitary figure stood awaiting our arrival. As we drew closer, I saw it was a tall well-built man in a black tuxedo. He possessed the most perfect features of any man I have ever known, with shoulder length dark blond hair tucked neatly behind his ears.

“As the boat came to a halt beside the shore, the man called out to me by name and welcomed me to his kingdom. I stood in the boat and lost my balance, nearly tipping the craft. As it steadied once more, I looked down into the fire and felt the blazing heat burn my skin. I could’ve sworn that I saw images of people reaching up towards me from beneath the surface, beseeching me to either save or join them. I looked away in fright and the stranger on the shore laughed a soft, yet cold chuckle. He told me not to fret, for they wouldn’t hurt me; provided, of course, that I not fall into the depths.