The Devil

14

Another ‘garçon’ arrived, with a tray of oysters. Carl said,

‘Nothing like a petit aphrodisiac.’

I drained my glass, asked,

‘You hoping to get laid?’

And before he could respond, I asked the waiter, with exaggerated politeness,

‘Could I get a pint of Guinness, please?’

Show at least one of us wasn’t a wanker.

Carl, not skipping a beat, never looking at the waiter, snapped,

‘Make it two and before Tuesday.’

Then grinned at me, said,

‘Mea culpa, mon ami, oysters without the black would be a sin,’ his eyes mocking me.

I was delighted. In the proper mood for down and dirty with this cock-sucker. A level playing field, so to speak.

I waited till the G arrived, then sank half without preamble, belched, said,

‘Ah, that’s the biz.’

He didn’t touch his, waved his fingers at the poor bastard hovering, indicating his champagne needed to be refilled.

Time to turkey shoot.

I wiped the froth off my upper lip, said,

‘Let’s stop fucking around, pal. I know who you are…’

Paused.

‘And you know I know. So quit the bullshite, what do you want?’

Took a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed out loud, startling the waiters and me.

It was loud. I imagine they could hear him in Purgatory – or Tuam, which amounts to the same thing.

It sounded like a hyena with meat in its mouth.

The hairs on my arms stood up, literally.

Whatever I’d expected -

showdown at noon,

denial,

outrage,

this wasn’t it.

He eased down, wiped his eyes, gasped,

‘You are, as Mrs Anthony Bradford-Hemple says, priceless.

Did he mean Ridge?

He did.

Continued, the accent changing tone like staccato French, German, whatever the fuck,

‘Look at this body of mine, Jack, and you – you broken-down specimen, you poor deluded creature, you seem to believe I’m the Devil incarnate? You are Jack, a one-off, a true original, no wonder she has a certain fondness for you.’

Ridge, I figured.

An almost grey sheen had entered his eyes, like coal that would never light unless…

He leant back, his body language insinuating languor.

The Devil incarnate seemed to amuse him highly. I was about to speak but he held up a finger, said,

‘Shush. I have, as your esteemed trade unionists say, the floor.’

He took a delicate sip of the champagne, then said,

‘Let’s have some fun. Indulge your fanciful delusion for a moment, act as if the Devil wears Armani.’

He leant over, right in my face, whispered,

‘I’m the Devil, Lucifer, the Light-Bringer, Lord of Darkness.’

I said,

‘You forgot the apt one, Lord of Lies.’

No smile, he hissed,

‘Do not provoke me or allow my superficial courtesy to mislead you. I’ve endured a lot of your babble due to your…affliction.’

He waved a beautifully manicured hand at my pint, continued,

‘Be assured of this, my dense disciple. I too have a limited well of patience, and do tell, pray tell, why, if I were the Devil, why in the name of all that’s…’

He cackled, completed,

‘…unholy, would I bother trifling with a wreck such as you? Surely even a moron like you can appreciate that the Devil must have a busy schedule? Swine flu – so sorry, so non PC, Mexican influenza, recession, Iraq, somewhat pressing engagements, don’t you think?’

I said,

‘Very eloquent. Here’s a thought for you, mate. What if you felt that one jaded, over-the-hill, broken-down wretch had somehow managed to fuck up your malevolent plans? What if, whatever schemes you had for our still Catholic town, what if this wretch somehow managed to keep the one element alive that is contrary to all the Light-Bringer hates?’

He emptied his glass, asked in a tone of pure ice,

‘What element might that be, Taylor?’

Taylor? No more Jack?

I smiled, drew out the word, said,

‘Hope.’

He stared at me for a long moment then switched gear, muttered something in German, I think, but I’m guessing, said,

‘Wasn’t that fun? Let me ask you a question, Mr Purveyor of Hope. Have you ever read the Catechism of the Catholic Church, second edition?’

He smiled, added,

‘Not to be confused with the Second Coming.’

I said,

‘Missed that one. Is it on DVD?’

He was done with me for now, said,

‘And you such a vociferous reader? I highly recommend it.’

He paused, licked his lips, said,

‘Specifically, look at Section Two! But enough of all this gravitas. If I’m the Devil and you’re mankind’s hope, the world is even more fucked than one could have dreamed.’

His use of the curse seemed to shake the table.

It certainly shook me.

Much later, I did track down the piece on the internet, titled The Fall of the Angels. Dealing with the real enemy of Catholicism, it read:

Behind the disobedient choice of our first parents lurks a seductive voice, opposed to God, which makes them fall into death out of envy. Scripture and the Church’s tradition see in this the fallen angel called Satan or Lucifer.

All of a sudden I knew I was outgunned, out of my league, and I just gave up. I’d thought I could play, beat this sucker hands down and not even have to exert meself.

The waiter brought entrées.

Prawn cocktails.

After oysters?

He dug into his with gusto, snapping his fingers for more bubbly. He seemed to have a thirst brought on by the fires of hell.

I stayed with the G.

The Devil you know, right?

I wasn’t going to beat him verbally, he had too much sleight of hand for my slower repartee.

The main course arrived.

Steaks.

So rare, the blood was leaking over the edge of the plate. I said to the waiter,

‘Sorry, but I need it well done, please.’

Carl smiled, went,

‘I’d have pegged you as the raw-meat type.’

I let it simmer, then said,

‘You’d have been wrong, mon ami.’

He didn’t so much eat the steak as devour it. Like some jackal who realizes another predator might show.

When mine arrived, cooked to a crisp, I barely touched it.

Pushing his plate aside, pieces of meat lodged in his teeth, he asked,

‘Dessert?’

‘No, thanks.’

He signalled for the bill and I made to reach for my wallet but he was already laying a platinum card on the table.

I don’t do cards.

And I do know when I’ve had me arse well and truly kicked.

As the Americans say, He handed me my ass.

He knew.

I knew.

So I did what you do when you’ve been walloped, especially with champagne as an outrider to your defeat.

I shut the fuck up.

We stood to leave and he put his arm round me.

I shit thee not.

I loved that.

There was a time, when I had some mettle, I’d have taken that arm and broken it over me knee and not a moment’s sleep would it have cost me.

Now, I adjusted me hearing aid.

Felt my limp kick in.

Made a note to meself, Give up, root out your K. C. Constantine novels and become a hermit.

Carl, figuring I was done but to bury me, said,

‘I’m going to help you, Jackie.’

Next he’d be calling me Jackie-o.

I asked, quietly,

‘How’s that?’

He beamed, the cat with all the freaking cream, said,

‘I have some, shall we say, juice?’

OJ?

Continued,

‘I’m aware of your fervent lust to get to the USA.’

Yeah, he leaned on the L word.

Humble as Bono, I near whispered,

‘Really?’

We were on Quay Street now, him literally leading me. He said in a Brit accent, ‘Name your departure date, matey.’

I said,

‘ASAP.’

He let me go, threw out his arms, bellowed,

‘What are you waiting for? Get packing.’

I would.

Next time, I’d be packing the Sig.

We were at the crossroads where Quay Street leads off to three different streets. Carl paused, said,

‘Ah, a crossroads. No doubt you’re familiar with the story of the blues musician who sold his soul at such a junction?’

I asked,

‘Why would I want to sell my soul?’

He slapped my shoulder hard, laughed, said,

‘You already have.’

He turned at Naughton’s pub, near Judy Green’s pottery shop, said,

‘Quel dommage, but I must bid you adieu.’

A Japanese photo-cluster-fuck was taking snaps of everything and he suddenly bared his teeth, bile in his eyes, said,

‘Jack, I hate photographs.’

I stood there, watching him strut off, the Stones song ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ uncoiling in my head.

I’m paraphrasing here, but it goes something like:

happy to meet you,

did you guess me name?

I know those aren’t the lyrics, but you get the drift.

I had the film developed at a one-hour photo joint.

The swans came out lovely.

The Claddagh church appeared splendid.

Of Carl, I’d taken, I think, thirteen shots.

All blank.