The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE by Andrew C. Ferguson

There is a particular atmosphere about the Jekyll & Hyde early on a Friday evening: the first few drinkers through the double doors order up quietly and talk in a murmur, as if waiting for something to happen.

To a certain extent this is something the place shares with almost every other pub in Scotland, and for that matter perhaps in England and further abroad; for despite changes in working hours in certain occupations, early Friday evening still signals the start of the weekend for the vast majority of us, and this is reflected in the feeling of quiet anticipation in a newly opened pub at this time.

However, in this particular Edinburgh pub that quietness, that anticipation seems sharper, more heightened: perhaps this is because, as may have become apparent to you already, anything can happen in the Jekyll & Hyde.

Another possible reason is Ettie, the Friday night barmaid and one of the toughest old hags you’re ever likely to have serve you a pint of heavy in this world or the next.

To say age has not withered Ettie would be wrong in the physical sense; indeed, one’s first reaction on entering and seeing her wizened form behind the bar might be that you’ll be lucky to get served this side of Christmas. But although her arthritic hands may not pull a pint as quickly as, say, Edward or Ake, two of the Hyde’s more regular barmen, you would do well not to make a smart remark on the subject in her hearing. She has a look that has been known to silence a barful of noisy drunks with a single poisonous stare, and a tongue that could shatter glass in less thickly-windowed establishments than the Jekyll & Hyde.

She is also a shrewd judge of character, and I’ve heard it said that she could tell you your age, your parentage, and your most frequent vices in the (admittedly extended) time it takes her to serve you that first pint.

It was this ability (whether by occult means or otherwise, such as her extreme age) which allowed her to size up Jackie Ballingall when she walked into the bar, on an early Friday evening like this one.

“A double vodka and Coke,” she said, sitting on one of the stools that bordered the scored bar. Ettie served her and she drained it in two instalments, setting the glass back down on the bar. “Same again,” she said, and the hushed bar became even quieter as the regulars sensed that their evening’s entertainment might be about to begin. She was an attractive girl, smartly dressed in a split skirt and white blouse; her blonde hair was cut short, almost severely.

“I hear this is a place for stories,” she said to Ettie’s back. The silence became deafening and the bar lost its usual reserve as heads turned. Ettie turned round from the optics with a half smile, half grimace on her face.

“Aye, lassie, it is. There’s a table up in thon corner there—d’ye see it?—go on up and I’ll bring your drink tae ye. The place is quiet at this time o’ nicht,”—here she glanced sarcastically round the bar and the regulars suddenly renewed their interest in their own conversations—“so we’ll no’ be disturbed.”

The table was in the furthest nook of the top level of the Hyde, but Ettie could still see the doors from it should any customers come through and, braving her stare, not carry on through to the nether bar.

As she put the vodka bottle and the two glasses on the table, Jackie reached for her purse. Ettie shook her head.

“We’ll come tae payment later, after your story.”

Jackie nodded, as if she understood. Then she began.

“My story is about Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, a real life Scottish nobleman in the Middle Ages who was supposed to use black magic. There are a lot of stories about him, but this one is about the time he was plagued by a demon, which tormented him and demanded that he give it work to do.

“The demon was capable of doing superhuman things and immediately any it was given was finished it would come back to Sir Michael chanting, ‘work, work, work.’ To try and keep it occupied he set it to work flattening out a hill in the east of Fife called the Largo Law, and the shovelfuls of earth it produced from that job made another hill nearby and left a great cleft in the middle of the Law itself.

“Because it was making such short work of the Law, the warlock called it off the job and set it doing something that was impossible even for a demon: making ropes out of sea sand on Kirkcaldy beach. So it was kept busy forever with an impossible task and Sir Michael got peace from it at last.”

Jackie stopped and took a nervous gulp of her vodka. Before she could speak any further Ettie stood up as if to leave.

“Very interesting, lassie. But the stories that are told in the J & H are generally mair up tae date.”

With a sudden movement Jackie grabbed the other woman’s arm, preventing her from moving further. “Sit down,” she said sharply, so sharply Ettie did so. “I’ve hardly started.

“Until yesterday I worked as a secretary for a firm of lawyers in Kirkcaldy, Cluny St. Clair. I heard the story I’ve just told you years ago when I was growing up in the town, and like you I thought it was just a story. But then three days ago I saw the demon myself.”

Ettie poured out two more glasses of vodka; the austere, raw scent of the obscure Bulgarian brand the Jekyll & Hyde favors filled the corner area.

“It all started that morning, when I came into my work with a hangover. I should explain that despite the names on the notepaper I was secretary to the sole partner of the firm. His name was—or is—Richard Gibson.

“I had just got to my desk when Richard came in. He looked even worse than I felt. ‘Come through here,’ he said, and swept into his office. He used to do that a lot—sweeping into his office, making the dramatic gesture. It was what made him such a popular court lawyer.

“‘I’m going to dictate a writ for you,’ he said. ‘You must have it engrossed and ready to lodge by noon. It must be ready by then.’

“I nodded. I was relieved. I thought he was going to tell me off for being on the piss the night before.

“‘After I’ve done the tape for you I mustn’t be disturbed by anyone until twelve noon. At twelve I’ll be seeing a new client and I want you to be there as well. For… various reasons. Cancel any other appointments for today.’

“‘Yeah, sure, Richard,’ I said and got up to leave. I was used to his dramatics: I was used to seeing clients with him as well—usually the difficult ones. Moral support and all that. I went back to my work and sure enough he came through half an hour later with a tape.

“Legalese is like a foreign language to most people; if it’s used to its full effect it can be difficult to understand what a legal document is all about. But even allowing for that and my hangover I’m amazed that what I was typing didn’t sink in.

“But it just washed over me, all this stuff about an employment contract and breach of it and so on. I drafted it; Richard checked the draft and made some amendments; then I ran off the final version and handed it to Richard, all well before noon. Richard hardly seemed to notice when I gave him the engrossment, or even look up from the pile of books he was reading.

“Just before noon, though, he called me in again. ‘Did you read the writ you just typed?’

“‘Why, are there mistakes in it?’

“‘No, no—that’s not what I meant. Did you read it? Did you understand it?’

“‘Not really. I just type the stuff.’ The answer I always gave him.

“‘Have you ever heard a story about a Fife necromancer called Michael Scott?’

“Then it twigged with me—it was a practical joke, dreamed up by Richard or one of his lawyer cronies, to draft a writ releasing the demon down on Kirkcaldy beach from its impossible task. That was what the writ was all about and that was why the pursuer—the person raising the action—was called Mr. De Ville.

“I said so to Richard and he gave me an odd look. ‘That’s right. That’s all you need to know, anyway.’

“Just then the phone rang, on an internal call; I could hear the voice of Susan, our receptionist. As Richard put the phone down his hand was shaking. ‘Mr. De Ville has arrived.’

“I showed Mr. De Ville and his colleagues into Richard’s office, got an extra chair for myself, and sat down.

“At first sight they certainly didn’t look like the Devil and his assistants; Mr. De Ville was a smartly dressed older man, with graying dark hair and no pointy beard; his assistants were in the same tailored suits but were younger, perhaps in their mid-thirties.

“Whoever he was, the older man was in control right from the start. ‘Ah, Mr. Gibson,’ he said, ‘so nice to meet you again after our brief encounter this morning. And this must be Jackie. I’ve heard so much about you, Jackie; I’m sure it isn’t all true.’

“Richard laughed, a high pitched, almost hysterical laugh, and Mr. De Ville frowned at me.

“‘Now shall we get down to business? Have you the writ ready to be lodged?’

“Richard hesitated. ‘Yes, we have.’

“‘Good. Due to certain personnel shortages, I need all the available manpower I can get, so this case is in its own way quite important to me. We shall attend to the writ’s lodging: the interim hearing will take place at twelve o’clock. Good day to you.’

“And that was it, or nearly. De Ville and the other two got out of their chairs to leave; but Richard was stammering something, trying to get it out before they went. He always had to have the last word with everybody.

“‘You’re not quite what I expected, I must say.’

“De Ville turned round and I felt for some reason that Richard had made a mistake. For the first time I was scared of this man who was calling himself the Devil, really scared. I could feel his anger like a heat coming from him, like ice burning through my bones.

“‘What?’

“‘Well, I mean you’re not in one of your more popular incarnations are you?’

“There was a sound of tearing cloth.

“‘Would this please you more?’ He—or it—turned black at the instant he spoke, his skin black and leathery. Under the leather skin stretched a new set of features, horrific and yet fascinating: the familiar face of the Devil seen in reflection on a thousand gargoyles, an angled, inhuman face, forked tongue darting from its leering mouth.

“At the same time his assistants assumed their own true forms, both in their own way as horrific as their master’s: black brute faces like no creature on Earth, great misshapen bodies stretching and tearing the tailored suits.

“Then all three returned to their human forms and they left by the office door.

“I turned to Richard. ‘I want a few days off. I think I’ve been overdoing the drink recently.’

“‘You saw them all right,’ he said quietly. ‘I had hoped you wouldn’t be dragged into all of this, but I suppose I’d better tell you everything.

“‘I was walking Dougie along the beach this morning, like I usually do before I come in to work. It was cold and windy first thing and the dog wasn’t particularly enthusiastic, but it’s the only exercise it gets.

“‘Just when I was about to turn round and start back home, I started seeing ribbed marks on the sand, like lengths of rope. There’s a perfectly valid explanation for these patterns, of course—something to do with the way the seawater draw back through the sand—but it set me thinking about the story of Sir Michael Scott and the demon. Just at that moment the dog, which had disappeared off ahead, came galloping back past me, yelping as if afraid.

“‘I tried calling him, but it was no use; he was away off home at a rate of knots. I was curious by now and I walked up over the dune to see what had scared him. There it was, the demon: something like those creatures you just saw in the office, or maybe slightly smaller, sand running through its claws.

“‘As it saw me, it started gibbering something, insistently, as if it were willing me to understand; I stood there transfixed, unable to tear my eyes off it.

“‘Then, it started to make sense to me—just a word here and there, as if I was trying to understand its devilish language. That was enough for me and I set off after the dog, glancing behind me every now and then to make sure it wasn’t following.

“‘After a while I slowed down to a walk to catch my breath. There hadn’t been anyone behind me on the beach but suddenly there he was, a man in a business suit with dark hair going grey. He introduced himself as De Ville. Then he said he was my new client.

“‘After that, we walked together for a brief time along the beach. He told me what he wanted and I said I’d take the case.’

“When Richard stopped speaking he was breathing heavily. Outside, the sun was breaking through a cloud and I could hear birdsong; inside I tried to think through what had happened, trying to get some reality into the picture. It was all unreal, an unreal world we were both locked into now, like one of those Russian dolls: unreal within real.

“‘Why don’t you just refuse the case?’ I said. He looked at me. ‘Refuse it? Don’t be daft, girl—it’s cash on the nail. The Devil’s money’s as good as any other punter’s, and quicker to appear than legal aid, I’ll bet.’

“‘You’re crazy,’ I said. ‘D’you think the Devil’s going to be satisfied with that?’

“‘Why not?’ He started getting pompous, a sure sign that he knew he was on thin ground. ‘One can never judge the client; that’s the Court’s business. As a matter of fact he offered me all sorts of inducements to win the case; I insisted he made payment at the standard Law Society rates. So my soul’s quite safe, Jackie.’

“‘Okay, okay. Let’s suppose all this is not some kind of nightmare I’m in the middle of. If the Devil really needs a lawyer, why does he need a living one? You’re not going to tell me there aren’t a good few of them down there already?’

“‘Ah, he explained to me. He said he wanted the very best alive or dead. And as far as Kirkcaldy Sheriff Court goes, that’s me.’

“I couldn’t believe it. I snorted and got up to go; but as I did so Richard grabbed my wrist. His eyes were pleading with me.

“‘Come with me to the case, Jackie. They’ll need a shorthand writer and anyway, I need you there. You’re my right-hand woman.’

“‘Piss off. It’s not part of my job description to do shorthand at a court case. Especially where the client’s Auld Nick.’

“‘Please, Jackie. You’re my good luck charm. Remember when I got that woman off serious assault last month? You came to watch. Same with all my best wins in court.’

“I could see he was desperate. I’d worked for him too long, I suppose; even though there was nothing between us, when you work that closely with someone for that long, you get connected.

“I gave in. ‘Okay. When’s the case? Twelve noon tomorrow?’

“‘No. Twelve midnight tonight.’

“After that, I didn’t see Richard for the rest of the day. After work I went home, showered, changed and had something to eat—at least that’s what I can remember doing; it all went past in a blur, as if I was in shock. I had arranged to meet Richard at the office at a quarter to twelve, so I got a taxi down; he was there waiting for me.

“The Sheriff’s Court isn’t far from our offices, set up the hill from the High Street at the other side of a square from the Council offices. Being a Tuesday night it was reasonably quiet in the town, with just one or two people walking about, and no one paid any attention as we slipped into the Courthouse: the door was open when we tried it.

“‘Ah, Mr. Gibson. You’re prompt. I like that.’ The Devil was in human form, all little nods and smiles, holding the door for me as we went into the corridor leading into the building. Kirkcaldy Sheriff’s Court’s an old building with a new one shoved up its backside; the courtrooms are tucked away under stairs and along red-tiled corridors, but despite this the Devil seemed to know where he was going.

“We arrived in Court Number 2 to find it lit up and ready for the case. There were even one or two people on the public benches, or what had once been people; men mostly, wizened and smoke blackened, talking among themselves. One of them grabbed at my skirt as I walked past, and the rest cackled with laughter: I turned and slapped him across the jaw.

“‘The next of you who takes liberties with Miss Ballingall,’ said the Devil, ‘will be removed from this fiefdom to spend the rest of eternity under my personal inquisition.’ He didn’t even turn round.

“‘Great, a holiday,’ said a voice.

“‘Aye, and a change is as good as a rest,’ said another. The Devil sighed and looked round at me.

“‘Such a tiresome place, the Scottish Fiefdom. Usually I can leave things up here to minions, but for something like this…’

“‘Just can’t get the staff, I suppose,’ said Richard. I glanced across at him, amazed at how cool he looked and sounded. Then it struck me that he really was: that he thought that this court was his home ground, no matter who was in it. He grinned back at me.

“‘Ready?’ said the Devil. ‘Then I call to this place Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, and his advocate.’

“Without any sound of approaching footsteps, the door near the bar of the court opened and two men came in. Sir Michael was tall and dressed in fine silk robes, not blackened like the rest; his advocate was a short, stubby little creature, with broad shoulders and a ruddy face under his powdered wig.

“Sir Michael strode over to where the Devil was standing and they shook hands. The warlock smiled.

“‘Are ye ready for some sport, Nick?’

“‘You don’t call the law of Scotland a sport, do you Michael?’ said the Devil. He grinned, then turned and clapped his hands. ‘I call to this place Robert McQueen, Lord Braxfield, Senator of the College of Justice.’

“When the judge appeared there was some cheering from the public benches, which were by now filling up with Hell’s inhabitants, little by little. The judge stared them all down until there was silence.

“‘The rabble that pleases tae occupy the public benches of my court will haud their wheesht, or notwithstanding their damned state I’ll hae them hanged aince mair for contempt.’

“The court fell silent, and Braxfield glared slowly round the room till his black-browed eyes rested on Richard.

“‘Mr. Gibson. I micht say that in a’my years on the bench I hae never come across a document such as the one lodged by your client. Is this whit passes for pleadings noo?’

“‘I apologize, m’lud, if the tenor of the writ is not to your lordship’s liking. However, since you’re to try the case, can I ask if the applicable law is to be that of the twentieth or the eighteenth century?’

“There was some laughter from the benches but not from Braxfield. ‘I think ye mock me, Mr. Gibson: the case will be tried on the principles of Scots law which as ye weel ken reach back tae the law of Rome itsel. However, mysel and Mr. Home’—here he nodded toward Scott’s advocate—‘will bear in mind any o’ the supposed improvements made in the last twa centuries. I think ye’ll find there’s no’ muckle change in the basics.’

“‘As you wish, m’lud.’ Richard bowed deeply and gave a little glance toward the public benches. He was always good at playing to the gallery; even in this situation he seemed to be getting the crowd on his side.

“‘Gaun yersel, Dickie son,’ said a voice from the back.

“‘Silence,’ said Braxfield. ‘Mr. Gibson, let’s hear your authoritie in support of your pleas-in-law.’

“‘As your Lordship pleases,’ said Richard, shuffling his papers and standing up again. ‘My first plea-in-law is that the contract is not binding because it was not concluded between two human beings. In other words, Sir Michael Scott’s familiar, being a creature of the underworld, is unable to enter into a binding contract of employment with him, as he was at that time of this Earth. There is no case law on this point as it is such a settled principle.’

“‘I beg tae differ wi’ my learned friend,’ said Home, rising to his feet. ‘Is he no’ aware o’ the string o’ cases tried before your Lordship’s guid sel, including Scott v Satan, where my present client tried to revoke his many pactions with the present pursuer inter vivos?’

“‘Indeed, Mr. Home,’ said Braxfield in a low growl. ‘Well, Mr. Gibson?’

“Richard didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I would be most grateful to my learned friend for reference of that case. I don’t recall coming across it in the Scots Law Times.’ More laughter from the public benches.

“‘For some unco reason they dinnae print cases tried in Hell,’ said the judge. ‘And we keep nae records oursels, as cases tend tae last in memory when they tak ten or twenty years each. Your second plea-in-law, Mr. Gibson?’

“‘My second plea-in-law is that the contract is void because its performance is impossible; in other words, because the Defender asked the familiar to make ropes out of sea sand, an impossible task, the contract should be a nullity. I would refer your Lordship to the case of Tay Salmon Fisheries v Speedie, which can be found in the Scots Law Times, 1929 volume at 484.’

“Braxfield scowled at Scott’s advocate. ‘Mr. Home?’

“Home looked up blankly. ‘Your lordship, I maun confess I am no’…’

“‘Weel, be glad ane o’ us has kept up tae date, man. Mr. Gibson, I am dismissing your second plea-in-law: as I understand the doctrine as presently applied, impossibility of performance depends on the flexible question of what is impossible. Given that this creature could rend hills in twa, it may be that tae mak ropes frae sea sand only taks longer tae accomplish. The cratur’s only had a few hunner years tae try, after a’!’

“And so the case went on, plea after plea dismissed by the judge. Even so Richard was enjoying himself greatly: he paced up and down reeling off cases, authorities and statutes, still playing to the gallery. He was in his element. As the public benches filled up so the cheering for Richard increased; despite that my heart sank as more and more of the damned sat between Richard, myself and the exit door.

“Finally, however, Richard won his case.

“‘My final plea-in-law, and one which I think incontrovertible, is that a contract of service for more than a year, being one of the obligationes literis, has to be constituted in writing to be valid.’

“Home rose to his feet, but Braxfield gestured at him, making short, downward movements with his thumb, like a Roman emperor.

“‘Sit doon, Mr. Home, ye’d be wasting your breath. Mr. Gibson is, o’ coorse, quite correct—nae writing, nae contract.’ The ghost of a smile crossed his features. ‘Ca’ the demon here.’

“As the watchers raised another ragged cheer, the demon appeared on a small mound of sand in the center of the table in the well of the court. It was still trying to make rope out of the sand.

“‘Well done, Sir Michael,’ said the Devil, crossing to where the warlock stood.

“‘I thought Richard had won the case for you,’ I said, surprised. I noticed the gallery had gone strangely quiet. As the Devil turned to me he started to change form again in front of my eyes, black leathery skin stretching into that hideous face once more. ‘Quite right, my girl,’ it said. ‘But it was a mock trial. The real sport was a little bet between my friend here and me over whether Gibson would take the case. I bet against it, worse luck.’

“Then it laughed, tilting back its head and cackling until it almost choked, spitting scorpions and snakes onto the floor.

“Richard stood white faced on the other side of the table.

“‘What did you bet?’

“The warlock looked at him as if surprised. ‘Your soul, o’ coorse. Nick could’ve got it any time, but as I’ve won I get myself another lawyer. Very useful you’ll be, tae.’

“The instant he finished speaking the crowd fell on Richard, and he disappeared under a tangle of smoke-blackened bodies. The Devil turned to me, its eyes glowing red.

“‘You can go,’ it said. ‘But you’d better be quick.’

“I got up and ran, down the aisle toward the courtroom door. As I reached the door I heard a single, agonizing scream. Over Richard’s body the crowd were holding something white and glowing, something that seemed to pulse. I went through the door and didn’t look back again.

“I raced down the steps toward the exit, my heels skidding on the tiled surface, and hoped that somewhere would be safe from that hellish mob. I heard them start down the stairs after me yelling and chanting, the infernal noise getting closer; as I raced across the great entrance hall they seemed just yards away but I didn’t dare look round. I reached the door of the courthouse, flung it opened, and careered through—

“Into the arms of two Kirkcaldy policemen.

“The mob washed over us, shouting and screaming with laughter, pulling at the police uniforms. The policemen whirled round, looking for an enemy and seeing no one. Then the mob was gone, scattering over the street, fading into the wind and the cobblestones of Whytescauseway.

“I don’t know what I said to the police, but somehow I led them back up to Court Number 2, shaking with aftershock. The Devil, Sir Michael Scott and the rest had gone.

“Richard lay slumped over the table in the well of the Court, covered in sea sand. He was still breathing. I turned him over, crying and calling his name, kissing him again and again to make him wake up—

“Then his eyes opened and I saw I was too late. He walked and talked, he even explained our way out of getting arrested for breaking into the Sheriff’s Court, but he wasn’t there. It was just—whatever’s left of a man when his soul has been stolen.

“I took him home and put him to bed, but I knew things couldn’t go on as before. I had to leave and start a new life, somewhere away from Kirkcaldy. For all his faults Richard had plenty of spirit. What was left didn’t have any at all.”

The girl finished her story and reached for her glass. Ettie said nothing, staring into her own vodka as if still collecting her thoughts on what she had heard. In various corners of the bar below them, where the Hyde’s remarkable acoustics had carried the story, regulars cleared their throats and glances were exchanged.

“You’re wrong, Jackie, or only part right anyway,” said a voice. The other two had scarcely noticed the newcomer’s arrival, toward the end of the girl’s story. Now as he leaned out of the shadows in the corner Ettie could see Jackie’s point: Richard Gibson’s eyes were empty windows, seemingly lacking that spark of life which all of us take for granted when meeting another’s gaze.

“The human soul’s a very messy piece of work,” said Gibson, continuing. “When the mob tore it out they must have left some behind: either that or the body is in some way attracted to where the soul has gone. I’m going to try and retrieve it, or at least be united with it, and I think this place is the start of the road.”

“If that’s your wish I’ll show ye the entrance,” said Ettie. “But perhaps ye’d care for a drink first? Ye’ve a long way tae go.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the Hyde’s unpredictable light, but there seemed to be the faintest flicker, the slightest flash of something in the soulless man’s eyes as he accepted. Certainly he drained the glass straight down.

As he stood up to leave, Jackie edged round the table and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m going with you,” she said.

Ettie nodded and smiled, or as near as her wizened features could approximate to that expression.

“Then perhaps we’ll see ye in here again,” she said, and led the way down the stairs.