Brian and the Devil

Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, was due to make an appearance on Wednesday night. Brian had checked his occult calendar a million times and was sure the unholy cauldron and demonic lightning were aligned perfectly. He’d cross referenced charts, chanted prayers backwards, bought candles in bulk from Wilko and meticulously sponged baked bean stains from his cloak. So Wednesday it was. Definitely. Brian, as head of the Circle of Hell and its Devoted Followers – Avril, Dean, Mrs Suggins, the Gibbons twins and old Len from the corner shop– were so excited they could barely articulate their nervous questions at the weekly meet in Brian’s basement.

“Do we have to wear something black? ‘Cos black don’t suit me” said Avril, chewing a nail. Avril was on the entire group’s covert wish list and that included Mrs Suggins who sat at the back wringing her fat hands and squinting longingly at Avril’s shapely calves.

“Definitely black” intoned Brian portentously. “After all, this is God’s fallen angel we’re summonsing, it’s taken us months to accumulate the power to ……. well, invite him in.” This sounded pathetically weak, even to his own ears, as if Satan himself and his imps of hell were popping in for a Rich Tea and a cup of Earl Grey. Nobody smiled, however. Brian was as close to a Grand Wizard as they had in Eastavon Drive and demanded total respect.

“Will he want us to do his bidding?” asked one of the twins. “I just wondered, like, because I’ve got my job interview Thursday and I’m gonna need me sleep.” Brian pondered this one, because of course nobody actually knew what to expect. Large, certainly. Scary almost went without saying, and perhaps a little like the fire demon in that old film, with polyester fur and wobbly horns.

“We need” Brian addressed them solemnly “to be receptive to anything the Great One may be desirous of us.” Suitably Biblical, he considered, if a little ungrammatical, and obscure enough to silence the combative. Truthfully, he was more than a tad terrified now the time was imminent. You heard such petrifying stories, and they’d all watched every Hammer horror film with malignant shadows, swirling capes and soul selling bargains struck. Still, it would be impossibly weak to back down now and disappoint the Circle of Hell. Plus, he had a foolproof back up plan should the event take a turn for the worst. He had procured a gallon drum of holy water. Holy water which had been blessed by a priest – an excommunicated priest who was his brother-in-law’s cousin and would perform any outrageously blasphemous ritual, and hadn’t once asked why he needed to pass his hands over a rusty drum of water. Brian hoped that, should Lucifer become a bit bolshie then the sight of so much sanctified water would – might – hopefully – cut him down to size and calm the situation.

Old Len was becoming fidgety and Brian knew Avril’s gran would be panicking if she was late, so he rose from his home-made throne of Underworld Domination, drew his cloak closer and brought the meeting to a close. “Remember, Followers, today’s Monday. We have two days to prepare the Great One’s temple. Dean, you’re on candle duty tomorrow. Mrs Suggins, don’t forget the black altar cloth and the matches.” Good. Shall we gather here tomorrow night then to ensure everything is as it should be? Wednesday will truly be a momentous meeting.”

“Will he expect kneeling?” muttered Mrs Suggins. “Only I can’t do no kneeling, not with my hips. Will he want us to bow down before him, do you think?”

“I shouldn’t think so, love” said one the twins. “I reckon he’ll be a big pussy cat.”

“I ‘ate cats!” Avril butted in. “Nasty crafty things, they are. All that muck on your bedding plants.”

Tuesday evening was dank, the kind of dreary weather that never lightened, with a subtle drizzle that seeped into bones and left clothes sodden. Eastavon Drive’s Devoted Followers assembled on Brian’s path and waited for entry. Mrs Suggins clutched a greenish-black cloth that had served as a Sunday best pinafore dress in her distant youth. Dean held the matches, sheltering them under his raincoat. Avril hadn’t been assigned any pre-Devil arrangements but in the spirit of helping out had contributed some tea lights and bought along a CD of the Grateful Dead for atmosphere.

Brian’s front door opened wide without warning and a warm sulphurous stench poured out onto the group and surrounded them with a miasma of lung constricting vileness. “Christ!” said Len, gasping. “What the hell ……?” The hall, walls and floor of Brian’s modest semi were charred and smoking, tiny eddies of blackened wallpaper danced in the sudden draught, and at the far end of the corridor lay what resembled nothing more than an elongated pile of blackened rock. It wore the remnants of a cloak and next to it lay a parchment fragment, thick and unblemished by the heat. The police found five gibbering wrecks, and four scratched words deeply etched on the parchment. “Surprise! I came early.” An odd shape was imprinted in the bottom corner, which the chief of police finally decided was some arsonist’s idea of a sick joke. It seemed to be hoof shaped.