A Blink of the Screen: Collected Short Fiction Read online

Poomf!

  He was gone. The room was again filled with sulphurous smoke. Crucible opened the windows and then closed them again. If some busybody saw the smoke, he would have a hard time explaining to the Fire Brigade just why there was no fire. He strolled into the kitchen and sat down thoughtfully; he wished he had read more fantasy.

  In wishing the Devil would mind his own business, Crucible was thinking along the same lines as certain other beings. Where they differed was the reason. Crucible opened the fridge and took out a can of beer.

  Having someone running around loose, who knows about things one would prefer to keep to oneself, is dangerous. Crucible’s love of money warred with his love of freedom. He wanted that forty thousand pounds, but he did not want Lucifer running around loose.

  Suddenly, the perfect solution struck him. Of course! Why not! He grabbed his hat, and hurried out to the local church.

  Crucible stood in the pouring rain at the corner of the street. A small stream of water was coursing down his back and flooding his suedes. He looked at his watch. One minute to eight o’clock. He shivered.

  ‘Psst!’

  Crucible looked round.

  ‘Down here.’

  He saw that a man-hole in the middle of the pavement was raised. The Devil poked his head out.

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘Through there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He edged himself through the narrow hole.

  Splash!

  He would have to put his shoes on ‘Expenses’.

  ‘Well, let’s be off,’ said the Devil.

  ‘I didn’t know one could get to Down There along the sewers!’

  ‘Easiest thing there is, old man. Left here.’

  There was no sound but the echoes of their footsteps: Crucible’s suedes and the Devil’s hooves.

  ‘How much further?’

  They had been walking for several hours. Crucible’s feet were damp and he was sneezing.

  ‘We’re there, old man.’

  They had come to the end of the tunnel. Before them stretched a dark valley. In the distance, Crucible could see a giant wall, with a tiny door. Across the valley ran a black river; the air was tainted with sulphur.

  The Devil removed a tarpaulin from a hump by the tunnel mouth.

  ‘May I present Geryon II!’

  Crucible blinked. Geryon II was a Model-T Ford crossed with an Austin 7, tastefully decorated in sulphurous yellow.

  The Devil wrenched at the offside door, which fell off.

  They climbed in. Surprisingly, the car started after only a few swings of the starting handle.

  They chugged across the sulphur plain.

  ‘Nice car.’

  ‘Isn’t it! Forty dragon-power. Built her myself from a few bits and pieces from Earth. Trouble with springing out of the floor near a junk-yard,’ said the Devil, gritting his fangs as they cornered at speed in a cloud of sulphur, ‘is the fact one often surfaces under a pile of old iron.’ He rubbed his head. Crucible noticed that one of his horns was bandaged.

  They skidded to a halt by the river. The car emitted clouds of steam.

  A battered punt was moored by the river. The Devil helped Crucible in and picked up the skulls – pardon me – sculls.

  ‘What happened to what’s-his-name – Charon?’

  ‘We don’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Silence, except for the creaking of the oars.

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to replace this by a bridge.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Crucible looked thoughtful.

  ‘A ha’penny for them.’

  ‘I am thinking,’ said Crucible, ‘about the water that is lapping about my ankles.’

  The Devil did not look up.

  ‘Here.’

  He handed Crucible a battered mug, on which the initials ‘B.R.’ were just discernible. And so they continued.

  They stood in front of the gate. Crucible looked up and read the inscription:

  ALL HOPE ABANDON, YE WHO ENTER HERE.

  ‘No good.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Neon lights.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Red ones.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Flashing.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  They entered.

  ‘Down, boy; get off Crucible.’

  Three tongues licked Crucible simultaneously.

  ‘Back to your kennel, boy.’

  Whining, Cerberus slunk off.

  ‘You must excuse him,’ said the Devil, as he picked Crucible up and dusted him down. ‘He has never been the same since he took a lump out of Orpheus’s leg.’

  ‘It didn’t say that in the story.’

  ‘I know. Pity, because the real story was much more – er, interesting. But that’s neither here nor there.’

  Crucible took stock of his surroundings. They appeared to be standing in a hotel lobby. In one wall was a small alcove containing a desk, on which a huge Residents’ book, covered in dust, lay open.

  The Devil opened a small wooden door.

  ‘This way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My office.’

  Crucible followed him up the narrow stairway, the boards creaking under his feet.

  The Devil’s office, perched precariously on the walls of Hell, was rather dilapidated. There was a patch of damp in one corner, where the Styx had overflowed, and the paper was peeling off the wooden walls. A rusty stove in the corner glowed red hot. Crucible noticed that the floor seemed to be covered with old newspapers, bills, and recipes for various spells.

  The Devil dropped into a commodious armchair while Crucible sat down in a tortuous cane chair, which all but collapsed under his weight.

  ‘Drink?’ said the Devil.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Crucible.

  ‘Very nice drink, this,’ said Crucible. ‘Your own recipe?’

  ‘Yes. Quite simple – two pints bats’ blood, one— I say! You’ve gone a funny colour! Feel all right?’

  ‘Ulp! Ghack! Um – quite all right, thanks. Er – shall we get down to business?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well, as I see it, our main difficulty will be to make the public take Hell – and you for that matter – seriously. I mean, the generally accepted theory of Hell is a sort of fiery furnace, with you prodding lost souls with a pitchfork and hordes of demons and what-not running around yelling— Hey, that reminds me, where is everybody – er, soul?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lost souls and demons and banshees and what-not?’

  ‘Oh, them. Well, like I said, no one has been down here for two thousand years, except that nit, Dante. And all the souls down here gradually worked their way up to Purgatory, and thence to – yes, well, the demons all got jobs elsewhere.’

  ‘Tax collectors,’ murmured Crucible.

  ‘Quite so. As for fiery furnaces, the only one still in working order is the Mark IV, over there in the corner. Very useful for my culinary efforts but not for much else.’

  ‘Hm. I see. Have you a map of Hell handy?’

  ‘I think so.’ The Devil rummaged in an old oak desk behind him and produced a roll of yellow parchment.

  ‘This is the newest map I have.’

  ‘It’ll do. Now let me see. Hum. I take it this is where we came in.’

  ‘Yes! That shading is the Sulphur Plain.’

  ‘That’s good. I’m sure the Acme Mining Company would give a lot to have the mining rights –’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Of course, we would have to build a proper road over it for the increased transport –’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Get a large tunnel dug down from Earth –’

  ‘Coffee bar here. Dance Hall there. Race track at the far end. Bowling Alley over –’

  ‘We could put a Fun-fair here –’

  ‘Leaving room for a restaurant there –’

  ‘Put some ice-cre
am stalls here and here, and here –’

  ‘All-night Jazz band there. Get in touch with your demons and offer them higher wages to come back to help run the place –’

  ‘Get Orpheus to organize a Jazz band – I’m sure Apollo would oblige –’

  And so it continued. Soon the map was covered in symbols representing everything from a dance hall to a cycle-track. Then they sat back and discussed Stage One: putting Hell in the public eye.

  Of course, there were difficulties at first. The time when the Devil materialized in the middle of the pitch on Cup Final day springs to mind. Still, he got a front page splash in all the popular newspapers. A famous Brewery sued him for loss of custom, since most of the Cup Final spectators signed the pledge after seeing him.

  Telephone lines all over the world smouldered, melted, and slowly fused together as Crucible was plagued with offers from the big financial magnates. Advertising firms fought for the Devil’s patronage. Work on the London–Hell tunnel was progressing fast under Crucible’s supervision. The Devil moved in with him, saying that all the cranes and bulldozers and what-not were making Hell hell.

  ‘See how Cerberus loves his Yummy-Doggy! Your dog can have that glossy coat, those glistening fangs, those three heads, if you feed him Yummy-Doggy! Yummy-Doggy in the handy two-ounce tin! Cerberus says Yummy-Doggy is scr-r-rumptious! Ask for Yummy Doggy!!’

  ‘Men of distinction smoke Coffin-Nales!’

  ‘Tell me, Lucifer, why do you smoke Coffin-Nales?’

  ‘I like that cool, fresh feeling; the flavour of the superb tobacco; the fifty pounds your firm’s paying me for these corny adverts –’

  ‘Tell me, sir, what are your views on the Colour Bar?’

  ‘Well, I – er – I mean to say – um – er well – er that is –’

  ‘What do you think of the younger generation?’

  ‘Well – er – um – ah – yes! Definitely!’

  ‘Do you agree that violence on television is responsible for the deplorable increase in the Nation’s crime statistics?’

  ‘Well, ah – um – no. That is to say, er – yes. I mean, er – no – ah – um.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir, for coming here tonight and giving us your views on topics of immediate concern. Thank you. Well, ladies and gentlemen, tune in next week for another –’

  Crucible surveyed the company dispassionately. There was the usual bevy of disgruntled back-benchers, would-be starlets, bored reporters, and of course, the usual fatigue party of Guards, all sipping themselves horizontal on third-rate champagne. A motley and mottled crowd. Crucible, who was becoming quite an expert on crowded atmospheres of late, diagnosed this one as a particularly fruity blend of stale smoke, Fleurs de Mal, and methane, not to mention the occasional waft of carbon monoxide. He turned to the Devil, who was performing wonders with the cocktail shaker.

  ‘This, my friend, is what is laughingly called a party; a ritual still found in the better parts of Belgravia. It seems to consist of a—’

  ‘Oh, lay off it, Cru. This is the besteshed jag I’ve hadsh in five hundred yearsh, and I’m gonna make the besht of itsh—’

  A muffled crump! indicated that the Devil had ‘made the besht of itsh’, to the best of his ability.

  It was a crisp November morning, and in the secluded thoroughfare that was Cranberry Avenue the birds were singing, the leaves were falling, and Crucible was having his breakfast. Between mouthfuls of bacon and mushrooms, he gave the newspapers the swift port-to-starboard. The gossip column caught his eye and he remembered the Devil.

  Throwing the paper in the waste-bin, he wiped his mouth on his napkin and padded into the spare bedroom.

  Chaotic was the scene that met his eye. Paper hats, balloons, and streamers were lying around the room and there were of bottles not a few. The Devil himself, still clad in Crucible’s second-best dress-suit, was sprawled across the bed, snoring loudly.

  ‘Wakey-Wakey!’ shouted Crucible, heartlessly. The effect was impressive. The Devil shot a clear two feet in the air and came down clutching his head; the language he used turned Crucible’s ears bright red.

  Crucible busied himself in the kitchen, and returned with a cup of black coffee.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Ouch! Not so loud.’ Slurp! ‘Oh, that’s better. What happened last night?’

  ‘You tried the effect of vodka and Green Chartreuse.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Quite. Now, best foot – er, hoof, forward. Hell’s opening ceremony is at twelve.’

  ‘I can’t go like this – ouch!’

  ‘Sorry. You’ll just have to drink gallons of black coffee and bear it. Now, come on.’

  Jazz resounded around the walls of Hell. Pop music echoed along the dark corridors, mingling with the click of slot machines. Espresso coffee flowed in rivers. The scream of hotted-up motorcycles mingled with the screams of banshees both ghostly and human (guitar strumming, for the use of ). The growth of Hell’s popularity only equalled the growth of the Devil’s bank account.

  Up high in his balcony, on the wall of Hell, the Devil poured himself a drink of water and took three tranquillizer pills.

  The storm raged. For the last month the Northern Hemisphere had been beset by thunderstorms unequalled in the records of mankind. The weather-men spent all their working days testing their corns, seaweed, and other oracles but had to confess themselves at a loss.

  In the large study of his new country house, Crucible threw another log on the fire and settled himself deeper into his armchair. The storm continued.

  His conscience, perforce the most robust and untroubled in Europe, was troubling him. Something was wrong with this Hades business. Certainly not on the monetary side, for his commission over the last three weeks had been exceedingly generous, as his country house, two cars, five race-horses, and one yacht plainly stated.

  Hell had been a great success. The Top people were going to flock there and it had had the approval of the Establishment.

  But something was wrong. Something to do with those heavy storms.

  Somewhere in his mind, the inner Crucible, equipped with wings, halo, and harp, was bouncing up and down on Crucible’s conscience. The thunder murmured.

  Poomb!

  The Devil appeared, looking very agitated, and ran to Crucible’s cocktail cabinet. He poured himself a Belladonna, and whirled round to Crucible.

  ‘I can’t stand any more of it!’ he screamed. His hand was shaking.

  ‘More of what?’

  ‘Your lot! They’ve turned my home into Bedlam! Noise! Noise! Noise! I can’t get a good night’s rest! Do you realize I haven’t slept for over two weeks? Nothing but yelling teen—!’

  ‘One moment. You say they disturb you?’

  ‘Very funny!’

  ‘Why not close Hell for a while and take a holiday?’

  ‘I’ve tried. Heaven knows—!’

  Rumble!

  ‘I’ve tried! Will they leave? No! A bunch of thugs threatened to “get” me if I tried to close their noisy, blaring paradise—’

  RUMBLE!

  ‘I can’t move without being mobbed by savage hordes of autograph hunters! I’m famous! I can’t get a bit of peace! It’s Hell down there!’ The Devil was now kneeling on the floor, tears streaming down his face. ‘You’ve got to help me! Hide me! Do something! Oh God, I wish—’

  The thunder split the Heavens in twain. The sky echoed and re-echoed with the sound. Crucible slumped in his chair, his hands clapped over his bursting eardrums.

  Then there was silence.

  The Devil lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by light. Then the thunder spoke.

  ‘DO YOU WISH TO RETURN?’

  ‘Oh, yes sir! Please! I’m sorry! I apologize for everything! I’m sorry about that apple, truly I am!’

  On the bookshelf, a bust of Charles Darwin shattered to fragments.

  ‘I’m sorry! Please take me back, please –’

  ‘COME.’

&
nbsp; The Devil vanished. Outside, the storm subsided.

  Crucible rose, shaken, from the chair. Staggering over to the window, he looked into the fast-clearing evening sky.

  Then out of the sunset came a Hand and Arm of light, raised in salute.

  Crucible smiled.

  ‘Don’t mention it, sir. It was a pleasure.’

  He closed the window.

  SOLUTION

  TECHNICAL CYGNET, 1:10, JULY 1964

  I really can’t remember this one. There was a period, a long, long time ago, when I was dashing out ideas and concepts and half-baked bits of dialogue to see if, magically, they would catch fire and become a decent short story or novel. Those that didn’t make it were dumped in the bit bucket, and if you can remember what that means then you have been around computers for as long as me. I must have written it and then danced away to try something else.

  ‘Gold? or is it diamonds this time?’

  Pyecraft swung round. ‘What the—!’

  The Inspector stepped through the tiny hatchway into the cockpit, and pointed vaguely towards the small rear cabin.

  ‘There is a very large parachute compartment back there. I had to throw out your parachute though, so it’s in your own interest that you watch the controls.’

  Pyecraft eased the joystick back. ‘I’ll have your hide for this,’ he muttered. ‘After the indignity of a search at Lemay, you stow away on my private plane—!’

  ‘Why don’t you shut up?’ suggested the Inspector sweetly. ‘There are just the two of us here, so we’ll have less of the “outraged citizen” act. It doesn’t suit you.’ He lit a cigarette and carefully refrained from offering one to Pyecraft. ‘Johan Pyecraft, I arrest you in—’

  ‘What for? You can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Smuggling.’

  ‘Smuggling what? His arm slid slowly down between the seats to the small brass fire-extinguisher.

  ‘I don’t know yet. However, you have made fifteen trips over the mountains, in these battered old aircraft, in the past three weeks; you suddenly have a lot of money; and you are a known smuggler. So I say to myself, Gustave, I say, where is he getting all this money? And I answer myself, Gustave, mon ami, he is back in his old trade.’

  ‘You found nothing at Lemay.’ Pyecraft grasped the extinguisher.

  ‘Exactly. And so you must have brought it on to the plane since. Therefore you will please to turn the machine around and—’