An Ungodly Child

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ISBN: 1905108648

Chapter 1: Semi-expected Deaths.

Margaret Daly screamed.

A burst of bubbles popping on the surface were the only indication that she was in mortal peril. The daughter of an Olympic-standard swimmer, she could hold her breath longer than anyone she’d ever met, but she’d ignored the resort’s advice about not swimming alone in the scintillating azure of the Aegean Sea.

Warm salt water seared her throat and set her lungs aflame as it replaced the air. Margaret thrashed, trying to free herself from the long fronds of the box jellyfish which shouldn’t have been present in this part of the world – not in November. Her legs were tingling with pain, the blood flow reducing as her pores swelled and her arteries closed. She could see the surface only a few feet above her, sunlight sparkling like diamonds over the calm surface.

Blood clouded the water as she scraped her arm across the reef, razor-sharp coral lacerating her pale skin and peeling the flesh away as efficiently as a filleting knife leaving the muscle exposed. A part of her mind, detached from the horror of her death, wondered why it didn’t hurt more and why there was so little blood.

Her muscles jerked again as the last of the air was displaced from her lungs, oxygen-starved blood bursting vessels in her head. Sight faded as her body relaxed, the fight replaced by a peace and a movement that was almost balletic in grace as she pirouetted in the warm current, spiraling into the depths.

She watched her corpse sink, her spirit freed in the struggle and left behind in the shallows. They wouldn’t declare her missing for hours – probably not until after lunch when Jeff, her husband of four days, rose from his drunken slumber and wondered why she wasn’t there to bring him coffee.

“Bummer,” said a voice.

She twisted to look at the creature – a sort of lizard-like merman carrying an assortment  of cannula needles, tubes and blood collection bags – full ones, too. She heaved herself out of the water onto the rocks, relieved that the jagged surface didn’t hurt. “What is?” she said. She wondered if she should be surprised by the creature, but watching your own corpse sink left little to be surprised about.

“Dying like that.” The creature nodded to the depths. “They’ll never find you. You husband will think you ran off with the guy from the scuba diving shop.”

“Him?” Margaret wrinkled her nose. “Not my type.”

“Still.” The creature shrugged. “He disappeared this morning. He actually eloped with a girl from the village but nobody knows that. They’ll all assume he ran off with you. You won’t even get a eulogy or three lines in the Kennington Advertiser.”

Margaret sniffed, thankful that her lungs no longer felt on fire. “Should I care?”

“Do you feel as if you could?”

Margaret examined her thoughts. She didn’t really feel anything. If she was going to miss anything at all, it was probably her dog, Mitchell, but even that brought no pang of longing. “Not really,” she admitted. “Everything feels a bit detached to be honest.”

“That’s because you’re dead,” said the creature. “Worldly affairs don’t really concern you any more.” He got to his feet. “I have to get off,” he said. “Work to be done, and all that. It was nice meeting you.”

“Wait!” Margaret tried to hold on to him but her hand slipped straight through his scaly little form “What happens now? Where do I go?”

He looked at his wrist in the classic pose of checking the time though no watch was evident. “There should be  a bus along in a minute,” he said. “Or a bright light or something. I don’t know, really. It depends on your belief system.”

“I’ll go to heaven then?”

He laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “Heaven closed years ago.”

***

Murray Wilson was waiting for the green man when he felt a prick in his leg. He winced in pain and wobbled as a dizzy spell overtook him, holding out a hand to clutch at the post of the pelican crossing. Heart hammering, he took several deep breaths, rubbing at his calf where it felt like he was being stabbed with needles.

Passers-by ignored him, but after a few minutes the pain stopped. Murray blinked his eyes to clear the watery blur wondering why he felt so devoid of energy. Would sugar help? There was a newsagent just across the street – he could get a chocolate bar and sit in the park to eat it. He stepped off the pavement and didn’t even see the car that hit him, tossing his body twelve feet along the tarmac to rest, twisted like a discarded mannequin, in the gutter. There was surprisingly little blood.

“Don’t look!” he said to the little boy standing next to him. “What a dreadful accident. That poor chap didn’t stand a chance!” He looked down, the words dying in his throat. What he had assumed to be a small boy was really a creature so disgusting he could only cross himself and back away.

“It’s a bit late for that, Murray.” The creature, about two feet high and carrying a complicated array of tubes and plastic containers filled with – oh, God, was that blood? – turned to face him. He had the scaly head of a lizard with as many teeth as a miniature crocodile, but stood on two legs with proper human arms and hands. His feet were far from human, cloven in two like a goat’s with a barbed tail flicking back and forth. The creature’s groin was mercifully covered by a dirty loincloth .

“What?” Murray felt the metal post of the traffic lights at his back.

“It’s too late for you to be crossing yourself and thinking about being pious.” The creature put down his burden and whistled with long, thin fingers. A door opened in mid air and , with Murray staring open-mouthed, an identical creature stepped out onto the pavement, gathered up the containers and raised his eye ridges. The first creature nodded toward Murray. “He doesn’t know he’s dead.”

“What?” Murray looked around. The creature couldn’t mean him, surely?

“Look around you.” The creature stepped forward, holding out a scaly little hand. “I’m Devious, Under-master of the Guild of Imps and Transient Souls.”

“You’re a demon?” Murray backed away another pace.

“No, an imp. Didn’t I just say?” Devious extended his hand further. “You may want to step forward again. That really can’t be comfortable.”

“What can’t?” Murray looked up. The traffic light pole extended directly up through his body and out of his shoulder, casing a rather pallid green over everything. “Oh.”

“Welcome to the after life.” The little demon pulled him forward. The sensation of the pole moving through his body was akin to being on the toilet – a slight struggle and relief when it was free. “Enjoy it while you can, you’ve got about five minutes.”

***

The kitchens were fairly quiet at this time of night, with only the chef and an assistant preparing the vegetables for the next day’s lunchtime menu. Joe Montagne had the speed of a master chef. He’d have been on the television if he hadn’t had an accident with a tureen of hot soup when he was four years old – the scars had prevented him ever reaching out to an audience even after he became head chef at the Savoy. His knife became a blur of speed and thirty pounds of carrots were reduced to perfect slices, each exactly 1/8” thick.

“Hey Joe,” his assistant, Pat Mulligan, called over his shoulder from where he was washing up. “Did you hear the one about the woman who couldn’t stop having orgasms?”

Joe looked up with a puzzled expression, still chopping at a speed that ordinary chefs could only dream of. “Come again?” he asked.

“That’s right!” The dishwasher creased up with laughter whilst Joe shook his head, swapping out the carrots with peppers, expertly cutting out the centre whilst carrying on a conversation.

“I don’t know where you get them.” Joe sliced the pepper and reached for another, his razor sharp blade dancing with the accuracy of a surgeon’s scalpel. He looked across at Pat as his fingers cored and chopped.

A sauce pan was dropped, still steaming, onto the growing pile of clean washing up. Pat tapped his head. “I think of them myself,” he said. “You don’t think I’m going to be a kitchen skivvy all my life. I’m going to break into showbiz one of these days. I sold a joke for a hundred dollars last week.”

“A hundred dollars? For a joke?” Joe shook his head and reached for another pepper. “That’s a joke in itself. What was it? Was it funny?”

“I can’t tell it you.” Pat laughed. “It was a corker, though.” He returned to his washing up, still giggling to himself. He was still chuckling when the articulated lorry ploughed through the wall, decapitating him instantly. His spirit would have been amused at the irony of it being a container lorry for Head.

Joe, with a moment of extra reaction time, managed to spring out of the way, thanking his lucky stars the central ovens were bolted to the floor. With a geyser of steam the lorry hit them and stopped, the crescendo of noise fading in a matter of seconds to the steady hiss of gas and the splash of water from the splintered pipes. He heaved a sign of relief, then yelped at the sharp pain in his arm.

“What the–”

A small brownish grey figure was busy draining the blood out of his arm. It looked up at him and grinned. “You don’t mind, do you? You’ll be dead in a minute anyway, and I know a woman desperate for the blood.”

Joe frowned. “What do you mean, I’ll be dead in a minute?”

The creature pointed down. Joe’s paring knife was lodged at an upward angle in his chest. He reached for it.

“No!” the creature shouted. “You pull that out and arterial blood will spray this kitchen and leave you dead in ten seconds flat.”

Joe hesitated. “You said I was going to die soon”

“Yes,” said the creature, “But preferably not until I’ve extracted your blood. It’s not like you need it any more.”

“I suppose not.” Joe closed his eyes for a moment. “Is she pretty?”

“Who?”

“This woman who’s getting a blood transfusion.”

“She’s humanoid,” said the creature. “Any more than that is purely subjective, so how would I know?” He sat back and pulled out a worn leather pouch. “All you mortals look the same to me. How am I supposed to know what blend of features, hair and skin tone you find pleasing?” He checked on the blood flow and began rolling a cigarette. “If it’s any consolation, her fella thinks she’s a bit of a dish.” He took out a lighter and lit the cigarette.

Joes nostrils flared. “You can’t smoke that in here,” he said. “This is a kitchen. You’ll get me shut down.”

“More than a lorry and three deaths will do already?” The creature patted his arm. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” he said. “I ‘spect you’re feeling a bit sleepy by now.”

“I am, actually.” Joe closed his eyes. There was a light behind his eyelids. It felt warm, like sunlight in June. “I can see my mom.”

***

Coliniel folded his wings and looked down at his notebook. That wasn’t right, surely? The name was there in black and white: Murray Wilson. D.O.B. 11-06-54. Road accident, but he’d seen an imp taking the poor man’s blood which had been the root cause of the man stepping out in front of traffic. On the other hand, Murray Wilson had been scheduled to die at that precise time. Coliniel had seen the nimbus of dark light in the mortal’s aura before the imp had even arrived. There was definitely something screwy here.

“Mr. Wilson?” he said, plastering on a smile. “Welcome to the afterlife…”

Pointlessness

The last century has seen the rise of a weird kind of fascination with Satanism. Most of these folk have no real idea what it’s about and would deny that they are Christians. They are, of course. Anyone that worships Satan worships God by default, since no-one is disputing that God is the Father of Satan. Rather stupidly, they still hope for redemption at the end of it, despite the black candles and pentagrams and sacrificed small animals. They like all the ritual and the funny clothing. They don’t realise how very pointless it all is.

 

Satan is a vegetarian.