Karl Wagner - The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

“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.