Karl Wagner - The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

“‘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.