The D.E.V.I.L

“Well, I’ll be damned,’ the man said. ‘You’re him, aren't you? You're the Devil."

Alastor rolled his eyes. "No, I'm just--'

“You have the horns and everything!"

“They’re not horns,” Alastor explained, with the heavy monotony of a man repeating himself for the billionth time. “They’re epithelial lesions. It’s a skin abnormality. If you don't mind, can we--"

“Wait…does this mean I’m in hell?”

Alastor rubbed his face in his hands.

“No way!" the man raved, "That’s crazy, man! What did I do?! I don’t deserve this!”

“You’re not in hell," Alastor said, dismissively. "Pass me your hand.”

“Do what?”

“Your hand. Pass it here.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “What are you gonna do with it?”

“Look, it’s been a long day—’

“Alright, alright!” He extended his hand. Alastor took it in his own, closing his eyes in concentration.

“Mm. Alright. Bit of tax evasion—nothing too material—few parking tickets, pretty prolific non-payment of carrier bags since they introduced the 10p thing... Yeah, usual stuff. Nothing too serious. Ooh, hang on… tut tut.” He raised his eyebrows. “As many as eight?”

“Yeah, marriage really wasn't my thing," he shrugged. "What happens now then?”

“Oh, I’ll send you down to the Incendiary Levels. Probably flooooor…” he closed his eyes, performing some quick mental arithmetic. “Minus one-hundred or so. In with the petty sinners. Might even enjoy it down there.”

“I'll be one hundred floors deep in hell?!”

“Look, it’s not called hell, alright?” Alastor massaged his temples. “Urgh, I hate this job sometimes.”

“What, being the Devil?”

He clasped his hands and took a deep breath. “Look,’ he seethed. “I’ll explain this once, because I have to, and I won’t say it again, so listen, alright?”

The man frowned, then nodded.

“I’m not The Devil. There is no The Devil.’

“What are you, then?”

“I’m an unlucky bastard is what I am. Got given the one role that nobody wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“I look after everyone below level zero.” He pointed to a tiny badge sewn into his bright red overalls. “I’m the Director of Education and Virtue on the Incendiary Levels.”

“Right. The way they’ve done the badge just makes it look like—’

“Yeah. Yeah, The D.E.V.I.L, I know. Well, now you know: there is no Devil. There’s just me, and this stupid badge.”

“You’re pretty well known, you know… on Earth, as The Devil.” He frowned again. “Hey, if everyone’s dead by the time they meet you, how’d you get so notorious? You know, who let the cat out the bag?"

“Mm. Kind of my own fault, that one. Sent a bloke to reincarnation before his memory had been wiped. Administrative error: I was new to the job.”

"Reincarnation? That's what happens?"

"Yeah, yeah. You'll do your time here, see the error of your ways, cleanse your soul, then we'll wipe you and send you on your way."

The man blinked. “But this guy remembered you after he’d been reincarnated?”

“I figure he must have remembered the badge, and the…” He glanced up at the protrusions sprouting from his forehead. "Imperfect recollection."

“Right. Another question: if it’s called the Incendiary Lounge, or whatever—’

“The Incendiary Levels.”

“Yeah. But why does everyone know it as hell?"

“You can blame maintenance for that one. Idiots…” Alastor fumbled in his drawer for something. “Here it is.” He pulled out a brass-plated door sign and set it down on his desk.

“Minus one one three four,” the man read.

Alastor turned the sign upside-down and set it back down.

“And now?”

“hEll -,” the man read. “No way. So hell is just a misread number?"

“Yep. Maintenance screwed it on upside-down. We think someone from down there saw it after their memory wipe, on their way up to reincarnation. It’s a long way down, -1134. Bad, bad place. Proper unpleasant folk down there, and near the core, so it’s hot as… well, you know. The sign must have triggered a partial recall. Memory's a fragile thing..."

“Aaand you keep it in your desk drawer… why?”

Alastor shrugged. “A lot of people ask about this stuff. Makes it easier to explain.”

The man nodded.

“So… it’s not actually all that bad here?”

“Nah, it's fine. See it as a bit of R&R; a chance to meet new people. Life's hard enough without death being a chore, eh?" He smiled. "Any more questions, or shall we take you down?”

“One or two.” The man said. “Got time?”

“Go on.”

“Alright. Is there a heaven?”

“Not that I know of."

“Right. And God?”

Alastor laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine, son.”

“So, he’s nothing to do with all this?”

“He's never been in whilst I've been here.”

“How long have you been in the job?”

"I've done a fair stint."

“How’d you get it?”

“Like I said, just bad luck. It’s a bit like, ah…” He snapped his fingers in the air. “What’s it called? Jury duty.”

“Right. Got you.” The man seemed to take in his surroundings properly for the first time. “Where actually are we, by the way?”

“Oh, nowhere, really. Just somewhere your consciousness will linger until it resets." He grimaced. "You’re gonna have questions on that, aren’t you?”

“Makes sense, I guess. What did you say you were director of?”

“Director of Education and Virtue on the Incendiary Levels.”

“So, you… teach bad people to be good, then?”

“Yeah. Make sure everything's cushty. I do check-ins—like this—for a few years, to clear the backlog, then I’ll go on patrol for a decade or so, ensure everything's running as it should be."

“What does that mean?”

“It means… ensuring the environment that we provide is conducive to returning all those damaged souls to an equilibrium, I suppose, before they go around again. You know, making sure they’re on the right floor for their required level of support, surrounded by the right people, so we can tailor our approach accordingly.”

“So, it’s like… rehab? For evil?”

Alastor considered the analogy. “Mm,” he said. “I suppose it is, yes.”

“Why are they called the Incendiary Levels?"

"Oh, they used to be perpetually aflame." He clocked the look on the man's face and swiftly continued. "Things have changed a lot." He tapped his badge. "Once upon a time, this would've said 'Director of Escalating Violence on the Incendiary Levels'. We're not about that any more." He smiled again.

The man considered Alastor carefully. “Were you human once?”

“I was.”

“But not anymore?”

“No. Neither are you. The consciousness is a kind of self-portrait; an image of how we remember ourselves on Earth; the most recent physical form to which it can anchor itself." He tapped the lesions on his forehead. "That's why I'm stuck with these. It’s some evolutionary mechanism that allows us to interact here, facilitates us bettering ourselves for the next round. But no, neither of us are mortal any more.”

“How long will I be here for?”

“We’ll get you fixed up and send you back round ASAP. You’ll be gone in a jiffy. As always, the main hold-up is paperwork," he winked.

“Ok, that's... a relief, I guess." His tone slid to one more conversational. "Where were you from?"

"Huh?"

"When you were alive. I can't place the accent."

“I…” Alastor blinked. “I don’t remember. My mind was wiped before I got assigned this role.”

“Oh, I'm sorry."

“Don't be. Any more questions, or shall we get you settled in?”

“Can we walk and talk?”

“Sure, let's go. You’ll be level -120, by the way. Just had confirmation. They've just had a new pool table put in, and the pubs are always rammed. Good floor, as they go."

The man stopped. Alastor, sensing it, turned around and eyed him curiously.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You said that our consciousness portrays an image of how we remember ourselves, from back on Earth?”

“I did.”

“Right. And you said you’d had your mind wiped, before you got assigned this role?”

“Correct.”

“So… you shouldn't remember how you looked, should you?"

"I... no, I suppose you're right."

"So... how do you still have those—those, what did you call them?— lesions on your head? Surely you shouldn't remember them?"

“That’s—’ Alastor frowned, his mouth twisting into a strange grin. “That’s a very good question." He rubbed his hands together, lowering his head as he held his gaze. "You got me."

Before the man’s eyes, Alastor began to change. His hunched shoulders sharpened into pointed blades, whilst his legs grew long and beastly. Jagged fingernails tore through the tips of his fingers, and his overalls, previously hanging baggily around his torso, gradually merged with the very flesh on his back, until every inch of him was encased in a sore-looking layer of red, scaly skin. His eyes burned like fire, his forked tongue lashing over his rotten teeth.

“It seems The Devil really is in the detail,” he sneered. “Bravo, I must say. It’s not often I get caught out.”

 “I don’t understand,” the man stammered, backing away. “Why pretend you were someone else? Why tell me all those things? What was the point of it all?”

"Amusement," he sneered, elongating the word in a way that made the man shiver. "I find that the cruellest form of torture is hope. Simple, destructive hope.” He laughed a great, booming laugh. “More specifically,” he snarled, plucking something invisible from the air between them, “the sudden retraction of that hope.”

“So, there’s no reincarnation? There’s no reformatory system here, no resetting of the soul?”

“Oh no,” The Devil assured him, savouring the anguish on his face. “You’re here to suffer, my friend. Only to suffer.”

"But then how can I know of you?!" The man cried. "The whole world knows you! I don't understand!"

The Devil marched towards him, towering above his quivering frame. He leant down, his rancid breath scorching the very skin of the man's face.

"And you never will," he hissed.

And with that, he cast the man into Hell.

-----

Once Alastor's laughter had subsided, he rubbed the base of his lesions thoughtfully.

He never had been able to hide them.

No wonder, really. Those lesions defined him; in life, and now too in death. The utter malice with which his classmates, his colleagues--even his own family--had shamed and ridiculed him for those most blatant of abnormalities, the disgust with which they recoiled from his repugnant, miscoloured skin. His parents had left him for dead the day he was born, and then, certain that they must wish to see him again, he had found them as a teenager, only for them to reject him once more.

He reminisced of their demise; of feeling the last of their life ebb from their bodies beneath his fingers; fingers wrapped tightly around their throats.

Hell had been soft when he’d arrived here, at least compared to what Alastor knew of life. Some jobsworth on the gate had taken one look at the incident with his parents and sent him straight down to the very lowest of the Incendiary Levels with some kind of 12-step guide. He had escaped—the only soul to ever do so—roaming free across the plains of purgatory, slaying any saint or spirit that stood in his way, until he alone was left to steward the passage of his species to their fates.

How beautiful, how poetic.

After all he had suffered, he now sentenced humanity to their justice. He toyed with their emotions, dangled the promise of dignity, of respect, and then cast them into the fire.

Heaven, as they called it, was empty, whilst Hell--proper Hell, with no whimsical aspirations of reincarnating its incarcerated populace--heaved and rotted with the masses of their screaming souls.

Forever, he would watch them squirm and suffer, lash them, burn them, degrade and defile them, and still, still, it was a mere taste of the misery that humanity had inflicted on him throughout his life.

But it was OK.

Because revenge was sweet.

And Alastor had the whole of eternity to exact it.