Fireproof (5 page)

He also had an imp on his shoulder.

Mike slowly turned his head to the right and could not see the little guy, but when he turned back to his reflection, there it was again. The imp waved at him and smiled. Mike tried to poke at it with his index finger. The imp slapped it away. Mike withdrew his hand but didn't complain. They needed privacy. He knew a nice pub called Copperfield's nearby and he headed straight for it. He asked the sour-faced barman for a pint of Guinness and told him that he'd be back in a second. While the pint settled, Mike went to the gent's toilet.

He looked in the mirror behind the sink and the bug-eyed imp waved at him again. Mike waved back. He'd never seen an actual imp during his stay in hell, but if he had seen this disgusting little creature, he would have known what it was. It wore no trousers. Its skin glistened green and its wide mouth stretched from ear to ear. Countless fishlike teeth filled the awful grinning orifice. A small and sharp nose wrinkled above its smile. The points of its ears ended above its bald, pimply head. It wore a T-shirt that read ‘the imp'.

"Can I help you?" Mike asked.

"Nope," the imp said.

"So what are you doing on my shoulder then?"

"Well Mike, I'm kind of like a little reminder." The imp's high-pitched voice grated worse than a digital alarm clock chime. "When you decide to dawdle, there I'll be, just to remind you that you have a job to do. If you have any questions for the Master, you can also relay them through me. I can also offer you a little advice, from time to time."

"Are you Jiminy Cricket?"

"What?"

"Oh never mind, I guess Walt Disney went to Heaven after all."

"Um, sure, whatever you say. Have you got any questions for me?"

"Did you shit on my shoulder?"

"Not yet."

"Why are you not wearing trousers?"

"They're at the cleaners. I've a dodgy tummy."

"How come I can't feel you on my shoulder but you can slap my hand away?"

"Aitkins."

"Funny. Now, will you piss off until I finish my pint?"

"No, but I will join you at the bar."

"Great."

"Oh don't worry, Mike; you'll not even know I'm here. I'm a good, quiet drinking partner."

Mike sat at the bar and, of course, there was a mirror behind it. The imp had produced a tiny cup of coffee in the journey between the toilet and the barstool. He slurped on the foul smelling java with hair-raising enthusiasm. Mike found the little guy a bit of an annoyance, but because that was obviously the little bastard's reason to be, he didn't let it show. He ordered another pint, just to make a point, and drank it slowly before leaving the bar. He expected a bit of a beer buzz after two pints at only three in the afternoon, but it seemed that the new body handled drink better than his original one.

As Mike began his trek back up the Falls Road, the little imp revealed that they didn't need to stand in front of a mirror to communicate.

"So, when do you plan to get to work, Mike?"

Mike waited until he passed a crowd of school kids at the bus stop before he answered the voice coming from his right shoulder.

"I already have."

"Oh. What have you done then?"

"Don't you have a direct line to the big man down under? Why not ask him?"

"Now Mike, don't be so arrogant. The Master doesn't spend all of his time tracking your progress. He has more than one pot on the boil."

"I thought he was all knowing."

"You're thinking of the other one. You know, up there."

"Do you mean God?" Mike asked.

"Shush, will you. We're not supposed to say his name. You may as well pray to him. But yes, that's who I mean." The imp paused for a second, as if he needed time to carefully construct his next sentence. "Our Master is powerful in different ways."

"Oh I see." Mike chuckled but the imp didn't encourage him to share the joke.

"So, what have you done then?" the imp asked.

"Stick around for another couple of minutes. I'm just about to meet with my first disciples."

"Oh, is that right? This'll be interesting."

Mike walked at a good pace and they were almost at the park. The Hoods were still there, a little drunker and a lot more boisterous, but still pretty much as he'd left them. Mike stormed into the park, stood in front of the gang and threw himself in at the deep end.

"Right, dickheads, listen to me." That got their attention. "I've got something for you to think about."

The assembled teenagers watched the intruder with stunned silence. The imp sucked in a whistling breath.

"Jim, take this twenty and go to the off licence across the road. Buy thirteen bottles of white cider and keep the change. Bring them over here and hand them out. This is your lucky day."

Jim's bruised and bloody face lit up at the prospect of free drink. He didn't even ask Mike for a name or how Mike knew his. He just grabbed for the note. Mike pulled it out of reach. "If you run away with this money, Jim, I'll break your neck."

Jim nodded and took the money. He asked two of the other boys to come with him and help carry the drink. Mike turned to the remaining nine teenagers. They all stared at him but none spoke.

"Are you not going to ask me why I've bought you all a drink?"

"Who cares?" The hero was the only one to speak up. The others snickered but weren't comfortable enough with the situation to outright guffaw.

"That's a fair point, big man, but I'm feeling chatty today so I'll tell you anyway." Mike paused for a moment, in order to increase the tension. "I'm recruiting for my army and I think you lot show some potential."

"Are you a Brit?" the hero asked.

"No, big man, I'm not talking about the British Army, the Irish Army or even the IRA. I want to start a religious movement and I want to give you fine young people a chance to play an important role in it."

"You're not wise, mister," the hero's new girlfriend said. The hero laughed and gave her hand a squeeze. The others snickered a little louder this time.

"Did we miss much?" Jim and the two boys had returned with three blue plastic bags filled with plastic bottles of cider.

"We've been asked to join a religious movement, Jim," the hero said.

Jim looked from the hero and back to Mike to see if either of them were about to laugh. Mike held a poker face but the hero's smirk seemed beyond his control.

"Wise up, Tony," Jim said. "What's he really want?"

"I'm serious Jim, that's what he said to us." The others murmured in agreement. The hero, Tony, turned his attention back to Mike. "Are you nuts, mister?"

"I might be. I don't really care if I am or not. Neither should you. What you should care about is what I can offer you for your help. Isn't that more important? Pass out that cider, Jim."

"How do you know Jim's name?" Tony asked. Jim looked at Tony as if he'd slapped him. Poor, simple Jim hadn't even noticed. It seemed that Tony was his better in every way.

"I've been watching all of you for quite some time." Mike knew that playing on their paranoia would be like taking candy from a baby. The thick scent of cannabis hung in the air around them.

"So what's my name, then?" One of the girls, who had been quiet up to this point, spoke up. Mike checked her out unashamedly. She could have been attractive if she had been blessed with taste. But she wore the standard female hood uniform. A tracksuit in garish colours, the top zipped only half way to reveal ample cleavage dusted the same Oompa Loompa orange as her face. Her earlobes stretched, weighed down by heavy Claddagh earrings.

"I'll call you Beautiful, if that's okay with you."

Her face coloured a deep red that was visible through her thick makeup. One of the boys sitting beside her made a dry retching sound but stopped when Beautiful threw him a poisoned stare. Mike congratulated himself on distracting them from the question, although their dope-tinted attention spans probably deserved more credit than his silver tongue.

Tony honed in on the important question. "So, what do we get for helping you?"

"Money," Mike said. "What else do you need?"

There was a sudden change in body language from the audience. Backs straightened and ears cocked. The good humoured expressions of those having a laugh at a weird man turned to serious and intense stares. Mike had their undivided attention.

"Do you want us to sell drugs for you?" Tony asked.

"Not at all," Mike said.

"Well, I'm convinced," Jim said.

"Hold on a minute, Jim." Tony looked at Mike with narrowed eyes. "Is this some sort of government scheme to get us off the streets? Because, if you're lying about the money, you could end up hurt. Nobody gets away with making cunts out of us."

The rest of the gang nodded in agreement. One particularly vocal youth said, "Fucking right."

"How can I prove that I'm not fucking with you?" Already the gang's fondness for obscenities was rubbing off on him. He'd have to watch that. It was a very unattractive habit.

"Rob the off licence," Jim said.

Mike looked to Tony who nodded in support of Jim's idea.

"Any of you fine citizens got a weapon?" Mike asked.

Every one of them had a weapon. Blades of different shapes and sizes were presented to him and Mike opted for Jim's machete. It had a worn look to it that gave it an edge of menace over the various folding knives and hunting daggers. Mike suppressed a shudder. He couldn't allow that in front of the Hoods. Their only response to even a glimmer of weakness would be hostile ridicule. He ripped a hole in the lining of his tracksuit top and concealed the sharp instrument.

Tony and Jim left the rest of the gang in the park to follow Mike and act as witnesses. They would be expecting a show, and Mike would not waste this opportunity to create a legend. As he entered the off licence, the two young Hoods stood outside with their heads bowed to avoid the CCTV cameras. Mike pulled up his hood. An electric buzzer sounded as he opened the door. The customer area was empty and the employee, judging by the sound of glass clinking, was in the large cooler behind the counter.

"I'm obliged to remind you that you're meant to keep a low profile," the imp said.

"I'd almost forgotten about you. This is a petty crime, it'll be grand."

"It's armed robbery, Mike. If you kill someone, expect a visit from Cerberus."

"Trust me."

"Who are you talking to, mate?" Mike ignored this question from the man behind the counter who had manned the cash till at the sound of the buzzer. "You'll have to pull down that hood."

"Trust you?" the imp said, "You're using a knife to rob a shop in which the till and the employee are behind bullet-proof glass."

"It's a machete."

The employee tried to get Mike's attention by knocking on the glass with a coin. "Mate, are you talking to me?"

"Would you not answer him?" the imp asked.

"Trust me."

"Fine, just do what you want. Don't mind me. I'm only here to keep you out of trouble. Why would you listen to me when you obviously know what you're doing? Shit-for-brains."

The employee hammered the glass this time. "You can't keep your hood up in here. Can I help you with something?"

"Shit-for-brains? I'll report you for abuse." Mike said.

"Report me? Who to?" The imp's voice raised an octave.

Mike twitched violently and threw a punch over his right shoulder. He twisted his body at the waist as if the punch had carried him around. "There's an imp on my shoulder!" Mike's voice cracked. He sobbed dramatically although in reality he was overjoyed. He'd silenced the imp with the awkward punch.

For the first time, Mike set eyes on the man behind the bullet-proof glass. The employee wasn't big but he had the look of a fighter. His eyes were steady and angry, his head clean shaven and he had a blue tear tattooed to his right cheek. The unnaturally flat nose gave away his boxing history. Judging by his build and height, he was probably a middleweight.

"You're on drugs, aren't you?" the boxer said.

"No man, I'm the only one who isn't on drugs. I can see Deirdre, now that Lorraine has gone."

"Right, that's it." The boxer reached under the counter and lifted a baseball bat. He slammed it once against the glass to draw Mike's attention to it and then went to the dead-bolted steel door that granted employee access to the customer area. Mike waited patiently as the boxer rattled the door open and approached him. His hand slipped into the lining of his top and wrapped around the machete handle.

"Right, you junkie, I'm going to take your head off your shoulders." The boxer let loose with a homerun swing that may well have taken Mike's head off, if he hadn't ducked. Mike closed the gap as the bat completed its arc and hit the boxer's jaw with a straight left. His right hand simultaneously pulled the machete free. The boxer took the punch like a professional, turning his head to minimise the impact, dropped the bat to free up his fists and threw his own jab. Mike took a good punch to the nose just as he raised his blade. His nose didn't break but his eyes watered instantly. He blinked furiously. The boxer, unaware that Mike was armed, instinctively followed up with a right cross. Mike back-stepped and it whistled past his chin.