Remember Why You Fear Me (7 page)

I’m not convinced yet but he’s at least trying hard. The effort he puts in is quite touching. I cut up his food for him and he always looks so grateful and says please and thank you, and I keep his hands tied for the meal so I have to feed him every single mouthful and he always remembers what I told him and to smile after each bite. If I’m stricter with him than he was, it’s just because I love him more than he did me, I see that now, but he’ll learn, there’s so much time to learn. Sometimes I’ll let him out of his room when
Friends
is on, though he hasn’t actually
watched
one yet, I keep the blindfold on, he doesn’t mind, he’s lucky, the best bit is hearing the audience laugh and wondering why. And I light him cigarettes and let him puff away, he looks rugged like that, and I don’t let him hold the cigarette because it might burn him, and I suppose that having it fed to him like a baby cuts down a little on the ruggedness but I can pretend I’m good at pretending I’m so good at it. Sometimes I get him to smoke a whole pack in one go to see if he’ll be sick, and sometimes he is. And at other times we’ll make love. And when he’s not busy with the eating and the smoking and the sex he’s got a job to keep him occupied. He sits in his bedroom and writes me letters. Just to let me know what he feels for me, to show me I’m his one and only. This is his latest:

and they’re getting better, I don’t accept them unless they’re neat and tidy. I haven’t given him a pad yet, and I’m not sure I ever will. Writing on toilet paper is slow work, but it makes you really think about what you want to say. And you have to be careful, because toilet paper breaks so very easily.

“I want to make a complaint.”

And Martin felt a thrill of courage, and for just a moment the first sensation of actual happiness since he’d arrived in this God-forsaken place. Here he was, always rather a timid man—both in the bedroom and in the boardroom, which is why he’d never accomplished much in either, but Moira had never complained, bless her, and even if he’d never had the smarts to rise to managing director like everyone else his age at least he’d never been sacked or demoted or what was the word they used now, yes,
reassigned
, no, they’d always kept him on, he was just too solid to lose. Solid, that’s what Martin was, steadfast, reliable. But timid. Never one to rock the boat. And yet, here he was, all five foot three of him, squaring up aggressively to someone who must have been at least eight foot tall. And that wasn’t even counting the horns.

Of course, Martin realized, in that split second when he felt so brave, he wasn’t being as brave as all that. He’d chosen this demon specifically. Yes, he was eight foot tall, but that was distinctly diminutive for a demon since the rest of them were much larger and more ferocious. And there was a blond tuft around the demon’s horns which made him look almost endearing.

The demon turned both of his red rheumy eyes on to Martin. He didn’t encourage him to go on, but neither did he
discourage
him, which was all to the good. Martin floundered anyway. He’d been so intent on summoning up the nerve to start complaining he hadn’t given much thought on how to continue.

“It’s my roommate. I’m not happy with my roommate,” said Martin. “I didn’t even know we’d be
getting
roommates. I haven’t shared a room with anyone in forty years, not counting Moira. And Moira was bad enough with her snoring, I used to have to wear ear plugs. I don’t suppose I could have a room to myself? No, okay, too much to hope for. But if I’m going to be here for a long time, and I think that’s the idea, I should at least get a better roommate. Not that one. It’s just . . .”
and here he ran out of words for a moment, and then found a feeble conclusion, “. . . not on.”

The demon looked as if he were going to say something very cutting, then changed his mind, deciding that eternity was long enough as it was. “Martin Travers,” he boomed.

“You know my name?”

“I know everyone’s name. Your roommate has been especially selected for you.”

“Right,” said Martin. “I see. Right. And how . . .” and he felt a bit of the old fire coming back; he’d come this far, he might not get the courage again, “how exactly was he chosen? A lucky dip or, or, or what? I mean, I’m just saying. I don’t think there was much thought to it. That’s all.”

“Your roommate is very clean,” said the demon.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t smell. A friendly personality. Snores much less than this Moira of whom you speak.”

“Right. Good, I’m sure . . .”

“Frankly,” said the demon, dropping some of the booming cadence from his voice, “you’re in Hell, and you could have done a lot worse, mate.”

“But he’s a dog.”

“He is indeed.”

“I’m not trying to make a fuss,” said Martin. “But I deserve a human at least. Surely. I mean, I could do better than a dog. I’m not a, for God’s sake . . . I’m not a murderer or anything . . .”

The demon shrugged. “Everyone’s equal here. No segregation based on gender, race, age, sex . . . or species.” He grunted and leaned forward confidentially—Martin felt a little nauseous as he was caught in an exhalation of fetid breath. “Personally, I preferred it in the old days. Lutherans on one side, Calvinists on the other, and never the twain shall meet. What we’ve got now . . .” He waved a claw disparagingly at nothing in particular but the whole denizens of Hell, “It’s just political correctness gone mad.”

“The thing about dogs is they make me itch.”

The demon sucked air through his teeth in what was actually intended to be a gesture of sympathy, but sounded instead like a terrifying death rattle. Martin recoiled as if he’d been struck.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he rumbled. “Okay? But I’m not promising anything.”

“Thanks,” said Martin. And unsure what else to do now, nodded, made an attempt at a friendly smile, and went back to his room.

The demon watched him go. He wished all the damned would leave him alone. All the bigger demons laughed at him about it. It was that tuft of hair over the horns that did it. Every night he’d shave it off, but by morning the bloody thing would always have grown back.

The dog was waiting for him.

“Are you all right?” he said. “You just took off without a word. I was worried.”

The funny thing was, it was only if you looked at him full on you could tell he even was a dog. Try out of the corner of your eye, or stand to him sideways, he seemed to be just another faded soul bouncing around in eternal damnation.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin. “I was just a bit . . . you know.”

“I do know,” said the dog. “It takes a while to get used to! Don’t worry about it.” And he gave a friendly little smile, then panted cheerfully with his tongue hanging out. “What’s your name?”

“Martin,” said Martin.

“Nice to meet you, Martin,” said the dog politely, and offered his paw to shake. “My name’s Woofie.”

“Vuffi?”

“No, Woofie. I’m German.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

They smiled politely at each other.

“I’ve never been to Germany,” said Martin.

“Oh, it’s nice,” said Woofie. “Well, bits of it.”

“Yes.”

“Rains sometimes, mind you. And gets a bit nippy in the winter.”

“Same as anywhere, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Woofie, and smiled. “Still, I liked it.”

They smiled politely at each other again, and Woofie even affected a friendly tail wag. Martin would have done the same, had he had a tail.

“Anyway,” said Woofie. “I don’t want to get in your way. You know, but if there’s anything you need . . .”

“Thanks.”

“Make yourself at home. Well, it
is
now. Do you have a preference . . . ?”
he added, nodding at the bunk beds.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” said Martin.

“It’s no problem. Whichever one you want. All these years here, I’ve been in both. I’m happy either way. Don’t worry,” Woofie said, perhaps seeing the involuntary look of disgust on Martin’s face, “I don’t moult. And they’re clean sheets.”

“Well, I suppose the top one might be more fun,” said Martin. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Hey,” said Woofie generously, “I know what it’s like to be the new guy. We’ve all been there. Anything I can do to make it easier. There’s a spare wardrobe over there, it’s all yours. Washbasin in the corner.”

“What about the toilet . . . ?”

“We never need to go,” said Woofie. “Funny that. First couple of days I was here I was frantic looking for a litter tray or something, til I realized I didn’t need one. And yet they give us a washbasin. I’ve never quite worked that one out.”

Woofie politely offered Martin use of the sink before they went to bed, but Martin let him go first. He watched his new roommate wash his fur, and brush his fangs, and a part of him thought he was about to scream and the scream would never stop,
I can’t be in Hell with a dachshund
. Woofie wiped the sink clear of his gobbets of toothpaste, looked up at Martin. “It’s free when you want it.”

As Martin washed, he looked into the mirror. He stared at this timid little dead man, standing at five foot three. And if he tilted his head all the features he recognized vanished, and he saw a soul like any other. Every day, he realized, he’d look in this mirror when he washed, and he’d never be able to forget that he was dead, that he’d only ever been meat hanging on a frame, and that the meat was now rotting and the frame could be seen underneath. That’s why Hell came equipped with washbasins. Not because of the sink, but the mirror. Martin sighed heavily, and all the stale meat of his face wobbled, and the soul framework dimmed a little. He heard Woofie let out a little snore, already asleep and dead to the world. And he didn’t know why, but it reassured him, just a bit.

For the next few days, Martin waited for the tortures to start.

“It doesn’t quite work like that, though,” said Woofie. “I’m not saying there
aren’t
tortures, but I’ve been here for ages and no one’s started on me yet. I don’t like to say anything in case it reminds them.”

In the mean time there were the shopping malls to wander around. None of the shops were ever actually open, but Martin didn’t have money to buy anything anyway, and it was reasonably good fun to look through the windows. There was a nice local cinema which screened films every evening, some of them even only a few months after general release. And Woofie kindly invited Martin to join his bowling team. They’d all go bowling three or four nights a week, and some of the players were really rather good. They were all dogs, and seemed a little reserved around Martin because he was a human. Martin felt a bit offended by that—if there were any qualms to be had, he should be the one having them. But none of the dogs said anything for Woofie’s sake, and after Martin bowled his first strike, after a week of practice, all their congratulations seemed genuine enough.