Hell
The fifteenth instalment of “From the Booth”, my Weekly Story Subscription Service (!”$)
‘I went to hell but only for the afternoon…’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to hear this again.’
‘I went to hell but only for the afternoon,’ he repeats.
I take a sip of my drink, which has gone flat but is still cold. The pub has large thin windows through which cold air seems to move unimpeded.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘And after that?’
‘After what?’ he laughs.
‘Just carry on with it,’ I say.
‘No seriously, after what?’
‘OK, don’t carry on with it,’ I say. ‘I would much prefer that!’
‘After that I returned from hell…’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if you know that I’m not joking, but I’m not joking. Please stop doing this.’
‘As I was saying,’ he says. ‘After that I returned from hell and back into my normal life.’
‘You’re the only one enjoying this, you know?’ I say.
‘It wasn’t that bad, hell. It was quiet, really,’ he says.
‘Was it? And was it peac…’
‘It was peaceful,’ he says slowly.
‘I’ll leave, you know. If you don’t shut up with this, I’ll just go home.’
He continues, ‘Things worked there. The timings of things. The landscape was agreeable to the eye.’
He sits back in his chair. Then he leans in again.
‘I passed the afternoon underneath a eucalyptus tree.’
‘Good for you,’ I say.
‘Buffeted gently by a warm breeze. I had a book with me,’ he winks. ‘But I didn’t read it.’
I cough on purpose.
‘And my phone didn’t work, but only ’cause the battery is broken at the moment.’
Despite myself, I say along with him, ‘Broken forever, let’s be honest.’
I silently admonish myself and try to focus on the muted quiz show on a screen behind him.
‘There were others there, too.’
I pretend to smile and nod as if engrossed in the television.
He hits the table, making me jump. Some old men sat up at the bar look round.
I look away from the screen. He touches my arm and smiles at me.
‘There were others there, too, you know? But I didn’t speak with them…’
‘…why ever not?’ I say.
‘Because, no…’ he says. It’s clear I’ve thrown him. I feel bad about this. Why is that? What possible reason do I have to feel bad in this arrangement? Many reasons, I think. But I don’t know why I think this. Unless I do and I’ve forgotten. Which would be the same as not knowing.
He recovers. ‘I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to talk, that’s why. Plus I didn’t necessarily want to make friends in hell, because you never know what they’re in for.’
I take a big gulp of my pint. It tastes appalling.
‘Ask me why I was there,’ he says.
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Ask me. Do it,’ he says.
‘Why were you there?’
‘Well, for your information, I never found out why I’d been sent to hell. No one tells you. And you don’t want to broadcast the fact that you don’t know, because that suggests there’s an array of things it could be about.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘OK what?’ he asks.
‘OK nothing.’
‘You see, what you want to do is nod stately and grim on the journey down there, down there to hell, as if you’ve only done one wrong thing in your life, and you’ve long waited for this day to come.’
He puts his hand on mine.
‘As if in some way you welcome it.’
The door of the pub opens and closes in a burst of light and traffic sound.
‘But I did wonder…’ he says.
‘Great, it’s great that you wondered,’ I say.
‘I wonder if it may have been to do with a murder I took part in several years ago.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘OK nothing?’ he says.
‘OK,’ I say.
‘A murder, yes,’ he says. ‘The murder of a dream. My own dream. Of leading a better life.’
‘Very good,’ I say. ‘This is really good stuff.’
‘But it could have been hundreds of more concrete and specific things,’ he says.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it,’ I say.
‘What don’t you doubt?’ he asks.
‘That there are lots of reasons you could be sent to hell,’ I say.
‘Oh, really?’ he says. ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’
I reach into an empty crisp packet.
‘Well, there are,’ I say, ‘millions of them.’
‘Name one,’ he says.
‘Tell you the name of the reason?’ I ask.
‘Just tell me the reason, one reason why I would be sent to hell,’ he says.
I stare, confused, at the television.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘Why are they watching ice hockey?’
‘I didn’t see the devil when I was in hell,’ he says, sensing my attempt to refocus things. ‘Although I kept expecting to.’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Please.’
‘Of course I don’t know what I would have said if I had seen him.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yes.’
‘Maybe…’ he begins. Then, ‘Look at me.’ I look at him.
‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Maybe I would have said that I was something of a devil too, but for corned beef!’
We sit in silence for a while.
‘OK, are you happy now?’
He doesn’t reply.
My drink is almost finished. I could go home, I could get another one. I could leave the city and walk to the coast and live in a cave and wake every morning to the sound of birds.
‘Listen, I know I don’t say this very often,’ he says.
‘Yes?’
‘But I went to hell, you see, only for the afternoon…’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘As long as this is the very last time.’