Fireproof (12 page)

Behind the bar at The Beehive, Dave sipped from the whiskey glass. He took a deep breath in through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth. Mike had to admire his self-control.

"Dave?" Mike waited until Dave made eye contact before he continued. "I would have fucked him in his eyeballs, but I couldn't get the coffin open."

Dave vaulted over the bar with the ice pick clenched in his left hand. His hands moved like a rattlesnake's head as he stabbed Mike in both of his eyes. Mike died with a smile on his face. Dave spent an hour breaking Mike's dead bones while the other three watched. They were afraid to say anything to him in case he turned his fury on them.

Mike's soul hovered over the violent scene, fascinated that there actually
was
life after death. He witnessed the mutilation of his old body before a cloaked figure called Mike's name.

"Are you Death?"

"Who the hell were you expecting, Mike?"

It surprised Mike to learn that the Grim Reaper had a Belfast accent.

"So what happens now, Death?"

"The afterlife."

"Where?"

"Hell."

"Oh fuck."

"Indeed."

***

In the waiting room, Mike was still a little mad at himself for being caught off guard by Dave and his cronies, though with Paul and Sean dead, he felt a little better. The real satisfaction would come from killing Frankie, Dave and finally Shane Kelly, the man behind the hit. The other two were a nice warm-up. He was eager to get back and finish off his business.

Barbara tapped the glassy divide with a perfectly filed talon. Mike got up and walked over to the counter.

"What's the craic, Beautiful?" Mike asked.

"The Master will see you now, Mike."

"Thanks, how do I get there?" Mike looked around the room and realised that there was no exit. He'd been so lost in his memories that he hadn't really looked at his surroundings.

Barbara slid open the glass panel and gave Mike a little shove on the chest. Mike wasn't offended. He was distracted by the attractive jiggle of her breasts caused by the sudden movement. Barbara smiled at Mike and pressed a small red button on her side of the counter. The floor opened up under his feet and he plummeted.

Mike landed in the cushy leather chair that faced Lucifer's ornate throne across the ironwood desk. Lucifer was not in his seat. He was standing behind Mike putting an oversized golf ball into the mouth of a silver chalice. Each time it hit home a hollow gong rang out. The ball returned to Lucifer by sprouting eight legs and scuttling back. Mike coughed as Lucifer took a swing at the ball. The Dark Prince was not to be distracted.
Gong!
Another perfect putt.

"Hello, Mike."

"Hiya, Master."

"I didn't think I would see you again so soon. I can't say I disapprove of the showmanship, however. Your performance was inspired. Those who aren't traumatised for life should really get a feel for what we're about, eh?"

"That was the plan, Master."

"Excellent. I knew I had the right fellow for the job. Now, what next?"

"Well, you could send me back up to fulfil my prophecy."

"Yes, I suppose so. We'll send you back in a thousand years or so. What do you want to do until then?"

"A thousand years? No!" Mike jumped off his seat and waved his arms for emphasis. His intestines splattered onto the floor. "I haven't done enough to make this thing float for a thousand years. All my work will be forgotten."

"Hmmm, that is a problem. I guess you should have thought of that before you butchered a perfectly good body. Cerberus!"

Lucifer clicked his fingers and the dog slinked out from behind the desk.

"Sic him, boy."

The three-headed dog charged Mike. He raised his fists in a futile show of defiance. The dog knocked him over and feasted on his exposed intestines. Mike tried to wrestle with the dog but he may as well have had a go at drinking an ocean. Cerberus snapped and snarled and tortured Mike until Lucifer called the dog to heel.

"In case you didn't get the message, Mike, I'm not a fan of suicide. Don't do it again."

"Yes, Master."

Mike wasn't sure if he could stand. A lot of him had been bitten, severed and chewed by Cerberus. Most of his middle was eaten away and Mike imagined that he would fold neatly in half if he tried to right himself. He dragged himself to his feet by grabbing on to the leather chair he'd landed in earlier for support. He didn't fold over, but he felt pretty uncomfortable. Things kept falling out of his ribcage and landing on his trainers.

"Thanks for the snack, Mike," Cerberus's middle head said. The other two laughed until Lucifer told them to shut up.

"So what's next?" Mike asked.

"I'll send you back up, this time. But Mike, I don't want you squandering these bodies. Your last vessel was left at that Parish Hall and the cops had to write it off as an illegal immigrant. I don't want that happening again."

"Is it such a big deal, Master?"

"Yes it is."

Mike didn't push his luck any further. He figured the more he opened his mouth in Hell, the harder he got it. Lucifer stared at him, probably looking for an excuse to inflict more pain on him.

"Sorry, Master," he said. "Can I go back now?"

"No, not yet. You have another apology to make, Mike."

"That's the bloody least of it, mate."

The imp's irritating voice screeched from behind Mike. He turned to find the little bastard on top of the ironwood desk, his bottom half missing.

"Ah, I caught you dead centre with that tanto then."

"Bloody right you did. Do you know how long it's going to take to grow back all my bits and pieces?"

"But they will grow back, yeah?"

"Well yes, but you didn't know that when you chopped me in half, did you?"

"No."

"And it's going to hurt like a bastard, do you know that?"

"I do now."

"And you're not one bit sorry about it, are you?"

"Um," Mike looked at Lucifer and Cerberus. Both licked their lips. "I am truly sorry for cutting you in half, imp. Hope you'll forgive me."

"Mike, I'm just not feeling it," the imp said. "Could you put some heart into it?"

"If the dog hadn't eaten it, maybe," Mike said.

Cerberus growled.

"Okay, I'm sorry."

Lucifer yawned. "Well, that'll do it Mike. You're lying through your teeth, but from one bullshitter to another, I can appreciate the effort. Let's move on."

The imp muttered as he dragged himself across the table and dropped off the edge.

"I'll see you later, imp," Mike said.

"Fuck off," the imp said.

"Okay, Mike, I'm sending you back for the third time. Just so you know, this will be the last time. You're getting altogether too reckless and I can't have you leaving dead bodies all over the place. I don't want my religion to be about parlour tricks. I didn't particularly want you to perversely imitate the Jesus thing either. We'll roll with it for now, but no more messing about. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I'm going back as a mortal. If I cannot complete the task you have set me, I'm fucked."

"Nice summary, Mike. Technically, you're still immortal though. Your body will not age. You have a few helpful powers to give you an edge; quicker reflexes, a higher IQ and the ability to understand any language. You might just live forever. Wouldn't that be much more pleasant than returning to this place?"

Mike nodded and once again Lucifer cast him into nothingness. He passed out and woke up in the armchair in his apartment. A squatter had moved in.

"What date is it, hairy boy?" Mike asked.

"What?" the squatter said.

He was a greying old wino who hadn't seen a barber or a Bic razor in some time. He wore a long coat even though he'd taken advantage of the gas central heating. His body odour told Mike that he hadn't taken advantage of the shower. Three cats stalked about the room. Mike supposed that the wino had invited them in for company. Mike hated cats.

"What date is it, man?"

"I don't know."

Mike turned on his television. He flicked on the digital TV listings and read the date and time from there. He'd been gone for a month. Mike turned to the wino, who stared back with amazed eyes.

"You hearing anything about this Satanism business?" Mike asked.

"I don't take much interest in politics."

Mike sighed.

"How long have you been here?"

"Just a few days. I thought the place was abandoned, mister, I swear. I'll be out of here in five minutes."

Mike looked at the old wino. He seemed a harmless sort.

"It's okay. There's room here for both of us. But the cats have to go. I hate cats."

The wino looked at the cats and told them to get lost.

"They're useless anyway," the wino said. "Far too tough, and curry paste just can't cover that foul taste."

Mike got up and looked into the kitchen. A cat's tail hung over the lip of the bin. A large pot full of a bubbling brown concoction sat on the hob. He chuckled and closed the kitchen door.

"You'll have to throw out the cat curry and clean up the kitchen. After that, I'll treat you to a fish supper. Didn't you find the money in the bedroom?"

"There's a bedroom in this place? La-de-dah. I've only been using the kitchen and the living room."

"Well, there's a bathroom too. Um, where have you been, you know, peeing and stuff?"

"Out the window, mister."

Mike groaned but he didn't look out the window.

"I'll need you to clean that up too."

"Tell you what, mister. I'll clean this whole place from top to bottom, if you'll just go and put some clothes on."

Mike agreed and made his way to the bedroom. As the wino clattered about in the kitchen, Mike appraised the new body for the first time in a freestanding full-length mirror in his bedroom. He was much smaller and skinnier than before. Mike guessed about five foot six and somewhere in the region of nine stone. Caucasian, but his body was covered in Japanese Yakuza style tattoos. He loved them. Demons and geishas of many colours decorated every inch of his legs, arms chest and back. Beautiful.

After a lengthy appraisal, Mike got dressed. He'd have to go shopping again. Everything in his wardrobe was much too big. He put on a pair of shorts, the legs of which ended below his knee, and a huge T-shirt. He realised that he looked just like a slightly aged skater. There were patches of grey in his stylishly spiked hair but Mike thought the face looked to be in its late twenties or early thirties. He wondered if the Hoods had approached the Skater Kids yet. If not, Mike would go see them as he was. He put on a pair of trainers, which felt and looked a bit like clown shoes but would do for the moment, grabbed some cash from the drawer, and went back into the living room.

The old wino was stalking the last cat. The window was open and Mike wondered if the other two had landed on their feet. He was not tempted to look out.

"What's your name?" Mike asked.

"I'm not sure, mister," the wino said. "I've taken a lot of drugs, I think. My memory is pretty patchy."

"What would you like to be called?"

"How about Cadbury?"

"Makes you sound a little like a butler."

"I kind of feel a little like a butler. Maybe that's what I could do instead of paying rent here."

"Cool."

Cadbury cheered as he gripped the cat's tail and lifted it into the air. He held it at arm's length and walked the hissing, jerking feline to the open window. It wailed as Cadbury let it go.

"Well, I'll go get us some food. If you've finished the kitchen before I get back would you jump into the shower and wash up a little? I'll leave you out some clothes. You're a big guy, so they should fit you."

"Sure thing, mister."

"My name is Mike Rocks."

"Okay, Master Rocks.

"And I'm afraid that without the funding and with no other means of income, the Outreach Centre will have no choice but to close."

Roger the accountant delivered the news without passion. Mary and Margaret looked crushed. Cathy felt for the two tough old birds. They had invested a lot of energy into their work.

"But how can we not get funding?" Mary asked. "We're doing some very important things here."

"And it's been such an odd time," Margaret said. "With this new Satanism craze we're needed now more than ever. It's hit the street worse than drugs."

"I'm sorry ladies. No funding, no centre."

Cathy knew she could find a new job soon enough, but she'd grown to like this one. Of course, she should have expected the Outreach Centre to go down the tube. It wouldn't be Belfast if a well meaning and useful programme didn't get cancelled and swept under the carpet after all of the good publicity had been bled from it by the funding bodies. They didn't give a crap about the country or about helping people. Government funding was just a way to pretend you wanted your country to improve for the good of the population rather than the good of the economy. For private funding sources it was all about the current trend for the Corporate Social Responsibility spin. Nobody
cared
. They only wanted kudos from Joe Public and a company logo at the bottom of a positive news article. After that they wanted to get the hell out of there before it cost them real money.