A Moral Evil

The Devil stood in the corner, smiling, laughing. His whoreish servants surrounded him, writhing in supplication to his every whim. Forked tongues curled, slithering on his red flesh, begging for his favour. Their eyes sparkled like sharpened daggers, coaxing. They toss their lithe bodies in rhythmical lurches; they are his. From the darkness I can see it all. He will have his fill . . .

But no: this Devil is of a more fiendish kind, for he does not grab at their bait. His black eyes are listless, languid, show no interest. He is not even approaching humanity. Neither is he animal . . . This is something different, something beyond evil. A demon so nefarious, Hell would refuse his entrance. And so he comes to live among us poor mortals, to sabotage our magnanimity, to banish our pure innocence in a swirling conflagration. He is not of this world or the world to come, but of one which exists in the darkest gutters of our most abandoned souls. And there is only one way with which he can be dealt: immolation. Oh, how it undulates on the tongue . . . Im-mo-la-tion.  

“Christ, it’s packed,” said Lisa, entering Cruise’s. She tripped along in her heels and lifted Rory’s jumper from her head. “Thank you, Rory. You’ll have to let it dry for a while, or you’ll get pneumonia. I knew I should’ve brought the umbrella. Jesus, I can hardly hear myself . . .”

Rory and Niamh emerged from under their umbrella, and shook off whatever rain had landed on them. Niamh shivered and clung on to Rory’s arm. There wasn’t much warmth in him; he had been a weak, skinny child, and now, as a man, was no better. The bones of his elbows protruded under his short sleeves, almost threatening to break through the pale skin. He threw himself jovially around Niamh and attempted to warm up the purple flesh around her arms.

“Oh, it’s grand for ye men,” she said, muffled by Rory, “ye can wear jeans and jumpers out. Look at me in this fucking mini-skirt. Complete joke.”

Rory separated himself from her and stood back smiling. “Are ya warm now?”

“I’m better,” she laughed.

“Some crowd,” said Rory, surveying the room.

“Ah, it’s always the same on these bank holidays,” said Lisa. “If you were here tomorrow night, though, you’d see no one but the barman and the three auld drunks in here. There’s talks of it closing, you know . . .” she added in a hush.

“Really?” said Niamh. “I thought this place was flying it with the club and all.”

“Ah, mismanagement or something. Biting off more than they could chew. The usual lark, sure.”

“Well,” said Rory, “we may as well enjoy it so while it’s still with us. What’ll ye have?”

“No, Rory, you always end up buying us everything,” said Niamh. “We’re treating you tonight; after those results, you deserve something. What did Mam say, by the way? Was she jumping up and down like a mad thing?”

“Ah, she was happy all right.”

“Would ya listen to him?” he said to Lisa. “Of course she was fecking happy! You and your modesty . . . There’s times I’d love if you’d just boast your arse off for the night. Anyway, come on, what’ll you have?”

“A bottle of Corona is fine.”

“Okay, we’ll be back in a sec.” Niamh and Lisa skipped along to the bar. They’ll be there a while, thought Rory. Bloody bank holidays were all the same. But you’d no choice but to go out for them. All the old ones reviving their youth, trying to convince themselves that they’re still lookers. Woman there near the toilets, for example, her belly bulging under that horrific metallic dress. Thirty? More maybe? Late twenties, certainly. Suppose she’ll try her hand at getting into the Queen’s tonight. Looks fairly gone already, to be honest. Wet black hair: must have been out in the rain, smoking maybe. He’d have to stop with the smoking, too. It was becoming far too common an occurrence after a few drinks. His mother would kill him if she heard. She was in a bit of a fluster this evening, as well, for some reason or other. Stay with your friends, be sure and get a taxi now . . . stuff she hadn’t said since he was going out in college first. He was almost twenty-two, for goodness sake. Maybe she thought he’d go hell-bent after the results. No fear of it. Most likely he’d end up minding those other two messers after an hour or two. Are they near the bar yet? No sign. Oh, they’ll be a while. Lisa looks lovely tonight. Beautiful dress, and her eyes . . . how could he describe them? Big, bold, and white. Just beautiful, whatever it was. Strange. He was always a bit awkward around her, didn’t know what to say. He could mess away with Niamh, catch her and dance with her and cuddle her, it didn’t matter. But Lisa was different. Perhaps if she hadn’t been going out with Joseph all those years ago he could have chanced his arm . . . Well, that’s how things go. And it would have been living a lie, really. He was happier now more than ever. Yes. Comfortable, at ease with himself, and so was everyone else, it seemed. Dad was brilliant last week. So proud. Like any normal Dad would be for their normal son. Oh, why didn’t he hold back from crying; though Dad didn’t seem to care or notice, only hugging him tighter. That was a lovely day. Lovely.

Quare looking fella over there with the dishevelled hair on him. Like he just came in from the farm. Perhaps he has. Look at him staring around the bar with the wild eyes. Christ above, but you get funny folks every so often, don’t you? Don’t know anyone here at all. Maybe they’re gone into the Queen’s already? It’s late enough, like. What, half eleven, is it? Wait now, it must be that anyway. It was at least eleven when they called over in the car . . . Five to twelve, fuck me! Might get away without having to go into the club at all tonight so. It’d be grand. Can’t stick that shite on a busy night like tonight. Cattle mart is all it is. Mad young fuckers out of their skulls falling on top of women. How did they put up with that at all? Niamh there giving out about it after every night out, and there she is with the mini-skirt on again tonight. What more can she expect? . . .  Well, no, it isn’t right either. How is it they can control themselves? They’re built different, there’s no doubt. Whatever little adjusting the Man above did on the first day. Who’s that guy that keeps looking over? Talking to those girls. Look at him there at it again. Wonder is he? . . . Could be. The way he’s flapping the hand up and down. Will you ever turn around to fuck? Jesus. Does he know? Perhaps the voice gave it away? Voice always giving it away, for fuck sake. The one thing . . . The girls said they wouldn’t have known but for the voice all those years ago. Wonder how long did they know? Weren’t shocked anyway. Ah, he is for sure, making no bones about it. Oh, just a quiet night now, no need for you to be coming over here. Lord God. Let you stay there now. Good man.

Might be a good time to tell them about the news when they come back. So long as they won’t be jealous. Lisa had trouble with the exams, for sure. You’d know by the face on her every time Niamh goes on about it. Niamh got on grand, it seems. Wild but well able to study when it comes to it. Lisa just doesn’t have the same knack for it. Still, she has plenty more, and perhaps better things at that.

Belfast will be strange. Like this: standing around, knowing no one. Lord, Lord, Lord. Couldn’t go for student accommodation, could end up with some mad first years. A nice quiet apartment somewhere near the university would be lovely, but what are the chances? Never be so lucky. All changes, big changes. A Masters is tough going, don’t be under any illusions. There’ll be plenty there just as talented and better. But wasn’t the same thing said going to UL the first time, too? Awful nervous that first week. Remember the swirling knots in the stomach walking into the lecture hall. The lecturer rambling on and on about the different law books, how important the library was, about joining the debating society. Suffocating. And then there’d be the ones that felt it their duty to inform the rest of the students of their imminent genius as early as possible. Remember that tall fella with the long, curly dark hair, and the moon glasses? He never shut it for the first month. He was convincing, too. Don’t know what he does now. Didn’t see him much after first year. George was his name. Never know, could have dropped out. Wasn’t until into second year that the courage was mustered to talk up a bit. Got into it then. And the jealousy was pretty clear from some of them. Streaks ahead, may as well admit it now; as Niamh says, boast your arse off. No harm in a small bit of it, sure.

But a Masters: different story. It’ll take a while to build the confidence again, despite all the awards. Funny, isn’t it? It’s all bluffery. Is that a word, bluffery? All bullshit. All superiority is built on strong foundations of it. Bluffing! . . . Bluffery! Christ knows it’s a good job it isn’t an English Masters! Ah, not that bad at English either, to be fair. Sure, it’s more bullshit, but it’s harmless enough bullshit, all the same. They were never much good at debating, those English students. Too inclined to stick to what they believed in. Pure idealists. Admire them in one way. Doesn’t work, though.

‘LLM in Human Rights Law’ – now for you, sounds impressive. Mrs. Reid over the road fierce taken by it altogether. None of hers ever did too much after college, did they? Though she had notions of medicine for them, according to mother. But, yeah, Human Rights should be good. Always liked that side of it, especially dealing with Religion and –

Fuck, love this song! And Stephen would go on now about some obscure Indie band if he was here. Fuck that, would he not just leave things alone. Each to their own. That’s Arts for you. They love anything different. God forbid they’d be normal, the poor feckers. What’s this his word is? . . . Philistine! Lord, he loves coming out with that. ‘The philistine masses . . .’ he’d say. ‘No man loves truth or goodness unless he abhors the multitude.’ Some philosopher he took that from. How stupid. Why would you spend your time hating the world? Awful waste. Only making life harder for himself in the long run. Hasn’t the world been in the hands of the masses for the last few hundreds of years, and it’s not doing too bad, is it? Still though, what a song! Love the DJs they get here, play all the good stuff. No weird shite here, not like that pub in –

“Is it daydreaming entirely you are?”

“Jesus!” said Rory, turning to see Niamh and Lisa smiling with cocktails in their hands.

“We got you one. Can’t be having you turning into a big man drinking beer all the time.”

“Ah, now . . .” Rory took the cocktail from Niamh. Sex on the beach. Wouldn’t want to be showing this off too much. Not with the kind of crowd that’d be here tonight. Not too bad, though. Nice.

“You know who we just met there?” said Lisa.

“–Cathal Burke and Margaret Whelan!” said Niamh. “Tearing the faces off each other, they were.”

“Fuck off!”

“Yeah, that’s the God-honest truth. Out of their heads, too. Won’t go down well tomorrow morning, I’m telling you. Cathal’s gang were all there, as well. Heading into the Queens. They’ll do well to get in. Very, very messy.”

“Ah, sure, that’s typical them,” said Rory, sipping through the straw on his drink.

“Remember when you used to be part of that crowd?”

“I know. Ah, well . . . Things change, people change.”

“Cathal never really changed, though.”

“I never said it was him that changed.” Rory tried to smile at Niamh. The dressing room before P.E. class. The jeers. Oh, look who’s here, lads. Arses to the wall now. Cathal. Part of his gang? “That’s the way, sure . . .”

“He’s a bollocks,” said Lisa, looking from Niamh to Rory.

“Yeah, exactly, a bollocks,” said Niamh, realising her mistake. “And he’ll never come to anything, you’ll see. Still be here in ten years, slaving away at some mind-numbing job. Not worth even thinking about those kinds of people. Not worth the shite that’d cling to your shoe. Now, what was it got us talking about those idiots? Oh, yeah, they’re going to the Queens. Will we bother heading in at all, or what?”

“I’m happy here anyway,” said Lisa. “What about you Rory?”

“Yeah, that suits me.”

Niamh nodded. “That’s grand so, we’ll stick here.”

“If you want to go in, we can. After you running through the rain in your dress, you might want to put it to some use.”

“Watch it, you!” said Niamh, smirking. “I’m not like them lot.”

“Ah, I know you’re not,” said Rory. “Here, I must go to the toilet. I’ll be back in a sec, just hold the drink there.”

“Okay, mind yourself.”

The crowd seemed to be lessening. Making their way next door. Christ, it’d be jammed in the club on a night like tonight. Thank God they weren’t going. Sorry, just get past there. Thanks. Imagine the commotion outside Supermacs tonight. Fighting like cattle to get in the doors and maul into a chicken burger and garlic chips. Always a sign they’re not getting any further with the women, those garlic chips. Where is it the toilets are again? Oh, yes. Some idiots fighting then in the queue. What was it someone said about Seamus the other day? Quare hawk, smoking all sorts. For God’s sake. Never saw him to get into a fight with anyone because of it, though. Hypocrites. Jesus, listen to this, turning into him now, ‘abhorring the multitude,’ and all that. Fuck it, there’s two in there. What now? The cubicle . . . engaged. Fuck it. Could go back and hold it for a while longer . . . No, it’s too late now, they can see. Lord, the sweat on the walls. How do they stand there and fire away like animals?

“And I said, would ya not just . . . like, get with . . . ya know?”

“Fuckin’ . . . fuckin’ whore.”

“I fuckin’ know.”

“Fuck that.”

“Fuck that, is right . . . That’s the fuckin’ truth . . . Fuck that, is right.”

The fatter one turned around with his cock still hanging out of his pants. He looked in a daze at Rory and tried to fumble it back inside. Rory looked at the roof, floor, anything.

“Well?” he said. His tongue stuck out as he continued with his trying task.

“Well,” said Rory, nodding at him.

He grinned, looked back at the other fella at the urinals, then turned to Rory again. “Are ya not goin’ takin’ a piss, at all, nah?” He left out a long, slow ‘hah’. The other one answered a few seconds later with a ‘hah’ of his own.

“I’m just waiting for . . .” Rory pointed at the cubicle.

“Ah, right. Takin’ a good shit, ya? Could do with one myself, but . . . fuck it, I’ll wait ‘til mornin’.”

The door opened. Thank fuck. Old man, grey beard, chubby face, got out. Nodded at Rory. Nodded back. Closed the door and pulled the lock across. “Good luck now, have a nice shit.” The fella outside. No laughing. He probably meant it. Poor soul.

No form for this; wonder why? Should be dying for a piss-up. Six months – more maybe? – since the last drop. All study for the last year. Didn’t go out the night after the exams either. This kind of shit, though, why would you willingly inflict it? Don’t know, but we do. Cathal and them always loved it. Hayes’ field near the G.A.A. pitch, and what was it, second year maybe? Beautiful night, – that’s it, it was the summer before second year – the red sky, shepherd’s delight and all that, the little tent pitched up by Thomas and O’Halloran. And it was O’Halloran who supplied them, from his mother’s pub. Planning it with weeks. A tenner and two cans for everyone. Had only one. That sharp taste, like munching into a sour apple, or something. Tried not to cough. Hiding it then, spluttering, pretending it was a laugh. Cathal had had loads before, absolutely loads. Experienced drinker, yes sir! Blubbering fool was wasted after half a can. And the walk – stumble - home through the long rushes, into the G.A.A pitch, and hanging off the crossbar. And then Bríd, with her chubby cheeks and curly brown hair, urged on by giggling Niamh. Into the dugout on the far side of the pitch. How strange it felt. Hands hanging limp, not knowing whether to leave them hang or go all out like someone on the telly. Felt nothing. Well, something . . . Completion maybe. Duty fulfilled. Her embarrassed smile, her eyes flicking every which way. “Will we go back?” She nodded and lurched for a hand to hold in her own, a sign that all had gone as planned, they were normal functioning animals, let there be no doubt now.

Rory zipped up his trousers and opened the door of the cubicle. No one there. It was nearly one o’clock, whoever was going to the club would be gone by now. Much quieter outside in the bar altogether. Only a few little circles of people left. Mostly older. Where were they? They hadn’t gone to the Queens without him, surely? Would Niamh chance it for the laugh? Rory looked to one of the mirrors with a poster ‘Guinness makes you stronger’ beside it in the far corner of the pub. He could see Lisa’s shining blonde hair reflected in it. Also reflected was that ragged-looking fucker from before, a dirty beard to match. His face contorted in the frame, Niamh and Lisa tried to dismiss him with their arms. Worried, red faces. Who the fuck did he think he was? Again they remonstrated. He edged closer, the cunt, his mouth moving even more rapidly. Rory walked across to them, tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and with a look of disgust, eyed him up and down.

“Excuse me,” said Rory, trying to keep his voice clear, “go on now, we’re trying to have a chat.”

Even more disgusted. Turned back again.

“I’m sorry, move on now, and don’t be annoying us.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” He didn’t look at Rory, but his face reflected in the mirror. His eyes were closed.

“Go on now. Go on.”

They stayed closed.

“Sorry, please just go now. Go on.”

Nothing.

“Go—”

And with that, he turned, his eyes aflame, scalded Rory’s, and marched out the door and into the descending ropes of rain. Like a flash of light through a tumultuous sky, he had come and gone and left his imprint, all in a brief, blazing moment. The ground between them scorched.

Lisa touched Rory’s arm. “Thanks.”

“Fucking creep,” said Niamh.

“Was he at ye long?”

“Oh, just a minute or so before you came out. It was mostly Lisa he was bothering. You always get them on nights like this. Always.”

“It’s all right now, he’s gone anyway. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.” Lisa nodded at Rory.

They looked around at the now almost empty pub. Last orders.

“Do ye want a drink?” Rory asked.

Niamh looked at Lisa. They both shrugged.

“Is there any point in staying any longer?”

Niamh sighed. “Not really, I suppose. That fucker has me thrown off now. Do you want the rest of your drink?”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll walk ye home so and get a taxi out then,” said Rory.

“You don’t have to,” said Niamh. “Sure, we’ve each other anyway.”

Lisa looked at Rory. He turned back to Nimah. “No, I will, it’s grand. Come on so.”

They walked out to the doorway. Niamh struggled with her umbrella, cursing this and that. The rain battered the side of her face, until finally the umbrella bloomed open. Rory felt a small squeeze on his arm. He looked down at the small face cupped in by that blonde hair. “Thanks,” whispered Lisa.

He felt something, whatever it was. Completion of duty? Nah, not that . . .

The Devil lay. Blood, not black but vermillion, on his forehead. Why not black? Fiend of a different kind. Their blood shall be upon them . . .  Red brick, how coarse it feels on the fingers, they tear so easily on its edges. How it tears, through his face. But caution, gallant Defender, Crusader, for the rock on which all that it is will not lead to his final fall. No, not it. Not it! you vulgar demon. Lie there, lie, thou wilt not crawl further. I’ th’ long grass, how suitable. No, not it. Thou shalt be slain by that which thou hast sinned with, thy nature’s most betrayed gift.

Feel the rip across your face, feel the skin buckle. Restraint, Defender, restraint. Let not passion foil this ritual, as he has foiled his nature. Lie, fiend, lie, all lies that you spout ‘gainst this virtue that is our gift. Lie, lie, Thou shalt not lie with mankind . . . It is an abomination! Thou lie at mine feet now, fiend, due penalty for your perversion.

How easy it could have been. How you could have let nature dictate as it pleased. Go on, go on, you had it so, had you not? I go, I go on now. I do my service, unlike those who fall, those Lucifers, those Non Serviums, those . . . Abominations! Restraint. What? Emotion is it I see? Tears? From thine eyes? Tears to match the tears slashed across thy cheek! No. Caution, Defender. Oh, now I go. And you would have those sirens for thyself, to allow to wallow and wilt. Or would thou pervert them to shameful lusts? Is that what you wished? Corrupt and corrode their souls as your own, vile creature of the dark!

And despite your black eyes you did not see this Crusader follow you through the night. Follow you into that vehicle. ‘Take me home’. Oh, I had him take you home all right. Back to where you belong. Protest and fulminate all you pleased, it did not work, did it, fiend? He did not listen to your cries and whimpers. Thought you had drunk from that inebriating river . . . River of poison, more like. Flowing as your blood does now. Their blood shall be upon them! How it all works, and you who did not listen. Thought it was idle talk in an empty edifice. Ah, but now the walls have fallen, with your soul, and now you see, now you hear the Crusading clamour, the blasts once blasphemed! How it pierces your ears! Your ears . . . Then Simon Peter, who had a sword, drew it and struck the high priest's servant, cutting . . . Scream! Canst thou hear the screams, canst thou hear the Defender laugh in the night? Canst thou? HA! Upon you! Thy blood is upon you!

Enough. Light rises soon. Light of the world. You shall see it, fiend, but you shall never receive it. Fiery light is all that thou shall have. Soon the farmer will walk these fields, we must act quick, my fiend. He will find you, but not I. No one can hear your cries, it is too late. Just as the driver would not hear you, would not listen to your pleas. Late, far too late. We have but one remaining part of the ritual to perform, then all will have been completed. The rest shall be silence, you unprincely Hamlet, you. Lie still, creature. No good to writhe now. I will wash and sanctify this earth of your ignoble stains. Do not kick your legs, it makes no difference, all energy has been devoured by that incarnadine rock. Who else has lowered these jeans, wanting to perform such shameful lusts? How many have you done the same to? Abominable!

There it is. Your sinful weapon. Limp, lusting, lewd, lascivious, libidinal, long ell. How you have corrupted countless souls with this. And you who thought all would be forgiven. You who ignored the perilous warnings. You who will have to suffer your due penalty! There may be no mountain, or altar on which to offer you up, but the Lord knows I do my best. The lamb has been provided by Him. No heavenly cries, just a demon’s! And I reach out my hand and take the knife to slay my son, my fiend! Now!

That which causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.

It is gone.

Your sin.

It is finished.

I take this flame to complete what must be done. Do not look at it as you do. It is nothing compared to what awaits. I only do my best. The farmer will wonder who took his red can of fuel before he finds your black body. And still you scream. Can you not see it is over? You are living the end. You are living your death. It hurts me to watch you so, cleansed being. It does no good to wait further. I drop this flaming tongue which will speak that beautiful truth: Im-mo-la-tion.

I can do no more. Into Your hands I commit this spirit. This conflagrating spirit. Once stained, sinning spirit. This spirit soaring into the starry, still sky. Look into its darkest depths. There he now lies. I feel Your gaze, I feel Your praise. Now You may rest, the Devil hath been slain.