I am going to hell.

I don’t mean that metaphorically, like, my life is falling apart and things are only getting worse (although God knows, that’s true enough). I mean it literally. As in, hell is a place, it’s real, and I’m going to go there.

Tonight.

*

How do you get to hell?

I’m tempted to say “practice, practice, practice”. But the true answer is, you take the subway.

Go to the subway. Any subway. Head to platform one. Walk past the hordes of commuters, and go to the end of the platform. Maybe you’ll see a door there, a red door. Maybe you won’t. If you do, open it. Don’t worry, no one will stop you. Behind the door you see stairs. Go down them. And that’s when you’ll find the train. The Hell Express. It’ll be just pulling in. It’ll always be just pulling in.

Get in. No ticket required. If you take my advice, you’ll sit in the second carriage. Just from personal experience.

The train pulls out. How long the journey takes is up to you. Some people say it lasts days; others, seconds. But the next stop is always hell.

*

Fire.

You probably think of fire when you think of hell. Eternal flames and all that. Maybe that was true back in the past, but times move on, even in hell.

That’s not to say it isn’t hot. It is, hot and humid, the kind of weather that turns your shirt wet in seconds. The kind of weather where you find it hard to breathe, and your only wish is to lie down and rest, but there’s no way to get comfortable. Like that.

They say Rome is the Eternal City. They’re wrong. Hell is. Go up the stairs from the platform and it stretches in all directions, blocks jammed with houses tottering up to the sky, streets winding around in on themselves, streets packed with people hustling … somewhere. It’s easy to get lost here, to get swallowed up in the crowd and vanish away, never to be seen again.

Thankfully, I know where I’m going. I don’t even need a map.

*

Some demons you can summon with a spell. Draw a circle, light a candle, trap a demon in the circle and make it grant you a wish … or try to.

The fact is, any demon you can summon probably isn’t worth summoning. The more powerful a demon, the less they want to be disturbed by some human with a petty list of grievances.

No, you have to go to them.

*

The bell above the door tinkles as I enter the shop, its windows crammed with … things. Top hats, crystal skulls, tiny little coffins, books bound in something not worth thinking about, books for which there will never, ever be a paperback edition.

He sat behind the counter, tall, thin, a hawkish nose, dressed like something from a Dickens novel, holding a fob watch.

“Mr Davenport,” he said cheerfully. “Right on time.”

“Mr Scarfe,” I nodded. “You were expecting me, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, and he closed his watch with a snap. His name wasn’t Scarfe. His name was long and complicated and you didn’t ever want to say it out loud. At our first meeting we’d somehow agreed on calling him Scarfe.

My name wasn’t Davenport either, come to that.

“So,” Scarfe said, “what brings you to hell?”

I took a deep breathe. “Revenge,” I said. “I want revenge.”

Scarfe peered over his spectacles. “Dear me!” he said mildly. “Revenge? Against whom?”

“Miller. A man at the auction house.”

“And what did Mr Miller do to make you seek revenge against him?”

What had Miller done? What hadn’t Miller done? He’d taken my job, my wife, and he’d done it all while pretending to be my friend. And, God, I’d fallen for it, of course I had.

“It’s not important,” I said.

Scarfe looked at me, a look that said he already knew what Miller had done, but for propriety's sake he had to ask. “Important enough for you to come to me, though, eh? Well, well. I suppose I don’t really need to know that much about it. What you people  do up there …” He jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. “None of my business. Not yet, anyways. Shall we discuss the price?”

This was always the sticking point. “I have books. You know I do. It’s my specialty. Things you don’t have.”

“I have a lot of things, Mr Davenport.”

“Not these,” I said, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I have …”

“If you’re going to say the Necronomicon, I should stop you now,” Scarfe interrupted. “Not a day goes by without someone coming in trying to flog me another copy of that damned book.”

I shook my head. “I was going to say, The Society of the Spectacle.”

Scarfe’s eyes lit up. “Guy Debord?”

“The same.”

“First edition?”

“First edition. In French.”

“The French edition? Now, I’m impressed, Mr Davenport. I haven’t seen one of those since, oh, 1968. That would do nicely.”

I knew it would. There was a huge demand for Situationist and Lettrist texts in hell. As an expert in 20th century philosophical texts, I had my contacts, and they’d led me here.

“Of course,” Scarfe said a bit too casually, “you have something I’d take instead.”

“My soul is not for sale, Mr Scarfe.”

“Well, thought I’d try. No harm in that, eh? Now, Miller, I assume, is a different story.”

“You can do whatever you like with his soul, Mr Scarfe.” The worse the better, as far as I was concerned.

The bell tinkled as the door opened and in stepped one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Her skin was pale, the hair was black as a raven, and she wore a shiny red catsuit with matching boots.

“In the back, thank you, Maud,” Scarfe said pleasantly, and the woman stepped through the room past a curtain. “Well, Mr Davenport, I think we have a bargain. Shall I draw up a contract?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Nothing in writing was my philosophy. I’d learned that the hard way.

Scarfe looked at me long and hard and for a wild second I thought he would refuse to do business, but then he shook his head with a smile. “Very well then, Mr Davenport. A pleasure, as always. Do come again.”

And the damned thing was, I knew and he knew I would.

I opened the door. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”

“It always looks like it’s going to rain, Mr Davenport,” Scarfe said gloomily. ‘’Always. And it never does.”

 

“I’m glad you agreed to talk, Dan,” my wife — soon to be ex-wife — said. “I want this to be as civilised as possible. The less the lawyers get involved, the better.”

I nodded at her from across my desk. “Miller not with you?”

Margaret sighed. “Don’t start, Dan. Marc has nothing to do with this.”

Like hell. So a year ago he’d just turned up and befriended me, flattered me, cajoled me into becoming his mentor in rare and esoteric books, and by the end of that time he’d nabbed my position as consultant to an auction house, and, oh yes, my wife. Pure coincidence? No damned way. He had to pay.

“Sure,” I said. “Hey, where is Marc, anyway?”

“The Clarendon. I’m meeting him in the bar when we’ve finished.”

The Clarendon was a hotel across the road from my office. In fact, from where I was sitting, I could see its doors through the window.

I looked out and my heart skipped a beat.

She was dressed very differently, of course, but when I saw the woman walk up to the door and push through it, I knew instantly who it was. The black hair. The pale skin.

Maud.

Margaret was saying something. I pulled my attention back to her and smiled.

“Well,” I said. “Shall we begin?”

*

It didn’t take long to divide up the assets. I’m not a vindictive man. Well, not usually. Besides, I had every hope we wouldn’t be going ahead with it all.

Margaret left and I kept working, going through some recent catalogues, hoping she would be back soon. And she was.

“Marc’s not there.”

“Not there? He’s stood you up?”

“No. I mean, I know he was there. I saw him go in. But …”

“Probably in the toilet.”

“Well, that’s what I thought. But I tried to call him and his phone is switched off.”

“Huh.” I sat back in my chair and frowned. “Strange. Shall we go and look together?”

We did. Not that it did much good, of course. In the end it was me who suggested calling the police.

*

Miller’s body was found three days later in some cheap hotel, in bed, naked, a condom still … in use. There was a bottle of rather good champagne, two glasses, and traces of cocaine on the bedside table. Apparently Miller’s heart had just stopped. From what I heard, the death was explained as a seizure brought on by the cocaine.

Seeing as how my wife had left me for him, the police took something of an interest in me. But I had an alibi, of course — indeed, the best alibi: my wife. And it had been I who had told her to call the police in — not exactly the actions of a guilty man.

The police found only one set of fingerprints, which was rather a puzzle.

I comforted Margaret as best I could through the whole affair. “I can’t believe it,” she kept saying. “You think you know someone …”

“Well,” I would reply, “I suppose everyone has secrets.”

*

What with all the bother, it wasn’t until a month had gone by that I returned to Mr Scarfe’s shop with his payment. I was possibly the cheeriest man in hell that day, even whistling as I walked down the street and pushed open the door, the bell tinkling.

Mr Scarfe looked up at once. “Mr Davenport! You have returned! All is well, I trust?”

“Very well indeed,” I told him. My mind flashed back to Margaret and I in bed last night, our hot, sweaty coupling, a kind of marking my territory now she was back with me. “Yes, very, very well, thanks.”

“And the little … affair … was arranged to your satisfaction?”

“Indeed,” I said, and I grinned. I couldn’t help it. “Yes, my thanks for your assistance. And here is your payment.” From my bag I drew the promised book.

Mr Scarfe picked it up with a kind of awe. “A first edition indeed! Very good condition, I must say. Why, it looks almost new! Thank you, Mr Davenport. It will become a treasured part of my collection.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“Just allow me to give you a receipt.” He fumbled around on his desk for a notepad.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, I insist. It would only be proper.” He wrote for a few seconds before tearing off a page and handing it to me. I thrust it into my pocket.

“Well, thanks again, Mr Scarfe. I’ll be off now. See you again some time.”

He watched as I made for the door, and behind me I could hear him murmur, “Yes … some time.”



I made my way down the street to the red door that marked the secret entrance to the subway. I started down the long, winding set of stairs that led to the platform.

I was thinking about all the things I would do this week now my life was back on track. I’d call the auction house tomorrow, not to enquire about my job, but just for a chat. Still, there weren’t that many esoteric book experts in the country, and I felt sure they would leap at the chance once they knew I was free. First I’d take Margaret on a trip overseas, though. Maybe to France? I could combine business with a little pleasure, hit some book dealers I knew …

Wait.

It occurred to me that I’d been walking down these stairs for quite some time. I stopped on the step and looked down. Surely I should have reached the platform by now? Yet the stairs kept winding down, punctuated by a light every few feet. I peered down into the darkness.

Slowly, with my full attention, I began to walk down the stairs again, counting as I went. Once I’d reached 200 with no exit, I broke into a sweat.

I turned and retraced my steps, walking up the stairs. I’d get to the door, exit, make my way to some other entrance to my world. There were many more, I knew, I’d just find one and …

Damn it!

No matter how many stairs I climbed, they continued to wind upwards.

Trembling, I slumped to the ground. What was wrong? How could these damned stairs just keep going up, or going down, but never reach anywhere?

I stopped to listen, hoping to hear the rumble of a train. There were no other sounds. All was quiet. Except for the rapid beating of my heart.

I’d mark the wall. I’d try going downstairs again, mark the wall every now and then. Someone would find them. Someone would help.

I searched myself for something to write with, chalk, pen, pencil, a key to rasp my message on the wall. But all I found was a piece of paper.

Scarfe’s receipt.

Wait. Not a receipt.

A letter.

“Dear Mr Davenport, I suppose I owe you an explanation for your predicament. You see, your position and your wife were not the only things Mr Miller took from you. He had come to see me some months ago and asked for my assistance. In return for giving him what he wanted, I took some very fine Communist tracts from pre-revolution Russia.

“Mr Miller did make it clear that if anything were to happen to him, he would want his revenge taken. Of course, I did not think I would be the instrument of both his downfall and yours, but that’s what a good businessman does, and I, Mr Davenport, am a very good businessman.

“Oh, and one final thing … Mr Miller made his contract in writing.”

I have no idea how long I have been sitting on this step. I have no idea why I’m so calm. I am beyond panic now, I suppose.

One thought keeps rumbling through my mind …

I am in hell.