Jackie nodded, as if she understood. Then she began.
“My story is about Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, a real life Scottish nobleman in the Middle Ages who was supposed to use black magic. There are a lot of stories about him, but this one is about the time he was plagued by a demon, which tormented him and demanded that he give it work to do.
“The demon was capable of doing superhuman things and immediately any it was given was finished it would come back to Sir Michael chanting, ‘work, work, work.’ To try and keep it occupied he set it to work flattening out a hill in the east of Fife called the Largo Law, and the shovelfuls of earth it produced from that job made another hill nearby and left a great cleft in the middle of the Law itself.
“Because it was making such short work of the Law, the warlock called it off the job and set it doing something that was impossible even for a demon: making ropes out of sea sand on Kirkcaldy beach. So it was kept busy forever with an impossible task and Sir Michael got peace from it at last.”
Jackie stopped and took a nervous gulp of her vodka. Before she could speak any further Ettie stood up as if to leave.
“Very interesting, lassie. But the stories that are told in
With a sudden movement Jackie grabbed the other woman’s arm, preventing her from moving further. “Sit down,” she said sharply, so sharply Ettie did so. “I’ve hardly started.
“Until yesterday I worked as a secretary for a firm of lawyers in Kirkcaldy, Cluny St. Clair. I heard the story I’ve just told you years ago when I was growing up in the town, and like you I thought it was just a story. But then three days ago I saw the demon myself.”
Ettie poured out two more glasses of vodka; the austere, raw scent of the obscure Bulgarian brand the
“It all started that morning, when I came into my work with a hangover. I should explain that despite the names on the notepaper I was secretary to the sole partner of the firm. His name was—or is—Richard Gibson.
“I had just got to my desk when Richard came in. He looked even worse than I felt. ‘Come through here,’ he said, and swept into his office. He used to do that a lot—sweeping into his office, making the dramatic gesture. It was what made him such a popular court lawyer.
“‘I’m going to dictate a writ for you,’ he said. ‘You must have it engrossed and ready to lodge by noon. It
“I nodded. I was relieved. I thought he was going to tell me off for being on the piss the night before.
“‘After I’ve done the tape for you I mustn’t be disturbed by anyone until twelve noon. At twelve I’ll be seeing a new client and I want you to be there as well. For… various reasons. Cancel any other appointments for today.’
“‘Yeah, sure, Richard,’ I said and got up to leave. I was used to his dramatics: I was used to seeing clients with him as well—usually the difficult ones. Moral support and all that. I went back to my work and sure enough he came through half an hour later with a tape.
“Legalese is like a foreign language to most people; if it’s used to its full effect it can be difficult to understand what a legal document is all about. But even allowing for that and my hangover I’m amazed that what I was typing didn’t sink in.
“But it just washed over me, all this stuff about an employment contract and breach of it and so on. I drafted it; Richard checked the draft and made some amendments; then I ran off the final version and handed it to Richard, all well before noon. Richard hardly seemed to notice when I gave him the engrossment, or even look up from the pile of books he was reading.
“Just before noon, though, he called me in again. ‘Did you read the writ you just typed?’
“‘Why, are there mistakes in it?’
“‘No, no—that’s not what I meant. Did you read it? Did you understand it?’
“‘Not really. I just type the stuff.’ The answer I always gave him.
“‘Have you ever heard a story about a Fife necromancer called Michael Scott?’
“Then it twigged with me—it was a practical joke, dreamed up by Richard or one of his lawyer cronies, to draft a writ releasing the demon down on Kirkcaldy beach from its impossible task. That was what the writ was all about and that was why the pursuer—the person raising the action—was called Mr. De Ville.
“I said so to Richard and he gave me an odd look. ‘That’s right. That’s all you need to know, anyway.’
“Just then the phone rang, on an internal call; I could hear the voice of Susan, our receptionist. As Richard put the phone down his hand was shaking. ‘Mr. De Ville has arrived.’
“I showed Mr. De Ville and his colleagues into Richard’s office, got an extra chair for myself, and sat down.
“At first sight they certainly didn’t look like the Devil and his assistants; Mr. De Ville was a smartly dressed older man, with graying dark hair and no pointy beard; his assistants were in the same tailored suits but were younger, perhaps in their mid-thirties.
“Whoever he was, the older man was in control right from the start. ‘Ah, Mr. Gibson,’ he said, ‘so nice to meet you again after our brief encounter this morning. And this must be Jackie. I’ve heard so much about you, Jackie; I’m sure it isn’t all true.’
“Richard laughed, a high pitched, almost hysterical laugh, and Mr. De Ville frowned at me.
“‘Now shall we get down to business? Have you the writ ready to be lodged?’
“Richard hesitated. ‘Yes, we have.’
“‘Good. Due to certain personnel shortages, I need all the available manpower I can get, so this case is in its own way quite important to me. We shall attend to the writ’s lodging: the interim hearing will take place at twelve o’clock. Good day to you.’
“And that was it, or nearly. De Ville and the other two got out of their chairs to leave; but Richard was stammering something, trying to get it out before they went. He always had to have the last word with everybody.
“‘You’re not quite what I expected, I must say.’
“De Ville turned round and I felt for some reason that Richard had made a mistake. For the first time I was scared of this man who was calling himself the Devil, really scared. I could feel his anger like a heat coming from him, like ice burning through my bones.
“‘What?’
“‘Well, I mean you’re not in one of your more popular incarnations are you?’
“There was a sound of tearing cloth.
“‘Would this please you more?’ He—or it—turned black at the instant he spoke, his skin black and leathery. Under the leather skin stretched a new set of features, horrific and yet fascinating: the familiar face of the Devil seen in reflection on a thousand gargoyles, an angled, inhuman face, forked tongue darting from its leering mouth.
“At the same time his assistants assumed their own true forms, both in their own way as horrific as their master’s: black brute faces like no creature on Earth, great misshapen bodies stretching and tearing the tailored suits.
“Then all three returned to their human forms and they left by the office door.
“I turned to Richard. ‘I want a few days off. I think I’ve been overdoing the drink recently.’
“‘You saw them all right,’ he said quietly. ‘I had hoped you wouldn’t be dragged into all of this, but I suppose I’d better tell you everything.
“‘I was walking Dougie along the beach this morning, like I usually do before I come in to work. It was cold and windy first thing and the dog wasn’t particularly enthusiastic, but it’s the only exercise it gets.
“‘Just when I was about to turn round and start back home, I started seeing ribbed marks on the sand, like lengths of rope. There’s a perfectly valid explanation for these patterns, of course—something to do with the way the seawater draw back through the sand—but it set me thinking about the story of Sir Michael Scott and the demon. Just at that moment the dog, which had disappeared off ahead, came galloping back past me, yelping as if afraid.
“‘I tried calling him, but it was no use; he was away off home at a rate of knots. I was curious by now and I walked up over the dune to see what had scared him. There it was, the demon: something like those creatures you just saw in the office, or maybe slightly smaller, sand running through its claws.
