The Devil's in the Detail. Matthew S Wilson

in Purgatory, on your way to Morismia.’

      ‘What is Morismia?’

      ‘Your counsel did not tell you?’

      ‘No. What did you mean when you called it the “tenth circle”?’

      Gabriel looked as if he was debating whether he should answer, eventually shrugging.

      ‘There are ten circles of Hell, each worst than the last. One circle per Commandment. Morismia is the tenth circle, the part of Hell reserved for the very worst souls. Imagine a place filled with so much pain, misery and anguish that you continually wished you were dead. And then imagine that you already are. There is no escaping from Morismia.’

      David leant against the wall, feeling as though he had been punched in the chest.

      ‘Why didn’t Olivia tell me?’

      Gabriel smirked.

      ‘Perhaps she thought that you will see it soon enough, Monsieur.’

      David snapped. He lunged at Gabriel and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, pushing him against the wall. His eyes flared angrily at the Demon.

      ‘You see?’ said Gabriel. ‘It feels good to break your rules and do what you crave, doesn’t it, Monsieur? It feels good to give into your hate for me, no?’

      There was something in the glint in Gabriel’s eye that made David’s skin crawl.

      ‘But you must ask yourself, is hurting me what you truly crave, Monsieur? Or is knowing how to escape from this place and return to your life, what you truly desire?’

      Disarmed by Gabriel’s question, David released him and took a step back.

      ‘Olivia already told me that there isn’t a way to escape Purgatory.’

      ‘She did? It appears that there are a great many things that she is not telling you, doesn’t it? Why is it that you believe she has your best interests at heart?’

      ‘She’s my lawyer.’

      ‘Precisely Monsieur, not your friend.’

      ‘And I suppose you are? Why should I trust anything you say?’

      He shrugged.

      ‘You shouldn’t. But don’t take my word for it.’

      Gabriel reached inside his jacket and pulled out an outstretched fist.

      ‘But if you truly want to know if there is a way out of Purgatory, why don’t you see for yourself?’

      Gabriel opened his palm. Laying on it was a key.

      CHAPTER 8

      Olivia hurried up to David as he returned to the courtroom.

      ‘Where have you been?’

      ‘I told you. The toilet.’

      He could see from her expression that this didn’t seem like a satisfactory explanation.

      ‘Was there something wrong?’

      David’s cheeks reddened. Why was Olivia asking so many questions? Ezekiel seemed to be examining him suspiciously too. Had the Archangel overheard something while he waited outside the bathroom? Did he know about Gabriel’s proposition?

      ‘Well, listening to your life played out in a court room doesn’t seem to agree with my stomach, I’m afraid.’

      It seemed that Purgatory was not entirely dissimilar to Earth, in that whenever you didn’t want to fully explain yourself, you merely had to insinuate some form of diarrhoea and everyone was quick to change the topic. He brushed past her and sat in the witness stand again. The doors at the rear of the courtroom sprang open and Gabriel strode through.

      ‘Perhaps both the prosecution and defendant would be so good as to allow us to continue now,’ Dominion Galloway added sarcastically.

      ‘Of course, Your Honour.’

      Gabriel checked some notes at his bench before approaching David again. Nothing in his demeanour conveyed the conversation that they’d just had. He was very firmly back in the role of smartly dressed prosecutor. David felt himself tense up, not knowing from which angle the Demon would attack next.

      ‘Earlier we were speaking about a bully at your school named Michael O’Connor. As we have established, he was expelled.’

      ‘Objection – we have already covered this, Your Honour,’ called out Olivia.

      Before Dominion Galloway could rule on the matter, Gabriel waved a dismissive hand.

      ‘Forgive me. Allow me to re-phrase. Did you ever see Michael O’Connor again after his expulsion?’

      ‘I did.’

      ‘Can you remember that first time you saw him after his expulsion.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

      Gabriel looked down at his folder.

      ‘June 22nd of the year 1986.’

      David shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘I believe England were beaten in a game of football by Argentina?’

      Suddenly, David remembered everything. England hadn’t playing just any old game of football. They were playing a quarter-final in the ‘86 World Cup, which for a sixteen year old boy in England, effectively amounted to war. It had only been a few years prior that Britain had been embroiled in an actual war with Argentina in the Falklands. That conflict was decided by Britain’s military superiority, where as the war played out in the World Cup on that day in 1986 was decided by the “Hand of God” himself.

      ‘Handball!’ the sweaty, fat, overweight man behind David spat. He wasn’t alone. The entire pub seemed to be full of middle-aged fat men who were bald, or at the very least thinning at a rate of knots. And tattoos. Lots of tattoos. Mainly Arsenal ones, which was unsurprising in a pub that was less than a mile from Highbury and was called “The Gunners”. But there were other tattoos too. Sparrows on hands. A woman’s name on a set of knuckles, with the word “BITCH” on the other. Teardrops on cheeks. You wouldn’t have wanted to be on the wrong side of this lot, David thought. And right now, a small Argentinean named Diego Maradona was just that.

      ‘He punched the fucking thing through the goal,’ roared the bartender, oblivious to the fact the pint he’d been pouring was now gushing over the top of the full glass.

      ‘The bloody referee is a friggin Mexican, what do you expect?’ said another fat, bald bloke.

      ‘No – he’s from Tunisia,’ clarified a fat, hairy bloke.

      ‘Same fucking thing,’ said the bartender, putting the matter to rest.

      David squeezed past the sweaty beer bellies to the bar. He was only sixteen, but everyone was too drunk, or angry, to take any notice of him. He saw a half pint glass on the edge of the bar and grabbed it.

      ‘Oi! You’re not eighteen.’

      He turned slowly around, dreading the sight of the bouncer, but it wasn’t him. In fact, when David turned and saw who had shouted it to him, he almost wished it had been.

      Michael O’Connor stood behind him holding a bottle of cider. Like David’s, his hair was long, almost to his shoulders. But aside from that, he was no different - he was still a good four inches taller than David, still with a permanent smirk on his lips and that maniacal look in his eye.

      David braced himself for the imminent shock of that bottle being shattered on his face, mentally trying to determine what the closest hospital was from here. Probably Saint Barts in the City. He prayed that the ambulance driver had the good sense to avoid Angel/Islington during the journey. Traffic was always chaotic around there. Although he didn’t have his licence, David had a thing for maps and was particularly good at picking the quickest way to