Page 7 of Inbetweeners
Nix had never fallen for that particular trick, because he knew he deserved to be in Hell. If he’d known the place was real, would he have still done what he’d done? As fucking awful as Hell was, there was a part of him that didn’t regret his actions, because if events hadn’t gone as they had, his brother’s life would have been wrecked. At least he’d saved Orion.
A mistake to think about his brother. His concentration slipped and so did he. He kept hold of the firebrand and by some miracle found himself wedged in a crack, his descent halted. Once his heart had calmed, he hauled himself out and kept climbing.
So was this another demonic trick or not? Was he going to arrive at a vertical wall of rock he couldn’t scale or suddenly find himself back where he started and end up climbing the same route day after day until he gave in? What was the name of that guy who forever had to roll a boulder up a hill in Hell? Sisyphus, punished by Zeus for his trickery. And what was the lesson Sisyphus learned when he got to the top of the hill and watched his boulder roll down again?
Nix wasn’t sure. The pointlessness of life? That when you’re given an eternal punishment, it really is eternal? Or that you should accept the fate you’re given and keep going even when there’s no hope, because in a way that shows your strength of spirit? Nix wasn’t sure he had that amount of inner strength.
Maybe he’d get to the top and find himself at the bottom. His own version of Groundhog Day. Though he didn’t think it was his imagination that the temperature was falling. For all that he was tired from the climb, the air had become more breathable. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to inhale when it wasn’t searingly hot. Demons could do a lot of things, but changing the temperature of Hell wasn’t something Nix had seen any of them do. So, he hoped and he kept pushing that proverbial boulder up the hill.
His feet were bleeding. He’d fought to keep his shoes, but finally, they’d been taken. His tatty pair of jeans were more holes than material, ripped apart by rocks and demon claws, and held together by threads. His T-shirt long gone. No underwear. Most of those on the level he’d been on went around naked, even the women. Granted most were also stark raving mad.
Nix could see the attraction in that. If you lost your mind, it was harder to understand what was happening to you, harder to understand how deeply you suffered, harder to care about anything. The older demons only bothered tormenting those who reacted. Yet it was hard not to react, not to cry out, not to plead, even when you knew it would get you nowhere.
He hauled himself up on top of an overhang, sprawling on his stomach for a moment, grateful for all the climbing he’d done over the last year getting away from bigger, stronger, more dangerous demons who either wanted to fuck him or beat him up. Usually both. Sometimes before they’d fucked him, sometimes after. To think Nix had once prided himself on being attractive. Apparently, he still was, according to his tormentors. He fucking wished he wasn’t.
His speed and agility had saved him from rape and violence several times. Though not always, and never with Maroc,Erlik or Xaphan. He shuddered. Was this a punishment for avoiding them, running when he could? But if he just gave in, submitted and let them do what they wanted, it wouldn’t make his life any better, so while he could, he’d resist.
Nix was rubbing his fingers raw as he climbed, scraping his already sore knees where his jeans were torn. He slipped several more times, sometimes falling far enough that he panicked he’d keep going down, but somehow, he always managed to find something to cling onto and keep hold of the light when he jerked himself to a halt. He was shocked he hadn’t dislocated his shoulders. Blood leaked from several gashes. He’d asked about that, why bleed when you’re dead? Why does your heart still beat? But it turned out that making someone bleed was a turn on and a beating heart kept blood flowing.
He found strength from somewhere deep inside to keep himself on the rock face, and he climbed on. It almost came as a shock when he reached a flat area and saw the rucksack. Maybe it wasn’t until then that he fully accepted this actually could be real, that pretty soon he was going to be back in the world.
Excited was an understatement. He wanted to whoop with delight, let his voice echo in the blackness, but he didn’t. Inside the rucksack were grey jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and shoes and he quickly put them on. Old and tired clothing, and slightly too big for him, but better than his tattered jeans. He wasn’t going to think about who the clothes had belonged to or how they’d been wrestled from their owner.
Nix knew he must still look a mess. He couldn’t bear to run his fingers through his matted hair. He suspected his fingers wouldn’t even penetrate. Water was closely guarded. He doubted any of them really needed to drink from the standpipes, but it was a habit he’d had difficulty giving up. For a little while, the feeling of warm water going down his throat brought comfort. Sometimes, after one of the older demons had fucked him, Nix was allowed to use the bath after him.No way in hellhad been his first response. Eventually, he’d accepted that scummy, used water was actually better than nothing, until the day he’d found something in the water with him that was alive and had sharp teeth. How Xaphan had laughed.Bastard.
He left the rucksack next to his tattered jeans and kept going, walking up a steep slope now rather than climbing. But he stayed near the rock wall because there was still a drop off on his right. Wearing decent shoes felt weird. Same with wearing clothes. He was going to have to get used to that again. Assuming he wasn’t still being tricked. Doubts had crept back. At any moment, he could find himself standing back where he started.
But what if he didn’t? What if they really had let him out? How long before he had to return? Probably not long. And how was he supposed to not do a job well without someone noticing? The idea of finding an angel to take back with him seemed preposterous. But he didn’t even contemplate not going back. He wouldn’t dream of that because it would just happen. Nothing he could do to stop it, so the best thing to do was make the most of the time he had out of Hell. He’d be like the little dog in the poem by Rupert Brooke who had his day in the sun. It was one of the few poems at school that he’d liked.
When he came to an iron door, he turned a metal wheel, pushed the door open and emerged into a niche in what he recognised as the foot tunnel that ran under the Thames from Millwall to Greenwich. He left the firebrand behind, its light already fading, and when the door closed, the exit he’d come through disappeared. Nix sighed. It was unlikely he’d have to climb back. He hadn’t climbed down when he’d died.
No one saw him emerge. He could have walked left, away from Greenwich, but curiosity about Paranormal Resolutions pulled him right. He couldn’t survive long up here without help and if he had a job to do, with a reward of a better existence in Hell when it was done, particularly if he took back an angel—ignoring the impossibility of that—then he wouldn’t run. Though when he came out of the foot tunnel into the world, he set aside the idea of going straight to where he was supposed to go.
He was out of Hell. Really out. The joy in that almost took his breath away. Inhaling the cool night air made his heart sing. He wanted a long cold drink, so he went into a pub. Lifting the wallet from the pocket of a guy leaning against the bar was easy. He might not have picked pockets for years, but it seemed to be a skill he’d not lost. Nix removed ten pounds, then pretended to pick up the wallet from the floor.
“You drop this?”
The guy patted his pocket. “Oh shit, thanks.”
Nix smiled and left the pub. When he reached another one, he bought a pint. The barman gave him a look and it wasn’t one of lust. Nix suspected only his relatively clean clothes saved him from being ejected. He probably smelt terrible. He’d never drunk anything so fast in his life. Straight down. Chilled, tangy and delicious. He was desperate for something to eat, he was always hungry in hell, though like drinking, eating wasn’t necessary to keep you functioning. Both were torments. But he had less than six pounds left. He bought another pint, and drank this one more slowly. He thought about finding someone to take him home for the night, but the way he looked, he probably wasn’t even appetising enough for a quickie in the Gents’.
A trip to the toilets confirmed that. The first time he’d seen his face in a mirror for a year. His skin was a pasty grey. His blue eyes had lost the shine they’d once had, though for a moment, he thought he caught a glimmer of life there. He didn’t look as thin-faced as he’d expected, in fact his body wasn’t in any different shape to when he’d died, apart from being battered. His hands were scratched and bloody, his fingertips weeping where he’d lost skin clinging to the rock.
Before he could change his mind, he took off his T-shirt and washed his upper body, using plenty of liquid soap and splashing water up from the taps. What fell back into the sink and onto the floor was horrifyingly grimy.
If Nix could have stuck his head under the tap, he would have done, but there was no room, so he had to leave his hair as it was. He pulled out a few paper towels from the holder to dry himself, then struggled back into his T-shirt. A glance in the mirror told him he looked a little better. Still tanned.Fancy that.Though the scar on his cheek was now visible. His hair hadn’t grown in Hell and he wondered if he’d need to shave while he was on the surface or not. Would he be here long enough to require a haircut?
Nix lifted another wallet before he walked out of the pub. This one had a hundred pounds in it. He took it all and tossed the wallet onto the pavement. He had no use for the cards. Could he find anywhere to stay in Greenwich for less than a hundred quid? One night of freedom. One night with a bath or shower, TV, comfortable bed and a mini bar, and no responsibility.
“Hey, you! Get back here, you fucking thief.”
Ah shit.Nix bolted. He ran into the park with more than one guy in pursuit. To his dismay, after a year in Hell, he’d lost his speed. There were no big open spaces down there, just lots of tunnels and dead ends. He wasn’t used to running flat out.
His pursuers brought him down part way up the hill, and after three guys had pummelled him, relieving him of the money he’d taken, they each gave him a final kick before they left. Nix rolled over and threw up the beer he’d drunk.What a waste.He pushed to his feet, staggered away from his vomit and collapsed at the foot of a tree.
When Nix woke, he blinked against the light. His eyes weren’t accustomed daylight anymore. The sun was rising, the sky gold and red behind the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. He sat up, leaned against the tree and watched. He wasn’t a guy who cried, but he fucking felt like crying. His throat filled up and he swallowed hard. He’d never dreamed he’d see the sun again, let alone watch it rise.
He stretched, and was surprised to find he didn’t ache after the beating he’d been given. His fingers had healed and so had his cuts. Maybe that was one advantage of being a demon.
