Hands Off

Hands Off

Dark humour. Fun with words.

Harry cast his eyes over the darkening sky, rumbling with warning. Rain came hard, soaking the two men as they wandered the back streets of town.

         Bert glanced up. “Told you it was going to rain. We should’ve stayed in the car.”

         Harry’s coat clung to him like a wet dog. “It can’t get any worse,” he shouted.

         Bert’s hair stuck to his forehead in greasy strands.

         As they crossed a street junction, the rain beat them as they lost the meagre shelter of the buildings.

         Eventually they found the seedy hotel they were looking for and stepped inside. The lobby smelled of overflowing toilets. A single lamp cast shadows into every corner.

         “Are you sure he lives here?” Bert asked.

         “I bloody hope so.”

         Harry pressed the bell. It didn’t work, and it looked covered in dust, as if it hadn’t worked in years. No one appeared.

         “What’s his room number?” Bert asked, wiping rain from his eyebrows.

         “Thirty-one.”

         “The key’s not on its hook. He must be in.”

         “Just our luck. Lift’s knackered.”

         Leaving two large puddles on the floor, they climbed four flights of uncarpeted stairs, each step groaning under their weight.

         “This place smells bloody horrible. Needs demolishing,” Bert muttered.

         “It’s not exactly the Savoy,” Harry said.

         “It’s not exactly anything. My dog’s kennel’s cleaner. And he’s incontinent.”

         They walked along the fourth-floor corridor, checking door numbers. Bed springs creaked behind thin plaster walls, accompanied by groans from men and women. The whole place had the atmosphere of a cheap brothel.

         “This is it. And he better have my money,” Harry said, tapping on the door.

         It swung open onto darkness. Harry reached for the light switch. Nothing.

         Bert fumbled in his pockets, struck a match. The tiny flame revealed a room so bare it looked like even the cockroaches had moved out in disgust. An iron bed, cracked sink, one chair, and a carpet so thin it had given up decades ago.

         The match dropped. Harry pulled the cord for the shaving light. It came away in his hand, but the bulb flickered on.

         “Bingo.”

         A sudden draught slammed the door shut.

         “What the fuck?”

         From the darkest corner, it emerged. Wings huge,bird-like, unfurled from its back. Its eyes glowed red, like coals in a furnace. The air around it smelled faintly of dead fish. Its smile was pure evil.

         Harry pulled a knife from his belt. “Any closer and I’ll gut you good and proper.”

         Its drooling mouth opened in a weird grin. “I am the Angel of Death. I could destroy you both in an instant. I regret to say today I’m not your problem.” He pointed. “They are.”

         The room exploded with white light so bright Harry felt his eyelids burn.

         Harry and Bert covered their eyes, but something forced them to lower their hands. Seven beings stood before them, dressed in glowing white smocks. Their faces were smooth and expressionless, like mannequins carved from hard stone.

         “What the hell,” Harry said, rage tightening his face.

         Bert didn’t laugh. “Look at your clothes.”

         Both men now wore black shirts with a red trident motif and loose trousers. Heavy chains and old-fashioned manacles clinked as they shifted.

         Harry pointed at the being in the centre. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. What’s the deal to let us out? Couple of grand?”

         One of the beings pointed. Voices burst inside their heads, spinning out of control. The pain was vicious until the being lowered his arm.

         Another presence pointed. “The young man on the bed. He had a right to life, and you took it away.”

         The Angel of Death lifted the limp corpse. “Exhibit one.”

         Fear struck Harry like a club, hard, fast, no chance of appeal. “I supply what they ask for. They pay for the privilege. No one forced him to self-inject.”

         “But we saw you mixing it with other substances to make more money,” said a being.

         The Angel of Death handed over a syringe and empty cellophane packet. “Exhibit two.”

         “No, I didn’t. Bert did that.”

         Bert shivered. “You’re the boss. I do as I’m told.”

         “Silence!” the beings thundered in unison, their voices echoing like a storm inside a cathedral. “Are we agreed?” asked the one in the centre.

They all nodded. “Yes, Michael.”

         “You are guilty as charged. No court of appeal.”

         The beings stared at them in horror, then the room went black.

         Solid darkness surrounded them, thick and suffocating. The smell of sulphur filled the air. Muffled voices chanted Cliff Richard’s Congratulations song from every direction, off-key, echoing, malicious. Mocking laughter pounded their ears.

         “Are you still there, Harry?” Bert asked.

         “I haven’t moved. And I hate that song. Where are you?”

         “I don’t know. I tried to run but slammed into a wall. My nose is bleeding.”

         “How do you know?”

         An unholy voice spoke. “Silence. We will be with you sooner than you want.” Riotous laughter followed.

         An opening appeared. “Next.”

         Harry went first. Bert followed.

         A tall man in a pinstripe suit, white shirt, and bowler hat looked them over. His desk was piled high with paperwork, glowing embers, and what looked suspiciously like a half-eaten Scotch egg. Behind him, a queue of miserable souls stretched into a corridor lit by flickering bulbs, each clutching a numbered ticket and wearing the expression of someone who’d been waiting since the start of the century.

         “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, adjusting his tie. “After the banking crisis, we’re so busy. Not long ago it was politicians. But let’s get you signed in.”

         He flipped open a ledger the size of a tombstone. Pages filled with names, dates, and doodles of rocks in various states of pulverisation.

         “You do know hell isn’t for basic sins. Hell is reserved for those who knew their actions were wrong and did them anyway.”

         He tapped the ledger. “Harry, you have the honour of rock number one. Bert, rock seventy-six. You will pound that rock into dust, and when you finish, the door to heaven will open.”

         Harry blinked. “So, there’s a way out.”

         The bowler-hatted man smiled the weary smile of someone who’d explained this thousands of times. “I’m not giving you a choice. And as far as I know, and I know everything, none of our guests has completed the task.”

         “Why not?” Bert asked.

         The clerk gestured at the queue. “Oh, you know. Lack of commitment. Poor work ethic. Existential despair. And of course,… well, you know.”

         The Angel of Death appeared behind them, dragging his scythe along the floor like a bored janitor. “Get a move on, Lucy. I’m taking the missus out tonight.”

         “Lucky you, darling. Where you going?” Lucy asked.

         “Upstairs. Gabrielle’s having a fancy dress bash.”

         “It’s alright for some. I’ve another hundred years doing this job. What you wearing?”

         “I’m going as the Sugar Plum Fairy. The wife found me a lovely pink tutu.”

         “Wonderful. I love pink, and it suits your dark complexion. Oh, Death, do your duty.”

         Harry frowned. “Duty? What duty?”

         Lucy sighed. “Well, you see… the rock-pounding task requires dedication, stamina, and above all, two hands.”

         Harry froze. “Hands?”

         Bert looked at his. “I quite like mine.”

         The Angel of Death grinned, his skull somehow smug. “About time. See you tomorrow, Lucy. Same time, same place.”

         He raised the scythe. The blade shimmered, humming like a tuning fork of doom.

         Harry opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came. The scythe flashed, slicing through the air with theatrical flourish. Both men felt a sudden, cold absence where their hands had been.

         Their severed hands hit the floor with two soft, pathetic thuds.

         Harry screamed. “How are we supposed to pound rocks with no hands?”

         The bowler-hatted clerk smiled. “Not my problem. Next.”

         The Angel of Death tutted. “Honestly, Lucy, you’d think they’d read the rules.”