A Handicap of the Devil? (24 page)

"Thank God for that.” Jonathan waved down to Big Chin, Knock-knees and to a small crowd of other golfers who had come to see the sight of people ascending.

Big Chin was teary again, “Farewell, my friends. Bon voyage..."

He was cut off by a huge roar from the door of the back bar. “Seize those people,” roared the Devil. A golf pro pushed his way through the crowd as it fell back and pressed a red button at the bottom of the escalator. It ground to a halt.

"Bring them back here to me. I want to talk to those people.” The Devil's eyes flashed red and dangerous.

The golf pro pressed a second button and the escalator reversed its original direction and began to bring Jonathan's party back to hell. They all started running upwards. Sampson picked up the dwarf whose one little leg was incapable of resisting the flow. The golf pro worked a lever, and the speed of the escalator gradually quickened. The party increased their speed. They ran upwards at a gut-busting rate. It was to no avail. Gradually, bit by bit, the pace of the escalator grew faster and back they came.

At the bottom of the escalator several golf pros and a number of golfers surrounded the five live people. Big Chin and Knock-knees melted back trying to give the impression that they had nothing to do with these people who had obviously incurred the Devil's wrath.

Satan parted the crowd and stood before the terrified live people. His breathing was heavy and he had great difficulty controlling himself. “You're the bastards who put that elevator on the ninth and cost me a shot when I hit it.
I took a hundred and thirty-two and it's your fault.
Let me see, how will I deal with you? What abominable tortures can I devise to make you suffer for what you've done to me?"

"Now hang on a minute..."

Marcie was cut off by another roar. “Don't you ‘hang on a minute’ me—and you,
stop that tuneless whistling.
You have transgressed and you will all suffer for it. What are you doing here anyway? That's Jones’ elevator isn't it?"

"We ... err ... pressed the wrong button.” Cowley was red faced as she told the lie.

"Wrong button? How did you find the panel?"

"He's a lift technician and he was trying to find out what was wrong with the elevator, and he found it by accident.” Marcie fluttered her eyelashes hopefully at the Devil.

"That's right, man.” Sampson agreed. “We all got one big shock when that thing took off and bolted down here."

"We're real sorry about your ball hitting the lift and everything.” The dwarf sounded contrite.

"Couldn't you just sort of forgive us and let us take the elevator up out of your way?” asked Cowley.

"Yeah,” said the dwarf. “You don't want that thing cluttering up your fairway, now do you?"

"Forgive?” roared Satan. “I'm the Devil and I never have and never will forgive anyone anything. That's not in my lexicon. I punish people. I make them suffer. I give them the torments of the damned. Look at all of these champion golfers who aren't allowed to break a hundred and twenty. What do you think they're going through?"

"Must be real hell,” said the dwarf.

"What would you know about it, Shorty,” sneered Satan.

"A handicap of nought, I reckon I know a bit."

"A nil handicap? Impossible, look at the size of you."

"You know the old saying. It ain't the size it's the way you use it."

"That wasn't said about golf."

"Maybe not, but in my case it's true. Ask him.” The dwarf pointed to one of the golf pros. “He saw me sink a sixty footer on the practice putting green."

Satan looked at the pro who nodded. “Yep he did. A sixty footer. I told him to stop clowning around and practice to miss, sir."

"Sixty footer, eh? Handicap of nought? All the more reasons to slowly deep fry you, you bastard."

"I reckon I could improve your swing somewhat."

The Devil eyed the dwarf for a moment and then replied, “You could improve my swing? I've got all these golf champions coaching me, and you reckon you can improve my swing?"

"They haven't seen what I've seen. I'm closer to the ground than any of them. It's mostly in the transfer of weight from one foot to the other. You're a fraction slow. And your follow through is wrong. You're chopping it off too early and lifting your head too soon. I can show you what I mean."

"Bring me a driver,” roared the Devil. One of the pros hastened to do his bidding.

The Devil held the club in his usual fashion. “Show me what you mean."

"When you bring the club down, just shift your weight a fraction earlier."

The Devil tried a practice swing, knocking several paper cups off the bar on his upswing.

"You'll have to practice on the driving range. It will feel really odd at first because you've got into a bad habit. Persevere and you'll be surprised at how much you improve."

The Devil tried a few more swings. “Like that?"

"That's better, but follow through more. Make sure you don't lift your head until you finish that follow through. Yeah, that's getting there."

"I think I'll spare you to be one of my coaches. These others I'll get rid of. I'll eliminate you first so we can stop that awful tuneless whistling.” He pointed his finger at Jonathan, who stopped whistling and tried to make himself very small, which for someone six foot two is very difficult.

"Hey, wait a minute. I mean hang about a bit. Couldn't you just sort of let them go? I mean what's it to you?"

"Are you telling me what to do?” roared the Devil. The finger was now pointed at the dwarf.

"Uh, no, course not. I mean it's your gig, your place. Hey zap ‘em, they're nothing to me. Sheeeet, have a biscuit?"

"Biscuits, biscuits, biscuits? They're not allowed down here. No one is allowed to enjoy themselves here except me.
Have any of you eaten a biscuit? You know what will happen if I find out any of you have eaten a biscuit."

"Hey, no, man, nobody ate one, see. I brought them out just before you arrived. No one has had one.” The dwarf offered the bag to the Devil who took it and peered suspiciously at the contents.

"Have one. Hell, have all of them."

The Devil munched a biscuit. “Hmmmm, not bad.” He tried another and, finding it as good as the first, ate the whole batch of twenty. He was silent for several minutes after he finished the last biscuit. During this time nobody spoke a word. The tension in the room was palpable. When he spoke again his voice had changed to something a lot mellower than anyone there had ever heard before.

"Hey, now, what am I going to do with you dudes who put that elevator on the ninth and cost me a shot, hmmmmm? What will we do with you cats, hey?” He began to sing in a high-pitched slurred voice.

What shall we do with the drunken golfer
What shall we do with the drunken golfer
What shall we do with the drunken golfer
Earl—ie in the morning.

He broke off in a fit of giggles and then stopped suddenly and stared at Jonathan. “Have I been doing this for a long time? Let's have a drink.” He picked up a wine cask, put the tap directly into his mouth, and turned it on.

"I am so thirsty, thirsty, thirsty. And hungry. I am so hungry. Make me a sandwich. Quickly. Make me a dozen sandwiches. Everyone have a sandwich. Where are those biscuits? I want another biscuit. They can't be all gone. Tell me they're not all gone.” He started to cry and then lapsed into silence again for some time, as everyone looked uncomfortably on. He came out of his reverie and looked stonily at Jonathan once again.

"What was I doing? Oh, yeah, what was I going to do with you? What shall I.... Jones, you came in Jones’ elevator. You're all lawyers, yeah? Rule the world. You bastards will rule the world and I'll be playing golf. Golf! Why don't you all go outside and play? Play? Play golf. Lowest score wins the prize. No mucking around pretending you can't play. Everyone play. Play real good. Real cool. Lowest score wins a prize, big surprise, dogs eyes, meat pies.” He collapsed in giggles once again and drank deeply from the cask.

"Has anyone seen those biscuits? Hey, look at that. That grass is so green. Look out the window everyone. Have you ever seen grass that green before? I've never seen grass that green. It is sooooooo green, I mean, it's green.
It is green g.r.e.e.e.e.n, guureeeeen, green, green, green
and that sky is so berloooo it's.... “He lapsed into another reverie and then shook himself when it was over “Hey, let's get it together, everyone out and play golf. Play good. Real good. Last one on the tee goes he. Ha ha ha ha ha ha hah."

The Devil danced out of the door and headed for the fairway behind a gaggle of golfers all vying to be first to tee off and show what they could do.

The last thing the five travellers saw, as they moved down the side of the fairway heading toward the elevator, was Big Chin with tears in his eyes hitting a soaring two hundred and fifty yard drive down the first fairway.

"Let's get the hell out of here.” The dwarf moved as fast as his wooden leg would allow. “We want to be a long way away, because when he comes down it's going to be ugly."

By the time they reached the lift the word had spread, and the two sentinel golf pros were hitting practice shots onto the ninth green. They fell into the elevator and someone punched the up button.

They were so relieved that no one noticed for some time that Perry Como and his backing singers were doing their thing.

Jonathan had an accountant's brain that forgot no details. He could have told you word-for-word conversations he had had thirty-five years before.

Why did the Devil mention that it was Jones’ elevator and that lawyers would rule the world? Why?

"I say, a reception committee?” I. Faarkham was the least bright of the lawyers present in Jones P. senior's office. “Why do we need a reception committee? Are we having a reception? Who's it for?"

"Have you been out of the room?” Jones P. senior flared. I. Faarkham shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the other nineteen large and violent lawyers in the room smirked or laughed. Senior had spent the last half hour explaining about the elevator to heaven or the golf course in hell and his expectation that Jonathan and his disciples would return soon.

"Now pay attention. They will be arriving back from wherever they went probably within an hour or so. They've been gone for seven-and-a-half hours now and should be anxious to get back to continue their evangelistic work. We need to stake out all five floors so that they can't slip by us whichever floor they arrive at. We'll split up and guard each door of the elevator. Let's go ... What is it?"

A lumpish law clerk had his hand up. “Do we get to play the course in Hell when all this is over?"

"Yes, I'm sure Satan will welcome you all for a round of golf once the final victory is ours. Now come on, let's move it or they'll be here and gone before we're in position."

They left the office, each carrying a baseball bat, metal pipe or golf club. Jones P. senior had told them to be prepared for violence, and they had all responded by arming themselves. They settled down to wait at the various floors.

Jones P. junior was a man in a quandary. Ever since his descent to hell with his father, and his encounter with the golf playing Master of Hades, he had been in something of a daze. The slight dose of concussion he received when Sampson sprang through the door and punched his lights out exacerbated his feeling of disconnection with his world and increased his sense of dislocation.

Who could blame him for not being able to get his head around what was going on? His father was in league with the Devil. Whatever spin you tried to put on it, that was the bald fact. His father had been a disciple of the Devil from when he was a young boy and lived his entire life with one aim in view. That aim was world domination in the name of evil.

Jones P. junior was no angel. He had had his moments, and there were things he had done at times that he would not like to become public knowledge. This especially applied to the period he had spent overseas when he was far from the control of his doting single parent. His mother died suddenly from heart failure just before his sixteenth birthday.

No, he was certainly no angel, but nor was he ready to sell his soul to Satan the way his father had obviously done. Like many people he was sort of convinced about an after-life. Well, he was sort of convinced until his brush with the Devil. That clarified things a bit. It was obvious that you were either on the side of the angels or you were not.

But still, it was his father who was playing the Devil's game. His father, forty years his senior, who had been his role model throughout his childhood and into his early adulthood. It had shocked junior to his core. If Jones P. junior was going to come out from under the shadow of his father and stand on his own two feet the way most young men eventually have to, it was going to be in a much bigger way than for most young men.

He had a very sheltered background and upbringing, and no shadow of the occult had ever fallen upon his young life until now. His record as a scholar at one of the best schools in the state was reasonable but undistinguished. So was his record at accountancy school later on. Jones P. junior had always been more interested in good times, girls, booze, soft drugs and music than in academic excellence. This was the cause of his only real disputes with his father—who pushed him all through his schooling to achieve good grades and to gain enough points to enter law school. Jones P. senior forgave him when he failed but was not happy about it.

Jones P. junior didn't know what to do. Now, as he stood by the ground floor elevator door with a putter in his hand waiting to dong whoever came out of the lift first, his mind was in turmoil.

The elevator hurtled upwards at incredible speed. Inside, the five travellers each had their fingers in their ears to shut out the sounds of the crooner and his offsiders.

Marcie had a sudden thought. “Hey, what if there's someone waiting for us?” She grabbed Jonathan by the shoulder and forced him to look at her.