All my posts this season are “inspired by” a letter of the alphabet!

Zig, Zag. Zigzagzigzagzigzag.

His head was spinning. He’d got home rather the worse for wear, zigzagging on his route so that he had probably taken longer to get there than he would have ordinarily. Throwing himself onto his bed, or rather, falling awkwardly, he closed his eyes and abruptly opened them as his head began spinning so fiercely that he thought he would vomit. Taking a deep breath and then a glass of water, he forced himself to keep his eyes open until the unpleasant sensation had passed. And then he stumbled towards the bathroom. Dry heaving for a few minutes over the toilet bowl, he eventually felt it was over. Until it all came up, for real, projectile.

He awoke the following morning, relieved that he had cleaned up the night before, but with a nagging sensation that there was something he couldn’t remember.

He was exhausted. Mentally and physically. What had happened to him? He knew he was zigzagging through his life, attempting to avoid any difficulty and failing constantly. His mother wouldn’t have been proud of him. She’d always tried to get him back on course, to no avail. When she’d died, he’d even inherited a wooden cabinet, and she’d left in it a drawer full of her old possessions, a couple of short novels she’d read and reread, some costume jewellery, ticket stubs to the last show she’d seen with Dad, three rosaries which she’d accumulated from trips to Italy, France and Spain, and for some reason, a half-finished bag of humbugs. He hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it all, knowing how she’d never given up on him. He wasn’t sure why he’d started thinking about her, maybe because last night had been something different. Maybe, for once, not his fault. Someone could have spiked his drink. Unlikely. Food poisoning? Improbable. Maybe he actually was sick.

First things first. He needed to find his phone, which he seemed to have lost, or cancel the number. What to do? Retrace his steps? Maybe it was somewhere in the house or had fallen out of his pocket when he was fumbling for his keys. And then he remembered what he thought he’d forgotten. It had been a bet, pure and simple. One of those I can drink you under the table type affairs. With whom, though? One of his mate’s Pete’s friends? What was his name? He’d met him before… A bit of an arse as he remembered. Had he won? And if so, what had he got for it? Flashes of memories started popping up and batting around his brain, like pinball. He went to look for his phone. There it was on the mat at the front door. Phew. Retrieving it he saw six missed calls and various voice messages. Sighing, he went to the living room and plonked himself down. All the missed calls were from an unknown number so he couldn’t see who had called. He couldn’t make out anything in the voice messages, they were just noise, apparently from his mate, Pete. Except for one from another unknown number. Pay up. You lost. I know where you live. I’m coming for it. He had to listen to it twice to understand it as the line had a constant crackle. Sinister? Or a practical joke courtesy of one of his so-called friends? The latter, surely the latter.

He didn’t feel up to talking to anyone, so he sent Pete a text. What’s up? Couldn’t hear the messages. Feel like crap. Talk later unless it’s urgent.

The phone rang. Unknown again. He put his mobile on silent and returned to the bedroom. He threw himself face down and pressed his face into the pillow. He was losing it. No, not it; everything. His job was precarious, but he refused to face the reality; that he did it badly and any day could be fired. Avoidance. Zigzagging. The same went for everything. Couldn’t quite let go of his ex, couldn’t break with his toxic friends. Kidded himself that if he zigzagged, he wouldn’t have to grow up and deal with it all. He glanced at his phone. Five more missed calls. That made twelve. Two sets of six. He started to get a bad feeling.

The bet. What if the other guy had won, and Pete had called him to warn him, and it was all real, and the guy was really going to come to his house and take something? Moments, disconnected moments of the previous night continued to flash around his brain. His friends pulling him back. Him ignoring them. It’s a bit of fun, he’d said, and something else he couldn’t remember.

His phone screen continued to bring up that unknown number and after five more calls that he ignored, it finally stopped. Twenty minutes later the phone rang again and something told him he should really pick up. The line was crackly.

18 times I’ve called. Six, Six, and Five. And now this one you’ve picked up. That makes another total of Six. 6, 6, 6. Good. You owe me.

His blood ran colder as it dawned on him that he’d been right to have that bad feeling before.

He stammered, “What do you want from me?”

What you bet. Your soul.

Had he bet his soul? Really? Surely not. And then he realised the voice was not coming from the phone, but from his living room. The guy from the night before. But with horns and cloven feet.

A drinking contest. I get your soul, or you find… direction. I won.

He’d been rather the worse for wear, but why on earth would he have bet on that? It was absurd. Who was this guy?

Come on now, I have things to do. Give it to me or I will take it.

He looked around for any other friends, thinking they were waiting to ambush him. No-one appeared.

“I want it all to go to hell”, you said. In the bar. I take that as a summons, if you will.

“What?”

Talking with your friends. You were moaning about something or other and then you said that; “I want it all to go to hell”. I assumed you meant to call me.

He remembered. He’d been spouting off about his ex, his job, his bitterness about his life…

So I thought I’d see if it were true. I apologise for the subjunctive, but I feel obliged to speak formally when I’m in my true form. Gives more credibility.

“What?”

The cloven-footed let out an extremely human sigh of frustration and took a deep breath…

I came in the form of a friend of your friend, Pete was it? His friend is deceased as a consequence, my condolences, collatoral damage. You recognised me, I challenged you to a drinking contest, saying I could help you with a job because I worked with a company who was looking for someone with your credentials as long as you gave me your soul. And then I said wa, ha haaa! All in fun, you understood. And you concurred, laughing as if it were a joke (apologies, subjunctive again) but nevertheless you did, and I won. Don’t you remember the wa ha haaa? Pity. I’ve been working on it. A touch of fun mixed with demonic. Anyway. Do I have to go through this again, or is that clear?

“What?”

A huff and a huge shrug.

Your soul is mine.

“Oh.”

An uncomfortable silence. And then,

“Those cloven feet must be difficult to balance on.”

What?

“I mean, it must be like wearing heels.”

Well, my calves do ache sometimes.

“So, if I do this…” He leapt up and dodged, left, right, left, zigzagging around his adversary until the cloven hooves lost their footing trying to catch him.

And the moral of the story? He began to chuckle… Be careful what you wish for. Be careful who you listen to. Oh, and don’t get drunk with the devil, he thought, looking down at the sprawled figure stretched out on his living-room carpet, one horn embedded in the heavy wooden cabinet he’d inherited from his mother. The devil prised himself free, grinning and then went poof. A rosary tumbled to the floor where his horn had been.

Thanks zig zag. And thanks Mum.

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