A Blink of the Screen Read Free Page B

much, sir, for coming here tonight and giving us your views on topics of immediate concern. Thank you. Well, ladies and gentlemen, tune in next week for another –’
    Crucible surveyed the company dispassionately. There was the usual bevy of disgruntled back-benchers, would-be starlets, bored reporters, and of course, the usual fatigue party of Guards, all sipping themselves horizontal on third-rate champagne. A motley and mottled crowd. Crucible, who was becoming quite an expert on crowded atmospheres of late, diagnosed this one as a particularly fruity blend of stale smoke, Fleurs de Mal, and methane, not to mention the occasional waft of carbon monoxide. He turned to the Devil, who was performing wonders with the cocktail shaker.
    ‘This, my friend, is what is laughingly called a party; a ritual still found in the better parts of Belgravia. It seems to consist of a—’
    ‘Oh, lay off it, Cru. This is the besteshed jag I’ve hadsh in five hundred yearsh, and I’m gonna make the besht of itsh—’
    A muffled
crump!
indicated that the Devil had ‘made the besht of itsh’, to the best of his ability.
    It was a crisp November morning, and in the secluded thoroughfare that was Cranberry Avenue the birds were singing, the leaves were falling, and Crucible was having his breakfast. Between mouthfuls of bacon and mushrooms, he gave the newspapers the swift port-to-starboard. The gossip column caught his eye and he remembered the Devil.
    Throwing the paper in the waste-bin, he wiped his mouth on his napkin and padded into the spare bedroom.
    Chaotic was the scene that met his eye. Paper hats, balloons, and streamers were lying around the room and there were of bottles not a few. The Devil himself, still clad in Crucible’s second-best dress-suit, was sprawled across the bed, snoring loudly.
    ‘Wakey-Wakey!’ shouted Crucible, heartlessly. The effect was impressive. The Devil shot a clear two feet in the air and came down clutching his head; the language he used turned Crucible’s ears bright red.
    Crucible busied himself in the kitchen, and returned with a cup of black coffee.
    ‘Here.’
    ‘Ouch! Not so loud.’ Slurp! ‘Oh, that’s better. What happened last night?’
    ‘You tried the effect of vodka and Green Chartreuse.’
    ‘Ouch!’
    ‘Quite. Now, best foot – er, hoof, forward. Hell’s opening ceremony is at twelve.’
    ‘I can’t go like this – ouch!’
    ‘Sorry. You’ll just have to drink gallons of black coffee and bear it. Now, come on.’
    Jazz resounded around the walls of Hell. Pop music echoed along the dark corridors, mingling with the click of slot machines. Espresso coffee flowed in rivers. The scream of hotted-up motorcycles mingled with the screams of banshees both ghostly and human (guitar strumming, for the use of ). The growth of Hell’s popularity only equalled the growth of the Devil’s bank account.
    Up high in his balcony, on the wall of Hell, the Devil poured himself a drink of water and took three tranquillizer pills.
    The storm raged. For the last month the Northern Hemisphere had been beset by thunderstorms unequalled in the records of mankind. The weather-men spent all their working days testing their corns, seaweed, and other oracles but had to confess themselves at a loss.
    In the large study of his new country house, Crucible threw another log on the fire and settled himself deeper into his armchair. The storm continued.
    His conscience, perforce the most robust and untroubled in Europe, was troubling him. Something was wrong with this Hades business. Certainly not on the monetary side, for his commission over the last three weeks had been exceedingly generous, as his country house, two cars, five race-horses, and one yacht plainly stated.
    Hell had been a great success. The Top people were going to flock there and it had had the approval of the Establishment.
    But something was wrong. Something to do with those heavy storms.
    Somewhere in his mind, the inner