Cappucinos in Hell

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Paul Radcliffe

 

          It was coffee break in Hell, and the demons were sipping their long blacks and lattes. Some of the younger ones insisted on decaf. And the talk was the usual blend of domestic life, holidays planned, and the new Tormentor on Level 6. He had been headhunted for the post-no easy task given he had three heads-and had been picked out by The Boss for accelerated promotion, largely because of his work in the community, which had been very well received.

         He came into the coffee lounge. As if he owned it. He read the room immediately, and asked for their attention. Now, please. The lounge grew quiet, just the rattle of cups on saucers and the hissing of the coffee machine. He spoke calmly, knowing that he would not be interrupted. Timing is everything, in and beyond Hell.

         I would like to ask you all a question. There was a silence of anticipation as he looked around the lounge. His eyes flickered around the framed motivational quotes in Aramaic and Latin, the translations beneath for the less learned.

        Before I do so, I would like you to take a moment to ponder the meaning of this phrase.. With a flicker of a shiny claw, he indicated the Latin words. They were written on cracked and faded parchment and framed by the darkness of ebony. They were located in direct line of sight to be the first thing a demon entering the coffee lounge would see. A reminder certainly. And a warning.

        He read the words. Ubi Amor Ibi Dolor. He translated for the waiting room, though translation was not necessary.

       Where there is love, there is pain.

        Think of that. Think of the depth of suffering-of which, may I say, you mistakenly consider yourselves expert-the depth of suffering  that those four words carry with them.

        The silence deepened. No rattling of coffee spoons,

        Think. And here is my question, It is a simple one and suited to my audience. Here in Hell, among the damned, what is our ultimate purpose? What defines us?

         He looked at the demons. They were silent. What was worse, to give the wrong answer or to give no answer at all? At last one of the more youthful demons spoke up.

       '...inflict pain? We can do that very well..'

No. A hammer and nail can inflict pain. Again the pause. It seemed longer than it was till a horned creature from the back of the room put down his long black.

      '..remind them of their sins?...'

Better. At least it shows some thought, but I expect more insight from a group so acquainted with our core values. and with such a variety of backgrounds and experience.. any more guesses.. any speculation, however ill judged? No?

        There was not.

        Then I will tell you, and it is better for you that you remember it. His tone was one of simple observation. The threat, however was implicit. It did not need to be shouted.

      Our purpose is to bring about the absence of hope. He paused again. None of the assembled demons spoke.

       Here in Hell you all consider yourselves expert in inflicting pain. In spreading grief. In the depiction of missed opportunities. We long ago dismissed the idea of hot coals, shrieking, pincers and similar tapestries of nonsense daubed by medieval so-called artists to terrify the ignorant. Long ago, and I remember those days clearly.

      He laughed, picturing the memory.

     Short and brutal lives punctuated by disease and obedience to an imagined deity, some celestial judge who promises eternal punishment for the slightest lapse in devotion. And they arrive here, and you go about your business. But here is the real challenge…

     The room was hushed. A piercing shriek, swiftly ended, echoed and was ignored. One of the juniors, left unsupervised and over indulging in Torment 101. Enthusiastic, yes, but little skill.

       The real challenge for you does not lie in these caverns. It lies beyond. It lies in the wider world before the damned are handed to you with their sins already defined, their pleas for repentance, their bargaining -a personal favourite, I confess….

      There was a ripple of laughter.

But you need to practice the reality of what we preach-if you will forgive the clumsiness of the term.

      Given the unpleasant consequences, the assembled demons would have forgiven him anything. He was accustomed to addressing those far senior to him in the hierarchy, and his timing had been honed like an executioner's axe. He pointed to the framed motivational quote. His tone changed, and he pointed to one of the listening group whose attention had strayed.

        You. Translate.

The demon hesitated. He began to speak, his words hesitant.

        It means 'where there is love. there is pain…'

The Tormentor-none knew his real name, or ever would- had the gift of the best speakers. To ask a question to which he already knew the answer. The art was to interpret the response of his audience, and, if none was forthcoming, to ask a further question till even the slowest-witted of his audience would find themselves enlightened.

      Where do we find love? We find it in the dying and those that surround them. And where do we find the dying? We find them in hospices, where they and those that surround them cry and whine and bargain and plead for  a happy ending -that is not an ending, but a continuation of the joy they once knew. But there is a moment when hope still flickers as their life ebbs like a winter tide. My message is not a complicated one. You need not be philosophers gazing at the moon and pondering meanings. No grand speeches. There is no compunction toward theology to lend understanding to your actions. Perhaps this is just as well for some of you. To fulfil your purpose, this is what you must do,

      Visit the dying when they are alone, as they will be. Visit that moment when hope remains despite the logic of their mortality. And speak to them kindly of its departure.

      The room was hushed.

     Few of you have any experience in the community. You are tormentors with every conceivable form of torment available to you, and despite the considerable efforts you make, few if any of you have the wit to destroy hope. Even here, amid the fires and the screams, hope endures. Are you all listening? I hope so. You are all too comfortable here. You are under achievers. You think yourselves terrifying. You are not.

     The Tormentor laughed. A joke which only he understood. The room was silent. There was a restructure in place, he said. The silence of anticipation hung in the air.

      Each and every one of you will leave this place. Some of you may be fortunate enough to return. That is my responsibility and you can be sure I will fulfil it to the highest of standards. You will abandon your threats, your burning and the inflicting of pain.

 In the lounge in Hell, the assembled demons looked uneasily at each other. The Tormentor went on.

       You will visit hospices, certainly. And hospital wards, And trenches and battlefields, prisons…special units for the fragile newborn, if any of you have the wit to enter. And you will not shout and put on the demonic postures of which you are so fond. You will whisper and drown out other noise. You will be the last voice the hopeful hear. The suffering is far beyond the primitive efforts that have characterized your careers. The opportunities are out there. There will be no more long coffee breaks. It is a new era, approved and signed off by one more senior than me. I need not name him. Go,

      The assembled demons left the room silently. The Tormentor stood, head tilted to one side. He was listening for the slamming of Hell's gates and the fading of its echo. He left the room and went to his office on Level 6.

       He was looking forward to the appraisals as to how well the demons had followed their instructions, specifically, the removal of hope. Early indications are good.

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       Paul Radcliffe is an Emergency RN. In the past, he worked in an area where children were sometimes afflicted with sickness of Gothic proportions. Some are ghosts now. As a child he visited an aunt in a haunted farmhouse. This explains a lot. Paul has worked in a variety of noisy places unlikely to be on anyone’s list of holiday destinations. He is also a highly suggestible subject for any cat requiring feeding and practicing hypnosis.

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     J. Elliott is an author and artist living in a small patch of old, rural Florida. Think Spanish moss, live oak trees, snakes, armadillos, mosquitoes. She has published (and illustrated) three collections of ghost stories and three books in a funny, cozy series. She also penned a ghost story novel, Jiko Bukken, set in Kyoto, Japan in the winter of '92-'93. Available in  Paperback and eBook on Amazon.