Pact Of Joy

Pact of Joy

Hannah clawed through the barrier of dry ice. She could barely make out the grey silhouettes of apparitions moving in the gloom.

She’d known Nat for months. They became close as parts of their lives were revealed, one layer at a time. Was it possible to be drawn to somebody that you’d never met? Common sense told her to ground her feelings. This was just friends meeting for a drink.

Blitz was a gothic nightclub. Hannah had never been, never wanted to go, but she’d wanted to impress Nat. He was always writing to tell her about wild nights, while she spent most evenings sitting at home reading.

This was her act of defiance against being a hermit.

She peered through the throat-constricting smoke in search of the bar. He’d offered to pick her up at home. Why had she needed to show him what an independent woman she was?

Picking her way through the mass of writhing bodies—too much flesh, too little clothing and all so black— she moved nervously up to the bar. A creature of indeterminate gender asked what it could get her. The voice was giving away no clues.
‘Er, um? She was thrown; the bartender had pounced before she’d had a chance to think about what to order.

‘The lady would like a glass of dry white wine, please?’

‘Sure thing, Nat, ice?’

He’d swooped in from nowhere reminding her of a raven flying down from one of the podiums.

‘Hannah, we meet at last. It's so good to see you.’

This wasn't how it was supposed to be; she was floundering. She was supposed to be composed and confident. Instead, he’d launched himself at her when she was unprepared, bailed her out with the colourful bar person and ordered for her without even asking what she wanted. All the clever opening gambits in the game of flirtation deserted her. Despite practising what she’d say at home, she couldn't think of a thing. Blushing, she managed a muffled, ‘Hello.’

‘So, my lady of a thousand written words is a shy one, well well.’ He was poking fun at her. She lowered her head, willing herself to come up with just one suitable retort. Nothing. She muttered, ‘thank you,’ as he handed her the drink.

He’d told her he wasn't familiar with the place and yet the bartender knew his name. How?

‘Shall we find a table?’ it was a command. He was moving. His hand was warm against the small of her back as he guided her to a secluded table and indicated that she sit into the corner where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

She sat, sipped her drink and tried not to let her distaste show, like a schoolgirl trying something unpleasant. For the first time she risked a proper look at him. He was grinning, his arm spread casually across the back of the bench seat. He was relaxed while she felt ridiculous.

For the next half hour he filled her awkward silence with chat about himself and his upbringing. She was grateful for the time to compose herself. She felt that he saw her awkwardness and was allowing her time to adjust and be comfortable. He oozed good manners, in a brash sort of way.

He told her that he’d been born in Greece, on a little island off the mainland where the sun had finished what ancestry had begun. He was dark skinned with white teeth and moody eyes. He wore his confidence with the same air as his citric aftershave and his arrogance fit him as snugly as his tight, black jeans.

His name was Natas, heir to a string of Greek taverns sprouting all over the Northwest, but his friends called him Nat.

When the waitress passed, he called her to replenish their glasses. Two bottles of wine came and went as he talked. They didn’t taste so bad now and a warm tinge was spreading inside her chest. She tried to buy the next drink but Nat wouldn't hear of it. She was enjoying herself despite the rough start. Maybe she could turn the tables and regain some control of the evening.

‘So, Hannah, tell me about you. I have completely monopolised the conversation. Your turn.’

‘There's not much to tell, really. I've told you everything about me in our emails.’ She lied, not wanting to discuss her past with this man who was so close but seemed like a stranger.

‘Oh, come on, I bet there’s loads that you haven't told me. You have such sad eyes, Hannah. Are you happy?’

Things were running away with her. ‘Of course I'm happy. I have a good job, a nice house, everything I need and some of what I'd like.’

He put his forefinger under her chin and drew her face level with his; His eyes met hers and then penetrated them.

‘Sure, on the surface you tootle along, but what about real happiness? What about passion, dreams, ambition? What about your soul, Hannah? Is it filled with joy, or does it fester beneath your breast, withering with lack of stimuli, barren of true happiness?’

She reached for her seventh—or was it eighth?—glass of wine and slugged off half the flute in a smooth swallow. It lubricated her throat and what had been bitter was now mellow and pleasant. He was confusing her, or the wine was confusing her. What was all this talk of happiness? What was he getting at? She took another drink and tried to focus her reply; she thought there’d be more chance of that than focusing her gaze.

‘I told you, I'm happy. Why do you doubt me? Do you think that because I have no man in my life that I’m some frustrated old box of desiccated coconut?’ She giggled at her simile and choked on the next drink of wine that found its way into her mouth. ‘I'm deliriously happy, blissfully happy, wonderfully, totally, madly happy.’

She choked back an alcohol induced, self-pitying sob and shook her head. ‘My life's a mess and I'm miserable. There. Happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?’

Oh God, I'm so drunk, she thought. ‘Please Nat, excuse me. I'm sorry but I think I need to freshen up a bit.’ He stood to let her by and pretended not to notice that she staggered against the wall as she passed.

In the Ladies she spent five minutes throwing up. Splashing her face with cold water she looked in the mirror and cursed the cosmetic company who told a pack of lies about their, Waterproof Wonder, make-up. With a bit of luck, by the time I sort this lot out he'll have escaped and I can go home and forget this awful experience ever happened, she thought.

With cold water and cool air, she felt almost human and managed to walk back to the table where Nat was waiting for her with a warm smile on his face. ‘Here, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.’

‘What is it?’ she asked, eyeing the glass.

‘Fresh orange juice.’ He grinned at her and she managed a return smile but she was furious with herself for getting so drunk.

‘I can make you eternally happy, Hannah,’ he blurted out.

‘Oh yes, and on what assumption do you base this theory? Not that I'm disagreeing with you, of course.’ She was ashamed about her lack of sophistication and didn’t want him to guess that she’d just knelt over a public toilet bowl to be sick. She was pretending to be sober and trying to flirt.

‘Because, my dear, Hannah, I am Beelzebub, also known as the Devil, Lucifer, Satan, the reverse of Natas. I can make your wildest dreams come true in return for nothing more than a little loyalty.’

She laughed at his sincere expression. Why didn't he just say that he fancied her?

‘So, my lord and master, eternal happiness, eh, and what do you want in return? My soul, I suppose? That's the way it works, isn't it? You do your genie impression and grant my greatest desire in return for my soul.’

‘That’s right, my dear, you’re making this so easy for me. After a simple handshake, you need never feel a single moment of heartache or sadness again.’

‘A handshake? How very formal. Don't I have to sign an aged scroll in my blood or something?’

He laughed. ‘You've been reading too many horror stories. No, a handshake will do.’

Hannah pouted, enjoying the game. ‘Oh, I'd rather seal our pact with a kiss.’

‘As you wish, as long as you understand the rules. Eternal happiness, and in return I come for you at the end of your days.’

He moved nearer, drawing her closer to him as their lips slid together. ‘Do we have a deal?’ he whispered, seductively.

She pushed all thoughts of vomit to the back of her mind. ‘Oh yes,’ she breathed as his mouth closed over hers.

Nat said she looked tired, told her they had all of eternity to be together and that she should go home and rest. She should’ve been disappointed that he didn't walk her home, but she was too blissfully happy to care. ‘I've got your number,’ he said as he left her at the club doorway.
She didn't hear from Nat again. The emails she sent were returned to her by his service provider and he never called.

She didn't mind.

The first occurrence, as she came to call them, didn’t take long. Her little dog Misty was killed on the road outside her house. Misty's smoky-grey fur was matted with blood and she whimpered pitifully as Hannah held her in her arms. Hannah was happy that she died quickly, happy that she didn't linger and was happy that?—happy that?—Well, she was just happy, that's all.

Her mother lost her fight against cancer. Hannah was happy that it was finally over, that her mother wouldn't have to endure any more misery. She smiled as her mother died, she was so happy.

Her life had changed. She was happy, blissfully happy. She felt no pain, no suffering and no sadness. She laughed at sad films—and in the face of adversity—and at others' misfortune.

She met a man, Greg, but the relationship floundered. He said that she had no feelings and no soul. Hannah was happy; he wasn't the one for her so it was best that they parted.

Three years after the night at Blitz, Hannah slashed her wrists standing on a cliff top. She watched waves crash onto the rocks below and dragged the razor blade along her carpal veins.

She was so damned happy. So bloody happy. All she wanted was to feel pain, some contrast to this cursed euphoria. She laughed maniacally as blood spurted from her ravaged wrists. She was so happy.
A figure appeared over the rise. She knew it was Satan, she’d been expecting him.

‘Hello Natas. You got me good, you bastard.’ She smiled without any sign of malice. She looked so happy standing there in her blood-soaked clothes.

Another job well done.

‘Hello, Hannah. How have you been my dear?’

‘I've been happy, thank you—damned happy.’