Satan And Stig

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Brian Smith, formerly Brian Lucifer of 13 (unlucky for some) Lavender Grove, Tormentsville, Hades, was both physically and metaphorically down in the dumps. He had been homeless for several months, but he thought his luck was in when he found an old limestone quarry a few miles outside Cardiff that had been used as a public refuse dump for thirty odd years. The quarry was well over a hundred feet deep; it was surrounded by almost sheer walls, it was difficult to climb down to the bottom and it was miles from the nearest settlement, so if he built himself a snug camouflaged shack amongst the mounds of rubbish he wouldn't have any trouble from interfering busybodies.

While he was exploring Brian stumbled across a cave, the entrance of which was hidden by a curtain of hanging ivy. The interior was bone dry and it provided a perfect living space, but the trouble was it was already occupied by a character who called himself Stig. Stig wasn't quite human, and some would describe him as rather ugly, but Brian had seen far less pleasing visages in his time and he didn't mind his new friend's unusual physiognomy. Stig's social skills were a bit primitive and he didn't have much grip of the English language, which was a pain, but nevertheless he was an excellent listener.

“Eleven thousand nine hundred and fifty one years I ruled as the Prince of Darkness,” Brian said as the cave man spit-roasted a dozen or so rats over the embers of an open fire, “and the heartless bastards on the Grand Satanic Council granted me a measly ten thousand quid pension. My wife and I sold our house when I retired, so we had what we regarded as a tidy sum stashed away, but it didn't go far enough, I'm afraid.”

“Yus,” Stig grunted in reply, turning over the rats so that they would cook evenly.

“After my diabolical powers were revoked and my family and I were given mortal form I had a look at the property market on Earth. The South of France, we wanted to go, I fancied a nice sprawling châteaux with orchards and a vineyard and whatnot, but we couldn't even afford a bloody flat there. The Cotswolds was our second choice, so as soon as I arrived in Britain we went to see an estate agent and explained what we were after. The trouble was my face was all over the newspapers because when I retired I made Jimmy Savile the new Satanic Majesty, and I guess everyone knew I was a bit naïve in Earthly matters.

We bought a tumbledown cottage near a village called Bilgewater in what the estate agent assured me was the Cotswolds. 'Oh yes, it's in the Cotswolds, Mr. Smith, it's definitely in the Cotswolds,' the lying little shit said. 'Can I have your autograph for my kids? Don't sign it 'Smith', sign it 'Lucifer'. Unfortunately I didn't have a clue where the Cotswolds were, I was conned and I inadvertently bought a cottage near a village called Gwaelodion dŵr, which is Welsh for bilge water, in miserable, rain-sodden South Wales. It took me over a year to complete the jobs than needed doing to make the house habitable, which used up most of our savings, and it shows how stupid I was because it took me almost as long to realise that I wasn't in the fucking Cotswolds. My kids kept saying that their teachers insisted that we lived in Wales, my missus tried to tell me that we were in Wales, it even had Cymru stamped all over our mail, but I was so tied up with working on the house I ignored the blatantly bloody obvious.....”

Stig took the willow skewer from the forked branches holding it a few inches above the glowing embers. One by one he pulled off the roasted rats, stopping to lick his scorched fingers every few seconds, and he handed Brian his share of the feast wrapped in a burdock leaf. “Yum yum,” the caveman grunted.

“Thank you, Stig, you're so kind. Now where was I? One day, just as I'd finished decorating, I think it was, we had a welcoming party from the village come knocking on our door. 'We didn't come earlier, look you, boyo,' the senior Taff said, 'cos we heard you were really really really busy working on Swallow Cottage.' Then he went on to introduce everyone in his party, there were about twenty of them and they were all called bloody Evans. It turned out they had a single Davis in the village, Davis the disinherited, he was considered an outcast and no one had anything to do with him.

That was when I finally accepted the fact that we were on Welsh soil. I swore to wreak terrible revenge on that smarmy, deceitful estate agent, but gradually we all began to enjoy living in Wales despite the relentless rain. We did a lot of travelling the following summer; we trekked around almost the entire coastline, we explored the manifold delights of Snowdonia, we spent a lot of time in Anglesey, the Llyn peninsula, the Black Mountains and Pembrokeshire. The scenery is fantastic, Stig, you'd love it there. Maybe we should go together some day.....”

“Woman,” Stig mumbled. “Where Brian woman? Where Brian kids?”

“It's a long story, Stig, but if you're prepared to listen I'm willing to tell my sorry story.”

“Story!” Stig roared, whooping in delight. “Stig want bluddy story!”

*************************

“A few months after I finished working on the house our savings began to run out,” Brian began, munching on a crunchy roast rat that surprisingly enough tasted rather like chicken. “I had to cycle twenty odd miles to the Job centre in Merthyr Tydfil to sign on and look for work because we couldn't afford the bus fare, and we'd long since scrapped the car because it failed its MOT and we had no hope of raising the six hundred quid I was quoted to get it fixed. Luckily it was summer and I grew much of our food in our huge garden, but I knew we didn't have enough veggies to last us through the winter. Eventually our claim for benefits went through, but it wasn't a lot of money, I'm telling you. One of the Evans's from the village, Evans the poacher, gave me a lurcher and a couple of ferrets, and if it wasn't for the rabbits and hares I caught that winter we would have struggled to feed ourselves.

There was no work; believe me, Stig, I looked far and wide, but there was nothing - no jobs, no life, no sodding future. Mandy, my wife, was offered a part time job at the Chemists in the village, which was a miracle considering the amount of folk that were after it and the fact that she was an outsider, but it was only a few hours a week and we weren't much better off. Anyway, time went by as it always does, and we scraped by somehow, usually by robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Several months after my missus started working at the Chemists she began to act strangely. She was working a few voluntary hours overtime now and then to keep her boss sweet, she said, but most days she still came home long after she was expected. She was socialising with her new friends, she told me, along with a lot of other bollocks to keep me quiet, and I didn't want to cause a fuss so foolishly I tucked my fears away at the back of my mind. One day I was putting away the washing and I realised how many new clothes she had hanging up in her wardrobe behind her regular clothes, fancy stuff way beyond our budget, and I found a jewellery case hidden at the bottom of her underwear drawer crammed with expensive goodies. Eventually I confronted her, and she admitted that she was having an affair with Ewan Evans, the village butcher, or Evans the adulterer as he was known in Gwaelodion dŵr.”

“Waah!” Stig cried.

“Mandy stopped talking to me after that, she had a lock fitted on our bedroom door to keep me out; she dumped my clothes in carrier bags in the living room, and I had to sleep on the sofa for four long, awful months. The kids wouldn't talk to me either however hard I pleaded with them, I have no idea what the bitch told them, but quite effectively she turned them against me. One beautiful spring morning I had a letter from Mandy's solicitor giving me a fortnight's notice to leave my own house because, I read between the lines, she wanted to move her boyfriend in, so I packed a few things and quietly left. I've been wandering around South Wales for the last five or six months sleeping rough, but Autumn is upon us and I had to find somewhere to spend the winter, so here I am.....”

“Uuuuh!” Stig said, patting Brian on the back, hugging him uncomfortably tightly and wiping away his tears with his grubby fingers.

“Thank you, Stig, your concern warms the cockles of my heart.”

*************************

“So what now, you might be thinking, my furry friend,” Brian said some time later as Stig handed him a mug with a missing handle full of a dark, bitter herbal concoction that was quite refreshing. “Actually I've had an offer of employment, as unlikely as it sounds, I guess it's highly unusual for someone of no fixed abode to be offered gainful employment. I had a visit from a scaly, shifty-eyes imp a couple of miles down the road while I was on my way here. The Grand Satanic Council urgently want to get rid of Jimmy Savile, apparently the power has gone to his head and he's getting too big for his bloody boots. It's an awfully difficult job, Stig, being the Prince of Darkness – even the devil has to listen to the opinions of his staff, especially his senior staff, and he has to act fairly or he won't remain in charge for long.

I'm still not sure whether I should accept the offer. It might seem like a piss-easy choice, staying here on Earth after losing everything I've worked for and not knowing where my next meal's coming from or what the future holds or returning to Hell and reclaiming my position of supreme power. It's not as easy a choice as it sounds, though – freedom, and the right to grow old and quietly die, or many thousands of years of increasingly tiresome wickedness.....

I told the imp I need to sleep on the offer and I'll make my decision in the morning, a good night's sleep sorted out many an indecision. What do you reckon, Stig?”

“Uugh!” Stig said.

“Quite - I guessed you'd say that.”