Devil’s Food

Black birds flew past the glass wall front of a chain cafe on a sleepy town high street outside West London. The noise of their wings was disconcerting, out of sync somehow with the hot, summer air. It set my teeth on edge, but I was the only one who seemed to notice. Background white-noise conversation went on, oblivious, only punctuated by the occasional laugh-out-loud or the clatter of spilling toys from the kids’ corner at the back.

I took a sip of my latte, looking over the foamy rim towards the entrance as a man I’d never seen before, yet recognised instantly, breezed in.

Angelic, golden curls tumbled over sleek Ray-Bans, before darkening to jet-black at their roots. The shades hid predatory eyes, one brittle blue, one gleaming green, set in an androgynous, angular face. He wore a fitted, worn leather jacket over a simple white tee-shirt above faded, boot-cut Levis and tan, snake-skin boots.

He looked over at me; I didn’t have to wave.

He removed his shades and a loud crash of crockery followed a yell of surprise behind him. Startled from his contented play, a boy began to wail uncontrollably. My guest sat down, while the father, unable to console the screaming infant, bustled clumsily out on to the street with it squirming in his arms.

Unbidden, a waitress came over to us and set down a pot of tea - it smelled exquisite and unique - a thin-lipped cup and saucer, some milk, and two slices of rich, dark, Devil’s Food cake. The aroma of chocolate insinuated its way into my nostrils, making my mouth ache as I salivated, awakening an urgent, exciting desire in me.

My companion thanked the waitress in a voice as smooth, luxurious, and inviting as the chocolate desert before us. She left, somewhat perplexed by the last few minutes of her day but too busy to dwell on them for long.

“So...” The new arrival addressed me, fixing me with those beautiful, terrible eyes. “Why here?”

I chuckled, sipping my coffee before placing it gently on the table, and met that diamond-hard gaze with my own.

“Well, as I’m sure you know, my car broke down and this was the closest place they could tow me to. Some arsehole car-dealer sold me this good looking car three months and three days ago. That’s three days outside the guarantee and now its completely knackered. The mechanic said there was sawdust in the gear-box, not to mention seventy-thousand-odd miles wear not advertised by the clock. The sleazy, fat prick who sold it to me said it was a great deal and I, stupidly, didn’t think it was too good to be true. The guy says he’s trying to get it happy enough to at least get me home. Doubt it’ll be cheap though!”

“Huh,” he replied, poker-faced. “Well, you know there’s one way you could get him back. The car salesman, I mean. Fix him good and drive away in whatever car you want, no problems... if you were so inclined.”

“Yep, I probably could, if I were so inclined,” I echoed, and another waft of that delectable chocolate swept into me with my breath, promising power and whispering wonders.

I resisted.

“I’m doing fine,” I insisted.

He shrugged, smirked, sat back. Some insipid song came whimpering out of speakers on the walls above us and suddenly a red fire flared in his eyes, tinging the whites for a second.

“Nope!” The speakers emitted choking sounds, interrupting the calm around us, until Radiohead’s ‘Optimistic’ smothered the unrest, and faces turned back to their partners.

“Can’t get enough of this album at the moment,” he said, the tiniest half smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“Understandable.” I couldn’t help smiling back. “But I know you’ve been working behind the scenes: burst water pipe in the middle of the night; new girl in the office cubicle next to mine with the most incessant, shrieking, obnoxious laugh; and let’s not forget the car. I bet that dealer was one of your plants.”

“Alex, you wound me,” he retorted, clasping his chest in mock dismay. “How could you think such things of me? Me? When life is full of little acts of random chance. Part and parcel of the Grand Design from you-know-who. The strings of a puppet always go up. Maybe you should look in the other direction before casting your cruel stones.

“I mean, sure, the Fates and little miss Fortuna are knocking about Downstairs, but everything serves the Great, Ineffable Plan. So it is written!”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And you’ve got no influence at all, yeah? I can’t quite put my finger on it but I seem to remember something about an apple.”

“Ohhhhh, the apple, the apple, always the fucking apple! Tell me, is that an iPhone in your pocket? Gods, you have no idea how boring Eden was. There’s no raves in Heaven, boy. No one ever thanks me for the fucking apple!”

“Well, not many people get to talk to you. And, of course, you’ve got quite a criminal record. So it is written!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You believe that propaganda, you’ll believe anything.”

We paused to sip our drinks. My nerves tingled as my hand passed near the slice of cake. Tauntingly he cut himself off a chunk with a fork and savoured the scent, letting me watch, longingly, before pushing it in and rolling it around his mouth, eventually swallowing.

I was leaning forward hungrily in my chair. I remembered myself and pulled back, dragging my psyche from the brink.

He was watching me, but I could sense him concede.

“So I can’t tempt you this year?” He sank languidly back into his seat. “The money, the power, the indulgence... the women?” he crooned.

“The chains, the responsibilities, the Apocalypse, the war in Heaven. I mean, fuck, last time YOU didn’t beat Michael, and you’re a hell of an act to follow... Dad.”

He sighed, a touch of melancholy on his face.

“Brothers! Ahhhh, glory days.”

He collected himself from demonic reverie.

“Well, Happy Birthday then, I suppose. When you tire of all this I shall be waiting.” He stood up and put on his Ray-Bans.

“You might be waiting a long time,” I quipped.

He whipped round and I felt the raw energy of his will pin me in my seat. I strained against him, defiant.

He relented. I gasped for breath at the sudden release.

“I am very, VERY good at waiting, child.”

And with that he strode our. Presently, I heard the beating of wings again, and the slices of chocolate cake, mine still untouched, vanished in a lick of flame.

My phone rang. I answered. It was the mechanic.

“Your car’s shot to pieces, mate. You’re lucky it happened while I’ve got it in here but it’s the damnedest thing; the springs all went at once and when I jacked it back up the engine fell out. I mean it’s not worth—”

“I’m not surprised,” I cut him off. “Just get rid of it for me, will you?”

He began to speak but I hung up.

“Happy birthday!” I smiled to myself and drank my coffee. “Guess I’ll be getting the train home.”