Adam Lindale was a bastard. Not in the traditional sense — his parents had been happily married for seventeen years before his mother had conceived him at the late age of forty-eight (he had been labeled a medical marvel by the doctors). No, Adam Lindale was a bastard in the sense that he, quite simply, wasn’t a particularly pleasant human being. I truly wish I could say that what happened between Adam and Melanie was a one-off, an anomaly in Adam’s usually impeccable behaviour. Unfortunately, however, that would be a lie. Adam Lindale was devastatingly charming, handsome, and cunning. And he used these gifts to sleep with any woman he wanted, before promptly walking out the door the next morning, falsely promising he would call, or giving them the wrong telephone number. Then he’d move on to his next conquest. Occasionally, as he had done with Melanie Goodwin-Jones, he would stay longer, using his current lover much as a parasite would live off a host — moving in with them, eating their food, drinking their drink. But he would always move on when something better offered itself, usually breaking his host’s heart. In the case of Melanie Goodwin-Jones, he had lived off her for eight months and six days (Melanie had been very careful when it came to anniversaries), and he had told her, on numerous occasions, that she was ‘The One’, and that he ‘loved her more than life itself’. Perhaps, had Melanie been a bigger admirer of romantic movies, she would have smelled the bullshit a mile off. But she was young, and in love, and Adam had seemed like a dream come true. And so, at 7:30 am on Sunday the 20th of November, while Melanie Goodwin-Jones was lying dead on her sofa in her flat in Hampstead, Adam Lindale was putting on his jeans. As he crept quietly around the one bedroom studio apartment that his latest sexual adventure had taken him to, making sure not to wake the remaining occupant of the double bed, he allowed himself a smug smile of satisfaction. Not only had it taken him a mere matter of a couple of hours to get this girl (Sophie? Sarah? He thought he’d heard the name Sarah mentioned at some point) into bed, an astonishing feat of achievement by anyone’s standards, but it was a double triumph for Adam, as this wasn’t even the first time he had crept out of this flat in the wee hours of the morning after sleeping with this girl, who’s name, incredibly, he still struggled with. It was, he recalled, in a bar on Elizabeth Street, the smart shopping area near Victoria Station, where the evening had begun. He hadn’t gone out that evening looking to meet a girl. Instead, he had donned his customary shabby jacket, accompanied by fashionably torn jeans and t-shirt, finished off with dirty white converse, to comfort an old friend, Josh, who had been made redundant a day before. The recession had hit the bank that Josh worked for hard, and, as a result, over one hundred and fifty people had had to be let go. Adam hadn’t seen Josh for at least eight months, so it had come as something of a surprise to hear from him earlier that afternoon. But Adam was not a man to turn down the offer of an opportunity to get laid, and so, in what was almost certainly assumed to be an uncharacteristic display of kindness, he had agreed to meet Josh at his favourite bar, near Belgravia. Once seated outside at the chic bar that, Adam noted malevolently, Josh would undoubtedly be unable to afford with his new unemployed status, Adam had ordered himself a Mojito, before settling back in his seat and watching the pedestrians wander up and down Elizabeth Street, doing their daily window shop, or the commute from work to home. A group of three or four girls, probably around Adam’s age, mid-twenties, strolled past, and Adam returned their smiles with a bashful grin, as if to say ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m already meeting someone. However, if this was not the case, I would be more than happy to have a drink with you’. The girls kept moving, and Adam turned slightly in his seat to watch them from behind as they walked away. Life, he contemplated, was really far too short for a man such as himself to appreciate all the tasty options it had to offer him. Presently, his Mojito arrived, adorned by one of those little cocktail umbrellas that are frequently found in fancy bars such as this one. Adam plucked the dainty blue-and-pink decoration from his drink, and twirled it in an absent-minded manner between his thumb and forefinger. Without really thinking (Adam Lindale did an awful lot of things without really thinking), he slipped the umbrella’s point through the buttonhole on his jacket’s lapel, wearing it as if it were an exotic species of flower. At that moment, Josh arrived, and Adam forgot all about the umbrella. Adam stood up to greet his friend, shaking him firmly by the hand, and waving the waiter over to take Josh’s order. Josh ordered a gin and tonic, and the waiter, a sweaty youth who was clearly new to the job, quickly hurried off to do absolutely anything other than remember Josh’s order. “So,” Adam began, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over the pair of them, “how are you coping?” “Well mate,” Josh replied, after a moments hesitation, “to be absolutely, perfectly, one-hundred-percent honest with you… I’ve been better. My relationship with Janie has been really strained recently, to put it mildly, and any chance that I’ll pop the question was effectively written off after the firm sacked me. I mean, if I could just…” Josh kept talking, bemoaning the way women always seemed to demand a serious commitment from him, despite their relationship being ‘fine just the way it was’, as Josh described it. Adam listened to his friend, and Josh moved from his recent redundancy, onto more familiar complaints, such as Jamie, who he had been living with for a year and a half now and still saw no need to get down on one knee, perhaps because of the extraordinary amount of complaints he always seemed to have about their relationship. Then it was Josh’s concern over the possibility of erection dysfunction as he grew older, and then, when his drink finally arrived, and he started to relax, he got onto the subject of his own mortality. Adam, who had tolerated his friend’s monologue up until now, giving the impression of listening intently, and tutting, or nodding his head, or grunting in agreement every so often, lost patience. “But, I mean, really mate, how can I wake up every day without knowing what’s going to happen?” Josh moaned. “I could be walking along the Embankment, minding my own business, when phwoomph, one of those statues along the river there falls on me. Or a piano could fall on me, or I could catch an incredibly rare and painful disease. And I haven’t even thought about an after-life, or God, or Heaven, or Hell. What if I go to Hell? I’m not sure I’ve been a good enough person, Adam…” It was fairly safe to say that Josh verged on neuroticism. “Look,” Adam interrupted, “I think we can place a good bet on you not coming down with malaria, or being hit by a runaway train anytime soon. And as for all that existential bollocks… try not to dwell on it too much, eh? The greatest thinkers the human race has to offer have all pondered the afterlife, and come up with nothing, absolutely zilch. I hardly think Josh Strauss, hiding from his girlfriend in a bar, is going to find anything they haven’t, do you? Now finish your bloody drink, and try, just try, to have a good time for once, yeah?” “Yeah,” Josh agreed, nodding his head vigorously, as if to wake himself up, “yeah, you’re totally right, mate. Seize the day, he who dares wins, all that stuff.” With that, he downed what remained of his gin and tonic, and ordered another one. Adam excused himself, and went to the bathroom. Josh really did have an overactive imagination, he mused on his way there. Honestly, who got hit by a piano, unless it was a really unfunny cartoon? And the statues on the Embankment had remained on their silent vigil there for hundreds of years — weathering riots, storms and bombs. Somebody up there must really hate you if you’re the unlucky sod to get hit by a falling one. It was on his way back to his table that he met the girl. She was headed towards him, but he was so deep in his thoughts about Josh that he didn’t notice her until he had knocked against her arm, spilling the glass of red wine she was carrying all over her white blouse. “Oh, s***, no, I’m so, so sorry…” Adam began, frantically grabbing napkins from anywhere he could find them, desperately trying to mop up the stain. It was several moments before he realised that he had been effectively groping her breast for a good ten seconds, and he looked up, into her eyes, expecting to see horror or rage. To his unbelievable relief, the girl was not furious, but was instead, smiling at him. That was Adam’s first shock — the second came moments later, when he realised, with a lurch, that he not only knew this girl, but that he had slept with her a mere week before he had started a relationship with… what was her name again? Melody? No, Melanie, that was right. This girl had been his last one-night-stand before Melanie. Sasha? Suzy? Oh god, this was going to be awkward… “It’s ok, don’t worry — this is just a rubbish old thing anyway,” she assured him, gesturing to her wine-stained blouse. “Although…” she added, tilting her head to the side slightly, and raising an eyebrow, “if you’re not too busy, maybe you could make it up to me by offering to buy me another drink?” Adam gaped. This made no sense. He should be on the wrong end of a tirade of abuse, both verbal and physical, from this girl… whose name he still could not remember! The girl took Adam’s baffled expression as one of rejection however, and slumped. “God, that was stupid. I’m sorry, I think I’ve drunk a little bit too much,” she stammered, her face flushing bright red. She turned and began to move away, shaking her head a little to herself as she went. Adam roused himself from his catatonic state of shock. She didn't remember him. This discovery slid through his mind gently, then glowed in his heart like the first rays of the dawn sun. Lurching forward, he reached her before she had gone ten steps from him. "Sorry, I was a little thrown off just before, but I'd love to take you out, if the offer still stands?" he said, flashing his most charming grin (which, as a matter of fact, was extremely charming). The girl looked a little surprised, then smiled shyly and held out her hand for Adam to shake. She had an unusually firm handshake, and looked him dead in the eye. "I'm Sally, Sally Monroe,” she said, as way of introduction, "And you are…?" "John Hughes," Adam lied effortlessly — it wouldn't do for her to recognise him now. "Pleasure to meet you, Sally Monroe." Another grin. Sally. F*ing knew it began with an 'S'. "So…" Sally began, "about that drink?" ***** Adam made his excuses to Josh. He explained that he really needed to rush home to deal with a work issue that had come up, and that he was so very, very sorry for having to bail on him, but he would love to meet up and talk any time Josh needed him. Josh understood — he let Adam hail him a cab, and disappeared into the night, Adam's loud (and, Josh assumed, sincere) apologies still ringing in his ears. By the time Adam had disposed of his friend, Sally had found another cab and was waiting for him at the end of the road. Adam strolled towards her, resisting the urge to skip, or break into a little dance — pieces of luck like this just weren't on the cards normally, and he was determined to enjoy every second of it. Sally had changed in the last eighteen months. While she still had a similar figure — 5'7", skinny, athletic — her hair was now a dark blonde colour, and fell loosely down to her shoulders, instead of the auburn ponytail she had had on their last encounter. She had a harder look in her eyes, and held herself more upright, and rolled her eyes in mock boredom while tapping her wristwatch as Adam sauntered down the pavement. Adam worked for a major firm of solicitors called Smith and Smyth. This meant that he dealt with people everyday for a living — and, as he had worked for the firm for almost five years, with an excellent track record, he liked to believe that he was rather good at it. And, in fairness to him, he was absolutely correct in that assumption. This skill was deployed frequently when Adam went out to pick up girls, or went to a party. But it also had other applications, which could prove very useful. For example, as Adam walked towards Sally, he noticed that her hand was squeezing the strap of her handbag slightly too tightly, and that the muscles in her legs were tensing and relaxing — a clear sign that she was nervous. He thought back to her reaction when she thought he'd rejected her, and the lack of confidence she had displayed. Yet her make-up was subtle, and fairly minimal. And whilst her hair looked good, it wasn't done up in a spectacular manner, as if to impress. Her blouse and skirt combination was simple, and a far cry from some of the extravagant outfits that had caught his eye earlier that evening. And the way in which she had first addressed him, and looked him in the eye as she shook his hand. Clearly, Miss Sally Monroe was a complex individual, who had a fascinating story behind her pretty face. I would dearly love to say that Adam was, in any way, curious about Sally's past, and what had led her to have such contradictory mannerisms. However, what was currently going through his mind as he subconsciously made these deductions was how good that simple blouse and skirt combination would look off Miss Sally Monroe's body, and discarded on the floor of his bedroom. With those wonderfully romantic images in his mind's eye, Adam helped Sally into the cab, called out the address of a bar on the King's Road, and hopped inside himself, closing the door behind him. ***** If Adam remembered anything Sally had told him about herself when they had first met, he didn't show it. He listened attentively as Sally told him all about how she had never travelled outside of the UK, but had always wanted to, about how she had cared for her mother as she grew increasingly ill, before her death two years ago, about how her favourite colour was orange, and so on and so forth. Occasionally, Sally would return a question to Adam, or try and turn the conversation onto him. Adam always answered her questions, without going into any real detail, as was his custom, before moving the conversation swiftly back to Sally. They continued in this manner for about an hour and a half, while Adam got up from their little table in the corner to get them a refill every so often. As the night wore on, Sally leaned further and further across the table towards Adam, until their foreheads were nearly touching. Sensing what came next, Adam moved his hand over hers as it rested on the table. Glancing upwards, he met her eyes, and found himself possessed of a rather peculiar sensation. Time, the bar, the hustle and bustle of the patrons, the turning of the planets, the universe itself - all of it - seemed to slow down. The sounds, just a moment ago so loud and chaotic, jarring and invasive, were muffled, and, for a simple moment, all that existed for Adam were those two, grey, twinkling eyes, looking straight back into his. He was completely transfixed by her calm, yet playful, gaze. Then she leaned forwards, and kissed him, and it was like no kiss he had ever had before. It felt as though he had received an electric shock, and the moment, with all its intensity and adrenaline and fear and joy, reverberated deep within his soul, and a tiny part of him, a part that had never dared to raise its voice before now, said: 'Don't forget about this. This is worth fighting for.' But it still wasn't enough to stop him leaving before she woke up the next morning. ***** "You utter wanker!" Adam kept walking, not looking back. "You complete turd! How dare you! Hey! Don't you walk away from me! You get your sorry arse back here right now!" Adam did not slow his march down the Embankment, but glanced over his shoulder at the figure of Sally Monroe, resplendent in a dressing gown and slippers, incandescent with rage. "Oi! I'm talking to you, you little shitling!" Adam kept walking, pulling his iPod earphones from his jacket pocket, and flicking through his music library. He felt in the mood for something upbeat. Maybe some light jazz or pop. A moment later, the smooth sound of Steely Dan filled his ears, and he smiled a little, feeling better already. It always left a bitter taste in his mouth when the girl he'd spent the night with woke up in time to catch him as he left. Whether that was the last stand of whatever existed of Adam's conscience, or just distaste at the idea of a post-coital confrontation, it was difficult to say. Adam didn't care. He just kept walking, one step at a time, away from Sally Monroe. "Rikki don't lose that number… it's the only one you want…" It was funny, he mused, as the song reached the chorus. He almost felt something different there last night. Must just be having a bad week, getting sentimental - it would pass, he was sure. He notched up the volume on his iPod. Then he was knocked off his feet, and the world went dark.

Adam opened his eyes. His head was pounding, and he winced as he tried to move it. His vision was blurry, but he was able to make out some large dark shapes. He blinked once or twice, as one particularly large shape came into focus. It was a lion. More specifically, it was the head of a lion. It was so close that Adam could feel the beast's warm breath on his face. At least, he would have been able to, had it not been for the fact that the lion was carved out of stone. Adam only allowed this to sink in after he had thrown himself back across the ground, away from what he feared to be his impending doom. Somewhat ashamed of his own foolishness, Adam climbed gingerly to his feet, feeling his joints crack as he straightened up. Brushing himself down, he took the opportunity to take a better look at his surroundings. To his amazement, he appeared not to have moved at all. He was still on the Embankment. The sky was still grey. The wind was still unpleasantly chilly. The imposing buildings still stood sentinel along the river, the old houseboats were still shored up on the bank, and the iron-wrought streetlights stood in all their old-fashioned glory. He looked down, and could see his iPod was still in his pocket, earphones dangling from his jacket, and a quick check confirmed that all his other valuables were still present and correct. The only visible difference was the shattered pile of stone rubble lying on the ground that once resembled the head and neck of a proud stone lion. Only the head, which had scared Adam upon his return to consciousness, was fully intact. Looking up a little, Adam could see the rest of the lion still on his plinth. Clearly Josh had been right to be concerned over the structural safety of the statues along the Embankment, as it was clearly the falling head that had hit Adam and made him lose consciousness. However, Adam was surprised to reach up and find no blood, no gaping wound, not even a bump, just a dull ache in his head that was already fading fast. Adam stepped over the head of the fallen lion, and inspected the remainder of the statue more carefully. Now he was next to it, the head had been incredibly neatly severed, and there was a flat surface as if it had been beheaded in one great swipe. He stroked the stone surface gently, and was surprised to see that his fingers were covered in black soot when he removed them, as if whatever had sliced the head off had been white hot. Suddenly, Adam remembered Sally, and looked left and right. She was nowhere to be seen, which he did not greet with the relief he expected from himself, but with a strange disappointment, which he quickly put out of his mind. Furthermore, there appeared to be nobody else on the Embankment. That was not particularly peculiar however, since it was early in the morning, and it made a pleasant change not to have to look at the amateur joggers in their tight lycra running kit. He looked back down at his dirty fingers, and wiped them absent-mindedly on his trouser leg. "Ahem." The sound of someone clearing their throat caught Adam's attention in the quiet of the morning, and he glanced up. To his right, standing only ten metres away, was a young man in a black suit. Adam instinctively looked around, for there was no explanation of how the man had appeared so quickly. "Hi…" the man smiled apologetically, "Are you Mr. Lindale, by any chance?" "Um… yes, yes I am," a voice said, and it was a moment before Adam realised it was his own. He frowned - he certainly had not decided to answer the man's question, and was more than a little suspicious of anyone in a suit who knew his name. Upon hearing Adam's confirmation, the man smiled, as if he already knew the answer Adam would give. "I'm afraid you're going to have to follow me, Mr. Lindale. We don't want you to be late, do we?" So saying, the man walked forward, patted a stunned Adam on the back, and made a gesture that clearly indicated he expected Adam to follow. This was preposterous, Adam thought. I need a doctor, not some corporate executive in a smart suit. Yet before he knew it, his legs were moving of their own accord, and he found himself trotting to keep pace with the man. They did not speak on their short journey down the Embankment. Adam had a faint suspicion he was hallucinating or dreaming, as he saw nobody, and heard no cars or planes as they walked. This was beyond just being an early morning now - the roads were empty, as if cars had never been invented, and the pavements echoed their steps. London was a ghost city, and Adam felt very afraid all of a sudden, although he saw everything with a vague air of detachment. Every so often, he stole a glance across at his companion, who kept his eyes locked straight ahead, never looking from side to side or hesitating. After about ten minutes walking east along the river from Lambeth, they crossed over Westminster Bridge to Parliament Square. Adam noticed a flicker of humanity in his companion here, as he cast a dark glance across the road towards the Aquarium. Was it Adam’s imagination, or did his pace increase slightly as they crossed the bridge? One of the busiest parts of the city, usually filled with crowds of civil servants, politicians, and tourists, Westminster was now silent. They walked through the empty streets side by side, as though they were completely alone in the great city. Perhaps they were. Parliament Square lay deserted, the pale face of Big Ben a blind eye to the last two visitors to the centre of the nation’s capital. As they rounded the corner of the square, past the dour figure of Winston Churchill, Adam pricked up his ears at a dull thumping. He had become so used to the complete silence that had enveloped him since they started walking that he assumed it was his imagination, or a concussion, making him hear things that weren’t there. First sign of madness, he thought to himself. Not that being hit by the head by a falling stone and feeling next to no ill effects was particularly sane. But as he concentrated harder, he was certain that he could hear a thumping echoing through the empty streets. He looked at his companion (or potential captor, he though ominously), but saw no signs of distress, or indeed any signs that he could hear the thumping. As they passed St Margaret’s Church, dwarfed by the towering spires of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, the thumping grew louder and louder, until, upon reaching the corner of the Abbey and turning to face the grand Western façade, the thumping defined itself into a recognisable form. Adam blinked. He knew that thumping. It appeared to be Lady Gaga’s ‘Bad Romance’. It was coming from inside the Abbey. Adam looked at his companion. He gestured to the glass doors of the Abbey, and Adam found his feet moving involuntarily, carrying him into the hulking stone monument. ***** Where once a choir’s angelic music echoed, now the pounding beat and abstract lyrics of Lady Gaga filled the air. Huge sound systems had been installed, and, from the metal chains that had once held glorious crystal chandeliers, now hung enormous disco balls that revolved slowly, casting dancing flecks of light over the ancient stone walls. Swiveling spotlights had been fitted, and the rainbow lights they cast moved in time to the music. “Ra-ra, ooh-ga-gaaa… want your bad romance…” Adam looked around, to find the young man who had been his companion so far at his side. “Keep walking until you reach Him,” he told Adam, trying to speak over the booming music. Adam didn’t have to see the sentence written down to know that the word ‘him’ had a capital ‘H’. “When you get there, bow. The boss is pretty big on the whole respect deal. Not sure what he wants with you, but you’re on your own from here I’m afraid. Just remember – he’s in charge. When he says ‘jump’, you say ‘how high?’ – not that he’ll give you an option, of course. Anyway, good luck. Knowing him, you’ll probably need it.” With those ominous last words still ringing in his ears, Adam set off in the direction of the Shrine of Edward the Confessor. Where the altar usually stood, a large La-Z Boy armchair had been placed, with a matching tan leather footrest. In the chair, his feet up, was a short, portly man, with a grey goatee. His eyes were beady, his fingernails dirty, and what remained of his hair was slicked back with far too much hair product. Yet Adam found it impossible to tear his eyes away from the man, as if he was magnetic. Before he knew it, he was at the foot of the raised pulpit, and remembered to kneel just in time. As he was on his knees, he took a closer look at his surroundings. The portly man was holding a cigar in his right hand, and had a leash curled around his left. The leash ran into a dog kennel that stood at the side of his armchair. Outside the kennel, a feeding bowl with the word ‘Darwin’ in an untidy scrawl lay on the ground and, as Adam looked, the face of a wizened old man with a long and unkempt beard emerged tentatively from the shadows of the kennel and peered out at Adam. “Oi!” The portly man shouted, tugging on the leash, “Out yer come Darwy, yer blasphemin’ little twat, come ‘n’ say ‘ello to our guest, nice Mr. Lindale.” The portly man had a deep, booming voice, and spoke with an accent that would not have been out of place on Eastenders. Darwin stuck his nose out of the kennel, and whimpered slightly. The portly man raised an eyebrow. “Whassat Darwy? You scared? Aw, ‘ave a puff o’ my cigar, why dontcha?” So saying, he leant over, and held his cigar in front of Darwin’s nose. Darwin leapt forward, his mouth wide, but the portly man snatched the cigar out of the old man’s reach, roaring with laughter. “Oooh no, Darwy, I think not! You need at least another two billion years o’ evolution,” (he said the word with a cruel sneer) “before yer grown up enough to ‘ave a smoke! Now, where were we? Ah yes – Adam. Get on yer feet lad. The two of us ‘ave some business to attend to. Nigel!” The last exclamation was addressed not to Adam, who rose to stand, but to a man standing uncomfortably in the shadows, next to a statue of Benjamin Disraeli. “Nigel!” the portly man bellowed again, “Get over here you useless runt!” The man jumped to attention, and rushed to the side of the La-Z Boy. “Take Darwy for ‘is walk Nigel, I’ll be in Poet’s Corner with Mr. Lindale,” the portly man barked. It was at this point that Adam finally found his voice. “Excuse me,” he croaked, struggling to coerce his vocal cords into cooperation, “But who are you, exactly?” The portly man looked at him blankly. “They didn’t tell you?” Adam shook his head. “O…K…” the portly man sighed. “This is a bit unorthodox, but I s’pose I’ll just ‘ave to break it down fer yer on me own. Basically…” Here the portly man paused for effect, taking a deep breath before he continued, his voice becoming deeper and grander with each word, losing the East-End accent, “I am the Supreme Commander of the Angelic Forces, Creator of the Known and Unknown Universes, Lord of Time, the Heavens, and Light, and voted ‘Best F*** In The Cosmos’ for fourteen billion years on the trot. You, puny mortal, may call me God, or Sir, or Your Magnificence. You may not call me ‘G-Man’, ‘Big Daddy’, or any variation of those names.” He paused, thinking. “Actually, I might be OK with ‘Big Daddy’. And this,” God said, pointing towards the other man who was cowering by his side, returning to his normal voice, “Is my useless arse o’ a son, Nigel.” ***** Finding out that the man telling you to sit down whilst he peers at you curiously from across a desk in his office is, in fact, the guy he’d been addressing all those years at school when he asked for his ‘daily bread’ and for ‘forgiveness for trespasses’ was something of a shock for Adam. God’s office, a little room built out of Poet’s Corner, wasn’t anything overly special. There were some newspaper clippings and pictures on the wall, such as God shaking hands with Bruce Springsteen (Springsteen had signed the picture, with the message: ‘From one Boss to another’), and Adam thought he could see a couple of ‘Best F*** in the Cosmos’ trophies scattered around on various surfaces. Outside, he could see glimpses of the queue to enter the Abbey (or Heaven, Adam supposed). It looked rather like the queue for a nightclub. A burly man, with a nametag that read ‘Hi, I’m Peter, and I’m here to help!’ was wearily explaining to one gentleman that Heaven had a strict no-trainers policy. “So,” God began, “You feelin’ better?” This was a reference to Adam’s initial reaction upon finding out where he was and whom he was speaking to. At first, Adam had reacted extremely calmly, with a “Pleased to meet you”, and a smile. He had then walked, very calmly, towards the throne, had calmly veered sideways, had calmly scooped up Darwin’s feeding bowl, and then had not so calmly vomited into it. “Much better, thank you very much,” Adam replied. For some reason, all he could do was imagine lookalikes for God – so far, he had Sean Connery from the third Indiana Jones movie, Andy Hamilton, and, rather worryingly, Lord Alan Sugar. “Nigel’s your son?” “Unfortunately.” God noticed the bemused expression on Adam’s face. “Oh, I get it. You were expectin’ the ‘Oly Trinity, right? Ha! Listen up. I’m the Father, Big Daddy, the star of the show; the son is off on his Gap Year, witnessing the ‘power o’ nature’ and gettin’ totally pissed in Morocco; and the ‘Oly Spirit, that big ball o’ gas yer imaginin’, is what I let loose if I ‘ave a dodgy curry. As for the reasonin’ behind ‘avin’ more than the traditionally represented one-son family, well, that’s simple.” He leaned over, waving one of the trophies in Adam’s face. “’Best F*** in the Cosmos’. The best. Not sharin’ the love would be selfishness to the point of criminality, dontcha think?” He laughed. “But there was an accident with an Elizabethan hooker, and lo, a son was born unto ‘em – the one and only Nigel.” Adam was stunned. He hesitated before he asked the obvious question. “Am I dead?” God snorted. “Don’t tempt me, kid. Nah, I’ve just brought you over ‘ere for a little chat, ‘s’all.” “Here?” Adam burst out. “And where exactly is here?” This was met with an eye roll. “For f***’s sake, this one’s thicker than Abraham. Listen up kiddo – begins with ‘H’, rhymes with a number between six and eight. You can count up to ten, can’t you?” “Well if this is Heaven,” Adam stopped and looked briefly at God for confirmation, at which God sarcastically mimed applause, “If this is Heaven, then why does it look like London?” This seemed to throw God off his rhythm slightly, and Adam couldn’t help feeling slightly smug that he’d held his own. Finally, God spoke. “Ah… well, that’s the problem. Heaven doesn’t. We’ve had to… how would yer say it in yer mortal terms? We’ve ‘ad to make a temporary change in premises.” “But why” “Because of you.” This stunned Adam into silence. God noticed his shock, and continued, sliding into his grand voice again (the ‘God-Voice’, as Adam now thought of it. He named the other voice the ‘You’re-Fired-Voice’). “The thing is, Adam, we’re at war. Ever since the Fall, Satan’s been using guerilla warfare tactics to hold us back. There’s a reason why the people in your world fight. Every time it looks like two or more of them might get along, Satan sends in one of his agents to disrupt the peace process and wreak havoc. The JFK assassination? Satan. The Crusades? That had his name written all over it. World Wars One and Two? You could practically hear the party going on down in Hell from up here.” “So,” Adam interjected, “The splits in the Christian church and in-fighting in other religions were Satan’s fault?” “Don’t make me laugh – they fight themselves because they’re shitheads, they don’t need any encouragement from Satan. Nick Clegg’s leadership of the Liberal Democrats though, that’s a different matter entirely… Also, don’t interrupt, it’s rude, and I still haven’t decided not to just kill you here and now. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. Guerilla warfare. Very much a Cold War between Heaven and Hell – of course, Satan denied any involvement with the incidents, always sending his pal Beelzebub to patch things up and keep the peace. Nasty man. Gives me the creeps, I’m always tempted to put some antibiotics in his food and be done with the Lord of Pestilence for good.” “But where do I come in?” “Don’t interrupt! I’m getting to that part. A scout report came through last week. Spoke of a weapon on Earth that could change the course of the war.” “And you want me to get you this weapon?” Adam asked, finally beginning to understand. “I swear to… me… that if you interrupt one more time, I’m getting my lightening bolts, and cooking you like a f*ing turkey. I’m warning you now. Got it? Good. So we moved our HQ to Earth, in a removed dimension, making us invisible to the world you know, and the world you know, apart from the shell,” here God gestured to the building around them, “invisible to us, in the hopes of tracking down and utilizing this weapon. We can’t affect your world, apart from little things, like bringing you here, and they can’t affect us. But here’s the thing. The weapon isn’t a gun, or a bomb, or a strategy. It’s a person.” Adam felt his stomach lurch. “It’s you Adam. You’re the weapon. That’s why we pulled you out of your world and into this dimension – we need to find out how you can help us. It’s all down to you now Adam. What do you think?” His stomach lurched once more. The room was spinning, and he could feel sweat beading on his brow. “I… I think…” he stammered. “Yes?” God asked, “Go on, what do you think?” “I think… I think I need another bowl.” Before God could react, his suit was covered with Adam’s vomit. A moment passed before God spoke, through clenched teeth, a look of disgust and rage on his face. “I’d tell you I look forward to working with you. But lies are Satan’s thing.” ***** Once God had changed into a fluffy white dressing gown with what appeared to be bunny slippers, he talked Adam through what was needed. “Here’s the situation Adam. Satan will have worked out why we’re here by now, and sent his scouts after you. Intelligence shows that they’ve made their base across the river, in the London Aquarium.” Adam raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Yes, yes, I know,” God answered, “It’s hardly the Fortress of Solitude, but what can I say? Satan likes fish. So, we’re going to send you in there as a double agent. Frankly, we’re extremely lucky they haven’t recruited you already. It’s uncharacteristically bad management on Satan’s part, which makes me nervous, so be on your guard. You need to go over there, and tell them all how awfully we treated you, and how you were lucky to escape with your life, and how you want to work for them now.” “And what then? I’m not sure I want to work for Satan.” “Well, you obviously won’t actually be working for Satan, you numbskull! You’ll be using this.” God reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out a small, plain, silver dagger. He handed it to Adam. “This is the same dagger that Abraham tried to turn his son into a kebab with. As you might expect from someone that idiotic, he imbued the metal with all sorts of voodoo before he began his famous murder attempt. Most of his spells failed miserably, of course, but one of them stuck – the blade can only be used by great warriors, men destined to change the world. After it was lost in the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the blade was forgotten, but Alexander the Great recovered it on his journey east, and he took it back to Greece. The Greeks gave it to the Romans, who used it to assassinate Julius Caesar. The Romans, realizing its power, hid it in the Temple of Mithras in Londinium, where it was stolen during the rein of King Arthur - yes, he did exist, lovely chap – by his son Mordred, who killed him with it in his own death throes. After I saw that, I realised the importance of the blade, and took it, hoping to prevent it falling into the wrong hands. I needn’t have worried though – the dagger must be wielded by a champion, and the spirit of Abraham hasn’t inhabited a mortal body for millennia. This blade, used correctly, by the right person – the right person being, inexplicably, you – will set Satan’s plans back centuries.” “But won’t Satan be expecting this?” “That is precisely why you’ll be pretending to be an escaped PoW, who grabbed the dagger on your way out. It’s the only way Satan will trust you enough to let you into his inner sanctum, where you’ll have a chance to use the blade. It won’t kill him, just blast him and his minions back into the depths of Hell, which should take them a couple of hundred years just to dig themselves out of.” “Okay. Just one more question.” “Shoot.” “Why did the Spirit of Abraham choose me?” God smiled nastily, a glint in his eye. “Well Adam,” he began, “I can only assume that the insane, womanizing, alcoholic, with murderous intentions towards his own son, must have looked at you and seen something he liked.”

Adam sprinted across Parliament Square, explosions tearing up the grass around him. As he reached the centre of the square, a beam of flame shot past his left shoulder, hitting the ground just in front of him, and hurling clods of mud into the sky. He dived to his right, rolled, and kept running towards the river, the dagger heavy in his belt. Another beam, another explosion, this time just behind him. He felt the explosion, like a warm hand picking him up and throwing him forwards. He jumped back to his feet and kept running, his teeth gritted, and some very blasphemous thoughts racing through his head. God had explained that Satan had sentries watching Parliament Square at all times, in case of an angelic offensive, and they needed to make Adam’s story look convincing. To that end, he ordered a task force of seraphim marksmen to make it look like they were trying to kill the escaping prisoner, when, in reality, they would merely be putting on a pyrotechnics show for the demonic horde on the other bank of the river. Adam was, thus far, less than impressed with God’s interpretation of the ‘safe distance’ that he had assured Adam the marksmen would leave. He cursed loudly as another beam flew just to his right, and blew up a couple of protest tents. Adam couldn’t help but feel that God was sitting in one of the Abbey’s towers, watching him and enjoying all of this immensely, exacting his revenge for the exorbitant dry-cleaning bill he had assured Adam he would be sending his way after he got his vomit-covered suit back. When Adam had raised the possibility of God using his omnipotence to clean the suit himself, or, for that matter, to just get rid of Satan right now, God had glared at him, telling him not to believe everything he read, and to shut his f*ing mouth right now if he knew what was good for him, before he decided Adam would make a good turkey after all. Clearly the problem of the existence of evil was a touchy subject. Adam reached the edge of the square and darted across the road, his lungs on fire. As he passed Westminster Tube Station, the ground stopped exploding around him, and he slowed to a fast jog, trying to ignore the stitch that felt like a heart attack. He may be in another dimension, but this was turning into a whole world of pain. Adam moved quickly across the bridge, frequently checking behind him, as if ready to be pursued, keeping up appearances for the demonic sentries on the Southbank. Before he knew it, he had reached the stone lions at the other end of the bridge (which he gave a wide birth), and was descending the steps two at a time towards the Aquarium. The London Eye towered over him, a great white steel hulk, and Adam shivered. For the first time since he’d arrived, he felt a cold wind blow through him, and it carried the scent of rotten eggs and decaying flesh. It almost made him miss God’s sarcasm and the stink of his cigar. Concrete barricades surrounded the doors to the Aquarium, as if Satan was expecting an attack at any moment. A few guards stood, waiting for him, rifles pointed directly at his head, the safety off on all of them. They were all dressed in khaki combat gear, with heavy riot helmets, and looked like something you’d expect to see fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan, not guarding the gates of Hell. One of them, their leader, raised his head slightly, and sniffed deeply, and Adam could see that his face was human underneath the helmet, and not the horrific gargoyle he had been prepared for. “He’s a Mundy,” the leader said to his men, and they lowered their weapons slightly, though they were still pointing at Adam’s chest. “Mundy! Halt!” he called out. Adam looked around, and, seeing nobody else around him, he assumed he was the ‘Mundy’, whatever that was, and did as the soldier said, stopping about 10 metres from the guards. “How did you get here Mundy?” the leader demanded, “This dimension is off-limits to non-biblical forces.” Adam looked blank, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again. One of the other soldiers spoke up. “’Mundy’ is short for ‘Mundane’. It’s what we call humans before they… y’know… pass on. I’m Corporal Briggs, by the way.” Briggs gave Adam a friendly smile. The leader shot him a look. “I will thank you, Private Briggs, not to converse with any potential hostiles.” Briggs shrank back, looking down at his boots, and muttered an apology. “I,” the leader announced in a loud voice, “Am Sergeant Atkins of the Number Six Company, Twenty-Third Regiment of Foot. And you, my boy,” he looked Adam up and down, with a large measure of distaste, “Had better have a very good reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off right now with my brimstone rifle. You have until I reach three. One… Two…” “Wait!” Adam shouted. He reached down into his belt, to pull out the dagger and show the guards, but they assumed he was reaching for a gun, and three brimstone rifles were rapidly raised, whilst the Sergeant screamed with considerable force, without pausing for breath or to distinguish words from one another: “PUT-YOUR-F*ING-HANDS-IN-THE-AIR-WHERE-I-CAN-SEE-THEM-YOU-MUNDY-SCUM!” Adam froze. This was not good. This was very not good. He threw his hands up, palms open, eyes wide. The soldiers didn’t lower their weapons. “O… K… Now, how about everybody… just… calm… down…” Adam said, very slowly and deliberately. “Ok? Right. Good. Better. I have something your boss is going to be very interested in. Just stole it from the Ray Winstone wannabe over the other side of the river. I’m going to keep my hands up in the air, and one of your men can come over, and take what I have to offer from my belt.” The Sergeant took a step forward, then hesitated, thinking through the potential for a trap. “Briggs,” he said, finally, “Check him.” Briggs gulped loudly, and Adam thought he could see him quivering. Tentatively, he made his way towards Adam, snatching the dagger out of his belt as he got close enough. Too late, Adam considered that the soldiers would kill him once they had the dagger, thinking him of no more importance. “Well?” asked the Sergeant, “What is it?” “It’s… it’s a weapon, sir!” he called back. The Sergeant laughed triumphantly. “Just as I thought! Bring it here, Private, then we can execute him.” His face paled, however, when he was handed the silver dagger. He reached for his radio, and pushed a button, before speaking into it. “This is Cobra Seven, I repeat, Cobra Seven, do you read me Yankee Five?” A voice that was crackled with static replied, and the Sergeant looked up at Adam with something approaching genuine fear, then spoke back into his radio. “I think there’s something Overlord Six-Sixty-Six will want to deal with… personally. I’m sending him to Interrogation now. Cobra Seven out.” Adam lowered his hands. “Well?” he asked. “Can I see El Capitan now? The Prince of Darkness himself? Will he be doing the interrogation over a nice cup of tea? Or does he prefer liquid fire?” The Sergeant cackled with glee. “You’re very funny for a Mundy! Almost makes me regret doing this.” With that, the Sergeant strode forward and hit Adam sharply over the head with the butt of his rifle. Adam felt his knees buckle, as the ground rushed up to meet him. As he slipped further out of consciousness, he saw the Sergeant’s face looking down at him, and he noticed for the first time that his teeth were sharp and pointed, like those of a beast. The Sergeant leered, his voice a snarl. “Night-night, Mundy. Bag him, boys.” And with that, Adam fell into the darkness of unconsciousness for the second time that day. ***** Adam’s head hurt. It hurt more than the worst hangover he’d ever had, and that was saying something – his teenage years had been pretty wild. Trying to ignore the spasms of pain that came from moving his head, he looked up, opening his eyes gingerly. He immediately shut them tight. A bright white light was shining directly into his face. He tried to raise his hands, and, though they felt heavy and wooden, they responded reluctantly, and he shielded his eyes from the piercing light as he attempted opening his eyes again. As his sight adjusted to his surroundings, he realised he was sitting in absolute darkness, and the source of the light came from a small lamp that was placed strategically on a desk. There was no smell of sulphur or death here, just a faint scent of chlorine, like an indoor swimming pool. Across from him sat a male shadowy figure. Adam craned his neck to make out the figure’s identity, but all he could see was a silhouette. “Adam Lindale.” Adam jumped at the sound of the Irish accent, before replying. “Uh… yes. Yes. That’s me.” He didn’t question how the man knew his name. “Why do you have the Blade of Abraham?” The voice was neither cruel, nor was it kind. It was completely neutral; although the man was very softly spoken, and Adam did not feel at all threatened. “I… I stole it. From God.” The words sounded preposterous to Adam as they left his mouth, but he kept going anyway. “He took me prisoner, took me from my world, held me in the Abbey. He gave me the dagger, and told me that I was the only one who could use it, and that he needed me to stab Satan with it, and that you were in the Aquarium. But I overheard God talking about what he would do with me when I had done it. He said… he said he’d kill me! That I was too dangerous to let live! So I pretended to have fainted, and ran off with the dagger when his back was turned. You probably saw the marksmen try and shoot me from the Abbey’s tower. I figured I might get a better offer over here.” Adam clenched his toes, hoping his lie was good enough to pass this test. He heard the man opposite him shift his weight, and heard a click. He braced himself, ready to be shot dead. Suddenly, the lights in the room came on. Adam looked around, and recognised the room immediately. It was a large, curved hall, with darkened walls. To one side, the wall was made of glass, and a blue light shone through the water outside, covering the room with dancing flecks of waving colour. A shark swam lazily past, giving Adam the distinct sense of being in the lair of a Bond villain. The man sitting opposite him coughed politely. Adam turned back to look at him. “Hello,” the man said in his Irish lilt. “I’m Satan. The Prince of Darkness. The Big Bad One. The Devil. But you,” he added, looking Adam mischievously in the eye and winking in a manner that Adam found frankly disturbing, “can call me anything you like. And I’d like to welcome you to the winning team.” He flashed Adam a smile, and Adam noticed the pointed teeth he was coming to expect in Hell, then extended a hand to Adam for him to shake. Satan looked him in the eye as they shook hands, the smile not leaving his face. “Ooh!” he exclaimed. “Firm handshake! I like you! Incidentally, I’m so sorry about the way Sergeant Atkins treated you. Rest assured, he’ll be spending the next century cleaning out the mess hall. Of course, I would have made it two centuries if he’d damaged that handsome face of yours.” Another wink. Adam felt almost as uncomfortable as he had in God’s office. Almost. Satan jumped up. His face was young, and he wore a very slim-cut suit. His black hair was short, and he was clean-shaven – Adam was almost disappointed at the lack of a goatee, though he had suspected, after God’s appearance, that he might fall somewhat short of the traditional devil look. “Now!” he shouted, “To business!” A full cocktail glass appeared in his hand, complete with a pink umbrella, and he raised it in a toast. “To business!” he repeated. Adam just nodded, slightly taken aback by how cheerful Satan seemed. Satan turned his back to Adam, and walked towards the far wall. Adam noticed a large, tall, rectangular shaped object in the corner, covered with a white sheet. Satan was moving slowly towards it, talking as he went. “I suppose God told you all about me? Yes? How awful I am, and how I tried to seize power and failed?” He snorted with laughter. “Honestly, he’s so melodramatic. I suggested that he was looking a little tired, and inquired politely as to whether he’d considered a glamour, such as you see me modeling here, that’s a disguise that makes you look like someone or something else, very magical, but hardly beyond his talents – I give them out free to every demon in my army! It’s just the teeth I can’t seem to get right, they always stay pointy… Anyway, that’s off-topic! Before I knew it, he was having a temper tantrum, calling me a traitor, and sent me packing. Of course, it’s all patched up now, we have our weekly poker game with Buddha, Shiva, and Ronald McDonald – hey, don’t look at me that way, you should know that Ron’s just as much of a god as any of the others! Show some respect! But yeah, God’s cool with me, I’m cool with him, he’s a pretty nice guy once you get past that weird pet he keeps, Darwy…” Adam wasn’t following. “So… why would he want me to stab you with this blade?” Satan laughed again, his back still to Adam. Adam saw his chance, and silently picked up the dagger from where it lay on the table, moving towards where Satan stood, hoping he wouldn’t look around. “Well, we play our games of course, still playing at cops and robbers after all this time. I suppose he described it as a war? That’s God for you – such a drama queen!” Adam had moved across the room quicker than Satan had, the soft rubber soles on his shoes not making a sound. He gripped the hilt of the dagger tightly, and pulled his arm back, ready to strike. Satan continued, his smile audible in his voice. “The thing is Adam, although I only see it as a game, I most certainly play for KEEPS!” Satan shouted this final word, whirling around at an impossible speed, grabbing Adam’s wrist and wrenching it back, forcing Adam to his knees with strength that he had hid well in the handshake, the Blade falling to the ground. He bent close, his Irish lilt turning ugly as he shouted into Adam’s ear. “Did you really think you were going to outsmart me? I’m the f*ing Devil! The Prince of Lies! I knew your story was bullshit from the moment you opened your gob. In fact, I’ve been watching you for some time now Adam Lindale.” With that, Satan pulled away from Adam, and ripped away the white sheet. Underneath the sheet was a tank, filled to the brim with a pale blue liquid that closely resembled formaldehyde. And inside the tank, floated a woman who Adam found sickeningly recognisable. It was the unconscious form of Sally Monroe. She was still wearing her dressing gown and slippers, and looked exactly as she had done on the Embankment that morning. Adam flinched, remembering her rage, and instantly vowed to apologise to her if he made it out of this mess alive. Satan cackled. “Did you really think she’d have slept with you again and not recognised you if I hadn’t possessed her? Why do you think that first kiss was so intoxicating? It was such a happy coincidence to discover that she was already acquainted with you when I sneaked into her mind. I was this close to snatching you for myself, I would’ve hit you over the head with a frying pan or something, but you, scumbag that you are, were already out the flat, walking straight into God’s filthy hands.” Adam felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Although he hadn’t considered it before, the kiss had been special, had actually meant something to him. Now it was just a lie. He felt the anger rising in him, and channeled the energy into one great shove whilst Satan was still laughing. He sensed Satan’s balance give way, and saw him go crashing into the glass of the tank, smashing it. Both of them were immediately soaked with formaldehyde, and Satan roared with fury. He grabbed Adam around the neck, choking him, before throwing him on the floor, where Adam lay, gasping for breath, defeated. Satan walked around him, kicking him in the stomach, his pointed teeth bared. “Is this (kick) the best God can do? (kick) This is pathetic! (kick) This is beyond pathetic! (kick) This is – “ Adam’s eyes were closed at this point, so he heard the loud thump and smash that replaced Satan’s taunting voice before he saw what had caused it. Sally Monroe stood there, her arm raised for another blow, the light from the table in her hand, it’s electric cable flailing in the air. Adam saw Satan stumble forwards, and, before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed the Blade from where it lay, a metre or so from his hand, and thrust it upwards into Satan’s chest. Satan howled, the Blade stuck deep into his chest cavity, a bright yellow light shining from the edges, which spread to every inch of his body. The entire building shook, and bits of the concrete ceiling started to crash down around them. He fell back against the wreckage of the tank, his breathing turning to rasps, as the light pulsed brighter and brighter. “You fools!” Satan growled, with what little strength he had left, “God sent you on a suicide mission! There’s no way you’ll get out of this building alive! The explosion from the Blade will forcibly destroy this temporary dimension – the angelic forces have probably already evacuated. To be sent back to your proper world, you need to be surrounded by water – that’s why I chose the Aquarium, to be prepared in case God decided to pull the plug on this world. That and the fish. I like fish. But it won’t be enough water for an explosion of this magnitude… What was I saying? Fish? I really do like fish…” With that, his eyes glazed over, and he was still. Adam grabbed Sally’s hand. “We need to run, now,” Adam yelled. Sally simply nodded, and they bolted, hand in hand, towards the door. Together, they fled through the rooms of the Aquarium. Everywhere they went, red lights flashed and sirens were blaring. Groups of soldiers were running into rooms labeled ‘Evacuation Chamber’. Sally tried to go into one, but Adam stopped her, warning her against following the soldiers to where they were headed. The two of them followed signs to ‘Freshwater Friends’ and ‘Deep Sea Divas’, then, finally, Sally spotted the sign that read ‘Gift Shop and Exit’. They ran through the Gift Shop, past shelves stocked with cuddly octopi and t-shirts with the Aquarium’s logo on them. Finally, after dashing through another pair of doors, the building shaking more and more violently beneath them, they were out in the open air, next to a McDonald’s. Adam stared briefly into the smiling face of Ronald McDonald, still finding it hard to believe that he regularly played cards with a whole group of deities. “Look!” Sally shouted, pointing upwards. Adam followed her gaze. The sky was being torn in two, a dark black opening like a wound stretching from horizon to horizon, casting London into shadow. As they stood there, masonry from the building above falling like hail around them, the crack in the sky widened, tendrils of black smoke moving down to swallow this world up forever. Adam’s eyes widened, and he started running again, pulling Sally along with him, and vaulted over the edge of the Embankment, shouting out to Sally as he did so, telling her to jump. She followed his lead, and they fell through the air together as the world was swallowed into blackness. Adam prayed as he fell, prayed to God, to Buddha, to Satan, to Ronald McDonald, that there wasn’t anything below him. Ronald McDonald must have been in a good mood that day. His prayers were answered. Adam hit the water hard, the cold taking his breath away, letting himself sink like a stone. He felt the water shudder around him, like a short burst of current, then everything was still. After holding his breath for as long as he could, Adam pushed himself to the surface, breathed in deeply, and opened his eyes. London was back. Tourists busied themselves along the Southbank, taking pictures of Big Ben. Planes flew overhead. Boats meandered past him. Red buses made their way through the traffic on Westminster Bridge. Everything was as it should be. Adam quickly glanced around for Sally. She was floating about ten metres away, and waved at him cheerfully, a huge grin plastered all over her face. Adam couldn’t help but smile too, and before he knew it he was laughing, laughing just with the sheer joy of being alive and being home. Sally was shouting something, and he called back, asking her to repeat it. “I said, I think we’re about to get a visit from the police!” Sally was right – a small motorboat with blue flashing lights was moving quickly towards them from the opposite bank of the river. Adam wasn’t too worried. Once you’ve been interrogated by Satan, and thrown up all over God’s best suit, the fuzz doesn’t really scare you.

In the months that followed their brush with death at the hands of God and Satan, Adam and Sally met for coffee, or for lunch, or for walks in Hyde Park almost every couple of days. She eventually forgave him for the way he had treated her, and they spent long hours discussing the events that had taken place, recounting parts of the ordeal (or adventure, as they began to think of it after a while). As time passed, Adam felt himself growing more and more attracted to Sally, but he never acted on it, preferring instead her companionship, ad enjoying how close they were becoming as friends.
They only revisited the Aquarium after six months had passed. Adam noticed Sally’s hands were shaking as they purchased their tickets, and he instinctively took her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. She looked across at him, and smiled, her eyes catching his, and she squeezed his hand back. That evening, as they stood, hand in hand, on the Embankment, directly opposite the Houses of Parliament, they shared a kiss. And as they kissed, Adam knew that Satan had been lying about what had made the kiss so intoxicating on that evening all that time ago.
Sally woke up the next morning, and looked over to see that Adam was most definitely not there. She could not believe it. The bastard had tricked her again! She leapt out of bed and strode out of the bedroom, her head pounding with rage.
She nearly knocked over Adam, who was standing in the hallway, a tray in his hands, some eggs and bacon on it, with a glass of orange juice.
He had made her breakfast. He had stayed.
And Sally Monroe had never been happier.

*****

Their wedding was a small affair. Only family and close friends attended, and it was held about as far away from London as it could be, on the sunny beaches of Montego Bay, in Jamaica, exactly two years after they had escaped Satan’s clutches. Josh Strauss was Adam’s best man, and he made a very moving speech at the dinner after the ceremony, that only mentioned the dangers of sharks and tropical storms a few times.
There were, however, a couple of extra guests.
Sally had warned Adam not to gloat, but although the womanizing part of Adam was long gone, the cavalier part of him was still very much alive and kicking. So, on the eve of his wedding, he wrote out two more invitations.
The first, he buried in a deep, deep hole in the earth, throwing in a pinch of sulphur to attract the desired attention.
The second, he tied to a red balloon, which he took to the highest point on the island, then let go, watching it until it disappeared out of sight.
Adam had almost not expected them to show up. But there they were, slouching in at the back, God in a flowery Hawaiian shirt with swimming trunks and sandals, Satan in a sleek white suit, sipping a vividly coloured cocktail. He raised his glass in a salute, and half smiled at Adam, giving the slightest hint of a wink. God saw this, and rolled his eyes.

*****

“Did you enjoy the service?” Adam asked them, during a break in dinner.
“It was suitably nauseating, yes,” God replied, using his ‘God-voice’ for the occasion.
“Aw, darling, let some romance into your life!” Satan cooed, wrapping an arm around God’s waist. “I thought it was lovely, Adam.”
Adam was about to thank him, when he noticed that God hadn’t removed Satan’s arm from around his waist.
“Hang on,” he said, half laughing, “Are you two… a couple?’ He cracked up, the idea too absurd to keep a straight face.
God scowled, making an obvious effort to keep his voice level. “I strongly suggest, Adam, that unless you want the lovely Mrs. Lindale to be cuddling up to a burnt turkey carcass tonight, that you stop talking, right now. Satan, we are leaving.” With that, he was gone, striding across the dance floor. “You still owe me for that suit!” he called back over his shoulder.
Satan shook Adam’s hand. “No hard feelings?” Adam asked.
“Of course not! What’s done is done, just another round in our game.”
“Pleased to hear it. So what’s with you and ‘Big Daddy’?”
Satan smiled, and whispered, conspiratorially:
“Best F*** in the Cosmos. They sure as hell weren’t wrong there. Hey! Sweetie!” he called after the receding figure of God, and chased after him. Adam could hear them bickering into the night.
He heaved a sigh. It would be a long afterlife. With one last look towards the silhouettes of the two deities, he went and rejoined his wife, letting the mortal world close around him, swallowing him up with its glorious normality, once more.





The End