“‘Indeed, Mr. Home,’ said Braxfield in a low growl. ‘Well, Mr. Gibson?’
“Richard didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I would be most grateful to my learned friend for reference of that case. I don’t recall coming across it in the Scots Law Times.’ More laughter from the public benches.
“‘For some unco reason they dinnae print cases tried in Hell,’ said the judge. ‘And we keep nae records oursels, as cases tend tae last in memory when they tak ten or twenty years each. Your second plea-in-law, Mr. Gibson?’
“‘My second plea-in-law is that the contract is void because its performance is impossible; in other words, because the Defender asked the familiar to make ropes out of sea sand, an impossible task, the contract should be a nullity. I would refer your Lordship to the case of Tay Salmon Fisheries v Speedie, which can be found in the Scots Law Times, 1929 volume at 484.’
“Braxfield scowled at Scott’s advocate. ‘Mr. Home?’
“Home looked up blankly. ‘Your lordship, I maun confess I am no’…’
“‘Weel, be glad ane o’ us has kept up tae date, man. Mr. Gibson, I am dismissing your second plea-in-law: as I understand the doctrine as presently applied, impossibility of performance depends on the flexible question of what is impossible. Given that this creature could rend hills in twa, it may be that tae mak ropes frae sea sand only taks longer tae accomplish. The cratur’s only had a few hunner years tae try, after a’!’
“And so the case went on, plea after plea dismissed by the judge. Even so Richard was enjoying himself greatly: he paced up and down reeling off cases, authorities and statutes, still playing to the gallery. He was in his element. As the public benches filled up so the cheering for Richard increased; despite that my heart sank as more and more of the damned sat between Richard, myself and the exit door.
“Finally, however, Richard won his case.
“‘My final plea-in-law, and one which I think incontrovertible, is that a contract of service for more than a year, being one of the obligationes literis, has to be constituted in writing to be valid.’
“Home rose to his feet, but Braxfield gestured at him, making short, downward movements with his thumb, like a Roman emperor.
“‘Sit doon, Mr. Home, ye’d be wasting your breath. Mr. Gibson is, o’ coorse, quite correct—nae writing, nae contract.’ The ghost of a smile crossed his features. ‘Ca’ the demon here.’
“As the watchers raised another ragged cheer, the demon appeared on a small mound of sand in the center of the table in the well of the court. It was still trying to make rope out of the sand.
“‘Well done, Sir Michael,’ said the Devil, crossing to where the warlock stood.
“‘I thought Richard had won the case for you,’ I said, surprised. I noticed the gallery had gone strangely quiet. As the Devil turned to me he started to change form again in front of my eyes, black leathery skin stretching into that hideous face once more. ‘Quite right, my girl,’ it said. ‘But it was a mock trial. The real sport was a little bet between my friend here and me over whether Gibson would take the case. I bet against it, worse luck.’
“Then it laughed, tilting back its head and cackling until it almost choked, spitting scorpions and snakes onto the floor.
“Richard stood white faced on the other side of the table.
“‘What did you bet?’
“The warlock looked at him as if surprised. ‘Your soul, o’ coorse. Nick could’ve got it any time, but as I’ve won I get myself another lawyer. Very useful you’ll be, tae.’
“The instant he finished speaking the crowd fell on Richard, and he disappeared under a tangle of smoke-blackened bodies. The Devil turned to me, its eyes glowing red.
“‘You can go,’ it said. ‘But you’d better be quick.’
“I got up and ran, down the aisle toward the courtroom door. As I reached the door I heard a single, agonizing scream. Over Richard’s body the crowd were holding something white and glowing, something that seemed to pulse. I went through the door and didn’t look back again.
“I raced down the steps toward the exit, my heels skidding on the tiled surface, and hoped that somewhere would be safe from that hellish mob. I heard them start down the stairs after me yelling and chanting, the infernal noise getting closer; as I raced across the great entrance hall they seemed just yards away but I didn’t dare look round. I reached the door of the courthouse, flung it opened, and careered through—
“Into the arms of two Kirkcaldy policemen.
“The mob washed over us, shouting and screaming with laughter, pulling at the police uniforms. The policemen whirled round, looking for an enemy and seeing no one. Then the mob was gone, scattering over the street, fading into the wind and the cobblestones of Whytescauseway.
“I don’t know what I said to the police, but somehow I led them back up to Court Number 2, shaking with aftershock. The Devil, Sir Michael Scott and the rest had gone.
“Richard lay slumped over the table in the well of the Court, covered in sea sand. He was still breathing. I turned him over, crying and calling his name, kissing him again and again to make him wake up—
“Then his eyes opened and I saw I was too late. He walked and talked, he even explained our way out of getting arrested for breaking into the Sheriff’s Court, but he wasn’t there. It was just—whatever’s left of a man when his soul has been stolen.
“I took him home and put him to bed, but I knew things couldn’t go on as before. I had to leave and start a new life, somewhere away from Kirkcaldy. For all his faults Richard had plenty of spirit. What was left didn’t have any at all.”
The girl finished her story and reached for her glass. Ettie said nothing, staring into her own vodka as if still collecting her thoughts on what she had heard. In various corners of the bar below them, where the Hyde’s remarkable acoustics had carried the story, regulars cleared their throats and glances were exchanged.
“You’re wrong, Jackie, or only part right anyway,” said a voice. The other two had scarcely noticed the newcomer’s arrival, toward the end of the girl’s story. Now as he leaned out of the shadows in the corner Ettie could see Jackie’s point: Richard Gibson’s eyes were empty windows, seemingly lacking that spark of life which all of us take for granted when meeting another’s gaze.
“The human soul’s a very messy piece of work,” said Gibson, continuing. “When the mob tore it out they must have left some behind: either that or the body is in some way attracted to where the soul has gone. I’m going to try and retrieve it, or at least be united with it, and I think this place is the start of the road.”
“If that’s your wish I’ll show ye the entrance,” said Ettie. “But perhaps ye’d care for a drink first? Ye’ve a long way tae go.”
Perhaps it was a trick of the Hyde’s unpredictable light, but there seemed to be the faintest flicker, the slightest flash of something in the soulless man’s eyes as he accepted. Certainly he drained the glass straight down.
As he stood up to leave, Jackie edged round the table and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m going with you,” she said.
Ettie nodded and smiled, or as near as her wizened features could approximate to that expression.
“Then perhaps we’ll see ye in here again,” she said, and led the way down the stairs.
WEEK WOMAN
by Kim Newman