The Devil I Know Read Online Free Page A

episode ended, if I may. It ended as my episodes all end. As they all must end if I am to keep body and soul together. It ended in the circle.
    The bottom of the hill was already in shadow. I had been banished from the realm of the gods. I kept my eyes averted as we passed the entrance to the grounds of the castle and continued on to the church hall.
    We are drawn to churches. All those passions and redemptions and casting out of demons – you can see the attraction. The taxi dropped me off at the gates, the fare, as ever, taken care of by M. Deauville. I never carry cash. I never have to. I barely interact with this world. I am barely here. The driver departed, leaving me standing alone by the pillar. A breeze was blowing in from Claremont Beach, evocative beyond description , not air but the essence of my past, the medium in which it is preserved.
    The church gates were open but no lights burned. I checked my watch. Five past three, which meant it was five past eight. Had I the right hall? The car park was empty. Nothing unusual per se about that. We like to keep our gatherings discreet, and who can blame us? So we park down side streets or around corners and slip out individually after the meetings to go our separate ways, feigning that we don’t know each other although we know one another intimately. At least one of our number is here.
    The hall porch was in darkness. I tried the door. It was locked. This did not unduly discourage me. There are generally a few precautions in place to prevent strangers from accidentally wandering in. I listened for voices and heard them, muffled and subdued. I walked around the side and sure enough, light was glowing through the fanlight over the back door. I’d found them.
    I raised the latch and pushed open the door. The people huddled in the circle sat up at my intrusion. I approached to show myself, to reassure them that I was okay, that I was one of them and not some straying parishioner. I made the meek face, smiled the apologetic smile, and the meek apologetic smile was returned in kind, distinct as a Masonic handshake. We are all the same. Wherever you go, no matter what country or class or creed you belong to – or don’t belong to – we are all the same.
    The man chairing the meeting stood up and unhitched an extra seat from the stack in the corner. ‘We were just about to begin,’ he said, carrying the chair into the circle. It was a small meeting. Six men and one woman. One damaged woman . Young and attractive but no good to us. By virtue of her presence there, we could never have been interested in her. Nor she in us. Let’s not kid ourselves, lads.
    The exchange of meek smiles continued, the nods of welcome and recognition – I had never been to that place in my life, never met those people, yet they recognised me as piercingly as I recognised them. We recognised each other’s nature. You as well? their eyes asked, and I did the sheepish smile, the afraid-so shrug. Yes, me as well.
    Down at the back on a trestle table, the tin of plain biscuits and the Burco boiler presided, the bag of white sugar congested into boulders by spilled droplets of tea, the mismatched mugs that smelled of Milton fluid, the stained teaspoons and carton of milk. Those items were our guardian angels, offering whatever homely consolation could be hoped for under the circumstances. They would never hit the spot. The Burco geared up to boiling point and simmered down, geared up to boiling point again and simmered down, dreary as windscreen wipers.
    ‘Any anniversaries?’ the chairman enquired after the prayer .
    I stood up. ‘Hi, my name’s Tristram and I’m an alcoholic.’
    ‘Hi Tristram,’ they said in unison. Hi Tristram, fellow prisoner, fellow lifer, you’re an alcoholic.
    The blood was raging inside my skull, crashing like waves against rocks. My mobile phone was in my breast pocket, next to my heart. I touched it briefly for reassurance before clearing my throat to speak.