Dropping my keys on the kitchen counter, I rifled through today’s mail to discover a crimson envelope, addressed in gothic script, to a Mr B.L.Z. Bub. Delivered to the correct building, I saw the recipient lived in the apartment across the hallway. New to the complex, I’d met a few of my fellow residents, but although I’d heard my neighbour’s comings and goings, invariably at an ungodly hour, I hadn’t yet encountered him. So, this could be an icebreaker.

Maybe I’m mistaken, but I’m sure the exact instant the doorbell buzzed, the door opened to a swoosh of hot air, revealing a darkly clad figure with flaming red hair and chiselled features. “Hi, I’m Lucifer, and you must be Mark?” He enquired in a raspy, accented twang that was hard to place.

“Yes.” I hesitated. Puzzled, he knew my name. “Have we met?”

“Not in the flesh, but let’s just say I’ve noticed you around.”

“OK. Anyway, the reason I’m here is I thought this might be for you. I found it in my mailbox. It has your apartment number, but it’s not addressed to a Lucifer, so perhaps…”

“No, it’s mine, he interjected. I don’t use my Christian name.” He shuddered as a word with theological significance passed between his lips. “I prefer Lucifer, my middle name.”

“Look, where are my manners? You’re new to the building. I’d love to invite you in for a welcoming tipple, but I’m afraid I’ve a prior engagement. A few old souls I’ve been looking out for are about to go on a long journey and need some guidance.” 

“Right, not to worry. Another time?” I shrugged. “It was nice meeting you.”

“And you. But listen, I’m having a little fancy-dress soiree this coming Friday. I’ve a devilish costume I’m dying to show off. Please come, you’d be most welcome. Just bring yourself. I’ll supply the spirits.”

“Something fiery?” A throwaway line said in jest.

He chuckled; a throaty sound reminiscent of a cannibal’s bubbling urn. “Absolutely, my friend. That’s uncanny, you read my mind. Do you know? I feel we’ll be seeing an awful lot of each other,” his parting farewell.
​

At 5.30 am precisely, three armed police officers had banged loudly on his front door.

“Monsieur Maddox, Monsieur Maddox, ouvrez la porte! MAINTENANT!”

After a brief delay, Maddox – short, bald, overweight, wearing glasse – had answered, looking confused. That, of course, was the whole idea.

One of the armed officers, all Beidane, spoke passable English. “You need to come with us for questioning, Mister Maddox.”

An hour later, Maddox had found himself in a cell no bigger than a walk-in cupboard. There was no bed, only a soiled mattress on the floor, a solitary hard chair, and a bucket for a toilet. The only window was barred on the inside, but if he stood on the chair, he could hoist himself up to see outside with the aid of a length of rope attached to the bars. Not that there was much to see: desert, more desert, possibly a little scrub, then more desert.

There had been no ‘questioning’.

In the following days, food was passed through a little window at the foot of the door: rice, millet, chickpeas. Maddox had to be careful to keep the rats from getting to the food ahead of him. Once a day Maddox was allowed out to a nearby toilet to slop out his bucket and to wash as best as he could. No one spoke to him.

Back in his cell, he wondered what he’d done wrong in life. In England, he’d been a decent teacher, popular with the children, he thought, and he liked them. He liked some of them a great deal, perhaps too much. But they seemed keen to please him, to give him pleasure. They didn’t ever say no.

But one of those boys had betrayed Maddox, probably that weedy one with the red hair and freckles. He’d seen it coming, though, when the headteacher had called him into her office to ask what his side of the story was. He’d had just enough time to grab a bag of clothes, withdraw all his money from the bank, and leave. Anywhere. And then, when ‘just anywhere’ wasn’t safe enough, he’d moved from country to country until he’d arrived where he was now. He thought he was safe: no extradition treaty with the UK. He could live, under an assumed name, and even resume teaching.

But then he’d fallen back into his old ways.

Maddox despised himself; but he couldn’t help it, it was just the way he was. He knew he couldn’t be left alone with young boys. He was almost glad that he’d finally been stopped. He wondered what would happen now. Would they hang him? Would they castrate him? Would they use anaesthetic? Would he ever see the world outside again?

Maddox stood on the chair and used the rope to haul himself up to gaze at that endless desert.

And at that very moment, he understood the real reason why the rope was there at all.

“Don’t you think dogs’ noses are springy like sponges?”
Maggie grinned.
“Spongy.”
Victor pressed on Bernie’s pink nose, and the lab barked. Maggie’s dog, a brown-black mongrel, curled into a tighter half-moon at their legs, and they all fell silent for a while, listening to the wind’s petulant howl.
Bernie whined, and Victor picked up a rubber ball.
“It’s the habit,” he explained. “First we eat, then we play.”
Maggie whistled.
“We stop after the first part. Come on, old girl,” she scratched the dog’s ears, “run with Bernie.”
The dogs hit the low waves, and Maggie rummaged in her canvas shopper. This morning, she had brought square filo parcels wrapped in rustling paper to the beach. The bag still smelled of the morning bakery. Pulling out the thermos, she nudged Victor.
“Give me your cup. The best coffee in this part of the world.”
Drinking the vicious liquid, he inhaled the whiff of drying seaweed. Maggie’s long black hair still shone with green, but an unsuspecting eye would assume it was the remnants of an old dye.
The dogs jumped in the surf, and Victor coughed.
“Don’t you ever want to go back there?”
He pointed at the leaden beast of an ocean, tossing and turning beyond the quiet bay.
Maggie shrugged, caressing the silken white sand.
“I’ve made my choice and sealed it with a kiss,” she smiled. “Come on, you’re Felix’s best man and should know better than that.”
Victor snorted.
“I do. And besides, to marry one of yours is a good omen. Felix is a lucky sod.”
“Indeed, he is.” Maggie collected her things.
“We should be getting home. With a wedding next week, I’m swamped under a mountain of chores. Down below the waves,” she winked at Victor, “everything is simpler.”
The dog ran after her, and Victor shouted,
“But how can I meet one of yours?”
Maggie turned, and her azure eyes softened.
“Sometimes at night, we go out on the beach to sing and dance. You just have to wait.”
“I will,” Victor whispered as she and the dog disappeared into the morning mist.
​

"Life gets more irksome as one gets older," sighed Alice over her raised tea cup.
"You're telling me!" complained Rabbit, stroking his white furry brow. "Five sons and four daughters to worry about. And birthdays for all the grandchildren are nearly making me bankrupt, I tell you."
"By the way," he enquired. "How are your brood?"
"Tom's in California, still working in movies, divorced again. His two sons are into travelling and exotic board games. Mary's now a Mathematics professor, working on octonions, whatever they are. She's married to Agatha, can you believe it? They keep cats."
She asked Rabbit, "How are the others?"
Rabbit sighed, fussing over a muffin.
"March Hare's back on Lithium, now he just shuffles around staring. We all preferred him mad, tiresome though he was. Hatter is in a nursing home. Severe dementia." - Rabbit shed a tear - "Last I saw him, he didn't know who I was. So terribly sad."
He brightened up. "But, our friend the Dormouse has taken up running and power yoga, and he wants to stand for Parliament. Wonderland's experiments with democracy are becoming very curious indeed."
"It would be nice to visit you all again", mused Alice, "but I don't get out much on these legs. I'm prone to falling. Plus, I'm too big for rabbit holes."
"I still find it odd when I look at mirrors," she chuckled.
Other diners in the café smiled indulgently, or rolled their eyes, watching the elderly woman converse with an empty chair.

​