The demon in the glass

Demon In The Glass

Last night, not for the first time, I sat drinking pisco with the man I had killed more than thirty years ago; his glass untouched as he nursed a Quilmes. He looked much as he had the first and last time I saw him alive; his olive drab uniform tunic soaked with blood from the wound in his chest and his trousers with piss and shit where he had emptied himself as died. All that had changed was the look of dumb ox surprise and confusion on his face as I’d shot him.

Eduardo had come to see me for years. The first time I saw him was from my bedroom window at night, standing in the ghastly yellow streetlight, calmly looking straight at me. For a long time that was how it was. From time to time I’d see him at a distance, standing across the street as I filled my car, sitting alone at a pub table, or in a football crowd, watching me as I watched the game, always in the same bloodstained uniform. Over time he came closer, watching from the front row when I was on stage or two or three places behind me in a queue; until one night I was driving home, looked in my rear-view mirror and saw him sitting in the back seat. I must have pulled some sort of comedy holyfuckingshit! face, because he laughed; and then, for the first time, I heard him speak.

“You got old, English. Fat. At least I'm still young. Always will be.”

“Yeah, but I'm not the one spending eternity in piss-stained trousers.”

We laughed like idiots, and from that point on, I had a drinking partner. It was, obviously, always an odd relationship; not least because one of us was dead; but aside from that, Eduardo insisted that whenever we were together we drank until we passed out; which, to be honest, suited me just fine. There was never any animosity between us, nor had I ever been afraid of him. It seemed that we belonged together. We would talk late into the night about anything and everything; whether in Spanish or English I have no idea. We just talked. He told me about the Afterlife - ‘boring as shit’, apparently; quizzed me about my sex life; ‘more boring than the Afterlife’, it seems (although given that he died aged 19, it’s hard to see how colourful his could have been) but mostly, to be honest, we just drank.

One thing, though, we never spoke about. It was always there, never discussed; the guerilla in the room. There had always been one question in my mind, ever since that day. In the quiet of many sleep-stripped nights I had run those few seconds over in my mind; thousands upon thousands of times, but had never got there.

That day, in the steel-grey half light of an Antarctic dawn, as I rounded a wall of sandbags, I had seen an enemy in front of me and shot him dead. It was war, I was a soldier, so was he. He was not the only man I had ever killed. Christ, he wasn't even the only man I killed that day, but something about this one had gnawed on my mind like a rat. The part that I played again and again, Zapruder-style, was the moment before I fired; his right arm swinging his weapon away from his body, his left coming toward me. Was he bringing up his rifle to fire, or throwing it away, and reaching out in surrender? A half a second's hesitation, I would have known. A second's, and it might have been me who died; but however many times I had told myself that I had done the only thing I could have, it kept coming back. Had I killed a man – a boy - who had surrendered? A soldier has no need of a conscience; from day one you learn that the idea is not to die for your country, but to make sure the other poor bastard dies for his; but a soldier is also a man, and a man does. Wondering ate at me like cancer. Soldier or murderer? What's more, I knew he knew, but the bastard never said a word.
I had come back from that war damaged; many of us did. These days, they try and give the lads the softest landing they can, with counselling and pastoral care; even so, if you want to find a veteran, look the prisons and cardboard cities and homeless hostels first. In my day it was simply a matter of bottling it up and hitting the bottle; only to finish up with civilian doctors who thought that the filth of war could be washed away with medicine.Those of us who battle had broken showed our scars in different ways. Some discovered religion or Good Works and found some peace that way. Good luck with that, lads; but in your hearts you know there is no heaven for men like us. Some became wife-beating thugs, lashing out at anyone and everyone, for want of a way of screaming their anger and hurt. Others became mercenaries, stalking the meaningless battlefields of Africa's dust bowl wars, waiting for the angels of death they served to take them home. Others still found refuge in madness. For me, as with many others, it was drugs and sex and drink and guilt.

Until last night, I hadn't seen Eduardo in weeks. The medicines the doctors gave me had been slowing me down and clogging my thoughts, so I'd stopped taking them, and my mind had begun to clear. I'd made a little money, and bought some blow and some grass to congratulate myself when, sure enough, there he was. Trust him to turn up for a party. We hit it hard, he and I, and after we had gone through all the drugs, and most of the booze, I finally plucked up the courage to speak.

“Edo – I need you to tell me something”
“I know. It's what you've wanted to know since before I came here. It's why I came in the first place”
“Well?”
"You want to know if, the day I died, I was going to fight you or not.”
“If you know that, you know how much it matters to me. I've gone mad wondering, and all the time you knew.”
“Yes – I know. It kills you a little more every day”
“So why haven't you said anything?”
“I wanted to – loads of times – but he won't let me.”
“Who won't let you?”

There was a pause

“My demon” He said.
“What? What the fuck? What do you mean, 'demon'?”“You know exactly what a demon is” he replied “Just like you know what a ghost is.”

Silence.

“Look, English; there are things about this you won't understand, but he has said I must not tell you, ever. I'm sorry. I think that is your punishment.”
“But we're friends, you and I. Just tell me...”
“It's not that I don't want to. I just can't. The demon says I mustn't; and trust me – there are worse things than just being dead.”
“I need to know, Edo."
“I know; but I'm sorry. As long as the demon is alive, you never will.”

There was a long silence before the obvious question.

“So. How do I kill him?”
“You're joking!”
“I said – how do I kill him?”
“I don't know – he's a tricky bastard – he will mess with your mind. He'll use every trick he has to confuse you. This is dangerous, English, very, very dangerous.”
“Where is he, and how do I kill him?”
“Get your gun, and I'll show you – but be careful; he will play games with you. Don't let him get into your head.”

From a drawer in the sideboard I took out my gun; the Browning 9 I'd kept all those years. It still nestled into my hand like the hand of a steel lover. With his head, Eduardo pointed me toward the closed curtain. I eased off the safety and racked a round into the chamber.
Realizing how hard I was panting, I slowed my breathing down, and then paused. Was killing this demon the only way? Could Eduardo be persuaded somehow to tell me the truth? I didn't think so. Could I live without knowing? Absolutely not. I waited a heartbeat and ripped back the curtain.

There he was. A real, live demon. No horns, no tail, no brimstone; he looked just like a man. My height and build, with grey hair just like mine, he stood, unsteady, his left hand holding a gun.

Eduardo, horrified, shouted out

“Be strong, English! He's trying to confuse you! It is him!”

And then I saw. He looked just like me. He had changed his appearance to look like, he thought, someone I would never hurt. What the stupid bastard didn't know was that if there was one more soul I would happily send to hell, he looked exactly like the demon in the window. I smiled. He smiled back at me, more wolf than man, and I knew I could kill him. I shoved the barrel of my gun into his mouth, and at the same time tasted rancid, oily metal where he had thrust his gun into mine. I had to be quick – no time to think – I pulled

And so tonight, for the first time, you sit, with your wine, your coffee or whatever, being told a story by a man who I killed last night.